Ismay's Run

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 07:39:48 GMT

The silence hung over the table like a thundercloud about to break. Even the servants moved like phantoms as they cleared away the platters stacked high with exotic fruits that had barely been tasted. Croyd hung his head as he felt his host’s eyes bore into him. He wished he were anywhere but here, trapped in this stuffy room with its rich hangings and pervading aroma of fruit that had passed its best.

“Can I take it,” his host spoke through a thick slice of mannion, “that she’s not coming?”

Croyd squirmed in the padded chair, trying to avoid the plump man’s glare. “Larmegan, I--”

“Can I also take it,” Larmegan bowled on as if Croyd had never spoken,

The Magic Menagerie

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 09:59:51 GMT

The Magic Menagerie

"I need a virgin, Mother Superior."

The abbess's headdress bobbed up and down in a faint nod. The crinkled face remained unperturbed, as though I were stating the obvious. She simply didn't understand.

"The problem is -" I began.

"The challenge," she corrected me softly. "The challenge, Sister Dragomira."

"The challenge, Mother Superior, lies in locating a suitable girl. The festival is in a fortnight."

Her calm face said I know and I shut my eyes so that she wouldn't see them roll with impatience. It was all my fault, of course. I simply didn't know how to work in the glamorous world of religion. I wasn't used to abbey politics, the lingo felt ridiculous to me, and I was not as yet skilled in the art of doing little while appearing indispensable. That's why I had no idea how to complete the task that lay ahead of me without making a fool of myself.

"Ours is The Order of Magic," I heard the old woman's voice. "You have the entire Magic Menagerie at your command. Do you remember our vision, Sister?"

"To be the first nunnery on the planet in terms of service excellence," I supplied dutifully.

"Very good. Keep the vision in mind, and the rest will follow."

There was only one answer to a pretentious slogan like that one.

The tales we tell are the very coin of life. For what lives on for us in this world except our stories?

A half-dozen horses galloped noisily to a stop outside my Randy Dryad Inn just as I was chasing out the last of my regulars for the night. A heartbeat later six burly soldiers shoved a rag-clad prisoner ahead of them through the door.

The filthy, near-naked man crashed to the floorboards, hands and feet bound fast by heavy chains. Even through his heavy brows and shaggy hair, I could see raw hatred gleam in his eyes. He spat at the soldiers and was rewarded with a vicious backhand across the jaw.

My Orc bouncer, Bloodgouge, rose from his stool beside the door. I calmed him with an emphatic scowl. The soldiers wore the badges of Baron Vahl’s troops. The last thing my poor, suffering business needed was to annoy the local landholder.

Bloodgouge returned to his stool, crossing his tree-trunk arms and licking his two-inch tusks. The soldiers kept a wary eye on him as they dragged their prisoner with them toward the bar.

“Wench!” the leader, a spectacularly hairy bear of a man, shouted at me. “Fetch the proprietor! Me and my men wish to celebrate our good fortune!”

“I’m the owner of this inn,” I said. “And my name is Shakara, not ‘wench.’”

“A woman, the innkeeper?”

I canted my chin toward Bloodgouge, who was now very conspicuously polishing his fifty-pound war-axe with a greasy rag. “If you have any complaints, take them up with my legal advocate there. But I assure you--sergeant, is it?--that my ale is as frothy and my beds as soft as in any inn owned by a man.”

Another of our clan's children starved to death in the night.

Ours was a grim gathering in the abandoned badger sett where we made our winter home. "We must invade the bees' colony." My husband Ceallach pounded his hands on the dried mushroom that served as a table and buzzed his wings. Hunger had made him so weak that neither gesture had much emphasis. "Otherwise we shall all starve."

Keriam, a senior member of the Council, shook her head. "The bees are more dangerous than starvation. They are many, and we are few. One sting and we die writhing. Or had you forgotten that inconvenient fact?"

I slouched in a seat of dried moss and let the argument wash over me. The previous spring had been arid, and this winter had brought frigid temperatures and little snow. We'd gathered what food we could through the summer and autumn, but it hadn't been enough.

All of us had protruding ribs; many lacked the strength to fly. An attack on the bees, in our sorry state, would be suicidal. Not to mention the fact that I was pregnant. But if we didn't have enough to eat, the pregnancy Ceallach and I kept secret from the others would perish with us.

"Sitting here and dying by inches holds little appeal," I said. "I'd as soon go to my death doing something, rather than puling about how little hope we have."

"Easily said by you," Keriam sneered. "Your father would never allow his little Princess to go to battle."

Gregg ducked instinctively as a giant bird the size of a man swooped over him. As the large creature passed, Gregg could feel iron talons narrowly miss his head. Gregg began to run and quickly looked behind him and saw the bird coming after him again, and not for the first time wondered what he had ever done in life to deserve exile in Hell.

Gregg stopped short his musings and ran towards a large outcropping of rocks, seeing a small cave that he hoped would shelter him from the bird until the nasty thing left him alone. He sprinted as fast as he could, hearing giant wings behind him, and dove for a small opening in the rocks. He had the satisfaction of hearing the bird’s metallic beak clang against the sharp rocks.

Breathing heavily, Gregg watched in relief as the bird flew away. He looked around him and saw he was near some small mountains with a deep valley. After a few hours he left the safety of his small cave in search of food.

“You would think being dead that a guy wouldn’t get hungry,” Gregg said to himself. “I guess that’s just another perk of living in Hell.”

Gregg had no idea why he was in Hell, only that he wanted to get out as soon as possible. He remembered what the old Roman centurion had told him, years ago.

“You must remember this, young man. Hell is a labyrinth, and like any maze this means that there is a way out.”

“How? I mean, if there is a way out, how come you haven’t found it?”

“Maybe I have,” said the old man, with a crazy glint in his eyes.

Gregg had spent the next few years navigating the strange and winding landscape of Hell. He had traveled over rivers of lava, flown over strange cities in a blimp and had even swam through a sea of blood all in his effort to escape. He had no way of measuring his progress in Hell, but he hoped he was near the end.

