Story #189 - Sasha Grey

Sasha Grey

Sasha Grey didn’t want to die.

That was no surprise – who did – but she had never thought that she would find herself in a position like this, a situation where her death was actually a possibility in the near future, and at the hands of those she was supposed to trust.

It wasn’t fair!

Her father was with the agriculture ministry, and he was good man. Her mother was one of the most respected women in the Free Cities, and had made several important breakthroughs in the areas of animal science and behavior. It was an experiment her mother was running that had led to her unfortunate state, but Sasha had never believed for a moment that she would be treated like she was some kind of criminal.

What had happened to her wasn’t clear. She didn’t feel any different, unless she got overheated or found herself near an excited energy source. A day lounging in the sun had made her body quiver as if she had just come out of cold water, but it was a pulsing heat that rang along her limbs, rather than a clammy chill. A rock she tripped over on her way back to the house that had showed her just what the energy she hadd absorbed from her mother’s experiments had done, and when she woke up hours later, she learned that not only had the force from her body destroyed the offending rock, but everything in a twelve-foot blast crater around it.

The Lobbymen had arrived at her home shortly after.

At first, it was just with questions for her mother and father, and no one seemed interested in talking to her about anything, even though she was the one with the “abnormality”, as she heard them call it. As the days went by and the Lobbymen didn’t seem to like the answers they were getting from her parents, the focus turned to her, and suddenly she found herself in white-paneled rooms alone, being forced to endure question after question about what had happened and how she had felt while doing it.

Her answers were at first meek and said with head bowed, but as time went on they became more pert, acquired a bite that only the young could get away with. The Lobbymen were not amused, but she hid behind the protection of her parents, confident that the government they had told her about wouldn’t betray her trust.

When the black van pulled up in front of her house, she knew that trust had been misplaced.

She had wailed, and her father had been red-faced with anger, but it was no use. She was gently – but firmly – led into the van and very politely handcuffed to the seat. All of the agents of the Lobbymen around her were kind and deferential, but she could sense a fear there, a terror for the little girl that was riding in the back of their vehicle.

They were afraid she was going to kill them all.

The thought was almost laughable; she had no idea how she had used her newfound abilities the first time, let alone any idea how to call them up on command. She tried as she sat in the back of the swiftly moving vehicle, tried to pull in the energy around her and replicate the tingle on her skin.

Sasha had touched the barest edges of it when the van came to a sudden halt and a nice-looking older man climbed into the back. He held out a drink to her – Pofizz, her favorite kind – and made it clear she would be drinking it one way or another. She gulped it all down and felt a lassitude wash over her; they really were concerned about her, about the threat she represented.

She woke up in a well-furnished room with no windows. Tapping on the walls told her they were solid, and battery-powered lights flickered in each corner of the small space. Everything – from the clock to the toothbrush to the sink – appeared to be running on batteries, and it took her some time to figure out why.

Fear.

She couldn’t pull a lick of energy off of any of the batteries, and every four days a man in a dark suit would slink in the door after politely knocking and change them all. They didn’t want to keep her drugged up; they had questions to ask, and probes to use on her, but they didn’t want her pulling their entire building down on their heads.

It was amusing that they could be so frightened of a twelve year old girl, no taller than their chests and half as wide – so frightened that they kept her locked away, and debated over whether or not to kill her.

Sasha was bright enough, and questions about seeing her parents were met with stony silence and then shifting eyes from the men from she asked. The Lobbymen were deciding her fate, and she hadn’t even been allowed to speak for herself.

Three weeks passed and then a group of them, dressed all in black, came to get her. The lead man was a handsome, oily thing in a suit, and Sasha took an instant disliking to him. He roughly pushed her into a strapped electronic wheelchair when they arrived, and looked down at her with cruel eyes.

“This is for the good of the state, little girl,” he grated.

Hopelessness took her, and she stared blankly at the floor as they rolled her along. How would they do it? How would she die?

It was the humming of the electric motor of the wheelchair that caught her attention as she moved. The sound of it, the feel of it began to build inside her, setting her on fire and making her shiver all at once.

She smiled up at the oily man walking beside her.

He looked down, and she could see his eyes fill with fear.

Sasha Grey would be leaving – alive.

- D

Story #188 - Fanged

Fanged

Day was coming.

For most of his life, day had meant freedom to Jann; the security, and peace of mind to know that what went bump in the night would have to retreat against the coming of the light.

Now, day was death.

Jann never had any intention of becoming one of the fang-heads – he had enough problems on his hands with a mortgage he couldn’t pay and an ex-wife that wouldn’t leave him alone. He hadn’t even known that he’d wandered into a vamp bar until one of them got drunk and bared teeth at him, and by that point he’d been too far gone to care.

A bad court day and the idea that he was going to have to pay his ex double – double! – what he paid now had driven him over the edge, and he’d decided the best way to deal with his troubles was to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. It had been only a block from the courthouse to the nearest bar, and if he’d had a clearer head on his shoulders, he would have noticed the neon sign above the door, and seen the fangs buzzing on the outline of the busty girl there.

He hadn’t, and he paid for it.

Jann could see dawn flickering on the horizon and increased the pace of his run. He’d never been one for hunting, but since the change a powerful need had taken hold of him and pushed him into the field outside the city, searching for easy prey. The drive for blood was strong, but he still felt sick to his stomach at the idea of hurting another human being. Perhaps such callousness would come with time, or maybe he’d always have to feed on the deer and rabbits he could find. Either way, he was disgusted.

He’d seen a small shack on the rough gravel road that led off of the highway, and while it didn’t look clean, it would do well enough for a temporary shelter until night came again. Jann had foolishly left his car at home because he felt the need to run; if he made it back to the house unscathed, he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

A scent on the wind brought memories of her flooding back, and Jann did his best to shove them down. She’d been the best-looking thing in the bar, and he’d hit on her only because he was drunk and lonely, not because he thought she’d give him the time of day. Even now, he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in her bed, but when he woke up he was covered in a mixture of dark red and silver-streaked blood, and his initiation into the world of the fang-heads had begun.

Three of them had jumped him when he left the filthy apartment his conquest had brought him to, though she was nowhere to be seen. There was no malice in their beating, but instead a ritualistic violence that seemed to be a rite of passage of some kind. None of them spoke a word, but after all three had kicked him eight times apiece, the biggest one had taken him by the chin, nodded, and then fled into the pre-dawn. It hadn’t been a look of approval as much as it had been one of acceptance, of acknowledgement that he had entered their realm.

He’d spent four days at home after that, refusing to work even though he needed the money, and too sick with worry to eat. There were bite marks on his neck, and he’d hoped that they weren’t deep enough, weren’t vicious enough to cause a transformation. Jann had felt no vamp strength filling him when his beating had been administered, and aside from a hotter anger burning for his ex-wife than ever before, he didn’t feel that much different.

Three out of four days passed that way, but when the sun rose on the fourth, the hunger came.

It started with dreams of rare red meat oozing blood onto a clean white plate, and Jann sending it back to the kitchen again and again for being too well-cooked. When he finally woke in a cold sweat he saw sunlight creeping across his bedroom floor and ran in gibbering terror for the farthest wall in the room.

Once he had hold of himself he’d tried to laugh it off, and extended a bare foot to the golden beam that was coming his way. Searing pain met his toe as the light fell on it, and he jumped back, cursing. He was changing.

That change was in full effect as he ran against the dawn now, legs carrying him faster than he could ever hope to drive his car. His feet seemed to instinctively know where to plant themselves when they landed and he didn’t miss a step, never tripped over a rock as he sped along.

Finally, the shed came into view.

Jann didn’t bother to slow his pace, and instead crashed into the face of the rotting wooden door. Chunks of oak flew as he burst through and into the darkened room beyond, just as the first rays of light touched the ground outside. He had made it. Barely.

He was just picking himself up off the floor when the voice came.

“Jann.” It wasn’t familiar, but it was confident and sure. Whoever it was knew exactly who he was.

He brought his head up quickly. A man stood in front of him dressed like no one he’d ever seen, at least outside of a period-piece on television. Thin and white-haired, the man looked like a drawn sword, sharp and dangerous. A black cape was at his shoulders and fell to the tops of his boots, which looked to be finely-wrought leather. The rest of his clothing was billowing crimson and black silk, and Jann felt an almost desperate need for the man’s approval. He was magnificent.

“Stand up, young one,” the man said, and Jann rose. “Those fools have finally made a mistake. You’re the one I’ve been waiting on – the one we’ve been waiting on for a very long time.”

- D

Story #187 - The Ambassador

The Ambassador

“Any volunteers?”

There was a deep silence in the ranks, a complete lack of sound from any of the members of the meeting. They had all known that it might come to this, though the majority held that the Visier would simply appoint someone. If none of them chose to speak up, that would almost certainly be his next course.

It wasn't that any of them were afraid – J'tel certainly wasn't – but none of them wanted the “honor” the Visier had the pleasure of handing out. The humans had proven to be an interesting species with a wide array of interesting behavioral issues, but that didn't mean J'tel or any of the others wanted to volunteer for what amounted to exile from the homeworld for at least three cycles.

