Another competition entry - this one reached 7th place. Tiff uttered the last words of her summoning ritual and stepped back as, around her, a score of other young elementalists did the same. This was the first test of the competition – to properly, and quickly, complete the summons. Before her, the air started to moisten, and a cold wind manifested as the collected magic of all the contestants chilled the air. She took a moment to look around - some of the hopefuls were starting again, but such mistakes cost points when so many were watching.
Looking back to her own coalescing magic, Tiff smiled – she had made no such error. She had been practising for weeks and knew every utterance, every pause, and every gesture that was needed. Before her, a creature of water and ice formed and as it moved, suddenly gaining awareness of its existence, she bowed in respect. The elemental before her did the same. Tiff reached behind her to pick up her hammer and broadest chisel from her desk, the flowers from Mat lying ignored and forgotten between her tools. Tiff winced slightly as she placed her chisel upon the elemental and struck with her hammer. She knew that the creature couldn’t feel pain and had agreed to this, but it was still difficult to disassociate from how she would feel if it was done to her. However, the feeling didn’t last long: soon, she was lost in her work. Every movement was familiar, shaping the magnificent creature before her into the shape in her mind. Some artists had sketch pads full of ideas and directions: Tiff’s hands wove a realisation of her vision, fluid and unpausing. Her mind tingled with a familiar buzz - a sending from Mat, but Tiff didn’t acknowledge it. She already knew what he would say. A message of support, just as the flowers had been – pleasant, but unwelcome at the moment. The other people around her would be working just as hard as Tiff was, and she couldn’t afford any distractions. Even the buzz had thrown her, and she needed to use small magic to reverse the last few strokes. Irritated, she dismissed the sending. Tiff took a moment to breath and find her calm again. She knew that Mat understood how important this competition was to her – a chance to receive a place at the fabled Tower of Artistic Thaumaturgy. He, a few years older, was already successfully making his own way through an education in alchemy. Sometimes, though, Tiff thought he had forgotten how difficult it had been to secure that place. Yes, she had largely ignored him for the past few weeks – months really. She’d needed to prepare and practice – the elemental sculpting contest wasn’t the only way to get into the Tower, but it was the most prestigious and likely to be successful for somebody of her means. Tiff knew that she had talent, but it was supported by a great deal of hard work. Sometimes it seemed that Mat, himself a natural at his chosen discipline, didn’t appreciate how much work she needed to put in. Anyway, after the competition she would make it up to him. Whatever the result, the pressure would be off, and Tiff would be able to relax. The sound of shattering ice and a wail broke her absorption, and her heart raced. Thankfully, it wasn’t her elemental destroyed by a clumsy scrape, but it so easily could be. All her dedication destroyed in a single misjudged movement. Tiff put Mat and their difficulties out of her mind. She needed to focus. Looking critically at her work so far, Tiff was pleased. She had brought the elemental far from its natural form, enhancing in some areas and diminishing in others. She didn’t look at what others were doing: either her design would be sufficient, or it would not – Tiff couldn’t afford the time to second guess herself. When the elementals walked down the aisle, witnessed and judged by the crowd, Tiff could already see that she would be able to be proud of her work. A cry from the centre of the workshop broke her revery, and she glanced over. The elementals in middle of the chamber were starting to melt. Perhaps their summoning had been poorly cast? No – more were starting to disappear, taking the artists’ visions with them. Tiff looked to her own project and saw that it was also glistening. She licked her lips and tasted it – there was salt in the air. Salt? It was vital that the air was clean for this kind of work – salted air was a poison for creatures such as they had summoned. Not only would something like this ruin the competition, but it went against the treaties with the elemental lords, centuries old. Who could have done this? It didn’t matter right now – she hurriedly started to perform more spells, desperately trying to shield her elemental from the air. Tiff had worked too hard for it to be for nothing. It was too late. No matter how she and the others in the room tried, and how hard they had worked, their spells had no effect. It would be another year before the celestial conjunction necessary for this kind of summoning came again. Another year, another cohort of hopefuls to compete against, even slimmer odds. Desperately, she performed ritual after ritual, trying to ward off the air itself. Panting, failing, she heard somebody exclaim over a vial in the room - alchemical sabotage to salt the air. As her creature melted before her, along with her dreams, Tiff sank back onto her bench, moving the flowers away to put down her tools. She noticed, for the first time, that there was a card attached. “If you took the time to read this, protect your project from salt. Love you. Mat.”
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This was a competition entry to write a short story in 48 hours - the challenge being a spy story set in a motel that featured a stencil. It received 5th place! Steven was getting quite used to the fact that nothing was going to go right on this trip. It was supposed to be simple, a visit to his daughter – and if he’d left it at that, it probably would have been. He could have just flown in, and she’d have picked him up at the airport. Nice, simple, easy. But no, he’d had to complicate it, wanting to tour the local sights first. That should also have been simple – rent a car, and just take a few days to play tourist.
Naturally, the sat-nav in the car had failed, and he started to run low on fuel. Then the storm had blown in, making driving treacherous, especially given he was no longer used to driving on the right-hand side – had barely needed to since his retirement from MI6. Steven slowed, looking for a place to stop but when he pulled into the carpark of the motel, his heart sank. It was the Excelsior. He’d been certain that this place must have been torn down in the last twenty years, but here it still was. He didn’t want to remember it – had worked hard not to, in fact. but his reluctance didn’t change the fact that he needed somewhere to stay. Fate, it seemed, was bored. The woman at the reception desk didn’t put her book down until he pointedly rang the bell on the desk. He was, apparently, “in luck” – there was one room left. Somehow, he knew that it would be apartment 7 – just like last time. He wasn’t shocked when that turned out to be true. Sighing, and resolved to just not think about it, he carried his bags in and lay down on the bed. He reached for the TV remote, but its batteries were dead. Of course. The rain hammered on the windows, and there was a musty smell. The room looked dated, but Steven knew for a fact that it had been re-decorated at least once in its life. In this motel – in fact, this very room – Steven’s greatest failure during his service occurred. He was supposed to be meeting an American agent – England and America against the world. Though why here was anybody’s guess. He supposed that was the point. He and Carl each had part of a message which was, according to their tip, of vital importance to national security. He had the document and Carl had the stencil to decode it. Only Carl hadn’t arrived and, after a week of waiting in apartment 7, foreign agents had come in shooting. Steven escaped, and destroyed the document, assuming that Carl had been captured, or killed, and the stencil was now in enemy hands. Carl’s body was found a day later a few miles up the road, with no sign of the stencil. Steven had been congratulated on his escape and quick response in destroying the document, but there had been clear disappointment in the loss of the message. In a lot of ways, it had been the beginning of the end of his career. They lost the message, but nothing changed. National security was as secure – or not – as ever, but a good man was dead. Was it worth it? He wasn’t so sure anymore… The rain continued to drum on the window, and, lacking options, Steven pulled out a book. He flipped aimlessly through the pages for a few minutes until he felt a drop of water on his head. Looking up, he saw that the ceiling was dripping. Sighing, he went to the bathroom, hoping to find a bucket, or anything else to catch the water in. Steven wasn’t even surprised when he entered and saw water running down the walls. Well – there was no point in complaining about it now. It wasn’t as if the Excelsior’s staff would be able to get it fixed tonight, if he could even get the woman at reception to look into it at all, and he could insist on a refund just as easily in the morning. He did manage to find a bucket and placed it on the bed to catch the drip. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in a chair. He went back into the bathroom and grabbed the towel, hoping to wad up the leak in there before water ran too far across the floor. He knelt to place the towel along the skirtings: the wallpaper was peeling in a way that suggested this wasn’t the first time the wall had flooded. The towel caught it, and the damp paper shredded. Steven blinked as it came away, unable to believe what he was seeing. Behind it, the stencil that he’d come to collect twenty years ago slipped free. How could it be there? How had it come to be behind the wallpaper, in the room he’d visited so many times, so long ago? A miscommunication? Had Carl hidden it here, rather than intending to meet him to hand it over? Or had he known he didn’t have long, and had hidden it and run, hoping to leave a message for Steven, a message Steven never got? Was it even important how it got there? Steven sighed. Probably not… Could it still be important? He could take it home with him, and turn it in. It might still matter, even after all these years. Or it could lead to a whole lot of trouble. He was out of that game. Did he want to get back into it again? At the very least he’d feel compelled to cut his holiday short – if he was going to hand it in, he’d better do it quickly. He shook his head. No – it was too late, and it could only bring back a past he wanted to forget. He took the stencil and broke it into pieces, intending to burn them. Let the past stay where it belonged – and in the morning, he could drive on to see his daughter. It was odd to, very suddenly, see how the other half lived.
