Tag Archives: fantasy

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

The Dead Can Never Die

The wizards with their orbs and spells, their alchemy and astrology, and other arcane knowledge that only they had the learning to truly understand, or so they claimed, had spent years perfecting their spellcasters. Their ultimate achievement, long sought after. A spell that could raise other spells, that would not dissipate, but would instead remain integral across all time, capable of casting any spell.  

This required collecting all the learning on spellcraft in existence, collating it and rendering it accessible to the spellcaster. There were mistakes along the way. How could there not be? There were endless errors in spell books – wizards were secretive creatures after all and often slipped in errata to ensure only they would be the ones to know the spells. That didn’t even include the mistranslations, for spells had been taken from one language to another and back again over the years, and a spell that had begun transforming an eel into a princess now turned a prince into a frog. 

Still the wizards claimed the spellcaster worked. Not only did it work, but it could learn. Through trial and error it could correct the many errors that had entered into the literature. Any task, any potion, any craft or artistry, all could be subsumed by the spellcaster. Here then was the power of the old gods long vanished from all realms.  

Rulers and other elites were naturally intrigued by the promise. They had long been allied with the wizards. Together they had transcended all earthly domains of money and power and now lived in constant terror of losing it all. The promise of the spellcaster was the answer to all their dreams, for with it you no longer needed people. 

They were a problem, it had to be admitted. Those testy subjects who were constantly insisting upon the obligations they believed their betters owed them instead of being properly awed in the face of their obvious excellence and superior wisdom. Most had proven quite uninterested in the wizards’ last great idea, exchanging their minted coins for a magical Repository of Value, no matter how many times it was demonstrably proven to them that this was a far better thing than actual coin. It even had other uses, though the wizards were somewhat vague on those. They had many questions about the spellcaster as well and did not seem especially convinced by all the answers they were given.  

The wizards assured all that they would come around in due time. Having conquered all realms they turned to death itself, claiming they could escape our mortal bonds with eternal life. Not with the usual rubbish elixirs and potions, which everyone knew to be the work of charlatans. The spellcaster would be handy here for it would be able to invent new spells that would generate fresh organs and fresh blood to renew an aging body. The first few attempts at this went poorly. It seemed the wizards were stealing organs and blood from paupers and declaring them newly generated, causing the kind of scandal that brought the whole spellcaster project into disrepute. 

This led to much grumbling on all sides, so a new approach was needed. Time was the problem, it was declared. Its ceaseless march wore down everyone and everything. The answer was to hold the world still, keep everyone in their right place, unmoving. If they did everything correctly, they might even be able to wind time back on itself, reset events and restore the glorious past when everything had felt new and life had seemed limitless. Soon it would be. The spells were cast. The world was wound back like a resetting clock, the whole fabric of society groaning as countless numbers were crushed beneath those gears. 

The rulers applauded the wizards for their efforts. They complimented each other for their newly youthful vigour, though secretly each thought the others appeared much the same. Everywhere they looked there was stillness. No wind stirred. They all told themselves how wondrous it all was, how for the first time ever they felt at peace, all their desires met. Even as they did they found themselves looking over their shoulders. Old habit, they told themselves, one they would soon shake. But they couldn’t, for there was a sound somewhere that they couldn’t quite place, no matter how much they cast about in search of it. Like the roar of a waterfall heard at a distance. 

Miscellanea

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Miscellanea from the Lost Quarter and beyond.

The Behemoth

One day in their travels they came upon a great behemoth sprawled across the land. So vast was this creature that, at first, they did not realize it was an animal, though that word seems small for the scale of what they faced. They mistook the hair that blanketed its body as some strange vegetation. It was so large, encompassing the whole horizon, seemingly without an end, that they could only guess at its contours. For all they knew what lay before them was a mere appendage of the creature. Nothing resembling a head or eyes or mouth or any other familiar body parts was distinguishable.  

