CONTENTS

FOREWORD – JOSEPH A. MCCULLOUGH

THE LEGEND OF FROSTGRAVE

THE BARGAIN – MATT WARD

FORGE AND CRUCIBLE – SARAH NEWTON

THE THIEF OF TIME – JONATHAN GREEN

SWORD CERULEAN – BEN COUNTER

THE DEVIL’S OBSERVATORY – M. HAROLD PAGE

HOMECOMING – MARK A. LATHAM

IN DARK PLACES – M.J. DOUGHERTY

BEST SERVED COLD – KAREN MCCULLOUGH

TIME TO SPARE – DAVID A. MCINTEE

THE COLDER STARS – DUNCAN MOLLOY

MIND OVER MATTER – GRAEME DAVIS

FOREWORD

It’s hard to say exactly where ideas come from. In the case of Frostgrave, the Frozen City, it began with my search for a suitable setting for a fantasy skirmish wargame I was writing for Osprey. I had many discussions about it with the game’s editor, Phil Smith. We knew that it needed to be someplace exotic, some place that had a bit of inherent magic. We discussed all the classic possibilities – lost desert cities, vast temple complexes in the jungle, even an underground world. All of these have long traditions in fantastical fiction, but were discarded for one reason or another.

I can’t remember who first mentioned the idea of a ‘frozen city’, but once it was out there, my imagination couldn’t let go of the idea. A few years ago, I booked a romantic weekend getaway for me and my wife to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. With its incredibly preserved medieval old town and its large Russian Orthodox churches, I figured it would be a wonderful place to visit. In my enthusiasm, however, I failed to do the proper research and booked the trip in February, when the average temperature is -10˚ Celsius. As it turned out, the temperature never got that high during our trip...

It snowed about a foot the night we landed in Tallinn and turned that beautiful, medieval city into something truly magical. True, we could only see it in short bursts, exploring in wonder, until our freezing fingers and numb faces forced us into a coffee house. Because of the snow, the city was quiet and seemed empty, almost as though it had frozen over and been forgotten.

Well, I’m not saying that Frostgrave is based on Tallinn, exactly, but I am sure that trip had a profound influence on my creation of the Frozen City. Now, with the game released, I hope people will find a similar enchantment in the setting and tell their own stories of adventures amongst the ruins.

It’s amazing to see this collection of stories based on something I created, and to read tales set in Frostgrave that I could never have imagined. Hopefully, this collection is only the beginning and we will all see many more stories of the Frozen City.

THE LEGEND OF FROSTGRAVE

Long ago, the great city of Felstad sat at the centre of a magic empire. Its towering spires, labyrinthine catacombs, and immense libraries were the wonder of the age and potions, scrolls, and mystical items of all descriptions poured forth from its workshops. Then, one cataclysmic night, a mistake was made. In some lofty tower or dark chamber, a foolish wizard unleashed a magic too powerful to control. A storm rose up – an epic blizzard that swallowed the city whole, burying it deep and leaving the area as nothing more than a vast, frozen wasteland. The empire was shattered and its magic faded. As the centuries came and went, Felstad passed from history to legend and on into myth. Only a few wizards, clinging to the last remnants of magic knowledge, still believed that the lost city had ever actually existed. But their faith was rewarded.

After a thousand years, the fell winter has passed. The snows have receded, and Felstad has been uncovered. Its buildings lie in ruins, overrun by undead creatures and magic constructs, the legacy of the empire’s experiments. It is an evil, dangerous place. To the few hardy souls who inhabit the nearby villages, the city has acquired a new name – ‘Frostgrave’ – and is shunned by all right-thinking people. For those who seek power and riches, however, it is an unparalleled opportunity, a deadly maze concealing secrets of knowledge long forgotten...

THE BARGAIN

Matt Ward

Markos risked a glance around the flank of the pillar, into the ruined cloister. Reinhart’s twitching corpse lay half-hidden in a bloodstained snow drift, the spear that had taken his life still lodged in his chest. A dozen skeletons stood around the body, shreds of barrow-garb twitching in the wind.

The midnight wind grew in pitch. It whistled through the gaping holes in the roof, driving gusts of snow across the cloister and rattling the few surviving stained glass windows.

Damn Reinhart, anyway! He’d been supposed to scout the monastery before signalling the rest of the company to follow. Now the captain and his men were dead, and Markos was alone. All because Reinhart hadn’t paid attention.

That wasn’t true, Markos knew that. Reinhart had been a perfectly competent sword-hand, a veteran of twenty expeditions. No, it wasn’t fair to blame him, but Markos wasn’t feeling particularly fair. Cold, frustrated, and more than a little afraid, but not fair.

Markos risked another glance around the pillar. As one, the skeletons turned to look in his direction, a dozen fleshless heads swivelling towards the pillar.

Draga! They’d follow him all across the city now they’d noticed him – Markos had seen it too many times before. Press on to the temple, or flee to safety? That was the question. There was no choice, not really. It might be weeks before he could round up enough hirelings to attempt another expedition, weeks in which someone else might find the place. Of course, Markos had no idea how he’d defeat the guardian alone...

Markos reached into his pocket and closed a hand around the ruby amulet. He felt the warmth of its magic melt away the cold, and a little of his fear. It was all he’d been able to recover before the temple’s guardian had driven him away. It had been his touchstone ever since. He could even have sworn that the amulet was alive, after a fashion. If he could just unlock its secrets... And there were others like it in the temple. He had to get back there. He just had to.

Markos scrabbled in the snow with his free hand, numbed fingers seizing on a fist-sized lump of rock. Holding tight, he let the magic well up inside him, and sent it flooding through his fingers. At once, the rock began to glow. Markos smiled. Sometimes the simplest spells were the best. He counted to three and stepped out from behind the pillar.

‘Here, catch!’

Markos lobbed the rock. The lead skeleton stared blankly at it, then disintegrated as a deafening explosion shook the cloister. Markos saw two more blown apart by the shockwave, heard fragments of bone clacking off the walls. The others were knocked off their feet. They’d be on their feet soon enough, but every delay was welcome.

It was less than fifty paces to the heavy oak door at the cloister’s end, but Markos was breathing hard by the time he reached it. He told himself that it was the snow dragging at his heels, and not that he was unfit.

Outside, the snow gleamed in the moonlight, an alabaster expanse broken only by a path of ice-sheathed slabs, rugged headstones, and spread-winged statues with curled horns and leering faces. Beyond, through the fitful blizzard, the familiar, jagged shapes of Frostgrave’s ruins reached skyward, like the shattered teeth of some long-dead behemoth. In the middle distance, just before the point at which swirling snow swallowed everything in sight, Markos glimpsed a rooftop statue many times his height, its arms reaching up towards the heavens. The temple was closer than he’d thought.

Spurred on by that cheering thought, Markos’s next step wasn’t as cautious as it should have been. His only warning was a sudden crackling of ice. Then the slab beneath his feet fell away, taking him with it. With a yelp of surprise, he fell forward, clawing for purchase on the ice. His breastbone slammed into the rim of the newly-opened pit, the shock of it nearly jarring him loose.

Markos kicked uselessly against the pit’s sides. He could feel his grip slipping as the ice began to melt from the heat of his fingers. He was disgusted with himself: the simplest of traps, and he’d fallen for it, quite literally. And then there were the skeletons to consider. Even now, they could be out of the cloister, lining up a spear thrust on his spine. He jerked his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the door. Too late, he realised his mistake. The sudden motion broke his tenuous grip.

‘No!’ Heart pounding, Markos slid backwards into the yawning pit.

A pair of gloved hands locked around his wrists, bringing him to a sudden halt.

Markos looked up. His rescuer was a dark-eyed woman clad in pale travelling leathers and a white cloak, her red hair billowing back and forth in the wind. Her face was familiar, but he’d never been close enough to catch the scent of magic about her. It was bitter and cloying, like that practised by summoners.

‘You should watch where you’re going, enchanter.’ The words tripped off her tongue like music played in a minor key.

‘Get off me!’ The words were instinctive, and escaped before Markos recognised their foolishness.

‘That’s not very grateful of you. But if that’s what you want... ’

He felt her grip slacken. ‘No, wait!’

She arched an eyebrow in amusement, then hauled him up out of the pit.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to stay here. I’ve got “friends” right behind me.’

‘Me too.’ She gestured away down the hill. ‘Some idiot set off a loud bang, awoke every grave-born for miles around.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait. It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Goodbye.’ Turning his back on the woman, Markos set off through the graveyard, more careful of his step than before.

The woman followed him. ‘Not very friendly, are you? I thought perhaps we could help each other out.’

Did she not take a hint? ‘I’ve no interest in working with a thief.’

Markos risked a glance behind. His pursuers had at last emerged from the monastery. The skeletons were hardly visible through the snow, but he knew that wouldn’t matter. The eyes of the dead saw the world differently to those of the living. He increased his pace.

The woman laughed. ‘A thief. Is that what you think I am?’

‘You were creeping around outside my home the night before last, and the one before that. So yes, I think you’re a thief. You’re just not a very good one.’

If she was offended, she hid it well. ‘Does that mean you’ve something worth stealing, then?’ When he didn’t answer, she scowled. ‘Oh, alright. Yes, I’ve been watching you. Yes, you’ve something I want, but I thought we could bargain for it.’

‘And what could you possibly have that I’d want, thief?’

‘Redelle,’ she corrected. ‘Well, I did just save your life, but I suppose we’ll consider that a gesture of good will.’ She paused, clearly weighing something in her mind. ‘Look, I know you’re going to the Temple of Mitara, just like I know that you can’t defeat its guardian alone. Admit it: you could use my help.’

Her words gave Markos a moment of pause. She wasn’t telling him everything, he was certain of that. And yet... He’d not yet learnt the temple’s name. If Redelle had, maybe she knew other things.

‘And what would I have to pay you?’

‘Not much,’ she said. ‘Just that ruby amulet you carry. One treasure in exchange for many. It’s a good deal.’

It was indeed, as much as Markos hated to admit it. Again, he was struck by the idea that Redelle knew more than he did. Why that amulet in particular? There were others just like it in the temple. On the other hand, if he refused, there was every likelihood that she’d try to steal it – probably off his dead body after she killed him, if it came to that. Better to keep her where he could see her. It was that or kill her first, but instinct told him that such a confrontation would leave him too weary to face the guardian with any hope of success.

He nodded. ‘Agreed. We have a bargain. Your help, for the amulet – but only once the guardian is defeated.’

* * *

Wary of treachery, Markos tried to keep Redelle in sight while they travelled through the ruined streets. Despite his vigilance, she vanished from his sight on too many occasions – though she always appeared again just as Markos was on the brink of calling out to her. Each time, he blamed the white cloak and chided himself for overreacting.

Markos glimpsed the skeletons through the blizzard several times, never close enough to offer further danger, but never far enough away to let him hope they’d found some other prey. He never caught sight of those who’d been pursuing Redelle.

Before long, they’d reached the long, winding stair that led into the temple.

‘You need only distract the guardian,’ he told Redelle. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

She offered a mock bow, in the process almost slipping on the ice-crusted black marble. ‘Your wish is my command, enchanter.’

The temple’s precincts were as dilapidated as Markos remembered. Most had suffered collapses in the past, and were strewn with piles of icy rubble. The outer sanctum was the first chamber they entered that still had a roof. Its marble walls were graven with ancient runes and stylised depictions of long-forgotten warriors.

‘These walls used to shine,’ Redelle said, running her hand over the stone. ‘A pity. Are you ready?’

By way of answer, Markos heaved the inner sanctum’s door open, and passed inside.

The chamber beyond was just as he remembered. It wasn’t a large room, perhaps twenty yards square, but it was at least sixty tall, crowned by a vaulted glass ceiling that had somehow survived the passing centuries. A golden altar lay in the room’s centre, flanked at each compass point by a statue of a kneeling woman. Each of the figures had a gem-crusted stave clasped in its right hand, and three wore amulets about their necks. The fourth amulet was missing, or nearly so – it already lay in Markos’s pocket. The other artefacts were heavy with enchantment. They had to be. The room was thick with magic: layers and layers of ancient spellcraft blurring and blended together through proximity to one another. It was intoxicating.

At the back of the room stood a fifth statue. It was larger than the others, and fashioned in the form of an armoured knight, bearing a sword longer than Markos was tall. Except it wasn’t a statue at all, but a golem – the temple’s guardian. Markos shuddered at the memory. The last time, he’d had a full company with him, but they’d all been weary from the fight with Frostgrave’s other denizens, and in no shape to fight a construct of that size. They’d barely escaped with their lives, and with only the amulet to show for their troubles. Things would be different, this time.

Markos nodded to Redelle. She walked to the side of the amulet-less statue, and plucked the staff from its hands. At once, the guardian awoke. Blue fire blazed from its carved visor, and the great killing sword came up. It lumbered towards Redelle, each step grinding against the flagstoned floor. In response, she raised the staff, and sent a tongue of flame hurtling across the chamber. It splashed across the golem’s chest, leaving scorch marks in its wake, but still the golem advanced.

Redelle backed away, luring the guardian to the far corner of the room. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

Markos reached into his pocket, and produced a curl of parchment tied with a single black ribbon. It had cost him a month of searching, and no small amount of coin, but at the moment it was priceless. Unfurling the scroll, he began to read.

‘Senall, voc no ren ti.’

His vision blurred as the magic welled up through him, the syllables of the incantation shaping it into usable form. On the other side of the room, the golem hacked down at Redelle. She darted aside, and the sword slammed into the floor, shattering a dozen flagstones.

‘Desca ryn vall, torak.’

Distantly, Markos realised that the golem was ablaze, Redelle’s fires somehow finding purchase on its stony hide. But brighter than the fire was the blue spark of the guardian’s tiny mind, revealed by the spell.

‘Segorvi, malak!’

The guardian froze in place as Markos seized control of its mind. For a moment, the enchanter felt inexpressibly heavy, as if the golem’s limbs were now his own. Then the spark of its mind winked out, and Markos’s consciousness returned to his own body. He blinked away a brief moment of confusion, and brushed the dusty remnants of the scroll from his fingers. The golem remained frozen in place.

‘Took you long enough,’ said Redelle.

She didn’t look at all out of breath, Markos noted, despite her exertions. The staff looked at home in her hands, as if it had been made for her.

‘Don’t complain,’ he said, reaching the altar.

‘I wasn’t,’ she said archly. ‘Why do you look so disappointed?’

‘Those words of command should have given me control of the guardian, not destroyed it.’ He shook his head and grimaced. So much for being able to haul the golden altar away – he’d needed the guardian to lift it. ‘Never trust a merchant.’

‘Now who’s complaining?’ Redelle asked. ‘And speaking of trust, I think you owe me something.’

Markos scowled. He couldn’t have done this alone – he’d never have completed the incantation without being pulverised. Still, now the moment was here...

‘A bargain is a bargain,’ Redelle said softly.

‘Yes... Yes, it is.’ She’d kept her part, he ought to keep his. With a grunt, Markos reached into his pocket, produced the ruby amulet, and slid it across the altar towards her. ‘Here, and... thank you.’

Redelle smirked. ‘No enchanter, thank you.’

Quick as a snake, she raised the staff, and brought its heel down on the amulet. There was a brilliant flash of light, then darkness.

* * *

‘Wake up, enchanter.’

Markos opened his eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in the back of his head. A woman was sitting on the edge of the altar, one leg crossed over the other. It was Redelle, and yet... not Redelle. Her features were the same, but paler than before, and her once-dark eyes now blazed red. Her cloak and leathers were gone, replaced by a dress of rippling flame that curled and puddled around her feet. She made for a beautiful sight, he had to admit, but it was the beauty of a forest fire, or a waking volcano – best admired from a distance, or better yet, in memory.

‘Three thousand years I was trapped in that gemstone,’ she said. ‘Three thousand years! Can you imagine it? And all because of a few senseless taboos about the proper use of magic, and upon whom it is used.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Markos. He had a horrible feeling he was going to have to fight her to get out of the temple alive. The problem was, he felt exhausted. The command spell had taken more out of him than he’d realised.

‘Foolish man. This isn’t a temple... Well, it is, after a fashion, but it’s also a prison. The gemstone was supposed to be my cage. When you stole the amulet, you took a piece of me also. When you poked at it with your petty little magics, you cracked the enchantments, just enough for me to manifest a body.’ She spread her hands. ‘Now, I’m truly free.’

Markos steeled himself, and cut straight to heart of the matter. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

Her lips hooked into a predator’s smile. ‘I could have done that before you awoke.’ She looked past him, towards the sanctum’s door. ‘But I’m afraid your grave-born playmates are almost here, and they’ve found a few friends. You’d better get going, if you want to avoid them.’

Markos swore. It didn’t seem fair to be leaving empty handed. But did he have to? ‘You said I’d be able to take the other treasures. That was the bargain.’

Redelle swept an expansive hand around the room. ‘That was indeed the bargain. Help yourself. None of it is of any value to me.’

Markos reached out a hand towards the nearest statue, and froze. Only three of the four still stood. Of the fourth, the one that had borne the ruby amulet, nothing remained but stone fragments. A prison, she’d said. Were the statues the other prisoners? Perhaps leaving empty handed wasn’t so bad, after all.

Without another word, he left the sanctum, and began the long walk home.

When the young Matthew Ward wasn’t reading of strange worlds in the works of C.S. Lewis, Tolkien and Douglas Hill, he was watching adventure and mystery in Doctor Who, and Richard Carpenter’s excellent Robin of Sherwood series.

In 2002, he joined Games Workshop and spent the next decade developing characters, settings and stories for their Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 universes, as well as for a successful series of licensed books set in J.R.R Tolkien’s Middle-earth.

In 2014, Matthew embarked on an adventure to tell stories set in worlds of his own design. He firmly believes that there’s not enough magic in the world, and writes to entertain anyone who feels the same way. He lives near Nottingham with his extremely patient wife, and three attention-seeking cats.

FORGE AND CRUCIBLE

Sarah Newton

Zanne’s face was pale beneath the grey. ‘I can’t get to it,’ she gasped, white in the freezing air, wiping blood and sweat from her eyes and leaning heavily on her great axe. ‘Jagis’s warband has it too well protected. And that damned dwarf! I’d face Budru on open ground any day – but it’s too dark down there, and with all the ice and tumbled stones... ’

Gimilio laughed humourlessly at the amazon from his lookout. The rays of sorcerous light, which swept out into the darkness from the centre of the amphitheatre, played over his features, a livid gash across his cheek from the recent fighting. ‘They’ve got us surrounded good and proper, princess. Out-thought and out-manoeuvred. Next comes the bleeding and dying.’ He looked around at their makeshift redoubt – little more than a tumbledown pile that had once been a building – and curled his moustachioed lip.

‘You’re just as trapped as we are, pirate, in case you hadn’t noticed. Or are you already plotting how to grovel for your life? I suppose being a slave in a Kaggerdath galley won’t be much of a come-down for you. Assuming they even let us live.’

‘It’d be warmer, at least... ’ The Lammergarian shrugged and turned back to the uncanny flickering light, pressing his lips into a thin, bloodless smile. ‘We don’t even know how many of them there are... ’

‘Are we going to die, Master?’ Tolly, the apprentice, looked alarmed.

Distracted from his deliberations, Sarendar the Grey Stalker, sorcerer of the city state of Lammergar, shook his head. ‘What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly. This is just a minor tactical setback. Now let me think – I must understand what this is.’

They had gotten so close. Tolly lay down again on the frost-covered stones and gazed from the redoubt at Angall’s Crucible. It had been exactly where the ancient map that Master Sarendar had found in Lammergar library had said it would be – at the heart of the frozen city of Frostgrave, emerging from its millennial entombment beneath the ice. But was this what they had come for?

‘I don’t get it,’ Gimilio hissed, as if divining Tolly’s thoughts. ‘Why doesn’t Jagis just take it, if that’s what we’re all here for? A gem that size would be worth kingdoms.’

As he spoke another beam of light swept across his face, momentarily dazzling him. He looked away, screwing up his eyes, and spat.

‘She’s waiting for something... ’ Sarendar said. A hundred yards away, in a bowl at the centre of the rubble-strewn circle which had once been the tribunes for an audience long-dead, the fist-sized gem shone like a fallen star. It floated above a pedestal of frost-fractured marble and rotated, slowly, bathing its surroundings in a scintillating display of light. A crucible. Angall’s Crucible. But a crucible for forging what?

‘Waiting... ’ the sorcerer repeated. ‘Perhaps we should wait, too... Aah!’

A cry broke from his lips, and he clutched at the dagger which suddenly protruded from his back, his face distorted in pain.

