Contents
From the Editor
By Adrian Collins
A Recipe for Corpse Oil
By Siobhan Gallagher
Grimdark in Gaming
Article by Layla Cummins and Jeremy Szal
An Interview with R. Scott Bakker
Scott talks grimdark and the Blind Brain Theory
Review: Dirge
Author: Tim Marquitz
Review by malrubius
Excerpt: Dark Run
By Mike Brooks
The King Beneath the Waves
By Peter Fugazzotto
Review: Sword of the North
Author: Luke Scull
Review by Cheresse Burke
All the Lovely Brides
By Kelly Sandoval
Interview: Luke Scull
Luke talks grimdark and Sword of the North
Excerpt: Sword of the North
By Luke Scull
The Knife of Many Hands (Part 2)
A Second Apocalypse Story
By R. Scott Bakker
The cover for Grimdark Magazine issue #3 was created by Australian artist Austen Mengler.
Austen Mengler is a concept artist and illustrator from Perth, Western Australia. He's been drawing as long as he could hold a pencil and has a passion for creating horror, sci-fi and fantasy themed characters and creatures. Since graduating with a Bachelor of Arts: Design (Illustration) from Curtin University in 2011, he's been working on many projects including album covers, indie games and publications. He's also been keeping busy exhibiting and selling at shows around Australia, such as Supanova Pop Culture Expo and Oz Comic-Con. When not working on freelance projects, Austen is also working on his own post apocalyptic horror project called "Execution", and hopes to get it made into art books and graphic novels in future.
You can find him online at:
www.austenmengler.com
www.facebook.com/TheArtofAustenMengler
lordnetsua.deviantart.com
http://society6.com/lordnetsua
https://www.youtube.com/user/LordNetsua
www.twitter.com/LordNetsua
lordnetsua.tumblr.com
www.artstation.com/artist/AustenMengler
www.drawcrowd.com/lordnetsua
The cover image Despondency – Part III was originally published as an album cover for Winterfold (https://www.facebook.com/Winterfold).
From the Editor
ADRIAN COLLINS
Thank you for buying Grimdark Magazine’s third issue. I can’t believe it’s almost been an entire year since GdM went from being a whiteboard plan marked up over a few beers with a mate to an ezine out there getting some serious traction within the community. I tip my glass to you for getting involved.
The quality of submissions we received for this issue was unbelievable, and choosing the cream of the crop was incredibly difficult. Kelly Sandoval, Siobhan Gallagher and Peter Fugazzotto put up some sensational works and I’m really excited to get them out in front of you.
Andy from the R. Scott Bakker fan group was a big help again, this time helping with the author interview. Bakker’s fan groups are sensational, and well worth getting involved in.
I hope you enjoy reading GdM #3 as much as Cheresse, Layla, Mike, Tom, Jewel, Joey, Rob, Sean and I enjoyed putting it together for you.
I’d also like to tip the glass to Kyle, one of our first team members, who called it a day to get stuck into his career now that he’s finished uni. Thanks for your efforts, mate!
Adrian Collins
Founder
Connect with the Grimdark Magazine team at:
facebook.com/grimdarkmagazine
twitter.com/AdrianGdMag
grimdarkmagazine.com
plus.google.com/+AdrianCollinsGdM/
pinterest.com/AdrianGdM/
A Recipe for Corpse Oil
SIOBHAN GALLAGHER
The streets were swamped with foreigners, all bundled up, their pockets bulging with trinkets from lands beyond the city of Fride. Tavin squeezed his lithe form between smelly bodies—and oh, did they reek. Had these people never heard of a bath? His hands gently touched the outsides of their pockets, fingers tracing for anything of value.
One woman—at least he thought it was a woman: she had the round face of a motherly figure, despite the whiskers on her chin—eyed him with suspicion. He smiled reassuringly to her and said, ‘You seem lost. Might I direct you to one of the fine shops here at the Lane?’
The woman snorted and pushed past him, elbowing him in the gut.
