The trumpets sounded from the castle parapets as Her Lady’s caravan descended the garlanded steps to the market. The crowds rejoiced in their finest livery, and lined the streets and alleys, windows and balconies, to bear witness to her procession. She sat on a cushioned dais carried by four of her most trusted guards; her two young sons, eight-year old twins and the last heirs to her kingdom, sat to either side of her with wide and wondering eyes.
Lilies and dahlias were scattered before the procession’s feet, which comprised twenty nobles on horseback and a hundred halberdiers in fore and aft. Each man in her guard wore a red velvet tabard with a golden lion emblazoned on the front. Marching between the halberdiers was the royal band, who set a lively rhythm with drums and horns. The crowd cheered wildly as the queen waved in passing.
They approached the wharf. The sky was clear and the day warm, and the flowers of the cherry trees lining the harbour were in full bloom. The procession formed a protective semi-circle around the queen, and the band softened its music. The dais was gently lowered, and her chief vizier – a grizzled man with a short, immaculate beard – opened her carriage door and knelt with his hand outstretched. She smiled at him, and with the aid of his hand descended to the cobblestones. “Her majesty,” the vizier said.
Her children were then lowered to the ground, where they clutched the tail of their mother’s purple gown. Her diamond tiara shimmered in the afternoon sun as she approached the captain of her vessel. He was dressed in an ornate naval uniform, with tasselled epaulettes and a half-dozen medals pinned to his left breast. He wore a crisp tri-corned hat, and bowed humbly when the queen approached. “Her majesty,” the captain said.
She took his hand and together they proceeded up the red-carpeted walkway to the great ship Furiae that waited in the harbour. The entire ship’s crew stood at attention on the deck, and saluted the queen when she came aboard. She smiled and nodded at them, and then turned to face the adoring crowd gathered outside the ring of her soldiers. Laying her lily white hands on the rough wooden banister of the ship’s edge, she turned to look at her vizier, who had come aboard to wish her farewell.
“Please reconsider this, your majesty. This is your home,” he said, one last time, looking her in the eye. A soft, quiet laugh escaped her lips, and she gently touched his arm. “My dear vizier. Your solicitation has always been dear to me, but alas, you worry for nothing.” She laughed again and her cheeks blossomed rosily, “I am the queen! What ill can befall me?”
Bowing his head, the vizier nodded, “Of course, your majesty.” He knelt and kissed her hand, “We will await your return.” She took his hand and squeezed it softly, then turned to face the expectant crowd. “My beloved subjects,” she announced in a clear, unbroken voice. “I love you all. May you prosper in my absence! God’s blessing be with you, until we meet again!” She removed the white silk scarf that had been wrapped around her neck, and threw it into the wind. The crowd roared, applauded, and cheered, and the band struck up a triumphant song. People danced and threw their hats in the air. The vizier solemnly stepped down from the ship, and the walkway was withdrawn.
The ship severed its moorings and unfurled its clean white sails. The regal queen’s lion embroidered into the canvas caught the sun and shone brilliantly. With a final wave, the queen bid farewell to her people. The band kept playing until the ship, carrying the monarch and her only heirs, dwindled to a point on the horizon. And then it was gone.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
The Theurgist
There is a man, a theurgist, who does not adhere closely to the boundaries of time and space. He works alone, tirelessly, in a dark laboratory somewhere in Europe. He is a busy and meticulous craftsman with thick spectacles and a hunched posture. He wears a frock stained with the particles of a thousand materials, and never breaks for lunch.
He works, almost feverishly, with a singular purpose: to create. His methods would appear to the uninitiated as random, incoherent, and perhaps even absurd. One day he might fill a decanter with golf balls, and then hurl it violently against a wall. He might spin around a dozen times and then spit into a small, mercury-filled dish. He might bind the legs of a spider together with its own webbing, and whistle discordant rhythms as it struggles to free itself.
Once he painted a canvas using only the very last drop of mucous from a dying achatina iradeli. On another occasion, he scratched the surface of a tiny photograph depicting the microscopic texture of a red mosaic tile, taken from a mosque in Casablanca. Another time, in a fit of rage, he tied the roots of a certain species of fern, carefully imported from a small copse in eastern Albania, to a hot light bulb in his ceiling. Using an old, metallic syringe, he captured the tiny wisps of smoke that eventually began to evanesce from the point of contact with the bulb. The syringe was later injected, very carefully, into the abdomen of a roasted turkey, which was then fed to a blind weasel the theurgist had raised precisely for this purpose.
