My Review of Feast of Fools and Other Tales

Anthology Review by Lyndon Perry

Feast of Fools and Other Tales, edited by Robert Poyton; an Innsmouth Gold Book (Nov 2022, 250 pages, available on Amazon and other platforms). Includes 11 stories of sword and sorcery. 

Start with a disclaimer: I’m in this antho (my story is “To Tame a Demon”) so I won’t review it as I would a collection that I have no connection with, but I will share a few thoughts below on the stories and authors in the ToC.

Quick take: I enjoyed the 11 tales (including mine!) and would recommend the collection to fantasy fans in general and sword and sorcery fans in particular. Though I liked all of them, I had a few favorites, including: “The Horn of Tur” by H. R. Laurence; “The Rotting Goddess” by B. Harlan Crawford; “The Lucky Thief” by Tim Mendees; and “Wind” by Russell Smeaton.

1) In “The Horn of Tur,” Laurence offers an exciting escape and attempted rescue tale featuring our hero Heodric, who is to be sacrificed to the bull-god Tur. There’s a good fight scene, a monster that actually occasions some sympathy, and a nice turn of events at the end.

2) The second story is mine, “To Tame a Demon.” It involves an ambitious and devious wizard who bargains with a few devils in his quest to become the most powerful mage of the Seven Manors. I actually wrote this a few years ago and it never quite worked. When I found out about Feast of Fools, I tweaked and edited it and evidently the story finally worked well enough to be included in this volume.

3) This titular tale by Poyton features Llorc, who is the hero of six novels (check out the author’s The Wolf Who Would BeKing saga) and a collection of stories, including this antho’s “The Feast of Fools.” Feast is a solid quest and revenge tale where our thief – facing sorcery and powerful spells – meets up with an unlikely accomplice, each aiding the other in their separate goals. Nicely told. I hope to read the first novel in Poyton’s Wolf saga soon.

4) The heroine of “The Rotting Goddess” by Crawford is Seanai who takes on a mercenary task for a grieving couple. All is not as it seems, however, and the gruesome sacrifice to the slug-god Lugloth goes awry – thanks to Seanai, of course. This fantasy is a good example of the author’s penchant for writing sorcerous horror. Check out some of his other tales featuring our heroine in the free Whetstone: Amateur Magazine of Pulp Sword andSorcery.

5) “The Colour of Decay” by Ashley Dioses is an intriguing blend of the senses and sorcery and creative magic. The heroine Adara meets the spider-god, Atlach-Nacha, and comes to a surprising end. This one fits nicely with the rest in this volume because of its different feel.

6) Tim Mendees tells a rollicking tale about “The Lucky Thief” – although we wonder throughout the telling if our hero, Rivvens, is all that lucky. Mendees is a good writer, adding humor to the grotesque and alternating between a tavern setting where the story is being told and the flashback sequences that unfold the adventure. I’ll definitely be looking up more of his stories. Tim also has a YouTube Channel where he hosts an excellent podcast. Check it out this show where he hosts the Feast of FoolsLaunch Party. 

7) In “Wind” by Russell Smeaton we have another quest tale – this time set in the frozen north – with an unexpected series of unfolding disasters. The chill, the wind, the eerie and horrible atmosphere – along with the utter carnage the monster beast of a god wreaks – just wow! Good storytelling and an author I need to look up.

8) Gavin Chappell’s “The Haunter of the Catacombs” describes his anti-hero perfectly as a thief and a liar – and Talon’s character flaws and misadventures get him into some pretty dire circumstances. This is a darkly humorous quest with two storylines (the other featuring Elenara) that converge, the story ending with a perfect set up to introduce more tales featuring an adventuring male/female duo. I had the privilege of reading another Talon and Elenara story and Chappell assures me more adventures are on their way.

9) “Skyfall” by Glynn Owen Barrass is a fun and fascinating blend of SF, fantasy horror, and future (i.e., lost technology) magic. A short, charming, and thoughtful tale with just the right amount of tension and danger, along with a bit of humor at the end. It was well done.

10) Shelly de Cruz, who also created the cover art and interior illos for this volume, offers a solid showdown adventure in “The Guide, the General, and the Priest.” After a long and dangerous trek, Tehmjin, our mercenary guide, engages in an exciting and climactic encounter with a rogue priest-turned-sorcerer, finally retrieving the object of the group’s quest. Of course, he ultimately says farewell to his traveling companions to head off toward his home country leaving me wanting to follow along and watch him get in and out of more scrapes. Very enjoyable.

11) The final entry is by Lee Clarke Zumpe and is titled, “One Sword Against the Gluttonous Gods.” The story features another rogue priest, but this time the protagonist is the one and fifty year old Emperor Tumen. Zumpe’s is a rich fantasy world with a lot to explore and caps off the collection with an epic tale of mayhem, magic, and sorcery.

Overall impression: editor Robert Poyton pulls together an enjoyable collection of heroic adventures that will likely appeal to fans of the wider genre of fantasy fiction. Not all the entries are tales of sword and sorcery, strictly speaking (mine certainly wasn’t), but the storytelling is fairly solid throughout and most authors wrap up their tales in a satisfying manner.

Quite a few of these adventures showcase an endearing anti-hero mercenary who deigns to guide his charges on some dangerous quest. And while there are similarities in trope, each tale has its own unique take on the plot’s direction and conclusion. While I won’t rate this antho, I will say I’m proud to be a part of it!

(Note: Amazon affiliate links throughout.)

E-Zine Review - Worlds of Adventure Issue 1

This is an interesting experiment - and I wish the publisher, Allison Tebo, well. She's introducing a quarterly e-zine called Worlds of Adventure, where she and her two sisters (all writing under pseudonyms) can share their unique worlds of, well, adventure.

Tebo is a Christian writer of magical stories full of excitement, grit, and a few laughs as well. She seems to gravitate toward romantic comedy retellings of popular fairy tales; and Issue 1 is a nice sampling of this genre.

Her indie publishing venture is T Spec Fiction and this quarterly e-zine contains clean, speculative fiction for YA and MG readers (though adults will enjoy the stories as I did, I'm sure).

I was given a free copy of the zine so that I might share a review here and on Goodreads and Amazon. Here are my thoughts on each of the 7 stories in this issue.

* Rendezvous - a cute vignette (a slice of a larger story) featuring a defector's accidental escape from custody. The writing is wry and succinct. Not a bad bit of flash fiction. Has a steampunk feel to it.

* One Last Shot - also a short scene (not a full blown story), featuring another escape but this time done with ingenuity and bravery against a robot guard. Would like to know more about this space opera world; how the protag got involved with her new alien friend whom she helped break out of prison.