Ambassador positions were usually reserved for planets that were more advanced and for those with whom J'tel and the other members of the ruling class had strong and beneficial relationships. Typically, an exchange of ambassadors was conducted in order to increase cultural knowledge and further solidify ties. The humans, however, were a special case.

They had arrived in the system only six quads ago, flying clunky ships that could barely make it over the light threshold. Those same poorly designed ships were also outfitted so heavily with weapons that even one could take out an entire fleet sent by J'tel's people – so long as the human flying it could get the thing pointed in the right direction. The humans had no idea they outgunned most of the intelligent races in the sector, and it was best if they continued to have no idea, since the little that had been learned about them so far suggested a race that was at best belligerent when things didn't go their way and at worst spitefully violent.

A “special ambassador” position had been created to deal with the humans after the first meeting, when it became apparent they were interested in talking but would quickly get impatient if they did not get what they wanted. Translation technology supplied by J'tel's world made understanding simple, but even in the first few awkward moments of conversation, it was obvious that humankind wanted more than just a quick acknowledgment of their existence. In a way, J'tel felt honored – his was the first race that the humans had ever discovered, and they were justifiably excited. After some initial discussions, the human fleet had left to report the good news to its leadership, with promises that they would be back soon.

J'tel and the others had been all smiles and warm welcomes, but once the short, fleshy beings had waddled their clunky ships away, there was a collective sigh of relief.

The Visier made sure that relief didn't last long.

His argument was that they needed a trustworthy presence on the homeworld of the humans to help keep them in line. A member of the senior council – those reserved for only the more prominent ambassadorships – would be chosen, and it would be their job to report anything and everything of significance that they learned. A human would also be sent in return, and the hope there was to educate the base creature in how the galaxy truly worked, to give them some perspective on the rest of the universe.

The Visier's logic made sense, but J'tel had no interest in being a spy.

“H'krar!” The Visier said, pointing at the older female next to J'tel. “No one has spoken, so you will go.”

She shook her head. “I am with young. Under the law, I will not go.”

The Visier frowned. She was right – the law specifically stated that one could not be sent off-planet when young were being grown – the comforts of the homeworld were essential for the development of healthy children. He knew what was coming.

“J'tel.” The Visier looked at him and smiled. “You are far from the oldest among us, but one of the most clever. You will go to the humans, and you will ensure that they do not do anything rash.”

He held his tongue. He had no recourse, no way out of the appointment, save for resigning his seat. His class could do that if they so chose, but it would leave him with no recourse, no way for further advancement. J'tel hoped to stand in the Visier's shoes someday, and that meant doing what the older being asked, even though the idea disgusted him.

Not trusting himself to speak, J'tel bowed his head. He would go.

***

“Welcome to Earth, partner!” A bright-faced human greeted him as he stepped off the transport. The creatures didn't have proper orbital docking facilities, and so his pilot had been forced to brave the atmosphere and land on solid ground. Although the ship had no problem with the descent, space to ground movement made J'tel's stomach turn, and made an already foul mood worse.

“Thank you.” He replied stiffly. There were other words he was supposed to say, but couldn't bring himself to talk about friendship or mutual respect. “Take me to my office.” That should have been a question, or at least come with a polite modifier at the end, but the more he saw of the too-green planet, the more his hopelessness rose as the transport ship powered up and flew away stripped him of anything but the basic ability to function.

The human's smile didn't slip. “Of course, partner. Step on inside.”

There was a four-wheeled ground vehicle nearby, black and crude-looking. It was a wonder the humans had made it into space at all, and he had no idea how he was going to pass the time now that he was here.

J'tel settled himself in the vehicle, and the human slid inside and sat across from him, the friendly expression on his face melting away.

“We know you're a spy, freak, but there's no way you're getting the dirt on us.” The warm voice was no a scratchy drawl, and the human rapped sharply on the window in front of him. J'tel could feel the vehicle start to move. “You'll be the one giving secrets to us.”

J'tel sighed. He was not surprised.

- D

Story #186 - Fratztrabool the Magnificent

Fratztrabool the Magnificent

Fratztrabool the Magnificent clapped his hands with glee as a log floated from the stack next to him to land on the fire. He'd barely had to think about it that time to get it to work – he was clearly getting better at this.

A sound in the darkness told him that Wudder, his manservant, was returning, hopefully with dinner. He'd purchased the large Targanian two villages ago, and so far the broad-chested beast had proven to be extremely useful. He'd never had a manservant before, but once the masses in the theater had started throwing coins at him to go on with his show, he had decided it was time to take a step up the social ladder. Wudder had been available at a deep discount from his former master, since the hulking man couldn't cook or clean without breaking pots, pans and furniture. Fratztrabool had no interest in having his food cooked by someone else, and had no home to store anything of value, so the Targanian had been a worthwhile purchase.

“Me sorry,” Wudder said as he came back into the firelight, hands empty, “no food.”

“First off all,” Fratztrabool fixed his servant with a cold look, “it's 'I'm sorry', not 'me sorry'. Understand?”

Wudder nodded quickly. This wasn't the first time they'd been over this particular point of pronoun use, and the Targanian always acted as though he understood, but then proceeded to make the same mistakes again and again. Fratztrabool was trying to be reasonable, but his patience was wearing thin. For the moment, however, he limited himself to one comment about grammar and addressed the more important aspect of Wudder's failure.

“Now, on to bigger problems. Why is there no food?”

The bigger man shrugged, and then looked down at his feet. “Sorry. Rabbit too fast. No deer. Birds too small. Sorry.”

Fratztrabool sighed. These woods weren't known for their game, but Wudder had proven a capable hunter in other situations, and he had hoped the same would be true here. If need be, he could always sell the manservant at the next town he came to, but he had grown to like the Targanian's quiet solemnity and his eagerness to please. He wasn't much for speaking with others of his own race or any beyond, but he found Wudder an easy man to talk to, largely because Wudder didn't talk back.

He waved at hand dismissively. “Fine. Sit, and I'll take care of dinner.” Fratztrabool put on a show of being annoyed, but in truth he was eager for another chance to try out his new-found abilities. He'd spent the bulk of his adult life as a two-bit magician, one his mother and father would deny came from their house if pressed. Fratztrabool wasn't his birth-name, but it fit the majesty and grandeur that went with being on the stage, and he had worked hard to learn as much about sleight of hand and misdirection as he had to learn about politics and economics. The first two helped him make a living, and the second set helped him understand the rich men who often came to see his shows. Small knowledge could result in huge compensation for his skills, and he had built up quite the reputation in the magic circuit.

It was a bad gambling debt that had forced him out of the playhouses and onto the streets. Too much money turned out to be just as bad as too little, and several prominent crime families had sworn that he would never work again. He'd ignored their words until men with daggers had begun to show up at his performances, and he was forced to cancel all but the most important of his appearances. Towns, cities, and kings knew he'd been marked out as a debtor, so refused to hire him and put their guests in danger. As a result, he'd been forced to trek across the sea to the gods-forsaken west.

Looking around the small clearing where Wudder had made camp, he frowned. He still hadn't learned the names of any of the cities on this side of the ocean, and he had no idea how the political structure of the Empire truly worked. He'd been able to get jobs – they loved his brand of magic – but they didn't pay particularly well.

All had seemed bleak, but three weeks ago, he'd woken up like...this.

He didn't understand it, and whatever had changed him hadn't bothered to stick around and explain itself, but all he had to do was think about something and it would happen. At first, it drained all of his energy just to move a cup of water or push a branch out of his way, but he found that the more he used it, the more he could do without becoming exhausted. A few shows with some new tricks had earned him the gold he'd always been sure he deserved, and now he was working on a set that would truly turn heads. He was going to be famous, rich, and want for nothing.

Wudder starting at him expectantly brought him back to the present.

“Dinner!” He said brightly. “Right!”

He had Wudder bring him the large silver platter from his bag; it was part of his act, but would do well enough for now. Once it was on the ground in front of him, Fratztrabool focused on the image of a fully-cooked turkey with all of the trimmings. He held it in his mind for a moment to make sure it was clear, and then projected it down onto the platter.

There was a wet thump, and the platter sunk a few inches into the loamy earth underneath the weight of the bird he'd willed into existence. Wudder jumped back quickly, his eyes wide with fright.

“Don't worry, my Targanian friend,” he said, reaching for his belt-knife, “there's nothing to be scared of.”

It was steel under his chin that brought his head up, and he looked into the bright and clear eyes of what had been the dull orbs of his manservant.

“I knew if I waited long enough you'd do it,” Wudder grated, “you're coming with me, Fratztrabool, to the Emperor himself. The Service has been trailing you ever since you arrived on our shores, and your magic proves you're the one we've been waiting for. Get up.”

He stood quickly. “Waiting for?” He asked mildly.

“To save the Empire. Draogath is coming, and you're going to kill him.”

Fratztrabool had no idea who that was, but was sure he'd be told soon enough. This was no life for a magician.

