“The Fist of Dhenior” published

I’m excited that my story, The Fist of Dhenior, was just published in the Winter 2020 issue of Silver Blade Magazine (https://www.silverblade.net/). Give it a read!

The story happens within the Northern Kingdoms, the same shared world as “The Harvest”, and is a tale of Jenett Halfhand, a wandering priest of Dhenior the Lawkeeper who has been sent to a frontier town to mete out unforgiving justice.

The Harvest

“The Harvest” has been published in the December 2020 edition of SWORDS AND SORCERY MAGAZINE (https://www.swordsandsorcerymagazine.com/index.html). Check it out!

It was written as a very straightforward heroic adventure with a RPG flavor in mind. Originally titled AZURA, the first version of the story had a much longer introduction. It was written as successive layers – the idea was to start from a legend, and to have each shift of narrative bring the myth closer to the true story, from a story teller decades or centuries later, to the (biased and self-interested) journals of one of the participants, until it finally focused on the actual events. It didn’t really work though. It was confusing, and took far too long to get to the actual story. The original version also had an extra character who was ultimately unnecessary, although he featured prominently in the introduction.

So – knowing that it didn’t work, here is the excised introduction and original closing of the story!

Original Introduction

The boy looked at the piece of fruit that he held, then solemnly placed it in the Teller’s bowl. “Tell me a story, please.” He stood and waited silently.
“Sit,” the Teller ordered while scratching thoughtfully at his graying beard. After nearly a minute, the Teller smiled. “I shall tell you of Azura.” He cleared his throat and began to speak in a slightly different, more melodious, voice.
“It was a long time ago. Not the long time ago of the Gods, or even of the Urda, but a long time ago nevertheless. Three centuries is nothing to the Gods, not even so much to the Alfar, but it is a longer time ago than either you or I can truly understand. There were heroes in those days, and terrors worthy of the battle. I have told you of some of these heroes, if I remember right, on other days, for other gifts.”
The boy nodded vigorously. “You told me about dragons, and about the Garden at the Center of All.” He paused to think. “You told me about Ferrad Brisbois and the evil Frost Lord, about the quests of Alsmire of Theran, and about Paldeggeron’s Last Spell. You told me about Vlarg the Mad and the Red Band –”
“Aha! The Red Band. They are the ones that I’ll tell you more about. And of Azura, of course.” He cleared his throat and wiped his dirty hands on his pant legs. Then, he began.
“The Red Band were mighty heroes, famous even in those days. They traveled throughout all of the Western Kingdoms and had many adventures. Over the years, more than ten counted themselves members of the Red Band, but at the time of this story they were five. They were led, if such a group can be said to have any leader at all, by Kivarvik Smraius, a warrior and woodsman from Murmedron. His was an old name, for he had been named for an ancestor who had fought and died at Torad Wellerath, and he did nothing to shame the name. His friends called him Kev. He was tall, handsome and strong, and he wielded the magical broadsword Nar-Tharesh, whose edge could smash steel armor as if it were merely clay pottery.”
“His companion was Baldric Ogreslayer, so named for having slain an ogre with his bare hands. He was a warrior from the Northron Wastes, a savage, dangerous man, only one step removed from the beasts. He was prone to violence, and gloried in it. And yet, for all that, he had a code which he followed, which kept his animal side in check.”
“It does not take mighty magic or bulging muscles to make a hero. Some people are skilled in many other things. Such a person was Orinia Songweaver, the third in their group. A quick wit was her strongest weapon, and her hands were as nimble as her mind. And her beauty! She was the most –”
“Girls are always beautiful in stories,” the boy said condescendingly. “They’re never ugly, or scarred. They’re always perfect.”
The Teller scowled. “Be quiet. It is my story, and if it pleases me to make her beautiful, I’ll do so. It enhances the story — it doesn’t matter whether she was beautiful then. She is now, now that it is my story to tell. Now then, where was I? Oh, yes.”
“The fourth was Gailen Woodchild. She had been orphaned at an early age, and she had learned how to survive alone as a child in the forests of Alora. She was a tracker without peer, fleeter of foot than the deer of the forest, and as courageous as a bear. And yes, she was beautiful too.” He paused to see if the boy would challenge him. He did not, so the Teller continued.
“The fifth was Rovigo di Tavolieri, a Castillian wizard. He had trained under the mages of the Enclave and had mastered many of their spells. He was new to the Red Band – he had only known them but a month or two before the coming of Azura.”
“They were five, and they sought adventure.”