* The Queen’s Cure – a bit longish ‘fantasy world vs modern machines’ story, where the traitor to the kingdom advances his science against the realm’s reliance on the Fae. Quite tragic and thematic. The queen employs a long forgotten remedy to save her people, but at what cost?

* Treachery Aboard The Nautilus – probably my favorite story, a pastiche of what happens right after Nemo’s victory over the giant squid in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Imaginative, well written, with a nice resolution. A new story in a familiar world is a risk for a writer, but this one works.

* Seven Strong – A fairytale reimagining of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in a steam punk, robotic, business conglomerate world. Had a hard time getting into this one, but maybe because I never particularly cared for the original story and the re-told setting was just too unusual a mash-up for me.

* Night Raid On The Zone, Part 1 – I have to admit I skimmed this one knowing it was the initial installment of a serial novel and is to be continued in future episodes. I usually want to read a novel as is and not one chapter at a time over time. The premise looked interesting, though.

* The Trent-Featherstone Journals: Episode 1 – This, too, is a serial but this first episode is intriguing. “Victorian ladies fending off hungry dinosaurs on the planet Venus” is how another reviewer put it. I like it. Steam punk, sci-fi, fantastic adventure. If this ever develops into a full novel, I’d probably want to read the whole thing.

So, five stories and two continuing stories make up this first issue. Great concept, overall. Clean and mostly wholesome (PG’ish) with some tragedy, tension, and thought-provoking themes. If you want to support indie projects, this is a good one to look into.

Review of Beckoning Darkness by J.D. Stonebridge

Review by Lyn Perry

This angel/demon novel is not your grandfather’s Frank Peretti, that’s for sure! Author J.D. Stonebridge turns the angelic genre on its head, and that’s not a bad thing. But if you’re expecting a traditionally biblical take on the conflict between Heaven and Hell, you won’t find it in Beckoning Darkness. Be prepared for a mash-up of sorts, where angels and demons interact with monsters of every kind, including witches and doppelgangers. It’s really more of an urban paranormal story – a supernatural suspense novel – and maybe slightly YA (I’d say mature high schoolers would like it); and most urban fantasy fans will likely enjoy it.

However, Christian fantasy advocates might not be as pleased. In addition to a smattering of swear words (and a needless f-bomb), the premise is that something is brewing between the forces of Heaven and Hell. Maybe an alliance? Maybe an impending war upon the creatures of earth? All the main characters seem to have ulterior motives and it’s not clear who the “good guys” really are. Although certain expected angelic characters like Michael and Raphael do make an appearance, they come across as untrustworthy narrators because something is definitely amiss.

Like I said, the author is not presenting the traditional view that heavenly beings are automatically good and that their fight is against the demonic forces wanting to harm humans. We don’t know who is pulling the strings behind the scenes at this point. Which is a refreshing and suspenseful way to keep the reader’s interest, I have to admit. What we do know is that two misfits – one an Angel who has a blotted past and one a Demon with secrets of his own – are thrown together and used as pawns in a spiritual game, the nature of which we only catch a glimpse of by the end of the book.

Which brings me to a few critiques. First, be prepared to begin a series of novels (four books called The Damned and the Pure) if you want answers. The complete story arc is just getting started in this novel. That isn’t to say this slice of the story is incomplete; one key relationship (the Angel Ariel and the Demon Caelum) is certainly explored and comes to a somewhat satisfying hint of a conclusion, this being the set up to what I imagine will be their eventual coming together. (Yes, a bit of romance and unrequited love are involved too.) So if you absolutely hate cliff hangers, you won’t want to go into Beckoning Darkness as a pure stand alone.

The other critique, somewhat minor but worth mentioning because it opens the book, is that it starts with an unnecessary prologue. My advice is to just skip it. It almost had me putting the book down, but since I’d received a free copy of the novel in exchange for an honest review, I simply powered through it. So again, if you’re the type of reader who doesn’t like prologues (I typically don’t), just start with chapter one, you won’t be missing anything. There is plenty of action, however – spiritual battles, captures and escapes – right from the get go for those who enjoy that sort of thing. I found myself skimming most of those parts, but not because they weren’t well written, it’s just I don’t particularly care for fight scenes.

Overall, though, this is a solid story. Stonebridge can write and write well. The storytelling unfolds quite naturally. For example, the reader thinks the plot is going one direction during the opening chapters but then expands about a third of the way in, revealing a much broader landscape and more interesting plot scenario. In fact, Beckoning Darkness is interesting and entertaining enough that I might go ahead and buy book two in the series. Which is what pleases most of us readers (and the author), I imagine – an intriguing story that leaves us wanting to stay immersed in the world the writer has created. Four out of five stars, especially for fans of supernatural suspense.

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Review of The Kobalos Trilogy

Review by Lyn Perry

The Kobalos Trilogy by Ty Johnston is a high fantasy series featuring Kron Darkbrow. Here are my short reactions to each of the books.

Book 1, City of Rogues - Excellent high fantasy in the tradition of David Eddings featuring magic, action adventure, and a fully developed setting with the requisite religious factions, dark lords, powerful wizards, and rogue heroes. But this is no knock-off quest novel. Johnston is strong storyteller and world builder who offers characters you can immediately picture and sympathize with. If you're a lover of epic fantasy, then you'll want to follow along with Kron Darkbrow as he takes on his most challenging opponent yet.

Book 2, Road to Wrath - I must not have written a full review of this on Goodreads, but I remember this novel as a "transition" episode, more of a traveling narrative (see the title) to get from the set up in Book 1 to the climax in Book 3. Good writing, expanded the characters' motivations, just not that memorable as a stand alone adventure.

Book 3, Dark King of the North - A satisfying conclusion to this trilogy. Somewhat violent for my taste (it would definitely earn an R rating as a movie), but the torture scenes, though hard to take, do have resolution. The world-building borrows heavily from the epic fantasy tales we're all familiar with, but the prophecy element is different enough for this not to be a cookie-cutter knight's quest adventure. The presumed hero, Kron, actually takes a bit of a back seat in this novel, which is okay as his constant dark attitude starts to wear thin after awhile.

Overall, though, Johnston's writing is solid and the novel delivers. The 3-part tale starts strong with book one, drags a bit in book two, but picks up nicely in this third and concluding chapter. 4 to 4 1/2 stars. If you enjoy epic, heroic fantasy with a medieval religious bent in the vein of David Eddings or even Robert E. Howard, this trilogy is recommended for mature audiences.

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Gram's Gift

by Steve Goble

She watched him enter the rustic Sildrin temple. He was a hulk moving in firelight and shadow, and the people huddled in those cramped quarters readily moved aside from his path.

