Mythic Transformations

by Kris Schnee

  The white wolf rushed to Ivan's side and put her glowing hands against his fur. She whispered words of comfort. Ivan gradually felt the world focus again, though his skin still smoldered and the molten eyes were judging him. Ivan managed to breathe and say, "My lord. There was no point in changing him. He said no."

  "Of course there was! If a man signs his life over to me, I want him without caveat or exception. I don't rent souls. What do you care what he wanted, when you had already decided he should be a horse? Speak!"

  Ivan feared to answer, but those eyes wouldn't let him go. "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Sorry? So, next time, if I tell you to find ten children and tear their guts out for reasons of my own, you will do it without complaint?"

  Ivan felt the weight of Petrov's claws, and the hellish scent of the dragon's breath. Petrov's forces had only asked one little favor from him at first, and then a little more and a little more. That road would go on forever to depths beyond the sight of mortal men. "Not to tell you your business, sir, but is this what you want? To have your tale be one of horror and slaughter and tyranny?"

  In answer, Petrov's claws stabbed Ivan through a lung. He felt his chest collapse and his muscles shudder. The dragon shouted, "I am right! I will give people what's best for them, even if I have to beat them into accepting it!" Ivan was too fascinated by the bright blood welling from him to have an answer. Petrov flung Ivan in the direction of Alexi and said, "I broke my toy again. Fix him."

  Ivan tumbled and crashed onto black stone. He saw the white dragon woman over him now, like the moon after the cruel sun. Visions flashed before him of a glorious dragon queen who smiled at her subjects. Then, instead, he saw the truth. There was a kind and wise woman, gifted with power, who stood behind her brother and tried to mitigate evil. To make poison more palatable, to shift guilt onto her own shoulders, to explain why rape and oppression and murder were all for the best. He glared up at the dragoness who even now reached to magically heal his wounds. With what little breath was left in him, he said, "You could've been a hero."

  Alexi hesitated, giving Ivan a look that made him want to weep. She knew, and she was trapped here forever as the Devil's kindly mistress. She said, "You, too."

  A laugh ripped through Ivan, sending blood out from his mouth. He could have refused to murder poor Laika, but instead he'd begun to make excuses himself, to make the Dragonlord's demands a little less cruel. Worse, he was someone who'd had a choice. Unlike the peasants whose first contact with the Opritchnina was a gang of wolves announcing how things would be. He couldn't stop the shuddering, hysterical laughter now even though it would kill him.

  "What's so funny?" demanded Petrov. "Fix him, Alexi. I want your hands on him."

  Of course he did. Fire and darkness danced at the edges of Ivan's vision. What fun was torturing a man without making your allies participate, without making sure their souls were stained too?

  The dragons spun above him. The white dragon whispered: "Submit. Give him what he wants. Then you can work within his system." Her spells were beginning to patch up his shattered chest and refill his lungs with liquid flame.

  Ivan gave the scream of a dying man, and pathetically swung his hand to slap the dragoness' face. It couldn't harm her, but it made her misery a little more unbearable. Good; maybe someday she'd stop bearing it. She stared at him in shock, then returned to healing him. Her witchcraft felt better this time as it flowed through him, mending. Lying on the hot stone floor still hurt. Reluctantly, because it made lightning seem to stab all through him, Ivan staggered to his feet. Why not stand? It might damn him a little less than kneeling.

  "Did I tell you to stand?" said Petrov behind him. Ivan turned slowly, aching, and saw sparks drip from the Dragonlord's iron-black jaws.

  Ivan reeled and laughed deliriously. He saw silver trails in his vision whenever he moved. What would it be this time? Ivan saw Petrov's blazing tailtip ready to brand him. He backed away, holding up his hands.

  Petrov said, "You're not whimpering like a puppy. That means you're tough enough to still be useful, if you understand. Liet, what did I give you?"

  The white wolf edged away from him. "A new body and a new life."

  "And what do you owe me?"

  She hung her head. "My life."

  Like a patient teacher, Petrov smiled at Ivan. The smile glowed with flame. "I help people, and in return they obey. She understands. Do you? I won't really tell you to slaughter children."

