 
PulpRev Sampler

### A Collection of PulpRev Short Stories

Copyright (c) 2017. All rights reserved.

No part of this ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

All stories in this collection are a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Editor's Note

The Knights of Aos Si

by N.A. Roberts

The Ghost Fist Gambit

by Bradford Walker

Primitive Life Forms

by Julie Frost

The Plowshare's Lament

by Jesse Abraham Lucas

Excerpt: For Steam and Country

by Jon Del Arroz

Herald of the Dead

by Todd Everhart

Silence in the Cell Block

by T.T. Arkansas

The King's Portion

by David Skinner

Excerpt: Assassin in Everest

by John C. Wright

Into the Hands of a Living God

by Dominika Lein

Lucky Spider's Last Stand

by JD Cowan

Avatar of Pain

by PR Marshall

Excerpt: Wings in the Night

by David J. West

The Red World Dies

by Fenton Skeegs

Longman & Cobbledick

by David Godward

Danger on the Colony Ship

by John Daker

Defiance

by Jon Mollison

About the Authors

Thank You
Editor's Note

A long time ago an army of authors wrote a barrage of stories for the cheap magazines of the common man, on rough paper just a step above wood pulp, for no reward but a few cents and love. There's a misconception these days that what they wrote was mere schlock, shallow and lurid and bound by formula. The best way to clear that up is to read it. There's more to it than hard-bitten detectives, bug-eyed monsters, and dames with legs that go all the way down. Those grand old forgotten old writers left a legacy of stories with heart, real people facing real problems and falling in real love while having real adventures, in a burst of creativity the world hasn't seen since.

Nowadays paper is cheaper and pixels cheaper still, and through the magic of the online archive more works of these pulp masters are coming to daylight. The reader's first reaction is "I want to read more." The reader's second reaction is "I want to write this kind of thing." The reader's third reaction, while knee-deep in the kind of story they always dreamed of but until now never could conceive, is "I've been lied to."

Because it's not just bubble-helmeted space captains and ray-gun-wielding masterminds. The spirit of the pulps isn't the aesthetic of the film reel, it's a zeitgeist as strange and wonderful as a lost and regained Fairyland.

What you will find here is a tribute not to the pulps' looks but their feel, stories by authors all trying, in their own ways, to revive that spirit, to start a revolution that brings those wonders back. You will read tales of horror and heroism, faith and failure, heart and brain and muscle all together.

It is our pleasure to present to you this sampler.
The Knights of Aos Si

by N.A. Roberts

They rode down from the mountains in early April, and the men in the villages trembled and shut their doors. Those who were caught in the fields doffed their caps and dropped upon their knees. For the memories of men are short, and they did not remember the kindnesses done eons past by the people of the mountains for the people of the valleys. Nor did they even know the purpose for which the glittering cohort rode today. They merely wondered, and feared what they wondered at.

The faerie knights rode seven abreast. At the center was Nauda the king, dressed in the colors of his house: the pale blue of the spring morn, quartered with the dark blue of the autumn eve, with boots and gloves of milk-white leather. Under a silver circlet his face was pale and delicate, finely lined about the mouth and eyes. His faded gold hair was long and loose, and his mustaches bristled arrogantly above a bloodless lip and pointed beard.

Behind him came his brothers, Neith, Dalbaed, and Crom. Beside these Lords of the Aos Si rode their sons, and the faces of every one were almost unbearable to look upon. These were faces devoid of all life and all mortal vitality, animated only by unearthly pride and eldritch valor. Only a few dared to raise their eyes in secretive glances as the train passed, and those who did felt that they looked at animated statues. Were they able to articulate their thoughts, they would have said that they saw simulacra of humanity more perfect than any carved figure, but infinitely less alive. Each was beautiful in a subtly different way, each identically inhuman.

The column left the fields and reached the open downs, and Lord Neith gave a signal. The knights broke into loose formation, and mingled as their inclinations led them, but they did not speak.

They moved at a canter over the turf until they arrived at the appointed place. Here in a shallow vale a circle of mushrooms sprouted about a lone rowan tree. No men would build within miles of this place, for they knew that such rings mark places where faerie blood has been shed.

It was two hours after noon, and the shadow of the tree was already beginning to lengthen.

Conand, the grandson of Neith, rode up from the rear.

"The witch and her brood are late to the tryst, as usual," he said.

"So eager for blood-letting?" returned the King.

"It's witch-blood to be let, and my brother Corrin to do the letting," was the reply. "Indeed, I am eager to see it."

"I for one am not eager," said Corrin quietly. "It will be a stiff contest, and I am not yet ready to leave the world. Still, I drew the lot; thus it falls to me to uphold the pact today. "

"Shorten your face, brother. Not one of them is a match for you," said Conand.

"Who can say?" said Corrin solemnly. "But come what may, so be it! At any rate, we shall soon see, for there they are, cresting the hill!"

Into the dell rode four figures on gray horses. Lady Carmun led them. She was tall and haughty, ancient and beautiful, dressed in a black gown with silver gloves. Her sons followed her, pale-skinned, dark haired like their mother—Dubh, Dian, and Dother.

King Nauda inclined his head to the witch as she dismounted, but though her pale, supercilious eyes roved over him, she did not deign to respond.

"I see no reason for ceremony," said she. "You have already laid one of my children under earth on this ground, and it would delight you to do so again today. Let us begin at once. Whom do you send against me today?"

"Do not forget, my lady, that you laid a son of mine to rest in this place as well," said the King. "I too dislike parley. Yes, let us begin. Sir Corrin, son of Cethlann will uphold the honor of Aos Si upon the field today. Let your champion speak!"

Dubh urged his horse forward. "I will face him," he said. "In the name of my brother, whom his sire slew."

The Witch-Knights ranged themselves on the southern side of the tree, while the faerie troop took a stand to the north. Having each dismounted and withdrawn for a space to arm himself, Corrin and Dubh now faced each other alone upon the field.

The Aos Si Knight was in fluted armor with a blue-upon-blue tabard. The visor of his armet was raised, his ivory face impassive. The Witch's champion wore a suit of bronze, with neither surcoat, nor plume, nor any color at all on his body. The light made him a second sun, while it seemed to stain his adversary's arms with fresh blood. His face was covered.

Sir Corrin likewise lowered the bars of his visor. Both drew their iron-edged swords and arranged themselves on guard.

The trumpet blew, but neither knight moved. They stood silent, weighing each other with unseen eyes. Slowly they circled, the space of grass narrowing between them. They were fully within the shadow of the rowan tree when the first blow was struck. Dubh slipped forward and stabbed for bars of the other's visor. Corrin warded the stroke and retreated. The circling recommenced, then Dubh struck again, for the same target, and again Corrin defended and retreated. For the third time they circled and closed the distance, and this time Dubh stabbed for the body. He was blocked, and Corrin returned the stroke with a slash. Dubh leaped back and closed again with another stab, Corrin parried and followed with quick blows. The King bit his lip as he observed.

Both fought on equal terms, both wary, both conserving their strength. Corrin would give back no more, but parried and sidestepped whenever possible. If Dubh gave ground, he advanced, if he could not push Dubh back, he moved to the left or right, and closed at an angle.

Both were consummate swordsmen, but the struggle which held all breathless beyond the physical realm. The minds of the duelists clashed though the medium of their bodies, the way men struggle over a chessboard. It was a coldblooded, calculated contest, this fight between champions of a race as old and unliving as the hills they fought under. The bloodletting which must inevitably follow would be passionless, merely a transaction of chivalry. And the king feared for his champion, who played himself as a piece upon the chessboard of this transaction.

Dubh did not allow Corrin to press him for long. The bronze figure returned to the attack with greater force, and the Aos Si retreated again, always to one side or the other, splitting the ground he lost; but lose ground he did, until his back was to the rowan tree. He grasped the blade of his sword, shortening his grip, thrusting and parrying with less than a foot of metal. He was inside his enemy's guard now, and neither could defend successfully for long in such position; their swords met armor again and again.

The two knights broke apart at last, and immediately loosed a fresh flurry of blows. Dubh's hand dripped blood upon the grass, but his sword quickly changed hands and he pressed Corrin now with his left side forward. His point perforated the joint of the left elbow between the couter and vambrace.

But Corrin was only discommoded for a moment before he, too, had shifted a to one handed position. The left-handed stance of his opponent did not hinder him again.

They fought until the sun met the horizon fully, and their bloody armor was crimsoned with its last rays. Then they grappled, their shadows mingling as they rolled on the ground. Dubh's sword was torn from his hand, but he thrust Corrin back with a foot and they came up apart on hands and knees, blades in hand again.

They stood slowly, and set themselves on guard again, as if the fight was only just begun. Again they circled, wearily, blood falling in rivulets from their metal carapaces.

Dubh made a sudden rush and thrust for the breast. Corrin parried and leaped back, but a breath too slow. The point missed his heart and pierced his armpit, passing out through the shoulder in a spurt of blood, but at the same time leaving Dubh's body open. Straight into the wide slit of his helmet sank Corrin's blade, and stuck fast for a quarter of its length.

The bronze knight's sword dropped from his lifeless hand, and he dropped to his knees. Corrin pulled loose the blade that spitted his foe's head, and the body toppled forward unsupported.

Slowly the victor knelt and cleaned his sword on the grass. He replaced it at his side, and with faltering steps approached his kinsmen. He did not reach them, but sank bleeding to one knee a few paces from the king.

"It is done, my liege," he said. Then: "Take my hand, Conand. I cannot see you."

He fainted.

Quietly, the king gave orders as to his care, and looked towards Lady Carmun. She was kneeling by the side of her son, head bowed. As he gazed, she rose and faced his gaze. No tears fell, and her eyes were hidden by the dusk.

"Are you satisfied?" she said.

"I am," said the king.

"Then the pact has been honored, and these lands are yours for a century more. Then I shall return."

"On that day then," said the king. "We shall be waiting here for you."

The Ghost Fist Gambit

by Bradford C. Walker

"Attention all hands. This is Duke Far, Lord Admiral of the Fleet."

The gray-haired noblemen adjusted the microphone on his headset. He didn't need to, but the pause gave the men the moment they needed to stop what they were doing to hear what he had to say.

"We arrive presently at the homeworld of House Onares, where the leader of the rebels calling themselves 'The League of Sovereign Worlds' holds Her Grace, Duchess Alamia. The Speaker for the Court of Stars, Count Vikuun, has reason to believe that this is the end of the war before us if we can rescue her."

Duke Far paused once again, knowing that he had the undivided attention of his men.

"But the enemy awaiting us is no easy foe. The defense of Onares is known to us to be in the hands of the brutal warlord known as 'The Wrathful Hand of Onares'. I have faced him many times, and I assure you that victory cannot be had by ordinary means."

Far smirked. The look on the faces of the men of his household guard beside him told him that this is what they waited to hear: His Grace the Duke has a plan to beat the worst threat before us!

"I know his mind. I know what he expects, and how he will counter it. I've seen him make these moves time and again. I know how to beat this man, and I know what must be done to make it happen."

Far paused again.

"He has come to expect me to use complex tactics, convoluted plans, and subtle strategies that only a man of his intellect would even comprehend--let alone appreciate."

Far looked again at the men of his household guard

"I will go straight for him, I will cut off that wrathful hand, and I will beat him to death with it!"

The men about him erupted in a cheer.

"Then we're going to take his flagship and beat his master to death with it!"

They cheered again.

"Then we'll rescue the Duchess, return home with our enemies' heads in our hands, and we shall be hailed as conquerors by one and all forever!"

The cheers turned into a chant: "FAR! FAR! FAR WE GO!". Simple, easy, and a bit ridiculous--perfect for morale boosting just before combat. Far let it go for a few moments, and then the proximity alarm sounded.

"All hands to battle stations. All crews to their fighters. Good luck, good hunting, and God be with you."

In orbit over the homeworld of House Onares, tens of thousands of starships cruised in diamond-shaped formations circling a central point while fighters flitted about them ready to engage on a moment's notice. In that center rested a single red ship, looking like a dagger with engines mounted on the pommel. This Poinard-class battleship was the flagship of His Lordship, Baron Sheelak: Wolf's Fang.

Baron Sheelak stood on the bridge, his master appearing before him as a hologram. The Baron bent to one knee in an obsequious gesture of obeisance

"Your Grace, I expect the dogs of Vikuun to arrive presently." Sheelak said.

"Then you are confident of our defenses?"

"Yes, Your Grace. My spies report that Duke Far leads the attack. There is no possibility of any success from that enemy. His style of war relies too much on misdirection and delicate maneuvering. Once he arrives, I shall englobe and consume him utterly. The Usurper shall not come again before you complete your objective, restore the lawful Speaker of the Stars, and force the war to end."

"See that you do so; carry on, Baron. "

"It shall be done, Your Grace. This battle is already decided."

Onares turned away and walked out of frame. "I shall gift you one of the Duchess' ladies should you make good on that boast."

As the hologram faded away, an alert sounded. Sheelak turned to the captain.

"My lord, we detected a Usurper fleet coming out of hyperspace." Then, as if already asked, the captain followed up: "Duke Far's flagship is in the lead."

"Alert all commands. Red alert. Execute Phase One of the operation. Cut off all routes to the Tiger of Marabu."

Far's fleet dropped out of hyperspace just out of range of Sheelak's guns, forcing the fighters to surge forth and engage first. Far's fighters launched from their decks, turning the space between into a moving wall of red and green lights. Over the coms the crews heard the cries of the pilots calling out their engagements, as well as the screams of the slain just before the explosions of their fighters.

Sheelak's wings spread out on all edges, moving to englobe Far's fleet and hem them in with a total envelopment. Far recognized the move and countered by ordering the fleet into a series of spindles and broke that formation by rushing it at weak points, then spreading behind the breakthrough to start consuming Sheelak's ships as if rust ate away at a sheet of steel.

Fighters fell out of the action at this point, their effectiveness depleted by their formations collapsing due to casualties. Those that remained retreated to their surviving carriers, which in turn fell back to the fleet tenders in the rear. Shuttles began their work to ferry the worst of the wounded away from the front lines and to waiting medical frigates among the tender squadron.

Sheelak looked on the virtual map of the action in real time. "Come, Far, show me your magic. Show it to me, so I can cut your flashing hands off for good."

Meanwhile, a shuttle left the Tiger of Marubu. It looked different from others based on the Marabu, as it wasn't the standard model used in Far's fleet.

"Now we see if the risk we took in salvaging this shuttle from Onares bears out," Far said. The men of his household guard, ready to play the role of marines, nodded their concurrence.

"What are you thinking, Far?" Sheelak mused, and then he punched in orders as he noticed Far's fleet surging forth once more with firepower concentrated on a weak point on the left flank. Reserves moved forward to stop the gap, again forcing a stalemate.

What Sheelak didn't see was a little blip on the right flank. It showed up as a friendly signature, one of the many shuttles common in his own fleet, and on course for the Wolf's Fang. He kept his focus on the Tiger of Marabu, for where else would he expect the enemy to be?

Sheelak saw Far's fleet withdraw. He saw that he should not pursue too far, and an armored fist slammed on the table. "I know you're trying something, Far!" he said, "You think that can screen your trickery from me?"

Sheelak turned to the captain. "I'm forcing the issue. Move us to the front. We're taking the Tiger of Marabu ship-to-ship. Reorganize the fleet to clear out of our path. Prepare the main cannon to fire."

The captain nodded and relayed the orders. From the flank, and fast approaching, Far saw the hull of Wolf's Fang begin to light up from stem to stern, as power from the engines began to divert to the great spinal-mounted cannon on the bow--the weapon that made Baron Sheelak into the Wrathful Hand of Onares.

"Now," Far said to the pilot, "Issue the code. We've got to get aboard before they fire." The pilot sent the boarding code--"Subordinates from destroyed vassal fleet reporting"--and a few moments later they got waved aboard with an order to report to the bridge immediately upon arrival.

Far took a position at the front as the shuttle came to land in the Wolf's Fang's hangar. The ramp lowered, and the deck officer stood ready to greet them when he took notice of the man looking back at him.

"Boarders!" and the officer fell to the deck, cut down in one stroke by Duke Far's beam sword. Far lead the marines as they swarmed into the hangar, using their man-portable rockets upon the other shuttles nearby--and one catching a mass of fuel left unattended. A distant guard hit the alarm just before Far shot him down with a sidearm.

"Hit it!" Far said, barking his orders now, as they ran out of the hangar and into the interior of Wolf's Fang. They pushed forward without heed, relying on firepower and speed to carry them.

On the bridge, the alarm shook Baron Sheelak out of his focus upon the virtual map. He turned to the captain. "My lord," the captain said, "Boarders breached the hangar and are inside the ship."

"Where?"

"They're in the lift shafts now, making their way here."

Baron Sheelak stormed towards the lift. "I will handle this, captain. Maintain course."

The captain's delay in responding prompted the Baron to turn about. "What is it, captain?"

"The Tiger of Marabu is advancing." the captain said, "They're engaging, with escorts, on our left flank. Our ships there can't retreat because one of his subordinates already fixed them in place."

"Get visual confirmation. This has to be a trick!" Sheelak said, turning back to the lifts, "And check the sensors. Far would never let a subordinate lead either such attack--I won't have him be two places at once!"

"Yes, my lord," the captain said as Sheelak reached for the controls.

The door opened, showing an empty shaft. Sheelak looked into the shaft, and was met by hostile fire from below. He leaped in and down the shaft, igniting his beam sword. As he descended, he scanned the shaft for those hostiles--and saw Duke Far looking back at him with a wicked grin.

"FAR!" Sheelak said, and the Duke leaped up to meet the Baron. Their beams clashed, green on yellow, and then the two landed on either side of the shaft.

"Advance, men!" Far bellowed, "I will handle this traitor."

Far jumped at Sheelak, feinting a thrust that Sheelak dodged, then cutting at his swordarm. Sheelak beat it away, immediately countered to Far's torso, and only got Far smiling at him in return.

