Rosemary Edghill - The Warslayer

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The Warslayer

by Rosemary Edghill

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and

any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3536-2

Cover art by Carol Heyer

First printing, May 2002

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

Dedications

To the Troops of Oz:

Barry Cadwigan

Allen Hazen

Andrea Hoseth

Sylvia Kelso

And the Home Guard:

Greg Cox

Elektra

Doris Egan

Nancy Hanger

Jim Macdonald

Sarah Thompsen

Toni Weisskopf

And Most of All, to the Men

Behind the Legend:

Russ Galen

Jim Baen

MOTHER OF ALL WARMOTHERS

She was back where they'd started—the top of the mountain Grey Arlinn. The fairy-princess castle,

the lawn, all the silly-bugger trappings were gone. In the center of the open space stood a huge slab of

smooth black stone. Ivradan was manacled, spread-eagled as though he were waiting for a vulture to

come and tear out his liver. He'd dropped Gordon and the little blue stuffed elephant was a blot of bright

color at the foot of the stone.

Glory ran across the mountaintop toward the stone. The whole set-up looked remarkably like one of

the concept sketches from The Incredible True Adventures of Vixen the Slayer's "For Whom the

Belle Trolls" episode they'd been supposed to shoot next season. In her hand, the Sword of Cinnas was

vibrating madly, as though somebody had flicked a switch inside it.

As she reached out to touch the stone, Ivradan's face went . . . strange.

::Have you come to chain me once more, little mortal?:: a voice said inside Glory's head.

She froze, part of her mind waiting for someone to call out and tell her they had the shot, fine, cut for

lunch. She turned, slowly, telling herself desperately that it didn't matter what she saw, she wouldn't

scream, she wouldn't. The sound she made instead emerged as a desolate moan.

Charane had gotten tired of playing. This was her true form at last—and it looked like every

nightmare Ridley Scott'd had for the past twenty years. The monster towered over Glory in the greenish

dusk, close enough that it only had to bend down to bite off her head.

But she would not run. She was too terrified to think clearly, but Ross, her gymnastics coach, had

spent years training her to go beyond thought. Her mind blank with an emotion too profound to be called

fear, Glory wrapped both hands around the hilt and raised her sword. . . .

BAEN BOOKS by Rosemary Edghill

The Warslayer

Beyond World's End

(with Mercedes Lackey)

Spirits White as Lightning

(with Mercedes Lackey)

"GOD'S TEETH!"

The Making of a Cult Phenomenon

(from Vixen the Slayer:

The Unofficial Journeys)

by Greg Cox

From the start, she made an indelible impression on everyone lucky enough to catch her startling

debut: charging out of the misty English (or was it Australian?) countryside astride her magnificent

chestnut stallion, her silver rapier catching the moonlight, her scarlet tresses dancing in whistling wind like

the very fires of Perdition. "Evil wakes!" she warned us huskily, as her unsheathed blade swiftly

dispatched what would turn out to be merely the first in an endless parade of hell-spawned ghouls and

revenants. For those of us who tuned into that first episode out of curiosity, or even by accident, it was

clear at once that this was a woman to be reckoned with—as millions of devoted fans would soon

discover.

Who would've guessed that the first great TV heroine of the 21st Century would be a feisty,

indomitable demon-hunter straight out of the Elizabethan era? Certainly not Gloria McArdle, the

incandescent former Olympic gymnast who brings "Vix" thrillingly to life every Friday night, or so it

seemed from the shell-shocked expression on Glory's face when she received a standing ovation from a

veritable horde of adoring fans (many decked out in full 16th-century regalia) at the first official Vixen the

Slayer Convention in New York City. I was there myself, frantically scribbling notes on the back of my

program book, and can testify that the sheer amount of devotion, excitement, and, okay, out-and-out lust

that filled that crowded convention center when Glory took the stage was enough to fuel a full-fledged

crusade against the forces of darkness, or at least sell out every piece of licensed merchandise in the

dealers' room. The Beatles may have been more popular than Jesus Christ, but Vixen has certainly got

Lucifer beaten hands-down.