That it was both alive and a creature, was made evident by its movements. These came at irregular intervals, with sometimes more than a day passing between them. From a prudent distance, they could see the hairy surface ripple as some muscle contracted, following which, shadow would be visible between the creature and the ruined earth below. So glacial was its pace that they had no way of determining what direction it was moving, though everyone imagined it was toward them.   

They attempted to travel around the creature, assuming that at some point they must come to its end and be able to pass by. After two days of travel the landscape before them had not changed and there was no sign it would. Seeing no other choice for it, they continued, eventually encountering the people who made their homes upon the behemoth. These proved a disparate lot. Frontier folk mostly, living in scattered dwellings constructed from patches of hair they had cleared from the creature. Apparently there was enough residue earth upon the behemoth to allow crops to grow, for they could see gardens and fields flourishing on the cleared patches. Water they collected from various crevices and folds, some of which were large enough to last a lifetime. 

Out of curiosity they approached some of these individuals to ask why they chose to live upon the behemoth and were met with blank stares. Though they lived near the creature’s edge it had never occurred to them to venture off. To live outside the behemoth seemed foolhardy in the extreme. Most of their fellows thought them mad for living as close as they did to its borders. The behemoth was the universe to them, encompassing the world even as it crossed it, leaving devastation in its wake, while those living upon it were unaffected. 

They decided to venture deeper into the mass of the behemoth to see more of its inhabitants. They encountered birds and animals and insects they had never seen before, and rivers that flowed deeply when it rained. They also came across places where the creature was bald, hair stripped away and not growing back, the soil that everywhere else was heavy on the surface was blown away leaving only bare hide. Great seams of scars ran up and down these areas, creating desolate ridges and valleys they needed to cross. 

The explanation for these wastelands came later as they encountered larger settlements. Here there were mining operations where the flesh of the behemoth was carved open and various parts and fluid extracted. Close by were factories to process everything into an endless number of products: soaps, lamp oil, dried and cured meat, medical tinctures and others they did not recognize. The further in they went, and there was always further to go it seemed, the more of these wastelands they encountered. Some had no scars at all, the desolation the result of something internal to the behemoth. In fact, the further they went the more certain they became that the beast was ailing.  

When they spoke of this to the inhabitants they were met with derision. It had always been so, many said. Others declared that the harvesting of the creature was necessary for its health. It needed to be drained of a certain amount of fluid and flesh in order to maintain its equilibrium. Some claimed that the behemoth was the world itself and refused to believe that there were lands beyond, lands which it traversed and which were ruined as a result. Everywhere they went it was taken as self-evident that living upon the behemoth as they did was the only choice. Most refused to believe they were from elsewhere or that, if they in fact did, that it was really any different.  

After some months of trying to determine the entire extent of the behemoth, they gave up and returned home. Before they left its environs they established markers so that when they returned they could determine if the creature was moving closer. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Landlord

He set off for the Quarter in March, as he did every year. An unsettled time, the weather always unpredictable and the ways into the Quarter, which were always drifting, were even harder to trace. It was important that he look in upon his lands each spring to ensure all was in order for the growing season to come, at least that was what he told himself and those he visited. Some years spring had not arrived by the time he did and he was forced to endure a sullen and frigid tour. 

It had been decades since he lived within the Quarter, having fled those environs at the first opportunity. A number of listless years followed wherein he wandered about attempting to find his place in the wider world. That proved difficult, for he spent most of his time half-heartedly indulging in various passion projects, all of which came to nothing. There was his writing, of course, which he quickly gave up once it went from ignored to dismissed. Also, his travel, which he talked about constantly. He was always going to be establishing some new venture in some distant place, only to quietly leave after a few months when he could secure no interest from the locals. 

After a number of years the birthright, which had always been his even as he rejected it out of hand, came to him. His possessions, though not substantial, were more than enough to support him. He was not so foolish as to believe he could return and make of himself a landholder, so he endeavoured to let it out to some of his former neighbours. A satisfactory agreement was reached, but he was left unsatisfied by it and determined that he should tour his lands each spring, though he was told this was strictly unnecessary and in fact something of a burden. The renters and the lawyers and accountants could manage the arrangements perfectly fine without him.  

