Introduction

Welcome to the fifth Chicks in Chainmail anthology. Allow me to offer you a comfortable chair, a bowl of popcorn, some corn chips and salsa, perhaps a few carrot sticks, and the healthful beverage of your choice before placing this book in your lap. No, it's not Turn the Other Chick; not yet. It's a family album.

"Whose family?" you ask. (Or perhaps you ask "What's this bushwah about a 'healthful beverage'? Gimme a chocolate ice cream soda, straight up, before I get nasty." In which case, shame on you.) Maybe it's yours. It's definitely mine. The members thereof are a small selection of fictitious heroines who aren't represented in this book but who have had a whole lot of impact on changing how people think about women. They've put down the order pad, the bake sale brownies, and the Why His Problems Are Always Your Fault book and picked up the sword instead. I'd say they deserve at least a passing nod, a smile, and even a few words of thanks for all that they've done for us. (I wouldn't suggest a pat on the back, though. These chicks have got rather enthusiastic reflexes, they don't like surprises, and they're probably toting something sharp.)

There's the woman herself, Xena, Warrior Princess. She's gone now, as is her faithful sidekick Gabrielle who became a woman warrior in her own right before their story ended.

Ah, and Eowyn and Arwen from the movie versions of The Lord of the Rings! Not 100% true to the book, but that's the nature of the cinematic critter. The purist in me might sulk, but my Inner Child is brandishing an elven blade and whooping "Arwen finally gets to do something besides wait around for Aragorn to show up! Yes!"

Check out Princes Leia, who proved to a doubting world that just because you send out a wideband Damsel in Distress call you can still kick plenty of Dark Side butt when the opportunity presents itself.

And can this be little Buffy Summers? My, how she's grown. Yes, you can fight evil and still hold down a job in the exciting and high-paying fast food industry!

I apologize to those of my fellow J.K. Rowling fans who are asking why Hermione Granger isn't here. She's certainly a fighter, just not the kind that uses a sword.

Oh, very well, let's include her. I suppose you could argue that not every woman warrior fights her battles with a sword, and that a wand is close kin to Buffy's favorite vampire-slaying stake, Mr. Pointy. I can't say no to Hermione. Really. I can't. She slapped this Let Me In Or Else spell on me and I had no choice.

Ironic, that. Freedom is all about having options and until fairly recently, being a woman was not. We were forever hearing "But you're a girl, so you can't:

"1. vote.

"2. live on your own.

"3. manage money.

"4. be paid the same as a man who's doing the same job.

"5. defend your country or even yourself.

"6. compete in professional sports.

"7. save France."

Women warriors—all of us, not just the ones who look slick in video—stand ready to defend our hard-won freedoms, our options, and to strive for further triumphs on the battlefield, big or small. Our battle cry, a thunderous "Sez you!" is often underscored by a resounding Bronx cheer in the direction of anyone who tells us "You can't 'cause you're a girl."

Among these freedoms is the choice of keeping a sense of humor on your person at all times. On occasion we don't hear "You can't do that 'cause you're a girl!" but the equally snarky "You can't do that 'cause you're a Feminist!"

Oh yes I can. (See above: Freedom. Also: Sez you.)

You'll notice that the women I've mentioned all hail from movies and television, though some originally saw the light of day in books and some have come to have spin-off books written about them. Their sisters who exist in print alone are even more numerous, but the Received Wisdom of the modern world is that eye candy reaches more people (and thus has more societal impact) than brain food. I'm not going to debate the truth or error of that, though I'd be the Amazing Ostrichwoman if I denied the wide-reaching influence of TV and movies.

As long as the aforementioned influence continues to present us with powerful, independent women who know how to fight in defense of themselves and others, I'm not about to complain. The more people who get that message, the merrier.

"That is all very well and good," I hear you say, "but that is also the past. Xena and Buffy have gone to Syndication Heaven. Who's going to replace them? Or are we going to go back to the days when the most important battle ever fought by women in fiction was Betty versus Veronica to settle that burning, earth-shattering question, Who will Archie take to the prom?"

I wish I had an answer handy. There are plenty of people who would be all too happy to return women to being objects of Rescue, Ornament, and Enforced Cheerful Domesticity. This would be bad enough, if they limited these desires to women's roles in books, movies, and TV. It's a sad truth that many of our fellow human beings can't feel tall unless they're standing on someone else's face. For some folks a mad dash back into the Dark Ages ("When Underlings Knew Their Proper Place!") looks like progress simply because it's motion at high speed.

Are we going to see more strong heroines appear on the big and little screens, or are we going to get a pat on the head and the jovial reassurance that everything will be taken care of for us, go have a manicure and let the nice media moguls handle it?

Um, how many female media moguls are there, by the way? And how many of them think of the rest of us as more than just a Marketing Demographic?

It's tiring, swinging a sword all day, and it's hell on that darling manicure, but it beats having to fight the same battles all over again because you assumed someone else would guard your freedom for you. If you haven't got a sword handy, you can always wield your wallet.

You can also choose not to worry your pretty little head about it. (Note: This is still your choice, not a constraint. For now.)

And while we're talking about choices, here's hoping all of us will forever be free to choose laughter.

Buffy would have wanted it that way.

* * *

You'll notice that the dedication of the book is for Tanya and Grant Van Der Ploeg. "Why?" you may ask. (Unless you are still demanding to know when the heck you're going to get your chocolate ice cream soda. Stop that.)

Go to http://www.dolls-n-daggers.com and you'll understand. Heh.

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Mightier Than the Sword

John G. Hemry

Suzanne entered the temple hesitantly, her footsteps sounding small in the great structure whose marble pillars reached toward a ceiling emblazoned with pictures dark and bright. Before her, torches flared around the great statue of Inspiration, Goddess of Writers. To either side of the goddess, lesser idols in Inspiration's pantheon were ranked behind their altars. There stood proud Contract next to faceless Writer's Block, while Slush was almost invisible behind the pile of offerings on his altar. Not far away, several petitioners were down on their knees before the grim visage of Deadline, praying for the extra time only she could grant.

Suzanne rendered honors to Inspiration, then turned toward the cubicles lining the sides of the temple and approached the tiny cells where the Editors worked. One glanced up as Suzanne reached her desk. "Do you have an offering?"

"Yes." Suzanne knelt and proffered her manuscript, carefully settling it into the Editor's offering tray. "May I beg an audience?"

"An audience?" The Editor frowned, then shrugged. "You may speak."

"Oh, Editor, why have my previous offerings been rejected?"

"I'm afraid the Mysteries of Editing are not for the uninitiated."

"But, please, grant me at least a hint!"

The Editor sighed heavily. "Very well. You can scarcely go wrong if you follow your Muse."

"My Muse?"

"Yes. You do have a Muse, don't you?"

"Ummm." Suzanne looked around. "Would I know if I did?"

"Most assuredly. I'm afraid if you lack a Muse—"

The Editor was interrupted by a sweet voice coming from above and just to the right of Suzanne. "She lacks one no longer."

"You?" The Editor held up her hands, palms out. "Oh, no. Not Calliope."

"What?" Suzanne looked toward the voice and saw floating there the almost transparent figure of a woman perhaps two feet high. "A Muse? I have a Muse?"

"Wait!" the Editor cautioned. "That's Calliope!"

"Is that bad?"

Calliope answered. "The Editor cannot say, can you? For Editors cannot reject a writer's Muse. You see, dear writer, I have already revealed one of the Mysteries of Editing to you."

The Editor glared at Calliope. "You might mention to her that Editors can't reject the Muse but we can always reject the manuscripts that Muse helps create!"

"Oh, posh." The dimunitive figure began drifting toward the exit from the temple. "Come along, my writer."

Suzanne followed hastily, catching up just as the Muse floated out of the temple. In daylight, her figure remained faint but clearly visible. "I didn't know Muses could be seen."

"Only by our writers, and Editors of course. Now, let's have a look at your latest offering." Somehow, Calliope had retrieved Suzanne's manuscript from the offering tray. She quickly flipped through it, then frowned down at Suzanne. "Oh, dear."

"I was trying to—"

"My dear . . . what's your name?"

"Suzanne. Suzanne of—"

"Suzanne's fine." Calliope drifted down to eye level with Suzanne. "If you have to explain to the reader what you're trying to do, you haven't done it. That's lesson one. Lesson two is that it really helps to write something interesting."

Suzanne rubbed her forehead. "Well, I try to write about what I know, you see."

"Haven't you ever done anything interesting?" Calliope paused in anticipation of Suzanne's answer, then hung her head theatrically. "You have to seek Inspiration in your experiences."

"But, if I imagine—"

"Who's the Muse here?"

"You are." Suzanne bit her lip and looked around. "I don't see anything interesting."

"You have to seek it! Come along." Calliope floated off down the street, passing through obstacles without hindrance, while Suzanne struggled through the crowd to catch up. When she finally did, Suzanne saw Calliope admiring an armorer's shop display. "This is just the place."

Suzanne peered at the armor and weapons. "For what?"

"If you're going to go adventuring, you need to be outfitted properly." Calliope's shape drifted inside the shop.

"Adventuring? What? Wait!" Suzanne rushed through the door, finding herself the object of the attention of several rough-looking men. "Excuse me." She slid sideways until she reached some shelves near Calliope. "What are you looking at?"

"Armor. Look at this one!" Calliope pointed to a gleaming mail shirt with mesh so fine it flowed like water.

Suzanne checked the price and yelped, drawing more glances from the men in the store. "I can't afford that."

"What can you afford?"

Suzanne scanned the shelves. "That." She lifted a stout leather shirt, stained and scored with damage, a sheet of scarred metal tacked to the upper chest. "I wonder why it's so cheap." In the center of the largest stain, her fingers found a thin hole about two inches in height in the armor. "Oh."

"It'll do," Calliope announced. "A writer's real armor is her imagination."

"Does that stop swords?"

"Now that you mention it, you also need a sword."

"Wait!" Suzanne once more followed Calliope, to where the Muse hovered near a barrel of rusty weapons. "These don't look all that good."

"The price is right. Try that one with the nicks in the guard."

Suzanne hefted the blade doubtfully, then smiled as it seemed to fit herself to her hand. "It is nice! I think its name is Guardian."

"Guardian? Good. You'll need one of those."

"I thought you—"

"I'm a Muse, not a Guardian." Calliope waited with every sign of impatience while Suzanne paid for her purchases, then drifted back out onto the street as Suzanne awkwardly carried her new armament in the Muse's wake. "Now, you've a pen?"

"I always—"

"Good. Write something on your armor."

Suzanne frowned down at the battered leather and metal. "It's not the best writing surface."

"You must armor yourself with your imagination! Write something upon your armor that will strike fear into the heart of evil!"

Suzanne paused, her pen poised above the leather. "Isn't my Muse supposed to help me write?"

"I'm an agent of Inspiration, not a secretary."

"But what should I write?"

"Try a spell to protect you and smite your foes."

"I don't know any spells."

"Make. One. Up!"

"All right." Suzanne's pen paused again. "Should it be in a foreign language?"

"That's usually a good idea. Do you know any foreign languages?"

"No. Can I make up a foreign language?"

Calliope applauded. "Wonderful. Of course you can. That's thinking like a writer."

Suzanne patiently inscribed a series of nonsensical but impressive looking words upon her armor just beneath the metal plate. "Now what?"

"Put it on."

"In public?" Calliope's glare answered Suzanne's question, so she hastily struggled into the stiff leather. "Oh, it smells."

"That's called atmosphere. Comfortable?"

"No."

"Good. Let's go."

"Go where?"

Calliope glanced back as she began floating away again. "In search of Inspiration and adventure! You won't find that in a safe little town. To the countryside!"

"But there's bandits out there."

"Excellent! Follow me."

Suzanne tried to stand her ground, but found her feet moving briskly of their own accord. By the time they reached the gate to the city, she was sweating in the heavy leather and wondering if she should've listened to the Editor.

The guards at the gate frowned as Suzanne approached. "We're gettin' ready to shut the gate for the night. Come back in the mornin'," their leader announced.

Suzanne, momentarily managing to stop her feet with the greatest of effort, watched Calliope drift unheeding through the gate. "I have to leave now."

"Why? Got a fella out there?" The guards broke into laughter.

"No! I'm a writer and I have to follow my Muse!"

A guard with a brass ornament on his shoulder which apparently identified him as the leader gave Suzanne a skeptical look. "A writer? You look more like one of them barbarian sword maidens. Ain't that right, guys?" His fellow guards chorused in agreement. "How come a writer's wearing armor?"

"I . . . I'm going to a writer's workshop. They're going to criticize my writing."

The head guard eyed Suzanne suspiciously. "Not a barbarian? What's that on your armor, then? It looks like barbarian writin'."

Suzanne looked down at her armor. "It's a, uh, spell. I wrote it."

The guards exchanged glances. One of them came close, leaning to peer into Suzanne's face. "She ain't got on much makeup." He looked downward. "And she's wearing sensible shoes. Maybe she is a writer."

"I dunno." The head guard scratched his scalp with a spade-like fingernail. "Barbarian sword maidens wear sensible shoes, don't they?"

"Sometimes. But they always fight half-nekked. This one's got too much clothes on."

"That's true. There's not even a hint of cleavage visible on her. Hey, I know. Check 'er hands."

"Okay." The closest guard grabbed Suzanne's hands and turned them palms up. "She's got ink on 'em."

"Hmmm. Now ask her to spell somethin' hard. Like, uh, arachnid."

The guards looked from their leader to Suzanne. "Go ahead," one urged. "If you're a writer, spell that."

"Uh . . . a, r, a, c, uh, h, i, no!, n, i, d."

The guards looked to their leader. "Is that right?"

"I dunno. Sounds right. Okay, you can pass. Hey, can I be in your next book? Somethin', you know, heroic? No comic relief, mind you!"

The closest guard leaned even closer. "I got this great idea for a story. I can tell it to you, and you could write it up and split the money with me. Whattaya say?"

Suzanne smiled with what she hoped appeared to be sincerity. "What a wonderful deal. Let's talk about it later." Her feet were already moving again, pulling her along the path Calliope had taken.

Calliope slowed enough for Suzanne to catch up. Her form had taken on a golden glow as the sun began to set. "You've passed your first obstacle. Isn't it glorious?"

Suzanne glared at Calliope from under lowered brows. "I don't feel glorious. I certainly don't smell glorious in this armor. Did you hear those offers I got from those guards?"

"You have to expect to be propositioned when you're a writer."

"I'm not that kind of writer!"

Calliope sighed. "Ah, you're the artistic type. There's nothing wrong with selling your talents occasionally, you know."

"I really don't like the way you're describing this. Where are we going?" The sun kept sinking toward the horizon, and Calliope kept drifting down the road.

"To an adventure."

"It's getting dark."

"Mysterious night! What wonders and terrors does it hide?"

"My feet hurt."

Calliope gave Suzanne a disappointed look. "I thought you were an artist."

"I work best after a good night's sleep. And something to eat."

"You didn't bring anything?"

Suzanne opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Calliope peered ahead and smiled. "Here comes a rider! What adventurous prospects!"

"A rider?" Suzanne glanced around frantically. "I have to hide."

"Nonsense. You have a sword."

"A sword?" Suzanne glanced down at Guardian, swinging forgotten at her side.

"And your armor," Calliope added. "I'd try to avoid getting hit, nonetheless."

"Thank you." Suzanne drew Guardian and stood in what she hoped was a confident posture as the rider drew closer. It soon became apparent that the rider was male and, from his expression, in a foul mood.

Instead of veering his horse slightly to the side to avoid Suzanne, he aimed a kick at her. "Get out of the way!" As she dodged the kick, he took another look. "Hey. A babe. Out here all alone?"

Suzanne gritted her teeth. "And planning to stay that way."

The man grinned unpleasantly. "What's with the armor, babe? It just gets in the way."

Suzanne's eyes narrowed. "It helps protect me from jerks."

"Ah, that's no way to be. I bet you're hungry, huh?"

"Not that hungry." Suzanne tried to ignore the growling in her stomach, but it was obvious the rider heard it.

He rummaged in his pack and surfaced with an oblong object. "What say we make a trade? I give you this, and you give me something in return."

"Is that chocolate?" Suzanne stared at the bar. "Trade? What do you want?"

The grin grew into a leer. "Like I said, that armor gets in the way. Take it off."

"That's all? Take off my armor?"

"Then take off everything else. You'll get the chocolate when I'm done."

Suzanne's temper boiled over. "I'm tired and hungry and out in the middle of nowhere and you dare treat me like some kind of slut who'd sell herself for a single bar of chocolate?"

The rider frowned. "I've got two bars if that's—"

"Ahhhh!" Losing all control, Suzanne leaped at the rider, her sword swinging. The flat of the blade caught the surprised man on the side of his head, tumbling him from the saddle. "Not for two bars! Not even for three! I'm not a slut!" She stood over him where he lay in the road, her sword poised, her face glowing with rage.

The man stared up at her, fear filling his face. "What . . . what are you?"

"I'm a writer!"

The man scuttled away, still on the ground. "Take the chocolate. Take the horse." He scrambled to his feet and fled, vanishing into the growing darkness.

Suzanne blinked, looking around in surprise. "Well . . . that was nice of him. Why do you suppose he gave me the horse? He didn't seem all that nice a person."

Calliope had reappeared by her side. "He's not. I believe you frightened him."

"It serves him right for using chocolate to taunt an armed woman." Suzanne ate slowly, savoring the bar, then dug in the abandoned horse's saddle bags and found another. "Now what, Calliope?"

"You have a horse. Ride it."

Suzanne mounted the horse, who seemed unimpressed by his change in owners. "I'm sure that man didn't treat you very well, either, did he?" The second chocolate bar and the last traces of daylight vanished at about the same time. Suzanne shivered in the cool night breeze. Her sword scabbard kept slapping her leg in an annoying way, so she removed the scabbard from her belt and fastened it to her saddle, rather enjoying the sensation of being armed and mounted. She even rubbed her armor with some feeling of satisfaction.

It took her a while to realize Calliope had disappeared. With no Muse to follow down the empty road on a cold night, and with the last of the chocolate gone, Suzanne's brief pleasure in her adventure rapidly faded. Spotting a somewhat sheltered area among some rocks not far from the road, she guided the horse that way, dismounted a bit stiffly, then sat heavily onto the ground, thrown off balance by the weight of her armor. Muttering curses at Fate and Muses, Suzanne struggled briefly with getting out of the armor, then gave it up as too much trouble and simply leaned back against the nearest rock.

A sound woke her to bright day. Suzanne stared around, blinking against the light. "Calliope?"

"Right here," the Muse answered cheerily. "You really should wake up now. Your adventure is getting better by the moment!"

Beyond Calliope's shape, Suzanne saw a group of men approaching. Their generally scruffy appearance and ragtag assortment of arms and armor didn't inspire confidence in her. She struggled back to her feet, aware her hair probably looked frightful, and adjusted the leather armor, rapping the metal reinforcement on her chest for reassurance.

The group of men stopped when they saw her moving, then came on again, smiling with varying degrees of menace and anticipation. Suzanne counted their numbers and the scars on their faces with a sinking feeling. "Oh, Calliope."

"Yes?"

"I'd appreciate a little help."

"This isn't the best time to write."

"I don't mean with writing! How am I going to handle these men? They look like bandits."

"They are bandits."

The advancing bandit gang had halted as Suzanne talked with Calliope, looking around with puzzled expressions in search of the companion she was speaking with.

"Calliope! What do I do?"

"You're wearing your armor."

"Which didn't do its last owner much good."

"Then draw your sword, for Inspiration's sake."

Suzanne made a desperate grasping motion toward her side, finding nothing there. She glanced around quickly, finally seeing her sword about twelve feet from her. In its scabbard. Tied to her new saddle. Cinched onto her new horse, who was looking back at Suzanne with an expression which clearly communicated "if you take one step toward me I'll run away as fast as possible." "I don't have my sword."

"Well, then, draw your knife!" Calliope advised with a trace of aspersion.

"I don't have a knife."

"You must have something."

Suzanne felt frantically around her waist. "I've got my pen."

"Draw it!"

Gripping the pen firmly, Suzanne raised it in what she hoped was a menacing fashion. "Come no further!" The bandits halted their progress again. "Calliope! Now what?"

The Muse's voice had grown fainter, as if she were moving away. "You're the writer. Find a solution to your plot dilemma."

"What? Plot dilemma? This isn't a plot dilemma! I'm in serious danger!"

Calliope's voice could barely be heard now. "Surely you didn't write your primary character into a dead end? Didn't you plot this out beforehand?"

"No!"

The bandits, staring around again, jerked in surprise at Suzanne's howl of anger.

"Then use your imagination and your tools, writer. Create a way out for your character." Calliope's voice faded out completely on the last word.

Suzanne stared at the bandits, who stared back, then began slowly advancing again. "Stand back!" Suzanne cried. "I'm wearing armor!"

The bandits exchanged glances, then one near the head of the gang addressed Suzanne. "So are we. And we've got weapons."

"So do I!" Suzanne waved her pen at them. "Besides, this armor is . . . is . . . magical. See? There's a spell written on it."

The bandits paused yet again, their eyes locked onto the area just beneath Suzanne's chest. "What kind of spell?" the bandit chief asked warily.

"Uh, a powerful spell. Yes. Very powerful. Anyone who attacks me will be stricken . . . uh . . . stricken. Yes. Like . . ." Suzanne waved her pen again. "That."

One of the bandits spat and shook his head. "She ain't providing much detail, is she?"

"No," the chief agreed. "I think you're lying, woman."

Suzanne glared at the bandits. "I can be very detailed. I may be weak on imagery, but I can detail every detail in detail. I'm very good at that."

"Pah! Let's get her."

Suzanne lowered her pen's tip toward the bandits, extending her arm and settling her body into a fighting stance. "Don't make me use this!"

The bandits halted so fast some of them stumbled, then stood looking from Suzanne to the pen. "It don't look too dangerous," one whispered.

"It is dangerous," Suzanne insisted. "With this I can . . . I can create monsters! And terrible armies! I can create entire worlds!"

The bandit chief's smile held menace. "Then how come you ain't created any decent armor for yerself? All you got is that there battered leather. With what you say is a spell on it."

Suzanne drew herself up to her full height, adopting a haughty expression. "It does have a spell on it! A spell I created out of nothing! This armor is reinforced by Imagination and . . . and Desperation. It is the Armor With No Name! It is Ineffable! Ineluctable! Undistinguished! Inexplicable! Inadequate!"

The bandits gaped at her, their mouths open with awe. "She's casting a spell," one cried.

The bandit chief lowered his sword, his expression now guarded. "That stick can make anything, huh?"

"Well, so far I haven't made any money with it. I'm still working on that." The bandits looked angry and puzzled again. "But it wrote this spell on my armor! Believe me, one of us will regret it if you attack me!"

"She's a sorceress," one of the bandits warned. "She could be real dangerous."

"Or maybe she's crazy," another one added.

"Crazy women're dangerous, too."

The bandits shifted back and forth where they stood, holding their weapons between themselves and Suzanne's threatening pen. The chief tried to focus on the pen's tip, squinting as his entire head followed the wavering instrument. "Here, now. I've had enough. Are you a sorceress or are you just crazy?"

Suzanne's anger at the bandits, at Calliope, and at the entire situation finally flared. She raised the pen over her head, her eyes wild, her unkempt hair flaring around her face. "I'm not crazy. I'm a writer!"

The bandits stared wide-eyed at her for a moment. "Run!" several shouted at once, and the entire pack took to its heels.

Perplexed, Suzanne watched them go, holding her fighting stance. As the figures of the bandits dwindled into the distance, she finally lowered the pen, then ran her free hand through her hair. "I don't look that bad in the morning," she muttered.

Calliope reappeared directly in front of her, smiling with approval. "Excellent! You've had experiences worthy of interest. I'm sure you're just filled with the spirit of Inspiration."

Suzanne glowered at her Muse. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I feel inspired to do something right now." Her hand balled into a fist as she swung right at Calliope, but the Muse vanished like a burst soap bubble and Suzanne's attack swished through empty air.

Grumbling and feeling muscles knot up from sleeping all night on rocks, Suzanne limped toward her horse, now standing with no sign of skittishness. Suzanne eyed the beast sourly. "I'm going to call you Inconstant. You really don't seem to care what happens to your owners, do you?" It was impossible to tell for sure on a horse's face, but Suzanne thought Inconstant smirked at her words.

Riding in full daylight, the journey back to the city was an easy one. Suzanne found a writing pad in one of the saddlebags and worked on a story as she rode. A new set of guards were at the city gate when Suzanne arrived. They waved her through, though not without some worried comments that her attire might represent the first indication of a trend toward modest dressing by barbarian sword maidens.

This time, Suzanne strode firmly into the Temple of Inspiration, ignoring the flinches of those she passed close enough to that they caught a whiff of her odorous armor. She came up to the same Editor she'd spoken with before, kneeling briefly as she presented her offering.

"Another manuscript already?" The Editor took it, glanced at the first page, kept reading, and twenty minutes later looked back up at Suzanne. "Your offering is accepted." Suzanne smiled as the Editor painstakingly counted out a small pile of coins. "That's the standard payment rate. It's set by the goddess, so don't complain to me."

"It's fine." Suzanne swept up the coins.

"Can I expect more offerings from you?"

Suzanne smiled again. "Perhaps. First, though, I have to kill my Muse."

The Editor shook her head sadly. "Writers can't kill their Muses. A Muse can leave of its own accord, but it can't be killed."

"I can try." Suzanne paused before the idol of Inspiration to toss some of her new coins onto the goddess' altar, then headed out of the temple.

Calliope appeared, floating about ten feet away from her. "Your first accepted offering! How wonderful. Are you ready for more experiences?"

Suzanne smiled merrily as she drew Guardian from its sheath. "Sure. Let's talk about it. Could you come a little closer, please?"

"I'd rather not."

Suzanne drew forth her pen with her other hand. "Have I shown this to you? It's really a nice pen. Come look."

"No, thank you." Calliope began floating backwards as Suzanne took a step toward her.

