The Bitumb followed at her side. For twenty generations they had lived along the banks of the river Bombio. For twenty generations they had made their offerings to Mama Cascade. Now they moved into a new phase of their history, the days after the invaders came. They would learn new paths through the forest, and new foods to eat. They would make offerings, as they always had, but to a new guardian, one with a fondness for tree lizards and flower chains.
She was the goddess of the river Arwa, unpredictable and lethal to strangers, plentiful and yielding to those people who knew her best. And she would appear on no map.
Samantha Mills
Samantha Mills lives in Southern California, in a house on a hill that is hopefully not a haunted hill house. Her short fiction has also appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, and others. She was recently included in The New Voices of Science Fiction, out now from Tachyon Publications.
Website: www.samtasticbooks.com
Twitter: @amtasticbooks
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SORIEUL’S EYES
by Jeff Wheeler
7,800 Words
THE SNOW CAME down in ashy flakes. Although it was nearly midnight, the pale light of the moon brightened the tangle of trees surrounding a frozen pond behind the stone manor house. A blanket of white covered everything, even the dead bodies that lay still, no longer twitching.
Two members of the Dochte Mandar trudged over the thick, frozen tract of land; their fur-strapped boots were wet and white, and cakes of frost tumbled loose. The air was bitterly cold and stung their noses.
“Another one dead,” said the first of the two men, the dark-haired one, his eyes gleaming silver in the dark, pointing to the crooked shape of a man in the snow, sword still clenched in a death grip.
“That’s twelve so far,” said the other in disbelief. “He killed twelve? Alone?”
“Look over there! The snow’s been trampled. See the gap?”
“No. Where?”
“At the edge of the pond. This way.”
One of the Dochte Mandar led the way, hunkering beneath his heavy cloak, his toes already frigid, and his gloved fingers searing with pain as the cold penetrated his clothing.
When they reached the gap in the snow drift, they gazed down at the white bowl of the frozen pond. An owl hooted from the nearby woods. Deeper in the distance, the howl of a wolf came next. The forest was full of the hungry beasts in the midst of winter’s night.
There, at the bottom of the slope of the pond, atop the crust of ice, lay three more bodies, with freshly fallen snow on them.
Aiding each other, the two Dochte Mandar began to clamber down to the edge of the pond. Some snow gave way, and one of them slid partway down. When their boots hit the ice beneath the blanket of snow, they had the unsettling feeling they were about to fall.
“They’re still alive!” gasped the first Dochte Mandar.
Rushing forward, trying not to slip and fall, they reached the three bodies.
“The big one, look! It’s Derriko! He’s alive!” said the second.
The dark-haired Dochte Mandar knelt by him, breathing rapidly. He pressed his ear close to the big man’s face. “He’s breathing!”
“How did he survive this?” said the other in awe. “He was attacked by twelve clansmen in the dead of night, midwinter.” He drew a dagger from his belt and approached his kneeling companion. He raised the dagger to plunge it into the man’s back.
Snow exploded into his face, stinging and blinding him. One of the other bodies vaulted at him like a wolf. He felt a dagger plunge into his belly. Felt the shock, the surprise, then the fiery pain of the wound.
He tried to summon power from his kystrel medallion to defend himself, but he felt the power leaching away, felt his knees buckle. The man who’d been half-hidden in the snow shoved him down, holding the dagger in his hand. Then the man turned and faced the other Dochte Mandar, who gaped at him in shock. He drew a second blade.
“Well done, Kishion,” croaked the big man lying in the snow. The one called Derriko. “You found the traitor. Help me up.” He grunted in pain. “Did you bring the healer?” he asked the dark-haired Dochte Mandar, who cowered from the man holding the blades.
“I-I did,” stammered the other man, who gazed with horror as his partner twitched in the snow, the silver slowly leaving his eyes.
He had no name. Somehow, he’d lost it years ago in a grove of black oak trees pregnant with clumps of mistletoe. It was an ancient ceremony, an initiation into the order of killers, and he no longer remembered what oaths he had taken. He only remembered marching out of the grove a different man. A man without a name, a man without a past.
Those who entered the grove and survived were called kishion. It was a title of sorts. A certain brand of slavery. He’d given up trying to remember his past long ago, performing the purpose of his training. To remove those who stood in the way. To protect men like Derriko. Men who used him to further their own ends.
On that snow-swept night, a warlord had come to kill Derriko. It was supposed to be a surprise. A midnight murder. But the kishion had anticipated it. He was always thinking ahead, wondering about what might happen. He’d left ten dead in the manor before escaping outside with Derriko. His arms ached with the efforts, and he felt light-headed from the loss of blood. He’d left the leader of the war band facedown on the ice of the pond. That had been the most difficult fight of his life. He’d been tired before he’d faced the warrior, a man who had fought in dozens of battles with his clan, vying for supremacy. All that training had failed against the determination of a kishion.
Together with the sniveling Dochte Mandar, they carried the huge body of Derriko off the pond. He could feel the ice creaking beneath the combined weight, but they pressed on, reaching the edge. Groaning with effort, the two men heaved him up the slope and then carried him into the rear of the manor house, which was now lit by lamps. A fire had been stoked by the entourage of the Dochte Mandar.
“The table,” grunted Derriko in pain. They carried him there and set him down.
The waves of heat coming from the hearth made sweat drip down the kishion’s face moments later. There was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he whipped around, bringing a knife out and finding himself pressing it against the throat of a woman.
“That’s the healer!” said the Dochte Mandar who had survived the pond. “Don’t hurt her!”
The woman stared him in the face, her eyes widening with what . . . recognition? She blinked quickly, and he lowered the blade.
“Is she . . . a hetaera?” wheezed Derriko. “Be sure!”
“She’s not, Derriko, I swear it!” said the Dochte Mandar.
“Be sure!” hissed the big man, stifling a groan of pain.
The kishion, still holding the curved blade at the ready, unfasted her cloak and hood with his left hand. She let him, her eyes crinkling with worry, but she gazed at him with determination, with a look that seemed almost familiar.
Roughly, he tugged at the front of her bodice, exposing the flesh of her throat, her collarbones. His gloved hands were uncaring as he searched for a medallion, for evidence that she, too, wore a kystrel. There were no shadowstains on her skin.