Every so often the theurgist would stare down knowingly at a tiny mote of dust freshly settled on a table, or a half-dead rat twitching beside a faded portrait of Abraham Lincoln, or at a small wrinkle just at the hem of his trousers, that hadn’t been there a moment before. Upon these occasions, the man would smile contentedly, dust his hands, and smoke a pipe in his favourite rocking chair by the fire. His work would, for a time, and only on these rarest of days, be done.
Somewhere else, in time and space, a God would be born, and with Him the precepts of a new religion, ready-made to be loved, worshipped -- and, possibly, feared.
He works, almost feverishly, with a singular purpose: to create. His methods would appear to the uninitiated as random, incoherent, and perhaps even absurd. One day he might fill a decanter with golf balls, and then hurl it violently against a wall. He might spin around a dozen times and then spit into a small, mercury-filled dish. He might bind the legs of a spider together with its own webbing, and whistle discordant rhythms as it struggles to free itself.
Once he painted a canvas using only the very last drop of mucous from a dying achatina iradeli. On another occasion, he scratched the surface of a tiny photograph depicting the microscopic texture of a red mosaic tile, taken from a mosque in Casablanca. Another time, in a fit of rage, he tied the roots of a certain species of fern, carefully imported from a small copse in eastern Albania, to a hot light bulb in his ceiling. Using an old, metallic syringe, he captured the tiny wisps of smoke that eventually began to evanesce from the point of contact with the bulb. The syringe was later injected, very carefully, into the abdomen of a roasted turkey, which was then fed to a blind weasel the theurgist had raised precisely for this purpose.
Every so often the theurgist would stare down knowingly at a tiny mote of dust freshly settled on a table, or a half-dead rat twitching beside a faded portrait of Abraham Lincoln, or at a small wrinkle just at the hem of his trousers, that hadn’t been there a moment before. Upon these occasions, the man would smile contentedly, dust his hands, and smoke a pipe in his favourite rocking chair by the fire. His work would, for a time, and only on these rarest of days, be done.
Somewhere else, in time and space, a God would be born, and with Him the precepts of a new religion, ready-made to be loved, worshipped -- and, possibly, feared.
Monday, April 9, 2007
The One about the Sailor
There was a diligent writer who lived modestly in a single studio, in the heart of a great metropolis. For the better part of his career he subsisted on the humble royalties his collections of poetry and short fiction garnered him. He was scarcely known by any but the most devoted readers of the monthly literature rags that gathered dust in the top shelves of tobacco shops and libraries. He was an auteur, an artiste, and though he had no great opinion of his own talents, went to sleep nourished by the belief that he was living an authentic life. Many years had passed since the day he sacrificed a promising career in gardening for the torturous glamour of writing. His right thigh still bore the scar from where he had snapped his trowel in two.
But he was always hungry. It was a never-abating misery in the pit of his stomach that distracted him terribly from the pure joy of crafting words. One day, a week after his last royalty check had been spent on a few slices of paper and a bag of cheese rinds, he found himself staring listlessly out of his window, unable to write, unable even to think longer than a few moments about anything other than the gnawing acid in his belly. He stared for one tragic moment down into the bustling depths of his great city, and contemplated with total sincerity the fall that would put an end to his art – and his hunger too. Just as the writer began to pry open the window with his nails, fate chose then to intervene. His phone rang.
He did not answer it. Rather, he stood paralyzed with fear, and a cold sweat began to trickle down his back. Below, a hundred metre fall separated him from sweet annihilation; behind him, a phone – whose bill had not been paid for at least six months – rang without cease. He turned slowly, fearfully, and stared at it. Ring! Ring! Ring! Whoever it was, he thought, must be profoundly confused to be calling someone whose phone did not work. And were they ever persistent, too!
