When the Villian Comes Home

by Gabrielle Harbowy

  Thotris turns away in a huff, waving her empty goblet and shouting for a servant. Pwison turns away, but not before he sees the hint of a smile on her ebony lips.

  “That’s going to cost you, Kaegen,” their host warns him. “You’re really digging your own grave tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he admits, emptying his glass and waving for another. “Last time she killed me, I didn’t manage to crawl up out of the damned grave for a week!”

  5

  The carriage rolls into the courtyard of Kaegengul Keep as the first glow of dawn lightens the eastern sky. It rumbles to a halt, the six demon horses snorting fire in unison as the lich driver hauls on the burning reins. The door bursts open and Kaegen Junior leaps out, sword in hand.

  “Can we stay up to watch the sunrise?”

  “Absolutely not!” Thotris says, following him out of the coach. “It’s not good for your eyes! Off to your coffins at once!”

  Kaegen follows her out of the carriage and, on impulse, extends a hand for Pwison to take. “Oh, why not, Thotris? They’re only half vampire. A few sunrises won’t burn their eyes to cinders. And it’s not like there’s no such thing as regeneration spells.”

  “Yay!” Kaegen Junior thrusts his sword into the air. “Dad is so awesome! He lets us do stuff!”

  “Fine!” Thotris throws her crimson shawl across her flawless shoulders and storms into the keep. “But don’t come crying to me in fifty years when your eyes are nothing but lumps of coal!”

  “You are so dead,” Pwison says, placing her slim hand in his and stepping down from the carriage.

  “Undead, actually,” he says, smiling back. “Necromancer, to be precise.”

  “I’ll loan you a shovel,” Pwison says, ascending the steps into the keep without a backward glance.

  5

  “Why do you insist on subverting my authority?” Thotris rages at him as he enters their bedchamber. She has divested herself of her evening gown and wears a slinky black…thing that is far too alluring for her tempestuous mood.

  “I’m not subverting anything. I am merely trying to enjoy my children while I’m home.” He removes his powder blue cloak and vestments, and dons a simple black robe.

  “Oh, you get to enjoy them, and I get to be the evil mother.” She is in rare form, her eyes flashing with crimson fire. “I get to make the rules and you get to let them break them!”

  “I come home after months of conquering and I don’t even get a ‘welcome home’ or a ‘nice to see you.’ All I get is accusations of subversion.”

  “Well, if either were true, I’d have said them!” She sweeps into his wardrobe and comes out with his recently cleaned battle-cloak. “What is this?”

  “What is what?”

  “This!” she says, poking one nail through a burn hole in the collar.

  “It’s a burn,” he explains. “I was at war. Burns happen.”

  “You’ve been consorting with succubi again, haven’t you?” She casts the cloak aside. “Admit it!

  “No, I have not. Saer Musalisku was hurling pots of burning pitch from the battlements of his keep. I got burned.”

  “Oh?” She obviously won’t believe him, despite the fact that, for once in his long, evil life, he is speaking the truth.

  “Yes, I did. I might ask about our new butler, though. I did notice your mark on him.”

  “How else am I supposed to keep the servants in line, Kaegen?” Her pale visage goes a faint shade paler, and he knows he has scored. “You think I take pleasure in sucking the blood from peasants, just so we can have decent servants?”

  “We could pay someone,” he suggests. “It’s not like we’re destitute. I did bring back the spoils of an entire kingdom, you know.”

  “Money! Just throw money around, that’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”

  “Money never seemed to bother you before, Thotris. It bought that gown, and this castle, and the kids’ clothes, and all your jewelry.”

  She glares at him, eyes blazing crimson fire as the first rays of morning invade their room. She shrieks as her hair begins to smolder, and flings herself into her coffin, slamming the lid.

  He stares at the ornate box, thinking of nailing it shut. He sighs, leaves the room and climbs the tower to his den.

  5

  The select plunder of Lower Mulavia is arrayed there for him, gold, jewels, weapons, armor and the startled-looking head of Saer Musalisku on a nice oak plaque.

