The Great Hunt
By James J A Gray
(June 2014)
They moved swift and silent as shadows across the Wastes; feet wrapped in treated skins tied with dried long-grass and their bodies hooded and cloaked in beast-hide dyed the colour of the sand through which they trekked.
Their skin was tanned a light bronze and many bore visible markings, scars, and tribal tattoos upon their sun-beaten flesh. At their bellies, crudely made thin iron plates were tied, each plate bearing the head of a lion, fangs bared in a ferocious snarl. As they crested the first dune, the leader raised a muscled arm and crouched. Those following – roughly thirty in number - fanned out and followed their leader’s direction, bringing themselves low against the dune’s rise, out of sight.
The leader – a giant of a man named Rhatka – waved forward his scouts and pointed them in the direction of the second dune in the distance, beyond which could be seen a rising dust cloud. Something approached. The four men hefted their spears made of wood and bronze and sprinted over the sandy mound toward the second dune, moving over the top and out of sight.
Rhatka watched in patient, calculating silence as the four men disappeared from view, turning his hazel eyes to scan the horizon. The dust-cloud dissipated as it reached the second dune and all was as still and quiet as death. Rhatka felt a mild uneasiness sweep over him in the silence, broken only by the whistling breeze that ran through the valleys created by the dunes. Then he saw them, two of the scouts he had sent, running as fast as mortal legs could carry.
Rhatka stood then and watched them run, arms swinging wildly as they stumbled down the steep sandy slope into the valley toward them, weapons lost. As he breathed in the air he smelled the reason for their flight; he smelled fear. They screamed at him in their native tongue as they ran, and Rhatka listened to their fearful voices as they rang out across the barren landscape and pierced the wind-swept valley.
“Kosey! Rhatka, Kosey!”
Lion.
The first of the scouts made it into the valley and began his climb up the second dune while the other lagged a scant few meters behind, still making his way down the treacherous slope when the ground beneath him exploded in a choking cloud of sand. A massive form emerged from the haze, looming like a titan over the valley and struck like a viper, closing enormous fanged jaws around the lagging scout and crushing him in an instant. The remaining Scout managed to stumble to the top of the hill before losing his footing and falling into the path of the giant cat, helpless before the beast’s giant paws. A Second head rose from out of the swirling sand to join the first, eying the hilltop.
Two large manes wreathed the massive heads that gleamed in the twin suns glaring overhead; their eyes the colour of pitch. It moved forward then, causing the rest of the sand to collapse and envelop the remaining Scout before he had time to run. Stopping half-way up the first dune, it turned all eyes upon the man standing at the lip: the warrior Rhatka.
Rearing back on its hind legs, both mouths opened and a tremendous reverberating roar thundered forth, causing many of the tribes-people to cower back and hold their ears. Rhatka stood firm against the cacophonous blast of sound as the paws of the giant beast came crashing down into the side of the dune upon which he held firm. Casting aside his fur cloak and baring his scarred and tattooed musculature to the wind, he let his hand fall upon the pommel of the two-handed blade at his hip and pulled it free from its hold. The intricately carved weapon sang as it cut the air and Rhatka rejoiced in its deadly tune. Gazing upon the enormous desert-lion he pointed the blade and roared an oath in defiance.
“I am Rhatka, son of Orlack of the Kosey Clan, Champion of the Feral Wastes, and on this day I shall rip out your hearts and feed them to my people!”
Those who stood around him cheered as he roared his challenge, raising their spears and shouting at the two-headed cat. Their fear abated as their leader roused their spirits with his courageous boasting.
Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of those on the crest of the hill, the desert-lion stepped back a pace and roared once more. With a motion from Rhatka’s blade, every man on the dune hurled his spear at the cat; some bouncing harmlessly off of its massive muscular form whilst others scored shallow wounds or cuts across its flank, angering it. Rhatka roared for his men to draw their blades and waited for the beast’s next move.
Fangs bared, flank bleeding from a score of wounds, the creature snarled and threw itself at the dune, bounding up the side as the thirty warriors of the Kosey tribe charged to meet it in glorious combat.
The first man met his end at the crushing swipe of a massive paw, flattening him into the dune before he had a chance to raise his sword.
The next met death with a giant claw through the chest, and another through the abdomen; the razor-sharp appendage piercing the thin, battered iron plate and emerging through his spinal column, pinning him to the ground.
