El Juego - Sudden Dearth Book IV Chp1

Chapter One

Red Light District, Blast-Off City,
Luther


“Butt?” cackled the man, his obviously drunken cronies providing him with a little more than false courage, “You’re kidding me?”

Cornelius Butt stared up at the large warrior, whose strange attire clashed with the more established clothing of the Forked Tongue’s usual clientele. The wit’s shirt and trousers were broken with a colourful design, of a square, multi-hued pattern. Similarly dyed cloth hung from the man’s right wrist and the basket-hilt of a sword, jutted out from behind his shoulder. His hairstyle left much, in the small bloodshot eyes of Butt, to be desired; almost pig-tails had gone out of style after the last Crusade.

Mind you, truth be told, Butt was no beauty contestant. Once described as vertically challenged, well briefly anyway, he sported a bright-red mohican and wore a crossed leather belt over a wide and hairy chest. His bare skin was covered in tattoos, each ‘tatt’, representing a successful mission, was garishly drawn and rendered in what looked like the distinctive hand of a drunken Tauran. On many occasion, Cornelius had been heard to say that his skin covering was a statement; art for deaf listeners.

Leather chaps covered his short, bowed legs and, at least, a silver codpiece protected not only his dignity, but that of the rest of the patrons of the salubrious bar. On the table in front of him was his multi-spiked helmet, which he now carefully placed onto his mis-shapen head. It had started with one spike and had belonged to a Perussian soldier. Butt had won the helmet in a game of Chicken in front of an armoured tank. In fact, the helmet was pretty much all that remained of that drunken challenge. It was well-loved now, polished and cared for, and he had added a number of other protrusions over the years.

As he stood, the others laughed and he heard another time-worn joke, but Cornelius was now in his routine. He checked that his two combat knives, Dunch and Bingle, were in place and that he had not lost ‘Aunty Lil’. With a less than subtle adjustment, he made sure his codpiece was not set to pinch him and grinned at the four.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, and, as they held their sides in uproarious laughter, he struck.

Leaping onto his recently vacated stool, the table top and then head-first at his antagonist, his call of “Luv Ya!” seemed rather out of place, as his spiked helmet slammed into the now non-grinning warrior.

“Oooh!” came the chorus from the bar’s patrons, “Cornelius’ Kiss!”

Butt did not stop. The helmet was left where it stuck, his would-be antagonist bleeding from his fatal cranial injuries. Using his momentum he bounced backwards, drawing Dunch and Bingle in a fluid motion, as he performed a flip in the air. The blades struck, one slitting a throat and the other disembowelling for effect.

“Aaah!” called his fans, as he dropped the knife and drew Aunty Lil. Gripping the wooden handles, around which the length of rusty wire was looped, Butt scrunched down, avoiding the swipe of a large sword and slid under the table, appearing on its other side and once more using it as a step to greater things.

His leap carried him across and onto the third warrior’s back, the wire whipping around the man’s throat and slicing quickly through non-resistant skin.

“What?” whispered Cornelius into the warrior’s ear, “Speechless?”

With a final twist of his hands, he discarded the garrotte and stood waiting for the fourth and final man. “For the egg!” the man screamed as his large blade whirled around him, then he struck.

“Check out these eggs...” murmured Butt, thrusting his pelvis forward and activating the laser derringer built into his codpiece. The blast ripped into the final warrior’s stomach, bundling him backwards to crash helplessly onto the table.

“B-u-u-r-t!” cried his audience, “Burt has spoken!”

“Good boy!” crooned Butt, as he man-handled Burt, his long time friend back into the disguising codpiece and looked to retrieve his weapons. In front of him, the strangely-clad warrior gasped for air, and drew a piece of something from his belt, waving it in Butt’s direction, before groaning and sliding unceremoniously off the wooden slab, to the floor.

Cornelius looked wonderingly at the slip of paper, a Starship ticket for two, a suite, all expenses-paid, First Class! His prayers had been answered! With a grin, he signalled the barkeep for another round and looked for Gruk; he felt the need for a new tattoo.

Blast-Off City Spaceport,
Luther

The spaceport was a disappointment, as spaceports go. Luther had never been renowned for its fantastic natural beauty, history or even its scintillating nightlife. It was a poor, semi-agricultural world, with only one really major city to speak of. Butt lived in the less than salubrious district which adjoined the docks and warehouses surrounding the only real escape off-planet. Although he had thoroughly enjoyed his little altercation in the Forked Tongue, those men had looked altogether too serious for him. It was rather fortuitous that they had all died a messy death and that he now had his golden ticket.

Little time had been wasted in collecting his possessions, in fact the majority of the time he carried them with him, or on him as the case may be. His only concession to decency had been the long coat he had stolen off Gruk. Its length was of course relative, the giant Tauran thought of it more as a short dress jacket, but for Cornelius it was an all-encompassing sack with style. A rough woollen blanket, tied with rope and slung over his back hid his helmet and one or two other precious things. It was really no surprise that the Security details at the main entrance were less than willing to believe his story. The ticket, however, was genuine and carried no distinguishing name stencilled into its gaudy goldness.

People who could afford to travel First Class did so because they were very rich, secretive or criminals. Usually it was a combination of the three things and the Guards simply turned a blind eye, the moment Cornelius waved his special piece of paper in front of them. His trip through the liner’s brightly-lit corridors earned him a number of curious looks, but the ticket in his hand forestalled all questions. He was led to his suite by a rather obsequious servant, whose outstretched hand he ignored as he closed the suite’s door.

