by C J Timms
Rust slid a knight into place toppling the rook. ‘No defence is perfect. Walls can be broken. All you need is a good plan and to visualise your goals. See the world you want to live in.’
‘You and your self-help books, I should never have paid for those Tony Robbins audiotapes…oh bloody hell I can never tell you apart from your brother.’ The old man rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, still looking for Rust’s name. His original name.
Rust could see the end coming, and the old man had tricked him again. He’d exposed himself by toppling the castle. The old man paused, two moves away from checkmate, and his eyes lost their focus, becoming glazed. He fumbled at his queen, trying to remember a pattern.
‘No…not again…not when I’m so close.’
The old man banged his head on the table, once twice, three times. He rested his head there after the third strike.
Rust stared out at the sea, watched it batter away at the crumbling cliffs. Time marched on it seemed. Today had been a good one. Dad still couldn’t remember his name though.
After a long pause, the older man looked back at Rust as though seeing him for the first time. ‘Sit down and play a game with an old man, won’t you? What was your name? My son is coming by soon.’
Rust gave a bitter smile as his father confusedly try to reassemble the chess pieces. The keen passion now faded from his eyes, a rheumy greyness remaining.
Today had been better than most.
Unable to keep watching, he took a deep breath and strode over to the battered ute. He inserted the key and tried to spark some life into the beat-up engine. It gave a final shudder, then stopped, never to start again. He gave a sad smile and pulled out his to-do list.
Buy a new car [ ]
He put his to-do list away in his pocket and looked out over the cliffs. The sea was calm in the afternoon air, the offshore and onshore breeze in balance. A small push either way would set the waves to a torn battleground of chop and foam. The orange-haired man undid the handbrake and gave it a gentle push. The ute started to roll down the hill, gathered speed in its final descent. It plunged off the cliff into the sea with an epic crash.
If something must end, make it glorious.
Rust returned to his father staring defeated at the chess pieces. He came back and gently pulled his father to his feet and guided him to the walk back down the hill. The rheumy greyness in his father's eyes parted for a moment, memory gathered by force of will. The old man grabbed the orange haired man’s shirt, knuckles white, gripping to clarity and pulled him in.
‘You can do anything you set your mind to. You were always the clever one, your brother was the leader, but you, you always had your to-do list. I made you to change the world. I’ve worked the pieces into place for thirty years. Now go do it.’
The orange haired man rolled his shoulders, that was more like it. There was still plenty left in his tank.
And he had a plan.
Rust paused, letting the stirring wind blow through his orange-brown hair. He looked at the last goal on his to-do list, one he tried to tick off every day without success. An unticked goal always irked him, scratching at the back of his mind like a tropical bug had burrowed deep and laid eggs. He rubbed his thumb over the final goal and copied it to the next days page.
Save the world [ ].
Red - Family
Gerion ran through the alleyways of Ionhome, the loaf of bread clutched to his chest. His tiny form slipped beneath two barrels.
Thump.
Thump.
His pursuers cursed, pressing up against the barrels and two meaty sets of hand reached through the gaps. They grasped at him, the armoured gloves snagging a scrap of his shirt. The fabric tore, the worn, ratty material coming apart easily.
‘Get back here, kid, its the brig for you.’
Gerion stuck out his tongue and dashed away, his bare feet slapping the cobblestones. Another guard loomed in the alleyway in front of him. Gerion threw the loaf of bread over the man and slid beneath the man’s legs. He came back to his feet and jumped off a crate to catch the bread from the sky. He landed in a crouch and took off running. Just a bit longer.
There, the gap in the wall, too small for a guard but just large enough for him to wriggle through. Gerion took a few precious seconds to wrap the bread in some meagre scraps of cloth. He shoved it ahead of him into the crack. He contorted his body and bent through the wall. He would get too big for this soon, if he lasted that long.
That though, was future Gerion’s problem.