Not a single warrior screamed as he met his end, for the members of the Kosey clan fought and died with roaring defiance. A fourth warrior managed a deep cut upon the lion’s right thigh before one of the heads lunged down and ensnared him between serrated fangs, cutting the man to pieces and raining viscera and gore upon those at its feet. The beast roared in frustration as it lashed out with massive crushing paws, razor-sharp fangs, and a flailing tail that flattened several men at a time with each blow. Rhatka stood with one foot at the top of the mound, surveying the battle below and roared down at the lion in challenge, causing the other members of the Kosey clan to retreat several paces out of the killing range of the giant cat. The desert-lion snarled once more and bounded up the dune toward the Champion of the Feral Wastes, set for the kill. Rhatka took several paces back, raising the great blade above his head and then charged forward, leaping from the edge into oblivion and the jaws of hell with a final roar upon his lips.
They met in a clash of steel and flesh, the blade biting deep and true as Rhatka, son of Orlack slew the giant cat. The etched sword swung in a brutal arc, cleaving the first head from the massive shoulders, sending the beast reeling in pain and confusion at the loss of one of its vital parts. Rhatka met it again, running beneath its legs and slashing overhead, splitting its belly open and pouring steaming entrails onto the sand.
The Champion turned as the great beast fell, watching as the maimed corpse toppled lifeless to the sand. A great rousing cheer arose from the men circled about them, filling the shallow valley with their chorus as Rhatka moved to the body, ramming his blade into the earth and reaching shoulder-deep inside the great lion’s chest cavity.
After a moment he pulled back blood-stained arms and revealed the two massive hearts clutched in each hand, pulsing their last. Raising them to the sky he tilted his head up toward the twin suns, letting his long raven-black hair fall down his back, and roared his triumph to the air.
Wizards with Guns
By Mario Savovski
(May 2014)
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"Alpha squadron! Requesting backup! Two of us are pinned down near the Magus Wolfram statue – we’re low on mana! I repeat - requesting backup at the Magus Wolfram statue. Teleport ASAP!" Gasoul was hiding behind the giant rock statue, right behind the feet of it. The wizard scratched his scruffy beard as he reloaded his fire rifle. His white robe scraped against the dust as he crouched; waiting for backup, wondering if his call would go unheard.
"Only one clip left, and five of them black-robes out there hunting for me." As he contemplated rushing out and attempting to take down as many enemies as he could before inevitably being blasted by some high-level spell, a friendly face appeared.
"Gasoul! Behind me!" The young Archimedes was running towards his old mentor, carrying two rifles. Behind him was an enemy chasing with a blue shotgun. Icy spikes were being shot at him as the black-robed wizard attempted to kill him. The icicles were cutting through the air, missing him just barely.
"Damn, that kid will be the end of me!" Gasoul gripped his rifle and ran out of cover, aiming at the young wizard running towards him. Gasoul pulled the trigger on his rifle, as a red ball of fire began charging at the tip of its muzzle. Archimedes gave a nod of understanding and focused straight ahead.
"Now!" Gasoul shouted, pulling his finger off the trigger, sending a column of blazing fire towards Archimedes. Yet it did not hit him, for the young man had vanished in the blink of an eye, magically reappearing behind Gasoul. In consequence, the scorching pillar blasted through the black robes of the enemy, turning him to ash.
"Damn it, Archie!" The elder wizard pulled the youngster by the ear, dragging him behind cover. "You could've gotten us both killed."
"But I didn't!" Archimedes smiled smugly.
"Yeah, well you might as well have. I used up my final clip of mana on that one, and last I counted, there are four more black-robes out there that want us dead, and YOU ..." He smacked Archimedes upside the head. "… Just gave away our position."
"But central is teleporting back-up, right?"
"Not fast enough, kiddo. By the time they get here, we'll probably be dead. Come on, now - we've got to move. Damn it!" He threw away his rifle. "This one's done for." Just then he noticed the extra riffle on his compatriot's back. "What's that you're carrying, Archie?"
"Oh, this one is my old Tadpole ..." Archimedes showed off a small but wide blue weapon, and then dropped from his shoulder a long and gold-clad sniper rifle. He watched with a smile while Gasoul picked up the golden weapon. Finally, Archimedes spoke enthusiastically:
"It shoots lightning, sir." He reached into the inside of his robe. Gasoul slid his hands
alongside the edge of the sniper rifle's body and looked down its sights.