Dropping his simple sack onto the floor, swiftly followed by the now unbuttoned overcoat, Butt stood and stared. Never in his short and eventful life had he ever imagined that he would experience this level of luxury. With a grin he raced across the room, vaulted over a chair, used a sofa to give him momentum and landed onto the huge bed which dominated the centre of the room. Arms outstretched he lay there, looking at himself in the mirrored ceiling and waiting for the expected knock, signalling that he had been discovered.

Rising from the enfolding comfort of the bed, he swaggered across to the drink’s cabinet, poured himself a huge brandy, took an enormous swig, belched and scratched himself. This, he thought, is the life, and started to down the rest of the glass.

“Well,” came an unexpected voice in a low, entrancing contralto, “You’re nothing like what I expected, are you?”

An explosion of brandy signalled Butt’s complete surprise, astonishment turning to action as his hand swiftly dropped to his belt, drawing one of his wicked combat knives. Spinning on the spot, he saw the owner of the voice, draped in a luxurious bath towel, hair still wet and slicked back. There really was nowhere for her to hide any weapons, and open-mouthed, Cornelius drank in her beauty.

“Interesting attire” she purred, allowing the towel to slide to the floor, “Shall we get started?”

The now empty glass clunked to the floor as Cornelius raced to undo his clothing, his unknown guest sidling up to him, in a particularly sensual fashion. Her hands teased at the bright red spikes of hair which made up his Mohican, her long fingers caressing his cheeks and tweaking at his ears. Before he realised what was happening she kissed him, and Cornelius was completely overwhelmed by the sensation. As he struggled to hold her, his pleasure abruptly turned to pain as she bit his bottom lip. Not the playful nip of a lover, but the rending tear of an attacker. With a roar of pain he felt his flesh rip and she danced backwards, a stream of blood pouring down her chin, his blood.

“Not happy,” he mumbled, sucking at the ruin of his mouth, “and that just won’t do.”

Slowly he withdrew his knives, an evil and somewhat lop-sided grin splitting his face, “Let’s start again shall we?” he asked, turning the blades so that their serrated edges faced outwards.

“Why not?” she agreed, jumping forwards, her flashing limbs distracting him again, so much that he almost missed the click of metal on metal from behind him. Instinctively he ducked, a whistling ball of spikes passing through the space previously occupied by his head. This was starting to be fun, real fun.

Butt did as usual, the unexpected; somersaulting forwards, his legs flicked towards the woman’s face, but as soon as his feet jarred against the floor, he leapt backwards, blades outstretched. There was the satisfying feel of yielding flesh and an accompanying cacophony of curses. Not waiting to see the real extent of the damage caused, he twisted the knives free, quickly turning to the front once more.

Even though his body still reacted to the naked beauty of the woman before him, Cornelius’ piggy eyes were filled with anger, not lust. He shuffled towards her, leaning forward and inviting the kick, she would not be able to resist delivering. As the spinning kick slashed through the air, he raised his crossed blades, presenting a nasty welcome for the bare leg. A crunching collision and a high-pitched scream announced the impact, his assailant dropping to the ground in an ungracious heap. Her moaning and the whimpering of the man behind Butt, were little distraction as he moved once more to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a fresh drink.

“Now,” he asked, raising his drink in a mocking toast to the pair, “where were we?”

There was no intelligible answer, but this did not distract Cornelius as he picked up one of his knives from next to his drink, wiped it on the dropped towel and sauntered forwards.

“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling in remembrance, “Shall we get started?”

*

The Ship’s Officer knocked on the door to the suite, with some reservation. A call had been received, with a rather strange message, given casually, with an inexplicable nonchalance. It was still hard to believe that on this ship, there was such criminal activity.

As the door opened, the officer gazed inwards seeing no-one. A polite cough brought his attention closer to the floor, where he saw the apparition that was Butt.

“Good evening, sir”, said the ship’s representative, in a cultured voice, “It seems you have had a little trouble?”

Butt’s grin, which displayed his uneven teeth, was not his best feature, nor was the alcoholic gust which played against the officer’s face. “No trouble, “slurred the unusual little man, “more of a misunderstanding.”

He waved the officer and his men past, stumbling slightly and grasping at the back of a uniform coat to support himself.

“Misunderstanding...see...” chortled Cornelius, indicating the crumpled and bloody form in the middle of the lounge floor. “Some people can’t take their liquor,” he commented sadly, making his way in as much of a straight line as he could towards the large double bed, visible to all in the lounge.

Joint gasps greeted him, Butt turning to smile knowingly at the men, as he plumped himself on the edge of the bed. Behind him, with one roughly-bandaged and still bleeding leg raised high into the air and both hands tied to the headboard was his other guest. A towel had been tossed across her, but did little to hide her more than obvious attractions.

Dismayed, the officer turned to face Butt, who merely belched, said “Frisky!” and fell off the end of the bed in a heap, snoring loudly.

*

Pain hammered through Butt’s head, the consequence of his drinking and the less than gentle treatment he had received from the ship’s crew. It appeared that his unwelcome guests had been important people and well known by the Captain. That had been his first mistake, emptying the less than pleasant contents of his stomach over the owner of the vessel had been his second, and making rather unsavoury comments about the man’s parentage had been the third and final one.

Cornelius squinted out through the bars of the cell they had thrown him into and grinned sardonically. He should have known that his luck could never have held, and perhaps the means by which he had earned his ticket and then dispensed his own form of justice had not really helped. It seemed that the men from the Forked Tongue had been on some sort of mission and he had rather screwed it all up.

