Here are your guessing pieces, at last!
The choices are, in alphabetical order:
chrispy
DEO
Glisterspeck
hope
Perp
Phyrebrat
ratsy
Remedy
Victoria
Three stories were written for people who were not able to participate, so the stories do not necessarily match the participants' requests.
Most excerpts are taken from the beginning, but a few were snagged from further into the story; one was taken from two places in the story for reasons that *may* become clear if you're paying attention.
Your stories:
1. PARASITES
Haller scurried through one of Ship’s myriad corridors, her naked feet slapping the blood-warm floor. Each step made a sound like a distant heartbeat, soft and wet. Pearly light surrounded her, casting ghostly shadows of Ship’s symbiotes as they ran by on their mysterious errands. One nearly as large as a cat passed over her head. It was a lizard-thing with more legs than she could count. To each side hordes of tiny jewel-creatures crawled, covering the corridor with rainbow waves. Something like a furry snake wriggled across her toes. The sensation was like a mild, not unpleasant electric shock.
The summons had come while Haller was asleep, deep in beautiful dreams of gentle hills and whispering rivers. It took a moment for her to return to the real world. The sleep womb unwrapped itself from her body, leaving only the memory of bliss. Its soft tentacles melted into the gently curving walls of Haller’s room, to become part of Ship’s flesh. The message repeated itself. A deep, calm voice seemed to come from all parts of the room. Haller realized she hadn’t understood a single word.
“What is it?” Haller shook herself awake.
“Excuse the disturbance, please.” The slow voice rumbled in Haller’s ears. “A problem is present. Are you able to come?”
Haller pulled a long shirt from a storage unit and slipped it over her head. The unit reshaped itself in a more compact form. Ship allowed no wasted space in its body. “Klavak? Is that you?” She’d rarely spoken to the pilot since joining Ship’s crew.
“Correct. Shall I request another?”
“No. On my way.” Haller pressed her way through the thinnest part of her room. It was nearly as easy as walking through a real door. The living wall sealed itself behind her with a whisper. She studied the maze of corridors outside the room and chose one she hoped led to Klavak by the most direct route.
2. FATHER
It was little more than a beginning. The called the wars The Black War, and I can imagine little blacker.
Like a tide the hellish army surged from the shattered Lands, coming and going through all the fair seasons, smashing all that fell beneath them. Always, always they left another line of pike mounted heads, mile after mile of them stretching into the darkest of places.
It would be easy to talk of the great battles of the earliest days of the war, if there had been any. But there were not. Rather it was one massacre after another, as the lords of our realms bickered as they always had, seeing these things as a nuisance that was nothing to do with them.
It was not until the mid autumn when rains fell and the ground turned to mud that the first real battle was fought. Then the small barony of Esoum, next in line for an assault managed to raise a small armed force to face the encroaching mass of armed beings.
The battle of Esoum was more of a route, but people fought and at the end of the day a line of heads could be followed all the way back to the Shattered Lands. Humans joined by fallen members of the dark army, almost as though those that fell were deemed as much a failure as those that were butchered;.
It was the last battle of the year.
And many believed, especially in the halls of the so called high and mighty, that the war was over, that whatever devilment had got into the hearts of the dark beings would be gone by the following spring.
They were wrong.
But by then my life would have been changed forever.
***
As time passed the war continued. His hordes of monsters and twisted men tore into the realms of man and the fair folk and the delvers, murdering all that got in the way. Anyone, anything and vile disposition was welcomed into his army, from Dark Elves to the Barrow Wights, to the Black sorcerers of Arbez, to the necromancers of Epoh and the terrifying Blood Mages of Sirhc.
Each week, every month the weight on his shoulders seemed to become that much heavier, and I began to realise that it was not the war that might finish him, rather it would be the length of time it took him to reach his goal.
But it did come in the end.