"Good. How many shards do you have?"
"Three, sir." Archimedes took out three brightly pink crystals, handing them over to Gasoul.
"Think it'll be enough?!" He looked at his own weapon – the Tadpole, remembering he himself only had one more clip of mana left to spend.
Just as Archimedes uttered those words, balls of fire started hitting their cover. The statue's bottom began collapsing under the heated force of the spells. Gasoul took notice and got up on his feet.
"It better. Here!" He handed off a grenade to Archimedes. "I'll cover you. Go and use it wisely."
Gasoul focused on the very top of the statue and in a moment he found himself there, aiming down the sights of the sniper rifle.
While his old mentor was on the lookout, Archimedes gritted his teeth, gripped his own weapon and took charge. Running as fast as he could, fireballs blasted past him and the earth itself was rising against him as spikes were jutting up just behind his feet. One enemy appeared in front of him, swinging a staff. A grave mistake, as that same enemy didn't make another step before Gasoul struck him down in a thunderous echo. Electrified, the black coat rolled down while Archimedes kept trucking forwards.
He blinked to the top of a big rock. Dropping down behind it, he closed his eyes, whispering. In truth, he was sending a magical message to his cover - Gasoul.
"Three left. Where are they?"
"To your five o'clock, Archie. All in one place, behind a big steel cauldron. Use suppressive fire, then the grenade." Gasoul responded from the top of the statue, aiming his rifle at the steel black cauldron.
"Roger that!" Archimedes clutched the grenade and began running. He discharged his weapon, sending blasts of water that turned to ice upon impacting the cauldron. Due to his rapid shots, none of the three black-coats could get out of cover and return fire. He neared the cauldron with extreme concentration, keeping the blasts of water going.
"Alright, Archie! It's your time to shine!" He said to himself, firing the last blast. Archimedes dashed between the frozen pillars of water he had created and rolled right around the cauldron. Suddenly, he was surrounded by three wizards in black robes, pointing their weapons at him. This was not unplanned, however. Their fired blasts ended up hitting only the ground, for Archimedes had blinked high up into the air, leaving in his place a small grenade. That same grenade exploded in a light green wave, turning the enemies into three small, harmless sheep.
"Good boy!" Gasoul took aim at the panicked sheep, spending the two last shards to take down two of the sheep, with only one enemy left.
“Unlucky, you're mine!" Archimedes threw his rifle away as a long, white staff materialized in his hands. He dropped down on the sole enemy in a battle cry. And just as the sheep turned back into a man, the young wizard jammed his staff in the black-robed wizard's heart.
“All enemies eliminated, Alpha Squadron. No need to come here." Gasoul reported back. He then directed his thoughts at Archimedes. "Good work, Archie. Let's advance to the front lines and secure the perimeter."
"Understood, sir!
"…Sir?"
"What is it, soldier?"
"Can we go for a carpet ride and some ice cream when we return to HQ?"
"Sigh…sure, Archie. Why the hell not?"
The Doom that Came from the Sky
By Pete Sutton
(May 2014)
The Doom that Came from the Sky
By Pete Sutton
The skystone lies in deepest shadow at the heart of the castle that was built around it. The lineage of the finder are its protectors. It is death, it is mayhem and it waits.
#
The first crashing collision reverberates through the hall. The prince looks at the dust lazily spiralling through the sunbeams contrasting it with the urgency of the sounds coming from outside. There is another resounding boom, drinks jump, plates shed cutlery. The chandeliers swing as more plaster dust rains from the ceiling.
The prince sighs. The third crash is the loudest yet, joined with a giant smashing tinkle as one of the windows gives out.
Medder thinks it is time “Prince Adelbern. It is time to leave, IF we can get past your brother’s army”
“I will not run.” The prince is stubborn, he didn’t leave when the army approached, refusing to give up as the siege engines were built, even though it is plain that the castle will fall.
Somewhere above them there is a resounding thump and the room seems to jump sideways as everyone is covered in debris.
“We stay and we ensure that they don’t take the stone.” The prince repeats, standing and dusting himself off.
“And just how do you propose to do that your highness?” Medder says.
“My brother has surrounded himself with fools. We will use the stone first.”
