A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…
Mary showed her teeth. “Sensible. Now. Jack. How’d you know she had a knife and it would be poisoned?” By way of an answer he turned wrist he was holding over, so that anyone who might be looking could see the runes that glowed against the white skin. “Oh. One of them is she?” “Yeah. Except she ain’t no ‘she’.” A bewildered voice spoke from the background. “What is them two on about?” A heavily moustachioed Viking answered, in the deep guttural tones that characterised his race. “The blonde is a paid assassin. A Jinje. And probably a shape shifter.” At the word Jinje, most of the room stepped back from Jack and his captive. “If’n her is a Jinje shapeshifter, why don’t her change?” Another voice spoke from the doorway. It was as cold as the coldest winter’s night and as unfeeling as one of the monkeys that scampered through the palm trees chittering and swearing. “As long as the pirate holds its wrist, the creature cannot change. His dwarfish ancestry means he is anathema to magics.” The figure that moved into the room was dressed from head to foot in a black so dark it seemed to steal the light from around him, but his hair was gleaming silver and his skin was white as milk. Jack smiled, but his voice when he spoke wasn’t a bit trusting. “What would a Master Vampire want with a renegade Jinje?” “Why do you say renegade, dwarf?” “Half dwarf. And of course it’s a renegade, it has no familiar.” The vampire showed his teeth. “Neither it does. But I cannot help wondering how the child of an earth crawler knows it should have a soulmate.” He walked forwards with the ineffable grace that was part of his glamour and leaned over the Jinje to within an inch or so of Jack’s unprotected neck. “I have often wondered what dwarf blood tastes like.” The vampire made a peculiar retching sound as Mary’s hand closed about his neck. “Think again, leech.” “Put him down, Mary. Tempting though it is to let you wring his overly clever neck, I think we’d be better served by giving him the assassin.” She released her hand and the vampire massaged his throat. He turned his burning cold gaze on the red-haired giantess. She laughed and crossed her own eyes. “You can’t whammy me, bloodsucker. Give it up before I get irritated.” The vampire was beginning to understand that these people couldn’t be intimidated or beglamoured, so he fell back on courtesy. He spread his hands and bowed gracefully. “My apologies.” He turned to Jack. “My Maker would deal with the creature in your hands should you so permit.” “Why does your maker want it?” “Because it killed a child who was under our protection. By stealth and by poison.” Jack studied the cool perfection of the vampire’s face. “Very well. But play me false and I will hunt you down.” The vampire blinked slowly. “That is understood.” Jack nodded. “Take it, then.” The vampire placed its icy hands around the throat of the Jinje and Jack loosened his hold on its wrist. Came a bang and a scream and both vampire and would-be assassin disappeared leaving behind a small, probably poisoned, knife and faint smell of sulphur. Mary stared belligerently around the room. “What are you lot staring at?” Almost everybody thought of something they would rather be doing, and even those souls who were hardy enough not to run away couldn’t find it in themselves to actually brave that basilisk glare. She snorted her disgust before banging her fists on the table and shouting for hot stew to replace that which had gone cold and a fresh bottle of wine.
It is a wonderful story Set so long ago A story of a new born babe Who’s birth was meant The world to save And show us love Though all our days Until the end
But like a fairytale legend It is not hard to see The hope that lay behind the tale That like the star That glowed so bright To summon magi Through the night Its message spent
And those who yet embrace it Their faith we must salute For midst the pain and the turmoil That rends our world And brings us grief To yet maintain Such a belief Is beautiful.
It always began with an explosion. Any explosion – any one of the hundred or more he had survived. The explosion would lock him in, trap him, make him a prisoner of his sleeping mind. In the real world, he was safe in bed with a woman curled close beside him. Vel’s cousin, Lea, her body warm and sated. But it was not enough. The moment sleep claimed him the explosion would still come, shredding his sanity. Then the nightmare would run on, making him relive each episode, as vivid as life. Every thought, sensation, feeling, image, as clear as it had been at the time, pursuing him remorselessly until he could – somehow – scramble back to consciousness from the relentless abuse of sleep….
