Swords and Sorcery Magazine
  • Home
  • Story 1
  • Story 2
  • Submissions
  • Archive

"The Garden of Dreamers" by Lynn Rushlau

3/30/2016

0 Comments

 
Zey shifted from one foot to the other and snuck an uneasy glance at the statues guarding the entrance. The huge cloaked figures of dark grey stone held lanterns of eternal flame. He shuddered before he could stop himself.

A quick look around confirmed no one saw. The Captain of the Guards argued with a dozen councilors. To no point. The King's decision would stand. He wasn't here to change his mind. Zey's fellow guards watched the argument. Brioc stared at the councilors defiantly, while Kimden worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

Zey stole another peek at the statues. Cowls hid their faces. Even so, he felt their nonexistent eyes on him. Assessing. Judging. Ready to condemn. Zey looked away, touched the amulets sewn onto the hem of his sleeve, and silently began the Prayer to the Aegials, guardians of all who earned their living by the sword and shield.

"Ready?" Lord Mundy stormed past, sweeping up the guards in his wake. Zey brought up the rear, but hesitated at the entrance. This was desecration. He wanted no part of it.

He looked over his shoulder. The Captain met his gaze for a second before he looked away. The councilors hadn't stayed to watch the trespass. Bracing himself for a bolt of lightning, Zey stepped into the tunnel.

Of course, nothing happened. The others walked several feet ahead of him. If the Garden protected itself from those who entered with intention to violate the sanctuary, an attack would have already occurred.

Tendrils of vine crept overhead. Zey stooped to avoid them, though the ceiling rose a good foot taller than he stood. He trailed his hand along stone walls worn smooth by the hands of generations of pilgrims.

The tunnel curved ever so slightly to the left. The bend was almost unperceivable until Kimden, who'd taken the lead, disappeared around a corner. In the heartbeat before Brioc turned after him, Kimden screamed. Brioc and Zey dashed forward, Zey jumping around Mundy to reach his comrade.

They found Kimden mere inches past the bend. Standing in a dimmer passage, he stared straight ahead at nothing. Mundy huffed around the corner.

"What is it?" he demanded.

Kimden's hand trembled in the shadowy corridor. He pointed to the wall ahead. "I saw someone. There."

Brioc strode forward. He ran his hand along the wall and peered into the darkness ahead. "There's no one here. Just some indentions in the stone. Maybe they looked like a face in the dark?"

Mundy shot Kimden a nasty look. "Stop spooking at shadows. You're supposed to be a member of the King's Phoenix Guard."

Muttering an apology, Kimden fell back and allowed Brioc to take the lead. They moved in silence down long, low stairs that barely seemed to descend. Another long slow curve plunged them into darkness.

"Do none of you have a torch?" Mundy snapped.

Zey heard fabric rustling, but neither Brioc or Kimden spoke. Zey dared not let the silence linger any longer. As Guards they served the Kingdom; they weren't supposed to antagonize its councilmen. "To bring fire into the Garden is strictly forbidden."

"Whose laws are you sworn to uphold?"  Mundy snapped.

Zey flinched. Yes, he was sworn to the Kingdom, but the rules of the Garden had always been followed and respected--until today. Aegials, he should have sent a message claiming illness this morning.

"--light," Kimden mumbled.

"What?" Mundy spat as he pivoted around. Glad to no longer be under the angry lord's gaze, Zey allowed himself a silent sigh.

"There's light ahead," Kimden said.

"Lead the way," Mundy ordered.

Zey squinted. Kimden was right. Soft green light emanated from the flecks in the stone overhead, the walls and the steps themselves. The light wasn't bright, but Zey could see well enough to not worry about where he put his feet.

A chill ran down his spine, a feeling that someone watched them. He glanced back, but could see nothing but stone in the shadows. The sense persisted over the hours the path took to walk. No one spoke. The thud of their boots on the steps echoed in the silent, empty corridor.

"Whoa," Brioc breathed. He stopped so suddenly, Mundy slammed into him and cursed. Zey paid no attention. They'd reached the Garden of Dreamers.

A low mist swirled over the Garden. Overhead, despite being far underground, stars filled the...ceiling? The sky? Zey was tired enough to believe that they'd walked all the way to a city on the other side of the world. He blinked and rubbed his arms against another chill. The lights looked impossibly high up to be something on the ceiling of a cave.

Not that this vast expanse looked much like a cave.

A tree grew immediately to the right of the entrance. A tree. And it wasn't the only one. He might not be able to see much from this spot but he could see outlines of other trees. And he could see the Dreamers' "beds."

Circled by greenery, the waist-high slabs of stone resembled tombs. No Dreamer slept on the nearest. Kimden flicked the vines that crept across that platform's top with his finger and grimaced when he noticed the Zey watching at him.

No one and nothing moved in the Garden.

"Should we split up to find him?" Brioc asked.

"No," Mundy said a little too sharply. "I thought the Gardeners would guide us."

He turned and scanned the Garden. Kimden and Zey exchanged looks of utter disbelief.

The Garden of Dreamers belonged to the Visag, guardians of sleep and dreams. Anyone who sought an answer to any question might wind their way down the long spiraling stairs to the Garden, claim a resting place, and sleep until their Dreams revealed what they needed to know. The supplicants who came here might sleep for weeks, months, or years. And no one disturbed their Dreams. No one, not ever.

Until Lord Dregan hired assassins to kill the Queen and fled to the Garden rather than face the consequences.

"Hello?" Lord Mundy called, walking forward. "Hello? Gardeners?"

The others followed. To their left, a young woman slept on a marble bed. Her mouth hung open and a golden curl fluttered with each breath. They passed two empty slabs on the right and another on the left. An elderly man lay like a corpse on the next bed on the right, flat on his back, hands folded across his chest.

Brioc stopped and gaped down at him. "Is he--?"

"So many," a whispery voice said. Zey about jumped out of skin. "Need you assistance in finding the right places to Dream?"

The man wore long misty blue robes over his rail thin frame. Impossible to tell his age. The sleepy, dreaminess that emanated from him seemed powerful enough to stop time. He might have been a hundred and two.

Mundy puffed up and strode forward. "We aren't here for Dreams. Where is Lord Dregan? We know he's in hiding here."

"The Garden is a place of sanctuary--"

"Did I ask for an explanation? The council has voted, the King signed the warrant, and we are here to bring him forth to justice."

