Issue 1, December 2009

The Dying Art
Issue 1
December 2009

Published December 1, 2009. Cleveland, Ohio. Published by the Editor.

In this issue:
INTRODUCTION
by Alex Glenn Friedman, C.Ed.
A NOTE ON THE COMMENTS SECTION
FICTION
"The Mind-Prison Problem"; Joseph Schneider
"The Sack of Komercetan"; Albert Trefney, Jr.
"The Fall of Vadroth"; Alex Glenn Friedman
"No Vacancy"; Laura Harrison
POETRY
"Albatross"; Jeff Morin
"Dream of my Love as a Beached Whale"; Amber Pompeii
END NOTE

INTRODUCTION
     Writing advances best with company. My main objective in collecting these works is to help build a community. Genre writers and poets are hard to come by in the real world. Although the avenues exist for open, large scale communication and collaboration; there is a great deal of silence. What communication I have found centers for the most part on profitable publication. And as far as that goes, there seems to be a thriving community of predatory publishers who base their entire industry on duping those of us who write as hobbyists. Why are we so quiet, then? Why does the writing community feel it is necessary to take a relevant class or pay for a seminar to discuss our art?
     I write for my enjoyment of it. Everything about writing seems to me to be productive and valuable. That value grows in my eyes as it is shared and discussed. And as we converse, we create further work based on those conversations- and we polish those works that have already been written to a higher form. The value of writing in an active peer group becomes exponential. If you are a writer, I hope you feel the same way I do. And I hope you join the conversation. If you are a reader, thank you for providing an audience. In the end, you are the ones who reap our rewards.

Alex Glenn Friedman, Contributing Editor
  
A NOTE ON THE COMMENTS SECTION
     Please utilize the comments section as you see fit. I'll be monitoring it and replying to it, and I know several other authors will do the same. I ask that commentary remains civil, but beyond that I do not intend to limit it. I would encourage you to discuss craft and plot and theory and to carry discussions to your email inboxes or your local tavern.

FICTION
Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very"; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.  -Mark Twain



"The Mind-Prison Problem"
by Joseph Schneider

The sun is still up, or is it finally down?  Regardless, I wager it is bound to come up again.  At minimum it is time for my third meal, the guard is bringing it, I can hear his approach, that is how I know/assume it is time.  I am only supposing that is my third, for the sake of my mental health, I got six knocks last time I rambled on about how once I had awoken from a deep sleep between my third and first meal in which I had dreamed that I had missed the first, and must now start at two.  Uncertain as to the true numerical character of the meal then presented to me, I supposed it to be the first.  Yes, and then the next to be the second, then the third to be the third.  But I do not know if the sun is up or down on the outside.  Why can’t I let this matter be settled?  A little thing like the sun.  “Guard!” I cry out, “tell me, is there still light out?”  He opens the tiny portal, shoves in the tray, and closes the hatch.  The windows are not sealed up; there is simply brick, all brick, once painted white, now pealing away.  In  other words, I mean, there were no windows to seal up.  There has only ever been brick walls of decaying white.  In the exposed portions are frantic glyphs, scratches, and declarations, all hazy in the darkness, and at last unreadable.  I made some of them myself, setting down some things I could not trust to my memory.  However I can no longer make them out.  And plus, still, and henceforth: they are doomed to be painted over when they drag my carcass out of this cell.  I would make that moment now, if I could, but they took away my chains when I tried to strangle myself.  They want to keep me alive.  They feed my porridge, scrubby bits of meat, a crust of bread, some soup, and a cup of water, all on a metal tray.  No utensils provided, not that I expect kingly treatment, though I may be a king on the outside, I never had a chance to discover one way or the other.  I tell them I am their lord, and they add years to my sentence.

We are born in chains, I tell you, we are born in this prison.  I do not recall the crime I committed, I am innocent of all guilt.  I am guilty of having existed.  I know nothing of myself; I am a mystery, unknowable.   Like God I am ineffable.  “I AM who AM” I scream.  Seven knocks this time.  Why seven?  It is a special number, but twelve is more beloved, since there were twelve apostles and of Israel there were Twelve Tribes.  “I demand five more knocks so that I may know the Lord’s love.”  No reply.  I am stuck with only the perfect number, which needs to be imperfected in order to be loving.  This is all very sensible I assure you.  Our universe is perfectly suitable to us, we creatures of desperate evil, but for those who want love it is useless, empty, void.  Why so repetitious, so excessive, so needless and heedless, twitter ditter and don?  

Yes that’s when I noticed it.  Standing in the far left corner, a mass of shadow, which investigators from the Travel and Sci-Fi Channels could never spot!  It is inching towards me.  Yet it is then that I remember that Marx’s negative critique of Capitalism was highly praised even by one such as Pope Benedict, whereas what Marx positively posited, which combined the Hegelian dialectic with historical determinism based on an all too fallible kind of economic theory fails to satisfy the loft heights of human dignity as described the the papal pen.  I could quote Jesus of Nazareth to him, but I cannot recall the exact passage dealing with modern man’s alienation. There must be some other form of exorcism I can use, though I had read once some theories of Thomas Sowell and even once gazed into The Wealth of Nations, published in 1776.  The year of liberty if you can believe it, though black men were still in chains and would remain so until 1865, in actuality, despite the Emancipation Proclamation of 1863.  This ghost of the left encroached upon me, gradually taking form.  My six by six by six cell could not hold its enormity and I thought I would be swallowed whole, until it took on a more definitive form of its own.  Small and continuing in furtive grunting with an almost masturbatory manner of speech, it creaked its neck to the side, and with a cane paddled its pimpled hide, and spoke in simple bits of nursery rhyme. “Gosh golly gum drops, sugar plums and lolipops!  Is your life not swell, could it not be well?  Can the government come, don’t you want some?  Sing, please, or I will make you sting!”

“Unfair,” I decl--- rather I say, not declare, avoiding a catastrophe.  “Bees give birth to back-filled larva spewing out Honey Bunches of Oats.”  That quiets him down.  “But what is your symbology?” I inquire quite rightly and, I might add, justly.  “You are the produce of my cortex.  The fruits of my cognition.  Foul spirit of the left, crawl back into your hole, or I shall recite Glenn Beck’s most recent monologue, or the one I most recently heard.  What’s that?  No, I have never actually heard the man speak, or been outside these walls.  I suffer from Political Schizophrenia.  I believe there are aliens in my sock drawer, but since I don’t live anywhere near my sock drawer, which I have never seen, but I must nevertheless be careful!  I furthermore think these same aliens are conspiring with Hollywood special affects artists to make it seem like Anderson Cooper has a real personality.  Their latest debacle, The Fourth Kind, is a whole ‘nother kind of terror, its horror springs from express falsehood, because my sockophilic aliens are the only ones in the whole galaxy, and they no more abduct human beings than cows wear sweaters for hats.

It was then that another lurking phantasm creeped through metaphysical cracks in my walls.  Yes, I am sad to say it emerged from the right corner, all covered in moss- the ghost not the corner.  My right corner I keep immaculate with my saliva.  My left corner does not consent to any cleaning, and I cannot carry it off against its will.  The right corner however is desirous of my lukewarm smearings of spit.  But!  Too late!  It has come.