- D

Story #185 - The Pride Of Sylvan

The Pride of Sylvan

The ship beat steadily westward across the Aran Sea, toward the realms of Free Men and their kings. Around it dark water churned, and salt-slick spray coated its sails and mast, baptizing it in the rough. From a distance, the ship was one of hundreds that made the trip through the Pinch, the only safe crossing on the Sea. From a distance, it was nothing more than another merchant or pirate, bound for ports unknown in the service of one unnamed.

From a distance.

On the deck, no crewmen stirred – no boards were swabbed, no sails were raised. At the wheel, no sailor stood, and yet the ship found its course, slipped the narrow path of the Pinch with the grace and delicacy of one born on the waters.

In the captain's quarters, a meal was set but uneaten. Fine clothing was laid on the large bed, a treasure of silks from the Heated Wastes, but there was no captain to fill them, no man to slip them on.

Save for the piling wind and pounding surf, there was silence on the ship, still and unbroken. The words of men had not floated over its decks for a generation, and it had not been seen by mortal eyes in nearly as long.

The Pride of Sylvan beat westward, across the Aran Sea, toward the realms of Free Men and their kings, but no alarm was raised. No man alive knew of its coming.

***

Liss Palver heaved another create over his shoulder and did his best not to stagger under the weight. He'd been a dockhand for the better part of thirty years, but his seniority hadn't garnered him anything except a bad back and disdain from those who were younger. Liss had never been one to lead other men, and though the company's Lordling had offered him the foreman's job several times, he'd always turned it down.

As far as Liss was concerned, a man could only tell himself what to do. Trying to force other men to follow his rules or the rules handed down to him by those with more power wasn't how he wanted to spend his days, even if the pay was better. The headaches he'd have, coupled with the fact that he'd be the one the company would come looking to blame meant that hauling gear and getting a hard time from the other dockers was his best option.

He'd never considered another life. Father and grandfather before him had worked the docks, both solid men who had provided for their families until the day the Sister took them home. Kind men, too, for their station, who beat Liss and his brothers half as much as other boys on the street, but to double the effect. His father especially had a way with words rather than whallops, and Liss had always felt a closeness to the older Palver, and a desire to make the other man proud.

Triss Palver told him he'd accomplished as much before the old docker died last winter, and Liss still felt a heady glow whenever he thought about his father's words. What the fools on the dock thought of him and his age was irrelevant; his father had been proud.

“Palver!” That was Hassan, the dock boss. He was the dumbest of the lot of them, which explained why he'd taken the position. Even at a distance of thirty feet, Liss could hear Hassan as if the ugly man were standing right beside him, and he could also see the scars that ran along the dock boss's neck. Hassan had been beaten a time or two for the failings of his men, something that always made Liss smile. He'd been smart enough to say no.

“Drop that crate where it is, Palver. The Watch says we've got a new ship comin' in.”

Liss let the crate straps go gently; though Hassan would take the brunt of the beating if he destroyed the cargo, he'd get a lick or two as well is the dock boss saw him drop it. Best to be safe.

“Get over to pier two and give 'em whatever help they need. Take Kranny with you.”

Liss frowned. Kranny was the weakest of the lot of them, but Hassan seemed to delight in putting he and the tall northerner together. Liss didn't care enough to ask why a Northman would end up in a Westport, but did care when the other man couldn't perform. He hoped whatever the crew of this new ship was bringing in was light and easy to move.

***

Standing impatiently at the edge of the dock, Liss shot a look at the help Hassan had given him. Kranny was sitting on the edge of the wooden planking, dangling his feet in the water with his chin in his hands. He was thin almost to the point of being frightening, and Liss had never seen him take a bite of food.

A horn from above pulled his attention from the Northman and he looked out to sea, toward the single entry point for the Westport docks. A ship was just rounding the Hill, one unlike any that Liss had ever seen. Black flags whipped from each of its sailtops, and there was something odd about the way it moved – it seemed almost as though the water around it was trying to retreat, trying to get as far from the hull of the boat as possible.

Kranny rose, drawing in a sharp breath, and then ran down the dock toward the shoreline as if the Brother himself was on his heels. He was screaming something, but Liss couldn't make it out over the rest of the noise on the dock.

He shrugged; the Northman would get what was coming to him, and there was work to be done.

Liss was stunned to find the boat slapping against the dock's edge when he turned back. No ship should be able to move that fast, even with a trailing wind. Men from other dock crews moved forward across the gangplank that had been run out, but he paused for a moment to read the marker on the ship's fore. Liss was one of the few on the docks that could read, and made a point to use the skill every time he could.

Faded red lettering made it hard to see, but after a moment, his mind pieced the name of the ship together.

“The Pride of Sylvan”.

The dock planking thumped hard under his feet as he ran, charging back toward shore. Kranny had been right to flee; the minions of the Brother had arrived to take them all.

- D

Story 184 - Fairy Fail

Fairy Fail

Not all fairy tales end well.

For young Bertie McMullen, the tale was rapidly getting out of hand, and he wished he’d never heard of magic, the fairy realm, or the young woman that was sitting beside him.

She moved slightly, her lizard-like and crusty skin brushing against his own, and he flinched. His quick movement brought a smile to her face, though it had taken him some time to identify it as such. At first, he had thought it was a grimace of pain, one borne of suffering and hatred, and was convinced that though it might actually be an expression of joy, pain still played a large role in its function.

“Am I no longer beautiful to you, Bertie?” She mocked him. He recoiled from her fanged mouth even farther than he had from her skin, but became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had very little distance to travel. The dragon that bore them both to the gods knew where was sleek and muscular but not particularly wide, and he could feel the cold air whipping at his back, and his grip on the saddle in front of him began to loosen. “Be careful, little rabbit,” Princess Theldas mocked him as he tightened his hands on the leather in front of him, “we wouldn’t want you to fall.”

Bertie ground his teeth together but didn’t respond. He was sure she personally wouldn’t mind if he fell to his death from whatever unholy height they’d flown to, but from he had learned from her, she had obligations to fulfill, some of which involved keeping him alive.

Her mother, the queen, had demanded that she be married within the year or risk losing her crown to her younger brother, and when Bertie had come across her at his local bar, she had been weeping into her beer about the unfairness of her life, though she had painted herself as the heiress of a cattle fortune that was being usurped by an unscrupulous uncle.

He had been lonely, sad, and she had been about the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Remarkably, she’d been interested in him, and after a single night of torrid awkwardness, he’d decided he was in love.

Three days later she’d had him so on the hook that he would have done anything she asked, and all she wanted was his company when she headed home to confront her family. Bertie wasn’t a courageous guy, but he was willing to do anything he could for her. He loved her.

The fact that she had taken him down a dirt road where he knew there was no town, village or farmstead to speak of should have been a tip-off, but he had hoped she might want to try something exciting outdoors, something illicit, and that had dulled his senses.

When they ended up standing over a swirling pit of red fire, one that had no earthly business beneath their feet, Bertie started to get worried. He’d heard there were some freaks in the area, and wondered if maybe he’d run afoul of one. Still, he was willing to listen to whatever she said – give her a chance to explain herself.

His Princess hadn’t said anything, just shoved him from behind when he wasn’t paying attention, and Bertie had let out a distinctly unmanly scream as he fell. The fire didn’t burn as he hit, and when he found his senses again, he was lying on a cold stone floor.

A look outside the small window in the room had shown him a cloudless sky populated by birds he’d never seen and dragons by the dozen. Reality had dropped out on him, and he wondered if maybe she’d slipped him a hallucinogen. That could be kind of hot.

She had followed a moment later, her skin taking on the green sheen he now knew was her true color. He’d moved in to touch her, even still, and she had knocked him across the room with one clawed hand, gashing his face. She’d quickly informed him of her true nature, and that he wasn’t going back anytime soon – he’d watched as the portal collapsed in on itself – since he’d agreed to come of his own free will.

“Worried, little rabbit?” Her voice brought him back to their wild flight, and he shook his head.

“Not a bit.” The words were forced, but at least they were there. Bravery came too late, though he was impressed it came at all. “What if I don’t want to marry you, Princess? I’m not interested in being part of your fairy tale.”

She smiled at him, all teeth, and then flicked a long tongue in his direction. “Here, what males want is of no concern to the Queen. I required your consent to bring you here, but now that you have arrived, you are mine to do with as I wish.” She leaned forward to brush his cheek with a long claw, and Bertie drew in a deep, slow breath. He would not flinch again.

“I have no interest in killing you, and even throwing yourself from the back of my pet would not end your life – merely place you in agony. You cannot kill yourself here, under my protection, so you had best accept your fate. I am your future now.”

Bertie had always hoped a woman would be so devoted, so desperate for his attention that she would cling to him like this, but he had imagined that she would be flesh and blood instead of scales and claw. Theldas still had a raw sex appeal about her, but Bertie wasn’t in the mood – and was fairly certain she’d bring some of the agony she was talking about with him, even if she was in the mood.

The dragon landed finally on a stone outcropping, and Bertie craned his neck up to see the fortress they had landed beside. Grey, towering rock rose above his head, taller than any building he had seen before. An army would need not only wings but destructive power on a massive scale to penetrate such defenses, and judging by the black scorching along the nearest wall, at least one army had tried.

“Welcome,” the Princess swept her arm dramatically, “to my mother’s castle, the impenetrable Fortress Caloah, and your new home.” She paused. “Husband.”