The Gardener looked confused.

"Where is he?" 

The Gardener took a step back at Mundy's yell.

"You cannot remove a person from their Dreams. The Dreamers are outside the laws of man."

Mundy's face turned red. "The Garden is part of the Kingdom of Gehlen. It falls under King Drikson's domain and he ordered--"

The Gardener backed away.

"Seize him!" Mundy stamped his foot. Brioc and Zey exchanged a glance. Brioc stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. Mist swirled and engulfed the Gardener. The mist dissipated and the man was gone. Out of the corner of his eye, Zey saw a swirl of mist skitter away to their left.

Mundy growled and spun on them. "Find him! Find Lord Dregan now! You three--" He blinked. "Where's the third one of you?"

Zey pivoted. Hadn't Kimden been standing right behind him? Now nothing stood there, but trees and plants and the Dreamers' platforms.

"Kimden!" Brioc exclaimed. Zey turned. Chills trickled down his spine.

Kimden lay on what had been the empty bed on the left. His jacket hung on a hook beside his sword at the head of the platform. His boots rested beneath. Zey shook his head. How had Kimden removed all that and climbed onto a bed without their notice? They'd been focused on the Gardener for all of two minutes.

Brioc leaned over and shook Kimden. "Kimden! Wake up!"

"Never mind him!" Mundy waved his hand. "He's not important. Find Dregan quickly!"

Zey heard the words left unsaid: before the magic of this place snared the rest of them. That was motivation enough for Zey. He couldn't get trapped down here, not even for a few days, and the Dreams usually took longer than that. His baby girl wouldn't know him by the time he got out. Zey gritted his teeth and followed Mundy's command.

The search took forever, but they found Dregan sleeping on slab encircled by hellebore. At first glance he seemed perfectly at peace, but his clenched fist belied that image.

"Lord Dregan, you are  ordered by His Majesty, King Drikson, the Fifth of that Name, to return at once to Gehlen Hold and be tried for the death of her Majesty, the Queen."

Frowning that his words produced no acknowledgement, Mundy bent over and yelled, "Wake up! You've been commanded to appear before your King. Lord Dregan!"
Dregan slept on, oblivious.

Mundy grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Dregan!"

When that garnered no response, Mundy slapped him. Dregan dreamt on. Mundy turned on Zey. "Wake him up!"

Zey shot a panicked look Brioc's direction. What was he supposed to do? Neither shaking the man nor yelling had disturbed his Dreams.
Zey prodded Dregan's chest. "Lord Dregan?"

"That isn't going to work!" Mundy elbowed Zey out of the way and shook Dregan again.

"It is blasphemy to disturb a Dreamer."

Zey turned his head the direction of the words and jumped. A solid wall of Gardeners surrounded them.

Eyes narrowed, Mundy slowly turned and sneered at the circling men and women. "This man is a traitor. He came to the Garden to hide from the consequences of his crimes and that cannot be allowed. The King demands his presence. You have no right to countermand an order of your King!"

"He will not wake until his Dreams are finished," a female Gardener said.

"He will wake if the King demands it! Dregan!" Mundy shook Dregan again.

"Your efforts are futile. He is in the Dreams. He cannot be summoned back. The Dream will release him when it finishes with him."

The deadpan voices of the Gardeners sent shivers down Zey's spine. They had tried to follow the King's command. It didn't work. So...back home now?

"The orders said nothing about waking him." Mundy sneered. He snapped his fingers at Brioc and Zey. "You two, carry him."

Zey hesitated, but Brioc strode forward and grabbed Dregan by an arm. Zey stepped towards him, but Brioc waved him away.

"He's puny. I got him." Brioc swung Dregan over his shoulder.

Mundy turned with a triumphant "Hah!" but faced only swirling mist. He staggered off-balance for only a second before his usual arrogance puffed out his chest, put his nose in the air, and sent him swaggering across the Garden.

"Bring him. Let's get out of here."

Zey fell in behind Mundy, leaving Brioc to bring up the rear. Mist swirled around them. It brushed against his bare flesh like the soft touch of insect wings, except there was nothing to smack away before it bit. Zey shivered.

"Zey!" Brioc hissed under his breath.

Zey stepped aside, falling back to walk with Brioc. "What's wrong?"

"Where's the staircase?"

Zey looked up ahead of Mundy and came to a stop. They weren't walking towards a staircase. The swirling mist remained low, waist high at most. Ahead he could see trees and plenty of beds, a mix of occupied and empty ones. But the dreaming platforms in their garden beds stretched forward as far as he could see. How far had they walked?

Brioc had stopped beside him. He turned to the right, while Zey scanned the Garden to the left. They both ended up facing behind them.

"I don't see the exit at all," Zey said.

"Yeah, me either. Oh shit."

Zey glanced over and saw that Brioc had spun back around to face the direction they'd been moving. He turned quickly. Oh, no.

"Mundy!" Brioc hollered.

No one responded.

"Maybe we should run to catch up with him?" Zey cocked his head to the side.

Brioc nodded and they both jogged forward occasionally calling out the lord's name. Brioc huffed along beside him for a several minutes, but slowly fell back. Zey staggered to a halt and turned around.

"What's wrong?"

"We've run further this way than we walked in the first place," Brioc puffed.

Ignoring the way the hair on his neck and arms stood up, Zey looked around. That bed with the climbing roses almost touching the face of the elderly woman curled on her side wasn't familiar. Nor was the child sprawled out on a clover-covered bed.

Don't panic, he ordered himself. They'd moved around a bit. So this wasn't the exact row of beds they'd walked between in the first place.

"Are you sure?" Zey wasn't. He couldn't find a reference point. Couldn't see the walls of the cave. Definitely didn't see the damned stairs.

"MUNDY!" Brioc shouted again.

"Shh. Do not disturb those who Dream."

Zey and Brioc pivoted, but no one stood behind them. They turned full circle without finding the voice. Zey shivered.

Brioc breathed out slowly. "I hate this place."

"Let's just find our way out."

"Well I was trying!" Brioc snapped.

Zey kept his sigh silent. Brioc had always been one of his least favorite people. Why couldn't he have felt the need for a snooze and left Kimden to finish this mission?

"Maybe we should move up that way?" Zey pointed to his right.

"Why?" Brioc sneered.