  Petrov would, as his very next order. Ivan found it easy now to see the road he'd been following, and where it led. The echo of the healing magic and his own dazed vision left blurs around his hands.

  It was better to die running from that, than to bow down to it. He dashed right past the dragon. He saw massive claws swipe at him, and he dived -- onto all fours, shifting to his animal form without meaning to. He felt even faster now. Having a dragon behind him was encouragement. Petrov raged, "Get back here! You're mine! You promised!" Ivan risked a backward glance and saw Petrov stomping his forefeet like a spoiled child.

  Ivan was outside now, suddenly cold. The moon rode high over Bogatyr. Silver light streamed down onto the city of red forges. He wasn't thinking clearly, but there had to be someplace to hide. He hurried toward the nearest firelight, like ancient wolves who'd made a bargain with men to become dogs. A massive smithy stood out below. He hurried down the trail toward the complex of buildings, to where he might hide.

  A shadow passed across the moon. The burning dragon was in the air, screaming obscenities at the heavens. Ivan prayed that he wouldn't be spotted. But his paws seemed to make splashes of moonlight wherever he ran, and the foundry building was drawing closer with more speed than ought to be possible. Even when he tripped and tumbled down the mountainside, he landed on his feet. "Alexi?" he thought. "Did you do something to me?"

  A guardhouse. A soldier jumped to his feet and stared. Ivan swerved past him toward the main building that towered over him. He could smell the burning of coal and ore inside. And above!

  Just in time, Ivan sprang to one side. The Dragonlord's flaming breath rained down close enough to singe his whiskers, yet the rippling hellish air didn't hurt him. He yipped. Petrov had grazed the rooftop of his own forge with his claws. A chimney toppled and vomited dark smoke across the heavens. Ivan felt the ground shake when it hit. He grinned, getting an idea. The Dragonlord was clumsy about what he destroyed.

  Ivan searched for a way up to the forge's roof, and found loose piles of bricks to climb. He shifted back to his human-like form so he could scurry up a pipe. Then he was standing on top of the Dragonlord's forge, just in time to see its owner coming for him.

  The Dragonlord filled the sky with his own spiderweb pattern of flame-cracked scales. There could be no stars, there could be nothing at all, existing outside of his control if he could help it. After all, he knew what was best. There would be fire again, a single-minded strike. Ivan decided to welcome it. He gestured at Petrov and shouted, "Come down, lord of dogs!"

  Petrov did. First was the fire that splashed everywhere and set the roof alight. Ivan felt that it was falling slowly. Ivan leaped and dodged and seemed to dance on the flames. Then came the dragon himself, and there would be no dodging that. Ivan moved to the roof's edge, quick as moonlight on water. Only the great burning wings struck him. They sent him tumbling, clawing at the building. Everything shredded under the tons of Petrov's bulk. Chains hung everywhere. Ivan seized one and swung toward the floor. A gigantic vat of molten metal filled much of the forge, and Petrov slammed into it. The impact rang so loud that Ivan whimpered.

  Liquid steel sprayed in droplets from the dragon's wings. Some of it was what passed for his blood. Ivan heard outraged demands from Petrov, over the hiss of spilled metal. The few workers here screamed and fled from the glowing, deadly tide. The walls had caught fire. Petrov's wings were cracked and torn, but he still lived. Ivan found a gaping hole in the walls, and vanished into the night before his former master could foll
ow.

  His body still shined with silver on dark fur. The light was fading now to more subtle accents, a hint of new magic granted to him by the Dragonlord's sister. His steps were long and his eyes and ears keen. All around him, the people of Bogatyr were waking to a night of destruction. Who dared harm the Dragonlord's forges, his plans for war and domination? For the moment, no one could see Ivan. No one but the white dragon wheeling in the sky.

  * * *

  Throughout the Opritchnina and the lands beyond, stories grew about the Black Riders, who brought people to their mighty lord's embrace. More quietly, the tale of Ivan spread. He moved in the shadows beneath the reach of black wings. By word and deed he was said to whisper to the people. "You need not submit. He can be beaten. He must be beaten. Strike your master and run!" He had found purpose in this thankless work, perhaps redemption. But his heart was not glad until months later, when he learned that his words had touched a single soul. She came to him as a white wolf whose paws made splashes of moonlight when she walked, and they embraced.

