“Look. They were digging for something.” Fiske lifted a piece of canvas to reveal an area where the paving stones had been levered up. A shallow hole beneath showed signs of excavation.
“Searching for artifacts. Some people think that old stuff still has magic in it.”
Fiske let the canvas fall back over the hole. “But what could’ve done this to their camp?”
Varga hunkered down beside him. “Could be they fought among themselves.”
“And left all their stuff?” Fiske held up a gold, filigreed knife handle. The tip of the blade was snapped off. “Looks like something attacked them.”
“Sometimes we find—” Varga hesitated, wondering how she could explain without alarming him. “Sometimes we find … animals. Like hounds. When they purged the towers, they didn’t always catch all of the creatures in the menageries. Some managed to hide.”
Fiske gave her a horrified look. The mages’ glass beasts were the stuff of nightmares, and mothers still used the threat of them to exact good behavior from their children. Most of the beasts had been slaughtered during the war, but a few had escaped. The glass hounds were larger and more cunning than their living counterparts, vicious and quite capable of killing an unwary soldier.
“You think a dog did this?” Fiske gestured to the ruined camp.
“Maybe a pack of them. If these people were digging, maybe it woke them up.” Varga rifled through the debris, trying to ignore the rust-colored stains on the ripped bedding as she searched for clues. A few moments later, Fiske gave a low whistle.
“Never seen a dog this big.”
She turned to see what he’d found. Beneath one of the torn sheets of canvas, Fiske had uncovered a set of claw marks gouged deep into the stone. In the heat of the courtyard, Varga felt a sliver of ice slide down her spine to settle in her stomach. The back of her neck prickled, and she hugged herself, glad that her arm braces hid the goose bumps that had sprung up on her forearms.
“It’s not a dog, then.” Her voice came out hoarse.
“Could something’ve got in from outside?”
Varga hunkered down beside him and ran her fingers over the marks, which were easily four hand-spans across. The edges were sharp and they hadn’t had time to fill with dust. They had to be recent. “Only mage-glass cuts into the stone like this.”
Fiske’s shoulders drooped. “Will the creature come out again?”
“Probably. Once they’re awake, they tend to stay that way. But,” Varga went on, “I can kill it.”
She turned away from Fiske to avoid looking at him. The truth was, she’d killed a glass hound once, but the larger animals—mountain cats, wolves, bears—were the stuff of legend. Not even her father had faced a glass beast of this size. Excitement quivered deep inside her.
“Should we go back and get soldiers? You can go back to the keep. You could ask them—”
Varga quelled him with a look. Common sense tempted her to wait and come back with a group, but if she killed the beast on her own, she would make a name for herself and finally earn some respect at home. She would be a hero.
“No, we need to deal with it now,” she said. “Do you know how to make a snare?”
Fiske nodded uncomfortably.
“Then let’s get started.”
It took most of the afternoon and into the evening to finish their trap. They wove a large net out of canvas strips from the tent wreckage. Fiske blackened it with charcoal, and Varga congratulated herself as she looked at it stretched across the stones, ready to spring over the beast at a tug from Fiske. The ash rendered the fabric nearly invisible. She had gathered some green wood from the forest outside the wall to make a small fire in the relic-hunters’ fire pit. The smoke would lure the creature right into their makeshift trap. She knew the net wouldn’t hold it for long, but the tangle of cloth and ropes should slow and confuse the thing long enough for her to kill it. The plan would certainly work, the villagers would be safe, and she’d return home by the next afternoon to present the creature’s head to her father.
She glanced at Fiske. He squatted beside her in the shadow of the wall, spear gripped tight in his bony hands.
“Keep under cover and out of the way,” she said. “You’re not trained for this.”
“But what about—”
“This isn’t like catching rabbits in the woods. Just stay back so you won’t get hurt.”
“Yes, Lady Varga.”
Satisfied, she turned away to check the straps on her armor, making last-minute adjustments to ensure she would be able to move freely during the upcoming fight.
Fiske gasped, and Varga peered back at the tower. A small lump had formed in the side, and as she watched, it began to swell and grow until it was half again as tall as a man. The glass thinned and stretched until it was translucent, like a membrane. She could feel Fiske shaking, and she reached out and squeezed his shoulder as they watched the creature’s head emerge. It pushed through the side of the tower as though it were breaking through the surface tension of liquid. The process was slow and silent, and when the tower had finished birthing it, the glass snapped back into place, hard and unmarked as if it had never changed.
The creature stood still for a moment, a great snow bear from the northern mountains. In its life, it must have been beautiful, massive even among its own kind. It was still clothed in flesh and fur, and the moonlight shone silver on its white pelt, on the long black shards of mage-glass that jutted up from its spine and pierced the hide of its back. More spikes rose from its shoulder- and hip-joints, curving and glittering in the wan light, deformities of the bones twisted by magic that had spread through the bear’s body like cancer, changing them to obsidian.
Varga’s swords hissed as she drew them, and the familiar sound sent a tingle of excitement coursing through her. Swords in hand, she watched as the bear shambled across the far side of the courtyard, whimpering with each step.
