2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 2

Anja drifted over the plain, riding a disc of silver light. Icy wind bit through her sheepskin vest, finding every hole. Her fingers felt stiff as twigs. Her dangling feet were doubtless frozen, though she couldn't feel them.

Sling in one hand, stones in the other, Anja searched for prey. Nothing but pale grass and paler sky. Sighing, she tugged at her trousers, trying to rearrange her useless limbs so they looked less like something hanging dead on the butcher's hook.

She almost missed the swift movement. A quombat! Anja swooped in close enough to send the frightened rodent scurrying toward a projecting rock. Readying her sling, Anja waited. The plump quombat was an easy target, but not what she was after.

"Three seconds, vermin," she hissed. "Two, one!"

The quombat shrieked. The air exploded into a rainbow of flapping wings and sinuous bodies.

A whole nest of prairie dragons! Anja laughed in triumph. The foot-long winged lizards rose in a snarling, snapping cloud. Anja knocked three from the air before they noticed her and fled, wings burring, too fast for a man on foot, or even horseback, to follow. Faster than either, Anja raced after the dragon that held the quombat. The beast wouldn't release its prize, despite the dragging weight.

Even burdened, the winged lizard was fast. Anja charged after it, the wind whipping her dark hair against her cheeks. The dragon spiraled. Weaving, diving through the wind, Anja followed. Her body lurched against the invisible column surrounding the disc. Its force held her balanced, leaving her hands free. She took a stone from her vest pocket.

The dragon turned and glared at her with hot yellow eyes. Acid dripped from its jaws, but it wouldn't relax its grip to spit. Anja flung her rock and the lizard tumbled to earth, its teeth deep in the quombat's neck.

"Did you see that, Brandt?" Anja shouted to the empty sky. "Shame it's a real dragon and not one of those painted barbarians, hey?"

Anja bent laboriously to pick up her prize. She drifted to where her other dragons lay scattered, feeling the exhilaration of flight and the triumph of the kill drain from her like the dragon venom smoldering in the grass. She breathed in the spicy odor — a mixture of dried grass and cloves — and sighed.

Alongside the outcropping, Anja laid the dragons out on a ledge and nodded in satisfaction. Only one wing broken. Another bent, but still useable. Nicely patterned, too. Red, red–and–gold, one striped in black and yellow, and one rare glittering blue, its glossy wings mottled with black. Anja detached the quombat, gutted it, and tossed away the acid–ruined head. "Dinner," she thought.

"Anja!"

She looked up. Jem waved at her, grinning. Even from here, his outlandish clothing stood out: a rainbow motley, probably sewn from scraps left over from his toy making. Something crimson draped over his arm. A blanket?

"Jem," she sighed as he trotted up. "Please tell me you're not bringing me a blankie."

He stopped short. "Well, not quite. It's your Guard's cloak. But it is getting cold. You should head back."

Back to the smoky houses and pitying stares. Back to the lingering smell of sheep dung on everything. Past the closed Guardhouse door, to her empty house.

"Jem, Brandt never babied me like this. Don't you start."

"Just trying to help."

Anja scowled, but put the cloak on. "Thanks, toymage."

Jem was short, with a face like one of his own carvings and hair like pinewood shavings. When Anja's lover, Brandt, had called him toymage, the smaller man had hated it. When Anja used the nickname, Jem seemed to take it as a compliment on his magical crafting skills. Nothing she did ruffled his infuriatingly even temper.

Jem stroked one dragon head with a slender finger. "What beauties! The scales are so intricately patterned, like a mosaic."

"The wings are worth five gold apiece." Anja detached the leathery membranes with an expert twist, ignoring Jem's pained expression. "Shame it's bad weather for drying skins." She wrenched off another wing.

Jem winced at the popping sounds, and looked queasy. "Must you be so . . . enthusiastic?"

"Don't preach, Jem. At least I sell them. Brandt used the little lizards for target practice. They've kept me fed since the raiders killed Brandt, while I've been learning to use this." She gestured at the disc. "It's the best thing you've ever made."

Jem beamed. "Isn't it fascinating? I'm just glad it worked."

Anja couldn't understand how a grown man could take such childlike delight in toys. But that was Jem. She nodded, detached the last wing, and swept the carcasses out of sight. "I've learned to do just about everything from it. It responds faster than a good horse."

"Let me know if you have any problems," Jem persisted. "Like with stops, or sudden turns. I don't want you falling off."

