Tuesday's Short - This Year's Star Fish

This week’s short story takes us from a colony threatened by plague to a fantasy world where fish fall from the sky, but once a year Welcome to This Year's Star Fish.

Every year the fish come down from the stars, and every year Faulknor hopes they come for him. Well, this year he’s tired of waiting; this year it’s his turn to do the seeking. This year, he’s going to catch himself the fish of his dreams. This year, he’s coming for them… just as soon as he’s finished with the assassin, and the elf with its human and orc sidekicks. Yeah, after that he’s going to find himself a fish.

This Year's Star Fish

The fish came down from the stars but once a year. They came in glittering falls of colour and light, the most welcome and dreaded rainbows in all the lands. Some stayed, swimming through the forest trees, or down the streets, before leaping skyward, once more. And others left straight away.

Faulknor chased them. He tried to catch them in butterfly- or scoop-nets. He set traps baited with dew drops. He wanted a fish for his very own, and wished for it with every falling star he saw.

But the fish never came.

His fish. The fish of his dreams. Always, it was another fish, one who wanted to find another little boy or girl. There was only ever one that stayed to search. Every year it came, just the one, and it never seemed to search for him. This year Faulknor was determined it would be different.

This year, he would seek the advice of the seer. Perhaps she would be able to tell him when the fish would search for him. When he had exhausted every avenue he could find of gaining a fish of his own, Faulknor prepared for the journey.

First, he went to the temple—all of them, even the secret one no one was meant to know about. They weren’t very happy he had found them, or to be asked about a mere triviality like the fish.

“What are they to us?” the cleric asked, looking up at where Faulknor dangled in chains. “What are you?”

“The fish are important to all,” Faulknor stoutly declared, “and I am nothing more than one who seeks them.”

“Fish seeker,” the cleric said, and a small smile curved his lips, as though the thought amused him.

“Fish seeker,” he said again, and, though there was mockery in his tones, Faulknor thought he heard something else, a hint of wariness.

Whatever it was, the boy was grateful, because he was sure that whatever caused it was the only reason he’d been allowed to leave—whole and alive. As he approached Tannerath’s tower, he was still feeling grateful, and terrified, by turns.

The goddess of assassins! What had he been thinking? He was lucky to be alive, let alone unharmed!

Letting himself through the wizard’s front gate—and who thought picket fences were the goal of only average villagers? Or neatly pruned rose bushes and lavender? Faulknor stared at the display of pink and red and orange, interspersed by delicate purple spikes. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Squaring his shoulders, he closed the gate behind him, making sure the latch settled properly, before walking up the path.

The villagers didn’t mind the wizard, but that didn’t mean they were comfortable with him being around. Some of the rumours circulating between the huts and around the tap room in the local tavern suggested at secrets and royalty, but Faulknor knew nothing of that. He was hoping the wizard could tell him about the fish—and how he could obtain one for himself.

He was sadly out of luck.

“A fish? You risked being turned into a snail for a fish?” the wizard roared, and Faulknor felt himself go red to the tips of his ears.

Put like that, it did sound ridiculous.

“And you bothered the assassins!” Tannerath added, although in much quieter tones. “You’re either an idiot, or the seeker they’ve mistaken you for.”

“But I…”

“Shut up, boy! Fish are not my field. No one knows why they come and go. Now, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Out!” he shouted, when Faulknor hesitated, and the boy fled.

So, he thought. No help in town, and he returned home to pack.

His mother caught him at the door.

“You’re off then?” she asked, arriving in the doorway as he stuffed clothes and a blanket into a bag, and Faulknor felt himself blushing all over again.

He nodded, hesitating before pushing the last of the blanket in on top of his clothes.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said. “Here, let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

And she added a loaf of bread and a slab of homemade cake. Faulknor didn’t know what to say. His father arrived home, just as he was shouldering the pack and preparing to leave.

“Well, you’re finally off, then,” he said, and Faulknor wondered how long his parents had been waiting.

He nodded awkwardly, and his father reached out and engulfed him in a hug.

“Good luck, boy,” he said. “We’ve never been prouder.”

Faulknor didn’t understand. How could both his parents be so proud of him for chasing a dream? A fish, to be exact, but a dream nonetheless. How could they be proud of him when he was reversing the natural order of things—after all, the fish weren’t looking for him, this time; this time, he was looking for them.

He stood, wanting to leave, but not wanting to say goodbye. His father broke the spell.

“Well, best kiss your mother goodbye,” he said. “The day won’t wait.”

And that was that. Faulknor did as he was bid, and left.

It felt strange, stepping out his front door for the last time, strange, but… right. Faulknor set off down the main road with a lightness in his step, and in his heart, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It wasn’t hard to choose the direction; that was towards where he’d seen the last rainbow of fish come down.

That thought stopped him mid-stride. The fish never stayed where they made landfall. They scattered. They always scattered. The ones that stayed would be the ones that would return to the stars. No. He turned about. The ones that stayed always swam away from the landing site.

And the fish swam fast.

There was no chance of meeting one coming down from last night’s landing site; they’d have been through the village, or past it, by dawn. Faulknor headed for the crossroads.

The fish had rainbowed to the north-west. They’d have bomb-shelled from there. Sure, he could have made the landing site and then tried to follow, but that would have given them too much of a head start. This way, he might find one that had stopped to take a closer look somewhere else. He wondered what interested them. What might make them pause.