Here we were, myself and my two closest friends, surprisingly dropped into the lives of fugitives. Less than a day after we had first uncovered signs of… something… going on within the hierarchy of the church of Morta, and we were now needing to hide from them. Especially when you consider that, prior to this, we had been some of their most capable agents within the city… it was beyond frustrating. “So, Sarge…” started Annette. “Don’t finish that question,” I responded. “I don’t know yet.” It was the morning after our battle to escape from the barracks and Scar’s death. At that moment, we were taking shelter under a bridge. Around us were the lowest of the city’s population – the infirm. Those whose body wouldn’t be worth anything when they died, because it wouldn’t be in good enough condition. They only survived as long as they did by begging, stealing, and know what to avoid and when not to ask questions. As soon as we’d arrived, they’d recognised that we were very much amongst those to avoid. “Sarge will sort it,” said Blade. “Sarge always does.” Somehow, their confidence in my abilities, whilst normally comforting, was anything but. I simply didn’t know how to sort the problem out. However, it did highlight that the two of them needed leadership and, like it or not, that was what I got paid for. Well – probably not anymore, but the principle didn’t change. “First things first,” I said, stalling for time. “We have limited resources now – really, just what we were carrying with us – and any movement in the city will be a risk. If we’re careful, we can afford to eat for a few weeks, but we’ll be living and sleeping in places like this. There are probably places in the city where it would be an acceptable risk to be more a part of society, but we obviously don’t know where those places are. “We know there is some kind of conspiracy within the priesthood – but we have no idea how far it goes, or what it is trying to achieve. Similarly, we don’t know whether we were targeted because we uncovered the conspiracy, or because the church thinks we are a part of it…” “Or simply because the church don’t want to us to know they are having problems.” Annette interrupted, but I didn’t mind. We’d known each other long enough that she knew that she could feel free to make her points without waiting for me to finish. “Right,” I agreed. “We need support from somewhere if we are going to make any headway there. For today, let’s split up and meet back here tonight. Keep a low profile, don’t draw attention to yourselves, and let’s try to find somewhere more comfortable than here that is still secure. Ideally somewhere we can also make some more money.” Annette and Blade both nodded and headed out into the city. For a moment, I wondered if I’d given the right order – it would be dangerous for us to be alone. Then again, we’d be more obvious as a group. I was completely out of my depth, but I couldn’t let them see that. They’d both been calling me ‘Sarge’ for so long, it had become more my identify than my actual name, and that title brought responsibility with it. They expected me to lead them, and so I had to. A few minutes after they left, I did the same and started to wander the streets. I decided to head towards the walls – the centre of the city was the busiest area and had the most churches and, therefore, a far heavier priest presence. Out by the walls there would still be shrines, but they’d each only have a couple of priests at most, and many of them not even that. If there was anywhere in the city where we could hide from Morta’s servants, closer to the edge would be it. It was, of course, easy enough to keep to shadows – the constant cloud cover let only a little sunlight into the city, and it was always dark to one degree or another. People gave me a wide berth, which I didn’t notice immediately, as it was quite normal. Only after I’d been walking for several minutes did I realise that this wasn’t a good way to blend in. However, there was little I could do – no matter how much I tried to change my stance and appear non-threatening, I was still wearing weapons, which would give anybody pause, as only somebody that could use them would carry them. I moved from street to street, always trying to choose the quieter options whilst still making my way outwards. It seemed bizarre that life, for most of the population, was still going on. None of these other people knew about what had happened, and I wondered for a moment what they would make of it if they found out. News would eventually get out – the church couldn’t hide the burning down of a barracks, or the use of the dead in the city, could they? As I moved, I lingered near taverns and listened to conversations. People going about their business and little of interest. Nothing about the events of the previous night, and if people did know how to avoid the priests, they were cautious enough not to discuss it in the open. There must be ways – the cremations didn’t keep organising themselves, and so there must be ways for those who didn’t agree with Morta’s doctrine to make contact with each other. Why had we never asked about anything like this before? We’d concerned ourselves with the incident before us, but never worked to stop them from taking place. We’d trusted that side of things to the priests. As I walked, my mind started to wander back to Annette’s theory of the day before. If the priesthood had wanted to find out about anything of that sort, they could easily do so – they could speak to the dead. The only thing that might stop them would be if the body belonged to an apostate from the faith. Could Annette have been right? Could there be a cult following of the Lords of Light somewhere in the city who could, through their own perversion of faith, hide their final thoughts from Morta? Was the alternative less likely? That the priests simply didn’t care to stop them at the source? As long as myself and other enforcers were always on hand to save the bodies, it was an excellent show of force, and nothing was lost. In fact, more bodies were gained as the penalty for organising an unlicensed cremation was death. It was an easy way to root out non-believers, or those who felt their own grief was more important than the war. As I moved further to the edge of the city, the crowds became sparser and the individuals rougher. More and more weapons could be seen, and the moving space around me that people didn’t want to enter started to disappear. I walked past several of Morta’s shrines, seeing them deserted. I walked for several hours in the north-east edge district and didn’t see a single priest in all that time. Perhaps we could be safe here, for a time. I heard sounds of fighting and turned to investigate. I entered a tavern, and the combat seemed to be below me, and so moved to the stairs. In an underground level, there was a fighting ring, where two men were locked in combat with each other. They held no weapons, relying instead on their fists, feet, heads and most other parts of their bodies. The battle was brutal, and desperate, and I found myself fascinated by it. After a couple of minutes, the contest came to an end – one of the men was on the floor, bleeding, and the second had raised his hands whilst the crowd cheered. Once the noise died down, he walked from the ring, was handed some money, and others moved to drag the bleeding man out. I glanced at him as he was moved past me – he would live, but it might be some days before he was comfortable again. This could be a way to make some money. I looked over at the winner and thought back over what I had seen of the duel. I was not confident that I could beat him – my training was mostly in the use of weapons, and without them I would be at a severe disadvantage. Blade might be good enough – they were excellent with their armaments, and I’d also seen them fight bare-knuckle when it was appropriate. I turned back to the ring and saw to more enter it – this time a man and a woman. They both brought in knives, which surprised me but the noises from the crowd indicated that this wasn’t only expected but anticipated. I watched again, eagerly. They both fought carefully – a knife is a terrible weapon to fight with unless you are significantly more skilled, or have some other advantage, over your opponent – feinting and dodging. The crowd cheered when blood flew – the man had not dodged swiftly enough and had taken a cut above his left eye. This was dangerous – there was far more chance of taking a permanent injury, possibly even one that would make the body nonviable for re-use. I wondered suddenly, and for the first time, if that was part of the point. The payment for fighting would presumably be higher, but perhaps these people were perfectly prepared to die in such a way that the corpse wouldn’t be sent to the war. If anything, it would make them fight all the harder because if they were permanently injured but survived, they might well be left destitute, like the unfortunates that we had spent the night with. The man’s attacks were getting clumsier now – the blood was flowing into one eye, and he clearly wasn’t seeing well. The woman was mostly able to dance around him, but his swings and stabs became wilder and wilder, and he managed to rake his blade along her ribs, bringing more blood and more cheers from the crowds. I found myself cheering along with them – their enthusiasm for the violence and the bloodshed was infectious. The two fighters moved together with a flurry of blows – the woman was now rushing her attacks, wanting to end the battle before she was injured again. Her knife moved quickly, and the man was dodging frantically, desperately trying to stay out of her reach, but it wasn’t working. She cut at him again and again, with each spurt of blood bringing with it a cheer. He clearly recognised that acting defensively was not going to win this fight for him, and so he also went on the attack, but the loss of blood had slowed him down. It was over swiftly, with the woman plunging her knife into the man’s chest and he fell with a quiet sigh, a thud, and the loudest cheer yet from the crowd. The victorious woman raised her arms, grimacing at the clear pain from her ribs, but elated that she would live to fight another day, and her wound should heal easily. Again, once the cheers died down, she left the ring and was given money. As others moved in to take the dying man away, I moved to follow them. “What happens to him,” I asked. “Somebody takes him to the priests once he dies?” One of the men leading the way laughed. “Hardly – what a waste that would be.” I looked down at the man who I was sure would soon be a corpse. He had dozens of scars on his chest and several of them looked like they would have been as severe as the one that was currently killing him. “You have a skilled physician?” I asked. The man looked to me again. “Look, friend,” he said as they continued to walk. “I don’t know you, so maybe ask less questions.” I looked around but quietened. They hadn’t yet told me leave them, and so I continued to follow. We reached a door at the end of a corridor, that had taken us, I estimated, beyond the edges of the tavern. The door opened as we approached, and the man that had silenced me looked to me again. “Time to go, friend. Our neighbour doesn’t like unexpected visitors.” I turned to leave. As much as I wanted to know what was through that door, I couldn’t afford to antagonise these people. Perhaps if I spent more time at the fighting ring – perhaps even entered it myself – they might start to trust me and to let me see what was going on. “It’s well, Dieter,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “I can see that this one is on the verge of seeing the Light. He will not betray us.” The man that had been speaking to me, Dieter, grunted and led me in. They placed the fallen man onto a table, and another man, this one in robes of white that seemed wrong in how clean they were, approached. I wondered how he was able to keep himself so clean given the work he was going to undertake. He looked directly at me, rather than his patient. “Watch, and learn,” he said, simply. He raised his hands and called out to a god – but not Morta. I didn’t recognise the names, and they passed so swiftly that I couldn’t remember them once he had spoken. As he chanted, his hands started to glow and, once they were brighter than any other light I had ever seen, he lowered them down to the patient, and I watched the wound close. I had seen magic before, and the effects of it. I had worked closely with Morta’s priests and had a rough idea of what they could do. As far as I was aware, they could not heal – as a god of death, it was a blessing that was beyond Morta. My eyes widened in surprise and my mouth dropped open. I looked up at the man in white. It seemed Annette had been right. The next part of my fae story - previous ones are A Fairy Tale and Honeydew. We were sat in the living room despite the warm day – Fern had insisted that it wasn’t safe in the garden. I wasn’t sure why but remembering the injuries that she’d had when my cat, Jack, had found her, made me sure that she knew what she was talking about. I had opened the windows, which let enough of a breeze into the room to make the confinement not too uncomfortable.
