Author: Taxi

Flesh is Red at Vodov

CLASSIFIED 36/7/1922: The following transcript is copied from writings on the padded walls of Officer D. Arkady V___ at Kozhy State Mental Asylum in the excellent capital of Gorod. Comrade Arkady had been stationed as an educational officer in a fishing town called Borku-Dorov to the far north when extenuating circumstances caused him to be returned home and admitted to the hospital. He did not share his experiences until the following text was found today written on the walls of his cell along with his corpse hanging from the ceiling by a makeshift rope. I leave this on your desk as a reference for further dealings with the people of Borku-Dorov, Captain. May you heed its warning.

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            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            These words are burnt into my mind. Chanted and sung and stomped into my conscience like a school motto from the State Academy – instinctual, cultural, primitive. I cannot escape them, even now.

            Borku-Dorov haunts me. When I was first given the assignment, I was eager to prove my blood ran red. The East Thelenic Socialist League or E.T.S.L. is still young. The people in the provinces are still learning about what’s been happening in the cities the past few years. Still hesitant to trust the new government after so many years of imperial oppression. It was my job to go and share with them the value of our new Communist ideology. In the early days of the revolution, the people had been starving. Whether one wore red or white, he would go hungry. The children, forced to work the fields while their parents were away at war, were banned from taking food out of the villages, lest a stray soldier keep it for themselves. Some people are still mistrusting of working under the red flag. It is the committee’s position that a proper education would fix that.

            I caught the train as far north as I could with the other state missionaries – young men and women from the city who could read and write. Most of our mage comrades had left to join the revolution against the despots in the West, but most of us knew one or two spells. Loseva Sofiya Yurievna was one of these, and she had given me a black, needle-like trinket which I attached to my watch fob. She had explained to me that if I were to break it, I would find myself back at her side for her to help me. I scoffed at the time, as I did not realise how dearly I would be in need of the help.

             “AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN.” That was the first phrase I heard upon entering the town. It was quite small and was notable for its complete lack of a Wizard or a church – a fact which expressed itself in the flat skyline of the shore of the North Sea. I had stumbled alone into town on foot, clutching my thick, military issue coat about me as the icy polar winds blew in unimpeded. The first person I met was a beautiful young woman with dark, sunken eyes and thinning clothes. She posed the evil phrase to me like a question, but when I stared at her quizzically, she simply turned back to her work at the loom. I was puzzled, to say the least. The words were of no language that I recognised, but they sent a chill to my spine, nevertheless. I was sure the people of this region spoke the mother tongue all the same – I had read some reports from tax officials that had visited which, though brief, outlined conversations they had had with the locals.

            “AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN.” The conversation with the next fellow, an old fisherman with a fur cap, began much the same. When I asked him, “Do you speak Odiin, comrade?” He harrumphed, then responded, “Of course, young man. What other language could I speak?”

            Naturally, I pressed him for further answers about the strange phrase of greeting, but he gave no information, simply saying he remembers no such words being spoken. As I went about greeting others, accompanied by the man, Ivan, I did not hear the phrase spoken again.

            I met many townsfolk that first day, most of them greeting me with mute neutrality, cautious of my presence. Although Ivan seemed pleased to introduce a visitor to his peers, he turned sour whenever I mentioned the Red Army or the League, so I resolved to bide my time.

            Ivan allowed me to stay in his home while I stayed in the town, explaining that he was the closest thing Borku-Dorov had to a government official. The man’s home was a two-room wooden shack on the edge of town near the water, constituting a small cot, a stove, and a table with chairs. A small frame on the table showed a photograph of a strong-looking woman posing severely. “My wife.” Ivan explained, saying nothing more on the matter. After some discussion, I conceded to the old man’s generous offer to sleep in the cot while he fashioned a bed space for himself on the floor.