They came from the stars, yet, every year, they swam down to look for something. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he knew. For instance, the ones that stayed the longest were the biggest. The ones that leapt heavenward were usually the length of a grown man’s forearm or less—and the smallest ones left first. It was like they were testing the waters, or something.

Or maybe they’re just not ready, Faulknor thought. Not ready.

He kept walking until he reached the crossroads, a half-mile south of the town. Two branches pulled away in different directions, a city on either end, and numerous towns in between. A third path linked his own small town to another three miles south.

Faulknor glanced right, then left, and then up at the sky. He’d seen the assassins just after breakfast, and made it to the wizard by morning tea. His father must have been coming home for lunch, by the time Faulknor had been leaving, which was why he’d run into him, at all. And, for that, he was glad. It had been nice to be able to say goodbye, nicer still to be blessed.

That didn’t change the fact that it was now early afternoon, and Faulknor didn’t know how far down either of the road branches the next township lay. He also didn’t know which way the fish were likely to swim, and he’d reach the small town well before dusk. Faulknor didn’t want to stop until he had to.

“Let’s leave it up to chance,” he murmured, and then realised that, with three directions to go in, he couldn’t just toss a coin.

He contemplated picking up a rock, standing beneath the sign and tossing the rock into the air. The path it landed nearest would be the one he’d follow, but, somehow, that didn’t appeal to him. In the end, he decided on an age-old tradition carried out by the village girls… he picked a daisy growing at the roadside, and sat down on a rock.

“Carais, Sendel, Molor,” he began, chanting the town names, as he plucked a petal for each. “Carais, Sendel, Molor, Carais…”

“What about Revalin?” The voice broke through Faulknor’s chant, just as he thought he might reach the end of the petals.

“Revalin?” he asked, “But I don’t want to go to the city of the… elves?”

He’d lifted his head, while he was speaking. His gaze had first found well-crafted boots fitted around slender feet, and then travelled up calves to leather breeches, the edge of a chain-mail kirtle, over the narrow hips and waist to a proportionate breadth of chest, up a neck protected by a throat guard, and to a face framed by a helm the colour of beaten bronze. On the way, he’d noted the well-gloved hands, one gripping the scabbard of the sword on which the other rested.

The sword was still sheathed, no matter how ready the owner seemed to use it. The fact it had not been drawn was a matter of some hope. Faulknor studied the face, the thin-set lips which did not smile, the steady gaze of dark brown eyes, the sense of waiting. He swallowed against a sudden rush of fear, and set the flower down.

“I take it this is not an invitation,” he said, rising slowly to his feet.

The swordsman took two steps back. It was not from courtesy, Faulknor knew, but from the practical need to give him room to move.

“You are called.”

Faulknor glanced down at the flower, noted the number of petals left to pull.

“And I thought it was Molor that beckoned,” he said, and the swordsman’s hand slid down to grip the hilt.

“You failed to consider all your options.”

“But I cannot go where I am not invited.”

“There is little difference between an invitation and a summons,” the elf replied.

Faulknor thought of asking what might happen if he refused to go, and decided against it. Elves did not have a sense of humour. Instead, he met the elf’s eyes and gazed into them. He had intended to ask the elf to lead the way, but those eyes became the anchor for a sudden wash of instability, as the world swirled away from them, to be replaced by the garish shapes and colours of the under-caverns.

“Do you people know nothing?” the elf asked, his voice filled with scorn.

Faulknor felt strong hands take hold of his arms and keep him upright as the elf broke eye contact. More elves, Faulknor thought, and didn’t spare either of them a glance. Not even when they kept hold of him and followed, as the elf turned about and stalked away beneath the towering caps of scarlet toadstools edged in purple and undercut by cream.

Faulknor walked after him, ignoring the fact that if he had not followed by his own free will he would have been dragged. He could pretend.

“You know I’m looking for the fish,” he called. “You know that, right?”

The elf did not answer.

He was about to say he didn’t think any fish had made it underground, when he caught a flicker of movement in the cavern’s half-light.

What? Faulknor turned his head.

There! Something had definitely pushed its way through the golden glow of some lace fungi, hanging between two stalactites.

“The fish are why we came,” said the elf, and Faulknor felt the grips on his arms tighten. “Every decade there is a seeker. Sometimes he is human, sometimes worse.”

“Worse?” Faulknor asked, wondering what was wrong with humans, even as his head reeled with the idea that there were other seekers. The fish didn’t do the seeking?

“The fish are ever-seeking,” the elf replied, as though Faulknor had spoken out aloud, “but seekers from our own world are rare. The fish visit out of courtesy.”

“Courtesy?”

“Well, you can hardly fly.”

This was true, but Faulknor saw no reason for the elf to sound so sarcastic. It wasn’t like he needed to fly, was it? The fish were the ones being sought.

“You ever wonder why it’s only ever the bigger ones that stay?” The elf continued, as though ignoring his thoughts.

Well, yes, he had wondered that. Faulknor glared at the elf’s chain-mailed back.

“Because they’re the only ones that can carry a human.”

A fish carrying a human? Where in all the Hells was he going to sit?

“Inside,” the elf replied, following the narrow trail around two large rocks.

Faulknor hoped the elf meant they were going ‘inside’, as in ‘out of the cavern’s fresh air’ and ‘into a dwelling’. He sincerely hoped the elf hadn’t meant ‘inside a fish’, as in, well, ‘inside a fish’. He sincerely hoped that he’d misunderstood. Whatever else he might have sincerely hoped, Faulknor lost sight of it the instant he rounded the rocks.

