Story #341 - Dannil Mylo

Dannil Mylo

“You understand the limits that have been placed on you, yes?” The master asked. He was old and wizened, and up until a week ago someone Dannil Mylo considered a true friend.

“Yes,” Dannil replied, eyes downcast. There was no point in appearing confident – or “arrogant” as the other members of the Council chose to see it. “I am forbidden to use any of the arts I have been taught, for any purpose, unless this directive is removed by a member of this living Council.” A neat package – none of those sitting would go against the others, and once all were dead there was no way his bonds could be removed. Dannil could of course defy the Council and practice in secret, but those who chose such a path were almost always found out and their lives cut brutally short.

After four years of near-constant training with the Moldable Will, Dannil was unsure which was worse: death at the hands of Council assassins or never being able to touch the source of his power again.

“I cast you out,” the master continued, turning his back as he spoke. “You shall never darken these halls again with your filth, nor pollute the minds of the young men and women who seek a greater truth.”

It took an effort not to laugh; Dannil had been trying to free the young fools from the ilthor-refuse they were being fed as knowledge, and so far as he knew the master supported his aims. While it was possible the old man was a traitor to the cause of truth, it was more likely that one of the Emperor’s spies had been made aware of what was taking place and acted to enforce the strict interpretations of faith as decreed by the Dusk Lords. For most of those living in the Empire, such ancient and foolish thoughts were not worth a moment of time, but those at the Academy were held to a higher standard. Typically, the Dusk Lords left those of the Academy to their own devices, but Dannil's campaign against forced ignorance had been aggressive; clearly too aggressive for his own good.

“I am cast out,” he replied, then leveled a stern glare at the man he had called teacher and friend. “And am sorry to leave the Academy in such weak and foolish hands.” Without waiting for the final rite of the ceremony Dannil stripped off his black robe and let it fall to the stones below, turning on his heel as it slumped around him. He would obey, but he would not accept.

***

“You're him, aren't you?” Haylor Prio tried to force his voice down into a more manly octave but had little luck. “Dannil Mylo – I've finally found you!”

The middle-aged man in front of him shrugged and then returned to his work, the crafting of what appeared to be a rain barrel. The piece itself was nothing remarkable, but rather the fact that the man crafting it was not using his hands or any tools – the barrel was shaping itself in mid-air.

“I'm not here to expose you, if that's what you're thinking!” Haylor went on. “Far from it!”

The man didn't look up from his crafting table, and Haylor moved a step closer, confidence rising. “I read about you in the archives, only bits and pieces but they got me thinking. You had the right of it, I reckon, and the Emperor's all wrong. I couldn't say as much in the Academy; hell, it took me months to find anyone who even knew you. As soon as I got my Orders I started looking – I'm surprised you were so easy to find!”

After a long moment the barrel-maker looked up, blue eyes cold in the flickering lamplight. “Get out,” he grated. “And take your soulless Empire training with you.”

“But,” Haylor floundered, “I'm on your side. I only want to learn!”

The man stood and turned away, moving toward a back shelf to sort through metal banding rings.

“I could have you killed for this defiance!” It was a desperate act, but Haylor was sure he had the right man. Dannil just had to start talking!

“No,” he replied, turning, “you can't. My father is the man you're thinking of – Dannil Mylo. My name is Tannil. I am his son, and not bound by the prohibitions imposed by your Council. Really, young fool, did you think that Dannil would not have aged at all? That he would appear the same as his pictures in your recordings? Truly, my father was right when he spoke of the incompetence of your kind.”

Haylor felt himself bristle under the assault. All he wanted was knowledge, to share with a kindred spirit. “I am not of their kind, fool!” His voice raised again, but he could not help it. “Your father was right – he could do more with the Will than anyone in the last four decades, but was stopped before he reached his full potential. If you're truly of his blood, I could teach you to tap into the legacy of your father; together, we could topple the Academy itself!”

Interest came alight in Tannil's eyes, the first Haylor had seen since his arrival. “The Academy, you say? Toppled? Well, now that is something interesting. What do you propose?”

A deep breath helped steady Haylor somewhat, but his words still came out in a shaky gasp. “My Orders allow me to take on an apprentice, one that I can bring to the Academy for training. Be that apprentice, Tannil, and together we will show the Council the error of their ways!”

The other man smiled, a deadly kind of thing, and Haylor felt a smile spread across his own face. “Yes, teacher,” Tannil said, bowing. “I hunger for your knowledge.”

- D

Story #340 - Starlight

Starlight

“Starlight, starbright,” Joame Kennal whispered into the night, “bring down a rain of Fate tonight.”

On the porch behind him, Joame heard soft laughter and turned to confront the older Kennal; his brother could never leave well enough alone.

“Jamie!” He said sharply. “What's your problem? Why do you care what I do out here?” Joame hadn't planned on praying to the Fates again until after the next festival, but the clear night had been too good to pass up. When he'd snuck out of their small shared room after lights out, it appeared Jamie was sound asleep.

“Because it's stupid, Jo,” Jaime took a step forward and Joame backed up, the porch railing trapping him in a corner. If his older brother wanted a knock-down fight, he'd get it. “It's my job to make sure you know when you're doing something stupid and to make sure you hear about it. Once you get out in the real world, no one will tell you this kind of stuff to your face – you'll just be the weird kid no one likes.”

Joame snorted. Two summers working at the FTL engine plant and Jamie thought he was an expert on the “real” world. From everything Joame had seen and heard, the world his parents and brother lived in was not one he wanted. He'd read the old texts and watched everything he could on the holos about the Fates; it was said that one in a thousand times they heard a prayer and descended from the sky, willing to take along whoever had called them if they could show they were worthy. Though most citizens denied the existence of the Fates, most still prayed to them when tough times came along or when they needed something to go their way. Joame had caught Jamie doing it more than once, though the threat of sibling violence had stayed his tongue from spreading that knowledge to their parents.

“I don't care what anyone thinks of me, Jamie – least of all you. The Fates will come for me, you'll see, and then you'll be sorry!”

“Get to bed,” Jamie growled and raised a large fist. “I don't want to see you out here again tonight.”

Joame didn't bother with a reply, but slugged his brother hard in the arm as he went past, ducking under a return swipe. He was quickly inside the door and safe – Jamie wouldn't risk waking their father with any racket at such a late hour.

Crawling into bed didn't immediately bring sleep, but Joame soon felt a wave of weariness overtake him. Above his bedroom, past the trees and beyond the sky itself, a faint light began to glow.

***

Joame came awake at the soft sounds of speech outside his window. Confusion followed at the pale light flooding his room, and a quick look at the room's small clock told him only three hours had passed since Jamie sent him back to bed. Even if the glow outside had been the right color, there was no way that dawn could have broken – something else was happening.

Soft feet carried him into the main hallway and then to the front door. Peering through its dirty glass showed him Jamie on the porch, head bowed, flanked by two men in flowing white robes. In front of his brother was a woman in red, long hair streaming out behind her even though no nearby trees swayed in stiff breeze.

The Fates!

Joame pulled the door open and stepped out onto creaking wooden beams; the two men in white turned quickly, blue eyes blazing as they raised slender hands.

“Stop.” It was the woman who spoke, her voice a shimmering choir of chords and melodies. “Do not hurt the kin of the one who called.”

“Called?” Joame stepped forward. “I'm the one who called you! Jamie was out here making fun of me for it – he sent me back to bed!”

“Truth?” The woman swung her gaze to Jamie. “Or lies?” She stepped forward and took him by the chin, forcing Jamie to meet her eyes. “Tell me, supplicant.”

“I -” Jamie hesitated.

“If you called,” the woman went on, “speak to me of the farthest star, the one that lays beyond. Tell me its name.”

“Uhh...”

Joame cursed. His brother did not care what lay off-planet – his only goal was to get a good job at the factory. “Lanthor!” He cried, and the woman in red turned her gaze. It took everything Joame had to stand his ground.

“That is correct, young one, but I asked He Who Called Us.” She frowned. “Clearly, he cannot answer. Come, guardians,” she motioned to the two in white, “let us search for a more worthy candidate.”

All three heavenly beings froze for a moment, forms utterly still and then they were gone, vanished as if they had never existed.

“Jo -” Jamie began but Joame was already moving, fist coming up to take his brother in the jaw.

“Don't speak to me, Jamie,” Joame said softly. “Ever again. You've ruined the only dream I ever had, and you didn't even have the decency to speak the truth. I hope you get your job in the factory,” he went on, “I hope you stay there forever. I hope you rot on this planet, alone and unknown.”

Joame knelt at the edge of the porch, hands raised in supplication. “You will find me out here every night, and if you choose to mock me again you will rue the day. We are no longer brothers, Jamie,” he turned his eyes to the starry sky, “we are strangers.”

“Starlight, starbright,” Joame Kennal whispered into the night, “bring down a rain of Fate tonight.” Hope flared – a small thing, but pulsing. They were out there; they had come once. They would come again.

- D

Story #339 - Bartendered

Bartendered

“One Western coming up,” Mack Grammel bellowed, then slammed a highball glass onto the bar in front of him. Juices and an assortment of off-world liquors followed, resulting in a brightly-colored and viscous mix that glowed slightly at the center. “Who wants it?”

There was a clamor as patrons shouted over each other, all offering credits to get their hands on the planet's most famous beverage. Mack singled out a likely buyer, one offering fifty times what the drink was worth and then slid the short glass down the slick bar toward him, quickly checking the credit chip given in return. The wealthy man smiled and began sipping on the drink once Mack acknowledged the credits with a curt nod – slamming back a Western was a bad idea, or so went the local wisdom.

No one on-planet knew exactly what was in the drink, something that made Mack quite proud. When he'd opened The Shipping Post four years ago, it had quickly become apparent that the citizens and travelers coming trough Yaler V weren't interested in trying just another bar and spending their credits on the same watered-down sludge he had been exposed to since landing planet-side. It was the conversation of two old men on a particularly slow night that had sparked Mack's interest in creating a signature drink – both of the men could recall not only the name of the drinks they loved but exactly where the beverages had come from and the name of the bar. He'd asked, and both told him that the last time they'd been able to partake in their favorite drinks had been at least twenty years.

The idea for the Western was born.