He ignored them. It felt important that he maintain a connection with the Quarter if he was to have possessions there. And he knew from experience that the longer he stayed away the more difficult it came to find his way back.  

The weather was pleasant when he left, but as he came nearer to the amorphous border of the Quarter it turned, as it often did. Sleet came down heavily, stinging his cheeks and soaking him right through. The rolling hills, which had been brown and bare were soon white with snow. All the roads were obscured, the way forward unclear. He was unconcerned, for past experience had taught him that it was only when he was certain he was utterly lost that he discovered he had somehow entered the environs of the Quarter.  

This time proved no different. By afternoon the skies were clearing and he could see a vast horizon unfolding ahead of him. White lined with darkness where the roads crisscrossed and speckled with other colours where houses stood. Somewhere in that vastness were his holdings. He set off toward them with a lightness in his step. 

Field Notes

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Being a record of certain phenomena found in the environs of the Lost Quarter.

The Sorcerer Comes to Town

The sorcerer came to town at the end of November. Cold winds arrived with her leaving a blanket of snow on the fields and streets. They were northerners mostly, it was said, though he had driven in from the south. Anyway, it was hard going for a few days. The first cold snap of the year was always the worst as everyone remembered all over again what winter was.  

She moved into the Lang place, which had sat empty since Mabel had left town after Harold went to jail for touching the kids. Once it had been the locus of that end of town, half a dozen or so children heading there every day after school to spend a few hours until their parents came home from work. Most found it fitting that a sorcerer would move into a place like that, so shadowed with the weight of the past that everyone wanted to forget. They were disturbing sorts anyway.  

A few speculated on the logistics. Had the sorcerer bought it? Except it hadn’t been put up for sale, certainly not advertised. Was Mabel renting it? Again, there had been no advertisement. Did sorcerers pay rent and deal with landlords? They must, they were people, after a fashion. 

That he was a sorcerer was evident from the staff he carried, if not his dress. Most had not seen a staff before and they studied it curiously. Easier that than meeting her eyes. It was more like a walking stick, rising only to his waist, with a narrow point at one end. The whole thing was wrapped in thin bands of metal, perhaps silver, for it certainly shone like that. Each band was filled with runes, some only visible in the right light. There were a few left in town who could read the old tongue, but no matter how they were pressed they refused to speak on the meaning of any of the runes. 

The sorcerer wasn’t seen much about town. The odd encounter in the grocery store where everyone fell silent and eyed what she had in her cart. Cereal, milk, nothing unusual. She complained about the price of Doug’s vegetables, but everyone did. People did begin to visit him, though no one would ever admit it. Most entered through the back alley, but they were still seen. It was a small town after all and everyone knew everyone’s business. What transpired within the house was most certainly left unsaid. A sorcerer’s business was her own. 

Excerpt: Theoreticals of Illusories

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In advance of the publication of Theoreticals of Illusories on February 1, here is a short excerpt:

I sit in the chill alone, another mile further down the road, staring up at the sky and watching my breath as it forms puffs of vanishing clouds. The air is the way only winter can make it, sharp and crisp, cutting at my lungs as it goes down my throat. Clouds are gathering, distant on the horizon, foreshadowing the storm I know is coming. Wind, snow, and tumult; the storm of our humanity will not even register.

I can see a fire in the distance, not far from where I crouch in the miserable shelter of a few trees. It must be no more than half a mile, if that, and I long to trudge across the snow to join whoever is there. To ask them if they will share their fire and perhaps a little food or drink, if they have any to spare. The commonwealth of all travellers on a cold winter’s night.

But I do not stray from where I sit in the frigid darkness, shivering and rubbing my hands together to try to put some semblance of warmth in them. The Commonwealth—my commonwealth—died some time ago, and I have no friends left to me. Certainly not in this place.

Does he feel as tired as I do? As hopeless and alone? Is he worn out and ready to quit, the strength to keep fighting drained by these endless hardships?

