Free Stories 2016

by Baen Books

  “Yeah . . . yeah, you’re right.” Setting my rifle down, I unzipped my tactical vest and dropped it on the ground at my feet. Ripping open Velcro straps, I pulled my body armor off over my head and tossed it aside. My shirt was soaked with sweat and I was suddenly cold. I picked up the tac vest, put it back on, even though it fit loosely without the armor, and slung my rifle. “I guess we’re hoofing it. Let’s get out of here, find a good spot to have Ling pick us up, and call for a ride. Hopefully they can figure out where we are. Oh, and tell her to burn the safe house, too. We’re not going back.”

  Antoine nodded and quietly spoke into his radio as we set off into the forest, under the cover of a moonless night.

  The Lavender Paladin

  by Shawn Snider

  FIRST PLACE

  THE BAEN FANTASY ADVENTURE AWARD 2016

  Nia was too big to cling to her mother's skirts, but she couldn't help lurking in her shadow. She wasn't sure what to make of the travelers Mama had invited to spend the night.

  Kwambo, the big one in lavender armor, stood guard by the window. She'd seen knights before, just never this close. Were they all so serious? His armor smelled funny. Like dirt and oil and rust.

  The man sitting on the floor, Astonaris, was different. She'd never seen skin as light as polished olive wood. Nor hair so straight and silken. Her fingers itched to touch it, to feel if his rich brown locks were as soft as they looked. But his eyes were scary. They were white all over.

  That hadn't stopped her younger brother. Abwembe sat in Astonaris's lap, listening to his story.

  " . . . Every time Lion roared, Hare's fur stood on end and he leapt with fright, and . . . well, what do you think happened?" The strange man pulled the tops of his ears down.

  "His ears stretched!" said Abwembe, giggling. He was only five, and could be forgiven for laughing. The man did look silly.

  "So they did. Longer and longer. At last Lion, unable to contain his laughter, lifted his paws, letting his prey bound away. And that's why Hare's ears are so long and fuzzy, and why he listens so carefully now before venturing from his hidey-hole."

  Lavender armor clinked and scraped as Kwambo leaned over to peer through the window. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. He seemed . . . nervous. What could make a knight nervous?

  Mama finished chopping eggplant and scraped it into a pot with onions and peas, added a ladle-full of water and a pinch of salt, and gave it a stir. Picking up a charred stick, she poked the embers in the hearth.

  The embers chirped.

  Yelping, Mama dropped her stick. Amidst the ashes, a dragon uncoiled, chittering at being woken.

  Nia grinned. It was hard to take such a tiny creature's outrage seriously. Where had Astonaris gotten her? She'd thought dragons were make-believe, and maybe this one could be mistaken for a slender lizard, but her neck was too long, and her head wasn't right at all. And lizards didn't sleep in fires.

  Mama pressed a hand between her breasts, embarrassed. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry. I forgot she was there."

  "Not the first time it's happened," said Astonaris. "Calm down, Pyrkaia."

  The dragon's scales were ashen with flecks of red. In amongst the flames she might as well have been just another ember.

  "How is it that she don't burn up?" asked Nia.

  "Doesn't," corrected her mother.

  Nia rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

  "It's because she's a dragon," Astonaris explained. "Pyrkaia needs the heat like you and I need to make water."

  "Pee, you mean?"

  "That's right. She'll get sick if she . . . " Mischief flickered across his face. "If she don't."

  Unwilling to correct a guest, Mama settled for a long-suffering sigh, though her mouth twitched at the corners.

  He outstretched his hand. "Come on out, Pyrkaia. You've baked enough, and our host needs to cook dinner."

  Pyrkaia shook herself, sending a spray of sparks up the chimney. Astonaris clucked at her, and she bounded over to perch on his arm.

  "Would you like to pet her?"

  "Can I?" said Nia.

  "Sure. She won't bite."

  Warily, Nia reached out. Her hand hovered just short of contact, until Pyrkaia raised up on her hind legs, bumping Nia's palm with the top of her head. The dragon's scales were pleasantly warm. And softer than Nia had expected, like supple leather.