For one thing, a cold wind blew, tugging at his hair and shirt, chilling his cheeks and the tips of his nose, and making his eyes water. For another, while he was still underground, he was standing on the edge of a chasm that sank to immeasurable depth, and rose out of sight above him. And that was not all.

“What—” he began, but the elf raised one hand in both a signal to halt, and an order for silence.

Faulknor blinked away the wind-stung tears, and waited. As he did so, he took in the rest of the scene.

There should have been darkness, but it was not so. White light, edged in blue fire, filtered around the edges of the cavern, outlining rocky ledges, and casting shadows with the fungus clinging to the chasm walls. Along the far side of the cavern, there were balconies, and broad ledges acting as roads, and steep, narrow staircases leading from one level to another.

Just when Faulknor was set to ask another question, the elf spoke.

“Come. They are waiting.”

They?

“Yes, they.” This time there was a smile to the elf’s voice, one that Faulknor didn’t trust.

For the first time since they’d grabbed him, Faulknor looked at the elves on either side, and discovered that neither of them were elves. One was as human as he was, and mildly pretty behind a hard-faced visage. She caught his gaze and jerked him forward.

The other was green-skinned, and of medium height and heavy build. He was not going to fit on the outside of the ledge. When the human pulled Faulknor forward, the orc let go, its tusks gleaming ivory in the blue-white light.

“No, they’re not,” the elf said, before Faulknor could speak the obvious. “What did you expect? Not all those who seek the fish travel to the stars.”

“Why not?” he asked, and the sound of his own voice surprised him, but not as much as the thought that such sound was redundant.

The chain mail rose and fell in a shrug, as the elf continued forward.

“Who knows?”

“Some of us discover it’s not the fish we were seeking,” the woman replied.

“And some of us learn our destiny lies in other places,” the orc added.

“Such as in the caverns?” Faulknor guessed, and the orc glanced out across the chasm, a look of contentment crossing his face.

Faulknor followed its gaze, noted the two young orclets standing, tiptoe, behind one of the balconies. His pace must have slowed, because the human slid her hand under his arm and pulled him forward.

“Come on,” she said. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Them?”

“What, you didn’t think there was just one, did you?”

One what? Faulknor wondered, glancing back out over the chasm.

He was in time to see a rainbow edge the shining light, and to see the light blur with shadows. The woman caught his glance and followed it.

“They come,” she said, and tightened her grip on his arm. “We must hurry.”

As if in answer, the elf quickened his stride, hurrying along the narrow path towards one end of the canyon, towards the end from which the light seemed to emanate. In the chasm, the light rippled, reminding Faulknor of water in a lake full of fish, reminding him of the way sunlight struck water, and fish dancing through the beams.

He wanted to stop and take a closer look, but his escort would not tolerate it. The woman muttered impatiently when he slackened his pace, and the orc simply lifted so Faulknor was half-carried and half-dragged along the trail.

What, in all the world, was their problem?

Rather than create a scene, Faulknor worked to keep pace with them. It was difficult, when his eyes kept being drawn to the moving shadows and dancing colours splashed up and down the chasm walls. Faulknor remembered the blackness of its depths, and wondered how far it went. He recalled seeing the way it cut through the earth and stone, and wondered just how long it was.

Would it take them long to reach their destination?

Even as he thought it, the path curved and widened, leading from the edge of the chasm into a large open-sided cavern. It reminded Faulknor of a toothless, smiling mouth. Faulknor gave it a nervous glance, trying to see what lay at the very back, but it went too far into the mountain for him to make anything out past the first row of fungi and rock formations. He did notice that the light lost some of its silvery edge, and took on a more golden quality.

He also noticed a misting in the light, as though billions of grains of sands danced in the air, just beyond its edge.

What’s that? he wondered.

He was surprised when his escorts stopped, just outside the gleaming light. The elf turned to face him.

“From here, you must go on alone,” he said, and moved his hand to indicate a faint path leading between to boulders that marked where the cavern met the path.

Faulknor looked past the elf. The fungi reminded him of the forest above. Tall toadstools stretched almost to the ceiling, and glow-moss hung down from their caps, or stretched between stalactites. Smaller shrooms, grew, purple-capped protrusions clinging to the sides of boulders, green steeple-capped clusters lining the path, tall ruby-coloured rods growing reed-like in between, and something in shades of blue and green that looked like clusters of antlers had been glued to the rocks and walls. Between it all, dust danced, glossy gold motes catching remnants of light.

But it was the moss that drew Faulknor’s eyes. The moss grew in glossy cushions of green, and gold and silver striated in red, breaking up the expanse of fungi. Faulknor turned an uncertain gaze to the elf.

“What makes you think I’ll go anywhere near that?” he asked, indicating the cavern.

He felt the orc and the human tighten their grips on his arms. The elf gave him a cold stare, shrugged and indicated the chasm.

“Because, if you don’t, we’ll throw you in there.”

Faulknor forced himself to stand very, very still. He swallowed, then tried his voice.

“You what?”

“I said, if you refuse to enter the cavern, you will be thrown into the chasm.”

Faulknor stared at him, searching his face for any indication the elf was joking. He looked from cavern to chasm and back again, then turned his attention to the elf.

