Behold! Beware! Behave! The ninety-third edition of Shadows & Sorcery comes screaming into your life!
This week, there are three tales, rather much on the chunkier side, featuring these delicious things: weird cults and weirder magic (I frankly would be worried if an edition went by that didn’t feature either), some sweet sweet action, and good heavens, even some mystery.
I do implore you, though, if you haven’t done so yet, check out last week’s edition. I’m just really happy with that one honestly, it was ridiculous. If you have read it, though, good on you, no night-black sorceries will visit you in the dark hours, and that I can guarantee.
One small note before I let you dig into whatever it is I’ve put down there:
Are you a sci-fi fan, fearless reader? If so, you should really check out Mark Abukoff’s STAR EMPIRES mini tales written, no less, by an OG Trekkie, along with poetry and his own musings. He knows what he’s doing, folks. He’s only starting out, too, so give him some views and reads!
Now, ONWARDS. But of course, if you enjoyed these tales, please tell the stories you liked them and tap that little heart icon!
This week, we venture into the mysterious eye of the Ruins Storm, we learn the curious history of the Echo of the Saints, and lastly we descend under the grim sands into the Tomb of Frost…
Ruins Storm
For leagues around, the sky was laden with dun, dusty clouds that gave the broad sweep of the plains an ashen aspect. It was broken only by intermittent flashes of brilliant aureate thunderbolts arcing every which way through the clouds. Far away, eyes would be watching the ruin storm with great anticipation, daring only to approach the sundered earth for runes after it abated. A fresh supply of dwimmerstone from the heavens cometh. But it was to those with the courage or the madness to plumb the depths of the eye that went the lion's share.
Hyr Ka was of the leonid type, with a great grey mane that grew right around to form an impressive beard, and long, mighty limbs. Not dextrous, but strong. He stalked forward, preserving himself for the bursts of violent power for which his strain was known. He kept, too, a careful eye on his charge, Symena. She was of that slender, hairless ape type called human, the decadent city dwellers. Her companion though, he had some of that great ape to his aspect. Hyr Ka could see the brutish muscle ripple even under the thick silver hair which ran down from his head, where it was secured with a leather band, past his shoulders and to his lower back. And odd bunch to be sure, but stranger parties than them had marched together in the past, and besides, Hyr Ka had promised his shrine a boon of stone as recompense.
The wind whipped in gusts every which way, threatening to launch them off their feet with every gallop. The dust in the air--particles of precious dwimmerstone--stung their skin, but this discomfort was a small price to pay. Far above, the temple made itself momentarily known through the swirling clouds. Hyr Ka thought of it as a temple, as did the ape-man whose name had not been revealed to him, a peculiarity of that race. They had struck up a common ground both being faithful of the dwimmerfolk gods, but it made things a little tense with the girl sometimes, who persisted in her view of the dwimmerfolk ancients. This expedition would be tantamount to blasphemy in some eyes back home.
Larger bodies of stone began to pass them as they advanced towards the eye of the storm. Against this, Symena held out a small but handsome volume. Almost looked like a faithful text, but he knew its luxuriant decoration was vanity rather than to extol the grandeur of the gods. From its pages she spoke in the sacral tongue--the dwimmerlaik Hyr Ka called it--and around them there formed an opaque golden shell, and just in time, too, as a chunk of stone from the dun sky crashed into it, splintering into pieces. Lesser folk than them would have stopped there and then to gather it and flee.
But it seemed they were not alone in knowing better.
The eye had been gained, and the earth was littered with dull brown stone, lifeless and bereft of power. In the midst of a great pile of fallen rock, bearing holy ornamentation and mostly intact, were two other figures. One of them rose to its full height. Hyr Ka saw it immediately, a lanky, hunched wulven fighter in thin segmented armour, the kind fitted around the body as a carapace, as per the practices of macabre, battle-lusting wolves. The fellow had a fine mane which billowed backwards in the wind, giving his long-snouted head a grander proportion than it probably had. He gave a low resonant howl, as much a signal as it was a means of intimidation. From behind him, another lanky shape came forth, this time bearing a feline aspect like the leonid, but slender, hairless, grey, with immense staring eyes, large standing ears, and a small mouth of needle teeth. Hyr Ka had an especial distaste for the freakish rites of the jungle-dwelling grimalkin.
