by Vaughn A. Jackson
in Issue 145, February 2024
Black trunked trees stretched inward from the beach on which the Munian found herself washed ashore. Salt water lapped at her bare feet; her armor sunken well below the crashing waves behind her. The cloth of her jerkin clung tight to her statuesque form as she rose, brushing the sand from her front. She scanned the beach and grimaced at the remnants of the Hellion littering the sand around her. Much treasure lost to the sea, and good men too! She swore in the ancient tongue of her people and picked up a length of broken oar as thick round as a man’s arm and with weight enough to break the same. It was no sword, but better to be armed than not. Forests held beasts of all kinds.
Looking once more at the sea, she saw no ships on the horizon, not that it would matter if she did. Even a hawk had little chance of seeing her at such great distance. What she did see were storm clouds, fast approaching. A forest may hide beasts, but it also made for decent shelter in a storm. With a heavy sigh, she stepped warily amongst the black bowed trees.
The canopy above did its damnedest to ensure no light descended to the floor below. It took time for the Munian’s eyes to adjust to the forest gloom, as though night had already fallen. She could hear the roar of the rain overhead, but little broke through the dense foliage. Already wet as she was, the Munian had no desire to be soaked through once more.
Exhaustion took her not far from the beach. She picked a suitable tree and rested her back against it, sliding down to the moss covered forest floor. Her makeshift weapon she draped across her lap and for a few minutes more she kept watch. Nothing in the darkness stirred, and in time, her eyelids grew heavy. She drifted into the dreamless sleep of one whose mind and body had both reached their limit.
The Munian woke with a start at the sound of rustling brush. By the time her eyes adjusted, she saw nothing around, yet placed in a pile before her was a stack of strange fruits of all colors and shapes. At the sight of them, her stomach sang its hunger song and she grimaced deeply. Eyes on the surrounding forest, she snatched one of the fruits, an oblong brown thing with a leathery skin. A quick smell revealed a sweet aroma, one without the rankness of rot. She bit into it quickly, and though the skin was dense and unpleasant, the fruit beneath it filled her mouth with a taste as glorious as the wine grapes of her home.
Her fingers made easy work of the rest of the skin, and she devoured the soft yellow interior with ravenous fervor.
Another rustling sound pulled her from her reverie. A face peered out from behind a tree across from her. Its skin was as gray as ash after a fire, and the figure held one bony finger to its lips. When it was sure that she had seen it, the being pointed up into the tree above her. After a moment of squinting focus, the Munian saw what the figure wanted her to see. She had found it strange that such little water and light made it down to the forest floor, and now she knew why. Woven between every tree, just beneath the canopy, was a cloak of white webs glistening with trapped water. And scattered throughout those webs clung fat bellied spiders of vibrant colors with legs as long as the branches amongst which they nested. A few twitched as the rain from above splattered against them, their legs curling inward, but most remained still as an unmolested grave.
The Munian’s skin crawled. What hell had she found herself in that such abominations could be found? With great effort, she dragged her attention from the horrors above and found the gray-faced figure motioning her towards it. The fruit had been a display of good will, she realized, to prevent her from lashing out and disturbing the things that hung above. She nodded, and slowly rose to her feet. Every sound now rang in her ears like the tolling of a death bell.
Her elusive companion led her through the forest, its footsteps as silent as a panther’s. She couldn’t make out much of the figure in the darkness, but it appeared to be a man of lanky build with gangly arms and legs and a slight stoop from constantly moving in a crouch.
Soon the Munian saw light glinting through the gaps between the trees ahead. They emerged upon a clearing in which sat a village of dark structures made from the wood of the surrounding trees. The tension in her companion’s muscles lessened, and his gait became normal—less nervous.
The Munian took this as a good sign and spoke. “What is this place?”
He turned to her and now she could see that what had appeared in the darkness as gray skin was a mask of spider silk. The mask clung to his skin as he pulled it away, but finally came loose with a wet sucking sound, revealing tired eyes and ebony skin. He said something in his own tongue, a guttural barking sound that made the Munian recoil slightly in shock.
She gestured at the village and put a hand to her mouth, mimicking words coming out.
The man nodded his head and said something that sounded like “Urgana”. He nodded again when she tried to repeat the word to him and motioned for her to follow.