Gerion followed the crack in the wall into a shallow recess, a room that barely contained him. Blood pounding in his ears, Gerion listened for his pursuers. The sound of boots on cobblestone passed. He waited, then he waited and then he waited some more. He waited until the adrenaline faded from his system, waited until he felt the gnawing in his stomach return. The smell of the fresh-baked bread filled the small bolt-hole he hid in. His mouth salivated, and his hands twitched.
Still, he waited more.
When it felt like an hour had passed, Gerion began the process of extracting himself. In the hour, his muscles had cramped and become stiff. Gerion massaged them with his hands in a practiced manner. He crawled out of the wall and back into the alleyway. His head whipped left and right.
All clear.
Gerion backtracked to the alley where Mava, hid huddled in a rag. His sisters malnourished frame stirred as he approached. She lay shivering beneath the tarp propped up by scraps of wood that they called home.
‘Here sis, I brought you food.’
Gerion tore off a chunk of bread for her. Her dull eyes turned away. Her body was still hot to the touch, she needed fuel to fight the fever.
‘Come on sis, you have to eat.’ Gerion said, he broke off a chunk of the bread and pushed it in to the corner of her mouth. ‘There’s no one coming, its just us. Just us.
It’s always been just us.’
‘Well, well, well, two rats for the price of one.’ One of the guards stood at the entrance to the alley, a weathered man with balding hair and a broken nose. A shorter man with a bulbous nose and narrow eyes capered beside him, clapping his hands. The short man had whiskers protruding from his nose like a rat.
‘Well done Tivan,’ Said the balding one.
‘The Wyldfell knows tracking master.’ Tivan sniffed the air. ‘Now we eat, yes, yes?’
The balding guard took slow steps towards Gerion. Gerion clutched the bread to his chest and stepped in front of his sister. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He’d been doing the same thing for weeks. They finally brought in a tracker. He should have moved days ago but Mava had been too unwell to stand.
‘There’s a good lad. Why don’t you come on over, nice and easy.’
‘No master, you said flay him you did.’ Tivan hissed.
Gerion gulped and balled his fists, he shouldn’t have broken that guards nose. Gerion’s stomach growled as he glanced around the closed in alley. No way out.
‘Please, she needs the food.’ Gerion said.
The guard stepped forward and cuffed Gerion to the ground. Gerion felt the world spin and the breath was knocked from him. The bread was ripped from his hands. He scrabbled at the cobblestones, trying to push himself up.
‘Everyone hungers, doesn’t give you the right to steal.’ The guard said. ‘We mark those who steal from us, record keeping it is.’
The Guard’s dagger cut a notch into Gerion’s ear. He screamed and clamped his hand the cut. The guard threw him to the side. ‘Now everyone will see what you are.’
Tivan sniffed the air and crouched low, his eyes flitting back and forth. ‘Master, hunger dances on the air, iron and salt.’
‘What’s got your goat Tivan, can’t handle a couple of street rats?’ The guard asked
Another figure entered the alley, their face hidden beneath a red helm with a faceplate like a shark’s maw. Red plate armour, more like shell than metal, covered them. The new figure carried a large black duffel bag, w
orn, singed, straining with the weight of its contents. They had awkwardly poked a straw through the gap in their faceplate and sipped a protein shake.
The stranger considered Gerion, the guard and the starving children huddled in the alcove.They lowered the protein shake and threw it to the side.
‘On your way, this is watch business.’ The guard said.
Tivan hissed, his teeth bared, then he turned and scuttled up the walls of the alley, fleeing into the night. The guard reached for his sword.
A red trident pierced his chest and drove him into the wall. The stranger removed their helmet and bit deep into the neck of the guard with sharp fangs. The guard paled, went rigid, then slumped against the wall. The red armoured stranger pulled the trident back and the guard collapsed to the street. Red curse marks glowed on the guards neck. Twisting, sinuous lines spread out from the bite mark.