Oh it is vile, most vile, reeking in my nasal cavity.  My sinuses blaze. It appears like some kind of vermin, with a rat’s tale, and its belly “over broken glass.”  “Twit twit jug jug, so rudely forced.”  Somewhere a woman is screaming.  Its mandibles are covered in puss from the boils that cover it, weeping forth more disgusting liquid.  But it spoke with a voice I cannot describe though I shall try.  It was deep, like an ocean’s depths, shimmered like a whale’s breast, boomed like some mighty cannon, thundered like lightning, flashed like thunder, and it did not drone nor dally, but sallied out and about to find whatever was made ready for it, preaching a sermon melodious and sweet, charitable and kind.  Ending in hate, always ending so, ever and anon twitter and con.  As the Delgados song goes, “Hate is all you need.”  Real, bosom burning hate.  It is my own psyche’s fault that I have reduced the Right to hate, and not to, save, Rush Limbaugh who is quite lovable or so he says.

Ah, this not at all Kafkaesque confusion must end at some point.  The two apparitions then began to tumble with one another when a third ghostly figure arose, this one right in the center of my floor.  With no legs at all did it worm about, a roll of rotting flesh made of piles of slimy fat.  It took no position but squirmed hither and dither and yon, lapping up air in deep breaths, and exhaling a torrent of words I could not comprehend.  Despite all its movement it did not budge an inch, but coiled more and more around the middle of my floor.  Confronted by what I perceived to be Left, Right, and Center, I was aghast, abash, bemused, suffering, inconsolable, on the verge of death, and rising to new life three days later.  No wait.  That’s wrong.  But I have no eraser.  I am being erased.  I’d rather be dead than al--- No stop!  Onto the subject at hand.  Yes onto it, and stop falling away from it with mental distortions.  Onward to this really real ghostly phantasmagoria.  The third spirit, which I thought to be a moderate, lurched into the midst of the two, ever spewing what I took to be compromises, as it bowed its head very low.  At last I could bear it no longer, and called out to the guard for help.

“Pills!  I need pills.  There are croaking midgets in the midst of me, speaking of hate and rhymes, tall tales and capitulations, alliterating like literati, vomiting up truisms, adages, and expletives, not at all like my heroes, Alan Colmes should take a number before returning to Hannity, or is he better alone?!  Somewhere a woman is screaming.  “Nothing to be done” as Estragon would say. Nothing to be done about this hopeless terror of fighting full of wannabe zieg heils and goose-step marches.  All hail the state, and lower the estate tax, one of Woody Wilson’s triumphs.  I would quote Lucky’s speech at length, because as Heidegger would say in his late period only a God can save us.  A miracle, I declare, values trump all, voting for them makes you poor but righteous.  Vote with your feet not your soul.  Liberal love like liber, libertas, libertatis, Latin loveliness.  Please elect George Bush, senior or junior, younger or older, not right enough not left enough, simple madness maddens the mind.  An exercise in free association to make Freud proud, but he’s in hell now so don’t worry.  Beelzebub!  Scissor Sisters sing “I can’t decide whether you should live or die, oh you’ll probably go to heaven but don’t break down and cry.”  Pop culture boils us in a melting pot so we’ll all be the same.  Who censors the censors and guards the guardians?  Our philosopher king is no warlord, he’s a peace prize winner, long live the king.  I have fallen again into self-reflection, and I can’t get up.  The political turmoil continues, would if only all could be free then they’d- then there would  be-  if there is freedom then by necessity there is- liberty is preferable to slavery because- just because maybe- I would like to be free- maybe- freedom is good for reasons unknown, but time will tell (Godot again and Lucky to boot!)- surrender then your senses and live a dissolute life.

“ ‘I am a sick man...I am wicked man’!  ‘I am sick man...I am a wicked man’!

“Go ahead and guess, the struggle goes on, and I don’t footnote.  But the point is that there is a point, and I refuse to yield it.  A bug with a rat’s tail rolls around with a pimple-skinned midget while a worm lolls about them.  Assist me, assist me my beloved angel of a man, be my Gabriel, my Michael, my Raphael!  Oh I need them badly, archangelic doses of medication.  Please do not make me beg further, I am short on protests.  Hand them over.  I need only a dozen.  Ah, twelve, the number of the chosen!”

I receive twelve knocks this time, and then twelve pills with water came through the hatch, the pills in one cup and the water in the other.  The twelve raps pleased me, I felt loved.  But the two cups left me discomfited.  There were only two of them, but if I had had three of them, then I would have a mockery or praising of the trinity.  But I took the pills all the same, all twelve of them, even though I am supposed to take thirteen, which is between a number of love and a number of perfection times two.  Then I realized: my twelve pills were not twelve, but twelve times two, as what I thought had been water was filled with residue, the residue of crushed pills I normally would refuse and vomit up.  Yet it was so potent that I grew hazy, and forgot about the creatures battling about me.  They grew fainter with time and then disappeared, so I hoped and feared.  A darkness crept over me, it lasted only five minutes but it could have been longer.  I have no way to record time, unlike the man with peas in Camus’s The Plague.  My meals used to mark time, or so I would pretend.  At least I had a semblance, a phantom of hope.  A hope for something.  Or other, or more, or less, or another cliché.  Enough.   This is besides the point.  Move on, rolling rolling rolling, keep those doggies rolling, raw hide!  The darkness has shapes in it now of a most menacing kind.  Yet I awaken before they solidify.  What a disappointment, just as Barth was disappointed by God’s response “from the whirlwind.”  But I have not yet seen God’s ‘“cosmological-zoological-mythological” farrago’ in response to my sufferings.  I am a whole ‘nother kind of Job driven crazy by lack of blessing.

I finally turn to my supper, now that these visions have left me for a moment undisturbed.  Ah, it is still warm, how I relish it!  And how I loath it!  If it were cold I could not eat it, and if it were lukewarm I would spit it out (as our Lord would), but if is hot I haven’t scarcely any choice now do I?  My huger strike would be abortive anyways, as I was an attempted abortion, but the doctor was incompetent and the mother unwilling.  “Twit twit jug jug so rudely forced.”  I lost myself again in thoughts of the violence done in this world.  Somewhere a woman is screaming.  My plates are empty.  That did not take long.  They would force it down my throat if I refused anyways.  Best to eat it.  Best to conform.  Designer jeans only $99.99 on sale what a deal buy them up, put them on die anyway.  The mortality rate stands at 100%.  I am a statistic in a book somewhere, not even the product of my own words, those same words that create little devils from the four corners of my room.  But these imaginary designer jeans of approximately one hundred dollars in price remind me of my own unique rags, for the prisoners here are dressed from a great jumble of clothing, some expensive and lustrous, others dirty and mangy, and so each man is of a different status than another.  But all is random, and none deserves the lot he has received.  It makes no sense to envy, but we do anyway.  One man once was dressed in a monarch’s regalia.  The guards even called him “your majesty.”  I wish someone would praise me just once, but even from the Almighty all I receive are rebukes.