No sooner had they set foot in the village, did a voice cry out in that guttural tongue. A man in white robes appeared, flanked by three men in leather and mail armor, each wielding a short sword and hand ax at their waist. Northerner, the Munian guessed, based on the lightness of their skin.
Unlike her companion and his ebony skin, and the guards with their lighter complexion, the central man’s skin was ghostly pale—the translucent flesh revealing the blue-ish veins beneath—and flushed pink with irritation. Her companion shrunk away and murmured a reply as he stared at the grassy ground.
The Munian stepped forward and, in her best guess as to what northern language this man spoke, said in broken terms, “Is Tyra. No bad.” She gestured to herself as she spoke.
The man’s eyes widened. “You know Zisa?”
“Little,” Tyra replied. She pointed at her flinching companion. “He…help? No” — she paused not knowing the word for “spiders” and instead mimed what she thought to be crawling legs descending from the sky.
The man nodded and said the word for spiders in his tongue.
Tyra repeated it, then asked, “How thank?” while gesturing at her companion.
The white-robed man looked at the ebony-skinned man and said…something. Her companion nodded, then looked at Tyra and nodded with a nervous smile and pointed to himself. The word sounded like, “Jataka.”
“Come,” the white-robed man said to Tyra. “We talk.”
Tyra folded her arms over her chest and frowned. “You rude. Name?”
The man let out an irritated sigh then forced a smile to his face. “Call me Djora Gumo. Apologies.”
The Munian grinned. “He come?” Again a thumb in the direction of her guide.
“No.” Djora Gumo shot a look at Jataka’s hunched form. The ebony skin man hadn’t spoken since he said his name.
Tyra shook her head. It wasn’t supposed to be a question. “He come.”
The white-robed man looked her up and down, taking a measure of how she stood at one and a half the size of his largest man, then turned without a word. His silk-masked guards followed and, after patting her guide on the back to urge him along, Tyra followed.
She was not surprised to find that Djora Gumo’s abode in the village was larger and more intricately crafted despite being of the same wood as those of the villagers that surrounded it. While most of the structures they passed were simple, wooden constructions that hid a fine level of craftsmanship beneath their humble size and composition, Djora Gumo’s could easily have provided the definition of the word ostentatious…or gaudy. It was the only multi-leveled structure—an unnecessary three floors that towered over the rest of the village—and each log or plank that made up its exterior was intricately carved with depictions of spiders and their webs. Tyra grimaced. What type of man revered such crawling horrors to this degree?
They entered a small room on the western side of the house that was almost filled by a single low table and the several cushions that covered the floor. Two men of Djora Gino’s race flanked the desk. Their eyes went wide as Tyra entered and they looked up at her broad shoulders. She sized them up as well and decided she could kill them both unarmed as she was, if need be.
The oar would be overkill.
She gave them both a gawky smile—something that seemed only to unsettle them further—then settled amidst the pile of cushions on the floor, soaking them as she relished their comfort.
Djora Gumo gestured for her to sit and began to speak. Tyra didn’t grasp much of what he said or meant, only snippets like “savages” and “valuable” and “spider”. Seeing her confusion, Djora Gumo called Jataka over to his side. One of the other villagers pulled a tunic of silver spider silk that glistened like diamonds from a shelf nearby and draped it over Jataka’s body, covering from his neck down to his groin. Jataka grimaced and stared at the ground.
With a quick motion, Djora Gumo pulled a dagger from the wide sleeves of his robes and thrust it into the man’s abdomen. Jataka staggered backwards, clutching the point of impact, and Tyra jumped to her feet, hand’s gripping the oar tight.
Djora Gumo held up a hand. “Wait.”
The villager collected himself and removed his hands. There was no blood, no damage at all to the silken garment. The blunt force had staggered the man, but he remained otherwise unharmed.
“By the great river…” Tyra sank back into the cushioned floor. She pointed at Djora Gumo with a curious frown. “You hunt spiders?”
“They do.” The man waved a white-sleeved arm at the villager then grinned and steepled his fingers before his face. “I make money.”
Tyra resisted the urge to shake her head in disdain. At that moment, a keening wail rose from outside. Tyra turned to see, but there were no windows in this room.
“It’s nothing,” Djora Gumo assured her. Another dismissive wave of his hand.
“People don’t scream for nothing.” Tyra was up and out of the room before Djora Gumo, or his guards, could react.