  Strange Waters

  The Edge of Brightness sailed the western sea in search of tainted waters. Irene stood in a broad, cautious stance with both hands on the railing as the ship cut and bounced its way along.

  "Can you swim?" asked Justin, who seemed not even to tilt slightly when the ship wobbled. He'd been a sailor all his life, or so he claimed.

  Irene said, "I'm starting to regret this trip."

  Justin laughed. "You look a little green, but think of the profits you'll get to share. No more scrabbling for research funding when you have your own supply of both money and element-touched stuff."

  Water, anyway. At great expense, Irene had begun stocking her safe, comfortable lab back home. Already, she'd gotten samples of "tainted" fire and ice. Why she'd left the lab was, due to her seasickness, a question she kept asking.

  "What have you studied already?" asked Justin.

  Irene watched the horizon, which was steady enough to calm her compared to watching the waves. "I have fire samples that had been mystically focused on the concept that 'fire produces ash'. That is, it produced lots of ashes but no light or heat. Just a barely-visible ripple. Also, I got fire whose concept of 'consumption' had gotten twisted so that it burns stone but not wood. My assistants feed it pebbles and keep it contained in a large wooden tub in a wooden room, for safety. Then there's the unmelting ice that's always bitterly cold, the variant that's just chilly but glows soft blue -- a nice torch -- and the ice that preserves food without actually being cold."

  Justin smiled, having gotten Irene to lecture instead of being miserable. "You're in for a treat, then. We've come far enough toward the water-elemental zones to get heavy water, bright water, ever-swirling water, cleaning water; whatever we can find."

  Irene's grip on the ship's railing loosened a little, making her notice that her knuckles ached. "Good. I'd like samples of them all." There was invaluable spell research to do.

  "Can't guarantee anything. The sea provides, but what it gives us is pretty random." Justin looked toward the wheel and said, "Hey, Captain, tell her about the monster crab!"

  "Monster?" Irene said.

  The tattooed captain handed the ship's wheel off to his son, and stretched. He said, "We were sailing on a stretch of sea like glass. Literally; it cracked as we broke through it." He thumped the hull. "She's warded against most dangers but it was still quite a noise. Suddenly, the biggest crab you've ever seen rears up in a clatter of shards and looms over the deck!" He raised his arms like claws.

  Irene shuddered. "What did you do?"

  "Wet himself," said Justin.

  "Belay that. I ran for the harpoon. But no sooner had I turned around when the beast crashed down on deck in a tremendous spray. And an inviting scent! The crab had gotten itself caught on a concept, you see. The idea that 'crabs are good eating'. It stopped being a true crab and became a, an ideal expression of the thought. It even smelled of butter."

  Irene's eyes were wide. "That really happened?"

  "Course it did," The captain said. "So don't you worry. Have a rest and we'll find you some fancy water to take home. The sea never runs out of wonders."

  Irene nodded and headed toward her tiny cabin with a smile. It faded a bit when she heard Justin mutter behind him, "Or horrors."

  * * *

  She slept until late at night, when Justin knocked on her door. "Miss? Your talents might be helpful on deck."

  Irene woke suddenly, fearing something worse than the crab. When she got up to the chilly night air, though, nothing was attacking. The moon was bright on the rippling sea. "What is it?"

  "We've detected... something, but we're not sure what." There was an edge to Justin's voice, though the captain looked unflappable. He pointed to a gem that shined an eerie, rippling purple on the bow.

  Irene looked between it and the dark water ahead. The ship's sails had been furled to slow the Edge of Brightness to a crawl, and the captain kept glancing toward the anchor as though considering stopping completely. She said, "Of course. I'll get my instruments."

  She went below and came back with a brass case full of beads made of various materials. They skittered about under the glass cover like ants, but settled once Irene had tied the case securely to the bow. "Yes, there's definitely element-tainted water here. How would you normally handle this, with such an imprecise detector as that gem?"