The clink of metal against metal and the low murmur of voices signalled the return of his gaolers. Well there was one positive, he was not quite alone; they had left Burt in his own little cell, and that was always an advantage.

*

Jenna Macmaan was in pain, physical and mental and all the fault of the horrid little man, who winked at her through the bars of his cell. They had already removed her sidearm, well both of them actually; the one she had carried in open sight and the other one which she had withdrawn from beneath her skirts, when Butt had waved at her. She sat in a contra-grav chair, her damaged limb held in an immobilising cast, straight out in front of her. By her side, stood two of her Clan, who were also finding it hard to restrain themselves.

“Where is it?” she spat, her question delivered in a corrosively, spiteful voice.

Cornelius shook his head, absent-mindedly scratching his crotch before moving to place his face against the bars. “Absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” he replied dismissively.

“The Egg!” screeched Jenna, scrabbling at the belt of her nearest companion for his pistol. Batting her hand aside, the man moved forward, his dress mirroring in every sense those of the cold bodies now lying in the Forked Tongue. One hand flashed out, grasping Butt by the throat and raising him off the floor.

As he saw Cornelius’ face change colour, he turned and nodded to the ship’s officer who stood to the rear, “You can open it now, my brother and I will take this from here,” then as the man began to protest, “Just do it!”

Quickly the door was opened and a grinning Jenna, licked her lips in anticipation of the world of hurt about to visit her ugly tormentor.

With his facial colour now a lovely shade of purple and his tongue protruding from his mouth, Cornelius was not really enjoying himself. The pounding pain had receded, only to be replaced by other more immediate agonies. To say that he was annoyed, was a slight understatement and as his new friend changed hands, in order to haul Butt to the opening, Cornelius demonstrated his ire.

Using his slight sideways movement, Cornelius stabbed the toe of his right foot into the softly yielding groin in front of him. With a yelp, the hold on his throat was released and he fell to the floor. Not waiting for any form of relief, he slammed his head upwards, his skull crashing into the descending jaw above him. There was a crack of breaking bone, a spout of blood and the wet feel of flesh bouncing off the top of his head. Glancing down he saw the remains of a tongue, flapping on the floor.

Hopping a half-step backwards, he swung his lead foot, toes turned up so that the ball of his foot impacted on the now squealing man’s forehead. Cornelius felt the man’s flesh give, saw his eyes roll backwards and pushed him to one side.

His brother had drawn his sword and was even now pulling his pistol clear, “You’ll die for that!” he screamed, aiming his weapon directly at Cornelius’ face.

“Not today!” stated Butt, thrusting his pelvis forward and clenching his buttocks as Burt shot out. A spatter of light, a scream of pain and then there were only two left; a ship’s officer whose hands were held high as he backed from the room and Jenna Macmaan, whose cursing had reached new heights.

Cornelius let her continue for a short while, he was all for educational exchange, but when she started to repeat some of the better curses, he decided it was time to move on.

“I get the strangest feeling that we’ve been here before,” he said conversationally as he leaned on her injured leg, even his weight causing the contra-gravity chair to dip. Picking up the fallen man’s sword, he tapped companionably on her protective cast, “I think it’s time for us to get better acquainted...”

A long drawn out scream caused the running officer to increase his speed, and he instantly decided that a personal report to the Captain was much better than stopping to use a communicator and then receiving new orders, infinitely better.

Plasma Pistol or SRM's?

Thank goodness I can write my frustrations away. Plots to stories can appear from within the mundane, the frustrating and even the earth-shatteringly annoying. We all experience new things every day. For example:

That televison show with the annoying person spinning the wheel and guessing some conundrum. You can throw something at them or...you can write The Dark Wheel...

The Dark Wheel

Shinzen City
Mai Ling
First Ecclesiarch Protectorate


“Roll up, roll up!"

The hawker reeled in his prey. It was his job, and his pleasure. There was always someone; the gullible, the brave and the foolhardy were all attracted to The Wheel. He saw them approach and was glad. A quick adjustment of his hat, a twirl of his cane and he was ready.

“Welcome to the Dark Wheel, a unique and life-changing experience..."

Adam DeVries half-heard the spiel, although the firm breast pressed against his shoulder drew more of his attention. This was their last night; tomorrow the transports would leave for the war-zone and these memories would remain with him, blur a little the horror and despair which awaited.

“Hey, Adam," Johnny Colso broke into his thoughts, “what about in here?"

Adam looked up, the garish neon sign drawing his attention. It was a crude representation of a wheel, held in place by a scantily-clad young woman. Strange sigils marked each of sixteen points on its edges and as he watched it span dizzily. What the...? He blinked, it was again only a sign.

“Yes Sir," wheedled the hawker, “why not make this a night to remember?"

The young woman on his arm squeezed closer and Adam assented; it was probably dark inside, and just maybe the evening could start early.

*

The two couples entered into the damp interior of the tent; three rows of chairs were placed parallel to, and slightly below a crude stage. On which stood the wheel itself; a shabby structure held its stained and flaking body. From the rear of the stage a woman entered; more naked than clothed as excess flesh poured from her tight costume.

“Ah, what do we have here?"

Her voice was low, sultry and in contrast to the seedy costume she wore. Adam felt a strange attraction and in response to the woman’s allure, the girl at his side pressed closer.

“You!" a grimy finger stabbed towards Adam, “A likely looking boy. Would you care to spin The Wheel?"