Sagra wondered at that; he was big, but he was alone and greatly outnumbered. Then she saw his face -- or lack of one. This stranger was the stuff of legend, one of the Faceless Sons, and his presence in this terrorized village confirmed her dark suspicions. The thing that scared these people, that had chased them into the security of this rustic temple of wood and stone fortified by protective runes, was indeed a demon.

And the Faceless Son was hunting it. That’s all the Faceless Sons did.

The rumors had brought Sagra here, too.

The villagers had been talking freely before the Son entered, more tales of mangled goats and strange yowls in the night. Now the ruckus died down to whispers, so many whispers Sagra could not understand a word. She saw many eyes turn from the Faceless Son to the winged god Iskan carved in wood on the mantel behind her, and noted how fingers fluttered in gestures of prayer.

Sildrin was not her village and Iskan was not her god, so she did not appeal to the carved owl for comfort. Sagra whispered instead an appeal to the world mother Hannahr, and reached within her cloak to feel the reassuring amulet that dangled from her neck. A trail of mysterious sightings, mangled cattle and twisted corpses had led her here. She’d followed that trail for weeks, healing wounds where she could and laying wards to keep beasts at bay. That’s what Gram would have done had she still lived.

At first, Sagra had thought a wolfpack or a rogue bear responsible for the deaths. Of late, though, she’d begun to suspect the truth. No one ever saw the thing fully, or heard it clearly, and Sagra had not yet shared her suspicion with anyone. But she’d studied much witchlore under Gram, and she’d learned enough to believe the beast was one of the seven demons unleashed by Gharan in his High Tower in Brythane almost a decade ago. The Faceless Son’s arrival in Sildrin turned that belief into crystalline certainty.

No ordinary hunter or armed party would end this creature’s ruin; it would be up to her, or so she had thought before the Faceless Son had come.

The amulet she clutched now was her weapon. Would Gram, knowing it was a demon she stalked, leave it to this masked stranger to slay the beast? Or would Gram have gone on? She could almost hear Gram saying, “People will keep dying if I don’t, dear. Who really knows what the Faceless Sons are about? Duty is duty. A witch is mother to all, and sometimes motherhood isn’t pretty.”

Sagra tightened her fingers around the amulet. Its solidity was a comfort to her. Gram had given it to her, and Gram was no longer around to cope with illnesses and sores and predatory beasts. But she had left Sagra this weapon.

The Faceless Son carried a weapon, too. His was a massive warhammer, its head glinting in the hearthlight like the plate armor that covered his shoulders and chest. The Son seemed made entirely of hard muscle, bright armor and bronzed skin, save for the pale mask that hid all of his face except for the eyes. Those were as hard as his armor.

Sagra stood near the hearth, where the aroma of cooking food helped mask the unpleasant scents stirred by hundreds of villagers crammed into a temple after the day’s labors. The Son approached. His gray eyes peered at her, but he said nothing. He leaned the long-hafted hammer against the hearth, then pulled a knife from his belt and cut himself a slice of the spitted hog. Impaling his meat on the knife, he took up the hammer and turned to go.

“Wait,” Sagra said.

He turned.

She drew close to him, rose on the tips of her toes and whispered, so as not to alarm anyone. “There’s a demon out there, true?”

“Somewhere,” he said.

“I can help you,” Sagra said, settling down to her heels again but quickly standing erect because she felt so small next to this massive man. She shook her head to send the straight blonde strands back over her shoulders where they belonged, and stared at him. “I want to help you.”

“Help me? A woman?” His masked face bobbed as he glanced at her booted feet, then slowly raised his gaze to her face again. “And weaponless? You will be of no help, and you will get yourself killed.” He turned to go.

“I am not weaponless,” she said sharply, “nor am I useless. I was apprentice to a witch, and I have tracked this monster for many miles.”

But the Faceless Son continued toward the door, striding through a gauntlet of curious eyes and pointing fingers and hushed words. “A village witch is useless, an apprentice even more so. This burden is mine,” he said. “Not yours.”

Sagra followed him outside, where the pale moon and mist made a ghost of the forested world. “I have magic — strong magic,” she said.

He had lifted his mask to eat. He stood a while, his back to her, and wolfed down most of the morsel. Sagra’s temper flared further at this show of disdain. Finally, he flung the rest of the meat aside and sheathed his knife, then lowered his mask before turning.

“I have magic, too.” He hefted the hammer, then dropped its head into the earth with a thump that sounded as though a tree had fallen. Sagra swore she could feel the blow reverberate in the ground beneath her. “This hammer has forged blades for kings, for centuries, and carries still the touch of magic from every blade it hammered. And it has crushed a demon’s skull once already. I have no need of help, nor would I have you put your life at risk on my account.”

“I am a witch,” Sagra said. “Almost, anyway. Protecting these villages is my duty. I’ve sworn an oath.”

“You cannot protect them from the thing that lurks out there. You are young, and pretty. Go home, and brew love potions and make nostrums and raise babies. This burden is mine.”

Sagra stepped toward him. “Because your father unleashed the demon?”

He stared at her. “I do not speak of it,” he said harshly.

“I know the tale,” Sagra said. “Gram told me of it. Gharan brought forth seven monstrosities to help him supplant the king, but they ripped the wizard apart and ran forth to ravage the world. Gharan’s three sons renounced their names, and now hide their faces from sight of gods and men until they can rid the world of their father’s shame.”

“Mere village folklore,” the Son said, but she could hear his voice strain on the words as he tried to control his anger. He turned toward the woods.

“You have noble blood,” Sagra called, “and think all the world revolves around Brythane and its court. But we have magic here in the hinterlands, too. Look!”

She tugged the amulet from around her neck and held it defiantly as the Faceless Son turned again. “A demon’s eye.” The glazed globe peered at him from within the clutches of a falcon’s severed leg. “Gram, my teacher, made it. It wards demons, and can send them back to their netherworld if they but look upon it!”

The Faceless Son approached, and gently took the amulet from her. He looked upon it a long while. “I know something of magic, woman.”

“My name is Sagra.”

“Sagra, then. I’ve yet to meet a village witch who could do more than ease the sniffles. This amulet is nothing. A witch’s charm, nothing magic in it. The eye came from a bull, I’d say.” He dropped it into her palm.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s a trifle, to make the unlearned sleep easier at night,” he said. “That is its only magic. It has no power over the thing I seek.”

He strode into the woods and vanished.

Sagra fumed. The man’s arrogance galled her, and she wanted to hurl herself on this Faceless Son and pound him with her fists. But she knew bruised knuckles would be the only result.