That night Gregg dined on a small, tough creature similar to a rabbit, only this one spit poison. Gregg also added some herbs and gree...

Five Crates of DragonRoot

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 06:04:40 GMT

Never steal from a thief.

Jane had told me that. Something about honor among thieves which never really made sense to me. But now, she was dead and I was here, trying to rob the biggest thieves of them all -- the Pariahs.

I should’ve listened to her.

I had the perfect plan: beautiful in its complexity, wonderful with its sheer audacity. Except plans were only perfect in theory. In practice, things went wrong all the time. Right now, things were going very wrong.

The Pariah stared at me and I stared at him, both shocked, both trying to figure out what the other guy was doing there. Truthfully, I was the one who didn’t belong. He should've screamed. Then the alarm would’ve been raised and it would've been over. Instead, we reached for weapons. Me for my hand-crossbow and him for a knife. He was out matched.

I shot him in the throat with a venom laced dart. He gagged, then dropped his knife. I caught him as he fell. He gazed at me in terror, probably wondering if his life was about to end.

I lowered him to the ground. He'd live. Well, the odds were in his favor anyhow. Coral snake venom hammered at his nervous system. In scholar’s books, the toxin was classified as a muscle inhibitor. Muscle inhibitor didn’t sound so bad, did it? From real life experience, it caused instant paralysis and internal bleeding. Sometimes, body fluids leaked from the eyes, ears and genitals. You know, the usual.

I could've killed him. I was more than capable of killing a man. But there wouldn’t be any murdering today. Retrieval was my job, and my employers weren’t about to get an assassination for free.

"You'll be all right. Don't panic and you'll pull through fine." From his wide eyes, he didn’t trust me. F...

Ink Stained

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 12:22:30 GMT

The candle dwindled to a stub floating in a puddle of wax; a sudden draft and the flame guttered. The poet looked up. Parchment crackled as ink-stained fingers halted, marking a place on the line of text. His gaze turned to the narrow window and tracked the roofs of the city east, following the jutting spires that marked each district towards the first glimmer of dawn where, beneath a bank of pewter clouds, night’s velvet warmth gave way to a line of cold silver. He cursed and turned back to the parchment spreading it flat beneath his fingers.

He read slowly, letter by letter, struggling to bind each strange word, burn them into his memory. His short hair spiked into disorder, crushed and tugged by frantic fingers, beneath a shadow of amber stubble, smears of ink marked his jaw. He blinked to ease the feel of grit from eyes green as moss and bruised with lack of sleep. The candle guttered. It was his last, as the shadows crept closer as the poet’s fingers traced the handwritten scrawl in sudden haste.

As dawn dragged shadows along narrow city streets, thin lipped, the poet tasted the final word, silently, cautiously. He released the parchment and it furled like a hedgehog. A sliver of sunlight fell across the scarred wood and the parchment faded to ash. The poet took a shuddering breath as the words woke and writhed inside his head.

Already bells were ringing across the city. Carts rumbled in the street below the window. Pulling a doublet over a dirty lawn shirt, fumbling the buttons in haste, he stamped into long boots. He grabbed rapier, dagger and cloak and hurried to the door.

Outside sunshine warmed the air and cast shadows across streets that twisted between overhanging buildings. As the church bells tolled, he hurried towards the river, splashing through mud and shit as he settled the rapier against his left hip and slung the cloak around his shoulders. He dodged among water sellers and carts carrying wood and hay. A dozen bleating sheep on their way to the slaughterhouse delayed him for precious moments. Sliding from the shadows two men dogged his steps.

He clattered down dank steps to the river. Water thick as soup nudged his boots as he waited for the wherry to ease clo...

Hansel and Grethel, and the Wicked Witch from the East

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 06:34:44 GMT

During her lunch break, Grethel drove to the bank; she needed to withdraw a love spell. She skidded her red Chevy Corsica into a parking space across from the First Magical Bank before a pegasus and its rider could land in it.

She looked up at the winged horse, hoping it wouldn't leave any droppings on her or her car. Air Rage had been a big item in the news lately.

The pegasus and its rider flew away, looking for another place to land.

Hopping out of the car, she climbed the concrete steps and pushed open the glass doors. Being a payday, she saw that she would have to wait in line. She had told her supervisor back at the weather factory that she might be late clocking back in.

He told her not to worry. The storm they were manufacturing wasn't due to hit Boone County for another three weeks.

Grethel walked over to the small chest-high table to the right of the door and at the center of the bank, the one with the deposit and withdrawal slips.

“Excuse me.” She dodged around a tall, slender elf who headed for a line at one of the tellers. Grethel looked over her shoulder at the elf's corn silk-colored hair. It was so long she wondered if he ever tripped over it.

She had heard that more and more elves had journeyed into Lebanon, but this was the first time she had seen one visiting her bank.

She picked up the pen chained to the table and looked for the slip she needed. At first, she didn't see it among the red deposit ones and the gray withdrawal ones; these were for cash transactions only.

I hide in shadows, sweat dampening my clothes as I nervously destroy the cuticles on my fingernails in anticipation. Today, on el Dia de Muertos, the ancient celebration of the Day of the Dead, I worry that I will soon be numbered among them.

Earlier, I succeeded in tracking him to his new abode. I had come across his trail of destruction on the Internet, of all places. Reports from a Mexican city near Juarez detailed an unusual number of missing among the homeless and prostitutes, fitting his standard modus operandi. As I had only recently lost his trail near the border in New Mexico, it seemed likely that he had continued further south.

