Oh the agony! The pain! The terrible things he did to me. It was minor compared to my penance but so much more physical. All the torments and fires of hell could not match the Gentleman’s wrath he inflicted on me without saying a word. Even now I feel like crawling into a ball and crying, I who used to brag about my ability to take a punch without flinching.
Where was I? Oh yes, the Gentleman did not care for my cookies.
At all.
A more foolish individual might have concluded that it was the fact I was offering him cookies and not something more substantial that offended him. Since that time I have occasionally been allowed to walk the crossroads with the Gentleman and I have seen what other people have left for him: gold, shoes, wild flowers, infants, and the hearts of young women. The Gentleman seems to prefer the flowers, putting them on his lapel as one might a boutonnière but is indifferent to the others.
The cookies, though, I was sure were the key to his heart.
I drank myself silly that night, indulging two bottles of whiskey the Gentleman had allowed me to purchase that I threw up before they killed me. I could sense the Gentleman was growing bored with me and that terrified me more than the prospect of his wrath. You see, across the hall, there was a happy couple much like my wife and I had been. Arguably, they were more so because they had a young five-year-old daughter.
Now they don’t. They never did, citing the expense and hardships of raising a child. I think the Gentleman must have taken a fancy to her and brought her with him to the nameless realm he calls home. Perhaps her young developing mind is not so caught up in the mundane aspects of things like physics, cause and effect, or people should have all of their parts when they speak. I like to think so, the other option is simply too terrible. In the old stories, the Gentry simply cooked and ate the children they took.
It would be a mercy compared to the alternative.
I poured over my recipes as a deranged alchemist, tasting the cinnamon and sugar each to see what might have been the problem. I tried combinations which ranged from the ghastly to the sublime, struggling to see where I went wrong. My landlord gave me an eviction notice during this time, only to be replaced the next day by a kindly old woman who said I could stay as long as I desired. I do not like her very much, she has no shadow and I can see things moving under her skin when she thinks I’m not looking.
Whatever the case, I was halfway to embracing whatever punishments the Gentleman could devise when inspiration struck me like it must have struck Edison when he created the light bulb: the milk! The Gentleman was a creature beyond the scope of time and space; he wouldn’t want cookies made with artificial ingredients. No, he would want raw milk for his cookies and the drink to wash it down. Straight from the cow and fresh! I seem to recall having heard raw milk was much tastier, simply possessing a higher possibility of germs.
Finding a dairy willing to cater to my unusual request wasn’t that difficult. Many of the local farmers resented the government’s regulations against raw milk and were willing to sell it to me in bulk, especially once I revealed my willingness to pay exorbitant sums from pawning my wife’s jewelry. Adjusting my recipes to the new, stronger taste, took some work but I could tell I was on the verge of something masterful.
By that point I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything but my creations in days but determination kept me alive, determination or the will of the being who was now the arbiter of my fate. Whatever the case, I finished a batch of what I felt were the single greatest cookies ever made by man well after midnight and laid them out with a fresh glass of raw milk by my doorstep. From there, I climbed into my bed and collapsed.
I had hoped, rather foolishly in retrospect, the Gentleman would let me die. I never entertained any foolish notions of him returning my parents or my wife, such thoughts had long since left my head with the idea the Gentleman cared about such things as humans might. I’d compare him to a lion amongst gazelle but lions are closer to humans than the Gentleman. Better to compare him to a star or a gaseous cloud than anything which evolved on planet Earth.
Instead, I simply lay there, unable to sleep. I felt the Gentleman creep into my room and pick up the plate from the ground. I could imagine his sickly, spider-leg-like fingers lifting each of the cookies up and making them disappear into the shadows. I doubt, now, the actual composition of the things mattered to him. He could have eaten the molten metal of the Earth’s core without grimacing. No, instead, it was the suffering and desperation of my struggle to please him that made the cookies good.
You see, he really is just lonely. Once he finished the plate, making it disappear along with the glass, I knew he would never be satisfied with simply one order. From this day forward, I would be expected to prepare my magnificent feast of wafers every night. They would all have to be as perfect as this batch, never the slightest mistake or error. I do not know if the Gentleman will allow me to age but I do know I am still expected to do my penance.