Bertie felt his stomach twist. Not the proposal he’d been looking for.

- D

Halfway

Story 182 marks the halfway point of my one-a-day for a year writing blog. For anyone still reading, thanks!

- D

Story #183 - The Child's Lobby

The Child's Lobby

“Are we so frightened we must do this thing?” Lobbyman Brunt’s voice carried across the broad chamber, and there was a rumble of assent at his words.

“Do not let this man sway you!” That was Gress, the youngest Lobbyman on the Council, and the most vocal. The young ones often were, and foolish to boot. This one spoke sense, but at such a volume it seemed like lunacy. He was fiery and aggressive, something the Council sorely needed, but for all the talk from the mouth of Gress, Brunt wasn’t convinced the young man had anything but a lust for power concealed under his polished exterior.

“Point of order!” Brunt called, and the Arbiter nodded. Gress would get the chance to make his remarks in due time, and could at least have the courtesy to allow those twenty years his senior on the council to have their say.

“You will not interrupt again, Gress,” the elderly man on the raised dais at the front of the chamber said, and the room went silent. The Arbiter rarely spoke, but his dislike of the young Lobbyman had been clear from the day Gress stepped through the bronze doors. Gress was not punished unduly; the Arbiter knew the law and knew well how to use it, meaning Gress never had reason to complain. Arbiters had been overthrown in the past, but the current one, Baeli, was no fool. He’d put in his time as a Lobbyman and knew all the tricks in the book.

Fixing Gress with a glare, Arbiter Baeli spoke again, more softly. “If you feel that your words cannot wait, then by all means speak. Know, however, that section 4.15.29a of our code means that only your first word will be heard. As soon as it leaves your lips, our dedicated guardsmen,” Baeli indicated the two men who stood just below him, “will be only to glad to escort you into the hallway, where you can finish the rest of your remarks in peace.”

Whispers ran around the room as the Arbiter spoke, but Gress only smiled back at the man in front of him. Wisely, he did not open his mouth to respond, but instead nodded his head sharply.

“Lobbyman Brunt, please continue.”

“Thank you, Arbiter,” Brunt said quietly. “As I was saying,” he raised his voice so the other three hundred Lobbymen and Recorders could hear him, “are we certain this is the best course of action? We are supposedly men of reason, brothers, and men of action only when that reason compels us to be so. Make no mistake, and do not try to hide from the simple fact that this matter concerns a single child – not a monster, hardly a threat, and one that gives us the opportunity to damn or save ourselves and our very Council. Heed my words, brothers, and do not do this thing.”

He gestured to Gress, and the younger man rose, tugging sharply on his jacket as he moved forward into the center of the chamber.

“Thank you, Lobbyman Brunt,” Gress said, “your words are, as always, well thought-out and wise.” There was an oiliness about Gress, a slickness that made Brunt’s stomach twist whenever the other man came to close. “But I do have a small bone to pick with my esteemed colleague – ‘hardly a threat’ seems like a gross understatement, to me.”

Brunt held his tongue. Gress was trying to rile him up, and if he should speak the Arbiter would be obligated to deliver the same punishment he had threatened for Gress. Brunt was no fool, but that didn’t stop his blood from heading toward a slow boil. Men like Gress were ruining the Council, and no one seemed to care.

“Is our captive a child?” Gress asked, walking a slow circle around the marble floor of the room. “Yes, that is hardly under debate.” He held up a hand, and extended one finger.

“Is she a monster?” Gress held out a second finger, and shook his head. “Not at all. I have met the young woman, and a sweeter soul could not be found. She intends no harm toward any of us, I am sure of it.”

Brunt frowned. What was Gress doing? He had expected violent opposition to all of his points, but looking around the room, he could see men he knew and trusted beginning to warm to the younger man as his seeming reasonableness came through.

“But,” Gress paused in the center of the room, and turned his gaze toward the arbiter, “is she a threat?” He pulled his fingers in and held up a closed fist. “Absolutely.”

Brunt could hear murmured agreement from behind him. Gress was winning the others over.

“Explain yourself, Gress,” the Arbiter said, his eyes dark.

“Of course, Arbiter,” the Lobbyman said with a smooth bow. Turning back toward those assembled, his face took on a solemn cast. “Think about it, my friends. Our young captive has been the unfortunate recipient of a large dose of solar radiation. Thanks to that unintended exposure, she now has the capability to level entire cities, should she be angry enough and have access to a source of power, such as the sun.”

Brunt raised a hand, and waited patiently for Gress to acknowledge him. He would not make the same mistake as his colleague.

“Yes, Lobbyman Brunt?”

“I do not see how that makes her a threat. The power is there, yes, but not the motivation. As you said, she will not harm any of us.”

Gress smiled. “Not yet.” He turned his smile to the crowd. “I told you she is a child, gentlemen, and did not lie in that, but she is close to becoming a woman. Close to undergoing the rigors and pains of adolescence and early adulthood – the mood swings and emotional turmoil that each one of us has felt. In short – she is a ticking time bomb, and we must snuff out the fuse.”

“You cannot mean…” Brunt assumed Gress was petitioning for lifetime house arrest, and had never dreamed the other man would suggest such a thing. Even the Arbiter seemed stunned, and did not dress him down for his outburst.

“I do!” Gress raised his voice to a shout. “For the good of all, brothers – she must die, and we must learn all we can about her condition. Safety, above all else!”

Brunt could feel the mood changing in the room, the open-minded goodwill of the Lobbyman darkening to closed and fetid fear.

“Vote!” Gress called, and Brunt felt his stomach sink.

They were going to kill her.



- D

Story #182 - Metal Man

Metal Man

“Please, don’t touch it.”

Ed Strauss pulled his hand away from the silvered surface. He knew better.

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?” Professor Klein’s voice was low and solemn. Ed had known her for years, and up until the calamity six months ago, had never seen her without a smile on her face and a spring in her step. She was as woman who loved her work.

“Honestly, Laura, I have no idea.” Ed had been trying to figure it out all morning as he made his way to the lab. He wasn’t about to refuse a request from one of his oldest friends, let alone one that was on the task force, but he had no idea why she wanted to see him.

She smiled wanly; it was the first hint that any of her former self remained. Time was quickly taking its toll on both a people and a planet not used to living in constant fear.

“I’ve been doing genetic research, Ed, and I think I might have found a partial solution to our problem.”

He felt his heart skip a beat. This was huge! The world had been suffering, struggling in the aftermath of an unexplained event that left all metal toxic to human touch. Even a light brush against a metal surface resulted in severe burns, and exposure for more than a minute meant certain death.

Ed had been lucky; none of his friends or family had been injured, and Laura was the closest thing he had to a romantic interest. She’d never shown any interest in him, so “close” might not be accurate, but at least she was safe and sound in her laboratory.

Still, he’d seen co-workers, neighbors and acquaintances burn and die from the metal they used everyday, and he’d had to watch as their bodies charred and smoked. There was nothing he could do about it. The fire the metal produced wasn’t something water would put out, and those in the know had determined it to be akin to a form of radiation poisoning. Not only was it deadly, but once it began running its course, there was little for it but to chop off the burning limb or lose an entire body.

“Laura, I’m impressed,” he said honestly, “I was worried all this time in the lab had dulled your instincts.”

She didn’t take the bait, and turned instead to a small monitor in front of her. “What do you know about the Metal Crisis?”

He shrugged. “Enough. Metal of all kinds started to injure us, and we’re not sure why. We stay away from it, now. What else is there to know?”

The wan smile returned. “Nothing, I suppose, if all you’re looking to do is survive. Did you know that not all metals will harm you?”

“What?” Ed was stunned.

“Here,” Laura reached into a small fridge beside her and took something in her hand. A quick motion from the white-coated scientist and Ed saw a can of cola coming for him. He ducked out of the way, and the can went flying over his shoulder to smash into the wall behind him.

“Laura!” He screamed. “What the hell?”

She laughed lightly, and then moved across the room to pick up the can. “I’m sorry, Ed – I couldn’t resist. Aluminum won’t hurt you; none of the non-magnetic metals will.”

“I…what?” Ed was still stunned that she had thrown the can at him, and was having a hard time understanding what she was talking about.

“Non-magnetic, Ed – like aluminum, carbon, or lead. They’ve got transient magnetic moments, but not permanent ones, and its magnetism that seems to be causing the trouble we’ve been running into.”

Ed grunted. “Trouble” was a mild way of putting it.

“Great. That’s great, Laura. But what does that have to do with me?”

“Come here, Ed,” she motioned him to a small table in the corner of the lab, and he moved despite himself. She still had a power over him, even now, and even though she’d just scared him half to death.

“This,” she said, pointing to a large metal plate on the table, “is a thin piece of iron. Highly magnetic. Highly dangerous.” She hovered a hand over it for a moment, then pulled it away in obvious pain. “My research indicates that not all humans will react the same way to the new properties of these metals. In other words – they burn most, but not all. Give me your hand.”

Ed hesitated. His mind was catching up with his body, and there could be no question of what she intended.