An explosion crumpling the building to his right as if it were paper. Three more blasts in quick succession, the last close enough to spew out a lethal hail of masonry. The kinetic shielding on his armaments belt protected him so the rubble bounced away, but the screaming beside him was cut off abruptly. What had been two human beings a moment before, was now a pulped mess. A shattering silence followed. He could see troops advancing – eight – and five more still in cover behind them according to the Lattice screen. With three bursts he dropped two of the nearest, the rest scattered for cover. “Leader Four-Delta from Prime. Withdraw immediately.” The voice in his ears at last. “Acknowledged.” Relaying the order to his three surviving team members, Jaz put down covering fire as they retreated. The Lattice was pounding him with information through his scalp implanted data-port, faster than he could absorb it: numbers and location of the enemy, their armaments, expected movements, ground plans, suggested paths he could take. More.
Then: “Leader Four-Delta from Prime. Lattice is showing you are surrounded. We are unable to support. Repeat. Unable to support.” A pause, before the voice added: “You’re on your own out there, Jaz.” Bastards. “Acknowledged.” Snarling the word, he focused on keeping up covering fire. He knew they were surrounded. He could see what was going on. The handful of Special Legion troops he had been given for this job were being sacrificed – a feint – so the rest of his unit could hit the main enemy base largely unopposed. Except of course no one had told him that. It crossed his mind to wonder who he had pissed off enough so they chose him for this suicide run. If – when – he got out of this he would find out and make them pay. Then the thought occurred that it was probably nothing personal at all. When you were living out a death sentence, you shouldn’t be too surprised to be treated as completely expendable. A sudden blossom of light caught one of the three whose retreat Jaz was covering. It impacted in the centre of the spine and the figure’s arms went wide, briefly embracing air that was suddenly red with a haze of vaporised blood, flesh and entrails. Jaz swore and pulled a grenade loose from his belt, sending it in a skilful parabola back towards the enemy to cover his own retreat. Another of his surviving team went down to a sniper shot, but the third was trying to offer what covering fire she could from behind a partially demolished building and was being pretty effective. He ran, rolled, then vaulted the lowest part of the wall, crouching beside her, checking Lattice screens, looking for any way out for them. More blasts exploded on either side and the world disintegrated. Finding himself suddenly under a pile of tumbling masonry, Jaz shook free of it like a wet dog shedding water. But beside him one arm was all that was visible from beneath the rubble – that and the blood.
He started running again. Watching the environment. Watching the screens. Checking the Lattice data overlays. A movement on the screen broke the profile of the low rise building beside him, some kind of accommodation block. Appearing on screen: ground-plans, elevations, positions of people, their predicted paths. The data projected into his visual field, augmenting his reality. He turned, raking fire across the facade. A figure fell and a fusillade of energy fire came his way from the building. Lattice visual was showing him six men in there. Lattice data telling him they were armed with anti-mech heavy weaponry, which he knew they would now be turning on him. The energy threshold of his kinetic shield would be zero defence against that kind of power. Lattice data flashed up a helpful message warning him of the over-ride risk. Better late than never. He cancelled it and pumped more of the adrenalin based cocktail of drugs through the intravenous clip fixed into his torso. Speed was his only defence now and not much of one.
He ran. Using cover. Changing course. His whole focus on making that speed. The buildings ended in a high wall and as he made the final sprint towards it, he tried to decide between tracking along it for a break or scaling it and risking exposure. Checking Lattice screens for the information he needed to inform the decision. A close burn sent him diving into the last available cover before the wall but – The screens all went dark and a mild voice was speaking calmly in his ear: “You are not logged on to the Lattice. Please be aware when the countdown hits zero your brain implants will self-destruct – you are not -” Fuck the bastards. He cancelled the voice and ignored the timer as its chilling digits counted down his heartbeats on the edge of his visual field. There was nothing he could do. The coms drone has been pulled out leaving him to die. For a moment he felt the futility of fighting. They had abandoned him, he was not going to get out this time.
Then he heard it. Distant sounds of a fire-fight. Jaz felt an almost dizzying rush of relief – these were the sounds of death that offered him some small hope of life. A moment later he was up and running. Freeing the climbing line on the belt, he fired the grapnel, barely waiting for it to impact before swarming up the high wall. He felt incredibly vulnerable – naked to the guns behind. Then he was flattening himself, sliding over the top, dropping down and sprinting. The trace of light caught in his peripheral vision, making him break into an evasive diving roll. He saw, not felt, the next splash of energy. The shock of it impacted afterwards, horrific and crippling, tearing out his strength and will. He hit the ground and stayed down, unable to rise, unable to think, his consciousness hollowed out by the pain. Time fragmented. Awareness shrank. The smell of the dark ground beneath his face, tasting musty and sweet – an alien soil. The beat of his heart timing the steady flick of numbers that counted down to the moment oblivion would devour him. Then – Something moving, lifting him, an arm under his shoulder. A voice – his brother’s voice – Avilon Revid. “Let’s get you out of here.”
