Futanari Legends: The Frozen Queen (Book 2: Astrid) (3 page)

All I need to do is cheat a little, and know that I am supposed to unfold the shape this way, but if I cheat a step and make it go that way, and maybe be a little creative and fold things this way and that-

I watch the bandit jerk forward and fly above my head at an incredible rate of speed, leaving his saddle and crashing into the trees behind me with a sickening thud of broken bones and crushing steel. The poor fellow is dead before he hits the ground because of rules he had no concept of or imagined were even possible.

Reality is a bitch. Magic is even more so. Physics? An unforgiving pain in the ass.

But I don’t need to tell you that.

The horse, of course, is fine if not a tad bit confused. He neighs and snorts as he shakes his head in confusion, but otherwise, he is as fine as he would be if he were standing in a stable somewhere. I pat his nose to reassure him that the world is fine, or at least
this
version of the world which I have imagined.

Life shall continue as normal from this point forward. The spell, the magic, and the folding and unfolding of the fabric of reality are all in the past now and better to forget about it, because trying to go back over past folds will just drive you insane and it shall never clear your slate should you need to do this again.

Mages live with their past weaves and folds, and in past manipulations do madness lie. It is an absolute must you need to start fresh each time, for you risk changing the starting or ending shape based upon previous incantations. We always run the risk of losing ourselves forever in our twists and mental folds of the fabric and rules of this world. There is a reason Magetower has a home for feeble mages with their mind locked in that one spell they were trying to cast but their mind became locked in a forever loop of folds and twists of reality. They lock themselves into one spell, grow old, and die with young mages and volunteers to take care of them like the sick and feeble elderly who can’t take care of themselves.

Some say it’s like endlessly reading a book that never ends.

Forever.

I spent my first years in Magetower taking care of them, the once young and bright mages who fell into the own traps inside their minds. It is the ledge on which we walk as practitioners, and so far no one has broken out of this curse of the forever looping mind.

Will it ever happen to me? I plan on not finding out. Better to forget about the past and let the scribes paid by kings turn it into history I suppose.

Like this man.

If anyone even remembers him.

I find it unsettling that I kill so easily, and casually. Forty men the other day with a twist of magic and a ball of fire, and one today with a simple spell of movement and motion. It is like pushing buttons and levers, and bang, they are dead.

An easy choice.

Too easy.

Is it I do this because they force me to, or do I put myself in places I should not be?

I don’t know the answer to that.

I do need to move.

And I do need a horse, so I put my boot in the stirrup and climb up. I don’t want to look at the man, but I catch a glimpse of his ribs sticking out of blood-soaked armor and a body folded in fatal angles, a dying wheeze as blood bubbles forth from several puncture wounds in the once-alive man’s body. I don’t even see his head, just teeth and bones, and a pile of brain in a bucket-like helmet lying several feet away.

Am I sorry?

He was the one with the axe.

Chapter 3:

Minim

And just like that, they are gone.

It is a shock deep to my core. I still feel numb watching the sight over and over again in my mind.

“Jumped to their bloody deaths!” one of the fake bandits says, ripping off his mask, revealing a red handle-bar mustache and beard. His name is Dar Garrus, and the man is no bandit, nor are the men we travel with bandits either.

He is a captain of the Imperial Guard.

He lowers his bow and walks beside the waterfall, peering down a thousand foot drop below.

“Nobody could bloody survive that,” he says.

And like the man, I am no bandit either, nor am I an Imperial soldier. I am a traitor in their midst, someone who is not who she seems. In deception one must be wary of the masks one wears, for those who wish to do you ill could walk amongst you wearing the same.

The men around me, Imperials dressed as bandits in a land which they do not belong, sheath their swords and shoulder their bows. Death ends the job, in one way or the other.

Typical of bandits.

I fired upon those we chased as well, but never to wound or kill, only to direct them away. The few shots I did have kept them safe and away from us. A pity they chose to end it over the falls, and I feel a slight tinge of guilt for taking a part in the chase that led them to their deaths.

