SFReader Discussion Forums : 2010 Winners http://forum.sfreader.com/ Copyright (c) 2006-2013 Web Wiz Forums - All Rights Reserved. Thu, 09 Apr 2026 09:29:23 +0000 Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:23:29 +0000 http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss Web Wiz Forums 11.03 30 forum.sfreader.com/RSS_topic_feed.asp?FID=8 <![CDATA[SFReader Discussion Forums]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_images/web_wiz_forums.png http://forum.sfreader.com/ <![CDATA[2010 Winners : 1st - Sagrada Familia, by Michael Barretta]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=9&PID=9&title=1st-sagrada-familia-by-michael-barretta#9 Author: SFReader
Subject: 1st - Sagrada Familia, by Michael Barretta
Posted: Feb-27-2015 at 1:23pm

Mike Barretta is a husband, father and retired Naval Aviator. He now works for a major defense contractor as a helicopter pilot. His first sale was to Black Ink Horror and his first professional sale was to Jim Baen's Universe. He was the 2009 winner of Jim Baen Memorial Writing contest. He has also managed to sneak his way into New Scientist magazine and a few anthologies when no one was looking. In general he believes that life is good. You just get older, richer, and fatter. He is happy to report that he is a bit behind on the richer part, a bit ahead on the fatter part, and right on schedule with the older part. When he finds the time he writes science fiction and fantasy stories and agonizes over a half completed novel.

===============
Sagrada Familia 
by Michael Barretta 

Samdra took a deep breath of the salt air trying to chase away the fatigue from her long journey in stasis sleep. Her head was wrapped in a smothering blanket of pain and her stomach turned as if she was still in free-fall. She put on a thin tight-lipped smile that would not fool her husband for a second. 

"Most people react that way," said Dr. Santers. The sea breeze tousled his thin brown hair and he squinted against the sun's glare. 

It was obvious that he had misinterpreted her discomfort with fascination.

"Samdra, perhaps we should go. We can come back when you're better rested," said Andolin, her husband.

"The emanations," said Samdra. The background static hum of rotted alien emotion and decayed memory washed over her. "I can feel them. I can almost see them. So strong." 

The vast tidal flat cemetery stretched north and south as far as she could see. To most, it was just another amazing though inscrutable artifact of a long dead civilization. To her, it was a cacophony of historical thought and memory. Perhaps her husband was right. It was too much too soon.

"Exactly, there are so many and they are so powerful that even the most normal human can feel them," exaggerated Dr. Santers. 

Samdra knew that Dr. Santers was weakly meta-psychic, barely registering on the professional scale. He tended to lay claim to more ability than he had. She tightened her fist into a ball and concentrated. The emanations faded, tickling the edge of her consciousness. More clear-headed, she opened her eyes and relaxed them by scanning the horizon. Huge white-capped rollers on a blue-green sea marched in to smash on the barrier breakwaters. The tide was going out and as the water receded the monstrous skulls, each as tall as a man, broke the ocean's surface. 

"Wait till you get among them. They are most powerful immediately after the tide has gone out and then only the most disciplined can tolerate the emanations for useful periods of time," said Santers.

Samdra sensed Santer's growing unease. It didn't take meta-psychic ability to know what was bothering him. He feared exclusion. She let go of her husband's hand and grasped the cool iron rail that wrapped the cemetery overlook. "They stood here and watched," she said unexpectedly. 

Andolin wrapped his arms around her and she leaned into his warmth. He was accustomed to her spontaneous out-of-context observations. The gentle ocean breeze carried the smell of seaweed stranded amongst the thousands of skulls and great reefs of disarticulated bone. The iron railings creaked ominously and she let go, letting her husband support her. The emanations grew more insistent with the receding tide. She turned to her husband's calm restful thoughts and she felt weak and ashamed. "Hundreds of generations of Colossi have been waiting for thousands of years. You can rest and we can catch the morning tide in about 18 hours. Would that be sufficient?" asked Dr. Santers. 

"That will be fine, Doctor," said Samdra. 

### 

The jump-shuttle touched down on the pad with a slight bump. Dr. Santers opened the passenger door, flooding the cabin with cool salt-tinged air and golden morning light. The shuttle's ducted fan engines spooled down to silence and windmilled in the breeze. Samdra, Andolin, and Dr. Santers climbed out of the shuttle and walked a short gravel path to the head of the staircase adjacent to the overlook they had stood at the previous day. Samdra could hear the indistinct sound of enthusiastic voices rising from the depths of the staircase.

"The steps were hewn out of the granite cliff side over 2,500 years ago," said Dr. Santers. "There are forty sets of steps along the cemetery coast." 

Santers led the way down the steps. Their feet clanged rudely on the human-scale perforated metal steps superimposed on the carved native stone. The Colossi steps were twelve feet wide and had a four foot rise, giving some indication of the size of the creatures. Water from an early morning rain storm pooled and cascaded down the heavily weathered stone steps. Tiny Ephemeris shrimp clouded the pooled water, living and breeding and dying before the water evaporated in the afternoon sun. Bright darts of morning light flashed from the dazzling Mediterranean blue ocean. Halfway down the side of the cliff the grade leveled off and turned into a pathway. They rounded a jumble of broken rock splotched in purple velvet sea moss.

A stone army of Colossi statues planted in a field of emerald green grass, stood in ranks, weapons ready. 

"The statues are cast from a very durable ceramic around the bones of Colossi. Fortunately, the Cemetery coast is geologically stable so they have suffered very little damage over the centuries," said Dr. Santers. 

They slowed to a respectful pace as they walked in the shadow of the giants. Samdra had the impression of a herd of fantastic bipedal prehistoric beasts or conclave of ancient horned gods. The Colossi were at least 25 feet tall. Some had massive sweeping antlers that spanned 10 feet across, some had thick spiraled horns like frozen Medusan snakes; others appeared to have ludicrous swooping crests like prehistoric herbivores. Birds darted between nests in their outstretched hands and head gear. The heavily ridged bodies were armored with plates of scaled skin and studded with horns. The Colossi had eyes the size of dinner platters and wickedly fanged mouths. "I am assuming that this one is male?" asked Samdra, noting the monstrous serrated penis. 

"It is," said Dr Santers. "They don't exaggerate," he added. 

"Amazing," said Andolin. 

Samdra touched the smooth golden-brown ceramic of the nearest statue. Like most objects, it was meta-psychically dead, not even a, "Yes, I lived" emanation came from the incarcerated bone. 

"If you will note, all the male statues carry staffs or spears and the females carry swords," said Dr. Santers. 

Samdra turned to face the flats. "Can you feel them Andolin?" asked Samdra. "Nothing is ever lost." 

"I can," he replied cautiously. "Let's get to the flats before we begin our orientation." 

They walked a rambling path in the shadow of the Colossi statues and then descended down more creaking metal steps to reach the gear shack just above the high tide mark. Gull-like birds squawked and swooped, occasionally settling in too close to people for either's good. Their metallic silver-wings flashed and gleamed as they were shooed away. Other meta-psychics, in the uniforms of their corporate sponsors, or the drab gray of institute staff prepared for their excursions on the flats. Most acknowledged her with smiles and head nods. It was hard not to know her; she was the most powerful of their kind.

They stepped up to a service counter and the equipment technician handed them brand new gear he kept in reserve for the director's VIPs. "These are your mud shoes," he explained. "They'll distribute your weight and make it safer to get around. They're not always necessary but there are some soft spots out there and you don't want to get stuck in the mud. He handed them holstered wands and a vest festooned with pockets. "These are tingler wands for any of the smaller critters you might encounter, and your standard gear vest with radio, first aid kit, and signal devices. You've had the brief?" 

"Yes," said Andolin. They had run through the immersive brief on all the equipment prior to leaving the institute's dormitory complex. 
### 

They walked into the Colossi cemetery. The mud flats were a bizarre fairy garden of disarticulated bone encrusted with tidal sea life. Brilliant feathered worms fanned the air gathering oxygen to endure the next tide. Soft corals of azure, scarlet, and gold sprouted from drifts of gray Colossi bone. Purple multi-legged crabs and spiral shelled mollusks squirmed and scuttled. A soft insistent grunting noise came from a burrow.

"It's harmless," said Dr Santers. 

A snaking path had been crudely plowed through the bones to allow humans easy access to the heavy skulls. The gray bone was flecked with silver and white crystal that belied the bizarre quirk of nature that crystallized Colossi bone and brain almost to the hardness of diamond. 

Samdra slowed and stopped in front of a remarkably well preserved skull taller than a man. Dull magenta seaweed bearded the jawless head. A thick metal pole with a catalog number etched on it was driven into the ground indicating that this skull had revealed its secrets. It had been mined out, drained of whatever knowledge, experience, and memory it may have held. The skull showed evidence of bone deep cuts and hacks; whether from an edged weapon in life or random collision with many millennia of floating debris after death was anyone's guess. All the bones in the tidal cemetery exhibited some level of damage and not a lot of effort was spent in determining if the damage was pre or post-mortem. A massive ceramic chain was bolted through the frill of a skull-fused neck vertebra. Samdra followed the chain with her eyes to a sea worn stone block protruding from the grayish-brown silt. Samdra touched the skull and dropped her guard. She heard murmurs of ancient memory. As the sea water drained from the minute channels in the fossilized brain tissue they energized and amplified the meta-psychic remains. It was difficult to segregate this single mind from more powerful emanations deeper in the flats. She picked up visions of violence. The mind was female. She felt herself being dragged by two huge male Colossi. She fought hard but.....