‘Then let’s pass the time together, old man!’ A ruddy-faced villain leapt from the overhang of fallen stones behind them, his sword blade flashing in the gemstone’s rays.

‘Ambush!’ Zanne cried, scrabbling to her feet. ‘Another attack!’

From the shadows bowled a second shape – low and solid, like a patch of shadow bristling with spikes. The twisted features of the black-bearded dwarf snarled in the flickering light, and a huge maul, bigger than he was, swept a lethal arc before it. ‘Still trying to run, little sister?’ it leered.

Zanne spun. Heaving her great axe into a clanging, shuddering parry, she stumbled backwards out of the redoubt and into the amphitheatre, silhouetted by the kaleidoscope light. The black dwarf thundered after her, bellowing, forcing the fight into the open.

Behind Tolly, Gimilio drew his cutlass, and sprang between the ruddy-faced assassin and Master Sarendar, who still clutching in agony at his back.

‘Get out of here, lad! Both of you!’

Tolly turned, but a roaring wave of sound slammed into him, and he was deaf, all hearing muffled. Tendrils of smoke coiled round his limbs, round his neck, nose and mouth, pulling him away. He fell backwards, clutching in panic at his face, unable to breathe.

A pale figure in dark robes stepped from the shadows, his outstretched hands manipulating the spell of suffocation. As young as Tolly, yet his face was twisted with fear and desperation.

Tolly’s vision darkened, the charm of dispelling dying on his lips.

Dimly, he saw Sarendar stagger over him. A blinding flash of light, and a bolt of energy screamed from the sorcerer’s hands and slammed the pale intruder in the chest, hurling him from the hollow. The youth shrieked with pain, and suddenly the coils binding Tolly were gone.

He gasped for air. His eyes flashed, as if everything were brighter. No... everything was brighter: the gem at the heart of Angall’s Crucible shone with renewed brilliance, illuminating their struggle as light as day.

‘Jagis!’ Sarendar shouted, half collapsing against the stones. ‘Show yourself! Is this what the Kaggerdath Domain has come to? Backstabbing and ambushes in the dark?’

The sorcerer broke off, buffetted by Gimilio, retreating before the scything hail from the assassin’s sword.

‘A little help, Sarendar!’ the pirate cried.

A scream of rage and agony split the air above the amphitheatre. In a fresh blaze of light from the floating gem, Zanne staggered backwards, her face streaked with blood and fury, her left arm dangling useless at her side. Her good arm dragged her great axe along the ground, and she struggled to gain purchase and lift it.

Budru the black dwarf hefted his maul again, and bared sharpened teeth in a steaming, infernal grin.

Gimilio shouted in frustration. His eyes flicked desperately to Sarendar, then he renewed his attack on the assassin with a flurry of cutlass blows. ‘Help her!’ he yelled.

Wracked with pain from the dagger in his back, the sorcerer spat the incantation through clenched teeth, his hands raised like claws. Between them, the air glowed then burst into flame, and in a wild gesture of abandon he flung his arms forward, hurling the conflagration through the air.

Too late, the dwarf reacted. His face fell, and then the bolt of fire slammed into his side, splashing like molten metal to engulf his squat frame. He screamed, collapsing to one side under the impact, thrashing and wreathed in flame.

As if kindled, the gem shone brighter still. A blinding nimbus now surrounded it, masking the ruins behind, a wall of light taller than a man, spreading upwards and downwards and to the sides. Sarendar raised his hand to shield his eyes; at its heart he saw a shape where the gem had been – shards of an image, as if looking through a door. A door opened by the dwarf’s agonised cries – as if empowered by his blood and anger.

Realisation flooded into him. He took in the ritual at a glance. A ritual, which drew its strength from their struggle, led by...

Zanne had turned her face from the wave of heat which swept from the blazing dwarf, and stumbled, exhausted, dragging her axe; she collapsed to her knees, bleeding, against the icy shadows of toppled stones, flickering in black and red. But not just stones...

‘Behind you!’ Sarendar raised an arm in warning.

Too late.

From the shadows stepped Jagis of Kaggerdath. Tall, made taller by her elaborate headdress, and clad in green and gold brocade in intricate symbols of power, the olive skin of her face twisting with a look of exaltation and triumph. Serpentine forces of darkness writhed between her hands, reaching for the helpless amazon.

‘Jagis! No... !’

She laughed, her eyes flashing. ‘So you’ve figured it out, at last? You fool, Sarendar! Angall’s Crucible is powered by the shedding of blood – and I have to thank you all for your sacrifice! The ritual is almost complete – with this amazon’s death, the portal will open, and I will seize the transcendence which Angall offers!’

Behind Sarendar, Gimilio and the assassin lowered their blades.

‘Sacrifice?’ the assassin spat, his eyes burning into the sorceress, his erstwhile liege. ‘We believed in you!’

By Tolly, the pale apprentice flicked his gaze from the assassin, then stared at Tolly in fury and disbelief, before turning, too, to hear the sorceress’s words of betrayal.

Zanne tried to heave her axe in her one good arm. Jagis laughed and uncoiled the serpentine spell.

In the redoubt, Sarendar whirled on Tolly. ‘Lad – pull the blade from my back! Use the Dweomer of Dulcimer to stop the blood!’

The apprentice stood open-mouthed. ‘Master – Dulcimer’s may do nothing. The pain!’

‘Do it!’ the sorcerer gasped, turning to expose the cruel blade. ‘Obey me!’

Eyes half-closed, Tolly reached for the dagger and wrenched it from his master’s shoulder blades. It came free and spilled a gout of blood. The sorcerer’s cry split the night air, and he fell to his knees.

The Crucible responded. Drawing the energy from Sarendar’s blood and pain, it flared with light, the portal gaping wider, opening fully to reveal glowing shapes of power beyond.

Surprise seized Jagis’s features, replaced by disbelief, then scorn. ‘You sentimental fool!’ she laughed. ‘You’d risk yourself to save this... ’ she looked down at the bloodied amazon ‘... mercenary? Really?’

She lowered her arms, and the serpentine darkness dissolved in shreds. ‘Very well – the amazon lives! And I claim my prize!’

Without hesitation, the sorceress swept her robes and strode triumphant into the portal of blinding light.

Everything stopped. Even the flames licking the corpse of the dead dwarf seemed to slow, then froze. Tolly felt the spell of Dulcimer, knitting the bleeding wound in Sarendar’s back, grow still beneath his hands.

Before the gemstone a hole gaped in the ground, a tunnel where none had been before. Above, the blazing light shifted, and reformed itself into the vast features of a man. A man of inestimable power and incontestable will. The face of Angall. The face of a god.

Its voice boomed into the air.

‘Those who would be gods – know this! True worshippers are not slaves, acting out of fear, but supporters and friends, acting out of love. They give their lives freely, not because they fear punishment, but because they believe in something greater than themselves!

‘This portal was opened by suffering. But who suffered? By whose command? Gods are born from suffering, so now must you be! Only worship can free you to become what you might be – worship, and struggle, and sacrifice. If you are worthy, your followers will give their all to rescue you. If you are not, you shall suffer until your pride and folly are burned away.

‘This is the truth of Angall’s Crucible, in which gods are forged.’

The booming words died in the frosted night air, still dazzling with sharp black shadows and icy brightness. The look of triumph on Jagis’s face, frozen, now cracked and fell, replaced by despair – and spite. She snarled, her eyes white and round as she glared from the portal – at the warband she had used and betrayed, who stared back, impassive and cold.

The weight of her doom fell upon her. She screamed, and the portal blazed, and she faded from view.

Tolly blinked. ‘Master! The door’s shrinking! It’s going to close!’

Sarendar wrenched his eyes from the fallen Zanne. Like flames licking at parchment, the light from the gem was already eating away at the edges of the portal. In moments it would be too small to pass.

‘Never mind!’ Sarendar said. He stumbled forwards. ‘Zanne needs our help... ’

Gimilio reached for him. ‘Our help, Sarendar – not yours! Go through the portal – that’s what we came for, isn’t it? To claim the treasure?’

The sorcerer stopped, looking at him wide-eyed. Before them gaped the tunnel the gem had opened, the entrance to Angall’s Forge, where Jagis twisted somewhere in agony, distant and unseen.

‘We’ll come for you, Sarendar. We’ll take care of Zanne. Trust us... ’

He reached out and clasped Sarendar’s arm. The sorcerer nodded, once.

‘Go! Before it’s too late!’

Taking one last look around, the sorcerer met Tolly’s eyes, and gave a grim smile. Then he turned, and threw himself into the dwindling portal. As he passed through, there was a flash of light, and a soundless explosion. Then – nothing. The portal was gone, and the frozen night closed in. Somewhere, perhaps, the fading cry of Sarendar, trapped in Angall’s Forge, on the cusp of transcendence, waiting for aid.

* * *

A pool of light shone from a single torch. All around, the toppled stones of the ancient amphitheatre loomed in the darkness, glistening with frost, as if a childish giant had kicked over building blocks in the snow.

Lygus the assassin and Apollin the apprentice fastened the charred remains of the black dwarf to a sled.

‘Jagis would have left him to the wolves,’ the assassin said to Gimilio, by way of farewell.

Gimilio nodded. ‘You fight well.’

‘You, too.’

‘Are you sure you won’t come with us? We could use you in Angall’s Forge. You’d have an equal share in whatever we find.’

Lygus shook his head. ‘This isn’t my fight, brother. Another day, perhaps. Look me up at the Black Galley Inn if you’re ever in Kaggerdath.’

Gimilio nodded, a grim smile. ‘When the war ends?’

‘When the war ends.’

Behind them Jagis’s apprentice looked down at Tolly, tending as best he could to Zanne’s wounds. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a phial of green glass, stoppered with wax.

‘What is it?’

‘A potion of quick-heal. It’ll help. She’ll need it for what lies ahead.’

Tolly looked up at the apprentice, uncertain for a moment. Then he reached out and took the phial. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Are you really going to try and save him?’

Tolly regarded Apollin’s frown. ‘Yes, of course. He’s my Master. And my friend.’

The youth shook his head. ‘Jagis would have sacrificed us all to open that portal,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I wish... ’ He trailed off.

Tolly nodded. Unstoppering the phial, he leaned forwards and poured the syrupy liquid between the amazon’s lips. Zanne licked at it, and swallowed. Almost immediately, a flush came to her cheeks, and the fingers of her dead arm twitched. She opened her eyes.

‘Damn... whatever the hell that is, it’s good stuff. I feel like I’m ready for anything.’ She lifted her head, and looked at the yawning entrance to Angall’s Forge, baring her teeth in a strengthening smile.

‘I wonder if Sarendar is?’

Sarah Newton is a writer of fiction and roleplaying games, co-owner of Mindjammer Press and fiction editor of the British Fantasy Society Journal. Her works include the far future transhuman science-fiction Mindjammer (novel, short stories, and award-winning RPG), The Chronicles of Future Earth, Legends of the Anglerre, Burn Shift, Achtung! Cthulhu and numerous short stories. She lives in a field in France, surrounded by farmyard animals.

THE THIEF OF TIME

Jonathan Green

The icy wind that cut across the ruined battlements of the keep bit as hard and as deep as a snow troll. It keened through cracked archways and howled around broken staircases. The only other sounds were the muffled footfalls of the warband, and the tapping of the wizard’s staff as he tested the frost-rimed flagstones before him, wary of traps even after so many frozen centuries.

Thauros Malefizeit paused, taking in his surroundings. The space before him had once been roofed. The pillars that had supported its vaulted arches were now broken stumps of masonry. Little of the chamber’s walls remained either, other than for those of the tower pinnacle that rose beyond the heavy, half-open double doors on the far side of the roofless hall. The scattered bones and remnants of ancient armour that lay about the place in untidy piles were not entirely unexpected either.

The climb to this high jutting promontory of the ruined city had been long and hard, fraught with snow troll ambushes and the hazardous nature of the ruins themselves. Thauros had lost one of the warband to icy stones and unsteady footing that had seen the wretch plummet to his death on the ice-black crags below.

Behind the wizard the remaining men-at-arms that formed his bodyguard made their way to the top of the broad flight of snow-dusted stone steps.

‘Spread out, and keep a watchful eye,’ the ruffian who led the warrior band commanded. The sergeant’s scarred face and the steely look in his eyes gave him the kind of countenance that would make any rebellious spirit think twice before challenging his orders. Thauros couldn’t remember the man’s name; after all, the sergeant, just like the rest of the warband, was expendable, as far as he was concerned.

The soldiers looked about them warily, alert to any signs of danger, unnerved by the ever-present moaning of the wind, certain that so great a prize as the one the wizard doubtless sought could surely not be so easily won.

Thauros leant his weight on his staff. He might look young, but he was older than his smooth, unblemished skin and sparkling eyes might suggest. The wind sent flurries of fat flakes dancing across the flagstones, but in the breezes that tugged at his robes and threatened to pull the cowl free of his head, he felt something other than the fell winter’s lingering chill. He felt promise and expectation. He sensed a future pregnant with untold power.

He looked at the hourglass atop his staff. As he watched, the steady trickle of sand grains falling into the lower bulb slowed until it finally stopped altogether. And then the sands began to shift and dance, a vortex forming within the glass in sympathy with the eddying motion of the wind about the tower top, and the grains began to tumble back into the upper bulb of the hourglass. In its turn, the icy wind became a blizzard that sent flurries of snow rushing across the cracked flags and scattering the piles of age-blackened bones.

It was then that the mage became aware of the golden glow suffusing the chamber beyond the double doors. And then the attack came.

The warriors emerged from between the open doors, their weapons clattering against the portal as they passed through, their bony footfalls echoing from the ice-skinned flags.

‘Defend yourselves!’ Thauros shouted, his authoritative roar cutting through the mournful wail of the wind and returning to him again from the broken walls of the keep. But his call to arms was unnecessary; the soldiers had seen the tower’s defenders too and had already drawn their weapons in anticipation of the battle to come.

Standing firm, his feet apart and legs braced, in readiness for what he was about to do, Thauros inhaled deeply, muscles tensing as he dipped a toe in the river of time itself, and drew just a fraction of its potential power to him.

As he directed the flow of chronomantic energy into his core, the men-at-arms advanced, relieved at last that they had something to fight, even if their foes were the walking dead.

The skeletons stalked towards the warband, deathly doppelgangers of the advancing soldiers, their bony carcasses still clad in the clothes and armour they had worn in life, although their clothes were now rags and their armour rusted and pitted with age. Their weapons had suffered the ravages of time as well, once carefully-honed blades nocked and blunted, the metal dulled by rust.

But regardless of the condition of their blades and breastplates, everything about the skeletons – from their garb to the way they held their weapons – spoke of their warrior heritage. In years long past, when these bones had been clad in flesh, they too had been masters of the sword and axe.

As Thauros shaped the surging power of the river of time into a potent spell, the sell-swords moved against the long-dead guardians of this place.

Swords clashed. Blows were traded. But while the skeletal warriors had clearly known a life of battle, in their undead condition their ability to perform the actions they once had in life had slowed. As such, the wizard’s warband had the advantage, just so long as they could put from their minds the fact that they were effectively fighting their own futures, the reminder of their own mortality never stronger than when facing these fleshless human forms.

But Thauros need not have doubted the men’s courage. They set about their enemy with such fury it was as if they were fighting Lord Death himself, with their own souls, and their continued existence, as the prize, should they prevail.

To the wizard’s left a burly barbarian clad in a snow leopard’s pelt locked axes with a skeleton with a rotting hide hung about its bony shoulders. Freeing his curved blade again, he smashed the skull clean from the skeleton’s shoulders with a scything chop.

To his right another undead guardian fell as an archer loosed an arrow at a skeletal bowman. The arrow severing its spine, the bones of the skeleton warrior clattered to the ground as the spell binding them together was broken, along with its shattered vertebrae.

Thauros put the actions of the warriors from his mind as he focused on harnessing the temporal power now surging around the tower top like a hurricane, with him at its eye. This was more than the fleeting vagaries of glimpsed possibilities or past lingering memories. It was greater even than the magical potential generated by the sands of time in the glass atop his staff. There had to be a source of great chronomantic power nearby.

His eyes closed as he concentrated on channelling the raw time essence ebbing and flowing like the tides around him, Thauros nonetheless allowed himself a brief smile. He had decoded the clues contained within the pages of the grimoire correctly. The artefact – the Eye of Amarra – was somewhere nearby.

And then the spell was ready.

Thauros could feel the power energising his every fibre, and trying to contain it felt like trying to hold the breath in his lungs at the bottom of a lake. And then he could contain that pent-up breath no longer.

The spell burst from him in an ever-expanding sphere, the shockwave of its passing visible as a ripple, as the force of the blast distorted the very air at its passing. Their backs to the blast, the men-at-arms weathered the storm, but the charm binding the skeletons’ beleaguered bones together failed. The skeletal warriors broke apart, becoming nothing more than piles of bones scattered about the shattered keep.

‘With me!’ Thauros commanded, flexing his shoulders, easing the tension in his muscles.

‘This way!’ the sergeant-at-arms directed, his men throwing the scattered bones wary glances as they made their way towards the half-open doors, as if half-expecting the skeletons to resurrect themselves and attack again.

The wind howling about inside the tower room was even stronger than the blizzard assaulting the icy battlements, such was the magical potency of the artefact contained within. But Thauros didn’t feel cold; this magical cyclone warmed him from the inside out as a million possibilities vied to become reality, as the future tried to take shape and overtake the present, the past nothing more than a distant memory.

As Thauros crossed the threshold, the golden glow became a blaze of brilliant light that consumed the tower chamber, causing the men behind him to gasp and stumble to a halt, their resolute determination quelled in the face of such unmatched magical power.

Shielding his eyes against the glare of the coruscating light, Thauros first saw the source of the radiance – a perfect sphere of crystal as large as a man’s head, resting atop a carved column of stone – and then the silhouette of the hunched figure standing behind it. Someone else, clearly another mage, had beaten him to the prize. The mage’s hands clasped the crystal, as if trying to contain the etheric energies rippling from the magical wonder.

‘Do not delay about your business,’ Thauros chided the warband, the prodigious power thrilling every fibre of his being. ‘I hired you for a reason.’

Angling his staff, he indicated the figure standing behind the plinth, attempting to wrangle the unfettered energies of the sphere. ‘Attack!’

‘Men of Arngard, do you want to live forever?’ the sergeant shouted, leading his men into the chamber at a run, his sword held high.

And then the soldiers’ pelting run slowed, as if the men were attempting to run through honey. But it wasn’t their charge that had slowed, it was time itself, or at least Thauros’s perception of it.

He witnessed every movement performed by the mage in crystal clarity. He saw the bolts of coruscating energy leap from the wizard’s outstretched fingertips. He saw the withering effects of the blasts on the doomed men of the warband. He saw their flesh shrivel, their eyes dissolve into puddles of slime inside their sockets.

He watched, in appalled horror and with no small thrill of excitement, as the men’s armour tarnished and their weapons corroded in their hands, the ravaging effects of untold centuries working upon the metal in seconds.

He watched until there was nothing left of the soldiers but bones and armour, their physical remains dropping to the floor, their flesh falling in grey drifts of dust about them, only to be picked up and flung about the chamber by the perpetual whirlwind.

And then the wizened mage, his long white beard almost reaching to the flagstones at his feet, turned the energies of the sphere against Thauros.

In an instant time sped up again, the rate of its passing continuing to accelerate. Thauros could feel the strength draining from his arms and legs, his staff suddenly heavy in his hands. But he resisted.

Where the wretches he had sent to their deaths had been mere mortals, Thauros Malefizeit was a timerider, a chronomancer, whose magic had tamed time itself and who had wrought spells that could unleash its undreamt of power at his command.

His vision blurred as cataracts clouded his eyes, like feathers of frost spreading across a window pane. But he would not be beaten.

Even as he felt his hair lengthening beneath the cowl of his cloak – the growing mass of it pushing the hood free of his head as years passed in mere moments – and the itch of the whiskers of a beard descending in long white strands from his cheeks and chin, he tightened his grip on his staff. Summoning what reserves of strength he had left, and focusing his mind once more, he drew a wisp of magical energy to him. Winding it about his staff, he brought it under his control before he unleashed it again, channelled through the sandglass.

The wizened mage was thrown back from the plinth and tumbled to the ground.

His spell cast, Thauros took a moment to catch his breath, letting the staff take his weight again. For a moment his gaze fell on his hands, although they didn’t look like his hands; they were arthritic claws barely covered with translucent, parchment-thin skin.

