Shadows & Sorcery #194
New year, same Shadows & Sorcery, an anchor in the maelstrom of existence!
You know, with the new year, how about a re-proclamation of the mission statement and intent of this thing, for everyone new, old, and returning?
Shadows & Sorcery believes fantasy fiction can be an escape and entertainment, and that such a thing is meaningful. To get lost in another world, even if for just a minute when all the right things align, holds profound worth. The sensory experience of art matters as much as the intellectual.
Shadows & Sorcery believes in alternate forms, expressions, and mediums of storytelling, especially for fantasy fiction—a genre for whom the novel is popularly considered the default format. Stories don’t have a default. If they did, we’d all be writing epic poetry.
Shadows & Sorcery is 100% human-made, from the crude C# first name/last name randomizer, to the list of words within it, to every letter written based on what weird nonsense they spark in my brain. I have not, do not, and never will use any form of genAI in this process and quite frankly would rather walk into traffic. If you’ve ever wondered or suspected me of it, stop.
If you want a little more insight into the intent behind this publication, why not check out the About page?
If you just got here, take a look at last year’s final edition for a little peek into what I plan for this year right HERE
Also, next week? New chapter of The Path of Poison. Sepp and the gang are getting settled in, but things are just heating up in Farhaven! Catch up on their adventures HERE
And as ever, friends, let the stories know you enjoyed them!
This week, a would-be deity finds his greatest challenge in the Palace Pilgrims, a tender ceremony for the newly dead comes under threat of an Undead Storm, and a strange faith finds its own from within the Dust of the Temple...
Palace Pilgrims
The plucky young Prince Melach of the small but prosperous nation of the Cascadine Isles had routed not only two invasions from separate imperial powers, but launched counter-invasions that won his fledgling nation whole swathes of land, along with trade routes, resources, and a more than grateful population happy to be out from under the yoke of provincial imperial governors. One empire fell not long after, and in its place rose a new one under Melach’s banner, and none of it, it must be said, was won by blood. Indeed, he called it an alliance, but also didn’t deny the lords of newly liberated lands offering vast tributes and heaping honours upon him. The other empire backed off, and sat licking its wounds knowing it beheld right before it an entire united front of lands surging with pride and growth.
After such an astounding, sweeping, history-making military victory, ascending still to the crest of his glory, there was only place Prince Melach could go—up, into the very heavens themselves. To godhood.
In no short order did he embark upon a widely publicized pilgrimage, then quest, to the source of an ancient seat of divine power with the full funding of the empire at his back. Long, long ago had the kings of the precursors, whose wonders still thrummed deep under the earth and in the far and distant place, partaken of some intricate and lengthy rite passed down from their starborn, deific progenitors. It had passed in and out of myth as things were found, disproven, lost, re-found, studied, and so on, but one thing was for certain: Melach believed, and it gave him an attractive, romantic streak.
He returned to his throne nothing less than a god, bearing a halo of pale, shining gold, his raiment flowing in an unearthly breeze, emanating an enchanting and beguiling perfume from the very air around him, and standing some two heads taller than he had before. He made for an impressive sight, and enacted his incessant rule from the palace he rose out of the very flesh of the earth itself with but a motion of his hand, of solid gold and veined marble, a symbol alchemized by his transcendent comprehension of cosmic secrets.
Only, there was one thing that Lord Melach, in his divine wisdom, did not anticipate in the first months of his godhood. Amongst the fervent theological debates he let rage for the sake of mystery, the schisms between the sanctioned churches and the heresies that spilled out the cracks, the zealot processions around the Isles, the endless waves of prayers that came to his mind, the one thing which really got him were the pilgrims. Oh, he expected and welcomed worship from far and wide, but he was a living god, immanent, here and now, in the world, able to provide in a way none of the gods ever had before. He could appear in visions however he wished, and often did, making holy sites across his glorious imperial theocracy, so then for what purpose did people flock to his palace from leagues away—from continents he didn’t even rule!—day and night, in endless waves? Even he was at a loss to hazard a guess, and he made sure never to do so, especially when not even he could differentiate between the earnest faithful, and the chancers who wandered in looking to take advantage of his hospitality.
