8 Stories of Brief Fiction

Eight Stories of Brief Fiction

EP. I

An original tale taking place in the world of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’

Cold Eyes, Fierce Fury 

(a Mina Harker story)

The darkness was everywhere.

 The gloom wrapped around her, it clung to her limbs, tendrils of twilight encompassing her very being. She was a child of the night — a goddess of pale recollection — and she came and went, as she pleased. She was a creature that dwelt in places unseen, a thing of myth, who seldom allowed itself to be glimpsed by any passersby. 

Her name was…Mina. 

Wilhemina Harker. 

Our story opens in London, 1874. And what a dreadful time it was for mortals. They spent their days fleeting about in the wretched streets; some begging for scraps and coinage, others selling their flesh for far too cheap, but the lucky ones — took fanciful rides in carriages, meeting for dinner parties amidst jovial interaction and guiltless hedonism.

It was all quite the affair.

When she first came to the city, it was aboard the SS Ben-my-Chree, a paddle steamer renowned for its size and speed. Mina managed to sneak onboard in human form, she was steadily becoming more and more accustomed to inhabiting the likeness of a mortal — a feat that at one time drained her powers completely — now only requiring minimal concentration.

Her chosen form was that of a brunette: high ivory cheek-bones; tapered small-nose, and a natural blush that increased with cardiovascular exercise. Her form was slim, yet shapely — enticing; aristocratic. She wore expensive clothing, all silk and satin. This ensured she wasn’t mistaken for a commoner. She craved persuasion and that only came with the influence of a “high society type”.

After a few years of frequenting the hotspots of London, she grew tired of the incessant rain and decided to travel further east. Her journey took her from England, to France, to the mystical Orient, and beyond. Her final stop was: Bucharest, Transylvania– 

“All those destined for Bucharest Railway North, please exit after the whistle.”

Mina gathered her things and disembarked from the passenger-car — taking great care when she stepped down from the train car not to scuff her boots. It was unbecoming to let your apparel fall into disrepair; so she always maintained her clothing as much as possible. When she descended from the train — Mina Harker was met with an array of exotic smells, combining into an eclectic mix and leaving her olfactory sense in a state of delirium. She began to progress into the city in a semi-fugue state, visiting shops and bazaars to familiarize herself with the local sellers and their wares. The heightened senses of her immortal form created an intoxicating effect when exposed to new locales, it was quite overpowering.

Hours later, she was seated in a cafe, sipping a hot drink and testing the local cuisine. The cafe was decked out as a parlour room; fine leather couches adorned in traditional Transylvanian garb, paintings of Africa lined the walls – barely visible through the blue-ish haze of cigar smoke and pipe tobacco fumes.

“When in Rome,” Mina murmured to herself.

She began searching for a tailor made cigarette in her tote-bag, just then a man approached with a carrying case (ivory, polished) and a match; already lit for convenience. The case held fourteen hand-rolled smokes — revealing a monogram behind the top row — an engraved VD. 

Interwoven and elegant.

“We meet again Mina.” 

Abraham Van Helsing – the man she once fought alongside, the man who pioneered the end of Dracula. 

Mina hadn’t seen him in years and years, not since contracting Vampirism from her encounter with the Lord of the Living Dead. Her assumption had always been that if she saw Helsing – it meant the Roman-Catholic church dispatched the renowned Hunter to tie up loose ends.

“Well, should I greet you as friend or foe?” Mina inquired cautiously.

“Greet me as a fellow world-weary traveller, one hoping for an open seat at your table.” Helsing replied enigmatically.

“Also, kindly use the match I’ve offered before it burns into nonexistence.” 

Van Helsing extended the cigarette case towards Mina. She acquiesced and took a smoke, lit it, and deposited the burnt match on the floor. She pulled heavily on the smoke, filling her lungs with the clove flavoured tobacco, exhaling a cloud that languished in formlessness before taking the subtle shape of a wolf.

“Neat trick Mina – now cut it out.”

 Helsing continued:

“I’m not here on Church business. It is true my superiors bother me relentlessly about you –  yet I continuously assuage their concerns telling the Bishops you’ve chosen hibernation over damnation.”

“Is that so?” Mina Harker responded scanning behind Helsing, watching for any sign of white robes and crosses. 

“So what is your purpose here, Helsing? Are you just tired of those rain-soaked, cramped London streets, too many fish-mongers I presume?”

 Awaiting a response; Mina rigorously searched the thoroughfare passing in front of the cafe. Her heightened senses allowed for total precision in this task. Her ability for lesser-telepathy ensured that even a silent and camouflaged approach would be detected. Sadly, she could never read a mind as powerful as Van Helsing’s – his faculties (and will) were indomitable. This is the real reason why Vlad was undone, sure it was a concentrated effort but the solitary zealot across from her was the lynchpin.

“I hate coming back to this country – you know that Mina. Reminds me of the Beast of Beasts.” 

“And yet you keep a souvenir…” Mina nodded toward the ornate cigarette case that was now laying on the table.

Opting to ignore her point, Helsing nonchalantly tossed a piece of paper in front of Wilhemina Harker instead. The Hunter assertively pointed at it – lifting an eyebrow in the process to emphasize the parchment’s importance. Wilhemina Harker – her interest now piqued – leaned forward and briskly snatched the document from the table top. Bringing it up to her face she swiftly took in the contents of the deed…moments later she obstinately slammed the paper back down.

“This is my old home.” 

“Yes.”

“From when I was mortal.”

“Yes,”

“And that’s my husband’s signature.”

“Yes it’s Jonathan Harker’s mark – there it is, clear as day.” Abraham Van Helsing replied before placing the leaflet back into his satchel. 

