Free Stories 2016

by Baen Books

  Ah. There it was. The third finger on her left hand, the heart finger, had drifted out of place.

  She adjusted her grip, and set the flute against her lips. Gently blew.

  Deeeee!

  There. All better. She began again.

  Tweet da dee, da dee dee dee. Tweet da dee, da dee diya doo.

  Tweet da dee, da dee dee dee. Tweet da diya dee, diya da doo.

  "That's a song I've heard before."

  Nia whirled and came face to face with a boot, propped in a stirrup. She'd been so lost in the music, with making her fingers move just so, that she hadn't noticed the horse riding up behind her. The boot's leather was well polished, with shiny brass fittings and tinier stitching than she'd ever seen. She followed the white-clad, slightly dusty leg all the way to the man perched in the saddle.

  He had the same olive-wood skin as Astonaris, though his clothes were fancier. His tunic was dyed blue as a clear sky, with golden embroidery. An ice-blue dragon perched on his shoulder.

  "Your flute," he said. "Show it to me."

  She glanced at the length of carven reed in her hand. Suddenly it seemed very plain and boring.

  Swinging his leg over the saddle, he dropped down to the ground. "Come now, don't be shy."

  His fingers beckoned, impatient, demanding. He sounded angry. Had she done something wrong? She held it up so he could see. Instead of simply looking, he plucked it out of her grasp.

  That's mine. The words died on her lips. Her shoulders slumped.

  The horseman wasn't alone. Other men rode with him, eight of them, foreign soldiers in shiny bronze breastplates and helms with feathered crests.

  "Let me guess." Scowling, the man brandished her flute. "The same man who taught you the song also carved this?"

  She nodded glumly. She'd definitely done something wrong. What, though? It was just a flute.

  "And was there a godling with him?"

  Godling? She didn't know what that meant.

  He caught her blank look, and explained impatiently, "A man with skin like mine. And a dragon, though his is a different hue."

  She studied her bare toes and shrugged.

  He chucked her chin, making her look up. His touch was cold as winter, and his eyes, a brilliant amber.

  "Answer me, girl."

  She looked at her flute, just out of reach. If she told, she'd get it back, right?

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "What was that? Speak up."

  Something like frost spiderwebbed down the reed. Except it couldn't be frost. Not at midmorning in summertime.

  She swallowed. "Yes."

  "Good."

  Absently, his fist clenched, and she heard her flute crack. She watched in horror as the reed splintered, pieces crumbling to the ground.

  "Good," he said again, slowly, in a way that did not sound good at all.

  Her vision blurred as she stared at the fragments in the grass. The flute was broken. Dead. With it died the song in her soul.

  A slap across her cheek shocked her back to the present.

  "Answer me, girl!"

  "W-what?" Gingerly, she touched her stinging skin.

  "Is he here?"

  Why had he crushed her flute? It wasn't fair! She had been good. She'd answered his question. Anger washed away her fear, her pain, leaving only a bitter knot of mulishness.

  "Is he still here?" he demanded again.

  She glared at him. He was a bully. Growling, he drew back to strike her once more.

  The door to her house slammed open, and her mother shouted, "Wait!"

  Several of the man's guards dismounted, intercepting Mama before she reached them. She fell to her knees.

  "Please, bwana, leave her be. I apologize for whatever she did. Tell me and let me make it right."

  "Where is Astonaris?"

  "Aston . . . Why?"

  He captured Nia's wrist in his icy grip. "Hold her still," he commanded, and one of his soldiers took her by the shoulders.

  "Wait!" blurted Mam. "Please, I'll tell you, just don't hurt her."

  He ignored her. Forcing Nia's fist open, he grabbed the littlest finger on her left hand. She gasped as cold invaded her flesh. Her pinkie hurt—burned, almost—but that soon passed, and then she couldn't feel anything. All the while, her mother kept protesting, begging.

  When he let go, Mama gasped. Nia's finger was frosted white. Nothing happened when she tried to bend it.

  From his belt he drew a dagger. Was he going to cut her? Why? Mama was cooperating. Instead he reversed the dagger, holding it gingerly by the blade. Then he struck her pinkie with the pommel.

