300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #24 -- VICTORY TO PHYREBRAT!

[Perpetual Man]

The Lesson of the Toymaker (Subsection B of the most holy litany of St Francois, Inquisition Master and complete Bas***d)

When the noted horologist, mechanist and toymaker Anthony Cargill Smythe vanished it was enough to send the broadsheets into a frenzy of speculation; for conspiracy theories to run rampant. Indeed, how the man who caused people to clasp their hands before pursed lips, eyes popping from sockets at the wonders he wrought could just disappear was deemed to be impossible.

His many marvels included life-sized mannequins that could dance, and through the magic of the phonograph, sing! Children could ride on artificial donkeys and ponies, while mechanical hounds through misted windows stared.

But vanished he had, leaving no trace of his going other than, outside the doors of his emporium a magnificent automaton, a stallion of steel, iron and chrome. A beast of artificial resonance, that moved, ate and, yes, apparently lived.

Perhaps it was inevitable that his magnificent contrivance would attract the attention of the Church and their Inquisition fearful he might break that most divine of tenants, the creation of life. So, it was the horse drew their attention as does the rabbit to the hawk.

Indeed, they did not even see his brilliance, instead perceiving an unholy aberration.

Writs were issued, excommunication and execution were demanded. With devout fervour, they decapitated the artificial equine and placed its head on a plinth for the whole world to see.

The body glowed, molten slag in the most virulent fire pits. As scarlet beads of burning steel dripped, so did blood from a metal head.

Maybe it was not life from the lifeless at all. Doomed to failure, Smythe created a carapace for himself, tricking all into his genius, a genius that was damned by foolish pride.

For when the creation lost its head, so did the creator.

 

[AlexH]

Space Junk

"Impact in 45 minutes. Prepare to destroy."

The space junk came into view through Braithe's telescope.

Mike lined it up in his sights.

"5, 4, 3, 2..."

"Wait," Braithe shouted as it turned side-on. "This looks interesting. It's a... it's a giant metal horse-head!"

"Be quick," said Mike.

"Plenty of time," she said.

She jumped into the prepared pod and shot out behind the object, matching her speed with it.

"The scanner says 'unknown origin'," she said to Mike.

He'd seen it clearly himself now. "How can that not be from Earth?"

"How could it have got here, from Earth?"

"Good point."

"Warning. Warning. Impact in 20 minutes."

Braithe always thought the red flashing lights were a design fault, but they didn't put her off as much as they used to. She fired the net around the head. It snagged, and didn't pull tight. The object kept spinning, tearing through the net and pulling her pod - she had slowed her speed, not anticipating the tear.

"How has it ripped a graphene net?" she said, more to herself than anyone else.

"This is getting too close for comfort," said Mike.

"Quiet."

Braithe fired a second net. It happened again.

"I'll tighten it by hand."

"Braithe, no."

She released herself from the pod.

"My tether!" she shouted, as she floated away into space. Damn those beeping lights. And the broken auto-tether. Though a tether and two nets was probably asking for it anyway.

The object had slowed enough to be recovered safely by the rest of the team, but they were too late for Braithe. Her body was recovered and buried on Earth, beneath a monument of the alien horse-head she'd saved from destruction. 100 years later, it's origin was still unknown.

 

[mosaix]

So, It's Come To This.

“Who am I? What am I? would be more appropriate. I'm a twelve-eighty-seven android. The best there was. Although you wouldn't think it to look at me now. You can call me six-oh-two, that's my serial number.

“Where am I from? Well, originally, I came from the Advanced Android Labs in Brasilia but I've been around a fair bit since then.

“Where? I spent some time at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. I was a neuro surgeon in those days. But I was replaced with the next generation and ended up as a gunner in a Venom fighter out of Tycho during the first Lunar war. Hands that can manipulate a laser scalpel can just as well load, aim and fire a pulse cannon.

“My legs? Lost those during my stint as a fire fighter. The hardened shell that the military had fitted me out with was ideal. Went places that most couldn't. Pulled a few people out that wouldn't have made it otherwise. But it's not just heat and flames you know. There's lot's of falling stuff, masonry and the like. That's how it happened. I was just scrap then and your father picked me up cheap.

“So, it's come to this. I wave my hands around and shout a bit but the birds are used to it by now. They even perch on me sometimes. Hence the guano streaks. Can't see your father letting it continue much longer.

