Demon-Killing Sword

Muninn screamed. The bones creaked. The joint ached as it pulled at its socket. Bjarne tsked, annoyed. "Shut up and let me take this chicken wing off for you. You'll thank me for it later."

"Think it'll taste like chicken?" Reuben asked.

"You want to eat this dirty trash?" Bjarne spat. He dug his nails into her wing.

Muninn trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes. It hurt! "Stop!" she whined. So weak. So pathetic. She hated it, but what could she do? Her eyes darted around the banks for help, but all the other mudlarks pretended they couldn't see her, noses to the riverbed. No one would stop them. No one would help her.

Jere laughed. "Is she crying?"

The pressure on her wing lessened, then vanished. Muninn clenched it as close to her body as her shoulder blade would allow. "Aww, she is. It's almost like they have feelings."

A distant bell clanged. Reuben perked up. "Lunch!" he called to the other two.

"Ugh, I'm coated in mud," Bjarne complained. "Mom's going to kill me. All cuz of this stupid mutt—!" He punctuated the statement with a kick. Muninn grunted, biting back the urge to cry out in pain. It would only spur him on. Hot tears betrayed her, sliding through the mud on her cheeks despite her determination. It wasn't fair. Bjarne, rotten, stupid Bjarne, had everything, and she had nothing.

Led by Reuben, the boys retreated. Muninn laid in the mud and let it mask her tears, hide her frustration. If only she wasn't so weak. If only she wasn't so poor. She slammed her fist into the muck, splattering it over herself. It didn't matter. She was coated in mud already. Again. Again. The mud pounded flat under her fist.

The tears stopped at last. She dug her fingers deep into the mud, clawing at it like she wanted to claw at Bjarne, and hauled herself upright. Tentatively, she moved the wing as much as she could. The useless thing was sore, but it could still move as much as it had ever been able to. Nothing was broken.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. Thank goodness. She couldn't afford any more medicine.

Slowly, she hauled herself back to her feet. Her reed basket was crushed in the mud. It glooped as she pulled it out of the mud, full to the brim with sloppy, oil-stained river mud.

Tears threatened again. Muninn bit her lip and swallowed them down. It's fine. I'll dig them out again. It's nothing I haven't fixed before. Bjarne! Rage flashed through her, hot as lava. Why was he so cruel? Why did he hate her so much? Her demon blood was generations upon generations old. As diluted as it was, she might as well be human. Except for the useless defective wing, she was human. It was stupid. He was stupid.

Angrily, she dug the mud out of her basket in big, clawed handfuls. It splattered all around her, some of it flying as far as the river. The other mudlarks kept clear, wary of attracting Bjarne's attention by proximity. Most of them were part-demon as well; most people in the slums were. In fact, it was rare to see a mixed-blood out of the slums. It was where humans wanted them.

Though she hated it, she understood. Mixed-bloods were dangerous, after all. Too much miasma, and they'd go insane, the same as the pure-blooded demons on the other side of the wall.

She threw the next handful of mud extra-hard at the unfairness of it all. She understood, but it wasn't fair! It wasn't like everyone went insane. It wasn't as if everyone who went insane from the miasma became murderous madmen. Just because of the way she was born, she'd never get a better job, never learn a trade, never attend school or a fancy party, never, never—!

Muninn plunged her hand into the muddy basket and grabbed another handful of mud. This time, rather than just mud, she found herself grasping something hard. A stick? She made a face. Great. With her luck, it would tear the basket. The stick refused to budge. It had somehow turned sideways and gotten stuck deep in the mud, and probably my basket, too. One hand against the basket, she yanked as hard as she could with the other. No luck; the thing didn't budge. Baring her teeth at the challenge, Muninn braced her feet against the basket and pulled with both hands. It felt good to fight something. Good to throw her anger against it. "Stupid— stick!" she snarled.

With a slurp, the stick burst from the mud. She staggered from the force of the pull, and her feet lost grip. Startled, she backpedaled on the slick mud, lost her balance, and plopped into a deep puddle. River water and mud oozed into her pants, clammy against her skin.

"Great," she snapped, wiping her face with the back of her arm. Muddy was one thing, but now she was wet, too! The stick caught her eye, and she glared at it. Today just kept getting worse. If only the stupid stick hadn't gotten caught, her pants would only be muddy and not soaking wet! She jumped to her feet and drew back her arm. I'm going to throw this stick so far away, no one will ever find it again!

The world spun. Disoriented, she slid and fell. A vortex of darkness sucked her in. She tumbled down, down, down into the pitch, until suddenly it spat her out on the side of a road. Walls stretched to either side of her, barely ten feet ahead though she knew they were at least a hundred feet in the distance. An army grouped all around, bright and shiny in their armor. Muninn froze, eyes wide. Now? But why?

There was no sound in this memory. The crowd cheered, horses tossed their heads, and soldiers chattered, but all was silent. Ahead of her, a man approached the gates. She found herself drawn to him, gliding through the silent scene, a ghost intruding on the past.

A king stood before the man, not the queen who ruled now. The man bowed and held out his hands. Just get it over with, he thought, his voice resonating through the silence.

Glittering, a bare sword dipped onto his right shoulder, then his left. The king gestured, and the man stood. Exhaustion dripped off him visibly, a dark mist that coiled around the man's form like miasma. Though he reached for the sword when it was handed to him, and smiled when the crowd cheered, the dark mist only grew deeper.

Now you cheer. Now I'm in the sunlight, now that I'm useful. His eyes seared dark with hatred. The black mist thickened, obscuring the crowd, the knights, everything, until he and Muninn were all that was left. She stared. Light glinted off the sword, growing brighter and brighter, fighting the darkness. The man stared at her as if he could see her.

Now that they need the demons dead.

Muninn blinked and found herself back at the riverbed, collapsed on the ground, one hand clutched tight to the stick. She blinked and climbed slowly to her feet. Her body was sore where she'd fallen. Her hips ached where she'd landed on a rock. Why now?

That was the other reason mixed-bloods were feared: they, like demons, had magic, while humans did not. Unlike demons, though, mixed-bloods could only use magic for one thing, one single task fate assigned them at birth.

Muninn could see the past.