Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology Read online

  The woman giggled, obviously forgiving Korbitt, and waddled off blowing a kiss, her dress splayed out behind her and dragging in the dirt. Korbitt watched her walk away with a greedy stare as Gryl, in turn, watched him. Their hungers were different but their passions were the same.

  Korbitt had been a knight of the Shytan Empire at one point before its fall to the Avan overlords. Like many of the empire’s warriors, he’d drifted west after the Avan had been routed, the ruins of Shytan still too polluted with Thrak berserkers to remain. Gryl had been freed of his Avan servitude in part due to men like Korbitt, but he owed the knight no gratitude. Korbitt had sullied his status through slavery, his coin made on the backs of the weak and disinherited.

  Korbitt went back inside the Lizard, lewd shouts accompanying his return.

  Whatever honor the knight might have possessed had long ago rotted, withering in the gallows of his heart. And if his affronts of the past were not enough, his kidnap of the Xenius girl from her loving ward most certainly was.

  There were so few of the Xenius left in the world, the magical people a shining light in the abyss of pestilent humanity. Sweet and gentle, the Xenius were first revered for their mysticism, cherished for the sorcery that came so easily to their kind. But all of that changed once the world learned they were pacifistic and would not raise a hand to defend their homes, their family, or even their own lives. At first, they were only used for their powers, but as it became known there was little limit to the stores of magical energy inside them, use became devour. The Xenius were culled out of jealousy, to keep others from possessing what the mighty few held rein. Now there were maybe less than a hundred of the free Xenius scattered about the realm, hidden and fearful of being found.

  His cloak rubbed with mud and soaked with the remnants of liquor found discarded in the alley, Gryl pulled his hood tight and stumbled into the street, a scented mess. He knew there was little time. The woman had gone to summon more dogs to their master and there were already a dozen inside, maybe more. The music blurred his senses to their individual sounds, but the clatter assured him he was in for a war, even without factoring in the Shytan knight. He needed time to survey the Lizard before Korbitt and his men realized what he was, like they had the girl.

  Vai had been sheltered at a church in rural Caesins, a small village south of Amberton. One of the knight’s men had seen her there when he passed through. Her ward, Delvin, learned this when Korbitt rode in a fortnight later to steal the girl away, and passed the information on to Gryl along with a purse of gold coins. And a message: Kill the bastard and bring Vai home. It was a task Gryl was more than willing to take on. Like the Xenius, there were so few of his kind left.

  Were the mercenaries to spy his scars, they would instantly know they were in the presence of a Prodigy, one of the Avan slave warriors, trained from birth to ignore both fear and pain. He wished that to be a surprise, if only for a few moments, so he checked his skullcap to be certain it was still in place beneath the hood. There might still be one or two that recognized his face from his time on the lines, but he had to take that risk.

  Gryl feigned drunkenness and made his way across the road, head down. He staggered, but only slightly. There was no point marking himself as a victim to be taken advantage of. He wanted only to fit in amidst the debauchery long enough to slip inside the Lizard and confirm what he was up against. If he was forced to make a stand in the street, Vai would never see her home again.

  He wound his way to the horse rail that separated the tavern from the road, and slipped around the far end. The weathered planks of the porch creaked beneath his feet but against his instincts, he did nothing to quiet the sound. A few heads turned his way, a handful of men carrying on a loud conversation near the door, but no stares lingered. Gryl breathed a relieved sigh as they went back to their talk, and then crept closer, squeezing past the men with effort to avoid bumping them. He could smell the alcohol that clung to their sweat. They’d be easy to rile in such states, and he didn’t want that. Not yet, at least.

  The discordant wail of drunk-fingered players struck him when he entered the tavern. The banners, which hung from the thick rafters above, fluttered as though the music was a physical force. Patrons gathered about an inebriated foursome who plucked away, almost at random, at the instruments in their laps, a fifth’s drumming so poorly timed it was if he was playing to his heartbeat. It made for poor accompaniment, but with that cluster of people enthralled by the attempt, Gryl let his eyes wander to take in the rest of the Broken Lizard.