Outside, a mother and father pleaded with another of Djora Gumo’s men. The armored brute of a man clutched a screaming child in one arm while angling the point of a wicked iron sword at the parents. He caught sight of the Munian and took a slack-jawed step back.
“The hells are you?”
“What happens here?” A dark rage filled Tyra’s heart and reddened her vision. She cursed her lack of fluency in this newer tongue. Would that they all still spoke Munian as the world did centuries before. She did her best to bark the command. “Release…young.”
The man tensed, shifting the point of his sword between her and the still pleading parents.
Djora Gumo stepped from behind Tyra and gestured solemnly at the man. “Gurzen, return the child to its parents.”
“But— “
Here Djora Gumo said something that Tyra did not understand, but Gurzen sneered at her and dropped the child to the ground. The young boy scrambled to his feet and rushed into his parents embrace. They repeated the word Djora Gumo had said to Jataka over and over.
Tyra gave an awkward smile, uncomfortable with the excessive gratitude.
Djora Gumo placed a hand on her shoulder. He spoke in broken terms, and Tyra sensed he was mocking her. “Sun descending. Spiders come. Best inside.”
Tyra looked to the edge of the village where the black-wood forest began. Shadows skittered and crawled in from the dark like thousands of tiny spiders scrambling towards their prey. A nervous chill cleaved down her spine like an ax. Tyra said the word she always learned first in a new language. “Sword?”
The white-robed man chuckled. “Get you killed.”
He took a spear from one of his village guards and handed it to her. She thrust it once, twice, then twirled it between her hands before jabbing the butt of it into the ground with a thump. Djora Gumo’s jaw set tight at her display, and she turned once more with a swish of his robes, leading her back to his house and showing her the room he’d had prepared for her. The first thing the Munian noticed was that it was too small to effectively use the spear she’d been given. She considered pointing it out but decided against it. She snapped the spear in half and discarded the bottom. Content she could defend herself if need be, she settled into the cushioned corner of the room, seated so that she faced the door. Djora Gumo left her with a smile that seemed forced around the edges.
Tyra chuckled and drifted to sleep.
She awoke to movement in her room. Before she could grab for her weapon in the pitch dark of the room, a face with wild eyes appeared before her and blew something that smelled of acrid smoke and floral incense into her face. She coughed and sputtered, grabbing up her weapon and aiming it at the dark face.
Tyra thrust it forward, but the face and the figure attached moved out of range, scrambling to the opposite end of the room. The figure resolved into the shape of a man, black, like a shadow against the wall.
“Wait,” he hissed. “Can you understand me?”
Tyra blinked in shock. The man was speaking Munian, a language she hadn’t heard in centuries. She rose to her feet, half-spear still gripped tight, this time ready to be thrown. “You speak Atla—my tongue?”
“No.” The man shook his head and lowered his hands. He took a hesitant step towards her in the dark. “The dust is powerful. It makes you understand me.”
Tyra’s face darkened. Magic was no friend of hers, and magicians could rarely be trusted. “Who are you that would bewitch me?”
“I am the one who saved you in the forest, Jataka. I come to beg you for help. For my people.”
Tyra’s eyes adjusted to the dark and she could make out the lank form of her earlier companion. He held no weapon, and his hands were splayed out in a show of non-aggression. She did not relax her grip on the half-spear.
“Speak then.” She glanced at the door to make sure no one was listening in.
“The man you stay with, he is not what he seems. He exploits us, makes us gather the spiders’ web. So many of us lost to his greed.” Jataka’s voice held a pleading edge, not quite a whine, but the tone in which one begs a god for some favor.
“I am no liberator.” Tyra rubbed her thumb up and down the half-spear’s shaft. “Certainly not alone. Your people outnumber him greatly. Strike him down and take your freedom into your own hands.”
Jataka shook his head and stared grimly at the ground. “We cannot. He has claimed both the name and the power of our goddess. Tonight he will sacrifice the child to maintain his hold on the Spider Mother.”
Tyra’s heart skipped a beat. “The child from before?”
“A new child each time the moon grows blue.” Jataka gave a solemn shake of his head. “There is a moment between each sacrifice where his power wanes. If you strike him then, it might— “
“Great river be damned,” the Munian growled and rose to her feet. “Enough words. Let us put an end to this horror.”
The Black Forest grew restless at night as if it were alive. Treetops rustled and groaned beneath the weight of skittering spiders moving from bow to bow. Leaves fell to the ground below, and more than once Tyra swore she saw something crawling through the dark in the peripherals of her vision.