            In my sleep, I found myself knee-deep in the shallows of the North Sea, looking out over the grey seascape that stretched into oblivion. The water was frigid at first, but when the phrase          AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN boomed out from beyond the horizon, it turned warm, welcoming me deeper. I hesitated, and the current began to tug at my ankles as the phrase repeated, simultaneously loud yet soundless:

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

Like a fawn caught in a trap I began to thrash, the white water bubbling up with acidic steam around me. Some unimaginable force began to pull me to those words.

            I woke in fright, a small face peering at me from the twilit doorway of the house. Seeing that I had noticed her, the little girl blushed and disappeared into the kitchen.

            She soon returned with a small cup, leaving it on the windowsill.

            “Excuse me sir, for waking you. Papa has already left to fish. I brought you some tea.” The girl bowed slightly, her black plaits swinging in front of her timid face.

            “It’s alright,” I said, rising. “You must be Nochka Ivanovna. I am Arkady.”

            Nochka simply nodded.

            “What do you know about the East Thelenic Socialist League.”

            “Not much, sir.” The girl averted her eyes to the floorboards.

            “Well—”

            “Please. We cannot talk about these things in the town.”

            “Oh? Why not?”

            That fateful question would be the one to lead me to my doom. Nochka seemed to think for a moment, then grinned childishly.

            “Ask Papa to allow you to come to Vodov tonight. Insist to be allowed to attend. Perhaps they will let you speak then. Do not tell him how you know of it, just that you must go there to speak. Excuse me now, sir. I must go.”

            Eager to fulfill my duty, I resolved to do as she said. I spent the day inquiring around town about Vodov, whatever that was, but nobody seemed to know what it was. Without a church or a school or even a town hall, there was no central place for me to go asking, but a few stalls had been set up down near the docks where I was able to speak to the townsfolk. I also asked some of people of Borku-Dorov what they do on the weekends without a church to attend. Most of them shrugged and told me they slept the day away.

            Eventually, Ivan returned on his boat dragging it up the shore to the door of his house. Procuring an immense fish, he began to prepare it for dinner. Nochka appeared soon after, building a fire on the sand. When at last we sat, sucking the soft meat from the bones of the fish, I began to inquire once again.

            “I would like to speak at Vodov tonight.” I spoke simply.

            Ivan did not respond. His thick hands were incredibly deft at efficiently stripping the entire fish of its meat. When he finished, he threw the bone into the dying fire with a hiss.

            I tried again. “I have been sent from the capital to educate the people about the new state. I understand Vodov is where I will be able to do this.”

            “Vodov is not for you.” He did not turn his head when he spoke, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. “You cannot attend.”

            “The people of this town must be educated! Surely you see that. Soon, the Red Army will come north. They will be recruiting. Wouldn’t you rather know what your men will stand for when they enlist?”

            “They will not enlist. We fought in the Great War already. For the Tsar. You are not so different.”

            “!! You will learn not to say such things, old man!” I stood up. “When the Red Army comes, the men of Borku-Dorov will enlist because they will see that it is right! You would do well to listen to me before then.”

            I went to the bed space Ivan had prepared on the floor and went to sleep.

            That night I dreamt of the voice again.

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            I had been speaking to a faceless townsman at a stall when he opened his blackened mouth and the words gushed out of his unmoving lips. Turning to flee, I found myself at the edge of the wooden pier, staring out at the impending storm coming from the sea.

            With a crash of lightning, the sky thundered: AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN. I turned back to flee, but found that the land had gone, replaced with an unending plain of grey sea. The dirty surface of ice formed and cracked in a dance with the roiling waves. The small wooden pier was all that remained. The storm overhead approached with supernatural speed, carried along by a hot wind that swept up the boards beneath me, cracking them. As I fell into the water, my skin burning from the hot air and freezing from the water, I heard the storm shouting with black lightning:

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            I woke to Ivan’s face looming over me, his dark eyes reflecting strangely in the candlelight. “Follow.” He said, then walked out of the house. He had changed his clothes, now wearing an odd black robe like the ones Wizards wore (in the movies). I quickly followed him, watching the candle move towards the boat. Ivan motioned to it, then snuffed out the candle.

