Story: The Summoning

This is something I came up with for the subreddit /r/HFY but I figured i might as well post it here too. 

The Summoning.

 The full moon shone brightly in a cloudless, midnight sky. It’s silvery light poured down through a carefully placed aperture in the roof and illuminated the chamber near bright as day.

 It shone on the stone flags, etched with ancient runes. It shone on the intricate geometric shapes painstakingly painted on the stones in rare oils and…other liquids. It shone on the young woman sprawled on a stone table just outside of the shapes and runes, making her soft white skin so much more pale that she seemed like a bright goddess. A goddess in a torn silk shift and bound in unsightly hempen ropes. And the moon light fell most strongly on the man stood under the very centre of the gap in the roof, directly under the waterfall of silvery light. 

The wizard Parrek, Sorceror of the 8th and highest rank, Councillor and terror of Kings, was a tall man, pale and severe of face, so thin he was barely more than a skeleton and it was the way his flesh sat meagrely upon the bones of his face that had given him his by-name. Parrek The Ghastly. 

Now Parrek raised his long, skeletal arms, the sleeves of his satin robes sliding away like water. In his left hand was a staff of ebony crowned by the skull of a being not of this world; in his right a gem of glowing emerald, large as an elephant’s heart. He had been chanting since the sun fell below the horizon but now he was coming to the final verses and his harsh, rasping tones rose to a shout as he threw his summons out into the void. 

At the centre of the magical circle something stirred the air. Ripples of colour formed and faded and formed again all the stronger. 

The air began to rip apart as a window was created. It grew wider and Parrek saw that beyond it was a realm of smoke and roaring flames. The air filled with the scents of sulphur and foulness and the stench caused the maiden on the table to cough and stir. Her eyes opened. She saw the impossible thing at the centre of the circle and her eyes widened with horror. Yet her screams were muffled by the roaring of flames and the half-yard of silk wrapped around her lower face. Some wizards enjoyed the screams of women but Parrek preferred to work without a headache.

 Parrek allowed himself a nod of satisfaction. The conjuration as good. All was good. 

Something floated beyond the window now. A dark, amorphous shape that was vague but for one giant, shining yellow eye.

 Parrek raised his staff higher and cried. “By the ancient ritual of Mal-Kiir I summon you to this world to work your powers for my needs”

 The thing beyond the window in the air spoke and its voice was the sound of wet entrails sliding across blood-slick stones, the sound of flies buzzing around a dying dog, the sound of a dozen foul things at once and yet separate.  

“NO” 

Parrek stared at the being, jaw agape. Then he remembered his rank of 8th Circle of Sorcery and he gritted his teeth . He spoke the words of summoning once again 

“By the ancient ritual of Mal-Kiir I…” 

“NO!” the being cut him off, louder this time. “I said No” 

Parrek resisted the urge to dig a long-nailed finger into his right ear and wiggle it about. He hurriedly glanced about the chamber. The moon was still shining brightly, the runes and markings were correct, he was *sure* the words were correct. This was unfathomable. He cleared his throat and asked “I have performed the ritual as it is laid down. All is correct. Is there an enchantment keeping you from our world? “ 

The beings eye – of which it only seemed to have one – rolled a little “I don’t want to.” 

“What do you mean ‘You don’t want to?’ You’re a demon, you are always seeking to come to this plane and cause evil.” Parrek demanded, too cross to pick his words with care. 

“Well I don’t want to. Visiting your poxy world is not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

Parrek waved a skeletal arm in the direction of the young woman on the table who was now trying to sit up but at the same time avoid falling out of her ragged nightgown. “I have a here a beautiful maiden of the noblest lineage for you to dine upon. Do her flesh and spirit not tempt you?”

 The demonic eye flickered and came to rest upon the maiden. “Boring. Maidens have no flavour and she’s a little too fatty for my taste.” 

There was a thrashing from the table. The woman’s eyes bulged in rage as she tried to break free again. Even through the gag Parrek was sure he could hear her screaming something that sounded a lot like “ Uuu MmUuuvvuurrrFkkkker” 

If anything she didn’t seem to be frightened anymore. 

“So why don’t you want to obey my summons - exactly?”

 There was a sense of the amorphous being fidgeting and when it spoke again it sounded almost …sullen.

 “Your realm is too bloody dangerous.”

 “You what?” Parrek almost threw back his head and laughed before he remembered that chickenshit thought it might be, this was still a being of power. 

“Too bloody dangerous, I said” and the voice rose again in a rage. “Every time I come over it goes horribly wrong. If it isn’t a bloody white wizard interfering then it’s some barely-sentient, Northern ape with a sword forged from a comet and I end up getting hurt. Your entire realm is full of violent headbangers” 

A tendril pushed through the window between words. Dead white flesh rippling with sharp hooks flailed about for a moment before pulling back.  

“Do you have any idea how long it takes to grow a tentacle back? Centuries! Centuries, I tell you.” 

Parrek glanced up at his skylight. The moonlight was already fading as the shining orb overhead drifted past on it’s eternal circuit. Soon it would no longer shine through the aperture and the books had been very clear about moonlight being vital. 

Of course the books had said nothing about a demon throwing a hissy fit. 

“Oh alright. Piss off then. I’ll just wait another month and get one of your infernal brethren to do my bidding.” 

A deep, raspjng chuckle came through the portal. “Good luck with that, pal, the word is out and your plane of naked monkeys is off the travel list.” 

The tentacle popped through once again, made what was almost certainly a rude gesture and slipped back just before the window slammed shut with a boom that rattled Parrek’s teeth. 

Just then there was a cough from behind him, and this was a problem because Parrek’s tower was supposed to be sealed. 

