[Resources] Competition Compilation (aka Archives)

[Klazzform]

This thread is for the previous entries that have been submitted into the DnDOG Short Story Competition. They are organized by date, starting with the oldest entries at the top and the newest in a descending order. They are also filed in the order by which they were entered into the contest.

[Klazzform]

December 2009 Competition Entries

 

So Jerard found the book, after all, and he knows where I am headed. And still, he is too late.

In many ways, those few brave militiamen who had left their homes to face Rakshal's army would never leave this battlefield. Their slain bodies, however, would. They had been a small but determined band of farmers, armed with common tools or bronze weaponry, who had come together from all the towns their Lord Ordan lay claim. That Ordan, a decrepit paladin who still clung to empty oaths and archaic castes, was not present at this battle did not seem to dampen the scared – and yet brave – spirits of these commoner-warriors. They totaled perhaps a thousand, perhaps more, and represented the greater half of all the men and women in this region. They had fought bravely, Rakshal thought abstractly, and had died fighting for something they treasured. Something as simple as a home. He had once been told that the less someone had, the harder they would fight to retain it.

Staring down from his tent, perched atop a massive crag that shot out of the Kruger and overlooked the entire valley, and watching as his troops marched from body to body – often butchering and dismembering as they went – he wondered how hard someone who fought for nothing would try. Perhaps they would not try at all. He frowned, wondering if this battle – trifling though it was – which had been fueled by these humans love, would prove more challenging then whatever might Ordan had mustered behind his high walls of stone. The thought displeased him and, focusing on a pile of corpses several urgoth were staking, waved his hand.

“Master, the ravens have foretold a coming storm. A storm that will blanket this valley in ice and snow.” The creature who spoke, for he could no longer be considered a man – though a man he had once been – stepped from the shadows near the back of the massive tent. His nearly-cloven feet were bare, so deformed no boot was comfortable or necessary, and crunched against the thick snow below. Rakshal made a snorting sound in response and waved his hand again.

“Information like that,” Rakshal began darkly, his voice like a falling rock against shale, “makes me wonder why I keep you alive, Targis.” This made the third inhabitant of the tent, a massive feral clad in armor, laugh loudly. Rakshal had obviously not intended his words as a joke. The feral, a warrior known as Belraius, kicked snow at the pathetic Targis and laughed harder as the creature shrinked away – but Rakshal's angered voice silenced him. “The weather will do as I say!” He bellowed, spit falling from his mouth as he erupted in anger, turning back into the tent and pointing a bony finger at both. Even the might of Belraius was quelled by such an outburst; more lives had ended by that finger than any against the feral's axehead. After a moment Rakshal seemed to regain his composure and turned in disgust from his servants, waving his hand in the air again. “Your omens,” he began again, this time calmly, “are meaningless to one such as myself, Targis. I created you to advise me on the lands of these humans, not on such a palpable force as the weather.”

“Of course, Master.” Targis words slid out his tongue like oil, his tongue seemingly too large for his gruesome mouth. “I am humbled by your might, Master.”

“Enough,” Rakshal ordered, knowing it would go on like that until he put a stop to it. “How far is Ordan's keep?” Targis hobbled closer to the entrance of the tent and peered out, the pain of the cold obvious on his face.

“A day, Master, not more. To waste so many troops in an open conflict...” Targis' buggy eyes scanned the massacre below and, for the life of him, could not see a patch of snow on the ground still white.

“They weren't sent by Ordan,” Belraius growled, his beast tongue struggling to pronounce the complex sounds of their speech. “They were volunteers trying to buy the forces in D'Narth more time...”

“Whatever their purpose, they only served to strengthen our forces,” Rakshal mused and waved his hand.

“Ordan's walls are high, Master, and his forces are well trained. He has many warriors, Master, and he knows we are coming. Ordan is old, Master, but he is no fool. And if he is in communication with the Human, he may know...”

“Jerard is not our concern, the only thing he has done is inform these fools their death is near. He cannot influence the outcome of this battle.” Rakshal was absolute when he spoke and waved his hand again.

“What if he knows about the chalice?” The words seemed to pop out of Targis without thought and hung ominously in the air between him and his master. Fear began to spread across Targis face as Rakshal slowly turned, incredulously, to look upon his servant. Belraius shuddered slightly, anxious to see the mage destroy the annoying cretin. But the blow never came.

“That,” Rakshal began, voice thick with the rage barely being contained, “is impossible. And it shall never be spoken of again.”

“Of course, my liege.” Targis bowed awkwardly, hindered by his knotted back, and slunk backwards from his master's steady gaze. Belraius crossed his arms, chain mail rattling as he did, and spoke.

“What will you have me do with the humans we have captured, Rakshal?” Only one dared not address the mage with some honorific, only one did not grovel and whimper at his unnatural appearance. Belraius was that one, a feral-born no less – and Rakshal cringed whenever the warrior used his name. He allowed it, however, because Belraius understood their relationship and Rakshal knew Belraius was his slave and none other. Besides there were names for those who stood against the warrior, and all those names belonged to soldiers filling the undead contingent of their ranks. Few ever dared to challenge Belraius in combat. When they did, there is always one less.

Rakshal turned to look again out towards the battlefield below and considered the warrior's question. He waved his hand and watched, as below several still beings stirred and slowly rose to their feet. The sun was beginning to dip below the Krugar Mountains to the west and turned the sky above them a hazy red. He waved his hand again, more rose. The stronghold of D'Narth was more than a day's march through the snow-laden valley, where Rakshal knew Ordan and his Royal Guard would be waiting, ready. But they couldn't possibly be ready for what awaited them, and like all the others they would fall. And his ranks would swell.

Belraius shifted his weight and coughed into his gauntlet-fist. “What would you have me do?” Rakshal knew what the creature wanted and felt a desire to deny him, if only out of spite. But the humans meant nothing and Belraius needed to be kept appeased if he were to continue his service to Rakshal. The mage did not enjoy the creatures barbarism, he did not share his taste for flesh or love of the ritualistic. But Rakshal was a monster of one sort, and Belraius another – and together they were going to burn all of Domina. He nodded slowly at the warrior and turned back to the battlefield, waving his hand again. Belraius turned and left the tent without a word. It would be a long night, he knew, and then the real battle would begin. He found the captured humans where he left them – bound and bloodied, perhaps thirty in all. Another dark grin, full of meaning, crossed the feral's face. These few would steel him against the coming battle against Ordan - but he rejoiced for other reasons as well. With a shudder, not from the cold but from excitement, he began his bloody work.

Their cries only died with the dawn.

 

Three precise and deferential knocks sounded on wood that had known more time than half the planes, and from within a phlegmy voice growls out, "Enter". A door opens, and in walks a humanoid figure with eyes of pure red. He is human in appearance except for those eyes, and his legs which terminate in hooves, and the small horns on his brow. The creature before him is a massive bulk of flab, with stubby arms terminating in stubby hands with stubby claws, seated in a massive swiveling chair overhung by his huge belly. A huge grin is permanently affixed on his face, but on seeing his inferior enter it widens until his bulbous eyes are in danger of falling into his flabby throat. "Ah! Anhur! So good of you to come when I call! Please, sit down." There is just the slightest hint of chastisement in his tone and words, and Anhur knows that he must not even notice. This creature is grotesque, but he is grotesque power incarnate, and to cross him is to invite oblivion.

Anhur enters and takes a seat across from the huge slab of an obsidian desk. Parchment pushing slug. You have power, and yet you don't use the half of it. If I had spent a century where you are, I'd be a Pit Lord by now. "Well sir, you know its always a pleasure to see you as well. These reviews of my valuable work in our just cause are a welcome break from my duties." Ink monger. Fiend of red tape. Dire Bureaucrat of Baator.

"Indeed, I feel the same, and this review will be a bit more comprehensive because the action being considered is a bit more...serious than in previous decade reviews. Let's start with the basics. You've been with us for how long?"

"About six hundred years, sir. As I'm sure you know, I spent my first hundred as a lemure, and I've been moving steadily up the chain since then. My favorite, other than my current form, was the time I spent as an Imp." Let's try and hurry this up.

"Not to hurry." Taking his own advice, the more powerful demon removes a file folder from his desk and flips slowly to the beginning. "We have, after all, all the time the universe has to offer. Let's go back to when you were a Lemure. Looking at your service record, I must say that your first hundred years were a bit of a wash. Until. An incident involving a certain thief. You hid under a table, and as he ran by you exited and tripped him. His end was not pleasant. He begged us to take his soul and end his torment before long, and just before his 25th hour of torture and his death, we did." At the memory, the smile which had faded to a more businesslike demeanor spread again, even wider. "After all waste not want not. That act was what got you promoted to Spinagon. I know that lemures have very little in the way of brains and less in memories, but do you remember what you were thinking?"

That you're a pompous old lump with no right to the Hellborn powers you wield? Anhur wrinkles his brow and contemplates the question before answering. "Well, as you said, much more diplomatically, sir, Lemures are stupid as flagstones. But I did know the human did not belong, and I had a primeval sense that he might be too busy running from his pursuers to see me." Also, there was a shiny thing on the carpet under the table that needed investigating. And an unrelated shiny thing across the hall.

"I remember very well the time you spent as a Spinagon, assigned to the service of a human diabolist named Derrick Ghent. In particular I remember a rather ill fated attempt to break up his operation by a grove of Druids. Suppose that's a hazard for Diabolists on the Prime Material. In the city its Clerics and Paladins, in the wilds its Druids and Rangers. What happened that day?"

This again. Always the same stories, and he never seems to tire. "Well, I was patrolling the aerial perimeter of Derrick's territory while he handled some delicate negotiations with some potential allies." The Orcs were shaking him down, again. "When I noticed a rabbit that was not acting rabbit-like. Most rabbits will move randomly, stopping to sniff and nibble frequently, but this one was moving in a relatively straight line towards Derrick's redoubt." Also, it was a rabbit and I was bored. "Sensing that something was amiss, I used the natural abilities of that form to throw several burning quills at the rabbit. My first clue that something was truly amiss was when the rabbit did not die. That was when I decided that reinforcement by Spinagon brethren was in order." A rabbit that doesn't die! We can shoot it forever! "I summoned one, and he summoned another, and soon there were four of us. Fortunate because that was when the rabbit turned to face us, and Iktarix fell to a gout of divine fire. Unfortunately for us, the "rabbit" was not alone, but he was the most powerful of his order present at that time. And he had just used his best devil killing spell. Our reinforcements summoned reinforcements, and with quick action and our aerial superiority we were able to wipe out their little sortie." Skip to the end. "Another fine job, not fine enough to warrant a promotion this decade."

At the conclusion of Anhur's last statement, his superior's smile widened just a bit, became just a bit more predatory. "You seem to want to move on to more interesting discussions. Very well. Let's talk Hellfire. You were authorized to grant Hellfire on the Prime Material as sort of a...trial program. And your subjects have done very well, with one exception. Do you know who I'm speaking of?" The predatory aspect of his smile became much more apparent as he waited for a response.

"Nymthraz, sir. We gave her the hellfire, and she has grown into it admirably. If we give her enough time, she will fall to her ways. There is none that can withstand the temptations of our ordered quest for power forever." Either that, or its a serious demotion for me. At these words his superior's grin becomes a touch more contemplative, more serene.

"Right you may be, but every use of Hellfire by her drains energy from us, and before too long no matter how much we press out of her soul in the end, there's no margin in it for us. The trick is to identify individuals that are on the edge of seeing things our way, and then giving them that final push. Look, I'm not happy with that one situation, but I am happy with the other 30 decade reviews we've had together. How would you like to be a Greater Devil? You're very close, and I can pull a few strings." Rummaging in his desk for a moment, the supervisor pretends not to notice Anhur's eyes light up. He produces a single sheet of parchment, saying, "Your signature is all I need," and pushing the parchment across the desk.

Anhur examines the document. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't interested, but I have to know what type of Greater Devil before I say yes, and this just says 'Greater'" Finally, after hundreds of years. I join the ranks of the Greater Devils. Just don't let him know how eager you are.

Exhaling mightily, the supervisor leans back in his massive chair as he explains. "Well, offering a specific caste would be a mistake, because we all know that our forms are subject to the needs of the Greater Infernal Hierarchy. I can;t really guarantee a form, and I really can't guarantee an assignment, but I can guarantee a Greater form, and with your field and home office experience I'm confident you can make the best of whatever we can get you. A step up no matter what, right?"

Anhur considers for a moment, and then signs.

Later in the transformation chamber, Anhur takes his place. He is ritually bound because the transformation can be quite painful. The words of the ritual are read out in a language as old as time, and Anhur feels the change. He is becoming more powerful, his arms and legs thicken, and lengthen. Wings sprout from his back and unfold as much as the confones of the circle will allow, and his tail and horns enlarge. Screaming in pain, his eyes lit by the infernal energies flowing through them. And then in one moment its over. Anhur collapses in a smoking heap. The circle collapses, its job done.

Intoning the ritual conclusion, the supervisor grinds out, "Anhur the Harvester is no more, arise Anhur the Malebranche. Your previous form was willful, and wasted our valuable resources. You will be different, or you will be disposed of. For the costs you have incurred on those of us who always do our jobs well you will be sent to the Blood War. For signing a contract that binds you without reading it fully you have been made a Malebranche. You are physically more powerful, and mentally disabled. Go, and use your new powers to rend the life from the demons which plague us, and if you return covered in their ichor I may consider giving you your old form back." With that, he turns his back on Anhur and leaves.

Initially confused by his new form, Anhur delights to know where he is headed. Master sends us to the War! We must cover ourselves in the gore of enemies! Roaring his defiance to the burnt skies, Anhur takes wing for the first time, flying toward the front lines.

Dm's Note: I apologize for not being able to remember the topic for this months entries, nor the winner of the competition. My memory is not what it used to be...

[Klazzform]

January 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Music
Winner - The Battle of Light and Dark by Mindblade

 

Wild Hearts By Simon Hild, a.k.a. Vitus[3,047 Words]

“Behind all music is the pulse of a beating heart. This is the rhythm of life, the music of us all,” Zua-Mahuth, elder Zua tracker from the Everswept Plains.

As the burning sun of the plains quieted the creatures of the wild at mid-day, so was Mobutu quieted. He sat under the thorny tree near a stream that was so dry some stretches were merely moist soil. Here under the Oi-Ayee tree and near by there were pools of water amid the mud and many animals chose this place to drink. The large herd of zebra that Mobutu’s elven tribe of Zua plains runners had tracked for many days was no more an exception than the hungry crocodiles that waited for them there at the Oi-Ayee oasis. He sat very still and focused on being a bush under the old Oi-Ayee and not the slender, dark copper skinned elf that he was. He first saw the twitching ear of his stallion over the dusty hill that was on the other side of the stream from ‘Butu, and then the head and neck of the robust creature. His short white and black striped fur was covered with dirt and sand, and he was looking very pleased with himself.

"I am the bush," he thought to himself, "you will not see Mobutu. Here there is only a bush."

The pounding rhythm in his chest betrayed his true identity, however, and Mobutu was nearly convinced that the magnificent, striped stallion could hear the rhythm in his ears as well as he could in his own. It pounded like the echoes of the drums from the night before. While the moon cast its soft glow the elves prepared their best warriors some of who would be chosen by the herd to be Riders. They pounded the earth in the sacred rhythm of the heart, the rhythm of life. Through this communion with the Great Earth Mother, a few were called forth to ask the herd and prove they were worthy of the honor. Was Mobutu strong enough of heart to match that of a stallion? Did he understand the rhythm of life’s subtle energy enough to join in its magical cadence? Could he remember the sound he heard in the womb, the sound of his mother granting him life? Here was one elf determined to prove the elders had made a wise choice in him.

The great beast cautiously moved toward the mud hole that Mobutu had chosen long ago, for this spot was thoroughly prepared by the young would-be warrior. He knew very well that this was a favorite bath of Kuji’s, the enormous stallion who was Mobutu’s quest. If the powerful animal decided he was worthy, for it was the herd that ultimately did the choosing, the two would be sacredly bound by the Great Mother and their hearts would beat as one.

The Zua shamans told the stories of fabled Riders who had defended the Everswept tribes in the direst of times, and whose fates had all been entwined with that of their steeds. The Zua had the zebra herds to thank and revere as much as their celebrated heroes, and young `Butu held this thought in his mind as he waited for this, the pinnacle of his training and his final test before becoming an adult in the eyes of the herd, the tribe and his fellow warriors.

Mobutu and his family had been trailing the herd for weeks now, and all of the boys in the tribe had chosen their beasts. The other boys laughed at `Butu, because of Kuji’s height and girth which made the steeds chosen by the other boys miniscule in comparison. It was more traditional to try for a younger, more adolescent stallion, but Mobutu had fallen in love with Kuji the moment he spotted his powerful frame and penetrating eyes and could not be dissuaded from his task. His mother had quietly, gently tried to persuade him to choose another less dangerous quarry from the herd. Many boys were injured and some were even killed in this ceremony of age, were it not dangerous it would hardly test the courage of one who meant to be a warrior.

“ There are many stallions in the herd,” she had told him, “It would break my heart were you to be hurt…”

Mobutu knew this, but he also knew that were he to ride this imposing creature of the plains, their would be little doubt who had earned the right to take his place in the tribe. Seeing Kuji so closely now however, Mobutu knew his mother’s fear intimately for it was mirrored in his own thundering heart. Kuji was indeed a huge creature and made Mobutu feel as small as when he was a child in his mother’s arms.

The white and black stripes hid the shape of individual zebra among the herd from predators. Now Kuji was alone. Mobutu saw the ropy muscles flexing mightily as the zebra made his way down to the pool. Now he was closer than he had ever been before and Mobutu could smell his dirty coat. He could nearly feel the hot breath coming from Kuji’s snout moving in and out with his heaving sighs. Mobutu listened and tried to feel the rhythm of Kuji’s breath and matched his own to it. He approached the mud hole cautiously but still with an air of arrogance. Kuji was a powerful animal and he knew it. With a glance over each shoulder to be assured that he was alone, the stallion lowered himself to the brown pool. He chose this place to bathe often and Mobutu had watched him the day before from a greater distance.

It was after this meeting that Mobutu had snuck down to the mud hole during the hours of dusk and dug more of the sand and mud from the pool. He thought for a moment that Kuji would notice his bathing hole was considerably deeper than it had been before, but no matter. By the time the creature would discover Mobutu’s trap it would be too late.

Kuji’s coat was covered in dust and thistles. He had enjoyed a good roll in the dirt before excusing himself from the herd to take a private bath. This would have been a dangerous prospect for others in the herd. To be alone and singled out was a good way to find a patient crocodile. Kuji was a bold stallion, however, and had fended off would be attackers before. He was a fighter and enjoyed being chased for he could run like no other in his herd. Now was not the time for running and fighting. Now was a time for relaxing and wading.

The blistering sun was at once a life-giving thing and a murderous creature. Here in the dry grasslands of Shah-Khalash, the great burning disk was the creator and destroyer. All things begin and end in the sun, Mobutu’s father had told him long ago. The high sun made a trickle of sweat run down ‘Butu’s back as he watched his stallion slowly approach his favorite mud hole. He pictured his father who was at that moment hiding some distance from the herd. He clearly imagined his father crouched along with the other adults of the village waiting for ‘Butu to come of age, to feel the pulse of life and to begin to play his part in its infinite symphony.

Kuji smelled the sweat rolling down `Butu’s back but didn’t recognize it. He thrust his head high in the air and sniffed and snorted, stomping his hoof in a quandary. `Butu was as still as a stone frozen in time. He watched Kuji move to the trap without breathing. The anticipation was almost more than the youth could stand, but he could not fail! He bragged to the village that Kuji was not too great a stallion to be had. He would show them that he was not simply another wandering elf in an arid land of grass and dust. He would show his true character here…with a little help from Kuji.

Kuji was a brash one. He had less fear than his brothers and was as strong as any in the herd. So it wasn’t so hard to dismiss the odd smell. He glanced this way and that but saw little difference other than the growth spurt which had overtaken the bush under the Oi-Ayee tree that he used for a bit of shade during his mud bath. So Kuji lowered his muscled body into the hole and allowed himself a moment of peace. Mobutu watched his sides expanding and contracting more slowly. He fought his own anxiety that made his heart pound, but after a moment he calmed his breathing tempo to synchronize with the lounging zebra. The pool seemed a bit deeper today to Kuji and that suited him. His hot, dusty coat soaked in the muddy water in the same cooling fashion it always had. He lowered his ears and closed his sharp eyes for a moment to fully enjoy his secret pleasure.

Not so secret was his habit, however. Mobutu had watched Kuji well from afar for weeks and he knew when Kuji’s black eyes were hidden behind his eyelids and his great lashes rested on his furred cheek he would have one chance to strike, one chance to prove he was a worthy.

`Butu forced himself to maintain the calm and steady heartbeat that Kuji demonstrated in his peaceful bath. In a way Kuji was teaching Mobutu the rhythm of the song he must sing to entice the zebra. Kuji’s shoulders drooped as the cultivated alertness slipped out of his body. The tension was released from under his great mane of black and white, and his muscled neck sunk deeply into the muddy pool. His trap lain to perfection, `Butu watched those huge black eyes. He could almost feel the gentle beat of Kuji’s heart and the weight of Kuji’s lids. They hung heavily and began to close ever so slowly. Mobutu’s legs threatened to cramp and he would surely fall soon if he did not spring.

Kuji’s great long lashes just touched his twitching cheek and the ease of relaxation flowed through his body. The great zebra stallion let his well-practiced guard down for just a moment, one for which `Butu had been waiting and preparing his whole life. In that single instant the culmination of knowledge that `Butu had cultivated from his nomadic tribe was realized. The adolescent sprang from his camouflaged seat and landed squarely on the great beast’s back. He grabbed Kuji’s dusty mane, dug his calloused heals into his vast flanks, and hung on for dear life.

Kuji exploded in surprise and anger. He didn’t recognize what had landed on him. It was certainly too small to be a lion or hyena but he was thrashing about in such a fury that the mud and water concealed his adversary. Worse, the mud was too deep today; he wasn’t able to spring from his favorite water hole. Kuji struggled and fought with the natural restraints. He tried to buck and turn but he could do little but try to drag himself and his unwelcome passenger from the hole. Far off in the distance he could here men hooting and yelling, and drums now alive in a well rehearsed tumult but he didn’t care about that now. All he wanted was to run, to flee!

With all the effort his great mass could gather, Kuji lunged from the pool and bucked fiercely upon his release. Mobutu nearly lost his grip as Kuji launched his rump into the air and twisted. The young elf was stunned at the power of the stallion and `Butu’s feet flew into the air. In that moment he thought that he had lost, that Kuji had thrown him, but Mobutu’s hands were gripped as if he held on to Death’s merciless sickle and if he lost his hold on it, the blade would surely relieve him of the burden of life.

Kuji ran through the thickest brambles he knew. The zebra galloped with this dark skinned elf boy trailing behind him like a scarf made of the most determined flesh. The hunters would comment later that they had assumed Mobutu had fashioned some sort of rope to tie his hand to the neck of the thundering zebra, for surely none could have hung on by strength alone. After Kuji had run through stream and bramble, over hill and through gulch he finally tired and found himself surrounded by elves and their pack of thin running dogs. Mobutu’s legs dangled from the stallion’s broad, red stained back bleeding and limp, but his fingers remained tangled in the stiff mane that Kuji now casually shook from side to side. The shaman would cast his spell now; Mobutu had proved he was worthy of the Gift. Kuji would have a brother until death in Mobutu who could now truly call himself a Beast Rider of the Everswept Plains.

The tribe’s camp was a bustle with activity. The drum circle beat out a steady if ever changing rhythm that would go on for many days. Family members fawned and fretted over their boys, this year a dozen had attempted the trial and many were injured. The honored ritual to discover the tribe’s next beast riders was held only once every seven years when the wondering stars meet in the heavens. Mobutu was not the oldest of the contenders for the training to be tribe’s elite warriors, but he was one of the few who had succeeded in finding the steed for whom he was chosen. Tradition held that the mount did the choosing and gossip was of Mobutu’s success in whispering the great stallion Kuji.

Months before the hunt, the elders had made their journey south to the Shorn Plats to speak with the djinn spirits who dwell in that mystic land. They returned from their ritual clensing with the necessary herbs and incantations that would bind the young elves who had succeeded in their greatest test before the Great Mother.

The women of the tribe had been preparing the feast for days and were now decorating the conical tents and yurts of the camp with silk ribbons of black and white to honor the totem animal of the tribe, which was the fierce and independent zebra. The children danced around the camp wearing costumes of white and black and dancing with tiny drums keeping in time more or less with the drummers in the circle about the fire in the center of camp. The pounding drums represented the pounding of the heart of a warrior and his honored steed as they became one.

As the sun began to finally relent its oppressive rays, horns made from the antlers of big horned sheep bellowed out through the camp and into the surrounding countryside. The elders were ready to pass their gift on to the four youngsters that had found their companion.

The evening came. The moon showing brightly in the arid sky, the glow from the 20’ stretch of hot coals in the center where the bon fire had been and torches set on poles surrounded the ceremony lighted the camp. The four youths prepared themselves for the final step before becoming some of the most feared mounted warriors to defend the tribes of the southern Shah-Kalash Desert. The shamans, three older elves and one ancient female who led them, began the ancient chant that had been passed down through the generations to call forth the totem spirit to bind the souls of stallion and youth, so that they might find the deep connection to the spirits of nature. The drums pounded rhythmically and the chants grew louder and louder. Soon those in the camp who knew the ceremony as well as they knew the tenants of their own people began to dance and whirl in costumes and small cymbals attached to their fingers.

The youths were led out, and Mobutu was the first and proudest of them all for he rode the strongest, fiercest of any in the herd. The honor was given to him to be the first to receive the striped tattoo across his arms and legs. The painful process was still another test of a warrior’s tolerance for pain and dedication to the protection of the herd, his tribe and his family.
Bareback, Kuji and Mobutu approached the bed of coals. Mobutu patted Kuji’s neck when he slid from his back and boldly if quickly walked across the glowing avenue to the awaiting shaman who held a wicked looking tight cluster of sharpened reeds. To his side were several prepared inks and an assistant acolyte who had a bowl of clean water and a cloth ready to wipe the inevitable blood.

Mobutu took his marking without showing the excruciating pain for every tap-tap-tap of the sharpened reeds that reinforced the pounding drums outside and in his chest. The constant rhythm drove the ink deep into his skin, forever marking him as a beast rider, the highest order of warrior class within his tribe of nomads.

Mobutu’s first test of a warrior was already well known to him. The Zua were ready to make the rare trek to the capital to pay homage to the Shah, and give tribute that his people had so many generations ago agreed to pay in exchange for the cessation of systematic and hostile religious conversion that had nearly destroyed the various elven nomads. All the tribes sent warriors at this time of year to the capital, Wes-Kha but Mobutu had his own agenda. Now that he was a true warrior he could issue a challenge to any other warrior within the nomadic Shah-Kalash tribes. Once he found the devil to which his dear sister was betrothed, he would demand to know the details of her untimely death. Mobutu had his own suspicions and he intended to find proof of them so he might challenge that bastard on a field of battle and finally give his sister and indeed his whole tribe the chance to find peace.

 

The Battle of Light and Dark By Mindblade[2,963 Words]

The children sat in a circle, delighted that the patchwork minstrel had finally returned. The minstrel, they knew, travelled the world, restless in his search for tale and song. And now, at last, he had stopped at their village again.

“Sit down then,” he said. His eyes were fever-bright as he spoke. “This tale – yes, I think this is the right tale to tell.” He spoke with confidence. “This is a story you have never heard before.”


*

The valley was silent. The night was dark, and the air was cool.

A castle stood atop the crag. Treacherous and ominous, wrapped in the deepest shadow, it’s spires were jagged and twisted, as though they were sharp enough to cut the very air and poised to pierce the sky. As twisted as the towers they wrapped around were the metal tubes, jutting into the air in a haphazard yet somehow ordered fashion. The shadow cast by the castle fell across the village.

All was silent.

On the night air, which was the kind of air that carries sound, the gentle harmonics of the strings came from afar. An orchestra, of ethereal yet unholy beauty. Then the organ sank it’s sinister tones into the depths of a perfectly fingered, intricate prelude, as the bellows were worked. For this was the music of the children of the night, and what wonderful music they made.

It was a cloudless night, yet thunder crashed, and rolled, in as a perfect accompaniment to the music. Out, over the mountains, the wolves howled.

The moon rose.

Now the organ was playing notes that were almost a dirge, notes to trail icy fingers down the spine. It resonated with the harmonics that stir the soul to fear, and awakened the inhabitants of the tiny village below. And when they awoke, they shuddered even as they crawled out of their houses. For they were drawn by a score that was counterpointed by the deep rolling of the thunder, and played by the minions of hell.

The music dropped in pitch, to sound the notes of the darkest depths of a mortal soul. It plunged, yes - like a bat swooping in the night. The meter of that score was the same as that of a fevered man’s heart-beat as he struggles with sweat-drenched nightmares. Then the pitch rose, and the music soared, revelling in the glory of misery and pain. And then the melody fell away again. And the score that the master organist was playing with his long, thin white fingers was one to cause angels to weep, and their tears would be of both rapture and horror - for it captured the essence of sin itself. A nocturne - of jealous passion and vicious lust, of desperate need and insatiable despair. The eerie, horrific music flooded the night. Then the music changed again, and the melody it pounded in time with the rushing of the blood in the listener’s hearts.

Soaring through the night sky, destiny approached from afar, drawn by the exquisite beauty of the strains of music.

Down in the village below, the citizens spilled out into the night. Terror was running down their faces, yet they did not hesitate. They ran into the square, clad only in their nightshirts, throwing caution to the wind as they raised their arms to the sky, caught up in the intoxication of the music.

The church bell began to toll.

Fluttering, ragged shapes appeared, and as they swept down they reached out to the upstretched arms to snatch up and carry away the living. The music shifted in tempo, and suddenly the notes the organ reached were a perfect counterpoint to the screams of horror. The valley resonated with the acoustics of evil.

And then there was light.

A voice filled the night sky with notes of impossible height and purity - a singer arrived from outside of the music. And the refrain it picked out wove about the sinister music, and countered it, and surpassed it. Around despair it lifted delight, and the sound of that song was the sound of brightness in the darkness, of wildness, the magic of being truly alive. The foul notes of deceit, of jealousy, of betrayal were all countered with the gentle, streaming song that bespoke of trust unbreakable and hope unquenchable.

At the edge of the ring of mountains that encircled the vale - as though graping it in a cruel, stony fist - a glittering shape appeared. Flying ever faster, first the starlight caught it, and streaming sparks of light glanced over it's scales as it sped to arrive. As it grew nearer still the moonlight caught it, so that it’s crystal wings were outlined in sudden, blazing moonfire to the ends of their outstretched pinions. The moonlight danced, endlessly, across the clear living crystal, so that it appeared to be glowing from within. As it neared the castle and the village, the beams scattered by the dragon's body cast a silvery radiance over the ground, so that the very blades of grass appeared to be etched in light and shadow. It’s wings as they beat sang, too, as the air passed through and around them, crystal flutes, or chimes like the laughter of children.

But the master organist was not to be outdone. The orchestra paused. Then, the music changed, and the symphony of darkness was wholly occupied with the challenge. With awe-inspiring skill, the symphony was now laced seamlessly about the intricate aria, and the dragon responded, measuring its own measure against the measure in kind. The whole was a melody of earth-shattering power and beauty, and nothing like it had ever been heard in all the world yet, nor has been heard since, for that song was the song of the battle of good against evil, and the heartbeat of the very world.

Singer and player, song and score, reverberated through the valley whilst the villagers crouched, listening, now struck down by despair, now soaring in delirious, effervescent joy. The scrawny, filthy, tattered shapes dropped their burdens and fled the coming of the light, and the dragon flew over the village, and as it did so it sounded a mighty roar that shook the very houses, a roar that was song, a cry of freedom, of defiance, of a dragon’s wildness, and the ragged people cheered, stirred to the depths of their blood. The dragon soared up, flying about the top of the spires of the castle, trying to find the centre of the music, and then dropped gently, opening it's wings.

Lightly it landed, before the gates of the castle. It's form shimmered, to take on the shape of a woman, more beautiful than any mortal woman could ever hope to be. Her hair was long, cast almost to the floor - ghostly pale, and floating, and webbed with light. All about her shone scattered radiance, that changed and shifted as she walked. She was tall, stately – taller than any mortal woman, and she stepped forward, still singing, and her voice was heavenly. She laid her hand to the dark, fanged gate, and at her touch they swung forward. And she stepped forward - alone in the dark, the shadows surrounding her, whilst she burned with an inner flame and beauty.

And the music of light and darkness shook the night.

The shadows drew back from her, revealed in that sparkling light to be not sensual, deadly, and devastating, but drab and wretched, living corpses, bloated and vile. Yet even as she walked on they gathered in behind her, a host of vampire spawn. And the host was driven not only by a longing to savour the taste of the light about her, but by the bidding and will of their master. They sang in accompaniment to her, a hellish choir whose mouths still dripped with the blood of the yet-living.

Bold and unafraid she walked on, light about her, darkness behind; and her voice shone in the darkness of the overture of peril. Step by step she ascended the stairs, flights and flights of them. Finally, she reached the organ chamber, and she raised her hands. The doors were flung inward, and upon the stool sat the master vampire. Their voices melded into harmony now, the aria of evil not overwhelmed by her own of light. Nor did he cease his playing as he sang, nor the servitors he had spawned fall silent. For the master of the vampires was an artist, and he, like she, had had a score of centuries to perfect his art.

Finally, the organ was stilled, so that only a single series of notes played slowly as the bellows leaked air. A brief interlude. “You are a master of music, lady dragon,” said the vampire, and his voice as he spoke was the voice of grating, irredeemable evil. “I congratulate you. It has been an honour to work my score to a voice such as yours.”

“You are a master also, vampire,” said she, and she lowered her head. “I have come to destroy you.”

“Alas!” he said, “for this can only mean that the music will never be the same again.” He rose, and his dark cloak flapped about him, and the winds rushed in about him, in obedience to his will. The expression upon the master vampire’s face was one of genuine anguish. “But you must sing with me, a little longer, I beg you,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “for music has been both my delight and my agony through long ages, and music alone has ever come close to filling the void within me, or sating my insatiable hunger. Yet when we battle, one of us must surely perish, and I will forever grieve for the music that must be lost.”

The dragon was still, and the anguish upon her face also was evident for all to see. What true lover of music could refuse? He saw that she yielded to his request, and he bowed to her, and seated himself in front of the organ once more. With the skill of a master, he pulled out all the stops. Then the music was struck up anew, and together they sang.

Long they sang, and their music was unearthly in it’s perfection. The dragon’s voice thrilled with fervour, and she sang to the vampire of light - light in the darkness. She sang of the joy of life, of delight, of places brimming with mystery and hidden magic. She sang of soaring upon the wing, the wind that caress the body, lifting one ever higher. She sang of looking down over the world, it’s awesome beauty. She sang of clouds that glowed with sunlight, so achingly beautiful they brought tears of wonder. And her vibrating voice resonated with what it was to cry out in joy to the endless sky.

Yet in reply he sang to her an aria on the coldness of the corpse, and of the grave. He sang of darkness, of hiding from the sun. Bitter like the foulest of brews was his baritone, as he sang of snatching brief moments of warmth, fierce heat to be stolen and devoured, resentfully, in despite of the world that would deny you. He cried aloud to the darkness upon his knees, of his pride and his grief that the only true pleasures were hellish, that the fires of the soul could only be ignited by blood, and awakened by cruel, fierce desire.

He sang of his joy in the fear of the devoured, and of his need, and their need for his hunger, and that song was a rapture of love that consumes, of the painful, grasping desperation that men so often exalt – of the chains of demand and desire. And the notes played by the organ that accompanied his verses left those that heard it crying aloud in fury and misery at the cruelty of the world.

But she lifted her voice in reply, her voice dominating his, and she sang of pure, selfless love, love that has the courage to love and then let love be free. Loves that exalt each other – loves that endure wherever the other should wander, enduring through absence, and distance, and even time. Her voice was like liquid light spilling from her tongue, suffused with the golden glow of memory, as she sang of love that is pure and sacred, a meeting of souls, that tinges every step throughout the world with new meaning.

And then she sang at last of the power of truth, over all the torments and terrors that assail the soul.

Hands clasped at his breast, he responded with the music of the glamour of evil, the glamour that drives men to lust after it, to yield to it's temptation. He sang of ruined pride, that fills the hearts of the wicked, until their latest vile deed is done. His song was that of those desperate currents, the cravings, the hungers and urges, that ebb and flow beneath mortal man, and he returned to the organ to play once more his sinister motif.

And as he played the shadow gathered about them, choking and terrible, threatening to strangle even the dragon’s light.

Quiet at first, out of that gloom, the dragon’s clear answer was as a ray of light to drive back the oppressive air. There was compassion in her voice, and even exultation. For now she sang of those that set right great ills. As she sang on, each and every act of compassion enacted by mortal man was held up as an act worthy of centre stage. Of valour she sang, and bravery, and courage, the mortal lives made significant by the determination to overcome hopeless odds.

Yet, hoping to turn aside the inevitable battle, she pleaded with the master vampire to forswear his life of evil. He only laughed.


“O, dragon maid, know I revel in sin,
and the maidens fair bleed and die within,
Evil has style, and style grants men pride,
Would you have glamour for goodness denied?”

And he laughed again, and the host of vampires laughed with him, and their teeth were pale fangs in the shadows.

For answer, she sang of hope. Hope so breathtaking and stirring that the villagers leapt to their feet, ready to fly at the castle in defiance of evil. He sang in answer, and his bloody children also, and at the sound of that choir the listeners sank to crawl upon the ground. She sang of awe, and he sang of fear– she sang of joy, and he sang of grief. The souls of those poor villagers soared and plunged alternately as the music warred. She sang of pride, he sang of shame. She sang of joy, his music was pain. And at that, a new refrain was begun, like thorny barbs tearing through the soul.

He sang of death, and the inevitable horror that awaits mortals at the end of their days. And that grieved her, and struck her sorely, and she fell silent.

The master vampire pressed his advantage. He sang in a low and predatory fashion, full of guile, and cunning. He sang of power, and of gain, that the dragons ever fall prey to. He sang of temptation, and of yielding to it, and above all, of the music that they could make together, if only she would fall into the darkness with him.

Then the dragon spread her gigantic wings, for wings they had become, and her form was that of a dragon once more. And lifting her shimmering throat, she answered him. All that seemed good to men was in light, she sang. Without light, darkness could have no lustre. All that evil could mimic of marvel and majesty was to no avail.

Her notes were like droplets of liquid flame, searing the soul with joy. Life!

Only life could fill, she sang. For evil, though it craved life, was lifeless, and drama was life. Without light, the darkness would devour it’s own glamour, and be consumed by it’s emptiness. And therefore, it is life that abides, and life that endures, even after death.

So singing, she rose, and her wings buffeted the inside of the tower. And she sang on, a song of blinding power and purity, the song of Life itself. Every heart exulted that heard it. And as the day dawned the rising crescendo began to reverberate through the earth. As she neared the climax, she sang one high, pure note, and as she held it the Count’s minions dissipated into ashes. A second, glorious note, and the tower was shaken to it’s very foundations.

The Count was smiling.

Then, she drew a great breath, and as she reached the finale the tower was torn asunder. The dragon flew up into the air, still singing, shaking the rubble and metal piping from her wings. The organ exploded as the sun rose, and dawn came. The broken tower was flooded with radiance, and the expression on the Count’s face as he burst into flame was the look of exquisite rapture. For it had been a performance that could never be rivalled.


*

“And to this day,” the minstrel said, “if you visit the town, there are still pieces of that pipe buried in the ground, and the farmers dig them up and put them in the shrine. The dragon flew away, to where none can say, for who can follow a dragon? But that town is now known far and wide for the skill of it’s bards.”

One of the women blinked, and then turned to begin to ask a question of another. But the children’s aged grandmother, who was wise and knew many things, waved a hand, and said only, “Hush.”

 

The Stalking by Kariel Lateef[2,818 Words]

Crimson Eye slowly awoke, the day fire was waning and soon it would be time to hunt. The lithe Dragonet stretched to his full length as he arose from his modest pile of coins, jewels and various trophies taken from his victims. Measuring 6 feet from nose to tip of his tail, his ebony skin seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. As the sun dipped behind the numerous towers that ringed the city. Crimson Eye padded over to the door of his present lair and nudged it open with his blunt snout. His current “employer” had thought he had done him a favor by removing the handle, Crimson Eye wasn't about to disabuse him of that notion.

The Dragonet moved down the hallway of the tower that was his present abode. This was not the first, nor likely the last, wizard that Crimson Eye had been associated with. The present one called himself something or another “The Red”. Crimson Eye wasn't horribly interested in what he chose to call himself and thought of him simply as the wizard. The wizard had said he had a target for his hunt tonight, Crimson Eye knew that meant it would be interesting.

Hastaff The Red was a cruel man, his focus was knowledge and he didn't care who he hurt to gain that knowledge. Presently he was hurting a sage, the old man was hiding something from him, or maybe not, Hastaff didn't really care, he just wanted to hear the old man scream. Suddenly he became aware of another presence in his lab, he spun quickly, the words to a deadly spell on his lips. Crimson Eye stood behind him looking at him with head cocked and a quizzical expression on his face. Much to Hastaff's dismay the Dark Dragonet was only 3 feet from him. Much too close for the mage's comfort, he had seen the beast kill before, if the beast had wanted him, he would have had him.

Hastaff lowered his hand “I told you not to sneak up on me” he informed the Dragonet.

“Wasss not sssneaking” answered Crimson Eye “not Crimsson Eye fault wizard no hear Crimsson Eye, now what Crimsson Eye hunt this evening? It iss time.”

Hastaff smiled thinly “yes indeed my friend, it is time and past time for this hunt.” The wizard proceeded to given his Draconian ally what information he had on his target for the evening.

Crimson Eye glided through the still night air above the great city of Siel. He was careful to avoid the area around the palace and the adjacent temples. Siel was a city steeped in goodly religion. On the one hand it made a wonderful hunting ground, on the other, it made it a very dangerous place for a creature of evil such as himself. Shortly after coming here Crimson Eye had learned to avoid the air above the temples and the temple grounds. The priests had some powerful allies and Crimson Eye had no interest in repeating the experience. His target dwelt in one of the isolated towers that dotted the city and he silently made his way towards it.

A sole light shown from the white marble tower. It came from a window on the upper floor, as the wizard had predicted. Crimson Eye circled the tower twice from a height. He was able to pick out the two guards the wizard had told him would be there. They were humans, Crimson Eye knew that meant they were basically blind. This was too easy. Crimson Eye waited until one of the guards looked away from the edge and then swooped in silent as death itself and grabbed a perch just below the parparet. He waited until he heard the faint sound of the man's boots shifting as he turned around. He then very lightly scratched the side of the tower with a claw tip. The footsteps stopped, he waited a couple seconds and scratched again. Now the footsteps approached the edge. He scratched again and then the head and shoulders of the guard appeared framed in the starlight from above. The human looked down the tower and again Crimson Eye was amazed at the blindness of humans. He was barely 2 feet away but the human saw nothing. Crimson Eye struck, like a snake, his coiled neck shot forward his jaws filled with teeth like small daggers clamped on his victims neck. He tasted the sweet taste of blood. An overwhelming sense of ecstasy filled him as the man died, he could taste the goodness in him, the smell of it always disgusted him, but the taste, oh the taste. Crimson Eye clamped down and held the man still, letting the life drain from him silently. So swiftly had he struck, that the man had made no noise.

“Jon, what is it?” called his companion. Crimson Eye let the dead man go and swooped downward and around to where the other guard could not see him, then gained altitude. He watched the other guard discover his friends corpse and turn to give an alarm. Then he folded his wings and struck the man from behind, altitude accomplishing what his small mass could not alone and bowling the man over. The second guard died with Crimson Eye's jaws clamped to the back of his neck and strong rear claws tearing his spine out from behind. The man died as his companion had, without a sound. Crimson Eye took only a token bite from his prey, he had bigger game in mind.

The Dragonet made his way across the roof and reached the entry to the tower proper. He carefully sniffed the area around the hatch without touching anything. He caught the telltale stench of magic and snorted. Wizards are so predictable, he went back to the second corpse and dragged it to the hatch. The latch mechanism was a simple lever. Using his dextrous front hands, he grabbed the dead guards arm and used the mans rapidly cooling hand to manipulate the latch. Once the hatch was open he let the guards arm fall and silently slipped into the tower. Sensing no danger on the other side he closed the hatch and moved deeper into the tower.

Miltus the Virtuous knelt in front of the small altar. As usual he struggled to maintain his focus, he was a devote man, but he spent his life serving two masters. One he prayed to now, his lord Falkar accepted only the most pure as his clerics. His other master was knowledge, Miltus was both a cleric and mage. As always he struggled between the two, his prayers were of the utmost importance to him, but his mind raced with his current studies into transmutation and polymorph. He knew he was on the edge of perfecting his new spell. He would never regret the time he spent in prayer, but sometimes it was hard to concentrate with so many thoughts racing through his mind.

Crimson Eye moved silently through the tower passageways. He was pleased to find the passageways wide and well lit. Some might find it strange that the stealthy hunter was pleased with well lit areas. But Crimson Eye was old for one of his kind, he was experienced and wise in the ways of humanoids. Well lit meant his prey saw poorly in the dark, well lit meant his prey feared the dark, well lit meant lots of shadows. Shadows were Crimson Eye's friend. He flitted from dark pool to shadowed niche, the wide passageways making it easy. The many side passages, alcoves and doorways provided all the shadows any being could want. He encountered no one, never the less he halted in the shadows after every flight. When he did so he looked and listened, he smelled and plotted his next move, always with an alternate if a door should suddenly open. Crimson Eye had not become old among his kind by being careless. The very AIR of this place stunk of good. On a humans map if they did not know what lay beyond the edge they stated, “Here be Dragons”. On Crimson Eye's mental map the whole tower was marked, “Here be Death.”

Miltus knelt before the image of his Lord. The image had been carved from a solid block of blue glacier ice by a Dir craftsman, Miltus had frozen it for all time with his own magic and asked his Lord's blessing upon it. The Dir, or “ice folk”, as some named them, did not worship Falkar and his companion, the dwarf Varse. They did however, honor them. The two heroes figured in a portion of the Dir history. Figures of their goddess were not allowed, the Dir however excelled at ice carving and had no problem carving the figures of other dieties. The figures of both Falkar and Varse were life sized and occupied a place of supreme honor in both Miltus's residence and his heart.

Crimson Eye could hear a being chanting, the words made no sense at this distance but none the less grated on his very being. Prayers to a goodly god no doubt. Crimson Eye knew the dangers of confronting a true believer before the very altar of his god. He decided it might be best to wait until his prey left the chapel before making his move. With that thought, he found a dark corner in a niche containing some sort of statue of a rotund humanoid and settled in to wait.

Miltus finished his evening devotions, for some reason his prayers did not leave him feeling relaxed and enlightened as they usually did. Instead he felt a vague feeling of uneasiness as if something evil lurked nearby. However his mind quickly turned to his research and he hurried from his sanctuary heading for his workshop.

Crimson Eye tracked the human with his eyes as he entered the passageway, this was his prey, the man reeked of goodness. The man hurried past Crimson Eye never glancing in his direction. The Dragonet could have struck them, but caution held him back. He let the man move ahead then took wing and glided silently after him, again moving from shadow to shadow. He tracked his prey through the passageways until the man entered a chamber reeking of magic. The door to this chamber, unlike many they had passed, was a plain, sturdy, unadorned wooden slab bound in iron. The man entered the room closing the door behind him. As he did Crimson Eye noticed that the door didn't fit the opening exactly, there was a small gap at the top that showed light from the room. The lithe Dragonet perched above the door and craning his neck, applied his eye to the gap.

Miltus entered his lab, cringing a little at the crudeness of the temporary door that currently closed the opening. The original had been destroyed when one of his experiments had gone awry and the replacement was not yet ready. He made a mental note to send a man around to the craftsman that was carving the new one to see if he couldn't rush the job a bit.

Crimson Eye could see little from this angle, but he could see the chamber was much like any other mage workshop, littered with odd items, random stains and odd smells. It was reminiscent of a predators nest. His prey moved rapidly around the room lighting candles, checking various apparatus and generally doing incomprehensible things. The Dragonet knew he was not the only being who found the actions of mages confusing. Luckily, Crimson Eye didn't have to understand the mage, he just had to kill him.

Miltus lit some candles and checked a potion he had simmering, he then crossed to his spell book and reviewed his notes. Confident he was ready to begin, he quickly cast a “protection from Evil” spell over the room. He was about to add another to prevent scrying when an inhuman screech erupted from outside his doorway. The door glowed in a way that let him know something of evil had touched the barrier of his first spell. He grabbed out his wand and quickly crossed to the door and threw it open.

Crimson Eye was in pain, and very angry, mostly at himself. He had been so engrossed in watching his prey he had failed to be cautious when the human cast a spell and the result was a badly burned eye and some scorched skin. That he could deal with, his reactions were such that he had suffered no real harm. He had yanked his head back at the first touch of the spell and avoided any real injury. The bad part was that he had voiced his surprise and consternation and the human was now aware that he was not alone in the tower. His element of surprise was now gone, and for a Dragonet that element was one of the greatest tools of the hunt. He had vacated his perch and immediately glided to a back up spot down the hall.

Miltus was at the doorway within seconds, but what ever had hit his shield had fled. Stepping into the passageway he looked quickly in both directions but saw nothing. Tucking his wand in his sash he cast a hurried “detect evil” spell, his voice and hands rushing through the familiar spell.

Crimson Eye observed his prey burst into the hallway with wand in hand. When the prey went to spell casting he knew he had to act. He couldn't know what the mage was casting, but whatever it was would make the hunt harder. His target was too far away for guaranteed success with a physical attack. The Dragonet, however, had other weapons at his disposal. Turning his head towards the mage he opened his mouth and breathed a jet of fire at the mage. The jet of fire struck the mage in the chest and more importantly across his gesturing hands.

Miltus had barely begun his spell when a jet of flame struck him, scorching his hands and disrupting his spell. He ducked back into the doorway and drew his wand. He wished he had grabbed something more powerful. The wand he held was one of his own devising that threw balls of force. It was meant more as a deterrent than as an actual weapon. Miltus found it useful in certain situations, this was not one of them. He had no idea what he was facing, the jet of flame had come from a high point in the passageway and was not very strong, his hands and chest hurt but he felt he could still cast with the singed fingers.

Crimson Eye was gratified his flame had stopped the mage's spell, but he was not one to waste time gloating. When the mage moved to duck back in the doorway, Crimson Eye moved too. There was a reason he was retained by the best, and he was about to prove his worth.

Miltus extended his wand around the edge of the alcove and triggered it several times. The balls of force chipped cornices and shattered statuary. He then quickly stuck his head out and looked down in the direction he had fired, searching for movement. If he was lucky he had hit whatever it was and stunned it. As he looked, he could see nothing but broken statuary. Then a shadow seemed to descend from directly above his head.

A great weight seemed to slam his head to the ground. He smelt brimstone, as teeth like daggers gripped the back of his neck. Hooked knives seemed to pierce his back, searching for his spine. Then Miltus the Virtuous knew no more.

Crimson Eye glided through the silent night. The day fire would rise soon, it was time for him to sleep, his belly was full, he was liable to do so for several days. After that, he would have time to think and consider his next move. This city would become more dangerous now that a prominent citizen had fallen. Ever a long thinker, Crimson Eye had planned for this moment. His modest treasure pile would be moved as agreed to his new lair, with a rather large addition. The young mage who had approached Crimson Eye had agreed to do this. He had wanted only one thing in return. Crimson Eye would wait until he hungered again, then a certain wizard, something or another “the Red” would fall and Crimson Eye would move on. He doubted he would stay long with the young mage. The youth had not the skills or wealth to support such an alliance long. Such a thing didn't bother Crimson Eye.

After all, they were all prey eventually.

 

Blind Devotion by Andrew Mason aka Arbiter[2,118 Words]

“I hope very dearly that you will never understand what I saw in your father, but I do hope you’ll understand how he passed. I killed him to save myself and you. Course that was after he blinded me,” said Ophelia Smith to her daughter. The younger dropped the plate she’d been scrubbing, and it clattered to the bottom of the soapy water where it would be forgotten.

“You said you’d never talk about that,” said Alice in tones of awe. Processing the rest of what her mother had just said, she burst out: “You killed daddy?! And he blinded you?! They always said he died in an accident, and that you lost your sight drinking backwoods hooch, and that!”

Turning to face her daughter, Ophelia put a single finger on her lips, removing it once the tide of words had been stemmed. “Hush now. Do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you want to keep on playing that Symphony of Shock and Sympathy you’re warming up for? And yes, your daddy blinded me. Yes, we were drinking that night, but there wasn’t anything ‘backwoods’ or ‘hooch’ about what we were drinking. How about we move to the living room? The dishes will wait, and I think by the end of this story we’ll both want to be someplace comfortable.” Without waiting for a response, Ophelia turned and walked into the living room, and sat on the couch. After a moment, her daughter followed. Taking a seat, beside her mother, she waited. “Your father was a welder down at the auto plant, and I was working at the grocery store here in town Your father was a charmer in his day. We saw each other off and on, and from the very first, he knew I was the one for him. I was a bit less sure. He was fun, and he thought the world of me, but I wasn't ready to be tied down by a ring just yet. So I saw your father, and we had good times, but I also saw some other nice boys. Nothing too serious, just having fun. Then one night he asked me to marry him." Taking an unhurried moment to smile at her memory, she continued, "Lord! He had the largest diamond I had ever seen!" Her smile faded as she finished, "And the last one I'll ever see."

Sitting in shocked silence, Alice's mind caught up to her mother's words after a few seconds. Speaking in hushed tones, treading lightly on the silence between them as if it might pull her in if she was not careful, she asked, "Is that when it happened? And what was it? And why in HELL did you marry him anyhow?! And what happened to him?"

Sitting unperturbed on the well worn couch, Ophelia waited for her daughter to finish. When her daughter's questions died down, she began again in the same conversational tone. "Hush now, daughter. There's time enough for all your questions, and every one I'll answer. Now you heard we were drinking that evening, and you heard right. We were at his place, and fast as he could set them up we were drinking them down. I thought I knew him then. Jack and Coke, Jim Beam and Dr. Pepper, Magnolia beer on ice. We were both about 5 drinks down, when all the sudden your father fell out of his chair. He sat there on the floor for a moment, laughing like a damn fool. And then he got up on one knee. It was startling the change that came over him. One moment he was drunk as a skunk, and the next he was sober as a blacksnake watching a mouse. He pulled that ring box out, and my heart practically exploded. He was a good man, but I wasn't sure he was THE man. He said those words, as every man should some day, and I near fainted. I told him that I'd need some time to think, that I couldn't tell him for sure, and just kind of crumpled like a paper cup under a truck tire. I told him I thought I'd better go, and he asked me for just one more drink. How often I have thought about how things could have been different had I just gone home." Reflecting on her past, Ophelia leans back in her chair, transported to a time more wonderful and more horrible than her present.

Once again the silence spread between them like a predator sunning itself in the fears of her daughter. Finally she could stand it no longer, and she pressed forward, too horrified to want to know, and too fascinated to stop herself. "What then, mama? Did he...Is that how I...did you?," she trailed off, her horror at the possibilities overwhelming her desire to know.

"I did nothing. 'Cept had that last drink and a ride back to my apartment from your father, and I kissed him and said good night. I slept like the dead. I woke up 10 hours later, 11 AM on Sunday, and I had the worst headache. I got up, and my vision was blurry, and I was still unsteady, so I figured the good lord would understand if I missed just one church service. So I lay back down to sleep, and I slept straight through till supper. When I woke, my roomate was making supper for us the way she did most Sundays. That Ruby could cook a chicken like no one else knew how, and her greens were mighty fine as well. I just lay there in the dark, listening to her sing to herself as she cooked, and I thought she must have had the radio on, because I heard the most beautiful music along with her voice, all big brass and sweet strings. Finally, I knew I had to get up, so I opened my eyes, and nothing. No dim light, no bright light, nothing. I checked to see if there was anything over them, and they were uncovered. I blinked a few times, no change. That's about when I screamed. Ruby came running, and she asked me what was wrong. That's all an old story. You've known all that since you knew I was blind. What you didn't know was the music. I have never told another soul what I am about to tell you."

Alice sat on her side of the couch, waiting. Once more Silence curled up bewteen them, and grew as the seconds dragged by until finally Alice burst out: "Mama, I am never gonna guess what this big secret is, so you'd best just tell me!"

"You rest easy now, its not easy getting this all out in the open. Most blind folks know on some level they're being pitied by the sighted, and most that know don't like it any. Some can hear it in a person's voice. I can hear it, and them being silent does nothing to make me hear it less. That day in my apartment? Ruby didn't have the radio on. Ever since I woke up on that Sunday evening long ago, I hear music. From everyone. You may have noticed that I don't keep much company, even since your father passed on. That's half because I do quite all right by myself, and half because I cannot STAND the music that comes from most of the people in this world. Anyone who knows me is all whining strings and shrill wind instruments. Its all pity music, and I cannot stand to be in the same room with most people. Your father was different. From him I heard the steady timpani thump of dedication. I knew then that he was devoted only to me, and that me being blind changed nothing. He took a knee for me again, and I said yes this time." She stopped again, laying her head back against the couch, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Alice fidgeted a little in her seat, but against all odds remained silent. "That bridal walk was the strangest thing I ever have or ever will experience. There was the church music, and then the people music. The church music was the standard fare, the stuff you've heard a thousand times, and the people was...near indescribable. Swells of joy at the prospect of marriage for me and your father, echoes of nostalgia for weddings past, stutters of pity at my lack of sight, and deep, pounding bass crashes of pride that your father would take me as his wife even though I was blind. There were undertones of a hundred different thoughts and feelings, but those were the main ones, until I got near the altar. There, everything else died back, and I just heard Joe and his thousand synchronized timpani of devotion to me. That and a solitary piccolo that I later figured was the sound of a preacher doing his job without much thought or enthusiasm. Our marriage went like most of them did in those days. I cooked and cleaned, he worked in that auto plant in town, welding and before long managing welders. And every time he came near me, I heard those same drums. It helped keep me steady, but then again that's what chains do. He had me locked down, so deathly afraid that something would happen to me that he couldn't stand it. And I could hear it. Wailing flutes under the drums, and shrill worry. And so I let him control me, and all was well. Then I had you. I'll never for get the doctor who delivered you, Dr. Aaron Goldberg. Being in the room with him was like bathing in warm horn music. He loved babies, and he loved his job, and he was one of the very few people in this world from whom I never heard one solitary note note of pity. When we were leaving the hospital, all three of us, he set up a follow-up appointment for you and I, and he said something that I'll never forget. He hemmed and hawed, and talked medical about complications and postnatal care, and this and that, and when your father left for a moment, he leaned in real close and said in my ear: 'If you don't make it to the appointment, that's fine. Just remember, you deserve better.' And then he backed up and continued spouting his Dr. talk. I never knew what he meant, until I insisted on you and I making it to that appointment. Joe started talking about my condition, and how I needed to rest. Then he went on about how I needed help to get around, and he's just take you himself. We went on like that for near an hour, temper's rising, voices rising along with them, and then he hit me. One punch, straight to the gut, knocked the wind out of me. I remember lying there on the floor, rolling back and forth, gasping for air, and your father getting down on the floor with his knee between my legs, putting his hand on my throat, and him saying in his most quiet, controlled voice. 'Listen, you bitch, I put wood alcohol in your drink years ago to keep us together, and I thought that would be enough. But if you insist on putting yourself in danger, I might just cripple you too.' I knew then the difference between devotion and obsession. Dr. Goldberg was devoted, Joe was obsessed. Devotion enriched the good doctor's life, obsession made Joe held on so tight he was beginning to crush me. I knew it would never change, unless I took steps to change it. It took months, but he finally tried to lay hands on me again, and now he'll never lay hands on anyone ever again. He tried to grab me, and I pulled out his old revolver and aimed straight for the center of that timpani section. One by one, the drums went silent, just as the ambulance came roaring and wailing up the drive. I told them it was a gun cleaning accident, but of course it was self defense. I think I did right by myself and by you when that bullet his his face, and I hope someday to find out the lord above feels the same way. Child, I'm just gonna rest my eyes for a moment, you just be quiet for a bit, okay?" Closing her eyes slowly and wearily, Ophelia sighs in relief at the released weight of her confessions.

"Mama, I hear music too,” her daughter said in reverential tones.


My second effort, just as timely as the first...

 

Rose Kissed Cheeks by RaineAndrews[1,295 Words]

It was in the ides of January that I was purchased by the empress in the marketplace. This is where my memories began; not of my past life, but of my new life. It was a life of servitude and struggle, but also a life with love. My mind is quickly fading, yet it tortures me with these bitter-sweet memories.
It is said by the priests of Hades that, when a man dies, he will see his life laid out before him. Why then am I punished to relive just these memories; painful and unbearable as they are, judging by our current situation. Not even the priests of Ceres had prepared me for this moment, just as I was unprepared to meet Risita.
Perhaps it was doomed to tragedy to begin with. I was a newly bought slave to the empress of the mightiest empire in the known world. As such, I hardly had garnered the trust that the noble's put in Risita. While I was a lowly stable boy, she was a kitchen hand! Our two worlds were so far apart, that it was only by Ceres' grace that we met.

You see, a trusted slave, is still but a slave, and as such, Risita would eat with us. This is how I came to fall in love with her beauty, for she was more radiant than the light of a thousand suns. She had wavy auburn hair and blue exotic eyes, that when I looked into them, made my heart flutter weakly. Her skin was fair, and even had a hint of rose to her face. She was a beauty indeed, but I would learn that her beauty paled when she let you see her heart. But I did not get that privilege for some time.

Soon, the frosted grounds of winter thawed away, giving way to the birth of spring. The dates came into season and the empress demanded a grand feast to include the newest addition to the season.
Many nobles had to buy fresh goods from the marketplace, but not the empress. She owned many acres of land outside the imperial city; there were orchards about with ripe date, ready to be taken by a slave hand. The feast would only have the best dates though, and so Risita was chosen to pick dates according to their merit, and I, chosen by her to carry the buckets to be filled.
I had not been outside the walls of the estate for some time, and already I felt the longing of being free once again burning in my chest. The smell of orchids, the songs of the meadowlark, and the warm sun against my face told me to escape, but the days' trip would find us in the company of the empress' son, Dominus, and surely as I longed escape, he would ensure my servitude.

It was about midday when we reached the orchards. Already, a bucket had been handed to me, and Risita quickly pulled me away so that we could pick dates together. I had believed her choosing me had been purely coincidental, as she had chosen other bucket carriers, but I had no doubt by her zest, that I had come here for her, personally.
She chose a secluded area for us to pick dates. The slave masters had dogs, so there was no need for them to fear us fleeing. Risita began telling me how she had come under the Empire's clutches as a slave. Like me, she had been orphaned in the empress' conquest, and quickly enslaved.
We had been busy for awhile and were about finished picking the ripened dates from another tree. She couldn't reach one, even with me boosting her high up into the tree, so I climbed it for her, and retrieved the prize. Of course, the prize wasn't the date, but the act of doing something good for the woman I loved, and the tender kiss that followed it.
She was tentative at first, unsure of how to begin, but as our lips met, an electric thrill ran up and down my spine. And when it ended, we looked into each other's eyes, linking our two souls together as we bared our essence to each other. There was a rustling behind the tree where Dominus and a slave master came into view to check our progress. He didn't say anything about seeing the two of us, which was good, I thought at the time. Kitchen hands were not to have relations with lower slaves, it was the Empress' command.
We quickly finished our job for the day, each of us feeling our first kiss, and each of us waiting for the next chance that Ceres would present us with the opportunity of another. As the goddess would have it though, it was to be but a single parting kiss. After the feast was over, I looked for Risita. The slave masters were befuddled on wine and wouldn't miss a lowly slave. But she was nowhere to be found! I chanced the kitchen to be stopped by a kitchen hand. She was delivering glazed dates, made by Dominus himself.

I planned on lurking outside the Empress' chambers, cleaning the dust from the many portrait and pieces of fine art, but the chamber guards were not at their post, and the door was cracked slightly. The hair on the back of my neck bristled as I realized something was wrong. I peeked into the chamber and my heart stopped. The empress and Risita were both laying on the floor, wraithing in pain.
I ran to Risita's side. She apologized for doing what she did. She knew the dates were poisoned, but Dominus had threatened to kill me if Risita did not follow through with his evil plot. My head was spinning from shock. The woman I loved was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

Except to go with her.

The date didn't taste of vile intent, and after a moment of holding Risita, I began to think it didn't work; then the pain blossomed in my gut. New tears poured fresh from Risita's beautiful and exotic eyes, and onto her rose-kissed cheeks. The poison had flushed her cheeks to bring fully out her beauty. She only cried harder, knowing that she had been unable to save me. If only she knew that I was saved. I kissed away her tears as I worked my way to her lips in a final, tear salted kiss. Having no other way to comfort our passing, I began to sing my feelings to her

I thought I loved you when we first met
I thought that you were much too good
But we've moved at such a pace
That I know we're so much more
Now, I lay you down to sleep,
just this last time for now
and as I see your face,
I'll let the tears come pour

I don't cry because I'll miss you,
I don't cry because you hurt
I cry because I love you
as you are dying on the floor

And swiftly comes the darkness,
a never ceasing foe
I won't have time to miss you
because I'm coming with you too

The Empress had passed, yet Risita lived. I began to cry as her shaking form lessened its tremors as the poison took more of a hold of her. She fought hard against her body to pull herself to me, and I fought hard to wrap my arms around her. I didn't have the strength to sing anymore, but together we would pass into the underworld, where we would be free from servitude. Free to pursue our forbidden love, away from this wretched land of betrayal and deceit.

 

Another Organ by Sam U. Mansed aka Prometheus[510 Words]

It seemed like a simple enough job when I took it. Find the blacksmith's son. The kid had disappeared a couple weeks previous, and all their own investigations had pointed towards the same place: the old abandoned castle about a day's ride south of town. They made excuses why they couldn't go, it wasn't part of the town, they couldn't afford to quit working this time of year, but all of their lies were exposed by the same thing, a terror that made them shake in their boots at the merest mention of the place.

"Cowards", I scoffed, as I had when I first heard them trying to justify leaving a teenage boy to die. The word felt much emptier than before. I had agreed without hesitation, confident that I would find him lost in the halls, or that he had wandered into a goblin stronghold or somesuch, and had been killed, but his parents could rest easy with the knowledge that no one else would ever share the same fate again. The same "quest" I'd done a hundred times. I only wish I'd given it more thought.

I had followed his trail here, to the castle just as they suspected, and I immediately began to notice the signs that something was wrong. His tracks had direction, purpose. The boy had not wandered into the area on accident, it had been his destination. Occasionally, I'd stumble across the remains of another trail as well, several weeks older, though I could not tell which direction that one went.

Foolishly, I disregarded the signs that something was wrong, and my confidence returned when I saw the castle was in much better condition than it had any right to be. "Someone must live here," I told myself with a smug grin, "the castle's in too good of repair." Dismounting and tying off my horse, I wandered through the open front gate, sword at hip and torch in hand, ignoring the feeling of wrongness that was already seeping into me. By the time I had made it inside, it had penetrated my very bones, and yet, still, I foolishly ignored the warning, greed and arrogance blinding me to the truth.