But are they rebukes?  Or are they something kinder, gentler, special, something just for me?  I suffer from all manner of diseases and disorders, but the guards, blast them, have taken them all from me, lest I die.  They fight for life, I long for death.  Understand this, as it is the record of my thinking.  I detest this life of four walls, darkness, and warm, delicious food.  I am growing fat from it all.  They permit me no time out in the yard.  God has chained me here, He is the source of all authority, and so He gives these guards and their warden authority over me.  Where am I going?  Can I decide even?  Where is the supremacy of choice?  I choose escape, freedom, liberation, art for art’s sake, choice for choice’s sake?  No, wrong, incorrect.  Art for art, “creation for creation,” as Steiner says in Grammars of Creation, and so is that God’s response to my suffering?  Suffer on, brave little soul, Jesus loves you dearly, and died for on the Cross.  But how does dying save?  How does spilling blood fulfill a debt?  So many questions, and the Gospels are all busy giving different accounts, different visions.  This I approve of as I can switch from one to another and believe four things about the same event, or at least two things. But I digress yet again.

I am growing disorganized, I remember my years very well.  They make me dread my future, if only I could snap the cord of my life.  But they deliberately extend it, I tell you!  I can commend this truth to you, my friend.  I see you standing there in the corner, if you are real, then hear this and give some reply.  Oh so you think gesturing alone is proof.  I tell you, the guard will not believe me if I declare that a small boy is gesturing at me.  Oh so your not a boy but a man?  A dwarf?  Or simply short?  Madness I tell you, I proclaim it to all who can hear.  The guard knocks on the outside of my cell.  That’s three months added to my sentence, a month for every knock.  They want to keep me alive.  You I do not know.  I understand you, your gestures are meant to confuse.  Okay, but that hardly justifies them.  Do you understand what I mean by justification.  No, not by faith alone, not by grace alone, not through works you Pelagian!  Do not make me burn you at the stake!  What?  What’s this now, this new blasphemy you are signing?  I don’t know sign language and am merely projecting? Outlandish, absurd.  I do not deal with absurdities.  I deal with realities, very many realities.

Yet this figure goes away as well, drifting, misting, fading, thumping, dying, gliding away.  The deaf ghost disappears, and I know not why.  My understanding is failing me.  Yet I do know why: my interest in him failed.  What else is there to do?  I do not know.  So I rise up again and return to the wall and scribble away, leaving my testament in the dark, where none shall read it.  With my fingernails I etch words into peeling paint that falls to the ground in piles like leaves.  What did the Sibyll say to the boys passing by?  “I want to die.”  But do I?  Can I, actually, want to do it?  When I have so much more to write, so many more permutations to compound?  So many more declarations remain to be recorded, for I have written down all of the above.  Yes, this they could seize from me with but a coat of paint, but that painter would see my words as he lays on a thick layer of liquid soon to dry.  “I can’t go on, I’ll go on” rings in my ears, but I expel Beckett’s words from my mind.  Art for art, creation for creation.  My mind settles into the full effect of the medication.  It will only last for a time.  Already somewhere new visions are stirring, old information is returning, and my lips begin to mutter out references very few fully understand.  Even I am not among their number.  Yet in the recitation, and principally in their recording on these walls, I encounter a justification for my existence, a step towards transcendence, the full exhilaration of seeing the

"The Sack of Komercetan" 

by Albert Trefney, Jr.

At the end of the Age of Kings the civilization of Netheria is under attack from all sides. In the North the city of Komercetan is besieged by a wandering horde of Barbarian tribes. Having been uprooted from their homes the barbarians are at first disorganized and easily repelled by the city's guard. As more of the horde arrives however they begin to create siege equipment. In the Second Battle of Komercetan, late in the summer huge trebuchet pound relentlessly on the gates and barbarian troops press against the wall with towers and ladders. As it becomes clear that the city walls will not hold the order is given for civilians to retreat to the mountain citadel of Aranth'Kar.

I

Lord Gavin watched the slow exodus of the peasants from the Northern tower of the Eastern gate house. Far below he could see the rapidly collapsing city gate house. All along the walls brave soldiers were fighting to the last to keep barbarian ladders at bay. It would not be enough. Gavin was a grizzled veteran of many siege battles, and he could tell that it would only be a few more volleys before the gate collapsed. After that the remaining guards could stem the human tide of Barbarians for only moments, if they stood and fought at all. It would not be disgraceful to retreat from such a lost cause, the foreign army consumed the northern fields and more barbarians arrived daily. Soon other foreigners would arrive driven by ancient hatreds and lust for plunder. Gavin pursed his lips in irritation and considered all the possibilities, but there seemed to be no way to hold the city. Once the city fell the Citadel would come under siege. No more than 100 yards separated the military strong hold, built directly into the mountains, from the civilian port city.

   

Beside Gavin stood High Commander Birnth, the officer in charge of the whole of Aranth'Kar. He too glared irritably at the pressing assault. He hated having to remain in the citadel while the town guard held the wall. He had risen to his position commanding cavalry units in defense of caravans traveling north, though a cunning tactician he considered himself a man of action.

   

Birnth muttered, barely audible "no more than half the citizens will make it in at this rate."

   

Gavin nodded and tapped at the pommel of the massive hand and a half sword hanging from his belt. "There's no choice than. I will buy the civilians time to retreat." Having said this he turned to descend from the tower.

   

"What? and how will you do that?"

   

"My charge will retake the gate and hold it for as long as we can."

   

"Your charge? The Riders? Don't be foolish- the army is stationed in the citadel to defend as many citizens as possible if the walls fall. It is suicide to leave now, and I will need every fighting man in the months to come. Especially your katafractoi."

  

Lord Gavin did not turn from the stair. "Less than half the city will make it into the citadel if the walls fall now. I can hold the gatehouse long enough to ensure that the barbarians bring up the heavy infantry they are keeping in reserve, this will take time. Time the civilians can use to escape. It is decided."

   

"I forbid it. I need you here."

   

Now Lord Gavin turned to face the High Commander. They were both huge men, born and raised as warriors under the strict Netherian cast system. Each was in full battle garb. Gavin wore a thick Silver and Black breast plate  trimmed with deep red over a coat of heavy chain. High Commander Birnth wore a suit of Lammelar crafted from steel and painted with silver and red. Each held a helm at his side. Gavin's winged and plumed helm indicated him a commander of the calvary, Birnth's ceremonial face mask marked him as commander of the whole Northern army. The two men wore grim and determined expressions.

   

"You do not command me or my men. The Riders of Crimson Dusk are an order of the Guard of the Golden Throne, the King's personal guard and second only to his majesty or a member of the royal line."

   

For a moment it seemed the two men would draw their swords. It was a grave insult to give an order to a member of the royal guard, even for the Commander of the Northern Army. Finally Birnth sighed and turned back to face the city. "Be gone than." He said, clearly angry.

   

Wordlessly Gavin turned and walked quickly towards the stable where his unit was reserved.

II

Fully saddled, armed, and armored the Riders of the Crimson Dusk were an awe inspiring sight. Each rode a finely bred war stallion draped in chain and wearing a steal helm. The riders themselves were all immense men, wearing the customary armor of the Order of the Golden Throne. Each man carried a lance tipped in barbed iron. They carried horse bows on their backs and swords on their hips. Each man also carried either a wicked looking hand axe or a morning star. Finally each bore a shield- a heater marked with the flag of Netheria, a setting sun, and the Rider's personal heraldry. 

When Gavin finished their briefing the soldiers saluted and mounted their stallions. None had challenged or even questioned the suicide mission, they had not been given any other kind of mission since they had joined the Riders. Though all of their armor shined unblemished in the evening sun they had all received countless wounds in defense of their country. Gavin rode to the front of the column and lead his 35 man unit through the citadel gate.