The wizard’s shoulders slumped and he turned around. A barbarian was standing there scratching his head. In one hand was a sword made of something that glowed with a sapphire sheen. Of course. 

The barbarian gave him a shrug and a small smile “You’re not having a good day, are you, wizard?” and for a moment Parrek considered blasting him with arcane fire. 

But it been a long night and he was so very, very tired. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder “There’s the girl. Her virtue is intact, or at least I didn’t do anything to it. Take her and go away.”

 Once she was cut free the maiden tried to stab him with a piece of whale bone and the barbarian confiscated the giant green gem but otherwise, the next ten minutes could have gone worse.

 When they had finally gone, Parrek the Ghastly, Sorceror Of The 8th rank, councillor and Terror of Kings sat on the stone table and had a bit of a cry.

Story: Ten Paces Further

This is a story I've been working on for a while. Hope you like it.

 Ten Paces Further

“Will you stand with us?”

 A steady stream of humanity had been trudging through the narrow mountain pass all day and to each and every cluster of travellers the captain had spoken the same words.
“Will you stand with us?“
His throat was sore, his voice hoarse, but he kept at it. More men were needed for the task ahead and a raw throat was small price to pay.
  Ten days ago the Kharisid army had poured over the border.  Three days ago they had smashed the army of the Western Earls. Tomorrow they would march down this road , a spear of death and fire aimed straight at the ancient capital of the Drogar.  And he did not have enough men.
  There had been men a-plenty come through here. Some were warriors, headed to join the King’s muster, others were farmers taking their families to shelter  behind the mountains.  Too few had chosen to stay and join his haphazard warband.
   He contemplated his newly recruited army . Right now soldiers and civilians alike had put aside their weapons and were working on the ancient walls that had once protected this narrow slot between the cliffs. Hoping to undo the neglect of centuries with an afternoon of sweat and scraped  hands.
 A wall would help a little.  Another two hundred armed men in mail would be better but a man took what the gods gave him and made what he could.

Another small cluster of travellers drew near. The captain studied them for a moment. Mostly women and children riding on carts or mules.  A few boys. Behind them marched a giant of a man in the leather of a blacksmith.  

 Hope flared briefly to life, then snuffed into smoke as the blacksmith  came closer and the captain could see the  grey in the man’s beard and the way his flesh hung slackly about his bones.  

 “If you were only 15 years younger, big man” the captain muttered.  

  He thought for a moment of the last group of travellers who had passed by. A lord and his retinue, every man astride a tall gelding with polished mail from his neck to his knees and a fine sword on his hip.  

  They  had all galloped by with their eyes fixed firmly forward but the captain knew fighting men. 

Shame and anger had been written across every  man’s face except the fat  nobleman in silks at their head.

 Sometimes the hardest thing about being a soldier was knowing  your  oaths were sworn to men who did not deserve them. 

“Do you honestly believe you can hold them back?” said a quiet voice, cutting through his reverie. 

The captain blinked twice and then turned to look at the woman who had ridden up beside him as he stood woolgathering.  

  A chieftain’s wife, he guessed immediately. She had years on her face and the stamp of authority about her, even weary as she was.  

And a sadness, forced back but visible to one who knew the signs. 

  No, he realised suddenly . Not a chieftain’s wife.  A chieftain’s widow.  

   Her man and his warband would have marched with the Western Earls. Most likely the wolves and the crows were ripping at their cold flesh right now.  

Most likely Kharisid scouts were setting light to her abandoned home as they spoke.

 “Hold them? No” said the captain calmly. “Slow them, maybe.”

The chieftain’s lady looked back at the bedraggled cluster of  refugees coming through the gap in the wall. 

She sighed “You’ll not slow them by much. I have men here who saw their army  as we fled. Thousands of men and horses there were, coming over the hills like a dark tide.” 

“I know. So does every man here.”

The woman on the horse looked down at him, her face a stony mask. “So why are you here?”

“We’ll hold this pass as long as we can. And every moment we hold the Kharisids before the wall, your people - and all the others coming through the pass - get ten paces further away. Ten paces towards the King’s City and safety.  We’ll make a stand here and buy you all a little time.”

 The chieftain’s wife was a strong woman and proud. Even so, he saw the glint of tears at her eyes before an angry flick of the head pushed them away. 

“I have no men to give you and no weapons. But there’s ale in one of the carts and good cheese.  I’ll tell my retainers to give you some of each.  And the gods be with you, you poor, brave boys.”

 And then she was cantering back to what was left of her household, barking our orders sharp as any Kings officer he’d ever met.

“The gods be with you too, my lady.” whispered the captain.

 When he turned back towards his men there was a boy standing before him. 

 If he’d seen his fifteenth summer then the captain would cast away his sword and take up a blind man’s cane, and while the gods  might have given the lad a man’s height, they had yet to  bestow upon  the youngster  any muscle to his arms or chest. From his clothes - good linen  and woollens-  he was most likely  a merchant’s son.  The sons of merchants rarely made good soldiers.   

 There was a spear in his hand, true, and a well-worn scramasax at his belt but whatever martial airs he thought to gain, it was painfully obvious that he’s used neither overmuch. 

 “I am Kelig.” said the boy with fierce pride, knuckles white upon the shaft of his spear.  “I will stand with you.” 

 The captain looked Kelig up and down slowly and closed his eyes. A man uses what the gods send him. he thought. But sometimes you have to wonder if the gods make sport with us. 

“That you will not.” he rasped with the shreds of his sore, croaky voice. “I need men and swords, not boys playing at the hero.”

