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    The Patreon Collection, Volume 2
    The Patreon Collection, Volume 2
    The Patreon Collection, Volume 2
    Ebook222 pages3 hours

    The Patreon Collection, Volume 2

    By Stefon Mears

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    About this ebook

    A dozen worlds, captured in page-turning stories.

    Every month Stefon Mears' Patreon supporters enjoy two new short stories. Stories never published anywhere before. Tales of adventure from deep space, across time, or from distant lands of magic. Tales of deadly monsters -- supernatural, or all too human. All from the twisted mind of Stefon Mears, author of the popular Cavan Oltblood, Rise of Magic and Ars Portlandia series.

    The Patreon Collection presents those stories, whole and unabridged, along with introductions to each story written just for this collection. Volume 2 includes the stories from July-December 2017.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThousand Faces Publishing
    Release dateApr 1, 2018
    ISBN9781386011545
    The Patreon Collection, Volume 2

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      Book preview

      The Patreon Collection, Volume 2 - Stefon Mears

      The Patreon Collection

      The Patreon Collection

      Volume 2

      Stefon Mears

      Thousand Faces Publishing

      Contents

      Foreword

      A Goblin Peace

      War and Marketing

      Whistling the Water

      A Son's Duty

      Shocking Elation

      Closing the Zoo

      Lucky Day

      How Many Angels

      Wandslinger

      The Great Orc Cook-Off

      The Angle Between Worlds

      This Man Who Called Me Brother

      Sign Up for Stefon's Newsletter

      About the Author

      Also by Stefon Mears

      Foreword

      Writing short stories is always a wild ride for me.

      Some writers can’t start writing until they know how a story is going to end. I’m just the opposite. If I know how it’s going to end, I feel like I already know the story. So why bother writing it?*

      No, for me, it’s far more fun to sit down with an idea, or a character, or even just an image in my head and see where it takes me.

      And that’s what makes short stories so much fun to write.

      I get to sit down with barely any idea of what I’m going to write about, and a few hours later I have characters, a world – sometimes one I’ve never encountered before – and a whole story that’s entirely new to me.

      It’s the same thing I get out of reading short stories. New worlds, new characters and interesting new stories. So for me, writing a short story is as much fun as reading a short story.

      Though it does take longer to write them than read them.

      This collection contains a pretty broad spectrum of wild rides. Some of them are darker and more intense – like Lucky Day and This Man Who Called Me Brother – and others are lighter and more fun – The Great Orc Cook-Off and War and Marketing – and the rest fall somewhere in between. We have fantasy stories in this, and science fiction, as well as mystery, historical mystery, and some that might even be called literary.

      I hope you enjoy them.

      *It doesn’t count when I’m getting toward the end of a story and I see how it’s going to finish. Then it’s fun to watch that ending unfold.

      A Goblin Peace

      Goblins. What can you say about a fantasy race that every other fantasy race looks down on?

      I’ve always had a soft spot for goblins. But then, I’ve always enjoyed rooting for the underdog. I still remember back in the 80s, when I was running a game of Dungeons and Dragons and I shocked my players by making a badass assassin (their antagonist) a goblin.

      Their stunned expressions were so worth it.

      Anyway, when I started writing stories in Cavan Oltblood's world (Half a Wizard, The Ice Dagger), I knew I wanted to have something interesting happening with the goblins. Thinking about that led to this story.

      Grik looked out from behind the rock pile hiding spot. The white moon hung high in the black sky. The human moon.

      Stupid time to meet.

      Goblins had only two advantages over humans: keen ears and the nightsight. But when the human moon hung high, even their eyes could see well enough to fight without their firesticks. Why the Crossed Spears insisted on meeting under the human moon made no sense to Grik.

      Stupid place too. Grik could have named a hundred ledges and caves about halfway between the Crossed Spears' territory and the land claimed by Grik's clan, the Knucklebones. But no. The Crossed Spears insisted on this open spot down on the flat land. Sky-tall trees not more than an arrow's flight away. The kind with needles that could be dried out and used for sewing.

      The kind of trees that hid elves.

      And the clearing was just the sort of flat, level space that humans liked for camping. Even had that soft green grass they liked to sleep on. Smelled fresh, and wet, and dangerous.

      Meeting here made no sense to Grik.

      But the whole war made no sense to Grik. Old grudges still spilling young lives. No wonder the elves and dwarves and humans and orcs and others all laughed at goblinkind. No united front. Nothing but clans killing clans.

      Had to stop.

      Grik had to stop it.

      Late, said Jix, standing just behind Grik. His yellow eyes shifted from mountains to trees and back. Trap. Gotta be a trap.

      Ease down, said Grik. Jix was Grik's shadow, the one he could always count on. Jix should probably have been the Speaker tonight. He was everything a goblin should be -- small, quick, cunning, deadly, and he could disappear the moment you looked away from him.

