Four

Four went down
from town to crown
and knew not where
their stars lay.

Four sons of light
must learn to fight
if in this new home
they will stay.

Four were here
now three are near
and for the other
do we pray.

Four took root
and bore the fruit
of labours dark
and choices gray.

Train Job, Part 1

It was a train job, which he hated because it complicates things. Anytime you take an intricate, delicate task and put it in a rickety box hurtling across the countryside at fifty clicks an hour, something goes wrong. Something you wouldn't expect. Something that would have been no issue, if you'd just kept your feet planted on the dirt like any decent son of the Goddess. But alas no, this was no normal job.

It was a train job.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighed, and shuffled his newspaper. He moved to the next page, eyes scanning the compartment for something, anything. Any sign of trouble, any uncomfortable passengers, an errant bead of sweat on a traveller's brow.

He could see Harcourt animatedly chatting up a neighbouring passenger at the other end of the car. Technically in position, but as usual his attention had wandered from the task at hand. Typical.

Page three of the paper had a story about some trouble at one of the universities, some kind of extraplanar being put down by a group of overzealous youths. He frowned. That is a job for the Diony, after all. Lazy and incompetent as they are.

It was subtle when it happened. Almost too subtle for Ser Gilbert, he noted. Two passengers, opposite sides of the car, separated by four rows casually meet eyes and nod to each other slightly. Got you.

One rises from his seat, folding his paper under his arm and retrieving a small bag from under his seat. Calmly he starts to make his way to the door at the end of the car. Gilbert presses the gem on his cuff link to alert Nora and the Warlock to be prepared, while trying to get Harcourt's attention. The target is almost to the exit by the time Harcourt turns casually from his conversation and points at the seated cohort while winking at Gilbert.

Curse his effortless skill, thinks the Mage Hunter. He throws his paper into the seat across from him and moves to calmly pursue the primary target. The far door of the car opens and shuts behind the man. Gilbert's cuff link chirps quietly to confirm Nora and the Warlock received his alert. He ups his pace to a noticeable amount, counting on Harcourt to handle the secondary target.

The door is a standard sliding train door, with a frosted glass pane on the top. Ser Gilbert takes a moment to breathe, centres himself, and throws the door open.

To come face to face with Nora, priestess of the Great Provider and his second-in-command. The instant ready position both took eases into a comfortable stand, as the confusion sets in. They both step onto the small platform separating the two cars, and Gilbert closes the door behind them. The sound of the rushing air is loud and unsettling.

"Did he pass you?" Gilbert asks, already knowing the answer.

Nora shakes her head with a glare. The two check opposite sides of the car, looking into the disappearing distance in case their target had jumped from the train. But the man dressed in black was nowhere to be seen on the horizon. The two turn to face each other once more. Gilbert frowns. Nora looks up, to the roof of the train.

Ser Gilbert of Neviche sighs, and begins resignedly climbing the ladder to the roof of the train. It was a train job.

Which complicates things.

Stone and Water

In the Ur-times, before Light was Bright and when The Song still played through everything and everywhen, Stone was hungry.

He had rolled from his brother Mountain days ago when Sun had just started it's journey and now he found himself by the water. The water lapped gently at Stone, and he found it soothed the hunger. But it still persisted. This vexed Stone. He sat in the gentle water for a thousand days, pondering how he would sate the great hunger that he felt, how he could grow himself big and strong like Brother Mountain. He thought and thought, so deeply and so long that he did not notice the water was shrinking him day after day. By the time he realized what had happened, he was a famished pebble, drowning in the gentle waters.

This vexed Stone. But he was too small to roll now, so he sat in the water, and stewed with his siblings that had suffered a similar fate.

They're Not.

That's the thing. They're not dinosaurs. They never were, dinosaurs went extinct sixty-five million years before anyone could even start to imagine their majesty, and long for them to shake the earth once more. These things, they are pale copies, imitation meat trussed up in the ill-fitting clothes of their ancestors and set free to adapt to a world that has no place for them.

Don't worry, they're making a place for themselves wether we like it or not.

But I digress, these creatures look like dinosaurs. Probably for another ten years or so, maybe more. They glide across the land on sure feet, arms and backs bedecked in bright plumage, hunting stealthily through the trees. The big ones lumbering across the plains, leather-skinned and whip tailed. And in a few short years they'll be obsolete, as our understanding of a world an eternity passed comes more clear. But these won't change. Because they're not dinosaurs.