It was not far to the city gate by horse back but all the way the peasants and merchants lined the street. At every intersection terrified civilians would dive out of the way and then rise to cheer the Riders, believing the city would be saved. When they reached the Gate house it had already fallen.

The Gatehouse lead to a large open square designed to open an attacker up to an organized counter attack. The streets were lined with waist high stone walls and more walls created a "V" shape with the gate opposite the vertex. Spear men stood before the wall creating a powerful murder hole. Behind the wall crossbowman tried to fire over and around them, and more crossbowmen lined the roofs of nearby buildings. Streaming into the square like blood from a severed artery were barbarian soldiers. Most were mere peasants, unarmored and carrying only spears and knives. They were the bulk of the assault meant to break the defenders by sheer weight. Mixed in were the more valorous barbarian soldiers, mostly young men armed with small wooden shields and axes or clubs. They were boys hoping to gain honor and riches. 

By the time the Riders had reached the edge of the square the murder hole was collapsing. A pile of corpses lay before the spear men but more bodies poured in relentlessly. Gavin did not call a halt. Instead he lead his men strait into the collapsing defenses. At the point of their formation Gavin hit first, his lance skewered the first man and exploded below the tip. Mechanically emotionlessly he thrust forward piercing another man with the broken tip and dropped the lance. He was already at the gate- the force of his unit hitting as one had caused the barbarians to fly forward through the gate. He passed under the archway and continued until a lucky stroke severed his horse's unprotected leg.

Gavin's mount collapsed under him throwing him over its head into the mass of barbarians. The veteran did not lose stride though, rolling with the blow he turned his fall into a lunge thrusting his blade into the heart of a fool trying to rush past him. Withdrawing his sword and lifting it to the sky he screamed defiance in the face of the horde.

"RALLY!" the cry could be heard distinctly over the sounds of battle. Gavin's Riders reformed in a tight wedge. They had gained mere seconds before the horde was atop them again. An axe wielding  barbarian leaped at Gavin and he bashed the man's face with the corner of his shield. More bodies flew at them in waves and the men fought backwards to the gatehouse taking cover just inside. Bodies lay in piles before the entryway and the soldiers had a brief moment of reprieve.

Sheathing their blades the Riders, now all dismounted, drew their bows and began firing on the retreating line of barbarians. Their fire discouraged further assault and earned them another few moments of rest.

III.

Some 200 hundred yards north of the city gate a small cadre of barbarian warriors watched as their peasant spearmen charged forward in masses, retreated, reformed and charged again. The pathetic soldiers were mostly slaves- either captured warriors from defeated tribes or laborers whose trades were destroyed when the tribes were forced into mass migration. They would not retake the gatehouse from the steel clad warriors who had so unexpectedly siezed it.  Even worse, soldiers were being recalled from other parts of the wall to press the gatehouse assault. What had moments before seemed a great victory now appeared to be a rout.

The men who watched this unfold were the five warrior chieftains of the clans which formed the backbone of the horde. Greatest among them was Samain Chieftain of the Gath'Vyorth, the largest and richest of the clans. Second, but no less feared among them, was Thyr- chieftain of the Gath'Bjorn. It was primarily his clan's slaves that were assaulting the wall. 

"These peasants will never retake the gate house." Thyr grunted in the course tongue of the Northerners.

The smallest of the chieftains, and leader of the smallest clan, was Syrn. He and his people were widely known as cowards by the more noble Barbarians because of their devious tactics. The Gath'Slian'th were often called "The Serpents" so it was no wonder that he suggested a shewed tactic.

"Why send more slaves in?" He began. "We have the Trebuchet. Why not fire them again. A few more rocks is a small price compared to all theses slaves. We will need the slaves to harvest. It would not take long."

"Hmph" Samain grunted, ignoring Syrn. "The city-men fight with unusual fervor, their leader must be a great warrior."

Thyr thumbed the hilt of his sword as he watched the leader of the city dwellers. Both the Gath'Vyorth and Gath'Bjorn encouraged viscious competition as a means of gaining status with in the tribe. For the warrior chieftans it was moments like these that fortified their positions as leaders.

"I will challenge the soldiers, my Bjorn'zer'ka will crush them. Such brave men as these deserve to die by the sword of still braver men, not under a rock flung from afar by a coward."  

"HA!" Samain bellowed, "And be first to take the city? First to take spoils and claim land? I think not Thyr, 'Bear's son'. My Ravens will crush these soft city fools before you even arrive."

"Ha ha ha! I cannot accept, 'tis not a fair wager, my Bjorn'zer'ka will crush the fools and any one else in my way." Thyr laughed merrily at the image of his bestial warriors rampaging through the city. They had grown restless having to wait behind the lines.

"Phht!" Samain spat. "Afraid then? 20 horses to the clan who breaks the knights. 20 from each other clan."

The chieftains all looked at Samain for a sign that he was joking, but he showed none. During the migration horses had become a high commodity. The barbarians had always had plenty while they lived on the open steppes, but when they moved south many horses were lost and no young were born.

"Agreed." Thyr said, being one to never refuse a challenge.

"Agreed" said the other clan leaders, and hurried off to prepare their men.

IV.

The first to arrive was, in fact, the Ravens. Bred on the open plains west of the mountains the Ravens epitomized the advantage of sleek versatile calvary. They used a special horse bow which had a longer top portion than bottom. This uneven device allowed a skilled user to fire much further than with a regular horse bow. When unmounted they used spiked picks which easily pierced chainmail making up for their lack of heavy armor.

On the open plain the Ravens would have used their bows to fell the slower knights without ever coming into sword range. However, Gavin had moved his knights deep into the shadow of the gate house to protect against just such a strategy. The Ravens would have to ride close to get a shot in. Samain ordered them to use up all their arrows before engaging in melee since their bows would still out range the light horsebows the Riders were carrying.

Pounding across the plain to the gate house the Ravens rode three by three, bows knocked. Their honorary ravens' feather cloaks billowed in the wind. Drawing into firing range the first few rows lifted their bows. Less than one hundred yards away they could see the dismounted riders, shields raised in a tight line. But their swords were sheathed, for resting on their shields were heavy crossbows collected from fleeing guardsmen.

The first two rows of Ravens collected so many bolts that their riders were thrown from their horses with out firing. The next few rows split left and right to avoid the flailing of dying horses. Only a handful of arrows bounced harmlessly off the gatehouse walls. The Ravens were not dissuaded however, they simply became enraged. Riding along the walls in two groups they crossed the gate house at point blank firing blindly in. Most of their arrows bounced off steel shields, but they had the intended effect of preventing a rapid reload.

The Ravens regrouped just outside the gate and charged in. The gatehouse became a scene of chaos. The first wave of ravens dented the Riders' line while the second dismounted and leaped at them on foot. Bloodied picks sprayed gore across the walls and the sounds of dying men and horses mingled with the crash of steel. The Ravens lost themselves to the fire of battle lust, fighting even with grievous wounds. The Riders placed their trust in their superior steel and undying loyalty to each other. In the end, the fury of the Northmen might have won, but for a single knight who waded through the battle to the very front. Easily distinguished by his plumed helm, Gavin had dropped his shield in favor of a two handed sword stance. Vicious blows rained down on the Ravens before they could hope to attack him. Each stroke felling another barbarian. In a spray of grey matter and blood he lead the Riders to yet another victory. In an all encompassing rage he severed the head of the last Raven and carried it to the entryway. Hurling it out into the field he once again screamed his defiance at the host of his enemies.

