Tales of the Slayer Read online

  “You should have died,” Thoas says.

  Thessily looks at him and blinks, then laughs. It hurts her middle, but she laughs all the same. “When did you learn to joke?”

  “It is no joke,” Thoas says. “The Oracle tells me that the Horde was to kill you. It had been foretold.”

  Thessily thinks about this for several seconds. The singing continues, a praise to Apollo.

  “Perhaps the Oracle is wrong.”

  “Perhaps,” Thoas says.

  The two of them are silent.

  “I want to go home,” Thessily says.

  “I’ll get your things,” Thoas says.

  * * *

  It is dawn, a day and a half ago, and Thessily is hiding in the shadows of Sparta, listening to Phidippides plead Athens’s case. She aches all over, the muscles in her calves and thighs and back drawn taut like sun-baked fishing nets. The wound from the arrow seeps steadily, and occasionally she begins to shiver and cannot stop for a time.

  Phidippides is saying, “Men of Lacedaemon, the Athenians beseech you to hasten to their aid, and not allow that state, which is the most ancient in all Greece, to be enslaved by the barbarians. . . .”

  She already knows the answer will be no, that the Spartans will not come—or at least, not come yet, though she did not realize this until just hours before, running in the darkness. She wonders why Thoas did not realize this as well.

  The Spartans will not march until the full moon, when they are at their most powerful, and of course, that is what their king is telling Phidippides now. Our religion forbids marching sooner, he is saying, it would earn the wrath of our gods. We cannot march until the full moon. If the men of Athens can hold out until then. . . .

  Phidippides offers the king formal thanks, bows, and departs, saying only that he doubts Athens has that much time. Thessily admires his diplomatic skill; she has never been good with words, and even though Thoas has spent the last several years trying to teach her manners, Thessily knows she would only make matters worse if she tried to plead the case. Women in Sparta have less standing even than women in Athens, and while she can claim to be the hierophant’s aide, that will not grant her respect, only privacy.

  She moves from the shadows to the edges of the fortress-city, waiting for Phidippides to emerge, and another bout of shaking strikes her. Her mouth feels full of wet wool, and her vision blurs.

  She thinks about her life, and tries not to be angry. She tries not to hate the Oracle at Delphi, who ruined everything.

  Sometimes she wishes she had died with the Horde.

  Phidippides comes through the city gates, and immediately begins running.

  Thessily fights to control her limbs and her thoughts, and follows.

  * * *

  She is twenty-three, four years after the Horde, and she has killed more vampires and more demons than she can possibly remember. She considers asking Thoas what the running total is, but decides against it; the knowledge would be too depressing.

  But she is depressed anyway, and Thoas spots this quickly, and asks what is troubling her.

  “There is no point,” she tells him.

  “You are mistaken. You have saved countless lives—”

  “But the vampires are legion, Thoas, and they never stop coming! If I had died at Delphi, would anything be different? Would there truly be fewer vampires in Attica? Would there be anything to mark my passing?”

  “If you had fallen, another would have been Chosen—”

  “Exactly. I have slain for over ten years! Ten years, Thoas, and for what? A list of numbers you record each and every night, and nothing more? And so I will die and another will be Chosen, and another, and another. . . .”

  Her voice cracks, and it both surprises and embarrasses her. She did not mean to be so emotional, so angry.

  Thoas looks at her with concern and compassion. “Thessily,” he says. “There are Slayers in the annals who have been Chosen only to fight for a fraction of the time you’ve had. You are remarkable, you are blessed, to have battled so well for so long. Your survival is a gift.”

  She shakes her head, and feels tears rushing up in her eyes, and the frustration is so intense that for a moment she can’t speak. Thoas rises from his chair and moves to where she sits on the bench beneath the window. He is old, now, and moves slowly. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and holds her the way every father holds a daughter.

  “I just want to be remembered for more than numbers,” she says through her tears, and though she is a woman, to her own ears she sounds like a girl. “I want to be remembered because I did something great. Just one great thing.”

  Thoas says nothing, just holds her and rocks her, and eventually the tears stop.

  But the question and the desire remain.

  Just one Great Thing.

  * * *

  It is yesterday, and they are returning to Athens from Sparta, running in daylight, and now she is suffering brief hallucinations because of the fatigue and the poison. She lets Phidippides stay ahead of her, afraid of losing sight of him, but no longer worried for his immediate safety.

  She sees the Horde and the way they slaughtered families, and she remembers the feeling of the sword slicing through her body.

  She sees Meltinias and his thin fingers counting the coins that men have given him to just look at her.

  She sees Thoas, at once old like he is now and young like he was then, and she sees herself, and she is old, too, she knows.

  She sees ships, seven of them, moving along the coast, galleys with their sails out, Persian soldiers on the decks, and hatches leading below chained shut.

  Then she sees the world as it really is, she is still running back to Athens, and it has grown late and the night has fallen. She moves to a side and sprints, skirting Phidippides’s position, taking the lead. Again, he seems to not know she is there. Her feet burn.

  She sees no vampires, and wonders.