Despite the open wounds the blood flow stopped. Gerion pushed himself to his knees, then stood in front of his sister. The stranger walked towards him, their boots echoing on the stone. Gerion balled his fist up to fight, though his whole body shook. Questions burned through his head. What demon was this? What layer of the Deep had this creature crawled from? What did that curse mark do? His stomach growled.
Was there anything left in that protein shake?
The red cloaked stranger held out the loaf of bread to Gerion. The stranger handed the loaf of bread back to Gerion, blood stained the lower half.
‘Blood protects blood, family feeds family.’ The stranger said then paused and sniffed at the bread.‘Rye bread tastes terrible, go for a white loaf next time.’
The knight turned and broke a fracture in reality. The taste of salt and iron filled the air. That was Deep magic, cursed magic. Yet they’d saved him and his sister.
‘What is your name?’ Gerion asked.
The red cloaked knight paused at the edge of the fracture and grinned as if at some great joke.
‘The vikings named me Blughadda, the redfoam of waves after a naval battle. When I stalked the hunters in their homes, the Wyldfolk named me Bloodswell. In Locomotyr, when their swords broke on my armour, they knew me as the Blood Knight.
Just call me Red, it saves time.’
Red passed through the fracture in the alleyway to a small country town. Red’s stomach rumbled. Damn, should have taken some of that kid’s bread. The scrawny little runt had had chutzpah though, seemed like he’d earned it.
Red’s walked past houses withchipped weather board and sun bleached paint. They sniffed the air, the town’s scent had faded with the loss of jobs and the young. Red walked past an ageing nursing home. They crossed the road to the attached cemetery, their smile fading.
Red stopped by an unmarked grave and lowered the black duffel bag. They sank to their knees in front of a grave stone and slowly opened the duffel bag. From the black duffel bag came a bucket and cleaning fluid. They first stripped the red blood from their trident and than began cleaning the tombstone. With deft hands they scrubbed the grime from the rock. The name long since worn away, the stone was small, barely distinguishable amongst hundreds of similar generic graves.
‘This world is dying dad,’ Red whispered as they scrubbed. ‘This world has forgotten its honour, how to honour family, how to respect their blood.
But I still remember your strength, I will show the world that it is strong, I will give it its final battle.
Then I will feed the hungry.’
The figure tenderly put a hand out to the tombstone. Just listening. They stay like that for a time. Then Red put the cleaning fluid slowly away. They ripped a fracture in the world.
Rust waited on the other side, his orange and grey streaked hair on view, the degraded helm to the side. He held up a copy of ‘How to win friends and influence people.’ Red rolled her eyes, Rust and his frakking books.
Delaying the conversation, Red turned back to the gravestone, pulled out a muesli bar and started snacking.
They were so very hungry.
Gale- Reefwall
Though a fracturesmith can break reality anywhere, creatures of the Deep seem to need weak points to cross over. Like water poured into a cracked jug, they trickle through the gaps.
Spur’s primer for fracturesmiths 2nd edition
Tangerinous bounced her child on her lap. Ironchurch stared at her across the table and poured himself a whiskey. He didn’t offer Tangerinous anything, just looked at the gurgling baby, around at the bar and raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged. ‘Babysitters are expensive at short notice.’
‘Your company is one of the richest in Ionhome.’
‘And I stay that way by not spending money.’
Ironchurch drained the whole whiskey and poured himself another.
‘Gale, watch the baby.’ Ironchurch said.
The baby was a gurgling, bubbling, little cauldron of a human. Gale held it out at arms length. How could such a small thing produce so much fluid? The nose dripped like a faucet. The mouth oozed drool. The hands were sticky with the Reef only knows what. The baby started crying immediately on being passed to Gale.
‘What did I do wrong.’ Gale asked, trying to rock it back and forth. ‘Does he need feeding?’
‘There is fortified protein milk in the back.’ Ironchurch said.
‘My baby is not drinking your protein shake.’ Tangerinous said.
‘What, you’re too good to try my conditioner?’ Ironchurch said.