She stood, shaking with rage, until coming to her decision. She remembered Gram holding the amulet aloft long ago, on a night when demons howled in the woods. The demons would not dare approach it, she’d said. “And if they do, child, I’ll show it to them and they’ll run back to their hell to trouble us no more.”

Sagra now possessed that weapon, and had determined to use it against the demon because that’s what Gram would have done. Now this Faceless Son was here, and tales and songs of these grim masked warriors abounded. The Faceless Son could no doubt handle the demon... but the Faceless Son had disregarded her.

That, Sagra could not tolerate.

She marched into the woods, her ears catching every snap and thunk as the Faceless Son hammered his way through the forest. Branches clawed at her and snagged her cloak. Sagra wondered if the Son had a clear destination in mind, or simply planned to wander until the demon pounced. Were he less of an imbecile, he might ask her for a spell to point the way, she thought.

She could not yet see the Son; he moved swiftly for a man so big. But he left a trail of broken saplings that was clear even in the dim moonlight that fought its way through the branches.

The Faceless Son’s din stopped suddenly, and Sagra held her breath a moment. She expected to hear the sounds of battle -- demon roar, hammer blow, battle cry. But all she heard was her own pounding heart.

An owl broke the silence.

After a pause, Sagra crept forward along the Faceless Son’s mangled trail. The ground was uneven, rolling like waves, and her imagination conjured ambushes all around her. She stopped every few steps to listen, but the unnerving silence filled the night.

She had never heard silence in woods at night. It was wrong; there should be wind rustles, night birds, insects.

She topped a rise, and a bright shimmer below her made her gasp. Then she recognized the moon, reflected from a still pond. The pale orb reminded her of the Faceless Son’s masked face. Of the Son, she saw no sign.

She went to the water’s edge. Deep bootprints in spongy ground and mud told her the Faceless Son had gone around the pond, and she followed. Looking along the pond’s edge, she finally saw his head towering over reeds as he skirted the pond. The massive hammer leaned on his shoulder.

Odors, wet and thick, filled the air. The silence made the scene seem unreal, a fitting place for a demon. She removed the talisman from around her neck, and held it before her like a sword. Moonlight washed the glaze that covered the eye and the raptor leg that gripped it.

A roar ripped the silence, and stopped her breath. Sagra dove behind a tree, and was crouched there even before the horrid cry ended.

She heard another roar, a hammer blow, a scrape of metal. The fury in the roar, and the strength of that hammer blow, promised a quick and bloody end to the fight; either the Faceless Son or his foe had to succumb to such violence. But the thrashings continued, blow after roar after scream. Two voices filled the night, a bestial growl and human cries of very human pain.

Sagra cursed herself for a coward and sped forward, brandishing her amulet. She tripped on a root once, and splashed a boot in the pond, and sank almost to the ankle in mud. But she fought on, rushing to aid the Faceless Son.

She halted, gape-jawed, when she came upon the battle.

She did not yet see the demon. But she saw the Son hurtle through the air, stretched out like a javelin. She gasped as his shoulder hit a slender tree with a force that bent it over. The Faceless Son tumbled in a clatter of armor and a spray of blood, and the hammer that had forged dozens of magical blades vanished in a thick tangle of branches.

Then the demon pounced snarling out of the shadows. It was far larger than the man it had hurled. Broad shoulders gleamed red, and yellow eyes glared from a skull adorned with horns. Its tongue rolled obscenely from a mouth rimmed with shark teeth. Claws stretched toward the Faceless Son as the thing drew near him.

Sagra steeled herself, and leapt toward it. She tried to sound like Gram: “Fiend! Back to your hell! I command it!”

She lifted high the demon’s-eye amulet, holding the falcon’s leg like the hilt of a blade. The demon looked upon the talisman -- and licked its lips.

It turned its full attention upon Sagra, and walked forward with strides longer than Sagra was tall. Its talons groped the air before it, and its nostrils widened like caverns as it sniffed and sighed. Its teeth gleamed wetly in the moonlight, and its breath was steam almost thick enough to obscure the glowing yellow eyes.

Sagra backed away. “Back to your hell! I command it!”

Still, it came.

Sagra’s mind turned upon words of power, something to lend strength to the amulet. She shouted these now, and brandished the eye.

Still, the demon came.

She had said the words properly, she knew. She had used them before, in healing and in blessing crops. But they did nothing now, did not even slow the approach of the foul thing.

Sagra thought to run, but her knees shook and she realized the monstrosity could be upon her in one great leap. She gulped the chilly air, and it tasted like death.

Then a rain of blood sprayed from the back of the demon’s horned skull. Another, and she heard the snap of bone and saw the glowing eyes go dull. The beast spat blood in a fountain that rained hot on Sagra’s face. She wiped away the burning blood with her hand, and felt new blisters on her face and fingers.

The demon stood, silent, twitching, staring at her for long, long, long seconds — until its knees collapsed and it fell in a heap.

Beyond the demon’s corpse stood the Faceless Son.

His armor plates dangled loosely, his chest heaved with effort and his massive warhammer was drenched in gore. Twigs and leaves were caught in the gaps and rents of his armor plates. Demon blood sizzled on his armor, on his bare arms, across his pale mask. Crimson stained the white mask, and the blood-soaked fabric clung to his skin.

Sagra could find no words for many heartbeats, and the Faceless Son merely stared at the demon’s corpse. Finally, she caught her breath and her heart slowed a trifle.

“You were right,” she said quietly, gazing at the amulet. “No magic here at all.”

The Faceless Son looked at her. “I was wrong,” he said.

He walked toward her, stepping on the dead fiend as though it were a bridge. “You have magic, Sagra, but not here.” He took the amulet from her.

She stared past the streams of blood on the mask and into the gray eyes behind it.

“You have magic, indeed,” he said, “but it is here.” He touched the amulet to her breast, over the heart. “Your spell is courage, a rare enough magic. I might have realized that earlier, had I been willing to listen. I am glad you hunted down the demon. If you not been here, I never would have landed the fatal blows.”

“But Gram lied to me,” Sagra said quietly. “The demon was supposed to flee. She told me this bauble had power over demons, even used it once to keep them away when we could hear the yowling at night. I’ve seen her cure the sick, and rid homes of vermin and...”

“You were a child then, when the demons howled and she quelled them with this?”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

“And you were afraid of the howls, no doubt.”

“Of course.”

“Then Gram’s magic worked, and you spent the night unafraid,” he said. “Perhaps she was as frightened as you, but could not show it. She knew you needed her to be strong, and she was. She could not control the demons -- probably wolves, you realize -- but she could ease a worried child’s mind.”