  “Lucky bastard,” he mutters, going to the sideboard for a glass of bloodwine. He drinks and stares out the window into the rising sun, looking out over his domain. His domain…

  What’s it all about? he wonders, not for the first time in his long, evil existence. What’s it all for? All the conquering, all the war, the plundering, the murder…It wasn’t about money or security or even something as trite as ego. Thotris had sucked that out of him centuries ago.

  Why?

  Why conquer?

  “I’m good at it,” he realizes. But he knows there is more to it than that. When he is out conquering, he is lord. He is in command. He makes the decisions and survives or perishes by them. It makes him feel…alive.

  Every decision he makes here, good or bad, earns him nothing but one of Thotris’ hissing fang fits. He quaffs the rest of his bloodwine and glares to the east.

  “Daddy?”

  He turns to find his daughter standing at the door to his den, still clad in her black. She hasn’t called him that in many, many years, and instantly he is wary.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course, Pwison.” He goes to the sideboard to fill his glass, and on impulse pours another. “Here.”

  “Really?” she asks, a surprised look on her deathly pale features.

  “Sure. It’ll put color in your cheeks.” He hands her the glass. “Careful, though. Your mother’s probably poisoned it.”

  She makes a face, takes the glass and sips, and a flush of crimson touches her features.

  “Like it?”

  “Yes!” she says, sipping again. She turns to the window and walks into the light of the sunrise. Her hair sparkles, and her skin shows a sheen of iridescence.

  “Doesn’t that sting?” he asks, moving to her side. He’s not about to tell her not to stand in the sunlight. She’s old enough to make her own decisions.

  “A little,” she says, taking another sip of bloodwine. They stare into the rising sun for a while. He can smell her smoldering hair, see her skin darkening under the sun’s rays.

  With a wave he summons a protective spell, and the sun’s harmful spectrum is blocked.

  She looks at him in surprise. “How…”

  “Simple magic.” He sips his wine. “Feel better?”

  “Yes.” She looks at the sun, then back at him. “Can you teach me that?”

  “Sure.” He sips again, then has a horrible thought. “Just don’t teach your mother. If she knew how to block the sun, I’d never have a moment’s peace.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” She looks back at the rising sun, and finally asks, “Can I come with you?”

  “Come with me where?” His heart is in his throat, actually beating, he can feel it. He can’t remember the last time he felt it like this.

  “When you go on conquest again.” She looks at him. “I don’t like it here, and Mother…she’s…” The bloodwine ripples in her glass. She takes a less-than-careful sip and says, “Do you have any idea what she’s like when you’re gone? She’s like Bitch Queen from Hell every night! She doesn’t let us do anything! She sucks all the fun out of being undead!”

  “Well, she’s—”

  “She’s…She’s making vampires, you know. She’s…cheating on you.”

  He sighs, wondering why the news doesn’t surprise him. “Well,
she is evil, Pwison. She can’t help herself.”

  “I still don’t like it,” she says. “I want to come with you. I’ve learned some magic. I wouldn’t be totally useless. I just can’t STAND her anymore!” The glass shatters in her hand, and he realizes just how serious she is.

  He hands her a handkerchief. “Don’t bleed on the rug. Your mother will have a fit.”

  “She’s always having a fit, Daddy!” She picks the broken glass out of her hand and flicks the pieces out the window one by one. “She’s nothing but one…big…undead…vampire…fit, waiting to happen! I swear, if you don’t get me out of this castle, I’ll hammer a wooden stake through my heart!”

  The thought of driving Thotris to another hissing tantrum poses less of a deterrent than it should. He looks at Pwison, imagining her in battle armor astride her own fire-breathing undead demon horse. Oh…Thotris would have a fit to rival the very fires of Hell…

  He retrieves the carafe of bloodwine from the sideboard, fills his glass, and a new one for her. He returns to the window, hands her the glass with an evil smile, and raises his in a toast. “There is still Upper Mulavia.”