  

 The boy with the borrowed spear turned his head towards the men labouring on the wall. His mouth twitched upwards sardonically “Seems to me that you’re in no position to be choosy.”

“And it seems to me that you’re smart enough to know this is no heroic saga, boy.”  the captain snapped. 

“We stand, we fight, we most likely die and afterwards nobody will remember our damn names.”

All of a sudden the long day and the long night caught up with him and the captain felt so, so tired. 

“Go with your folks Kelig. They need you more than I do.” 

Kelig turned away to watch  the rest of the caravan trundle away. The people he’d know all his life crawling slowly into the distance. In a few moments the only sign that they’d even been there would  be the small pile of provisions that had been slung hurriedly into the road. 

And him.

Nobody was looking back. Nobody saw him staring after the pretty girl in the blue dress on the second to last waggon., sat stiff as a statue with her head high  and her shawl clutched about her shoulders. 

Nobody saw his face fall in sudden pain before stiffening again with teenage resolve.

“My presence is not required.” he said quietly. 

The captain nodded in gentle sympathy.  Sometimes a good officer knew when to say nothing.  

He could guess the story. A grieving girl, her father and brothers gone away to fight and never returned.  A young boy left behind and an easy target for anger.  Harsh words had been said. “Coward.” would have been one of them.

“It is the curse of men that we would rather face a hundred sharp swords than one sharp tongue. Rather charge into the spears than listen to the whispers as we pass by. ”  an old soldier had told him once,  as they had both tried to drink themselves  free from the memories of battle. 

“Put your spear down, Kelig, and help me build a wall.” he said at last. “You do know how to lay stone, don’t you?”

Kelig grinned suddenly. “How long have I got to learn?”

“An afternoon, maybe.”

“Maybe the gods will look down on us and the  Kharisids will go home.”

“ And maybe a golden stag will trot up and shit a pile of rubies at your feet. We take what the gods give us and we do what we can, boy.  We do what we can.”

  I am told that when the boy’s mother finally noticed  that he was missing , it took four strong men to stop her from running back  to him. 

 I am also told that  the girl in the blue dress arrived at the King’s Gates sporting a magnificent black eye that she refused to talk about. 

  

The wall held the Kharisids for less than a day.  

The captain and his men fought as best  as they could but a few hundred  farmers and armsmen behind a crumbling wall were never going to keep back an entire host of battle-hardened warriors.

 The Kharisid king finally lost patience and hurled men at the fools in his way. Too many men. They broke over the wall like a storm tide, under a rain of arrows and the Drogar fell.

Some fell at the wall. Some fell as they ran. The survivors made their last stand with their backs to the cliff, clutching their spears in tired hands, snarling at the Kharisids with their final breath.  

  With a wave of his hand the Kharisid king ordered his men forward and the tiny knot of defenders vanished under a thousand  Kharisid blades.   

Before the blood was cool, the Kharisid cavalry was spurring down the pass, hunting for stragglers.

But by then the girl in the blue dress, the heartbroken mother and the chieftain’s widow were all safe inside the  walls of the King’s City, watching armsmen marching in to join the Royal muster. 

After the invaders had been  defeated in a bloody battle under the walls of the city  and their King had fled with what was left of his host,  the Drogar army marched back through the pass in pursuit. 

 They passed the old, ruined wall and the bodies that still lay unburied where the King was heard to ask “Who were these men?” 

“We do not know.” he was told.  “We do not know who they were or who led them.”

“Bury them well.” the KIng ordered. “We can give them that much.”

A few days later a column of refugees  came past on their way back home, and they stopped for a moment at the cairn that had been raised from the broken stones of the wall.

A mother wept for a son lost.  

A girl wept for a boy misjudged. 

And a chieftains widow poured an offering of good ale into the soil in thanks to a nameless captain.

Who had held the Kharisid army back for just long enough. 

Story: Birth

The other day fellow blogger NandiniDeka posted a challenge: Write a short story in 100 words or less.

Here's my go.

Birth

I’d always suspected that the baby wasn’t really mine.

Now I know I was right. I know I couldn't possibly be the father.  

Because when the time came, and my wife began screaming, it wasn‘t because of labour pains.

It was because the baby was chewing its way out. 

Story: The Tournament

(This is another fiction piece I had lying about and thought I'd inflict on the world.)

Granmak killed the Orcish chieftain with his Sword of Rubies and then turned to face the others with his eyes aflame and his teeth bared in a savage grin. As he had expected, they hung back , reluctant to face one who had bested their leader inside two heartbeats.  “I am in a hurry.” he told them through gritted teeth. “Stand aside or by all the gods in the heavens your dying shall be hard and slow.”
  The loathsome grey skinned creatures exchanged glances that were brief but full of meaning. Then as one, they put up their swords and melted back into the forest.
  Granmak used the dead orc’s tunic to cleanse his blade and slid it back into it’s jewelled sheath with a muttered curse. “I grow old.” He said to no one in particular. “To let a full score of orcs come upon me unawares. “
 He was distracted, he knew, by thoughts and dreams newly arisen. One thought in particular: The Tournament. How ironic it would be if he had been slain on  a muddy forest trail before he could claim his rightful, everlasting glory. Still more ironic if daydreaming of said glory got him killed.
  He let his mind calm and then, when he was once more in harmony with himself and his surroundings, Granmak resumed his interrupted journey.

