It was the Protector of the Law.
“He’s not supposed to be here yet,” Keta stammered. “There’s no way he can—”
The Protector stepped forward, directly into the mob. His movements were quick, difficult to follow, impossible to predict. Spears were thrust into the space he’d been filling and rocks were hurled uselessly through the air. The Protector took another step forward as the first wave of Keta’s rebellion fell dead and dying behind him.
Only a few seconds had passed. The rest of the mob didn’t even know that there was a nightmare in their midst yet, but then the screaming began, and blood sprayed into the torches and burned, sizzling with that familiar smell. Arms and legs were separated. Heads went rolling. And still, the Protector was untouched. Some tried to fight. All of them died. Others tried to run, a few of them made it.
It wasn’t a sword. It was like a farmer’s sickle. And the casteless were wheat.
He walked through the trailing edge of the mob, only it was no longer a mob, it was a mass of severed tendons and broken bones. It was like the floor of Keta’s butcher shop on the busiest day of the year, magnified and spread over the entirety of the master’s grounds.
Baldev was the strongest of them all. He roared as he swung his mighty hammer. The Protector stepped aside and let it shatter the stone where he’d been standing. With barely even a flick of the wrist, Baldev’s guts were suddenly spilled everywhere in a tangled purple mass. Govind struck with the overseer’s whip. It was clumsy, missing the snap of the overseer’s skilled touch. The Protector merely caught the leather, tugged Govind toward him, and sheared the top half of the fisherman’s skull off.
Calm as could be, the killer strolled down the path, silver reflecting the light of torches dropped from nerveless fingers. And, at that moment, the uprising against House Uttara was broken. Keta’s brothers dropped their tools and ran like the sea demons had come to swallow their souls.
Keta would not run. This was his doing. He lifted the meat cleaver in one shaking hand. “Damn your Law!” he screamed at the Protector. “I will die a whole man!”
“No.” Ratul pulled Keta around to face him. “Take this.” He shoved a heavy bundle, wrapped tightly in oilcloth, against Keta’s chest. “Keep it safe. Go south to the Ice Coast.”
“I can’t—”
Ratul shoved him away with surprising strength. “Flee, Keta the butcher. A new prophet has been called in the south to guide us. God will choose a general like unto Ramrowan of old to lead us. You will serve them both as they forge a true army. God will guide your path. I have seen it.” Ratul reached down and picked up one of the fallen warrior’s swords. He spun it smoothly once, as if testing the weight, and the old man did not seem unused to such an implement. Ratul began walking toward the approaching Protector. “It is time for our people to remember what has been forgotten.”
Keta watched, horrified, as the Protector approached. He stopped several feet away from Ratul, and then did something that Keta had never seen nor imagined he would ever see from someone of such a high station. The Protector politely bowed to Ratul. “Greetings, Keeper.”
“Good evening, Devedas.” Ratul returned the gesture, as if he were an equal. “I’d always hoped it would be you.”
The two lifted their swords, their stances a mirror image of the other.
Keta the butcher ran for his life.
* * *
He ran for hours, across rocks, down the beaches, through the tide pools shallow enough to be free of demons. When he didn’t think he could run any farther, he ran some more, vomiting in the sand, but never slowing. When he thought his heart might burst, he still pushed on, terrified, afraid to look back toward bloody House Uttara. He tripped and gashed his head open on the rocks, but he never dropped the heavy bundle Ratul had given him.
When Keta could run no more, he collapsed into a quivering mass of burning muscle, crawled into the hollow of a tree, and pulled branches and leaves over his hiding spot as the sun rose. He’d sleep during the day and run at night. There would be a purge. There was always a purge when the casteless sinned against the Law. Everyone he had ever known was dead or would be soon.
* * *
When he awoke hours later, Keta, found that Ratul’s bundle was still in his hand. The oilcloth had been wrapped tight and cinched with leather straps. Curious, he carefully unwrapped the package.