“Ed, please,” she said. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

He extended his right hand, palm down, and she took it in her own. For a moment she held it lightly, letting her fingers run over the back of his hand and in-between his fingers. There was wistfulness in her eyes - regret – and Ed felt his own feelings for her rise again.

With a quick motion, she slammed his hand down on the metal plate, and then stepped quickly back.

“Ed!” She said. “What do you feel?”

He frowned. His heart was racing and his brain was screaming at him to rip his hand away, but all he felt was a slight warmth under his palm.

“I…” he hesitated. “Almost nothing.”

“I knew it!” She cried. “I knew it! Your genetic makeup suggested this was possible, but I couldn’t know for sure without you here.” Ed straightened, taking his hand from the plate. There was a slight redness there, but nothing that would stay.

“What?” He said quietly. “You mean you didn’t know?”

She shot a sheepish look in his direction. “No.”

He flared his anger hard, but it wouldn’t stay. There was no way he could stay mad at her, even for this.

“Fine.” He tried to keep his voice cold and distant, but didn’t entirely succeed. “What now?”

“Now, my metal man,” she smiled again, “we find out how to harness your resistance.”


- D

Story #181 - Dragon's Day

Dragon's Day

I'm sure that wasn't a dragon.

A trick of the night, perhaps – a large bird made larger by the lack of light and sound in the black, something that is common in these parts but that I am unfamiliar with.

I have heard tell of rocs that circle this area, looking for a man alone on horseback, or a straggler from a group. Stories say that small children have been plucked from their saddles by the ferocious fliers, but such stories make no mention of dragons.

I'm sure that wasn't a dragon.

And yet here I am, pounding hard northward to Whiteknoll, my horse lathered and my body exhausted. It's been two nights – perhaps three – since I saw the shape above my head in the woods, heard its wings slice the air, and felt its hot breath on my neck.

The breath. That was what had convinced me.

There was no fire to speak of, no devastating trail of blazing forest in front of or behind that shape that came for me, but its breath was hot enough to make me sweat inside my armor, and for my horse to squeal as though I were making it tramp through boiling water. Rocs do not have such breath, and rocs cannot fly so quickly.

Whatever it was I saw, the watchmen of the White must know of it.

***

I have made a grievous error.

The smoke should have warned me, but I was too eager to reach the city, too afraid that what I had seen might be real. I did not pay enough attention to the smoke I saw rising to notice that it was not the smoke of town shops and homes, palaces and manors, but the smoke of destruction, the smoke of endings.

It was the beast I saw, I am sure of it. The thing was headed in this direction, and clearly laid waster to the city as soon as it arrived. From the look of the charred corpses and weakly smoking chunks of wood strewn along the streets, it had beaten me to Whiteknoll by three days at least.

I screamed, but no answers came. I checked home after home with the same results; burned bodies and silence. Tracks north from the city showed that at least some had escaped, and were more than likely making for Castle Greymare, in hopes that its stone walls would protect them. Looking at the scorch marks on the edge of the city's first wall, it appeared that hope was unfounded; the creature had not wasted its time on the stones, but if it had focused its attention, it was almost certain that the rocks would have melted under its fire.

Pressing onward made no sense – I would never reach Greymare before the beast, and my presence would be as useful there as it was in Whiteknoll. Taking what I could from the city that was still of use, I wheeled my horse onto the southeasterly road and pointed my face to Lansing.

***

“You say it was a dragon?” Lord Stewart's face was amused, and I could see his form shaking slightly under his armor. He was laughing.

“It was, my Lord.”

“And why should I believe you?” It had taken a great of convincing for the guards to let me see their Lord, since my name closed more doors than it opened, these days. “A disgraced knight, forced out of his own kingdom for treachery, reviled by the people he swore to serve. Your reputation was enough to convince me to hear your words, though barely, and now you are telling me stories of creatures written of only in the oldest stories.”

“I speak the truth, my Lord.” I did my best to keep my tone level, but I could hear my volume rising, and the Lord's guards shot me a dark look. “A beast passed over me five days out of Whiteknoll, breathing air far too hot for the forest around it. When I arrived at the city, I found it burned to the ground, even the stones of the walls singed and burnt. A dragon has returned to the Eastlands, and it is not pleased with the men of the north.”

“Who is?” Lord Stewart snorted, then laughed at his own joke. Northerners were known to be stubborn and foolish, and those who lived south of the twin rivers took great joy in mocking them.

“True enough, my Lord, but that does not change what I saw.”

“And where do you think this dragon went after it left Whiteknoll?” Stewart motioned to his servant, who refilled his wine. The Lord had offered me not a drop, a not-so-subtle way to remind me of my position in his eyes.

“I do not know. Footprints I saw outside the city led north, to Greymare, and I suspect that is where the beast went as well, but I cannot say for certain. I saw it only once.”

“Well, Frayn,” Stewart had dropped the “sir” from my title – no surprise, “I appreciate the information, but you can leave now.” He motioned to the armored men at his sides, who stepped forward.

“Oh,” he said as I was led away, “and don't return. It'll be the dungeon if you do.”

The guards let me walk freely, but both watched my sword-arm warily. I had no intention of cutting my way out of the palace, but it was good to know that my skills were still held in some regard.

A scream sounded from outside, followed by ten, fifty, and then a cacophony of sound. Rushing to the window, I saw the guards on either side of me begin to draw their swords, but I pointed skyward.

“Look, you fools!” There could be no question, this time. In broad daylight, the thing's red scales shone with a metallic luster, and its spiked maw was open wide, bright orange flame pouring down onto the city below.

A dragon had returned.

- D

Story #180 - Calmus

Calmus

Peering over the edge of Forever, Jasmyn wondered what it might be like to jump.

Her wings would support her for at least part of the fall, she knew that much, but she had been told that lower down, near the realm of men, the air became so thick that she would plummet to her death – a bright spark extinguished on the dark ground below.

“Don't do it,” a voice said behind her in a deadpan tone. Calmus. Ever the joker.

“You think I won't?” The taller Archon was one of her oldest friends, and someone she had always relied on for help. Their relationship had become strained of late, but she was confident fences could be mended with time.

“The fools inside need the Pennitor, Jasmyn. If you go soaring over the edge, who will be left to take their place?” He gestured to himself. “A runner-up?” There was a smile on his face, but a note in his voice that said he wasn't pleased. They had been competing for decades against one another for accolades in the city, but this was the first major victory that she had won in at least fifteen years. As far as she was concerned, Calmus had lost the election not because of his credentials or work ethic, but because of his stance on the Unwinged. Most of her kind considered them a nuisance – children born without the single, defining characteristic of Archons – but Calmus wanted to go a step further than relegating them to the kitchens and smithies of the realm. Instead, her friend wanted to eliminate them all.

His logic made sense, certainly; they were a drain on the economy, and most parents who found themselves with an Unwinged would immediately sell it into work, and make no mention of the child again. Jasmyn had met a number of such “workers”, and while they could not fly, they possessed every other quality of an Archon.

It was a liberal upswell in the Assembly that led her to victory, thanks to her broad-minded stance on the Unwinged. She pushed for greater inclusion and a removal of the stigma for both parent and child that came with a lack of wings, and proposed that such children be granted access to work in the civil service. There had been some resistance to such an idea, of course, but the bulk of the Assembly quickly saw reason. They were overtaxed as it was, and with few Archons interested in staying home and mending broken fences, as it were, the Assembly realized that the Unwinged could solve a great many of their problems.

Her notion had won her the election, and now it was to be signed into law – all she needed to do was step through the bronze doors from her office to the chamber, and put pen to paper.

“I'm not sure how they would survive with such a man at their helm,” she said with a bite in her voice. Calmus had been given a seat on the Assembly at her insistence, as well as a number of broad powers that others were prevented from having, including the ability to enter her private office without prior invitation. She was becoming tired of his need to constantly push boundaries, and test her at every opportunity. The election was over, and she had won – fair and square. It was time he accepted his leader.

“Oh, I'm sure we'd do alright,” he said, coming to stand beside her at the edge. Calmus was larger than most Archons, with wingtips that reached his ankles when folded. Young girls cried themselves to sleep over such beauty as Calmus displayed, but he had never shown an interest in any females.

Except her.

There was a time when Jasmyn had believed they could be together, when she hoped that such an outcome was possible, but Calmus had proven too shallow, too bitter, even for her. His beauty couldn't make up for the anger in his heart, but he was smart and savvy enough that he made an excellent ally. Many in the Assembly listened to his voice even more than her own, and having him consistently on her side meant that she could do what had to be done with minimal interference.

“Are you sure about this notion of yours, Jas?” She could feel her anger start to rise as he spoke – they had been over this time and time again.

“Yes, for Pythion's sake! I've explained it to you – why it's necessary and why now is the right time. The Assembly doesn’t see it, but we're a dying breed. More than a third of the children born now are Unwinged. That's up from twenty percent only five years ago. We're being phased out, Calmus, and we need to fold this new generation into our ranks or they're going to rise up and crush us once we're outnumbered.”

“I see,” he said quietly, stepping closer and putting one strong hand on her shoulder, “and I understand. I'm just here to play the other side, to make sure you fully understand what it is you are doing before you do it. A good leader must consider all outcomes.”

