King Tides Curse

by C J Timms

  ‘Who’s there?’ he swung the blade around him, parting the mist. Alright Sterling, he thought, history remembers action. What would Titus say…she’ll be right. Sterling touched the copy of ‘Lifting Great Weight’ Gale had given him. He’d marked a page with his favourite line. ‘Legs day begins with the first squat.’

  He took a step towards the mist, the shadows. Then another. His feet soft on the ash grey beach. He passed the armoured body of one man, his armour burnished golden, wings projecting from his back. A graveyard of ancient heroes, not even buried but forgotten. What great battle had taken place here on this beach? Who were they?

  A fathomless moved.

  The fathomless reared up off the ground, snapping its jaws at him. Sterling brought the blade around sliced into the creature. The creature folded in half, collapsed into dark smoke.

 

  Sterling crouched bringing the swords to either side of him. He had heard the voice in his head? Was he going crazy? Was this his uncle Friedrich’s madness? Was this because he’d abandoned Swan? For how he’d lost his family’s last sword? The gate changed based on your personality.

  ‘Come out and face me.’ He screamed.

 

  Dark shapes galloped out of the shadows, erupted from the water. Fathomless, ghostly and pale but still with endless hunger. Sterling’s Script pounded through his veins, and he let it scream through his limbs, filling him to breaking point.

  He charged.

  The first beast snapped at him, and he slid across the sands, pulling the sword through its hide. The blade parted the shell like a hot knife through butter. Red hot coals licked off of the blade’s cut. Sterling kicked sand into the eyes of the next creature and jammed the dagger into its eye. It cut through flesh and bone like water.

 

  Fathomless came at him from all sides. He looked for a place to set his back. There, a pile of slag, that had once been a throne? He concentrated Script into his limbs and leapt. He soared over the pack of fathomless and rolled. He came up with his back against the slag throne, a forgotten king’s seat of power.

  The world became a blur of snapping jaws and swinging claws. The fathomless came at him, his blades carved and wrote in hot coals on the creatures hides. The fathomless burned or fled.

  Finally, he stopped, no more foes to slay. His blades, had not been nicked, nor scratched and were still sharp as the day they were forged.

 

  A tiny figure sat atop the pile of fathomless bodies. The figure, no bigger than his index finger, was shrouded in a black cloak. Two metallic hands held a silver blade outstretched. They let the hood drop back and revealed the face of a toy soldier figurine, female with a heavy black fringe.

 

  Then the figure leapt at him, sword swinging down.

  A homestead and a forge backed on to a small forest, a rarity in Locomotyr. The tall eucalyptus trees stood in stark contrast to the ashen sky. The heat in the air hit her in a wave.

  Swan watched a young girl hammering and fitting horseshoes to a white pony. The young girl wore a bright summer dress with a flower pattern, and her hair was tied back with a red ribbon. Bells tied to the ribbon rang out softly with each clang of her hammer. The horseshoes gleamed with silver and gold trim.

  Larc’s head popped out of her pocket.

  ‘That was me.’ Swan said. ‘Horseshoes were the first thing I learnt to make. I was so proud of them, always thinking of ways to make them better.’

  The younger Swan stood back and put her hands on her hips. The pony raised one of its now glimmering feet and snorted. The younger Swan gave the pony a thumbs up, and the pony stamped its hooves. It shook its head and gestured to the forest. The younger Swan ran a hand on the pony’s flank, holding there before glancing back to the forge.

  ‘Sorry Sparkles I’ve got to finish my chores first.’

  Sparkles shook her head again and stamped on the spot, eager to run free. The younger Swan’s hand stayed on the horses flank, eyes darting to the new horseshoes.

  Larc hopped from Swan’s pocket and into the scene, the younger Swan oblivious to the birds intrusion. Larc’s head twisted on her neck, getting a better view of the horseshoes.

 

  The older Swan spat on the ground, ‘They’re weak, only for show. Take them off silly girl, go on, go back to your work.’

  The younger Swan looked back at the forge and then to the path through the trees. With a cheeky smile, the juvenile Swan leapt onto Sparkles back and grabbed the reins.

  ‘Just a quick ride, just to try them out.’

  Sparkles nodded and started to canter.

  ‘Give it a good go, break a leg,’ the younger Swan said, reaching down to pat Sparkle’s mane.

  ‘Jane come on…let me have a ride.’ Called a slightly taller boy with similar features stepping out of the forge.

  ‘Buzz off Joseph. Sparkles is mine.’ The young Swan said.

  ‘I’ll tell dad you’ve been modding the horseshoes again.’ Joseph replied.

  ‘Fine, fine jump on but just one ride. Got it?’

  Joseph grinned and clambered up behind her.

  ‘What a waste,’ older Swan said and turned away from the scene. Joseph, young Swan and Sparkles galloped into the forest.

  Larc called.

  ‘So you admit it’s nagging then?’ Swan said, then she sighed. ‘Strength is what matters, not gaudy trinkets or baubles. Build it strong, build it well and frak everything else.’

