Brian Thomsen & Martin H. Greenberg (ed), page 11
The Norsemen fell silent as she spoke, to Bradach’s surprise. She used their language, and the nasal syllables belled from her tongue with unexpected beauty. “What do you wish of us, Vikings?”
A vulgar clamor rose from the offenders. Bradach would have leaped upon the entire press had the woman commanded it; but she waited, behind soldiers with drawn bows, for an intelligible reply.
On the ground, chaos gave way to order. One Viking stepped forward. Even from a distance, Bradach recognized him. His men called him Ragnar Battle Boar because he entered warfare in a rush of flailing steel and trampled dying foes beneath his feet. Bradach knew his face well; some of his scars were by the Gael’s own hand.
“We want blood!” screamed Ragnar, and his voice maddened Bradach to murder. “Targets for our swords and death screams! We want gold and glitter and glory!”
Another Viking continued in the ringing wake of Ragnar’s challenge. “And we’ll have wenches like you to struggle and moan beneath us!”
Caution lost to anger, Bradach sprang from the brush with a roar. But his war cry died beneath the raucous din of laughter, and the woman’s reply stopped him cold.
“Away!” She waved her hand as if to expel a bothersome insect. “You’ll find no gold, no gems, no wine. We sent all our treasures away when warned of your attack. As for women, you’ll find only myself; and I’d leap from this tower before I’d let any of your wolves take me!”
The Norse ranks erupted in riot. The Saxons hustled their woman from the ramparts. The archers nocked arrows and drew bowstrings taut. Ragnar hurled commands that his followers ignored until the Saxons’ feathered shafts took down half a dozen. Then, reluctantly, the Vikings rallied around their leader. At his word, they marched into the forest to camp and prepare for battle.
Emotions warred within Bradach: outrage, desire, hatred elemental as a summer gale. The hours dragged past while he struggled with his passions. His love for this woman he had never met was at least as strong as his hunger for vengeance.
Bradach forced his thoughts to other matters, but they returned to pain him until the sun sank into the blood-red expanse of sky. He knew the Norsemen would fall upon any Saxon troops that came to Hengstby as reinforcements and slay anyone who fled the walled city, but he hoped one swarthy Gael could pass unnoticed through the evening’s gloom. He sneaked quietly toward the gates, nearly reaching them before a guttural cry sounded behind him. He whirled to face a Viking scout party and their six drawn swords.
Bradach laughed with savage joy. Wielding shield and ax, he leaped upon them with the fury of a starved beast. Steel flashed and whirred around him. Two swords crashed against his shield. One stuck fast, and his ax severed its wielder’s neck. Then a blade clattered harmlessly from his armor.
Viking howls broke around Bradach. He blocked and swung like a mad thing, his ax all but invisible in the gathering darkness. He struck for a pale face. Steel cleaved helmet and head. The spilled red gore filled Bradach with a fierce pride that fueled his rage.
A sword thudded against Bradach, staggering him. He threw out an arm for balance, blundered into an opponent, and took the other down with him. Instinctively, he raised his shield. The motion saved his life. A blow strong enough to brain him dashed the shield against his helm. The Viking cursed as his sword shattered, then screamed as an arrow pierced his armor like cloth.
Bradach lost his ax in the fall. The Viking on the ground with him had dropped his sword as well, and they discovered it simultaneously. The Gael reached it first, but his hand closed over the blade. He withdrew, and both sprang for the hilt. Arrows from the city felled the two remaining Norsemen, silhouetted by torchlight.
The Saxons held their fire as Bradach grappled the last of his opponents. He locked a hand on the sword grip and thrust the other for the Viking’s throat. Bradach’s attack fell short; his fingers tangled in his foe-man’s beard. The Norseman locked both hands on the hilt and sprang back with a desperate strength that broke Bradach’s hold but caused himself great pain.
Both men gained their feet. The Viking clutched the sword. Bradach grabbed for the dagger at his belt and raised his shield. The Norseman rushed Bradach. The Gael shifted weight to dodge, but the Viking fell at his feet with a shaft in his back. Grateful for the archer’s aim, Bradach cast about in the grasses until he recovered his ax.