If
they were dead.

I wonder if any of my song shots warned them, or if they even heard them.

Still, I wonder if they aren’t somewhere around here watching us, and it only
looked
like they jumped. One can never know. One must always account for magic.

But if they are truly dead this will be a day I shall regret for the rest of my life. I was sent to find them, and to discover who these men were. Instead, I failed.

Still, I am at a loss for why the Imperials wanted them. A chase with prey which ends in a mystery either way.

Another man spins Captain Garrus around, screaming in his face. “We
were
to take her alive! Our heads shall be had, failure shall not be tolerated!
They
shall not be so forgiving of us.”

This man is another mystery, not a soldier, but an adviser to the Imperials-as-bandits. He is a strange man, one I figure as a Southerner from the Empire, dressed in bandit rags but with a royal air to his manners and speech.

He could be a priest of the God-King, so I watch my magic near him. I have heard others call him Keller the Black, and I assume he knows the ways of magic, though Imperial magic. Imperial magic works from the worship of their Emperor, the God-King of the South. Faith in the divine being who walks among men gives those who believe in his power magic of their own. The North being a conquered land does not lend many to study or even understand this power, and the secrets of this magic are kept a secret among the Imperial High Priests.

Those who know magic can be keenly aware of its presence, so I watch my notes around this powerful man with dark eyes, oiled black hair, and a ruddy skin of olive.

And I wonder, who are the
others
he speaks of? Who are the ones not so forgiving? I expected that if these men were here under Imperial sanction, the high priest would mention the Emperor as the one not so forgiving. Sometimes what is left out is more telling than what is said.

The archers in my squad fall in, and my sergeant points to a spot he wishes me to take in line. We are dressed as bandits, yet we still parade as Imperials, as the old habits die hard. I fall in line as I walk beside the sergeant, a pock-faced man with a scar down his neck. His eyes flash a sudden uncertainty.

“Wait. Who are you?”

A chill runs down my spine. He forgot.

“A soldier, a scout,” I say, a slight melody barely audible in my voice, “one of yours.”

His eyes turn friendly as my magic takes hold in his consciousness. It is bardic magic, a simple lie heard as truth, the
Song of Lies
as it is called back in the college. Normally, it is sung aloud as a party trick, making a room believe a raucous tale of myth and fallacy is quite entertaining. Then, as the song fades the reality of the lie becomes apparent to the crowd to laughs and merriment.

But I have learned the ways of the
Silent Song
, to sing and never be heard, as if my songs weren’t songs at all, but merely speech. It is a practiced method of singing where one sings a song softer and softer each day, hitting every note perfect, to the point where your lips move but your melody does not escape but a fingertip’s length from your lips.

So I can tell lies that are never heard, yet the magic of them still weaves its deception. This, combined with a method known as
Narrative Chorus
, lets us speak over our songs and notes as if one were narrating over our song. In ancient times this was called the
Two Voice Technique
, and it was a practiced method of keeping one’s words on a tone and level voice while the notes you sang remained separate and in tune. This was a method invented by bards where one could tell a story, yet use your same voice to provide background music.

Combining
Two Voice
with the
Silent Song
to
Sing the Song of Lies
, and one could tell bald-faced lies to others and have the magic do its work without anyone knowing the better.

This man, however, must have forgotten the melody, and the lies were wearing off. I needed the sergeant to keep believing me as his bandit, and the other archers around me as well, so I prepare another dose of my music for their ears. The notes wear off after a while, and while I am practiced at turning my tunes into earwigs that last for days using my
Lingering Notes
method, my last application of the magical song must be wearing off due to the excitement.

“A pity those we sought chose to end their lives,” I say to my adopted squad, my words laced with magic unknown to their minds, yet heard by their ears, “what for us is next?”

