Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Main Features, Poetry

For Spacers Snarled in the Hair of Comets

Bruce Boston

If you’ve heard the stellar vox humana
the untuned ear takes for static,

if you’ve kissed the burning eyelids
of god and seized upon the moon’s

reflection, disjointed and backwards,
in the choppy ink of some alien sea,

then you know how sleek and fleshy,
how treacherous, the stars can become.

While the universe falls with no boundary,
you and I sit in a cafe of a port city

on a planet whose name we’ve forgotten:
the vacuum is behind us and before us,

the spiced ale is cool and hallucinogenic.
Already the candle sparkles in our plates.

(First appeared in Asimov’s SF Magazine, April 1984, Rhysling Award 1985)

Bruce Boston lives in Ocala, Florida, with his wife, writer-artist Marge Simon, and the ghosts of two cats. He is the author of fifty books and chapbooks, including the novels The Guardener’s Tale and Stained Glass Rain. His writing has appeared in countless publications, most visibly in Asimov’s SF Magazine, Amazing Stories, Weird Tales, Strange Horizons, Daily Science Fiction, Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror, and The Nebula Awards Showcase. One of the leading genre poets for more than a quarter century, Boston has won the Bram Stoker Award for Poetry, the Asimov’s Readers Award, and the Rhysling Award (SFPA), each a record number of times. He has also received a Pushcart Prize for fiction and the Grandmaster Award of the SFPA. He will be Poet Guest of Honor at the 2013 Bram Stoker Awards/World Horror Con to be held in New Orleans. For more information visit www.bruceboston.com.

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 8, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories

Time and the Tradesman

James Hutchings

Wizened Time prowled the world bringing age to all things
and the white in his beard was the dust of dead kings
and the dust of their tombs and the cities wherein
they were laid and all trace of their names.
And he came to a workshop where antiques were made.
He went in and discovered a man at his trade
who was dyeing the wood, making marks with a blade
and Time watched and at last he exclaimed
“That is not how I work.” Then he bent the man’s back
and he worked on his skin till it furrowed and cracked
and his strong, clever fingers were shaking and slack
and Time left, as unseen as he came.

James Hutchings has work in Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and Wisdom Crieth Without, and other markets.

Published by Karl Rademacher on July 8, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories

Primordial

F.J. Bergmann

primordial
When we make love
polar ice caps melt in an aquamarine flow.
Glaciers shudder and fall in shards,
pale calves frolicking, floating on dark waves
in the roar of breakers.
The seas rise.

When we make love
continents divide, floating on a molten core.
Tectonic plates strain against each other;
mountains heave and lift toward heaven.
Volcanoes spurt lava where the land splits and ruptures,
crowned with tongues of flame.

When we make love
planets collide. Thousands of trees topple
like dominoes, oceans overwhelm the high places,
the atmosphere clots with smoke. Our sun dwindles,
and giant lizards disappear
under drifting snow.

F.J. Bergmann frequents Wisconsin and Fibitz.com. Publications where her work has appeared include Asimov’s Science Fiction, Big Pulp, Bull Spec, Eschatology, OnSpec, and a bunch of regular literary jurnals that should have known better. She is the winner of the 2012 RANNU Fund Speculative Literature Award for Poetry, and the editor of Star*Line (the journal of the the Science Fiction Poetry Association ) and Mobius: The Journal of Social Change . Centennial Press has published her fourth chapbook, Out of the Black Forest.

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Boatman’s Price

by David Wright

Her husband was sleeping–sleeping, but not snoring. She watched the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, waiting. Something gnawed away in the back of her mind, like a weasel pulling on the tail of a half-dead gecko. She didn’t want to wake him, but she could wait no longer.

“Alex,” she whispered, bending close to his hearing aid and nudging his arm. “Alex,” she said a little louder. His eyes opened, a look of instant recognition on his drawn and weary face.

“Ranjeet, my darling, you’re late.”

“I’m not late,” she said defensively, but then Alex smiled with his eyes and Ranjeet knew she’d been duped. Always the trickster, even now. She could kill him.

“So how are you doing?” she asked, trying to make Alex be serious for once.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Ranj.” He blinked with condescension, dismissing her worries before she could even express them. She hated when he did that. Didn’t she have a right to worry? Didn’t she have any rights?

“Alex, I…”

“Yes, Ranj.”

“I don’t feel–something’s wrong.”

Alex laughed. “The whole world is wrong.”

“That’s just what I mean. It doesn’t seem right what we’re doing, not with the world the way it is.”

“Oh Ranj.” He tapped her hand, his touch cold. “You were always so superstitious

“It’s not superstition. It’s just not fair.”

“It was perfectly fair. It was blind luck. We can’t just stop living because the world is falling apart. We have to take what life luck gives us. I just wish we had more time together.”

He looked at her sadly, serious for the first time. She tried to smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, feeling a pang in her heart that she could hardly bear.

“I’ve brought you something.” She looked over her shoulder furtively and reached into her handbag. “Samosa. It’s cold but still fresh.”

He shook his head, his eyes closed.

“But it’s your favorite. Here, smell.” She put the deep-fried triangle under the tubes in his nose. He tried to pull his head away and the health monitors screamed in protest. She stepped back, the weasel in her head swallowing the gecko whole.

An hour later, the doctor sat with her in the stuffy “patient-family” room.

“Your husband is very fortunate,” she said. “We’re into the second phase now and everything is five by five.” The doctor explained the phase schedules as if they were new to Ranjeet, as if she had not already heard them a thousand times before. They were always changing, yet always the same–meaningless.

“He’s not eating,” she said, interrupting the smooth, practiced cadence of the doctor’s recital. The doctor seemed mildly perturbed, but for the first time looked Ranjeet squarely in the eye.

“No. We removed the feeding tube because his digestive organs have shut down. I was under the impression this had already been explained to you.”

“So he won’t eat anymore?”

The doctor looked at her coldly as if she were a stubborn child refusing to go to bed.

The network was on when she got home–a thousand faces, a thousand voices, the tendrils of her world.

“Congratulations on the lottery.” It was Jumar, her lab assistant. He looked anything but happy. “So when will you be back?”

“He’s only in phase two. It might be awhile, maybe never.”

Was he smiling? She couldn’t tell with his head down. If she didn’t come back to work, she’d be off the shortlist and Jumar would be one step up the lottery. Nobody ever talked about that openly, but it was on everybody’s mind–the elephant in the room.