Suzanne took another step and Calliope flew away at a faster rate. Still grasping her sword Guardian in one hand and her pen in the other, Suzanne jumped onto the back of her horse Inconstant and urged him after the fleeing Muse.

It wasn't until they reached the gate that Suzanne realized Calliope was leading her out of the city again.

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A Late Symmer Night's Battle

Laura Frankos

Mustardseed grunted as she tightened the leather straps holding her armor in place. She twisted about, testing for mobility. Finding one couldn't move in combat could prove deadly . . . that is, assuming one ever got into combat again. She sighed, and flopped down on the grassy hillock.

"Is it all right?" a tiny anxious voice asked. "Shall I put in a few more stitches, just to make certain they hold well?"

Mustardseed peered into a mound of dandelions. There, among the gray fluff, she barely made out a chubby face surrounded by wispy silvery curls. A faint flutter of translucent wings sent dandelion seeds aloft. Who else but Moth, as pale and flitty as her namesake? If Mustardseed didn't reassure her, she was apt to tremble so much the nearest fairy ring would be awash in weeds.

"The straps are fine, Moth. Thanks for doing them; I can handle my sword, but not a needle."

"But you were frowning," Moth said, emerging from the weeds with a shake of her wings.

"Not over your work. I was just thinking how dull it was. It's so confounded peaceful. And now that Oberon and Titania have kissed and made up, we don't even have the chance to face off against the king's fairies."

"There's facing off and facing off, dearie," came a voice from behind her. "And some of Oberon's fellas have nice faces. Among other things."

Mustardseed didn't really want to hear it. She'd recently broken up with Robin Goodfellow. True, it was all for the best. They weren't suited for each other in the slightest: Robin was an incurable playboy with an infantile sense of humor, however much fun he was in the flowerbeds. Mustardseed's heart had mostly healed, but didn't take kindly to public references to "Oberon's fellas." She decided to put a brave face on it, and resorted to teasing back.

"You'd know best, Peaseblossom," she said. "People say you're responsible for half the fairy rings in the forest, you and your ever-changing partners."

Peaseblossom stepped into the clearing, her every move revealing why she was one of Titania's favorite dancers. And, Mustardseed reflected bitterly, one of the queen's best fighters as well. Peaseblossom proudly wore the black and yellow ribbon signifying she'd successfully dueled a humblebee. Mustardseed, while stronger by far, had no hopes of attaining such an honor.

"I can't help it. A cute guy, an empty patch of grass, and I just have to dance. And my latest beau is positively scrumptious." She twirled gracefully to Mustardseed's side, brushed some dust off a toadstool, and, after arranging her skirts just so, sat down.

"You could say hello to your cousin," Mustardseed said.

Peaseblossom blinked. "Sorry, Moth. Didn't notice you."

"Of course not. She's not a cute guy or a bare patch of grass. Never mind, Moth, some of us appreciate you."

Peaseblossom shook her curly pink locks. "I love Moth, and she knows it. Not that any of us have seen her lately. How, by the Queen's grace, did you manage to get away from the little monster, coz?"

"Ghosh is not a monster," Moth said. Her nearly-invisible antennae extended for a brief moment, then drooped again out of sight.

Mushrooms for all! Mustardseed thought. Little Flutter showing signs of temper?

"He's just active. Really, Peaseblossom, he's the sweetest baby and he'll make a wonderful page someday. No wonder their Majesties were ready to go to war over him." Moth covered a yawn. "But I admit he's wearing. His latest trick is digging holes. I've had to put up signs warning people, or they'll fall in his excavations. The filthy places I've found that imp!"

"I saw him the other day," Mustardseed laughed. "I know he's naturally dark-skinned, being a little Indian changeling, but I couldn't tell where the mud left off and where he began."

"So where is the tiny, but grubby, paragon?" Peaseblossom asked.

"He's napping, so Philomel agreed to watch over him," said Moth. "I've been using the spare time to catch up on my leather-working. I fixed Mustardseed's armor straps, made a belt for dear Throstle, and started some pants for Ghosh. Of course, given what he does to clothes I'd be better off making them out of granite slabs, not reremice's wings."

Mustardseed and Peaseblossom both grimaced. Reremice were some of the nastiest creatures on earth: utterly vicious, completely destructive, and lacking in any intelligence beyond what was needed to attack their enemies. Both fairies had fought in the last great conflict with the winged devils; Mustardseed's left arm bore a scar from long, yellow fangs, and Peaseblossom's entire family had died when the beasts swooped out of the night sky, wrecking a fairy enclave. Perhaps that's why Blossom's so carefree, choosing a different partner every week, thought Mustardseed. She lost nearly everything that mattered to her five years ago.

Moth suddenly realized she had erred in mentioning the dread enemy before seasoned veterans. "Oh, I mean—I didn't mean—that is . . ." she stammered.

"Don't fret, old flitwings," Peaseblossom said with false heartiness. She clapped Moth on the shoulder, nearly staggering the smaller fairy. "At least we got a hefty supply of leather from fighting the big bug scourge of the night."

"Reremice aren't bugs," Mustardseed said mildly. "But do let's talk of something else."

"Delighted. I've been looking for you two. What else could get me to climb this hill in this heat?" Peaseblossom fanned herself with a burdock leaf. "Webby's home on leave! To celebrate her return, I'm throwing a grand bash tonight at the clearing by the musk-rose bush. I've spent the morning killing all the cankers in the buds, so the place looked splendiferous, and smells even yummier."

"Dear Cobweb!" said Moth. "We were so proud when she was accepted into the Queen's Archers. It will seem like we're all schoolgirls again. Of course I'll come, though I may have to bring Ghosh."

Peaseblossom's beautiful features scrunched in dismay. "Oh, if you must. I'd rather have you there with the Brat from Bombay, than not have you at all. But mind you keep him out of the shrubbery. Mustardseed?"

"I'll be there. For Webby." She hadn't felt like attending revels since the bust-up with Robin, but she couldn't miss the chance to spend time with an old pal like Cobweb.

* * *

It was a typical Peaseblossom affair, with more extravagance than style. And it was jam-packed with fairies, so crowded there was barely enough room in the circles to turn about. But Mustardseed, an indifferent dancer, was content to stay under a honeysuckle bower, chatting with Cobweb and watching Moth chase Ghosh.

Cobweb looked well, and the golden trim on her purple archer's uniform picked up the highlights in her braided hair. Like Mustardseed, she was one of those fairies with vestigial wings. Neither of them could fly more than a few paces, but they made up for it with greater strength. Webby's right arm positively rippled with muscles.

"So there we were, the new recruits, and what does the Master have us do? Hang pearls in every bloody cowslip's ear within sight. I tell you, we were ready to pack up. We'd come for training, not gardening! It wasn't until we returned to camp, bitching all the while, that we learned our next task: shooting the pearls out of the cowslips. Now that was a challenge worthy of us!"

"Amazing!" Moth breathed before distraction set in. "Ghosh! Don't eat that!"

"Dig, dig, dig," Ghosh said, brandishing his shovel and spraying dirt in every direction before dashing away. Moth hurried after him, sighing.

Cobweb and Mustardseed watched them go. "Moth hasn't changed," Cobweb said. "As domestic as ever, yet no kids of her own. Think she'll ever settle down?"

"If Throstle gets the gumption to pop the question. He's off with their Majesties on the Second Honeymoon Tour, though."

Cobweb pointed to a hillock, where Peaseblossom was regaling a mob of fairies. "She hasn't changed either. And to think she's currently got the infamous one on her string. Wonder how long that will last?"

"Oh, her new lovelight? I actually haven't heard much about him."

"Dewdrops! She's nabbed Randy Robin himself! She said he brazenly approached her at the last full moon ceremony and whispered in her ear, 'Wanna Puck around?'"

Mustardseed suppressed the urge to flinch. I will not overreact; Webby has no idea Robin and I were an item. It's over and done with, and Blossom's welcome to him. But it hurts to think of him with one of my best buds. "He probably used the 'let me put a girdle round you, baby' line, too. You'd think he could come up with a new routine." She pulled up some grass blades and methodically shredded them.

"Uh, right," said Webby, giving Mustardseed a curious look. "Hey, here comes an owl-rider. Wonder what's up?"

The ghostly white bird silently landed down by the brook, where its uniformed rider dismounted and ran to the side of Lady Quill, the ranking official in the royals' absence. Clearly, something was amiss. Fairies scattered like ants whose mound is disturbed, some flying, some running. Lady Quill herself zipped to the center of the clearing and called for attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have grave news. The kobolds have attacked our border guards on the northern edge of the forest. They've beaten back our first line of defenders and are coming this way. They're expected by tomorrow night. I've sent messengers for additional support, but they might not arrive in time. For now, all military personnel are to report to General Pard. Civilians, take cover in Oberon's Glade."

"Rain and storms," said Mustardseed, "to think I was complaining it was too peaceful. My big mouth!"

* * *

The fairy forces seemed meager to Mustardseed's trained eye. A bare handful of archers, led by Cobweb; a division of hedgehog armor, thirty owl-riders, and the resident fox cavalry, to which she and Blossom belonged. We'd gotten complacent. We haven't been challenged since the reremice war. Half the army's traveling with the royals or hunting that troll in the southlands. These blue-skinned Germanic devils could be grimm. Er, grim.

As she mused over the coming battle, Mustardseed groomed her fox, Mr. Tod. Nearby, Peaseblossom was doing the same. Her beast, a skittish vixen, suddenly snarled as someone approached. "Easy, there," said the newcomer. "Just came to say my farewells to two very foxy ladies. I'm off to bring word of the invasion to their majesties."

"You!" Peaseblossom hurled her brush at Robin Goodfellow's head. It connected with a resounding thunk. "You skip my big party because you're off taking a trip to the moon with Miss Gossamer Wings herself, slutty Cinnabar. Get out before I throw something heavier at you."

Robin, rubbing the bump on his head, flashed that devastating smile on Mustardseed. "Mussy, honey, it's a long trip I'm making . . ."

"How nice. We can rejoice in your lengthy absence. Now why don't you show off that vaunted speed of yours and exit, preferably pursued by a bear?"

"Be that way, then." He buzzed off around a hedgerow, but the pair could hear him faintly. "Aurora, darling of the day! Had to make my farewells . . ."

Mustardseed and Peaseblossom looked at each other over their foxes' backs and burst out laughing. "He must be collecting good-bye smooches," Peaseblossom said.

"Probably timed his departure to the split second." Mustardseed scratched Mr. Tod's elegant nose. He whined in sympathy.

"Trouble is, Robin can kiss better than damn near anyone. The rat."

"More to life than kissing. Let's report to General Pard."

* * *

At the next sundown meeting, the officers gave a briefing on the enemy's movements. A captured kobold had explained the reason behind their invasion: they had been peacefully working in the silver mines in northern Greece when a bunch of humans evicted them. He said their families were homeless and the men couldn't find suitable jobs anywhere—but the officials warned this might be a play for sympathy.

"Whatever troubles they might have had, they can't barge in here and steal our homes," thundered General Pard from atop his panther. "Cheeky Hun devils! Their General Hinzelmann is a nasty piece of work, too. Rides on a snake, if you can imagine it! Beats his own soldiers with a stick; heard he's dared to use it on humans, too! Scandalous! A hefty reward to any fairy that disposes of this vermin! Now take your positions. They're expected by midnight."

The battle proved to be more of a skirmish. Clearly, General Hinzelmann was feeling out the fairies' strength. He had superior numbers, more infantry than cavalry and few archers, but they were scrawny bastards. A stick-thin kobold on a weasel, who barely looked able to hold his own shield, managed to break Mustardseed's spear in a brief but fierce tussle. The others she fought with showed the same intense determination: physically weak, but fueled by obvious desperation.

The hedgehog armor did considerable damage to their line, until Hinzelmann himself rattled the nerve of the prickly creatures as he slithered by on a huge snake and laid about him with a great, walloping stick. Mustardseed tried getting near the enemy leader, but soon had to abandon her plans. One of the kobold colonels—a tall fellow, very dark blue and wearing a weird black felt cap—led his division in a clever feint on the right side, cutting off a dozen fox-riders from the main force, Peaseblossom among them.

Fortunately, the commander of the owl-riders immediately sent air support. Mustardseed spurred Mr. Tod into the fray, followed by other cavalry. She managed a swing at the clever colonel, but his beast, a pine marten with a striking orange patch on its breast, turned aside just in time. He had the effrontery to tip his cap and grin at her, his teeth white under a neatly trimmed black mustache. The tide of battle soon separated them, and the surrounded fox-riders broke out of the trap with minimal losses.

Fortunately for the fairy army, Hinzelmann pulled his troops back to regroup for another assault. Mustardseed, Peaseblossom, and Cobweb downed mugs of nectar and assessed the damages. "Not good," Cobweb said. "Some of their officers have little blue stones embedded in their leather coats. I saw two perfectly good shots glance off the cursed things. I was hoping to take out the maniac on the snake."

"The guy in the cap's a bigger danger," Mustardseed said. "I saw him bring down an owl with a dagger in the eye, and he nearly destroyed Blossom's platoon. He's fast enough . . . What's that?"

But she knew too well what it was. Shrill piping filled the sky and dark shadows played across the moon. Cobweb, without hesitating, loosed two shots in succession. A reremouse fell to the ground, twitching until Mustardseed slit its throat. Its fellows shrieked in protest, and the fairies' camp was instantly filled with combat.

Reremice, however vicious, aren't good at coordinating attacks, and soon flew off. But, to the fairies' horror, they were heading for Oberon's Glade where the civilians were hiding.

"There's no help for it," Lady Quill shouted from the back of her massive owl. "What use fighting the kobolds if all our loved ones perish under vile fangs? Onward!"

The owls took flight and the foxes, many double-burdened with archers, leaped over the fields. "Bad, very bad," Mustardseed said over her shoulder to Webby. "Even if we beat the bats, the kobolds will pour down from the hills onto us."

"First things first," said Cobweb. "Hey, Lady Quill's owl just nailed two of the buggers! But what's that in the glade? That can't be Moth!"

The diminutive grey fairy was smacking a downed reremouse with a broom. She looked furious, her antennae sticking straight up. Other reremice were flapping in the sky above the glade, engaging the owl-riders in combat. Cobweb and her fellow archers immediately started shooting, bringing more leathery-winged demons down.

Mustardseed looked about in amazement. Save Moth, the glade was empty. "Where is everybody?"

"In the caves." Moth gave the corpse one more whack. "Ghosh found a tunnel last week while digging, leading to enormous caves. Room for all, and we can block the entrance until these creatures leave. I stayed to show you the way."

General Pard's panther pulled up just in time to hear Moth's news. "Wonderful! And even more wonderful: look, we've beaten them back, and they're heading for the kobolds! They'll get what's coming to them!"

Something twisted in Mustardseed's stomach. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I disagree. No intelligent beings deserve to die under the reremice's fangs and claws. The kobolds, for all that they attacked our lands, are a cultured people with a sense of honor." The image of the kobold colonel tipping his absurd cap came unbidden to her mind. "Do you think the Queen would leave any thinking race to such a fate?"

The general, who revered Titania, had the decency to blush. "What would you have us do, then? Invite the devils to share our sanctuary?"

"Yes," Mustardseed said bluntly. "I am willing to ride to their camp under a flag of truce and direct them to the caves. Er, where are they, Moth?"

She pointed. "Near the tallest birch in that grove, just under the outcrop of rocks that resembles a red crab. I left Ghosh's bucket near the entrance as a sign."

"I must confer with Quill," mumbled Pard, gesturing towards the air patrol, which was coming in for its landing.

"Do it quickly. Sir." Mustardseed's sharp ears caught hoarse cries from the kobolds' camp.

Moments later, Mr. Tod and every other available fox were bounding through the forest again. The beasts were tired, but somehow picked up energy as they neared the fray. Foxes loathed reremice.

There wasn't any time to present the flag of truce in any formal way. The kobolds were backed up in a solid mass, defending a cluster of wagons. Mustardseed heard tiny kobolds wailing over the din of battle. The fairies charged.

Mustardseed glimpsed the face of Colonel Cap, who was directing the defense: he clearly thought the fairies had come to polish his men off, and registered complete crogglement when he saw Titania's Finest whaling into the bats. Then she had to concentrate on impaling reremice, having picked up a new spear in camp. She turned three into shishkabobs before getting close to the kobold defenders again.

The reremice had figured out that the most defenseless morsels were in the wagons, and were dive-bombing them in their haphazard fashion. Mustardseed watched in astonishment as the colonel's pine marten hurled itself into the air and snapped a reremouse in half while its rider cleaved another. But then the colonel's luck failed; a brown streak whizzed at his head and long claws raked through the black hair. The felt cap flew off, and the kobold nearly lost his seat. The reremouse pivoted in air, readying another attack. Mustardseed heaved her spear . . . and connected.

Two more of the monsters tried getting into the wagon, its canvas cover torn to shreds. Mustardseed glimpsed small, frightened blue faces within, and maneuvered Mr. Tod in between the wagon and the reremice. She fended off one with her sword, but when she turned to challenge the second, she saw the injured kobold had already dispatched it. Blood dripping down his face, he looked around wildly for more enemies. But the fairy reinforcements had driven them off, at least for the moment.

"Where's Hinzelmann?" Mustardseed asked him. Where had that darn white flag gone? Oh, well. "We've come to lead your people to safety. We have a refuge in the ridge, down by that glade."

The kobold shook his head, hoping to clear it and not succeeding. "Herr General Hinzelmann is wounded. I command." He looked about, dismayed. "Die Fledermäuse . . ."

"Yes, they'll be back soon. So let's get underground and worry about the details later, Colonel . . ."

He drew himself up, patted the neck of his exhausted marten. "Hödeken. So-called for my little hat, wherever it is." He bowed.

There's something incredibly appealing about such dignity in the face of disaster. And that mustache! "You'll need a new cap. That one's been haberdashed to pieces. Let's go."

* * *

"Who would have thought it would have worked out so well?" said Webby. Peaseblossom was again throwing another bash, this time for Webby's imminent return to archery training. She was in rose silks, which matched her flawless complexion, while Mustardseed was not only clad in silver but had the jewelry to complement it.

"What, the kobolds discovering that those caves go on for miles and contain more silver than their old ones did?" asked Peaseblossom, her hand smoothing the yards of lace in her skirt. "And Oberon and Titania working out a deal with their leader? Good thing that crazy snakey general of theirs died of his wounds. From everything I've heard, he was the one behind the invasion. The other fellows in charge seem much more reasonable. Here's Moth and the man of the hour! Little Ghosh! Aunty Blossom has a present for you! A new shovel! Such a good boy deserves anything he wants!" From a diamond-trimmed satchel, Peaseblossom withdrew a gold-handled shovel and gave it to the chubby toddler.

Who promptly tossed it aside. "Don' wanna dig. Wanna fish. Go fishing? Now?"

Moth picked up Ghosh and handed him to Blossom. "Good boy deserves anything he wants! Aunty will take you fishing, for a while, anyway. His gear is by the docks, Peaseblossom."

Peaseblossom gulped. Then she hugged Ghosh. "All right, let's fish, if that's the latest passion. After all, Moth has a Significant Meeting tonight with a certain Captain Throstle."

"And if he doesn't propose, we'll all thump him," said Mustardseed. "You know, I've never looked forward to a dance so much." She surveyed the crowd of fairies and kobolds, looking for a certain figure in black with a cap worn low on his face.

"I'm surprised," said Webby. "You're a lousy dancer."

There he was! He'd bear the mark of those claws forever, but at least they were healing without infection. She rose, and he saw her, his smile visible despite the distance between them. She turned to her pals. "I was a lousy dancer. But that was before Hödeken taught me to waltz. Later, girls."

Psyched Up

Michael D. Turner

My mom swore I'd outgrow my tomboy phase. And she would teach me to be a lady or die trying. May she rest in peace. It's not that I didn't try, I just didn't have it in me. I admit Momma made some inroads before she died, but the compromises were all going my way.

Being a service brat has a few advantages, and my family was determined to get all of them for me. In fifth grade, Mom got me ice skates. We were in Connecticut, and she was thinking figure skating. We compromised on Pee Wee Hockey. The next year in Hawaii, I got hula lessons. And started karate.

Then Mom died, and while I was shook up, I got through it, and my education and deportment fell to my dad. And Daddy had some different ideas. Dad is in the Navy, and does something that involves a lot of swimming and jumping out of airplanes and other stuff I don't talk about. And he thinks everyone ought to be able to "take care of themselves."

He's a great dad. He's taken me skydiving and scuba diving. He taught me to shoot and swim and run. He did not teach me to drive but had a friend in the secret service do it. He encouraged me to keep at martial arts, and when he's around we lift weights together.

He finally remarried when I was a junior in high school. To a nice Filipino-Hawaiian girl about eight years older than me and she is like my big sister. And her dad is my main martial arts instructor, which is how they met anyway.

All this is kind of a long road to tell you how I ended up being the Mistress of Mayhem. That's my professional name and it's the name of my website. I got out of high school and was not ready for college and needed to make a living. I tried exotic dancing and that paid the rent but it was a real drag dealing with the a--holes, especially the ones who ran the clubs. So I met this guy who designed websites, and it was a lot easier and paid better and so I launched my career. I came up with the theme myself, so I guess I have no one else to blame.

I knew my dad really didn't want me being a porno queen on the web. Mostly 'cause of all the flak he'd get from guys on base. So what I came up with was "Mistress of Mayhem," which was this thing where I did a lot of photo shoots with me wearing these costumes of armor or leather and things, usually holding weapons, in settings all over California and also down in Baja. It didn't start off all that well money-wise until Freddy, that's my web guy, talked me into getting a boob job. So a nice pair of B's got turned into a couple of rather full D's and the money just poured in. Best ten grand I ever spent.

Anyway a couple of months ago we got into streaming video. You know, a bunch of pictures taken in sequence automatically. And I started staging these fairly elaborate "battles," usually with one of the guys I know who's into the local reenactment scene. The battles are fun to do, and the suckers, ah subscribers, really dig them. I usually prerecord them and play them with my color commentary like a sports event on my live shows once a week. And I have this whole persona thing going with it. It works really well, which is how I'm buying a house in southern California as a twenty-year-old self-employed dilettante.

So last night I'm doing my show, and it's going over really good. I have about forty subscribers on, and at least three new ones. I'm spinning the story with clips off my CD, and the new battle is just kicking. It's easily the best thing I've ever gotten on disc. Eric, that's the guy I'm fighting, is huge, hairy and really muscular, and he's also a theater major at UCSD who's into movie choreography and we worked this thing out really well. He's all in leather and I've got my chain mail nothing on, which is really just a couple of dance belts over my shoulders and crossing between my boobs, with a mail and elastic thong. It's my subscribers' favorite and more comfortable than most of my outfits.

And this battle looks really good, I mean real. Eric tosses me around the sand (we were at a beach near the Little Sur river) and I'm whaling on him. He used a couple of blood caps just like in wrestling, and, man, when we got there the viewers just went wild. I'm doing real well on the commentating and the show is just going great.

One of the newbies is really going on about this, like she (only about ten percent of my customers are female, but they are a very loyal ten percent) thinks this is real. Well, that's what live shows are suppose to be like, so I'm leading on like, "Well, yes, this is what I do." And she's asking like what do I charge for rescues? And I'm thinking she's giving me a come-on and that's cool. It's part of the business and besides, it's a good lead, 'cause in the next clip I finish trouncing Eric. Then my friend Morgen, who's spent the whole clip reclined on the dune behind us crying and cheering while wearing an anklet and a head band, gets to "reward" me with a little soft core girl-girl action. Nothing too hard, and I never minded doing the girl stuff. Morgen used to dance with me at the strip clubs.

So I made some fluff comment about working it out with the rescuee—I swear to Gods I don't remember exactly what I said, though I could play it back. Then this newbie types in, "It's a bargain!" There's this shimmering light, and all of a sudden—

I'm here. Looking at this chick in a see-through silk bathrobe who's looking at me like I'm the president or something. She's maybe eighteen, petite but filled out, and she is standing over what looks like a marble altar covered with wizard's gear and a magic mirror. It takes me a minute but finally I realize it is a marble altar covered in wizard's gear. With a magic mirror.

Before I can ask the seven hundred stupid questions guaranteed to make me look like a moron, she springs forward and drops to her knees, clasping my sword hand in both of hers and kissing it. "Oh thank you, mighty warrior, for championing my cause, for surely I need a champion in this dark hour."

If she'd said this with anything less than total sincerity with more than a touch of desperation, I'd have laughed in her face and blown the whole gig. But I managed to set my face into what my dad called a "mission face" and my drama teacher called a "stern countenance" and said in a level voice, "Just what is your current ah . . . problem?"

"The wicked lord of Wierdmark, John the Bastard's get, has challenged my right to rule from the throne of Ghemlan. And tomorrow I must send forth a champion to meet his and contest his claim. And I have none so mighty as to be able to best his champion, who is bespelled to be invincible to all in single combat!" she replied.

That didn't sound too good. And it did not explain how I'd become involved. Okay, so I had some strong suspicions. I wanted to hear it out loud and from someone who believed it. That way maybe I could too. So I figured to brazen it out until I got my feet under me.

"And how," I asked in what I hoped was a calm and steely voice, "did you come to choose me as your . . . champion?"

"When no one of my loyal subjects came forth who I thought could best John's champion, I assembled my late mother's magical apparatus to see if it would offer some hope. I used her magic mirror to scry the nearer dimensions. There I spied your combat with the hairy brute, and perceived your spells sent out to promote yourself as a sort of mystical champion. I followed the mystic threads from your image to the far place wherein you dwell, and using nearly all my mother's stores of magic power did summon you to me once you had agreed to my bargain," the princess fairly blurted.

Great, I thought to myself, she thinks I've already agreed. Terrific. Better not get in too deep.

"You're mistaken, I'm afraid. What you saw was mere entertainment. It's how I make my living. I record mock battles and play them out with a little sex on the side so my subscribers can get their, er . . . So they can enjoy the spectacle. I am a performer, not some sort of cosmic duelist. My reply was part of my act. I thought you were one of my subscribers." There, put it all out front. Now that she understood her mistake she could send me home and go back to looking for a real champion.