Of course, creating a drink that would stick in the minds of patrons for the right reasons was more difficult. Mack had spent his entire adult life serving liquor and letting customers talk his ear off, but he'd never designed something from scratch. The first ten drinks he'd made were awful, at turns to sweet, too weak, and so powerful that test-drinkers had trouble seeing straight for a few days. It was the discovery of Xantham, a high-powered plant-based whiskey from one of the outer colonies that finally gave him what he needed to make his drink a winner. The stuff was powerful but didn't taste like it, and when mixed with other local varieties of liquor and juice was almost undetectable. Mack made sure every shipment of it he received was mislabeled to lower the chance of anyone figuring out exactly what he was using to make his magic highball.

Mack smiled as the bar's social hum stepped up another notch. He'd been running at near or over capacity for the last year, and the authorities were willing to look the other way because it was good for business and because Mack didn't tolerate any nonsense in his establishment. Unruly customers made for a bad atmosphere, so he employed security toughs that knew their jobs and weren't afraid to throw their weight around. Everyone who stopped by The Shipping Post knew that if they caused trouble they'd catch hell for it, and that government Enforcers would always show up just after a beating had been administered.

His face fell as the door banged open again to admit five tall men, each dressed in black from head to toe. Moe Rattler and his gang ran most of the criminal elements in the shipping district and were the one section of clientele Mack had hoped to avoid. By keeping his place clean and well-lit he'd forced most of the under-grounders elsewhere, but Moe had become a fan of the Western and stopped by at least once a week. He also caused trouble, trouble even Mack's high-paid bouncers wouldn't wade into.

Several patrons threw themselves out of the way as they saw Moe's gang coming, and a few were forcibly moved by the gang leader's cronies. Taking a seat at the bar with his men arrayed behind him to keep onlookers away, Moe held out an empty hand. He expected a Western ready for him as soon as he reached “his” stool , and what's more refused to pay, arguing that his presence brought in more customers.

“Where's my drink, Mack?” Moe said quietly.

Mack didn't bother with a reply and instead reached under the counter for a new bottle of Xantham. He'd asked for one to be specially made with Moe in mind, with the added bonus of the bottle disintegrating once its contents were used. With a flourish, another Western came into being, every drop of the Xantham going into its creation. Moe liked his drinks tall, and Mack didn't want to disappoint.

With one smooth motion, Moe poured the entire drink down his throat and then tossed the thick highball glass onto the floor, spraying nearby customers with spinning shards.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” Mack grated, leaning forward on the bar. “It's the last one I'll serve you.” He pointed for the door. “Get out.”

Surprised widened Moe's eyes but he stood, motioning to his cronies. Mack knew it was a risk, telling the gang-leader off, but he couldn't have the man interfering any longer – something had to be done.

“I've got business elsewhere, barkeep,” Moe said with a smile, “I'll see you again soon.” He swept forward, goons knocking over tables and kicking at lamps – a tantrum was apparently in order.

“No,” Mack said softly, “you won't.”

The Xantham-producers had been more than willing to accommodate his request for a high-powered derivative of their whiskey, one that came with the warning of lethality. For a man as big as Moe, it would take at least three days for the powerful beverage to run its course, and once he succumbed no trace of what killed him would remain.

Mack took a deep breath; he had never killed a man, but no other options were left open. His interests had to be protected.

“Hey!” He bellowed. “Who wants a Western?”

With Moe gone the bar lit up again, hands filled with credits thrown high into the air, and Mack smiled.

- D

Story #338 - Gunsmith

Gunsmith

“How about this one?” Kenneth Aren said, hefting a large chunk of blue-purple metal. “It looks pretty good.”

“No.” Mal Irro replied without bothering to turn his head. “Not even close.”

“Mal!” There was a petulance to the tone, a whining note that made Kenneth far less than the ideal companion. Had they not been related, Mal would never have considered the idea of bringing the thin young man alone on one of his material runs, but business was booming and he needed a second set of hands and eyes that he could trust. Blood, even dull and thin, was often the best choice. “You told mom you'd be nice!”

“Wrong,” Mal said, spinning on his heel and stopping Ken in his tracks with a dark glare. “I told her I'd take care of you, which is exactly what I'm doing. Your family isn't in good shape, little man, and without my help you'll never move up and out of the Pre-fabs. I'm not here to make you feel all nice inside or tell you what a smart boy you are. I'm brought you along to learn, and learn quickly.” He took a step forward and held out a hand. “Give it here.”

With a pout, Ken passed over the dark-colored chunk.

“First question,” Mal went on. “Do you know what this is?”

Ken frowned more deeply. “Uh...metal?”

Mal raised his hand and the kid shrank back; his stupidity seemed to be by accident rather than on purpose, so Mal put the hand down and settled for another stern glare.

“Yes,” he said with a grimace. “But what kind?”

“I...” Ken squinted at the dark chunk in Mal's hand. “I dunno.”

“This is pressteel,” he held it out for the young man to touch again. “Look as I change how the light's hitting it, see those reflections?” The sun was wan overhead; Pellsan was a garbage world for all manner of industrial sins, and clouds typically choked the sky. That any sun broke through at all was something of small miracle.

Ken nodded as Mal moved the large piece back and forth. “They're very dull,” he went on, “even considering how little sun we're getting. Part of crafting weaponry is about making the pieces look good for buyers – no high-ranker is going to want a cheap-looking pistol – and part of it is about delivering a blaster that exceeds expectation when it comes to performance.” He tossed the cheap metal aside and strode forward, pushing past Ken as he spoke. “I didn't build my reputation designing and selling inferior products – I'll leave that to all the other Home-world scum. My job,” he bent and picked up a shining hands-width of metal, then discarded it as it began to crumble in his hands, “is to create pieces that not only stand the test of time but give my clients the security of knowing they carry a Mal-made at their side, knowing it will never fail.”

Quick footsteps behind told him that Ken was keeping up and keeping his mouth shut. There might be hope for the kid yet.

“What we really need,” Mal was about to move into another section of the junkyard when a green-tinged reflection caught his eye, “is right here!”

He bent down quickly to scoop up the fist-sized knot of twisted green metal, its small flat sides throwing brilliant light across dusty junk piles as sunlight filtered down.

“But Uncle Mal,” Ken's voice was heavy with dullard's confusion. “That one's so tiny,” he leaned in closer to the gray-green shard. “And dirty!”

“This is what you must learn, Kenneth,” Mal said, slipping the chunk into his pocket. “If you want to be any use as my apprentice. What we've found here is Plasticite, one of the few man-made substances able to compete with pure metal options. This particular variety is used in high-level industrial applications and its dregs,” he patted his pocket, “are simply thrown away.”

A quick press of his homing button and the shuttle was on its way. The less time spent on Pellsan the better – while salvage was encouraged on the world, there were no laws protecting those who claimed items first. Blaster fire often decided ownership.

“So?” Ken said, confusion loud in his voice. “It's good, but it's such a small piece. What good is it?”

“Better than you'd think, Kenny boy. Only a coating of Plasticite is necessary for the inner barrel of a pistol. Once its been fused, no cleaning or lubrication will ever be necessary and no matter the rounds being fired – slug or energy – our customers won't experience any loss of speed.”

A high-pitched whine from overhead told Mal the shuttle would be on the ground in minutes and he turned to face his wayward almost-nephew. “You must learn these things, and quickly, or I will find another assistant. I have hundreds waiting for the privilege, but would prefer to keep this in the family if at all possible. Do well, and you will have a share of my good name. Do poorly,” Mal lightly touched the pistol at his hip - the first one he'd ever crafted - and Ken stepped back.

Turning as the shuttle finally landed, Mal strode for the access hatch and didn't bother to check if Ken came along. Such a check would have shown not only that the young man moved forward quickly but that a sly smile had spread across his face and his eyes narrowed to a guile-filled version of their dumbstruck former selves. “I don't want your good name name, Uncle,” he said under his breath as he stepped into the shuttle. “I'll be making my own – and you'll be the one to supply what I need. Killing you will be a pleasure.”

“You in?” Mal barked, then pulled the door closure as Ken nodded. “Good. Sit down and shut up.”

- D

Story #337 - Red and Blue

Red and Blue

Once, when there were still suns in the sky and songs to be sung, our peoples were as one. Red and Blue alike laughed, loved and lost together, but the coming of Gildrannon and the loss of one great light has fractured us. Those with clear heads have been shouted down, told we do not understand the new order. I am sure it will pass in time, sure that a sense of balance will be restored. Yet...

The tablet fragment ended in a jagged edge and Yul Wira let out a soft curse. He was still ecstatic about the find; three years of searching had finally led to something worthwhile, but wished even a few more words were left for him to read. Their syntax was not all that different from the Common tongue spoken by both Red and Blue – even after five hundred years stagnation imposed by the Sundering persisted, leaving a legacy of nearly-completed works and virtually halting development of both races.

Yul made a face. He knew better than to think of his red-skinned brethren and those of the opposite blue as “races”. That was a general term used by those who did not know better, those who wanted to claim one side was superior to the other, and he had heard every imaginable justification for the oppression of Blues in his own lands and Reds in the cities across the sea. Some said that the “other race” was less evolved, that the color of their skin clearly indicated a deficiency of some kind. Others were firmly convinced that their opposites sought to lay ruin to society, and had to therefore be segregated. A new idea sweeping Redlands was that Blues were simply inferior – not by their own actions, but by nature – and required Red help to find their true potential. That potential typically came in the form of low-paying jobs or positions of servitude in high-ranking Red homes.

Historians on both sides were convinced that their color came first and that their opposites were an afterthought or genetic abnormality, but Yul found that explanation too convenient. A tattered trail had led him to the Caves of Yeesra, one of the holiest and hardest to reach shrines in the Blue Wilds, and he had finally found the proof he needed to start changing long-set minds. Both colors were equally righteous and equally foolish; it was a celestial event and the rise of a madman that had broken them apart.

Tucking the tablet into his satchel, Yul stood and began collecting his tools. Excavation had taken weeks – all the while risking the arrival of a dedicated Blue pilgrim or random military patrol – but he could not risk breaking what he sought. A life lived in pursuit of a lie would be devastating enough, one lived in pursuit of a ruined truth would be enough to destroy him.