It was a book. The thickest book he had ever seen. It was nothing like the plain things he’s stolen from the master’s library over the years. This was bound in a thick, black leather, unbelievably smooth when handled one way, but sharp enough to draw blood if rubbed against the grain. He’d heard of such a thing. This was the supposedly indestructible hide of a demon. Keta opened it hesitantly. Each yellowed page was magnificent, packed with letters so small he could barely make them out.
They were names. The book was filled with names and numbers that had to be dates. Linking the names were lines. Page after page, there had to be as many names and lines as there were grains of sand on the beach. It wasn’t that different from the ledgers he’d kept all his life, only these were people, not supplies or animals. The master had such a thing for his house, a wall painted with the names of fathers and sons, stretching back for generations. The master called it a genealogy; only that one had been insignificant in comparison to this.
One page had been marked with a folded piece of parchment. That page said House Uttara across the top, and it was dense with inked names and lines.
He recognized many of the names. These were casteless names.
But it couldn’t be. Each entry had two names. Non-people didn’t get two names. Only whole men had a family name. The Law did not allow the casteless to have families. Casteless were property. Not people.
Hesitantly, Keta traced his finger down the page until he found his own family name.
Ramrowan.
Heart pounding, hands shaking, he closed the book, then wrapped it tightly in the oilcloth, extra careful to make sure it was sealed and the straps were cinched tight.
Then Keta, Keeper of Names, began his long journey south.
The Smaller We Are
John Helfers
They attacked just after nightfall.
We’d just finished making camp in a clearing after scouting routes for our main force all day. After setting guards, we were sitting down to cold mushroom cakes when the hum of whirring wings made Syreth’s pointed ears twitch. The satyr and I looked up as a blur of motion streaked toward us.
Tliel’s small, skinny body decelerated to hover in front of my face, his wings beating too fast to see. The pixie’s entire body was shrouded in darkcloth, with only his glowing, silver eyes visible. The crack of breaking branches and thud of footsteps shook the ground behind him.
“Six tallest coming! To arms!” Not waiting for orders, Tliel shot up into the air, intending to survey the battleground, then assist where needed. But as he rose, a bow twanged, and a black streak hit and carried him into the tree canopy.
The rest of my unit was already moving, but it was too late. Before we could organize, the tallest burst through the tall elms and maples and rushed at us. Clad in black leather armor, faces shadowed under iron helmets, they attacked in pairs. One was armed with the usual long sword, its scalloped edge capable of cleaving any of us apart if it connected. The second held a large net, which was thrown at a designated target.
Tliel’s warning did allow us to avoid being taken completely unaware. While flight was probably the best option, we were too close to enemy lines to risk abandoning each other. And besides, we hadn’t had a straight-up fight in a long time.
Fzith and Bzith, surviving brothers from a large goblin family that had been fighting since the war began, threw their wooden plates at the lead warriors while drawing double-bladed daggers. Rethgar, my fearless redcap, grabbed his worn pikestaff and charged straight at his two, evading the thrown net by speed alone. Crouching on equine legs, Syreth sprang into the
air, also avoiding the net sailing toward him. His ironwood-shod hooves came down with a loud clunk on an enemy warrior’s head. Nereas, her face unlined yet weary amid long, white hair, danced away from another spinning net and into the trunk of the nearest oak tree, disappearing as she merged with the living wood.
And me? As the net intended to catch me flared out overhead, I simply sank into the earth.
Below the surface, my gnomish vision was gone, but I homed in on the nearest enemy by tracking his heavy footfalls shaking the ground. To my left, the roots of Nereas’s tree flexed and shifted as the dryad brought the mighty oak to life. I grinned at the painful surprise about to be visited on our enemies. They may control the plains and their noxious cities, but the woods are still our domain.
As I stalked my target, I was jarred by a distant, heavy footfall that shook the earth around me. I’d felt that kind of impact before, and quickened my pace, even as my spine shivered. Please don’t let it be one of them.
