“A mere tune?” Elora’s eyebrows rose, twisting her scar oddly.
“Music is the only true magic left. It can span time and space, bring joy and sorrow – the stories of entire generations wound up in a few simple notes. The right melody at the right moment can lead an army to triumph, bring a heart to ruin or fill it overflowing with love. Music is the wind that blows across all of history, everywhere and nowhere – commonplace and vital. Every soul can create it, every soul is affected by it, every soul recognizes it. Clearly the Precursors had more respect for it than you, barbarian.”
[Quoted from City of Rain: Book Nine of Lodestar.]
Hitting the 40,000 word mark on That Thing by the end of this week. I think I’ll celebrate by upgrading its title from ‘That Thing” to “That Long Thing I’m Writing That More Well-Adjusted People Would Call A Book.”
Elijah leaned against the crude statue in the village green. Time and weather had done its work on the stone, its features pitted and scarred. The unknown founder’s face was unrecognizable, but it still stood its ground, keeping watch.
The old soldier ran a whetstone down the edge of his greataxe. Both edges had been grief-sharp for an hour, but he pushed the stone again and again. He stopped, and looked up into the battered face of the statue.
He could relate.
Across the dark green, the sounds of music and merrymaking spilled from the general store. The people of Jackson’s Grove had been saved by the skill and steel of the Ghosts of Gilead, his comrades. They had shaken off the terror of the unholy attack, buried their dead neighbors and immediately insisted on a party in the adventurer’s honor. Elijah was always surprised at how quickly people could forget the shadows of death, and thrust their heads into the first cake or ale tankard they could find. But he had seen it many times — his brother had lead them to many victories large and small, and here in this tiny town of Jackson’s Grove in the middle of nowhere the same old song. Drunken celebration, life over death.
His brother. Simon. Not a birth-sibling, but a brother in arms. He was always first at the bottle, a fistful of cake and his other hand down a wench’s bodice. Laughing and singing, his weapons and cares propped against the bar and forgotten. His other comrades were just as bad.
No blood-family since the Fall. These slap-dash fighters are the only kin I have left.Swords of Faith preserve me!
So it fell to Elijah to keep watch. No one asked, and no one noticed — except for the times that he gave the warning shout. The dozen-dozen times. His back to the light, sharpening his axe in the darkness.
Desert Rocks by Kekai
Tomorrow morning he’d be the first to rise, as they snored the drink away. Running his hands over the faded map, planning their route — preparing for the dangers to come. Someone had to, he wouldn’t fail this little legion, now that everything else had fallen to dust.
The stone hissed down his axe-blade. Elijah wiped a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
His ears pricked at a whisper of sound, and he bent low pulling the greataxe into both hands. He scanned the darkened houses ,one by one. The sound had come from the roof of the general store, Elijah shielded his eyes from the light and saw a slim figure slipping down the side of the roof.
It was his brother, Simon.
Not like him to miss a party. Where is he going?
Something in Simon’s face kept Elijah from calling out. The way he pressed himself into the shadows and headed north — clearly not wanting to be followed.
It was probably to meet some farmer’s daughter — or to console a young widow. But Elijah was his brother’s keeper.
And barely six hours ago they had crossed swords with devils, imps, and horrors from the Blight. The old soldier grimaced, and followed his brother into the night.
—-
Elijah followed at a distance. He was a large man, and no footpad — but the night was moonless, and his brother seemed totally focused on his destination.
A plain wood building. The Church of Linneus. Elijah felt his blood go cold. Linneus was the god of farmers, of shepherds, of the plow. But the church was empty — it’s priest had been the one that brought the devils down on his home. A filthy pact for pleasure of the flesh , Elijah had been sickened to hear. He had prayed to his own Nameless God for the grace to forgive the priest — but it had been futile. His god had been silent, and his own heart had been black and wrathful.
The priest of Linneus had forsaken his holy duty – no punishment was stern enough for that. The pain of Hell was the least that he deserved.
Why was his brother slipping into the church? Light came from within, his brother had lit a torch. Elijah hastened to the doorway and looked within. His eyes widened in shock.