3. GOLD
When Grampa, my grandfather, the kids' Gegamp, left us, there were more responsibilities than heirlooms. The house, of course, was rented, the furniture old, but not ancient enough to be classed as 'antique'. I was happy the charity organisation that took them away didn't expect paying. Clothes, too, tools and utensils. I kept a few souvenirs – a box of photos, two LP records I remembered well, though I had no way to play them. And the ornate, wrought-iron birdcage with its long-term resident, the canary Gold. Not only would no charity consider accepting a live animal, he was one of the family. The carrier bag and cage required one trip to the car as I locked the door of the dingy little semidetached for the last time and carried the keys off to the rental agency, who would be making the arrangements with the junk dealers to open up for them; I'd offered to be there, but they were accustomed to doing it, and could organise a cleaning service to follow. I made sure the bag and cage were solidly wedged in the car, and drove home to introduce our new resident to the rest of his family.
* * *
It was Hilda, chubby, responsible, seven-year old Hilda, who took over Gold's care. Seed, water, grit - when there was something she couldn't do she'd pester her mother or me. Which wasn't often; scaringly competent, my daughter. Independent both by nature and the fact that the twins, her older siblings, had ignored her as an inconvenience since birth. Gold was her confidant, her chance to shine, and shine she did. Even her schoolwork, never a weakness, blazed to incandescence and she moved to top of the class in practically all subjects. As parents, we carefully didn't listen as she told him the secrets of her day, and did listen, and applaud, when she sang duets with him, or showed off tricks they had worked out together, while I, for one, felt slightly smug about having introduced the two.
4. THE HEADSTONES OF BOSSINGTON
‘There’s another one!’ Helen called, delighted, springing forward to point through the windscreen at another ancient gatepost.
Her step mum nodded, ‘There do seem to a lot of them, don’t there sweetie?’ Then to her husband, ‘Does it say anything in the welcome pack, hon?’
David shook his head, ‘Nope. But I suppose with all the manor houses and estates, or whatever you call them, there’s bound to be gates, too.’
‘Then where are the houses, dad?’
‘Over the years they must have collapsed…I don’t know darling.’
‘Just look at the one we’re going to stay in,’ her grandmother said, ‘It’s falling to pieces. I bet there are derelict houses all over the area. I told you the weather was harsh here.’
‘But why do they have such horrible statues on them?’ Helen said. She was equally horrified and entranced by the denizens that adorned the eroded and tilting gateposts that littered the side of the road every few miles or so. Clawed serpents and winged fish were carved into coiled friezes and sat off-kilter on the topsy-turvy posts. All the angles seemed wrong; Helen could make out a general sense of shape from them, only to lose the form when she focused in on a particular part.
‘Dad, stop. Please. Let me get out and have a look at them.’ She’d noticed that some of them had words engraved on the pedestal.
‘Let’s just get to the Mains, Helen. We can ask the caretaker - he’s bound to know.’
Some of the sculptures had men entwined amongst the creatures and Helen’s mind raced with imagined stories of monsters and knights battling for Scotland. For the world, ‘Do you think it’s St George?’ she said, pointing as they passed another.
Her grandmother stopped her clicking and laughed, ‘I wouldn’t let the locals hear you say that, dear.’
‘Why not?’
‘St Andrew’s the patron saint of Scotland, not St George.’
Helen didn’t understand the point being made, ‘Never mind, I’ll ask Mr Jangles.’
She saw her father tense a little and look at her in the interior mirror. ‘We’ve talked about this, Helen.’
‘I’m just saying…He might know.’
‘You’re too old for this, Helen, shut up.’ he said.
5. ROCKETTE 2000
For a moment, the sparkling ball hovered on the flagpole above Times Square, floating on the smoke that drifted up from the Cup of Noodles billboard below. Being a crystal ball, it had seen the future, and it knew better than to rush into the year that would come. No one in the crowd gathered below noted this pause, this skipped beat, nor was it captured by any other clock anywhere in the world. Only in New York did time pause, just for a moment, before midnight. Then, when the moment had passed, the ball dropped the remaining span to rest against a sign that flashed again and again: 2000, 2000, 2000.
