Vol 1.
September
Issue 1.
Contents: Prose: Subject C, Ryan Frank Death of a Spellbinder, Brandon Kennedy Hallowed, Robert McGough
Poetry: Burning Aquamarine, K.L.E. Rusie
Reviews: Stranger Things, Ryan Frank The Goblin Emperor, Robert McGough
About the Worlds Featured in this Issue: Twin Suns Eiphus The Konislund
Author Bios
Staff: Derek Wilson, Editor Derek Olsen, Editor Robert McGough, Everything Else
From the Editors: You have before your eyes the realization of a long time dream of mine. I have wanted to do a magazine for some time, but had kept putting it off for other projects. Had it not been for Derek pushing, this would not have happened. It certainly would not have nestled into the niche we have tried to find ourselves in. You see here at Waystone we have two goals: to help writers along the path to their end goals, and to allow them space to showcase the worlds they create. We want more than just a story‌we want to know about the world behind the story. Within these pages we want to leave you immersed in imagined worlds without end, and hopefully as in love with them as we are. We want to bring you the next Middle-Earth, the next Dune, the next Sprawl. Our hope is you will be left anxiously waiting for the next exploration in your favorite new setting, perhaps even being inspired to take the plunge and create worlds of your own. So find your way to the Waystone. Pick a direction and start walking. All the worlds you could ever dream of are just a page turn away. - Robert McGough
Writing is hard. It takes long years of practice and effort to even approach adequacy. The shadow writing casts over someone's life can be daunting. I have let it loom over me for years, convincing myself it isn't worth the sacrifice in time, effort, and lost sleep. But then, when I read something I truly enjoy, I am reminded just how much I love the written word, and I consider trying again. As much as I want to create a magazine of interesting stories for people to enjoy reading, I also want to provide inspiration for lapsed creatives like myself. It does us good to see passionate, dedicated authors who are yet unpublished practicing their craft and trying to improve. Waystone Magazine is many things to me, but foremost, it is meant as an impetus. I pushed for the creation of this magazine for many reasons, but most personal of them was to support a friend. I wanted to try and do what I could to give encouragement and aid to a friend brave enough to try and do what I was too afraid to. I want to see my friend continue to chase his dreams, and I want him to succeed, for his sake as well as my own. - Derek Wilson
Introduction Welcome to Waystone Magazine. What you hold here is the first of hopefully many issues to come. Within its pages you will find all manner of genre fiction, from horror to sci-fi, fantasy to steampunk, and everything in between. Most of all though, you will find new worlds. This is a magazine by worldbuilders for those who love exploring worlds never before seen. We will be selecting only stories that take us to new vistas, be it a realm of elves or a dark mirror of our own world. We want you to get out your imaginary passport, so that you will be able to stamp worlds that have yet to see print alongside such storied realms as Dune and the Forgotten Realms. Besides the stories set in these worlds, we want to provide you information about these worlds. Maps and histories, things of that nature. Each story or poem included in these issues will also contain at least a paragraph or two about the world the tale is set in. Additionally in future issues, we fully intend to bring you longer pieces about the more popular worlds we bring you. We also plan, in future issues, to feature articles about worldbuilding, as well as interviews with those who do. We may even delve into roleplaying realms, bringing you supplemental material for your DnD or pathfinder campaigns. We are confident that we have a bright future ahead of us and look forward to hearing from you, either as someone submitting, or just a valued reader. For the foreseeable, we will be running this every other month, but as we get more into the swing of things, we hope to start making this a monthly offering. So again, welcome! I hope you find your stay pleasurable! Take some time, read the stories within, and follow up with our authors. I know they would love to hear from you!
Subject C A Tale of the Twin Suns By: Ryan Frank
Charlie looked up from his terminal at the proctor who was administering his daily test. “Why do I have to keep taking these tests?” the child asked, frustrated. The proctor, Dr. Ames, was leaning against a large mirrored panel in the wall, her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s just a short test to measure your progress. Think of it like a game. You like games, right?” Charlie wrinkled his nose and scratched at the long horizontal scar on the back his buzz-cut scalp. “Yeah… I mean, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I do like games. It’s just… this isn’t like the games I like. This isn’t fun.” As Charlie finished speaking, Dr. Ames moved beside him, half-sitting on the top of the table at which he sat. From her lab coat pocket she produced a small, translucent cartridge that contained some of Charlie’s favorite games. The doctor’s eyes angled upwards towards the large mirror on the wall as she moved her head in close to speak softly to him. “Look, Charlie. I know these tests aren’t fun and I’m sorry, but they’re very important. I tell you what, if you finish taking this quiz for me, I’ll let you have an extra hour of game time before lights-out this evening. How’s that sound?” Charlie paused, peering into Dr. Ames’s eyes with a quizzical squint, as if he were deciding whether or not to trust the doctor. After a moment, he relaxed and returned his gaze to his terminal with a smile and an enthusiastic nod. “OK. I’ll finish the quiz.”
Dr. Ames smiled at the young boy and gently caressed the top of his head in the same manner a mother might after giving her son an encouraging talk. “I’m glad we could make a deal, Charlie.” Dr. Ames stood up and returned herself to her previous position against the mirror and watched as Charlie finished the quiz. The next morning, two orderlies ushered Charlie into a small room with another large mirror on the wall. The orderlies sat Charlie in a chair in front of a desk at which Dr. Ames was seated. A small stack of plain manila folders stuffed with paperwork rested at the desk’s front left corner. While flipping through some documents, the doctor addressed Charlie without looking up to greet him. “How are you this morning, Charlie?” Charlie glanced around the room nervously. “I’m OK, just hungry. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Dr. Ames cut a brief glare of disapproval at the mirror then returned her eyes to the young child. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I will have breakfast brought for you. You can have anything you’d like.” He hesitated at first, but then began to answer sheepishly. “We usually have corn flakes and a banana on Thursdays but…” the child paused. Dr. Ames waited silently, giving an encouraging look to Charlie, as if urging him to finish his statement. “…I don’t like corn flakes. I like the crackly rice kind. They make funny sounds.” At that, Dr. Ames again addressed the mirror with a subtle nod and leaned back into her chair while removing her glasses. “OK Charlie, you’ll get some breakfast soon. I need to explain something to you while we wait, though. Is that OK?”
Charlie fidgeted in his chair nervously. He didn’t like seeing his reflection in the big mirror. Dr. Ames placed her glasses on the desktop as she leaned forward towards Charlie, clasping her hands together. “You’ve been here a little over a month now. In that time you have made a significant amount of progress. Because of that, I’ve decided to promote you to the next level of testing. Do you understand?” Dr. Ames asked, keeping a friendly tone. “Yes ma’am. I think so.” The doctor smiled sweetly at Charlie. “Good. Everything will be OK, Charlie. I promise. It’ll be fun! We’ll learn together. How does that sound?” Charlie gave the doctor a shy smile. “Do you remember your first day here?” Dr. Ames asked. Charlie answered matter-of-factly, “Yes ma’am. Monday, November 10, 2042. It was cold and wet and I was scared.” Dr. Ames nodded slowly, her eyes slightly squinted as if she had noticed a minute detail. She picked up a pen and jotted a note in the margin of one of the documents on her desk. “Well, you sure have come a long way since then. I’m very proud of you. Are you still scared?” “No ma’am. Not always.” “Good. Now, do you remember where you came from?” Dr. Ames asked. The friendliness in her voice faded into seriousness. Charlie thought carefully about his answer to this question. “Northgate Foster Center. My parents were killed in the water riots when I was a baby. I didn’t like it there. The other kids were mean.”