They're what we think dinosaurs were. Cobbled together from bits and pieces of modern day animals and a pitifully basic understanding of the process of evolution's effect on a creatures genome.

Sigh.

The knowledge of the great lie sits under my skin like sandpaper. It grates on me every day, distracts me, keeps me from enjoying the essential grandeur that is before me.

They're not dinosaurs.

But god damn, do they play the part. An allosaurus rumbles past, sniffing the air, looking for me. Or maybe dinner. Probably both. The corner of my lip rebels into a slight smile before I can convince it otherwise. The allosaur heads off into the forest, dissappearing into the foliage.

I shoulder my rifle, adjust my bag and slip out of my blind. There's work to do.

Al came up from the south, and didn't smell like he'd had much luck. Probably nothing to worry about there then. And I'm sure as shit not heading north after the big lad. So east or west?

I have the GPS. I could pull it out, fiddle with it for a while and get a precise location on damn near every critter in the sanctuary. Theoretically. Unless they changed my password again. Every three months? When was the last time I changed it?

"Fuck it." I shrug, and head off eastward. I'll run into something.

The air is thick and heavy, hot. The sun's heading down, it'll cool out in a few hours. I push my way through the underbrush, sweat streaming off me, careful where I step. East was a good idea. Hit the plains. Get out of the trees, they're trapping the heat. The gun catches on a branch, and I stop to carefully extract it. A soft hooting filters through the trees, and I freeze. My eyes scan the area slowly. Nothing. I slip slowly against the trunk of the tree, turning to face the darkening forest. Where is it?

My heart starts to pound, I have to focus. Don't let it get to you. Don't lose your edge. Find it. Find the sound.

There is silence, save for the blood rushing through my ears.

I get the rifle free from the branch, and shoulder it. My heart slows a little.

Hoot.

Son of a bitch. I roll my eyes. The lyre bird hops from branch to branch, tilting it's head at me. Its beak opens, and a perfect immitation of a Phoruschasid. A Terror Bird. Three metres of muscle and hate, topped by almost twenty pounds of thick, bony, sharply pointed beak and skull for smashing prey.

"You're a dick." I shout at the lyre bird. It hoots back angrily.

I continue on through the cooling forest. I feel a breeze wind its way through the trees. I'm getting close.

I break through the tree line at last, just as the sun is starting to set. The plain stretches out before me like an ocean of grasses dotted with islands of trees. And working its way across it is a small herd of sauropods, thick elephantine bodies ponderously plodding along, preceeded by long elegant necks and followed by even longer, whiplike tails. It's a beautiful sight.

But something tugs at my attention. Something's out of place here. And when it hits me my stomach sinks like a stone. I grip my rifle tightly, as the fear takes hold. What I see mulling through the herd much worse than the Terror bird. Worse than the Allosaur.

It's people.

I hate people.

Dearest Elisabeth 1

Dearest Elisabeth,

Lo, it has been too many nights since I have had the chance to sit and collect my thoughts for you. My days are filled with adventure and intrigue, but my nights are the intervals of true excitement, for they are when visions of you dance across my mind. Alas that between the two I haven't the time to write you as I once did.

Two days ago our taciturn priest was able to cure us of our poisoning, at last. I will always espouse that I appreciate the work of his divine patron, but I will admit to a small complaint about the efficiency of his ministrations. Two days of prayer for a simple curing of disease? Any city priest worth his salt would be appalled.

Now, I know what you are thinking. 'Perhaps this is recompense for your wicked ways, Nathaniel'. But I should remind you that I haven't picked our good friend the Priest's pocket since we met, and even then I did return what I took when I discovered his noble profession. Eventually. What more piety could one ask from a thief, hmm? The gods are forgiving, I'm told.

I must go for now, my sweet Elisabeth. The mage is beginning to stretch and breathe deeply, which tells me that shortly there will be flames and bolts cast across the sky in what the penny-worth wizard calls 'practice'. I have learned of late that it is wise to take cover while the young man stretches his arcane muscles.