Fireworks burst over the sign, gold and red, shooting up into the air, into the shadows of the surrounding skyscrapers. Rainbow confetti billowed from windows high above and drifted down through the firework's haze, toward those packed into the square. Some kissed, some sang Auld Lang Syne. Everybody smiled. The crowd swayed back and forth in time with the music. They were pressed together so tightly that no one could move, except to sway with the others. Beneath them, in and out between their feet, an orange tabby kitten darted.
***
Alison hadn't come alone to watch the ball drop, but she'd ended up separated from her friends. Not surprisingly, given the crush of people. She pulled an elbow from her ribs and sneaked a swig from her flask of vodka. She hadn't wanted to come at all, but Julie and Sam had convinced her. For five months they'd barely had a break, first practicing eight hours a day, then performing two shows a day, every day, all through the Christmas Spectacular. "It will be fun to get out," Julie had said.
It wasn't fun. At all. She'd rather be on her couch with a proper drink, watching the ball drop on TV. She'd never liked crowds. Crowds made her anxious. Unless she was on stage. Sam often teased her about it. "Who is this sparkling personality?" she'd ask, as they practiced their routine. "Where did quiet little Allie go?" Life was easier on stage. In the real world there was so much more to worry about.
6. THE SPEARS AND HAMMERS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE
I had one hand wrapped around the haft of his spear, and with all my strength I held the blade of rune-carved iron back from my throat.
‘Why are you doing this, brother?’
‘Why?’ He looked and sounded genuinely surprised by my question for a heartbeat or two, but then his face and voice returned to their usual venom. ‘Because I’m trying to kill you, you fool.’
‘I know that,’ I said, ‘But you can’t kill an immortal.’ That, after all, was why the Christian God let us live after Ragnarok didn’t turn out anything like the sagas predicted.
‘Can’t I?’ he replied. ‘How do you think I got Gungnir?’ He pointed with his chin at the spear he was trying to ram down my throat, as both his hands were straining against one of mine. My other hand was buried beneath me, after he knocked me down from behind, like the coward he has always been.
I didn’t understand his meaning. ‘Father would never give you his spear.’ I had known the weapon the moment my hand had touched the ash shaft, for it was carved from the merest splinter of Yggdrasil, and no matter how far the Aesir had fallen, none of us could ever forget the World Tree.
‘Oh, he didn’t give it to me,’ said my brother. ‘I stole it. I found a loophole in the oath our father swore to the Christian God after he stole all our faithful and reduced us to this.’
‘You always were good at weaselling your way out of your word, oathbreaker. Even so, you can’t kill an immortal.’
‘Our father swore the oath –’
‘As leader of the Aesir,’ I reminded him.
‘I had been cast out of the Aesir.’
‘With good cause.’
‘And even if his oath covered me, his oath ended with his death.’
‘What?’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘Father didn’t give me his spear,’ he said, as if to a dull-witted child. ‘I took it from his corpse.’
7. UNTITLED
Tempting aromas and furtive sounds drifted softly from the far side of the estate. Magic was forbidden, Xijan knew this, what was he thinking. Tyrel strode purposefully across the courtyard. Why did the boy persist in this illicit pursuit of magical indulgence? With grudging reluctance he had to admit to himself that his son’s spells were effective. The food Xijan conjured far exceeded that distributed by the state. But such admissions only made Tyrel more stern with his errant offspring. Magic was forbidden.
Xijan heard his father’s staccato boots attacking the cobbles and quickly doused his cooking fire with the soup he’d been experimentally brewing. He didn’t believe, as others did, that cooking was magic and therefore evil. He loved cooking, couldn’t help his curiosity on the matter. The more he dabbled in this forbidden pastime, the less eatable the prepackaged stuff he’d grown up on became; and the harder it was to pass off his creations as state issue.
“Xi! This is the utmost end.” Tyrel’s voice thundered around the, now dark, back paddock where Xijan had been cooking.