            “Your daughter—?” I began.

             “Children do not belong at Vodov.”

            I helped him push the boat into the water. The sea was calm in the darkness. Ivan rowed in silence. Feeling uneasy, I removed the black needle from my watch, clutching it in my hand.

            After some time, I began to notice other boats in the night. Without any light, I could hardly see them in the unbroken darkness. Compared to Gorod at night, Borku-Dorov was impossibly dark, especially since the sky completely overcast. However, voices could be heard from the other boats, travelling quickly across the water like birds before a storm.

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            My eyes opened wide. The phrase was not imagined. I turned to ask Ivan about it, but I noticed he was singing too, deep and resonant.

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            Soon, the singing stopped, and I realised the water was becoming shallow. “Vodov,” Ivan spoke. We beached the boat in a small cove. I could just see the others close behind.

“Follow,” Ivan said again.

He grabbed me by the sleeve with a rough grip and began to lead me in the dark. It was impossible to see anything, but somehow, he navigated this new wilderness with ease. Soon, I realised we had passed into a cave, since the air had changed. It became denser, and the scent of charcoal hung low. Ivan let go of my wrist.

I could hear him nearby in the cave as more people began to enter. No words were spoken, but a thrum could be heard reverberating off the rock walls.

Then, flash!

A brilliant flame erupted in the centre of the cave, blinding me. Suddenly, I felt the grip of many hands tighten around my limbs and torso, pulling me to the ground. I let out a yelp, but I could not muscle free.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the light, I found myself being held down on the floor by four large men in black robes. Behind them, I saw a small crowd of similarly dressed people, some of which I recognised from the town. Standing atop me, his feet astride my waist, was Ivan, his silver hair framed by a black crown.

“Please!” I shouted. “I only come to teach you about your country! Please, let me speak!”

“Only the initiated may speak.” Was Ivan’s response, his face suddenly cold and ceremonial.

I began to struggle and protest but to no response. The men around me tore my old clothes off me with ease, exposing my malnourished body to the cold. The fire at the centre of the cave provided no warmth. Strangely, I even felt as though the fire was radiating cold rather than heat.

A woman with incredibly long black hair approached carrying a silver pitcher. She began to walk around my supine body, holding up the pitcher and chanting:

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

Then, she began to pour the contents of the vessel onto my naked body. I immediately recognised the scent of oil and began to writhe in fear. I had heard of Pyronic Oleionism before, an extreme variation of the traditional baptism which involved oil and fire. My cousin’s husband had been baptised in this way. Reportedly, the fire was enchanted to have no effect. Still, I feared for my life. Typically, the oil was only applied lightly to the forehead, not poured on the entire body.

            Despite my writhing and screaming, the men at Vodov did not move. Nor did a single drop of the oil touch them, somehow. Instead, they stared unemotionally down at me.

            When Ivan returned from the throng, he was holding a bronze cup with a tall tongue of flaming oil in it.

            The singing continued:

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            Then, he stepped towards me.

            And upturned the cup.

            The oil on my body caught fire immediately, and my skin began to melt. Every inch of my body was tortured with a thousand scarping combs of white-hot flame. The cave became abstract to me, my mind only knowing pain.

            In that writhing, burning state, I saw an image. Riding down from the dark clouds above the sea, a dark skeleton with a red-hot spear came forth on a horse. Its presence turned the rain into vapour and the sea into ice as its exposed heart emanated a sphere of bluish light.

“I am VOD. I am coming. You will love VOD. Or you will die.”

In a moment of painful and belated clarity, I remembered the needle Sofiya had given me. Suddenly and with great force, I clenched my fist tightly, snapping the needle.

I remember not what happened next.

Apparently, I appeared at Sofiya’s side in a church classroom in Solitsk, fully naked and writhing as if in pain. No flame or blemish marked my body. All I could bear to say was that phrase.