“Quickly!” A guard at the Hengstby wall gestured. Bradach ran to him. Four warriors held the gates wide while he passed through, then slammed the doors behind him.
Bradach nodded his thanks to two Saxons who blinded him with lanterns as they examined him. They exchanged knowing glances, which he took to mean they recognized his features. An outlaw by betrayal but still fiercely loyal to his tribe, he had earned a reputation as a Viking slayer in the skirmishes across Ireland. “Well fought, Gael,” said one.
Bradach studied the damage to his shield; new battle scars striped the hide-covered wood. “Less so if not for your archers. I thank you.”
“Any Viking enemy is a Saxon friend,” the same man replied. “But what brings you to a town under attack?”
His words reawakened Bradach’s purpose. Yearning sparked within him. “The chance to smash Viking skulls first. But no man could keep me from the woman I saw in your tower. Who is she, and where must I go to meet her?”
The Saxons exchanged glances and frowns, which tried Bradach’s patience. He could not explain the wild intensity of his love for a woman he had never met, but he could not suppress it. Neither a shipload of Danes nor one Saxon city could hold him from her. He would gladly cut down all the warriors in front of him to find the stranger he desired. Bradach understood, without right to question, that he could never continue his life without her.
The larger of the Saxons spoke. “Lurlei is our priestess and the only one who speaks the nuances as well as the words of the Vikings’ language. She’s our luck, chosen by the gods to inspire men to victory.”
Bradach drew himself to his full six feet and twisted his features to a purposeful glare. “I must see her. Any man who stands in my way will know my wrath!”
The Saxon stepped behind his companion before answering the challenge, Bradach noted with some satisfaction. “Have you forgotten we fight a common enemy or that you stand among an army of our people? You shall see her, but not until she awakens come morning.”
Masses of Saxons turned scolding eyes upon Bradach, who regretted his boldness. “Very well. The Vikings will attack. They worship slaughter more than gold. And I will aid your village as I would my own.”
The man who first addressed Bradach strode forward. “I am Dunwolfe. I will take you to quarters where you can sleep. Follow me.”
Bradach trailed Dunwolfe through the half-lighted gloom of cottages to a large stone building in the center of town. Nearby, sheep and pigs huddled in a paddock, food for the soldiers in the event of a siege. Dunwolfe led the Gael to a wide doorway in the central dwelling; and, after a brief exchange with the sentries, they entered.
Gael and Saxon trod the length of a corridor, plain except for a gaily carved walnut door that stood apart from its simpler oak neighbors. To further distinguish it, a pair of burly, gold-bearded Saxons stood guard on either side. Bradach knew Lurlei slept beyond that gilded portal, but he heeded the warning glower of his companion and cast it only a passing glance. Dunwolfe had promised a meeting in the morning. No man or god could stand against Bradach should the Saxon break that oath.
They continued walking to a narrow, stone-cut stairway at the end of the hall, then climbed to a short corridor with only two doors, both open. Dunwolfe passed by the first, a rough-hewn, empty chamber with a domed window overlooking the city. He gestured at the second room. It was square and small. Its win-dowless, lightless interior seemed black as night, and Bradach examined it with the help of Dunwolfe’s lantern. It contained only an unsteady, wooden table and a pallet of straw.
Dunwolfe drew a taper from his pocket and lit it from the lantern. Stepping into the room, he let wax drip to the tabletop and secured the candle on this base. It held darkness at bay in a wide semicircle, and the cheery dance of its flame made the remaining shadows seem as grim as Bradach’s thoughts.
“Rest,” Dunwolfe said. “You’ll need your wits when the battle begins.” He turned and strode to the hallway. The door banged shut behind him.
Still fully armored, Bradach lay on the straw. His lids felt heavy with fatigue, but excitement wrested sleep from him. He rose and paced, without conscious direction. He caught himself with a hand around the door ring, preparing to break whatever trust the Saxons held for him. He forced himself back to the pallet and squeezed his eyes shut. Somehow, sleep came to relieve Bradach of his troubles.
Bradach awoke with a sudden rush of awareness. Many hours had passed; the candle had melted to the table. Alerted by an indescribable feeling of menace, he snatched up shield and ax, groping through darkness to the door. When he threw it open, screams and clashing steel assailed his ears; and he realized the thickness of the chamber walls had isolated him from the din of battle. He raced into the next room and stared through the window at the red carnage below.