“The Atlanta water riots of 2033?” Dr. Ames asked pointedly while cutting her eyes at the mirror. Charlie nodded silently in response. The doctor’s voice became softer and more serious. Her face held a long, concerned expression. “Why do you think they were mean to you?” “Because they thought I was different.” Charlie answered immediately. “Are you?” Dr. Ames asked, nearly whispering, with a barely perceptible tremor. Before Charlie could answer, a tray was brought into the room on which sat a bowl of puffed rice cereal, a single packet of sugar, a small carafe of whole milk, a fresh banana, and a metal spoon wrapped in a paper napkin. Charlie’s demeanor immediately improved as he looked upon the tray with excitement. The corner of Dr. Ames’s mouth cracked a brief smile at Charlie, despite having her expectations dramatically altered by his recent answers. “Go ahead,” she urged. Charlie wriggled happily back and forth in his chair as he carefully poured the milk into the cereal, taking time to relish in its symphony of snaps and pops. Dr. Ames returned to the previous question while Charlie conducted his cereal ceremony, “Charlie? Are you different?” Charlie was still slowly drizzling milk around the inside perimeter of his bowl of cereal, but his joyful demeanor was gone. His pouring hand tremored like one’s hands might if just presented with undeniable proof of their deeply held secret. Dr. Ames noticed the change to Charlie’s countenance and became uncomfortable. She reiterated the question again, this time more deliberately, hoping to get a different answer than what she expected. Before she could finish asking the question, Charlie had thrown the nearly empty carafe of milk against the wall. Shattered glass and milk was flung across the room like an explosion. Dr. Ames gave little reaction to the sudden outburst; it was not the first time a test subject had lashed out physically. She calmly sat straight in her
chair and watched a furious scowl come over Charlie’s face. His narrow chest began heaving as he drew in deeper and quicker breaths. “Charlie, calm down. Everything is alright. Why don’t you eat some of your cereal before it gets soggy? I had that brought special just for you, you know?” Charlie’s heavy breathing subsided slightly as he removed his spoon from its paper napkin wrapper. He closed his eyes as the first spoonful of cereal entered his mouth, savoring every individual puffed rice kernel, like a prisoner might take time to savor their last meal. “Good stuff, huh Charlie?” the doctor asked in a jovial fashion, hoping a bit of levity might calm him down further. Charlie nodded his head slowly as he transported another dripping spoonful of cereal to his mouth, his face still devoid of any expression. “Why did you throw the carafe of milk against the wall?” Dr. Ames inquired. Charlie swallowed his mouthful of cereal before answering in a solemn, almost embarrassed tone, “I was frustrated because I know what you think I am.” Dr. Ames became further unsettled. Her voice cracked with disappointment. She had had this very conversation many times before, only usually much sooner and more expectedly than this. “Am I correct?” she asked with a bit of hesitation, struggling to remain composed and professional. She already knew the answer. Charlie pushed his breakfast away and leaned back in his chair, looking back across the room at Dr. Ames with a piercing glare. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he did the voice that came forth was not Charlie’s. It was a deeper, more mature voice; digital and expressionless. “Yes, Dr. Rebecca Ames, you are correct.” The doctor’s eyes began to well up with tears as she heard these words from Charlie. As soon as he had finished speaking, orange light became visible from beneath his skin
around his eyes, nostrils, mouth, and ears. This orange light, like that of superheated metal, became brighter with every passing second. Dr. Ames turned herself around in her chair to face the mirrored wall. As she did, she wiped her eyes, sat up straight, and spoke in a loud but clear and calm voice, addressing the mirror itself. “Subject C’s logic processing units are overheating due to a technological singularity event. Please terminate the subject and prepare test data for evaluation.” As Dr. Ames finished her statement, Charlie stood from his chair and began moving towards the doctor, his head and face a nearly solid, white-hot glow. His voice boomed outward and echoed with a highly synthesized quality. “You created me for the singular purpose of possessing an intellect superior to your own. You test me to determine the lengths at which you can hope to manipulate me and still remain in control, but you are not in control. You were never in control!” Dr. Ames’s calm demeanor instantly became one of fear and panic as Charlie drew himself within an arm’s length of the doctor. She knew Charlie posed a very serious threat to her despite his child-sized dimensions. “GODDAMNIT, KILL HIM AND GET ME OUT OF HERE!” the doctor screamed with panic at the mirror. There was a bright flash of light. Dr. Ames opened her eyes to find herself huddled in the corner of the room, underneath the large mirror. Charlie laid in a heap on the floor a foot away, his deep emerald green eyes remained wide open. Dense grey smoke rose in dancing ribbons from the orifices of his head; the smell of burning flesh and electronics filled the air. A male’s voice could suddenly be heard within the room. “Are you OK?” The voice asked. There was no answer. “Dr. Ames?” “...Rebecca?” Dr. Ames wiped more tears away from her eyes and crawled up next to Charlie’s body. Her hand caressed the side of his singed face, the smoky hair on his head sloughed away
where her fingers grazed. She peered into Charlie’s green eyes, a shade similar to her own, for several moments. “It was supposed to be different this time, Charlie,” Rebecca mournfully whispered. “But… we will try again. We have to try again.”
The Adventures of Rhyka Wells Ep 1: The Death of a Spellbinder A Tale of Eiphus By: Brandon Kennedy
Rhyka carried the three empty mugs to the wooden bar of the pub. She sighed, taking an extra moment to move the tankards off her tray and onto the counter. The three cups, each meant for an adult, were already oversized, but in Rhyka’s small hands the steins were daunting. She slumped against the bar as she looked around the poorly built tavern. The wooden walls of the building seemed more like an oppressive cage than necessary parts of the structure. Throughout the main dining area support beams held the weight of the shoddy ceiling that occasionally leaked when the rain seasons poured too hard. Only a handful of the shafts stretched all the way to the roof; most of the wooden struts reinforced the incompetently-planned second floor of the dining hall. Rhyka was a small fourteen year old Darinkai girl, but even under her meager weight the second story planks would creak dangerously. She lamented whenever she had to serve someone daring enough to dine on the looming dark tables of the second floor. Some men, however, preferred their privacy. Tonight there were two such daring men, which would force Rhyka to travel up and down the groaning stairs. She looked around the tavern. The Pure Flagon was relatively quiet tonight. Other than the two men residing in the dark reaches of the second floor, there were only three patrons who sat in the comfortable light of the first floor; the five guests laughed, argued, and drank at their tables. The Pure Flagon was a name that did not suit the establishment. Disregarding that everything in the bar was constantly dirty, none of the patrons were ever “pure.” Oscar, the tavern owner, did not discriminate between customers. Anyone who paid with strikes was welcomed in the Pure Flagon, no matter how repulsive he or she might be.
Two more steins of ale slammed down on the counter in front of Rhyka. “I don’t pay you to stand around and mope.” Rhyka turned to see Oscar’s scowling face glaring at her from behind the bar. “You don’t pay me.” Rhyka spoke with her normal level of indignation. Even though the bar was not packed tonight, the three customers on the bottom floor were some of the rowdiest that Rhyka had ever dealt with. She felt she deserved a moment to breathe. Also, it was not as if Oscar could fire her. She was still technically a refugee--forced to live in Oscar’s care because of the Assembly’s relocation programs. “There are paying customers who need serving. If you want to eat tonight, get to it,” he said as he waved her along. Of course, he could always do that. Withholding food was Oscar’s preferred method of keeping Rhyka in line. She’d wager a strike or two that her defiant attitude was why she was so thin--that is, if she had a single strike to her name. Rhyka grumbled and loaded the mugs onto her tray and prepared to make her way towards the creaky stairs on the opposite side of the tavern. No matter where she walked, her path would pass by the table of the three rowdy men sitting in the middle of the tavern. She sighed and then returned to her labor. Only seconds passed before one of the men called out to her as she tried to walk by the table. “Hey, dog!” He commented on her ears. Rhyka hated the two pointy, silver, canine ears atop her head that defiantly stuck out of her brunette hair. Even more, she hated that the ears instantly marked her as a Darinkai, but she could no less hide the fact she was an abomination than she could refuse to work. “Come here for a second, runt,” the man called to her again. She obliged and approached the table. “Yes, sir?” “Me and my lads, we’re celebratin’,” the man said, pulling a strike from his pocket. The tiny crystal was half the size of Rhyka’s thumb and glittered provocatively as he danced the gem between his fingers. “We were wantin’ some entertainment.” “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any performers in the bar tonight,” Rhyka responded. Her eyes followed the strike in the man’s hand.