"Samdra are you okay?" asked Andolin.

She broke her shallow contact. "Yes, I'm fine. I just didn't expect so much from someone so long gone," said Samdra. Her brief encounter had far more texture than she was accustomed to. "I was just testing." She smiled at him.

"Please tell me before you test, Samdra so I can be prepared," said Andolin. "I'm serious."

"I will," said Samdra

"Most believe that the flats are a place of honor where the Colossi preserved the best minds of their dead. There are too many and they are too powerful for it to be anything but deliberate intent to preserve them," said Dr. Santers.

"I'm not so sure," said Samdra. 

Dr. Santers winced. Her word in meta-psychic studies carried a lot of weight. 

They continued their tour of the flats and both Samdra and Andolin opened their minds to select skulls chosen by Dr. Santers. They stopped at three entangled skeletons that lay half submerged in the mud. The exposed bone was draped in gold and magenta colored sea weed and pitted with the homes of small invertebrates. Two adult skeletons, one male, the other female, cradled the bones of an infant.

"We call them the Sagrada Familia," said Dr. Santers. "It means holy family in Spanish. Their discoverer was Dr. Miguel Esteban from Barcelona. "They are unique because of the child. What a story they could tell."

"No one has read them?" asked Andolin. 

The emanations from the Sagrada Familia pounded Samdra's brain like surf on a rocky coast.

"The emanations are too strong, too confused, too dangerous," said Dr. Santers. "You can tell the male by the heavier crest structure on the head and the larger cheek tusk sockets. The female has a slightly narrower skull and the boulder looking object below the ribcage is actually a uterus, an armored womb. Just imagine the society they must have had to require that." 

It certainly explained the serrated penises on the male statues, thought Samdra. She turned to Andolin and caught his smile at her thought. She opened her mind like a peep through the key hole and was nearly overwhelmed by three tangled strands of bright thought. She shut it down. 

"Not now, Samdra," said Andolin. He staggered from the meta-psychic backwash. 

"I think we should go now. I'm still a bit tired," said Samdra. 

### 

Back at the landing field, they boarded the jump-shuttle. The craft rose and climbed away from the landing pad and banked to the west towards the archaeological colonies main complex situated between the cemetery coast and the ruins of an unnamed Colossi city. 

"Has there ever been any discovery of Colossi space efforts?" asked Andolin.

"No, there hasn't and that is one of the questions we are interested in. Their civilization lasted long enough to develop interstellar travel, yet we have found no evidence they ever did," said Dr. Santers. 

"Losers," said the jump-shuttle pilot. He swiveled his seat around leaving the ship in the custody of its auto-pilot.

"Andolin, this is our chief pilot, Marican Jahons." 

"The simplest explanation is usually the most correct. There is no extra-planetary infrastructure because these fat asses never got off the ground," said Marican.

"I find it hard to believe, especially with the hyper-geometry theorems and computational dynamics paradigms we've pulled from the cemetery," said Dr. Santers. "Both of those lessons had direct application to faster star travel."

"Even Luddites understood the wheel; they just didn't like using it," said Marican. He grinned at his own joke, saw that it fell flat, and offered a more sophisticated argument.

"On Earth, we still have reactionary ethnic and religious groups. They smother themselves in their own cradles. The Shakers left behind beautiful crafted artifacts yet they survive only in museums and there is no such thing as an Al Qaedist world is there? Fortune favors the bold." 

Samdra watched Dr. Santers sniff disdainfully. He no doubt believed that Marican was so far out of his depth that he wasn't qualified to have an opinion. 

"Most of what we know about the Colossi is incidental to the profitable," said Samdra. "Isn't that true Doctor Santers?" 

"True," admitted Dr. Santers. 

"Apathy destroyed the Colossi," said Marican. "This planet is the end result of a hundred thousand years of traditional civilization unimpeded by progress. They didn't have any answers because they drowned the ones that asked the questions."

"Marican is in the minority of course," said Dr. Santers. 

"Most people have thoroughly romanticized the Colossi. They were huge and powerful and bizarre. We hold them with in the same fascination as Earthly dinosaurs but the fact remains that they never made it off their own world and they died," said Marican. "It's as simple as that." 

"Well, thank you Marican for entertaining us but it doesn't explain all that we learned from them. We've salvaged works of art, engineering marvels, and beautiful literature," said Dr. Santers.

"All things are created twice, first in the mind and then with your hands. So without a doubt the Colossi had exquisite minds, but in the decade, we've been here Doctor we've never seen those works of art, engineering marvels, or books of any kind, just crappy stone cities." He turned back to his instrument panel. "It was all in their heads," said Marican to his instrument panel. "They just never made it real."

"All in their heads," said Samdra. 

### 

Samdra rested in the arms of her husband in a portable apartment at the Cemetery coast far from the archaeological colony. The meta-psychic chatter at the colony was annoying and at times painful. She preferred to be in the sole company of her husband who made her gift bearable. His thoughts were cool, calm, and uncomplicated.

"I want to go to the Sagrada Familia," she said. 

"They're too strong," said Andolin. "We've done enough work." 

"I'm going," she stated flatly. 

He looked at the tide clock on the wall. "The next daylight tide," he said.

"No, we are going now." She rose from the foam pallet bed and began to get dressed. "You know I'll go without you."

Andolin relented. 

### 

The Sagrada Familia bones glowed silver in the moonlight

"Are you ready?" asked Samdra. She placed the memcorder crown on her head and pressed the contacts to her temples. The device would record whatever she saw and heard and felt. She reached over and brushed her husband's hair back. She placed the memcorder crown on his head and pressed the contacts to his temples and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "For luck," she added. 

"For luck," he repeated.

"Who are you?" she said to the bones. She walked slowly around the skeletons, circling them, trying to find the best aspect. "Who are you?" she said again as she opened her mind ahead of Andolin.

"Samdra, wait...," said Andolin out loud. 

A howling torrent of memory filled her head to bursting and she found herself inside a maelstrom. She searched for Andolin amidst the white noise and couldn't find him. She began to frantically organize chaos into streams of sight and sound and feeling. Each of the three emanations was as complex and powerful as a living mind. She separated the three streams and finally felt her husband's presence, bolstering her efforts. The Sagrada Familia emanations resolved into something altogether primal and familiar. She felt Andolin's hands on her, pulling her down into the mud. They were both drawn far deeper than she thought possible. 

### 

Samdra was him.

Asteus. 

He was immense and alive and he stalked the breeding forest looking for his love. Centuries of tradition forbid his desire, but he didn't care. He heard her call and began to run naked through the forest. Dagger bush and spiky tree branches dragged along his thick skin drawing blood and raising his passion. His clawed feet tore up huge gouts of turf and forest floor. Animals scattered in panic. When Colossi danced the smaller animals got out of the way. He saw her beneath the light of the five moons in the clearing. She was perfect and beautiful with scales buffed to a high sheen and boney plates swollen and engorged. He ran to her, the ground shaking with each of his three ton steps. 

### 

Andolin was her.

Marta.

She was fertile, powerfully aroused, and in love. Her breath came in quick pants that moved the air like gales. Her body was as hot as an oven. Phosphorescent stripes on her flanks telegraphed her desire. She shrieked like a siren and the night air resonating through her skull chambers like a thousand fog horns. Every male for miles would know what she wanted, but she only wanted it from her chosen. Saplings fell to the ground as Asteus burst into the moonlit clearing. She turned to meet his charge and braced. Her bellowed roar split the air. As much as she loved him, he would have to prove himself worthy. He crashed into her with enough force to nearly break bones and she deftly sidestepped using his momentum against him. Her intent was to throw him, but he had locked his inferior breeding arms around her hips and they rolled together, crushing the vegetation. He pinned her superior arms with his hydraulically boosted muscle. His fanged jaws extended and bit down at the base of her neck just above the shoulder. She screamed in ecstasy. His saliva was a mild paralytic and a powerful intoxicant. Her body relaxed under him, muscled nervous tension flooded away in a heated rush to be fully supplanted with white hot lust. Her movements became slow and languorous. She surrendered completely and bit down gently on his neck injecting her own euphoric toxins into his blood stream. Her legs parted seemingly of their own volition and she felt his serrated penis sawing through the bone plated uterus. The final penetration was almost gentle compared to the fierce seduction. They roared together signaling their defiance of tradition and law. 