  She sees the galleys in her mind, moving along the coast toward Athens. She sees the hatches again. She sees the chains and knows that they are there not to keep what is below in, but to keep what is above out.

  She knows what is behind the hatches.

  * * *

  It is almost dawn, and Thessily is searching frantically for Thoas in the near-empty streets of Athens, finding him where the men are donning their armor, preparing to march out to Marathon to meet the Persians. Phidippides has arrived only minutes after her, bearing the bad news, and the decision has been made to fight despite the odds.

  Thoas sees her and his eyes go wide and the lines in his face run deeper as he says her name. Breathless, she tries to explain what she knows, but Thoas won’t listen, forcing her to sit down, searching frantically for water.

  “You’ve been poisoned!” he says.

  She nods, gasping for air, taking the skin of water gratefully and pouring half its contents down her throat. “It’s not important,” she manages to say.

  “It is—”

  “It isn’t,” she says, and she grabs at his robe and pulls him in close, forcing him to listen. “I can’t—my mind is, it wanders, but I know . . . I know why, Thoas.”

  He searches her face, concerned, afraid. She can only imagine how she looks to him, dusty and sweat stained, even paler than normal. She thinks her hair must be matted with dirt and grass and mud.

  “I’m not delirious,” Thessily manages. “I’m not, I know. The Persians, Thoas. The galleys.”

  “They will attack from the water?”

  “Yes, but—but—” She shakes her head, desperate. Why can’t she make the words come out? Why can’t she say it right? Please understand me, she is thinking.

  “In the ships,” she says, the plea in her eyes. “They must be in the ships. It’s the only way they can move in the sun.”

  Thoas’s expression smoothes, and he takes her hands in his and nods, telling her to please let go, that she has forgotten how strong she is. She forces her fingers to loosen, and
as she does another bout of shaking strikes her, so violently that she is left shivering, curled on her side, with Thoas trying to wrap his cloak around her.

  In the streets, the Athenian men are beginning to march down the wide promenade, past the agora, to meet the Persians.

  Thessily sees Phidippides, exhausted, joining the back of the line. He is donning his armor as he goes, carrying his spear.

  She forces herself to be still again. To Thoas, she says, “I’ll need oil.”

  “How many ships?”

  “Seven.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I . . . I saw it in my mind.”

  Thoas considers this. “I will get oil. And we will pray that you are right.”

  * * *

  The sun is blazing and it is still well before noon, and the Athenian men are formed in their lines on the field of Marathon, and the Persian soldiers—the human soldiers—are thundering toward them. Thessily sees the flare of sunlight off metal from the corner of her eye, and she stops for a moment to watch the battle as it is joined. Her shoulders ache, and her side still bleeds. Her labrys is heavy against her back. On ropes slung over each shoulder she carries skins of lamp oil, and the weight of it would not bother her if she hadn’t already run over three hundred miles in the last three days.

  She knows she doesn’t have time to stare, but she does all the same, and a pressure builds against her heart that, at first, she fears is the poison and her death, but isn’t. She cannot describe the feeling, but it brings tears to her eyes.

  She sees Phidippides, spear low, set against a charge, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow citizens, free men, civilized men. Men who have walked of their own free will to a barren plain twenty-six miles north of Athens to fight a battle they believe they are certain to lose. Fighting for their homes and their loved ones and their lives.

  She realizes she is watching history.

  The sounds of the fighting drift across the plain to her, and then the screams of the dying men. The Persians are desperate in battle and savage, and the Athenians hold their line, and then it breaks, and she understands what she is seeing. One of the Athenian generals—she thinks it is Miltiades, he’s the smartest—is trying to flank the Persians. As she watches, the Athenian line breaks into three sections, and the outer two move to the sides, and the Persians are caught by surprise. They cannot go forward without dying. They cannot go to either side without dying.

  They can only retreat.

  Thessily runs, as fast as she can, for the coast.

  If they can only retreat, they will retreat to their ships.

  She has to get to them first.

  * * *

  It is noon and the fires on the water are so intense she cannot breathe and has to retreat. The galleys burn slowly, but the vampires inside them burn much faster, and she can hear their screams behind her as she works from ship to ship, the torch in one hand and a skin in the other, dumping oil all over the decks. When she touches the torch to the puddles, the flame races along the cracks in the wood, sucking the air from below.

  She leaps from the prow of the sixth galley to the back of the seventh, and douses the nearest hatch with the last of her oil. She drops the torch in the pool, and feels the heat rise around her so suddenly her eyelashes curl.

  The hatch ahead of her bursts open, and the vampire who has broken the chains bursts into flames and falls back into the hold. She hears more hissing, and then screams, and she spares a look down as she passes, seeing them crowded together in the shadows, trying to avoid the sun, trying to avoid flames.

  For a moment, she almost pities them.

  Then she leaps from the last galley to the water, and swims to the shore.

  With the last of her strength, she runs.

  * * *

  It is dusk and Thoas is at the gates along with a thousand other Athenians, old men and children and women of all ages, and Thessily tries to keep running, but her legs no longer listen, and in truth, she feels they have earned that right. Her vision is so blurred by tears and sweat and poison that she does not recognize Thoas until he has come out to meet her, calling her name.