“The prophecy!” Medder says
“Sebastian was an idiot.”
“They say he was inspired by the gods.”
“To void his bowels and drool? No, we will use the stone.” The prince moves decisively and goes and puts his hands upon the stone.
#
The castle is silent. The crows feast. It is death, it is mayhem and for now it is sated.
Wisdom
By Valerie Riddle
(May 2014)
The feeling of lovingly polished wood against my palm, every bump on it reminding me that it has been a growing branch before, radiating life and the sense of rebirth. In my view, learning from nature is what any sentient being should strive to do. I have made this staff myself, so that it obeys my movements as a trained horse would a confident hand.
The wood minutely presses against my palm with a tug as the staff impacts with the target. I make a note of every single shift, step or wrist movement I partake in when successfully landing this hit; also the surroundings such as the cool draft coming from the cracked door of the training hall. Then I return into the primary stance and close my eyes. Today my training is for blind attack. "Be one with the weapon. Be one with your surroundings", say the teachings. "All five senses are to be keen".
I admit, my teachers have had better students. However, I am not the worst, either: the patience with which I perfect my skill helps me prevail over most of my opponents during the training sessions. With a slow rise of my hand, arm and shoulder in one fluent succession with the staff as a complementing detail I repeat exactly the same motion in a line of four hits, one after another, quickening the pace, feeling the blows connect in exactly the way it has felt with my eyes open, except more intensely.
I shift from my original starting pose. I need to discern where the target is from all the supplementary factors such as the movement of the air around me and how the light changes when I turn away from it even if my eyes are closed or where the warm rays of sun rest against my bare forearms and shins. My first blow lands a little off, resonating shakily through my wrist. The second one is compensated due to the mistake. The motto on the main hall wall is always present in my mind like a stigma: 'Wisdom in victory and defeat'. The third blow is almost perfect. The fourth blow never lands as I freeze. Somebody is in the room. I open my eyes.
Three people. I know one of them - he is one of my masters who has taught me in these walls. His facial expression is, as expected, reproachful. The other two are clad in typical grey armour, light leather, the lower part of their faces concealed with a piece of cloth, showing only the eyes, cold detached stares. I have never seen the Shadow Police so close up, nor have I seen much of anything else in the city, locked away in the monastery walls.
The master silently indicates they can take me away and I relax, putting down my staff. Wisdom in defeat, I can hardly show any resistance.
They are not gentle but they are not as harsh as I would have expected them to be. No matter what happens they treat everyone with dignity; it makes me wonder if I could live in such a society after all. I refuse to think about this any further; my mind is set and my reasons do not require any explaining as I have never been in the habit of lying to myself. There is nothing I can do to redeem who I am, as the nature of a man is something one should not be able to change at a whim. I have met those who disagree with my point of view completely and keep their mask on; it is obvious that the thing has already grown deep into their skin. I also do not believe there is such a thing as mask. A man does whatever is right for him. The motives are what is different.
But I am straying. No matter how important it is for me to dwell on my beliefs, I am now being led through the parts of the city I have not seen before, and that undeniably draws my interest. This is nothing I have imagined it to be, not the dark and ominous empire, clad in black, which I have had every reason to believe it has to be but rather the majestic tall columns of blinding white colour, thrusting into the deep blue sky. Ironically, the weather has been measured with divine precision bringing a cool breeze and warm sunrays, granting me short moments of pleasure before it all becomes for me just the mocking sign of what I have been waiting for since two days ago.
There are few people in the streets, they pass our procession without a glance. My guess is that they have seen such displays plenty of times before.
We soon near the grand building that takes up a fair chunk of the big square it is situated next to. The wall forms a semicircle that cuts into the pavement, as if devouring its prey. This is our destination as I can easily guess - the Arena. It is here that I am to meet my destiny.
We enter through a side door; inside the air is stuffy and reeks of sweat and simple unperfected fighting that does not have the right to be called art. I am presented to a high and heavily-muscled man, who looks me up and down as if saying ‘this fly will not survive long under our fists’. I take the stare with due patience and as much disinterest I can possibly show.
He starts to explain the rules of fighting at the Arena (one pre-selected weapon, no magic tricks, fight to the death), but I skip through the most of it as I am already sufficiently familiar with the subject. I am searched for hidden daggers and my staff, that has been dutifully fetched, is returned to me.