### 

The fetuses assimilated his fluids. Fully viable, they fought viciously, cannibalizing each other with the same ferocity that their parents had made love. The battle subsided when only one remained, swaddled in the bloody debris of its inferior siblings. Her uterine lining thickened and began to absorb the losing contenders and heal the injuries of the survivor. Asteus withdrew spent and exhausted. Marta's uterus self-sealed to protect the fetal Colossi for the short time it needed till it could stand for itself in its violent world. 

### 

Asteus closed his eyes for a moment relaxing into the pleasure of consummated love. He heard a sibilous hiss from the edge of the forest and weak-kneed, he moved to stand. Her two brothers crashed into him like freight trains intent on murder. Each had staffs half again as long as they were tall. They swept his feet and he rolled, slashing viciously with his own razored talons. He struck once, twice, raking claw across dark flesh, scenting the air with bloody mist. A staff cracked across his face and his left crystal eye shattered. He fell and her brothers beat him savagely into semi-consciousness with swift bone-breaking strikes of their staffs. He lay on the ground unable to move and watched with his one remaining eye as her father, Teleus, stepped up to his love with a judge's spear. Her brothers abandoned him and seized her, pinning her arms. Her father drew back the spear and stabbed into her armored womb intent on killing the illegal half-caste spawn. She screamed in pain and fury and one of her brothers knocked her unconscious. 

### 

Asteus woke, cold and wet with a throbbing head; he knew exactly where he was. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. He touched his neck and felt the weight of the chain. He reached behind his skull and felt the bolt drilled through his lower frill. To pull against the chain with any force would snap his spinal cord. He looked through his one good eye and found Marta. She lay in the mud draped with a similar chain. The water had already covered her mouth. She was dead. Perhaps her brothers had granted her that small mercy. Something squirmed in her arms and at first he thought it was one of the worms that fed on the decaying. He focused his good eye and saw that it was his son wrapped in his mother's arms. He roared in pain and tried to reach him. The chain snapped his head back viciously. He turned back and grabbed the chain with all four of his arms and pulled. The stone block, reversed its slow descent into the mud and moved. He locked his legs and willed his hearts to pump harder to fill his legs with viscous muscle fluid. His leg bones bent under the terrific stress. His lower shoulders, the weaker ones, popped out of their sockets, but he refused to submit. The block moved over the mud closer to Marta. He collapsed from exhaustion on top of her cold body, so different from the furnace heat in the forest. He cradled her head and sea water ran from her slack mouth. He kissed her cheek and stretched for his son.

The infant hissed and bit him. He was as defiant as his father. Needle sharp teeth drew blood and tasted. The infant recognized his father by blood taste and relaxed into the warmth of his father's arms. 

Asteus levered himself up to stand tall in the company of the dead. All around for miles lay the bones of heretics and blasphemers and dreamers and artists and poets. The greatest minds this planet had ever produced were drowned in these flats and displayed for all those who would dare challenge the one righteous way. He wobbled unsteadily. Muscle fluid leaked from between the broken skin-plates in his legs. He wouldn't have to maintain the hydraulic pressure for long. He held his son high in the air and his bio-luminescence flared.

### 

Witnesses, lining the edge of the cliff, gasped at the impropriety of the display. 

Asteus glowed with released energy. "Teleus," he roared to Marta's father. "Behold, my son. He is mightier than you can believe. You could not kill him. You can never kill him, Teleus!" 

The tide rose to his waist. He bashed away a few inquisitive worms looking to feed on Marta and cradled his son for the first and last time. 

"I will call you Marteus," using the masculine form of his lover's name. "And you are too good for this world. You will find another." His son stared fearlessly back at him as he spoke blasphemy of other worlds and other ways. He pinched his son's head between his clawed thumb and forefinger and twisted, snapping the neck. He looked up. Bright stars dotted the sky. He roared his miserable fury till it echoed off the cliffs and he held his dead son aloft for as long as he could. The waters rose and his roar dissolved into sobbing, but not for himself, for his son and for the world. 

"They will know, Teleus. The universe will know what you did!" The tide washed over his head and the weight of the chain pulled him to the mud. He wrapped himself around mother and child holding them tightly together. Water filled his lungs with pain, and he drowned in good company. 

### 

Teleus watched the water cover his daughter and her illegal suitor and thought no more of either of them. Soon enough he would take his place among the ranks of guardians standing watch against blasphemy for eternity, but for now, the family's honor had been preserved and there was far too much of real importance to worry about. He walked slowly, eavesdropping on the conversations of witnesses, eager to hear an impure thought. Hardly a tide rolled in that did not purify the people. 

### 

Samdra woke first, cold and naked. There was no struggle to the present. She was Asteus one moment and then herself the next. She felt the comfortable warmth of her husband next to her. She opened her eyes, lifted her head, and saw a small carrion crab waving a multitude of feelers in her face. She shooed the thing away and rolled Andolin onto his back. She knew he was alive because she could feel his steady heartbeat and regular breaths. She just didn't know if he was himself. She called him with her mind in the meta fashion and was overjoyed when he answered. He opened his eyes and she kissed him. She felt a bright flash of potential in her womb as if an entire universe unfolded like an infinitely complex origami. 

"What do you think of the name 'Marteus?'" she asked.
]]> Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:23:29 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=9&PID=9&title=1st-sagrada-familia-by-michael-barretta#9 <![CDATA[2010 Winners : 2nd - Blood Debt, by Fadzlishah Johanabas]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=8&PID=8&title=2nd-blood-debt-by-fadzlishah-johanabas#8 Author: SFReader
Subject: 2nd - Blood Debt, by Fadzlishah Johanabas
Posted: Feb-27-2015 at 1:20pm

Fadzlishah is a Medical Officer in Neurosurgery, born and based in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He messes around with brains for a living, though he's never eaten one, even though work makes him feel like a zombie at times. Among his publication credits are COSMOS Australia, Poe Little Thing, Aether Age: Helios, Crossed Genres, Best of Every Day Fiction 3, and Expanded Horizons. He originally wrote this story for a vampire anthology. Pontianak is a Malaysian/Indonesian version of a vampire (female only). But evidential pontianak wasn't the editor's idea of a conventional vampire. He didn't want to write a horror story for the sake of it; he wanted to show monsters can take many forms; it all depends on how we perceive them. Visit his blog at http://www.fadzjohanabas.com.

==================
Blood Debt
by Fadzlishah Johanabas 

There was blood everywhere.

Two men lay on the forest floor near the village, limbs twitching in a final fight for their lives. Their abdomens had been similarly ripped open, wet entrails slipping out, turning dusky fast in the cold night air. Blood dripped from nearby leaves, brush and tree-trunks, and flowed thickly from where they lay, forming rivulets between saplings and rotting leaves.

A woman crouched over one of the men, her dark eyes intent on watching the life fading away from him. His blood dripped from her mouth and stained her long black hair and white robe. She held his entrails in one hand, and caressed his face with another.

The man gurgled incoherent words, his throat and lungs filled with his own blood. The woman cocked her head, listening. She caressed his face again, and as he choked and convulsed, she opened her mouth wide, revealing rows of sharp fangs, and devoured him.

In a distance, wild dogs of the forest whimpered and yipped. 

###
 
Melur gasped awake. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her breaths came shallow and ragged. Her lower abdomen tightened and she gasped harder. She gripped the bed sheet, damp with sweat, and controlled her breathing until the spasm slackened. This late in her pregnancy, the contractions came more and more frequently.

Just as the contraction stopped, Alias came running through the bedroom doorway. He was drenched in sweat, and grease smeared his hands and forearms, from the motorcycle he was repairing. Melur, Sayang, are you all right?

Grease, not blood. Melur shook her head to banish the gruesome image. She took a deep, calming breath. It's nothing. Just a nightmare, and the baby didn't like it. She gave her husband a weak smile.

Alias wiped his hands with a greasy cloth and sat at the edge of their bed. He smiled back, as if happy with her explanation, but his furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes told her otherwise.

Melur leaned forward as much as her bulk allowed and traced her husband's cheek with the back of her fingers. Don't worry so much. I am fine. The baby is fine. It's just a nightmare.

Alias wrapped her hand with both of his, and kissed her fingertips. You are my wife and the mother of my unborn child. Of course I am worried.

Melur relished the comfort of Alias's warm, callused fingers against her smooth skin. She inhaled the musky scent of his sweat, mingled with grease. She took in the sight of his concerned face. Alias was not a handsome man, with acne-scarred cheeks and sparse mustache, but he had kind eyes, eyes filled with his love for her. I am all right. Go finish your repairs before it gets dark. I'll prepare dinner.

Alias nodded and gave her fingers another quick kiss before letting go. Melur heard him whistle as he ambled toward the front lawn, where their old motorcycle stood waiting with parts of its engine dismantled. Alias worked at a repair shop in the village, and though he did not finish secondary school, his father had passed down his wealth of knowledge and experience of motorcycle and car repair, enough to bring food on the table and a house for Alias's little family to live comfortably in. For Melur, it was all she had ever wanted.

Melur heaved herself off the bed and tied her wavy black hair in a ponytail. She contemplated bathing first, to wash off the sweat and all traces of her recurring nightmare, but decided against it. She had heard Alias's stomach growl when he sat close to her, and she wanted dinner to be ready before her husband headed off for Maghrib prayers at the mosque not far from their house. The baby kicked in assent. 