"Because I think we were further that way when we came in. Maybe something is obscuring the stairs cause we're too far up this way."

Brioc snorted. "Yeah, like the stairs could be obscured. That makes so much sense."

"What here makes sense? We're several miles underground in a garden with trees and stars and people who can sleep for years without aging and others who evaporate in the mist."

Brioc readjusted Dregan on his shoulder. "Fine. Lead on."

Zey turned right and skirted between two empty beds. One was practically obscured under an arch of wisteria. The other almost barren with a handful of pink snapdragons sparsely growing along the base. Two beds peeked out of a weeping willow's branches up ahead. The feet of a Dreamer lay poked through the foliage on one.

On the right, Zey passed what looked like holly bushes circled around nothing. He slowed and looked around carefully.

Brioc screamed. Zey pivoted. Brioc stood with his back to Zey and was in the process of dumping Dregan on a bed.

"What are you doing?" Zey rushed over.

"Look at him!"

Brioc staggered back. Zey could now see...Lord Dregan? Ivy dangled from the man's arms and legs. Zey inched closer. The vines wrapped all around the lord. Leaves sprouted from the Dregan's wrist and spiraled up his arm as Zey watched. Zey took a step back.

The leaves continued to sprout and circle Dregan's limbs and torso. In minutes, Dregan looked like a mound of greenery, a small hill rising up from the bed. Was he dead under all that?

"What the fuck!" Brioc's voice was pitched far too high.

Zey turned. His jaw dropped.

 A vine sprouted from Brioc's right wrist. Brioc yanked the sprout out, letting it fall to the floor. Blood welled, dripped, and another tendril of vine sprouted through the open flesh. Brioc screamed and ripped the new growth out.

Zey dropped his hands over his own wrists. He felt nothing but flesh with bone underneath.

Another shoot poked out of Brioc's wrist. The noise that slipped through his gritted teeth was a cross between a sob and a scream. His left hand darted for the right wrist, but another hand got there first.

The bony hand clamped down, covering the vine. Brioc jerked away, but didn't free himself. He looked up and whimpered.

Zey would have too if he dared make a sound. The Gardener's eyes flickered with fire. His robed billowed like smoke, and mist seemed to be emanating from it.

"Blasphemy!" the Gardener bellowed. The word echoed throughout the Garden. Zey ducked as if the very word could hurt him.

"No. Please. No. Let me go. Make it stop. I didn't mean to do anything. I was just following orders. Let me leave. Make it stop!" Brioc's voice rose in pitch until it was unrecognizable. He continued to babble and struggle. Even pulling with what looked like his full weight, he moved the Gardener not at an inch.

"The Garden claimed you. Dream, and the Garden will let you go." The Gardener's voice lowered in volume, but still seemed to echo.

Zey backed away as Brioc protested incoherently. The Garden hadn't claimed him. He wanted out of here before it did. He scratched at his unblemished wrists.

The Gardener steered Brioc towards an empty bed. Zey pivoted.

"ZEY!" Brioc screamed, but Zey fled and did not look back.

He'd find the stairs. They had to be around here somewhere. The Gardens were only so large--okay, they might stretch on forever. So what if they did? He and the others had not walked for forever. So the stairs must be nearby. They must be.

Oh, shit! He'd been running blindly, not even keeping an eye out for the damned stairs. He looked around wildly, tripped, and sprawled face-first in the dirt.

Unleashing a stream of curses, he rolled over and rubbed his shins. They felt like they'd been smacked with a sword, but there was nothing on the ground to account for his tumble.

Shaking slightly, he scooted towards the nearest bed and used it to pull himself up. He cursed again. Which way had he been running? He couldn't see Brioc or any Gardeners anywhere. Presumably, the Gardener had convinced Brioc to Dream, and he now lay on one of these slabs. Zey shivered.

He drew his hand from the bed and wet his lips. The Garden appeared deceptively empty, but dozens of Gardeners lurked just out of sight. All of them watching him. They wouldn't get him. He would escape.

Zey stepped away from the bed, prepared to sneak away, but something caught his attention in the corner of his eye. He turned his head. His jaw fell open.

"Oh Aegials, no."

Lord Mundy lay flopped over on his side as if he'd been tossed on the bed. His mouth twisted in a frown, deep furrows ran across his forehead. Even in sleep, his hands were clenched. Either his dreams were not easy or he'd been forced into this and was furious. Probably both. The force part was definite. None of them had wanted to stay here.

On the verge of hysterics now, Zey backed away. His breath escaped from his throat in sobs, but he couldn't worry about that right now. They were doomed. He was doomed. Everyone else had already fallen.

"Help me," he whispered on a sob. "Help me, help me, help me, help me!" His cry ended in a keen.

A Gardener appeared beside him. Warmth and comfort emanated from her. She touched his arm and the world grew fuzzy. She murmured soothing sounds that meant nothing and led him to a bed a few feet away.

He violently shook his head--in his mind. In reality he couldn't summon the energy to protest. And why bother? He just wanted to stay with the Gardner. She'd make everything okay.

"Hang your sword here."

Her right hand caressed a hook at the head of the bed.

Zey stared at the sword hanging on the hook. When had he taken off his belt? He looked down at his hands. How had he...? When had he...?

His feet were bare. His boots rested below the sword, socks flopped out of the boot's tops. When? Who? Him?

"Come now. Lay down." The Gardener touched the bed.

Zey shivered. He ran his hands over his arms. Shirt sleeves. Where had--? He looked next to his sword and saw his jacket hanging there. But when had--? Who removed--?

He sat on the slab. It was surprisingly soft and comfortable. He touched the surface. It gave a little under pressure from his hand. He looked from his hand to the ground. Had he climbed onto this bed? When? How?

"Time to Dream." The Gardener touched his forehead.

"I don't want...I want...My wife. Daughter."

"Shh." She caressed his head.

Zey blinked. When had he laid down? How had his head gotten pillowed on his right arm?

"Shh." The Gardener trailed her fingers gently down his face. Zey shuddered. His eyes fell closed.

"Dream now."


©February, 2016 Lynn Rushlau

Lynn Rushlaus's work has appeared in Reflection's Edge, The Colored Lens, and Sorcerous Signals This is her first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.​
0 Comments

"The Tale of Oscar and Taron" by Daniel Amatiello

3/30/2016

0 Comments

 
On unsteady legs Oscar carried the two foaming pints to his table, trying not to spill the contents as he staggered over. He placed one in front of his companion and held on to the other. As he sat, Taron continued the story he had been recounting.