So he’s either alive, or there’s an imposter. Mina knew she must depart with Helsing now and search for her lost love. If there was even the slightest chance her husband was still out there….

“Mina, are you coming?” Van Helsing was now standing, he could read her expression, only asking the question as a formality.

Wilhemina Harker sprang to her feet and swept out the door alongside her ex-cohort now turned compatriot once again; glancing at him and warning in a low growl, 

“Watch yourself Hunter; it is hard for my kind to fully trust any man who carries silver, a stake, and crucifixes.”

“I’d expect no less Mina.” Helsing responded, knowingly.

Then they departed.

*****

EP. II

CERULE

DIGITAL LOG (306) from The Hestia Starliner

Entry 1:

I love my Pod.

It’s where I spend most of my time, eating, sleeping, and plugging into the network. It’s circular; white and soft, made of a cutting-edge memory foam. The left wall is where my console is – and that’s how I access the vast information streams that teach me everything I need to know. Yesterday I learned: there are two-hundred and fifty pods on this section of the ship. 

That means there’s more than a thousand people living aboard the vessel; I know this because there are four sections (or quadrants) on The Hestia Starliner – a colonization ship that’s been in use for over two-thousand years. There are many digital recreations of the construction of the ship; it’s enjoyable to look at these.

 I am quite lonely; the network tracks my apathy markers to ensure my cortisol isn’t reaching dangerous levels – and this is fortunate. There are twenty-four other passengers in Subsection-A, the part of the ship I inhabit. Those are the only people I’ve ever socialized with, and there’s a two hour daily limit. From what I’ve learned, humans need more face-to-face interaction than the amount we are provided. 

Many millennia ago people were allowed total freedom when on colonization missions; however, the drawbacks far out-weighed the positives, this is made clear in the history logs. Countless people perished – I don’t know how many – but the computer tells me it was due to “key psychological differences” in their personalities. There are many parts of our history that are labeled “questionably divergent” and can only be viewed by officers and regents.*  This was decreed over 5000 years ago by Earth’s last grand-emperor, Claudius Vherzog and helps to prevent dissidence among the residents of the five star-systems. 

Or so I am told.

Footnote:  * (a regent is an interstellar-community leader)

DIGITAL LOG (306) – Recorded on Stardate 1570c 

Entry 2:

Today, I saw something funny in the common-area. 

There was a man who refused to re-enter his Pod. This is not something that happens often. 

It created quite a stir.

Security came and demanded he return to his Pod – they stated the 50 Rules of Colonization – meanwhile several doctors prepared medical instruments to run a battery of tests on the man; mental, physical, and biochemical. 

Before the tests had begun; The Regent arrived and announced his presence on Subsection-A. He had a full troop of men with him; this frightened the passengers even worse. But when he spoke, he told everyone to calm down – and iterated that the man did not need to enter his Pod – if it was such an affliction to him. 

And then he called the man by his name. An audible gasp was heard around the room.

 We are not allowed to speak our names until we reach the destination. This act was truly benevolent; The Regent’s kindness in speaking this man’s name aloud. I cannot print it in the log – nor can I speak it; but let me tell you, it was a beautifully phonetic name. Full vowel sounds; sharp syllable play, uniquely eloquent. It was wondrous to hear, like a little of our humanity had been given back to us. All the people in this subsection wished they could hear their own names – most of them had forgotten their monikers long ago – reverting to the callsigns on our consoles. Mine is 306.

After giving the man some sedatives – the doctor’s proceeded to escort him to his Pod. He seemed subdued when he was placed inside. The Regent left shortly after; with an air of seriousness about him. But before he did, he said this,“I can not mind all of you, like I have just minded this wayward sheep. Please, stay stoic. 

Realize we will make a new life on the planet; a new life for all generations. Surely, you can stay strong for humanity’s sake – can’t you?” 

I think I can, I don’t know about the nameless patient but hopefully he too will be fine when we reach our destination. It’s a shame we aren’t allowed to use our names.

I’ve never been told why.

DIGITAL LOG (306) – Recorded on Stardate 1575c 

Entry 3:

The planet is resplendent, a green oasis of immeasurable fruitfulness – vines run like patchwork between ancient trees, providing most of the planet a healthy amount of shade from the bright sun overhead. Rich, effervescent waterfalls could be found all over, interconnecting and running continuously towards the vast oceans that covered 76.3% of the planet’s surface. There was a freshness in the air; it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

It took fifteen years of isolation – but we all have a new chance now. 

DIGITAL LOG (306) – Recorded on Stardate 1576c 

Entry 4:

A full year later The Regent and the rest of the officers disembark from the ship. 

Myself and the neophytes are working everyday to construct a suitable living habitat, free to come and go as we please – we use lightweight synthetic materials from the cargo compartments, in combination with the planet’s natural resources. We use skills that we have learned in our studies during the voyage here. The officers acquiesce to our knowledge in this area – and focus instead on scouting, dismantling the ship, administering rations, medical supplies, and the handheld laser-tech required for engineering and excavation.

Sadly, this will be my last entry.

All power must be conserved for heating and other essential amenities until a suitable habitat is erected. It is necessary to survive with minimal support from the homeworld. I will miss writing my journal entries, but I have a whole new life to live in this cerulean paradise. 

My name is Alcmene.

– END OF LOG –

EP. III

ROMANTIC BLUNDERS

“Marcy! Seriously, what the fuck?” Steve exclaimed.

It’s broken. She actually broke it.

“Honestly?” She responded, sounding furious. “I don’t know what else you expected, honey.”

Steve stared in disbelief at the living room, examining the remnants of his favourite glass sculpture. It wasn’t like her to be this outrageous. It had to be her time of the month. That had to be it. The one thing he shouldn’t  do — is bring it up. But it was really, really hard not to.