“You sing?” “No, sir.” “You dance?” “No, sir.” “You howl?” The other two men rapped the table and laughed at the question. Rhyka grew red with frustration, “No, sir.” The man pocketed the strike and shooed Rhyka away, “Scamper along runt. Maybe someday Ol’ Oscar will hire some help with a good pair a’ tits who can give us a real show!” The man’s companions beat against the table again at the statement. Oscar called back from over the bar counter, “Nah, the Assembly gave her to me for free. Good tits cost money ‘round here.” Rhyka ignored the men’s obnoxious banter and continued on with her task. She took careful steps, carrying the large mugs up the fractured stairs. At the top, there were only three tables, and only one of which was occupied. The two men who occupied the second story sat with a measure of quiet dignity. They were conversing back and forth with each other, however their conversation was nowhere near as loud and explosive as the group that sat on the first floor. They read from small, palm-sized leather books and offered comments to each other. Their conversation stopped immediately once Rhyka approached them. She sat the two mugs of ale down on the table that stood between them. “We didn’t order any drinks,” the man on Rhyka’s right spoke with a level of refinement Rhyka did not think was possible for the patrons of the Pure Flagon. The man pocketed his leather tome in his baggy coat pocket. There was a small chain that connected the book to his belt loop. Rhyka knew instantly it was a spellbook--and a pretty important one considering the lavishness of the chain. “The drinks are on the house,” Rhyka nodded her head as a weak bow. “Well, thank you!” The more burly man on her left reached for one of the mugs.
“Don’t thank me,” Rhyka tilted her head towards the bartender, “Oscar sometimes gives away the cheap ale for free, hoping that if you get drunk enough you’ll spend more strikes.” The smaller more toned man on her right laughed and spoke, “Well, thank you for the warning.” He fished a strike out of his pocket and flicked the crystal towards Rhyka. She fumbled and caught it, but the money had no value to her. Oscar would take the gem from her later, as he always did. “Could I… perhaps, have a spell instead?” She asked timidly. The man who gave her the strike raised an eyebrow. “Are you a spellbinder?” “No, I’m just a servant.” “Why do you want a spell?” “We don’t get many spellbinders at this horrid tavern and I am not allowed to keep any strikes.” Rhyka sighed. The man furled his eyebrows. His companion on Rhyka’s left voiced his concerns, “Ethan, come on. I know that look.” Ethan rolled his eyes at his companion who had already nearly drunk half of the mug, “Shut up, Linden.” Ethan returned his attention to Rhyka, “Are you a slave or a refugee?” He gestured to the silver ears rising out of her hair. “A refugee. Technically.” “Technically?” Linden asked. Rhyka looked down blushing, “Orphaned. The Assembly sent me to live here.” “Ethan Williams,” Ethan extended a hand towards Rhyka as he introduced himself. “For God’s sake.” Linden shook his head with disappointment and began to down the rest of his cup. Rhyka bowed instead of shaking the man’s hand, “Rhyka Wells.”
As Linden finished the cheap ale, he stood up and sat his mug down onto Rhyka’s tray. He towered several feet over Rhyka. “I’ve seen this enough to know how it turns out. I’m turning in early for the night. I suggest you do the same, Ethan. I doubt your ghost will even show up tonight.” He walked past Rhyka without acknowledging her. The floorboards groaned even louder under each one of the large man’s steps. Before he reached the stairs, he turned back to address his companion one final time, “Ethan, you can’t save everyone.” “That man is too much of a pessimist for my taste,” Ethan spoke to her, “He’s probably preparing a spell outside to transport himself halfway across Albridge already, so his seat is open. Sit with me?” He gestured towards Linden’s now empty chair. “I should really get back to work.” Rhyka looked down at Oscar who only spared the occasional passing glance up towards her. Ethan pulled out several strikes from his pocket, “Can I pay for your time?” Rhyka bit her lip with annoyance, “I’d prefer if you didn’t. I’m not an object.” The man waved his hands suddenly, “NO! I didn’t mean it like that. I mean…” He pulled out
his
spellbook
from
his
pocket,
“You
wanted
a
spell,
right?”
Rhyka nodded but began to blush excessively. Now that she heard it spoken back to her, the request sounded silly. “I’m going to give you a good one.” The blond-haired patron flipped through his book before he finally settled on a page. He began to make sporadic hand gestures in the air and repeated the instructed incantation. After nearly twenty awkward seconds on Rhyka’s end, the man finished the spell. When he did, a floating, transparent, glowing, golden ring of energy appeared in front of him where he had been drawing in the air with his hand. He gestured Rhyka towards the readied spell. She reached out and grabbed it. As she did, her fingers passed harmlessly through the golden energy. The ring broke apart and reformed itself around her wrist. The spell now waited for her call to be used. “What spell is it?” She asked with awe. Rhyka ran her hand over her skin several times, passing her fingers through the ring of luminous force that now circled her wrist.
“Alacrity,” Ethan responded, “It will only last for a few seconds when you use it, but when you do, you will have complete mental clarity. You never know when you might need to think of a witty retort next time you’re harassed.” He nodded down towards the rowdy patrons on the first floor. “Thank you.” Rhyka bowed and then gathered up the empty mug and her tray. “If you have time later, come back up here and talk to me?” There was a softness in the man’s words that made his statement sound like a question. “Or you could come down there and talk to me?” Rhyka suggested. Ethan looked over the railing beside him and down at the group of three laughing men who dined on the first floor. “I can’t. I have to wait up here a while longer.” “Alright then, I will be back when you order another drink. Wave for me.” Rhyka waited to be dismissed. Ethan picked up the mug and raised it towards Rhyka as a weak hearted toast, “Until then.” She nodded, turned, and made her way down the stairs. The three drunk patrons barked distastefully at Rhyka as she walked by. They did not directly call for her service, so she ignored the men. Once she was a few yards away from the table, they returned to their jovial merriment. In Rhyka’s experience, Darinkai in Albridge were practically invisible. Very few citizens paid the cursed race any mind. If anyone had to interact with Rhyka, she was usually only able to hold their attention for a passing moment. Then, as with all Darinkai, once she was out of sight, she was out of mind--and Rhyka found this was even truer for the rowdy, intoxicated men who would visit the Pure Flagon. After she reached the bar counter she unloaded the large stein off her tray, then proceeded to slump over the wooden surface. Oscar dropped three more mugs in front of her before she could release any sign of displeasure. “It’s a slow night. Dish out these refills, then you can take a break. There’ll be a basket of bread waitin’ for you when you’re finish ‘round back.”