Then – suddenly – a knocking came at his door. Knock! Knock! Knock! This was far too much for one day! The writer went pale and curled into a whimpering ball. No one but the landlord ever visited him, and he had a key and thus no reason on earth to be knocking. He also recalled that landlords tended to be angry people who carried eviction notices and warrants and brought police officers and social workers, and so he concluded that whoever this was couldn’t really be that bad. “Who… is it?” he inquired gingerly, after a moment.
“Let us in!” came the muffled voice from behind the door, whose owner was busily rattling the door knob. The writer stood, reluctantly, and opened the door. Two men dressed in sharp and obscenely expensive suits greeted him, “We’ve got great news for you! You’re going to be a rich man!”
When the writer awoke several hours later, after having fainted, he was not staring up at the peeling paint of his ceiling. He was, rather, looking at the plush leather interior of a limousine. This really tipped him off that something was afoot. Limousines were not the sort of things people like him usually awoke in. In fact, he had always believed their existence to be a sort of ridiculous joke created by the wealthy to ridicule the poor, and would not have been surprised to discover their interiors consisted entirely of cardboard boxes. Nevertheless, he was now without a doubt resolutely sitting inside one. To make matters more disconcerting, there was seated across from him a gruff-looking man with a receding hairline and numerous gold chains around his neck that rested in a little mound on the plateau of his rounded belly. “Glad you’re awake!” he said, his voice several octaves higher and more than a few coats of honey sweeter than he had expected. The man, after all, had a moustache.
“You sir,” he continued, “are a genius!” He pulled out a crumpled manuscript that looked like it had been read far more than necessary, and waved it at him. “In all my twenty years as a publisher, I have never seen something quite as deliciously marketable as this! The One about the Sailor,” he said, reading the title with a wistful sigh. “Gold! Pure gold!”
As it turned out, the publisher, who employed a legion of agents to scour every inch of the printed world for the slightest hint of talent, had happened upon this one story about a sailor; it was a work of remarkable wit, prose that melted like truffles upon the tongue, and with a twist so clever and enigmatic, yet nevertheless so brilliantly apt and unexpected, that it inspired countless revisits. The little magazine’s editor was immediately contacted; and, he, with a nose quick to catch the unmistakable fragrance of profit, hastily furnished the publisher with the writer’s name.
No time was wasted in contacting the writer. His debts were quickly and painlessly annihilated, and the publisher began immediately thereafter arranging with him the mass publication of the work along with a collection of other stories. In a flurry of papers and signings, the writer relinquished the story’s film rights, the overwhelming majority of royalty payments, and a number of other ridiculously important privileges whose significance was utterly lost upon him.
The next month consisted of wild and unmitigated success. The story headlined in a brilliant anthology of new short fiction, entitled enigmatically The One about the Sailor…. He was not the only contributor, but his work received without question the greatest critical – and popular – acclaim. It was heralded as “a work of virtuosic mastery,” as “proof that the mysterious art of literary prestidigitation has not been lost,” and, “a glorious accomplishment of intricate self-reference that does not, for one instant, sacrifice the simple joy of a story told vigorously and well.”
The writer appeared on various talk shows, was profiled in several major glossy magazines, and was even allowed a cameo in the upcoming blockbuster film The Sailor. His mind was a flurry of success, and his belly never had a moment to pause and reflect upon its total and sudden absence of hunger. The extravagant soirees with celebrity writers, the press conferences, the gala dinners, and the numerous prize ceremonies for short fiction all seemed to require the consumption of delicious multi-course meals. The writer began to gain weight.
However, one night, after a particularly flattering book signing session – the line had wound itself completely around the block – the writer staggered home to his new and lavish apartment, exhausted, drunk, and a bit bewildered. With a bottle of whisky in one hand, he began tearing apart the old boxes that contained the many stories he’d written over the years. When he had opened them all and scattered their contents across the floor, he moved out onto his enormous balcony and stared for one tragic moment down into the bustling depths of the great metropolis. And in that moment he knew, despite all his frenzied years upon the earth, that he had never written a story about a sailor.
But he was always hungry. It was a never-abating misery in the pit of his stomach that distracted him terribly from the pure joy of crafting words. One day, a week after his last royalty check had been spent on a few slices of paper and a bag of cheese rinds, he found himself staring listlessly out of his window, unable to write, unable even to think longer than a few moments about anything other than the gnawing acid in his belly. He stared for one tragic moment down into the bustling depths of his great city, and contemplated with total sincerity the fall that would put an end to his art – and his hunger too. Just as the writer began to pry open the window with his nails, fate chose then to intervene. His phone rang.