The princess looked like she was going to cry. I tried to head that off.

"Sorry about the confusion but I really can't help you. So just send me back and you can get on with your scrying out a real champion." I was going for nonchalant and missed it pretty wide, I'd guess.

Tears were streaming down the young woman's cheeks. I could tell she was really upset. And totally at a loss.

"B-but I can't send you back, it took all my mother's magic to get you here. It will take days to replace all that and send you back. And the challenge is tomorrow! And then I'll be destitute and won't be able to afford to send you back and, and, and you agreed! We have a mystical contract. You can't back out!" She was wailing now, tears in gushes and eyes getting all puffy.

Now I've never been much of a crier. I don't remember using tears on my folks but they would have been unimpressed with them. But I've never had to deal with them either. I felt so bad! I mean really. And I had agreed, I guess. And she looked so helpless and upset and all.

So I said, "What exactly does this challenge entail? I mean what do I have to do and who do I have to do it to? And when?"

"The challenge is tomorrow noon. A single combat, traditionally with swords though you may use any hand weapon. To death or surrender, with mercy dependant on the opponent's whim. You will fight Ursus Redbeard, Lord John's champion." The princess was drying up some.

"And just how good is this Ursus? How much experience does he have?"

"He has fought a half dozen duels as a judicial champion, and with high fee, till word of his bespellment spread. Since that time all who were faced with a challenge from his clients have capitulated their cases, rather than face a certain loss."

"Can you show me his last fight?" Looking around the stone walls and embroidered tapestries filling the chamber I started thinking MGM's Robin Hood. Probably not.

But the princess surprised me. "My mother's mirror can display all his bouts. But to what purpose? You have said you are no champion!"

I sensed another bout of tears coming on. I moved to head them off.

"Now look here. Look at me. Do I look like some soft actress fop? These muscles," I flexed my biceps. Not unimpressive, especially to a sheltered princess. "You don't think they just grew this way, do you? I won't back out of this deal unless I'm sure I don't have a chance. So turn on your magic mirror, princess, and let's look at the bad news."

And so she does. And the news wasn't all that bad. This Ursus guy was big and ugly, no doubts. His face looked stepped on and his arms had more hair than my . . . um, anyway, his gut hung way past his belt and while he struck with real power he was fairly slow on his feet. And he used a wide, slow broadsword, doubling up his hands for extra power or leaving his off hand to punch or grapple. He liked to move in on his guy but none of his opponents really tried to work around him and they were mostly armed like he was.

After watching all six of his duels about three times each, I had no doubts. I could take him. Except for the little matter of the spell.

"Just how do these spell thingies work? I mean what does the spell do to make this Ursus so invincible?"

The princess looked pensive and bit her lip at me. After a second or so she gave out a hesitant explanation. "It's not really a spell of protection. That could be countered. He paid a fen witch to cast a spell of prophecy. She pronounced that no single opponent would ever defeat him in battle."

"It must give him a real edge in a duel, knowing that. I mean confidence is important in these things." I ventured.

"Yes, indeed. And his opponents have also been confident of his victory. That has doubtless been a great boon to his career," the princess allowed.

"So if he thought we had his magic beat, he'd be behind a step, right?"

"If we had his magic beat? Perhaps but we . . ." She was backing off.

"I can take him!" I pronounced. "Provided you and I can agree to a fee." I gave my most evil grin. I had her squirming.

"I have seen your fees. If you win, I will pay it!" She looked quite nervous about this. I had forgotten about Morgen's part in my show. That wasn't going to be near enough anyway. I decided to twist the knife a little.

"That was a performance, not a fee. For a real bout at which I'll be risking my actual life and limbs, I require far more."

"What more?" The tears were welling again, but now I was armored. This much she had coming.

"I'll be saving not just your life but your throne! As such, additional payment is appropriate. Gold! Jewels! As much as I can carry. And I want some assurances. Medical coverage for any wounds I receive!" If she thought she could work this off in bed, she had another think coming.

"Done!" She cried out with such enthusiasm I wondered what perverse pleasures she thought I would demand. Another thing came to my mind.

Glancing down at my barely clad body with its chain mail cutaway bustier and chain and elastic thong, I grimaced. The only gear I had worth a hoot was my sword, a beautiful Persian-style scimitar I got for modeling for a knife-maker's catalog. The rest of my gear was costume junk. "I'll need some real armor. With padding. And some boots. Nothing too heavy, but I'll be damned if I am going to fight in this ridiculous bedroom gear!"

"My guards have a complete armory, and the royal cobbler can do wonders! Is that all?" The princess was looking quite relieved.

"Just one more thing. Does your highness have a name?"

"Serenity." She quivered as she gave it. But she looked me straight in the eye while she did.

So I said, "Princess Serenity, if you agree to these conditions, I'll be your champion."

And so I was.

It was not all peaches and schnapps from there on in, but it went pretty well. She pulled a silk rope which rang a bell and summoned a goggle-eyed servant, which reminded me of my state of dress. For about a second, after which I figured he'd survive it and forgot about it while Serenity summoned the royal cobbler. He measured me for footwear while I explained to him what I wanted. I don't know if his sweating was at my urgent requirements or my nubile proximity but he got his business over with in a hurry and that was done.

The armory was harder as there were about a half dozen guys there, healthy young guys, and they made sure to take a good look while I went about my business, but as none openly leered, I took it in good spirits. Dad always says a warrior gets what he can when he can, 'cause who knows? At least they didn't ignore me. That would have been unnerving.

It was getting late. I bundled up my new gear and Serenity showed me to a chamber not far from her apartments where I had come in. I laid my new gear down on a table, bundled my old gear up on the nightstand, set my sword atop it unsheathed. I then lay down on the bed, found it had a feather mattress and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up that morning only slightly disoriented and, unlike every story I have ever read, I knew right where I was and what had happened and I knew it was real. So much for reading preparing one for life. I judged from the sun hitting the wall through the window that it was about eight o'clock. I did my morning stretches and my daily dozens and glanced around for something to wear while I searched out breakfast. Not so much as a stitch apart from my armor and my work mail. I judged both too uncomfortable for day wear. So I sheathed my sword and swathed a sheet around me sari style and was just preparing to venture out when my hostess arrived, with breakfast in tow.

I could tell Serenity was nervous. Heck, she was having kittens. But I didn't want to talk battle strategy over breakfast. So we tried for girl talk. It didn't take well and we mostly ended up eating in silence.

She had figs and dates and eggs and porridge. Mindful of the upcoming fight I had one egg, hard-boiled, a small bunlike loaf of dark bread, some yellow cheese, and cider. After being shown to the privy I came back to don my armor, very glad I was not going to stay here.

As I suited up, Serenity had a chest brought in. It was about half the size of an army foot locker with a sturdy handle on each end. In it she had set some small gold bars so that they covered the bottom in a layer about two deep. She had me lift it. Not much of a challenge but she didn't look surprised. Her men added some more gold and I lifted again. Then we went back and forth this way for some time until the chest became quite burdensome. I finally said that was enough gold.

Serenity then laid a tray of thin wood over the gold and onto this she poured jewels from a doeskin pouch. There were a couple of dozen, green and red and purple and yellow and shiny white, which I took to be diamonds. They ranged in size from about the size of the stone in my mother's wedding ring (a third of a karat) to about the size of the end of my little finger (which Gods only know is how much).

"That's fine, thank you." I mean what else was I going to say? I replaced the gems in their pouch. Then I tossed my bundled bikini mail into the chest, hefted it once to show I could carry it (which was not that easy anymore) and indicated for it to be closed up. Then I strapped on my sword.

"How much time?" I asked.

"Time enough for me, I trust?" It was the royal cobbler, my boots in hand. I glanced down at my still-bare feet and grimaced.

"Indeed."

The boots fit tolerably well, which was good 'cause if they hadn't, I would have been obliged to duel barefoot. Still the time was getting on and the princess was getting nervous.

"Serenity, what's wrong?"

"Are you sure you can beat both Ursus and his magic? You haven't told me how you mean to do it." She pouted prettily when worried. She probably practiced her look in the mirror. Why not? I did.

"Trust me, your highness, I've got his number." She looked quizzically at that but we moved along to a large hallway that led out of the castle and to the upcoming duel.

I really don't know what I expected for a field of honor. I suppose I had envisioned a greensward surrounded by gaily bedecked stands. Like in the movie Ivanhoe. We didn't even leave the castle. Well, not entirely. The main gate of the castle (which was huge, I never did get a feel for the entire size of it) was at a right angle to the main wall as the circle of the main walls did not meet square on. Surrounding this area was another wall, nearly as high but not quite as thick, with two stout towers forming a sort of barbican with another gate between them at a right angle to the first. All the walls and gates formed a space which I remember my dad, during a trip to Spain on which we toured several castles, telling me was called a killing field. Well, hopefully not this day.

The walls were lined with people in gaily-colored clothing, but I could not really see them as they were all on the tops of the walls, while I was down on the ground level. I was escorted out on the ground by the princess and about thirty of her guards, including a few of the fellows from the armory last night.

I winked at one. Hey, a warrior gets what she can.

Lord John the Bastard's Get was oily and sly-looking, overdressed in velvets and heavy embroidery. Then again he wasn't fighting. I looked around for his champion. Finally I noticed him in Lord John's shadow. Not nearly as tall as I'd thought. Maybe six-two. Maybe. Still a good two-sixty, maybe two-seventy. Also greasy-looking.

While the official people talked official talk in loud voices I took a deep, cleansing breath. I tune out the words and just follow the rhythms. I'm centered. I'm focused. Another breath. I run through an old joke in my mind. Just as I am grinning at the punch line the talk stops. Good timing. I'm loose and relaxed and focused.

Greaseball steps up. The sound comes back on as I glide out to meet him. He grins at me and draws his sword out and he says, "I cannot be defeated in single combat. It is foretold."

And I smile sweetly at him as I slide my scimitar out of its scabbard and look him straight in the eye and I say, "I'm not exactly alone, you know. I'm pregnant."

The look on the greaseball's face would have made this whole thing worth it. Even if he killed me. Which he tried to do with unseemly haste, coming in with a fast thrust up the midline. Oh yeah, I'd got to him. But now I had to make it work.

It was really the wrong way for him to come at me. I mean he was a head taller than me and twice as heavy. My blade barely brushed along his as I stepped offline. His off hand reached out for me and I cut below it, toward his leg. He skipped away and I followed my blade in and around at another angle, high and hard. The scimitar's well-tempered tip sliced through his heavy leather gauntlet and a few of the links of his mail sleeve, drawing blood. He came back with a heavy overhand slash which passed right through where he thought I was going. But of course that's not where I went.

Now I was not going to kid myself. I'm in terrific shape and I've been doing martial arts training for half my life. I was much faster than this guy, I had a weapon he wasn't used to, and I had seen him fight. But he was a pro with battles under his belt and I wasn't going to give him time to figure out my style. If I did he'd gut me.

My dad always said if you sweat more in training you'll bleed less in combat. And I had really tried to live that in my training. Thank Gods. Ursus Redbeard was slow and fat and totally lacking in finesse, and if I ever had to go one minute with him a second time he'd eat my liver. But this one time I got him. And I got him just about how I planned.

Twice more he came in and I moved offline, cutting in on an angle and out on a second. And each time I cut him, but not badly. The next time he made to come straight at me again and then cut off at an angle. I was waiting for it. I had set it up for him to do. He still nearly had me.

I feinted an angled cut and then charged in. His blade whistled at my head and somehow I moved it out of the way. I locked up his arm, brought my pommel down hard right on the juncture of blade and hilt. Then I dropped my hips down and over he went, landing hard on his tailbone with his sword arm, sans sword, twisted behind his back and my blade at his throat.

I hissed between clenched teeth into his dirty ear, "Do you yield? Do you want my mercy?"

It might have taken him half a second to reach his decision. "Aye," he hoarsely croaked.

"Then swear you will champion no one but the princess Serenity forevermore as long as you live."

"I swear it." Still a dry croak.

"Then yield."

"I yield! The princess wins!" This much clearer and louder.

A great cheer went up. I released my hold and removed my blade, stuck out my hand and hauled him to his feet. "And since you're going to champion the princess you might want to start bathing regularly." Serenity got that one free.

The rest of the trip was very smooth. I came out of the fight without a single cut and only some strained muscles in my lower back. Not too bad, as I was still able to hoist my treasure chest. Which I did, right up the stairs and back to the princess' chamber. And I got the rest of my payment. Every penny's worth.

It took a couple of hours for her minions to gather the necessary wizard's stuff. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and assumed they had been working on it all day. I stood in a circle of silvery chalk and she did her thing (I didn't really see what) and I'm back in my bedroom in front of my computer holding a chest full of gold.

I was exhausted, so I took a quick shower and crawled into my bed. Sleep had never been so good.

This morning I woke up with the sun just peeking through my shades as usual. What was different was the nausea that sent me sprinting to the porcelain throne to loudly worship Ralph. And then leaning over the bowl after my second heave, it strikes me. I'm never sick.

And I thought I had pulled a smooth one over on old Ursus. Guess not.

Branded

Jan Stirling

Around the fire the women's faces were grim, though in the best of times there was little that even firelight could do to soften these faces. These were the noncoms and lower ranked officers of King Saldeg's mercenary legions and their experience lent a hardness to their features that even near darkness couldn't alter.

The scars, eye patches and missing teeth didn't help either.

Feric the magician sat silently among them, gauging their mood and worrying about Terion, his lover and friend. He glanced across the fire at her. Alone in this company, her face was untouched by war and very little by harsh weather. Her friends envied her for it, teasing that she kept Feric around to slide her best scars below her collarbone, for her body bore some spectacular ones.

Feric didn't mind the teasing; he was happy that they'd finally accepted his presence. And relieved—the incessant beatings were getting hard to take. Once Terion had to trounce ten different women in a week. That was in the beginning though; now they were accepted as partners. Of course, it didn't hurt that he was a good camp cook and knew an excellent anti-rust spell, as well as how to revoke it at any distance.

As if she sensed his gaze, Terion looked up at him, and though she couldn't bring herself to smile, her expression softened, then she looked back into the fire. She could at best be called striking, but to him her face was fairer than dawn in the vale of Darden. It grieved him to see her so sad.

The women shifted and someone spoke in tones of awe and horror.

"Branded."

"Marked with a coward's shame," another growled.

They shifted again and their eyes met and dropped around the circle. The silence became more charged still. Feric waited, but at last could stand the silence no more.

"What do you do when you're branded?" he asked.

Beside him Lieutenant Belta threw her grog into the fire, causing the flames to dip and hiss before flaring as the alcohol burned. She turned to him and her blond head seemed as big as a lion's.

"Do you fight for your name?" she asked him. "Is that what you mean?" She turned away and spat in disgust.

"Would that the Captain could," Terion said quietly. "But she ran. We all saw it."

"And we all saw you save the day."

The women looked round at the speaker. Prince Ennit strolled toward the fire, his richly embroidered velvet cloak held close around him, though the night was mild. Behind him, Peria, his sorceress and some said his lover, lingered in the shadows. She was a slender woman dressed in black, with almond-shaped dark eyes and hip-length black hair worn free.

Feric caught Peria's eye and nodded. She returned his nod—professional courtesy.

Terion stood and the others rose in belated courtesy.

"I only did my duty, highness," she said grudgingly. Ennit was a peacock and every soldier in the army looked down on him, for all his royal blood and fighting ability.

"What a pity that Captain Avia did not," the prince sneered.

The very air grew stiff and Peria moved forward a step. Ennit raised his hand and she stopped, then he made a throwaway gesture.

"But it is enough for my royal father and myself that you"—he gestured at the warrior women around the fire—"and your troops performed as they should. In fact he proposes to give you a small bonus, Lieutenant, for your efforts today." He paused, smiling.

"Thank you, highness," Terion said, her voice choked.

Never doubting that her voice was choked with gratitude, rather than fury and shame, the prince smiled. Again he made that throwaway gesture.

"But be seated, ladies," he said smoothly. "I did not mean to interrupt your rest." Then he became solemn. "Unfortunately I have come with bad news as well." The prince looked down and bit his lip as he paused, then looked up, but met no one's eyes. "Though I have tried to intercede with my royal father he will not rescind his judgement." He blinked rapidly, as though fighting a tear. "Avia is to be branded."

No one spoke, but shoulders dropped and heads were hung around the fire.

"The one concession I could wring from him was that the brand will be in a hidden place. Most likely one of her buttocks."

Terion looked up at him, her face shocked. Then she looked away. It was better than being branded on the face. But the humiliation!

That this should happen to Avia Iron Breast, so named because she actually had one (an exquisitely modeled prosthesis that covered an early wound).

The reason she'd had it made, she'd told Terion, was because she'd gotten tired of being accused of being "some war-god's Amazon doxy." Even though it was the wrong breast. Steel would have worked as well, and might have been lighter but didn't sound as good as Iron Breast. Gold or silver would have made her too much of a target, and "Avia Tin Tit" was right out.

Terion almost smiled to remember the Captain's amusement when Feric shyly offered his anti-rust spell while trying to avoid the word "breast" and her honest pleasure at not having rust stains streaking her muscled torso after every battle.

Terion sighed.

This was the end of the Captain's military career. You couldn't go back from something like this. They'd all seen her running, white-faced and screaming, from the foe. Terion had managed to keep the company from breaking in confusion. But this was the end of the company as she'd known it.

As though hearing her thought Prince Ennit said off-handedly, "As Avia is to be banished, my father has given me command of your company, ladies." He smiled, and the smile mocked them. "Lieutenant Terion will be my second."

"Sir," Terion said, rising, "I'm not senior enough."

"You're too modest, Lieutenant. My decision is made." Ennit cast a glance over the company, nodded once and with a swirl of his elegant cloak, swaggered off.

Peria turned to follow the prince, then paused. Her dark eyes looked at this woman and that, lingering longest on Terion. Then her glance flicked to Feric. He nodded to her, his expression cool, she lowered her eyes and nodded back, then melted into the darkness.

Belta spat into the fire and cursed. "I hate that snake," she growled.

"Peria? Why?" Terion asked.

"She's dangerous!" the blond woman said.

"Not really," Feric said, tossing another stick onto the fire. "She's not even close to being as powerful as I am, and I wouldn't describe myself as dangerous."

Surprised, Terion tipped her head. "She acts like she's dangerous."

"Well, of course," Feric said. "If his nibs didn't think she was a powerful magicker he wouldn't keep her around."

"So she's a liar!" Belta snarled, glaring.

Feric blinked at her ferocity.

"If she's not powerful how does she do her spells?" Terion asked. "And how do you know she's not as strong as you are?" Her tone of voice accused him of engaging in some sort of magical pissing match.

"Her mother told me about her. You remember Sita Goldenhair?"

"That's her mother?" Terion couldn't believe it, Sita Goldenhair looked like a dewy twenty-year-old.

Feric smiled and nodded. "But then, she is a powerful sorceress. She sends a mix of pre-packaged spells to Peria several times a year that only need a little push to activate. Peria is well up to that."

"She's a cheat!" Belta shouted.

"Maybe," Terion said mildly. "But do you really want Ennit to have a powerful sorceress at his side?"

Belta grunted, looking unhappy, but undecided.

Terion shook her head. "It must be a great disappointment to Sita for her daughter to be so much less powerful than she is."

"It's more of a disappointment to her that her daughter is in love with the prince," Feric said, stirring the fire.

"Just when did you and the lovely Goldenhair have time to do all this gossiping?" Teri asked, eyes narrowed.

Feric smiled and blew her a kiss. "After she'd finished testing me and before you returned from getting your shield fixed."

Terion's answering grunt was lost in Belta's increasingly angry rumblings. "She can't do what she makes out she can do. She's taking the prince's coin under false pretenses! She's a thief!" This last was shouted directly into Feric's astonished face.

He wiped off the spittle and somewhat testily asked, "Why are you being like this?"

Looking shamefaced, Belta looked away. "I was born in this land," she muttered. "So I guess you could say Ennit is my prince."

"So how do you feel about your prince taking over the Captain's company?" Terion asked.

"Frankly, not good," Belta admitted. "Especially now his sorceress turns out not to be worth spit."

* * *

As they walked back to their tent Terion suddenly grabbed Feric's shoulder, pulling him to a stop.

"Feric, I need to talk to the Captain," she whispered.

"I don't think that's possible," he said, looking puzzled. "But I suppose you could try."

She grinned and leaned closer. "We could."

Feric pulled back, looking alarmed. He studied her face.

"What are you asking me to do, Teri? Put them to sleep? With my lack of control and unpredictable power surges it could be for the rest of their lives!"

"Keep your voice down," she said patiently. "I was thinking more along the lines of a bribe."

"Oh," he said, somewhat abashed. Feric kept charge of their funds for the most part. He clutched the communal purse thoughtfully. "I could put a spell on the money to make them think it's more than enough," he suggested.

"Whatever," Teri said. "C'mon." She tugged him towards the Captain's tent, where Avia was being held prisoner.

* * *

As Terion lifted the flap of the tent she regretted the bribe. From the looks on their faces, she suspected the guards would have let them in gratis. But there wasn't a guard in existence who would say "no" to free money. At least not in this world.

The Captain stood as Terion bowed her head and tapped her left shoulder with her fist in salute. As she raised her head, Teri saw that the Captain wore manacles, and gasped.

Avia smiled ruefully. "After my trial, his majesty said that a coward in the habit of running might attempt to escape justice. And so he added these to complicate things."

Terion took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Captain, you are not a coward. You've been my hero since before I took up the sword. In fact it was your example that inspired me to do so." She shook her head. "Something is wrong here."

The Captain sat and gestured to a stool. When Terion was seated she looked her lieutenant in the eye. "I've never had cause to think myself a coward," she said. "There have been times when I was afraid, but I've always managed to fight in spite of it." She shook her head, and her eyes were troubled. "Not this time, though. I controlled it for a time, but it grew and grew until it overwhelmed me." Avia spread her calloused hands. "But why? We weren't facing anything I hadn't met a hundred times before. Why should ordinary soldiers so terrify me?"

"That bothers me, too, Captain," Teri said, her eyes hard. "Did you feel anything strange just before it happened? Did you hear, or see, or smell anything out of the ordinary? Did you eat or drink anything unusual before the battle?"

"Like the other captains under the prince's command, I breakfasted with his highness. I ate and drank what everyone else did." Avia brushed her hair back and hit herself in the nose with the chain attached to her manacle. "Ow. At first I thought I must have been hit in the head because suddenly everything was so different. And it was painful in a way. But afterwards there wasn't any sign of a wound." She hung her head, spread her hands. "Now I feel strange, like recovering strength after being wounded. But I'm not wounded, merely ashamed."

Reaching out, Terion clapped the Captain on the shoulder, startling her out of her mood.

"There's something strange going on here, Captain. And I mean to get to the bottom of it. Hopefully before they mark you and Ennit takes over our unit."

"What?" The Captain leapt to her feet. "That popinjay . . . !" She stopped herself before she could say anything else that might be indiscreet and stood panting with outrage.

"He told us tonight," Terion said. "But surely if you're no longer our commander, our contract is void and must be renegotiated. Right?"

Avia pointed to a richly carved chest on her camp desk. "The contracts are in there. Bring it to me, Lieutenant."

Teri did so and the Captain rifled through the box until she found what she wanted. After reading for a while she shook her head in disbelief, pointing at the paper in her hand.

"I would never have signed this," she said. Avia flung the contract aside and let rip a stream of impressive oaths.

Catching the paper as it flew, Teri paused to be impressed by what she was hearing. The Captain had a way with words. Then she started to read the offending passage.

In the event of Captain Avia Iron Breast's death or desertion, Prince Ennit will assume direct command of her company.

"We're a free company," she said to the Captain. "Even if you did sign it, this article is surely illegal."

Avia gave her a pitying look. "Try explaining that to the king. Especially since he dotes on Ennit."

Frowning, Teri considered the problem. "He's ordered me to be his second."

The Captain raised a brow at that. "Don't get me wrong, Lieutenant, you're good, and you have considerable potential, but you're not ready for that post yet."

"I know it, ma'am," Terion assured her. "But he wouldn't listen."

"And that, too, strikes you as strange." An odd expression came over the Captain's face and she touched her chest just over her heart. She shook her head. "Fear again, but for you this time. Beware of him, Lieutenant, he's a twisty one."

"Then I have your permission to look into the matter?" Terion asked.

"And my blessing. But be careful, be very careful."

* * *

Terion crept closer to the prince's tent, senses stretched to their considerable limits, intent on discovering something that might aid her in helping the Captain. If caught she intended to claim that she was checking security. The words "standard procedure" were balanced on her lips.

She moved toward the sound of murmuring voices.

"My lord, it is too soon!" Peria's voice said. She sounded distressed.

"But I can feel it going, draining out of me. Can't you stop it? Can't you do anything?" Ennit sounded on the verge of panic.

Teri cut a tiny slit in the tent's fabric and peeked in. The prince strode back and forth, his face peevish and filmed with sweat. Peria watched him with her heart in her eyes and her hands outstretched.

"Please, my lord, calm yourself. This worry weakens you and dissipates the effects of the spell."

Ennit spun on his heel and glared murderously. "Are you saying that this is my fault?"

Peria bowed her head. "No, my prince, not at all. I merely meant that it is an effect of the spell."

"Then fix the spell!" Ennit screeched.

The young sorceress flinched but stood her ground. "Once the spell is cast, my lord, it cannot be altered."

He stalked toward her like a cat about to ruin some mouse's day. "Then fix the spell so that when it is cast the effect is permanent. Don't you understand that I can't bear feeling this way?" His hands reached out to her, pleading.

Peria went to him and laid her head on his shoulder, while his arms enfolded her. Her expression spoke of love, his of impatience.

"Why won't you help me?" he asked, looking bored, sounding desperate.