Drawing my granite dagger, I rose out of the ground into the midst of furious combat, all frenzied movement, grunts, yells, and screams. Pike head clashed with sword as Rethgar battled a blade-wielding tallest. A few steps away, Syreth defended himself with his foot-long horns while threatening his two assailants with a gnarled oak cudgel. Blood sprayed from a nasty cut on his arm with each powerful swing.
The creak of old wood sounded as one of the satyr’s opponents was grabbed by several oak branches. Nereas lifted the man high into the air, then threw him against another oak on the other side of the clearing. The leather-clad warrior hit headfirst, fell to the ground, and did not rise again. With a feral grin, Syreth pressed his advantage on the remaining tallest, forcing the swordsman to retreat in the face of those razor-sharp horns and a thick wooden club.
Lying next to me was the net-bearer who had tried to capture the redcap, moaning and clutching his privates. He smelled of blood, sweat, and fear, and I knew exactly where Reth’s first stab had gone. His eyes locked with mine. Before he could move, I bent over and slashed the wounded warrior’s throat, his blood gushing out to stain the dirt black. The tallest reached up to try and dam the tide of life’s blood flowing between his fingers, but was too late. The scent of copper filled the air, his arms going limp as his panicked choking faded to dying gurgles.
I felt the same heavy, crushing footfall I’d sensed before, closer this time, and looked around to see whom I could aid before the enemy reinforcements arrived.
A goblin curse made me glance at Fzith and Bzith facing the last pair of enemy warriors. The mottled brothers stood back-to-back, twin double-bladed daggers in both hands, fighting broznich style, their left feet heel-to-heel so each could sense the other’s movements and plan his offense or defense accordingly. It allowed two or three goblins to vanquish twice their number. Against equal numbers, it was only a matter of time before they prevailed.
Meanwhile, Rethgar advanced relentlessly on his opponent, leading with well-placed stabs and slashes of his iron pike. The tallest defended himself valiantly, but the tireless, feral redcap kept pushing the fighter backward—directly toward me.
When he was a step away, I stabbed my blade into the back of his knee, penetrating the softer leather at the joint. The dagger point sank deep into his flesh, grating against bone. With an agonized shout, the warrior fell to the ground as I pulled my blade out and sank it into his side, underneath the armor straps. He screamed again, keeping his sword up to fend off Rethgar while clawing at me with his free hand. The redcap slashed the blade away with a mighty swing, then brought the pike around and down to cleave through the tallest’s raised arm and into his nose. The iron spearhead rose and fell twice more, and when it was over, the man’s face was a bloody ruin.
Another footstep shook the ground, making Reth look up, alarm flitting across his face. He exchanged a nervous glance with me. “Is that—”
A shout from the other side of the meadow made me look over to see Bzith clutching his side, where the fletching of an arrow jutted from between his ribs. The archer!
“Help them!” I snapped as I turned to run for the tree line. Before I’d taken a step, a high, terrified yell tore the air. The tallest archer dangled in midair, held captive by the branches of the tree he’d been using as a perch. The living wood wrapped around his arms and legs, pulling his limbs apart unmercifully. His helmet had been knocked off, and pain contorted his brutish face as he strained against his bonds. His mouth gaped open in a scream of pure agony, and when I saw the lower part of his breastplate bulged out, I knew what Nereas had done.
The smaller branches uncurled from around the archer’s arms and legs. Sliding off the thick limb that had impaled him, the tallest flopped to the ground. His trembling fingers plucked at the straps of his armor, but he was too dazed and weak to remove it. Drops of his own blood fell on his face from the dark-stained branch above. Even with aid, he would die from the terrible wound. Eventually.
My face remained impassive as I watched him twitch and shudder. I knew Nereas was merciless—a dryad who survives the destruction of her grove has nothing left but revenge—but I had never seen that trick before.
A strangled grunt drew my attention back to the goblin brothers. With Rethgar reinforcing them, the last pair of tallest was on the defensive, the net-bearer having drawn a flanged mace to assist his partner. They stood next to each other, their weapons a barrier of steel against the two goblins and one blurred redcap.