She nodded. “I know, Calmus, and thank you. Now, let's get back inside.”

“No hurry,” he said smoothly, and she could feel the grip on her shoulder tighten, “I've told them to wait for my return.”

“Your return?” Jasmyn asked tersely. “I'm their Pennitor, Calmus – you had no right to -”

A strong push threw her forward, and suddenly she was tumbling away from the edge, slipping down into Forever. She flexed her wing muscles, but cried out in pain as they refused to budge. Reaching back over her shoulder, she could feel the cold metal of a wing-clip, used to train younglings when they were first finding their feathers.

Glaring up at the quickly disappearing platform, she could see her old friend's face, a broad smile creasing his features.

Calmus would pay for his crimes.

She turned her attention to the clip at her back. Now, she just needed to live.

- D

Story #179 - Middle God

Middle God

Black lightning cracked across the sky, throwing jagged chunks of earth up and into the air. A hard rain brewed but did not fall from the clouds above, something those around Jezel Fren found frightening but that she knew was simply a precursor to the true terror.

A Middle God was angry.

It was more than likely Trelvos, god of water and winter, but both Rella and Palvo, the goddess of heated hearth and the god of the children had been known to cause such mayhem. The Middle Gods were fickle things, and took very lightly the responsibilities given to them. Jezel had learned a great deal about them in the past year, but had never been able to answer the most important question – why?

Her teachers had been good and earnest men and women, but knew little more about the motives of the Middle Gods than she could infer herself. Overthrowers of the oppressive Elder Gods, those the Middle had struck a deal with humanity for their help over three thousand years ago, with the promise they would move on when a new crop of Younger Gods arrived.

They had lied, of course.

Gods were salacious creatures, given to indulging in the basest of passions with whatever being might be nearby, and the Middle Gods more so than most. In a remarkable act of restraint, however, those of the Middle had refrained from pawing at one another, and had created no successor gods to take their place. They had been free with the men and women of the West, but such unions produced no children, and gave no chance for the order above to change.

Of course, even having ultimate power was not enough for the Middle Gods, and from time to time they would rage against supposed slights or destroy lands and homes they believed were theirs by right, but that another god had usurped. The idea of speaking to those of their own kind to resolve such disputes apparently never occurred to the gods, and they took out their anger on those who scattered below, instead of those who shared their power.

Jezel passed a family huddling in her tent, who peered out at her with sunken eyes. She did not bother trying to approach them; she had learned her lesson well enough by now. Time after time she had reached out to help and been smacked away, her own fire raging but her vows demanding no action.

She understood all too well what those in the darkness were feeling – until four years ago, she had been the same. Now, her eyes burned with green fire and her skin crackled with an azure light, one that gave her the appearance of a Middle herself, at least to those scratching in the dirt.

Jezel had seen four of the seven Middle Gods, and she could say with certainly she looked nothing like any of them.

Her transformation had been something thrust upon her abruptly, after an ill-timed oath and a deep pool of anger led her to the door of Kren Balthan, the last surviving Priest. Trelvos had murdered her family in a random, wholesale slaughter of her village, and Kren had offered the chance to exact swift and terrible revenge.

After three years of searching, she had come to understand that “swift” was a term that meant little to Priests or Gods.

Kren had been able to grant her a power she had never known - remnants of the Old Gods that he had collected over the years. He had been more than willing to talk about their glory, and though he knew full well they had been impotent and slothful, they were a shining alternative to the rash insanity of their conquerors.

“Little one.” A voice sounded behind, ahead and beside her, and reverberated off of the inside of her skull. She stopped moving.

“Trelvos.” She did not honor him with a title, nor did she kneel as his presence swept down. Astride a pale horse, Trelvos descended from the black sky, crimson sword belted at his waist. He was far and away the most handsome of the gods, but with a face that spoke to eons of self-indulgence and cruelty. Trelvos had been instrumental in the death of the Old Gods, and had been the one leading the charge to forge a blood pact with humankind.

He had also been the first to betray them all.

Landing only a few feet in front of her, Trelvos looked down from his horse, a cruel smile playing at his lips.

“You should kneel, human.” He said in a rich voice, one that resonated in her bones and make her weak in the knees. Even knowing his evil, his cruelty, it was hard to look past his perfect face – long black hair sat unmoving atop his head, his chiseled features in perfect proportion to his sculpted body.

“No.” There was no point in a war of words with such a creature.

Trelvos smiled. “Kneel, bitch.”

Thunder cracked and she felt a sudden pressure on her shoulders, pressing her down into the dirt. Her body sagged as the ground under her feet began to break, but she looked up at Trelvos and brought her own power to bear.

The force lessened but did not leave entirely, and she could see the Middle God’s eyes widen slightly.

“I had heard of this!” He bellowed. “The remnants of the ones we cast out – concentrated in a single biting fly, a single fleshy beast. I am amused.”

The pressure on her increased ten-fold, and she found herself sunk to her knees in dirt. She screamed, drawing as deeply on her power as possible. Light flared, and Trevlos was thrown from his horse, landing hard on his back on the muddy road.

Hauling herself out of the dirt, she moved forward to stand over the body of the Middle God, who was clutching his right hand to his chest.

“What have you done? What have you done? How can this –“ between one frightened word and the next, Trelvos vanished, and Jezel smiled.

The Middle Gods would know her power.


- D

Story #178 - The Coward

The Coward

The horse lords were coming.

Pak Dattor could hear them, in the distance, their thundering hooves ringing off the low cloud above, a constant rumble in the east. The young ones tried to tell him it was the thunder, it was the rain, but the Summer of Storms had passed, the rains had moved on. The water would not come for another year; the lighting would not strike again until the seasons had turned.

No, the horse lords were coming.

He had given up trying to warn the so-called “elders” of the city, as they did nothing but stroke their downy bears and pontificate about their own greatness. The city had seen a purge, one he and a few other of the old ones were lucky to escape. When he spoke now, it was under the assumption that if his words displeased the wrong person, he might find himself lying in the gutter, his throat cut to make room for more of the young ones.

There were a few who believed him, a few of the youngest that had been listening to his stories for years, but they were little more than children out of swaddling clothes, and no one in the city would hear their words.

It was time to leave.

Throwing his cloak in the trunk with the few other items he needed, he considered his best route out of the city. The whims of the horse lords were unpredictable, but he suspected they would take the low road and make for Calliee after Arban was taken, so the mountains made the most sense. They journey would be difficult, but if he was fortunate he could avoid capture or death at the hands of the Riding Wind.

He had seen them three times in his life, and fought them twice. Poor choices had led him to solider in two very different armies, the outcome had been the same both times. Those around him died, and he hid, preserving his own life for another day.

He was a coward, through and through, but one that had survived more than three times as long as men of his own birth year, and one that had seen far more than he had right to. Perhaps his time was coming – perhaps the horse lords rode for him in particular. If so, he would make sure they had a long journey ahead of them.

“Leaving so soon?” The voice of Jorry Dahl carried through the room.

“Yes.” There was no point in lying to the young merchant – Pak was well aware that Jorry had spies in every corner of the city. The tall, curly-haired young man knew enough about his past that life could be made very inconvenient if the right people were told, and Jorry could prevent him leaving the city if he really wanted to. Better to give the man what he wanted and hope he would slink away into the darkness.

“Why?” Jorry moved to stand beside him, and Pak did his best not to recoil at the smell of the oil the man had used to slick down his dark locks. “Afraid that the horse lords have finally come to claim the coward who escaped their justice so many times before?”

“Justice?” He said quietly. “You would call such butchery and mayhem justice? I fought in noble armies, at the side of bannermen that would spit upon your Lineage to hear it. They had no right to my body, then or now, and I see no reason to submit.”

“Pak, Pak,” Jorry chided, moving to a plush lounger in the corner of the room, “I see you are still as much a frightened Sprock as ever. They have claim to you simply because of your fear – not that I believe they are coming, mind you.”

“Of course not,” he said, stuffing several more shirts into the trunk. It was almost full, and he had to be on the road before nightfall. The horse lords moved quickly. “But be a good lad, Jorry, and give them my regards when they arrive – I am sure they will thank you for it.”

Pak felt the light kiss of steel at his back, though he hadn’t heard Jorry move.

“One of my associates, Pak,” Jorry said from his seat in the chair, “and one trained to move quietly. I will be fine should your horsemen arrive, but tell me – why should I let you leave?”

“Why bother to keep me?” He didn’t try to move away from the dagger at his back – he had no need for another scar. “I’m just an old man, one worth nothing to you dead or alive. Let me run in fear, and you can sit here smugly, knowing that I was fool coward and you were a clever man.”

Jorry laughed; Pak had known him since he was a small child, and the laugh had always seemed older than his years, more calculating and cruel than it had any right to be.

“No, I don’t think so, Pak.” Jorry’s voice moved closer, and he could feel the steel in his back press deeper in. He grimaced. “Despite appearances, I listened to every word you ever spoke, memorized every story you ever told. Most of your words were nonsense – the ramblings of an old man with nothing better to do than frighten children, but some few things were true.”