“Your serious.”

“Those are our orders.”

“I can’t speak to whoever gave those orders?”

The elf indicated the cavern.

“In there.”

Faulknor eyed the dust-laden haze, aware of the swirling shadows in the blue-edged light beside it. The grips on his arms did not ease. The elf just waited. He didn’t move, didn’t urge Faulknor to a decision, but waited.

To his surprise, Faulknor felt torn, the choice not as clear-cut as it seemed. For all that the cavern seemed the logical pick, the chasm beckoned, like a pool of water inviting him to swim. He looked from one to the other, aware of being held in place, and aware of being watched. Finally, he shrugged at the hands on his arms, and tilted his chin towards the cavern.

He didn’t need to utter a word; his human and orc escorts let go of his arms, and stepped away. The elf stayed, standing statue-like by the cavern entrance. Faulknor cast one more glance at the chasm. For a moment, he thought of the silver light, but its attraction dimmed with each step he took towards the cavern. All he wanted to do was complete this unexpected diversion so he could get back to searching for ‘his’ fish.

If walking into a fungi-filled cavern would speed his journey, then he was more than happy to walk into it; he just couldn’t see how being thrown into a chasm would do the same. Squaring his shoulders, and turning his head until the cavern filled his vision, Faulknor walked away from the path, and down the trail between the two boulders.

It was like walking through a veil.

At first, the golden dust blurred his vision, but he blinked a few times and his vision cleared. He felt subtle pin-pricks of light settle on his skin as he stepped forward, moving along the path.

‘They’ were waiting, huh? Well, ‘they’ wouldn’t have to wait for much longer.

Behind him, the silver light receded. Around him, the fungi slowly came to life. The shapes, half-seen from the path leading to the cavern, flickered around him—beetles whirring by with a hard-winged clatter, the cloth-like rustle of a large moth flitting past, the stop-start blur of a large, hunting centipede.

Keeping a wary eye on the centipede, Faulknor pressed on. He had no idea what he was meant to find in the cavern, only that he was meant to follow the path. As he walked, he surveyed the area around him, but, beyond more fungi and creepy crawlies, he saw nothing of interest. For an instant, he was tempted to turn back, and throw himself into the chasm, but he pressed on. There had to be something at the end of the path.

The trail wound between rock formations, with the fungi pressing in on all sides until Faulknor had to duck overhanging toadstool caps and draping nets of glow moss. The insect life became more prolific, with a swarm of moths lifting from beneath his feet in a cloud of bronze and green. Above him, cobwebs formed gold-speckled clouds. He’d almost given up on finding anything in the cavern, when the trail passed beneath a particularly broad-capped mushroom, and the ground gave way beneath his feet.

Faulknor gave a startled shout as he dropped, reaching out for the fungi he could see stretching overhead, but the ones he caught hold of came straight out of the ground and followed him down. Startled beetles took flight, and a twisting centipede fell past him, frantically trying to find something to grasp.

A shadow moved overhead, just as Faulknor’s feet hit the ground, the impact jolting through him as he pitched forward onto his hands and knees. The scent of crushed herbage rose around him, and he was surprised to feel fern leaves and grass beneath his fingers. As his body threatened to continue its downward plunge, he closed his hands around the leaves, feeling them shred beneath his grasp. Even so, it was enough, and he only slid another few feet before stopping.

Faulknor pushed himself up off his belly, and back onto his knees, and, resting his hands on his thighs, he sat still to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and pulled lungfuls of fern-scented air into his chest. As the hammering of his heart slowly subsided, and his breathing slowed, Faulknor became aware of other sounds in the forest around him.

The sound of scuttling coming from close by, had him opening his eyes and struggling to his feet. The centipede rushed out of the ferns nearby, lashing out at Faulknor’s boots as it went past. Faulknor stepped back quickly enough that its hasty grab missed. It vanished into the undergrowth, but it was a few minutes before Faulknor could relax enough to take in his surroundings. What he saw, when he did, almost took his breath away.

For a start, there were trees mixed in with towering mushrooms, but, instead of the purple and green fungi that had formed the understory of the cavern, ferns and long grasses dotted with wildflowers formed a carpet beneath the trees. Also to his surprise, there was a path, but not the hard-packed earth and patchy stone he’d walked along after leaving the elf and his escort. This path was made of white gravel.

This path was wide enough for two horsemen to ride abreast, instead of the narrow, winding trail above. Faulknor had fallen amidst the ferns on a slope above it. If he hadn’t stopped his forward tumble, he’d have fallen right onto it.

“Strange,” he muttered, and, glancing back once to check that the centipede was still moving away, Faulknor headed towards the path. Maybe he’d be able to leave if he went this way.

He stopped to look both ways, when he reached the path, trying to ascertain if there was an obvious direction he should take. As he did so, a flash of movement through the trees caught his eye. He turned to look more carefully at the canopy.

For a long moment, he saw nothing, and then the movement came again, too fast for him to catch more than an idea of colour and size.

“But that’s not possible…” Faulknor stopped.

He stared at the point where the movement had stopped. He was still staring at the spot, when he heard movement on the road—hoofbeats, horses running at breakneck speed. Faulknor moved off the path, slipping around the side of a tree to watch the riders pass.

There were two of them. At first they did not seem to see him, their faces turned towards the treetops as though they were seeking something that flew, but then they hauled their horses to a halt. They’d gone past him a good few horse lengths, as they turned in the saddle to take him in.