      Compared to Jix, Grik was too big, too slow. A head too tall, nearly to the chest of the last human warrior he faced. Strong, yes, but strength was not the goblin way. Cunning was the goblin way.

      Still, Grik had won his name and respect by having cunning, strength, and smarts.

      Not that goblins were dumb. But goblin survival had always relied on cunning, not intelligence. Grik was a rare goblin who had both, and his strength, well, it had served him better than any of the elders expected.

      Grik was not the perfect goblin, but maybe the goblins needed a leader who wasn't perfect.

      Six other goblins behind Jix, dressed like Grik and Jix in the brown togas of the Knucklebones. All six had clubs, but none had names.

      Among goblins, names were earned, not given.

      Should be here, said Jix, fingering a knife. Only Grik and Jix had knives. Ambush. Ambush. Smell that blood? Ambush.

      We checked the hazard spots before we took position. Grik flared his wide, green nose in a deep breath. That's raccoon blood. Dinner blood. You don't smell ambush. You smell your feet.

      The nameless ones laughed. Jix shuffled his feet to scrape some of the blood left over from his kill onto the rocks of their hiding place.

      Send the call again, said Grik.

      A nameless one pulled two dry sticks out of his toga, held them high, and snapped them as loudly and obviously as he could.

      Grik waited, straining his pointed ears. Fifteen heartbeats later he heard the proper response: three snaps.

      Clubs up, said Grik.

      The six nameless goblins raised their wooden clubs and waved them in circles. Grik and Jix each pulled a knife. They clashed the blades together to ring out loud.

      There! said Jix, pointing a long, knobby finger and the end of a long, knobby arm.

      Grik saw six clubs wave in the air. Followed by a clash of metal.

      He turned to the nameless. Watch the forest and watch the rocks. Watch like Broken Tooth watches the dead.

      The nameless six each stamped a foot in salute. Grik strode out of the hiding place and across the soft grass of the clearing, Jix right behind him as a show of his own position. The other six fanned out to the sides.

      Grik could see the Crossed Spears goblins now. Six nameless with clubs, plus a Speaker and a shadow.

      Grik met them halfway across. The enemy Speaker sneered and looked up his nose at Grik. But other goblins had looked up their noses at Grik his whole life.

      You must be Grik, their Speaker hissed. He let silence hang after the name, where a stupider goblin would have finished the Freak.

      Still, showing that he knew the name without speaking it and giving offense was a way to claim the edge in the opening stages of their meeting. For goblins, any little bit of information about the enemy might make the difference between life and death, when used the right way at the right time.

      You're Krix. Grik met Krix's eyes. And your shadow is Res.

      Krix's eyes narrowed, but after a moment he tilted his head in acknowledgment. Then, against Grik's hopes, Krix gave the standard opening.

      The Crossed Spears have no need of peace. We stand ready to destroy you.

      The Knucklebones could smash you like the first snails sighted after a march. Grik shook his head before Krix could continue the exchange. Instead he skipped to the end. But we have not come to spill your blood.

      Krix ran his fingers down his long, pointed nose, either thinking or mocking Grik's stubbier nose. There were five standard answers to Grik's last statement that didn't involve weapons. Four of them were only one step down from weapons.

      Finally Krix spoke.

      The Crossed Spears do not know why we have been called, so we cannot promise not to spill your blood.

      Grik could hear his nameless troops shifting uncomfortably behind him. He hoped they kept their eyes on the forest and the rocks.

      The Knucklebones promised nothing, he said.

      Grik expected Krix to tilt his head in acknowledgment. But instead he ran those fingers down his long nose again. You are their Speaker. Speak.

      Behind Grik, Jix slipped a knife out of his toga. Grik was sure of it. He heard nothing, and didn't quite feel anything, yet he was certain, though he could never have explained how. But then, no goblin becomes another's shadow unless they know and trust each other completely.

      And Grik couldn't blame him. Anywhere else, such a disrespectful slight would have prompted a fight. In fact, Krix might have been counting on that.

      But Grik knew when to strike, and when to hold. So he held.

      The Knucklebones take orders from no one, least of all the Crossed Spears. And I, Grik, take orders from no one, least of all you, Krix. But I called, and you came. So hear my words, and give them their due.

      Krix had his hand in his dirty brown toga, no doubt ready to draw his own knife. But Grik kept his hands at his sides.

      The Knucklebones and the Crossed Spears have warred for thirteen elders. We have spilled more blood than Smiter.

      Both Grik and Krix turned and spat at the name of the hated dwarf who had spent a hundred years slaying goblins. Then Grik continued.

      We have won honor and lost lives. Lost youths. Lost our way and our purpose.

      War is our way and our purpose, said Krix. It pleases Broken Tooth.

      What would please Broken Tooth more? Sending her two hundred more goblins? Or one hundred elves?

      Krix ran his fingers down his nose, then gave the half-tilt of grudging acknowledgment. Grik continued.