Sagra sighed. Eventually, she smiled wanly. “Perhaps. Maybe, even, she’d have told me the truth of it one day. She’s gone now. Maybe she never got the chance.” Sagra smirked. “Still, I thought she’d given me such an awesome gift.”

She could not see the smile beneath his mask, but it showed in his eyes. “I suspect she’s the one who gave you your courage. And I, for one, am grateful,” he said.

She thought, for a moment, she saw desire in his eyes. She knew men thought her beautiful. But the look vanished quickly, and Sagra wondered if the Faceless Sons denied themselves worldly pleasures as part of their penance.

After a pause, he spoke again. “And I’m grateful, too, for the company of a brave woman. Come, walk with me and tell me more of village witchcraft.”

© Steve Goble 2005, Reprinted With Permission
This story originally appeared in Amazing Journeys Magazine
(Issue #9, Fall 2005, Edited by Edward Knight)
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.

Steve Goble writes fantasy, horror and science fiction, plus some poetry. One of his short stories was an honorable mention in “The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror 2008,” edited by Ellen Datlow, Kelly Link and Gavin J. Grant. He has published more than 20 short stories (some featuring the Faceless Sons), a novel, and is beginning a new novel featuring his sword and sorcery protagonist, Calthus. He blogs at Swords Against Boredom.

About the Faceless Sons...
Steve Goble writes:

The Faceless Sons stories revolve around three brothers who have given up their identities and hide their faces behind masks, and will do so until they have slain the demons unleashed by their power-hungry wizard father. It’s pure sword & sorcery, sometimes told with one of the Faceless Sons as the protagonist, and sometimes told with someone else as the point-of-view character. I have a few other tales in the sequence, looking for homes in one nice publication or another.

The Hunter of Shades

The Hunter of Shades
by Donald S. Crankshaw

Talyon Ajunar moved through the forest with both care and grace, his footfalls gliding over the ground to find firm footing without cracking either leaf or twig. He traveled lightly, needing only two things for the hunt: a trail to follow and a means to kill, neither of which slowed him down. One he had taken from his dead sister, the other from his brother and Sovereign, and now he was fully prepared as he neared the end of his hunt. His prey thought the hunt was only beginning, but they also believed that they were the hunters and he the prey.

It had begun as a whisper, a rumor among the elite. It was from among them that the first victims were taken, although no one could say by what. The first few disappeared in the night only to be found days later, burned beyond recognition and sometimes deformed and misshapen as if trapped in the midst of Becoming. The speculation was as wild as the dark woods which had claimed them. Some said dragons, others wraiths, still others demons from the very depths of Sehol or the Angel of Death sent by Elarun Himself in judgment. That anything at all could do this to one of the People was worse than terrifying - it was unimaginable.

The People were as close to Immortal as anything in this world, untouched by the ravages of time which destroyed all else and unthreatened by all but the most dangerous of creatures. The murder of their own caused a dismay that bordered on panic. In the wake of these murders, first came the family to scour the place of death with senses both physical and spiritual, only to find it blank, empty and unKnowable, as if wiped clean of the evidence that deaths usually left behind. Then came the adventurers, the thrill-seekers, the self-appointed bounty hunters; these only added exaggerated imaginings to a tale that was horrible enough already. Finally, the Sovereign sent his Stalkers, who never failed once they had their quarry’s trail, but this time they found no trail to follow.

The soulless Slaves were the first to actually see the enemy and live. Years after the first deaths, as the killings began to spread from an isolated corner of the kingdom to locations throughout the continent, the Slaves began to see the creatures, which they described as having the height and proportion of men, but shrouded in shapeless shadows. These shadows moved quickly but silently, keeping to the darkness as they hunted in their ghostly packs. “Shades,” the Slaves named them, and the People, who had no better rumors to go by, picked up on the name. These faceless creatures never touched the Slaves, but pursued any of the People whom they found out of doors and alone at night.

No, not just any of the People. Although the Shades weren’t always choosy, they preferred the rich over the poor, the proud over the humble, the harsh over the gentle. The best of the People. If any master treated his Slaves too sternly, they would begin to mutter hopefully of the Shades. Their prayers were answered often enough to make the People wary of their own Slaves, an indignity not to be endured.

Though the forest canopy hid stars and moon to make the ground invisible even to his eyes, Ajunar’s silent steps found sure footing among the new layer of dead leaves. He touched his hand to a nearby tree trunk, feeling its sharply ridged bark beneath his palm, Aware of the flow of its life, made sluggish by the coming winter. He let his Awareness widen to take in trees and animals both, stretching out further and further until it stretched for miles. He still could not detect his prey, but he sensed a wrongness in the forest’s pattern to the south, a trembling of the plants, an agitation among the animals. All of the forest’s life flinched away from something that he couldn’t . . . quite . . .

There! It wasn’t a thing he was looking for, but a nothing, a blankness in his Awareness. Now that he knew what to look for, he wondered how he could have missed it: a moth-eaten hole in a tapestry could not have been more obvious. Had those of the People caught by the Shades sensed them as he did now, or had they simply overlooked them as he had at first? He suspected the latter. All the People were Aware, but none of them had Ajunar’s instincts.

Ajunar was neither his given name nor one of those meaningless court titles his brother was always handing out. The name, which meant “hunter” in the People’s language, was one he had earned. His peers had initially given it to him mockingly, then in outright scorn, then with reluctant respect. By now, his exploits had given his peers reason to speak the name in awe.

All the People hunted when they wore animal shape. With all of nature to choose from, who would Become the prey when he could be the predator? Whether the wild chase of the wolfpack, the patient stalking of the panther, or the lightning dive of the falcon, every one of the People knew the thrill of the hunt. To Talyon, however, the hunt was more than the instinct of the shape, it was the reason for it. Whatever shapes he chose were selected for the hunt, and he, alone of all the People, hunted in his natural shape as well. In his natural form, with full access to the abilities which animal shape so reduced, he could out-hunt any mere animal. This took the challenge out of the simple hunts of the animal predators, the pursuit of deer or rabbit, so he sought out more challenging prey. Before Talyon had reached adulthood, he had tracked down and captured one of the two-headed cerber. He was barely two hundred when he had captured the more dangerous gryphon, and shortly afterwards he even killed one of the ghostly chimera. His exploits won him more disdain than respect from his peers until his success against a nearly grown dragon.

