Fiction Vortex - December 2013 Read online

  Someone – she did not see who – shouted, “You killed Renoulf!”

  It had probably been a rash decision. “He spoke against our gods,” she said, raising her hands to the clear evening sky. “And so he endangered all of our lives. I know because they told me this.”

  It was quiet after that. Ariadne leapt down from the tree, heart hammering as she looked down at Renoulf’s shocked face. She knelt to touch his brow. Forgive me, my friend.

  Trust, the voices said. We will guide you home.

  ~~~~~

  There was only one other incident before they reached Catalina. Some of Akron’s bugshot must have got into someone’s clothing. One night a child screamed and ran through camp with bloody tears as maggots ate at her eyeballs. Burn, the voices had said. Only Ariadne had enough sense to do the necessary thing and throw the infested body into the fire. The few who had continued to cheer her name stopped after that.

  The island was as the voices said, rising from the sea like the nose of a gator. The sun was coming up. The silhouette of a bison stood on a peak and then trotted slowly away. “How will we get across?” her people asked, glad that this land not only truly existed, but that perhaps their King was not mad after all.

  Trust, the voices answered, and Ariadne with purple-dyed hair stepped out onto the water. She walked across the twisted bridge of rock and coral that only she saw, just below the water’s surface, and reached the other side. They did not doubt the Ancients after that.

  That night, camped at the foothills of the great island-mountain, Ariadne watched her screens, searching for clarity.

  You have been quiet, Ariadne thought to her voices. She held the First Man’s sword across her lap, pricking the most superficial dead skin cells off her hand with its point. I am here. What now?

  They were silent. She smoothed the edge of the blade. It had not tasted blood in a thousand years. Did it thirst for more? Was she hungry to use it – to prove that she was not a coward, that she had not won her final battle by tricks alone?

  On the monitors, the enemies of Akron crept up to the abandoned castle of Ephemeron. They swarmed over it like killer ants and cut down her father’s tapestries and desecrated that hallowed ground where, after the End, her ancestors had carved out an empire. They knew she was watching. They pissed on her throne. Her hand closed on the First Man’s sword. A king should not have left her throne.

  “Trust.” It was a voice she had heard a thousand times before, but this time the whisper came with a cool breath on her shoulder. She whipped around, pressing the point of her blade into a fleshy shoulder. A young man with white hair smiled and bled a drop onto her sword.

  “You.” The man from her dreams and the man from every voice in her head.

  He nodded. “You’ve made it.”

  She put the pieces together. “You’ve lived on this island all along?”

  “Something like that.” He sat down beside her and touched her knee. She did not move. “But we have one more task for you, my Ariadne.”

  Her name crawled on her skin. In that moment, she thought she loved him. “Let me know your name.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let me know where you come from.” For it was clear now they were not entirely omnipresent. Perhaps not even immortal.

  He kissed her and ran his hand through her unnatural hair. For once, she let someone else cradle her head. “We are from before the End,” he whispered, tying those secrets into her hair. “We escaped from this land, in its dying days, to the stars. We have watched you in everything, and guided you.” A camera clicked quietly in the corner. Had this man given Ariadne’s people this technology for just that purpose? Were they being watched even now? “And this land is ours. We want to return.”

  “So you are not gods?” He shook his head slowly, brushing her temple. She fought through the warm breath to concentrate. “You want to return to this land. And you need me to do it.”

  He met her gaze. “That is your last task. On the other side of this mountain there are people, filled with a plague that prevents us from returning home. You must destabilize them however you are able.” There was silence between them. She saw him look away. “Ariadne, I...”

  “I will do it.” Ariadne nodded decisively. “I am the King, and I have fought for my people, and I will fight for you. My Ancients.”

  He kissed her. It was a long, deep kiss. Maybe that night she lost her virginity. There was no way of knowing, since she didn’t remember when he left, and with the dawning of the sun, his memory looked an awful lot like a dream.

