Tag Archives: fantasy

Moonlight

This entry is part 4 of 12 in the series Market of the Macabre

It is night now, and moonlight pours through the one open window in the room. The moon outside is full, the light it casts bright and rich. Almost the moonbeam reaches the table. Almost it reaches the box. The moment he has been waiting for has very nearly arrived.

He continues to hold station against the wall. His body is sore from remaining motionless for so many hours, but he barely notices. His focus is single-minded, his muscles taut with anticipation. The moon continues its descent, the beam of light it casts now touching the table surface and beginning to inch toward the red box positioned at its center.

Yeeeesssssss, he thinks to himself and releases a held breath.

Finally, the light slips over and around the box, and the surface of the box changes with the light. A series of geometric depressions sink into the wood, each separate from the others but seen together forming a rune-like shape.

He moves instantly. The moment he has been waiting for has arrived, and it will pass far too quickly.

The Red Box

This entry is part 3 of 12 in the series Market of the Macabre

The box rests on a small, round table, perfectly centered on its rough surface. The man who purchased it stands across the room, leaning with one shoulder against the wall, staring at the box without really seeing it, lost in contemplation. Before him lies the prize for which he has sought so long, but the moment to open the box, to grasp the prize within has not yet quite arrived.

And so he waits.

A scent of smoke passes before his nostrils, one with which he is familiar. It matches the scent of the smoke within the box, and yet he knows the scent is not really there. It is a memory, of a time long past, but one which his brain, his body remembers all too well. The mere memory is so strong, so palpable, that for a moment he nearly loses his resolve and dashes to the box to tear it open immediately.

But instead he closes his eyes, takes deep breaths, and clears his mind of all thoughts. It would not do to be premature, he reminds himself. You have waited this long. You can wait a little longer.

Smoke Merchants

This entry is part 2 of 12 in the series Market of the Macabre

He winds his way through the chaos, trying to avoid bumping into anyone. Such a thing is nigh impossible here. But it hardly bothers him. Here, anonymity is paramount.

Finally, he reaches a dark corner where two grey men sit. He sits across from them, aware of the open room at his back. An acceptable risk.

“You have it?” he asks the men. They exchange nervous glances.

“ID,” one says, voice tense.

“Of course,” he replies and produces an odd coin from a pocket. It is large, embossed with an image so profane the two merchants visibly flinch. It is enough. One of the grey men reaches down and produces a small, red box. He handles it gingerly, sliding it across the table.

“You know what this contains,” the merchant says.

“Of course.” At last! His eyes are captivated by the box, riveted by his prize. Without looking up, he says, “You may go.” The merchants are gone in an instant.

“I have you now,” he says and grins. He lifts the box near his face, inhaling deeply. He can almost smell the smoke inside.

Weeping in the Willows

The child sits at the base of the tree, silently weeping. Her arms are crossed over her upraised knees, her face buried in her arms. Tears fall from her cheeks, staining her pants and the soil on which she sits. A few even land on the tree roots.

A gentle touch on her cheek startles her, and she looks up. She is alone, the canopy of the willow sheltering her.

The tree itself rustles, its branches gently swaying. The child’s misery turns to puzzlement. There is no wind, and yet the tree sways of its own accord.

More tears slip from her eyes. Another gentle touch, this time on her opposite cheek, and she turns to catch sight of a branch brushing a tear away. A single, salty drop rests on a leaf then drips to the ground as the branch pulls away.

The child is in wonder, her pain momentarily forgotten. She looks up at the tree, amazed to see a face there, sad but compassionate.

Her tears flow anew, her grief given release. She leans her head against the willow as its branches envelop her in a tender embrace.

A Warm Glow

This entry is part 16 of 18 in the series The Rusted Blade

Orthael watched the child raise her weapon to point at him, felt the Judgement shiver slightly in recognition. Through it, the All-Consumer whispered of times long past, when demigods and archangels had come to the lands of men to fight darkness.

The triple-flamed shield of the Paladin Guard emblazoned on his golden shield seemed to vibrate with power, tugging the tip of the Judgement to face a threat. No, he whispered to himself, feeling his pastoral pendant under his armour. No, she is a child and the Flame welcomes her into its embrace.

With a gathered effort of will, he put away the Judgement for a while. He drew upon the warmth within and spoke a greeting imbued with the power of the Church.

“The Fire be with you, child. Its warmth comfort you, its light guide you, its purity inspire you.”

Orthael’s voice was quiet, but he knew the words would carry – just as he knew tears would dry and hearts would lift. There was no flash of light, but it was magic all the same.

