Category: Fantasy

One Last Glimpse Through the Dragon’s Eye III

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

“So you see, I would be a terrible captain.” Ballast concluded. “We’d all be drunk, dead and fucked — not necessarily in that order in a week. And we lost a good bit of the crew during the Symphony of Blood..we need someone level headed, cool under pressure, but someone that can scare the tar out of all the grunts on board.”

Mara picked up the strange wide brimmed hat, surmounted by long dangling rabbit ears. The gunslinger thumped one with her index finger. “Okay. But I’m not wearing this.”

“But, it’s traditional, Mara.” Ballast protested.

The red-haired woman pulled a hammer back on her revolver. “That’s Captain Flemay to you, squab.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” the sinuous rogue snapped into a sarcastic salute. “You heard the captain!”

The crew of the Red Rabbit snapped to attention, including a scarred dark elf, wearing smoked goggles. A half-orc with bright green skin nudged her, and grumbled.

“I should’ve stayed in Pice, selling my hot dog sammiches. The new boss looks tough.”

“I don’t know.” a halfling with a wild tuft of hair crossed his arms confidently.. “She’s not too bad, and wait until she sees how I can control wind!”

He raised his hand, and a small gust of wind briefly tousled his hair.

“Pretty cool, right?” Mobius grinned proudly.

In a quiet corner of the world, a small tree sapling grows next to a lake. It’s leaves are a quiet green, but edged with black. The lake’s water is pure and clean, but the grass nearby has begun to twist and yellow.

The tree grows. The tree waits. The tree remembers.

The Keeper of the Grand Library in Carroway awoke, yawning. He felt a slight headache, and was surprised to look into the concerned eyes of his daughter.
“Father…you’re awake!” she said with relief.

“Well, of course I’m awake — that’s what people do in the morning.” he grumped.

“You don’t understand, Father — it’s been months. You contracted the extremely rare, but incredibly dangerous Plotzia Influenza Convenialus — the Convenient Coma Sickness! We weren’t sure how long you were going to be out, we feared for your life!”

“Listen, Alice. I have studied my entire life, and that sickness is pure superstitious poppycock. The idea that someone could be comatose for exactly as long as some larger narrative required — preposterous! As if disease gave a rip for plot. Now help me pack my things, I must make haste for the Library in Flenelle! The first Ritual must be completed!”

Alice sighed and gently pushed the old man down onto the edge of the bed. “Father…I think you need to hear a few things first.”

One Last Glimpse Through the Dragon’s Eye II

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

The Lodestar flies.

The skies are blue, and the white clouds whip by — barely kissing the hull, the new darkwood inlay shining in the sun. The stone rails glow bright magenta, and the ship hangs like an albatross on the wind.  A simple craft, unbroken lines and pure curves. It flies, an expression of joy — a necessity to the sky. The sky needs the Lodestar, it requires it..and the Lodestar loves the sky.

The ship arcs away to the west, and the vision changes. A thousand threads, a thousand lives, a thousand stories. Some are more brightly colored and vibrant than others, but they all add to the tapestry.

The barbarian, Agnar, stands at a simple grave in a field on the edge of the sea. Similar stones fill the green field from edge to edge. A battered copper half-helm hangs on the edge of the stone. Etched into the stone are the words Commander Penny Lavlock. A True Sentinel. Agnar shares a drink with the dead, sipping from a clay jug.

Dayjen Moore leans against a large pane of glass in a stark grey room.

Enton Blake stands solicitously nearby with a large folio crammed with Seafoam business. He does not interrupt his employer’s thoughts. Some attempts have been made to corral the young man’s unruly hair, haircuts, oils — all to no avail. It sticks straight up in blonde madcap mirth. Dayjen sighs, and his breath fogs on the glass. On the other side sits another blonde man. The same face, the same eyes – but a decade older, and a century madder. ‘Nayjen’ stares back with total contempt, three gems shining on his bare chest.

The President of the Seafoam Trading Company squares his jaw in determination. “We’re going to do it, Enton. We can find a way to get those gems out safely — and help Evil Me in the process.The Heartbreaker is gone — looks like it was swallowed by that freaking Sky Wyrm, but we need to get the key out of his stomach anyway. My father ruined enough things in this world, this is one more thing we can find a way to fix.”

Enton sighs with resignation, and adds another bullet point to the President’s ever growing list.