Tyra fidgeted, tugging and scratching at the spider-silk mask she wore while they walked. “Damn this thing.”
“Leave it be, or lose your head from above,” Jataka warned.
With a grunt, Tyra began to clench and unclench her fist around the base of her half-spear instead, wearing rough blisters into the calloused pads of her palm.
She was relieved as they entered another clearing; the place where the sacrifice would be performed—until she looked up. The same fat bodied spiders now hung like dead men from the gallows, their bodies tugging at a great web that spanned the space overhead. Their multitudes of bulging, crimson eyes watched her every move, flickering this way and that. As Tyra and Jataka walked, the spiders began to swing and rub against each other producing a chorus of creaking sounds that filled the night air. Tyra couldn’t help but imagine the dying cry of some great cricket, caught in those abominable webs.
Beneath her mask, she grimaced.
At the center of the clearing the pretender to Djora Gumo’s name, dressed in flowing white robes, stood over the remains of a tree, knotted and coiled with age. Even from this distance, Tyra could see the black tarnish of bloodstains soaking the rings atop the stump. Bound and gagged in the center of that dried black ichor squirmed the child she’d rescued earlier. In the boy’s terrified face, the Munian saw that of her own son, ripped from her bosom so long ago in the name of Utu, vile god of Irkallu. A snarl formed in the back of her throat, as the pretender’s guards, two at each of the white-robed man’s side, stared down at her. Tyra recognized only Gurzen, the brute standing a head above his fellow men and glaring down at her with a face twitching rage.
Djora Gumo’s pretender looked up as they entered the clearing, his face almost serene. He cast a hateful glance at Jataka, but the village man remained unphased.
“You’re just in time, woman,” Djora Gumo flung his hands high, gesturing at the spiders overhead, “to witness my apotheosis!” His words rang as clear and understandable as though he spoke the tongue of Mu, a lingering effect of Jataka’s powder. “I thought I might convince you to join me—to share in the riches, until I saw how you intervened to save this savage child. A soft heart in one as strong as you…pathetic.”
The Munian wasted no words. She roared into action, charging the forest altar, half-spear glinting at her side. Her sudden outburst shocked the guards, and she drove the tip of the weapon through the throat of the first man, a shaggy bearded soldier in heavy iron armor, toppling him with her momentum as she did. She landed feet first on his chest, in a crouch, and yanked her weapon from his throat as she stood. The spear came free with a wet, sucking sound as the man’s blood pumped freely, watering the thirsty ground. Tyra leapt off him and turned her glare on the remaining men, brandishing the bloodied weapon.
“Next?” she growled.
The smallest guard, a weasel faced man stepped back to draw his sword, trembling at the shock of Tyra’s quick and brutal assault. Jataka struck swift and silent, appearing behind the man as though he rose from his shadow. Jataka’s spear plunged upward from below, piercing under the man’s ill-fitting armor. He hoisted the weasel-faced guard, the way he might impale a boar while hunting. The guard choked and gurgled as he slid down the shaft, and his lifeblood slicked Jataka’s hands.
The third guard had drawn his sword and prepared to fight, but as he watched his friend’s life fade away on the edge of Jataka’s spear, he cast aside the weapon and fled in the direction of the village. Tyra considered throwing her spear after him, but no sooner had he crossed the tree line, his screams echoed through the forest and slowly disappeared beneath the frenzied chittering of feasting spiders. Tyra grimaced, thankful that all she could see were the frantic shadows dancing at the edge of the clearing. No man deserved to die like that, and to witness it would no doubt leave another scar upon her soul.
She bore too many already.
The last man was Gurzen, towering, glowering, growling. Up close, Tyra noted the jagged wrap of scars around his face that gave him a monstrous visage in the dark night. He stomped towards her, a massive ax wielded in a two-handed grip. His scowl stretched his scar lines into deep trenches on his face. “Gutting you will be more pleasurable than the finest whore.”
His ax arced down at Tyra like a deadly crescent of moonlight, cleaving the corpse of the bearded guard in two as she dodged to the side. Tyra knew she couldn’t block the iron blade with her half-spear, and that if Gurzen struck her at all, it was guaranteed to be fatal.
She dropped beneath his next slash, a horizontal swing at her head, and launched the entirety of her weight at Gurzen’s feet, knocking them from under him as she tumbled to the ground. Gurzen landed behind her in a clatter of armor and curses. His ax, released mid-swing, embedded itself in the ground some feet away.
