Young Warriors (14 page)

As he stared at me, I summoned the lives he had stolen, drew them from his own beating heart. At first I felt the pounding of his blood as a constant rhythm, like a wild drum. And I felt that rhythm falter, and fade. And then, with a final shudder, cease altogether.

By the time the colonel's lady ran down the steps, crying out for the servants to come help, Gerald Humbolt was dead.

I looked upon what I had done, and felt only a kind of flat, weary gratitude. My task was completed; the dead had been released to rejoin the Wheel. They were no longer trapped, no longer ghosts forced to haunt the places of the dead.

I knelt beside the body that once had held the soul of Humbolt-sahib. In his last desperate struggle against the power that drained his life, the veins in his throat had opened; blood had poured from his mouth, flooded the front of his coat and shirt. The blood was warm and stained my fingertips.

This was my power, to summon life. What else does a woman do, after all, but rule life, and death, and all that lies between? The
jadu
had given me no power I did not already possess. Her magic had only granted me the wisdom to know my own.

The colonel's lady put her arms around me, telling me I must be brave. I did not answer; I looked at my bloody hands, and knew what I now must do. The life I had borrowed was not mine to live. That I had known when I bartered upon the riverbank for my past and the
jadu
's future.

The witch had kept her side of the bargain; now I must keep mine.

That night I waited until the moon rose high and the night lay silent. And when all slept and the house dreamed, I slipped out of the English bed and pulled off the English nightgown—and with the English nightgown, I shed Estella from me as a snake sheds its dead skin. She had no further need of me, nor I of her. It was time to let her go.

I unbound my hair from its two braids and shook it loose until its strands rippled like a veil about my naked body. Then I looked into the mirror and saw what others would see, when they looked upon me now. A native. A wild woman.

A
jadu.

I blew out the night-candle upon the dressing table. And then I walked out of the bungalow, across the verandah and through the faded garden, to find a road that would lead me to a riverbank where a little reed hut waited.

Waited for the
jadu
and her blood-red hands.

INDIA EDGHILL

A WRITER OF historical novels (
Queenmaker
and
Wisdom's
Daughter
)
,
murder mysteries (
File
M for Murder
)
,
and fantasy short stories, India Edghill has been interested in books since childhood, as everyone in the family for the past three generations has been an avid reader. Her father was a history buff and passed on his love of history to her. The natural result is that she owns far too many books on way too many subjects, including nearly a thousand on her favorite topic, the history of India. Her day job—librarian—doesn't help cut down on the books any. India lives in the mid–Hudson Valley in New York.

THE BOY WHO CRIED “DRAGON!”

Mike Resnick

YOU'VE ALL HEARD the story about the boy who cried “Wolf!”

Teachers and parents have been using it to teach children a lesson for centuries now. It's become a part of our culture. Everybody knows about the boy who cried “Wolf!”, just as everyone knows about the Three Blind Mice, and the little Dutch boy who put his finger in the dike, and the night Michael Jordan burned the Celtics for 63 points in a playoff game.

But would you like to know the
real
story?

It began a long, long time ago, in a mythical land to the north and west which, for lack of a better term, we shall call The Mythical Land To The North And West. Now, this Land was the home of exceptionally brave warriors and beautiful damsels (and occasionally they were the same person, since beautiful damsels were pretty assertive back then). Each young boy and girl was taught all the arts of warfare, and was soon adept with sword, mace, lance, bow and arrow, dagger, and the off-putting snide remark. They were schooled in horsemanship, camouflage, and military strategy. They learned eye-gouging, ear-biting, kidney-punching, and— since they were destined to become knights and ladies— gentility.

So successful was their training that before long enemy armies were afraid to attack them. Within the borders of the Land justice was so swift that there was not a single criminal left. It would have been a very peaceful and idyllic kingdom indeed—except for the dragons.

You see, the Land was surrounded by hundreds of huge, red-eyed, razor-toothed, fire-breathing dragons, covered with thick scaly skin and armed with vicious-looking claws, and just as fifty years ago a Maasai warrior became a man by slaying a lion with his spear, and today you are hailed as an adult when you can break through Microsoft's firewall, back in the days we are talking about, a boy or girl would be recognized as a young man or woman only after slaying a dragon.

Okay, you've got enough background now, so it's time to introduce Sir Meldrake of the Shining Armor. Well, that's the way he envisioned himself, and that's the name he planned to take once he had slain a dragon and found someone who could actually make a suit of shining armor, but for the moment he was just plain Melvin—tall, gangly, a little underweight, shy around damsels, and more worried about pimples than mortal wounds received in glorious battle. His number had come up in the draft, and it was his turn to sally forth and slay a dragon.