Fern was sitting, cross-legged, on a small footstool, facing me whilst I sat more comfortably in an armchair. Jack was, currently, nowhere to be seen, but this wasn’t unusual. I had a cup of tea to my side, whilst Fern had a bowl of water with a thimble to drink from. Her wounds were healing well, and this was the first day that she had decided to make good on her promise to share stories of her world with me. “Are you ready for your tale, Sir Thomas?” she asked after taking a drink. I nodded eagerly – my curiosity about the world of my strange little patient had only grown over the last few days since we had met. “Very well,” she continued. “Attend! “I speak to you now of earlier days, of times lost to memory and found only in story and song. I speak to you of those days when the Meadowlands and the Gardens were one, for there were no gardens, and there was peace. The dangers of those days came from the woods and the forests, and all of the realms of faerie were ruled by those who took up their homes on the rivers. “Whilst there were threats, life was not truly threatening. The woods continued to encroach, with each passing spring new trees would grow, and the Meadowlands would grow a little smaller, but we stood firm on our borders, and we removed those seeds we found before they could spring forth new life. The riverfolk maintained the peace, between we of the Meadows and the light, and those of the Canopy and the dark. We knew better than to enter the forest, and they knew better than to leave. “But time moves on and all things change – as the seasons continue their march, so does history. A time came when the rivers started to dry, and those that still flowed were soiled. The riverfolk became as sickened as their homes, and many of them died. Some escaped, travelling to the Meadows or the Canopy, for they had always been of both dark and light. The peace was threatened, and the forestfolk started to leave their lands to stop us from removing their seeds. “Of course, the peoples of the meadow and grass could not allow this afront – they looked to ways older still, to when they had needed to fight in earnest and picked up their ancient blades and shields. They flew to the borders, and for the first times in memory, fae fought fae. We of the meadows had the advantage – the fae of the shadows could not fight as strongly in the light of the sun, and so they attacked where they thought the border was only weakly defended, and we moved swiftly to counter them, only to see them slink back into the shadows of the Canopy. “However, whilst our peoples fought, a new threat was emerging and none saw it, or predicted it. When it came, it would herald the end of those days and put a stop to that which we had called war. “Fences were being raised and cutting off land that had been ours. The plantlife was being changed and soon, it could not be called meadowland any longer. Strange flowers were planted, and stranger creatures came to live amongst them. We had always lived in harmony with your own people, the tallfolk, but something had changed. It seemed you had forgotten us, and the old ways of living. And with those changes, a new people came to those lands that we call gardens. “These faeries were strange, and aggressive. Each garden came to be its own kingdom, and they fought amongst themselves as we continued our battles with the forestfolk. We paid it no mind, watching as more and more meadowland vanished in the rush to create more gardens, more kingdoms to continue their battles. Our land was shrinking, but there was little we could do, and so we redoubled our efforts to protect our borders from the forests. “Then, everything changed. The gardenfolk reached a stalemate, it seemed, and turned their attention to us. At the same time, they watched the forests, and craved that land. They launched their attacks with such ferocity, that any difficulties between meadow and forest were put aside, for there was a greater threat. You see, for whilst our skirmishes with the forestfolk had been long, they had rarely led to actual fighting. However, the gardenfolk had battled with each other for generations. “We were overwhelmed, and we still think and wonder on what leads the gardenfolk to be as they are. Our great thinkers wonder if it is the fences that bring it out in them – they are constrained, and they crave freedom and expansion at all costs. However, we cannot know. The forestfolk are very different to us, but we understand them – the ancient times allowed to speak to them and learn of each other. Sadly, with the end of the riverfolk, there has been no opportunity for peaceful discourse, and so the gardenfolk are still a mystery to us. “Yet still we fight. We have largely lost all contact with the forestfolk without the riverfolk to bridge our differences. We train our knights, and our soldiers and we defend what is left of Meadowdown. And yet, more and more gardens are built all the time, and more and more gardenfolk appear to live in them. We are fighting a losing battle, though few will admit it. Unless something changes, and changes soon, our way of life will come to and end. And with it, a history of story, and of song.” She stopped to take another drink from her thimble. “So, this is why you don’t want to go in the garden?” I asked. She nodded to me. “Yes – it was travelling through your garden that caused me to be injured. Fortunately, Jack was able to save me before it was too late.” I shook my head, a little bewildered at all of this activity that had been going on beneath my, or anybody else’s, notice. “Why were you there in the first place, if it is so dangerous?” She shrugged. “I hoped to pass through with stealth, so that I might reach the Greenwood. Once, Meadowdown and Greenwood shared a border, but that was long ago now. I hoped to reopen communications with the faerie that live there, so that we might find a way to end this conflict. It is possible that they have been able to learn more about the gardenfolk than we have.” “Couldn’t you get some kind of help, or protection for the journey?” She shook her head. “Nobody knows that I have left, though I am sure my departure has been noted by now. If I had told anybody, they would have refused me exit, and possible even imprisoned me for my own protection. A prince of Meadowdown is very fond of me and would not wish me to risk myself. “However, this conflict has gone on for too long, and we are no closer to finding a solution. Somebody had to do something…” “And nobody else was going to, then you had to?” I finished. She nodded. “Otherwise, as I said, we will lose this war, and there will be no more of us.” Miko was bored.
Everybody was talking about things that he didn’t care about. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand – he was far more intelligent than the average monkey – he simply didn’t care. All of this fuss about weddings, and disguises, and everything else. They were all human concerns. What he wanted was a banana. He had a bell which he could ring in order to get bananas whenever he wanted one, but he couldn’t ring it then – that would bring the banana lady into the room where the humans were talking, and he knew they wouldn’t want that. They liked to keep their secrets from everybody. So, he jumped down from Amy’s shoulder and went out of the door. Now, where had he put the bell? He was pretty sure that he hadn’t left it somewhere, which meant it was probably still in their bedroom. He bounded up the stairs, largely ignored by the staff of the noble house, climbed the banister across from the door before springing across the gap to pull the door handle. It opened with a satisfying clunk. Miko wandered into the room and looked round. He quickly found the saucer that usually held the bell, but the bell itself was missing. Where was it? He wracked his brain, desperately trying to think where he had last seen it. Yes – he was sure that it should be here. He’d taken it with him when they went out earlier in the day, and Amy had taken it from him, but she’d given it back when they returned. He’d used it since then. And then he’d put it back on the saucer. Who else might have taken it? It wouldn’t be Henri – he actively encouraged usage of the bell. Constance and Melinda thought it was funny – they probably wouldn’t have taken it. Who would want to deprive him of his bell? There was really only one possible answer. The banana-maid! He bounded out of the bedroom again and went back down the stairs, heading for the kitchens. He knew he couldn’t go in there – the cook would try to hit him with a broom and his most charming smiles had done nothing to stop this. He would wait – eventually somebody would call her for something and she’d come out. All of the staff seemed to spend their time in the kitchen when they didn’t have something else to do – it seemed a good place to be. Miko could be patient though. Several minutes passed before he decided that he had waited long enough. He left his post, and moved around to the back gardens to peer in through the window. Hmm – she didn’t seem to be there. Where might she be? With his bell! He sat back on a tree branch, pondering the situation. This was most unsatisfactory. His bell was missing. The maid was missing. He didn’t know where he could get a banana. Then, suddenly, he turned. There was somebody whispering behind the hedge at the end of the garden. He bounded over to a nearer tree and looked down over the edge. Yes – two men were crouched there muttering to each other. They didn’t seem to have any bananas on them. They did have some things though. Black powder in clay pots. Bombs? Why did they have bombs? Bombs were for exploding things. What might they be here to explode? The hedge? A tree? Wait – they’d been talking about this kind of thing. Henri had said that there was a group of people that were trying to kill him and his family. Maybe these two men were a part of that group. Well – Miko wasn’t going to let that happen. He liked Henri – he had given him the banana-bell in the first place! He bounded back to the bedroom quickly and picked up the pistol he’d been given. Drat – it wasn’t loaded. They never let him keep his pistol loaded. He could try to threaten the men with an unloaded pistol… but they might have their own pistols, at which point Miko would really like to be able to return fire. Hmm – that meant that he probably needed two pistols. This was getting more complicated. He went back to the room where he’d started. Everybody was still talking, trying to work out what to do next. He crept up behind Melinda. She always had pistols. And muskets, but they were too big for him. Being very, very careful, he slipped onto her seat beside her, and she absently started to pet him. He reached up to where her pistols sat in her bandolier. Everybody was concentrating on what Henri had to say, so they weren’t looking at Melinda or himself. He slipped out first one pistol, and then a second. Before she