Suspecting that his attack had only wounded the mage, and knowing that if he did not finish the job he had started then doubtless his rival would seize the opportunity and finish him, Thauros hobbled across the chamber, past the plinth. Wincing against the golden glare still pulsing from the sphere, as he manoeuvred himself between the bones of the dead warband he caught sight of the mage again.

Thauros need not have worried about the wizard attacking him again; he had clearly paid the ultimate price for unleashing the power of the Eye of Amarra. The mage lay on the ground, his physical form crumbling to dust as Thauros watched, his robes seeming to burn under the attentions of the ferocious chronomantic energy, until dust and ash was all that was left of him. This residue was caught by the dancing zephyrs and blown from the chamber through glassless windows and the open doors, to be caught by the blizzard still howling outside, and carried to the four corners of Frostgrave.

As the old man died, so, at last, did the power he had unleashed from the ancient artefact. The molten light faded until the sphere appeared to be nothing more than a lump of lifeless crystal, darkly reflecting Thauros’s surroundings from its obsidian-black surface.

The roar of the magical wind faded and, left in silence, Thauros realised he was panting heavily. The battle with the mage had taken it out of him, both body and soul. He looked down at his withered frame and ran a liver-spotted hand through the long white beard that had sprouted from his chin. The chronomantic duel had aged him considerably. He looked his age now, something that could not have been said of him for a long time. He couldn’t allow that state of affairs to continue.

The Eye of Amarra was a source of great power; he had gleaned that much from the many ancient tomes and mouldering scrolls he had picked through, but more importantly he had witnessed it for himself. If he could unlock that power, as the other mage had done, he could then use those same chronomantic energies to reverse the aging progress and restore both his youthful countenance and vigour.

Laying down his staff, Thauros placed his hands either side of the round crystal. Taking a deep breath, he began to intone the incantation he had discovered inscribed within a frozen manuscript in one of Frostgrave’s long-forgotten libraries – the spell that would awaken the power of the Eye of Amarra.

At once, the same golden glow as before suffused the glassy black orb. The crystal felt warm to the touch, his muscles reenergised. The power swelled and he felt the etheric winds buffeting his cheeks, tugging at his robes and the long white hair of his beard. It took all Thauros’s focus to contain the magical energies of the Eye. He was only dimly aware of the flickering of the sky beyond the open windows, the flow of time surging through him now. It felt like a wild beast that he had to tame, twisting and bucking within his grasp, as if trying to break free. But Thauros would not relinquish his hold on it now. He had come too far to give up at the last hurdle.

As the magic continued to course through him, his senses became heightened to preternatural levels. He became aware of the world beyond the enclosed chamber, the blizzard raging across the battlements of frozen stone, and he sensed the presence of others upon the tower top. Men, treasure hunters, doubtless come to steal his hard-won prize from him.

He had fought too hard and given up too much to allow the Eye of Amarra to be snatched from his clutches just as he was on the verge of unlocking the secrets of the orb.

He had never had such potent power at his fingertips. Reaching out with his mind, he called to the bones of the warband, reminding the dead sell-swords of their oaths, reminding them that they had sworn to defend him.

And at his invocation, one by one, the skeletal remains of the sergeant-at-arms and his men clambered to their feet, buoyed up by the winds of the magical vortex. Weapons clutched in bony fingers, the tarnished remnants of armour and ragged clothes clinging to their skeletal frames, the undead mercenaries marched from the chamber, through the half-open double doors. Moments later the muffled sounds of battle being joined reached Thauros’s ears.

With a part of his mind concentrating on animating the skeletal remains of his erstwhile companions, Thauros had to battle even harder to maintain his control of the magical energies surging about the chamber. But moment by moment, he could feel the pressure on him easing, although this knowledge did not bode well for him. It meant that one by one his skeleton warriors were being cut down by the new arrivals. All too soon the division of his abilities was gone and he knew that his warband had failed to defend him once again.

Thauros was aware of someone entering the chamber, cautiously making their way between the double doors. Peering through the whirling golden light of the etheric vortex with rheumy eyes, he saw a figure dressed in long robes and clutching a staff in his hands. It was another wizard, and he was accompanied by his own band of brigands and sell-swords.

The chronomancer cursed inwardly, not having the breath left to give voice to his frustrations. He was so close to mastering the feral magic of the Eye. If he were to stop now, the backlash of uncontrolled energy would end him as surely as it had the mage before him. He couldn’t let anything distract him now.

Diverting part of his focus again, he formed another spell in his mind and lashed out with the full force of the orb’s power.

Bolts of coruscating energy leapt from his outstretched fingertips, striking the charging warriors. Where they struck, flesh withered, tabards and tunics became rags and the gleaming metal of their armour and weapons tarnished. All the other wizard could do was look on in horror as his defenders became nothing but bones, their spines, skulls and ribcages tumbling to the stone flags in disordered heaps. And then only the wizard remained.

Without a second thought, Thauros turned the pent-up energies of the Eye against the interloper. But where the soldiers had succumbed immediately, the rival spellcaster resisted. His pulse quickened as he realised that his rival was another chronomancer. Although the wizard’s flesh did not instantly turn to dust, Thauros’s rival began to age rapidly nonetheless. His clean-shaven jaw sprouted a beard while his dramatically lengthening hair pushed the hood of his cloak from his head.

And it was in that moment that Thauros caught sight of the other’s face and an icy chill gripped his heart.

He tried to call out to his rival, to call a truce, but his throat had constricted in shock.

Dispelling the aging hex, he focused fully on trying to reverse the aging process, rather than attacking the other wizard.

For his rival was Thauros Malefizeit, the same Thauros Malefizeit who had entered the tower chamber less than a turn of the sand-timer ago.

He had not recognised his own clothes to begin with, his vision blurred by cataracts and the colour of the robes altered under the golden whirling light emitted by the opened Eye. But his initial shock at the realisation that he was fighting himself, was swiftly superseded by the subsequent realisation that he had already seen how this scene played out, only minutes before – or was it hours? He wasn’t sure anymore – but from the other wizard’s point of view.

He had to stop this, and he had to stop it now, for he knew how it would end. He was living on borrowed time, and time had run out.

Lady Time could be a fickle mistress, as unpredictable and as unforgiving as her estranged consort Lord Death.

But he could not relinquish control of the orb yet, not without cataclysmic repercussions. He had to close the Eye with care, if only his younger self would give him the time to do so.

As Thauros fought to take control of the orb once and for all, his younger self fought to resist its power all over again.

Whirling his staff about his head, the younger timerider bound a fraction of the vortex’s power to his will. With a sweeping motion of the carved stave, he sent a lash of potent energy back at Thauros.

The spell struck, as hard as a giant’s fist. Thauros reeled backwards, breaking contact with the crystal. Frail legs gave way beneath him and he landed hard on the stone-flagged floor.

Lying spread-eagled on the cold stones, his decrepit body numb with pain, he gasped for breath. Through barely open eyes, he saw the orb atop the plinth, licked by ethereal flame. He reached out to it with one desperate hand, but even as he did so he knew it was too late. The sands of time had run out for Thauros Malefizeit.

The magical winds whipped at his body but rather than the warmth they had brought to his aching muscles before, now they brought the numbing cold of death. He felt those same muscles wither, his skin splitting and crinkling like a vellum scroll dropped on an open fire, the very flesh on his bones crumbling with every palsied twitch of his dying body, until finally blessed oblivion overcame him.

And then he was no more, every atom of his being blown to the four corners of the Frozen City on the zephyrs of eternity...

* * *

As the old man died, so, at last, did the power he had unleashed from the ancient artefact. The molten light faded until the sphere appeared to be nothing more than a lump of lifeless crystal, darkly reflecting Thauros’s surroundings from its obsidian-black surface.

The roar of the magical wind faded and, left in silence, Thauros realised he was panting heavily. The battle with the mage had taken it out of him, both body and soul. He looked down at his withered frame and ran a liver-spotted hand through the long white beard that had sprouted from his chin. The chronomantic duel had aged him considerably. He looked his age now, something that could not have been said of him for a long time. He couldn’t allow that state of affairs to continue.

The Eye of Amarra was a source of great power; he had gleaned that much from the many ancient tomes and mouldering scrolls he had picked through, but more importantly he had witnessed it for himself. If he could unlock that power, as the other mage had done, he could then use those same chronomantic energies to reverse the aging progress and restore both his youthful countenance and vigour.

Laying down his staff, Thauros placed his hands either side of the round crystal. Taking a deep breath, he began to intone the incantation he had discovered inscribed within a frozen manuscript in one of Frostgrave’s long-forgotten libraries – the spell that would awaken the power of the Eye of Amarra...

Jonathan Green is a writer of speculative fiction, with more than fifty books to his name. Well known for his contributions to the Fighting Fantasy range of adventure gamebooks, he has also written fiction for such diverse properties as Doctor Who, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, Sonic the Hedgehog, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Moshi Monsters, World of Warriors, LEGO and Judge Dredd.

He is the creator of the Pax Britannia series for Abaddon Books and has written eight novels set within this steampunk universe, featuring the debonair dandy adventurer Ulysses Quicksilver. He is also the author of the critically-acclaimed YOU ARE THE HERO – A History of Fighting Fantasy Gamebooks.

2015 sees the release of SHARKPUNK, an anthology of shark-themed stories that he has compiled and edited. To find out more about his current projects visit www.jonathangreenauthor.com.

SWORD CERULEAN

Ben Counter

‘You do not will yourself to action,’ said Oderic the Just, placing his palm against the snarling ghoul’s forehead. ‘You have no control. I forgive you your evil.’

Silver light pulsed from Oderic’s palm. The ghoul’s skull collapsed as if punctured and its dried, skinny body slithered to the pavement.

‘There will be more,’ said Sergeant Voss, one of the soldiers hired to accompany Oderic on this excursion into the Strangers’ Quarter of Frostgrave.

‘Of course there will,’ said Oderic. ‘Would we truly have a purpose here if there were not?’

Feral ghouls roamed this part of the city, lurking between the tumbledown tenement blocks and ill-made shanties. Once they had been citizens of this city, before a terrible calamity befell it and their bodies had frozen in the chill that followed. They had thawed out imperfectly, their flesh turned mushy and sagging. It was only the remnants of the cataclysm’s magic that kept them intact at all. The warband had met several ghouls, and Oderic had always stepped forward to despatch them with righteous magic before Voss and his men had the chance to cut them down with swords and halberds. Apprentice Loya clutched her bundle of books to her robed chest, glancing between the ramshackle buildings as if certain that undead hands would drag her into the shadows at any second.

Oderic did not look like a man who could despatch the hungry dead with such ease. He was old, with a voluminous white beard and long, lined face dominated by a hooked nose. He wore the white and silver robes of his religious order, a monastic group that studied arcane lore and philosophy in their cold mountain monastery, and had somehow managed to keep his vestments clean in the filth of Frostgrave. That in itself was proof of his magic. Every wizard called magic from a different place – Oderic claimed his was granted by the divine, channelled through him as an instrument of the gods.

‘We are surely close now,’ said Oderic. ‘Apprentice? Have we reached our destination?’

Loya opened one of the books she carried with her. It was a grime-spattered account of the city’s history, an extremely rare tome that had cost Oderic a lot more than hiring the men-at-arms who protected him. She examined the page, then looked around the surrounding buildings. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at a symbol carved into the lintel of one of the few stone buildings in the Strangers’ Quarter. It matched the symbol on the page, a human heart surrounded by a wreath. ‘The arms of Saint Eukeldus. That is the building we seek.’

Saint Eukeldus, patron of the afflicted and without hope. It was in his name that the plague hospital had been built – and it was only in the Stranger’s Quarter, among foreigners and beggars, that the ancient city council had permitted it to stand.

‘Then steel yourselves,’ said Oderic. ‘There is no prize worth the claiming, if it is not hard fought for. The trial lies within. Have faith, and it will shield you. Voss, gain us entry.’

Voss, with the face of one who had long since learned to tune out Oderic’s preaching, led his men DuPresne, Karl and Bolos to the front doors of the building. The doors had been sealed with planks of wood driven into the stonework. With some effort the soldiers prised the planks away and Voss kicked the door open.

All the men recoiled from the stink that rolled out. Apprentice Loya turned a shade of grey-green and covered her mouth. Only Oderic was unmoved.

‘Thus, with the crossing of the threshold,’ said the thaumaturge, ‘we bring light to the darkness.’

* * *

The plague hospital was a building of long, low wards, strewn with the mouldering remains of the beds on which the afflicted had been left to die. Cells for the most infectious, or those driven violently mad, led off from the main wards. Voss led the way, carefully picking through the trash that choked the stairways and corridors as the warband descended down through the levels of the hospital. The hospital’s building was built on older foundations, an armoury or storehouse that reached down through the layers of Frostgrave’s history deep into the earth. The total darkness was pierced by the torch that Bolos carried.

And the stench was everywhere. Death and decay, the nose-wrinkling sweetness of putrefaction, the meaty, throat-closing haze of flyblown flesh. When the great thaw had come to Frostgrave, opening up the city for rediscovery and exploitation, a great many long-frozen corpses were exposed to the elements. And a great many of them lay in the plague hospital of Saint Eukeldus.

‘Halt!’ hissed Voss as the warband crossed the centre of one ward where several bodies lay heaped up around the doorways. ‘Something is moving. Something has... ’

He got no further before a hand shot out from a pile of corpses and grabbed his ankle. Voss let out an odd, strangled sound as he was yanked off his feet. The corpses came to writhing, hungry life and three of them slithered over Voss.

Karl and Bolos grabbed Voss’ arms to drag him out. The torch fell to the floor and the ghouls cast writhing shadows across the walls and ceiling. DuPresne stayed with Oderic and Loya, sword drawn. More ghouls leapt from the shadows and DuPresne met one with a sword-thrust to the throat. Loya screamed.

‘Banish the darkness!’ yelled Oderic. In one hand a staff of golden light appeared, the sudden harshness of the light almost blinding. He wielded it like a spear, thrusting it through the chest of one ghoul. The undead creature burst in a shower of ash and a flare of sunlight.

‘Stay with me,’ said DuPresne to Loya. ‘I’ll protect you.’

DuPresne led Loya and Oderic towards the far end of the ward, where an open doorway led to a stairway winding downwards. The torch was smothered and there was only the noise of ghoulish slavering, and the muffled cries of the other soldiers as they were trapped beneath a growing heap of undead.

The three survivors stumbled blindly down the stairs. They bumped into an archway and stopped, DuPresne turning to listen for ghouls approaching from behind.

Oderic flicked a wrist and a bright light flared from his outstretched finger, illuminating the chamber beyond.

Even before the calamity, the plague hospital had been a place of the dead. Every day, bodies of the afflicted had been taken from their beds or cells. And they were taken here, to the place where magic once kept the unquiet flesh caged, where the rot and stench had been dampened down – to the corpse pit.

The bodies there were missing limbs, or had rotted down to brown skeletons. But the magical aftermath of the calamity had reached this place, too, and the pit stirred at the approach of living flesh.

‘There!’ said DuPresne, pointing towards a door set into the wall of the basement. ‘Hurry!’ he pushed Loya towards the door, his sword held out towards the bodies clambering over one another to escape the pit.

Oderic muttered words of power and flecks of orange-bright fire rained down over the corpse pit. Ghouls screamed where the embers touched their flesh and burned right through. But there were so many of them, and gnarled, dead hands reached over the lip of the pit.

Loya pushed the door open. Oderic followed her. DuPresne paused, ready to impale anything that tried to get through the doorway after them.

If he had just fled headlong, he might have made it. But the ghouls of the corpse pit rose like a breaking wave of rotting flesh, a mass of bodies rotted together, a dozen arms reaching, a dozen drooling mouths howling with hunger. Filmy yellow eyes were narrowed in rage as the wave crashed against DuPresne. He cried out, once, before the wave of decay smothered him and he was gone.

Oderic slammed the door. A sturdy bar fell against it. Ancient fingernails scratched against the wood, but the door held fast.

‘They’re dead,’ said Loya. In the harsh light of Oderic’s magic, her young, pale face glistened with sweat. Strands of her black hair stuck to her face. She still held her books, as if they were a shield that might keep the living dead off her if they broke through.

‘Do not mourn them,’ said Oderic. ‘They have passed on to the better world beyond. Rejoice that they have shed this world of pain.’ He played his light across the basement they had found themselves in, revealing ancient stonework, the foundations of some structure that long predated the hospital.

‘There,’ he said, a rare smile breaking across his face. He pointed to a stone coffin in the middle of the room. ‘The sarcophagus. Your research spoke true, Apprentice! There lies the body of the Crusader Lord Benignus, and the Sword Cerulean! See, Apprentice, how faith has proven itself? Fate put the living dead on our tails, and drove us to the very treasure we seek!’

Loya did not reply as Oderic knelt beside the stone coffin. He put a shoulder against the stone. Power flickered around him as he called on the strength of the divine and the sarcophagus lid shifted.

‘The Sword Cerulean,’ said Oderic. ‘Think on it! The weapon of the Crusader Lords, the blade that could vanquish the darkness itself! A thing of legend. And now I have found it.’

The lid thudded onto the floor. Oderic looked into the coffin, and his smile faded.

* * *

It had been a long and tedious task, writing whole volumes of false lore. Oderic was highly educated and would have spotted any leads that were too obvious. The trick had been burying the legend of the Sword Cerulean, weaving it around true tales and histories, so Oderic believed he alone had uncovered something wonderful.

Apprentice Loya brushed the hair from her face. ‘Have I done well?’ she asked. ‘Have I pleased you?’

The Liche Enkurt looked down at her with sunken, filmy eyes. They were set deep into the dried-out skull of his face. From the sarcophagus he drew the golden mask, the beautiful face he presented to the world, and clamped it to the bare bone of his cranium.

‘You have, my child,’ he said, in a voice as dry as dust. ‘In dreams I led you here, and you did not falter. You will be the first of my disciples. In time, when we are mighty, you shall rule over a great swathe of the world. You shall be a queen, answering only to me.’

The light conjured by Oderic had not died out completely. It was still enough to catch the tears filling Loya’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘Thank you, my lord... ’

Enkurt held up a hand to silence her as he stepped out of the sarcophagus. The liche’s ancient body creaked beneath his heavy purple robes and the dust of ages fell off him. It had been hundreds of years since he had sealed himself in, and when the thaw had finally come to Frostgrave, he had spent countless laborious nights sending dreams to likely acolytes. Then he had found Loya.

‘I must have more servants,’ he said. ‘The ghouls of this place will do for now but only the freshly-dead can serve my purposes.’

‘And what of him?’ asked Loya, pointing at the body of Oderic the Just. She pointed with the knife she had used to stab him in the back, using the moment of confusion as he looked on Enkurt’s sleeping form to drive the knife between his ribs.

‘The ghouls will bring him with us,’ said Enkurt. From the sarcophagus he withdrew his staff, topped with a skull of bronze with diamond eyes, and the ornate ritual dagger with which he had ended many lives to create corpses that would do his bidding. ‘He may prove useful. For now, my acolyte, let us leave this place. There is much for us to do.’

Ben Counter is a lifelong gamer and miniature enthusiast living in the UK, near Portsmouth. He is best known for his series of novels for Games Workshop including the Grey Knights and Soul Drinkers series, and has also written supplements for roleplaying games including Dark Heresy, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay and World of Darkness. He is a founder of Death Spiral Games, publisher of the RPG Sleeper: Orphans of the Cold War. Trademarks of his fiction include flights of Moorcockian strangeness, gruesome horror, blood-spattered action scenes and stratospheric body counts. A connoisseur of creative ways to waste time, he is a passionate (and, he likes to point out, award-winning) miniature painter, as well as a regular at his local game shop where he can be found playing miniature wargames, refereeing tournaments of Magic: the Gathering or running RPGs.

THE DEVIL’S OBSERVATORY

M. HAROLD PAGE

The wind howled outside the Devil’s Observatory. Around the ice-wreathed walls, the torches jammed into the cressets guttered and flickered. Ancient brass squealing, the loose telescope swung into a new position. A beam of starlight stabbed through the coiling torch smoke and splashed on the frosted flagstones just short of the plain hexagonal altar.

Apprentice Linnet blew into her cupped hands, the knitted fingerless gloves damp on her lips. Her sisters would be sitting round the parlour hearth right now, toasting muffins and reading aloud from chapbooks.

‘Here we go again.’

She checked the men on the dais guarding the entrance, then led her own four soldiers across the floor of the Devil’s Observatory, snaking between inlaid summoning triangles where stellar demons snarled and strained against invisible walls. All around, demons banged in and out of existence as their stars wheeled across the lenses of a dozen enchanted telescopes.

