The pounding stopped. The wight was either confused or about to crush them. For an endless moment, Shada wanted to scream.

  It moved off. She counted twenty then helped Gregory up.

  “This ends now, Shada.”

  She’d expected thanks. That had been stupid. “The Consul will never make peace.”

  “Nonsense.” He blinked. “The right proposal, he’ll bite.”

  Could Gregory be this blind? Men who’d died for his stupidity littered the street.

  Shada eyed the wight’s tracks in the snow. This was her opportunity. “I have to follow it.”

  “You’re the King’s daughter,” Gregory said. “Accompany me or I’ll place you under house arrest.”

  Despite her many disobediences, Shada had never disagreed with Gregory to his face. He was the voice of the Crown; it was unthinkable.

  She was shaken and exhausted. If her rib hadn’t been cracked before, it was now. But worse, she understood that Gregory and her father had no idea what they were doing.

  She left him sputtering in the alley.

  ~o0o~

  The tracks led into the avenues of the Empty Quarter.

  The Quarter held remnants of the ancient city that had fallen into ruin before the arrival of Shada’s people. Most of it had been built over decades before. Not the Empty Quarter; people stayed away. It was a Quarter of criminals, ghosts, and whispers.

  The tracks ended at the entrance to a crumbling arena. The interior was dark, high walls blocking the moonlight. The wight could be anywhere inside.

  Shada slipped along its circumference. A third of the way around she found a series of openings blocked by iron gates. She’d heard stories about old gladiatorial complexes and the tunnels beneath them, for moving fighters in and bodies out. The Consul repurposing one to raise his wights made sense.

  The gates were secured inside the walls; the construction was new.

  A clang of metal rang out. A larger gate slid across the entrance she’d come through. Shada ran back; the bars were iron, thick and solid.

  She was trapped.

  The ground shook. Shada turned as a hammer of a fist drove her hard against the gate. The back of her head hit iron; her vision blurred.

  The huge wight grabbed her around the waist and lifted, pinning her against its chest.

  She flailed in panic. The scent of decay filled her nose and mouth. The wight’s massive arms shoved inside her own and squeezed, forcing the air from her lungs.

  She battered its burnt skull with her remaining stick. In response it crushed her tighter; ribs cracked. Its mouth opened wide, revealing filed fangs.

  Shada shoved the dolu stick halfway down its throat. The wight choked. Its grip weakened. She smashed a sphere against the stick handle protruding from its mouth. Oil poured along the wooden shaft, down its throat. She struck a match and touched it to the oil.

  She felt the heat in the wight’s chest as she tore free, as it was immolated from the inside out. She fell to her knees, dry-heaving on the ground. Breathing was ungodly painful. Her every muscle ached.

  Applause rang out. Shada blinked through double-vision. Torches ignited on a riser. Two men flanked a third.

  “I had a wager with my fellows,” the Consul said. “They felt you hadn’t a chance, but I said, ‘It will take more than one large wight to end Shada.’”

  The Consul was here. Shada had found what she’d come looking for, but it didn’t look like she’d survive her discovery.

  “You’ve taken a beating,” the Consul said. “This may put you at some disadvantage in round two.”

  An interior gate opened to reveal a tall man in dark armor, his face obscured by a black domino. He held a long staff.

  Shada was in no condition to fight; just breathing was torture. She supposed that was the point.

  “So kill me,” she said. “Gregory escaped. You’ve failed.”

  “On the contrary; I require Gregory to keep your father from ever doing anything unexpected or interesting. I don’t want to kill Gregory, Shada. I want to kill you.”

  She understood; the Consul had known she was the Ghost, just as Sienna had. His bogus diplomacy hadn’t laid an ambush for Gregory, but for her.

  “The Ghost has proven a royal pain in my backside, but her death simplifies my endgame. The hopes of your allies have been raised high. When they find your broken body tomorrow morning, they’ll flee to me. Your father will fall.”

  Black Domino approached.

  Shada staggered to her feet and tried to summon some bravado. “Your monster wight couldn’t kill me.”