Excerpted from The Journals of Orinia Songweaver, Volume II:
… and as for the Rooster (I have begun to call Rovigo that, to his chagrin), he will never be other than a pissante mage, a pretentious hedge-wizard. I am sick of his posturing, of his pathetic sense of humor, and most of all, of his taste in clothes. Today, he produced a new outfit from his accursed magical pack (bigger inside than out). It was a gaudy costume of layered silks, all red and yellow and orange, like a color-blind clown dying in a fire.
And the bastard won’t even teach me any magicks. He just looks down his nose and lisps at me, “Oh, so have we joined the Enclave, hmm?” Pompous twit. As if I needed formal training to tell me how to cast a spell. Magi are all the same, so secretive. Finding one who will share his knowledge is as rare as an honest thief. Katrina never minded showing me a trick, and while she’s a thief, she is definitely not honest. When we meet up with her again, two weeks from now in Therinore, I’ll have her show the Rooster some real magic.
But in the meantime, I can illustrate why it is never wise to slight a Teller.
Rovigo is an idiot.
That is the power of my profession. A hundred years from now, this humble testament will be the only record of Rovigo’s character, and the words I write, even the baldest lies, will have to be accepted as the truth. Who will there be to offer a differing opinion on that day? As a Teller, I write the history the future will hold as truth.
And so I say again, Rovigo is an idiot. A gibbering fool.
It is a reassuring thought that someone will read this someday, or hear my stories told to enraptured crowds. That is why I sing my songs, and write these tales. Not only will I be immortal, but I will live everywhere, in every mind that knows of me. The Alfar are so smug that they will outlive us humans, but my legends will outlive even them.
Not that I would mind living forever in a more physical sense, of course.

You become used to almost anything, when you travel as much as I have, and wondrous things sometimes pale with weary experience. But this wanderer’s life has had its moments, spawned memories that I will carry with me until the day they plant me. Like our first glimpse of the lost Urdan city of Thanus-Ulon, shrouded in the morning mist and beckoning us onwards. Or being chased halfway across the country by a tribe of blood-crazed Rovers after a little misunderstanding about holy grounds. Or being thrown into the Orkish Sea, bound hand and foot, and the sight of what awaited me down there.
But one thing I will never become used to is Baldric’s earth-shattering snoring. Or to him, for that matter. The rugged ‘barbarian’ insists that he is a warrior from the Northron Wastes, beyond the Carnne Mountains. But I pride myself on knowing accents. He’s a farmer’s son from Plenneth or I’m a fool… I could never picture him as a farmer though, he enjoys violence too much.
I met him when we were both holed up in a small farmhouse on the border of Murmedron near the Vesk River. So many years ago, it seems. It was just days before we met Kev and the others that make up our Red Band. We were being laid siege to there by what seemed like a very large portion of the Bonesnapper tribe. Our first conversation is still lodged in my mind, as we squatted beside a window.
“Get down, wench. Orks got bows,” he grunted without even turning to look at me.
I bristled at that. “My name’s Orinia, not wench. Orinia Songweaver. I’m a Teller.” I was young and foolish, back then.
He noticed me for what seemed like the first time. “That’s nice. Get down,” he grunted. With an iron grip and a shove, he matched my actions to his words. “Name’s Baldric. Don’t worry, girl. I’m good at this.”
“Huh?” I asked intelligently. “Good at what? Hiding in farmhouses?” I didn’t like being called girl any more than I liked being called wench, but the thought of the Orks outside kept me too distracted to take serious offense.
He shook his head. “No. Killing things,” he said with a wide grin.
“Oh.”
“And than I cut off their heads, and put them on stakes…”
“Uh…”
Baldric thought for a moment. “And then I write my name underneath,” he finished with a triumphant grin.
I don’t remember what I said to that revelation; I think I just shut up for a while. Soon after, the Orks met an efficient, if rather messy, end. And true to his word, Baldric mounted their heads on stakes and attempted to spell his name in the dirt underneath. From this pleasant introduction, I immediately decided I had either to run away from this lunatic as quickly and as far as possible, or to become his friend. A very good friend.
I became his friend. He isn’t really quite as bloodthirsty or as vicious as it might sound. But when someone tries to kill him, he has a tendency to overcompensate.
I must cease writing for a time. On the morrow, Kev says we’ll reach Halshire — a small town, but at least a warm bed. Then, after Halshire, Norville, than Shurcove, and then the five of us sail south, to Aquitaine, where we’ll meet up with Katrina.

Written this 35th day of Harvest, 1551 the year Post Exodus.