As Linnet neared the central altar - if that’s what it was a thunderclap made her ears ring and a three-eyed star demon manifested. Condensing water misted its hide, and Linnet felt the interstellar cold even through her fleece-lined robes.

‘Same drill as last time,’ she ordered and sensed rather than saw her people fan out around her.

The stellar demon’s eyes blinked, narrowed. It peered at the floor, triple trunks furling in what could be puzzlement.

Linnet drew Suresmiter and waved the enchanted sword toward the demon. The blade glowed ember red as if the wind had kindled it, but she knew that the ancient weapon merely hungered for a fight.

The demon ignored her and continued to scrutinise the frosted flagstones at its cloven feet.

‘Yes, well observed,’ she said, trying not to sound bored and cold. ‘No Summoning Triangle.’

The demon looked up. It snorted and shambled toward her, trunks flaring to reveal toothed irises. Her heart raced. Her instincts screamed at her to run and keep running until she was home with her family.

The long-dead wizard who had built the Devil’s Observatory had focused each telescope on a Summoning Triangle. However, when Frostgrave thawed, a telescope had come loose, resulting in a steady stream of stellar demons wandering free. These had led Linnet’s master here, but now his minions must kill them as they appeared, or else be overwhelmed by numbers when it was time to leave.

Bows twanged. Arrows sprouted from the demon’s throat. The warband’s two Fjordland warriors stepped out from behind the altar and swung their axes. The demon discorporated with a hollow bang.

Suresmiter’s glow cut off, as if the enchanted longsword was sulking. With a frown, Linnet sheathed the blade.

The archers, Martha and Clem, retrieved their arrows. Martha clutched her back and groaned. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

Linnet said, ‘It’s the cold, that’s all.’ She called across to her master who watched an empty Summoning Triangle from the safety of his glowing Circle of Protection.

Maugris the Eclectic did not turn from his vigil. However, their soul-bond conveyed his withering contempt. ‘What is it girl?’

‘That’s seven demons already,’ said Linnet. ‘Can’t we fix the loose telescope?’

‘Do your job, girl,’ he ordered.

The four soldiers seemed to avoid her gaze.

‘You heard the master,’ grated Linnet. ‘We just keep killing them.’

The wind gusted. The loose telescope juddered. Three demons manifested, one inside a triangle with another demon, which ate it, and two at different sides of the hall.

Linnet shrugged. She told Clem and Martha to mount the altar and shoot the most distant one, then led the two Fjordlander axemen towards the other, a flipper-limbed monstrosity. With each step, her gorge rose. There would be no chance to surprise the thing this time.

Stone cracked, crashed and clattered. The wind tore at Linnet’s robe. The torches guttered wildly.

Linnet drew Suresmiter as she turned. Near to Maugris, a section of wall had crumbled. Two crossbowmen stepped through the jagged hole, the torchlight dancing on their breastplates.

Maugris raised his hands to cast a spell.

Mind racing, Linnet backed toward the cover of the altar. A rival wizard had followed them, but who?

Limbs jerking and blurring with unnatural speed, the enemy crossbowmen sighted and shot.

The bolts whirred above the heads of the trapped demons. Over on the dais, two door guards went down. The survivors spun around, shot back. An arrow clanged on a crossbowman’s breastplate. Then the door guards belly-flopped, each with a bolt projecting from his back.

Breath smoking in the frigid air, six more armoured crossbowmen pushed through the main entrance and onto the dais.

Between Maugris’s raised hands, a glowing ball formed...

‘But we haven’t practised this one... ’ muttered Linnet. Maugris’s restless pursuit of new spells left little time for focusing on the ones he had.

The ball of fire collapsed in on itself. Maugris reeled, blood streamed from his nose.

Linnet winced. She took a deep breath and readied her invisibility spell, one of the few spells they had spent time drilling.

‘Get them, girl!’ bellowed Maugris. ‘Elemental Fire!’

‘I... ’ began Linnet, but the soul bond took over. Suresmiter clanged on the stone. She raised her arms. A globe flared between her hands, singed her gloves, scorched her fingers...

With a scream, she drew back to hurl the blazing ball... and the spell... teetered.

She could tip the balance, could push with her very life force...

The spell collapsed. Heat scalded through her. She staggered, cold fingers clutching her temples.

Maugris raised his arms a second time to cast.

A net of sparkling magic flashed from the dais and settled on him, covering his robes in a layer of dust and cobwebs.

Linnet’s master simply froze in mid spell. Crossbow bolts thudded into him; one, two, three, each kicking up swirls of dust as it buried itself to the feathers. The cobwebs began to fall away. The wizard spasmed. He flopped to the flagstones; his Circle of Protection extinguished. He vanished from Linnet’s mind.

She swayed, aware only of the enemy on the dais. Eight crossbowmen stooped to wind up their devastating weapons. Behind them stood two figures, each sporting a robe daubed with the numbers of the hours.

Chronomancers, mouthed Linnet.

Boots smacked the flagstones. Somebody grabbed her sleeves.

‘Get into cover!’ yelled Martha, pointing to the altar with her bow.

Linnet glimpsed the riddled corpses of the Fjordlanders, then the two archers dragged her behind the altar. A crushing headache settled in. Her nose felt wet. She wiped it and found blood.

Even so, her heart lifted. With Maugris gone, she could go home. All she had to do was survive this.

‘Your sword, miss.’ Martha handed over Suresmiter.

Linnet took it gingerly. ‘There must some way out of this.’ She cleared her throat and called out over the growls and bangs of the stellar demons, ‘Parley! Parley!’

A deep female voice answered. ‘Speak then.’

Linnet’s mind raced. That could only be Andrastwan the Timeless. They’d even chatted at the last Truce Day. She rose. Several demons were loose, weaving their way toward the dais. However, Andrastwan’s crossbowmen now wound their weapons from within two Circles of Protection.

‘Lady Andrastwan,’ said Linnet. ‘Grant safe conduct and we will concede the observatory.’

‘Dear child,’ replied the Chronomancer. ‘I cannot let you go because you know the location of the Observatory.’

‘We just want to go home,’ said Linnet. ‘There must be something we can offer you.’

‘Your deaths,’ said the Chronomancer. She flicked her fingers. ‘Parley concluded.’

The magic snapped across the distance between them. Linnet started to duck, but was covered in cobwebs, choking on dust. The crossbowmen had completed the time-consuming business of reloading their expensive weapons and were now bringing them up to bear on her; Andrastwan’s spell had stolen a precious few seconds. The crossbows clunked. Bolts buzzed and something plucked at her hair. Linnet dived behind the altar as more bolts zipped overhead. ‘Blasted Chronomancers!’

On the dais, Andrastwan raised her voice, ‘By the Great Time Keeper, let one hundred thousand years of history unfold!’

Shadows flickered across the altar, as if the days raced by for it and it alone. It shuddered. Bits of stone flaked off...

Linnet winced. This must be how they had opened a hole in the Observatory’s wall; making a patch of stonework age until it crumbled to nothing. Now their only cover was about to go the same way.

Clem and Martha nocked arrows. Linnet wiped the blood from her nose and braced herself to throw a ball of elemental fire.

The altar’s shudders became mere vibrations, then ceased.

Linnet laughed. ‘Hah!’ she called. ‘The ancient gods protect their altar.’

‘No matter,’ replied Andrastwan. ‘We’ll clear the loose demons then simply flank you. You will not leave this place alive.’

Martha exchanged nods with Clem. ‘No point in us all dying, girl. Me and Clem will keep the crossbows busy. You run for the hole in the wall.’

Grey-haired and portly, thought Linnet, they should have been playing with their grandchildren, not blundering around the Frozen City. She shook her head. ‘You are my responsibility now that Maugris has gone.’

‘But you look like death,’ said Clem.

Linnet set her chin. ‘I’ll kill the Chronomancers. Without Circles of Protection, the crossbowmen will have to fall back. Then you... ’ She turned away from their expressions. ‘... we can all run for it, right?’

The wind whistled through the hole in the wall. The loose telescope swung. Somewhere beyond the altar, demons banged into existence.

‘Ah,’ said Linnet. ‘New plan.’ She mimed a push at one of the bigger telescopes and intoned a power word. This was practically a beginner’s spell.

With a scream of metal, the fat telescope swung. Thunder rolled and she knew that several major demons had manifested – outside the preprepared triangle. The wind caught the telescope and it wobbled, generating more thunderclaps.

‘I know what you’re doing,’ declared Andrastwan from the dais.

Linnet repeated the spell, freeing another telescope.

The wind caught it. The beam of starlight raked towards Linnet and her friends.

A dog-headed demon with lobster feet appeared between them and the hole in the wall. Three more demons slithered or lurched into view.

Dog-head stared at Linnet. It shambled towards them, arms extended, vipers hissing from the eye sockets of the alligator heads that served as its hands. The other demons fell in behind. They came on slowly, inevitably.

Bowstrings thrummed.

Clem and Martha’s arrows sank in a hand’s breadth, and hung there wobbling. The demon didn’t seem to notice.

Martha swore.

‘Lend me your sword... ’ began Clem.

Linnet shook her head. Hunching low, she edged away from the altar and swept Suresmiter’s point around the floor, scraping a Circle of Protection in the frost. ‘In! In!’

Clem and Martha crawled over to kneel next to her.

A crossbow bolt passed overhead and drew sparks from the flagstones.

‘But now we’re trapped,’ said Clem, ducking lower.

Martha caught his hand. ‘So much for buying that inn, eh?’

‘It would have been boring anyway,’ said Clem.

‘What? I thought you... ’ Martha laughed. ‘Clem! I didn’t want to buy an inn.’

‘Nor did I!’

‘Ahem,’ said Linnet. ‘I still have some tricks left.’ She mouthed the power words. A tingle rippled out from her chest and spread over her body. She stared at her hands. ‘I am invisible, right?’

The couple nodded, neither quite looking in the right direction.

Linnet rose and crept away from the altar.

The wind screamed. Her robes billowed and the loose telescopes creaked. Yet more demons appeared near the dais.

The Chronomancer’s apprentice threw forward his arms and bellowed a power word. One of the demons turned on its fellows, slowing the advance.

Linnet frowned. Unlike her late master, Andrastwan obviously believed in a handful of spells well-learned. A magical duel would be a bad idea.

The crossbows twanged in unison. A volley of bolts clanged into one of the loose telescopes. Most bounced off, rattled on the floor at the feet of the demons. One, however, pierced the tube from side to side, cutting off the beam of starlight.

The crossbowmen stooped and wound up their weapons.

Linnet grimaced. They could knock out telescopes as fast as she could loosen them. She took a deep breath then sprinted for the hole in the wall

The wind hit her like an icy cloak. Her front foot slipped into nothingness. She flailed her alms, teetered, then pressed back against the wall.

The Devil’s Observatory stood on one of the spurs of granite that rose like a forest in this part of Frostgrave. There was just enough ledge for her to shuffle round to the entrance. She stalked inside and emerged directly behind the Chronomancers.

The crossbows sang. Bolts sprouted from the last of the loose telescopes and its beam cut off.

‘Now the demons,’ ordered Adrastwan. She leaned closer to her apprentice. ‘Home to mulled wine?’

The apprentice turned enough so that Linnet could see the flush on his cheeks. A young man with a square jaw that promised rugged looks once his acne had cleared up. ‘And toasted muffins.’ He rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘I’ll never get used to this cold.’

Linnet stalked closer. She was now in the perfect position to use ‘Varro’s Shattered Virtual Vase’, a spell that would make razor-sharp ceramic shards explode out from where she stood, hitting everybody... if it worked. In fact – thanks to Maugris’s preference for learning new spells rather than practising ones he already knew – she could call up a dozen spells that were more likely to hurt her than cause harm to the Chronomancers.

But now she was just a few paces from them.

‘We could heat a bath,’ said Andrastwan. ‘Get really warm.’

‘Perfect,’ said the apprentice.

Linnet hesitated. She was contemplating killing – be honest, murdering – two perfectly ordinary, likable people.

‘Any moment now,’ said Andrastwan, ‘And we can finish off Maugris’s warband.’

But then, thought Linnet, they were going to kill her friends.

She drew Suresmiter and lined up the point with care – as soon as she struck, her invisibility would end. Then, feeling only a cold certainty, she drove the blade up into Andrastwan’s back just below the ribcage.

The keen tip went through the woman’s fur-lined robes, slid up into her chest cavity and grated on a rib.

The Chronomancer croaked. Her knees bent, she folded away from the sword then fell flat on the frosty flagstones. As she died, so died her Circle of Protection. Howling and gibbering, the demons hurled themselves on the furthest group of crossbowmen.

The apprentice yelled. He took a step back from his mistress’s corpse and drew his sword, a spike-bladed monstrosity with a back-hook, side-flukes and an odd double crossguard. He spat out a power word and the blade caught fire. ‘Murderer!’

Linnet flushed. ‘No... I... ’ Hands shaking, she raised Suresmiter ready to defend. Hot blood trickled down the blade, which now glowed happily. She shuddered. She felt no guilt, just a sudden exhaustion.

An arrow punched through the apprentice’s throat. The arrowhead appeared on the other side. Blood sprayed from both wounds. His eyes widened more in outrage than surprise. He took a step towards her, raised his flaming sword. A second arrow struck his wrist. The sword clanged to the ancient stones. Still looking outraged, he toppled to lie beside it.

The second circle vanished.

The remaining crossbowmen turned and fled through the door. The demons streamed after them into the night leaving Linnet with only dead bodies for company on the dais.

Martha and Clem stood on the altar, bows in hand. Linnet raised Suresmiter in salute. ‘Good shooting, my friends.’

‘What now?’ called Clem, loudly above the racket of the remaining stellar demons.

Linnet shook her head. ‘Don’t ask me. I’m done.’

A thunderclap resounded through the hall. A massive demon now towered over Maugris’s corpse. An icy crown glittered from the brow of its elephant-like head.

Martha cocked her head. ‘Isn’t that what Maugris was waiting for?’

‘The Whisperer of Secrets,’ said Linnet. Suddenly chapbooks by the fire seemed less interesting than grimoires by candlelight.

As she stepped off the dais and negotiated the floor-full of penned demons, she reflected that she could hire new soldiers and take over the dead Chronomancers’ base with its warm bath.

She could even find herself an apprentice. A presentable young man of good family, perhaps...

M. Harold Page is a Scottish-based author with several historical adventures in print. He believes in ‘write what you know’, which possibly explains his collection of grimoires, the battered suit of plate armour in his hall cupboard, and the sword scar. He can also be found most Tuesday nights teaching Medieval German Longsword at Edinburgh’s Dawn Duellists Society. (Are you sensing a theme... ?)

HOME COMING

Mark A. Latham

Hrothgar yanked his blade away from the beast’s throat, blood arcing across white fur as the monster scrambled away in its death throes. The enchanted gemstone in the hilt of Hrothgar’s sword glowed ember-red as the troll-blood was absorbed by the blue-steel blade.

Around him the story was much the same. Finreir and Stornric hacked at a troll with sword and spear until it lay motionless in the snow; the mighty Bolivar held aloft another troll’s head, grinning triumphantly. The wizard, Gereth, was already striding ahead through the swirling snowstorm, ploughing up the rugged tor that had drawn them here, leaving a burning troll-corpse to light the way. Hrothgar spat. The wizard’s bull-headedness would be the death of his small company. They’d already lost two good men, and now Finreir was sporting a pronounced limp as he hobbled over to join his captain.

‘Vanyssa!’ Hrothgar shouted, noticing his scout absent from the flickering circle of torchlight.

A scuff came from the darkness to his left, and he turned to see Vanyssa returning to the group, striding from the shadows with longbow in hand. She was drenched in blood.

‘Are you hurt, lass?’ Hrothgar asked.

‘Not mine,’ Vanyssa said simply, stalking past the assembled mercenaries and following the wizard up the hill.

‘Stornric, help your brother. We must press on before that fool wizard gets himself into more trouble.’

Stornric did as he was bid, and the two raven-haired men-at-arms followed Vanyssa, with Hrothgar and the giant Bolivar close behind.

By the time they reached the peak of the craggy tor, the company was tired and breathless. Finreir could barely stand, and even Bolivar leaned heavily on his great axe. Ahead of them, huge pillars jutted from the rock face, broken and jagged. Higher up, barely visible against the flurry, taller, darker pillars arched upwards, disappearing against a crow-black sky, like clawed fingers scratching at the firmament.

‘This is it!’ the wizard shouted, his voice dulled by the endless snowfall. ‘The ruins of Stonefall Abbey. Here is where we shall find the riches I promised you.’

Hrothgar pushed his way to the wizard’s side. They had not long been companions; when Hrothgar’s liege, Aldwyck the Enchanter, had fallen in their last expedition into the accursed city, the remaining warriors had become freemen, selling their steel to the highest bidder. Gereth had bid highest, though the way the wizard’s eyes gleamed whenever he spoke of the fabled Stonefall troubled Hrothgar. It reminded him of gold-fever, which pushed many a man to a sticky end. It troubled him more so now they were here – the wizard fairly trembled with anticipation at the sight of the imposing ruin, pulling off a fur-lined glove despite the cold, so he could run a bare hand over ice-crusted carven stone.

‘Come,’ the wizard said, ‘there is shelter to be had within the ruins. It is an ancient sanctuary that even the beasts of this city must respect.’

Hrothgar felt eyes boring into him. He turned to see Vanyssa, her face swaddled against the elements, green eyes questioning why they were here. Hrothgar knew to trust the girl’s instincts. If she was uneasy, so was he, but they had come this far. Hrothgar sighed, and jerked his head towards the ruins. It was late, they were wounded and tired, and the weather was turning. They would see this mission through to the bitter end.

* * *

Atop a platform of stone beneath the curling stone fingers of the abbey’s sundered tower, a fire was crackling and meat was roasting. Bolivar regaled the companions with tales of his adventures in the Ruby Isles, where the women were mysterious, and assassins lurked in the shadows of ivory towers. Stornric and Finreir laughed at the big man’s tall tales, and Hrothgar forced a smile. But not Vanyssa. She stared into the fire, her face a mask. The wizard was already busying himself with charms and sigils, casting a strange green light into the dark corners of the ruin. The snow swirled about outside the cloister of stone, not settling within the circle. Gereth’s charms no doubt. Hrothgar wished the wizard could hold back the wind too. A chill breeze whistled into the camp, probing at every seam of Hrothgar’s furs with icy fingers. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and hunched closer to the fire.

‘These ruins are sparse indeed. Where lies this fabled treasure, wizard?’ Hrothgar called over to Gereth. ‘Are there vaults beneath our feet?’

‘Vaults? Aye, and more besides,’ said Gereth. ‘If we are lucky, you shall find what you seek without need for further bloodshed.’

‘Pah!’ Bolivar grunted. ‘Where there are dungeons, there are beasts, traps... and sorcery. If there’s treasure to be had, it’s to be fought for.’

‘There is more to this place than meets the eye, Bolivar,’ said Gereth. ‘But it will wait until morning. Uncovering the entrance to the catacombs is not a task for these conditions.’

‘Too right, wizard,’ grumbled Finreir, grunting with pain as his brother threaded catgut into his thigh to close the wound left by the Trolls. ‘It’ll be a miracle if I can even walk come morning.’

Hrothgar grinned inwardly as Stornric rolled his eyes at his brother’s belly-aching.

‘This is why,’ said Gereth, ‘I have prepared a charm to restore our vigour.’ He stepped into the centre of the circle and emptied a pouch of silvery powder into the cauldron of stewed-nettle tea that bubbled over the fire.

‘What is that?’ Hrothgar frowned. The wizard had been presumptuous by not asking Hrothgar’s leave; and if there was one thing the captain could not abide it was presumptuous wizards.

‘‘A potent brew, Hrothgar – one that can mend wounds and lend strength to tired limbs. Come morning, you will feel like a new man.’

Gereth set about ladling the strange-smelling brew into ration cups, distributing them amongst the party. All eyes fell upon Hrothgar, to see if the captain would drink. Hrothgar eyed the wizard, who himself took a swig of the brew. Satisfied, Hrothgar drank, and the others followed suit. All save one.

Vanyssa sat motionless. The mug of steaming brew went untouched by her feet.

Hrothgar felt warmth building within him, until at last even the troublesome wind failed to make him shiver. The warmth spread to his limbs, to his fingers and toes, and with it came strength. But something more, too; a feeling of repose, of peace.

‘This potion is good,’ Stornric declared. ‘I feel like I could take on more Trolls even now. Perhaps we should find these catacombs while the strength flows through our veins.’

‘No, Stornric,’ Gereth said. ‘You must rest for it to do its work. The treasure will still be there come morning.’