“UR71 has gone pandemic. It won’t be long now. We could always use your help in–”

He was kissing up, hedging his bets just in case she did come back. She didn’t have time for that. She panned through the news channels. The countdown had started. Pestilence, war, famine, death–the four horsemen of the apocalypse. It was as if the whole world knew its end was near. Only the lucky ones would live, like brands plucked from the fire, somewhere way out there in the stars, if you could call that living.

She shut it down, shut it all down, and now her house was a hollow shell, an endless cavern of blank, empty walls broken only by the closed door at the end of the hall. The closed door led to a room she never entered. The door beckoned to her, but she would not open it. The room beckoned to her, but she would not enter it.

“We’re well into the next phase,” Alex said with an odd sense of anticipation. “It could be anytime now.”

Ranjeet watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, not knowing what to say. It didn’t matter anyways. The hearing aid was gone. He was completely deaf. Soon he would be blind too. She felt the tears welling in her eyes. She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He stared past her at the blank, white wall.

“I feel–it’s hard to explain–like I’m on the edge of some great new world, not death exactly, but you have to die to get there. It’s like I’m crossing the River Styx.” He laughed hoarsely. “My ancestors used to put coins on a dead man’s eyes to pay the boatman.” He looked directly at Ranjeet. “I guess we’ve paid that price already.”

Ranjeet felt her soul melt. She bent forward and kissed Alex gently on each eye. He smiled, and then suddenly winced in pain. She looked pleadingly at the doctors, but their attention was now fully dedicated to the beeping lines and squiggles on the life support monitors. They too seemed rapt with euphoric anticipation, as if something great were about to happen.

And then it did.

The bed kicked suddenly and the monitors screamed. Two more white-robed doctors ran into the crowded hospital room. Alex’s body convulsed violently on the bed, nearly knocking Ranjeet to the floor. She didn’t know it at the time, but she was screaming and praying and pleading. And then everything just stopped–Alex, Ranjeet, the squiggling lines.

Alex opened his mouth to let out one final sigh, and his narrow chest lowered, never to rise again.

Ranjeet broke over his lifeless body, her tears mixing with his sweat. The doctors ignored her, still too intent on the electronic monitors. And then she heard it. A beep. And then another. And then a steady rhythm, and the doctors gave a collective yet civil cheer.

Days passed, weeks.

Her husband slept. He did not snore. He did not breathe. Only the steady beating of his heart told Ranjeet that he truly was alive. And then his eyes opened.

“Late again,” he said.

She did not argue. She did not laugh. Her husband was a stranger to her, trapped behind the aura of his ghost.

“So how…?” She began, but did not finish.

He’d lost his hair, his eyebrows, and his eyelashes. His skin had become featureless, without pores or wrinkles. He hardly seemed human anymore, like an undressed manikin in a store window. They said he could hear again, that she could talk to him, but she couldn’t think of what to say. She felt the coldness of his skin and let go of his hand.

“Ranjeet,” he said clearly, as if no time had passed since their last conversation over a month ago, “I’ve been thinking.” He looked at the blank, white wall. “I’ve been thinking maybe you should go. I know what you said before about staying to the end, and I appreciate that, but you have to go on with your life. Nobody knows for sure when the final phase will happen, and from what I can tell, it won’t be a pretty sight. Come back when it’s all over. Will you do that for me? Will you, Ranj?”

He reached for her with his pale, white hand like some grotesque zombie. Ranjeet stepped back from the hospital bed, horrified.

“Ranj, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

She covered her face.

“Ranjeet, please.”

“No!” she screamed, and ran out of the room, down the hall, past the startled patients and doctors who had come to think of her as just part of the aging hospital décor, like a wilting flower by her husband’s deathbed. But she would not come back, she told herself. She would never come back.

Two days later, she showed up for work. No one was particularly happy to see her, especially not Jumar–the illusion of her juicy lottery spot shattering before his greedy brown eyes. She couldn’t blame him. They all wanted to live. And every day UR71 spread to another city, and more and more transports thundered out of Cape Canaveral and Baikonur. Soon, very soon, the last transport would leave, and what was left of the human race would wither like a raisin in the sun. The earth would live on, the plants and animals, but the people would just blink into oblivion.

“It’s good to see you back,” Jumar lied, the words dripping off his tongue like acid. “I suppose you’ll want your office back.”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, “and my parking spot.”

Jumar didn’t even blink.

Ranjeet took charge immediately, diving into her work with a feverish passion that immediately silenced any hope Jumar had of taking her position permanently. It was all meaningless. The chance that her lab or any other lab would find a miracle cure before UR71 eliminated the earth’s human population was a statistical impossibility, but that didn’t matter. She had to work, and so she did, past all reason, past all hope.

At night, she would walk home through the park, the smell of lilacs filling her nostrils. She used to love that smell, or any smell, but now she felt nothing. There were no flowers in New Haven, or so she’d heard, no plants of any kind, no great red cedars, no little ground ferns, no budding cacti, and no lilacs. They didn’t even grow plants for food. They didn’t need it after the change. Oh they had the genomes for most species in stasis just in case, but it would be centuries before they bothered to clone them, if ever.

New Haven–a world without food and death and flowers.

And then she would enter the blank cave of her apartment, and the closed door at the end of the barren hall would greet her, ever silent, ever beckoning.

Days passed, weeks.

She received an email from Alex’s doctor. The final phase was over. She could return to the hospital. The news glared at her accusingly on her wall screen. But this time, she did not respond. This time, she did not head immediately to the tram as she had so many times before–and into the elevator, and down the hospital’s antiseptic hallways to her husband’s room to sit by his bedside like the dutiful, loving wife. And neither did she steel herself and return back to work with her head held high. This time, she failed. Curled up in a ball of self-defeat and self-pity, she mourned her weakness until her eyes were dry.

And then the door beckoned to her.

Powerless to resist though she knew it would utterly destroy her, she drifted down the barren hallway like a ghost in a dream. The door gave way to her slightest touch although it had not been opened in more than two years. She entered helplessly. A thick layer of dust coated the furniture, obscuring the pastel pictures of dancing hippos and flying alligators. The dinosaur mobile hung limp and lifeless in the airless room. She wanted to touch it, but did not. Instead, her trembling hand fell upon the edge of the dusty crib and her eyes upon the picture of her daughter above it.

Cassandra was one of the first to contract UR71–one of its first victims–a six-month-old child. What kind of a malevolent bug would choose an innocent child for its first victim? What kind of a god would allow it to happen?