Both warriors jumped to their feet and sprinted toward the discarded weapon. By a hair, the Munian made it there first. Scooping the weapon firmly into her hands, and finding it lighter than she expected, she pivoted, swinging the blade around and letting Gurzen’s momentum do the rest. His armor was strong, but it crumpled inward with the shriek of metal against metal as he ran straight into the horizontal arc of the ax. The bladed head kept going, biting halfway into his torso before sticking fast. Tyra let go of the handle and staggered back.
Gurzen looked down at the blade that nearly severed him. A curse mumbled from his lips, followed by a gout of crimson blood that narrowly missed Tyra’s feet. He fell to the side with a thud and the clank of clattering plate armor. Tyra left the ax in his side. The weapon was great, but it had been as unwieldy for her as it had been for Gurzen—it would only slow her down.
Tyra re-equipped her spear and turned back to the altar. She beckoned Djora Gumo towards her, brandishing the weapon. “Surrender and your death can still be quick.”
Djora Gumo’s sneer turned to a hateful scowl. “You arrogant bitch. You speak to a god!”
“You are nothing but a pretender. You are not Djora Gumo, you are named Liugari—a murderer!” Jataka pointed his spear at the man. “Release the child or suffer.”
A dismissive wave of Liugari’s white-robed hand summoned strands of spider-silk from above to wrap Jataka tight around his wrists, ankles and throat. Its diamond sharpness cut into his skin like a ring of knives, drawing blood, and worsening as he struggled. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Jataka used the last of his mobility to throw Tyra his spear and gasped out, “End him.”
Full length spear in one hand, half-spear in the other, the Munian poised to attack. She took a single step forward, and Liugari grinned. He snapped his fingers, and Tyra’s stomach sank.
The creaking chorus of chittering above grew louder—demoniac in its fervor. Tyra faltered in her step and looked up with grim realization. The spiders who hung like twisted fruit descended upon her like wicked rain. Each creature was the size of a large muskrat—not accounting for their legs.
Tyra slashed at them as they swarmed her, spilling the putrid green guts of the first few to dangle within reach. She fought hard to keep them at bay, slickening herself in their innards and turning the ground into a fetid slurry of arachnid pulp, but soon they overwhelmed her. Mandibles gnashed, legs trampled, the smell of sulfur and catacomb musk drenched her senses—spears in hand she struggled to keep them from ripping her to shreds as they scrambled all around her. In the distance, Liugari laughed as he raised the sacrificial blade above his head.
The gag slipped from the child’s mouth and he screamed. The Munian found herself once more in the heart-rending cry of terror. She heaved forward, spears slashing and stabbing, feet crushing, making space as she trudged towards the altar…just enough space to see.
White robes shone through the twitching, fidgeting wall of legs. She hurled the half spear with all her might, aiming at that stainless beacon. The laughing stopped, and with it, so did the spiders. One by one the nightmare creatures scuttled away, leaving Tyra winded and wounded, barely standing after their assault. She dropped to one knee, eyes still darting, waiting for the next strike to come. The bulbous spiders turned to the altar and fell into line, their beady crimson eyes locked on Liugari.
The white-robed man stood stunned, watching as a red stain spread across his front where the spear pierced all the way through his chest. He collapsed to his knees and screamed, a high, piercing noise that stretched his mouth wide.
Too wide.
His jaw cracked open, unhinging like a snake, and the sound echoed in the forest like the snap of a rotten branch. Something moved in the back of his throat, protruding from the red darkness. An iron black claw poked out overtop his tongue and raked a blood line back down into his throat.
Tyra wanted to look away but found herself staring in morbid fascination as a hairy leg the width of a human thigh forced itself out of Liugari’s gagging throat, splitting his mouth at the corners. Another followed, his skull cracked open, and his entire face ripped in two like bloody parchment and hung limp from the stump that was his neck. From the darkness inside the pulsing cavity that had been Liugari’s neck and shoulders, eyes glimmered, ten horrible emerald flashes of light. The man’s body split down the middle, cleaved by an invisible blade as the great goddess, the true Djora Gumo, freed herself from the prison of his flesh with a deep, gurgling cry.
The Munian recoiled in disgust, raising her sword to defend herself.