He did not answer it. Rather, he stood paralyzed with fear, and a cold sweat began to trickle down his back. Below, a hundred metre fall separated him from sweet annihilation; behind him, a phone – whose bill had not been paid for at least six months – rang without cease. He turned slowly, fearfully, and stared at it. Ring! Ring! Ring! Whoever it was, he thought, must be profoundly confused to be calling someone whose phone did not work. And were they ever persistent, too!
Then – suddenly – a knocking came at his door. Knock! Knock! Knock! This was far too much for one day! The writer went pale and curled into a whimpering ball. No one but the landlord ever visited him, and he had a key and thus no reason on earth to be knocking. He also recalled that landlords tended to be angry people who carried eviction notices and warrants and brought police officers and social workers, and so he concluded that whoever this was couldn’t really be that bad. “Who… is it?” he inquired gingerly, after a moment.
“Let us in!” came the muffled voice from behind the door, whose owner was busily rattling the door knob. The writer stood, reluctantly, and opened the door. Two men dressed in sharp and obscenely expensive suits greeted him, “We’ve got great news for you! You’re going to be a rich man!”
When the writer awoke several hours later, after having fainted, he was not staring up at the peeling paint of his ceiling. He was, rather, looking at the plush leather interior of a limousine. This really tipped him off that something was afoot. Limousines were not the sort of things people like him usually awoke in. In fact, he had always believed their existence to be a sort of ridiculous joke created by the wealthy to ridicule the poor, and would not have been surprised to discover their interiors consisted entirely of cardboard boxes. Nevertheless, he was now without a doubt resolutely sitting inside one. To make matters more disconcerting, there was seated across from him a gruff-looking man with a receding hairline and numerous gold chains around his neck that rested in a little mound on the plateau of his rounded belly. “Glad you’re awake!” he said, his voice several octaves higher and more than a few coats of honey sweeter than he had expected. The man, after all, had a moustache.
“You sir,” he continued, “are a genius!” He pulled out a crumpled manuscript that looked like it had been read far more than necessary, and waved it at him. “In all my twenty years as a publisher, I have never seen something quite as deliciously marketable as this! The One about the Sailor,” he said, reading the title with a wistful sigh. “Gold! Pure gold!”
As it turned out, the publisher, who employed a legion of agents to scour every inch of the printed world for the slightest hint of talent, had happened upon this one story about a sailor; it was a work of remarkable wit, prose that melted like truffles upon the tongue, and with a twist so clever and enigmatic, yet nevertheless so brilliantly apt and unexpected, that it inspired countless revisits. The little magazine’s editor was immediately contacted; and, he, with a nose quick to catch the unmistakable fragrance of profit, hastily furnished the publisher with the writer’s name.
No time was wasted in contacting the writer. His debts were quickly and painlessly annihilated, and the publisher began immediately thereafter arranging with him the mass publication of the work along with a collection of other stories. In a flurry of papers and signings, the writer relinquished the story’s film rights, the overwhelming majority of royalty payments, and a number of other ridiculously important privileges whose significance was utterly lost upon him.
The next month consisted of wild and unmitigated success. The story headlined in a brilliant anthology of new short fiction, entitled enigmatically The One about the Sailor…. He was not the only contributor, but his work received without question the greatest critical – and popular – acclaim. It was heralded as “a work of virtuosic mastery,” as “proof that the mysterious art of literary prestidigitation has not been lost,” and, “a glorious accomplishment of intricate self-reference that does not, for one instant, sacrifice the simple joy of a story told vigorously and well.”
The writer appeared on various talk shows, was profiled in several major glossy magazines, and was even allowed a cameo in the upcoming blockbuster film The Sailor. His mind was a flurry of success, and his belly never had a moment to pause and reflect upon its total and sudden absence of hunger. The extravagant soirees with celebrity writers, the press conferences, the gala dinners, and the numerous prize ceremonies for short fiction all seemed to require the consumption of delicious multi-course meals. The writer began to gain weight.