“Why is it crying?” Fiske’s whisper tickled her ear.
“It’s the glass. The bones cut it from the inside.”
Moonlight reflected on the dark stains that seeped through the bear’s fur where the glass pierced its skin.
“Can’t we wait for it to bleed to death?”
Varga shook her head. “Blood fuels the magic. The glass tortures it, but it also keeps it alive and makes it stronger. You have to kill these things fast.” Looking at the bear, Varga felt a twinge of doubt. “If this doesn’t work out—” She swallowed hard and thought of the flimsy strips of cloth that lay between them and the bear. “If this doesn’t work, just get away. Go to the keep and tell my father what happened.”
Fiske looked as nauseated as Varga felt. He drew a breath to ask another question, but she shushed him. The bear stopped. It raised its head to sniff the air then turned toward the guttering fire and padded forward.
“Wait,” Varga whispered.
The bear picked up speed, its claws clicking against the paving stones. Fiske groaned softly.
“Wait.”
It tromped through the remains of the bandit camp, crunching over the tents it had destroyed the night before.
“Now!” shouted Varga. Fiske leaned back, pulling on the two ropes they’d salvaged from the camp. The net sprang up in front of the bear and fell across its shoulders, catching on the glass spurs at its neck and tangling its front paws.
Varga burst from cover and ran at the beast as it shuffled in confusion, rocking back and forth and moving its head from side to side.
That head alone was bigger than her torso, she realized, but she couldn’t change her mind now.
She caught a glimpse of one of its eyes as it fixed on her, and then she was upon it.
She vaulted onto the creature’s back and brought both of her swords down with all of her strength to sever its spinal cord.
Both blades stuck f
ast in its neck, and it roared in anger and pain.
Varga planted her feet on the bear’s shoulders, narrowly avoiding the ridge of glass spurs running down its spine. She shifted her weight and tried to pull her swords free, but as she did, the bear arched its neck and pulled against the net.
The razor’s edge of the glass sliced through the canvas, and the net fell away.
The bear reached up and hooked a claw into the shoulder joint of her armor and flung her across the yard.
Varga hit the ground, the breath knocked from her. Spots of light flashed before her eyes, and she struggled to draw air.
Then the bear was on her, claws planted on either side of her head. It opened its mouth and bared its black teeth, twisted and elongated, coated with streamers of bloody saliva.
Varga squeezed her eyes shut, but the killing bite never came.
She heard a shout from across the yard, and the bear turned its head. Fiske was sprinting toward them, helmet askew, elbows and knees pumping. He waved his fishing spear and shouted again.
The beast turned back to Varga, but as it did, Fiske reached them and ducked behind it, out of Varga’s line of sight.
A moment later, the bear squealed and wheeled away from her to charge after Fiske. Varga rolled over and staggered to her feet, wincing at the pain in her shoulder.
She rounded the corner in time to see Fiske use his spear to vault through the breach in the wall. The bear climbed through after him, her swords still stuck in its neck.
Varga cursed as she followed them. If that damn Fiske had stayed quiet, the bear might’ve been satisfied with killing just her.
He could’ve escaped and brought back soldiers. Instead, he’d probably get himself killed. She couldn’t allow him to die between the teeth of the creature. She gathered her strength and surged after them.
As she followed the sound of crashing bodies and the trail of broken branches, she realized there was a method to Fiske’s flight. Instead of looping around to the path for a faster getaway, he led the bear through the thickest undergrowth. He could slip through the narrow gaps in the bushes, but the bear had to bull its way through, which slowed its pace.
Varga threw herself into the hole the bear had torn in the undergrowth, and as she ran, she went through the options in her mind. None of them were good.
The rise in volume of the crashes and growls ahead told her she had nearly caught up. There was a sudden silence. Then the bear roared, the sound reverberating through the soles of Varga’s boots.
She broke through the edge of the brush into the clearing. Fiske faced the bear, determination etched in his face. He limped forward, favoring his left foot and brandishing his spear.
He poked at the beast’s nose, and it jerked back before lurching forward to slap him. The spear snapped and Fiske flew across the clearing and landed in the undergrowth.
He didn’t get up.
The bear lumbered forward.
Varga’s stomach clenched. She had to act now, distract the bear as Fiske had done. Maybe she could lead it back within the walls, contain it until soldiers came.
As she rushed forward, Fiske’s broken spear caught her eye. He’d dropped it when the bear hit him. She scooped it up and raced across the clearing toward the bear, intending to jump onto its back again, but as she prepared to leap, her feet slipped on the pine needles that carpeted the forest floor.
Her bottom hit the ground hard, and she slid between the bear’s back legs until she lay, belly up, underneath its chest.
Varga struggled against the slippery ground, trying to crawl back out from under the creature.
She felt a crushing pain in her foot as the bear caught her boot with its teeth and dragged her forward.
She scrabbled for purchase, but the ground was too slick. In desperation, she stabbed up with all of her strength, and the thin spear slipped between the bear’s ribs.
The bear grunted and released her foot.
Varga curled into a ball, hands over her head, as its knees buckled. The magic holding it together dissipated in a rush of wind and leaves, and a rain of glass bones, bare of flesh, tinkled around her.