“Father-“
“Silence!” Tyrel cut off his son’s protestations before they began. This would be hard enough without Xijan’s logical complaints making it harder. “You are forthwith banished for your persistent and unrepentant use of forbidden arts.”
Heavy silence echoed around the two figures.
“Yes Father.” Xijan’s voice barely cracked. This was not what he’d expected.
“It grieves me to inform you, that you may no longer address me thus. My son dies this night, to prevent bringing shame to his family.” Tyrel’s heavy hand squeezed Xijan’s shoulder forcing him to look up. “I know he would wish it so.”
“He would.” Xijan quietly chocked back his sobs as he gathered the evidence of his intransigence. It would not do to let his fa- Lord Tyrel see him cry.
8. PARADISE
The ship entered the atmosphere and descended through the thick clouds. As the skies cleared Dean could see a lush landscape below. I've been up in Steel City for way too long. This is going to be just what I need. He flicked the auto land switch, sat down in the pilot seat and pushed the comm-button.
“Crew, prepare for landing. It should be a smooth one; winds are light from the east and it is a balmy Ninety degrees here in paradise. If anyone should need me, you will me find at the poolside bar. Now if you could teach the indigenous monkeys to build it first, that would be great,” Dean smiled as he spoke. For the first time in years he felt excited about something. Here he could be a visionary; a leader.
The ship jerked slightly as the landing thrusters kicked in and the metal hull floated slowly to the ground. Dean unbuckled after the green light flashed on letting him know it was firmly in place.
“Alright Jones, suit up and get out there with your sensors. I know we have been told this world is suitable for humans, I don’t want to take any chances,” Dean said.
“Sure thing Captain. You know maybe we should send Len out there instead, without a suit. It’d be a good way to lose the government scum,” Jones replied.
A small, balding man with glasses raised his head from his comp-screen. “Pardon me Mr. Jones but I have been sent here by your boss so if you don’t mind refraining from insults. Unless you are looking for a bad report when we return?”
Dean shook his head. He didn’t like the government runt either but it was the Captains job to keep everything running smooth.
“Never mind any of that Len. We are here for a long time and we will all get along. Now Jones, get moving and hurry up about it. I’m ready to start the exploratory work.”
Jones left the cockpit with a grunt and passed by a beautiful blond woman entering the room. Jessie had a huge smile on her face. She ran to Dean and jumped into his arms with a giggle.
9. WARLORD’S BONES
I sat it on the mantelpiece above the empty fireplace; the human figure made from about 40 cubes of bone. At the time, I didn’t quite know why Joan had left the ugly artefact to me, a spite I thought. She knew I despised her archaeology just as much as she despised me. We cohabited for the children’s sake, but James and Laura knew that we were about as compatible as red wine and white carpet – the subject of our first marital argument, if I remember correctly.
The funeral was horrendous. Everyone stared at me like they were trying to work out why I wasn’t crying. I definitely wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t sad either. Enduring Joan’s relatives was the worst. Those familiar facial features, reflecting the very same expression I had seen a thousand times: the look someone might give you if you borrowed their hanky to dry your armpits.
I received the dirty-bone-doll at the reading of Joan’s will. I went to the reading out of curiosity and also to support our children, I never expected her to leave me anything. I did have an inkling that she had squirreled something away to wrestle a last jot of love from her children. I was correct. My teary James and Laura were handed a rusty metal box filled with gold Saxon coins worth a small fortune. The box came with the express instructions that they sell the contents and share it equally between them, using the money to buy their own properties. Or, “move away from your poisonous father,” as I heard it. The gold also served as a sharp slap in the face to me, revenge for all my jokes about archaeology and broken pots.
When the executor of the will pushed a mouldy cardboard box across the desk towards me, I half expected it to be filled with dog **** – Joan was always irritated by my distrust for canines. I carefully lifted the musty flaps to see the chalky bone-man sprawled beside a sealed brown envelope. The children speculated that it must be very special and worth even more than their gold, while I kept myself from saying that it was probably a voodoo doll that would make my **** drop off.
At home, I tucked the box away beneath the stairs to gather dust.