“Well done, my fat Red friend,” a familiar voice came from one of the shadowed cave passages, and Yul straightened. “You've saved me the effort of all that hard work, though I had expected you to be done sooner. I've spent the last week lurking about in these gods-forsaken caves, hoping you'd finally find the tablet so I could take it from you.”

“Hello, Rel.” Yul said flatly. He'd encountered the tall, azure-skinned scholar several times over the last dozen years at the few and far between joint conferences hosted by Red and Blue to “discuss their mutual efforts at reconciliation”. Though the idea was sound in principal, such conferences typically devolved into screaming matches. Rel had seemed a kindred spirit when they first met, another who believed as Yul did that there was more to the story than either side knew. The other scholar's motivations were subtly different, however, and Yul had come to realize that he and Rel did not have the same purpose in mind for the tablet should it ever be unearthed. “I'm afraid you'll be leaving here empty-handed, unless you brought a regiment with you.” He raised an eyebrow, and his thin counterpart shrugged. “I thought not. Now,” he stepped forward. “Get out of my way.”

A blaster pistol was in Rel's hand before Yul had taken three steps and he came to an abrupt halt, hands quickly covering the satchel as if flesh and bone could protect what lay inside from charged energy.

“I see you misunderstand my purpose, Yul,” Rel said with a smirk. “How Red of you.”

Yul bit back a sarcastic reply; the tablet was all that mattered, not foolish wordplay or petty insults.

“Rel,” he spoke once his temper had cooled. “I have no desire to fight you. Let us take this tablet to your Council together. We can share credit for the discovery.”

The Blue scholar laughed, a sickly thing that spread out along the cave walls to echo back a mocking refrain. “You really don't understand, do you, Yul? I have no interest in credit, no desire to be lauded for such a discovery. Your tablet lies in the past, Yul, but we must live in the present. What you seek to unearth would only threaten the stability of the world. A Blue world.”

“What?” Yul felt panic rise in his chest. “You can't mean -”

“I do.” Rel stepped forward. “This tablet is too dangerous to exist; it will put foolish notions into the heads of the next generation, who would spend inordinate amounts of time trying to eke out some kind of peace rather than advancing areas of science and art, literature and technology.” The tall Blue's voice was tight, and imagined glory lit up his eyes. “I would prefer to take the tablet and let you live – the thought of you reporting a truth that could never be proven has a certain malicious appeal to me.” Rel jabbed the blaster forward, and Yul took a quick step back. “But killing you works just as well. Your choice, Yul.”

Dropping his shoulders, he slid the satchel forward and handed it to Rel, who dropped the gun and stepped aside. As he slipped through the caves, Yul heard the sound of thin stone breaking and a part of him broke as well, but not so much as Rel thought.

The Blue had not been watching closely enough; a tiny cylinder held picture upon picture of the tablet, along with whispered notations about its origin. Despite the Rel's arrogance, despite his closed mind, the truth would come out for Red and Blue alike.

- D

Story #336 - Gracious One

Gracious One

When he was a boy the city had seemed sprawling, filled with nooks and crannies he could hide in when his mother walked home from market. Only once he’d lost her in the throng of people, but once was enough to convince him to never do it again – his father had made expectations of obedience clear.

Cresting Tallow’s Hill above Midora, Prelate Tolver Marcus had to chuckle. The few dirty streets of the town hardly seemed so complex from horseback, their crooked angles and double-back dead ends laughable when compared with other, more modern jewels of the Empire.

“Prelate,” a red-robed minion rode up beside Tolver, head bowed. “May I ask why we have detoured to this foul place?” The man’s mouth was turned up in a sneer; most of those who entered the low clergy were Southerners and had nothing but disdain for the so-called cities of the north. Though Mellor was a capable assistant – and one constantly scheming to take Tovler’s position – his prejudices were varied and virulent.

“A Saint was born here some years ago, minion,” Tolver said sharply. He wasn’t a Saint yet, but with any luck the Church would soon recognize its greatest son. Fourteen years serving the poor and disenfranchised had yielded more conversions than had been seen in a century, and the Hierarchy was beginning to take notice. Unfortunately, a number of loose ends still existed in Midora, ends that had to be tied up before a clever minion found and used them to advance their own career.

“Of course, my Lord,” Mellor said, dropping his head even further. “The High One works in even the most barren of lands.”

“A word of caution,” Tolver said brightly as his procession made its way to the guarded gate. “I would watch my words if I were you – these Northerners are unpredictable people. The wrong word and you might see that quick tongue of yours in the hands of Berserker. You’d make quite the noise, I think.”

Mellor drew in a sharp breath and then dropped his horse to the back of the pack; he was a spineless whelp if ever one existed, but clever enough to make use of anything he found out of place. A quick prayer to the High One for good fortune as they approached the gate was all Tolver could spare – he had to concentrate on making sure his purpose was achieved, and swiftly. The longer he tarried, the greater chance someone might recognize his heritage. Though decades in the South had tanned his skin and bleached his hair, certain features – a broad nose and sharp chin in particular – might pique the interest of an elder.

The guards stepped aside as Church colors were raised. While they were permitted to ask delegations of the Hierarchy their purpose, they were not entitled to an answer. A man had dashed out from one of the wooden towers alongside the gate – gold knots at his shoulders marked him as the guard-captain.

“Well met, your Grace,” the captain said in a quavering voice as Tolver crossed the city threshold. “Welcome to Midora. May I inquire as to your business?”

“Well met,” Tolver said in return, quickly sketching the High One’s sigil with one hand. “And thank you. Our business here is to minister and ensure the spiritual needs of your people are being met. Your citizens look well-fed,” he squinted at dirty children playing in a side-street, pushing down memories of his own dusty past, “but the nourishment of their souls is in question.”

“O…o…of course.” The captain stuttered. “We are humbled by your kindness. May I show you to the inn?” It was clear he’d rather do anything else, but at least he had the good sense to make the proper offers.

“No thank you, Captain,” Tolver said with a smile. “I’m confident we can find it on our own. Besides, I’d hate to take you away from your work.”

“Thank – thank you my Lord.” The Captain managed a jerky bow before Tolver swept past him and into the city. Into memory.

***

“I am not sure why I have been called here, your Grace. Perhaps you can enlighten me?” The woman’s voice held no fear, and while her words were appropriately contrite, it was clear she was displeased.

“I will ask the questions, Lady” Tolver said sharply. “We have been examining town records, ensuring that bloodlines remain pure and the High One is properly venerated. They state you had a husband - now dead - and have a son unaccounted for. Where is he?”

“I have no idea,” she said flatly. The lie was clear in her tone; even without the gifts Tolver’s faith provided, that much was obvious.

“Are you certain?” He asked, standing and moving to room’s small window. Beyond its dirty glass the night-merchants and thieves of Midora were coming alive, wavering lights flaring into existence as the sound of revelry floated skyward. “You may wish to reconsider your answer – the penalty for lying to an official of the Hierarchy is death.”

“I have no idea,” the woman said again, tone flat. “He ran off after his fifteenth naming and never returned.”

“That must have grieved you terribly, Lady.”

“Of course, your Grace. We searched desperately for him, but to no avail.”

“Really?” His tone was incredulous. “You are certain that you did not smile and laugh at his disappearance, that his father did not remark ‘good riddance to such a poor son’?”

“Your Grace!” On her feet, the woman’s face was red, a familiar crimson that brought wave after wave of sorrow crashing back onto Tolver’s soul. “Town records would show no such thing – who has been telling you such things?”

“No one, mother –“ he turned from the window, ignoring the tears that ran. “I used my own memory to call up what was seen and what was heard.”

“Tolly!” She cried, stepping forward, but a quick push sent her stumbling back, and the cermonial dagger at Tolver’s belt came easily to hand.

“I am not your Tolly any longer, mother.” He grated out the words. “And I cannot allow your memory to ruin my chances of further advancement in the Order.”

“Son,” she begged, “please – my death will see you undone!”

He turned the dagger-point on himself, scoring deep marks along his arms. The High One had suggested an alternative to death, one that might reap even greater benefits. Blood and power flowed – he had little time to act.


- D

Story #335 - Focus

Focus

“Focus!” Adept Tremul bellowed, and Eiden forced himself to extend an arm as he had been instructed, trying to move the swarming knot of power in his head down corded muscle fiber and out his fingertips into the training dummy across the room. What form that power took didn’t matter – electricity or fire would work just as well, so long as the target took the brunt of it.

A minute later and still nothing, though Eiden was dripping sweat and his fist had begun to shake from the force of holding it closed. He could feel the power within, building upon itself, but couldn’t find the trigger to release it, couldn’t find a way to make it move.

“Failure,” Tremul said shortly. “As always.”

Eiden lowered his hand. He didn’t appreciate the Adept’s tone, but Tremul was two years his senior and on-track to be an instructor.

“I would hardly say effort with no result is a failure, Tremul.” Eiden heard the voice of Instructor Malben behind him. “Leave us now, and consider your choice of words – if you seek to become an Instructor here, you will need to learn patience.”

“Of course, Revered One,” the tall Adept said, bowing. Though his words and posture were contrite, Eiden caught the look Tremul threw his way – hate was clear in wide brown eyes.

“Aspirant,” Malben went on and Eiden turned, keeping his head bowed and hands at his waist. “Follow me.”

The Instructor moved away at a swift pace, and long strides were required to keep up as the white-haired man swept out of the training hall and into the garden. Though Eiden had no time to stop and enjoy the soft rippling sounds of the pond or gentle whisper of trees as Malben strode forward, he took one deep lungful of mountain air before running to catch up. The School was considered to be one of the most beautiful places in the Ten Regions, and it was little wonder. Hewn out of granite by brute force and concentrated focus, few ever had the chance to walk its grounds and Eiden was honored to be such a one.

“Do not pay attention to Tremul,” Malben said as they passed from the garden to the Shrine of Rola. The first instructor at the School, Rola was honored at the beginning of each day and her shrine was often used as a place of contemplation and meditation. “He is nothing more than smoke and wind.”

Eiden missed a step – that an Instructor would be so critical of an Adept, even one such as Tremul, was a shock. His head was still swimming as Malben quietly ordered all those who surrounded the Shrine – three Aspirants and an Adept – back into the garden, and when Eiden found his bearings again also found that he and Malben were alone.

