SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“I think those are fish falling from the sky,” she said, squinting at the drowned world. “Frogs and leeches. This is an ominous rainfall.”

“Perhaps Herlechin will melt,” Chuinard suggested, trapped inside with them.

“More likely he called the Channel down upon us,” La Héron replied. “Damn him! Is it midday yet?”

Two hours later, the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, the clouds parted, and the noonday sun shone down over the sparkling, water-filled streets. Pollywogs slid into the Trois Tours when Alex and La Héron opened the door to depart.

The water was thigh-deep and filled with lakeland life, swarming the two women as they waded, cloaks floating behind them, toward the southern gate. The streets were deserted, miraculously free even of waterlogged cats or chickens washed out of their yards by the storm. The sun twinkled off closed windows all around them. It was as if the strange rain had washed every person of Caen away with it.

Herlechin stood atop the southern wall where soldiers should have been. His leather suit shone as if it had been newly painted with the blood of men and the black mask which was his demon’s face glinted like polished obsidian. They were met at the gate by a beautiful woman robed in a blue indistinguishable from the sky. When she smiled, she showed blackened teeth and a forked, purple tongue.

“I am Morrígan, and you are welcome, ladies. My lord Herlechin has the honor of meeting you in battle today.” Her voice melted into the air like a drizzle of honey into the pot. Alex and La Héron exchanged a wary look.

“I am Birdsong, and this, Madame La Héron,” Alex said, unable to keep a quaver of unease from her voice. “Will you do us the honor of stating your terms?”

“Most gracious, ma chère . I propose nothing difficult, simply a duel to first blood. I don’t foresee any complications.”

“First?” Alex frowned, but Morrígan’s mocking smile roused her blood. “Naturally,” she snapped. “That is the simplest thing. Only—perhaps, a little wager?”

Morrígan looked amused. “Do you birds need something from Herlechin, then? Brave of you!”

“I need nothing!” La Héron put in, looking alarmed. “Sister Birdsong, a moment?”

Alex ignored her, but Morrígan raised an eyebrow. “Sister?” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if tasting the air. “Oh my, yes. A daughter of God! Don’t you smell sweet.” Her forked tongue flitted over her teeth, then retreated. “Yes, I think we could add a little more flavor to this match. Name your terms.”

“Play for me,” Alex blurted, spitting the words out. “If Madame wins, I belong to her.”

“Sister!” La Héron cried. “Don’t be stupid!”

“And a nun for Herlechin if he wins. Very tempting. But, ma chère , you belong to your God.”

Alex squared her jaw. “That isn’t a problem for you, is it?”

Morrígan laughed. “No, Sister, it is not. I confess, I did not think you could offer us anything, but this”—her lips lifted over her sharp teeth—“we agree to your terms.”

“I do not!” La Héron protested.

“It is done.” Morrígan quickly glanced at the tall woman. “You knew we would have to play for something, madame.”

La Héron ground her teeth together and glared at the back of Alex’s head. After a moment’s silence, she waded off to join Herlechin.

The duelists bowed and assumed their positions atop the butter-colored walls, surrounded on both sides by the waters of the storm-brought lake twenty feet below them. Herlechin was twice as tall as La Héron remembered. He wielded two longswords in the German fashion, neither blade as long or as swift as La Héron’s, but heavy, dangerous-looking affairs nonetheless. She could see no eyes in the black pits of his demon’s face, yet somewhere in their depths, La Héron sensed damnation.

Herlechin moved first. He swung one blade down, a lightning strike sent straight for her heart, whirling the second like an echo toward her thigh. For her part, La Héron stepped back and twitched her sword’s point at the back of Herlechin’s gloved hand. First blood needn’t be fatal.

Herlechin repeated this cleaver-like attack three, four times, advancing on La Héron each time, forcing her farther and farther back toward a turret. The fairy lord was tireless, and La Héron’s counterattacks hadn’t enough weight behind them to breach his leather hide. Still, La Héron’s face showed only focus and control, study and thought.

As Herlechin drew up for the fifth attack, La Héron’s heel scraped against the stone wall. Herlechin guffawed to see her trapped, unable to retreat further, but La Héron’s lip only twitched in annoyance. As the great swords fell toward her with the weight of judgment, she quietly lowered her weapon, flattened herself against the turret, and twisted to face the wall’s ledge. She scrambled spider-like onto the lip, faced the water-filled fields, spread her arms, and jumped.

Her escape was obscured by an explosion of yellow rubble and dust as Herlechin’s blow ripped through the tower. A moment later, the blood-red hunter leapt onto the ledge and dove after his quarry. Twenty feet later, there was no splash.

Alex rushed for the stairs, her pace slowed by the deep water. She took the steps three at a time with Morrígan at her heels, raced along the wall toward the ruined tower, and threw herself at the wall’s ledge, gripping the stone with white fingers. The sparkling green water appeared to stretch out to the horizon, broken only by ripples where the long grass swayed below the waves. There was nothing else: no bloody flush, no floating corpse, no froth of struggle, and no sign of La Héron nor Herlechin.

Alex glanced at Morrígan, whose perfect face was muddied by confusion.

“What sort of creature is she?” Morrígan murmured, sounding almost impressed.

Alex kept her eyes on the water. “La Héron,” she muttered.

At this invocation, the surface of the water broke. A snake-like neck preceded a white spray of water where sheets of blue-grey feathers unfurled and took flight. Long, scaled legs trailed behind the lithe bird, clutching a rapier in one talon. The blade was too long and too heavy for feet built for gripping fish, and the heron struggled to escape the pull of the water. After a few moments flapping awkwardly too close to the water’s surface, a red fist punched out of the depths and took hold of the free leg, forcing the blade to tumble from her grip and her body back into the mire.

“No!” Alex cried and vaulted over the edge. The long drop took no time and the shallow water did little to break her fall. With a pained cry, she pushed off the ground and lurched in the direction of the duelists, catching up the sword sinking hilt-first into the flooded field. Herlechin had surfaced now with the thrashing heron’s neck caught in one hand like a chicken for the slaughter.

“Better one loss than two,” Alex muttered. If La Héron bled, Alex would be lost. If La Héron died, they both would be.

So, she thrust.

She thrust gently, careful to avoid slitting the heron’s long neck which snaked and curled as she pecked at Herlechin’s face with her pointed beak. Alex thrust for the heron’s chest, where she hoped the bird had the most muscle. She thrust so slowly that in the space between beats of the wing, between blinks, the heron vanished and the long, pallid lines of a naked woman appeared where the bird’s breast used to be. The weight of her transformation caused Herlechin to buckle, surging forward into the slow path of the incoming blade. La Héron’s arm shot out and covered Alex’s grip on the hilt. Together, they drew a razor-straight line of black blood along Herlechin’s neck just above the collarbone.