  ~~~~~

  The tribe came over the mountain. Its leader was a woman with bone rammed through her earlobes. They were few, but so were the King’s people, who had lost many of their own on their trek across the continent. With her train of hovercams Ariadne crossed the rainy camp to face them.

  “This is our island.” The woman folded taut arms over her chest. “You must leave.” Were these the people who carried plague with them?

  “I have a sword that says it is mine.” Ariadne buried the First Man’s steel into the rich earth of their promised land and thunder shook the island. “I claim this in the name of Ephemeron and of the Ancient Gods that guide me.”

  A murmur trickled through the tribe, and the woman’s jaw grew very taut. “Get off of our land. This is sacred ground.”

  The King smiled and tossed her hair, newly dyed white-blonde, over her shoulder. “No.” A cold sea mist crept up the side of the mountain, and she thought for a moment she saw a bison snorting on the hill.

  “Then you will die.” The woman raised her arms and the tribe slipped out of their skins like warm summer sausages. Nerves and veins and muscle and bone broke into a hundred thousand squirming pieces as the nature of their plague became apparent. Evolution had perhaps not been kind to them, but it had given them a heavy advantage against the squeamish people of Ephemeron. Before she had even drawn her sword the human bugshot was flung in every direction and a worm buried in Ariadne’s heart.

  Millions of tiny teeth rent the fabric of their flesh. Captain Halmon’s corpse swam, bloody and wriggling, behind her eyes. But she raised her sword as the bug-woman, flies buzzing around her eyes and maggots crawling at her fingertips, produced a gleaming sword and lunged forward.

  Fight, clamored the voices. The cameras whirred in overtime, every frame and twitch of her body caught in the squirming light. Fight. Fight. Fight for us. Fight for our future. The Ancients had staked every possible chance of survival on this battle.

  Somewhere a gun went off. It only made their enemy lunge for the offender’s throat and crawl into his windpipe so he screamed flesh-eating flies. There would be no cowards in this battle.

  Their steel rang. The woman was not particularly strong but she darted to the side and thrust relentlessly, swing after swing. It was all Ariadne could do to block the blows, stumbling backward, forcing her body to remember training more necessary to a soldier, a King’s daughter, than a King herself. The tents were at her back. She ducked a wild swing, dripping with bugshot, and knocked over a flatscreen with her elbow. One of the eager hovercams fritzed and rolled like a severed eye into the mud. The worm dug further into her chest and she shouted in pain as her enemy, barely human, bared her fangs above her doomed body.

  And then the voices spoke.

  Roll to the right. She obeyed. Duck and swing at the left leg. She did. The commands came rapid-fire, and Ariadne’s body lurched into action, fighting madly with the strength of ten Ancient Ones. The bug-woman had to uproot her wormy toes to spin backwards with a furious hiss.

  Lunge. Forward, forward, forward. Fight. Duck. Swing. The woman’s arm came off and she screamed as a hundred tiny maggots dropped from the socket.

  Block to the right. Step back. The worm crawled closer and began to eat Ariadne’s heart.

  Feint. Swing up. The First Man’s sword cut a vertical line up the woman’s throat. Her lips parted, eyes wide as she stumbled. The bugs
hot in the muddy ground twitched, writhing in an attempt at protection. The voices fell silent, though one cried out above the rest – Ariadne!

  Ariadne raised her sword to deliver the killing blow. The maggots and worms and flies and centipedes and mantises began to die, buried deep in her soldiers’ flesh as the bug-woman lay half-conscious, bleeding underneath the sea of mist. Ariadne shouted in triumph. Yes. Yes. Soon.

  She went still. A shard of lightning rent the sky and licked down her sword, kissing her arm and spine. The King of Ephemeron’s eyes turned up. A dark cloud of metal appeared, more substantial than mere gray mist. Through a transparent lens she thought she saw the glimmer of a face.

  They landed over the dead body of Ephemeron’s King. The doors opened and the Ancients jumped out, instantly targeting and shooting down anyone with a gun. A white-haired youth crawled under the ship and cradled their defender, two words on his lips: “My Ariadne.” He held her body as his companions secured the area.