From his side, the wulven slowly drew forth a longsword with an exceptionally lengthy grip. Hyr Ka didn't hesitate, he strode past his charge and her companion--which is all he seemed to be, though he looked fairly capable of doing some damage himself--and drew out his own broad blade. As he did so, he uttered sacral words, and the runes scratched upon the sword by a sympathetic monk back in the shrine flared to life. There was a flash of white and suddenly Hyr Ka's sword seemed engulfed in a writhing heat-shimmer. The wulven didn't flinch, but he did look unsure. The leonid only had a few chances to scare them off or end this quickly, the dwimmerscript chalk that had been scrawled onto the blade would soon disintegrate and he'd lose his advantage.
The wulven gripped his longsword in a curious fashion and lunged forward for a mighty sweep, but Hyr Ka crouched low and took the thin blade's strike on the flat of his own weapon. The resounding clash caused it to flare, his opponent reeling back. This was all he needed. With superior strength he bounded forward, every arc of the blade sparking through the air, igniting the sword in vicious flashes of flame. Several crashed against the thin longsword of the wulven, leaving it with a dangerous red glow, and one finally raked across the carapace-plate of the wolf-man, send out a screech of sparks and a dreadful growl of pain.
Hyr Ka was already rushing in when the grimalkin gave a high pitched hiss. She reached up and crushed something in her hand as she spoke dwimmer words, and a gold thunderbolt streaked across the air from her first and into the scale armour of the leonid. A wannabe sorcerer using dwimmerscraps to fight, it seemed. Hyr Ka rose up with a grunt as the grimalkin skittered further away, but past him thundered the ape-man, an aura of yellow coursing over him. His companion had blessed him. He gave chase to the felid while Hyr Ka drove his sword pommel into the wulven's head, knocking him out cold.
Suddenly, out of the dust the ape-man came crashing, his aura gone. There came a hissed word--followed by a boom and cloud of dust. Then another, and another, followed then by a guttural laugh. The grimalkin came forth, hand of thin talons outstretched, holding nothing less than a complete chunk of dwimmerstone. Such a specimen was exceedingly rare these days, and was the prize they had come to secure. Scraps are gone in a flash, and even Symena's grimoire would soon become nothing less than an inert pile of faded script. But true stones never failed. They were relics of the gods...or the ancients, against which the works of the mortal world paled.
Once more Symena raised the shield as pillars of stone were thrust from the earth by the grimalkin's power. Such a magic was how humans raised their cities, and was highly coveted. The stone shattered the incomplete shield, and Symena was forced to run to Hyr Ka. Her grimoire was defensive in nature, hence the hulking leonid. So no flaming blade for him. Her companion seemed to be recovering, but they needed to be swift against the might of dwimmerstone. A beam of gold flooded then over the leonid and ape-man, vivifying their flesh for the assault. Dwimmercraft rippled through them with every spoken syllable from Symena. In response, the grimalkin sent forth a line of pillars which the two deftly dodged, but the moment they left the invigorating light, that strength left them.
But it was enough, just enough to close in.
Dwimmerscraps were crushed in haste and bolts thrown forth, missing heads by hair's breadths. The ape-man grabbed the felid's face in one gnarled hand and tackled her to the dust. Hyr Ka left his blade's tip touching the grimalkin throat. He roared for her to go, but knew in his heart the treacherous nature of these shameful kin of his kind. He was proven true when the ape-man was suddenly thrust into the air by a summoned pillar. Hyr Ka relieved the shadow-lurker of her head.
So then, the shrine would have its boon, and in the eerie calm of the ruins storm's eye, the scholar would have plenty of time to search and record the wisdom and power of her ancients, while the leonid and ape-man gazed into the heavens and upon their gods.
Echo of the Saints
In the north quarter, it sits under an old bridge.
In the southwest six districts, it sits at an intersection of traditional borders, having sparked rivalry and even minor unrest through the ages.
The eastern span is entirely built around it, its buildings, if seen as the bird sees it, expanding out like a ripple in a pond.
You can see the foundations of old structures in some places, upon which new walls have been erected, speaking to a fervent rebuilding in the past. There isn't an arch around these places that does not have hanging from it countless small chains, lengths of rope, and thick twine from which depend objects of reverence--remnants of a religion older than the strange faith which entirely subsumed them.
The city was already old before the sorcerers came. It had crawled its way from the dust to rise high into the arid air by way of the hands of humankind, to beckon sweet rain from the cool heavens and shelter from the harsh sun. Its one people had in the past been three, and this new culture was born of terrible birth pains. But now a thousand small gods dwelt as equals alongside those who had once called their names in battle, now only in reverence.
