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

AGL - Chapter Two

Argent III
Disputed Zone
Second Church Protectorate


The world of Argent III, sat innocuously in its usual place, revolving quietly around its particularly uneventful sun. Nothing ever happened here, in fact nothing had ever happened out of the ordinary as far as the inhabitants of the planet were concerned. That is, until this one fine morning, when war came slowly yet resolutely to the system.

Ships winked into real space, taking up their predetermined positions. Shuttles began to ferry Church troops to the planet’s surface, irrespective of the local Governor’s complaints. Regiment after regiment was deployed, and the Guardsmen began to dig themselves in.

Shortly after the final troop transport was once more safely in the arms of the fleet, the main body of vessels jumped once more. They had other worlds to find, other fortifications to build and time was running out.

*

Stiv Viker was among the first to make planet fall. Somehow Johns and his platoon had been adopted by the gruff Leftenant Krantu. They had been relieved of their more mundane duties and put through some special training. Little more had been said about the unusual treatment meted out to the Inspector, but truth be told, none of them were particularly upset about Ivanov’s predicament.

An APC roared past, spraying mud into the air and Stiv delicately wiped the front of his tunic. He, like many of his fellows, took an inordinate pride in his Regimental emblem. It instilled confidence; he always felt ready for anything when he was dressed in his uniform. Even with his body armour in place, he could feel where the snarling head sat over his heart, and was comforted.

He laughed uncontrollably as he saw Alana misjudge her step and fall backwards into a muddy puddle.

“Viker!” screamed Corporal Johns, “Don’t just stand there! Give her a hand!”

The thought of clapping appreciatively did briefly flit across his mind, but it was not advisable to display too much humour in front of the testy non-com.

With a wave of agreement, he trudged forward, better positioning his backpack to make sure he did not overbalance and join her there in the middle of the road.

*

“Him there,” said Krantu softly to Walters, “he’s the one.”

“Why him?” asked Walters enquiringly, not for a moment doubting the K’ran’s judgement, rather his question was out of curiosity.

“He’s different,” replied Krantu, even after all of this time and the modifications his body had undergone, he still found it hard to talk in long sentences.

Smiling to himself, Walters insisted, “How is he different?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” replied Krantu, “but trust me, he’s the one.”

Walters watched the young soldier struggling through the mud, his hand outstretched in order to help his companion. With a heave she dragged him down beside her and they both collapsed into helpless laughter. Perhaps he is the catalyst, thought Walters to himself, only time will tell.

His attention was drawn away from the two young soldiers, as his enhanced senses felt a disturbance in the ether approaching. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

Closing his eyes he reached out and felt the wrongness and with a snarl he turned to Krantu.

“They’re here already!” there was a snick of claws extending, as the K’ran grinned wolfishly.

“Good!” was his only answer, as he waited for further commands.

“Warn the men,” snapped Walters, his mind already calculating what they might have to do, “Ours that is!” he cautioned Krantu, “the others will just have to look after themselves!”

*

Something was going on, of that Stiv was sure. There was a new purpose in the older men, they seemed to bristle in excited anticipation. He could have sworn he had heard some of them growling to each other in low undertones, and their walk! They prowled now, like hunting beasts ready to be slipped from their leashes, hands flexing subconsciously, forgotten weapons slung on their backs.

Viker stared closely as the Colonel exited his Command Tent, Major James and Leftenant Krantu with him. A group of the men from his pinnace approached, their bodies encased in their strange power armour. They were huge men, fully as big as any of the Immortals, yet still wearing the characteristic snarling beast emblazoned on their shoulder guards.

One of them raised his visor and Stiv tried to get a better look. A rough hand jerked him away by the back of his tunic, spinning him around and there behind him was the ever present Johns.

“Stop gawking!” he hissed, “and get the rest of the platoon together. For some reason, the Leftenant has taken a personal interest in us and none of you are going to let me down!”

With a shove in the back, he was propelled rapidly across the road. Stiv risked one last glance at the group of officers and found himself staring into the unblinking green eyes of the Colonel. He felt pierced through by the Colonel’s gaze; it was as though he were being weighed on a very strict pair of scales. Smiling slightly, the Colonel turned away and Viker felt immensely disappointed, as though he had lost something and involuntarily he cried out.

Walters looked back briefly and an electrical charge seemed to pass between them, Viker feeling energised, invincible. The Colonel nodded and continued on his way, the others following meekly behind him.