Yes, my penance.
I mentioned it earlier, that terrible thing that is worse than the place of all-corners. I tear up and scream inside every time I think of it. Yet, as bad as it is, I promise you I would return to it rather than do this. I have no choice, though, because if I didn’t comply things would get worse. I don’t know how they would get worse, I lack the imagination, but I know in my withered belly and sleepless mind they would.
The Gentleman is lonely you see and he has a delightfully karmic sense of justice for those who are rude to him. I was terribly rude to him and the only way to pay him back for my discourtesy would be to find him new friends. People who could show him the love and affection he so richly deserves.
I’ve chosen you. Now, now don’t panic. Your friend panicked. What friend? Oh dear, this is going to be a long story.
Cookie?
The Moras Champion
By Michael R. Baker
Talmoc’s pursuers awaited him atop Hawk Point. Outnumbered, there was nowhere left for him to run. Or so they would think.
Perhaps now, I will get what I crave. The lord of Nightenmarch had been killed so easily by Talmoc’s hand. He wanted a true challenge.
Five of them stood silhouetted on the hill-top, and one was unmistakable. Lazil. The Brazen Call. Light glittered off the smoky edge of the champion’s greatsword, dancing on the blood-laden sky.
Mistress, the blade that spilled the blood of a thousand foes.
It will be mine if I win tonight, Talmoc thought. It was a big if, of course, but what was life without a little risk? He quickened his pace, his feet slipping slightly on the dirt path winding upward, slick with rain.
He glanced over his competition. Besides Lazil, two of his brothers wore little armor. The ones in the back had bows. Nightenmarch Rangers. They hadn’t seen him yet, instead focused on Ymer Forest off to the east. Its gnawed depths shivered, an ancient fog hanging low over its natural ally. Its shadow masked his own footsteps.
As Talmoc expected, Lazil was the first to spot him. They move fast. In moments, Talmoc was surrounded.
He ignored the flattery of lesser fools, focusing his attention solely on the only man who mattered. Lazil, the aged man of a thousand wars, wore a solemn expression, iron eyes of cold.
“Good evening gentlemen,” Talmoc said.
Lazil met his courtesy with his eternal stone. “Talmoc. You shall go no further tonight.”
“Not in this world.” The lion-haired man next to his superior drew his weapon. “Tonight you die.” His bronze, double-handed battle axe had streaks of old, dark blood down the edge of the blade.
“I didn’t find you on the fields of Urnzur.” Talmoc ignored the others completely. Fucking gnats.
“We were not there,” said the warrior monk on Lazil’s left. “Justice warrants our blades more.” In his hands coiled a fearsome, two-handed battle staff. “That justice being your head, Talmoc.”
“How noble of you. Yet when your kin called for war against the might of Beruno, you didn’t join them.
” Talmoc nodded to Lazil. “Why is that, Lazil? You belong to the Western Realm, do you not?”
“You address him by his name!” one of the rangers snarled.
“Easy, sir,” The Brazen calmed his sheep with a bronze smile. “King Jalid has forty thousand men to fight for him, Talmoc. The loss of five men won’t hurt him.”
“Quite. I know of your deeds well, Lazil, but I’m afraid I don’t know the names of your companions,” Talmoc said. None of them offered a name.
“Quit your stalling, Talmoc. You know why we’re here.”
The second ranger drew his bow. “You stand guilty of murdering Lord Haldon of Nightemarch.”
Lazil stayed them with a calm hand. “We discovered your foul crime, and so we have you.” A gleam of life entered his eyes, two chips of ice; an iron wreath of judgment. “You must pay for your crimes.”
Talmoc laughed aloud. The wind would carry the song of this coming battle for miles around. Let it. Let the gods hear my victory. “If I wanted to cover my tracks, even your blessed rangers wouldn’t be able to find me, I promise you. I wanted you to find me, Brazen.”
“Say what you mean, Talmoc.”
