Monk Punk and Shadow of the Unknown Omnibus

by Aaron French

  “The Way of the Dragon is our supreme discipline, combining all other Ways,” said Kantoh.

  “And what is your discipline, Kantoh?” Artifice asked.

  Kantoh pulled back the edges of his robe. A serpentine tattoo wound across his chest, etched into his flesh with black pigments, its eyes in fiery green.

  Mordeau smiled. “Our guide is a true Master, Artifice!”

  Kantoh shook his head. “I am but an Initiate.”

  Artifice learned much about Shantarra that day. The city possessed no form of currency, no gold, silver, jewels, or money of any kind. Their society thrived on the ideal of equality. The citizens worked the fields and gave their monthly tribute to the temple. Each year several children were chosen to enter the temple as Novices. To be accepted was the greatest of honors, and it would take each one decades to rise to the rank of Initiate.

  “Has there never been war in Shantarra?” Artifice asked.

  “Not for three thousand years,” said Kantoh.

  ***

  In the city’s central plaza the monks had constructed a wooden stage with miraculous efficiency. Tonight the Glimmer Faire performed Artifice’s latest drama, Dance of the Dreaming Dragons, a work inspired by Eastern myths and legends. He created the mythical beasts by laying his spells on paper-winged actors. He turned a black sheet hung at the rear of the stage into a gulf of glittering constellations, and carefully placed torches became blazing suns. Mordeau went over scenes and movement cues with the Players. A spell of comprehension eliminated the language barrier, so the Shantarrans would understand every word spoken or sung by the Players.

  The pleasant families of Shantarra gathered expectantly in the square, some lining the tops of houses or perched along garden walls to get a better view. The monks marched quietly from their temple to take their place among the crowd, with a seat of honor reserved in the front row for the aged Grand Master. As the audience assembled itself, the woodfolk played an entrancing melody to prepare for the spectacle. The sun sank, the moon rose, and the Players took the stage.

  The play opened at the Dawn of Time, when celestial dragons roamed the void consuming suns and galaxies. The cosmic beasts battled among themselves, and from their steaming blood, spilled across the stars, the first of the gods were born: Eldyth, Jadmeil, Khozan, Alavaria, Myliel, and many others. They strode forth into the universe like blazing comets, barely noticed by the great dragons. For eons the gods shared the heavenly realm with the star-serpents. Then Jadmeil the Sly charmed the beasts into an eternal sleep, and the communal dream of the cosmic dragons was the earth itself. In the depths of their shared dream the dragons envisioned themselves as fire-breathing giants. They ruled the Continent as tyrants, subjugating lesser creatures and building fantastic cities of monolithic scale.

  Then the gods hatched a plan to enter the world and claim it for their own. They chose the strongest and healthiest of prehistoric humanity as vessels through which they might be born into the earth-dream. So the avatars of the gods sprang from the loins of a savage mankind and grew into forms of terrible majesty. The gods now walked the soil of the Great Continent and Eldyth the Conqueror forged a mighty sword, rallied his fellow godlings, and waged war on the race of giants. So the gods destroyed the giant-kings and cast their towering cities into dust. They spared a single city to claim as their home, christening it Omylon the God-City.

  In the outer gulfs, the dragons dreamed on through eternity, watching the world unfold, bodiless and faceless within their own dream. Yet they soared above the Continent as burning winds, raged through the oceans as terrible storms, and lingered as dancing flames in the depths of volcanoes. For eons the earth knew peace while the gods tamed a savage world. In time they would fall to fighting amongst themselves, eventually departing to explore other worlds. Some fell into ageless slumber, or were simply forgotten by Man. But certain of these Lost Gods never forgot that one day the cosmic dragons would awaken from their sleep, and on that day, the earth would end as if it had never existed.

  The musicians finished the play with a flourish of climactic melody, and the Shantarrans rose to clap, cheer, and shout their joy. The smiling monks applauded with customary restraint. As the troupe took its bows, Artifice saw the beaming face of the Grand Master in the front row. The old monk smiled and nodded his round head as if something important had been explained to him. By his expression and the cheers of his folk, Artifice judged the performance a success.