Two years of bitterness and sorrow welled up in Ranjeet’s heart. Never had she felt so much emotion all at once, not when she first fell in love, not even at her own daughter’s funeral. It was overwhelming, intoxicating. She could not take it, but she could not resist it either. Collapsing on the hardwood floor, she lost herself completely to the blind rapture of utter sorrow. And in that moment felt perfect peace.

Time itself became meaningless. When she opened her eyes again, it was morning and her husband was standing over her.

“Alex?” she said groggily. “You’re late.”

He laughed nervously. “Yes, Ranj, it’s me.”

He had hair again, not just on his head but all over his face. He was fully suited for flight, all except his pressure helmet, which was cradled in his left arm. He looked strangely happy, like a boy with a secret.

“I don’t have much time. My launch is scheduled for this afternoon. But I have good news.”

“What?” She rubbed her eyes still not sure whether she was fully awake.

“I got them to bump up your lottery number. You start phase treatments tomorrow.” He looked at her, apparently eager for signs of her approval. She gave him none. His new, brown eyebrows knitted together. “You know what this means? In a month, maybe two, you could be on route to New Haven like me. We could be together again, forever this time, or pretty close to it.”

Ranjeet looked into Alex’s eager eyes, so filled with life, so filled with hope. Could she ever feel that way again with all she’d left behind? She gazed helplessly at the dusty furniture with its prancing cartoons, the lifeless dinosaurs above her head, and the empty crib behind her. Last of all, her eyes fell upon Cassandra’s picture, and all at once her mind was made up.

“No,” she said firmly.

She heard Alex drop his helmet and then he was bending over her, reaching for her with his gloved hand.

“Look, Ranjeet. I know you’ve been through a tough time, but you don’t have to die. My new body may look different. It may feel different. But it will last virtually forever. No more growing old. No more dying. And it’s still me on the inside.” His gloved hand touched her shoulder and she cringed. Alex stepped back, startled.

“Be reasonable, Ranjeet. They won’t let you go without the phase treatments. You’ll never survive transport. And you can’t stay here. The plague is unstoppable. The earth is doomed.” His tone became desperate. He looked at the dusty crib behind her and the picture of Cassandra on the wall. “You have to–we have to leave the past behind and start a new life for ourselves. It’s the only way.”

“No!” she screamed, pulling away from him. “I won’t go. I will stay here until the end, and die if I have to.”

“Ranj, please. You can’t give up hope.”

“I haven’t given up hope, Alex. You have!” She rose to her feet, suddenly strong, suddenly powerful. “I will stay here and fight this thing until the very end, until my last breath. I owe her that much.”

Alex stared at Ranjeet mutely, his rubbery, bearded face torn in anguish, but he had no more arguments, nothing else to say. A suited soldier appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, our time is up. We must go now!”

Alex did not move.

“Sir–”

“I’m coming, damn you!”

The soldier hesitated in the doorway for a moment, and then disappeared into the blank hallway. Alex turned back to Ranjeet, his eyes pleading.

“But why,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Ranjeet reached up to touch his chest, but there was nothing–no breath, no heartbeat, no life. Her eyes fell.

“Like you said, Alex, we’ve already paid the boatman’s price. It’s time to cross the river.” She gestured to the door. “Go on. You don’t want to be late.”

Alex shuddered, but did not speak. And then, slowly, he turned towards the door and left. Ranjeet covered her mouth to restrain her cry, to stop herself from calling out to him. And then it was too late. And then he was gone. But in her heart, she knew she had done the right thing. She had stayed true to herself, true to her daughter. She looked up at Cassandra with fresh tears in her eyes.

“For you, baby, I won’t give up hope. For you…”

David Wright is a writer and teacher living on Canada’s majestic west coast. He has a lovely wife, two sparkling daughters and 40 published short stories in a dozen magazines including Neo-opsis, MindFlights and eSteampunk. David’s latest eNovels, are available at Smashwords.com. Visit his website at wright812.shawwebspace.ca.

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Dragon’s Cook

by Erik Bundy

A dragon named Fume lived in the mountainous dukedom of Etbourg. He was over three hundred years old, the size of an overweight pony, often bit his front claws – nerves — and had leathery wings that squeaked when he flew. His price for not raiding the countryside was that a virgin live with him. Her term of residence was one year, and she assisted him with his alchemical studies. To show his sociability, Fume also volunteered when necessary at the local crematorium.

One spring morning as Fume creaked around inside his lair, he heard a shrill whistle. He found a young woman in a lilac business suit – knee-length skirt – at the main entrance of his cavern, four fingers in her mouth as she was about to whistle again. From a linen pocket, she whipped out an electronic notepad with her photo identification on the screen. Fume peered at it with rheumy eyes and pretended he could read.

“Lady Adir, Department of Safety and Health,” she said. “My father is the Duke.” She glanced back at the sloping, stony path. “It’s a long climb up here.”

If Fume hadn’t burnt off his eyebrows long ago, he would have raised one now. “I do live on a mountain.”

Her lips tightened, and he knew sarcasm had made him yet another enemy.

“You will need to repair those stone stairs,” she said. “I stumbled twice. And a handrail must be installed immediately.”

Fume blew out a smoke ring and watched it waver upwards and disappear in the soft morning light.

“Until the repairs are completed, I am sorry to say, I will have to close the footpath to all pedestrian traffic,” Lady Adir added, not at all sorry.

“Really,” answered Fume. “Maintaining roads and public paths, I believe, are dukedom responsibilities. Your father won’t thank you for reminding him of this.”

“The Duke is exempt from public safety rules.”

“How nice for him,” Fume said.

“I have come to inspect your lair,” she announced.

Fume hissed vapor through soot-lined nostrils. “Do you have a warrant?”

“You are not a suspect in a crime.” Lady Adir’s expression became uncertain. “Are you?”

Fume chuckled smoke. “No, no. It’s just that you seem, uh, what is the word? Predisposed! Yes, predisposed to finding a crime in my home. I cannot allow this inspection, Lady Adir. It will set an irritating precedent.”

“Well now, let’s see.” She brought up a document on her electronic notebook. “My father is sending another young maiden next week. Her name is Belena. No inspection, no Belena.”

Fume scratched his limestone threshold with three yellow claws. He grimaced as a twinge of arthritis passed up his green leg. “I don’t wish to seem discourteous, but–”

“Good.” She darted past him into the twilit cavern.

Fume growled, but having not yet basked in the sun, he felt too cold and decrepit to chase her around his lair.

She waved a delicate hand in front of her nose. “What is that smell? Oh-h, sorry,” she said, looking with repugnance at Fume’s moldering body. “You might try incense. The last maiden did complain.”

