Breath Easy by Heather Lee Fleming

“They say you people from Spire are pretty good at killing.”
Lucian Flaumer looked up from his drink and fixed the lout before him with a hollow eyed stare. “You know what they say about rumors,” he said coldly, taking in details about his potential foe as they stared each other down.
The Lout’s nose had been broken twice by the look of it, both times from punches on the left side of his face – Lucian could tell by the way it was bent. There was a scar on his chin and another on his forehead – both on the left side of his face, indicating that The Lout was careless about his defense on that side. There were calluses on his first two knuckles of each hand though, and hardened muscles on his arms. His wrists were thick. He was no stranger to brawling, but there was a fear in his eyes that told Lucian he posed no threat to him. He was a coward, and he knew it, Lucian determined. And he was so afraid that someone else would realize this that he maintained a constant front. His size alone was probably enough to strong-arm most people into submission . . . and if he had a wife, Lucian would put the odds at ten to one that he beat her.
From the terse tone of his voice, Lucian guessed The Lout had been mentally rehearsing what he would say since the moment he learned Spire Academy would be sending a representative to train the militia of the small outpost town of Leftidge. He was intimidated by the school’s reputation and believed that by engaging Lucian in a fight he would be able to dispel his fear and prove he was still the meanest dog in Leftidge at the same time.
But oh how wrong he was, Lucian thought, amused. Beneath the table he slipped his combat ring onto his right index finger and waited for The Lout to make his next move.
The Lout’s cocky grin wavered, eclipsed by the arrogance that marked every line of Lucian’s face. Lucian started to give the man a frosty smile, but a painful heaving in his chest made him spasm. He groped for the handkerchief tucked inside the front of his shirt and managed to suppress his coughing until he was able to cover his mouth – but only just. The rank taste of coagulated blood made Lucian’s lips curl in disgust as he pressed his handkerchief against them. More bitter than the taste on his tongue though, was his anger, and when the base-born ruffian who stood before Lucian grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out of his seat, Lucian decided to share his state of discontentment with The Lout.
“Yeah, rumors aren’t worth shit ‘round here,” The Lout drawled as Lucian finished hacking into his handkerchief. He pulled back his beefy fist then let it fly forward toward Lucian’s jaw.
Lucian caught the man’s fist in his open right hand then dug three of his fingers between the tendons behind The Lout’s knuckles. His lips twitched, parodying a smirk as The Lout howled. “Actually, I was going to say they’re always true,” Lucian said hoarsely and moved again. His left fist caught The Lout under the chin – The Lout ate the uppercut hard enough to lift him a good foot off the ground. Before he could hit the ground, Lucian drove his right hand forward and slammed it into The Lout’s face.
The ruffian flew backwards and crashed into a table, which promptly collapsed under his weight. Three of the men The Lout had been drinking with tensed. Lucian looked their way and his chilling expression invited them to join the fun. Wisely, but to Lucian’s mild disappointment, the peasants shrunk away from him.
Lucian picked his kerchief up off the floor and spat into it. Another dark red blotch appeared on the stained fabric. After wiping his mouth he folded the kerchief and placed it back inside his shirtfront. He looked back at The Lout who was clumsily trying to stand but was having less success than a drunk on the night of the Winter Festival. The House Flaumer crest was imprinted backwards on his forehead where Lucian’s combat ring caught him. Lucian shook his head in disgust as The Lout collapsed and opened his mouth to speak. Smoke from one of the many pipes lit in the tavern burned Lucian’s lungs and he broke off coughing again before he could speak.
His lungs felt like they were decomposing inside his chest and cold sweat ran down his temples. Between his violent hacking coughs and sporadic gasps for air, Lucian’s ears caught snatches of what the other people in the tavern were whispering.
“ – man has consumption . . .”
“ . . . coughing up blood!”
“ – sent him to train our militia?”
When his fit finally abated, Lucian’s hands were covered with blood and phlegm. He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe them clean and looked around the tavern again. This was not how he would have chosen to make his first impression on the townspeople he was charged with training. After this show of weakness it would be harder to assert his authority over this rabble’s militia.
Lucian tried to fight down his annoyance at the situation he was now in as he wiped his mouth. He knew his anger would only distract him, but he could not quite manage to squelch his irritation. If his lungs weren’t being rotted away then he would have come across as weak in this first showdown! Though of course, if his lungs weren’t being rotted away then he wouldn’t even be in this sorry excuse for a town! Training the Leftidge Militia was a throwaway assignment for a throwaway graduate and it burned Lucian’s pride. He was a noble of House Flaumer and the top graduate of his year at Spire Academy. Now he was reduced to playing guard dog for a collection of shanties in the middle of nowhere! He cursed the fate that had given him consumption. The disease had stolen his future as swiftly as it stole his breath and left him gasping for air.
With as much dignity as he could, Lucian finished cleaning the blood off his hands and gave The Lout the most disdainful look he could muster. Then, without another word, he left the tavern.