The walls and floor were a heavy gray stone, set well against each other, but held in place without and kind of mortar or seams. It was almost as if the entire castle had been carved out of a single solid piece of rock. There were no cracks, no blemishes. Room after room, hallway after hallway, all completely empty, silent as the dead, save for my hushed footsteps. I don't know when I noticed the music, but when I finally noticed it, it was as if it had been there all along. A haunting organ melody, that resonated with every fiber of my being. Though I had never heard the song before, I felt like I'd known it all along. I barely noticed at all when my torch burnt out, and by the time I heard the footsteps approaching, it was far too late.

 

Neon Horizons by dimitri domovoi[3,282 Words

Listen closely, kid. It’s your first day on the job but if you stick close to me you’ll be alright. It’s a long beat from here to tomorrow with a mean city standing in our way. Pay attention to what I say and what I do and maybe, just maybe, we can get you to sunrise. Then again, maybe not – I’ve seen tougher greens than you get swallowed up when this city exhales. Pull over here, I need to grab some java.

It was beginning to rain.

It was a cold and bleak rain that turned the millions of neon lights illuminating this city into billions of radiant hexes, like a haphazard rainbow exploding in the night, and left the concrete streets slick and oily. I pull the collar of my wool coat close against my neck, the cloth rasping against the stubble of my beard, and step onto the sidewalk with the coaster’s doors hissing closed behind me. Despite the weather the streets are swollen and seem to throb with activity. Six hours ago everything was dry and warm but the streets were near-empty. Now everything is slick and cold but all around him there are the sights and smells and sounds of the streets. It didn’t make any sense. Then again, this city never did. It just was, one way or another, and that was all there was to it.

I step around a small wiry man with a cart, frying something in what smelled like motor oil, and wove my way through the crush of the crowd to the storefront across the sea of bodies. Like every shop, it would seem, a pink neon sign glowed painfully in the dingy window – but I didn’t read slant. Didn’t really need to though, the green neon sign of a cup told the story the oriental words couldn’t. I hold the door open for my partner, the door ringing a small bell as I do, and suddenly the mash of street odors are replaced with a richer, headier brew. The interior of the shop is small and crowded with a perpetual cloud of steam hanging about the ceiling from the machines. An elderly local with frazzled hair and a rebreather strapped to his wrinkled face looked up from what he was doing behind the counter, eyes drifting from me to my partner warily. I held up two fingers and the barista nodded. Business was an international language.

Pay the man and let’s go. This fog is killing me. So like I was sayin… son of a *****, that’s hot. That jackal did it on purpose, I bet. Ugh. That’s something you’ll learn, rookie, just be being on the job. These people are so crooked, so twisted; they don’t want us here trying to clean up their gutters. Ingrates. We do it anyway, what do they know? Haven’t found one yet that was clean or honest. You do, let me know. We could retire right now. Huh? No, no leave the coast’. I got a place I need to hit close to here and it’s not worth the fuel. Besides, how are you gonna learn the street without walking through it, you know? Hey, you want any of this?

I shake my head and he tucks the flask back into his jacket, and then tentatively raises the steaming plastic cup to his lips. My gaze falls to my own cup and the murky liquid inside which is hot enough to still bubble, looking like someone dredged hot sewage and put it in a cup. The taste wasn’t far off either and the thick bitter brew burned all the way down to my stomach. The caffeine made my back teeth hurt, but not as badly as my burnt tongue. At least it kept me warm. I followed him closely was we wove through the throngs, moving easily with the flow of the streets. Looming far ahead was the city center, a city within a city; huge constructs towering over the outlying ghettos that held the richest and brightest of New Singapore. The financial institutions, the pharmcoms, and of course the Cyber Corporations – the lifeblood of the city’s economy – all resided in their own modern castles far above the filth and rabble of the streets below. From here, in the ‘zphyer’ ghetto, the city’s core looked as bright as daylight. Like two sides of the same globe, they truly were different worlds.

He broke left and had to fight back the current slightly, with me in tow, and came to a darkened metal doorway on the side of a low but wide building – its walls painted black. There was no sign here, no neon lights drawing in the passerby’s like moths to a flame. This place didn’t want just anyone. Suddenly the presence of the pistol, secured snuggly in my belt holster and hidden under my coat, felt heavy and real; I hadn’t used it yet. But in this job it was only a matter of time. I found a lump in my throat hard to swallow as he pushed the door open and nodded for me to follow. Must be the bad joe.

Stay close and keep your mouth shut.

The door shut heavily behind us and plunged us into silent darkness. I stood very still a moment, adjusting to my new surroundings, which were in shocking contrast to the noisy din and bright lights just outside. I blinked several times and my senses adjusted. A faint red light blanketed the interior and broke the total darkness – though it was so faint that having come from the brilliance of the night street it had seemed like total darkness. It wasn’t really silent here either; a deep bass line came thumping from somewhere beyond. For a moment I had mistaken it for my heartbeat.

A silhouette in the outline of my partner shifted down a hallway, where the red light seemed a shade brighter, and I moved cautiously to follow. The thumping drum was a little louder here, a little deeper. We moved with direction and purpose, he obviously knew where he was going, while all around us the shadows seemed the slither and dance across the barely-lit walls. Occasionally the hallway would disintegrate into a large room with even more shadows, these with fluttering whispers and dark murmurs. Then the confining walls of the hallway would return, almost a blessing to the chilling effect of the great rooms, and all the while the steady thumping would grow louder. My heart was racing faster with every step. I nearly yelped, in the pain of shock, when I collided with something hard in the near-darkness. He had stopped and I, too concerned with the twisting shadows around us, had run straight into him. I heard him mutter something about an fng, feeling my face grow slightly red, and then he hissed at me from over his shoulder.

We’re here.

In the red glow, who’s source was not clear this entire time, I could barely make out the metal door in front of us. It creaked from a rusty hinge as he pulled it open, reminiscent of the exterior door we had come through, and now the drum beat could be clearly heard. Light, neon reds and blues and greens and yellows, bled from the widening crack and peeled back the surrounding darkness. He slipped through the opening easily and I went to follow, making the mistake of looking back as I did. I saw the shadows for what they were and shuttered, only hoping we would not come this way again. The door creaked closed behind me.

We stood on a gangplank overlooking a dancefloor, this sector was infamous for their underground raves. The synthetic music blared out of oversized speakers cluttering an otherwise empty stage and made the patrons below writhe and flail sporadically against one another. Something about their mindless dancing, the at-once frenzied and blank expression on their faces from the drugs pumping through their veins, that made me feel disgusted. He, however, seemed oblivious of them and moved down the catwalk with ease. I followed, as always, and was just glad to have left the hallway behind us. The hallway ends in a door, squat and a faux-wood composite obstruction, where we come to a stop. Over the noise of the music I can barely hear him.

Hold this, I’ll be out in a minute.

He hands me a half-empty cup of coffee and I suddenly realize I’m still carrying my untouched cup of joe. By now it’s cold and if I thought it smelled bad before, this was worse. I simply nod and take the cup. As I do he turns without another word and blows through the door in front of us, slamming the door shut as he does. I’m not sure what to make of everything as I stand on the catwalk over the rave, holding two cups of gruel. I had heard stories of this force, everyone knew the stories, and I knew things got dirty. To do the job you had to walk the line and I was ready for it, even looking forward to it. But whatever was going on behind the door was something he didn’t trust a rookie with, something I couldn’t even know of. But that was my job, after all; my job inside my job. IA was paying good money and this ****** was on the top of the hit list, as dirty as they come. I pressed the side of my head against the door carefully and strained to hear what was going on over the chaotic rhythm thickening the air of the club.

A couple of muffled voices could be heard but what they were saying was lost. I sighed and kept at it, hopeful that I would catch a clue as to our business here. It was foolish to think I would be able to take him down my first night, it never went easy like that, but I was anxious to get this over with. Working cover was as scary a thing as could be done and with this guy as my mark, there was little chance of coming out clean. Now some of the voices were raised and I pressed harder against the door, pushing a finger in my other ear to block out the other noise. It was an argument, for sure, but it wasn’t obvious who had started it. Extortion maybe, paid protection? Could have something to do with drugs, fit his MO and these clubs were crawling with the latest designer high. I’m running over ideas so quickly that the gunshot barely registers, though my reaction is still to jump and I spill cold java over my hands and sleeves. First one shot and a slight pause, then two more back to back. The cups go sailing over the railing and come raining down on a couple of ravers below as I pull my piece and punch through the doorway. The smell of gun-smoke is unmistakable and fills my nostrils, hanging like a cloud in the back of my throat. I cough.

Rookie, grab the ******* ******** and help me with this. Hurry, I think I heard more on the other side. ****, get down. Keep your head down. ****.

I swing my piece over the top of the overturned table and slap off a few rounds toward the goons pressing into the room. Across the room my partner swings up a micro he picked off the ground and holds the trigger until all it gives him is a soft click. I stay hidden as shells pepper me. I’m deaf to the music now, all I hear is ringing.

Whew, ok. Come on, grab that ******** and lets go. Here, hand it over. Hmm, ok looks good. Hey, where the **** is my coffee? Why did you do that? Whatever, rook, get your *** in motion. You got a lot to learn, you know. But you did alright back there, rook, alright indeed. Don’t worry about those scum, they had it comin’. Huh? Yeah, of course I tried, but you know how it goes. Of course you don’t, rook, it’s your first night on the job. You got a lot to learn about this job, about this city and its streets. This ain’t no homicide squad, you get that rook? But you did good back there. Here, this way. Just keep moving, these people aren’t our problem. What? Yeah, you did good. Gotta look after one another, you know. Out here we are all we got, only safety net, only one you can trust. You watch out for me, I’ll watch out for you. You did good, rook. Let’s get you a drink.

Back out on the streets, out in the air and the cold and the sounds and the smells. In a second we dissolve into the crowds, still bustling and ever flowing. There is a good bar not far from here, he knows a guy. Don’t worry about the shakes, he says, they come and go. It’s normal, he says. His words fall on me but I don’t hear them, I can’t. All I hear is the ring of gunfire in my ears, drowning out the rave music and the silence and the noise. I want to ask about the ******** but I don’t, no point really. I know the story even if I don’t know the details. IA was right to try and finger him, but something told me they never would. Perhaps it was the room of bodies we had left behind as easily as we had ordered coffee. Perhaps it was his carefree manner at it all, as if it rolled off his back like raindrops.

The rain was picking up, a harder rain that drove people to the safety of a canopy or umbrella. Anything left exposed was soaked through to the bone, to the chassis, to the roots. Staring at the concrete road to my left, I could imagine in being soggy and pliable. Their coaster had sunken to the doors in the marshy cement and they would need to call backup to get home. If they ever were going home. I push my fists into the pockets of my coat, as much to protect them from the cold as to hide their shaking, and continue on. Around me people push to and fro, many locals but almost as many foreigners clogging the streets. For the hopeless and the poor, for the addicted and the corrupted, for the ruthless and the pathetic; there was sanctuary and opportunity to be found in the cesspool of New Singapore’s zypher. And in the middle of this maelstrom of drugs and murder, thieves and hackers, and the tired and the poor they stood – a mocking symbol of safety and order. An endless battle fighting the very nature of the city, fighting the very spirit of human greed and cruelty.

You know you got a lot to learn, kid, a whole hell of a lot. But you did good back there, handled your business and watched my back. You’ll do ok, I think, if you stick with me. There’s a lot of money to be made here, kid, if you just use your head and follow what I say. The place is right up here, let’s get a quick drink – you earned it. Then I got another stop to make.

No, IA would never catch him, never be able to bring him in and make him answer for his actions. Answer for his crimes. I knew that now. The bar was smoke-laden and dank but that was to be expected. There was no stage, just an old looking jukebox where a heavy rocking riff was erupting from. I cringed and followed him up to the bar. A couple of faces nodded to him as we entered and I could tell we were among friends – just not my friends. Didn’t matter, I had made up my mind what had to be done. I broke away from the bar and walked up to the music-maker, catching sideways stares as I moved across the room. They could smell the force on me, I knew, and they could tell I wasn’t like him. I was too clean, too proper. I would never be accepted and they would be damned if I were to ever make a difference. I scroll through some of the selections, finding mostly garbage like that being pumped out of the speakers, but eventually come to it. The song. The song I wanted, no needed, for what came next. I dropped my money and hit play. The track playing screeched to a halt and suddenly all eyes were on me. A song from the past, a relic, something my grandfather had shown me years ago. Suddenly the bar is filled with a legend from the past, soft at first but picking up speed, as it smoothly seems to pour out the crackling speakers. Springsteen, the album read, and the bar became a nerve cluster stretched over ice – pointed at me. It was music to hit to, music to kill to. Something dark in me makes me smile.

Hey, Jimmy-boy. Got that thing we were talking about but it’s gonna cost more than before. **** got heavy, that’s why. You don’t like it you find scratch from someone else. You think I need you do move this. Who, the new guy? Some stiff they stuck me with. Between you and me, I’m pretty sure he’s a burner they are trying to stick me with. Haha, yeah I know. It’s not a big deal, he helped me clean house over in Jet’s place. I’ll string him along for awhile until he gets himself killed or I have to put him down. Anyway, get me two zips and put a twist in his – that should make for a fun night – and we can talk about this scratch. Hey… what the **** do you think you’re doing, rook? I liked that song. Wait, wha-

Back in the street, back to the lights and the sounds and the smells, but this time alone. Behind me The Boss' wail is dying slowly, a hard fight, and the laughter and the cries of pain can be heard even out here. My pistol is light, empty now, and I am wiping blood from cracked knuckles on the inside of my coat. I stand still in the center of the walk as I clean my hands as best I can, while an entire city moves steadily around me – busier and more bustling than ever. IA never would have caught him, never would have been able to bring him down. He had become the city, had taken it and folded in upon himself; he had represented the power and the corruption and the evil. He was a bad good cop but a good bad cop and he was the streets, was the city, and was untouchable. It was an endless battle, a battle that could never really be won, a battle to fix this city. I knew I would never win, it would kill me before I could, but I had to fight in nonetheless. And this was my start, with a blood-soaked bar and a dead cop. The city center loomed like a mountain in front of me, the heart of evil, and I wondered if I would live long enough to strike them there. Probably not; but still had to try. I turned and let the crowd carry me for awhile, heading nowhere but away.

Behind me, the Joad's were no more.

[Klazzform]

February 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Reality of War
Winner - Go Like A Soldier by Blakkblade

 

A Petition of Death by RaineAndrews[1,660 Words]

Under the blazing sun, Private Rogers’ skin knew no sympathy. No matter how much sun block he applied, his pale skin radiated with pain from the sun’s burn. This is what he contemplated, on the convoy. Then the sound he had been dreading since he came to Iraq only a month ago shot through the air; it was the sound of gunfire.

The shrouded sand people emerged from one of the many non-descript hills of sand to fire off their AKs and would slide into the desert to avoid the mix of M16 and 50 caliber fire. Providing cover fire with one of the 50 calibers was Private Rogers’ duty. Now this word, duty, has been chosen specifically for this purpose, because it was not Private Rogers’ job. No, Private Rogers was the “chemical guy”; the guy who made sure his companies protective masks were in working order, even if he had to beg, borrow, and steal for repair parts, because not even his superior officers took a chemical threat seriously enough.

When I took Private Rhodes, the man who had sat in the same strap that Private Rogers now occupies, a week ago, First Sergeant Biggins began to search for a warm body to take his place. As you might have guessed, there were none, and so, Private Rogers was placed on Private Rhodes’ strap, inexperienced, and unqualified.

I apologize, for I have digressed. As Private Rogers fired back at the sand, he wasn’t thinking of how the hot black metal burned his hands, or even how much his squad needed his cover fire. His last living thought was that of self-preservation. It was a thought similar to, “I’m going to die here”. So it must be said that I took them, not out of disgust of this thought, because all men are faced with this realization upon the moment of their death, but out of compassion for this little pawn in a game with no checkmate possible. It wasn’t anybody’s fault when the RPG tore into his humvee and exploded. That is, no one’s fault but my own.

Now, I’ve been around for quite a long time; in ancient Greece I was called Hades, and those who are overly superstitious in Yorkshire call me Padfoot to this day, but I prefer the name of Death much better. So, it was no surprise to me that these trained “soldiers” fought to keep their souls intact, most fighters will fight for life for some time. But as a fish flops and jumps around, suffocating in the air humans breathe, these men struggled to live in the ether that would ultimately consume them. The same ether in which I thrive in, waiting for your end to come.

One by one, they dissipated, each one losing their life force. First the commo guy, then the driver, and then the two passengers in the back seat. But Private Roger’s refused to drown in the ether. I had a very busy schedule and an agenda to unfold, but this Private Rogers intrigued me greatly. I approached Bruce and touched his shoulder. His incessant struggling ended and his eyes opened to see me. He asked no questions and stared me down with his will. Finally, he spoke to me. “I can’t die, you can’t take me yet. This is now how it ends.”

I smiled, which doesn’t happen very often in my occupation, as you can imagine. “I do not offer apologies or condolences, Bruce Rogers, you know who I am, and I know for certain, that this is how it ends.” His façade broke momentarily, if only for a second, but his military training took hold of his spirit, commanding it to submit to its dominion. I suppose then, it is ironic that, in life, he feared this moment, yet in his current state refused to believe its unfolding. I would break him, as I break any doomed as he.

I touched his shoulder once more and the ether around us took the shapes of his small apartment. In the dining room, on a shabby table, a notebook formed. Upon the notebook words formed, beginning with the words “Dear Bruce”. These words poured out of a pen held by a woman whose slightly swollen belly was beginning to trouble her writing space, and who glowed with the vibrant beauty of a pregnant mother.

That quivering facade fronted by Bruce began to dissolve, upon seeing his wife write him a letter about how his unborn child was doing. “She will never get a reply from you. In fact, the next letter she will receive will be the one announcing your death. Do you believe it now?”

The façade crumbled as a bulldozer of anger crashed through. The heat that welled up inside him burst out upon his skin, and his entire body steamed and smoked as he yelled, “Of course I believe it! But you can’t take me; I have too much to live for. I am only nineteen and already, I’m married with a child on the way. I was going to college to get a degree, and I just rented an apartment just for the two of us, right before the orders came in.” As I told him before, I was not there to offer apologies or condolences, so I allowed his anger to pass as I stood stoic in front of him, catching the occasional spittle. “I wasn’t supposed to die! The National Guard was supposed to help me support my family and pay for college, and I stood a good chance to deploy and serve my country for their help. Not to die though!”

Humans seem so strange. The way they think is quite odd. You can’t deny me, because I come for everyone. Yet, here next to me, was a human so determined to not die, that he would try to petition his invulnerability. “Listen, I don’t care about your miniscule plans! There are more important and grandiose doings in your world and mine. You cannot use a chess piece as important as a king if you aren’t a player. In fact, you are but just a pawn in this game with no check mate. You were used by your government to, as all wars seem to go, advance a cause not worth the price.”

The determined will was leaving his eyes. I watched as he slowly began the fading into the ether. He winced as the wounds from his corpse began to assault his spirit. Bloody gashes from shrapnel formed upon his essence, and upon feeling my grip on him he croaked out a plea. “But can’t a pawn become a queen at the end of its path? Why am I not allowed to leave my mark on this world? I beg of you Death, please allow me my retribution against the black king.”

I was silent, absorbing this retort, contemplating this thought placed upon my board. There were many flaws in his thinking, much like a novice chess player. His moves were rash and desperate, focused on his king’s end and not of the intricacies of the game itself. “Bruce, you must understand that you never made it to the end. You were a pawn, sacrificed in the middle of the board. And even if you had reached the opposing end, and were to promote into a queen, you would have been just another piece. You would have been more difficult to sacrifice, yet still expendable given the current situation. And, why must you strike back against your own color, Bruce. Don’t you see it was not I who sacrificed you? It was those who I oppose, those in your own government who did this to you. I will pave the way to my goal in the bodies of the sacrificed. Only through your death, Bruce Rogers, can humans see the futility in war. And when your black king is draped in the blood of his sacrificial pawns, who will he then turn to? Eventually, it will end, when he is alone, washing away your sacrifice in a pool of blood. There will be no pardon for the black king, just as there will be no pardon for you, Bruce.”

Upon hearing my words, Bruce’s legs began to shake and buckle under the weight of his body. I see a lot of people cry in my occupation. To grieve about another’s end is one thing, but to grieve for you own life’s end is tenfold that feeling. The tears he wept began to stream with blood, his sacrifice for the cause not worth the price, but instead of fading into the ether, his spirit became more focused and defined. In Bruce’s moment of despair, when most men lose hope, he had reforged his will in the sorrow that consumes them. Already, the fire and explosion took his body and spirit, but his will was unscathed. No, it had been strengthened from his death. He crawled his ravaged spirit toward the ethereal woman and embraced her incorporeal body. She picked her head up from the letter she was writing, as the hair on the back of her neck prickled at his voice. “I will always love you” he whispered into her ear.

Bruce stood, even with his grievous wounds. He walked up to me and stared me in the face. “I see now that my piece cannot be cheated back onto the board, and that I will not personally leave my mark on the world. But by becoming another death, sacrificing myself to be a statistic on the black side, I will show everyone how dying for a cause not worth the cost is as futile as fighting a war, for a cause not worth the price. With his final word, he dissipated into the ether, not as a fish out of water, but as a fish that fought to get upstream, just to die, spawning a new cause.

 

Go Like A Soldier by Blakkblade[1,575 Words]

“When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier…”
~~Rudyard Kipling, “The Young British Soldier”

The birds were spooling up, the jet engine whine that’s usually drowned out by the chop of the rotor blades still audible to the sticks that were waiting to board them. The UH-60L Blackhawks were still hot off the assembly lines, and the pilots were eager to test out their new toys. There’s an interesting feeling that comes with the pre-mission rush of adrenalin, besides the heat of a desert. After all, it’s at least twenty degrees hotter on the flight line than it is anywhere else, and in countries that averages 127 Fahrenheit and with sixty pounds of gear on, you’re pushing upwards of 160 under the armor. Couple this with the increasing rotor wash and you get a windy day in Hell’s Outhouse. Or God’s Ashtray. Take your pick, soldier.

But that interesting feeling doesn’t have anything to do with the heat. It stems from the intrinsic knowledge that you may die this day, and the simultaneous belief that you won’t; that God won’t let you die this close to going back to the Land of the Big PX. 1 month out and this deployment is over. 1 month, and you get to see your baby girl again.

The crew chief waves you forward. You’re in the front of your stick, 1-Man out of 10 guys. Door-kicker, insurgent-killer, general bullet magnet. That’s where the adrenalin really kicks in, right as you enter the room and start scanning for targets. The cynical part of you, which is rather large, admits it’s because you’re the most expendable. The thought brings a smile and a chuckle as you enter the bird, strapping in. The mission has some ride-along guys from your replacing unit, and you drew the short straw so they’re with you. A bunch of FNGs (Friggin New Guys) at the back of your stick.

“So, you gonna give up your spot and let one of the FNG’s take over?” Your best friend, Jon “Doc” Rodriquez asks as soon as he gets strapped in next to you. You look back over at him, non-plussed. “There’s no way in Hell I’d let some FNG take my spot. You going to let the Combat Life-Taker of theirs look at you if you get shot?” You shoot back. Jon was the platoon medic, and had a deep, deep hatred of Combat Life Savers a.k.a. Combat Life-Takers. Medics called them that because they learned just enough medicine to kill somebody.

His response is drowned out as the blades of the ‘Hawk change angle ever so slightly and you’re airborne. From now, it’s an impossibly boring, 20-minute flight to the AO (Area of Operations). You look over at the FNG’s, and wonder if you ever looked that…FNGish; sitting there with their eyes wide open, staring out the open doors at the brown landscape passing below you at 100 Nauts’. You knew you did, but wouldn’t admit it to anybody if they asked.

It made you think about when you first got In Country. For the first couple of weeks, whenever a mortar round would come in you’d scurry around like the rest of the FOBbits. After that, you’d just walk outside and watch the female showers empty as you smoked a cigarette when the God Voice announced incoming fire AFTER the first couple of mortar rounds had already landed. Scurry Scurry, Flee Flee! God, it was fun watching the newbies run around like chickens with their heads cut off.

“YO! Hey man, wake up! It’s time to go!” Doc smacks your helmet to wake you up. There was a rule when you flew. If you didn’t answer by the third time somebody called you, they got to hit you as hard as they wanted. Usually, this was carried out with sadistic glee, as it rarely happened. You wake up in time to get browned-out as the bird touches down. You hit the release and drop out of the open door, taking your place in the 360-security set up around the bird. You were about 2km from your objective, a little shack that Intel said had a High Value in it. The birds wouldn’t fly any farther, the rest of the way you’d be hoofing it.

About 10 minutes goes by as you and your stick beat-feet to the ‘X.’ Nothing is said between your guys, and the FNGs try to keep up with your hand signals, and not look too nervous. You remember a line your Drill Sergeant told you back when you were learning MOUT (Military Operations in Urban Terrain). “Privates, this is MOUT. 75% casualties is ACCEPTABLE. Now get it right. I swear to God, I’m going to smoke the Hell out of all of you if you make me look bad!”

Not a sound is made as you line up on the door in your stack, and the 2-Man checks the doors for obvious booby traps. Again, that cynical part of you speaks up. It didn’t matter how quiet you were, the guy inside knew you were coming. Hopefully, he hadn’t had enough time to get out or prepare yet. But then, that was the other sticks jobs. Containment.

The 2-Man signals the all-clear, and backs off the door, pointing a 12-gauge at the handle. He nods, and you pass the signal back to the rest of your guys. He blows the lock, and you kick the door open.

That’s when the IED goes off.

-----

“Many patients never wake up between the Point of Injury and when they arrive here, at Brooke Army Medical Center. Take Specialist Smith. Captain Roberts, how’s he doing this morning?” The Head Surgeon at BAMC in San Antonio, Texas was anything but a jolly fellow. Steel grey hair, six feet, and lean with his 185lbs, he just looked like an Army surgeon.

“Sir, the patient was injured 8 days ago while on mission in Sadr City when an IED went off during a raid. The patient’s left arm and leg were amputated, and he suffered third degree burns to 27% of his body. He had a Balad Pack installed while in theatre to relieve the internal pressure on his major organs and an inter-cranial shunt to relieve his ICP (Inter-Cranial Pressure). The shunt was removed yesterday. The patient is stable, and should be waking up some time today as the sedative wears off.” Captain Roberts barely had to check the chart to list off the patient’s readings.

The part you, Specialist Smith, catch is: “-ome time today as the sedative wears off.” You open your eyes and immediately close them again as the bright light drives needles into your skull. You have a massive headache that feels like a hangover, and something doesn’t feel right about your stomach. You lift your left hand to feel it, then stop, confused. You know you’ve moved your hand to where it should feel what’s wrong with your stomach, but you can’t. You open your eyes, squinting, and look down. That’s when you notice your hand isn’t there. Or your lower arm, for that matter. And come to think of it, your left leg is decidedly shorter than your right. The doctors are all talking at you and running around doing doctor-things, but nothing is registering. Nothing prepared you for this. Nothing. Your vision starts tunneling in, and you fade back into blissful unconsciousness.

-----

You wake up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright and reaching for your rifle. It’s not there, though, and you start looking around frantically for it. A few seconds goes by before you realize that you’re home, not in the Box. It was 2AM, and you had nothing to be afraid of. You look over at where your wife would be, then remember that she’d left you. Took your daughter with her, too. Today was the 1-year anniversary or your injury. And had that year been hell! You suffered through 9 months of intensely painful physical therapy, getting used to the prosthetics and learning how to walk again, and got a letter from your wife. Really, what you got was the divorce paperwork. You get home and find that you can’t get a job because of your wounds, and while people hold up the Wounded Soldier as a hero, nobody actually wants to see one on a day to day basis.

You reach over to your night stand and open the bottle of whiskey you keep there to get you through the day. You don’t even worry about poring it into a glass; you just take a swig from the bottle. The burn’s your only friend, now. You missed Rodriquez. That’s what you’d been dreaming about. 1 year ago, today, you got injured. 1 year ago, today, Rodriquez had died. You can’t go back, the Army won’t let you. They’d Med-Boarded your behind. “Unfit for Duty.” You had nothing left here. No wife, daughter wouldn’t talk to you. No friends.

You pick up the Glock .40 that was next to the bottle. Tears role down your cheeks as you think of Rodriquez, the pistol in your lap. You take another swig out of the bottle, and then put the pistol to your head.

 

The Tower by Zanash[634 Words]

The tower pulled itself out of the desolate landscape. Pure, unblemished, white stone stood alone against the vast and battered wastes that stretched out in every direction. Scorched and lifeless earth ran as far as imagination would carry it, watched constantly by the unflinching sun. No wind stirred the dust and ash that layered this barren landscape. The sky, as unforgiving as the ground beneath it, stretched cloudlessly away.

The tower broke the skyline. It stood proud against the sky and the earth. It was all that remained. Uncut stone rose higher and higher forming a spire that pierced even the sun. The only imperfection on the smooth curve of this pillar was a simple wooden door. Made from the darkest of woods, it held no metal in its solid frame. It seemed as though the stone itself gave birth to the wood, as smooth and as flawless as the tower itself. Here amid this desert the tower stood, as it always had stood.

The tower had but one occupant. He had lived here for as long as he could remember, and always alone. Youth still held him in her gentle embrace, yet he had been here for an eternity. He stood in the middle of the bare room, his dark eyes drifting across the cold stone, drifting from picture to picture. His solemn gaze holding each image for a moment before moving tirelessly on. This tower held a hundred such rooms, a thousand even, and he had seen them all. He had spent an eon on each image, a thousand views, a million landscapes. Within them he had seen trees as tall as mountains, rivers larger than seas. Creatures that seemed to be ready to leap upon you, angry at having being disturbed and Insects that hid deep within the cracks between the worlds. Every wonder of the world was held within that tower, and this man had seen them all. His fingers had traced each line; his eyes had tasted every colour. This tower was his home, his sanctuary, his prison.

In his tireless wanderings of his world of wonders, there was only one room different from all the others, one room that waited patiently at the very bottom of the tower. He had only entered that room once, the dark and condemning door forcing him to flee. Yet now he found his feet taking him there again, leading him down stair after stair, until once again he faced his most feared foe. The wood drew his gaze, stealing it from the bare room. The man had seen every image, had traced every line within this tower. This man had seen every wonder in the world, and none. His feet betrayed him again as they pulled him towards the door. His heart beat fast, pounding loudly in his chest. He swallowed his fear, wiping away the cold sweat that beaded on his brow. Icy shivers shooting down his spine. A hand edging out. The smooth wood held his touch for a moment. The door swung open, silently.

The wastes stretched out before him, he had studied them intently, and never seen them. The first step would not come. Before him lay everything and the first step would not come. A hard breath in, a fortifying of the mind, preparing. The landscape then surrounded him, the tower rising forgotten behind him. Hunger gnawed at the pit of his stomach; stone cutting away at his soft, unprotected feet. The horizon stretched ever onward. Yet still that man never looked back, even after the monolith had long since vanished behind him, back into the imagination.

The tower still stands there still, a scar upon the bleak landscape. Within it dwells a million souls in a million rooms, each of them alone, each of them searching.

 

The Final War by syberpuppy[3,059 Words]

The booming sound grew louder and louder. So loud it became that the ground began to shake, and soon after the boundary of the plane itself. It did not stop there. Before long it even leaked into other planes. Once it reached the material plain, it was weakened enough to be recognized as for what it was - an insane laughter.

The whole world stood still as the terrifying sound has reached every corner of the plane: from the city of the shades, floating above flocks of migrating birds high in the night’s air, to the lowest parts of the underground drow cities in the underdark, and even to the deepest of the sea cities.

People screamed in agony as they tried blocking the terrible voice with their hands in vain. Those who managed to poke their own eardrums in order to shut the terrible noise out found it to be useless, as the sound kept attacking their deafened ears. Not even the greatest of wizards with their most powerful spells could stop the maddening sound from leaking into their minds.

At last, after what seemed like hours, or days even, the sound has ceased. It was actually no more than two hundred heartbeats time, but as the sound subsided, the people of the world rose to find a new, terrible, world.

---------------------------

Serin Marakov rose from the floor as he recovered from the terrible attack. During the attack on his ears, the aged warrior could only muster enough will power to throw his dinner knife to the other side of the room before he could use it to deafen himself. Rising to his feet, Serin’s stomach was threatening to expel the newly eaten food once he perceived the terrifying image of his wife lying on the floor at the opposite end of the dinner table.

Two small trickles of blood ran from the beautiful woman’s ears. A large pool of blood was forming through the expensive elven rug, as blood gushed freely around the dinner knife, protruding from his late wife’s neck. Her delicate hands still grasped tightly at the handle as all blood left her body.

The initial shock was quickly shrugged by the veteran warrior, and he was about to jump toward the drained form of his wife. He knew a little magic and, although knowing better, he told himself there was still a chance he could save her.

Two small figures beat him to the dead woman and he froze in mid step as he noticed them. He recognized the two forms immediately. One was his son Jakob, Just old enough to work in the fields. The other was his daughter Anala, who was soon to be seven winters old.

Something prevented the warrior from jumping to his children immediately, and to take them away from the terrible sight of their mother’s body. It was the same warrior’s sixth sense that had saved his life so many times as a young adventurer. He watched, unable to move, as the two children crouched over their mother’s body, their small limbs getting covered in their mother’s blood.

As the pain of seeing his two crouched kids over their dead mother reached him, Serin finally managed to shake off the trance he was in. They were shaking her body, moaning in pain as they could not awaken her.

Serin took one step closer and then stopped solid in his place. The warrior’s face turned as white as a rainless cloud as he understood the reason for his former hesitation. His two children, the loves of his life, were not trying to waken their mother, and their moans were not of her loss. As they turned toward the sound of his footstep he has recognized the terrible truth immediately.

As he gazed into the glazed eyes of his children, watching their mouth opening and closing rhythmically, Serin could not ignore the terrible truth he has trained himself to immediately register. The two forms before him were no longer his loved ones. Their small bodies were moving only by the dark magic of undeath. About what their small mouths were so busy doing, he just refused to think of.

The two small figures noticed him and a second later were running toward him with outstretched arms. As his mind refused to grasp the horrifying truth, the veteran’s instincts took control. In a flash, the man was at the far wall, pulling the retired sword from the bolts that were holding it to the wall.

The two undead children stopped at the sight of the great sword, and were even taking a step backward as if afraid of it. The warrior of course knew fear did not exist in the mindless undead, but his mind was in no shape to analyze the strange occurrence. His instincts ordered his body to use the reprieve, to plunge toward the two monsters and to finish them off. His mind though, even as shattered as it was then, could not let him hurt those he had just this morning lived for, his only children.

Serin somehow managed to order his body to obey him, to ignore his battle hardened instincts and to not hurt his loved ones. Seeing that by remaining there he would have to either kill, or be killed by his own family, the large man plunged into the closed window.

Glass and wood splintered and cut through his clothes and skin as the grieving father fell from the third floor’s window.

-----------------

Serin sat quietly, listening to the man’s report. The other leaders around the room stopped the speaker from time to time and asked him a question. Serin just sat quietly.

Fourteen moons have passed since that terrible night, and he found himself again unable to shut the memories of it from his mind.

The speaker quickly finished his report and a loud discussion of the next action they should take brought Serin back to the present. He quickly joined the discussion with the other warlords. In the beginning, the small army he has assembled, as well as those the other warlords assembled, managed to slay tens of thousands of the undead monsters easily. Unfortunately this was changing rapidly.

This new kind of undead that within minutes infected most of the world, on that terrible night just over a year ago, was much more vulnerable than regular monsters of their kind. The new monsters could be slain as easily as living men, one good strike to the head, throat or where their heart once beat would slay most of them as surely as it would slay a live human. The monsters also retained some sort of their formerly thinking minds. Luckily, with it the sense of fear remained.

Using those quickly found facts the armies of the living managed to slay hundreds of the monsters within days of their assembly. Soon the armies grew larger with every city and town they freed. As great tacticians and warriors also joined their lines they’ve became organized, and that was when they really started to massacre the undead monsters.

Serin was one of those great warriors. As he escaped the truth of his home that terrible night he slashed through many of the monsters. They were everywhere. He slashed threw his neighbors and friends as they ran toward him from the houses around him. They moved faster than almost every undead he have ever seen, but fell easily to his sword.

Soon he learned that he was not the only one alive. Living men and women gathered around him for protection. He organized them in a diamond formation and armed them with the few simple weapons they found on the way. They mostly had sticks, hunting slings and work tools, but it seemed to be enough.

Slowly they managed to break through the throngs of undead monsters and finally broke out of the small city. By the time they escaped the dead city he had a few dozens of untrained warriors following him. In a few days their numbers grew to a hundred as survivors poured in for their protection from the city. In a fortnight the city was reclaimed by the living and he had more than two hundred men at his command.

As soon as it was possible, Serin entered his house. Now with his logical mind working again, he was determined to free the bodies of his children from the fate that befell them and to let them rest in peace. Aside from decomposing dead wife, He could find no one in his former home. No matter how much he searched the next few days, he could find neither the undead, nor the dead bodies of his children.

A few months later he had an army of a few thousands men and women, all now armed and proficient with weapons and shields. He also had a few veteran warriors and a few capable men acting as commanders, those building an hierarchy in the army. They have managed by then to free a few small towns and even one big city. They met then another army, much like their own only somewhat smaller and a lot less organized.

Together the two armies began working together on a new strategy. Unlike before, this now was an offensive strategy. It’s sole purpose was to save as many live men as possible before none will be left, and if the opportunity presented itself, to destroy as many of the abominations as possible.

The reason of why one survived the curse of undeath while the other didn’t was an unsolvable mystery. They found towns almost untouched by the undeath, and others in which it seemed almost all were of the walking dead. Husbands and wife more often than not shared the same fate it seemed, but it was far from a rule. Only one constant existed for the terrible curse… no children survived.

Most of Serin’s men did not like the idea of attacking the undead children. This was usually alright since it was a truly rare sight to see one of the undead forms of a child attacking and not running so it was not needed to slay the small forms. They reasoned that this was probably because of the way this new kind of undead retained some of their living minds.

The greatest blow to the moral and sanity of the living came nine months after the cursed night. A young woman, who was certainly impregnated after the horrifying night, gave birth to an undead baby. Every woman before her had the same fate, but it was believed that this was because of the fact the baby was already conceived in that terrible night. This suggested that the human race was doomed to die out, and as every baby later on was also born undead, it was clear that this was the last generation of the humanoid races.

As no answer for this infliction came to the mystics and physicians of the living, great desperation overcame the armies. The desperation quickly turned to anger and then to hate, and with nothing else to lose the objective of the few armies changed. They started madly killing more and more of the monsters, by the thousands.

As time went on the armies had more and more trouble slaying the monsters. The undead seemed to be able to think and reason to an extent further than expected. The undead retained many of the skills they had while alive, many of them even able to use magic.

An amazing shock came fourteen moons after the terrible night. The combined armies of the living encountered a huge, fully armed and well organized army… and it was an army of the undead.

------------------

They were closing in on her. She could feel she was being cornered from every direction. They could not yet find her but almost every route of escape was now closed to her. She always knew it would come to this, but in her mind it was well worth it.

In the beginning, the gods of war and of chaos delighted with her actions, but even they realized before long that this course of action would in the end destroy even them.

The spider queen never expected her attack to work. She plunged her dagger into the great mother in a moment’s decision, madly relishing in the thoughts of the chaos that will come of it. The thought that her attack might succeed against the greatest of the conceived gods never crossed her mind.

The moment the deity realized the shocking reality of her triumphed attack she did not hesitate. The spider queen attacked again and again until nothing remained of the greater god.

As she drank the dead deity essence, adding her divine power to her own, her power became so great she could not contain it. She suddenly became so great mortals could no longer grasp her existence, but she would not let go of her immortal self. Madness begun eating into her as the power searched a place to expand, and was strengthened by the madness it found already in her. Then, just when she was about to be destroyed by her own power, Lolth opened her mouth and the mad laughter shook the multiverse itself.

-------------------

The young man rode in front of the unit assigned to him, the enemy was all around them and he found it hard not to ponder his life as he advanced to an almost certain death…

He saw five great wars since the cursed night six winters ago. The first he barely survived, not much more than a small child then.

He found himself caught between the two massive armies, and was barely able to save himself and the few others that counted on him for survival. He managed to keep those few alive by hiding in the streets and sewers while the merciless throng killed everyone in sight.

After more than a year of survival, just as he fought they had a chance to survive this holocaust, the two massive armies collided right over the streets where they all hid. He lost many that day, but somehow managed to survive it and save many others. Thankfully, included with the survivors was the one he cared most about in the world. The one he survived for and because of all those terrible months, his only family and his only light in that damned and blood red world.

…He shook her memory out of his mind. It will only bring him death to daydream in the midst of the battle.

The young man gave the sign to advance faster. He was the youngest unit leader in the army. No one could argue the battle hardened mind he have gained in the last four wars and they were forced to give him a unit. He could easily have been in the warlords’ tent as a counselor by now, he had a sharp mind and an ingenuity that made him invaluable as a tactician, and only his young age made other’s not fully recognize it in him fully and allowed him to stay in the battlefield. The young man refused to even entertain the thought of leaving the battlefield; he had a score to settle. As he looked forward it seemed to him that today will probably be the day he will do so.

The young unit leader motioned his unit to charge. Oblivious to the throng of enemies closing from all around them, they did just that. As they ran toward the obvious leader of the right wing of the enemy’s army the men drew their weapons. It was a suicide mission, they all knew it, but it was an important mission. They all knew that if they’ll succeed, they will save countless lives from the merciless hands of the enemy. The man that was leading the attack against them had an uncanny ability of controlling the throngs in battle, disposing of him will cripple the enemy.
The young unit leader’s hate for that leader was somehow unrelated. He could not stop the memories of that terrible night to fill his mind as his sword clashed with that of the one he hated so…


He was very tired that terrible night. He had begun working just a few days before and was too tired to even eat his dinner. It was then that the terrible sound has begun. Nothing he did stopped that terrible laughter and he was starting to wish for death when at last the sound stopped. He looked around and found his sister by him. She was crying hard and was lying in a small pool. She had lost control of her bladder. He helped her up, but as they rose they saw the terrible sight of their bleeding mother.

They ran to her shaking their mother hard and yelling her to wake when they heard the sound behind them. They have just lost their mother but what came next was even worse.

Tears choking their throats they tried crying for their father that their mother was not moving, begging for his help. He did not move.

Suddenly, wanting nothing more that moment then to have their strong father’s arms around them, they both sprang to their feet and ran for their father, reaching to hug him.

Instead of embracing them, their father moved like lightning. One second he was standing in front of them, and the next he was standing on their other side holding his old huge sword, pointing it toward them. As they stumbled back, more in surprise then in fear, still not comprehending that their father wants to harm them, the huge man jumped through the window and disappeared from their life.

…When Jakob found out his father was one of the highest leaders of the enemy, responsible for thousands of deaths since that terrible night, he decided it will be by his hands that the crazed man will die. Now that Anala was safe and taken cared of he could do just that. It was his responsibility to destroy the leader of the crazed army, even at the cost of his life.

This day, he knew, his nightmare will end. The nightmare that begun when half the world started seeing death where there was life…

 

The Sniper by tetsume[1,657 Words]

“I didn’t expect this. Not now, not ever. Today is May 29th, 3030. It’s my 20th birthday today. And life hit me hard. But whoever you are, you’re going to want more. So I think I’ll start back at the beginning. Two years ago I got out of high school. At the time nothing was going on. My life was open, and free. I wanted to travel the galaxy though. I wanted to see the other planets and earth colonies out there. So I enlisted in the army. After some simple tests they said I was fit enough to join and I was in. To think that I chose this fate freely makes it hurt even more.

I said my good byes to my family and friends, and was off within a week to training. It was pretty cool, we took off in one of those new test shuttles. You know, the ones that go to and from the moon in an hour. It was pretty solar. Kinda reminded me of those old aero planes I studied in school. After we landed on the moon base training started. We were immediately sent to our barracks and given our schedules. The next two months were mind numbing and grueling. Unarmed combat, marksmanship, heavy arms, general survival, and languages were what made the most of my training. I apparently had a talent for shooting things, so they made sure it was nurtured.

The day after I finished I was loaded up onto another shuttle and launched off to some far outpost on some planet I’d never heard of. The place was a lot like earth was back in the 2000s, but more advanced. My orders were to reclaim the various earth settlements on the place. Apparently some unknown species had taken over the colonies and had murdered all the humans. I didn’t question it, that wasn’t in the job description.

It was about a year and a half ago that we’d landed and started to reclaim the colonies. It’s…funny to think it was that long ago when it feels like it was yesterday. After we’d landed on the planet we setup camp for the night and prepared to head out. We were a few platoons, making up an army of 100 people. All fitted with the latest armor. It was designed to protect us from laser and projectile weapons, to blend with the environment, and to protect us from any alien environments we might find ourselves. It was a pretty solar moment when I put this thing on and disappeared against the dirt. But this wasn’t a school trip; this was the start of war.

The morning after we landed we packed up quickly and were gone before there was any light. Our goal was the closest colony that we lost. I was armed with a sniper rifle that fired electro-thermal bullets. It’s a little low-tech but effective in a world of lasers. My job was to stay back and peg off as many people as I could. It was fine, I didn’t mind. Less chance of getting killed that way. After about a weeks travel, my group split off. We were heading to a ridge near the colony where we could snipe the targets and take down defenses while our main part stormed the gates. It was a simple plan, which is always the best.

It worked of course, my group got to our goal. We radioed down, and they said they were in position and ready. I made the first shot; I lined it up and fired at one of the guys on the watch tower. He almost looked like he was asleep on the job. I didn’t have time to think, my comrades began firing as well. I fired round after round at any target I could find. I was mentally shut down. I found myself shooting and shooting as if I were a cybernetic humanoid. After what seemed like an instant my group leader was shaking my shoulder. I was about to hit him for messing with my shot until he said we’d won and were to meet up at the colony.

I blinked and looked again, nobody left but our troops. I smiled and felt a strong feeling of pride. I did my job, and I did it right. When we met up we were told there wasn’t much resistance. The beings who took over the colony were pretty much caught off guard and weren’t expecting an attack. That’s how it seemed at least. We celebrated and sent a message to earth to inform them the first colony was freed. A new group of colonists were on their way. The next day a few of our soldiers were left behind to guard the colony. That was fine. My group was still whole. I had my allies.

For the rest of my time, things went the same. We constantly were on the move. Colony after colony was reclaimed on the planet. I stopped counting after the 15th, it was annoying to keep track. But it was mostly the same. Each colony was caught off guard, my group would be off in the distance sniping, and there was very little resistance. Occasionally we lost a man or two, but it was a war after all. As time went on the higher ups began to notice me more, I found myself rising in the ranks pretty quickly. Soon enough I was leading my group. I’d been raised to second in command of our entire army, and primary commander of the sniper group.

Time continued to move, and I found myself enjoying my job. I was a born sniper, and I lived for the chance to fire my gun. I didn’t notice at the time, but it’s true. I’d become nothing but a sniper. An ender of life. With all our experience on the filed my group became the key part of reclaiming the colonies. With a steady decrease in ground troops we had to do more and more clearing before out allies could get in. It was so easy too. You’d think that they would have smartened up, but they didn’t. When I asked the first in command, he told me that the colonies all functioned individually and had no connections by communication or trade. It made sense. I didn’t question it again.

Last week we reclaimed the final colony. The only people here are my group, and my superior. We’re all that was left of our army. Which means my group took out the entire colony with our snipers and we went in after and cleaned up. There’s a party going on outside right now, to celebrate our victory. Nobody really knows today is my birthday. It isn't important and never was. Thinking back now, my 19th birthday passed on this planet too. Time flies when you’re killing it seems…

I found out something important today. I found out that earth never had colonies on this planet. This planet was newly discovered, and inhabited by entirely peaceful people. There weren’t even any animals on the planet that could pose a threat. It was just this peaceful species. And I helped lead their extermination. Every one of this race was destroyed. This colony was the last of them, and my group destroyed them. I’m responsible for their genocide. But that’s not the worst of what I discovered today. I discovered that I don’t care. I just, don’t care. I don’t care about the fact that I led to the extinction of another race. Or that I took away countless lives without ever questioning. I don’t even care that I’ve been lied to for the last two years.

I’ve lost my humanity. I’ve lost my ability to care. I’ve lost my sense of self. I’ve become a sniper. One of the best there ever was. A precision killer with no regret, no remorse, no humanity. The truth makes me feel cold inside. As cold as the barrel of my gun. My new orders have come in too. I’ll be spending a week back on earth, then being sent off on a new mission. It’s an invasion mission. Don’t know the full details yet. I’ll be told everything when I arrive, or at least….everything they want me to know. But I don’t care about the truth anymore. All I want is to feel my gun pressed against me, all I want to see is my target fall through my scope, because all I am is a killer. One of the best there ever was.”

With a beep the recorded voice cut out. It was all there, the truth and events that happened on that little planet. Nobody was going to find out of course, this audio file would be destroyed before it could be leaked. The truth would be forgotten, and buried. It had been in the process of being buried for a long time. The soldiers were nothing more then pawns, ones who were made to be sacrificed. This changed his mind though. Not all soldiers would be killed.

After the first colony was “reclaimed” a team of cybernetic humanoids were sent in to kill the soldiers who stayed behind. This happened at every colony. It was going to happen at the final one too, but now he was unsure. “Save the sniper group, reprogram everyone’s memories. The first and second in command there will be brought to me, I’ve matters to discuss with them before my final decision is made.” This sniper was the perfect man he was looking for. He would be brought in and used for special missions. The other man…would be erased to cover all evidence that this ever happened. All men involved would be erased from history, and launched into the sun. That’s how it has been for a long time. There is no such thing war…just instruments of death and mass executions.

 

Those Left Behind by avalonink[1,219 Words]

I shake in the night, and wonder if he'll ever return.

Our children don't seem to remember him, though the oldest occasionally asks me when Daddy will be back. I have to take a moment to answer, biting my lip and hiding the tears behind a brave face. "Later, honey. Maybe in spring." Her innocence doesn't make me feel any less pain, in fact it magnifies it beyond all proportion. Tears drip into the soup as I send her off to play, so she won't see them.

I work the farm with Shana, who will be my sister when her betrothed returns with his brother, my husband. They hadn't had time to wed before... well, before, anyway.

It's peaceful here. We have enough to eat, if we work hard every day. I'd rather work anyway. It keeps me from thinking about anything. It keeps me from worrying. No, that's a lie. Fatigue numbs my brain and helps me push through each day. I do my chores automatically, smiling only with my face. My face is a mask that hides my screaming soul.

Shana chatters on with the brightness of the terminally hopeful. She knows her love will return. She knows that he's safe, that he's being faithful to her. She knows he won't change in the months - years? - that he'll be gone. She knows that everything will be all right when he returns. She misses him, but it's a distant feeling for her. She simply knows he will return.

I don't have that luxury. I've been in the world. I know about taverns and soldiers. I know about the women who follow armies. I know about swords and blood and death. I know about the women who walk the corpse-strewn fields, lifting cold and soiled heads. Looking Death in his face. The wailing that breaks the silence after the killing stops.

My mother plays with the children not far from our garden patch. The dappled shade softens the sadness and wrinkles that mark her. They mark her as a broken woman. She is broken but still living. I know she wonders if my children will miss their father as I miss mine. I look away. I can't watch them, wondering about the future. I have to pluck the weeds. I have to go on.

The sameness of every day is soothing. I wake and feed the chickens, gathering their warm eggs. I make the breakfast while Shana milks our cow. My mother gathers the children into the kitchen and we eat together. Only the children and Shana talk very much. There is the garden to tend, the cream to churn into butter. There are the animals to care for and dinners to prepare. There is the hour before retiring that Shana tells stories while my mother knits something warm for the winter. I mend or knit or fix something or carve a toy; never at rest. I cannot rest, or my mind will take over.

The dark of night, when the house is silent, is the worst time. If I cannot pass out from exhaustion then all I do is stare at the empty side of the bed. Eventually I shake with suppressed sobs. Why can't I stop thinking? Please, let me fall asleep! Please?

The months pass, and my little boy is walking now. He toddles everywhere. He is my joy and my constant sorrow. His plump, soft face wrings piercing joy from my heart. Dear Gods, I cry inside, let this be the last war! Let me keep my little man? Let him know none of the fearful anticipation, the trembling before the strike. Let him never be splashed with the gore of a foe. Let him find love and keep it close by him. Let him know peace. Do not visit this evil on his women. I could not bear to lose my husband and my son.

Because, deep in my heart, I know my love will not return. There is no word from the front. Traders tell only of defeat in the fields of battle. They tell only of death. I begin to plan for a life without my only love. Every day I find times when I cannot speak. My throat is closed and aches from holding back. I ache. I cannot show my sorrow. The children need me to be strong, and Shana needs me to smile and nod when she tells me of her future. She tells me of her betrothed's return. She needs to be sure, and it's getting more difficult with every season that passes.

A filthy man came to our door last week. He was bloodied and tired. His sword was dented and his shield was cracked. A stranger, but I let him in. He may have news of our men. He may have heard something, anything? He knew me. He knew our house. I cried with joy and screamed and nearly fell down with relief, with shock, with ... sorrow?

This man made me sad. His eyes used to be a clear and confident blue, wise and yet humorous. His hair had been black and full. He had been strong and healthy. This man was skinny and tired. His eyes were still blue but now they were sad and distant. His hair had silver sifted through it. Scars littered skin that was once soft and silky. His hands were hard and stiffened with use.

I am filled with a fierce, possessive joy. A hope I had never dared to have has come true. I cannot feel sorrow for Shana, though I know I should. I cannot feel sorrow for the horrors this man went through. They are past. Now I can only bathe this man and fetch his clothes from the cedar chest. They won't fit him but I can mend them tonight after he has gone to bed. I never want to sleep again. I feel like I could fly, like I could fight a thousand wars for this man. I am joy. I am sorrow. I am an avenging angel who could visit unending terrors on those who would harm my folk. I am not forgiveness. But I am here, and I am now.

Shana will survive. She is like a ghost of herself. Now it is she who works automatically throughout the day. I know the hurt that is in her now. I comfort her but I cannot feel sorrow for her. I cannot mourn; I am too full. I am full of watching him. I am full of seeing his hands carve toys for the children. I am full of his face on my pillow. I am full of his step in the hall. I am full of his presence beside me.

The man in my arms tonight is not the man I married, nor the man who left long seasons ago to fight a war about which he knew little. He is a troubled soul and wakes in fear many nights. I soothe him for hours, stroking his now-grey hair and holding him close. He is a man who plays with his children cautiously, as if afraid to break them, or afraid that it is a dream. He is a man who lost a brother, and now seeks at least to find himself again.

[Klazzform]

March 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Time Travel
Winner - A Patient Traveler of Time by Simon Hild

 

Into The Dream Cycle by avalonink[1,463 Words]

Flames licked the sky in the near distance as I crept through the otherwise dark forest. I had to investigate, since my dream the night before had involved a forest fire that decimated my placid and comforting wooded lands. Anyone starting a fire in my turf had better watch out. It had been a dry summer and they were looking to get arrested if they got caught without a permit.
I stealthily parted bushes and dodged around trees until I could see the scene clearly. There were several men and women dancing naked around a huge bonfire. They danced wildly, heedless of the sparks that flew around them and of the flames that leaped for the sky and touched the branches that overhung the edges of the clearing. The branches, however, did not burn. The clearing was unfamiliar. These woods were my home and I knew them as well as I knew myself. It was disturbing to see something that should not be in my territory.
I watched them warily, wondering how to approach the group. There was a sense of anticipation about them, as though their dancing was a way to pass time, or perhaps the prequel to some other activity. I counted them: seven men and six women. It was far too large a group for me to feel comfortable approaching. I would have to go home and get some reinforcements.
Suddenly there were wild whoops and cheers of joy, almost animal cries, and I found myself stumbling all unwilling into their midst. They surrounded me and started to tear my clothing off, ignoring my struggles and protests. When I was as naked as they were, I was brought a goblet of plain stone – my guess was granite. It was filled with a red liquid that smelled of forest herbs, mushrooms, earth, and blood. The cup was put towards my lips and I began to refuse, but then I looked into the face of the man who held it up for me.
His EYES! Goddess, I thought, his eyes… like fire. No, like water. Like … like all my dreams and all my fears and above all like all my desires. I was transfixed by his eyes. His eyes were the color of moonlight on water, of shadows in the forest, of golden honey and of the summer sky. His eyes were like everything I had ever dreamed and I found myself unable to resist them. I drank unhesitatingly from the rich ruby liquid.
The drink was like his eyes. It was anything and everything and it burned my throat but I didn’t notice because suddenly all I wanted was MORE of it. I wanted to drown myself in it, bathe in it, become the drink. It went straight to my head and told me I was everything, could do everything, could feel everything. A sensual shudder coursed through my body, and I felt like I was going to die.
When the last drop was gone they took the cup from my lips, but I didn’t notice. I was swimming in a realm of senses: sight, taste, smell, touch, hearing and even the unknowable senses we have yet to dream of. Every molecule of myself was flooded with messages and yet none were confusing or confused. They were all separate and alive. I was drunk with true sensuality.
Everything after that is now only a dim memory of feeling. I remember joining in their dance and losing myself in a music that seemed to ring from within my body. I remember singing and chanting in a language that I had never spoken before, and knowing the meaning deep in my soul. I could not repeat those words to you now. I remember … there was a reason we were all sky-clad.
The Earth moved for us, and this I do remember clearly. I felt the spinning of the planet on her axis, and her elliptical course around our star. I felt that star’s infinite speed through the nothingness of space. I felt the insignificance of our small planet as well as the significance.
At a point of rest, four figures appeared to us. They were not solid; they were more impressions of figures than physical ones. There was a comforting feminine presence, a shifting, cool masculine one, a snapping, passionate female figure and an insubstantial masculine one. It was obvious that we were in the presence of the earthly Elements.
They asked me questions I cannot remember; I answered them in words I dare not repeat. They gave me gifts I cannot share, and took from me more than I was willing to give. After they disappeared, or melted, or exploded, or drifted off, the physical joining began anew. It was uncontrollable and I could not bring myself to stop despite the mounting pain. We were as animals and knew no rest. We reveled in the carnality of the act. Finally I felt myself explode as with a shower of molten sparks from the hammer on an anvil, and knew no more.
***
I woke to the morning sun on my face and my body wet with dew. I wondered where I was and began to get up. The pain made me groan and lie still, taking stock. I was sore all over. The pain brought back dim memories and clear ones. I lay there for several minutes as they washed over me. Finally it was the chill which brought me, teeth gritted against the agony, to my feet. It was cold for a summer morning!
I was filthy, so I stumbled to the river to rinse myself off. As I splashed into the shallows, the cold shock drove my pain away for a moment. The water was freezing! I rinsed myself quickly and went back to find my clothing. The clearing and my clothing were both gone.
I had to get home, and was thankful for the cover of the woods as I stumbled around unfamiliar trees, splashing through small streams I didn’t remember. When I got to my house, something seemed wrong. It looked empty, unlived-in. Dead grass grew tall against the siding, and grime filmed the windows. I rubbed a circle in the dirt on one of the panes and peered inside. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. I had to get in to get a closer look. My keys were in my pants, and who knew where my pants were?
In the end I picked up a rock from the garden and threw it as hard as I could at the glass of the back door, making a big enough hole so I could unlock it. I pushed it open with difficulty and stepped carefully over the shards that littered the dust of the floor. I had a strange sense of trespass walking through that silent and empty house. It should have felt like my house. It was my house.
Upstairs the dust was as thick, but here there were signs of life. At least, signs that other people lived. My answering machine had messages. I pressed the button through its gritty coating and went to find some clothes. By the second message, I had forgotten to find something to wear and just stood listening.
The first recordings were from friends and relatives, wondering where I was. Later there were concerned messages about calling the police. After those came the confused messages of people I knew saying they were sorry, they thought they had the wrong number, or couldn’t remember why they were calling at all. The dates on the machine got farther and farther apart. Then they stopped.
I picked up the handset and dialed the operator. That was how I found out that more than ten years had passed while I was asleep that one night. Why had no one sold the house? Why had no one looked for me? How had they forgotten me, because forgotten I obviously was. There was no other explanation for my mother and father, my best friends, and others to have simply stopped calling. They had forgotten me as if I had never existed. What was going on?
I dressed in a daze, in clothes that no longer fitted me. I had grown both older and greyer, and was skinny to the point of sickness. Had I existed in those long years, or had I, like the house, simply waited somewhere in-between? Would I ever know?
Like a shining answer, before me I saw a key of silver. Suddenly I knew that the only way I would ever find out would be to use it. I took it to the nearest door and inserted it in the lock. Beyond was….. nowhere real.
I walked into dreams.

 

A Patient Traveler of Time By Simon Hild[2,023 Words]

Alchemy is a smelly school of magic and the halls of House Malkedesh were filled with the foul odor of experiments. Halides Malkedesh, however, had long since become accustomed to the smell of the laboratories kept deep in the lower levels of the complex. Though the spires of the castle’s five towers reached to the heavens, it was the halls below that called to the forces of hell. Halides didn’t concern himself with the common experiments being conducted by sage and apprentice alike. The marching cadence of his hard soled boots echoed inexorably through the student halls and many of the novice sophomores trembled at the sound.

Halides pressed on without so much as a thought about the young ones trying desperately to not cause an unwanted explosion in the labs. Their trivial effort to understand the complex workings of alchemy were not his concern now. He understood that a laboratory could be replaced, even students could be replaced, but there was one experiment that could change everything, for good or ill. This was this experiment that concerned him, as well as with the exceptionally bright student whom he suspected was conducting it.

Krisnight Malkedesh was one of the finest students Halides had ever seen. They were second cousins to each other but had never spoken about it. As one of the deans, Halides kept a certain distance from all of the students of alchemy regardless of what house, clan or family to which they belonged. Some said that Halides was even harder on those who belonged to his own family, but this wasn’t really true. He was given a responsibility long ago and the pressure of his position had made him the man he was today; bitter, cruel and unyielding. Though Halides thought he kept his jealousy of Krisnight’s talent hidden from everyone, even himself, it was clear to anyone that saw his cold eyes when they were fixed on Kris that he felt nothing but malice for the young man.

Halides took another set of narrow stairs to a still lower level of the labyrinthine dungeon that was the foundation of House Malkedesh. The walls were slick with condensation and the bioluminescent mold that was allowed to flourish here. Open flame was discouraged after so many disastrous fires. The glow from the crevices of the stonework only added to the eerie atmosphere of the castle and to its peculiar stink. His tempo never swayed as the dean marched to a long forgotten corner of the vast lower complex. He had lived in the House Malkedesh compound all of his five decades on Solterra, Halides was one of the few that did remember every corner and why this one was special.

Several generations had passed since the lowest corner laboratory had been used for experimentation with the very fabric of reality. Halides had only read reports on the subject in the scrolls of the Archives in the center of the city of Crystal Loch where Malkedesh was one of five noble houses. What he had read had been shocking to the middle aged dean because he felt that the experiments were allowed to progress at all was a breach of protocol. That breach had been made by Krisnight’s great, great grandfather, Krohnight before Halides had even been born. The dean’s rage was only tempered by the fact that Krisnight’s ancestor had been killed in the experiment, or at the very least blasted to another dimension. His body was never recovered and House Malkedesh would spend years recuperating from the fire that had followed the accident. This was what Halides had come to prevent, that and to knock a cocky youngster off his pedestal which was the closest excuse for a hobby he had.

Krisnight Malkedesh was a young man of only 25. His long black hair was disheveled with wisps of thin hair that had escaped the string he had used to hold it back. Sweat rolled down his face and his hands were blistered from his efforts with the pickaxe he was swinging. A pile of masonry bricks was at his feet and it glowed with the queer mold that protested being disturbed by shining all the more fiercely. The wall that was once made of the broken and moldy bricks at his feet gave no hint of the char marks from the experiment of so many years ago. The soot and carbon had disguised its new construction at the time, but had long since been cleaned from the wall.

Kris leaned on the pickaxe and stared through the hole in the wall he had created. The hole revealed a passage untouched by the glow mold thus preventing Kris from seeing more than a few feet down. He was tired from his physical exertion, but his heart raced from excitement, not exercise. The apprentice alchemist took a cracked parchment from his pack on the floor and carefully unrolled it. The left edge of the scroll was damaged by the same fire that had consumed everything in this part of the complex so many years ago, but yet it had survived and found its way to Kris’s hands.

“This is it,” he said aloud in his eagerness, though there was no one else to hear.

The hole he made was just big enough to crawl through so he picked up a palm sized piece of stone and rubbed the glow-mold all over it making a mental note to wash his hands before his next meal. The mold gave its odd purple glow again as if to call some underdark denizen to eat whatever creature had disturbed its home, but there were no underdark predators here, and the stone made a fine smokeless torch.

First the youth tossed his glowing stone into the passageway before cautiously following. The purple glow revealed a short, narrow hallway that ended after only twenty feet. At the end of the short hall, Kris found the outline of a door painted on the stone itself. He picked up his moldy stone in one blistered hand and smeared a bit of his blood on the burnt parchment as he read the words written there aloud. The silence that followed was long enough to make Kris’s heart sink. In that moment he was sure that this series of clues he’d been following for ten years was nothing but a wild goose chase. All the secrecy, the sneaking, the studying of ancient texts in dead languages was for naught! But then, the painted door began to shimmer, and the stone behind the paint began to appear to move, or was it only obscured by the bizarre fog that was seeping down to the floor?

After a moment it was clear that the stone behind the painted door was sublimating; going from a solid state directly to gas while skipping the liquid state all together. Kris went to cover his mouth with his sweaty tunic and nearly shoved his moldy stone in his mouth. Kris feared if he were to breath in the rock vapor, it might turn back to solid stone in his lungs, and great, great grandpa Krohnight’s careful planning would be all for naught.

“Krohnight,” Kris whispered, “are you there?”

The vaporized stone no longer kept the secret for which it had been charged so many years ago. The painted door was open and there, in a chamber no larger than a broom closet a coffin stood on its end. It was narrow at the bottom and gradually grew wider at shoulder height.

“Speak the devil’s name, boy, and he’s likely to appear,” a hard voice echoed behind him that turned Kris’s blood to ice.

Halides stood with his arms crossed directly behind Kris. The young man gasped in shock as he had been oblivious to the older man’s presence, and could only guess how long he had been observed. There was nothing to say, the secret he had kept for so long was out now, and there was no way to cover it up.

The dean was more than pleased with his own performance. The student’s reaction was gratifying. Halides knew he had the apprentice where he wanted him, and now his grandfather’s insane experiments with time travel would be finally put to rest. The very idea of trying to bend space and time was ridiculous on its face and dangerous if it was tried to be put into practice as was proven by his grandfather’s experiment that nearly toppled House Malkedesh. Halides was protecting his House, his home and his family as was his charge. If the students didn’t agree with his method, they must be made to recognize his motive.

The student before him, however, was not quivering in fear at being caught, nor even meekly staring at the ground to await his punishment. No, this whelp was staring back at him from the purple glow around him, framed from behind with the casket that no doubt housed the body of his long dead relative, with such a penetrating gaze as to make the dean of alchemy students hesitate; he even shifted his weight backward away from the now maniacal looking Krisnight Malkedesh.

The young man’s gaze had the dean captured so completely that Halides did not see the coffin behind him silently open, it wasn’t until the gaunt and pale reflection of Krisnight stepped from the coffin to put an icy hand on the shoulder of this viper of a grandson. The family resemblance had always seemed uncanny to Halides. It was as if Krisnight’s face was pulled from the family portrait of his grandfather in the Malkedesh gallery. Now with the two next to each other, one with the hot blood of youth making his face flush and the other pale as the discarded parchment on the floor, it was plain to see they were cut from the same cloth.