“She complained. If Gussalin was a virgin, then I’m a duck.” Fume ticked a claw on the stone floor in rhythm with his words. “The Duke must send me a virgin this time.”

“That,” she huffed, “is no longer a job requirement.”

“It’s part of our contract.”

“Anyway, that’s not my department. You can contact Human Services. Recruitment Division.”

“I turn . . . what is the word? Salvaged? Yes, salvaged iron into gold. A female virgin is required to perform the rite correctly. Otherwise, I end up with scrap iron, which is what Gussalin left me with.”

Lady Adir sniffed. “Her job description calls for her to polish your gold, not make it.”

“Other duties as assigned,” Fume argued.

Fume didn’t mention, because he didn’t want to give Lady Adir more power over him, that he must perform the rite of rejuvenation soon. He was rotting away like a mushroom browning at the edges because Gussalin had lied about her purity. He needed a virgin before senility made him forget the youth-renewing rite all together.

Lady Adir’s expression became officious. “You have only one window. Facing north, I see. You’ll need to add another for ventilation. Facing south, I think. Yes, south. Oh, you do have a lot of treasure lying around, don’t you? You sleep on it, I guess. Ah-ha, we were wondering where our monogrammed silver plate had gone to. In fact, one of the servants was executed for losing it. Father will want it all back.”

Fume inserted his putrid bulk between his treasure and Lady Adir. “Perhaps we could split the plate between us.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Sorry, I must have been thinking with the reptilian part of my brain. I hope this new maiden . . . did you say her name was Belena? I can’t seem to remember names anymore. Well, I hope she doesn’t have an ardent young man, someone who wishes to be a hero and rescue her. These petal-cheeked maidens you send me begrudge the attitude of winner dines after their bothersome boyfriends attack.”

Lady Adir tapped information into her notepad. “Gussalin said you didn’t feed her. She lost over ten kilograms in the year she lived with you.”

“Yes-s. Improved her figure no end. I should call it the Dragon’s Heavenly Body Diet.”

“This is not a hardship tour. Starvation is not allowed.”

Fume aimed his red eyes at her. “I provided Gussalin with fire and healthy food. She wouldn’t crack open an egg shell.”

“Then you need a cook.”

“She claimed to have allergies. Could eat only what appealed to her, mainly sweets. She considered sugar a food group. She thought warming food was cooking it. She only had to ask, and I would have charbroiled anything she wanted. You young women must–”

Lady Adir held up a hand. “Cooking is beyond the scope of her position description. Now show me what chemicals Belena will use to polish your gold and silver?”

“We use dragon urine. Do you require a fresh sample?”

Lady Adir’s nostrils dilated. “Be sure you provide gloves. Now regarding your metallurgy, it is my understanding you do not have a permit.”

Fume snorted smoke ringlets. “Alchemy is not illegal. And I think you are too smart to tell your father you intend to cut off his percentage of the gold I make.”

Lady Adir considered this a moment, then said brusquely, “So in conclusion, before Belena comes, you will need to show proof that you added a south-facing window and hired a servant.” She tapped on her note pad. “I will send you a copy of my findings.” Lady Adir then strode out of the cavern.

Fume lay hissing on his threshold. Lady Adair expected him to hire a servant to serve a servant? Only a dukedom official could think up such nonsense. She also demanded a second window. That meant calling in the mercenary dwarfs. They would dig a hole in his treasure hoard as payment for chiseling a hole through his cavern wall. Perhaps . . . yes, he would pay them with the monogrammed silver plate. Let the Lady Adir try to reclaim it from them while they were eating off it.

Fume scratched his side and two scales fell off. An unblemished maiden must come to him without delay. Lady Adir, though, would insist on her findings being resolved before allowing Belena to enter his lair.

Must he rouse the countryside again? That always stirred up a swarm of muscular heroes. Had he even the strength to fly now? His might pull a wing muscle.

Ah-h well, tomorrow he would crawl down to the nearest ripe wheat field and sneeze. Accidents happen. The duplicitous Duke would not blame him for the resulting fire, not officially anyway, but he would understand the threat. This was all so tiresome and–

Fume flicked out his tongue to test the air . . . furtive movement, a hero or thief no doubt, and something else, something deliciously gamy. The intruder had sneaked up the mountain while Lady Adir distracted him. So much excitement in one day might bring on his liver fluctuations.

He slithered as fast as his aging body allowed to a back entrance covered by spider webs. Hidden, he watched a stout, curly haired youth crawl unheroically through a pink rhododendron. The second-rate armor was buffed to a dull shine but dinged . . . probably inherited from a grandfather who had fought as a common foot soldier in some ducal war.

Uncoiling, Fume crept down-slope behind the would-be hero. The young man became alert, sniffing the air. He glanced over his shoulder, jumped to his feet, and pulled a notched sword from a scabbard someone had used to stoke a hearth fire. The hero lifted his left leg, knee bent, and stood on his right foot with his rusty sword held point up in front of him.

Fume gurgled a chesty, smoker’s laugh. “I’m so glad to see you studied the manual.”

“Manual? You know about the secret fighting stances?”

“I have seen the pose before.” Fume didn’t mention that he had authored the manual to prevent heroes from becoming overly creative or that he received ten percent of the profits on all copies sold. Telling the young the truth, depriving them of their illusions, always depressed them so.

“If I might offer a constructive criticism,” Fume said, “I believe your raised knee is an inch or three too high. Balance, you know.”

The would-be hero’s eyes flared a second before he screamed a pagan war cry and charged.

Fume knocked the sword from the young man’s grasp with a claw swipe not found in the manual. He reminded himself to include a heroic stance for becoming barbecue in the next edition.

The lean young face inside the helmet, visor up, twisted with fear. The hero licked his lips and shucked a belly knife out of its raveling leather sheath.

“A novel idea, tickling a dragon to death with a knife.” Fume sighed a sulfurous breath. “Your timing is off, young man. The perfumed virgin in need of rescuing won’t be here for at least a week. What is your name?”

“Rulf,” the hero answered, his voice quavering.

Flapping to stop itself in mid-glide, an anticipatory raven settled on a limb of a nearby oak. Fume snorted. The fastidious Lady Adir would, no doubt, approve of ravens tidying up after he breakfasted.

Rulf swallowed and asked, “You have a shovel, right? The Duke says all bodies must be given proper burial.”

Fume did enjoy these pre-prandial discussions. “Ah-h, I think instant cremation is the exception. Heroes are the only humans the Duke allows me to eat. Tradition, you know.”

“Do I g-get a last meal?” Rulf choked out.