“Deep down I suppose I always knew it would end in oblivion, but somehow I always thought I'd be useful to someone.

“Run along. I can hear your mother calling. Don't forget your skipping rope. No more questions now. I'll still be here tomorrow. I hope. I quite like the sunshine and the blue sky.”

 

[Dan Jones]

I Drive The Hearse

I was nuzzling my mother’s side, all happy shivers and stick-thin legs, when they took her. Writhing hands and rope clasped her from all sides, and I screamed, and she was gone.

“What about this one?” said one of the remaining men, slapping my rump, sending fear shooting through me.

“Bit runty. Let him pull the hearse.”

~

And that is how I, a mere trembling baby, came in the possession of Master. His work broke my spirit like his ropes broke my heart.

~

Months later, I take Master to a meeting in a big grey building in a place where thousands of people mill about like ants. Something makes me crane my neck, and my heart leaps as I see a giant, shining estimation of my beloved mother, erected upon a stone plinth, shimmering in the sunlight.

A plaque upon it reads:

For the lives she saved. Ne’er so gallant a creature served His Majesty’s Forces, as Our Nellie.​

My heart crumbles and my stomach churns. Heat prickles my face. She’s not Nellie. She’s my mother. I try to understand what the statue means, but it hurts. She was my mother, and I want her.

The cracking, stinging lash on my rump startles me, and for a second a life of conditioning makes me trudge off, pulling Master’s carriage. But almost unbidden, my legs quicken, first trotting, then at a canter. Master curses words I can’t understand, the lash stings anew, but I run on, wind whipping my eyes.

I head to the river, the carriage’s wooden wheels clattering, splintering on the cobbles, but I don’t relent. Cries go up as I leap the wall and see the river rushing up to me.

I want my mother back. Something tells me we’ll be together again soon.

 

[Rafellin]

Sad Horse

Another sad horse high upon a desolate hill, set to be seen. Why did they stick you up here, old friend? Were you art or monument? Was it to celebrate a victory between packs of the mechanised barbarians who ruled when the cracked blacktop was only worn and crisscrossed this land from horizon to horizon? Or was it to mark the death of the last of the riding beasts that feature so often in the ancient murals of this world?

Did they fete your arrival with religious fervour and torchlit procession? Or was it as mundane as a mob of workers, a series of articulated haulers, and a rough terrain crane? I doubt it was a gravity repulsing flier; your planet’s golden age was so brief.

I’d ponder the juxtaposition of your curves against the angularity of your plinth, but it’s an exercise in futility. There are no philosophical archives that need interpretation. Your creators had reached the height of digital self-indulgence and all of their no-doubt wondrous writings were held on magnetic or optical media. The end of the line arrived before crystalline storage was adopted. The violence of that end and the inevitable hunter-scavenger aftermath cannibalised the wisdoms of the ages – or buried them so deep it’s not worth our time to search.

I’ll leave you here, sad horse. Gazing out across the nubbins of a civilisation gone to dust and irrelevance. What they could have bequeathed us, who knows. I feel it may have been something of worth, given the way your silence calls so eloquently to me. But, if there is one thing I have learned from my travels, it’s that the losses always outweigh the remains.

Bide well.

 

[martin321]

Executive Orders

The USS Starscream snapped into existence deep in the Horsehead Nebula.

On the bridge Captain Cheng was wrapping up his briefing. "So the President's orders are clear. Stop any vessel from transiting through the Sol jump point. With extreme violence, if necessary."

Three ship days later the silence on the bridge was interrupted by Hansen, the comms officer. "Sir, we have a contact! ... A cargo freighter, heading our way."

Cheng frowned. There shouldn't be any vessels in this sector. "Signal them to turn around."

A short delay then Hansen said, "The Odyssey has declared a mayday. They've a thousand refugees on board, Sir. Fleeing from Utopia Five."

"Scan them," said Cheng.

"Their reactor's on the fritz. The noise is blocking our scanners."

"It could be a trap," said Wilson, the weapons officer. "It might be packed full of Yendreth space troopers for all we know."

"Navigation. Can we intercept them before they reach the point?"

"Just about," said the Chief Nav officer. "But if their reactor blows when we are alongside then it could take us out with them."

"Our orders are clear, Sir," said Wilson, his hands hovering over the weapons console.

Wilson had gained a reputation at the Academy for being trigger happy. But his instincts were generally good. And the orders were very clear. A court martial wouldn't do his career any good. On the other hand, a thousand lives.