An old but sturdy wagon rolls up the dusty stone path that leads to the ruins of the Acacian Dragoon School. Abendigo bounds from the top of the caravan to the very peak of a lonely spire six stories high. He waves back to Master Arroz in the wagon in excitement, but the gruff old master just rolls his eyes. The small caravan behind them is loaded with a few masons, a few carpenters and their families, seed and livestock…and a double dozen of potential new Dragoons, each born with their strange Gift. It will be months before the ruins are barely livable, and years before more than a handful of those below can call themselves Dragoons — but it was a start.

The young archer looked up into the afternoon sun and breathed deep. “I wish you were here to see this, my friend.” Abendigo whispered sadly.

The Darkbreakers Headquarters was dim, as Corben stepped inside – shouldering his travelling pack. His father looked up from the fierce game of dominoes he was playing with the half-orc, wizened old wood elf, and a young boy wearing no pants. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Always.” Simon Garamonde pushed back from the table, a slight hitch in his frame the only sign of the vicious wounds he was still recovering from. “Where are we going?”

“Well, a lot of places.” the younger rogue grinned. “But how about home first? Weren’t you saying something about the ancestral Garamonde sword,  hidden in the family crypts?”

“The family sword?” Simon blanched. “But it’s cursed! Double, triple, quadruple cursed — and guarded by the remnants of the Spider Queen’s horde…and..and…this is just making it sound better to you, isn’t it?”

Corben laughed and pushed open the door. Simon came over and clapped his son on the shoulder.

There was a loud noise as three chairs scraped against the stone floor in unison. “Uh…can we go?” the young boy with no pants asked, hesitantly.

The two rogues shrugged, and the Darkbreakers scrambled to gather their gear.

Three men sat in a private room, in an opulent inn. They had ample drinks and food to spare, but they did not eat or drink. One simply wasn’t thirsty, one had brought his own dark mead from the vile bees in his secret forest — and one was simply dead. Or not-alive, it’s difficult to be certain with the Toymaker.

Lannis flipped his Harrow cards idly on the table, The boredom was palpable. It had been weeks since they had gainful employment — the world was growing entirely too warm and fuzzy.

A knock at the door, and the Dark Druid straightened his immaculate bowler hat.

A youngish man with flat black hair cut in a bowl entered. On his wrists were tattooed chains, the mark of a bondslave. Behind him an old man, dark-skinned with close cropped hair followed.

The Blackwings immediately rose – the Toymaker’s new joints clacking oddly, and then fell to their knees.

“Lord Zul, we have waited patiently for your coming. I see you no longer wear your mask of office.” Lannis said respectfully.

The old man threw a green mask on the table in disgust. His bondslave, Morris, closed the door behind them.  Master Tumm, the last Red Wizard of Thay by right of blood and power stood amongst his acolytes.

“We will begin again. Evil never forgets, It begins again..it endures forever.”

The Blackwings bowed to their dark lord, and whispered the response. “It endures forever.”

The Wedding

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Haskeer is hungover, but beaming. The four finger-length scars left by the claws of Fairchild are bone-white against his grey face. They do nothing to improve his appearance, but the wide smile and occasional happy tear that falls down his cheek more than compensate. He is clad in armor of the purest white, chased on each side with simple, clean steel. His tailor, Kelvin, had insisted.

“It’s a work of beauty, but I’m not going to make it useless by putting gold on it. It’ll protect you from a dragon’s jaws, a minotaur’s horns — but not I fear from the eyes of a pretty girl. Too bad, the mighty hero finally falls.” the sandy-haired cleric had grinned.

Corben leaned against a nearby pillar, wearing the ceremonial gray tunic of a squire. He came over, and spent a moment fussing with Haskeer’s cape. The music swelled, and the rogue grinned.

“Ready?”

The two step into the throne room of Caleron. The right hand side is dedicated to the bride’s family – mainly nobles and good folk of the city, but also a contingent of the Knights of the Key, led by their new captain Sir Galen, and his second in command Lady Travail. She elbows the tall, young human and he snaps a crisp salute to Haskeer. Some of the rigid discipline fades, and he gives the half-orc a semi-warm nod.

The groom’s family however, is the thing of tall-tales.

The front rows are crammed with Truescale Kobolds and Brightflame Goblins – Blart and Peto wave tiny little flags with Haskeer’s face crudely scribbled on them. Neither tribe truly understands this human ritual, but they are vastly excited to be included. Pembleton stands on the far aisle, his minotaur frame far too large to fit in any of the pews. A whole pew is dedicated to the survivors of Jacradam. Between the devil onslaught and the fierce carpet-bombing of the Valerian evokers they are still a little worse for wear, but half of Tuskside seems to be in attendance, along with a few humans and dwarves — a symbol of the new water pouring through the dam.