“I should 'ave won first place at the county games that year.”

Oscar didn’t mind listening to Taron's ramblings. He was too timid to get a word in, and besides he was grateful for the chance to enjoy an under-age night-life while his parents were out of town.

“Champion of the 'ammer toss as usual.”

As long as Taron kept buying him drinks, Oscar would sit quietly and listen, as he had done for the last couple of hours. The sound of footsteps by his side however brought an end to the story.

“Hello chaps,” chirped a voice at his ear, “How about a beer? It's been a long day and I could use some good company”.

Oscar turned to see an old woman at his shoulder. She had a warm smile, and he decided that she must have been very beautiful in her youth, like the women in the fairy stories he used to read. A magnificent fire still burned behind her green eyes, but time had turned her hair to silver.

“Read my mind,” Taron replied as she placed three tankards on the table and sat down between the men, “I'm Taron, and this 'ere is Oscar. Don't recall seeing you around Stogumbus before.”

“Pleased to meet you Oscar and Taron, two fine figures of men if I say so,” the woman said with a wink in Oscar's direction. He tried in vain to hide a blush as he glanced over at the balding Taron, and decided her statement was unlikely.

“I'm Attey, and yes I've never been here before. I'm actually heading back north after a few weeks away.”

“Yup, thought you's from up north,” Taron replied with a tone of certainty. He was a man of the world, so long as the world did not expand beyond the local region.
“Well I wouldn't say that, I'm actually from the south-east, from the capital. I work for the palace on occasion.”

Oscar was astonished. Attey must have picked up on his wonderment from his expression, because she flashed him a grin.

“Oh yes, I'm actually headed to Torntown where the King's stationed at the moment, the royal children's nanny has been taken ill so they've requested me as the replacement.”

“I-incredible,” Oscar mumbled with tipsy excitement, “is that to do with the war? They say some terrible count from the continent is building an empire, slaying and killing anyone who gets in the way. Th-they say we are his next target. My mate reckons it's nonsense, but I don't think so!”

“Yep,” she continued, ”a nanny's work is never done. Even when the army is off gallivanting around the place someone’s still got to look after the little brats.”

Oscar did not want to hear this, he would have preferred tales of gallantry and the war instead so he continued, “th-they say the count is some kind of demon resurrected from a thousand years ago, is that true?”

Taron snorted in his condescending manner, and Attey chuckled, “well why don't you find out for yourself? I confess that's why I came over here, I need transport. These old legs can only carry me so far, and it's a long walk.”

“I knew you's up to something,” Taron said, “and you can forget it!”

“Oh, well there’s more in it than a beer. You fancy an easy earner, this is it. The royal court pays well you know.”

Oscar was wide-eyed with excitement, but Taron maintained a poker face.

“Would cost some upfront. Hiring a cart, supplies 'n' such.”

This was a lie, amongst other things Taron was a seasoned trader of the region, and had a cart and supplies aplenty. 

“Of course, I understand. Let me see, how about upfront... fifty silver pieces, plus the same on arrival?”

Oscar thought Taron did a remarkable job maintaining his poker face.

“Hmm, I think we can sort somethin' out for y'.”
 

Oscar awoke to the sound of his name being bellowed somewhere in the vicinity. He prised his eyes open to try and fathom just where, when and what he was.
A few seconds of light-headed limbo passed, before it hit him. The skull splitting sensation of a dawning hangover collided into his head.

“Get up you lazy sod!” Taron shouted, his voice causing a fissure to crack in Oscar's mind. “That Attey woman is outside waitin', and you ought t' see this!” He waved a bag before Oscar's eyes with a jingle, “She paid up, this is more'n you earn in a year boy!”

With a sigh Oscar hauled himself out of bed and slipped into some clothes. The memories of the night before were slowly returning to him, the recollection of the agreement they had made with the strange woman. His heart stopped, what the hell was I thinking? 

“Taron listen, my parents will be back in a couple days, and if I've not got my work done there'll be trouble.”

Taron stood by the door, “C'mon, it'll be fine. Don't be gettin' cold feet, you know what your parents will say? They'll say, 'Shit that's a lot of money son, well done for listening to Taron.' Now get a move on will yer!”

Taron left, and Oscar chucked a few things into a bag for the journey with a feeling of dread, before stumbling out of the house after him.

“I don't know 'bout this.” Taron was mumbling by the side of his wagon when Oscar arrived, “This ain’t what we agreed to.”

He stood frowning at the petite Attey and a tall man stood beside her, who had just arrived.

“Deary me, didn't I mention him last night?” Attey chuckled, “must have been too much of that local ale! Yes, Mr Howard is my companion; my chaperone.”

Howard bowed his blond head low, “Good sir, do not be vexed. You will find me inoffensive company.”

Taron grumbled low, “Fine, come on then let's get going!”
 

The horse trotted on slowly down the hill to Stogumbus. The animal was tired, the rider had pushed it hard on the trail of the high priestess Loka. He would have to find a new steed if she had already left, as this one would not last much longer.

Two men were working on a gate up ahead.

“Good morning!” He called as he neared them, “Tell me, where is place of rest in these parts?”

The two men glanced at each other, unaccustomed to the sight of dark hooded strangers with unusual accents.

“The Bridge O'er Water would suit your needs friend, but he'd barely 'ave opened up this time a mornin'.”

“That is fine friend, many thanks. Good day.”

He headed in the direction of the pub, and after tethering the horse outside he went in. The shutters had not yet been opened causing the place to seem gloomy.
A portly man looked up from his mop as he entered, “'Ello stranger, can I help you?”

“I am after information regarding friend of mine,” the Stranger replied as he closed the door, “Tell me, do you have young woman here from out of town?”

The Landlord frowned while he pondered, “Young woman? No, sorry mister.”

“You are sure?” The man pressed as he approached. “A young woman, you would not forget, truly beautiful.”

The Landlord shook his head with an apprehensive frown as the Stranger stepped toward him, a smile on his lean face. He got to just the right distance, and kicked out hard into the man's belly. The Landlord let out a howl as he fell to his knees.

“Think hard little man. I know she was here, possibly with escort. Do not be fool, I am sure you feel quite the hero for not talking but your efforts are in vain, you will not slow me down much!”