"Honestly, Jem! But if you're so worried, I'll give it a good test tomorrow." Jem glanced at her sharply. She busied herself with packing away the wings.

"Let me know as soon as you can. I'll be back on the trading route soon."

"Already?" Anja looked up, surprised by a sudden pang of dismay.

"I would've started weeks ago, only . . . well, never mind. There isn't much call for knickknacks in new settlements, you know. I'm packed. I've only waited this long because of the raids. But they seem to have stopped.

"I'll bet, after Brandt killed the raider's chief — that Theorn. I wish we'd killed the whole tribe of back-stabbing dragon-worshippers!"

"I thought Brandt attacked them first."

"You weren't there. You didn't see them prowling around the place for weeks, with dragon-wings painted over their eyes, waving spears. Brandt was protecting the settlement."

"If a bunch of strangers showed up and built a town in the middle of land where you'd lived for generations, wouldn't you be suspicious?" Jem countered.

Anja said nothing, just drew the blue–black wings from her satchel.

"Here. I'm sure you can get a good price for these in the city if you make them into a hair ornament or something."

Jem took them gently, feeling the ribbed–silk texture, assessing the rich color.

"This is worth a lot more than I carry, Anja," he said slowly. "You'll have to wait until we get back to town. I have more there."

"I'm not selling them, you wooden–headed tinker! I'm giving them to you — for the disc, and for standing by me when everyone else left me to die."

"How do you know about that?" Jem's fingers tightened, crumpling the wing. "You were unconscious!"

"Most of the time. But I heard the other Guards telling you to get some sleep." Anja smiled. Then her expression sobered. "I don't remember much of the fight. Just Brandt shouting, those barbarians surrounding him, hot pain stabbing through my back, and falling, and then waking up to some old woman saying it was a near thing, and I'd never. . . ." She bit off the words, with a short laugh. "Galrick said he figured Brandt's ghost must've stayed around long enough to get me back safe. He always did like to keep me by his side."

"That's one story." Jem muttered.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Anja said through clenched teeth.

"Well, I've also heard that Brandt stabbed the Theorn through the heart, and they both burst into flame and that's why no one could find their bod. . . . Oh, Anja, I'm sorry! I didn't mean. . . ."

"Just go home, Jem." Anja murmured.

It was dark by the time Anja went home herself. The darkness hid the ragged thatch, the warped shutters of her house. It hadn't looked much better when she and Brandt had spent nights there, but it was private, unlike the Guardhouse. Anja smiled wryly to herself. She could rent one of the small, snug rooms over the tavern that Jem stayed in, but she didn't want to. Here she could remember Brandt's strong hands, bold grin, and mysterious, seductive golden eyes. In the dark, she could almost feel him, like a fire enveloping her. She could feel the pressure of his hand on her hair that, uncoiled, used to ripple past her shoulders when she stood.

She ate quickly, and hurried to open the chest, branded with the Guard's emblem, at the foot of her bed. A knotted red cord lay at the bottom of the storage chest. Anja ran it reverently through her fingers, counting each knot. Smiling, she drifted over her bed and willed the disc to sink and vanish. With less difficulty than usual, she twisted around to pinch out the rushlight and fell back onto the bed.

It took longer than Anja had expected to wrestle her leggings and boots on the next morning. By the time she knotted the red cord in place the sun was high. She left quickly, keeping a wary eye out for Jem. He had a knack for turning up at important moments, whether she wanted him or not. A few children pointed, wide-eyed, at the shimmering silver disc as Anja glided up to the Guardhouse door. She smiled at them, then scowled at the parents who dragged them away, whispering. She hesitated, then set her jaw and pounded on the heavy portal.

The captain smiled at her, but held the door half-closed, planting himself in front of the opening.

"Anja. I'm afraid none of us have time to chat right now. The scout just told us — the raiders are coming."

"I'm not here to chat. I'm back on duty. If the raiders are back, I'm going to fight." She put one hand on the door and pushed, enjoying the startled look on his face as it yielded. "Let me in."

He stumbled backward. She entered. The noise, shouts, clanging of metal on metal. . . . Anja took a deep breath, savoring the familiar aroma of potato and onion soup simmering in the kitchen, mingled with the scents of leather and sweat. She glided into the practice yard. Silence fell. Anja straightened, flashing a grin at her old friends and comrades. No one returned her smile. One by one their glances met hers and slid away.

