Untold Adventures

by John Shirley

  But later, after they had climbed back to the surface again, and after they had mounted the cage to the tower’s roof, and after he had washed himself in the sumptuous quarters she’d assigned to him, he stood in front of the window, looking up at the sun as it rose above the rim of the great well. He didn’t hear the door open, but he turned when she spoke. She wore a gown of green silk, open at the neck and throat, and her hair was loose around her head. “You know we are bound by our promises,” she said.

  “Then promise me. I want you to take me home.”

  Her head had fallen forward to accept his punishment. Now she raised her face to look at him. Her nose was crooked, and a scar ran down her cheek over her lips. “I promise,” she said.

  “And this will be my promise,” he continued. “On the night of the full moon, I will wait for you, when the light strikes the surface of the water.”

  With his back to the window he couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought he saw a blush pass over her cheek.

  Paul Park has published eleven novels and a volume of short stories. His work has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the World Fantasy Award, and the Tiptree Award, among others. He lives in Massachusetts and teaches part time at Williams College.

  BLOOD OASIS

  A TALE OF DARK SUN

  KEVIN J. ANDERSON

  Seawater moved against the hull planks like a lover’s whisper. The yellow sun of Athas was bright, and a westerly breeze stretched Horizon Finder’s sails, guiding the three-masted carrack toward the seaport of Arkhold.

  Unexpected spray whipped up from the bow, and Jisanne laughed. She had untied her long brown hair, letting it blow loose and free. She drew a deep breath with a sense of wonder that these sailors did not feel. They didn’t understand how lucky they were to be there.

  Captain Hurunn, a wealthy minotaur merchant with a large gold ring in one floppy ear, said, “A long voyage, a full cargo hold, even a net overloaded with fresh fish—time for me to settle down and enjoy my profits.” Even when he was in a good mood, Hurunn’s voice sounded like a gruff growl. From what little Jisanne knew from her brief previous visits to this glorious time, she doubted the minotaur captain would ever settle down.

  With gentle reverence, she touched the opalescent crystal mounted to the compass stand. “The navigation crystal always finds its way back here.” She was never sure how clearly the ship’s captain and crew could see or hear her.

  Hurunn snorted. “It’s what the navigation crystal is for—to guide its owner home. It’s a simple enough spell.”

  Jisanne shuddered at his casual attitude, forcing herself to remember that these people did not automatically hate and fear magic users, regardless of whether they were defilers or preservers. Whatever disasters had robbed Athas of this beauty had not happened yet. The world was still fresh and alive, as it Athas had been before its possibilities were stolen.

  Horizon Finder entered the mouth of the harbor and crewmen gathered on deck, waving at the numerous fishing boats, feluccas, and galleys. They were all eager to get back to port.

  High above, the elf lookout yelled, his already-thin voice an even higher pitch. “To arms—sea serpent off the stern! It’s following us!”

  As the crew scrambled to snag harpoons and bows, a fearsome triangular head rose up, streaming seawater from its golden scales. Its hinged jaw dropped open to reveal long fangs. A short distance away, a second monster rose up.

  “That’s two sea serpents, not one,” Hurunn growled. “I need a better lookout for my next voyage.”

  The pair of serpents glided toward Horizon Finder, intent on attack. Seeing the swollen net of still-squirming fish suspended by a rope and winch above the stern, Jisanne had a sudden realization. “The fish—the serpents want the fish.”

  “Of course they want the fish. They always want the fish,” the minotaur said, not overly concerned. “I was hoping we’d make it all the way to Arkhold, but these waters are infested with cursed sea serpents. A small enough price to pay.”

  With a deep bellow such as only a minotaur could manage, Hurunn commanded his sailors to swing the boom over the water. The sea serpents pressed closer to the dangling net, snapping at the spray in the carrack’s wake. “Dump the catch!”

  As twitching fish rained down, the serpents frolicked in the water, greedily feasting. From the rails, the sailors jeered at the monsters, and Hurunn complained—out of habit—about the money he’d just lost. The breeze picked up, blowing the ship safely into port and leaving the sea serpents behind.