had a chance to notice, he leapt down again and returned to the garden. He jumped to his tree again, brandishing his two loaded pistols in his paws, and the unloaded one with his tail. Giving a screech, he got their attention. They looked up from where they were working to lay their bombs and almost jumped back in shock. Miko could see that they were trying to work out how to react to the heavily armed monkey that had just interrupted them. One of them pulled a pistol of his own and aimed it at Miko. Miko gave a snarl and aimed one of his own pistols right back. “The monkey is threatening me with a pistol,” said the man who was aiming at Miko. “So?” said his companion. “You have a pistol too. Shoot it.” “It might shoot me back.” “It’s a monkey! How good can its aim be?” “I don’t know, but it got three pistols from somewhere.” The other man pulled his own pistol and, without hesitation, aimed and shot it at Miko. The monkey dropped from the branch, avoiding the bullet, but fired his own pistol as he fell. One of the men gave out a cry of pain, and Miko heard running footsteps as he climbed back up. The two men had fled, but they had left a blood trail behind them. Should he follow them. Henri would probably want to know where they’d run to. At the same time, they had set up at least one bomb. That was probably more important. Miko jumped over the hedge to where they’d been working. There was a trail of the black powder leading into the garden and up to the house. That was probably bad. Miko followed the trail and found that it led to the cellars, but he couldn’t get in. He aimed his pistol at the lock and fired, but the bullet bounced off the metal that kept the door shut. He needed help. He couldn’t go to Constance and the others – Melinda might be cross that he’d stolen her pistols, and they were probably still talking about boring things. The staff would just ignore him or try to hit him with a broom. Could he threaten them with a pistol? Probably not a good idea. He returned to the house and bounded upstairs, heading for a different bedroom. This time, he didn’t let himself in but knocked at the door with the butt of his own pistol. It opened quickly, revealing Dahlia who looked surprised to see him, but let him in. He immediately bounced onto the bed. “What is it, Miko?” Dahlia asked. Miko bounced and chittered, trying to get Dahlia to follow him. She watched him carefully, trying to interpret his actions. After a few moments, she shook her head. Miko stopped and slumped onto the bed. Why, or why couldn’t these people ever understand him? “Just give me a second, Miko, then you can try again.” Dahlia concentrated for a moment, and to Miko’s eyes another presence appeared behind her – a tall, thin man who shifted in the air as if made from water vapour. A moment later he disappeared and Miko shivered. He didn’t care for Bangputis, Dahlia’s daeva. “Alright, Miko,” said Dahlia. “Try again, but slowly.” Miko again started to bounce and chitter. “I just scared away some men in the garden, but they’ve left black powder trails which lead into the cellars, and I can’t get in. I think they’re trying to blow up the house.” Dahlia nodded. “I see… that is a problem, isn’t it? Show me.” Miko was shocked. She had understood him! No doubt through some use of her sorcery, which he hated, but at least she seemed to put it to good use. And this was the best possible use! Anyway – time to go. He led Dahlia out of the room, and back to the garden where she also followed the black powder that led to the cellars. She tried the door and found it locked. “Alright Miko,” she said. “I’ll handle this. You need to find out where those men went – if we are to put a stop to these attacks, we need to track them down.” Miko nodded and prepared to jump into the streets. “Miko!” Dahlia called. Miko stopped and looked round. “Leave the pistols. You’ll attract enough notice as it is – you don’t want musketeers trying to stop you.” Miko, reluctantly, left the pistols with Dahlia and leapt over the hedge to follow the trail of blood. It went down the street in a weaving line. Miko was quite pleased – it must have been a good shot, especially since he’d taken it whilst falling off a tree branch. He hoped that this wouldn’t take too long – he had to get back to the hunt for his banana-bell, and he was certain that these two men hadn’t stolen it. He followed for several minutes before the blood trail led to a tavern and Miko wished he still had his pistols – you could find all sorts of nefarious types in taverns! And alcohol – which he’d recently had bad experiences with so he wouldn’t be touching – which made the nefarious people even more so! He went to a window and looked in. As Miko expected, the tavern was filled with people enjoying their drinks and, in some cases, dubious looking non-banana-based food. The blood trail was hidden beneath everything, but he had a stroke of luck – he spotted the two men from earlier going out the back. Miko quickly clambered up the wall of the tavern and over the roof to see the men getting into a cart. It looked like the injured one was going into the back, though the bleeding had stopped, so his wound must have been treated. The other was getting into the driving seat. The cart drove away and Miko leapt from rooftop to rooftop to follow it until, eventually, he was able to take the chance to leap to the cart itself and find a small niche under it to sit in. The cart rattled along for a while and Miko worked really hard to concentrate on what he was doing. He couldn’t go and find the bell now – he had to follow these people. Dahlia had said that everybody would want to know where they were going, and she probably knew best. Maybe, if he did this, Dahlia might get him a new bell. Then this would be a way of getting a bell without needing to find another one. That helped. The cart continued to bounce along and eventually everything went dark. Had the sun gone down? Miko looked out from his hiding place and saw that they had gone indoors, and now the cart was stopping. He hid again for a moment to make sure he wouldn’t be seen, and then left to explore the building. It was large and included stables with a few horses – he kept out of the way of those! Otherwise, the building seemed to be filled with boxes, each of which contained more of the black powder. Miko wasn’t sure what to do after that. The men had gone. It might have been fun to steal the cart, but he didn’t think he could open the large doors. There was a window high on the wall that he could escape through, but he certainly couldn’t get the cart up there. There didn’t seem to be any point staying – it didn’t have any bananas in it. He climbed up to the window and started to head back to the house. Thankfully, he’d done enough exploring with the others that he felt he could easily find the way back. And he might even find the banana-maid on the way! He started on his way, keeping his eyes peeled for the banana-maid and started to make good progress. He recognised the streets and only realised that there was a problem when he heard running feet behind him and calls of “Catch that monkey!”. He looked back over his shoulder to see what the problem was and saw two musketeers chasing him down. He shrieked in panic and ran for the nearest building to climb up it. It was very tall, with lots of stone creatures on top, and he didn’t need to go too high before he was confident that the musketeers couldn’t get to him. However, they did stand at the bottom and wait for him to come down. Miko started to get frustrated – all he wanted was a banana, and it was proving really difficult to get hold of one. He shouted down at the musketeers, even though he knew that they wouldn’t understand. In this case, it was probably for the best. Sitting on the building was getting boring, but the musketeers still weren’t going away. They were shouting something about a zoo, but anybody should have been able to tell that Miko wasn’t from a zoo – he was far too clever and sophisticated for that. He was a free monkey on a quest for a banana, and they weren’t respecting that. He had an idea though – he could get to the other side of the building, over the top, far quicker than they could run round it. Miko could create enough of a lead that he could lose them in the streets. He launched himself upwards and ran, hearing the cries of the musketeers behind him. He saw that the plan had worked when he jumped back down to street level, but not as much as he might have hoped – the musketeers were still in sight. He ran, weaving between people as much as he could, but many of them moved out of the way at the shouts of the musketeers. He ran to a fruit stand (no bananas) and tipped it over, which tripped one of his pursuers, but the other kept up the chase. Miko recognised that he was almost back to the house, and he needed to lose the man chasing him before then. Sadly, he’d picked up more pursuers, as the remaining musketeer had started to offer money to anybody that could catch the monkey. Miko continued to weave through the crowds, many of whom started to immediately chase after him when they heard the shouts of the crowd in pursuit. The next street had another crowd, and Miko almost stopped to turn another way. However, he saw that this crowd weren’t interested in him – they were watching two people fighting in the street with their swords. He kept running, weaving through the duel, surprising the crowd, and continuing to run. The musketeer stopped, also seemingly distracted by the duel, and the crowd that was chasing couldn’t get down the street. Once he’d turned the corner, Miko slowed down and calmed himself. Now – that was done and dealt with, so he could get back to the banana hunt. He needed to find the banana-maid, but he’d need to get back to the house to pick up the trail again. He proceeded and, when he got there, saw the banana-maid leading a small cart back to the house. It was filled with bananas! He leapt after her and onto the wagon, with its treasure trove and picked one out. He leapt from there to the shoulder of the banana-maid. She looked up at him in surprise and laughed. With a smile, she reached into her skirts and passed him the banana-bell. Miko took it with his tail, whilst he opened his banana. He looked back at the cart of bananas behind him and grinned. It was going to be a good few days. The follow up to my story two weeks ago. Part 3 to follow. The Shrine of Morta was its usual dark self when we arrived with the bodies. Of course, it was well into the evening, but it could have been noon – what little sunlight managed to pierce the cloud cover wouldn’t have penetrated into the building. Even the actual oil lamps that were lit to allow people to see at all didn’t manage to disperse as much of the darkness as you might have expected. I’d heard all sorts of explanations for this over the years, but I always thought the simplest one made the most sense – Morta likes the dark.