"Your ship is forfeit, Far!" Sheelak said, "You can't stop me sinking it, even if you cut me down."

"Is it?" Far said as he locked blades with Sheelak again, "I think you forgot something."

The marines ascended up the shaft, leaving their leader behind, now that they saw that he had Sheelak as focused on him as they are on the mission. With the lift door open, they rushed onto the bridge with blasters blazing. The few enemy marines in sight went down without firing a shot.

Within the shaft, Sheelak slammed his forehead into Far's and broke the clench, seeking to disengage. Far followed, passing the Baron and taking the open shaft doorway. He stood ready for the Baron's renewed assault.

Sheelak climbed back out of the shaft, stood, dropped into his fighting stance and re-ignited his blade. "What game is this, Far?"

"You can't block a fist that you can't see, Baron." Far said.

"Enough!" Sheelak said, and he rushed Far. Sheelak attacked again and again, but Far stood and effortlessly blocked each in turn, leading the Baron in a circle. Then, after a feint to the Baron's face, Far landed an off-hand fist to the Baron's throat. Dazed, Sheelak staggered back. Far took the Baron's beam sword away and knocked him out.

"Your master is down!" Far said, "Surrender or die."

The crewmen, cowed by the ease of their master's defeat, threw their hands up. Far signaled the Tiger.

"Wolf's Fang is ours," Far said, "Signal Sir Walton. The way will be clear presently."

His men took over the bridge controls and awaited orders.

"Go within the planet's shield and fire on the shield's generators." Far said, "They will never see it coming."

Primitive Life Forms

by Julie Frost

Lycanthropy. Shit.

This was what he got, Mark Patton thought, for picking up a strange girl in a bar for a one-night-stand. She'd been stranger than most, and he hadn't seen her since. If he'd known she was a biter, he wouldn't have taken her home. Talk about your sexually transmitted diseases...

He was in no way ready for, or expecting, the next full moon after to affect him like that. He'd spent the day in a barely-contained state of nerves for no apparent reason, snapping at shadows and co-workers. In one of his moods, as his ex would've said disdainfully. It had been one of his less-successful dinners with his mom, and the next-morning phone call had been super awkward. She'd had to pay for the damage to the restaurant.

Tonight, he was prepared. His chin on his fist, he sat in a meadow in the woods, waiting. The moon's pull made him itch; he scratched furiously at his arms and growled under his breath. He smelled a mouse twenty feet away. The damned things stank.

Mark had taken one shoe off when an odd hum that drove itself into his bones sounded from above the trees. A beam of light lanced down and pinned him against the ground. He had the unpleasant feeling of dissolving molecule by molecule while simultaneously floating and tingling, and then he blipped into existence in a transparent, cylindrical cage, surrounded by alien technology and being stared at by--

Bugs.

Yep. They were big buggy things. Compound eyes, skeletons on the outside, eight jointed limbs, about four feet tall. They even had antennae. Which they were waving. Yeah, hi, fellas.

Of all the crap timing... His life was just getting better and better, wasn't it? They needed to send him back; the full moon would rise in just a few minutes, and what happened after that wouldn't be fun for anyone.

The Olvanian scientific exploratory team stood in the specimen room while Mebckect, the Team Leader, held forth. "This world is ripe for colonization." He waved a hand. "None of the dominant life forms are a threat to us."

Their ship rested in geosynchronous orbit above the little blue and white planet, which they'd decided to call "Ocean." Unimaginative, but descriptive. The folks at home would undoubtedly come up with something more suitable. Darkness had fallen over the continent they'd chosen for their first samples, and a lovely full moon was beginning its climb over the horizon. This planet had an excellent ratio of water to land, and an ambient temperature suited to the Olvanians. The axial tilt gave it seasonal variety, and there was enough open space that they would take a good long while to populate it.

They felt lucky to have discovered it; the odds weren't in their favor. They'd scouted six planets circling likely stars before finding this one, which they'd been studying for twelve of its days.

Today was the first time they'd collected live samples. Dead ones were scattered about the room on tables, in various states of dissection. Three of the live specimens sat in smaller enclosures on a bench. The biped at the end, its much bigger case on the floor beside the bench, banged on the sides and shouted. Mebckect ignored it and tapped the first cylinder. "This species is much like ours, only smaller, with no language skills. Note the exoskeleton, the six legs, the articulated joints, and the membranous wings protected under the sheath. Many different varieties of this creature populate the planet, but none dominate."

They moved down to the next sample. "This species is similar to the warklets our larvae keep as pets. Note the four legs, the fur, the simple eyes, and the hairless tail. Again, many different varieties have found their own niches here, and they have no language."

A student raised her hand. Mebckect nodded to her, and she said, "What do they eat?"

"Mainly grain and other plant material, but they're quite opportunistic. Moving on, this specimen represents a number of flying mammals, with an astonishing variety of form. They feed on insects, fruit, and blood."

Another student raised his hand. "Is the last sample the only large creature that dominates the planet?"

The last sample was taller than the Olvanians, and much more agitated than the other specimens. The translator deciphered what it was shouting: "You don't understand! You have to send me back! I'm a--" The last word was garbled; apparently the Olvanian language had no equivalent.

"We've noted some large herbivores and some smaller carnivores that seem numerous, but those species are interconnected with this one," Mebckect said. "This species calls itself 'hyoomin,' and, as you can hear, they do have rudimentary language. They also have no small skill in manipulating their environment to suit their needs, but our technology far exceeds theirs, so colonizing their planet should go smoothly."

Outside the ship, unnoticed by the inhabitants, the moon rose to its full splendor.

Mark's shouting morphed into a scream as the change took him. He curled around himself, shrieking, as the pain of his shifting bones clawed his nerve endings. Hair sprouted, itching, and his teeth felt like they were growing out of their sockets. Seams popped and fabric gave way, because of course he hadn't had time to disrobe before the damned aliens abducted him. At least he'd worn old clothes.

The bugs watched with clinical interest, tilting their heads and chittering. Mark's agony was replaced in under a minute by an amazing clarity of mind and vision.

Hunt.

Rend.

Kill.

The cylinder shattered under a scornful blow. He leaped into the room on his hind legs, shaking glass from his fur, snapping downward at the nearest bug. His fangs met in a throat and tore the head away in a spray of ichor. The taste, along with the revolting smell, made him stop and gag and promise himself not to bite another one. He ripped his claws down the front of the bug beside it, spilling internal organs onto the floor. That was easy.

The other bugs scattered. Like cockroaches. Ha. One of them made shooing motions at its companions and kept itself between Mark and its companions as they scurried out. Scanning, his eyes settled on an alien on the other side of the room, frantically slapping a screen and shouting into a headset.

He backhanded it away from the console, enjoying the satisfying crunch of chitin under his knuckles. The bug smacked the wall and lay still but for the twitching of its antennae.

All the others but the Head Bug had made it out. That one stood in the doorway waving mouthparts, as others holding weapons shoved their way past into the room. They opened fire, sending beams of energy lancing toward him. He roared as a couple burned through his chest and out his back. The pain enraged him, even while he realized that what would have been a mortal wound for a regular human was a mere inconvenience to a werewolf. But it still hurt, dammit.

Mark lunged toward them, slipped on a patch of goo--

And was caught in the horrible sensation of tingling, floating, and dissolving that had introduced him to this delightful bunch of bugs less than an hour ago.

He blipped back into the clearing in the woods, the ship a disappearing point of light above. A squeaking bat flapped away, and a mouse tried to escape. He flattened it with a paw and gulped it down.

Howling at the full moon, Mark loped into the forest.

Mebckect blew a sigh from his spiracles. This was what happened, he thought, when he allowed eager youngsters to talk him into taking samples before they'd adequately studied the planet. On their first expedition, too!

Even now, one of them nattered protests in his tympanum while he slammed the wormhole shut behind them. This planet was obviously too dangerous to ever revisit. The native inhabitants had some nasty phenomena awaiting any who dared invade. He shuddered at the memory of those unnatural teeth--which were far too big for the jawbone--tearing the head from one of his technicians. Who knew the hyoomins would be so strong? The musculature of the dissected specimens hadn't hinted, at all, that they would be capable of what that one had done. It had burst from the enclosure with no effort at all. The energy weapons had hardly made it flinch.

And the shapeshifting? Mebckect had known, before they took off, that he was likely to see strange things on this, his people's maiden voyage to the stars. He hadn't envisioned just how strange. The creature had actually grown taller and broader, stalking around on its back legs like one of the ancient predators of the homeworld. Mebckect suppressed a visceral shiver.

They had much to learn. And they would begin anew on a planet with fewer defenses.

The Plowshare's Lament

by Jesse Abraham Lucas

Rothgarner the Ravenous was up to his pommel in a mortal when he caught sight of an old friend. "Bloodcurdler," he cried. "Congratulations on your new human."

"Roth, I thought you were sundered long ago! What a fine hero you have now." But the flow of battle took them away from each other. When most of the men had been cut down or fled, they found themselves back together, trading blows.

"Yes, I - oof - thought I had been - ugh - but-" Their owners slammed them into a lock. "I was restored by a blacksmith of some renown. Doesn't your-"

The hero in red leather kicked his opponent away. They settled into guard positions.

Rothgarner continued, "Doesn't your dark lord's armor match you well. Those spikes alone must have cost him a fortune!"

"Oh, yes," replied Bloodcurdler. The black pearls on his hilt glittered in a blush. "You can't put a price on terror, can you now?"

They chatted with each other as the sun set. By the time it rose again, they were still trading stories. The red warrior drove Rothgarner into his opponent's chest as the first ray of dawn struck the desolate field. Both swords cheered.

The triumphant hero became a great king. He hung the two swords close to each other in his treasure room. They agreed with the old cursed battle-axe in the corner that it was good for enchanted weaponry to be admired once in a while. They made sure to emanate gloom and despair for any visiting prince or thief or ambassador.

As the years turned into generations and the ever-emptying treasure room grew tedious, the old battle-axe was a frightful whiner.

"There it goes again," mumbled Bloodcurdler as the axe was taken out for another execution. "And you know it'll complain more than both of us when it comes back. At least it gets a little adoration, a few necks to whet itself in."

When a band of dirty peasants ransacked the treasure room, their leader, a handsome man with an eye patch, went straight for the swords. He took Bloodcurdler and swung it in awkward, complicated arcs. His whole body wriggled as he kept hold.

Rothgarner's dusky rubies glittered in laughter. "Ooh, look at your new friend. Isn't he the master swordsman?"

"Aye," said Bloodcurdler. "This one's got the gift for it."

After a year he had been proven right, but Rothgarner's successive owners either hadn't the gift or the chance to develop it. Each human had been good friends with Bloodcurdler's rebel leader who, to the swords' delight, grew more wrathful and unforgiving as each fell.

When the rebels had ousted the old royal line, the man with the eye patch refused the crown and ruled the country as High Sheriff, with moderately spiked black armor. He declared Rothgarner to be accursed and took to carrying it around in his saddlebags, offering it to those he challenged to duels.

One day, as the High Sheriff inspected a group of convicts laboring as woodsmen, the pair spotted a familiar dark shine from the foreman's back. "It's the old battle-axe, all covered in wood chips!" exclaimed Rothgarner.

Bloodcurdler let off a deep, husky laugh.

"Save me, friends," said the axe. "Chopping trunks and splitting logs is dreary work. The only blood I taste is when I am slipped and can take a thumb. Send your new king dark omens in his dreams and have me made executioner's blade again."

"I am sorry, old adze," said Bloodcurdler, "but the people still know you too well. Our High Sheriff only executes those who raise arms against him with me. Those murderers and cattle-thieves he apprehends he sends to cut wood in the forest with you."

"You mock me still. May you both be sundered and your chips forged into plows and pruning shears."

The swords laughed at this as well, and were carried off in high spirits.

As the High Sheriff grew old he spent more time in his dreary, undecorated chambers, gazing at Rothgarner. He ran his fingers over the worn mementos of his lost friends.

On his deathbed, he asked his smiths and sages to cut Rothgarner down to a cooking knife. Before anything could be done, the blade was chopping vegetables. The shock of losing so much of his mass was so great that Rothgarner thought of nothing else for many years.

He came to his senses on a shelf in a small country house on the edge of the forest. His owners used it to chop carrots, peel apples, and cut rope for thatching. Rothgarner only thought of the simple jobs of a kitchen knife, though he dreamed of the battlefield.

One decade, under a full moon, a child of the house wandered into the forest. Rothgarner found himself once more held as a sword, in the hands of a mother barely out of girlhood. She called out as she stepped through the forest, and past the howls of the wolves she heard her child's answering cry. She flung Rothgarner to the ground and pulled the boy from a hollow log.

"Old friend, old friend..." The voice came from deep in the loam. "Rothgarner the Ravenous, it is Bloodcurdler the Black, who once stalked the battlefield with you."

"I am merely a knife now," said Rothgarner. "I am sundered in truth. Are you near?"

"I am with the skeleton of the last who wielded me. The High Sheriff's successors turned the kingdom over to an empire across the sea. For many generations, I fought for their crown princes. At last I was sent with a prince stripped of honor on a desperate mission to regain it. He fell to wolves not far from here. I lie under dirt and leaves, and fear I have learned how to rust."

Rothgarner's empty ruby sockets glinted softly in the moonlight, as if in sorrow. "I have served as a weapon for cooks, kitchen-maids, and peasant mothers since the day your rebel died. I taste blood once a decade from the fingers of girls being taught to cook and I bring tears to men only from onions. I share your grief."

"No," shouted Bloodcurdler. "You could not understand! I would hew wood, I would shear wool, I would serve as a barrel cooping if I only could serve some purpose! Tell your girl I lie here. Promise her I will be hers!"

"I cannot grant your wish," said Rothgarner. "I can no longer place lust or greed in mortals' hearts."

"You lie! You... door-latch! You fork! Stay here, at least. Let your girl go home without you and join me in this tomb. With the two of us, this hell would be more than halved."

"I am sorry, my old friend. May you not rust forever." The young mother took him up in her free trembling hand and set off again through the wood.

For Steam and Country

by Jon Del Arroz

(From the novel, For Steam and Country)

Captain Anton's knife went slack against my neck, scraping downward. The blade nicked me in a couple of places as he fell to the ground. The wound he'd created stung. My eyes fluttered open. I couldn't believe I still lived. "You... you didn't shoot me," I said to Captain von Cravat.

"Of course I didn't. Now get behind me. I have more of your mess to clean up," Captain von Cravat said. She motioned to a couple of her commandos to flank around the tree the final Wyranth soldier used as cover.

Everyone moved so fast. I gingerly touched my neck, still in disbelief at the fact I lived. James rushed to my side and steadied me.

The lone Wyranth soldier became desperate. He stayed behind his tree, but blindly fired two more shots from his rifle.

"Duck!" Captain von Cravat shouted.

James wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to the ground. I braced myself with a hand, crashing to the dirt. When I looked up, Captain von Cravat's commandos had flanked the Wyranth soldier. Captain von Cravat closed her hand into a fist in a pronounced motion, and her crew fired simultaneously. The Wyranth stumbled out from behind the tree, falling to the ground soon after.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. "Zaira, snap out of it," Captain von Cravat said.

I looked up, blinking. "What's happening?"

"Later. There's a lot more soldiers out there, and we need to get you back up on the airship before someone notices the commotion we made here," she said.

Marina produced a small lantern that had a handle and some gears attached, spinning slowly as the light pulsed inside. She pointed it up toward the airship and flipped a switch. The lantern blinked on and off four times.

Four more blinks returned from the airship and several rope ladders dropped from the sky. The ladders swayed in the wind, the airship hovering at least five stories off the ground.

I stared up at the Liliana. Did Captain von Cravat expect me to climb that? "There's no way I can get up there," I said.

"You'd better, or you'll be found when the next patrol gets here. Get a move on. I didn't risk our necks so you could be afraid of heights." She took the end of one of the rope ladders and shoved it into my hands.

"Zair-bear," James said, "You'll be fine. I'll be right behind you." He smiled at me, warm, reassuring.

I cocked my head upward again, daunted by the prospect of the long trek up to the ship. There was no other choice. I could do this. I had to do this. I started on one of the rungs. Captain von Cravat helped to lift me up. Her men hoisted themselves onto other rope ladders, swinging easily from the ropes and making good time up to the sky above.

I stopped on the rope ladder, wooden rung slipping beneath my shoe until it caught on the rough grain. My hands sweated, and I tightened my grip on the rung above me. "What about Lightning?" I asked.

Captain von Cravat climbed the first rungs behind me, stopping when I did. "We can't descend to load a horse right now. We have to keep moving. She'll be fine. Someone will find her and will give her a nice home. Now keep moving!"

I climbed, gut wrenching with each step. The higher I ascended, the more likely a fall would kill me. I moved far too slowly for Captain von Cravat's tastes. I could see impatience in her eyes when she waited for me in between steps. But what was I to do? I had never tried acrobatics like these before. It was hard enough hold on. The rope wobbled, and the wind pelted us.

About halfway up the rope, I looked down at the ground and froze. At that point, I noticed that the airship didn't hover. It moved forward. Dizziness overcame me. "By Malaky, tell them to stop!"

"We can't stay in one place or we'll be a target for the rest of the Wyranth army. You don't want to get shot off this ladder, do you? Keep. Moving." Captain von Cravat said, her voice even more stern than before.

My palms could barely grip each rung, the sweat dripped from me like I was a leaking sieve. I scanned for James, who had already climbed to the bottom of the airship hull. If he could do it...

I moved up the rungs with determination, hand over foot. Before long, all the others were up on the Liliana's deck with only Talyen and I lagging behind.

When I reached the top rung, a couple of the crew hoisted me onto the deck, pulling me up by the shoulders. My legs hovered in the air in a fearful moment.

