Michael Ehart

         For at least a quarter day, I knew that there was death ahead.

         It was a feeling at first, even before I saw the sunbirds circling the spot of green on the plain below. Down from the hills, and closer, I could smell it on the occasional quartering wind.

         The oasis was known to me. It was a seldom-used stop on this odd leg of the caravan route. In dry years the spring was brackish and foul, and the discomfort of the route and the lack of secondary trade opportunities generally outweighed the day or two gained by the slightly shorter distance traveled between Carchemesh and Mari. Most traffic was by the Euphrates road instead.

         The feeling grew stronger as I approached. Around my neck, the broken-tooth talisman throbbed. It knew death. So did I.

         I dismounted and made the last thousand steps cautiously afoot.  Closer, the mare started to shy. I stopped to tie her lead rope to a large rock. From the wolf-skin sheath hanging from the saddle, I pulled my sword. Holding it with the heavy point down, I slowly made my way to the first line of trees where the red dust gave way to the grey-green saw grass of the oasis floor.

         The wind soughed through the sparse trees. In the clearing near the spring stood a black tent, half erected. A loose corner flapped against itself. A sunbird croaked above. Another hopped away as I approached, bloated full and unable to fly. The camel it had been feeding on lay outside of the square of ancient broken brick that surrounded the tent. Inside the tumbled wall were smaller lumps with torn scraps of silk flapping weakly from them.

         The wind shifted fully, and the stench hit me hard. I swallowed, tried to spit. For a moment, I was able to distract myself with the dapple of late-afternoon sun reflecting from the bronze of my sword. Then I surrendered to the heave of my stomach and bent to cover the nearby stones with my midday meal.

         Finally, I was able to straighten. I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my tunic, started toward the spring to rinse my mouth, thought better of it. I spat several times, thinking ruefully of the water skin tied to my saddle a hundred paces behind me.

         I circled around the tent, stepping over the crumbling old brick of the ruined wall behind. Packs and bales lay in a neat, undisturbed heap in an angle of better-preserved wall. Once there was a caravansary here, never prosperous and generations gone. I stayed here, twice, perhaps eighty years apart.

         I sat down on a bale of silks, sword across my knees, and pondered. I could tell nothing from the bodies. The sunbirds had taken their fill.

         Bandits had not taken this caravan. Their goods were intact, not looted. Unless all the bandits had died in the raid as well. Unlikely.

         From the smell and the looks of the corpses, whatever had happened was two or three days gone. If it were poisoned or tainted water, there would be dead sunbirds as well. I saw none. Still, I would not drink or eat here.

         What did that leave? Sudden insanity, wild beasts, sorcery.

         I have traveled this land for lives of men. While I have heard many songs at fireside, and tales told in wine shops of packs of savage beasts who hunger after man-flesh, I really only know of one beast who truly feasts in that fashion. And it never hunts, preferring its meat to be brought to it. One man, perhaps, or a camel or horse brought down by a lion I could believe. Not an entire caravan.

         I have seen, in the land of the Khettites, in the city near where the two seas join, packs of men who in a state of religious ecstasy, attack themselves and each other, tearing flesh, self-castrating, bleeding, singing, laughing, and dying in homage to their obscure god on his feast day. But we were far from there, and theirs is a poverty cult, not likely to be favored by merchants.

         I didn't like what that left. The talisman that hung from my neck told me little. It throbbed, yes, but from the nearness of death or from the residue of sorcery, I couldn't tell. Likely both.

         I checked the sun. It was only a hand's-breadth now from the horizon. I wouldn't camp here. Too likely to draw larger carrion eaters, though that it hadn't already was another curiosity. And whatever or whoever had killed a dozen armed men and their beasts might still be around.

          I picked up an armload of firewood on my way back to where my mare waited, shifting uncomfortably against the restraint of the lead rope. I tied the wood into a bundle and lashed it to her back. I led her around the oasis until the lengthening shadows made the uneven ground uncertain. I hobbled her, rubbed her down, fed her a few hands full of grain, and splashed water from one of the water skins into a shallow hollow in a rock for her to drink.

         By full dark, I had a small fire going. I ate nothing myself. The memory of the stench was too near. There was another thing, too. Instead of fading as we moved farther away from the carnage behind us, the throbbing of the talisman had grown stronger, more insistent. Usually it only does that when it is in the presence of the Manthycore, whom I serve with bitter unwillingness, but serve nonetheless. Death and sorcery make it live and the Manthycore is both.