  “Your opponent has been studying the Ghost. The wight was his final lesson.” The Consul addressed Black Domino. “Hang whatever’s left of her outside the Citadel, so all can see the Ghost is dead.”

  The Consul withdrew. Black Domino circled Shada, spinning his staff.

  She drew a painful breath. Her sticks and spheres were gone. If he had any skill he could beat her to death without letting her close enough to land a blow.

  Ignoring the grinding pain in her flank, Shada darted inside the staff’s reach, chopping at his throat. She accepted the painful block and turned into a sidekick, her heel smashing his knee. But instead of the familiar give of snapping bones, a shock of pain rippled up her leg.

  The staff slammed her hip then caught her below the ribs. Her body screamed in pain. She fell to her knees.

  The staff dropped on her shoulder, forcing her down. Of course his knees were armored. He’d studied her tricks. She spat blood and awaited the killing blow.

  He hesitated.

  Perhaps she was to be tortured to death. She’d upset the Consul’s plans; he would find it necessary that she suffer. Her fear was manageable. She was expendable. It was her mission that mattered.

  But she was the target.

  She reached for the sling, nearly useless without ammunition…

  She wrapped it around the staff and rolled, using her weight as a lever, prying the weapon from his hands. She leapt up, kicking.

  He was too fast. Her foot just raked his face. He hit her hard—three times—in the ribs. Pain enveloped her. Her vision darkened.

  Shada lay in cold dirt, blood leaking her nose and mouth. She looked up. Her kick had dislodged the mask.

  Ansel Arabount, nose bloodied, glared down.

  A hundred questions presented themselves; she set them aside and focused on practicalities. Ansel was as good a fighter as she, but bigger and stronger. Injured and unarmed she was no match. But she knew him.

  “The mask made you look hot.” She gave him a bloody smile. “Older, more confident—”

  “Think this is funny?” He spun the staff.

  “I thought I was fighting a sadistic killer, not poor little rich boy. It’s a little funny.”

  “I could kill you in a heartbeat.”

  “But you haven’t.” Shada drew shallow breaths. The pain was bad, but if she could keep him talking she could get back on her feet. “You don’t believe the Consul’s lies, Ansel. Why fight for him?”

  “You really don’t know?” He was furious. “You did this to me.”

  That was sincere. What had she done? “I saved your life.”

  “I’d have died clean if you’d had the guts to kill me.” His voice dropped. “But you left me to him. The Consul stopped me becoming a wight but he can reverse it. Anytime. Snap of his fingers: I’ll become one of those things.”

  This was why Ansel served the Consul. The Consul had twisted him in knots with the threat of undeath. Ansel had a conscience; he meant well, more or less. But now he was terrified, all the time.

  Shada understood that he cared for her and that he would kill her, because he was scared.

  “The Consul says kill you. If I can’t,” Ansel snapped his fingers, “I turn into a wight and then I kill you.”

  Shada rose to one knee. “I’m aces at wrecking wights.”

  He rattled the staff across the gates. A flurry of activity erupted behind them. “Nine wights, teased with your blood. If I wimp out they get released.”

  She felt sick; the Consul had eliminated any possibility of escape.

  “I’m trying to make this easier,” Ansel said.

  He was. The Consul knew she could handle physical pain. To truly hurt her he’d turned her friend into the tormented instrument of her destruction. Fury dulled her many aches.

  “The Consul’s thought of everything.” Shada eased into a crouch, ready to move. “Except what happens if I just kick your whiny ass into next week.”

  “I’m giving you a clean death.” Ansel swung at her head.

  Shada slipped below the staff. The blow was fast but not that fast. As she’d hoped, his heart wasn’t in it.

  Ansel brought the weapon around, using his body’s momentum. This was the killshot.

  He leaned toward the wall. Shada saw opportunity. She ran at the staff, vaulted it, and bounded off the wall.

  Her foot swept behind his knee. Ansel’s unprotected calf took her weight. He fell hard. Shada locked her arms under his and locked her legs around his armored thigh, squeezing and stretching.

  Ansel punched her ribs, elbowed her in the face.