Simon’s back was to the door, and the torch was jammed into the book holder at the end of the pew. Leaning casually against the altar was a devil made of paper. Thousands of pages, wrapped and folded into a feminine shape with corkscrew horns — the writing of every land covered the paper. A contract devil!
“Say what you want, Simon of Gilead — my ink is ready and time is short.” the devil purred. “Your friends nearly destroyed me today — I delight in the delicious irony of this moment.”
“This only involves you and me.” Simon said. “You leave my friends out of this, or this conversation is over.”
Simon, you idiot. Elijah looked for another entrance into the church, where he could surprise the devil. The windows were too small and high, and he stood at the only door.
“I need a way into Gilead.” Simon was saying.
“Homesick, are we?” the paper devil laughed.
His brother turned his back to the devil, covering his eyes with his hand. Something that he did when greatly angered. “Can you do it?” Simon said fiercely.
“Of course I can – anything you want, son of Gilead. It’s as easy as signing your name — some loops, some lines, and the path opens.” the paper devil cooed.
Simon’s hand slid slowly down his face, his eyes to the ceiling as he thought.
Only Elijah saw the truth of the devil’s words. The paper coiling itself in her hands, forming a whip – barbed and jagged. Her arm raising to strike, the paper-whip silent in the air.
The old soldier shouted a battle cry, and flung the church doors open. “Gilead!”
He shouldered his brother roughly out of the way, and caught the whip in his hand. It coiled around his thick forearm like a serpent, the barbs digging into his flesh. They were paper maggots biting tearing. Elijah felt poison course through his veins and his heart staggered. The devil hissed in frustration and tugged on the whip, pulling it back.
Elijah forced his hand to grip the whip despite the pain. He pulled grimly on the whip, his eyes locked on the devil. The paper-whip was a part of the creature, and she could not let go.
“By the Swords of Faith, by the Temple of Iron Nails.” He prayed, and his god answered.
His greataxe felt weightless in his hand, and began to burn with a pure white light. Elijah smiled, a rare thing.
The devil hissed and fought, but the old soldier’s time was upon him. He was his brother’s keeper, and his strength would not fail. He stood, as he always did.
And he pulled. His vision narrowed as the devil drew closer, screaming in rage. He saw Simon leap onto the devil’s back, his arms locked around her paper throat — but it was on the edge of his sight.
The evil thing came close, and Elijah’s axe fell.
The paper burned in holy fire, leaving nothing but ash. The devil’s scream hung in the church, burning contracts falling around Elijah.
He sank to his knees, his heart beat slower.
Simon grabbed him by the front of his armor, and was saying something his eyes wide with concern. But no sound came out, his mouth moved and Elijah heard nothing.
The old soldier pulled himself to his feet, his brother helping him and continuing to talk silence. He couldn’t find his axe, but he knew what was required. He brought his savaged arm and hand to his head.
“The Watch stands.” he said.
His brother let go with a stricken look, and forced himself to return the salute.
“The Watch is relieved.” Simon said. “Dismissed.”
Elijah couldn’t hear it, but his brother’s voice broke.
Darkness came, and Elijah went. He sharpened his axe and stood guard. There was light and music ahead, but he had work to do.
No one would catch his brothers unaware. Not while he was on duty.
[Story on Demand for N.E. White — hope you enjoyed. But I must be honest, this story has been rolling around in my brain for a while now. Original character concept W. Steven Carroll, with much love and respect to my brother-in-arms.]
Feel free to suggest a genre you’d like to see, or any wacky-ass rules you want to lay down. No words that begin with “q”, or each sentence must have exactly five words. [You can’t pick these because I already thought of them. :P]
Winter rapped her knuckles on the bar, and looked around.
“Horace? Has he wandered…”
Sliding from around from behind a rack of bottles, an elegant skeleton pirouettes into view holding two cocktail glasses in one bony hand and dark red bottle in the other. He wears no clothing, but his bones give off a faint glow, and show signs of constant cleaning and care. A pinprick of blue light hovers in each eye cavity, and he gives Echo a rakish grin.
“Ah, who’s your friend Winter? A new plaything..or something saucier?”
The skeleton’s voice is a warm baritone. The pinpricks of light that are his eyes waggle up and down in a suggestive manner.