 There is a longer and greater tale here if I chose to tell it. Of how Granmak first heard of the tournament in a squalid dungeon and his escape. Of the long journey by sea and mountain trail and (briefly) dragon. There are fights won and the strange hazards of the Forest of Twilight bested. Old friends turned enemies and bitter enemies become reluctant travelling companion and tales aplenty born upon every step of the quest.
  That is not the tale I can tell. Not here and not now.
   Suffice it to say that Granmak proved his worth to enter the Tournament simply by arriving at the Citadel of Chains, where it was to be held.
  He strode in through the gate with his head high and his muscles aching from the climb up the White Mountain. A masked servitor asked his name and, satisfied with the answer, led him through to a great chamber at the heart of the Citadel.
  A hundred seats had been set here, and in each one was a hero of great renown. Set before each man or woman was a mirror of silver set in a curious frame of dark wood and steel.
The Master of the Citadel bade Granmak take a seat. “When the gong rings for the second time the Tournament shall begin.  You shall travel to a strange and perilous world and there your wits and skill shall be tested as never before and all your prior feats shall be as nothing.”
  “It is why I am here.” Granmak replied simply.
“Then good luck”

 The gong rang once and the champions ceased to chatter amongst themselves and began to gaze into the mirrors before them. The air was still, expectant, taut with barely repressed excitement.
Once more the gong crashed and as it’s echoes died away Granmak watched the mirror before him swirl with colour then clear into a view of another world.
 The world fell away into darkness...

  He opened his eyes and stared about him in wonder. The room he was in was like nothing he had seen before, all bright colours and strange shapes and the faintest scent of pine. Light streamed in through a gaping hole in the wall but somehow the wind was kept outside. Suddenly a small black gewgaw came to life on the stool beside the bed and chirruped incessantly until he punched it into oblivion. Rising, he threw aside his blanket (thick yet so light) and clumsily donned the clothing he found in a cupboard. It felt strange, but not uncomfortable and it certainly smelt better than his old leathers.
  After a moment of panic when he realised he was weaponless for the first time in almost thirty years, Granmak went to find food. He found it in another cupboard, white as ice and as cold …but how to cook it?
  After all these years of laughing at death, Granmak began to comprehend that in this strange place he found himself, not a single one of his hard won skills would be of use.
He grinned at the empty air. “A challenge at last.” he cried. And then he began slowly, clumsily, to make his breakfast.

The Master of the Citadel sat atop his throne, contemplating the rows of transfixed men and women before him, a small smile flickering across his lips .
  There was a sudden  explosion of movement as one of the heroes convulsed, screamed and was still. Yal the Archer had come to the end of his road at last.
The Master sat back and closed his eyes.
“I suppose I should have warned them not to step out in front of cars.”

The Pigeon

(The following is a true story. Well, mostly true.)

  It was a warm, autumn evening somewhere in the back half of last year. I had sloped off early from work after losing interest and since there was money in my pocket and the day had been unaccountably sunny, I decided to treat myself to a bag of fish and chips.
 Almost as soon as I took my seat on the harbourside the birds arrived, strutting back and forth in front of my seat, hunting for scraps. I ignored them, too busy working my way through my latest paperback while my right hand dipped periodically into the paper beside me and fetched out another greasy morsel.
 And then for some reason I looked round.
 One of the pigeons had, unnoticed, hopped up onto the bench and sidled towards my bag of chips. In fact he now had a clawed foot on the paper itself and was contemplating my chips hungrily.
 For a long moment we stared at each other. Me, somewhat affronted by his impudence. Him, calmly awaiting my next move with studied disinterest.
 I slowly extended my right arm until it was almost, almost, touching him.
And gave the cheeky, feathery sod The Finger.
 He flapped away sullenly and I returned to my meal. But I still see him around sometimes.
Staring at me with his beady little eyes.
 Some birds remember that their ancestors were once lords of the earth.
 We both know this is not over.

Story: Reputations

  This is about a couple of characters that have been bouncing around inside my head for years. Lucius and Angel are a pair of swords-for-hire based in the fantasy city of Hartern, capital of the Betrician Commonwealth. Lucius is an ex-soldier who'd rather not talk about his past and Angel is a fierce young woman who might talk about her past if anybody was daft enough to ask.
 Hope you like it.

Reputations

  Angel was late. Angel was always late. Punctuality was a concept that she had never quite grasped and no one was brave enough to make an issue of it.
  Still, I was using the extra time to enjoy a novel experience. The Twisted Crown had a reputation as one of Hartern’s best taverns and to my amazement I found that the reputation was entirely justified.  The beer was as fine as I’ve tasted anywhere, the clientele lively enough to be interesting without being actively dangerous and the kitchens served a sublime piece of peppered steak.
  I was wrapping a chunk of said steak in fluffy, new-baked bread, when a long fingered hand reached over my shoulder. It calmly fastened upon a strip of meat and retreated back to its unseen owner.
  A moment later, Angel sat down on the bench opposite, chewing heartily.
“Now I see why you like this place.” She said, licking her lips.
  I suppose I had better make some introductions at this point.
  Most  people call me Lucius. It is actually my real name, or part of it, and in my chosen trade I am considered one of the top artisans in the Betrician Commonwealth.  More on that in a little while. I'm a little taller than average, in better shape than most my age and my face is nothing special at all.
  