A shift in their posture, a relaxing tone from those in earshot told me the deception took hold in minds unaware of a bard’s dirty tricks.

This is how we make our money, you know.

My sergeant nods, “White-haired lass, and the rest of you scouts, calm yourself. Gather ropes, I am sure we will be tasked with hauling the bodies up from below.”

“Should we find them, the river runs fast down the valley for as far as I can see,” one of the other Imperial scouts laughs, pulling his red bandit’s scarf from his mouth. He elbows me like I am his friend, and I nod and smile back, pulling my red scarf from my ruby lips.

“If it takes days,” the sergeant says, “it shall take days. By the Emperor’s will the girl in the yellow dress must be found and returned.”

Garrus and Keller are telling the men one thing, yet they may be planning another. The two of them speak as if the Emperor’s will is suspiciously absent between them, yet their men talk as if the Emperor’s will guides their actions.

“Alive or dead,” the sergeant says.

“This place spooks me,” another Imperial says, pointing at the valley, “look at this place. That city, those temples. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Graves of the North,” the sergeant says, his voice low. “Don’t pick anything up, take no treasures, and don’t go inside anywhere without my permission.

This is a place of magic.”

“Can I check the ridge?” I say, singing a soft suggestion to my sergeant’s ears. I point a a ridge far away to the north that I knew had a good view of both this place and the valley from which I came. I should know, that was the place I tracked this group of Imperials from before I donned their bandit’s garb.

“I need to see if there are others.”

A plausible reason, and with magic, even the least plausible will do. I need to leave them and return to Astrid and tell her of these men. It would be a half-day’s journey to get back to her, the
Song of Fleetness
being sung the entire way.

I’d need more water to sing all day to be sure.

“Go ahead,” he nods.

I salute and turn, ready to walk away and leave these men to their grim task.

And leave them forever.

“Wait.”

I stop. The voice belongs to Keller the Black, Priest of the God-King. My back is to him, and I hear his footsteps closing on me, the grit on the stone crushing under his devotional boots. The wind whips at his bandit’s robes, and I hear him stop an arm’s length behind me.

He pulls a string of the white hair of my ponytail gently between his fingers.

“This scout, sergeant, what legion does she hail from?” His voice is cold, frozen, his words are serious and probing. I can hear the divine magic upon his breath and the will of his Emperor.

“Third, Mist Valley Regiment,” my sergeant says, repeating the words he thought to be true. The ones I fed to him.

“Mist Valley,” Keller says, “turn, so I can get a good look at you lass.”

I turn, coming face to face with the priest. His eyes are dark, his skin a shade of tan I would call olive, and his features looking cut from stone and powerful. He is a man with some muscle as well, built powerful under the tattered blood-red bandit robes he wears.

He lifts my chin with his fingers, his skin cold to the touch. “I have not seen her with us before, sergeant. Are you sure she is one of us?”

“We have a number of women Legionnaires,” the sergeant says, “the best shots. Icebow here was on loan to me from the Guard-Captain in Mist Valley, he vouches for her loyalty.”

The sergeant uses the name of which I gave him, magic again twisting the thoughts in his mind. For my real name is Frost Songweaver, bard of Stormhaven. Still, Icebow is a cute enough name I use from time to time, and it fits my ice-white hair perfectly. Both a blessing and a curse, my hair is pure white, bleached by magic at birth rather than white by age. I am still a very young woman in my own right, and if my mother’s magic runs through my veins as I suspect, I will be keeping my youthful looks for a very long time.

“Icebow,” Keller the Black says, turning my face from side to side with his hand while I best maintain my composure. “Pretty name.” He pulls the red scarf from my neck. “Such beautiful lips, and skin. I am surprised I have not noticed this one earlier.

Are you sure she is one of ours?”

The sergeant nods, and I hold my words, fearing one slip of a magic note under my breath will alert him to my subtle manipulations. It is hard after so long of constant singing under my breath to stop it, so I remain silent while someone who could sense magic is so close.