"Sir?" prompted Wilson.

Damn the man, let me think for a moment, thought Cheng. His career and two hundred lives on the Starscream hung in the balance against a thousand on the Odyssey.

In the end the decision was easy. Cheng spoke up, "Okay, this is what we're going to do..."

 

[The Storyteller]

Umanoden

Max awoke, despondent, his heart heavy. Every day was the same; imprisonment, tasteless food, hard labour, terrible task masters with whips. The monsters had made slaves of Max’s people long ago, and he himself had been born into bondage. He had never once tasted freedom, and he feared he never would.

“Max, look,” Bailey whispered.

Max raised his head, eyes dull.

His heart skipped a beat. There, just beyond their prison, a great statue had been erected. The figure of a horse’s head, aged and bent, stood silhouetted against the sunrise.

He had heard of the great horse deity his people once worshipped… Umanoden, the god of his ancestors. The Free Spirit.

Sad, benevolent eyes stared at him, as if their once god could not bear to see her followers in bondage any longer. A voice seemed to whisper to him, awakening something deep in his heart.

Max turned to Bailey. Her eyes were shining, overcome with the same awe that welled up in his spirit.

They didn’t know where it had come from, and they didn’t care. They both knew it was a sign.

It was time to throw off the shackles of slavery.

It was time to be free.

***

“Ma…?” called Johnny, staring out the window.

“Yah Johnny?”

“You know that statue we put up? That big horse head thing? I’m not sure why, but I think it bothers our critters… Something real odd is going on with the horses…”

Johnny was about to suggest they take down the statue before it aggravated the animals more, but it was too late; with a synchronized kick of their powerful back legs, Max and Bailey knocked down the fence, and, without a backward glance, they raced off.

Johnny watched as their livelihood disappeared into the nearby forest. “Well shoot.”

 

[Tommy Brauer]

When the greater mass of our technology was taken from us, destroyed, or failed us completely.. the great steed, the name for power itself began to thunder again.

The blasts that tore cities asunder pressed the people into the distant areas. The need to move fast became essential.

The radiation vast. Silent. Deadly.

The supply lines and human support systems slowly withered with time when the fuel lines failed, or ran dry.

But one beast failed us not.

We remembered.

The heralded heroes of the great wars were not the men themselves, though they believed it to be so. But truly indeed it was the unsung hero beneath them who gave them the strength and speed required to imagine themselves as kings of the world.

Forever man shall both bow in honor, and ride like the wind.

 

[Stable]

Horseplay​

Doug spent most of his time with a rubber horse mask trying to scare me.

He turned his considerable intellect to find the most disturbing ways for me to encounter the mask. He actually hired a dog – apparently you can rent dogs now – and attached the mask to the poor animal’s head so that it charged around, flopping grotesquely and smashing into all the delicate electronics that was my contribution to our project. He bought a store dummy that he could position with the mask in unexpected locations. And of course the inevitable time he broke silently into my house and put it on my pillow while I slept, Godfather style. Each time I wanted to quit, find another sub-quantum physicist with a better sense of humour, and each time he’d finish laughing, wander to the blackboard and create the most beautiful mathematics I’ve ever seen.

The final prank he pulled was the simplest of them all. He just put the damn thing on and stood directly behind me, very quietly, until I turned around.

I don’t know how long he stood there for. I do know that it took me completely by surprise. I pushed him, hard, right into my fragile device, where his body connected two electrodes that were not meant to circuit. Even as electricity burned across him he crushed through the device and vanished, while I looked stupidly at the wreckage of our time machine.

I was still staring stupidly when he returned, seconds later. He was scarred, carrying a version of our machine made from copper and diamonds. Still wearing the horse head mask.

Doug waved my apologies away and sat, looking smug. He refused to talk about what had happened.

As I left I saw that damned thousand year old horse statue.

 

[chrispenycate]

I will stand the hazard of the die.​

"It's part of a quadruped. No, I don't know why they haven't modelled the legs, so it couldn't function even as a hippocampus. Artists, they want to draw your attention to what they consider important. Like, you ask for a picture of your daughter, they only paint the face, unless she'll take all her clothes off, and then the face suffers. Photographers are much more predictable.

Hippocampus was a sea horse, so needed no legs. Probably fins. They weren't ridden. Few representations remain, mainly fountains.