I’d never really noticed before, but the halls were filled with priests going… somewhere. I searched back through my memories, and they showed the corridors of the shrine as being empty and more oppressive for that emptiness. Had I simply never noticed before, or was this unusual? I honestly couldn’t answer that question. I was certainly more aware of the priests than I would normally have been, wondering why one had killed my friend earlier in the day. And wondering if they would make another attempt. I still had no explanation for the bizarre attack. Was there some kind of conspiracy amongst the priesthood that I needed to beware of? Was it one madman acting alone? Either way, my paranoia was telling me that we had made the right decision in removing the badges of office from the corpse we were delivering. There was still the danger that he might be recognised, but it could be even worse if we were found to have not delivered, or to have mutilated, a body. “Is it just me,” Annette whispered from beside me, “or are they watching us?” I simply grunted in response. She had a point, but I was hoping it was our imaginations. Fortunately, the delivery went as it always did. We took the bodies to the priest in charge, they were logged, and we turned to leave with the priest’s thanks. However, as we were about to go, my curiosity got the better of me. “This one,” I said, pointing to the corpse that had been a priest, “died killing my man. Can you call him back to find out why?” The priest looked up at me with his eyes wide, I guessed in surprise. We all knew that such was available, but it wasn’t a service often called upon. “Of course,” the priest said after a moment. “I will need to get one of my superiors – such a ritual is beyond me. Do you have a reason to believe that he was anything but a malcontent?” I glanced over at Annette who was looking at me with her own wide eyes and slightly open mouth. I glared at her, and she quickly adopted a more relaxed look. I turned back to the priest, shaking my dead. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed strange. He killed Jackson but was then killed himself. It seems such a pointless act.” The priest nodded his head. “I see. Please, wait here.” He left and Annette immediately turned to me. “Sarge! You know I wouldn’t normally question your actions, but what are you doing?” “I have to know,” I replied. “I have to.” “He’ll find out that the guy was a priest!” I nodded. “Yes, then it’s out of our hands. Hopefully we’ll find out what was going on, but either way it stops being our problem.” “But Sarge! Then they’ll know that we know!” I looked at her. “We don’t know anything.” The return of the priest with a colleague cut our argument short. I found it impossible to tell which of them was the superior one – as far as I could tell, their dark robes were identical with the same skull-based emblems of Morta on them. I’d heard it said that this was deliberate and only between themselves did rank matter – after all, they all spoke with Morta’s voice. Clearly, people like myself were sufficiently outside that we were mostly treated the same way as anybody else, though with some small caveats – the junior one had explained the need to fetch a superior. “Would you be so kind as to wait outside whilst I conduct the ritual?” One of the priests had spoken, and clearly not the original one – this voice was female. Why would they want that? Watching the ritual wouldn’t teach us how to do it – I knew that it required very specialised training and a very particular faith in Morta to function. The only other explanation was that they didn’t want us to hear the discussion that they would have with the dead man. Which meant they had something to hide from us. “Of course,” I said, turning towards the door and taking Annette with me. “In fact, we should be getting back to our barracks – perhaps you could have a message sent if there is anything we need to know about?” The two priests nodded in unison. “That would be acceptable,” said the senior one. “Go now, and walk in Morta’s shadow. Serve him in life and death.” We both bowed, showing the appropriate respect they were due, and we departed. Quickly. As we returned to the barracks, Scar and Blade recognised our urgency, and they immediately drew weapons and looked to us to see if an explanation would be given. Annette moved to close and bar the entrance whilst I brought the two of them up to speed. They nodded, understanding the potential risk. I hoped that they, like myself, were struggling to believe it, to believe that the Priesthood of Morta might have cause to kill us. And then we waited. I’ve never been sure how long we waited for – it felt like hours, though it was probably only a few minutes. Our barracks has two entrances – the front which was small enough that Blade could likely hold it themselves, the back larger so that the horses could move in and out that way. Scar and I held that one, whilst Annette readied her crossbow to provide support wherever it was needed. “For what it’s worth,” I said during that nebulous wait, “I’m sorry for bringing this down on you all.” Scar grunted – she didn’t tend to say much since the scar that informed her nickname was across her jaw and neck, making it painful for her to speak. “You hear that, Blade,” Annette called. “Sarge says he’s sorry.” Blade didn’t look back – they simply said, “Sarge is Sarge.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take that. When the attack came, it was swift and, if we hadn’t been prepared, it would have been surprising. The front door banged open and Blade immediately leapt to action, slicing with their twin swords. I heard the sound of Annette’s crossbow shooting as I watched to see if Blade required any further support. Scar’s attention was completely on the other door, trusting that I would warn her if she was needed elsewhere. It didn’t take long to realise what Blade was fighting against – the dead. All of Annette’s concerns were playing out – either somebody had learned to wrest control of the dead forces away from the Priesthood, or the Priesthood themselves were trying to kill us. Quite aside from the danger this brought to us, it was sacrilege – the dead were for the war and weren’t supposed to be active in the city. I hoped that the Priesthood had simply lost control somehow – perhaps the following of the Lords of Light was greater in the city than I’d appreciated – but a part of me knew that this was wishful thinking. The stable door burst open, and I turned my attention to it. It was too wide for Scar to defend it by herself, and so I moved up to support her. Fortunately, the dead were not skilled at combat, and so we could keep many of them at bay. They were dangerous in numbers and so, if we worked to keep our entry points secure, we shouldn’t have been in too much danger. Then I noticed one of the dead. “Jackson?” I stumbled as I recognised the body of my dead friend, and that settled the argument in my mind. Jackson’s body had only been re-animated within the last hour – for some reason, the Priesthood, specifically the ones we had visited earlier that same day, were trying to kill us. When Jackson reached the front of the crowd of dead, I could see that he was not like the others. This dead looked aware and moved with grace rather than lumbering around. Its mouth had been sewn shut, and it swung its weapon with deadly precision. Scar had also recognised it and had leapt to the attack. I called for Annette, who continued to shoot her bolts where she could find openings. I tried to get to Scar’s side – she was a strong and skilled fighter but, in life at least, Jackson had been better. I didn’t know how much of his skill his corpse might have retained, but this one was different from the rest and I didn’t want to chance it. However, the pressing numbers kept me from her. As I chopped and slashed, desperately trying to move through the throng, I saw her take a blow from Jackson’s corpse and fall. The other dead around them immediately leapt to the ground, to keep attacking her whilst they more easily could. I roared, moving with renewed vigour and seeing Annette take down the dead where she could. I destroyed the dead, only my training allowing me to continue in spite of the screaming in my head that this was wrong – a body should not be wasted, should not be destroyed. All were needed for the war. However, no matter how wrong my current actions felt, I could be spurred on by the knowledge that the Priesthood had done worse and done it first. All bodies were meant for the war. I prayed to Morta as I fought, seeking absolution for my actions, and condemning those of his clergy. By the time I reached Scar, I was surrounded. I dared to glance down and saw that my comrade was dead. Suddenly, Blade was at my side, their swords spinning in the darkness. I moved to parry the attack of another of the dead, and a crossbow bolt embedded itself in its head, making it fall. “Time to go, Sarge,” Blade said conversationally. “There are more of them than we can defend against, especially now they’ve gotten in.” Blade was right. They’d forced themselves in whilst Scar had fought with Jackson, and then more now that Blade had moved to support me. The horses were already dead and our options were looking scarce. I nodded to Blade. “Aye. To stay will be death, and I don’t feel as ready to meet it as I might normally.” “I’ll hold them off, Sarge,” Blade replied. I nodded again. Blade was the best fighter of us and would have a far greater chance of holding off the horde of dead whilst I worked. I moved swiftly through the dead whilst Blade worked swiftly to reduce their numbers and Annette alternated between supporting our friend and keeping the dead from me. I reached the chest on the back wall and pulled out our emergency supply of incendiaries. We didn’t use fire often – too great a risk of damaging the bodies – but we always had some in case. I aimed the first one directly at Scar’s body and a part of me howled in pain at what I was doing. Bad enough that I was destroying a body, but it was that of a friend – a friend that would now not be able to fight in the war. However, I wasn’t going to risk having her sent against us as Jackson had been, and I didn’t want the Priesthood to have the chance to call her back to answer their questions. We had safe houses scattered across the city, and Scar had known where they were. The fire spread swiftly, finding fuel aplenty in the dried-out bodies that were attacking us. I threw several more of them, targeting the largest groups of non-burning dead and quickly setting them alight. “More incoming, Sarge,” said Allette. Her vantage point afforded her a good view out through the stable door. I climbed up to join her, whilst Blade worked furiously to keep the horde from us. I could see that she was right – how many were they going to send? In a distant way, it almost seemed a compliment, but the fact that they had so many to send raised questions. Had they been drawn back from the war? The fires had given us some breathing space, and so I called for a retreat. The front entrance to the barracks was now clear, thanks to Blade’s earlier efforts. I threw one more incendiary to give Blade a chance to fall back and we all ran into the night. Once we were clear of the place, we looked back and watched our old barracks burn, along with another friend. “Well,” said Annette whilst we were catching our breaths. “I suppose they do have something to hide.” I nodded. “Yes,” I replied. “And we’re going to find out what it is.” A little different to my usual today. This is a character study piece for a character that I'm currently thinking about it in my head for a LRP that is due next year. He is a member of a Goblin Court of the Dawn, who work to bring and restore hope to people. Of course, it was raining when Simon left his office building – the perfect ending to another awful day. Raining hard enough that the water that missed you on its way down had a chance to get you again when it bounced off the ground. Simon opened his umbrella, but the wind was blowing enough that it wasn’t particularly helping.