Captain von Cravat crouched onto the deck before lifting herself, smoothing down her Grand Rislandian Army uniform. "I find it harder and harder to believe you're his daughter," she said under her breath.

Those words stung worse than the knife wounds on my neck.

Herald of the Dead

by Todd Everhart

Tiernan slid down the algae covered stone wall of the well with a speed shy of free fall. He braced his back against the slippery masonry on the opposite side. Escape was the only thing on his mind. Suddenly, the stone fled from his flapping feet, no longer vibrating on his slime covered back. Darkness swallowed him as the well's shaft gave way to an open grotto. The bucket snapped against taut rope, bouncing its rim into his jaw. Dazed short of unconsciousness, he bitterly clung on.

He dangled listlessly over the murk shrouded drop. The sounds of the passing savage horde could be heard from below. Their clamoring feet reverberated through the stone and their baleful cries echoed down the shaft. As the din spilled into the cistern, he knew that no wall or floor was close. Their sounds expanded into the chasm where he dangled, reverberating off of distant walls.

A few moments passed as the horde continued its cannibal advance on the town of Siennor. Tiernan regarded his new predicament. Should he work off a boot to measure the drop and hope for a deep splash or try and climb the rope he clung to? He looked skyward gauging the distance.

The night sky was still cloudless, yet filling with smoke and cinder from the fires of the feral rampage. It had been a pleasant night to stargaze in Siennor before death descended to their valley. Recalling his walk home from the tannery, Tiernan had been in high spirits. Musing in the evening dusk, he relived Etain's blush at his absurd and witless joke. Instead of embarrassment they shared a genuine laugh. When their eyes met, her face ran flush while her grin remained.

An icy, gut-piercing bite of dread interrupted his momentary reverie. A ravenous face leered at him from the lip of the well. The firelight cast on its pale cheek could not penetrate its sunken eye sockets. Its hair was black and wiry and fluttered about like the flicking antennae of cave crickets. Tiernan froze. It was as if his heart had stopped and his blood turned to ice. He was alone, suspended over an abyss looking death in the eye. The next moment the wretched figure vanished.

Tiernan's paralyzing terror lifted as the cannibal disappeared. Gulping a long overdue breath, he started working through his predicament again. He squinted his eyes, taking advantage of the creeping fire light to discern the depths below. Siennor and the surrounding lands had experienced a long drought. He wondered if the cisterns had entirely dried up or if any water remained.

A shadow eclipsed the mouth of the well once more. Tiernan jerked his head back up to see what cast the shadow. More figures had returned... or gathered. The sudden motion from jerking his head caused the line to sway. A hand reached out to pluck the rope like a harp string. Then he heard a squeak and felt the tug of the well's crank. The line jolted, tugged, then released. Tiernan watched the lip of the well, transfixed. The savages were still there and they looked on with hunger. Could they see him in the darkness? No words passed among them, yet one by one they disappeared from sight.

Tiernan didn't know how long he had hung there since the last raider departed. His arms were sore and the muscles in his weary hands cramped. He needed to decide what to do next, before his remaining strength waned. Was he going to climb back to the surface or drop into the dank unknown? He thought of his family, his mother, father, brothers, sister, then of Etain. What could he do for them were he to return? How does a hare triumph over a pack of wolves? It can only hide in its burrows. Tiernan hoped they had found safe places to hide, but he would never be placated until he knew their fate.

The screams of his fellow villagers had faded. Survival instinct commandeered his body as Tiernan swung one foot up and into the bucket. Dangling like a curled spider at the end of its web, he summoned his remaining strength. He pushed one foot against the bucket as he wrapped his other leg on the line, gripping the rope higher with his failing hands, he climbed. Once back into the confines of the shaft, he rested some of his weight on the well's wall to continue his ascent.

Hooking the well's lip with one tremulous arm, Tiernan hoisted his head above the stone wall and peered around for signs of danger. The air was thick with the smell of smoke. Every building around the village square was in flames. Nothing moved but flickering flames, trailing smoke, and wafting ash. The blood of hounds, horses, and townsfolk blended in pools among the flagstones. Tiernan rolled out of the well like a dumped bale of hay. He spread and closed his fists trying to return the sense back to his tortured hands. Then with determination, he wheeled to his feet disappearing into a cloud of smoke that lead towards home.

Approaching his home, Tiernan found the door ajar swaying in the slight breeze. The roof had caught fire and sagged from within. Racing through the threshold, he frantically called out the names of his loved ones. Hacking and half blind he searched through the smoldering house for signs of hope. Overturned furniture, spilled flour, and broken personal effects showed signs of mayhem, but not of butchery. They had obviously fled, but not near enough to hear his shouts.

Abandoning the shambles of his home, Tiernan made his way to Etain's house higher up the valley's slope. The buildings became more sparse as he climbed the canted road. It was apparent the worst of the destruction had been in the heart of Siennor. Turning his gaze back, it looked as though an arsonist swarm of locusts had fallen on the town and followed the path of the valley below. The horde was moving into the lowland farms. This realization filled Tiernan with hope and he quickened his pace to Etain's.

A call came from behind him, "Tiernan, young Tiernan!"

He spun at the sound of his name almost faltering from his momentum. Druce the Cooper was waving him down as he hobbled over hurriedly with an iron crowbar. The leathery warthog of a cooper exclaimed, "Blithe spirits! You still live!"

"Has everyone up this way been spared?" Tiernan inquired.

"I haven't taken an accounting, but the raiders seem to have moved on."

Tiernan hesitated, "... and Etain?"

"Her father's been rounding up everyone so they can go down and look for survivors."

Still groping for the one piece of information he sought, Tiernan pressed Druce, "But is Etain...?"

Druce cut in with disbelief as if harassed, "You think he'd not be down there already if she were?"

This settled Tiernan's anguish, though he recognized he could not show up like some lovelorn fool inquiring about her safety. He had no association outside of business with her family. Druce had called out his foolishness in pursuing the girl in spite of the dire threat to everyone else. Her father was marshaling a rescue party, but Tiernan knew no one remained down in the heart of Siennor. Tiernan had looked upon the face of death. He knew these were more than marauding savages, but his mind hadn't yet grasped the true horror of these beasts. The realization came dripping through. He had processed animal carcasses his whole life in the tannery. The savage horde was unliving and no one who had faced them had yet lived to share what he now knew. If the dead walked, there would be no stopping them.

"I wish to take your mare, if you'll let me spread word to Ebora of the coming danger." Tiernan spoke with an authority unknown to him.

Druce, who had already turned away, halted. "She'd be happy to be free of the stables if you can calm her dread."

And this is how Tiernan, the apprentice tanner, came to herald the dead from Siennor.

Silence in the Cell Block

by Tommy Tubb Arkansas

Peter Faraday lay abed late, most days. When roused for the morning meal with the other inmates, he ate quickly and returned to his cell as soon as possible. He saw no reason to live through the days now. Let them pass! In the quiet hours his sleepless mind could come alive and rush, ghost-like, up and down the halls of the prison, slip through the barred gates, past the walls edged with barbed-wire, past the eternally empty asphalt lots, and away.

In the three years of his incarceration, Peter Faraday's mind had developed a curious composition, partly through intent and partly though happenstance. He had wished to escape this place of guards and gruel, of bars and boors and ruffians weak or strong. A sheltered man, it was only natural that, deprived of all but the most repulsive social stimulation, he should fall back into himself to stave off mental exsanguination.

Having shifted his faculties to the night hours, he could in fancy return to the happier days of his life. With practice, the sights and sensations thus conjured took on a clarity almost real, which only increased as the months wore on.

This company of the past was the only company left him, for his wife and daughter were gone; his marriage had not been strong enough to survive his incarceration. Towards the end, he thought his wife might even have begun to doubt his innocence. He wondered, sometimes, if she believed him a murderer. He wondered what his child looked like now.

Midnight came. From the cot in his dark cell he could not see the clock, but he felt the hour all the same. He sighed and stared upwards.

After a while, he began to hear a rustling sound. He raised his head and listened, puzzled, as it moved up and down the cell block. Three times, looking out past the bars, he saw something slide by in the dimness. It was gray, perhaps the size of a car, perhaps less. The shadows tricked his eyes, and he lost sight of it. He swung his feet to the floor and went to the bars, peering up and down the hall.

Suddenly something loomed up directly in front of him. A great lump of shadow, humped and hooded, rolled into view. He started and blinked. It looked for all the world like a crouching, mantled figure. He stared at it quizzically and blinked again.

Then silently the shape shifted itself, and a face became visible within the depths of the hood. It was pale, pale as the surface of the moon, and lit with the same light. It had deep empty eye sockets brimming with darkness, but neither mouth nor nose. From under the cloudy robes it unwound two shimmering bony arms, and with these it gripped the bars of his cell.

Peter gazed at it, wide-eyed, motionless, without breath. The shining, mouth-less face leaned close to his, half-a-foot from the bars, and spoke.

"I am sorry for you," it said.

Peter let out his breath, but no other sound escaped him.

"I am sorry for you," the thing said again. Its voiceless utterance was deep and sad.

"Why are you sorry for me?" he asked, wonderingly.

"Because you are innocent, and you are imprisoned," was the reply.

"What are you?" asked Peter.

"A lonely thing," said the face.

"How did you get in here?"

"I crawled upon my body. I have no legs."

"Why are you here?"

"I want to help you. Let me help you."

"How can you help me?"

"I can set you free."

"I don't know who or what you are, but how do you expect to free me?"

"By opening this cage."

Peter paused. "I can't be freed. I'll be a fugitive. My home is gone. My family has left me. There's no point in setting me free."

"Truly; I cannot give back what you have lost. I can free you in this place, but not in the one where you were bound. But perhaps you may find peace here."

"What do you mean?" Peter stared about. "What 'place' are you talking about?"

"The place we are in now. This is not the place where they imprisoned you. But if I free you, here you will wander in silence all your days. Will that give you peace?"

Peter rubbed his brow and leaned his head against the bars. "I see so many things in the night," he said. "So many faces, so many places. I wonder what you are?"

"I am the one who feels sorry for you. Please, let me set you free, so you may find peace."

Peter shrugged and closed his eyes. "Perhaps I'm mad now," he said. "It might be a relief. Silence? Peace? They would be a relief too.

"Set me free then," he said. "I'll take what comes."

The huge figure removed its hands from the bars and grasped the door, which slid silently open. Peter saw that it had neither keyhole nor lock.

Out he stepped, slowly, and looked about him. He seemed to be standing in the same cell block through which was herded day by day. It was dim, but not nearly so dark as it had recently seemed. Nonetheless there were no lights--indeed, there were no light-fixtures, no security cameras, no chemical odors, no baton-wielding guards. There was nothing but the silence and the all-pervasive shadows and the great sad thing beside him.

"Come with me," said the thing. "But make no sound, or you will wake them."

"Come where? And what am I not to wake?" said Peter.

"I will take you way from here, it is not safe. All those others who were kept alongside you are here too, and we must not wake them."

"The prisoners? The other men?"

"There were no other men in the place where they caged you," said the thing solemnly. "But those things who were caged there with you are here too, and they are not caged here."

Peter stared about, running a hand over his brow. He must be mad, he thought. It was madness that conjured this still, unreal place and his unearthly savior.

"Why are they free?" he asked.

His guide turned. "What prison can trammel the true form of such things?"

Peter did not reply, but moved out across the floor. His footsteps gave back no echo. As if in a dream he crossed the hall and approached the cells opposite.

"Do not wake them!" came the voice, but Peter had already peered into the cell.

He staggered back with a gasping curse.

What he saw lying upon the bunk inside was not a man or anything like one. It was a horrible mottled, formless thing, slimy and slug-like.

At his cry it writhed suddenly into life, rearing up its shapeless head and thrusting it towards him. It flopped from the bunk, squirmed upright as if it were a man, and flung itself against the door, which gave back slightly. Butting its head into the gap, it thrust the door open and floundered though. Peter stumbled away from it, panting in terror and disgust, but on all sides, the cells were silently opening open under the impetus of flabby bodies, and other misshapen things were lurching across the floor. Some had no legs, some no arms, some neither legs nor arms. Some had no mouths, or no faces at all. All were eyeless, unformed and foul. Their bodies were wrapped about with ropes and strings that stretched or bit into their soft flesh--and this was the true horror of them, that each one was vivisected, bound and trussed into the semblance of a man. No matter their deformities, all were cruelly knotted into gross approximations of an allotted shape.

Peter spun about as they converged upon him. They were upon all sides. He saw his companion lunging towards him, gasping at the slick floor with huge hands to pull itself along, but still far away. The things fell against him and took hold of him with tremendous strength. He kicked and thrashed until he was free, and then pummeled and beat at them as they thrust and thrust at him. His hands could make no lasting wounds upon them, but their bindings tore under his desperate fingers, and limbs suddenly loosed swelled out of existence, their owners falling upon the floor helpless, no longer able either to rise or grip.

But Peter fell under the weight of their numbers; they crushed him down in silent masses. Then a great shock shook him, and he was free. A huge shining arm swung back and forth above him, and the things flew left and right against the walls with wet slaps, and rolled on the floor. The heavy sad voice boomed again as the giant's bulk towered suddenly at Peter's side. It took the things in its hands, one after another, and flung them about the chamber, against the ceiling, and up onto the catwalks. Under such force they dissolved into twitching putty.

Peter got shaking to his feet.

"What were they? What were they? What were those horrible things?" he gasped.

"I told you, they are those things which were imprisoned alongside you. You should not have woken them."

"Those weren't men!" cried Peter. "Those were nightmares!"

"In your place they were made to wear the shapes of men," rumbled the humped colossus. "But here you saw them clearly, and saw the twisting and the torturing that mindless flesh suffers in such a prison. But for a time now they are harmless. We must go."

"Where?" asked Peter.

"To journey through this place. I know not for how long."

"Why?"

"Because I am lonely, as you are; because I wish for peace, as you do. I will go with you and we will look for peace in this place--we will look for peace, together."

Wordlessly Peter followed him from the cell block. The great gates opened as they did in that other place, but here there were no lights to flash and no klaxon to sound. He was not sure now if he were mad or not. He did not know what waited on the other side of those gates.

The King's Portion

by David Skinner

The massacre was behind them. The broad trees, the thick brambles, enveloped the din. They were far into the afternoon wood; far from the ambush; squatting, out of breath, among low branches, dead leaves, and mushrooms. The King pulled free of Faren's grip. Abashedly, Faren shuffled back and awaited the inevitable rebuke. He had dragged the King from the fight; he had reckoned the numbers too much against them. The King had not resisted Faren. He certainly could have commanded Faren to relent. He had not.

"Soldier," he hissed. "Does the Legion have guidelines for manhandling the King?"

Eyes down, Faren said, "No, Sire. None."

"Indeed. So you were improvising?"

Faren watched a millipede walk. "Yes, Sire."

"Hmph." The King turned and looked back. Bitterly he wondered how his men were faring. They had fallen so often against the Usurper's thousands. Much as the King had been on the run -- refusing to abdicate -- for nearly a year, to run now, most literally, from an unfinished fight was, at best, unseemly. He ached to rejoin his men. But to what end? What reward? What had their King given them, besides defeat? In his bitterness he told himself they deserved his merciful absence.

Then all quieted. A whoop went up. The name of the foul Usurper was chanted. The noise of swords was done. It had been the barest battle. The King's own thousands were finished, now; all dead or scattered; reduced, perhaps, to only one. Grimacing, the King turned away and motioned Faren to follow. They skulked into the wood, out of the afternoon.

Faren had never worked land. He had never hunted. Before joining the Legion, he had been a laborer in the great city, and like everyone else in the alleys and hovels, had fed on the largesse of the Senate. The countryside, even now, was only a thing to march through or dig into, to damage incidentally as men killed each other, to conform to the Legion's intent. Faren had never quite thought of Nature as more than a passage between civilizations.

Yet it was not only the unease of an urban man that came upon Faren now. They were far from the cities, to be sure; but there was a density to this wood, a vigor to the tangle, that beset him, stirring the sensation that he was surrounded. And seen. Every trunk was stolid, every bush a tableau -- and still the plants seemed to stalk him. They were so many. As the twilight blossomed, their shadows seemed to breathe. His viscera turned. Not merely the cities were distant; Faren felt that every tie, every grounding, was being leeched from him. He progressively felt removed from Man.

At least the King remained with him. Faren focused on him, as if gripping the edge of a cliff. He wondered if the King was distressed as well. If he was, he didn't show it.

But here where even the beasts were scant, they were surprised by a scout from the Usurper's Legion.

Such scouts had no doubt been deployed in all directions, once the King had not been found among the dead. The sight of the pesky King, the irritant who delayed the new order, seemed to agitate the scout. He might have wounded the King from afar, then shouted for help from his dispersed fellows. Instead he saw his chance to be the Kingkiller; to be the greatest servant to his Lord.

Or perhaps, being distressed like Faren, he acted rashly, seeking a familiar sort of contact -- of brutal human connection \-- here in this unearthly wood.

They met in an accidental path, a widening in the chaotic flow of the forest. The scout burst upon them, axe already in mid-stroke; but his blow was deflected by a hanging branch. He missed the neck of the King, striking the segmented armor of the King's shoulder. The King swung his fist into the ribs of his assailant; and Faren, tripping on a root and falling, still twisted true and brought his blade to the back of the scout's knee. The scout went down. The King drew his dagger and, putting his weight to the blade, dropped dagger first into the scout's face, killing him.

The King got to his feet. He glanced at Faren, who had landed on his bottom, and nodded in acknowledgment. Self-consciously Faren scrambled upright.

The King then glared at the body of his foe. Here lay no foreign mercenary. By his look, by his armor, the dead man was clearly of this country; by whatever separation of birth, still kin.

The King's eyes burned.

He growled, "You traitor! You worm! You turned from your King. You serve a usurper. A thief! You hope for the scraps, do you? How bountiful treachery is! A kingdom to be had!" The King bent over, as if he could intimidate the corpse. "Well, this kingdom is mine. I am your King. These are my lands. The bounty was already yours, had you stayed with me." He longed to kill the scout again.