"I'm not dead, boys," she snapped. "I'm as quick on this as I ever was on my legs, and I'm ready to fight again."

"Anja, be serious!" said the captain. "Look at yourself!"

A murmur rippled among the Guards. Anja tolerated their scrutiny with a wry half–smile. No one but the captain had more knots in their belt than she did. Soon she'd be second in command, in Brandt's place, hunting Brandt's murderers.

"I see myself every day, Captain. I know what I'm capable of."

"Your job is to protect this settlement, not contradict your superiors," the captain snapped. "We almost lost you once already. You're no help to anyone dead."

"I've been dead, dammit!" Anja flushed with fury and shame at her loss of control. "For months I was fed and clothed like an infant. I've fought hard to get what's left of my life back." She held the captain's angry gaze as though he were a hunted prairie dragon, and drew her sword. "At least give me a chance to prove myself!"

The captain answered her glare with a curt nod. Stepping aside, he motioned to an unfamiliar, gangly youth, at least five years her junior, his trousers tied with a white, unknotted cord. A new recruit! Probably never blooded! The insult was as clear as if they'd all spat on her.

The youth inched forward, apologetic. Anja bolted forward, batted the boy's practice sword from his grip, hovered over him where he lay gaping, and shot the captain an angry glare.

He returned her look with raised eyebrows and a half-smile, and gestured for another soldier to come forward. Anja gave a slight nod of approval. Galrick. Much better. He was older than that callow boy, clad in scarred leather, and his red belt had only slightly fewer knots than hers. And there was something new on his vest — a green chevron sewn over his heart.

"I see you've chosen Brandt's replacement."

The captain nodded.

"And I wasn't notified?" She tried to keep the edge from creeping into her voice.

"You weren't on active duty." The captain shrugged.

"Active, huh?" Anja's voice chilled. "Alright."

Anja drew her sword and saluted Galrick. Without hesitation, he bore down on her, quick and agile. Anja matched him blow for blow, darting back and forth, and up and down as well. Galrick stared, baffled. His step faltered. The onlookers began to chant encouragement under their breath. The captain was grinning broadly now, watching as Anja forced her opponent back against the wall. Ever so delicately, she ripped the chevron from Galrick's uniform with the tip of her sword. With another twist of her blade, she tore the blunted sword from his hand, sending it spinning along the stone floor. A cheer burst from the onlookers.

"Very good, Anja!" The captain swept the sword up from the floor. "You're halfway there."

"Halfway?" Anja scowled. "What do you mean?"

"I'll show you." He began striking at her, aiming blows at her head, her shoulders, her chest. She parried each one easily. Then, looking her straight in the eye, he swung the blade toward her dangling legs.

Anja smiled. Did he think she hadn't foreseen this? Jem had said the shield extended down. . . .

A deafening crack reverberated through the guard hall. The captain's sword swung up and back, scoring a gash in his cheek. The disc rocked wildly. Taken off guard, Anja overbalanced and fell backward against the very limits of the invisible restraint, nearly tumbling helplessly to the ground. She struggled to right herself, trying not to look where the captain stood, wiping blood from his face.

"I'm sorry, Captain." she said, her voice tense.

"So am I, Anja. You've done better than I thought possible, but this is a risk I can't afford."

"But. . . ." Her gaze strayed toward the inner door.

"No, Anja. One rock kicked up in battle could become the missile that kills one of your comrades — or you. No one doubts your courage. That's enough."

"Enough for wh. . . ?"

The captain held up a hand to silence her. No one moved or spoke as he guided Anja back to the gate.

Fury so darkened Anja's vision that she almost ran into Jem. He crouched just beyond the gate, intent on the tiny, jointed figurine he was whittling: a woman, long hair rippling over a cloak patterned like the blue-black dragon's wings. Anja paused just out of sight to watch, unsure whether to praise Jem's talent or slap him for looking so blasted serene. Deftly, he flicked away a last splinter and set the toy in the grass. It toddled about on tiny legs, and Jem laughed merrily. Despite herself, Anja chuckled. Jem sprang up. His expression turned somber when he saw her face.

"I knew you were up to something. I figured you'd be here."

Anja said nothing.

"What happened?"

She clenched the side of the disc. Her hands trembled, as she feared her voice would, if she opened her mouth. Slowly, she drifted away. Jem trotted alongside her, trying to catch her eye.

"Jem," she said finally, her voice tight and cold, "do you know how this thing works?" Anja clamped her hands down on the disc, bringing it to an abrupt halt, and whirled to face him.