“You!” one called. “See anything?”

See anything? Did they mean had he seen… what he’d thought he’d seen, slipping through the branches.

Faulknor shook his head. He wasn’t ready to admit to seeing half-formed shapes he couldn’t identify. Was it a dragon? He couldn’t be sure. And he wasn’t about to say he’d seen a fish—not one as tall as a castle wall, and he didn’t know how long. Not when he was looking for a fish, and didn’t want to be disturbed in the middle of finding one.

“You all right?”

“Lost,” Faulknor told them. “Just lost. Took a wrong turn.”

He looked back the way they’d come, forcing himself to ignore the slope he’d walked down to reach the path.

“Costral’s a half league this way,” the lead rider said. “You can ask directions there.”

Faulknor waved his thanks at this casual advice, and the riders rode on, looking up at the trees as they went.

Wonder what they’re looking for? he thought, as he stepped back onto the path.

This time, he didn’t bother looking up at the trees. Whatever he’d seen—fish, dragon, oversized beetle—Whatever it was, it was long gone. No wild thing would hang around when there were that many people in one spot; it had probably only come out because he’d been on his own.

“But why?” Faulknor asked, comforted to hear his words hanging in the air. “Why me?”

He couldn’t think of any good reason why such a creature would be interested in him. He didn’t even understand why he would go seeking a fish. There wasn’t a chance something as magical as that would come looking for him. Faulknor wondered exactly how lost he really was. He couldn’t even tell if he was underground or back in the surface lands.

“Surface lands,” he muttered. “It has to be.”

But, as he looked up at where the sky should be, he didn’t see a speck of blue. Looking back at where he’d broken through to the ferns, he saw it was at the base of a cliff. Following the cliff upwards, he lost sight of it in a mass of trees and fernery. Furtive movement caught his eye, and he glanced towards it in time to see a man-shaped figure crossing the road behind him.

The figure stopped when it saw it had been seen, stopped and walked towards Faulknor, extending a hand in greeting. Faulknor watched him come, but he did not extend his own hand in return.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The stranger’s smile faded.

“What would I want?”

“What are you doing here?” Faulknor demanded.

The stranger scowled.

“I could ask the same thing of you,” he replied, taking a step back.

Faulkner barely registered the way the man slid his hand inside his tunic, but he definitely noticed the small crossbow that was pulled out and pointed at his chest.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” the man demanded.

Faulknor stared at the crossbow, loaded with a small, dark quarrel. It was aimed slightly towards the stranger’s right, pointing directly at Faulknor’s heart. Faulknor felt a cold fear grip him, could barely force himself to lift his gaze to the man’s face. When he managed it, the expression he saw gave no comfort—hard, cold, and desolate—as though the face was attached to a body that had neither heart nor soul.

“You have.” the man insisted, and raised the bow, “and what’s more, it’s seen you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Faulknor said, feeling his heart stutter in his chest.

He threw himself sideways, but felt the bolt bury itself deep in the muscle just below his shoulder.

Better than my heart, he thought, scrambling to get back behind the tree; it would take the stranger at least three heartbeats to reload that bow. At least, he hoped it would take the man that long. He pulled himself around the bole of another tree with his good arm, and then pushed himself down the steep slope beyond.

Mindful of the chasm he’d seen in the upper cavern, Faulknor was careful not to let himself go into a full slide. He didn’t want to find himself falling over another cliff. He flipped himself sideways to take advantage a mushroom stem. This one was at least as thick as the trunks of the surrounding trees, and painted a lovely creamy yellow.

He had no time to admire it, because a second quarrel whirred over his head and slammed into a tree trunk. Faulknor cast a startled glance up the slope, and saw the stranger raising the bow a third time.

Three heartbeats! Faulknor thought with horror. He’s not even taking two!

Faulknor ducked his head, and pushed himself behind another tree. He was just trying to work out how to work his way back up the hill, when he felt nothing beneath his right boot, and then the earth crumbled out from under his knee, and he felt clear air under his calf.

He tried to wrap his injured arm around a tree, so he could shift the grip he had with his right hand, but it wouldn’t respond. Faulknor kicked out with his left leg, trying to find something more substantial than the base of the ferns to wrap his leg around. At first he found some purchase on the bottom of a clump, but then the plant tore away.

Panicking as he felt the earth crumbling beneath that foot, too, Faulknor curled the knee beneath him and tried to push himself further up the slope, towards the path. Perhaps the horsemen would return… Maybe they’d guess he’d lied, that he’d really seen something…

Another crossbow bolt slammed into the ground at his side, and Faulknor looked up. The stranger was striding towards him, and Faulknor felt his heart speed up. He would have raised his hand to block the next bolt, but his left arm wouldn’t respond, and Faulknor didn’t feel secure enough to let go of the tree root he was gripping with his other hand.

“So,” the stranger said, coming to stand close to his injured shoulder, “where is it?”

Faulknor tilted his head back to get a better look of the stranger’s face.

“Where is what?”

Any trace of good nature left the man’s face. Faulknor wanted to clarify his answer, to say that he only wanted to know if they were looking for the same thing, but the man didn’t give him a chance. He raised his boot and set it against Faulknor’s injured shoulder, pushing him hard enough to shift his body sideways.

It wasn’t quite enough to send Faulknor over the edge, but it did move his body so that his entire right leg slid into space. Not content with that, the man pushed again—and now he did begin to smile.