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

I eventually came to in a hospital bed in Gorod, my limbs and torso tied down to the white mattress with straps.

I have tried to explain what happened to me to all that will listen.

I have been told there is no Borku-Dorov. Government officials have even been sent to investigate the matter and found that no town by that name or location has ever existed.

No academic or mage can explain that evil phrase to me.

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

            AIGAR MANO PIKZIY TOTEN

Nor can they recognise the name VOD.

The worst of it is that Sofiya tells me she never gave me that black needle. She never even had anything like that.

She explained to the Board that I was meant to join her in Solitsk but disappeared somewhere along the journey.

Nobody remembers any of it.

But I do.

I remember it all.

The faces. The cold. The heat. The pain.

VOD.

I am turning to God now. If he exists, I pray that he will still accept me.

And I pray that when VOD comes, he will destroy you all!

House Avis

In the darkness of the Arctic winter, a light shone upon a dilapidated manor for the first time in fifty-two years.

“In its prime, House Avis had been mighty and majestic,” explained the bearer of the electrical lamp to her companion. “They were probably one of the richest noble houses in Apsia before the Grey Year. Easily the richest in the Arctic Circle.”

“I don’t know about this. I really don’t wanna get cursed… I heard that after they got ashed, all the gold-eyes put a pretty hefty hex on all their junk.”

These were the worries of the other person arriving at the manor, a little man in a dusty fedora.

“How would that even be possible, Jim? If they got ashed, how could they do any magic unless they were crazy good with the quick-chant? Anyways, anything cursed is probably dead mana now… Probably.”

Our other speaker was one Sarah Beverly, a wizard’s apprentice whose long black hair was tied into a neat bun. Her silvered wand coolly reflected the lantern’s light as she pointed it in front of her.

“What’s this trinket even look like?” Asked Jim, glancing around at his dim surroundings. “I wanna hustle outta here quick smart. Place gives me the slimes I say.”

“Prof. Wilkins said to look for a broken gold coin. Presumably, it will also be inert, but honestly? If the charm is still active, we may get some extra change for it anyway.”

So, the pair began their search. Outside, a cold wind blew sleet in through the shattered windows and collapsed walls. The old 19^th century wallpapers, peeled back from old age, shivered with an eerie scuttling sound that set Jim’s nerves on edge. The weather did not otherwise bother them, even though neither wore a winter coat. On Jim’s lapel, a golden pin in the shape of a clarinet emitted a comfortable warmth at a distance of a few metres. The ground, once covered in a layer of snow due to a distinct lack of a roof, was now revealed in all its dilapidated grandeur, the snow having evaporated upon their arrival. So, Sarah and Jim were quite comfortable, thermally at least, as they scanned the exposed ground for the glint of gold.

Still, Jim began to complain. “Old Master Wilkins couldn’t have waited until summer to retrieve his trinket? I hate the cold…”

“Couldn’t risk it getting nicked by some candlestick mages before us. Besides, the main passage into this valley is sealed off by ice in the winter. We’re less likely to run into trouble this time of year.”

“Sounds to me like I coulda stayed home then if there’s no goons to blast. This isn’t my idea of a perfect New Year’s festival, let me tell you.”

“And what if I just wanted some company? Now, zip it and get searching.”

They searched in silence, having now passed from the foyer into the salon. Most of the old furniture had disintegrated, but a brass bookshelf still stood, the ruined remnants of books still rotting on its shelves. Indeed, there was a significant amount of rot and grime, and Sarah even spotted a corpse, mummified by the frost, impaled upon a lamp-sconce. The head, still suspended upon the carved lamp which extended from the open mouth, had separated from its body, leaving a gruesome mess of gore and blood-mould on the wall and floor. A mithral badge with an old imperial crest identified the body as a guard to House Avis, and an important one at that. Sarah made the sign of the cross, then picked up the badge, pocketing it. Clearly, whoever had looted the house before them had been more superstitious than she was. At least enough to leave the precious metal behind.