  She found Astonaris's cloudy orbs fixed upon her, as though he were watching. "Are you really blind?"

  "Nia!" exclaimed Mama.

  Uh oh. She was in for a scolding. Why, though? It was just a question. But before Mama could go on, Astonaris spoke.

  "Yes, Nia, I am."

  "How? What happened?"

  "Child . . . " warned Mama.

  Astonaris merely laughed. "That is a story for after dinner, I think. Let me rest my voice a bit. Kwambo, how about some music?"

  The knight cast one more glance outside, then nodded. "Of course, deus."

  Tugging off his gauntlets, he rummaged in his pack and drew out a reed whistle. The tiny instrument looked ridiculous in his big black hands, but when he set the flute to his lips and blew, his thick digits flitted through a lively melody.

  "Now if only we had some accompaniment . . . " mused Astonaris.

  Nia brightened. "I'll get my mbira!"

  She ran to fetch her instrument from its hiding place on the top shelf, where it was out of her brother's reach. Little more than a box with metal keys that twanged when plucked, the mbira blended well with the flute's bright and cheery whistle.

  She grinned at Kwambo as they made music together. Astonaris clapped the beat, and her brother pranced and wiggled in what could almost be called dancing.

  ~~~

  Kwambo watched Nia's bashfulness thaw as they played. Music dismantled the walls between strangers in ways nothing else could. When he offered to teach her a song on the flute, the way her eyes lit up warmed his heart. She had a good ear and quick fingers, and could already stutter through the melody by the time dinner was ready.

  He stowed his flute as the widow spooned up vegetable stew and a generous helping of mash. Glancing from him to Astonaris, she hesitated, unsure whom to serve first. Kwambo tilted his head toward his god.

  "Here you are, bwana," she said, kneeling. "I do hope it is acceptable. No doubt you are used to finer."

  "Nonsense. It smells delicious." Aston breathed deeply, savoring the aroma. He groped around the edge of the plate for a utensil that was not there.

  Kwambo could have kicked himself. Aston had never eaten with his fingers in the way of country folk, nor did he know the proper etiquette—eat with the right hand and wipe with the left, and never the two shall meet. Doing it neatly was a feat even for the sighted. Doing it blind? Kwambo would need to do it for him. Not that he minded.

  "Deus," Kwambo said, kneeling beside his god. "Let me."

  Taking a little mash in the first three fingers of his right hand, he made an indentation with his thumb and scooped up a bite of stew. Aston's lips closed over Kwambo's fingers as he licked them clean, his tongue lingering longer than was strictly necessary.

  How could something so soft be so firm, so strong?

  Suddenly Kwambo found it difficult to breathe. He snatched back his hand.

  An arch smile flitted across Aston's face. Kwambo glowered; Astonaris couldn't see it, but if he knew him well enough to smirk then he would damn well feel it.

  The widow pretended not to notice, but he caught Nia watching curiously. Kwambo was grateful his dark skin hid his blushing.

  When he had finished feeding Astonaris, he dug into his own meal. Peas and onions and mash were simple fare, but satisfying. It was Aston who left him wishing for more.

  "So why are your eyes white?"

  "Nia, let the poor man be."

  "What? He said he'd tell us after dinner."

  Aston chuckled. "So I did, child. So I did. And a wonderful dinner it was, might I add."

  The widow subsided a
t the compliment.

  He began, "I was born with eyes like an eagle. Sharp and keen enough to spot a mouse from a mile away. But I spent all my time staring at the clouds, amazed at how white and fluffy they looked. One day it occurred to me that a bird might carry me high enough to touch them. And so I asked Heron. What do you think he said?"

  "Yes?" ventured Nia.

  "No! Little boys don't belong in the sky, he said, or they'd have been born with feathers. But once I got hold of an idea, I couldn't let go. I just couldn't! So I asked Hawk. What do you think he said?"

  "No!" chimed both children.

  While Astonaris spun his tale, Kwambo slipped outside to cut a reed from the riverbank. He settled in by the fire and whittled until night fell. Soon Abwembe drifted to sleep sprawled across his lap.

  The widow laid blankets by the hearth for her family, insisting that her guests take the only bed in the house. Closing the door, Kwambo was unbuckling his armor when he saw movement through the open window. Heart flogging his chest, he turned for a closer look. Had they been found already?

  "Breathe easy," said Astonaris. "Pursuit is a day behind us."

  He no longer questioned how Aston knew what he knew. Though his instincts demanded otherwise, Kwambo forced himself to release his sword hilt. Outside, the shadow continued down the road, nothing but a traveler passing by.

  "You see?"

  "I'm sorry, deus. We are still too close to Pango—" he broke off, and sighed. "Dytika, I mean." No matter what conquering gods named the city, a lifetime calling it Pango'ngombe was not erased overnight.

  "It is not too late," Aston said softly. "Not for you. You could still return home."

  "Pango'ngombe is no more. Past time I accept it." His voice rough, he added, "So long as we are together, it will be enough."

  "Then trust me."

  So Kwambo did. And any disturbances that night were of their own making.