But if McArdle was slow to realize the full enormity of her kohl-eyed counterpart's impassioned fan

following, then she was probably the last person on the planet to do so. All you need to do is look on the

Internet, where you can quickly find enough evidence to fill even Father Diavolo's Book of the Damned.

Fan-generated Vixen web pages abound (despite the pernicious efforts of Full Earth's over-zealous legal

department), with even Adrian the Wonder Horse receiving a score of tribute sites. Pseudo-scholarly

web magazines like Camrado: Ye Olde Journal of Vixen Studies publish earnest treatises on such

provocative topics as "Vixen: An Inspired Fusion of Red Sonja and Solomon Kane" and "Whither the

Beast?: Biblical Imagery in 'Vixen'."

Speaking of provocative, let's not forget all the fan fiction out there, an endlessly growing archive of

semi-apocryphal "Vixen" adventures that are generally a whole lot steamier (and more explicit) than the

exploits that actually air on the television series. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of these unsanctioned

narratives have Vixen and her arch-nemesis, Lilith Kane, the Duchess of Darkness, taking their love-hate

relationship to a whole new level. (Sometimes Sister Bernadette joins in as well, vows or no vows.) And

don't get me started on all the "Mary Sue" stories out there, in which thinly-disguised versions of the

authors are mystically transported through time to join Vixen the Slayer in her never-ending battle for

truth, freedom, and the way of the ninja. (I refuse to comment on all those anonymously authored stories

teaming Vix with "Gerg Xoc," journeyman scribe.)

Meanwhile, in dozens of chat rooms and newsgroups, Vixites from around the world argue

incessantly about what really happened in the infamous "dream" episode, or who would win in a

three-way fight between Vixen, Xena, and Buffy? (The general consensus on the latter was that Buffy

would win, but only if she was allowed to import a missile launcher from the 20th century.) In all, there's

enough Vixen material on-line that, in theory, you could spend 24 hours a day in the world of our favorite

ninja vampire hunter without ever watching the show! But who in God's name would want to do that?

Every fan has their own favorite episode, of course. Some prefer the nonstop demon-fighting action

of such classics as "To Hunt the Hunter" or "Thirteen Minutes to Doomsday," while others groove on

moodier, more atmospheric fare like "The Haunter of Crimson Cove" or "Behowl the Moon." Hardcore

romantics pine for more episodes like "A Slayer in Love" (with Christopher Marlowe, no less!), while still

others (you know who you are) can't get enough of such, er, stimulating episodes as "Corsets and

Catacombs" or "The Duchess's Delights." From a strictly historical standpoint, few shows are more

fascinating than "Across the Veil of Worlds," in which the ever-frugal folks at Full Earth Productions

incorporated footage from the original, never-aired pilot for Ninja Vampire Hunter starring Doreen Liu,

thus providing an intriguing glimpse of an alternate reality featuring a very different Slayer.

Granted, there are a few episodes that most of us would prefer to forget. Did we really need to

watch a sixty-minute flashback to Sister Bernadette's halcyon days at the nunnery in "The Trouble with

Anglicans"? Or watch our usually fierce Slayer baby-sit that obnoxious urchin in "Mother for a Day"? Oh

well, I guess even the Anointed Champion of the Light can have an off day. Or two.

How much longer can the Vixen phenomenon thrive and flourish? From where I'm sitting, the sky's

the limit. As of this writing, the first official Vixen novel, The Warslayer by Rosemary Edghill, is sitting

atop the New York Times Bestseller List, while First Lady Tipper Gore just cited Vixen as "an

outstanding role model for America's youth." Not bad for the bastard child of an English lord and a

Japanese geisha!

Now you'll have to excuse me. It's nine o'clock and a brand new episode has just begun. On my TV

screen a full moon is rising, the Duchess and her fiendish lackeys are plotting new devilment, and justice,

in the form of a flame-haired female privateer, is riding into the dark and unholy night.

I may never go out on Fridays again.

* * *

GREG COX is the author of numerous books, including Vixen the Slayer: The Unauthorized

Journeys. He has never missed a single episode.