  As the applause died away and the final curtain descended, an ominous sound filled the air above the city. The monks were first to hear it, springing to their feet and making their way toward the outer walls, while the citizens exchanged curious glances and whispers.

  Artifice wiped the sweat from his brow and strained his ears to listen. The thundering of drums came roaring from the jungle. He saw Kantoh among the rushing Initiates and ran down from the stage to catch up with him. Mordeau yelled out but Artifice failed to hear it. Something unprecedented was occurring.

  “What is happening?” he asked Kantoh.

  “The beast-men play their war drums,” Kantoh said. “They must have sent spies to follow us on the hidden path.”

  Artifice followed Kantoh to the top of the city’s wall and looked out over the jungle. A thousand torches gleamed like evil stars around the base of the great hill. The beast-men set fire to the crops and orchards as they moved upward toward the city gates.

  Kantoh turned to join the hundreds of Initiates rushing out to confront the invaders, but Artifice grabbed him by the shoulder. “Why now?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer. “After three thousand years?”

  “The gold,” said Kantoh. “Lust for it is the curse of their kind. Now that they have tasted it, they will raze the city in a search for more.”

  “But you have no gold!” Artifice said.

  “It does not matter,” said Kantoh, and he sped away.

  Artifice watched from the battlements as the mass of Initiates poured out to spread themselves before the gates in an arc formation. The beast-men stalked through the flames waving cruel blades and baroque axes, while their rear ranks launched volleys of arrows into the air. Artifice suddenly realized the monks intended to battle the monsters with their bare hands.

  He barely noticed when the Grand Master joined him atop the wall to observe the battle. The monks caught flying arrows or brushed them aside, then engaged the beast-men in a whirling dance of death. The brutes clove at them with their blades, but it was like trying to slice the wind. The monks fought with fingers, palms, fists, legs and feet. Soon the first rank of beast-men lay senseless or dead before them.

  Artifice saw the hulking chieftain bellowing orders from the back of the lines. At his side stood another tiger-headed personage in a tall, feathered headdress, his simian body painted with gleaming runes. Naked flames danced in his upraised hands. Whether he was shaman, sorcerer, or both, Artifice could not tell.

  So the battle waged, while the citizens of Shantarra stayed locked in their houses, trusting to the Order of the Empty Hand to defend their city.

  “I am so very sorry,” Artifice said to the Grand Master. “If we had not come here bearing gold...”

  The Grand Master touched Artifice’s shoulder. “Fear not,” he said. “You could not know.”

  The battle raged for hours, until the beast-men finally withdrew, leaving hundreds of their own lying in heaps at the top of the hill where the monks stood unvanquished. Although they had been sorely outnumbered by the brutes, only a handful of Initiates had perished. The beast-men had failed to break the ranks of the Empty Hand.

  Now the creatures milled about their chieftain and his howling companion. The snarling shaman slit the throats of six captured Initiates with his jeweled dagger. The beast-men fell to their knees before the shaman, who led them in a guttural chant while swirls of purple flame leapt about his claws.

  “What are they doing?” Artifice asked the Grand Master.

  “They worship the de
mon-god Ka’aguloth, the Render of Flesh,” he replied. “Now they summon him. I must go.” And he was gone, rushing off toward the main gate and shouting commands to his Initiates.

  What have I done? Artifice asked himself. Before now the coming of the Glimmer Faire had brought only entertainment, enlightenment, and joy to the cities it had played. Now it had brought death to Shantarra.

  While the unholy ceremony continued below the hill, the Initiates marched back into the city. A single monk was left standing alone before the gate.

  Artifice recognized him as the Grand Master.

  A stinking wind rose from the bottom of the hill, driving black clouds of smoke over the walls, blotting out the stars. A thunderous roar split the night, and a gigantic shape lumbered up the hillside, emerging like a phantom from the darkness. Artifice smelled the reek of diabolic sorcery, the odor of rotted flesh. It was a demon-smell he knew only too well. Fear clutched at his bowels, and he grabbed the Red Isle amulet. As long as he wore it, no demon could see him.