Tracking a dragon to its lair had not been as simple as he had expected. Talyon’s previous hunts had taught him patience and perseverance, but this endeavor had sharpened both to a razor’s edge. Dragons hid their homes with mystical power and cunning, and Talyon had had to chase after rumors for over a year before he had pinpointed the lair, and even then it had taken a month of searching before he had figured out how to penetrate its protective power. After days of studying the dragon’s hunting habits, he had entered its lair while the dragon was gone and laid his trap. Talyon knew he could not take on the dragon directly, so he had used his abilities to Shape the lair into a deathtrap. Even then, the dragon had nearly escaped, and if it had been a bit older and a bit wiser, Talyon would have been its trophy rather than the other way around. He had managed to keep ahead of the dragon, adapting and re-Shaping the trap as his plan fell apart. Determination in the face of catastrophe had won that desperate battle, and that victory had won him his reputation.

He could run. He had sensed them soon enough that he knew he could make a clean escape. That was not his purpose, however, so instead he changed direction, not walking straight toward them but moving closer nonetheless. He wondered whether his sister had run. There had been signs that she had, signs which only his eyes had discovered. He could not be certain, however, and he had a hard time imagining Salu running from anything.

Ajunar had never been close to his sister, intolerant of her selfishness, shallowness, and vanity. Next to these irritating traits, the stories about her petty cruelty were wholly irrelevant. What did he care how she treated her Slaves? He had no trouble believing that she would tease her male Slaves with her body, then punish the unfortunate fools who dared to regard her with lust, going so far as to Shape their minds so that they were no longer capable of the offending feelings. Such behavior was distasteful, like seducing an animal, but he found it amusing that his peers found her Awareness of her Slaves’ emotions more scandalous than the seduction. It took effort to ignore the emotions which leaked from the Slaves’ minds as readily as from an animal’s, but most of the People blocked them out as a matter of course. Had Salu really enjoyed their uncouth feelings, or was she, like Ajunar, simply too alert and inquisitive to ignore what her spiritual senses could tell her?

When the Shades killed Salu, Ajunar had been the first to investigate the scene. Like the other killings, there had been nothing to Know. Probing with his mind turned up no trace of the murder on her body or the surrounding woods. Neither had there been a scent for him to find in wolf-shape. Most of the People would have given up then, but Ajunar was more observant and more patient. He had seen signs of struggle: displaced leaves, broken branches, footprints. There had been some attempt to hide and remove the signs, so the scattered footprints had been too few and too shallow for him to determine whose feet had made them, much less to follow them, but they indicated physical creatures, not spirits called by the Slaves’ prayers. Nevertheless, the Slaves had to be the key. Whatever these creatures were, there must be spies or informants among the Slaves for them to get their information. How else could they target the People whom the Slaves most hated, catching them alone and offguard?

He had taken on his sister’s Slaves, all the females and the whole males. He had killed the males Salu had damaged in her punishments, since he had no desire to have such aberrations in his household. He had no reason to fear destroying the informant, since those Salu had Shaped were no longer capable of such independent thought. Like his sister, he let himself be Aware of them. He refused to delve into their minds and Know them, but he observed them carefully.

The light sprang into existence so suddenly that at first he mistook it for a flash of lightning. Only when it failed to die out as quickly as it had appeared did he notice the long shadows stretching across the brightly lit forest floor, not trees but vaguely man-like forms. He looked towards the source of the light, shielding his eyes against the white radiance shining from what appeared to be half a dozen miniature suns floating behind black shadows. The shadows had roughly the dimensions of men, but he could only make out vague shapes with heads and arms. The leaves rippled heavily but silently as the eight phantoms glided toward him. Ajunar kept his expression still, hoping it would be mistaken for shock, since he did not want them to see his pleasure. He had drawn them into his trap.

While Ajunar lacked his sister’s petty sadism, no one would call him a kind master. His Slaves were animals, useful pets but potentially vicious, and he treated them as such. He punished laziness with a whip and rewarded diligence with small treats. Outright disobedience he tolerated not at all, so he never gave a Slave the chance to disobey him more than once.

With a few exceptions, he treated the Slaves he had inherited from his sister no differently from his own, save that he watched them more closely. Two in particular caught his attention. Both men, Cain and Seth, reeked of resentment for their lot in life, although Ajunar had no idea what other lot they could hope for. The field Slaves had less direct oversight from the People, but the household Slaves certainly lived better, and while stories persisted of escaped Slaves, those few who were not recaptured could not have been any better off than wild dogs. Still, these two Slaves wanted something more, but even with his suspicions, Ajunar was not willing to Know them, since that carried risks beyond the unpleasantness of touching their unclean minds. Even the Slaves could sense a Knowing.

Instead he kept them close, cultivating their resentment into a personal hatred of himself. It proved surprisingly easy to manipulate their emotions even without Shaping them, simply by giving them meaningless tasks and then punishing them for not performing them to his unattainable standards. Once Ajunar had given them motive, he only needed to hand them opportunity. Twice now he had let slip his hunting plans to Cain, whose slyness made him the more likely candidate. His ruse had not borne fruit until now, when his pawn had been Seth.

Now Ajunar turned to run, Becoming in mid stride. The change flashed through him, stretching and shifting his body from his natural shape toward the familiar form of the panther. Then the Becoming stuttered and slowed, from flashing quicksilver to oozing amber, and he landed heavily on his stomach, the wind rushing out of him with a sound halfway between a man’s shout and a cat’s yowl. He was caught halfway in his Becoming, in an unfamiliar in-between form. His clothes had vanished already, leaving short bristles of stiff black fur to cover his body. A snout had formed from his face, but his mouth still maintained most of its original shape. His arms seemed closer to his own than the cat’s, but the stubby fingers and missing thumbs made his hands useless. Worst of all, his legs were bent halfway between cat and man, leaving his knee joints unformed so that his lower legs flopped uselessly behind him. For the first time he felt the cold rush of fear. He had prepared for this encounter, but he had not expected to be so helpless.

Ajunar liked his brother Lainor little more than his sister. He meant to avenge Salu to preserve the family honor, however, and if his foppish brother couldn’t see the need for that, then he didn’t deserve the position he held. While it didn’t surprise him that Lainor’s unbridled ambition had led him to make the Challenge, Ajunar still didn’t know how his older brother had won the duel for Sovereignty. He suspected foul play, but he kept his suspicions to himself. If Lainor wanted to spend his life making inane laws and appointing useless officials until some other fool Challenged him, then let him, as long as Ajunar could make use of his brother’s authority when necessary.

Ajunar had gone to see his Sovereign before each of his ruses. Lainor’s initial inclination had not been generosity, and he had grown even more reluctant each time. Ajunar had forced Lainor to see that this hunt depended on his Sovereign help. It had taken strenuous arguments to convince Lainor that the hunt needed patience and his continued support each time Ajunar went out, even if the first two attempts had failed to lure the Shades. Frustration with Lainor’s stinginess had nearly caused him to go without his aid, but Ajunar knew better than to go hunting without the proper weapon to bring down his prey, a weapon which had to be invisible, lest the prey see the trap before it sprang.