To whom the sorcerers had belonged, none could guess, but that they were an ancient race was clear--they bore none of the features of the ascendant cityfolk. Their rough aspect marked them as wilderness-dwellers, members of dying nomadic tribes, followers of an invisible source of power that moved just behind the sensuous world, and it was coming to rest upon the city. Thus would they converge upon it, too.
These odd figures, clad in heaps of shapeless, bejewelled saffron robes, from which gloved and gauntleted hands emerged and crimson eyes peered, and from which heavy accents croaked curious syllables, they moved about the city, apart from it, as if the people and their mouldering walls were a mild hindrance. Into curious nooks and crannies did they secret themselves, going wherever the power that coursed behind the fragile veil of the world brought them. Of that handful of sorcerers who had come into the city from afar, only three finally fulfilled a half-remembered prophecy as old as their race, and there did they draw from beyond the seven spells, no longer glimpses in badlands shrines and around arid valley campfires, but the powers in their absolute fullness...
Overnight did life in the city change. The strangers who had come among them had left behind something that had, until that sunrise, lived merely in imagination and myth. A gap had been bridged they never knew really existed, and the land and air itself felt the impact. The strangers had not survived. Or perhaps they had served their purpose. The cityfolk looked upon the blessed who had awoken to new life, and moved about these new holy spaces. Three curious spots, under an old bridge, in the middle of a street, and in an alley behind a lodging house, teemed with movement and the cries of adoration.
These were miracles. The strangers were saints. Had the old spirits or their ancestors come and walked among them? Or had these odd folk been something else? Had they been ancestors themselves, calling out the spirits from their hidden realm? Belief spread like wildfire through every dusty street and venerable court and tottering house, and the old priests and ministers beheld these new wonders, and themselves wondered.
Quickly did it become known that these spaces weren't passive. Reports came forward from furtive figures who claimed they had seen things and heard things in the night before it happened. The priests listened, though, and despite their initial guarded skepticism, much of what was said was true. And so, protected with a fierce jealously by a new class of priests who had witnessed divinity, new prayers and rites came to be that once were the motions of magicians overheard in the depths of the night.
The miracles had stained the world around them, and the mantras spoken in their midst could stir them, drawing forth renewed blessings time and time again as the old spirits of the city found themselves gradually more and more forgotten, their distant, subtle benedictions falling from favour in the face of the saints' miracles. Those strangers had been saints, the holiest of holy folk, emissaries of a new divinity--this the city was sure of. Man now had in its hands the divine power once doled out through sacrifice and motions of stars. A new age dawned brilliant in the eyes of the city.
But down the ages, as the new faith became one with the people, the miracles seemed to fade. Slightly they lessened at first, through eras of grim conflict over supposed heresies and blasphemies. Sages tried their hands at their study, but nothing was gleaned, and what remnants of the old wandering tribesmen the saints had come from were long dust.
The echoes returned each time lesser and lesser, harder to draw out and resound, so that bombastic rites became a necessity to dredge forth the old blessings, and then only for a chosen few, while the rest muttered of the miracles in the days of their ancestors. Some deign to speak of places in the city well hidden through the ages which thrum still with divine energy, kept safe from meddling hands. But this may just be desperate faith, or spite, and would never be spoken in front of a priest, descendants of the first witnesses.
Tomb of Frost
The desert has no roads. No trails. The sand is restless, the winds ever-shifting, almost as if the desert seeks to erase all methods to conquer or tame it. The wastefolk know their landmarks well, yes, but the paths between them are not constant. As such, the ways walked there are many, and things are discovered, lost, and re-discovered from time to time in the dune-strewn vastlands.
It gave the pale-robed riders pause as they crested the hill. That it was stone and not something else they were mostly certain. The stone that rose from the dusky sands wasn't much different in hue from the landscape, so that it had appeared that the sand had pulled itself up into odd, jagged forms to spy from down in the shade. They didn't put it past the desert to do so. For generations beyond count had their race dwelt here and still were they apart from it, trespassers in an immemorial world that welcomed no life.
The sands to them held deep and strange symbolism. The sands were death, and to go beneath the sands was to pass into death. It was a state, and a place. But the sands were also time, particles gathering slowly, inexorably, over everything, and wearing everything else down by a war of attrition. The sands held within everything that came before, whole or not. But so too did the sands shift, and did old things resurface. Just because something was lost did not meant it was dead. And just because something was dead did not mean it was lost.