“Sure you haven’t seen it?” he asked, and his smile turned into a malicious grin.

Faulknor opened his mouth to respond, but the man shoved him again, causing Faulknor’s hips to slide over the edge.

“Wait!” Faulknor protested, but the stranger wasn’t listening.

“Pity!” the man said, and brought his boot down on Faulknor’s good wrist.

Faulknor felt bones crack beneath the weight, but the man turned away and stomped back up the slope towards the path.

“Good luck getting back up on your own,” the man said, weaving his way around a tree and out of sight.

Luck? I’m going to need more than that, Faulknor thought, as more dirt crumbled, and only his chest and arms remained on solid ground. He swung his legs, trying to find the cliff wall, and maybe a ledge, or a crack, or some other small fissure in which he could find a toe hold.

Luck didn’t seem to be with him, as his legs swung wildly in open air, and his feet couldn’t find the cliff.

And then his luck grew worse.

From somewhere below came a rope or tendril that reached out and wrapped itself around his ankle.

A snake? Faulknor thought, kicking his legs wildly as it wound itself up and over his trous, tightening like a vice around his calf. He gripped the tree root with all his might, and willed his left arm to respond.

When the rope or snake or whatever-it-was began to pull, Faulknor decided to try shouting for help. He knew only one thing would bring the stranger back.

“All right! I did see something,” he cried, “but I don’t know what it was.”

There was no reply. Faulknor listened for the sound of returning footsteps, fighting the inexorable pull on his leg that threatened to drag him over the edge more quickly than he could fall. He thought about shouting, again, but figured the stranger either hadn’t heard him, or didn’t care. Worse, the numbness affecting his shoulder and left arm was starting to spread into his chest.

What sort of man uses a poisoned quarrel? he thought,

The same sort that kills a man for seeing a… a fish, came his mental reply.

Faulknor accepted its scorn, and focused on trying to swing his free leg back up onto solid ground. The jerk that broke his grip and ripped him out into open sky came as a surprise.

I’m flying, he thought.

You idiot! You’re falling! came the response, but, this time, Faulknor wasn’t so sure he’d had time to think it.

He should have, but he was too busy panicking. He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to die. What in all the Hells had jerked him off the ledge? He should at least see what it was that was killing him.

He tried to look down, and then realised he really was flying—or, rather, he was being dragged through the sky, like a leaden kite. Looking down showed him nothing but the dizzying depths of a ravine, its sides spotted with ledges of trees, and draped with vines, something silver glinting intermittently between rocks and giant toadstools at the bottom.

To see what was dragging him, he’d have to look up, towards his feet.

Don’t you dare! Now, that thought definitely hadn’t come from inside his head.

Faulknor stopped, and then the pressure on his leg vanished and he dropped like a stone. His scream ended with the jerk that prevented him from plunging into a dense thicket of shrooms and outsized ferns. With a gasp, he remembered to breathe again.

He reached out, trying to grab the top of one of the ferns. Its leaves brushed between his fingers, stinging them, and he jerked his hand away.

Stinging ferns?

Idiot! said the new voice in his mind.

If it hadn’t been for the blood pounding in his head, Faulknor might have argued. Instead, he tried reason.

Put me down? he asked, then, … Please?

The voice laughed, but didn’t sound happy or amused.

When we are out of the assassin’s sight.

Assassin?

The man who kicked you off the ridge.

Oh. Well, that made sense.

They flew a few heartbeats more, before Faulknor thought of looking up, past his leg, and along the thick tendril that held it, to the shadow above, the shadow of iridescent dark blues and purples. He tried to look along it, to get an idea of its shape, perhaps identify what it was that carried him, but he didn’t get very far. The creature followed a curve in the ravine, and then twisted rapidly around a bend in the opposite direction, leaving Faulknor dizzy and out of breath.

The sudden stop jerked him roughly onto an open field, and dumped him in the grass.

Happy now? the voice taunted, and, with a flick of its tail, the shape vanished, leaving Faulknor staring up at what might have been clear skies, if it weren’t for the overarching darkness of rock, cut by the sparkle of myriad crystals. It was a sight broken only by the soft gleam of daylight in the distance above the waterfall.

Waterfall? Faulknor realised he was lying on his back. He went to roll over onto his stomach, and realised he couldn’t. The strain of flying upside down had concealed the spread of the quarrel’s poison, and Faulknor realised he couldn’t move. Panic rushed through him, but he could neither run, nor cry out.

Help? Faulknor asked, and help arrived with gratifying speed—but not in the form of a flying fish, or a dragon, or a shape as tall as a castle wall and longer than a ship; help arrived in a swirl of colour and the whir of wings.

Pixies? Faulknor couldn’t believe his eyes. Whoever thought pixies were going to be useful?

You have got to be sh— but the thought was cut off as one of the swarming pixies laid a finger on his lips.

“Sleep,” she said, and his eyes closed before he could protest.

Wake, said another voice, stern and uncompromising, sometime later. You have already made us late.

“Late?” Faulknor croaked, sitting up and pushing back the sheets. He’d swung his legs over the side of the bed before realising he’d been moved again.

You should have chosen the chasm, the voice said. It would have been quicker.

Faulknor didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked around the room. It was more a cubicle than a room, with the bed at one end and an open arch at the other. As he looked, he saw clothes, neatly folded on a chair by the bed, and a wash stand in the corner. More importantly, a chamber pot stood beside it.