         I sat facing the fire, my back to a large stone. My sword was again on my lap. The night filled with the small sounds of the dry plains between the rivers. Rustlings, night-bird cries, the chirp of a mouse. Overhead, thin clouds moved quickly over a waning half-moon and covered and revealed the tired stars.

         I felt the presence a moment before I heard the change in the night noises. All of the regular activity of the night ceased. A half-beat later I heard the flap of wings coming from the direction of the oasis. I expected the mare to bolt but she didn't react at all. For a moment, the moon was covered by a dark form that drifted toward me, covering in turn the stars in a great, irregular patch. The edges rippled where they were outlined against the scattered stars and the flapping sound grew louder and slower.

         And then stopped, perhaps fifty paces away. It had landed.

         Then the mare reacted. She tried to bolt, caught hobbled, and fell. I expected her to scream, as panicked horses will, but she was silent except for her panting and the thump and scrabble of rocks and soil knocked loose by her struggle to rise.

         I ignored her.

         I rose to my feet, keeping my eyes on the thickening darkness ahead. I balanced my weight evenly on both feet, rising slightly on my toes, knees bent. I took three or four quick breaths to charge my lungs, then slowed my breathing to close to normal. I held my sword at an angle across my body, point out and slightly down.

         And waited.

         The small breeze shifted. With the shift came the stench of death, of a thousand deaths—horrible deaths, the smell of pain and blood, rotting flesh, festering wounds, and ruptured bowels.

         I grimaced. "I think you know me," I called. "And if you do, you must know that smell will not drive me in fear or turn my guts to water. I know that smell. I do not fear it, but it does make me foul-tempered."

         There was a chuckle from the darkness ahead—low, feminine, throaty. "That would not be entirely desirable, I think," the voice said. "I have stopped it. The wind will carry it away. I didn't think it would frighten you, but you know how it is..."

         I waited. Though I had spoken, nothing had moved except my mouth. I was still at ready. The reek blew to tatters in the breeze, faded, and was gone.

         "Well," the voice said. "Will you invite me to your camp?"

         "I will not," I replied. "I'll not have you as my guest. But you may approach, if you must."

         There was a sigh, and then a wry chuckle, perhaps a little forced. The darkness solidified even further and shrank until it coalesced into the form of a woman, dressed in the fashion of a southern people long vanished, dark strips of camel's wool wound about her slender frame. Heavy as her garments were, her arms, bosom, and face were bare. On one arm was a coil of black—sometimes still and made of ebony, the next moment a small black snake. On her other arm was a wide black leather band. On it perched a small, black vulture.

         She was pale, with black hair and eyes. Her skin was smooth and flawless.

         Once, very long ago, my skin had that milk-like texture too. The tracks of centuries and death were written on my face now, and though I had not aged a day in nearly 20 lifetimes of man, no one would ever again think me young.

         Or find me beautiful, as she was.

         "You are the servant of the Manthycore," she said. "I have come a great distance and wrought much to speak with you."

         "Your handiwork?" I asked, nodding in the direction of the oasis. Without taking my eyes from her.

         She laughed again, this time with real delight. "I thought it might get your attention. And this far from my home, it doesn't hurt to re-establish my... authority."

         Behind me, my horse had ceased her kicking and was still. Her breathing was heavy, panting. I wondered if her heart would burst. I did not wish to be afoot here, so far from any likely replacement.

         "I am Ananth," she announced. She paused, as if she expected me to be awestruck by her revelation. She could wait all she liked. I am sometimes struck, but seldom by awe.

         After a few moments she frowned. "Perhaps you don't know of me. I have been long away from this land."

         "I know you." She truly had been long from this land. Her people had been driven out by one of the Sargons, long before my birth. But there were still tales that had frightened me as a little girl, and songs. And occasionally travelers might come across her image—serpent on one arm, vulture on the other—scratched into a stone where once a temple stood.

         "Then you know what I can do. I require a service of you."

         "I am in service to another, bitter though it is, and sadly must refuse."

         "What if I could free you of that service?"

         What was that feeling that jumped in my breast? How long had it been since someone had offered me hope? For over 400 years I had served the Manthycore, the great sorcerous beast, devourer of man-flesh. As a foolish child I had come with my lover, armed with the talisman that rested on my chest, on a great quest for a treasure held by a foul beast. Since then he had held me, in servitude, and held the boy I love, unchanged, to compel me. To preserve my lover I lure warriors and ruffians to secluded places and kill them so the Manthycore might feed on fresh meat. He does not specify that I bring him those who can fight; I do.