The barman raised himself up to look at the dark Stranger through watery eyes.

“Sir, I swear I don't know. N-no idea what you're talking about.”

With a flash of lightning the Stranger drew his blade from beneath his cloak and slashed out. The razor weapon sliced into the barman's cheek, opening a deep gash. Blood oozed from the wound and ran down his face. 

“You are saying that you did not see anyone strange last night? No one from out of town? I will not ask again.”

“W-wait!” The barman said, throwing his hands up to fend off the sharp blade hovering inches from his face. “Yeah, I did see some strange folks, an old woman and her nephew, least that's what they said. Stayed the night, got chattin' with some of the locals.”

The Stranger kept his sword in hand, “So the little bitch had her servants cover for her while she hid in her room. Smart girl. Where are they now?”

The barman managed a timid shrug, “They got friendly with a couple of local lads who agreed to give 'em a lift out of town. Headed north I think, that's all I know! Please don't hurt me. I won't tell no one, I swear!”

“Listen, where is your stables? I need horse!”
 

The sun shone bright in the sky, causing Taron to squint as he drove the wagon on. Oscar sat beside him, their passengers in the back. They went on at a steady pace, stopping occasionally for a rest. There was a surprising number of people on the road, all heading south. Some Taron knew and greeted, but none stopped to talk.

Hours passed and the sun was low on the horizon, painting its twilight glow across the sky when they arrived at the next town of Westlington. It was the final stop before Torntown, and after a little deliberation they agreed to spend the night at a local inn frequented by Taron on his travels.

“All right darlin', need a room and a hot meal if you please,” Taron said as he strode up to the bar. The landlady, a gentle woman in her thirties, gave him a warm smile.
“Haven't seen you 'ere in a while, hows thing? Four of you is it?”

“Make that two rooms dear,” Attey said as she moved in at the bar beside Taron, “If you think I'm sharing with you chaps you've got another thing coming. The boys get a bit smelly on the road, don't you find?”

The woman chuckled, “Two rooms it is. Come, I'll show you the way. The rooms are upstairs, when you're ready come on down and I'll fix you up some grub.”

The group followed the woman upstairs.

“This one at the top of the stairs you'll find quite comfortable,” she said to Attey as she unlocked the door and handed her the key, “It's a little small, but it's got a bath. I'll get the lad to run up with some hot water in a bit.”

“Sounds lovely, and maybe I'll chuck the boys in afterwards. They could use a good scrub behind the ears.”

“And this room for the gents,” She said with a smile.
 

The Stranger pushed open the door to the inn, causing the bell above to jingle. It was dark by the time he arrived, and a couple of torches burned low inside. It appeared the patrons had retired for the evening. As he strode up to the bar, a woman appeared from one of the back rooms.

“Evening sir, can I help?” She asked.

The Stranger pulled back his hood, “Perhaps you can...”
 

Oscar's hangover had passed, but it left him feeling groggy as he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

After an untold time he awoke to a gentle tapping sound. He sat up and scanned the room. It was late in the night, and the darkness was near blinding. He could barely make out the sleeping forms of Taron and Howard in their beds.

When Oscar realised the tapping was coming from the door his heart jumped. The sound was only quiet, but it tolled in his mind like a church bell. He got out of bed and timidly shuffled toward the door, all the while hoping one of the others would awake  and deal with it.

He gripped the handle firmly in nervous hands, and turned.

The smiling face of Attey greeted him from the other side. Without asking, she sauntered in.

“Young man, would you be ever such a good lad and lend me your bed for the night?”

Oscar stood dumbfounded as he closed the door, “but... but this is our bedroom, and that's my bed. You said yourself you'd rather have your own room.”

“I'm afraid I'm not quite the tough lass I thought I was. Do be a good boy and set up on the floor.”

 
“Many thanks,” The Stranger said as he wiped clean his dagger on her dress, “I knew you could help.”

He stood up and briefly admired his work, sparing a moment for the landlady lying dead at his feet. Finally, he placed a hand over her face and pulled her lids closed before leaving her in peace.

The first room at the top of the stairs, she had said, an old lady from out of town, travelling with a small group of men.

On feet as light as leaves the man ascended the staircase and crept up to the door. Gentle but deadly fingers wrapped around the door-handle. It may have been locked, which would require a less stealthy approach, but he applied pressure and the door gave way.

The window at the far side of the room was open and a slight draft breezed in. In the darkness he could just make out the shapes of two beds on the right hand side of the room. He approached the nearest first, stepping up beside it on feathered feet.

An exploring touch found the bed used but empty. The covers were a mess and a faint warmth still lingered.

Strange, he thought as he tried the next bed. He found it the same, used but recently discarded. Where are they? Could they have left just before I arrived, or escaped through the window?

The man's hands clenched into fists, damn that girl, she lied to throw me off!

He took a moment to admire her resilience, he found people rarely had the fortitude to lie while being tortured. She must have had a stronger will than he gave her credit for.

Without wasting another second, the Stranger ran down the stairs and out into the night.
 

The sun was on the rise and the wagon trundled along. Oscar had looked forward to a cooked breakfast in the morning, but it seemed Attey and Howard had other plans. Before dawn had broken Howard was up ushering them out of bed. They left under cover of darkness and had kept going since.

Oscar and Attey were sat in the back, the two men upfront.

“They say the Count Urslar ruled a mighty kingdom in the east, on the border of the known world.”

Oscar had asked Attey about the war. Seeing as she worked in the palace, he figured she would be the authority on current affairs.

“Enraged after the murder of his queen at the hands of our ancestors, the Count beseeched his vile gods for vengeance, and in answer they turned him into a being monstrous to behold. None could match him in battle, yet his power came at a heavy price. Each day he had to take a life to sate the lust of his demonic gods.

After years of bloodshed the wise men of the west set off to the Count's kingdom in search of hope.

A year passed, when finally one man returned with a page torn from the holy book of the ruler's vile religion. With this, the wise man met the Count on the field of battle. He stood before the beast, and bellowed out a passage. In an instant the Count's army fell into disarray and the monster himself vanished in a cloud of smoke.
They say the wisdom used to vanquish the monster was locked away in a monastery in a country in the south that no longer exists. Only the wisest of mankind know where to find it to this day.