“Sit,” the Instructor said quietly, and Eiden did as commanded; the robed man also took a cross-legged place in front of Rola’s statue. “Now,” he went on, “tell me why you haven’t been successful.”

Fear made Eiden’s tongue thick in his mouth. He didn’t want to risk his place at the School – didn’t want to be removed for his failure to complete yet another task, but a direct question from an Instructor required an answer.

“I don’t know,” he began slowly, “I think –“

“Thinking is not required!” Malben said sharply, then smiled to let Eiden know he was not so cruel as Tremul. “Tell me what you feel when you try to find your Focus. Tell me what doesn’t happen.”

“It’s…” effort was needed to force the words out, “it’s as though I can call up what I need but can’t release it. I feel it here,” he touched his head, “but can’t force the Focus downward, can’t force it out into the physical world.”

“Have you ever been able to do so?” Malben’s voice was kind, soft.

“Yes,” Eiden said quickly. “Before I came here. My father’s fields burned because of me.”

“So you were sent for a failure?”

“I –“ he hesitated. “Yes. My father had me tested in the city and once he discovered that I possessed the ability to call Focus immediately contacted the local recruiter. I was shipped of the farm three weeks later and told never to return. My father argued that it would give me a better life than he could ever offer, but I knew the truth – he was ashamed.”

“Not ashamed,” Malben said shortly. “Afraid.” He gestured toward the statue above. “What is the central tenant of our First Instructor?”

“Control is Focus,” Eiden recited, “but Focus is not control.”

“True.” Malben nodded as if Eiden had been the one to discover such a notion. “But limited. You possess control, student – too much. You believe Focus brought you here because you failed, and the memory of that failure keeps your ability tightly locked away. Now,” Malben pointed toward the statue, “call your Focus. Attempt to destroy the stone body of Rola.”

“But-“ Eiden began.

“Now, student!” The Instructor’s voice cracked like a whip. “I will prevent any harm from coming to the statue or the Shrine. Do your worst, call your power – no one will be harmed.”

Sudden hope flared and Eiden raised his hand, bringing Focus to bear once again. The knot of force formed quickly in his mind and remained unmoving for a moment, locked as his guilt tried to hold it back. A glance at Malben, his face calm, loosed the net that held Eiden firm and he felt a surge of energy travel down his arm, a tide of Focus that leapt out and toward the statue at his feet.

Fire raged and electricity crackled; it was neither and it was both, a tingling, burning conflux of power.

“Stop!” Eiden dimly heard Malben’s voice; the Instructor’s face was white and his veins stood out sharply on straining skin. “You are too powerful!”

Sudden fear gripped him and Eiden cut off his Focus at the source, stopping the flow of energy through his palm. The twined ball of flame and light he had created, however, did not dissipate but continued to grow and soon consumed Rola’s stone form. Malben was screaming, and Eiden grabbed the other man to drag him out of the Shrine.

“What have you done?” A pale-faced Adept screamed. All around the garden, Aspirants were running in fear, desperate to escape suddenly unchecked Focus.

Eiden’s mind flailed, beating down at him for his transgression. What had he done?


- D

Story #334 - Stuff of Nightmares

Stuff of Nightmares

Dodging another claw-swipe, Alec Tomlin checked his digital wrist watch. The first time he’d been sucked into the world of nightmares terror had prevented him from doing anything except hide and gibber until the night was over but familiarly made even awful bedfellows seem bland. He’d learned that while judging time spent in the nightmare was impossible using his internal clock – minutes often seemed as hours – his wrist-watch was miraculously unaffected. Though the second hand ticked at an alarmingly variable rate, when the hour hand hit eight and the minute hand struck noon his time in the darkly mirrored world would always end.

The beast in front of him charged, preventing Alec from getting a good look at the time on his watch. Instead of moving out of the way he stood his ground, arms wide, and the creature grinned in hideous triumph. Though he knew it came from cobbled-together pieces of his own imagination, it was hard to believe that the greenish-purple thing could even move, let alone charge and attack owing to spindly legs and head larger than the body that carried it. As the bulky monster struck him Alec cursed himself for a fool – the world of nightmares was not subject to laws of physical reality; even at ten times the size of its body the creature could have not only walked but talked or danced if it chose.

Locking both arms around its thick neck Alec began to squeeze, summoning phantom strength only available when he was in tune with the blackened landscape around him. It was not something he could explain, but the longer he was forced to endure the punishment meted out by his created hell the better he became at exerting control. Underneath him the beast screamed, a howl of anger mixed with fear. Without warning it slipped from his grasp, head shrinking and body expanding as if water had poured from one to the other. With a bellow of rage and saliva the creature turned and fled into twisted jungle trees, calling out a warning to others of its kind.

Alec felt strength drain out of him and strained to stay upright. Bringing his watch back up he forced himself to focus, frowning as the obvious came clear – a large crack ran down the middle of its glass face, the second hand stopped at the breaking point and struggling to move, unable to turn past the thirty-second mark.

“Dammit!” He screamed into fading twilight, an echo rebounding from dark mountain peaks to mock his anger. There was a twist to the reflected sound, an added slap of uncertainty that sent a shiver up his spine. Something was not right in the world of his nightmares, and the fact that he was familiar enough with the place to know a change had taken place made him more than a little frightened.

With no watch to gauge his time left, Alec saw no point in hiding. The bushes he sometimes used were full of stinging needles and crawling bugs; though they allowed him to endure a night without meeting new horrors, their constant itch and bite wore him down.

It took an effort to even look at the dark castle that sat atop a rugged hill. The squat building was always in front of him, no matter which way he turned in the nightmare but Alec had always avoided it – there was something unspeakably evil dripping from its sliding black walls, something horrible and yet familiar.

Straightening, Alec set his sights on the castle’s main gate and began walking, stride determined. Slices of time unknown moved in fits and starts but the castle came no closer and when Alec finally came to halt it appeared further away than when he had begun. He cursed – yet another thing in the nightmare sought to fight him.

A notion came, quick and certain and Alec closed his eyes. What lay around him was a creation of his own mind, at least in part, and conscious thought seemed to shape its form, push it away when he went looking for answers. Walking forward with a sure stride, Alec tried to keep his mind unfocused, letting it drift over thoughts of his first few days in the nightmare. Sudden wariness flared and he opened his eyes; the castle door lay only two steps away.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a hard-edged voice said as he stepped forward, and Alec spun on his heel. “You really don’t want to know what’s inside.”

The figure in front of him was familiar, though Alec had never considered the possibility of wearing all leather from boot to shoulder - and his doppelganger was not so unattractive as the clothing would ordinarily imply. The man was also bulkier than Alec, with broader shoulders and a more angular face.

“I’ve heard you in the hills,” he said softly, “your laughter doesn’t sound quite like my own.”

“Clever!” The not-quite-him said. “I knew we had it in us, but you’re not exactly the bright one of our pairing.”

Alec ignored the jab. “Is there something in particular you want, or are you just here to throw around empty words?”

“Empty?” His doppelganger laughed. “You really don’t understand, do you? With your watch broken, how do you expect to leave this place?”

“I have no idea,” Alec said calmly, but inside he seethed. He hadn’t considered that the watch was his only link to the real world, but it was possible the created man in front of him was lying. “though I expect I’ll find answers in the castle you seem so frightened about.”

“Go!” The double-Alec said with a smirk. “Go and meet her – see what she has to say. Perhaps she will even let you leave.”

“She?” A new terror began to rise, one that Alec had not felt in a dozen years.

His almost-mirror nodded. “Did you really think her end came so easily? That all this was just your bad luck?”

“No…” Alec began, but couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

“SON!” A screeching voice rang out from the castle parapets. “Your mother waits!” Beasts and twisted lands were nothing; the true stuff of nightmares had emerged.


- D

Story #333 - Speak Out

Speak Out

“Do you understand what you have been charged with, Mr. Lopenheim?” The Chief Justice Toppenfeld said as he scowled down from his bench.

“I do.” Jorn Lopenheim saw no reason to dispute facts. “I stand accused of speaking the name of an occasion long forgotten, one with no meaning – one that no reasonable society should fear.”

“That is enough!” The larger man’s face was red and shaking; a life lived in pursuit of “justice” had given him a frame that entirely filled the large chair he held and also spilled over onto the bench that represented his office. “Do you wish to further anger this court?”

Jorn smiled. “If speaking the name of Grensfest is enough to anger this esteemed judicial body, I would say that a course in anger management might be in order.”

“Guards!” Toppenfeld bellowed. “Take this man away – Lopenheim, I will see that you rot in a cell for this disgrace!”

A strike to the back of his knees took Jorn to the ground but he made no attempt to stumble forward, no attempt to save his body from the impact. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and hot, but his point had been proven – freedom no longer existed in the Republic.

***

Twenty-two months later, Jorn was ushered into a small, dark room and told to wait. The guards hadn’t mistreated him overmuch, owing largely to the media attention his trial had received. Any injury received at the hands of jailers would easily have made front-page news, even with media controls in place, and the Republic could not risk another uprising. Jinthal VI had been a stunning failure not only in government control but a clear case of responses too severe for their precurisve acts. Thousands had been killed, though those wielding power in the Republic had convinced most citizens otherwise.

“Mr. Lopenheim?” A voice came from the darkness. “I trust you are well?”

“Tolerable,” he replied, deliberately keeping his tone light. Prison life had been relatively uneventful for him – most other prisoners supported his cause – but his term had not been without violence. Some of the guards, fearing retribution if they were too harsh in their directives had tried to bribe other prisoners to commit acts of violence, and Jorn had not escaped entirely unscathed. A scar above his left eye spoke to the potentially deadly force improvised weapons could wield, and a slight limp told the tale of violence done through pure physical rage.

“I’m so glad to hear it.” With the last a bright light came on and Jorn’s eyes slammed shut. He had not seen high wattage in nearly two years – prison cells used only the cheapest bulbs available. It took an effort not to raise his hands and shield his eyes, but Jorn refused to give whoever was watching the satisfaction. No matter what the Republic chose to throw his way, he would not be broken.

“My name is Kil Preston,” the voice went on, and Jorn opened his eyes. A thin man with black hair in a tailored suit sat across from him, the three-foot width of a metal prison table all that separated the government’s lackey from what some called its greatest threat. “You must expect I have been sent to wring a confession from you.”