They moved on, now passing into the ballroom. The grand chandelier had fallen long ago, evidenced now only by the large crack in the marble floor of the room’s centre, the metal and crystal long since stripped away. There was little else of interest in the room except the large vault door on the innermost wall. Sections of the wooden wall either side of the door had collapse, revealing the entirety of the vault had been built out of pure isthra, a metal impervious and immune to magic and identifiable by its dull, greyish-yellow hue. A nearby skeleton with a smashed in skull and a heavy-looking tool indicated that the thirty bolts along the door’s edge had sealed in whatever was inside. Finally, like any good vault, this door had a large and complex mechanism attached to its front.

Jim whistled. “Blimey, this must be the most secure vault I’ve ever seen! Look at that construction! They don’t make them like that today…”

“Well Jimmy, looks like I may need your skills after all. See what you can do about that, will you?”

The man set to work immediately. First, he procured from his blazer a small jar of a thick pale solvent. Using a finger bone from the nearby skeleton, he spread the paste along the edge of the door, then stepped back. Smoke began to fill the room as the metal bolts began to bubble and hiss with a rancid smell. Sarah simply extended her wand, creating a safe bubble of clean air around her and Jim. Once the reaction had slowed and the smoke had been carried off in the wind, the man approached the door once more. Eying the mechanism, he began to turn the various handles, responding expertly and easily to the appropriate clicks and whirs from within.

Eventually and with a satisfying gong-like chime, the door began to swing down, opening from the top … right towards Jim’s head!

Sarah rushed to the man’s side, producing another ward that surrounded them both.

Yet the isthra passed right through, cutting through the silvery sphere like water!

Sarah felt the rush of air as the flat side of the door rushed to demolish her before… nothing.

Looking around, Sarah reached out with her arcane intuition and detected against the very edge of her ward the presence of a metal. A single mote of iron, an impurity in the isthra, had caught on the surface of her shield, stopping the door just short of crushing them both. Shifting slightly, the apprentice mage allowed the heavy door to slide off the spherical ward and onto the ground with a crash.

However, they didn’t have time to catch their breaths, as looming in the door now stood a hulking mass of blackened flesh. A creature of hellish proportions, with grey fur running up and down its chest and limbs and bulging horns in place of eyes, had lumbered up out of the vault’s threshold. The demon, clearly summoned from some infernal realm, huffed loudly and began to approach. Before Jim could fire a round from his pistol, though, it began to dissolve like wax into a dark puddle on the ballroom floor. The skin fell first, dripping in great globules off the creature’s inhuman frame. Then, as it screamed its death rattle, the tongue began to flow from its mouth in great pink blobs of melted flesh. Soon, all that remained were its claws and horns, which hissed and sparked when they met with the pool of inky gore on the floor, popping with a bright flash before turning into a hideous goop themselves.

“What the devil happened?” Shouted Jim.

“Whatever magic was used to summon that chalk-scum wasn’t designed to last this long.” Answered Sarah, sitting down. “Clearly, it was only strong enough to keep it corporeal until now. Once it started moving, the spell couldn’t handle the strain…”

“Huh. Well, I’ll count myself lucky then! Drinks are on me.”

The two of them sat for a moment, regaining their composure as they recovered from the interaction. Eventually, they stood, passing into the now unguarded vault. At the centre of the dark and compact room, floating in a jelly-like prism of air, was half a gold coin, lines of thin, illegibly small text decorating its every surface.

“There it is,” Jim said, reaching out. “Let’s nab it and hustle!”

“Wait!” Sarah called out.

The man retreated his hand like from a fire, turning back to his friend sheepishly.

“Don’t touch it you frog! The charm is still active. Those gold-eyed nobles that lived here must’ve had a strong wizard on their roster for this kind of protection. Who knows what that might do to you…”

“Well, what does it do?”

“Apparently, it creates a chronochoromantic field that replicates and sustains external essences in an internal environment.”

“…”

“It recreates the house in a pocket dimension.”