He started to reply, but an imperious waggle of her digit, stalled him.

“Not so hasty, My Pretty, there are things you should know, before you answer. Sit, whilst I explain."

All of them obeyed her command and she rested one hand against the mechanism before speaking.

“The Dark Wheel comes to us through the mists of time. It is a powerful artefact whose very existence is an abomination. Each spin cuts reality with the screams of a thousand condemned souls. Those who failed its test, who faltered when faced with fear, were consumed by the evil which resides within. It can show you your heart’s desire or torment you with your innermost demons. Do you still wish to continue? This will be your one and only opportunity to refuse..."

Johnny laughed, “At least we'll get our money's worth. You going first Adam, or shall I?"

“Whatever you like," Adam said, grinning in return.

“Okay," said Johnny, stepping onto the raised platform, “but please be gentle, it 's my first time."

The woman merely smiled and bowed him graciously forward, indicating where he should place his hand. With a heave, Johnny started the wheel spinning, the clacking of its spokes rapidly joining in a single note. Adam could not look away; the sigils blurred into one hypnotic line and a weird keening began.

“Can you hear them?" cackled the woman, “The souls, can you hear them?"

“A-d-aa-m!"

Johnny's cry faded into the background noise as Adam lost consciousness; each spin of the wheel pulled him in closer, ripping him screaming from his body...

You can read the rest of it on SW...if you dare

The Gift

Yes, the long-awaited, at least by me, Anthology of Short Stories is here. They do connect in some way with differing timelines in the Urionverse. The Dark Wheel is relatively late in the Timeline, whereas Four Minutes is situated shortly before events in SD Book III. Superbia and Luxuria are around two hundred years before Sudden Dearth.

Having said that there is a common theme throughout. Hope you enjoy them...

ALOF - Chapter Four

Asmode's Lair
Spindle


“We are leaving,” Lilith watched her Master, as he prowled restlessly around the darkened chamber.

“But, we can still win..” Lilith winced in pain, her altered state causing her to speak without thought.

“I said leaving, not giving up,” snarled Asmode, “we need more troops if we are to face the one who is coming. You are not my only option. In fact, you can stay, can prosecute my orders here. Hold them as best you can, I will be back with an alternate option soon.

It will cost me most of my energy to reach the one I must find, even now she calls me.”

“She?” asked Lilith, jealousy colouring her tone.

“Fear not little one,” he crooned, “she is just a tool. Even now she brings my plans to culmination and I must concentrate on her. You will return to the city and rally our troops. Carry them away from the conflict. Let my brother’s forces think they have won and perhaps they will receive enough damage from our other enemies, that our task will be easier.”

“Where will you go?”

“Nowhere,” he laughed, “and everywhere. Now go!”

Asmode waved his hand and Lilith felt her body surge with his dark power. Then she was transported back to the depths of the city and the awaiting troops. When she was gone, Asmode smiled. Things were going to plan. He had lied when he said that he would use his own power to bring his new forces. That energy was even now being harvested, he could feel it. With only a few more sacrifices he could leave this world and Lilith would be left behind. It was unfortunate, but necessary.


Planet Goldburn
3rd Eclisiarch Protectorate

Sven Larson was young and hung over. He had spent the previous evening drinking away all manner of problems, eventually falling into a drunken stupor in some alleyway. His wife dead, his job gone, what else was there to live for? Now he staggered through dark and unpopulated streets, hoping for someone to end his misery.

Fate had heard him, just not in the way he wanted. On he trudged, becoming more and more disoriented. Where was everybody? Never had he seen the streets so deserted. At last, he heard a noise; someone was singing.


*

Skipping lightly down the steps, basket half-held over her tiny forearm and red-hooded cape banging restlessly against her knees, Chary sang. Her shrill, piping voice at odds with the large basket and the tattoo, which spiralled down the left side of her face. From the container protruded two knitting needles, their points spearing a large ball of brightly coloured wool. Further down rested a darkness, whose dullness was mirrored in the dead obsidian eyes of the girl.

A grin split her face, giving the manic creature a touch of further insanity, as she bounced her way into the shadowed alley before her. The incongruity of her demeanour was accentuated by her surroundings and the things which waited, skulking there.

Roaring in anger the first of them reached for her, his spittle-covered jaw half-ripped open, displayed sharpened teeth. His arms were long, double-jointed and ended in pincers. Another appeared, an abomination, bent double under the weight of its sins. Cloven hooves clattered against the cobbled floor as it scrabbled forwards, a large rusty knife brandished in its third hand. There were more, many more, yet still Chary skipped, gambolled and sang.

At the last moment, she dropped the basket, hands quickly pulling free her wickedly sharpened tools. Spinning on her back foot, she avoided the clumsily clashing pincers, burying one of her weapons in a weeping and distorted eye. It was a swift movement, well-practiced and Chary was now laughing, no longer displaying any outward sign of innocence.

As the beast crumpled she moved on, her speed and agility superhuman, her laughter cruel and heartless. It did not take long, roars became whimpers, lambent life became cold and dark. There was a moment of silence, a snicking sound and then once more Chary skipped free, her shrill piping voice raised high in praise of her Lord and Master.

A hulking shape moved out of a nearby doorway and Chary crouched, one pointed implement miraculously appearing in her hand.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Miss,” a panicked voice commented, “Not at this hour, not in this place.”

Coalescing as if from nothing, a body; its nature in tune with the worried, high-pitched voice. Relaxing, Chary grinned, displaying a pure white set of sharp teeth, jaggedly filling her mouth.

