Grimdark Magazine Issue #3 ePUB

by Edited by Adrian Collins

  Oslaf should have been nicer. He too had been stolen from his village.

  Werting plunged the knife into the wooden chest imagining it was Oslaf. Then he could not yank it loose.

  A shout pulled his gaze to the shore. Roogar was waving him back and rubbing his belly. Emod was kicking Oslaf as the old man stripped bare and stepped into the sea. Even from this distance, Werting could see curses pouring from his lips.

  The boy grabbed the knife with two hands and worked it back and forth. Then without warning the chest popped open.

  A body lay in the chest, submerged in sea water.

  It was a man with a braided beard, hands crossed over his heart, silver rings on his long fingers. He wore a fine chainmail jerkin that trailed to his broad thighs. He appeared to be about the age of Roogar. His eyes were closed, his smooth, white skin like ivory. On his head he wore a simple gold band with a large red gem set in the middle and a helix of embedded pearls running its length.

  Time and water had not touched him.

  Werting imagined that he must have been a king and this was the vessel in which his followers launched him out alone over the waves. Maybe he should just leave things alone. He could set the lid back on the chest.

  But he wanted, if even for a moment, to wear the crown of a king and imagine that he was free.

  He slipped the crown from the king’s wet, grey hair.

  The king's eyelids lifted. Werting jumped back.

  The king's lips parted. His pale bloodless flesh peeled back in strips, to chin and brow. The skin and muscle disintegrated, clouding the water.

  Then the water cleared. Where the king once lay, a skeleton grinned.

  Werting’s breath caught high in his throat. Then a blow knocked him to his knees. Oslaf tore the crown from the boy's hands. The old man climbed to the prow, waving the treasure, shouting to the others to come see what he found for them.

  * * *

  It was Hrolf's turn to try on the crown.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho, look at me. I’m the King Beneath the Waves.’ The crown perched askew on greasy strands of blonde hair. ‘I was a great king, but then I died. And my boat sunk.’

  Werting huddled close to the fire. The stars hid behind clouds. A line of surging white waves crashed against the sand.

  ‘That was inspired.’ Yrm smirked. ‘Let Roogar have a turn.’

  ‘I’ll have plenty of time later to wear it,’ said Roogar.

  Emod snickered.

  Hrolf trotted with the crown on his head, pausing in front of Oslaf. ‘Old timer's turn.’

  The crown sunk over Oslaf's skull catching on the tops of his big ears.

  ‘Go on, tell us about the King Beneath the Waves,’ demanded Hrolf.

  Oslaf unfolded from the sand. He adjusted the crown but no matter what he did, it hung at an angle, a shimmering slash against his brow.

  ‘The King Beneath the Waves!’ shouted Hrolf over his cup.

  Oslaf spit into the fire. ‘No King Beneath the Waves when this crown sits on my head. Oslaf, first son of Osleuw, scourge of the Ragged Coast, ring giver, boon to his men. No line of kings. Men of the axe and spear we turned back the night. Chiefs knelt at my father's feet, pressed their foreheads to his hand. We ruled the Ragged Coast as was our right.

  ‘Until the treachery of the Shark Clan, the lies, the gift of death. I still hear the screams of my father from the flames of the long house.’

  Emod cuffed the old man's head sending him and the crown to the shingle. ‘The strong eat the weak.’ He kicked Oslaf in the side so hard that bone cracked. The young warrior plucked the crown from the dark sand. ‘They should have speared you that day. A blight you have been, slave.’

  ‘Let Roogar have a turn,’ Yrm hissed.

  Emod scoffed. ‘Game’s over. Old bastard’s ruined all the fun. It's late and tomorrow will be a long day hauling our find north.’

  He settled against a driftwood log, laying the crown on a shield salvaged from the wreck.

  Werting curled close to the fire. He tried to sleep but a cold wind licked his neck and his foot surged with pain. The flames of the dying fire flickered in the eyes of the men and a line of light pulsed along the crown. Finally exhaustion swept over him and he slept.

  * * *

  Werting woke to whispers.

  ‘Thinks he's more than he is.’

  ‘We can always cut him down to size.’

  ‘I’ll cut his fucking throat.’