Much love, and all the care,

Nathaniel

White Like Bone

There is a way of thinking that states you are not who you think you are. The you that has been built up over the course of your life is impossible, because your consciousness has been interrupted. Interrupted every night in fact, while you slept. So every day you begin again, fresh faced, well rested, and an entirely new person.

Gods, how I want that to be true. How I long for that to free me from the sins of my past. To know that I was even a little unrelated to the man that shared this skin twenty four hours ago would be a sweetness I do not deserve. I apologize, as I am no philosopher. I have nothing to assert my claim to the invalidity of this theory but my own heart. My heart tells me, every morning, that the blood is still on my hands. Mine. It was my mistakes, my decisions, and my conviction that led me here, to this small room, before this mirror in which I see a stranger's face and a history of violence.

If anything I have lived not ten thousand lives but two. I would have been better off having died at the end of my first, but I am not a lucky man.

Like most I remember little of the day of my birth. Flashes of memory haunt my nightmares. Darkness, and screaming. A terrible pressure, and pain. A light. Arms pulling me through jagged stone and dust. Chalky faces of my family. My new family. And the finality. The loss. The truth.

It makes sense. Everything dies. But being confronted with the truth is often... painful. And there is nothing wrong with that truth.

It's what I did with it that I will suffer for.

The man in the mirror has been there too long already now. He finishes applying his chalky white makeup and stands. The knife dangles loosely at his hip. There is work to be done, and so he turns and leaves.

And my heart is heavy with the weight of the truth I must share with the people. It will be a long night, before I can return, sleep, and dream of a new life, and a new me. Someone else to bear this skin. Someone better.

House Call

Death is many things when it comes to different people, but more than anything he is patient. He has waited lifetimes for individuals to be ready, to come to him in earnestness so they can move on.
But in himself, he detests lateness and sloth. Is reviled by any indication of sluggishness or laziness.
So perhaps that is why, as his album spun to its end and he sat in his comfortable chair, he was already beginning to squirm. Though he could not hear it, he could see the phone ringing, on and on, waiting for his answer. For his next job. But had he not earned this rest? Had he not worked tirelessly, for eons? Was this little joy really too much to ask?
But somewhere deep inside him, he knew the answer would be yes, yes it was.
And so, with increasing irritability, he finished listening to his album, staring at the phone. The final song did not even register in his mind, replaced with nothing but the ongoing, unending, unstoppable ring of the phone, calling him back to work. His fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to let them take him before he was ready. His stubbornness gave him that much resolve, at least. As much as it pained him, he would not let them interrupt this. This one little rebellion.
Finally, the record played out, the needle silently sliding along un-recorded grooves. He arose from his chair with a sigh, although if it was one of frustration or relief even he was unsure. He carefully removed the headphones, and placed them gently beside the record player, lifting the needle and turning the device off. His ears, or what was once his ears, slowly filled with the interminable ringing that matched the noise in his mind.
He strode over to the phone and stood square before it, making a choice.
A deep breath in, and he lifted the receiver. Slowly, he put it to his head and waited for the instruction.
"You are old enough to be asking questions." The voice on the line said flatly.
Death cocked his head, confused. "Who is this?"
"Why aren't you?"
Death's jaw opened, shut, opened again, and closed once more.
"If not you, then whom?" The voice said with finality. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Death held the phone out to look at it. No-one had ever called him on this phone, save for work. Ever.
He put the receiver back on its hook, and stared at the device. The voice wanted to know why he wasn't asking questions, but right now he only had one in mind. As it played through his head, a shiver ran down his ancient spine.
Who can call Death at home?

Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

Mishak

I have loved you for a thousand years, oh Queen mine.

I let my desiccated hand delicately trace the fine lines of your face in the painting once more. The exquisite agony of the memory of your flesh on mine ripples down my arm into my heart, and I am strengthened by it. As I have always been. As I will always be. My eyes take in the burns on your painting, my greatest shame. I could not even protect your image.

But your face remains, and it is enough. A thousand years, I have forgotten not one freckle, not one line. A smile threatens to crack the dry skin of my face, but it is tempered by my patience.

There can be no joy without you. The last ten centuries have proven this.

I fold my arms into my sleeves, and stare into your eyes. Soon.

I do not know how long I spend with you on this day. Or those days? Time has become such a nuisance. An impediment to progress. But I am nothing if not patient. I am patient, for you.