“Are you on your period?”

“Am I what?! Go-oood Lord! Stephen, what is wrong with you!!”

Marcy hurled a book at him. That was his que to leave. As he ran out the front door and across the front lawn, a thought came to his mind suddenly — he didn’t have his keys.

No matter. Looks like the bike was the available option.

The only trouble… the bike wasn’t where he left it, leaning against  the outside of their two-car garage. Oh well. As Steve walked down the suburban street he was on, he marveled at how his life had been on a downhill trend lately. It seemed like he was always saying and or doing the wrong thing — sort of like he was cursed or something. It used to be that everything came so easily to him, a fact — that for a while — had made him increasingly complacent.

Now he was struggling, just like any other chump, and he didn’t like it one bit. See, Steve came from a long line of successful types — and mediocrity just wasn’t agreeable to his breed. Or at least that’s what he and his siblings were told, from a rather young age.

Their Grandmother, Ms. Beatrice Freidkin was the daughter of a newsman; a very renowned one — at that. His name was Charles Peter Freidkin. And Great-Grandpa Charlie had owned over forty small time newspapers and publishing outlets in his heyday. This allowed for Beatrice to inherit a small fortune and the controlling rights to said news empire. She was the first woman news mogul in North America by her account (although this was technically false, it was only due to Canada being considered a country, which Beatrice, of course found preposterous), she had expanded upon her father’s business territory greatly, and she had pushed forth women’s rights and progressive values as her contribution to society. So, no, mediocre was not in his grandmother’s vocabulary. And she had unfortunately passed down this heightened sense of self-worth and entitlement to him.

As Steven rounded a corner and began walking down Fifth Street he noticed a stray dog making its way along the opposite side of the road. He reflected how his situation mirrored that of the forlorn canine. The dog was a bloodhound; well taken care of from the look of its coat, but when Steve tried calling the thing over — it swiftly ran off into the darkness.

Oh well, thought Steve — just his luck, he was fairly sure that it was the next door neighbours hound, returning the thing to them would have been a great excuse to spend some time with Marcy & Jean, their next door neighbours. It would’ve given him somewhere to go, somewhere that wasn’t a bar or pub — which is exactly the kind of place he was hoping to avoid. Distractions sometimes helped.

But alas, the mutt was gone and Steven was still stuck shuffling his feet reluctantly down Fifth Street.

*****

Marcy felt she would never be happy.

Her life was a whirlwind, as of late, and her husband Steven, definitely wasn’t helping. That stupid man had no idea what he wanted, and Marcy was more than sick of it.

She was diseased and dying, even terminal; it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon. This was all a figure of speech of course; physically speaking Marcy was fine. It was her heart that had been infected by this man, this man and his glib attitude, his pessimistic outlook, and his ever infuriating stubbornness. Marcy realized their incompatibility too little too late, and now she was paying for it.

And the stress was beginning to take its toll.

She was graying, much faster than expected — and she had taken to stress eating, in response to her and her husband’s troubled marriage. 

In fact, she had managed to pack on nearly 20lbs in the latter half of the year, and her New Year’s resolution was to lose that weight, plus another fifteen big ones.

The way things were going — Marcy was doubtful she’d reach her target weight in her lifetime, much less in the new year. Serenity was forever just out of reach.

As she began to clean up the shards of glass from the vase, she cut her index finger and started leaking a rouge coloured fluid all over the floor. Staring blankly for a moment, she marveled at the crystalline bits of glass and how they shone with a dynamic brilliance. Then suddenly she snapped out of her fugue state and realized that red stuff dripping all over the carpet was (her) blood and she’d better patch up the finger or risk fainting.

Not to mention — clean the carpet!

During Marcy’s rigorous rescue of the carpet, one that involved a truckload of Oxy-clean and copious amounts of club soda, Steve returned through the back patio door.

He had the neighbour’s dog trailing behind him; the old boy was panting a mile a minute, and her husband was breathing in an identical fashion. Marcy got up from her activity, setting aside her labours to tend to her man. She ran him an ice cool glass of water, letting the tap reach that optimal point of chilliness before allowing it to flow. Marcy handed the glass of water to Steve, who held it up to her and said, “Thanks hon!”

Marcy nodded.

Steve gave a weak smile before asking  his wife, “Are we copesetic? Cause I’m beyond sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Really, I should just get ‘I’m sorry honey’ tattooed on my forehead and be done with it!

“Really?” Marcy smiled a bit.

“Yeah. Just a big, dumb, sorry person over here.”

“And you have the neighbour’s dog?”

“How is that a thing?”

Marcy raised an eyebrow, almost grinning now. Steve looked back at the hound dog and he sighed, exhaling long and quite audibly. The hound did the same. “I think he got kicked out like me… or maybe he ran away. Like me.”

Marcy shook her head grinning from the irony of it all. She went over, took her hubby’s hand and kissed it softly, slipping her arms around his waist at the same time. Steven leaned in and asked her simply:

 “Do you take in strays?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

EP IV

AN HONEST JUNK TRADER

Tonight – I’ll finally have a ship.

This thought sprang to Corvo’s mind as he gathered various pieces of junk in his arms. A flux-capacitor here; a thermocouple unit there; and any display panels he could spot. It was easy to maneuver around the space-barge, Corvo’s slight stature allowed it. Plus, he came to search this particular junk pile often.

“Doing a run for spare scrap?” A voice from behind him asked.

“No, -already completed my run. I’m trying to locate hardware to tune-up a Scimitar class fighter.” Corvo responded, continuing to rummage.

“Which Scimitar class fighter?” The voice asked.