The choices are, in alphabetical order:
chrispy
DEO
Glisterspeck
hope
Perp
Phyrebrat
ratsy
Remedy
Victoria
Three stories were written for people who were not able to participate, so the stories do not necessarily match the participants' requests.
Most excerpts are taken from the beginning, but a few were snagged from further into the story; one was taken from two places in the story for reasons that *may* become clear if you're paying attention.
Your stories:
1. PARASITES
Haller scurried through one of Ship’s myriad corridors, her naked feet slapping the blood-warm floor. Each step made a sound like a distant heartbeat, soft and wet. Pearly light surrounded her, casting ghostly shadows of Ship’s symbiotes as they ran by on their mysterious errands. One nearly as large as a cat passed over her head. It was a lizard-thing with more legs than she could count. To each side hordes of tiny jewel-creatures crawled, covering the corridor with rainbow waves. Something like a furry snake wriggled across her toes. The sensation was like a mild, not unpleasant electric shock.
The summons had come while Haller was asleep, deep in beautiful dreams of gentle hills and whispering rivers. It took a moment for her to return to the real world. The sleep womb unwrapped itself from her body, leaving only the memory of bliss. Its soft tentacles melted into the gently curving walls of Haller’s room, to become part of Ship’s flesh. The message repeated itself. A deep, calm voice seemed to come from all parts of the room. Haller realized she hadn’t understood a single word.
“What is it?” Haller shook herself awake.
“Excuse the disturbance, please.” The slow voice rumbled in Haller’s ears. “A problem is present. Are you able to come?”
Haller pulled a long shirt from a storage unit and slipped it over her head. The unit reshaped itself in a more compact form. Ship allowed no wasted space in its body. “Klavak? Is that you?” She’d rarely spoken to the pilot since joining Ship’s crew.
“Correct. Shall I request another?”
“No. On my way.” Haller pressed her way through the thinnest part of her room. It was nearly as easy as walking through a real door. The living wall sealed itself behind her with a whisper. She studied the maze of corridors outside the room and chose one she hoped led to Klavak by the most direct route.
2. FATHER
It was little more than a beginning. The called the wars The Black War, and I can imagine little blacker.
Like a tide the hellish army surged from the shattered Lands, coming and going through all the fair seasons, smashing all that fell beneath them. Always, always they left another line of pike mounted heads, mile after mile of them stretching into the darkest of places.
It would be easy to talk of the great battles of the earliest days of the war, if there had been any. But there were not. Rather it was one massacre after another, as the lords of our realms bickered as they always had, seeing these things as a nuisance that was nothing to do with them.
It was not until the mid autumn when rains fell and the ground turned to mud that the first real battle was fought. Then the small barony of Esoum, next in line for an assault managed to raise a small armed force to face the encroaching mass of armed beings.
The battle of Esoum was more of a route, but people fought and at the end of the day a line of heads could be followed all the way back to the Shattered Lands. Humans joined by fallen members of the dark army, almost as though those that fell were deemed as much a failure as those that were butchered;.
It was the last battle of the year.
And many believed, especially in the halls of the so called high and mighty, that the war was over, that whatever devilment had got into the hearts of the dark beings would be gone by the following spring.
They were wrong.
But by then my life would have been changed forever.
***
As time passed the war continued. His hordes of monsters and twisted men tore into the realms of man and the fair folk and the delvers, murdering all that got in the way. Anyone, anything and vile disposition was welcomed into his army, from Dark Elves to the Barrow Wights, to the Black sorcerers of Arbez, to the necromancers of Epoh and the terrifying Blood Mages of Sirhc.
Each week, every month the weight on his shoulders seemed to become that much heavier, and I began to realise that it was not the war that might finish him, rather it would be the length of time it took him to reach his goal.
But it did come in the end.