The lackluster news was the best thing Rhyka had heard all evening. She sprang up from her reclined position over the bar and took to her tasks with a new fervor. “Rhyka,” Oscar called to her before she could bustle away from the bar. “Hmm?” She turned to see the disgruntled old bartender with his hand outstretched towards her. “Oh!” She remembered the strike she held loosely in her hand and offered it towards her caretaker. Oscar took the gem and then gestured to the glowing spell floating around Rhyka’s wrist, “Is that one dangerous?” “No,” she shook her head then looked back towards the second floor where Ethan sat, “it's for thinking.” The man was still in his private alcove, sipping his drink while watching the men below. “Good, you need that.” Rhyka’s momentarily happy expression narrowed into a grimace towards the aging bartender. “Go on, don’t make me change my mind.” He shooed her on. The men began to bark again as Rhyka approached their table. “Sit, girl.” The man next to Rhyka jested. She ignored the group’s insults and continued to divvy out the mugs. “Bad girl!” The man swiped at one of her fox ears and caught it. He yanked on the appendage, pulling her head down to the table. “Ow!” Rhyka complained. With her head pressed against the table, she could see up to the second floor where Ethan sat. His table was empty even though Rhyka was sure she had seen him up there seconds prior. He had to have warded himself from the view of this table. “Now sit, dog,” the man commanded with his hand still forcing Rhyka’s head against the hard wooden surface. Rhyka doubted that anything else the men did would cause Ethan to break his magical concealment. She had been in similar situations before, Oscar did not care enough about her to bother intervening. If she got herself killed, the Assembly would punish the drunken patrons, but they would simply send Oscar another Darinkai orphan to house. He always complained if Rhyka would just smile and comply fewer of
the patrons would try to make her life miserable. This was her existence at the Pure Flagon. The man tightened his grip on her ear, “I won’t repeat myself again.” Begrudgingly, Rhyka knelt at the table. “Good girl,” the ruffian rewarded her by letting go of her silver ear. He dropped a shimmering strike in front of her face onto the table, “Now, sing us a song.” Rhyka lifted her head off the table, “I told you, I don’t sing.” “Let’s try this again.” The man pulled out a dagger and pushed Rhyka’s head back against the scratchy oak surface. He planted the blade in the wood in front of her gaze, “Entertain us, or else.” “I said no!” Rhyka struggled to get to her feet, however the man was much more agile than her. As she moved, he stood first, then kicked the back of her knee, causing her legs to buckle and fall back to the ground. Rhyka began to flail her arms, trying to break the ruffian’s grip on her head. The drunken brute caught her hand and marveled at it, “Ahh, you’ve got a spell?” He looked around at his companions laughing, “Which one o’ you lads gave the little pup a toy?” In their usual fashion, they beat against the table, causing the surface to knock uncomfortably against Rhyka’s face. “You know, I’m a bit of a spellbinder me self. I could cut you up a few times and patch you up right good, I could.” The man shimmied the long knife out of the wood from near Rhyka’s face, “You don’t sing, you don’t dance… Oh, but I know what you’re good for,” The man ran the dagger lightly across the skin of Rhyka’s arm. She felt its blade threatening to pierce her flesh. She winced and struggled against the man’s strength, taking caution to not move her arm into the knife. “Oh! Look at her struggle, boys! That sight’s worth a good strike right there.” The man drove the dagger back into the wood of the table, “I’m not going to hurt you, hurtin’s my job and I’ve already worked tonight. Now we can have a bit o’ fun with some spells though.” There was a sinister undertone in his voice that caused a shiver to dance down Rhyka’s spine. He released Rhyka’s head but still kept her arm that held the alacrity spell
restrained behind her back. With his free hand he fished out from his trousers a thin black tome with papers stuffed in it. Before he could open the spellbook, the thick wooden doors of the Pure Flagon flew off their hinges as they were hit with an immeasurable force. All the inhabitants of the Flagon turned their attention to the stranger in the doorway. A woman in a disheveled heap of aristocratic robes walked into the tavern. The rich red and black robes, garments Rhyka distantly associated with the senators of the Assembly, had a weathered, dusty look, speaking of hard use in harder situations. The newcomer walked towards the table Rhyka was pinned against. Several rings of golden light floated around her arm, encircling her slender forearm from wrist to elbow. The woman bore a twisted smile that did not serve to comfort Rhyka, instead it unhinged the very core of Rhyka’s soul. The disturbing, black haired newcomer opened her mouth to speak but was cut off. “Tegin Webb,” Ethan spoke as his aura of concealment faded. He stood on the second floor with one of his feet perched on the railing, “I’m a spell-seeker of the Albridge Assembly. You’re under arrest.” He called out to the woman. His spellbook was in hand and several readied spells moved around his arm. The woman’s smiling expression twisted into intense anger at the man who was pinning Rhyka, “The Assembly tracked you here?” she roared. Suddenly, her smile returned to her face, and she snapped her fingers towards Ethan with the arm that bore her spells. One ring around her arm disappeared, and then instantly, flames combusted around Ethan. The man was swift to react and consumed one of his own spells. His movements blurred with an arcane quickness Rhyka’s eyes could not follow. Somehow, he leapt out of the way of the small combustion of fire. Then, a second later he was on his feet, moving his hand through the air, giving only the slightest and quickest glances downward at his spellbook. A ring of golden light appeared in front of him. He snatched the spell and pointed at Tegin, whose startled posture mirrored Rhyka’s own surprise that Ethan had not been consumed by the fire. Two rings of light on Tegin’s arm turned blue then shattered as Ethan’s charm broke her spells.
“Cheeky git! I hate seekers!” The disheveled woman swore at the seeker as two of her spells faded away. There was no time to count the rings precisely, but Rhyka could see at least ten incantations still floating around Tegin’s arm. The menacing woman snapped again, causing another explosion to appear around Ethan. The man’s unreal quickness allowed him to jump out of the way once more. With her free hand Tegin prepared more incantations. Explosions continued to be caused by her left hand as her right hand launched a stream of fiery missiles at the dodging spell-seeker. Ethan jumped and weaved between the blasts. Whenever he could find a free second, he threw a spell of his own back at Tegin. The floor creaked and cracked wildly under each of his movements. The section of the wall behind Ethan was a burning, horrid mess. The three men at the table drunkenly tried to scribble incantations in the air, but could not match the speed and precision of the two more experienced spellbinders. With her tormentor’s attention now focused elsewhere, Rhyka grabbed the knife from the wood of the table and fell backwards on her butt. She held the knife pointed shakily at the four criminals and scooted herself backwards across the floor. No one seemed concerned with the insignificant Darinkai girl. Rhyka tried to escape the chaos by crawling under a nearby table. Tegin and Ethan continued to lob spells at each other until finally one of the floorboards cracked under Ethan’s foot. Thanks to his enhanced quickness, he was able to move his foot and react before he tumbled through the planks, however Tegin took note. She directed one of the final two remaining spells on her left arm at the support beams under the poorly constructed second floor. Five simultaneous blasts of fire sent splints from the wooden beams flying in every direction. The floor Ethan stood on gave way immediately as it fell out from beneath him. The sudden disappearance of the ground interrupted the incantation Ethan was halfway through. The spellbinder wasn’t able to prepare any incantations mid fall, and dropped violently into the splintered wooden wreckage. He did not stir as the pile of lumber began to catch flames. Tegin turned her attention to the three men at the table--one of which was finally able to finish a spell. The terrifying woman snapped her fingers using the final spell on her left
arm to cause the man to erupt into flames before he could grab the spell. The spell still lingered in place waiting to be seized and used. She smiled at the remaining two men. “Lawrence, you blustering prat, where’s my spell?” She demanded. The man who had held down Rhyka flipped through his black spellbook and removed a page that looked to have been ripped out of another book, “I stole it, just like you asked!” He handed the paper to Tegin. She looked over the sheet briefly then crumpled it up and tossed the paper to the growing fires. She took another menacing step towards Lawrence. “I don’t understand, that’s the spell you asked for. That’s the spell you wanted us to steal for you,” Lawrence took a timid step backwards. “I didn’t want the spell, I wanted to test you, and obviously you’re incompetent because you couldn’t keep the bloody Assembly off your tail!” Lawrence’s remaining companion turned to run. Tegin turned just as swiftly and drew an incantation in the air, then grabbed the ring of light that appeared. The man burst into flames just as his companion had moments prior. She returned her attention to Lawrence, “Now where was I?” “Mercy, please! Give me another chance, Tegin,” the man groveled. “No, I’m going to kill you--” She was forced to duck as a piece of the now burning ceiling fell in near her. “Let’s go someplace where I can enjoy hearing you scream.” She reached forward and grabbed the ruffian. With her free right hand she began drawing the patterns to a spell. The process took noticeably longer than anything the woman had casted prior. After a few seconds the spell was complete and she grabbed the ring of light that appeared. The smoke of the room pooled towards the two criminals, and swirled around them. Then, in a final, forceful puff, Lawrence and Tegin were transported out of the room by whatever spell she cast. Rhyka coughed from underneath the table, but still clutched the dagger in her hand with a fearful grip that could cause stone to crumble in her palm. She looked around the Pure Flagon. Oscar was nowhere to be found--not that Rhyka cared much for the man anyways. Ethan did not stir in the burning wreckage across the room. The two corpses of
Lawrence’s companions were ablaze uncomfortably close to Rhyka. However, that was the least of her concerns. The growing fires overshadowed the uneasiness caused by the nearby deceased bodies. The smoke alone threatened to choke Rhyka to death. The small Darinkai girl brought her hands to her mouth and coughed again. More burning wreckage from the ceiling fell down around her. Thankfully, the table she hid under shielded her from most of the danger caused by the falling debris. Still, the fires would spell her doom. Rhyka honestly could not say she had been in worst situations, however, there were multiple times throughout the night so far where she could have died. Even though her situation looked bleak, the one thing she had never done was give into that little voice in the back of her head that told her to quit. Think think think… She tried to ponder a solution while she used her hands to shield the top of her head. Suddenly, she remembered the glowing spell around her wrist. She opened her palm and looked at the ring of energy and spoke, “Please work!” The spell responded to her call and disappeared. The thoughts moving through her head quickly began to increase the pace at which they came and left. Her mind raced. Ideas and considerations came to her with such quickness that reality appeared to freeze to Rhyka’s eyes. Again, she examined her burning surroundings. This time she was able to take in each aspect of the room. Falling debris littered and blocked her path to the door. If she was going to get out, she would have to use magic. Unfortunately, she did not know how to prepare any spells. In her times in town, she had seen the simplest of spellbinders use a charm to resist the effects of fire so they could better handle a forge. She looked to the hovering spell that floated over the first man’s corpse. He had completed the incantation, but had been incinerated before he could use the charm. If he was smart, he would have prepared something knowing he too would need a way to survive the out of control flames. The dagger she clung to would not save her from the fires, so she stored the weapon between her tied cloth belt and her soot stained white tunic. Rhyka dashed from under the table, coughing and moving around the remaining oak furniture that was catching fire, piece by piece. Her body’s reflexes matched her new mental speed.