  The captain of their ship wiped her hands on blue jeans, smiling as she looked on Catalina and its dying breed of maggots.

  “Welcome home.”

  With a B.A. in B.S. (translation: English Major), Rebecca Ann Jordan, quibbler and editor extraordinaire, is a poet and speculative fiction author in San Diego. She has published poetry and flash pieces in Yemassee Magazine, Bravura Literary Journal, and Images Magazine; guest columns at DIYMFA.com; and acts as Junior Assistant Editor at Bartleby Snopes. Her fetishes include controversial grammar, mythological happenings and yarn-swapping. Or maybe she made all of that up. Quibble with her @beccaquibbles.

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  Far on the Ringing Plains

  by Jeffery A. Sergent; published December 20, 2013

  “... and before the boat’s bottom had reached the rocky shore, Leonides leapt into the waiting warriors, his bright blade slicing armor, shield, flesh, and bone with a single pass.” The storyteller, perched atop a large stone, paused to give the images time to ferment in the imaginations of his audience.

  “I heard he’s stronger than Herakles,” someone said.

  “I heard his father was a god,” came another.

  A red-haired youth whispered, “I heard he was a god.”

  “He’s more powerful than any god.” The storyteller smiled. “All of Olympus trembles when the Achaian Lion roars!”

  “Foolishness!” The shout came from the back.

  Startled into silence, the storyteller half rose from his stage. His audience had turned. Some looked upon the man with obvious awe and fear; others looked away from his eyes. Sun light flashed in his golden mane like a shimmering nimbus.

  “Gather your dekania, Patroklos,” he said to the red-haired youth. “Tend the boats.”

  “Yes, Hekatontarches.” The red-haired youth snapped the man’s official title out, but his shoulders sagged as he led his unit away. His audience gone, the storyteller slid down from his make-shift stage. He stood with his head bowed like a scolded schoolboy. “I was just —”

  “You were just wasting time,” his commander said. “We’re here to fight a war. There will be time for stories later, but now you have duties.”

  “I just thought —”

  “Don’t think!” The commander barked more harshly than he intended and instantly felt ashamed. He understood that the boy only sought approval. He put his hand on the young warrior’s shoulder. “Listen, Akhillios. You are a fine soldier — that’s why I gave you a command — but you are going to have to start thinking as ‘we’ not ‘I.’ You now have responsibilities to your men, to me, to all of Greece.” He smiled apologetically. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Hekatontarches.”

  “Good. We’ve trouble enough with the Trojans without offending the Olympians. Gather the ranks. We’ve won nothing yet — they’re regrouping on the plain. Go!”

  The youth sped away, happy to do his commander’s bidding.

  Leonides Homeros sighed. He tried to ignore the weapon strapped to his side, and he longed for the lyre left setting by his hearth. He abhorred the hero worship; he despised the myth men tried to make of him. A name, he thought, that’s all they know. Who spoke of the man who cherished life? Who spoke of the man who treasured thought and art? Who spoke of Leonides the Poet?

  No one.

  He sometimes wondered what kind of man dreamed of having his name linked inexorably with slaughter and destruction, but whenever he looked into Akhillios’ eyes, he knew. He was still young enough to believe the glorious lies embedded in myths and legends.

  Sighing once more, his gaze fell upon the city of Ilios. Its famed blue and cloud-white wall reflected the majesty and power of the heavens, and its enormous gold-embellished gates blazed like the sun. Bright buildings and columned temples had been built around a gentle incline inside. He could detect a geometric precision from his position that would be lost within the city itself. Still, even walking among the magnificent colors, architecture and sculptures would be a wondrous experience. Overwhelming all, however, was Priam’s palace, crowning the hill like a celestial abode, august and austere.

  How extraordinary, Leonides thought, to have man’s most noble and most savage achievements occupying one space at one time. Here was the epitome of tragedy. And over what? Trade pacts? He wondered if it would have come to this had not King Menelaos’ niece been involved? Could any good be salvaged from it?