He climbed into his older brother's hand-me-down armor, took out the garbage, kissed his mother good-bye (but only after he made sure none of his friends were watching and snickering), climbed aboard the family horse, and—armed with lance, sword, mace, and a desire to show Mary Lu Penworthy that he was everything she said he wasn't—he set off to slay a dragon, bring back both ears and the tail (or whatever it was one brought back to prove he had been victorious), and become a knight rather than a skinny teenaged boy who couldn't get a date for the prom.

Soon the city was far behind him, and before long he had crossed the border of the Land itself, and was now in unknown territory. He hummed a little song of battle to keep his spirits up, but he was tone-deaf and his humming annoyed his horse, so finally he fell silent, scanning the harsh, rocky landscape for dragons. He found himself wishing he had paid a little more attention in biology class, so he would know what dragons ate when they weren't eating people, and where they slept (if indeed they slept at all), and especially what kind of terrain they liked to hide in when preparing to ambush young men who suddenly wished they were back home in bed, looking at naughty illuminated manuscripts beneath the covers.

At night he found a cozy cave and, lighting a fire to keep warm and ward off anything that might want to annoy him— like, for example, a pride of dragons (or did they come in flocks, or perhaps gaggles?)—he sang himself to sleep, which kept his spirits up but almost drove his horse to distraction.

When morning came he peeked out of the cave, just to be certain that nothing lay in wait for him. Then he peeked again, to be doubly certain. Then he thought about Mary Lu Penworthy and decided that the mole on her chin that had seemed charming only two days ago was really rather ugly in the cold light of day, and hardly worth slaying a dragon for. The same could be said for her eyes (not blue enough), her lips (not rosy-red enough), and her nose (which seemed to exist solely to keep her eyes from bumping into each other).

One by one he considered every young lady of his acquaintance. This one was too tall, that one too short, this one too loud, that one too quiet, and to his surprise he decided that none of them was really worth risking his life in mortal combat with a dragon. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he couldn't come up with a single reason to seek out a dragon. It was a silly custom, and when he returned to the Land, which he planned to do the moment his horse calmed down and stopped looking at him as if he might burst into song again, he would seek out the Council of Elders and suggest that in the future the rite of passage to adulthood should consist of slaying a chipmunk. They were certainly more numerous, and what purpose was served by slaying a dragon anyway?

His mind made up, Melvin climbed atop his steed and turned him for home—and found his way barred by a huge dragon, twenty feet high at the shoulder, with little beady eyes, thin streams of smoke flowing out of his nostrils, claws the size of butcher knives, and a serious case of halitosis.

“Why have you come to my kingdom?” demanded the dragon.

“I didn't know dragons could talk,” said Melvin, surprised.

“I don't mean to be impertinent,” said the dragon, “but I could probably fill a very thick book with what you don't know about dragons.”

“Yes, I suppose you could,” admitted Melvin. He didn't quite know what to say next, so he finally blurted, “By the way, my name is Sir Meldrake of the Shining Armor.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked the dragon. “No offense, but you look rather rusty to me.”

“My own armor's in the shop getting dry-cleaned,” said Melvin, starting to feel rather silly.

“Oh. Well, that explains it,” said the dragon charitably. “And since we're doing introductions, my name is Horace. Spelled H-O-R-A-C-E, and not to be mistaken for Horus the Egyptian god.”

“That's a strange name for a dragon,” said Melvin.

“Just how many dragons do you know on a first-name basis?” asked Horace.

“Counting you, one,” admitted Melvin. “Just out of curiosity, how many men have you encountered?”

“The downstate returns aren't all in yet, but so far, rounded off, it comes to one.” Horace paused uneasily. “What do we do now?”

“I don't know,” said Melvin. “I suppose we battle to the death.”

“We do?” said the dragon, surprised. “Why?”

“Those are the ground rules. You meet a dragon, you slay him.”

“That's the silliest thing I ever heard!” protested Horace. “I meet dragons all the time, and I've never slain one. In fact, I plan to marry one when I'm an adult and sire twenty or thirty thousand little hatchlings.”

“Had you someone in mind?” asked Melvin, interested in spite of himself.

“Nancy Jo Billingsworth,” said the dragon with a sigh. “The most beautiful seventeen tons of wings and scales I've ever seen.” He looked at Melvin. “How about you? Have you picked out your lady yet—always assuming you survive our battle to the death?”

“I'm playing the field at the moment,” said Melvin.

“So you can't get a date either,” said Horace knowingly.

“It's these darned zits,” said Melvin, trying not to whine.

“Take off your helmet and let me get a good look at you,” said Horace.

“You'll be disgusted,” said Melvin. “Everyone is.”

“Try me,” said the dragon.

Melvin removed his helmet.

“God, I would
kill
for zits like those!” said Horace fervently.

“You would?” said Melvin. “Why?”