And at his feet the bloody head turned. Was he not dead? The King tensed to strike; but the spasm he saw was not life. It was... movement. Damp, dead leaves shifted around the body, greedily caressing its limbs; dried roots hungrily embraced and pierced it. The King, wide-eyed, stepped back. As did Faren. The blood of the body was blackened. The roots faded. The leaves parted. The body was lifted, and trembled. Its armor fell, every strap suddenly decayed. Its tunic dusted away. It hovered naked, black blood traversing its chest.

Its jaw moved. Its lungs acted. It spoke.

"Forgotten beast. So long remembered. Beast so rare. So familiar. Forgotten. This taste." Patches of skin were roiling, as if touched by lye. "Too deep I have been. Exquisite beast so long unfound."

The head bobbed and mimicked a stare, beholding first Faren, then the King. "And two others. A feast. I will be sated.

"But you." The body drifted toward the King. "Scent is different. Not common. Even in ever."

There was a thought in Faren's head that he should protect the King. All day it had been his will. He had done so twice already.

Instead Faren found himself crying out to the gods, any gods, every god, to shield him, solely him, and all of him, from the abomination approaching the King; and so crying out, Faren ran.

Something had come from the forest's heart. It had infused the corpse; revealed itself; declared its hunger -- some demon that befouled the leaves and bark, that resided in beleaguered flora. As Faren ran, he stumbled; he flinched from a corruption promised in every grasping branch.

He saw no path. Every direction was the same. The afternoon had passed. Sunlight struggled through the tops of the trees. Was the demon's spirit coalesced far behind him, back with the King, or dispersed around? Faren wanted to hide; yet every hole seemed a maw.

He simply stopped, and sat, and huddled, and hid his head, and recited again the names of even the least of the gods.

"Soldier!"

The King, it seemed, had been only steps behind. He skidded to a crouch before Faren. He caught his breath. His face had paled in fear. He huddled with Faren. His breathing eased. And then, hotly, his color returned. Indeed, his face hardened.

"No," snarled the King. "No more. Soldier, I..." He lowered his voice. "What is your name?"

Whispering, Faren answered, "Munifex Faren, Sire."

"Faren. I have spent a year fighting. You know I have failed. And lately... You've seen it yourself. Twice in one day I have fled!" He shook his head firmly. "Gods! I will flee no more."

Over the King's shoulder, Faren saw the corpse appear. It had followed leisurely. The King sensed it and stood. He turned to face it.

The flesh was roiling still -- and disappearing, as if it were being bitten, torn, and chewed away, rent by an unseen mouth.

The King exhaled once, heavily. Then he sprang toward the corpse and grasped at a loosened bicep, tearing away a handful of the half-eaten flesh.

It spoke. "You strike me? To kill me? You cannot."

The King had stepped back. "I suspect that you speak the truth. For all I know, you are immortal. You are surely very, very old. And of course you are fearful -- an ageless and terrible thing. I grant you that."

The King raised and contemplated the bloody flesh in his hand.

"But this wood you infest? This land? It is my kingdom. You are my subject."

Hand still raised, he stepped to confront the listening corpse. "I did not try to kill you. Or even to strike you. You eat this man whom I killed? So do I!" The King bit into the flesh. He chewed. He swallowed. "I take the King's portion of your meal. And you will not object."

The corpse was expressionless and silent. One might think it nonplussed.

It spoke. "Your scent is truly different."

It retreated, then, as if wafted backwards. It scraped and vanished into the trees.

Faren gaped. Had he just seen a demon defer to the King? He had. He would tell everyone that he had!

The King wiped his chin.

"Come along, Faren. We have an army to raise."

Superluminary Episode 01: Assassin in Everest

by John C. Wright

Aeneas Tell of House of Tell, youngest of the Lords of Creation, was twenty-one when he was assassinated for the first time.

His secondary brain came awake while his primary brain was still foggy with strange dreams. Alert to danger, the secondary brain stopped the nerve pulses from the primary brain which otherwise would have let him groan and open his eyes, which would have precipitated the nervous killer's attack.

But his primary brain had been in the delta brainwave stage of sleep, a deep and dreamless slumber. There was no sound, no light, no disturbance. What had broken his sleep? A memory, like an echo, of terrible multiple toothaches left a metallic taste in his mouth.

He had been dreaming about his insane grandfather, the Emperor. The old man had been telling him about the secrets of the universe... then a stinging pain in his teeth had jarred him awake. But how could Aeneas remember a dream when he had not been in the desynchronous brainwave state in which dreaming was possible?

Aeneas, eyes still closed, not daring to move, increased the firing rate of his auditory nerves. He was laying on the nongravity cushion of his opulent four-poster bed. The neverending whisper of the high-altitude winds of Mount Everest beyond the bubble of weather-controlled air was now loud to him.

On these upper peaks his family had erected the proud imperial palace-city of Ultrapolis, whose towers and domes were impregnable behind concentric force-shells and thought-screens. None of the artificial or bio-modified races of the nine worlds, fifty worldlets, and one hundred eighty moons of the Solar System could bring any realistic threat to bear on these defenses, not while the twelve ranking members of the House of Tell, the so-called Lords of Creation, retained control of the stratonic supertechnology known only to them.

But betrayal from within was another matter.

The quiet hiss of the protective screen that the bedposts projected around the bed was gone. He could not hear the heartbeats of his two bodyguards posted in the anteroom of his apartments. Instead he heard the heartbeat, louder and faster than was possible for an unmodified human being, of the assassin.

As the youngest member of the Family, Aeneas had been stuffed into the oldest wing of the oldest palace, and no other guards were within shouting distance.

There was no sound of footsteps on the nightingale wood floor of his bedchamber, and so for a moment Aeneas had a false sense of hope. But the sound of the racing heart was close at hand.

The killer was in the chamber with him.

Then he felt a waft of intense cold radiating from the cells of the man's body. The assassin was near the bed, coming closer, bending over him.

Aeneas reflexively focused a thought to his signet ring, asking alarms silently to ring and the armaments hidden in the walls to slay the intruder. But there was no response. The electrotelepathic circuit was blocked.

The nanoscopic thought-broadcast cells his mother had implanted in the bones of his skull likewise were blocked when he tried to send needle-thin neuropsionic signals to receivers hidden in the ceiling.

A sharp, stabbing pain reappeared in his lower left molar, and then vanished. And then an upper incisor throbbed with a pain that vanished, and then a bicuspid. It was an basic proprioception code. It read: Intruder in dis-inertia armor ... negative-vitality field integument ... contortion node detected ...

Of course. The killer was wearing armor that contorted the fabric of space a few inches in each direction around himself and lowered his inertia. It would prevent ordinary weapons, bullets or monomolecular blades, from imparting kinetic energy to him to do damage. Hence he could glide across the floor without imparting any pressure to the special floorboards biogineered to sound off when they felt an unfamiliar footstep.

The contortion node was a teleportation path for the assassin's escape.

Modified electroneural ganglia beneath the killer's skin — impossible for normal antiweapon sensors to detect — had erected a life-energy absorption cocoon. Hence the killer had silently drained Aeneas' two bodyguards of their life and added it to his own, increasing his neural speed and muscle pressure. It was a vampire field, a modification illegal to all but the highest ranking and most trusted servants of the Lords. And a normal man would be killed at a touch.

Aeneas was no normal man. From hidden retaining cells in his bone marrow he released stored life-energy charges into his body, increasing his nerve-muscle potential beyond what a vampire energized with only two men's vitality could match.

Faster than a striking snake and stronger than a rhino, Aeneas flung up the bedsheet and drove his fist into the man's chest. It was a blow that would have cracked metal and broken ribs had it landed.

But the disinertia armor granted the man's body no tendency, when at rest, to stay at rest. The force of the blow touched him, and his velocity instantaneously equaled that of the moving fist. Aeneas threw a punch twice as hard as that of a prizefighter. The inertia-free man was flung at one hundred miles an hour into the corner of the ceiling on the far side of the chamber. But, upon striking the wall, the attacker came to an instantaneous halt, without any deceleration or hurt.

Aeneas, on the other hand, still had the inertia of any ordinary body, and while he had, for one moment, the strength of a rhinoceros, he lacked the mass. The recoil of the punch flung him off back, and he fell between the mahogany bed and the golden wall. He came to his knees. The floorboards sang with his every motion.

The other fell, inertialess but not weightless. Gravity yanked: but the moment his toe touched the rug near the fireplace, his downward motion ceased instantly, and his feet did not bend the fibers.

Aeneas adjusted his eyes to night-vision. The man had face and hands white as marble and cold as ice, a side-effect of the vampire field. He was not wearing his helmet or gauntlets. This allowed the death energies to emerge from his palms and fingers, mouth and eyes. The hair of his head had grown and was growing under the impact of the absorbed vital essence, and was standing and swaying as if under variable electrostatic charges.

"It's you!" Aeneas shouted.

It was Thoon, the bold and charismatic leader of the Antimonarchy resistance.

Aeneas laughed in relief.

The toothache being produced by an induction beam his signet ring was shining like an invisible searchlight of nerve-exasperating energy was not done spelling out its initial message.

Neuropsionic interference field epicenter aerodrome ... waveform type ...

Aeneas gritted his teeth, halting their painful vibration. He knew the waveform of the interference transmitter he had smuggled into the mountaintop airfield in his private aerospace limousine, and covertly connected to the air traffic systems. He had built the thing himself through his ring, using plans gleaned from his mother's extensive and secret library of neuropsionic techniques and mechanisms.

"What are you doing here?" Aeneas said. "That was not the plan."

Thoon said, "Your plan was to jam all the neural frequencies so that your Uncles and Aunts, the so-called Lord of Creation, could not mindspeak to their signet rings or other thought-receivers. I am sure you are wishing, about now, your precious rings could hear and react to voice command? For this one hour, the mighty lords are helpless! Robbed of their weapons and servants, they could be caught and killed!"

Aeneas said, "Arrested and tried, not killed."

"Tried by whom? The world who worships them? A foolish plan! But my plan was to sabotage the thought-screen around this mountain, so that, as soon as I have on my finger that library of secrets you carry on yours, I can transmit it to my waiting compatriots, Otus and Agrios."

Aeneas said, "And our agreement?"

"You control a technology so advanced that it is indistinguishable from magic. I am merely a human. When I was a child, only Earth was habitable, or inhabited. Your family re-engineered planets and moons from Mercury to Neptune, and you each have a different personal species of synthetic men to serve you! How can a bargain between a man and a god be valid?"

"I am no god. And you are no man. Real men keep their oaths! The only way to overthrow the dominion of the Lords of Creation over the solar system was to destroy the supertechnology! Destroy, not steal!"

Thoon said, "Fool! Otus, Agrios and I will join the Lords of Creation! Who burns down a palace he can live in? Who frees slaves he can make his own?"

With superhuman strength, Thoon jumped up and kicked off the fireplace mantle behind him. He soared across the room. It took no energy to accelerate his mass immediately to top speed.

Thoon's outstretched hand reached for Aeneas. Aeneas, puzzled, punched Thoon. Aeneas felt no impact on his knuckles, but the body of Thoon had no tendency to stay in motion, and so he soared to the far side of the room again.

A sensation of cold stabbed Aeneas' hand. The skin of his knuckles was black as if with frostbite. Now he understood. Thoon was not trying to punch, merely to get near. Aeneas closed tightly the pangolin scales of his subcutaneous living armor. The scales were leaves of a symbiotic life made of bioadmantium, a life-form based on a superdense alloy rather than on hydrogen and carbon. Bioadmantium-based life occupied a different band of the life energy spectrum than carbon-based life, and so acted as an insulation against the vampire field. It was not life-tight, however. The pliant metal scales had tiny ports or gaps to interconnect his inner and outer circulatory and nervous systems.

Thoon gaped in surprise. "How are you still alive? I touched you! You should be dead!"

Aeneas threw back and head and roared with pride, "I am a Lord of Creation! All the techniques of biotechnology are mine! My grandfather made clouds rain manna, made wastelands bloom as gardens, created mermaids and dinosaurs! Those are as nothing! You could not have entered this palace without my help. How do you plan to escape?"

Thoon laughed. "Me? I am carrying a contortion pearl. When it ignites the space-contortion to carry me out of here, the blast will randomize every atom in this room! No one will know I took your signet from your dead body, with all its wondrous secrets! Oh, I know it is attuned to your brain. So I will take that as well. Then, once you are undead, a necrorobotic zombie...?" He laughed again. "So, how do you plan to escape?"

"Where did you get a contortion pearl? No one outside the family uses our method of teleporting by Schroedinger quantum-entangled wave. Who is helping you?"

Thoon said, "Stavros and Dmitripolous! They are helping me! Come in, boys!"

Aeneas scowled. Those were the names of his bodyguards. It was sad, but he could not recall if these men had been married, or had families. A twinge of guilt stabbed him. Aeneas wondered if he were just as corrupted by power as his uncles.

At that moment, the dead bodies of Stavros and Dmitripolous, pale-faced and empty-eyed, bloodless as marble statues, came walking through the door. Their motions were fluid and not stiff. It was eerie to see how smooth and graceful they were, now that they were no longer alive. There was no mark on them, no wound, for they had been killed by life absorption. Hence their brains and nervous systems were intact, and could move muscles, albeit not feel pain. The echoes and residue of their thoughts and memories were in them. Each one still knew how to activate, and raise and aim his many-barreled sidearm.

Thoon said, "Kill him! But don't hit him in the head! I want his brain!"

Into the Hands of a Living God

by Dominika Lein

He entered the ballroom and I knew immediately I had to dance with him before the night turned to dawn. All evening I'd been bored by lords and ladies of the court, whose gossiping and trading of information revealed no secrets beyond the blatant observation they were all equals in petty social graces.

Forced to endure such heinous torture as small talk, visual musings had taken precedence of my mind. Even in a grand hall filled to the brim with the richest, wisest, and boldest of humanity, I found myself unimpressed with the base aesthetics of their ancestors and their stringy hair drawn to attempt a similarity of uniqueness... mutual attempts at fitting in while also standing out. Their adornments followed this bland pattern of peacocking. Though my attire and styling didn't break from this, the need to meld with the crowd trumped my desire to be truly seen.

But he...

Oh, he, who proudly strutted down the steps with a brutal stave in hand. His pitchfork gleamed under the brightly lit chandeliers. Where did he find such splendid material on such a dismal planet?

Licking my lips, I slunk away from meager conversation between socialites. Prowling with heavy royal skirts in both hands, I kept my sight trained on him. Did he notice me? If he did, I could not tell.

Others noticed him, though. As he swaggered past, the sea of nobles parted to make way for him. They looked upon him with admiration and adoration despite how different he was from them. No attempts to wrest him from their senses occurred. A couple scholars, lowly in the night's company, fell to their knees and clapped their hands in prayer, then set their foreheads to the ground on which the man had walked.

My breath caught at this. Ever since my landing, I'd never thought I'd find someone such as him. Not here, not now. I took out my fan and cooled my blushing cheeks, fluttering the ostrich feathers.

He stopped the waltzing aristocrats spinning about the dance floor. The dancers curtsied and bowed, returning to their formal lines where they had begun the melodic ritual a few minutes ago. Gradually, he collected every single attendee's complete attention. He certainly had mine.

Even the military soldiers who guarded the most prominent royalty bowed their heads and relaxed their stances into subservient posture. A captain, adorned with a plumed helm and ceremonial armor, knelt to offer his hand to guide the man onto the raised platform where the monarchs sat with awed expressions.

Why did they not point and scream at the man's skin? It held no color known to them, shimmering in the torchlight with otherworldly hues. Why did they not bite their lips and pull at their tight collars due to the brazen hair about his face and scalp? Did they not notice his additional eyes beaming, ringed around his temples like a circlet? A great variety of colors and shapes, the many eyes blinked at the weak-willed humans.

Could those orbs see me? Did he think I was merely another one of them?

So terribly did I want to shed my skin before him and present myself to his judgment. Folding my fan, I held still behind a line of esteemed foreign dignitaries.

He turned to the orchestra housed in one of the lower balconies. In each alcove lining the grand walls, elites fawned over the edges to wave handkerchiefs and toss offerings of flowers and jewelry at his feet. He didn't appear impressed, letting the material objects be swept away by a guard who gathered them in a cape.

How much longer could I stay unknown? I chewed at my lower lip until it bled, a red trail trickled down my chin and stained my high-collar blouse.

His back faced me while he motioned to the orchestra. Each of his movements were filled with raw power and unrestrained masculinity. It reminded me of distinctions I'd long forgotten in the human world of shifting confusion.

The orchestra played a tune, violently grating on their instruments. In their eyes, madness reigned. Strings snapped from a violin, but the violinist continued playing against the wood's grain regardless.

I could not stand it any longer. Pushing past one of the guests, I threw down my fan with a clatter. Grabbing the soft skin of my neck, I tore apart my human body. Rolling out of the carcass, I landed in a crouched posture. The air felt refreshing on my true form. The marble floor warped, crumbling beneath my alien keratin claws.

That got him to look at me.

He turned away from his work to face me, though the orchestra continued to play his chaotic symphony. His eyes blinked slowly. Tilting his head to the side, a smile wound the corners of his lips upwards. Wider than any human, the mouth stretched past his pointed, triangular earlobes.

"Never have I seen such a smile in all the galaxies," said I.

Placing his heeled foot one step down the platform stairs, he grinned. His lips stretched thinly over sharp layers of predatory teeth. He said nothing, yet he spoke to me.

I lifted my stature, higher than before, taller than he. My chitinous gown draped around my spindly figure.

He strode down another step. His manifold gaze took me in. His stave tilted forward, morphing from pitchfork to trident like cast shadows under a moving sun.