Varga lay still under the pile of ribs and vertebrae, hardly believing she was alive.
The bones, sharper than a blade and every bit as deadly, were feather light. She pushed up gingerly, allowing the back of her armor to protect her from the glass. The rasp as they scraped across the hard carapace set her teeth on edge.
Around her, black bones glittered. Of the flesh, nothing remained but fine, dry sand.
She picked her way through the bone pile, careful to avoid being cut, then ran the last few paces to where Fiske lay. His skin was ashen in the moonlight, covered with cuts and scrapes. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Varga’s chest tightened and her eyes stung. If she hadn’t been so focused on being a hero, he would be at home, safe, resting up to hunt rabbits in the morning with that stupid spear.
Her father was right. She wasn’t ready to lead anyone.
She bent to feel Fiske’s throat for a pulse and gave a choked sob of relief when she felt the thump of his heart beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, squeezing his hand in hers.
“Ma’am?” She snapped her eyes open. Fiske stared at her with bleary eyes. “Did we get it?”
Varga nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Are you crying, ma’am?”
“Fiske, I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“But it’s dead, right? So, it’s alright.”
She tore off a piece of fabric from the hem of her undershirt and dabbed it at the corner of his mouth. Fiske winced and pushed it away with a shaking hand. “Don’t. That hurts.” He probed around his mouth with his fingers. “I think I cut my lip.”
Varga sat back on her heels as relief and exasperation flooded her. “You cut your lip? I thought you were dying!”
He glanced up at the sky, face thoughtful. “My ribs hurt. And I twisted my ankle running.”
Varga helped him sit up. He groaned in pain. Then he looked at her again. “You were crying for me?”
She gave him an exaggerated glare. “If you tell anyone, I’ll gut you like a … like—”
“A fish?”
She rolled her eyes and grinned. “Yes, Fiske. Just like that.”
She reached up and unfastened the leather strip around her braids and shook the sand out of her hair, the clink of her beads a cheerful reminder that they were still alive. She pulled Fiske to his feet and put her uninjured shoulder under his arm to keep the weight off his injured ankle.
“Let’s find a way off this mountain,” she said.
A Thousand or So Words of Wisdom
by Anne McCaffrey
Anne McCaffrey’s first story was published by Sam Moskowitz in Science Fiction Plus magazine and her first novel was published by Ballantine Books in 1967. By the time the three children of her marriage were comfortably in school most of the day, she had already achieved enough success with short stories to devote her full time to writing. Her first novel, Restoree, was written as a protest against the absurd and unrealistic portrayals of women in science fiction novels in the 50s and early 60s. It is, however, in the handling of broader themes and the worlds of her imagination, particularly the two series The Ship Who Sang and the many novels about the Dragonriders of Pern, that best displayed Ms. McCaffrey’s talents as a storyteller.
In her lifetime, she won a plethora of awards, culminating in the SFWA Nebula Grandmaster Award. Her books have flown on the Space Shuttle to the International Space Station.
Anne became a judge for the Writers of the Future Contest with volume 2. In 2004, she was presented with the L. Ron Hubbard Lifetime Achievement Award, and in her acceptance speech she shared, “I believe in helping
people. It’s one of the things that science fiction has always done. Taking in new youngsters and helping them. I like to help out too.”
She is survived by her three children, four grandchildren, and millions of devoted fans.
A Thousand or So Words of Wisdom
A basic commandment every writer should remember is to “Tell a Story.” Some aspiring writers labor under the delusion that it is the taut phrase, the witticism, the exhibition of a vocabulary, or the involved sentence showing a perfected knowledge of syntax, that maketh the writer. My friends, no. Double NO when the writer gleefully makes a deliberate show of his way with words under the impression that he cannot fail to bedazzle his reader with his technical proficiency. Sure, sure, but where is the story beneath all that glitter?
A case in point is Edgar Rice Burroughs, who often wrote in a stilted and posturing manner. It didn’t much bother us as kids because we were in the hands of a master storyteller and the sheer magic of the stories he told transcended his flaws in literary style. Even today, re-reading ERB and writhing at his defects, I can still get so caught up in his telling that I ignore the style for the story.
Myself, I’m not the least bit literary and have no pretensions to heightened style. The Ship Who Sang is actually badly written, but twenty-four years after its first publication it still makes people weep for its characters and what happens to them. “The Smallest Dragonboy” was a yarn I dashed off for an anthology, better crafted than Ship: purpose-written, you might say, but it tells a story people enjoy reading. These two are the most reprinted of my stories, with some sixteen reprints for Ship and fifteen for “Dragonboy.”
The second story I got published, 1959’s “The Lady in the Tower,” required some tinkering, so adroitly done by Algis Budrys that, lacking the original copy, I can’t spot the alterations—which means the alterations were not only deft but duplicated the original writer’s tone. That represents a lot of extra editorial effort. Why did I, a novice, get that sort of attention? Algis, then Assistant Editor at the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, has since told me that “Lady” was such a good story that he and the editor, Robert P. Mills, were willing to work with its flaws.