  Embers rippled orange in the fire. The stench of rotten fish rode on a jolting breeze. Werting's clothes hung damp, the cold soaking to his bones.

  He tugged a salvaged sailcloth closer around his shoulders and fell back asleep.

  * * *

  Waves thundered so hard that they woke him again. Stars flickered through a gash in the clouds.

  ‘You can't trust the bastard. He's coming for you.’

  A grunt.

  ‘Out here who will know? The crabs and the gulls?’

  Werting woke to a cramp in his foot. Would dawn never come?

  A whisper. ‘Men of axes and spears. Knelt at my father's feet.’ It was Oslaf’s voice.

  Werting drifted as if the tides carried him away.

  The sky had paled but the sea was still black, oddly silent, caught between the pull of the tides. Werting knew it would not last.

  * * *

  ‘You, of all people, accusing me.’ Roogar stood over the dead fire, hands clenching his leather belt. The sky was grey, the sun smothered in clouds.

  ‘Where's the fucking crown?’ Emod dug at the sand around the pilfered shield. He stopped and pointed a finger at Roogar, Yrm and Wulf. ‘One of you snuck over last night and took it.’

  Roogar laughed. ‘Couldn't it have been Henging or Hrolf? Or one of the slaves?’

  Hrolf scratched his head. ‘I didn't see nothing last night. Too dark. Plus my eyes were closed.’

  ‘Is your head hollow?’ snarled Yrm.

  Big Wulf rose and cracked his neck left and right. His axe hung heavy between his slack arms. ‘Why make a big deal out of nothing? We didn't have the crown before yesterday. If I find it, I chop it into six pieces, one for each of us.’

  With those words, he lifted his axe and drove it down, shearing one of the driftwood logs in half.

  A sudden gust swirled the ash from the fire pit. Werting covered his eyes with his forearm. Then rain came in icy pellets.

  ‘Enough,’ said Emod. ‘Grab what you can carry and we’ll bring a ship back for the rest.’

  The men quickly layered themselves in armor, stacked their shoulders with shields and spears, and hoisted bags of coin.

  It was all going well until Wulf stepped into his boot.

  He screamed as he ripped out a foot covered in rotten kelp.

  Fat Henging bent over laughing.

  Wulf's arms arced, axe in hand, and cleaved Henging from neck to shoulder.

  Werting stumbled, hands tearing at the sand, heels digging to scuttle away.

  One of the spears from the king's boat, old, heavy, and iron tipped, flew from Hrolf's hand and Wulf staggered, fists wrapped around the rune-carved shaft. He twirled and fell into the sand.

  His face landed next to Werting's. Wulf's eyes rolled, white then blue. ‘Tell her.’ He cleared his throat over and over and then coughed a bloody glob on the sand.

  Werting scrambled away.

  The clansmen stood wide-legged, swords pointing. They clustered—Roogar and Yrm shoulder to shoulder, and Hrolf to Emod. The only sound was the heaving of their breaths.

  Werting rolled behind one of the driftwood logs and crouched. His hand closed around the iron knife.

  The clansmen circled the fire pit, the rain pinging off helmet and shield.

  Oslaf too had hidden behind one of the logs, spitting sand from his lips. It sounded as if he were laughing.

  Roogar spoke first. ‘Never content to be in your place.’

&
nbsp; Emod answered. ‘You can't have what isn’t earned.’

  ‘Doesn't have to end this way, boy. Put your tail between your legs, give back the crown, and we'll forget about all this.’

  Emod laughed and then spat on the beach at Roogar’s feet.

  They paced in a circle, swords wagging, eyes sharp.

  Then Emod had enough.

  He kicked up sand and charged. He went for the smaller and older Yrm, leaving Roogar to deal with the giant Hrolf. But Yrm was not as fragile as Emod had hoped. Yrm dodged to the left, and Emod's sword clanged against his raised shield.

  Roogar wasted no time in charging at Hrolf. The baby-faced giant back pedalled, unintelligible words slipping from his smiling lips. Roogar came in hard, sword arcing over his shoulder.