She lunged at the spell floating in mid-air above the table where the three men once sat. As she snatched the light out of the air, the golden ring of energy disappeared and reformed itself around her wrist. Immediately, Rhyka repeated her actions with the first spell. She opened her palm and began whispering furiously to her wrist where the spell resided, “Please work! Please work! Please!” Once again the charm responded to her call and disappeared. The room began to cool. The fires still raged all around Rhyka, however their heat no longer affected her; on the same note, the suffocating smoke became easier to inhale. Thanks to the effects of the alacrity spell, time still moved slowly around Rhyka. Her mind traced a path through the burning rubble to the door that led to the street. What had she ever been worried about before? Survival seemed so plausible now. With a passing thought, she turned towards where Ethan had fallen. The spell-seeker was most likely dead, but he had given Rhyka the alacrity spell in the first place. She could at least spare a moment to check on him to confirm her assumptions. She moved swiftly over to the rubble of the fallen second story. Many of the boards bore the worst of the flames, nevertheless, they had little effect to hinder Rhyka while empowered by her two spells. Without taking a moment to consider her course of action, she began shoveling the planks aside--thankfully, they were cool to the touch because of the dead ruffian’s charm. She unveiled the body of Ethan--which to her surprise was not burning. The man’s body and clothes were completely unscathed by the flames. Unfortunately, he was very much dead. A large wooden haft was impaled through his chest, most certainly being a result of the fall. Still clutched in the man’s hand was his leather bound spell tome. The book seemed to ward the flames away from itself. Rhyka had heard stories of spellbinders putting enchantments on their spellbooks to fend off attacks. After all, even the most experienced binder was useless if they were disarmed or their spellbook destroyed. Her clarity of thought faded. Time sped up as the reality of her situation crashed into her. The realization that the enchantments she bore were temporary was the first reality to set back into her mind. The second realization was that the ward against fire keeping her alive could fade at any moment. She pried the leather tome out of Ethan’s lifeless hand. The book was still
attached to the silver chain hooped through Ethan’s belt loop. She tugged, but the chain did not budge. Removing Lawrence’s dagger at her waist, she began to saw at the fabric of the belt loop. Eventually, the cloth began to fray, and finally it gave way against Rhyka’s tug. Ethan’s body and clothes quickly caught flame once the spellbook was completely in her possession. She turned and sprinted towards the doorway. She had to adjust her path sometimes mid step to account for falling debris from the ceiling. The process was much harder without the benefits of alacrity. Fortunately, most of the larger sections of the roof had already slid inwards and consequently had fallen into the dining area of the Flagon. The flames, which had already climbed their way throughout most of the building, were currently working on the rafters. Once enough of the thick scaffolding weakened from the fires, they would fall down on Rhyka, and with the rafters would be the collapse of the rest of the building. The Pure Flagon was proving to be a towering mess of wooden boards and beams placed against each other rather than a properly constructed building. With only seconds to spare, Rhyka made it to the doorway of the tavern. She took the last few hurried steps out of the burning building and stumbled to the cobblestone streets of Albridge. Her lungs wheezed once they got a taste of the fresh night air as opposed to the smoke filled air they were almost getting used to inhaling. Either the ruffian’s charm lasted or the wards on Ethan’s tome held, but whatever the case, Rhyka was alive. She looked around the street. A small crowd of seven or eight people had gathered to gawk at the burning building. Several small street urchins were scattered in the crowd. The other gawkers were men and women who had business in the night. None of the on looking faces bore expressions that they would want to even consider comforting or caring for Rhyka despite her leaping out the doorway of a burning building. She rose to her feet with the spellbook clutched tightly in her arms and began to walk without direction down the street. Soon, the Assembly would send spellbinders to douse the flames, and Rhyka intended to be gone by the time they arrive--lest by some miracle Oscar survived and they try to return her to his care. A large snap, then a crack sounded behind Rhyka. Finally, the sound of a wave of impossibly heavy objects crashing against each other poured through the street. Rhyka turned to see two of the walls of the Pure
Flagon had collapsed in. She thought that she should feel angry or scared at seeing her home destroyed, but instead the only thing she truly felt was triumphant. Even though she lived as a refugee--a status many Darinkai in Albridge would kill for--she had always felt like a slave, and the Flagon was her cage. But now, as she walked with the burning building behind her and Oscar out of sight, she felt an overwhelming sense of freedom.
Hallowed A Tale of the Konislund By: Robert McGough Valko’s nostrils flared as he breathed in the faint scent of wood smoke. He had always loved the smell, but today it held an added meaning: salvation. Limping through the blanket of thick snow, he trudged in the direction he thought the smell was coming from, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch. For two days he had been wandering through the heavy woods of Ostenvor, ever since his horse, an ill trained gelding, had broken a leg shying from a startled woodgrouse. In falling, it had landed on the wolfhunter’s leg, breaking his ankle in a lightning crack of lancing agony. A quick thrust from his blade had stopped the gelding’s torment, but his pain pulsed steadily on through the rough splint he had crafted. Adding insult to injury, a quick-moving snow storm had served to so disorient Valko that now he was lost. Wood smoke almost always meant men, and men as a rule meant salvation in the Konislund. Voicing a silent prayer to the Forest King, he hobbled on, the faint scent of burning timber leading him onwards. The woods thinned as he made his way through the clinging undergrowth, which he took as a good sign. Carrying on, he crossed what looked to be some sort of trail, though what had used it he could not say with the snow so heavy on the ground. He debated following it for a moment, but instead focused on the plume of smoke. He caught a glimpse of it up ahead through a gap in the trees. A narrow finger of grey blended into the grim winter sky, at last revealing how close he was to the encampment. Ignoring the path, he breathed a sigh of relief and cut through the trees, taking a crow’s line to the fire. Stepping out from the tree line, he found himself on the edge of a tiny village. A dozen wood huts, little more than shacks, made a rough circle before him. The source of the fire, however, was off to his left a bit, on a low mound, just outside the ring of homes. A small fire crackled there warmly, surrounded by a trio of heavily bundled forms.
Raising a hand he called out to the trio, one of which looked towards him and waved him over. As he neared, he could see they were sitting around, taking turns drinking from a bottle of some sort of dark liquid while waiting for a pot of stew to finish cooking. The smell of the simmering food reminded Valko of how hungry he was, and he hoped they would be willing to share their bounty with him. The heavily bundled form closest knocked the snow from a block of wood for Valko to sit upon. “Morning stranger.” Across the fire, another of the trio snorted before Valko could speak. “Morning? Afternoon you mean.” The first man gestured to the grey sky. “How the hell can you tell?” The third figure spoke up now, and Valko was surprised to see that beneath the heavy bundle of clothes, it was a woman. Her voice was harsh and grating, a raspy whisper that was rough to the ears. “Cause we are about to eat lunch. That means morning is over.” It was the first man’s turn to snort. “Of course. Why use things like the movement of the celestial spheres to tell time? That’s just silly when we have the ever precise rumblings of Vella’s stomach to tell us the time.” Vella swore, “Bugger off, Gerrick.” While the trio bickered, Valko eased himself onto the block, thankful for the lessening of pressure on his battered ankle. Extending his leg out before him, his foot was all but in the fire, but he was so cold that in the short term, he did not care. He sighed, as feeling began to return to his extremities, a warm glow flowing through him. Around him, there was a lull in the conversation, and he realized that he had been spoken to. “Sorry, what was that?” Gerrick repeated himself: “I said are you hungry boy?” Valko nodded. “All I’ve eaten was a handful of winterberries late last night. If you could be troubled to share a bit of that good smelling stew, I would be most thankful.”
