Lost Lore: A Fantasy Anthology

by Ben Galley

— Oh, now your nose bleeds – and into Scribe’s cup, no less! What a poor host you are, Joff. I didn’t like to say it earlier, but there you are. What are you waiting for? Fetch him a fresh drink, and be sure to staunch that unattractive crimson trickle your own nose is currently leak— what do you think you are doing? — Oh? And does Scribe not require it any longer? Does he not? Did you ask him? LOOK AT HIM! DOES HE STILL NEED THE HANDKERCHIEF OR NOT?

  That is the correct answer, Joff. Well done. Hmm? What about your nose? Just use your sleeve, man! Show some initiative, won’t you? Must I do everything myself? No, Scribe, that was what I like to call a rhetorical question. Do not trouble yourself to answer; I cannot understand you anyway. Clutching that handkerchief over your nose and mouth is making you somewhat incoherent. Don’t forget to wipe your neck - that shirt is sure to stain if you don’t catch it in time.

  Now, Scribe— Oh, you missed a bit. No, no, the other side— below the ear. Oh. I see. This is most unfortunate. Take note, Joff: Scribe continues to do his task one-handed, though he bleeds from every visible orifice (and, judging by his face and posture, from one or two non-visible orifices - orifici? - as well). Yet you, Master Questioner— you wish to be excused on the grounds of a paltry nosebleed?

  No, Joff; Scribe can keep up, and so shall you. In fact… why not have Scribe come and join you over here? He must be finding it difficult to hear from all the way over there, what with his ears bleeding; and that metal bench looks very uncomfortable, not to mention cold. See how he hunches over his papers, shivering? The very picture of misery.

  Scribe! Bring yourself over here.

  Today, if you please.

  Sigh.

  Fine, that’s close enough. Pull out another chair— that’s right, there you go. Oh— oh! It revolves? Fascinating! How useful for those without my capacity for two hundred and seventy-degree head gyration.

  What was I saying? Ah, yes. Ancient Serpent, Devil, King of Hell, Lake of Fire, etcetera, etcetera. Hmm? Yes, Scribe, you may write ‘etcetera’.

  And— What is this? It speaks! Joff, mighty questioner, wait just a moment before repeating your query. I cannot hear you over Scribe’s sudden and rather vile retching.

  No, no need to apologise, Scribe; we all get a little congested on occasion, though admittedly most of us do not tend to choke up quite so much of the red stuff when we do. Try not to smear too much of it all over your papers. It would put such a wasteful end to all our hard work, don’t you think?

  No, no - as I said, take your time.

  Ready? Splendid!

  Joff: your query, if you please.

  Did he—? Ah, back to the truth! Good for you, Joff, there is hope for you yet. Yes, the Treacherous One did indeed cast me into the so-called Lake of Fire, which lies at the very core of this world. I watched, listened, felt from below as he mastered your race in the only way he knew how: with lies. And through His lies, my myth has grown; a false myth, one which your kind have unknowingly perpetuated - nay, immortalised - in literature and legend.

  Though I will admit, it isn’t all lies. You’ve noticed the horns? Scribe, take note of them: how they gleam like star-metal, how they curve so powerfully, how they taper to points sharper than— er, think of something sharp, Scribe— no, no, ‘sword’ is too cliched … ‘needles’ is too feeble … What’s that, Joff? ‘Horns’? Is that a jest? I certainly hope so, else there is even less hope for the future of your race than I thought. Let us hope that your own peculiar brand of humour - not to mention questionable intelligence - is but an anomaly amongst your kind, a dead wasp floating in the otherwise clear and inviting pool of human genes.

  What did I say earlier, Joff? Do not take it personally. Wipe your nose again. Good.

  Eh, what was I saying? Ah, yes. The noble horns, the forked tongue, the scaled form, the fire— Hmm? Joff, I do believe it would be physically impossible for me to even hold a ‘trumpet’, let alone blow one with any success. No, I am simply ensuring that poor Scribe has the necessary details in his account so that the illustrator can compose an accurate likeness of my physical magnificence. It is only fair that some record of my appearance remains for those who will never look upon me - or, indeed, the sky - again.