Outside the air was noticeably different – cleaner and devoid of smoke. Lucian took a deep breath then let it out in a sigh as he made his way toward his new home – the two room shack that Spire bought for him for the duration of his assignment.
The door opened again behind Lucian as he walked away. Lucian did not turn to see who was following him – if, indeed, he was being followed – but strained his ears to learn as much about his potential shadow as he could. The man – or woman – was wearing boots. Their soles thudded dully against the packed dirt road. He wore trousers, Lucian could tell, and the lack of swishing skirts argued that it was a man following him. And he was following him, Lucian realized by the deliberate pace the stranger set in his direction. He thought he could hear the rattle of a sword in an ill-fitting scabbard at his shadow’s side, but that rattling could have been caused by a number of things. No matter. Even if it was a sword, it wouldn’t save him.
Lucian doubled over suddenly and began coughing violently again, as though he was having another fit. He dropped to one knee and heard his shadow hurrying toward him. Just as the man stepped within range, Lucian stopped coughing and spun, lashing out with one leg. He hooked the legs out from underneath his stalker, spilling him on his back. The man squealed, but before he could draw another breath, Lucian’s boot heel was on his throat. Lucian scanned the ground for a weapon the man might have dropped, but found none. His sword – a cheap piece of trash to judge from the handle and scabbard – remained sheathed at his belt. There were no bulges in his boots that looked like they held knives, and The Squealer’s hands were scrabbling at Lucian’s boot, trying to get it off his throat. Lucian regarded The Squealer with contempt for a long moment and kept his foot pressed firmly on his, The Squealer’s, throat.
How do you like it? Lucian thought venomously as The Squealer began turning purple. Finally, before The Squealer could pass out, Lucian stepped back and allowed him to stand. “Who are you?” he asked, letting his voice drip with scorn, but keeping his guard up all the same.
The Squealer gasped for air for nearly a full minute before picking himself up, dusting off, and then, to Lucian’s disgust, offering his hand to Lucian to shake. “Captain Trenold of the Leftidge Militia.”
Lucian stared at Captain Squealer’s hand distastefully until it was retracted. “Why are you bothering me?” he asked bluntly.
Captain Squealer faltered. “We will all be able to breathe a bit easier with one of your stature about.” Lucian’s ironic glare was lost on him. “I confess that Monroi Pass’s ordeal with the Southern Storm has unnerved us, and I was pleased, very pleased, when I learned Spire agreed to our request and was sending our outpost assistance. . . I thought to make your acquaintance since we’ll be working together . . . perhaps to make you my lieutenant –”
“You think I’m going to take orders from a commoner like you?” Lucian demanded. Great Deauxama, the people of Leftidge were stupid!
“I’m the leader of the Leftidge Militia!” snapped Captain Squealer, offended now. “It is my job to lead this garrison’s defenses and you are to answer –”
“I’m sorry, but are you calling this collection of shacks surrounded by a stick fence a garrison?” Lucian asked as condescendingly as he knew how.
Captain Squealer was red in the face now. “Even when Monroi Pass nearly fell to the Southern Storm, we of Leftidge held strong! Never have our walls been breached by goblins – where are you going?!”
“To pray for a quick death,” Lucian muttered under his breath. Captain Squealer kept talking at him as he walked away, but did not follow. Halfway down the street his voice died away. By the time Lucian reached his rooms the commoner’s babbling wasn’t even a memory.
Lucian collapsed on his bed after checking that the traps on his windows were still in place, and barring the door behind him. His lungs hurt . . . but not as bad as they had in Deaxa. All the smoke and garbage and other scents on the streets of larger cities aggravated his consumption. Here in Leftidge, backwards though it was, at least the air was clean. Since leaving dusty Monroi Pass his coughing attacks had grown less frequent – though Lucian’s mood had not improved at all. Now, at his destination and new home, less time spent hacking up his lungs would mean more time spent contemplating the misery of his position. Lucian stared at the unfamiliar ceiling and exhaled slowly, wondering how many miserable nights he would live to appreciate the wretchedness of his situation.
“One and counting,” he breathed and closed his eyes.
END

Venom for their Dreams by Steve Goble

The log tumbled and bounded down the slope like a thing alive, too quickly for Hissu to evade it.
That alone caught him off-guard, because speed had always been his ally. He tried to leap over the log as it passed, but it gained speed as it rolled and a high bounce caught his sandaled foot. Hissu toppled, rolled with the log -- and found himself trapped. The rough bark had skinned his thigh, and blood stained the breechcloth that was his only garb. His right foot was caught underneath the lumber.
His spear lay yards away.
Two faces peered down at him from above. The men, Freeholder peasants by their looks, bore farm implements that would serve as weapons. Hissu's people -- the Semkhet, whom the Freeholders called Vipers -- had no such tools, but he had seen the pale men use them. The heavy iron chained to a wood haft was for crushing grain, and the sharp tines of the other thing was for pitching straw. Flail and pitchfork, he'd heard them called.
Hissu imagined what those tools would do to him.