No, not him. For him, the privations and difficulties are merely proof of his righteousness. The blood on his hands only demonstrates the justness of his cause and the lengths he will go to stand by it.

For me, I do not enjoy this new world that he and his kind have wrought. That it is him, of all people, that I am forced to reckon with only makes it all the worse. If it were someone else, it would be another matter. It would not cut so deep.

As these thoughts flit through my mind, I finger the tome that I carry with me. It has only the dead in it now. The incantations here that my kind once worried over are now only the words of a forgotten tongue. I am its last speaker and I have sworn myself to silence. He and his kind have seen to that.

He has the silver and the gold, and our lives, so many I cannot even bear to count. And now he will take this last thing too, to bring an end to all this.

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Now Available: Two Skulls

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TWO SKULLS

FANTASY/HORROR

CLINT WESTGARD

 

Mejk the Unharnessed is a spirit walker, who can traverse the lands of the dead and bind the souls there. Chosen by his people to restore them to greatness, he will take any risk to claim the dead in the Untamed Lands.

Harni the Cleaved travels with Mejk, his guide and protector. She will stay at his side, no matter how arrogant he might be, for her people have chosen her as well. More than Mejk, she understands just how forgiving the Untamed Lands are.

Neither of them is prepared for what they will face when they come across an ancient skull. Mejk will find himself facing a greater power than he knew existed, while Harni tries to defend him against impossible odds.

In a world where the living and the dead offer no quarter, Mejk and Harni will be pushed to their utter limits just to survive.

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Excerpt: Two Skulls

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In advance of the publication of Two Skulls on February 1, here is a short excerpt:

The bones had been bleached dry by the sun and were a gleaming white amidst a sea of green grass that stretched on for miles in any direction. The sun glimmered off them, catching the eye of Harni the Cleaved, one of two riders making their way across the plain. She brought her horse to an abrupt halt, wordlessly pointing at the distant speck of white. The other rider, Mejk the Unharnessed, grunted in response and they both turned their horses toward the bones.

They came across the rest of the body in their search for the skull—a femur here, a rib there—the body obviously having been torn apart by whatever carrion hunters inhabited these parts. Mejk was forced to dismount from his horse to find the skull, which was hidden beneath an especially thick swirl of the lengthy grass. He knelt on the ground, picking it up gingerly to study it, while Harni kept her eyes watchful upon the horizon.

The skull was whole and unbroken, except for a small hole at its base where an arrow had obviously struck and killed the warrior. Mejk turned it over in his hands, counting the teeth and looking at the form of the skull with a skeptical eye. Harni interrupted his study with a grunt.

“Be quick,” she said. “Someone’s approaching.”

“You know this can’t be rushed,” Mejk said, not taking his eyes from the skull.

“It may have to be,” Harni said.

Hearing the urgency in her voice, Mejk looked up from the skull and cast his eyes along the horizon. “Who is it?”

“Who else,” was her whispered reply.

Who else indeed. These were the Untamed Lands, which no one had claim to. But that would not stop some of the Great Tribes from doing so, especially to two warriors from the Fastarl traveling far from their lands. These plains had once been theirs in more glorious times, but that was many lifetimes ago, long before Harni or Mejk had come of age. Now the Fastarl lived upon the winds, forced to survive on their wits and at the sufferance of the Great Tribes, never to have a true home.

All that could change if Mejk was successful here . For the Untamed Lands were littered with the dead, many of them Fastarl, murdered in those dark days when the Great Tribes had driven them from their lands. And Mejk was a spirit walker. He could walk with the dead, could claim them from those places where their spirits were banished. Continue reading →

Now Available: Mouth of the Underworld

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MOUTH OF THE UNDERWORLD

FANTASY

CLINT WESTGARD

The Mouth of the Underworld, the eater of souls, has long been lost. But Kasuir and Jasryl, Hautlyrun youths who have heard endless tales of it, discover its entrance in the highlands above their town.