In a flash the horrible truth occurred to Halides. Krisnight’s grandfather had succeeded in bridging the space time gap? Then why bury himself for a hundred years to be reclaimed by his great, great grandson? It didn’t make sense! Time travel itself didn’t make sense, how could any of this be?

“Still trying to find the missing piece, Halides,” the young man’s voice dripped with contempt, “Were you always so satisfied, cousin, with the position handed to you?”

The pale creature that stood behind him slithered forward to whisper in the shocked dean’s ear, “Halides is it? You see Halides, one can’t travel to the future, because it just hasn’t happened yet.”

His voice was a raspy whisper that sounded as if it was lubricated with oil, “But if your intention is to take control of a House that has lost its way, it is best to bide one’s time and have an agent in the House. It is so hard to find a Malkedesh one can trust, but if one were to offer the gift to travel into the past and capitalize on events well chronicled, that would be a sufficient motivator for such an ambitious and talented one as this. Besides, he has my blood running through his veins.”

When the creature mentioned blood, his smile changed. Kris stepped aside as his now fanged grandfather lunged at Halides’s neck to claim his first meal in a century. The vampire had slept, with his secret tucked away with him, buried in a tomb to be opened only by the most talented and sinister of his family who was willing to give up a life in his time, and go to the past and change what is perceived as now. It had always been Krohnight’s intention to feed on whatever relative was foolish enough to follow his well secreted clues, but Kris was smart enough to bring a snack. Perhaps he would be smart enough to help him take over the House Malkedesh of the past and Crystal Loch along with it. Finally whatever empire suited his fanged fancy would fall at his feet. The world was now his jugular vein, he had but to drink.

 

Awakened by Thybeli[990 Words]

Have you ever thought that your life was just too good to be true? That every wonderful moment could fade into nonexistence? That any moment you might wake up and discover that it has all been just a dream?
I woke groggily this morning, penetrating a haze of half-formed dreams and ideas. Images flitted behind my eyelids, and I felt so safe that I refused to open my eyes and get out of my warm, protective, beautiful bed. I woke to near silence; my alarm clock didn't go off. I groaned as I realized that I had overslept my early class yet again. But the sound of my groan arrested me. It didn't sound right, was I getting sick? I finally opened my eyes. I stared up at the bottom of the top bunk for a moment before moving my gaze down to my body. I stared incredulously at the tiny digits on the hand that I knew was connected to my own arm: the arm of a toddler. That's when I realized that it had finally happened; I had awoken from the perfect dream.
I heard the sounds of my family getting up, eating breakfast. My older brothers quarreled over something, my mother chided them softly. I could hear my father's low rumbling laugh as my sister complained about something, but I didn't pay attention. I was alone in this house, alone in this world.
How could it have been a dream?
Could a toddler's mind really dream up fifteen years worth of people, places, and events? I looked at the bottom of the bunk above me, wishing that my college dorm mate was laying above me, about to get up for class. But I knew that she wasn't there. I forced myself to sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I stared at them for a moment as they dangled mid-air, unable to reach the ground. I stood on my tippy-toes on my mattress, clinging to the metal bar of the frame I peered over the edge of the bed, hoping against hope that my roommate would be there. Instead I came face to face with mounds of stuffed animals, my favorites toward the edge of the bed so I could easily grab them, hand-me-downs from my siblings farther back since those toys weren't as special to me.
I spotted a teddy bear that I hadn't seen for years, the one my brother gave me for my first Christmas. I grabbed it, clinging to the physical comfort of the inanimate object. I was alone, except for my teddy bear, stranded in a time and place that I could barely recall. Even as my sister softly called my name at the door, I knew that I was completely alone.
How could it have been a dream?
Why did I know things and places that I shouldn't know? I wracked my brain for four-year-old thoughts, but they weren't there. Thoughts of my college Spanish class floated through my head, the Pythagorean Theorem, how to play the bass guitar, How I Met Your Mother, the internet, Harry Potter, driving a car, things that barely existed now, or didn't exist at all. I knew these things. But how could I know them?
It wasn't just a dream.
My sister walked in and I barely recognized her. She stood before me in her nineties ripped jeans and big hair, a senior in high school, getting ready to leave me soon for the life of college and then marriage. Fifteen years from now, she'd still be beautiful, even though as a mother of two she'd have lines around her eyeslaugh lines and worry
lines--mother lines. She'd look young, but it'd be apparent she was a parent. I didn't know the girl in front of me. I can remember snatches of her from my childhood but she was gone from the house when I was young, gone before I was old enough to really know her. I looked at this young stranger, and I hugged my teddy bear even closer.
Why am I awake from my dream?
My sister left and I barely noticed. Even when she was there, I was alone in my confusion. Confusion and pain. Was everything that I dreamed bound to happen? Would I have to wait fifteen years to see my friends again? Would I have to go through elementary school with the mind of a college student? Would I even be able to bear the amount of knowledge I held?
Please let this be the dream.
But as I lay crying on my bed clinging to my teddy bear I knew the truth. I was alone in the world. No one would believe me, no one would listen. I knew all the bad things that were going to happen to my loved ones, and I couldn't say anything, they wouldn't believe me. And if I did say something, how would my future change? Would I not meet the people that I love?
Can I forget my dream?
My mind hovers on faces, my dorm mate, my boyfriend, my best friends, my teachers, all the important people that wouldn't be in my life for a decade, perhaps even longer. Can I remember them that long? Should I remember them, when by chance I could change something important just by knowing? But how can I forget the people who had such a profound impact on me? How can I survive without them?
I'm alone in my dream.
I'm alone, surrounded by family, aching for the future that I left behind, crying for the friends that I am destined to meet, begging for the past to be the past. I am suffering, alone, with nothing but a teddy bear and my memories to console me.

 

Five Birds, One Stone by Frostulf[3,071 Words]

“Dude, Brent, did you see the way that hottie was eyein’ me?” Trey grinned like a madman, “we should come back here every day!
“She was ‘eyein’ you cuz you got mustard all up on your shirt,” Nick laughed as he punched him in the arm, “look like you been droolin’ diarrhea outta your face... sound like it too.”
“Man, shut up!” Trey stepped in and pushed him, it was not much of a push, Nick just hopped back and laughed.
“A’ight, quiet you two... gotta call Meg,” Brent pulled out his cell to call his girlfriend, a pretty little thing waiting for him to get home, “besides, maybe she’s into that sort of thing.”
Trey made a comeback, but Brent was not listening, his cell refused to work. He tapped it against his hand and held it higher, but the signal was gone. With a grumble about how stupid the phone company obviously was, he held it up higher, the added foot and a half was usually enough to catch satellite signals. Usually.
“Jake man, lemme use your phone,” Brent took his phone and looked at it, Jake’s was acting odd as well.
“See? That’s what you get for buyin’ such cheap phones,” Trey snickered and pulled out his “special” phone. He spent a few seconds fiddling with it, Brent sighed loudly.
“No... wait... trying to... how do I turn this app off?” Trey hit his phone, “damn thing’s not workin’ either...”
“You’re in a dead zone,” Jake offered up, “the lamps in parking lots like these interfere with phones.”
“That’s stupid.”
“No really, I saw it on the news!”
“You watch the news?”
“Well... the part that comes on before Jersey Shore...”
“Never mind...” Brent sighed and looked at his phone, the battery meter was emptying before his eyes, “what in... the hell?”
A bright flash split the empty space next to their car, for a moment it looked like white lightning had struck out of nowhere. Jake ran backwards while Trey dove over the hood of Brents’ car, briefly Brent was worried about scratches, but a man appeared in the middle of the lightning.
He was around normal height, but that would have been the only thing normal about him. Dressed from head to toe in black leather with what looked like armored plates. A black leather long coat shifted as the man stood up to reveal guns, knives and what looked like a black Indian warclub over his back. He had neck length brownish hair with a few streaks of gray. His face was what caught their attention, marred by criss-crossed scars with a scowl that could curdle milk. Over his left eye was a simple black eye patch.
The man looked up at them and limped towards them, his left leg slowed down by a makeshift steel brace on it. He scowled at in of them in turn, as if it was some sort of greeting.
“Do you come in peace?” Trey asked, Brent snapped his eyes over to him, hiding behind the car. Jake was behind the trunk while Nick was fighting to open the locked door. Brent wondered if he would every know where his keys were again.
“Peace...” the man growled in his scratchy voice, “is one dream I don’t have the luxury to afford. Then again... you can’t afford it either...”
“Who’re you?” Brent heard someone ask, it sounded a lot like himself.
“Can’t tell you,” the man replied, “but what I am going to tell you, you better listen to.”
He walked over to the car, Nick leaped away from the door like the man would bite him, by the look of the man that was not a outlandish thought. Brent somehow learned to move his legs again and turned to face him. The man leaned against the car with a grunt and glared at them.
“Who I am isn’t important, but what I’m here to do is,” he gave an annoyed sigh and adjusted the weapon on his back, “might as well come out with it... I’ve come to the past to warn you.”
“To the past?” Brent cocked a brow at the man, “you’re saying you’re from the future.”
“I’m from the present... this is the past,” the man sneered at him, “I remember you being taller.”
“What do you mea-“
“Shut it, don’t have the time to play spaceman with you, there’re things you need to know and you need to know them now. There isn’t much time left for any of you... less for some of you,” he looked around as the four of them cautiously moved around the car to face him, he smiled up at them with a dark look in his eye.
“Not a one of you believe me, right?” he chuckled as three of them shook their heads in unison, Jake was a bit slow, “fine then... guess proving it can’t hurt.”
He snapped his left arm out and methodically removed the buckled armor straps. Stiffly he pulled the glove up, but he stopped and grinned at them for a moment. With an evil sounding chuckle he pulled the glove free and flexed a fully mechanical hand for them, the shiny metal gleamed in the lamplight.
“Took down a HK-Mech,” he explained to the stunned onlookers, “bastard fell right across me, busted my leg and cost me a hand. Not to worry though... limb replacement is a bit easier after droids were built.”
“That thing... is real?” Brent asked, the man grinned wickedly at him.
“Wanna touch it?” the man cackled as the young man backed away, “how the hell did you survive...”
“Survive what?” Nick asked, his eyes were still locked on the hand.
“End of the world,” the man pulled his glove back on and looked to each of them in turn, “any of you got a smoke? I’d kill for one right about now.”
Nick fished the man out a cigarette while the others gathered around him to listen, Brent truly did not want to believe this man, but he did just appear out of thin air and lightning. There was that hand as well... but where was his futuristic weapons? A club? Guns that looked pretty normal by Brent’s’ standards did not give the air of the future.
“Ain’t got much time,” the man grinned, “odd considering how I got here. But here’s the story believe it or not; in the year twenty-twelve, a viral outbreak occurred. Blood born pathogen that caused major brain damage and heighted aggression, not exactly the most fun of diseases. There was some speculation that it was a sign from God, or some sort of terrorism, I particularly like the one where some guy who was upset the world didn’t get some sort of quantum mechanical sense of worldly whatever, went nuts and released it. Anyway, it spread pretty bad, killed a good deal of people and left the world basically hell.”
“See, you can’t fight them well unless you’re immune, or unless you’re in a hazmat suit,” he took a long drag off the cigarette, “once you’re infected, it took a day or two for the symptoms to kick in. Once it took hold, you’re a damn Locust.”
“A locust?” Trey asked, he stared like a terrified kid at a bad movie.
“It’s our little nickname for ‘em, see, they eat everything. Plants, humans, animals... hell, they’ll eat things that look like food. They travel about, killing anyone they see and eating a town to bare ground, people and all. Part of the damaged brain is the hypothalamus, the part that makes you feel full or hungry. Theirs’ never stops, it’s always switched on. Feel no pain, no feelings, just a crazed zombie-thing.”
“So... zombies destroy the world?”
“Nah, they did some damage, but it’s like fighting a child. No attempts at defense, and pretty uncoordinated. A good small unit can bring down hundreds, problem is, there are always hundreds of them and not many of us immune... and we ain’t immune to fists and teeth. So we made things that were.”
“Two years of hell on earth, and the remnants of the government came up with a ‘Zombie Solution’. They built remote controlled robots and put armed them for Locust killing. A guy could sit in a control room in a bunker while his robot did all the dangerous work. No problem with infection, no problem with dying, seemed perfect. Sure they couldn’t fight well, being built to be solid, but Locust are damn stupid.
“So... in the future humans fight against zombies in giant robots?” Jake asked, he almost sounded hopeful.
“Nope, things were going well for a while, then some nerd figured he could cut out the human problems of ‘fatigue’,” he growled and coughed, “programmed them with an auto-pilot and everyone was thrilled. Robots would kill off Locust while we lived our lives, rebuilt our homes and lived happily ever after... thing is, they only tested it on Locust. The auto-program didn’t account for actual humans. The threat matrix, or something like that, figured normal people were infected and not changed. It just killed everything alive. This would have been fixed easily, had the factory that built the damn things not been fully automated. Thousands of robots that kill anything humanoid... perfect choice to win...”
“What happened?

“We’re constantly still fighting the remnants of them, mass produced you see,” he stubbed out the cigarette on the car, Brent winced, “we hoped to have had some sort of virus or code to shut them down, but when they went rogue the killed most of their programmers. Now our only hope against them is to find and destroy their production plants. It means navigating a world infested with Locust to hunt down mechanical freaks… at least the pays good.”
“So… you hunt zombies and robots?” Jake stared wide-eyed at the man, “that’s the future we have to look forward too?”
“No, that’s the future I look forward to, you don’t make it that far,” the man stretched and cracked his neck, “Jake right? You get killed during the first wave of infected, I remember you dying, watched it from the store I worked at.”
“Wait… I die? And you knew me?”
“Knew you?” he laughed, “I went to school with you, heading to college after high-school for Criminal Justice, right? Police Academy after? You were mauled on national TV.”
Jake stared blankly ahead, his face a mask of shock and horror. Brent watched as similar masks appeared on the faces of the other boys, and wondered if he wore one as well.
“What happens to me?” Tray demanded more than asked, the man eyed him carefully.
“You got the virus early on and they did a special on you because you managed to infect your girlfriend.”
“And me?” Nick asked while Trey paled.
“Avoid brown dogs…” the man shook his head slowly, “seen a lot of things… but brown dogs and you? I’d rather lose the right arm than see that again… you were a good Hunter though so don’t feel too bad.”
“Umm…” Brent felt fear creep up in his chest, this man knew his future. Did he want to know? Trey looked ready to hurl and Jake had not moved since he was told. What happened to him.
“You? You live.”
“I live?” the words alone almost made everything better, he survived the apocalypse. Strangely the man did not seem happy about it.
“’Course you lived, you’re my commanding officer,” the man laughed, “sir. Though, I don’t remember you being this much of a wussbag, but everyone knows why you’re a hardass.”
“What happens? C’mon, I want to know…”
“Your wife gets sick, you take care of her well,” the man took another cigarette from a stunned Nick, “only, she didn’t have the kinda sick you got better from, she was infected. She got it from a friend, think her name was Jenny or something, anyway, you came home and found her with… well with your kids. Sorry sir…”
“What was her name?” Brent felt numb, like he already knew the answer, “my wife?”
“Megan, nice little lady,” he sighed, for the first time he looked sad, “wasn’t supposed to tell you, but I figure if you know you can stop it. Then again, maybe none of you can stop anything.”
For a long moment no one moved, their fates were handed to them by a man they should know. At the moment, however, figuring out his identity seemed trivial to the problems they would have soon. Soon there would be death and destruction, wars against monsters and machines, and somehow they had to prepare for that. Somehow they had to survive.
Their silence was broken by his bracer, a shrill beeping noise sounded. He sighed and hit some unseen button and adjusted his eye patch.
“Times almost up for me, time travel isn’t an exact science you know,” he pulled an old looking letter from his jacket and held it, “got to mail this first.”
“It’s a letter to my mother,” he explained after no one asked, “never got to tell her the important things before she died, figure I’ll do it now. Even figured a clever way to send it, put her address as the sender with no stamp, they’ll just return it to her.”
He walked to a post box and dropped the letter inside with a sad smile, Brent wondered if he should send a similar letter to his own mother. The other guys were probably thinking the same thing. The man came back to them and gave them all a grim nod.
“One more thing,” he explained, “the robots targeted high ranking military and economic leaders, not a good idea to become either one. Also, just a tip from me, don’t worry about the economy, it crashes in twenty-thirteen after the Locust outbreak and we adopt new currency. Gets bad for a while, but hey! It improved my credit score!” With a dark chuckle the man turned and walked back to the spot he arrived from, and in a flash he was gone.
Over the next few weeks, things changed for Brent and his friends, Jake dropped out of college and used the money to buy a small place on the outskirts of New York, spending most of his time on the lookout for the infection. Trey moved far away, last Brent heard he was trying to find a cure for the infection, mainly for himself. Nick simply bought a gun and refused to ever go near pet shops. Brent however had a different plan, he needed to keep Meg somewhere safe, he needed to keep her away from this “Jenny” and he had to make sure he was ready to survive the upcoming war. He would be damned before he would give up that easy.


A bright flash of lightning and he was back in the future, with a grin he looked around the dirty basement, it looked cleaner than he remembered. He had tested the device beforehand, in about an hour he would get a bad headache and new memories would come back. He took a few steps and stopped, the leg brace was killing him. He unbuckled it and put it on his work bench, along with the eye patch. He started to pull off the faux scars and wig, but instead pulled off the toy hand first, it was cramping his arm something horrible.
After he was presentable, he headed upstairs to his little home in the country he remembered, only it was not like he remembered. It was bigger, fully remolded and fully of new and wonderful kitchen equipment. He sat at the table in front of a small shoebox with his name on it, obviously full of the things he wanted to know. He opened it up with an evil smile. Inside were newspaper clippings and printed articles from all over the country. A man in New York started shooting people during a night production of a zombie film, he claimed they were real zombies and the government was covering it up to protect the economy.
Another man was committed to a mental hospital due to an insane and dangerous fear of brown dogs, while another man was arrested for drug trafficking, claiming it was important to protect people from zombies. A fourth man was arrested trying to kill a woman named “Jenny” claiming a man from the future said she would kill his wife. He also said that there would be a war where humans fought zombies and machines in twenty-twenty. It was twenty-twenty-three, and the worst viral infection disaster was the Avian Flu in New Mexico after the nearly extinct virus was accidently released during a demonstration of dangerous viruses.
Also in his little box was a letter, carefully folded, it detailed the exact stock market findings and winning lottery numbers for one of the largest lotteries in history. It also gave the names of several small companies that skyrocketed in the past ten years, and exactly how much to buy in.
“Sean honey, are you up?” his wife asked, Sean smiled, Meg was a pretty woman. As she came into the kitchen he smiled wider, even prettier than he remembered, but they could afford to have their own in-home gym now. It was a shame that back during their high school graduation, some guy named Brent had gotten drunk at the party and crashed his car with her in it, breaking her hip and ruining her dancing career. But it did give her nerdy friend the bravery to confess his love for her and steal her away from him. Sure he got beaten up a few times for it, but he was always a planner with a good memory, especially when it came to knowing exactly what to say to win her before graduation.
“I’m in here love,” Sean called out, “getting a headache at the moment…”
“Well, I know just the thing to cheer you up!” Meg smiled warmly at him, “the first copies of your book have arrived today!”
“My book?” Sean asked, but the memory was already coming back to him, “Oh right…”
He picked up the book, a science fiction novel about a future where humans have to fight against zombies called Locust and giant robots, and grinned his evil grin.

 

Battle of Hearts by syberpuppy[2,170 Words]

John locked the door and pushed the table before it. He was sure no one saw him, but he was not going to take any chances. Not now. Not when he was finally so close.

John looked at the object in his hand. It was a simple metal box, made out of tin or some other cheap metal. It was hard to believe this little box have cost him so much. His house, his car, his bank accounts, and probably his marriage too, he traded it all for that cheap looking box in the black market.

Suddenly, a great fear crept into John's heart. 'Could this be a fake? Was I betrayed? Did I just sell my entire life for a tin box?'

John's hands quickly searched frantically for the little latch that will open the box, and when he found it his fingers fumbled with the tiny handle for the eternity of a few more seconds. Finally, the box was open, but his heart did not calm at the sight of its interior.

Not unlike the box itself, the pill that was placed carefully inside it between layers of dry ice looked plain and regular. It was a white round pill, not much different from an aspirin.

Without a second thought John threw the pill into his mouth and swallowed hard. Some specks of the dry ice clung to his fingers in his haste and he could feel it burning his throat and stomach as it went down with the pill. Then, he waited.

After a long minute of nothing happening depression came over him. After two more he lost all hopes. As tears flowed from the man’s eyes, memories started flowing into them.

---------------

That eventful day eight years ago was never far from his mind, but it never was as clear as it was now. He was just going out of the cinema. His fiancée Lisa was clinning to his arm. They could barely take their hands out of each other, and the romantic movie they have just seen was no big help.

Lisa was a sucker for such movies. John was suffering through the movie, like always, but he never said a word. He will enjoy the results of the movie soon enough.

Bang.

The loudest sound John has ever heard could be heard from somewhere nearby. He was a little surprised and was looking around for the thing that made the noise. “What do you think that wa…” John started asking his fiancée. He was still looking for the source of the sound, when he suddenly felt the weight of his loved one pulling him down.

“Lisa? Lisa what’s wrong? Lisa are you OK?” John started calling the girl’s name. He feared she have fainted from the loud sound. A moment later that fear was trampled by a much larger fear, As he saw streams of blood streaming down the streets. The source of the small rivers was undoubtedly the woman he decided to spend the rest of his life with. Horror struck the young man as the realization of the nature of the sound came to him.


Regrets filled John’s mind while remembering. He knew now that Lisa was still alive then. He now knew that if he would have done anything to stop the bleeding then, she most likely would have survived. Instead, he just embraced the limp body of his lover and called her name again and again. The ambulance, called by one of the passersby, came soon after. It was already too late though. Lisa has already lost too much blood by the time the ambulance arrived.

The police never found the shooter. The gun was found in an abandoned house across the street. The 9mm was clean from fingerprints. By the angle of the shot it was clear that it was shot from that abandoned house also.

This did nothing to help the police find the culprit. There was a big car accident less than a minute after the shooting in the adjacent street corner. It was unrelated to the shooting, the police stated later, but the confusion of the two incidents was enough of a distraction to make it impossible for any of the witnesses notice anything about the shooter.


Even though the police was unable to find anything else about the murder, a young policeman named Steve went so far beyond the call of duty in order to find the killer that they eventually became close friends. In the end Steve’s efforts also proved useless.

Steve was only a little older then John. He was just out of the police academy when he was arrived to the scene of Lisa’s murder and was assigned to crowd control. At first John thought that the reason Steve was so eager to help him was because solving the murder will help him advance to the coveted detective rank faster. Soon after, though, it was clear that the impossible case was only a hindrance to that end. Steve was always evasive when asked why he cared so much about John fiancée’s case.


It was almost a year after Lisa’s murder when John met Jenny. It was at a party he threw at his home, celebrating his newly received doctorate degree in physics. Jenny, an impish dark haired young woman of about the same age as John, came to the party with Steve. Steve introduced her as his little sister. It was strange for John to hear that, he never heard the man talking about a sister. Stranger yet was how nervous she was around John. That and the recognition in her eyes when she first met him John, indicated that Steve did talk with her about him. He thought he might have seen her before too but wasn’t sure.


Jenny and John quickly became close friends. As the years went by John’s heart somewhat healed from Lisa’s death and he found love again in Jenny. They married and had an enjoyable marriage for a while.

"Lisa" was never a taboo word at their home. John’s lost and pain was something Jenny gladly shared the burden of, and eventually it only strengthened their bond. That changed quickly when the world shook with the news of a new science… time travel. Lisa’s shadow over the newlywed became darker and darker still as the possibility of saving Lisa grew in John’s mind.

As a physicist John understood the new science better than most. It was pretty far from his line of work but he did understand enough to know that the official statement that “the present can’t be changed by traveling to the past” was not accurate.

It was true that all the movies about changing the world by going to the past were impossible in reality, that the butterfly effect was disproven, and that the “timeline” will fiercely resist any change to it. The bigger the change, the harder the timeline’s resistance will be. But it still was not impossible; the only thing that could change the timeline was a strong will power, and if the will was strong enough any change could be made.

It was theorized long before that sub-particles where at every possible place while traveling from one point to the next. It was also discovered that human conciseness had an effect of where those particles will be at a given time. Two things were discovered that made time travel possible. One was that the particles were not only at every possible place at a given point of their travel, but that they also where at every possible point in time at every step of their way. The second was that the extant of the effect human’s conciseness can have on those particles could be enormous.

With enough will power and understanding of what time and space are, someone could actually make himself appear in any place, and in any time. That kind of understanding could never come naturally, but a drug was quickly invented to overcome that obstacle. Even though making a significant change to the present was proven to be impossible, the drug was immediately illegalized.

As if the timeline had a will of its own, maintaining your existence at another time was so hard usually not much time would go by before one would be expelled back to the present. It was harder still to make a lasting effect on the timeline. The bigger the change that was to be, the harder the time traveler will need to concentrate just not to be expelled while attempting the change. Even if a change was made, subtle changes everywhere will happen immediately after in order to minimize the change, so only the most decisive actions could be maintained.

John was convinced that if any will power could be enough to make such a drastic change, it would be his. He knew that if it came to a battle of wills with the timeline, the other will give. That in the end it will fix itself in a way that will not involve the death of his beloved Lisa.

For months, The only thing in front of John’s eyes was saving Lisa. He knew that by saving Lisa he would probably prevent himself from meeting Jenny, but reasoned that on the other side was something greater, Lisa’s life. He reasoned farther that without him, Jenny will meet another to love. John was so blind with his obsession he failed to see what his wife was going through because of it.

To John’s surprise, after months of searching, it was Steve who came to him with an address to where the drug can be bought. His old friend could not even look at him. Steve hated him for what he was doing to Jenny, and it only for his sister’s begging that he agreed to help John.

----------

John’s mind kept wondering from memory to memory as he fell deeper into sleep. He started thinking of the day of the murder again. This time the memory was even clearer. It was so clear he could almost hear the sound of the street where Lisa was killed.

John awoke with a startle. He looked around carefully. It was not his memory; he was back in that street. The shape of the cars hinted that he arrived at the right era, maybe even the same day.

John picked himself up from the street’s floor, disregarding the disgusted looks of passersby. He ran down the street to where he knew he will find it, a newspaper machine. The newspaper confirmed it. It was the right date, the led display of a nearby meter told him he had less than five minutes to stop the murderer or Lisa will again be killed.

John ran toward the hateful street. This street was so etched into his mind that it did not take him even a minute to find and burst into the abandoned house where the shot will come from. It was still empty.

Calming his breath, John went to hide behind the door. He took out his gun, also a present from Steve. He cocked it, removed the safety, and waited.

Time seemed to be slowing down. It seemed so slowed that John was afraid this was not just his adrenaline's doing, that this was what being pulled back to the present felt like.

Somehow, time kept moving. He kept waiting but no one came. He was starting to fear he was mistaken and the shot was not fired from the abandoned house. ‘Steve was sure and so should i be. The killer will come’ he kept telling himself, but the culprit to be did not come.

John was becoming frantic. Should he run out and search the murderer elsewhere? Should he wait? Should he do something else? He just did not know what to do. Then he saw them.

It was Lisa and he. So careless, so stupid in their love, they were going straight toward Lisa’s death.

‘Where are you?’ He screamed inside his own mind. It would happen any second now and the culprit was nowhere to be seen.

John started pointing his gun everywhere, at every shadow and at every shape. Then, while doing so, he noticed something. It was so clear and so terrible. The gun he was holding was a 9mm.

“Why?” he asked the empty room around him. “I would never…”

The sentence got stuck in his mouth. He noticed something outside the window, something unrelated to the two lovers merrily going their way. It was then he understood. He understood everything.

A young woman, no older than he was, was walking in the street. He knew her. It was the woman that will, in a few minutes, call the ambulance after seeing Lisa getting shot. It was the woman whose brother will come at the scene, and after her begging him he will give much of his time in order to help the grieving lover. It was the woman that will heal the young man’s heart and in the end marry him.

But most importantly, it was a woman that was going, if nothing will stop her, to be killed by a terrible car accident in just a few seconds.

John searched his heart for just a second before it was clear to him. He pointed the gun and shot.

He then cleaned the gun of fingerprints, threw it into the room, and let himself slip back to his own time and to the one he chose.

 

Journey's End by Himeo[520 words]

The wheels of the handcart groaned slowly as the trail rounded the final hill. The glow of civilization, a bustling metropolis known as Waterdeep, met the travelers with enthusiasm. They'd made it!

"Would you look at that. Prettiest thing I've seen all week!" Errich hollered into the night sky. A full moon and its crescent twin shared their light with the wayfaring duo. Barely half a dozen leagues of spruce and pine separated them from journey's end. He licked his chapped lips, gingerly wetting the cracks and blistered skin in anticipation of good drink and something better than trail rations for breakfast.

A grin bloomed across Tabetha's road-weary face when she broke the ridge line. No more walking. No more sleeping under the cart. No more rain! Her smile grew as big as the ocean beyond the city lights. She shrugged her shoulders, angling the harness over her head and bringing the load to rest on the hill crest. Tabetha ducked under the handlebars and quickened her pace to catch even with Errich. "We had an agreement, sugar." she teased with her syrupy drawl. "You didn't forget, now, did you?"

Errich gave her a blank look, his thoughts easily visible on his face. "Uh... no," he offered lamely.

"Fantastic!" said Tabetha. Her smile became a twisted smirk as she added, "Let's amend the terms dear Errich. Instead of one, make it two. Acceptable?" she gripped his calloused hand and shook it vigorously. "Great, I'm glad you agreed so easily. On three then!"

"One..." Tabetha sang.

"Two..." and off she went! Sprinting full out down the hill a small dust cloud kicked up in her wake. Her movements were graceful; frenetic but controlled. Every muscle in Tabetha's young body honed by years of diligent, methodical work. She was over a hundred yards down the meandering road before Errich realized what had just happened.

“Hey! Wait! I didn't agree to double,” he yelped. “Stop!”

Too little, too late. As she followed the trail out of sight behind ancient pine trees he scowled at his traitorous hand. "Two weeks sleeping in the storage shed. Thanks a lot."

Errich slipped under the bars, pulled the harness tight over his broad shoulders and slapped his palms against the handles of the cart. "Maybe she'll trip and break her ankle in the dark," he mused bitterly preparing to recite the rules to himself. Mimicking his companions dialect an octave too high he squeaked, "First to the bottom of the last hill wins the spare room for a week. The loser climbs the hill once more and drags the cart to Waterdeep." Errich leaned his weight forward on the bars urging the handcart into motion. His naturally deep baritone returned, "At least I don't have to climb this hill again..."

As he descended the sound of laughter floated up to him over the woods; it held the taste of honey, and spice, and the knowledge of a warm room with a soft bed.

[Klazzform]

April 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - First Contact With An Alien Race
Winner - His wife, Francine by Numen & Interplanetary Alliance by Ryudin

 

The Dance of the Sectoid by Elucidus[2,774 Words]

On my second day at my new duty station while standing in line for food in the Chow-hall, I ran into this young girl, she looked about 16, but I imagine she had to be at least 18 as she was wearing an Air Force uniform. The only other Air Force uniformed person I had seen since I got here. She had lost her grip on her food tray, but caught it in mid-air before it fell to the floor. Quite an impressive feat really. Still, half her food spilled to the floor. The obnoxious army specialist standing next to her started laughing and feigned an apology, so I figured he was at least partially responsible. I put my tray on the counter and walked over towards her, pushing my way past the asinine specialist, to give her a hand. She put her tray on the floor, looked up at me with an appreciative look and then proceeded to pick up the food.

After we were done, I offered her half of my meal and we ate together. She was Senior Airman Tamora Tsumei and she was a combat medic. She was an interesting person, she looked a lot younger than she was and acted even older than that. We got along pretty well and took our time with our meal, but before we finished our meal the intercom began to chirp and it was calling my name, so to speak.

‘Recon Team, report to briefing room 117A immediately’ it repeated for about two minutes. Well, that was the team I was a part of, so I got up, looked across the table to say I had to leave and noticed that she got up as well. She looked as surprised as I was. We both headed down the hall towards the briefing room. I was glad, because this being my second day I had no idea where it was, so I basically followed her.

There were nine of us in all; we sat down in the briefing. Some of these people I have seen around the base, but most I never saw before.

"We have a situation," an army four-star General said.
"There is a crash site," he looked over to the scientist with a smirk on his crusty old face, "well there will be soon. Here's the kicker, we need you guys to capture any survivors."

I spoke up at that moment "Capture? What do you mean capture? The survivors? What if they don't surrender willingly?" I was so naive.

"If you would have let me finish Sergeant, you would know. These creatures are a threat to us. Your mission is to clear out and then secure the crash site. Incapacitate anyone you find and bring them here for questioning. That is all you need to know." He gestures to the scientist.

"Hello, I am Dr. Morton and I have some weapons that may be of use to you.” He pulls out a strange bull colored grenade-like weapon. “We are not sure the effect these stun grenades will have on these creatures, use them, but don’t rely on them. These grenades, called snap-pods should incapacitate the creatures, but we are not sure what effect they will have on humans, so don't be too close when you use them. Press this button here and you have 10 seconds before it goes off. You can change the timer by turning this to the side, like this...

"We only have 12 of these grenades right now, so you each get one. This is what we have gathered from the creatures we have studied so far.

"They have a very resilient anatomy. They have two extra chambers on what we think is their hearts and their skulls are thicker than that of a human. So they can take hits to the head or chest and still be a threat. Bludgeoning weapons would probably have little effect on them. As would piercing weapons, we believe their extra-chambered heart would simply compensate if they were damaged. There are extra organs that we have not been able to identify as of yet, and many that are normal for humans have not be found in their bodies. The weakest part of the skull is where the eye sockets are. Their brain is huge and an impact there from a bullet or piercing weapon should cause sufficient damage to kill them."

"Ahem," the General cleared his throat, obviously telling the guy to move onto other things.

"Oh...um...the grenades should knock them out from a distance so guns shouldn't come into play. Rely on the grenades." He contradicted himself from earlier, and looked at the general, as if that was a programmed statement.

At that point the General interrupted, "The ship is down, go get them bastards...and bring them back alive."

Man, that guy is a jerk, I thought to myself.

So the nine of us, our Captain, Roy Stevens, our LT, Steven Swanson, Sergeants Romero and McNeeley, and specialists, airmen, and soldiers...Chavez, O’Neil, Simmons, Robertson, and Tsumei, and myself of course all boarded the S-917 Phoenix transport.
If only we were prepared for that mission or if they told us what we were really up against. I find it hard to believe they didn't know. It was a tragic chain of events and I believe it led us to where we are today.

Upon landing at the crash site, there was debris everywhere. Evidence that the ship was shot down as the General indicated earlier.

There was burning metal and other materials and by the looks of it the ship was entirely destroyed, how could anyone have survived that, alien or otherwise. Boy was I wrong...

We scoured the area and eventually all encircled the main debris pile. As we drew near and started looking through the debris, what looked like laser fire came from above us. It caught all of us off guard. The first or second shot went right through Captain Stevens’ back and burned its way through his chest instantly. He went down immediately without as much as a yelp. He was dead!

I yelled, "Take Cover" and ran over to him, but there was nothing I could do, where was Tsumei, the medic? This man was dead though, probably nothing she could do. His flesh around the wound cauterized by the weapon, that didn't help since most of his heart was missing.

I then ran over to some of my teammates behind cover and explained what I knew. "There is nothing we can do for him now, we need to remove this threat, and then we can go back for his…body. What is our status?"

The LT dropped to his knees and began babbling incoherently. Private Simmons spoke up, "sir, it looks like there is only one of them, he is up on top of that two story house or maybe on the second floor. Everyone else has gotten to cover. How do we proceed?"

And here it was, everyone was looking to me to lead them out of this mess. How did I become the ranking team member? What did I know about combat, I was a comm.-guy, I never had training to lead such a mission? I put my fears and doubts aside though and focused. We need a way to end this, the quicker the better.

It seems the two Sergeants managed to make their way around to the other side of the building we were being shot at from. I radioed them and told them to look for an entrance, but keep themselves out of sight. I will try and keep the thing busy while they sneak up behind it. This little shack couldn't afford us protection for long anyway.

I crawled fairly quickly and peeked around the corner. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. So I instructed the closest troop to me, to get into my position. It was Airman Tsumei if I remember correctly. I told her to wait until the creature betrayed its location and then to give me some cover fire.

With that I counted to 4 or 5; 3 just didn't seem long enough to me, and then I jolted out and ran towards the closest building. Well, its aim isn't very good apparently, as I am still here and I saw green flashes in front of me as I ran. I dove into the doorway of the tiny building and slammed into the wall on the other side. I shook that off, stood up, making sure I was still in cover, and couldn't believe my luck; or that smell. I can't believe I chose to take cover in an outhouse; an outhouse that has been sitting in the hot sun for a very long time. Well, at least I knocked a small hole through the back. So I proceeded to crawl through it, at least it wouldn't expect me to be outside now.

I radioed back, that I was okay and asked if they were able to get a bead on its location. Airman Tsumei reported that she saw his shooting from the damaged second story of the house and was able to distract him as he fired. I asked the other team if they had any luck finding a way in and they reported that they indeed found a broken door they would probably be able to sneak past. They would need a distraction so they could get through it without being noticed. I told them in 30.

Getting back to team one, as I was now calling them, I told two of them to fire on the target in 20 seconds and not to stop until I gave the order.

It felt like only 5 seconds and they were firing, well, now’s the time to join in. All of us were behind small wooden houses and shacks, which may not give us much protection, but at least we would be harder to target. Its first couple of shots went towards team one, hitting the ground and a tree behind them. But right after I started shooting it got a line on me and fired, a lot. Green **** was flying everywhere and I retreated back behind the outhouse. The corner I was behind was all tore up and had caught fire. I figured I would go around to the other corner and fire from there. As I was crawling around to there two shots went right through the wall inches in front of my face, it was like he knew my tactics or maybe were I was. But how?

I realized that its weapon could shoot through these wooden structures with the ease of a hot knife through butter. I immediately called for team one to fall back and get behind better cover. Before I was done yelling the order I heard a scream from the radio, a scream I will hear in my nightmares for years to come, if not for the rest of my life.

Tsumei's voice came over the earpiece, "Robertson's been hit, he lost a large chunk of a lung and isn't breathing very well, but he isn't dead." I ordered her to pull everyone back to the Phoenix.

Within seconds the building I was ducking behind was torn apart by the weapon as the blasts headed my way again. The shots were hitting all around me, all I could do was stay on the ground and cover myself....and pray. As suddenly as it started firing at me, it stopped. I slowly and carefully looked up over the debris and heard fire coming from Tsumei’s position. The LT had apparently regained his composure and began firing at the enemy. This probably saved my life as it caused the creature to find some cover of its own.

Then in a commotion, a few flashbangs were heard going off inside, a hideous screech followed, and then a strange sounding blast and a purple flash came after that. I feared the thing found the two troops heading its way, when Sergeant Romero was seen in the building waving back at us.

They came out a few minutes later carrying this creature and its weapon. We cleared the wreckage of any useful technology, or I should say that Dr. Gray did. We covered the creature up and put it in the cargo hold with Simmons keeping guard. We loaded up and headed back. We had two casualties that shouldn't have happened. Stevens was dead and for no reason. Robertson was still alive, but barely. I didn't know how long he would hold on with am entire area of his lung missing all the way through.

"Tsumei, is there anything I can do to help stabilize him?" I asked as I was concerned for Robertson.

"No, just get us to base as quick as possible! I don't know how long he will hold on," she responded frantically with a hint of tears in her eyes.

So I sat back down in the back of the passenger compartment near the cargo hold doors Dr. Gray and I talked. "So guy, you must be pretty happy?" I asked overloaded with sarcasm.

"The name is Ross and yes, I am. To have captured a live extraterrestrial this soon... We will learn a lot from this specimen," he said sounding quite excited.

"I was speaking more about your grenade working on the first try, but yes I can see how that would be more exciting." I said rather annoyed at his lack of concern for my downed troops.

"Huh, I am not the one who designed the grenade, that was Sam Lockhart, the lead weapons engineer. I am the lead exobiologist. I study the specimens, I don't make the weapons." He said defensively, I guess he sensed my agitation.

"Oh, I didn't realize there were different teams. I guess that makes sense as there are different specialists within my own team’s ranks. Is there anything useful you can tell me about these creatures?"

"Other than what I already told you? No, you are not cleared to know any more."

I was quickly outraged, "know any more? Who do you think needs to know this stuff the most? We are fighting these things and if I find out you held back any vital information I will...I will."

Abruptly, a hair curling scream was heard from the cargo hold, followed by gun fire. With two shells flying through the cargo hold door and out of the hull. I opened the cargo bay access door and pulled my sidearm. I saw the creature sitting up, hands and feet still strapped to the bed, it was looking directly at Simmons. Simmons was holding his head screaming and crying his gun lying next to him. I fired right into its head, aiming for the eyes, after two shots its upper body fell back down, but I didn't stop firing. In fact, it wasn't until my clip was empty that I stopped and even then I kept my pistol trained on the creature.

"Medic!" I yelled out. I heard Tsumei finish instructing someone how to keep the innards of Robertson, well in, and then she ran into the cargo bay, looked around and said "****, what the hell happened?"

She inspected Simmons and reported that nothing was wrong, no injuries were found, but he was now unconscious for no reason she could determine.

I ran back into the passenger hold and grabbed Dr. Gray by the shirt. His whimpering got louder when I did this. "What happened? What did it do to Simmons?"

"Www...We...well, I, sort of, had an idea, that maybe, they could, they had some sort of...of...well..."

"Go on! Some sort of what?!" I questioned

"Well, the brain tissue, the amount and development, indicated, that, well." He said, cowering more and more as he spoke.

"JUST TELL ME!" I yelled, drawing looks from the rest of the team

"Well, a sort of psychic power!"

"What? How is psychic power capable of doing this to a man? I don't understand."

"Ever hear of telekinesis?"

"Of course!"

"Well, this is a form of that. Think of the specimen attacking the victim's brain directly."

"The victim has a name! And why didn't you tell us this in the briefing? Don’t you think this was important information?"

"Well, you weren't..."

"Don't you dare say cleared!" I exclaimed maintaining my death stare won him.

"It was determined you didn't have a need to know."

"Determined by who?" I began to lift him off of the ground and I was never a big man.

"General Pascola!”

 

His wife, Francine by Numen[629 Words]

Charles flung his coat to the floor and groaned. The spines were beginning to push at the poly-synth covering his shoulders. Normally he would not let this happen without a fully grown skin ready in case he needed to change back in an instant. It had been so long since his last shedding, and the itching need had become overpowering.

Finally, Charles let go. Four feet of sharp glinting spines sprang from his back. They were a noxious black-green and twitched dangerously. A fissure in the poly-synth on his neck appeared and it crawled hastily over the top of his head, casting the soft brown hair aside. A new color and texture began to become dominant that was very different from the comparatively soft and light colored human skin.

The little silver bell attached to the door of Charles' house jingled. The familiar humming of Charles' wife crept down the hallway. She was home early! He panicked, and a repulsive shiver ran over the long spines on his back, cleanly slicing through a lampshade and popping the bulb.

"Charles? Are you here? Is that you? I thought you were out on business." He could hear her footsteps on the carpet: pointed footsteps, she still had her dress shoes on.

Charles' feet were elongating and slurring together, sloughing off the keratin and hair on his toes. He still had control of his human vocal cords though, frantically tried to slow her down as he ran for the bathroom.

"Yes hon!" he yelled, "Just one second, can yoPLxgor grushfzz..." That was supposed to come out as 'perhaps fetch my galoshes' but his tongue had suddenly lost the ability to pronounce human sounds.

The last vestiges of wrinkly pink skin slid off, or was shredded, as Charles threw himself into the excusable safety of the bathroom. Using hands that were now three fingers short and three inches longer, he pulled the door shut and held it. For some reason the lock and almost every part of the frame had been lacerated.

She was in the living room now, probably near the lamp, and Charles' expanded mind was moving a mile a minute. His cover was blown, his disguise was compromised, we would be discovered. All those years spent carefully building an earthling life were ruined, but mostly, his marriage and wife were in danger of being lost.

Tentative footsteps approached the door "Are you ok? What's all this on the floor?" Her shadow darkened the hollow scratches along the door-frame, she knew something was not right and her fragile human emotions were probably racing up and down from one side of the spectrum to the next.

Spare rolls of toilet paper and bottles of shampoo were lopped cleanly in half as Charles shifted uncomfortably. The floor faired no better under his three glistening talons. There was no way of talking to her now, his tongue had grown to fit his stretching skeleton and barely anything remained to distinguish him as the Charles she had married a long time ago.

He reached out to her with his mind.

[[Francine... Please, you might not understand at first, but we should not make hasty decisions.]] He could feel her own mind recoil in wariness and fear. He had to be careful, he loved her, but humans had very unstable emotions, and if he did anything wrong, he might loose her forever.

"Charles?" The door began slowly to open, Charles let it. Francine became visible through the widening crack. Her eyes were filled with doubt. Charles met her gaze with his own six eyes, filled with anxiety, and she screamed. An explosion of pain and the image of his wife, Francine, holding the small revolver they kept for protection were the last things Charles ever experienced.

 

A is for Accretion by Aosaw[1,752 Words]

ROOK WATCHED HIS BROTHER’S CHILDREN play in the reeds, following a bullfrog and pretending they were hunters stalking a bear. Twin boys, they were; not yet old enough to earn their names, and so everyone addressed them each as Tracker’s Boy. One of them was just slightly taller; Rook’s secret name for him was Bigger. Rook had no secret name for the other boy.

The clan was moving again. The changing seasons had left their usual hunting grounds empty, and if they didn’t find new lands soon, they might not outlive the winter. That was the case every year, of course; but they had never been so close to disaster as this, and the blame lay at the feet of their chieftain, who was Rook’s father.

He had missed the signs. The clan’s totem animal, the bear, had disappeared from the forests. Rook and Tracker had watched their departure, and it had been anything but sudden; but their father was growing old, and a bout of sickness had left his mind weak – addled, some said, though never within spear-throwing distance of the chieftain or his sons.

Bigger gave his brother a shove, and the smaller boy went sprawling through the reeds, both of them laughing all the while, their bullfrog quarry darting terrified into a mudhole. Their game over, the boys returned to their place in the clan’s procession, beside their nursing mother.

Thorn was young to be a mother, but she was Tracker’s bride, and she had warmed to her new role quickly. Tracker was proud of her, everyone knew; but Rook saw the depth of that admiration when the two of them broke away from the procession to talk by themselves. The subject of their conversation was private, always; even the chieftain could not demand to hear what they said to each other.

Thorn caught Rook looking at her, and she smiled. Carried by duty, he smiled back. He didn’t begrudge his brother his happiness, nor the happiness of his bride, but their relationship acted as a bitter reminder to Rook: when the chieftainship passed to him from his father, he would have no children of his own to raise as champions.

“The sky is red,” said Tracker, walking beside him. He’d forgotten his brother was so close. “Our wizard-father thinks it means we’ll soon find new hunting grounds.”

“Perhaps we will,” said Rook. “Not everything he says is broken, Tracker.”

“I didn’t say it was,” said his brother. “But you and I both know the signs. Red sky is a signal of bloodshed. The gods of war are hungry, and they sit on the horizon. They wait for corpses.” He lowered his voice. “That’s what we were taught growing up, anyway. Who knows; maybe our teachers were lying.”

“Omens can mean many things,” said Rook. He agreed with Tracker, though; the sky was a bad sign. The wind had changed, too; it brought a carrion smell from the south. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

Thorn told the boys to go play in the reeds again. Rook recognized the implicit message for Tracker: she wanted to speak with him in private. He caught her eye as Tracker joined her; she smiled again, but now he recognized a familiar anxiety in her expression.

Whatever awaited them, she had sensed it too.

Everyone had, it seemed, except their chieftain.

Rook joined his father at the front of the procession. “Smell that,” he said.

His father raised his head. “Fresh kill,” he said. “Means there’s deer up ahead.” He smiled. “And bears, too.”

“As you say.” He walked in silence beside his father. Maybe. Maybe the chieftain was right this time; a fresh carcass killed by a bear, and nothing more.

But Rook’s nose was adept; he knew when meat had spoiled – and he knew, as well, what deer meat smelled like. As did they all. This smell – old, days old – was something else.

An hour later, they found the source of the smell. The chieftain called a halt to their march. “Arrow tribe,” he muttered.

At their feet, a boy sprawled on the grass, something long and hard protruding from his leg. The pressed grass behind him, stained red, told his struggle to get away. He was the same age as Tracker’s boys, dressed in his Arrow uniform of leather pants, a wooden sword, broken, a few paces out of his hand.

Following the traces of the boy’s retreat, Rook saw the rest of the massacre.

“They were fighting themselves,” his father said. “They’re all shot through with bows.”

Rook nodded, keeping his skepticism to himself. The arrows that had killed most of the men – and women, too – in Arrow tribe were shorter than theirs, and made of polished stone. The ground sprouted with the things, like the spines of a cactus: lines drawn mid-air, in graphite.

Arrow tribe didn’t do this. No tribe Rook knew was capable of this.

Tracker was with them then. “This is sacrifice,” he cursed.

He seemed to be right. When the gods of war demanded blood, they took it in draughts. An entire tribe might be eliminated in supplication to the secret powers that ruled the plains. Rook’s own clan, Bear, was responsible for three such sacrifices.

But not like this. He saw a woman’s body lying next to a tree, her head some distance away. A crow sat on top, pecking at the eye sockets with hungry determination.

In the procession, women whispered warding spells for their families and themselves. “This place is desecrated now,” Rook said. “We should go.”

“We should find out who is responsible,” said his father. “This is not the law of the gods, and it must be punished.”

Tracker nodded. “It is our duty to avenge a massacre such as this.”

Nevertheless, they both looked to Rook. He felt the weight of his impending succession; they wanted him to make the right decision for them. They were asking his opinion.

“All right,” said Rook. “But first we must build a funeral for these people. Whoever did this left the rites unfinished; it is our duty to finish them.”

Tracker and their father both agreed. The men in the clan were gathered, and set to work. They took care not to consider whether or not they recognized any of the tribesmen they carried.

* * *

JACOB LEFT HIS TENT, ALERTED AND IRRITATED by the sound of reveille. It had come early this morning; the sun wasn’t even up. In fact, he thought as he looked up at the sky, it looked more or less the same as when he’d gone to bed. The moon was in the same place.

“What’s going on?” he asked one of his officers, stopping him mid-sprint across the camp carrying a pail sloshing with water.

“Savages,” the officer said. “They attacked the camp. A small force; we’ve neutralized them already. But they managed to hit a few of ours before they went down. They set the medic’s tent on fire, too; we’re trying to put the fire out now.”

Jacob tried to ask more, but the officer was already gone, rushing water to the burning tent. He saw it in the distance, a small bonfire growing sideways as it took hold of the medic’s supplies. He imagined the small man hurrying about trying to save his ointments and potions, singeing his knuckles as he tried to grab for that one last bandage. He found himself chuckling, but he rushed out to lend a hand anyway. It was his job as lieutenant to at least make sure that everyone was doing their share of the work. His sleep deprivation made him a good taskmaster.

It didn’t take long. The fire was annoying, but it didn’t hurt anyone, and none of the medic’s important supplies were damaged. After only a few minutes, there were enough soldiers standing about that Jacob could order them to look after the men who’d been injured in the attack. He found a youth who looked particularly spooked and asked him what had happened.

His instincts were correct; the boy was frightened because he’d seen it first-hand. “They came out of the trees,” he said. “Five of them. Wearing the same clothes as the group we… They started screaming in their babble, and then they fired on us.” He shook his head; he was regaining his composure, describing the event. “They didn’t seem to be aiming. They looked like they just wanted to show us how angry they were.”

“Was it the same group?” Jacob glanced toward the trees. A plume of smoke rose out of them several miles away; were there survivors out there? He thought he’d been more thorough.

“Don’t know, sir,” said the youth. “They carried the same kind of weapons, and they wore hides. But this is the first we’ve seen of them, sir; they might all be like that.”

“Thank you,” said Jacob. “How many men did they wound?”

“Only two,” said the youth. “And not badly. We got them before they could do much to us.”

“What about the fire?” said Jacob, gesturing at the medic’s tent. “That looks like sabotage to me.”

The youth looked at his feet. “I was on watch, sir,” he said. “I dropped my lantern, and it caught hold of the flaps. Tried to put it out myself, but I’m a soldier, sir, not a fire man. Before I knew what was happening, half the side of the tent was in flames.”

Jacob smiled. Of course; no savage could do more damage to his camp than his own men. “Thank you,” he said. “Take the rest of the night to rest and think about what might be a good consequence for your accident with the lantern.”

The youth’s face palled, but he nodded his head and ran back to the barracks. Jacob looked around for a replacement watchman, and again caught sight of the plume in the distance.

“What’s out there,” he asked, of no one in particular.

A soldier passing by stopped, thinking Jacob had addressed him, and turned to look at what Jacob was watching. “Don’t know,” the soldier said. “Maybe a forest fire.”

“Don’t think it’s a forest fire, soldier,” said Jacob. “You’d better send word to the Captain. The expansion may be more complicated than we thought.” He went back to his tent, but stopped at the mess first for something to eat.

Survivors in the night. Mysterious plumes of smoke rising out of the trees. He knew what the Captain was going to say in response. You slaughtered a tribe of these savages, and didn't make sure to kill them all?

It was a mistake he wouldn't make again. His career depended on that.

 

Interplanetary Alliance by Ryudin[2,149 Words]

Captain Bale Dakar sat at his controls. The incoming fighters were closing in fast and definitely hostiles. Apparently some rebel pirates had decided to look for an easy target after the battle earlier. He stared at the red blips on his radar, then hit his radio button for the umpteenth time. "Bale Dakar, Captain of the battleship Iona, requesting fighter assistance with hostiles. Please respond."

No response except another snore from his copilot.

Bale was a Captain in the military of the Interplanetary Alliance, or IA for short. They were at war with a group of three rebel planets who had refused to join the IA. That would be fine in itself, but they didn’t want anyone else to join it either. They tried to sabotage the IA by numerous means, and eventually war was declared.

Bale had gained command of the Battleship Iona because of his skill at flying back in school on the holographic simulators. Today was his third day in command, and it was already battered up from a battle earlier in the day. He’d won, but barely, and his guarding fighter wing was now just a few heaps of space junk hurtling through space. It was just the Iona out here... at least until these fighters had shown up.

A crackling on his radio yanked him out of thought. He glanced over at his copilot and then back at his screen. After a few moments more, the radio didn't make any more sound. "Just a pulsar star giving us false hopes," Bale muttered aloud. "I hate it when that happens." His copilot grunted in his sleep and shifted slightly.

Suddenly a voice emanated from the speaker below his viewport. "Commander Wan Odeisl of IA Tactical Fleet 1232. Requesting coordinates for a fighter jump." Bale had hit the 'SEND' button before Wan was finished.

"C-coordinates sent, Commander."

"Received. Sending my best fighter wing through ‘Z’ to assist.” 'Z' (short for Zero) was a newfound way of travel, basically a dimension where space existed but time didn't, or at least passed at such a slow rate that it was completely unnoticeable. A light year of travel in the normal universe would take a few seconds traveling through 'Z'. Iona's Z initiator was now a charred stump of unusable metal, otherwise they would have made a jump back to the IA base hours ago.

Sure enough, a fighter wing of seven appeared out of nowhere, right next to the Iona.

“Interplanetary Alliance Squadron I-17, reporting for duty. Awaiting orders,” the lead pilot voiced.

"Good to see you boys out here. The rebels are close enough for your short range sensors, so attack at will," Bale told them all via radio.

"Yes sir."

In a ‘V’ formation, the IA fighters flew toward the incoming rebels. As soon as the enemies were within range, the squadron broke into various attack maneuvers. The fighters' flying was like an art. It was clear within the first minute of the fight who would win, and the enemies turned tail and activated their cruise engines. The rebels had done something to their cruise engines that made them faster in charging up, but it didn’t quite reach the same speed as the long-to-charge IA version. It was inevitable that the rebels would be caught, but it might take a while. The IA fighters started to charge up.

Bale eased his throttle up and sat back in his chair. He glanced over at the copilot and said, “Turn on the cruise engines.”

“The battle earlier took them down, sir.”

“Ah, just checking. Any repair drones on board?”

“None, sir.”

“Alright. Just follow the fighter wing at a distance. I’m taking a little nap.”

***

"...up, sir. We've got something interesting here."

Bale woke up and immediately snapped to attention. That was the way all military personnel were trained. If you fall asleep, you can't afford to wake up lazy and stupid like any normal person; something could be wrong. If you woke right up, you could eliminate a problem before it eliminated you.

"Anything wrong?" He asked into his radio.

"Nothing... wrong, sir. Just thought you might want to know that we finished off the last of the hostiles and we're getting a slight radio interference out here. Can you hear us alright, sir?"

"Yeah. A little bit of crackling, that's all."

There was a pause before the pilot answered. "Good, because it sounds like I’m sticking my head in a freighter engine on this end. We're getting some odd radio sounds, but nothing that I can decipher."

"What kind of sounds? Is it speech? Encrypted messages?" Bale thought a few seconds, then added, "Pulsars?"

"Like I said, nothing I can decipher, sir. It--"

Another pilot interrupted. "We’ve pulled up the long range sensor scans in my ships. You’re gonna want to see this.”

The lead pilot responded, "We'll wait for Bale to get here. It should take a few hours at his speed, so you can start working on cracking those transmissions." The pilot paused, then finished his statement to Bale. "Sorry about that, sir. The sounds we're getting out here are weird, Cap. It's nothing of ours. Definitely not IA common."

"I'll be out as fast as I can." Lucky for Bale, that could take a while. Nap time.

The copilot was hiding a grin ineffectively. “You do sleep a lot, sir.”

Bale frowned, ignored him, and closed his eyes.

***

Bale’s copilot nudged him awake. “Time to get up, Captain Catnap.”

“Lovely. A new nickname,” Bale groaned. “Brings back memories of my childhood.” He snapped awake. “We close to the fighters yet?” The copilot pointed at the viewport. Bale could just make out a wing of fighters in the distance, coming slowly closer.

“Nice to see you, Cap,” the lead pilot greeted him.

“You too. Progress?”

“None. We haven’t been able to decode anything, so we don’t think it actually is coded. The radio frequencies are fairly low, like our really old equipment. The sounds... they almost sound like... like voices.”

“Voices? Hang on.” Bale switched his radio channel down as far as he could, then listened closely. A low quality voice, almost completely covered up by static, came from the speakers on his terminal.

But it was definitely a voice.

Bale switched back to the universal frequency. “Good job for finding this. I think the council might want to know right away.”

Bale’s copilot spoke up. “Can we find the source?”

“I don’t know,” Bale said. “Let’s get on those long range sensors.”

“Way ahead of you there, Captain. My men already looked at the results. I’ll transmit them to you.”

Bale brought up the long range scan. It showed nothing. Absolutely n—wait!

“Oh my god...” Bale muttered as he zoomed in to the top of the page. It was definitely something. More than one something.

A whole solar system of somethings. Star 21-7’s solar system was inhabited. They had found extraterrestrial life!

***

Bale was enjoying his spotlight time. For the last week, it had all been boring interviews and autographs, but today was great. He had a day off. That’s right. No work, just hanging out in his new room with every sort of entertainment equipment you could ever think of and more. The hologram projector was the newest brand, with all of the special attachments. The virtual reality gaming system (geared more toward children but Bale loved it) was perfectly calibrated. The bed was nice and soft. Everything was perfect.

So far, his discovery had been big—and controversial. Lots of people had different ideas about the new race. Some said that the IA should contact them. Others said that they should leave them alone. Bale, personally, didn’t care; he just wanted it over so he could get back to his normal routine.

He wanted to keep the new room, though.

Bale flipped through the incoming holo-feeds. There were the regular reality shows, a few old shows, even a two-dimensional film that someone really liked, projected in the air as a single plane of flat imagery. On all of the news stations, it was talking about the newest scientific discovery: intelligent life at 21-7! Once, Bale even saw his own head babbling about how it wasn’t him; the guard fighters did all of the work. He stopped to watch.

A reporter came into the projection. “So what did you do, Captain Dakar?”

“I was almost attacked by rebels. That’s it. Blind coincidence, really.” He saw himself say.

Commander Wan Odeisl came on. “We were glad to be of assistance. Without the Iona being as damaged as it was, we never would have found this... this scientific marvel.”

A short pause, then another reporter. “We’ve all seen it on our projectors at home that closer scans of the inhabited planet revealed a perfect climate, lots of water, and lots of new species of life. What is your reaction to all of this?”

“I’m amazed. Even though the IA has spread to hundreds of planets, all of our life originated on one planet. This new race could potentially become like us in the future. Empirical. Methodical. Only time will tell.” Bale said.

“Captain Dakar, according to your copilot, you—”

Bale turned it off. He’d seen this part before. He got angry that his copilot told the whole world that he was ‘Captain Catnap’, blabbed for around five minutes that rest is important, and then left.

A news report came in on a sheet of paper:

News Report COUNCIL DECISION TO BE MADE TONIGHT SO FAR, THE IA DECISIVE COUNCIL HAS SAID NOTHING ABOUT 21-7’S NEWFOUND INHABITANTS. THEY HAVE NOW RELEASED THE INFORMATION THAT THEY WILL BE AIRING A HOLO-FEED TONIGHT (IA STANDARD TIME 1700) DECIDING WHAT WE WILL DO. MORE NEWS WILL FOLLOW.

That was the shortest news report Bale had ever gotten. Still, it was important. He’d have to tune in and see what they did. Right now, however, his chair was all too comfortable. Adjusting his pillow, Bale took yet another nap.

Bale tuned into the council’s broadcast. It was already halfway done, but naps did come first.

“...must not, by any means, interfere. It’s a positively stupid idea!” One of the council members said loudly.

“As stupid as letting the rebels get to them first? I don’t think so!”

Another man spoke up. “That’s right! They have to know by now! It’s not like we tried to keep this secret.”

An old man grimaced. “You fools aren’t getting anywhere by arguing. I think we should go and get them. Another planet is one more place where we could base.”

“True,” another man said, “And they seem just as physically capable as us, if not more so. From what we’ve seen, they put a good deal of importance on physical ability. They’d be great soldiers and pilots for us!”

“And for our enemies!” The second man who had spoken bellowed.

Bale didn’t like where it was going. It seemed like the arguing would never end. It went on for nearly fifteen minutes before everyone stopped yelling. Typical politics. It was a proposition from the head councilman that shut them all up.

“You’ve all been arguing over if we should or should not interfere.” The man said in his quietly authoritative voice. “Personally, I think that we should interfere so no one else can interfere. Eliminate the problem by eliminating the means to the problem.” A councilman tried to object, but the man silenced him with a sharp look. “Secretly, we could place a few cloaking devices in their seas; they haven’t explored the depths yet and wouldn’t find the devices for quite some time. It would stop anyone from seeing them like we did. No one would find them until they were ready to be found.

“Furthermore, whether we win or lose this war, 21-7’s planets will keep on spinning carelessly. If we bring them in, it would bring as much harm to them as us.” More council members’ heads nodded every minute as more and more people added their thoughts to the idea, seizing it and making it their own.

“But what if they find the cloakers?”

“We could bury them! They’d still work at 99% capacity!”

“What about the radio waves?”

“We could put something on their moon that stops them from getting too far away from the planet. That way, if you got close enough to hear them...”

“You’d already see the planet. I guess that would work, but...”

Bale switched off his tuner and got up. His knee popped in protest and he ignored it. He walked out of his room and toward the base’s cafeteria. He hoped he could get a job helping to carry out the IA’s solution. He completely agreed with the council’s decision to hide the planet from outside contact. They were too young a people right now. Give it a few centuries.

Earth isn’t ready for us yet.

 

I, Roman by Solomon777[3,183 Words]

The excited voice of Juan, a converted Incan Indian, reached the ears of Father Miguel DePlaya around daybreak. He drowsily got up from the sleeping pallet. He stood looking about his leaf and mud hovel that he had resided in for the last year. Miguel called out, “Juan, my son what is it? What is of such urgency that you could not wait for breakfast, or at least wait for me to awaken?” Father Miguel, a man of around thirty years, pulled on his priestly vestiges and pushed aside the colorful blanket that covered the doorway of his hovel.

Outside he found a young man of dark skin, out-of-breath and standing at the short walkway leading into the small village of Telmect. “Papa Miguel, we…we,” He still struggled to speak the few Spanish words to make sense, “have found a writing.” In Juan’s hand he held a three-foot-long roll of leaves and dried sinew.

The priest could only smile through the long moment before he spoke, “Juan, the church is uninterested in another leaf-scroll with your native culture spilled across it. However, I assure you I will take heed of what you have said.” He held out his hand for the large artifact. Juan gave the item to the Father. “Let me take it and I will keep it safe.” Miguel couldn’t help but recall the words to him by Father Emilio Castillon when Miguel arrived here that ‘all cultural doctrine for the native peoples was to be removed as it would hinder the teachings of the church’. Father Miguel thought this tactic to be a necessary wrong as it is only best for these people to be saved. Their true culture can always be revived in academics. These people need to find the truth in belief as a foundation to the truth of their origins.

Taking the wrapped piece from Juan, Miguel eyed it and nodded to the half-dressed young native. “Thank you Juan.” He turned and let the blanket fall closed.

He dropped the leaf parchment on his sleeping pallet before collecting a brimmed cap to keep the hot sun at bay. He headed for the doorway once again and stole a last look at the scroll before leaving his hovel.

Telmect had just started collecting the sunlight of the day and the dawn shadows were long through the jungle forest. Some of the native children ran along the outskirts of the garrison where the Spanish soldiers, under the command of the conquistador Javier Delroso, had rooted their barracks. Father Miguel smiled watching them play. The children were of the families that had already accepted the doctrine of the church and thus were free to run about. He looked toward the village center, where the chief of the Telmect Inca sat. The old man was still stoic in his savage beliefs. It was a life passion for Father Castillon to convert the stubborn old native before he died. Thus far, the religious battle was for naught.

The Spanish barracks was over shadowed by only one other building in the area of Telmect, the church. A large structure, the church housed offices for Father Castillon and Father Miguel, as well as provided a service place for several brothers in faith and converts from the native population.

Father Miguel nodded to the soldiers, who stood their posts is a relaxed manner. He was impartial to the men, as they simply cast aside the Incas as savages and nothing more. Though, Father Miguel admired their engrossing culture and architecture. It saddened him to know aspects of the culture was being destroyed, yet it was for their own good.

“Good morning Father?” a gruff voice called out.

Father Miguel turned to find Commander Delroso walking his way. The man wore his twin pistola at all times, and the signature Spanish espada hung low on his right hip. Delroso’s features where clean; the sliver of a mustache and beard, black in color, was well trimmed. He smiled as a predator at the Father. “Did you find your errand boy, he babbled something to me this morning, but I simply didn’t understand his devil’s tongue. You must work with the boy to learn his Latin.”

“Yes of course,” Father Miguel agreed. It was better not to argue with the Commander as the man was always set in his own ways. “Juan came to see me. He was excited over an item he’d found.”

“Truly.” The Commander was unimpressed.

A boy ran up to Father Miguel and handed him a freshly halved papaya, which the Father accepted and gave the child a blessing. The red nectar of the papaya coated Father Miguel’s fingers as he took a few into his mouth. “Is that all you have for me Commander, you seem to have something on your mind.”

“Yes Father,” Delroso looked worried for a moment, “I believe those powerful cats have moved into this region. My men have reported seeing a jaguar, though dark. They say possibly black, but it was twilight when the beast showed itself.” Delroso looked at the Father, “Stay away from the forest edge until we can find this devil-kin.”