  ~~~

  The next morning, after a breakfast of flatbread and chai—that Nia had brewed all by herself—Kwambo and Astonaris made ready to go. She followed Mama outside to bid them farewell.

  The blind man patted his pockets and came up empty. "I fear I have little to offer by way of a hostess gift."

  "Oh, that isn't necessary," Mama said. "I only did what anyone would."

  "What anyone should," said Kwambo, shouldering his pack. "Not what anyone else did."

  Mama draped her arm around Nia's shoulder. "Your stories are gift enough."

  "Then perhaps I can offer you something of a similar vein." Astonaris opened the door on his dragon's wicker cage. "Let me speak your fortune."

  "Another story?" Nia asked.

  "Of a sort. You see, dragons are more than just pets. Their venom grants my bloodline power beyond mortal ken. To some is given prodigious strength and skin like iron, to others is given the ability to create ice from thin air. For me, Pyrkaia gives the gift of foresight."

  He coaxed the dragon out and cradled her against his chest. Then he offered her his wrist. She burrowed sleepily into the crook of his arm. He tsked, flipping her over and tickling her belly until she nipped his finger.

  Nia started. He'd said venom, but she hadn't expected this. Snakes had venom. Scorpions, too. She didn't go around having them bite her. Yet he didn't seem bothered.

  Returning Pyrkaia to her cage, Astonaris handed her to Kwambo, then extended his arm toward Mama. "Come, take my hand. The contact helps me focus."

  The moment Mama's fingers brushed his, he gasped, and his eyes rolled back. Snatching her hand away, she shoved Nia behind her.

  Ancestors, what was happening?

  Astonaris's indrawn breath seemed to go on forever, a ghastly moan of horror. Kwambo rushed to his side.

  "Aston." He clasped the blind man by the shoulders. "What is going on? Aston, talk to me."

  The gasp became thin and strained. Astonaris threw back his head and began to tremble.

  "No, no," Kwambo said, frantic. He yanked off one gauntlet, slapped him.

  Astonaris went limp. Kwambo clutched him to his chest.

  "Aston. Aston, can you hear me? Say something!"

  Nia cowered behind her mother. She remembered petting Pyrkaia last night, and felt queasy. What if the dragon had bitten her?

  Astonaris's eyes fluttered open. He groaned.

  "It's all right. I've got you." Kwambo caressed his face as though he could wipe away the angry red finger marks blossoming there.

  Astonaris relaxed, his clouded eyes drifting closed again. "Mmmph."

  "You scared me. I've never seen the foretelling take you so strongly."

  Breathing deep, Astonaris composed himself and shook Kwambo off, settling his weight onto his own two feet to address Nia and her mother.

  "My apologies if I frightened you. That was not my intent." He put on a smile, but his pale flesh made it almost as scary as whatever had just happened. "My good woman, your house will thrive. You shall be blessed with a great many beautiful grandchildren.

  "And you, Nia, there are . . . big things in store for you. Listen to your heart and watch over your brother."

  The blind man sagged, leaning heavily on his cane.

  There was a moment's silence, then Nia remembered herself and forced her fingers to let go of Mama's skirts. Big things? Listen to her heart? She fought disappointment. He was as vague as the beggar who pretended to read knucklebones.