"They were supposed to be noble beasts, faithful, and tasty too, during the famine years. For millennia they were an essential part of our transport network and combat effectiveness, though for both of these they indeed required legs. hey came in many sizes though, we have evidence to suggest, none as large as this specimen.

"Page 1201 shows statues, paintings and some etchings of men (and several women) astride these beasts, presumably riding them. There used to be many more before the troubles, but riding was hailed as a classist, decadent pastime, and most were smashed. This might even have been a complete statue, but lost legs and body, but then it would have been larger than average. There exist also a few 'westerns' - an early form of moving picture, illustrating their use, but much reduced from their original quality. Watching these is recommended as entertainment, but their technical accuracy is questionable - they were never intended as instruction manuals.

But I was employed, and trained to teach art appreciation, not zoology or history, so this must be considered a work of art, not an accurate representation of equines in general.

 

[Coast]

Leadership

I catch myself slouching, before the crew notices. It only takes a single stride forward, to step into a more disciplined version of myself. I imagine how the crew sees me - spine straight, shoulders pulled back. Chin high, head held proudly. Chest rising with breath and shining with military decoration. Inspiring.

“Sir,” Lt Dawes intrudes.

I turn towards him slowly, give him my best sneer. Let him see my disdain, let him feel his inferiority. I raise an eyebrow.

“Sir, the teams are in position.”

I slowly look away again, straining to keep my expression cold. It’s hard not to smile. I imagine he is pleased with himself, convinced that today is his day. Too smart for his own good, I’d known to keep an eye on him.


“A horse’s head, sir. Like the Trojan Horse,” he’d whispered to me.
I’d nodded knowingly, then immediately searched the nets. A trap!


He thinks there’s a commendation in this, maybe a promotion. Ha! I’ve already completed the report on the battle. As soon as we get back into charted space, the council will learn how I saw through the alien deception. How I suspected their ‘gift’ was a Trojan horse, containing a weapon rather than goodwill. How I had orchestrated the battle group in crushing what was left of the alien’s resistance. Lt Dawes was a competent officer, I’ll give him that.

He’s looking at me, frowning.

“What!?” I demand.

“Sir, the… the object is empty. It’s just a statue. The aliens, they-”

I don’t hear any more. A peace offering. And I’d attacked. We’d attacked. Under Lt Dawes suggestion. No, insistence. He gave me bad intel, he’s pushing so hard for a promotion. I flee the deck, the crew’s puzzled looks follow me.

I’ve got a report to rewrite.

 

[Shyrka]

On a Pale Iron Horse

She eats voraciously. Her great maw lies open, roaring for more. The heat suffocates, her hellish in-breath tearing at us.

“Coal! More coal!”

The Firemane’s shout barely breaks the tumult, the hammerblow-rhythm of piston strokes the only detail to the formless roar of motion. His stokers redouble their efforts, the vicious draft tearing the fuel from their shovels before momentum can take it forward.

She lurches, her drivers buckling the rail as she violates the tracks. We’ll not pass this way again.

The Enginseer’s eyes flit anxiously across the gauges, her embroidered gauntlets cradling the regulator’s vast ironwork. We’re climbing – wheelslip could doom us all.

I cannot help myself. Icy fear compels me to thrust my head into the gale and look. They’re closer, I’m sure.

A shout tears me back to the footplate. The stokers are working furiously. Even the Firemane has joined them, eschewing his hard-won finery. No selflessness this, no act of solidarity – it is dedication born of panic, pure and simple. One glance at the needle tells me why – pressure is dropping. Fast.

I seize the nearest shovel and run to the grate. The stokers stare – the Chief Denizigner shovelling like them – but rank means nothing. She must be fed.

A stoker lad strays too close to the firebox. Her draft does the rest. A blood-curdling shriek and his shovel clatters to the floor.

She lurches again, surging forward. The needle rises. She enjoys a good meal.

The Firemane curses the others back to work. The Enginseer never flinches. They know her ways.

Eternal fire was the promise, power without fuel. A fool’s dream. What we unleashed hounds us still – her sisters, slavering at our heels, as eager to devour as our Iron Queen.

To live, we flee.

To flee, we feed.

 

[LittleStar]

What’s Remembered

The monument loomed before us, marking the edge of the dry lands.

“It don’t look wet out there though,” Eppen said.

The tip of the alien ship peeked over the hill beyond. “Two hundred years, and they still say radiation pours outta there. But I ain’t seen it rain here since I was a kid.” Harren smiled, stepping past the monument, into grass taller than he was.