In his dotage, he had become sloppy, demasiado confidente, and he appeared not to observe me as I followed him from his latest human slaughter to his current shelter. An untrained eye would not have been able to distinguish him from the surrounding environment as he traveled, for he had dispersed his essence into little more than vapor. My eyes, however, had been schooled by many previous bloody encounters with him over the years, and were not so easily confused. The billowing form moved from a rat-infested alley on the outskirts of the city to a more rural hacienda, secluded and encircled by well-stocked animal pens. Centuries of existence had taught him well, to maintain an alternative supply of food in times of scarcity. A small, polluted stream meandered on by the livestock, supplying a cheap, readily-accessible waste disposal service. He eventually slipped from my sight under the sill of a low stained glass window, undoubtedly heading to the basement.

I bide my time in a copse of nearby ficus trees, waiting...

Strength Eternal

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 11:32:41 GMT

The brown-robed trio stepped into the vast chamber, the first two entering side by side, shortly followed by the other. The leading pair were younger, strapping men who carried their walking sticks as elite soldiers might their spears. Neither man's movements betrayed fear, though a hint of trepidation might have touched their eyes. Yet both were dripping with sweat, for the cavern's oppressive heat dwarfed that of the busiest smithy. A few paces in the warriors stopped, allowing their much older companion to pass. He was thin, but despite his age the tallest of the men. His voice quivered as he began, but he soon managed to steady it.

"Great lord," the elder human said, "we come on behalf of the High Druid. Your awakening portends a time of change, as befits as mighty a being as yourself, and we wish to offer a partnership which will surely bode well for both our interests."

A wedge-shaped gray head the size of a wagon descended to hover inches from the man's face, torchlight reflecting off the golden serpent eyes. "A partnership?" it rumbled, its voice the slow grind of the millstone. "What do you suppose your order has to offer, to one such as I?"

"Your kin once ruled the world, we know, and it is in your nature to hold dominion over land. But the world has changed, and great power fallen into the hands of men. With our help, you would be better poised to reclaim your rightful place."

     Felgar tapped the beast in the ribs and it started lumbering forward, dragging the wagon along with it. He scowled; the wagon was overloaded with ore. Wheels creaked ominously, digging deep furrows in the tunnel floor and the wagon vibrated as it inched along, leaving a trail of detritus and debris. It couldn't be helped, though. The Overseer told them to step up production but - in typical tight-fisted fashion - hadn't given them any more resources. They made do with what they had.
     So it was a good thing the beasts were tireless.
     Felgar glanced at the great animal as he walked alongside the cart. Despite the great weight, it pulled the cart effortlessly, powerful muscles rippling beneath its scaly azure hide. It walked steadily, head held high. With every exhaled breath, a small wisp of steam escaped the beast's jaws. There was frightening intelligence in the reptilian eyes, but they were glazed with a dull torpor. Felgar continued to watch the beast carefully, just to be on the safe side. He had to be vigilant; he'd heard enough horror stories of miners who weren't. There usually wasn't enough left of them to bury. Like those poor bastards at Westfalls.... Felgar shook his head. That had been a terrible tragedy. A flask dangling from a short thong on his belt slapped against his legs and he grabbed it, twisted the cap loose, and took a gulp of the foul-smelling rotgut within, helping to dispel the thought.
     His hand brushed against the whip and his lip curled in distaste. The Bureau required that all dragon handlers carry one. He never liked it and never used it. Some of the other handlers did, delighting in watching the dragons flinch back from the barbed tips. Such displays bored him. The beasts were held in thrall by magic; why antagonize them needlessly? Besides, in the isolation following his accident, Ole Blue had been his closest friend. Felgar patted the dragon’s flanks, smiling as the beast snorted.
     They reached a tunnel crossroads and Felgar trotted ahead, pulling the whip from his belt. There would be hell to pay if someone saw him without it in hand. There was no cross-traffic coming from either direction, just a couple of Bureau guards lounging and playing dice. One of the mercenaries nudged the other and called out, "Hey, Felgar! How's the ale today?"
     Felgar clenched his hands tight enough to draw blood from his palms with his ragged fingernails - but kept his mouth shut. The insults were part of his daily tribulations. Still, he supposed, he was lucky enough to have a job, no thanks to the booze. At the thought, his mouth watered to take...

Jastice

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 09:14:09 GMT

     The Cycladon glared at Jastice with its single, diamond shaped eye, radiating a seething malice, so alive in its unyielding hate, that it was close enough to being its own living entity. Jastice felt the need to break contact in fear of some unseen, arcane attack, but he held firm.
     Jastice circled the creature, staying just outside its reach, watching as its serpent half coiled, ready to launch its massive upper body at a heartbeat’s notice. Jastice switched the grip on his sword, a five foot blade wrought in the fires deep within the mountain temple of Gor, God of Battle, now using both hands.
     The swamp was alive with activity. Splashing, chirping, and the screams of the recently devoured went well with the black and gray surroundings. It was a place of death and despair and right now Jastice was facing its master.
     The Cycladon was a creature of myth, the lower half of a great serpent with the upper half muscled and with a pair of arms strong enough to pull a man in half without strain. The beast had a flat face with a mouth that opened four ways, filled with teeth sharp enough to shave with, yet all of that paled in comparison to the thing’s three horns and lone eye. Horns and an eye that were said to have magical properties, to grant the caster the power of time and divining; the exact reason for his foray into the death lands of scale and murk, he needed them or else his wife was as good as gone.
     Lyanna had been taken from him near half a year ago by a sorcerer who simply called himself Phantom. Jastice had hoped his days of questing were behind him, wanted a life and family free of violence, but he had been forced to pick up his sword one last time, or at least he hoped.
     The creature held its arm out, as if it wanted to hug Jastice, letting its mouth stay open, hoping to scare its constant harasser off, but Jastice knew better. It had taken him far too long to track the Cycladon down to simply let it escape to whatever watery lair it kept. The beast hissed and then lunged, aiming its sledge shaped head at Jastice’s middle, hoping to impale.
     Jastice had telegraphed the move though, holding his blade with both hands out in front and pointing at the creature. The minute it was close enough he sidestepped to the right and wheeled the sword in a downward to overhead arch. The steel flashed down just as the Cycladon’s head passed harmlessly away, exposing its bulky neck. The blade bit deep, drinking in the creature’s green blood, slicing nearly all the way thru before getting caught by a tough, sinewy piece.
     The Cycladon’s body began to spasm and convulse, its hands reaching out and grasping at nothing. The t...