‘About this treasure,’ Bolivar spoke up. ‘It must be great indeed for you to brave Frostgrave alone. I think you know more than you have told us, wizard. What manner of riches are we to uncover on the morrow?’

Gereth smiled thinly. ‘The wealth of Stonefall Abbey is beyond value,’ he said. ‘And it is beyond the petty value that can be placed on gold and trinkets.’

‘Eh?’ Finreir frowned, forgetting his pain as the brew warmed him. ‘No gold? So what then? Gems? Enchanted steel?’

‘More valuable even than those, friend Finreir, though I fancy you won’t understand until you see it with your own eyes.’

‘This had better not be a pile of old scrolls, wizard,’ Bolivar growled. ‘Damned wizards and their scrolls!’

‘Bolivar is right,’ Hrothgar said. ‘Scrolls and tomes have value, certainly, but they rarely put food on the table. You promised riches in this abbey, and we had better find them.’ The captain pointed his enchanted sword tellingly at the wizard. Gereth’s eyes flicked first to the blade, and then to Hrothgar.

‘Do not worry, my captain,’ Gereth smiled. ‘You will all get what you’re owed.’

‘Ha!’ boomed Bolivar. ‘Trust Hrothgar to get a promise out of this one. Here, a toast to the captain, who’s never steered us wrong.’

The toast was met by all but Vanyssa, who remained silent. Her intuition was keen, and her unease threatened to return the chills to Hrothgar’s bones. But he felt the brew working. His limbs began to feel heavy, his head thick with the haze of sleep. He yawned.

‘Hrothgar has the right of it,’ Bolivar said. ‘But before I rest my head, I’m going to take a leak.’ The big man stood and grabbed his axe. ‘Just in case,’ he grinned, and stepped out of the circle of light.

Hrothgar at once felt a cold creep aback his head. Something felt wrong, as though the firelight had shrunk in on itself. He fought to keep his eyelids from closing. Twice at least he drifted away, and when he awoke the darkness was closer still. Bolivar had returned, sitting motionless, a grey figure in half-light, staring into the fire that now seemed so inadequate.

It was all the effort Hrothgar could muster to drag another log onto the flames, before sitting back on his bedroll and nodding off again.

When Hrothgar’s eyes opened again, he felt alone. He was dimly aware of the grey forms of his companions sitting motionless in the dark, the smell of smoke from the guttering fire, and something else. Movement, outside the camp. A swift, sweeping motion, skittering between the thick stone pillars that marked the boundary of their little circle.

Hrothgar contemplated feeding the fire again, but his limbs were leaden. Something black moved past the largest stone pillar, somewhere in the darkness behind Bolivar. Hrothgar tried to lift a hand to point, but by the time his arm so much as twitched, the figure had gone, and only snowflakes moved outside the circle, like motes of dust. Hrothgar’s eyelids drooped closed again. He felt sleep come for him. He did not fight it.

Hrothgar dreamed of a time long ago, when he had been a stripling youth back in Vaylholm, being pursued by warhounds in his first battle. Their jaws snapped at his heels. He slipped in the mud of the battlefield, falling into the embrace of dead soldiers, fighting desperately as the hounds pounced, teeth sinking into his flesh, hot breath at his face, sticky blood running down his arm as he opened up the beasts with a dagger. The largest dog clamped onto his shoulder, dragging him across the plain; dragging him towards its master’s army.

When Hrothgar woke, it was in a cold panic, his hand touched to the jagged scar upon his face. He felt himself being shaken and pulled from his bedroll, and for a moment believed his life up to now had been a dream, fearing he was still upon the battlefield at Vaylholm, far away, in the jaws of a powerful hound. He grasped for his sword, seeing the dull glow of its mystical gemstone near to him, and in its red caste was Vanyssa’s face, her eyes pleading urgency.

‘By the gods, wake up!’ she hissed.

Hrothgar’s senses flooded back to him like a stream through a sundered dam. His hand closed around the sword hilt, and the fug of enchantment washed away as strength flowed from its thrice-blessed steel and into his body. The sword, Foedrinker, had been gifted him by a grateful noble years ago, for the rescue of his youngest daughter.

The captain sat bolt upright. The fire was almost dead, red embers glowing dully. Figures sat motionless in the shadows. The snow had blown into the circle of the crumbling tower, forming drifts between the pillars. The cold bit at Hrothgar’s flesh.

‘Listen to me!’ she hissed. ‘Gereth has enchanted us. The others... they are not themselves. They left the camp and returned... changed. We have to get out of here.’

Hrothgar rubbed at his head. ‘Where is the wizard now?’

‘Gone. I saw him further down the slope, talking to someone – some... thing. Then I lost sight of him.’

Hrothgar saw the shadowed figures in the camp move for the first time. Bolivar stood and turned to them. His eyes gleamed in the half-light; there was something unsettling about them. Hrothgar had not become captain and survived so long by being indecisive. And he trusted the girl’s instincts almost as much as his own. He stood at once, his legs unsteady beneath him.

‘Speak, brother, that I may know you are my friend.’

Bolivar said nothing, his towering form standing silent sentinel in the dark. But a voice responded, from behind Hrothgar and Vanyssa – a thin, gravel-throated voice.

‘You have no friends here, captain. But you will.’

Before Hrothgar and Vanyssa could turn, rough hands grabbed them from behind. Bolivar shambled forward, a flagon held in his hands.

‘You... will... drink,’ he croaked. He clamped a large hand around Hrothgar’s jaw, and in an instant the flagon was pushed to the captain’s lips. Bolivar was the strongest of the company, but there was little of the man Hrothgar knew behind those glassy eyes.

Hrothgar felt warm liquid pass into his mouth. For a moment, he felt his body may betray him, his strength fail. But as he struggled, he tightened his grip on his sword once more, and felt its strength.

All at once, Hrothgar spat the brew into Bolivar’s face. He pushed back into Stornric, crushing the warrior against the pillar, and raised his legs to Bolivar’s chest, kicking hard. Bolivar staggered backwards, Stornric grunted in pain and slackened his grip on Hrothgar’s arms; this was enough. The captain braced himself, leaned forward, and slammed the back of his head onto the bridge of Stornric’s nose. He was free.

Bolivar leapt forward, brandishing a large branch as a club. Hrothgar ducked, and the blow hit Stornric hard on the shoulder instead. Hrothgar was dimly aware of Vanyssa struggling free of Finreir and dashing for her bow. He had no time to see more; Bolivar swept the club down at him again. The captain rolled aside. He looked into Bolivar’s eyes and saw nothing – no humanity, no mercy. The gemstone on Hrothgar’s sword glowed red, thirsting for blood, feeding off the captain’s battle-rage. He swept the blade low, hacking halfway through Bolivar’s thigh and putting the big man down. The sword hissed as Bolivar’s blood dissolved into the metal. Hrothgar saw a flash of steel to his right as Stornric struggled to his feet and lunged at his blindside. The captain’s sword was faster, stabbing backwards and impaling Stornric through his gut. As he looked up, he saw Finreir stumble after Vanyssa, and quickly drop to his knees as an arrow pierced his throat from short range. A bloody gurgle sounded in Finreir’s throat, and the warrior fell.

Bolivar rolled on the ground, clutching his wound. Hrothgar dug his heel into the giant’s leg and was surprised when Bolivar made not a sound.

‘Why, Bolivar? Why turn on us?’

Bolivar looked up at Hrothgar impassively.

‘Hrothgar, listen!’ Vanyssa said.

Carried on the wind, through the muffling snow, came a low chanting. Gereth.

‘Wizard, show yourself!’ Hrothgar yelled, turning this way and that, squinting against the swirling snowstorm. And then he stopped, because there was movement behind him.

Finreir began to stand, the green-fletched arrow still protruding from his neck. Stornric too was rising to his feet, blood pumping from his stomach. Bolivar straightened his leg, the bone almost visible through the wound as he stood upright. And more than this, beyond the ancient stone circle, black shapes loped and sniffed in the darkness.

‘Take them alive, my children!’ Gereth’s voice sounded again. ‘Make them drink. Make them join us!’

Vanyssa turned at once to face the darkness. ‘That way,’ she said. ‘We kill the wizard, we end this.’ She was gone before Hrothgar could stop her, leaping into the night with bow drawn.

Hrothgar saw no point in staying to fight his old comrades, who even now shuffled towards him bearing wounds that should have put them in their graves. He barged past Stornric and followed Vanyssa into the storm.

Hrothgar called into the darkness, but received no reply. He was aware of vague pursuers coalescing from the shadows around him, of ghostly jaws snapping at his heels. He thought of the hounds, and urged his legs to move faster.

He skidded to a halt as a solid rock face loomed out of the storm. Above him, green light danced about the rocks. The sound of steel on steel rang into the night. A cry of pain. Vanyssa’s shortsword fell from above, landing in the snow somewhere behind Hrothgar. He stepped backwards and looked up to see Vanyssa, prone on the rocks, and above her Gereth, raising aloft his staff and conjuring some fell, incandescent spell.

Vanyssa looked about desperately, until she saw Hrothgar. She was out of reach, but her eyes fixed upon the captain’s sword. She reached out desperately.

‘Your sword, quickly!’ she shouted. ‘The magic will slay him!’

Hrothgar didn’t hesitate. He threw the sword up to the outcrop, hilt-first, and Vanyssa caught it nimbly. Vanyssa thrust forwards with the sword, sinking its blade deep in Gereth’s chest. The wizard’s robed figure fell to the ground, dead.

Behind Hrothgar, his pursuers fell into the snow. The shadow-creatures shrank away into the darkness with a hiss. The captain exhaled in relief.

He reached up a hand and helped Vanyssa down from the outcrop.

‘Well done, girl,’ he said. ‘The enchantment is broken. I don’t know what was happening, but we need to leave this accursed place.’

‘No, captain. We won’t get far tonight. I say we stay a while longer.’

‘Stay? Don’t be foolish. The wizard spoke of vaults – who knows what lurks beneath our feet. Let’s get back to familiar territory; to blazes with this storm. Here, give me back my sword.’

He reached out a hand, but Vanyssa shrank back, and brandished the blade menacingly.

‘No, Hrothgar, we will stay. Indeed, you will not leave here at all. Not ever.’ Her voice was changed; it was sneering and thin. She sounded like... no!

‘What is the meaning of this, Vanyssa?’ he demanded.

‘I am not Vanyssa,’ she snorted. ‘The transfer was complete before the sword pierced my old body. I merely needed to wrest this treasure from you, so that you too can fall under my spell.’

‘Gereth?’

‘Oh no, something far older than him; although his body served me well. This form is much more comely though, don’t you think? I’ll be able to ensnare much stronger stock now. Just as your company now gives form to my brethren – my shadow army – so will all who venture to Stonefall.’

Hrothgar reached for his dagger, but was at once held by grasping hands as if from nowhere. Bolivar, Stornric, Finreir, and now Gereth too, all back from the dead, holding him in a firm grip.

Behind Vanyssa, shadows gathered, taking gangrel form, eyes shining in the night.

‘Ah, my brethren compete for you, Hrothgar, for you are strong indeed. A fitting vessel for the mightiest of the ancient dead.’ She held up a vial of strange, glowing liquid, and uncorked it. Hrothgar struggled as the smell hit his nostrils, but without his sword he felt weak.

‘Now, my captain, you will drink. And be reborn... ’

Mark A. Latham is a writer, editor, history nerd, frustrated grunge singer and amateur baker from Staffordshire, UK. A recent immigrant to rural Nottinghamshire, he lives in a very old house (sadly not haunted), and is still regarded in the village as a foreigner.

Formerly the editor of Games Workshop’s White Dwarf magazine, Mark dabbled in tabletop games design before becoming a full-time author of strange, fantastical and macabre tales. His debut novel, The Lazarus Gate, is out in October 2015, published by Titan Books.

Visit Mark’s blog at thelostvictorian.blogspot.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @aLostVictorian.

IN DARK PLACES

Martin J. Dougherty

‘Sun’s setting,’ Gee declared.

Jasper nodded absently, fiddling with his gloves as he eyed the tunnel entrance. Something had melted the ice that had covered and blocked it, leaving a trail of semi-frozen meltwater twisting down to the gulley bottom. It looked like it had happened recently and quite quickly.

Jasper had a bad feeling about the way the ice had melted, or maybe it was the dark tunnel that led slightly upwards through the gulley side. There was something disturbing about the odd smoothness of the floor. Someone had been chucking elemental magic around; magic powerful enough to melt the tunnel rocks as well as the ice.

Jasper took a deep breath and pulled his hat down more firmly. ‘I’m quite aware of that,’ he said, once he realised that Gee was expecting a reply. He’d go on expecting one all night, at least until he got sick of waiting and exploded in rage. Best to avoid that. Gee’s fury was an incredible thing, but best witnessed from a distance.

‘Be dark soon,’ Gee added. In the twilight his pockmarked skin looked even more like the stone he was nicknamed for. Nobody knew his real name, and it was dangerous to call him ‘Granite’ to his face. Jasper called him Gee and hadn’t been stomped for it. Not yet, anyway.

‘Yes, Gee.’ Jasper agreed. ‘But it’s always dark underground.’

‘I’m just sayin’,’ Gee muttered as he hitched his pack a little and unslung his crossbow, placing it gently down on a handy rock. Gee started sorting through the special bolts Jasper had made for him. Each one was closely examined, nodded at and then put back in the quiver in a different order. Finally satisfied, Gee picked up the crossbow and cocked it effortlessly before settling a carefully selected bolt on the wire.

Jasper paced while his companion prepared himself. He knew better than to interrupt Gee’s little ritual, though it might be possible to speed it along. ‘Well, we can’t wait for morning. Our ‘new friends’ will have caught up by then. So, time to get to work,’ Jasper declared. A mix of ice chunks and strangely pale gravel crunched softly under his boots as he struggled up the gulley side towards the tunnel mouth.

‘Huh? Oh, right. We’re goin’ in,’ Gee said. He slapped his dented helm hard down on his head, activating the glowing gemstone strapped to the front, and stomped after Jasper. There were animal bones – they looked like animal bones anyway – among the tumbled rocks close to the tunnel entrance. Gee kicked them aside even though they weren’t in the way, elbowed Jasper out of his path, and stepped into blackness.

‘Come on then, let’s see what you got!’ Gee declared to whatever might be lurking in the dark, gazing about him at the jagged tunnel walls and the path ahead. Then the stomping began anew. Gee didn’t look where he put his feet; he just marched forward, daring the world to trip him up.

It did.

Jasper rolled his eyes as his large and, kindest to call him ‘unimaginatively courageous’, companion stumbled forward and fell face-first into a small cavern. There were a couple of inches of icewater on the floor, and apparently it tasted funny. At least, that was what Jasper could make out amid the apocalypse of swearing coming from Gee.

Jasper held his own lamp high, making a good scan around and most importantly remembering to look up. No threats, good. He picked up the crossbow and passed it back to Gee. It had not discharged, which was a very good thing considering which of the special bolts was on the string. ‘Looks like there’s only one path forward,’ Jasper observed. ‘Over that way.’

Stepping gingerly around the pool that Gee had discovered, Jasper advanced nervously across the cavern towards a tunnel that led deeper into the hillside. His left hand held the lamp high; his right smoothed his padded but not nearly warm enough jerkin, fiddled with his belt, clenched and unclenched, patted his equipment pouches... like it was searching for something.

Jasper swallowed hard, tasting as well as smelling something strange about the air. With an effort he stilled his hand. He carried no sword because enchanters need no sword, or so his old master had endlessly told him. A weapon would provide a convenient course of action and thus constrain his creativity. An enchanter who had to think would learn and grow; one who turned himself into an augmented swordsman was no better than the guards he hired for himself.

Creativity was the enchanter’s finest weapon, said Master Wizard Kurreill on a regular basis. It was a fine philosophy for a man who lived in a tower surrounded by high walls and spent his days lecturing apprentices on the fundamental parameters of creation, Jasper conceded, but right now he desperately wanted the comfort of something sharp and heavy to make the fear go away.

Gee splashed after his companion, his litany of obscene muttering counterpointed by Jasper’s ragged and nervous breathing. Gee took the lead as they entered the second tunnel, marching headlong into the bowels of the hillside with a curse on his lips and nothing whatsoever in his head. He had apparently forgotten his face-first dunking and was oblivious to the icewater dripping from his mailshirt. For an instant Jasper envied Gee his simple world-view, which was blissfully uncomplicated by... anything, really.

The tunnel ran slightly upwards for a while, then emerged into a second cavern. This one was larger than the first, with cracks in the ceiling and jumbled piles of rock scattered on the damp floor. Gee swung slightly right, keeping his back to the cavern wall and his crossbow facing inward as he strode around the edge of the cavern.

Jasper crept nervously across the slippery rock floor, angling left. His gaze flicked up, watching for something that might emerge from the cracks in the ceiling. Ahead, the pale cavern floor was shiny in patches and beyond that there was nothing but blackness. Jasper stuffed his right fist in his mouth and inched forward to the edge of the pit. Taking a shuddering breath he glanced down.

The hole was so deep it hurt. Jasper’s fear was a physical pain that shivered through his body. His right hand hurt the worst; he realised he was biting his fingers and removed his fist from between his teeth.

‘Hey, you found a hole!’ Gee declared, stomping up to the far side of the pit. For all Jasper was not fond of his companion – any more than a man might develop a friendship with the sack of unstable explosive cocktail ingredients he was carrying – he was mortally afraid in that moment that Gee would fall in. Not because of any concern for Gee’s welfare; more in case he woke something down there.

‘Gee, don’t,’ Jasper whispered urgently.

‘I’m not gonna spit in the pit,’ Gee replied sounding almost hurt.

‘Okay, but don’t... ’

Gee pulled out one of the snappers he liked to carry around. His snappers were nothing more than a twist of oiled paper containing a little explosive cocktail. Harmless really.

‘No really, Gee... don’t... ’ Jasper said again, choking on his own terror.

Gee dropped the snapper in the pit and started counting. He got bored and stopped long before a faint pop echoed up the shaft. ‘See? Nothing. Big hole though,’ Gee declared. ‘Is this the place?’

Jasper fumbled out the old map they’d filched and crept across to the cavern wall. He pushed the map against the rock face with his right hand and held up his lamp with the left. Twisting to look over his shoulder at it, he tried to match the outline of the hole with the one on the map. If this was the right cavern there should be another tunnel on the far side of the pit. The light was too dim to tell, and all Jasper wanted at that moment was to go no closer to the edge.

‘Could be,’ Jasper replied. ‘I’m not... ’ he trailed off, voice shaking.

‘Jasper,’ Gee said in a curiously gentle tone. ‘It’s okay to be scared.’

‘Huh? Well, thanks but... ’ That was very strange indeed; Gee was being supportive. Jasper frowned at the map, his gaze drawn again to the strange markings beside the cavern mouth.

‘No, I mean it’s okay to be scared right now,’ Gee replied.

Jasper turned, puzzled by this strange shift in attitude. Then he saw it. Yes, it was indeed okay to be scared of the thing that was crawling out of the pit. Shapeless, pale and shiny like the rock, it slopped over the lip and oozed towards him. Its glistening maw was surrounded by feelers that tasted the air. Tasted Jasper. He shrieked and leaped backwards, crashing against the cavern wall.

Gee’s crossbow thudded, hammering its bolt deep into pulsating flesh. There, it detonated, the noise muffled by pale otherworldly tissues yet still deafening in the cavern. A secondary echo sounded from the pit, muted and muffled by distance or by something soft and horrible in its path. Gee yanked back the wire and dropped another bolt in, showering Jasper’s expensive boots with gobbets of slimy flesh as his second explosive missile pounded home.

Jasper’s hand dropped to where his sword hilt would have been if his master had not been so damned adamant that enchanters did not need one. The gesture was instinctive, seen so many times when a swordsman encountered a threat. Automatic...

‘Thoughtless!’ Jasper declared loudly in a tone strangely reminiscent of Master Wizard Kurreill. Then the terror was gone. It was replaced with cold, clinical rage like the well-oiled workings of a construct. Lethal and precise; amoral and uncaring. He needed no weapon; he was a creator of weapons.

‘So get creative!’ Jasper told himself in his master’s tones. He paced across the cavern, his work hammer all but leaping into his hand. A word and a rune traced with the fingertips, and the glowing hammer was a lethal projectile. It smashed into the pale flesh of his target and erupted in a shower of blue-hot fragments. Sizzling alien flesh showered Gee, who gave Jasper a disapproving look.