Urgency thrilled through Bradach. Calling curses upon the Vikings, he sprang for the hall. A Norseman on the stair fell dead from his blade before he saw Bradach. The Gael swept down the steps and burst into a corridor littered with corpses. His mind was a dark fog of rage. He cut past Vikings like weeds, blundered around a hard-driven blow that his armor fended, and dashed aside gaping Saxons.
Bradach never recalled breaking through the walnut door, yet suddenly Lurlei stood in front of him, more beautiful even than he had imagined. At first, she shrank from him, and the lace of her dress swirled like sea foam around her ankles. Then her eyes went soft and starry with recognition. Her lips parted to reveal teeth brighter than the pearls at her throat. Abruptly, her gaze locked beyond Bradach, her hand shot up, and she screamed in terror.
Bradach whirled, and a broad sword crashed against his shield. He returned an upstroke that deflected from a shield edge. As he redirected the strike, he recognized his opponent as Ragnar. The cold scorn in the Viking leader’s eyes revealed that he had recognized Bradach as well. Ragnar’s sword swept for Bradach’s arm. Bradach closed in and caught the stroke. Infighting rendered Ragnar’s longer weapon useless. With a roar, he shoved the Gael back with sword and shield.
Bradach had forgotten the Viking’s damnable strength. He would win this contest with guile or not at all.
The warriors sprang together in a frenzied hurricane of battle. As they hammered their weapons against armor and shield, Bradach lost ground to Ragnar’s powerful strokes. Without warning, the Gael’s shield strap snapped. Ragnar’s blow dashed it to the floor. His sword blazed for Bradach’s neck. With a desperate surge, Bradach caught the blade on his ax. Then the Viking slammed his shield against Bradach’s ribs with a strength that stole his breath and drove him to his knees.
As Bradach fell, he noted Ragnar’s confident grin of triumph. The attack did throw off Bradach’s balance, but he overplayed Ragnar’s advantage with a seemingly helpless stagger. Ragnar lunged for a death stroke, and Bradach’s ax leaped upward to meet him.
“No!” screamed Lurlei. She hurled herself in front of Bradach like a sacrifice.
Too late, Bradach tried to pull his blow. His ax bit into her chest, and Ragnar’s sword cut off her dying shriek.
It came to Bradach in a rush. He had killed her before. Countless times, in countless personae, he had met the woman who could fill all the desolate longings of his mind and soul. Each time, he took her life before they could unite. The pattern would endure through eternity, his soul pursuing hers, a continuum of failure. Grief dissolved to terror, then outrage filled him like a tide.
Lurlei’s body pinned Bradach’s ax. The sword sang for his head. He caught Ragnar’s wrist, dodged his strike, and buried his fist in the Viking’s face. Ragnar dropped, mouth twisted in pain and shock. Bradach seized Ragnar’s sword and, with inspired strength, shattered his skull.
Kenneth Carney jolted back to reality on a restaurant rooftop. His heart pounded a furious cadence, and his fists clenched so tightly his nails left bloody arcs across his palms. He knew what fate held for him. It would all begin with the Goblin’s death.
Memories swooped upon Carney again, this time of his own life and the private conversations with his friend. The Goblin was the only one with whom he could share the madness of past life memories and not worry about judgment. The Goblin had listened always without criticism, had understood the grim and terrible hole in Carney’s soul that drove him to his current occupation. Each successive life became more desperate, and he more horrible. The Goblin, Carney realized, was Maolmin—and hundreds of other companions through millennia—with his own cycles and demons to suffer. Though malformed and sickly most of his days, the Goblin had maintained a gentleness so rare and precious in the underworld. Again fighting tears, Carney moved to bury his head against his arm. The sight of a woman on the sidewalk below froze him.
She was tall and slender, with copper-colored curls tied back from the heat. She moved with a grace from another era. Carney knew her at once, as Bradach had before him. But where the Gael’s glimpse had filled him with longing, Carney’s evoked self-righteous pity. He knew it was his destiny to meet that girl … and his bane to kill her.