Their dinner was a simple one; Melur had prepared rice with fried fish, vegetable soup, and spicy hard-boiled eggs. Chicken and beef were luxuries they could only afford a few times in a week, but neither Alias nor Melur ever complained. They ate mostly in silence, but not for lack of conversation. Above them, a single orange light bulb flickered every once in a while.

Halfway through her meal, Melur stopped eating and clenched her fists. She took deep breaths until the contractions passed within a few seconds. Alias immediately rushed to her side.

I'm fine, just uncomfortable when my tummy tightens, Melur admonished. Finish your food. You'll be late for prayers.

Maybe I should stay home tonight. We can pray together.

Don't be silly. It's Thursday night. You have Yaasin recital after Maghrib. Besides, the baby is not ready to come out yet.

How do you know?

Melur laughed and cupped her husband's face in her hands. She cocked her head to one side. I've been carrying this baby for nine months. I just know.

I'll come home immediately after Isya', then.

Take your time, Alias. I'll be fine two hours without you.

The creases on his face smoothed as he broke into a lopsided grin. You said you never wanted to spend a minute without me, when we got married.

Well, that was then. Now you just annoy me. Before Alias could react, Melur laughed again and kissed his forehead. Go. The sun is already setting. It's almost Maghrib. 

###

Melur took her time to clear the small dinner table and to wash the dishes. By the time she finished cleaning, it was just past eight o'clock. She did not normally take a bath that late at night, with the toilet and adjoining bathroom separated from the main house, but her body still felt sticky with sweat. She needed the comfort of cold water from the well. With a sarong wrapped snugly around her body, covering from chest to mid-thigh, and a towel slung across her shoulder, Melur left the kitchen door open and walked the few steps required to enter the zinc-walled bathroom.

She was prepared to haul up cold water from the well, but much to her surprise, Melur found that her husband had filled the lidded earthen tub beside the well for her. The tub still retained some of the heat from the day, and the water inside was pleasantly cool.

She did not take a long bath; when she was a girl, her elders had discouraged her from taking baths at night. They had discouraged her from a lot of things, just as their elders had taught them the same values. Even though Melur could not explain the logic behind most of them them, she never questioned these values, and accepted them as wisdom she did not possess to comprehend.

Even though Melur spent mere minutes in the bathroom, when she walked out, night had fully settled in. A fresh breeze felt cool against her damp skin and hair. The sky with littered with stars and a full moon, with shadows of storm clouds looming at the horizon. The forest at the outskirts of the village formed a denser shadow. Melur shuddered involuntarily. The dark woods had always made her uncomfortable, and she never outgrew the fear. Dark spirits roamed the forest, her elders had told her - likely to prevent children from venturing in unattended - but she believed their words.

Just within earshot, Melur heard the mosque's loudspeakers broadcasting the Yaasin recital. She knew the Arabic verses by heart, and could tell that they were midway through. If she judged time correctly, it would not beIsya' for another fifteen to twenty minutes. Which meant Alias would not be home for another half-hour at least. Melur thought about organizing the living area, sparsely decorated as it was, while waiting for her husband to come home with the Imam.

The kitchen door was ajar, opened much wider than she remembered leaving it. Melur assumed the wind had caused it, and paid it little heed. She entered the house and locked the door. Only the kitchen and her room were illuminated by feeble electric lights. The rest of the house was dark; both husband and wife believed in saving electricity to minimize their monthly bill. Melur switched off the kitchen light before entering the narrow corridor leading toward her room, plunging the house further into darkness. The floorboards creaked as she walked, familiar sounds that brought her comfort, having lived in that house since she married Alias over a year ago.

When Melur saw three men in dark, tight-fitting masks waiting in her bedroom, she screamed.

Within heartbeats the largest of the three men grabbed hold of Melur from behind and clamped her mouth shut. Melur struggled and kicked and bit the man's gloved palm, but he proved to be much stronger. The two other men bound her hands and feet with their rough hands. No matter how hard she struggled, she could not free herself. The baby in her womb kicked and squirmed, as if sensing her distress, and Melur felt her breath catch.

Between muffled screams and tear-filled eyes, Melur saw one of the men taking out a brown bottle and dowsing a cloth with its content. He clamped the cloth over Melur's nose. She had no choice but to inhale the sharp, pungent cloth, and the last sensations she felt before passing out were the stinging pain deep within her nostrils, and the baby kicking wildly in her womb. 

###

Alias walked home with the Imam beside him. They almost always read the Quran at Alias's house every Thursday night. With a flashlight guiding them, Alias talked about Melur's pregnancy, and their plans for the unborn child. The Imam listened to the excited expecting father, only interjecting once in a while to ask a few questions.

When is the baby due?

In a couple of weeks, Insya-Allah.

The Imam nodded. That's good. Is Melur planning to give birth at home or at the hospital in town?

We're not sure yet. Mak Timah comes regularly to check up on Melur, and she offered to be Melur's midwife should she choose to give birth at home.

Don't be fooled by her age and small frame. Timah is a good and highly experienced midwife. She's much better than the young doctors in town.

Alias chuckled and nodded.

The house was in complete darkness when they arrived. Melur would always leave the porch light on whenever Alias was out at night. Alias fished out his set of keys from his pocket as the Imam aimed the flashlight at the doorknob.

A wave of overpowering smells assaulted them the moment Alias opened the door. He recognized the unmistakable smell of blood, as his repair shop was downwind from the local butcher's, but it was only an undertone against something much stronger.

Birth-water, muttered the Imam, sending Alias into panic.

Melur! Sayang, where are you?

Without bothering to turn on the light, Alias bounded toward the bedroom, where the smell was strongest. He fumbled for the light switch, but he soon wished he had not turned the light on.

Melur lay sprawled on her back on the carpeted floor, her eyes and mouth wide open, staring at the ceiling. She was naked; her sarong had been torn open, and her towel lay by her side, soaking up the pool of blood surrounding her. Her abdomen had been sliced open vertically from the belly button downward, with partially congealed blood forming dark curtains that collected by her sides. Her abdomen was flabby, empty. Her limbs were contorted, unmoving.

Melur would never move, never caress his face again.

Melur was dead.

With that realization, Alias crumpled onto the floor. He heard the Imam uttering strings of prayers, first to ease the passing of the departed soul, then to ward off evil. He felt the Imam pulling him back. Alias had not even realized he had collected Melur's cold body into his arms. 

###

It rained during the funeral, but most of the adult villagers attended nonetheless. Alias did not speak much; he still had difficulty accepting the fact that he had just buried his wife. A smaller, empty grave lay beside Melur's. Alias had named the unborn child Abdullah. Melur would have loved the name. The Imam and the midwife stayed beside him long after everyone else had gone home. The much older man with stooped shoulders held a large umbrella over himself and Alias, while the wrinkled, small woman held her own.

Why would anyone do this? Melur had never hurt anyone. She didn't deserve this.

I'm sure the police will catch the murderer, the Imam offered, but even deep in despair, Alias could read the lack of conviction in his voice. Police officers had informed them that there was no evidence of forced entry, they had not found any murder weapon, and they could not find foreign skin samples from the bruises on her mouth, wrists and ankles. There were also no newly registered babies in the two days since Melur's murder. They were without leads.

Who would kill an innocent woman and steal her unborn child?

This happened once, years ago.? Mak Timah's voice was soft, but sure. ?In a neighboring village.

Timah, not now, the Imam admonished.

Alias shook his head. No. Tell me, please.

A woman close to giving birth had been killed on a Thursday night, with a full moon in the sky. Her womb had been slashed open, and her unborn child stolen.

Why?

Mak Timah shook her head heavily. Black magic. Some people believe that the spirit of an unborn child killed on a Thursday night, with a full moon, can be harnessed to do their bidding.

Fresh tears streamed down Alias's cheeks. But why?

Wealth. Power. This practice has been in existence since before Islam set foot on our shores.

Does this mean that my son is -?

That's the reason why I insisted on a proper burial for him, whispered the Imam.

Alias turned to face the Imam. You knew?

I suspected as much when we found your late wife.

Why didn't you tell me. Accusation and anger thickened his voice.

You are going through enough pain already. Let us bring you home, Alias. You need to rest. You need to live on. Melur would want that very much.

How would you know? My wife is dead. She's-- Alias crumpled on the wet ground and cried. 

###

Four men sat in a small circle in a clearing deep within the forest. A sturdy man with thick grey hair, mustache and beard sat cross-legged at the head of the group, a bowl of incense crackling in front of him. Cold wind howled and leaves whispered secrets all around them, but he alone of the four men remained unperturbed. The rest squirmed where they sat, heads whipping about with every creak of a branch, every thud of wild fruits and boughs that fell onto the dense forest floor.

In the middle, floating in a large jar filled with preservative fluid, was a fully-formed baby boy.