The answer was already marching towards the gate. Not wishing to be out done Syrn had sent a mass of his sword herrbann. Carrying sword and shield these warriors were the back bone of Syrn's army. Unorganized and undisciplined Syrn suspected they would break the now fatigued Riders. He had planned on Samain's impatience leading to a rapid but bloody defeat. now his men would mop up. He could not understand why Thyr had not taken advantage of this opportunity, but he was more than happy to claim victory. His men were now 50 yards from the gate and eagerly rushing forward.

Inside the gatehouse Gavin turned to his men. "Swords!" he called "Bring the line to this point! Tight formation! Not one barbarous cur will pass through my entry way!" A wordless cheer bellowed dutifully from the Riders. They were clearly becoming tired, but all would still hold. There was no retreat from this fight with honor in tact. Gavin took his place at the fore of the line, refusing to stand behind while his men died.

The Barbarians hit the wall unevenly allowing the well disciplined riders to single out some of their number. They struck together defending each other with irregular sword beats and shield checks. The barbarians fell one by one as the Riders stepped forward in unison.

From the hill top Syrn's ugly grin turned to shock and than a frown. Slowly but surely his men were being consumed by the line of Netherian knights.

"Hmph. Did you really think your swords would prevail where my Ravens did not? Such a man as that can not be fatigued so easily." Samain spat "May his ancestors rot."

"Thyr must have seen this..."

"Be silent!" Samain cut him off, "Once that fool's Bjorn'zer'ka are crushed I will send more men. Where is he anyway?"

It was only minutes before Syrn's men routed, but to the Riders it seemed an eternity. Those few moments weighed heavily atop the hours since they had left the citadel, they were exhausted and hungry. Still Gavin seemed unaffected and quickly had the remaining men drag the bodies of the fallen past the gate house wall into the courtyard. Only 15 remained of his original 35. The next wave would surely crush them.

V.

The Riders of the Crimson Dusk reformed at the mouth of the ancient stone gate house. Exhausted and bloodied they were no less formidable a visage. Indeed the blood dripping from their swords, the subtle clank and scratch of dented armor, the cold determined stares all added to their defiance. Gavin himself stood at the fore of the formation, sword in hand, watching his death approach. The barbarians had sent forth their Bjorn'zer'ka. It was an old word for an old practice. These hulking brutes were Berserkers, savage warriors who had long ago lost their minds to the battle lust. The will to kill, supplemented with mind numbing drugs, they would become the embodiment of death it self. The barbarians believed it was a great honor to be killed by them, it meant that Gavin had caused them considerable agony.

There were 7 figures drawing towards the Riders. 6 would be Bjorn'zer'ka, the last would be their commander. Gavin took each in as they approached. They were hulking brutes carrying axes long enough to be pole arms. Each wore the pelt of a bear as a cloak, a symbol of status. None wore any heavy armor or bore any symbol of rank or clan save the pelts. As they approached Gavin singled one out, in the rear of the loose formation carrying a longsword, not an axe. He was looking directly at Gavin, even over this distance Gavin could see that their eyes met. When they did something in Gavin stirred, something buried deep in his mind told him he must kill this man.

20 yards away the barbarians broke into a run, the first 6 monsters ran past Gavin. Gavin paid them no mind, he was completely focused on their commander. The beast of a man closed on him twisting lowering his shoulder to knock Gavin to the ground. Gavin stepped to the side and slashed into the barbarian's head, but met only his sword. Gavin stepped backwards in an even stride raising his sword to a mid guard. The barbarian nodded slightly as though to confirm the rightness of this course of events. The barbarian slid into a high guard and rained 4 even blows down on Gavin. Two Gavin caught on his cross guard the third he turned against the barbarian using the force to switch to a hanging guard. The fourth blow was meant to prevent a follow up blow and Gavin simply danced around it. The Barbarian offered no time for Gavin to take the offensive. Switching to a mid guard he slashed at Gavin's hip forcing him to block low, poor form for a long bladed weapon. Gavin had to resort to a fool's guard, but the battle was far from lost. Gavin switched his footing to a back stance, holding his sword low and extended before him in one hand. It was a maneuver meant to gain precious seconds and force the barbarian into a foolish move.

Gavin was shocked, his mind racing to deduce the barbarian's talent even as his body carried out the fight. The barbarian before him fought with the savagery and strength one would expect from his people, more so than most. Yet at the same time his form was flawless, each stroke meant to be a kill, yet leaving no opening as though meant to be feigns. He returned flawlessly to a guard position after each stroke, if only for a moment, avoiding the dangers of attacking to angrily and too rapidly. He was far to competent to be untrained far to formulaic to be relying on mere talent or strength, thought there was an impossible fluidity to his movements suggesting a man raised with sword in hand. A chieftain? No. Gavin forced thought from his mind. Thought would gain no victory.

Gavin strafed to his left and the barbarian returned to a high guard. Gavin slashed at his midsection and now the barbarian was on the defensive. Gavin fell back on old sword forms. Viscous chops and stabs meant to isolate and exploit weaknesses. He flew so rapidly through the forms that he appeared a viper striking. Still the barbarian kept stride with him. Slowly sliding backwards he kept his sword at mid guard, never over extending, never showing any sign of impatience- waiting for Gavin to wear himself out. If Gavin had become a viper he had become a wolf. Then Gavin made a mistake, or perhaps the barbarian made a lucky strike. Gavin would never know. He switched to a hanging guard as Gavin struck down. He swung so forcefully he might have been throwing a punch. Gavin's blade caught on the barbarian's cross guard. He closed in locking the blade between the two men and grabbed Gavin's pommel. Pulling down while kicking at Gavin's knee the barbarian managed to force him to the ground. Gavin rolled, narrowly escaping the killing range of a downward sweep. Now the barbarian took the role of a serpent sliding forward slashing down in killing blows. Gavin kept meeting the blows as he tried to draw back, each time blocking with less and less resolve. Finally he grew desperate.

Meeting a blow with his sword braced on his vambrace, Gavin forced himself towards the barbarian. Pushing the barbarian back and gaining both his feet and few moments of reprieve.

Gavin knew he was dead. He had achieved his goal of delaying the barbarians, and there was no shame in death. Indeed his death would be honorable. Still he could not rest. Something drove him to stand, to resist his weakening legs and burning arms, to clear the fog in his mind. It was not his city, or his great nation. Not the will to live or the glory of victory. It was the knowledge, the acceptance of death. The need to meet it sword drawn and head high.

Gaining his feet Gavin saw the barbarian grin. Two swords struck as one. Like lightning the barbarian's blade stabbed deep into Gavin's chest. He felt each rib break, each drop of blood flow. He felt alive and he breathed deep to taste life.

It felt like fire.

The barbarian dropped to his knees. His blade had been strong and fierce, a two handed stab which rent armor and bone alike. Gavin's blade had been an irresistible force, a low even slash through the mid section.