The flash of a flaming arrow interrupted our precious meeting. I looked by turning towards the source, though he did not move. Above in one of the balconies stood an archer, face shrouded by a golden hood. The arrow landed between us, diving into the marble and burning away the stone.

"Who are you?" I demanded of the stranger. "Leave us in peace. This is no place for you."

"No. You do not recognize me here, but this is no place for you, milady." The archer answered, boldly remaining with another arrow at the ready. "I will not leave without you."

"Then your corpse shall remain." Anger flew me across the room. I landed firmly on the balcony ledge. He loosed an arrow only for it to brush across my gown and fall away. I breathed in the hot flames from his quiver, then exhaled out. A burning ring of fire surrounded the archer. Did I know who he was? No recollection came forth. He only provoked fury so powerful I could not distinguish what else to do other than destroy him.

He swiped his cloak across the flames. They slithered into forms of smoldering serpents, falling over the balcony edge. Fire rained down on the crowds of people who'd been mesmerized into slavish silence ever since I shed the form of their species. The fire drove a few to run in fear. Others became engulfed in the light.

Barely able to observe the scene, my attention was taken by a blade slicing through my arm. The archer had conjured a scythe made from bright sun-mined metal. Light burnt through my rough exterior, lopping my hand clean off. Swinging to the side, I then dropped to the ground. Anger spilled from my mouth in an outpouring of insects. The swarm flew at the archer, to sting and blind his sight.

My hand grew back swiftly, claws bracing as I flexed my new limb. Ready to fight on, I paused to see... him. He looked at me and at the archer and at every human there. He saw us all at once. Again, my heart swooned. My anger subsided for a fleeting moment of tranquil desire.

Raising his trident, he aimed it at the swarm. They fell away, disappearing along with the fire. Ash remained, drifting into the smoky air. He rapped the end of the staff against the marble three times.

The archer leapt down, kneeling in front of him. Though the features were hidden by the hood, I could see the struggle in the stranger's mind. He fought against the other's manifold will, but not well enough.

For he, my mysterious god, had already won. The music stopped, leaving a sliver of silence to deafen the ears of humanity: a prelude for the voice to come.

The victor spoke without moving his lips in the slightest way. His deep voice commanded attention beyond ordinary senses. "You trespass into my realm for the likes of her? Did I not warn you? You were not to interfere with this moment, yet here you are. This is the world I possess and my demands are law. Your transgression is punishable in most excruciating ways, as you know."

Quivering, unable to fully move or respond, the archer's golden cloak faded to dim gray and he said, "You may dominate this dimension, but you cannot command every reality. I will find a way and I will break your bonds."

"Will you?" He turned towards me, gesturing for me to stand beside him with a flick of his wrist. I obeyed, heart fluttering from standing in his incredible aura. Raw power tingled against me, seeping through my body. "You wish to be my Empress?"

"Oh yes," I answered without hesitation, excited by the prospect.

"This is what I desire and this is what she wishes for. What claim do you hold onto something outside of your realm?"

The archer tried to stand, gradually lifting to his feet. "Her senses are intoxicated, she knows not the consequence of such union yet."

"Empress," he spoke to me and I happily forgot everything the archer said. "Open your mouth and accept who you're meant to be."

My lips parted and my forked tongue rested on the lower lip. I opened my mouth wide. I did not care what it might be for and I did not understand the archer. Enamored, yes, but I could still see clearly and feel my mind fully.

The emperor plucked an eye from his circlet. A gray orb with a red iris, he set it on my tongue and pressed upon my chin so I would close my mouth. He tilted my head up. I swallowed the eye.

"No!" said the archer. He flourished, the scythe returning and aimed for the emperor. Together we looked upon him with incredulous fury for such a violent interruption. His attack fell to dust. Snuffed out by the power of a ruler, the archer's body turned to ash and blew away with the wind.

I looked to the many-eyed emperor of the world. He left the crowd in their paralyzed awe, strutting past the humans. I followed him before eternity returned to time.

Lucky Spider's Last Stand

by JD Cowan

The woman had just finished wrapping Spider's bandages when he felt a rumble \- an explosion, nearby. She fell against him, her small shoulders against his chest. The two tumbled to the floor in embrace as the grenade's smoke plumed outside the cracked window. He checked her over and found no wounds.

Her soft skin and fragrance distracted for just a moment. Spider was her enemy, and yet she had agreed to reapply his bandage so easily. He was a villain, and the heroes were coming to rescue her. The girl's concern was baffling.

Yells and gunfire from the men downstairs brought Spider to his feet and then the door. The hideout had been found. He patted the girl on the shoulder and told her to remain quiet.

Her soft brown eyes stared into his, silently questioning his very being. It aggravated him, but he couldn't afford distraction. The boss wouldn't have stood for failure like this. The boss might be dead now, but Spider wouldn't abandon his ideals: not even for the girl.

The door locked behind him, and he slid the key into his pocket. The scent of burnt wood and charred brick assaulted him instantly. He straightened the collar of his blue suit and crossed the decaying hall to the stairs. If he was going to die, he would face death like a man.

The building had been set ablaze a decade ago after a villain with fire powers sought revenge on some fat hacker holed up in his bedroom. That was back when the war between heroes and villains was at its peak. This place was left to rot in Barrie Heights with everything else the villains destroyed in their war for Summerside. But that was ages ago, and those villains were long gone, killed or imprisoned by the heroes. It had nothing to do with Spider.

Burnt floorboards creaked ahead, and Spider went for his gun. He tasted the blood before he smelled it, as if a walking corpse had found its way out of the grave. That was when he saw the intruder.

A man wearing a custom, homemade closed knight helmet and visor out of the fourteenth century and holding two sabers crossed the open floor with giant strides. He wore thick dark brown pants and heavy boots which were the only indications that he might be sane. The rogue wore no shirt and his abs, pectorals, and wide shoulders were covered in blood down to his blades. The awkwardly tempered silver close helm blinded Spider with reflecting moonlight from the shattered windows.

Spider raised his firearm and called out. The psycho continued toward him, unabated.

Spider and his gang had barely escaped last night's raid with the girl; he was still exhausted from running and keeping watch for the cops. It was as if the wannabe hero knew all that.

Of course he did. That was when the realization hit Spider. This was a Crusader.

Spider clenched his teeth. This wasn't an official black mask wearing hero. He was not sent by the government or by the cops. Crusaders were different. These heroes were illegal, and dangerous.

"Stop right there, Crusader," Spider said. He raised the firearm, and tasted the bile at the back of is throat.

"That will not stop me."

Spider fired. The bullet struck the intruder in center mass. Blood spurted from the wound, and the Crusader reeled.

But it wasn't enough. The Crusader stood straight, and the bullet leaped back out of the wound. The spent shot clanked uselessly against the burnt floorboards.

Spider fired again with the same result. The Crusader advanced. The scent of fresh blood hung in the air.

His anger rising, Spider threw the gun aside. This Crusader was a physical type hero; his ability was obviously self-healing. Matching him one on one would not happen. Spider would have to make a run for it.

"Are you thinking of running, Spider?"

Sweat poured down Spider's neck. "Are you Cataclysm? The illegal hero who kills mooks like me?"

"I am," Cataclysm answered from under his close helmet. The visor was so thin that no face could be seen. "You are Lucky Spider, the one who has the Police Chief's daughter captive."

"Yeah."

One of the sabers clanked at Spider's feet. He blinked at it and then at Cataclysm.

"What's this for?"

"I have seen your work, Spider. You are a strong warrior wedded to a false cause. Your dishonorable friends paid the price, but you are not like them. There is honor in you. Pick up the blade, and let us see your true strength."

"You have powers. I don't."

"I can heal, true. But does that matter if my head is missing from my shoulders?"

Spider watched the fallen saber with hungry eyes. An itch gnawed at the inside of his brain and a thrill ran deep in his spine. Could he actually win? He would have to. This was his last chance.

Spider scooped up the saber, keeping his eyes on Cataclysm. The Crusader never moved.

After the rise of powers heroes were given a free ride. If you had a good power and were in with the government, the world could be yours. Normal folks got nothing. That had changed over the decades. The rise of illegal heroes, Crusaders, struck a new sort of fear into the dark corners of the underworld. No one knew what they wanted, and they didn't care what the rules were. Death meant nothing to them. You could bargain with a crooked hero, but never a Crusader.

And now Spider was facing one. An inexplicable smile broke across his lips.

"Why a saber?" Spider asked.

"Because you are good with one."

Spider hefted the saber in a practiced grip, raising the blade in a wary guard as he and the Crusader took their distance.

"The loser forfeits their life," Cataclysm said.

"I know how you work."

Spider moved in without waiting, and swiped at the Crusader's open arm. Cataclysm dodged and the two blades clanged. The fighters danced their swords in a swirling symphony of strikes.

Blades crashed and the boards creaked, kicking up black ash and rotted wood. Skin sliced open between the two warriors, and blood leaped out of the wounds. No matter how many swings they exchanged, Cataclysm only closed in. Spider soon found himself with his back to the burnt wall.

"Look out, Spider!"

It was Bull, screaming his heart out. The chubby man stumbled around the corner, clutching his bloodied arm and a gun.

He fired wildly. Two bullets struck Cataclysm in the back. The hero dropped as if his wounds had finally caught up to him. Bull continued firing, and pumped the corpse full of bullets.

Spider slid on his back to the floor. Somehow he wasn't dead.

"Where's the whore?" Bull yelled. He gestured for Spider to get up. Blood streaked down his dirty face as he overlooked Cataclysm's corpse.

"Damn Crusaders."

"He's not dead, Bull. Get out quick. I'll get the girl."

"Just cut off his head. I filled him with lead, it's gonna take him a while to wake up, right? Well, finish it."

The hero had said that; Spider could end it right here. But should he? Blood was still leaking from Cataclysm's wounds and he remained still. Spider took one step toward the Crusader, his own wounds crying out. The infamous Lucky Spider lives again.

Wooziness gripped him. Crimson blood had stained Spider's blue suit from head to toe. The bandage the girl had wrapped him with was sliced apart. His breathing was heavy. He had to finish this fast.

He stood over Cataclysm with his sword ready. He'd actually lived. The boss would be so proud.

But the boss was dead.

Cold chills pierced his heart and trickled down into his stomach. The massacre last night had killed most of the guys. He had looked after the girl—Michelle. The others wanted to serve her to the cops in pieces, but the boss said it was up to Spider. The boss had always trusted Spider's judgment to keep him alive. But Spider had failed the boss in the raid last night. He was gone now.

And why did the girl look at him like that?

He lifted the sword, and then brought it down.

It pierced into the rotting board beside Cataclysm's head.

"Get moving, Bull," Spider yelled out. "He's going to wake up any second."

"I'm always awake," Cataclysm whispered through the visor.

The Crusader braced his hands against the floor and spun up onto his helmet, then nimbly leapt to his feet in one easy motion. The bullets jumped from his wounds. Bull swore and ran back out the way he came.

"You call that a friend, Spider?"

His body heavy, all Spider could do was consider the Crusader's words. The gang would always be like this. "Guess not."

Spider tried to smile, but the world slanted. He dropped to his knees, and then to the floor. Moonlight from the shattered windows blinded him.

"We must do battle again, Lucky Spider," Cataclysm said.

The world blanked out, and ended.

When Spider awoke, he was lying in an alleyway. The rising sun punched him hard, clashing against the cold alley. Graffiti and trash littered the moist pavement assaulting the rest of his senses. He lifted himself out of the garbage. He wore a long coat over his torn suit, and the bandage around his right arm had been reapplied. The girl's scent lingered over both. He plucked the sleeve and realized it came a bit short. It looked the same as the her coat. Why did she patch him up again?

He stumbled out of the alley and sunk into the crowds. People gushed around Spider like a raging river.

Despite the urge to return to the guys, he knew they were all gone. The girl was back home, and the day was saved thanks to that hero. And now Spider had nothing.

But he felt something in his pockets. He dug deep inside. It was the life savings he had squirreled away from the guys, all in envelopes. The girl couldn't have known about it, so who put them there?

The Crusader?

He remembered Cataclysm's last words. They would meet again. He turned on his foot and walked from the busy streets. There was enough in his savings for a small apartment, or a new arsenal. Spider could have his revenge.

But Cataclysm won, and Spider lost. Lucky Spider was dead. He thought of the girl as he disappeared into the crowd. What did she see when she looked at him? He would find it for himself.

Avatar of Pain

by P. R. Marshall

Sun Makani crouched on a rock, observing the dread temple of Korviliak through narrow black eyes. His golden skin glistened in the bright sunlight and his loose green tunic rustled in the light breeze. Hooked to the side of his belt was Hinodun, the broad ax and his faithful companion for many adventures. While Hinodun had no mind of its own, Sun felt it was eager to drown in the blood of the wicked.

The most wicked of all he had met were the vile men who worshiped Korviliak, the three-headed bat god of pain. According to rumor, the altars of Korviliak's temples were bright red because of the lakes of blood spilled in the name of the dark god. Korviliak's cultists usually kept to themselves, sacrificing wild beasts, but sometimes their lord demanded a greater sacrifice. For those, they raided the nearby Ingit villages.

That was why the village had come to him. The village chief's daughter, Ozi, had disappeared. The chief suspected the cult of Korviliak was responsible and promised Sun a portion of the wealth of their tribe in return. A decent sellsword, they reckoned, could break whatever spell Korviliak had set about her. She had last been seen in the company of a blue-skinned man dressed in grey robes. It wouldn't be too difficult to find the culprit. A man with blue skin stood out as much as he did in this village of ebon-skinned folk.

Sun reached for the gourd-shaped flask at his belt and lifted it to his lips. The strong, fiery stench of spirits hit his nose. He drank. It burned his throat as it slipped down into his stomach, but Sun felt strength seeping into his limbs. Leaping from the rock with the agility of a wildcat, Sun aimed his descent at the roof of the temple. With a dull thud, he hit the stone roof and rolled once before coming to a stop near the edge.

He couldn't hear what was happening inside the temple, but was certain the people inside heard him land. He jumped again, landing outside the monolithic sandstone door as it opened with a grinding screech. At the entrance, five sky blue-skinned men adorned in stained grey robes glared at Sun.

"Infidel!" a cultist shouted and produced a jagged, rusty dagger from the folds of his robes. Acting as fast as he could, Sun unhooked Hinodun from his belt and swung it upwards. There was a spurt of blood and a cry of pain. The cultist's dagger fell to the ground, along with the hand that carried it.

The cultists swooped down on Sun, eager to sate their divine lust for blood. Sun spun around on one leg, kicking out with the other and sending a cultist flying back through the door. Another stabbed at him with a dagger. With a swipe of Hinodun, Sun deflected the attack and the dagger glanced off the ax's head. Sun brought the axe down and knocked the dagger from the cultist's hand, along with a couple of fingers. He twirled Hinodun in his hand and sank its broad blade into the cultist's torso.

His foes defeated, Sun passed through the temple's door. The place was a low, humble affair with no garish decorations of gold as a city temple might have. The walls were plain, muted brown, matching the stone they were built from. A few crudely-cut windows let in narrow beams of sunlight. The only piece of note was an ugly sacrificial altar carved from a pearlescent stone, yet smeared with deep red stains. There was a distinct smell of raw flesh hanging in the air.

As he stepped inside, more cultists came at him, waving their daggers like madmen. Sun firmly grasped the wrist of one and twisted it until he dropped the dagger, then slammed Hinodun into his chest. The ax slipped deftly through flesh and sinew and the cultist fell to the ground. The last cultist flung a dagger at Sun, but he easily deflected it with Hinodun. Sun walked up to the cultist, raised Hinodun high and brought the ax crashing down, splitting through the cultist's robes, hair and bone.

As the cultist dropped to the ground, Sun looked around. The chief's daughter had to be somewhere, perhaps in a secret chamber. He ran his hands over alcoves in the walls, looking for hidden switches. Some temples had rooms hidden behind innocuous walls or paintings. He was so occupied in his task that it took a moment for him to register another presence in the temple.

This stranger wasn't like the other cultists, dressed in robes of gold that trailed behind him as he walked. The robes were decorated with curving weaves of deep purple and black. He wore an elaborate clay mask of a bat-like creature: a representation of dread Korviliak.

"You are either brave or foolish to come here, infidel," said the strange man, his voice measured yet teeming with authority. "In any case, you have attracted the attention of Il'Kalhan, avatar of Korviliak."

Avatar, Sun thought. Now that was a shock. The enigmatic avatars, who governed cults and religious orders alike, were rarely seen by anyone save their most devoted followers. Avatars were chosen to speak on behalf of a god. No doubt Il'Kalhan expected him to feel honored by his presence alone. Sun, however, could not bring himself to feel so. A vile god, only those who reveled in the spilling of blood worshipped Korviliak.

"I'm honored, O Avatar," mocked Sun. He bowed in jest. "Now where's the Ingit?"

The Avatar cocked his head.

"You stand in the presence of an Avatar, Golden Man. I deliver the word of a god, and that's all you ask me? I suppose you're not known for your wits." He waved a hand dismissively. "In any case, the Ingit woman has been offered to my master, and he takes what is his."

"Then your master will go without." Sun raised Hinodun and aimed it at Il'Kalhan's masked head. "I'll not ask again. Where's the Ingit woman?"

"You raise a weapon to me?" Il'Kalhan's robes billowed out like plumage. "Anger the voice of a god at your peril, Golden Man."

Sun swung his ax upwards. Then his hands started to burn. A searing pain ripped through his arms and he dropped Hinodun. The skin around his hands, once as gold as the rest of him, had turned dark and blistered. A haze descended over him, and his vision swam. Even so, he could make out the Avatar of Korviliak approaching him.

"Not pleasant when the blood boils, is it, Golden Man?" Il'Kalhan reached down and picked up Hinodun, examining it in the dim light. "You're nothing without your weapon, but I need no such implements."