Aye, there were a few limits to his divinity, his insight into the cosmos did not reach far enough to understand the vagaries of the human being. That was the problem—he couldn’t turn anyone away, he couldn’t just appear and start picking and choosing and making decrees, because then people would start asking questions, and he might begin to start doubting himself. That was a vicious cycle. And so his palace, its gardens, the crypts, all of it was now a temple, his great temple, open all day, every day, the halls and chambers of leisure and delight now filled with pilgrims making hundreds of little altars, leaving thousands of offerings, every single moment of it all singing, shouting, chanting, getting into fights and orgies and celebrations—and of course, taking “relics” and “mementos” for their shrines and taverns at home. His vast awareness touched upon all points of the palace—temple, whatever—and things really did keep going missing, just about every minute of every day. Gifts, tributes, honours, masterworks of art, sincere little tokens, hard-won trophies, he named it, it vanished. Oh it didn’t matter. Not really. But it did, to him. Maybe his governors would get wise to the offerings-relics economy #popping up around the temple. He hoped so, as he doubted the notion of a divinely mandated tax on religious expression would go down very well.
Aye, he was beginning to understand why the gods had always been keen to stay at arm’s length. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the logistical nightmare of even three living gods like himself.
Undead Storm
When they found her in a chair by the big kitchen stove, they could tell it had happened. None could put words to it—poets had tried for millennia and by all accounts failed. But they could, just like the poems said, tell it was so. The illness had taken her some time in the night, it seemed. When exactly, they’d never know, and neither would she. She was still bundled up in her rug, wrappings about her feet, and offered only a weak smile in response to barely whispered questions. None of them could really muster the strength to talk. So instead, the four sank to the floor and held each other close, hoping without words that their warmth might stave off the inevitable, even if for a short while.
A chill had descended on the house that morning, with a curious thickness to it like being submerged in a pool of thin water, the kind of cold only deepest winter conjures. What’s more was the farmer from up the highway, passing along the path outside, said it was being driven on high winds—look at those clouds, like smears they were. And that meant, he said, head shaking and clacking his crozier along his way, there must be a storm off behind the mountains.
Inside the house, though, the stove was lit, the hearth flaring, and all the foodstuffs had been taken out. The coming of death wasn’t quite a celebration as much as it was trying to fit in small festivities they knew they were going to lose. The first thing that went was appetite, but she still ate all the same, day after day. Indeed, each passing sunrise felt like a blessing, but it was being spreading thinner and thinner, propped up by their faith alone—one single shred of doubt, and it’d shatter. So they did their best not to think, just to enjoy old stories and keep nights when the bits of farmwork were done. Until one morning just before sunrise, while checking a fungal furrow for signs of frosting over, her brother found her in a hallway. She was still wearing the rug over her, but way she stood, unmoving, watching...once the shock had passed, it was comforting in a strange way. No time left to worry. But he did wonder if she was going now because of their selfishness, or if the coming storm had a say in it. Later that day he went and sought an usher, though he said he was just going into the village for some nails.
The family talked that night while she slept. The younger ones asked questions, as they had when a family friend had died. She wouldn’t be herself for much longer, she had to go to the mountains now, where she could be with others like her. Oh yes, everyone becomes like them sooner or later. It’s not bad, no, it’s just...different. Yes, she’ll get to keep her rug. Everyone gets to keep something, it’s tradition. Elders with some keepsake of old, children with a favoured toy, pets with their choice blankets or bones, all so that they may enjoy, in some way, a bit of their old life when they might stir from the long sleep. What about cousin Edowyn, the soldier? They never had the heart to say what the ushers had told the family, how not all of him had been recovered, that a little more incense, at no extra charge, was burned to keep him soothed.