  Though Korbitt was nowhere to be seen, his men had found a home near the stairs, their table pressed into the far corner. They sat in a loose half-circle, most of their backs to the wall. Each was armed with a sword and short blades. They wore an assortment of armor, but none were without it. They hadn’t come to celebrate. That meant the other men the woman was bringing would be prepared the same as their companions, shifting the odds against him.

  Time had run short.

  Gryl quickly confirmed Vai was nowhere amidst the twenty-odd patrons of the bar and hoped Rayk had told him the truth. He moved close to the wall and headed for the stairs, suspecting Korbitt would be up there with the girl. Nothing in the tavern noises suggested Gryl had been noticed, so he went on. He cast furtive glances at the mercenaries from beneath the cover of his hood, but like the men outside, they seemed too involved to care about anything outside of their circle. That was perfect.

  He reached the banister and grasped its rail, setting foot on the first step.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” A mercenary asked; one he hadn’t seen.

  Gryl ignored him and took a few more steps.

  “I’m talking to you, you drunken son of a sheep-assed whore.” The man came around behind, chest puffed with misappropriated authority.

  Chairs scraped across the wooden floors as the rest of the men got to their feet and started over. Gryl bowed his head. This was what he was trying to avoid. He muttered an incoherent apology and turned with aggravating slowness, but remained on the stairs. These weren’t the kind of men to simply let him apologize and walk away without consequence. He cast his eyes across the tavern for the clearest route to the door.

  “Come here,” another of the mercenaries called out, waving him down. He already had a dagger in his hand, the steel shining in the glow of the lanterns. Several more men wandered over to be a part of the commotion. The charade had come to an inglorious end. He looked up at them.

  “I know you,” the first said, his face twisted in an effort to place a name to the memory of Gryl’s face. “You’re—”

  Gryl didn’t let him finish. He snapped the clasp of his cloak and spun it off, loosing it in their direction before he leapt over the banister. He bounced across a table and onto the floor as the mercenaries flung his cloak aside and gave chase, weapons drawn. The makeshift musicians stopped their clatter and the tavern went silent, Gryl drawing every open eye with his maneuver. He clenched his teeth hard, frustrated he was forced to abandon the stairs with Vai so close, but he couldn’t risk bringing a ravaging army to her doorstep. As of now, the mercenaries knew nothing of his purpose at the Lizard even if he had been recognized. As long as they didn’t stop him, they would never know why he was there. He made to bolt for the door.

  Right then, the buxom woman burst into the tavern. A dozen men in ramshackle armor stormed in behind her, seeming curious about the disconcerting silence. Their eyes went wide at the scene before them. The woman screamed and bolted, shoving her way past the men at her back, but the mercenaries weren’t so easily dismissed. The smell of blood was in the air. They drew their weapons and advanced to reinforce their companions.

  “You’re one of them Avan freaks,” the first mercenary said, emboldened by his reinforcements, his snaggletoothed grin more yellow than white. “Where are you gonna run now, rabbit?”

  “It seems nowhere,” Gryl answered, freeing his blade and setting it before him to keep the
distance. “See me to Korbitt, and I’ll let you all live.”

  The men stared blank-eyed for a quiet moment, and then one by one they burst into raucous laughter. They had already made their decision to fight…so had he. Gryl gave them no time for anything else.

  He drove the point of his blade under the chin of the yellow-toothed mercenary and transformed his hyena’s laugh into a death rattle. Blood gushed as Gryl yanked his sword free and kicked the flailing body toward its companions. Despite their surprise at their friend’s untimely death, they wasted no time attacking.

  Steel flashed and Gryl met it with kind. The clang of swords rang out loud, punctuating the screams of the fleeing patrons not involved. Gryl drifted closer to the bar. The drunks might not be a part of the battle, but he had no doubt they’d stick steel into his ribs if it helped their standing with Korbitt. The mercenaries had the same in mind. They charged with obvious fury, eager to be the one to kill him…reckless.

  The first merc in line went down screaming, clutching at his punctured eye. Then they were on him en masse. Gryl moved in a graceful furor, twisting and dodging and parrying the blows that might land flush, letting the others past without effort. Tiny red nicks streaked his tunic as they glanced by, but he ignored the bee stings of his wounds and fought on.