Ajunar tried to crawl through the dirt and leaves on his deformed limbs, the scent of rot in his superior nostrils. The brightening light was his only indication of the approach of the Shades, since he could no longer sense even the blank walls of their minds. His Awareness was gone, as if his spiritual senses had gone blind. When he heard the crackle of footsteps on dead leaves a few feet behind him, he turned onto his back, exposing his naked body. The movement twisted his crippled legs and the pain nearly drowned him. He was still trying to complete his Becoming, but nothing was happening. He felt his focus slipping, so he let it go and abandoned himself to this pitiful shape. Ajunar looked up at the shadows, just vague black shapes against the brilliant light, until his cat eyes adjusted so he could make out the figures. The shapeless masses resolved into manlike shapes shrouded in hooded black robes which hid every feature of face and body, even the hands enfolded by the sleeves.

“Wha... Ar! Wha’ are you?” Ajunar asked, his half-transformed mouth unable to produce all the sounds he needed.

“We are your judgment,” said the one in the center. His words came clearly, spoken in a form of the People’s language, but not as the People spoke it. Although the words were precise, they sounded as if they were unfamiliar and unwanted to the mouth which formed them.

“Who are you ’o ju...jush... me?” he asked.

“I stand witness to your crimes,” said a Shade two removed from the first speaker’s left. “Abuse and murder, as well as collaboration in the oppression.”

“Wha’ o’ression?”

“Enough,” said the first Shade. “The guilt or innocence of the accused is not in question. Our task is to carry out the sentence.” He raised his arm, exposing a calloused, dark-skinned hand in the white radiance. Ajunar could feel energy crackle and he knew that it was aimed at him, but he could not move or summon up an ounce of his own power. He tried to send a mental call, Help me!

He may as well have just thought it, for it reached no mind except his own. No help came. The Shades continued watching their leader, whose hand had begun to glow with a gathering energy, while Ajunar still twitched back and forth, unable to act effectively in his present form. He looked longingly at the forest, which had deadened to silence as the night’s creatures fled the Shades. All that remained in the night were Ajunar, the Shades, and the shadows. Had his brother betrayed him? With a trap even Ajunar could not see, how hard would it have been to promise help and then withhold it? A liar as skillful as Lainor could deceive someone even as alert as he. Perhaps he should have run when he had the chance.

No, he should not have. Whatever the indignity of his current condition or the horror of his approaching death, it was nothing compared to the shame he would have suffered for running away from creatures such as these. He would either defeat them and claim victory, or die with what dignity he could manage. He snarled at the Shades, his half-cat form vocalizing his feelings more truly than his natural form could ever manage. Ajunar struggled to sit up, something his current physiology was wholly unsuited for, but if he could not meet death on his feet, he still refused to meet it on his back. With one arm supporting him, the other lashed at the Shade, the extended claws doing little more than tearing at the hem of his robe.

Meanwhile, the glowing hand became brighter, crackling with a brilliant white energy, its light illuminating the leafy ground more than even the glowing spheres which blazed behind the Shades. Or perhaps the spheres had dimmed. Both trees and Shades cast long, stark shadows radiating out from the center of power. Within those shadows, two figures of deeper darkness took form. Like the Shades, they were vaguely man-shape, but taller and less substantial, with bodies which the light leaked through. The shadows hid them, so that even Ajunar was uncertain that they were really there until a flickering crimson aura embraced them, an aura which their glowing red eyes reflected. While the Shades still hadn’t noticed them, focused as they were on their leader, one of the shadows raised an ebony claw with four identical, many-jointed fingers springing from a single point. With a twist of its wrist, the wraith traced the wavering edges of a glowing diamond in the air. A sickly green light lopsidedly filled it, giving the diamond more substance than the wraith who had traced it, and the odd jewel shot toward the Shades’ leader, whose hand now glowed too brightly for Ajunar’s eyes. When it struck, the man stiffened, and a green glow pulsed over him before he collapsed, the light in his hand leaping skyward as a globe of energy, igniting the red and gold leaves overhead as it shot through them.

The other Shades whirled, surprised by the sudden attack. Most of them blinked blindly into the light of their own spheres, but one yelled “Stalkers!” as he hurled a ball of blazing orange energy at the nearest wraith. It passed directly through the insubstantial creature, but the white bolt of lightning which leapt from another of the Shades proved more effective, and the Stalker it touched twitched and howled in sudden pain. The Stalker’s scream tore at Ajunar’s sensitive ear, a whistling sound unlike any made by a living creature, like wind tearing through some horribly twisted tree. The sound startled the rest of the Shades into action, their light sources lifting into the air to float among the tree limbs where they could illuminate without blinding, though the light they cast was speckled and uneven. The air crackled with energy, and Ajunar could taste the Shades’ power on his tongue. The Stalkers countered with their own power, and wavering spheres met invisible walls, blasts of energy broke on glowing cubes.

Ajunar again tried to change his shape, and the ease with which his form flowed confirmed that the Shades had abandoned their hold on him. Body and instinct Became the familiar panther, and all the wrongness of the past few minutes slipped away. His sharp nightvision focused on the creatures in robes who fought shadows darker than themselves. His lithe body moved with deliberate silence, crouching, muscles bunching in preparation. Then he sprang, body stretched to full-length as he flew through the air, claws outstretched to meet his target, then impacting, rear legs rushing forward to join forelegs in tearing, shredding, mauling. The Shade fell to the ground, and the panther sprang from his target as quickly as he had attacked, leaving his dazed victim bleeding and bruised but still alive. He Became his natural form then, and this time struck with his own power. He Shaped the air around the Shade he had just mauled, the one who had claimed to be a witness to his “crimes.” Just now struggling to rise, the Shade suddenly found himself unable to breathe in the unexpectedly sparse air. He struggled for a few moments, perhaps trying to summon his own power, before he collapsed into unconsciousness. Leave that one to me, Ajunar sent to the Stalkers. He turned to face the other Shades, realizing that the woods had become dark again.