         For the first few years it was because having had my innocence stolen, I could not bring myself to steal the life of any who still had that fragile commodity. Then, when I came to believe that the beast would never honor our pact and someday release my love from his captivity, I began seeking out those who, through strength of arm, might instead slay him.

         I became the measure. Sorcery could not touch me. I was protected by the talisman which kept me young, healed my wounds, and by which I summoned the Manthycore to his dreadful feasts. Many lifetimes of men spent fighting made me difficult to slay. And few men ever believed that a mere woman, no matter how scarred, could ever out-fight them.

         Someday, I thought, I would find a man or group of men who could slay me. If they could kill me, then perhaps they could kill the Manthycore. My love and I would both be free then. But generations had fallen beneath my sword.  And the long, weary years had passed.

         But now, hope! Long practice at revealing nothing made my face still, but my thoughts raced.

         "What if you could? And what do you know of my service?"

         "I know what the songs tell, that you are a slayer of men in service of an ancient beast who has consumed men since before the days of Eniku and the great deluge. I know that there was a young man, once, and may still be. I know that none in these decadent days of city-dwellers and silk-draped men can stand in combat against you. Some say you are a goddess, as am I, one of the ten thousand gods of these lands."

         I shook my head. "I am no goddess, nor would I desire to be one."

         "There are those who worship you, you know. Those who say that you are me, returned to this land. You could have that, if you desired. You could be at my right hand."

         "And for this you desire for me to kill for you."

         She smiled again. "It is what you do, after all. And this is such a small thing. There is a man, an old man, from Chaldea. He travels with his family and retainers. Some call him The Well Digger."

         "I know him."

         "You traveled with him for a time, did you not?"

         "For a time." For several weeks I had traveled with this old man she spoke of. He was a holy man, of sorts, who spoke of a single god, a creator god, wise, powerful and above the pettiness and small behaviors of mortals, yet concerned with their lives, their treatment of each other, and their faithfulness in all things. I could not quite believe in this god of his, but when I left him I no longer believed in the gods I had before. They had not answered my only prayer. The Well Digger had explained that his god would not answer me either—not from indifference, but because he reserved vengeance for himself.

         "Why him?" I asked.

         She smiled. "He talks too much. Perhaps someday his talk will inspire others. The gods are only as strong as we are believed to be."

         "And why me?"

         "You are a great slayer of men. I would have you serve me. I am not a goddess of combat, though I love it. Why should others gain from deaths that you create?"

         "And so to serve you...?"

         "Slay this Well Digger, then together we shall slay the Manthycore."

         "No."

         "No?" She seemed amazed.

         "No."

         "How can one who has lived so long be such a fool! I offer you freedom and a place by my side!"

         "You offer what I offer. Death. If you could kill this man, he would be dead. But he is protected somehow. Even I could sense that. You hope to destroy a rival. Either of us dead would do that."

         "A rival? I am a goddess!"

         "That men think you one does not make it so. Some men think me one, as you said. I am no more goddess than you. You are a sorceress or priestess grown old on the blood of others, that's all. Perhaps to some I am displacing you."

         She laughed, perhaps the first genuine thing she had done. "Vain fool. If not in life, then serve me in death!"

         The reek slammed into me like a runaway camel. At the same time there was a shuffling and steps in the dark. I had time for a breath, and then they were upon me.

         I had never seen dead men walk, but from the tales I expected stumbling and clumsiness. Not so. They were fast—fast, and deadly sure with their spears and blades. In life they had been caravan guards and merchants. In death they were demon warriors; torn, hideous, and bloated, but quick and deadly.

         I slashed left at the first spear thrust. My sword jolted against the haft, severing it just behind the head. Whirling, I evaded another from my right, and parried a sword slash at my head. I returned a disemboweling stroke.

         The swordsman did not fall.

         Dead already, he did not fall.

         And then I was submerged in a cataract of cutting, dodging, slashing, and parrying.

         There were more than ten of them, however many had been in the caravan. They were too many, even for me. But the rock at my back kept them from behind me, and their very speed and ferocity kept them from facing me any more than three or four at a time.

         And I have been doing this for a very long while.

         For a time, I was lost in the glee and certainty that I was wrong. That she could slay me. That the Manthycore would finally be defeated and my lover freed.