“I gain nothing from defeating the weak.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Talmoc pondered his meaning. He had never said anything truer. In a swift movement, he drew his trophy blade, Nightmare. Its obsidian edges glowed a malevolent smoke. The monk shied away from its sight.
“A monstrosity!”
“How did he get that?” The rangers muttered, no longer as cocky as they were. Lazil did not back away; he was no coward. He took a step forward, Mistress in his embrace.
“You carry such arrogance in your words, Talmoc.” Lazil raised Mistress with both hands. “You struck down Lord Haldon and slipped away into the night like a snake. It matters not whether you planned this meeting. The ending will be the same. Surrender now, or you will most certainly die.”
He gives me a choice. “Humor me. What happens if I surrender?”
“You’ll be dragged back to Nightenmarch, where you’ll receive the Son’s Justice.”
Talmoc laughed in his face. “You’re going to have to kill me. If you can.”
Whatever trace of warmth in Lazil’s face curdled into an iron fury. “Then you’ll die here, your corpse feeding the crows. You chose this fate, Talmoc.”
Talmoc swept Nightmare around him in a semicircle, his eyes darting between his opponents. The rangers had recovered from their moment of weakness, their hands reaching for arrows from quivers. “My knees will never bend.”
Lazil’s gaze wavered, a drop of sympathy. “Then this ends.” His voice echoed a tinge sadness.
Talmoc slashed at the air with Nightmare, uttering the words of a dead god. “Kilzarchit.” The tongue of old Valia was still potent. A burst of dark, smoldering energy came with a flash of light, and the two rangers crumbled. Their bows clattered to the ground as they clutched their faces, screaming.
“Obe! Saneor!” The foolish lion screamed, taking his eye off Talmoc for a split second. I know your names now. Talmoc charged as the rangers collapsed, their faces blistering and peeling from the dark spell.
“Fool!” Lazil roared, as he and the warrior monk charged in for the kill. Talmoc weaved through them, intent on killing the axeman. Nightmare parried the first lazy cut by the monk and deflected Mistress as Talmoc struck, piercing the lion. Black, oily liquid welled from the wound, spattering the fog-like blade. It cackled in the night, crackling.
The monk’s eyes were wide with fear, dropping his staff. He was next. The next slash by Nightmare, and his head was taken off his shoulders in a rain of blood and gore. The screams of the two rangers rang in Talmoc’s ears, sweeter than any music he’d heard in inns. The sound of blood and his enemy’s pain were his songs. Only Lazil remained, who moved out of his deadly range, Mistress tightly wielded in both hands. How does that feel, Brazen? To be covered in the blood of your companions. The two warriors locked eyes. Lazil stared right back, his gaze burning into his own.
“So it comes down to this,” Lazil declared. The two circled each other, scoping one another for an opening. The Legend’s movements were quick and fluid, not once giving a weakness to strike. However Talmoc could see the doubt in his eyes, the tension of a soldier hardened by years of bloodsport. He fears me. Elation filled him.
Lazil struck first, trying to feint out Talmoc with an uppercut to the legs, but Nightmare parried and Talmoc survived, weaving behind him to attack next. He was tiring now, and holding up the great black sword was harder than it was before. The aftershock of the dark spell rampaged through his body. Nightmare cannot be used again. Its foul workings required a sacrifice of life-force, beyond his current talent. Talmoc knew that.
Lazil’s speed and reflexes were incredible, and Talmoc smiled despite himself as the two men exchanged blows. Nightmare and Mistress clashed, the lady’s dance against the demon sword, neither getting an advantage. The two men came apart once more, panting for breath. Lazil’s heavily-lined face was shining with sweat, pain of forty years on his back. They circled each other again, both under the glinting moonlight. Oh dance with me this night, my good man. How did that song go again?
“You joke easily for a dead man,” Lazil panted. His steel eyes had a slight twinkle to them, hiding under the duty. He thrust forward, bringing Nightmare to battling height to stop Lazil’s desperate attack. The two blades came apart, their union broken again. Nightmare hissed in response. It’s time to end it. He knows it too.
“You cast foul magic, Talmoc. You’ll die soon enough.” The Brazen grunted, stern in his reproach. Talmoc flashed him his sweetest smile.