He wasn’t needed. The Shades had put up a fierce fight, but they were no match for the damned souls they faced. The Stalkers were creatures from another time, dead but bound to this world, eternally enslaved to the Sovereign. While some of the Shades’ attacks had caused pain to the Stalkers, they couldn’t kill what was already dead. The wraiths’ alien hands traced deadly, power-laden shapes in the air; their touch drove the soul from the body. While the Shades had thrown blazing fire and crackling energy at the Stalkers, the wraiths had coldly and methodically killed them one by one, barely slowed by the Shades’ defenses. Most were burned in some way by the Stalkers’ ghostly flames, but one robe looked like it covered a shapeless mass, while only an undamaged skeleton remained of another. Unless... was it the same body with its bones somehow displaced? Ajunar averted his eyes, as some things distressed even his stomach. Even more disturbing, although in an entirely different way, was the Shade who showed no injury at all, lying on his back and staring at the heavens, a look of unmitigated terror on his uncovered face. A human face. It was so like one of the People’s, but lacking the blazing hair and deep eyes which they possessed, dull and soulless even while it had lived. He was not some spirit, not some supernatural beast, but one of the Slaves! With the hood tossed back and the face exposed, Ajunar could not mistake his drab features for anything else, even without his Awareness of the creature’s ordinariness. Elarun forfend! If the Shades are Slaves... How do they possess such power? Slaves no more have souls than rocks do.

He shifted his attention to the ravaged but still living Shade at his feet. With the blazing spheres of light gone, it was almost completely dark, the Stalkers’ crimson auras failing to illuminate anything. Ajunar didn’t need to see in order to examine his prey, as the emptiness which had formerly shielded the Shade from his Awareness was gone. The dark form lay in an unmoving heap shrouded by his torn robes. He still breathed, and Ajunar could sense that his injuries, though serious, were not life-threatening. He crouched down next to the Shade and pulled the hood away from where it clung to the bloody face. It was his Awareness of the man’s mind rather than what he could view of the face that allowed him to recognize him as a Slave from his household, and after a moment he could remember his name. Caleb was one of the Slaves he had inherited from Salu, but he was not one of the two he had suspected as an informant, as Caleb had never given any sign of dissatisfaction that Ajunar had sensed. Steeling himself, Ajunar reached out to the unconscious man, touching the coarse mind and Shaping it to wake the Slave. As an afterthought, he added a twist to the Shaping which would make him more talkative. He hoped it would work--he had no desire to Know the creature well enough to Shape with certainty, and his touch was like a man reaching into sewage to retrieve a precious jewel.

Caleb stirred, groaning, and his brown eyes fluttered a moment before opening and then focusing on Ajunar’s emerald ones. “M-m-master?”

“Don’t call me that, Slave. You just tried to kill me.”

Caleb just stared at him in confusion for a moment, then he turned his head to look around him. Seeing the fallen Shades and his own black robes, he turned his head back, eyes wide now. “If I lie, you’ll just Know my mind, won’t you?” At Ajunar’s nod, he continued, “And I suppose you’ll kill me no matter what?”

“Probably,” Ajunar said. He could sense Caleb’s fear; it was a wonder he was coherent at all. “However... Are there more of you? I can’t believe the panic which the Shades have caused is due to just those here. If you were to tell me where I can find more of your kind, perhaps I would spare your life.”

“There are more, hundreds more, but I only knew those here, my fellow students. The Teacher might have known more, but he must be dead now, and I didn’t even know who he really was.”

“So you wrap yourselves in black robes to protect your identities not just from the People, but from each other as well. It won’t do you any good. I can find you all, even if I have to Know the mind of every Slave in the Sovereignty.”

“You can try.” Caleb paused to spit out the blood leaking into his mouth from his shredded lip. “There are too many Slaves for you to probe all their minds, and I know the People’s reluctance to touch the minds of Slaves. We’re trained to discipline our thoughts and emotions, so we won’t give ourselves away to your Awareness. Even if you find a few of us, no one even knows their Teacher’s identity, so we can’t give away more than our fellow students.”

“These Teachers, what do they teach you?”

“Magic.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s what we call it. Magic. The power to shape reality with our minds.”

“Slaves don’t have the ability to Shape!” Ajunar said. Whatever these Slaves were doing, it was not Shaping. Only the People had the spiritual Awareness which allowed them to Know, Shape, and Become. For the Slaves to have that ability would mean that they too had souls, and that was absurd.

“You’re wrong! Not all humans can, and those who can need to be taught how, but we’re learning. When enough of us know how, we will not be your Slaves any longer!”

Ajunar glared at Caleb, frustrated by the dead end at which he had arrived. How could these Slaves be so clever? By keeping themselves anonymous, both to outsiders and to those lower in the hierarchy, there was no way for Ajunar to root out all the Shades using this one prisoner. He’d have to find the top, but considering the short lifespans of the Slaves, the first couple of generations were sure to be dead by now. That left going through the entire Slave population in order to find the Shades. Unfortunately, Ajunar wasn’t Aware of anything that separated this human from any other, and, like most of the People, he had a distaste for touching a Slave’s mind in order to Know it. He would have to, though. If enough of the Slaves learned this “magic,” then they could truly be a threat to the People. He needed to search this one’s mind for some way to separate the Shades from the rest of the Slaves. So he reached out with his mind, determined to find out everything this Slave knew, but his probing thumped against an invisible barrier. Anger and just a trace of fear goaded him to pound against it, again and then again, slowly wearing it down.

He was Aware of the energy building in the air, but he ignored it as he focused on breaking the barrier over the Shade’s mind. Then some force knocked him over backwards, and he tumbled through the crackling leaves. Gasping to regain his lost breath, he twisted to his feet, brushing the dead leaves from his hair. One of the Stalkers stood in front of him, blocking his path to the Shade he was determined to break. Ajunar opened his mouth to command it to stand aside when energy erupted in dazzling light behind it.

Forgive me, Master, the Stalker said in a soundless voice. But you were too close to its power.

Through the Stalker’s transparent figure, Ajunar saw lightning crawling over the Shade’s body, spreading from the fingertips Caleb pressed against his own chest as he performed his last act of defiance. Convulsions shook him, following the pattern of the coruscating energy. His mouth was opened in a scream drowned out by the thundering power, and smoke poured from his mouth and eyes. Then the energy stopped. The Shade jerked once more in a powerful, full-body tremor, and went still. Ajunar stared at the smoking corpse with its burned skin and empty eyesockets, then began to curse. He had caught his prey, only to have it slip through his fingers.

Eventually his curses wore to an end. The danger was even greater than they had believed and the whole of their society might collapse under the weight of what he’d discovered, but as his harsh breathing and racing heart began to calm, a slow, fierce smile formed on his lips. He had been mistaken earlier, when he had thought he’d reached the end of the hunt. Indeed, the hunt had just begun.

© 2007 by Donald S. Crankshaw
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.

Donald S. Crankshaw has a Ph.D. in Electrical Engineering from MIT, and currently works as a radar engineer in the Boston area. As this gives him little outlet for his writing obsession, he founded the Storyblogging Carnival on his web log, Back of the Envelope, as a way to share his writings. He also leads a creative writing group at his church.

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