Chatter Me Timbers

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 09:13:20 GMT

     I had sailed the wine-dark seas for almost a year as part of a pirate crew that haunted the lesser islands around Itheledu. Then, they found out who I was.
     "Rhovine!" The blue-eyed piper shook me awake.
     I opened my eyes to see that the moon god’s chariot was only a few hands-lengths into the sky, his luminary face turned halfway from the earth. The rest of the Blackwave’s crew snored around me; we had pulled ashore for the night, with brave ventures planned for the morrow. "What is it?"
     "You have to go," he said. "Tomorrow, when we’ve sailed and there’s no place for you to go, they mean to take you prisoner and make course for the Isthmus."
     "How much is the reward?" I was surprised how calm I felt.
     "Enough to make the journey worthwhile and then some." His eyes pleaded with me. "Go, Rhovine. May the gods walk with you."
     I slid to my feet, pulled my satchel over my shoulder, and crept towards the edge of camp. Though in haste, I paused to relieve my companions of a gold-and-sapphire necklace taken in a raid some days back. Florid scrollwork clutched the gem.
     The sentry was asleep, but I dared not breathe until I slipped past him into a treacherous wilderness of low branches and dry rock. I moved low to the ground, feeling my way deeper into the anemic forest. The rises and inclines sheltered me from the camp, and I relaxed my stride into a quick trot most unbecoming of the daughter of one of Thiyosasch’s oldest bloodlines.
     I did not know the size of this island, but I hoped a few days would take me to the opposite shore. There I would have to start again, find another ship willing to take me – farther north, this time? The continental folk and the Isthmians were both distinctive in their looks, but both also had throwbacks to the ancient sea-peoples, slight, silk-haired, dark-skinned with hawk eyes. As such a one, I stood out equally wherever I went.
     Morning found me ravenous. I scavenged a handful of berries and was surprised to realize that I could see the island’s only port from the top of the rise. I hesitated, scanning the shore for any sign that the Blackwave might have come after me, but there was nothing. The town lay in solitude.
     I found a stream and made myself presentable before I entered town. The houses were built to Ithelin liking, windowless lumps of wood and clay with a courtyard in the center, though none of them were more than a single story and there were no murals on the exterior walls. The first person I met was coming back from the fields wit...

The Unicorn Problem

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 00:27:43 GMT

  The fat gold piece spun on the bar, coming to rest in a puddle of spilt ale.  Dannik’s eyes widened, and he made a grab for it before anyone else could see.
  The older man laughed at his expression.  “There’s a deal more where that came from, my friend," he said, “if you can supply it for me."
  The Mouse on the Table was almost empty.  The landlady, Nomi, was sweeping behind the bar.  She was too far away to overhear them, but Dannik still kept his voice low.  “What do you want with a unicorn, Phinnyun?”
  “What do I want with it?”  Phinnyun was more than a little drunk, his face florid under a thick mop of grey hair.  “Do you know how much people will pay to see a captive unicorn?  I used to have one, but the damned thing escaped about three moons ago and I haven’t been able to get my hands on one since.  I tell you - Dannish, wasn’t it?”
  “Dannik”
  “Yes, yes.  I tell you, Dannish, you get me a unicorn, I can make you a rich man.  And I’m not talking coppers, either."
  “I don’t know."  Dannik scratched the back of his neck, where his overlong fair hair brushed the top of his shirt.  If he could get enough gold together, he could move out of his mother’s, maybe even rent a room of his own.  But it seemed a risky enterprise.
  “Scared, are you?”  The older man seemed to read his mind.  “Listen, son, if you don’t have the courage -” He rose to leave.
  “Of course I‘m not afraid!" Dannik insisted quickly, as visions of gold began to dissolve before his eyes.  “I can get your unicorn.  I just need a bit of time, that’s all."
  “Time’s what you haven’t got, my lad."  Phinnyun reached down and clutched his arm, and Dannik received a blast of his beery breath.  “I leave for Riversmeet within the moon, to meet with a bargee who’s promised me a baby dragon.  If you’ve not brought me it by then, well, I’m sure there’s boys upriver who’d be grateful for the gold.  Now if you do catch one, you’ll find me camped outside the Tellis Gate, near the border crossing.  Bring it to me there, or send a message."
  He walked unsteadily away, barking his shins on one of the low tables as he passed, and vanished out into the evening sunlight.  Dannik raised his flagon, realised belatedly that he had already drained it, and called the barmaid for another pint.  She leant on the bar, halfheartedly cleaning out a flagon, and stared at him as he drank.  “What was all that about?” she asked.
  Dannik had put away two more pints than usual, and his head swam.  “Says he wants a unicorn, Perscha!  Where am I going to get a unicorn?”

The White Devils

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 11:20:39 GMT

Fate dances on the edge of a spinning coin. Jonn Rendain fiddled with his few remaining silver coins as the words echoed in his head.

"Are you going to play?" Gunther asked.

Jonn frowned. "Sorry, just thinking of something my father used to say." He looked down at his cards--he had the Red King and most of his court. A good hand. Maybe his luck was finally turning.

Gunther snorted laughter. "Was your father any better at Hangman's Bluff than you?" The burly soldier grinned at his own joke, as did the serving girl perched on his knee. Her name was Milli, and she and Gunther were in love. She was young and pretty, with long red hair and green eyes. Jonn wondered whether Gunther knew what color her eyes were. It seemed to him that Gunther had spent most of the evening gazing at her rather impressive cleavage.

Jonn bit back his angry retort. What could he say? The pile of coins in front of Gunther was depressingly large compared to his own. A soldier in the Sentinel Guard didn't earn much, and seeing his month's salary stacked in front of a thick-headed dolt like Gunther was painful.