The Galleon
Unknown Space


Arn rose from the Command chair and looked across at Berbatov, “Can you feel it?” he asked excitedly.

Berbatov nodded and swung a foot at a passing crewman who skipped easily out of the way. His hand reached down and touched his halberd where it lay propped against the wall. The shaft was reverberating slightly, as though in tune with some strange music.

“About time!” he grumbled bad-naturedly and then he grinned, “I was getting just a little bit bored with all this waiting. Why don’t you tell them?”

The shipboard communication system sprang into life, Arn speaking softly into the transmitter, “Our Lord calls us!”

His voice echoed around the Galleon and there came an answering howl of pure joy. Messages were passed across to the other ships and after a short wait, as one they winked out of real space in answer to the long awaited summons.


Geosynchronus Orbit
Argent III
Second Church Protectorate


Admiral Baynes had stayed behind with his cruiser and two destroyers, his orders to protect the best he could the troops on the planet below. Further sealed instructions had been given to him in private; if the threat was overwhelming he was make all speed to rejoin the fleet, the information of the enemy disposition was more important than the hundreds of thousands of lives below.

He had privately questioned these orders and had been curtly rebuffed, there would be no discussion allowed. So, it was with trepidation he received the reports of multiple vessel signatures. It looked as though a fleet were due and he would have to run. Perhaps he might get the chance to at least reduce the odds before he fled, although he would only do so if the risk to his ships were minimal.

It was in an awed silence he heard the details of the estimated number of enemy vessels dropping in real space and not waiting any longer, he ordered his ships away, leaving the troops below to their potentially terminal fate.

*

There was no escape for the Church ships, a vast fleet winked into existence all around them, effectively corralling Admiral Baynes and his men. His only option was to fight and take some of the enemy with him. He ordered gun batteries charged, missiles readied and fighter craft launched. In a tight formation his three vessels ploughed onwards, directly into the centre of the opposing forces.

On his command the ships fired into unison, their concentrated fire intended to punch its way through the vessels before them. Shields flared in opposition and counter missiles were launched.

He felt his cruiser reel under the power of his enemy’s attack, three times as many of them engaged him and from all sides. No time was given for him to communicate with his destroyers as their shields were torn apart and enemy fire sent them screaming to the Prelate’s Bosom.

Alone now, he continued to fight, data streamed in of batteries overheating, missile hits against enemy ships and more against them. Hull integrity had been breached on three separate levels and there was now no return for the fighters, the launch bays having been ripped into shreds by incoming missile strikes.

Baynes saw the indication of their failing shields and the exact moment their tenuous protection disappeared. Shortly afterwards he heard reports of enemy vessels clamping on to their hull and new breaches being blown. Reports flooded in of fighting on all decks and that his men were losing, their resistance futile.

His decision taken, he ordered his Exec Officer to join him in the destruction of his once mighty vessel. An explosive detonation stopped him short as he saw the poor man reduced to a liquid spray and he knew that all now rested on him. There was no time to do this properly and he raced to ensure that this failure at least would not fall at his feet.

It was, and always had been from the moment of the enemy fleet’s arrival, too late. A backhanded blow sent him reeling backwards in his chair and he screamed in pain as a whirring blade was pushed slowly into his stomach. The owner of the weapon calmly held the Admiral in place with one booted foot and proceeded to turn the man’s entrails into a horrific soup.

Still alive, Baynes looked up into the scarred and piteous face before him, pleading for release.

“I will give you release,” sneered the man, leaning forwards and kissing the Admiral on the lips, a vile spittle passing between them. He laughed even more as Baynes’ mouth began to blister and boil, “You are welcomed,” he snarled, “into his ever-loving embrace!”

AGL - Chapter One

Spaceport
Regimental Command
Luther

Rank upon serried rank of soldiers stood in review, the recruitment was complete and they waited to board the descending transports. Commands roared across the parade ground, feet stamped in unison, banners flared and the 7th Lutheran Infantry Regiment boarded the waiting vessels.

Engines sparked into life, farting fumes into the still air as APC’s, aircars and tanks patiently awaited their turn.

The cleansing of Luther had been brutal and it had been nothing less than miraculous that the Inspectorate had found Colonel Walters to lead this Regiment. He had appeared one day, when they had called for blooded officers. Apparently he had been stuck in some outpost, his small contingent more than happy to follow him.