Jasper sucked his teeth. If Gee thought something was dumb, then it really was a spectacularly bad idea. While Jasper hesitated the creature lashed at him with its tail. He skipped back to avoid it, and with horror he realised he had dodged to the very edge of the pit. He lunged away, rushing towards the reassuring solidity of the cavern wall. He smashed into it, dropping his lamp. For a moment Jasper clung to the stone wall, trying to dig his fingers into it. His eyes were squeezed tight shut and his breath came in ragged, wet-stone-flavoured gasps.

Gee had reloaded while the creature was distracted, sending a third bolt plunging into its side. It ripped right through, skipping from the cavern floor to strike the wall close to Jasper’s head. He heard a fizzing sound and gulped at the thought of what might just have happened. Terror of the acid running down the cavern wall outweighed fear of the creature behind him; Jasper turned once more to face his enemy.

This was where he was supposed to get creative, according to Master Kurreill. Jasper glanced around. A rock from the cavern floor and another grenade spell? No! Another expensive tool hurled as a grenade? No! Unimaginative! And besides it hadn’t worked the first time. Then what? Jasper stared desperately at the cavern floor, seeking inspiration in pale stone.

‘JASPER!’ Gee yelled as he threw down his crossbow and lashed out with an iron-reinforced boot, impacting with a squelch as he drew his short sword and dagger. He plunged at his enemy, slashing and stabbing at tentacles and damp flesh.

‘DO!’ Gee’s sword arm became entangled, tentacles dragging him towards the thing’s waiting mouth, but that was what he had wanted. His primitive combat instincts told him there must be a brain behind that mouth, something to hurt; something to kill. Gee lunged forward with a yell, plunging his dagger deep into demonic flesh.

‘SOMETHING!’ Gee finished. The creature thrashed, threatening to rip the knife from Gee’s hands. He yelled and clung to it, wrenching the blade around in the wound. Gee pulled back, using the deeply embedded knife as an anchor to wrench his sword arm free, and delivered a pommel stroke. The dagger came out and went back in. Again. Again. Then the short sword, and then the knife again.

Jasper threw himself down on his hands and knees and began grabbing up all the pebbles he could find. It took just a few seconds to trace the words on the cavern floor. Then the spell. It came in quick gasps, but it came. Jasper grabbed his lamp and slapped it down among the pebbles atop his rune. Then he lurched to his feet and scrambled across the cavern in Gee’s direction. ‘Drive it to the light, Gee!’ he yelled.

Gee tried, lunging forward with renewed determination... or desperation... but definitely with a great deal of violence. The thrashing body flung him back against the rock of the cavern wall. His sword skittered away in a shower of sparks and his helmet came off. The glowing gem crunched against rock and went dim, then died completely. Gee scrambled to his feet and charged straight back in. With a bellow of murderous triumph he hurled himself at his opponent, his entire body weight behind a plunging dagger strike to the creature’s head.

The blade jammed in flesh and Gee followed it with a driving blow of his armoured knee. His right hand went to his quiver, seeking a particular bolt. He rammed it into the awful thing’s head and snatched his fingers away as it detonated. Chunks of foul-smelling flesh spattered both Jasper and Gee, revealing strange organs pulsing beneath. Still the creature thrashed and lashed at him with its feelers, shaking its head and flinging Gee away once more. He fell heavily, and the slimy bulk slithered towards him.

Jasper’s lamp began to go dim. There were seconds of light remaining, and once it was gone they were doomed. Jasper knew what to do in those seconds. Years of tinkering with constructs and endless lectures on how everything in creation worked finally came together. The thing’s brain was not close to its mouth, but it had to have one. It clearly was not at the front end of its body – Gee had done a pretty good job of dissecting that part of the creature and found nothing vital.

So...

‘Get up, Gee!’ Jasper shouted. He stepped towards Gee and the monster. One pace, and the light went out. A second, made on icy rock in pitch blackness. Ahead, grunts and strange, gurglings told of a death-struggle that Gee could not possibly win. A handful of Gee’s snappers went off, throwing dim light on the pale bulk before him. Jasper slapped Gee hard on the back and yelled the last syllable of his strength spell loud enough to hurt his ears as well as his throat.

With a bellow of defiance, Gee punched the horrible thing with a right uppercut that flung its head up and back. It skittered sideways, taking its body over Jasper’s rune and the enchanted pebbles he had placed atop it.

The rune detonated, igniting the pebbles and then Jasper’s lamp too. The blast ripped heavily protected tissue aside as white-hot pebbles ripped through the brain within. The creature flopped down as if its strings had been cut.

Jasper activated the emergency light source he had built into his belt buckle and tried to catch his breath. Gee naturally felt the need to stomp his opponent into paste even though it was obviously dead. While his companion was venting his rage, Jasper rummaged his backup lamp out of his pack. He lit it and made a survey of the cavern, remembering to check the ceiling as well as the pit for additional threats, then waited for his companion to finish cussing out the lifeless corpse. All the while he smiled in amused tolerance, like the parent of a wayward but oddly lovable child.

‘You done?’ Jasper asked at length.

‘It’s done,’ Gee replied, which was perhaps more to the point. After a moment he added, ‘You blew up your hammer.’

Jasper nodded. ‘That was not the best plan I’ve ever come up with.’

‘You should get yourself a sword.’

Jasper considered it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t need one. It’d stifle my creativity.’

‘You mean you’d find a way to blow it up.’

Jasper eyed the wreckage on the cavern floor. Fragments of lamp, enchanted crossbow bolt and a very expensive hammer lay scattered from the entrance to the pit. After a moment he conceded the point.

‘Yes, I probably would.’

Martin J. Dougherty is a freelance author specialising in military and historical subjects. His works include A Dark History of the Vikings, Fight to Win and Cut & Thrust: European Swords and Swordsmanship. He has also worked on game lines including Traveller, Call of Cthulhu and Armageddon 2089 and has published several SF and Fantasy novels.

Martin is Chief Assessor to the British Federation for Historical Swordplay, teaching smallsword and military sabre at events such as SWASH and Smallsword Symposium. He is active on the tournament circuit and has won medals for military sabre, smallsword and rapier.

Television work includes shows like Triggers: Weapons that Changed the World and Ultimate Soldier Challenge. Martin’s role includes both sides of the camera, acting as a technical consultant and an on-camera weapons expert.

Martin lives in north-east England and is excessively fond of malt Scotch whisky. This may explain a recent incident involving an outdoor sword fight in the dark with everyone involved wearing top hats, though the official version is: ‘research’.

BEST SERVED COLD

Karen McCullough

‘With all due respect, ma’am, my company isn’t going any further.’ The captain’s voice cracked and his lips trembled as he faced her. He stood stiffly, as though he expected her to call down lightning to fry him for his boldness.

Yglenia stared out over the ruins ahead, where Frostgrave loomed even grimmer in the late summer dawn than its reputation had predicted. Steep spikes of rock towered over ridges of stones. Rows of windowless, roofless buildings lined streets littered with remains of walls and chimneys. Snow mounded in corners and icicles dripped off edges. A low greenish fog wafted in ribbons across that bleak landscape.

‘I paid you a hundred gold crowns to come with me to Frostgrave.’ Yglenia kept her tone even and resisted the urge to loose a fireball. Anger rumbled in her gut, trying to break free – an unexpected rage she struggled to control.

‘To Frostgrave,’ the captain said. ‘Not into it. And we’re here.’ The hand that rested on his sword shook. She gave him points for guts. He knew the risk he took in defying a wizard of her power. The crow on her shoulder screeched. She tightened her grip on her staff, fighting the mad fury racing through her.

Ignoring the crow, she gave the captain a hard look, then glanced at the small band of warriors behind him, two men and two women. All had the stance and build of seasoned soldiers, but their mutinous expressions failed to hide their fear.

Birasel – heavens blast her treacherous black soul – had once said a single willing sword at your side was worth more than a dozen slaves.

Yglenia turned to face the small band, and more than one set of knees wobbled. ‘I’ll compel none of you, but there’s an additional ten crowns each for any who will accompany me.’ Expressions turned from mutinous to considering. ‘And a tenth share of any treasure we find. I feel sure we’ll find something to make it worth your effort.’

To avoid undermining their captain, she added, to him, ‘Double share for you if you’ll stay with me.’

The soldiers looked at each other and muttered until finally one nodded. The rest followed suit. Even the captain conceded.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

‘You know where to find this wizard you’re seeking?’ the captain asked her as they walked towards the city.

‘Not where, but how.’ Yglenia drew a long breath to calm herself. Even thinking about Birasel made her blood burn. ‘I’ll find her.’

‘And when you do?’

For a moment she stared straight ahead. ‘Only one of us comes back out. I plan for it to be me.’

The captain gave her a brief, sharp glance. ‘Better be.’

As they tromped through drifting snow under the stone arch that once held the western gate of the ruined city, the silence broke apart, rent by a cacophony of screams, moans, and snivelling whispers. The cries came from all directions at once and no direction at all. Her ears buzzed, but when she closed her eyes and searched the ether, she found only an old warning spell pouring out the sounds.

She fed Rabin a few bits of corn and held up a piece of cloth she’d found in Birasel’s quarters. ‘Find the wizard and return to show us the way to her.’ The crow stroked her ear with its beak, cawed softly and took off, flying into the desolate city. He disappeared after a few moments.

‘Ignore the noises,’ Yglenia said. ‘They’re nothing. Just an old protection spell that doesn’t know when to quit.’

‘And that?’ one of the soldiers asked, pointing slightly left.

The greenish fog that hung low over the city had begun to swirl, though no breeze blew through the ruins. Eddies formed, rotating in place, eerie looking but not threatening, until strands of roiling yellow-green smoke branched out from them. For a second they seemed to wave randomly, then they began snaking toward the group.

‘Give me a moment.’

The largest tendril twisted and wound through the air several feet above the ground, moving sinuously toward her while Yglenia tried to get a read on the spell behind the fog. She suspected it was another illusion like the sounds, only visual instead of auditory this time. When she tried to locate the source of the fog, to read its origin, though, it resisted her effort.

She was still seeking when the first tendril reached her and its blunt, finger-like end nudged her chin.

The fog invaded her mind, rooted around, found her nightmares, and replayed them.

Only it wasn’t a nightmare, but one of her earliest and worst memories. Her father raged in the grip of one of his mad episodes, the worst she could remember in her six years of life. Alternately screaming and crying, tearing up books, throwing things, sweeping ornaments off tabletops. She hid in a cupboard, out of sight, waiting for it to run out. But then the cloaked and hooded figure came and said a few words that seemed to push him back into his chair. The stranger made him drink her concoction. Her father calmed and fell asleep. The figure studied him for a long time before turning and leaving the cottage. Yglenia watched from the cupboard for much, much longer, waiting to see what state he’d be in when he woke. But he never did. By the time she couldn’t stand it any longer and crept out to touch his hand, he was cold.

That spun into her second worst memory – the day she found the letter tucked in a drawer and learned that her teacher and mentor was the cloaked and hooded figure that day, the person who’d killed her father.

A hand grasped her arm tightly and shook it while voices yelled and demanded attention. ‘Lady. Lady!’

The words cut through the fog of memories and she pushed them back with an effort. One tendril still touched her chin, but another had begun snaking around her back and arms. She looked around. Two of the other soldiers were engulfed in swirls of mist. The captain wasn’t. He’d drawn his sword but held it by his side, unsure of what to do.

‘The tendrils,’ she gasped, pulling out her own knife. ‘Cut them off.’

His eyebrows rose but he didn’t question it. Instead he turned, raised the sword, and brought it down on the tendril starting to wrap around her. She noted his surprise when the sword met some actual resistance, but he chopped through, severing the strand from the eddy that had spawned it.

Still fighting the surge of memories clamouring for her attention, Yglenia drew her own knife and slashed at the foggy extension that touched her chin. When its tip separated from the pseudo-arm reaching for her, the memory invasion stopped like a song cut off mid-sentence.

They turned to see that all four soldiers were now embraced by swirls of fog and appeared lost in their own minds, though two of them had drawn their swords before being overcome by it. Yglenia and the captain both hacked at the tendrils surrounding them. Oddly the green, foggy arms made no attempt to evade their blows or fight back. Once the extension’s connection to the main area of mist was gone, it dissipated. It took only a few minutes to free the mercenaries. A few more outgrowths formed from the eddies, but they moved slowly and were easily dodged.

‘Let’s go,’ the captain said, nodding to the road.

She hoped Rabin would return soon. Beyond heading toward the ruined fortress ahead she wouldn’t know where to go until he did.

A quarter of a mile in, the green fog was well behind them, and grim piles of stone ruins loomed on either side, with the remains of what appeared to be a partially collapsed fortress in the distance ahead. They passed one or two cross streets. At least one was blocked off by mounds of snow and another appeared to end at a gate of twisted iron topped by wicked barbs. White skulls sat atop some of the barbs, leering at them. Icicles, large as swords, hung from the metal cross pieces.

The road narrowed as it approached a set of ragged towers and walls that might once have formed a mighty gate house. Two of the towers stood almost intact, though with jagged cracks running through them and chunks missing in places. Several other towers were partially collapsed. An enormous solid metal door hung on one remaining hinge, leaving an opening large enough to squeeze through. Roads branched off to the left and right ahead of the entrance.

Moments before they got to that decision point, a distant caw heralded the return of Rabin. At Yglenia’s signal the company waited there for the crow to arrive and settle on her shoulder again. She fed him corn and stroked his feathers. He ruffled the ends of his wings in a way that told her he’d located their target.

‘Show us the way then,’ she told him as he finished the last kernel.

He cawed acknowledgement and took off, heading towards their left. Yglenia sighed. That route wouldn’t have been her first choice. Five or six ruined buildings lined each side, shadowing a road that narrowed considerably before the path became a series of steps up and under an arcade of crumbling stone arches. The whole thing twisted after fifty feet or so, hiding whatever lay beyond. Patches of ice on the stairs made them particularly treacherous.

The captain moved ahead, following the crow’s path up and under the arches. The rest trekked behind him, and Yglenia took rear guard until a yell from the front of the group had her racing around the bend. She stopped, then ducked back. Rocks flew around the area where her companions now scurried for cover. Stones large and small, even a few large boulders more than two feet across defied gravity as they whizzed by.

Jonay, the larger of the two female soldiers, bled from a cut on her forehead, but she stood steady in the middle of the path, using her staff to divert the biggest blocks away from the group. The captain attempted the same with his sword, with less success. The others scrambled for refuge behind columns or low walls. That helped until the walls themselves began to move, sliding away or around. At the other side of the path a scream drew their gaze to where the stones had boxed in the youngest of the group.

She raised her staff. ‘Get back,’ she yelled to the others. ‘Behind me.’ Muttering a few words to power the weapon, she aimed the staff at the rock corner farthest away from the young man. She’d only have one try at it, so it better be good.

‘Shield your face,’ she warned the trapped soldier.

The staff hummed with energy activated, shaped, and aimed by her will. Sighting on the target, she released the force. A line of fire flashed to the rock, shattering it into hundreds of shards.

The trapped soldier yelped, but he’d covered his face as directed. He peered through his fingers and jumped through the opening she’d created, racing toward the group standing behind her.

They had to get by this obstacle, but it would take something more than the force in her staff. Yglenia considered the various spells she’d mastered, and made her choice. Muttering under her breath, she shaped the spell, put her energy into it and hurled it towards the rocks flying through the air.

It was a good spell, one of her best, and it worked better than she’d hoped. Flying rocks locked in place in the air, and sliding boulders quit moving. The silence became so thick it was almost a living presence.

‘Let’s go.’ She waved the others on. ‘It won’t hold long.’

She led the way, weaving through stones suspended in air and hopping over a couple that blocked the path. A surprised shout from one of the soldiers had them all stopping for a moment, looking at the piece of wall he pointed to. The twinkle of something gleaming there promised a possible find worth pursuing.

When he started toward it, a sudden surge of rage fired in her gut. She screamed ‘No!’ at him and raised her staff over his head. The man turned to her, startled, then cringed away at her expression. Yglenia stopped herself and tamped down on the burning fury with an effort. Of course, they’d want to pursue the possibility of hidden treasure. Her anger was reasonable as well, considering the danger, but it had surged way beyond appropriate. Though she breathed in and out slowly to control the emotion, she still sounded a bit ragged when she said, ‘Later. We only have a few minutes to get through this. On the way out, if we’ve found nothing else we’ll stop and investigate this. You have my promise.’

Reluctantly, they all moved forward. Not far beyond the bend, the arched walkway ended at a blank wall, broken by a barely noticeable door. Given the position of the wall, Yglenia guessed it was another part of the ruined fortress. Rabin exited through a small, high window, settled on her shoulder and chittered a moment, then flew back into the building.

Sighs came from a couple of the soldiers as they watched the crow disappear inside. The plain wooden door opened when the captain yanked at it. Nothing jumped out at them or offered any kind of welcome.

Within the structure, the silence was even deeper than it had been in the arch. Their torches revealed a long corridor running straight ahead for some distance. Rabin joined them from above and guided them into a hall branching to the left. It, too, was dark, the walls plain, unadorned stone.

‘Stop,’ shouted Yglenia, as they all heard a soft scrape of metal on stone. The wizard lunged forward, grabbing the woman at the front of the group and yanked her back, just as a series of long metal blades with bayonet ends dropped straight down from the ceiling. The blades nicked the two women as they tumbled backwards, then crashed into the floor.

While they spent a few minutes cleaning up the wounds, the metal gate rose again and remained aloft.

‘Stay here,’ she told the others. ‘The rest of this I need to do alone.’

‘Lady,’ the captain said, ‘You’re paying us... ’

She shook her head. ‘You can’t help with what awaits me now. Stay here and guard our retreat.’

After a bit of hesitation he agreed. Yglenia checked the ceiling, but the gate remained up as she passed through. A few rocks flew at her on the trip, but she brushed them away easily with a little force from her staff. A sword chopped down as she walked beside it, but she sensed its movement in time to sidestep around it.

Finally reaching the door and finding it open, she stopped to peer in. The acrid cloud hit her right away, but she had expected something of the sort and loosed a spell to disperse it. She added another to disable her opponent, but the older wizard threw up a shield and the spell splattered ineffectively against it. Yglenia raised her staff and shot a jet of flame that barely made a dent in her opponent’s protection.

Instead of launching anything more, Birasel beckoned to her and said, ‘Come in, dear. I know you’re here to kill me, and I know why. If you still want to after you’ve listened to me for ten minutes, I’ll give you a chance to try.’

‘You killed my father,’ Yglenia stated.

The older wizard sighed. ‘Young people have such a lovely simplistic view of life. I admire your zeal and energy, though. Sit down, please.’

Yglenia didn’t want to, but her curiosity had been roused, so she perched on the chair farthest from the old woman.

‘You know your father and I were once close,’ Birasel said. ‘Not lovers, but friends. We did a lot of research together. Much of it right here in this ruined city. And it was here that the... mistake occurred. A spell gone very wrong. It brought a curse on him. A curse of madness, developing slowly at first, but getting worse over time until he became lost in it. And that would be bad enough in itself, but the curse extended to his offspring as well.’

‘I’m not mad.’

‘Not yet. But I would bet you’ve had times when you felt anger you could barely control.’

Yglenia pressed her lips together and didn’t answer.

‘We both searched for a remedy, but if we didn’t find it in time, I had an agreement with your father that he would send for me when he knew the madness was going to overcome him, and I would end it for him when he could no longer fight it off. I’m only sorry I didn’t realise sooner you were in the room when that day came.’

Yglenia breathed out a harsh sigh.

‘Once I had fulfilled the rest of my promise to him, to see you cared for and educated, I retreated here to find the cure. Too late for him, of course, but not for you, I hope.’

‘You’ve found it, then?’

‘No, but I’m close.’

‘And that’s why I shouldn’t kill you?’

Birasel just looked steadily at her. ‘Your choice. Take a chance that I’ll find a cure, or kill me and end up lost in madness. For your father, it was ten years. You may have more. Perhaps.’

When Yglenia said nothing, she continued, ‘You were hiding in the closet that day because you’d experienced his madness and anger before. Have you had anything like that happen? Once it starts, it advances rapidly.’

‘I haven’t... ’ She had, though. At the gate. And again when the soldier had wanted to check for treasure instead of getting past the stones she’d frozen. That level of anger hadn’t felt right or natural. It wasn’t her. She’d managed to control it, then, but if it got stronger?

Birasel’s smile showed only sadness and compassion. ‘Yes. I see. Take your company back out of Frostgrave. Return in a year. By that time I should be able to reverse the curse. If not, feel free to carry out your original plan.’

Yglenia glared at the other wizard. ‘You have one year. No more.’