“Oh.”

“Anyways, it looks like I might not be able to move it without cancelling the charm, sadly. Give me a minute to record some measurements, then we can go.”

---

“Mummy, how come we never leave the house?” Quentin asked, lifting himself into his mother’s lap on the velvet couch in the salon.

“Well dear, the outside world is dangerous. Ask Julius if you really must know.” Replied Lady Aemilia Avis.

“But Mumma! Julius scares me! His room is so high up…” Whined Quentin.

“Well then, I guess you will never know, little Q.” The Lady returned to her book, a volume about the empire’s recent dealings in the East.

Quentin seemed to think for a moment, weighing up his curiosity against his fear. Eventually, his curiosity won. So, he set off into the house, trudging up the long, winding stairwell into the tower above the house. Julius, the House’s Court Wizard, lived at its peak in a room that really should have been no larger than a broom closet, but was as wide as the ballroom.

Finally, after what felt like years of climbing, little Quentin reached the door to Julius’ quarters.

Before he could knock, the door opened and Quentin found himself looking up at Archwizard Julius the Grey, the greatest Chronochoromancer of all time. The boy knew Julius by such a title because he often announced himself as he entered a room. The man, an old, frail figure, was in his usual grey robe, his golden pocket watch gleaming unnaturally bright in the afternoon light.

“Yes, boy, what?” Julius said at last. He seemed at once both eccentrically excited and frustrated.

“Well sir, I… I wanted to know why we never go out of the house. I seem to remember going to a city but two years ago. Now we exit for nary a stroll!”

Julius harrumphed, then led the boy into his rooms. A large salon, much larger than the one downstairs, stretched out before him. Magnificent, colourful windows let in the sun from overhead. They sat down at a couch.

“I will begin by saying that your mother is a most extraordinary lady,” Julius said, pouring tea from a nearby pot. “She possesses certain senses which most cannot dream of. Have you ever noticed the Lady answer a question before it is asked? Or perhaps she has caught you just in time before you do something silly?”

Quentin nodded, uncomfortable and already regretting his visit.

“Well,” continued the Archwizard, “Lady Avis is in fact prone to premonitions. She can see the future, on occasion. Many years ago, she came to me in Eil. That’s the imperial city which you can remember visiting. She, like many, foresaw the imminent collapse of the empire. I dismissed her concerns – everybody feared a revolution, but the emperor was strong enough to protect us, no? She later wrote me a letter describing how exactly the emperor would die, the whole world would revolt, and the entire Deran nobility would disintegrate into ash – and all in the year 1870. She called it ‘The Grey Year,’ and she described it in such detail that I felt compelled to believe her.”

Quentin stared with a confused expression.

“The point is, young man, that something bad was going to happen. House Avis then employed me as Court Wizard to help you.” The old wizard poked his gnarled finger at the boy’s chest.

“But… Excuse me sir but what does this have to do with the house?”

“Why, everything!” The would was due to end. So, I, the greatest Chronochoromancer of all time, created this – all this – to escape it! Understand? Why can’t you leave the house? Because there is nothing outside the house! Everything is gone!” Julius was gesturing maniacally now, tea spilling on the walls and chairs across the room.

“So… the whole world was destroyed in two years? How?”

“No, dear boy, no. The world was destroyed in just one year. All the years that followed are just rot. Yes, years. Plural. Time is slower here in the manor.”

“Time is slower?”

“Indeed. In here, it has only been two years. Out there?” The old man counted on his fingers. “Fifty-two.”

Then, the strangest combination of events occurred. First, the walls of the room stretched and then snapped like a whip, shrinking in an instant to the size of a broom closet. The young noble and the old wizard found themselves sitting on the hard floor, the furniture simply destroyed by the sudden change. Next, a shivering shriek was heard. The walls of the building were beginning to crumble, and dust was quickly piling up in the corners. Finally, a supernatural and terrible tragedy began to befall the members of House Avis. Julius was the first to go, his flesh turning pale and flaky as he let out a silent and ashy scream. Then Lady Aemilia Avis, her hair falling out in sandy clumps. She tried in vain to keep her ashen limbs attached as they dissolved. The rest disintegrated quickly enough, reduced to grey particles which the winter air then swept away in great, unprejudiced gusts.

