Category Archives: Stories

An Embrace Eternal

This entry is part 7 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

With a speed and grace divine, Orthael spun to receive the blow to his shield. His foe held close, as if embracing a lover, hissing wildly.

The shadow was humanoid like its puppets, for it too had once been a man. It was a flickering silhuoette of a thing, all abstract shapes and sharp angles. The paladin continued his spin, throwing the pair apart, but they sprang at each other again a moment later.

Two swipes from Judgement, the flaming blade almost guiding itself. The shadow slashed again, a blow that left scratches on his golden shield. Orthael smashed it with the pommel and shouted a shorter spell, barely a syllable, that punched the Greater Dead down in a shower of white sparks.

It raised its head and feinted right, slashing across. The paladin ducked, feeling an impact rake across the shoulders, and drove the Judgement of the All-Consumer up as far as it would go.

Fire blazed. Shadows died. Orthael strode on contemptuously.

“Return to whence you came, fiend.”

The Fire Consuming

This entry is part 6 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Orthael was not entirely surprised when the first creature stepped out from behind a tree, not far ahead. It had once been a man, but grossly elongated arms led to a soft rustling from knuckles dragged along the forest floor. A few others joined it, all-too-dead eyes glistening with hunger for Life.

Pointing, Orthael spoke a sentence in a language not of his world. Golden flame dripped, gathered, and lanced through each undead slave with impacts that sent them crashing backwards through the undergrowth.

Inwardly, the man sighed. This was an old spell, bequeathed to him when he had been much younger. Long enough ago that the paladin force of the Church of the All-Consumption had been able to patrol darkly wooded places like these. Tonight he was alone, and even his meagre presence was a sacrifice for his home parish.

No matter. By the will of the Fire Consuming, he would be enough.

This was the thought on his mind when the shadow leapt at him from the darkness beyond his light.

Feeding the Flame

This entry is part 5 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Malika stepped back, spinning to her left as another creature lunged out of the darkness. The sword in her hand sang with need, and she swung it up in a swift, arcing motion, ramming it into the creature’s chest. Its momentum as it slammed into her knocked her to the ground. The creature landed heavily on top of her, driving the breath from her lungs. It took her a long moment to find it again.

“Get up, Malika. Get up,” she urged herself.

With effort she pushed the creature off her, rolling it to the side. Only then did she truly see it. It had the visage and form of a canine but the hands and feet of a man.

“Lycander,” she noted with disgust. She felt no satisfaction at the beast’s death, only a craving for another kill. Blood and gore spattered her face, hands, and clothes. The blade itself, though, remained clean. The flames licking up the sword glowed brighter blue, flecks of rust began flaking off the blade.

Malika’s eyes flickered in the flamelight. “C’mon,” she whispered. “Bring me another.”

Night in the Cemetery

Mogram Stonecutter sat on the roof of the mausoleum in the dead of night, his lute resting in his lap. His fingers danced lightly over the strings, not playing any tune in particular but rather hitting notes and chords at random. It was an idle habit he had developed over the years when he was bored or lost in thought. This night it was a combination of both.

He was alone in the cemetery, but if the information he had been given was accurate and not some attempt to send him on a fool’s errand, that wouldn’t be the case for long. Others would be arriving soon, but for what purpose he didn’t yet know. Still, the cryptic message he had been given had been enough to incite his curiosity, and his bardic instincts had sensed an interesting story to be told. So here he sat. And waited.

The cemetery was not overly large, but it was not small, either. His vantage point from where he sat allowed him to see the whole of the area. The moon was still new, and the only illumination came from what few stars peeked out around the scattered clouds. This was no trouble for him, of course. Life living underground had adapted him to seeing in conditions where illumination was scarce.

His fingers tickled the strings of his lute once more, this time plucking out an eerie melody that caused the skin of his hands and arms to prickle with gooseflesh. He began to hum, a quiet harmony that ran in counterpoint to the notes he was playing. He parted his lips slightly to allow his voice to more easily flow over the music of his instrument. Melody and harmony tumbled over and around each other, twisting into a song that was both haunting and beautiful.

The air within 30 feet all around Mogram shivered, and several objects nearby lit up with magical auras. It was by no means enough to get a sense for the cemetery as a whole, but it gave him an idea of the area immediately surrounding him. Most of the objects were graves that bore the unmistakable gold aura of Abjuration magic, barriers set to prevent graverobbers, necromancers, and others with unseemly tastes from accessing the resting places of the dead. Others were headstones, obelisks, and similar markers highlighted with the red glow of Illusion magic. Mogram chuckled idly to himself at this. Even in death, there were some who bore their vanity to the grave.

One grave, however, glowed faintly green, the color of Enchantment. Mogram frowned at this. That was an odd one to see in a graveyard. A part of him wanted to investigate further, but he knew he didn’t have the skill to unravel the spell even if he did. He suspected it was some sort of snare for the unwary, but there was no way he could know for sure. Best, he decided, to leave it alone. A skilled wizard could probably take it apart safely, he thought. My luck I’d just end up the thrall of some malevolent sorcerer. He let the music die, both from his lips and from his fingers, and the auras faded away. Once more his fingers plucked aimlessly at the strings of his lute as he settled back in to wait.