‘Well, that was rude,’ he muttered, rubbing his stomach. Admittedly, the rate of successful pickpocketing by day was rather poor. But it was either by day, or compete with the will-o-wisps after nightfall, and those wisps were a good deal more skilled than him. Maybe he’d try his hand at one of the shops, where customers would be too busy browsing to notice their pockets were getting lighter.
Extravagant Oils of the Arcane sounded promising, and pricey. Tavin struggled to the shop’s entrance, which was nothing more than a gaping hole in a brick wall with a rag of gauze draped across it. The shop smelled marginally better than the crowd outside. Its shelves were stacked with odd-shaped bottles, from swan necks to spirals to multi-pointed stars. They weren’t the typical oils like olive or puffertoad: some bottles read Cat’s Eye, Tick’s Blood, Tumbleweed-Roe, Eckle-Feckle... What in all the dark regions was Eckle-Feckle?
Tavin continued to pretend-browse till he came across a squat creature—a goblin, maybe, hard to tell with such an oversized coat—holding a bottle in each hand. He stood beside the creature, eased himself into a kneel, plucked one bottle from the shelf that read Turnipickle Numb, and asked the creature, ‘I’ve never tried this brand before. What do you make of it?’
The creature only glanced his way, grunted.
Tavin took up another bottle, Languid Lavender Lady. ‘What about this one?’
This time the creature didn’t even acknowledge him. So he reached around it for another bottle, drawing back his hand close to its backside, fingers deftly probing pockets.
‘Yes, I think Walking Sage will do.’ He walked away with a single coin to show for his effort. A solid coin, but only a worth a night’s stay at the inn. On to the next...
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, spun him around. He shut his mouth on the yelp that wanted escape. He had to stay composed, act natural, like he belonged here. The man’s hand weighed on Tavin as did his gaze, especially that intense right eye that looked about to pop out. The man’s skin was tanned in another land; he wore a black box hat and an extravagant silk robe.
‘Come with me,’ the man said, grabbing him by elbow.
‘Hey, wait—! I didn’t—‘
‘You’re not in trouble.’
Well it certainly felt like he was in trouble. The man dragged him into the back room and slammed the door.
‘Look, I’ll give it back,’ he said. ‘It was a joke, really.’
The man snatched the bottle from him and it set on a stand. ‘You seem like an unsavoury fellow.’
‘Umm, thanks?’
‘I need a person like you to do something for me.’
‘Well, if there’s pay...’
‘There is. Good pay.’
Tavin relaxed enough to allow himself a smile. ‘All right. What ya need?’
‘Chins.’
‘Chins?’
The man nodded. ‘They’re the key ingredient in corpse oil.’
‘I would think you’d need corpses for corpse oil.’
The man chuckled and slapped him on the back so hard he nearly stumbled. He rubbed the sore spot, frowning. All this jostlin
g was going to get him bruised.
‘Chins! I’m all out, and I need to make a new batch for a very special customer. She can’t wait and neither can I. So you go out and get me some chins.’
‘When you say chins...’
‘Human chins, they make the finest corpse oil. Twelve of them. They have to be fresh, bone and all.’
‘I see...’ Tavin rubbed his chin, now very aware of its value.
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘It’s just chins? I don’t have to kill anyone, right?’ He might be greasy, but he was no murderer.
‘Of course. You can live without a chin.’
That was right, you could live without a chin; it wasn’t like they were vital for anything. He rather liked the idea, and could think of quite a few drunkards who didn’t need their chins all that much.
* * *
His skill at chin harvesting wasn’t much better than his ability to pickpocket. There was the matter of removing the chin, which was much messier then he’d imagined. His attempt with a dagger was woefully unpleasant. As he tried to cut through the bone, blood made the chin and jawline too slippery to grip. The drunkard was bound and gagged, but nonetheless he thrashed. Tavin knocked him out with the very bottle the man had been drinking from, and went looking for a saw.