Sun shakily got to his feet and swung a wild punch at Il'Kalhan, but the intense burning sensation returned, spreading to the rest of him. He felt like he was being drowned in fire. Holding back a yell of pain, he sank to the ground again.

"I serve the god of suffering, fool," jeered the Avatar. "I hold domain over it."

Sun had to fight to stop himself from passing out. He had a job to complete, he needed to focus. His hands shook as he uncorked his flask and brought it to his blistering lips. He downed the contents, and the pain began to fade as the spirits worked their alcoholic magic. Now Il'Kalhan's dark curses were almost bearable for the warrior.

I'Kalhan raised Hinodun over his head. "The Ingit woman is a fitting tribute for my lord, but giving him your head will bring me greater favor!"

Through the haze of pain and drunkenness, Sun watched Il'Kalhan handle his ax. Incensed, he launched himself forward, his head slamming into Il'Kalhan's exposed torso. The Avatar wheezed and stumbled backwards, dropping Hinodun and wrapping his arms around his stomach protectively.

"That's my weapon!" Sun shouted, his yells echoing around the temple.

"And this is mine!" Il'Kalhan grunted, pointing a finger at Sun. Pain washed over Sun like a river, but he staggered forward, held together by drink and determination. His insides were churning, and his vision grew dim.

Sun could make out Il'Kalhan backing away, the Avatar's finger still pointed at the drunken warrior. Through the haze, he spotted the telltale glimmer of steel on the ground. It was Hinodun.

Sun couldn't help but smile as he hefted the ax off the ground. The familiarity of it in his hand bolstered him, and he stood upright, despite the blazing pain. Gripping the weapon tightly, Sun swung Hinodun forward and felt it connect with something soft and fleshy. He heard Il'Kalhan cry out as one of his hands dropped to his feet, surrounded by azure blood. Il'Kalhan gripped his bleeding wrist tightly and lost his balance, falling against his god's altar.

"My lord won't forget this!" Il'Kalhan shrieked. "He will make you suffer like no other mortal has!"

"Can't be worse than listening to you talk."

As Il'Kalhan slumped against the altar, Sun raised Hinodun and brought his trusted weapon down. The ax's head sliced cleanly through the Avatar's mask and flesh. The blood-red altar was stained blue, and cracked porcelain decorated Il'Kalhan's robes.

Sun wrenched Hinodun free of the Avatar's corpse. The magically-inflicted pain had diminished, but his skin still bore deep marks and blisters, and he hadn't discovered where the cult were keeping the Ingit chief's daughter.

The sound of movement caught his ear, and he whipped his head around to a crude archway across the temple. Sun crossed the temple as fast as he could, his legs aching with every step.

Stepping through the archway, he found himself in a small alcove. It was clear someone had lived here, judging by the unkempt straw bed and small candle-lit shrine. In the furthest corner of the alcove was a young woman, her obsidian skin and chestnut hair identifying her as a member of the Ingit tribe. Her hands had been manacled, and a strip of cloth had been drawn over her eyes. She bore stark white markings of curls and ornate animal heads. Sun recognized these as marks that the Ingit painted themselves with.

"Is someone there? I demand you tell me where I am!" she said in a raised, demanding tone.

"You're in a temple of Korviliak. Don't worry, I'm here to help. Hold out your arms."

She did so, presenting her manacled hands to him. Sun swung Hinodun once, and the ax sliced through the chains.

"You are Ozi?" he asked.

"I am," replied the woman as she pulled off her blindfold, revealing deep grey eyes. "It seems I'm in your debt, stranger."

"Your father has promised to repay that debt." Sun took Ozi's hand and pulled her to her feet. He led her out of the alcove and through the temple, past the defeated Avatar. "How did you come to be here?"

"It was these blue men. They came down one summer's eve, and told tales of their travels," Ozi replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the way out. "I wanted to see all those places for myself, to see more of the world beyond the village. They offered to take me to new places, and I couldn't refuse." She refused to look at Sun, as if ashamed. "It was a mistake. If I knew who they were, I would never have gone willingly. I only hope my father and my tribe will see that."

"I'm sure they will," Sun grunted as he stepped over one of the dead cultists and out into the sunlit canyon.

As he led Ozi away from the temple, Sun couldn't shake the idea that other servants of Korviliak would come for him. The voice of a god, after all, was not so simply silenced. He would deal with them when the time came. For now, he had a promise to fulfill, and a reward to collect.

Wings in the Night

by David J. West

(A fragment of the novel, Walking Through Walls)

When it's your last meal, you savor it. Take Callus Durro for example, he's savoring it.

Most condemned men request simple fare, something that takes them back to the beginning, back to their childhood. The flavor and scent reminds them of how it all began, because it's about to end with a length of squeezing rope—and that's if your neck isn't broke. The last meal is comfort food for a damned soul who needs to remember one last sunset and one last sunrise before their own dingy, worthless light is snuffed out.

Not Callus though, he's innocent and has no guilty conscience. He enjoys the bouquet of the wine and the aroma of a well-seasoned and bloody cut of beef. Takes his time, there is no hurry. The executioners can wait, after all he's eating his final request. Some decencies will be observed, even in Blackwater Prison. They must keep up appearances and sacred traditions—doesn't matter how terribly guilty or innocent you are, they'll wait.

It isn't like he's still with the other pack of villains in the mess hall, fighting for each bowl of gruel and moldy bread, wolfing anything down he can get like a ravenous beast.

No, my friend, he's been invited to the dancing floor, to waltz his last two-step with the gallows pole. Only then will he be a dead man instead of simply a soul-stealing number.

Here he is prisoner Forty-Two for another fifteen minutes, if he eats slowly. After that he gets his name back, a shallow grave in the paupers cemetery and wooden marker that will last perhaps twenty years in Tolburn's lovely rainy weather.

Take your time, I say, relish these last few moments of delectable offerings, its been a long time since you have eaten anything so fine. How long has it been? Three years now, my friend, who would have expected you to last? Certainly not those that sent you here. No one lasts this long in Blackwater. He shouldn't have lasted this long. Three years, who lasts three years? No one.

But they'll get theirs.

Take your time, enjoy the meal, lick the savory scraps from the edge of your long matted beard. Would your own mother recognize you? Not likely. Three years can turn a man into a monster no matter how innocent he was before. No one stays innocent inside Blackwater. Killing other prisoners is compulsory, encouraged and rewarded—but murder a brutalizing guard and its off to the dancing floor.

To survive you have to keep a sense of humor about it, go a little mad, surely Callus offended a vengeful god somewhere for all the misfortune that has been visited upon him these last three years but on the flipside the bastard just won't die. Folk the realm over say that he has been blessed to the point of nigh invulnerability. Sure, he gets a beating, I've seen him cut but he just can't die. As I've said before, with every blessing comes a curse, and in Callus's case it is an absolute fact. So many have tried to kill him and yet he survives.

Take a bite, my friend.

If the opportunity came would he start over? Sure he would. If the opportunity came.

Very last slice.

Come opportunity come.

And the last drop of wine.

Blast, didn't remember to take his time and relish the meal, it's gone. Steps coming from down the corridor. Jailors will be here soon. He should have savored this longer.

"Talking to yourself again Forty-Two? You nutter. Looks like you're finished. About time too," drawled the jailor, through the door-slit.

A clink, a groan and the rusted door swings open. The jailors have their clubs ready to strike.

"Come on out Forty-Two, Captain Smithson doesn't have all night and neither do we."

Callus remained motionless, facing the wall. His long unkempt hair unfurled down his back. He looks like one of the crazed holy men from the east.

"Turn around and face us so we know you aren't going to try anything stupid."

He stayed still as chiseled marble.

"Now I mean it, we aren't going to take any trouble from you."

Callus wheeled about facing them, eyes leering. He straightened with sudden grin, asking, "Time already?"

"Almost brained you for that," mumbled the jailor.

"Don't need these games from you," said the other. "Folk have seen Watchers about. Bad luck."

"Ain't no Watchers," said Callus. "Old wives tales."

"Yes, there is. Talking about 'em invites 'em," responded the jailor. "Summons 'em up from the bowels of the underworld."

"Well then I promise to not call upon any of these Watchers," said Callus. "It is Watchers isn't it?"

"Didn't I just tell you not to say that? It summons 'em, it's not something you want showing up to your hanging. What if they're demons come to collect your soul?" said the other.

Callus chuckled.

"Think it's funny? They'll steal your soul."

"Suppose I'd be upset being summoned out of the fiery depths of the underworld every time some poor sap said—Watcher."

"Stop saying that," blustered the jailor.

"Oh I get it, you're saying those big gray men with wings are Watchers, got it, Watchers, we don't want to summon the Watchers. I won't say Watchers anymore because it summons the Watchers," responded Callus.

The man simply doesn't know what fear is, perhaps because he has already experienced everything that ever did scare him.

The jailor cracked him over the head with his baton. "Get moving Forty-Two, we've wasted enough time letting you eat your final meal."

"You didn't have to watch me the whole time, you could have just—" His comment was cut-off with a blow to his back by the first jailor.

"Shut it."

They marched him up the stone steps and into a high-walled courtyard. Faces and hands of prisoners crowded out the barred windows like maggots from a wound.

Guards above on the parapet walls held the poleaxes and crossbows. All of them looked about uneasy in the rippling red-gold of the setting sun, until it slipped and was gone. This was as close to fresh air as any of the prisoners ever experienced.

"Superstitious fools," laughed Callus. "Come Watchers! Help an innocent man out."

Again a club was brought against his head.

"That's enough of that, Levan," spoke an authoritative man. His gold and purple striped jacket and fancy rotund hat perched upon his head are the sign of the Captain of Blackwater Prison, that and the ornamental gold chain of keys about the neck. A man like Captain Smithson gets paid a lot to keep after villains, you might even say he's paid a criminal amount.

"We are about to hang him, let him go to the grave with naught but a bruise about his neck. His debt shall be paid. Don't you think Forty-Two? You have been a guest far longer than most."

Callus smirked and said, "I have watched as innocent men are prone to do and a reckoning will come, just watch."

"Calling upon figments of imagination will do you no good. Have you any last confessions?" asked Smithson. "Normal men always wish to clear their conscience."

"No such thing as normal," responded Callus.

"Bind his hands," ordered Smithson.

The jailor smiled through crooked teeth and tied Callus's hands behind his back. Once finished, he shoved Callus toward the gallows.

Elevated to twice the height of a man, the gallows allowed for even the tallest of men to dangle and kick once the trap door swung open. Everyone kicks and jerks convulsively, hence the name, the dancing floor.

"Any final words, you rogue?" muttered the jailor.

A nauseating reek of sulfur blistered the senses as a mist rolled in off the river just beyond the walls.

Callus opened his mouth to respond sarcastically to him but nothing came out, he simply gazed at the dancing floor.

"Afraid now? Death does such things to most men," said Smithson. Then he noticed everyone was staring at the gallows.

Perched atop the gibbet, a huge gray shape with glowing red-eyes brooded. Fear bit deep into near everyman's soul. The red eyes never blinked and no sound escaped, not that any sort of a mouth could be seen. The odious stench of sulfur and brimstone stung the nostrils of everyman. The whole body rocked to and fro as there didn't appear to be a neck. The thing looked upon the men from left to right and then back again. It had no arms but grim bat-like wings that it stretched forth and with the gibbet giving an awful creak, the thing lifted into the air and could no longer be seen against the bleak stars.

Everyone looked skyward. The prisoners drew their arms from the barred windows, their former shouts and curses now silent as .

"What do we do, captain?" asked a jailor.

Composing himself, Smithson said, "Hang him, we saw nothing but night delusions."

The nervous jailors peered about warily and grudgingly took Callus up to the dancing floor. The executioner took hold of the unhallowed noose and cinched it about Callus's neck. Once secured the jailors could not wait to get off the dancing floor, typically several stayed to watch the hanged man dance, but not this time, the Watcher had unnerved everyone. The executioner looked to Smithson, who gave a nod, the switch was pulled. The dancing floor dropped.

Callus felt open space beneath his feet.

This was the black end, shining on all tomorrows, new wisdom on the final journey to be gained at last.

The gibbet creaked, cracked and broke, the rope snapped and Callus was free upon the ground.

Callus did a short backwards leap that freed the hands bound behind his back to now be hands bound in front. He yanked the noose free, saying, "Praise the Watchers, for their timely favors."

Charging a stunned jailor, he head-butted the man and ran his bindings against the poleax blade. The jailors recovered their shock and charged after him.

Bolting up the steps leading to the parapet, he knocked a guardsman off to crash more than a dozen feet to the cobbles and then he was gazing over the wall at the Blackwater river. It was a long way down. Flickering lights from the city of Tolburn beckoned. Wrists were still coiled with stout rope but his hands were free enough to let him swim, and death at the jailor's hands was a sure thing in comparison to the inviting dark waters.

He leapt over the side of the prison walls and vanished into stygian black.

Crossbow bolts loosed into the gloom and even torches were thrown into the river in the vain hope of illuminating the fleeing prisoner.

"No way he survives that," said a jailor, glancing skyward for the Watcher.

Smithson snarled, "Just find his body. No one escapes Blackwater."

The Red World Dies

by Fenton Skeegs

The vultures circled in the fading gray sky as the Deathstalker lifted a sabre-tooth skull headpiece from his head and placed it in sedge grass at his feet. He loosened the rawhide straps that held the thick mammoth hide coat over his shoulders and let it fall to the ground behind him. He reached behind his neck to pull a short handled throwing axe from the loop straps on his leather sash. The Deathstalker ran his calloused forefinger over the gleaming steel of the blade, seeing the reflection from the setting colorless sun behind him.

On an old throne before a fire sat the old wizard wearing a tattered robe, watching the Deathstalker approach him through crackling flames. The Deathstalker saw that the gold inlets and jewels that formerly adorned the throne had been scavenged. Wooden houses behind him stood in eerie silence. No lights shone from the windows of a grand stone palace in the near distance. The wizard reached forward and tore a morsel of dog from the crude spit he had mounted over the fire.

The Deathstalker turned the throwing axe in his hand to an underhand slashing grip and stopped, opposite from the wizard who acknowledged his presence with cold indifference. An icy westward breeze came over the pines, blowing greasy hair into his rheumy eyes. The Deathstalker scanned the surrounding fields of grain, suspecting a trap, but the wind only carried its lonely message of dread across the barren plain.

"Bandits have already plundered this city. No enemies lie in wait for you." The old wizard took another morsel of dog from the spit and placed it in his mouth.

"I've had visions of this moment for many moon. Your death at my hand. I've survived great floods, vicious armies and the beasts of the Mountain to find you."

The wizard cackled, his eyes glowing a dull yellow from the firelight. "You came to kill me did you not? But you expected fear and pleading to pour forth."

"I expect deceit and treachery. My people shall have vengeance."

"You're blood lust shall find no salve. My power has faded. Death is already stalking me through a dying world." Gripping the axe in his scared hand, the Deathstalker raised his arm to strike the wizard as he stared at the fire, ignoring the stalker's presence.

"Face your death like a man of the sword! Give me the satisfaction of battle."

"Death comes for us all. Your kind, the barbarians... the Deathstalkers will inherit a fallen world. I won't live to see everything disappear, but you will. The desperate and the violent will survive." He looked at the Deathstalker, piercing him with a steady gaze.

"Humanity will be reborn in your image. The scavengers, the tool users, the violent and the crazy." The old wizard smiled at him as if he were about to reveal a profound secret to a child. Slowly, the Deathstalker lowered the axe. The Wizard's violent death would come at a time of his choosing.

"If you wish to kill me, do it now or hold your rage for another time."

"I can kill you at any moment that I please," said the stalker.

"But then you wouldn't learn why my kind are dying, or why your kind will be the future..." He stared at the Deathstalker without fear.

The stalker reversed the grip on his throwing axe and slid it back in the straps on his leather sash. He wiped his hand on his hide trousers and sat on a boulder besides the decrepit throne. The old wizard offered him a piece of dog meat, glistening with grease. He'd eaten meat from every beast that roamed the land at one point, but never a dog. The Deathstalker declined.

"What is you want of me?" the Stalker asked.

"I've been waiting a long time for you to find me. Your legend precedes you in the hinterlands."

"You stayed here while everyone else left."

"They left for higher ground. A cataclysm greater than anything you can imagine is coming to this world. I can't offer you riches. They shall soon mean nothing."

"Then what is it you offer old man?"

"I offer a mission greater than anything you've ever been given..." The old wizard pulled his robe tight, fighting against the frosty air while keeping a steady gaze.

The Deathstalker picked up a small piece of burnt wood and rolled it in his fingers, contemplating losses he had suffered and oaths of vengeance he had sworn now felt like part of a half remembered dream when regarding the pathetic retch before him. His blood lust had faded.

A silent moment of understanding passed between the two men. The old wizard grabbed a gnarled walking cane and eased out of his throne on creaky knees. He walked towards a dome-shaped stone palace beyond the field that emerged from the dark gloom as they approached it. The Deathstalker followed, staying three paces behind him, scanning the empty lands out of habit borne from years of passing through seemingly abandoned villages laid as bait.

A gaunt dog barked in the empty darkness, filling the wide street with its echoes. The old man led through a wooden gate the height of five men that had been left ajar during the exodus. He picked up a glass orb that had been propped up against the massive stone archway and lit it by wiping his hand over the translucent surface. The island of light barely reached the carved walls. A recessed set of masonry stairs revealed itself in the wan orb-light.

Neither man said anything as the wizard led through the passageways and steep staircases of the stone maze that lay behind the palace walls. The Deathstalker had heard legends about the maze from beggars and petty thieves trying to curry his favor. In their tales, terrible monsters dwelled, protecting some unknown source of power. In other legends that spread through the fields, mountains and coves of the land kings and emperors gathered in secret chambers hidden beyond the mazes in all palaces of the land. No man or beast stirred before them in the eerily silent passageways.

At the top of a narrowing stone staircase, they reached thick mahogany doors with a thick iron lock, open on its' mount.