The next morning, they could barely tell dawn had risen, so dark did the sky remain. Indeed, it may have been either a sun or a moon so pallid was the light from behind the low, heavy clouds. The usher arrived early—exceptionally early, and in tow with another of their order. They were known to be a kind lot, and in truth they did not address the family with curt or terse words, but the way they rushed through the necessary words of the ritual farewell told everyone there something was wrong. As they began to guide her outside, her eyes cast down, her rug pulled tight, her brother took one of the ushers aside, and asked what was the matter. Had the family taken too long? No, it wasn’t that, in fact some families wait much longer. It was...he knew about the storms, did he not? To stay inside when they came? He did, of course. Well, one of them was coming over the mountains and...it must be understood many of the catacombs out in the world are old and in poor repair, and some sundered by the ages. Storms of certain potencies have a tendency to disturb the dead. And storms of especial strength, such as what comes now...the catacombs in the mountain valley are particularly old. The ones asleep down there are ones for whom all vestiges of humanity have been long discarded, and are loathe to be invigorated out of their numb dissipation, thrust back into sensation.
Her brother stood, looking aside for some few seconds, before asking if there was any danger, his furrowed gaze firmly on his dead sister who was at that moment being surrounded with a clinging cloud of purple-tinged mist just outside. Danger, no, not with us two, the usher said, and turned to leave. Well-practiced words, he thought, not delivered very well. As was customary, the family sat within the house, door bolted, in silence, til the scent of the usher’s somnolent perfume faded with the rushing winds and patter of rain. Soon there would come other sounds, and her brother had to remind himself that it wasn’t her, no matter what spoke at the door, and no matter what looked in the window panes.
Dust of the Temple
Eikh was a man ever in want of religion. A cold home life planted the seed, an adolescence spent seeking role models amidst both gangs and wardens in a cycle of disillusionment watered that seed in profusion, and then throwing himself into every congregation he could manage to keep off the streets made it bloom. It took him some years to come to the realization that none of it mattered save what dwelt at the very top. But he left the gold-plated temples, incense-choked shrines, bacchanal groves, and stoic meeting halls, each and every one—and he wasn’t the problem, the gods were the problem. None of their rites or dogmas scratched the itch, fit the mould, stirred the heart, nothing aligned with the vision he couldn’t even put words to. The gods were either too distant, or too close, but even then they kept themselves just outside of reach, or they did appear, just every hundred years and he was too late or too early, or they were everywhere and everything was a miracle and blessing and all that nonsense. What was the point, he felt, of a god who wouldn’t listen or couldn’t listen, to whom anything could be ascribed, what was the point of answers in dreams and visions and vague feelings? And he certainly wasn’t convinced by the sleight of hand conjuring tricks of the less savoury alternatives that beckoned from the shadows.
And then the old woman sold him a vial of dust in the spring bazaar. The memory stood out as clear as midday. The cool air was in the shadows between the high walls of rugged stone, through which thin breezes ran and brought the scent of warm spices and wines with them. Guardsmen in loose tawny coifs and lamellar vests reclined against walls watching the world go by, ears pricking up and calming down at the odd shout that turned to laughter. No stall was without its browsers, some of whom chatted idly, some of whom inspected specific pieces, each one in caps, gowns, and cloaks of sea-greens, rich oranges, dusky yellows, vibrant purples, and deep crimsons—so emblematic of the vigorous culture of the nation. Arranged in shapeless, twisting rows, Eikh stood bent over a small covered stall at the end a short corridor made from the backs of other stalls. He held it in his palm. It was a short, five-sided cylinder of slightly murky glass with a tapering base, and a red wax-sealed cork stopper, greatly chipped and smoothed and evidently re-sealed dozens of times over. Filling it just over halfway were granules of dust, probably stone, for some were slightly larger than the rest. He stood there, peering down, listening to the old woman’s whispered, fantastical tale, every new word of which appealed to the want in his soul. Or, at the very least, just enough to make him drop a long-earned pouch of thin silver plates and depart to a corner of the cacophonous outer palace sprawl, under the shadow of a wall of sand-smoothed carvings of old demigods, to inspect his prize...
Eikh stood now amidst a desolation he scarce thought possible. He did not believe this place could ever have been alive, as if a land itself could be stillborn. Ruins barely perceptible as having once been monuments, or at least shaped in some way, protruded first from the grey mire of dead trees, and then from the pale, sodden sands, and then from the vastlands of dust whose air stung his throat, not wishing to be breathed, for in it was no life. Anything else but him that moved here had come to this place lost, he felt, or merely sojourned for their own secret purposes.