So what passed through their heads kept their sabers at the ready as they dismounted their beasts and slid slowly down the rough granules. It seemed to be tall shards of old walls, sticking out from the sands as parts of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. And they were solid, no doubting that, quite solid despite their erosion and ruination. These were the dangers of the illusory nature of the desert. Nothing was ever still, yet it was all dead. The desert could, at best, throw up mirages in imitation of life. Nothing was soild in the wastes. Just how deep that nature ran was the debate of scholars who mused that death itself was the ultimate illusion. It just took coming to a lifeless land to know that.
With their sabers, they examined the dust-strewn stone ground which had a slight inward curve to it--a hollow beneath, perhaps? What they could tell was it was old. Slab-like in some parts, composed of any sections in others. Not a single surface was without some ornamentation, either, all of it crude but intricate, not just weather-worn. Like long mazes hewn into the rock. That sagging center of it all seemed promising--of what, they weren't sure. But there was an obligation to investigate, for danger, or for potential use as a new landmark.
It was choked with sand. They dug lightly with their hands to see what might transpire, and to their surprise, a section of it gave way and fell inwards, revealing what seemed to them to be nothing less than an aperture in the earth. They shot glances to each other. It was worth a look, and would at least get them out of the sun for a bit.
The second they slipped down, the air took on an immediate change. In the desert, there's always an errant breeze, a dust devil, a stray particle of sand--it was treacherous in its mutability. But down there, immediately just under the surface, the air was still. So still, they felt, that it was almost solid. That it gave resistance. It didn't really, but never before had they felt such absolute inertia. Even the scattering of dust upon the ground lay unmoving.
Carvings like those outside were upon the walls in the same profusion. Every length was touched by long, wavering mazes. Perhaps, one mused, they weren't carvings. No recurring faces, symbols, figures, just wavering, jagged lines that wound in extreme intricacy. They did, however, all ultimately run horizontally. Maybe they led somewhere, another wondered. After grabbing a torch from a pack above, they followed what seemed to be the way further in, the opposite direction ending in what may have been a collapsed entrance to the surface.
It was just as they considered turning back that they came upon it. The uneven tunnel with its odd striations suddenly opened into a vaulted chamber. It would seem they had been descending slowly, for far above were dozens of faint cracks permitting the entrance of thin slices of sunlight. The ground here sunk even further, and in the curious twilight, they saw what it led to.
They did not have the words to describe it.
In the middle of the great chamber there lay an expanse of what they could only call pure white sand. Gleaming, even, as with watery gems. But it crunched under their feet like shards of rock. They stepped lightly and carefully over into the center. What struck them first, above all else, was how cold it was. Like the middle of a deep desert night in the dark season, but it lay heavy in the air. The frigid atmosphere attacked their flesh and they bundled their robes about them to combat it. But what lay just further in almost made them forget the biting cold.
It looked for all the world like a gemstone, or perhaps a colossal crystal. A great lump of it, unfashioned, raw, but all the same, wondrously clear. One of them reached out to touch it and found it sticking to his fingers--he pulled away, the pain of its intense and absolute lack of warmth shocking him. It was when he went to check the tip of his fingers did he notice they were damp with water. Of all the gems and spices and landmarks and countless treasures that well up from the primeval depths, there was nothing more precious in the desert than water. Alarms rang in his head and he crept forward with his fellows to check the gem once more.
A jewel of immense size indeed, and one that wept water, for they saw thin rivulets of precious moisture run down the side of the thing as they examined it with their bare hands. The water was like the dew on the leaves in an oasis morning, cool and clear. Upon close inspection the crystal was brilliant in its apparent purity, but it bore a faint and attractive cerulean tint. Like all gems, its interior distorted what was seen through it, but still they found it curious that they could see a humanoid form even when one of their number was not standing behind it.
Something was there to distort, but what? What did it mean? Was it a mirage? The crystal was certainly real, no mirage ever held up under any scrutiny, by their very nature they were fleeting and weak. The water was real, and refreshed them as they collected it into their skins and drank it. As a rule, the desert people did not hold to gods or spirits, but they did hold to the guiding hands of their ancestors who went to the winds, and who may yet live in different ways, if death be an illusion. Had they thrown this up from the deep for their kin? Brushed away the sand at an opportune moment? Or had some more secret, more abstract victory against the lifeless land been gained?
They made their minds up rather quickly: elders must be sent for, no matter what this meant. There was water and coolness. A new landmark? A new settlement? A weapon against the sands? Their hearts raced with wonder as the feet of their beasts raced back to the camp. Only one of them remained behind, and when they returned, he was not there. And neither was the figure they knew they had spied within the crystal.
Damned... These are all solid first chapters in some great book.
These are the kinds of stories that I'd buy.