“You know the one.” Corvo said simply.

“Where’s the credits?” The voice asked gruffly. “It is after all my space-fighter.”

“Right here!” Corvo Cassius whirled around, stuffing the pieces of spaceship debris into the humanoid’s arms. 

The blue humanoid that was speaking to Corvo was named Gr’ikkta. He wasn’t that different from his human counterpart – blue skin aside – the junk-dealer was nearly biologically identical to the earth dweller. But his eyes were more akin to a Terran reptile and he had a much thinner frame than the average human; but beyond that, they were very similar. Some minor differences in the organs, but Corvo couldn’t remember the specifics right now, he was too anxious.

“But this is my junk.” Gr’ikkta dropped the refuse to the ground. He crossed his arms in a show of mild irritation and incomprehension. 

.

“Exactly.” Corvo replied, smiling. “Here, let’s go sit in the flight-cabin and I’ll explain what I mean.”

*****

Gr’ikkta with his lanky physique sat at a triangular table, inside the control section of the barge. His feet were propped up on a trunk – a small cage was sitting on the floor housing a fluorescent plant; which was currently emitting an alarmingly noxious smell. Corvo Cassius worried that he might need a mask. Surely, his long-time friend wouldn’t be neglectful enough to not mention it. Surely.

“Are my lungs the same as yours? I can’t remember.” Corvo inquired of Gr’ikkta.

The junk-dealer looked down at the plant, and then back at the human.

“Why?” Gr’ikkta asked. The blue-skinned man looked at Corvo for a moment and  then smiled wryly. “Because of this little thing?” He knelt down beside the cage. “It’s not poisonous – the perfume it creates helps with the smell of mech-oil, plastics, and other pollutants.”

“It smells much worse than everything you just listed.” Corvo, plugged his nose to illustrate.

“Ahh, but it cleans the air my friend. Makes it – much healthier.”

Yeah maybe for you, but how about me? Man, I should’ve read up more on his species back at home – on earth. These outer-region computers are way out of date. His mind was running away with him. He told it to relax; it must be the nerves.

“Okay – let’s drop it. What I really need to know: how much do you want for that old bucket of bolts, that dysfunctional Scimitar – that you got out back rusting. How much? And if you say more than 700 cred-relics, I’ll walk right outta’ here.”

Gr’ikkta stroked a patch of blue whiskers attached to his chin before answering.

“How about 650 CR?” The junk-trader responded to Corvo, leaning back further in his chair.

“Fine.” The young man dumped a gilded pouch onto Gr’ikkta’s desk. Several octagonal pieces of metal slid forth from the receptacle. The older man’s eyes lit up, evidently this piqued his interest. His skin even became a darker shade of blue, or maybe it was just Corvo’s imagination.

“Great Jelite! Where did you get all this?” Gr’ikkta inquired while running a handheld device across the cred relics to check denominations and authenticity. It was impossible to know the amount left on the digital ledger of the discs; unless one was in possession of a “cred scanner” – the device that the junk-dealer was currently employing.

Corvo explained, hurriedly: “Someone, prepaid me for passage through the slip-gate. They have a ship meeting them on the other end; I’m fairly certain I can have that old bird flying with the pieces I’ve collected from your scrap-piles.” Corvo got up from his seat and started to pace back-and-forth. “So, is it a deal or what – you old mizer?” 

Gr’ikkta also stood up swiftly – extending his azure-coloured hand. “Yes, it is a deal, small earthling. Congratulations; you are the proud owner of a broken down Scimitar-class starfighter.”

The young space-pilot stood, shook hands with his trading partner and watched as the other man gathered the money into a small, ornate box. After this trip, Corvo Cassius would be well on his way to earning a living among the interstellar reaches; instead of scavenging like some outer-territory bum. Corvo left the control section and began the repairs/upgrades on his vessel. It would take most of the afternoon, and he had to hurry to meet his deadline. He would be cutting it very close.

But right now, with visions of the endless expanse of universe before him — almost anything seemed possible.

EP. V

A VOYAGE THROUGH THE HEAVENS

Darkness reigned supreme on the bridge of The Kyrene, nearby objects were nearly impossible for Staavis to make out.

He began to creep softly along the line of cryo-pods — making sure to give the hardware a wide berth, wholly concentrated on moving as silent as possible. His cryo-sleep footwear, made of a breathable mesh, was beneficial for the silent approach required. He slid one foot after the other, all the while — wishing the short walk was over already. Staavis held his breath intermittently, as  it seemed to alleviate the tension he was feeling in his neck.

He knew this was a mistake.

If Captain Sosa caught him — he’d be on split shift duty recalibrating the chrono-sensors for half the ship, if he was lucky. That would work out to three galactic weeks working that dreaded job, and there’s no way Staavis wanted to get saddled with that kind of baggage. Last time he worked that shift he was seeing Tachyon wave visualisations for days after.

Oh no, he — Staavis would be watching the formation of a White Dwarf star from the viewing deck with the rest of the crew, just as planned. As long as he didn’t make one squeak while—-

“Staavis, of course they would put you up to this….”

That was Captain Sosa.

Captain Amadeus Sosa was not the type of man to trifle with. In all his days as commander of a ‘Brigander’ class starship he had only had to retreat in a handful of conflicts, and managed to do so with minimal amount of casualties and collateral damage. Sosa had completed over 300 planetary missions in his long tenure as an officer for the Galactic Republic of Valaricc.

Valaricc wasn’t Sosa’s homeworld, yet he had dwelled there for twenty-seven long years, serving his masters dutifully.

This was because Sosa had honour and no matter what occurs in life, you keep on the path set before you. This was the way he had been taught and that is what he expected of his men.