The barbarian turned to Gavin and they met eyes. The man spoke in his gruff tongue, but Gavin did not understand. Than he pointed at the citadel of Aranth'ka, then at the hordes, than he smiled slightly. Gavin followed his movements. His eyes fell on the Citadel. It stood carved from the mountain face banners whipping in the wind, proud and defiant. The setting sun turned the grey rock into fire adding to the sense of glory. Gavin saw this as though for the first time. He took in the sight, but also something deeper. The essence of it seemed to enter him, as though he saw for the first time. The waves of the horde would crush against the rock of Aranth'ka in the years to come, just as the waves of the Eastern Sea crushed against the foundation stones of the harbor. Each would ware the other, eventually each would become the other. Gavin saw this all; and as the sun set, as life flowed from his broken chest, he imprinted the image into his soul as a metal worker would etch heraldry to a sword.

VI.

The barbarian chieftain lived long enough to order the other chieftains to return Gavin's body undamaged to the citadel. It was received by the high commander himself and given a personal burial chamber in the crypts far below the citadel. Gavin's sacrifice was not forgotten by the people. In decades to come monuments would be erected to commemorate the defense of the citizenry. The lower castes idolized him and the higher castes used him as an example of both field tactics and honor.

I have seen this. These events are merely the beginning of a great epic. An epic that is but a grain of sand in a storm. A storm that is but a notation in a world that is but one of many billions.

Yet for a brief moment the eyes of an apathetic reality were drawn to a single grain of sand, traced the path of this grain, and recorded it.

"The Fall of Vadroth"
by Alex Friedman



     There is a lost city upon the northern face of one of the many cliffs of the Volmar range. This was the central keep of a once prominent kingdom of the Volmar region called Frah'heel. The kingdom was inhabited by a tall, light skinned, dark haired human people known as the Monsget. The keep was lost shortly before the second period of the ages recorded by the blind sorcerer Gilghim'hr. This event was a major cause of the division of the first period from the second, as it is in this disaster that we first see mention of Asteres.
    Frah'heel was a great bastion of the Volmarian people, built into the sheer northern face of a great mountain and facing a second. Two generations after the fall of Un, the city was founded. Frah'heel was built of great brown stone against the white of that snowy land and set upon three carved ledges of the mountain. It is written that Frah'heel was impenetrable to attack when properly defended. This duty was carried out by a mighty order of knights. They rode under the banner of the northern star that they faced, and were known as the Asterian order. Clad in bronze armor of the highest standard, they had never failed in defense of their home. Because of this and the diamond-rich soil, the city began to gain power and influence over a span of four generations.

From the last volume of The First Age of Gilghim'hr:

    It was in this first dying age that I bore witness to the fall of mightly Frah'heel and the death of her peoples. I know it now with my thousand vacant eyes.
 
I.
    Though every king of the Frah'heelid line had up to this point been mighty and wise, it was in the final generation that a fool inherited the crown. King Tragtull II was not a proper son of Frah'heel, instead being the closest male relative to the infertile Demorian the White. Where Demorian had been kind and orderly of mind, his cousin only thought of conquest. After the towns nearby their mount had been conquered, Tragtull sought greater power.
    Tragtull was a pathetic and thin man. He surrounded himself in ill-gotten riches and inherited trophies. In the depths of that final dry and cold winter, he sat brooding in the deep chambers of his stony manor. He gathered the Asterian order to his council.

    "I would take the city on the western face of this great mountain range as our own. I seek a method to besiege thier mighty gates. You are my knights, and you shall carry out my will," said the King.
    "Have we need of another settlement? Long have we held peaceful relations with our western neighbors in Jhylan," said Captain Vadroth.
    Vadroth was the third in a legacy of captains in the Asterian order. He was a tall man with noble features and silver shocks of hard fought traumas running through his hair. Having seen fifty-four winters, he held a status of wisdom rumored far beyond the King's. Tragtull hated him for this.
    "I have need of another settlement. These people and the whole of the Monsget shall behold me as king. 'Tis my right and destiny." Tragtull glowered at his knights.
    "There is a way to breach those great walls, my liege," spake Walter, a lesser knight. "Our merchants have brought back from the ports a black powder which, when sparks be upon it, burns with a terrible fury. I have heard tell of it being packed against walls to destroy them."
    "Then gather what of this powder we shall need to break down Jhylan's defenses and gather our fighting men. We shall leave in a week's time." With this, the king arose and left his knights at the manor's long table. Vadroth drew a hand slowly across his brow.
    "You are a fool, Walter," he said.

II.
    Vadroth sat upon his favored skins and ate his fill of meat and bread. His young wife, Haethra stirred the coals of the fire in his stone furnace. He was warm and full but ill at ease. Asteres, the only son of Vadroth, entered the stone house. Asteres latched the heavy door behind him. Asteres was nearing manhood, having wintered thirteen years. Asteres did not nearly possess the stature or build of his father, being slighter and somewhat gaunt of face. He was his father's son, however- his eyes and steady hands betrayed this. Haethra blamed her son's size on the curse of a star that had fallen on the night of his birth.
    "Come with me to split wood, my son," said Vadroth, rising.
    "I've come from splitting a week's wood, sir," said the boy.
    "Then join me in the smoke house. I would speak with you."
    "Yes sir," Asteres nodded as he turned again to the door. The boy left the house to comply. Haethra caught Vadroth by his arm and handed him a hot loaf of bread.
    "Has he done wrong?" she said.
    "Nay, I would simply instruct him as to my wishes while I am away," he replied softly as he followed his son through the door.

     Vadroth's home was surrounded by forest on one side and snow field on the others. This field was Asteres' most familiar hunting ground. Vadroth preferred to live away from the keep. He believed it humbled him and made him more visible to his people. The smoke shack was a short distance from the house. They entered the shack, and the smell of salt and meat comforted Vadroth.
    Vadroth spoke thusly to Asteres:
"If would see you lead the order as I have, my son. But the age of kings is passing. Tragtull has become murderous in his quest for power. If we do not return from this quest, state your right to rule to those knights who remain. I have faith they will follow you."

    With these words, Vadroth left Asteres with his dinner and his thoughts in the smoke house. Asteres sat for some time, eating and considering his father's words. Perhaps he would be a leader of men.

III.
    Five days had passed since the Asterian order began its march around the mountains. Vadroth rode his great warhorse a few paces behind the King and the royal entourage of fools and whores. Thirty knights in heavy armor rode behind Vadroth, as well as ten score more lightly armed hobilars. In the last rank rode Walter, with four yaks who carried his black powder charges.

    Vadroth tried to hide his feelings of disgust for King Tragtull, who wore the finest armor of the entire city-state's lineage. He galloped to catch up to the King and addressed him.
    "Do you intend to offer Jhylan surrender before we are to strike, my liege?" he said to the mad king.
    "We will strike under cover of night. I will deal them a killing blow before I will hear their court. Such proceedings as you speak of would be fruitless."
    As the King spoke, a shout could be heard. A rider bearing the Asterian banner was approaching behind them. The rider was visibly pressed on by some news.
    "What does that man shout about, Vadroth? Ride out to him and hear him, sound your horn if it is of consequence," Tragthull said.
    "Aye sir," came Vadroth's reply as he turned to ride.

    As Vadroth got to within hearing distance of the rider, his horse reared up in surprise. Walter watched from the back rank, still unable to hear what the two were saying a bowshot behind him. Walter kept pace forward but leaned back, watching. He saw Vadroth draw his horn to his lips and sound a long, mournful note with all his might. Walter halted his horse and company.