I am pushed out of the fighting gates into the ring, none too gently. The Arena itself, I note, is a boiling cauldron filled with a revolting concoction that contains shouts, cackling, arguing, drum beating, swearing, cheering, booing, coins jingling in pouches and of course sweat and intense sunlight. Just to add to my unease, the sand of the ring creaks under my feet, and my soles itch through the soft material of my shoes. I try my best to maintain a calm posture in this unknown dangerous zone, the rules of which could never become mine under any circumstances.
My opponent is pushed out of the gates across from me but he seems much more confident. He is dressed in a rather poor-looking leather armour, that has clearly seen its share of fighting. He has the bravado of a man who is used to winning, apparently he has been around the Arena long enough to become too sure of himself. I choose to disregard his confidence. I am not one for predictions as those men on the seats above us are. They do their thing and I shall do mine.
The bell has not tolled yet; my opponent has taken a knife out of its sheath, playing with it as if taunting. Paying him no mind, I start walking around to get as much feeling for the sand under my feet as I can. It can prove to be rather treacherous at any point of the fight. Standing on one spot is not the technique I should stick to - moving around and allowing for the friction in my steps will be safer.
The resonating sound that notes the start of the fight makes the smallest sand grains shift, the bell is numbingly loud and overlaps every other sound around the ring. It also means that I am soon to start fighting for my life but I am not overly concerned about this burden. I have taken this rather philosophically, since regardless of the outcome my time in the Arena will come to an end. I would customarily take time to ponder on such a riveting concept as death but right now my opponent is coming at me. The dance has begun.
I duck to the left as the knife swishes past my shoulder, and one shift of the right forearm - blindly, it would only catch the opponent, were he still there, but he moves rapidly after me. I try to turn to my advantage the fact that my staff is longer than his reach: duck back, push forward with both hands to block the incoming blow, push sideways to reach into his comfort zone as he circles me. He prevents my blow from landing - quick and strong. I need to double my speed after the next move.
His next strike I meet with my staff horizontally, but my left hand gives in under the pressure and the knife grazes against the polished surface as it slides sideways, nicking my fingers. I hastily retreat a couple of steps back to buy myself time. My mistake is unbecoming but I have no time for evaluation - the most I can afford is flex my grip on the staff experimentally twice, the back of my left hand smarts but does not bleed extensively. It feels like a pulsating reminder of being alive.
Alarmed, I search for suitable techniques as we start to close up on each other again. A knife is not something I am used to fighting against, it grants swiftness and an opening for using another arm to hit and block. Staff is different in a patient, contemplative way from this feverish 'bite and jump away' technique.
I block all the incoming blows which grow more swift and impatient as he must feel that I linger in uncertainty. The noises of the crowd suddenly become more persistent, the sound presses me down as I involuntarily start to pay it more attention than I should, it means I am losing concentration. I grip the staff - the weaknesses, I must concentrate on the weaknesses. They have to be in his defence. I need to discern the main difference between our weapons before I lose irreversibly.
He comes onto me, slash from above then thrust from the chest, I barely manage to parry - and I see it. There are seconds before I comprehend and construct a plan. I nearly give in to euphoria in those seconds. Unforgivable, that. Must be because I am so close to death and only at this point I realize that I am. Euphoria is not something that goes along with concentration. I shut it down - and go into offensive.
He must see me opening up, because the knife is suddenly too close to my throat for comfort; now I need to keep myself from being both euphoric and reproachful of this emotion, any emotion is a mistake in a fight. The seconds slow down as the blood drums in my ears, the knife crawls towards me, its edge glistening in the sunlight, cackling at my vulnerability. Precision. One precise strike lands on the wrist to bat the invasive weapon away. While the staff is positioned vertically, keeping both of those hands at a safe distance, I slam it down into the foot that is put out to support body weight. He has not expected that. He crouches. I add a blow to his shin. As he is blindsided by the unexpected area of attack and cannot recover quickly enough, I rapidly slam my staff into as many tender places as I possibly can; my brain does not even register all of them.
He is down now, his knife lying on the ground, half-buried under the sand. There is ringing in my ears and it deafens me. My staff slams into his face. The words ‘to the death’ burn through my thoughts. Before he can even look up at me, I throw my staff away and grasp his head. One precise move of my right hand, its heel inverted towards the throat and the palm resting under the lower jaw, and the spine audibly cracks - my left hand feels the bones shift under the skin.