Now after all these years the Count has returned and his lust for vengeance burns as strong as ever before...”

Attey finished her story just as the wagon shuddered to a stop. Oscar was snapped out of his wonderment by the sound of voices outside. Taron, it seemed, was arguing with someone blocking the path.

“What're you talking about y' mad fool?”

“Do not deny it, you know very well,” came a voice unfamiliar to Oscar, with a strange accent, “I know you escort the priestess, hand her over and you may not be harmed!”

Oscar stumbled to his feet and stuck his head out of the canopy.

A horse stood in the middle of the road, and sat upon it was a man in a dark hood and cloak.

“There's no such person here y' drunkard! Now move it!”

The man flung back his hood revealing a dark, lean face. The sun reflected off his jet black hair, tied tightly back.

“You cannot fool me, Loka is travelling with you, and this knight is her companion!” he said as his piercing eyes turned to Howard.

“So you are the one from the inn?” Howard replied with menace in his voice. “You murdered that woman, and tried to kill us in our sleep?”

Oscar's head swam, Howard is a knight? And what in the hells happened last night? 

“Do not try to resist me, it would be useless. I knew I would meet you on this road, I thought you had escaped me last night so I rode for Torntown, only to find you had not yet arrived. I then doubled back in hope I would still catch you on this road. Surrender now, for there is legion of Count's men following me. Look!” He stretched his arm toward the horizon, and at the tip of his fingers Oscar could see the specks of riders in the distance.

Howard turned to Taron and whispered, too low for Oscar to hear. Taron replied with a quizzical frown.

“Enough!” Howard bellowed as he stood up on the wagon, drawing a dagger from out of nowhere. He flung his cape aside in a grand movement and hurled the knife at the same time, leaping from the cart as he did.

The Stranger swerved to avoid the missile, but became unbalanced in the process. Howard, now with sword in hand rushed over and grabbed at his cloak. With a mighty tug he pulled the Stranger from the saddle, falling down himself under the momentum. Both men hit the ground with a thud.

In a flash they were on their feet. Howard swept up his sword where it lay, but the Stranger was just as quick. They stood face to face, two tigers ready to pounce any moment. 

The Stranger attacked first, swinging his fine blade in a precise swipe at the knight's head. Howard parried and back-stepped, and the Stranger came on again with a slice at his midriff. Howard again patted this aside, before slicing out ferociously with a vertical swipe. The Stranger jumped back to avoid the move, barely in time to save his skin.

The knight turned back just long enough to yell at Taron, “Go! Get out of here!”

Oscar was stood a-daze as Taron whipped the horses into action. He stared wide-eyed until the battling figures were out of sight.
“What are you doing? We can't just leave him against that maniac!”

“That's exactly what we're doing,” Taron yelled back over the sound of the cart rumbling along the rough track, “now get out 'ere and help!”

 
The wagon thundered along. Attey remained silent in the back, while the two companions spurred the horses on upfront. Neither really knew why, but Taron was not going to wait around long enough to find out.

The mass of riders ahead kicked up a plume of dust, having seen the wagon they began to charge.

“The soldiers that assassin spoke of, were goin' to run right into 'em!” Taron yelled.

“Wh-what do they want with us?”

“No idea,” Taron jerked hard on the reigns, pulling the horses to the right. The wagon thundered off the track onto the grassland, heading for a large wood in the distance.

“What you doing? Wh-why don't we get those soldiers to help?”

“They won't help us boy,” The wagon hurtled across the field toward an opening in the trees, “Howard said they think we're transportin' some royal guest. Those soldiers would kill us all to find 'im. Our best bet is to take the bridleway up ahead. I've used it in the past, It'll take us right outside town.”

The wagon slowed a little as they entered the wood. Roots and rocks reached up and snagged the wheels of the cart as it rumbled on through, and the sides of the canopy were whipped and torn by low hanging branches.

Taron pushed the horses hard, as if pouring his own willpower into them. He saw Oscar steal a glance behind.

“Shit, they're right behind us!”

Taron didn't waste time looking. He whipped the horses on faster until foam frothed from their mouths and their hooves tripped on the rough terrain.

Ahead the bridleway opened wider as they neared a fork in the track. They passed the fork and emerged into the wider section, and instantly the riders were upon them.

Several men closed in on each flank, two of them tried to grab the reigns to slow the cart while another reeled in closer on the left with his sword drawn. They all wore dark cloaks that billowed out behind as they rode.

“Keep hold of these!” Taron yelled as he passed the reigns to Oscar, who sat wide-eyed and white-knuckled. Taron stood and reached back into the canopy. He grabbed the nearest object he could find, a hammer from his tool kit, and re-emerged.

The sword wielding rider moved in to take a swing at Oscar, when Taron flung his hammer over the boy's head. The legendary hammer toss champion, his aim was flawless and the projectile walloped the rider hard in the side of the head. He let out a scream and fell behind.

“Yes!” Taron roared, and Oscar chuckled excitedly. Despite himself, Taron was enjoying this.

Suddenly an almighty crunching sound erupted from below, and the wagon bucked. The victory was short lived as the front left wheel sheared off on a rock and the cart skidded to a halt. The riders pulled back hard on their reigns to stop from bolting past.

In a moment they were surrounded. Taron's heart seemed to stop inside his chest, as the nearest soldier moved in, grabbed him roughly by the collar and threw him to the ground.

Taron landed with a thud. He lay there dazed for a few seconds as the world span and doom neared, but in those few moments he lay there expecting a painful death a sudden cacophony broke out around him. Screams pierced the silence of the woodland and the sounds of clashing swords caused Taron to look up from where he lay.
Another group set upon the dark robed assassins, men in the royal red of the army. Catching them unawares, the newcomers butchered the Count's men effortlessly. Bodies fell all around Taron, and soon the last of the dark hooded figures was dead, pierced through with an arrow. One of the soldiers walked over to Taron where he lay and stuck out his hand.

“It seems we got here just in time,” The man said as he pulled Taron to his feet, before lifting the helmet form his head. “Captain Wells of the royal guard. Our spies informed us that the enemy was pursuing you on the road north. Tell me, is the priestess with you?”

Taron stooped, heaving in air as he gathered his scattered wits. He noticed another soldier pull Oscar up from the ground.

“No, we've no priestess as everyone seems to think. I've never met the damned woman.”