Other commanders were lenient and allowed for humour and antics aboard their ships. But not Amadeus Sosa — no he preferred a no nonsense approach to commanding; this new cadet had to learn this fact, if he was to serve aboard his ship.

“Cadet, why are you not hibernating in cryosleep with the rest of the crew?”

Sosa asked in a demanding tone — then he stared at the young man, waiting for a response.

Staavis had to think. And fast.

***

The Captain was furious, that much was certain.

“Well, any suggestions?” Captain Sosa barked gruffly, imploring Staavis to answer.

“No, sir. My suggestion would be to reprimand me as you see fit.”

“Hmmm… how about instead of Chronosensor duty, you help me realign the phase variance modules — so our bird doesn’t lose its way?” The Captain made his suggestion firmly, implying it was not a request. Staavis nodded his head, exhaling an inaudible sigh of relief.

So, he had escaped the dreaded Chronosensor duty and moderate serenity was ensured. The Captain motioned for Staavis to take his post at a Command Station, where he would begin entering coordinates for the wave function manipulator in accordance with phase variance protocols. This, in essence, made hyperspace travel safe enough to attempt.

The journey the crew was making would take more than a decade if hyperspace travel wasn’t employed, utilizing such an advanced method of travel allowed for a much shorter trip — only sixty-three days.

As Staavis was working hard at completing his task, Captain Sosa strolled around the observation deck — checking various terminals for traces of digital contraband. The crew often left audio-recordings that should be only on their personal devices located in their quarters; alas some of the more careless officers under his command lacked discipline and left whatever they felt like on their workstations. So, Sosa was left cleaning up the mess.

Sosa stopped his inner monologue, and stopped what he was doing. He could feel vibrations in the ship that weren’t there a second ago. And then it happened.

The ship shook violently and lurched to the right, throwing Staavis to the slick, hard surface below his feet.

He saw the captain stagger sideways and flail his hands onto a handrail — managing to stay upright in the process. Staavis glanced to his left at a monitor, it showed a few readings that confirmed his initial thought, they were being enveloped by the gravity well of a miniature black hole. This was not good.

“Captain!” Staavis yelled at his superior, hoping to get his attention quickly.

“Yes! what is it, cadet?” Captain Sosa whirled around, still grasping the handrail, white-knuckled.

“The ships being pulled towards a massively large object, or a smallish black hole.”

“Well, which one is it?”

“The second one. I think”

Captain Sosa blinked, then swore, and then he looked at Staavis with keen eyes.

“Do you know what to do? Because sadly, we don’t have time to wake the rest of the crew… and our navigator is asleep in a cryogenic chamber, right there.”

Captain Sosa motioned to the cryo-pod closest to him, where a thin man with jet-black hair slept in his comfy tank, unaware of the dire peril he was in.

Staavis nodded. “I think so, Captain.”

His job was to save the ship, that’s all he had to do — these types of simulations were common in training; therefore he was more than prepared for this moment. Of course, this was just his positive thinking — in actuality, Staavis was sweating bullets. But he had to do his best.

As the ship drifted slowly towards the black hole, the crew slept on.

Staavis and the Captain worked tirelessly to save themselves and the crew. Within a few hours they might all perish, or they would be sailing through the Heavens on their voyage absolutely safe and sound, no way to know. The sweat kept trickling into Staavis’ eyes while he worked, finally he made a suggestion that the Captain liked.

“You say, if we kick the core module out the back, and detonate it — that might blast us free of the blackholes maelstrom?”

“Yes, I hope so sir.”

“Well, I’m impressed with your ability for improvisation, scores be damned, cadet!” Captain Sosa clapped him on the back, in a kindhearted way. “And if this works, you’re in for a promotion, and forever out of doing Chrono-sensor duties.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work… won’t we both be dead, sir?” Staavis said, wishing he hadn’t – immediately after.

“Hmm, yes… I suppose.” Captain Sosa replied, frowning.

But it did work.

A short while later the Kyrene was floating through space, a glistening object lost in the stars, a distress beacon sending out a call for help, pulsing into the oblivion of space. The crew was sleeping soundly – Staavis in his pod as well, but without hyperspace capability their journey would be much, much longer.

So much for sixty-three days.

(EP. VI, VII, & VII)

THE GAUNTLET

Smoke & Mirrors

Dark earth crushed beneath his feet.

Every step seemed to take longer than the last.

He knew once he arrived; there was no going back. 

He had to stick it out, no matter what happened, even if the Baron of the Marsh were to come down from the black hills – flaming sabre and all. This was his last shot at absolution – he must find the gauntlet (that the old witch had requested) and voyage to the township of Tasharidan in a safe and timely manner. His ancestors stood in spirit beside him – urging him forward through the vast wilderness he was about to traverse. He could hear their words of encouragement, so he continued to push through the dense foliage.

        Long ago – during the War of the Madmen & Magi – there were clay sculptures littered throughout this region, placed there by zealots who were fighting on the side of the Magi. But now the wilderness was empty of animals except for a few hares here and there; the nameless traveller had nothing but the thick brush, and rock crags to keep him company. The ancient conflict had ravaged most of the fauna in the area, causing a mass migration of wildlife. Only the most persistent beings still dwelt in this region – a few hermetic monks known to the locals as wise-men, or sages. Sometimes folk of the neighbouring region would venture into the woods to trade with these forest dwellers; furs, meats, fruit, and the like – in exchange for woodland tinctures and herbs. 

Our hero continued his trek – down into a shallow gulch – and up again, climbing onto a majestic plateau littered with magnolia flowers. The scrub lessened here, most of the tree branches were far off the ground, allowing for some ease of movement. The nameless traveller leaned against the thick bark of a Sequoia tree; allowing himself a moment to take in the surroundings. He noticed a squirrel running vertically up a willow, frantically gathering sustenance for winter. Meanwhile, a hawk overhead circled – mercurial; fixated on the hunt. 