‘You would have been a terrible father.’ Tangerinous said. Then she coughed, looking away. Ironchurch’s face clouded over, he downed the glass of vodka and poured himself another.
The baby stopped crying, and Gale breathed a sigh of relief. The baby’s disgruntled face became more puzzled. Then it smiled, and a horrible smell came from it.
‘I think it needs a change.’ Gale said, holding the baby out at arms length.
‘Then change him.’ Jacqui threw a diaper bag at him. It was a very stylish bright pink diaper bag with gold trim. Gale went diving into the unknown depths, searching for a desperate fix to the smell that assaulted his nose.
‘Look, Ron…’ Jacqui said, putting a hand on Ironchurch’s. ‘A Lighthouse Beacon’s been damaged. It needs to be fixed.’
Gale coughed, was Ironchurch’s real name Ronald?
‘Just have one of your hundreds of employees fix it.’ Ironchurch said without meeting her eyes. He didn’t move his hand away.
‘We can’t. The beacons are protected by old magic. Only the company that has the maintenance contract can enter. We tried to get in and were barred. So I looked up who owns the contract. Imagine my shock that it turned out to be you.’
Ironchurch met her eyes. ‘How did the beacon statue get damaged? One of your floating monstrosities drop something.’
‘Those are the future of Ionhome! Those are the tools that will free us from this cage, to reach for the sky.’
‘So it was some of your debris.’
‘Sell me the maintenance contract. I’ll pay you triple what its worth. Then my team can go in and fix it. Do this for me, Ron, for old times sakes.’ Tangerinous leaned forward.
‘Its Ironchurch, and you made your choice.’ Ironchurch swirled the last dregs of his vodka in the glass, contemplative. ‘Dredge the depths...’
The baby squawked and pulled Gale’s attention away. He tried hurriedly to swap out the nappy, why were there so many folding pieces? This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t it just be a slide on onesie type diaper? He strained to hear the conversation over mixed wails, gurgles and laughter. Gale turned his head to understand better. Sensing weakness, the baby shot a stream of wee off. Gale dodged to the side. Mopping up the mess, he turned back to the conversation.
‘…I don’t remember much, but I do remember what happened whenheasked you for help. I remember when you turned away.’ Ironchurch said and pulled his hand away from hers. ‘I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Hmmm, look at me being phil-o-soph-ic-al.
&
nbsp; Go away, Jacqui. I don’t have anyone who can fix it today. My usual guy is…’
‘I can do it.’ Gale said, holding a freshly changed baby before him. He thrust it back into Tangerinous’s arms before it could start leaking from anywhere else . ‘I can fix the damage.’
Ironchurch pulled Gale aside, his creased face brightening at the thought. He grinned and poked Gale’s arms.
‘You, water boy, with these chicken wings.’
Gale frowned, his frame had gained some muscle from constant sparring and manual labour. He was still a bit chubby, though, and he still got his coughing fits. Ironchurch glanced back at Tangerinous and gestured for Gale to lean in.
‘No-one has had to repair a Lighthouse in years. I took contract because it meant to be easy money. I offered lowest bid. I can’t even tell you how to fix it.’
‘Well, I’ll start by finding what's broken. Are you really going to turn down free labour?’
‘I’ll pay you don’t worry.’ Ironchurch smirked, then turned back to Tangerinous with a used car salesman’s smile.
‘Good news, my repair crew will be able to attend to the matter today. We will fix the lighthouse to perfection. The Ironchurch company will fix your mistake with our finest technician.’ He clapped Gale on the back. Tangerinous looked at Gale with her deep blue eyes and took back her baby. She eyed Gale once more.
‘You put the nappy on backwards.’
‘Do the world some good, get paid good money, do the world some good, get paid good money.’ Gale repeated it under his breath. This was what his mum had meant in her letter. He was sure of it.
‘Wait…where’s my airship?’ Gale asked, staring out at the junkyard.
‘I have no airship. You need to sail out to the statue.’ Ironchurch pointed beyond the reefwall to the largest statue of King Canute.