Jonn wiped sweat from his forehead. The common room of the inn was sweltering, a result of the hottest summer in anyone's memory. Around him, the room was a riot of noise as off-duty soldiers spent their wages on ale, food, gambling, and women. Or, in the case of Gunther, all of the above.

The cards swam before his eyes, mocking him. The Red King and most of his court. Most of his court. He was just missing the Jester. Without the Jester, it was just a good hand. Not great, but good. But if he could draw the Jester, he'd feel a whole lot better.

"All right, old man, what's it going to be?" Gunther growled. Milli giggled as Gunther's hand disappeared up her skirt. "You going to fight or flee?"

"Fight. I'll bet two silver crowns."

Gunther pulled his eyes away from Milli's cleavage. He heaved a dramatic sigh. "I'm bored with taking your money. We need something to make this game more interesting. Two silver crowns isn't worth my time, not when I have other things I could be doing. Right Milli?" The girl giggled again.

"All right. What did you have in mind?"

Gunther grinned. "Where is your next duty assignment?"

Jonn felt his stomach drop somewhere around his ankles. "North Spire," he muttered.

Gunther's eyes lit up. "Ah, perfect! I'll wager fifteen gold scepters against your duty assignment. Two months at North Spire is certainly worth that much. If I win, we switch duties. I get your post at North Spire, and you take my post at the Shield Gap."

North Spire was the best post in the Sentinel Guard. Every soldier in the Guard counted down the months until their next assignment there. But, fifteen gold scepters was a sizeable portion of Jonn's losses. If he could win this one hand, he...

Plague Chalice

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 11:18:28 GMT

Does anyone really grieve the passing of the old goat?

Ella kept her silence and took a seat on one of the benches before the dead High Priest’s bier, at the feet of the Azure Altar. Her gaze wandered from the high marble pillars up to the dome that housed the nests of countless sparrows--the avatars of Ekkas, the God of Chance, Commerce and Thieves.

Bird droppings landed on her nose and her face twisted, but she knew better than to curse openly. She wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, wondering whether she should smuggle another cat into the temple. A few months back, she had secretly coaxed a huge tomcat into the Hall. Hidden behind a pillar, Ella had watched the mayhem, chuckling. Clerics ran after the cat, wild-eyed, tripping over benches, their green robes billowing behind them.

A nudge from her left startled her. She looked up and met the stern gaze of Amnos, the priest overseeing the wake. Beside her, Meg, the cook, cleared her throat.

“Stop grinning,” Meg whispered from behind her cupped hand.

Ella bowed her head, faking piety, but she found it impossible to fake grief. Her eyes darted sideways, stealing glances at the others: priests of lower ranks, servants of the Temple, some local merchants and townsfolk. She saw blank faces, drawn lips and one or two stifled yawns. No signs of sincere mourning--the late High Priest had been insufferable. The solemn chants of the ritual bored her. She had only attended the wake because rumor among the servants had it that Derrik, the head of the local Thieves’ Guild, would pay his respects tonight, as guild etiquette ordered. The same rumors claimed that Derrik was one handsome man.

Yet the candles had already burned halfway and no such man had entered the hall. Ella’s lids grew heavy; her body ached and she had missed supper. Drawing in a deep breath, she stood up and approached Brother Amnos. Behind her, Meg snorted.

“Your holiness, may I be excused? I have chores to attend to,” she lied. She had finished her duties hours ago.

“What kind of chores, my child?” His mirthless, unblinking eyes focused on her mouth. Did he still suspect her of that poison ivy powder in his undershirt last week?

He’s not buying it. He will make me sit here all night. “I must tend to the Chanters’ formal robes for tomorrow’s rites.” Her heart fluttered, hearing her voice tremble.

The lingering stare of the priest made her cheeks burn.

“Very well,” Brother Amnos finally said. “You can go. On your way to the laundry room, stop by the High Priest’s private chambers. Inside the mahogany cabinet, you will find the banner of the Sparrow God. This, too, needs cleaning and ironing for tomorrow’s funeral.”

“As you wish,” she said and bowed. She made her way to the side door, fuming. He hates me, I’m sure of it! Now it will take me ho...

Heirloom

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 11:13:26 GMT

The attack took Eltava almost completely off-guard, and she'd have certainly been dead in moments if it hadn't been for the shout that made her turn. She just had time to register that it hadn't been the approaching thugs who had shouted. Then the only thing that existed in the world was the need to defend herself.

There were half a dozen of them, all armed with swords except for one big brute who hefted a mace. She'd been in Zhashis long enough to recognise who these were: the Shark Patrol, who answered to no-one but the Tyrant himself and removed all threats to his power. She'd no idea why she should have fallen foul of them, but she could wonder about that later. Assuming that there was a later.

Eltava drew her sword, unconsciously moistening her lips as her eyes flicked from one to another of her enemy. They approached her slowly now that the surprise was gone, but they still looked confident. Why shouldn't they? Eltava acknowledged. Though superb with her weapons, it was unreasonable to believe that she could overcome so many well-trained foes. Unless she could find a means of escape, she'd be dead in moments. The thought left her head feeling hollow and the blood pumping wildly through her chest, but she fought down the fear to concentrate on staying alive.

Catching the slightest hint of eye-contact between two of the swordsmen, Eltava was parrying almost before the stroke came. Flicking the stubby blade aside with her own longer, slimmer weapon, she spun to meet the second blade. She caught this one squarely on her sword and staggered back a step or two under the force of the blow. Then, recovering her balance, she twisted the locked blades, forcing them down to the ground.

Over-committed, her assailant lurched forward as her own sword flashed up and skewered his right shoulder. Her blood was pumping harder and her whole body felt light. As he dropped his weapon and stumbled backwards, blood oozing through his clutching fingers, there was an almost physical need to follow and thrust her blade through his heart.