  Her finger shattered.

  Strangely, it didn't hurt.

  Nia stared at the stump where her finger had been. Her flesh was jagged, like broken ice. Why didn't it hurt? She'd cut her toe on a sharp rock the other day. That hurt. This should have hurt, too. All she felt was cold. Cold all over.

  The bully waggled his dagger at her mother. "When I ask a question, I expect an answer."

  Mama flung herself on the ground before him, worshiping his boots. "Yes, of course, bwana. Anything you want."

  "Is my cousin here?"

  "No, he left this morning. He and—"

  "Do you know where they were headed?"

  Mama gulped. "N-no."

  Numbly, Nia watched the man wrap his hand around her heart finger.

  "Please!" cried her mama. "They didn't say where they were going, but I know which way they left!"

  He hesitated, but did not yet release her finger. "Show me."

  "That way."

  The man stared long and hard. "I don't believe you."

  Again, that flash of burning cold. Mama's wailing. A rap of the pommel. The tinkle of falling shards.

  This was a nightmare. Had to be. That was the reason it didn't hurt. She was going to wake up at any moment.

  "Which way?" He grasped Nia's middle finger.

  "That way, I swear!"

  "I am right here, Saegon."

  The man ducked like Astonaris's words themselves could have knocked him over the head. Like he was a boy caught red-handed, cringing from a spanking.

  Picturing Saegon as a child made Nia giggle. The guard holding her clapped his hand over her mouth. Saegon glared. He was too old, too stern, to have ever been as young as Abwembe.

  "Let them go, Saegon." Astonaris tapped the dirt with his cane as he made his way toward them. In his other hand he carried Pyrkaia in her wicker cage. "They have nothing to do with us. I offer you my life for theirs."

  Alert and wary, the soldiers closed ranks around Saegon. What were they afraid of? Astonaris was blind and harmless.

  "Where is your paladin?"

  Oh, right. Kwambo.

  "I slipped away unnoticed," Astonaris said. "Kwambo would have never let me surrender without a fight."

  Saegon gestured to his men. "Take him."

  The soldiers lurched into motion, but Astonaris lifted a finger, and everyone froze. "My life for theirs. Promise me."

  "Fine. Whatever. Now take him! He's blind, you imbeciles." Yet Nia could hear the unease in his own voice.

  Smiling faintly, Astonaris stooped to place the dragon's cage on the ground. He stepped away.

  The soldiers tackled him, tying his wrists, then his ankles. Not once did he resist. Bound, he was dragged forward and thrown to the ground. Pyrkaia was deposited, far more carefully, beside him.

  Only with his enemy helpless before him did Saegon relax. "Trading your life for a commoner? What happened to you, cousin? You've gone soft. Weak."

  "Is the mother bear weak? Or the sparrow, who lures the fox away from its nest?"

  Saegon's eyes narrowed, but rather than argue he kicked Astonaris in the ribs. "Two men, eyes on, at all times. Let's see you escape from me now."

  "Deus?" said the soldier holding Mama. "What about them?"

  "My life," Astonaris wheezed. "My life for theirs. You promised."

  "I have not forgotten.
I will not lay a hand on them." But silently he drew his finger across his throat.

  Nia felt, more than heard, the regretful sigh from the soldier holding her.

  When Mama opened her mouth, the soldier elbowed her in the gut. Astonaris must have heard her grunt, but he let himself be led away without a word of protest.

  Saegon vaulted into the saddle. "Catch up to us on the road."

  The stumps of Nia's fingers were beginning to sting. Distantly, she noticed she was shivering. Tears burned hot troughs down her cheeks.

  "It'll be quick," murmured her captor. "I can give you that much."

  Her brother was peeking between the logs of the woodpile. He looked so small, so afraid. He stood up. He was going to run to Mama, she just knew it.

  Abwembe, don't. With her eyes she begged him to stay put, stay silent. For once he listened.

  The soldier holding Mama drew his sword.

  "Don't watch," said Nia's captor, but she couldn't tear herself away.

  He covered her eyes. An afterimage of that bright, glittering sword was burned into the backs of her eyelids.

