Fantasy Anthology: Book One

1

Death as Sure as the Dawn

Thick fog tonight.

I pause as I stare down at the words only just scratched across a well-worn journal. The ink dribbles from my pen, a crow quill I seem to have had since time began. Two black stains stare back at me as they spread through the vellum. I swear I wrote this last night. I set the pen aside, flipping back through time to the night before. All that greets me is my description of a Spanish caravel which we have pursued for the last three days, after it surrendered the safety of African deep-water inland rivers in favor of the channels that will carry her back to Spain. A likeness accompanies it, of such ships as we have plundered in my tenure aboard the Star-blessed.

I turn back to the last page of my journal, and it is the last page. Tomorrow I will have to badger the quartermaster for some glue and scraps with which to nuzzle more time into it. He is never pleased with my requests. And yet—something about these words I pen tonight will not stop itching at the back of my mind.

My brother-at-sea sits beside me, polishing the banister with his rear end even as he wipes a rag across the barrel of his musket. James, I say to him. He looks up from his dutiful work of butt and barrel. Unusual, this fog. Can you ever recall it being so thick before?

James sneers at me. Real comedian, you. C’mon, stow that pack o’ lies and grab your kit. I hear the muster. He stands and stretches, cracking his back and slinging his musket across it.

Gifting truth to his words, the first mate is collecting the men who will be first to board, seeing that they are properly prepared and equipped with steel that will refuse to break in the face of royal Spanish arms. There is little enough of that to go around, but that self-same desperation is what has driven us to give chase to the less-protected Spanish and Portuguese explorers, themselves pirates plundering the riches and mystic secrets of Africa.

It seems as though I am always among the first to cross. I am not well-liked among the men, for being lettered and numbered as I am. It uneases them, but every prize we set upon I attempt to be courageous for them, though secretly I am terrified.

After muster we wait, shifting only when the canvas whips against the rigging as the captain swings us towards the caravel. I can hear them, before I see them. A low murmur preceding the gentle halo of a light through thick mist such as hides our pursuit. I am hushed as I remark upon the curious noise accompanying the prize, for the fog almost seems to recede around it, exposing a sleek gray frame unlike any caravel I have yet seen. No canvas hangs from its stubby mast, yet the water churns behind it as though driven by the devil itself. I have heard rumors of Spanish royal officers seeking the witches of Africa, pressed to grant Satan’s own aid in reaching the new world where they are sold as curios to the Virginians. The captain is convinced that seizing upon one can change our fortunes, but what curses might one such as they wring upon us? My comrades remain unmarking of this curious development, and I am calmed by their quiet confidence, though my heart feels as though it will bruise the inside of my ribs with its pounding.

Almost as soon as we are revealed, deep trumpets of alarm sound on our prize, lanterns being lit in every room and through every port hole. Despite her devil’s own speed, the Star-blessed pulls along side as the grapnels begin to fly. We are close enough that I can see the faces of the men as they run about on the deck, smooth faces all, for beards must have fallen from style in Spain. It has been some time since I have been home.

As always, I close my eyes as we swing across, never having learned how to swim and never having learned to control that sickening feeling of looking downward from great height. I thank the Holy Spirit each time my bare feet hit decking, though when I land I am startled by the rough feel beneath my soles. The deck is badly in need of sanding.

Gunfire erupts around me and I draw my own pistol, prone to misfires but mine all the same. With it I plant a seed in the chest of the nearest Spanish sailor which blooms from his back as he drops. The royals have strange, stubby muskets that sound like the patter of summer hailstones on the roof as they give ground. They are without blades and are cut down by the withering advance of my brothers. We gain the deck and press below, through tight corridors and a collapsing resistance. Many of the men have taken wicked wounds, but press on regardless, knowing in their hearts that failure is death as sure as the dawn tomorrow. I myself have sustained no injuries that I can feel, though the pounding blood in ears and eyes can mask the pain for a time.

The last of the royals are cut down, and we scour the ship. There is no sign of the African mystic hidden among the stores and possessions of the Spanish ship. Nor do we find sign of tobacco, saffron, pepper, or silks from the east Indies. For now, it seems, our fortunes remain the same.

The captain looks distraught. How many of these letdowns can the crew endure before he is put to vote? I attempt to comfort him, but he rebuffs me.

It will be the next one, son, I’m sure of it. We need only find her again.

Again? I ponder his words as we set flame to the caravel and return to the Star-blessed. The fog embraces the Spanish ship as I settle once more into my spot between the bannister and the coils of hempen rope to finish my journal entry. None of my wounds are serious enough to seek the talents (or lack thereof) of the ship’s surgeon. James looks much the same as he returns, muttering darkly when I pull out my journal and pen. He settles against the bannister and begins to clean the soot from his musket.

I look down at the empty page of my journal. The last page. Tomorrow I will petition the quartermaster for adhesive and whatever vellum scraps he has left over from the accounts.

Thick fog tonight, I scratch.

2

Colwynn’s Perspective

Istared at the blood on my hands, deep in the cellar beneath our forest cottage. I think I should be horrified, but I can’t find it in me to care. I feel empty. Vacant. Joy and love are gone and my soul is missing a precious piece I once thought I’d never find .

Xan’s vials and tinctures are scattered around me and I sweep them away, enjoying the shattering sound that the glass makes as it hits the packed dirt floor and liquid seeps into the floor. I can’t stand the scent of her potions now, the herb and floral aromas are too much, mixed with the coppery warmth.

I shout, but there is no one there to listen.

It’s the next room I need, I know that somewhere deep inside of my chest. I don’t dare call it a heart, it may never beat again. There’s a small cupboard I kept hidden away in a dark corner, a piece of my past from before Xan. That’s what I need now. My past can help me now. The bag of chalk and white sand has a comfortable weight in my hand and I’m careful to not spill any of my precious components.

When I look back over the room, it’s too messy, too crowded. What was I thinking with all these tables? They’ll never do. I need space, cleared space, and it feels good to shove things, to throw tables to the side with reckless abandon. I’m alone anyway, no one left to hurt. No one important at least.

Years of research rises unbidden to the surface of my memory, untested theories that are my last hope. I carefully take the pouch and begin to pour, slinking like a cat around the room. My hand is steady, the sand and chalk fall to the ground in a constant stream. My lines are perfect. I dance. This is the easiest I’ve ever found it but I’m moving less with intent and more by instinct. My mind is blank and that may be all that is necessary for success. I have to succeed.

As the final grain falls to the floor I dance out of the circle. Runes and glyphs blaze into being in the cellar, illuminating the dirt, blood and debris. What was the theory? That this was as much a summoning as it was a portal? I can feel suction drawing me in, but I stand my ground. I will not fail, not today. It will come to me.

I focus. The Onan will come to me. I am powerful. I will be the first to succeed where others who were weak willed failed. Armaiti will come and it will make things right because I command it to be so. I am an Onander and each one I summon submits before me and this one will be no different.

Time passes. I’m not sure how much. Distantly I feel my body weakening but I