With a gasp Peria pulled back and looked up into his handsome face, now appropriately displaying sorrow and yearning. "I am trying, my lord. But to change a spell takes time and experimentation." She bit her lip. "It may also harm the donor."

He pushed her away. "I don't care about the donor! My concern is my future! What my royal father would say if he knew! These are the things that concern me."

"That is why we must select the donors more carefully," the sorceress insisted.

"I think that I am selecting the perfect donors," Ennit said haughtily.

Taking a deep breath Peria tried again. "But someone as prominent as the lady . . ."

"Lady! Call that horse a lady!" He laughed harshly. Ennit loomed over his sorceress. "She's a mercenary captain and hardly worthy of being called a woman, let alone a lady. She deserves everything she's going to get, and more besides." He clenched and unclenched his fists. "I shouldn't be second to that . . . female in any way. Nor to the next one I've selected!"

"As to that one," Peria said, looking nervous but determined, "she's a friend of my mother's."

"What do I care?" Ennit said with a laugh.

"My point," the sorceress said carefully, "is that I don't wish to offend my mother. And I assure you, my lord, neither do you."

He glared at her and his breathing deepened. Outside the tent Terion expected him to hit her and wondered if she dare interfere.

"I beg you to choose someone else," Peria said, clasping her hands before her.

Slowly Prince Ennit smiled. "No," he said and turned away. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "You may go. But send in Lita, you know, the little blonde." He turned away again, with a smirk on his face.

The look on Peria's face was downright scary.

I don't think I'd want to be little Lita at this point, Terion thought. The poor kid's gonna come down with munga-twat at the very least. She rose and moved carefully away from the tent, filled with misgivings.

* * *

Even though he matched her brisk walking pace, it was taking Feric awhile to catch up to her mentally. He looked at her, his mouth slightly open, with all the intelligence of a stunned cow. Terion sighed. You could get Feric on his feet and moving, but actually waking him up was a lot more difficult. Maybe she was being too indirect.

"I think they intend to do something to me tomorrow during the battle," she said, breaking the problem down to its simplest elements.

"Wha?" he mumbled.

His eyes seemed to be moving randomly and Teri considered slapping him but just couldn't bring herself to do it. It wasn't his fault he was a sound sleeper.

"I want you beside me during the battle tomorrow."

That got his attention. In fact he immediately seemed taller because his hair stood on end. Then he chuckled.

"You're joking," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "For a moment there I thought you were serious." He put his arm around her brawny shoulders.

"I am," she said.

"Heh heh," he replied. They walked on in silence for a moment, then his steps slowed. He turned to smile at her, the smile somewhat desperate.

"I am," she repeated. His hand squeezed her shoulder almost painfully tight. "Ric, you're supposed to pinch yourself to see if you're dreaming," she said somewhat testily. "And you're not."

He spread both hands on his chest, his eyes huge. "But . . . I'm . . . You're . . . I . . . You know . . ." After a moment he gave in to his shock and waved his hands, shaking his head, mouth open, not even attempting to speak.

"I need you beside me to protect me from Peria's spell."

"Couldn't I stand beside Peria?" he asked. He nodded quickly as though that would make her agree.

"Since she's usually beside the king's magician, who stands beside the king himself, I'd have to say, um, no." Terion put her hand on his shoulder. "I will protect you, even as you protect me." She leaned in to give him a kiss.

"I don't have armor!" he said, pointing a finger gleefully.

"We're with an army, sweetheart. Armor won't be a problem, believe me." Teri put her arm around his shoulder and walked him back to bed.

* * *

"We're a female company," Terion explained, amused at Feric's protesting the breast cups on his breast plate. "I would never have a male squire. And flat-chested you look like what you are—a man."

"I should hope so," he muttered.

"No one will know but you and me," she assured him. "If nothing happens then you just slip away, and if anything does happen," Teri shrugged, "same thing, I guess."

"I must warn you," Feric said, nervously plucking at his mail, "the iron in this may inhibit my abilities."

Terion jammed his helmet on his head, then lifted the visor and smiled. "When you're focused, my dear, nothing inhibits you." She kissed him lightly and slammed the visor shut, grinning at the sound of protest he made. Then she turned to her duties, trusting Feric to stay by her shoulder.

She'd gotten out of eating with the prince by saying she'd been up for hours and had already breakfasted. But there'd been no way to avoid the toast Ennit had offered.

"To the king, and victory!" he shouted. She'd even had to drink the whole draught as his eyes were on her the whole time. Sure as the goddess made little green men, Ennit was planning to attack her somehow.

She mounted Captain Avia's restive bay and Feric got on Terion's grey, "mounted" being far too elegant a description for what he managed. The grey snorted in disgust. Ennit pranced up to them on a huge black stallion that made the two smaller horses wicker nervously.

Nice to know we're all in agreement about this pair, Teri thought. Which was that they were better looking than behaved and dangerous in an attack-you-from-ambush-for-no-reason sort of way.

"Who is this?" Ennit demanded, indicating the well-disguised Feric.

"My squire, your highness," she said.

I need you beside me, she'd insisted last night and he'd finally stopped his protests. Now, in the face of the prince's suspicious looks, surely he could see that she was right. Terion hoped it would make up for the bronzed bumps on his chest.

* * *

Feric kept his horse just behind Terion's and between her and the prince.

Ennit glanced over his shoulder at him and there was no mistaking the irritation that shone in his eyes.

"Have your squire move back," the prince snapped. "Has she no sense? My stallion dislikes being followed so closely."

Terion waved a hand and Feric fell back slightly, while she widened the space between herself and the prince. When they reached their positions at the head of the mercenary companies, Ennit turned to Feric again.

"Get back!" he snapped. "I won't have you crowding me!"

Feric glanced at Terion, even as he obeyed, certain that whatever Ennit planned was going to happen soon.

I should be watching Peria, he thought anxiously. Not cluttering up the battlefield like this. He suspected that everything was in place, or almost so, requiring only that slight nudge of power from the sorceress.

Feric looked around and spotted the royal party on a slight rise in the ground behind them. The young sorceress was easily distinguished by her black clothing amid the brilliant colors of the courtiers. A glance at the prince showed that he was looking in the same direction. Peria raised her hand and Ennit reached out to touch Terion's shoulder.

Feric spun his arm in a great circle as though winding up and throwing a ball. There was a flash of light and the scent of ozone and a very soft, grinding sound—as of something very heavy slicing into the ground.

The prince's gloved hand bounced against something invisible and he pulled back his hand. Terion reached out cautiously and tapped her gauntleted finger against the barrier. Then she looked into Ennit's astonished eyes.

Before either of them could speak the enemy came rushing towards them, banners flying, men and women screaming their war cries and waving their weapons with feral abandon in a way that loosened Feric's bowels quite dangerously. Ennit turned toward the foe and his body bowed as though he'd been hit hard in the stomach. He backed his stallion, looking desperately around him.

"My lord?" Terion said. "What are your orders?" Her voice was cool and calm, and behind them the mercenaries held their lines, all of them looking toward the prince. "Shall I order the attack, or do we await them here?"

Ennit backed his horse still further making a sound like a very furtive steam kettle. Without saying anything he turned and fled through the ranks.

Terion splayed her hand on the invisible, but very solid, barrier that had formed between her and the prince and turned to smile at Feric. "Perhaps you should follow his highness and make sure he comes to no harm," she suggested, with a little swing of her head that told him to slip out of his well-endowed breast plate before he did so.

Feric managed a realistic salute before he turned and rode off even more swiftly than the prince had. Behind him the armies clashed together with the sound of a massive hammer hitting metal. Oh, goddess, he prayed, spare me and I'll do something wonderful for you. I'm too scared right now to know what, but it'll be good, I promise.

He looked behind and pulled his horse to a halt as he was far enough from the fighting to be out of danger. Slipping out of his gauntlets he quickly removed and flung away the objectionable armor. Then he rode after the prince, visible now only as a cloud of dust. He saw a troop of the king's guard enter that cloud and, by the time he rode up, the prince's stallion had been halted and surrounded.

"What are you doing here?" the sergeant of the guard demanded of Feric, his hand on his sword.

"Lieutenant Terion told me to make sure the prince came to no harm," Feric answered.

"The prince himself has seen to that," the sergeant growled.

"She also suggests taking the sorceress Peria into custody. She suspects there was something going on between them that warrants investigation." Feric was proud of that statement, it sounded downright official.

* * *

King Saldeg sat his throne in a posture of dejection as his herald explained to Captain Avia how the prince had coerced his sorceress into casting a spell that transferred all of her courage, temporarily, to Ennit.

Ennit, standing to one side with his hands tied behind his back, had tears running down his cheeks by the time the story was finished.

"Please believe me, Captain," he cried, "I never meant you any harm."

Avia raised an eyebrow. "No? You raged about my cowardice and demanded that I be severely punished—branded and banished. You have humiliated me before my own company and nearly ruined my reputation. If that's your idea of doing me no harm, sir, I shudder to think what would have happened if you did mean to injure me."

Saldeg raised his hand wearily. "Because you have been so insulted by my son," he said, "and reminding you that even as he is punished he is my son and heir, I ask what you would have us do with him?"

Conscious of the honor the king was offering her, Avia bowed. "Your majesty, I shall paraphrase the prince. I do not demand that he be punished in public, but I do insist that I be the one to wield the brand."

"NO!" Ennit screamed. "Father, no!"

The king winced at his son's outburst. "Take him away," he said in disgust, refusing to look at the prince, his cheeks red with shame.

"Further," Avia said over Ennit's receding screams and pleas, "Peria the sorceress should be banished from your kingdom and delivered into her mother's care."

With a whimper the sorceress took a step back, only to bump into the guard behind her.

"Done," growled Saldeg. He didn't speak again until the sorceress had been whisked away. "I find there is no joy in empire building if my heir cannot hold what I've won," he grumbled. "I should like to appoint you my envoy, Captain Avia, and sue my neighbors for peace."

* * *

Terion tapped the invisible barrier, then tsked! in wonder. "What's it made of?" she asked Feric.

"Air," he said.

Her brows shot up. "Air! Well, there's a wonder. Solid air. Can you get rid of it?"

He blushed and shook his head. "I've a feeling it will dissipate over time, though."

She stretched her hand over her head as far as she could and still found the barrier.

"I believe it's circular in shape," Feric said. "I visualized a round shield when I made it."

Terion chuckled. "Good thing we had you in that power-inhibiting armor," she said. "Otherwise this shield might be dividing the world."

"Brrr!" Feric said and shuddered dramatically.

Terion grinned and put her arm around his shoulder. "Well, my contract's up, sweetheart. We're plump in the pocket. Time we paid some attention to your needs. What say we try to find you a mentor, eh?"

With a sigh Feric shrugged. "I don't know, Teri. Everyone we've asked had either got an apprentice or says I'm too old to teach."

"Don't be discouraged, love. Someone, somewhere, has to realize we can't just leave you to your own devices. We'll be a package deal. You as apprentice and cook, me as a guard; surely someone will take us on. Didn't Goldenhair give you some names?"

"Yes, but you won't like them. Sylvia the Sybarite, Loreli the Lovely, Amber the Amorous."

"You're making those up."

"I'm not, I swear!" He held up his hand and crossed his heart.

"Sylvia the Sybarite? I don't think so."

"Goldenhair apprenticed with her. She's real."

"Hunh," Teri said. "Loreli the Lovely doesn't sound so bad. We'll try her."

He smiled fondly at her. "That's what I thought."

"Besides," Terion said, giving him a squeeze, "there's not a sorcerer born who can't be handled with a sword through their guts."

"Teri!" He pulled away from her. "I swear that's why some sorcerers have refused me."

"What?"

"You! You kind of glower and project I'm-going-to-kill-you vibrations at them. Magicians are very sensitive to vibrations."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not! You do! it's real."

They'd had this argument before, and they kept it up in an amiable way as they packed and as they rode away into the summer afternoon. Until Terion capped it with, "If she makes a move on you, I'm going to knock her teeth out."

Which so endeared her to Feric that he let her win.

The Girl's Guide To
Defeating the Dark Lord

Cassandra Claire

Deep, deep within the earth are sunk the dungeons of Castle Bonespire. Bleak is my prison cell. The walls drip with moss and the howls and screams of the other prisoners are my only companionship throughout the endless nights. The hideous form of the Dark Wizard who rules this place is branded in my memory. Taller than a man, with a face like iron and a cruel smile, he snatched me from my chambers at my father's castle and brought me, flung senseless across his saddlebow, to this place. Surely he means to torment me, or even worse, to marry me and make me his dark bride! I pray each day that my father will send a champion to rescue me. But the days grow long . . .

* * *

I have never been so bored in my entire life. Thank goodness at least I had my diary in the pocket of my nightgown when I was kidnapped or I really would just expire right here on the floor. If only I hadn't gotten up in the middle of the night last week with a truly remorseless craving for butter tarts. If only I hadn't decided to sneak downstairs to the kitchen. If only I'd guessed that the night guard in the kitchens was in the pay of the Dark Lord Vexor. Ah, well, as my father always says, it's no use wailing over things you can't change.

All right, so my previous entry wasn't entirely accurate. My prison cell isn't damp, it's quite dry, with clean straw on the floor. There's a window, although it's covered over, so I might not actually be in a dungeon. I have no idea how I got here but I think it was probably by magic and not on a horse. As far as I can tell, there are no other prisoners, and if there are, they certainly aren't doing any screaming. Vexor is actually quite short, and if he has a cruel smile I haven't seen it. He comes by sometimes just to stare and look grim, but I can hardly see his face at all because he keeps his hood pulled down over it. For all I know he might be quite handsome, although I doubt it. If he was handsome he'd probably have a more cheerful disposition and then he wouldn't have any need to go around kidnapping people now would he?

* * *

Today counted all individual bits of straw in pile on floor. Counted up to 4,325 when Vexor came in and made me lose count. He still had his hood pulled down but I could see a little of his face. He has quite an ordinary chin for a dark wizard.

He was frowning. "Princess," he said, "another week has passed, and still no word from your father. Your doom draws nigh."

"I told you already he isn't going to send word," I said crossly. "It's not the done thing. They send their champions instead. He's probably holding tournaments right now to find the boldest and bravest knight for the task."

"And when his knight fails?"

"You are conceited, aren't you? He might not fail, you know."

"He will fail," said Vexor. "First he must pass the impassable mountains. Then he must defeat my troops, who are massed on the plain below." His tone was condescending. "As you can see, they are fearsome in number, and mighty in—"

"Actually, I can't see anything of the sort. I only have one window, and you bricked it up."

He looked sort of surprised. "I did?"

I pointed at it in an accusing manner.

"Oh," he said.

He shuffled around for a bit, and then he left.

* * *

When I woke up this morning, the bricks were gone out of the window. I have a view! I can see the front of the castle, some mountains. A little bit of drawbridge over a gorge and a sort of courtyard thing with a well in it. Am obviously miles from anywhere; no surprise there.

I can see troops practicing down on the plain in front of the castle—my sisters would call it a greensward, but it really is just a plain. They're all carrying Vexor's banner, which is a sort of snake with ropey things poking out the eyesockets. Quite nasty. And doing little marches in tandem.

Bread and jam again for lunch today. Every day, a little slot opens up in the door, and an Unseen Hand puts food through it. At least I expect I'm supposed to assume it's an Unseen Hand, and be properly terrified because after all, magic and all that. I'm just glad it's bread and jam. The first few days it was gruel.

* * *

Vexor came by again today and interrupted me while I was watching the soldiers practice. He just waltzed in and stood there sneering until I noticed he was there.

"Gazing out the window," he said darkly. "But of course. Waiting for your bold rescuer to appear?"

"I'm sure he's coming," I said airily. "He's probably been delayed by the rain."

The sky had been cloudless for days. Vexor gave me an odd look.

"I don't see why you care what I do anyway," I said. "All you want is my father's money."

"All I want," Vexor corrected me, "is the overthrow of the High King."

This was news to me. "You do?"

"Yes. And if I need more money to raise a proper army, than I'll just have to get it however I can."

"Including kidnapping helpless girls?"

Vexor made an indignant noise. "Spoiled princesses whose families grow fat off the backbreaking toil of their peasants—"

"I AM NOT FAT."

"Not yet," he said, eyeing me coldly.

"No wonder everyone hates you," I muttered. "I've heard peasant mothers keep their children in line by threatening them that if they misbehave, Vexor will get them."

This appeared, inexplicably, to enrage him. "What?" he sputtered. "Why, that's—that's outrageous!"

I blinked at him. "It is?"

With a grunt, he stalked away from me, over to the door. Which by the way, is double-planked oak with iron fittings. I kicked it a whole bunch of times the first day I was here and I didn't even make a dent. "I bid you good day, Princess."

"Well, all right, but I don't see what you're upset about, I really don't."

He paused for a moment, staring at the door. "No," he said finally. "You wouldn't."

* * *

Have discovered that if I wedge myself right into the window frame I can see down into the courtyard where the minions are having their practice maneuvers. Is just like watching the soldiers practice at home, except that here they keep their helmets on all the time, probably because of being so evil and unsightly and all that. I do enjoy watching the practice though. I used to watch the soldiers all the time at home until Father said it wasn't proper for a princess to hang about where men were getting all sweaty, especially not when they should be attending to their own training.

* * *

I have started to be able to tell the minions apart by number of stripes on their helmets. There's a little one I'm quite fond of; the other ones are always beating him in single combat during the practice sessions but he always gets up gamely and carries on. I've started calling him Tiny, because he's the smallest and hasn't got any stripes at all. Today he had to fight an absolutely monstrous brute in a helmet with horns on it.

I got so carried away watching that I started shouting encouragement down to him: "Right, parry right! Can't you see he knows you always attack from the left?" They all jumped about six feet in the air and stared up, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. A couple of them pushed their helmets back. Very disappointing, really, everyone always said that Vexor's army was made up of red-eyed demon fiends, but they looked ordinary enough to me. I ducked right down out of the window before they saw me.

* * *

Damn and blast. Vexor came stomping by in a complete strop. "I'll thank you not to shout at my soldiers!" he ranted, clomping up and down in my cell in his great big iron-studded boots. "Boris almost got his ear taken off thanks to you!"

I wondered if Boris was Tiny, or the one in the spiky headgear. "They were doing it all wrong," I said sulkily.

Today his hood had slipped back. I could see his eyes. They were dark and flashing with rage. "And how would you know?" he demanded. "What training have you got? Attack needlepoint? Assault with a deadly spool? Killer embroidery?"

"It is apparent to me," I said coolly, "that you have some very outmoded views of what it means to be a princess!"

Vexor cut me off with a wave of his hand. "And I suppose that's why you're still here, waiting to be rescued?" he sneered.

"Well, it would be rude to Father if I just left," I said reasonably, "after all that trouble finding a champion."

"You are deluded," he said, quite peevishly.

"At least I know what proper weapons training looks like," I said. "If you don't arrange your troops with some gaps in the front lines, there's no way the secondary forces can move up while the first line of defense retreats."

Vexor stared at me and for a brief moment I thought he was going to ask me something else. But instead he just grunted. "Don't talk of matters of which you know nothing," he snarled, and clanked away.

* * *

Rained all the past three days and so there was no practice. Finally the sun came out a bit this afternoon, and when I climbed up on the windowsill I nearly got the shock of my life. Vexor was out there on the greensward, looking all dark and spindly in the sunlight, and there were the troops marching with gaps in their formations. I couldn't believe it! He'd completely nicked my idea, after telling me I didn't know what I was talking about!

I almost yelled "Oi!" down at him when I realized, with a sobering sort of heavy feeling in my stomach, that I'd just given perfectly good battle advice to the sworn enemy of the High King, the most evil wizard in the entire kingdom. Father was right, I need to think before I talk. I crawled down from the windowsill feeling chastened indeed.

* * *

Am refusing to watch the practices. Too hard not to shout advice down. I tried ducking out of sight when they all looked up, but this morning Vexor caught me and gave me a cheeky little wave. I hope Boris accidentally hits him with that pikestaff.

* * *

For the first time today Vexor actually knocked before he came barging into the tower. It was a bit pointless since it's not as if I can open the door but I suppose it's the thought that counts.

He came in, fidgeting slightly. "Princess," he said.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted you to know that I don't mind you watching the practices," he said abruptly. "Your advice—it was very good advice."

I continued to stare at him haughtily.

"I'm sorry I said you didn't know what you were talking about," he said, all in a rush.

I felt somewhat mollified. "All right."

"So." He had begun to play with a loose thread on his cuff. "Which one do you think is the best?"

"Which one of what? The minions?"

"They're soldiers."

"Whatever." I screwed my face up thoughtfully. "Well, Tiny could be good except for always feinting from the left, and there's the two that always fight together, they'd be hard to beat. Really all of them need—" I broke off. "Wait. You're choosing a champion, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said.

"I can't help you," I said, shaking my head. "I can't help you pick which one of them is going to go out and kill innocent people—"

"Do you know what the first day of every month is in the Four Kingdoms?" Vexor interrupted me, sounding strained.

"No."

"Tax day," he said. "And you know what the High King does to anyone who can't pay their taxes? He has them whipped, unless they can find a champion to fight for them. Of course if they could afford a champion, they could afford the taxes. You see how it is."

I started shivering. "I don't believe you," I said angrily. "The High King wouldn't do that and anyway, what do you care? It's not like you're above terrorizing the peasantry—"

"I've never terrorized anyone!" he yelled suddenly. "Those are just stories I spread so that the High King would be afraid of me!"

"You're trying to trick me." I put my hands over my ears. "Just go away and leave me alone! Go and—and be evil, or whatever it is you do!"

He stood very still for a second. "As you like," he said finally, and swept me an awfully formal bow—a real prince would have been impressed. Then he stalked out of the room leaving me feeling very out of sorts indeed.

* * *

Tonight I was woken up out of a pleasant dream about running Vexor over with a bricklayer's wagon by an enormous crash. I leapt to my feet brandishing a handful of straw only to see a young man in bright white and gold mail lying sprawled on the stone floor under the window, completely tangled up in rope.

I ran over and dropped down next to him. I had a horrible feeling he was dead, but as it turned out, he wasn't. He groaned as I rolled him over and looked up at me entreatingly. The first thing I noticed was that he was very handsome, with springy gold curls and eyes the color of violets. The second thing I noticed was that there was a sizeable arrow sticking out of the upper part of his leg. All around it the white mail was edged in red.

I knew I was supposed to address him as "Brave and valorous knight" but I was too startled and the sight of the wound was giving me a terrible fizzing sensation in my ears. I panicked. "Are you all right?"

"Fair maiden," he gasped, looking pained, "I lie wounded."

I rather thought this was obvious, but it would have been rude to point it out. "How did it happen? What can I do? Does it hurt? Who are you, anyway?"

"I am Prince Rupert, sixteenth son of the High King Edmund, and I have been sent by your father to rescue—"

He broke off with a gurgle. He was turning a luminous shade of green. I didn't think it was likely he would be rescuing anyone soon. "Of course you have," I said soothingly. "What happened?"

"Minions of the Dark Lord," Prince Rupert wheezed. "Shot me as I was climbing up the wall."

"You poor brave thing," I said comfortingly. "Just hold on a tick and I'll get that arrow out of your leg."

He looked alarmed. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

I nodded. "I've read plenty of manuals on field medicine," I assured him. "I know you're supposed to pull the arrow out right away. Or push it through the other side," I added, more thoughtfully. "I'm not sure exactly. I suspect it rather depends how the arrow's fletched and all that. Still, no time to waste."

He protested weakly. "I'd really rather you didn't."

"It'll go septic if I don't."

"I'll take that chance."

"Oh, don't be such a baby," I said, and yanked the arrow out.

"Auugh," said the Prince, and fainted dead away. There was a quite a lot of blood, too. I tossed the arrow aside and started ripping strips off the hem of my skirts for bandages. I'd made a tourniquet and was just tying the last bandage extra tight when the door opened and about twenty minions came pouring into the room, the Dark Lord on their heels.

* * *

The oddest thing about it was that I couldn't help feeling as if Vexor was somehow disappointed in me. He kept looking at the window and then at me and then at Rupert, and glaring. I don't know what he was astonished about; I told him my father's champion was on his way.

"You did say your father's wrath would be swift," he said, eyeing poor Rupert, who was still bleeding profusely onto the straw. "I suppose I had not expected it to be quite so inept."

I stuck my chin in the air and didn't say anything. A princess knows when certain things are below her dignity.

Vexor snapped his fingers and his minions snapped to attention. "Chain him up," he ordered, indicating Rupert. "Strip him of his weapons and armor."

"But he's bleeding!" I protested. "He might die."

"It appears to me," said Vexor, "to be a flesh wound merely," and with a curt nod, he swept out of the room.

* * *

Once Vexor had gone, the minions stripped poor Rupert of his armor and took his sword, his shortsword, his daggers, and even his nail-studded boots. Then they manacled his ankle to the floor and clanked off sniggering, the brutes.

I sat down next to him on the straw and pondered our tragic fate. Perhaps Rupert and I were doomed to die together at the hands of the Dark Lord, our relationship unconsummated and, I had to admit, largely nonexistent. He seemed a nice enough bloke and he did have cheekbones like knife blades, but I had to admit that, strictly speaking, we had not yet become close. Still, I had pulled an arrow out of his leg and in all the ballads that always signals True Love. Tired of watching him sleep, I reached out and shook him by the shoulder.

He came awake with a groan. "Roderick, I told you I wanted to sleep in—" His eyes focused on me and he let out another groan. "It's true then, isn't it? I've been captured by the Dark Lord?"

"Yes, unfortunately," I said. "But take heart, brave knight. We may yet escape."

"I hardly see how," he said peevishly. "You pulled that arrow out of my leg, didn't you?"

"Yes." I beamed and waited for thanks.

His sculpted lip twisted into a frown. "If your hamfisted attempts at medical treatment leave me with an unsightly scar, your father had better be prepared to handsomely recompense me for my mental anguish." His blue eyes scanned the room. "Where are my belongings?"

"The Dark Lord took them," I told him.

