Then he stood, and through the haze of heat, felt powerful, as though the prime minister was rising at his back, surrounding him, enveloping him. He didn’t need to restore the fog.
Jiang Wei spread his arms and called on the wind, blasting away the remnants of the fog and sending it hurtling northward up the canyon and through the Xiagu Pass. The gale was so strong that he could see the tiny figures of soldiers turn to face him, and in the back a rider madly wheeling about on his horse. Sima Yi.
The Wei tactician laid eyes on him, the figure on the overlook, and then turned, shouting and waving to fall back. A roar rose up from Yang Yi’s men as the Wei army fell in after its commander.
Jiang Wei wanted to smile, but he was burning, and was not certain how much of him was still standing. He needed to go back, though. He had promised Zhuge Liang that he would continue the campaign in the north, after the Shu had rested, after they had time to mourn. Jiang Wei staggered away, not seeing, only dimly aware that he had taken a horse on the way up and that he probably should look for it.
When he came to, he found himself riding in the crowded confines of a carriage. He struggled to sit up, and peered out the window. The white banners of mourning hung from the standards of nearby soldiers, and he knew that he was with the Shu army. They had withdrawn to safety. And riding beside the carriage was Ma Yun.
His friend smiled on seeing his face and brought his horse close. “You are awake! Thank Heaven!”
“You found me?” Jiang Wei asked.
“Your soldiers went looking when your horse came back without you. They said you were feverish and rambling. Was that you up on the hill? People are going to be talking for years about how a living Sima Yi ran from a dead Zhuge Liang.” Ma Yun chuckled. “I didn’t think you were going to take it seriously when I suggested putting up a wooden figure. Or did you yourself dress up as the prime minister?”
Jiang Wei looked away. “What do you think?”
Still, he was glad to see Ma Yun, to know that his dearest friend had survived.
“Probably you,” said Ma Yun, “but I’ll tell everyone that it was a wooden statue. It makes for a better story. But tell me, how did we get that wind and fog? I thought only the prime minister could call that.”
There were supposed to be no secrets between them, but Jiang Wei had never been entirely upfront with Ma Yun. He could not help wondering what his friend had been like as a woman, what made him want to live as a man, but he never asked. He sensed Ma Yun would not appreciate the intrusion, and Jiang Wei valued him too much to risk it.
So, he could not tell Ma Yun this either. At least his friend was alive. Jiang Wei wanted to believe he had saved him.
“That wasn’t me,” he said. “It was the prime minister’s final gift.”
The King of Lapland’s Daughter
Nathan Carson
The elder women of Kvenland peered at King Mauno through the smoke of torchlight and veils of grey braids. Their looks were shifting: one moment stern, the next ripe with disdain. The windblown skin around those eyes was cracked as the polished hide they wore which shone wherever two furs met and iron fastens failed. Those eyes saw a weak king planted where a strong queen had sat a fortnight before.
For his part, Mauno at least feigned ignore the body that ruled his hall. He had only collapsed into power of late, the first man to rule Kvenland in living memory. His focus was squarely on the exotic figure of the bishop before him, garbed in cloths and markings that still felt anachronistic, even alien in the northern wastes. Henrik’s words oft promised pots of gold, but there was something of the serpent in him.
Mauno spoke.
“Henrik, comfort me. I cannot allow my grief to undermine our defenses any longer. My queen was lost to us in her campaign to the north. She sought to protect our people, yet the only soul to return was a young shieldmaiden who babbled of ‘haystacks with blades for hands.’ So frozen was she to her steed that both bled out when we finally prised them apart.”
He shifted on his hardwood throne, swathed in rich brown furs. Red-jeweled rings on thick gold bands circled his fingers, which dug into the grips of his seat. Black pitch and bird bones were the only ornamentation on that throne.
“I sent our own village priest to do battle on the mere. Neither has he returned. The Jötunn are restless. They stir and stumble south, and our kin are in their path. Pray tell me once more how your One God can smite them!”
The bishop smoothed his raiment and raised both hands, palms forward.
“Your Majesty, it is no frost giant incursion. These are damned things from beneath the soil. Stay your sword. I need no army to command them back from whence they slumbered. Only provisions, an escort, and this…”
Henrik drew one hand to his neck, caressed and polished the silver cross on the end of his onyx rosary. Mauno placed a palm on the hilt of his great sword.
“You shall have warriors too, Henrik. This evil must be sent away. Cast it off the edge of the world, and soon. I will follow if I must. Go now, and Ukko be with you!” Suddenly his sword slid from its sheath and aimed at the firmament.
Henrik winced at the pagan blasphemy, crossed himself and stole a glance at the tiny disc of solid grey sky that beamed down from the chimney in the center of the roof above. A gust of torch smoke blotted it out; now the ceiling was nothing but rafter and shadow. The great wooden skeleton was a shelter for the surviving leadership of Kvenland. Henrik turned and exited the building’s ribcage with an entourage of hefty, bearded warriors, marching face first into the howling cold of morning. The ruling women watched them go, eyeing their firm and muscular legs.
Mauno’s gaze returned to the throng of women that flanked his court.
“It will not do,” he said. “The bishop will fail. We need a wizard. Who among you can find one?”
There were gasps, then silence and discomfort. Eyes darted, but none made reply.
“Father, I can fetch you a wizard,” said Princess Aili, stepping forward. Even in the shadows of the hall her golden hair seemed woven of summer sunlight.
Mauno’s ringed fingers clutched more desperately at the throne. Chipped nails chiseled at embedded bird beaks.
“This troubles me, Daughter, but in truth comes as no surprise. I would dissuade you, but I have spent half a lifetime with you. And with your mother. I have learned better. Take my personal guards. Bring the wizard to me. The fate of our people cannot be left to the false god of the invader. Henrik may collect taxes and bribes as well as any Birkarl — but I fear the power he wields does not extend beyond the bridge of his nose.”
“I will not fail you, Father. I would avenge my mother, our queen, as readily as you. Sooner, given my way.”
Then, turning to the court before her, “Hounds and horses! I’ll need you four and no more. We return with the wizard or sleep forever in graves of snow!”
But as she clutched the white fur cloak tighter around her strong young frame, Aili knew it would take all her wiles to convince Tähti to stand before Mauno.
Tähti’s bodice was laced tight in soft brown leather. The room was vault black save for the crawling runes. Sigils flickered like candlelight over every hand of wall, ceiling, and floor. A single lantern hung from a taut chain. It was the only stable object in a room that swam in darkness and firefly symbols. The blackness ebbed and rocked like a ship on autumnal tides or the stretching of a moonlit beach seen through a glass bottle bottom.
Tähti stood deep in concentration and ceremony. But that focus was broken by the sound of hoofbeats. A thick tapestry riddled with dark constellations stitched into velvet voids was drawn aside. Ice wind fled within the tower window in search of warm life to extinguish. Tähti watched Aili dismount her steed, a bodyguard at each shoulder. Both gripped cruel axes on hefty wooden poles. These two men crept out of sight in either direction. Tähti was unsure which emotion to embrace — the annoyance, the amusement, or the dagger-tip of danger. The tapestry fell back into place, slicing off the wind’s tendrils from its great invisible vastness.