Carbunkle sits a few pews back, dark spectacles over his eyes as he nurses a glass of tomato juice. Scarlet sits next to him, and Binky has donned his finest monkey tuxedo for the occasion. The gnome only brought his top eleven favorite grandchildren, but several more had come along, wearing foolish disguises to convince their Gloompa that they were different ones.

Agnar sits behind them, arms crossed obstinately between Martin and Thorn. Thorn is doing her best to keep Talitha in her seat, but also seems to be spending a fair amount of time reaching across the barbarian to fuss with Martin’s splint. The old ranger had met them at the Gilean border, leading the few bedraggled survivors of his Gryphon raiding party. He was nursing a broken arm, and a half-stitched gash in his side, but was no worse for wear. The Key Knights that followed him were battered and beaten, with the eyes of men who had learned more than they ever wished to know about war.  Thorn had berated him mercilessly, dragging him below decks to see to his wounds. Since then the two were rarely found apart, to Martin’s unease and Thorn’s growing satisfaction. Sinoe sat, as still as a statue between Talitha and Mara, but seemed to be spending an unhealthy amount of time inspecting the revolver on the gunslinger’s hip.

Haskeer moved forward, his boots ringing on the marble floor.

Fin sat serene and alone, doing his best to ignore the aggressive boredom projected by the vastly overweight orange cat at his side. He beamed at the paladin as he passed. Haskeer also got approving nods from Stortz Tart and Tom Brighella, or Lord Brighella as he was now known. The young noble, Lucas Grahd leaned forward as well and shot the paladin a serious ‘thumbs-up’.

Echo sat in a place of honor, a pew right up front — only appropriate for royalty. Her mother, the de facto Queen of the Sea sat beside her, austere and proper. The defenders of the Dolphin Tribe and Whale tribe were able to repel the devil’s underwater siege — but the other tribes were not so lucky. Vast losses had shaken them to the core, and refugees from the shattered tribes made their way to the Queen’s feet every day. The leader of the Whale Tribe, Ziria had politely declined his invitation. Echo slouched to one side, wearing the elaborate dress she had worn months before to the ball at Dominoe Manor and whispered in the ear of Galbadia Dominoe, who then turned and passed the message to the lean rogue, Ballast. The vicious pirate blushed in shock, and covered her face — trying to hide her embarrassment at whatever Echo had said.

More and more smiling faces, turned up to greet Haskeer. Sir Barnabus, Dayjen Moore flanked by two Seafoam Marines, Jump and Silo, Kelvin Mason…more and more. But there was only one face he wanted to see.

At the end of the aisle, clad in shining gossamer white, was Princess Alastelle of Caleron. She glowed like a torch, and the rest of the world faded away. Corben had to tug his friend rather sharply into place, the half-orc’s goofy grin remaining even as he shook free of his reverie. The bride stood alone, as was custom in Caleron.

King Cai of Caleron, smiled wanly from the simple chair between the couple. The old king had been sick for weeks, bed-ridden. But he had insisted on performing the ceremony himself, and he had been carefully carried to his place on his quiet throne. The cleric Marlowe stood close by his chair, quietly sending his Bright Lady’s blessing into Cai.  The king’s was weak, but sure as he spoke.

“I see a knight, and a lady.” the king began.  “Do you know this knight, lady?”

“I do.” Alastelle smiled.

“And is he a true knight?”

“He is.”

“Has he done great deeds and bright, in the service of the land?”

“He has.”

“Is he good and true, strong and fair – the true hero of your heart?”

“All of this…and more.” Alastelle said.

“Will you have him, lady?”

The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. It was not unheard of for maidens to deny the groom at this point. The purpose of this ceremony was to fulfill the honor and nobility of the groom’s suit — but without forcing the bride to consent.

“I will.” Princess Alastelle said.

King Cai smiled with genuine delight, but adopted a serious expression for the crowd’s benefit. He made some show of weighing the lady’s words carefully. At last he turned to Haskeer, and asked the traditional question.

“Will you honor this lady’s choice and serve her until the end of your days and beyond? On your life, on your heart, on your sacred honor that is every knight’s charge?”

Haskeer responds.

“And..” Cai added, drawing some quizzical looks from the Caleron natives on the bride’s side. “Will you protect her…her and all of her lands, until the end of your days?”

Haskeer responds.