“Look at this hideous smooth skin on my face,” said Horace, holding back a little whimper of self-loathing. “Let's be honest. Nancy Jo Billingsworth winces every time she looks at me. She'd die before she'd go out with me.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” said Melvin sympathetically.

“It's not just my face,” said Horace, a tear rolling down his smooth green cheek. “It's
me.
Whenever we choose up sides for basketball, I'm always the last one picked. When it's Girls' Choice at the dance, I'm the only one who's never asked.”

“They won't even let me in the locker room,” Melvin chimed in. “They say I'm just wasting space. And the girls draw straws in the cafeteria, and the loser has to sit next to me.”

Before long the young man and the young dragon were pouring out their hearts to each other, and because no one had ever listened to them before, they continued until twilight.

“Well, we might as well get on with it,” said Horace when they had finished their litany of misery.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said Melvin unenthusiastically.

“I want you to know that if you win, I won't hold it against you,” said the dragon. “No one will miss me anyway. I haven't got a friend in the world.”

“That's not true,” protested Melvin. “
I
like you.”

Horace's homely green face lit up. “You do?”

Melvin nodded. “Yes, I do.” He paused thoughtfully. “You know, I've never had a real friend before. It seems a shame that one of us has to kill the other.”

“I know,” said the dragon. “Still, rules are rules.”

Suddenly Melvin stood up decisively. “Who says so?”

Horace looked around, confused. “I think
I
just did.”

“Well, I'm going to break the rules. You're my only friend, and I'm not going to kill you.”

“You're
my
only friend, and I'm not going to kill you either.” Horace paused, as if considering what to do next. “Let's kill the horse. At least we'll have something to eat.”

Melvin shook his head. “I need him to get home.”

“I kind of thought we'd stay out here and be friends forever,” said Horace in hurt tones.

“Oh, we'll be friends forever,” promised Melvin. “And as my first act of friendship, I'm going to save your life.”

“That's very thoughtful of you,” said Horace. “But don't be so sure I wouldn't have killed you instead.”

“I'm not talking about me,” said Melvin. “But every week a new candidate is chosen to go forth and slay a dragon, and next week it's Spike Armstrong's turn.”

“Who is Spike Armstrong?” asked Horace.

“He's everything I'm not,” said Melvin bitterly. “He's the captain of every sports team, he's the most handsome boy in the Land, and even though he has the brains of a newt all the cheerleaders fight to sit near him in the cafeteria.”

“I dislike him already,” said Horace.

“Anyway, if he finds you, he'll kill you,” concluded Melvin.

“So you're going to fight him in my place?” asked Horace. “I call that exceptionally decent of you, Melvin. I'll always honor your memory and put flowers on your grave.”

“No, I'm not going to fight him,” replied Melvin. “I wouldn't fare any better against him than you would. But any time I know he's sallying forth in your direction, I'll go to the far side of the city and tell everybody that a dragon is approaching, and Spike will immediately head off in that direction and you'll be safe.”

“That's a splendid idea!” enthused Horace. “And whenever Thunderfire goes out hunting for a man to eat, I'll do the same thing to him.”

“Thunderfire?” repeated Melvin.

Horace grimaced. “Females swoon over him. He's got lumps the size of baseballs all over his face, and his flame shoots out ten feet, and he just struts around like he owns the place. But I'll see to it that he never finds you.”

“You know,” said Melvin, “I
like
having a friend.”

“Me too,” said Horace. “My mother says one should always seek out new experiences.”

Their ruses worked. Spike Armstrong never did slay Horace, and Thunderfire never did eat Melvin. As for Melvin and Horace, they continued to sneak away and meet every Saturday afternoon except when it was raining, and although neither of them ever did become king or marry the damsel of their dreams, they each had a friend they could trust and confide in, which in many ways is better than being a king or marrying a dream.

And that is the story of the boy who cried “Dragon!”

Of course, when dragons sit around the campfire at night or tuck their children into bed, they tell the story of the dragon who cried “Boy!”

MIKE RESNICK

MIKE RESNICK is the author of forty-eight science fiction and fantasy novels, twelve collections, more than 180 short stories, and two screenplays, and has edited forty anthologies. He has won four Hugos (science fiction's Oscar) and has been nominated a near-record twenty-five times. He has won other major awards in the U.S.A., France, Japan, Croatia, Spain, and Poland, and has been nominated for awards in England and Italy. His work has been translated into twenty-two languages. He lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, and his Web site is
www.mikeresnick.com
.

Mike confesses that he has never quite understood why men rode forth to slay dragons, and he thought it might be fun to write about a man (a young one) and a dragon (also a young one) who didn't understand it either. Also, everyone has heard the fable about the boy who cried “Wolf!”—and wouldn't it be nice if he had a
reason
for doing so?