  The demon-god strode across the burning fields, its body that of a colossal tiger. Instead of a head the bloated torso of a giant ape rose from its shoulders. Its tree-trunk arms curled and flexed, its claws gleaming like silver spears. Atop the ape’s torso sat the head of a beautiful man, a handsome godling, his mouth filled with yellow fangs, his eyes black pits of nothingness. The earth shook beneath the tread of Ka’aguloth’s massive paws, and the thing roared again, freezing Artifice’s blood.

  The Grand Master sat on the torn ground outside the city gates. His eyes were closed, his legs crossed, his body still as stone. The demon-god loped toward him—the old man would be devoured. Was he mad? Did he hope that his sacrifice would drive away the beast-men and their terrible god?

  I’m a coward, Artifice realized. I’ve been running from demons for five years now. I am the one who should be sacrificed. I brought this doom to Shantarra, and only I can save it.

  He tore the Red Isle amulet from his neck and cast it toward Ka’aguloth like a pitiful stone hurled from a boy’s sling.

  “I am here!” Artifice yelled, the blood roaring in his ears. He leapt and waved his hands atop the wall. He would die, but his art would live on. He’d written almost twenty plays… they would ensure his immortality, if his sacrifice could prevent the destruction of Shantarra and the Glimmer Faire with it. “It’s me you want! Come and claim what your demonic kin could never find! Take me and spare this city!”

  Artifice watched in horror as Ka’aguloth’s handsome yet horrible face laughed at his words. The monster swept up the Grand Master’s body in its terrible teeth, devouring him in a single gulp. The thing roared again, the charnel stink of its breath washing over the walls, and turned its bloody face toward the city.

  The twin voids of its eyes settled on Artifice, and he knew then that it recognized him. It had heard the call of the Sorcerer Kings and knew they would reward it well for delivering Artifice’s head. Yet it had devoured the Grand Master anyway… Artifice had sacrificed himself for nothing. He fell to his knees, weeping.

  Ka’aguloth reached a mighty claw toward him, and he imagined himself crushed between those rows of giant fangs, swallowed like the poor Grand Master. The beast would devour not only his flesh, but his eternal soul as well. Ka’aguloth laughed, and his mirth filled the vault of the sky. Artifice clapped his hands to his ears and prepared to die. A golden skyline of tapering spires danced in his mind’s eye, and he knew that he would never see glorious Narr again.

  The monster trembled, and brilliant white fires burst from its hollow eyes. It belched a roar of agony as pale flames erupted from its belly, consuming it from within. The demon-god could not digest the mighty soul it had swallowed. Ka’aguloth writhed and stamped the earth, howling at the stars. Finally, the demon-god exploded in a ball of fire. Gouts of flame rained down upon the hillside, turning into drops of silvery rain before touching the soil.

  Ka’aguloth was gone. Where it had stood now bloomed an enormous white lotus flower.

  The remnants of the beast-men fled into the jungle, their god vanquished and their lust for gold drowned by the sheer terror of their defeat. Kantoh and a group of Initiates, their white robes soiled by the filth and blood of beast-men, emerged from the gate to harvest the great lotus. They removed it from the earth, careful to preserve its dangling roots, and carried it on their shoulders into the city. The flaming fields had been extinguished by the silver rain. Tranquility fell over Shantarra like a warm blanket.

  Artifice joined the crowds of citizens who stood weeping and praying about the temple as the Initiates carried the great lotus into the central garden. They planted it next to the sacred pool.

  The Players found their way back into the temple and rested in the aftermath of the momentous events as the city regained its composure. Later that night Kantoh came to join Artifice and Mordeau as they sat on stone benches in the garden.

  “The Grand Master has fulfilled his holy purpose,” Kantoh said. “The time of Shantarra’s fading from the world is at hand. You must go. And I must go with you.”

  “You’re coming with us?” Artifice asked. He was too spent to be surprised.

  Kantoh nodded. “I and several of my brother Initiates,” he said. “The Grand Master’s final wish.”

  Artifice embraced Kantoh. “Of course you are more than welcome to travel with us.”