Both men stopped to face each other for a moment.

Father Miguel nodded agreement, “Agreed, but the work of the church will not stop because of one cat, Commander.”

“It may not Father, but the cat could send a faithful follower of the church to an early grave.” added Commander Delroso.

Father Miguel smiled, “Yes indeed. I will await your word before any further trips to the ruins.” The ruins in question were the ruins of the pyramids, and the hills they inhabit are dubbed Chichen Itza. They were great structures that the Spanish marveled over upon finding them. It was even rumored about a plan to bring them before the throne in Madrid. Yet, all attempts proved futile as they were just too large, and only depictions and artifacts were taken back to Spain in their stead.

Since Father Miguel’s original plan of action for the day had been ruined by natural causes, he stopped in to see the women of the local Telmect Incan’s and had some more fruit for breakfast. After breakfast he returned to his hovel. He found the ancient leaf-scroll awaiting him.

The Father lifted the scroll from his sleeping pallet and, following a brief moment where he stared at the sinew bindings, he unraveled the tie and let it roll open on the floor of his hovel.

He was at first struck by a sense of bewilderment that the scroll was not written in the hieroglyphs of the Incan peoples. His mind struggled to grasp the meaning when he placed the first of the words, then the first sentence. He shook his head and looked at the scroll with renewed vision. The scroll was written in an ancient language, that much was true, but it was not anything from the New World. “Latin?” he exclaimed in an unbelieving whisper.

He examined the first sentence again, ‘These are the writings of Julius Gaius, of Rome.’

Father Miguel looked up from the scroll and the notion of the ancient city played through his mind. He had been there when he was a youth. Why would a record be here, in the New World? In Latin?

‘My name is Julius Gaius, I was born a slave in the lands of Egypt and traded to the Roman Empire in a betrothal between the Roman Senator Antony Census Gaius. I had been made free upon my own battle prowess, and adopted into the family of Gaius attaining the position of centurion as a marine for the Empire.

‘My first battle was the victory over Carthage.

‘The anger of the sea god had afflicted my fleet ten days past. Our numbers are now only ten triremes of the three hundred our Emperor had met the Carthaginians with at sea. I have taken command of the ten triremes that had survived Neptune’s rage. Thus far the men support me. However, the days in which we have been met with an endless ocean has caused my word to be against that of Neptune himself. Some of the marines had found this a bad omen.’

Father Miguel looked up from the scroll noting a sinew binding too weak to hold the leaf together. Roman’s, how did they make a sea journey this far? No one before us could have done that. Could they have…it was a mad thought. Carefully he spread open the remainder of the scroll to continue reading.

‘A second mutiny has been defeated by my marines yesterday. I have seen to it that they are not to question my authority. Our number has now been reduced to only a single trireme. The mutiny before this had seen six of our own ships strike battle in panic against the remaining four loyal to my name. All six triremes fell to the sea. Neptune has indeed touched the madness of these men.’ It appears the ink has been changed, as well as the quill Gaius had used in his earlier writing. How many days had passed from the first writings to these new ones; days or weeks.

‘My lookouts have seen birds. We only have a few remaining old mariners aboard. They speak of the sea birds and how they are both the harbingers of fortune and ill-fortune. Which one will be our future is in the hands of the Fates as I write these logs.’

Father Miguel was startled by the heavy rains as they began to noisily pelt the outside of his hovel. He rose and looked out the makeshift window recalling again how he needed to fashion a set of shutters. He had learned a long time ago not to have valued materials, the good book included, near the window as the possibility of getting saturated ran high. He collected a short, wooden cup from beside his sleeping pallet and set it out to collect rainwater.

Spreading the scroll out once again he searched for the spot where he had been interrupted. ‘I do not know when my ships reached land. I only know the excitement of my marines upon setting foot on solid ground. Our number had been reduced to not barely enough to moor our trireme, which had been named Morta, after the Parcae who controlled the manner of a mans death. This place is unlike any other land I had ever seen. The foliage in all foreign to me. I have seen some animals similar to those of Egypt, the men have told me of snakes also in the region. However, none bear the markings of either the Empire, Egypt, Greece, Thrace, or Macedonia. I have never been to the Etruscan lands. Could that terrible storm had sent us across the sea. I shall soon have this answered for me, for the next day we were encountered by the barbarians of this region. We certainly were not anywhere near the Etruscans.

‘She calls herself, Embutu, and she says that she is the daughter of the clan chieftain. She is quite captivating. The brown skinned, dark-eyed woman came to us alone and she kept calling us messengers. From what we understand, my fellow Roman’s and I are to visit Embutu’s village soon.

‘Chichen Itza is no mere village. The stone pyramids of their temple would rival those of Egypt. The carved pillars and golden-arched palace structures area equal to the great monuments of Rome.’ Father Miguel stared at the word that taken him by surprise. The very ruins he was drawn to were mentioned in this ancient parchment. The Roman’s had certainly been here! Miguel jumped up from where he had taken a seat on his sleeping pallet, too anxious to sit. He grabbed the now overflowing cup of water from the sill. Taking a swallow he sat back down and noticed the scroll’s writing was nearly complete. He wondered if their was another scroll…more information, he needed more. This was too startling of a revelation to ignore easily.

He read on, ‘Embutu’s father is a mountain of a man. He stands nearly two heads taller than I. His grip is like grabbing a piece of solid bronze. His name is Otan. Otan’s soldiers outnumber mine fifty to one. I have cautioned my men before not to make enemies, as we know not where we are headed, yet remain vigilant. My senior soldiers warn me that my soldiers will not bow down easily. However, the large force that had be revealed to us assures me mine was the correct strategy.

‘Otan introduces me to his senate, he calls them his council. To them, Otan refers to me as his son. This confuses me. One man introduced to me by Otan is called Gattomono. Gattomono looks upon me with dead eyes.

‘Several rises of the moon have passed. Embutu has visited me on several occasions and we have grown quite close. The days when I write of this are no different. I find my affections for her are growing and I look forward to her arrival once more in the beachside village my marines have constructed. We call our home, Nova Alexandria.

‘I have not returned to the mighty pyramids of Chichen Itza since the last time I wrote of it. Embutu is our only contact with the tribe, who call their people the Tolmect.‘ Father Miguel noted the similarity to the Telmect peoples they reside with currently.

‘A strange sickness has come over a few of my marines and they have disappeared. This is very troubling and I am asked by my soldiers to bring the mysterious event to Embutu’s notice. She may have knowledge of this sickness. Yet, she does not provide any knowledge of it and I have nothing to warn my soldiers of. I fear, in secret, that this sickness has something to do with the Tolmect.

‘I had been alerted in the early morning to screams from my men. A large cat, named the jaguar according to the Tolmect, has been seen. With the sickness leading my men off into the darkness and this large cat amid the forest, it is no wonder I have not seen my marines again when they walk-off in madness. I petition my marine veterans to lead hunting parties after the cat. We should have an answer quickly.

‘Embutu came to me late in the night. She cast a spell upon me, ceasing my speech as she spoke. Otan has expressed displeasure in my fellow Roman’s and I. She says to me what I have never heard before. That her people had fled here from across the ocean, when the conquering armies of the Pharaoh, Unktehpt, were entering the lands of Egypt from the south. Otan, name of the chief, took their number upon the Tolmect’s ancestral ships, that flew among the heavens, and found this land of purity; untouched by the hands of the Pharaoh. Her father, then built Chichen Itza. She said to me that now that I am aware of her people, we Roman’s can never remain alive to tell of them. Embutu warned, if we were here, and in their paradise; then others would follow. Thus, I am writing this. To remember Julius Gaius and know the Tolmect.

Father Miguel pondered a few moments, “Ships, flew through the air?” He looked about and up. The thatch roof of his hovel was strong and well constructed, and did not leak. He smiled and shook his head, nonsense. ‘It has finally come. My marines have all been killed in the night. I, only I remain. I, Roman.

‘Embutu has come to warn me of Gattomono’s arrival. I ready my belongings and sword to make for the mountains farther inland. To fight Gattomono would be my end and perhaps the end of Embutu for telling me of the treachery. I flee as the with the sunlight, yet my beloved Embutu warns that Gattomono does not tire easily of this chase.

‘From atop a mountain named Olocotk, I make my stand against Gattomono. Embutu has fallen sick yet her sickness is unknown to me. She says she has been cursed and forsaken by Otan. She is dieing. I stay beside her until Gattomono arrives. Only one of us will leave this mountain. Five nights pass and nothing happens; the forest spreads around as far as I can see and is silent. Embutu has fallen farther away, her features are changing before my eyes. Her ears end in sharp points. Her eyes have become like glass. I watch her change yet love her and pity her death. She passes on to the afterlife and the realm of Elysium as Gattomono arrived in my mountain tomb. He is alone and without escort. ‘Remember me for I am Julius Gaius of Rome.’

The writing on the scroll ends there; Father Miguel turns the scroll over to find nothing but the pale brown of the leaf it had been written on. The rains had stopped just as sudden as they had started yet the Father couldn’t tell when that was. He carefully rolls the scroll up in his hands and ties it shut with a small strand of rope. He ponders he scroll. This was no item relating the culture of these people, it told of a new race of witchery and mystery, of blasphemy. So many questions. Was this true? How is it that the scroll is written in Latin? Is there more evidence of the Roman’s who lived here? So much to search for.

A rapping sounds on the wall outside Father Miguel’s hovel. He walks out to find the plump figure of Father Castillon leaning slightly forward to peer in on Miguel. He quickly smiles toward the younger clergyman, “Ah, Father Miguel, I just past Juan and he tells me he gave you an old scroll?”

Father Miguel was only too eager. He brought it out before Father Castillon, “Yes Father, it’s remarkable!”

Father Castillon interrupted, “Yes, well I wanted to review this item myself. Would you mind?”

Miguel didn’t hesitate, “Of course not.” He released the scroll to Castillon.

Castillon turned to leave heading toward the jungle. Father Miguel added, “You’ll no doubt see reason to deliver that to the church as quickly as possible, Castillon. It’s a monumental discovery.”

Castillon turned a hollow gaze back to Miguel. “I agree, it must be a ‘monumental discovery’.”

Father Miguel returned to the confines of his hovel and drank of his fresh, rain water until he emptied the cup.

Whipping the blanket aside, Commander Delroso entered stared wide-eyed at Miguel. His espada drawn, ready for action. Shouts from his soldiers were coming from outside. “Commander?” Miguel remarked, not understanding the situation nor the intrusion.

“Did you see anything?” Delroso barked.

“N-no, Commander?” Father Miguel asked again.

Delroso stared long and hard at Miguel, “The native boy, Juan, has been found slaughtered not far from here and there is fresh jaguar track at the door to your hovel!” Exclaimed the Commander.

 

Among Us by Avalonink[1,227 Words]

Physics still harbors many secrets from the human mind.

Ignorance is bliss, so they say.

What would they do if they knew?

There is little they can do. Our path, at least, is clear. Total annihilation.

***

The room was not quiet, but there was a murmuring, expectant buzz aimed at the stage. Behind the podium was a tall, lanky young man. He was far too young to be speaking at such a prestigious gathering of minds, but he had stumbled upon a theory which might change the future of the entire human race.

Behind him was a projection of slides from the computer he was presenting from. He advanced them throughout his speech, emphasizing points and displaying many pages of research and results. His theory was sound, and his research clean. His results were backed up by the experiments of two other universities and one independent source. The murmurs, which had started off amused and skeptical, began to take on a tone of speculation and grudging respect.

In this age, any theories on the effects of faster-than-light travel had to be taken seriously. They were on the verge of proving it possible. Faster-than-light engines were in the works as this seminar was going on.

The theory was beautifully simple. It relied on the fact that everything in the universe is expanding from the center. Objects on small scales, like planets and stars, were held mostly together by their own gravity, however larger things such as galaxies and nebulae were expanding every second they existed. Since everything was expanding, the theory ran, something which could be put outside 'normal' space would not expand, and thus would shrink relative to the objects left behind in 'normal' space. Experiments on the particle level had proven that an atom of hydrogen accelerated to fractions faster than light speed would, in fact, seem to shrink.

The news was controversial. It was mind-boggling. If this theory was true on a human level, then was the risk of traveling faster than light was far greater than the benefits gained by gaining one's destination sooner.

The seminar broke up, and the scientists went off to ponder their different opinions of the theory.

***

We have conquered the vastness of space.

And now we go to conquer those in it.

***

It had proved to be true. The first faster-than-light astronauts had returned from their jaunt to Jupiter smaller than they had left. Oh, it wasn’t much: a centimeter or two of height, a shoe size, circumference of head. But it was measureable, and they had been traveling only a half hour in each direction. Who knew what a week- or month-long journey would do? The faster-than-light program was scrapped. The hopes of traveling to far distant galaxies in the span of one human lifetime were dashed, and generational ships were not considered needful at this time. Humans would have to stay within their own solar system, and take care of it so that it would take care of them.

***

We are within range.

Good. What is our status?

There is an anomaly. Our measurements were not accurate.

Over the distances we have covered, few measurements could have been. What is the anomaly?

The system we approach is far larger than anticipated. The planet, as well.

Fine! That is good. From the concentrations of ores and minerals indicated by our scans, it will be a rich plunder!

***

Earth was not in good shape. Humans had plundered it. The seas were sick, and the land was dying. Fossil fuels were in such short supply that only the very, very rich had even heard of them, let alone used them. Oxygen levels were down, and carbon dioxide was up. With the failure a century before, they had tried to clean up and conserve the planets and moons they could get to, but it had failed. Greedy or selfish people always undermined the good causes. They never seemed to be able to see the big picture, even when their own comfort or safety was jeopardized. Now they faced annihilation or the costly prospect of leaving the planet to fix itself while they terra-formed what hospitable planets they had in their own solar system.

***

The technology is primitive.

We will prevail.

Our handicap is large.

So is our army.

***

The empty silence of space surrounded a star once called Sol. Empty, but filled with the varied space junk left by a once-populous race of bipedal mammals. Silent, but those with the means could detect ancient signals from now-defunct space stations and moon colonies.

On the third planet, their beginning place, a lone desk sits with a crisp new printout on it. The paper is crisp and new-looking because no hand has ever touched it. No eye has yet read this hard copy. In truth the writer had only sent one copy out electronically, but had never received a reply. His body sits in a chair facing the window. The gardens are brown and dead. The sky is dingy grey. A dead man watches a dead planet.

***

A hundred thousand missions to a hundred thousand systems, are we all thus afflicted?

There is no way to know that.

We cannot return now. There is no way to warn them.

No, there is not.

And there is no gain by mining this planet. We have wasted ourselves.

What do we do now?

We were trained to live, and to destroy. It is all we have left.

***

There is no wind in this office to stir the pages. The air conditioning failed long before today. If the pages were, however, to turn themselves, a revolutionary theory would there be visible. It is only to be expected. The corpse in the chair is the grandson of the same genius who predicted the shrinking of a faster-than-light object. Thinking outside the normal span of human experience was part of their blood.

… that is to say, that all human ailments could possibly stem from an extraterrestrial source. Bacteria are intrinsic to this planet but it has been proven that viruses and cancers are outside the realm of the terrestrial. They do not fit into the cycle of this planet’s ecological system. It is therefore possible that we are already under attack from the inside, via a species that we have yet to understand due to the very nature of that creature...

***

The creatures are not strong.

Considering our state, they would not have to be.

We could infiltrate with ease.

It is the only way now. Let us proceed.

***

Does it matter when it happened? They could have been in the fruit which Eve offered to Adam. They could have been in the jar which Pandora opened. Who knows but it might have been their voices that spurred us on to every folly which the human animal has ever committed. Are they in the cancers that twist our vitals and humble our bodies? Are they the diseases which medicine even now cannot cure? Are they the reason we have dark thoughts and blind ourselves to the joy which this planet could give us? For that I have no answer. I fear it is too late to destroy them. I fear it is too late to know the truth.

It is done.

 

Personal Contact by dr green[3,199 Words]

“Cause of Death: High concentration of previously unidentified compound ET-143U in extra-terrestrial 01’s skin caused a highly catalytic response in the sebaceous oils of the skin, creating a highly volatile and oxygen-reactant flammable compound igniting her skin and immolating her near instantly…”

-Coroner’s report of Dr. Emily Thewens

The aliens have been around for some time. They touched down in Montana one hot summer’s day and caused a stir when a local ranch owner called the police to report the disturbance. Apparently they had done their research and wanted to be sure to land in a place where there was very little populace and they wouldn’t have the military examining their passports with rifles. Out there in the wide open, people were free to come and have a look at the aliens and there was nothing the government could do to keep it quiet. That doesn’t mean they didn’t try of course. A massive acrylic compound was immediately erected to keep the aliens sequestered within an established perimeter and the humans without. It wasn’t long before civil rights groups began clamoring and the government conceded to make the walls and ceiling of the compound completely clear, barring an adjacent building where studies could be completed on the aliens.

All in all there was very little known about them. They were much taller than the average human, didn’t believe in modesty or clothing, but it was hard to know what they would be immodest about. They didn’t seem to have any external genitalia or defining body parts of any kind. They were just a torso with two heads, two legs, a head and a very long tail. It wasn’t until much longer, after a rudimentary communication had been established, that the researchers discovered that the aliens didn’t have a form of their own. They were amorphous and could assume any form they so choose. They thought the ‘whight’ form would be easiest for us to comprehend, seeing as that’s how aliens are so often depicted in our culture. With the beginnings of speech came the true nitty-gritty of the research and scientists were flown in from all over the world to garner real information about the beings from another planet.

Dr. Emily Thewens
“I observed 01 yesterday eating some strange paste that he brought out of the ship, when I questioned him about it his answer was that it’s toothpaste,” A sharp and shrewd looking woman gazed down her nose at a board of individuals clad in white coats. “Are you honestly going to tell me that you have all the kinks worked out of your translational matrix? How am I supposed to do anything near an accurate psychological evaluation if we can’t even understand each other? It’s been six months since they landed hear and you can’t even hear what they’re saying. I mean seriously guys.”

“Dr. Thewens, we understand your passion, but you must realize that we have never had to do anything like this in the past. There’s no precedent to this kind of work. Did you know that they’re using our translation matrix right now on dolphins? Apparently dolphins have something to say and we just never knew, until now, until us,” Replied a short Indian man who sat in the center of the table.

“And how do the dolphins like their toothpaste Dr. Rupani? With sardines?”

“Don’t be glib Dr. Thewens,” Snapped a very large portly man who tapped furiously away at a keyboard. “I’m pulling up files now that are saying that you haven’t even been spending enough time with your matrix. It will only work if you input enough conceptual data of yourself into it. So don’t attempt to blame us for your failings.”

“I’m not attempting anything Dr. Gibbs and if you dare to presume to consider my conclusions as failing so help me I will-“

“Doctor Thewens!” A high pitched voice snapped from the other end of the table.

“You know what fine, I’ll just go back to my lab and work on my matrix and maybe in another six months you all will have something I can actually work with,” With that she turned on her heel and stomped out of the conference room, ignoring the shouts of her name coming from behind her. It wasn’t until she had made it all the way back to her lab and slumped into her chair did she finally relax. She slumped against her desk and reached for her fondest companion, the half full bottle of rum on the shelf behind “Apes and You” the book of her work that had won her a nobel prize in the field of xeno-psychology. She poured herself a good tall glass of the good stuff, placed the bottle back on the shelf and pushed, wheeling herself over to her observational desk. Normally adjacent to this would be a couch for the crazies to lie on and expunge their darkest secrets to her. In here, the Institute of Alien Studies, there was nothing but a large window overlooking the insides of the Box. She watched as 01 threw what looked like a very large soap bubble away from himself and watched as their pet ran out and scooped it up with its mandible tentacles bringing it back to him. She shook her head in amazement and scribbled down the note “They play fetch? Learned from us or..?” They were amazing. So like us, yet so different. She heard the door open behind her and didn’t have to turn to recognize her graduate student’s gait.

“How’d the meeting with the matrix people go?” He asked. She replied by holding up the glass of rum and not turning from the window. He winced audibly, “Not good I presume.”

“A bunch of misogynistic dicks if you ask me.”

“And Dr. Shana, I imagine she’s a misogynist as well?”

“Don’t be smart with me Randyl,” she gestured with her rum out the window. “Have you observed them playing fetch before?”

“Well I just taught it to them so,” Dr. Thewens turned with her jaw dropped. “I’m kidding! Sheesh, and no I haven’t seen them play fetch before. So what? I mean I would understand if they suddenly began praising some angry and hungry deity, but it’s just fetch.”

“Well sure, but it’s still a game that revolves around a pointless activity of an inferior being for the sole purpose of the superior’s enjoyment,” She retorted with a raised eyebrow.

“I see what you mean,” He replied after a few moments of thought. “But Emily it’s just fetch, I don’t think they want to pit us against each other in gladiatorial games just yet. You’re just pissed at the matrix people, reread your notes, get a grasp on things and then go talk to 01 again. I’m sure it will help.” Dr. Thewens nodded and then returned her gaze to the Box. It wasn’t long before 01 was joined by 02 and 03, his two ‘children’. Reproduction was a tricky business on wherever it was they came from. They still couldn’t be very clear on that thanks to the matrix *******s. Dr. Thewens tapped a few buttons and her desk lit up with documents of notes, some she had taken herself, others by others. She tapped a few and they enlarged so she could read them comfortably while sipping her rum.

Gender, while apparently very clear to them, has as of yet been unclear to us. 01 remarks fondly of his ‘wife’ and how he remembers her dearly. It has become clear to us through pointed questioning that after one of their kind has chosen a mate they become joined in a ceremony very similar to our marriage. Once this happens the mated pair live together and share each other’s income and living as would a husband and wife. The similarities cease once children are involved. It seems that the only way for their species to continue is for the ‘wife’ to perish. The mated pair enact a coupling ritual of some sort, when pressed 01, asked if we could not discuss this sort of thing further. After a specific but undisclosed period of time has passed from copulation the female will die and her corpse will be laid to rest within the soil. After a second but shorter period of time two stems will grow from the mother’s corpse to turn into buds above the soil, at which point the father may open them and reveal two newborn children within. As you can imagine I write this with a certain amount of skepticism, but 01 is adamant upon the veracity of this process.”

“When asked the question of why he is here 01 seemed confused. He understands a cause and effect process but doesn’t seem to have a real reason to be on our planet. When pressed he landed on the idea of a ‘family vacation’. I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that analogy, but 01 seemed to be very clear that there is no purpose for he and his family’s stay, just that they are trying to see some of the galaxy before returning home… An interesting notion. When pressed why he chose our planet he seemed confused once more. He wanted to know who owned this planet and why they wouldn’t allow visitors. After explaining that if this wasn’t his planet it must be ours because we were here first. 01 seemed to chuckle at this point and shared that his people had been here long before ours ever were. He continued to say that our species and our struggles had long been known to his own race, they just didn’t seem to think they were important enough for their intercession.”

“01 seems to understand most basic emotions, he seems to understand curiosity for what is on this planet, hatred for a rival employee from his homeworld and love for his late ‘wife’. Given what we know about their reproductive processes I find it difficult to believe that 01 could come to love someone that he knew would have to die to bear children. Will forward to Dr. Rupani, possibly translation error.”

The psychologist frowned at this last note and pursed her lips. She moved to wet them with her rum but found it empty. She looked back up and saw that 02 and 03 were playing a game with their pet and 01 was waiting patiently at the communications portal. The researchers had decided the best way to gather information while causing as little duress to the subjects as possible was to never initiate an interview. 01 seemed pleased enough to talk at length whenever he chose so it had yet to be a problem. With a quick glance at her PDA she noticed that she had not been alerted to 01’s availability and sneered in the general direction of the communications department. Well she would see who was going to have the last laugh this time. She grabbed her pad and stormed out the door almost bowling over Randyl on her way to the communications portal. A quick sprint to the airlock saw her reaching the door just as partly Dr. Gibbs opened it. She slipped through before he could and gave him a shrug and a smile, pressing the locking mechanism before he could argue. He did however hear him yelling her name angrily through the heavy door. But that wasn’t as important because she was already inside, and she had to compose herself to interview 01. She turned around and faced the alien who sat behind 6 inches of crystal clear acrylic. All biological samples had been taken so far in hazmat suits and this was about as close as anyone without serious gear on was allowed. Dr. Thewens took it in stride and sat before 01 pressing the speak button on her console.

“Hello 01, how are you doing today? I saw you were playing a game with your pet, was that fun?” None of the aliens had and facial features, mouths, eyes, nose or ears, which was just one of the very unnerving facts about them. Strangely enough they were able to communicate by vibrating their skin at sonic frequencies, essentially treating their entire integumentary system as a tympanic membrane, it was very odd and it took a long time for the matrix people to figure out. And no matter how many times she interviewed 01 she never got used to it. Without a single reaction from him whatsoever the speaker began relaying in that flat monotone voiced it was programmed to.

“I am well today. It was fun. We play it often when we have open fields such as these.”

“Okay,” Emily said while scribbling under her earlier note “They play fetch”. “I was hoping today we could talk about your late wife some. I was reviewing a colleague’s notes that said you loved her. Do you understand what we mean by love 01?” Another brief interval for the matrix to work its shoddy magic followed by 01’s response.

“Of course I understand what love is. I have made transparent that I do not like talking about my late wife. Can we talk about something else?”

“I am sorry 01 it’s very important we learn as much about the situation as possible. Is there any way you can tell me a little more about love. How do you know that you loved her?” This time there was a rather long pause followed by something Emily had never seen before. Suddenly 01’s entire body seemed to fluctuate from white through all the colors of the rainbow before re-settling on white. Without pressing the speak button before her Emily announced to the room. “Let the record show 01 just highly fluctuated his external color in response to pressure to speak on the topic of love.”

“It is difficult for me to express words that explain love. Let me try it,” And before Dr. Thewens could ask what exactly it was 01’s hand was on the glass and there was something glowing in the very center of his palm. Quick as a flash that small point of bright light expanded to fill her entire field of vision encompassing everything she could see. And suddenly she could feel it, Love. It was everything and the only thing she could fathom. She remembered loving the puppy her father brought home on her tenth birthday. She remembered her mother kissing her on the forehead and telling her she loved her. She remembered the first boy that ever kissed her and the psychology professor she had in sophomore year. She remembered the night her fiancée proposed to her and the day they were married. She felt it all at once and moreover she felt it all for him, 01. The point where all this sensation came from. And then it was gone. She was on her knees in front of the counter gasping for air.

“Are you fine?” The speaker asked her. She raised her head to look up at 01 and couldn’t speak. She grabbed her pad and left the room slapping the unlocking mechanism as she went. She leaned on the door as it closed gasping for breath wondering what had just happened.

“Well how was it?” Emily looked up to see at least a dozen of her colleagues staring at her expectedly. “How fast did it happen?” “How intense was the change?” Emily stammered to find words to explain what had just happened to her. “How many colors were there?” Her brain worked over time to reach the conclusion they had no idea what just happened to her. They were referring to the rapid color change she had reported. Of course something like that would have been relayed to the heads of each department. After collecting herself and giving appropriate explanations to all and sundry about the coloration event Dr. Thewens decided to keep her experience with 01 and love to herself. It wasn’t until late that night when she lay in bed by herself that she looked at the picture on the wall of her dead husband and cried.

The next day found her back in another conference room addressing her colleagues and peers. She relayed the same story back to these as well but couldn’t shake a yet lingering affection for 01 and the moment he had given her the day prior. The conference room was quickly escalating into debates and arguments that had long been put to rest before this incident but were now burning as fiercely as they day they were kindled. Emily stood before them all but forgotten until her thoughts got the better of her and she blurted out a question.

“Why has there not been any contact with the aliens yet?” She was met with silence until a scientist ventured.

“Dr. Thewens we’ve had plenty of contact. There are pages and pages of interviews and communications, you yourself have added to the sum.”

“No I mean real contact. We haven’t even shook hands with them yet,” Dr. Thewens retorted.

“Dr. Thewens I would remind you that we are talking about aliens here. Extra-terrestrials. We don’t even know what they eat yet, much less if they’re toxic. What if they breath out arsenic for god’s sakes.”

“If they did all of our environmental recordings would more than prove it. They’re not emitting anything poisonous, why don’t we speak to them face to face? Maybe we would be able to understand them better and we might even figure out what they eat sooner.”

“Dr. Thewens may I also remind you they do not have faces! We are following a protocol to the letter here, and we are not going to have physical contact with these beings until they are completely totally categorized. That is final,” With those words rose up another contingency of scientists clamoring about one thing or another and soon the arguments were back in full swing. Emily could only shake her head and inch her way out of the conference room. She wasn’t out of it for a second before all those confusing feelings of love for both a subject and an alien came swinging back out of left field.

“I need to know what the **** that was,” She said to herself and made her way towards the biology sector. Most of the researchers were arguing within the conference room right now so the halls were mostly empty and she strode right up to the biological sampling unit quarters. She pressed the first airlock button and stepped into the clean room, sanitizing herself and moving to the next where hazmat gear was donned. She ignored it and pressed the third airlock button entering the box, wearing her labcoat and civilian clothing. There was 01, standing with the family pet, all glorious seven feet of him. Before she knew it she was running to him, arms flung wide, madly in love like she had never been before. 01’s head turned at the last moment as she embraced him. She flung her arms around him and hugged him close feeling the heat of their bodies touching.

 

Paradise by Himeo[525 Words]

My four thumbs aimlessly trace the smooth curves of the merlot bottle. I'm barefoot, laying spread eagle on the warm gritty sand of Dockweiler Beach. Another perfect day in Los Angeles, Earth. The sun drags nearer to the waters edge as the thundering roar of a shuttle announces its departure from paradise. I adjust the bottle to shade my eyes from the intense glare of the sunset and realize my mistake. I see blood. It's everywhere.

A vicious right hook staggered him. He fell and wind whipped past me as I mounted him! My arms were heavy from the drink but I willed them to continue like a motor furiously pumping it's cylinders. “Stop! Klacktu stop it!” screamed Heather, but she was miles away. He raised his right forearm to protect himself but I pinned it with both of my left hands. They say it hurts to punch Humans in the face; that you can break your digits if you do it wrong. “Just let him go!" she pleaded " Klacktu!”

My lungs burned, instinct forced air down my throat and my pace slowed. He reached out with his other arm and tried to roll over to cover up. I hadn't breathed since it started. He was crying like a little bitch.

There was blood ****in' everywhere. ****in' everywhere!

It was running down the back of his head. My adrenaline faded a little and my bottom right hand throbbed with distant pain. His teeth had cut my knuckle pretty deep, but that was whatever. His blood was on my cut. My legs wobbled as I stood up and cleaned off the fluid as best I could. Who knows what's in his blood. I don't need FLU, man. I've seen what it does to us. I don't need that garbage.

He looked primitive - but then they always look that way. “My brood are precious Human.” I said. He groaned softly and cried. I stood over him triumphant but something was missing. Emphasis. I kicked his arms away from his face and dug my heel into his throat. Still not enough. "Open your optics human." He complied. I glared at him with all the anger and indignity I'd ever felt. “Remember this. We do not forgive twice.”

Heather pushed and screeched at me as we left the alley and took her Subaru back to the apartment. I can't remember what she said. Not like it matters anyway. She's always saying stupid **** just to hear her own voice. When dinner was over she wanted to make up.

Humans are needy. Food or sex or attention it's always something; and they need it now. Right now. No, right now.

Afterwards, I snatched the wine and ambled across the street to watch the waves crash on the beach. That grew dull quickly. There's nothing to do here. At least, nothing worth doing.

The sun's almost gone. So ends my first day in paradise. We should have exterminated them. Things would've been easier that way. I swirled the last gulp of wine in my mouth, enjoying the soft fruity taste and watching the sun die slowly.

I want to go home.

 

Advancement by syberpuppy[1,338 Words]

'We failed.' The bitter thought echoed through the huge island that was floating above the little black planet. A moment later the island disappeared.

---------------

Smoke filled the night's air as the creature willed itself through it and to the surface of the planet. The feeling of inevitability and regret was already set upon it, but it refused to give up. There was still a chance, and if it will act correctly it could still be grasped.

The creature released his concentration as his lower half reached the surface of the mountain. Light could barely travel a distance through the smoke and those needing light to perceive their surrounding would find it impossible to see anything. Fortunately the creature did not need the light and was able to perceive everything around him.

After a short while a vehicle reached the place where the creature was. The vehicle landed a few feet from him and a buzz begun sounding from it. The waves of sound vibrated through the air, slowly pushing the smoke away from the vehicle until a babble of clean air was formed around the vehicle and the creature. As the door opened from the side of the vehicle a light blue glow filled the bubble. The creature acknowledged the glow, and then ignored it.

Two men, dressed in black, came out of the vehicle. They looked around and then in small pads in their hands.
“We are clean for five minutes Mr. President. More than that and the satellite system will notice the lack of coverage,” said one of the two men.
A third then man came out of the vehicle. He was clad in a magnificent white fabric that seemed to glow lightly. He looked around him intently and then turned to the two men. “Are you certain those are the right coordinates?”

‘I am here.’ The voice boomed through the three men’s minds.

“Yes, I can see that” said the man that was clad in white. He was now looking intently to where he knew the creature was. He knew there was something there and for a second he thought he even managed to see something. He lost it a second later. The creature explained once that he was just too different for men’s mind to grasp, but the man clad in white believed differently. “I am sorry I am late. It was hard locating…”

The man started saying but the booming thought inside his head cut his words. ‘It is not important. What is important is that you will do your part of the bargain.’

“I am trying,” The man said, fear barely perceptible in his voice. “The new law should pass in the senate in just a few months, then in two years…”

‘You don’t have two years’ the voice in his mind cut him again, even louder than before.

“I can’t do it any faster; the power companies are too powerful…”

‘Are you not the leader of this world? As we understand your word alone can do what is needed.’

“Yes, but they will kill me…”

‘So be it. Your life is a price worth paying for what will be achieved by it.’

The man clad in white looked in open mouth to where the creature was, a look of disbelief in his eyes.

After a few seconds the voice in his mind continued. It was somehow softer this time. “We will not force you. Your life is your own to give or not, but you should know what will be the price of failure.”

A second later, the creature was no longer there.

--------------

Gordon was looking through the heavy stack of papers sprawled on the table in front of him. He has spent the last two months trying to decipher the meaning of the advanced engineering and mathematical content of it all. He could now understand some of it, and it was everything they promised and more.

The information was not out of the reach of humanity, but using those papers more than a century of progress could be achieved in less than a decade.

Gordon was a business man, and the numbers were already running through his head. He could easily be one of the richest men in the world by using that information to its fullest extent, but for how long. Their warnings already far outweighed by his greed, Gordon was already developing a business plan to maximize the profit by extending the development for four or five decades.

If everything goes right, his family, he knew, will not need for anything for decades to come. Moore will be a family of great fortune and power.

--------------

Albert was still looking at the blackboard. Was it possible he have done in the middle of the night in some half sleep state? It seemed impossible. He spent hundreds of his waking hours trying to find the impossibly elegant solution that was so innocently written on the blackboard now, to think he could write it in some half sleep state was just unthinkable. But the idea that someone broke into his house during the night only to write the key to the universe on his blackboard was just plainly ridiculous.

The realization that he was more than just late by now to the patent office flashed through his mind for a moment, and disappeared again in the face of the unmistakable truth of the simple equation in front of him.

------------

Jules was sitting on his desk, writing frantically another one of the ludicrous tales people seemed so eager to read.

When he first started hearing the voices he almost committed himself to an insane asylum. Now he no longer cared if the voices came from god, the devil, or if he was just plainly insane. Over the years the voices gave him a peak to such an insane and wondrous world that his fear from the voices booming inside his head quickly changed to eagerness just to hear more of it. In the end, he took that world and shaped insane stories into it, and people loved it.

The voices have told him that from his work inspiration will arose and the stories will become self fulfilling prophecies, but he knew that was ridiculous. As if a modern man will believe that it will be possible to traverse the great seas, the night’s sky and even the empty space above it...

------------

The great island entered the small star system, and then, all at once the buzzing of thoughts rouse throughout it. They have traversed the empty space for millions of years now and it was the first time they have sensed a form of life so close to their own.

The buzzing of thoughts grew even louder when the island itself focused its own thoughts on the small planet and gave them the grim prediction. The great spaceship had the power of calculations. It did not have the power to see the future, but it could predict events to a great accuracy, and the island now predicted that in an almost certain probability an end to most forms of life throughout the planet in a very short amount of time.

The analysis of the situation showed that the dominant specie of the planet developed a great need for technology, and in its need it was consuming the planet’s life sustaining systems rapidly. In only a few hundreds of their years they will consume everything, and even then their technology will not be advanced enough to sustain them.

A great discussion arose then, and by the time it was done a few decades have passed over the little blue planet below them. A possible solution was found almost immediately, to save the inhabitant of the little planet all they needed was quicken the rate of their technological advancement, but not even the island could see if the result of the action will save the life on the planet, or empower its course to a much more absolute ending.

[Klazzform]

May 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Moving Away From Home For The First Time
Winner - A Tale of a Burned Fixer Running the Shadows by Simon Hild

 

A Tale of a Burned Fixer Running the Shadows by Simon Hild

Salas knew the time to flee had come. He’d seen it coming for weeks but had tried to fool himself into thinking there was another way. The truth, however, found him regardless of his mental games. He had many contacts in the city. Detroit wasn’t the urban sprawl of Seattle in 2070, but it was large enough to make money and where there was money, there were big players. Salas aspired to be one of them, but he was discovering rather brutally that he was not.

He glanced around his small apartment and wondered if anything there was really important enough to take with him. His commlink was on his hip and for the hundredth time he checked the display link on his new, blue tinted sunglasses. Just to the left of his field of vision he saw that the new firewall was still operating and the hidden files remained encrypted, unmolested by any would-be hacker that got wind of his exit. The modest living space had been wiped clean of any evidence of his destination and though his favorite print of NightHawks by Edward Hopper still hung on his wall, it would not make the journey with him. He felt as lonely as the couple in the diner and darker than the street outside them. His Ares Predator hand cannon was in a slender holster under his left arm. He’d had a weapons-specialist friend look at it the other day, and had calibrated it to the high tech sunglasses he’d purchased with a smart gun link between them both. He hadn’t fired it in more than six months.

Salas wasn’t the sort of runner who was hacking a system, or slinging spells or even blasting away at corporate security with a heavily modified assault rifle. He was a face, a dealer, a contact. He was the man who knows the man you need to talk to. He sighed and checked the apartment again nervously. An icon flashed on his sunglass’s commlink display reminding him of his meeting with Big Vic and Voodoo Child to happen later that evening.

The cards are in play now, chummer, Salas thought to himself, time to play the hand you’ve been dealt. Buy the ticket, take the ride.

He had placed his emergency money outside of town in a storage unit using another ID, cash was so rare so as to be suspicious, but every once in a while, that is the only currency excepted. Salas felt nervousness about it, though. He hadn’t used the place before and didn’t have time to make sure it was on the level. Could it have been traced? Will they be waiting when I get there? He couldn’t know. His friend and contact in the underworld, Jeremy, had assured him that none of it had any links to him, but there was always room for error. Salas mulled these possibilities over in his mind again and again. He needed to leave, but had he left any loose ends?

In the mirror he saw the same man he’d seen for all these years and toyed with the idea of surgery again, but there wasn’t time. Besides, without the goatee he looked very different. He looked younger than his 35 years. His hair had been colored a dark brown that hid the gray that was creeping in above his ears but it couldn’t hide his widow’s peak or the lines in his face that once spoke of a man who smiled often.

Had it been thirty five years? Was he to leave the bustling city he had known for all of his few decades?

There were other things left to do beyond his late night meeting with Voodoo Child and Vaughn. He had debts in the city with contacts that had helped him get started. There were so many people he had worked with over the years whom he couldn’t even tell he was leaving that he felt ashamed. Now he was to meet with a small team and connect them to a Mr. Johnson corporate lawyer type who would offer them a job within a couple of hours. He needed the finder’s fee to get him started in the new town. This was his last chance to make a buck in the city he’d called home for so long. He wanted to do it just to do business one last time in a place he knew so well, but something nagged at him in the back of his mind. A kind of criminal intuition was screaming at Salas to just forget it. Take what you can fit in a travel bag and go! Don’t even lock the apartment door, just RUN! He’d received word that they were coming for him. He didn’t have much time.

However, Salas still felt he had obligations and even as he was to leave his beloved city he could not tarnish the reputation he’d always kept. Salas was a stand up guy who knew how to keep his mouth shut. In his line of work and with the people Salas dealt with everyday, those two things would take a man a long way. He was a hustler, of sorts, and a fixer in his own right, be it ever so humble. In the mean streets of the 6th world with the reawakening of magic, the dominance of the virtual reality in the matrix and the political chaos of the whole world shaking around them, a man’s reputation was sometimes all he had. Salas wasn’t about to give that up too. Regardless of bad feelings and butterflies in the stomach. He had to do this one last job before he bid farewell to the city that had taught him so much.

Voodoo Child might to be a problem. His connections in the Caribbean League were vital to both of them. Salas was sorry to see the lucrative transfers that had been made smoothly for years go as much as `Child. He wouldn’t be happy about the exodus and Salas was still considering whether or not to tell him at all. In the end he decided to break another street code and try to introduce Voodoo Child to Vaughn, the Capo of the gang Salas had known since High School. These two had both made it clear that they didn’t need or wish to meet as a matter of mutual trust. Their ignorance of each other kept their operations insulated from each other as well. The only link between them was Salas and that’s the way they liked it. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Salas had to go. So something had to change. People disappear in this business all the time but usually it isn’t by choice and since that was precisely the circumstance he hoped to avoid, Salas was trying to be confident that Voodoo child would understand.

Of course both Voodoo Child and Vaughn had people to answer to as well, and Salas was known to keep both gangsters in good standing with their bosses by being good earners for their respective organizations. Whether it was during prohibition America, or in the United Canadian and American States of the 6th World, underworld politics remained the same. Salas was a very small cog in an extremely violent machine. The small time fixer knew the machine would still run without him, but it was loath to relinquish such a profitable part and tended to grind up the gears that didn’t cooperate.

Voodoo Child had his friends in the Caribbean League ship magic supplies from the islands, up the St. Lawrence River and eventually to the waiting shores of Detroit. Vaughn and his crew had a great connection with some new-blood hermetic type mages who just needed these supplies to get the edge on the competition down town. Salas had made plenty of money just transferring funds and goods between the two parties. For Salas it was a small thing to be a talismonger mule for a couple of street organizations trying to get by. He was also paid handsomely just for knowing a couple of decent, diverse people whose business happened to involve occasionally having to dispose of a body.

The whole operation was in trouble now, but it couldn’t be helped. Salas was a careful fellow. In all his years in the shadows he hadn’t let himself get caught up in the politics of the Vice Lords and the Mob. These two organizations vied for power in the underworld of the Motor City. He had connected shadowrun teams with their employers. He had helped people find the connections they needed to get those jobs done. A few bad runs later and a couple of people being forced to talk (under horrible circumstances, no doubt) had led to his exposure.

Now the Vice Lords and the Mob had a contract out on him. Vaughn had made monstrous moves with the magic gear Salas helped move into town through Voodoo Child. The Mob and V. Lords didn’t appreciate the power shift and somehow knew that Salas was the key. Unfortunately Salas knew that even if he stopped being the middle man, the contract would still be good and some other shadowrunning assassin would find him sooner or later. He had to get out of Amityville before it turned into Hamburger Hill. He had to turn into just tumbleweed blowing out of Dodge City.

He closed the door to his home of ten years and walked away as he had done countless times before, though now, of course, is would be the last time. He slipped down the back alley where his Hyundai Shin-Hyung was parked. The little compact car looked modest enough, but Salas had it modified to tear up the pavement when it had to. He popped the locks with his commlink and had the engine purring by the time the custom bucket seat cradled his nervous behind. The would-be fixer burned off into the wet night to make one of the last deals he would in the dirty city he called home.

The meeting place was a low rent club called Top of the Rock that Salas had been to a thousand times. He knew the wait staff and the owner so there was no trouble securing the back room, which also served as the employee break room, for the thing. He could see a nervous looking elf poser with his back to the corner of the bar. His hair was sticking up like some kind of multicolored porcupine and he watched everything in the bar with heightened awareness. Salas knew he must be one of the `runners. He sighed heavily hoping he wasn’t sending a bunch of neophytes into the slaughter. At the bar was a classic street samurai who wore his cyberware like a cocky marine wearing every medal earned by his unit. He was pounding shots and glancing around like he was casing the bar. Finally a familiar face was stalking toward Salas with his hand extended and a wide smiling face. It was a hacker he knew to whom he once used to sell Bliss.

“Slot-it, Salas, I thought you weren’t ever gonna get here, chummer,” said this young wanna-be Fastjack.

“Shut-up, get your team and let’s get this over with,” Salas said as he clasped the kid’s hand and kept walking to the back room. He knew Mr. Johnson would already be there. He had arranged for his limo to be hidden out back and for the Johnson to come in a back door. The bar tender had given him a knowing nod as he entered the place, so he knew everything was wiz.

Predictably the elf with the wild hair and the brute at the bar fell in behind the Bliss smoking hacker. All four entered a narrow hallway past a couple of newish pool tables and then skirted the kitchen entrance to reach the small room with a rear exit, a time clock and two trolls flanking a man in a very expensive suit.

He looked at Salas as if he had smelled something bad and said, “This is the team?”

Salas shrugged and replied, “I had short notice and they were available in your time frame with the skills you requested, that’s all you asked.”

The street sam looked at Salas menacingly and growled, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Bliss-head hacker, on the other hand, looked at him as if he was going to cry, “I thought you said we were the only ones who could do this job.”

Salas looked at the kid hiding his guilt like he was trying to win an Academy Award and replied, “You are. You’ll knock `em dead.”

The hustler glanced at the clock projected on his new glasses and then at the Johnson expectantly. The suit sighed as if he were making some huge compromise by paying Salas his finder’s fee, though Salas knew this Mr. Johnson was surely setting these newbie’s up for a fall. Once he saw the funds were transferred, Salas turned on his heel and headed for the door never looking back. Sacrifices would have to be made for the big move.

The bartender looked up at him as he marched back through the bar, “That was quick, how did it go?”

Salas tried not to think about the fate of those three punks, “Just smashingly, give them a few more minutes, Karl.”

He revved up the Shin and shot through town again still dwelling on the meeting. Voodoo Child’s place as not in the nicest section of Detroit. Though racism was alive and well in 2070, it had more to do with whether or not you had horns and fangs than with the pigment of your skin. Salas was white AND he wasn’t an ork. These two things could have led to complications if he wasn’t under Voodoo Child’s protection. Salas was hoping that wouldn’t change.

The house was old and run down, but the face knew the security was sound. He could see people watching him roll down the street from roofs and second story windows. The new assault rifles are in early this year, he thought. Voodoo child was out on the porch already as he pulled up.

He was a tall slender Jamaican elf with great ropy dreadlocks hanging down to his mahogany shoulders. He didn’t speak a word to Salas until he opened the door and scowled at him.

“Move da damn seat back, boy. I and I can’t be folded up ta fit in dat tiny space.”

Salas obliged his friend and smiled as he squeezed his tall frame down into the Shin. They drove in silence for a minute headed toward Vaughn’s music store and Salas could tell Voodoo Child wasn’t happy about the arrangement. There were complications to consider like conflicts of interest and territorial boundaries.

"You know I appreciate you letting me change this arrangement, `Child, I won't forget it," Salas said more to the dashboard than to his friend.

They were approaching Vaughn’s neighborhood when the hair on the back of Salas’s neck rose. He quickly scanned the area with the vehicle sensors using his wireless link. He sensed Voodoo Child tensing in the seat next to him as well.

“What is it,” he asked knowing that his friend was awakened and had magic running through his blood. He sometimes saw things that the Face couldn’t see.

“Assassin. What kind of game are ya playin’ at, mon? Dis connection’s not wort’ da price o’ my head. Ya pick me up just to drive `round wit’ a bull’s eye on ya’re back? Tek me back `ome, right now! I knew betta den to get mixed up wit’ a washed up face wit’ a price on `is head.”

Salas couldn’t agree more. He mashed the gas pedal into the Shin’s floor and smirked when he heard the turbo engage. The tires bit into the road and the car that was shadowing him fell behind. It was a big luxury car and struggled to keep up while a barrel was revealed that had been tucked back in the front grill. The modification was sloppy, but it was enough to conceal the weapon from casual observation. Salas took a surprise, hard turn betting that his tail didn’t have the handling his little drift racer had. He was screaming down a trash strewn alleyway with Voodoo Child protesting in a now totally indecipherable Jamaican accent at high volume.

At the next cross street Salas didn’t even slow down. He just blazed through traffic as he gave a glance to see if Machinegun Kelly made the turn on the next block. He must have really poured on the speed because Salas saw it emerge from an alley a block down running parallel as if they were in some cheap 2D action flick. He gripped the wheel a little tighter and floored it again. The whine from the engine startled Voodoo Child who was still demanding to be let out as near as Salas could tell, but they weren’t stopping yet. Another cross street led to another quick game of lethal Frogger with the would-be killer even with them now, even pulling ahead. There was no telling what was under the hood of that other car, but it was blasting through the alleys like a V-2 rocket. Another cross street and he’d have them.

This was Salas’s town, though, and he knew every alley, every empty lot and every down on his luck vato that every stole cars in this neighborhood. He made a quick call to the garage he was rapidly approaching never letting his hands leave the wheel as the Shin came to a near dead stop. A garage door concealed by garbage and graffiti opened right next to them and the speedy little car disappeared inside. The door closed quickly behind them and unseen cameras outside captured the machine-gun toting land yacht circle the block. They watched the car drive past several times before Salas kicked Chewy a couple hundred for the trouble of them taking up space. He called Vaughn to say they were delayed and the meet was changed to Chewy’s place, but he knew Vaughn wouldn’t mind. Salas was admiring the new custom paint job Chewy was doing on Vaughn’s beast of an SUV, the big man was coming to Chewy's anyway
“Ya, mon,” Voodoo Child said as Vaughn’s cab arrived, “Maybe it IS time far ya ta take a vacation to da islands.”

[Klazzform]

July 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Exploring A New World/Land
Winner - Discovering Heaven by Antigone

 

Thorn’s Conscription by Simon Vitus Hild[3,010 Words]

There is little pity on the vast, tangled streets of Wes-Kha for one with the blood of orcs and humans mingling in his veins. Thorn has been my name ever since the chief of the Swamp-ape tribe decided that it best described what I was in his side. Needless to say I was motivated to leave the tribe early in life. In my short time above ground I have been a Swamp-ape raider, a mercenary for Bremmen Keep and then a soldier for the same, though I have little love for soldiering. I have guarded caravans through the treacherous Shattered Spires and have braved the dust devils and blistering heat of the Shah-Khalash Desert. I have even gambled with river bandits along the River Loch and lived to tell you this tale for which I was yet ill prepared.
I think my trouble began with an ethical issue. The city of Wes-Kha, the heart of the vast empire of sun worshippers, held every temptation man, woman or beast could provide. The Jewel of the River Loch was the largest city on the entire western half of Solterra and was the very seat of the Empire’s power. I knew my bestial nature would get the better of me eventually in this sordid town of thieves and attractive women…and attractive women thieves.
My orcish heritage has cursed me with yellow eyes and somewhat protruding lower teeth. I am often mistaken for having a cleft lip, an illusion I have learned to encourage. I had waited until dark to have one final night on the town before I began trolling the caravan’s for work. In the small room I had rented my banded mail armor hung from a cloak rack I stole from the last inn I visited. I had spent time and effort repairing the worn straps and treating the other wear and tear one receives on a mercantile odyssey. The truth was I was broke, again and I knew what it was to be truly hungry. It was perhaps this idea that propelled me into one night of extravagant excess before a period of fasting and selling my sword arm with the handicap of my face.
I remember the face of my seductress though I was already long into drink before my bleary yellow eyes were cast on her lithe form. She told me her name and the Abyss will take me before I remember it, but there was something then that gave me pause. Being raised in an orc tribe one is either suspicious or dead and as I yet breathe to tell you this you can be assured there was a sixth sense that screamed at me to leave off this holler back girl and move on to another tavern. In that moment I can remember as clearly as if I were seeing it now her round human eyes brown and alluring that were framed in her elven face and slightly pointed ears. Here we were in this dangerous part of the riverfront, both rather sidestepped by our own kind or in my case chased out with blood curdling cries of death and murder, and for a moment we shared something. It only lasted that moment, of course. She walked before me with her slender form rolling under her dirty, thin cotton tunic. I followed her to a drinking counter like an eager, drunk puppy who should have known she was the jinn called Lust in disguise.
I was so captured by this half-elven beauty that I even attributed the trap door opening beneath my feet as I placed my hands on the bar to my own drunkenness. I nearly apologized for losing my sense of balance when my relaxed body crashed to a room below the floor of the bar and my world went painfully black. If I had imagined I had been captured by lust for the street caller I would soon experience a more apt comparison for the word.
The smell is what woke me up and I was immediately aware of being in a hammock that was gently rocking without me moving a muscle. The reality dawned on me all at once. The girl, the bar, and now I was in the hold of a ship with no less than twenty five other hammock dwellers rubbing their heads in much the same way I was. I was only at that moment aware that my armor was still in a room in a questionable neighborhood in Wes-Kha, I was on the biggest boat I’d certainly ever been on and I was not there of my own free will.
The gentlemen around me mirrored my own feelings in their immediate demands and shouting. All of this was cut short by the sound of naked steel and the bold man who held it in his hand. Ollit-soc Ibn Set-roc stood before an audience at once furious and silenced. He was a man of sun baked skin and eyes that were cut from marble. He glared at us with his curved blade before him in defiance. His stance was sure I could tell by his hips and feet. He was ready for someone.
“If anyone has a problem with their new occupation, they may speak with the captain,” he whispered sinisterly and gestured to himself.
I raged as the others, but I wouldn’t be the first. Captain Set-roc and I were both satisfied by a lively wharf crawler. He didn’t give a damn about living or dying, he was a slave to the dream-flower. I noted with some alarm that neither I nor any of my peers were armed. The wharf crawler didn’t care about that either and lunged for the gentleman in the noble’s coat with a navigator’s wrap and nimble saber. Two of the forty other men on board not suffering from headaches carried the first and only challenger to Captain Set-roc’s conscription program away to be fed to the sharks. This we were shown, or rather the others were shown and I searched for the shore. I tried not to look frantic as I cast my eyes in every direction and saw nothing but great, heaving blue-green hills. The salt of the Western Ocean filled my overly pronounced nostrils and I truly realized there was nowhere else to go.
There were three other ships in our modest armada, though I don’t remember seeing them during that hour we conscripts stood assembled for the first time on the quarterdeck before the captain, pilot and ship’s master. Captain Set-roc wore a silk head wrap with a sash that draped over his shoulder. On the River Loch it would have named him a pilot, but no one had any illusion about who the captain was. Our pilot was an unusual tribal looking elf only 5 feet tall and was as near dressed as a man can be without being naked. He stood proudly when we were told he was Aguilar and that he could read the heavens as easily as we read a map. I tried to imagine what exotic tropical island from which they kidnapped him. Alvarado was the ship’s master. He was a cruel task master who had honed his trade driving slaves to build Wes-Kha monuments and obelisks to honor their lord, the sun. It is rumored his scarred and bitter carcass was relieved of duty for the Empire for flogging a slave to death without cause…again, but who believes rumors whispered below decks. `Rado kept his whip near and his head shaved to show his scars and how he’d received them. He knew what it was to take a lashing, but he genuinely didn’t give a damn.
I was a fool the first week and felt `Rado’s instructional lash often enough. I had worked the river boats, but was ignorant of a sailing vessel that was nearly a hundred feet long, with bowsprit, three masts, six sails and sixty men scrambling all over it. I learned quickly though as I have always had my mother’s intelligence. From my father I had only an orc’s bestial nature that I was always at pains to subdue. I observed the complex workings of the ship carefully and kept my mouth shut. Since I have never been able to shake my orcish accent, speaking only invited trouble. As a slave my status was low enough to not feel any true impact from my questionable parentage. I pulled ropes and scrubbed that quarter deck endlessly and waited to see what this toss of the dice had brought me.
I found myself unable to sleep at night and often took night duties. During this time I had occasion to have a closer look at Aguilar our pilot. During the evenings, particularly on a clear night, he would come out and gaze at the stars in the heavens. I would catch my hands fumbling at my work as I couldn’t help but follow his gaze as well to try to see what it was he was seeing up there. After a time we found we shared a language in broken trade common. I sympathized remembering the struggle I too have trying to perfect my speech to conceal if only psychologically what happened to my mother in order to bring me into this world. We struggled to understand each other and he taught me how the stars can tell one where he is. This tiny elf, whose sharp eyes could see the heat left on the deck in the evening from my sunburned foot, truly could read the heavens like a map. After two months of travel I felt I could read them fairly well too, though I gave a few of his constellations my own names for easier memory.
Among the four ships we had provisions for nearly two years which made me uncomfortable as I had hoped for a chance to escape my bondage in the next port. I mentioned this to Aguilar one evening and he laughed saying I didn’t know what was happening. The Captain had heard of a civilization far to the west with vast land for the taking and mountains full of gold. This was where he intended to take the four ships and all the baubles and provisions. Much of what we were carrying in the other ships were goods for trade. Now it was more clear, but no less depressing. I asked him if he thought this place was real. He turned his five foot frame slowly with the lanterns playing across his face on a clear, moonless night and said quietly, “There is at least one Emperor who thinks it is so, and only a fool would be on this ship if he did not believe it. Too bad there are so many fools afloat, eh?”
The circling gulls alerted us to land before we ever saw it. When a thin green line appeared on the horizon, we all became believers. I had watched Captain Set-roc for eight weeks and new the man to be fair, if rather brutal. Even when he applied the lash personally, which was only once for stealing food oddly enough, he did it with a dispassionate face. Now, however, a change had come over the Captain and his eyes were bright as if a fire were lit behind them. He clenched his fists and began giving orders sharply to trim the sails as he strode boldly to the forecastle with his glass extended looking for all like the bold explorer we all believed he was.
It is strange that it had never once occurred to me throughout the journey that there would be current occupants of this new territory to explore. Even as we were able to see the massive trees towering over the high, rocky cliffs of the coast we could see a long canoe with a smoothly worked outrigger being paddled toward as by a dozen elves in precise unison. Once I could get a good look at them I could see a remarkable resemblance to our nocturnal pilot who was now at the Captain’s elbow whispering with great conviction.
Negotiations happened quickly and we were lead to a cove of mystic wonder. All around us there were tall straight trees and lush vegetation. I could see more of these primitive elves spying on us from the shore. We were resupplied and offered gifts of strange fruits and roots that they cultivate. They shared with us a great deal of wine made from grape vines clinging to the massive trees that populated this area. All the while my suspicions grew. It became obvious to me that Aguilar had led the Captain here, but why? The lure of gold and land sounded like bait, but what was the pay-off to him? My eyes were then cast to the lower quarter deck where the powder was kept. I had never seen cannon before but I was aware of the closely guarded secret technology. Given a month or two of travel with the same men conversation tends to wonder in the direction of armaments protecting the ship. I only knew enough to know that the guns could hardly be fired with the gun ports closed and now, in this secluded cove surrounded by trees towering more than 100’ past our crow’s nest the guns seemed less like weapons, and more like booty.
The attack happened with such ferocity and immediacy that we had no notion of what was happening at first. The morning had been consumed by trading, resupplying and getting fresh water and all the like, so the out rigger canoes, there were four of them shuttling goods and people, were now taken for granted. It was the chief navigator himself who gave the cry for attack and drew a dagger on the Captain who beat the weapon to the side in a rage as the wiry elf made his lunge. A marine next to me stood slack jawed and gaping thus barely noticed me relieving him of his dwarven made sword. The weapon felt good in my hands and I felt as if I was reunited with an old friend. The Captain expressed his betrayal in a roar to arms that shook the very timbers of the rigging. Dumb founded sailors snapped from their shock and reached for swords at their sides though one was sorely disappointed. I had little time to grieve for him. The first volley of arrows rained down from the high trees like deadly hail.
As a suspicious and seasoned warrior, I know when to find cover. There is a sensation that is like a sound or a chill and one finds himself moving before he is aware of the change in scenery. I was on the lower quarter deck suddenly and was shocked to find a painted elf frantically trying to work the key into the lock on the powder magazine. The ship’s clerk lay at our feet stuck to the deck with his own thick red adhesive. The elf turned to me with a scowl and I saw none of the elven beauty I saw in the whore that got me into this mess, just a 5’ demon with my mate’s key in his hand. I plunged that poor unarmed sailor’s sword that gleamed with worked dwarven steel before it was bathed in the blood of a pointy eared savage. I could feel the elf’s warm expired life wash over my hands but it didn’t stop there. It crept into my arms and shoulders, welled from my guts and was expelled in the incoherent war cry of the Swamp-ape tribe. One of our gunners grabbed the key and threw open the hatch to get at the powder. I could tell he aimed to make some noise before he died. I stormed back up to look to the aft-castle where the Captain had been engaged with Aguilar.
The deck teemed with elves now. It was as if the ocean had washed them all over us on a rogue wave. Captain Set-roc, being a handy swordsman, was fighting with his quick saber in his right and a parrying dagger in his left and had dispatched the elf that had fooled him and the Emperor into a trap of colossal proportion. He was now fending off several attackers wielding spears and obsidian bladed swords, but we were badly outnumbered. I bullied my way through two unsuspecting elves who were pitched overboard to be replaced by others climbing up from outrigger canoes below. I smiled thinking, At least it wasn’t raining arrows anymore.
There was a perilous pitched battle for a moment while I made my way aft to the Captain before someone below fired a cannon shot. By the looks of the splintering wood one could guess the gunner felt opening the gun port was a luxury he couldn’t afford. For an instant the whole of the elven onslaught froze and looked skyward. Hearing the weapon for the first time froze me in my tracks as well, but there had been drills during the voyage and I knew it for what it was. I was very confused however by the second explosion that must have ripped through the powder magazine. This I must assume for I was thrown clear of the deck and into the water from the blast that sank that mighty carrack that we had called home for more than two months.
Chance alone saved me as well as Set-roc who was the captain of only Jack and Defecation. We paddled together to shore amid the debris using an overturned canoe and hid in the trees while we watched the other three magnificent ships get captured. Set-roc had tears in his eyes but he said nothing. I knew his chance at greatness was slipping from his grasp while in contrast I was thoroughly used to getting myself in torturous, untenable situations. This one was rather unique, I had to admit, but this was my introduction to the New World.