The wizard walked into the wide room, which was domed at the ceiling with a massive glass lens over a round table dominated by a large crimson map. Approaching the table, the old man looked over the map's miniaturized figures that were still arranged in orderly features.

"Your kind was never supposed to learn these secrets, but they must be carried to future generations. All the magic in this world, the great power we seem to wield, was given to us." He pointed at the lens. "There is another civilization on another world. To you, it's only a red spot in the night sky, but the first men put glass to the sky could see more... These red people built structures on their world large enough that the ancient wizards could see them through the glass, and learn their secrets. We built our own structures to send messages back."

The Deathstalker looked over the map at the model palaces and massive roadways. He thought about the massive temples that the great ones had built over lifetimes. "You built all this to communicate with them?"

"They taught us many secrets, magic even. Their world is turning to desert and dust. They've tried to teach us all of their secrets before their people vanish. They want to be remembered in myth... Soon the same will happen to us." The wizard picked up a small model palace and held it in his hand. He continued.

"All that we've learned over thousands of years will disappear. Only legends will remain. Our monuments were for their gods on the red world. Now we have to build monuments for humans who will survive the floods, the fire, the freezing weather and great storms in the cataclysm."

"It was all lies. The magic you claimed to wield you learned by watching the heavens. Why did you hide this from the masses!"

"Once the first men with glass learned that others had built magnificent civilizations they believed they could do so with their own hands and their own minds..." The Deathstalker interrupted him with a crash of his fist on the map table.

"You kept these secrets for generations, and now you ask me to sacrifice for you? Why shouldn't I kill you now?"

"I need your help to spread the legends about what man used to be. Generations past, our descendants will be inspired by those stories to rebuild." The wizard leaned on the table for support.

"Have you been to the world that you've seen through the glass?" The wizard laughed and then coughed. "It's further away than you can imagine. There are tales that a master created a giant arc which could land on their barren world."

"Are they ruled by devious wizards like yourself?"

"The age of the wise will pass. Killers will retake the world, we need legends that will inspire them to regain our glory. We'll have to invent the idea of an immortal man." The Deathstalker smiled at the old wizard. He wanted to recreate a new world in his own image as a God.

They remained quiet for a moment, staring at each other, the Deathstalker trying to imagine an entire Universe beyond the world of boots, sword and dirt that had been his life.

Their reverie was broken by a deeper silence that only the Deathstalker noticed. Since they had left the fire, the starved dogs had growled and barked at anything they saw moving in the dark. A noise faint enough to fade into the background, but distinguishable as part of the background soundscape. Now he strained his ears, and could not hear a single bark or growl.

Silence unnerved him, a sign of ambush. Of killers to striking range while he slept. He barged past the wizard and climbed the stout oak ladder past the massive glass lens and atop the great dome. The camp fire still burned, a single pinprick of light in the dark gloom. Bracing himself against the stiff breeze, he scanned his eyes back and forth in a slow pattern until he spotted a figure crawling past a low shrub towards the palace.

Once his eye had absorbed the site, he spotted more shapes, dozens, hundreds of humanoids smeared in black grease and foliage, sneaking towards the dome from all directions. Their eyes were leveled at the main gate to palace.

The Deathstalker rushed back down the ladder, talking as he climbed.

"We have to leave now."

"You don't want part in this mission?"

"No you fool! The Fasee are surrounding the palace." The wizard stared at the map for a moment and then looked up at the Deathstalker.

"The Fasee have been gone for centuries."

"You wizards care not what happens in the Mountains. Your kind drove the Fasee from the cities, and paid them no mind." The Deathstalker had already pulled his axe from the sheath on his back. "They've followed me through the hills."

"What do they covet?" The wizard asked.

"They wish to destroy everything we've learned from the next world and start again." The Deathstalker leveled his gaze at the Wizard. "If your kind had ventured out to the hinterlands, you would know of their creed." He took the old wizard by the arm, and lead him back to the passage, talking as they raced.

"Their spies knew that I was on a quest to find you."

Out of breath, the wizard responded in bursts between his ragged breaths. "In legends they ate their victims."

"They rend you when you're still alive to absorb your spirit." They descended the stone stairs into a narrow passageway that angled down towards a large chamber lined with shining micaceous rock that glistened in the dim orb light. The faint sound of leather sliding over rough stone stopped him.

The Deathstalker clamped his massive hand over the wizard's mouth, and knocked the orb out of his gnarled hands with his axe. The orb shattered against the smooth flakey walls, plunging the space into darkness.

He kept his hand over the wizard's mouth. Their eyes adjusted to reveal a vanishingly faint glow, emanating from the walls, the floors and the ceilings, barely strong enough to see their own hands before their faces. The Deathstalker rotated the axe to an underhanded grip, and moved to the center of the chamber as the wizard moved towards a wall.

Even silence has a cacophony of sounds, layers that have to be identified and cataloged. Crouching in the center of the space, he mentally filtered through the echoed sounds of wind blowing against the dome, and subtle air currents moving through the passageways to focus on the sound leather sliding over polished stone. The Safee wore smooth tanned hide soled sandals. Beyond the sound of sliding, his ears could pick up the regular rhythmic sounds of breathing. Two men who must have followed he and the wizard through the maze.

The dimmest of shadows past before the walls as the two figures entered the space. The Deathstalker could picture the curved boning knives they would hold low at their sides.

For a moment the shapes paused. The Deathstalker remained absolutely still. The shapes took a cautious step towards the center of the chamber, and then another. With each step away from the walls, they faded into the darkness at the center of the room. He could hear their breathing growing closer, step by cautious step. His heart beating faster, the Deathstalker held himself still as the two shapes passed within striking range, and then closer until they were right next to him. Close enough to smell the rancid black grease they smeared on their skin as camouflage.

He waited another painful moment as the figures passed, one on either side of him. Then he exploded up out of his crouch, driving the pointed eye of his axe into the figure next to him. In the near pitch black, he could feel his weapon driving under the jaw of a man, and then the dead weight of a dying person falling towards him. The space was now filled with a violent gurgling sound as the Deathstalker pulled the axe out of the falling man. He felt movement on his left side and rolled to his left just as the other man slashed the air with his curved knife.

The Deathstalker swung his axe backhanded, burying the weapon to the handle into his back and kicked him to the ground.

"Bring light to this room, old man!"

A moment later, the brilliant micaceous walls lit up as the wizard cracked an egg shaped rock from his road against the floor, causing it to glow a brilliant orange. The wizard could see the Deathstalker, standing before two struggling figures at his feet. They wore knee length pelts made of mammoth hide and helmets made of lacquered leather. Their skin was covered in a thick layer of rancid grease that had been mixed with black ash that gave the appearance of melting skin in the dim light. A pool of blood slowly expanded around the dying bodies.

The Deathstalker reached down and pulled and the helmets off of the figures and then rolled the bodies over. He threw a pelt at the wizard.

"Don this if you wish to live." The Deathstalker took the pelt, helmet and sandals from the dead body at his feet and donned these items as his own. Then he ran his hands over the face and neck of the body to pull up great gobs of the rancid black grease and smeared it over his own face. As he removed the grease, the ghastly, skinless face was revealed.

The wizard looked at him, now showing fear first time since the Deathstalker met him.

"They have no faces." The Wizard said.

"They skin the faces off new recruits to brand them for life. They'll do the same to us." Slowly, the wizard pulled the heavy pelt up over his shoulders and fit it over him, and then the lacquered helmet that had been tossed to his feet. They spent laborious minutes smearing foul smelling grease over their skin until they resembled the ghastly figures who pursued them. The wizard moved close to the Deathstalker and spoke in to him in a quiet whisper.

"They grow strong as the holders of the ancient wisdom grow weak. If we fail, the future will be in their image." He pointed at the ghoulish corpses at their feet.

The wizard hid the light under the animal pelt. They both walked silently out the dark passages of the maze, following the convoluted passageways in the dim light of the glowing walls and to the massive wooden door. Beyond the door, dozens of black figures stalked the silent streets, resembling deformed beasts from the plains.

The Deathstalker and the Wizard held their curved knives at their side, mimicking the stooped crablike gait of the Fasee. They fell behind a group of six, speaking to each other in unintelligible hisses. More Fasee fell in behind them in a long line towards an open field in view of the dome where the faceless ones gathered in a giant mass. Hundreds of ghouls in black grease and mammoth pelts, throwing off a stench that made eyes water. All around them, they could hear the hissing breaths from lipless mouths. The wretches stared up at the red dot in the sky, imagining aliens like themselves on a distant world staring back across the cosmos.

The Deathstalker and the Wizard slowly made their way through the crowd, impersonating the crooked gate the lipless mouth breathing of the Fasee to the edge and then slipped into the woods at the beyond.

They walked through the thorns and jagged branches of the forest until the sun reappeared, and the world turned green again. The Deathstalker knew that the Fasee would continue to track them through mountains, the forest, the villages and the fields until they were in the grave. Sitting on the ripple bank of a meandering stream he tried to picture a whole alien race that saw his world through a massive glass lens. He looked at the sky in a way that he'd never seen it before, and prepared himself for the mission ahead.

Longman & Cobbledick

by David Godward

There are moments in a man's life that change him. First time he holds his kid. Seeing his buddy buy the farm. Or hearing his internal monologue, narrating his life like a bored god with a 40-a-day habit.

Wish I could say that was the weirdest part, but I've got other problems.

Like how I'm gonna get out of this noose without dropping into the churning bay below.

Some asshole jabs my ribs with a bat, and I grunt like an angry dog.

"How'd you find us, eh?" A weasel prick with an inferiority complex. Got a little power, and he's making sure he abuses it.

"Come on, dump 'im like the boss said." Hired muscle. Blunt object in human form.

"Shut yer hole. Don't ya think da boss'd like t' know if there's gonna be cavalry commin' for dis guy?"

I look up at my feet, trying my best to stay focused. Not easy when eight pints of blood are tryin' to make a new home in your skull. Times like these are when I wonder why I do this crap.

Clouds start rolling in from the south, and I smile.

The argument between The Weasel and Mr. Blunt lasts a few seconds, before two lightning bolts shoot from the sky like the wrath of Zeus. I've never seen a skeleton through skin before. Always thought that was a cartoon thing.

As their smoking corpses hit the floor like overdone hams, I crunch up to the noose, guts aching like they'd been sucker punched by Muhammad Ali. Gripping tight, I slip out my feet and swing onto the dock.

I head for the warehouse, barely fifty yards away.

The weird thing about that bored god? He lets me warp reality, just a little. Not in an 'I won a million bucks' kinda way. But in a 'dramatically appropriate lightning bolt' kinda way.

I get to the warehouse and walk in unnoticed. Just a man in a mac and a hat, doing some urban exploring. Creeping through the dark, run-down building, I get a gut feeling that something's about to happen.

Something life-changing.

I spot a door leading into the storage area. I slip through the door, and hide myself amongst the stacked crates of perishable goods. Peeking through the few gaps, I see an occult ceremony about to start. There are a coupla circles of jackasses in black and red cloaks, all holding torches like this is some goddamn dark-age church. Say a dozen women in the outer circle, and maybe half as many men making the inner circle, all chattering like a mother's meeting.

My heart skips a beat as one of the guys starts looking around, confused, like he's searching for something. Had he made me? Heard me?

A hush fell over them, the only sound now a sharp crack of high heels on hard floor. Not a sound you forget after the kinda divorce I had.

That's when I see Jonathan Seras: sole heir to the Nergal fortune, naked, hands strapped behind his back, cuts and bruises on his face. He's being edged forward by a tall woman with flowing, jet-black hair, soulless eyes, leather strapping giving her a cleavage you could ski down.

"The sacrifice!" Her voice echoes like a siren's call, commanding the undivided attention of all who heard. I feel the pull, but manage to resist, yanking my .44 magnum instead of copping a knee.

"The sacrifice..." The cultists chant in unison. The high priestess or whatever she is forces Seras onto his knees and holds a knife to his throat. That was when the man I'd guessed made me throws off his cloak and sends a fireball streaking towards her head.

He tried to calm his nerves.

It had taken him months to get this far. To ingratiate himself with the group, work his way up the ranks from simple goon to member in good standing, and now privileged enough to attend this ceremony.

It had been easy to fool the rank and file, but when the Grand Witch entered, there was a very real risk he would be discovered, and, if he was lucky, butchered.

The man next to him made some offhand comment about the greatness of this day, and he responded with a nod and a short, knowing chuckle.

There were a coupla circles of jackasses in black and red cloaks...

The words were faint, more like background noise than anything concrete, but they got his attention.

...men making the inner circle, all chattering like...

And again. It was like... some bored fool who smoked far too much was describing the scene.

He looked around, seeing if anyone else had heard, but they were all oblivious.

Had he made me?

He almost turned to his neighbor, but a palpable feeling of quiet descended, and the sharp crack of high heels on hard floor echoed.

This was it. The moment had arrived.

Jonathan Seras: sole heir to the Nergal fortune...

He blinked a few times, trying to ignore the unwanted narration. He knew this was Jonathan Seras, and that he was about to be murdered.

"The sacrifice!"

The witch's voice reverberated around his soul. He could feel the adoration pouring off the others, but his own mental defenses were just enough to hold her influence at bay. He had to agree, though: she had an impressive cleavage.

"The sacrifice..." The drone of the cultists was his moment. He threw off his cloak, revealing the dapper gentleman in a mid-century suit that he was.

He whispered a few words, and with a flick of his hand sent a fireball screaming towards the head of the Grand Witch.

It struck with force, sending her careening backwards before exploding, creating a dense cloud of smoke, and causing panic amongst those cultists that weren't immolated. He surged forward and grabbed Jonathan Seras.

"Sir, you must come with me!"

Seras blinked a few times, as if waking from a trance. He nodded, and with effort forced himself to his feet and allowed himself to be led.

That's my cue to move.

I doubt those crazy bastards would notice another guy running like a fool, and I need Seras or I'm not getting paid.

I dive through the throng of panicking freaks. One guy tries to stop me, but a quick word from Smith and Wesson ends that conversation.

I break through the riot and into some abandoned offices.

My guts are churning like an ice cream machine. Something is about to happen.

Turning the corner, I come face to face with the fireball guy.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" The only word I can use to describe him was 'dapper'. That and 'dangerous', given the flaming orbs of death he was holding cocked and ready. I needed to play this just right if-

"You can 'play it', sir, by telling the truth!"

My words die on my lips as the shock hits me like a wrecking ball.

"You... can hear it too?" I stammer. Couldn't think of anything else.

"The bored narration? Yes. How-" His eyes widen, and I know without looking we're in trouble.

I turn and see the priestess, her hair scorched, her skin smoking, licks of flame on her leather straps.

"You will be sacrificed... He for wealth, you for power..."

I back up and stand next to Mr. Dapper.

"Stay away from us, witch!" His voice has the sort of righteous conviction I haven't heard for a long time. He shot me a sideways glance, and all I could do was shrug.

Before she could say another word, her smoldering sets off the sprinkler system. Instantly she starts melting, like that green bitch from Oz.

"HOOOOOW?" She screams, as her flesh begins to slough off her bones. "Witches... don't... melt..."

In a few seconds she is little more than a smoking pile of bones.

"Don't they?" I say, looking at Dapper. "Huh. Who knew?"

He looks at me, fascinated, the fireball fizzing out of existence.

"You did that..." There is nothing but clarity in his voice. He can see the truth, if not the cause.

"Yeah, just don't ask how."

He nods, academic curiosity warring with the urgent need to get the hell out of this place before those freaky bastards get their shit together and come after us like we owed them money.

"I could not have put it better myself, sir."

I smile. I could get to like this guy.

We have about fifteen seconds before we have to move. It's the best I can do, and I know just how to fill the time.

"Jake Longman." I put out my hand. He grabs it without hesitation.

"Winston Cobbledick."

We exchange nods and run into the night, with a naked heir and a baying mob on our tail.

All we have is the love of the chase.

I think it'll be enough.

Danger on the Colony Ship

by John Daker

Steve Tempest awoke from his boxing-induced stupor in deep darkness. He was in his undergarments, but not in his bunk, which could only mean one thing: the brig. Yet even in the brig, there was always at least a soft glow of the of the floor lights. That glow was gone. He got up and reached out for the cell door to stable himself. It swung open at his touch.

Immediately, Steve knew something was wrong. He rubbed his still aching jaw and felt around for the door out to the hallway. He pushed the sound-proof door open to the sound of the emergency klaxons and the dimness of the emergency lights. He took a deep breath and the air tasted normal. Life support on the ship was still working. That was a good sign.

Stumbling over to the nearest emergency locker, he found it ransacked, except for a pair of armored gloves on the floor that (luckily) matched.

"Leaving equipment out on the ground," he said, "and they said a boxing match was conduct unbecoming of a security officer".

He put on the heavy gloves, a ceramic shell surrounding a thick synthweave glove that could be seen at the joints in his fingers, particularly when he flexed his fingers. He was reminded of his childhood on Mars, when the cold and ice would form on his glove so thick that he could not see the original color of his gloves, until he bent his finger.

Down the hallway he walked, listening for anything to come in over the intercom, but the only thing he heard was the alarm. Intruders were aboard the ship somewhere. Steve knew his duty was to confirm the status of the colonists and then repel the boarders. He made his way to the nearest colonist dorm, section D.

A growling and scratching noise filled his ears and he hustled toward the noise. Upon reaching a storage locker, he saw several strange multi-limbed creatures lying on the ground, a strange purple fluid leaking from the tangled mess of limbs. Scratching at the storage locker was an orange monstrosity that appeared to be nothing but feathery, spider-like limbs. One of those limbs punctured the sheet metal door and Steve heard a yelp erupt from the locker.

Without thinking, he leaped onto the beast and began beating it with his fists. It tried to spear him with his limbs, but because Steve sandwiched it between his body and the floor, the limbs were pressed against each other and not able to point their sharp claws at his vulnerable flesh. While it could not bring a killing stab to bear, while it flailed, Steve took more than a few scratches.