  Larc hopped onto her shoulder.

  Swan cut her off, ‘Just listen.’

  Larc cocked her head, back towards the scene. A crack. A cry of pain and the sound of falling debris.

  ‘The horseshoes I made were pretty, but they broke on the first ride. Sparkles stumbled, twisted a leg. They tumbled into a ditch. Joseph fell hard, his weight crushed under the horses, fracturing his femur. Sparkles broke her leg as well. I was fine.’

  A tear fell into the dirt at Swan’s feet.

  ‘Dad made me put Sparkles down. He could have got a healer for Joseph, but he made it heal the old fashioned way. Dad set the bone and put him in a cast. No pain relief. No Script. The bone never healed quite right. He still limps to this day. Dad called it a lesson.’ She spat to the side. ‘Strength is what matters.’

  The scene dissolved into mist and Swan walked on.

  Swan sat at a table in the ionic labs. It seemed like she was back at the University. A flicker of mist rolled off one of the windows and Swan grimaced. Or not.

  Larc hopped from her pocket and held out her injured wing. Swan shrugged, picked up some tools and went to work. There was plenty of material here at least.

  ‘Can’t you stop looking at me while I do it.’ Swan said.

  Larc said.

  Swan tried to mould the metal. She manipulated a pair of tweezers with her Script and teased the fine steel wires in Larc’s wing.

 

  ‘Why Platinum? Its got a lower tensile strength and would warp. Break like a mother-frakker.’

  Larc just rolled her eyes. Larc said.

  ‘Why don’t you marry him then.’ Swan said, continuing to fine-tune the connections in Larc’s wing.

  Larc shook her head. rt>.

  ‘Larc I have three dance settings, the chicken dance, the macarena and the nutbush. Maybe moshing in a pinch.’ Swan replied. She connected another wire. The wing was actually coming together well this time. Swan measured a few pieces of tin scraps against the size of the extension, melted the edges to shape and slotted them in.

  Larc kept trying to look at the repairs.

  ‘Strength is more important than elegance.’ Swan said. ‘Strength keeps things together, strength stops people from getting hurt.’

  Larc stared up at her.

  ‘Strength has gotten me through this year. I have no time for…optics.’ Swan just kept connecting pieces.

 

  Swan sighed, she was in too deep, but she could take the weight, she was strong.

  She was resilient.

  Swan fixed the final wire in place. She put the tools down and gestured for Larc to give it a try. Larc hopped along the desk, waving the wing up and down. Larc flapped, fluttered then dived from the desk. The wing held. The air rushed through the fine gaps in Larc’s body, making a high pitched piping sound.

  Mist swirled over the desk, a phone appeared. It rang. It was her father. Larc stared at the phone buzzing. Swan hesitated, her hand twitching.

 

  ‘I must do what I must do, for me, for the family.’

  Larc shook her head. Larc flitted back into her pocket, wings fully functional.

  The mist enveloped them once more.

  The mist broke apart, and Swan stood before a great doorway in a massive wall. The wall stretched to the edge of her vision to both sides and upwards. The ground beneath her crunched with every step.

  The doorway was four times her height and just as wide. Intricate clockwork carvings moved seamlessly over the door. The clockwork moved a metal figure of a woman, birds flew around her like snow white, draping her in elegant clothes. Higher in the door, the woman reached upwards, a flight of birds flew a crown down towards her. In the final inlaid scene, the woman raised her hand high to a cheering crowd.

  In the centre, a series of sliding tiles of a thousand pieces, like a moving jigsaw, were chaotically placed.

  Swan kicked the door. Nothing happened.

  She threw her shoulder against it.

  No give.

  She growled deep in her throat. She grabbed the wall and hauled herself up. She scrabbled a few paces upwards before she slid off the slick rock and fell on her butt.

  Larc popped her head out and gave the raucous laughter of a kookaburra. Larc used her good wing to cover her mouth afterwards, looking embarassed.

 

  Swan scowled at her, pushed herself off the ground and looked at the moving jigsaw. ‘Fine if it’ll shut your trap.’

  She started pushing pieces around. They were tiny, the size of fingernails. There was no clear pattern but moving the pieces around seem to focus her mind. It kept her hands busy instead of strangling Larc. Larc continued to look at her with an upturned beak.

  Larc trilled.

  Swan ignored Larc. Something did seem to be taking shape, a picture of a weapon. There, in the upper corner was the curve of a scythe and well, that cluster could be the handle of a dagger. The picture slowly began to take shape. It was the symbol they’d seen during the Monster Hunt, the sign of nine weapons surrounding a wave.

  Larc poked at Swan’s neck with her beak. Swan slapped Larc away. The movement pushed one of the pieces too hard, and it cracked, fell from the wall. The jigsaw erupted into a cloud of puzzle pieces that swirled around her battering her. Then they all flew back onto the wall, reset to their scrambled starting position.

  ‘Frak!’ Swan roared and punched the door over the puzzle. The pieces erupted again and knocked her backwards.