  Werting could see the path of the sword and imagined raising his own weapon overhead to block the blow. As soon as Roogar’s sword made contact with Hrolf's raised blade, the wily veteran kicked the giant just below his breastbone. Then they were tangled.

  Oslaf dragged himself along the sand, a trench marking his path. His icy fingers peeled at Werting's arm. ‘Watch them kill themselves. Our day will come. All these years of suffering.’

  Werting tore himself from the old man's clawing hands.

  Wiping the rain from his eyes, he watched the two pairs of battling men: lips snarling, glistening teeth, the screech of metal, sand billowing around shuffling feet, a scream, a sword dropping, the spray of blood, a knife in a fist, the pounding of flesh, cracked lips whispering a prayer into another's ear.

  Only two remained—Roogar, one ear half torn from his bloody scalp, and Emod, drops of bloody rain gathering in his smooth golden beard like rubies.

  * * *

  The warriors circled, kicking sand, flicking swords, and tossing curses.

  ‘I'll eat your heart.’ Tears dripped down Roogar's cheeks. A stain of blood seeped from his gut and down his thigh. ‘All this for what?’

  ‘Your days are done, old man.’

  Roogar spit blood. He stumbled, sword wavering, the point dropping to the sand then lifting.

  Emod shook his head. ‘This day.’

  Oslaf jeered from behind the log. Werting hunkered down next to him.

  The next time Roogar stumbled Emod charged, screaming as his weapon slashed downwards. Roogar lifted his sword diagonally over his head with both hands, his left supporting the blade. Emod's sword sheared metal and Roogar’s fingers flew into the sand.

  Roogar screamed, reversed his blade in his good hand, spinning it around his head and cut hard into Emod’s exposed neck, sending the young clansman crumbling to the sand.

  Roogar stepped on Emod’s chest to pull free his blade. He lost his hold on the blood-slick grip and fell hard on his back. He lifted his hand. Blood pulsed out of the stumps of his fingers.

  ‘Oslaf, a binding cloth.’ His other hand fished around the wound in his belly and came out dripping with blood. ‘Hurry now.’

  The old man tottered around the log and knelt beside the fallen warrior.

  ‘I won't forget this, slave.’

  Oslaf smiled wide, his thin hair heavy with the weight of the rain. The old slave straddled Roogar's chest, knees pinning arms, and squeezed the fallen man's throat.

  The rain cracked against the flat black sea.

  * * *

  Oslaf dragged Werting by the wrist into the cold waters. ‘Took it while they slept.’

  The boy's lame foot clipped a stone beneath the rising sea. He bit his lip to conceal his curses.

  ‘Thought one or two of them would survive.’ Oslaf laughed into the swirl of clouds. ‘All these years biding my time. I've spit in their food. Gnawed holes in their shirts. Sand in their boots.’

  ‘Let me go,’ said Werting, jerking his arm. The grip on his wrist constricted, so tight that he felt the bones might snap.

  ‘We’re free now. Don’t you see?’

  They reached the black-hulled boat. Water lapped at its hull. The tide had not yet reached the high mark.

  ‘I hid the crown where we found it. We’ll be rich, boy.’

  Oslaf led him to the submerged chest. The old man gave a toothy grin, then ducked beneath the waves.

  The rising sun, pale but sneaking out from the thickest of the clouds, transformed the ocean into a mirror, and Werting saw himself, a boy, tousled hair, freckled, still unshaped, a boy who could become anything.

  Oslaf broke the surface, the crown held aloft, and jerked to a stop.

  His smile vanished. ‘Take the crown, boy. My foot’s caught.’

  The band of gold was heavy in Werting's hand, as if it fought to return beneath the waves.

  Oslaf ducked down and then emerged again. His eyes bulged. Water ran from his nose and mouth. ‘Give me the iron knife. The planks are like stone.’

  The boy stepped back towards the prow of the boat.

  ‘Werting. The knife!’

  Dark strands swirled through the ceiling of clouds. A squall descended battering the shivering boy with icy rain and wind.

  ‘Give me that fucking knife, boy.’

  The tide climbed the hull.

  ‘Werting, my little friend, please.’

  Hours later, when the sun began to descend, Werting slid down the deck and stared into the waters. Oslaf’s eyes were wide open and a minnow peered out of his gaping mouth. Werting's own reflection wavered over him. They looked nothing alike.