At last, my mind is sufficiently filled with your divine beauty for me to continue my work, and I can turn away from you. For now. The ache settles instantly in my heart, but I can bear this burden for now. As my ancient eyes adjust to the light, I see an assistant scuttling towards me, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Sir?" He asks quietly, not sure if I have been roused from my reverie. I nod slowly, to show my attention is on him. He gulps, and holds out a scroll. With a flick of my wrist, it levitates from him to hover before my face. I cannot read it.

Sigh. The glasses.

I reach in to my robes, and pull out a pair of golden rimmed spectacles. A quick polish on my flowing robes, and I place them on my dried face. The words congeal from blurry lines into a flowing, precise script.

The fourth cask has been unearthed. I nod my approval. Soon I will allow myself a smile, I think.

I hand the nervous assistant back his note. He bows respectfully, and begins to back away.

"Mishak," I call his name out, and he freezes. His eyes rise to meet mine, wide and anxious. "It is nearly time. Have the altar prepared."

"Aye sir." He replies swiftly, once again bowing.

"And when you have finished," I continue calmly, replacing my glasses in the cloak. "Bring me your daughter."

Mishak's face brightens visibly, and he stands a little straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

Your painting tugs at me from behind, but I do not turn. I cannot be lost in memories now, not when things are so close. Mishak's daughter has already suffered overlong due to my childish reveries.

"Your service has been impeccable. It is past time she was cured, I can only apologize for my tardiness." I bow my head slightly.

"No apologies necessary, your Worship," he bows deeply, thrilled, before turning to run off and complete his task.

I watch him scuttle out, his zeal renewed by the love of his family and the knowledge that his work will bring them the relief they deserve. My bones ache. You call to me, in the painting.

But I cannot be with you now, my Queen. Soon.

I have loved you for a thousand years, and soon I will tell you so in person.

The Monster in the Mountain

There is a monster, they said.

The mountain has slept for generations, a peaceful reign long enough for the people to prosper and outgrow their town. Long enough for them to spread up the mountainside, and make use of its fertile soil and dense forest.

The people spread and grew like a tide, rising up the mountain, while it continued to slumber. It had slept so long that all said it would never again wake.

It was only grandfather's grandfathers grandfathers fathers that had seen the living mountain in it's rage, and they had died long past. Now it slept the forever sleep. It was obvious.

So when the thing came to the town and was cast out, when it stumbled up the mountainside away from the people, when it disappeared and the mountain woke with thunder and fire, all was clear.

It was a monster, they said.

As I climbed the ten thousand steps, as I crossed rivers of fire that ran through houses that were, as I drew my cloak across my mouth to combat the noxious breath of the mountain, I could not argue. What could cause this much destruction, this much loss, but a creature of the vilest hells.

And here I stand, sword drawn, at the mouth of the cave it has made its home. Bathed in the orange light of the searing earthblood, fatigued by the oppressive heat, swaying with the shuddering earth, I stand ready. I can see the thing now.

It is a monster.

Its body is twisted and hunched in a painful attempt to hide from the scene unfolding around it. Its clothes tatters and rags of singed fabric, barely holding together on its gaunt frame. Worst of all, its face is contorted in a grotesque mask of pain and fear. I can see in its wet eyes the same shame and sadness that threatened to take me, once. And in that moment, I know what I must do with my sword.

I cast it aside, and step towards the boy. He cannot have seen any more summers than I, barely in his teens. He tries to recoil, but I'm too fast. My hand reaches his shoulder, and I bring him to me in a tight embrace. I press him to me, holding him firm.

The heat is almost unbearable, I can feel my skin beginning to burn all across me, but I will not let go. The cave erupts with flame and heat, the mountain shakes, and the cavern echoes with screams of loss and sadness. I grip him tight. It is too much. I drop to my knees. But I will not give up.

The moment comes that I think I might lose consciousness, and in that blistering moment of heat and panic, the mountain goes silent. The fire dies, the earthblood cools back to stone, and the thunder that pealed across the sky is replaced with the quiet sobbing of a boy, cursed to be a sorcerer by an uncaring world.

I open my burned eyes. Everything hurts. I loosen my grip on the young sorcerer, but do not let go. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I do not stop him. I rest my head on his, and pat him on the back reassuringly.

"It's going to be alright," I lie to the boy, in accordance with the Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon.