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IAN
    JANIS IAN is normally a singer-songwriter, with two Grammy Awards, nine Grammy nominations, and twenty-two albums to her credit. She published her first song at twelve, made her first record at fourteen, and released a book of poetry (since reissued) at sixteen. Her father and grandmother were wonderful storytellers, and she grew up on the tales of Sholem Aleichem and her family’s own stories of life in the
shtetl.
When not singing or writing songs, Janis reads, mostly science fiction and young adult books. Her two favorite books in the world are Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time and Orson Scott Card’s
Ender’s Game,
probably because they both feature young heroes, both male and female. Janis writes: “I love the idea of women as warriors, since my generation didn’t really have them available as mentors.”
    Janis began writing prose stories two years ago; this will be her eighth published story. For more information, go to www.janisian.com .

HEARTLESS
    Holly Black
    O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.

Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip

Kissing dead things to life.
    â€”John Keats, from
Endymion
    ACROSS THE LANDSCAPE of the battlefield, men stared sightlessly into the sky, their armor black with blood, their steaming intestines spread over the ground. Swarms of crows covered them in a jumping, fluttering carpet. Camp women scavenged among the corpses, cutting the throats of the dying and looting the bodies for anything of worth.
    Ada bent close to one man, his mouth already darkened like a bruise on his pallid face. For a dizzying moment her sight narrowed until all she could see was a gore-clotted eye-lash, a stitch of livery, the twist of a pale worm. She gagged, but a second quick breath steadied her. Ada was surprised the stench could still make her choke. It reminded her that she hadn’t always been a camp follower; her hair hadn’t always hung in knots and the hem of her dress hadn’t always been stiff with filth. It reminded her of things better forgotten.
    The army’s food had already been cooked and distributed—boiled horseflesh, cabbages, onions, and what dried stores the Baron’s men had managed to frighten out of the local churls. The camp women had a few hours before they must return to the fire pits, to scour the pots and begin planning for tomorrow. Ada had to move quickly if she wanted her share of what was left on the field.
    The dead man had a good set of spurs, new-looking, with bronze details. She stripped them off his sabbatons and tied them up in her skirts.
    The next man she squatted near was still breathing. His brow was sweaty, and his eyes moved feverishly under closed lids. She held her knife near his throat. She had been warned never to leave a man alive while you robbed him: he might wake at any time, and even a wounded soldier was dangerous. Still, she hesitated. No matter how many times she told herself that it was like killing a sow, it still wasn’t. Maybe it was the memory of compassion that nagged at her, the remembrance of what she had been before she’d bespelled her heart into her finger bone.
    â€œHelp me.” The soldier’s mouth began to move before his eyes opened. He spoke in a dreamy monotone.
    Ada jumped back, the blade just nicking the flesh of his throat.
    â€œHelp me,” he repeated. He didn’t seem to notice that he’d been cut.
    â€œNo,” Ada said. She’d had enough of knights and their commands. She had to feed them, to bind their wounds and be bothered by them when she sought only sleep. Just because she hadn’t killed him quickly didn’t mean she owed him anything.
    â€œI am Lord Julian Vrueldegost.”
    She wondered whether or not he had been one of the men who had burned her village. At one time, that would have mattered to her.
    â€œI’ll die,” he said. “Please.”
    Ada