“In His Name!” said the man involuntarily shrinking backwards.

“Indeed,” responded Chary in her little girl voice, “and for all time!”

*

“Who are you?” asked Sven, following the girl as she skipped gaily long, still humming contentedly. “Where is everyone?”

“Everyone? Who else do you need?”

Sven watched her, convinced that she was unhinged, her actions had been cold, the killing nonchalant. She seemed human, yet... Without warning she leapt upward, spinning in the air, her laughter ringing out. Sven heard a roar behind him, and crashed to the floor as a crushing blow slammed into him. His face smashed against the hard stone, blood bursting from his nose. A searing pain was followed by the feel of teeth ripping into his neck and he screamed. Faintly he heard the girl’s maniacal laughter fading into the distance and gasped for breath, an oppressive weight falling onto his chest.

He struggled, fought like he had never done before, like a wild animal. Teeth clashed close to his face and his vision swam with the pain from his broken nose. “Frak this!” he swore rearing his head back and then forward again, his skull cracking against his antagonist. His reward was the momentarily lessening of the attack. One heave and he was free, his hand scrabbling along the ground. Something cold. Sharp. Please. There, he had it.

Now he was screaming, pounding the creature with the thing in his hand, time and again. Warm liquid bathed him, splattering his face and arms as each blow fell. At last it was over and he stood trembling. Sound behind him again and he turned. This time he could see them clearly and his knees weakened, causing him to stagger.

Standing in a rough semi-circle were six leathern-winged creatures. Long yellowed fangs pushed out of a wide slit mouth from which emitted an incessant hissing. Blood red eyes stared fixedly at him from white corpse-like skin. Terror took a firm hold, twisting his bowels and he clenched muscles tightly, trying wholeheartedly to retain some dignity.

No words left those horrid lips, as taloned arms were raised. The abhorrent monsters approached slowly and with intent. Sven backed away, raising his bloody weapon in defiance. He would have laughed at the inadequacy of his defence, if any humour remained inside him. The thing he had found and grabbed in his desperation bizarre; a child’s discarded toy, a semi-metallic sword, which was now bent and broken. Useless.

Weaving the object menacingly in front of him, he backed away. A bolt of bright light sizzled past his head, wiping the rictus grin off one of the faces in a welter of blood and brains. More flew by and a rough hand dragged him back, turning and thrusting him through a shimmering window. Sensation disappeared and he fell.

*

He was sure that he was asleep. This sensation did not belong in the here and now. A cold hand touched his face and a child of almost ethereal beauty beckoned him on. All shimmered; the walls, floor, ceiling, even the child, her grin less than friendship and more than hate. Black eyes; cold, dead eyes in a white corpse face. Then another figure approached, the female monster from his waking dream and she too encouraged his desertion of his fellows. Her method of attraction was direct; fingers hooked into his collar and he was dragged unceremoniously along.

Sven tried to fight, to resist, but her strength was overwhelming. White light announced his exit from the silvery hell, but his new abode was even less inviting than his former. A cordon of soldiers with raised rifles faced him, mirror images of the nasty girl, but male. Mouth after mouth opened in a grin, showing their sharp teeth and they began to laugh.

Still the girl pulled him along, shoving him finally into a circular room, whose centre was dominated by a flat plinth. Its scored surface was stained with a brown and flaking substance and an intricate design drew his eye towards its centre. A dark hole beckoned and disappeared down.Sven was almost sure he could hear a sucking, slurping sound, but he drove the thought away.

Silence and then a smile, “What am I doing here?”

Chary looked at him and sniggered, “We thought you all gone.”

“Sorry?”

“The harvest was completed to plan. Those that are left are the abominations, those created in the Seeding.”

It was unintelligible, Harvest, Seeding, nothing made sense. Where were all the people and who were the creatures he had seen? Who had attacked him?

He started to speak, but she placed a long, thin finger to his lips.

“We wondered why the ritual could not be completed. Now we know. You were still to be found.”

Reaching to her waist, her fingers closed around one of the needle-like weapons and pulled it free. The metal glinted as it was waved towards him, “There’s no time to waste. If you would be so kind?”

His resistance was nil and as others began to file into the room, he allowed himself to be guided to his place.

Chary continued talking as she tied his hands and feet, “You see, we needed souls, born of vibrant and violent life. Your planet, your people gave us that. Our ships delivered the Seed and the Harvesting began. We are on the cusp of the new beginning and you will deliver us.”

Sven twisted and saw he was now ringed by many of Chary’s sick twins, heads bowed in prayer. A low dirge began, rising in volume with each passing moment. He felt a weight across his thighs and saw Chary straddling him, weapon held high in both hands. Her shrill voice joined in the unholy chorus and with a final scream the knife plunged down.

Blood trickled downwards, filling each line and groove in the intricate pattern. It spilled from Sven’s torn throat and broken body, sucked unerringly down the central hole. Maniacal laughter followed, something stretched and moved. The stone surface shattered, ripping the dead human’s body to pieces as it exploded outwards. Darkness took shape and form and finally, awoke.

ALOF - Chapter Three

Asmode's Lair
Spindle

The Taurans, as a nation, were feared. They had terrorized their own quadrant of space for millennia, rising to power on the blood and screams of their enemies and servants. Only the Church had stood against them, casting them from one world after another with the power of their Faith. Their belief in the Great One had served as a bulwark against the Demon Pantheon, but lately this faith had been found wanting.