“Hardly, Horace. Two Vampiric Kisses, please.”
The skeleton chuckles, and begins to prepare the drinks using the dark red bottle he had with him. An a twinkle, two glasses are slid across the bar. The drinks inside are a deep red, and give off an odd sparkle when held to the light.
The long black cloak was a dead give-away. The slicked hair, the golden pendant shaped like a star. The way he loomed over the salt-shaker.
Trisha had set me up with another vampire.
I sighed and leaned against the bar. He hadn’t seen me yet, I could just leave -back to my dusty house and re-runs of NCIS. Why did Trisha keep doing this to me? The first time had been awkward, and the second unbearable — she always feigned surprise, her eyebrows climbing into the stratosphere of her forehead.
My mother’s manners were iron. I finished my drink, and marched over to introduce myself to my date for the evening.
“Hello, I’m Dorothy — are you Gregori?”
He knocked over the salt-shaker in his haste to make a florid cape-gesture. It tumbled across the table, clattering.
“Mh-yes, I am Gregori. You look so beautiful in the moonlight of this evening. The moonlight in this evening? Of…in? You look so beautiful in the moonlight….?” he finished lamely, standing at the table. “I am Gregori.”
Then he reached forward and righted the salt-shaker.
“It’s nice to meet you, Gregori — do you mind if I sit down?”
“But of course, my dear…othy. Dorothy. ”
I arched an eyebrow, and found myself having to fight a grin. Gregori smoothed his medallion, and cocked his head to the side.
“Please forgive my familiarity, it is the custom in my country.” he nodded mysteriously.
“And what country is that?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh.” I looked down into my purse to keep from laughing. This poor man. He seemed so uncomfortable in the lifestyle that he’d chosen, a serious, brooding expression locked on his face. So determined to be convincing, like a kid in his father’s coat – giving a speech before the class.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on his wrist. He went as still as the grave, a look of pure terror appearing in his eyes. They were nice eyes, brown.
“Greg — can I call you Greg? I’m a woman, and you’re a man. It’s nighttime and we’re adults, and I’m already having a great time.”
Gregori’s eyes never left mine, but he laid his other hand on top of mine.
“I’m making a proper impression?” he said hopefully.
“Absolutely.”
“You’re inexorably falling under my sway?”
“Let’s not push it – we’ll see.”
A human smile peeked out of his chalk-white face.
“I am having a great time as well, my dea–my Dorothy.”
I smiled, and gave his wrist a squeeze. “Now, what kind of pizza do you like?”
“Anything without garlic.”
[This week’s Story on Demand was brought to you by Fran, the number 7, and the letter Q.]
The snow-haired mage leads the way down the gangplank, into the hangar proper. The vast iron doors leading to the neon-lit night beyond. Winter makes a beeline for some small vehicles, made from blue steel and fashioned into stylized representations of horses with long legs and fixed wings.
She throws a leg over one of the Air Steeds, and motions for Echo to do the same. From a small compartment, Winter pulls a pair of large goggles and pulls them over her eyes. She looks back towards the druid.
“Race you.”
A thousand neon lights blaze past Echo, as she fumbles the Seafoam goggles from their compartment at the base of the steering wheel. She notices that the green light at the back of Winter’s steed leaves a blazing trail of light across her vision as she maneuvers.
The hot air whips past, and the two scream on.
The sounds of Bard’s Gate begin to rise — music and talking, and the pump of steam engines are everywhere.
Winter banks sharply downward, and disappears into a large culvert, ringed with stone. Echo can hear her delighted bark of laughter as she speeds away. The druid pulls hard on the unfamiliar controls and kicks the throttle hard to follow.
The culvert opens up into another world — the darkness gives way to a massive golden light, shot through with orange and purples. A whole street is nestled away down here, a brass band plays on the roof of the building closest to the entrance. Literally, a band made up of brass automatons play trumpets and cornets — reminding Echo eerily of the guardians of the Vault of Flaubert I.
Winter pulls up her Air Steed at a three story building, roof butting up against the bottom of the culvert. She pulls up her goggles, and waits for Echo to land.
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