They had quickly assimilated the new troopers, his command organisation rapidly incorporating the new volunteers. The Regiment had easily taken him to their hearts, their loyalty at times bordering on heresy. If it had not been for the urgency of the recruitment, many more questions would have been asked. Particularly the Church Guard had raised numerous complaints at the accidents befalling their personnel, although the Colonel’s reports had been scrupulous in their content.

None could complain at the generosity of the man; he had brought his own pinnace with him, his men crewing the vessel at no extra expense. No-one had seen the full crew; they had remained on board, their bodies covered in a strangely fashioned armour. Some of them appeared big enough to be Church Elite, but everyone had of course dismissed that as a ridiculous notion.

Colonel Walters had been presented with the Regimental colours in a particularly strange ceremony by his huge and forbidding looking Leftenant, the stylisation of the screaming wolf’s head unique in its depiction.

*

“We are ready, my Lord!” carolled Krantu, his pride in the soldiers obvious.

“I’ve warned you about that,” admonished Walters, smiling.

“Yes, my L… Sir!” replied the K’ran, snapping to attention.

“Are the others on board?” asked Walters, squinting upwards at the latest transport to depart.

“They’re waiting for you, Sir!” said the strange Leftenant, indicating the two platoons of soldiers; their khaki fatigues blazoned with the snarling emblem of the regiment, their tunics uniquely piped with green.

“Very well,” commented, Walters, turning for one last look around.

He knew that he had the best of the people from Luther with him. Men and women made up his new command, their close families and hangers-on had already been ferried up to the awaiting ships. It was true that he was leaching vital resources from this world, but he had promised himself that they would all reap the benefits of their sacrifice a hundredfold.

Silently he prowled forward, Krantu and two other huge soldiers trailing in his wake. If only the Churchmen knew, he thought to himself, they would certainly not be so accommodating.

*

Major ‘Jimmy’ James tapped his fingers impatiently on his desk, the Inspector in front of him had presented him with a real problem. He had arrived only today, with a small entourage; two junior inspectors and three cadets.

“I do not see your problem,” insisted the man in a whining tone, “my orders are clear and it will go ill for you to delay me longer. I will present myself to your vaunted Colonel, and woe betide him if he tries to thwart me in my task.”

James smiled quietly to himself, thinking of this puny individual, threatening the Colonel. Inspectorr Ivanov noted the smile and his hand reached for his sidearm.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” growled a new voice, and the Ivanov started as Walters pushed roughly past him, a huge Leftenant sauntering in his wake.

“This man is impeding me in my duty, as an Inspector of the Holy Prelate, I do not answer to you!” he sneered.

Walters waited patiently, the silence lengthening uncomfortably. He glanced once at his Leftenant and the Inspector was driven to his knees by a tremendous blow. The boot placed into his back pinned him to the floor, his cheek pressed firmly against the metallic decking. His men made as if to reach for their weapons but the look in the Colonel’s eyes stayed them; it was chilling, deadly in its promise and brooked no defiance.

“You will address me as Colonel or Sir,” said Walters calmly, “you will never threaten myself or any of my men again. This is my Regiment, not yours and I will accept nothing less than obedience. I think you need a little time to yourself to reflect on this, to pray to the Prelate for guidance.”

He nodded to Krantu, who roughly pulled the Inspector to his feet, other soldiers entering and dragging the rest of Ivanov’s team away, after disarming and roughly searching them.

“Lock them in the cells on the pinnace,” he ordered Krantu, “I want no contact between them and the rest of the transport’s crew. Not for the present anyway.”

Krantu turned away, his silence signifying his acceptance, his large hand firmly gripping the Inspector by the hair.

“You’ll be sorry!” screamed Ivanov as he was bundled out of the office.

Grinning at James, Walters spoke, “I already am, my dear Inspector!”

*

Stiv Viker was feeling lost, lonely and pretty awful. Last night’s party had somehow managed to continue over until this morning, at least that was what his body was telling him. He felt like somebody was trying to pound their way out of his head, his mouth dry and furry, his lungs still choked with smoke and he certainly wasn’t open to conversation.

Not that there was much small talk in his platoon, everyone would rather kill themselves than upset Corporal Johns. He was one of the older soldiers, found somewhere by the Colonel and readily accepted by the rest of their strange leader’s unit.