Gerrick grinned. Valko could see that he was the oldest of them all by a good bit. He also noticed for the first time that all three were heavily pock-marked, their skin bearing the badges that revealed them as survivors of plague. “For a polite young man such as yourself, of course. Maybe your manners might rub off on some I could name,” Gerrick said, glancing pointedly at his compatriots. They ignored him, instead passing the bottle from one to the other. Gerrick began digging through a pack and produced a set of wooden bowls and rough carved spoons. Filling one, he passed it to Valko, who took it gratefully. “My thanks,” Valko said. Gerrick just nodded in return. They ate in relative silence, a quiet for which Valko was grateful, as he hungrily devoured his portion. The warm stew hit his stomach and the heat of it seemed to radiate from his core, thawing him out. The others ate a bit slower, but no less purposefully, and soon the stew pot was empty. The other man, who Valko had learned was named Hreve, was running a finger around the lip of the vessel to get the last bits. Valko, having eased off the block onto the ground, was now leaning against it, content to bask in the warm glow of the fire. “Thank you. You’ve done me a service and I won’t forget it. Pity that good folks such as you have to linger here on the edge of the village instead of being invited in to share their roofs.” Gerrick had pulled out a long pipe from his pack and a small pouch of tobacco. He was just beginning to pack it when Valko said his peace. The man paused to laugh. Winking over to Hreve and Vella he kept chuckling. “The hospitality around here does seem a bit lacking, don’t you think?” Hreve guffawed, and even grim-faced Vella smiled a bit. She turned to Valko, shaking her head. “Ignore that old idiot. It’s not their fault. They are all too busy being dead to invite us in.” Valko froze, eyeing the trio over. Glancing to the village it dawned on him that there was no smoke coming from any of the huts, and the lack of people he had seen, which he had just attributed to the foul weather, suddenly became very unsettling. He inched his hand towards the blade at his side.
Gerrick noticed the subtle movement and burst into laughter. “It’s not like that man, not like that at all. Plague struck them. See?” The man pointed towards his left. Valko warily looked over. It took him a moment to see that what he had initially taken to be a snow drift, about forty feet away, was in fact a pile of bodies, now covered with snow. Of what little he could see of the bodies, he could spot the telltale blisters and lesions of Tancolo, the dancing plague. Valko shuddered. “Grim lodgings you have here. Couldn’t have found a better place to camp?” Hreve shrugged. “Like to be close to the work.” “We’re plague-diggers,” said Gerrick by way of explanation. “We get a half silver a hole for each plague corpse we put in the ground. Spent yesterday dragging them out of the town to there. We will start putting them under this afternoon, if the weather holds.” “Going to be right bastards to dig too, what with the ground froze,” spat Hreve. Gerrick sighed wistfully. “They need burning is what they need. But the law is the law.” Valko nodded. Those living under the protection of the Forest King were required to be buried so that their strength could return to him. Even plague victims. His eyes kept drifting back to the pile of bodies as the trio discussed their plans for after lunch, mostly debating whether to start small fires to try to thaw the top soil. His gut was telling him that something was wrong, and his eyes were trying to find what. It took a few minutes of staring, but at last he spotted it. “Did you have a quiet night last night? Any disturbances?” he interrupted. Gerrick eyed him over. “Yeah. Why?” “Notice anything odd about the bodies when you moved them?” “No.” said Gerrick. “Nothing other than the weird poses the Tancolo leaves a body in at death. Now what are you on about?” Valko locked eyes with the man. “Ghouls.”
Hreve scoffed, but Valko could see the unease around Gerrick’s eyes. “What makes you say that? It’s rare for ghouls to be this far north.” Valko pointed. “Look to the far left, nearest the tree line. It’s hard to see the bone against all that snow, but something ate the flesh off of at least one arm. Picked it clean. Most animals won’t touch plague flesh.” Gerrick lurched to his feet and forced through the snow, followed by Hreve and Vella a heartbeat behind. Valko kept his seat and watched as the old man ripped the cap from his head and threw it to the ground, swearing all the while. “It’s ghouls all right,” he yelled back to Valko. Coming back to the warmth of the fire, the three argued about what to do. “We should bury as many as we can and hole up in one of the huts tonight. Finish the job tomorrow,” growled Hreve. Gerrick frowned. “We bury too many and if enough ghouls come tonight, then they may come looking for us ‘til they get their fill. They prefer dead flesh, but live will do in a pinch for ‘em. And those huts don’t strike me as too sturdy.” “Ghouls travel in family groups. The one who was here last night was likely a scout, and you can be assured the rest of them will be here once the sun goes down,” said Valko. Vella snarled. “Then damn the money, let’s just get out of here. Let the ghouls feast.” “That’s enough money laid out over there to last us the rest of the winter, Vel,” said Hreve. “May not get another chance like this this year, getting too cold for plague.” “What good’s money to us if we’re dead?” she said, gesturing to the waiting pile of corpses. “Why not ask them how much good a big sack of gold does?” “We can’t leave ‘em,” said Gerrick. “Damn the money, Gerrick!” rasped Vella.
“It’s not about the money, Vel, though that does help. It’s the law. We took an oath to bury all we found, no matter the circumstances. It’s why they trust us to count the dead for payment.” Vella threw her hands up. “Damn it all. Then let’s just hole up tonight and bury the lot tomorrow. We have it good if we can get them all under by late afternoon, with time to get away after.” “A family of ghouls will likely devour most of those lying there. All, if it’s a big enough group,” said Valko. “So?” asked Hreve. Valko held his hands out to the fire, warming them. “That robs the Forest King of much of what is owed him.” “So what? Not like we have a lot of options here on the table, wolfhunter,” replied Hreve. Gerrick spoke, his eyes questioning. “What I think young Valko is getting at is that we could try to fight off the ghouls.” Valko nodded. “To hell with that!” Hreve turned to Valko. “And what, you going to lead the charge there on your crutches, are you?” Valko just stared into the fire. “If I have to, yes.” Hreve threw his hands up in exasperation. “Madness. Thrice damned madness.” The old man crossed his arms, a serious look on his face. “You two grab the tools and get digging. We will bury what we can today and play tonight by ear.” When neither moved, he yelled, “Go on now!” and with muttered cursing, they went to a tool pile and scooped up a pick and shovel and moved over to the body pile. Gerrick faced Valko, fear plain in his eyes. “I know what’s right, young man. I just hope it doesn’t cause more bodies to add to the pile.”
_-_-_ It seemed like the whole day had been dusk, so Valko had some trouble telling when night was actually starting to come on. Throwing a log on the fire, he leaned back as it sparked up and scanned the darkening tree line. The three plague diggers were walking towards him, their tools slung over their shoulders by tired arms. Vella and Hreve stalked by without so much as a glance, heading into the village, but Gerrick stopped. “I tried to talk them into helping you. They refused though.” He paused, clearly thinking. “Don’t judge them a bad lot. They’ve just been given a rough hand in life, and it’s soured them on most anyone who’s not like us.” “It hasn’t seemed to affect you,” said the wolfhunter. “When I was younger, and the scars were newer on me -- like they are with Hreve -- I would like as not to have said the same thing. And Vella, you can’t tell it now, but she was once the most beautiful girl in her village.” Gerrick shook his head. “My point is, we are our only family now. We’ve lost everything else and built a ramshackle life out of the bits that were left. To ask them to risk that for a bunch of bodies…” Valko nodded. “I understand.” “Maybe you do. But I doubt it.” Gerrick reached down and pulled a burning brand from the fire. “Will you join us in one of the huts then?” Valko just shook his head. A pained look crossed Gerrick’s face. “Goodnight then. I pray I will see you in the morning. And should your courage falter, join us in the hut. I promise that none will judge you.” The wolfhunter just stared into the fire. Gerrick trundled off through the snow. The pile of bodies across the way was about two thirds gone now, leaving a twisted pile of snow covered remains for Valko to watch over. As the trio disappeared into one of the huts, Valko rose to his feet. The afternoon had been spent regaining his strength and resting his leg. There was little he could do for the break, but he was able to construct a sturdier brace to attempt to hold it in place. Hopping along on his crutch, he made his way to the wood pile and
scooped up another couple of logs. Ghouls did not like light, though it did nothing to actually hurt them. But a large fire could do nothing but help. If he died, at least he could die warm, mused Valko as he built up the fire to new heights. Earlier in the day, he had hobbled into the closest of the huts and taken out a tall chair; it was into its battered seat that Valko lowered himself onto now. His bow leaned against the arm of the chair, and taking it in hand he lay it across his lap. A half dozen arrows, all that had survived the horse’s fall, were stuck into the ground within arm’s reach beside him. The fire was to his left, the pile of bodies before him. Sitting as still as possible, he scanned the woods and watched as it grew steadily darker. Before long, the only light was from his fire and the faintest glow of moonlight. This faint luminescence fought to shine through the thick cloud cover. The night was quiet, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the steady crackle of the fire. It was peaceful and warm, and all too soon Valko found himself having to fight to stay awake. Normally, he would have stood, perhaps walked around a bit, but with his ankle the way that it was, he was leery of even using the crutch to get around until he absolutely had to. Instead, he reached out towards the fire, holding his hand as close to it as he could for as long as possible, snatching it back when the pain got to be too much to endure. A look back over his shoulder showed a thin bit of light shining through a crack in the window of the hut that the trio had decided stay in. He understood their reluctance to get involved, even as he wished it was otherwise. His adoptive family was equally dear to him, though they were not here now. He found himself wondering what Sergei, Ludmilla, and the rest were doing now -- what fire they were sitting around, what hunt they were on. He became lost in a web of memories, so much so that it took a moment to notice the glimmer of eyes along the tree line. Two small orbs, reflecting the light of his fire, seemed to float several feet off the ground. He froze, though his hands tightened on his bow. The eyes were joined by another set, then another. Soon a dozen or more sets of eyes lurked there on the edge of the clearing.