He had been sent to learn more about the Freeholders, who settled the plains and mountains north of the jungle Semkhet lands. What he had learned clutched at his spine now with icy fingers. He had approached the village in hopes of stealing some fresh water, and had found an ambush instead. The goblin wars had taught even these stupid villagers to be on their guard, and Hissu had stepped right into a trap.
He stretched a brown arm toward his spear as the men came warily down the slope. The spear was out of reach. Vakkha, Hissu's pet serpent, coiled around the haft.
The men came closer, talking in terse whispers. Hissu could understand most of the words, because the shamans had wisely made certain all Semkhet scouts could speak the enemy's tongue.
"By the gods, it is a Viper!"
The other man's leathery face crinkled. "I didn't believe you, Vet. Sorry. Look at him, all painted and naked and wild. What's he doing way up here?"
The first man spat. "Taking heads, I'll bet. The bastard." His grip tightened on the haft of his flail. "They put my great-uncle's head on a pike, long time back. I'm going to enjoy paying this one back for that."
Hissu's heart thundered, and the scrapes on his leg bled freely as he tugged against the heavy log. He could not draw his foot free.
Desperate, he took the leather flask from the cord about his waist. He pulled free the bone cap, and quickly filled his mouth.
"Hey!" One of the men leapt downward and stretched forth his weapon. He caught the flask on the tines and hurled it aside, then jumped back before Hissu could make a grab for the pitchfork. "He's got a little booze."
The man with the flail walked over and picked up the flask as his friend pointed the pitchfork at Hissu's face. "This bugger's got ghost eyes, Vet. Scary pale."
"He's got something strong in here, Borl," Vet said, coming forth with the flask. "Ain't whiskey, but it's got a wicked scent."
Hissu felt the warmth growing in his mouth, and fought not to smile. Vet sniffed again at the flask. "Viper booze?"
"Maybe," Borl said. "Must be good. This bastard sucked down a lot of it. Probably wants to be drunk when we skin him." He grinned evilly. "It's probably a good idea, for him. Might make things more fun for us, too. Take a taste."
Vet tipped the container to his lips, threw back his head. "Here goes." He poured the reddish fluid into his throat, closed his eyes, and swallowed. He shook his head violently, his wild mane whipping the wind. "Wheeeeeew! Gods, that's a stern drink!"
"You're a baby, Vet. Give me some of that!" Borl reached for the flask, but kept the pitchfork in his other hand steadily aimed at Hissu's eyes.
Vet coughed violently, and flecks of red sprayed the air. Crimson drops spattered his threadbare tunic, and his eyes widened like those of a frightened animal. He dropped to his knees and heaved, spewing blood and his last meal onto the ground.
"Vet! Vet!"
Hissu inhaled deeply through his nose, filling his lungs until they ached. He waited until Borl's eyes turned back toward him, glaring. "What was that stuff?"
Hissu's attack was one he'd long practiced as a Semkhet scout. He spat, a gush of red venom propelled by the air massed in his lungs. It sprayed Borl in the face, hissing and sputtering as it mixed with the man's sweat. The man dropped his pitchfork and clutched at his eyes. Hissu -- like all his people -- was immune to the venom, which the shamans gathered from the serpents who lived as brothers and sisters to the Semkhet. But Hissu knew what the poison did to others; it burned, and it killed rapidly when it entered through a wound. He could only imagine the volcanic consequences inside the man who'd drunk it.
Borl fell, grasping to find the weapon his blinded eyes could not -- the weapon Hissu now clutched.
One thrust to the throat, and in moments Borl was as dead as his unconscious friend soon would be. Hissu glanced southward toward the Freeholder village, and was relieved to see the skirmish had not drawn attention yet.
The pitchfork gave him leverage, and soon his foot was free. He looked at the dead men. He loathed them, and all their kind, for their arrival in these lands centuries ago had sent the Semkhet's great god Phen'ra into hiding. He wanted to severe their heads, and carry them home where the shamans would prepare them for mounting on the border pikes. Such trophies adorned the Semkhet border as a warning to all who would trespass. But it would be a long way to go with two rotting heads, so he decided to take only a few strips of belly flesh. These he would eat when he made camp.
He saw a bright blade on Borl's belt, and took it. Good, strong steel, of the type Freeholders called Kalini. It would make a good spear tip. He sliced some flesh, tucked it into a small pouch dangling from his breechcloth. Then he retrieved Vakkha and his spear, and headed toward his concealed horse.
Then he stopped, and smiled.
He could not take the heads of these men home, but he could sow a little more fear. And that was important. Fear was the only weapon the Semkhet had left.
The Freeholders were moving into these lands in ever greater numbers, filling their cities and sprawling onto the plains. Some day, they would fill the plains and wash over the Semkhet lands. But for now, fear of the Semkhet -- the dread Vipers -- kept all but a few fools from crossing the border.
So he would leave them something dreadful, something to make them weep at night and nourish their fears. Some venom for their dreams.
Grinning, he started sawing off the heads.
END