The older man muttered endless strings of incantations, oblivious to the fear in the other three men. Every so often he would spit at the bowl of incense, and it would sizzle and produce a large plume of scented smoke. He had been sitting there still as a statue for almost an hour now. Only his lips moved, voicing a language none of the younger men understood.

One of them, a thin man with a narrow face and a sharp nose, leaned close toward the larger man beside him. I don't like this, Kamil.

Keep quiet, Jabar, he replied under his breath, barely audible with the wind whipping against them. You'll ruin the Bomoh's concentration.

What if we get caught?

It's been forty nights since we killed that woman. The men at the station are nowhere near to solving it.

Good thing we have a Sergeant with us, eh? The man opposite Jabar, the shortest of the three but whose girth strained against his shirt, winked and grinned.

Without a doubt, Lajis. Without a doubt.

You guys would have screwed up if I wasn't there, said Kamil. Now shut up and let the Bomoh finish the ritual.

They said nothing for several minutes, but the oppressive silence proved too much. Lajis was the first to break. I heard about men around here disappearing in the middle of the night the past few weeks since we--. Do you think the woman came back from the dead?

Jabar shuddered. As a pontianak? I sure hope not.

Kamil glared at his colleagues. Only two men disappeared, and their wives think they ran off to marry some tramp or something. Will you guys just keep quiet and stop this nonsense? Pontianak. Old wives' tales. We didn't do all this to be scared by old wives' tales. Concentrate on what we came here to do.

The Bomoh stopped muttering and his eyes snapped opened. Hush. We are not alone.

The three men whipped their heads about frantically, but they only saw trees whose leaves and boughs swayed with the incessant winds. The shadows between the trees threatened to crush them, but none of the men saw any presence beside their own. After exchanging confused looks, the men turned to face the Bomoh. He pointed upward. 

###

Alias paced about in front of the old mosque where most of the men, from teenagers to elders, had gathered after Isya' prayers. In their hands they held flashlights, machetes, and an array of tools that could be turned into melee weapons. Are you sure about this?

Some of the sturdier womenfolk had gathered as well, including Mak Timah. The ritual to turn a child's spirit into a toyol can only take place on the fortieth night after its murder.

Alias shuddered at the word toyol and uttered a prayer to ward off evil. From what he knew about spirits and demons, these particular creatures were used to accumulate wealth by stealing from others while they slept. But Alias had always thought they were just stories, nothing more. To face the possibility that his son's spirit would be twisted so?. Alias shuddered again.

The village chief, who had been conversing with the Imam, pointed at the general direction of the forest, just visible beyond the haphazard layout of houses made of wood and brick. If what you're saying is true, Timah, the murderers would hide somewhere in the forest.

The Imam nodded, but then shook his head, his expression grim. The police will take care of this. We have helped them enough with the information.

If they believe us, interjected one of the younger villagers. These people murdered one of us. We need to take matters into our own hands.

Alias stepped up to face the chief. Please, I don't want anyone to get hurt. The people who did this may be armed. No more killings. Please.

Likely your wife is already doing the killings, Alias, said another villager, who was almost twenty years Alias's senior.

Alias's face suddenly turned pale. What are you saying?

Haven't you heard the wild dogs in the forest barking madly the past few days? My grandchildren wake up crying in the middle of the night for no reason, even when the dogs aren't barking.

More than a few of the villagers nodded and muttered among themselves at this.

I caught a whiff of jasmine when I walked by the forest last night, added another villager. Gave me the chills.

Mak Timah exchanged a concerned look with the Imam. All the more reason for us not to venture into the forest.

What are they talking about, Mak Timah? Alias's voice broke, his breath caught in his throat.

It is said that when an expecting mother is gruesomely murdered, she comes back from the dead to seek revenge.

The Imam recited a sentence from the Yaasin. Folktale, Timah.

My mother was a midwife, and so was her mother. They did not pass down just the knowledge of midwifery to me, Imam. The tone of her voice challenged those who heard to question her truth. You've dealt with folk from beyond the Veil yourself. Why would you doubt the existence of pontianak?

Alias felt his knees buckle, but he paid little heed to the people rushing to support him. 

No. 

###

As one, the three men faced heavenward. Crouched on a large bough protruding into the clearing was a woman in a tattered white robe. Her wild but wavy hair hung limp despite the wind. Her pale skin was almost as white as her robe, and despite the distance, they could make out her eyes. Dead eyes. She screeched and leapt into thin air.

Lajis, drenched in cold sweat and shaking convulsively, scrambled to stand up. The Bomoh, surprisingly strong for a man his age, pulled him back down, almost dislocating Lajis's shoulder.

No! Do not break the circle. She cannot harm us as long as the circle is intact.

Lajis nodded and kept his eyes clamped shut. The scent of jasmine filled the clearing, stronger and stronger with each passing moment. Kamil and Jabar almost jumped when the woman landed silently behind Lajis, squatting with her knees wide apart, one clawed hand on the ground between her feet. She used her free hand to caress the back of his neck. Lajis whimpered and bit his knuckle until he bled. This close, the stench of decay replaced the sickly-sweet scent of jasmine.

Be strong, the Bomoh commanded. It will be dawn in a few hours, and the ritual will be complete. The pontianak cannot stand sunlight, and she can no longer touch any of us once the spirit of the babe belongs to us.

The woman crawled in a circle on all fours, stopping behind each man to trace a line on their backs with a claw-tipped finger, or to play with his hair. When she reached the Bomoh, she leered close and pointed at the container in the middle of the circle. Mine, she breathed, barely above a whisper, but cutting through the howling wind. 

The men felt her cold breath biting into their marrows. Return what's mine.

Begone, pontianak! The Bomoh's voice was steady and firm. Even with her face beside his, he did not falter. You do not belong here. You do not belong in this world. He uttered a fresh string of incantations.

She threw back her head and laughed. The three men, who had never heard such eerie laughter before, began to shake uncontrollably. Including Kamil, who was the strongest and most resolute among them. Lajis, his pants stained with urine, was the first to scramble and run away.

No! The Bomoh tried to grasp Lajis's hand, but he was too late. The circle was broken.

Mine! the pontianak screeched before burying her fangs into the Bomoh's neck.

The Bomoh withdrew a kris hidden in the folds of his sarong and stabbed at the pontianak to free himself, but she easily grabbed hold of his wrist. She crushed his bones with a sickly snap. The other two men, seeing how defenseless they were, dashed at different directions; Jabar trailed Lajis while Malik ran the opposite way. The pontianak lifted her eyes and smiled, before ripping open the Bomoh's abdomen. As he convulsed in his death throes, she devoured his entrails and drank his blood. 

###

Lajis, out of shape, did not run far before Jabar caught up with him. He screeched when Jabar grabbed hold of his shoulder, and stumbled on a protruding root.

She's coming for us! She's coming for us!

Jabar helped him up and pulled him to start running again. Shut up and run, Lajis! I'll leave you if you don't start running.

Lajis panted and heaved, but ran close behind Jabar. He kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to acknowledge the flash of white keeping up beside them and the growing scent of jasmine. When Jabar skidded to a halt, Lajis could not stop in time and stumbled into his friend. Both men fell face-down, with Lajis on top of Jabar.

The pontianak crouched on a large root in front of them, her head cocked to the right. She was drenched in blood. Her dead eyes bored right into theirs, and when she cackled, Lajis defecated where he lay.

She jumped and landed beside them, and peeled Lajis off Jabar. Before Lajis could cry out, she ripped open his abdomen, splashing blood on tree trunks, brush, and leaves. His entrails slipped out, and she lowered her head to devour them. Lajis convulsed, his life blood spilling onto the forest floor. The pontianak stuck out her long, sinuous tongue and licked the blood spurting from the jagged wounds.

Jabar took the chance to escape, but the pontianak flung Lajis's body away and landed atop him. In his last moment of life, Jabar prayed to God.

But God was no longer listening. 

###

Kamil, with his police-trained discipline and stamina, knew that he would not stand a chance if he followed Lajis. His two accomplices were weak, and that made them easy prey. He thought he heard them screaming in a distance, but he kept his concentration straight ahead. Secure in his hands was his bargaining chip should the monster come his way.

For endless minutes he ran toward the general direction of the village. He was convinced he would be safe once he was out of the forest. Surely the pontianak would not attack a village full of people. Kamil kept on running even though he stumbled a few times and sprained his ankle.

Eventually the trees spread further apart, and the floor was less dense. He had neared the edge. He would soon be safe.

Straight ahead, Kamil saw flashes of light coming from the direction of the village. The villagers, he thought. They must have suspected. He veered off to the side, toward the outskirts of the village, where the main road had cut off the forest into two to link one village with another.

The pontianak jumped off a branch and landed silently in front of him.

With the sudden scent of jasmine warning him, Kamil managed to stop a few paces away. His breaths came ragged, and his injured ankle throbbed furiously. He refused to let fear control him. Let me go, monster!

She pointed at his chest. Mine, she breathed, and the overpowering stench of decay made him gag. Return what's mine.

Kamil held out the canister in front of him. The preservative fluid sloshed noisily, and the small body inside bobbed up and down. You want this? Let me go and you can have it!