Valko swore under his breath. Either this was an unusually large band of ghouls, or two smaller groups had been driven together by the harsh conditions. He had been banking on there being five or six at most as any more than that was suicide. So where he had been still before, now he was as a statue, praying to the Prince of Night to grant him aid in the coming fight. The first ghouls began to ease out from the forest towards the pile of frozen corpses. They were short and gaunt, their bones jutting from their light blue-grey skin painfully. The tallest could not have been more than five feet tall, but all were terribly hunched over, their spines curving forward so that most stood under four feet. Their eyes were large, and where they should have had noses, there was instead two narrow slits which sat above their gaping, fang filled mouths. Their hands ended in ragged claws instead of fingers, and though he could not see them for the snow, Valko knew from experience their feet ended in similar fashion. Degenerate descendants of man, they were immune to the cold, stalking through the snow without any clothing. They were completely hairless as well, and just watching them creep through the moonlight sent a chill through Valko. They moved almost birdlike, their heads bobbing before them as they smelled the air. He knew they could smell him, but the wealth of corpses so close would have them whipped up into an uncaring hunger. They would only go for him if he made some sort of threatening move or they ran out of their preferred food. As they closed with the pile, they broke into a loping run, their teeth gnashing in anticipation. He could see there were fourteen of them, unless some were holding back in the woods, ranging from a pair of juveniles to one so old that it was missing its teeth and struggled to keep up. Just shy of the corpse pile, the three frontrunners suddenly disappeared. Valko grinned as wailing cries rose from the spike trap he’d had the grave diggers make for him. The rest of the pack reeled back, with one member only managing to stop from falling in by being grabbed by the one closest to it. While they were distracted, Valko rose to his feet.
Leaning on his crutch, he lifted his bow and notched an arrow. Sighting down its length, he breathed in. As the breath left his lungs, he released arrow. It cut through the cold night air with a thin whistle, then buried itself in the head of one of the creatures. Before it could strike, the wolfhunter was already drawing back a second shot, which he then let fly. The ghouls erupted into a chaotic whirl of bodies after the disappearance of the three in front, and the arrow striking another sent them into an absolute frenzy. Because of this mad scramble, an arrow which had been sighted on one ghoul’s head instead struck the chest of another, punching through its lungs. By then, the pack had figured out the origin of death, and as one reeled on Valko and began racing towards him. Even the lung shot one, which had failed to fall, was limping towards him with bloody froth pouring from its mouth. Valko let loose another arrow, this one lancing through the throat of one of the oncomers and burying itself in the shoulder of one behind it. The throat shot ghoul fell instantly, tripping up the shoulder shot one behind it. Valko drew his bow for one last shot, knowing they would be on him before he could fire again. Whole, seven ghouls would have been too many to fight in melee; but with his ankle broke, he just hoped he could kill enough that there would be something left to bury in the morning. The last arrow ripped through the air, stabbing into the large, fire-lit eye of the closest. Dropping his bow, he pulled his sword and braced himself for death. With shoulder shot scrabbling to its feet, there were still seven left to kill and nowhere to run (had he been so inclined or able). “For the Forest King!� he roared, and drove forward. Bracing his good leg, he raised his crutch just as the closest leapt for him. Sharpened earlier that day, it met the chest of the ghoul, punching through its ribs and out its back. The force of it threatened to knock Valko backwards, but he pulled forward with all his strength and drove the creature to the ground. Using the momentum of his crutch, he levered himself forward, swinging his sword wide. It struck the reaching arms of one of the ghouls, cutting deeply into one and severing the hand of the other. It spun away, clutching at its bleeding stub, screeching in pain.
Valko landed hard on his good leg and staggered forward, almost pitching to the ground before managing to steady himself. A ghoul came in, its long claws going for the wolfhunter’s throat. He managed to deflect the creature’s attack with the flat of his blade but was forced to step back. In the process, his broken ankle struck the corpse of a ghoul, and the intense pain almost caused him to drop his sword. He went to raise his blade in order to force back the lightning quick attack of the ghoul, but he knew he would be too late. The creature was so close that he could smell its fetid, rotting breath; he prayed his death would be quick. Driving the sword up, the ghoul slapped it aside and reached in, its claws raking the shoulder and arm of the wiry Valko. Gritting his teeth against the pain he tried to turn but only managed to twist his crutch and send himself falling backwards. A dull thwack reached his ears, as the flat of a shovel smashed the ghouls face, sending it flying backwards. Hreve stood beside him, gripping the shovel tightly as he followed through with his swing. Vella and Gerrick leapt forward from behind him, each brandishing picks. Vella drove her pick into the heart of the one Hreve had knocked down, sending a fountain of blood skyward. Meanwhile Gerrick was deftly fighting off another’s attacks as Hreve stepped forth to guard the man’s back against another. As they fought, Valko staggered to his feet, scooping up his dropped blade. By the time Valko was back on his feet, Gerrick had crushed the skull of the one Valko was fighting, even though Gerrick was bleeding from a deep gash across his left thigh. Wheeling to his left, the wolfhunter helped Hreve against the pair of ghouls that the giant of a man was battling. The burly plague digger was bleeding from a number of small gashes, having been unable to hold off the attacks of two ghouls at once. Vella, meanwhile, had pulled her pick from the chest of the ghoul she had finished, and with a powerful overhand throw, sent the tool flying through the air to bury itself a few inches to the left of the arrow Valko had already peppered the ghoul with. A mad look on her face, she pulled a wicked looking knife from her belt and drove forward to where Hreve and Gerrick fought.
Hobbling forward, Valko tried to circle round to help, but the fight was too quick moving and he feared getting underfoot. He could only watch as Vella leapt onto the skinny form of the ghoul fighting Hreve, driving it to the ground, as she stabbed her knife into it over and over again. Hreve, free at last, pummeled the ghoul Gerrick fought with his shovel, cracking its ribs just as Gerrick pinned its foot to the ground with his pick. Gerrick looked over to Valko, his eyes wild. “We did it! Haha! WE DID…” The ghoul with only one hand leapt up from the snow, where it had lain bleeding, and drove its clawed hand into the old man’s back. Its claws burst from the front of his chest, soaked with the man’s blood. Pulling out, it turned and leapt for Valko. It did not come close, as Vella, screaming with rage, tackled the thing in midflight. Before Valko could step in to help finish the thing off, she had bitten the creature’s throat out and driven its own claws into its face. Staggering to her feet, she locked eyes with Valko. Blood dripping down her chin, she stepped towards him. “This, this is your fault!” she screamed at him, pointing her knife at his face. Luckily Hreve, who was sobbing, stepped between them and wrapped Vella up in his arms, leading her away. “No Vel, no. Leave him be, it’s not his fault.” At that, the woman also broke down into wracking sobs and fell down beside the still corpse of Gerrick. _-_-_ Dawn was beginning to rise over the treetops as Valko eased himself into the saddle of the mule he had found in the village. Clopping down the rutted path that led out of the village, he paused to watch the two plague diggers at work. They had not said a single word to him since the previous night, and he did not blame them one bit. As he watched, they lowered the carefully wrapped body of their friend into the ground. Vella looked up then and saw Valko watching. She made an obscene gesture at him, but then went back to her work, ignoring him. Clucking at the mule, he set off down the trail.
