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Just imagine those grubby little hands pawing my white pure skin-
Let’s not talk of such things, m’lady. Let me rest a bit, and then we will hunt him down. Together.
Fitzpatrick spent an hour just inside the cave entrance. He saw the firelight flicker on the walls and smelled the pleasant smoke wafting out.
He also heard Aarak settling in back there. When silence came, Fitzpatrick would make his move. His small hand held a knife so sharp the blade could cleave thick leather. A human throat would be much easier to cut.
For the first time in many lonely years, Aarak did not sleep alone. He filled his hands with the amulet and held it close to his heart as he drifted peacefully to sleep knowing that one fine day he and his true love would ride golden steeds into the palaces of the mighty, and all men would envy Aarak not only as a great warrior, but as the only man worthy of such a beauty.
Thus wrapped inside the warmth and tenderness of such thoughts, he fell asleep, snoring soon after, snoring that was a joke to those who’d had to sleep anywhere near him on his travels.
Fitzpatrick himself fell asleep, though only in a shallow way. The sound, whatever in holy hell it was, raised him a good three inches off the ground. His pinched little face showed pure terror as he tried to recognize the noise that seemed to come from the rough stone walls themselves.
And then he smiled. It was Aarak. Snoring. Good Lord, had anyone but the giants of myth snored with such incredible force? The damned cave might collapse under such a sonic assault.
Now was the time to make his move. The drugged wine the assassin had taken had been intended for Stephen, so that Fitzpatrick could steal the amulet and leave the castle, but the big oaf had changed everything. However, the leprechaun would soon have Drusilla to himself, and the human would be as dead as his former master.
He crawled into the cave, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. The fire burned warmer as he got closer and the sounds Aarak made caused the little man to stop a few times and cover his ears in pain.
When he reached the rear of the cave, he found Aarak spread out on the floor, sound asleep, the empty wine bottle lying beside him. And the fire crackling merrily.
Now he had to move fast.
In three steps he was at Aarak’s side, sweeping down with his blade to cut the man’s throat and make the amulet his own.
But the amulet was not around Aarak’s neck.
Panic.
What would Aarak have done with it?
And then he saw it clasped in the enormous hands of the assassin.
Only when he reached for the amulet did the little man realize how deep Aarak’s sleep was. He didn’t even stir as Fitzpatrick eased the amulet from the massive hands. The snoring, so close to the little man’s ears, threatened to deafen him forever. And Aarak had the habit of seasoning his snoring with spittle.
But the little man had what he wanted. The amulet.
No time to waste.
He took the real paper from his pocket and read the wizard’s words that would open the amulet and bring the woman to full and beautiful life.
And then there she stood, every inch a woman.
“I thank you for that,” Drusilla said, smiling at him with such warmth and tenderness that Fitzpatrick felt like his heart would burst. “You know the real meaning of chivalry.”
“And I hope you know the real meaning of gratitude,” said Fitzpatrick as he stood before her and winked. “My kind of gratitude.”
“I would hope so, too,” she said.
He was so completely into his fantasy, that he didn’t notice her slipping his knife from his hand. Bringing the blade up to his throat.
Opening a deep and bloody gash across that throat until it was too late. He was instantly spitting blood from the mouth below his nose and the new mouth across his throat. Fitzpatrick’s last vision before he fell forever into darkness was of Drusilla, bloody blade in hand, and a look of absolute hatred on her face.
Even before he opened his eyes, Aarak knew that something was wrong. The air, the smells, the very texture of existence felt-wrong.
Some other realm.
“You slept for a very long time,” said the radiant Drusilla. She peered down at him as if she was a giantess and he was some kind of tiny animal in a cage.
It took till this very moment to realize that he was in fact in a cage-the cage of the amulet. She had hexed him into the realm she had recently inhabited.
“I thought I was going to be your protector and your lover,” Aarak said, knowing that the whine in his voice pleased neither of them. Few things are more unmanly than large men whining.
“Well, you are,” she said. “Whenever we wish to spend the night together, I will hex my way into the amulet and we will spend nights you will never forget, Aarak. Never.”
“But I won’t be free.”
“You said that I was the only thing you wanted.”
“Yes, but-”
“Then count your blessings. Think of all the men who would give up everything to have what you have. When the storm dies, I want to go to Winiver Castle. There is a prince there who should now be king. I’ll seduce him out of his fortune and then we’ll be off.”
“Seduce him? But you said we would be lovers.”
“We will be, silly. But that doesn’t mean I won’t sleep with other people now and then when necessary. After all, you certainly don’t have any fortune.”
She tapped her nail on the glass circle of the amulet. “Now you get some sleep, you grumpy old bear. And when dawn comes, we’ll be off. We’ll find some riders and take their horses-or rather you will.”
“You’re going to let me out of here to do battle?”
“Well, of course. How else will you be my protector?”
“But what if I don’t want to come back inside?”
“Oh,” she said sweetly, touching the glass of the amulet in a way that made him almost feel her fingers on his thigh. He gasped with anticipated pleasure. “I think you’ll want to come back inside.” And then she kissed him gently on the cheek.
His smile did not come immediately, but when it did he looked like a small boy who’d been granted the finest gift in the land. He’d wanted nothing more than to be beside her the rest of his life. It had taken a moment to realize that that was exactly what she’d given him. Herself. And in a way nobody else could ever have.
THE HUNDREDTH KILL by John Marco
John Marco is the author of six novels of epic fantasy, many of which have been translated into various languages throughout the world. His first book, The Jackal of Nar, was published in 1999 and won the Barnes and Noble Maiden Voyage Award for best first fantasy novel. His most recent novels, The Eyes of God, The Devil’s Armor, and Sword of Angels, are all available in DAW editions. John writes full time from his home in Kings Park, NY, a North Shore Long Island suburb, where he lives with his wife Deborah and his young son Jack. He is currently at work on a brand new epic fantasy project, as well as a few smaller projects.
TEN-YEAR-OLD CHARLIE Mason had long watched the ships from his spot in Foochow ’s harbor, waiting for his chance to board one of the grand clippers. Along with his lordly father, Charlie had been on ships before, but now that steamers were taking over, he had never had a chance to board a real sailing vessel until heading for home. They had always seemed so beautiful to him, like big white eagles, but now, halfway through his three-month journey, Charlie was bored.
There were no other children his age or otherwise aboard the Cairngorm, and no one really for Charlie to talk to. His father was already home in England, and his governess Priscilla-who accompanied him everywhere-was nearly thirty. To Charlie’s thinking, thirty was very nearly dead, and Priscilla had already worn him out with her stories. Most nights, Priscilla and Charlie ate with the rest of the passengers, listening to outdated gossip about the goings-on back home, where a man named Disraeli was struggling as Prime Minister, or to the troubles of the Spanish Queen Isabella or the American President Johnson. But Charlie wasn’t interested in this talk, and six weeks of it had left him numb. He missed his tutors back in Foochow, where his father had left him to learn the tea trade. It was tea that filled the holds of the Cairngorm, and it was tea that was the only reason the clippers still existed. Charlie understood this and appreciated it, knowing that the slow steamers could not get the goods back to the home markets quickly enough. Charlie had learned a lot from his year in China, and it had all been a great adventure. Hong Kong, Macau, Foochow…Charlie had seen them all, but he longed for home now, and even the swift clipper ship could not speed him back to Wiltshire fast enough.