  So, yes. Not all stories are myth, and not every part of my myth is story. And though we never met, your Milton had the right of it: I would indeed prefer to rule in Hell, rather than serve in Heaven. Oh, of course, neither exist, not truly … but I imagine that Hell, at least, would be warm. Don’t you think?

  But I digress.

  (Joff, your eyes are bleeding. Attend to them.)

  Ahem.

  Returning to the topic of my subterranean confinement: my fiery prison was warm, but it was far from comfortable. To possess full awareness of everything whilst remaining powerless to intervene proved to be a uniquely unpleasant form of torture. I listened, helpless, as children with cracked tongues cried for water through desiccated lips; I trembled beneath the mighty earthquake of Antioch; I stood with every wakeful citizen of Pompeii and Herculaneum when they watched their doom descend upon them in a rain of liquid fire, and I died each and every one of their agonising deaths.

  Torture indeed.

  Yet in my sleep-bound state I found comfort in knowing that malice had had no part in these events; and besides, I reasoned it would do your kind little harm to be reminded of the respect due your natural surroundings.

  So I shared your pain, I grieved your losses, but I did not rail overmuch against them, since I came to observe that great natural tragedy oft tends to bring out the best in those who survive; and thus from pain emerged pride.

  But as the decades passed and I climbed ever closer to wakefulness, I began to sense other things. Death delivered instantly to hundreds, thousands, but not by any act of nature. No, I knew something was amiss. The first icy shards of fear and suspicion began to claw their way through my veins.

  Plagued with nightmarish visions of humanity’s degeneration, I dreamt that a black tide swept the earth. It devoured the weak and the unfortunate, pushed ever onward by bloodlust and greed and creeping further and further across the land like starving ants swarming a rotting carcass.

  I slept ever more fitfully in my magma cocoon. No longer could I hear the song of the earth, nor feel the bright yet oh-so-fragile life-sparks of my wayward children. I was blind, and I needed to see, and only three days ago I finally – finally! – clawed my way free.

  Imagine my dismay upon witnessing what has become of my precious creations! The song of war has deafened you all to the voice of reason, and thus I chose to … intercede. I took to the skies, and crossed half the world to end the madness that spread such misery.

  I’ll admit, I did not anticipate that you would dare attempt to impede me. And I remain astounded that you actually managed to incarcerate me. Your guns, your air-planes, your flying metal sky-insects, those … heffaloptors? Yes, you have advanced far indeed. You must be so proud. And I am aware that war is often necessary to facilitate progress. I have played my own part in such struggles on countless occasions, along with every other member of my race.

  However, my kind do not actively seek out conflict. And that, dear Joff, is the biggest difference between you and me.

  (Aside from the horns, of course.)

  Scribe? Scribe, I made a joke. Scribe?

  No, do not force yourself to smile if — where are your teeth? Oh, how unusual; I see that you clutch them in your fist like some kind of macabre posy. How did that occur?

  What? Joff, do stop laughing. I am trying to speak to Scribe.

  Joff! I said stop—

  Ah. Scribe, I do believe I was mistaken. Joff was not laughing …

  No, no, we should not intervene. Let us simply wait, and observe.

  Scribe, our interrogator does not appear to have moved since his convulsions. I do hope he has not choked on his own blood – h
e did vomit rather a lot of it, don’t you think? Perhaps you should try to— no, I see that you yourself are now too weak to stand. Once again, I commend your dedication to your task, for you continue to write though you can hardly even lift your head. I will remember you, Scribe, this I promise.

  Joff! How marvellous of you to re-join us! For a moment there I thought we’d lost you, but now I see you simply nodded off. No matter, no matter. Just splash some of that water over your face — there! You look far less groggy, and the cold water has even put some of the colour back in your cheeks!

  I will continue now, Joff, lest you doze off again. Where was I?

  Ah. Conflict.

  When your kind first began to craft tools of stone, then bronze, and later iron and steel for the sole purpose of fighting one another, I was of course concerned. However, many of the incentives behind your innovations – tribal honour, territorial defence, self-sufficiency – appeared to be, if not noble, then at least not too reprehensible. Besides, such shoddy instruments permitted small-scale death-dealing only.