He walked down the dark and quiet streets – nobody with any sense was out in such weather unless they had to be – and even those people who were outside ignored each other. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he ignored it, already knowing that it would be Emily asking where he was. She wouldn’t blame him for his lateness – she would understand that he had to work late at the moment, but that wouldn’t stop the sadness in her voice. He couldn’t listen to that sadness again. Thoroughly drenched, Simon reached the bus stop, only to see the 102 continue along without stopping. He nodded to himself, unsurprised at the twists that life threw at him. According to the board, the next bus was due in half an hour – half an hour would see him most of the way home, but even wetter. The two paths tantalised him with the need to make a decision – neither going nor waiting seemed appealing, and so he sat on the bench, apathy winning over activity. A few minutes passed – Simon didn’t really notice them. Nor did he think about anything in particular. He didn’t pull out his phone to pass the time – there were only so many times you could scroll through social media and see how well all of your friends were doing before it became even more depressing than not knowing. “Hey! You need a ride?” Simon looked up, seeing a taxi that had pulled up at the bus stop. It took a few moments, and a need for the driver to repeat his question, before Simon realised that it was being addressed at him. “No thanks,” Simon said, shaking his head. “The bus will be here soon – I can wait.” He was about to go back to looking down at the ground, but the driver’s eyes caught him and he couldn’t help but to meet that gaze. They sparkled, though that might have just been the rain, and they seemed old – so very old. Simon took a moment to actually look at the driver – fairly non-descript white man in his early-to-middle years, but those eyes seemed ancient, with a depth of experience that you could lose yourself in. “Come on,” the driver said, “get in. My treat – it’s not like there’s all that many paying fares around right now.” Simon started to shake his head but then thought again. Why not? If the world was going to send him an actual act of kindness, why not take advantage of it. There were risks – there are always risks when you get into a car with a stranger – but, whilst he recognised that, they didn’t seem important or relevant at that moment. He climbed into the back seat. “Sorry about the damp,” he said as he sat down. The driver laughed. “Don’t worry about it – they’ll dry. Where to?” “You know the Cattle Market?” Simon asked, pulling out a handkerchief and trying, in vain, to dry his face. “Pub out on Rosehill?” the driver asked. “That’s the one,” Simon replied. The driver put the car into gear and set off. “No problem,” he said, tapping buttons on the taxi’s clock, turning it off. For a minute or so, they drove quietly, with only the rain and the faint music of the radio to break the silence. The driver was paying attention to the road, but Simon noticed that he kept looking in the rear-view mirror, not to check out the traffic behind him, but to look at his passenger. Their eyes met again, aided by the reflective glass. “Rough day?” asked the driver. Simon snorted. “Who are you, my bartender?” The driver smiled at him. “Only at weekends. Habits die hard though. You just getting out of work?” Simon nodded. “Yeah. Again. Feels like I haven’t been home before ten for weeks.” “That’s rough,” replied the driver. “Big project? Deadline?” Simon shook his head. “No – nothing like that. People keep leaving, and it takes so long to replace them that everybody’s having to work harder. You know, the work doesn’t go away just because half of the staff does.” “Except for HR, I suppose.” The driver looked back, catching Simon’s eye again. Simon laughed, despite himself. “Yeah, I suppose.” “So, if everybody else is leaving, why are you still there?” “It’s not like I can just leave,” Simon answered. “You know how it is – you’re holding down two jobs. Bills to pay. We’re saving for a house, and we want to get married. All these things are expensive.” The driver smiled back at him. “Ah – so there’s someone waiting at home for you, at least?” Simon nodded. “Emily.” “You known her long?” The smile crept back onto Simon’s face. “Five years. Been together for three of them.” “And how long engaged?” The smile faded. “Well, we’re not yet. I haven’t asked her. I didn’t feel like it was right before I was successful enough to know we’d be secure.” The driver actually leaned back to look straight at Simon and the intensity of his eyes without the mirror in between them was hard to resist – Simon found himself meeting that gaze. “Man,” the driver responded. “I mean you no offence, but that is some outdated, patriarchy-serving, bullshit.” “What?” Simon was shocked at the driver’s words. “Tell me,” the driver continued, without turning back to look at the road. “Does Emily work as well?” Simon nodded, “Yes.” “And the work you’re doing – is it work you love, or just work to get the money for those oh so 1950s intentions of yours?” “I hate my job. The high ups are completely out of touch, the hours are killing me…” “Have you talked to Emily about this? Does she know you’re unhappy?” “Well… no…” “Would you want her to be unhappy?” “Well… no…” Somehow, the driver was managing to steer around traffic whilst still looking back, directly into Simon’s eyes. “Then, my friend, perhaps it’s time to talk to her. A house won’t make you happy. A marriage might, but it can be done cheap if you need it to be. What makes you happy?” Simon shook his head, tears entering his eyes, though he still couldn’t break the driver’s gaze. “I’m not sure. Emily does…” The driver stopped the car. “Here we are – Cattle Market.” He still hadn’t looked back at the road. “But if I might say one more thing before you get out, this isn’t where you should be. You should be at home, talking to Emily. She needs to know how you feel. She probably already does but doesn’t think she can talk to you about it until you mention it first. “You need to remember who you are. What do you enjoy? If you’ve lost everything you enjoy, what did you used to enjoy. Don’t just work for the sake of working, or the sake of the money – do something you love. You don’t have to make a difference to the world – but it will make a difference to you, and to Emily. “She’s working, and you’ve got savings. Find something else. Re-train. Go back to school. You’ve become lost in the means, to the point where you’ve forgotten about the point.” Simon sat in the back of the car, only able to break the driver’s look when the other man turned his eyes back to the windscreen. The tears were flowing completely. The man was right – and he realised why he didn’t want to listen to Emily’s pained voice again. He was worried that each time he did, it would be the last time, because she would say enough is enough. He checked his phone. Five missed calls from her. Had he really started to ignore her that much? “You can fix this,” said the driver without turning round. “It’s never too late for honesty, and for hope.” Simon nodded to himself, using the sodden handkerchief to dry his eyes. “Ok. Can you take me home – 124 Sycamore?” The driver turned round again, handing him a business card. “Of course.” As he drove away again Simon looked at the card. On one side was a lit candle, and on the other was a telephone number. He put it in his pocket and started to work out what to say when he got home. Something different this week - the first part of a fantasy story set in a dark city where a god of death is the dominant religion. To be continued... We moved quickly once the spirit had raised the alarm – an unlicensed cremation was taking place and we had to get there before the body became too badly damaged. If the spirit had come to us, we must be the closest team to the site, but we’d still need to move quickly. A body damaged too much by fire would be useless.