Between his thinned fingers he held the vial which hung from his neck. Its temple had, he guessed, been smashed to dust long ago and scattered to the winds. All of it, save this vial, secreted away by some sneak or traitor, passed down surreptitiously amongst the dark faithful, until the last of their number died and the dust was lost, or, it was equally possible, the demon had lost interest in their slavish devotions, and sought someone new. He choked out the words “a year”. But nothing happened. Before him, two heaps of tattered shapeless grey from which stained blades emerged continued to stagger forth. He almost heard it laugh somewhere behind him. Derisive. Patronizing. What did it know? What did it want? I’ve given you wine, Eikh thought, jewels, blood, bodies, hours upon hours, at every turn...he clenched his fist, his hand shaking, knowing full well this wasn’t a journey he shouldn’t expect to return from, or even want to return from.
“A decade.”
It was as if a thousand leeches had affixed themselves to his flesh all over and rasped him dry of his blood. He saw his fingers thinning again, the bones protrude and curl. His eyes flickered, his mouth turned dry, and he crumpled to his knees. He couldn’t stand up. He felt out of breath. He didn’t even have to ask the question as the voice said to him “there is no fated span to proffer, just the expectancy of one’s life, and what meagre well now laps before me!” It was said, he could tell, with a grin. But all the same, the masses of rags and tatters suddenly stopped as if struck, slowly sunk to their knees, and fell as lifeless as the earth around them. The demon’s miracles justified his faith again and again, and he wished for nothing more than the numbing comfort of mystery.
He dragged himself along upon his bloodied knees until his legs ached, and then as far after that as he could make it. Ever had the promise of the moment’s salvation been there: his flight from the city, his battle in the wilds, his ascent among the sheikhs and burgomans of the west, always by his side for every libation, for every swing of the blade, for every dire sacrifice, until the stench of blood finally broke through his reverie, and he fled in the dark hours for what the knowledge, that he had bought for a grim price, had revealed to him in the old scholar’s archives. And that promise was still there, the hand outstretched, palm open, anything he wanted upon it, if he could meet the bargain. But whatever scrap of his soul remained belonged to anything that would listen—anything but the demon.
Scattered to the winds...maybe those bits, however minute, existed out there, burrowed into the soil, or danced still through the upper air. Eikh shuddered, knowing there was a chance it meant he would never be free. It could be out there, always, listening, speaking, thin though its presence might be. In the past he’d scorned whatever impressions the enigmatic gods had thrown his way, but now, he’d do anything for even a whisper. Every land must have its gods, he thought. Even dead lands. Even lands that never truly lived. But, he supposed, what more could he expect from them than he could from those he had forsaken in the living world?
Eikh lay curled against the wall of a chamber, unable to decide if it had been half eroded from dry, raking winds, or engraved by the hands of some nameless and forgotten race. It was all of low arches in a curious configuration, or confusion. Before him, on a rippling stone floor strewn with particles of dust and thin shards of stone, lay the vial. No, he hadn’t expected to come back. Hoped, somewhere in the back of his head, but never believed. But neither had he expected to find a dead end at the other side of it all. As far as he could see, and that wasn’t going to be much very soon, he had two choices. Both ended in damnation. As his eyes began to waver, the lids growing heavy with his shallow breaths and trembling limbs, he wondered, if he offered whatever was left of himself, or promised something, what he would do if he returned home. Home, to the sun and the spiced wind, the hot sand, the cool shadows, the gilded temples and verdant bacchanal groves. One last moment to cling to before whatever happened after, happened. Or...he remained, and ceased to exist in the world of mankind. It seemed the more noble choice. A sacrifice, not for the demon, and not for him, but, he could perhaps hope, for the world.
He closed his eyes, and let himself drift, knowing the hand of his god was before him, whatever he wanted on its palm. He felt it, but did not see it, and as sense began to dull with the ebb of life, he believed the hand withdrew, and the last flash of cogitation that passed through him hoped he had not just given a new god to this land.