The pontianak cocked her head to one side, as if contemplating his offer. Then she threw her head back and laughed. Kamil laughed back, louder than her, his voice filled with contempt.

How about it? Do you want your baby back?

She stopped laughing and bore straight into his eyes. Her pale face was no longer filled with mirth. No. Blood.

Come and get me, monster! Kamil snarled in challenge.

The pontianak leapt toward him, her arms outstretched, clawed fingers extended, fangs bared.

Melur, stop!

Kamil whipped back to face a young man who was running toward them, with a few more people including the village Imam and midwife. It took a moment for Kamil to recognize the man as the pontianak's husband. Kamil was prepared to face his death, but not this. He could not afford to live and be captured.

The monster actually stopped attacking and glided toward the young man.

Please, Sayang. No more killing. Please.

The pontianak loomed close, preparing to strike, but he stood his ground and reached out as if to embrace her. A monster. Kamil almost laughed, but stopped short as he studied the man's eyes. Kind eyes. Loving eyes. There was not a hint of fear in them despite the monstrosity before him, threatening to end his life. In that moment, Kamil respected the young man as he had never respected anyone else before.

The pontianak must have recognized the look in his eyes too, for she stopped and wailed instead. It was heartbreaking, even for Kamil. Driven by greed and desperation, he had never regretted his actions before. What have we done, he asked himself. What have I done?

Mine, she breathed again, and pointed at Kamil. In a flash, she squatted in front of him and leered less than an inch from his face.

Melur, don't! Why was the young man persistent in saving his life?

The pontianak reached for the canister and ripped it away from Kamil's trembling hands.

Mine, she repeated as she held the canister against her face and caressed it.

Yes, Sayang. Our baby. I named him Abdullah, after your grandfather. His grave is beside yours, and I promise to give him a proper burial.

Alias. It was as if she finally recognized him. She wailed louder this time.

Kamil used the opportunity to run away, but two villagers grabbed hold of him. For a moment he fought them, but with his energy spent from running, Kamil could not overpower the younger men. Slumped between them, Kamil could only watch as the monster handed the canister to Alias and caressed his face.

We will bring your murderer to justice, Melur, said the Imam, who now stood beside Alias. Your blood debt is paid. You can rest now. No more killings.

The pontianak kept her eyes on Alias, who was openly crying as he cradled his dead child in his hands. She backed away a few paces and reached out to trace the contours of his face one last time.

Her heart-wrenching wails reverberated throughout the forest long after she disappeared into the darkness.
]]> Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:20:47 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=8&PID=8&title=2nd-blood-debt-by-fadzlishah-johanabas#8 <![CDATA[2010 Winners : 3rd - Forged, by Margaret McGaffey Fisk]]> http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=7&PID=7&title=3rd-forged-by-margaret-mcgaffey-fisk#7 Author: SFReader
Subject: 3rd - Forged, by Margaret McGaffey Fisk
Posted: Feb-27-2015 at 1:03pm

Margaret McGaffey Fisk developed a love for different cultures while wandering archaeological sites as a Foreign Service brat in the Middle East. A combined anthropology and creative writing degree continued that focus, but a healthy dose of science fiction and fantasy took her in unexpected directions. She currently lives in Nevada, another desert scape, with her husband, two sons, and four cats. Along with the more traditional hobbies of quilting and playing the guitar, Margaret enjoys her occasional forays into feral cat taming. Her speculative fiction appears in the following anthologies: Aurora in the Dawn by Aurora Wolf, Cloaked in Shadow by Fantasist Enterprises and Triangulation 2004 by PARSEC. Visit her website at http://margaretfisk.mmfcf.com

===================
Forged
by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

Aki staggered as one of the water buckets on her shoulder bar jerked toward the ground. High-pitched laughter assaulted her ears.

"Leave me be." She glared at the little gods who grinned from within her bucket. "If I don't get the water to the smithy before Starn's done working the sword, I'll feel his strap for days."

The little gods frowned and shook their heads, but at least they leapt down. In midair, they transformed into water and sank into the dirt path, leaving a muddy patch to snare the next wagon to come through.

Aki groaned at how much water the gods had taken, but she couldn't go back. She'd almost reached the outskirts where Starn practiced his craft and reluctantly taught her its secrets.

"Where is that fool girl?"

His voice thundered across the open land, and Aki flinched, spilling even more water.

The swordsmith's hammer clanged down on the anvil as he continued in a familiar refrain. "Lord Hanvold would never have left me shorthanded. He was young, but he knew not to strip us of our men just to fight foreign wars."

Her leather apron scraped the step and tripped her. One bucket thumped on the doorway.

Across the room, Starn froze, hammer suspended in the air. His expression quickly turned to anger when he saw who made the noise. "Get your skinny legs in here and ready the cooling vat," he commanded. "I'll not have another sword go sour because you're too busy spirit talking." He grimaced, making the ward sign against the little gods.

She scrambled over to the barrel. The chilled fresh water poured into the heated batch. Aki blinked steam from her eyes. She fumbled blindly for the second bucket and bumped the barrel instead.

"Watch yourself. If you weren't such a lightweight, you'd have knocked it over. You're as much trouble as those little gods you attract. Good for nothing but making mischief. Worse than no apprentice at all."

Starn glowered and straightened the leather strap protecting his hand. "I've salted the solution," he said, walking the heated blade over from the anvil. "Can't trust the hardening to you." 

He dipped his free hand into the brine to check the temperature before lowering the hot blade. The sword hissed when it pierced the surface, sending up a scent not unlike a winter stew, heavy in salt and the tang of metal.

They shared a smile before Starn remembered how much he despised her for drawing the little gods. He turned away, leaving the sword to rest on the barrel's metal edge.

"You watch the cooling. I'll start on the guard," he said, selecting a heated iron rod from the forge.

Aki chose a leather strap and wrapped it around her hand while she climbed on her stool. She turned the blade, checking that it still glowed hot and blue. If she failed, the reheated blade would be weaker.

Under her breath, she hummed a spell song Starn had taught her to time the task. Learning the song marked the first step in becoming a swordsmith; the first of many she planned to take.

Aki shook her head and focused on the blade. Even when humming, she still needed to pay attention.

The gravel in front of the smithy crunched, and she lost her place in the song. Aki glanced at the swordsmith to see if he'd noticed her slip.

He stared at the entryway.

They rarely got visitors anymore. Few needed swords in a barren village with most knights already on the battlefields.

The jangle of chainmail caught her attention, and Aki watched the tall, dark-haired man stride in with a sword held loosely in one hand.

"Smith. I hear tell you're the best around these parts--the only one in truth."

Starn placed the raw iron onto his anvil and moved toward the man, his shoulders curved in a deference Aki found strange even as she felt the authority this knight carried.

"I'm an able swordsmith, yes."

The knight scowled and dropped his sword onto the front table.

The clang when it struck echoed through the smithy, making their partially finished pieces ring.

Aki tensed.

"Here man. That's no way to handle a sword," Starn said, the mistreatment restoring his normal demeanor. "You can ruin even a good blade that way."

The knight laughed a humorless sound that made Aki's skin shiver. "My sword's the best ever forged, and though I'm gentle like a wet nurse, still it won't hold an edge. If my man keeps polishing, there'll be none left." He pointed to a groove visible even to Aki at the barrel.

She leaned out, trying to get a closer look and water splashed on her blouse. Aki jerked back, terrified she'd dropped her charge and somehow damaged the blade.

A little god sat on the cooling sword, shaking its head back and forth. Whatever the villagers thought, the little gods were often kind to her. Aki pulled the blade free of the water, relieved to see its smooth color. She smiled her thanks even as she glanced over at Starn.

Though he couldn't see or hear the little gods, somehow he always knew when she brought them into the smithy. It didn't matter if she said they helped. He didn't want the spirits anywhere near his work.

This time though, the knight distracted him with tales of how his sword balked at every attempt to keep its edge.

She placed the new blade into the cooling oil that would add flexibility to its strength and approached the table where they discussed the chipped sword. A gasp escaped her lips at the sight of the beautiful pattern formed by different metals. Starn couldn't produce Damascus steel, but she'd seen some before. Her hand stretched out unbidden, wanting to touch the mottled surface. A few of the knights up at the keep had such blades, and they kept them as close, or closer, than their wives.

"Out of my way, girl. Can't you see I'm with a customer?"

Aki stepped back, pulling her wet blouse away from her skin. The damp cloth itched, uncomfortable in the forge's heat. She dried her hands on her thighs and leaned sideways, trying to see the sword.

The knight stepped forward, his shadow dark against the table. The stench of sweat, musk, and grease passed over her. A faint tang of citrus made a feeble attempt to mask the odor.

Aki gagged when she identified the rest of the smell. Old blood. The knight smelled like a carcass left too long in the sun.

"Now there's a pretty decoration. Keep her around for the slow times, eh?" The knight caught her chin with his calloused hand and looked her over.

She glanced down to see how the wet cloth revealed her form where the apron didn't cover. Aki shuddered.