It had struck Viker, the same as many of the other new recruits, that there was a sameness to the older men. A shape of body; muscles seemed to burst from new tunics, shaggy hair; which seemed to cover every part of their bodies, and those eyes. Like the Colonel they each had piercing green eyes, whose depths seemed to promise raw, animalistic anger.

Shivering, he turned to his bunkmate, Alana and prodded her with a grimy finger, “How you feeling?” he asked as quietly as he could, although it still sounded like a roar to his pained skull.

“Leave me alone!” she snapped, then groaned as she was roughly tossed out of her bunk, by the passing Corporal.

“Up and at ‘em!” roared Johns, a wide grin splitting his face.

“What?” replied a befuddled Alana.

“Leftenant Krantu has a job for us,” he said cheerfully, “and you know better than to keep him waiting!”

As one the recruits moaned in dejection, if there was one person more terrifying than Johns, it was the big Leftenant; he didn’t even look human!

*

Inspector Ivanov was apoplectic with rage, he had never been treated this way by any Church officer. They knew their place in the scheme of things and had always been terrified of what the snivelly little man could do to them.

This Colonel Walters though, he showed a disdain for the badge and rank Ivanov carried, there was none of the requisite fear, rather an all powerful belief in his own right to command. It all smelled of heresy to the Inspector and in his cell he delighted himself with the thought of what he would do to the Colonel when he got out.

The clanging of the cell door brought him back to reality, and he shrank back against the rear wall at the sight of the hulking Leftenant. Behind the man stood a group of curious soldiers, delight at the predicament of the Inspector written plainly upon their faces.

“Arrest him!” screamed Ivanov, pointing at Krantu, “I command you!”

No-one moved a muscle. Instead they looked at the Leftenant as he began first to chuckle and then roar with laughter.

Finally he stopped his unseemly behaviour and pointed at the Inspector, “This,” he said flatly, “is your first lesson. The only person you owe your unquestioning loyalty to is Colonel Walters. You can see his benevolence and thought for you. This Inspector and the rest of his breed will rot here in this cell unless they are converted to our way of belief. Any who feel the same as this scum will join him here, praying for release from his God.”

There was absolute silence, except for the mutters of heresy from the cowering Inspector. Then, Viker’s tremulous voice was heard, “His God, sir?”

“Ah, yes,” responded Krantu, his eyes flashing, “that would be lesson number Two!”

Outer System
Charsu
Second Church Protectorate

A straining of fold space announced the vessel’s arrival, it burst into normal space in full view of the Tauran ships. There was a poised danger about the strange three-masted alien craft; the Galleon had arrived.

One cold transmission was heard, “We warned you!”, and then with no further communication, gun ports slammed open, rapidly followed by a broadside of plasma which tore through the two lead Tauran vessels.

Two more ships appeared, their design that of more familiar Church origin, but they only sat waiting. Desperately the Tauran Commander tried to bargain with his attackers, against whose shields his plasma and rail guns had zero effect.

It was in vain; the Galleon ruthlessly destroyed vessel after vessel, each broadside smashing through ineffective shields and vaporising metal instantly.

When there was nothing left except space dust, a broad band transmission was beamed down to the planet.

“This is the Lost Company, we apparently were not clear enough for your liking. Please receive these gifts on behalf of our Lord. Perhaps others will learn from this lesson and respect the sovereignty of our protected worlds in future.”

The cold voice disappeared, never to be heard by anyone living on the Tauran planet. Objects spat from each of the three vessels, their flight programmed to perfection. They cut into the planet’s atmosphere and screamed down towards their carefully selected targets. Shortly afterwards, small extremely bright suns began to burn in each of the world’s major cities.

Without another word, the three ships once more jumped into anonymity of fold space..

Sudden Dearth Book II - A GUIDING LIGHT

Seven sources of power, demons, unknown heroes and an all-powerful religion clash in a titanic struggle.

Men have become beasts. Some by choice and others by an unknown design. A galaxy-spanning battle has begun and not all yet know their part.

The Fortress has been reduced to rubble, the Taurans swept aside and the snarling K'ran's head banner flies in secret pride. A strange signal is received, a vast Tauran Fleet assembled and Walters and his men must again stand against both religious intolerance and Dark Magic. An unknown power calls to them all in a deadly race against time.

Coming to a Smashwords near you....real soon....

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.