Jorn laughed, but it brought no response from Preston – clearly he was one with greater control than most of those who made a career of working for the Republic. “Then you have it – I freely admit to saying –“

“Don’t!” Preston cut Jorn off before the word left his lips. “I do not need to hear your foulness!”

“Foulness?” He couldn’t help but smile. “It is a word, nothing more. I have never said I agree with the religion’s rituals or believe in its tenants, merely that to strike its name from history is no answer. Forbidding speech, forbidding words does nothing to remove memory, and cannot obliterate knowledge.”

“Certainly you can, and we will.” Preston’s voice was calm again. “I have made a study of such things. I am no agent, sent from the shadows and no prison guard sent to do you harm. The Third Prime herself ordered my presence here because of the nature of your offense. Have you truly never heard my name?”

There was something about the pompous air of the thin man, the puffed-up self-importance that rang a distant bell in Jorn’s mind.

“Wait!” He cried. “You’re not –“

“Professor and Dean of Historical Inaccuracies, Key Campus at your service. You will now explain to me why you feel such heresy is acceptable.” Preston paused to make a small motion with his left hand and the metal door opened, admitting a large guard who carried one glass of water and a slice of bread. A wave in Jorn’s direction from Preston and the guard set the items down, then backed out of the room. “I extend this olive branch, Lopenhiem. Eat, drink and explain yourself. I will not interrupt.”

Jorn attacked both bread and water with gusto, concerned they might be snatched away. He had been waiting for the chance to speak without being shouted down, and if anyone could offer that chance it would be Preston.

“Very well,” he said once he was finished. “Listen, and judge.”

Clearing his throat, he began the speech he had rehearsed for years. “The Grens were a people shrouded in mystery – Republic archives have little data on their formation or initial teachings.” Preston nodded, but did not speak. “What is clear, however, is that their traditions influenced a generation of citizens not only on their home planet but on distant worlds as well. Grensfest, as it came to be known, was taken, incorporated and modified into the religions of cultures across the quadrant, until it finally arrived on Malbeth XI. There, a number of unsavory practices were added to the basic ritual, practices that Republic newsmakers quickly capitalized on as a disgusting, twisted example of unchecked freedom’s power. Soon, a benign tradition was heralded as the birth of everything foul and dark in human hearts – with the rise of the Primes, the very mention of its name was banned.” Jorn felt tension come out of him in a rush – finally, someone was listening.

“True,” said Preston. “All of it.” His eyes narrowed. “You are more dangerous than I thought – both a prisoner and a man of thoughts. A special dispensation will have to be arranged.”

“What?” Jorn felt panic rise at the thin man’s words, magnified when the lights cut out and he heard the door bang open. The Republic’s grip was tightening.


- D

Story #332 - Seated

Seated

“It won’t work,” her friend said flatly, but Erinth ignored the words and stepped back from the edge, measuring out her steps. “Erinth,” Phalo went on, “please – don’t do this. We’ve both been Seated. You don’t need to prove that you’re better than I am. I know that already.” The last was said with a small smile; they had been competing since they were both old enough to ride, but that she wasn’t trying to one-up Phalo; she had to know if what she was planning would work. It could come in very handy some day.

“Please,” she said with smile, “get out of my way, Phalo.” The tall young man hesitated, confusion plain on his face. He didn’t want to be the cause of Erinth’s supposed death at her own stupidity, but he also didn’t want to be knocked over the edge into the skybank when she came charging.

“No.” He raised his chin and stared her down through narrowed eyes. “You will have to knock me down.”

Ernith stared back; Phalo knew better than to challenge her when she’d made up her mind, but he clearly felt the issue was worth risking her ire. While she could understand his concern – jumping into the skybank without being mounted was tantamount to suicide, and Erinth didn’t exactly have a track record of being stable and sensible. She smiled at the thought of Instructor Arrin’s face, hard and angry as he had handed over her saddle two days ago. The Instructor had been firmly against her being Seated, but her skills were such that denial would jeopardize the entire process. Though Arrin had been forced to capitulate and agree to her elevation, he wasn’t shy about letting his displeasure show.

“Fine.” As she said the word she took two quick steps forward and Phalo threw himself to the side. He wasn’t stupid, and wasn’t about to go over the edge with her, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

“You’re a jerk!” He screamed as she backed up again, ready for another try. “Why would you scare me like that? When will you learn that these kinds of bluffs aren’t funny?”

“Phalo,” Erinth said softy, “you should know better than that.” She smiled. “I never bluff.”

A from scream from her friend chased Erinth as she sprinted forward, her heart pounding at the thought of open sky beyond the edge. Her plan would work, she was sure, she just didn’t know how far she’d fall before it did.

“Calmine!” She bellowed as solid ground disappeared and clear blue nothingness took its place. The big cloudhorse had been loosed from his reins earlier that morning, and she knew enough about his breed to be certain just how well he could hear.

For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of rushing wind in her ears and the sensation of sickening speed, traced by the failing sound of Phalo’s terror. Her own fear was starting to rise – though no one knew what lay below the clouds, she had no desire to find out face-first.

“Calmine!” She screamed again. “Please!”

Suddenly a familiar weight was under her, a warm and pulsing power that stopped her descent and began to lift her back above the clouds. It took all the willpower she possessed to grab the reins instead of wrap both hands desperately around the dark cloudhorse’s shoulder’s, but she had to remain in control at all times. She was Seated now, not some first-time rider.

That was unwise.

Calmine’s tone was unimpressed. She had discovered early on in her training that she and the cloudhorse shared a bond no others at the school – including Phalo – understood, and also discovered that Calmine was largely unimpressed with humanity. He found her an oddity, and served her because of something he called The Pact, but would never elaborate on exactly what that meant.

“I’m fine!” She said out loud. “It certainly took you long enough to get here!”

I thought it best to let you contemplate the potential consequences of your actions. I will not always be so close by.

He had a point – while all cloudhorses had superb hearing, Calmine’s ability to transmit thoughts worked only over a short distance. Still, her back stiffened and she leaned in close to his left ear.

“Listen to me, Calmine. You will come when I call and not question my decisions, no matter your feelings on the subject. I am Seated now, not some apprentice you can order around!” She had never taken his directions well, even when she was an apprentice, but the point stood – she had earned her place.

Is that so? The cloudhorse’s thought carried a feeling of amusement. Perhaps you are right, at that, Master. Perhaps it is time you learned more exactly what being Seated means. A sinking feeling formed in her stomach at Calmine’s words. Something strange was going on.

A glance over her shoulder told Erinth the cloudhorse was rapidly carrying her away from the safety of the city and its landings. Where was the beast taking her?

“Calmine!” She tried to make her voice sound authoritative. “You will take us back. Now!”

I will do no such thing, Master. While I honor you because of The Pact, you are ignorant of the rules you must follow. As such, I am given the authority to bring you before the Council so that you may be properly instructed.

“The Council?” Erinth screamed. “What are you talking about?” Clouds were rushing by and a hazy shape had begun to form, one that quickly firmed into a broad green and blue swath hundreds of times larger than the city above.

Those few we send to you are but a fragment of our numbers, only those required by our ancient agreement. You are a young and foolish race, but we still have some hope that you may be raised up. Certain individuals, however - Calmine’s tone left no doubt about exactly who he meant - give my brethren and I great cause for concern.

Her mount pulled up sharply as the green expanse came close.

Welcome to the ground, child. Welcome to your destiny.

Erinth shivered. She should have listened to Phalo.

- D

Story #331 - Vanguard

Vanguard

“For the honor of the Vanguard!” The cheer went up from the assembled, rumbling out along the hills and valleys, thundering out so loudly that shepherds had to calm their flocks and riders soothe their horses.

Despite the noise, despite the soul-shattering racket, humans looking at the spot where Old Gods gathered would have seen nothing but a gently rolling plain, nothing but empty amber fields.

Aleth’adren, however, saw something strange in one of his brothers.

“Dresh,” he said as the chant faded, “come here.” The stout God shot him a dark look but complied – power in the Order was based on time of creation, and Aleth had been in existence long than any other except Pelen. He forced thoughts of the Oldest from his mind as Dresh approached; the ancient one had not been seen in some time.

“What?” The younger god said as he came to a halt. A long look from Aleth had the desired effect, and red began to climb Dresh’s cheeks. “I mean – what is it you require, Elder?”

“Stand easy, my friend,” Aleth said quickly and watched as his brother’s pose relaxed marginally. The youngest except for Sima, Dresh bore a chip on his shoulder nearly half the size of the world and wasn’t shy about letting anyone – man or god – know about it. “I have only one question for you and then I will let you go: why did you not join in the cheer?” It had been obvious to Aleth, and though no human could tell the difference, he knew when his brother’s voice was not among the bellowed.

“What? I –“ Dresh began, shifting quickly on his feet, eyes darting side-to-side but Aleth cut him off.

“I know of what I speak, brother!” Aleth’s voice cracked his brother’s excuses, sharply enough that several of the others looked up in alarm. “Tell me why you did not cheer.” He was implacable, now. There had been signs over the last century, but Aleth had ignored them, let them slip by while he was busy with other matters. Perhaps he was yet wrong – perhaps Dresh had not been corrupted.

He took a step forward, increasing his size to loom over his younger sibling. “Tell me,” he grated. “Why you did not swear.”

“I –“ Dresh started again, but stopped when he saw others crowding around, eager to see what was happening, curious about why their normally calm elder brother was suddenly angry.

The detonation took them completely by surprise, throwing them to the ground with a force no human could hope to survive. Dresh’s floating laugher rang out and Aleth struggled to rise, but his body refused to respond. Betrayal!

***

Waking was painful, and not simply for thoughts of a brother lost.

“Please,” a soft voice came from his right, “do not try to move.”

Aleth forced his eyes open, at first relieved to see the familiar outline of the Healing Chamber, but an odd sensation forced his attention downward. A singed robe and burned patches across his legs and torso would have been cause for concern on any other day, but they paled in comparison to what had been done – what had been lost.

“I cannot say how such a thing is possible, but…” The voice came again, and Aleth looked up into the eyes of Ciara, Healer of the Gods. Fear stood in straining orbs - he was certain she had never seen anything like the deformity that lay before her. Those of the Vanguard could not be damaged, not be torn limb from limb.