  Ahead, Jisanne stared at the thriving city. The fortress of a forgotten order of ancient knights sat atop the highest point overlooking the blue harbor. People had gathered down at the docks to welcome the sailing ship. A few ambitious traders even took small boats out to meet Horizon Finder, hoping to strike a sweet deal with Captain Hurunn before he reached the quay.

  The minotaur handed Jisanne a flask of wine. “Here, to celebrate. Myself, I don’t drink the stuff.” He snuffled through his bull nose. “Clogs my sinuses.”

  She took a swig of the richest, headiest wine she had ever tasted. Everything seemed so unreal.

  As the carrack tied up to a long stone quay, Jisanne saw the colorful market stalls full of fresh fruit. Musicians played instruments, their competing tunes a raucous clash of sounds. Jisanne took another drink of wine and glanced down at the pristine navigation crystal. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t want to lose any of this, but she knew …

  As the scene around her faded, the moist salty air in her nostrils became harsh, sour, and dry. The puffy clouds in the sky shimmered into high blowing dust. The skirling music and the babble of marketplace sounds turned into the moan of desert wind.

  “No!” But her cry was just a whisper, words lost in time. Jisanne clutched at the fabric of the world, digging deeper into the arcane magic, not caring where she found the power to hold on for just a few moments longer, but it was no use.

  The blue ocean, the lush harbor, the vibrant city were all swallowed into dust. The waves became dunes, the horizon only an empty basin of powder, the Sea of Silt. Exposed by scouring winds, chains of ivory vertebrae and skulls with chipped fangs marked the long-desiccated carcasses of sea serpents. The minotaur captain, his elf lookout, and the rest of the ship’s crew didn’t notice they were vanishing. She was slipping in time, not them.

  That Athas, that of the Green Age, was long gone.

  Jisanne dropped to her knees on the deck of a skeletal wreck against a crumbling stone quay. Overhead, the bloated red sun was like an angry coal. The ancient flask of wine in her hand was as parched as the landscape. Next to her, propped up by a flat stone, rested a clay bowl half full of her dark, drying blood; the dull shard of the navigation crystal was immersed in the liquid.

  Jisanne felt weak and alone, drained. She had powered the magic of the crystal by drawing on her own life force, not caring about the cost of her spell. She had restored the lovely, idyllic landscape of Athas for a time … too short a time.

  And now she had to face reality again.

  The crowds cheered in the stands of the Criterion coliseum, whistling, calling for blood. The spectators were all the same, regardless of their social status: powerful templars in special travertine seats near the sand of the arena, aloof patricians who whispered about Balic city business in between bloody combat matches, and unruly commoners crowded in higher seats under the hot red sun.

  They roared their approval when Koram strode out of the gladiators’ gate, wearing his white ceremonial sash with the sign of Dictator Andropinis dyed in red; he hated the sash, but was required to wear it. He adjusted armor made of sheets of petrified wood, then looked at the stands with passive disgust. These same people had cheered for him when he was elected a praetor of Balic, and they had likewise cheered when he announced his plans to liberalize the city’s laws. Later, when the scheming foreign praetor Yvoluk, darling of Andropinis, disgraced him on false charges, the fickle c
rowds had cheered just as loudly. Then, after Koram had been shaved bald and thrown into the Criterion to battle monsters, they cheered again, expecting him to die … and now they cheered each time he emerged victorious. No one had expected him to survive for seven months in the arena.

  The people of Balic would cheer for anything, Koram thought, so long as blood was involved. He felt no further loyalty toward them; he had already paid enough. Praetor Yvoluk had seen to that. Koram’s wife and young son were already dead, worked to death in slave camps.

  Emerging into the ruddy afternoon sunlight, Koram turned slowly and raised his bronze-inlaid ivory sword. Metal was extremely scarce, and good blades even scarcer; most of the other fighters considered him lucky to have a strengthened and embellished sword. But Koram would never consider himself lucky; he had earned this with blood.