         The frenzy continued. I whirled, ducked, side-stepped, lunged. I slashed, hacked, and parried. The world shrank down to a red-hazed circle, its borders the length of my sword's reach. My breath came in great wheezing sobs, my ribs ached from spear thrust, missed blocks, and exhaustion. I saw through a haze of sweat, blood, and fatigue.

         As I slowed, so did the attacks. I realized that many of my attackers were down now, with legs hacked off, or were attacking by lunging and butting, now lacking arms to hold weapons. A welter of severed body parts lay at my feet—arms, hands, legs, heads, and other less easily identified chunks of decaying flesh.

         The last two stumbled toward me, one missing both arms, the other limping on a nearly severed leg. They collided, and in their tangle I found the opening for three drawing slashes that left their dismembered parts tangled on the ground.

         I stood for a moment, panting, dripping blood. Unusual; all of the blood was mine. Gradually, my awareness expanded, and my breathing slowed.

         "Oh, well done!" Her voiced dripped venom. "I shall have to make more servants the next we meet." I raised my head to see her whip her left arm over her head, dislodging the small black vulture who flapped his wings twice and began to grow. In a heartbeat he was the size of a pig. In two, larger than a man.

         I summoned from the dregs of my strength, leapt forward, and struck off his head.

         Ananth stumbled back, stunned by the loss of her sorcerous mount. I raised my sword and stalked toward her. She raised her hand, made a sound that started as a moan and rose in pitch and volume to an ear-shattering shriek. Specks of darkness danced around her like black sparks rising from a fuliginous fire.

         And that was all that happened.

         "The tooth," I explained. "The Manthycore's Talisman. I am guarded from all sorcery, save his."

         She stood for a moment, gaping, then turned to flee.

         I caught her in two steps.

         The mare would live. I thought for a time that her heart had burst. But after I cut her hobbles to use as binding cords, she struggled up and stood, sides heaving, eyes rolling, but quite alive. She would need to be rubbed down again. Her sweat made dark streaks in the dust that covered her sides.

         The hacked apart caravan men I stacked just outside the light from the fire. I doubted they would be disturbed, at least not that night, and perhaps ever. Their decayed forms reeked even further of the sorcery that had briefly re-animated them.

         There was a little water still in my water-skin. I gulped some and used a little of what remained to wash my face and hands. The rest would have to wait until the next oasis.

         I turned to the trussed figure that lay on the ground next to the fire. "We will wait for daylight, I think. There is less chance then for you to perform some mischief."

         She glared at me from the ground, her raven hair matted and her fine wool wrapping twisted into strips and lumps. I had used some of them to tie her at first, until I could cut the mare's hobbles.

         "I am Death, you know," she said. "I cannot be slain!" Her statement would have been bolder if not mumbled through split lips and if her voice had not quavered as she said it.

         "You may be right," I conceded.

         I looked at her with something akin to affection. She had brought hope with her as a weapon. I had felt its joyous sting. Some still remained, though I think she had not regarded the possibility.

         She would have made a treacherous, unreliable ally. She might very well make a pleasing gift.

         "I am right. I cannot be slain!"

         "Yes, yes. But I think perhaps that will not matter. It may not be possible to slay you." The sun was rising. It was time to see what this last hope might bring. I absently stepped a little to one side to crush a small black serpent under my heel.

         "Not slain. But perhaps you may be eaten, anyway."

         I drew the talisman from where it rested on my breast, and cleared my thoughts to call the Manthycore

.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Michael Ehart

Michael Ehart has been writing for over 30 years and has been published over 300 times in newspapers, magazines and e-zines. His story "It's a Living" was selected for the Imaginary Word Recommended List for December 2005, and his story "Voice of the Spoiler", the prequel to this story, was a Preditors and Editors Readers Poll Top Ten Finisher for best sf/fantasy short story of 2005. He is married to one of the most beautiful women in the world and would offer "pistols for two, coffee for one" to anyone who disagrees but pesky laws get in the way and so offers instead to naysayers a referral to a good optometrist.

You can find out more about what he is up to at: < http://mehart.blogspot.com >.

Illustration: "Ananth"

Copyright 2006, Rachel A. Marks

Rachel Marks is a homeschooling mom to four beautiful kids, and is currently working with her agent to publish her first novel. You can check out her new column here at The Sword Review, "Between the Lines", to get the latest on what's new in the Christian speculative book market. 

You can see her illustration, "Sundeath", and read her short story, "Sorrow's Shroud," in Dragons, Knights, and Angels.   

 

 

Cover: "Butterfly Angel"

Copyright 2006, Kelley Pounds