“How many?” Aleth’s voice was cold, and he looked away from the Ciara’s shimmering form. He could still feel his left arm, was sure it still functioned and yet could not see it, could grasp nothing with phantom fingers.

“I don’t understand, brother.” Ciara’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“You do!” He hissed. “If this is my fate, others did not survive.”

There was a long pause, and then his sister spoke a single word. “Fifteen.”

His world came crashing down. Fully half the Gods were dead, murdered at the hands of their wayward brother. The Unliving was a tempting beast – Aleth had done enough research into the underside of creation to know that much, but he had never believed that even Dresh would stoop so low.

“How?” He forced himself to move, to stand, brushing off Ciara’s efforts to stop him. He knew the answer, but needed to hear it, needed her to make it real.

“The Unliving…” Ciara hesitated. “We think Dresh somehow channeled its power.”

“Come with me,” Aleth brushed past the healer, forcing her to tag along out of pure concern even if his words were not enough to compel.

It was as he expected; the City had been razed, and many of the great buildings were smoking ruins. Dresh had been careful to spare the library and the great hall, likely at the request of his new master, but every private home had been leveled. His brother was thorough.

“Brothers and Sisters!” He bellowed, striding down the healing manor’s staircase to clouds below. “Come to me and listen!” From the smoking twilight figures appeared, twisted things that did not look like the noble Vanguard he remembered.

“I am Aleth One-arm!” He declared. The name was foolish but would be repeated, would spread among the assembled as a title of defiance and opposition. “We have been betrayed by one of our own, but that does not mean we have been defeated! Dresh caught us unaware, robbed us of some of our number in hopes of breaking out spirits, but I say to you that will not happen!” He raised his single arm skyward, drawing on Creation’s veins to set it ablaze with sunlight.

“Gather the armies,” he went on, “and rouse the hosts of men. “Together, we will root out the fool that has betrayed us and show him our true strength. For the honor of the Vanguard!”

Weak at first, the cheer spread as Aleth repeated it, building, building until it shook the City itself. Dresh would pay – Aleth One-arm was angry.


- D

Story #330 - White Fox

White Fox

"You're the White Fox!" A woman exclaimed as John Avery moved past her cafe table. Coming to her feet, she had a broad grin on her face and a look bordering on worship in her eyes.

"No ma'am," he said, doing his best to avoid looking directly at her without seeming rude. It wasn't that she was unattractive - far from it, in fact. Her praise was misplaced, however, and he would be remiss in taking advantage. "You have the wrong man."

"Sorry." Her face fell and she sat again, an embarrassed flush spreading across her cheeks. John moved quickly down the street; there was no sense in calling more attention to her predicament than necessary. The communicator at his wrist chirped at him and John ducked into an alley, pulling his sleeve up and over the silver device. 

"On!" He barked, and the face of Mal, his assistant, wavered into view. The technology Mal had brought with him for the communicator was only a few years ahead of what humans were producing, but it wasn't for fear of techno-evny that John didn't want to be seen. Two years ago, a career saving the world had seemed like the perfect solution to a life spent toiling in mediocrity, but the expectations that came with such a job were proving to be more than he'd been prepared to handle.

"Master?" Mal's voice was like a gravel truck on a bumpy road. While he could pass for a human most of the time, he chose to stay in the lair as much as possible. There was no sense in stirring up the city more than necessary.

"Yes," he said in a whisper. "What now? This is my day off!" John tried to keep the petulance out of his voice but did not entirely succeed. If Mal noticed, he gave no sign.

"Master, I must ask you to identify yourself before I can relay the information I have for you."

John grit his teeth and then brought his wrist close to his mouth, lips barely moving as he spoke. "White Fox, confirmation Delta six-nine periwinkle humidor."

Mal's face split into a grin; John was almost certain the code had been designed to be as ridiculous as possible, but his sidekick maintained innocence "Thank you, Master," Mal went on, form shifting as he spoke to that of a small child. John had become used to such transformations - Mal was not entirely alien, not completely one of the Shifters that had infiltrated the highest levels of human government but was not entirely human either. The result was a creature that could take only four humanoid shapes and had no control over when his transformations would occur. Staying at the lair was the safest course for everyone involved, Mal included.

"We have received a priority one message from the United High Council," the half-Shifter went on. "They require your presence at your earliest convenience." It took an effort for John to stifle a sarcastic reply; never would be a convenient time for him but wasn't an option - and the Council members got cranky if they were made to wait for more than a few hours.

"Fine," he said, "I'll see you soon. Fox out."

***

The lair was pristine, as usual, and Mal met John at the entrance with white uniform in hand and freshly pressed, the half-Shifter's form having changed again to a thin, balding man. Alien fabric in the garment Mal carried had the advantage of not only making John look bigger than he was but giving him a strength commensurate with his size. His body could also take increased punishment, something that had come in handy on more than one occasion over the last few years.

"Please, Master," Mal began, but stopped at a hand in his face.

"I don't need to hear it, Mal," John said in weary voice. "I'll hurry, I promise."

Mal nodded and stepped out of the way, then swept a hand toward the changing area as if John had somehow forgotten where it was. He grumbled as he crossed the pristine granite floor - his sidekick had a way about him, a character that John found at once compelling and yet utterly maddening. It was hard not to ascribe some of he anger he felt at the Shifters to Mal, despite the fact that the half-human hadn't been given a choice in his physiology.

Five fuming minutes later and John was ready, the sleek uniform of the Fox surrounding him. There was still a trill that came with seeing himself in the mirror, knowing that he would be the one piloting an alien craft to save the world, but it was wearing thin. Though Mal had been free with his technology and expertise, he had never wanted the Fox for himself, saying his unannounced transformations made it "too dangerous", and John had to agree.

"You look splendid as always, Master," Mal said as John moved into the launch bay.

"Shut up." He couldn't resist the jab.

"I beg your pardon?" Mal had transformed again, and was the spitting image of a small girl with tousled curls and grass-stained feet but John didn't feel any guilt at his rudeness - the alien could take it.

"You heard me, Mal; I got suckered into this thing two years ago and I've had about enough. I'm looking for a way out."

"Of course you are," there was a smile on his sidekick's face as they climbed the ramp into the Fox itself. "And I wish you only the best in that endeavor, Master."

John grumbled something that was not worth saying; he was caught, and the alien knew it. Despite his misgivings, despite being at the beck and call of the Council, there was an allure to the uniform of the White Fox and the power it gave him - something about the role that made it worth playing.

"Your permission, Master?" Mal said with a smile, and John couldn't help but feel his spirits lift as the lair's launch bay doors split open.

"Take us up, Mal," he said, looking skyward. "The Fox flies again."

- D

Story #329 - The Call

The Call


She was calling again; Wrin could hear her even a world away.

“Hey!” His boss called from the tram's rider seat. “Get your mind back where it belongs, Mattin!”

“Right, boss!” Wrin didn't bother to look at the bigger man, but focused instead on the route in front of him. He'd piloted the tram over rougher ground and in worse conditions while paying less attention, but his boss didn't need to know that. Keeping his job with the company was necessary to eke out an existence away from the calls, away from what had raised him up and finally thrown him down – the boss didn't need to know what happened on the trams when he wasn't around.

Few other challenges presented themselves as Wrin made his way through the Tal'tarren swamp but he did his best to look as though he was paying attention. In truth, he was running over the lyrics of the first song he'd sung with her, telling himself the memory of the moment was enough, that men died when they tried to recapture what had been lost.

“Y'know,” his boss said as the pulled into the Jero docking station, “I was on Lorin once, years ago.” Wrin only half-listened; parking the tram was one of the more difficult parts of the job. “Met a girl there, said her name was Terra.”

Wrin's interest perked up, and he clipped the tram's back corner on a docking bay door. “What?”

“Yeah,” the boss went on, “beautiful creature with the purest voice I'd ever heard. Figure she lied about the name, though – I went back years later and found her again. Said she'd never heard of me and then wrapped herself around the first young man that came through the door.”

“That's -” Wrin started, but didn't get any further.

“Don't kid yourself, son – she doesn't give two shakes about you. Forget the songs. Forget the touch. Trust me, you'll be better off.”

There was no point in a reply. His boss wouldn't believe that he was hearing more than just remembered melodies and if the broad-faced Ferian ever did, it would mean Wren's job. Instead, he just nodded and locked the tram in place.

“Get some rest, kid. See you next shift.”

***

They swam together, and Wrin knew he had never felt so free. It was her voice that lifted them both up, raised them above the world below. Even his own shaky tones helped guide their movement, its timbre bolstered by the power of his companion. Together they were unstoppable, a force that could not be turned away or ignored.

All to soon it ended, and he found himself awake and sweating in a dirty bunk, the memory of Silara and her song at once too real and too far removed.

Find me.

The voice was unmistakable – and no longer came from inside his skull. It was all around him, beside him, above him, ringing off the slick walls and oozing up through the floor.

She was calling.

Wrin was up and out the door before he'd finished dressing, stuffing stained shirt-tails into his pants as he went. Others just waking up for shifts in the mines or on the trams ignored him; he only knew a few of the other men, and most were old and grizzled with no interest in another young fool in the compound.

The song led him on, and Wrin marveled that no one else could hear it. The occasional odd look from those he encountered said that rapture was plain on his face, a joy others could not hope to understand. Sound and step led him without conscious thought and soon his way was barred by a sturdy locked door, one that he took a moment to recognize. Once his mind cleared, the double-locked steel entrance and nameplate across the door's broad face told Wrin that his boss had done more than just visit Lorin – he'd brought something back as well.

Years spent in professions less virtuous made breaching the door easy, and he was already pushing it open when he stopped to think about who might be inside. A quick run of the work schedule in his head gave a measure of security – the large Ferian had a shift-meeting to attend and with any luck wouldn't have shirked his responsibility.

Seeing her in the corner of the room, bound hand and foot to the wall destroyed any thought of other men or the possibility of discovery – she needed him!

It wasn't the same one, Wrin was certain of that; his had hair of gold and copper skin where the creature bound was fiery-maned and pale. Still, she did not deserve to be used for a rough man's foul pleasures – she had to be set free. Her song drove him on and Wrin moved forward, hands grasping at chains that would not break.