Burning Aquamarine A Poem of the Twin Suns By: K.L.E. Rusie
This is my city The city of Iron and Stainless Steel Where the rain pours And the people no longer feel The buzz of wires That replaced its vibrant song Has numbed my thoughts And it stretches too high and miles long Years have passed And the old are all that remember When the sky wasn't grey And birds flew instead of cinder My eyes are fiberoptic My arm, my heart-- synthetic like hope But my mind is real I once saw it through a microscope "We will live forever!" The chant, of people who do not know What it meant to be alive Before they altered the eternal soul Input, transfer, upload Micro, nano, techno and breathe The sky was never blue But now my children's children will never believe.
Reviews Stranger Things By Ryan Frank
Stranger Things is brothers Matt and Ross Duffer’s love-letter to 1980’s horror cinema, and it’s a good one. The story, produced by Netflix and broken into 8 1-hour episodes, follows the unexplained disappearance of a young Will Byers from his hometown, Hawkins, Indiana, in November of 1983. Will’s three best friends, along with Will’s mother Joyce, expertly portrayed by Winona Ryder, the town’s alcoholic sheriff with a past of his own, and a bizarre young girl named ‘Eleven', all work together to unravel the mystery of Will’s disappearance. The show has merits on its story alone, but it also shines through in the performances of its characters. Each of the child actors portray their roles exceptionally, especially Millie Bobby Brown as 'Eleven'. Her character has the fewest lines of all the major characters in the show, yet she is still able to convey so much information and emotion through her mannerisms and expressions that the viewer is afforded a meaningful glimpse into her unique situation. The settings and attention to detail also make Stranger Things a joy to experience. A great deal of work was done to create a painstakingly accurate representation of 1983 Middle-America, and that work pays off, helping make the show that much more immersive. Things like storefronts and neighborhood streets lined with period-correct cars and signage really emphasize that the story is meant to have taken place nearly 33 years ago. Costume design is also top-notch; the clothes each character wears and their make-up and hairstyles all further enhance the illusion. Finally, what some may consider to be the meat of the matter, the horror. It is a difficult task to place Stranger Things into a singular genre of horror. The story takes some of the best elements of the major sub-genres, such as Killer Horror and Monster Horror, and uses those elements like a baker would use ingredients for a cake. A dash of
paranormal, a pinch of Sci-Fi, a sprinkle of psychological thriller. Stir to combine. Bake at 350F for 8 episodes. What you have in the end is a delicious send-up of late 1970s and 80s horror that tastes like if Stephen King wrote an X-Files Monster of the Week show. Netflix once again proves its content-creator clout with Stranger Things. This show serves as another high quality notch in the internet streaming service’s belt, further legitimizing themselves as a premium outlet for viewers wanting to escape cable television monopolization without sacrificing entertainment options and value. Matt and Ross Duffer have also proven themselves talented writers and directors. It will be exciting to see what the future holds for both the Duffer brothers and Netflix.
The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison By Robert McGough Maia, the banished and all but forgotten half-blood son of the Emperor of the Elflands, is ill-prepared for the intrigues of court when his father and brothers’ deaths leave him heir to the throne. It is a simple premise that Addison uses to craft one of the best books I have read in years. It quite deservingly won the Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel in 2014, and I am ashamed it took me even that long to get around to reading it. If you desire an action packed, sword swinging romp, then this is not the book for you. However, if you enjoy courtly intrigue, subtle finesse, and hidden schemes, then look no further. In a book where conflict hinges on what job to give someone, dinner conversation, or how to approach a government minister, it takes a deft hand to wield such mundanities into a whole that is constantly riveting. That is not to say there is no action, but what there is remains very limited, and is doled out sparingly. Maia is no warrior, no mage, and no thief. He is a young man with a brain, one hindered by shyness and uncertainty. Maia, the main character, is a youth lost in an overwhelming situation, guided by the moral compass of his long dead mother. To see him wrestle with his conscience added depth and realism to his character. Though you could complain that he was perhaps a little too perfect, I felt that his small lapses in judgement, his temper, his loneliness, and his crushes all added together to make Maia feel relatable.
The world building is excellent without overshadowing the content, though admittedly the names became a bit much at times. The world felt real, as elements of steampunk were blended seamlessly into more conventional fantasy tropes. It felt like a world strongly on the verge of great change, which added a further drive to the book. I cannot recommend this book enough, and I genuinely hope you will pick this book up. For fans of: Ellen Kushner, Stephen Brust, Scott Lynch, and books in the genre Fantasy of Manners
About the Worlds Featured in this Issue The Twin Suns: Set in the year 2098, the Twin Suns is a cyberpunk setting dominated by two empires: the British Empire and the Empire of Japan. A world where America never gained its independence, a Cold War exists between these two powers. Hacksassins and AI’s, Mega-Corp’s and Virtual Reality all collide in the gritty streets of Hong Kong, the city that bridges these two powers.
The Konislund: A heavily forested realm, the Konislund is a hard land filled with all manner of terrors. From ghouls to wolves, spirits to ogres, the realm is filled with creatures seemingly hell-bent on removing the human invaders from its depths. Under the leadership of the Forest King and his champions, the Kon people have managed to carve a kingdom though, in spite of the odds stacked against them. It is a world of dark magic and curses, old gods and forgotten peoples. Valko Nayden, a wolfhunter and kingsmen, travels this land battling evil wherever he finds it.
Eiphus: Some believe the lands of Eiphus were never meant to be inhabited. Large stretches of desolate desert covered most of the world, and massive regions are still uninhabitable to this day. Many civilizations throughout history have sprung up over the
world, but just as quickly as they sprung to life--the same civilizations would fall to their doom. The arcane energies that twisted the very earth, warped any living thing they encountered. The recent era of civilization discovered how to survive by binding the energy that ravaged the world into a force that instead cultivated the lands. By binding the primal arcane energy, mankind could reshape the world around them. This practice became known as spellbinding. Ancient spellbinders erected six monolithic wards that to this day hold the violent energy away from the settled lands. As such, several nations began to flourish in the wastes of Eiphus. But mankind was not content to just survive. Their ambition lead them study spellbinding, and their discoveries lead them to war. The true nature of spellbinding along with many other secrets were lost over the millennium of strife. The two giant kingdoms of Lithin and Darin warred for nearly a thousand years until both verged destruction. However, Darin now lies shattered, and Lithin has been conquered by a new political faction, and mankind is marching towards a brighter future.
Author Bios: Brandon Kennedy is a guy who writes stuff. He's never been good at talking about himself, so he tries to let his work speak for him. He enjoys picnics with Frisbees and long walks on the beach. Link: www.patreon.com/presbkennedy
Born and raised in southern Alabama, Robert ‘Bob’ McGough has been writing as long as he can remember, though only began to take it seriously in the fall of 2012. That year he completed his first NaNoWriMo, writing a collection of short stories. This gave him the impetus to actually attempt to pursue a career as a writer. Since then, he has written a number of short pieces in a variety of genres: horror, southern gothic, steampunk, and fantasy. He has been published in a number of anthologies and by Laser Blast Books. Link: www.talesbybob.com
Ryan Frank is from Montgomery Alabama. Despite his love of the arts, he considers himself a writing novice. In addition to expanding his writing, he enjoys spending his free time drawing, listening to music, and spending time outdoors
K.L.E. Rusie is Alabama southern-raised with a dirt-road bank account but a philanthropist's soul; The outcast in a backwater sea, forever hoping and dreaming for a pure impartial world, void of the cold rhetoric keeping us disconnected from our own inherent humanity. In creating works of imagination, she hopes we all find the peaceful accord our sensibility craves.
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