He collapsed back on the straw. "Then we are doomed," he moaned. "My enchanted armor! My inlaid daggers! My sword Durendal, that can cut through anything! I am helpless without them!"

"You named your sword?" My father always said that only prats named their swords.

He gave me a very unpleasant look. "Yes, and what of it?"

"Nothing," I said.

"I didn't actually think I'd be chosen as champion," Rupert confided suddenly. "I thought, why not try out? Seemed like a lark and there's not much to do if you're a sixteenth son, even if your father is the High King. And then I was picked and the money was pretty good. I couldn't say no. I suppose I wasn't thinking realistically. I never do. And now look. Cut off in my prime, not even twenty yet, ignominiously laid low by the blade of the sneaking enemy . . ."

I wanted to point out to him that it was his own fault for trying to crawl in the tower window in broad daylight and that the enemy hadn't been so much sneaking as simply doing their jobs. But I couldn't get a word in edgewise. He was already complaining about how if he ever recovered he'd probably limp forever and Vexor was probably off somewhere trying on his mail and stretching it all out of shape. For someone so handsome, he has an awfully squeaky voice.

* * *

Rupert continues to be useless. I thought he might get a bit better once his leg healed up, but he hasn't. He just lies on the straw and rattles his chains and sometimes he turns his face to the wall and murmurs that death befits a prince better than vile imprisonment.

"You know," I said to him today, "we should really work on escaping."

He gave me a hateful look. "If you hadn't noticed, Princess, I'm chained to the floor, and helpless without my weapons and armor."

Because you were so much use with them, I thought darkly. "Well, I'm not chained to the floor. The least you could do is help me think of a way for us both to escape. You're a prince and a hero, you must have escaped from dungeons before."

"This isn't a dungeon."

"You know what I mean."

He turned his face to the wall. "Leave me alone. I am disgraced, ruined. You're just a girl, you couldn't possibly understand."

I ignored this. "There's no way out through the window, since I can't possibly climb down and anyway, I'd be seen. It has to be the door. There must be some way to pick those locks. . . ."

"There isn't," muttered Rupert, who had been pretending to not listen.

I ignored him. I already knew that the door was three feet thick at least and made of oak. I supposed I could try to take Rupert's belt buckle away from him and tunnel through it, but it would take at least ten years to make it through to the other side. Maybe I could tunnel under it . . . ?

Then again, Father always said that the best way to deal with a seemingly insoluble problem was to try to look at it from the opposite side. An idea popped into my head.

I snapped my fingers. "Give me your belt buckle."

"What? No. You're mad. What could you possibly want with my—get off me! Thief! Madwoman! Leave me alone!"

* * *

It wasn't nearly as hard to take the hinges off the door with Rupert's belt buckle as I'd thought it would be. They popped off so quickly that for a moment I was worried that the door would swing out and hit me in the head, but it didn't.

"You can't just leave me here!" Rupert wailed as I levered the door open and slipped through the gap. "I'll scream until the guards come! You'll get caught!"

I popped my head back into the room. "Be quiet. I'm just getting the keys to unlock your manacles. I'll come back."

Rupert looked unconvinced. "You'll probably get caught and killed anyway."

"Then you won't be any worse off than before."

The hallway outside was bare with a vaulted ceiling and torches spaced at intervals. It was quite clean and neat; Vexor had good housekeeping. I took a torch down off the wall and crept down the corridor.

All the halls seemed to be deserted. I was just congratulating myself on my stealth when I turned the end of the corridor and smacked directly into a guard. I nearly knocked him over; he gave a bellow of surprise, righted himself, and came at me yelling and waving his sword.

I was hastily backing up when I realized from the striped helmet and the dimunitive size that this was Tiny. He swung the sword up and came at me from the left, but I was prepared—I ducked out of the way and hit him over the head with the torch. He went down with a grunt and strong smell of singed ear hair.

"I told you not to always feint from the left," I said severely, and bent down to grab him by the feet.

He was very heavy to drag and I'm afraid I hit his head against several uneven steps before I found a door, pushed it open, and hauled him inside. It was only after I'd dropped his feet and straightened up and looked around that I realized I'd wandered straight into Vexor's private chambers.

They were really quite plain. There was a long table covered with maps of the Four Kingdoms, some couches, and a high black bed hung all around with long glimmering curtains. They had the constellations picked out across them in slivers of what looked like either diamonds or glass. The bed was empty. I wonder where he is, I thought, turning around nervously.

It was then that I caught sight of him, wrapped in his black robes, lying prone across one of the couches against the wall. I was too shocked to scream, which turned out to be a good thing for two reasons. The first was that he was fast asleep. The second was that lying on the floor by the couch was Prince Rupert's sword and his mail armor, quite neatly folded.

I set the torch into a bracket on the wall and crept over to Vexor. I suppose I ought really to have been more frightened but he did seem so very asleep. Up close, without the mask on, he looked much younger and his hair was ordinary brown and in need of brushing. He had long eyelashes. If it hadn't been for the familiar boots and the black robes, I wouldn't have even guessed it was him.

I snatched up the mail and the sword and retreated to the other side of the room. Much as I would have liked a change of clothes, it didn't seem the time or place. I shrugged the mail on over what I was wearing—Prince Rupert wasn't that much taller than I was, so it only bunched a bit—buckled on the weapons belt, sheathed the sword, and, as an afterthought, pinched Tiny's helmet. I apologized to him when I did it; I had a feeling the other minions wouldn't be too pleased with him when he woke up.

The mail clanked so much that I was worried it would wake up Vexor, but he didn't stir. Which was a good thing because as soon as I slipped out the door, I discovered that the hallway was full of guards. Why, oh why, did they have to go everywhere together? Before I had a chance to go for my sword, the one in front spoke, "Oi! Boris! What's going on?"

He thought I was Tiny! I pitched my voice low. "Nothing," I grunted.

"Thorvald thought he heard a noise," the guard went on, eyeing me.

Thorvald was the huge one. I looked at him with loathing. "I was just . . ."

"Where's Vexor?"

"Not around," I said quickly. "Gone to visit relatives."

"I didn't know he had any," said Thorvald.

They really were useless, I thought furiously. "He left explicit orders," I said. "We're to practice our underwater fencing all afternoon until he returns."

"But none of us can swim!"

"Time to learn, then!" I cried. "To the lake!"

Thorvald took up the cry. "To the lake! Everyone!"

The tromp of their boots hid the noise as I quietly slipped away and back down the corridor. When I got back to the tower, Rupert was sitting up against the wall moodily chewing on a piece of straw. It fell out of his mouth when he saw me. "How . . . ?"

I swung the sword at his chains and it cut right through them as if they were butter. "We'd better go," I said. "All the minions are down at the lake practicing their underwater fencing, but I doubt they'll stay down there forever."

Rupert goggled at me. "I can't believe it!"

I allowed myself a smirk. "I know, I can't believe it either. I've rescued us!"

"No, I meant I can't believe you're wearing my mail! You'll stretch it all out of shape!" He rubbed his chafed wrists and eyed me resentfully. "Give it back!"

* * *

Seems like I haven't written in this diary forever but actually we've only been on the road a few days. Thank heaven we finally found a wayside inn. If I'd had to hear Rupert complain one more time that the dry mountain air makes his hair frizz, I would have chopped it all off in his sleep.

I'd say I've never had such a hard time traveling before, but the truth is I've never traveled anywhere much. I guess that's why all the villages looked so small and poor to me and the people so dispirited. Somehow I was expecting the peasantry to be a bit more hearty and cheerful. I said as much to Rupert but he just told me not to get too close to them because they probably have fleas.

On the third day I saw six or seven men and women being whipped in the central square of one of the villages. Over Rupert's objections I rode closer to ask the magistrate what they had done. He said they hadn't been able to pay their taxes that month. I couldn't help remembering what Vexor had said about the taxes being too high for people to pay them.

As we rode away I asked Rupert what the High King spends the tax money on. He scrunched up his face in thought. "Just the usual things," he said. "Concubines cost a lot more than you'd think. Peacocks. My mother's collection of gold swan boats." He reached out and petted me on the head. "Don't worry," he said, "younger sons aren't allowed to have concubines. When we get married, you'll have me all to yourself."

Rupert's finally gone downstairs for a drink; I think I'll have a bath while he's gone. I washed already, but I still feel dirty.

* * *

Fell asleep after my bath but was woken up shortly by the sound of drunken carousing. I could hear glass smashing, chairs being thrown, and loud yelling. I slid my feet into my boots and clomped furiously downstairs. The first sleep I've had in weeks that wasn't on dirty straw or hard ground and Rupert has to ruin it!

I thought maybe he'd gotten into a bar brawl—I could imagine any number of reasons someone would want to punch his smirking face—but it wasn't a brawl. It was just a bunch of drunken locals crowded around Rupert. He was sitting atop a table like the royalty I suppose he is, a tankard in each hand. "Of course the silly girl was no use at all," he was saying. "She was so grateful to be rescued she just wept and clutched onto my leg. It made it very difficult to fight my way through the crowds of the Dark Lord's soldiers, but I managed it. We did get into a spot of trouble when he imprisoned us, but luckily I had the bright idea of taking the hinges off the door . . ."

I though about stalking over there and upending a tankard in his lap, but it didn't seem worth it. There were tears in my eyes as I stumbled upstairs, not because I'd expected any better from Rupert, but because I hadn't. By the time I got back to my room my vision was swimming and I almost crashed into a small figure who'd been lurking outside the door, trying to look inconspicuous.

Even without the helmet I recognized him right away. "Oh," I sniffled. "Tiny! I'd better warn you," I added sternly. "I beat you once in combat, I can beat you again. You'd better leave me alone."

He paled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Did Vexor send you to bring me back?"

"I don't know anyone named Vexor."

I poked him in the chest, where the snake insignia was embroidered over his pocket. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh, Vexor. All right, I do work for him. But I'm on vacation. Just passing through. Nice to have bumped into you again. It's a warm night, isn't it? I think I'll go for a walk."

"Tiny," I began sternly. "I know perfectly well you've been following me. Why? Because if Vexor's trying to kidnap me back—"

Tiny sighed. "He's not," he said. "He just told me to follow you to the border and look out for you. Report back if anything . . . happened to you."

"An unlikely story."

"Vexor's not such a bad sort," Tiny said, rubbing his bald spot thoughtfully. "I know he seems stern and forbidding and all that, but he means well, and he was kind of fond of you. He's just been moping out by the fountain every day since you've gone."

"You have to say he's not so bad. You're a minion."

"I'm not a minion," Tiny protested, with some spirit. "I'm a soldier. I applied for the job and everything. Vexor pays us all regularly and he never beats us if we don't pay our taxes. You can't say that for the High King."

I shuffled my feet around in my boots. "I suppose not."

He eyed me thoughtfully. "Vexor thinks the Prince isn't very likely to actually marry you," he confided. "He seems to think he's a bad lot, although possibly he just doesn't trust royalty."

"We're not all bad," I said. "Look, Boris—could you wait here for a moment? There's something I have to do." I smiled at his startled expression. "I'll be right back."

* * *

It only took us half as long to get back to Castle Bonespire as it had to leave it—apparently Rupert got us lost more than once. Tiny took the direct route, although he didn't mind me stopping in all the villages to distribute the contents of Rupert's purse to the peasantry.

Tiny said it was likely that the innkeeper back in town would be very displeased with Rupert when he found out that Rupert had no money to pay for his rooms, his food, or all the ale he'd drunk. At least he didn't have to worry about the cost of keeping his horse, since I stole it, along with Rupert's mail coat, his sword, and his boots, to which I had become oddly attached.

From a distance, Castle Bonespire actually looks quite pretty. Its towers stand out against the sky like lacework and the lake sparkles. I put on the mail shirt, buckled the sword on, took Tiny's helmet, and told him to wait for me on the far side of the crevasse. He waved at me as I galloped over the drawbridge.

A few of the soldiers tried to stop me as I rode in through the gate, but I batted them aside with the flat of my blade. I was very mindful not to hurt them and I think even the one that I knocked into the manure pile won't hold any hard feelings for very long.

There were a whole group of them chasing me by the time I got to the central courtyard. Vexor was there, sitting on the edge of the fountain with his chin on his knees, his black cloak blowing around him. He wasn't wearing his mask. He looked up as I rode in and his eyes widened. "You," he said, beginning to rise to his feet.

I pushed the visor on my helmet back. "Me," I said.

He looked astonished. "You," he said again, but in a very different tone. "What are you doing here?"

I slid off the horse and knelt down at his feet. "I have come to present myself as your champion," I said.

"What?" For a moment I thought he was going to topple into the fountain. He ran a hand through his untidy hair in a distracted manner, and stared at me. "No. You can't possibly."

"I don't see why not," I said. "I've escaped Castle Bonespire, defeated your minions in single combat—"

"They're not minions, they're soldiers."

"Whatever. How many people have ever broken out of your fortress? Not many, I bet."

"Certainly you are the first one who has ever come back afterwards," Vexor said dryly.

"That's because I want to be your champion," I said. "Fight for your cause. At least mostly. There are some details we need to work out, but they're minor."

Vexor sat down heavily on the side of the fountain. "What kind of details?"

"Well, I won't fight with you against my father," I said. "But I don't think that'll be a problem, because it seems to me your real fight is with the High King, and none of the other kings like him anyway. If you could get them on your side, you'd be in a much stronger position."

"But they hate me," Vexor said. "You said so. Everyone hates me. Even the peasants are afraid of me."

"Well, of course they are. Look at you, hiding up here in the mountains, wearing all black, dressing your minions—"

"Soldiers."

"Whatever. Dressing them up in snake helmets, calling yourself Vexor the Dark Lord. Would you trust a man called Vexor the Dark Lord?"

"If his cause was just, I would—"

I shot him a look.

"Probably not," he admitted. "I just thought it would all be easier if everyone was afraid of me."

"Not at all," I said. "You'll see when I take you to meet my father. I'm sure he'll like you much better than he would have liked Prince Rupert."

"Rupert is a smug weasel," Vexor said. "He's my cousin, you know."

"Is he?" I got up from where I had been kneeling and went to sit next to Vexor on the edge of the fountain. "What's your real name, anyway?"

He smiled. He had quite a nice smile. "Simon," he said.

"That's a lovely name." I scooted closer to him on the side of the fountain. "I was thinking," I said. "Maybe it would help if your men had more cheerful uniforms. Like, if they were blue. Or even pink."

Simon looked at me thoughtfully. "Pink minions?" he said.

"You mean soldiers."

He grinned. "Whatever," he said.

She Stuffs to Conquer

or
An Army Marches on Its Stomach

Yvonne Coats

Crowded in here, isn't it? Hang on a minute while I shift my gear, and you can sit at the counter. All the sweets are great here . . . Oh, you know the menu already.

You say I look familiar, huh?

Yes, I'm Gloria Mondee, but I'm not working right now.

Yeah, I used to be called Little Glo, and a bunch of other names I never bothered to remember. And you can knock off that "Glorious Gloria" crap right now, or this conversation is over before it starts.

That pile of metal next to the wall is the "famous" armor. You didn't think it would be so pink? That's not pink. It's heart's blood red! Hmm, maybe it has faded a little. It's pretty old gear, I guess. It belonged to my mother and who knows how many women before her.

Listen, we'll get along better if you don't call me "ma'am," even if I am a person of substance these days.

You want to know how I went from being Little Glo to what I am today? My parents had a lot to do with it. Mom was a pretty gifted heavy cavalry officer in her day, and Dad—well, Dad was, and is, one of the best pastry chefs back home.

Are you really curious about this stuff? Well, okay, buy me lunch (I warn you that I'm a hearty eater), and I'll tell you the whole story, or as much of it as you'd want to know.

About ten years ago I broke both legs below the knees when my horse and I parted company on rocky ground. So there I was, flat on my back in bed, with big thick boards strapped to both legs, unable to get up, or even pee, without help. Let me tell you, it's deadly dull, especially if you can't read, and what first-ranked cavalry officer can?

Anyway, the duchess's troops—what duchess? It doesn't matter, they're all pretty much alike, just pay-masters, or -mistresses, who hire troops for dirty, dangerous jobs. These particular troops were moving out, my legs weren't anywhere near healed, and my mood was pretty foul. Long story short: They sent me back to my dad's to recover. Or not.

I arrived at Dad's tavern in style, on the back of a haywain. It's a comfortable enough ride, but dirty. I had hay and dust in places a lady doesn't mention. I'll show you where, later.

So there I am, wobbly on my crutches, glad to be off the wagon but not too happy about reaching my destination. I expected to die from boredom before my legs healed.

* * *

"If you keep eating like that, Glo, you're never going to fit into your mother's armor," Dad said.

"Golly, that would be bad, right?" the sixteen-year-old me retorted. I took another bite of plain, grilled trout and washed it down with chamomile tea. I hadn't had any of Dad's home brew since I started arms training. Lean and mean, that was me.

"I'm starting to think you'll never be woman enough to fill it." Dad's face turned as red as Mom's armor, but that didn't stop me.

"I'd never want to be as much woman as 'Sherma the Trough.' "

"That's Sherma the Tank!"

"Trough, tank—who'd want to be called after that big, huge, enormous round thing that horses drink out of?"

As if I'd reminded him, Dad walked over to the tavern's trough and ducked his head and shoulders in, almost up to his waist. His way of cooling his temper. After he shook off he came up close to me, slicking his thin hair back with both hands.

"Look, girl, I don't want to argue with you. I just want to do what your mother asked and make sure you take her armor when you join up with the mercenaries."

I couldn't imagine lugging all that heavy pink junk around, even if it had been Mom's dying wish, which it might have been. "Dad—"

"I'll give you an extra horse, for your gear." It was a bribe, and a good one.

I thought briefly about selling both the extra horse and the useless armor at the first opportunity, but one look at my dad's open, homely face told me that I never would.

He said something funny before I left, though. "Don't ever put it on unless you're sure you're big enough. Promise me, Glo." Since I couldn't imagine willingly ever strapping on anything so bright, bulbous and ugly, I promised.

* * *

So I still had the extra suit of armor with me when I wound up back at the tavern. I'd gained a bit of weight since breaking my legs, but I wasn't in Mom's class. Dad fixed that, though. He refused to listen to my requests for simple, small meals and instead plied me with all his specialities: butter-drenched croissants, butter-drenched spice bread, butter-drenched potatoes, butter-drenched . . . well, you get the idea. And the desserts must have been made of nothing but butter and sugar and air—and in Dad's kitchen, even the air was fattening.

Cooped up in the tavern, or out on a bench in the courtyard, food became my entertainment. I tried taking lessons on the mandolin and the lute, but music bores me unless there's a good-looking musician attached to the instrument. By the way, do you play anything? What? I'm just asking. Keep your shirt on. For now, anyway.

Since I couldn't get into leggings or trews while my legs were broken, I'd taken to wearing some silk robes that had been my mother's. They were soft and bright and roomy, and so comfortable after leather and armor that I didn't really mind wearing them. When they unwrapped my legs, I still had to use the crutches because my legs had gotten so weak. It seemed like I weighed double what I had before, but I told myself that's because I'd been off my feet for so long.

When I finally tried to strap on my leggings, they didn't fit. And the jerkins and doublets? Forget about it! I tottered downstairs and out to the kitchen and started yelling.

* * *

"It will take me months to get back in shape! How could you do this to me?"

"You're still strong, Glo," Dad soothed. "You train for a couple of months, and you'll be as good as new."

"And about as light-footed as a plough horse."

Dad's face grew very still, and he looked me over from head to foot. "Try on the armor, now."

"Mom's armor? You're kidding."

"No, now you're ready for it."

"Well, it will certainly fit, but I don't see what good it will do. I'll still be wheezing after the first fancy footwork I try."

* * *

When Dad finally shooed me out of the kitchen, I pulled myself upstairs and stood in my room, looking at the trunk where the armor was stowed.

Eventually I pulled it out and put it on. By the time I picked up the helmet my body tingled all over. I thought I'd have to fumigate the old stuff, that cooties had gotten into it.

The armor was infested all right, and with a rare sort of pest, but I didn't know that right away.

When I put the helmet on, I heard a voice. Sherma?

I whirled around faster than I'd thought I could on my formerly busted legs. Nobody else was in the room.

Sherma? I heard it again, all around me.

"No, it's her daughter, Gloria Mondee." Silence. Just when I was sure I'd imagined the voice, it came again.

Baby Glo?

I snorted. "Not for a long time now."

Then Sherma is—

"Dead, when I was ten. Crushed while moving beer barrels into the cellar—one got loose. Who are you?" But I thought I already knew.

If I ever had a name, it's gone now. You can call me "Amory."

" 'Amory' the armor, who gets stored in the armory? You're kidding, right?"

I used to be an armorer, I remember that. At my deathbed there was a man, my patron perhaps, who swore that my spirit would live on in the glorious armor I'd made for his lady. This (I swear I could hear Amory shrug) seems to be what he meant.

"So, Amory, can you do anything besides talk?"

And, of course, he could, and the price for using the armor was a pleasure to pay, except maybe for getting called Big Pink for the first couple of years.

Why do I call him "he"? I never thought about it, but I guess it's 'cause he nags like a man. What? Sorry, I meant he nags like my dad—is that more "acceptable" language?

As for the price, you can probably guess. The armor helps me fight, makes me damn near invulnerable—maybe not to one of those exploding projectiles they have up north, but we haven't put it to the test yet. In return, I feed it.

Remember that tingling sensation I mentioned? That was the armor, feeding. Off me. I'm lucky that he only needs to feed when someone wears it. I guess he's not really "awake" unless someone's inside. Anyway, he never remembers anything when I'm not using him. Even so, the cost of my combat rations alone has caused some employers to reconsider the length of their campaigns.

After a week-long engagement I've lost as much as fifty pounds. Just wearing the armor around for a week uses about five. You'd think the armor would get big and clumsy when I lose a lot of weight, but it always feels just right when I have it on. That's magic for you.

So that's why you found me in a bakery rather than a tavern. None of the taverns around here know how to make a decent dessert, and I need about ten a day on top of my regular food, to maintain my fighting weight. Beer's good, too, but I get hung over if I drink enough to do the armor any good.

This might be my last fighting season, though I'm still pretty young. I'd like to settle down, maybe have some kids. It's nice being famous and practically invulnerable, but that suit is a real chatterbox. Vain, too.

You say you'd like to talk to Amory? No, you wouldn't. Besides, the only way to hear him would be to put on the armor, and I don't like to think what it would do to a skinny fellow like you. For that matter, it's not really . . . configured . . . for a man. It might be dangerous. You'll just have to take my word.

Anyway, you asked, and that's my story.

Now, what's yours?

You're no soldier, that's obvious. You don't look rich enough to be a prospective employer—also, you're too polite. And you already told me that you don't play an instrument, so I guess you're not a bard or a skald or whatever they're called in these parts. So, who are you, and what's your calling?

"Louie Baker"—that's a good name. Easy to remember. And you work here? As a pastry chef? Why, Louie, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . .

The Gypsy Queen

Catherine H. Shaffer

"It's a shame," Lorayne said as she nudged the gold-lamé-draped corpse of the evil sorceress Amygdala. "That fabulous outfit is ruined."

Coedric knelt down and pulled the amulet from around Amygdala's neck. Coedric (sedrick) of the Coelacanth (seelacanth) Clan was a powerful young man, a hand shorter than Lorayne, but mighty-thewed—a grimly efficient fighter from the wild and frigid north. His helm bore the likeness of his clan's totem fish, and he wore the coelacanth tattooed on his smooth bicep as well. He made a neat complement to Lorayne's lean, aristocratic figure, with her dusky skin, black eyes, and killer fashion sense.

"I'll take that, if you don't mind," said a smooth voice behind them.

Ordinarily, this was Lorayne's favorite part of the fight—the witty repartee. Lord Guano was a flamboyant ham of an evil overlord, and never missed an opportunity to say campy things like Seize them! and Foiled again! It was actually more fun than working for the law-and-order side, which tended to be priggish paper pushers. Of course, at least working for the good guys, she could count on a paycheck. Guano's credit with the mercenary guild was terrible. And this time, there was more at stake than a paycheck.

Lorayne turned to find Lord Guano framed by the tacky gold-gilt carvings. "You'll have it when you deliver my sister to me outside the city walls, with horses, rations, and water—as you promised."

Guano made a moue at them. "Oh, dear," he said. "I completely forgot about that." He put a hand to his cheek, then said, "No, I don't think so. Guards." With a gesture of his hand, a phalanx (Guano had a huge phalanx) of guards appeared and took hold of Lorayne and Coedric. Guano grabbed the amulet out of Coedric's hand.

"You filthy bastard," Coedric growled.

"Language, Coedric," muttered Lorayne. Louder, she said, "Really, Guano, darling, double-crossing is a nice touch, but we're playing it straight today. Give me my sister or die."

Guano frowned, and turned to Coedric. "What's she talking about?"

Coedric translated. "You filthy bastard!"

"Ah, yes, thank you," Guano answered. And to Lorayne, he said, "I'm sorry, my dear, but Esmerelda is too great a prize. I find I cannot part with her. I have no more use for you now. Take them to the dungeon."

The guards moved in on Lorayne and Coedric. "Wait!" Lorayne cried out. She thrust forward one long, lean, smooth leg, bare under a mail skirt, as per union bellatrix contract clause 739. "Take me instead," she invited, giving Guano her most seductive smile. Lorayne had always been the pretty sister. She was taller, thinner, with more dramatic coloring and tighter buns. Esmerelda tended to bookishness and heavy thighs.

Lord Guano laughed. "Not this time, my dear." He paused, looking confused. "No, somehow you're just not my type."

As the guards dragged them out of the room, Lorayne unwillingly delivered the standard tag line: "You won't get away with this."

* * *

Lorayne had lived within Amygdala's citadel for three months, disguised as a traveling dancer—aptly suited to her Romany background. Her time had been well spent, mapping every nook and cranny of the fortress. "Coedric," said Lorayne under her breath. "Ten, fourteen, twenty-nine, five, on three."

Coedric glanced sidelong at her and nodded. They walked along a curving hallway, and just ahead, it opened into a rotunda.