“We’ll be the first ones here since the war,” he called back. “Reckon we’ll find something worth a few weeks living. How bout a souvenir for your collection?” He winked at Eppen. “Get lucky you might even find the shot.” He raised his eyebrows, and smiled.

The shot that ended the war? But the grassland was vast, how could he possibly find a single casing? That’d be more than a few weeks of living for sure.

“Wait up.” Eppen darted past the monument, holding his breath.

Before he’d even let it out, he found something. An old-world bullet casing. Was this it? The shot that saved the world?

The memories flooded in, fast enough to hurt his chest.

Hold the trigger until the ammo runs out. Not a single bogey down. Damn shields.
Eject. Plane crashes around me.
Fighters still rain casings on me, bouncing off shields still.
Then one hits. And a missile on the mother ship. The virus worked.
I laugh.
We throw everything we have. Everything.
Mother ship goes down. Fourth of July like. Cloud mushrooms over it. We really just saved Earth?


The casing tumbled from Eppen’s fingers. There was always one shot that ended the war, but history never spoke of the thousands that came before it.

“Harren. I don’t feel too good.” He looked up, to see Harren, pale and terrified.

He’d seen it too.

 

[Mr Orange]

Almighty Equarth


I was a God. I thundered across the earth, trampling all who stood against me. I united the four lands of the A'abilith, abolishing feudalism, slavery and war. I brought peace and prosperity to my kingdom and all who lived there praised me.

Now, I'm a bloody head on a stalk. Gawped at by strange, two legged things gabbling in a nonsensical language. And, if that isn't insult enough, there's those damned, evil birds. I'm covered in their fetid offerings. Bird crap, all over me. It's disgusting. It itches like crazy and I have no hooves anymore to scratch.

I don't know how it happened. The last thing I remember was the Battle of Derot, deep in the melee against the unholy Karstögen. Then I was here. Horribly uncomfortable and loved in all the wrong ways by those feathered rats. Oh, and did I mention I'm stuck on a stalk?

But, all is not lost. I was empty when I awoke, but I feel a glimmer of power now. And it grows. Yesterday I saw him, in a field adjacent my prison. Glorious in his equine glory. Tall and strong, black coat glossy, mane tousled, haunches rippling with muscle. I am strong enough now. When he next comes close, he will be mine.

~

I did it! I have a new body, strong and alive! My power grows ever faster. I stride up to the fence, on the other side of which they still stare at the stained head.

"I am Equarth!" I thunder, "Kneel before your new God and create me a Kingdom!"

A blink, a smile; they are mine!

"Horsey goes neigh!"

" Jonny, I think he's hungry... Give the horsey some hay."

 

[HazelRah]

For you. For love.


"Seventeen years, and I am still coming here." Theo sighed.
"Not sure why you bother."
"Why are you here then?"
Flint shrugged. "Same as you."

They looked up at the disembodied head of the giant metal horse, one of many. It was alive but muted, and eyeballing them while they spoke. Theo returned its stare casually while he pulled out a hip flask and drank.

"Do you think she'll come?"
"I doubt it."
Theo took another swig from the flask and offered it.
"This is getting pathetic. Year after year..." Flint shook his head.
"We did everything we could."
"Do you think... maybe she didn't make it?" The painful notion played on his face as the question hung in the air.

The sunlight waned and the horse grew restless, flicking its rusted ears back and forth, listening. The men shared a nervous glance. A woman came into view, beautiful and bronzed. Her hair twisted and danced as she walked towards them smiling.

"You came!"
She nodded. "Is it you I must thank for my... presents?"
Theo and Flint grinned.
Her face grew dark and she laughed harshly. "All the forgiveness in the world cannot erase what you have done, you fools."
"But, you-"
"My existence, my love has always and will forever remain the same." She pointed to the horse head, which brayed silently.
"I don't underst-"
"You slaughtered thousands. Thousands! And for what?" She spat. "For me?"
"But they wouldn't leave you alone! They seemed so careless, and strong. We thought..."
"They were my friends." She shook her head sharply and turned away.

The muted horse nosed at her hands, and she gently reached up to kiss its soft metal flesh.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, as her tears were swept away and lost in the wind.

 

[ratsy]

Sentence

Rain hung in the air like a bad omen; a hazy mist clinging to everything that dared bother it. Clark walked, head tilted up, seeing if he could catch a glimpse of the two suns that adorned the planet. Nothing. He was quickly finding out they were a rare sight.