The saw was too loud: the sound of steel grating bone drew the attention of passersby. A hatchet finally did the trick. One swing cut through tissue and bone with no noise to spare. Of course his aim wasn’t always true, sometimes striking ground, or worse, an ear or a nose. He was very sorry whenever that happened and apologized profusely, promising to buy his chinless victims an ale. They were out cold when he made the promise, but he thought the gesture counted just the same.
Nevertheless, he made great progress, collecting eleven of the twelve chins he needed. Then the rumours came and washed clean the alleyways of drunks, beggars, prostitutes, and other undesirables. Only the revenants stuck around, but no one cared about them and their midnight whining. Besides, they had no chins.
So he went scouring the residential district for that one last chin, then he wouldn’t have to pickpocket, or beg, or sleaze his way into a warm bed at night. There had to be a loner living around here somewhere. A foreigner would be the obvious choice, but they lived in packs, dozens of them under the same roof. With a loner, there'd be no bothersome witnesses.
The poor district’s dirt roads bled into the pockmarked cobbled streets of the middling district—and here there were actual windows in the houses!—and from these shoddy streets to the pristine ones of the wealthy district. The wealthy district made for an uneasy stroll, for the guards were most vigilant: not a vagrant or even a stray mutt in sight. He kept to the shadows and bushes, watched and waited. It had to be here that he’d find a loner, because who else but the affluent could afford to live on their own?
As always, he was right. On the second evening of his wealthy district watch, he passed by a two-story house and saw a gentleman on the deck, observing the stars through a fancy telescope. And by the forsaken gods, did this gentleman have a chin! A magnificent chin, jutting out like a flesh spade. It had to be three inches long, maybe as long as his pointer-finger. He tried lining up his pointer-finger with the chin from afar, before realizing that he was still the middle of the street, and people were looking at him funny.
He hurried away, breathless and slightly dazed.
Later that night, when all were assuredly asleep, Tavin returned to the home of the gentleman with the big chin. He went around to the back, peered inside. From the dim glow of a fireplace, he could make out an immense clutter: papers, books, gadgets of brass and iron. Some seemed very impractical, like the system of ropes and pulleys that ran from the ceiling to an armchair. A wife or sister wouldn’t have allowed for such a mess. That was a good sign.
He took two thin pieces of metal from his coat pocket and stuck them into the keyhole. Tinker, tinker ... click! The door swung open. He tiptoed down the hallway, passed the open living room with its fireplace, and—
The world whiplashed him. His neck sore, blood rushing to his head, a pinching pain around his ankle, everything upside-down. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pulley system at work, the armchair used as a counterweight.
When did wealthy people set traps? That seemed like an odd hobby, unless this gentleman’s house had been broken into previously. In which case, what terrible luck.
‘Ah, finally,’ came a nasally voice from upstairs. A moment later, Tavin was approached by the great-chinned gentleman, who looked less fancy up close; more like the sickly, bookworm type that everyone picked on. Still, he admired the chin.
The gentleman smiled, puffed out his chest as if this were his grandest moment. ‘No more chin-stealing for you.’
Tavin almost stopped breathing. How did the gentleman even...? Never mind. He needed to keep calm, act natural, like he belonged here—sort of.
‘How do you know what I’m stealing? Maybe I liked that stupid telescope of yours.’
‘A telescope wouldn’t sell for much, and other homes have nicer things than mine. But I have something that would only interest a certain kind of thief.’ The gentleman pointed to his chin, then—to Tavin’s great disappointment—he broke the chin off. ‘So you put a fake chin on to lure a thief?’ Tavin said, disgusted.
‘When I first heard the news, saw the pictures of those poor chinless drunks in the newspaper, I knew I had to put a stop to it. Because you can replace goods, but not chins.’
Tavin’s temples throbbed ever harder. His head filled with blood. The rope choked the circulation at his ankle. ‘Well that’s very noble of you. But since I’m not here for your chin, how about—‘
‘I’m making a citizen’s arrest!’