 Now  Angel is very attractive indeed; about average height, with a slender , smooth muscled body and  the sort of face that causes monks to abandon their order forever.  She tends to get puzzled when people point this out, being somewhat innocent in some matters.
  Angel has been my partner for a few years now and we work surprisingly well together when you consider that the first time we ever met was when she tried to kill me.
  She has assured me since that it was nothing personal. Which makes me feel so much better.
In case you hadn’t already guessed, we are both Sword Masters.  Give us money and we will guard your back, fight your duels for you, lurk menacingly in the background while you visit someone who owes you money, and so on.
   Half the time we don’t need to fight at all. That’s how good people think we are.
 “Doing anything this afternoon?”  I asked, pushing my empty plate to one side.
Angel helped herself to a mouthful of my ale. “I think I have a commission for us, but not until Sundown.”
“A duel then.”
I couldn’t help noticing the strange expression that flitted across her features momentarily.
“Yes”  she said after a moment. “Incidentally, why do you Betricians always fight duels at sunset or sundown?  “
She was changing the subject, rather clumsily, but I would leave that for a little later.
“I think the original idea was something about the gates to the Underworld being opened at those times. We didn’t like the idea of angry spirits loitering too long over the duelling grounds.”
  I shook away the morbid thoughts this conversation was stirring up and gently pulled my ale-mug free from her grasp. “Anyway, reason I asked was that we have something of a  problem.”
  From my doublet I pulled out a small, cheaply printed booklet, the sort sold on market corners to bored apprentices and dropped it onto the table between us.  “See what you make of this.”
“I’m not really the type for scandal sheets?”  Angel  grinned, but she picked it up nonetheless.
  I watched her expression change as she flicked through the lurid woodcuts and smeared ink, getting darker with each turn of the page. She reached the end and folded it shut and handed it back to me without a word. But her face was like something from one of the old temple paintings, where cold-faced gods walk through the flames of Hell, trampling screaming sinners underfoot.
“We cannot allow this.” I told her.


  The duelling ground in Hartern is actually a very picturesque spot beside the river, part of the public parks we Betricians like to fit in wherever we have space. Tall, carefully placed laurel hedges conceal this part of the park from passersby. It would not do for clerks at their lunch and strolling lovers to have their pleasant thoughts ruined by the sight of sweating, fearful men trying to kill each other.
  As we arrived, the Duelmasters were lighting torches and placing them in ugly,wrought iron holders around the edges of the ground.  I nodded to one or two, I had been here  enough times to start putting names to the bustling figures in their dark, sensible clothing.
  Angel, as always ignored them. Instead she was watching  the other entrance with an  intensity I had never seen before.  There was something my partner was not telling me and I was hoping it was not something that could get me killed.
  “You never did tell me who my client is.” I commented. Not that I really cared but it took my mind off the way my stomach was starting to shrink into itself .  I prefer bodyguard duty, if truth be told.  When things are quiet I’m too busy scanning the street to get nervous and when things suddenly explode into violence, well, I'm rather preoccupied with not dying.
  I think it’s the waiting. Standing around in the open air putting on a brave face for the customer while the sun oozes below the horizon and men in black coats wait on the other side of the torchlight, with a simple pine box at their feet.
  “He’s here.” Angel was pointing to a pair of cloaked figures striding through the gate on the other side of the duelling ground. 
“Then we had best go and say Hello.”
  They could have been father and son but I doubted it.  They were both tall and broad shouldered, with the sharp, watchful eyes professional fighters tend to develop very quickly indeed.
  The younger man was narrow faced and sullen, clearly unhappy to be here. He dressed well but without excessive flamboyance and the matching sword and dagger at his waist looked well cared for. An apprentice, I would guess, someone to watch in years to come.
  But the older man , now there was someone who drew the eye.  The years had added extra lines and extra flesh to his face and his close-cropped hair was flecked   with grey  but when he swept back his cloak I saw the shadow of  rolling muscles under his shirt.
  “You must be Lucius.”  He was smiling, which was a little disconcerting. “I have heard much about you and your partner.”
 Holding out his hand, he added. “ My name is Iridamius. I am your client. Also your opponent.”

“I think now would a good point for a few explanations.”  I was trying to keep calm. I didn’t want to go into a duel carrying a skinful of anger.  Iridamius was reputed to be one of the best men with a blade in all of recorded history.  He didn’t need me making it easy for him.
Angel spread her arms wide with a sheepish smile. “You can beat him.” she declared. “I have faith in you.”
“Aside from the fact that this is Iridamius, a genuine living legend, we are talking about and I am not sure I can “beat him”, I would like to know exactly why you accepted this insane contract in the first place.”
I was down to my shirtsleeves now and a stiff breeze was bringing hints of rain to come.  What a wonderful evening this was turning out to be. 
“He asked for you specifically. Said he had heard you were the finest swordsman in Hartern.”
  Over on the other side of the square, Iridamius and his second were arguing. From the set of the younger man’s shoulders and the look on his face I knew exactly what he was saying. Like so many seconds I had seen over the years, he was trying to talk his man out of it. With a few sharp comments from either side, the discussion broke off suddenly. Iridamius turned and looked over towards me, a strange, thoughtful look on his face.
Angel leaned in towards me and lowered her voice .”Don’t ask me why, but I think he wanted you because you stand a good chance of winning.   
 Pushing my parrying dagger into my left hand, Angel  patted me on the shoulder in the same way you would reassure a small boy stepping onto the stage to sing for the first time. “Remember this, if you kill him, we can put our fees up by a quarter.”
  And with that, she sent me off to fight a man who had killed so many duellists even the Duelmasters Guild had lost count.
 