CHAPTER ONE:

Leather and Steel

The troll was enormous: eight, maybe nine feet tall. Its skin was a mottled bluish-purple, covered with

coarse black hair and warts the size of dinner plates. Its knuckles nearly brushed the ground when it

walked, and its wrists were as big around as her thighs.

Vixen the Slayer bared her teeth in a feral smile, tossing her sword from hand to hand as she moved

backward in a fighter's crouch. The monster had to be stopped here, and there was nobody who could

do it but her. She was just lucky that something that big was also slow. . . .

The troll tottered forward another few steps, then wavered and fell flat on its face, exposing the two

puppeteers who had been inside and the tangle of trailing air-hoses that led back to the rest of the crew.

"Cut," Megan said, sighing. "Rennie—"

"He tripped me!" Rennie said, pointing at his partner Roald, on whose shoulders he'd been sitting a

few moments before.

"Maybe we should try it the other way around," Roald suggested snarkily. He was six feet three and

outweighed Rennie by a good ten stone.

"It was nobody's fault," Megan said, putting on her "soothing mom" voice. "Vix, honey, we're going

to have to go again. Everybody take ten!"

Vixen the Slayer, ninja-raised do-gooder and scourge of the Satanic legions that plagued the

Elizabethan countryside, stretched and sighed, her hand on the small of her back. That knife-fighter's

crouch looked great on camera, but it played hell with the vertebrae.

"Sure, Meg," she called back. "I'm going to be in my trailer, okay?"

Megan nodded, distracted, and Vixen—aka Gloria Emmeline McArdle—walked off. She knew

from long experience that ten minutes was going to be at least forty-five, what with getting all the

air-hoses and electrical cables untangled so that Truxton the Troll would be ready to go again. He was

really just a nine-foot All-Purpose Creature Armature that could be dressed in any number of foam latex

monster disguises; otherwise, he'd have been far too expensive for the budget of a syndicated TV series,

even one filmed in The Wonder Down Under.

She walked past the camera and craft services until she got to her trailer. Closing the door behind

her, she tossed her sword on the couch and sat down in front of the mirror. Vixen's masklike makeup

and kohl-lined eyes stared back.

This time last year, she'd been plain Gloria "Glory" McArdle, ex-Olympian, red-headed teacher of

girls' gymnastics and physical education at Ned Kelly High School in Melbourne, Australia. She'd been

good enough to be on the Australian team that went to Seoul, and not good enough to medal and garner

tempting offers from top coaches and sportswear manufacturers, and that was that. When her final

growth spurt hit late that summer, taking her from five-five (pretty tall for a gymnast even at that) to six

foot in her stocking feet and built like a Vargas pinup, it thoroughly put an end to any possibility of ever

competing again.

She'd been wise enough not to go into coaching—better a clean break than being tormented with

constant reminders of "might have been." She'd gotten her teaching certificate instead, and while she was

relieved to find that she enjoyed teaching—molding and shaping impressionable little minds and

bodies—as she settled into her new life, she found she was still hungry for . . . something.

Boredom is a dangerous taskmaster. Out of boredom Glory had gone to an open audition for a

straight-to-cable series called Ninja Vampire Hunter. The ad had mentioned that gymnastics training

was a plus, but Full Earth Productions had really just been looking for extras to stand around in the

background while Doreen Liu, their Asian martial arts star, bounced off trampolines.

So she'd started fooling about, and found that a six-foot redhead who could do back flips, layouts,

and walkovers had gotten the casting director's attention. She'd been hired on the spot, spent the Long

Vac on the set, and thought that was the end of it. She wasn't a professional actress, and other extras

with more experience had told her that most pilots didn't get picked up.

But Ninja Vampire Hunter had tested well, and with a little tweaking had gone to series, following

in the fertile footsteps of such disparate role-models as Xena: Warrior Princess and Buffy the Vampire

Slayer. And that was when Barry Doherty and Full Earth had offered her the lead.

"Doreen doesn't want to spend a year in Melbourne, and anyway, you look a lot better in a black

leather corset," he'd said winningly.