As if in answer to this understanding, a black Mercedes glided to the curb. Alano and two bodyguards emerged from the car. The goons studied the area, but their gazes never found Carney. They headed for the door, even as the woman did the same.
Mechanically, Carney’s hand locked around the gun, gaze trapped on the woman, spirit crying out in need. A crack shot, he could not miss Alano his mind assured him, could not possibly accidentally harm his eternal love. Yet, history told otherwise. Carney did not know if his now-trembling hand would fail him, if a bullet might ricochet, or if panic or an attempt to protect him might send her skittering into return fire. But he harbored no doubt that when he fired at Alano, she would die.
Chilled to the marrow, Carney shivered violently. He tore his eyes from target and soulmate to stare at his gun for the first time. A familiar world of bitterness and unfulfilled dreams paraded in front of him. Then, slowly, he put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger, ending the cycle of horror that had cursed them all through eternity.
* * *
Gumshoes & Gangs
“That stupid dick just can’t be bought.”
Within the parallel universe of mob morality, the private detective, “the gumshoe” if you will, is usually cast in the unlikely role of rogue knight, a crusader responding to a higher authority on a divine quest which is usually in search of the truth.
… or, in simpler terms, he’s a tough guy trying to crack a case.
Gumshoes come in all shapes and sizes with different clients and purviews. Simon Hawke’s tough guy just happens to be a magically enhanced cat, while P. N. Elrod’s Jack Fleming does all his prowling at night (he’s a vampire). Max Collins’ tale involves a case of possession/reincarnation, while Heidi E. Y. Stemple’s is positively surreal.
* * *
MY CLAW IS QUICK
by Simon Hawke
It was raining like a Great Dane pissing on a flat rock when she came in, dripping water from her shiny black raincoat all over my nice clean floor. My secretary would’ve made her hang it up outside, but my secretary wasn’t in. She goes home at five, like normal people do. Me, I was already home.
I’m a simple kinda guy, and I don’t really need a lot. A clean litter box, fresh water in the bowl, some kibbles or some tuna mix, I’m happy. There were times I didn’t even have that much. Those were the old days, in the mean streets and back alleys, dumpster diving and scratching and clawing to survive. I lost an eye that way. Food was scarce back then, and I got into a set-to with what looked like a starving dog who wanted what I’d scored for dinner. I didn’t want to share. I wasn’t very street smart then, and it turned out the dog was a coyote. I got chewed up pretty bad. Well, live and learn. These days, things were a lot better. I had a business of my own, an office with a secretary and my name stenciled on the door—Catseye Gomez, P.I. The P.I. stands for Private Investigator. I have a license and everything. Sometimes I even get a client or two. Like the slinky number standing there in front of my desk, dripping water on the floor and looking kinda uncertain about the whole thing.
I uncurled from the comfy leather chair where I’d been dozing and hopped up onto the desk. “Evening, Miss,” I said. “How can I help you?”
She stared.
They always stare. Usually it’s my prosthetic eyeball that captures their attention. It’s rather special, made of turquoise. A Chinese, robin’s egg blue stone with a fine vertical matrix running through it that looks sorta like a feline pupil. I think it makes me look dashing as all hell, but it also happens to be functional. I can’t use it to see, but the stone is magical and draws upon my life force to hurl energy strong enough to stun a full-grown man. It could kill, as well, but a shot like that would take a whole lot out of me, and I’d need to lay up for a while and recover. Anyway, I figured she was staring at ole Betsy, but I was wrong, as it turned out. It was not my enchanted turquoise eyeball; it was me.
“Goodness. You’re a cat,” she said.
“What gave me away?” I asked, switching my tail back and forth in irritation. I hate it when people state the obvious.
“No, I mean … I … I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought you’d be a man. A human.”
“Then I take it this isn’t a referral,” I said, giving her the once over. For a human female, she wasn’t bad. If you like the type, that is. Long, raven-black hair which she’d kept mostly dry thanks to one of those tricky little collapsable umbrellas you can slip into a purse; a voluptuous, hourglass figure, the kind that had men doing double takes when she went undulating by; nice legs that went all the way up and made an ass of themselves; nice face, good cheekbones and wide mouth … I imagined she wouldn’t be one to sit home by the phone on Friday nights.