Inside the vault, Sarah Beverly was pocketing a gold coin. Her companion Jim’s ears pricked up.

“Did you just hear someone shout ‘Mummy’?” He asked. Sarah shook her head, and Jim shrugged his shoulders in response.

Then, Sarah procured a small stone from her bag, motioned for Jim to touch it with her, and teleported them both away, plunging the rotting manor of House Avis into darkness once more.

The Siege of Tsume

“Granny, whose katana is that?”

Granny Hikomi turned to see her youngest grandchild, Norio, peeking his head over the edge of the little cabinet upon which her old weapon was on display. Its sleek blade was sheathed in a black scabbard, a motif of silver horses racing down its length. The boy was looking at it curiously, his hand half-raised to the hilt.

“Mine, child. Do not touch,” the granny spoke simply, turning back to her meditation in the garden of the house. The summer air was gentle today, dancing about the old trees that stretched far from the door of the house.

“Yours!?” Came Norio’s cry. He rushed out to plonk himself on the old lady’s lap, staring up at her with a new kind of curiosity. “What did you use it for?”

“Nothing good, little one. Think not of it.”

But by now, Norio’s questions had caused enough noise to bring forth his sister, Hanako, from her studies. “You never tell us about your youth, granny. Please tell us!”

Granny Hikomi thought carefully for a moment and then nodded with a kind smile. “Very well, but do not tell your mother. She will be home from the market soon and will not be pleased with you hearing old war stories.”

At this, both grandchildren sat down carefully on her left and right, looking up at the old warrior intently. Hikomi began her story thus:

---

When I was a little girl, I lived in a city called Tsume, the capitol city of a strong empire under the watchful eye of the Shogun, much like it is now. Except, in those days, the emperor did not live here among the Kaiyoma. He was an evil man called Parakh that ruled in secret from far off.

In 1863, when I was about 10, an official from Castle Tsume came by the house looking for strong children to train for the Shogun’s guard. In those days, the samurai had become weak, favouring their wands over their swords. Not at all like the strong warrior-mages in Tsume today. I was very strong, since we ran the sawmill on the city outskirts. The official took one look at me and gave me a letter ordering me to the castle the next day. So began my training, living in the castle and learning to fight with a sword, with a bow, and a strong head. Every day for many years I would wake early, duelling my peers – other children who were granted the honour of serving the empire – and honing my mind and body for war. Eventually, I was given a key to the castle so that I could come and go as I pleased. A small bronze disc – the very same one I still keep on me today.

On the last day of our training, when we were about to be given our titles and blades and duties, we were first given a final test of loyalty to the emperor…

When I walked into the dojo, I saw my father kneeling and bound at the wrists in the centre. His good eye looked up at me with pride and fear. A katana – that katana in there – was on a stand opposite him. I knew what was asked of me.

“Daughter,” my father said. “I am proud of you. I know you will do what is right. I know you will serve the Shogun well.”

I knelt beside him. “Damn the Shogun!” I cried, my tears staining the training mats.

The old man looked around at the empty dojo, deciding whether to speak. Eventually, he lowered his head to me, speaking freely, “Hikomi, there is talk outside the city of change. The free cities are moving against the empires. The emperor is growing reckless. My girl, the Shogun’s time grows short. As for me? I am old; it is my time too. The ancestors will forgive you if you do what is right. Serve the Shogun as long as he lives! Do you understand?”

I nodded, my vision almost completely useless against the onslaught of tears.

In his final moments, my father, his bloodied palms gripping mine about the hilt of the patricidal blade, spoke plainly and proudly, “Moons bless the Shogun.”