  She heard a scuffle. Footsteps. Her captor gasped, and his grip tightened. There was a high-pitched scream, cut short. Then a thud and a splatter, the same sound as when she'd dropped an overripe melon, and it had burst and sprayed its guts all over her toes. The erratic rhythm of heels drumming in the dirt. Gurgling breath.

  She wanted to see, and she didn't. She hated the man holding her upright; she burrowed into his chest for comfort. She was cold and numb all over, except for her missing fingers. They burned like live coals.

  A blade touched her throat. She whimpered. Sudden warmth trickled down her legs, but she couldn't muster the will to be embarrassed.

  "Let her go."

  Kwambo?

  You were too late, she wanted to say, but it was too much work to move her tongue. Astonaris was already gone. Mama was already gone.

  "You know I can't do that," said her captor.

  "Kill her, and it will be the last thing you do."

  "I'm dead if I don't. My god has ordered her death."

  "Do you really want to meet your ancestors with a little girl's blood on your hands?"

  "I . . . "

  "Please," said her mother's voice. "Don't hurt my daughter. I beg you."

  Nia gasped. If Mama lived, then who . . . ? She clawed at the hand covering her face. She wanted to see!

  They struggled, and something whistled past her ear. She felt a tug at her hair. The man's grip slackened, and she stumbled free.

  The body of the soldier who she thought had killed Mama lay in a pool of blood. His gaze was blank and scary.

  She heard a wet slap. Her own captor had clapped a hand to his neck. Bright red blood leaked between his fingers. All five fingers.

  He fell to his knees. Blinked.

  Then Mama was there. Picking her up. Cradling her. Murmuring comfort.

  Nia fiercely hugged her mother. "I thought you were dead!"

  "Hush, child. You're safe now."

  Safe? She didn't care about safe. She was too numb.

  ~~~

  Surrounded by thudding horse hooves and jangling tack, Astonaris blundered along on his leash. His toes found every bump and uneven cobble.

  "What is keeping those two?" mused Saegon. "They should have caught up by now."

  Astonaris could have told him. He didn't. He was the blind one, but it amused him to listen to the sighted stumbling blindly into the future.

  "What are you smiling at?" asked Saegon.

  "Was I smiling?" He might have been. It was easy to forget to guard his expression.

  "What is it you know?"

  "That I am thirsty. And I need to urinate. Odd, that. You'd think if a body needs to make water it wouldn't also want a drink."

  Saegon allowed a halt. He did not permit Aston's hands to be untied, however, nor did he allow any privacy. Astonaris endured having his trousers yanked down to his ankles as though he were a toddling boy being taught how to pee.

  As he was led back, Pyrkaia chirped—the cue from his foretelling. He lurched sideways.

  The vision had shown him what happened next: The horse sidestepping. Its rider kicking at Astonaris, dislodging Pyrkaia's cage. Himself staggering, off balance.

  Wicker crunched beneath his heel. This was the tricky part. Treading hard enough to ruin the cage without stepping on Pyrkaia. He overbalanced and landed on his ass.

  The cavalcade erupted into curses and yelling. Astonaris felt little claws climbing his shirt.

  "Sorry," he whispered.

  His dragon perched on his shoulder and scolded him. Loudly. Right in his ear.

  It took the paladins quite a while to coax Pyrkaia into the cage with Saegon's dragon. There was much hissing. Despite being hatchmates, they got along as well as two strange cats.

  "Put the dragons with me," Saegon instructed. "And keep a close eye on him. He's up to something."

  "Me?" said Astonaris innocently.

  ~~~

  Nia's wounded hand throbbed with each hoofbeat. Thump, stab; thump, stab. The pain made her dizzy, nauseous. Squeezing her eyes shut helped a little. Not enough. She wanted the numbness back.

  All that kept her going was the fact that Saegon must be stopped. Or he would return and finish what he'd started.

  After forever and ever, the throbbing lessened. She realized the hoofbeats had ended. She risked opening her eyes.

  "We're here," Kwambo said.

  Here was the middle of the forest, beneath a zingana tree's broad limbs.

  Kwambo dismounted—clank, clank—and reached up to help her down. "We have a few minutes yet. Let's see how your hand is doing, shall we?"