A rustling sound came from the back of the wagon, and Oscar scrambled over to help the flustered Attey out.

“Young man,” she said as Oscar helped reunite her with the ground, “make haste and help us get to Vivar field. I have urgent news for the king, and what’s more Sir Howard needs your help.”

“Ah,” the captain replied unconvinced, “I presume you are Loka's maid, but where is the elusive girl herself? And what's this about Sir Howard?”

“He engaged in combat with an assassin on the road back there. He is in dire peril alone against the enemy.”

Wells turned to his men, “Not a moment to lose then, division one get to it!”

The men saluted and mounted up, not needing any more instruction they rode off. He then turned back to the trio, “Come, time is of the essence. Three of my men shall lend you their horses and tend to the wagon. Mount up and we shall get going.”

 
The group rode through the wood escorted by the captain and his men. They arrived at Vivar field late in the afternoon. Oscar's eyes swept over hundreds of tents as they rode past, and the faces of tired and battered men that glanced up from them.

All his life Oscar had dreamed of the glorious life of a knight, yet the reality of such chilled him to behold. There was no feeling of glory on Vivar field that evening.
Ahead, atop a large hill a pavilion had been constructed, and Wells led them to it. Oscar and his friends dismounted at the entrance and were led inside. Torches burned along the walls and a large table sat in the centre covered in maps and scrolls. A dozen men were stood around it, deep in debate.

“My lord, I bring news of the priestess Loka,” Wells stated as he dropped to one knee. The others emulated him, and all the men at the table turned to face them. Oscar's eyes went to a tall man with dark hair and deep, tired eyes. The King Dimitrus, his crown weighing heavier than ever upon his head.

“Rise, all of you. What news captain?”

“It seems Loka's whereabouts are...”

“Dimitrus, pardon the confusion,” Attey interrupted the Captain as she stepped forward, “allow me to clear things up.”

Attey lowered her eyes as she uttered a few words beneath her breath, her face wrinkling in an effort to remember them.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of light filled the room, hitting Oscar with the force of a physical blow. He shut his eyes and blurred shapes danced behind his eyelids. After a moment the light faded, and he opened his eyes again to a distorted vision. As his sight began to clear and the room once again came into focus, his gaze settled on a blurred outline before him. First her frame came into focus, then the finer details.

Oscar gasped in surprise and the woman chuckled at his reaction. Where had stood Attey was now someone else. Her hair was just as grey as Attey's, and behind the emerald eyes burned the same fire, but she was much younger. Oscar thought she looked just like a princess from one of his old fairy stories.

“Loka!” the King exclaimed, “Praise the lord you are here!” He rushed in and grabbed her by the shoulders.

“Your highness, you are grinning like a schoolboy,” she teased, “yes it is I.”

Oscar, Taron and the others in the room were dumbstruck.

“But how?”

“The ancient ones left greater knowledge than I had expected, including the ability to change one's appearance. I thought it a wise precaution for the road back, knowing that I was being pursued.”

The king released her from the embrace, yet his smile remained.

“And what of your quest, have you acquired that which you sought, the power to destroy Urslar?”

Loka nodded with a smile, “I have! It won't be easy, I will need to be close enough to touch him for the ritual to work.”

The king's face fell stern. One of the captains behind him spoke up, “That'll be dangerous, but the opportunity will not be hard to come by. The count lavishes in the bloodshed of battle. Once a day he appears on the field, slaughtering men like insects.”

“True enough,” The king replied, turning to face the man, “But we have an ally in surprise. A sudden rush, all the men we have in a spear formation straight to the heart of the enemy. It would be a move he would not expect, sure to draw him out. If we fail, we die and the west falls.”

Loka's smile vanished, “There's no knowing if this will work! That is too great a risk.”

“It is our last chance,” the captain said, gazing sternly at the king in approval, before turning to Loka, “we are near defeated. Just now we were plotting a final stand. We likely would not have lasted the night.”

The king's gaze drifted over his captains, over Oscar and Taron, and finally rested on Loka. “Mount up, captains rally all the men. We ride within the hour.”
Taron was fidgeting at Oscar's side as the tent sprang to life, worrying that his earnings would be riding to their doom with a suicidal King.

“This is all well and good miss,” Taron said to Loka in a whisper, “but what about our deal? I wish y' the best of luck, but if you fail I've still got a new cart to buy.”

The King heard Taron and turned to face him. “Good man, you dare speak of money at this time? You should be content in the honour of your service to the crown.”

“Oh stop Dimitrus,” Loka interrupted, “Don't go on. I promised him, and as I have proven I do not back out of my promises. Pay him and don't be so surly!”

Oscar, standing well back, had to stifle a chuckle. He couldn't help but smile, still the same Attey. 

 
Taron stood beside Oscar looking over Vivar field. Both sides still fought on relentlessly in the field below. As the evening approached the lines slowly fell one by one.
The companions watched on in silence beneath the glow of the sunset, off to the side stood the King's council, equally enthralled by the view. The bulk of the King's army, gathered behind the front line, began to mobilize. Taron could not make out individuals, but he knew the King and Loka would be a few lines back in the spearhead, ready to meet the invading army once the tip had been broken.

Finally the King's men, with a deafening cry that carried to the onlookers on the hilltop, charged headlong into the fray.

The men on the field scurried out of the way as the cavalry neared, opening a gap for them to charge the Count's horde. The spear formation drove deep into the enemy, smashing through the first lines unopposed. Taron struggled to make out the details from this distance but he could hear the sounds of the battle from where he stood.
He had never approved of knights and their ilk, but Taron had to admit a new-found respect. He knew that he would not want to be down there.

They stood watching for some time as the battle raged on below them. They waited in anticipation for something to happen, but as time pressed on there was nothing. Taron began to doubt the success of the plan, and as the sun began to set he considered suggesting a timely departure.

Suddenly in the distance a brilliant flash erupted, shrouding the landscape in blinding white light. It originated from deep within the enemy lines. Taron turned away as it dazzled his eyes.

In a moment the light faded, leaving a deathly silence. Moments passed when slowly, on the field below a cheer broke out. One after another the combatants below let out a cry, spreading across the field like a rumour of victory.

 
The King limped up the hill supported on the shoulders of two of his men. Loka and the captains followed behind, all in high spirits. Dimitrus shrugged off his two helpers as he neared the top and came into view of his audience. He unclipped his plate mail, letting it lie where it fell, and as he passed Oscar and Taron he gave them a short nod.