There was a pause, and then Pak heard something in Jorry’s tone that he had heard from few others in the city. Fear.

“These rumblings are not thunder. I know the sounds of the land, and these do not match it. Whatever is coming, I do not wish to be here to see it. You and I will leave together, Pak, and make for Calliee.”

“Jorry, I don’t think –“

“I don’t care!” The young man thundered. “You’re coming with me, or dying here – choose, old man.”

“Fine,” he said softly, “let us go to Calliee.” He might be a coward, but Jorry and his man had to sleep sometime, and being a coward meant he had no qualms killing men in ways others would despise.

He would reach the mountains yet.


- D

Story #177 - The Red

The Red

“The Ven doesn't want you!” A voice screamed down at him from the top of the gray walls, but Jack Burrows didn't move. Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, he spoke the words again.

“I come in application to the Light, humbly begging to serve. Open the gates, and let me join the charge against the Red.” His voice was strong and steady, despite four days hard riding to arrive at Venald's Keep. He knew the riders would be leaving soon, and was also well aware that a supplicant could not be turned away, should he repeat the proper phrase three times.

That had been two.

“Are you daft, man? We don't want your kind up here!” Another voice this time, from his left, but Jack ignored it. From their distance atop the wall, they had no way to know what “his kind” was, though if they did, he was sure they'd been even less pleased than they were now. Easterners were not known for their bravery in battle, and most men of the other Three Points refused to gamble or drink with an Easterner on a matter of principle. Jack was one of the few with principles of his own, but that hardly mattered now.

“I come in application to the Light,” he spoke again, more firmly, “humbly begging to serve. Open the gates, and let me join the charge against the Red.”

There was silence from the cat-callers on the walls for a moment, and then the great gates to Venald's Keep began to grind open. Massive, Ortier metal-work dominated both halves of the stone gates, and legend had it that the Keep had never been breached, at least on the man-side of the Wound. From the stories he had read as a child, and the few men who had come home from fighting the Red, the Lands had very nearly been overrun several times.

Three guards met him as the gate ground to a halt, one motioning him forward across the threshold. With a deep breath, Jack moved quickly across the wide bridge and into the Keep itself.

Darkness swallowed him as he entered. The sun had hung low in the autumn sky outside the Keep, but inside, only torches cast light on the hard stones and men that lurked within. Each one he saw – man and stone alike – bore the scars of battle, and each looked as likely to give blood. It was said that men came to the Keep, but only corpses or warriors left.

“Up there.” The largest of the guards pointed to a small tower opening, and Jack could see steep stairs just inside. “Liegen with see you first, and then you'll come to the barracks for training.” Jack nodded and moved forward, but got the butt of the guard's pike in his leg at his first step. He stumbled, but threw out his hands to the rough stone wall just in time to keep him from a meal of dirt.

“You'll have to move faster than that, recruit.”

Jack didn't speak, but hurried up the tower. Fighting the Red had not been his first choice, but the murder of a father left few other options.

***

Leigen Vars Trelven was having a foul day.

Most of them were, at the Keep, but that only served to strength his resolve. His men were some of the best in the Lands, despite what standing armies and Kings might say. His master-at-arms had trained them in the ancient ways, ways that petty politicians and scheming monarchs had abandoned along with common sense years ago.

Today was foul thanks to a messenger from the Heart, demanding he return for the yearly council meeting. It was his only trip West during the entire year, and the one part of his duties within which he did not find a grim satisfaction. Part of it was the fact that he was prohibited from running any of the others at the council through with his sword, since not being able to kill something for more that a few days was a sure way to aggravate him.

He could not understand why the Landslord listened to such foolery from his advisers, and especially from men that were clearly plotting his death. One having an arm suddenly broken and a nose rearranged had earned Leigen his post at the Ven, one he had taken gladly.

The tramp of boots on his stairs told him another recruit was coming. There was always a spike in numbers just before a ride, and though most of the newcomers didn't make it back, they provided enough fodder for the Red that his real men could get their work done.

A sharp knock sounded at the door, and a moment later it opened, without waiting for his command. The man that entered was tall and lean, but held himself in way that said he had trained for it, rather than been given it by birth. The dark hair and tilted eyes marked him as an Easterner, something that didn't bother Leigin in the slightest. Here, all men were equal – equally able to squeal, bleed and die – and where they came from was of no matter.

“Name?” He asked coldly.

“Jack Burrows.” The man said in a strong voice.

“Occupation?”

“I was a barrelmaker, but I have no trade now. I serve only the Ven.”

“How admirable,” Leigen smiled broadly, “but we will decide that. Age?”

“Thirty-one.”

He sniffed. Old, but not so old he couldn't be useful. Maybe some of the younger ones could look up to this Jack Burrows, at least long enough to get them into the Wound.

“Get down to the barracks – left out of the tower, tall building with the thatched roof. Three minutes or the master there will beat you. Sammal – treat him with respect.”

Burrows nodded and then bolted from the room. He'd be beaten regardless, but that was the way of the Ven. At least he'd looked strong – he might just live through the Ride to take his oath.

- D

Story #176 - SamR100

SamR100

He was running out of steam.

“Want it?” The young man in front of him said, holding a metal container of water above his head. “Want it?”

“Yes, Master,” he said with sighing tones, “I do require that substance to continue functioning, and would be grateful if you would furnish me with the amount in your hands.”

“Why should I?” Henry Pullis was a sour-faced child of thirteen, one who had just come into what his parents were calling his “identity”. SamR100 had no frame of reference for such an activity, but if knew that he were to have an “identity” such as Master Henry did, he would be shipped back to the factory immediately.

He understood his role in the household; since his activation eight months ago, his job had been to serve the Pullis's and answer their needs. Each one had a different, specific set, one that he did his very best to fulfill in order to please them.

Mr. Jason Pullis, the head of the household, was a large man who had made a fortune on the stock market some years ago. From what SamR could tell, however, he had lost his touch in recent days, and the family was beginning to suffer financially. This made Jason increasingly angry, something he infrequently took out on his robotic, steam-powered servant. Several trips to the shop had been necessary in order to get small, no-longer-working parts back in order, and SamR had always felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn't been able to fulfill his master's wishes.

It was the fault of the factory that such twinges existed at all. He had no full-fledged emotions like the Pullis family, but just the edges of them, installed to help him recognize and deal with emotion when he saw it. Some of his brethren who worked as nursery-bots and teaching assistants had a greater range of values installed, giving them an almost human spectrum of engagement.

Aside from small outbursts, raw emotions in the Pullis household were largely the province of Mrs. Regina Pullis and little Henry. Regina was cold and distant with both her husband and child, but had done her best to seduce SamR on several occasions, typically after imbibing too much alcohol. While robots with the functionality that Mrs. Pullis was looking for did exist, SamR was not one of them, and the lady of the house was extremely disappointed in his lack of simulated manhood on each occasion. He was glad to apologize for what he did not have, but there was no way to remedy the situation – and Regina would certainly not be asking the factory for an add-on kit.

Jason's fascination with his work and his desperate struggle to pull the family out of trouble left Regina alone, and her own lamentations at having no effective husband, as well as the loss of her own career after a recent downsizing meant that Henry had nothing but the schooling videos he watched to keep him company. Several families in the area did have children Henry's age, but he got very little in the way of human interaction.

Despite that, he had learned all too well how humans behaved toward each other, and would frequently treat SamR with disdain, disinterest, and even outright cruelty.

“Why?” SamR asked. “Because without it, I will not be able to serve you, and will have to be taken to the factory for maintenance. Aside from the cost to your parents, you will not be able to have your afternoon snack made for you if I am not sufficiently powered, and I suspect that a day of schooling has made you hungry.” SamR knew full well that Henry had spent the better part of his day playing visi-games rather than working, but had no intentions of pointing out such discrepancies. It was not his concern.

“Well...” Henry paused, “I guess I am kinda hungry. Maybe I'll let you rot after I've eaten. It'll be more fun.” Handing the cup to SamR, Henry moved into the entertainment room.

“Thank you, master,” SamR called after him. Flipping open his power vent, he poured in the water and felt his strength return. Other sources of energy were far more efficient, but dwindling fossil fuel reserves combined with an upswing in green technology activism meant that almost every robot rolling off the assembly line was steam, solar or wind powered. More frequent power cell changes were needed, but those purchasing their very own robot butler could rest assured that they had a minimal carbon footprint.

“Can I get you something to eat, master?” SamR spoke loudly into the entertainment room, where Henry was watching a advertisement on the screen.

“Yeah, you metal clunker. Get me something tasty!”

“Tasty?” SamR inquired. That meant very different things to the members of the household, as he had learned the few times he had been called upon to make dinner.

“That's right, bolt-sack! Make me something with a lot of sugar in it – or a lot of salt. I don't care!”

“Master,” SamR said quietly, “such things are bad for you.” He knew it would do no good, but his programming required him to notify his owners once before undertaking an action that could harm them.

“Whatever! Make something bad for me then – make it as bad as you can. Now hurry up, I want to play my games!”

SamR stood frozen for a moment, then moved to the fridge.

He quickly assembled the needed ingredients for a snack so sugary that it would be beyond anything Henry had ever known.