Flames of the Fire

This entry is part 18 of 18 in the series The Rusted Blade

“Orthael!” she spat. “Protector of life, servant of the All-Consumer.” Her voice dripped disdain. “Summoned by a local parish, no doubt.” Orthael nodded. “To protect us.” He nodded again.

“Well, holy man, where were you when my village was destroyed by one of the Greater Dead? Where were you when everything and everyone I loved and cared about was ruined utterly?” Malika was weeping openly now, her grip tightening on Morduth’s hilt, its blue flames traveling further up her arm with each spoken word. “Where were you when we needed you, when I needed you?”

She lowered Morduth, bringing the sword into a ready position, and when she spoke again, her voice was cold, empty, bereft of grief and rage alike.

“Defend yourself, holy man, if you can. I would know the strength of your resolve — and the power of your god.”

And with that she charged, raising Morduth to strike even as the sword voiced a single word of alarm and objection:

MISTRESS!

And then blade crossed blade, blue flame mixing with orange.

An Introduction and a Challenge

This entry is part 17 of 18 in the series The Rusted Blade

“I ask you again,” Malika said. “Who be you, and how be it you come to be here, just at this very moment? Be you a final test, holy man or not, to confirm my resolve, to baptize me in the fire of purification against the forces of Ashmar?” She could feel her tone rising with every word, feel the heat of anger warm her face, feel the wetness of the tears sliding down her cheeks once more. “What be you, holy man? I would know, else I cut you down where you stand.”

Mistress… Morduth cautioned, but he was cut short as the other man spoke.

“I am Orthael, young swordmaiden,” he replied, “Paladin, holy warrior of the All-Church, servant of the All-Consuming Fire, wielder of Judgement versus the demons of Ashmar.”

He was silent then, and Malika took a long a moment to evaluate this man who stood so calmly before her. The rage and despair welled up inside her once more, and when she spoke again, she found herself shouting, her rage and grief now full and complete.

Of the Dark, Of the Light

This entry is part 15 of 18 in the series The Rusted Blade

Malika brought Morduth up so it pointed at the newcomer. Blue flame flared up bright and tall along the blade’s length, spilling over the hilt and onto her hand and wrist. She didn’t notice. All her attention was on this man of the cloth standing before her and on the weapon he carried.

Strangely, his sword seemed to call to her, not with desire to be wielded by her hand. It was clear it belonged well and truly to this holy man. Instead, it was more a voice of camaraderie, of kindred spirits, of alliance.

Morduth seemed to feel it as well. Mistress, that weapon he carries is no mere sword.

“I can see that,” she murmured back, watching the orange flames licking along the edge of the sword.

No, you misunderstand, Mistress, Morduth continued. That sword is easily as old as I am — and possibly even more powerful.

Malika nodded. She felt something else, too. The power of her blade was born of darkness and pain while the power of his was clear and bright like a blade-shaped window into a summer’s day.

Servants of Fire

This entry is part 14 of 18 in the series The Rusted Blade

Malika wiped away the tears from her eyes with the palm of one hand and gracefully rose to her feet, turning to face the newcomer.

“Be you friend or foe?” she asked. “Morduth insists you be friend, but I be not so willing to trust in his judgment just yet.”

Mistress, replied the sword, I am hurt. The sword’s tone in her mind was more amused than injured, and so she ignored the jab. She had eyes only for the stranger before her, who remained cloaked in shadow at the edge of the clearing.

“Step forward,” she commanded, “so I may determine for myself. I have no fear of either man or beast.” She gestured to the dozens of dead and torn lycander bodies littered around her. “I have no fear of you, for Mardain blesses me this night.” At this the sword in her hand flared briefly again, as if to confirm her claim.

The man stepped forward, and Malika saw that he was robed in the vestments of the Church — and carried a sword of his own.

“Be at rest, child,” he said, “for I believe we both fight for the Fire.”

Blood Rain

“There is blood in the rain,” stated the Deep One, matter-of-factly. He stood at the deck railing, staring out over the city spread out below.

“What do you mean, sire?” Kolster asked, looking up at the imposing figure looming over him.

“There is blood in the rain,” the Deep One said again, as if repeating his previous statement automatically lent it additional clarity. “Someone has broken apart a rain god and sewn it among the clouds.”

Kolster looked puzzled and turned his attention to the cloudless sky above. The moon was full this night, lighting the landscape in white light.

“But sire,” Kolster said, “it’s not even raining.”

“Nevertheless,” the Deep One said, turning away from the railing and walking back toward his chambers, “it is raining somewhere — and there is blood in it.”

Kolster sighed and followed after his master.