"One," said Lorayne.

"Shut up," said one of her guards.

"Two," said Lorayne.

"I said, 'Shut up,'" said the guard.

Lorayne turned and smiled at him, without breaking her graceful stride, which, she noticed with some satisfaction, the guard had trouble keeping up with. "Three," she said to him softly, then shoved him against the wall and brought her knee up hard between his legs. Anticipating an attack from the left side, Lorayne raised a fist, back-punching her other guard. She heard a scream that she knew was one of Coedric's guards falling over the rotunda railing, and landing with a thud two stories below. Coedric and Lorayne looked at each other, as the last guard stood between them, his weapon raised.

"Mine," said Coedric.

"Okay." Lorayne rolled her eyes. "Be that way."

* * *

Even at two in the afternoon, the Mincing Pony was dim and crowded. A shirtless serving boy moved between tables, weighed down by half a dozen tankards of ale. A hand snaked out from one of the long wooden tables to pinch his buttocks. The boy's eyes widened, but he didn't spill a drop.

"Lorayne!" squealed the Pony's owner, Barbara Faw. Mistress Faw was Romany herself, and she greeted Lorayne like a sister. An imposing woman, Barbara dispersed a group of teenaged footpads from a table and cleared it off for Lorayne and Coedric. Exhausted from the flight from Amygdala's citadel, Lorayne accepted gratefully. Of all the places in the world, the Mincing Pony was the closest thing to a home that she had.

All of her life, Lorayne had dreamed of being a swordmaiden. From earliest childhood, she had fenced with her shadow, with her cousins, with anyone who would hold a stick. She grew tall, strong, graceful, and yet her dream seemed only to slip further and further out of her grasp, for, lo, Lorayne was a boy, and her mother insisted on calling her Loris.

Here's a perfectly fine shirt of mail, Loris, her mother would say. And, Try this nice leather jerkin. But nothing would avail. It was Esmerelda's silks and dancing skirts she craved. And for fighting, she favored a stiff leather bodice that laced up in back, stuffed in front with stout woolen socks, and a pair of skin-tight pants, capris in the summer, with tiny slits just below the knee. When she came of age, she took up the profession of mercenary, and it wasn't long before she became known as the Gypsy Queen.

Coedric had already been drawn into a rowdy conversation with a group of barbarian body builders. "You see," Coedric said, rolling up his sleeve to display the totem fish tattooed on his arm, "the Coelacanth is wily, but he's not weak. Back in fifty-two, our clan had a dispute with Muskellunge clan that broke out into fighting. The Muskellunge bastards outnumbered us Coelacanths two to one—"

"Shhh! Coedric!" Lorayne gestured toward the other end of the tavern where a pair of Muskellunge clansmen sat glowering at them. Coedric ignored her.

Lorayne pouted. Her feelings about her longtime fighting partner were, to say the least, conflicted. She would almost have thought she was in love with him. And, on occasion, she thought he returned those feelings. Certainly he saved her life often enough. But that wasn't the confusing part. The heart that beat inside Lorayne was all woman, but she found that in matters of love, her inclinations leaned toward women also. Crossing swords was very well by day, but under the covers this was a prospect that made her squeamish. She cursed the fate that had made her such a freak. Life would be so much easier if she were a normal transgendered barbarian swordswoman, but, no, she had to be a lesbian, as well. And that was what she couldn't understand about her feelings for Coedric.

As for Coedric, he refused to speak of his past. Lorayne had always felt that he had secrets from her, that he had a lover back home. At least if he would admit it, she would know whom to be jealous of.

She pouted some more while he tried to impress the barbarian body builders. Then the minstrel walked by, all dressed in green silk with her Adam's apple sticking out, and she hadn't even bothered to shave her arms. Coedric pinched her behind, and Lorayne couldn't watch anymore.

Barbara Faw plopped a pitcher of ale on the table along with a plate of roast duck and some hard rolls. Lorayne wrenched her thoughts to the problem at hand—how to save Esmerelda from Lord Guano.

The minstrel took up position in a corner of the room and began to sing, accompanying herself on the lute. Her voice was a dusky tenor, as she breathed out the first lines of her ballad, "I made it through the wilderness, you know I made it through-ooh-ooh."

Suddenly, Mistress Faw was at her elbow, whispering urgently. "The back door, Lorayne, hurry!" Lorayne looked up to see a half dozen guards in Lord Guano's colors, scarlet and gold, pouring through the Pony's front door. Mistress Faw intercepted them with an enthusiastic greeting, and two half-naked serving boys sidled up, smiling. The Pony's patronage was nothing if not loyal. Even the displaced footpads closed ranks around them, blocking the guards' view.

Lorayne grabbed Coedric's arm and made for the back entrance. But chaos broke out in front of them. One of the guards shoved a barbarian body builder, and the minstrel dropped her lute and smashed a clay pitcher over the guard's head. Another guard yanked her by the arm, and then all of the barbarian body builders jumped into the fight. In the midst of the melee, two of Guano's guards spotted Lorayne and Coedric making for the back door and ran to intercept them. Lorayne and Coedric elbowed through the crowd and turned to face the guards, their swords hissing out of their scabbards.

Two guards would have been no match for Coedric the Coelacanth and the legendary Gypsy Queen, but as fate would have it the two Muskellunge clansmen sulking at the far end of the tavern jumped up at that moment.

"Die, Coelacanth!" they shouted with rage, when they spotted Coedric, and then their clan battle cry, "Magnificent Mauling Muskellunge!" It took the drunken clansmen several tries to utter it.

Lorayne found herself facing two soldiers as the clansmen focused their attack on Coedric. She was a highly accomplished swordswoman, and was able to parry their first attacks with disdainful finesse, but she knew that before long one of them would slip under her guard.

Out of the chaos, Barbara Faw appeared. She threw a blanket over the guards' heads. Momentarily free, Lorayne turned on the Muskellunge men and forced them back. "Coedric, come!" she yelled, making for the back door. Reluctantly, Coedric followed.

As they ran down the alley behind the Mincing Pony, Barbara Faw followed. "Take a right!" she hissed. Lorayne and Coedric dodged into an even smaller alley that was not more than a crevice between two buildings, too narrow even for a horse. They heard cries behind them, booted feet pelting down the alleyway, scattering gravel. Barbara opened a door cleverly hidden in the stone wall and shoved them in.

The door closed on perfect darkness just as the pursuing guards ran by. Lorayne heard one call out, only inches away, then the voices faded.

The room was tiny, and crowded with three people in it. Something was stacked along the back wall and from the smell Lorayne surmised it was dried fish. "Oh, goddess," she said. "I am never going to get this smell out of my leathers."

Coedric inhaled deeply, and as Lorayne's eyes adjusted she could see dimly that he had a fierce grin on his face, only inches from her own. "The smell o' the northlands, love. That's the smell of home."

"Gross," said Lorayne, without much feeling, since she was distracted by being pressed up against Coedric. Maybe it would work, she thought, if I just pretended . . .

"What do we do now?" said Coedric. "Go back to Amygdala's coetidel?"

"Stop that!" said Lorayne.

"What?" said Coedric.

"You know very well, what," said Lorayne.

"I coertainly do not," said Coedric.

"You did it again!"

"Hush!" said Barbara Faw, as more voices passed by in the alley. When all was quiet again, she spoke. "This Lord Guano has your sister, Lorayne, right? And he intends to marry her?"

"Yes," Lorayne answered.

"The Serpent God he worships requires forty days of fasting and a sacrificial goat for a wedding. Guano will be unwilling to wait. And he will be too cheap to pay for the goat. Not to mention the portrait-maker, the flowers, and the cake. And his family would never get along with yours."

Lorayne nodded. "I hadn't thought of that. Seating arrangements would be impossible."

"There's only one place Guano can take her where the rituals will be sufficiently . . . expedited . . . for his tastes," said Barbara.

Lorayne and Coedric exchanged glances in the dark, then said, in unison, "G'morra."

"Now," said Barbara, "We'll need disguises. Lorayne, we'll dress you as a boy—"

"Forget it," said Coedric. "She could never pass as a boy."

"Here's what we're going to do . . ." said Barbara.

* * *

The lights of G'morra were visible miles away as Lorayne, Coedric, and Barbara made their way across the Zyndian wastes. Barbara rode in a carriage borrowed from a certain young noble who owed Mistress Faw a debt of gratitude for her discretion. The nature of the Mincing Pony disposed a lot of wealthy people to be helpful to its proprietress. Coedric sat up front, driving the horses, while Lorayne rode a horse, quietly pouting in her plain soldier's garb: leather jerkin (flat), shirt of mail, bracers, gauntlets, leggings (not capris), rough leather boots, and man's surcoat. The unfamiliar clothing chafed her. Barbara Faw had even denied her the comfort of foundation garments. She cast a jealous glance at Barbara, draped in scarlet silks inside the carriage.

Barbara caught her look, "For goodness sake, Lorayne. You can be the Queen of Sheba on the way home!"

Lorayne sniffed. "That's what you said last time!"

Coedric snorted, giving the reins a jiggle. "Stay in character, Loris." Coedric was disgruntled as well, having been forced to put aside his coelacanth helm, and don the lavender livery of the imaginary nation of Sheba.

Lorayne straightened her shoulders, cleared her throat, and attempted a masculine grunt. Her one comfort was that she had some emergency supplies in one of her saddlebags: a compact, face powder, hoop earrings, a very sharp razor, and some moist towelettes.

Their small delegation was welcomed through the gates, into the city of G'morra, where a festival was held every day of the year. They drove up the main thoroughfare, towards the center of the city. G'morra, known as Vaygas among the Southerners, was laid out in concentric circles, penetrated by spokes. Around the inner circle were arrayed villas owned by all of the wealthy nobles of the realm. Since G'morra was liberal in its allowance of entertainments, many of the grandest balls, tournaments, and feasts were held here. The second circle hosted G'morra's permanent courtesans, courtiers, minstrels, elvish impersonators, and others who provided services to the nobility. In their leisure time, the courtesans, courtiers and their ilk visited the third circle, which was occupied by the bakers, butchers, armorers, grocers, common prostitutes, and inns with a triple-A diamond rating of three or less. The butchers, bakers, and common prostitutes could often be found in the fourth ring of the city, associating with the loan sharks, pickpockets, con artists, street musicians and lowly whores, purchasing tobacco and lottery tickets at the hop-in. And so the cycle was perpetuated, unto the eighth ring, where, it was said, there was no finer place on earth to go to drink yourself to death—if, that is, you could evade the cutthroats long enough to do it.

The main road into the center, though, was the most magnificent, and most decadent part of G'morra. Here dozens of taverns had sprung up, devoted to gambling and gaming in all its variations. Each one was more spectacular than the last, brightly lit all night and day, loud and boisterous, with prettily dressed young men and women standing in front, inviting visitors inside with the promise of wealth. Lorayne, Coedric and Barbara made their way up the strip, with travelers pressing in close on either side, coming and going.

Mistress Faw led them toward a certain second-circle inn where she had a connection. Their path took them through the heart of the city, a grand open courtyard wherein peasants dressed in gypsy costumes danced around a maypole. Lorayne suppressed a grimace at the quality of the dancing.

Liveried guardsmen in colors even more garish than the lavender of Sheba (If there's no such place as Sheba, Coedric had growled, why can't we wear a sensible tartan?) lounged about in front of their lords' villas. One of them whistled at Lorayne, who nodded back politely.

As they rode, Coedric tipped his head toward Lorayne and said, "In the northlands, this city is called Coencoenatti."

Lorayne answered back, "There's so much wrong with that, I don't even know where to start."

They emerged into the second circle on the far side of the city, and parked the carriage in front of The Headless Horse. A flurry of servants greeted them, taking charge of the horses and disappearing with their baggage. It seemed only minutes before they were seated comfortably at a table in the inn's common room with a pitcher of ale and a bowl of rabbit stew.

The innkeeper appeared, a wiry man of indeterminate age. "Babsie!" he squeaked, sliding into a chair at the table.

"Shhh!" said Barbara Faw. "It's 'Your Highness' if you please."

"Right!" said the innkeeper, putting a hand over his mouth. "So sorry! What brings you to G'morra, Highness?"

"I come bearing a wedding gift for the Lord Guano," Barbara said.

"Lord Guano!" the innkeeper's voice dropped to a whisper. "Why just yesterday a rider came with a reservation for Lord Guano for the bridal suite at Sir Gallahad's Folly!"

"I knew it!" said Lorayne.

The innkeeper glanced up at Lorayne, and looked back and forth in confusion.

"Charles, these are my bodyguards, young Loris and Coedric."

"The pleasure is mine," said Charles. Lorayne nodded and Coedric grunted.

A serving girl arrived with more ale, and stopped to give Lorayne a lingering smile. Lorayne smiled back. Coedric scowled. "No one deserves to be that pretty," he complained. "Everywhere we go she has men and women falling all over her."

Lorayne blushed. Did this mean that Coedric found her pretty, or just that he was jealous?

"Charles, my wedding gift must be delivered at the occasion of the wedding, not later. Have you heard where that might be held? Lord Guano worships the snake god Lothar."

"Lothar!" said Charles. "Why then it would have to be the Little White Wedding Temple. Unless he went to the fourth circle. Guano's not cheap, is he?"

"Just try cashing one of his checks," said Lorayne, under her breath.

"Thank you so much, Charles," said Barbara. "We must away, then. No time to lose. We can't be late delivering Lord Guano's wedding gift, can we now?"

Coedric grinned and ran a thumb down the edge of the knife he was using to trim his nails.

* * *

The Little White Wedding Temple shared space in a cozy-looking ziggurat with several other wedding temples. Lorayne, Coedric, and Barbara entered through the mouth of a giant skull and found themselves in a small, but well-appointed Lothar worship space. A giant, stone carving of the seven-headed snake god himself loomed over the room. There was a blood-stained altar at the front, and a low rail surrounded the requisite pit of live poisonous snakes. There were only three rows of pews to accommodate witnesses. Two hulking men wearing nothing but skirts and black body paint lurked in a corner.

A hooded, black-robed priest swept out from behind the snake god. His eyes and lips were lined with black. He greeted the visitors with a smile. "Welcome! Welcome to the Little White Wedding Temple. And who is getting married today? The young man and the shieldmaiden?"

"Ha!" said Coedric as Lorayne glowered.

Barbara Faw cleared her throat. "Actually, we're here for the wedding of a . . . friend. I've come to surprise him with a gift."

"Hmmm . . ." said the priest. "We've had no advance reservations, but we get walk-ins all the time. Would you like a tour while you wait? Perhaps you'll choose us for your special day?"

Lorayne, Coedric, and Barbara looked at each other, then shrugged. "Sure," said Barbara.

"Right," said the priest. "We marry anyone, any age, sex or creed, no questions asked. The ceremony lasts just fifteen minutes and it's fully sanctioned, of course, by the snake god Lothar. We sacrifice a live chicken for you. If you want a goat it's extra. Minions of Lothar are included in your package, and Threlgor, here, will drag your victim to the edge of the snake pit and threaten to throw him or her in." One of the large, painted men smiled and waved. "Mithgar plays the drums. We can give you any atmosphere you want, from portentous to sinister. All weddings are strictly non-consensual. For a love match, you have to go next door to the Little Temple of Love."

"Oh," said Lorayne, "I thought this whole ziggurat was dedicated to Lothar."

"It is," said the priest. "Same god. Different manifestation. Next door, instead of the snake pit, you get champagne, and Threlgor plays the violin." Conspiratorially, he leaned in and whispered, "The minions are harmless as long as you tip them."

Threlgor smiled and waved again.

"Thank you, Father," said Barbara. "This has been most edifying. We wish to hold vigil, now, until our friend arrives for his wedding, and offer our prayers to the snake god for his . . . felicitations."

The priest beamed. "As you wish. Would you care for some drumming, or incense?"

"Oh, dear, don't go to any trouble on our account," Barbara answered, settling herself into a pew in a worshipful pose.

"Well, then, I'll be next door. We've got a big ceremony over there today. Must prepare." With that, the priest and his minions disappeared.

Hours passed, and the priest reappeared several times, shuffling candles around, throwing food into the snake pit, muttering to himself. When he disappeared again, Lorayne whispered to Barbara and Coedric. "Noon approaches, the most propitious time of day for a wedding under Lothar. Where is he?"

"Perhaps he wishes to marry tomorrow," said Barbara.

"But the bridal suite at Sir Gallahad's Folly . . . ?" Lorayne answered.

"I say we hunt him down. I've had enough of waiting," said Coedric.

"Shhh!" Lorayne hissed. Strains of violin music filtered in from the wedding next door.

They all gasped in horror. "That music! It can't be!"

"Pachelbel's Coemphony?" said Coedric.

"That's Canon in D, you uncoevilized clod!" Lorayne said, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

Barbara sucked in a breath. "I've just had a terrible thought," she said. "What if Esmerelda is getting married next door."

"No!" said Coedric.

"It can't be," said Lorayne. "That's some other Lothar worshipper. A happy couple. All non-consensual marriages are conducted here." But even as she said the words, she knew. Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. "I'll kill her!" shouted Lorayne as she jumped up from the pew.

Rather than going out the way they came, and running around outside the building, Lorayne led the way back behind the snake god and through the narrow, stone-walled hallways to the adjacent Little Temple of Love, following the hypnotic strains of Canon.

Bursting out from behind another giant carving of the seven-headed snake god, albeit one gilt with gold and looking friendlier than the previous manifestation, they came upon Lord Guano and Lorayne's sister Esmerelda holding hands in front of a flower strewn alter, with Threlgor playing yet another movement of Canon on the violin and accompanied by Mithgar on a pipe organ.

At Lorayne's sudden appearance, Esmerelda squealed. Lord Guano whirled, his tacky silver robes swirling about him. "What is the meaning of this?" he said, on cue.

"What are you doing?" Lorayne demanded. "How can you marry this scumball?"

"What are you doing?" Esmerelda shot back. "You weren't invited!"

"You love this man? He double-crossed us! I could have died trying to save you."

Esmerelda crossed her arms and pouted. She wore a fluffy white confection of a dress with ruffles and bows all over it that pinched rather unflatteringly at the waist. "What do you think it's like when your brother is prettier than you are? You were always the darling of the family. Guano is the only man who ever loved me best."

"What?" said Guano. "She . . . is a he?"

Lorayne winked at Guano.

"Lord Guano is a . . . filthy bastard," said Coedric. "Marry him and his bill collectors will be chasing you the rest of your life."

"Coedric!" said Esmerelda. "You have a lot of nerve! You're the worst of the lot, chasing . . . her"—Esmerelda pointed at Lorayne—"around like a lovestruck puppy."

Lorayne expected an angry retort from Coedric, but when she looked at him, his face was flushed red.

Sensibly, Barbara Faw took up the argument, sparing Lorayne and Coedric the need to speak further. "My dear, you're young. Why tie your future to this man when a whole life awaits you?"

Lord Guano shouted, "Seize them!"

"Stop!" cried the priest, who was waiting impatiently behind the altar. "There can be no blood shed in the Little Temple of Love. If you must fight, please go next door."

The guards, Lorayne, and Coedric shrugged, and started to turn.

"Wait!" shouted Esmerelda, and the assemblage stood still. "This is my choice. I'm here to marry the man I love, and that's Lord Guano. Loris, you can kill all of our guards and carry me off, back home to Mother, but the first chance I get I'm going to run away, and come back to my wuzzy bear." She smiled at Lord Guano, who blushed and smiled back. "You can stay, and help us bless this marriage, or you can be gone, but you can't keep us apart."

Lorayne hesitated. Guano was a terrible match for Esmerelda, and the family would never accept him. She could just see them sitting around the dinner table. Could someone please pass the rolls, Dad would say, and Esmerelda would fume and Guano would smile and pass the rolls with a compliment to the cook, and Mom would say Did I hear someone say something? I thought I heard someone talking, but it sounded like an Evil Overlord, and I'd never have one of those at my table. Of course, Lorayne had to admit, things would improve once the grandchildren started coming. They always did. And Guano would probably hook them up with some nice quality fenced furnishings and draperies and such. She sighed, and said, "Esmerelda, if this is truly what you want, then you have my blessing."

Minutes later, Lorayne stood at Esmerelda's side, her appearance altered with some scarves borrowed from Barbara, one wrapped around her head, and the rest stuffed down the front of her jerkin. Her arms were full of flowers. Coedric stood up for Lord Guano, his coelacanth helm (fetched from the carriage) proud atop his brow, although the groom wasn't entirely comfortable turning his back on the fierce clansman. Mistress Faw sat in the front row, weeping into a handkerchief. The priest of Lothar wrapped the couples' hands with an oily black cord, pronounced them man and wife, and presented them to the congregation. Mithgar appeared with a chilled bottle of champagne. "You two are just the sweetest couple," he said.

As Lord Guano and his new Lady disappeared down the aisle, Barbara Faw muttered, "I give them six months."

Moments later, the priest returned, looking vaguely embarrassed. "There is the small matter of the bill, which I'm afraid Lord Guano forgot to pay in his haste . . ."

Lorayne took out her purse and counted the money into his hand. Mithgar and Threlgor stood nearby, smiling obsequiously. Lorayne dropped a coin into each of their outstretched, black-tattooed palms.

Lorayne sighed and turned to Coedric, who was starting at her intently. "What?" she said.

To her mortification, Coedric dropped to one knee. "Will you marry me, Lorayne?" he said, "Or do I have to drag you next door?"

Lorayne covered her mouth. She didn't know what to say. Coedric half drew his sword, glowering at her.

"Coedric," she said, "you're my dearest friend, and I admit I've had moments where I thought we could be more, but, but . . ."

"But what?" said Coedric.

"I like women," Lorayne admitted, bursting into tears. She buried her face in a scarf.

Coedric stood up, and took her in his arms, pulling her close. "Oh, Lorayne," he said, "There's something I've been afraid to tell you. My true name is not Coedric," he said, taking a deep breath. "It's Coeleste. I, too, am a transgendered barbarian swordswoman."

Lorayne laughed through her tears and kissed Coedric as Threlgor began playing the wedding recessional behind them. "Fabulous," she said, finally, breaking away. "Coemply fabulous!"

Over the Hill

Jim C. Hines

Florence bundled her blankets and cloak tighter around her shoulders as she trudged through the snow. "Back when I was younger, I could march half a day without a break. Now I can't go half an hour without stopping to piss."

Millicent Redhand smirked. "Some of us expand with age," she said, patting her own thick trunk. "You shrank, so now you're stuck with a bladder the size of a chipmunk's."

Beside her, Grace the Bloody flashed a toothless scowl. "Less talking, more walking."

Florence rested her weight on her staff. "Don't worry, Grace. We'll get Jacob back."

"I know, Mother," she said. Florence sighed. Grace, two years Florence's senior, had taken to calling her "mother" almost a decade ago. Florence wasn't even sure Grace understood it was her grandson who had been kidnapped.

"Why didn't we hitch a ride with that wine merchant's caravan?" Florence asked. "Wait, I remember. Because somebody tried to seduce the driver."

"How was I supposed to know his wife was one of the guards?" asked Millie. "Besides, I was only trying to warm my hands."

Grace glanced back. "Do you need to borrow my mittens?"

Hoofbeats cut off Florence's retort. Millie looked at Florence, who listened for a moment, then said, "Sounds like a single rider."

Both women took up protective positions in front of Grace. Florence relaxed slightly when she saw the rider. The gold and green armor on the Appaloosa mare and her rider marked them as belonging to the Viscount's Guard.

The rider's armor was skimpier than that of her horse. Aside from a few bits of steel and bronze to protect her chest and nether regions, she wore only a long, green cape. Not the most practical uniform, but tradition was tradition. Millie gave a whistle of sympathy. "Folks say Guardswomen don't feel pain. Ha! You try donning cold breast-cups on a crisp midwinter morning and see if you feel anything else for the rest of the day. I used to stuff wool into mine to keep warm."

"You stuffed to keep warm," Florence repeated. "Right."

The rider drew to a halt. Florence could see the goosebumps from here. "Out of the way. I've no time for beggars and grandmothers today."

"Name and rank," Florence barked, loud enough to make Grace jump.

"Lissa, Scout Second Class." She drew her cape around herself. "Who are you, and what are you doing on the road on a morning like this?"

"We were heading toward Blind Snake River," Florence snapped. "Now we're arguing with a girl who can't bother to show her elders a bit of respect."

Lissa flushed. "The river is unsafe. Bandits have assailed travelers far better protected than yourselves. There have been robberies, kidnappings. . . ."

"We know. We'll take our chances," said Florence.

Lissa nudged her mount, and the horse trotted past to block the road. "Part of my duty is to protect the people of Adenkar. I'll take you back to town, where it's safe."

"Only if that wine merchant and his caravan have left," Millie muttered.

"We don't have time for this nonsense, girl. Who's your commanding officer?" Florence said.

"Baird Redbeard. And he'd be far less tolerant of your backtalk if he were here."

"Baird . . ." Florence glanced at Millie, who nodded.

"Stout fellow? Likes morning stars?"

"You know Baird?" she asked skeptically.

Millie leered. "Who do you think got him into chains, girl? You run along home and tell Baird that if he can't teach his Scouts manners, Millicent Redhand is going to give him the tongue-lashing of his life." She winked. "I may do it anyway, for old times' sake."

Lissa slid smoothly from the saddle, landing on the balls of her feet. "I can't let you pass. For all I know you could be spies for the bandits. I'd prefer not to fight, but I'll truss you up like hogs if that's what it takes."

"I don't think so," Millie said. "I've got nothing against bondage, but you're a bit scrawny for my taste."

Grace crossed her arms. "Want me to take care of her, Mother?" she asked in a voice that might have been threatening if it hadn't been so dry and hoarse.

Lissa patted her sword. "I don't want to use force."

Florence stepped forward, but her boot caught on a rock hidden in the snow. She stumbled, and Lissa reached out to catch her.

Florence's staff jabbed Lissa's sternum. Lissa dropped, gasping. Florence pressed the staff against Lissa's throat while Millie snatched her sword.