  As praetor in charge of the arena, Yvoluk could have warned him what sort of beast he would be fighting this day, but the evil templar liked to keep his surprises. Koram would defeat the opponent just the same. Otherwise it would be surrender.

  The spectators continued to whistle and stomp. Koram stood in the shade of the stretched awning that covered the noble seats and part of the sand-covered fighting ground. In the pits below, handlers would force animals and monsters onto elevating platforms and turn them loose through trapdoors in the sand.

  Koram heard the rumble of machinery, felt the sand tremble at his feet, and prepared himself. Since being sentenced to the Criterion, he had faced thri-kreen packs, drays, a raaig soulflame, and numerous warriors—human, mul, goliath, it didn’t matter. Koram had slain them all because it was the only way for him to survive. He was lucky; he was skilled; he was determined. But he knew Praetor Yvoluk would give him no way out. He hadn’t yet figured out how to kill the praetor for what he had done, but he never stopped trying to think of a way.

  Koram saw something move beneath the arena floor, stalking him … a burrowing creature that sensed the vibrations of his movements. Koram stood absolutely still. Bored, the spectators in the stands shouted out catcalls, but he didn’t budge.

  In his special box, Dictator Andropinis sat on his throne under the awning, picking at his fingernails. He seemed an elderly man with a thin face and an intent expression, but he was not intent on the gladiatorial combat before him. When the dictator addressed his people, he exuded power. The sorcerer-king of Balic claimed to have been duly elected to his position several centuries ago—and who could gainsay him? Andropinis attended gladiatorial combats out of a sense of duty, not any real interest. Over the many years of his reign, the dictator had seen, and caused, enough death. Just then, he merely appeared bored.

  Bursting out of the arena sand, a trio of gray-skinned anakores spat dust from mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth. He identified a large female with a hunched back and a line of thick, knobby protrusions, and two smaller, younger males with smoother hides and gleaming eyes. Anakores hunted in packs, and they would be a formidable team.

  But he didn’t need any assistance. He fought alone.

  The first of the younger males lunged toward Koram, and he slashed with his ivory-and-bronze blade. The anakore swung a clawed hand, blinking its black eyes as if unable to see anything but dust, but its wide flat nose smelled him. As Koram danced away, the vibrations of his footfalls were enough to guide the monster.

  The second male circled around and dove in as his companion retreated. Koram spun easily on the loose sand, jabbing again to drive the monster away. Then the older female let out a roar that sounded like an avalanche in a cave. In traditional anakore hunting behavior, one would knock a victim to the ground while others plunged forward to finish him. The female thundered toward him.

  But it was a different ploy. Her challenging bellow had distracted Koram long enough for the two males to dart forward, attacking him from both sides.

  He easily decapitated the anakore on his left, and the creature’s body slid forward with its own momentum while the head went in a different direction. The other male crashed into him, but Koram slammed his armored shoulder into the monster’s body, knocking it to the sands. With a quick, hard thrust, he skewered it through the chest.

  The crowd cheered, but Koram did not acknowledge them. Dictator Andropinis continued to study his cuticles, never even looking at the combat.

  The female howled and hurled herself at him like a boulder from a catapult. Koram barely had time to recover his balance and lift his sword. As she lunged forward, he swung hard and the bronze edge of his blade cut the anakore’s shoulder. The creature dove again, burying herself in the sand and leaving only a spot of dark blood on the churned sand.

  Koram turned in a slow circle, alert. The two males lay dead on the sand, twitching. He wondered who had caught these creatures in the wild and dragged them here to die in the coliseum. Everything died there, sooner or later.

  Some gladiator showmen would have drawn out the battle, making the bloodshed last for most of the afternoon. The people saluted them as heroes, celebrities; those fighters reveled in the attention. Koram, though, didn’t care about anyone watching him. He had killed two of the monsters, and he would dispatch the third just as easily.

  The female anakore sprang out of the dust again with barely a ripple. Without a flourish, Koram slashed and cut a deep, painful gash along the monster’s side. The female reeled, bleeding profusely, and staggered back, retreating from the gladiator. She stopped near the two dead bodies of the younger anakores, swayed and moaned.