 

Discovering Heaven by Antigone[2,585 Words]

Jaeda breathed heavily under her makeshift mask of cloth. She looked back to make sure the child did not fall far behind. At the top of the ridge she stopped and looked around warily. The child caught up with her and asked, “Where are we going?”
“Shshsh,” she responded. “They can hear very well,” she continued in a whisper.
She surveyed the valley below with caution, looking for any movement in the underbrush. She sat in the snow and opened her sack. She found the spyglass that she had pilfered from the last ruined town they had come to and looked through it, she was looking for monsters. After a long, cautious scan she lowered the spyglass and looked at the child. He was dirty and wet and shivering a little.
“Are you cold?”
“Just a little,” he responded.
She pulled him onto her lap and cradled him close, trying to warm him with her body heat. She inspected his makeshift snowshoes and tightened the rawhide strings that held them together.
“Can we have a fire tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t know, it may be too dangerous, we shall see,” she replied.
“Where are we going?”
“West, to the coast,” she said. She had answered this question a thousand times, but she knew the child needed reassuring. “The sickness hasn’t reached the coast. We will board a ship and sail to Miru. They can’t swim, so we will be safe in Miru.”
“We’ll be safe in Miru,” he repeated after her.
The child wasn’t hers, but he had become her ward. She looked after him as her own and was determined to see at least one of his generation through this terrible time that had befallen her people. She shuddered when she thought of how she found him. He was starving and alone, huddled with his dead mother’s corpse. She didn’t appear to be a victim of the things, it seemed as though she gave up and committed suicide, but for whatever reason didn’t take him with her. Selfish bitch, Jaeda thought.
The Sickness, as they called it had begun two seasons ago. People turned into savage, flesh craving monsters. They could paralyze with a scrape of their nails and then take their time with you. If they didn’t consume you, they drained you until you turned into one of them. They were quick and veracious and it seemed that no man or animal was immune. She had even had to defend herself from a rabbit that had the Sickness. That was a weird day.
She and the child had been traveling west for months, hiding and scavenging what they could. She had to be doubly cautious with the child. These things seemed to have some bestial intelligence about them. They could hear you, and they could smell you. She had masked their scent by rolling in mud and dung. They stank to the heavens, but it seemed to work.
They found a deserted hamlet and after some thorough reconnaissance she decided they could stay there the night. She relented a built a very small fire for the boy. She gave him the large knife and told him she would be back, she was going to look for food. He hated it when she left him alone, but he knew she must. After awhile she returned. “Good news,” she said as she pulled some dried meat from her sack.
They traveled for a few more weeks, starving, scavenging, and being ever so cautious. It seemed all the game in the land had been turned feral by these creatures so they lived off berries and the dried stores they came upon in deserted towns.
The child had gotten used to the sight of corpses, for they were everywhere. Death hung about the land like a dense fog. They had to be careful, of the undead and the living. They had barely escaped from some road agents some three days ago. She didn’t know which was worse, the terrible undead creatures or the opportunistic people who still lived. If they were caught they would both be raped and eaten, and the Gods only knew what else.
It was planting season when they reached the coast. To Jaeda’s dismay, the coastal town of Sundew looked deserted. They stood outside the town limits for some time, just looking.
“Are they here?” the boy asked.
“I’m afraid so,” she replied. “We must be careful.”
Slowly they entered the town. They quietly searched for provisions for the journey. The bodies here were fresh, which made the hair on Jaeda’s neck stand on end. They went straight to the docks and to her relief there was a small sailboat there. After inspecting it she felt they could sail it, just the two of them.
“You’re gonna learn how to sail,” she said to the boy.
“Um hum,” is all he replied.
“We have to stock the boat, it will take a couple weeks to get to Miru. Are you ready?” The boy just nodded in agreement. She handed him the large, curved hunting knife. To her it was a knife, but to the boy it was like heaving a sword.
They entered the Siren’s Song Inn and quietly began to forage. Fortunately, most of the food wasn’t spoiled and they began to fill their sacks in silence. But the boy reached for a wineskin that was just out of reach. He accidently tipped over a jug and it crashed to the floor, shattering and making a horrible racket. They both froze and listened. To their horror they heard movement, a scampering and hissing they had come to know.
“Here they come, get behind me,” she said. She took the boy by the chin and looked into his eyes and said, “Do not be afraid, they aren’t people anymore. You have to defend yourself.” The boy nodded.
It wasn’t long before one had appeared in the doorway. A foul stench was emanating from it. It had completely red eyes and rotting fangs. It hissed and leaped at them. Jaeda pushed the boy backwards with one hand and swung her sword with the other. It was a fluid and practiced action and it took the thing’s head clean off.
“Come,” she said as she took the boy’s hand and led him out the door. They ran as fast as they could towards the boat. One of the ghoulish creatures leaped out from behind a building and managed to scratch the boy. He instantly went rigid and Jaeda was jerked back by the resistance.
“Mother of Mystra,” she muttered as she swung around. The boy was frozen, but the fear was clearly showing in his eyes. The thing was there, and then another appeared. They were circling, like a pair of wolves, ready to pounce.
She tightened her grip on her sword and readied herself. She would protect the boy. He was all she had, and she was his whole world. One creature lunged with a hiss and tried to scratch her but she deflected it. She knew the other would use this moment to strike so she deftly turned around just in time to impale it. Quickly using her boot to dislodge it from her sword, she swung her sword around again to face the other. This action caused blood to splatter on the boys face, but he could not react. The one she impaled gave out a soul piercing howl and she knew they were in big trouble. More would come. More would come and they would die here.
Like a ballerina, she managed pirouette around and slash and hack at the original assailant. It was down and dead. The other was getting off the ground but she managed to decapitate it before it could do anything more.
She heard the howls of others, they were coming to feast. Quickly she snatched the rigid boy up and threw him over her shoulder. She ran as fast as she could towards the docks. There, she saw the boat and was relieved. That is, until another of the things scampered right in her way. She had to act fast. She had no time to set the boy down so she shifted his weight just so, just enough so she could maneuver. It was a challenge, but she managed to dispatch the foul creature.
Finally, in the boat, she set the boy down and cut the line to cast off. She pushed with her boot as hard as she could to get the boat some distance from the dock. And just in the nick of time too. Half a dozen more of the creatures rounded the corner and were headed in their direction. There was just enough space to keep them safe. One creature made a leap for the boat but fell short and splashed into the harbor. It sank like a stone. It was as if it had forgotten how to swim, if it ever knew at all. The other five set about eating the one she had felled on the dock.
She set about setting sail and the boy watched her through frozen eyes. As she worked, she talked to him to ease his fears. “You’re gonna be alright. It will wear off after awhile, don’t worry. You are gonna be alright.”
It took about an hour and the boy began to move his fingers. “See,” Jaeda said. “It’s going to be okay. You are okay.”
The next day Jaeda tried to teach the boy everything he needed to know about sailing. She also took stock of what provisions they had. She had hoped for more time to stock the boat, but they would have to make do. By her estimation, they would barely have enough food and water to get to Miru. Water, if only we had more water, she thought to herself.
“Have you ever been to Miru?” the boy asked.
“No, very few have,” she replied.
The truth was, Miru had just been discovered. All she knew about it was rumor and conjecture. Hell, she didn’t know if it really existed. But some sailors in a bar had told her about it, even told her approximately how to get there. She hoped against hope that it was true.
After three days an awful storm came. Jaeda and the boy struggled to keep the boat upright. The swells threatened to capsize them, but by some miracle they had made it through.
After the storm Jaeda checked the compass and the meager charts on the boat. That evening she crosschecked with the constellations. To her horror she realized that the gale had thrown them off course, they were headed to uncharted waters. They would probably die.
She wasn’t going to let them die of dehydration. So her thoughts drifted to how she would end it for them both. Will I have the courage to do it when the time comes? She looked at the boy and his innocent brown eyes. No wonder his mother couldn’t do it, he’s just too special. But she knew she couldn’t let him languish to death.
The next day some rain came. They fashioned whatever they could to collect water and a small bit of relief washed over Jaeda. They had staved off death, at least for another day or two.
Jaeda used their time at sea to try to teach the boy everything he needed to know about survival. They caught some fish and she showed him how to gut and clean them. She tried to explain how to field dress animals. She instructed him on how to build a fire and how to use the sun and stars to find your way.
The stars. Jaeda realized that night that the constellations looked alien. They seemed to be dipping further and further past the horizon. She watched each night as they disappeared from the sky, one by one. They were replaced by ones she didn’t know. We passed the midline, she thought to herself. She had no way to navigate by these aliens stars. So she found one, a pulsating blue one, and tried to use that to navigate by. By now the charts on the boat were useless, they were lost and they were going to die.
“Jaeda, Jaeda!” the boy woke her early in the morning. She had been dreaming a strange dream, she couldn’t remember it, but she remembered that it felt strange.
“What is it?” she asked, yawning.
“Birds.”
“What?”
“Birds!” the boy exclaimed.
Jaeda shot up and looked skyward. Indeed, there were seabirds, a gull of some sort she reckoned. But there they were, circling and squawking.
“Land,” Jaeda said. “Land is near.”
“Um hum,” the boy replied. “You said even seabirds stay near land.”
Jaeda went to her pack and retrieved her spyglass. She scanned the horizon and to her glee, way off in the distance was the summit of an ancient volcano. She gave the boy the spyglass to see and the two jumped for joy but had to stop for fear of rocking the boat. They happily set about making for the shore.
“Is it Miru?” the boy asked.
“No, no it isn’t,” she replied. Seeing the boy looking up at her in puzzlement she explained. “That storm blew us off course. I don’t know where we are or if there is anyone here.”
The boy said nothing as though he understood why she had not told him. Finally, he spoke up, “You would tell me if we were going to die right?”
“Yes, yes I would tell you. But not beast, nor man, nor nature can claim us if we stay sharp,” she replied.
“Stay sharp,” he repeated. She noticed that he always repeated the important things she said. That was a good thing, a very good thing.
They reached the beach and tried their best to pull the boat as far on shore as possible. They surveyed their surroundings, they looked but most importantly they listened. Jaeda had taught the boy to rely on all his senses.
“What do you see?” she asked
“Beach, trees, a volcano.”
“What do you smell?”
“The sea,.. and some flowers”
“What do you hear?”
After a long pause the boy answered, “Birds….the sea…..and something weird.”
“Yes, some sort of monkey I think. You know what that means?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “That means there is some sort of water and food on this island. We’re gonna make it kid.” she said with a smile.
He smiled a huge toothy grin back at her and gave her a hug. “We’re gonna make it,” he whispered.
“Well, if we are the only human here, that means we discovered this island. That means we get to name it. What shall we name it?” she asked.
“Ummm,….JaedaLand,” he said.
Jaeda laughed and said, “Now we can come up with something better than that.”
“It feels like Heaven,” the boy said.
“Then we shall call it Heaven,” Jaeda replied.
The two were travelers, but more importantly they were survivors. They explored the island and found a stream with a waterfall. They set about making shelter and watched the animals to see what berries and fruit were safe to eat. Though to Jaeda’s dismay, there were no other humans.
So the pair carved out a meager existence in Heaven. They lived day by day in Heaven. The boy grew up in Heaven. That is, until the day Hell showed up on three large boats flying large black flags.

 

How Little Things Change by dimitri domovoi[2,447 Words]

They come for you right before dawn. Or so you are told, as there is no window in the ten-by-eight cell that is now called home. But if you could see outside the sky would be a wash of dark blue and purple, the first streaks of light threatening daylight upon the outside world. Stars still shine like ivory Christmas lights strung haphazardly along the dome expanse above. Everything was just stirring with today's first signs of life, the world awakening in a cacophony of electric neon. Ironic, as your on your way out. Hell of a way to start a new day.

The screws are Kagan and Cellars, you can hear the click of their heels against the cold stone of the hallway even before you hear the jiggling of their keys. Kagan is nice enough, tall wiry guy who seems honestly sorry when he tells you 'It's time'. Cellars is holding the door open and just stares absently back down the hallway, as eager to not show emotion as he is to ignore you. Somehow it's worse than if he were being cruel or mocking and, for the millionth first time, you realize your going to die.

They look tired, but why shouldn't they? It's a Sunday morning and they beat the sun to work, not to mention the grisly business set before them. Doesn't matter too much how you look, considering, but you can't help but imagine you look worse – haven't slept a wink in days. You ignore Kagan's outstretched hand as you stand from your cot, the only worldly possession you have. The knees tremble but you'll be damned if you won't go on your own two feet, at least if you can. The shaking won't seem to stop, though.

You step past Kagan and he follows you out, Cellars slamming the cell door behind the procession one final time. In the hallway, everything seems real all at once. Kagan takes point and you find your feet moving forward, taking the rest of you with it, without even a thought. There is no priest, you requested as such. Why waste his time when his words were hollow anyhow, and you wouldn't have believed them just the same? Instead just a couple of screws looking for some overtime, willing to sit through this for the bump their paycheck would see next week, to see you off on your journey. Proud tax-payers money, proudly saved, proudly spent.

The shuffle has become almost unbearable, but your face is as blank as white canvas. The screws say nothing but their pace has intentionally slowed. There are no farewells or shouts from the other prisoners like you see on the net. No organ blaring quietly in the background as you marched to what came next. Everyone but you three are either asleep or playing at it, unwilling to acknowledge the same fate that had been decided for them. You know for yourself, they pulled Johnston just last week. He had the good sense to go kicking and screaming, of course, but something tugged inside that wouldn't allow you to do anything but droop your head and inch your feet along. At least Cellars wasn't pushing you along with a quick jab from the lightwand into the small of you back. No, he's still pretending you don't exist.

You come to the door much sooner than you would have thought, it seems just a second ago you were sitting comfortably on your worn cot. Kagan is working the key as you can feel yourself start to unravel, marveling at the sense of each individual frayed edge. It's a struggle to keep your feet underneath you, but something tugging inside won't allow you to collapse. It's amazing how tired you suddenly feel. Don't worry, says that companion in your mind - that always present voice that breaths life into thoughts - you'll sleep soon.

The room beyond passes in a blink of an eye and you find yourself in, for intensive purposes, what appears to be an operating room. The walls are painted so white and the fluorescent lights are so bright it makes your teeth hurt, the whole room reeks of sterilization. No medieval torture chamber here; just a impossibly loud analog clock on the wall, a stainless steel 'operating' table, a rack against the wall of bottles and tubes, and of course a diminutive white man in a lab coat - presumably the doctor, had this actually been a surgery room and not a death chamber. He nods as you enter, his fingers dancing along a glowing visiodeck in his hands, and slowly points to the steel table with indifference and a small shrug.

Kagan and Cellars each take you by the arm as you lower yourself on the table, the icy metal painfully numbing your exposed arms and neck. They are helping you, of course, making sure your nerves don't get the best of you. Avoid an embarrassing collapse when your trembling knees finally give way under the weight of it all. They're helping, you think, but their grips are very, very firm. You lift your legs and let them ease you down onto your back. They begin to secure the straps.

Up until now, it really could have been any other trip to the prison infirmary. Except this time no one is talking - but why should they, there is really nothing left to say. Your condition has already been diagnosed. It's terminal.

Little self-control. Anger issues. Unfit for regular populations. A dangerous thinker. Far too expensive to house and feed. The combinations of symptoms have been tallied, there is only one cure. It's no use telling them your innocent. You've done that, been doing it since day one. Done it in every way possible, it hasn't changed a thing. Because it's not really about innocent and guilty anymore. The system has evolved beyond such juvenile concepts, become so much brighter and more perfect. Under it, society will continue to better itself. Our forefathers would be so proud. The little kid in you, the naive part which had thought that if you tried hard enough everything would be alright, is gone now. Snuffed as effortlessly as the rest of you was about to be.

The straps are pulled tight, tearing out arm hair and making the tips of your fingers tingle with every tug. Suddenly there is someone else in the room, someone who was not here before, and your pulse quickens. You try to turn to look at him, but Cellars is blocking your view as he struggles to lock the straps together. You nearly call out in surprise when a cold splash of something arid hits the crook of your elbow and your eyes are drawn back to the doctor's pinched face. He looks like his morning coffee is sitting wrong in his stomach, you can almost hear the acid bubbling in his chest. The doctor finishes swapping your arm with alcohol before disappearing behind Cellars again.

You turn to look at the newcomer again but, a second time, your eyes are snapped back as something sharp slides through your skin. You can feel it nose toward your throbbing vein before suddenly something goes wrong. The doctor curses, no room for ceremony you suppose, and pulls the needle out. He wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat and bends back over your arm. Fingers of latex probe the vein, rolling it back and forth against your bone. Two, three, four more times the needle misses. It hurts, your arm is beginning to ache awfully, and a bubble is welling in your chest - either a laugh or a desperate scream.

You choke it down, of course. That tugging feeling won't let you make a spectacle of yourself, especially not that you've come this far. After all, they are only trying to kill you.

Grisly business, this. It is the end of the world, but these people seem to be milling about like they are performing some everyday job. Only the beads of sweat running down the doctor's face and the silence of the screws tell you otherwise. Suddenly a smeared face in a gray suit leans over the table and you don't recognize him as the newcomer. You wonder where exactly this man exists on the corporate ladder of death; is he a super-warden or an under-warden. Then you realize the silliness that you're wasting your last thoughts on and feel a dizzying spell of disgust at it all.

Your skin is slick with sweat despite the room being next to freezing. The lights shimmer as the spike finally slides into it's proper place, the doctor letting out a sigh of relief as he tapes the needle in place. Now you understand why Cellars was working so hard to secure that arm, so you couldn't jerk the needle free.

You barely see the corporate suit mouth some cookie-cutter platitudes, but pay closer attention when he lifts a folder to his face and begins to read the penal corporation's indemnification. Followed by their legal mandate to pump you full of sodium pentothal and potassium chloride until your heart stops beating and your brain goes flat-line. You once heard from another prisoner they once used three chemicals to kill you, but either the pharm-corps got better or the prison's accountants did. Either way, only two doses for your final meal.

Someone says to someone else, perhaps to you, that the saline drip has started but you don't feel any different. Just the ache from the needle's failed attempts and the throbbing of your lanced vein. The corporate suit asks if you understand. Sure, you understand - probably better than most. You understand they are merely putting the trash to curb and recycling the empties. You'll be more use to society as fertilizer than you ever would be as a Citizen.

You want to say this but you don't, can't. And looking into this man's calm blue eyes you realize in a way you haven't before that you are, in fact, about to die. No one is going to jump up from behind the couch and yell Surprise, it's all a joke. You're free to go, sorry for the sore arm. In a moment that doctor is going to push that button and pump a bottle of clear liquid death into your veins. The suit begins to read your official death warrant. Then your going to die.

You try to speak, but can't. You tell yourself it's the cold that has you shivering. Kagan appears and pulls the rough woolen hospital blanket up to your chest, careful not to disturb the tube fanged into your arm like a silver snake. The suit repeats the question and you can only nod. Your not stupid, you understand the laws. And if it hadn't been one, it would have been another. It's how the system works. They make these laws to keep people like you from what people like them have. Your not stupid. So you merely nod in an attempt to say what your closed throat cannot: I know why you want me dead. You don't need any more than that.

The man in the gray suit sort of smiles, a tight curved line breaking across his face, and it's apparent he recognizes the look in your eyes. He nods once to the doctor, tucks his folder under his arm, and leaves as quickly as he came. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Angel of Death. Exit stage left.

Cellars gives your arm a squeeze, which you know means the doctor just turned on the tap to the second line, and you don't look up to meet the man's concerned eyes as you choke down tears. The pentothal is already pumping in your heart. You don't want your last sight on earth to be him. He's nobody - just a man who guarded your cage. Nothing more. But you still feel his hand on your arm and the sudden humanity he is showing you makes you want to scream out how beautiful this life was, how your heart is swelling with love for all of man.

A short time passes that nevertheless hurries past. Your gaze slides up toward the fluorescent lights and they shimmer even more broadly than before. There are now fractures of color framing the millions of little hexes of light illuminating the room. Your eyes, you realize, are filling with tears. At the same time, the room is growing warmer. You can feel your entire body slacken. This, you tell yourself, isn't so bad.

But you will never be coming back, your mind gently reminds. Your heart begins to slam in your chest. They are snuffing out your light, pushing you into darkness. Some kind of animal urge races through you and for a moment you strain against your bonds - or at least try to, but the world is already too far gone. A muscle twitch in your chest is all you can muster, something like a slow contraction in the early stages of birth. Except you're on you way out.

The wrong way, you think. You are going the wrong way. The blackness is descending remorselessly, eroding your resistance. You're hanging by your fingernails above a ocean of warm velvet and it would be so easy to just let go. But as you peer past the edge and down to the rolling waves of black velvet, you recognize something. Something beneath the welcoming softness, something dark and final and oh-so terrifyingly lonely.

Gone now, the light is almost gone. Just a fast disappearing smear of color is all that remains. All of it gone. A soundless scream erupts, a spark sizzling through a final instant before being swallowed by the cold darkness. The ocean below fades, it was all a trick of the mind. Nothing now but the darkness, a kind of darkness that had never even known the presence of light. The ocean makes the trip easier, your mind says. Now you wish for it back, wish for anything but the nothingness.

I don't want to die, you think. It's ok, your mind says. It's not fair, you think. It never is, your mind's reply. Long moments of silence, nothingness. Or at least that's how it feels, in truth it is impossible to tell a minute from a month. None of that matters here. Finally you can't help but ask, what now? If your mind had a face, it would have been smiling. Let me show you, it says.

And suddenly your vision explodes in color.

[Klazzform]

August 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Betrayal
Winner - The Ruins of Kathar by Peter172

 

The Ruins of Kathar by Peter172[1,968 Words]

Kroth set to work on getting the small campfire light to cook the night's meal. He had brought down a doe with his powerful longbow, a weapon more suited to punching holes in plate mail than to hunting, though it worked well enough for killing large game. He looked over at his companion as she worked on slicing out a few venison steaks. She was an impressive figure of a woman. The points of her ears poked out from her long blonde tresses, which hung loose down her back at the moment to end at her waist. Her eyes turned his way, as she noticed his gaze on her. They were the color of the sky on a stormy day, but somehow softer, more welcoming.

"See something you like big man?" She teased. Kroth often found himself gazing at her alluring beauty, he couldn't help it.

"I always see something I like whenever I look in your direction Cally." He smiled at the lithe elven woman, the scar down the left side of his face twisting his grin into a sinister, though ruggedly handsome visage. They soon had the meat roasting on sticks over the open fire, and the succulent smell of roasting venison filled the night air.

After the meal was done and they were ready to settle down for the night in their meager tent, Kroth turned one last time to look upon the ruins that had brought them here. In the soft light cast by the waxing moons the place seemed even more foreboding than it did in the light of day. He was glad that they were merely here to guard the camp, and weren't required to enter the place. He felt apprehensive just looking at it, but he wasn't quite sure why. Cally felt the same way too, for she had voiced the same concern's about the long dead city.

He listened for the sounds of approaching enemies, but heard only the sounds of the crickets chirruping their merry tune. Cally called out from the tent. "Come inside and get some rest Kroth. Rookas is on watch now, he can handle it for now."

Kroth sighed. He didn't like this place and would be glad when their duties were complete. But for now, he had more pressing business. "I'll leave the guarding for Rookus, though I am certain there will be little rest for either of us this night." He said as he spun away from the ruins. He flipped the tent flap open and disappeared inside, like a rabbit into it's hole at the sight of a fox.

Later as they lay side by side in the small tent talking softly to each other, they heard the rising voice of the man responsible for their journey. Reniaric. He was a Mage of sorts, or so he claimed, and Kroth had little reason to doubt the man. Reniaric was searching for some kind of artifact. The burly man had no idea what it was and wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Reniaric seemed to be arguing with the mysterious white haired woman that had been spotted around their camp. She seemed to be adamantly opposed to their presence, but had made no obvious attack on them. Kroth tolerated the intrusions as long as she didn't become violent. He figured she probably wanted the magical trinket for herself, and was trying to scare them off...and it seemed to be working. The sound of her shrill voice rose to a cacophony once more as she berated the Mage for his stubborn insistence. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. The shrieking mad woman certainly added to the ominous feel pervading the encampment.

"Maybe I should "accidentally" mistake the old witch for a deer if I see her around." Kroth said with a playful twinkle in his eyes.

"You do and I'll..." Cally started to berate him until she saw the jest and left off. "You are a playful one aren't you Kroth Vaneris."

"I am indeed Caltheniwin Sylannis." Kroth said with a lop sided grin as he took her in his arms once more. Her soft long blond tresses brushed his arm as their lips met, and he could smell the rose scented perfume on her supple skin. The effect was intoxicating, he was swept away in the moment...

Their embrace ended when the woman's shrieking stopped and there came a soft wet sound, a sound that the pair were all too familiar with. "Was that..." Cally began, then stopped as Kroth nodded to her and gathered his weapons. He headed quickly towards the area where the shouting had been coming from and found what he expected...well almost what he expected. The wizard had been stabbed, that was for sure, the gaping wound in his chest confirmed that much, but there was something else. Something intimately more sinister. The corpse had a drained look to it. Like all the fluids in had been quickly sucked out. The face had turned a pale shade of blue, and the skin was cracked in places.

"Dear Gronth!" Cally intoned the name of her deity in an oath. "What happened to the poor man."

Kroth pondered on it for a moment, then shrugged. "I know not, and care not. All I know is that we should be gone as soon as we can from this thrice accursed place!" He looked around warily as he drew his heavy broadsword, then pulled Cally behind him.

A cacophonous scream ripped through the air all of a sudden, followed by another, then another. The voices seemed to not belong to the natural creatures of the world, and they were all around them...But not behind.

"Fall back! We are surrounded!" Kroth exclaimed as he shuffled back along the uneven ground. He scanned the treeline for the source of the screams as he went, and he thought he saw something. There was a flash of movement and Kroth caught sight of green mottled skin. The creature seemed to be large. Larger than he was even. It was difficult to be certain, but he thought he saw a glint of steel in its massive hands as well.

The two of them fell back some more, until it was obvious that their only refuge would be in the ruins. A scream of pain that sounded like the workers and their friend being torn apart came from the direction of camp. Kroth moved that way a few steps on instinct, then Cally grabbed a hold of his arm and shook her head. "It's too late for them."

They went into the ruins with trepidation that was overcome by the lurking horrors that had just murdered all, and by the sounds of their screams were heading towards them.

Once inside, things seemed to quiet down considerably. The place had an odd way of drowning out sounds, so that one had to speak rather loudly to be heard even a few feet away. It was eerily quiet inside the the ruins that had seemed like such a terrible place even in the day, but now, here at night it seemed a refuge. A place to escape the madness of the monsters that craved their blood, or souls, or whatever it was they wanted.

The room they entered was a Spartan skeleton of its former glory. It had once been an antechamber, or something similar, but now was nothing but crumbling stone and marble, with the rickety looking columns being the only thing keeping the roof up. On the wall to their right, there was a large bas-relief that was mostly intact. The intricately carved scene depicted a group of slaves being dragged along, carrying a iron bound chest. The next scene showed them being transformed by a gaunt hooded figure. They became something horrible, something very like the creature Kroth had caught a glimpse of outside. The final scene on the mural had most of the creatures wandering around the ruins with tortured looks on their misshapen faces, and showed one of them wandering through the lands, transformed once more into the shape of a man.

There came a noise behind them and Cally squealed in surprise. Kroth spun as quick as a panther and displayed his naked steel before him in a protective stance while pushing Cally behind him.

The noise came from their former friend, Rookas, now transformed into something else. He was taller, much taller. A good four feet over his former height, and easily double the weight. His eyes had turned to a sickly shade of yellow, and his features were barely recognizable with the twisted features of his new form. The form of a twisted, misshapen demon from the bowels of hell.

"Demon! Fiend! You were one of them in the guise of a man all along! I'll cut your foul black heart out for this!"

The beast just laughed, it sound like the sloshing of something being shaken inside a drum. Something wet and slimy. It launched itself at them with an ear splitting howl of rage and hunger, froth foaming from its mouth like a rabbid dog. Apparently it was not in the mood for banter. Its razor sharp claws flashed out in rapid succession and Kroth barely escaped with his life in those first few moments. He was cut badly, but he had fended off the worst of the strokes with his blade, and most of the rest had just glanced off his armor. He backpedaled with Cally behind him, but his ankle got caught in a small hole in the decrepit floor as he went. He crashed down with a clang of steel and his sword skittered away. Cally yelled in distress, then spoke a few hurried words of power that released a spell. The creature hissed and looked down to find a gaping wound in its side, then smiled as the wound closed up on its own. It backhanded her a telling blow that spun her across the room to land in a crumpled heap against the far wall.

"Cally!" Kroth screamed as his vision went red and he sprang to his feet. He charged forward and grabbed the creature's arm behind the elbow and spun around the monster. He clamped his mighty thews around the creature's throat in a vise like grip that would have snapped the neck of a young bull. It did naught against this hell spawned demon though. It merely reached over its shoulder, sunk its claws through the armor and into the flesh of the man and flung him like a sack of flower to land beside his fallen comrade. The creature began to slowly walk over to finish what it started when a bright flash of light erupted into the room. Kroth squinted and threw his hands up in front of his eyes. Through his fingers he could make out a humanoid shape comprised of pure light. It struck at the monsters midsection and the beast made no sound at the blow. It merely stood there dumfounded at this new development for a moment, then looked down as the light-thing tore its entrails in steaming loops from the gaping hole in its grotesque body. The monster fell with a soft sigh, as if it was relieved.

The light-being took to the air, and flew outside to illuminate the night in its otherworldly radiance. The sounds of the monsters outside running in terror lasted a few minutes, then all was quiet as a tomb.

Kroth clutched at his torn shoulder, then saw to Cally. She was just coming around he saw, and he bellowed with mirth at the sight of his lover's quick recovery. It seemed her armor had saved her from a broken skull, and all she had were minor injuries.

"Is it dead?" The woman asked breathlessly.

"It is my love, but not by my hand." Kroth said as he took her in his arms. He explained what had happened and she gasped.

"It would seem we are blessed by the gods own luck!"

"Nay lass, not the gods." Kroth looked sad as he said this, for he had seen something as the creature made of light had flown away. Just for a moment, he saw the gaunt features of the slain wizard made of pure light. "We were saved by a wizard's vengeance!"

The End

 

Thorn's Curse by Simon "Vitus" Hild[3,300 Words]

I have never had luck at dice, but I have been known to play. There are the usual dice games to be found along the River Loch that is the very life blood of the Empire of Wes-Kha. I had been working various laboring jobs along the river when I came upon the dice game that brought me such ill fortune as I had rarely known.

My calamity was disguised and I did not recognize the jinn called Misfortune when he was presented to me. The game was called Horse on the north branch of the River Loch, but I learned it in the mercenary camps at Bremmen Keep where it was called Ya’Tzi. The game is played with five numbered cubes that each player rolls to try to make the best hand. Five of a kind is the best hand, naturally, followed by four of a kind, a straight, three of a kind, two pair, and finally a pair beats nothing at all. I was playing this game only because the other workers who loaded and unloaded river vessels were using it to determine who was to make which delivery. I had just been released of my contract with the river haulers and was now looking for a few extra coins by delivering some of the parcels.

A dismal parlor crouched next to the warehouses along the wharf. The thatched roof kept the rain from the uneven table for the most part, and there were four of us around it. One was a dock hand named Halas who had dark brown skin and wore only a vest and cotton breeches. The other two were brothers from Bitter Dale to the north. The blond Behaim brothers were a rowdy pair who had worked the docks for many years. Near the stone hearth that gave feeble warmth was the dock master named Fugate. He was a burly human with a huge round body and a grimy grey thistle of a beard at which he often absentmindedly scratched. His greasy, bald head was hidden by a customary fez from which dangled a tassel baring his family colors. Fugate was a worrisome man who sweats to ward off a camel. Through a doorway next to him was a crude warehouse where the items to be delivered were held.

It became apparent right away that the real game here was to determine who would lose and thus be forced to take the package going to a place called the Chalet al Mal-Adie. I thought this was a nickname for the place, but I would soon discover Mal-Adie to be a family name that was somewhat infamous in the dirty, little town. The walk was some three miles up a troublesome, rocky path to reach the manor. I was at first hoping to get this package though, because it paid more than the other three combined, but still it was the loser to whom was given the honor of 30 gold pieces and a trip to the Chalet.

The game had gone predictably badly for me, and though I suspected they had cheated me, I still thought I had won considering the pay for one trip up a lonely road to give some lord his package. Halas had changed the game to Spottle by bringing out a huge bulbous frog that was nearly a foot wide. Its eyes had a bizarre hypnotic effect as they rolled gazing at the players around him at the table, though it did little more than occasionally lash its hideous, blue tongue out and swallow one of the players’ dice. How could I argue that the alien looking frog was obviously trained so that I should lose? In the end I was given a package and assured I would be paid coin on delivery as well as the 30 gold on my return with receipt. I thought it peculiar but not altogether suspicious. We were in the dock master’s offices, modest though they were, I didn’t think of being robbed by an official. I figured my sword could convince these few that it would be wise to pay anyway.

I trudged my way along the road thinking how much I’d like to have a horse with that 30 gold. I was hunched over protecting the paper covered box from the rain with my heavy cloak. It had occurred to me how much I wished I’d received some money up front when I came upon a livery stable. There was a small building with a rickety corral off the back. There was a low porch roof whose thatch was in need of mending. A thin man was tending the stock and I sauntered up with the package in hand showing the mark of the lord of the Chalet. It was wrapped in stiff paper and looked very official. He stepped out of a low door having to stoop his head to do so when I called to him but he stayed under the shelter of the miserably porch roof.

I told him I had need of a horse. He asked if I had money and I informed him of my pending delivery. Only then did he look in my half-orc face and wrinkled his nose as if he smelled offal. I could see his reaction to my race all too easily, and it brought out a darker side of me. I demanded to know if he intended to slow the arrival of the Lord Mal-Adie’s prize by insulting its courier. I saw fear flash in his eyes when I mentioned Mal-Adie and I used it for everything it was worth. I assured him I would pay for the mare upon my return, to which he said nothing, and saddled the beast without a sound. He went so far as to put the Lord’s box in a saddlebag to keep it from the weather, but still he simply let me take the beast remaining eerily mute.

I might have saved the trouble of the horse as I had to lead her the whole way up a treacherous and rocky trail that was no better marked than those left by deer. I stumbled about in the dark using flashes of lightening to aid me along. It climbed higher and higher through strange willow trees chopped with creeping vines that hung beaten down by the rain. The rocky path staggered like a drunken old man until the last quarter mile before the Chalet. Here the path became wide and clear of a sudden. Ahead even in the lashing rain two great braziers burned with a greasy smoke. They told of the entrance to a low wall of grey stone that encircled the manor. The gate was made of a menacing pattern of black iron and I found it to be open.

My mare abruptly had other ideas about our destination but a held tight her reigns as much not to lose the parcel as to not lose her company. I didn’t want to pass the gate either, but I found myself becoming attached to the spooked beast and was loath to return her to the pig of a fierier. I pressed on and groaned inwardly at the cliché of the gate closing firmly behind me. My horse pulled violently at her reigns and in that moment I heard the same growl she did and wondered what reigns bound me, for though I didn’t release her and found myself rooted to the muddy ground.

I was vaguely aware of a large wooden house to my right, and I knew there was a wall around us, but couldn’t see it through the rain. The growl was accompanied by chains being dragged over cobblestone and in the cursed light of the burning braziers behind me I could make out a canine form approaching from the dark to my left. Then it sprang for us finally exploding in a frenzy of barking and snarling. I still was unable to move, nor was my mare for her struggle had ceased. The huge dog lunged from the dark with snapping fangs soaking in froth colored pink with its own blood. Two iron chains struggled to contain the rage of the creatures as it tore at the cobblestones under our feet. The thunder rolled on queue and the beast shook the water from its hackles barking and snarling in fury.

A light from the Chalet’s manor house was all that tore my gaze from my would-be devourer. It was held aloft by a ghoulish looking man in the form of the same liquid fire as the braziers though its oily burning seemed now to drip through the fingers of his bare hand that was held aloft in defiance of the torrent of weather around us. He slithered toward us and I took a step toward the rabid dog. My mare collapsed on the cobblestone behind me, though I didn’t notice it at the time. I merely found myself tearing at the saddlebags to produce the legitimate and only reason I would be found in this particular court yard.

My elation with having successfully retrieved the package was ripped out of my heart when I looked up into the eyes of the man. They were sunk deep behind a noble if pronounced nose and burned with a hatred I’ve known only in the tribal wars of the orcs in my youth. I lifted the parcel which was promptly ripped from my hands and seemingly disappeared. The ancient looking man was screaming in a rage that cowed the madness in his canine guard.

“WHAT! They dispatch a mongrel to me! Soulless creature! You are nothing but a slave! That they would have your kind cross my threshold is a disgrace for which they will pay most dearly,” he had shouted at the black sky for a moment but now considered me again with a viper’s sarcastic grin. “Pay, that’s you expect as well, no doubt. You’ll have your pay, my half-breed friend. You’ll be paid for your troubles that I promise you.”

From his hand that he had all this time held aloft and engulfed in greasy flames he produced the coin from thin air. It was a platinum pentacle from the Port O’ Lords and I’ll not touch another for the rest of my days. He pressed it in my hand fast as the viper whence he stole his eyes and quickly gripped my wrist like an iron vise. I struggled of course and fought as well as I know how but I only pulled free when he released me. I stumbled into his pet, naturally, but backhanded it out of my way as I made for the gate.

I actually cried out in joy when I saw that it was open again and fought briefly with my horse to be first out before I realized she had decided to return from the dead. In spite of the searing pain in my hand I grappled her neck and hoisted my way into her crooked saddle as we defied reason with our speed for the first flat quarter mile. The remaining miles to the livery stable were not treaded carefully. We crashed through trees, brush and bramble, and made straight-aways out of switch backs. I’m not sure when she went lame and was embarrassed to discover it as I approached the livery stable. I called to the keeper inside, but he did not answer and I found the door barred. The corral was barely secured and I put her in hoping he might be able to help her, and if not to pay for her on my return. I wouldn’t have the curse of a horse thief branded on me. How naïve I was. My right palm where the wretched lord had forced his coin was blistered and swollen. This I wrapped with cloth from my tunic and marched back to the river.

I returned sodden to the dock master’s offices for my pay, but found them barred. The rain still punished the earth and the river was swollen and churned angrily. I pounded on the door that seemed to have grown more solid than I remembered. I stormed up the dock howling at whoever showed their faces on this dismal night, but no one answered me about the dock master or where I could find him. The warehouses’ great doors that were never closed noon or night now gave no entrance. Finally I returned to where the dastardly dice game went down and proceeded to tear mercilessly at the thatch on the roof going so far as to climb it and nearly lose my boot through it before Fugate showed his grizzled, bearded face. He shouted at me to get down from the thatch and we could now discuss the matter.

When I turned from my climb I discovered that the discussion now included one behemoth of a man who, strangely, had a cleft lip and a savage visage. I’m not sure but my memory is that he wore a grass skirt. I tell you this only to prove my story is true, for only a fool would invent such a detail. Our gradually less polite conversation was also accompanied by another lout who was nearly half again my height and must have had ogre’s blood in him. Neither was armed, thankfully, but there was an unmistakable menace to their general demeanor. They meant to do harm, that much was clear.

As the two brutes approached I growled at Fugate that we had made a deal. I’d done his awful task and should get what I was owed. For some reason he glanced at my bandaged hand and turned on his heel. I reached for my sword unconsciously with my right hand only to drop it in agony. The screaming pain in my hand was followed by one in my head. The world swam around me and tasted mud in my mouth. I remember being hoisted into the air and the deep black cloaking my vision.

I awoke in a cell not tall enough in which to stand that stank of the last criminal held therein. I could still hear the ceaseless rain pounding the sloped, wood plank roof. It was a simple out building with only one exit that was in the form of what was perhaps the best built door in the county. The floor was dirt and perhaps 12’ by 10’ which makes for intimate circumstances if one were to share the cell as I was.

The miscreant in the opposite corner who greeted me when I awoke was named Bernard I quickly discovered and he was of a mind to escape this place before whatever sentence was passed over us. Then he looked at my obviously wounded and bandaged hand and grimaced.

“Perhaps you’ve already paid the price for whatever crime they’ve pinned on you. Let’s you and I make a plan to leave this rank smelling hole and make for our own fortunes.”

I shrugged; figuring they meant to hang me for some imagined offense and not being concerned so much with it at that particular moment. I looked more closely at my hand while I rewrapped it with a fresh strip of my ever shortening tunic. The outline of the wretched coin was clear and even the stamp of the Twin Lighthouses on the White Cliffs could be made out amid a floating ***** boil that had a floating lump of flesh for a center. I wrapped it gladly so I needn’t be reminded of the dreadful evening past.

My orc heritage is miserly when handing out admirable virtues, but a solid constitution is one of these. Bernard and I took turns peaking through the cracks in the slats and doffing in the earth floor with our bare hands. My poor sword hand was made much worse with this effort however, and though I was in a panic to escape, Bernard did twice the digging I had which I didn’t find curious at the time. We dug by hand a gap beneath the wood walls of our shed of a prison and before day had broken, the two of us were making our way through some near underbrush and away from the few buildings that made up this end of the crude little river town.

I told him we might get a horse from the stable I had visited before. Being now branded a criminal anyway, I could hardly see the harm in taking some beasts from their ill mannered handler. When we arrived at the corral we found the residence to be empty and two horses stood dumbly just outside the rear entrance to the hovel. I saw my lame mare shying away outside the broken wood rails. I called her, but upon hearing my voice, she bolted. It seemed even my own steed who’d shared the whole miserable ordeal had betrayed me.

Bernard had said he wanted to loot the house, but my interests were only in the horses and an exit from this affair. I had saddled one horse and was leading them both to the front of the house in haste thinking he had taken a long time to loot a one room shack. There I saw the tall, skinny body of the stable owner, and the local law official who had a striking resemblance to Fugate, my one time employer in the delivery business. They were both mounted and between them was Bernard my one time comrade in jail breaking who was now frantically gesturing at me and positively saying the wards, “Kidnapped…. horse thief….there he is!”

I slapped the two horses with a ferocity that lit up my wounded hand like lamp oil, but I had little time to pay it any mind. I was sprinting once more through the thick and twisted, rocky woods that had so shortly before brought me to the doorstep of that malinthrope Mal-Adie. I stumbled through the woods with little thought of direction or strategy. I desired only to flee and leave this whole episode behind me. I ran in that soaking rain for another day and only collapsed when the warmth of the sun had gone again, and my broken vessel shivered and fell.

The first thing I then recall is a gentle voice calling my name as if in a dream accompanied by a powerful sent of fresh roses in bloom. I looked around with little interest, as I was too exhausted to muster enthusiasm even for the only thing that reminded me of my human mother. I heard whispering around me and looked up into the face of an elf-like woman with green hair and skin the color of bark but smooth as milk. Behind her sharply pointed ear was the fresh red rose. She bent down with such a look of benevolence that I felt tears burn my eyes as I looked into hers. They were deep and seemed to be a reflection of the night sky that framed her head. She unwrapped my hand then, and I let her as I was still captivated by her bottomless eyes.

She chanted the first time quietly with her eyes slightly closed and afterword touched me gently on the forehead. I felt the pain wash away from my body except for the cursed hand that held the brand of scorn and evil magic. She frowned. In that frown my heart ached that I should die rather than to see that frown again. A second time she chanted in a low murmur with more intensity. The pain left my hand, and I was left alone there in the wilderness to ponder my poor luck at dice.

 

Best Laid Plans by dirkoth[3,175 Words]

I stood in the soft glow of the funeral home, tears in my eyes as I held his last letter to me. I didn’t care that the tears were smearing my mascara, running dark brown rivers down my cheeks. The tears in my eyes were real, but they were not grief, but pain at being in something close to a house of worship. The place was not holy, but it was sanctified to a power, and the closeness of it stung at my skin. The smell of roses didn't help, a stench that infected the place. I never cared for them when I was a child, and with my new senses, the odor was almost overwhelming.

I was paying my last respects to my lover, my husband; or so the two men waiting patiently near the chapel door believed. They saw a lonely young woman, dressed in a simple black skirt and blouse, crying in her grief, looking one last time upon the remains of the man she loved.

Wearing black was easy for me, as it was practically all I owned after meeting Adrian. He forbade all else. It fit his “image” of me, he said, and Adrian was all about Image.
They saw me as most other humans do, as a pretty young girl, aged a bit too fast and hard by my counter-culture lifestyle, worn too an edge by the drugs everyone was sure I was doing. Most would have called me pretty, if a bit too thin and sharp featured for their tastes. Luckily for me, make-up, false weeping and the right choice of words had allowed me this last request, this last change in plans. It was unusual for the director to alter burial plans, but the young man had been easily convinced to allow it. A few glances, some whispered promises, and he was mine. What’s the use in having power over the opposite sex, if you never use it?

So many things in my life had changed since I met Adrian two years ago. I was young then, a party girl into the Gothic Scene, looking for thrills in the drugs and relationships with other freaks. We played at being dark and mysterious, threatening and frightening. We were so stupid, we never knew what real fright was until Adrian stepped into our world. Adrian wasn’t a freak, he wasn’t a Goth, he wasn’t a disaffected youth looking for a rebellion to follow. He was the real thing, he was what all of us thought we wanted to be, if we ever truly thought we could be. He was in reality what we all pretended to be in our nights, in our fantasies. Adrian was a vampire, a dark thing-creature that fed on others, and before I truly understood that he was real, it was too late for me. I was his, bonded and served up as a slave forever to his mastership. You never really believe in things until it is far too late.

I held the letter in my hands, noticing the dark smudge that wiping my eyes had left on my pale skin. Tears had blotted the letter, and I could see some of the blue ink smearing already, but I knew it by heart. Every word had burned into me, searing them upon my soul. Adrian had made sure of that. Even in prison, he could scar me, scare me, and control me. He was a Vampire, I was his servant, and I would be for all eternity, or at least, for all of my eternity.

My Dearest Mikel,

I am so sorry to have brought you into this strange new world so suddenly, and then to have disappeared from your life so rapidly. Believe me, that is not the way I would have chosen to have done so. There is so much different now that you are with us, becoming one of us, and much of that difference can be frightening.

Had I been a better lover, or mentor, or father if you will, I would be there by your side, teaching you all the things you would need to know about your new life, helping you grow and cope with the changes in your body. But I am not, and you will need to learn many of these things on your own, without me to aid you. I do what I can, and I apologize for not being there for you when you really need me. I hope in this letter to leave you some advice, some thoughts that may help direct you, at least until we can be together again, and we will be. I will not be separated from you for long, at least, not by our standards.

Humans always believe it would be hard to be comfortable in our world, but it isn't. It is actually pretty simple to live life as a vampire. There are relatively few rules to live by, some simple things to always remember, and life (if that is what we truly have) is pretty simple.

Of course my dear Mikel, sitting here in this cell, I know you think it hard to believe that being a vampire is easy. If it were so easy, why am I here? Why am I incarcerated by the state, found guilty of murder, and sentenced to death? Why am I mere hours away from my fate at the hands of the executioner?

The reason is simple: that would violate rule number one of surviving as Nosferatu: Don't draw attention to yourself. If I were to escape in any other way than this plan, I would draw too much attention to myself. And then, the world would truly know about us, about Nosferatu.

Also, I am ashamed to admit, I cannot simply evaporate and escape this cell. Not everything humans once believed about us is true. Vampires cannot change into vapor or mist, and flow through cracks in walls or under doors. Nor can we change shape, into bats, rats, wolves, or any other animal you may have read about. Personally, I believe the folklore about us changing shapes comes from a few stray encounters with were-creatures, not Nosferatu (Ah yes, there are werewolves and the like. I expect you don't believe in them either? Not to worry, you will meet them.). I digress however.

We are skilled at masquerade and disguise, of course. When you live several lifetimes among humans with pulses and breaths, you learn almost subconsciously to mimic your surroundings. We even blink without thinking, although we don't need to on our own. I suppose some of that skill rubs off in our stalking, allowing us to blend into shadows, rise or lower ourselves to match the shadows, roils of fog, hedges...everything around us becomes cover. Think of us as the ultimate in chameleons, able to blend into our environment without thinking.

The fellow you call Jack the ripper was one of us, you know. Oh yes, that quite helps to explain how he faded in and out of the dark unseemly society, eh? A mad one he was, quite insane. Moved to France after the whole English business, and continued there for a while, before the local guild caught him and executed him. Don't believe me? Check your records, you will see. You will also find the sudden, but well covered-up series of brutal murders in Northern France the following years.

I admit being caught was stupid. We vampires are normally more fastidious about our crimes, but after many centuries, and several decades of nothing but easy success, I guess I became lazy. Contemptuous even, if I may be so harsh to myself. I just didn't think I would get caught.

Not to worry, this is a temporary state in which I find myself, and some good will come of it. I need to establish a new identity anyway, and being caught by the police and executed by the state will definitely erase my old persona, and wipe clean my record. Beginning again will be easy this way, and having you by my side will make it all the better. Your beauty transfixed me while you where alive, and has only become more stunning to me after your death, and transformation. I look forward with joy (can we really feel joy? after all these centuries, I had forgotten what such an emotion truly was!) to our life together when I come back to you.

You no doubt are finding out that we are strong, but not as legends would have you believe. Because our muscles don't need oxygen, they simply do not get tired. We are all wire and sinew, to coin a phrase I once heard a Midwest farmer use. I am as strong as a very strong human, in peak physical condition. You will be too, someday, as you become used to your new body. Your beauty will increase as you become used to your new body.

Of course, that leads me back to rule number one of being a vampire: Don't draw attention to yourself. Bending the bars or overpowering the guards might just be an option, but surviving the bullets and walking away harm free might raise a few questions. Just taking the bullets and not bleeding would raise serious scrutiny, and I am afraid my "cadaver" would be subject to much attention. Too much. And that is something that vampires don't like. Inquisitions. Even if I survived, which I likely would, I would be on the run from my fellow vampires who felt I had exposed them to the world at large. Our greatest security lies in our secrecy, and that most humans really do not believe we exist. Rule number one means that we are to never give them reason to suspect that our condition is real.

I've been surviving inside these walls well enough. The guards are generous with their offerings, and I don't sup much from any single one. The anesthetic effect of our saliva is a wondrous thing. I have never had it analyzed, but apparently it acts as a narcotic, some type of drug in the human system. Once it is injected into their veins, they are addicted. Hooked, so to speak, on it. And they don't even know it! Your victims will wake up dazed and disoriented, slightly nauseous, with no memory of the event.
Lucky for me, the rotation of guards here in death row is high. Even so, I have lost almost twenty five pounds. I much preferred the older prisons, because they were havens to larger populations of rats and vermin. It isn't much, but a nice large rat will keep me satisfied for a week, in tough times. Between the guards who venture too close or get too friendly, and the occasional bits of raw meat or chicken I can steal from the kitchen staff, I am surviving. But, that is rule number two: don't dine too close to home, or too often. To do so brings attention, and that violates rule number one. We must never let the world suspect we exist.

A few years ago, one of us violated that rule as well. You may well remember him, in the Midwest? Got caught when one of his victims escaped, and found his way to the police? A little boy, I recall, barely able to describe the horrors he had endured. Ironic, the kind policemen returned with the poor boy to the scene of the crime, and ended up returning him to his tormentor. To this day, they can't explain how they could have given a half-naked, obviously abused minor into the custody of the serial maniac, but they did. Call it charm, charisma, or say that we of the dark simply have a mesmerizing way about us, but the police didn't stand a chance once they met the vampire.

Of course, other authorities found out about the unusual call. They searched his home, and found body parts, cooking pots, steaks made from his victims in his freezer (yes, they are delicious, no, they don't taste like chicken). He was a pretentious one, I recall. Even used a G in his name, instead of a J. He was caught, and the authorities came close to the truth. He was called a cannibal, a human vampire. I think if he hadn't had those frozen hams and rump roasts, they might have guessed, but you always used to believe that stuff about us needing fresh blood, didn't you? Trust me, fresh is best, of course, but anything rare and still dripping is welcome.

He was sentenced to life imprisonment (a stupid stupid mistake on his part... you will find that we vampires tend to migrate to places that still practice the death penalty. Spending eternity in a cell is not our idea of pleasure, and eventually, the authorities will notice that their cannibal murderer, serial killer, whichever label they use, is remarkably young, still youthful with vim and vigor, despite the ninety five years he has been incarcerated) and would still be there if not for the action of a few people who owed us favors. Remember how he died? The authorities officially listed it as an attack with a broomstick, a rape gone horribly wrong. He was impaled and killed by other inmates for his crimes of preying on children, like the murdering of a rabid dog.

Well, he was impaled, that is true, and we used wood too. The only way to make sure, you know. For some reason, inorganic items simply do not harm us. Lead, iron, copper, do nothing. Oh, I have felt the force behind a bullet, for example, but the missile itself does almost nothing to me. I get back on my feet, and a few minutes later, there isn't even a hole in my skin. I wish I could say the same for some of my outfits. I never found the time in all my centuries to learn to like mending. I just don't have the patience for it. Wood however, or any organic item that is living does indeed hurt, painfully hurt.

A splinter, for example, still brings tears to my eyes, or would, if I had any tears to cry. Oddly enough, plastic does not seem to have that effect. I know that it is organic, but perhaps because it has died, and been metamorphosed, it loses something. I don't know, and despite my mild curiosity, I really don't care to expend the energy to research it. But I do know that wood is anathema to me and my kind. And I know that there are more ways to reach the heart than from the front. It takes a bit more stake, but you can reach it from other directions as well.

Do I have a plan? Of course I do. You will note that I have not filed an appeal of my sentence, nor asked for a stay or clemency. Might path to freedom runs directly through the execution. I want nothing delaying it. I have been a model prisoner during my tenure, however you will see in my files that every chance I have to speak to those decision makers, those who believe they hold the life-or-death of my body in their thrall, I hasten to remind them that I am a killer, unreformed, and ready to do so again. Not mad, not insane, I want no attempts at rehabilitation, just a simple murderous man with no moral compass to guide me, nothing to keep me from killing the first person I cross on the outside. I want no last minute call from the governor, no clemency. Just the cool steel table under my back and the skills of the paramedic at my side.

This state practices lethal injection. I will simply lie there, and expire as a good killer should. They will check me for pulse, respiration, and when they are happy that I exhibit none of the signs of life, they will declare me dead. No autopsy need be performed, my death will have been witnessed by dozens of the best witnesses one could acquire. They will package my body in a simple cardboard box, ship me off to a local funeral home, where I will lie in state unmourned. I will be buried the next day in the common cemetery, in a non-descript grave, with no fanfare. After two days in the fresh earth, I will rejuvenate and dig my way out, and be off again with a new life, a new name.

Rule three: leave nothing behind, start over again every decade or so. But do not worry, I do not count you among the things I will leave behind. For you, I will return, and we can be together for eternity.

There are plenty of other rules you will need to know, rules about etiquette and hiding and service to the guilds and elder members, as well as rules about your role as a servant to me, but you need not fear them. I will never treat you as a servant, I created you to be my love, my companion. To tell you the truth, my dear loved one, I have been around so long I have forgotten more of the rules than you will ever need to know. I will always be there to protect you, to shelter and guide you.

My execution is set for May 5th, at midnight of course. Humans have such theatrics in
death, don't they? I will be buried the 6th, and will return to you within three days. Once returned, we can start our life together, you and I. Until then, do not doubt that I love you, as I chose to create you, to give you this gift of eternal life, of the undead.

Yours forever,

Adrian



There the letter ended. Smuggled to me by one of his human servants, it reads as a death sentence to me. Doomed forever to be his love, his servant, his worshiping object-de-art. It was a fate I did not choose to share with him. I never wanted this, I never wanted him.

And with the whispered promises of undreamed passion from the petite woman standing next to him, the husky young funeral director directed his staff to wheel the coffin of the convicted murderer Adrian Terrence into the crematorium. He held her arm in his as they watched together the wooden coffin feed into the gas furnace. The ceramic door closed as the gas jets shot higher, burning everything inside the furnace into ash.

Mikel gripped the young man’s arm tighter, still taking care to not use too much strength and shred his muscle. She leaned into his shoulder, a tear slowly rolling down her cheek. She smiled, a smile he mistook for that of grief released, nervous energy at the incineration of a loved one. But she knew it was a smile of happiness, of relief. She was free of Adrian, at last.

It was almost fitting that Adrian had forgotten the most important rules of being a vampire:

Trust no one.
Not even your own creation.

[Klazzform]

September 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Forbidden Love
Winner - Thorn Leaves the Skunk-apes By Simon “Vitus” Hild

 

Thorn Leaves the Skunk-apes By Simon “Vitus” Hild[3,297 words]

I was drinking in a Wes-Kha tavern and minding my own business when a couple came in who were overdressed for the occasion. This tavern was for river men and wharf rats along with mercenaries and hired swords like myself. It was called Mulligan’s and there had been a murder in the alley only two nights before. He was dressed in a fine looking, silk sherwani and soft padded house shoes. She was half his age and doe eyed in admiration at his bravery for taking her to a place where there were those of my kind and worse. Perhaps it was the jinn called Jealousy disguised in this couple’s happiness that tricked my brutal nature out. Perhaps because she was the same age as my first love, I was reminded of and could not help but dwell on the bitter past.

He also sat too close to me at the bar and laughed a little too forcibly as if to show he wasn’t uncomfortable in the company of Mulligan’s. The truth was hidden only from the girl. He was nervous and out of his element. All around us there sat the smelly, dock workers and ruffians of the river front. I could sense their anger at this intrusion as well. These two did not know what it was to toil and labor for a meager wage. They had not known the taste of another man’s blood. Our unwanted guest slapped me on the back not looking at my face and laughed at a joke I hadn’t heard. He was already drunk.

“My harelip friend, wouldn’t you agree?” He asked the question as if I had been a part of the conversation with his adolescent arm adornment.

He still was only looking in my direction and not in my face, but I only grunted in response ignoring his uninformed and misplaced faux pas. Still he persisted.

“I said, ‘Don’t you think it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’”

He repeated himself with a fake, dramatic emphasis that made me turn my yellow, orc eyes on him grimly. When he saw them, he recoiled a bit as the words of the cliché trailed past his lips ending in a whisper. I have no cleft pallet, only a rather orc-like nose and some pronounced lower canines. In many circumstances I pass for an ugly man, but there is no mistaking my half-orc parentage shoulder to shoulder in a dirty little river pub. This is the story I told this out of place couple.


We got word from one of our rock climbing spider scouts. From atop one of the famous 100’ fingers of stone that forested the Shattered Spires he could see the caravan several miles out in the fading light of dusk. It was the first raid of my fourth season in the pursuit. That would make me perhaps 15 years old at the time and an adult in the eyes of the Swamp-ape orc tribe with whom I was raised. The Skunk-ape’s bloodthirsty occupation was stealing whatever they could by raiding the caravans that crossed the Green Ocean, through the Spires and south to the seat of the Empire of Wes-Kha. The Swamp-apes stole and sold slaves. The number of slaves held often was used as a mark of wealth. The chief of the Swamp-apes, while I was there anyway, was a brutal killer named Grimlash who held a harem of captive slaves one of whom had been my mother.

The Swamp-apes prowled about various deep-water wells that were dug eons ago by a civilization long since gone. Travelers through the twisted, dry ravines and box canyons were forced to stop at these oases among the harsh, dry environment that was the Skye Mountain wasteland between the Green Ocean and the halfling lands called the Misty Garden. It was about one of these ancient wells that my tribe and I waited concealed in the high rocks surrounding the crumbling structure. Somehow the ancients cut a smooth, neat cave from the rock of the narrow canyon and channeled water from beneath the earth to a large, clear water cistern at its center. There was no escape from the high ceilinged chamber, and this was all too apparent to Grimlash.

In spite of their name, the Swamp-orcs were cave dwellers. The Shattered Spires is home to few swamps and I often have mused that this orc tribe had been driven out of some fantastically peaceful swamp, exiled to roam the Spires and wreak havoc. I was only a boy in the eyes of a man, but I painted my face like any full grown orc warrior. I dusted by body with soot, ash and the soil of the area, thus making a dirty camouflage. The lot of us crept forward many clinging to the rocks about the opening to the cistern’s chamber where the caravan of some 30 camels were making a camp. The room was massive enough to house them all along with their animals, which was why it was a favorite spot for our tribe.

The sky above was a moonless night which in many orc tribes like our own was a good omen, but that night, the stars streaked across the sky in brilliant flashes. It was a wonder I had never seen before and it held me captivated. The rest of the tribe saw this as a dreadful portent and demanded to talk to the shaman before making the attack. Grimlash had the cruel witchdoctor under his thumb and made him give a blessing of blood to set aside the fear of the tribe. I was not taken by their superstition, however, as my mother had often secretly mocked the orc’s fears when I was just a child. While the tribe bickered about the coming attack I had crept closer to the caravan camp and spied on a human girl who was also gazing at the stars. I had seen many women slaves captured, used, sold and never felt much for them. In the tribal orc society, sentimentality is weakness and weakness is death. This human girl caught my eye. I saw my mother reflected in those human eyes as they stared off into the sky at the same shower of stars that had my tribe fretting like old women. She held no fear in her eyes, though. Perhaps she was not aware that she ought to.

Once the tribe had been convinced the omen had been bled from each of the warriors with leeches applied by the witchdoctor, they commenced their sneak attack on the traders. By now, the caravan had had time to set up a guard and our advance was discovered before the trap was sprung. Through their own stupidity, once again, the Swamp-apes of the dry Shattered Spires blundered into a prepared defense executed by professional mercenaries from Bremmen Keep. It was only through sheer numbers and bold, suicidal rushes directed, but not led by Grimlash with his singing Cat-o’-Nine-Tails that the tribe overwhelmed the defenses and descended in a violent festival of wanton destruction.

First, every male was killed in ways I needn’t describe to you, but suitable enough to horrify the half dozen women travelers into shock. Then, camels were killed, eaten, set on fire and driven into the night, and generally wasted as a resource. The supplies were devoured and what could not be taken in some one’s pack was torn, broken or destroyed. I myself only took a small, blue bottle that I took to be a drinking flask. All of the women captured, Grimlash was first to claim as his prize which was his habit, and the general bickering took place over his ability to defend that claim. This inevitably led to more bloodshed after which the hulking chief tied the six women together including my stargazer.

I knew better than to fix my eyes on the girl. This only led to more confrontation and another excuse for Grimlash to use his cruel whip, but the jinn named Love has little time for thoughts of fear. Stupidly I found myself following the prisoners while the wanton destruction raged about us. I was waiting for something, but I didn’t know what it was until my star gazer looked up from the ground into my jaundiced eyes. She looked up with neither the fear, nor with the defiance I expected. Her eyes searched mine for possibilities. She was calculating. Could she get what she needed from me? Would I help her?

It is little wonder that in that same moment I began my plan to leave the Skunk-apes and I intended to take Stargazer with me.

The orc language has no word for compassion. Indeed, to say in orc that you feel love for someone is only to say you do not fear them. Though my mother died when I was still quite young, I yet remembered what it was to be loved by her. It is a feeling for which I longed desperately. When my stargazer looked at me without fear, perhaps I mistook it for love. I began hatching the plot for our escape on our journey back to the series of caves the Swamp-apes were calling home.

Deep in the center of a vast canyon maze there stood a towering natural obelisk. The sand stone had been worked by hands too long ago to remember and erosion of wind and rain for just as long. Rumors abounded as to who the original artificers were. Regardless of the cave carving culprits’ identity, the current occupants were a large and prosperous tribe of vicious, conniving orcs. Access was limited to a spiraling ramp that did an entire lap around the rock spire before presenting the would-be guest before a cave mouth whose bottom half was blocked by a ramshackle wall built from stunted trees, piled dirt and various trade carts that had been intercepted by the orc tribe. Atop the wall a sentry could lift a heavy wood door made from a wagon bottom. While crude and rough looking, this meager defense had been enough to keep this the Swamp-ape stronghold for many years.

Unbeknownst to the superstitious tribe there was another exit through the base of the spire. The lowest, unfinished tunnels in the warren reached a pool of foul smelling water. The witchdoctor convinced the tribe there were evil jinn that inhabited the water. The few that had braved to drink it had gone mad, or so we were told. As a youth trying to escape the hated whip of Grimlash, I had ventured into these half-flooded, forbidden tunnels. I followed them until I was completely immersed in the brackish water and nearly caught in a narrow crack in the stone. I then found myself in a shallow, crusty pool nearly a mile from the warren. I had found my escape route so many years before, but only found my onus in the eyes of the stargazer.

The warren was a rancid series of cramped tunnels that were inhabited in a chaotic fashion. All the orcs fought and bickered for territory even within their smelly rat’s nest. Grimlash had the largest quarters in the lower tunnels and though he kept a close watch on his small harem of slaves, the Swamp-apes had sense to keep them clean and free enough from disease to sell. Thus they were taken outside for air and to relieve themselves once a day; terms that would seem generous to any orc community. They were kept under close watch at this time less from fear of escape than from fear of them being taken by another band of brigands or stolen by someone within the tribe itself. All of these things were common occurrences in an orc tribe. Nothing could be taken for granted, not even the structure of the tribe itself, if there ever was such a thing.

Though it was impossible for me to think of making an escape under the close scrutiny of Grimlash and his loyal cronies, once back in the warren whatever guard was charged to watch them would not be so observant. It was on this flimsy reasoning that I hatched my plan. I would wait for them to walk to the narrow passages nearest Grimlash’s harem and just before they were so interned, I would grab my would-be lover and be on my way to the forbidden, foul water in the lower tunnels. I would stash supplies in a spot I’d picked two years before when I had run away from the tribe, only to have returned starving. This time, I would leave for good and take my prize with me.

The range of emotion within an orc tribe is not broad. The jinn called Naivety blinded me in ignorance, and I had assumed that were I to rescue the stargazer, she would return my love as if it were an exchange of goods. The Swamp-apes did not love. They knew they were more powerful together and did what was necessary to keep their tribe alive, but it was not out of love. I only knew my mother’s love and had never known it since her passing, but it was powerful.

I lay in wait for the stargazer to be led with the other women through the twisted, narrow tunnels that took them down to the lowest level of the hollow, stone spire that I had thought of as home for many years. With my sharpest knife in hand, I tried to keep it from trembling as Grimlash’s lackey, Cuss approached as well. Cuss had a knotted string hanging from his belt, one knot for each slave. He did not have the ability to count so this simple article was all that kept track of how many slaves he was to take back to the harem. There was a long but sharp turn in the lower tunnels that then split into two. One led to the harem, the other to the forbidden waters below. It was in this one I waited with a surprise for old Cuss.

The dense orc had a weakness for strong drink, as many of the Swamp-apes did, and I was counting on this to distract him enough to cut a knot from the string before he knew it, grab the stargazer and take her through the foul tunnels to safety. With the blue bottle I’d taken from the raid in plain sight for Cuss to find, I hid in the tight space of the crack in the wall that was the entrance to the foul water tunnels.

The smell from the tunnel brought tears to my eyes and the dripping from the ceiling was like the sound of ominous drops of rain. Salt and sulfur permeated the air as the moisture collected the poison and dripped from jagged stalactites. I waited listening to the foul smelling shower and waiting for what I believed was love to arrive. I heard Cuss and smelled him before I saw the lone guard pass. I was still as a stone as he approached. He saw the blue bottle and barked in delight. While he struggled with the cork, as I knew he would, I reached out with my sharpest knife to cut the knot from his belt that dangled before me.

The stargazer couldn’t see in the dark, but she shrieked in alarm when she sensed I was there. I needed to calm her, so I whispered in the trade common my mother had taught me, “Friend.”

Cuss was cursing that the contents of the bottle weren’t spirits at all when he heard the stargazer gasp. He threw down the empty bottle while slowly coming to some conclusions as he spotted my knife and the single knot in my hand. He actually started to laugh as he drew his short sword knowing it was now acceptable to kill me. Then his eyes started to bulge and a whisp of hot smoke escaped his piggish nostril. He gaped at the blue bottle now, and only at that moment considered what was in the bottle if not spirits. He dropped his sword which I quickly claimed and threw both hands to his throat, all the while the magical smoke was billowing out of his nose and mouth. I grabbed the stargazer, cut her bonds and made for the sulfurous tunnels.

She struggled against me at first assuming I was only another kidnapper who meant to do her worse harm than sell her into slavery. I struggled with words I hadn’t used much since my mother’s death. I told her I wanted to leave and I wanted her to come with me. She was blind in the tunnels and scared. The other women had panicked and had run together back the way they came, but I didn’t tell her that for she’d want to go that way too. I told her I had a better way and that she would have to trust me. I think those words were what convinced her, for at that moment she only nodded blindly and gestured me to lead the way with her hand on my shoulder.

It took nearly twenty minutes to struggle through the tight spaces of the poisonous tunnels. While we held wet rags over our faces that were soaked in no time with the foul water, it provided little protection. A short section of the tunnel was completely underwater before it reached the pool and though it takes only a few seconds to pass through it. They seemed an eternity as did the arduous time struggling to get there. Had we moved fast enough? Would we be discovered?

You see it was Naivety, that hated jinn, which let me imagine I had escaped unharmed, that I would now know love again. When the stargazer and I immerged from our sulfurous baptism in the bottom of a narrow hollow I saw the low ceilinged cavern was filled with Swamp-apes. They laughed such a malicious, riotous laugh that I fumed with jagged hatred and trembling in fury. My stargazer was torn from me while I was kicked and beaten. They shoved me to the ground as Grimlash stood over me smirking.

“You will be a Thorn in my side no longer,” the grotesque leader barked out the name and reason for which it was given to me in one final declaration. He grabbed the girl. She was blinded still and had she the heat sensitive vision of the rest of my tribe she might have feinted away. Instead, she held her head high and ever defiant in the darkness of the cave surrounded by the entire, bloodthirsty tribe. She was a vision!

Grimlash, who had known of the poisonous escape tunnels all along, took his dreaded Cat-o’-nine-tails and used it without mercy. Each of its leather thongs was tipped with a vicious barb. She didn’t cry out until the last few that silenced her forever. Indeed, I watched my first love as she was flogged to death and could do nothing to save her.

After the brutal, public execution, Grimlash thought it was more amusing to banish me bloody and beaten to starve amid the barren land of the Shattered Spires. I wandered for days living on scrub grass and whatever rodents I could catch in snares. I was driven from my land because of this love.


“So I ask you,” I declared to my innocent lovers who had stirred such long buried feelings in my breast, “do you think it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?”

The couple left Mulligan’s in a hurry while I was left to ponder what might have been.

 

Love And Physics by dimitri domovoi[3,289 Words]

"Got out early," he says into his latte.

I hop the railing of the cafe and, unsurprisingly, drop into a seat next to Nathan and ladies and gentlemen, Nathan Miles, age 25, weighing in at 156 lbs and lost inside a series of sweaters and denim. Physics major, graduate level, reaching for the stars and babbling every step of the way.

"Just once," I say, "just one damn time. I'd love to hear: Hi. Hi, Jayl. Good to see you. Maybe a cup of coffee waiting for me, some memento of all our years together. Something."

"Hi Jayl. Nice to see you."

"Good to see you," I correct.

He snaps a book shut in his lap and I glance at the cover. Beyond Dimensions: Quantum Physics and the Probability of Cats. I slump in the chair and motion for him to get on with whatever he's about to get on with. Because Nate never just closes a book unless he's preparing his verbal diatribe. Because he's wired that way and physics is slowly pulling every last nerve and fiber inside of him. Because it's 6 PM on a Friday night in the middle of October and the weather has just reached jacket-cold.

This is a step up from sweater-cool.

Which is a step up from long-sleeve-mild.

Which is a gradual evolution from T-shirt-norm.

And something inside my closest friend, Nate Miles, snaps into friction when jacket-cold comes on. Something inside Nate Miles, something triggered by the combination of caffeine, physics, and jacket-cold change him from the person I know into the other person I know.

Nate isn't bipolar. He's just a physics major.

Nate looks at me and says, "Everything boils down to physics and love, Jayl."

I say, "I know." T-minus 3...

He says, "It's a cosmic fact."

I say, "I know." T-minus 2...

He says, "Particles are the funniest sons of bitches ever."

I say, "I know." T-minus 1...

He leans across the table and pats his books. "You are gonna love what I'm gonna tell you."

I taste the bitter coffee on the back of my teeth and don't say anything. Because I don't have anything to say. Because I don't know why and I'm not sure I want to. Because I'm not sure what comes next and I'm praying that it's going to be as good as what comes now.

I don't tell him I have the same theory. I'm not ready to tell him because I'm not sure if my theory is correct. I'm not sure because all the evidence isn't in yet, but I have a hunch. I don't tell him because I'm thinking about Winter and Autumn again. I'm thinking about a month ago, when I saw her selling her old textbooks at the place I get mine. I'm thinking about the conversation we had when we ran to get some coffee and thinking all this, I'm not sure my theory is correct. I just hope it is.