"Sorry about that, dear. But those bandits have my friend's grandson. We're going to get him back." She smiled. "And you're going to help."

* * *

They put Grace on Lissa's horse, with Millie riding behind. Florence was a better rider, but her hands weren't strong enough to catch Grace if she fell. Florence and Lissa walked alongside. A loop of rope bound Lissa's hands and secured her to the horse's saddle.

"Kidnapping a Guardswoman is a capital crime," Lissa muttered.

"What should I do, send you running back to tell Baird?" Florence said. "He's been trying to catch this band for months. He'd send an entire squad blundering to the river, and we'd never get Jacob back."

"If you were a Guardswoman, you swore an oath to the Viscount. You have a duty to obey Baird's orders."

"I have a duty to save Jacob."

"The Viscount has forbidden anyone to pay ransom to the bandits."

"So you can execute me twice. Besides, I don't plan to pay any ransom."

"You plan to take him by force?" Lissa started to laugh.

Grace scowled and punched a withered fist into her other hand. This caused her to list sideways, and Millie barely managed to keep her from tumbling out of the saddle.

Once Grace was stable, Millie leaned down and whispered, "Careful, girl. Florence whooped your pretty behind without breaking a sweat."

"Trickery and deceit." Lissa spat.

Florence shrugged. "And threatening old women is honorable?"

"Who are you calling old?" Grace snapped.

Lissa didn't say another word until they stopped for lunch. Millie gleefully raided the saddlebags, seizing a skin of watered-down wine and a paper-wrapped package of trail rations. She tore off the paper, then grimaced.

"Food hasn't changed since we were in the Guard." She rapped a biscuit against the saddle, then tossed it to Lissa. "I'm not risking the teeth I've got left on that."

Grace snatched a bit of jerky and began gumming the corner.

Millie grabbed a small copper pot from Lissa's saddlebags. "Come on, Grace." She snatched the jerky from Grace's hands. "Let's go boil that and get it softened up before you starve."

"You're going to be slaughtered," Lissa said after they had gone. "Give up, and I won't report what you did. The Guard can rescue your friend's grandson."

Florence just smiled as she sliced an apple into small enough pieces to chew. "The Guard couldn't find its arse with a map these days. Don't you worry about us, dear. If all goes well, we'll rescue Jacob and be gone before they know what happened."

"And if things go wrong?"

Florence's smile grew. "Then those bandits had better hope Grace goes easy on them." She took another bite of apple and chewed slowly. "So are you going to help us, or do I have to retie that knot? Don't think I haven't noticed you working it loose."

"If you're lucky, they'll just rob you and leave you to die."

"All the more reason for you to protect us, dear. The way I see it, you can help us, and maybe you'll learn a thing or two in the process. Or you can go home and explain how a couple of grannies waylaid you on the road." She reached into her cloak and pulled out a knife, which she used to cut Lissa's bonds.

"You're letting me go?"

"It would be a bit suspicious if we showed up dragging a bound Guardswoman, don't you think? Now don't tell me that beneath that bland, duty-bound exterior there's not a young girl dying for a bit of excitement and adventure."

Lissa stared at her wrists. "I did take an oath to protect the people," she said slowly.

"Good girl. Now go see what's keeping Millie and Grace, and let me have some privacy. If I don't pee soon, I'll burst."

* * *

They peered over the hilltop at the river beyond. "What do you think?" asked Florence.

Millie pointed toward the trees on the far side. "If they're smart, they'll have men there and there. Archers, if they've got 'em. And at least one runner in case it's a trap."

Florence nodded in agreement. Thanks to Lissa's horse, they had made it to the rendezvous only a few hours past sunrise. The bandits' message said to meet a man in a blue cap by Farmer's Bridge.

"Does that cap look blue to you?" Florence asked.

"Maybe, if you washed off the grime." She flexed her shoulders. "How do you want to take him? If he's alone, I can do him with a sword. If he's got backup . . . It's a shame these old arms can't manage a bow anymore."

Florence leaned toward Lissa. "When we were in the Guard, we used to call Millie the queen of the bow-job."

Millie stuck out her tongue. Grace giggled.

"You might be able to take him by surprise," Lissa said. "But if he has friends, you're dead."

Florence looked at Millie, then cocked her head toward Lissa. Millie smiled.

"What?" asked Lissa.

"She's young," said Florence. "I imagine that fellow hasn't seen a pretty girl in quite some time."

"She'll need a bit of work," said Millie. "We need to do something with that hair . . . and she could use help in the chest region."

Lissa pulled her cape closed. "I'm not going down there to seduce that grimy bandit." She glanced at Millie. "I'm not some tramp."

"Excuse me?" Millie said softly.

"But you are a tramp," Grace said with a shrug. Millie rolled her eyes.

"And there's nothing wrong with my hair!"

"Nothing at all," Millie agreed. "Except you've got it braided so tight I'm amazed your eyes don't pop out. And try smiling once in a while. You look like a statue from the Temple of Stuck-up Bitches."

Lissa's hand slapped her hip where her sword would have been.

"Enough," Florence snapped. "Lissa's a Guardswoman. A soldier." She turned to Lissa. "And a soldier uses every weapon she's got." She untied Lissa's braid and ran her fingers through the dark hair, fluffing it around her shoulders. "Besides, you're quite pretty. At least you could be, if you'd relax a little."

"Enjoy it now," Millie added. "Before you know it, you'll look like us, all wrinkled and spotted like spoiled fruit."

Lissa glanced at the ground. "You really think I'm pretty?"

Florence shifted Lissa's cape out of the way and tightened her armor.

Lissa squawked. "What are you doing?"

Millie whistled. "Adding bulges, girl. If he's not panting like a dog in two minutes, I'll eat my sword."

"It's all in the attitude," Florence said. "You're more than a soldier. You're a beautiful young woman. Flaunt it. Enjoy it!"

Lissa flushed again. "I'm not sure I can."

"Career soldier?" asked Millie. "Spent your whole life learning to swing a sword, no time for fun, and all that?"

She nodded.

"Ha! You're as bad as Florence was when she signed up. She was as uptight as you. Florence, you remember the first time we dragged you to the Mighty Stallions tavern to see the Sword Swallowers?"

"Hush," scolded Florence. "It's okay, dear. If you're not up for it, we'll just have Millicent here try to seduce him."

* * *

"You're late," said the scout.

"These legs aren't as quick as they used to be," snapped Florence. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Who's that?"

She glanced at Lissa. "Jacob's sister. She insisted on coming along."

"I miss him so much," Lissa said, simpering ever so slightly—just as Millie had suggested. "I'd do anything to get my big brother back."

"Do you have the money?"

"Let me check." Lissa flipped her cape back and began patting herself down.

The bandit folded his arms. "Hurry it up, girl."

Florence stared. Lissa was practically throwing herself at the fellow, but he might as well have had snow running through his veins.

Lissa smiled. "I know it was here somewhere."

"Today, if you don't mind." More than anything, the bandit sounded bored. What was wrong with the boy?

Lissa shot her a worried look. "My poor brother. What have you men done to him?"

"Nothing, yet. Boss wouldn't let us touch him. He put up a good fight, though. Strong fellow, your brother."

Florence's stomach tightened. "He is, isn't he? Good-looking, too."

The bandit sighed. "Ain't that the truth?"

Florence knew that sigh. So much for seducing this one. Lissa didn't have the proper equipment for it.

Lissa caught on a moment later. Turning so her mane of hair hid her face from the bandit, she mouthed, "What now?"

Florence didn't know. She had insisted Lissa leave her weapons behind, so as to appear more helpless and enticing. "We buried the money along the road," she said quickly. "For safekeeping. If you'll come back with us—"

"You don't have it, do you?" asked the bandit. "I'm going to have to take you in."

He reached for Lissa's wrist.

"Lissa, don't—" That was as far as Florence got. A moment later, the bandit was on the ground. Lissa pressed his fingers backward until they almost touched his forearm. Her other hand pressed against his elbow.

An arrow sprouted from the snow between Lissa's feet.

A second bandit saluted from the trees. "You two play nice, you hear? Otherwise somebody's likely to get hurt."

* * *

Three men escorted them through the woods. The one with the bow kept smiling at Lissa, who did her best to ignore him.

"Why couldn't you have been the one at the rendezvous?" Florence asked him.

"What's that?"

"Never mind." She trudged along as slowly as she could without arousing suspicion. How long would it take the others to follow? Probably ten minutes or so, assuming Millie could convince Grace it was important. Better make it fifteen to be safe.

The bandits had done a good job of camouflage. The tents were white canvas that blended into the snow. She counted eighteen men and a few women sitting around a small campfire. There was probably another handful in the tents. She leaned to Lissa.

"How many do you think you can handle, and be honest?"

Lissa glanced around. "In a fair fight? Maybe four or five."

"A fair fight." Florence patted Lissa's cheek. "That's cute." Raising her voice, she asked, "Who's in charge of this rabble?"

Nobody answered. A good number were staring appreciatively at Lissa. The rest looked to a thin blonde fellow who was eating a plateful of dried fish.

"You there, Blondie!" Florence stomped over and planted the end of her staff between his feet. "Where's Jacob?"

"Where's my money?" He glanced at Lissa. "Or did you bring this pretty young thing as payment?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Florence snapped.

"Or what?" He gave Florence a gentle shove. She twisted back, catching her balance with her staff. And then Lissa was there.

Flinging off her cape, Lissa stepped between Florence and Blondie. "I am Lissa Bloodsong of the Guard, and if you lay a finger on this woman again, I'll rip it from your body and feed it to you."

Florence pushed Lissa aside. "If you're so eager to die, why not throw yourself on his sword and get it over with?"

"I was trying to protect you, you stubborn old—"

"I'm fine. He wasn't going to hurt me."

"At your age, a stiff breeze can hurt you!"

Blondie laughed. "Keep an eye on them while I grab the ropes. Looks like we've got some new hostages. Somebody should pay a good sum for the pretty one, at least."

Florence glanced around, searching the woods. Where were Millie and Grace? Both women were more mobile than Florence, and they had Lissa's horse. It wasn't like they had Florence's need for a privy break every half-hour. Except when Millicent . . . oh no.

"Lissa, when you went to get Millie and Grace after lunch, what were they eating?"

"I don't remember."

"Did Millie have a purple pouch with her?"

Lissa's forehead wrinkled. "I think so. . . ."

"Damn the woman. She said she left them behind."

"What was in the pouch?"

"Dried figs. Millie loves them. Always has." But it wasn't until a few years ago that they had begun wreaking havoc on her digestive system. "It could be another hour before they get here."

She stopped talking as Blondie returned. He handed the ropes to two of his men. "So you're a Guardswoman," he said to Lissa. "At least you're easy on the eyes."

The bandit who had escorted them to camp gave Florence an apologetic shrug as he looped the rope over her wrists. The one tying up Lissa just looked smug. It was, Florence realized, the same man who had been eyeing Lissa back on the trail.

"I say we keep this one in my tent, boss," he said.

Lissa used a different throw this time, hooking his leg with her ankle and pushing him to the ground by the throat. Before anyone could move, she grabbed his knife and shouted, "I challenge for leadership of this band!"

Blondie started to laugh. "You plan to use that pigsticker on me?"

"I'll beat you with any weapon you care to name."

"Fine." He snapped his fingers, and one of his men passed a loaded crossbow into his hands. "Use the knife. I'll stick with this baby."

Florence pulled away from her captor. "Oh, for crying out loud." A lifetime ago, she would have kicked the nearest bandit in the groin, grabbed his weapon, and fought back-to-back with Lissa until they were both free or dead.

Instead, she hobbled over to Lissa and tugged the knife from her hand. "If you want to get yourself killed, that's your business, but if you keep on like this, Jacob and I will likely end up dead as well."

Lissa puffed up, causing several of the bandits to goggle appreciatively. "I was—"

"I know," she said softly. "And I appreciate it. But do it again and I'll brain you myself." She turned to Blondie. "You'll have to forgive Lissa. She's headstrong. But she does not want to challenge you."

"I didn't think so." Blondie smiled and set the crossbow on the ground.

Florence smiled right back. "I do."

"What?" A half-dozen people said it at once. Florence ignored them as she fumbled out of her blankets and cloaks. The wind bit like cold steel, but she ignored it. Bandits stared in amazement as she shed layer after layer of old wool and faded cotton. When she finished, Florence was clad almost identically to Lissa.

Her tarnished breast-cups were loose against her chest, and her emerald loincloth would have slipped right over her bony hips if she hadn't had the belt taken in last month. Frayed yellow tassels tickled her thighs. Her skin was the color of parchment, and age spots spattered her body like ink. Dark veins and pale scars crisscrossed her arms and legs.

"You can't be serious," said Lissa. "I can't let you do this."

"I was fighting bandits when your daddy was still squealing for your grandma's tit."

"He'll kill you."

Florence sighed. "I'll be seventy years old this summer. You're what, sixteen?"

"Eighteen," Lissa said defiantly.

"Eighteen. Gods protect you, girl. If this jester kills you, he's taking your whole life away. If he kills me . . ." She shrugged. "That's a few less years of eating mushy food and hunting privies."

"That's crazy."

"You said it yourself. I was more likely to get myself killed than to save Jacob. But none of us can afford Blondie's ransom, and it's not like I have much to lose." She smiled. "The most dangerous foe is the one with nothing to lose."

Florence poked her staff toward Blondie. "So let's get this over with before I die of old age."

"You've made your point, old woman. I respect your courage, but—"

"Fine." She hobbled toward the tents. "I'm going to free Jacob. If you want to stop me, you'd better do it now."

He gestured at his men. "Troy, tie her up and put her with the other hostage."

Troy turned out to be the blue-capped bandit they had met at the river. Florence jabbed a thin finger into his chest. "Don't you dare. I challenged him. Shame on you, doing his dirty work. You sit down and wait until he settles things like a man. Then you can tie me up."

She shook her head sadly. "What's a boy like you doing with this ragtag band, anyway? You're young, healthy, handsome . . . I'm sure it sounded romantic, to live out here surrounded by rugged, outdoorsy men." Troy blushed. "But they're not for you. Find yourself a nice boy and an honest job. There are safer ways to earn a living than following garbage like this." She cocked a thumb at Blondie, who was no longer smiling.

"That's enough," he said.

Florence ignored him. "And you," she said, turning toward a bandit with a bald head and a blotchy birthmark on his cheek. "You look like you haven't bathed in a week, and I can smell your breath from here. Nobody's going to respect you if you don't respect yourself, least of all a pretty girl like Lissa here. And if you can't mend the rips in that cloak, just fold it up and leave it. I'll take it when I leave. And I expect to be paid a fair sum for fixing it, understand?"

He nodded dumbly. Some of the others laughed, but Florence had already moved on to a young boy. Blondie barked an order, and the boy drew his sword.

"Give me that." Florence snatched the sword by the blade and plucked it from his hands. "Did he give you this bit of scrap?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She ran a thumb down the blade. "The handle's loose, the balance is horrendous, and it hasn't been properly sharpened since before you were born. A sword like this is a greater danger to you than to your opponent, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, you demand a real sword from this cheapskate, and if he doesn't give you one, you march right back home to your mama. Otherwise you'll be dead before you're old enough to shave."

Before she could start in on the next bandit, Blondie grabbed her shoulder and pushed her to the ground. The cold earth was hard as brick.

"What's wrong with you?" snapped Florence, once she caught her breath. "Sneaking up on an old woman. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?" Grumbles of agreement spread around the circle.

"Quiet," yelled Blondie. "I'm not going to fight you, but I won't have you talking to my men like that."

"I'm taking Jacob," Florence said, her voice firm. She heard Lissa shifting nervously.

Blondie started to laugh, great gut-wrenching guffaws that echoed through the woods. "I like you. You've got more spunk than any woman I've met, and if you were a century younger . . ." He shook his head.

"If I was that young, I'd take your head to the Viscount as a trophy."

Blondie was still chuckling. "A shame you're no longer young." He raised his voice. "Kill her."

A few of the bandits actually rose. Florence crossed her arms, and they stopped with their weapons half-drawn. "For shame. Next thing you know, you'll be robbing babies. Sit down, all of you."

Nobody spoke. A hawk shrieked in the distance, sounding like laughter. Slowly, the bandits sat.

Florence turned back to Blondie. "You should find another career. You're too dumb to lead bandits. You should have killed me the second I challenged you. Now it's too late."

"Is that so?" he sneered. His hand went to his sword, and then he jumped in surprise. He touched his neck, where a slender black dart protruded from the skin.

"It's so," Florence said.

His lips pulled back, and he drew his sword. The first blow shattered her staff and spun her to the ground. His second swing never connected.

Lissa leapt over Florence's body, and her foot crunched into Blondie's chest. He flew backward, dropping his sword. Lissa grabbed the sword and brought it into a guard position.

Behind her, Blondie staggered to his feet and drew a curved knife. He took one step, then stopped as the jagged end of Florence's staff poked his stomach.

He sneered and snatched the staff. Florence smashed the other half of the broken weapon against his knuckles, and he fell back, howling. His yells faded as the toxins in the dart took effect, and he collapsed into the snow.

Florence rolled over and looked at the trees, where Grace was putting another dart into a slender black tube.

"About time you got here!" Florence yelled.

Millie looked sheepish. Grace simply glared and said, "The next one who threatens my mother gets a dart in the eye."

* * *

Jacob was unharmed, if embarrassed. Florence spent ten minutes chewing him out for being so careless as to let a pair of bandits get the jump on him. Then she gave him a hug and a quick kiss and sent him to round up the bandits' horses.

As for the bandits themselves . . . Florence glanced around. More than half had chosen to accompany them back to town. Some clearly didn't want to be around when Blondie woke up. Others were afraid of what would happen when the Guard arrived.

"What will you do from here?" Lissa asked.

"You mean what will Jacob do?" Millie piped up.

Lissa flushed and brushed her hair back from her eyes. Florence only smiled. Anyone could see the way those two had been eying each other. She already had a bet with Millie as to how long it would take Lissa to drag the boy into bed. She leaned toward Lissa. "It turns out Jacob's been talking about joining the Guard. The daft boy has never touched a sword in his life."

"If he's never touched a sword, why would he want to—"

Florence gave her a pointed look, and her blush darkened.

"Oh. Well, I could . . . um. I can keep an eye on him. If it would make Grace feel better, I mean."

Millie chuckled. "I'm sure she'd feel much better, knowing you were there to help him master his sword."

"Don't worry, dear," said Florence. "Grace plans to keep an eye on Jacob herself. She's been going on about it all day, how she's going to sign up for another ten-year stint."

"But she's—"

"Too old?" finished Florence. "Grace Shadowsoul can hit a fly at fifty paces with that blowgun. Do you really want to finish that sentence?"

She shook her head. "I just worry what would happen to her."

"Nothing, so long as she's got the right commanding officer." Florence smiled and waited for that to sink in.

Lissa's eyes widened. "You mean you? But—"

"Don't finish that sentence either, girl. Besides, it beats sitting by a fireplace crocheting socks and waiting to die. Between Millie, Grace, and myself, we'll get the Guard back into shape."

Lissa's face tightened. "That sounds . . . nice."

Before she could say anything more, Grace and Jacob came thundering up the road on their horse. Grace's gray hair was slick with sweat, and a wide smile wrinkled her face. "Come on, Mother! We'll race you to that hilltop!" She took off again without waiting for an answer.

Florence turned to Lissa and Millie. "Let's catch her before she hurts herself." She stretched her knotted fingers and flicked the reins. Her horse leapt forward, jolting her bones and leaving the others to chase after her. Her joints would ache something fierce tomorrow morning, but that wasn't the worst of it.

As she rode, she muttered to herself, "First thing I do once I'm back in the Guard is requisition a saddle that won't jostle the bladder so badly."

A Sword Called Rhonda

D. S. Moen

"Hey, Karma," Rhonda the sword whined, "I need to go, like, shopping."

She hung from the wall of my small home in what used to be suburban Palo Alto. Being far away didn't help. I could hear her just as clearly as if I'd held her in my hand with her voice coming out the end of the hilt. I'd tried hanging her from my waist at first, but she just yelled loud enough for everyone to hear. Now, I carry her over my shoulder so she talks in my ear.

I hadn't responded, so she yelled. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," I replied.

Two weeks ago, I bought the sword at the city's disincorporation sale. It was a fine sword, made of good strong steel that could take a beating. At the time, it seemed like a good deal.

For days afterward, my dreams ended in, "Help me, Rhonda!"

One morning, I started singing the old Beach Boys tune.

"I thought no one would ever listen to me!" Rhonda said.

She hasn't left me alone since.

"And you so need me, too. You're a mess! Look at that eyebrow. Don't you ever pluck?"

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. So it had a little hair. Big deal.

"Karma," the sword interrupted with all the charm of a spoiled teenager.

"What!"

"I need to go shopping."

"What did I tell you last time you asked to go shopping?"

"I know there's a mall in Palo Alto, Karma. I want more moisturizer. You promised. I laid that guy open for you, and you said you'd get me some so I wouldn't get all rusty."

"I said I wouldn't let you get rusty. You're not. I've fulfilled my promise. Besides, Crisco will keep you from getting rusty. You don't need moisturizer."

"Crisco! That's disgusting. I'd never put that stuff in me when I was alive. It's just grody. Don't you dare wipe it on me."

"I was teasing you. You know I use mineral oil."

Rhonda sniffed. "Disembowelling a hunk like that? It's totally awful. I deserve a reward. A token. Something to keep me from getting all wrinkled."

I chuckled at the thought. What, was she going to turn into a Damascus blade? Right. "Okay, okay, we'll go if it makes you feel better." I had a million things to do, but at least she'd leave me alone. I hoped.

The living room held a shelf of books, a few knickknacks and not much personality. It was so small that I had to keep the surfboard in the attic. I pulled Rhonda's scabbard off the wall and slung it across my back. Then I pulled the poncho off the wall.

"Not the singing," Rhonda said. "Can't we use the surfboard?"

"You're the one who wants to go to the mall, and I'm not walkin', nor am I spending the day at the beach. So you'd better sing with me, because if we don't sing, the poncho's not going anywhere."

"Whatever." I envisioned her flipping her shoulder-length blonde hair.

I laid out the poncho and stood on it. Leaning forward, the scabbard thwapped my kidneys. I stood up straight.

"I have a little Spanish flea," I sang. Rhonda joined in after the first word. The orchestral accompaniment, the original Herb Alpert, emanated softly from the carpet, helping us keep rhythm and pitch.

I hated that I couldn't afford a better ride, like one of the magic carpets or the cheapo magic surfboards so common in Silicon Valley these days. Just a poncho with a love for old Herb Alpert tunes, sold for a song because someone couldn't stand driving to the same tunes all the time. I had a surfboard, a vintage wooden Johnny Rice, but it insisted on going surfing whenever I used it. So, unless I wanted to spend all day out, I used the poncho instead.

As the music continued, the poncho started bouncing. "It holds a little stuff and me." It hovered and glided jauntily out the door, smoothing out when we sang in harmony.

We swooped upward. Rhonda whooped, which made the poncho falter. I sang louder, and it recovered before we dove to the ground.

We flew over burned-out houses and collapsed garages, singing like idiots to that old tune. Fewer than five percent of the Palo Alto suburbs were still standing. Most houses were rubble, the debris pushed into huge piles every few houses. Some people still had gardens. We passed rich guys sitting on hand-tied silk carpets from Stephen Miller's gallery, all powered without sound.

When we arrived at the ruins of the Stanford Shopping Center, Rhonda finally got it. "Where's Nordstrom? And Macy's?"

The multideck parking lot was a complete wreck, but I was unprepared for the carnage to the stores. Entire walls were missing. How, I wondered? And, when we passed Neiman-Marcus, a woman knelt at the one standing wall, sticking a piece of paper in a crevice. Great. The wailing wall of Neiman-Marcus. Who knew?

Bang & Olufsen looked like someone had exploded an electronics factory. Rhonda whimpered over red-satin-nylon-that-would-not-die thongs and push-up bras from Victoria's Secret. No one had touched those.

"Karma, get them for me. I wear a 34B."

I didn't have the heart to point out that she was, maybe, a 4 at present. After all, I was hoping that I could free her from the sword. I scrounged around the rubble and found two bra-and-thong sets in aubergine. I guess no one wanted eggplant-colored undies.

At Rhonda's insistence, we scrounged through the wreckage for clothes. Most of the stuff was too torn or worn to use, but I found a couple of the golden-age sixties outfits and two intact pairs of white go-go boots in my size. Not that I'd wear them, but I might have to if I wore out my other shoes.

"It's just so sad." Rhonda started crying. For the first time, I felt sorry for her. Her world was gone, and she wouldn't really know how to cope in mine. She didn't even like being a sword. Last week, when we'd killed the guy who tried to rob the house, I had whacked off his arm and all she could do was yell, "Gross!"

Finally, the question formed in my head. If she'd been enchanted, maybe she could be unenchanted. Maybe I could have a sword all my own without being pestered about shaving my legs.

"So who put you into a sword anyway?"

"The Duke did."

"The evil wizard?" I asked.

"Wizard, hah. He's a scientist. And a surfer. He so totally hates it when people call him a wizard."

I sighed. "They call him a wizard only because they've heard about the dog."

"That was a failed spell . . . I mean formula."

"See?" I asked. "Even you called it a spell."

"Karma, it was so totally not a spell."

"How do you know?"

"I just know," Rhonda said coldly.

"Then what happened?"

"Like, you know the rest. I didn't stop seeing his apprentice Joe. We'd even exchanged our puka shell necklaces and everything. We were practically married, but hadn't signed the papers. The Duke was totally mad that I wouldn't obey him. Like why would I, you know? Well, he said he'd teach me a lesson. He turned me into a friggin' sword. And then, Joe tried to hug me and sliced his arm up."

"Where's the Duke now?"

"He died the next year, and Joe left for Monterey and I've tried to get there all this time."

Great. So the Duke couldn't undo the spell. "How long have you been a sword?" I knew it couldn't have been too many years; retro sixties had been popular just before the Collapse.