 There were three of us out in the centre of the square.  Myself, Iridamius and the Duelmaster Prime. There were formalities to be observed after all, otherwise this would be the same as an ugly little brawl  down by the docks.
“Does either of you wish to withdraw?” The Prime was a squat one-eyed man with a deceptively gentle voice. Probably a swordmaster himself once.
“Iridamius and I shook our heads in unison. Strange as this might sound, it had never occurred to me to just walk away. I had a reputation too.
“This is an…unusual…case, but nevertheless, the customary rules apply. You will retreat to the white marks on the ground and wait there until I say “Begin.” Once battle is joined it may not be halted for any reason until a clear victor has been determined. Your seconds may not interfere, but may engage each other if they so desire. Fight bravely and with honour.”
 “May I ask my opponent a question, Prime?”  My request was unusual, but this affair would have the DuelMasters Guild arguing for years in any case, so he nodded and stepped back out of the way. Now it was the two of us.
“Why?” I asked
“Why you?” Iridamius was smiling.
“Why do this at all. Why hire someone to fight yourself?”
“Simple.” He said evenly.”I’m getting old. Either I stay in this game too long and have some young brat boasting that he killed me, when I was too old to even bring my sword up for a stroke. Or I die in bed. Withered, alone, stinking of piss and cheap wine. “
He shrugged. “Won’t do much for the Iridamius legend will it? So I thought I would just go round the Commonwealth picking fights until I found someone who deserved to win.  End my story by starting someone else's.”
Then his eyes went cold and hard.” So come on. Let’s get this done.”

 We took our positions and the Duelmaster gave us the word and then he was at me like a whirlwind.  Even past his prime, Iridamius still moved like a snake, trying to slither that rapier inside my guard and through my heart, while the dagger in his left hand was a wall between my point and his flesh.
   It seemed like forever. The two of us were locked into a spinning, quickstepping dance and our blades were the link that bound us together. Everything else was a void around me. There was only the blur of silver between us and the stamp and scrape of our feet on the stone. 
 Something scored a sharp line of pain across my left arm and then again along the left side of my ribcage. The next thrust would have opened up my throat but I caught the edge on the bellguard of my dagger , held it long enough to flick it away and then slipped my point past his guard to leave my own red trail across his white shirt, gouging out a narrow strip of skin from shoulder to nipple.
  “Not bad.” he hissed. Then his point was coming for my eyes and the dance was on again.
A sword fight is like chess, I have heard it said, strategy and skill, move and countermove, except plans are laid and relaid within seconds while instinct and hard-earned reflexes keep each player in the game. 
  I could feel him tiring just as he could feel the strength seeping out of me.  Then my foot slid out from  under me and while I reeled off balance Iridamius lunged for my heart. His sword rang against my dagger and swept it aside, but the blow had been deflected just a little and with a surge of effort that strained muscles almost to breaking point I managed to twist to one side. While his blade scored a groove through the skin  over my collarbone, mine was driving deep into his chest…
    Iridamius slid backward off my sword and sat down hurriedly as his legs collapsed.
 His second was already running to him, anguish twisting his face into something ugly. For a moment I thought me might launch himself at me but then he dropped to his knees and took his master in his arms.
  I felt a cloak being placed on my shoulders. “ I knew you could beat him.”  said Angel , so softly that I almost didn’t hear  her.
  I knelt down beside the man I had killed. Oh, he was still breathing, but there was bright, foaming blood on his lips and more staining his shirt a vivid crimson.  A dead man smiled at me and said through gritted teeth. “ Well done. “
 “People will talk of this fight, tell their children outrageous lies about what happened today.” I told him, waving to indicate the DuelMasters moving in on us.” Is that what you wanted.”
“Close enough.” he chuckled and then blood gushed from his mouth to spatter across the stones. 


  The street of Printers was a short one, barely a dozen sprawling, two storey buildings. At the bottom end sat the premises of Master  Eminn, a pitiful little place with peeling whitewash and far too many gaps where slates should be.
  Printers work late, as a rule, so we were not too surprised to see lights through his shutters and the clatter of machinery. The door was open, so we let ourselves in.
  Inside stank of of ink and paper, so thickly it clogged my nostrils.  Thick drifts of paper lay across everything, with the exception of the iron press that stood in the centre of the room , currently being manipulated in arcane ways by a youngish man in an inkstained smock.
  “We wish to speak to Master Eminn.”  Angel anounced in her most imperious manner. That girl has a definite flair for the dramatic.
“Come back in the morning.” snarled the printer without turning his head.
“I’d rather not.” I told the back of his head. “I would prefer to speak to him now . We have some news for him. “
 He stood upright suddenly and turned around with a broad, slightly greasy smile. “Yacob Eminn at your service.” He didn’t offer his hand, stained as it was with ink and other substances. 
  I could understand why he had gone into his chosen line of work. Never have I met someone who looked so much like a rodent, even down to the slightly overlarge teeth.  He had the sort of complexion I would normally associate with the newly dead and breath to match.
  All of which made our mission easier. 
I produced a certain booklet from my doublet and handed it over to him. It took him a moment to notice as he was too busy gawping at Angel.   When he did, his face lit up again. “Oh yes. The Tale of Angel And Lucius .” he cried, “This should be one of my best sellers ever. I’m printing another batch of these as we speak.”
“ Is any of it true?” Angel asked , a definite edge to her voice that most people would have caught..
Eminn shrugged his narrow shoulders “I doubt it.” He must have noticed something in my expression at long last, because only then did he ask who we were.
“My name is Lucius.” I told him and his face went even whiter than it had been previously. A trick I hadn’t thought possible.
Then he looked at Angel again. Only this time I could see him studying her, rather than  simply leering.  One by one the tumblers clicked into place.
Female.
Wears mens clothing.
Carries a sword and buckler.
Travels with Lucius…

Luckily the paper everywhere broke his fall. 

 Once we had woken him up again, we walked him through to the back room which doubled as living quarters and storeroom and sat him down at the table.
 I sat down opposite him and treated him to what I think of as my Number 4 “Slightly Psychotic” Smile. 
 Of all the things he was expecting, me placing a bottle of wine on the table in front of him was probably low on the list.
  “I brought you this to wash down your dinner.” I informed him.
“But I’ve had dinner.” Eminn protested. Angel leaned over and dropped a pewter plate onto the table. “So then this shall have to be an early breakfast.”
  And then I carefully placed a newly-printed copy of “The Tale of Angel and Lucius.” on the plate.