  The first three of CHRIS A. JACKSON’s Scimitar Seas novels won sequential ForeWord Book of the Year Gold Medals in Fantasy in 2009, 2010 and 2011. His novel Weapon of Flesh won the USA Book News, Best Books Awards 2005 for best Fantasy and Science Fiction novel. His current project is a Pathfinder Tales novel for Paizo Publishing, due out in April 2013. Read and enjoy chapters of all his books at www.jaxbooks.com. Chris and his wife are currently sailing and writing somewhere in the Caribbean.

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  Steve Bornstein

  He hit the ground off-balance, hooves stumbling in the soft sand as he caught himself against a thick tent pole and raised a hand to shield his eyes from Asmara’s burning desert sun. Through the portal, the fortress-outpost burned white-hot. The cries of the soldiers mixed with the screams of those still trapped inside the structure. The few people he could still see through the portal were stumbling in the deep snow, running around and frantically trying to save what they could. Good. With a snarl he waved his hand, dismissing the gate and wiping the glowing ring from existence. They wouldn’t be following him that way.

  The sounds and smells of Asmara suddenly caught up with him. Asmara, the crossroads of Navarr, the place where all trade routes came together to create a great shifting bazaar. For once he didn’t curse the luck of a random gating. All manner of people and goods came through Asmara. From here he could go anywhere and disappear, disguised and anonymous, but only if he moved before the dragons homed in on the telltale signs of his passage. Such massive expenditures of magery sent shockwaves through the mana stream. The dragons were one of the few races sensitive enough to actually track it—and through it, him. Time to move.

  First, a disguise. His slender pointed ears would mark him as one of the Kin but his glowing eyes, talons, and inky hide would reveal him as anything but. The portal had opened in a dead space between several large tents; he was still hidden from the merchants and travelers filling the paths and lanes around him, but that could change as quickly as a wandering child or lost shopper stumbling past a closed tent flap. He grabbed a discarded bucket and squinted, fingers and lips moving silently as he spun Change into it. As soon as his fingers twisted the last knot in the air he upended the bucket over his head. A stray bit of sand spilled out and blew away in the wind but the magery hit its mark, flowing over him like an invisible liquid, changing powerful talons and hooves to graceful hands and feet, glowing coals to cerulean eyes, oily black hide to smooth alabaster skin, and a midnight blue mane to flowing blond locks. He tossed the bucket away and looked down at himself to check his handiwork. Now he looked like Kin, and with another quick sketch of his fingers through the air he spun mana into appropriately ornate robes and boots with a purse to match. Ready, he pushed his way between a pair of tents and emerged into the crowd.

  It was well into the afternoon, judging by the sun. Draconic forces would be arriving shortly, searching for him, but a quick glance up and down the lane showed no phalanxes moving through the crowd just yet. He turned left on a whim and calmly strolled down the crowded street. It was past the hottest part of the day and the residents of Asmara, shielded by bright robes and white tents, were out in force, but those near him gave him room, all the same. He was a head taller than most; his robe’s hood served as a flag, warning people from his path. Kin were powerful, politically and otherwise. Being Kin had its privileges.

  Random gating wasn’t truly random—inevitably, one ended up where the Fates would have one go—so he strolled through Asmara to learn what They had in store for him today. He hoped he wouldn’t have to start a fight here. Asmara was more useful to him intact than laid waste, and he had no quarrel with most of its people. Better to lure the dragons out into the wastes and fight them there, give the good folk a fireshow in the dead of night.

  He found himself stopped by a crowd at the great stone plinth of the aerostat tower in the center of town. He paused, looking up and around. Something was off, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. There were Kin everywhere, dozens of them, a thick knot all gathered in front of the ticket agents. Kin moved about in the world but were an insular race, preferring their own company above others. To see so many in public in one place was almost unheard of, and the throng milling about watching them was proof. The crowd parted, giving him a path through. Kin were being moved quickly through the ticketing lines as the human attendants gave them priority, and he caught the eye of a woman coming his way.

  “Returning to the Homelands for Conclave, sah?” Her tone said that she already knew the answer; her stylus was readied.