“In the desk,” she said when it became clear he would not leave her side without prompting. “The top drawer.”

Wrin found a key there and hurried back, dismayed when it only opened the hand-locks. A nearby pair of safety cutting shears provided another way and he knelt beside the thin pri-steel line binding her feet to the wall, hands working frantically to provide the needed pressure. Soon, his arms were weary and hands bloodied, but the chain began to fray. A grunt of effort and it broke, sending him tumbling to the ground and his lovely creature free.

“Thank you,” her voice washed over him like a breaking wave. “Your soul is kind – my sister has spoken of you.” His heart soared. Perhaps there was still hope!

“Is she -” he began, but she spoke over him.

“She remains where you left her, eternally bound. Your choices are not unmade by my freedom.” Her song faded as she spoke – when Wrin looked up, she was gone.


- D

Story #328 - Jarls

Jarls


One more to go.

Jarls Kerris pulled his electroblade from the quivering sentry droid's processor and quickly sheathed it; the thing had shut down quietly, but had it been quietly enough? Darbera had clearly spent his ill-gotten gain on only the best and a number of the latest watcher droid models came with hearing upgrades that made pin-drops half a continent away easily heard.

Slipping into an alcove gave Jarls a few moments of tense silence to collect his thoughts, and fortunately no droids came by to spoil his peace. Research on Darbera's palace had cost him a pretty penny but was paying off - he knew exactly how many security measures and of what type were waiting for him around the next corner.

Of course, it was always possible the man who'd sold him the intel was secretly working for Darbera – the angry Lenbian had been up until a few months ago when his employer saw fit to chop off several of his fingers for “insolence”. That had led to a daring escape, or so the Lenbian told Jarls, along with a powerful hatred of the crimelord.

Jarls had no care for the other being's motivations or story - the information he could provide was what made him useful. So far, every detail had been perfect and every room had been just as expected. Frankly, it made Jarls nervous.

An image of Darbera came to mind unbidden, a wavering picture of the crimelord in his younger years when he owed only a fraction of Talow's underground. Danbera had always been easy to find – his Hallion heritage meant he towered above subordinates and supplicants alike, and had social skills so poor they seemed almost deliberately blunted. Jarls had known doing business with the up-and-coming boss was a risky venture, but money spoke louder than good sense. Despite repeated warnings from Karlene, a deal had been brokered and a mission carried out. Payment came quickly and with a bonus for efficiency, along with a demand that Jarls continue work on an indefinite basis. He'd refused with a laugh to Danbera's face, and the next thing he remembered was waking up in the crimelord's medical bay. On the cot next to him lay Karlene, body bruised and blackened; Jarls could recall little after that until Lors found him in a tavern, mind nearly gone. His brother had hauled him bodily off of the dirty floor, shoved him into a travel-car and sent him to the spaceport. Once there, Jarls found his mother and sisters waiting and was gently put on a transport that carried him off-world.

It took seven years for them to believe he'd made peace with what happened and to relax their hovering care. His kind rarely left the homeworld, let alone stayed away to marry off-worlders, and once he started acting as though he had “remembered” his roots, Jarls was largely left alone. The truth was that he couldn't stand the peace and quiet of Tremmel – the universe called to him, drove him to see what lay at the next spaceport or at the next shuttle stop. Such drive had brought him Karlene.

He knew Lors and the others hoped that the universe would take the blame for his wife's death and that Jarls would remain on Tremmel, but he could not imagine a worse fate. With his mind fully under control again he'd said goodbye to friends and family, thanking them sincerely for their rescue and then boarded a shuttle, leaving behind no forwarding address. If what he had planned didn't go well, Jarls wanted there to be no possibility of more people he loved paying the price.

A soft whirring sound brought his attention back to exactly what he had planned, and Jarls held his breath as the last sentry droid passed by his alcove. It sensed him but too late – he was out in the open, blade slicing, before the thing could bring up one weapon-covered arm.
He was close now – so close.

Swift feet carried him to a large set of platiform doors, holo-carvings across their surface winking up at Jarls as he attached a decoder. Darbera had never been shy about calling attention to his own triumphs, even if they were imagined. A small chirp and green light on the 'coder let him know the door's lock was disengaged and he took a deep breath. Karlene, he sent the thought skyward we're almost done, my love.

One swift kick split the door-halves and sent them flying inward, and Jarls followed with the flash of a smoke-bomb to cover his entry. By the time both doors were fully open he was behind one of four large pillars at the back of the room – anyone watching would have seen only billowing fog.

“Hello, little rat.” A voice rumbled from the center of the room. “I was told to expect you.”

Jarls didn't bother to answer. That he had been betrayed at some point in his journey did not surprise him, nor did he care. Darbera was a ruthless and efficient crimelord, but could not pass up the chance to gloat, to mock his prey before the kill was made. Such gloating gave Jarls the opportunity he needed. His throwing knife spun end over end to slip easily between the Hallion's shoulder blades, and with a roar Darbera spun, pulling the weapon free.

“Fool!” He roared. “To have such an advantage and then give it...away.” There was a hesitation at the last, a pause as what Jarls had concocted began to take effect. Hallion physiology was not complicated, and Tremmel was home to some of the most brilliant alchemical minds in the galaxy.

“Come to me, Darbera, murderer of my wife. Come to me, dead man!” Jarls smirked as the crimelord fought to take a step forward, then another. One final, heavy tread and Darbera fell, his massive form shattering tiles as it crashed to the polished floor.

Gone.


- D

Story #327 - Timebought

Timebought

As the clock counted down to midnight, Jase Barrister took a moment to lament the fact that he hadn’t purchased time when he had the chance. He cursed himself for the thought – another moment spent foolishly.

It wasn’t as though offers hadn’t been made – when he was younger, time seemed easy to find and always at a great deal. His money had seemed better spent elsewhere – on women and cars and other foolish enjoyments. A trip to the Temporal Credit Union two months ago revealed that sad truth; affording time was suddenly impossible and he had far less going forward than he had left behind.

A frantic week of searching turned up three ways to combat the ticking clock, but they ranged from the foolish to the horrible. Experiments with “resetting” time were still ongoing but no real progress had been made, though he had found a promising link on what alleged to be a “reuse” of time. The more he read about it, however, the worse it sounded, like using the same roll of toilet paper over and over again. Eventually, the foul stains left behind in former lives would cause the paper to tear, and often when least expected.

Still, Jase had been tempted and even considered moving credits from his secure account into one he could use to access instant purchases. Thoughts of his first ten years of life had quickly snuffed out that idea – reliving a decade of foster adoptions and “guardians” out to abuse the system would make reusing time almost pointless.

“Hey!” A voice called from outside his apartment, breaking his thought. “Jase!” He’d forgotten all about Curly – the big man had been dead-set on going out for the weekend and spending their recent holiday credits as frivolously as possible. Jase had agreed before he stumbled across the time-counter in his closet and hadn’t bothered to call Curly off. Up until that moment, he’d always been happy they system hadn’t afforded him the luxury of a time-tattoo.

Stumbling to the door he threw it open. With a wide smile, Curly stepped forward and then recoiled when he saw Jase’s disheveled form.

“What the hell, man?” Curly boomed. “You starting the party without me?”

“Curly, look -” Jase began, but the square-jawed man pushed past and into the apartment, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

“Where’s the booze, buddy? Where’s the good stuff? If you’re going to fire it up early, you’d better let me catch up.”

“There’s no booze, Curly,” he said, shutting the door softly. “Not tonight.”

Curly’s eyes lit up. “Mashers, then? Thought you didn’t do those – where’d you get ‘em? Bet they’re not as good as the ones my guy makes. Bring ‘em out and lets compare!” Fat hands went into deep pockets, seeking an illegal stash Jase was hardly surprised existed. He was fairly certainly Curly was always under the influence of at least one narcotic even at work.

“No mashers!” Jase screamed, rushing forward to grab his friend’s arms.

“Whoa, whoa – bro, these things can be bad if you’ve never done ‘em before. Here,” Curly led him to the couch and sat him down firmly. “You need to take a break.”

Another glance at the clock told him time was still slipping by – only twenty-four minutes and it would all be over.

“Curly,” he said softly, “tell my mother I love her. Please. Her name is Adele –“ he paused. “I think it’s Hawkins, now. She lives up North.”

“You love her? What are you talking about, bud? What have you been doing in here?” There was a pout on Curly’s face – Jase was fairly certain it was because the big man thought he hadn’t been invited to whatever “party” was being held.

“I have no time, buddy!” Tears came to his eyes, despite efforts to stop them. “I put that damn clock away and never looked at it – until this week! Twenty-four – twenty-three minutes now and I’m toast. They’re coming to get me!”

“Whoa.” Curly sat down on the couch, causing it to slide several feet. “This is heavy. Heavy stuff. Bro, we gotta deal with this!”

“We?” Jase was incredulous. “Deal with it?” He stood. “What the hell do you think we’re gonna do about it? I’m out of time, and that’s that – you need to get out of here before the goon squad shows up.”

His friend smiled. “I am the goon squad.”

Jase had to laugh at that. There were few in the office that would stand in Curly’s way, even if he was just on his way to the lunch room or moving through the parking garage. The wide man was friendly enough, so long as he wasn’t approached on a day when his supplies had run out or he decided to go “cold turkey” – trouble was, no one could ever tell until it was too late.

“So you didn’t think to buy anymore, huh?” Curly went on, and Jase shook his head.

“I never thought about it until this week – but there’s no way I can afford what they’re asking even for another year.”

“I hear that, bro,” his friend said, rolling up one loose sleeve. “Check this out.”

It took Jase a few moments to process exactly what he was seeing – there was no question that Curly’s time-tat was functioning; the blinking red light was signaling in a steady rhythm, and six numbers were blinking in a unified set. Zero-zero. Zero-zero. Zero-zero.

“You’re –“ he started, but Curly cut him off.

“Out! You know it. I ain’t into buying time. If the government wants my hide they can come and take it, but nothing they’ve sent my way yet has convinced me they’re serious.”

For a moment Jase wished he’d taken the time to bulk up, to learn any sort of skills that might keep him out of the hands of federal goons, but he was no fighter.