But everything she had ever learned told her that it would be the last thing she did. Allowing the wounded man to reel back and prop himself up against a wall, she whirled to meet the assault from the man who, in these few heartbeats, had managed to get behind her. More by luck than aim, she sliced his sword-hand, and he too fell back, fear and anger in his eyes.

Turning back to face the rest of the group, Eltava's heart sank. It was clear that, seeing one lone woman, they had expected to have fun, but their comrades' wounds had shown them that this was business. Four of them approached her together now in a line, three swords and a mace ready to deal death.

"Here," a voice called, low down and to one side. Eltava risked a fleeting glance away from her approaching foes, to see a woman's head sticking out of an opening at ground-level. "This wa...

Battle Brothers

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 11:00:43 GMT

The fetid swamp closed in around him, a thick fog bathing his scales in warm moisture. Even though the tree canopy blocked much of the Wyalatian sun, the swamp was warm enough to keep his cold blood moving, to keep his large body limber and mobile. There were still many days before the valley’s cold season. He had plenty of time to complete the task assigned him before the snows came.

It was a mission of great importance. The clutch elders had chosen him to gather the information they needed, to put the feelers out and lay the foundation for future discourses. It had been six cycles of the northern moon since he said goodbye to his wife, his sons, his eggs, and left their comfortable mountain burrow. He would miss the hatching of his newest children.

A myriad of life-scents assaulted him from every angle, overpowering the darker scents of rot and decay, building a vibrant scent image in his mind. The yellows of decay, the greens and blues of cold-life, the oranges and reds of hot-life.

Pachec focused tightly on the brightest thread of orange - breathing in deeply, processing the available directional details. He turned his massive bulk to track the animals, hunching forward, this thick tail behind him, up out of the water - to keep it quiet, out of the water, and provide ballast.

Noting the late hour and empty weight of his stomach, Pachec set to work tracking. From a pouch on his broad belt, he took out three etcheps - sharply spiked stones - and his sling. His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, repainting the scent image, searching for the violent orange thread of the shrej, a flightless bird that had always been a staple of the Carraine diet.

Shrej weren’t the brightest animals so it was easy for him, trained as he was, to kill two of them. With dinner in hand, Pachec sniffed at the air, searching for the pungent green, brown, and cream scent of the Tjah-vec tree, a large tree the Carraine had been using for generations as a travel shelter. Their root system grew in such a way that a small burrow occurred naturally and with a little bit of Carraine digging, the burrows were serviceable quite quickly. Slender fingers of root clasped together to make walls and it could be made to be as deep as a particular Carraine wanted. The biggest trees made the broadest rooms. The particular Tjah-vec he smelled for was marked with Carraine scent - meaning all the work had already been done for him.

Leaning his bulk against the broad trunk, Pachec longed for the herbs and cooking pots of home. To many Carraine, especially the older ones, shrej were best raw and freshly killed. Pachec preferred them hot or, he tried to convince himself that he did. He had too much contact with the other people of Wyalat not to conform to their ‘civilized’ ways. But, a fire wasn’t safe in the root-rooms or in the swamp so near the Rousl villages. So, raw it would be regardless.

He ...

The Dragon Chain

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 13:41:04 GMT

     Plagues of arrows bounced off the dragon’s hide like waves beating against a cliff.  A single arrow snagged Marok, nearly tearing him off the dragon’s back.  He focused his mind, never losing the connection with the dragon, and the wyrm spewed a stream of flame.  A band of assailants and their bows turned to ash.

     Are you hurt? He heard in his mind, a message from another empath.

     I’m fine Hugo.  Marok responded telepathically.  Let’s just take care of these thieves and get back to the Guild.

     The path, once scenic dirt nowhere between Griffindale and Lockewood, was now a war zone.  Highwaymen poured out of one side of the forest and flooded the caravan; merchants fled the caravan and dispersed into the other side of the woods.  Marok and the other Guild riders met the mess in the middle.

     They are brave bastards, aren’t they?

     Marok turned to see Hugo flying along side him.

     Don’t get cocky, Hugo.  Marok responded.

     Cocky?  A hundred highwaymen are nothing compared to a half-dozen Guild riders.  I doubt we even lose one…

     Marok’s brain screamed as Hugo’s connection was severed.  He looked to the side to see Hugo falling off his mount.  An arrow stuck out of his forehead like a dismal sundial.

     Hugo’s dragon went cross-eyed, its empath dead.  Marok had seen it before: the wyrm’s mind had become blank.

     The dragon landed on a wagon and the transport shattered.  Splinters were tossed carelessly in the air as the wyrm tried to right itself.  Its legs spasmed.  Flames flew from its mouth in random directions.

     Marok, get away from there!  That dragon hasn’t thought for itself in thirty years!  One of the empaths called.

     The message came too late.

     Hugo’s dragon burnt a black wagon.  Black wagons were marked as such for having dangerous cargo.  It could be vicious animals, prisoners, or—in this case—gunpowder.

     The wagon and wyrm disappeared in the explosion.

     Marok fell off his dragon, his injured arm failing to hold onto the reigns.  He tried to will the dragon to catch him, but he was having a hard enough time controlling his own body.  He landed in a wagon full of textiles after a se...

Throne of Skulls

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 13:24:56 GMT

     Darkness. Complete and absolute. Velvet black teased my eyes, offering a hint of color here, the ghost of a shape there.

     I descended blindly toward the phantom light that came from far below. So distant it offered merely a pale hint of light. Too faint to discern its source, it glowed alabaster against the packed mud walls of the tunnel.

     Dampness assaulted my senses. The wet scent of earth and growing things melded with mold and decay. Roots protruded from the canopy of dirt. Bones crunched underfoot. Whether Faerie, animal or human, I couldn`t tell in the darkness. So I kept climbing downward and sincerely hoped the bones belonged to some long-absent animal`s lunch.

     The ground leveled out as I descended. The smell of rot choked my lungs, making me wheeze. I did not belong here in the darkness among dead and decaying things. I was a child of air and light.