“This is role reversal,” Autumn had said. We had been sitting at a table outside the coffee shop, her with a soy latte and me with my tiny porcelain powerhouse. She had been telling me the only thing that's been on her mind, her time with Winter. She had been telling it all, she said, or at least all the parts that stood out. She was telling me how they met. “This is gender equality at work and it's totally awkward.” And she plunges into her story.

Get up slow. Never mind that you're in the middle of a Starbucks. Never mind that you're dressed practical and sensible. Never mind the yuppies oogling in the corner. Never mind the creepy over-50 guy at the counter with goggle eyes. Never mind that you just dropped your pen.

Okay. Pick up the pen.

This is perfectly normal. I'm just a young, 20-something girl, sitting in a Starbucks, having a soy latte, doing some homework. And I just stood up and, wouldn't you know it? Sweaty palms. I dropped my pen.

Just a perfectly normal girl bending down to pick up her pen. Not nervous. Not eyeballing the guy reading a copy of Kerouac's On the Road. Definitely not.

Okay. Doesn't help that I just bumped my head on the table.

I glide on over, totally smooth. My hair is not out of place. I am not sweating. My heart is not racing a mile a minute.

I stand in front of him and smile. "Hi."

He looks up. "Hi."

"Can I sit?" I ask. He blinks. "I mean, sit here? Across from you? In chair. I mean, in the chair."

Smooth.

It's a few seconds before he smiles and folds the book. Thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.

He motions and I sit. Normal. Everything is totally normal.

"Nice to meet you," I tell him. I extend my hand, smiling.

"Nice to meet you back," he says. "I didn't catch your name?"

It must be a hundred degrees in here. "Autumn."

He smiles, setting the book on the table and leaning against the back of his chair. I feel a little flutter in my gut as his eyes seem to study me. Finally, "Hi Autumn. I'm Winter."

I laugh. "You're kidding."

He shakes his head, still smiling. "Nope. My parents have a dreaded sense of embarrassing vocabulary. I pay for it every day of my life."

I smile and I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to. I stare at his brown eyes and his smile. I was lying when I said everything was totally normal. It isn't. Nothing about this is normal at all.

*

After the third date, he kisses me. He does it under a streetlight and when he pulls back, I blink to try to clear the dizziness. He smiles at me and shivers in his coat. There's snow in the air, real small and gentle. Above us, the lamp is glowing. A dozen shooting stars fall across the obsidian sky, or perhaps I'm simply still dizzy

"A kiss under an electric moon," he says, laughing.

I laugh too, but only so that he won't look too deep.

"What do you know?" he says. "I like you, Autumn. I really do."

I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his jacket so he won't see the tears forming. "I like you too, Winter."

I'm wondering if he can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I'm wondering if he can hear me sniffling over the wind. His arms enfold me and all of my worries are melting. Just like that. I think the Cure had a song about that once. Or maybe a dozen songs.

But hey: Hasn't everybody had a song like this?

*

I sip a glass of red wine and wait for our meals to arrive. Winter is sitting across from me, the same easy smile on his face as when he met me. Outside the window beside us, the snow is getting heavier. Little white flakes are forming hills on the windowsill. I try not to look at him for too long or he'll ask me 'what' until I have to make something up.

"One month," he says.

He knows. I melt. I am such a wuss.

"We've been together one month," he whispers, raising his eyebrows and smiling wider. "Seems like longer."

"Seems like I've known you longer."

He nods and licks his lips. "Exactly."

"And you would have just let me sit there all night in Starbucks if I hadn't come up to you," I pretend to growl. "You would have just let a cute girl slip right past your nose."

He shrugs. "My sins are an eternal burden."

I lean forward. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Do you think we talk too much?"

"Talk too much?"

"On the phone. I mean, I call you like, every day."

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. Cue melting in 3, 2, 1...

"I want to talk to you," he says. He looks pretty serious when he says this. He has this way of looking at me that makes me want to cry.

Jesus, Autumn. Don't do this. Don't fall in love after one month.

"I'm glad," I mumble.

The waiter appears with our order and an apology for the wait. Deep down, I feel it's silly. I want to thank him for it.

*

"Jam packed," he sighs into the receiver. His voice fills the handset of my cell phone. "I'm jam packed with Calc II and Philosophy of Mind. I just can't pull away tonight, babe. I'm sorry."

"Don't," I say. I'm lying on my bed and I sit up, staring out the window. The snows have been getting heavier since we met. Two months into this and I can't sleep at night without hearing his voice.

"You know I want to see you," he says.

"I know."

"You sure?"

"I just miss you. Does that sound silly?"

He laughs. I get goosebumps, but I'd deny it if he asked me.

"No," he sighs. "It doesn't sound silly. It sounds like you. It sounds like Autumn. It sounds like my season."

Season. He calls me his season. I still get giddy every time he says it.

"You sound like you're sick of Calc II," I reply.

"I am. About as sick as you are of Renaissance Art and Trig."

"Winter?"

I hear him clear his throat. "Babe?"

I swallow hard. I am not sweating. I am not about to freak out.

"I was thinking... I was gonna say. Next time you come over?"

He laughs a little. "Yeah?"

I choke and close my eyes. Breathe. "I was thinking maybe you'd like to stay. Spend the night."

He's quiet and my heart pounds. "I'd love to."

*

The first time we make love, I almost cry afterward. He holds me until I fall asleep. Outside a gentle rain masks my own tears welling in my eyes - making my eyelids heavy. The patter of the droplets against the glass seem to synch with the beating of his heart, and lulls me to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, I roll over and look at him. He's already awake, lying on his side and staring at the ceiling.

"Good morning," I say.

He smiles. "Morning."

I reach out and touch his face. I can close my eyes and see every curve of his jaw, every eyelash. Winter is lying beside me and my bedroom is warm and soft. The window above my bed is white from the snow and sunlight.

I pull him closer and breathe deep. I'm thinking of him meeting my parents at Christmas. I'm trying not to think about being nervous meeting his. Everything is perfect in these moments. Everything is exactly what I want. Everything is perfectly normal.

*

Tonight is a bad argument. It's New Years Eve and he's really ticked off.

"I don't know," he growls, "I just didn't get done with everything as early as I thought I would. Is that such a big deal?"

He's standing in my bedroom and I'm next to the window. It's dark outside and he was suppose to be here three hours ago. We were supposed to go out and have a few glasses of wine. We were supposed to meet some friends and skip out early. We were supposed to light off fireworks on the hill and be together.

"You couldn't have called?" I ask. "Why didn't you just ring me and tell me you were gonna be a little late. It wouldn't have been a big deal."

I'm lying. It would have. Just not as big a deal as it is now.

He throws up his arms. "Look, you know, it's like I have to check in or something. It's like I have to return your every call or I'm in trouble. When the hell did it get like that?"

I'm looking at him as I speak, trying not to cry. "It's not like that."

"That's how it feels."

My heart is beating so fast that I almost swallow my next words. "What about the email I sent you?"

He sighs and sits on the bed near me. "I got it."

"You got it. I pour my heart out to you in that email and that's all you say. You got it."

Incredible.

He shakes his head. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You're supposed..." I stop before I say it. I'm shaking. I'm numb. He says something about being back in a little while after he cools off. He picks up his coat and scarf. He walks out the door and I hear him leave the apartment.

I try to make sense of it all. I wrote him an email today and told him I cared about him more than I had ever cared about anyone. I told him I couldn't wait to see him tonight. I told him I thought he was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

What was he supposed to say?

*

Pain always at the edge of every heartbeat. Four months in and there are good days and bad days. We fight and we don't fight. Some nights we make love. Some nights, we don't speak.

He's opening the car door. The snow's coming down in a flurry and the parking lot is full of people shuffling to their cars. He unlocks the door and opens it for me.

"Winter," I say. Heart pounding. I can't hold it in any longer.

He turns and looks at me. He smiles. The perfect word to describe my face right now is composed entirely of vowels and valentine hearts.

"I love you," I tell him.

He wraps his arms around me. "I love you too. I'm sorry about everything lately."

Just like that, I've said it. You fell, Autumn. No going back now.

*

Five months. Haven't heard from him today. We fought last night and I've given him space today. No emails, no calls. He asked me last night if we rushed into everything and I fell apart. He lost his patience and walked out. To cool off.

He calls me just before midnight. There's noise in the background and people's voices. I hear shouting and music.

"Autumn?"

"Winter? Where are you? I can barely hear you."

"I'm at a party."

He says it and I feel the knife go deeper. All these little cuts we make. Do any of them ever close?

"You're at a party?" Why does that hurt me so much?

"Babe, look. We rushed it. We just rushed into everything. I love you, I really do. But I just think we jumped the gun, big time."

And deeper.

"What are you saying?" I whisper.

"Nothing. I love you. I'm sorry for the fighting. It's all... it's just bull, ok? I'll come over tomorrow night. We'll stay in. I'm just feeling that everything went so damn fast and how do we know where it's going to end up? I've got so much to look out for, Autumn. I didn't know if I was ready for it all."

Deeper.

"Have you been drinking?" I ask into the phone. My voice is flat and acid at the same time.

"A little. I gotta go. I need to get a ride home. I'll call you in the morning, all right? We'll talk more. It's just too fast for me. I love you. It's just too damn fast and I've got so much to get done." Click.

Deeper still.

*

I open the door to my apartment and he walks in. He's smiling and I feel my heart melt. He kisses me and when I close the door, he's standing in the living room, staring at the place like it's the first time he's seen it.

And then I know. I feel it coming.

"Autumn," he's saying as he turns around, "look, I can't stay long. I just came... I wanted to... I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry. I'm trying to finish school and I'm just dealing with some stuff right now. Some issues and whatnot. I'm just not in a place where I can give you what you deserve and I hate that."

He hates that. I almost laugh.

"Is it ever worth trying?" I manage. "Is it ever worth trying to get past the bad and the schedules and the commitments? Is it ever worth really trying?"

He shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

"Love. Us. You told me you loved me."

And the cutting begins.

"I do," he says. "But I need to deal with some things and I can't do them all and be in a serious relationship right now."

"I'm taking as many classes as you are," I say.

"It's not about that."

"I work more hours than you do," I say.

"It's not about that."

"I do it all and I love you and I try," I say.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts. "I'm sorry you can handle your **** and I can't! All right? I just can't right now, I just can't do this, Autumn."

I feel the blade reach bottom. In a few seconds I'm going to start crying and I don't want him to see it. In a few seconds I'm going to start crying and I don't know if I will ever be able to stop. Every part of me wants to tell him to wait, to hold on, that he's wrong and that I'm worth it and if he wants to keep me he'd better damn well wise up or he'll lose me and this was your only chance and why would you do this?

I clench my jaw. The blade is all the way in.

I reopen the door and close my eyes. "You have to go."

"Autumn."

One last thing before I shatter. "Go."

He brushes past me through the door. I smell him. I feel his coat on the tips of my fingers. I hear his shoes in the hall outside. I hear his breathing. I hear the jingle of keys in his pocket.

I close the door and go to the window. The snows are starting to clear up in the night. The moon is big and full above the clouds. I see him walk across the parking lot and get in his car. He drives away without looking up to my window.

~

“Everything, even love, is subject to the passage of seasons,” Autumn had said over her finished latte. “Spring to Summer, Summer to Fall, Fall to Winter. Over and over again, a cycle that stays with us through everything we face. No matter how close they are, the seasons, they can never really be together. Everything has a time, a place. Everything has a time to blossom and a time to freeze. Everything is perfectly normal and everything is cast under electric moons.”

The espresso in my hand had long since gone cold during the progression of her story, but I had been too lost in the sadness on her face to notice. I have just watched this beautiful girl relive the most painful memories of her life. Watched her slain, again and again, over the pain of loss in a bustling coffee shop with no onlooker the wiser. My own private-little-public execution.

“Everything has a season,” I say.

Nathan looks up from his book. “What?”

It was the last thing I had said her before we hugged and parted ways. She had looked me straight in the eye when I said it, those soft eyes broken with sorrow and mourning her heart.

“Never mind.”

[Klazzform]

October 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Anything Scary
Winner - A Proud Father by Elec & A Less Than Familiar Cat By Simon "Vitus" Hild

 

The Ride Home by Peter172 [2375 words]

The world seemed a grand place, and all seemed well for Breckinridge Hawkins on the night he stole a train.

He was walking along the road, gloriously drunk, trying to hitch a ride and having little luck. Then he spotted the train. The driver must have stopped to find a place to relieve himself, as Breck had often done when he was gainfully employed. When he saw the perfect opportunity to get home.

He broke into a teetering jog and climbed up into the engine cab of the big steam train. He checked that the fire was stoked, and was surprised to see that there was plenty of red hot coal. It was as if the driver and fire-man had just left. But Breck thought nothing of it other than to loose a whoop of joy at his luck. He set the big engine roaring. Steam and black smoke poured out into the night sky, amidst the chugging of engine and the squeal of the wheels. The floor rumbled beneath his feet as he fled into the night. He had been a railroad man for years, before his drinking go him fired and it was exilerating to be driving a big steam engine once more.

He expected to see the driver running out from the tree-line, screaming in protest at his fabulous heist, but no one came and though Breck found that odd, he didn't dwell on it for long. The wind was blowing through his shaggy hair once more and the exhilaration of the theft had caused a jolt of adrenaline, that when coupled with the whisky buzz, made him feel more alive than he had felt in a long, long time.

As the journey wore on, the whiskey wore off though, and Breck started to feel the all too familiar shakes coming on. He began to wonder exactly what was on the train, and figured the driver, or fire stoker must have a stash around somewhere. After all, all the railroad men drank like demons. Except for that damn Marty Cohen. The sourpuss. He thought with disgust for the man. Wouldn't know how to have a good time in heaven.

Breck climbed up on the moving train and walked back towards the cars after ransacking the cab and coming up dry. He knew it wasn't a passenger train, he wasn't that drunk, and figured with a little luck there might just be a shipment of booze somewhere aboard.

He climbed down into one of the cars, oblivious to the danger in his semi drunken state, and it was as he was climbing down that he heard a groan. It had come from the next car down. It was one of the caged cars meant for hauling cattle or other beasts, but it didn't sound like a beast, it sounded like a man, and he sounded awful hurt.
Breck crept back towards the source of the noise. Could it be the driver? He thought idly. Breck hoped not, cause if it was, and the man was injured, it would be difficult to get him help without winding up in jail. Suddenly, Breck found himself wishing that he were still walking.

When he reached the hatch he heard the groan again, but more clearly this time. It was definitely the groan of a man in desperate pain, and so he sped up his last few steps, teetered for a moment and nearly went over the edge, then opened the hatch with his heart racing like a stallion.

The interior of the car was pitch black, illuminated by the faint light of the quarter moon far overhead. He leaned in to get a better look, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. What he saw nearly made him loose his mind.

There was a man in there to be sure, but only half a man. Everything looked normal at first, and Breck saw the familiar engineers cap and uniform. Great, it is the driver, and he's hurt. He thought with an inward groan.

Then his eyes slid down the body. It ended at his waist. Below that were the slippery, blood soaked loops of the man's entrails piled in loops on the floor. There was a shuffling sound and a pair of yellow eyes appeared below, looking up at Breck with a savage, insane hunger. He let out a startled, panicked yelp and scrambled back from the hatch, his feet scrambling for purchase on the cold steel of the car.

There was nothing Breck had experienced in his entire life that had made him sober up quite as quickly as the sight of the monster's gaze. It had looked the size and shape of a human, even had hair, but beyond that the resemblance to anything he had seen in this world ended. From the little he could see in the gloom it was pure white with almost translucent skin that revealed its innards. Breck saw little else and didn't much care to, thank you very much. He had the presence of mind to shuffle back and kick the hatch closed before he turned and ran, back towards the engine. There was no plan in his mind other than getting as far away from that walking nightmare as possible. He got almost halfway there before he heard the squealing of metal and saw the creatures miss-shapen silhouette lurch out of the torn hatch and come loping towards him. Its feet slapped a rhythm on the steel of the cars as it came and Breck broke into a headlong, careless run on top of moving train. He looked back to see the nightmare closing on him just as he reached the engine, where he leapt down into the cab and slammed into the control panel with a teeth jarring thud.

His vision swam before his eyes. He was on the verge of passing out. The sounds of footsteps above sent another surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins as he looked up into the milky yellow eyes of the monster. It leered down at him with a malevolent hatred and hunger, then crouched like a tiger ready to pounce. Breck jammed the throttle of the engine all the way forward and the train lurched. The creature almost lost its balance and stumbled close to the edge, but quickly regained its footing and charged back quickly.

Breck leapt from the train and found himself spinning end over end out in a field of rough grass. The fall might kill him, but his death would certainly be a cleaner one than the unfortunate driver's.

His momentum came to an abrupt halt as he crashed into a tree, the bones in his arm snapped with a sickening crunch. "AwhhhhaaaaaFfff&&$$$ck! f$ck, f$ck, f$&@$&?ck!"

After an eternity of writhing on the dusty earth, he hauled himself to his feet. His arm was broken badly, the white of his bones poking though his skin in the moonlight. Blood was pouring out of the wound at an alarming rate, and he rammed the bone back into his arm with his free hand and loosed a primal scream of outraged agony to the night, then he pulled off his belt and tightened it around his bleeding appendage, using his teeth and his good arm. The bleeding slowed. It could be a hundred miles to the nearest doctor, and I need help now, and bad. He thought through the red haze.

His train of thought was derailed just as the real train was also derailed. It had jumped tracks a few miles up and lay in a steaming heap of twisted metal. Flames leaped up into the night. That'll learn it! He thought triumphantly.

If he followed the tracks that eventually he would come across a city. And so he set off, hobbling along as best he could.

When he neared the wreckage he looked at it in awe. My god! I'd better get the hell away from this mess. He thought as he trudged on.

Suddenly he heard a squeal of metal. The monsters head poked out of the wreckage, it's gaze fell on the source of its ire and it tore free with more squeals of protesting steel.

Breck ran as best he could, and made it about ten feet before tripping over a rock and falling flat on his face. He turned over to see the nightmare creature rushing towards him in a loping gait. He tried to scramble to his feet, but found his ankle had turned when he fell. He gave up all hope then, and just laid down staring up at the stars and awaiting the end...and was amazed at the beauty of the heavens. He couldn't remember the last time he had gazed up at the stars, and he thought that was a tragedy. Most of his life over the past few years had been spent carousing with his fellow drunks in dingy bars, and he suddenly and completely regretted the waste.

He felt the hoofbeats before he heard them, in his semi dream state, the vibrations in the ground shaking him back to reality. Then he heard them and looked up. The creature had stopped and turned at the sound as well, and stood facing the rider who fast approached. It looked back at Breck, then to the rider as if deciding who to kill first. Its choice was made for it as the man quickly closed the distance. He was dressed all in black. A black cowboy hat and boots, with a long black cloak trailing behind him. He set spurs to his mount as he drew closer and picked up speed. The nightmare creature began to run towards the rider as well, and Breck thought that the man, whoever he was, would surely be dead in a moment.

At the last possible second, the rider veered off and Breck saw a flash of steel. The creatures head leaped from its body, spun in the air several times, and thumped to the ground, followed by the body.

The man reigned his mount in, turned back and watched the corpse for a long time. He seemed to be ensuring that it stayed down, though Breck had no idea how it could get up without a head.

The rider approached at a canter when he was satisfied and dismounted. He looked up into the gaunt face and his terror redoubled. The man seemed ancient, his skin wrinkled and dried up like old leather. He regarded Breck with a look of curiosity for a moment, then spoke.

"T'was a creature that I have come to know as a wight. It would have either eaten you alive, if you were lucky, or turned you into one of its kind if you were not. They are creatures born of the darkness that slowly creeps into our plane of existence. It used to be a slow trickle of the malevolent forces coming in...but lately it has been getting worse. I have fought creatures of that ilk for centuries." Breck's eyes widened at the words and the man recognized the surprise. "Yes centuries. But I am old now, and need to find my final rest. When I saw you I knew it would be you that takes my place. Come, take my hand." Breck's hand reached out almost of its own accord and grasped the bony fingers.

White light flashed in Breck's vision, that slowly coalesced into a vision. The man before him, or a younger version of him, was thrusting that sword of his through the chest of a wolf that stood on two legs like a man. Then the scene changed, it was the black cloaked rider executing a white faced man with blood dribbling down his chin and the corpse of a young girl at his feet. More visions came and Breck saw the man's life in it's entirety flash before his eyes.

When he opened his eyes once more he saw ashes fluttering away in the breeze. The man was gone. All that remained were his clothing, the sword, and a pile of ash where he once had stood.

Breck stood and picked up the weapon, and found that it fit his hand perfectly. The hilt was bone and brass, the blade gleaming steel that looked like quicksilver in even the dull moonlight. He picked it up, then realized he was holding it in a hand that didn't function only a moment before. He looked for the wound, but found nothing but unmarred skin where there had been a gaping hole. By god its a miracle! An honest to goodness miracle! He thought in wide eyed astonishment.

He stripped off his blood soaked jacket and put the black cloak, the hat and boots on. He was especially grateful for the boots, since he had long ago worn a hole in his old shoes. He strapped on the sword as he waked towards the horse and mounted up. He felt something in the west...A presence of evil that he somehow knew he could deal with. In fact he was sure that he was the only one who could deal with it.

He galloped off into the night, his steely gray eyes focused towards his detonation.

The End

 

A Proud Father by Elec [2,298 Words]

James took another drag off his cigarette. The air was damp and the moon wasn’t making any appearances tonight. Just another typical night working security for this dump. Everyone inside was either asleep or talking to their friends. You know the sort, the ones that only exist in their head. What could you expect though, it was a hospital for quacks.

The smoke that just seconds ago filled his lungs, now escapes from his mouth and nostrils. Breaks over. Time to get back to the mindless wandering of halls. Peering through the thin cracks the hospital passes as windows on their doors. He flicked the cigarette on the ground and the orange embers danced in the night before extinguishing in the wet grass. James made his way to the door and back inside, he doesn't notice the black cat with yellow eyes watching intently from behind.

“Hey.” He said to Janice, the receptionist on duty that evening. She was cute for an older woman, probably would have been fun to mess around with in her day. Who was James kidding? He hasn’t been with a woman in nearly a year, he would be lucky if she gave him the time of day.

“Enjoy your cancer stick?” She replied. Her tone was forced, he could tell there was judgment in her voice.

“Yeah, I never get enough of coughing up my lungs.” James added dismissively. “Anything exciting happen in the five minutes I have been gone?”

Janice turned around to him. “Could you check on room B-5, the motion sensors outside the door are acting up.”

“Again?” This was the fourth time in a month that this damned system has acted up. James sighed to himself. “Protocol, right?”

“I don’t make the rules.” Janice said as she turned back to her paperwork as Sophia Fresh came on the radio.

She could care less, he thought to himself. She makes double the pay for half the work. He walked up to the security door leading to the B wing. He knew the room well. The patient was Chris, always claiming he was being stalked by a demon. The guy’s brain was like a giant Picasso painting, only at least you knew what Picasso was trying to paint…most of the time.

James continued down the hall, muttering to himself. He had a slight headache and the hum from the lights above him wasn’t helping. Around the first left, down the hall and that would be room B-5. As he took his left he paused. His skins goes goose flesh for a moment and a sudden feeling of paranoia passes. It felt like someone was watching him.

“I need a new job before I wind up in this place with the rest of these nut-jobs.” He declares to himself.

He takes another step forward, a light above flickers for a moment. Room B-5, always a pleasure to hear Chris whispering about some unseen evil that wants to devour his soul. Only this time no whispers came. Maybe the old boy finally fell asleep.

He leaned his head in towards the window on the door. "What the…"

Chris wasn’t in the room. James quickly fumbled with the keys on his waist and found the right one. He put it in the key hole and turned it to the left slowly. The lock tumblers clicked and the door was unlocked. He put his hand on the door, lights still flickering and humming above, and gives it a gentle tug. The door opens with ease as the hinges creak.

Without warning the humming stops. James heart beat slows, he can hear it thumping away in his ears. The smell of sulfur fills his nose. Then the lights flicker out.

“God damn it! The power is out again?” James curses some more as he reaches for his flashlight. Finally finding it he struggles to turn it on. Then the whispering began…

“James…” The voice is deep and throaty, but hushed. Gurgling can be heard following the words. “James your time has come.”

“Chris?” He asks nervously.

“No James, not Chris. No, Chris is gone. I am done with him, James. Now I want to play a game with you.” The voice seems to be coming from behind him.

“I’m not in the mood for games, Chris, or whoever you feel like being today.” James says mockingly.

A door slams down the hall, the hum of electricity returns, followed shortly by the flickering of lights and everything returns to normal. James takes a moment to orient himself. The moment doesn’t last long. In front of him is a bloody and warped foot print. He slowly focuses on the hallway, another footprint and another. They seem to be leading to the security door.

“Great. How am I going to explain how I let a patient escape to my boss.” He wonders out loud to himself.

Quickly he jogs back down the hall, turning the corner he sees the security door is ajar and the room ahead is flickering with soft light. The same room that he had just been in with Janice a moment before. He reaches out for the handle and pulls the door open, a quick aroma of incense mixed with something foul fills his nose. He steps through, the flashlight hits the floor.

There on the desk in front of him lay Janice, only it wasn’t Janice, or was it? Blood dripped from the front of the table, collecting in a pool on the floor. The foul smell was stronger now and James had to try hard not to vomit. Slowly he inched towards the body, the flickering seem to come from her head.

Inch by inch he made his way forward. When he got to the table he paused, the taste of sour milk hit his mouth and he threw up. Someone had split her head open vertically, inside was a large candle, burning slowly, the wax mixing with her blood. James dropped to his knees. He knew Chris was disturbed, but nothing indicated how violent he could be. He looked back up at Janice’s body, and then fright set in. He froze in place.

With an awkward and forced motion, Janice sat up on the desk, wax and blood dripping from her hollowed out face. The remnant of her lower jar cracked and popped against muscle fiber. She was trying to speak. Gurgling could be heard coming from her throat. How could she be alive still? Then without warning her head ignites into flames, the gurgling became more frantic and she falls over the side of the desk.

James felt a warm stream drip down his leg. He struggled to get up. Using his hands he steadies himself on the desk Janice had, just seconds before, died violently on. In the corner of his eye he saw movement. He reached for his stun gun. The presence was behind him. He turns quickly.

Standing before him was a shadowed figure outlined against the flames from Janice. Feline-like eyes, going between gold and red stare into James soul.

“James, you will fulfill your destiny tonight. Tonight you will watch the birth of the greatest being to walk this wretched planet.” The voice screeched out at him. With each breath the ground rumbled.

James tried to respond, but was met with a surge of pain and pressure around his neck. He was being lifted off the ground by some unseen force. He could hear the crunching of bone in his own body, his vision quickly fading. Suddenly he was thrust upon the floor next to Janice. The being sneered.

“The deed is done. Your seed and hers are now one. Nothing can stop the birth of the end.” The creature pointed towards Janice.

James didn’t understand. He couldn’t move, it felt as if he had been ripped apart inside and then put back together. He struggled to meet his gaze upon Janice where the being pointed. He feels nausea return. Something had been ripped out of her abdomen, entrails and half digested waste dripped slowly out of her.

The creature releases a sinister cackle.

James felt sharp pains arise from his own stomach. His hands moved down to find his shirt was tattered and soaked. He slowly looked down. First cries escaping him and then a blood curdling scream followed. Where once was his relatively tone abs was now a bulge. A long scar that looked as if it had been sealed with flames ran the length from his chest to his groin.

“Wha…what did you do to me!” He screams out in anger and fright.

The beast sneers at him. “I do as I please, but you are just a vessel. To birth the dark prince, we must mock your god!”

James didn’t quite understand the words of the creature at first. He kept looking between those evil eyes and his malformed stomach. Then his stomach moved and moved again. He felt pressure and pain. Something was inside of him!

“Get it out of me!” He screamed.

This angered the being in front of him and it quickly sunk it’s claws into James head and dragged them down. Four fresh wounds appeared across James face, each one feeling as if it was burning from the inside out. Then, with an eery click from his now bloody claws, from the fire a steed came forth. It's hair was black as the night, it's sockets empty, wounds covered it's body exposing portions of it's rib cage. The creature mounted the mare and gave one last yellow eyed glare before riding off into the flames the horse had just come from.

James let his head drop back to the ground. The pressure from his stomach worsened. The pain was becoming too terrible to bare. His mind was slowly slipping into unconsciousness. Everything started going black and then it did.

James woke up to the feel of cool linen under his body. Light shown in through the window on his door. The humming of electricity could be heard faintly outside. He sat up slowly, not sure where he was. Then the horrific events that he suffered came screaming back into his mind. He broke out into a cold sweat and then realized it was just a bad dream.

He stood up and walked to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. He looked out the small window and realized where he was. Room B-5. Panic set in. What was going on? He screamed out for help.

“Help! Someone get me out of here!”

Footsteps were heard coming down the hall towards him. Hopefully it was the day guard coming to get him out of this room. He couldn’t even remember how he got in here. The horrible dream came rushing back to him again and he tried to force it out of his mind. Chris must have caught him off guard and knocked him out, locking him in here. Suddenly Janice’s face filled the window. James felt a relief wash over him.

“Janice, get me out of here, I need to find Chris and return him to his room.” James spoke calmly, this ordeal was almost over now.

Janice gave him a confused look and appeared to be calling for someone down the hall. She turned and walked away.

“Janice!” James screamed. “What the hell Janice? Get me out of here now!”

Footsteps began their approach again. She probably had to get her key. Suddenly Janice’s face appears at the window a second time, someone is obviously with her. She pulls away once more and the face of Chris fills the window. A dark smile crosses his face.

“James,” Chris begins, “we can’t have you acting up again. No more stories of demons, ok?” Chris looks intently into James eyes.

“What the hell?” James begins. “Chris, this isn’t funny, get Janice again.”

James waits for a moment as Chris pulls away from the window and then returns. He is wearing a guard’s outfit it seems. Confusion sets in. How long was he out? How did Chris get his clothes? He looks down to see he is wearing a fresh patient’s outfit. There is a rap on the window. Chris is looking down at him.

“I’m sorry, James, Janice can’t come to the window right now. She’s taking care of our child.” Chris says, a sinister tone in his voice.

James looks back at Chris, perplexed. What is this nut-job talking about. Janice’s head appears in the window as well. A dark look dances across her face as well. James gets the chills as he remembers the nightmare he had. Janice’s face carved up and in flames. The shadowed beast with yellow eyes. The painful scratches across his face. His deformed stomach and the thing the creature put inside of it. The thoughts made the pain all too vivid again and he rubs his belly. A burning pain rings out from his groin to his chest.

“Ouch.” James says to himself. It’s like his mind is so immersed in these thoughts that they are making the pain real…

Suddenly a streak of nervous paranoia takes over his whole body. His hands are trembling. He slowly lifts up his shirt. His heart skips a beat. Fear now takes over his entire body. There, on his abdomen, from his chest to his groin was a scar. The same scar from his dreams. The same burned flesh looking scar.

“No. No. Nooooooooo!” He screams out in terror.

He looks back towards Chris and Janice. Staring back at him are four eyes, four feline-like eyes, yellow tinged with red. And in the arms of one of the being’s with those twisted and evil eyes, lies a little baby boy.

The End

 

A Less Than Familiar Cat By Simon "Vitus" Hild [3,300 words]

My first contract was made between me and Silsbee during a new moon long ago. My master Silsbee was a devious cretin of a man. His stringy black hair was never clean and he smelled of cheap smoke and stale ale. He had the misfortune of thinking he was a better magician than he truly was. Only a flick of my tail in my feline form was necessary to push him over the edge into a duel. He was insulted easily and had little genuine use for the fine arts. When he invited his rival over to admire his newest artistic acquisition, I had but to whisper the truth of the art piece’s authenticity into the ear of my master’s more powerful wizard competitor, who was an art collector. Silsbee’s less than genuine appreciation for the painting was enough to cause the row. The manipulation was so easy as to be barely worth mentioning.

The Dark Lord Asmodeus was so pleased with my perversion of the will of my first master that he quickly sent me to find another master to further the ends of the Nine Hells. My next project was a sinister little coven of girls who fancied themselves witches in a tiny hamlet on the edge of the twisted Shad-hallow forest. Holly Branch Haven was named for one the families that cut the first clearing some generations ago. At first I was disappointed with an assignment that looked as though it would amount to turning a few young girls against each other. Fortunately they had a capacity for wickedness that one might not at first assume.

Holly Branch Haven was within sight of the enormous phallic symbol that was the Mariner’s Lighthouse. This famous man-made wonder of the world has kept sailors on their course for as many generations as can be remembered by keeping its fires burning day and night. Thus on a clear night, the people of Holly Branch Haven would come out to the shore with their backs to the gloomy, haunted Shad-hallow forest, look out over the tiny cove they called their own and pretend that the distant light somehow guided them on their meager quests to raise their children and live not in fear. Perhaps two hundred people lived in this village whose isolation was even more pronounced when the weather washed out the road and the fog kept the ships far out to sea. The bay near the town was shallow and of no use to large ships anyway. Little trade was being done in the town, and in short, no one of any importance knew there even was a Holly Branch Haven. This circumstance suited my purposes flawlessly.

It was boredom, no doubt which led the Singer sisters to dabble in the black arts. Tabitha was the youngest, hot tempered and got attention from their cold father by using foul language at the top of her lungs. Magdalene was a quiet one with an iron will and a wicked taste for revenge. Sophia was the leader of this adolescent nightmare and the one on which I needed to focus. She was clever, arrogant, brash and the key to the three sisters’ downfall. With no healthy sense of fear, she did have a reckless sense of ambition. This was the sort of combination on which a devil like me is quick to jump.

I took my familiar form of a faultless feline with black fur and a stiff, dead mouse as a suitable gift of introduction clenched in my triumphant jaws. Sophia wasn’t the girl I thought she was if she could resist my performance. I found the three girls hiding behind a magnificent rose bush whose beauty was keenly matched by its long, sharp thorns. They were spying on an ancient woman who had never married and lived outside the village where it was rumored she was a bit crazy. These three adolescents were planning some sort of mischief on the woman to pass the time. Small towns were gold mines of opportunity for those inclined to influence events in a malicious way. Idle hands truly do a devil’s work.

The ancient hag of a woman was brushing down an equally ancient horse with genuine care and affection while the three young girls spied on her and considered what their plan would be. I crept close to them to hear their conversation which surrounded a prank they wanted to play on the old woman. Sophia informed her younger sisters Maggie and Tabby that every night some or all of them would sneak out, find a scarecrow in the fields and bring it to the old woman’s garden. Sophia imagined it would terrify the crone and perhaps get her in trouble with the ever present local church.

Holly Branch Haven was originally a religious settlement founded by people with puritanical views that were seen as a dangerous cult. To escape from the tyrannical persecution at the hands of the Priests of Platinus, Lord of Commerce in their homeland near the Port O’ Lords, five extended families moved to where the shore of the Lords’ Sea met the edge of the dark and twisted Shad-hallow forest. From these dark, dangerous woods they cut a place to worship as they pleased.

The girls sneaked away and I followed still baring the gift of a large dead mouse in my jaws. Once out of hearing distance from the old woman they began to plot in earnest at which point I made my introduction with practiced cat-like disdain. I merely walked across the girl’s path knowing that one would surely see my large cat form with my shining black coat and noiseless bounce.

“Look at that pretty, black cat,” Tabitha exclaimed as she was reaching for me. I dropped the mouse at Sophia’s feet before I let the youngest pick me up, but I was careful to know when to play hard-to-get. I squirmed my way out of her grasp while Maggie and Sophia looked on with a practiced cool disinterest, though their eyes lit up as much as their fourteen-year-old sister’s. I made sure they watched me go as I used one of the gifts Asmodeus gave to me to plant a subtle suggestion in Sophia’s mind. Every superior witch has a familiar.

With that seed planted, I crept away using another of the Dark Lord’s gifts to render me invisible. I watched Sophia pick up my gift of dead mouse and slip it in her simple pouch. That’s when I knew I had her.

The girls returned to their father’s modest farm whose property was adjacent to the old crone’s. They didn’t go to the house, but to the barn. I would understand later that they were skipping out on doing some chores that day and that was the reason to crept up to the large structure and peeked in before making their way to the hay loft. High in the rafters of the barn, the girls had cleared a small place of all the hay that otherwise was piled high around them. This tiny, private spot was their coven’s circle and served as a kind of clubhouse for the girls.

Sophia produced a piece of chalk stolen from the tiny school house in the center of the village and drew a circle on the wood floor of the hayloft. Maggie and Tabby then drew a triangle whose vertices just touched the circle where each girl was standing, while Sophia pulled a tattered, leather bound book from a hiding place in the rafters above her. She began to chant from the book while placing the dead mouse, my gift, in the center of the circle. To this day, this remains the single worst excuse for a spell to find a witch’s familiar I have ever seen. In any other time and place, it wouldn’t have worked, but I was already there plotting. She would never suspect that her spell was just a nursery rhyme done in poor taste.

I waited for them all to light a candle at each point on the triangle before I, remaining invisible, pranced into the center of the circle. I pawed at the mouse to give the impression it was moving of its own accord to which Tabitha cried out but was sternly shushed by Sophia whose eyes now glowed like jellied fire. I waited a bit longer before dropping the spell that kept me concealed and it looked as though I had simply appeared in their circle. The two younger sisters stared at Sophia in wonderment and would never doubt her word again. Indeed she would not even doubt herself, so convinced was she of her counterfeit power. That is the sort of attitude any imp would recognize as opportunity.

The fire in the barn began with me. While the girls were in a conference of congratulations, I managed to nonchalantly knock over two of the three candles. They didn’t even notice the fire until it was too great to stamp out. The girls fled, and fearing they would be blamed for the loss of the barn and the hay within. They told no one of the blaze that spread unnaturally quickly. The barn was lost by the time a bucket brigade of the men from the surrounding countryside was organized. They were merely dousing embers in the end.

By that time the Singer sisters were already hatching a plot that showed the scarecrow prank to be child’s play. They intended to blame the old woman for the burned barn and in the same breath clear themselves of any suspicion. It was well known that both properties were once owned by the Singers and the old woman’s plot was given to her husband out of charity for a homeless, landless man. The girls’ father had offered to buy back the property given her husband by his great grandfather at an inflated price, but old as she was Mrs. Crone was stubborn and wouldn’t leave her cramped hovel. It was also well known that Mr. Singer and Mrs. Crone did not get along.

Every day Mrs. Crone would walk to town for various things she could not make on her own in Mr. Parish’s general store. While the barn yet burned over the hill behind them, the girls rushed to Mrs. Cone’s one room house. They made sure the old woman was indeed on her way and with Maggie keeping watch, Sophia and Tabby looked through the cramped place for anything they could use to make the woman look guilty.

“Her Good Book,” Tabby said, “If we take that, the pastor will think she works against the Word.”

“She doesn’t attend service anyway, the whole village already thinks she’s crazy or works with the Devil. We need proof. Look at all these tiny, clay pots. Maybe she really is a witch,” Sophie said calmly. She was thinking quickly now and absent mindedly scratching me behind the ears, “And where have you been?”

I did not tell her that I had been busy leaving a book of witchcraft in the cupboard she now admired for its variety of exotic ingredients. Few were labeled, but I did find a number of them that were potentially lethal if combined. I had run ahead of the girls and given myself enough time to plant the book and scratch a few skull and crossbones on the crude, clay jars with malicious potential. I had but to make a subtle suggestion in the mind of my willing coconspirator and the devilish work would be done.

“What does she keep in her garden?” Sophia demanded of Tabby.

Tabby was running her finger over a freshly scratched skull and crossbones so she was taken off guard and only stammered, “Carrots and … things, why, Sophie?”

Sophia was grinning like a mad killer brandishing a knife, though she held only a book of witchcraft and a tiny, clay jar, “I bet that witch’s tired old horse loves carrots almost as she loves it.”

Reading her eldest sister’s thoughts the blasphemous girl answered, “I’ll bet if that piece of <expletive deleted> horse dies, she’d be <expletive deleted> off enough to burn down father’s barn.”

Suddenly Maggie thrust her head through the door typically saying nothing, but her message was clear. The old bat was coming back. The three hustled to the garden where they pulled some ripe carrots from the ground and rubbed the lethal herbs all over the orange roots. Truth be told, there was enough of the poison on those five carrots to kill a stable full of thoroughbreds. While they were busy hiding the carrots where the horse would find them and Mrs. Crone wouldn’t, Maggie notice the book I had planted wrapped in a black cloth stolen from the old woman.

“Why didn’t you leave that,” she asked quietly, “that’s the evidence we need for the pastor to believe she’s a witch.”

Sophia grinned her hateful, malicious grin, “I have plans for this book. We all do.”

The three hustled away. They would have to be seen coming to the fire to make their story believable. The men of the village were still in their drab, formal clothes though they were covered in soot and sweating terrible. Pastor Prine was there as well leaning over a man who looked so badly burned as to be shocking. Tabby’s eyes welled up with tears as she watched a man she’d known her whole life cry tears of pain fighting he acquired by fighting a fire she believed they had started. Maggie glared at her sister to warn her to say nothing, but Sophia was hiding a grin. Tabby’s tears would make their story all the more credible.

Mr. Singer was a sober, religious man who was blind to his daughter’s faults but not blind to the suffering of a neighbor who had come to help him. He sternly asked the girls where they’d been. Sophia spoke for the group saying they’d taken the baskets to pick wild berries, just as he’d asked. I saw the hole in their story right away and dashed to the house while listening to their shrewd father.

“Where are the baskets and berry’s then?”

Sophia answered for them again, “We saw the smoke and we must have dropped them as we ran here. We passed Mrs. Crone on the way and she cursed at us, father! She shook her fist and put a hex on us. We were frightened and then saw the barn on fire. Were you hurt father?”

Her innocent act was delivered flawlessly, but her father yet remained stern and as I slipped into the house I listened for him to say, “Then the baskets won’t be under the basin in the kitchen then will they?”

Tabby’s face dropped as even she knew that there plan was for naught if their father found the baskets, but Sophia and Magdalene kept their faces still. I had to stay invisible while I changed to my naturally fiendish looking form, for I needed thumbs to open the door and cupboard where the baskets still sat. I quickly grabbed them and ran to the attic as Mr. Singer was coming into the kitchen to discover no baskets and three astonished, wicked young girls.

There was then a great commotion outside where Mrs. Crone was storming over the hill as fast as her aged legs could carry her. She was yelling that the Singer girls had killed her horse. She KNEW it and what was Mr. Singer going to do about it. She was furious and foaming at the mouth where her few teeth struggled to shape the sounds of decipherable language. She sounded as if she was speaking in tongues while she was holding two tiny clay jars that looked very familiar to the girls.

Sophia quickly turned to the Pastor and let drip her poisonous, honeyed tongue, “Pastor Prine, we saw her running from the barn earlier while my sisters and I were picking berries. She cursed us then too, my sisters and I, as good followers of the church, will swear to it. I think she is in league with the devil, Pastor. That is the reason for her long life and why she doesn’t attend service.”

So sweet were her words that I don’t think I would have needed to use my master Asmodeus’s spell of suggestion to convince the self-righteous man of the pretty girl’s words. He had ever been insulted by the old maid’s refusal to attend his services. After all the Church is what had founded this community, what right did she have to live among them if she did not share their beliefs? As the woman approached the pastor asked her in a booming voice.

“How can we trust the word of Mrs. Crone, who has never attended our services and never claimed her faith before the altar?”

Mrs. Crone’s eyes grew wide with fury and her face turned ablaze, “To hell with your church and everyone in it! Those evil little girls killed my horse, my Jessie the only thing I ever loved. They’re spoiled rotten and have you all fooled. Well I’m no fool and I am owed a horse!”

Blasphemy the men of the village whispered at the crone’s words and Mr. Singer, whose shrewd eyes had been on Crone’s property since he was a boy, stepped forward, “I have witnesses that say you were seen leaving my property moments before my barn and harvest were burned, Mrs. Crone. You speak of your dead horse that you loved; perhaps you loved it enough to seek your misplaced and malicious revenge on my family by accusing my daughters and setting my barn ablaze!”

Delicious chaos ensued with accusations flying back and forth but the pastor, who was the unquestioned leader of this small community held his hands high and called for order.

“She has blasphemed before us all and for that alone she will be held. As for the question of witchcraft, we shall inspect her meager premises.”

With that, two men who often acted as constables seized the old woman who was dragged off to the stocks while she screamed that she’d done nothing wrong and raved as a woman possessed that her horse had been murdered.

When the men of the village examined Mrs. Crone’s house I had just slipped away from it once again and indeed left another book in the same place as the first one taken by Sophia. The book labeled “Witchcraft” with which the girls had used to play at being witches before now occupied the cupboard where the real book of witchcraft that I all but put in Sophia’s hands had been. Whether or not the book was a genuine article of devilish practices meant little to the pastor who passed his sentence before Mrs. Crone as she sat locked in the stocks in the center of town.

Everyone in the village heard Mrs. Crone scream that it was a lie and she had no interest in witchcraft and had never seen the book before. Even when she was sandwiched between two oaken doors whilst the pastor and his assistant piled rocks higher and higher atop the innocent old woman she would not confess to witchcraft or anything else. She shrieked obscenities and cursed them all for fools to be taken in by wicked little girls, but she confessed only to a loathing for the misuse of a faith.

After Mrs. Crone’s death the people in the village shied away from the Singer girls and with my help, they turned the old crone’s house into a devilishly concealed coven of real and deadly witchcraft.

[Klazzform]

November 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Stranded
Winner - Volatile Mixtures By Simon “Vitus” Hild

 

Volatile Mixtures By Simon “Vitus” Hild

Crystal Loch

All my life I’ve lived in the city of Crystal Loch on the shores of the blessed waters of the same name. In the vastness of the continent of Solterra, where there yet remained wild lands where fire breathing creatures of mythic descriptions terrorized remote country sides, Crystal Loch remains a bastion of human achievement. The Loch, nestled high in the Skye Mountains, collects the melted snow from the surrounding mountains’ white caps into a virtually bottomless, fresh water lake. The waters then flow along the River Loch through the mountains to the border of the ever growing Wes-Kha Empire whose immense desert drinks the crystalline water with a drunkard’s thirst.

The setting for the tale I’m about to impart takes place on The Loch where I’ve made my trade of fishing since I was a boy on my father’s sloop The Gar’s Galore. The city sits among the bluffs of the western shore. The center of town is dominated by magnificent stone manors, The Archives, and The Arcanum Observatory housing the Teachers of the Word and the incredible Dome of the Gathering Dawn. The rest of the city sprawls away from the high walls to the rocky pastures and tiered fields of House Lono, my noble house if it can be called so. I tell you this not as a sort of geography lesson, though some of our youth now could use it, but to set the scene for those of you who’ve never been to our fair city whose myriad smells and brick paved streets I pine for even now.

The story begins with an insistent young lady who needed a vessel that would take her across The Loch. She had in tow a grim looking young man who wore the broach and robes of an alchemist in House Malkedesh. He had a dark countenance and looked by his eyes to have not slept in several days. She was of obvious military training by her posture and ceremonial long knife. I guessed she had trained at the Military Gymnasium of House Virish. None of which tended to interest a lowly House Lono fisherman like myself who would sooner eat his dinner with a simple knife than choose from a dozen different sized forks. I watched them work their way down the dock, but their youth and House affiliation were in this case no advantage for them. The closer they came to The Gar’s Galore, the more I began to believe that my great grandfather, whose Reverence Stone in the Lono cemetery is carved as a jester’s hat, must be looking down on his grandson with mischief in his eyes. His Reverence Stone doesn’t bear “Harlan,” the name we share but only his favorite joke, “What’s brown and sounds like a bell? (Wait for it.) Dung!” Ever the clever clown was my grandfather and I suspected he was playing a marvelous practical joke on me now. I kissed the medal I wore about my neck bearing his likeness and smiled in spite of myself.

The two approached me finally as I was securing a line and casting an eye at the sky hoping for clouds in case I needed an excuse not to sail, but saw none. Their diligence was a sign that they were desperate in my eyes, and anyone who has grown up on the waterfront will tell you desperate people are dangerous. They walked boldly up the dock and stopped just short of boarding The Gar without my consent.

“I am Dirk Corasant of House Virish,” she stated matter-of-factly as if this were reason enough to let her step on my livelihood, “I need this vessel, may we board to negotiate?”

I was a bit amused by this less than warm greeting, and she was attractive in her short haired military style, but her companion was a bit unsettling, “Who’s the other one?”

“This is my trusted servant…”

An irritated hiss from the robed one cut her off. He drew back his cowl and bowed formally which I took as rather polite given that I was a working man, “Krisnight Malkedesh. We have need of a vessel; we can pay for supplies as well as a fee to you. “

The Coming Storm

At the name of House Malkedesh I imagined a distant sound of thunder and I couldn’t help but glance at the well known, castle-like manor whose towers reached impossibly and elegantly into the sky like black, stone talons. The seven dark, slender towers looked down on the docks from their high perch on the bluff as if to menace us by their sinister architecture. Behind them, I saw only a hint of a grey cloud that wasn’t there a moment ago, and the idea of payment piqued my interest. Still I hesitated.

Dirk sat down on The Gar washing away pretense and said, “Look. We’ve asked everybody else. Nobody will help us. I’ve got evidence that must get to the Gathering Dawn monastery on the eastern shore. People’s lives are at stake. The Empire’s investigation of the attempt on their Shah’s life has turned into an occupation. My father doesn’t believe me, but I know I’m right. I need someone willing to help. I’m hoping that you’re that person right now, Lono sailor. Yours is a noble House as is mine and as essential to defending Crystal Loch. Will you help?”

Those were the words that convinced me. I was a tradesman, to be sure, but the artisans and herdsmen of Lono were the pride and backbone of Crystal Loch. If what she said was true, I was honor bound to help, if one believes in that sort of thing. I slowly nodded my assent and Krisnight finally came aboard. At least somebody paid attention to etiquette.

The alchemist kept his eyes on the sky, though, as we were preparing to cast off and kept mumbling, “We haven’t much time.”

We were on the water no more than two hours before such a storm brewed as to make one wet his breeches. I was insisting we return to shore, but the rain came with such ferocity and a quickness I have never seen. The torrent was upon us in an instant. It didn’t feel natural and I shouted as much to Krisnight.

After re-securing a hatch he gave a ghastly whisper, “It isn’t.”

In the roar of the wind and rain I heard those words clear as the bells of Festival. Krisnight then put his hand over the broach that proclaimed to anyone his House and from his robe dropped it into the depths of the Loch. He was running, maybe even banished from his own House and he believed they had sent this storm after him. House Malkedesh was famous for alchemy and dark wizardry. Though their morbid, medical breakthroughs continued to draw students from all over the continent to the city, they were tolerated more than embraced by the other Houses.

Stranded

We suffered through a storm the likes of which I had never seen. My father’s precious Gar’s Galore, a reliable and sturdy craft, was tossed about like a child’s toy in a flooded gutter. For the entire night we battled the conditions trying desperately just to keep from capsizing. We were eventually lifted entirely out of the water and brought down with a sickening crash not once but three times until I felt the unmistakable jolt of hitting the rocks. The hull was pierced by a granite shard to which we were held fast. Only the rising sun finally chased away the mysterious storm, but The Gar was impaled four feet in the air on a heavy, granite pike above the eerily calm, clear waters of Crystal Loch.

We were in a part of the lake that was little traveled. The northern shore is framed by the sheer cliff faces of the surrounding Skye Mountains. These dangerous waters were spotted with shallows, granite slabs and spires of rock like the one that suspended everything I owned and loved with the exception of two young nobles. The Gar was perched firmly and listing at an awkward angle that had shifted everything below decks into a jumbled mess on the starboard side. We had all been battered in the storm and of course everything was wet. I was fishing around for my father’s special spyglass below when unbelievably I smelled smoke.

My Ancients were certainly trying to punish me if The Gar had suddenly burst into flames as well, but it was Krisnight at the bow with my now dented, metal bowl in which there burned a small fire. He was chanting while he tossed some foul smelling incense into the flames and coldly ignored my inquiries.


Dirk Corasant was wrapping up a nasty looking cut on her shin and cursing her father under her breath. It was only then that I realized I knew the name Corasant but I knew it as Commander Corasant, of the Vigil and all the House Virish Centuries.

I was angry and I felt deceived. I coldly said, “You didn’t tell me you were the Commander’s daughter.”

She cinched the bandage bindings brutally one last time and muttered, “I told you my name. I assumed you were smart enough to figure out who I am.”

“Well you didn’t tell me he was some Malkedesh witchdoctor with his whole evil House chasing him,” I continued boldly thinking Krisnight was in some kind of trance. He proved me wrong.

“I didn’t know until last night myself, fisherman. He and his torn maroon robes appeared from nowhere; he made no sound when he moved, “and that we survived at all should be considered a blessing. There are things at work here you cannot understand.”

Dirk and Krisnight’s eyes met not with a shared knowledge so much as a barely contained hatred. These two youths, who had obviously put themselves in untenable positions for whatever reason, wrapped their story’s leviathan tentacles around my dingy of destiny and threatened to drag us all under. How they found each other I can’t say and at the time couldn’t have cared less, for I found myself sending the same feelings of antipathy to them. I made no words the whole morning until I found my father’s spyglass made with two of House Tay’Leen’s famous lenses.

The Purple Worm Tunnel

“Eureka!”

The spyglass was a masterpiece of artistry. It was given to my father from his father and so forth for several generations. House Tay’Leen is known for making fine crystalline wares not the least of which being the remarkable lenses that are traded and valued far and wide. An enchantment was put on the tube and lenses that allowed it to see through fog and the like to protect a ship among the shallows.

The sheer cliff face of the north shore was showing the effects of the storm. Cascading down the cliff side were hundreds of rivulets and spontaneous waterfalls that created a fine mist all along the water line that was impenetrable without the magic in my father’s spyglass. Through the spray created by the fantastic waterfalls I could see a cave entrance. It would be a long, cold swim to get to it though. Crystal Loch was also known to be inhabited by the giant gar for which my father named his now broken vessel. There would be no help coming and I hadn’t thought to bring a magic carpet.

Luckily Dirk was all military efficiency once I told them about the cave. She did not share my nostalgic hesitation to cut away the rigging my father had carefully braided and assembled to handle the canvas sails. She was quickly cutting free ropes and coiling them neatly on the awkwardly sloping deck. Krisnight too was digging in a slim leather satchel from which he extracted an oilcloth that he unwrapped to reveal a strange assortment of pouches with powders, packets and pastes. I marveled at this pocket of dryness when everything I owned in the world was soaking wet.

“Have I missed some conversation you two had,” I asked watching them in their bustling activity.

Krisnight’s face twisted in what I can only guess was a smile, “We have perhaps not studied the nautical arts, Captain Harlan, but there are those of the arcane nature that have captured my interest over the years. Have you neglected your studies, Miss Corasant, or have you merely played soldier in place of your arcane lectures?”

“I have done my duty, alchemist,” Dirk took a quick glance over the edge of the boat, “just make sure you don’t float out of range. That gar down there looks rather hungry.”

Sure enough, in the water the long, menacing body of a 14’ giant gar swam near the surface of the water. I turned from the great fish to see Krisnight holding a loop of leather he had taken from his oilcloth and looking into the distant mist with a vacant stare. After a moment, his robes seemed to float about him and then, slowly his feet left the deck.

While he floated in the air he smirked down at me and said, “Have you studied the physical sciences, Harlan?”

“Captain Harlan,” I muttered.

“It is stated that for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. Do you know how that is helpful to us now?”

I disliked Kisnight’s condescending tone, but still I watched the wizard take several great coils of rope from Dirk until he for all the world looked like a giant ball of hemp yarn. I noted that he hadn’t moved in any direction but up until Dirk took hold of his ankle firmly. She pulled him floating along behind her until she reached the bow. There she began to spin the alchemist round and round like the hammer throw event at the Virish Gymnasium competitions. When I thought certain she would tear his leg from his body she released him in the direction of the mist-cloaked rocks.

He had disappeared into the mist, but I could see through my glass he was securing the line to the rocks with a spike and, to my chagrin, my father’s hammer from below which I didn’t see him take. He tugged firmly on the line several times before casting another spell. His feet stayed on the ground, but he set the rope on a faintly glowing disk that now floated three feet above the bone chilling water. I used the gaff hook to snag the rope from the floating disk once it returned leaving a trail of hemp behind it.

I gave the rope a tentative tug and glanced at Dirk over my shoulder, “I don’t suppose you’ve got one of those disks for me to float under my feet?”

Dirk gave a wry smile and replied, “I do, but I might need that spell later. I’d hate to burn all my energy just trying to disembark your noble ship. Besides, I bet we’ll need my light spell to see in that tunnel.”

We spent a few hours moving what supplies we could from The Gar’s Galore to what Krisnight claimed was a tunnel burrowed through the stone by a creature called a purple worm. I pondered how big a worm would have to be to burrow an 8’ diameter tunnel through solid rock. The tunnel stretched upward and to the west into the blackness and true to her word, Dirk furiously rubbed her hands together over her dagger before clapping once producing a popping noise and a brightly glowing dagger. The floor of the tunnel was slick and wet near the mouth, but as we followed it up, it became dry and leveled out. It took unusual, seemingly random turns and I wondered if this pitch-black, stone tube would lead to anything but a rock eating, purple worm. Still, we were on solid ground and we must have traveled for an hour before the tunnel split.

“Don’t tell me the giant worm split itself into two worms,” I said peering over Dirk’s shoulder into the gloom.

“Not likely,” Krisnight answered, “I’ve never heard of a purple worm tiling its passage as it goes.”

I glanced down at the level, side passage and could not deny the ceramic tile floor that now stretched out to our left. The workmanship was not that of House Lono, and the layout was a complicated one that fell out of use more than a century before. The masterful artistry was undeniable. The bright, white light given by Dirk’s spell shown the tile’s maroon and black pattern, the noble colors of House Malkedesh.

Though I was assured that the purple worm that borrowed this tunnel had long since ceased to be, I was still inclined to follow any sign of humanity. With little discussion we all moved forward along the obviously crafted tunnel that soon had smooth, ceramic tile covering the walls and floor alike. After a hundred feet of this, the color in the tiles began to form hieroglyphs and strange letters that made no sense to me. I could tell the Krisnight was becoming increasingly agitated, but he refused to answer any inquiry.

I couldn’t contain my disappointment when it appeared that the tunnel came to a dead end. This whole trip had been a disaster and I was near the very edge of my patience. With the adrenaline of the crisis long ago flushed from my body, I roared that they had brought me to ruin. My livelihood was held skewered on a rock and now I was going to starve to death in some godforsaken, moldy dungeon.

“Not dungeon,” Krisnight finally hissed at me to elicit my silence, “This is a tomb.”

The short tempered alchemist was now studying the hieroglyphs with his nose only inches from the ancient walls. He followed the strange characters that looked like nothing more than different patterns of slender triangles to me. I mentioned that since geometry was only taught at the Arcanum, I couldn’t be much help.

“This is cuneiform, fisherman,” Krisnight shot back hiding none of his irritation or hubris, “It is language, not mathematics. It tells me that this man was a Malkedesh assistant for…”

I wasn’t looking at the creepy know-it-all while he was lecturing and I only noticed he hadn’t finished his thought when he fell back on the floor as if struck by a blow. He was pale and his usually haughty eyes were now saucer wide. He was on his backside and elbows, and was absently kicking his legs as if to get away from the passage’s dead-end wall he was reading moments ago. His jaw was open wide and quivering in a disturbing sort of way.

He was trying to mouth a word, the name of the brutal character that would have his tomb set in this queer and forbidden place. I remember hoping he wouldn’t say it. I didn’t want to hear or know the name and I didn’t know why. I nearly leapt to clasp my hands about his mouth to keep the name from escaping his lips, but I found my feet were immobile in fear. The stone that sealed the passage had become transparent and quickly dissolved in an oily, gray vapor that fell away to reveal a terrifying and ghostly apparition.

“Ringnifeld Malkedesh,” a hollow voice sucked the air from our lungs and froze our blood, “betrayed and murdered assistant of the late Krohnight Malkedesh, this weak apprentice’s great-great grandfather.”

The robed phantom shot a boney finger at Krisnight’s trembling form to punctuate his declaration.

“It is I that drove you here, fool, so that I might have my revenge!”

[Klazzform]

December 2010 Competition Entries
Topic - Write a Short Story Based On One of Your Favorite DNDOG Games
Winner - The Rescue of Prince Lorvado by Aeternis

 

The Assassin’s Riot by Simon “Vitus” Hild[3,284 Words]

Simeon Ragnhild, Bard Chronicler
“Before the occupation, all of Crystal Loch looked forward to Festival at the winter and summer solstices. The carnival atmosphere can be felt in the air a full week before the actual event. Festival was also a time of new faces and people from far and wide who take this time to reacquaint themselves with old friends, and new business partners. Festival was when new friends and lovers made promises, when masters welcomed a new apprentice, and when strangers could become good friends.

“The Bringers of the Dawn would hold a great ceremony under the magnificent House Tay'Leen Dome whose height makes one believe the structure is painted on the sky. The Lords of Trade would display their rarest wares which could be brought from places as far as Thalassa's Craig on the southern cape and even the island of Domijaka on the Reef Sea far to the east. Of course the Artisans will not be overshadowed by talent abroad and show their finest crafts of textiles and woodworking while holding competitions in performance and wine tasting as well. The Skye Gardens would come alive with athletic competition and musical recitals. Jugglers and stilt walkers carried flowers for children. House Virish held challenges in wrestling and fisted duels, whilst the Vigil, their house guard that served to enforce law throughout the city, would give its finest military parade. The Keepers of the Loch bestowed their blessing in their great stone circle on Loch Bluff overlooking the water. They traditionally would ask for another six months of peace on the Loch and the mountain, but then peace has always been a tenuous, relative term in the workings of our the city.

“Though all of this grand display was to be expected twice a year and there would certainly be surprises and delights as with other Festivals, this one had a most decidedly different flavor. Natalia of House Tay'Leen would officially take her seat as Regent of the Grand Assembly, thereby replacing her father as the final word in decisions made by the representatives from the Five Houses and the Five Orders. Clearly stated in the by-laws of House Tay'Leen there is an order that were a Regent whose House was elected by the Assembly to meet his demise or be otherwise deemed unfit, a member of his direct family would take his or her place. This regulation along with an untimely riding accident brought Crystal Loch face to face with its new Regent who was a girl of no more than 23 years old.”

Saffy Malkedesh, Tour Guide and Gossip
“Known only for her ambition and her precise riposte both in fencing and debate, Natalia was even scandalized by rumors of a plot hatched to murder her own father! However, it was only a fad, anyone truly connected knew that she loved her father deeply, and there were others who had more to gain from Lyon Tay'Leen's violent fall. Still, these weren't the thoughts that lingered in the minds of those who had toiled for six long months to live and enjoy this beautiful city on an enchanting lake. No! The mood was universally celebratory, if a bit cautious about these new events.

“The diplomats from the Empire of Wes-Kha, who were in the city in order to accompany the Shah, found they could not resist the infectious music that echoed through the brick, stone and paved streets. Of course, anyone's house might explode into a party of wine and song at any time of day or night in the week preceding Festival. Dignitaries they were, but they were also in Crystal Loch to sell an idea, and any salesman knows that it is best to enjoy the customer's company if the sale will be a hard one; their proposal was not an easy one to sell. They wanted to negotiate for Crystal Loch to become a vassal to the Wes-Kha Empire. So it was with some abandon that these men of the highest respectability, dressed in their formal turbans and flowing robes, drank winter wine sweetened thickly with the grapes taken after the first frost of winter from hearty mountain vines fed by the impossibly clear waters of Crystal Loch. They spoke endlessly of the beauty of their desert, and the incredible wonder of the resource that sat quietly next to this unique city. For in the desert a man will always know thirst, but Crystal Loch has the magic of never knowing what thirst is at all.”

Shar’Ym, a cutler
“The Wes-Kha Empire covets the technology of the City, the resource of the Loch itself and the pass that we control which leads to the eastern lands on which the Shah’s eyes are greedily set. Crystal Loch has the finest library on the continent in the Archives kept by the Teachers of the Word. The House Orius Observatory is a marvel of lens crafting and engineering, and has revealed the finest star maps any navigator could wish for. The artisans and healers with our thriving trade centerhas made City of Crystal Loch the jewel of civilization in the middle of this vast, dangerous wilderness. The shore of the Loch here nestled near the clouds is our ancestor’s blessing on us. But Crystal Loch is a gateway to the riches in the east, the diplomats had been sent to pick the lock.

“Most citizens of Crystal Loch might agree that there is a magic to our city, but as we say not all that glitters is gold, and not all that is magic brings laughter. We’ve fought hard to keep this land our own and even though we often disagree among ourselves, as a city we are loyal to each other. The noble Houses founded this isolated paradise with the guidance of the Five Orders and we have struggled to nourish our home into the splendor it is today. There were some who would boast in these pre-festival days that Crystal Loch is so covetous of its independence that the City would hold our famous wall even if Shaitan himself beat on the gates.”

Saffy Malkedesh, Guide and Gossip
“The Gathering Dawn's diviners gathered with the Keepers of the Loch to predict the weather would be mild if not perfect for the week to come. All the inns are filled with merchants and merry men. The shops are buzzing with new merchandise and customers from far and wide had a chance to marvel at the industry of the City. Bards and tumblers fill the magnificent Skye Garden playing for money on the paths through meticulously trimmed bushes and lush, flowering trees. They have outdone themselves this time.

“Outside the walls of the City on the Loch various camps and caravans set up the temporary town that sprawls from the southern gate along the crescent shaped, western side of the our beloved, sculpted stone wall all the way to the north entrance. The gates remain open and the Vigil, though decked in ceremonial fig, more than doubled the watch.”

Simeon Ragnhild, Bard Chronicler
“The crush of the crowd was becoming bothersome as the sun was now fully in view and the bells of the Gathering Dawn drew everyone to the intersection between the family compound of the newly elected Regent, House Tay'Leen and the Gathering Dawn pagoda. The center of the street was cleared before a House procession began in full swing. There was much bickering as usual about which House would lead the march, who was to be second and last and so on, but in the end House Lono graciously took up the rear behind House Malkedesh. Typically, House Tay'Leen was the first. Strong mountain ponies, a group of four, pulled a carriage that was elegant but not gaudy where the new Regent of the Grand Assembly Natalia Tay'Leen stood waving to the packed crowd who craned their heads off just to catch her eye. She was flanked on either side by the Vigil's special guard who pledge their very blood to protect the Regent and Assembly members. This followed smoothly into a pike display by a talented squad of Vigil pike women. Their deadly weapons were decorated with bright red tassels that trailed behind them making colorful, synchronized shapes. These blended seamlessly into the levitating mages of House Orius whose spectacular illusions of dragons forming from the ends of the pikes drew the crowd's admiration in “oohs” and “aahs”. A dark cloud followed the illusionists and almost taunted them with foreboding. Soon the cloud thinned to reveal four very clean, but very animated skeletons that darted at adolescents and terrified the crowd only to be stopped by a tall wizard of Malkedesh who chastised the skeletons in a comical way, kicking their boney backsides and making them grovel before their erstwhile victims. The finale was the frightened child being given several rotten tomatoes to throw at the necromantic joker-in-poor-taste. This is the strange sense of family humor in House Malkedesh. This act was followed by huge headed, flamboyant costumes worn by the artisans of House Lono. The heads and costumes were decorated in brightly dyed yak hair cloth and accompanied by the musicians and bards of the Artisans. Then their baton and flag twirlers gave entrance to music that was nearly hypnotic. The Artisans and their House Lono patrons gave the grand finale with a great crescendo of music ending in thundering drums and crashing cymbals.