3. GOLD
When Grampa, my grandfather, the kids' Gegamp, left us, there were more responsibilities than heirlooms. The house, of course, was rented, the furniture old, but not ancient enough to be classed as 'antique'. I was happy the charity organisation that took them away didn't expect paying. Clothes, too, tools and utensils. I kept a few souvenirs – a box of photos, two LP records I remembered well, though I had no way to play them. And the ornate, wrought-iron birdcage with its long-term resident, the canary Gold. Not only would no charity consider accepting a live animal, he was one of the family. The carrier bag and cage required one trip to the car as I locked the door of the dingy little semidetached for the last time and carried the keys off to the rental agency, who would be making the arrangements with the junk dealers to open up for them; I'd offered to be there, but they were accustomed to doing it, and could organise a cleaning service to follow. I made sure the bag and cage were solidly wedged in the car, and drove home to introduce our new resident to the rest of his family.
* * *
It was Hilda, chubby, responsible, seven-year old Hilda, who took over Gold's care. Seed, water, grit - when there was something she couldn't do she'd pester her mother or me. Which wasn't often; scaringly competent, my daughter. Independent both by nature and the fact that the twins, her older siblings, had ignored her as an inconvenience since birth. Gold was her confidant, her chance to shine, and shine she did. Even her schoolwork, never a weakness, blazed to incandescence and she moved to top of the class in practically all subjects. As parents, we carefully didn't listen as she told him the secrets of her day, and did listen, and applaud, when she sang duets with him, or showed off tricks they had worked out together, while I, for one, felt slightly smug about having introduced the two.
4. THE HEADSTONES OF BOSSINGTON
‘There’s another one!’ Helen called, delighted, springing forward to point through the windscreen at another ancient gatepost.
Her step mum nodded, ‘There do seem to a lot of them, don’t there sweetie?’ Then to her husband, ‘Does it say anything in the welcome pack, hon?’
David shook his head, ‘Nope. But I suppose with all the manor houses and estates, or whatever you call them, there’s bound to be gates, too.’
‘Then where are the houses, dad?’
‘Over the years they must have collapsed…I don’t know darling.’
‘Just look at the one we’re going to stay in,’ her grandmother said, ‘It’s falling to pieces. I bet there are derelict houses all over the area. I told you the weather was harsh here.’
‘But why do they have such horrible statues on them?’ Helen said. She was equally horrified and entranced by the denizens that adorned the eroded and tilting gateposts that littered the side of the road every few miles or so. Clawed serpents and winged fish were carved into coiled friezes and sat off-kilter on the topsy-turvy posts. All the angles seemed wrong; Helen could make out a general sense of shape from them, only to lose the form when she focused in on a particular part.
‘Dad, stop. Please. Let me get out and have a look at them.’ She’d noticed that some of them had words engraved on the pedestal.
‘Let’s just get to the Mains, Helen. We can ask the caretaker - he’s bound to know.’
Some of the sculptures had men entwined amongst the creatures and Helen’s mind raced with imagined stories of monsters and knights battling for Scotland. For the world, ‘Do you think it’s St George?’ she said, pointing as they passed another.
Her grandmother stopped her clicking and laughed, ‘I wouldn’t let the locals hear you say that, dear.’
‘Why not?’
‘St Andrew’s the patron saint of Scotland, not St George.’
Helen didn’t understand the point being made, ‘Never mind, I’ll ask Mr Jangles.’
She saw her father tense a little and look at her in the interior mirror. ‘We’ve talked about this, Helen.’
‘I’m just saying…He might know.’
‘You’re too old for this, Helen, shut up.’ he said.
5. ROCKETTE 2000
For a moment, the sparkling ball hovered on the flagpole above Times Square, floating on the smoke that drifted up from the Cup of Noodles billboard below. Being a crystal ball, it had seen the future, and it knew better than to rush into the year that would come. No one in the crowd gathered below noted this pause, this skipped beat, nor was it captured by any other clock anywhere in the world. Only in New York did time pause, just for a moment, before midnight. Then, when the moment had passed, the ball dropped the remaining span to rest against a sign that flashed again and again: 2000, 2000, 2000.