However, one night, after a particularly flattering book signing session – the line had wound itself completely around the block – the writer staggered home to his new and lavish apartment, exhausted, drunk, and a bit bewildered. With a bottle of whisky in one hand, he began tearing apart the old boxes that contained the many stories he’d written over the years. When he had opened them all and scattered their contents across the floor, he moved out onto his enormous balcony and stared for one tragic moment down into the bustling depths of the great metropolis. And in that moment he knew, despite all his frenzied years upon the earth, that he had never written a story about a sailor.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Day Horrors
This story has been temporarily removed, because it needs some serious bloody work. I'll repost it again sometime in the future, when I feel it deserves to be seen.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Great Wall
“I have a dream,” once wrote the poet Muralis, “of a life lived on a great plane – not against one.” For his heresy, he was thrown into the fog steeped depths of the Empty, where his body – presumed to be falling still – starved to death. We who call the many stairwells, ramparts, landings, ladders, and nooks of the Great Wall our home do not talk about general theories of horizontality. Flat things are those small interstices between the Wall and death, the known and the infinite, whereupon you sleep, shuffle, and stand. Muralis went on, “I dream one day of a rapid succession of feet, whose soles tread without the fear of falling.” His words were strangely beautiful, but in the end he was judged a dangerous fantasist obsessed with the impossible. For this, he was killed.
We who love the Wall, and our numbers are many, desire only to live our lives in peace. We climb and descend the enormous iron ladders that disappear upwards beyond sight, and we are filled with good cheer when we pass by friends and neighbours on our way to one of the many hollows that dot the surface. These are our homes, our schools, our places of work. We step from ladders into these holes and recesses, and from them procure our sustenance, our clothing, and our daily bread. Sometimes we stop, our arms twined around the mesh of rope that spans between rungs, and stare down at the Wall’s many narrow ledges that gather rainwater, or allow a few stalks of wheat to sprout in the dazzling sun. We gaze upon these wonders, and adore them, for they are what give us life.
But there are those who oppose our humble existence, and resent the simple beauty of the vertical. They are fools, zealots, and ideologues who seek to deny the undeniable, and plant deep fissures in the core of our world. Inspired by Muralis’ words, they want to bring down the wall, to reunite us with the mythical “flat earth”. They meet in dark corridors, wide and level, dug with bloody hands into the marrow of our home. They are said even to dance – as surely a lie as any other, but poisonous to impressionable minds. Their worst crime, however, is done in whispering that Muralis still lives, and that he walks down below in a world flat and lush and free of vertigo.
They must be stopped from destroying all that we hold dear. But we must not resort to the crude violence they employ; we must be in every respect their betters. Whatever the cost may be, we must show them that the wall extends infinitely in every direction. They will not stop until they are made to see. It has thus been decided that we, true believers in the Great Wall, shall build a ramp as wide and stable as our artisans can conceive. We will use the stone of the Wall itself to construct it, we will live upon it, and it shall descend in a spiral, down and down into the Empty, as far as it need go to convince the heretics of the falsity of their beliefs.
We who love the Wall, and our numbers are many, desire only to live our lives in peace. We climb and descend the enormous iron ladders that disappear upwards beyond sight, and we are filled with good cheer when we pass by friends and neighbours on our way to one of the many hollows that dot the surface. These are our homes, our schools, our places of work. We step from ladders into these holes and recesses, and from them procure our sustenance, our clothing, and our daily bread. Sometimes we stop, our arms twined around the mesh of rope that spans between rungs, and stare down at the Wall’s many narrow ledges that gather rainwater, or allow a few stalks of wheat to sprout in the dazzling sun. We gaze upon these wonders, and adore them, for they are what give us life.
But there are those who oppose our humble existence, and resent the simple beauty of the vertical. They are fools, zealots, and ideologues who seek to deny the undeniable, and plant deep fissures in the core of our world. Inspired by Muralis’ words, they want to bring down the wall, to reunite us with the mythical “flat earth”. They meet in dark corridors, wide and level, dug with bloody hands into the marrow of our home. They are said even to dance – as surely a lie as any other, but poisonous to impressionable minds. Their worst crime, however, is done in whispering that Muralis still lives, and that he walks down below in a world flat and lush and free of vertigo.