  When her feet hit the ground, her knees buckled, and she would have fallen but for Kwambo's strong arms. Slowly the world stopped tilting and spinning and twirling all about.

  He led her to one of the tall, exposed roots so she could sit. Stripping off his gauntlets, he knelt in the soft earth and began unwrapping her bandage. She clamped her jaw to keep from crying out. Gentle as he was, it still hurt. A hiss escaped her when he pried the bloody cloth from her stumps.

  The sight made her shiver. Bone, blood, and . . . Shouldn't there have been more blood?

  "You don't have to go through with this, Nia."

  After a moment's confusion, she realized he wasn't referring to rewrapping the wound. "Doesn't that mean Astonaris would die?"

  "Let me worry about Aston."

  Which wasn't the same thing as saying he would live. As though not admitting it made it untrue. Adults were silly like that. "I'm going to help. I just wish I weren't so . . . "

  "Scared?" Kwambo finished for her.

  She gave him a guilty nod.

  "I know. I'm sorry. But scared is good. Scared keeps you careful, and careful keeps you alive."

  "You aren't scared."

  "What are you talking about? I'm terrified!"

  "You are?" She scrunched up her nose.

  "I'm scared I'll hesitate when I need to be swift, or act rashly when I should be thinking. I'm scared I won't be strong enough, fast enough, skilled enough." He looked smaller and smaller with each confession. "And I'm scared I'm going to get you hurt somehow. Hurt more, I mean. You deserve better. But I . . . I can't do it alone." By the end there were tears in his eyes. Then he straightened. "What matters is that we don't let our fears stop us."

  She felt, if not braver, at least a little less alone.

  The thud of hooves announced that it was time. She began to climb. Her bare feet found easy purchase on the zingana tree's rough bark. Her hand throbbed. She kept from whimpering, but only barely.

  "Remember," Kwambo called up to her, "Saegon must not make it to his dragon."

  Or they all died. He'd told her that without dragon venom, Saegon's frost extended no further than his touch. With it, he could turn anything he saw into ice.

  When she reached the first limb, she broke off a forked
twig. Her fingers shook as she tied it to one end of the string. She crawled out along a branch hanging over the road, and waited.

  Within minutes Saegon and his men rode into view. Astonaris, hands bound, walked alongside one of the horses. There was a rope around his neck.

  Kwambo strode into the middle of the road. Saegon reined in his mount, and his six remaining soldiers fell into formation around him. Astonaris glanced up and winked—straight at her.

  She gulped and focused on the task at hand. Saegon's horse wasn't quite beneath her. She needed to crawl further out. Trying not to think about how slender the branch was, nor how unsteady her balance, she put the looped cord between her teeth and crept along the sagging branch.

  Her skirt caught on the bark. Her struggling rustled the leaves. She froze.

  "Release Astonaris," Kwambo said loudly to drown out her noise, "and you may leave with your life."

  "May?" Saegon laughed. "I am a god. You can't stop me."

  Carefully she unhooked her clothes and inched out, disturbing the tree limb as little as possible. The further she went, the further the branch dipped. Her heart hammered in her chest. She was completely in the open. If anyone were to glance up . . .

  Don't let your fear stop you.

  Taking the string from between her teeth, she secured one end around her finger. Loop by loop, she lowered it. The twiggy hook swayed as it descended.

  "Two of your men have already fallen to me," boasted Kwambo.

  "So that is what kept them. Well, we can't have you indigenes slaughtering paladins. Sets a bad example."

  She finished unwinding the cord. The hook twirled in the air behind Saegon, above the dragons' cage.

  The string was too short.

  Only one thing for it. She crooked her legs over the branch, wincing at the noise of the crumbling bark. Kwambo clanged his sword against his shield to cover for her. Dangling upside down, she fished for the cage. The twig tapped the wires but did not catch. At least she was low enough. She tried again.

  The hook snagged in Saegon's shirt. Nia's mouth went dry. She twitched the string from side to side, trying to dislodge it before Saegon noticed.

  He noticed.

  Saegon twisted in the saddle. His head tilted, following the string, and his amber gaze locked with hers. "You!"