….. waking was always sudden and never easy. Like ripping away flesh. Then came the disorientation as the two worlds of the past and present battled for supremacy. Which was real? His mind was still caught in the snare of memory, vividly relived. He could feel the cold sweat on his body and the hammering of his heart. A face, vague in the darkness, Avilon’s? Then another voice, familiar and feminine, full of concern and compassion: “You got it bad tonight?” The face shifted, the features softening into Lea’s. She was there for him as she had been the last time and the time before that. And he knew then, with a sudden certainty, she would be there for him every night he needed her. He reached out and her arms slipped around him drawing him close, holding him as he sobbed in relief, like a frightened child.
We saw a dog otter this morning In the quiet of the mist His blunt nose rose from the water Droplets kissed He saw us too, then down he dived With breakfast on his mind As we watched in silent joy A voice spoke from behind Was that just an otter? How rare a sight to get I’ve a stream in my garden How I’d love an otter pet Maybe I will catch one And take him home with glee Oh how fine I’d think myself If an otter lived with me But then we turned and looked at him And when he saw our eyes He ran from us as if pursued By our anger and surprise If you chase the otters If you disturb their child We’ll hound you to the gates of hell The otters here are wild
‘Starship Troopers’ was not a book that one had any intention to read.
Ever.
The blurb made it abundantly clear it was about boot camp and killing insectoid aliens in great quantities and the antithesis of everything that represents fine literature. To one, such as oneself, raised upon more the most sophisticated themes and rarified tomes by She Whose Name One Is Unfit To Mention, it seemed like being asked to enter into a rugby scrum only after ensuring two weeks of torrential rain have softened the pitch.
So why would I do such a thing? One hears the single nonplused warble resonating from my myriad readers. You can be sure, gentle people, it was through no choice of oneself.
This is a cautionary tale that tells how karma always finds a way.
Last month I was prevailed upon to join the local literati gathering – or ‘Ben’s Book Club’ as it is is listed on the Community Centre noticeboard. Mumsie had declared that it would be of great value to my own written words were I to take more time to peruse those of others. She also threatened to evict me from my writing sanctuary and turn it into a hell-hole brewery for her own vile alcoholic distillations if I refused.
So, perforce, enforced by force majeur, I went. The torrid event occupies an entire afternoon each week, filled with in-depth and avid discussion and dissection. Then, once the local gossip is dealt with, the group spends a few minutes at the end considering whatever book Ben has chosen for the week and being assigned one to read for the next. The first week I went it was Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein.
The Review
A young man goes to boot camp and learns how to fight insectoid aliens so he can vote. The rest of the book describes the fighting. Spoiler: he doesn’t vote at the end of the book.
Stars: Four – for allowing me to learn sufficient juicy gossip from Ben’s Book Club members to blackmail Mumsie into letting me keep my writing sanctuary.