It wasn't one of Life's Tough Choices. Playing "Orcs-and-Bush-Rangers" as Vixen (neé Koroshiya)

the Slayer (even with a whoppingly sexist leather corset) was more fun—and more lucrative—than

teaching high school. She signed a three-year contract with Full Earth to star in the re-christened The

Incredibly True Adventures of Vixen the Slayer (TITAoVtS for short) and entered the glamorous

world of show-biz on the spot. On an eighteen-hour shooting day and an average six-day-per-episode

shoot, Vixen the Slayer and her sidekick Sister Bernadette wandered the villages and hedgerows of

England in search of supernatural evil and religious intolerance. The Australian exteriors gave viewers a

peculiar idea of the English countryside, not that anyone particularly seemed to care.

Veteran stage actress Anne-Marie Campbell was playing her co-star, the doughty ex-nun

Bernadette, and American soap villainess (and former Southland Studios child star) Romy Blackburn had

the plum role of Vixen's recurring foe: Lilith Kane, the Duchess of Darkness. By the time the first six

episodes had aired, Vixen was international front-page news, captivating millions of UPN Network

viewers every Friday night and generating hundreds of column inches. Glory became a Star overnight,

and discovered that she was suddenly somehow terribly important and publicity-worthy. The usual news

story portrayed TITAoVtS' star in mid-backflip beneath a banner headline saying something like: "Is this

Today's Woman?"

Well, only if today's woman needs to be able to slay trolls and vampires at need, Glory thought, and

kept her thoughts to herself.

When the publicity hit, Barry realized that it was important to strike while the zeitgeist was hot and

had taken advantage of owning the Flavor of the Month to book the regulars for a promotional tour of

the U.S. during hiatus: interviews, photo layouts, talk shows, personal appearances, the whole enchilada.

The moment the season's filming wrapped, Romy, Glory, Anne-Marie, Dylan (the Duchess of Darkness's

lackey, the venal Jesuit Fra Diavolo), and even Adrian the Wonder Horse (a burly chestnut with a

tendency to overact) would be shipped Trans-Pacific to fame, frenzy, and a general blurring of the lines

between fantasy and reality.

Such is fame, Glory thought wisely to herself, unimpressed. I wonder how long this is going to last?

* * *

Two months later:

I wish this were over. Glory sighed, and began to put on the makeup that would hide her thousands

of pale-gold freckles. There were deep circles under her tiger-yellow eyes, and she looked haggard. This

isn't what twenty-six and famous is supposed to look like.

And this is supposed to be my vacation. . . .

Six weeks. Three dozen American cities that all looked alike. They'd done ShoWest, Letterman,

Leno, Oprah, six media conventions, dozens of local shows and special appearances, and interviews for

everyone from Movieline and the Sci-Fi Channel to Cosmopolitan. As the show's star, Glory bore the

brunt of the publicity: she'd signed copies of TITAoVtS tie-in books at chain stores across America and

schmoozed with every UPN executive they threw at her. Every single one of the people she met wanted

just one little piece of her, but a million little drops added up to an ocean, and a million little pieces added

up to more than one Glory "Vixen" McArdle.

Everything they've ever told you about fame is true, Glory told herself sagely. She'd had a taste

of it in her Olympic days; she'd known it wouldn't be all gravy—but somewhere deep inside she'd

assumed the TV star business wouldn't be that much different from the Olympics. She'd been

right . . . and wrong. The Summer Games only lasted two weeks, and a promotional tour went on

forever.

I want out, she thought forlornly.

But if you get out, where will you go?

That was the real question. It wasn't so much that Fame had changed her. It had just changed

everybody else, to the point where they yelled for Vixen and Glory answered, and she wasn't really sure

how much of a difference there really was. She knew this couldn't last forever, but she didn't know if she

could just go back to being a Phys Ed teacher again once it was over, and she knew she didn't want to.

But if not this, and not that, then what?

She mascaraed her pale lashes and slathered on the kohl, and finished up with a liberal application of

blood-red MAC lipstick. When she was done, the masklike face of Vixen the Slayer stared back at her

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TheWarslayerbyRosemaryEdghillThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2002byRosemaryEdghillAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBa...

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