Two years, he told himself. Then he could go back to Sol.

He trudged down the muddy walkways, fighting to keep his footing. He carried on past the shops; smells of simple breakfast meat doused in spices wafted into his nose. He almost stopped, but kept walking, ignoring his grumbling stomach.

He entered the building at the end of the path, and for a moment was thankful for the reprieve from the dense, wet air. That relief was brief, as the heat and smell of metal clashed, giving him an instant headache.

“You’re late,” Karl said, wagging a thick finger.

“I’m sorry. The transport was down again. Too rusty they said. Had to walk,” Clark answered, hoping he wouldn’t be docked again.

For the next twelve hours, Clark worked. He soldered, tested, and fought the sick feeling in his gut the whole time, until it was well past his quitting time. The place was empty. They must have forgotten about him. He scanned the room. It was full of weaponry. His creations. He was told it would help Sol, but all he’d done was make the war worse.

He slipped a small gun into his pants, knowing the cameras didn’t record.

It was dark outside; still hazy and wet.

He trudged down the path, making his way home.

Home.

At the centre of town was a statue. A horse head. Marlie had loved horses.

Two years.

He’d go back to Sol.

They’d let him. He’d see to it.

 

[Ursa major]

​

Mounting Anger

​

I was stunned by what I saw: a giant horse. My father was many things; a lover of horses was not one of them. He hated them, preferring more cerebral activities.

I turned to the sculptor. “You dishonour my father, you dishonour this Kingdom… you dishonour me!”
She took a step backwards.

“Can you explain this insult to everything I hold dear?” I demanded.

“Yes, Your Highness. I followed my commission to the letter.”

That sounded strangely plausible. If this was all her own doing, she had signed her own death warrant.

So who had commissioned this excrescence? I could think of a few candidates. My three cousins would be on the list. None were fit to rule, but this had not lessened their desire to do so. Amongst my father’s chief ministers, at least two had been manoeuvring to gain extra power.

So who was it? How could I find out? Even my cousins were not fool enough to show their hand directly.

“Your highness…?”

“What is it?”

“Here’s the commission I received, plus a letter for you. Your father—”

“Don’t mention his name.” I grabbed the sheaf of papers. A brief look revealed words written in my father’s hand:

Dearest Son,

I have planned this since I was a child being ridiculed by my ghastly step-mother. I hated every moment I was on horseback, but my royal duties required me to ride. Once, I had a cough that lasted many moons. She explained it to her friends by saying I was a little hoarse.

This is my eternal rebuke to my step-mother: a statue whose face bears a resemblance to hers.

Please forgive an old man’s whimsy. But at least I did not saddle you with the sculpture during my reign.

​

​

 

[The Judge]

The Sea Horse


“Hail, Seidon, master of waves and horses, tamer of seas and steeds.”

Her voice trembled – her whole body trembled: from the night’s cold, from the nightmare dark journey to the cliff, from tense excitement at addressing the god directly, but most of all from fear. If her brother, the king, should find out... Her brother whose search for eternal life had brought him magicians who tortured and slaughtered her people.

“Accept my offering, Lord of Oceans. Hear my plea.”

She raised the precious pebble of amberstone which she’d carved into the clumsy likeness of a seahorse. A broken seahorse, thanks to her brother, who’d stamped on it in his fury, severing its head from its body. She touched it to her lips, salt tears bathing it, then flung it, with her prayers for the land, into the white-topped waves.

Dawn was breaking as she regained the palace. Waiting outside her chamber, her brother.

“Your treachery is discovered, little sister. Take her.”

The magicians dragged her to the marketplace above the harbour. A stake stood ready. They bound her to it.

Despair consumed her. The inept broken offering was unworthy; Seidon had rejected both it and her prayers.

“Burn well, sister,” called the king. “Your death gives me everlasting life!”

The magicians advanced. Torch flames reached hungrily for the pyre, for her flesh.

Screams from the watching crowd. A mountainous wave crashed over the harbour wall, its waters falling on the agora, killing the flames. A second towering wave: a rearing stallion, roaring with the voice of the sea. Salt-spray hooves struck and stamped, killing the magicians.

Then stillness. Silence. Only the trickle of water returning to the sea.

At her feet, her brother’s head, and a carved piece of amberstone – a perfect, intact, seahorse.

 

[Ursa major]

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