Beginning to sink into the earth, I stepped forward to help. As I did, a caprine form hurtled down out of the darkness, staving in the swordsman’s head. The satyr screamed in triumph as he crushed the tallest’s body to the ground. His partner gaped in shock at the sudden death of his partner. Before he could move, he was pierced three times: twice by goblin blades, and once by a needle-pointed satyr’s horn. He convulsed and began to drop as Rethgar wound up and swung his pike with all his might.
The last tallest’s head bounced across the clearing and rolled to a stop at my feet, his shocked eyes glazing over into death. Panting hard, we all looked at each other as another thundering footstep sounded, accompanied by the snap and crack of breaking timber.
We all knew what was coming, but Nereas spoke first, using the leaves and branches of her tree to whisper the words. “A Ravager approaches.”
“Then leave that tree. We have to get out of here—” I began.
“More humans follow it…gooo…I will hold them here—”
“Damn it, Nereas, I’m ordering you to come out of there right now!” I said.
“Gooo now…before it’s too late.”
“She’s right, Topkir,” Rethgar said, blunt as a stone. “We gotta go, afore we’re all nicked.”
I didn’t move, even though I could sense more footsteps behind the Ravager. “Nereas—”
An oak branch bent down to push me, not unkindly, toward the far end of the clearing. “Nooo time…gooo!”
Fists clenched with rage, yet knowing she was right, I stumbled to the other side of the clearing. A blue-white glow from the forest warned where the Ravager was coming from, and as I pushed into the underbrush, I glanced back to see it explode into the glade.
A head higher than any tallest I’d ever seen, the Ravager was a cold-iron monstrosity, one of our enemy—at least I was pretty sure a tallest was inside it—that was encased entirely in iron. Some kind of unknown, fearful magic allowed the person inside to see, because there was no viewport on the blank face, only smooth metal. Its hobnailed feet sank an inch or two into the ground with each step, but it strode forward with ease. Blue-white light flashed from the joints of its arms and legs each time it moved. Several tallest trailed behind it, using the Ravager as a merciless battering ram to clear the forest before them.
Nereas reached for it with every branch she had, entwining its arms and legs in wood. The Ravager plowed relentlessly forward, its jointed fingers grabbing oak limbs, snapping them off, and casting them aside. I knew every broken limb hurt
Nereas—a dryad feels damage to the tree she inhabits as if the injury is inflicted on her—yet I still didn’t move, hoping she would flee before it was too late.
The Ravager marched toward her oak, breaking tree limbs as thick as my body like they were brittle twigs. Reaching the trunk, it encircled hard metal arms around it and strained. Nereas screamed as the iron pressed into the tree. With a mighty heave, the Ravager ripped the mature oak from the ground and dropped it, the once majestic tree now dying—and with it, one of my best scouts.
Hands clutched my jerkin and pulled me into the brush. Blinking tears from my eyes, I let myself be led deeper into the woods as we fled.
* * *
We ran for what seemed like hours, until we were sure we had left all pursuit behind. No one complained, although Bzith panted hoarsely with every step. His brother and Rethgar took turns helping him along. Although the tallest have a longer stride than us, they do not know the forest like we who have grown up in it.
Night shrouded us when I finally called a halt. We staggered to a stop amid a cluster of elms, their leaves fluttering in the slight breeze. Normally I would have had Nereas merge with the biggest tree to sense for nearby enemies, but that wasn’t possible anymore. I merged with the earth for a moment, reaching out for anyone following us, but felt nothing. Pulling back up, I rubbed a grimy hand over my face, the strain and lack of sleep weighing on me as the rush of combat and flight faded. Even so, something about that fight bothered me.
“What now, Top?” Fzith asked. “Tallest are pushin’ deeper in. We need t’report back, yah?”
Still deep in thought, I didn’t reply. Then I realized what was strange. “They had a Ravager.”
Rethgar spat on the ground. “Yeah, so? See more and more damnable things from them every day. What’s special bout this one?”
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