The sounds slam against me again as soon as the limp body hits the sand, sending the grains flying in all directions. My heart is pounding in my chest and my breath comes out in short gasps unlike any other fight I have participated in. My mouth feels dry with a tinge of copper in it. I am numb and time has stopped existing for me.
What I register now is one of my masters standing in front of me. We are not in the fighting ring anymore and I do vaguely recall walking out of it. My staff is with me, I am holding it loosely by my right side and it has a pleasant feel against my bare skin, except for the rough spot where the knife has scratched.
My master has a strange look on his face that I cannot place, also neither he nor I seem to be inclined to start talking. He must be thinking of ways to convince me yet again, I believe. What else could the silence mean?
The words I hear from him surprise me in a disappointing kind of way, it is merely a simple question - whether or not I still stand by my decision. I respond with immediate certainty. The look does not leave those eyes. He tells me I shall be escorted out of the city gates as I have survived the trial so they stand by my right to be set free.
I do not have many possessions. With all fairness, they fit into one tiny pouch. Of course, the staff is also with me, my one true companion. The city gates close behind me and I linger before starting my journey into nowhere. I look up at the mass of white towers, hanging over my head in their majestic beauty. My mind is yet to wrap itself around the fact that this maiden brightness is not what it seems. Behind these walls I have been taught to eventually embrace the one occupation that anyone training besides me has accepted gladly. I stand by my choice of denying it but the thought cannot help but nudge - how can anyone simply agree to become a creature by trade so vile and immoral? How can there not be crowds of apprentices running away from the monastery if the only ultimate purpose of their training is to become an assassin? And how can a city to bright and lively hide in itself a swarm of killers? I stand by my choice.
The look in my master's eyes comes back to mind. I am still surprised he has not tried to convince me. No words of doom followed me leaving, no curses. I shrug and turn away from the city.
The road takes me through fields, so much more familiar that the white stone. My thoughts stray. I have changed since I have last seen this landscape. Actually, I consider that I have behaved admirably today at the Arena. I fought and found my way in a real battle with a serious, tangible threat I had not encountered before. I am also proud of the way I have dealt with my opponent's life: without hesitation I have taken the right choice to defend myself. That must be what they call 'wisdom in victory'. I suppose I have taken the best out of my education. Hesitation is what makes a person weak, I think. To take a life without succumbing to such a weakness is truly a personal growth.
There is spring in my steps by now, I feel rather proud of myself, marching down the dusty road towards any possible future I can have.
...Why was there this strange look in his eyes, I wonder?..
Onnwuen’s Fortune By Rose A. Campbell
(April 2014)
Ælfgyð heaves her hands to the sky and keens for Egric. The wise woman has forgotten all her wisdom as she stands over the wasted clay that was once her beloved son. In her agony, she charges the sun to enact her revenge upon his slaughterers. My heart echoes this curse, for Egric was my husband. We build a pyre, and consecrate the ground where he fell. As the fire consumes the good man’s flesh, so does rage consume me. We stand, wise woman and widow, mourning our loss until bone turns to ash and even the lowest of soldiers has long past wandered from the killing field. The wind toys with my hair, and I can feel Egric’s touch in it. He is still warm to me.
“Mother, the price this play-king exacts is too great. I cannot be idle now, while this army rapes our home and takes from us all that is precious!” Deep, deep within my throat come my words, softly.
My fury burns too hot for any raising of my voice. I am taken with a clarity pure as the rain.
“Now I act.”
“Onnwuen, consider well what you do.” Counsels Ælfgyð. She does not stray me from my purpose. Not all her wisdom can combat her bereavement. Egric was her only son.
“Allow me to help you, daughter.” Armed with the wise woman’s protection of the elements, earth, wind, water, and fire, I pursue my vengeance.
I walk with resolve into the sprawling camp of my enemy. None try to stop me, for I seem to belong in this place, so confident am I. The drum of my heart pounds louder the closer I come to my goal. I can see the flicker of lamps within the play-king’s pavilion. My stride lengthens, and still there is no challenge. The moon sends me her benevolence and strength as I step between the doorkeepers and separate the canvas to enter.
“Who comes?” cries the play-king, drawing iron. I do not speak, but smile my sweetest. He is a buffoon, an ugly, warty man with evil in his face.