The squirrel was attentive and spied the gawker, rushing into a safe, cozy hole.

“Quite the show isn’t it?” A voice issued from somewhere in the woods; impossible to pinpoint, the tone was exceptionally buoyant.

“Who goes there?” The traveller demanded, haughtily.

“Perhaps, it is I – that is to say, I, the one who is currently speaking, that should ask you what your title or moniker amounts to.” The voice countered.

“Are you saying you’d like to know who I am?” Our traveller responded to the eerie voice, craning his neck around – attempting to spot the mysterious interloper.

“Yes. To put it simply.” The disembodied voice retorted.

“I have no name. Except the title which I was given quite recently…” Our unnamed traveller explained, hesitantly.

“Well what is it?” The voice inquired.

“Kalpithe the Brazen.”

*****

What followed was an eternity of silence. 

For some time, Kalpithe thought the stranger had fled.

 But after an eon of waiting, the sound of a loud sigh was heard – and a man stepped out from the gloom of the woods; entered the clearing, and suddenly sat down in a cross-legged position. He was an eerie looking man indeed, not unpleasant – but quite disdainful. His clothes had fallen to rags – an unwashed face, smeared with dark mud; twigs in his facial hair, and a queer smell of fungus permeated the air upon the forest-man’s arrival. If this was one of the arboreal monks that Kalpithe the Brazen had heard so much about; the absurdity began to make sense. If he was to make it through this valley, a guide could be a useful resource. However, these men were known to be pranksters, mad philosophers, and some were even rumoured to possess mage-like powers. Kalpithe would regard the man with trepidation – above all else.

“Do you know your way through these treacherous parts?” Asked the woods-man, a wry smile spreading across his lips.

“I think you are aware that I don’t, and you intend to hold it over my head.” Replied Kalpithe.

“And how would I know a thing like that?” The quasi-wizard countered, rocking onto his haunches – exchanging his previously cross-legged position with this new one.

“From my clothes, my attire, and my way of speaking.” Kalpithe spat out, tired of the  circular conversation already.

“Well, you do take me for an observant one – don’t you?” The forest dweller stood abruptly, in response our hero took a wary step backward, cautious enough to give his unknown acquaintance ample space. 

Then the woodland sage announced; rather unexpectedly: 

“I am Driezan.” After pausing a moment he resumed, 

“And I am pleased to meet you, even if you are not of these parts.” The last bit was said with emphasis. After finishing his introduction; Driezan let out a nervous snort of laughter, itching his mudstained beard in the process.

“Which, evidently – I am not.” Kalpithe admitted to Dreizen; relaxing a little, sensing that the man’s intentions weren’t malevolent. Mischievous maybe, but not a true threat.

“Do you need a guide, visitor from afar?” The sage asked Kalpithe, winking at him knowingly.

“Yes, I believe I do.” Kalpithe responded, tentatively.

There was a long pause between them – during which Dreizen seemed to be lost in deep, deep thought. Then the man who seemed (almost) entirely composed of treestuff – hiccuped and sneezed. It was not the response that our hero had expected.

 After recovering from the facial expulsion, Dreizen blinked twice, and said, 

“Well, then… I await your charge?” 

“Lead on, stranger!” Kalpithe commanded, loudly – waving Dreizen on with a gloved hand.

 Dreizen obliged, and soon they were descending the hillside; entering into the deep (and long) valley, the one that spanned the region below the plateau. Kalpithe struggled to keep up, and regretted being so ladened with gear and supplies. Our hero was unsure of the path; meanwhile his companion stepped lightly, agile and quick footed, like a woodland sprite. He moves with the speed of a man half his age – how is this possible? Kalpithe wondered, hustling his feet to avoid being left behind. As their journey progressed, a fiery disc sank behind the distant mountains.

The sun was setting.

It will be dark soon… 

and my journey has just begun.

End of Part I

PART II

Parlay & Parry

Some time later, as Kalpithe and Dreizen trudged through the thick underbrush, a thought rose in Kalpithe’s head. It was one of those thoughts that no matter how hard you tried, it restlessly fought for escape. He mulled it over for quite a long time, but in the end – the irritation he was feeling got the better of him. Kalpithe had to speak his mind; that or risk his focus on the quest. 

No. It was best to deal with any restless thoughts that could distract him from the goal at hand; acquiring the gauntlet, and returning it to the witch. 

“I was quite enjoying my moment of tranquility in the clearing back there. 

 I of course appreciate your help as a guide through these parts but why did you feel the need to approach me, in the first place? I was under the impression, you forest dwellers prefer to keep to yourselves – above all else – isn’t it true? Or is that just a rumour which springs out of the villagers’ imaginations? Folklore, and all that.” It was obvious Kalpithe was trying to gauge the man who he was now reliant on. What were Dreizen’s designs – did he have something to do with the old witch who had tasked our hero with the quest – or was he out for himself? These questions burned in our hero’s mind.

“Well, it was quite rude what you were doing.” Dreizen retorted, matter of factly.

“How so?” Kalpithe blurted, quite surprised. He had no idea what the sylvan sage could be referring to.

Dreizen whirled around with unexpected swiftness. 

His eyes shone bright in the twilight that eclipsed their surroundings. 