Oh little town of Botheringham How dark thy winter streets Above thy head the lights are dead Beware unwary feet Yet in thy dark streets shineth One everlasting light There’s friendship here, and warmth and beer The pub’s the place tonight
Oh drinking friends together Proclaim your manly love And praises sing to beer the king A blessing from above For where there’s beer there’s harmony And peace to all shines bright Come closing time if mother moon still shines We’ll have a fraternal fight
It isn’t given to everybody to be able to identify the precise moment when they fall for the love of their life… It was Saturday night and the drifter drove his beat-up truck into just one more trail-end town. Truth to tell he would have preferred somewhere livelier as he had money in his pocket, but he was tired and hungry. He parked the Dodge outside a tiny diner only to see the closed sign go up on the door as he swung to the ground. An old timer and his equally ancient dog stopped and looked at him. “Food at Belle’s Bar over the street’s better than the slop they serve here. Can even get decent coffee if’n you don’t want beer with your meal.” The drifter tipped his hat in a grateful salute and made his way to Belle’s. The old timer hadn’t lied about the food or the coffee. By the time the stranger had got outside of a huge plate of savoury stew, a generous helping of peach pie, and three large mugs of steaming hot coffee he was feeling almost human. He decided he might as well stay for a beer while he chewed over his options. His usual Saturday night agenda involved picking up some lonely woman in a bar and getting invited back to her place for the night. He got bed and breakfast and his lady hostess got what he reckoned to be some pretty hot sex. Something for everybody, and no offence taken if his advances were spurned. However, he had worked for the better part of two months helping a group of dirt farmers plough and weed and build fences, so he was bone weary and he had money enough to get his own room. He’d have that beer and think. He bellied up to the bar and the woman tender stopped polishing glasses. “I get you, bro?” “Bro?” the drifter was amused and that made him look closer at the woman. She was maybe thirty years old, and plain of face, but with an infectious grin and the light of intelligence in a pair of strange bi-coloured eyes. She chuckled. “Yup. Bro. Saves me trying to learn the names of all the damned fools that come in here looking for beer and sympathy.” He found himself laughing too, and for some reason that felt good. “I’ll take a beer please, and one for yourself.” Somehow or other, he was still by the bar when it was closing time. He watched the bartender take off her apron and hang it on the beer pumps before he spoke. “Anywhere I can get a room in these parts?” She looked at him for a long moment then seemed to come to a decision. “I got a bed too big for one woman.” The drifter felt his smile flow across his cheeks. This one, he thought, would be a real pleasure. He held out a hand and the woman came around the bar and put her own hand in his. “Hi, pretty lady,” he said, “my name’s…” She put the fingers of her free hand across his mouth. “Let’s just keep it to bro, shall we? This time tomorrow you’ll be gone and your name’ll be no manner of good to me.” He nodded his understanding and they walked out of the bar shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t early when she slid from his embrace and padded out to the kitchen. He watched her go, marvelling at how comfortable she was in her own nakedness and how much he had enjoyed that nakedness. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He was still deep in thought when a voice floated in from the next room. “I’m sorta making breakfast. What do you want on your toast?” “A couple eggs would be good,” he responded without thinking. Almost instantaneously a laughing face appeared in the doorway. “Eggs bro? Sheesh. The sex wasn’t that good.” And he knew at that moment that his fate lay in a one-horse trail-end town with this woman by his side.
She let the slave girl brush out her hair so it lay like a shimmering black veil down her back and blinked as the over-strong perfumed oils caught in her nostrils. The king was ageing and his sense of smell fading. Alas, little else of his senses did so. She took the walk from her cloistered seraglio to his bedchamber with the same heavy sense of foreboding that she carried with her every night. She did not need the sly, pitying looks from the other women – each waiting her turn for the same honour. But as long as she still lived, they were safe. She reached the doors of the bedchamber and the two armoured men who guarded them stepped aside and pushed them open so she could go in – alone. The sound of the huge doors as they closed behind her was soft compared to the thumping of her heart. She must please her lord and master. As always she began with a dance. Her accompaniment, the tiny finger cymbals she wore. She moved her body in the swaying motions of the dance and wove her way to finish standing beside the canopied bed, it’s cloth of gold coverlet cast casually aside. By day the king at least looked regal, clad in fine robes and with a jewelled crown lightly set on his greying hair. But naked he looked simply ugly and she shuddered at the thought of his hands touching her. He hated women as much as he desired them. Now he looked at her with hungry, expectant eyes and she made herself climb onto the bed to lie beside him, fighting the revulsion and fear, forcing a smile on to her face. Tonight would be worse than usual because she had not managed to prepare herself fully. “Where did we get to?” he asked, his voice low with anticipation. She drew a quick breath. “My Lord I – “ “No excuses – you know what I want.” This time there was a bite of anger and the dark brooding look the courtiers knew so well to fear. She swallowed and made herself begin. “Well, the djinn was about to kill the fisherman when…” With half her mind she told the tale, the other half rapidly inventing another for when this one was finished, her life depending on it. But how long she could keep inventing these cliffhanger stories to please a madman, Scheherazade did not know.
In the cold of Wednesday Sod all in the bank Queuing at the garage Just to fill the tank Horns are honking, Honky honk, Ho-o-onky honk In the cold of Wednesday when the world’s on wonk
What can I buy here Hungry as I am? I could get a sandwich Filled with fatty ham If I buy the sandwich fat will hurt my heart But if I get chocolate that will make me fart
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