Fireworks burst over the sign, gold and red, shooting up into the air, into the shadows of the surrounding skyscrapers. Rainbow confetti billowed from windows high above and drifted down through the firework's haze, toward those packed into the square. Some kissed, some sang Auld Lang Syne. Everybody smiled. The crowd swayed back and forth in time with the music. They were pressed together so tightly that no one could move, except to sway with the others. Beneath them, in and out between their feet, an orange tabby kitten darted.
***
Alison hadn't come alone to watch the ball drop, but she'd ended up separated from her friends. Not surprisingly, given the crush of people. She pulled an elbow from her ribs and sneaked a swig from her flask of vodka. She hadn't wanted to come at all, but Julie and Sam had convinced her. For five months they'd barely had a break, first practicing eight hours a day, then performing two shows a day, every day, all through the Christmas Spectacular. "It will be fun to get out," Julie had said.
It wasn't fun. At all. She'd rather be on her couch with a proper drink, watching the ball drop on TV. She'd never liked crowds. Crowds made her anxious. Unless she was on stage. Sam often teased her about it. "Who is this sparkling personality?" she'd ask, as they practiced their routine. "Where did quiet little Allie go?" Life was easier on stage. In the real world there was so much more to worry about.
6. THE SPEARS AND HAMMERS OF OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE
I had one hand wrapped around the haft of his spear, and with all my strength I held the blade of rune-carved iron back from my throat.
‘Why are you doing this, brother?’
‘Why?’ He looked and sounded genuinely surprised by my question for a heartbeat or two, but then his face and voice returned to their usual venom. ‘Because I’m trying to kill you, you fool.’
‘I know that,’ I said, ‘But you can’t kill an immortal.’ That, after all, was why the Christian God let us live after Ragnarok didn’t turn out anything like the sagas predicted.
‘Can’t I?’ he replied. ‘How do you think I got Gungnir?’ He pointed with his chin at the spear he was trying to ram down my throat, as both his hands were straining against one of mine. My other hand was buried beneath me, after he knocked me down from behind, like the coward he has always been.
I didn’t understand his meaning. ‘Father would never give you his spear.’ I had known the weapon the moment my hand had touched the ash shaft, for it was carved from the merest splinter of Yggdrasil, and no matter how far the Aesir had fallen, none of us could ever forget the World Tree.
‘Oh, he didn’t give it to me,’ said my brother. ‘I stole it. I found a loophole in the oath our father swore to the Christian God after he stole all our faithful and reduced us to this.’
‘You always were good at weaselling your way out of your word, oathbreaker. Even so, you can’t kill an immortal.’
‘Our father swore the oath –’
‘As leader of the Aesir,’ I reminded him.
‘I had been cast out of the Aesir.’
‘With good cause.’
‘And even if his oath covered me, his oath ended with his death.’
‘What?’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘Father didn’t give me his spear,’ he said, as if to a dull-witted child. ‘I took it from his corpse.’
7. UNTITLED
Tempting aromas and furtive sounds drifted softly from the far side of the estate. Magic was forbidden, Xijan knew this, what was he thinking. Tyrel strode purposefully across the courtyard. Why did the boy persist in this illicit pursuit of magical indulgence? With grudging reluctance he had to admit to himself that his son’s spells were effective. The food Xijan conjured far exceeded that distributed by the state. But such admissions only made Tyrel more stern with his errant offspring. Magic was forbidden.
Xijan heard his father’s staccato boots attacking the cobbles and quickly doused his cooking fire with the soup he’d been experimentally brewing. He didn’t believe, as others did, that cooking was magic and therefore evil. He loved cooking, couldn’t help his curiosity on the matter. The more he dabbled in this forbidden pastime, the less eatable the prepackaged stuff he’d grown up on became; and the harder it was to pass off his creations as state issue.
“Xi! This is the utmost end.” Tyrel’s voice thundered around the, now dark, back paddock where Xijan had been cooking.
“Father-“
“Silence!” Tyrel cut off his son’s protestations before they began. This would be hard enough without Xijan’s logical complaints making it harder. “You are forthwith banished for your persistent and unrepentant use of forbidden arts.”
