S. Stirling - The Tears of the Sun

Tiphaine laid a bet with herself. “Lady Mary,” she said, striding over to the cot, shoving the barred door shut. The eyes opened-blue, and filled with anger.

“Slut! Dyke! He’s dead! You killed him!”

“How would I have done that?” asked Tiphaine, testing the straps that bound the slight figure to the bed. Thick double-ply cowhide. John Hordle would have trouble breaking them, with no more leverage than that; Tiphaine herself would have been completely helpless.

“You taught that Princess to hate him!”

“Nobody ever taught Mathilda good judgment, she was born with it. I always thought her friendship with Odard was stupid, but I certainly never talked with her about it. Who actually killed Odard? Or didn’t you see?”

“A man. A Saracen.” Mary turned her face away. “He had a club and. . he was so big and. . my son killed him but he hit him going down. . Odard never had a chance.”

Tears fell out of the blue eyes and ran down the faded checks and ran into her ears. She shook her head, trying to dislodge them. Tiphaine didn’t step closer.

“A club! Not even a duel with a sword! Or a joust! Just a stupid street melee with pirates in Kalksthorpe. The ravens, the ravens are laughing on the back of the chair! The old man is laughing!”

Tiphaine tensed. The light wasn’t all that good, but she was pretty sure the eyes were getting darker. As if something bubbled up from within. Like road tar , BD had said. And it stinks even worse, if you know how to smell it.

“Mathilda kissed him good-bye and said she loved him like a brother. Odard smiled at her and said he was content.”

Mary’s voice was rising. “Content!” she shrieked. “She was supposed to marry him! And that awful priest from Mount Angel gave him last confession and absolution! He was sealed to the Ascended Masters! I promised them he would be theirs if he wed Mathilda! He did not belong to the Sacrificed God!”

The eyes. .

Tiphaine backed away from the bed, and heard the thick doubled-ply leather straps creaking. She couldn’t have broken those, not from that position. Mary Liu hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a needle or a wineglass for most of her life, but they were creaking, standing harder than iron against the steel buckles.

Mathilda’s alive, then, and the fellowship intact enough. They must have won that fight, wherever the hell Kalksthorpe is. . never heard of it. . Sandra would know. She’ll be so relieved. They could tend to Odard rather than leave him fallen on the field. And it sounds like the little bastard died well. I never trusted him. .

“Do you know where this happened?” she asked; the Lady Regent would want to know.

“Kalksthorpe, if that means anything to you!” The voice coming out of Lady Mary’s throat was thicker and darker, deeper. “On the ocean, the ocean, so cold and gray. . ships with the heads of dragons. .”

The Atlantic. They got that far! Ships with the heads of dragons? What the fuck?

Then the words turned into a howl. The sound was pain rammed into her ears; it was like barbed hooks thrust through and turning in her head, tearing at her brain. She stumbled back and jammed her hands up under the flare of her sallet to cover her ears. The visor fell down, and her vision suddenly became a narrow slit, like a glowing window on a dark night.

She wasn’t prepared for the sudden heave and snap as something within forced the small body past its limits. It came up and off the cot, directly at her like a cast-iron round shot from a catapult. The impact staggered her, even a small person was still a hundred-pound weight and Mary Liu or the thing that wore her was moving fast .

The lames of the breastplate spread the impact, and she went back into a crouch, grunting as if she’d been hit with a war hammer. Black beat at her vision, a black place where cindered suns collapsed inward upon themselves.

“Don’t come in!” she shouted, and the sound echoed through the cavern that was Fen House. “Don’t come in! If she wins, shoot her dead and fire the prison!”

She fought for breath. The chill was gone; hot, heavy darkness crested over her. Then a flash of light, a spear of light, and she was back in the cell. Teeth were reaching for her eyes, wet and yellow. Tiphaine ducked her head and reared back, then butted the brow of her sallet into them. Something cracked, something howled. Arms gripped her with astonishing strength and broken teeth grated on the steel of the bevoir over the throat, squealing and catching on the metal as they chewed at the steel.

Don’t try to respond conventionally, something within prompted her. You’re not fighting little Mary Liu. Use your head, and not just as a battering ram.

She didn’t try to break the hold; instead she turned and rammed herself three steps into the iron bars. Tiphaine weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. Her armor was a third again more; and she could throw that weight into the saddle with a flex of her legs. The impact rattled her head but the arms dropped away. Mary leapt across the cell and grabbed at the mesh of welded rebar across the outer window, legs braced with monkey agility. Tendons stood out in her pale soft forearms, and one ripped loose. The steel did too, and she turned and hit the Grand Constable with it.

Tiphaine could feel the alloy steel of her armor flex under the blow and tasted her own blood. She stepped into the next strike, grabbed the bar on the downswing. The grinning meat-puppet gripped it in both hands and twisted. Tiphaine held on grimly, counter-twisting, pain shooting through her right hand.

This thing is stronger than a human being has any right to be. But it still only weighs as much as Mary Liu.

And suddenly the thing was aloft, hoisted by its own grip on the thick iron, over and about. . and the warrior moved, putting her back, shoulder and arms into the swing. Tiphaine could hear a molten voice roar. Each time it did the world shook and blackness came over her sight. And then a cool soprano would sing out a great bell-like note and she could see again.

“Glaukopis! Nikephore!” she heard herself shout, and she knew no Greek, and yet knew the meaning of the words: “Gray-Eyed! Victory-Bearer!”

Swing and momentum and precision. The creature struck dead center in the glass and it shattered behind her, hands still reaching for Tiphaine’s throat. The slender body folded and flew back, into the lintel, and over and out through the shattered window, receding as if she were watching it through the wrong end of a telescope, vanishing down a spiral into infinity.

Tiphaine turned frantically to the cell’s gate. “Don’t go out, don’t go out, nobody go out or come in here. Let me handle it!”

She raced down the stairs, jumping sideways off that last ten steps, landing bent-knee and rolling in a clash of plates and using her moving weight to push herself back onto her feet. Stratson opened the rear door by the kitchen and she raced out into the dark waste yard behind Fen House, splashing through puddles ankle deep, fighting for her balance on the soaking sagging marshy growths. Light came from some of the windows.

Before she could call, more lights came on; Stratson doing just the right thing. She could see a little figure covered in soaking white rags trying to heave itself up on its arms through the downpour. The legs didn’t seem to be moving.

All right Rudi, you sent us the story on how to deal with this. .

The warden staggered out. She turned to him: “There’s a wall around this piece of bog, right?”

“Yes.” Stratson craned to look at the struggling figure. “What next?”