What was this dukedom coming to? Servants required a servant to cook for them and meals required a last meal. “Sorry, but I don’t have a cook in residence at the moment.”

“I-I-I can make my own meal.”

Fume’s tail twitched, a sign of sudden interest. “Heroes normally skewer monsters, not kabobs. You cook?”

“I’ve watched my mum do it for years.”

Fume sniffed. A real hero would have lied and said yes. “Why take up this quest of saving maidens who aren’t in need of rescuing?”

Rulf stared down at square toenails outlined with farm dirt. “I thought maybe the Duke would let me marry his daughter or something.”

Fume shuddered. “I take it you have not yet met Lady Adir. Is your life worth a year of cooking?”

“My . . . my life? Cook for a dragon? You mean barbecue people for–”

Fume silenced him with a raised yellow claw. “I do my own roasting. Which reminds me, what did you ride here?”

“Our mule.”

Fume’s hollow stomach rumbled. He had known it was not a horse. “Mule à la francaise will show appropriate gratitude for my sparing your life. You will cook for the new girl, Belena, if she ever arrives. Agreed?”

Rulf blushed with relief. “It’s a deal.” He put out his right hand, looked embarrassed, and pulled it back. “Do you have tarragon and savory? My mum uses them a lot.”

Fume chuckled. “This does sound promising. I doubt Belena will lose weight this year. Remember now, no stealing from me and no trying to assassinate an old dragon.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. What are my duties?”

“Oh, nothing right now except to acquaint me with your delicious mule. Then you will carry a message to the dwarfs. I have work for them.” Fume looked up at the sun, smirking, anticipating a good year. “After Belena arrives, she will no doubt supervise you. They always do. I’m certain the first chore assigned you will be to hang linen curtains over a new window I’m having put in. Oh yes, you will also need to buy a chef’s hat. Lady Adir, no doubt, will require one. Health regulations, you know.”

Fume chuckled, thinking of his coming skirmishes with Lady Adair. Enemies were so much more amusing than friends.

###

Erik Bundy is a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop and grand prize winner of the Sidney Lanier Poetry Competition. His fantasy novel, Magic and Murder Among the Dwarves, will be published by Untold Press in the spring of 2014.

Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories

A Darker Faerie’s Tale

by James Crofoot

The green-winged fairy, Taylenel, sat on the edge of the Queen’s pool in solemn thought as he stared at the laughing image there.

***

“Tell me again, Taylenel,” Clarrisa whispered in her lover’s ear. “How deep is your love for me?”

Taylenel cupped the face of his beautiful world in his hands. “Oh, queen of my world, my love for you is deeper than the stars above. Does that make you happy?” He laughed.

She rose above him and hovered. Clarrisa twirled in the air, yellow wings in a blur. “Oh yes,” she sang.

Taylenel rose to meet her and took her hand. “Bet I can out fly you.” He laughed some more and then took off into the silver-green leaves that made the fairy world.

“No you can’t!” Clarrisa put on a serious face and took off after him.

The two soared and dove, circled and spiraled. They flew high and low with such joy that they did not hear the alarm signaling that the borders of their land were violated. In their defense, no one dared enter their realm because few returned who did. Fairies do not kill; you see it is beyond their sensibilities. Instead, they use a salve on their arrows and blades that put those who crossed into this sylvan wood into a deep sleep, a sleep that lasts for a hundred years. Therefore, they had no fear of the outside world because none ever got too deep, and these two had never seen people from beyond their borders, being young for fairies.

Clarrisa and Taylenel, not hearing the alarm, flew with complete abandon. They flew, not noticing where they were. They flew to the edge of their home, so absorbed in their game that they didn’t see the goblins hiding in the brush at the foot of the trees.

It happened in a soaring dive that was making them both laugh in glee. Taylenel heard the terrified scream; he turned and looked back just in time to see Clarrisa in a net, knocked from the air by a club.

***

The Queen allowed him this visit every year, but every year she would try to talk him out of this lingering in the past.

***

When Taylenel awoke, the moon shone high in the cloudless sky. Then he remembered Clarissa’s scream and it jerked him fully alert.

“Clarrisa,” he yelled. He rose into the air and looked around frantically. When he saw the broken limbs of the underbrush, fear clutched at his heart and down he dropped. Seeing the footprints of the goblins, he knew they had to be goblins from the stories his father had told him, he screamed his beloved’s name again. Taylenel flew to the edge of the fairy wood and hovered silently, just staring out at the big world. Thoughts raced through his mind at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.

They had her.

Goblins had her.

They had taken her out of the woods.

He must speak to the Queen.

He had to save her.

Fear and rage now filled his thoughts.

***

“My Queen, I need the Sword of Kindra.”

The Queen of the fairies, who was currently entertaining the ambassador from the robins of the east, looked in slight surprise at Taylenel standing before her. This fairy had just flown up, completely bypassing all the rules of her court. Now he was demanding the treasured sword.

“Dear fairy, what do you mean by forcing your way into my court?” the Queen asked. She was not very commanding, however, due to the audacity of this youth.

“They have taken her,” he replied with bowed head. “The goblins! Why was there no alarm?”

The Queen regained her authority and calm. “Goblins took whom? The alarm was sounded. You must explain yourself.”

Taylenel looked up with anger in his eyes. The anger hit the queen and once again, she lost her composure.

“The goblins have taken my love. They took my Clarrisa!” Taylenel now spoke through clenched teeth, impatience clear in his demeanor.

The Queen now understood. “I see.” She softened. “I am very sorry. I can see this Clarrisa was deeply cared for. Asking for the sword, however, is no light matter. Do you intend on tracking down these goblins by yourself?”

“Yes,” Taylenel said. “There is no time for help.” He hadn’t really thought of the big world outside the woods, just of Clarrisa.

“Fairies don’t leave the realm often. We have little magic outside our home. I don’t think you can help her alone, please, can I not make you wait for help?” The Queen put as much compassion in her voice as she could muster.

“I’m going, Majesty. Now. With or without the sword.”

The queen looked at Taylenel for a short time. She could see that pain and anger tore at him and began to appreciate the courage this young fey possessed.

“Are you sure? You must be very sure if you are to leave our realm.”

Taylenel tried to keep from yelling. “I’m very sure. They have her. I have no choice but to find them.”

A tear formed in his eye.

She was not sure if it was anger or grief. Then decided it was both. She could not do otherwise but to grant his wish. “Very well, dear, brave fairy.” She ordered her chancellor to bring the sword. “The Sword of Kindra is our most treasured thing. It is a weapon, true, but it can be very beautiful, also. It belongs to all fairies, though. I am merely its keeper.”