They were dead, all dead. It’s hard to believe that it happened, that this is not all some horrible fantasy.
It took us a long time to notice. The livestock were in their fields, smoke came from a farmer’s chimney; countless signs of normal life. It wasn’t until we had the town mill in sight that we realized that we hadn’t seen a single person yet. No sweaty farmers tilling their fields, no-one feeding the animals, not even children playing games along the road. Not a soul.
And there before us, beside the river and near the mill, was a horse, saddled but riderless. It was at that moment, while watching the horse drink from the river, that we had our first inkling that something was wrong.
Kev approached the horse. He’s always been good with animals, and it let him approach without reaction. He tethered it to a tree, murmuring softly to it. “I wonder where his rider is,” he wondered out loud, stroking the horse’s neck. “Hey boy, where’d you leave your master?”
Gailen made a sound of impatience. “Must be in the mill. We should just take the horse — it would serve the fool right for leaving it to wander.” She studied the horse critically. “Looks like a pretty expensive one too — it might bring good money.” She smiled slightly — provoking Kev is one if her little games.
Kev looked shocked. I find it hard to believe that he is as pure of intent as he pretends, but he certainly acts the part well. “We can’t steal him! The horse probably just pulled free of its tether. We should go tell the owner –”. He inclined his head towards the mill before continuing. “… That we’ve recaptured his horse.”
Baldric laughed loudly. As short an attention span as ever, he had already wandered off. He was standing in the tall grass near the mill’s window, looking in. “I don’t think this guy will care much. He looks pretty dead. Someone else in there is dead, too.”
Swearing, Gailen tried to force the door open. While she pounded on it with her shoulder, I opened the window Baldric was looking in and climbed inside, stepping gingerly over the body sprawled under it. It was a rough looking man, probably the miller, and he had an expression of terror on his face such as I have never seen.
There were no marks on his body that I could see, and while his skin was ashen and cold, he had not yet begun to smell. His glassy eyes were still open, and his body was contorted strangely. He had not died easily.
On the other side of the room, slumped over a table, was the second man. His dust stained traveling cloak had a large circular burn in its center, and the flesh beneath was eaten away and burnt. It looked as if he had never even known what had hit him, struck dead at the table. A hole burnt through his torso. The miller had gotten up to flee, and was killed mere steps away. By what was still a mystery.
It had to be magic — both of them. I could smell it, and Rovigo confirmed it. “A magus. And a skilled one, to have slain both so quickly,” he said in a small, choked voice. No-one questioned him further.
Every house was the same. In their beds, at their tables, on their porch and in their fields, people lay dead. Murdered — some unaware, some surprised, some terrified, all dead, slain by magic. Man, woman and child, something or someone had killed everyone in the town, one by one. Some buildings were burnt down, some collapsed, others untouched, but they all had one thing in common. The dead.
How can I describe the horror, the disgust, the yawning isolation that we all felt? Even Rovigo was silent as went from farmhouse to farmhouse, knowing what we’d find in each.
What did this? What kind of thing could kill with so little remorse, and with such great efficiency?

Written this 36th day of Harvest.

Original Ending Coda

“And so Shurcove was saved from the terrible Azura, but at a horrible cost. Rovigo lay dead at his comrades’ feet, his life the price paid to put an end to Azura’s rampage. Of the mysterious Azura there remained no body at all, just some robes, a staff, and a mask as blue as the sky; nothing else.”
The Teller paused. It was early afternoon and the sun was warm, beating down on the marketplace. The boy did not seem to mind the heat, but the Teller wanted to get indoors, into the shade.
The story was almost done, though. Only the moral remained. The Teller had repeated this story many times, but it was the moral that was different each time. It was tailored to the listeners, and it was his gift as a Teller to pick out what each listener needed to hear. Sometimes he knew what to say, other times the feeling was so faint he had to guess, but there was always a lesson to a story.
“You have heard of many heroes from me, boy, and I have told many of their stories in my time. All too often, however, the listeners misunderstand why these people were heroes. So remember this — a hero is not measured by the evil he has slain, or by the gold he has plundered. A hero is someone who risks their life, their position, their happiness; someone who risks all that they have to help others. The person who can risk all for another’s benefit, they are the heroes.”
The story was over. The Teller took the piece of fruit from his pool and polished it on his sleeve. He took an enormous bite, as if hoping to swallow it whole. Juice ran from his lips as he chewed contentedly.
“But what happened to Azura?” asked the boy. “Was it dead? You said the body was gone.”
“The figure was never seen again, but it was many years before people moved back to the villages it had destroyed. There are those that say Azura lingers still, somewhere in the darkness, waiting to return and plotting oblivion.” He smiled broadly, flecks of pulp in his teeth. “I’ve heard that when the harvest moon is full, sometimes people have seen a solitary figure walking along. You want my advice, I’d leave it alone. Might be Azura. Now, you get on, before your family wonders why you took so long at the market.”
The boy stood up and grabbed his package. He had forgotten, and he’d be in trouble if he wasn’t back soon.
The marketplace was busy, and the boy was quickly lost amongst the crowds. After he was gone, the Teller picked up his bowl and swirled it. Inside, a handful of silver and copper coins slid and clinked. It was enough for a meal, and there would be time this evening to get money for a room. For now, he just wanted to get out of the heat. With a grunt, he stood up, stretching his old bones.
As he entered the inn, a man he didn’t recognize called out to him. “Teller, please sit with me.” The man was thin and well-dressed, a merchant by his clothes. The Teller smiled broadly and sat down across from the man. Another story it would be then – that was fine, he had worked up a thirst, and this man had money. A drink was brought to him, Castillian Pale Ale in a broad-rimmed mug. He drank several mouthfuls before sighing and putting the mug down.
The merchant smiled again. The Teller nodded. “Have you ever heard of the dragon of Velkurion Ridge?”
“I’d like to.”
The Teller cleared his throat, and assumed his story-telling voice. “It was a long time ago, in the days before the Astloran Empire fell to squabbling heirs and was lost …”