The Mammoth Book Of Warriors and Wizardry (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Sean Wallace

  Kahe looked at his wife, at her gray and bloodless lips, at the bright red staining her skirts and ankles; Hia, Pikeo and the Mother – she had surpassed the ancient man in power.

  The dying woman’s narrow spell struck Mehahui in the belly. Light as white as Hia’s fire flared around her. She convulsed.

  Kahe leaped to catch her as she collapsed. Seeing her fall, the Ouvallese king shouted a command to the few remaining archers. They raised their bows and fired at Kahe and Mehahui. Kahe welcomed the speeding arrows, but they too were consumed by the void Mehahui had created.

  It roiled forward.

  The handler for the king’s whale-horse frantically turned the animal, trying to outrun the void.

  Created in the moment before her death, it was the strongest spell Kahe had yet seen.

  Seeming to recognize this, the sorcerer in the king’s hut grabbed a knife from his side and plunged it into his own heart, throwing the counter-spell again. It struck the void, undoing it, as the whale-horse plunged into the trees. The archers again raised their bows.

  In Kahe’s arms, Mehahui stirred and opened her eyes.

  She gulped in air. “Oh, Hia. No!”

  Her skin was clear and flushed with life. Kahe took her face in his hands, feeling the warm vitality of her flesh. “How?”

  “They healed me,” she groaned. “The goddess has left.” She looked past him at the archers. Her eyes widened.

  They had no more blunt arrows. A field of sharp points sprang toward them.

  “Pikeo save us!” Kahe threw himself across her, turning to cast a shield at the deadly arrows. It stopped most of them.

  A familiar pain tore open his cheek. Another arrow plunged into his left shoulder and the third went through his right arm and pinned it to his thigh.

  But none of them hit Mehahui.

  Kahe waited for Hia’s power to come to him, but the wounds were too slight. So he sent a prayer to Pikeo begging for good luck. They were in a crossroads, if ever Luck were going to play fair with him, it would be here and now.

  And this would be the moment to strike. Oahi sagged in the arms of his escort, already gone home to Hia, but Kahe lacked the power for any large spells. He tried to reach for his dagger but, by unlucky chance, the arrow bound his right arm to his leg.

  His left arm hung limp. This was how Pikeo answered his prayer?

  Mehahui pushed him off of her and got to her knees. He saw her prep for a spell with a sense of despair. Flush with life, she had even less power than he.

  The spell fluttered from her, almost dissipating by the time it reached the army. She had thrown an unbinding spell. It was a simple childish spell, good only for causing a rival’s skirt to drop.

  One tie on the king’s hut came undone.

  Kahe held his breath, praying that Pikeo would notice that chance and play with it.

  As the animal lurched on to the road, the king’s hut slid off and toppled among the remnant of the Ouvallese army. The hut splintered as it crushed the men unlucky enough to be caught underneath it. As the debris settled, Kahe gasped at what the hand of Pikeo had wrought: the pike of one of the Ouvallese had impaled the king like a trophy of war.

  He convulsed once and hung limp.

  At the sight of their dead monarch, a rising wail swept through the remaining warriors. Those closest to Mehahui and Kahe backed away. Others, seeing their decimated ranks, threw down their arms and ran.

  Mehahui leaned her head against Kahe’s back. Then she patted him, soft as a hatchling. “Stay with me.”

  Kahe coughed as he tried to speak, gagging on the mass in his mouth. She knelt in front of him.

  Looking at his wife’s fair and healthy face, Kahe sent a prayer of thanks to both gods.

  “The arrow in your cheek appears to have followed the same path as the other did; it is lodged in your bandages. I’d say we have Luck to thank for our survival today.” Mehahui picked up the sorcery kit. “And now, my love, I intend to keep you out of Hia’s hands.”

  She placed a hand against his cheek and Kahe had never felt anything so sweet as his wife’s touch, proving they were both alive.

  VICI

  Naomi Novik

  “Well, Antonius,” the magistrate said, “you are without question a licentious and disreputable young man. You have disgraced a noble patrician name and sullied your character in the lowest of pursuits, and we have received testimony that you are not only a drunkard and a gambler – but an outright murderer as well.”

  With an opening like that, the old vulture was sending him to the block for sure. Antony shrugged philosophically; he’d known it was unlikely his family could have scraped together enough of a bribe to get him let go. Claudius’s family was a damn sight richer than his; and in any case he could hardly imagine his stepfather going to the trouble.

  “Have you anything to say for yourself ?” the magistrate said.

  “He was a tedious bastard?” Antony offered cheerfully.

  The magistrate scowled at him. “Your debts stand at nearly 250 talents—”

  “Really?” Antony interrupted. “Are you sure? Gods, I had no idea. Where does the money go?”

  Tapping his fingers, the magistrate said, “Do you know, I would dearly love to send you to the arena. It is certainly no less than you deserve.”

  “The son of a senator of Rome?” Antony said, in mock appall. “They’d have you on the block, next.”

  “I imagine these circumstances might be considered mitigating,” the magistrate said. “However, your family has petitioned for mercy most persuasively, so you have an alternative.”

  Well, that was promising. “And that is?” he said.

  The magistrate told him.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Antony said. “How is that mercy? It’s twelve men to kill a dragon, even if it’s small.”

  “They did not petition for your life,” the magistrate said patiently. “That would have been considerably more expensive. Dragon-slaying is an honorable death, and generally quick, from my understanding; and will legally clear your debts. Unless you would prefer to commit suicide?” he inquired.

  Dragons could be killed, guards might be bribed to let you slip away, but a sword in your own belly was final. “No, thanks anyway,” Antony said. “So where’s the beast? Am I off to Germanica to meet my doom, or is it Gaul?”

  “You’re not even leaving Italy,” the magistrate said, already back to scribbling in his books, the heartless bugger. “The creature came down from the north a week ago with all its hoard and set itself up just over the upper reaches of the Tiber, not far from Placentia.”

  Antony frowned. “Did you say its hoard?”

  “Oh yes. Quite remarkable, from all reports. If you do kill it, you may be able to pay off even your debts, extraordinary as they are.”

  As if he’d waste perfectly good gold in the hand on anything that stupid. “Just how old a beast are we talking about, exactly?”

  The magistrate snorted. “We sent a man to count its teeth, but he seems to be doing it from inside the creature’s belly. A good four to six elephantweight from local reports, if that helps you.”

  “Discord gnaw your entrails,” Antony said. “You can’t possibly expect me to kill the thing alone.”

  “No,” the magistrate agreed, “but the dragon hunter division of the Ninth is two weeks’ march away, and the populace is getting restless in the meantime. It will be as well to make a gesture.” He looked up again. “You will be escorted there by a personal guard provided by Fulvius Claudius Sullius’s family. Do you care to reconsider?”

  “Discord gnaw my entrails,” Antony said bitterly.

  * * *

  All right, now this was getting damned unreasonable. “It breathes fire?” Antony said. The nearest valley was a blackened ruin, orchard trees and houses charred into lumps. A trail of debris led away into the hills, where a thin line of smoke rose steadily into the air.

  “Looks like,” Addo, the head of the gu
ards, said, more enthusiastically than was decent. Anyone would’ve thought he’d won all the man’s drinking money last night, instead of just half. There hadn’t even been a chance to use it to buy a whore for a last romp.

  The guards marched Antony down to the mouth of the ravine – the only way in or out, because the gods had forsaken him – and took off the chains. “Change your mind?” Addo said, smirking, while the other two held out the shield and spear. “It’s not too late to run on to it, instead.”

  “Kiss my arse.” Antony took the arms and threw the man his purse. “Spill a little blood on the altar of Mars for me, and have a drink in my memory,” he said, “and I’ll see you all in Hell.”

  They grinned and saluted him. Antony stopped around the first curve of the ravine and waited a while, then glanced back: but the unnaturally dedicated pedicatores were sitting there, dicing without a care in the world.

  All right: nothing for it. He went on into the ravine.

  It got hotter the further in he went. His spear-grip was soaked with sweat by the last curve, and then he was at the end, waves of heat like a bath-furnace shimmering out to meet him. The dragon was sleeping in the ravine, and merda sancta, the thing was the size of a granary. It was a muddy sort of green with a scattering of paler-green stripes and spots and spines, not like what he’d expected; there was even one big piebald patch of pale-green splotchy on its muzzle. More importantly, its back rose up nearly to the height of the ravine walls, and its head looked bigger than a wagon-cart.

  The dragon snuffled a little in its nose and then grumbled, shifting. Pebbles rained down from the sides of the ravine walls and pattered against its hide of scales lapped upon scales, with the enameled look of turtleshell. There was a stack of bones heaped neatly in a corner, stripped clean – and behind that a ragged cave in the cliff wall, silver winking where some of the coin had spilled out of the mouth, much good would it do him.

  “Sweet Venus, you’ve left me high and dry this time,” Antony said, almost with a laugh. He didn’t see how even a proper company would manage this beast. Its neck alone looked ten cubits long, more than any spear could reach. And breathing fire . . .

  No sense in dragging the thing out. He tossed aside his useless shield – a piece of wood against this monster, a joke – and took a step towards the dragon, but the shield clattering against the ravine wall startled the creature. It jerked its head up and hissed, squinty-eyed, and Antony froze. Noble resignation be damned; he plastered himself back against the rock face as the dragon heaved itself up to its feet.

  It took two steps past him, stretching out its head with spikes bristling to sniff suspiciously at the shield. The thing filled nearly all the ravine. Its side was scarcely arm’s length from him, scales rising and falling with breath, and sweat was already breaking out upon his face from the fantastic heat: like walking down the road in midsummer with a heavy load and no water.

  The shoulder joint where the foreleg met the body was directly before his face. Antony stared at it. Right in the armpit, like some sort of hideous goiter, there was a great swollen bulge where the scales had been spread out and stretched thin. It was vaguely translucent and the flesh around it gone puffy.

  The dragon was still busy with the shield, nosing at it and rattling it against the rock. Antony shrugged fatalistically, and taking hold of the butt of his spear with both hands took a lunge at the vulnerable spot, aiming as best he could for the center of the body.

  The softened flesh yielded so easily the spear sank in until both his hands were up against the flesh. Pus and blood spurted over him, stinking to high heaven, and the dragon reared up howling, lifting him his height again off the ground before the spear ripped back out of its side and he came down heavily. Antony hit the ground and crawled towards the wall choking and spitting while rocks and dust came down on him. “Holy Juno!” he yelled, cowering, as one boulder the size of a horse smashed into the ground not a handspan from his head.

  He rolled and tucked himself up against the wall and wiped his face, staring up in awe while the beast went on bellowing and thrashing from side to side above, gouts of flame spilling from its jaws. Blood was jetting from the ragged tear in its side like a fountain, buckets of it, running in a thick black stream through the ravine dust. Even as he watched, the dragon’s head started to sag in jerks: down and pulled back up, down again, and down, and then its hindquarters gave out under it. It crashed slowly to the ground with a last long hiss of air squeezing out of its lungs, and the head fell to the ground with a thump and lolled away.

  Antony lay there staring at it a while. Then he shoved away most of the rocks on him and dragged up to his feet, swaying, and limped to stand over the gaping, cloudy-eyed head. A little smoke still trailed from its jaws, a quenched fire.

  “Sweet, most-gracious, blessed, gentle Venus,” he said, looking up, “I’ll never doubt your love again.”

  He picked up his spear and staggered down the ravine in his bloodsoaked clothing and found the guards all standing and frozen, clutching their swords. They stared at him as if he were a demon. “No need to worry,” Antony said cheerfully. “None of it’s mine. Any of you have a drink? My mouth is unspeakably foul.”

  “What in stinking Hades is that?” Secundus said, as the third of the guards came out of the cave staggering under an enormous load: a smooth-sided oval boulder.

  “It’s an egg, you bleeding capupeditum,” Addo said. “Bash it into a bloody rock.”

  “Stop there, you damned fools, it stands to reason it’s worth something,” Antony said. “Put it in the cart.”

  They’d salvaged the cart from the wreckage of the village and lined it with torn sacking, and to prove the gods loved him, even found a couple of sealed wine jars in a cellar. “Fellows,” Antony said, spilling a libation to Venus while the guards loaded up the last of the treasure, “pull some cups out of that. Tomorrow we’re going to buy every whore in Rome. But tonight, we’re going to drink ourselves blind.”

  They cheered him, grinning, and didn’t look too long at the heap of coin and jewels in the cart. He wasn’t fooled; they’d have cut his throat and been halfway to Gaul by now, if they hadn’t been worried about the spear he’d kept securely in his hand, the one stained black with dragon blood.

  That was all right. He could drink any eight men under the table in unwatered wine.

  He left the three of them snoring in the dirt and whistled as the mules plodded down the road quickly: they were all too happy to be leaving the dragon-corpse behind. Or most of it, anyway: he’d spent the afternoon hacking off the dragon’s head. It sat on top of the mound of treasure now, teeth overlapping the lower jaw as it gradually sagged in on itself. It stank, but it made an excellent moral impression when he drove into the next town over.

  The really astonishing thing was that now, when he had more gold than water, he didn’t need to pay for anything. Men quarreled for the right to buy him a drink and whores let him have it for free. He couldn’t even lose it gambling: every time he sat down at the tables, his dice always came up winners.

  He bought a house in the best part of the city, right next to that pompous windbag Cato on one side and Claudius’s uncle on the other, and threw parties that ran dusk until dawn. For the daylight hours, he filled the courtyard with a menagerie of wild animals: a lion and a giraffe that growled and snorted at each other from the opposite ends where they were chained up, and even a hippopotamus that some Nubian dealer brought him.

  He had the dragon skull mounted in the center of the yard and set the egg in front of it. No one would buy the damn thing, so that was all he could do with it. “Fifty sesterces to take it off your hands,” the arena manager said, after one look at the egg and the skull together.

  “What?” Antony said. “I’m not going to pay you. I could just smash the thing.”

  The manager shrugged. “You don’t know how far along it is. Could be it’s old enough to live a while. They come out ready to fight,” he added. “Last time
we did a hatching, it killed six men.”

  “And how many damned tickets did it sell?” Antony said, but the bastard was unmoved.

  It made a good centerpiece, anyway, and it was always entertaining to mention the arena manager’s story to one of his guests when they were leaning against the egg and patting the shell, and watching how quickly they scuttled away. Personally, Antony thought it was just as likely the thing was dead; it had been sitting there nearly six months now, and not a sign of cracking.

  He, on the other hand, was starting to feel a little – well. Nonsensical to miss the days after he’d walked out of his stepfather’s house for good, when some unlucky nights he’d had to wrestle three men in a street game for the coin to eat – since no one would give him so much as the end of a loaf of bread on credit – or even the handful of times he’d let some fat rich lecher paw at him just to get a bed for the night.

  But there just wasn’t any juice in it anymore. A stolen jar of wine, after running through the streets ahead of the city cohorts for an hour, had tasted ten times as sweet as any he drank now, and all his old friends had turned into toadying dogs, who flattered him clumsily. The lion got loose and ate the giraffe, and then he had to get rid of the hippo after it started spraying shit everywhere, which began to feel like an omen. He’d actually picked up a book the other day: sure sign of desperation.

  He tried even more dissipation: an orgy of two days and nights where no one was allowed to sleep, but it turned out even he had limits, and sometime in the second night he had found them. He spent the next three days lying in a dark room with his head pounding fit to burst. It was August, and the house felt like a baking-oven. His sheets were soaked through with sweat and he still couldn’t bear to move.

  He finally crawled out of his bed and let his slaves scrub and scrape him and put him into a robe – of Persian silk embroidered with gold, because he didn’t own anything less gaudy anymore – and then he went out into the courtyard and collapsed on a divan underneath some orange trees. “No, Jupiter smite you all, get away from me and be quiet,” he snarled at the slaves.