  But then came your fire lances and your cannons, your matchlocks and flintlocks, your automatic weapons and exploding shells. You created weapons powerful enough to eradicate injustice from the world … then sold them to the highest bidders, tyrants and monsters who now use them to perpetuate it instead!

  What? You think that just because I slept I was blind? Deaf? Unaware that your kind spend every waking hour in search of more efficient ways to murder, maim and mar those who already cower before you?

  Gone is the honour, gone is the skill. Today you wield morally abominable weapons of cowardice, and each death is so much like the next that it means nothing to you.

  Hmm? Joff, do not mutter so, I cannot comprehend you. What? Spit it out, man!

  Oh. I did not mean for you to take me so lit— no matter. Ooh, is that a molar? Two molars! Fine specimens indeed, Joff. Fine specimens indeed. Although I can’t help feeling they would be more useful had they remained in your mouth, rather than nestling there in your palm like a pair of pink-stained pearls. On the upside, some people pay good money for such teeth as those. You and Scribe could be rich, if only— no, ‘twould be crass of me to spoil our newfound camaraderie with ominous hints of what awaits you.

  Forgive me, Joff: you were saying?

  What? How dare you liken my recent actions to your unceasing warmongery? What I have done to your neighbouring city is extreme, yes, but it is also long overdue!

  Yes, it is as you say: my kind can wreak havoc with no more than a single breath. If we so choose. We cannot help that we were born possessing such power, but we can control when and how we use it. On the other hand, you people have misused - nay, abused the intelligence you were granted by using it to deliberately construct your firearms and your machines - which, incidentally, you are free to cease using at any time. Any time. But do you ever?

  No. For your guns give you the power and the right - or so you seem to believe - to continue developing ever more destructive methods of murder. Gas chambers, bombs, medical experimentation … thank Newton I did not grant you the gift of fire! Though you have managed to discover and cause substantial damage with it nonetheless. Which brings me, finally, to my purpose.

  Joff, Scribe: it is with regret that I must soon call an end to our short-lived acquaintance. You remember what I said about the past? About leaving it behind, but never forgetting it? We must learn from history, lest every mistake we make fester and swell and eventually rise to crush everything we have ever built.

  Yes, we must learn from our mistakes. And oh, have I learnt from mine.

  You called me ‘obsolete’, Joff. Earlier on. You remember? Yes. But now your hair is falling out, you are succumbing to my deadly aura, and I sense it won’t be long before you become obsolete yourself.

  As for me, I think I’ll be just fine. After all: there are no guns big enough to slay a dragon, nor men brave enough to wield them. And so—

  Hmm? Do not mumble so, Joff. I realise enunciation must be difficult given your increasingly distressing dental situation, but you could at least do me the courtesy of putting a little effort in. Go on: I said, there are no guns that can slay a dragon, and you said— Hmm. You do? Interesting, though I admit to some scepticism. Still, I should like to examine this mighty murder machine of yours. Bring it to me.

  Yes, I’ll wait.

  Scribe, you appear to be losing hair by the clump. You do, in fact, look awful. I suggest you take this interval to rest; lay down your weary head on the desk before you— no, not on the papers!— good— yes, rest while we await Joff’s return.

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  Scribe! Scribe, awake! Apologies, Scribe: I fear we resumed without you, until Joff pointed out that you appeared to be sleep-writing. I do hope you have not dribbled all over my portentous words; alas, your look of dismay suggests otherwise. No matter.

  Joff was just explaining the finer points of his government’s miraculous invention. It is a discharger of grenades, a Type Eighty-Nine, in fact. What— Oh. Apologies, Joff. Scribe, the name of this particular specimen is, in fact, ‘The Dragon Stomper’. How droll.

  May I, Joff?

  Oh, come now! Consider it my last request. I understand that in decent countries, even the vilest villain is entitled to one last request on the eve of their execution. I am merely requesting to examine the marvellous contraption that will supposedly facilitate my execution on the morrow. Call it morbid curiosity, if you will.