The captains walked past with Loka, who stopped beside them. Her clothes were torn and her body drenched in sweat and blood.

“It worked!” she beamed with an exhausted satisfaction, “The count is gone, vanished in a cloud of smoke like in the fable! His army was under a supernatural influence, with him gone they soon surrendered.”

“Incredible,” Oscar beamed, “So we've saved the world like heroes of old?”

 
Though they travelled the same road, the return trip felt very different. Oscar and Taron went with a feeling of accomplishment, but also with a pang of regret at having had only a glimpse of a world they would never know again.

They stopped at a different inn at Westlington, and were soon sat at a table in the corner, drinking beer.

In the familiar setting Oscar's thoughts went back to reality, What will I tell my parents? They won't believe any of this.

“Mind if I join you?” Asked a hooded figure at his shoulder, who stood with three tankards of beer in hand. Oscar recognised the voice, but could not see the face beneath the hood.

“Seeing as you’re bringing beer.” Taron answered.

“Ha, well next beers are on you friend, I hear you've come into some money lately,” The stranger threw back his hood with a grin as he took a seat.

“Howard, you're alive!” Oscar said, “What happened back there?”

“What, that assassin? That dog was no match for me, I dealt with him then took my cue for a quiet get away. I've been thinking of retiring from palace life for a while now, time for a fresh start.” He paused to take a swig of his beer, “I had been many things before I became a knight. Now that life has gotten stale for me, too many formalities. Time to roam once again. I could do with some companions on the road you know,” He glanced back and forth between Oscar whose grin stretched even wider, and Taron whose frown deepened. “What do you say, either of you up for an adventure?”
 


©February, 2016 Daniel Amatiello

Daniel Amatiello has not previously been published. He intends to showcase his future work at danielamatiello.com.
0 Comments

    Editor

    Curtis Ellett is a frustrated fantasy writer and a founding member of the 196 Southshore Writers' Group. He has lived on three continents, studied archaeology and worked as a newspaper ad designer and a bookseller. He now gets paid to write. Find him on Twitter @CurtisEllett.

    Archives

    March 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    February 2012

    Categories

    All
    A. J. Carter
    Alexander Leger-Small
    Alexandra Seidel
    Alex B.
    Alison McBain
    Andrew Knighton
    Andrew Moore
    Andrew Muff
    Anna Cates
    Anna Sykora
    B. C. Nance
    Belle DiMonté
    Benjamin Darnell
    Bill West
    Billy Wong
    Brandon Ketchum
    Brian Dyke
    Brynn Macnab
    Cameron Huntley
    Cameron Johnston
    Caw Miller
    Cesar Alcazar
    Charlene Brusso
    Christopher G. Hall
    Christopher Mowder
    Connor Gormley
    Connor Perry
    Dale T. Phillips
    Dan DeFazio
    Daniel Amatiello
    Daniel Hand
    Daniel Morley
    David Bowles
    Davide Mana
    David J. West
    David Turnbull
    Dc Harrell
    Debra Young
    Diana Parparita
    Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
    Dorothy Winsor
    Ed Ahern
    Editorial
    Edward H. Parks
    Essay
    Frank Marinicchio
    Frank R. Sjodin
    Fraser Sherman
    Garnett Elliott
    Gary Every
    Gerry Huntman
    Gustavo Bondoni
    Issue 1
    Issue 10
    Issue 11
    Issue 12
    Issue 13
    Issue 14
    Issue 15
    Issue 16
    Issue 17
    Issue 18
    Issue 19
    Issue 2
    Issue 20
    Issue 21
    Issue 22
    Issue 23
    Issue 24
    Issue 25
    Issue 26
    Issue 27
    Issue 28
    Issue 29
    Issue 3
    Issue 30
    Issue 31
    Issue 32
    Issue 33
    Issue 34
    Issue 35
    Issue 36
    Issue 37
    Issue 38
    Issue 39
    Issue 4
    Issue 40
    Issue 41
    Issue 42
    Issue 43
    Issue 44
    Issue 45
    Issue 46
    Issue 47
    Issue 48
    Issue 49
    Issue 5
    Issue 50
    Issue 51
    Issue 52
    Issue 53
    Issue 54
    Issue 55
    Issue 56
    Issue 57
    Issue 58
    Issue 59
    Issue 6
    Issue 60
    Issue 61
    Issue 62
    Issue 63
    Issue 64
    Issue 65
    Issue 66
    Issue 67
    Issue 68
    Issue 69
    Issue 7
    Issue 70
    Issue 71
    Issue 72
    Issue 73
    Issue 8
    Issue 9
    Ivan Ewert
    Jackson Hoerth
    James Edward O'Brien
    James Lecky
    James Van Pelt
    Jamie Lackey
    Jarod K. Anderson
    Jason A. Holt
    Jason Ray Carney
    Jay Requard
    Jeffery Scott Sims
    Jeffrey A. Sergent
    Jeremy Harper
    John Grover
    Jonathan Hepburn
    Joshua Steely
    J. S. Alexander
    Karen Blaha
    Keith Peck
    Ken Lizzi
    Keshia Swaim
    Kevin Cockle
    Kyle Bakke
    Leigh Kimmel
    L. M. Myles
    Louis Palmerino
    Lynn Rushlau
    Mary Alexandra Agner
    Matthew Cropley
    Matthew Tolbert
    Melanie Bell
    Melanie Henry
    Melanie Smith
    Michael Meyerhofer
    Mike Rimar
    M. J. Waller
    M. R. Timson
    Nathan Elwood
    Nathan Henderson
    Neil W. Howell
    Nicholas Ozment
    Noeleen Kavanagh
    Paul Miller
    Phil Davies
    Raphael Ordonez
    Ray Krebs
    Rebecca Brown
    Reid Perkins
    Review
    Rick Hudson
    Rick Silva
    Robert Mammone
    Rob Francis
    S. A. Hunter
    Sam Beaven
    Sandra Unerman
    S. Creaney
    Special Feature
    Stephen S. Power
    Steve Goble
    Story
    T. Fox Dunham
    Thomas Grayfson
    Timothy Ide
    Tom Crowley
    Tom Lavin
    Will Weisser

    RSS Feed

Web Hosting by iPage
✕