  Then the boy looked down at the chest. The skeleton of the king rested beneath the waves. Werting took a deep breath and ducked into the frigid, dark waters.

  As he placed the crown back on the skull, he saw flesh returning to the king’s face, his beard sprouting, and his eyelids closing.

  Werting did not linger.

  Instead, he dove off the deck and swam towards the shore, the sea unable to hold him back. [GdM]

  Peter Fugazzotto writes fantasy and science fiction. His short story Jiro was published in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly in 2013. His fantasy series The Hounds of North was launched in 2014.

  He is a lifelong student of the martial arts and won a World Championship in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. He lives in Northern California with his wife and daughter.

  Sign up for his email list at www.peterfugazzotto.com and he’ll send you a free story. You can also find him on twitter at @peterfugazzotto.

  Review: Sword of the North by Luke Scull

  Cheresse Burke

  Sword of the North was provided to Grimdark Magazine by the publisher, Head of Zeus. This review contains spoilers for Grim Company.

  I may become unpopular for writing this, but I found Grim Company to be a great premise that translated into a somewhat frustrating read. The characters didn’t gel with me, and I found the world building, which was revealed in frustratingly small doses, much more satisfying. In Sword of the North, Scull’s characters visit more corners of the Trine and beyond, and trade fantasy tropes such as medieval villages and typical city-scapes for grim mines and desolate spaces. As the world is fleshed out, the characters become more likeable. Additionally, Sword of the North sets a nice backdrop for the epic feel of a coming war, with a heightened sense of unease as our anti-heroes find themselves pushed by forces more powerful than they can imagine.

  Sword of the North follows the protagonists from Grim Company as they go their separate ways to find loved ones, enact vengeance, solve mysteries, or simply try to survive. In some ways it reads more like connected novellas that have been split into alternating chapters than a continuous, unified story.

  First and foremost we have the titular character, Brodar Kayne. (Confession: I consistently misread his name as Brother Kanye. This made for an amazing reading experience.) Kayne is headed back north with his friend Jerek to make amends with his son and find his wife. His journey follows a typical quest trope, the long journey beset with random encounters and peppered with sidekicks. Kayne’s story connects loosely to the others’ in a
series of references, providing personal stakes to complement the epic tone of the other chapters. Kayne’s character is also the strongest in a storytelling sense. His choices directly affect the plot, and always come with consequences.

  Kayne’s story is told using dual narratives—one focused on the quest, the other focused on his young life prior to exile. I struggled at times to understand what these flashbacks brought to the story. The ‘man behind the legend’ trope is nothing new, and his relationship with his wife Mhaira and son Magnus never gave me anything to reflect on. I also felt that they missed their chance to really delve into Kayne’s emotional issues—we are constantly told about the vast ocean of his guilt, but I never felt thrown into it. By far the best moment of his backstory is when he meets Jerek, and I wished Scull had used more of the young Kayne chapters to expand on his legendary history. Maybe next book.

  Davarus Cole awakes from the events of Grim Company to find that he has been transported to a penal colony to mine the magic in the corpse of the God of Death. Cole is filled with self-loathing following the revelations in Grim Company, and he struggles to understand who he really is. His development is handled nicely—the old Cole is still in there, but he progresses from someone I would have killed into someone I wanted to read about. However, odd twists about two-thirds of the way through left me scratching my head for the remainder of his story.

  Sasha spends most of her time in Thelassa, the city of the White Lady. There she must deal with her sister’s ambitions, her own drug habit, and the growing certainty that horrible secrets lurk behind the facade of the perfect marble streets.

  Thelassa is a brilliant setting, and I wish the whole book had taken place there. We get hints of sociopolitical agendas, selective breeding, and concentration camps, in addition to all the horror that comes right out to slap us in the face. Unfortunately, I felt that the character of Sasha thwarted my attempts to really dive into the setting. She spends most of her story being pushed one way or another, by other characters more intent on advancing the plot. I found Sasha to be a strong point in Grim Company, but her ineffectual character in Sword of the North seems to do little more than whine about her circumstances.