      If our clans fought as one, think of the land we could claim. We could build. We could grow. If war be our purpose, then together we could make war on others that would make even Broken Tooth smile. But we can do none of this while we kill each other.

      Krix clacked his teeth together, pondering. Then spat. If orcs served goblins, even elves would bow.

      Grik knew the platitude was coming. He was ready.

      But none of this can happen without peace between our clans. Grik crouched, making Krix narrow his eyes. On behalf of the Knucklebones I offer apology to the Crossed Spears for the wrongs done by our elders. We took a lake by force that was not ours of old. We denied your claim then, but acknowledge it now and rescind our claim.

      Krix's long nose wrinkled down in amazement. His mouth moved but no words came out.

      Grik understood. This was an unexplored cavern. Even Grik did not know what would come next. He knew only that this was the first step toward peace.

      Krix's head shook. His eyes blinked faster than Jix could sharpen a knife. He turned as though to speak to his shadow.

      And a hail of arrows began to fall.

      Arrows, falling out of the night. Human-long arrows, coming down as though out of the huge human moon high in the sky. There in the clear, wide circle of grass those arrows fell. Between the first rocks of the mountains and the first trees of the forest they spilled Knucklebone blood.

      Because every one of those arrows fell among the goblins of the Knucklebones clan. Half of the nameless fell dead. Another yet stood, staring at the arrow in his shoulder.

      None hit the Crossed Spears. Krix's shadow, Res, had fallen into the tiny rock pose. The nameless behind him had followed suit.

      Only Krix still stood, eyes wild and searching all directions at once.

      Scatter! yelled Grik. But he did not run. Did not lead his people to safety. Jix would handle that. Jix was a true goblin. Knew to flee from human archers. Knew to disappear now and seek revenge later.

      But Grik understood what was happening. In that split-second when the arrows fell he figured it out. Why the Crossed Spears were late. Why Jix smelled ambush, even after Grik himself had checked the hazard spots. Why so many of the Crossed Spears had fallen into rock pose before the first arrowhead hit the ground.

      Krix had sold out his tribe. Sold them out to the humans. Hated the Knucklebones so much he found humans who wanted goblin slaves for the price of something humans were always eager to do anyway: kill goblins.

      Grik could think of no worse crime.

      So when Grik yelled the scatter order to his troops, he pounced on Krix. Bore him to the ground, both hands around the Crossed Spears' Speaker's narrow, rubbery neck.

      Another wave of arrows fell around Grik, but he had no attention for them. Nor even for the Crossed Spears' goblins, any one of whom could brain him with a club or slit his throat.

      He saw only the yellow eyes of Krix, wide in horror. Perhaps already seeing Broken Tooth, waiting for him. Every muscle in Grik's body sang with tension as he squeezed, his whole body shaking with rage.

      Goblins selling goblins as slaves. Even worse than war.

      Krix began fouling himself, his mouth wild for air and his arms flapping aimlessly against the soft grass. Grik's teeth gnashed together so hard he could hear them grind. Hot drool slipped from his lips, splashing Krix's cheek.

      One more volley of arrows fell. Still Grik hung on. Strangulation was a hard way to kill a goblin. Probably the hardest. And the most painful. Their spongy throats could slip air past the slightest cracks, but like goblins on the march, they complained about it the entire time.

      Still, Krix should have been able to fight back. Punched at Grik. Slapped at him. Something. Anything. Dying without struggle to escape or kill -- that could even strip Krix of his name. Instead he sputtered and fought only with his lungs for his next breath.

      But Grik didn't care. He squeezed tighter and leaned in, his muscles singing to see the life go out of the traitor's eyes. And Krix was a traitor. Betraying another clan at a meeting, that was nothing. But selling his goblins to another race? That was true treason in Grik's mind, however long the practice had been in effect. Too great a crime for a club or dagger death. Only strangling was severe enough.

      If Grik got to finish.

      Boots around the struggling goblins now. Human boots. Enough for four humans. Smelled like dead cows and corn and wheat.

      Grik squeezed tighter. Had to finish Krix before they--

      Should we stop it? Male voice. Deep. Orc deep.

      Is it one of the ones we're supposed to kill? Female voice. Elf high, but not elf soft.

      Grik shook Krix's neck. Why wouldn't he die?

      How can you tell?

      Leave them to it then. Female tone of complete dismissal. We still have plenty of others for the duke's mine. What's one more dead goblin?

      The boots shuffled off while the humans made that huh-huh-huh sound that passed for their laughter. Grik leaned in until his stubby nose bent Krix's long one.

      So much for your new masters. Now die. Die as you were born -- nameless and forgotten.

      Then a single word managed to barely escape Krix's closed throat.

      Wait...

      No.

      I ... sorry....

      Grik blinked. An apology? In the face of death? Could he have heard that right?

      If he wanted to unite the goblins, could he afford to be wrong?

      Grik spat twice and let go of Krix's throat. He drew his knife from his toga and leaned back on his heels. Which had the misfortune

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