Before her stood a sixteen legged abomination that dwarfed the largest of bears. Coarse brown fur covered its armored exoskeleton and bristled in the knight air. Her eyes, five emerald jewels on one side of its head and five of the same on the other side flanked a single human eye bulging madly in the center, gleamed over snapping mandibles that oozed saliva.
The middle eye locked on to Tyra, the pupil contracting to a verdant pinprick.
Djora Gumo drummed an earthquake staccato with her legs, and the spiders around Tyra fell back, retreating into the darkness of the forest. A few made their way to Jataka and chewed on his silken bonds, freeing him from their grasp.
“My goddess, you are free.” The village man fell to his knees in supplication. “Forgive us for taking so long. Your power is mighty—even when wielded by a pretender.”
The spider goddess hissed out a breath like a stormy gust. The force of it pushed the child from the altar, and Tyra rushed forward to catch him. Her weary body sagged beneath his weight, but she held him firm. He clung tightly around her neck and sobbed into her chest.
“There now.” She comforted the boy as she kept her eyes on Djora Gumo. “What is your name, boy?”
He croaked out the word: “Zuru”.
Tyra rubbed his back, speaking in a soft, hushed tone. “I believe you are safe now, Zuru.”
“Yes, yes, we will leave you to your recuperation,” Jataka continued his conversation with the great spider. He hurried over to Tyra’s side and whispered in her ear. “We must go, she is grateful to us, but she is a volatile god.”
She chanced a glance at Jataka. “You worship that?”
“There are stranger gods than this, my friend.” He gave a wry smile.
The village was astir when they returned, the noise of their exploits waking most of the people. Rays of the sun’s first light crept over the forest canopy, blanketing the clearing in a cold, gray light. Tyra scanned the crowd for the boy’s parents, their faces noticeable absent amongst those gathered. Her spirits fell as she felt the boy tense in her arms, the realization sinking in.
“The pretender killed them while you slept.” Jataka shook his head, his eyes heavy with sympathy. “We are all he has as family now.” He held out his arms to take the boy from her.
The Munian hesitated, tightening her grip on Zuru and backing away a step. She was overcome with the need to protect him. To not hand over another son, hers or otherwise, to a group who worshiped a god that demanded sacrifice.
“It’s okay.” Zuru wiped his tears and loosened his hold around her neck. He pressed his forehead to her cheek. “They will care for me.”
Jataka stepped forward and placed a hand on Tyra’s tightened arm. “Do not worry about his fate. We do not pay our goddess in blood as the pretender did.”
Tyra relented.
She passed Zuru to Jataka with a wan smile. Jataka in turn handed him to a nearby woman, already minding two kids of her own. She fussed over Zuru for a minute, the two talking back and forth in hushed tones.
She looked back up at Tyra with a wide smile. “We would craft you a tunic of our silk, as thanks.”
Tyra waved a hand dismissively. “I did it for the child, not a reward. And I’ve grown weary of spiders and their ilk.”
Jataka nodded and pointed north. “Through there the forest eventually grows sparse, becoming fields and hills. The goddess’ children will not follow you beyond her domain.”
“Is that so?” Tyra grimaced as she stared into the portion of forest to which Jataka pointed.
“The forest surrounds us on all sides. But do not fear, Djora Gumo will not bother you, so long as you do not bother her. But in case her children grow hungry…” Jataka handed her back her spider silk mask, eliciting a low groan from the Munian.
“Great River forbid I accidentally crush a spider on my path.” Tyra checked the iron sword she’d lifted from one of the dead guards. It hung from her belt, a reassuring weight at her side. She walked a few paces towards the village edge, then glanced over her shoulder. “Jataka, what do you pray for from such a terrible goddess?”
Jataka’s face split into a wide grin. “We pray she leaves us alone.”
©February 2024, Vaughn A. Jackson
Vaughn A. Jackson is an author and editor of dark speculative fiction, often blending elements of fantasy, science fiction, and horror into one unholy abomination. His published works include UP FROM THE DEEP, a kaiju thriller, and TOUCHED BY SHADOWS, a novel of cosmic horror. The anthology he is co-editing, BEYOND THE BOUNDS OF INFINITY, will be released by Raw Dog Screaming Press in 2024. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and can usually be found cracking jokes and trying to make H.P. Lovecraft roll over in his grave. While he has long been a fan, this story is his first foray into writing the Sword and Sorcery genre and his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.