Cai smiles with relief, closing his eyes briefly. “Then if it is the lady’s wish, and the knight’s duty…what is the word of a king? May your days be long and bright, may your family grow and flourish, may you engrave this moment forever in your hearts, and may your arms never be weary of the glorious burden that you take up this day. Lord and Lady, take your place.”

Alastelle happily steps forward into Haskeer’s arms, and then Carbunkle yells something inappropriate.

Later, entering the wedding party in the elaborate gardens [pages have labored all morning to remove the piles of debris, broken furniture, shattered glass and damaged topiary from the early evening food fight that broke out.] Marlowe pulled Agnar aside.

“You’ve done well, brother. And you’ve earned a respite.” Marlowe crossed his hands, and said seriously. “But don’t wander too far. The Bright Lady still has work for you.”

The old man poked the barbarian’s chest to reinforce his message. “And we need to find you a nice wife, too.”

Agnar fled.

The tables were packed with well-wishers. Bragg Silverhammer was locked in a fierce philosophical debate/art wrestling match with the crusty old spymaster, Kirk Bitterbark. At the nearby Seafoam table, the former captain of the Riptide, Rake Bitterbark gazes at his father with long-held anger still smoldering in his eyes.

Sinoe and Rulf stand on the edge of the party, as motionless as statues — until Talitha and Crackers run over and drag them out onto the dance floor. The young scion of the Precursors makes a beeline for the noble Lucas Grahd, sitting with his back to the dance floor reading a book.

Simple paper lanterns are strung across the garden.  No magic used by the Brightflames or Truescales, except for the most essential — the love and skill of friends.

Froththimble stumps importantly around the party, knocking over punch bowls with his okay-sword and cornering strangers who want to hear the story of his little brother’s adventures.

The crew of the Lodestar moved around the party, speaking to new friends, old enemies, comrades and rivals… and people who were a mixture of both…each other. They had all agreed to go their separate ways after the wedding, avoiding any long drawn out farewell. Plans had already been laid for regular meetings in Caleron to discuss long term plans for combatting Open and Shut..and to annoy the piss out of each other anew, and drink and eat. Each knew that this would be their last chance to speak for an unknown length of time.

Bachelor Party

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment
TheGorgonist

A month or so later…

Agnar kicks open the door, three or four darkwood boards jammed under his arm. His foot goes through the door, it takes him a few moments to get his foot extricated from the splintered hole. He turns the knob and opens the door with remarkable aplomb.  He is drunk.

Echo-dactyl flaps through a large bay-window, sending glass everywhere, and slams against the opposing wall. She is very drunk. Carbunkle is mostly nude, except for a thin white toga draped around his genitals — he levitates through the broken window, sipping genteely on a martini. He is old-man drunk, which is to say unbelievably hammered but with a profound sense of dignity.

Boss Kreed, sitting at his massive darkwood desk opens his fat jowls to call for his guards…when Fin appears behind his chair, and wraps a firm arm around the lumber magnate’s throat. The monk is not drunk. That would be deeply inappropriate. He’s just very, very centered.

The lantern archon, Wick, giggles drunkenly — causing all present to briefly wonder how a lantern spirit even imbibes — then points a tiny fire-finger towards Kreed.

“We’ve come to discuss – hic–disourse?–no, hic– discuss the redistrubutions—retributions—of the Darkwood Lumber wealth amongst the poor workers of Flappy Bird Hollow!”
Witty repartee, and proper pants-shitting follows.

Corben leans out of the wheelhouse, one hand on the wheel. He blinks a little more than he should, and keeps idly tossing his chakram into the air and catching it in his teeth. Haskeer lies snoring in the prow, completely oblivious. The half-orc had easily held his own drinking in the Royal Gardens, even tossing back a bottle of Purple Rot-Gut with elan, and singing some classic orc chanteys with the Vagabonder. But then a page had arrived with a gift for Haskeer, left by a traveller for ‘Oscar Spider-killer’ — one of the many gifts that had flooded their lives in the past weeks. But the note had referenced the page by name, so he had made sure to bring it right along. A simple clear bottle, with a sweet-smelling clear liquid. The note attached had said — For the crew of the Lodestar, some Dragon Drank on us. To the Queen! – The Gang at the Diner

Haskeer had laughed and taken a mighty swig, and the bottle was passed around. Then ideas were had. Then the crew was clambering through the garden, to where the ship was parked. They had plenty of time, and this adventure was long overdue.