The knight tightened his hold on her face until she could feel each finger.

"She's enough to keep me busy while you fix my blade."

Starn gripped the knight's wrist, giving the other man a hard stare. "She's no decoration. My apprentice. Mind you leave her to her work."

The knight released his hold, but kept his gaze fixed on Aki. "Apprentice, eh? That's not what we call them on the battlefield. Come here, girl. I wouldn't have thought boy's clothing appealing, but on you..?"

She fought the commanding tone, shaking her head.

"She's no camp follower either," Starn growled in a tone he usually reserved for her. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled Aki behind him.

The combination of iron, coal dust, and honest sweat replaced the other man's odor. The swordsmith's familiar scent calmed her, and she tossed a defiant look at the knight.

"She's from a good family. See the soot on her hands?" Starn grabbed her wrist and displayed a palm still marked by the leather strapping that had protected her flesh. "She's a worker. We have to make do with what we can."

"You that low in men?" A frown drew the knight's thick eyebrows together.

"The new lord ain't Lord Hanvold. Stripped us of all but the old and infirm to fight his wars."

Annoyance made Starn careless, and Aki trembled.

The knight's frown deepened then he laughed all of a sudden. "That stripling didn't know how to war. A real lord takes what he needs. Never forget who protects your workers." He made the word sound dirty. "Coddling his peasants only bought Hanvold a painful death and a worse afterlife."

Sensing danger, Aki grabbed Starn's hand, holding it back from the blade lying so temptingly before the swordsmith. Starn had met their old lord and revered his memory.

The swordsmith shook off her touch and drew in a deep breath, his hands clenched on the table.

"Enough," the knight said. "My lord had the wisdom to keep you from the battle and me in it. Do what you're meant for, smith. Fix my sword."

Starn stared at the knight for a long moment before turning to the blade, his hands caressing its length as they sought out all the nicks and divots.

Aki moved next to him, drawn by the sword.

Starn glanced up long enough to frown. He nodded toward the back of the smithy. Though she wanted to touch the blade, she wisely retreated to the forge and shoveled ash away from the fire so the logs wouldn't smother. She listened to their dickering with half an ear.

"Return sundown tomorrow and we'll see where it is."

Starn's voice pulled Aki from her task, and she turned to watch the knight leave. He paused in the doorway, his shadow stretching the length of the room to brush against her. When he stepped through, she breathed a sigh of relief. The whole smithy seemed brighter with his absence.

Aki walked up to Starn. "Thank you for that."

"For what?" The swordsmith ignored the blade on the table and moved to his anvil. He pushed the cooled iron off. It fell to the stone floor with a sullen thump. Starn chose a fresh bar from the fire and started drawing it out with measured whacks.

"For speaking to that man," Aki persisted. "I just--" She stopped when Starn slammed his hammer against the anvil and turned to face her.

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for your poor mother and your father's spirit. He'd be the first to cringe seeing you here with soot on your face. Isn't it shame enough to know their daughter speaks to trouble-making spirits? If there'd been any other choice, I'd have laughed when you asked to work here. As soon as a boy grows big enough, you're out, you and those spirits you try to hide."

He scowled at her for a moment before picking up his hammer and bringing it down harder than he should have for a second time.

"Get to your duties. Bad enough I can't trust you to add the water; now you're distracting customers."

"But--"

He glared, and Aki swallowed against a tight throat. She headed for the fire, wiping moisture from her face that she swore came from the heat.

###

The abandoned sword drew her. Aki wanted to see its patina and touch its strong, flexible length. It pulled so sharply that she often caught herself walking toward the front.

The swordsmith's foul mood showed in the slam of hammer against anvil. At least he kept away from the half-made swords. His brute force would only shatter them.

Shatter.

Aki dropped the clamp in her hand, barely missing her toe.

"Clumsy idiot! My tools are worth more than you'll ever be. Drop another and I swear I'll beat you bloody." Starn waved the hot rod, sending sparks skittering across the floor.

She clenched her teeth. The mournful hiss had sounded nothing like the little gods. They never used words. If anything, the voice scared her more than Starn's warning.

Aki ignored the whispers for the rest of the day, performing her tasks with such care that none of the little gods appeared to scold her.

Finally, the sun slipped behind their mountain, and she put the last rod in place.

"Thinking about your supper, are you?"

Aki tensed. "The sun's sinking."

"We've still got that sword to deal with." He waved at the table she'd been avoiding. He must have exhausted his foul mood and now felt ready to work on the fine Damascus steel.

Her hand hovered over the sword before she even realized she'd moved.

He snatched the blade away. "Ah, what a beauty. Let's see what we can do to rush you back into the hands of your master."

The sword twisted like a living thing, and its edge bit Starn's wrist. Aki blinked, not believing what she'd seen.

"Take it! Take it!" he shouted, shoving the sword at her.

Aki reached for the blade, but again it contorted. She grabbed the hilt right above Starn's hand and pulled the sword away.

Blood. Need.

She almost dropped the sword, but at the last moment lowered it down on the table and backed away as fast as she could. "It's a blooded sword," she whispered.

"Nonsense, girl. Blooding swords was outlawed centuries past, and no one could make this blade so long ago." Starn used his teeth to tighten a rag around his wrist. "You heat it for a bit, just to soften, and I'll get those nicks out right quick."

"But--" Aki met his glare and knew she had no choice. She reached out and brushed the hilt, ready to jerk her hand away. She didn't hear a sound.

Grasping the sword firmly, Aki picked it up and stuck the blade into the fire. Flames played along its blue-silver length.

Hot.

The voice didn't sound as hungry as before. Aki ignored it, determined not to give Starn any reason to blame this on her as he did the little gods.

Free me.

She jerked away, the pitiful cry eating at her. There are no blooded swords, she told herself. Starn knows all about swords. He's good enough that even the new lord didn't send him to battle.

The voice fell silent, convinced even if she was not.

A short while later, she pulled the blade free with iron tongs and placed it on Starn's anvil. It made no sound.

The swordsmith began to sing the forging song as he fixed the chips. She waited for Starn to explain how the reforging would weaken the sword, but sharpening made the blade even frailer. He always explained.

"I don't need you any longer. We'll finish the work in the morning," he said without losing his place in the song.

She stared at him, but he only nodded toward the door.

###

Quiet filled the smithy when Aki returned with a full belly. The swordsmith had gone home to his wife.

She checked the fire, making sure Starn had banked the coals. He'd blame her if something went wrong, no matter who prepared the forge.

The shelf that held the Damascus blade loomed in front of her. She stared at the sword, wanting to check the repair but unwilling to hear the voice.

Nothing happened.

There are no blooded swords, she reminded herself while she braided her hair and settled onto her straw pallet. What kind of man could treat a sword like that so poorly? As she drifted off to sleep, she heard the voice calling to her.

###

Hot, rough skin pressed against the inside of her leggings, and her body jolted with the pounding of her mount's hooves. Sound battered her ears: shouts, cries of pain, and the clash of blades.

Aki stared around her. Warriors attacked each other with no thought to survival or compassion.

An arm rose from her shoulder though the muscled, hair-covered limb clutching a sword clearly belonged to a man.

Her wonder cut short when another sword appeared from nowhere.

She raised her blade to meet it. The screech of metal on metal rang out over the battlefield. Her helmeted opponent struck with a bewildering series of blows. The other swordsman seemed to attack her sword rather than trying for her, but Aki knew little of swordplay.

Red-hot pain tore through her sword arm, which faltered. She reached to brace her shoulder with her other hand, surprised she hadn't seen the blow. Her fingers found blood-stiffened linens poking through a jagged tear in her coat. Her opponent hadn't needed to strike her. He reopened an existing injury.

She raised her blade with a trembling hand. Sunlight flashed along the other man's sword, and it came down like a demon. Aki never felt the hit. Waves of crippling pain surged through her, and her fingers loosened.

Hands pulled her down. She cried out when twine bound her arms together and sent a fresh burst of agony through her shoulder.

Then something smashed into the back of her head, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

Water splashed her face, jerking Aki awake. She shivered in the chill of night. Spikes of pain ran along her fingers. She'd worn the bonds for some time.

The battlefield stretched before her, fallen horses and comrades outlined by the full moon. Aki hung her head, knowing they'd failed.

A rough hand grabbed her chin, the touch familiar. "So was it worth it? Would surrender have been so hard? You should never have returned wounded. You'd already lost."

"My people will not succumb to your lord. We've seen what happens to those who fall under his tender mercies." The words spat from her mouth unbidden.

The man laughed then ground his palm against her shoulder. Through waves of pain, Aki saw his face and recognized him. The knight who came to buy Starn's skills.

"A pity really. I'd hoped for a real battle. You have a lion's heart, if the brains of a peasant. You could have joined us and ruled these lands in his name."

He reached forward to pat her cheek, but she jerked back. "I'll not serve your lord should my life be forfeit."

"Ah, such spirit even now. Just think how that energy will serve me."

"I'll no more serve you than your master." Again, the words sprang from her lips.

