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

Darak paused, his finger hovering over the button. One little push …“Why ever not?”

“It’s a long trip to the melting pot. We’ve got plenty of time to talk.” Her eyelids flickered. “I could always ask them to look your way. Ask them why you’re so good at your job. Why you’ve never made a mistake. Why you can spot a daega a mile away.”

Darak felt a trickle of sweat ride down his back. Who was this person? “How did you—”

She shrugged. “Word gets around. A few ringgits in the right hand can get you far in these parts.” Those lovely eyes of hers—eyes that weren’t real—flickered again. “They don’t even know you’re a daega , do they?”

For once, Darak had nothing to say.

Alisha cocked her head at him. “You know, we could reach an agreement.”

Ah . It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been threatened or blackmailed on this job. But it was definitely the first time he was seriously considering it. He couldn’t risk anyone taking a closer look at him. She held him in the palm of her hands. He could almost feel the walls closing in…

He spat a curse and turned to the monitor, punching in the override key. He took control of the system and lowered her level to a sturdy 3. Her smile was sickly honey as the machine pumped out her permit card, the one that would allow her employment and full access to the same assets as other daega in the city.

He handed her the card, looking her straight in the eye. “If you’re smart, you’ll get out of the city. It’s not safe for you here.”

That raised an eyebrow. “Not safe for me?” she walked towards the exit, heels clicking on the polished floor. “You’re the one working here. Do you think you’ll fool them forever?”

Then she was gone.

Originally published by Fantasy Scroll Magazine

Fog approached the town.

Roshar knew it would happen, but it was still unsettling to see it touch the outskirts of his home. The day before you could still see the fields. And the week before that Lithgard was still visible if you looked hard enough. But it had all been swallowed up by the spectral fog, scrubbing them out of existence

And soon it would be Northam’s turn.

He was almost glad that Robin never had to see this.

Roshar slipped his mudcaked boots on, the door groaning as he opened it and bundled his furs around him, fighting to keep warmth in body.

He started down the corkscrew staircase, shoes echoing in the tower. Felix was sitting on a bench with his broadsword leaning against the table. His ringmail rattled as he lifted a rusted tankard to his cracked lips, drinking greedily.

Roshar raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

“Aye, but who cares? It doesn’t matter anymore. Might as well get a couple o’ drinks in while you can, eh? I heard the ale they serve in hell is piss poor.” He chuckled as Roshar walked passed him, shaking his head. There was only one hell that he knew of. The one that we’re living in now.

*

Roshar pushed open the tower’s steel door. Wet gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way to Gaeon’s hut. He didn’t care for the gods from the south that he worshipped, but the old mage had saved his life on more occasions than he cared to admit.

He stepped around an empty shell of a burnt house and the splintered timber panelings of the market stalls, flakes of rust and ash floating down. He hammered on Gaeon’s door. Carved into the wood was the face of a solemn god, staring back at him. The old man thought they gave him protection, warded off enemies.

Gods don’t protect anyone now. Not anymore.

The door edged open, a draft of musty air floating his way. “Ah. You’re early.” The olive-skinned mage was squatting on the floor, cocooned in woolen blankets, tending to the dying embers of his hearth.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Roshar closed the door and sat down next to Gaeon, lifting his fleece so Gaeon could examine the fading scars on his chest.

Gaeon rubbed his bald head. “Count yourself lucky you’re still breathing, young man. The poison alone would have killed most men.”

He didn’t doubt it. They hadn’t even reached the mist when a volley of arrows spat out, thudding into flesh and bone. The arrows had slaughtered half his squad and injured others. He had managed to crawl close enough to the village for some scouts to find him. The ague had gripped him for a fortnight, sweating and vomiting and thrashing and twisting in Gaeon’s hut while the old mage nursed him back to life. Robin, his newlywed wife had come to visit him every day. Although he’d barely been able to register her presence, he knew she was there beside him. She had kept him strong. He clawed his way back through hell for her. And when he woke up, the old mage told him that the plague had taken her just minutes before.

He sometimes wished that Gaeon hadn’t bothered.

“Did you learn anything from the arrows?” Roshar asked, lowering his shirt.

“You could say so.” Gaeon waddled over to the bench and picked up the broken shafts with a strip of boiled leather for protection. He handed them to Roshar. “Careful. There’s still poison within them.”

The metal was wreathed in what looked like twisted black thorns, but on closer inspection seemed to be some sort of runic inscriptions. The arrowheads themselves were slick and oily, tiny barbs jutting out from the head, tips swathed in sickly green syrup.

“Those barbs hooked themselves deep in your flesh,” Gaeon murmured. “They too were coated with poison. Ghastly stuff.”

“And the runes?” Just being near the thing made him feel ill, like something was niggling in his guts. He forked them back to the old mage and felt the sensation fade from his body. “Can you read them?”

“I’ve poured over every map and scroll I have and found nothing.” He whisked the arrows away again. “Best it stays that way.”

They sat there for a long time, soaking up whatever heat the miserable fire was prepared to give them. Roshar wasn’t even sure how the old man managed to find dry wood. Everything in the town was drenched to the bone by the freezing weather. None of this was natural. Wasn’t hell at least supposed to be warm?

It was a while before either of them moved. Roshar shifted slightly as he turned to Gaeon. “I’m going back. I’ve got to try.”

The mage blinked. “I didn’t spend weeks raising you from the dead for you to kill yourself again.”

“I have to do something ,” Roshar hissed. “Anything is better than this.” It had been building up for a while but Robin slipping away had been the final blow. Whoever, or whatever had destroyed his world, he wanted to spit them in the eye before he died.

“Hundreds of men walked into that mist,” Gaeon said, poking the fire with a blackened poker like he was dueling with it. “Some of them tough as iron. Others held weapons older than themselves. And they all died the same.” He cursed as the fire started to fade. “What makes you any different, eh?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got to try.”

Gaeon murmured something and the door swung open, icy wind sweeping into the hut and finding the holes in his clothes. The embers shriveled back in dismay. It seemed that the meeting was over. Roshar stood up, aching bones clicking with protest.

“You’re going to die there,” mumbled Gaeon. “You won’t be coming back.”

“I know.”

*

Roshar stood on the edge of the field, watching the mist through the slits in his helm. Bodies were piled around him, some old, some new, rotting and letting off a odor that churned his stomach. Others were on fire, emitting a sickeningly appetizing scent. They had tried getting rid of the bodies that way at first. But now the corpses outnumbered the living by the hundreds, so no one bothered.