    Vadroth listened to the panicking rider with a sinking heart. The town had been assaulted by a wandering horde.  It had been nearly undefended as they were passing. They had killed the entire town guard along with any who resisted them. They carried with them long lengths of shackle and chain. They intended to enslave the rest of the Frah'heelid people.
IV.
    An arm's length beneath the snow, Asteres hid. He had melted a tiny space to spy out from with his breath, and remained near invisible within the drift. He held with him beneath the ice a short rabbit hunting spear. His body heat had hollowed out the snow directly around him, insulating him against the cold. But still Asteres trembled.

    Haethra lay dead across the field. An attack dog had torn off her arm. Asteries watched the hound now, and its master. He held his spear tightly, and watched as the beast began to pick up his scent. The master, a powerfully built barbarian warrior from more savage ice wastes to the north-east, showed more interest in looting Vadroth's home than in following his dog.
    The dog, with its nose to the ground, slowly worked its way toward Asteres' hole. Asteres slunk back slightly, so that no light would hit him directly. He readied the spear at the tiny frozen opening and listened for the dog to come close. As it reached the hole and sniffed inside it, Asteres jabbed it's snout. The dog yelped and jumped back, bleeding badly. Asteres ducked and waited.
    The dog fumbled at its nose in pain and the invader ran up to it, shouting. They stood fewer than ten paces from the hidden boy. The warrior looked at the snow dune where his dog had been looking. Bright red drops of blood trailed from a tiny dark hole to where his dog now lay whimpering. The warrior crept closer for a moment. A badger's den, perhaps. He had seen a badger do worse things to a hound before. He turned back to inspect his animal's nose.
    Seeing this, Asteres rose out from beneath the snow. He held the spear with both hands at his waste and drove it sharply into the back of the invader's head. The man did not cry out as he slumped into the snow, a dead heap. Asteres wrenched his spear free. The snow was stained red and pink all around him. The war dog had stumbled away, limping and weeping. Asteres took a long sword and a knife from the corpse's belt. He fastened these to his side and walked to where his mother had fallen. Asteres covered her with one of the furs he had been wearing. His throat tightened. He forced himself to cough, trying to relieve the feeling. The sight of six other savage raiders exiting the ruined city in the distance sent him running back towards cover. He hid under the snow for many hours.
    As dusk fell, Asteres rose again and looked to his city. He knew from the smoke rising into the clouded sky that it was lost. Asteres began trudging East. He followed the footfalls of the warriors he had seen leaving his land.

 V.
    Vadroth's glare was becoming more intense. He stood on foot before King Tragtull, and the scores of his knights were slowly gathering around him. One by one they were dismounting and walking to stand in rank behind their captain, their expressions carrying the same leashed wrath as Vadroth's.
    "Perhaps I misunderstand you, O King. You are suggesting we carry out our attack even as the land we are sworn to protect is sacked and burned?" Vadroth's voice became low and quiet. Had another the courage to talk, perhaps Vadroth would have been difficult to hear. Tragtull snorted.
    "It is by no means a suggestion, Vadroth. We shall continue our assault. If Frah'heel is lost, she can be regained. A king should be measured by the kingdoms that bow to his will, and Jhylan will bow to mine," he said.
    "If Frah-heel has fallen, then our families and lands are lost. Our wives and heirs and the graves of our fathers are lost," said Vadroth, taking a step forward. The entire company of the Asterian Order now stood behind him.
    "Such things are easily replaced with full coffers, captain. Call to the Order to remount. We must ride hard to make up for the time you have wasted," said King Tragtull.
`"Indeed. We have wasted much time," Vadroth said.
    With one mighty arm, Vadroth grabbed the King by his belt and threw him swiftly from his horse. Tragtull cried out in surprise and pain. Vadroth had drawn a long knife with his left hand. Before the Tragtull could recover to rise, Vadroth thrust the blade through his neck with such force that he was pinned to the frosted earth. Blood splashed down his bronze chest plate. The Asterian Order did not move to intervene. Placing a boot on the slain King's face, Vadroth withdrew his knife and wiped it clean. He sheathed it and looked to his men.
    "Mount your steeds. We must see that Frah-heel is not claimed by any other who would dishonor her."
    They swiftly complied. The royal retainers were left behind. They stood about in a shocked catatonia. The cold night found the Frah'heelid army racing home.

VI.
    A night and day had passed. Vadroth stood at the southern base of Frah'heel's great mountain. It would take another three days of strenuous riding to circumnavigate it and travel the pass to approach the city's entrance. Walter joined Vadroth. They both stared to to summit. A plume of black smoke was rising from the far side of the mountain.
    "There is no way to climb the mount on horseback. But surely, we cannot risk the time to circle it," said Vadroth.
    "Then we will climb. We've mountaineering equipment for the whole of the company. I will give the notice," said Walter.

    The entire company suited themselves with picks and lines and heavy cloaks. Vadroth lead a march to the base and began to climb. The mounts and the civil army would join them on the other side in three days time, except for the four yaks who were capable of making the climb. Vadroth began the rhythmic swinging of his ice pick, which the rest of the Order followed. Ice and dirt bit into Vadroth's face as he climbed at a determined pace. They climbed for the entire day. Two fell dead along the way of exhaustion.

    At Dusk, they reached the summit. Vadroth climbed to the edge of the cliff. Sorrow filled his heart as he looked down. The halls of Frah'heel were burning. Her temples and manors were burning. The entire city was scorched. Vadroth asked for a spy glass. He could see bodies littering the roads, and several huge corpse piles. In the city square, women and children were being chained together for a slave procession. The old and sick were being slain like animals and piled up for burning. Their cemetery had been exhumed and robbed. Dogs wandered the streets, searching for people still hiding in the wreckage These invaders were not simply a displaced horde of people, but a number of mercenary bands. They had likely been assembled for some great war and then turned loose when the war had finished. Vadroth lowered the spy glass and handed it to another knight. He slumped back against a frost covered boulder.
    Frah'heel was completely lost. His child and his wife and all those he knew was dead or would die a slave. Walter trudged along the cliff side and stood above Vadroth.
    "I will not allow our home to be pillaged or my to be family enslaved, Vadroth." Walter said.
    "What would you have me do?"
    "Let us bury our lives with dignity. All is lost but honor."
 
VII.
 

    Asteres knew them now. The six walked toward a port city on the Eastern Sea, likely trying to sell their share of the plunder. The smallest man walked with a fresh limp, like a wounded elk. Asteres followed the warriors just out of sight. He reasoned he could catch up to them with an hour's sprint when he decided to strike. One of them had eaten a loaf of bread and passed scraps of it to his comrades. Another was gathering tinder for the night's fire as he walked.

    A long, loud crash erupted in the distance and echoed down the wide vally, stirring small avalanches as it passed.

VIII.

    Vadroth raised his sword to the sky. The Asterian order raised their swords in kind. Their heavy fur cloaks whipped in the hard mountain-peak winds. White snow reflected brightly from their drawn blades. Walter stood beside the crest of the mountain top, and placed a burning torch across the heavy fusing he had set. He took off in a full run toward the other knights. They lept from the edge, Vadroth at the fore. The mountain erupted into a crashing river of snow and rock behind them. With this final act the Asterian Order disappeared into the snow, charging with the northern wind against the hand of fate.
    The starving remnants of the Frah'heelid sat caged in their town square. The slave traders looked in terror and awe as the sky above them was engulfed in white death. Glints of silver steel, like sparks rising from a wild flame, fell in front of the rush of ice and stone. Vadroth, angling his body against the wind to direct his final descent, slammed sword first into one of the invading warriors. The geyser of blood was erased by the snow in the same instant.
    Only Frah'heel's last son remained to mourn her loss.