  She arched her back, forcing all the pressure on to his hip. The joint gave, the ball of his leg coming loose of its socket.

  Ansel screamed.

  “Really not that bothered about how dirty my death is.” Shada released him. “You’ll make a useless wight now. The Consul hates waste. He’ll find another use for you.”

  “You’re still dead,” Ansel sobbed.

  The gates rose, wights battering against the bars to get at her.

  Shada could barely stand. She was finished. But the Consul might spare him. She hoped she’d made the best of a bad draw.

  Wights slipped under the gates.

  Fluid splashed a wight’s face; a flaming arrow took it in the eye. Then its head exploded into flame.

  The wights ran into a torrent of oil spheres and flaming arrows.

  Claude and Aaron charged past her, wielding clubs. They didn’t know what they were doing—they swung for heads rather than legs—but they were strong and the wights were mostly on fire.

  It was over in minutes. Shada couldn’t fathom her rescue, half-suspected she was hallucinating.

  “Where are you hurt?” Claude asked.

  Everywhere, but she touched her ribs.

  He punched her. She fell, bracing for kicks to follow. But he offered a hand up. “Even?”

  She took it.

  The arena was full of court kids armed with bows and slings.

  “You really messed up Ansel Asshat.” Dockerty examined him. “Can I kick his teeth in?”

  “Please don’t.” Shada limped over. “What are you doing?”

  “Saving your butt.” He adjusted his glasses. “Told you I had info. One of my sources heard the Gregory meet was a lure to kill the Ghost. You were too pea-brained to listen, so I went to the other you.”

  Shada could barely keep her balance. “But you can’t stand me.”

  “I can’t.” Dockerty steadied her. “But the Ghost saved Annabeth’s life. And Aaron’s uncle. My sister. Whatever I think of you, we need the Ghost.”

  ~o0o~

  Nights later, Shada sat at her window, stars shining above snow-covered roofs. She’d broken three ribs and was benched for a fortnight. Her house arrest had been blocked by Sienna. Gregory was furious, but Shada remained free.

  While nothing at the arena tied the Consul to the wights, he’d lost a lot of them. Shada hoped for a few nights of peace but was taking no chances.

  “Claude’s heading out.” Petra had equipped the court kids. Any wight appearing would face a burlier, club-wielding Ghost.

  Shada worried that it was one thing to arrow wights from a distance, another to face a walking corpse alone. But they wanted it.

  “Ansel’s alive.” Petra said.

  “The Consul hasn’t snapped his fingers.” Shada felt a stab of shame for crippling him. “It was the only way.”

  Petra snorted. “You saved his life when he was trying to kill you. You can’t feel bad about that.”

  But she did. Ansel couldn’t protect himself from the Consul’s machinations. She would have to.

  “You can’t save everyone.” Petra saw through her. “Not by yourself. You can’t just be a hero—”

  Shada reddened. “I’m no hero.”

  “You’ve saved a dozen lives. But if the Consul takes the crown…”

  Shada understood. “I was stupid. Sienna and Dockerty wanted to help. We needed them. But I couldn’t get past the past.”

  “Gregory, your father; they can’t stop the Consul. Maybe you can. But not alone. You have to lead us.”

  That thought was more terrifying than a dozen wights. Shada rested her head on Petra’s shoulder. St. Navarre glittered under starlight.

  The task seemed impossible. But she had always proven best at the things that frightened her most.

  Unexpected

  Suzan Harden

  “Another day, another damsel, another dragon in distress....”

  “Wait a minute, isn’t that supposed to be damsel in distress?”

  “Not in this anthology.”

  Suzan Harden recently celebrated her fifth year writing full-time. Her latest release is A Modicum of Truth, the continuing adventures of Justice Anthea who first appeared in Sword and Sorceress 28. When she’s not writing, Suzan tortures her husband with repeated viewings of Supernatural while her son plans his escape into the U.S. military next summer.

  The dragon arrived the same drizzly late spring day the basket with the human baby appeared on my doorstep.