Walters’ discovery of the Artefact had led to an imbalance in the natural order and now the search for the remaining, and thought lost, items of power had become imperative. Of the seven known Artefacts, one remained with the Taurans, their leader wielding its bloodthirsty power viciously in the subjugation of any who tried to usurp his position. His lieutenants now hungrily cast through the vastness of fold space for those remaining. Of them all, Asmode was the only one who had held in his hands the means to challenge his leader. The planned sacrifice, which his priests had assured him was needed to activate the ancient item, had been interrupted with the arrival of Shan and his confederates.

Now he sat in his Throne Room and trembled; not with rage as was customary, but with the beginnings of a fear that Lilith had already noticed. He who now held the Artefact in his hand could eventually become a problem. The one that came though, Asmode could feel his power, was already an equal to Asmode and could well challenge his all powerful Master.

“My Lord?”

Lilith’s timorous question angered him; she had seen his weakness and that could not go unpunished. She wanted him to destroy Shan? Well, that would be her task. One, in which Asmode was sure she would fail. Whilst she tried, he would find and kill the one who had raised the Artefact’s power, before an even greater threat arrived on the planet.

“Go,” he snarled, “gather my army. Take all of my creatures with you from both above and below and destroy the impertinent servant of my Brother. Spare no-one and nothing.”

Lilith leapt to her feet, her wings snapping to their full extent. Her joy was patently obvious. Whatever had phased her Lord was now forgotten.

“Blood and Death!” she screamed as she took flight, a cry which was taken up all around the groaning citadel
*

The Ori had spent much of their existence under the yoke of their Tauran masters. Their mainly agrarian culture was not built to resist their aggressive neighbours and only those steeped in the Way had fought back. They were the Warrior Class and had left their less than war-like cousins behind. Whenever the Taurans attacked, they responded but in most case arriving too late to do much more than extract a minimal retribution.

Cormach had been trained in the Way, but as with many of his generation had yet to be accepted into the strict Brotherhood. There were those, a small faction who followed the Twisted Way, a brutal parody of the Tauran’s demon worship. These were pirates, robbers and murderers who did not place much distinction between the Tauran enemy and their own weak brothers.

The ship which exited silently from fold space, far from the disputed planet belonged to one such as these. Its lines were coldly beautiful, a twisted effigy of hate; an amalgam of all that was Ori, yet with the mark of demon worship. A thin, spear-like craft, it glided towards the dark side of the planet. Rescue was not its goal, rather plunder and a response to the powerful magnet of evil which resonated out into space.

On its bridge stood Sion Ap Marr, his figure clothed in fine black silk. He rested upon the hilt of his sword, made of twisted black metal which seemed to radiate a cold heat. Around him, his men bent to their tasks, oblivious to anything but their undetected insertion into the planet’s atmosphere. Cruel and heartless as their Captain, they lived only for death and pain, the promise of which they could taste.

*

Lilith was old, yet her nature kept her young. She lived off pain and suffering and the excesses of others. Once she had been normal, human even, but the pull of her Lord had drawn her in. She had been imprisoned by the Church, kept locked in one of their dungeons for centuries. Free now, she took immense pleasure in the particular suffering of humans. When, as in this case, they were not immediately available, she made do with others; Ori, Tauran, it was of no real concern to her.

Her wings snapped closed as she glided the last few feet, using her clawed feet to grasp the adornment atop the tower. To her left she could see the fleeing slaves, and that promised great pleasure in the future. To her right were the diseased followers of Shan and below her, boiling from the tower’s many exits her creations.

They were monsters; tortured effigies of K’ran and Ori. With the powers of her Master she had grown them in the vats and laboratories below and now they answered her call. Mindless, at best, they lived only to kill and today would be a good day for them.

She saw Shan, striding arrogantly in front of his mechanical aides and she smiled. Just a little closer...

*

Cormach was lost in the beautiful song; he swayed in time to its rhythm, his companion reflexively reaching out a restraining hand. To touch him though would mean death, as the brilliant circle of light shimmered with his tireless movements.

There was no rush of glorious power, it was rather an intoxicating feeling of well-being; nothing could hurt him. His brethren moved away, following K’san from the city and Cormach was pleased. The stench of Shan and his minions offended him and a slow anger began to burn.

He was blind to Lilith, all of his concentration fixed on the obnoxious Tauran. With a roar he leapt from the building, slamming to the ground in a cloud of dust. Righting himself he moved purposefully forward, his gold-armoured companion at his heel.


Before him stretched the twisted and diseased cannon fodder which Shan had brought with him, interspersed with the metallic caricatures of Arshavin. The Artefact span faster as he neared them, glorying in the imminent combat. Cormach swayed away from a bolt of laser fire, but continued on, his weapon now a shimmering oval of light in front of him.

He laughed as he sliced through the first line; rotting arms and legs, spinning away. Cormach grinned as one of the robots was split in two, sparks and cables writhing away, his companion sidestepping the crumbling construct. On he ploughed, leaving a swath of broken bodies and machines behind him. Shan was his target and he would let nothing get in his way.

*

Lilith held her troops back. This was unexpected. The one her Master was looking for had appeared, and he was clearly doing her job for her. A milling horde of her minions snapped and growled, impatient for the kill, but Lilith had learned much of patience during her incarceration. If she was lucky, her enemies would kill each other and then she could feast over their corpses.