Jem blinked. Apparently, this was not what he had been expecting.

"Well." he hesitated. "It uses the powers of the earth and your mind to create a field of force which. . . ."

"Jem," she interrupted, her knuckles turning even whiter, "have you ever tried one of these 'force fields' in battle?"

Jem looked shocked. "I'm a merchant, Anja. A dealer in toys and trinkets, a magician. I invented that for you because you've always been . . . a good friend. I don't make weapons."

"What a shame," she murmured.

"What's wrong with it?" He looked alarmed. "It's still floating. Didn't it protect you? Are your legs hurt?"

She gave a short, mirthless laugh, slapped the dead limbs hard and watched Jem wince. "Hurt? I can't feel a thing. No, it protected me too well."

"Then what? Did it fail afterward?" Before Anja could stop him, Jem poked at the field with his jackknife. It wrenched itself from his hand, ripping a long gash in his cloak.

"My cloak!" he cried, scrambling to pick up the knife.

"That happened. I'm more of a menace to my allies than my enemies. I'm worse than useless! Jem, the raiders are coming. They'll burn this glorified sheep farm to the ground. The Guards will be fighting Brandt's murderers — without me! I should be fighting for him. But I'll be hidden away in the meeting hall with the children and cowards."

"And me. Would you say I'm a coward, Anja?"

"Brandt would."

"Forget Brandt. What do you think?" For once, Jem wasn't smiling. Anja looked away, and Jem sighed. He pocketed the knife and picked up the doll. For the first time, Anja saw its face. She caught Jem by the wrist, hard.

"You gave that thing my face," she snarled.

"It's not a very good likeness, I know, but. . . ."

"Oh, the likeness is fine. Better than the original, in fact. Long hair, no scars, even walks! Amazing how you can make a piece of wood do all those things, isn't it? Makes the human seem like a poor substitute."

"Anja, stop." Jem's voice was so stern that she actually hesitated. "I know how proud you were of your fighting skill, but there's more to you than that. Come with me on the trading route. Maybe I can improve the disc."

Something hard, black, and bitter swelled in Anja's throat and burst. "Oh, why not just say improve me? I know I'm not who I used to be, but I'm not some doll you can tinker with!"

Jem went white as though she'd struck him. He dropped the doll. The silence between them was so complete that the shrilling of insects in the grass hurt her ears. He turned and stalked away, leaving the puppet lying in the grass and Anja staring after him in fury and dismay.

That night and the next, the town slept. But, a mile away, Anja, who hadn't slept in over a day, forced herself to look beyond the swaying grasses. Finally, her numbed senses snapped fully awake. There was a torch — small, but bright, in the evening light.

"Who's there?" she hissed, just loud enough to be heard above the swish of the grass.

"The Theorn," said a familiar voice at last.

Anja stared. The Theorn looked just as wild as any other barbarian in his hairy pelts and beard, with blue–black wings painted around his fire–gold eyes, but both her eyes and fingers knew every contour of his face.

"Brandt!" Anja's head swam. "But Theorn killed you!"

"No, I killed him." Brandt corrected, with his familiar one-sided smirk. "And now I'm Theorn. It's a title, Anjy, not a name."

"And I swore to kill him. . . ." Anja felt numb. "I thought you died trying to save me. But you must have brought me back! Why didn't you stay?"

"I didn't bring you back, Anjy-girl." The amber eyes turned searching, suspicious. "I saw your wounds; I knew you'd soon be dead or crippled." Anja read the contempt in his face. "Either way, you were useless to me."

"You're telling me that after . . . after everything, you didn't save me?"

"Wasn't me, Anjy. I challenged the Theorn, yes, but to replace him. Now I'm a leader — not second-in-command under some sheep-brained captain."

Anja stared at him. Had Brandt always been so calculating? Had he always worn that subtle sneer? "Then who. . . ?"

There was perfect silence — so perfect that they both heard the faint sigh. The air wavered, rippled, and took the form of Jem, slumping to the ground.

Brandt's eyes narrowed. "I'd guess he did."

"Jem?" The tinker turned toward her, his eyes despairing, and nodded. "But how? People saw Brandt die. They saw the Theorn fleeing."

"Illusion." Jem whispered. "The Theorn died, and he ran. I switched their appearances. It was hard, but for you. . . . I brought you home."

"You were there?" Anja's hands trembled. She clenched the edge of the disc.