“A lone trumpet then called out several long, low notes. Quickly the entire mass of people was hushed into silence. A powerful voice echoed from the dais and traveled up the constructed amphitheater that stood before the great manor compound of House Tay'Leen. A strong female voice reached over the heads of the suddenly well behaved, ‘Let us bow our heads a moment citizens and visitors in honor of the fallen.’”

Saffy Malkedesh, Guide and Gossip
“The call was made! The largest bells rang out from the Gathering Dawn's temple pagoda. The bright colors of the flowered grounds complemented those draping across the intersection of roads. In front of House Tay'Leen's great dome a large stage had been built. Around the square every hawker was vying for position for when the call was made people would crush in to witness a young Tay'Leen girl be given the highest seat in the Grand Assembly. She was known to be shrewd and intelligent beyond her years, which doesn’t begin to mention her radiant beauty. The Dawn bells were followed by criers with trumpets that were placed along the streets rolling out the call to citizen and visitor alike.

“The small street that passed House Tay'Leen was packed with House Guard and Vigil soldiers. They kept the entrance to the main stage and dais thereon under close watch. Many people in the crowds dropped what they were doing and headed for the main square where Craft, Market, Garden and Bluff Street all met in the northern end of town. This political announcement was all the more important because the Shah of Wes-Kha himself was to be there to see it happen. The talk of the town is rumor of romance between the Shah, who hasn’t taken a wife, and the Regent, but who believes such things?

“Most of the crowd was trying to make their way to the lavishly decorated square in front of the Gathering Dawn Pagoda across from which was the House Tay'Leen Dome and estate. The stage was tall. The lowest platform was 10' high. Further back on the stage was a raised dais upon which Natalia Tay'Leen was at the center. The Tay'Leen House Guards and Vigil sentries lined the walkways leading off the stage to either side. House Tay'Leen family members were given bleachers to sit on fanning out to either side of the stage. The rest of the crowd spilled in from all avenues, balconies, rooftops, treetops and rain gutters. The constructed amphitheater didn’t begin to hold all the people in the street. A sea of faces watched the representatives from each House and each Order stand while Natalia was bid to sit in the center of them. This symbolized her expected role as moderator among the powers of Crystal Loch's officials. Many prominent merchants and city benefactors were also in attendance but the Shah was the one stealing the scene. With the great honors heaped upon him from bands, showmen and another brief House Virish sword exhibition, the Shah of Wes-Kha stepped forward to shake the Tay'Leen Regent's hand as the First Diplomat for Crystal Loch it would now be her duty to be the face and voice of Crystal Loch outside her walls. That's when everything went a little sideways.

“By this time in the program there was a god-awful mess of people on the stage and dais alike. Many were craning their necks to see this momentous occasion. They wanted to tell their children of being on the dais with the Shah of Wes-Kha, so there were artists on balconies feverishly making pencil sketches on canvas to capture the moment and Bard Chroniclers scribbling notes for future poems of epic proportions. This was the unfortunate circumstance that so many people were watching, but so little was seen until it was too late.”


Pikeman Hubar Virish
“From among the crowd a figure dressed as a diplomat immerged and moved swiftly to the Shah's side. The Shah saw the man approach him but didn’t move away. Two of the special guard had been on point and moving toward the would-be assailant even as he approached the Shah casually. As if motivated by lightening the suspicious man drew a weapon from thin air and lunged at the Shah who threw up his arm in defense. The Vigil guards lunged for the man even as he made his attack but his work on earth was finished. His dead hand slipped from the knife that still dwelt in the Shah's forearm that was held high in his defensive position for everyone to see. The assassination attempt failed, and the perpetrator was dead at the Shah’s feet.
“Chaos ensued. People ran in every direction. The Shah was furious and shouting at anyone and everyone who listened around him. He was quickly hustled back into the Tay'Leen compound surrounded by three clerics and at least a dozen men. This once in a life time event then turned into a genuine riot. In the crowd there were supporters of the Shah and many merchants from Wes-Kha who were insulted that the people of Crystal Loch allowed such a thing to happen in their city. The crowd turned ugly out of fear and anger. The Shah hadn’t been killed, but proper hospitality it wasn’t. The Shah’s entourage and some say outside agitators stirred the crowd in defense of a badly treated guest.”


Simeon Ragnhild, Bard Chronicler
“The Assassin Riot, as it would later be known, was something that would go down in Crystal Loch legend and lore. Had it just been between the citizens of Crystal Loch and those who loved their Shah, peace surely would have prevailed. Sounder heads were already making emends when the real chaos broke.

“Later reports would say that the kobold plague that launched from the sewers and the Loch's ingenious underground infrastructure and had been building for years unbeknownst to the general populace. The collective mass of people had driven the amassed kobold vermin into their swarming frenzy. The Vigil were on the scene in force by the time the gibbering man-rats appeared out of rain gutters and outhouse holes, but their attack was so unexpected and from every direction that when all was said and done the main streets of the North End looked as if they had suffered a tornado.”

Shar'Ym a Cutler
“It seemed as though they were being washed out of the drains and sewer like a filthy tide, so many poured forth! I locked my shop but found it sacked and destroyed. The event nearly ruined me!
“The Vigil had their hands full with an investigation into the attempted assassination. They had the body of the assassin, to be sure, but they were keen to get to the bottom of the plot. The Kobold Swarm threw that investigation into a spiral of ineptitude, or so some would claim at the taverns. The Vigil was spread pretty thin if you ask me, but there were plenty of House Tay'Leen's guard on hand. Still they had to put down a full scale, nearly city-wide riot, stamp out a sudden plague of kobolds, and gather vital information about the attempted assassination of the Shah of Wes-Kha! Needless to say they were challenged and were it not for a peculiar display that was scheduled for the Shah's delight; another story of Crystal Loch's demise would never have been told.

“That rogue alchemist called Hunter was to give an exhibition of a grand nature. We didn’t know the oil lamps that normally light the streets around House Tay’Leen Square were changed before Festival. No longer did they hold oil but curious glass bottles containing a rare gas of Hunter's own concoction. Some have said that the mad Alchemist was furious at the sight of the kobolds over-running his audience, or maybe his show was being trumped by catastrophe. Whatever, what was seen is not in question. The origin of his seething hatred for kobolds may yet be debated.”

Pikeman Hubar Virish
“I knew the Doc was gettin' ready for a big ole show. He was real excited the whole day and kept running in and out his little portable outhouse that he called his "control booth". I was told to watch the booth and let no one enter. As I understand, it was not an outhouse, as many were inclined to assume. I spent the day shooing pedestrians away as the alchemist bustled from one lamp post to another. He sure was dressed funny in what looked to me like a bathrobe that he wore open, a top hat with a large peacock feather and spectacles that were blacked as if by soot. Anyways, when the Alchemist, that's Hunter or the Doc we call `im, was just about ready to go on and show the Shah and everybody his big discovery that he wouldn't shut up about, that's when the Kobold Swarm started. The Doc jumped up and down and said some things I can't repeat and some that would be considered treasonous if you ignored circumstance. He was screamin' his head off and was wild eyed when he pulled a big knife outa his belt. Then he just stormed out into the middle of `em. Damndest thing I ever saw. Them kobolds parted in front of him like he was some kind of Lizard King. Yessir. That's when he let loose his lightning. And I ain't ashamed to say that I was looking at his ‘control booth’ wishin' it WAS an outhouse when he did it. Sir, I was scared, no question. But them kobolds, they got what's comin' to `em and howdy.”

Simeon Ragnhild, Bard Chronicler
“All who were there that day witnessed the same thing. The sea of kobolds was parted not by a mad-man in a feathered top hat (though he was indeed there), but by the great bolts of lightning that shot forth from one lamp post to another as if on a chain. With a great iron wand in one hand and a huge, sharp hunting knife in the other, the disgraced Malkedesh alchemist broke the back of the kobold swarm and drove those that were not incinerated back to the Tarterus hell whence they came!”

Based on the game The Crystal Loch Contention

 

The Birth of Death by Peter 172[3,090 Words]

The summer breeze rustled the deep green leaves of the trees overhead. They seemed black on the backdrop of the brilliant night sky, and the scent of damp moss pervaded air. Rothus reached down and touched the smooth shaft of an arrow, running his fingers up over the springy fletchings. He nocked, pulled back and loosed in one smooth motion and the bow gave a soft twang as the arrow streaked across the verdant meadow and sank deep into the flesh of his target, a young buck. The animal dropped as if pole-axed to the ground with a thud and the cracking of fallen branches.

A smile formed on the hunters lips, this would feed him for weeks. And the skin, antlers and bone would prove useful in the days ahead. He stood and strode across the meadow with a gait that spoke of confidence. His head turned from side to side as he went, scanning the woods for signs that the kill had been overheard.

Rothus was hunting on someone else's land, and that was why he hunted by night. A difficult proposition for most, but he had found much practice over the years. His chosen hunting ground was owned by a local baron, who frowned upon anyone killing his precious game. He lived on the outskirts of civilization, close enough so that he could still enjoy the comforts a city provided, yet far enough away that he could live free of the tax-man.

Rothus bent to clean and dress his kill, working by the moonlight. He made quick work of it with a practiced hand and a steady pace, then carried it over to a tree to hang.

As he strung up the carcass he heard a soft rustle of leaves behind him and he turned, his blade springing into his hand. It was too late though. A massive cat of some kind was hurtling through the air, and as he watched in shock, it slammed into him and bore him down. He managed to spin around as he fell, so that he landed on his belly on the damp ground. The air whooshed out of his lungs and he screamed as he felt feline claws tear into his flesh. He scrabbled at the ground, trying desperately to get away from the agony in a blind rush for survival, but the beast was too strong and he faltered. Teeth, sharp as daggers clamped down on the back of his neck. The pain and shock took him to the brink of unconsciousness, and the only thing that prevented that was a massive surge of adrenaline that allowed him to somehow pull away from the terrible fangs. It didn't last more than a second though, then the fangs were back.

Rothus felt his life vanish in an instant. On minute there was nothing but agony, the next he was gone. The last thing he remembered was feeling extremely relieved.

He awoke...And suddenly felt an excruciating thirst. A thirst like none he had ever known in all his days. He turned over and looked up at the sky...And the sight was astounding. Millions of twinkling light blazed in the sky and the light was almost unbearable. He he looked over to the tree where the panther was currently trying to get at his buck, and knew instinctively how to quench that insatiable thirst.

He scrabbled up to his feet and gathered speed as he raced towards the tree, and kept on going in a desperate climb towards his prey. The fangs of the the former victim sank into the great hunting beast and Rothus felt a joy he had never experienced in his mortal life. Hot sweet blood filled his mouth and he gulped it down greedily, but all too soon the flow slowed, and Rothus found himself sucking as hard as he could, trying to get more of the smooth crimson fluid out....Then he began to wretch in disgust. The heart of the cat had stopped beating and the blood had gone sour. Rothus Howled into the night in frustration, and birds took to wing in the night sky, rustling the trees as they took wing.

The thirst came back, almost as strong as before, and his mind worked furiously, trying to think of a way to get more blood. He struggled for a moment to get his sense of panic under control, then it struck him. The town. he had the presence of mind to gather up his bow, and as an afterthought, he sheathed his sword. The bow will help bring them down. he thought absently as he fingered the hilt of the massive sword at his hip. It was a comfort to have it there, like an old friend. He had killed before with it, a couple of the Barons men had tried to waylay him on one of his hunting excursions, and had confronted him, but he drew and set upon them before they could discover the evidence of his poaching and had later buried the bodies deep in the woods, where no one would ever find them.

The thirst pulled him back from his reverie, and he set off at a fast run, a very fast run indeed he realized as his legs ate the distance with ease. He didn't get out of breath as he used to because, he realized, he no longer needed to breathe.

There were people on the outskirts of town that he could pick off surreptitiously, he knew. And the bodies would be easy enough to dispose of, but as he got closer, his thirst grew and he cared less and less about such trivialities.

He saw some people milling about outside of the town and he redoubled his speed, then stopped short. There were too many of them, and while he had newfound strength, he hadn't tested the limits of it yet and his instinct for caution kicked in. He pulled out his bow and aimed it at one particularly large man, a man that seemed like he held enough blood to satisfy any vampires thirst, and a man that was far enough away from the others that he might not be missed. Rothus loosed in the same smooth way he had all his adult hunting life and the arrow found its mark. The shaft struck the man in the thigh and Rothus moved fast. He darted in and clasped a hand to the victims mouth to drag him off...but something was wrong, he realized as he bent to drink. The man was still writhing and trying to moan, but not in pain. Rothus recoiled then as he caught a good look at the thing he had captured. Its eyes were a milky yellow and its skin an unnatural shade of white. Rothus released it and scrambled back in horror. He hadn't bothered to smell the air, and in truth had almost forgot how, but he used the sense now and smelled death. The creature that was once a man looked at him with those cold dead eyes and moaned loudly. The other people looked up as one and moaned back as they came.

The came on at a run as they caught sight of Rothus, he drew his blade and began to backpedal, but his foot caught on a tree branch and he went down. He saw the lifeless eyes towering over him as they came, their mouths working in mindless hunger. Then they stopped a few feet short. Their mouths closed slowly and they turned and began milling about once more. They must have realized that I am not fresh meat, Rothus thought as he climbed to his feet and brushed the dirt off of his clothing.

Rothus wandered though the town and found more of the creatures he realized were zombies, until he came to Mullvers Tavern. It was a place of respite and comfort for him in his past life and he needed a little comfort now. He entered to find the owner and proprietor Mullver Owens seated at the bar, staring solemnly at a corpse slumped over the stool next to him. He looked up with insane hunger in his eyes and bared his fangs. Rothus did likewise, then they both relaxed as they realized there was no living blood in either of them to slake the thirst.

"I would say good day Mullver, but it has not been such for me," Rothus said to the big rotund vampire at the bar.

"I see you have been afflicted with the same curse as I Rothus," Mullver said.

"Afflicted?...Or gifted old man?" Rothus mused aloud.

"Nay, afflicted. I managed to have one drink before all the town...changed." He looked longingly at the woman, his former waitress Marie, who's corpse hung limply over the stool. "And I have not seen anyone alive since. Are you as thirsty as I?"

"I am thirstier, of that I can assure you. I fed on an animal...but the satisfaction was a fleeting thing." Rothus leaned closer. "Tell me, what was human blood like?" Rothus asked with a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

"It was as if all the gods had come together to create the most wonderful liquid imaginable, and succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Bliss, utter bliss," Mullver said with a wistful tone and a far off expression of fond remembrance.

"I knew it would be," Rothus said as his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. He drew and struck in a single move, enhanced by his new-found preternatural grace. Mullvers head came off cleanly, and the sword cut back, slashing open his belly. Rothus dove head first into the opening and sucked in a mouthful of the precious human blood that lay within...and he retched, convulsing in horror at the putrid, stale taste of it.

He had known that would be the case, but he had to try anyways. In any case, Mullver had confirmed what he had suspected. He needed to find the living, and feed off of them. Humans preferably, but any would do.

He left the village then, and headed off to the gods know where, but as he went the thirst wracked his body, and he dreamed a dream of gently flowing crimson rivers, he would swim in it, and fill himself with it, he only needed to find it...

"Welcome," said the leering visage of decayed putrescence that loomed over Rothus, another vampire and a trio of ghouls that stood before the throne of a being of immense power and influence in the new and horrifying world of death. It was a litch, withered and ancient, the very air around it humming with the power of a countless years of dark magic, "as you may have learned, I am the one you have to thank for your new immortality. The powers I have called into being on the world are the product of a thousand years of research. I had planned to turn the whole planet into the undead, though for some unfathomable reason, a few of the living remain..." the litch frowned, and his leathery cheeks creaked. Rothus found his tongue roving over his fangs at the words, mortals, alive! The prospect meant he may finally be able to slake his insatiable thirst.

"This is obviously a problem," the litch continued, "but for more reasons than you know. I planned to bridge a connection with the negative plane, and the energy would feed us forever. That bridge can never be complete until all mortal life is at an end. Go forth, find them, kill them, and peace will finally rein for eternity on this, the world of the dead," the litch finished the speech with a dismissive wave of his hand and another litch, a lesser of his kind lead them out and showed them the last known location of the few survivors.

The journey across the great expanse of frozen tundra would have been a trying one for any but the walking dead, but Rothus and his companions, Leciticus an elder vampire of stoic disposition, and three ghouls, Threll, Grench, and Safren, all who seemed too focused on being slobbering monsters to be much for conversation.

The elder vampire fascinated Rothus however, as he had apparently been one of the walking dead long before the great change, if he was to be believed.

"Leciticus," Rothus said at last, after many miles of steady jogging, "do you believe the Lich Lord? That we will all be free of the thirst when we are rid of the living?" he said as his feet pounded on, not missing a beat.

"Aye, I believe brother. Drathalamus is ancient and wise, and if he says it will be so, it will," the grim faced vampire said.

"There is only one thing that bothers me about that," Rothus replied, "he is so ancient and wise, yet he allowed them to live in the first place. Is that not a mistake?"

Leciticus smiled in reply, "he just transformed most of the world into undead in less time that it takes us to kill one mortal, is that not enough? Everyone makes mistakes sometimes Rothus, just focus on the mission, accomplish what is set before us, and you'll be pleased. Most pleased."

Rothus nodded and was about to say something else when he smelled something. Blood, fresh and warm, and only a mile or so away. His fangs dropped down of their own accord and he saw that Leciticus' had done so as well. The three ghouls behind them started to make keening noises before Rothus and Leciticus snarled back at them in unison to keep quiet.

The group pulled up short, looking around the campsite at the forms that moved about so tantalizingly close, and it was all the vampires could do to keep the ghouls from attacking immediately.

"Let the ghouls go in and provide a distraction, while we move to a flanking position," Rothus whispered to his brother of the night.

"My thoughts exactly," came a reply in Rothus' mind, as Leciticus waved them forth.

Rothus raised an eyebrow as the ghouls rushed forwards, then he and Leciticus rushed off around to the other side of camp.

The sounds of the ghouls, and the defenders wild, panicked cries greeted the vampires ears like a long lost friend. Their glee was short lived however, as the cries of the ghouls turned from hunger and fury, into death screams. Rothus and Leciticus stopped cold, looking at each other with puzzled expressions.

"They couldn't have been killed that fast!" Rothus hissed in astonishment, then realized it must be so as soon as the words left his mouth.

"There can only be one reason for that brother," Leciticus reasoned, "weapons of holy power have somehow survived the change of the world along with their wielders."

Rothus looked at his brother of the night in horror, he had heard tales of the excruciating agony that the weapons and holy symbols of the mortals could inflict on one such as himself, and he had no wish to experience them first hand...but the thought of returning to the realm of the Lich Lord without a claim to victory would be far, far worse. He knew that for a fact.

Suddenly Rothus looked up and said with a growing look of excitement, "I have a plan."

The people of the camp watched in horror as a lone figure strode down towards their camp without a hint of worry, or any sign of loosing control like the last series of attackers had.

"Stop foul creature of the night, in the name of Minara I command thee!" a man shouted up to Leciticus as he strode forward, then came to a stop, a few dozen paces away.

"I am sent as an emissary to Lord Drathalamus, the ancient and wise. You are all to be granted clemency and safe passage, should you return with us. I apologize for the affront our traveling companions perpetrated upon you all. Ghouls are so hard to control you see," he said with a smooth, steady cadence, infusing the words with the mind twisting power of his nature, but the man merely shrugged it off and came hurtling towards the vampire with his holy weapon blazing a brilliant white in the moonlight. The light blinded Leciticus and he held up an arm to shield his eyes.

The came a great rumbling sound from the side of the mountain the camp was situated by, and the man's steps faltered.

Rothus had climbed with a swiftness he never thought possible, spurred on by a tremendous feeling of hope. Hope for his new kin, for a new world that would live in peace for all eternity. No more suffering and bloodshed, no more hunger and pain, a world of eternal bliss and joy. It gave him strength beyond any he had known, and when he reached the summit he had spotted earlier he almost called out in joy. But that would never do, surprise was key and he needed to succeed, for the good of the world, and of course for himself. He found what he was looking for quickly, a boulder that would take twenty men to lift and set to work pushing it towards the edge with his superhuman strength, aided by the icy surface beneath and by bracing his legs against the cliff face.

The boulder tumbled over the edge and he looked down with joy at the sight as the mass of snow and ice on the side of the mountain joined it, gathering momentum as it went and thundering through the night towards the little camp below. He though little of putting his friend Leciticus in harms way, since he would likely survive the incident, but the truth was he didn't really care if he did or not, just as long as the wretched mortals all perished.

Rothus waited after the impact with the camp expectantly, then felt something. It grew stronger over the next few minutes, and a warmth like none he had ever know flowed through his body. More than mere warm blood, and more peaceful than any ale or spirit had ever made him feel. The pure negative energy rushed into him in a steady stream and he felt wonderful. He went down the mountain with a smile on his face and a spring in his step to go and dig his friend out of the snow.

~The end

Based on The Shadows of Zan'hadun

 

The Rescue of Prince Lorvado by Aeternis[2,978 Words]

The guards at the palace’s Garden Gate entrance were among Turvad’s elite soldiers, picked and dressed to make common folk of the city fear them. The three soldiers were to a man large, imposing, muscular, well-armed and armored. Still, they were no match for a single royal bodyguard. They were dispatched in seconds: silently, coldly. Weylin’s plan did not involve use of the Garden Gate, but Dovan had been ordered to cause a distraction. A mob of the city’s unfortunates crowding the west palace grounds would make an apt one.

Dovan did what he could to hide the bodies, then tapped the signal crystal secured to his wrist three times. Not far away, the criers he’d paid off would be gearing up to promise food and good spirits from “benevolent king” Turvad’s own larder. The signal would also set the rest of Weylin’s plan in motion. He gave the criers thirty seconds to get going, then started cranking the winch that opened the gate.

The fourth guard found him then, but his cry of alarm died as prematurely as he did, thrown knife piercing his windpipe. Dovan hurried to finish opening the gate, and made his way inside the grounds. ”According to plan, so far.”

Lorvado, Prince of Partheos and tenth child of King Varso, was never an imposing figure, but a year’s isolation, malnourishment, and constant darkness had turned him into a pitiable sight. Emaciated, pale, white-haired, he looked far older than his thirty years of age. His eyes, though, still reflected the cunning and quick intellect that had served him so well in better days.

Weylin snapped the scrying locket closed, and the image of her younger brother vanished. Soon she’d be getting him out. That, or joining him in the palace dungeon. Either way, she resolved, soon her conscience would be clear.

“Princess?” Gald queried as Weylin looked up. The light slanting in from the mouth of the drainpipe cast Gald’s concerned expression in ghoulish shadows. ”Dovan just signaled.” Gald and Dovan were Weylin’s secret weapons - they were the last two members of the royal bodyguard elite, at least, the last two Weylin could find. Even with their help, though, the whole thing was a gamble at best.

”He’s still there.” Weylin confirmed. ”Let’s go.” She’d checked to make sure Turvad hadn’t moved her brother since the plan was laid down.

”Princess, you don’t need to be a part of this. We can do it without risking you.” As he said this, Gald returned Dovan’s signal, tapping three times on the signal crystal he carried.

”Yes I know, but I have to be there, Gald.” Gald would obey her orders, but he didn’t like it. He did not understand that Lorvado wouldn’t trust anyone else, after the events of recent years.

“Of course, your majesty.” Gald sighed resignedly, and started walking the short distance to the drain’s mouth, and the ten-foot drop to the river.

Weylin wished things weren’t so desperate. Gald was a family man now, but she still needed him for this. She’d already decided to release him from service after her brother was liberated. With a gesture, Weylin got the rest of the group moving inwards and upwards.

Behind them, Weylin heard the splash of Gald diving into the river.

Malos, walking at the head of Weylin’s group, stopped in front of the covering grate for one of the tributary drains. ”All right, this is the one,” the infiltrator whispered. For clarity, he wiped clean the wrought royal emblem stamped on the grate’s widest bar.
Weylin nodded to Bodi. ”Quietly, now.” She muttered, though surely Bodi knew that a loud noise now might rouse attention to their venture.

Bodi stood, eyes closed in the flickering light of the group’s only torch, in front of the grate for a moment and then reached out and touched it. The metal crumbled into reddish dust at her touch, and in mere seconds the grate was no longer an obstacle. ”Rust is always quiet, highness.” Bodi did not smile, but her soft voice held a hint of levity, as it almost always did.

The tunnel led upward steeply, but it was wide enough for crawling. Weylin didn’t relish the thought of that climb, but knew it was the best way in, and would bet Turvad did not know of it. Malos, torch in hand, led the way, followed by Hanna, then Bodi, then Weylin herself. At least it was dry, she reflected as she climbed. Though it emptied into the drainage tunnels, this was not in reality a drain, but an escape chute.

The climb seemed interminable, especially with the need for silence, but it was probably less than two minutes before Malos stopped. Weylin didn’t speak. She knew that the tunnel crossed mere feet under inhabited parts of the palace.

Malos tapped his signal crystal twice, and the four waited.

Gald hated climbing, even when borrowed magic made it easy. After all, he was at the mercy of the man who’d sold the spiderweb charm now hanging around his neck. What if the magic malfunctioned? He’d fall the hundred-odd feet he’d already climbed, back into the river. Ten stories up, though, the water would be little better than stone to arrest his fall..

Gald knew the height of the palace grounds wall by heart and had climbed it once before - one hundred twenty-three feet to the walkway, another three above that to the top of the parapet. Even so, this time, it felt much higher - and this time, the guards patrolling the walkway would kill him on sight.

At one hundred twenty feet, Gald stopped, listening. He timed the footfalls of the lookouts, found the gap in the patrols. He let the gap pass once, twice, to ensure it wasn’t changing, and on the third opportunity, skittered up the last six feet, and over the wall. Rather than stay on the exposed walkway, he kept going, climbing face-first down the inside of the wall. No cry of alarm sounded. Gald sighed quietly in relief. The next step was strictly riskier, but more within his comfort zone. HIs memory of the palace charted a course from his position to the theater cloakroom, where he’d let Weylin in.

The sound of a rowdy crowd from the other side of the complex suddenly reached his notice. Dovan’s work, Gald guessed. As he started moving, his crystal vibrated twice. The others were faster than he’d anticipated. Nothing to worry about... yet.

Dovan used the last of his knockout gas on the fourth patrol in the palace. There were more soldiers inside than he’d expected, in hindsight, he should have anticipated that sort of thing from a ruler as paranoid and suspicious as Turvad. As he dragged the unconscious men into the nearest unoccupied room and bound them securely, he shook his head. “Clearing a path” as planned from Weylin’s entrance point to the cells wasn’t going to work. Turvad’s patrol scheme was far more elaborate than Weylin had guessed, and Dovan didn’t have enough time to work it out. He would just have to deal with as many guards as possible without raising alarm.

His signal crystal vibrated twice. Weylin was about to enter the palace. He went in search of another patrol, this time sword in hand. He knew the next one would be messy.

A creaking noise and a sudden light let Weylin know that the door over the tunnel was open. The group began moving again, and soon they were all standing in the cloakroom adjacent to the palace’s theater with Gald. As they let their eyes adjust to the palace lighting, Weylin’s mind flashed back to better days. She remembered sitting in the theater beyond that door, surrounded by her siblings, watching the best actors in the kingdom reenact the heroics of old. She never thought she’d be sneaking into this place, hiding from the palace guards. Then her father had been murdered, and things had fallen apart.

”Highness,are you ready?” Malos whispered, and Weylin started back to reality.

”Yes. Keotil’s favor on us. Gald, lead on.” Weylin pulled a pair of pronged daggers from their sheaths. She wasn’t much of a fighter, but she wanted to be ready to silence guards, if need be. Her fellow infiltrators likewise drew arms. As quietly as possible, the five headed toward the palace dungeon under the cover of the sounds from the crowd at the west side of the compound.

Lorvado smiled into the darkness, though no-one was watching to see it. The sounds of the crowd above echoed down even to his imprisonment, and he suspected they meant trouble for Turvad. Anything that was trouble for Turvad was worthy of a smile, Lorvado decided - after all, he had little else to smile about in his cell.

As he sat in the dark, and let the faint echoes of the mob wash over him, sweeter in his imprisonment than a cool spring breeze, he heard another sound.

Above from the guard post came the sound of a thump on the wooden floor, almost like a guard had tripped and fallen flat. He’d have mocked the clumsiness of the guards, if he thought his voice would carry that far.

He was surprised and momentarily blinded when the door from the guard post opened. It wasn’t meal time, not yet, at least, he didn’t think so. Maybe Turvad wanted to parade him around as a trophy again, Lorvado thought. He counted feet on the stairs. One pair, moving slowly, lightly, even quietly: not the heavy booted tromping of the usual guard. Odd. Uncertain, Lorvado simply waited quietly for his eyes to adjust.

Weylin stood for a moment, wondering what to say to her brother. She shook her head, though, realizing there wasn’t time for thinking. Lorvado needed to be moving as soon as possible, as it was only a matter of time before their incursion was detected.. As for now, his eyes squinted in the dim light, probably because he rarely saw light at all. He didn’t speak, so she supposed he couldn’t see who it was yet. The key she’d obtained from the guard officer in the room above opened the door to the cell, and she stepped inside before speaking. ”Wow, you look terrible.” Lorvado jumped a little at her voice.

”Weylin?” He blinked several times: his eyes must have been adjusting, because they turned to her face, and he smiled wanly, getting to his feet unsteadily. ”I bet I do.” He embraced his sister in his emaciated arms for a moment.

“Come on, we’ve got to go. How are you?” Weylin stepped back, offering her hand to steady her brother.

”For now, alive.” He steadied himself on the offered arm. ”Sneak or storm?”

Weylin knew what he was asking. It was a reference to a book on tactics they’d read, years ago. ”Sneak.”

”Ah.” Lorvado had probably hoped that his rescue was a part of a greater coup against Turvad. Of course, that would take an army, an army Weylin no longer had.
”Lead on. And Weylin?”

”Yes?” Weylin started leading him by the arm toward the exit.

”I’d hoped you’d left the kingdom, but... Thanks for coming for me.”

Weylin smiled. ”You’d have done the same for me.” She felt a pang of guilt. She had
run, for a while. She’d only decided to come back for him only recently. ”Now, come on.”

She got no argument. Leaning heavily on his sister, Prince Lorvado left his cell for the last time.

Dovan followed another patrol toward the dungeon. The signal crystal had vibrated again, meaning that the others had found the objective. Trouble is, they had a dozen armed men heading right for them. With the help of Gald, that number was little threat, but the chance of raising alarm was unacceptably high. With a likely incapacitated Prince Lorvado in tow, the group could probably not move fast enough to get away and there was obviously only one way in or out of the dungeon.

He decided that it was time to create another distraction. The patrol was making enough noise that he had no trouble sneaking up on their rearmost member and putting a blade through the armored man’s neck. The gurgling death of their compatriot got the attention of the others. Dovan stared them down, smiling, covered in fresh blood, for a long moment. Then he threw his knife past the head of the leader and darted back the way he came. Obviously, they followed, shouting about an intruder all the way. He knew Gald would know what to do.

Malos heard a thud on the door, then shouts of alarm echo down the corridors. ”Great.” He waved to the others. ”Hurry them up. We’re blown.” He peered out of the slightly-ajar guardroom door, and was astonished to see a full patrol clatter by - past the dungeon guard room. ”Well I’ll be.”

”That’ll be Dovan.” Malos jumped - Gald was right behind him, peering through the door, and of course the bodyguard hadn’t made a sound. ”We should hurry.” He widened the opening and extracted a familiar jeweled blade from the wood on the door’s front. Malos guessed this was the source of the thump. "Dovan’s drawing the guards. Let’s go."

Weylin took that moment to return, a haggard-looking Prince Lorvado leaning on her. She heard the shouting immediately. ”We’re done here.” She gestured to the door. ”Lead on.”

”Yes, highness.” Gald handed Dovan’s blade to Lorvado, and shouldered Malos aside, peering through the crevice once more. Assured it was momentarily clear, he opened the door, moving to the hallway and beckoning away from the sounds of shouting.

Dovan, appropriated sword in one hand and one of his knives in the other, staged a fighting retreat toward the crowd. If he could get into the throng, he was as good as free, and the more guards he attracted, the better. Weylin’s escape route was in the other direction. Three guards had died trying to take him down, and the narrow hallway worked to his advantage.

What didn’t was the cross-passageways. He took down the fourth, just as he backed past one of these, and a flash of movement was all the warning he got before a pair of crossbows twanged heavily. One of the bolts missed badly, but the other hit him in the shoulder and knocked him off-balance. The guards closed in.

Gald led the group up and out, toward the hatch they’d used to enter. It wasn’t far, but the distance seemed too great, when each turn was a gamble. This gamble, eventually, they lost. A full half-dozen guards practically ran into them not far from the cloakroom. Stealth abandoned, Gald fought walking backwards, side-by-side with Malos, then also with Hanna as the passages widened, keeping themselves in between the royals and Turvad’ guards. The guards’ numbers fell, then grew as the moving fight picked up more attention, and soon it was all the three could do to keep from being overwhelmed.

Eventually, crossbows joined the swords being used against them. Hanna took a hit in the chest, and went down, and Gald himself took a bolt to the upper arm. Still the group kept moving. A hundred feet to the cloakroom door. Fifty. Twenty. Ten. He thanked Lorr he’d left it open. More crossbow bolts, thankfully wide. The royals were through, then Bodi. Malos and Gald stood abreast in the door.

”On three.” Gald said. ”One.” Parry. Duck. He watched the crossbowmen finish reloading, and hurried his count. ”Two. Three! go!” As one, the pair stepped back, and Gald kicked the door, just as the crossbows fired. One bolt thudded into the thick oak, tip protruding just in front of Gald’s face. The other, though, was slightly too soon. Malos collapsed, a bolt through his lung just below his heart, coughing up blood.

”Malos!” Weylin ran to him. The man struggled to speak, but was unable. It was clear he would not last long.

”Highness, go. Now.” Gald hated to leave Malos, but he was, compared to royalty, expendable. Gald pushed her toward the closed secret exit, near Lorvado. ”Move.” Gald used a wooden coatrack to brace the door, to buy time.

Weylin shook her head, but after a moment obeyed, guiding Lorvado to slide down the round pipe, then following herself. The door shuddered from an impact, but held. Bodi was right behind them. Another impact. The coatrack was beginning to give. Gald counted to three, then dove after his charges, pulling the secret door closed behind him. He hoped none of the guards knew how to open it.

Weylin hit the bottom of the tunnel and landed unceremoniously, but was soon up and assisting Lorvado, who looked exhausted but didn’t complain. Bodi was gesturing to them to hurry. Within seconds, Gald, exiting the tunnel at high speed, hit the ground with a roll, and ran to the front of the shrinking group. They made for the mouth of the drain. If they could just get into the river, they’d have a good chance of escape.

Two dozen guards were waiting at the mouth of the drain, swords at ready. Someone had anticipated their avenue of escape.

Gald shook his head resignedly. He had been trained since childhood to preserve royals, at all costs. ”Well, it’s been fun, highness.” He drew his jeweled blade, tossing it to Weylin. ”You get out of here. I’ll handle this.”

Weylin caught the jeweled weapon blade first, ignoring the mild cuts, and though she wanted to, she didn’t argue. She knew even Gald couldn’t fight this many of Turvad’s soldiers alone and survive. Without looking back, she, Bodi, and her brother turned and headed deeper into the drainage tunnels, as the last of the royal bodyguards died stalling Turvad’s men.

[Klazzform]

January 2011 Competition Entries
Topic - An Evenings Stay at a Wayside Inn
Winner - Three Way Tie - Darkshard; The Jaded; Simon "Vitus" Hild

 

Tick Tock by Peter172[1,923 Words]

I was sitting at the bar in the Pine Leaf inn, enjoying a frosty brew, on a sultry summer night, listening to the only sound in the mostly deserted common room, the tick of the grandfather clock. The place wasn’t exactly what you’d call “Jumpin”, as I was the only one in the place, with the exception of the bartender and proprietor, a lanky, dark haired man of middle age and pallid complexion named Joe, when the ticking suddenly got louder, a lot louder. Joe looked over at the clock with an expression usually reserved for the ticking of a clock on a bomb, or the arrival of a hated relative, possibly the mother in law.

I looked over at the clock that had caused Joe’s pale face to turn white as a swan’s butt, and the pendulum seemed to be moving slower, the ticking became louder as well, until it was all encompassing, cloying the air with its slow, painful ticks.

I found myself growing dizzy, the room began to spin in concentric circles of a myriad colors and I saw a flash of movement as Joe ran from the room. I tried to get up and follow, but my legs gave out and I began to fall face first onto the hardwood floor.

My face hit dirt instead, and I felt a tremendous heat blossoming all around me. I looked up to see I was in a forest, and a wall of flame was hurtling towards me, looming malevolence, like a tidal wave of agonizing doom. I didn’t even have time to wonder about how I came to be in a forest, other than a vague suspicion that I had been drugged, for I was too busy running away from the searing death that was coming to claim my soul. A seed of hope was planted as I noticed the sound of rushing water from somewhere ahead, and it sprouted into a desperate yelp of joy that issued from my throat--without my consent--at the sight of a river. I ran. I ran like the devil was on my heels after I lost a fiddle playing contest and flung myself into the gloriously wet, cold water.

I started to realize that what I thought was my salvation, could soon become my demise as I started to get swept downstream and dragged under by the current, which was immeasurably strong, and uncaring. As I struggled, something bumped into me and I grabbed for it, thinking it was a log, and I would be alright. Then I saw that what I was clinging to was not a log. Glassy eyes peered at me from within the hood of a yellow fisherman’s coat and I pushed off the corpse with a yelp of inarticulate panic and broke into a desperate swim for the far shore. I had taken swimming lessons as a child, but hadn’t really enjoyed it much as an adult—I’m more of a jogger—but I really hoped I was better at it than the poor, waterlogged fisherman.

Then I slammed into something hard and sharp, the breath was pounded from my lungs in a brilliant burst of pure agony and I was sure I had been ripped in half. After a moment or two underwater, I realized to my amazement that I could still move, and my hands scrabbled about feebly, trying desperately to swim back up for a breath of precious air. My hands hit something hard and I grabbed at it, not caring if it was a corpse or not in my desperation, and found it was a rock. That must have been what I smashed into, and the thing that had caused so much misery, was now my salvation as I pulled myself up onto it to lay in a heap, sputtering the water I had inhaled.

After what seemed an eternity, suffering from the convulsive puking, which made the pain in my back seem as fresh as the moment of impact, I was finally able to regain my feet and survey my surroundings with a somewhat clear head. I was in the middle of a river, and the forest, which still blazed, lead up to the side of a mountain I recognized. The Pine Leaf Inn was somewhere atop the mountain, and I had the vague idea that I had to get back there for some reason. It seemed an urgent task, but I couldn’t quite grasp why that would be—other than the fact that I hadn’t finished my beer yet—there seemed to be no other reason to return. Perhaps to murder the guy who had poisoned me? I wasn’t really the vengeful type, so that couldn’t be it, but either way, the need was pressing, I just didn’t know why, so I started to look for a way back.

The river stood between me and the bank, but even if I made it, the fire was still burning hot enough to kill me—that’s if the smoke didn’t do the job first—so I looked downstream and saw that the rock I had hit, was accompanied by several others, that slowed the current down into a placid, slow moving pace that I was sure I could handle, even in my weakened state. I jumped across several rocks, then dove in and swam downstream, fortunately for me, I was correct in my assessment, and found the swim to be quite relaxing compared to my previous foray.

I swam along at an easy pace until I was safely away from the flames, then began to make my way up the mountain, and back to the cabin. I had a few choice words to say to Joe. But as I climbed, I began to wonder why the innkeeper would want to drug and kill me. I had little in the way of valuables in my room, so why me? Perhaps he was just a psychopath that took his thrills where he could find them? But weren’t psychopath’s supposed to enjoy doing the deed themselves, or at least watching gleefully? And it seemed a strange coincidence that the fire had been there at just the right time. Perhaps he had just taken advantage of it, who knows? None of that felt right though, but I would get some answers, one way or another.

And with the last thoughts still tugging at my mind, I reached the door to the inn and opened it gingerly, half expecting someone to blow my head off with a shotgun as I poked it through the door. Nothing happened though, and the same familiar smells of bacon grease and beer, mingled with the far off scent of burnt forest as I padded down the hall, back towards the common room.

Joe stood behind the counter, wiping the spilled beer off with a rag as I entered. He looked up, sensing my presence and his face drained to resemble that of the fisherman’s.

“Hi there Joe, you look surprised to see me. Why?”

“Wh…wh…you shouldn’t…you couldn’t…” he stammered, then dropped the rag and turned to run. I gave chase naturally, and a tremendous surge of adrenaline shot through my body that propelled me forward at a speed I didn’t know I could move at and I dragged him down in a tackle that would have made my father proud.

He squirmed and thrashed, trying to get free, but I had been a reasonably competent member of the wrestling team in high school, and obviously Joe was more of a computer club kind of guy.

“So why did you poison me Joe?” I said in a tone that left little doubt to my intentions.

“Wh, what?!” he said in stunned incomprehension, “it was the clock, its cursed!”

I spocked an eyebrow and said, “Joe, do you really expect me to believe tha…” My voice trailed off as something tickled the back of my brain. There was a reason I came here, but what was it? Joe’s accusation of the clock seemed to spark something…hidden, but I couldn’t seem to remember what.

“All right Joe, let’s say there’s something to your—the clock did it theory—how, and why?”

He looked up at me as if expecting me to cave his head in at any moment, then said, “you came here asking about it man, I told you not to mess around here asking questions, it knows, it knows you came for it. You wouldn’t listen though, and then you just seemed to forget about it. I thought you actually decided to listen to reason, but it must have got to you…you know…the curse. The clock can’t be destroyed, if I take it away, it just keeps coming back…”

The words struck like thunder through my weary brain, lifting the mental fog, and suddenly I remember what it was, why I was here. The clock had been the last gift to the world of a dying witch burning at the stake long ago. She had sent her death curse out and it had found the perfect disguise, an innocent old grandfather clock. The curse affected time itself, stopping when it claimed a victim and somehow transporting them into a situation that caused their death, feeding it and allowing it to keep on doing it eternally, unless it could be stopped, the reason I was here.

I was not a normal boy growing up. There were many strange and inexplicable incidences that occurred, with often disastrous outcomes, and I was the cause. I didn’t mean for those things to happen, and I didn’t even realize it was me doing them until I was a little older, hell, I didn’t even know what it was, but as I grew, I learned to control it, and I became…disciplined in my mind. There are many words for what I can do, but I like to think of it as mind over matter.

The clock ticked louder and now that I was no longer under its influence, I felt the evil radiating form it, promising death while it tried to dull my mind once more. With an explosive effort of will, I partitioned my mind, cut it off from the force trying to invade my thoughts, but I felt it redouble its efforts and I felt the veins in my forehead throb as I poured more of my will into the defense, then sent tendrils of pure mental energy coursing out towards the cursed thing. The ticking came louder and louder, until it shook the room and sent glasses tumbling to the floor to burst in a staccato rhythm, and Joe was off and running once more.

A chair flew into the air and came hurtling at my head, and if I hadn’t partitioned my mind, I wouldn’t have even noticed until in crushed my skull, but I was of two minds now, and the physical attacks would be seen with one, while the other fought to keep the mental bombardment at bay.

I lifted a hand towards the chair and called forth an invisible shield of force into being. The chair slammed against it, hard enough to make me stagger, and then sent the tendrils forth to wrap around the clock. The ticking quieted down, then stopped all together. I forced more will into the tendrils, and the clock snapped in two from the strain. I allowed myself a sigh of relief as the strain was lifted from my mind and slumped to the floor, weary, but victorious.

The End

 

A Riverside Inn by Darkshard[2,997 Words]

Thadian touched the tip of his finger once again to the crystal cogs. They glistened in the watery sunlight. He was sure that he had assembled the pieces correctly, yet they did not seem to fit together as the inscriptions on the wall carvings had indicated.

The timepiece lay in his hand, inert and still. At last he put it away, a puzzle for another time. “More wine!” he called out, and the barmaid bustled in.

He hated being here. He longed for the comfort of the Tower, it’s high walls and lofty spaces. Above all he longed for the enlightened and intelligent conversation. His quest for the Orrery had led him far from his home. He had forgotten the vile world without, the world he had known in his boyhood. The people in this riverside town were at once ignorant and hateful. They knew nothing of gentle behaviour, they had no manners and they -

“More wine!” he repeated, bawling, and the serving wench hurried over.

“Sorry, sir...” she said, in that lackwit drawl that was so common in this part of the world.

“Just pour it!” he snapped. She did so, barely spilling it but spilling it nonetheless, then hurried on towards her next customer.

He drank it. It was a poor vintage, but it sufficient to drown his wits and sorrows so that he did not mull too much on the unfairness of it all. If he hadn’t opened the book, he wouldn’t have been sent to the library, and thus wouldn’t have ended up on this gods-forsaken venture into the uncivilised wilderness. Such were the rewards of excessive curiosity.

“You’re not still grumpy?” a voice asked. Thadian did not bother to look up.

“Oh. It’s you,” he muttered.

Without warning the woman moved swiftly into a seat opposite him. He glared at her, but she seemed indifferent to his hostility.

“It’s like this,” she declared to him airily, setting one boot and then another on the table. “You paid us to take you to the dwarven ruins. We did that, and you got what you wanted. We didn’t sign up for more tombs.”

“What does the knight want?” he demanded, suddenly angry. Hadn’t they been through this? More money, that was what she wanted. It was always the same with these slum dwellers. Coin was all that mattered to them.

“Oh, he’ll do whatever the Tower asks of him,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Even he’s wanting to take his cut and run, though.”

“What do you want?” Thadian demanded. “More money? Fine!” he snapped. “More money it is.” It wasn’t as if the Tower would not cover whatever she asked.

She stared at him with flat black eyes. He stared back at her, defiant and angry. Well, that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Why was she acting hurt?

“What I want,” she said, standing, “is to not have to look after some... fat idiot who’s sulking because he’s not in his precious tower.” With that she rose and stalked off, shoving her chair in roughly on the way out.

“...I’m not fat!” Thadian yelled after her. It was only once she’d gone that he realised, to his utter humiliation, that that had been the best he could come up with. Well. He’d have to get more drunk if he wanted to forget it, that was all.

*

“...Come on, sir,” Thessa said. It was late, and most of the other patrons had gone upstairs. The magician was leaning his full weight on her, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage him up the stairs. If she tilted her body weight so that she could rest on the wall... there. “Best you sleep it off, sir.”

“What would you know?” he demanded drunkenly, and belligerently.

“I’m a barmaid, sir,” she replied evenly. “I’m very familiar with this particular affliction.” She cursed inwardly at her own sharp tongue. “I mean, I know you’ll feel better in the morning,” she corrected hastily.

“No, I won’t!” he complained, with all of the aggrieved nature of the drunk. “I’ll be just as miserable as I am now... Except I’ll be sober!” He had a point, she had to admit.

“...Woman trouble, is it, sir?” she asked lightly, trying to steer him up the stairs as she did so. Perhaps she could coax him out of his foul mood. Before he got to throwing spells around and burned the tavern down in a fit of temper.

“...Don’t be ridiculous!” he said, stopping, and staring at her. He was apparently amazed at her evident stupidity.

“I don’t really know what puts magicians in a drinking... frame o’ mind, sir,” she admitted readily enough. “I’m sure it’s very profound.” She bit off the rest of her words and hoped the sarcasm in her voice wasn’t too noticeable. “Now. Why don’t you just try putting one foot in front of the other? One step at a time...” She tried to sound encouraging as she spoke.

“...It is very profound!” he protested. “It’s miserable.” He took a deep breath, then announced, “I’m so... lonely!”

She felt a little sorry for him then, but she had her own troubles on her mind. “So it is woman trouble then, sir?” she said distantly, and what she hoped was comfortingly. He leaned on her so heavily that her side was bruised against the wall, and she could smell the stench of ale on his breath. “Sorry to hear that.” She politely pushed him upright again.

“No, you loathsome wench! You drab! You witch!” he slurred, pointing his finger at her in a manner all too ominous, given his vocation. He was evidently furious. “It is not,” he said, with a certain sorrowful dignity. He drew himself up as best he could before sagging with drink again. “It is a lack of tolerable company in this foul and wretched place!”

She tried not to stare at the finger. Well, if she was going to die in an instant of flame she might as well stand her ground. “I know the feeling,” she remarked drily, though she thought it unlikely that he’d appreciate the irony.

“You? How could you know?” he demanded in confusion, jabbing the threatening finger yet again.

“I’m a barmaid. I deal people at their inconsiderate worst on a nightly basis,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “People aren’t at their best when they’re drunk, sir. Which is why I generally tumble them into bed and try to be charitable and think they’ll be better sorts in the morning,” she added meaningfully.

He went quiet at that, a thoughtful pause that indicated a drunkard’s cogitation. She took advantage of it to get him in through the open door.

He sat down heavily on the bed. “It doesn’t work,” he announced, suddenly mournful.

“What doesn’t work?” she asked him.

For answer he fumbled with the strings of a belt pouch. The dramatic gesture in flinging the crystalline pieces out was rather spoiled by the long struggle in opening it. What looked like cogs made of quartz crystal scattered across the floor, rolling under the desk and bed.

“It... does look broken,” she agreed after a moment. The glint of light on it’s facets fascinated her for a moment. “Perhaps you might try the city? They’ve got all sorts of artificers...”

“It’ll never work again!” he declared sullenly. With that he sagged onto the bed. Within moments he was snoring.

She let out a sigh of relief.

She tugged off his boots and dragged the coverlets over him. She left to return with a wooden bucket to prop up beside the bed, in case he needed it. Last but not least, she knelt down to gather up the scattered pieces –

The touch of the crystal was like silk, cool to the touch on her fingers. It seemed to resonate as she touched it, chiming as though in her mind rather than the air. She felt the pieces unfurled all around her, as though a fog that was a map to her. It seemed so simple and easy to slide each piece into place, and with a final click –

She held it up to examine it, a smooth oval case studded with stars that snapped open to reveal strange hands and dials. Suddenly she felt as though she needed to sleep, as though it had tired her to mend it. Setting the finished piece upon the desk, she stumbled away, barely able to control her yawning.

*

Thessa dreamed.

High overhead was a swirling dark cloud. There were red eyes in it, malevolent and burning with hatred. It had been awoken.

The clouds grew darker, becoming thick coils of smoke. Thessa struggled to awaken, and struggled harder, but it had pinned her and she couldn’t breathe –

She woke with a start, to the tang of smoke in her nostrils. For an instant she panicked, fearing that the magician had decided to burn the tavern down after all. Then the dream returned to her, and she found herself shaking.

“Fire!” she yelled to raise the alarm, and that started her coughing. She got up and stumbled through, trying to locate the source of the smoke. It seemed to be coming from everywhere all at once, and she finally managed to fling open the shutters -

The forest was burning. A wildfire was bearing down upon them all. It’s glowing embers were starting to fall on smouldering buildings, and the smoke she had smelled had not come from within the tavern. She saw a deer darting away in the glow of the flames.

Then she stared.

*

“Thadian. Wake up. Wake up!” Someone was shaking him, and the room smelt vile. He recognised the voice as that of Tarlas. The note of urgency in the knight’s voice combined with the awareness of the stink of smoke jolted him awake. “Thadian!”

“Is the inn burning down?” Thadian said wryly, frowning as he tried to clear his head. His tongue was clogged in his mouth, his head pounding. He started to cough.

“Yes!” Tarlas shouted, shaking him again. “We have to leave. Now!” He hauled Thadian unceremoniously to his feet. The magician swayed, but managed to remain loosely upright. He suddenly spewed forth a mixture of bile and last night’s ale, and doubled over. Tarlas hauled him back up again.

“We need to go!” the man shouted, shaking him again. Thadian realised Tarlas was right. The man let go of him to snatch up something from the desk.

“You fixed it! Good for you!” he yelled, and thrust it into Thadian’s hands before starting to cough. Thadian stared at the Orrery in his hands before Tarlas began to propel him towards the door. He was sure he hadn’t fixed it... had he..?

Then he heard the screaming.

“Wildfire!”

*

Surely the river was wide enough to break the fire. At any rate, there was nowhere else to flee to. The front of the wildfire was bearing down on them.

One man barged past her, his underpadding standing out against the dingy pall of smoke. He was dragging the magician away. The inn was emptying, the patrons shoving and trampling one another in their haste to get out despite all she could do. She had no idea where the innkeeper or his wife were now.

The fire was gaining. She could tell that by the heat in the air. It was intensifying rapidly and bringing beads of sweat to her forehead.

“The river!” she repeated one final time, before finally running herself.

*

As she staggered out into the searing air she could see the three adventurers, the party that had come in yesterday. The one she had seen only briefly the day before; a beautiful woman, lithe and constantly in motion. She had short black hair cropped close in a style that somehow only made her more attractive. The knight, still struggling with the magician. And the magician himself, who was staring at the fire.

“That’s... not natural!” she heard him say, horrified. His words were clear enough above the din, though his voice was still halt and slurred.

“What?” the knight demanded, before squinting at the flames. Then he stared.

He turned back and shook the magician. “Can you stop it?” He jabbed a finger towards the flames. “Was this you somehow?”

The mage shook his head, still staring in horror.

“...Let’s go!” the knight ordered, and hauled the magician forward.

Everyone was racing for the river now. Some of the barges were catching alight from drifting sparks, and the ferrymen were running frantically up and down trying to put out the fires and get their boats away from the shoreline.

“Cowards! Cowards!” she heard one man shrieking in terror and rage. Faint and appalled, she finally understood. The boats were setting out for the far shore, leaving those on the near shore to their fate.

Only one vessel was grimly waiting, urging women and children aboard. She recognised it as Ben Borman’s fishing trawl. The fisherman was a stout and brave man, with a large family. His boat was in great danger of being overwhelmed by the swarming citizens, though his men did their best to maintain order.

“Into the water!” she cried, hoping that some might heed her. The currents were dark and swift, and deadly. Yet the smoke might smother those who lingered too close to the shore. Several did hear her, and chose to leap into the icy waters. She waded in herself. She was no strong swimmer, and dared not risk the deeper currents.

Others began to join her. The water snaked against her skin with frozen claws. She watched as the riverside warehouses ignited in sheets of flame. She could hear children screaming. Her throat was so choked with smoke that she began to cough as soon as she tried to call out, and she could barely see in front of her face.

One boat turned back. Whether the crew had become ashamed, or whether they had only now realised the fate they had doomed those on the shore to, it was hard to say. Thessa was growing more and more light-headed, and every breath was agony. The hot smoke was as thick as a fog, billowing and choking. She crouched as low as she could, trying to avert her face from the buffeting coils.

Everything seemed to grow darker, and then suddenly she became vaguely aware of arms tightening about her. Suddenly the air was no longer searing. Though every breath was full of soot and ash, at least it was not blistering her lungs.

For a while all her thoughts were preoccupied with the vital business of breathing. She felt strangely weak, as though she had been punctured and something had gone out from her. She started to become aware of the unpleasant weight of a man’s arms over her chest, impeding her breathing. She was too exhausted to push them aside.

She looked up at last and recognised, after a moment, the features of the magician. His expression seemed to mingle fear and astonishment, and he was staring at her.

Above his head and surrounding them all there was a blue shimmering, delineating the edge of the force field that apparently encapsulated them. He had gathered himself and his companions into the sphere, and had crammed into the remaining space all those he could. Their air was no longer filled with the burning fumes without, though the atmosphere was becoming harder to breathe from so many lungs.

The screams had stopped. Thessa realised she had lost consciousness for a time. Tears came to her eyes, stinging them along with the smoke, as she realised that the silence meant that those voices were now forever stilled.

The bitterly cold water was slowly warming with shared body heat. She thought she should probably move, but she was still strangely tired and somewhat reluctant to break the connection. Instead she closed her eyes again, and let darkness take her.

*

All he had meant to do was rescue her.

Thadian had been aware on wakening that, though his recollection of their conversation had been vague, he had definitely owed the barmaid an apology for something. He had heard her voice calling out, trying valiantly to direct the panicking crowds.

So he had searched for her in the water. It had only been when his arms had reached around her to haul her in that he had become aware of the sheer power within her. There had been a strange moment of kinship, a magical bond forming between them. Then his shielding spell had blossomed outward, expanding as raw power had surged through it. Her magic had reached out through him, instinctively feeding the spell that was keeping her alive.

He had punctured the feeble wards of an untrained mage, seizing control of the source of her power in order to direct it. It had been all too easy. It had weakened her, he knew, and yet he knew that should she choose to seize it back, he would lose it.

He was dimly aware that holding a woman he barely knew in this manner wasn’t quite appropriate. Certainly Veldian was staring at him. The idea of breaking their connection, though, was unthinkable.

After a while he slowly loosed an arm from her, and tugged the Orrery out of his waterlogged belt pouch. He knew now who it was that had reassembled it.

He looked down at her, then raised it up in his fingers, opening it.

The edges of the crystal glinted in the light of the dying flames. He watched as the skull-like face in the flames snarled futilely, unable to burn them to death. It raged helplessly, choking out the life of all that it touched. It knew what the Orrery was.

It clicked as he closed it shut.

 

Day One on Prosperity by The Jaded [2,941 Words]

I remembered the briefing as I trudged up the snowy hillside, trying to ignore the fine grains of ice carried into my exposed skin by the driving wind. Prosperity was a stronghold planet of the Collective, and the week-long crash course had focused on the planet’s culture, and on explaining how to blend in with the local population. Even still, the temperature range on the surface was never mentioned. I silently wished death on the data analysts on the dropship with every step. This environment wasn’t an enemy I was rated to fight.

Of course, I did have equipment working to ensure that the cold was not going to kill me before I got to the building on the hilltop. My survival coat was pumping as many joules of heat into my chest and arms as it could, and this combined with the steep climb working my muscles made freezing to death a remote problem. I ignored the discomfort as best I could, wishing for a cup of hot coffee, even the toxic black sludge that a dropship mess has to offer.

Three-quarters of the way up, I stopped for a moment, prudence and training forcing me to check out my destination despite my desire to get inside and warm. Visually, it was nothing impressive - a sprawling nest of prefab structure modules, with a heavily sloped wooden roof thrown over most of it as an afterthought. Grey smoke smudged the cloudless sky above a metal-tube chimney. My thermal imager showed nothing out of the ordinary, only a pair of battered groundcars cooling off in an adjacent shed. The main structure was heated, and showed up on thermal as an impenetrable brick of bright color. No sentries, which was good, and no military hardware I could detect. Safe enough place to thaw off and plan my next move, I decided, blinking away the thermal imager and resuming my climb. I mentally switched from combat-readiness to the luckless-traveller local persona I’d decided on using, and the voice modulator switched on to give me a local accent.

As I got closer, I marveled at the overwhelming appearance of decay. The prefab segments were worn, pitted, and dented, and cobbled together irregularly and hastily, looking for all the world like they’d been dropped here by an aircraft and then welded together in place. Most of the modules were corroded, and several had patched-over holes. Only one of the modules looked to be maintained in any decent condition - the central one, a thirty-foot long, one-story box that stood at the front, bearing both main door and a glowing neon sign. My optics loosely translated the meaning of the seven characters there displayed as “establishment open”. I ducked inside the door quickly.

It was dim, compared to the blindingly white hilltop, so I stood blinking for a moment. While my vision adjusted, I relied on my optics, surveying the layout with my built-in instruments. It was clearly a bar, based on the long counter, rough wooden tables and chairs, and large supply of liquid-filled containers. A rough cement hearth, obviously burning real wood, crackled in one corner, and the few patrons inside were clustered close to it. There was no other heat source, but still the room was gloriously warm compared to outside. The other corner across from the door was cluttered with what was probably junk - most of the stuff was unrecognizably smoke-stained and dust-blanketed, but I recognized a defunct pendulum clock resting on its side atop the clutter, it’s still hands turned down, frowning at the pervading decay. I also noted the location of a battered old satnet terminal along one wall, resolving to make use of it later.

I switched the optics back off and let my eyes adujst, moving over to the bar. The man behind it, swarthy and bearded, watched me come in without saying a word, guarded look on his face. I dropped heavily onto one of the rickety stools, and spoke, hoping the modulator would get the accent right. ”Something hot to drink, if you would.”

The man bent down, gathered ingredients, and in perhaps thirty seconds he slid a chipped ceramic mug of brownish liquid across to me. It smelled like sugary wood smoke, but it did emit a pleasant steam, indicating that it was, as desired, hot. ”It is a pleasure to, freely of charge, give you this drink, not expecting pay from a fellow comrade.” His tone indicated, of course, the opposite, and his finger tapped on the bar six times.

I was familiar with this custom - in the Collective, one did not pay or trade for anything, he was given it free of charge, and freely and in an ‘unrelated’ matter gave a gift of money or goods at the same time. On Collective worlds, commerce itself was a black market, hiding behind barely-plausible reciprocated charity. ”Of course. I, also, out of the goodness of my heart and desire to see this fine place continue to operate, would like to present a gift.” I put a hand into my coat pocket and pulled out two coins, one marked with five stars, one with only one. I’d stolen the coins, and a few others, from a vacant homestead I’d passed on my way here. In theory, the Collective had no currency, but in practice, Violation Marks were its equivalent. Their only true value was in that they could be used to nullify small violations of Collective laws and regulations. As the local laws were myriad, illogical, and often changed without notice, this had proven a strong source of value.

The drink was hot, as promised, and it wasn’t just heat that burned my throat as I swallowed. The drink had me feeling much less frozen in moments, though the taste was unpleasant. Despite my protesting taste-buds, I nodded my appreciation as I warmed my fingers on the mug’s exterior.

”I did not hear an engine, comrade, did you walk here in this weather?” The man behind the counter shook his head at the thought. Apparently, even Prosperity natives couldn’t tolerate this cold - that could mean it was irregular. I liked this theory, as it meant I might not be cold for the entirety of the next six months.

”Not all the way, no.” I took another swallow of the drink. ”My car gave out on me a few hours ago, and someone pointed me here.” Lies, of course. My drop-pod had deposited me in a snowbank about four hours before, right before it turned itself into metallic dust.

”Need a mechanic, then?” He put on an expression of hard thought. ”I might know a guy willing to make the trip out here...”

”Nah, that wreck’s dead for good this time.” I shrugged to dissuade him of this idea. ”I’ll figure something out, but thank you, comrade.” I took another swallow of the drink. ”I was hoping to make it to Victor Yards before it died, though.” Victor Yards was my objective. Sabotage there would hamper the Collective’s war effort, and if the Yards stopped producing, it would make this otherwise-unremarkable planet a non-factor in the war, safely skipped over.

”Looking for work, then.” He nodded. ”I understand. Times are hard.” From what I had learned in the briefing, he was grossly understating things.

”Yeah. Weather’s been hurting my home town pretty badly.” If the pattern of other Collective worlds played out here, of course, the smaller settlements were abandoned by the authorities entirely, or worse, carefully and brutally mismanaged. Of course, one did not speak ill of the authorities on a Collective world.

”I do have some vacant rooms, of course. It would only be charitable for me to offer you one, free of charge.” Again, he meant the opposite. ”Follow me.” He stepped out from behind the bar, leading me toward a hallway whose opening was cut into the back of the big module. It branched twice, and I set my optics to overlay a building map to ensure I would remember the way back. The hall was poorly insulated and cold, but not as bad as outside.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. The single letter scratched into it was not translated by my optics, so it was probably a room designation. ”Room twelve.” I understood his meaning, and paid him twelve Marks, all the while professing it as a donation to this fine establishment, not a payment for the room. The proprietor then unlocked the door, and left me to my own devices. I went inside to see just what I’d paid for.

The room was dingy gray, prefab like the rest of the building, with a metal-frame bed, lumpy stuffed mattress, and a wooden, homemade-looking chest of drawers. The whole room was maybe six feet by ten, with a single narrow window, a set of metal-slat blinds covering it incompletely (as two of the slats were missing). It was cold, but there was a small electric heater in the corner, which I immediately turned on. A holo-poster on the wall displayed Collective progpaganda. As I entered, the image jumpily changed from a watercolor cartoon of factory workers to a stylized galaxy map, on which the territory of the Confederacy was drawn as a wildfire sweeping through the stars toward Collective worlds. The caption read, “Destruction Advances.” I thought with a little chuckle that advertising the enemy as bringing warmth to Prosperity was a bad move. There was no satnet terminal in the room, to my dismay - I would have preferred to access the Collective’s nets in privacy. Even so, I could lie low here for a few days, planning my next move.

My sensors let me know that the room was free of surveillance, so I took out a small black tube, which I knew held dozens of tiny machines. Unscrewing the cap, I rested the tube against my hand until one of the tiny, insectile robots had crawled out. With the tiny machine clinging to my hand, I headed back out to the bar area, leaving nothing there. I fully expected the room to be searched.

On my return, I noted the stares of the other four customers, heads turned away from the flickering fire. None approached me, though, so perhaps it was merely curiosity on their part. I ordered dinner, “donating” the hinted cost, and stood at the satnet terminal while it was prepared, pretending to spend the time looking up local sporting statistics. The harmless searches were a cover, of course, letting me deposit the little robot in my hand onto the terminal and giving it time to find a way inside the battered housing. The software it carried, I hoped, would work its way into the satnet system, and insert my biometric data into the Collective’s security nets. That would get me into Victor Yards.

When my food was brought out, I sat near a wall, tactfully distant from the group at the fire but not so far that the warmth did not reach me. The food was some sort of unrecognizably processed vegetable paste, as well as cuts of an unrecognizable meat. I ate uninterestedly, trying to look as average as possible.

As I was eating, though, I heard electrical humming and the crunching of snow under treads. A few moments later, the door opened briefly, letting in a harsh gust of subzero air and a pair of men. I kept outwardly cool, though the matching silver protrusions on their right temples made their nature obvious. These were Collective soldiers, and the implants protruding from their skulls housed dozens of small sensors and processing units. I’d been told my own equipment was undetectable to all but the most meticulous scans, but still, I experienced a brief moment of uncertain panic. Each man had a long, rifle-like weapon slung across his back, and as they stepped to the bar, my optics determined that to fire one of those without losing an arm would require bone reinforcement. These were not just backwater patrolmen. As they started talking to the barman, I turned up my audio pickup to hear their low voices.

The soldiers vaguely mentioned reports of objects landing nearby, then asked the barman about suspicious activity. I pretended to keep eating, but listened tensely to the response. I started charging the capacitors on my own weaponry. Apparently, the pod had been detected, despite being supposedly undetectable.

The barman leaned in to whisper to the soldiers carefully, and I knew from his expression before he spoke that he had seen through my alibi. ”Might want to check out the man in the corner, there.” He whispered hoarsely. ”Came in not two hours ago, walking in this weather in just that thin coat. Not even so much as a hat on him. Could be nothing.”

The two nodded, and turned to look at me. I nodded a solemn reply, then returned to my meal, but knew things wouldn’t end there. They probably suspected that I wasn’t just an out-of-luck traveller already. ”Sir, could we have a word outside?” The first soldier asked impatiently as his partner stared expressionlessly. I shrugged, nonchalantly put my left hand in its own pocket, and followed them out. I’d seen enough of their hardware to know I’d have to take them by surprise, get their guards down.

I was unsurprised when the moment they had me outside I found a sidearm pressed against my head, held by the expressionless second soldier. This was practically standard behavior, I knew. Playing my part, though, I shook, feigning fear as the first man threatened me with rote, intentionally vague consequences if I didn’t tell them exactly the truth, exactly what I was about. I nodded and gulped when he was done, and the pistol vanished. For now, I’d play along with their little fishing expedition, and not let them know what they’d hooked until it was too late.