Corben grimaced as the crew boards. The Truescales and Brightflames had been excited to be invited along on this grand adventure, and they had made a mighty pile of darkwood on the deck in an alarmingly short time. Carbunkle is the last to board, hauled bodily to the ship by a red-haired woman in a low-cut bodice. She plants a warm kiss on the snoring gnome’s forehead then flops him over the stone rails of the ship.

“Now that Darkwood Lumber is owned by the people of Falcon’s Hollow — should we really be stealing all this wood?”

A witty, drunken retort.

“Well, we don’t have time to put it back. We have to haul ass back to Caleron, we can’t have the groom be late for his own wedding!”

The Third Eye Opens Wide

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Confession Tower by Piotr Gadja

Carbunkle appears on a wide dune. The wind blows sand in his face, but his path is clearly illuminated by the Three Moons. Over his shoulder is slung a strange contraption, the size of a breadbox…which make sense as it is a breadbox. The Vagabonder insisted that it was the perfect tri-phasal resonance needed for the device to work as needed. That and the single drop of Time the engineer had saved, at his Captain’s request.

The gnome had expected an argument when he told the engineer his plan, but The Vagabonder had been so caught up in his inspiration for the machine that it was an easy sell.

Carbunkle stopped on the crest of the dune. Below, bright torches illuminated an oasis. Through moon-black eyes, the gnome squints — his eyes have become incredibly sensitive to light in the past few days. Verdant palms surrounded a wide, shallow lake. A few huts are nearby, but most of the activity is taking place on a wide circular stone in the center of the lake. Even from this distance, the gnome recognizes the arcane sigils of the Third Eye, and the cloaked figures Black, White and Red. They move with an easy alacrity, excitement clear in every frame.

The summoner straps the machine to his chest, it gives off an unpleasant whirring noise as it warms up. The big red button on the top blinks, then burns steady..just as the Vagabonder instructed. All he has to do is push the button.

Does he?

The machine pings, and blue light erupts. Carbunkle feels strange, as if he’s in two places at once. Then there is a POP. And he is. Carbunkle blinks into his own eyes, standing on the other side of the machine.

“Take care of Scarlet.” Other Carbunkle says gruffly. “And Talitha, and Agnar, and Echo, and Haskeer, and Fin, and Corben and the grandkids, and Frostthimble, and all of the books, and…and you know what I mean. And just like we agreed, if this goes south…be ready to take me and the rest of the Third Eye out.”

Carbunkle watches as Other Carbunkle trundles down the dunes. The gnome tosses the now-useless machine aside.  Without anything to fuel it, it will be forgotten and rust, hidden by the shifting Sarmadi Sands. The gnome sits down on the dunes to watch the ritual, cloaked in invisibility.

The preparations for the ritual are complete. The Three Moons hang stately, all full in perfect harmony in the night sky. The Witnesses step forward. Black, Red and White…they form a simple ring on the stone, and each kneels. Then the Moonchildren take their place in the center, forming a triangle. Ananda, with her long black hair blowing in the wind. The white-haired child is placed in his crib at the proper point, and the Arcleric Tome steps back into his place with the other witnesses. A gray-haired Yad-Elf in red leather armor takes his place as the Red Moonchylde.

All is still, then the ritual begins. Ancient words fill the air, faint echoes carried to the gnome’s ear by the wind. Then lines of power begin to form connecting the witnesses, and each moon’s avatar. Carbunkle feels an odd sensation, something breaking inside of him. The face of each moon seems to turn, or to slowly blink like giant stone eyes.

Energy pours out of each moon, coalescing around their chosen avatar ..then rippling outwards. Washing over Carbunkle and through him — spreading like a wave to the sleeping world beyond.  The gnome blinks, and his connection to the Black Moon shatters. His eyes clear, the strange glittering carapace falls into the sand, and a blinding headache overwhelms him.

Before he falls into darkness, three words whisper across his mind. It it Lucina’s voice, Saraghina’s, Open and Shut’s? Like all of these, but not..the speaker is unknown, but the words are crystal-sharp.

Celes. Maero. Torva.

Three sisters dance, and three children sing. For now in harmony. The dreamers beyond will wake to a new world tomorrow, though it will be some time before they truly realize it.

Carbunkle sleeps himself, in the midnight sands, on the edge of wonder.

Hell is Memory

G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

The gathered crew look at Haskeer, each finding their own strength..their own way to hold off the oppressive weight of memory and sorrow.

None of them had the will or energy to tell the paladin of the thick runnels of blood that ran from his eyes.

Winter stood up, leaning heavily on the white sword. She looked carefully into each of the crew’s eyes, and saw the fragile control that each held against the madness. It was enough. It would have to be.