  In the bright glow of morning the Glimmer Faire exited the city gate with twelve Initiates in tow. The once-thriving fields were now only charred wastes, and the scattered bodies of beast-men had begun to fester and rot. Artifice did not bother to look for the Red Isle amulet, though it doubtless lay somewhere amid the smoking carnage. Now that he had forsaken it, he knew he could never stand to wear it again. Let the demons come for him...he would face them as he had faced Ka’aguloth.

  When the company reached the bottom of the hill Artifice looked back, but Shantarra was gone. The summit sat green and bare, but was covered now with a riot of blooming white lotus vines. Artifice called for the company to halt, and he ran back up the hillside to pluck a single of the white blossoms. The blue sky was rich with clouds, and a mist of rain began to fall as he rejoined them. The woodfolk played a beautiful dirge as the caravan departed.

  “Where to next, then?” Mordeau asked.

  Artifice stroked the petals of the pale lotus, remembering how the Grand Master had walked out to meet his fate. His absence of fear, the strength of his convictions, proved more powerful than the blasting gaze of the demon-god.

  “We’re going back to Narr,” he said.

  Mordeau smiled and bowed to him.

  Soon the jungle swallowed the caravan, and they followed the golden sun into the West.

  About the author: John R. Fultz lives in the North Bay area of California but is originally from Kentucky. His Books of the Shaper trilogy includes SEVEN PRINCES, SEVEN KINGS, and SEVEN SORCERERS, available everywhere from Orbit Books. His short story collection THE REVELATIONS OF ZANG features the adventures of Artifice the Quill and Taizo of Narr. John’s work has appeared in Weird Tales, Black Gate, Space & Time, Lightspeed, and the anthologies WAY OF THE WIZARD, CTHULHU’S REIGN, OTHER WORLDS THAN THESE, THE BOOK OF CTHULHU II, and DEEPEST, DARKEST EDEN: NEW TALES OF HYPERBOREA. He keeps a virtual sanctuary at www.johnrfultz.com.

  The White Lotus Society

  Aaron J. French

  Omnibus Exclusive

  Smoke rose from the water where several ships had capsized. Massive holes gaped along their bottoms. Bodies lay scattered across the foamy surface with whatever cargo they had held: tea, wool, bolts of silk, thousand cash coins.

  Li Xi had seen many, many battles during his life: fighting did not worry him. What worried him were the hundred soaring British clipper ships on the horizon with nary a functioning Qing vessel in sight.

  He frowned and scratched his chin. He had heard the troublesome tidings of the opium influx. The British demanded tea and silk after Marco Polo’s Livres des Mer
veilles du Monde. But he never thought it would come to this. Not even when the unfair treaties were signed and the diplomatic concessions were set up. He had always thought things would work out.

  Now tragedy on the Zhu Jiang... with Guangzhou defenseless nearby.

  He sighed and shook his head. Turning to slip through the rice paddies, cannon fire rang in his ears.

  ***

  In the late evening, Li Xi stepped quietly in his bamboo slippers through the streets of Xi’an. Lanterns glowed like giant fireflies from gates, arches, towers. He sought Xi’an’s leading blacksmith: a wily rotund individual named Wong. Once he’d found him, Li Xi pretended to be a fellow worker in metals from Chongqing in order to inquire after the blacksmith’s business.

  Wong feared competition, but Li Xi assured him that he had no desire to set up a smithy in Xi’an. He planned on expanding his own in Chongqing and was investigating a possible trading partner.

  At this Wong’s eyes widened with greed, and he proceeded to boast about how well his smithy was doing, how he could outsell any other blacksmith. As he rubbed his fat little belly, upon which his leather apron rested, he said, “Not only are my wares of the highest quality, but …” frowning, he leaned forward over the counter “… I have a secret which will ensure I remain the top-seller.”

  “Do tell,” Li Xi coaxed.

  “It just so happens,” began the blacksmith proudly, “that I have become the main supplier of a certain, er, group in Xi’an which will continuously require weapons for their purposes.”

  “What purposes?”

  “Does it make a difference? The point is they will continuously require them.”

  “What if they should go somewhere else?”

  Wong’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, here is the important thing. This special group… well, it needs special weapons, weapons only I can manufacture.”