  The captain said, "It's not as bad as all that. A certain ripple means it's always-pure water, and I've got the pattern that means thin water burned into my heart."

  "Thin...?"

  "Insubstantial. Doesn't support the weight of a ship that sails into it. You just fall." Justin and the captain shivered. "But this isn't it."

  Irene stared into her clacking beads. Half the point of her expedition was to learn more about the device's behavior in the presence of strange elements, which meant that she didn't come here with a complete table of what every reading could mean. These were, literally, uncharted waters. "I believe there are two different effects on the water ahead. I'd certainly like a sample, but not to -- well, how warded is this hull?"

  "Sturdily," the captain said. "But as with the thin water, not every effect is something that magic-blocking wood helps against."

  Irene judged the waves calm enough not to make her too queasy. "I'll take the dinghy. That's warded too, right? Good."

  Justin said, "Are you sure, miss? We could sail a little closer and take samples with a long pole." He got a dirty look from the captain, who was already dropping anchor.

  Irene nodded. "I won't be long, and we'll have a rope to reel me in if the boat fails for any reason."

  So, Irene climbed down a frightening rope ladder -- how did sailors ever manage being up in a tall rigging? -- into the dinghy. It was hardly big enough for herself, the oars, and her instruments. She noticed that the captain had chosen not to wake his son, who had been making eyes at her and would've volunteered to row.

  She pulled the oars herself, not minding her slowness. Every minute she stared into the moonlit ocean, then into her box of spell-analysis beads, and took notes. She rowed leftward, "port" as the sailors had called it, to see if she could circle around the anomaly and gauge its size. The water wasn't visibly different on this starry night, but the instruments pointed toward there being a fairly specific radius of whatever the strange effects were. She edged closer and took up her sampling rod with a vial on the end. The dinghy rocked disturbingly side to side in the gentle waves.

  The beads clicked madly as she brought the water sample up and held it in one gloved hand. Irene studied the clicking, and her eyes went wide. There were two effects here, but one was known: "Water dissolves things." She was next to a patch of sea that was effectively a perfect acid. She buttoned up her jacket with shaking fingers. "Justin?" she called out.

  From the ship seemingly a world away, he shouted back. "What?"

  "There's water that dissolves."

  A pause. "Get back
here."

  She had a duty to get this work done. She wasn't quite at the end of the tether-rope's range, so she could go a little farther and take one more sample slightly farther in. No, two more, to get a trio of data points about the anomaly's edge versus its near-center. She would kick herself forever if she only had the one vial.

  Though the sea had no humor, it had no pity either. A single errant wave rocked the dinghy suddenly side to side. The next wave threw Irene overboard.

  She screamed. The water tore into her, flowing around her mildly-warded jacket and into her hands, her flailing legs. It felt like being sliced apart by frozen knives too small to see. There was shouting from the distant ship but her ears and face were being dissolved as the rest of her sank.

  With failing eyesight she looked at her hands, desperately paddling toward the dinghy. Her skin had drained of all color. She'd stopped sinking, and the freezing slashing had faded under her terror. Her jacket drifted right through her and away. She splashed up and forward to the surface and threw one arm over the boat's heaving side. Her arm wobbled and rippled, blue-tinged and translucent. Irene gave a burbling shout, feeling drowned and waterlogged, but couldn't cough up the water. She flowed up into the boat and lay there panting -- and then realized that she'd flowed literally. Her clothes were gone, leaving only a mass of water in the shape of her flesh.

  "Water assumes the shape of its container," she said with a wheeze.

  She'd been transformed. No, she was dead and the mystic water had copied her even in the process of dissolving her. Or something in between. Her hands were water, constantly dripping yet maintaining their rough shape. She stared at them and the fingers and nails resolved more sharply. Her chest, too, became a nearly-identical copy of her old one when she looked closely, though with the loss of attention her hands became more like a rough-hewn and melting ice sculpture. She leaned over the boat's side and saw her reflected face, made of water too, with the suggestion of wet hair trailing down her back. A copy, or a wet original.