     I have no choice; I reminded myself and kept moving. With any luck, I`d find the one I searched for and be gone before anything took notice of me.

     Light grew with each passing step, filling the tunnel now. The things that crunched underfoot proved to be bones indeed. Beneath my toe I noted a half-skull. Faerie I thought with a shudder. The oval eye sockets gave it away. I quickened my pace.

     “I am Isolde, Queen of all Faerie,” I chanted softly. “I can do this!”

     Around another circuitous bend, the tunnel belched me suddenly onto a set of flat stairs that led down toward the brightness. Light seemed to emanate from every surface. Soft and diffuse, it nevertheless blinded me after the darkness of the tunnel. Standing where I was I would be silhouetted for all to see.

     I flattened myself against the first of the stairs and peered over the lip into the basin at the bottom.

     Smothering a gasp, I stared at the scene below.

     Bleached bone formed an archway at the bottom of the stairs. Spines of it rose to the high ceiling like the ribs of a giant animal. In the center of the vast room lay an altar, carved from bone like the rest of the furnishings. And at the far end, opposite the sweeping staircase sat a throne of bone.

     Forearms laid in decorative rows formed the armrests of the throne. But instead of fingers, the armrests ended in bone spikes. Troughs ran down the legs of the massive throne.

     The seat was fashioned from woven ribs. Vertebrae rose along the sides of the massive throne culminating in a massive skull that crouched at its peak.

  ...

Hiss of Death

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 13:19:10 GMT

     I knew this was not going to be an easy meeting. For one thing, I was less than fully sober and still pumped-up from a night of dodging mysterious archers and irate monks. Then there was the small matter of titles. I hate titles. They are unwieldy, inflexible and so rarely suit the holder, who either wears their honour with awkwardness and obvious discomfort, like some ill-fitting garment, or alternatively allows their ego to balloon out until it fits only too well.

     Take the Serene and Omniscient Darrell, First Voice on Earth of the Supreme Being Jeddah, God of Wisdom and Light, for example. At that particular moment he seemed anything but serene and omniscient. The Flustered, Dishevelled and Spitting-Feathers Furious Darrell would have been far more appropriate.

     “What do you mean there were difficulties?” he asked, visibly shaking as he struggled to control his anger.

     The ‘Dishevelled’ part was explained largely by the hour – it was well past midnight when I called and he had obviously been asleep. Mind you, I caught a glimpse of his wife, Giselle, on the stairs as I came in and if I were in bed beside a woman like that, sleep would have been the last thing on my mind. She was stunning. The ‘Spitting-Feathers Furious’ bit was due to the content of my report, whilst the ‘Flustered’ was probably down to a bit of both.

     “Isn’t that what I pay you for – to handle difficulties?”

     It was impossible to treat the situation as seriously as it undoubtedly merited. Sorry, but a verbal lashing from a small, middle-aged man in a pink and grey dressing gown falls a long way short of terrifying, no matter how pompous his title.

     We were in the drawing room of his ‘humble’ home, which was full of graceful and highly polished dark wood furniture and as lavishly appointed as any lord’s. Clearly the religious life paid well. His Holiness ran a hand through an uncombed tangle of black and silvered hair, scratching at the scalp beneath in irritated fashion, perhaps trying to scour away the lingering cobwebs of sleep.

     “Tell me again what happened.”

     At least he had stopped pacing.

     I took a deep breath and repeated my report without embellishment or exaggeration, in fact with an uncharacteristic economy of words. “We gained access easily enough, as you predicted.” It had involved scaling a tall stone wall at a specific point. The wall was packed with jagged edges that tore at hands and breeches alike. We came over in the shadow of a large tree, calculated to mask our approach. There were three of us. At His P...

The Darkmount Trilogy

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Fri, 27 Apr 2007 15:00:34 GMT

     My heavy blade crunched through the evil knight's pauldron and collarbone to split his sternum, and I withdrew it with a sharp jerk of my arm.  Then I looked at his companion and said, "Get ready, rot-brain.  You're going to hell next."

     A big man, the skull-masked warrior charged me with a speed unexpected in such a large frame.  We met, and my sword rang against his axe in a few thunderous clashes before I managed to knock him off balance.  I raised my sword and stepped in for the kill.

     Then, I felt a terrible pain in my back and stomach, and looked down to see a large, blue-bladed sword sticking out of my body.  Apparently, I hadn't quite killed the master of the castle yet.  His helm had saved him from the last bite of my blade, and now I was paying the price.

     Spinning quickly, I wrenched the sword from the Devil Warlord's hand, though the blade twisting inside me almost took my senses away.  Staring in surprise, he was unable to react when I sliced through his skull.

     His corpse fell away, and I tried to turn back towards his furious guard.  I screamed as the axe bit into my shoulder, but my return blow to his breastplate sent him reeling.  I brought my blade down, chopping through his skull down to the hollow of his throat, and ended it.

     I'm still all right, I told myself as I sat down carefully on the nearby steps.  I was losing a lot of blood, and the sword felt heavy inside me.  But I'd survived worse.  I wrapped my shoulder first, then reached behind myself and gave the hilt an experimental tug.  Ouch.  Not wanting to wait for my partner to return, I kept pulling anyway.

     It was slow going due to the awkward position of the sword, and I was still dragging a length of sharp steel from my guts when I saw Finn approaching.  "Did you free the prisoners?"

     "Of course.  The maidens won't be slaves to this dead guy."

     His belt pouches were overflowing with jewels and coin taken from the Devil Warlord's treasury, and his pack as well.  I'd have to stock up too, once I felt up to standing.  "So how's the loot today?"

     "It's alright.  Didn't find anything magical, though."

     That was to be expected.  Magic isn't exactly commonplace nowadays.  While Finn had hoped to find some useful artifacts in the Devil Warlord's horde, I was somewhat glad we hadn't.&n...