“Make it as bad as you can.” The words echoed in SamR's central processing center. He hesitated, then reached up to open the top cupboard in the row. Rodent pests had infested the household last winter, and he had been tasked with killing them, along with only a single bottle of poison. He had managed to complete his task without the bottle, but now it would prove to be useful.

- D

Story #175 - A Quicker Trip

A Quicker Trip

It was a safe bet that there were no satellites focused on him; so far as he knew, all of the high-powered military gadgetry was pointed toward the re-erupting Middle East conflict. Though they let genetically-modified monsters run free in the wilds of the northern part of the state, the military did little to alleviate the situation.

Rumors of the creatures' existence were roundly denied every time the subject was brought up at a defense meeting, but everyone in the area knew full well that going outside at night was a bad idea if you lived anywhere near the national park. Most of the time, the things kept to the woods, feeding on deer and coyotes and staying out of the way of humans. Hunters had learned that a rifle shot or three could take one of the things down, but collecting its body was an impossibility; they disappeared as soon as their vital functions stopped working.

Tim knew there was a slim chance anyone was watching him being menaced by the pack below, but still he hesitated. The monsters the government had made weren't the only things in the park that were dangerous, and weren't the only things in the state that had undergone a transformation. Unlike those down below, however, Tim had no easy explanation for what had happened to him.

As near as he could tell, he had simply woken up one day with a very different set of abilities than he had gone to bed with. During his early twenties, he'd done his best to figure out just what had happened to him, but with no luck. Medical testing revealed nothing, and there was no one in the world that he trusted enough to tell that he could tap into the latent energy surrounding him, double his size, and increase his strength an almost infinite amount.

He'd never tested the absolute limits of what he could do. His size seemed fairly fixed – he could swell only so much and only so quickly, but the amount of strength he could feed into his body felt limitless. When he'd tried to draw as much as he could from the air around him, he began to feel a buzzing, a trembling sensation as if he were a balloon near to bursting. Though he knew he could easily pour more strength into himself, he wasn't sure what would happen if he did, and decided he liked his body in once piece, and he preferred living to knowing the maximum amount of energy he could draw.

“Little one,” the lead creature called from below. It had been doing that every hour, hoping to force Tim down out of the tree. It had promised not to kill him, not to maim him, and finally not to hurt him, but Tim didn't believe a word of it. As soon as his feet hit the forest floor, the leader and his four companions would swarm him, and he would die in seconds.

Or so they thought.

Taking a deep breath, Tim focused on what he wanted to do. Timing wasn't crucial, but it would give more of an impact to his actions, one that he hoped even the things down below would have to acknowledge.

Without a word, Tim let himself fall from the branch he was perched on, opened himself up to the energy that surrounded all things, and began to drink it in. By the time he was halfway down the tree's height, he had reached his doubled size, and strength began flooding in. Extending his legs, he locked them as he reached the forest floor, driving deeply into the loamy earth.

The closest creature screamed as Tim reached out and tore its head off, then threw its dissolving corpse at a second member of the group. Teeth and claws came gnashing and slashing at him, but his improved physique met every one easily, quickly, and three more died in rapid succession.

That left only the leader, the smallest of the pack.

Tim felt a stab of guilt as he advanced on the thing; not for it, but for Christie and Todd. He hadn't been expecting the attack, and was too slow to react when the monsters came crashing through the forest. He had considered for a moment if using his abilities was worth the risk, and in that moment Christie died, with Todd torn to shreds moments later. He had fled into the woods, cursing himself for his lack of action, and hoping he could simply outrun the things behind him, but they had refused to give up.

“What isss thisss?” The leader hissed, real fear showing on its face for just a moment.

“Your end, fool,” he grated as he reach out to take grab the thing's long arm. It didn't struggle, but instead drove toward him with all its strength. Tim grunted, but simply drew on what was around him to increase his ability to endure punishment. A menacing grin slid across his face as he tried something he'd never thought of before: drawing energy from another being.

The creature in his grip screamed as he took its strength, crumpling into the dirt at his feet. Tim let the strength burn off, and then looked down at the pitiful wretch underneath him.

“Now,” he said, “you know how my companions felt. Now,” he reached down and placed a hand on top of the thing's chest, “you will know their pain.”

A single, massive downward blow from his enhanced hand was enough to tear the creature nearly in half, and leave it writhing in the dirt in agony.

Letting his strength go, Tim stumbled forward as the weight of real world came crashing back down. His hand hurt, and both legs throbbed from their landing impact. He would be sore for days.

Bright light flared up all around him, and he stood frozen as he heard the unmistakable sound of guns being drawn and made ready to fire.

“Tim Carlyle!” A voice boomed in the darkness. “This is the US Military. You will surrender. Now!”

He had known this trip was a bad idea.

- D

Story #174 - A Quick Trip

A Quick Trip

Running wasn't doing anything except keeping him just ahead of them, but Tim Carlyle didn't really have the time to come up with a better plan.

Images flashed through his head: the car being swarmed by the things, their long, clawed hands screeching along the metal door panels, and Christie's face as the biggest one rammed a fist through her chest. It had been brutal, awful, soul-crushing, but Tim didn't have time to dwell on it.

Thoughts of the past few hours caused him to miss a step and sent him almost tumbling to the forest floor below. Behind him, he could hear the hooting catcalls of the leader of the pack, a smaller beast that had stayed at the edges of the fight at the car.

Though slaughter might be a better term for what had happened, Tim wanted to believe he had at least a chance of escape.

It was only the way the bodies of the things chasing him were put together that saved him from a quick death. Up close, they were incredibly powerful, with massive jaws, spike-tipped claws and stunted, almost grotesquely thick leg muscles. As soon as their prey managed to gain some distance on them, however, the best they could do was follow. Though Tim was no athlete, a solid run kept him ahead of him, and prevented them from trying a sprint to catch up. He had hoped they would tire as quickly as he was after pounding their large legs into the loam underfoot, but none of the five monstrosities behind him showed any signs of stopping.

“Why?” He screamed into the dim dawn-light as he scrambled over a large rock, a claw-swipe just missing his heels. He knew no answer would come – they had been foolish to drive into the back country, knowing what had been set loose out here, but believed that if they just drove fast enough, everything would be alright. Thrill-seekers who had made it through the woods unscathed several times, Christie and Todd had insisted he try it out, and were sure that he would love the rush he got from avoiding what was almost certain death.

“Becaussssse...” came a hissing answer from behind him, and he stumbled at the top of the rock, managing to catch himself with his hands on the pitted stone at the very last moment. What he had heard was impossible.

“Because why?” He screamed as he ran on. It was ridiculous to enter into a war of words with a creature that was trying to maim and eat him, and shouldn't have been able to speak in the first place, not in the least because such words lessened his ability to run quickly by taking up his air supply.

“Becausssse we can!” The words were clear enough this time, and managed to make an already terrifying situation worse. Not only was he being pursued by pack of ravening monstrosities, but they had an actual, thought-out scent for blood, a real desire to not simply eat him for food, but to maim him because they had the capacity to do so.

Despite his creeping exhaustion, Tim forced his feet to move more quickly, forced the pace of his stride to increase.

“Why little one – why do you run from us?” There was a mocking tone to the broken voice, one that said he had no chance of escape, and was simply making things worse.

“Is that some kind of joke?”

There was a pause in the forest, a silence broken only by his footfalls and the thump of his pursuers.

“Yessss,” said the leader, “issss funny.”

“It isn't!” Tim screamed. “This is my life you're talking about!”

There was no reply, and Tim considered climbing a tree again. He had done it once, at the beginning of the chase, and had almost forced the beasts to leave. Their heavy lower bodies prevented climbing, despite their large claws, as they were unable to heave their massive forms up the trunk, even when they had an excellent point to begin their ascent.

The trouble was that they could use those same claws to tear the tree down, and had begun to make short work of the tall pine he was in almost as soon as he had made it out of their reach. If he could find a large redwood...

He moved quickly as he spotted one off to his left, hope giving his feet a speed he was surprised he had left in him. Up the tree he went, leaving bits of skin and drops of blood behind, but he didn't care for the state of his arms or legs – he simply needed to get away.

The monsters down below could pound away at the tree for the better part of the next few days and not make a dent, and he hoped that from somewhere near the top he might be able to find cell service.

Below, the pack had come to a halt and was circling the tree, their leader squinting up at him from the ground. Their faces were almost human, save for eyes that were too large and a nose that was almost non-existent, and it was that human likeness that made them all them more frightening.

“Little creature!” The leader called from below. “I have sssomthing you want!” Extending a clawed hand, the thing waved something at him. His new cell phone. “Come down here and we will...disssscusss...itsss return.”

“Screw off!” Tim yelled. He needed time to think. The tree would provide protection, but only for so long.

“I don't think sssooo, little creature. We will wait, and you will get hungry. You will get tired. You will come down to ssseee ussss, and we will be ready.” The leader gestured to those around him, and all five of them stopped moving, each taking up a position at the base of the tree, eyes looking upwards.

Tim grit his teeth. He hadn't wanted to, but he was going to have to destroy them all.

- D