“Where am I?” Faulknor asked out loud, more for the comfort of hearing something other than silence, than anything else.

The stern voice did not reply, so Faulknor got up, and washed and dressed, trying to prepare for whatever might lie beyond the open archway. He looked around, relieved when he saw his pack sitting by the door, almost as though it was waiting for him.

“Well,” he said, crossing the room to pick it up and settle it on his shoulders, “let’s not keep them waiting.”

Turn right, said the voice in his head.

Not bothering to reply, Faulknor followed its direction, and found himself in an empty corridor. The walls were of grey stone, smooth and windowless on one side, and lined with doors to empty cubicles like the one he’d woken up in, on the other. Light came from lanterns set in hollows in the wall, leaving unpredictable shadows.

Faulknor ignored the shadows, hurrying past the empty cubicles as though ghosts might lurk within.

Ghosts, or worse, he thought, remembering the assassin.

The voice did not comment.

Quickening his footsteps, Faulknor reached a point where several corridors like the one he’d followed met on one side of a small, round cavern. The other side of the cavern led to an even wider corridor, one with a chest-high balustrade made of the same grey stone, but supported by pillars framing windows, which looked out over a ravine. Glancing at it, Faulknor noted it was similar to the one down which he’d been flown.

Looking out at it, Faulknor wondered if he would see the field on which he’d landed, or the waterfall, but he saw neither, and, too soon, had crossed to another small, round chamber. This one mirrored the first, except that it did not have several corridors leading into it from the other side. This one had two, great doors, framed by pillars and braced with iron. Before Faulknor could wonder what might lie beyond, they opened.

Swinging noiselessly apart, the doors revealed a large hall with white marble floors flecked in gold, a domed ceiling arching overhead, and a raised dais at one end. This time, there were no stars, but gems that glowed within glass sconces set into the walls, and there were windows that looked out onto the stars.

Faulknor might have found the scene breathtaking, but what waited on the dais took all his attention.

Fish! He almost stopped walking. Fish so large they stood taller than a castle wall. Fish whose bodies undulated as though they were swimming, even when they stayed in one place. Faulknor wondered how they did that.

It is none of your concern. Again the stern voice interrupted, and Faulknor wondered where the other voice was—the one from the day before.

Amusement rippled around him, or perhaps it was only in his head.

Seeker. That made him pay attention. Seeker. He’d been called that before. The assassin had called him that. The assassin. A cold ball of fear formed in his stomach.

We know of the assassin, the voice said, and one of the fish rippled slightly forward, midnight scales flashing with highlights of blue and purple and silvery gold.

Faulknor moved towards it, one slow step at a time.

“You?” he asked, but he sensed denial in his head, and another of the fish moved a little forward, not so dark, more midnight blue than black, its scales highlighted in purple.

It reminded Faulknor of the shadow he’d glimpsed overhead.

“You,” he said, and this time the emotion he received was one of affirmation. “Thank you.”

The assassins are a long-time foe, the first voice continued. They were always on your trail.

“But why?”

They follow every seeker—even those that do not alert them to the fact.

Remembering his visit to the assassins’ temple, Faulknor blushed, despite, or perhaps because of, the teasing tone in the fish’s voice—and then he raised his head and looked at the darkest fish, longing in his voice.

“Why do I need you?” he asked, for it was true; he had needed the fish ever since he’d seen the first one hanging over his bed as a child, a small fish, one of many that had swarmed his room and vanished on a rainbow through his window that distant night.

The fish laughed—all three of them—and then the largest answered.

You do not need us, it said. We need you. Of all the creatures on this world, you are one of few who hear us, and who do not fear us when we come. And not just this world, but on many.

“But, why?”

We swim the stars. It is our nature, and our wish. We keep order in the worlds, ensuring their survival—and our own.

“Your survival?”

Of course. Why else would we bother? We need to eat, and our food cannot survive without the worlds on which it dwells.

“Your food?” For a moment, Faulknor had the horrible feeling the fish meant him.

His thought was met with a ripple of disgust, followed by the image of what looked like a living, spear-shaped bubble, trailing tentacles behind. It drifted in darkness, glowing as it propelled itself through the night on multi-coloured filaments.

Selunae, the fish explained, but Faulknor had another word.

“Tesh!” he murmured, the word coming out on a breath, for the creature looked like one of the dreaded hunters found in toadstool groves and the deepest parts of surface forests. “We burn their groves when we can.”

Why?

“Because their swarms are deadly.”

We know of the swarms. It is why we come but once a year.

And then Faulknor remembered stories. The tesh swarmed once a year, and the rainbow fish came just before or soon after. Always, the storytellers said, it was best if the fish came first; the swarms were smaller, after the fish had gone, and easier to deal with.

“What are they?”

They are our prey. When we are small, we chase them between the stars, eating the larvae before they can fall. As we grow, we hunt the adults, too.

“But why do you need me?” for it seemed to Faulknor, that the fish needed no-one to help them on their perpetual hunt.

We don’t live for the selunae, the fish replied. We study, also. It is when we treat with wizards that we need you.

“But, why?”

We cannot speak to them all.

“But you can speak to me.”

Which is why you are needed. Not everyone can.

“Oh.” Faulknor studied the fish, but he could not work out where he was to travel. None of them wore saddles, or anything that could be mistaken for one.