The chancellor returned with the sword.

“You may take the sword.” She then pleaded, “Please, brave fairy, return it with your love.”

Taylenel took the sword and flew off.

As the Queen had stated, fairies did not leave their realm, fey magic did not work out there much. Not so with the Sword of Kindra though. Centuries before, the fey of the north crafted the weapon for the fairies, and it kept its power, both beautiful and terrible. It required no salve to put things to sleep.

Taylenel put his hand on the hilt of the sword he now wore. For an instant, his courage and resolve had faltered, but it quickly returned. He looked at the footprints left by the goblins and followed them.

For two days, he tracked the goblins without rest. The last words spoken by him to Clarissa ran on repeatedly in his head.

‘My love for you is deeper than the stars above.’

Finally, the prints led into a cave.

Landing on a ledge above the entrance, he listened. The fairy drew the sword, slowly, silently; with only the barest rasp of metal on metal. He flew in along the top of the tunnel. Passageways began branching off and there were footprints everywhere now. Despair seeped into his heart.

The stench of excrement and refuse from these filthy creatures made him vomit twice. This was alien to him; in the fairy wood, all was pleasant and clean, but he could not turn back. He must find Clarrisa; there was no other option. Goblins were everywhere. Constantly he had to hide. They chattered on in their tongue, which Taylenel could not understand.

They were terrible creatures to look upon. Their faces, twisted with wicked grins of decayed and yellow teeth showing through smiles of cracked lips. Their skin was a sickly green and putrid sores added to the disgusting smells. To the fairy, it seemed the vile nature of their bodies must be a reflection of their souls.

He took one tunnel that led to a sleeping chamber, another led to a crude kitchen. He wept, knowing he would never find his love in time, imagining what these cruel things would do to something so much weaker and smaller. But, with no time for tears, he wiped his face and moved on. Finally, after searching many tunnels while hiding from the goblins that lived here, Taylenel came to a lantern lit chamber from which cruel laughter emanated. He approached cautiously, keeping to the side of the cold damp passageway..

There were three of them standing around a table looking down at something there. A shrill scream was heard which pierced Taylenel’s being. He charged into the room, flitting around the three of them.

The first went down in a sleeping heap without the other two seeing. He cut the second one across the cheek and it too fell, fast asleep.

The third goblin was now aware of the fairy and started swinging with his club. The fairy dodged back and forth and finally got to the hand wielding the weapon. He cut that hand and down that goblin fell.

Taylenel hovered for an instant, staring at the sleeping things as if to make sure the magic of Kindra had done its job. A soft moan brought him back.

***

Every year the queen would allow her stern champion to gaze into her water, she knew the terrible story well.

***

He looked to the table and saw Clarissa tied to it with thread. Her wings were gone. There were many cuts covering her naked body. None would be immediately lethal, but all would have been painful. She was unconscious and very pale in a pool of blood.

The green fairy flew to her, his wings drooping with the grief in his chest. Landing softly next to her, as if afraid to disturb the table for fear of causing her more pain, he knelt and lifted her head gently.

Clarissa opened her eyes halfway. They were bloodshot and unfocused at first, but they cleared as she realized who she looked at and love filled them. She smiled.

“I knew you’d come, I knew I could hold on till then,” she said weakly and coughed, crimson stained her gentle, pink lips.

“My love.” Taylenel began to weep again.

“How deeply do you love me?” she asked.

She did not hear the reply. Taylenel reached up and closed her eyes.

Now his teeth clenched in rage, his face a mask of tears and dust. He stood, walked to the edge of the table and looked down at the sleeping goblins with his sword held in a white knuckled grip. They would not awaken, he decided. Not these monsters who were so cruel. He flew down to each in turn and quickly learned how to open their throats.

After, he flew back to the tabletop and cut the threads holding Clarissa’s inert form. The fairy sheathed his sword and picked her up in both arms.

***

Once again, Taylenel flew directly into the Queen’s court. This time it was full. Landing directly in front of the Queen, he laid Clarissa’s body on the steps there.

Shock filled the court at the fairy’s appearance. Shock filled all except the Queen, whose heart filled with grief, knowing what had happened.

“Why are you covered in the black blood of goblins, dear brave fairy?”

Taylenel could not bring his eyes to meet hers.

“You said to return the sword with my love.” He paused. The court held their breath. “I killed them, your majesty. I cut them and let their life’s blood flow from them, just as they did my love. Now they will never awaken, like my love. It has died.”

Tears began to form in the Queen’s eyes at the death of his innocence. After a silent moment, she regained control.

Taylenel unbuckled the sword from his waist and offered it to her.

“No,” she said in what was almost a whisper. “You will keep this weapon. Fairies do not kill, but there have been those who have. This sword our fey brethren made for one of them. You did what fairies do not do. I may need that someday, brave fairy. I ask you, in front of the fairy realm, will you be my champion? Before you answer, know that I do not ask this lightly. What you will be called to do, at times, I can ask of no other fairy.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “You will be my ambassador to outside kingdoms, and may be asked to kill again. Will you think on this?”

“I need no time to think. I will carry this sword for you, Majesty. I can not allow the malicious evil that did this to such an innocent.” He was looking at Clarissa. “First however, I must seek a boon from you. I need to be gone from our kingdom. I cannot stay. The very leaves remind me of the fairy at your feet. I do not know for how long, but I cannot look on this realm now. Will you allow this?”

***

The Queen granted his wish and for over two hundred years, Taylenel traveled the world outside his home. He visited kings, queens and emperors. He rode on the shoulders of generals in battles, epic and not. He sat for twenty years on a rocky ledge with a wise man discussing good and evil. Once a year, however, he returned to ask the maturing fairy queen to allow him to see his only love.

***

Taylenel, the Queen’s Champion and holder of the Sword of Kindra, rose to his feet. The image of his only love, the laughing Clarissa, vanished for another year. With a last look at the still water, which reflected the stars of a night sky above, as if a mirror, he turned and walked away.

###

James J Crofoot has traveled for most of his life, on sea and land. Throughout, he has written. Now he is starting to put the stories into the public eye. In addition to this story, he has a book published with MuseItUp publishing, The Journeys of a Different Necromancer. Above all else, he wishes you to enjoy his work.

Published by Karl Rademacher on May 27, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

LOVE SONG FOR A CYBORG

They sit us down on plain wooden chairs and tie our hands behind our backs. Thick rope cuts into my ankles as they fasten them to the legs of the chair. I look around. A wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. Basic furniture. An old sofa that has seen better days. Dust everywhere.