The Unwell

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

    Boregan of Partush thought nothing of the sounds in the hall outside her room in the hostel. Many young people had come to the tiny village of Gun'n to win the prize. Tow-headed Gelts from the North rubbed shoulders with olive-skinned Stormcockites and Bast-ilians, even one or two black-skinned Narah-bezans, travelers and opportunists who must have heard of the great Contest of Connus. Lads and lasses padded back and forth, passing the Partushin's door in search of food, a game of Probjit, assignations with secret lovers or simply space enough to practice their art.
    Boregan worried about none of these things. She was the finest archer in the Six Cities -- and knew it. Where this might have been arrogance in another, it was simply a recognition of fact in the young woman. Having joined the Order of Heldoroth seven years ago, Boregan had forsaken personal pride and profit and sought the Contest of Connus for another reason. At the age of only twenty she had found no adversaries to challenge her art. In desperation she now sought that trial amongst the greedy and vain, archers who flocked to Gun'n once every ten years to win the prize of a solid gold bow, weighing over fifty kalots.
    Boregan cared not at all for the gold, merely the challenge. She had discovered archery upon her arrival at the monastery of Heldoroth outside the small but vibrant city of Partush. Her master, an old soldier named Caviss had recognized her talents immediately, setting her on a course of intense training which had ending only two years ago, when Boregan and all the monks had gone East to fight the pagans. The carnage and destruction of those two years, though they had challenged Boregan in some ways, had only taken from her art. Caviss had died on the field of battle, his chest pierced by a lance. The only opponent to ever beat the lass with bow and arrow was gone.
    The war over, Boregan had not returned to the Order but struck out on her own. As a mercenary she could have earned a better wage than she did now as a traveling performer but the hired soldier's work was largely boring or risky. The Partushin was satisfied with her meager living as long as she got to shoot her bow at meets like the one on the morrow.
    New sounds in the hall drew her attention where the old had not. Having gone from stealthy slippers to a more intriguing sound, Boregan got up off her cot and listened at the door. She heard it again, a short burst of air.
    "Psst." It was a voice, summoning her. "Boregan of Partush."
    "Aye," the archer offered cautiously. "What do you want?"
    "To speak with you. No more."
&nb...

Bonds of Exile

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

The Gods and the Demons have been at war since time began. Their battle rages on each and every world in existence. The goal of this war— to seal off the enemy from each of the worlds, one by one. Until, eventually, the enemy has been sealed off from all of existence.

On one particular lonely world, the Demons have won.

The desert punishes. That is its nature.

And so, it punished me. Because I was living upon it. Punished me with its thirst and its heat and its hunger. And also its endlessness. Centuries upon centuries of endlessness.

The Isivanis Desert covered almost all of my world. And this was a fact that I now knew not just from the words of others, but from my own experience. Because I had now made an existence in the desert wastelands for over two millennia, and so I now knew well its shape and its size and its ways.

I knew the brutal sameness. The endless hills of sand and rock. The constant, tearing winds. The biting emptiness. I knew all of this because I was an exile. A Damned One. Damned as only the Tsarvrath— the halfling demonkin— can be damned. Damned for a living eternity.

My kind do die. Eventually. And so, my exile would, at least, come to an end. In time. But it is a long, long life that we lead. And thus, the end would come only after an eternity of punishment.

It was a very sorry existence that I had been brought to. An existence of weakness. Of hurt. Of timidity. An existence all too similar to that of the few pitiable humans that also lived out here in the desert, for whatever their reasons, instead of inside the iron greatness of the Demon Cities.

An existence of careful choices. Of retreat. Of the husbanding of resources, especially that of strength. Saving them for a time when you might have need of them. Because the deser...

Tree of Isriad

editor@afterburnsf.com (AfterburnSF.com) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 12:17:50 GMT

Llemmel sat concentrating in his candle lit room, pouring over words in a silver bound book. He had started to rethink his university career path. Politics, after all, was a very serious study. The tests of magical ability to even serve on the Council of Seven caused more then one student to reconsider their job selection.

Still his ambition did not falter. The spell he was studying was extremely complex, and was part of an elaborate practical test he would have to participate in to be considered for apprenticeship on the council. Then hopefully, with hard work, he would take a chair on the council in time. His future paraded around in his head, and his concentration slipped. He smiled silently at the thought of being on the council, making laws, changing things for the better. His daydream, however, vanished at the sound of knocking at the door.

“Come in,” Llemmel sighed. The door squeaked annoyingly open as an attractive long haired brunette stepped into the room.

“Still studying?” Cassi laughed. “Come on! Jacob is at the tavern. They are having a mead drinking contest tonight, and you know how Jacob can’t stand having someone beat his record.”

“I really shouldn’t. I have a lot of studying to do,” replied Llemmel still nose deep in his book.

“Really?” She exclaimed. “You would rather stay here with your old dusty books then come watch Jacob get sloshed, and do something really stupid?”

Llemmel tore his gaze away from his studies. As he did the words slid off the page and vanished. He rounded on his intruder in frustration and stopped in mid word, captured by her bright green eyes and the mischievous smile. It was the one she wore when she wanted to lure him from his work. Unfortunately for him, it was always successful. Casandria was an attractive woman. Her slim figure and long brown hair hung with loose curls around her neck. His heart always raced at the sight of her.

“Fine!” He groaned. “Let me get my cloak.”

“Great, I will meet you downstairs.”

Moments later they were walking the busy cobblestone street towards the inner section of the city. The air was crisp and cold, hinting at winter. It would soon be Yule Tide, and a qu...

Afterburn SF - The Very Best in Speculative Fiction

King of Heroes

Ismay's Run

The Magic Menagerie

Five Crates of DragonRoot

Ink Stained

Hansel and Grethel, and the Wicked Witch from the East

Strength Eternal

Jastice

Chatter Me Timbers

The Unicorn Problem

The White Devils

Plague Chalice

Heirloom

Battle Brothers

The Dragon Chain

Throne of Skulls

Hiss of Death

The Darkmount Trilogy

The Unwell

Bonds of Exile

Tree of Isriad