  Then Kwambo rummaged in his pack and took out a length of reed. "For you, Nia. I cannot prophesy, but one of these is easy enough to carve."

  And disappointment fled. A flute. He'd made her a flute! She could scarcely play it through all the grinning.

  ~~~

  They walked in silence. Well, almost. Kwambo's lavender armor rattled with each step. But not a word was spoken. Rather than hold Kwambo's elbow, as Aston was wont to do, he walked apart, tapping the dirt road with his cane.

  Kwambo bided his time. The air grew heavy with words unspoken.

  "Deus, what happened back there?"

  "Hmm?" The tapping cane paused, then resumed. "Nothing."

  Why was Aston lying? The fortunes he told were never vague or uncertain. Do this, don't do that, and when so-and-so says this it means that. What was he so afraid to admit?

  "You made it up, didn't you? Their foretelling."

  "No."

  The word hung there, incomplete by itself. Tap, tap, went the cane. When Kwambo could stand it no more, he took Aston by the shoulders. The god's eyes were damp with unshed tears.

  "What aren't you telling me?"

  Aston made a noise in the back of his throat. A whine. "They're going to die. Nia and her mother. Murdered in cold blood."

  "What?"

  "The boy too, perhaps," he went on, as if Kwambo hadn't spoken, "though not if he heeds his sister."

  Ancestors. Killing a harmless woman was bad enough. But the children? And why were he and Aston walking away when they should be rushing back?

  "Can't we help them?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Then what are we waiting for?" He pulled at Aston's arm.

  The god dug in his heels. "I cannot lose you."

  "What are you talking about? I'm right here."

  "Protecting me."

  "Always."

  Astonaris made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "My brave, selfless paladin. There are things even you cannot defeat."

  "Then we'll beat them together, you and I."

  "If only it were so simple."

  "We can't just stand by and let them die!"

  "You don't understand. Are you willing to trade your life for theirs?"

  "If need be."

  "And are you willing to trade mine?"

  Kwambo flinched. He had sworn to protect his god with his life. That was a paladin's duty, though for him, the depth of his devotion went beyond mere oath-keeping.

  But was this how they repaid the widow's generosity? He remembered Nia, her little hands moving beneath his as he s
howed her the fingerings to the song. Abwembe, nodding off in Kwambo's lap during a bedtime story.

  "Does it truly come to that?" he asked hoarsely. "You or them? Is there no other way?"

  "The ways are myriad. But if we turn back, Saegon will find us."

  "But survival . . . Is it possible?"

  Aston brushed at the air, as though he were parting a curtain. Then he sighed. "The paths that end in death carve the deepest rut, but there is one fate where none of us dies. One among thousands. And even if we can balance on that razor's edge, we will not emerge unscathed."

  The blind god reached out in mute appeal. Kwambo gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  ~~~

  Nia heard a shrill squawk. She straightened, the row she'd been hoeing forgotten. Her eyes narrowed. Her brother wouldn't dare . . .

  There it came again, a squeaky whistle. Abwembe was trying to play her flute.

  "Hey!" She dropped the hoe and bounded toward the sound. "That's mine!"

  She rounded the corner. Her brother's eyes widened, and he ran, her flute clutched in his grimy hands.

  Growling, she gave chase. He made it halfway around the house before she caught him. Tickling his ribs reduced him to a giggling, helpless mess, and she snatched the flute from his limp fingers.

  She inspected the instrument for damage. There were no cracks she could see. Just little brother spit all over the mouthpiece.

  Abwembe wriggled loose, and he took off.

  "Yeah, that's right. Run and hide," she called after him. "If you broke it, I'll give you a thrashing no matter what Mama says."

  She cleaned it with her shirt before putting the flute to her lips. He'd better hope it still played.

  The note was bright and true. She sighed with relief. Abwembe had been puffing on it too hard, was all. But to make sure, she began playing the song Kwambo had taught her.

  Tweet da dee, da dee de—

  The note went shrill, and Nia winced. She checked her fingering.

  First finger covered that hole. Second finger covered this one. Third finger, up. The fingers on her other hand went here, here, and . . .