Karen McCullough’s wide-ranging imagination makes her incapable of sticking to one genre for her storytelling. As a result, she’s the author of more than a dozen published novels and novellas, which span the mystery, fantasy, paranormal, and romantic suspense genres. A former computer programmer who made a career change into being an editor with an international trade publishing company for many years, she now runs her own web design business to support her writing habit. Awards she’s won include an Eppie Award for fantasy; three other Eppie finals; Prism, Dream Realm, Rising Star, Lories, Scarlett Letter, and Vixen Awards, and an Honorable Mention in the Writers of the Future contest. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies and numerous small press publications in the fantasy, science fiction, and romance genres. She lives in Greensboro, NC, with her husband of many years.

Website: www.kmccullough.com

Blog: www.kmccullough.com/kblog

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/karenmccullough

Twitter: twitter.com/kgmccullough

TIME TO SPARE

David A. McIntee

We all looked up as Kveldulf came back from the path that descended to what Araddh had called the Hall of Candles. We were all fearing the worst, without being able to decide what the worst was. He loomed by the fire and gathered his thoughts. ‘The screaming’s stopped,’ he said at last. ‘That’s something, anyway.’

‘And the... ’ Lorenz swallowed, his lean frame shivering in his leather armour. ‘The other noise?’

‘I couldn’t hear that either, but it never was very loud.’

‘Loud enough,’ I muttered. They, and Karra, heard all the same. I didn’t know what they expected me to say, but they seemed to expect something. I was their ‘wizard’, after all. ‘Should we... Open it?’

Kveldulf shook his head, and it was like watching a thoughtful bull reply. ‘You don’t want to, lad. Trust me on that. Not unless you want to lay in a lifetime’s supply of nightmares, and a set of stains on those fancy robes that will never wash out, even if you swam an ocean in them.’

‘And it’s not as if there’s anything to gain by it,’ Karra said quietly. She stood. ‘We should just go. And never, ever come back here.’

Kveldulf and Lorenz both nodded in agreement, and so I stood, and gathered my cloak around me against the cold. ‘Let’s go, then.’ I never wanted to see this place again. Worse, I never wanted to hear the sounds again. None of the others did either, but I could tell from their expressions that they still heard the screams, and the pops. Probably they always would.

I did.

One Day Earlier

Six of us walked down the path to the Hall of Candles. Karra and Lorenz lit torches before we went in, and I looked around. A tower overlooked the stone archway that led into a complex of rooms, at least according to a scroll that Araddh had bade me carry along with his tomes and grimoires. It was impossible to see much of the Hall’s exterior, as a field of snow and ice had flowed across it.

‘Well,’ said Kveldulf, ‘I got us here. So what now?’

Araddh pulled the hood back from his shaved head, and consulted a clockwork device. ‘Now we need to be in the right vaults at the right times.’

Kveldulf’s squire took a third torch, as Araddh beckoned me to follow him in. The corridor’s roof sagged under the weight of the glacier that covered half of the building, and, though the sun was already setting, it was quite light inside. I couldn’t make out what it was that was glowing in deep alcoves, but the pulsating yellowish light was welcome. Karra lowered her torch, as did Lorenz and the squire. ‘I suppose this is why Master Araddh called it the Hall of Candles.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Though of course they’re not candles.’

‘What are they?’ Lorenz asked.

‘I wish I knew,’ Araddh admitted. He tutted. ‘I know we wizards have a reputation for wisdom, but we don’t know everything.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Lorenz whispered to Karra.

‘Life would be very boring if one knew everything,’ Araddh went on. ‘There’d be no point getting up in the morning, would there?’

‘Gold, jewels,’ Kveldulf suggested. ‘Those are worth getting up for.’

‘For you, maybe.’ Araddh led us through a maze of open rooms, occasionally requesting or handing me a scroll or piece of impedimenta. Eventually we came to a wider central hall with a sunken floor. A large stone hatch cover was in the centre of the depression. ‘All the researches I’ve conducted over the last six moons have led me to conclude that this vault contains a treasure worth getting up for: the sands of time themselves.’

‘The what?’

‘Gold dust, silver, platinum, and more,’ Araddh said. ‘They were stored for use in horological devices, such as timers, by the greatest chronomancers of the lost age.’ He turned to me. ‘Have you prepared the spells I instructed you about?’ I nodded and handed him the appropriate scrolls.

‘The lock will only open at certain times, but we have no way to know what those times are,’ I told the others. ‘Master Araddh has prepared a means to trick the wards into releasing.’ As I spoke, Araddh was incanting, and placing little cogs and gears in the air at the appropriate points. As always, it was a joy to watch him work, and I felt honoured to be apprenticed to him.

As the spell ended, the great stone slab crumbled into dust, as if millennia had crushed it, all within a few seconds. We all stepped forward – none of us could help ourselves – and immediately regretted it.

Instead of the sheen of precious metals, viscous tentacles burst forth, sweeping across the hall! We leapt back, the warriors drawing their weapons, as ever more thin and whippy tentacles lashed out. Whatever it was, it was incredibly fast and strong, and already a whip-like limb had wrapped around Kveldulf’s squire. Hairs like fine teeth dug into his flesh as it dragged him towards the hole in the floor. Kveldulf’s axe bit into the tentacle, and it fell to the flagstones, already melting into ichor.

‘A guardian!’ Araddh exclaimed. Two more had grabbed his squire already, and then the boy was gone. Everyone was fighting now, hacking with sword and dagger and axe, but the enemy, whatever it was, was somehow just filling the room with ever more arms. I began to wonder if it was even a single creature, or actually a nest of serpent worms. Fallen ones dissolved into sickening slime, but there were always more as we withdrew towards the corridor. ‘We could use an army,’ Karra shouted.

Araddh pushed me aside, into an alcove, just in time – more writhing serpent things were already whipping across the entrance to the corridor. He drew his sword, a rare sight for him, and held out a hand. ‘The Time Walk page,’ he snapped, ‘Now. It’s the only way to be quick enough to cut a path to safety through these things.’

I searched my satchel desperately, while Karra fell back into the alcove to catch her breath. ‘It’s impossible! Even with Time-Walking, there are too many of those things, and they’re too quick.’ She had a point – they were filling the hall like thick hair in a cat’s throat.

‘If being twice as fast as the fastest man isn’t enough, then what more can be done?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ Araddh snapped; he clenched his fists. ‘But we must... ’

Karra grabbed his shoulder. ‘Wait, if a spell can make you twice as fast, can’t another spell make you even faster? I mean, can’t you just cast it twice?’

‘Chronomancy doesn’t work that way,’ I said. ‘The incantations are so precise and complex that, even when Time Walking, it would be impossible to re-cast before the Walk ended.’

Araddh hushed me. ‘There is a way. Use two incantations.’

‘But Time Walking doesn’t work that way... ’

‘Storing time does. Now, don’t ask any questions. Just prepare the scrolls.’

I had no choice. ‘Yes, master.’

Araddh began to focus immediately, incanting the words and sounds recognised as the spell for Time Walking. Before he could disappear from view, which he would, I cast the same spell upon myself.

The world slowed around me, and suddenly even the ebon cords from which our enemy was made were drifting gently as if in a breeze. Our warriors moved so slowly that it seemed impossible that they could complete a step. Only Araddh and I were moving normally, so I could pass him the impedimenta needed for his next spell. As I stepped towards him, I saw a tentacle perilously close to his foot, and sliced it away with my dagger. It stayed floating in mid-air as I handed him the appropriate pieces from my satchel.

He then began to focus his skills on the spell to store a moment of time for future use, and, when that was completed, I heard him begin the Time Walk once more.

Then he was just a blur, as the world reasserted itself, and serpentine tentacles lashed at me. I reached for the sword that my master had put down while casting his spell, but it was suddenly whisked away by a blur. Our comrades rallied, as the serpent things began to fall, and black ichor splashed across the floor. My master had done it! I couldn’t even see him, but he was cutting a path back towards the corridor.

Kveldulf’s axe, and the swords of the others helped as well, as the forest of deadly limbs thinned out under steel. Then the spell wore off, and Araddh skidded to a halt with a pop of displaced air. His face was grim and determined, but he nodded to us, and raised his sword. At which point, Araddh skidded to a halt with a pop of displaced air.

‘What in the name of the gods... ?’ Kveldulf exclaimed. Lorenz and Karra exchanged astonished glances.

Araddh himself – themselves – looked confused, but his expression cleared quickly into one of eagerness. ‘Of course! This will be most useful... ’ Confusion returned as Araddh skidded to a halt with a pop of displaced air. And again. And another. They all looked as confused as the original.

Karra blinked. ‘I said we could have done with an army, but... ’ She stepped backwards to make room for more Araddhs, who were milling around, reading from scrolls, and gesturing as they incanted, while others cut and jabbed with their swords.

‘What happened?’ Lorenz shouted.

‘I have no idea,’ I lied. I had an idea, a theory. The two spells had clashed. That much was obvious. One spell doubled time – or halved it, from another’s view – while the other held time for later. Held a doubling of time, half of which held a store or a doubling, half of which held a store of... My blood chilled. Already there were twenty, or even thirty, of Araddh fighting the creature of limbs.

‘How many of them will there be?’ Kveldulf shouted.

I didn’t want to think of the possible answer. ‘Please, just get my master out of there!’

‘Which one’s actually Araddh?’ Karra called.

‘Gods’ teeth, that’s a point!’ Lorenz said. ‘Which of you is the original Araddh?’ he shouted.

‘I am!’ every single one of the fifty yelled. The pop of air was coming constantly now, and so were the screams of dying Araddhs as the press of bodies pushed others into the path of the lethal tentacles. Already the rest of us were edging along the walls, trying to avoid being trapped and crushed between them.

I began to feel as if I couldn’t breathe, taking a shorter gasp every time an Araddh bumped against me. At the same time I tried to cut at the enemy with my dagger. My foot bumped a fallen sword, and I stooped to grab it. As I did, Araddh – one of them - stumbled and fell, tripping several around him. I stooped to help one up, but Kveldulf grabbed my shoulder and dragged me away. ‘What are you doing?!’ I roared over the pops of appearing Araddhs, and the screams and babble.

‘Run! Or drown in wizards!’

I glanced back, seeing a jumbled mass of tumbling arms, legs, and heads, all flailing and yelling. There were far fewer tentacles now – even they were outnumbered – but there were far too many of Araddh to count. His faces filled the room like a cloud of locusts. The same face contorted in uncountable expressions. I reached momentarily towards the approaching morass of robes and faces, but my legs were already moving, picking up speed as I stumbled forward alongside Kveldulf.

Lorenz and Karra had already darted along the corridor ahead, and I tried to think as I ran, to find a way to save the right Araddh. Then there was moonlight in our eyes, and air as cold as the light from the stars above, and the ground was shaking.

Ice and earth rattled down over our heads, and, as I looked back, the huge stone lintel over the chamber’s entrance cracked and fell. A tower overlooking the path was already crumbling with a roar, rubble falling across and over the lintel like a blizzard. Heavy blows hit us, but we didn’t stop running. Not yet.

Suddenly we were in a courtyard strewn with pebbles and hailstones, and we were no longer alone. We pulled up sharply, barely avoiding running right into a group of helmeted and mail-clad warriors. There was no time to get into guard stances or fighting crouches, as the warriors already had their swords and shields in position.

Kveldulf and Lorenz let their hands fall by their sides, but kept a grip on their weapons. The rest of us just opened our hands, showing we were unarmed, if not necessarily unthreatening. If it came to it, swords and armour conducted lightning very nicely.

The expressionless helmets swivelled back and forth, from us to the hallway that was now blocked by the landslide and rubble, and back to us. Then they stepped slightly aside, allowing a tall woman to step through. She wore thick layers of sky-blue doublet and hose, with a deep midnight cloak, and deep bronze tattoos flowed not just around her wrists and hands, but across her forehead as if she were wearing a circlet. ‘A witch,’ Kveldulf muttered under his breath.

‘Wizard,’ she said cheerfully, and Kveldulf scowled. Even Lorenz looked at her askance, and I had to smile inwardly. Either she had very good hearing, or had heard that assumption enough times to expect it.

‘With mastery of the elements,’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Fortunately for you and us. Only earth and rock will keep that army from swarming over the whole world.’ She looked at me the way a judge might, before pronouncing sentence. ‘You’re a wizard?’

‘Apprentice. To Master Araddh’

‘Is he still in there?’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Lorenz said. I merely nodded. The tall Elementalist walked around to the landslide, where the last trickles of soil and grit had finished falling. I couldn’t help but follow. The others came too, her soldiers a little more relaxed, while Kveldulf, Lorenz and Karra were showing their tiredness from their exertions.

She put on one boot on the rubble just below the largest part of the fallen lintel stone, and bent to listen. I did too, and I wish I hadn’t.

There were shouts, and yells and screams from deep inside the earth, all in the same voice, all in terror and agony that people usually describe as being unimaginable. I could imagine it too easily; I could see it in my head. There were other sounds too; wet popping sounds. The crack of bone and the slither of blood. I jumped back, almost falling, and tried to listen to the winds, or the blood rushing through my ears, or my own breathing, or anything but what I could hear beyond the landslide.

‘Then you’re a wizard now,’ the tattooed woman said, returning to her soldiers.

‘And your rival, I presume,’ Kveldulf said, tightening the grip on his axe.

She stifled a laugh. ‘Rival for what? Rival for what’s in there now?’ She shook her head. ‘I just came to save the world. You’re on your own now, lad.’ With that, she and her retinue simply walked away.

With that, I knew I would never be a Chronomancer. Never by choice.

David A. McIntee has written many tie-in novels in such franchises as Doctor Who, Star Trek, Final Destination and Space 1999. He has also written comics adapting the work of Ray Harryhausen, William Shatner and John Saul. He has been a regular features contributor to many genre media magazines, and has written academic studies about the Aliens and Predator series, Blakes 7, and others. He has also run re-enactment demos of Ancient Egyptian events.

THE COLDER STARS

Duncan Molloy

Sigurd climbed the stairs two a pace, angry with the girl, her father and himself. His men followed, keeping wisely silent. The door at the top was locked and he slammed his palm into it in frustration.

‘For the gods’ sake, Aen!’

There was silence. She must have been feeding it. Thunk thunk thunk, the butt of his fist into the woodwork.

‘Let me in Aen, this has been ordered. Aen!’

Thunk. He rested his weight against the door jam.

‘I’d really prefer not to break down this door.’

Sigurd heard the slow rattle of a bolt being pulled out of a lock, and his shoulders sagged just a little. He quietly told his men to remain where they were and stepped into the room. Aen had withdrawn into the corner and was suckling the child, stroking its cheek with her finger, eyes wet, hands trembling.

‘He was a handsome stable boy, was he?’

She didn’t respond.

‘I bet he was, the little bastard.’ Sigurd glanced at the child. ‘Sorry. Your father has managed to keep this from everyone, but he is not happy. Hand me the child.’

She seemed to shrink into the corner, wrapping herself around the baby like a shroud. Sigurd sighed wearily, heavily. He motioned to his men who pinned her by the arms and carried the baby out of the room and away from the tower. Aen looked so small. He softened.

‘I swore that I would protect you from harm. I swore that... Your father has commanded you to join the religious orders. This won’t be a bad life, Aen. I’ll stay with you. I’ll take care of you. I made a promise.’

He bundled her into his arms as he had done when she was very young, and walked out of the room. That was how Aen, the second daughter of the local lord, joined the Order of the Distant Prophets.

* * *

From afar the city of Frostgrave looked like a jagged claw rising from the frozen ground, but as they grew closer it looked like a slow wave, inevitability surrounding them until it swallowed them whole. Caelum ran a fire spell in his closed fists to fight off the cold in his fingers. His master would flog him for wasting magic, but there were more pressing concerns. He kept a close eye on the banks as they crept along the surface of the river. Master Dox walked ahead, focused on his ice spells, ensuring that the surface remained frozen despite the weight of their men. For such a rough looking bunch they were remarkably nervous about the ground beneath them, impassive as it was to a blade and a sneer.

A warning cry from one of the men to his left: a lone ghoul had spotted them and was stumbling its way down the bank towards them. This would be their seventh or eighth so far. He’d seen undead before, had even trained against a reanimated skeleton, but these were worse. The cold had kept their flesh from decaying. It hung on their bones, old killing wounds exposed, frozen eyes staring straight out of open sockets. The flesh of this one’s upper arm was torn away where it had frozen to the bicep.

He shook his shoulders and focused his gaze. The hired hands were reminded to save their crossbow bolts. Caelum carefully raised his hands and the ice around the ghoul shimmered as it suddenly melted. Before it could let out a moan it slipped into the river below. A shout went up, followed by several whispers to hush. Four more ghouls had stepped out from the wreckage and were making their way towards them. Caelum drew his hand across his chest and the first two dropped away. The third followed and there was a loud crack from the ice.

His eyes widened and everyone stood still. The ghoul raised its head and bore directly towards him. Caelum shifted his feet slightly and the ice beneath him groaned. Slowly, delicately, he focused his attention on the ground in front of the last ghoul. It slipped in the slush and fell face forward. Caelum turned his palms towards the sky and froze the monster in place, sealing the holes beside it. Dax nodded at him, and continued forward.

The biggest of the hired thugs laughed and hocked back as much phlegm as he could. He had scoffed when everyone else had armed themselves with crossbows and insisted on taking a mace. It rested over his shoulder now as he strode towards the trapped ghoul. Leaning back pointedly, making such a show of it he seemed almost like a travelling jester, he spat at the ghoul. Caelum flicked his wrist and a sudden gust blew the yellow lump of spit back into the man’s beard. Caelum quickly put his hands in his pockets. Yellowbeard’s curses were quieted by distant barking, and the crew hurried on their way. They had much ground to make up, and little time.

* * *

Caelum hadn’t seen her in many months, but it was still a shock when he heard that Aen had joined the Order. He had followed her out of duty, a broken heart, and a lack of anything better to do. He followed her on the long trek to a distant city in the north, only to be stopped at the final hurdle. The Order had not laughed at his request to be inducted. They’d been incredulous, as though the thought of common blood learning the Prophets’ secrets was beyond even comprehension.

He seethed with impotent rage. Everything had been denied to him: love, a child, the promise of a better life. He didn’t return home after his pilgrimage to the Holy Citadel. He sat in a stupor, spirits darkening his own dark spirit, until a cock-sure local gave him a chance to exorcise some of his rage. Caelum had been remarkably steady for someone so port-filled. Used to wild horses, he knew how to duck a wide swing, when to avoid momentum, when an animal was ready to be broken. He broke this one’s face on the corner of a fireplace and let the man’s coat sleeves act as kindling. Dox had grabbed him and huddled him away as his rage cooled and horror set in.

Fear of being exposed to revenge-minded locals provided ample recompense for assisting in Dox’s research, and over time Caelum grew into a fine apprentice for his new master. He never lost sight of what had brought him to the Citadel, never stopped plotting access to Aen. He would find a way to get to her and they could be together. He learned to control his emotions like the elements, when to channel a warm rage, and when to be cold. He learned, and he waited, and he kept his desires close to his chest.

* * *

The Order had a much more careful approach to forays into the Frozen City. Their tactics were sound, and they were well armoured, but Sigurd did not want to be here. Every corner, every building, every pit was a darkness. There were simply too many directions from which death could come.

He would never admit it to his men, but they were the dregs. Too inexperienced or too slow to be of value elsewhere in the empire, they were left to protect the old priests and priestesses – more an indication of the Order’s social status than a vital force. He had made peace with the indignity of it, but he hadn’t been prepared to lead men such as these into battle. He cast an eye on Aen as she held the ancient maps closer to the high priest’s failing eyes. She wouldn’t look at him, even now.

‘We need to move on.’ The wearier of his men muttered their disagreement. He ignored them and stared at the priest. ‘We’re too exposed here.’

A fallen wall had blocked their planned route, and the high priest was dithering over alternatives.

‘We have come this far in search of the Prophets’ gifts.’ The old man looked to the sky and toyed with the silver key tied around his neck. ‘They will not fail us now.’

Sigurd adjusted his vambraces, regretting his decision not to wear steel. It was cold enough that the cold steel wouldn’t have made it much worse. He could feel the chill in the bones of his hands. Gods, he was getting old.

‘This way, I believe.’ The priest pointed to his left.

‘Right. Finn, lead the way. I’ll take centre guard. Tane and Miller – you bring up the rear.’

With a glance to the priest for his consent the men got into position. Aen carefully wrapped the tattered looking map in a strip of old hide and secreted it under her cloak, still silent as though it was a vow she had taken. He fell into step as they moved on. For years he had been putting up with this. He deserved better. He was a good man, gods damn it. And he loved her, in his way. She had always been like a daughter to him, but after his wife had died...