Asmode entered her mind, urging her on, but she ignored him, letting the pain of his anger fill her. There were others she wanted too; the K’ran who had disobeyed her. Surveying the terrain, she saw them amidst the fleeing slaves. One, obviously a warrior led them. He seemed different, but he would do. As she lifted from the roof of the tower, she heard her Master’s wailing cry; perhaps after today, she would no longer have to listen to him.

*

K’san saw the creature rise from the tower, its leathern wings beating slowly as it took to the air. A stream of creatures followed; crawling, hopping and gibbering they came. Inside he could feel a faint recognition and then he spat. These were abominations! With a growl of his own, he stopped his men; his new pack turning with him.

“Kill!” he roared as he powered back down the hill, “In His name!”

No Ori followed, but his blood hungry companions would be enough. That and K’san could feel Walters’ presence ever closer. He drew on his Lord’s power, transmitting its strength to his followers, and raced on.

*

Lilith landed amongst the on rushing K’ran, the back draft from her wings bowling over those directly in her way. With a smile, she uncoiled her whip, flicking the trailing edge forward where it caught around the neck of one of her ex-slaves. Another deft movement of her hand caused the serrated edges to tear through the neck of the beast, blood fountaining outwards. She laughed, this indeed was pleasure.

Her free hand buffeted away a snarling maw and she sank her teeth into the exposed neck, drinking deeply. The blood was foul to her taste, but over the centuries she had become less picky of her victims.

A clawed hand hooked into one of her wings, tearing he away from her victim. Snarling she turned and met a fist which smashed into her mouth, breaking one of her fangs in half.

“You are mine!” roared K’san, as he continued punching; he could feel his power growing as Walters drew nearer.

“Master!” pleaded Lilith as she struggled within K’san’s grasp. Dark energy bubbled through her and her wounds began to heal. She thrust K’san away and raised her arm to strike with the butt of her whip. Before she could do so, an explosive round smashed into her arm, vapourising her elbow and part of her ribs.

K’san grinned, showing his teeth and bunched his muscles to leap. The air around him coalesced into a dark orb, the fabric of reality distorting before his eyes. A scaled hand reached through, dragging Lilith away and he screamed in frustrated rage.

It was but for a moment, as the heavy weight of one of Lilith’s beasts crashed into him. With a shake of his enhanced frame he struggled free, twisting to rip into his enemy. There were plenty of other foes here to kill, Lilith could wait.
 

Next Up...

The next publication on Smashwords will be a Four Short Story anthology set in the Urionverse. My idea is to include the following:

The Dark Wheel - spin the wheel and take a chance
Four Minutes - not a second more to save the world
Knight's Charge - The Wildwose with a twist
Eternal - everlasting life, but not as we know it.

There still could be a change as I'm in two minds about the fourth one.

Watch this space...

ALOF - Chapter Two

Asmode's Lair
Spindle

The Artefact itself lay forgotten below the blood-stained throne. It was a curious design, resembling nothing more than the thigh bone of some medium-sized animal. At either end of the bone was a shimmering circular indentation and the body of the item was criss-crossed with a tracery of thin and strangely woven runes.

Demon-infested priests had tried to mould it to their will with the death and binding of souls to its purpose, yet it had lain inert, dormant until today. Now a faint vibration shuddered it. The thing shook ever so slightly in time to some unheard of tune and the air around it shimmered.

It seemed as though it hid itself from view, although it lay in plain sight, until an Ori slave passed by. She started with repugnance and swept it up with the rest of the effluvium. Then, she began her daily walk to the rubbish mounds heaped outside the main laboratory. There, she threw her bag of rubbish and the bone became hidden amongst a pile of rotting corpses.

Before she left, she could have sworn that she heard a haunting, yet somehow familiar tune, but the rough hand of one of the guards impacting against her cheek made her forget.

In the main plaza, Cormach stopped and listened. He too, heard the lilting tones and felt a strange yet irresistible drag on his consciousness. As K’san led the multitude out of the plaza, he lingered, his head tilted to one side. Another, gold-armoured figure stood by his side, pistol held loosely between his hands. When Cormach set off towards the main entrance, he followed.

Galleon
Uncharted Space


Walters stood in the centre of the control room and stared at his new hand. The fingers were an exact copy of human flesh and bone, but their metallic sheen gave lie to the effect. He was the embodiment of an animated temple statue; hair was made of thin slivers of metal, bones and vital organs had become redundant when his spirit had infused the construct. A simple thought caused the hand to reform into a metallic blade and he laughed in enjoyment at the responsiveness of Arshavin’s original design.

It was then he felt K’san’s call and answered. Now he had the next piece in the puzzle. Instinctively he replied, channelling his power through his servant. He could taste the taint in the warp and the familiar flavour of the decaying Shan. There was also the response from the K’ran trapped on that far-off world, and something new.

“Arn,” he growled, “we need to be leaving. K’san has found what he was looking for and it appears that our old friend Shan has followed him there.”

“You have some specific co-ordinates?” asked Arn, the only one who could see through the shining body to the essence beneath.

“Of course,” Walters said, “I will give them to you shortly. First though, go and wake Berbatov up. He would hate to miss anything, of that I am positive.”

Arn bowed and left his Lord to his contemplation. One thing was for sure, life was always interesting onboard the Galleon, especially when Walters was making up one of his plans

Asmode's Lair
Spindle

Cormach walked in a daze. The music filled his mind, sending bursts of bliss and pain in equal measure. He blundered on, careening from one side to the other with his ever-present golden guardian behind him. Ever downwards they went, until they reached a long dark corridor, at whose end shone a sickly red light.