  I had been brewing a remedy for the illness that had most of our village in its feverish grip. The slow drip of the eaves had paused for the barest of instants. I set down my spoon. I’d opened the front shutters to clear the hot steam and potentially soporific fumes. Yet, I hadn’t noticed anyone approach my home.

  Maybe I should have opened the door when I started cooking as well.

  When I checked, the bamboo basket sat on my stoop. It was covered in a fine gray wool. The rain-washed stone walkway Shang had laid for me two years ago showed no evidence of passage. Not even a speck of mud from the road.

  I poked my head around the corner of the wood and brick front that kept the elements from my cave. The carved stairway to the top of the cliff was empty as well.

  Interesting. I knelt and pulled the blanket aside. The infant was only a day or three old at most. It smacked its lips together and squirmed a bit.

  The cabbages planted in my garden rustled. I froze and waited. It didn’t sound like the rabbits, and there was too much daylight, even with the overcast sky, to be one of the night scavengers.

  “Why don’t you come out of there?” I said. “The mud cannot be that comfortable.”

  A black head with a white mane and markings poked out from under a leaf. The dragon was tiny, its skull barely the size of my fist. A baby itself.

  I cocked my head and pointed at the basket. “Did you bring it?”

  Its ebony eyelids slid down over its golden eyes and rose.

  “Talkative one, aren’t you?”

  Another slow blink.

  I tried a different tactic. “Are you hungry?”

  The dragon sneezed, and its black whiskers curled and relaxed. It sinuously unwound itself from my cabbages and approached me on its four tiny legs.

  “I am Fen,” I said and held out my hand.

  In an adult dragon, the gift of my name would have been sufficient decorum, but this wasn’t a usual situation. Its whiskers tickled my skin as it tested my truthfulness. I waited until the dragon was satisfied. It might not be able to incinerate me yet, but its bite would still be painful. It finished its examination with a lick of its rough tongue on my palm and trill of approval. I returned the compliment by scratching its mane and the white spiked ridge along its spine.

  The poor thing must have been terribly desperate to come to a human for help. I eyed the human baby. The dragon hooked its front claws on the edge of the basket and peered inside, then looked up at me.

  A recent edict by the new emperor worried me more than I cared to admit. Only the imperial family were allowed in the presence of dragons. For all his power, he might as well tell the wind not to blow. Dragons went where they wished and did exactly what they wanted.

  That didn’t mean the emperor wouldn’t take out his displeasure on any innocent human who was approached by a dragon.

  I grasped the handles of the basket and rose. “First thing to do is check the baby for fertilizer.”

  The dragon followed me inside and headed straight for the fire. It curled up on the hearthstones with an almost human sigh of contentment.

  I found a clean cloth that could serve as a diaper and replaced the wet one the infant wore. While I couldn’t tell the gender of the dragon, the baby was male and slightly malnourished. Had the dragon taken him the moment he was born? If so, why?

  I diced three dried fish, placed them on my best plate, and served the dragon. It daintily picked up the first hunk and bowed to me before it devoured all the fish with a speed I’d only seen in Shang’s sons as they entered manhood.

  After pulling the cauldron with the fever remedy from the fire, I retrieved the urn of milk from the spring deeper in the cave that formed part of my home. Using another clean cloth, I coaxed the baby into sucking milk. What he really needed was a wet nurse, but that was impossible until the sickness in the village had been dealt with.

  The dragon flopped on its back over the plate, its distended belly reaching for the roof beams extending from the cliff face. By the time the infant in my arms burped, dragon’s snores filled the air.

  ~o0o~

  My guests woke from their naps shortly after I’d transferred the cooled potion to two skins. I fed them once again.

  I frowned as the dragon waited patiently by the front door. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay here while I go to the village.”

  Again, the slow blink of its golden eyes.

  I didn’t like my choices. The human infant couldn’t stay here. While I’d warded my dwelling against supernatural elements, my kitchen magics wouldn’t keep out conventional intruders or predators. If I tried to lock the dragon inside, it would no doubt destroy my meager belongings in its efforts to escape. Not to mention the insult I’d cause to an ancient and venerable race.