“You’d better go, then,” he said, pointing for the door. “Ten minutes and they’ll be busting through the windows to get my body.”

Curly stood, stretching his hands above his head and producing a cascade of cracked knuckles. “I hope so,” he said with a smile. “I haven’t had a challenge in months. Sit down and watch the show, Jase – I’m gonna buy you some time.”


- D

Story #326 - Money Pit

Money Pit

“So, uh…yeah,” the young man sitting in front of him stammered. “Give me the money.”

Chale McNabb sighed and put one hand to his forehead. He’d been sure making the offer had been worthwhile two months ago but the more fools that opened their mouths the lower his spirits sank.

“Why?” He said, meeting the slack-jawed fellow’s eyes. “You haven’t given me a reason, only demands.”

“Er…” the man hesitated, then held out a hand. “I need it. Just give me the money like you promised.”

“I made no such guarantee,” Chale said as he stood. “I offered five million dollars to anyone who could demonstrate that they needed it – required it for some greater purpose. All you’ve done is come looking for a handout!”

Huddled in his shabby coat, the man’s eyes darted around the room. A moment of frantic searching revealed no guards, no cameras and so he stood as well, pulling a small knife from his belt.

“Damn right I have, gramps,” he grated, stepping forward to come flush with the oak desk that separated benefactor and supplicant. At that distance the knife-arm had no chance to reach flesh and Chale smiled, then leaned forward to smack the fool firmly across the face.

“Men!” Chale called, and both doors to the study burst open, three of the private security force he’d personally selected filing into the room. In moments the greedy young man was down on the ground, a string of curses flying from his lips.

“You don’t get what you want just because you say so,” Chale said as he stepped around the desk. “If you’d been able to prove your need you could have walked out of here a rich man – instead, you’re going to visit a very private room in my estate in the company of these fine gentlemen.” He smiled as the floor-bound man cringed; the guards wouldn’t really hurt him, just rough up his pride and hopefully give him a few regrets about such a greedy notion. More curses shot out as he was pulled from the room.

“Master Chale,” a thin voice called from behind him and he turned to see Sebor slipping through the secret study door, an ever-present sheaf of paper in his hands. “Perhaps that should conclude your interviews for today. I am loath to see you injured.”

Chale snorted – Sebor was a superb assistant, but only because he was paid so well. If something happened to Chale the little man’s position would dry up, as would his source of income.

“Your concern for my well-being is touching, Sebor, but I’m hardly so frail. Send in the next supplicant.”


“Very well.” It was clear his assistant wanted to argue, but knew better than to try when Chale’s mind was set. He was going to rid himself of five million dollars, no matter what it took – but the terms of his own agreement for wealth meant it had to be passed to a worthy individual or consequences would follow.

He sat back down and took a moment to compose himself. The supple leather of his chair and dark tones of his study always relaxed him, and he needed every scrap of peace he could find. None of those in the city who applied had proven worthy of any monetary boon, and so far those from farther afield were just as greedy and selfish.

“Pardon me?” A small voice came from the study door, and Chale looked up. A thin young woman in her early thirties stood framed by hallway light, pale blonde hair tied back from her face to show an angular jaw and high cheekbones. She was attractive without being sexy, and seemed demure without being shy. Interesting – but Chale had seen as much before.

“Please,” he said softly, “come in.”

She stepped softly into the room but didn’t approach the desk, stopping instead in the middle of a deep, woven rug.

“My name is Shyla,” she said quietly, “and I believe I have a cause worthy of your donation.”

“Really?” Chale said with a raised eyebrow. He’d heard the story before.

“I know you’ve heard the story before,” Shyla echoed his thoughts, “but my need is greater than the others you’ve seen – such as the young man who just pulled a knife on you.”

Chale felt irritation rise; Sebor should know better than to speak out of turn.

“It wasn’t your assistant speaking out of turn,” the young woman went on, “I can read your mind – all minds, actually.” She said it so flatly that Chale found himself nodding for a moment, then shook his head – such a thing was impossible! “I assure you I am telling the truth, Chale McNabb. As a small example, let me remind you of the words spoken to your benefactor, of your promise to ‘honor the covenant’ that was made.”

“You cannot know that!” He blustered – no one had been present at that meeting, no one living save Chale.

“I can,” Shyla met his furious gaze with calm blue eyes, “and I do. Every mind in this home is mine for the looking, should I so choose, but I have a problem.”


“Oh?” Chale tried to regain a measure of his composure, take back a sliver of control. “And what is that?”

“There is a mind I can sense, each day and in every moment. It haunts me. It knows no thought but to kill, and promises my death at every turn. I must find it – I must know why it hates me so. I need your wealth to discover the truth.”

He nodded. Her claims might still be the stuff of con-men and dreams, but she was by far the most interesting supplicant he had seen in the last three weeks. That she had quoted words of the Other only firmed the reasoning for his choice.

“I also require your help – I know of your background and you will assist me in designing what I need.” Her manner had changed since she entered, a confident bearing replacing that of appeasal. It suited her.

“You will not be successful,” a familiar voice grated from nowhere, from each corner of the room, “she will die, Chale.”

“That isn’t decided!” He bellowed, and Shyla took a step forward, eyes wide. They had a common friend, it appeared, and a common enemy.


- D

Story #325 - Dog Days

Dog Days

“I am quite certain this is the Chancellor, my Lord,” the plump young man said, petting a small dog he had cradled under his arm. “I found him rooting through the garbage this morning.”

Regent-Lord Laneth sighed. It wasn’t the first such wild claim he’d heard, and was certain it wouldn’t be the last. Six weeks ago, the Chancellor had disappeared after a meeting but no body had been found, no ransom note delivered and absolutely no evidence of foul play located. The last person to see the aging politician was a palace servant – and not the kind whose loyalty could be questioned.

Despite that fact, some called for Ellorin’s interrogation but Laneth put his foot down – the ancient man had served six Chancellors over fifty years and was one of the most respected men in the Empire. To torture him would serve no purpose except to shore up fear among the commons and give the impression those in the palace had no leads on the Chancellor’s whereabouts.

They didn’t – but the commons didn’t need to know that.

“Let me be very clear,” Laneth said softy. “You are telling me that you have found the Empire’s Chancellor – and that he has been transformed into a dog?” He frowned; the dog wasn’t even of a large or ferocious breed but a mutt that had likely spent most of its life on the streets of the capital, judging by the mats in its fur and the poor condition of its teeth.

“Yes, my Lord,” the young man said, bowing. He was a potmaker from the South Row and while he seemed sincere enough, wideness around his eyes and a strange tightening of the mouth that spoke to chemical exposure – not a surprising as his craft involved the use of a number of odd mixtures and gases.

“And what exactly leads you to believe such a thing?”

“Look at the face!” The potmaker said, holding up the small, blonde-furred beast for emphasis. “It is the same angular construction and has the same sweeping brows!”

Laneth almost laughed aloud; the potmaker had a point. He could see a measure of the Chancellor in the mutt’s face, but there was no chance the beast was actually a transformation. Such magic been banned for the better part of a century and no practitioners remained in the western half of the Ruby Empire.

“Benno,” he said seriously, and looked to his right for confirmation. His attendant nodded – even if Laneth made an error in the potmaker’s name no objection would be raised, but he liked to be precise. “I appreciate your efforts, but this dog is not our chancellor. Its gait is all wrong.” A strangled sound behind Laneth’s chair spoke to his attendant’s effort to keep from laughing; humor could be found in the most unlikely places. “You will leave the mutt with us, however” he went on, “so that we can perform the appropriate tests for confirmation.”


The potmaker’s eyes brightened, but Laneth shook his head. “You will not be rewarded for this discovery, Benno. Should we determine that the Chancellor has in fact been transformed, you will be properly compensated. Until then return to your shop and continue your work.”

Benno’s round face took on a look of petulance, and Laneth was certain the fool considered opening his mouth again. Without the Chancellor in place, his authority as Regent-Lord was wearing thin and if no solution could be found to the disappearance a new Chancellor would need to be selected. The trouble with such a solution lay not only in choosing a worthy successor, but ensuring that the old Chancellor stayed lost instead of being found. Appointing a new office-holder when the current one still lived was a treasonous offence punishable by death - no matter the circumstance.

“You are dismissed!” Laneth’s attendant said sharply and directed two steel-plated guards forward. Benno went without further comment, the dog handed off to a servant who ran in from the great hall’s edge.

Shifting on the great wood chair of the Regent-Lord, Laneth sighed. His position was rapidly becoming uncomfortable.

***

“You can’t be serious!” Laneth downed another glass of wine, fear rising. It had been four days since the audience with Benno – why had it taken so long for a report to be made?

“I never joke, my Lord.” Arcanist Dunne’s face was bleak. “I have detected remnants of transformative energies inside the Chancellor’s private bath.”

“So our Chancellor has in fact shrunken in size and grown two extra legs?” Laneth couldn’t keep a smile off his face – Dunne’s seriousness only made the situation more ridiculous.

“No – the dog is not our Chancellor, and it has been released.”

Laneth frowned at that. He hadn’t specified what would happen to the beast. Though he had no plans to harm it, others should have asked his permission before taking any action.

“It was the animal that led us to search for energies – such a thing has not been seen here in two decades, and none of us suspected such foul play.”

“Fine.” Laneth felt panic begin to grip him again, but forced himself away from the wine. Drunkenness would do nothing but let others take charge. “So the dog pointed you in the direction of magic, and the Chancellor’s bath revealed as much. Do you have anything more specific to offer me?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Dunne’s tone hovered on the verge on insult, but Laneth didn’t have the time or inclination to punish the thin old man. He needed information, not more enemies. “The residue left in the bath is consistent with a transformative magic known as metallocy.”

“Metallocy?” Laneth had never heard the term.

”It is the shifting of flesh to metal – the Chancellor has not been changed into a dog or any other animal, but rather a piece of copper or tin. Only basic metals can be used.”

“What?” Laneth was stunned. “How would be even begin we find him in such a case?”

Dunne frowned. “It will not be easy. I will require one who shares his blood to act as a tracker, imbued with the power to follow. It will not be easy – or pleasant.”

Laneth’s spirits sank. Few knew of his secret paternal lineage, but Dunne was such a one. “Fine.” His tone was petulant. “Proceed.”


- D