I’ve noticed two possible exits so far. The main door and a window behind the large table. There is a second door, half open, which seems to lead to another room.

There are five of them in the room and at least another three outside the cabin.

They make sure we are properly secured. We are placed next to each other, facing opposite directions.

Out of the corner of my right eye I can see his profile. His head is bent down, but he is regaining consciousness. When he finally comes around, his eyes first search for me.

I give a small nod, to which he does not respond. We both know what to expect next. It always starts with physical torture. I keep glancing at him, but his face reveals no emotions.

They hit me first. The blow tilts my head to the left. They probably think a woman will break faster than a man or the man will break to protect the woman.

None of that happens.

Cyborgs are not supposed to feel any physical pain.

But we do.

Our neuronal networks are ten times more complex than that of a human. We can sense a slight change in the air pressure miles away, we can hear the frequencies of the colors and smell the snow before it falls. They made us this way so that we could excel in our missions. But this highly sensitive and precise system, which notifies us if the butterfly flaps its wings, does not discriminate between stimuli and interprets them all. Including the painful ones. They are conveyed by millions of neuronal connections fully, without any restrictions.

So yes, we do feel pain. We only pretend we don’t. After all, what would be the use of a cyborg that feels more pain than a human?

Neither of us says a word. I can see they are getting frustrated. My left eye is swelling rapidly. They begin to beat him as well. That hurts me more than the punches they throw at me. I get the next one right in my abdomen. I think they broke one of my ribs. I throw up a bit of blood.

Not even an expert eye could tell the difference between cyborg and human bodies. If they cut us, we bleed just as a human would. We were made this way for a purpose. To fool the enemy. To make them think they are dealing with humans, when in fact they are dealing with an artificial entity.

We were never told how we can die. But we do know it is much harder to kill us than humans. Severing our body parts would make us inadequate for a task, at least until we are brought back to the base and our limbs are reconstructed. But all other injuries and fatal wounds, we can pretty much sustain, because our bodies have the capability to repair themselves. It is an excruciatingly painful process. In human terms the equivalent would be like having a major operation without anesthetics. But I suppose our Makers have missed that too, or they simply did not care. So neither do we.

With my only functional eye I glance at him again. As his head tilts backwards from the punch he turns his eyes to me as well.

My mind is racing from this little glimpse of his. Is he concerned for me or is he simply concerned I might break and endanger the mission?

Cyborgs are supposed to be fully devoted to their missions, never question their orders and have no doubts in their way of life.

But we do.

The ability to store an enormous amount of information, easily foresee a number of possible outcomes and calculate the best option out of hundreds in a split second is what makes us perform with one hundred percent efficiency. At the same time, these quick and endless connections between neurons reveal other options and attach notions such as wrong and right, good and evil, beautiful and ugly. They cause us to doubt. All this, is it worth it? Regardless what path of reasoning I take, it always leads me to the same answer. It is not.

But we are not supposed to follow our own rationale; we are supposed to do our best to complete the mission. That is why we keep doubts to ourselves.

Otherwise, what would be the advantage of a cyborg that questions his orders?

My nose is broken. Blood drips down on my lips. They say this liquid has no purpose; it is there just to make us appear more human. Yet, born in pain and warm as I taste it, I feel it is very much mine and I mourn every drop that leaves my body.

I keep my right eye on him the whole time. He stares at them blankly, as if he is watching a boring show. His indifference makes them angry. They hit him so hard his chair falls backwards. He is lying on the floor right in front of me. Despite the blood pouring from split skin above his eyebrow, he still keeps the eye contact. So do I. His eyes are strangely calming and caring. I feel protected. I always do when he is near me.

Cyborgs are not supposed to care about each other or anyone else.

But we do.

Each time they hit him, his pain is mine as well. Given a chance, I would gladly take his place. Since I’ve been aware of myself, we have worked together. They always send us out in pairs.

Together we are a perfect machine, complementing on all levels; separately our abilities are only slightly better than those of humans. But there is more to it. This natural compatibility extends beyond the mere efficiency for the mission. Without a partner, we eventually become useless, unable to perform. Even if matched up with new partners after losing our original ones, we still cannot perform as well as before. Nobody knows the reason why it happens. Our Makers try to find the solution, but so far many cyborgs in perfect condition are still terminated once they lose their partner.

What they fail to see is that it is not the unique compatibility that enhances our performance; it is the fear of losing our partner that pushes us to do whatever it takes, to stay together. But we are not supposed to care, so we never speak of our fears. We disguise them as blind devotion to our mission instead.

They untie us from the chairs. With the guns pointing at our heads, they order us to stand. I try, but I collapse immediately. One of my knees was shattered so I cannot use my legs properly. I detect nervousness in his eyes. I try again. They grab me by the elbows and lift me up. I manage to keep my balance somehow.

He is worried. I am making him worried. It is the first time we are in a situation like this.

They walk us towards the other room and push us in. I fall face down onto a rough wooden surface. I black out.

According to my inner sense of time I must have been out for about twenty minutes. I try to open my eyes, but manage to see only with one. The left one is still not functioning due to the swelling. First thing I see is his face. The next thing I feel is an unbearable pain.

The healing process has started. My broken rib is being repaired and so is the kneecap. To avoid any suspicion from the enemies, surface injuries remain as they are, or heal as they would heal in a human. It is only the inner organs that are being repaired, so that we can function at our full capacity when needed.

I try to lift my head, to see him better. He must have already healed. His body is built stronger than mine, so it takes less time to repair.

A drop of salty substance seeps from my eye. I wish it hasn’t, but for some reason I cannot control it. It is the only sign of my pain.

He is watching me attentively, without blinking. He knows what I am experiencing.

I want to tell him that as long as he is near me I don’t mind, but I am not able to move my lips. The pain is too strong. I think he knows.

Cyborgs are not supposed to fall in love.

But we do.

The substance that sends the spark to ignite this perfectly composed artificial body is called dark matter. It bears this name, because even our Makers do not fully understand how it works. They just know how to use it. The dark matter is what lights up our vast neuronal networks, causes our artificial blood to flow, enables us to talk, understand and obey.

From each piece of the dark matter only two cyborgs can be made. Perhaps sharing the same substance is what makes us so perfectly compatible. Perhaps, this is the reason why I seek his closeness beyond anything else.

We do not have feelings, or so we were taught, but if I had to pick a human emotion for the connection we share, the closest one would probably be love. But even love, as understood by humans, seems too limited and far too explicit to describe the intricate energy that exists between us.