My smile assuages him, and he blindly sets aside his weapon. I approach him, his stench filling my nostrils, and settle my arms about his neck. He grins a rotting, broken-toothed gape.
“Ah, finally they send me a morsel worth nibbling!”
“You shall not taste of these delights.” I speak flatly, coldly, boldly.
The grin falls from his face, but only momentarily. His mind filled with conquest, he passes my words from his thoughts.
“Come now, give proper obeisance to your King!” he chortles, his meaty fingers toying with my hair.
Egric’s pyre floods my thoughts. Never shall another woman build a pyre for son or husband killed by this man.
Without a blink, I reach for the blade the play-king so idly set by, and with a force I did not know I possessed, I plunge it into his withered heart. He is taken with amazement, gawping at the hilt blossoming from his chest. His voice rings astonished,
“Oh, what fortune is this? Ah, me, help!” His monstrous form crumples to the ground, fits of torment overtaking him. Blood rises from his spittle; his hand raises toward the curtain, toward the guards. Fiercely I grind it underfoot, leaning into his sweating, hoglike face. I watch his eyes glaze in death, and feel once again my sweet husband’s spirit touch me. Egric is avenged.
“What fortune is this? Blind fool, it is mine!”
Mrs Smith Comes to Tea.
By Stacey Welsh
(April 2014)
Libby sat in the spring sunshine; an old long sleeved floral dress, that was once her mother's favourite but was now relegated to dress up duty, covered her pants and tee shirt. Her little feet pushed all the way into the toes of an old pair of high heels and a bonny sunhat covered her blonde curls.
A child's table and chairs were set out for play, an old tablecloth covering it with a plastic tea party set, which was overflowing with apple juice. Four chocolate biscuits were slowly melting on a plastic plate, ready for a sticky chocolaty demise. Libby's happy childlike chatter to the array of dolls and stuffed toys that had 'joined' her for afternoon tea while Mummy cleaned the house, was interrupted by the high pitched whining of a strange craft, no bigger than her grandmother's Volkswagen beetle, as it landed in her back yard. A door hissed open and a strange little person came out and looked around, large dark eyes gazing at Libby from behind a fish-bowl helmet
"Oh look girls!" She piped up, "Mrs Smith has arrived!" She stood up in her badly oversized heels, over balancing slightly before she righted herself "Mrs Smith, we are not playing spaceship today! It’s tea party time!" Libby chastised the creature she had dubbed "Mrs Smith" she went to her box of dress-ups and found a red cocktail dress with a rip in the skirts that her Aunt had given to her for her dress-ups. She then found a pair of mismatched heels, and some costume jewellery necklaces. She proceeded to dress Mrs Smith and then led the stunned visitor to table.
Libby looked at Mrs Smith, "you need a hat Mrs Smith!" She smiled and got an old straw hat and popped it on the Glass bowl that completed the Space suit. Libby then proceeded to 'expertly' pour the 'tea' for her newest guest. Mrs Smith blinked eyelids of pasty grey and looked up at the strange little girl who sat opposite. "Mrs Smith, don't be rude! Have some tea!" Libby said as she picked up her own Cup and sipped the sweet juice with her pinkie out.
Mrs Smith followed her actions, the plastic cup stopped at the glass bubble of the helmet. Libby shook her head "Mrs Smith you need to take that silly Space suit off!" She said as she grabbed the glass bowl and pulled. The bowl came away with a pop! Mrs Smith made a strange garbling noise and gasped. Eyes, black as the night sky glared at Libby and Mrs Smith snatched back the helmet, putting it back on with a sigh of what could be assumed of as relief. She then clomped off back towards the Space ship,
High pitched and irritated sounding noises came from Mrs Smith as the door closed. The ship took off and flew away to the clouds. A minute later sirens and screeching tires were hard or the front of her house, big burly soldiers ran into her yard and looked around.
A man with stars on his hat came up to Libby and went to one knee before her.
"Hi there little girl, did you happen to see a strange looking person here, would have come in a shiny spaceship." Libby smiled.
"No sir, only person here was Mrs Smith but she left in a hurry and was quite rude!" She looked at all the soldiers around her as they searched her yard with funny hand held machines that clicked and beeped wildly. She flashed a winning smile at the large general before her.
"Would you like some tea?"