They must be stopped from destroying all that we hold dear. But we must not resort to the crude violence they employ; we must be in every respect their betters. Whatever the cost may be, we must show them that the wall extends infinitely in every direction. They will not stop until they are made to see. It has thus been decided that we, true believers in the Great Wall, shall build a ramp as wide and stable as our artisans can conceive. We will use the stone of the Wall itself to construct it, we will live upon it, and it shall descend in a spiral, down and down into the Empty, as far as it need go to convince the heretics of the falsity of their beliefs.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
The Visitors
Olaf, Wielder of the Firesword, Greatknight of the Third Battalion, Defender of the Northwind Bulwark, and General of the armies of the great vanguard city Normorr, stood facing the scarred legion of the crag walkers as they crested the last deep ridge before the tremendous stone wall on which he stood. He raised his right arm, and a thousand archers nocked their arrows, their eyes enchanted by the Dark Coterie of Cloaked Witherers nestled on the ground behind them, deep in whispering concentration. The air was rank with the smell of burning pitch, and with a sharp cry his Half-harpy Lieutenant Merelda signalled the ignition of the arrows. A column of burning light raced across the parapet. Olaf’s right arm fell, and the fiery arrows descended shrieking upon the advancing horde.
Olaf awoke in a gully by a brown, blood soaked stream. He raised his head despite the agony in his muscles, and looked up over the side of the ditch. The plain beside him was a gory battlefield of mangled corpses, skin-laden bonfires, and acrid death. Thousands of bodies lay dead, burned, or eviscerated, and he knew by the smell that victory was his. The crag walkers despised fire, and smothered it with the dangling open flesh of their stomach walls. They existed to extinguish all flame, and it was no small irony that only with an excess of fire could they be killed.
He stood, teeth clenched in pain, and yanked out a broken sword tip from his lower back. His armour was shattered in several places, and he had lost his sword in the final moments before losing consciousness. He remembered only charging into the din of combat, to take down the writhing mass of boiling flesh that slithered amidst the chaos, which gave birth to new minions from the absorbed matter of his fallen soldiers. He had to kill it, or they would be overrun – and so he plunged his sword straight into its heart, and was devoured.
He climbed up over the side of the ditch and took in the sight before him. He could not see many survivors. If they had won, it had come at a great cost. He would have to contact the South Imperium for reinforce-
And then he saw, rooting among a mound of dead soldiers, something black and shiny. He reached for his sword instinctively, then cursed its absence. He stooped and grabbed a longsword left by one of the slain, and approached the metallic creature cautiously. As he drew closer he saw it more clearly, illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby bonfire. It was about sex feet tall, a foot across, and cylindrical, with six short legs sticking out at sharp angles near the base. It looked like a great metal worm, standing upright, with sections connected by ribbed joints that stretched and contracted as it moved. Two flat metallic arms, with exposed pistons, whirred and spun from pivots attached to its middle segment. A red orb in the centre of its uppermost section rotated and pivoted and clicked, as if studying the surroundings intently.
“By Grimfang the Unmerciful, what in the Yawning Gorge are you!” Olaf yelled some ten feet away from the thing, abandoning all guile. He raised his sword and prepared himself for battle. The machine turned to face him, and cocked what might be called its neck, almost in a gesture of curiosity. Its feet clacked against the stony ground. It whirred and clicked and beeped, and took a few rapid steps in his direction. “Stay back, demon!” shouted Olaf, but held his ground.
Out of the sky came the roaring sound of flame, like a dragon’s breath. Olaf looked up and saw another of the creatures approaching rapidly from above, two thin streams of blue fire emerging from its back. He cursed and crouched down defensively. The machine landed next to his twin, and stared at Olaf with the same unassailable curiosity. “What… are… you?” Olaf murmured, confused beyond measure.
The two creatures clicked and clacked and glanced back and forth from Olaf to each other. They pointed at Olaf, and their torsos began to jerk up and down rapidly. A quick, repetitive zapping noise sounded from both of them, interspersed with more clacking. The one on the left began to slap its metal abdomen with one hand, while the other clucked and beeped and twisted its head back and forth. Olaf stared at them, his mouth agape and his knuckles white around the handle of his sword.