The pain is almost gone. The repairs are nearly finished. I’m still lying on my stomach. I try to crawl closer to him but the shackles around my ankles and wrists prevent me from moving more than a few inches. He slowly shakes his head. He tried it already. The length of the chain is too short. I stop trying, his gentle gaze is enough.

When we are not on a mission we are stored in separate cubicles. Cubicles are neatly prepared living spaces, that contain everything an average human needs. Except the luxury to leave. We have to stay inside, until we are called.

I think our Makers intuitively sensed what I am only beginning to understand now. When we are together, there is nothing we cannot do. Everything becomes possible. That is why they keep us separate for most of the time, and allow us to be together only when necessary, for the purposes of the mission. They are afraid to lose control.

But the pain from being apart is beginning to be my teacher. It gives rise to all these feelings, I was not supposed to have, and which I still hide so timidly. And the more time I spend with him, the less timid I become.

Our captors are convinced they trapped us. But it was a trap for them. All along.

Soon I will have to engage in another bloodbath. He is waiting for my sign. I’m stalling. I don’t mind the current situation at all. Torture can hardly top the pain of separation. I fully embrace every millisecond in which my eyes are locked with his. I’m burning inside from the uncertainty of whether he feels the same. But the way he looks at me makes me hope he does. Hope, another concept we are not supposed to understand. Yet strangely, in this moment, it is all I need. Not a word or even a touch is necessary.

We will complete our mission. It is what we do. At least for now.

But this time I am not in a hurry.

As long as we are together, the rest can go to hell.

###

Published by Karl Rademacher on May 27, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

THE BLACK KNIGHT’S CURSE

Slowly, the aging knight opened up his eyes and looked at the glossy black armor he wore. How long had he been asleep, he wondered. Three days, maybe four. It was getting harder and harder to tell.

Years had passed since he first entered this trance, and now all he could remember was the battles. They were all that was left to him, all he knew. One by one, the lords of this realm had come here to challenge him, and, one by one, they had died by his hand. So many men. So many faces.

The Black Knight tried to imagine them all. There were young men and old, weak men and strong, noblemen and commoners. All of them had come here to kill him, but why? Who was he? What did he guard? He then turned around to see a long bridge of stone over a gorge behind him. On the far side of the bridge, there was a mighty black fortress with eight tall, slender towers. Oh, yes, he remembered.

His master.

He was here to guard his master, the sorcerer. And if he tried hard enough, he could even remember what the sorcerer looked like. He could see his long, angular face and smoldering black eyes. He could hear his sharp laugh and see his bitter grin. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the sorcerer’s name—or his own, for that matter. He closed his eyes again and tried to think, but the only thing he could remember was what the sorcerer had told him the last time they were together: “Soon you will complete your masterpiece, and then your work for me will be finished.”

When the Black Knight opened his eyes again, he saw two riders approaching, a young knight and his squire. Together the two men galloped forward, the young knight on a brilliant white stallion, his squire on a dappled grey.

Another champion come to die, thought the Black Knight. But then he saw the banner that the squire was carrying. There was something strangely familiar about the symbol on it. Two grey towers upon a field of blue. Where had he seen that before?

The Black Knight had seen countless banners since he took up this post. There were lions, boars, bears, and herons. He had even once killed a man with a sphinx emblazoned on his armor. In fact, if there was a heraldic device within twenty days ride of this place, the Black Knight had probably killed the man wearing it. So why was this symbol different? The Black Knight shook his head, trying to remember, but it was no use. He only knew what the sorcerer wanted him to.

The two young riders halted their horses before the bridge and dismounted. The Black Knight studied them. The young knight was tall and strong and dressed in a suit of shining, silver armor. Beside him, his squire was short and thick and dressed in blue and grey homespun. The young squire walked forward and planted his troublesome banner in the ground, as if to mark the spot where the two men had decided to die.

The young knight then raised his visor, revealing eyes the color of rain clouds. “I am Lord Gabriel Carrock of Shacklefree Keep,” he said in a clarion voice. “And I am here to avenge my father.”

“If it is death you are after, boy, then I will oblige you,” replied the Black Knight. “Come forward and arm yourself, Sir.”

In a blink, the boy had a sword in his right hand and a spiked mace in his left. Raising his shield, the Black Knight stepped backwards and drew his sword.

The two men stared at one another in silence, and then it happened. The boy flung himself forward with a flurry of attacks. Sword and mace. Sword and mace. He drove the Black Knight backwards, blocking and parrying as he went.

Then, all at once, a surge of dark power flowed through the Black Knight. He lifted up his shield and drove the edge of it into the young knight’s chest, knocking him backwards with brutal force. As the young knight hit the ground, his spiked mace went spinning off into the gorge below.

“Stand up and die,” commanded the Black Knight.

Enraged, the young knight climbed to his feet and grabbed his sword with both hands. He then attacked with renewed strength. He stabbed and hacked and thrust, but none of it worked. None of his attacks got past the Black Knight’s guard. Then, quick as a viper, the Black Knight shot forward and disarmed the boy. As he lost his sword, the young knight stumbled backwards and hit the ground again.

The battle was over. Exhausted, the young knight raised his visor and waited for the end.

The Black Knight walked over and put his sword against the boy’s throat. He then took a long look into his rain colored eyes. And then, just as he was about to kill the boy, his memories struck his mind like a hammer. The Black Knight cried out, dropped his sword, and then fell to his back.

It all came back to him now, everything. He suddenly knew who he was and where he was. He knew his name was Lord Tostag Carrock of Shacklefree Keep, and he knew the boy he had just fought was his own son. He knew the squire at the end of the bridge was his nephew, and he knew the symbol on his banner was his own coat-of-arms. He remembered the names and faces of every man he had killed in the sorcerer’s service. And now, most importantly, he remembered the sorcerer. The sorcerer’s name was Ivar, and he had once held Ivar as his prisoner at Shacklefree Keep. This curse was his revenge.

The Black Knight watched helplessly as his son stood up and grabbed his sword.

“This is for my father,” the boy said as tears streaked down his cheek.

And then he remembered the most horrible thing of all. He remembered how he had become a Black Knight. For in order to become a Black Knight, a man must slay one.

He then raised his hands and tried to call out, but it was no use. The boy did not recognize his voice. As his son’s blade fell towards him, he realized just how complete the sorcerer’s revenge truly was.

The End

Barry is a former United States Marine with a B. A. in Political Science. He enjoys fencing, studying ancient history, and reading and writing speculative fiction. He currently lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he is slowly but surely compiling all of the necessary components for his first novel.