  To his credit, he ate it all  and the five other copies we made him eat before we were finished with him.   When he was finished, he swore an oath on every god he knew that he would burn every single copy of his disgusting little book.
  And just to make sure, I waited until Angel was out of the room before I had a quiet word with him.  “Just thought you might like to know a couple of things. Firstly, this was my idea. Angel had something else in mind that you truly, truly do not want to know about.
  And secondly, If I were you, I would hope she never finds out about the two chapters I took out of the book before I let her see it…” 

Story - The Storm King's Daughter

This is something I came up with a few years back, showed to a few friends and then forgot about.
Please let me know what you think.

The Storm King’s Daughter
 
Macon Nir Amm  came home on the spring tide.  He returned without the riches he had sworn to claim, without a single one of the thirty young men that had believed his boasts and of his beautiful longship there was nothing left but a broken steering oar, to which he was bound with scraps of old rope.
 He was found sprawled in a heap of broken wood and torn seaweed by a farmer gathering sea coal. Thinking him dead, the man reached for his knife so as to hack off his beringed fingers. At that moment Macon opened his eyes and croaked. “Am I home?” in the unmistakeable accents of the Grey Islands.
  The Nir Amm name was a powerful one in the Islands. This saved Macon from a slit throat. Before the day was out, his kin had been summoned and the newly returned traveller had been laid in a warm bed with hot soup and good ale in his belly. 
 While he slept, friends, family and the merely curious gathered in the great hall eager to hear what had caused him to come back to the Islands in such wretched fashion. As a day and a night  went by the throng grew thicker, word having spread rapidly across the island.
  On the morning of the second day after his return Macon opened his eyes and called for his family. His father and mother and sisters trooped in through the narrow door to fall upon him with much weeping and praising of local gods.
  Then the old matriarch of the Nir Wath clan came to his bedside and calmly asked him one simple question. “My grandson Luth, that went to be your first mate, is he still living?”
  Eyes full of reborn pain, Macon slowly shook his head. “Luth fell in battle a year ago and we raised his cairn on an isle far to the south of here.” A shudder of horror ran through him then and he wrenched himself half out of the bed to grasp at his fathers arm. “Tell me, there were thirteen men left on my ship when the storm smashed it. I have been found, what of the other twelve?”
  They told him that he was the first and last man to have been found and he lay back and wept. From the great hall below came the sound of the womenfolk howling their grief as the old woman told them their brothers and sons were dead and the sound tortured Macon Nir Amm like a thousand nails driving into his head.

  Two days later, he told his tale.

“You saw us when we set out in our new-built longship. We were young and proud as lions. The riches of  the world would fall into our hands and we would come home to build palaces.
  After three months some already wanted to turn for home.  The coast villages of Mathlam had put up stockades against the likes of us and every move we made was reported by beacon and rider. The only booty we had gathered was a dozen lobsters we bullied out of a boy in a skiff.
  I decided to head south for lands that had never seen a Grey Isles ship before. Of course this meant all our maps were useless …
  After another month or so we found rich pickings at last. “
And here Nacom sighed loudly at the thought of his lost wealth.
“We took at least a dozen traders, burned five or so villas and ate so much stolen beef that I can taste it still.”
 “Then we fell into the path of  a great storm, the foullest there has ever been, I would wager. It swept us up and dragged us across the ocean like a broom takes dust to the doorway. For a full week we bailed and patched and bailed again, battling with all our might and skill simply to keep our boat atop the waves. Then it grew bored with us and left us behind, lost and thirsty, for our water was now all spoiled by salt.
  We had lost three men overboard and lost another man on the first island we found, stung by a viper and dead  before he knew what was happening.
 Luth met his end on the next island when the native folk took exception to our raiding of their flocks.  We gave their whole village to the flames in revenge, but it could not take the arrow back from his heart and so we buried him and went on our way with sinking hearts.
  Finally we came to the island of white cliffs and it was all that we needed and more. Fat deer, sweet water and tall, strong trees, enough to repair a thousand longships.
  When the moon rose she came to me. A beautiful maiden with skin white as foam and eyes like shining sapphires. When she bid me come join her I rose up from my blanket and trailed after, totally spellbound and my men in my wake.
  She was a goddess. Or so she claimed, daughter to the Storm King. It had been his power that had brought us to these parts, so his beloved child should have a husband and men to keep her handmaids entertained.
  Naturally I believed not a word, but she was beautiful and loving and her palace by the shore was a place of great wonders, built of shining green jade and red coral.”
  He smiled, remembered joy tinted with the bitterness of things lost. “I think I loved her, at least for a while.”
“But then I grew tired of her palace of jade and coral and her blue eyes lost their spell on me and I began to pine for the  feel of a ship under me, a sword in my hand. Most of all, I wanted to come home to the Grey Islands and talk with my kin over jugs of ale, long into the winter nights.
  I put my ship to rights, gathered up such of my men as wanted to leave their sea brides, a dozen in all and left on the next high tide. To my shame I did not leave empty handed . There was a chest of  gold and jewellery in my hold that I stole from my lover’s bedchamber  that I thought ample payment for services rendered.
   By luck and good winds we found ourselves back among civilised realms and set our prow towards the Islands.
  Two days ago, we found ourselves belaboured by storms again but this time we fought our way northward, running from one sheltered inlet to the next .  I wonder now whether the Storm King was not just a young maid’s whimsy because the waves that brought and end to my ship seemed to have a malice and a power to them that mere winds cannot explain.”
  His father snorted loudly at this “Not so powerful, this Storm King, for here you are after all.” he declared. “And come the summer we shall build you another boat, if you so wish it, and you may seek your fortune again.”
  And it came as a genuine shock to the elder  Nir Amm when his son went pale and began shuddering in fear. “No.” he cried “I shall not walk into his grasp again.”
   They gave him strong mead until his terror eased and he drifted into sleep, then his kin gathered downstairs to discuss his tale. Madness surely?