  She hears tears in his voice.

  She falls into his arms, and he cradles her to the ground, her head in his lap.

  He kisses her brow and speaks a prayer to Dionysus, to Demeter, and to Kore.

  Through lips that are parched and cracked, she whispers to him.

  “We won,” she says, and though she can barely hear herself speak, a cheer comes from the crowd at the gate. She tries to turn her head to see what has roused them, and Thoas brushes hair from her cheek and shakes his head.

  “Phidippides has arrived,” he tells her softly. “He brings the same news.”

  “He can run,” Thessily says. It hurts to smile, but she finds one anyway.

  “Yes, he surely can.”

  She shivers, but not so badly as before, and tries again to turn her head. This time, Thoas relents, and she sees that Phidippides is before the crowd, his helmet in his hand. She sees the fatigue take him as he turns toward her, watches as he falters and drops his helmet. He staggers another step, falling to his knees. The crowd behind him surges, then stops.

  Phidippides reaches them on his knees, and holds out a hand. Thoas has to take it and put it in Thessily’s own. Phidippides’ hand is dry, too dry, and there is no heat in it any longer.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Phidippides says. His voice is ragged and hoarse. “Running with me at night.”

  “Yes.” The word passes her throat more air than sound.

  “What is your name?” he asks.

  “Thessily.”

  He smiles a broken smile, through lips as damaged as her own, and he puts his head on the ground near hers.

  “It was a good run,” he says.

  “Yes,” Thessily says, the last of her air slipping away. “It was.”

  The White Doe

  Christie Golden

  LONDON, 1586

  She ran like the deer for whom she had been named, long legs carrying her swiftly over the sandy soil, her long yellow hair flying behind her. The prey had fought and fled, but it would not escape. Her soft mouth set in a hard line, the Slayer followed it. She could smell it, could still feel its dead flesh twist beneath her fingers. No, it would not escape. It was too close to the village for her to let it do so.

  Moonlight silvered the beach. She could see it now, splashing into the water a few steps and then halting. Caught between the Slayer and the ocean, the dead thing turned, and even as its hideous features betrayed its demon origin, they also betrayed its terror.

  The Slayer sprang.

  JANUARY 1586

  Durham House, the London home of Sir Walter Raleigh, had played host to many notables of the era. John White knew that his face would not cause any stir if glimpsed by Raleigh’s neighbors. He was a comparative nobody, merely an artist, when illustrious figures such as Sir Francis Drake and the queen’s astrologer John Dee were regular visitors.

  Nonetheless, the meeting tonight, of some famous figures and some nobodies such as he, might hold the fate of the world in balance. White always felt the weight on his shoulders every time he attended. He stepped out of the carriage and drew his cloak about himself more closely. The servants opened the door for him and took his cape, hat, and stick, silent as ever, averting their gazes. Excellent men, all of Raleigh’s servants. They may be trusted to keep silent.

  The harsh sound of arguments greeted White as he entered the private back room. Twenty-two men were crowded into it, and they sounded as if all were talking at once.

  “ . . . don’t care what Dee’s bauble shows, the Spanish . . .”

  “ . . . we’ve missed too many of them, if Dee says it’s the New World, then . . .”

  “ . . . take care of the ones we know about before we . . .”

  “John, just the man I wanted,” came a sharp, strong voice in White’s ear. “I’ve got a proposition for yo
u.” It was Raleigh himself, grasping White by the elbow and threading his way into the close-packed room. White felt calmer at once, despite the discord in the room. Raleigh was such a powerful, imposing figure. Slim and elegant, at over six foot tall he towered over the other men. He was dressed with his usual flamboyant elegance, and large jewels winked in his ears and on his fingers. His dark, curly hair seemed black in the dim light.

  In the center of the room, sitting expressionless at a table in front of a large black orb, was John Dee. His eyes glittered in the flickering illumination of candles and lamps. Before him, his Show Stone, upon which the Watchers relied heavily, also caught the gleam of candlelight, but nothing more.

  “Gentlemen, please.” Raleigh’s voice, with its heavy Devonshire accent, sliced through the hubbub. “One of the principals in the drama about to unfold has now arrived. Pray you silence, and let me tell you where we stand.

  “We have a Watcher taking care of the present Slayer, and all seems well in that quarter. Masters Peyton and Dutton assure me that the seventeen possible Slayers-in-training are progressing admirably. We are here tonight to discuss the next generation of Slayer, and where she might be found. Dr. Dee?”

  The seeming statue moved to life. John Dee sat straighter in his chair. When he spoke, his long beard trembled. “My Show Stone has told me that very soon, the Slayer for whom we wait shall be born. Her birthplace is the New World. It is entirely possible that she could be a savage, such as our Croatoan Indian friends, Manteo, Wanchese, and Towaye.”

  John White frowned slightly. He knew the three well. It was he who had suggested that they accompany him from the ill-fated colony at Roanoke Island, in the New World, to meet the queen and who were presently staying at Durham House. He disliked the term “savage”; while they were, of course, not civilized in the same manner as the English were, they were gentle, strong, intelligent representatives of their people.