The snarling pulled him back from his thoughts.

They were in an alley, closed off by ruins on either side. The man in front, Finn, had drawn his sword against the wild dog that crept towards him, muzzle low, teeth bared. The scrawny thing’s ambition outweighed its size. Sigurd drew his own sword and took a step forward when a cry went up from behind him. He turned to see another dog pounce from the ruins onto his men. A third held Miller by the throat and was shaking the life out of him. Tane, to his credit, spun and caught the dog in mid-air with his dagger. It yelped and tumbled to its side, taking the dagger with it.

Limping, it turned towards Tane, who had taken the second he should have used to draw his sword to glance at Miller instead. The dog leapt again, and Tane swung a right hook, crunching bones in the side which still held the dagger. The animal crumpled.

All this had happened in the split second Sigurd had hesitated. He rushed towards them as Miller found the strength to seize the dog and pin it to his chest. The life was pouring out of him as the dog tore at the flesh of his shoulder, but Sigurd could read the intent. He raised his sword underhand and sank it through man and beast both until it screeched against the cobblestone. Tane retrieved his dagger and slit the other dog’s throat for good measure.

Sigurd left his sword in place, drawing Miller’s from its scabbard to find the last beast licking Aen’s hands while the priest treated a wound in Finn’s arm.

‘These are war dogs. Who knows how long they’ve spent here since their masters died. He’ll work for us now.’

It wasn’t a suggestion. He was too surprised at hearing Aen speak to argue.

‘Come.’ The priest sounded shaken. ‘We have no time to burn the dead, may the Prophets forgive us.’

Sigurd retrieved his sword with some difficulty, and kicked the dead dog off Miller’s chest. He placed the man’s own blade alongside him and looked down. That’d have to do. He adjusted his grip and kept his sword drawn as they headed for the square.

* * *

As soon as Caelum had mastered a basic illusion spell, he had taken it upon himself to gather as much information about Aen as possible. He wasn’t fool enough to test it against the Order up close, but he knew where his strengths lay. He would steal away from Dox whenever he could to gather information from the servants who worked at the Citadel. Shifting his face he flirted with kitchen maids, bullied stable boys and avoided the guards. Its value was limited. Aen didn’t eat much, she still kept a horse, she was apprenticed to a high priest charged with the upkeep of relics. He got scraps of who she was, but nothing that told him how to get to her.

Experience told him he was wasting his time with the lower classes, that they would never be trusted with anything of value. He identified several local merchants who supplied the Order, and lost gallantly enough at cards to ingratiate himself with them. This proved a more fruitful endeavour, costly as it was. Proclaiming their own superior status granted plenty of opportunity to let the men ramble about their value to the high priests.

He had been getting increasingly worried that Dox would discover that he was siphoning money when the opportunity came. One of the merchants sat at the table with a bigger swagger than usual, upping bids and betting blind whenever the fancy took him. Caelum took a little money from him to draw him in, then proceeded to let the man slowly take it all back.

Caelum shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, he was told, this man was an old hand. This man had been winning games like this since before Caelum was a mewling babe. This man was respected from the lowest member of society to the highest for his skills and his reliability. This man was the one the Order came to for the finest equipment to protect them from the cold and the fury of Frostgrave.

As the others had come and gone, Caelum had pressed him harder for information. This man had his throat cut before the night was out.

A group had already left for the Frozen City, the keeper of relics and his apprentice among them. Aen had already left for the most dangerous place imaginable. Caelum went straight to Dox. He told him of the Order’s quest for a lost relic of the Distant Prophets. He told him how many had left, and when. He told him of the tower on the river’s edge. He didn’t tell Dox how he knew this. There would be some explaining to do, but he hoped the promise of magical treasure would be enough to render him safe for now.

Dox didn’t waste any time. He went to the roughest bar he could find and demanded to know who the toughest gang was. When the fighting had stopped, he offered an eyebrow-raising amount of gold to the six that remained standing. They left that night to approach the city by the fastest route they could. They left that night and headed for the river.

* * *

The square stood empty, dressed in blues and greys of dirty ice and limestone. There were paths leading to it from the easternmost corners while the entire western face opened directly onto the frozen river. Here and there pillars of wood jutted at odd angles from the ice, remnants of an ancient dock, frozen too solid even to rot. The tower stood to the north-west of the square, a pillar of chalky white in the grime which surrounded it.

The Order finally spilled out from the south-east corner, weapons drawn. Sigurd scanned the walls for any sign of trouble, keeping half an eye on the war dog in Aen’s thrall. The priest only had eyes for the tower.

‘Oh Distant Prophets, by thine eyes I have been guided. Let these poor human hands which are not worth of thy gifts serve to magnify your light upon this Earth.’

The dog began to growl.

* * *

Caelum caught sight of the lone priest making his way towards the tower. The others had to be nearby. Damn it, this was not what he had wanted. He had come here to protect Aen, and instead he had led her directly into an ambush. Dox motioned for silence, needing a second to strengthen his resolve. The constant flow of magic to stabilise the ground beneath him had wearied him more than he wished anyone to realise. Maybe Caelum still had a chance to come out of this well.

He saw the war dog running towards them and realised he was too late. A flurry of crossbow bolts were fired, at least one finding their mark, sending the dog spinning. Dox grimaced as he sent forth a scatter shot of electrical bolts. One finished off the dog, one buckled the priest’s knee and four more sparked towards the south wall. No. Yellowbeard roared and ran towards the square, waving his mace as the other goons reloaded. No, no, no. There was nothing for it. Caelum focused all his energy and called down a snowstorm on the river. Dox threw him a look of bewilderment as Caelum headed for the square, the snow beginning to swirl around them. Then the sky above them began to tear, and Caelum broke into a sprint.

* * *

Aen strengthened the shield spell around herself and ran towards the high priest. He was muttering an incantation and there was an ungodly roar. Out over the river a rift appeared in the sky and a huge beast emerged. It was difficult to make out through the snow, a blur of talons and green feathers and limbs. As it fell from the sky the ice shattered beneath it and men were scattered.

She froze for a second, taking in the sight. The beast thrashed in the water, roaring in agony at the cold. Huge chunks of ice flew in every direction, and one man lay sprawled unconscious where a piece had connected with his jaw. The beast was trying to claw its way back onto the ice towards the square while a panicked wizard threw balls of blue flame at it desperately.

* * *

Dox ducked to his left, his face looking more and more gaunt. He had to keep up the assault but this type of magic use had a cost. Every time he tried to freeze the water around the beast it smashed through the ice before it could set. He had never seen anything like this. It was somewhere between an eagle and a panther, a huge monster with claws the size of his head. Keeping his focus on the beast he lost his footing, slipping and sending several of his bolts wide, even at this close distance.

With snow in his eyes he fired again and again, the dark patches beneath his cheekbones deepening. He caught the beast in the eye and it screeched like a hawk with the timbre of a bear. Sensing his chance he turned to flee. Rearing and kicking in pain, the monster snagged his hood in its talons as it thrashed. Dox’s face went pale as beast and man both tumbled backwards and disappeared into the black water.

* * *

Sigurd was bleeding under his armour from that damned magic bolt. Finn had taken a bolt of each type and lay slumped on the cobbles. It didn’t matter who these men were, he was going to butcher them. Butcher them and leave. The sound of bloody murder would attract carrion feeders for a mile in every direction. He walked towards the water’s edge and slid a blade into the first unconscious man he saw. Tane was moving faster and ran to the ice, bludgeoning a thug as he desperately reached for his crossbow. A third struggled to get out of the water and suddenly seemed to be pulled under by the current.

Tane had done well. Damned well. Perhaps he had been too hard on the boy. When they got through this he would put a stiff drink in his hand and have a word with him about bettering his career prospects. A flash of light focused his attention to the centre of the square. The high priest lay in a bloody mess, while a huge brute staggered clutching his face. A third man was running towards them. Towards Aen.

Tane nodded and Sigurd went. Tane found a fourth thug clambering up the ice. The man had lost his crossbow but ducked the swing of Tane’s sword, bringing a mailed fist into his face. The ice shifted, and both men lost their footing. Tane ignored his sword and drew his dagger, crawling on all fours to keep steady. He slashed for the man’s throat, catching his cheek instead. They grappled end over end, rolling towards the water which was cold as death. Bracing his knee, Tane halted their momentum and straddled the man, pushing strength against strength to bring the dagger towards his heart. Five withered hands rose from beneath the water as they struggled, and in an instant both men were gone.

* * *

Yellowbeard had bludgeoned the bloody priest. And Aen, beautiful, clever Aen, had blinded him to keep him away. Even now she tended to the priest as Yellowbeard staggered, screaming in fury, swinging his mace like a child with a flag.

‘Hey! You walking slop bucket,’ Caelum shouted out to him, drawing his attention. ‘All you can kill is an injured old man. You’re pathetic.’

Another man, a knight by the look of him, was approaching Yellowbeard from the other side. Just as it seemed like the knight was within reach, Yellowbeard spun round at the noise. Caelum took his chance and wrapped the brute in flame. He screamed for a moment then collapsed. The smell of burnt flesh tainted the air.

The knight stared at the young male apprentice, but Caelum’s eyes were only for Aen.

She had moved away from the body of the priest and was heading towards the tower.

‘Aen.’ Caelum struggled with emotion, with exhaustion, with disbelief. ‘Aen, it’s me. Aen, I’ve come for you. I love you.’

‘Aen!’ the knight shouted, ‘We need to leave. Damn the relic, damn the gods and damn the bloody Prophets! We need to leave right now.’

The dead began to emerge from the river. The ghouls which they had trapped below the ice had followed them on their hike. They poured out of the gouges in the ice like rats from a gutter.

Aen had reached the tower, and opened the door with a silver key. She stood, head down for a moment, then turned to the men.

‘You are something that happened to me. You have no idea who I am.’

The door of the tower opened as the wind quietened. Aen stepped inside and the door disappeared, as the chalky walls shifted and grew to form a crystal barrier around the tower the colour of the distant stars. The tower became a tomb, and a knife, and a chrysalis. The snow fell and the two men stood in disbelief. Moans were coming from the shattered ice, none of them human. They fled into the night and the claws of Frostgrave closed around them like a fist.

Duncan Molloy is an Irish writer and game designer based in London. Originally a playwright and live storyteller, he has won award nominations for Storybook and Seven Versions of a Song. This is his first published short fiction. Raised on a diet of dangerous cities from Gotham to Lankhmar, he has really enjoyed getting to know Frostgrave.

Duncan currently runs the board and card game division of Osprey Games. Further fiction and updates on his other work are available at www.duncanmolloy.com

MIND OVER MATTER

Graeme Davis

‘I study enchantment, my dear Pentellen, because it is the purest form of magic. Magic and matter are the two constituents of the universe, after all, and everything else is simply a debased form of one or the other. How, then, can any other form of magic be worth studying? Your own mountebank’s tricks, for instance: they create nothing, move nothing – in effect, they are nothing. And yet, you continue to waste your time with them.’

The patrons of the Frosty Mug were used to Mondasius and his pontificating. Standing a mile outside the gloomy walls of Frostgrave, the tavern was neutral ground by common agreement – and also by means of powerful spells that prevented the use of magic within its walls. Here, wizards and their apprentices could set aside the rivalries that drove them into the Frozen City and gather to eat, drink, and talk.

It was inevitable, therefore, that much of their conversation should concern the relative merits of different schools of magic, and by now it was almost equally inevitable that the master enchanter would be found at his usual table, holding forth about the inferiority of every other magical art and the supremacy of his own.

Regulars had learned to ignore his loud and self-satisfied drawl, but the two apprentices at the table – Pentellen’s slight and beautiful Agraeria and Mondasius’ burly Isamborg – waited for the debate between their masters to unfold. So did several other patrons, who had longed to see Mondasius on the receiving end of Pentellen’s renowned wit. To their disappointment, the slender illusionist merely smiled affably.

‘Forcefully stated, Magister,’ he said. ‘Of course, I cannot agree with you, but I doubt you will be swayed by argument. After all, what are words but hot air? Since I know you are an empirical thinker, permit me to suggest a practical demonstration. Tomorrow, say, at a time and place of your choosing?’ All eyes turned to the two wizards. Surely this would be something worth seeing. The smirk on the enchanter’s face broadened.

‘The Museum of Philaxis, an hour after noon?’ he said. ‘I would suggest an earlier time, but I know you are a late riser.’ A slight gasp greeted his choice. The Museum’s enchanted statues had claimed many lives. Mondasius had explored further than most, thanks to his mastery of the same magics that animated them. He would be at a significant advantage there.

* * *

The following noon, a colourful throng of magicians chattered and jostled outside the tavern to watch the two combatants set off for the city. Lesser mortals crowded the upper floors of nearby buildings while hawkers cried hot food and drink. Adding to the carnival atmosphere, musicians and mountebanks played for small change while pickpockets quietly worked the growing crowd and other enterprising souls took wagers on the outcome of the challenge. Soothsayers had already set up Wizard Eyes at various points to track their progress.

Mondasius was the first to arrive, and heads turned to see the composition of his force. The enchanter carried his great forked staff and eschewed robes in favour of heavy boots, stout breeches and a wool jerkin under a heavy leather apron. Despite its plain appearance, it was well known that the enchanted apron was harder than steel. His only other equipment was a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

Beside him Isamborg carried a massive sledgehammer. He topped his master by almost a head. Two massive constructs lumbered behind them, wood and brass gleaming in the wintry sun. They were followed by six armoured knights whose mail coats glowed a strange purple colour. The odds on Pentellen lengthened considerably.

It was a few minutes after the appointed hour when the illusionist arrived. Pentellen was dressed in his usual robes of shadow-grey and high boots of black leather. His plain black staff and a small knapsack were his only concessions to the business at hand. Agraeria, by contrast, was gorgeously arrayed in a flowing gold and purple cape over a black gown slashed with white and embroidered with swirling designs worked in gold and silver thread.

Behind them strolled a motley band, apparently recruited at random from the lowest sorts of alehouses. The odds on the illusionist lengthened further, although some took comfort from his relaxed demeanour. Surely he had some plan in mind.

Pentellen raised a hand in greeting, and was answered by a curt nod from the enchanter. Mondasius led the way to the city and towards the Museum.

* * *

The courtyard was deep within the Museum complex. It was empty except for six ornate plinths, each bearing a statue of grey stone and a chest bound in black iron. The wizards stopped to survey the ground.

‘Six statues and six treasures,’ said Mondasius. ‘Victory to whomever holds the most when the last statue falls. Do you agree?’

‘Wait.’ Agraeria raised one slender hand. ‘There is the chance of a tie at three chests each. What say you to this, Magister: if my master can take all six, you will acknowledge that illusion is stronger. Any other result, and enchantment wins. Agreed?’

Mondasius took a moment to regain control of his eyebrows. He looked at Pentellen’s thugs, who lolled nonchalantly against the walls: they looked strong, apart from one rather scrawny individual – possibly a thief, he thought – but they could not be any match for his followers, nor indeed for the Museum’s statues. He looked at Agraeria, wondering if she was joking, but her face seemed empty of guile. Not that an illusionist is ever guileless, he reminded himself. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Pentellen himself, who smiled that infuriating smile and nodded his agreement.

Something was wrong, Mondasius was certain – but what? A whisper of doubt entered his mind for the first time since the wager was made. Uncomfortably aware of the eyes on him, and of those watching by magical means from outside, he found himself with no option.

‘Agreed,’ he said. Whatever that damned illusionist was up to, he would have to deal with it as it came. The two bands took up position on opposite sides of the courtyard, and Mondasius began preparing his first spell. Beside him, Isamborg was already chanting the incantation to strengthen their first construct.

Mondasius pointed to the chest nearest the illusionist’s group. It vanished from its plinth and appeared at his feet; at the same time the gargoyle statue atop the plinth came to life, hopping down and moving towards Pentellen. The illusionist broke into a run, trying to lead the statue back toward Mondasius, but the master enchanter reached out with his mind and took control of it, forcing it to keep on his rival’s heels. He realised with mild satisfaction that Pentellen had yet to cast a spell. Agraeria’s dress had begun to glow with a golden light of divine beauty, and the hired thugs seemed to be cowering behind her. It seemed the illusionists were on the defensive.

Isamborg had already sent the strengthened construct towards the nearest plinth. It picked up the chest and turned back, while two of its fellows intercepted the angelic statue that tried to pursue it. The statue was a pile of rubble by the time the second chest was laid at Mondasius’ feet. He opened both chests: the first contained a sack of coins, and the second a book, both of which Mondasius put in his satchel before taking stock of the situation.

Pentellen was still separated from his group, trying to stay ahead of the gargoyle statue that Mondasius had sent after him. The enchanter briefly considered throwing one of his own constructs into the chase, but decided against it. Glowing like a goddess, Agraeria was edging her way toward another plinth, the hired thugs clustered behind her in a knot. The Beauty spell might afford her some protection from an activated statue, but the thugs would have to fend for themselves and they showed no inclination to take any such risk. Mondasius gloated inwardly at Pentellen’s false economy: these alehouse dregs were proving useless. Here was a better use for his knights: they dashed forward to take the chest, leaving the illusionist’s apprentice to deal with the goat-headed statue that protected it.

Isamborg, meanwhile, had strengthened the second construct and sent it to reinforce the first. Two knights were already bringing a third chest to Mondasius while their fellows dealt with the stone griffon from atop the chest’s plinth. Both chests arrived together, and inside Mondasius found a potion and another sack of coins. He added both to his satchel and considered his next move.

The illusionist’s thugs were still cowering, making no move either to rescue their master from the pursuing gargoyle or to help his apprentice in her battle against the stony beastman. Deciding that there was nothing more to do against either of them, Mondasius sent four knights to another plinth. The ever-efficient Isamborg had already done likewise, and his wood-and-brass giants made short work of a granite ogre while two knights brought the chest to his master. A rune-inscribed ring was added to the enchanter’s satchel, and he waited for the last of the chests to secure his victory. More than victory, he reminded himself: even one treasure would have won him the wager, but with all six in his possession the supremacy of the School of Enchantment was established beyond doubt, and all those who had called him a braggart would be forced to eat their words. A satisfied smile spread across his face.

The final chest contained a scroll bound up with a leather thong. Mondasius glanced at the leaden seal with its unfamiliar rune: probably something for a sigilist, but it might fetch a decent price. Only one statue remained active now: the one he had sent against Pentellen at the start of their contest. Close pressed by his stony pursuer, the illusionist had not been able to cast a single spell. So much for his renowned cunning. Mondasius focused his thoughts on the statue, commanding it to return to him. He would allow Isamborg to destroy the thing and bring this contest to an end.

No sooner had the statue stopped its pursuit than several things seemed to happen at once. Mondasius found himself surrounded by bright light: a standard Glow spell, he thought – one of the weaker illusions, and surely useless in this case because there were no archers or other ranged troops in Pentellen’s unwashed retinue. Almost before he could finish this thought, he was struck by another spell. He felt it tug at him and marshalled his will to resist, but with a dizzying lurch he found himself at the other side of the courtyard in the midst of Pentellen’s thugs.

Before Mondasius could react, strong arms wrestled him to the ground and stripped him of staff and satchel. A demonic shape trotted back from where he had been, shimmering into the shape of the scrawny thief and taking the treasure-filled satchel with a mock bow. In that moment Mondasius saw two things: the thief wore Pentellen’s face, and Isamborg’s hammer took off the gargoyle’s head and ended the contest.

Rough hands helped the master enchanter to his feet, dusting him off none too gently.

‘A favourite of mine, the Transpose spell,’ said Pentellen. ‘And you were most obliging to chase my illusionary double and not look too closely at my own disguise. You concede that I was holding all six treasures when the last statue fell?’ It was a moment before Mondasius could speak.

‘But – I – you tricked me! This was a trick!’

‘All illusion is trickery, my dear Magister,’ said Pentellen with a smile, ‘Mountebank’s tricks, as you said yourself. Magic and matter are not the only things in the universe, I find: there is also imagination, which can be stronger than either of them.’

Graeme Davis has been a writer for tabletop and video games since the 1980s. He has written for Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Vampire: the Masquerade, the Total War PC game series, the chart-topping mobile game Kingdoms of Camelot: Battle for the North, and many others. He is the author of the Dungeons & Dragons novel Blood and Honor, and his short stories have been published by Stone Skin Press and others. He has also written multiple titles in Osprey’s Myths and Legends and Dark Osprey series. He writes an occasional blog on writing, games, and writing in games at graemedavis.wordpress.com.

This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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