Heavy silence echoed around the two figures.
“Yes Father.” Xijan’s voice barely cracked. This was not what he’d expected.
“It grieves me to inform you, that you may no longer address me thus. My son dies this night, to prevent bringing shame to his family.” Tyrel’s heavy hand squeezed Xijan’s shoulder forcing him to look up. “I know he would wish it so.”
“He would.” Xijan quietly chocked back his sobs as he gathered the evidence of his intransigence. It would not do to let his fa- Lord Tyrel see him cry.
8. PARADISE
The ship entered the atmosphere and descended through the thick clouds. As the skies cleared Dean could see a lush landscape below. I've been up in Steel City for way too long. This is going to be just what I need. He flicked the auto land switch, sat down in the pilot seat and pushed the comm-button.
“Crew, prepare for landing. It should be a smooth one; winds are light from the east and it is a balmy Ninety degrees here in paradise. If anyone should need me, you will me find at the poolside bar. Now if you could teach the indigenous monkeys to build it first, that would be great,” Dean smiled as he spoke. For the first time in years he felt excited about something. Here he could be a visionary; a leader.
The ship jerked slightly as the landing thrusters kicked in and the metal hull floated slowly to the ground. Dean unbuckled after the green light flashed on letting him know it was firmly in place.
“Alright Jones, suit up and get out there with your sensors. I know we have been told this world is suitable for humans, I don’t want to take any chances,” Dean said.
“Sure thing Captain. You know maybe we should send Len out there instead, without a suit. It’d be a good way to lose the government scum,” Jones replied.
A small, balding man with glasses raised his head from his comp-screen. “Pardon me Mr. Jones but I have been sent here by your boss so if you don’t mind refraining from insults. Unless you are looking for a bad report when we return?”
Dean shook his head. He didn’t like the government runt either but it was the Captains job to keep everything running smooth.
“Never mind any of that Len. We are here for a long time and we will all get along. Now Jones, get moving and hurry up about it. I’m ready to start the exploratory work.”
Jones left the cockpit with a grunt and passed by a beautiful blond woman entering the room. Jessie had a huge smile on her face. She ran to Dean and jumped into his arms with a giggle.
9. WARLORD’S BONES
I sat it on the mantelpiece above the empty fireplace; the human figure made from about 40 cubes of bone. At the time, I didn’t quite know why Joan had left the ugly artefact to me, a spite I thought. She knew I despised her archaeology just as much as she despised me. We cohabited for the children’s sake, but James and Laura knew that we were about as compatible as red wine and white carpet – the subject of our first marital argument, if I remember correctly.
The funeral was horrendous. Everyone stared at me like they were trying to work out why I wasn’t crying. I definitely wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t sad either. Enduring Joan’s relatives was the worst. Those familiar facial features, reflecting the very same expression I had seen a thousand times: the look someone might give you if you borrowed their hanky to dry your armpits.
I received the dirty-bone-doll at the reading of Joan’s will. I went to the reading out of curiosity and also to support our children, I never expected her to leave me anything. I did have an inkling that she had squirreled something away to wrestle a last jot of love from her children. I was correct. My teary James and Laura were handed a rusty metal box filled with gold Saxon coins worth a small fortune. The box came with the express instructions that they sell the contents and share it equally between them, using the money to buy their own properties. Or, “move away from your poisonous father,” as I heard it. The gold also served as a sharp slap in the face to me, revenge for all my jokes about archaeology and broken pots.
When the executor of the will pushed a mouldy cardboard box across the desk towards me, I half expected it to be filled with dog **** – Joan was always irritated by my distrust for canines. I carefully lifted the musty flaps to see the chalky bone-man sprawled beside a sealed brown envelope. The children speculated that it must be very special and worth even more than their gold, while I kept myself from saying that it was probably a voodoo doll that would make my **** drop off.
At home, I tucked the box away beneath the stairs to gather dust.