Light, Faith, and Sacrament

This entry is part 4 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Orthael kissed the symbol and took a deep breath, feeling the power of his god like a warm wash of water. The exhalation is a release: a surrender of all that comprises him, an acknowledgement of his weakness and an acceptance of strength that is not his own. It is wonderful.

Thus prepared, the man draws the weapon that is both blessing and duty – as such things are. It comes free reluctantly, still wrapped in linens of prayer and sanctification. At a word, the white fabric disintegrates into fire that gives no heat but flows up the blade in silent hunger.

Much has been forgotten about this weapon, so ancient is its provenance. Only a fragment of its original name remains, kept by the priesthood in reverence. Judgement, the bishop had whispered to him, and both of them had witnessed the sword shiver on the altar.

There is a cry in the forest that is not like the others. Memory forgotten, purpose in mind and hand, Orthael marches in.

Rust, Blood, and Flame

This entry is part 3 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

Malika paced steadily deeper into the woods, sword out to the side. Pale blue flames, barely visible, licked along the blade’s length. Near the base, just above the hilt, the only space not utterly consumed by rust, was etched a single word. Truth. It was not, Malika knew, the name of the sword. Rather, it was what the sword most desired, a craving that mirrored her own insatiable hunger.

Around her the noises of the forest continued – the howls and roars of large predators and the heavy footfalls of unseen leviathans. Malika made no effort at concealment. Indeed, she wanted to be seen, to be noticed by the creatures around her.

“Come to me,” she breathed. “Attack me. I am weak. I am food for your jaws. Destroy me.”

As if in answer, a large feline face lunged out of the brush in front of her. Malika deftly stepped to one side, bringing the sword up swiftly as the cat shot past her. The smell of blood, seared flesh, and singed fur filled the air as the cat fell dead a dozen paces away, evenly cloven in two.

Paladin

This entry is part 2 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

The man strode rather than walked into the forest. He had the mass of his Church behind him, and so he had nothing to fear. The creatures of the night howled and cried to each other, but he was unmoved. His defenses were stalwart, and any attack would break itself on his unshakeable faith and will. The horrors outside were nothing to what lay within.

He whispered a prayer and reached for the symbol of his god that lay around his neck. There would be blood tonight, but that was not entirely a bad thing. The darknesses in man and beast both would be ready for his light.

Swordmaiden

This entry is part 1 of 13 in the series The Rusted Blade

The little girl entered the forest, armed with nothing but her courage, her grim determination, and the rusty sword strapped to her back. There were monsters in those woods – she could hear their howls, their cries to one another – but she was not afraid. She was a warrior, and these woods would soon learn to fear her. She had faced worse horrors at the hands of her own people. The creatures of the night were nothing in comparison. She calmly, deliberately drew her sword and strode forward, her steps bold and defiant. There would be blood this night, but not one drop of it would be hers.

Fiction: Dust

A spark of green faelight flitted through the nursery window as the last rays of day faded from the sky. At its a center a faerie, no bigger than a single mote of dust. It flew around the room once, twice, three times, before finally settling on the edge of the cradle.

“Took your time getting here,” sighed a voice light as the wind.

The faerie shook its head, regarding the human infant below sleeping below. “I came when I could, Woost. The child isn’t in any actual danger.”

“Yet,” Woost replied. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Perhaps,” the faerie said. “These things are never entirely certain.” It paused a moment, contemplative. “Still, best be on with it.”

With that the spark lifted off from the cradle’s edge and flitted around the infant’s head. There was a tiny, infinitesimal sneeze, and a fine mist of dust drifted from the faelight and settled onto the infant’s face. Tiny glyphs formed along her brow, just slightly darker than her skin.

“There,” said the faerie. “That should be enough. For now.”

“What happens now?” asked Woost.

“Nothing,” said the faerie, landing on the pillow next to the infant’s head. “Now we wait. And make plans. And hope for the best. Nothing can happen until the child comes of age, anyway, not now that she is bonded and sealed. And humans age so frustratingly slowly. So we have time.”

There was a long silence, as faerie and elemental alike watched the infant sleep. It was finally Woost whose voice broke the stillness.

“Strange how something so small and fragile and… mortal can be so wound up in the threads of Fate that extraordinary measures such as these must be taken in order to protect it,” he said.

“Such has always been the case, my friend,” the faerie replied. “Fate has always been influenced most heavily by the finite and the measurable. It’s almost ironic that it’s that very mutability upon which it seems to rely.

“Take care of her, Woost,” said the faerie, lifting off from the pillow and flitting to the window. “She’s important in ways only she will be able to understand.”

“I will be the very air she breathes,” the elemental promised.

“I know you will.” And then the faerie was gone.

Fiction: Light in My Eyes

I lay down for bed and turn out the lamp, but I still can’t sleep. It’s the light behind my eyes that keeps me awake. The room may be pitch black, I may cover my eyes, squeeze them shut as tight as I can. It doesn’t matter. There’s still that light behind my eyes.

I haven’t had a solid night’s rest in weeks. The doctors all tell me it must be some kind of neurological condition. Neuronal misfires in my brain. Unknown stimulation of the optic nerve, possibly from an as-yet undiscovered tumor. The fact remains: they don’t know, and I can’t sleep.

I have my own theories about the source of that light, but no one would ever believe me. They’d tell me that the things I see coming out of that light aren’t real, that I’m losing my mind. But I know the truth. I know they’re real.

I have the scratches on the insides of my eyelids to prove it.