The paladin with his faith.

The monk with his serenity.

The barbarian with his pain.

The summoner with his love.

Then her eyes fell on Echo, stubbornly moving forward her eyes glazed and darting. Winter crossed to her, leaning the sword back against her shoulder. She gripped the druid by the shoulders and gave her a brisk shake — then a fierce, ringing slap. The sea elf’s eyes widened in anger, the memories beaten back. The snow-haired woman pulled the druid close and whispered something in her ear.

“There. Good enough.” Winter said, turning back. Echo’s eyes were clear with the same fragile control that the others held. “Don’t let go to what you have, not even for an instant. We must find a way out, none of us can hold out for long

Through the Pages

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There are some that say that Time is a river, flowing sedately in one direction…winding its way through the universe, steady and sedate.

There are some that say Time is a whirlwind, spinning and changing – a million directions at once. Every moment a new collision, hurling new dimensions of possibility into the ever-expanding storm.

There are some that say Time is a stone, graven and perfect — impossible to change or mar.

They may be right, or they may be wrong.

But for this now, this moment, this story — Time is a Book.

And the crew of the Lodestar fell through the pages.

They saw themselves in the throne room, the green skeleton with his fist full of golden fire. They saw the look between two friends, and then they pierce the page.

They see the room again, ten years earlier. A simple man in a brown cloak, laying his sword in the hands of the green skeleton. The page tears as they fall.

They see the boy fighting his way through dark streets full of rain and the unquiet dead.

They see the boy sneaking out of a broken down inn. They see a girl with white hair asleep in the hayloft.

They see the boy and the girl with white hair on top of a tall red tower.

The pages rip, faster and faster.

They see the boy and the girl in many places, in many days of glory and terror.

In the throne room again, the girl’s hair half-white, half-brown. The boy is in chains.

In the streets of a drab city, at a sumptuous banquet with plates piled high with lush, purple grapes.

On the edge of the sea, the girl sitting over a dead knight and the boy lumbering out of the ocean dripping and battered.

The pages of Time tear, and the crew of the Lodestar fall.

The boy on one knee with his sword flat in both hands, the girl on her face in a dank swamp, a turtle, a white bridge, an inn, a giant brass screw, a canyon of rain, a forest and night, the three moons shine and the boy and the girl meet in the dusty, dry soil of a forgotten town.

The book slams shut, and they see only darkness.

The Quiet Prince’s Contract

G. Derek Adams5 Comments

I need a vessel. A mortal form to hold my power and my mind, to allow me to influence and shape your world. Those are the rules, and unlike that rapscallion Fairchild, that means something to me.

They must be willing, and accept me into their mind. I would prefer someone attractive.

The host’s mind will be shut away while I walk the world. A strong mind will survive, and be improved by our time together. A weak mind will most certainly go insane. I promise to leave the vessel as soon as Fairchild is defeated.

I cannot guarantee their safety. We are at war, and I do not know the future.

When you are ready, have them go to sleep with a fresh, red apple in their hands. That is the sign that the deal is struck.

In return, I will use my considerable power and knowledge to help you defeat my tawdry brother. My armies will rise and march against his. And when the war is over, and I am King of Hell Entire — then all within my power will leave this place until the death of Talitha’s grandchildren. Two generations free from devils and demons, both.

Not an inconsiderable payment.

If you betray me, you will have many long eternities to wish that you hadn’t.

Delay too long, and you begin to smell of betrayal.

I know you have a certain appointment to keep, a moonlit stroll through the Sarmadi sands. It would be most unfortunate if you were to miss your rendezvous.

Dally not. – Time is the cruelest enemy.

The Only Ink

G. Derek Adams2 Comments

“You don’t know me.” Quintus stood up. “You question my worth, and you question my devotion — and when I challenge you, you fuss like a barnyard rooster.”

The duelist stalked a few paces away in a cold fury.

“Fine. If words are what you want. If words will make you believe that I am ‘worthy’ of your trust, of your grand ideals — then hear me. I will die for Simon Garamonde. I will kill for Simon Garamonde. This entire world could burn and go gray with ash, and if he could walk free and unspoiled I would consider it a worthy trade. Every moment that his heart is under a devil’s hand, mine breaks anew. There.”

Quintus face looked down on the sleeping gnome with utter contempt.

“Is that acceptable, librarian? Now that I have used your precious words, is my pain – my love more real? Can you feel it now? Are my words true — am I worthy? Words are air, my heart is full of blood and steel. Those are the only ink worth writing with. Now speak.”