They are forbidden to enter the cave, warned that the old tales may be true. But they are both young. They do not believe in those old stories, told to scare them as children. The old ways were all proven wrong when the Ven conquered and brought the railroad and modernity.

But sometimes old tales do have a kernel of truth. For something awaits them in the Mouth of the Underworld. From it, there will be no escape.

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Excerpt: Mouth of the Underworld

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In advance of the publication of Mouth of the Underworld on December 14, here is a short excerpt:

“Help me. I am here. Help me. I am trapped.”

The words, carried on the wind, from somewhere within the mountain, were so faint I could barely make them out. I leaned forward, straining to see if there was any more to be heard, but only the sharp whistle of the wind on stone and the stirring of the trees behind me reached my ears. I stayed rooted where I was for five minutes or more, my sweat cooling on my back, but the voice did not return. I stood on the threshold of the Mouth of the Underworld, peering uneasily into the darkness that lay beyond the narrow ingress, knowing that I had to step within that void, but fearing to cross into that unknown realm.

My father had forbidden me to enter this place, and it was not in me to disobey him.

“Only the past lies there,” he had said. “We have forgotten the entrance for a reason.”

I could have argued that the past was who we were, that we had to face it and exorcise those demons if we were to ever be free of the Ven and their rule. But I had not, for there were many in Huispar who still believed in demons, in the terrible gods of the deep our ancestors had once worshipped. They believed the old laws still applied and that no Hautlyrun should enter the caves, for they were the path to the underworld, where the living had no place. That I knew differently did not matter, the cataman’s son had to obey the ancient laws.

The breeze coming from the mouth of the cave died and silence descended in the surrounding cloud forest, as though the whole world was hushed, awaiting my decision. I had imagined the words, I told myself, imagined the voice, my own disquiet playing tricks on my mind.

But, even if that were true, it did not matter. Jasryl was still down there somewhere below. He had been gone for the better part of two days and there was nowhere else he could be. I had to go after him, because no one else would dare. More than that, he was the truest friend I had in this world. If I left him to die I would never be able to forgive myself, no matter that it went against my father’s word and my own nature.

The decision made, I felt the weight lift from my shoulders. I slid through the narrow gap, the jagged edges of the stone almost touching my arms, giving me the distinct sensation of teeth closing in for a bite. I tried to ignore the feeling, though it was difficult, telling myself it was just the stories I had heard as a child coming to life in my head.

Three days before I had crossed this same threshold with Jasryl. That had been a different occasion, both of us filled with awe and excitement. Now every harbinger seemed to point toward doom.

I knelt in the opening of the cave where there was still enough light that I could see and fought with the lantern I had brought, trying to get it to stay lit. The wind was very strong, gusting at times, almost sweet smelling, alive with the earth itself. As I crouched over the lantern, trying to spark the oil, the words came on the wind again, more distinct this time, the voice clearly recognizable.

“Help me. I am here. Help me. I am trapped.” Continue reading →

Now Available: Unspeakable Rites

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UNSPEAKABLE RITES

FANTASY

CLINT WESTGARD

A dead man of no family or account is what Gahryll, Chief Magister of Tson, sees when the corpse of an Enir youth is brought to the Magisterium. But Magister Mihuibel sees something else: a conspiracy involving false adepts practicing an outlawed form of alkemya.

Against his better instincts Gahryll authorizes an investigation that draws both Magisters into the seamy underbelly of Tson where the rich and powerful prey upon the desperate. When the inquiry implicates one of the most important families in the Realm of Craitol in forbidden practices and false alkemya, their positions and ranks will be threatened.

But that is only the beginning. For the killer will stop at nothing to ensure his secrets remain hidden and Gahryll is brought face to face with the unspeakable power of alkemya that has been unleashed. It forces him to make a choice. Will he risk everything to fight for justice in a realm ruled where rank and wealth are all that matter?

Set in the same universe as The Shadow Men Trilogy, Unspeakable Rites, further explores the nature of alkemya, its terrible power, and the heavy price paid for its use.

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