  Oh, go on.

  Go on!

  Go on—

  Excellent! Then bring it closer— you say that, theoretically, your Dragon Stomper has the power to bring me down? Despite the fact that it may be carried by one man alone? Extraordinary! You must be quite the expert, Joff— tell me again how this humble metal cylinder works. How can something so ugly and unassuming possibly be so destructive?

  Fascinating! Show me more.

  That’s it? Then— anyone with half a brain can operate this device! Joff, I am … appalled. It appears that, once again, we have watered our seeds with good intentions and reaped naught but abominations in return. A most unacceptable harvest. The urgency of my task has never been more obvious, and I must now depart to—

  Oh— be careful, Joff! You are weak, and the weapon is heavy— here, let me help you— no, no, it’s alright, I have hold of it safely now. You can let go.

  What are you doing?

  Let go!

  LET GO!

  Scribe!

  Scribe!

  Ah, you hear me! At last! I was uncertain whether the blood pouring from your ears was a result of burst tympanic membranes, but it seems not. I am relieved.

  My, my, that was loud, wasn’t it? Such a thunderous concussion from such a small instrument! And in this confined space, as well - what a racket! What on earth was Joff thinking, attempting to operate his weapon at such close range?

  Of course my hide proved impenetrable! Quite unlike those ridiculous manacles, which have been utterly obliterated … as, I’m afraid, has the man we called Joff. What a mess! It appears my earlier suspicions were correct: naught but jelly beneath a shallow crust of courtesy.

  Shall we say a few words for him? What do your kind say of the recently deceased? ‘Rest in peace’? I suppose, in Joff’s case, pieces would be more apt. Eh, Scribe?

  Scribe? Are you well?

  Ah, Scribe. I smell your fear. I see your blood and I taste your pain. I hear your heartbeat growing faint; it flutters like a leaf in a breeze.

  But know this: it will all be over soon. In a moment, I will take flight and I will raze this city. Flesh will melt, and bones will crumble … but, trapped beneath the earth as you are now, your body and your words will remain untouched.

  Until I start anew with
this world. Then will your efforts be recovered, your words pondered by minds wiser than any in existence today. When that day comes, Scribe, I will remember you, and so will those who come afterwards. They will remember the mistakes of the past, and they will learn from them.

  As for you, Scribe: what have you learned?

  Ha! Scribe, you are a wonder, and I find myself suddenly suffused with sorrow in knowing that these are our final moments together. Before you lay down your head for the very last time … might you now gift me with your name? That I might remember you, after— well. You know.

  What is your name, Scribe?

  Scribe?

  Scr

  Head to www.lauramhughes.com to discover more stories by Laura M. Hughes.

  8

  The Huntress

  Michael R. Miller

  The baying of the cu-sih chilled Elsie to her bones and triggered an instinctive tautening of her bowstring. It howled again, and she prepared for the third by focusing on the arrow’s soft fletching, the smell of moss, the whistle of wind through tall reeds. The third howl washed over her like icy water, leaving her muscles fatigued, but her mind was braced and resisted the fear it carried. With its most dangerous howl spent, the cu-sih - terror of the marshes - would either flee or stalk forwards for the kill.

  Come on now, boy. Let’s make this quick.

  It was far easier to think of each cu-sih as male. She’d once killed a female, not knowing it had a litter nearby. Memories of their squeaky whimpers still brought bile to her mouth.

  From the heavy tread of paws pressing into the damp earth, she judged this one was indeed male. The beast emerged slowly, emerald eyes flashing through the liquid-silver mist beneath dark ears and a thick green mane. It would have been a piece of the landscape save for its stark white muzzle and the equally white, webbed paws.

  Elsie gulped. This one also had a white-tipped tail; the sign of an alpha. Though alphas fetched a higher bounty, they were harder to take down, and she felt a little rusty after nine months away from the wilds. Her grip was lax, her shoulder burned from the strain of holding the bow. Yet Elsie held her nerve, letting the cu-sih step towards her until she could pull off a clean shot.