The knight laughed, pivoting her with her injured shoulder until she stared at a man working an anvil. She leaned forward to catch the comforting beats of the forge song, but these words sounded twisted and wrong.

Fear bound her as the rhythm continued, rising and falling to end in a harsh call. A newly formed sword rose into the moonlight. White illumination caught the heated blue, and it danced before her eyes in the familiar pattern of Damascus steel.

Blooded swords are forbidden. The words cried through her mind, but Starn's declaration had no power here.

"Your life is forfeit," the knight growled. "Yours and those of your honor guard."

Jerked again, Aki saw five men also bound. Though she didn't know them, the body she wore burned with hatred. "Leave them be. You can have my life in ransom for theirs. I swear they'll honor the agreement."

The knight laughed. His eyes gleamed red in the fire's reflected light as he wrapped leather straps around both palms. "I won't take their lives. You will. For sustenance."

She opened her mouth to protest, but didn't get the chance.

The swordsmith appeared next to the knight, guttural words still pouring from his mouth. He placed the steaming sword into the knight's protected palms.

Aki stared transfixed.

The chanting grew louder. The knight raised the sword above his head.

She blinked.

The hot metal plunged down, striking first her chest, then parting her ribs to pierce her heart.

A cry of pain, terror, and despair all mixed into one escaped her lips. Her shuddering breath brought the stench of singed flesh into her lungs, and fire seared her nerves.

Hurt overwhelmed her until it seemed like nothing existed but the throbbing agony and the words hammering her over and over.

Suddenly, Aki floated above a body that knelt with a sword protruding from its chest. The pain fell away and the chanting faded to a hum.

She reached for the sky, but instead of rising, she was jerked down. A warm, tangy sensation swept over her, not quite a touch, smell, or any human sense, but more like a little god's whisper in her ear. Only this time, the feeling grew until it trapped her. Flickering gray-blue light blocked every effort to escape back into the unfettered sky.

###

Aki jerked awake, heart pounding and sweat drying on her skin. Just a dream, she told herself. "There are no blooded swords."

Even aloud, the words rang hollow in the morning air. Aki tensed, knowing she'd see the knight again.

She rubbed the blanket across her face and pulled on her clothes. Her hands shook when she raised the buckets to her shoulders, but still she set out for the well. Starn would come soon, and she'd best have her chores done.

###

Morning passed with no pleading from the sword, but Aki could feel its sullen disappointment. Despite her denials, she knew her vision had been true.

After scraping away the ashes, she added firewood and pumped the bellows until yellow flames licked the new logs. Little gods glared at her as sullen as the sword. She grabbed an iron bar and thrust it into the fire.

"Swordsmith!"

Aki shrank into the shadows when she heard the voice, the skin above her heart burning.

Free me.

The despairing cry cut through her thoughts, and rage swept over her, wiping out any belief in Starn's claim.

Over the pounding of her blood, she heard the swordsmith call out. "Isn't sundown just yet, but the work's done."

Aki circled the forge and headed for the sword. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Starn move toward the shelf, then pause.

He gave her a hard stare before turning to the knight. "My apprentice will get it."

She felt the man's gaze. Her hand trembled as she reached for the sword, unsurprised when it twisted in its weird, spectral manner. She watched for a pattern and grabbed the hilt.

A deep moan resonated through the contact, but she didn't hesitate. With all her might, Aki jerked so the blade leapt off the shelf and dove toward the hard stone floor. She understood now why such a well-made sword had suffered so much abuse. It courted chips and gouges in hopes of shattering.

"Stupid girl!"

Starn slapped her cheek hard, and she staggered back. The unbroken sword gleamed.

"Is it damaged?"

The knight's tone drew a strange look from Starn, but Aki understood his desperation all too well.

The swordsmith ran a hand along the blade. It lay quiescent.

"A minor chip. I'll have it fixed by sundown, I swear."

The knight stared at Starn, wearing the same expression he had in the moonlight some time ago. "I'll stay here, and you'll do it now. No mistakes, no delays."

Starn cuffed Aki on the shoulder. "Heat up the coals."

She raced to the bellows, her guts twisted with the knowledge that she'd failed both the sword and swordsmith.

The swordsmith thrust the blade into the fire, sending her a black look that promised stiff punishment.

Her hand crept up to cover her throbbing cheek, tears pooling from loss more than pain. She relived when the man had become a sword that would feed first on his most trusted friends.

This is whom you leave me to.

"Girl, you watch that steel."

For a moment, confusion filled her, thinking Starn had asked her to protect the blade from its master.

"When it's hot, I'll fix it up proper," the swordsmith told the knight.

"I can't," she whispered, but knew she had to act. Starn would never trust her again. Damascus steel. He'd never forgive her.

She stared at the blade, seeing the trapped spirit in the dance of heat along its length. He'd only been trying to protect his people, protect them from the same lord who stripped her village of boys and left only thin stew to feed those who remained.

Flames outlined the chip, and suddenly, she knew how Starn would strike it. The smithy fell away, leaving only her and the sword. She couldn't deny him, couldn't leave him trapped on the chance of Starn's acceptance. How would she live with herself, knowing no other could hear his cries?

A quick glance showed Starn and the knight busy talking. Aki nudged the iron bar she'd put in earlier until its glowing edge rested against the place where Starn would strike. A shiver ran through her as if she'd touched the searing flames. Along with the sensation came gratitude.

She watched the blade heat, struggling with the need to move the bar, to warn Starn, to save what little remained of her future. She did none of those things. No spirit deserved this fate. Would the sword ever find another able to listen?

When heat colored the sword properly, Aki wrapped her hands and pulled it free. She placed the blade across the anvil, her arms trembling.

Starn reached for his hammer without checking the color, a rare sign of his confidence in her work.

Aki raised a hand to stop him, only to let it fall. The swordsmith's trust would shatter at his first blow.

Starn pulled his arm back, humming under his breath. No little gods came to answer the call of his spell song, to help her in this.

The hammer fell toward the anvil, and black clouds appeared from nowhere, swallowing the sun. She glanced at the knight, but his gaze remained fixed on the sword.

The spang of hammer against steel jerked her attention back in time to duck as half the blade flew across the room. Its quivering length embedded into the wall.

Starn's gasp, and a moan from the knight, drew her attention back to the remaining part on the anvil. A mist rose from the shattered blade, and formed the shadowy impression of a young man.

"Lord Hanvold," Starn cried, dropping to his knees.

It nodded once before turning to the knight, a frown on its translucent face.

The knight looked to either side as if seeking escape.

I am what you made me..

The words sent a shiver down Aki's spine as fear for what she'd released swept through her.

The knight dove for the wall of half-finished swords, and the ghost drew a blade of pure light, anticipating the knight's charge.

Aki half expected the clang of metal, but the knight's sword failed to hinder the ghost's blade. It pierced the man's shoulder, and she grabbed her own arm, feeling an echo of the wound she'd shared.

In the diffuse illumination, the knight looked as gray as the ghost. He clutched his shoulder, throwing the sword at--and through--the spirit he'd trapped. The length of metal clattered to the ground inches from Starn, but the swordsmith did not flinch.

The knight dropped to his knees. "Have mercy," he pleaded.

I give you the same mercy you offered me and my sworn men.

Aki fell against the table as the ghost drove its sword into the knight's chest. An inhuman squeal rang harsh against her ears, and she stared at the vengeful spirit. What had become of the man she'd seen in her dream?

It pulled the blade out, and the knight crumpled, all life gone from his body. The ghost's sword now throbbed, its brightness quenched on the knight's blood.

The ghost turned to look her way, blade raised.

Aki moaned. Was this her price for having freed a broken soul? Not her dreams, but her very life.

The ghost smiled.

Clouds parted, flooding the smithy with sunlight.

Before Aki could react, it swept past and thrust the blade into the forge with a shriek of metal on stone.

God of Forges take from me this tainted soul. Never again will he violate the sacred blade.

Little gods appeared in the flames, swarming over the sword and scratching at it until the red stain pulled free.

Starn gasped again, and Aki realized he finally saw the gods that had plagued her since childhood.

The ghost pulled forth the now-clear blade and drifted toward Aki. She shivered, but held her ground.

Never doubt what you can do. You have a strong heart. The unseen world knows and trusts you.

It pressed a kiss on her bruised cheek, soothing the hurt.

You will become a great swordsmith. The spirits of the forge, anvil, and water will aid your efforts.

"My lord," Starn cried. "What of me?"

Treasure what you have and train her well.

Starn bowed his head, accepting the ghostly hand on his shoulder.

The sunlight brightened until it blinded Aki. When the light faded, both ghost and knight's body had vanished.

For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream, then her gaze fell on the broken blade, still protruding from the wall.

Starn followed her glance and gave an awkward laugh. "What say you?" he asked. "Want to try a hand at the anvil?"

For once, the chatter of little gods didn't scare her. Aki smiled as she accepted their cheers.
]]> Fri, 27 Feb 2015 13:03:46 +0000 http://forum.sfreader.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=7&PID=7&title=3rd-forged-by-margaret-mcgaffey-fisk#7