Another of the creatures appeared about fourty metres in the distance, atop a pile of bodies. It issued a loud, repeating beep that caught the attention of the two nearer creatures. It began to wave at them, and they nodded to each other. Looking back at Olaf, their eyes extended from their sockets with a tiny whirr, and suddenly a brilliant light blinded the warrior. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees, convinced they had cast some dark magic upon him. In a moment his vision cleared, and in the distance he could just see the three beings climbing up the ramp of a massive hovering ship. Once they had boarded, the ramp lifted and sealed itself into the wall of the vessel; it turned, and with a sudden burst of speed disappeared into the sky.
Olaf awoke in a gully by a brown, blood soaked stream. He raised his head despite the agony in his muscles, and looked up over the side of the ditch. The plain beside him was a gory battlefield of mangled corpses, skin-laden bonfires, and acrid death. Thousands of bodies lay dead, burned, or eviscerated, and he knew by the smell that victory was his. The crag walkers despised fire, and smothered it with the dangling open flesh of their stomach walls. They existed to extinguish all flame, and it was no small irony that only with an excess of fire could they be killed.
He stood, teeth clenched in pain, and yanked out a broken sword tip from his lower back. His armour was shattered in several places, and he had lost his sword in the final moments before losing consciousness. He remembered only charging into the din of combat, to take down the writhing mass of boiling flesh that slithered amidst the chaos, which gave birth to new minions from the absorbed matter of his fallen soldiers. He had to kill it, or they would be overrun – and so he plunged his sword straight into its heart, and was devoured.
He climbed up over the side of the ditch and took in the sight before him. He could not see many survivors. If they had won, it had come at a great cost. He would have to contact the South Imperium for reinforce-
And then he saw, rooting among a mound of dead soldiers, something black and shiny. He reached for his sword instinctively, then cursed its absence. He stooped and grabbed a longsword left by one of the slain, and approached the metallic creature cautiously. As he drew closer he saw it more clearly, illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby bonfire. It was about sex feet tall, a foot across, and cylindrical, with six short legs sticking out at sharp angles near the base. It looked like a great metal worm, standing upright, with sections connected by ribbed joints that stretched and contracted as it moved. Two flat metallic arms, with exposed pistons, whirred and spun from pivots attached to its middle segment. A red orb in the centre of its uppermost section rotated and pivoted and clicked, as if studying the surroundings intently.
“By Grimfang the Unmerciful, what in the Yawning Gorge are you!” Olaf yelled some ten feet away from the thing, abandoning all guile. He raised his sword and prepared himself for battle. The machine turned to face him, and cocked what might be called its neck, almost in a gesture of curiosity. Its feet clacked against the stony ground. It whirred and clicked and beeped, and took a few rapid steps in his direction. “Stay back, demon!” shouted Olaf, but held his ground.
Out of the sky came the roaring sound of flame, like a dragon’s breath. Olaf looked up and saw another of the creatures approaching rapidly from above, two thin streams of blue fire emerging from its back. He cursed and crouched down defensively. The machine landed next to his twin, and stared at Olaf with the same unassailable curiosity. “What… are… you?” Olaf murmured, confused beyond measure.
The two creatures clicked and clacked and glanced back and forth from Olaf to each other. They pointed at Olaf, and their torsos began to jerk up and down rapidly. A quick, repetitive zapping noise sounded from both of them, interspersed with more clacking. The one on the left began to slap its metal abdomen with one hand, while the other clucked and beeped and twisted its head back and forth. Olaf stared at them, his mouth agape and his knuckles white around the handle of his sword.
Another of the creatures appeared about fourty metres in the distance, atop a pile of bodies. It issued a loud, repeating beep that caught the attention of the two nearer creatures. It began to wave at them, and they nodded to each other. Looking back at Olaf, their eyes extended from their sockets with a tiny whirr, and suddenly a brilliant light blinded the warrior. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees, convinced they had cast some dark magic upon him. In a moment his vision cleared, and in the distance he could just see the three beings climbing up the ramp of a massive hovering ship. Once they had boarded, the ramp lifted and sealed itself into the wall of the vessel; it turned, and with a sudden burst of speed disappeared into the sky.
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