"What year is it?"

I told her.

"So it's been, hmm, my math is rusty. Eight years?"

"Yep." What next? "How about if we take you to someone who might have an idea how to get Joe back?"

"That'd be awesome. I would so totally owe you."

I smiled.

* * *

Along El Camino, one of the few places that hadn't been devastated was the Psychic Eye shop in Mountain View. I hovered over on the poncho, singing to the Herb Alpert tune "Casino Royale."

Inside the store, the soft sounds of Enya, the reverb queen, played from a tune crystal.

I approached the counter, asked for a reading. The clerk led me through beaded curtains into a back room.

"I am Elvis; I can read for you," the small waif of a man with a glow-in-the-dark smile said. He wore a gold lamé dinner jacket and sunglasses. "Your question?"

"How can I keep my sword and help Rhonda, who is trapped in the sword, live a happy life?" Okay, I didn't care about the happy life part, but I try to live my life by principles.

He turned over five cards, flashing a pinky ring with each card. Three of rods. Three of swords. Three of pentacles. Three of cups. Magician.

His brow furled, then he said, "Aha!"

"What?"

He leaned back smugly. "Try the elements."

"You mean like oxygen?"

"No, no. Fire, Air, Earth, and Water. In that order."

"Huh?" I looked at the cards: a guy looking out to sea, a breaking heart, a guy working on a church window, and three women hovering over glasses. Didn't seem related to what he was saying.

"You see, all of these are threes, so it's about threes—that part of the journey that's the separation. And the three of swords means separation. So it's about each element. And the Magician card has all the elements. So, that's your answer."

I nodded, realizing he wasn't going to give me anything that made sense. I pulled out the money, but he gestured at a stout ceramic jar.

"I don't touch money myself. It changes my readings."

Whatever. I put the money in the jar. As I left, I looked back and noticed that the jar had writing on it: Mistakes.

* * *

This time, since I needed to carry more stuff, I decided to take the Johnny Rice. At least we'd have better music. We sang "Surfer Girl" and other old surfer tunes as we cruised west to Half Moon Bay. We stopped in the mountains to get some wood, because I knew I'd need a fire.

When I got to the beach, I pitched a tent, because I had no idea how long everything would take. I'd want to crash later and I'd be tired.

I dragged some branches out onto the beach and built a fire.

"Karma, what are you doing?"

"Following Elvis's advice."

"I'm afraid of fire. I don't want to get burned."

I sighed, put a potholder on the hilt, and thrust her in anyway.

Before the sword warmed to the touch, she screamed and yelled so much that I couldn't help it. I pulled the sword out. "Do you want out or not?"

"Yes, but Karma, that just totally hurts."

I stuck her back in the fire anyway.

"Karma, stop it. Don't make me scream again."

I felt sorry for her, so I pulled her out.

I thought about the next thing. Air. Well, I could just sit here on the beach and hold her up, I suppose.

So, I settled back in the sand, and held the sword aloft, but all I got was wind-chapped and a sore arm.

"Karma? What are we doing?"

"Holding you into the wind."

"Oh." She paused for a moment. "Why are we doing this again?"

"Sheesh, how many times do I have to remind you?"

I held her aloft in my other arm for a while, but nothing happened.

"Okay, air didn't help."

With the shovel from my pack, I dug a hole in the sand.

I lowered Rhonda into the hole, then started shovelling sand over the sword. She started screaming again.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm using Earth to free you." By this time, I was growling. I was doing this for her, or so I kept trying to convince myself. But no, she just wouldn't cooperate.

"You hate me. Admit it."

At first, I did. The thing was, she was growing on me. I pulled her out and cleaned the sand off. "I'm sorry. I was trying to help."

Exhausted, I sat in front of the smouldering fire and cooked some meat. We went into the tent, and I collapsed, waking in late morning.

After breakfast, I tried Water. I walked out into the waves and dunked her into the ocean.

"You idiot!" Rhonda burbled. "I can't swim!"

"What, a Valley Girl surfer chick who can't swim?" I pulled her back out so I could hear her answer better.

"I don't surf, silly. I just go to the beach to watch bitchin' dudes and work on my tan!"

I shook my head. I should have known. Why the hell had I trusted a psychic named Elvis?

* * *

I had to spend the whole next day making up to Rhonda for dunking her in salt water.

We returned to the Psychic Eye. This time, Elvis wore a white leather jumpsuit with fringe.

"How did you fare?" he asked.

"Not well." I catalogued the various things we'd tried.

"Let's try another reading," he said.

What the hell. Worst case, I'd be off on some other wild goose chase.

This time, he dealt three cards. Three of cups. Three of swords. Tower.

"Two of those cards are the same," I say. I wasn't sure he'd remember, but I did.

"Yes. They are clearly more significant."

"Please don't tell me to do the same thing over. I couldn't stand it." Rhonda whimpered, so I knew she agreed.

"Does she love someone?"

"Of course."

"Has he kissed the sword?" He stopped for a second, then looked up. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made that assumption."

"It is a he. I don't know that he's kissed the sword, but he did try to hug it."

"Not the brightest bean in the crop, is he?"

I shrugged. "What should I do?"

He looked at me, and I knew. Have her kiss him. Naturally. We hopped off to Monterey, where Joe still had his Surf Shak.

* * *

Naturally, we had to take the Johnny Rice. Rhonda insisted.

Joe looked older than Rhonda had described. She giggled when she saw him. I had to admit, he was the perfect surfer dude: blond curly hair pointing in all directions. Tall, broad-shouldered, tan, looking pretty fine in the tank top. Heck, I could totally see why Rhonda liked him. Totally? Gah. I had to get away from Rhonda. Soon.

"Can I help you?" He looked up and down, recognizing me as Not Of His Tribe. Then he noticed my board. "Gnarly board you have there."

"Yeah, I've got something to show you."

"Oh?" He asked.

I put the surfboard down and pulled out Rhonda. I showed him the sword. He looked up, smiling.

"Rhonda. Is she . . . ?"

"She's fine." I noticed the shell necklace, probably what Rhonda had talked about. And I realized, when I looked in his face, that he'd missed her all this time. "Someone suggested that, if you kissed the sword, she might be able to depart."

He flexed his right arm and I saw the scar from the sword where he'd tried to hug her.

"Just don't kiss the edge, okay?"

He kissed the flat of the blade, but it was just a quick peck.

"No, silly. Kiss her."

He looked embarrassed. Then, on a whim, I kissed it. A nice, long, slow kiss.

"Eeww, that is so gross. I am out of here. I am so out of here!" And a long-haired bleached blonde stepped out of the sword into Joe's arms. She was completely nude, but that didn't bother Joe. It bothered me though. I didn't really want to look.

I turned away to leave.

"Stay for the wedding." Rhonda said. "It'll be awesome!"

"No, you two have a lot of catching up to do. But, I have a wedding present for you." I gave them both the Johnny Rice. A surfer couple should have a nice vintage surfboard.

"Dude, that's freakin' awesome, thank you," he said, trying to cram all the words into a single syllable.

"Oh, Karma, you're just so bitchin'," Rhonda said. She turned to hug me, but I didn't want to be near her.

The sword? I renamed it when I got home.

Mo. Silent Mo.

Giants in the Earth

Esther M. Friesner

"Have you ever had one of those days where you just can't get a psalm started?" King David sat back on the royal throne of all Israel and drummed his fingers on the gently curving cedar armrests. "The opening line's the hardest part. I've got everything else down pat: rhyme scheme, subject matter, nifty metaphors that do not involve sheep, for a change. Sheep! Don't get me started. You grow up as a simple shepherd boy—what the hell else is there to do in this country?—and right away you can't write a psalm without everyone picking it apart, looking for hidden references to sheep, sheep, sheep, 'til the cows come home. To say nothing of those so-called 'jokes' the men used to tell about me back in my army days. Soldiers, feh! As if they never—"

"Your Majesty was saying something about an opening line?" Tirzah asked amiably. As concubine du jour she had certain assigned tasks, not the least of which was keeping King David's conversation on track. When a man spends the better part of his youth on the lam from a crazy king like Saul and the rest of his salad days amassing a comfortably haimish empire, his body may cease wandering but his mind often does not.

"Oh, right, right, a catchy first line, yes, hmm . . ." The ring-encrusted royal fingers, each adorned with a precious stone the size of the rock that slew Goliath, went back to drumming on the armrest. "Listen, my subjects, and you shall hear . . . When that Goliath with his spears and arrows/The men of Israel had piercéd to the marrow . . . Whose sling this is, I think I know . . . There once was a giant from Gath . . ."

"Perhaps Your Majesty should work on a different psalm?" Tirzah suggested, popping a grape into her mouth. "I've found that when I reach a point where there doesn't seem to be any solution to the problem at hand, it helps to switch projects entirely."

The king gave her a smarmy smile. "You're a concubine, my dear," he said. "What problems do you face that can't be solved by a new necklace or an extra dollop of myrrh?"

Tirzah opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it and stopped her gob with a handful of dates. It didn't do for a woman to backtalk the king. She understood that, as a concubine, she had only two career paths: Cling to the king's good side like moss to a stone or spend your days locked up among the women.

Not that there was anything wrong with being locked up among the women, but as JHVH was her witness, it was boring. The ladies of the royal household seemed able to talk about nothing save clothing, cosmetics, candy, kids, and the king's elusive favor. Those who'd managed to get a colt off the royal stud formed an exclusive clique whose favorite pastimes were sneering at their less fertile colleagues and zealous jockeying/backstabbing in order to get their child in line for the throne.

As much as Tirzah despised the snotty Womb Supremacists, she knew that her only hope for advancement lay thataway, and the more she hung out with David, the better her odds of hitting the royal jism jackpot. All of which was why she swallowed her pride along with a mouthful of chewed-up dates, smiled ever-so-sweetly, and replied:

"Yes, O my beloved king. How silly of me. Your life is much more important than mine, of course. Me daring to suggest anything to you? Tsk. What was I thinking? Can you ever forgive your po' li'l featherheaded Tirzy-wirzy who wuvs 'oo so vewy, vewy much that she just can't wait to get you alone and perform the Babylonian Basket Trick for your intense, unbelievable pleasure?"

"Wuzzah?" Despite Tirzah's almost-never-fail employment of that tempting combination, fulsome baby talk and promised perversity, the king wasn't buying. He'd chided his concubine and gone straight back to wrestling with the uncooperative psalm.

Tirzah frowned and double-checked her breasts. Yes, still firm, still golden as a pair of melons, still exuding rare floral essences imported from Egypt at great expense. When it came down to cases, she had no doubts about her physical attractions; but when the match was Concubine vs. Blank Parchment, best two falls out of three, she was stymied. What was it about the composition of a psalm that managed to gobble up the king's full attention?

"Yes, dear," she muttered under her breath. "You just go back to composing that psalm all about how you slew Goliath, big whoop. I'll be right here when you finally want me. Where else do I have to be?"

"Gath . . . wrath . . . bath . . . Sheba . . . huh?" said the king, blinking as he looked up at her from his labors.

"Nothing," said Tirzah wearily. "I was just thinking about how much I love you. Wildly. Madly. Passion without bounds." Her voice was only a little flatter than her taut young belly, but the king wasn't really paying any attention and she was past caring. "Yea, verily, I would do anything to prove my love for you, yep, sure, you name it, just—"

"Of course you would; it's in your job description. Why the blazes do you have to gabble about it, woman?" King David demanded. He might have said more, but at that moment the calm of a summer's afternoon in the royal court was broken by the abrupt entrance of the king's majordomo. He was an overly excitable Moabite whom the king had hired as lip service to valuing diversity somewhere in the palace besides the royal harem.

"Majesty! Majesty!" he cried, scuttling into the throne room, wringing his hands. "Oh, the unspeakable horror! Oh, the devastation! Oh, that ever this should come to pass!" He threw himself facedown at the king's feet, gurgling prophecies of generic doom.

"What is it?" the king demanded, toeing the Moabite firmly. "And it had better be good. The last unspeakable horror you reported was a wild donkey that got loose in the marketplace and ate three cabbages. When it ate a fourth you escalated the event to a full-fledged devastation. I hope you're not wasting my time with another four-cabbage disaster, because tomorrow is the anniversary of my battle with the Philistine champion, Goliath of Gath, and if I don't finish this psalm about how I slew him, I'll—"

"But you didn't slay him, Majesty!" The trembling Moabite raised his eyes to the king's dire countenance. "He's back. Goliath of Gath is back, he's waiting outside the gates of Jerusalem, and he says he's not leaving until he's got your head on the end of his spear!"

* * *

A table had been fetched and King David's council had been summoned into the throne room with such haste that no one had thought to dismiss the concubine. Thus Tirzah found herself wandering around the periphery of the strategic huddle, nibbling a fistful of almonds, and peering over the shoulders of David's most trusted advisors as they discussed the situation in hushed, intense tones.

"But it can't be Goliath!" King David protested. "I killed him! I killed him good. First I whapped him with a rock—POW!—right between the eyes, and when he hit the dirt I took his own sword and I cut his head off. They don't come much deader than that."

"As Your Majesty says," one of David's generals replied soothingly. The royal council was made up of nothing but generals, the Mighty Men of Israel, with a case-by-case visit from the occasional prophet-without-portfolio. "And yet, evidence to the contrary is even now standing without our city gates, single-handedly blocking traffic and interfering with peaceful commerce."

"What I don't understand—" said the king. "What I honestly do not understand at all, no matter how hard I try, is why in the name of the Unnameable you, my so-called generals, haven't just sent out the army to deal with the, er, impediment to peaceful commerce. Giant or no giant, there's only one of him."

The generals looked sheepish enough to give David bad flashbacks to his boyhood. At length, one of them broke the uneasy silence.

"True, Majesty, that would be the sensible thing to do. But before we could dispatch so much as a patrol of spearmen to confront the giant, he issued . . . the challenge."

"The challenge?" David echoed. "What challenge?" He was leaning his fists on the conference table and Tirzah noted how very white his knuckles were turning, coupled with the fine beading of perspiration on his brow. He was also breathing a bit raggedly, all of which indicators led her to believe that he knew damn well what challenge.

"The challenge to single combat," General Eliezar said. "The same challenge he gave to King Saul's troops the first time you killed him. The time you thought you'd killed him." He was the youngest man on the king's council and as such did not have the brains of a kitten when it came to survival off the battlefield. He simply did not know any better than to assume that when the king asked a question, he wanted an honest answer. His colleagues exchanged looks that were equal parts pity and thankfulness that Eliezar was there, about to take the royal slingstone for the team. Better him than them.

"I . . . did . . . kill . . . him." The words only just managed to escape the king's mouth through tightly gritted teeth. "Not for the first time; for the only time! I cut off his bloody head! Don't you know history?"

"I know there's more being written every day," Eliezar replied, as obliviously cheerful as ever.

"Good. Then go write some," David snapped. "Get your scrawny butt the hell down to the barracks, pull together a troop of men, and take down that giant!"

"Majesty?" Eliezar raised one eyebrow in bewilderment at his sovereign's orders. "Goliath's challenge wasn't leveled against the army. What he said was—"

"How many times must I repeat myself?" King David's bellow shook cedar dust from the throne room rafters. "That is not Goliath! Goliath is dead."

"Not according to him. He says he's Goliath, he's got Goliath's armor, and his appearance has attracted a whole bunch of veterans from King Saul's army, all testifying that they recognize him as Goliath. He says he's not leaving until you come out and face him in hand-to-hand combat to the death. No backup troops, just you and your armor-bearer, if you need one. He says you'd better wear armor, because he can put a spear through a twenty-five-year-old plane tree at one hundred paces."

"Is that all?" The king's voice had gone very low and growly. It was a warning sign the young general did not seem to recognize or heed.

"Yes. Wait, no: He also says that after all these years you've probably gotten fat." Eliezar smiled radiantly, duty done. He was woefully unaware that the rest of the council were edging away from him as he spoke. Older and wiser, they had no intention of becoming collateral damage when King David finally lost his temper and flattened the lad.

To their surprise, instead of a royal explosion, King David's reaction was merely to sigh deeply and pinch the bridge of his nose. "Bugger," he said. "If he's drawn a crowd of Saul's old army buddies, I'll have to fight him, whoever he is. People are watching. I'll bet drachmas to dromedaries that a whole mob of our foreign trade community is out there too, waiting to see what I'll do. If I don't fight it'll be a shonda for the goyim."

"A what?" Like many on the council, Eliezar had a hard time understanding his king when David lapsed into the local dialect of his youth.

"Just fetch my armor, dummy. And will someone please clear away that concubine?"

* * *

All the good seats for the big rematch were taken. Tirzah tried to squirm her way through the press of women hogging the few windows that had a decent view of the road where the giant awaited King David's appearance, but was firmly rebuffed.

"We outrank you." Leah sniffed disdainfully. She was a skinny creature, relic of David's brief flirtation with the philosophy that Less is More. He'd tired of her bony embraces, but not before she bore him a son. "We are the royal mothers."

"I'll say you are," Tirzah grumbled.

"What was that?" Hulda asked sharply. She'd been a concubine-of-last-resort until she'd lucked out and birthed a baby boy.

"I said that for all you know, I'll be a royal mother some day, too, so maybe you should be nicer to me." Tirzah waggled her hips at the women. "I found an old Babylonian bedroom manual last week and it's got plenty of sure-fire tricks to guarantee—"

"Ha!" Hulda was one of those annoying know-it-alls who was likewise a say-it-all. "If our lord David loses this battle—which he won't, unthinkable, JHVH forbid, p'too-p'too-p'too, I never so much as suggested the possibility—you'll be nothing. It takes two to make a royal baby. Or didn't your Babylonian smut book mention that?"

Tirzah stared, horrified. The truth of Hulda's words was inescapable. If David fell to Goliath's spear, her life was over too. What happened to concubines when their master died? Those with children of the royal blood would be looked after by the next king, if only so he might keep tabs on potential rivals. Those who were still virgins due to bureaucratic oversights might find employment elsewhere. For those like Tirzah, neither maiden nor mother, the game was over.

Oh no! she thought wildly. What will become of me? Being a concubine is all I know how to do! That and watching sheep, but I will see myself chopped up and served over cous-cous before I go back to doing that again.

Memory conjured up the image of her mother on the day Tirzah announced that she was turning in her shepherd girl's rod, staff, sling, and lambing kit in order to audition for the king's harem. "I want to smell of myrrh, not manure," she explained. "Is that such a bad ambition?"

"Fine," Mother said in a way that made it obvious how very far from fine it all was. "Go. Be a concubine. See if I care. Break a mother's heart. All I'm saying is that you could do better. This is an honor, to share the bed of a man old enough to be your father without even he gives you an engagement ring? And why should he? Why buy the sheep when you're getting the sex for free? But don't listen to me. Go. Make from this filth a successful life. When I think of what I sacrificed for you—"

She'd gone on in the same vein right up until the minute Tirzah left, which was not a moment too soon. She'd been on the point of seeing whether she could turn her old sling into a suicide weapon rather than listen to one more word from Mother. She could have done it. Tirzah's skill with the shepherd's weapon of choice was a local legend, which was why none of the local boys ever proposed marriage. They were all put off by the thought of having a wife who was a better shot than they were.

The wise men of Israel and many other lands have often compared the arrival of a revelation to being struck by a thunderbolt. In doing so they overlook the fact that a thunderbolt only does a finite amount of damage, whereas great ideas have the potential to wipe out whole kingdoms. Tirzah's personal thunderbolt struck right in the midst of her not-so-nostalgic musings over her past life and future prospects.

"My sling!" she exclaimed, with the look of someone who has just seen a dull door swing open to reveal a cave full of treasures beyond price. She rushed off to her chamber before any of the other wives could blink.

A quick dive into the small cedarwood chest at the foot of her bed produced Old Wolfbane, as she'd dubbed the faithful weapon that had protected her flock from many a famished predator. The tatty tunic and headcloth she'd worn when she first showed up at the royal palace were there as well, along with her road-scuffed sandals. It said much for Tirzah's beauty, that when she'd arrived thus clad at the palace gates, the harem administrators had seen her employment potential despite such poor packaging.

It was the work of a moment to change clothes, the work of another to grab her sling and dash away in search of the king. She encountered no hindrance to her flight: King David ran a free-range harem. The guards were there to keep other men out, not to keep the women in. Why would they want to leave? They were fed, clothed, and cosseted, and if some smartypants decided she'd have a lover and pass off his child as the king's, well, thwarting such schemes was how the Royal Harem Records-Keeper earned his daily flatbread.

Tirzah found the king in his inmost apartments, fighting to squeeze into his old armor. The armor was winning. It had been years since David had led men into battle. Peace brought prosperity to the land, paunchiness to the ruler thereof. He was in a foul mood.

"All I can say is that after putting me through so much trouble, that jerk out there had better be Goliath! If he's not, I'll kill him!"

The king's two armor-bearers exchanged a look. Neither one was about to point out the lack of logic in what His Majesty had just said. David might not fit into his armor, but he could still swing a nasty sword.

"Majesty, a word!" Tirzah cried.

The king turned to face what looked like just another grubby shepherd from the highlands. "Who are you, who let you in here, what do you want, and get out," he said.

Tirzah threw herself facedown on the carpet. "Mighty king, I bring news for your ears alone, words that will destroy the giant at your gates." She did not dare look up until David gave her leave to do so, but she could gauge what was going on when she heard the snap of fingers followed by the sound of two pairs of retreating feet.

"All right, Tirzah," said the king. "You can get up now; they're gone."

She raised her head and stared at him, amazed. "You recognized me?"

"Finally. When I'm not trying to write psalms, I do pay attention to you girls." The king wandered over to the wooden stand where his armor-bearers had replaced his helmet, breastplate, and shield before leaving the room. "So, what's on your mind? And why are you dressed like that? Nice sling, by the way."

"Speaking of slings—" Tirzah began, and went on to tell the king her plan. When she was done, he was rendered so stunned that he had to lean against the armor stand for support.

"You're crazy," he gasped. "Insane. You'd never pull it off. I can't allow it. I forbid it."

"Why, Majesty?" she asked. Could it be he loved her?

"Because when you lose and the giant pulls your helmet off—if he doesn't pull your head off with it—everyone will see who you really are. How would that make me look? 'King David's such a coward, he has to send a girl to fight his battles for him!' That's just the start of what people will say." He slapped the royal shield to emphasize his point.

Tirzah's face hardened. She whipped out Old Wolfbane and dropped something large and hard into the sling. Though she'd had no opportunities to find a proper rock en route to the king's quarters there were plenty of other bits of detritus littering the palace halls. Whizzz-ZING! went Old Wolfbane and whizzz-CLANG! went the peach pit some sloppy guardsman had dropped on his lunch break.

It hit the king's shield dead center, lodging itself half an inch deep right between two of David's fingers. His Majesty gaped at the still-vibrating pit, then looked at Tirzah. "Congratulations," he rasped. "You got the job."

* * *

King David's armor covered a multitude of sins. No one who saw the small figure that came clanking out of the palace and down to the city gate dreamed that beneath that breastplate were a pair of really impressive breasts, nor that the helmet (with special false beard attachment) concealed a woman's face. Luckily the concubine and her king were more or less of a height. Luckier still, David had never really lost his high tenor voice, a range which overlapped nicely with Tirzah's deep, rich alto.

Tirzah's heart was beating wildly, but not with fear. If truth be told, she found the whole situation incredibly exciting. At her belt she carried her faithful sling and a pouch of stones, specially selected for their perfect balance of killing mass and aerodynamic capabilities. She knew she had the skill to bring the giant down with one shot, and as for the beheading that must follow . . . Well, she'd chop those vertebrae when she came to them.

The Philistine stepped forward at her approach, a spear the size of a weaver's beam in hand. Sunlight glittered on a lavish though ill-tailored set of armor. Just such a helmet had saved Agamemnon's skull at Troy, its heavy nasal and side pieces reducing Goliath's face to a pair of eyes peering through tiny slits and a mass of wild black beard foaming out the bottom.

"At last!" the giant roared, pounding spear against shield. "Come, O king! Come and meet your death!"

"The Lord judge between thee and me who shall live and who shall die!" Tirzah shouted back, loading her sling and gauging her shot. She felt silly spouting such highflown words, but she thought it was something David would say.

The giant made the first move, drawing back one mighty arm, ready to fling the huge spear with all the force of that towering body. For an instant as she stood there, staring with a mix of admiration and alarm at those smooth, muscular arms, that warrior's grace, Tirzah was abruptly aware of the possibility that she might not get out of this combat alive.

The realization froze her where she stood, making her a painfully easy target as the spear took flight, accompanied by the Philistine's great war cry. That thunderous sound proved a blessing in disguise, for it snapped Tirzah out of her perilous trance just as it shook the walls of Jerusalem. But it wasn't the mere volume of that shout which did the trick. As King David would say about psalm-making, It's not just the music, it's the words.

The word in this case being: "Whoopsie!"

Whoopsie indeed, for the giant's too-loose mail shirt belled out just enough to divert the spear's course. It flew wild, landing a good ten feet off-target. The Israelites cheered, some for their "king," some for the visible evidence of the Lord's favor, some just to taunt the Philistine.

"Hey, Goliath, you throw like a girl!" one wit in the crowd hollered.

"She sure does," Tirzah murmured. The giant's "Whoopsie!" was a sorcerer's eye-opening spell. Now she saw that the Philistine's beard was as bad a fake as her own. To this evidence she added "Goliath's" hairless limbs, the decidedly soprano timbre of her voice in that unguarded moment when the spear misfired, and the fact that no male warrior would cry "Whoopsie" where the more traditional "$*?$#%!" would suffice.

Tirzah wasn't the only one to add two and two. Dawn figuratively broke over Jerusalem.

"That's a woman under all that armor!" someone cried.

"Aye, not Goliath at all!" one of Saul's veterans piped up. He had been the first to swear, loudly and vehemently, that the giant at the gates was Goliath, but now that memory somehow eluded him. "I said it from the start. Goliath was much taller, six cubits and a span. She's barely five cubits! But no one ever listens to me."