 That night stormclouds flared again over the Grey Isles and the sea hurled itself at the shore with a primal hatred . Ships drawn far up on the beach were pounded into shards,  a hundred precious trees were ripped up and left to lie sadly upon the sodden ground, even the belltower was cast down into the street in a thunderous crash of bricks, the bell clanging and clattering down the hill.
  Speak of that storm to any who witnessed it and they will shudder and drink deep of their ale and tell you it was no natural thing that struck the islands that day.  Some will tell you they saw riders making their way through the fury of the wind and the rain, heedless as if it were high summer.    Then they will tell you of Macon Nir Amm.  And how he was found in his bed, a long knife driven into his chest.
 With a hilt inlaid in green jade and red coral.
 

Story: The Dinosaur in the Garden

  There was a dinosaur in the back garden. It lay under the shade of the old willow tree with it’s long heavy tail disappearing into the tangle of thorns at the bottom of the garden that no one ever got round to clearing away.
  At first Bobby thought it was dead. Strange enough that there was a T-rex (and he knew it was a T-rex from the book he’d got for Christmas) in the garden , stranger still for it to be dead. Then it opened one yellow eye and stared at him.
  Not at the house, not at the window where he stood. At him.
 Hard to tell with a dinosaur, but it didn’t seem to like him very much.  Maybe it was that way with everything. From the way the book told it, the T-rex was in a permanent foul mood.
  Bobby trotted downstairs to find his mother. She was watching Tv, one of her chat-shows. People with cockney accents shouted at one another. Whatever they were discussing seemed important, at least to the people on the screen.
“Mum” he said carefully. “There’s a dinosaur in the back garden.”
 She nodded and said “That’s nice dear.” Without casting a single glance in his direction. “Quite a big one” he added, hopefully. “And I think it might be hungry.”
 She gave him one of those looks. One of her looks that said “I don’t want to play your game at the moment"  and turned back to the TV. 
  Bobby shrugged his shoulders and made to go back upstairs but then he looked out of the living room window. The dinosaur was standing right outside. It was a dusty grey-green, with a pale belly and it’s teeth were big and yellow. Bobby tugged on his mother’s sleeve. This seemed something she ought to know. “It’s outside the window Mum, it’s looking in at us.Mum.”
  She shrugged off his hand and took a long drag on her cigarette. “Look, very imaginative and all that, but can you go play outside instead.” She told him at last.
  One look at the huge shape standing outside and Bobby said “I think I’d rather play upstairs.”
  Mum nodded again, till not looking at him, and said “As long as you’re quiet.”
 The dinosaur edged closer and the breath from it’s nostrils puffed against the window, leaving a smear of white.
  Closing the bedroom door Bobby risked a look out of his window. The dinosaur had moved away and was now investigating his bike, abandoned in the long grass last night. He could hear it snuffling from here.
  Abruptly it spun around, tail scything out to lash the willow’s hanging branches. It stared up at him and again he heard it sniffing the air, tasting his scent.
  He pulled the curtains closed and sat on his bed heavily, contemplating the next day. A schoolday, so he would have to leave the house.

 Monday morning came around after a long night huddled under the covers listening carefully and when his mum opened the curtains he expected her to scream in surprise. Well, you would wouldn’t you? Even an adult would be surprised.
  Nothing there. He checked for himself. No dinosaur, no sign that a dinosaur had ever been there and the living room window was perfectly clean.
  He left the house and walked to school, checking over his shoulder frequently, and spent the day looking out of the window, not sure what he hoped to see. In the end the teachers got a little upset with him and he couldn’t really blame them. And he couldn’t tell them why either.
  The walk home was a more pleasant affair. He chatted to his friends about tv and which teacher was the biggest jerk and then he was at his front door waving them goodbye. “I’m home” he cried
  There was no answer, even when he yelled again, worried this time. That was when he knew what had happened. His mother had gone outside and the dinosaur had eaten her.
  But then she walked in from the kitchen and said “hello dear” and his heart stopped pounding.

  He went into the back garden then and sat under the willow tree.

 Hot, foul breath brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes.

The Grievous Errors of Kram Blackhair

 (A short story I wrote a few years back)

Of the many errors which put Kram Jastsson, known as Blackhair, in his grave this was perhaps the greatest: When King Hrol died childless he expected to be given the crown.
 Now even his enemies would grant Kram his due as a warrior and leader of warriors. On the battlefield he was like a storm, cold and hard and unstoppable.
 But a King cannot solve all his problems with an axe. He must judge and cajole and above all have wisdom and in this Kram was sadly lacking.
 So it was that Iel Iellsson, a wise man indeed,  was named by Hrol in his last breath as the next king.
It is said that when he heard the news Kram flew into a rage, hurling his stool across the feasting  hall and then slaying his favourite dog.
 Iel heard of this and sighed deeply for Kram had been a great friend. He dispatched messengers to bear Kram gifts and offer him a place on his council. But knowing Blackhair all too well he also began gathering his sworn men about him.
 The messengers arrived at Kram’s hall to find him gone.