  A chorus of shouts tore him from his musings. The Trojans were charging.

  The deadly storm raged once more. Chariots shook the earth. Javelins fell like black rain. Metal crashed like thunder. Men howled like the wind.

  The slaughter sickened Leonides, but his spirit craved it. The sight of spilled blood roused something in him he could not control. The smell of fear excited him, making him capable of killing without thought, without remorse, and without mercy. Already the stirring had begun. He fought the feeling as he had many times before, but as had happened many times before, the urge crawled like a beast into his chest and spread throughout his limbs. Tears welled in his eyes. The muscles in his neck bulged until he could contain it no longer — the roar escaped. To him it was the roar of ultimate frustration and futility. To his allies, it was the roar of victory. To his foes, it was the roar of impending doom — the Achaian Lion stalked the plains of Ilios.

  Two men died with a single swipe of his blade. A third’s sword shattered from the blow. Leonides grabbed the soldier by the throat, only releasing him when his life had been choked away.

  He didn’t know how long the killing lasted, he never did. He simply killed until no one opposed him. When he’d finished, his thick limbs glistened with sweat, his broad chest heaved, his heart pounded. He lifted his dripping sword toward the beautiful city and roared.

  For a timeless moment there was nothing but silence then an eagle screamed overhead. The sky suddenly dimmed. In the distance, swarming soldiers were nothing but shadows. A scream echoed from somewhere but quickly faded behind the metallic ring of combat somewhere in the distance.

  Without violence and bloodshed to feed upon, the bellicose spirit gradually relinquished control.

  Am I dead? Leonides wondered. Is this Tartarus? His heart surged for his home in distant Alos, for the life he had not been allowed to live, for the words never written. He tried to curse the Fates or the gods, but he — who had never questioned their intentions or deeds — could not. Only then did he notice — then feel — that something was different about his surroundings.

  A barren landscape extended in all directions beneath a dusky sky. River, plain, and city were gone. The sun was nowhere in the sky, making it impossible to judge direction or time. The air was cool though no wind blew. Neither bird nor beast stirred. The only sound was the ringing until—

  “Hail, Hekatontarches.”

  He knew the voice well — but something was not right about it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood as he turned.

  It was Akhillios.

 
Sandy hair fell onto strong shoulders, framing a delicate, almost feminine, face. He wore a blue padded linen tunic and carried his short sword with its rare ivory hilt. Yet it wasn’t him. Like the voice, there was something different, something not him. Something alien. He was watching a shadowy figure — who was also Akhillios — atop an isle of dead soldiers with a wall of spears closing around him. He hacked through three wooden shafts with a single blow then grabbed one and pulled its wielder forward to block the thrust of another. A shadow — Patroklos, leading a group of Achaians, finally broke through to help.

  Still, the only sound was that of metal striking metal.

  “These are the Ringing Plains,” Akhillios said at last. “Where the gods watch man’s battles, great and small. We have watched you many times from this very spot.” Finally, he turned and approached Leonides. He circled the Achaian as one does when judging the worth of a beast of burden. “People say not even the great War-Maker himself can defeat the Lion.” He stopped with barely a hand’s breadth separating their faces. The wicked smile was not Akhillios’ nor was the fire burning in his eyes. “What do you say?”

  “I am no god,” Leonides answered, but wondered if any of this was real. It was like stepping into a poet’s tale. Or could he be lying somewhere wounded on the plains?

  “To some, you are. As long as they believe it to be true, what difference does it make what you believe?”

  “I offer libation. I make sacrifices. I have fought for king and country at the expense of my own family and happiness. I have done nothing but serve.” It was an argument he had had with himself more than once, and always, he would convince himself that something good would come of it if he waited.

  Still, he waited.

  Wrath burned in Akhillios’ dark eyes — it was the fire that had fueled innumerable wars throughout the ages. “Come, Lion,” he said, drawing his sword, “I would test your mettle.”