He noticed the tendrils coiled just below each side fin, and remembered his flight down the ravine. Surely…

The fish laughed, their amusement sounding clearly in his head.

Never that! said the stern-voiced fish, sounding mortified.

It was an emergency! protested the voice he remembered, and the bluer fish swirled agitatedly on the spot. The darkest fish swam forward, and Faulknor sensed something soothing pass between them.

As her movement settled, once more, to serenity, the main speaker came closer, and the third fish swam forward. The third fish was smaller than its compatriots, and had flickers of red burning through scales of the purest black.

You would travel inside, it said, and Faulknor knew the difference because its voice was lighter.

As if to emphasise its compatriot’s words, the biggest fish—the stern fish, as Faulknor thought of it—opened its mouth. With a gasp of alarm, Faulknor stumbled back before forcing himself to stop. He remembered the wave of disgust he’d felt when he’d suggested the fish might eat humans.

That, and the fact that the fish stayed in one place and did not attempt to catch him gave him hope. Curiosity beat back the fear.

“Inside?” he asked, and something in the air around him relaxed.

We have chambers behind our gills, the fish said. They are small but suitable for travelling between worlds.

There was a pause as the fish allowed Faulknor to examine the idea. Behind the patience, though, Faulknor thought he sensed something else.

“What happened?” he asked, and caught a trickle of sadness.

All things age, the fish said. We parted company on the world we call Israndia. Last time I visited it was to keep the vigil and say goodbye.

“And now you need a replacement?”

Only now might I accept one.

Faulknor became aware of the other fish pressing in on either side of their compatriot. Again, he sensed some sort of soothing pass between them.

Comfort? he wondered, and received affirmation from the smaller one.

Solace, came the thought from the stern one.

“It is not for everyone,” came another voice, one that hung audibly in the air.

Faulknor turned abruptly in its direction. The woman who stood on the lower jaw of the dark blue fish looked very much alive. As he watched, she stepped down onto the white marble floor.

“I could show you where you’d be,” she said. “I have permission.”

Faulknor looked from her to the fish before him.

“Would he let me leave?”

Of course! The fish sounded affronted. I would not someone travelling inside me who did not want to be there!

Put that way, Faulknor could see his point. He glanced, once more at the woman. She looked to be the same age as his mother, and completely unharmed.

“Do you have children?” he asked, wondering what other sacrifices there might be, to travel with the fish.

The woman smiled. It was a sad smile, but happy, also.

“Yes,” she said. “I found a man who agreed to let me travel with the fish, and my children understand.”

From her tone, and the look in her eyes, Faulknor guessed there had been a few who hadn’t.

“Would you like to see inside?” she asked, changing the subject.

Faulknor looked towards the stern-voiced fish, and watched as it opened its mouth. The woman did not hesitate, but strode towards the creature’s bottom lip and stepped up onto it. She looked at Faulknor and reached out her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s not like he’s going to eat us!”

Her voice carried both order and reprimand, and Faulknor almost pitied her children, but he took her hand and followed her into the fish’s mouth. Stepping across a double row of sharp teeth, he walked around the edge of the fish’s tongue, wrinkling his nose at the smell. If his guide noticed his reaction, she did not comment.

When they reached the back of the creature’s mouth, she led him along a ridge of bone into a passage lined by tall screens of deep purple flesh.

“The gills,” she said, “although how they work when it is airborne, I do not know. I suspect they have other ways of breathing. Try not to touch them; they’re delicate.”

Faulknor stepped carefully along the ridge, and then through a framework of bone into a hollow chamber.

“In times past, they tell me these were part of the way they heard sound, but that function was transferred, I’m told, and these chambers are redundant except when they carry companions.”

Faulknor looked around. The chamber was bare, and he wondered where he was going to sleep, or eat.

“It does not take much to furnish,” the woman said, but you will need to ask the pixies for help.”

“The pixies?”

“Yes, only they possess the know-how for installing larger items without harming your host.” She turned about, and led the way back to the fish’s mouth.

Faulknor felt a frisson of alarm, when he saw the fish’s jaws were closed, but the woman merely took a small, white rod out of her skirt pocket and rapped sharply on the hindmost tooth. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the fish opened its mouth.

“What? You don’t expect him to keep his mouth open just for your convenience, do you?” she asked, leading the way back to the chamber. “There. The choice is yours.”

She said no more, but flounced her way back to the midnight blue fish with its purple highlights and stepped inside the obligingly opened jaws. It took Faulknor a moment to realise she wasn’t going to say goodbye, but was leaving him without another word.

“Uh, thank you,” he called, and received a half-hearted wave in reply.

Well? The stern-voiced fish asked, when the other fish had closed her jaws. Will you?

“Will I what?” Faulknor asked.

Travel with me.

Would he? Faulknor wondered, looking up at the great creature floating effortlessly before him. He walked around to the side and looked up into its great dark eye.

He’d been chasing the fish almost all his life. How could he walk away now?

He laid a hand on the shining dark scales, and stroked along them.

There really was only one answer, when he thought about it. Just one option he wanted to take. Faulknor took a deep breath and gave it.

“When do you want us to leave?”

 

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This Year's Star Fish is available as a stand-alone short story at the following links: 

books2read.com/u/3JKV8X.

You can also find Kristine Kathryn Rusch's latest free short story over on her blog: kriswrites.com. Why don't you go and check it out?