  Another mercenary fell away, his throat a geyser of thick claret, and yet another, clutching desperately to his ruined manhood. Gryl spun from the shrieking man and dove beneath the nearest table, thrusting his blade into the knee of a mercenary too foolish to step away. On the other side, Gryl stood and kicked the table into the crowd, scattering the men. Their shouts filled the tavern with raging echoes. Still, there was no clear way to the door.

  “What in Hades is going on?” Korbitt shouted from the upstairs landing that overlooked the tavern floor. The room went silent, all eyes turning to look.

  There behind the hulking knight stood Vai. Thin and pale, Gryl knew her for what she was without hesitation. Her long white hair was dirty and unkempt, strands hanging heavily over her face. Her lids were nearly closed, but the brilliance of her purple eyes leaked from beneath them. She was naked, her young charms on display for all to see.

  That was the final straw.

  A razored growl erupted from Gryl’s throat as he jumped onto the nearest table. Heads snapped to face him as he drove his sword into the spine of a man too slow to react. Blood windmilled off the blade as Gryl pulled it loose and dove into the crowd of startled mercenaries. In close, he was an abattoir.

  Flesh parted beneath his silvered blade, a butcher’s dirge of steel cleaving meat. The mercenaries scrambled for space but Gryl plagued them with nagging wounds, keeping them in tight. Warm breath steamed from his mouth as he cursed them for forcing his hand. They traded blow after blow as he slithered between his foes, but he felt little of it. His flesh so scarred from the ritual purification of the Avan seers, his body was a patchwork of welted and raised flesh hardened over a lifetime of agony. Blood oozed from his wounds but didn’t run. The mercenaries could not say the same.

  One by one they met their end by steel, ravaged corpses tumbling to form a circle around the whirling dervish of Gryl’s offense. And then they were gone. Only the plaintive groans of the dying resounded in the room, playing a duet to Gryl’s even breaths. He stood with his sword extended, crimson dripping from the blade as he reined in the battle fury. His tunic had been shredded. It hung like rags from his blemished shoulders, stained with the ochre of his enemies.

  “You can’t have her,” Korbitt’s words rang out behind him. “Drop your sword.”

  Gryl turned to see the knight and Vai’s position reversed, Korbitt standing behind the willow of the girl at the base of the stairs. He held a blade to her throat. Vai trembled but did not move. She looked at Gryl through the slits of her eyes. His pulse roared through his veins.

  Raised in perpetual torture by the Avan, seeing others like him tormented day after day, had carved a hole in his heart for the young of spirit. He had suffered enough for a thousand children and would see none harmed while he still drew breath. Gryl nodded, tossing his blade aside.

  “Now walk toward me…slowly…or I bleed her.”

  Gryl nodded once more, knowing Korbitt wanted him close only to put his steel to work. The material of Gryl’s tunic clung to him and he peeled it loose as he shuffled forward, keeping his hands in sight. “Don’t hurt her,” he said, pushing the skull cap from his head. He felt the cool night air tickle his scalp as he revealed his scarred head.

  “Keep your clothes on, boy,” Korbitt growled. “I’m no buggerer.”

  Gryl grinned and raised his hands, circling around a bloodied table and coming to a stop about ten feet from the knight. “Of all the things I know you to be, that isn’t something I’d ascribe to you. Rapist, murderer, slaver: now those titles I’d hang from your corpse without regret.”

  “Don’t test me.” Korbitt pressed the blade to Vai’s neck with a snarl. The girl whimpered.

  “Not I, sir knight.” Gryl held his arms out from his sides. “What would you have me to do to keep the girl from harm?”

  “You need to come closer.” Korbitt spit the words out, keeping his bulk shielded behind Vai.

  “Do I?” Gryl felt the familiar tickle of his scars as he stood his ground.

  Korbitt’s eyes narrowed and Vai’s drifted open, only to snap shut. She sensed what was coming. Gryl swallowed his rage and let it sink inside, his flesh warming as it went. The Avan hadn’t just decorated his body with puckered memories, they’d woven their dark sorceries throughout.