There were five of us on duty that day – myself, Jackson, Annette, Blade and Scar – all of us old hands and experienced. Unfortunately, the downside of being old hands was the part where we got old. Still, we could move when we needed to, but several of us could feel that our time was coming. We moved to the horses and pressed them into a gallop as Jackson picked up his usual call – his loud voice would tell people blocks away to stay away because we weren’t going to stop just because some people were in the street. It was too important that we get to the crime scene and, ultimately, everybody would go to the war. The streets were quiet and getting quieter as we moved swiftly through the city. Unfortunately, Jackson’s cry would also warn the people that we were intending to arrest, and so Scar rode ahead, her horse faster than the rest. She could move more swiftly alone, and she could make sure that none would escape before the rest of us could arrive. By the time we’d followed the spirit we didn’t need the guidance, we could see the smoke rising into the night from the fire. Scar was out of sight, but she had a nose for such things and didn’t need the guidance – hopefully she was already on the scene. With the fire already lit we didn’t have time for subtlety and so I drew my war hammer, knowing that the others would do the same behind me. Our horses burst into the square where the grievers had met. Four of them had the body in hand, seemingly a young man, and it looked to be in perfect condition. Scar sat her horse, a sword in each hand, between the crowd and the fire, making it very clear that anybody attempting to get by her would join their friend in the war effort. “Stand down!” I called as we entered. “Stand down! We represent the Lord Morta and everybody here is considered to be guilty of facilitating an unlicensed cremation. Hand over the body to us, tell us who the organisers are, and everybody else can return to their homes. Remember, the penalty for attending an unlicensed cremation is only a fine.” It was the usual speech – thankfully we’d arrived in time, and so there was no need for the charges to escalate to destruction of a corpse. Usually, the crowd would give up, recognising that they were hopelessly outmatched, we’d take in the ringleaders, and everybody could go about their business. That was the plan – it was always the plan. I heard a scream and looked over – one of the people present had managed to sneak up on Jackson and plunged a knife into his back. Before I could react, Blade had drawn a knife and thrown it, striking the assassin in the chest, who dropped instantly. I dropped from my horse, moving to check on Jackson. Scar growled at the people. Blade did the same, warning that any further violence would be met with harsher punishment. Annette moved to the fallen assailant. It was too late for Jackson – the knife had gone deep and, whilst he still lived, I recognised a fatal would when I saw one. I couldn’t believe that he had been felled so simply – he’d been by my side for years. I lifted his head so that he could see me, and I looked into his eyes. “Farewell, my friend,” I said. “Your work in this life is done. We will send you to the war.” He tried to reply, but the only thing to come from his mouth before he died was blood. Death came to us all. I looked up to Scar and Blade and shook my head. They nodded their understanding. “Sarge,” said Annette, from where she knelt over the other body. “You should come and have a look at this.” I stood up and did so, looking where Annette pointed. The man that had killed Jackson wore the badge of the skull, the emblem of Morta. I looked more closely at him – younger than myself, but not much I would have guessed. I didn’t recognise him, but that wasn’t surprising – there were hundreds of priests of Morta in the city – I only knew a handful of them. “Bring him back to the barracks when we go home,” I said. “We’ll work this out later.” I turned away from the mystery and went to find out who was most culpable. We removed the badge from the priest before I took the bodies to the local shrine – we still hadn’t managed to work out what a priest would have been doing in such a crowd, even less why he would have killed one of us, and a hunch told me that it was better to keep that knowledge to myself for now. It was a risk – it was possible that the priests at the shrine would recognise the man – but I could always say that he didn’t have the badge on him when he’d attacked. “I’ve got an idea, Sarge,” Annette murmured to me as we walked. I wouldn’t normally bring one of the others with me on a trip like this, but the attack earlier that day had me spooked. She had a crossbow in each hand as I led the horse and cart that carried the bodies. People would normally give us a wide berth anyway – with Annette with me they stayed even further away. “I’m not going to like it, am I?” It was a rhetorical question – I couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which the earlier events could make me happy. “I’m afraid not, Sarge. There’s only one reason I can think of why he would have attacked Jackson – and that’s that he wanted to die.” “You don’t think it was something against Jackson then?” I asked. Annette shook her head. “No, Sarge. If a priest had a problem with Jackson, there are better ways to resolve them.” I grunted an acknowledgement. She had a point – a priest could have called down Morta’s wrath upon us, and we’d have been powerless to do anything about it, much less strike back in retaliation. “So why would he want to die?” I asked. “Well – he must have been worried he’d be recognised and taken in for questioning. He’d prefer to die than be questioned.” I narrowed my eyes and glanced at her. “If he wanted to die, he could have just killed himself. And if he wanted to avoid questioning, he’s failed – now he’s dead, another priest can just call him back and demand answers.” Annette smiled at me. “Not if he wasn’t truly of Morta’s faithful,” she said. “Not if he actually followed the Lords of Light.” I stopped in the middle of the street, only the momentum of the horse and cart keeping me going. Could it be possible? Annette had a point, and the theory did fit the facts, but it was impossible to believe. How could anybody in the city follow the Lords of Light? Let alone a priest of Morta! But it did fit. If this mysterious assassin had been a devotee of Light, rather than Morta, then he would have seen suicide as a grievous sin, and the Lords of Light would protect him from being drawn back. I shook my head, trying to clear it of the idea. Just because it made sense didn’t make it possible. “It’s a nice idea,” I said, “but it can’t be true. I know there are those that don’t like sending their dead to the war, but even they must recognise that without Morta the city would have been overrun decades ago – they’re selfish, not apostates. Annette’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but she quickly brought her crossbows to bear again. “I suppose you’re right, Sarge,” she said. “War curse me though; I can’t think of anything else that makes sense.” I looked over at her. “Me neither, Annette,” I said. “Some things don’t make sense though – folk are strange at times. Just look at us.” That brought a smile to her face and she chuckled in acknowledgement as we continued on our way. Today's story is related to the previous one - A Fairy Tale Sir Honeydew, Knight of Meadowdown strode through the wooden halls of the palacetree. She was unhappy, and she intended anybody that saw her to know it. She hadn’t taken the time to clean herself or her armour after being called back from patrol – all the better to keep people at bay.
Her strategy worked, and she went undisturbed, any others who saw her quickly turning or heading a different way. She wished that the palacetree’s ridiculous rules didn’t forbid flying to the level she wanted – she had to start at the bottom and walk up. Meaning that by the time she reached her destination she would be in an even fouler mood than when she first received the message to report in. Didn’t the people here know that she was doing important work? More and more, the garden fairies encroached upon their own meadowland. More and more, the borders between the realms moved and Meadowdown was getting smaller. No matter how many she and her brethren slew, they could not stop the tide – but it would be even worse without her out on the front lines, ready to push back any foe. Eventually she opened the final door on her journey, not bothering to knock – protocol be damned. She approached the desk where her superior, Sir Roseglass sat, reading reports carved in bark. She stood to attention and raised her hand in salute – no matter how angry she was about being summoned back, a fellow knight was due her respect. Roseglass looked up, his moustaches drooping in a way that made him seen even older than he actually was – Honeydew knew that it was a cultivated look that helped him to maintain the respect of the nobility, even though they annoyed him. When they weren’t on duty, she would tease him about them, but this was certainly not the time for it. He looked as annoyed as she felt. “Honeydew,” he said as way of greeting. “Welcome back. I see you have taken your summons urgently.” “Yes, sir,” Honeydew replied. “The messenger stated that there was a matter of utmost importance and that no delay would be forgiven.” Roseglass shook his head, which made his moustaches shake as well. “My pardon – the prince sent the messenger himself, and before informing me of the situation.” Honeydew nodded, accepting the apology as it was meant – a shared frustration with royals who took the initiative rather than following protocol. “Before we get to that, however,” continued Roseglass, “kindly report on your recent patrol.” “In the last five days, I have toured most of our borders – I had reached the south-eastern corner when I was called upon to return, and so my report excludes intelligence from that section.” Honeydew didn’t think as she spoke – she had rehearsed what to say in her mind enough during her journey that it was automatic when the request was made. “We are facing the usual pressures from the north side – the houses there still stand empty, and so the gardens grow wild. Whilst this strengthens the gardenfolk that live there, and makes them numerous, it also presents an opportunity – if we were to attack and capture those gardens, we could work to revert the plantlife there to meadowlands. “The east is quiet – the gardens there are well tended, which creates a stalemate. We have made several contacts with dogs and cats that reside in those homes, and they are generally sympathetic to our plight. Efforts to the west are not so positive – whilst we have attempted to build a relationship with the felines of that area, they seem to have convinced the gardenfolk to serve them. In the future, that could cause difficulties, and I recommend an immediate sortie of mischief-makers to drive out the owners of the cats. “We have seen action to the northwest, and I bring a written report from the local commander.” Honeydew presented a piece of bark and placed it on the table. “We held back the gardenfolk, but not without losses. The report includes a request for reinforcements. The southwest shows an area of growth – the old sport field has been ignored for long enough that our meadow has started to encroach upon it. If we can encourage the pollinators to focus on that area, we could recapture the field long-term.” Roseglass waited patiently, taking in everything that Honeydew said, making some notes. When it was clear that she had finished, he nodded. “Thank you – I will take your recommendations to the Council. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to see them enacted – I know that they’ll be good strategy if you are suggesting them.” Honeydew remained at attention. “With respect, sir, I did not complete my patrol. May I ask what was so urgent that I had to be called back?” Roseglass beckoned towards the chair on the other side of his desk. “Of course. Please – sit. For now, let us be old comrades, rather than… well, whatever we are now.” Honeydew allowed most of her defences to drop and slumped into the chair with a sigh. She was tired. And the worst part of being called back was that it would mean she was being sent out again. She was supposed to get a couple of days to rest after a full border patrol – she could sense that it wasn’t going to happen this time. “Fern is missing.” Roseglass didn’t have to say more for Honeydew to understand. “Again?” Honeydew was incredulous. She knew that bards had to travel to learn their stories, but that was from a past time, when it was easier to move between the realms. In these days, it was necessary to cross gardens to make such journeys, and it was simply too dangerous for a bard travelling alone – they couldn’t rely on the old traditions to keep them safe. If she had needed to travel, she should have requested as escort. Roseglass nodded. “Indeed. She remains as reluctant to be patient as ever and, as you would expect, Prince Dandeelion is concerned for her safety. I’ve already had reports from other trees that she was seen, though trying not to be recognised, heading southeast – naturally, towards the area that you were called back from.” “We assume that she has headed into a garden?” Honeydew asked. “If so, it will not be easy to find her – there are many houses and gardens in that section, and several streets and more gardens to cross before she would reach Greenwood. However, I have some contact with the pets in some of those gardens, so I might be able to catch up with her.” She moved to stand up. “I’m afraid it gets worse, Honeydew,” said Roseglass. Honeydew sat down again. “Worse? How?” Roseglass rang a small bell on his desk, and one of the squires assigned to serve him opened a door. “Send him in,” Roseglass said, and the squire nodded, and then closed the door again. Oh, no, thought Honeydew. It couldn’t be… The door opened again and as it did, Roseglass answered her question. “The prince has insisted that he should travel with you.” Honeydew’s heart sank. This was going to make a difficult task even harder. A short one that I've had in mind for a while - one day I intend to turn this into the framing device for a fuller story, but for now here is the short version. Not strictly speaking a fairy tale, but a tale about a fairy. And a cat. Those with a cat will know the feeling well. You hear the flap open and close and then sense, more than you see or hear, that the cat is there, watching you, and is pleased with itself. Inwardly, you sigh – it means that it has brought you a present which you’ll now need to deal with. A mouse, a small bird, it could be anything. It might be alive, dying or actually dead. Each gift was a new adventure. I pushed myself back from my desk, the wheels of the chair squeaking slightly. It was poor timing – I was writing a new story, and it was just starting to flow. However, I knew that if I didn’t deal with this, didn’t acknowledge the gift immediately, Jack, the cat in question, would make sure I did. Even more distractingly. I stood from the chair, turned and immediately crouched down before the tribute to see what it was. The first thing I saw were the drooping wings which covered the rest of the creature, though they were diaphanous and almost transparent, rather than feathered. I leaned forward to see more, suddenly actively curious. Jack backed away, purring in satisfaction that I was accepting the gift. I took one wing delicately between my fingers and lifted it, terrified that it might tear, it seemed so slender and fragile. As the wing moved back and the light accessed the creature beneath, it shied back a little. It was alive! I continued to move the wing, needing to know what it was. What it was, was a tiny girl as far as I could tell. Perhaps 3 inches from the top of her head to her feet, and the wings came from her shoulder blades. She was clearly hurt – even as small as she was, I could make out the cuts and bruises on her skin, which was an odd shade of very pale green, a much darker shade where she had bled. Her clothes, a simple tunic, seemed to be sewn from leaves. It seemed the cat had, somehow, managed to catch a fairy. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do, but with Jack looking expectantly at me, I couldn’t do nothing. I pulled a clean sheet of paper from my desk and, after placing it next to her on the floor, I tried to gently roll her onto it. She made quiet noises as she moved – clearly her wounds were causing her pain. I then used the paper to lift her up onto my desk, where I could look at her more closely. Her wounds looked like tiny cuts, though she had bled profusely. They looked to be too small to have been caused by Jack, and my storyteller’s mind couldn’t help but to start wondering and imagining what might have caused them. I mean, if fairies were real, then what else might be? Of course, I had no idea of how to treat an injured fairy – anything I could find online would likely be contradictory and useless. Even if there were others who had encountered one before, how could I identify them from the copious accounts that would be entirely fictional? I decided that, lacking any better idea and not knowing how to get one, to default to basics. The fairy had lost blood (albeit dark green blood), and that suggested that she might need fluids. I filled a bowl with water, added some sugar, and then used the end of a teaspoon to bring a few drops to her lips. I couldn’t tell if she was healthy enough to respond, or if it was a reflex, but the tiny creature took in some of the liquid. I repeated the operation a few more times until it seemed that she had slipped from unconsciousness to sleep and I replaced the spoon. What could I do next? Her wounds were far too small for me to try to stitch, even if I had any idea how to do it. The sheer different scale between us made any kind of direct intervention implausible. In the end, I place her (still on her piece of paper) on the windowsill. She had green skin, which I hoped meant that part of her physiology included chlorophyll, which might mean that sunlight would help. That done, I went back to my writing, to hope that she would recover, and that Jack would leave her alone. As it happened, my gritty crime drama went absolutely nowhere for the rest of the day – I simply couldn’t get back into it after trying to nurse a fairy back to health. I kept checking on her, and every sound made me look around to ensure that Jack hadn’t returned to torment her further. Each time, I thought that her colour had improved a little – though it was almost certainly my imagination and my fervent hope – I assumed that her skin should be a deeper shade of green, rather than a lighter one, but had no way to be sure. Occasionally, she stirred. At these times, I would offer some more of the sugar solution, and sometimes she took a little before settling again. By evening, I was sure that her colour had changed, becoming a deeper green and much closer to the colour of her blood, which had begun to stain the paper. Her breathing also seemed more regular and less shallow. When it came time to go to bed, I placed her on a fresh sheet of paper and carried her to my bedroom. Unusually, I shut the door, wanting to keep Jack out – he rarely visited whilst I slept, but he was normally welcome to. Once I woke, my first thought was to check on her again – firstly to ensure that the previous day had not been a dream, and secondly to see if she had changed. Again, she seemed better, but was still not awake. I carried her paper over to the windowsill and opened the curtains, allowing the dawn’s light to flood in. At the touch of the sun on her skin, she started to stir, and, for the first time, I saw her eyes open. As those eyes, brilliant green but with the form of those of a cat, opened she saw me and jerked upright. She shuddered in pain, but it seemed that her wounds had closed, and she did not bleed further. I held out a hand, fully aware of how much larger than her it was but knowing of no other way to indicate that I wouldn’t harm her. She huddled back against the windowsill, her eyes darting up and, seemingly, acknowledging that the window was closed and so she was trapped. She raised her own hand in response, breathing deeply, small feet firm against the floor as if she were ready to flee if it were necessary or the opportunity presented itself. “Are you alright?” I asked the question hesitantly and quietly – I wasn’t sure if she would understand, or if my voice might scare her further. Her eyes widened, and I repeated the question. “I have been injured,” the fairy answered, also sounding hesitant. Her voice was light and reminded me of the sound of a babbling brook. I nodded to her. “I tried to help you,” I said, still keeping my voice low. “I wasn’t sure what to do.” She stood up tall, the effort only be slightly spoiled by her grimace of pain. Once upright, she dropped into a curtsey. “Then it would seem that I owe to you a debt. How might I address my saviour?” I truly wasn’t sure how to react and so I answered her question. “My name is Thomas,” I said. “Thomas Havers.” She raised herself back out of the curtsey. “Then I, Fern of the Court of Meadowdown, acknowledge my debt to thee, Sir Thomas.” I shook my head at her and waved my hands. “No, no – I’m no sir. And there is no debt – I just tried to take care of you.” Fern looked at me in surprise. “Is it not knightly to care for those in need? To my mind, and to that of my brethren, it very much is. If you are not formally a knight of your own realm, then that is their loss, and I shall acknowledge your virtue as much as I acknowledge my debt.” It was my own turn to be surprised as such eloquence. I wasn’t sure what I had expected from her, but this was not it. Nor the mention of a court – that suggested that not only were there many more of her kind, but that they were organised, seemingly into some kind of feudal structure. “Now, Sir Thomas,” she continued. “We must establish how I might repay my debt.” She raised her hand as I was about to object to the concept of a debt again. “Neh, sir – I have a debt and I will repay it – to do otherwise would be shameful in the extreme. I expect there is little that I can offer one of your stature but if there is aught, you have but to name it – on my honour as a bard of the Court of Meadowdown.” I pulled over a chair and sat down, which placed us on a much more even level, and thought about what Fern was saying. I didn’t want to take advantage of her sense of obligation, but I also didn’t want to, as she had said, shame her. Thinking back to the stories that I had heard of the faerie folk, many of them centred on favours and debts and how they would not want to be in a debt any longer than necessary – perhaps some of them were actually true. “You are a bard?” I asked. Fern nodded. “Indeed, Sir Thomas. I am a teller of stories, a singer of songs, and a teacher of lessons.” I smiled at her. “Then, perhaps, whilst you are here and being restored to strength, you might share some stories or songs of your people with me? I am also a teller of stories, for my people.” She smiled at me. “Then, in exchange for my life and your continued care, I shall speak to you of my people, tell you their tales, and teach you of our customs.” I nodded to her in acknowledgement. “Deal,” I said, hoping there wasn’t some custom I was supposed to follow for this. She sat down again with a smile on her face, clearly enjoying the sunlight on her back. “May I ask of you, Sir Thomas, how you came to discover me? My folk are generally too small for your own people to pay us much mind.” “My cat, Jack, brought you to me,” I replied. “I think it was after you’d been hurt though – the cuts looked too small to have been caused by him.” She nodded. “Then, it seems, that I must also offer to repay my debt to him.” I smiled. “Can you not simply say that your paying me back counts for him too? He is my pet, after all.” She looked shocked at the idea. “Of course not. A cat has no liege but himself.” I had to admit – she had a point. |
Flash FictionSome shorter fiction, usually based on some kind of challenge. Archives
October 2021
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