IX.
    Asteres heart was as cold as the frost gathering about his eyebrows. He stood in the center of the invader's camp, surrounded by their tents. He saw from the flickering firelight that they laid in their furs, asleep and breathing softly. Asteres gathered an armful of snow and dropped it over the fire, extinguishing it with a loud hiss. The men who had pillaged Frah'heel awoke with a start. Asteres drew his sword.


    It is natural that the first age end in bloodshed. As I record my sightless visions, I understand more deeply how the events I see could have only lead to their conclusions. Perhaps it is not fate that predetermines the deeds of heroes and men. Perhaps it is the nature of heroes and men to predetermine their fates.
    Asteres traveled from his homeland to the East, and over many years became an adventurer and a warrior and a leader of men. His frustration with his seemingly effortless acts drove him onward. I have heard a thousand songs of his name.

"No Vacancy"

by Laura Harrison

This sign was irrepressible.  The color of it was something akin to its light but somehow took on a life of its own.  I couldn’t make out what it was trying to tell me.  The color was a mixture of neon and reality that separated my normal plane of vision from my logic.  There is no name for such a color.  Once it was there and I could see it, it was like bark to a tree.  My whole life I’d been staring at these naked branches and all that time it never occurred to me that what I saw wasn’t actually all of what was there.  I stared into the depths of that vacancy until there was nothing left.  The concrete grown out of centuries beneath my feet became like an ocean.  I was sinking into technicolored waves as if time had stopped along with me.  Space was entirely anew and my fingertips could not touch it.  I felt nothing.

              How could I move—I could physically move, of course,—but how could I move.  Who knew how long this would last.  I looked around for a sign of people.  For someone to tell me I was seeing something that wasn’t there so that I could believe them, rationalize this episode into oblivion, and move on.  My eyes couldn’t quite adjust in this light I wondered if they ever would, or could.  I waited and watched for anyone.  All I could see was that light, shifting back and forth in its intensity from one moment to the next.  I wasn’t sure people exist in this place.  At least I’m not sure now that I could see them—that I ever really saw them.

              I’d had the tune from that Tootsipop commercial stuck in my head all day.  The one with the owl that goes ‘how many licks does it take to get to the center of a…’  I started singing it to myself when I realized I couldn’t hear anything.  That’s not completely accurate.  I could hear one thing.  I could hear my thoughts.  I just couldn’t hear myself speak.  I said words.  I sang the song and felt a tickle inside the house of my vibrating larynx.  Nonetheless, I was speechless.  I couldn’t hear a sound from the world outside myself.  That’s when I saw something moving.  

              I couldn’t tell what it was, least of all by its movement.  The space seemed to separate for it and the color almost retreated.  It was massively empty, like a black contour on a white page, but alive and heaving.  I’m not sure that it noticed me at first.  I tried calling out to it in case it could hear me even though I couldn’t.  There was no response and so I just watched it move.  It would constitute itself out of the color—emptying or perhaps pouring itself out into my plane of vision.  And then they’d be separate—the color from the thing—until it sort of poured itself back in again only to reappear somewhere else.  I saw it in momentary glimpses.  I couldn’t discern any pattern in its movement, but I got the distinct impression that it had somehow noticed me and was making its way closer.  That, or it was just growing.  Pretty soon it seemed like it was pouring itself out of everything.  It congealed itself into a form out of its slowly separating content over and over again and all I could do was watch.

              I hadn’t thought yet to look at myself.  Then I thought to, but couldn’t out of fear.  All the things I could have become in this place—all the ways I could appear—all the acceptance that goes along with realizing your place inside of something was too big, too monstrous.  But then I started to feel like an elephant flooding the room and I couldn’t stay here feeling this way.  I had to push it out and so I emptied myself into that thing.  I began to associate the moving thing with this invisible monster in my head.  The one I was too afraid to look at directly.

              Seeing it as my own greatest fear made me treat it as such and I backed myself into a wall.  I stood next to the source of that color hoping to hide from my monster in its light.  The wall pulled me in.  Soon it was cradling me and I lost myself like a baby lying in her parent’s bedsheets—what are monsters to infants who’ve only recently opened their eyes to see—I was so happy.  I’d pushed my fear out onto this thing and in the process somehow completely forgotten how it was to feel so afraid.  I was fresh in this foreign innocence and I looked down at my hands thinking they must look so clean.

              I stared for a moment, uncertain.  Was I coming in or out.

              I looked up and there was my companion, my monster, reforming before me.  This time it was larger than my life, but I was not afraid.  There was no way of knowing for sure but it was so close or so immense that I thought I could have reached out and touched it.  I held my breath and reached.  I watched as my fingertips emptied into my monster’s face, her expression suddenly spelling my name into a smile that smiled deeper and deeper as it became clearer.  In an instant, where my fingers once were had become that color and I could no longer see my monster.  I worked to focus my sight as best I could in that light until I realized that I was staring into the source of that color, like I’d somehow turned about face. Had she disappeared or had I.  Alienated in the realization of this new possibility I started to feel myself again and felt strongly that I was falling.  As I fell I sensed the gravity of the ground beneath me.  I felt it clanking itself to me like iron.  In the moment before the pressure was going to kill me I blinked thinking I was about to hit the ground.  When I opened my eyes I was still standing in front of that sign in the glow of that color that had captured me, but I was seeing again as in my own reality.

              I read the sign aloud. I said, “No Vacancy,” and all I could remember was the thought of having someplace to be.

 

POETRY

Poetry is just the evidence of life.  If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.  

-Leonard Cohen

"Albatross"

by Jeff Morin

Albatross

You are my Albatross...

I want to mount you.

I want to see you through.

I want to finish you off,

My Albatross.

You hang from my neck

And I can’t let you go.

You hang from my neck,

And I can’t let you go.

I want to wake up and find you done,

My Albatross.

So many times I wanted to see the end,

To find some sense of freedom.

But you are always there,

Always there,

Always there.

I want to mount you.

I want to see you through.

I want to finish you off,

My Albatross.

I’m through with you,

I’m done with you,

I’m finished with you,

It’s over with you.

But you pull at my heart,

You pull at my mind,

You pull at my soul,

And I can’t let you go.

I need to mount you.

I need to see you through.

I need to finish you off.

My Albatross.

"Dream of my Love as a Beached Whale"

by Amber Pompeii

I keep my fingers clasped together because your absence creates a twitch in them.

Remember: I’d push them deep between your bones while you lay beside me,

the inside of our mouths drying out from opening into each other.

I like it when you take it out on me, pressing through my blue veins and skin

to remind me of my human skeleton.

I saw you underwater once, sucking the plankton and tossing the bottom up.

The sunlight did not shine on you, but luminous

you were with your cold hide reflecting my heavy loneliness.

Dreams are oceans, darling.

I fear that some day you will beach yourself

entangled in some fishing net and

I’ll suffocate you, unintentionally

with my dirty air.

END NOTE

     Thanks to everyone who contributed and thanks to everyone who read. I am not yet sure whether the next issue will be in January or in March, that will depend on the rate of submissions. Thanks to Quote Garden for making the Mark Twain quote easy to find.

-End of Issue 1