  Koram stalked forward but the female did not fight him. She touched the blood from her deep wound, then looked at her dead companions, letting loose a keening howl. “Merrrrrrrrcy,” she seemed to say as she dropped her head toward the slain males. “My fammmilleeeeee.”

  He hesitated, but knew she hadn’t said anything of the sort. Still, anger and sickness rose up in him like bile. No one had given any mercy to his family, but he knew he could do nothing for this monster. The female would die here soon enough.

  “The only mercy here is a quick death,” he said, too quietly for the audience to hear. And without further spectacle, he drove the point of his blade through the monster’s chest, ramming it all the way to the hilt to be sure of the kill. He jerked his sword back out, letting the anakore die without more pain. The big female collapsed beside the other two corpses.

  The crowd applauded the speedy dispatch of the three enemies, but their response was lukewarm. Without bothering to cut off any of the monsters’ heads as trophies, Koram stalked back toward the gladiators’ gate and out of the sun. He was finished for the day.

  The lean, bearded praetor stood under the stone arch, his face dark with anger. As Koram walked into the shadows of the tunnels, Yvoluk struck a hard backhand across his sweaty face. “Fight harder, worm dung! Perform for the people—earn another day of your worthless life! You make our opponents seem weak and passive when you kill them so quickly.” His voice was heavily accented; Yvoluk had come from the east, an exile from another city, but he had made a powerful position for himself here.

  Koram just looked at the man who had caused him so much pain. “Why don’t you face me yourself in the arena? Then I would show you how much I want to fight.”

  Yvoluk raised his hand, threatening to strike him again, but Koram merely strode past and headed to the large underground complex of cells where the gladiators lived. It was not, and would never be, his home. But it was all he had.

  Koram had been optimistic once; he had wanted to help the people of Balic. In the showy democracy espoused by the sorcerer-king, ordinary citizens were supposed to have the freedom to speak; they were allowed to run for the office of praetor, whether or not the Council of Patricians or Andropinis approved. Koram had been so naïve, so foolish.

  An “unapproved” candidate who managed to be elected praetor typically met with an unfortunate accident before long. In his own case, Koram had asked too many questions in the first months, and Yvoluk had orchestrated his downfall,
disgracing him with accusations of graft, turning public opinion against Koram, who had been their favorite only weeks before. Though there was no proof in the charges against him, the people did not believe Koram’s vehement denials. He was arrested and stripped of his rank. His wife and son were sold to slave traders for a long march to work Tyr’s mines, where they died within weeks. Koram was thrown into the gladiator arena, where he did not have the good sense to die. Seven months later, he continued to fight and kill.

  His fellow warriors sulked in their rooms, brooding over their fates. Some oiled their muscles or strapped on armor in preparation for upcoming matches in the arena. A pair of dwarves sparred enthusiastically to hone their fighting skills. A newly captured goliath hunkered on a stone seat in his cell, rocking back and forth, holding his knees; his misery was even larger than his body. An insectile thri-kreen tracker, separated from his two psychically bonded clutch mates, recited poetry through stony mandibles to drown out the goliath’s moans. The sandy, chittering thri-kreen claimed to be a nihilistic philosopher, and he accepted his undoubtedly short life as a gladiator.

  Koram had befriended none of his comrades. They would be pitted against one another when monster combatants were in short supply, and if Praetor Yvoluk happened to notice that Koram cared for any particular gladiator, he would take great pleasure in arranging for a death match.

  Koram sat on a stone bench and used oil, sand, and a scraper to remove the blood and grit from his skin. He no longer noticed the scabs and scars; all of his motions were mechanical. Another fight, another day.

  Before he could lie back and rest on his pallet, however, a call to arms echoed through the barracks beneath the Criterion. Dimly heard through the stone block walls, the crowds in the stands roared with a sound that was definitely not cheering.

  The gladiators stood, looking around in alarm; even the moaning Goliath climbed to his feet, keeping his head and shoulders bent so as not to strike his shaggy head against the ceiling. The two sparring dwarves stopped and listened. They recognized the sound of the alarm. “Balic is under attack.”