“It was rude. Spying on someone who’s readying their home for winter. Very rude. You should realize they are busy and move on. Not every person on this planet is at your whims. Just because you come from over yonder – The Kingdom of Tazul – does not mean you get to waltz in here, acting as if you own the place. These woods are sacred – we are all busying ourselves for the natural cycle of the seasons. Meanwhile, you and your kind are off on some quest; errand, adventure or the like – hoping to make yourself rich and powerful. The mightiest of warriors, the greatest of heroes. Isn’t that right? ” Dreizen’s words were uttered reproachfully, with an air of impatience.

Kalpithe was careful about how he responded, realizing that talking to this man was similar to sparring with an opponent. “Well, most of what you said is correct. I am on a quest – I am not overly concerned about the coming of winter – and yes, soon I will be the mightiest hero this land has ever known.

The one part that I would beg to differ, is the accusation of spying on someone. All I remember, and I’m sure, absolutely positive of my recollection – was myself enjoying a moment of solace; during which, I watched a squirrel gathering nuts (in a spruce tree) for the coming frost. Now you wouldn’t be speaking of the tree-rodent, would you?” Kalpithe almost snickered; his tone sounded slightly concerned and equally amused. He had heard that these woodland sages revered animals, plants, and all natural life; therefore it might make sense that his travelling companion would defend a squirrel’s right to privacy. Not much sense, but a little.

“You’re quite the buffoon, Kalpithe. I was the squirrel, after all. Would you deny me the right to work in peace – as any other is afforded?” Dreizen shook his head, apparently tired of the debate already. Dreizen increased his pace through the woods, gesticulating at his partner to hurry.

But instead, Kalpithe stopped dead in his tracks, jaw agape; mind whirling. It could not be true. Of all the powers he had heard these lesser-mages might have, shape-changing was supposedly one of the rarest. It had been said that this was a common ability among magic users in the time of “King RassoÚ” over a thousand years ago. If he were to befriend a man of this power, perhaps the gauntlet could be kept – to hell with the witch. He responded in surprise and partial embarrassment, thinking: I must not let this sylvan magician get the better of me.

“That’s preposterous, and if you call me a buffoon again – I will cut your walking stick asunder. I observed the small creature for some time; after it hid, I heard your voice. The squirrel was dwelling in the tree while you were outside the clearing. Even if you can somehow take the form of a tiny woodland animal, you cannot be in two places at once. No magic can do that. ” 

Dreizen seemed even more amused. “No, indeed it cannot.”

“Stop playing the fool! Explain what you mean at once.” Kalpithe began stomping through the woods, regardless of how he thrashed the plant life and forest floor below.

“Well, I suppose I have no choice, since you’ve begun to take it out on the poor Dogwood bush we are currently entangled in, so yes, I will explain. But first would you like to apologize to the birds that live there? No, oh well – what you didn’t spy – with your oh so observant eye – was the second hole at the bottom of the spruce tree.” Dreizen hesitated, gauging a line of rocks to use to cross a stream that was before them. He made up his mind and began to hop lithely; one rock to the next. 

“I simply ran out the other hole, changed back into my human form, and then I began to query you on your title, reasons for coming here, and the like.”

So he was a shapeshifter.

As Dreizen began to cross the creek, sounds of approaching hooves could be heard, many hooves in fact. It sounded like a stampede of sorts; metal was clinking too, swords on chainmail. It was the last sound that either of them had expected to hear, so far into the woods.

“It sounds like it’s coming from the East, a troop of some sort. How would they be entering the woods on horseback?” Kalpithe inquired of his companion, hoping he had some idea to offer.

“There is a trail that winds back and forth, following the “Kalays River”. I’m sure that’s where these interlopers have travelled from. No doubt they plan to hunt a phoenix for sport; or for the fine gold feathers they produce. We should avoid them, and yet I fear we cannot since the rate at which they approach.”

 Dreizen looked around for a place to hide, then he waved his walking stick and a spot seemed to appear before their very eyes. A devil’s club bush intertwined with some rose-hips to make a perfectly inconspicuous hiding place (albeit a bit thorny). Dreizen motioned for Kalpithe to crawl in from one side. 

They both lay in wait with bated breath; hoping that the large group of brigands would casually ride by. And they waited. 

Suddenly the sounds of hooves were all around them, and a voice said brashly, 

“Come out of your hiding spot Dreizen – we have come for the gauntlet. You will relinquish it now, or the whole forest will pay. Mark my words; cinders and giant-axes I will bring.” 

The man’s voice rang with hatred, and irrefutable superiority. 

Kalpithe knew that voice.  

It was his father-in-law’s;

The king of Tazul. 

End of PART II

PART III

King & Sage

The King of Tazul was a hard man.

Kalpithe had wed his daughter, Princess Haifa only a few seasons back — before that fateful day, our hero would never have envisioned being related to the Great King, himself.

It was a combination of fear and respect that he held for the man.

It was hard to imagine that anyone felt different about the King. Indeed, his subjects were careful in what they whispered — in constant fear that the palace walls had ears. Executions occurred often in the kingdom — the King of Tazul would sometimes openly joke that, (I)”trivial matters were concluded much faster that way.”(Italics) His birth-name (Daneth’yar) was rarely spoken aloud, since he demanded the respect of a title such as; sire, liege, or lord.

Or as most referred to him — simply, King.

Lately, Kalpithe had been tasked with minding the accounting of the serfs. He collected taxes, marked grain stores, handled small disputes, and the like. This was a byproduct of a ruler who often undertook raiding campaigns — far into the season of frost. Sometimes, even when there was ample snow, and ice-packs on the mountains. The King was still pursuing his glory, and had yet to produce a male heir, so he rode like a man half his age — his fervor for riches and treasures had only grown in recent years.