 

  Swan, pushed herself back to her feet and marched up to the door swinging with her right hand. She punched the door with a satisfying clang.

  ‘Should have known, this thing needs to be smashed through like everything else.’

 

  ‘No, this thing needs to be pushed through, that's what I’m good at.’

 

  ‘Strength is what matters.’ Swan took a deep breath. With a roar she slammed her right fist into the door, pushing every ounce of Script down the limb.

  Crack.

  Her wrist exploded with pain, her radius buckled under the pressure. She fell to her knees, holding the wrist, the bone jutting outwards, the skin tented. The door creaked and fell from its hinges. Swan dived out of the way as it collapsed where she had been. It crunched into the gravel, the clockwork grinding to a halt, jammed with rough stone.

  Grabbing her wrist and strapping it down with tape she tried to immobilise it.

  ‘Ha see that Larc, delicate puzzle my arse.’ Swan said through gritted teeth.

  Larc was nowhere to be found. Swan gazed around into the mist, shrugged and held her wrist to her side. She stepped through the doorway.

  Swan came to a standstill outside a bizarre homestead. The homestead was split vertically down the middle. On the right, a rustic forge echoed with the clang of metal on metal. Over the entrance hung a wooden sign with hand-carved letters reading Hef’s Place. To the left was an exquisite jewellers store with glass windows, gold and platinum trim, written in silver lettering were the words ‘Fine and Fancy Fripperies’. In smaller writing beneath that were the words ‘Not Hef’s Place.’ The buildings were breaking down at the borders where they joined. Splintering boards met flaking painted tiles. Barrels of scrap metal jostled with carpets of lace at the edge of each domain.

  Swan stood between the entrances and summoned the Slagblade in her offhand. Her dominant right hand pulsed with pain still, she needed to realign the fracture if she could find something to splint it.

  Swan focused instead on the Slagblade. She considered its rough edges, its flawed structure and twisting metal which threw back warped reflections. Swan turned towards the forge and started walking towards it. She could use a new weapon.

  The doors to the forge burst open, and a giant of a man emerged. ‘Ohhhh, what are you?’

  ‘I…wanted to see about a weapon?’ Swan said.

  ‘A customer?’ the blacksmith said. ‘We haven’t had one in so long.’

  ‘Back off Hef,’ called a woman who stepped out from the jewellers, golden hair framing a painted face. ‘She’s looking for a creation of beauty, something to spark passion, a symbol.’ She linked her arm through Swan’s.

  Hef placed a hand on Swan’s shoulder, firmly. ‘Go away, Leah. This customer wants a forge crafted weapon to slay her foes, not a bauble or a trinket.’

  Leah, pulled firmly on Swan’s arm and tugged her towards the jewellers. ‘I can give her beauty, composure, diplomacy. All you will do is put smudges on her dress from your manhandling.’

  Hef pulled firmly on Swan’s shoulder. ‘The best diplomacy is the mailed fist. A strong castle wall or a sword in your hands does wonders at the negotiating table. I can make that blade of hers carve through any foe, shield her from any blow.’

  ‘And what will she sign contracts with, her enemies blood?’

  ‘Of course, it's cheap and readily available.’

  Leah pulled hard enough that Swan started to feel like a ragdoll.

  ‘I c
an make her blade fine and beautiful, a blade to impress her father and his customers, a blade that solves any problem simply by being pulled from the sheath and casting its glory.’

  ‘Stop scaring off my customer, a customer for my shop will help take the pressure off our situation.’ Hef replied.

  ‘No-one’s gonna solve our problems, stop making me come to those sessions with you!’ Leah snipped back.

  ‘Wait…’ Swan interrupted hesitantly, ‘Are you two looking for a marriage counsellor?’

  They both looked to the side and down.

  ‘It has been a long time since someone made a pact with both of us, well balanced.’ He gestured to the breakdown of the houses. ‘Our current home situation is due to the lack of balance. We go at it hammer and tongs.’

  ‘That and your snoring’ Leah muttered.

  ‘I am hearing you and your concerns.’ Hef stated mechanically.

  ‘Hmmm…so could you make me a beautiful magic sword?’ Swan asked, holding up the Slagblade. Hef and Leah both rolled their eyes and groaned.

  ‘Do you hear that Hef, a magic sword, that's so original.’

  ‘Gosh we’ve never done that before, that’ll be fun.’ Hef looked down at Swan. ‘I would rather punch myself in the nuts then make another magic sword. Look, kid. There’s no excitement in that anymore. We want something to spice up our relationship, something innovative, not another vanilla magical sword.’

  What do you think, Larc? Swan thought. No answer. Swan poked her pocket, but Larc was missing. Not the first time Larc had flitted off she supposed. Swan could do this, she was strong. She didn’t need the little squawking pest. Bah, pretty baubles wouldn’t keep her from burning out. She needed strength.

  ‘I have an idea.’

  Gale woke in darkness.

  Water crushed down on him. This was the true Deep, and not the idyllic beach Blush had taken him. He was locked in one of the nine planes of the Trench. He collapsed under the weight.