The being had more strength than Steve and he knew he had to kill it fast. Inch by inch, it pushed him away and he knew once the distance was far enough, one of those limbs was going to find its way into his heart. He held firm and continued beating the abomination again and again. The creature finally flung Steve off a clawed limb shot straight for his chest.

He grabbed it and swung the creature against the wall, using the momentum from it attack to propel it faster than he normally would have been able to swing it. With a sickening thud it hit the wall and fell to the floor, limbs spasming in death, flicking its orange blood everywhere.

Steve tried to wipe the blood off himself and said, "It's safe to come out now."

The locker door opened and two security pistols were aimed at his face. Holding the pistols was a young woman with pale skin dotted with freckles and hair as red as the ion trails from the ship's engines.

"Don't move," she said with a sneer as she slowly climbed out of the locker. As she moved, graceful as a dancer, her aim never wavered, both pistols always aimed at his face.

"Okay, miss," he said, as he stood perfectly still, "but those pistols are not charged, so unless you intend to pistol whip me to death, they will not do you much good."

"I know that!" she exclaimed, gesturing toward several of the dead creatures on the floor, "They used to be charged!"

"There's a charging station just around the corner, Miss..."

"Maria O'Neal," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Please to meet you Miss O'Neal. I am Security Officer Steve Tempest and I will get you to safety. Can you tell me what happened here?"

"Well Officer Tempest," she began, "after the ship finished making the warp jump, the power flickered briefly and then the screams began. I couldn't sleep, so I was walking the halls alone. I found a dead security officer and took the pistols."

"And then you were attacked by several of whatever these are?" interrupted Steve.

"Yes, exactly. You know, those folks that say we shouldn't go punching holes in space-time willy-nilly might be on to something," she said thoughtfully, "I kept shooting and shooting, but they kept coming. I ran and hid when these ran out of juice, but I was followed. If you hadn't come when you did, I...I..."

"You would have figured something out," he said reassuringly.

Steve put his hand on her shoulder and showed her how to safely expose the battery on the security pistol to charge it at the charging station. He placed the charged pistol back in her hand and charged the second one, which he kept.

He guided her down the next corridor, until they came to the door outside the escape pod bay. As he reached to the keypad to enter the door code, she grabbed his hand.

"Can you hear that?" she said.

He stopped to listen but heard nothing. He wrenched his hand from her grip and entered the door code. Maria pressed herself against the wall, trying to take as much cover as she could from the narrow section between the wall and the opening of the door.

A man stood staring at the escape pods, holding a beautifully engraved double-barreled shotgun at his side. His clothes looked nearly as ragged as Steve's.

"Sir," Steve said, "I can help you with those pods."

The man's head, and just his head, rotated around to face Steve. The flesh had been torn from the face, leaving a skull staring back at the two humans. One eyeball hung by the optic nerve from the socket, but the other was firmly in place. The jaw twitched, as if about to proclaim a never-before-heard blasphemy.

Two bolts of energy slammed into the skull, shattering it into hundreds of pieces. The man collapsed on the floor and moved no more.

"Nice shot," said Steve, "Now let's get you into the escape pod, Miss O'Neal."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I'm security," he said as he picked up the shotgun, "and the ship ain't secure yet."

Defiance

by Jon Mollison

A sudden blow to the back of his knees drove the defiant man in the gray jump suit to the hard marble floor. Unbroken by seam or joint, the single slab of stone spanned the wide expanse of the throne room of the Infinite King.

Pain flashed across the man's face as he fell to his knees, only to be replaced once more by a disgusted scowl. He raised his eyes, forced to tilt his head back to look up the steep silver steps to the ruby and diamond studded chrome of the Infinite King's throne. Perched on the edge of his seat, the thin and hatchet-faced Lord of Every Universe leaned forward, long fingers clenched around the armrests. Black brows plunged and met over the thin blade of a nose, which itself plunged down over the pinched slash of the King's perpetual scowl.

A young woman of heartbreaking beauty half-sat, half-knelt beside the Infinite King's throne. Dressed for her station as the King's favorite plaything, one bare shapely arm rested on the floor and held her well-formed torso upright. The fingers of her other hand lazily caressed a golden collar encircling her throat. Eyes filled with hope and fear hid behind glorious red curls shot through with gold and silver. A slender chain affixed her golden fetter to a similar circlet worn on the Infinite King's wrist.

To either side of the King and his slave, five majestic men dressed in strange finery stood shoulder to shoulder. Men of regal bearing, but lesser rank, they stood on the penultimate step, just below the king's dais. Cruel faced and haughty, they sneered and rolled their eyes at the pathetic sight of man who knelt at their feet.

The Infinite King nodded to the black armored men who had struck the man in the gray jump suit. His phase-axe, long handled and wicked bladed, crackled with a malevolent energy that manifested not as light, but as ripples of distortion in space. At the King's sign, the guards shoved at the man's shoulders and drove him down, forced him to his hands and knees.

A high, thin cackle sounded from the throne. It echoed about the vast chamber, among the thick columns that held a vaulted roof, and reverberated off thick granite walls covered with bas-relief carvings, each depicting one of the Infinite King's magnificent triumphs over the unwary denizens of a thousand universes.

Dan Praxas refused to allow his own universe to join their ranks. He curled his splayed fingers into fists and rested his knuckles on the cold slab of marble.

"Your death will take eons," the Infinite King cackled. "Your pain will not end when my Master Extractors are done with you. After you reveal the secret path by which you have come to my Capital, you will beg for death's sweet release. A release you will never find. Instead, my Agonizers will make of your suffering a work of art unparalleled in the Annals of Pain."

Dan shoved his body upright. From his knees, he lifted his eyes to meet those of the cruel despot. "Your death will come fast, old man," he announced. "And by my hand."

A murmur ran through the throng that filled the vast hall behind him. As one, a hundred phase axes hammered the floor, each held by one of the black-armored guards that lined the walls. The sharp report silenced the restive crowd.

The ten nobles rolled their eyes, shot wry looks at each other, or snorted in open contempt.

More laughter from the throne. "You are but one man! Through the Ten Masters, I command billions. My aerial fleets darken skies. My armies blanket continents. My beast-slaves fill oceans with the blood of the defiant. The throngs of a thousand worlds cower in fear lest my slightest whim erase them from existence. Look around you! Here in the holiest of holies I am protected by an hundred Elite Deathbringers. Each of my Ten Masters wields an arcane might the likes of which the best minds of your world cannot imagine, let alone hope to understand." The King threw his head back and laughed again.

"Then why are you so afraid?" Despite the bluster, Dan caught traces of worry deep within the black well of the King's eyes. "What do you know that your lackeys don't?"

The Infinite King shut his lips tight and sat upright. He raised his hand to stroke his chin in appraisal. This tightened the golden chain and forced the girl at his side to lean closer. Dan spared the woman a look of open concern.

"You are a bold one," the King said slowly. "I fear the loss of a man of your obvious strength when he might serve me well. Tell me how you come to my domain of your own free will. Swear fealty to me. And you will be rewarded." He paused and eyed Dan appraisingly. "Riches. Glory. Command of a thousand armies. Name your reward and it shall be yours."

Dan's eyes flitted to the woman at the King's side.

The cruel King noticed and his lips split in a cruel grin. "Ah! So that is what your heart desires." The woman's eyes grew wide as the man to whom she was chained casually gripped the golden chain that linked them and sundered it. He held out the loose end of the strand connected to the beauty's collar. "Turn away from a lifetime of pain. Join me. Seal your allegiance by taking this from my hand, and she will love you for eternity. Or doom yourself to a thousand years of torment. Either way, your universe shall be mine."

Dan brought one leg around. On one knee, he rested a forearm on his bent leg. "That's not how it works in my world. She will give me her love freely, or I will not take it."

"Your world is weaker than I thought."

"We have a strength you cannot imagine."

"Strength! Pfah! Do not speak to me of strength. Behind you stand the champions of a thousand worlds – the most powerful heroes and kings of their planet. Once they commanded legions, now they serve only me!" Dan looked over one shoulder at the audience that filled the vast throne room. They were tall and strong limbed, dressed in short togas or high skirted gowns of pale linen. Men and women, the hard, clean lines of strength and endurance graced their limbs. But all bore the scars of battle and the haunted look of those who had survived only to spend their days wondering if the fate of their fallen comrades would not have been preferable to a life of regret and defeat.

"There is your strength," the King shouted. "Too weak to withstand my power!" He clenched a fist before him. "The greatest heroes of their worlds, now cowed and corralled like livestock. Summoned to witness the defeat of yet another world – your world - they now stand docile before my might."

Dan got his other foot beneath him and stood.

"Wait a moment," he said, turning to the crowd. "You brought a thousand of the greatest heroes of the universe - here? To your center of power, where they outnumber your guards a hundred to one?"

The ten nobles began to shift uncomfortably on their steps, but the King plowed ahead, "Yes, you fool! And still they stand paralyzed by fear."

"And you told them that your power flows through those ten nobles?" Still looking over his shoulder, Dan noted the growing number of clenched fists and set jaws in the crowd.

"Is everyone in your world deaf?" the King cried. "Yes! My power knows no –"

He never got to finish. Dan Praxas, earthling and inventor, had already snatched at the phase-axe of the guard to his left. The black-clad warrior had served ten decades in his King's throne room, and not once in all those years had he encountered such boldness. Unprepared, he had time only to raise his hands in a futile gesture of defense. The rippling blade of the phase-axe sliced clean through the guard and continued into the side of his partner.

The raised voices of a thousand heroes cried at his back, but Dan spared them not a glance. He raced up the steep silver steps, swinging his stolen weapon wildly and unleashing a banshee cry of his own.

Chaos erupted behind as a hundred stunned nobles raised fists wreathed in purple and black flames. Others stepped backwards through rents in the fabric of space or took the opportunity to lash out at their rivals. In the confusion, one fell to Dan's axe, then he was past them and twisting to bring the phase-axe down upon the brow of the cowering Lord of Every Universe. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, his eyes rimmed with white in their fear. His last thought – men did not behave thus. Not alone. Only as armies easily broken.

Dan whirled to strike at the nearest nobles, but all had fled or fallen or were locked in combat against the throng of heroes who had followed Dan up the silver stair. He was alone for just a moment, when a sudden movement to his side caught his attention.

The woman with the deep eyes, the flaming hair of red and gold and silver, stood proud and tall. One hand she held out to him, offering him the broken golden chain.

Dan smiled and reached for it.

About the Authors

N.A. Roberts (The Knights of Aos Si)

N.A. Roberts is a writer and gamer who lives in the woods and has been obsessed with storytelling for the greater part of his life. He prefers fantasy and historical fiction, but may one day publish science fiction as well. He has a blog at: https://fishingforfairytales.wordpress.com/

Bradford C. Walker (The Ghost Fist Gambit)

Bradford C. Walker is a writer, gamer, and historian based out of Minneapolis, Minnesota. You can find his blogging at Walker's Retreat (https://bradfordcwalker.blogspot.com/) for general topics, Walker's Study (http://walkersstudy.blogspot.com/) for writing-specific topics, and Empire Must Fall (http://empiresmustfall.blogspot.com/) for things political and philosophical. He also writes for PulpRev and SuperversiveSF's joint blogs, and sometimes guest-posts at the Castalia House blog. "The Ghost Fist Gambit" is his debut as a SF/F author.

Julie Frost (Primitive Life Forms)

Julie Frost grew up an Army brat, traveling the globe. She thought she might settle down after she finished school, but then she married a pilot and moved six times in seven years. She's finally put down roots in Utah with her family--six guinea pigs, three humans, a tripod calico cat, and a "kitten" who thinks she's a warrior princess--and a collection of anteaters and Oaxacan carvings, some of which intersect. She utilizes her degree in biology to write werewolf fiction while completely ignoring the physics of a protagonist who triples in mass. Her short fiction has appeared in Writers of the Future, The District of Wonders, Cosmos, Unlikely Story, Stupefying Stories, and too many anthologies to count. Her first novel, "Pack Dynamics," was released in 2015 by WordFire Press. She whines about writing, a lot, at http://agilebrit.livejournal.com/

Jesse Abraham Lucas (The Plowshare's Lament)

Jesse Abraham Lucas lives an uncharacteristically quiet life in a suburb of Little Rock, Arkansas. He currently has no longer works available for purchase but occasionally publishes short stories at his blog, The Jesse Lucas Saga (jesseabrahamlucas.blogspot.com)

Jon Del Arroz (For Steam and Country)

Jon Del Arroz is known as the leading Hispanic voice in Science Fiction. His journalism and livestream broadcasts on sci-fi, geek culture and free speech reach more than 10,000 people per week. He's best known for his multi-award nominated Star Realms: Rescue Run and his hit steampunk novel, For Steam And Country. In 2018, he will be releasing several new novels, including Alt-Hero, co-written with Vox Day. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area in the best timeline.

Blog: http://www.delarroz.com/

Twitter: @jondelarroz

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Jon-Del-Arroz/e/B01NBOZVCP

Todd Everhart (Herald of the Dead)

What little is known about him is that he is holotropic ink born from thaumaturgic infinite abyssal idioplasma. His passing strokes have left behind works of thrilling fantasy and captivating art.

T.T. Arkansas (Silence in the Cell Block)

Tommy Tubb Arkansas is the pseudonym of Tommy Tubb Arkansas, the clone of a prolific time-traveller. Created and raised in Texas by an extended family of Ex-Finnish Marines, he uses science fiction and fantasy to explore his newfound humanity.

David Skinner (The King's Portion)

David Skinner has been writing steadily (though not prolifically) since he was twelve years old. His most recent book is the novel "The Giant's Walk." He has also had three books of fantastical juvenile fiction published by Simon & Schuster (most notably "The Wrecker"). He loves science fiction. He lives in Michigan and blogs at http://www.davidskinner.biz.

John C. Wright (Superluminary Episode 01: Assassin in Everest)

John C. Wright is a retired attorney, newspaperman and newspaper editor, who was only once on the lam and forced to hide from the police.

He is the author of some twenty two novels, including the critically acclaimed THE GOLDEN AGE, and COUNT TO A TRILLION. His novel SOMEWHITHER won the Dragon Award for Best Science Fiction Novel of 2016. He has also published numerous short stories and anthologies, including AWAKE IN THE NIGHT LAND and CITY BEYOND TIME, as well as nonfiction. He holds the record for the most Hugo Award nominations for a single year.

He presently works as a writer in Virginia, where he lives in fairytalelike happiness with his wife, the authoress L. Jagi Lamplighter, and their four children: Pingping, Orville, Wilbur, and Just Wright.

Dominika Lein (Into the Hands of a Living God)

The profile of Dominika Lein is a strange one and better left vague. Dominika first appeared during a séance to determine whether or not a demonic presence lived in the basement of an old manor house. She can be found wandering the northern roads between writing and spending time on Twitter. Find more information about her books at http://www.dominikalein.com

JD Cowan (Lucky Spider's Last Stand)

JD Cowan is a writer with an obsession for stories and Truth. He takes pleasure in looking for Light in the places where darkness grips the tightest. His works include the young adult novel "Knights of the End" and the upcoming short novel "Grey Cat Blues" as well as short stories in "Superheroes: The Crossover Alliance Volume 3" by the Crossover Alliance and "Paragons" by Silver Empire. He blogs about stories and entertainment at wastelandandsky.blogspot.ca and can be found on Twitter @wastelandJD for those interested.

P.R. Marshall (Avatar of Pain)

P. R. Marshall always wanted to be a "real" writer, until he discovered a great pulp fiction revival and decided it was a lot more enjoyable. He's a dedicated SFF reader, gamer and history nut who loves fun, action-packed stories and imaginative worlds. You can find his assorted writings over at his blog, Tome of Knowing.

David J. West (Wings in the Night)

David J. West writes dark fantasy and weird westerns because the voices in his head won't quiet until someone else can hear them. He is a great fan of sword & sorcery, ghosts and lost ruins, so of course he lives in Utah with his wife and children. You an visit him at http://www.kingdavidjwest.com/or grab books at amazon.com/author/davidjwest

Fenton Skeegs (The Red World Dies)

Fenton Skeegs lives close to the Nation's Capitol where he works in Engineering. He does most of his writing in diners and late night coffee shops when he's not working in the woods, or constructing a trebuchet. He is currently at work completing a novel.

He posts this thoughts at https://fentonskeegs.blogspot.com/

David Godward (Longman & Cobbledick)

Dave has been writing for his own amusement for twenty years. In 2011, he did NaNoWriMo for the first time after being challenged by his reprehensible cousin. He then did it three more times to prove that he could.

His childhood was full of starships, magic, and stories that were beyond good, beyond evil, and beyond his wildest imagination. The 'Longman & Cobbledick' short represents the first time he's ever let something he's written properly out into the wild.

You can find him here: https://nanowrimo.org/participants/grannygoddy. He also has a blog he forgot about: https://grannygoddy.blogspot.co.uk/. Now he's remembered about it, things will appear.

John Daker (Danger on the Colony Ship)

John Daker is someone who seeks after the sense of adventure and wonder that originally drew him into speculative fiction. After giving up on speculative fiction for several years due to boring stories, the Pulp Revolution has drawn him back in. He lives in Texas with his wife and far too many books.

You can read his writings about old school roleplaying games and science fiction / fantasy literature at https://themixedgm.wordpress.com/or see his tweets at @notjohndaker on Twitter.

Jon Mollison (Defiance)

Jon Mollison works as a scientist by day and plays as an author by night. Don't let his good looks and undeniable charm fool you, he spent years laboring in the nerd mines before popular culture discovered they were filled with diamonds.

http://jonmollison.com or on Twitter:@notjonmollison

Thank You

Thank you for reading.

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To find more information about PulpRev, please visit http://www.pulprev.com/