Daneth’yar chose Kalpithe to marry his sole offspring; his daughter Haifa, due to his parents connections and her advanced age of twenty-four seasons. This was old for an unwed Princess, although the Kingdom to the north had a Duchess that was middle-aged and never married. Those northern folk were strange indeed. The King found Kalpithe to be acceptable. He was the child of a prosperous horse trader — one of great renown — even the palace held some of his stock. A fine pinto, two clydesdales, and the kings favourite riding horse; a powerful black mustang.

That was the horse The King of Tazul was currently astride of — as he shouted his demands to Dreizen.

“Come out from your hole, you slippery magic-user and hand over the gauntlet. I command you as your King, superior, and the ruler of all these lands.”

“You rule nothing but a pile of rocks! Your palace is soon to be gone, washed away by the sea and the ocean you have angered. Begone! —you foul one. Before I bring the wrath of the wild on you!” Dreizen said the words, yet they seemed to come from all directions, and none — at the same time. Kalpithe had never heard someone talk to the King that way. He would have objected but feared the power of his new friend a bit more than the king’s righteous fury.

It’s funny how quickly things could change.

“Dreizen, you are mistaken. I know of the witch’s plan — I have been to see; she is now slain. You have no cohorts anymore. The men of the Willow have all fled westward. You are an old man, fighting a battle that was lost long ago. Be sensible, return the gauntlet and I will let you, and your forest, rest in peace.”

The king’s men sniggered. This was an inside joke — Daneth’yar’s choice of words were purposeful. He did intend to leave the forest in peace… after he burned a large swath where the woodsmen were known to dwell. This was apparent to all present.

The King’s words left Kalpithe aghast.

Kalpithe knew that the towns-people relied on the tinctures that were made from the plants that grew in these parts. His own family had often traded with the villagers who lived near to the marshes — a necessity when sicknesses of the equestrian variety (known colloquially as “Horse Flu” among the villagers) would infect the livestock. These strange infections were usually carried by nomads who passed through Tazul, travelling from far off lands.

The King must know this too, thought our hero, but he simply does not care.

Oh, what a wicked man.

“Would you run off the one who can mix your healing potion, the only sage, that maintains you in perpetual youth…and ensures your offspring’s lives?”

Dreizen queried the King — his tone suggesting caution. It was evident that he was responsible for Daneth’yar embodying the fierceness of a wildcat — at least in part.

Kalpithe grabbed Dreizen’s sleeve, whispering close into his ear. “That is my wife, you are speaking of. Her malady is well known, are you the one who makes her daily remedy?”

Dreizen nodded swiftly, his eyes glinting in the gloom of the bushes they were currently using for obfuscation. His expression was remorseful and a bit tired.

“So then, why is he threatening you over the treasure — this gauntlet — that so many seek? Does he not fear the death of his only offspring… It makes no sense. The King has always been formidable but never an outright tyrant!” The last bit was said with a sharp exhale of breath from Kalpithe.

The shuffling of nervous hooves could be heard. Dreizen held up a hand, silencing his travelling partner for a moment. The King was about to speak.

“This is your final warning Dreizen, and then we start spreading pitch and lantern oil. You two; ready the torches!” The King pointed at the two men closest to him, motioned for them to dismount and begin preparations. The two guardsmen acquiesced; readying their tools and tinderboxes.

Dreizen leaned closer, explaining what Kalpithe needed to understand. “The witch was the one who made the remedies, I imbued them with the power of the forest — through the use of the so-called “Gauntlet”. The King wishes to have the power for himself. What he fails to see; is that the power comes from the trees themselves, and an earnest will to protect the woodlands. Without that; there is no power.”

Dreizen handed his walking stick to Kalpithe.

He then announced quietly, “I will go face him — and most likely perish in the process. You will make your way by air back to the palace, stopping of course at the witch’s hut, on the way. There are a few bottles hidden behind the water-tap in the old orchard.” Dreizen paused for a moment.

Then he continued. “Use the Gauntlet while thinking of your time here. Focus on the tranquility you felt in the forest clearing. A “oneness” should come over you — and then bless the elixir with that ambrosia. It’s actually quite simp—” Dreizen was cut-off mid sentence.

“Dreizen, we are lighting the matches! Final warning. Come out now or say goodbye to your precious plants and animals, you detestable, vile, hermit!” The King’s voice reeked with authority; lividly furious.

Kalpithe was struggling to keep up, yet the choice seemed simple. There was only one problem…

“But, I don’t have the Gauntlet!” He blurted out, forgetting to lower his voice. Our hero absent-mindedly clasped Dreizen’s gnarled walking stick in his hand, gripping it harder due to the anticipation. 

No, it couldn’t be.

“Yes, that’s it. The old stick that you almost broke. Now, use the damn thing and change into a butterfly, eagle, or whatever suits you best. Just make certain to fly high above the smoke.” Dreizen began to stand up, giving Kalpithe a wink while he did so.

Dreizen’s parting words were as follows:

“It’s your turn now, go become the hero; save the princess. But don’t forget that you will have to go into hiding after, and continue to bring her the remedies. The King will soon weaken, and die — as are, the way of things.

You will mind the forest; she the kingdom. And there may be peace for sometime.”

*****

Kalpithe soared above the treeline as he watched the smoke rise. Daneth’yar lay unconscious below, next to a host of dead and injured knights. The plants had come alive in a vicious battle, Dreizen had taken the form of a fearsome Kodiak in his final moments, defying all those that opposed him. But in the end, he was run through by a lance. It was unavoidable. His last moments were braver than most great heroes.

As he flew, Kalpithe assured himself he was reserving the tears for when he was human again. This was one of those thoughts he could not rid himself of for quite some time. It was rather bothersome.

Only one woman in the village alehouse claimed she had seen ‘a sad looking moth’ on the night of the fires.

But no one believed her.