They had reached the laboratory complex. Here the Master’s minions carried out his sick experiments on those tortured souls unlucky to have been chosen. Past glass jars holding body parts they walked, through rooms of half-completed monstrosities and birthing chambers, where K’ran struggled to break free. It was a riot of sound; screams, guttural cries, things which pleaded for a mercy which was never to have been their’s.

At last the corridor arced upwards and on unsteady feet, Cormach reached the horrid charnel pits. Here, failed experiments and the refuse of pain were left to rot and moulder. Without a break in his step, he trudged on. Bones broke beneath his feet, gore and excrement clung to him, but he went on.

Behind him, his companion waited. Pistol turned back towards the sickly light and the now whispering sound of dragging feet.

“You need to hurry up,” it was said quietly, yet forcefully and seemed to touch a chord in Cormach’s sodden mind.

The Ori reached down, into the horrible mess and drew one bone clear. There was a ringing sound of completion and a silver glow covered his hand where he held the Artefact. From each end of the bone poured a cleansing light. Two symmetrical shards burst clear, coalescing into rigidity and he raised his weapon high.

Creatures shrank back into the tunnel away from the cleansing fire. They were hideously deformed, neither human nor beast and their eyes shone with malice and hate. Cormach waded clear and stood by his companion’s side.

“Come,” he said and strode forward. His right arm swung rhythmically and the weapon became a blur. The shards seemed to flow together, producing a shimmering circle. On he went, a battle cry bursting from his lips and without pause he ran, straight into the monsters’ midst.

*

Arshavin’s constructs had reached the outer city now, and their beams of destruction struck deep into K’san’s new forces. He hurried them away, even though his only thought should have been battle. They were mostly unarmed, weak and wasted. There would be time to repay the slights and suffering they had been put through. Half of his men he sent to chivvy them on, the others stayed with him to act as a rearguard.

*

Shan knew that he was close. He could feel the power of the artefact and he had little concern over its current master. The demon-spawn had fled back to the city and he strode at the head of his twisted Immortals.

In front of them was nothing but prisoners and slaves, freed in the insanity of his attack. They would provide him with new followers in time, but first he needed to secure his prize. He was still congratulating himself on his success when brickwork and bodies exploded out from the main building. As the dust cleared he saw one man, a gold-armoured figure at his side and a silvery blur of light.


*

Lilith knelt before her Master’s throne, leathern wings trailing along the blood-soaked floor. Above them were the sounds of bombardment, yet here there was calm. She had not reverted to her normal shape as she felt the call of battle. As it was, she was but a pale parody of the being who filled the bloody throne.

“It seems,” his deep voice boomed, “that the tales of my brother’s avarice are true. How far he has fallen. I can taste each breath of his lackey here on my world.”

“Why do you not crush him?” hissed Lilith, “The death of his servant would be a clear message.”

“My Dear Lilith,” he rumbled in laughter, “that is your job. Even I would not flaunt the Accords.”

“But, My Lord...?”

“Enough!”

The room trembled with Her Lord’s rage and Lilith cowered. He was as close to a full Demon that one of the Tauran’s could be and still retain his own sense of identity. After generations of worship, he had climbed to the pinnacle of power, crushing and burning his enemies as he rose. Old, he breathed an arrogance which brooked no question, yet even so, Lilith felt he was wrong.

“You will do my bidding! This Shan comes for the Artefact, which even now sings its horrid dirge of death. Bring me its new owner and I will break him to my will, as I have done so many others. Shan you will ignore for now. Group together our forces and ready them for my signal. When the times comes we will send my brother a message, one than his disease-ridden spawn can take to him personally.”

This was more like it. Lilith licked her lips in anticipation; death and torture would stalk this world once more.

Her Lord stopped, sniffing the air with a strange motion as though questing for an elusive scent.

“There is something else,” his stentorian whisper still causing the bones in her chest to vibrate, “another comes...”

Lilith looked up, there was something in her Lord’s voice she had never heard before...fear!

Christmas Cheer...

Really getting into the swing of it now - the tree is up, lights work, baubles dangling and I've even written my letter to Santa. I love how he always eats the cookie, drinks the whisky, lets Rudolph eat the carrot and leaves me a message every year.

Talking of messages, the Wildwose seems to be sending out the right one. More and more people are downloading it, and that is just on Smashwords. It gives me a warm feeling about how the anthology will be accepted. People are still downloading Sudden Dearth too. If you haven't got your copy - what are you waiting for?

More details on the shorts to come soon.

Watch this space...

Next up on SW...

Well, having survived the terror of Christmas shopping on the weekend; mothers screaming at children, arguements over where the queue to pay starts, who gets the parking spot and of course the ultimate being the that guy with the white beard is so not giving me a kiss. Love it...

The next instalment for Smashwords will be a small short-story anthology. There will be three or four shorts, with the background being the Urionverse. This will include The Dark Wheel, Eternal and Four Minutes. All are a mix of horror and science-fiction, with some more horror than others.

They will hopefully be up in the next week or so.

Watch this space...

Cover Art Works

I am definitely convinced that the art work is what snags the interest, especially for a digital site. The Wildwose topped over 100 downloads in the first few days, with plenty more page views. Okay, it was free, but I reckon that the picture sold the concept before anyone read the synopsis.

This picture attached was used for a story of mine called A Cold Dish. Again, it is set in the Urionverse, but tells the tale of cold vengeance and a man who like a violent storm follows his designated path, irrespective of the consequences. You can see the first chapter up on the SD facebook page notes. More to follow.

Watch this space...