Tavin snorted. ‘There’s no such thing here in Fride.’
‘What?’ The gentleman frowned. ‘I thought... Oh well, I’ll just call the guard.’
‘You do that, and I’ll just tell them you’re in on it too.’
‘They wouldn’t believe that. I caught you attempting—‘
‘You just caught me. That’s it. Could say it was a deal gone sour and you were gonna turn me over. Then it becomes “he said this—he said that.” Guards would shrug and just hang us both on the gallows-tree walls.’ While explaining this and seeing the frustration twist the gentleman’s face, Tavin slowly reached behind his back for the hatchet tucked into his belt.
‘They wouldn’t—‘ the gentleman said.
‘Oh yes they would. They do it all the time. Why do you think the executioner never gets a day off?’
‘That’s barbaric!’
‘Welcome to Fride.’
Hatchet in hand, he struck the rope where it was tied to the armchair—his aim much, much better with all the practice. He landed hard on his head, felt the bump already forming. Blood sloshed around his eardrums as he stood, a dizzy haze over his vision.
The gentleman gaped at him in silence. Tavin held the hatchet high, all the more menacing because he stood a good half-foot taller than the gentleman.
‘All right,’ Tavin said, ‘let’s make a deal. You don’t mention this to anyone and I won’t kill you.’
‘That seems hardly fair.’ The gentleman pouted with all the petulance of a spoiled child.
‘Or we can both go to the gallows. It’s up to you.’
‘Hmph. Fine, you filthy chin-stealing—‘
‘Shut up!’ The sloshing inside his head had become a full-on headache, and there was a knot in his neck, and he just felt awful all over, like he’d been trampled on. If he wasn’t short a chin, he’d swear off chin-stealing this very instant.
Though maybe...
‘Let me see that.’ He snatched the fake chin from the gentleman’s hand.
‘Hey!’ The gentleman stood up straight, only to slouch away from the hatchet.
‘What’s this made of?’ He rolled the fake chin around in his fingers, getting them all greasy.
‘Ba
con fat and pig’s skin.’
It looked quite real. Maybe he could fabricate a twelfth chin from the other ones he’d collected, substitute the bone for a bit of pig joint. He'd gotten to know chin anatomy pretty well. He could pull it off.
‘All right, I’ll be off.’ He bowed, slipping the hatchet back into his belt. ‘You have yourself a lovely evening.’
The gentleman rudely slammed the door behind him.
* * *
The shopkeeper of Extravagant Oils of the Arcane greeted him with a crushing handshake. Tavin gave the shopkeeper the bag, then rubbed his poor fingers.
The shopkeeper counted out the chins, held up a misshapen one for inspection. Tavin held his breath, crossing his toes inside his boots. The shopkeeper nodded in approval, and everything inside Tavin unwound.
‘Nice, nice, nice,’ the shopkeeper said, collecting the chins into a cooking pan.
‘So how about my pay?’ Tavin said.
The shopkeeper tossed aside the empty chin bag, retrieved a heavy pouch from his robe and dropped it in Tavin’s hand. Through the fabric he felt nice thick coins, the kind that could buy access to just about anything, legal or illegal.
‘You know,’ the shopkeeper said, ‘I could keep you on.’
‘What? For more chin-stealing?’
‘Not always. There’s other kinds of stealing. Or maybe disposing.’
‘Ehh, I dunno...’ He still felt miserable and was looking forward to the bathhouse, a massage and a nice feather bed.
‘I can make you partner. You’ll get some of the profits.’
‘Decent profits?’
The shopkeeper gave a toothy grin. ‘Why do you think I needed the chins? One of the most expensive oils I sell.’
A steady income would be nice. He'd never have to pickpocket again. Maybe save up and buy a house of his own—or better yet, leave this city far behind. He’d heard there were some nice tropical places in the east.
Grimdark Magazine Issue #3 MOBI Page 1