  “Stop! What-what are you doing?” The knight’s dagger hand began to shake as he stared.

  Gryl knew what Korbitt saw, but felt no pity for the man.

  The scars that covered every inch of his body, save for his face, crept like angry worms beneath his skin. He could feel them squirming and coming to life, his flesh bulging with their frantic passage. Heat washed over him as they traveled on, darting faster and faster as though a mound of serpents lived between his skin and bones.

  “Stop it. Stop!” Korbitt screamed, but he could not tear his eyes from Gryl’s scarred flesh.

  Gryl smiled and took a cautious step forward. There was no stopping it now. The magic of his scars filled the air for all to see. He sensed the virulence of the knight, the sour deeds that clung to his spirit. Its energy was building, the sickness bubbling in Gryl’s veins.

  “No! Don’t come any…closer.”

  Arms still out to his sides, Gryl let his scars dance, willing them to a fervent pitch.

  “No! Stop!” Korbitt trembled, just as Vai had, but still he did not draw the blade across the girl’s soft neck. The plague of memories had taken hold. Korbitt knew the fear he inspired, tasted the foulness of his blight upon the world. The Avan spell ripped it to the surface. His every sin was his to taste.

  “It is time. Atal zan,” Gryl whispered. Drop down.

  Without hesitation, the girl pushed the knight’s arm away and fell to the floor. Gryl closed the distance in a heartbeat, wrapping his fingers around Korbitt’s hand and slamming his own knife into his mouth. Teeth shattered as the blade sunk home, blood bubbling in its wake.

  Rapist, murderer, slaver: corpse. Gryl loosed the knight’s hand and let his body fall to the floor, the knife still embedded in his face. He wiped his soiled hands clean on Korbitt’s tunic and pulled the knight’s cloak free, before holding a hand out to the girl.

  “Come, child. Delvin has missed your company.”

  Vai entangled her fingers in his and rose without shame, accepting the cloak. She wrapped its cover about her slim frame and turned to Gryl. Her eyes traced the line of his scars. “Do they hurt?” she asked, the words soft and melodious.

  Gryl laughed. “Not anymore.”

  A Soul in the Hand

  Marsheila Rockwell and Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  IN THE DREAM, Kord was Panther. He moved through the trees like an unmoored shadow, lithe and blac
k, paws lightly brushing the earth with each step. This was not the hardwood forest he had been born in, at the empire’s edge, or the swamps he had come to know in later years. It was jungle, densely wooded, steamy, thick with life at every layer, from the worms and insects underfoot to the birds inhabiting the highest canopies, their plumage flashing, brilliant as it caught sunlight that only reached the floor as a muted and filtered green haze.

  Panther followed a scent trail he couldn’t name. It was rich, heady, familiar and strange at the same instant. Whatever it was, the scent was clearer in this place than the few signs of passage left behind by his prey: a crushed leaf here, there a vine yanked free of a tangle. Panther’s eyesight was sharp; he missed nothing. But odor was the only trustworthy guide, and Panther filled his nostrils with it at every step, confident that he was closing in.

  That confidence vanished when a sudden surfeit of smells confused his senses. He tried to sort them, but he was unused to the jungle and most were scents he had never encountered before. The only ones he knew for sure were blood and human flesh. The trail he had been following had vanished into the olfactory chaos, and he didn’t know which way to turn. One path would lead toward…something, he was not sure what. Something he wanted, at any rate. Any other path might make him something else’s meal.

  Standing still was not an option. He would have to choose a course and count on wits and strength to keep him safe. He decided to continue as he had been, always keeping the sun before him. Soon enough, he found it again, the trail he’d been following, and an image of the creature that had left it almost came together in his mind, but then blew apart like seeds in the wind. It was as familiar as home…but Panther hadn’t had a real home in so long. He inhaled the scent and continued on. The scents of blood and flesh were stronger this way, too, and he had not covered much ground when he saw why: a human arm, caught in the fork of two branches, with blood spattering the trunk and the leaves below and the soil beneath those.