I gauged their movements, trying to guess what kinds of implants they had in addition to the visible headpieces. Both definitely had overly steady, precise movements - that probably meant aim assist. The impatient one itched his left palm when not gesturing or talking, and I suspected he had some sort of hardware there too. Without active sensors, though, I couldn’t be certain. Pretending to be frozen in fear, I still had my hands in the pockets of my coat.

”I... I was on my way t-to Victor Y-yards to f-find work, sirs.” I probably laid it on a little too heavily, but they ate it up. ”I only w-want to do my part in the war.”

The two turned, to converse with each other in low tones. The calm one kept an eye on me at first, but then turned slightly for just a moment, and I knew that I was out of view. I jerked my hands out of my pockets, pointing one each at the soldiers, and every system flashed green in my optics.

The soldiers started to turn at my sudden motion. The calm one reached for his pistol and the hotheaded one started to bring up his left hand. I’d been right - the center of his palm had dilated to reveal some sort of weapon. It was too late for either of them to do anything, though. My instruments had just enough time to tell me the nature of the hand weapon before the coilguns built into my own arms spit twin blasts of hot red plasma. Missing was impossible at this range, even with aim assist turned off.

The charred corpses of the soldiers fell to the ground. If it weren’t for their subcutaneous armor (which I hadn’t noticed), there would have been little left of them but cinder. Even with its protection both had been killed instantly. Superheated matter at point-blank range tends to make short work of living tissue, after all. After three seconds, the sound of the shots echoed back from the surrounding hills.

I let the coilguns retract into my hands, and stepped back inside. The barman started at my solitary reappearance, and began inching toward the bar’s hatch. Obviously, the shots had been heard, and I think he expected the soldiers to come in without me.

”Relax.” I said. ”I’m not here to kill civilians.”

He gulped and nodded. ”Who... Who...” The other four patrons simply stared, looking like animals caught in the hunter’s flashlight.

I smiled. He knew I couldn’t answer that to his satisfaction. I decided to humor him with a hint. ”I’m the man who’s going to make invading this pathetic snowball unnecessary.” It was true - if Victor Yards fell silent, the Confederacy could ignore Prosperity entirely. I looked around, while that sunk in.

One of the patrons stood in a flash and reached for a sidearm, but before his hand touched the weapon my own arm was already pointed at him, coils extended. No amount of lightning reflexes could out-draw military implants. Careful to keep his hands in sight, he sat back down. I did what I’d come back in for - I slagged the satnet terminal to keep them from calling down the Collective and to hide my earlier digital intrusion. Then I walked back out without saying another word.

I appropriated the soldiers’ crawler, though I’d have preferred something faster. I knew that I’d only delayed the news of my existence. It was a race against the clock now. I should have been afraid, but all I could feel as I drove toward Victor Yards was gleeful anticipation for the challenge to come.

 

The Wildfire by Simon “Vitus” Hild[3,282 Words]

Bethany straightened her sash and looked at her next assignment with little enthusiasm. She had been to all manner of tavern, inn and eatery in the fair City of Crystal Loch, but this was definitely not the famous Loch Bluff Chateau. The placard that hung over the door was cracked, and the faded paint that once depicted a brilliant fire burning in a charred tankard was barely visible. The door to the establishment was dirty from the hands of fisherman who were the chief patrons at the Wildfire which wasn’t really an inn at all, in spite of the name, just a common room in which the lake men smoked dark-leaf and drank fiery liquor. There were, in fact, no rooms to be rented and Bethany always thought the name was misleading. She reached for the door handle that was smeared with fish guts and hesitated. She heard a gentleman behind her clear his throat conspicuously and turned to see a broad shouldered man with a beard to make a mountain dwarf envious. He reached passed her with an awkward smile and opened the door for her before stepping inside behind her.

The sounds of two dozen men droned around her and though most all eyes found their way to the educated lady of the noble House Tay'Leen, no one stopped his or her business to stare. The place was small. Only five men could fit shoulder to shoulder at the drinking counter and so men crowded around five circular tables set close to the floor on heavy, stained cushions. The low tables each held a centerpiece that was an elaborately worked hookah in which the working men could enjoy the tobacco grown in the Halfling lands of the Misty Gardens. The water pipes bubbled quietly and allowed the heavy aroma of spiced, dark-leaf to hang in the air creating thick smog.

Bethany looked at the patrons but did not see the man she needed to find. One gentleman at the bar offered the bar stool and meager place he’d occupied which proved to be more than enough room for the short woman. She ordered a small beer which raised the eyebrows of the men around her and gave them an excuse to give her a second look.

Though born into House Tay’Leen, her father was a yeoman and didn’t care for the airs of nobility. Bethany kept her hair short, and wore a well made cloak that at first seemed a bit too large for her. On closer inspection her fellow bar flies could see her cloak hid a short, slightly curved sword strapped to the outside of one thigh and a parrying dagger strapped to the other. Had they been more observant, the fishermen of the bar would have noticed that the parrying dagger held the symbol of a lidless eye on the pommel. It was the same dagger given to all Vigil cadets upon completion of the rigorous fencing course. The memory of being a cadet was a dim one to Bethany, who had defended the citizens of Crystal Loch for nearly five years. She was an investigator now, and she hoped her instincts were serving her well in this instance.

Two days had passed since the Baron Liatos Orius’s daughter had gone missing. The Baron had long since stopped teaching at the Orius Observatory, but had continued to support research using the massive, clockwork spyglass by investing large sums from House Orius’s coffers. It was from a ball held to honor Baron Liatos that his daughter had gone missing. Being an adolescent girl, the Baron had thought she might have run off because of some perceived injustice, but after a second night he knew somehow that something was terribly wrong. The Baron informed the Vigil of the disappearance of his fourteen year old daughter and only child.

Crystal Loch is a large city by the standards of Solterra. At least ten thousand residents make up the permanent population with just as many travelers staying within the city or in the caravan camps outside the city walls. The streets are paved with cobblestone and the innovations of the city extend from magnificent architecture combining the secrets of masons, mortar and magic to the complicated aqueduct and sewer that keeps the waters of the mountain lake flowing freely in dozens of fountains throughout the city proper. As with any city it can be dangerous as well. With so many strangers moving in and out of the town, a matter of finding one girl in the bustle of the mercantile capital of the Skye Mountains was a daunting task to say the least.

Bethany had spoken with people at the Baron’s ball and after being sprite-led to many dead ends, Bethany finally found a lead that was promising. Colette had been speaking with a gentleman that was not known to the people at the party. He was a tall man and looked to be dressed in the clothes of a mariner, not a gentleman. Bethany spoke with witnesses who said he wore a gold hoop in his ear and on his neck was the tattoo of a water dervish. He had spoken with her in the Skye Gardens outside the Observatory where the ball was held as if they needed privacy. She was seen back at the ball after that but by only one person who had said she looked distressed.

Bethany knew that the gold hoop was a tradition of sea fairing folk particularly of Wes-Kha who were devout to their sun god who demanded a proper burial. As mariners are rarely at home, they found it convenient to carry their funeral expenses with them in the form of a gold ring. Bethany believed it to be a safe bet that this mystery man had lived on the west coast at least long enough to have adapted some of the customs.

The tattoo was what made Bethany more nervous. The water dervish was a sign of river pirates who operated on the River Loch and the North Loch. They were known for ambushes, brutality and ransoms. If her witnesses were reliable, Bethany feared that Baron Liatos Orius would be contacted soon enough by the men holding Colette so they could demand a ransom. If all of that were true, the kidnappers would need to find aid from someone they felt they could trust within the city, a fellow river rat perhaps with a habit of looking the other way. The Wildfire Inn was a safe harbor for the rough lake-men who braved the Loch’s unusually large population of giant gar every day to keep their family fed. These were hard working and sometimes desperate men who knew his shipmate would lay his life on the line for him, just as he would lay down his own. Tax collectors and the Vigil alike were not made to feel welcome at the Wildfire and they weren’t the sort to suffer questions.

Bethany had grown up on the North Wharf and her own father had been a fisherman on the Loch for all his life. She was not intimidated by the likes of the organized street toughs who were essentially neighborhood bullies. The mystery man with the dervish tattoo spoke of another dimension entirely. She didn’t even know what the men with the dervish tattoos were called, but she knew that such a large ransom was paid to them for a bishop of Platinus that all the hungry in Crystal Loch could have been fed for months. If Colette was in their hands, she would have little time to set her free.

The girl had been gone two days, and the monks of the Gathering Dawn claimed their magic could not find her in the city and thus declared she must have been whisked away to a hideout in the mountains. Bethany thought differently, though. The mountains in the region were dangerous once one was away from the road and farms. Further, Bethany had a hunch they had friends in the City which was large enough to hide four dozen girls with the aid of a little magical concealment. The Vigil investigator knew of only a couple of less scrupulous wizards for hire that were capable of hiding Colette from the Gathering Dawn.

One was a maniacal Malkedesh Alchemist who was likely as not to do anything if it were wild and reckless, but he had no stomach for threatening a little girl. The other was the gnome genius Clockman, who had his hands in so many convoluted business deals that he didn’t even need his prodigious talent in magic to keep his lavish estate, but he wouldn’t have spoken to a callous handed, kidnapper for any amount of money. The last one was a burned out wizard who was once a prominent professor of thaumaturgy in the prestigious Crystal Loch Archives. Indeed T’Talus once of the noble House Orius and a Teacher of the Word was now a mere merchant of distilled spirits and the proud owner of the Wildfire Inn. That was known for its triple distillation process creating a decidedly potent drink that was traditionally set to burning before it was consumed.

Bethany peered at the swarthy faces of the patrons of the Wildfire Inn through the haze of smoke that swirled and eddied in the air like stirred oil. T’Talus was known to have apartments on the same block as the tavern, but she wasn’t about to start peering in every window. He was also known to be a vicious drunk, and prone to return to old habits. The Vigil investigator was betting that if the wizard was to make a mistake, he’d do it where he felt most comfortable and at home. So she waited in the stink of old fish and dark-leaf smoke watching very carefully while she nursed her tankard.

Thanks to the marvels of Crystal Loch’s civil engineers, even as small a place as this one was afforded access to the sewers via a closet in the hall that made an L-shape behind the bar. Bethany asked the navigator to her right to watch her stool and stein of stout while she was using the lieu. Her fine, leather soled boots padded over the tiled floor to the back hall. She stopped abruptly as she saw the wall at the end of the hall moving. It is perhaps excusable that Bethany hadn’t spent much time in the Wildfire, but it shouldn’t have surprised her to see a hidden door behind a sliding panel, particularly when the owner is a disgraced drunk with wealth and a massively bruised ego.

The bitter wizard stepped from his secret passage and nearly collided with Bethany. He was moving quickly and with purpose, and had checked through a peep hole seconds before Bethany turned the corner and hadn’t seen anyone. Now, his bloodshot eyes were locked with the piecing gaze of Bethany Tay’Leen. They shared a moment of shock alone in the hall before Bethany’s Academy conditioned, flat hand struck T’Talus’s throat hard and fast. The middle-aged man’s eyes bulged and he couldn’t draw air to speak the words of the spell that were now dying at the tip of his tongue. She herded the skinny old man back into the secret passage he’d revealed. She glanced over her shoulder down the hall to make sure it remained clear of bar flies before she drew her parrying dagger and held it firmly to T’Talus’s throat. She was shorter than the beanpole of a man who was still gasping for air but her stance kept him pressed against the passage wall and unable to stand fully erect.

“One hint of an incantation escapes your lips, T’Talus, and I’ll have you half filleted for the boys up front. Now give us none of your lushy lies, eh? Where are you hiding the girl?”

She gave her threat and interrogation in a quiet, silky voice that was laced with menace. She even let him croak out his denial of any knowledge, but she could see in his eyes that he was lying. His red orbs betrayed him again when they glanced down the passage where Bethany now noticed the ill-lit, stone stairs that spiraled down sharply. He may as well have held up a sign with an arrow labeled, “Colette this way”, but in that moment he gathered his wits and went for a pocket in his robe.

“You’ll take a piss, T’Talus,” she warned, but his fingers had already reached passed the lapel and closed around a fragile, glass ball. Bethany swore under her breath while she spun T’Talus’s body away just before it became a fountain of blood. She hadn’t intended to kill him, and took little pleasure in it, but she didn’t have any time to contemplate the ethics of her method. Forgotten in his attempt to close his opened throat, the glass ball fell from T’Talus’s trembling fingers and shattered on the stone floor.

A bright flash blinded Bethany whose eyes had been adjusted to the feeble light in the secret passage. The light was followed by heat and the smell of T’Talus’s burning blood and robes. In an instant Bethany’s lungs were choked with the smoke from the Alchemist’s Fire that was trapped in the delicate ball. Still unable to see, Bethany stumbled down the stairs away from the smoke and fire. Normally sure footed, Bethany fell hard on the stairs but the tight curve of the stairway checked her momentum. She shook her head and let her vision return then quickly located her dagger that had found its way from the foot of the steps when she fell, and into the hands of a grinning man with a gold hoop earring and a clearly visible water dervish on his neck.

She was on her feet and hiding the fact that she found the curve of the last few stairs a challenge to maneuver thanks to the blow to the head she took on the fall. The narrow stairs opened to an aborted section of the sewers that was long forgotten after the one that serviced the tavern’s commode was constructed. The vaulted ceiling was wide and nearly fifteen feet high at its apex. Against the wall opposite the doorway at the foot of the stairs was a wood pallet over which was a grim looking clock whose face held only one hand. The river pirate grinned at my reaction to his twisted clockwork.

Crystal Loch is known for the production of high quality clocks and gears. The clock in the Archives is a huge, magnificent work of art with exposed gears clad in silver and gold leaf to show its intricacy and invention. In as many ways as the Archives clock is inspirational this clockwork was horrific. The gears were indeed exposed but were corroded and orange/red with age and neglect. The pendulum was made with the head of an executioner’s axe whose long, curved blade swung threateningly over the abdomen of Colette. As if to heighten the drama of the circumstance a grinding noise echoed in the chamber as the lone hand of the clock moved slightly and the stiff, metal arm of the pendulum extended further allowing the blade to cut the ties of the girl’s bodice whose once snow white cotton was now soiled with the filth of the hidden chamber and her most recent host.

Bethany drew her sword and stared hard at the madman who was still smiling and playing with her dagger. The pirate began to clean his nails with the knife, and turned it over in his hand.

“Ah, a Virish Academy fencer,” he sneered without moving for the saber at his side, “I suppose you don’t feel like you’re skills have been properly challenged. Perhaps I can accommodate you.”

In that instant he tossed Bethany’s parrying dagger into the air and as she plucked it from its easy arch, the pirate drew his sword and lunged in a smooth, fierce attack. His eyes glazed over like a shark in a feeding frenzy while Bethany’s grew wide with alarm at his sudden change in demeanor. She deflected the first attack into a near miss but before she could counter attack she was fending off another blow with her main-gauche. Finally a grimy fist broke through her full defense and caused a brutal sounding crunch from her nose.

Blood spraying liberally from where the blow had broken her nose, Bethany tucked low and tumbled past her opponent keeping his body between her and his sword arm. Now inside the room properly, she widened her stance, sword and dagger at the ready and a river of red gore coming from her face.

“You’re a mess,” he mocked her, “Your eyes are swimming, and you must realize, you’ve given up your only chance for escape.”

Bethany shook her head side to side spattering the wall and grimaced, “I think you misunderstand my intention.”

The sinister clockwork groaned again as if to protest of the delay of rescue, but Bethany knew she couldn’t spare it the attention at that moment. She was spared the smell of the burning wizard upstairs, but instead tasted nothing but her own blood in her mouth. She let herself pant a little more heavily than her body demanded and deliberately moved flat footed trying to look winded and dazed from the blow. In reality the starry pain from the jab had cleared her mind entirely. She saw now that his arrogant, evil man had no intention of ransoming the girl. His mind was sick, or he was possessed but as long as he was sure she was bested, she could wait for his mistake.

He didn’t disappoint. She made a clumsy parry and lured him into close range where he tried to grab her neck with his free hand. She quickly lifted to the balls of her feet again and darted away from him, slipping her dagger firmly into his armpit where the blade sought out the blood vessels hidden there. He leaped away shocked and dropped his saber noisily to the floor and reached under his arm with his sword hand. It came away covered in blood and he gazed at it confused.

The clock creaked and shuddered again letting the blade arm out a hair more. This time on its pass, the young girl cried out, making the first sound since Bethany arrived. The pirate glanced at her in a daze and a sadist’s smile crept to his lips before he fell to one knee. On the back-swing of the axe-headed pendulum, Bethany dropped her dagger again and grabbed the rusty, iron arm. She looked at Colette Orius whose young face was bruised and swollen. Her wrists and ankles bleed freely from where she had struggled against her restraints.

Her tormentor coughed a mist of blood and wiped it from his lips with a red stained hand that left more blood than it took away. He shrugged and fell back against the stone wall his eyes still holding disbelief as life left them.

The fishermen of the Wildfire had discovered the real fire and while unknown to them mortal combat was being had beneath their feet; they fought the fire to ashes. They watched stunned as Bethany carried the semi-conscious, noble adolescent up from what looked like and must have felt like the very pit of the Abyss. Bloodied and filthy, Bethany was her unlikely looking salvation.

“Call for the Healers,” she choked out, “Tell them I’ve found the lost daughter of House Orius, and she might yet live.”

[Klazzform]

February 2011 Competition Entries
Topic - Dueling
Winner - Virtual by The Jaded

 

Virtual by The Jaded[2,771 Words]

William had been waiting for this day for almost a week, and the conditions couldn’t be better: his connection was good, and his whole evening was free. After checking the rig’s status indicators, William navigated the cluttered floor sat down in his high-backed gaming chair. Homework could wait, he decided, until after the challenge. With a deep breath, he put on the cable-tethered helmet, and flipped the opaque visor closed. There was a hiss, and a click, and -

The screen inside the visor came on. A yellow tunnel spiraled past William’s vision rapidly, slowly changing hue toward green. At about the color of sour apple candy, the tunnel vanished, and William was standing in the cobbled courtyard of a medieval-style castle. He recognized the place immediately as Grozun Keep - his home in the game world. The late summer breeze ruffled his now shoulder-length blond hair, and stirred his new full beard. The fortress had seen better days - a few of the buildings in the enclosure were burned to foundations, and the paving stones were shattered from impacts, but it was still mostly intact. Without looking, William knew that in the game, he was an adult: tall, and imposing.

”Commander Wakefield, good to see you again, sir!” The male voice came from William’s left. Of course, Wakefield was William’s in-game name, so he turned. Approaching him was a dark-skinned, wiry man William - rather, Wakefield - recognized as his second in command, Margonnau.

“I’m a little early, but no matter. Is it still to happen?”

“To my knowledge, Commander. the rabble outside has yet to indicate otherwise.” Margonnau gestured vaguely toward the gate, beyond which the besieging horde was camped.

”Good. And my new helmet?”

“Done, and waiting for you, sir.”

”Good. I go to prepare, but Margonnau - ”

”Yes sir?” Margonnau must have known that this phrase prefaced orders.

”Get the bows ready, just in case. This is an enemy we cannot trust to have honor.”

Wakefield strode away from Margonnau, knowing the other would follow orders. The Eighth Legion were renowned soldiers, and Margonnau was elite even among them.

Supposedly, most of the men were avatars of players like William. He’d always wondered who, if any, of his men were “bots”, but the autonomous AIs were quite good at going undetected, blending in among "real" players. Mostly, Wakefield just assumed that everyone was human. It was easier that way. Much of the player base of the game preferred to act "in-character" for the setting, taking pride in their roles and pretending while in the game that the world beyond it did not exist.

Of course, that wasn’t unanimous - there are always those who just want cheap, nihilistic fun - and a large group of that sort were encamped just outside. Calling themselves by the unlikely name “xX SW0RDZ0RZ Xx”, the rogue army laying siege to Grozun Keep had no purpose but to pillage and destroy. They were without honor, bound only by the coded restrictions of the game, which were loose.

To minimize the death toll from the siege, Commander Wakefield had challenged their leader to a duel some days ago. Luckily, the invading army would suffer desertions or a forced withdrawal if it declined - enforced by the server if need be. Not wanting to risk it, they’d accepted. Wakefield knew that there was always the chance of a double-cross. The penalties for double-crosses weren’t nearly so steep as those for cowardice, presumably because double-crossing required finesse and subtlety.

As Wakefield was heading to the armory to collect his gear, he spied a sleek, dark-colored cat, glaring at him from under a smashed wagon. The cats, William knew, were primarily cosmetic entities - but even they served a purpose in the game’s equations. In Grozun keep, they kept vermin numbers low, which made his soldiers healthier. As the garrison commander, Wakefield had control over even something so trivial as cat population - and sometimes he wondered whether the game moved cats from other places here when he requested them, or just spawned new ones.

Reminded of his responsibilities, Wakefield stopped and held up a hand, telling the game to display the stats of his fortress and its garrison. The statistics grid, with all its options and sliders and numbers, appeared in blue glowing letters above his hand. He checked to make sure that the soldiers were healthy and well-fed, and that supplies were still high. Everything looked good. There was damage, but the keep was more or less intact, and still defensible. Wakefield was satisfied - he wanted his affairs to be in order in case the challenge should go badly. A few tweaks later, Wakefield waved away the glowing display.

The new helmet fit perfectly. With help from a page, the commander assembled the rest of his armor, and draped an alliance-insignia tabbard over it. The Eighth Legion’s bold scarlet-and-gold insignia stood out starkly against its white field and Wakefield’s polished mail. Collecting his blade from the armory, the commander strode to the gate, where a six-man honor guard was waiting. He tried to look more confident than he felt.

At one level, William wondered what sort of character his next avatar would be, if it came to that. At another, Sir Wakefield wondered how Margonnau would treat the sudden promotion if his commander fell.

The portcullis inched up, and Wakefield stepped out, making sure that his honor guard was bearing the flag of truce. The game would have warned him if they hadn’t been, of course. The unmarked green flag of truce flew from the enemy ranks, too. Wakefield led the way towards the designated spot, a flat expanse of grass near the lake that was perfect for a duel. Other banners flew from those sullen ranks, too - among many vulgar and/or mildly obscene images and letterings, William saw several of his troops’ own banners, painted over in black lettering with various taunts and obscenities. This bothered him some, as he knew that those were banners taken from the corpses of Legion officers - but Wakefield forced himself to ignore them. After all, the enemy was trying to rile him.

The enemy procession was farther from the designated spot, so Wakefield and his honor guard got there first. The commander surveyed the scene, briefly - the lakeshore was not tactically significant, but was in view and bow range from both the Keep’s walls and the left flank of the enemy entrenchments. It was a perfect dueling spot, as it was a flat expanse of healthy grass, terminating in a marshy copse of trees at either side of the shore and bordered landward by a steep, grassy hill.

The enemy commander marched to the spot slowly, grinning like a madman. He was short, wiry, dressed only in red-painted light mail. He carried a simple long-sword, and there was a shield slung over his back. Wakefield stood quietly, waiting for the other to speak first.

“Ohai! Rdy?” The other spouted suddenly, mockingly. The game showed Wakefield the stranger’s name - “AwfulSauce.”

”Ground rules first, good sir.” Of course, Wakefield was being overly polite for appearance’s sake. ”What say you to this: no respites, and we stay within this flat area, out of the trees?”

AwfulSauce shrugged, still smiling in anticipation, or in madness. ”Whatevr, man. Lesgo.” He readied his shield and blade.

Wakefield took a deep breath, waving his honor guard to stand clear, and pulled his four-foot-long sword from its scabbard on his back.

With a wicked cackle, the red-armored man charged Wakefield.

The big man sidestepped, swinging his blade into the other’s path. AwfulSauce, though, managed to bat the blade up with his shield and to nick Wakefield in the hip. Wakefield’s armor made the blow harmless, but his opponent’s honor guard cheered mockingly. Somehow, they got his whole army cheering too.

“So I getz ur base nao?” Wakefield simply ignored the other’s taunts. AwfulSauce was fast, given, but Wakefield was tough and would probably outlast his opponent. The real danger here was losing the psychological war.

Wakefield swept his blade in a slow arc to force the man back. He had a reach advantage of almost a foot and a half, and resolved to use it. “Hardly.”

Then three arrows, fletchings dyed black, landed in the field near Wakefield. From their angle, they’d come from the enemy honor guard. The commander glanced that way, and saw those men holding bows and laughing amongst themselves. ”Treachery!” Wakefield hissed, but he stopped short of yelling it out. He realized that if AwfulSauce’s men tried to get involved, the server would inform every soldier in the Legion, including Wakefiled himself. Since it hadn’t, the arrows couldn’t be aimed at him.

The red-garbed man used Wakefield’s surprise to get in close, trying again to use his shield to block the bigger man’s sword. This time, Wakefield put his full weight into the swing, and the act of blocking sent the smaller man reeling off to one side, unhurt but off balance.

Several more arrows landed nearby. Wakefield realized now that they were another part of the psychology game - they were designed merely to rattle him. He tried to ignore them as he pressed his advantage.

AwfulSauce backpedaled, blocking furiously, and Wakefield pursued him, backing him toward the copse of trees at one edge of the designated space. More arrows thudded into the grass, but Wakefield forced them out of his mind. To his credit, AwfulSauce was good - he didn’t let even one jab or cut through his guard.

They were at the edge of the trees, then, and both had their feet in the damp leaves, but the wiry man didn’t stop. Wakefield at first expected him to, but he remembered immediately that the game didn’t enforce ground rules agreed between parties in a challenge.

Scowling, Wakefield refused to cross the verge. He’d be at a disadvantage in tight spaces. Turning, the Legion commander walked back to the center of the grass.

“If you wanted to fight in the shade, sir, you should have named a spot in the woods.” Wakefield called out. His red-clad opponent lurked just inside the trees. His face was shrouded in the shade, but Wakefield guessed he was still wearing that madman grin.

A minute passed. Two. The man just stood there, and Wakefield stood in the field staring at him. Several more times AwfulSauce’s honor guard fired arrows into the field, but eventually they stopped bothering. One by one, the spent arrows de-spawned, fading into thin air.

The Legion commander began to tire of this waiting game. He’d never heard of commanders’ challenges ending like this -with one party playing coward - the game probably had some sort of enforcing built in, but Wakefield didn’t know what it was.

”So then, is your plan to let me die of old age?” Wakefield called out, out of boredom and irritation.

“Umad?” came the sneering reply. Wakefield recognized the taunt for what it was.

Fed up with the situation, the bigger man shrugged. “Well then, I accept your surrender.” He meant it as a taunt and a warning. Turning, he took a few steps toward his honor guard. The game immediately parsed his words, and Wakefield knew that the server would be sending an interrogative message to AwfulSauce.

To his surprise, the game displayed a capitulation timer over the enemy commander’s head: twenty seconds. Apparently, AwfulSauce had registered his agreement. As long as the timer was counting down, though, the other could still cancel the order. Stepping forward, shield replaced on his back, the man in the red armor extended a hand to Wakefield. ”Ok. You win.” He was still grinning.

Wakefield shouldered his blade, extending his own hand. He was mildly suspicious, but the timer was at five seconds now and counting down. ”Well, then, if you - ”

At two seconds, the timer vanished and AwfulSauce’s blade came out of nowhere to deliver a nasty cut to Wakefield’s extended arm. He’d have lost the limb if it weren’t for his armor, but still the blow was serious. ”Lol, JK!” was all that AwfulSauce offered as explanation. Wakefield backed up, getting his own blade in between them. The injury put him at a disadvantage, and the Legion commander mentally chided himself for being so easily tricked. Warm blood tricked down his arm, and the mad-grinning enemy stepped in to finish him off.

Three arrows fletched in gold hit the sod near AwfulSauce’s feet, causing him to pause in confusion. Wakefield smiled. Margonnau. Gold arrows meant his own archers - the other officer had probably seen AwfulSauce’s trick earlier. He was having the bowmen on the walls fire into the field, but not at anyone. Wakefield used the pause to take a step back and get his guard up.

The man in red recovered, and pressed Wakefield, but the bigger man was ready for him now, even with his injury. Wakefield batted aside AwfulSauce’s shorter blade and aimed a cut for the smaller man’s chest. The short slash was blocked, but it did get Wakefield back on the offensive.

Knowing that he might not get another chance, Wakefield put all his strength into a vertical sweep that could have bisected a horse. AwfulSauce had no time to dodge, so he threw his shield into the path of the blade. The move saved his life, but destroyed his shield, and knocked him backwards onto the ground. Wakefield had his blade to his opponent’s throat before the other could recover. ”It’s over. Yield.”

AwfulSauce snarled, breaking his deaths-head grin, and kicked out, tripping Wakefield. That was a risky move - Wakefield, in falling, nearly removed his opponent’s head - but somehow the smaller commander escaped harm. Before Wakefield, weighted down by his armor, could stand, AwfulSauce came at him, blade swinging. His shield arm, the Legion commander noted, hung limply - it was probably broken.

Wakefield parried from one knee, struggling to regain his feet without letting his guard down. He realized that he’d have to kill AwfulSauce to end this - the other wasn’t going to surrender. The broken arm put Wakefield back in advantage, but that didn’t mean AwfulSauce couldn’t still kill him.

Wakefield parried an upward cut, and used the momentum to finish standing while his opponent’s blade was tangled. AwfulSauce drew back, but not far enough to be out of Wakefield’s reach - he was forced to parry a horizontal sweep by batting it up before it reached his head. The mask of maddening grin seemed permanently replaced by an equally unmoving mask of fury.

Wakefield sidestepped a sudden lunge, and jabbed his blade into the space. This time, AwfulSauce had no shield to block with, and took the blade in the abdomen.

Wakefield raised his sword to finish off AwfulSauce, but paused when the game informed him of AwfulSauce’s user disconnect. The player who was his opponent was gone, but his avatar was held in the game by the duel.

Wakefield, disappointed, brought his blade down. AwfulSauce died. The kill brought little comfort, and no satisfaction. Besides, the player behind the name would be back, under another name.

It did, however, settle the commanders’ challenge. The enemy ranks on the hill above were now limned in sickly yellow: a server-forced retreat. As per the game rules, their faction would not be permitted to attack Grozun Keep again for two months.

A cheer went up from the keep’s walls as Wakefield’s honor guard saw to his injury. They then wasted no time getting him back into the fortress. In the courtyard, Margonnau stood in front of the men, who were arranged in full parade ranks. ”Congratulations, sir. The enemy is retreating.”

”They’ll be back. We haven’t seen the last of this ‘SW0RDZ0RZ’ rabble.” Wakefield warned. ”All I’ve done is bought us two months.”

”Then let’s make the most of it, commander.” Margonnau suggested.

”Agreed. See to repairing the damage and restocking our stores. Tomorrow I’ll pay a visit to an old friend. Next time I see their banners, I want to have a little surprise waiting for them.” Wakefield brought up the glowing-blue menu, and selected the “Disconnect” option, but did not confirm. ”I need to rest, now. You are in command until I return.” Wakefield’s injuries would heal over time while William was disconnected, and continuing to play while injured risked infection, or further injury.

”Yes, sir.” Margonnau nodded curtly. Wakefield confirmed the disconnect.

The tunnel enveloped Wakefield - no, William - in green whorls, which slowly changed to yellow, then red, then faded to black.[/FIELDSET]

 

Duel at the Loch Buff Chateau by Simon "Vitus" Hild[3,295 Words]

February 7, 2011

Tipton Manfred enjoyed a cool autumn breeze for a moment on the back alley of the famous Loch Bluff Chateau just before he set out a pewter saucer of milk for his homeless friend. The narrow, cobblestone alley between the Chateau and the stucco walls of the neighboring estate sloped gently all the way to the bluff’s edge which then dropped 60’ to the crashing waves of Crystal Loch. The surf churned among the rocks angrily as if to protest the nagging winds that pushed the water to shore. Before long Tipton recognized his friend, a black and orange, stray cat, turning down the alley from Ambassador’s Way. His friend held a plump sewer rat in his jaws making the meager saucer of milk all the more unworthy of such a fearsome combatant. The hunter deemed Tipton’s offering adequate however, and set his feast aside to wet his rough tongue in yak’s milk. Thus Tipton showed his true humble talent for pleasing those of noble blood yet again.

The main lounge of the Chateau reclaimed Tipton’s attention. Many important people have graced the Loch Bluff Chateau’s chief dining room, and for this reason, the staff had a reputation of impeccable service. The city of Crystal Loch is a center for information travelling to the western side of the continent and often proved a valuable neutral ground from various powers in the region. The remarkable hub is also a center of trade, craftsmanship and education which draws people from far and wide; the most important and wealthy of these inevitably find themselves dining at the Loch Bluff Chateau. Tipton had worked at the Chateau since the beginning of his apprenticeship when he was only a boy and had since advanced his position to that of managing the main lounge dining staff.

Tipton returned to tending the bar since the regular barkeep was nursing a sick child of which Tipton wasn’t even aware. The cold wind was bringing the fishing boats in early, and he was surprised at how thin the crowd was. However, a large party did come in just after he sent one of the barmaids home early. At the head of this group was a broad-chested hobgoblin dressed in the ornate, lacquered armor of his kind, though his elaborate war bonnet was carried by his second.

The news throughout the city was that the caravan of traders from the hobgoblin kingdoms of the Maglibyet March had arrived after their treacherous journey across the whole of the continent. Though Tipton was curious about their extensive travels, he foolishly hadn’t considered the idea of entertaining the warlike race. Having neither studied at the Archives, nor traveled outside of Crystal Loch, Tipton’s knowledge of hobgoblins was limited to stories told to scare children into doing their chores. He could only place his trust in the city fathers who would not allow a caravan to enter Crystal Loch that would pose her a threat.

The hobgoblin was followed by an impressive entourage most of who belonged to Tedithius, an influential bishop of the Lords of Trade who was also among the party. It was an open secret in the Guilds that Tedithius was sponsoring the hobgoblin trade caravan within the city and that he had a considerable investment in the operation. Also accompanying the Captain was another half dozen hobgoblins under his command dressed in colorful, light armor and looking very serious. Tipton was suddenly in a flurry of activity to get them all seated comfortably while he called for the barmaid he’d sent home to return and to bring her sister as well.

Captain Stonefist Thurcrom was in command of the hobgoblin forces charged with protecting the very successful caravan that was Tedithius’s chief investment at the time. The merchant priest, Tedithius couldn’t have been more pleased with the efficiency of travel, the uncommonly few losses due to banditry, and the tidy profit he stood to make. Captain Stonefist had led this shambling mound of ox carts, camels and flat wagons from the northern reaches of the Dethic Domain some three thousand miles away through every terror and terrain imaginable. They had fended off everything from griffon attacks to centaur raids in the Hooved Hills. The long line of traders had gathered items from the artistic city of Dwyn Allyn, the Elven Vale and the Ras’Treant Forrest and brought them across the fertile lands north of the Port O’ Lords and across the Green Ocean. They’d skirted the reaches of the haunted wood Shad-Hollow and trekked far into the Skye Mountains to reach Crystal Loch. They were flush with capital, curious items and rare commodities, and would have made the prime catch for any bandit company. Captain Stonefist had guided them steadily and sternly through the wilderness and now was to reap his own profit from their endeavor.

To Tipton’s eyes Captain Stonefist cut a menacing figure. Exotic features given him by his hobgoblin heritage were enough to make the man tremble. He had pronounced teeth that jutted up sharply from either side of his jaw like tusks. His eyes were bright and flashed a hint of red in the iris. His brow was heavy and creased with consternation when he crossed the threshold of the Loch Bluff Chateau and it was clear he felt out of place. No one but the Captain and his six footmen felt the need to wear armor to dinner. The Vigil made regular patrols through this neighborhood which also held the Assembly’s Chambers so obviously it was thought to be very safe. He wore at his side a gladius, the simple foot-soldier’s short sword. Many fashionable noblemen wore a sword on their hip in Crystal Loch, but Captain Stonefist was so much accustomed to having it there, that the well worn grip and meticulously cared for blade were like a heavy broach to him. Atop his head his coarse, black hair was drawn severely into a topknot and waxed to both hold its shape and to not impede the sitting of his grand helm. A scar prettied his goblinoid face giving him so much more the visage of a demon in Tipton’s eyes.

In sharp contrast were the few other patrons in the Chateau this fateful fall afternoon most of whom were in the party of Sir Wren Morgan of House Virish. The Morgans had married into the noble House Virish four generations ago and Sir Wren was a first son of impeccable character and reputation. As any gentleman of Crystal Loch nobility he had studied at the Archives and knew his letters as well as any scholarly friar. He spoke several languages and penned calligraphy as a hobby. He had also served his two years in the Vigil with honors, faced combat, earned the rank of lieutenant and was known to be an exemplary fencer. He was soon to marry a young duchess of House Tay’Leen in the coming months and on this afternoon was discussing his holding of grazing land with some yak herders belonging to House Lono. Indeed the clientele of the Loch Buff Chateau did not disappoint that day.

Captain Stonefist had boldly walked into the Chateau as if it belonged to him and marched directly to the bar where Tipton was nervously polishing a glass of fine crystal. Reed Timbre, a bard and student of entertainment arts was in the corner suddenly very interested in re-tuning his lute. The barmaids were busy setting places for so many newcomers and directing them all very politely to their tables that were hastened together to make the party more comfortable. During some of this bustle a table had to be removed from Sir Wren’s party who were very gracious to give it up without protest and smiled raising a glass to the new guests.

Reed the bard thought this gesture of good will was enough to ease the tension in the room and, reading his crowd like a book, began a heroic epic poem about a recent exploit of the Vigil. This tune, which was very popular in the city at that time, rousted a cry from both parties in the lounge, and for a moment all seemed well and relaxed. Reed got up from the corner and brought his lute closer to the hobgoblins, in whose circle some were members of Tedithius’s family that translated quietly in their oversized, pointed ears. The reaction was generally one of pleasure for it is a very lively, graphic and gory tale; one Reed had thought would be to their liking.

Captain Stonefist continued to frown and drink and frown some more as the long poem winded on and even gave a skeptical snort of his nose when a wounded House Virish swordsman was said to hold off no less than four attackers while his unconscious cousin was carried away safely from the fight. Reed brought the end to a dramatic close with a rising crescendo and a triumphant ride of the Vigil through Skye Garden Square. The travelers, who’d had near a half an hour to warm their spirits with strong, distilled dwarven spirits, were already getting rowdy. This night they were finally able to relax after thousands of miles of enduring trials, but not Stonefist who was standing at the end of the tale with a flaming glass of spirits poised in his hand.

“A toast to you, minstrel,” Stonefist’s gravelly voice silenced his compatriots, “if you can give us one epic of valor from the hobgoblin home of the Maglibyet March.”

Reed groaned inwardly. He knew it was a risk to play such a home-town-hero ballad as the one he just had played. These travelers would undoubtedly be compelled to hear a ballad of their own homeland that was so terribly far from this fancy place. SO terribly far, in fact, that the mediocre scholar and bard of the Timbre Bard Guild had not one song in his repertoire that even mentioned a hobgoblin in a kind light. If the truth be told, Reed had been patting himself on the back for coming up with material that didn’t involve hobgoblins at all for just that reason.

“Perhaps one of your party can teach me one of the epic histories of the Maglibyet March,” Reed ventured as his hand searched for his tumbler and the precious shot of Dagger Peak Drams therein, “I could use the education, so my instructors tell me.”

“No,” Stonefist glared at Reed through narrowed eyes, “my soldiers earn their keep by the sword, and are not women who sing lullabies to their drunken siblings for coins.”

At this Sir Wren Morgan stood up with his embroidered cape flowing out behind him, “See here, my friend, don’t you think that’s taking things a bit far?”

He was nearly as tall as Stonefist but not quite as broad. In spite of this his posture and barring made him look no smaller a figure. The Vigil graduate strode to Reed’s side among the hobgoblins and placed a hand on the bard’s shoulder which was tight as a drawn bowstring.

“I call no one friend whose name is not known to me,” Captain Stonefist stood up fully with his shoulders squared and his feet together as if at parade attention.

Sir Wren smiled and introduced himself adding his old rank as lieutenant to which Stonefist stiffly returned his own name rank and clan.

“There now, Captain Stonefist of Clan Thurcrom,” Sir Wren put a foot casually on a chair near him, “Now we can be friends. See here, in our fair city not every person need be a warrior, but even Reed and Tipton here are not women, they served their two years as well as anyone else in this city and should be treated like the men they are. Don’t think that our appreciation for art and culture has made the people of Crystal Loch weak; far from it, sir.”

“I’m sick to death of hearing about the wonders of Crystal Loch,” the hobgoblin captain erupted, “For a solid month I’ve heard nothing but the magnificence of this city and the glory of their inhabitants! The hobgoblin clans of the Maglibyet March held back the very powers of Mephistopheles himself in the Time of Eating the Young! So do not lecture me on the appreciation of art, knight. Your children cannot eat his songs when they are starving and this whole continent would even now feel the icy winds of a Devil’s Ice Age were it not for the struggles of the little known hobgoblins of the Maglibyet March. Your shining city hidden away in the mountains has been pampered and spoiled by the good will of the fates. Your beloved fresh water lake has poisoned you into believing your fabricated legends of invulnerability. I have seen nothing in your lofty minarets and fancy, glass domes to give hint of a city that could defend itself from the hordes and horrors faced by my people.”

The whole room was deathly silent. Reed Timbre was desperately trying to ooze away from the barbarian warrior and house noble. He was only looking for some extra coins to pay for his delinquent dorm costs and was not looking to have to record for the ages an epic of his own demise. Reed needn’t have worried, for even as Tipton was giving him an escape route by motioning to him with a glass in his hand that he was obviously meant to retrieve, Sir Wren Morgan was slowly removing his heavy, leather riding gauntlets from his belt that was weighed down by his cavalry saber’s scabbard. Sir Wren held the gauntlets in one hand over his head before standing toe to toe with Stonefist and thrusting them to the ground between them. The implications were clear.

Sir Wren Morgan spoke as if addressing a crowd in one of the many theaters that dotted the enlightened city, “Let it be known that this warrior has insulted the honor of my city, my House and myself. I hereby legally challenge him to a duel to test the proof his words and defend his own honor.”

“I question very much the honor of this man,” Stonefist now did his best to appear to be looking down on Sir Wren, “but I accept his challenge just the same.”

Tipton audibly groaned as he handed Reed the glass. Crystal Loch did not technically tolerate dueling. At one time men ran around challenging someone’s honor far too often which began to look more like mass murder than dueling. Soon the duel became regulated with laws and rules concerning when and where duels were acceptable. The law only recently had been changed to make dueling strictly forbidden, but there was always a question with foreign people in the city. Dueling is a part of many cultures in Solterra, and citizens have often been challenged by foreigners. The laws and bi-laws concerning this became indecipherable. In the end, if the challenger did the killing, he may or may not be brought up on murder charges. If the challenged did the killing, it was nearly always ruled self defense. Sir Wren was looking at an accusation of murder or a death sentence, all to defend the honor of a humble, ill-prepared bard.

The dining room emptied out to the stone stairs that led from the patio down the bluff face to another wide pavilion that was only fifteen feet off the water. Trees clung tenaciously to the steep sides of the rocks all along the wide stairway down and the stiff wind from over the lake rattled their branches causing them to drop their autumn leaves thus making a red carpet of dried leaves for the combatants, their seconds and the crowd. The last rays of the setting sun were casting long shadows and the crashing waves played grim background music to the procession that ended in a circle around Captain Stonefist and Lieutenant Wren.

Tedithius was at Stonefist’s elbow practically begging him to call off this ridiculous affair arguing that they both had too much to lose over honor. Stonefist gripped the man’s shoulder once to reassure him and then roughly shoved him away as if to demonstrate what place honor held in his priorities. Curiously a similar scene was happening for Sir Wren who was fending off Reed Timbre’s verbal persuasion deftly. The bard explained that he needn’t anyone defend him and he didn’t care at all what one hobgoblin said more or less. He certainly didn’t want to see anyone hurt over some silly argument. Sir Wren only smiled at Reed and clapped him on the shoulder cheerfully, “It’s not your fault, Reed Timbre. Shoulder not this guilt you attempt to carry.”

Sir Wren then handed his cape off to his less than willing second, drew his saber slowly and carefully, and bowed rigidly at his waste toward Stonefist. The muscled hobgoblin flexed his shoulders making a crackling noise, faced Wren and touched the ground with his left hand before raising it to the sky in salute. Then both men rocked forward on their toes and began to circle slowly with the fierce fluidity of circling sharks.

With his gladius before him and his left hand held out for balance, Stonefist watched Wren carefully not taking anything for granted. Wren held his saber out before him and his left hand rested on his hip while he circled slowly mirroring Stonefist’s caution. Stonefist lashed out first and was easily parried by Wren who deftly slipped to his side before they made another exchange. Blades clashed and sang as the dueling dance was beginning to increase in tempo. Finally impatient, Stonefist lunged forward in a feint followed by a cleaving forward cut the momentum of which was used by Wren to wrench the soldier’s sword from his hand disarming him.

Wren held his saber forward, leveled at Stonefist’s neck and formally asked for him to yield, but Stonefist only smirked and cracked his knuckles, “You’re a fine swordsman, but you haven’t beaten me yet, Lieutenant.”

With that Stonefist, his hand held rigidly, chopped at the flat of Wren’s blade using blinding speed and focused power. Wren was surprised by the attack which had momentarily bent his sword sickly, transferred much of the shock to his right hand. The able swordsman spun away and smoothly switched hands before returning the attack with a fast thrust. Stonefist spun his body without retreat and captured the fine quality blade between his two wrists. Using his body as a fulcrum in this deadly fast motion, Wren’s masterpiece of a weapon was caught and shattered. The hilt, torn from Wren’s hands, hit the tiles of the patio several yards from the blade that skittered over the edge as an offering to the Loch below.

Wren scowled at the loss of his prized saber and snapped into the barehanded attack stance of a Vigil cadet and faced Stonefist. The epic struggle that unfolded displayed for the stunned audience such a contrast in style as could only be shown by two masters of their craft. Stonefist’s direct and powerful attacks were equally matched by Wren’s nimble feints and lightning strikes. They exchanged kick and punch in rapid succession. Finally without landing a spinning high kick meant to finish the fight, Wren saw as if in slow motion a great closed fist fill his vision before his world went black.

The crowd had cheered through most of the fight, but in the end was deadly quiet. And once Stonefist’s personal cleric of Maglibyet had revived Wren the noble could only say with his charming smile, “You’ve bested me, Captain, but you owe me a very expensive sword.”

 

A Night at The River's End by TaintedHolyWater[1,679 Words]

Reaching the Rivers End I quickly paid for a room and took a seat, out of the way in the corner while Rotaal went upstairs to finalize his ownership of his new body. Soon after a large man entered the and approached my table, tall with broad shoulders and a rather remarkable face devoid of any marks let alone the disfigurement of the blood plane.

“Ah Mr. Marrow. Glad you made it. Then our duel shall be of this eve under the light of the moon.” seating himself across from me.

“And what should stop me from gutting you on that chair, right now?” bringing the slender blade above the table and pointing it at his throat.

“Your senses of sportsmanship, interest and honour.”

“Sportsmanship? Honour? Your barking up the wrong tree pall.” landing his hairy mitt on Nasir’s chair and leaning over him.

“And you are?” turning to see the beast over his shoulder.

“The black cloud. Think hard.” grinning with his new ferial teeth flaring.

“You’re his familiar…” shocked at a sentient creature capable of learning magic on its own could be a familiar.

Growing inpatient, even having just sat down “Back to the task at hand. Why are you sentient and where is our duel?”

“As for the first it is my secret and for the second we will go to the beach; to avoid a setup you may pick where on the coast.”

“Agreed. Lets hurry then I do not want to take long.” As the need to kill is growing ever imminent and my thirst for war wont be sated by ale. Not tonight.

“Don’t you want to talk a while? This could be the last chance you get.” tapping his hand loudly and ordering a round of drinks for our table.

Rotaal was seated but nothing was said until the drinks arrived, and then the silence was rarely cut.

“I almost forgot, I have a parting gift for you.” putting down his mug.

“Do tell, what might that be?” thinking he must be bluffing as I returned my lips to the glass.

“Your two other companions, Merim and Grax were they?” seeing my eyes open a little more “Yes. I gave them each a day they would enjoy as tomorrow they’ll both meet death by my blade.”

“And you by mine tonight.” I snarled while finishing the last of my glass in a gulp.

“We shall see what we shall see. And as I see it the lass is on her way in now.” snapping his fingers in perfect timing as the door opened.

Sure enough it is Merim and… Who the hell is she with the wings, his lacky, a coincident that they came in together, an acquaintance of hers? No they’re talking so they came together, and Merim hasn’t been here before so she must be his lacky here to show me that Merim is under his thumb. After my thoughts ran their course I cast a glare at the feathered wench of an assassin with the message ‘I am on to you!’ Merim seams to have noticed the message and will likely try to follow or approach for a clearer one.

“I know this strains you but I need you to force a link at range to Merim and tell her not to come near or follow us.” giving a quick nod to Rotaal.

“Done. Shall I stay to watch over them? If she is an assassin as you think she is a good one, no shred of killing intent.”

“Then keep an eye on her all the more.”

“I see that you are not one for conversation but need you sit there and wallow in your anger, you should eat, drink and be marry in the time before your demise.” returning to his drink that had been refreshed while I was thinking.

Taking another light swig of ale I finished my drink “Lets go before the drink dulls our blades further.”

“Fine if you are so impatient to die so be it.” standing from his seat “Just don’t look back wishing for another glass to numb your pain.”

“Or you that another glass may slow my hand.” dropping the coins on the table as we walked out doesn’t matter who pays it comes from the winnings anyway.

“Then I’ll remain here.” grunted Rotaal to himself leaning his chair back against the wall and resting his foot on the trunk I have work to do and many options to choose from. scanning his eyes over Merim‘s companion as they went up the stairs.

Stepping out into the fresh evening air “Even your familiar does not wish to be with you to watch your death.” laughing to himself as we started down the misty road

“Something like that.” having long grown tired of the jests from a man that demanded our duel to begin with.

Into the fog we faded plotting each other demises.

Reaching the sand he turned as to ask ‘lead the way.’ Stepping back I roughly answered by drawing my curved weapon ‘here.’

“Let me just ask why here. Was it your sense of beauty that made you choose here?” waving his hand towards the reflection of the moon on the water and the crest of the lighthouse peaking over the trees that let fall their autumn leaves “Or was it your sightless rage that wouldn’t allow for such majestic thoughts.” twisting his hands into arcane sigils.

Seeing his movements I grew cautious Summoning? Where will it appear? “Nether I just do not wish to waste time on a moonlit walk with a man. Much less, one I’m going to cut down.”

Finishing his signs he was obscured by a red light that quickly faded, revealing the now armoured knight covered in twisted spikes, brandishing a long sword and tower shield “Whenever your ready.”

“I have been.” charging in I knew I must keep an ace up my sleeve…

As we met together the contest of our strength became evident, and not in my favour. Our blades clashed and his shield hammered down, knocking me from my feet. Taking the chance to strike a definitive blow he thrust his blade down into my now broken arm. As he pulled his gleaming blade down he severed the useless limb in an excruciating display before stepping away.

“Do you yield and accept death at the hand of Nasir Hakef Verin‘al?”

Gritting my teeth I grabbed my limp arm and got up to my feet “I accept nothing!”

Slamming the open flesh together I forced a channel past and into me arm causing a regenerative burst as it reconnected itself. The medicine is truly worse than the illness in some cases; your flesh ripping itself apart to nit itself together again is one of those times.

“Well isn’t that something?” whistling as he noticed my fingers start to move “Then next time I‘ll have to aim for the neck and see if you can reattach that.”

Think! How do I kill him? snapping my fingers and having my weapon fly up into my hand He’s a Guardian so blood magic within twenty feet of him is at his choice of if it works and direct magic has no effect.

Hope this works. Direct translation is a deadly gamble. Lightning gather upon my hand! “Ev‘sec‘bren crac‘evic‘ gre‘er wes‘ev!” as I held my blade up front and my right hand behind me.

Pain ran up my arm in sharp cracks of electricity as Nasir charged. Loosing a heavy yell I met his charge swinging my sickle in a wide arc only to be disarmed effortlessly, stuck in his shield. Coming down quickly, his sword narrowly missed and landed in the sand. Taking the chance I grabbed his blade releasing the stored electricity and freeing the handle from his grasp.

Jumping back and taking his distance he snarled “What perverse magic is this? Your sorcery should be useless!” while wrenching the sickle from his shield.

Flipping the sword around to point it at him “Oh, really? Then I best keep my wits of what spells I choose.” revealing a grin of satisfaction, Just need one chance and this game of cat and mouse is over!

Fiddling with the oddly weighted sickle he grew annoyed as he lifted his visor “Such a peculiar weapon you wield, and your magic that foils my arcane guards. Truly you are a pray worth the hunt!” removing his helmet entirely, to improve his vision.

“And you as well…” shifting into an unorthodox stance with the sword over one shoulder and my center low to the ground “you call your arms and armour but have yet to use any other magic. Could your armour constrain your power as well?”

“Is that what you think?” tossing my sickle behind himself and snapping his metal clad fingers.

The sword I had held was in my grasp no longer, but was pointed at me “****!” Check! “Fine then. We end this now!” holding my scorched hand out in plain sight “Ev‘sec‘bren crac‘evic‘ gre‘er wes‘ev!” as it burst with energy once more.

“Yes, a glorious end to your struggle!” beginning his charge.

“Come!” And mate! holding my empty hand out and running forward.

Fifteen, ten, five feet away and he fell to his knees pinning his sword and shield below his mass as my sickle had flown into the back of his leg. Looking up he caught the palm of my crisp hand to his face and began to convulse in a tangled mess under the electric force flowing through him.

“W-why!” wheezed the scarred and dieing man.

“When I said ‘come’ I was speaking to this.” ripping the cruel blade from his leg “And now, your pool shall become mine as well!” removing his head in a single swift motion.

As I began the ritual to claim his crimson hoard it struck me I wish I had stayed and had just a few more with him. For as twisted as the bastard was he had much he could teach me. “You damned fool!”

 

Savage Nature by Darkshard[2,940 Words]

The tales still sing of the High Paladin Keigor, greatest servant of the God of Light and slayer of an archdemon. I was one of his companions when I was a young man, and for that alone the owners of the tavern are willing to grant me room and board still – though I am old now, and my hair and beard are gone to white. The leaves are now falling, and I know that I am not like to come through the winter.

The door swings open. I turn with rheumy eyes to see that stubborn cat stalking in. A ratter from the barns outside, he has taken a liking to me. He even chooses to sit on my lap when it suits him. He leaps up with astonishing grace and agility, muscles bunching beneath fur. As I feel the weight of him on my legs, he butts my hand with his head.

It is all so strange. I never expected to be old. I look down at the cat. A savage, ruthless killer by nature. Now he kneads my thighs, dreaming of the time he took milk from his mother as a kitten.

And now only I survive to know the truth. The greatest duels of that mighty paladin and legend of our age were not the ones he won... but those he lost.

*

Our boots crunched on the sands before us. Ahead stood a great ruin of black stone.

Then I saw it. The wildcat that we had seen so long ago in the city of Phairud. It ran before us and into the shadows.

From them she stepped out.

She was tall, very tall. The druidess was clad in robes of a brilliant emerald green that wrapped about her as she moved, and her long dark hair was bound back by a single leather cord at her brow. Her eyes were dark, too, and old. Old, though her face was neither young nor old, but that of a woman in the prime of her years.

“Lady,” Keigor acknowledged at last inclining his head. “Let us pass.”

“Paladin,” she answered, “I will not.” Her braids swung as she firmly refused him. “I cannot watch you finish what you have begun.”

“Then I must do battle with you,” he said regretfully. “For all that stands between humanity and it’s liberation from all darkness forever is you, Yyessa.”

“That is not so,” she replied, “but I see why you might think so.” She began to circle Keigor, ignoring us entirely. I drew my rapier.

“Then whatever else comes to stand between,” Keigor said emphatically, “I will face also, and overcome.”

“I don’t see why,” she said, in tones that were almost affectionate, even teasing. “You never have yet.” And with those cryptic words, she leapt.

In a single swift motion, Keigor had drawn his blade and lunged towards her. Sparks flew up as she smashed forward with her staff with both hands, parrying the blade. As we charged forward she raised her staff contemptuously, and a great thorny wall sprang up. Within seconds we were entangled, surrounded by barbs like knives.

“Then it is just you and I,” Keigor said gravely. “But the Light is with me!”

He leapt forward, slashing down hard. She leapt aside, cat-like, and swung as she spun to bring the staff fully into Keigor’s face.

The vine-like tendrils tightened about me, near choking me as I struggled desperately to free myself. I could see Lanni hanging upside down. The halfling thief was likewise thrashing about and trying desperately to escape. Amargen too struggled, his long beard caught amongst the poisoned barbs.

The rim of Keigor’s helm turned most of the blow, but he was still sent reeling.

“Light must cast a shadow,” she answered, the cryptic phrase of the druids. Keigor roared, and swung his blade high overhead before striking down with a mighty blow. Lightbringer burned fierce and white with holy power. “No shadow shall endure!” he cried.

She stood still deliberately, I think. The blade struck home, but there was no tell-tale smoke, no burning away of evil that was smote by the power of Good. He looked taken aback, and she smiled. Blood streamed freely from her shoulder, but the staff spun and swung hard, and then again. She was forcing him to hasten backwards to avoid her advance. “Shadow endures as long as light does,” she replied, and forced him back further.

He parried with astounding speed and grace, his shield ringing time and time again. Then he struck. The blade carried past her cheek, cutting her face. She stretched her tongue aside to taste her own blood, then smiled. In one swift motion slammed the butt of the staff into his belly. As he staggered backwards, she flung her head back, exultant.

Then she leapt.

The sandy floor shuddered as she landed. Guardian of nature, power and strength, savagery and purpose. It was a great wolf, covered in twisting patterns that were mystical and intricate. It raised it’s head and we saw it had her eyes, and was laughing as only wolves can laugh.

Then she leapt for Keigor.

His metal gorget crushed as teeth snapped around it. That was the only reason his throat wasn’t torn out in an instant. The wolf shook him like a rag doll, worrying him, then flung him aside. He rolled over and over, lying almost motionless on the ground, the air rattling through his throat with a terrible whistle that was nearly a death rattle. His windpipe had been crushed.

The wolf stalked about it’s fallen foe, primeval and wild. It's stiff-legged strut was one of victory, and then she shifted form.

Her staff was lifted above his face, poised to crush his throat as she crouched above him. Then, with a sudden laugh, she kissed his forehead lightly. She rose from her crouch.

“When you seek to undo what you have done,” she told him, and her voice was ringing, “you will find me at the shores of lake Calenmere.” Then she walked away into the desert. Behind her massive growth of vines suddenly began to recede, and we tumbled out of them.

She disappeared into the darkness.

*

Seventy-four days, a desperate fighting retreat. I remember the frozen, haunted look upon Keigor’s face as he remained helpless against the foe, unable to fight it. Unable to defeat it. The ragged remnant of an army retreated, at first northward. Then at last, on the eighteenth day, Keigor gave the order to retreat eastward instead. Only we, his faithful companions, knew, the meaning of this, though the soldiers, white-faced and wide-eyed, whispered at last in hope that Keigor had some great plan to save us all.

At last the army was camped upon the shores of the great lake that was sacred to the druids. Keigor had walked forward and raised the heavenly Shard aloft. “I am come!” he cried aloud to the wind and sky, and though only the birds cried out in answer we knew we had been heard.

She came that evening, walking fearlessly through the ranks of our guards towards Keigor.

“So, you have come,” she observed. He gazed at her steadily.

“I have come,” he answered at last.

“Let us talk,” she said, and without invitation sat down, limbs folded beneath her. “You seek to undo what you have done?”

Keigor paused, for a long moment. Then he answered. “I do not wish to fail my God,” he told her. “But I cannot face the archdemon. I can do nothing but flee before it.”

She nodded, then. “Then know this,” she said. “I can aid you, paladin. But all things come with a price.”

“Name your price,” he replied.

“The Shard,” she answered. “The piece of Godhood that lies within your hands.”

He stared at it for a long while. It's crystalline, unearthly sharp outlines turned in his fingers. Then he spoke. “I cannot. I must have it to defeat the demon.”

“Here is what I will tell you. Even your God did not succeed at what you have attempted. This is why He seeks another to fulfil His purpose. You can succeed after a fashion,” she said, and shrugged. “Give the Shard to another paladin, and let them strike the demon down with it. You will ascend to the heavens to stand beside Heior and His Children, and it will descend to the Hells, to be with Hellor and the Dark Pantheon. There it will plot vengeance on humanity and wreak evil upon it, whilst you counter it’s efforts and enter the dreams of those who pray to you to guide them. All you need do,” she said with a cruel flicker of amusement, “is cede responsibility for this.”

Keigor clenched his fists. “That I will not do,” he said.

“Good,” she said, and sat back. “There is another way. You will not like it, but you will do it. You will undo what you have done.”

“Speak,” Keigor told her.

“First, your word. The Shard, when your task is complete,” the druidess replied.

Keigor bowed his head. “Very well,” he agreed, and the thing was done. I expected a knell from the heavens for that betrayal, but it never came.

She nodded, once, and for once was unsmiling. “I must consider what I may tell you, without breaking my own vows,” she said. She rose, and began to pace. “Have you heard of the Heresy of Veinar?” It was clear from the way she asked this that it was not a question.

“That Heior and Hellor are in fact brothers,” Keigor said, nodding. “I had heard that it began with the druids. What has this to do with it?” He was not challenging, nor disbelieving, nor in any way discourteous. Such things were for lesser men.

Yyessa stopped, staring away at the sky. At last she spoke again. “The druids tell it,” she said, “that to live, one must die. And to die, one must live. What does the Faith of Light teach?”

Keigor sounded a little puzzled, but answered, “That we may live forever, if we attain complete purity. We shall dwell beside Heior,” he said reverently, fervently, “in the Heavens.”

“Hmm. When is a contradiction not a contradiction?” she asked, as though a teacher enticing a student to contemplation.

“Speak plainly, I pray you,” Keigor said intensely. “I do not have time to unravel this mystery piece by piece. The demon already marches – ”

She lifted a hand. “No druid will ever speak plainly if they can avoid it,” she said, licking her lips as though in distaste that she did so now, “for the answer that a student arrives at may not be my answer, yet may be as just as right. And that is the answer, answered, and so fixed in a single state.” She gazed at Keigor steadily with huge green eyes. “A contradiction is not a contradiction when more than one possibility may be true.”

Keigor took a breath to urge her once again to haste, then seemed to realise that this was necessary to her. “So you are saying that the cycle of rebirth and the eternal life of the Faithful may both be what is true... for different followers.”

“If you think I am saying that, I am saying that,” she said. I heard the dwarf snort and turn away, stalking off into the darkness. “Or perhaps that it what you are learning from it. Another time, in another fashion, you will hear a different truth in it, or interpret it another way.”

“Then... there is more than one interpretation to your words,” Keigor said carefully.

“When is there not? Even a paladin can have his words interpreted differently, though he intended only one meaning,” the druidess said. “I try not to limit myself to merely one, though it is often inevitable.”

“What meaning would you say I should take from your words?” Keigor asked, and I realised that as they bandied words about, he was trying to coax some truth from her.

“Ah! There you pin me to a fixed answer. Very well. Let me think, and try to direct where your thoughts might go.” She paused. “When a miner seeks a vein of gold, he must hew through dross. Where does it go?”

I stirred, unable to hold my tongue. “It becomes gravel for roads, if the miners are wise,” I said. She turned towards me and looked at me. I found myself held by those eyes. “You speak wisely,” she said, and her smile was strangely compelling.

“There is a truth,” she told Keigor, turning back to him. “That which is impure can becast away, but it may also be used for a different purpose to provide something useful. However, there is this," she emphasised. "It is always somewhere. Cast into the sea, spread over the ground, left where it was hewn... it cannot be destroyed. Nothing ever is. Changed, but not destroyed.”

Keigor frowned. “Then you are saying...” He paused, and his eyes widened slightly. “That all impurities must go somewhere. That...” He stared at her. “No,” he said, making the connection.

“Yes,” she said. “It is as I said. You succeeded, Keigor. With all of your strength, you divested yourself of all 'impurities'. When you touched the Shard, you bled, did you not?"

Keigor visibly started. “How did you know that?” he whispered. He stared down at his fingers.

“Keigor, it finally cut free that half of your soul. Of course you bled,” she replied, almost annoyed. “Now you are pure enough to ascend to the heavens. Well done.”

And suddenly, it was clear.

“The archdemon...” he whispered, staring down at his hands.

“Yes. I told you then that it was not I alone that stood between you and heaven upon earth,” Yyessa replied. “You do. That part of you will always oppose you.” She patted him on the shoulder, evidently amused, and, I thought, in a manner that was entirely unnecessary.

“Then I must destroy – ” he began heavily, and then stopped.

“Good. You are thinking.” She tapped his head with her staff lightly. “You cannot destroy it. Only move it. If you perish, the Shard will remain here. If you live, you will never be able to reach the Hells to slay the Dark God, for your own Death awaits you, and it has power over you still. This is what Heior could not tell you, because He does not understand it.”

“That part of my destiny was never shared with another,” Keigor said quietly. I found myself letting out a breath in amazement. “Tell me how you knew.”

Yyessa sighed. “In the beginning,” she said softly, her voice turning almost a chant, “there was nothing, and all was in balance. Then there was light, and shadow, and all was in balance, but that balance was in motion. Light and darkness. Life and death. Truth and falsehood. Wholeness and separation. At any moment it is still, yet it is ever-changing.”

She fixed her green eyes on him. “Light reveals, and defines, and darkness hides and cloaks, blends and merges. The God-that-was set itself against itself. It is sundered, in eternal inner conflict. Yet to set a part of your nature apart from yourself is to cede your own control over it, and deny responsibility for it. Of all the things the druids value, it is strength – the strength to take responsibility for all that you are.”

For a long time no one spoke. Then more softly, she spoke very deeply.

“I am light and shadow,” she intoned, and it was clear that she spoke a catechism and yet a catechism from the heart. “I am foolish and wise, gentle and savage, bold and wary, generous and selfish. I live, and I die. I am all these things.”

She looked down at Keigor. “The Shard that you hold is the physical emanation of the piece of the Godhead that divides Heior from Himself. Heior intended that you should wield the Shard in his place, to slay Hellor Himself. Yet you cannot overcome your own nature, no more than He could overcome His. So the balance remains, as it must. Nature protects itself.”

“I see,” Keigor said, after a long, long while. He frowned, and then nodded. “I will do what must be done.”

“Good,” Yyessa said, and we spoke no more until dawn.

*

The legends say that Keigor wrestled the archdemon down to the hells, and he is celebrated in glorious song. I have no wish to disillusion them all. I know that Keigor did not wrestle his own shadow at all, but instead embraced it. His envy, his lust, his cruelty, all his hatred for humanity, his arrogance. He took it into himself, and became whole, and chose to live and die a man.

The Shard was never found, but I know what happened to it. Glittering it rose, above the lake of the druids, and glittering it fell, shattering into a million pieces. The gods now do not answer. I wonder what they will say, when they speak again.

I look out of the window. The leaves are now falling, and my own winter comes. It will soon be night for me. Yet spring will come afterwards. There will be litters of kittens in the sun, and they, as I, will cast their own shadow, and burn with their own light.

-- Excerpt from the letters of the bard Keledin, companion to the High Paladin. Preserved in the secret vaults of the Faithful along with other heretical documents.