"Oh, he was there, skulking after you as usual. Weren't you, toymage?"

Jem stood up, bristling. "Yes, and it's a good thing I was!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Anja looked from the mage to her former lover.

"Because I knew you cared about this acid-hearted braggart. I didn't want you to know he left you to die!"

"So he carted you home on that little toy of his, and had you patched up like a broken dolly," Brandt spat.

"Who are you to pass judgment?" Jem snapped. "Just because Anja's not a great hulking brute like you doesn't mean she doesn't deserve to live!"

"Ah, but you've seen prairie dragons with their wings ripped off, right? They can't fly. They're just lizards flopping in the grass, burning everything around them with their own venom until they die. Anjy understands that." He ruffled the cropped ends of Anja's hair. She pulled away. "At least she used to. But you'd make her like you, toymage. There's no place for you out here. You don't even know how to defend yourself." He clubbed Jem on the head with the dying torch. The toy maker collapsed, blood trickling through his curls.

"Jem!" Anja shouted.

"There's no place for you either," Brandt said calmly. "But you deserve a quick, clean death in battle."

"Who are you to say what I deserve?" Anja snapped. She glided to Jem and bent to hoist him up.

"Stop!" Brandt barked. "Never turn your back on your superiors, Anjy." She faced him, rigid with fury. Brandt stalked toward her, sword drawn. Her hand went reflexively to the hilt of her own weapon.

"If you return to town raving that I've killed the toymage, when the Guards have told everyone I'm dead, well, you thought things were bad before. . . . Do you want to be called crippled and mad?"

Anja clenched her teeth.

"Draw your sword, Anja! It won't take long. Or do I start with the toymage?" He pointed the sword at Jem's throat.

"No!" Anja shouted, drawing her own blade. Brandt rushed at her, and her training took over. She bolted and darted, dodging over rocks and hillocks, hoping to trip her opponent.

"Come on, Anja, fight!" Brandt bellowed, his face aflame with a strange triumph. He drove forward, striking hard, testing the farthest limits of her strength. This was beyond even the captain's trial, the relentless pounding of a man hammering a rock to see what it takes to wear it away. Sweat blurred the wings around Brandt's fiery eyes. Anja met and parried each blow. But though she was quicker, he was stronger; already, her shoulders ached. He would wear her out, and soon.

"You swore to guard this town!"

"I said I'd protect you, too. Times change." He grabbed her upraised arm, forcing it back. She dropped her sword. He pressed forward with the full advantage of his greater weight behind him.

Something gave way, like a bubble popping. Anja tumbled from the disc, landing inches from her fallen sword. The disc floated uselessly above her. Anja felt an eerie tingling in an arc across her chest and realized that her head and feet lay well outside the small circle of protection.

"How does it feel to be a wingless lizard? I could behead you like a quombat." Brandt planted a foot on Anja's sword and smiled.

"You'd really kill me!"

"Of course! You, the captain, those sheep he calls his men. . . . I'm a ruler now, not some guard doting on his girl."

He aimed his sword at her neck, raised it — then cried out and staggered as a rock struck his temple. Anja grabbed her sword, thrust it down, hilt first, into the force field, and let go.

The blade shot upward with all her strength behind it, plunging through the layers of bearskin just above Brandt's heart. His eyes widened, and he dropped to the ground. Twisting awkwardly, she pulled herself over to him and levered herself up on her elbows. "Brandt?" she whispered.

The shaggy head jerked as Brandt struggled to turn away from her. The molten fire died from his eyes.

Anja closed them gently, then turned away. Jem sat up, rubbing his injured head. Her sling dangled from his fingers.

"You threw that?" she croaked. He nodded.

She lowered the disc, slid onto it, rose and floated, her thoughts whirling.

"Anja?" Jem was standing, looking faintly green.

"I wanted to kill Theorn," she murmured. "Well, I did."

"Yes."

"He was right about one thing, you know, Jem."

"What's that?"

"Everyone will call me mad, if I tell them what happened. And when those dragon-worshippers come. . ."

"They won't, because we'll go to them first. Return the . . . the body. Tell them Brandt played on their fears. Let them know we were protecting our home, too."

"Me? I'm just a dragon-killer," said Anja with a wry smile.

"A fighter," Jem corrected. "There's a difference."

Anja looked at the body at her feet, imagining the sight multiplied tenfold. There was no more glory in it now than in a pile of dragons butchered for sale.

"Let's do it," she said, and rose upward.