  The question struck him squarely between the eyes. Conclave. So this was what the Fates had in mind. His luck had taken a turn for the better after all, and he fought down the demonic urge inside him that threatened to bring yet another unwelcome memory to the fore. “Of course,” he answered with the haughty tone the woman would expect from Kin, suppressing the gleeful smile that threatened to spread across his face as he reached into his pouch for coin for the fare.

  Conclave meant that the mage-king of the Kin was dying. He wouldn’t miss it for all the worlds.

  He gave the attendant a throwaway name. In short order, he had his ticket and berth and was moving to the stone tower’s lift. Three aerostats were docked, offering brief respites from the late afternoon sun with their sleek shadows. The line waiting for the lift naturally bent along the darker ground. The Kin here would occupy one complete airship, and squinting up at the vessels he could see the crew of one preparing for its guests. An elderly Kin, hair greying, stumbled on the hem of her robe and caught herself on his shoulder. “Oh! Pardon me, Brother,” she said, patting his back.

  He fought down the bile and rage at her familial greeting. He visualized tearing her head from her shoulders and hurling it away, his talons slick with her arrogant blood, and briefly felt them prick against the palm of his closed hand. “Of course, Sister,” he replied through barely-clenched teeth, offering her a curt nod before putting some distance between them. If he was going to see this through without being discovered, he needed to minimize his contact with other Kin lest his control falter.

  He arrived at his stateroom and ducked inside, closing the door behind him and latching the bolt. It was posh almost to the point of flamboyance, with an overstuffed chair, ornate rugs, and a bed with a mattress three hands thick. He could have done with far less, but he’d paid for the best with counterfeit coin because it amused him to think of another Kin doing with less during the overnight voyage. He unclasped his robes as he strode across a hundred-year-old rug, letting them slide from his shoulders and puddle on the floor. The deck moved gently under his boots and he could hear the faraway shouts of the crew as the aero rose into the sky and turned to depart. He stopped at the window and looked down, watching A
smara wheel below him. Soon the subsonic hum of the vessel’s propulsion ramped up and they were on their way.

  When the last tent had disappeared from view, he closed the shutters and stepped away. He fell into the chair and leaned back, letting the thick padding accept and mold to him as he kicked off his boots. The rest of the Kin aboard would be gathering and socializing now, but he would not join them. Just thinking about them laying about smoking, gossiping, and preening threatened to provoke him again; at the very least, he was certain they wouldn’t appreciate hearing what he’d been engaged in prior to arriving in Asmara.

  His memories frothed and rose; they didn’t control him directly, but they were a force all their own, as they had been since the day Rhaedon had finished with him. Left suppressed too long, they could turn his motivations against him. The incident with the old matron had shown him that his tolerance for them was even lower than he’d thought. He would need his wits about him if he was to see this through. Given the task he’d embarked upon, he could guess at what he was about to relive.

  In the quiet darkness of his cabin, as the aerostat droned its way northward, the Scourge of Navarr closed his eyes and remembered.

  5

  The bright sun of a spring day, the scent of the renewed woods thick in his nose. The forest waking around him, readying itself for the long run to autumn. The softly glowing string of his bow taut in his fingers, holding it at the ready for his prey, stalking for a kill. These are his last good memories.

  Waking dizzy. Hard stone under him. Cold iron manacles connecting him to the walls of the damp cell. Calling for help, for anyone. Waiting. Calling again. Then Rhaedon, the mad dragon wizard, answering.

  He is a test subject, an experiment, a thing to be jabbed and prodded and twisted. The pain comes quickly and never leaves. Indignities are heaped upon indignities. He suffers like none should. Escape is impossible. The hours stretch to days stretch to weeks, months, years until time becomes an abstract concept, a myth he vaguely recalls from childhood. Yet still his heart remains pure, untouched by Rhaedon’s insanity, infuriating the wizard. He wishes he could give in and let the wizard succeed even at the cost of his soul, but he can’t change his basic nature. He wishes he would just die, and fails at that as well.