“No rules in war. That’s why I live, and your companions are dead at my feet. Now, for your Mistress. It’s time I take her.”
“Then you shall have it, serpent.” The two came forwards once more, and this time, Talmoc knew there was no turning back. Again and again the two swords crossed, so quickly it became a blur, as lady pushed for a breakthrough. One slash grazed Talmoc’s shoulder, but it brought the great champion’s swing out of balance, and Nightmare found its mark, biting deeply through chainmail and plate, deep into Lazil’s guts. He dropped to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head gasping for breath. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. Mistress fell from his fingers onto the ground.
Panting hard, Talmoc pulled Nightmare out of the wound he made in the Brazen’s stomach. But, the energy was spent, the evil glow ebbed away and left it dormant. Talmoc gasped, feeling his own strength wane, and his own knees buckled; were it not for him supporting himself on his sword, he too would have fallen. Its too much. The blade’s magic is still draining me. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled to Lazil, still alive, but defeated. His eyes were open, gray and glassy with shock.
“Damn you, sorcerer!” His last hiss rattled deep into the night.
Talmoc staggered over his fallen prey. The two rangers now lay still, their faces unrecognizable, a black, ripe mess. Talmoc grabbed Lazil’s chin, forced him to meet his eyes. The steel still lived, but fading fast. The great man’s eyes dilated, then went still.
“We’ll meet again in the paths of the Mora I’m sure, Brazen. Farewell.”
The great champion, defeated by a smelter’s son. Talmoc bellowed his triumph for the heavens to witness. Only silence greeted his victory. Mistress lay on the grass, dusty and chipped. When he picked it up, he saw a solid bend in the steel, where it had clashed with his Nightmare. A fine prize. And yet…Talmoc killed the Lord of Nightenmarch in a heartbeat. He too was rumored to be a great man, a warrior for the ages. Haldon died in less than an instant, blubbering for his life.
Talmoc took a deep breath. No, tonight was a victory, and a glorious one at that! He had taken on five great warriors, one the most prolific swordsman of the Western Realms, and defeated them all. His shoulder burned, a twinge. Not wholly unscathed. His satchel of herbs was in his cloak pocket, ready. But first, he had to loot the dead. I
t was against the wishes of the gods, but why deny him the right to his victory?
There was some gold, a couple of handsome crafted ivory daggers belonging to the two rangers. One had a particularly appealing bow made of hornwood. Talmoc took it all, including the quiver full of arrows. He was no master marksman, but there was always a time to learn. By that point his wound was stinging, so he took a rest and removed his shoulder plates to inspect it further.
Only a graze. He had to take care of it still, less corruption from the dark gods set in. The Flame always sought to take over its disciples. He had no knowledge of healing magic, so he had to rely on other skills. He took out some herbs from the satchel, ground them up with a stray rock and wrapped it in torn cloth to make a makeshift poultice to wrap around the minor wound. With that taken care of, it was time to address the fallen Brazen. Talmoc was tempted to strip the corpse completely. But he had fought bravely. No, let him go to the Octane’s halls of glory in his likeness. He deserved to reach the Mora a whole man.
Talmoc turned his attention to the monk. Nothing. The warrior order of Altnor were fearless men indeed, sentenced to a lifetime of suffering. Then he paused. There was something in his robes, a scrap of parchment? No.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Talmoc dug it out and unfolded it. On it were hastily scrawled words.
Dearest Ibrim.
I don’t know when this will reach you, but I hope they arrive soon. We need you. Things are growing, a shadow in the dark over in the Maldir Mountains. Two of our Order have gone missing, Brothers Sandar and Coulm went into the ruins, not to be seen again. We have been investigating the stalkings of a madman who has been delving in the mountains; we saw him enter our domain many days ago. It is imperative whatever foul power lies in that ruin is found and destroyed. We need to investigate immediately. I fear it is Jatar. Please, come west to me. I will be waiting at the inn of Kaimist; the Ale of Drinkers. It is vital we do this, for the Order of Altnor.
Blackest Spells Page 31