---

The children now stared at their grandmother with wet eyes, their pale eyes fixed to her face like the twin moons they prayed to each night.

“Why are you telling us this, granny? I’m scared…” Spoke Norio.

“I am telling you this, children, so that you understand the lengths a parent goes to for their child and so that you are aware of the dangers empires can pose. My peers did not hesitate to do what I struggled to do. Fanatics like that can not be reasoned with. Though they are honourable, be wary of the samurai, yes?”

Hanako nodded eagerly. The girl had been listening more attentively than her brother, who was now fidgeting uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt. She was around the same age Hikomi had been during the war, but her charms studies were of a much more wholesome nature than swords and spears.

“Perhaps that is enough war stories for today.” Granny Hikomi feigned a yawn. Norio stood quickly, assenting to her dismissal and rushing out into the garden to play. Hanako was less obedient:

“Granny, what did you do? Did you serve the Shogun? What happened to him?”

“You wish to know more, then? Very well, I will tell. But you must not interrupt me.”

---

 1870, the Grey Year, had arrived. The mysterious and simultaneous deaths of the emperor and his imperial family, along with the rulers of the other empires around the world, were a catalyst for global anarchy. The rebels seized the city with unimaginable haste, and the emperor’s army were holding fast at the gate of the castle.

I had been in the forest hunting a criminal when the war started. The criminal had stolen a pistol from the armoury and was attempting to flee into the mountains. I had caught up to him easily and slain him, reclaiming the weapon for the empire. When I returned to the city, I saw the smoke and the cavalry. Once again, the twin moons guided me. Father had said to flee the city when the Shogun fell, but I knew the ancestors would not forgive such unavenged patricide, even if he was now among them.

I waited until night, removing my armour so I could move silently through the city. I had read manuscripts in the castle archives of an ancient tradition of warriors who could move without being seen or heard. I moved across the rooftops with only my terrible katana to protect me. I had had it tempered with Meteoris – star metal that could cut through magic and burn flesh.

Most of the fighting was happening at the main gate of the castle, but I knew of a way past the wall besides. Stealing my way into the tiered wizard tower near the temple, I climbed up to its roof. The wizard had already been slain in an apparently fantastic battle. His blade had not moved from its sheath, useless to the now westernised samurai. The wizard’s office was completely charred; any possessions or furniture either destroyed in the scuffle or ransacked. Climbing out from a splintered window, I stood on the slanted awning of the third floor of the tower. The wind was extreme, possibly the result of magical interference, but the old maple in the training yard of the castle was unmoving against it. I steeled myself, fastening the wizard’s katana to my waist alongside my own, before leaping across the gap between the tower and the maple.

Time slowed. An explosion of colourful light shook the air down at the main gate. Below me, the gnarled tops of the castle wall threatened to prematurely end my task. I twisted my body with practised ease, my back arching over the wall as I clutched at the strong branches of the maple tree. With a mighty and breathy thud, I caught myself in the tree’s heights.

Looking around, I was relieved to find the courtyard empty. The entire city’s defences were concentrated on the main gate. I walked unerringly to a door in the castle wall, passing my disc key across its magical latch. The door clicked open. I would not be stopped in my task.

I eventually reached the peak of the castle – the private office and quarters of the Shogun himself. Breaking through the shoji with my blade drawn, I found the room completely empty save for the Shogun, who was seated in the centre. He seemed to be meditating, though he was chanting a prayer I could not recognise.

---

“What violent tales are you scaring my children with now, mother?” Came a voice from within the house. Granny Hikomi turned slowly to lock eyes with her daughter, who had just returned from the market in her western skirt and hat. “Well?”

“Do not worry, Kiyo. I have not told her anything about the war that she could not find herself in her schoolbooks. Unless only samurai can read books in 1922?” She raised an eyebrow playfully at her granddaughter at this. The house was starting to cool with the coming of evening, and it was about time to cook dinner at any rate. “Come, child, I will prepare a ramen for you.”

Hikomi rose, walking past her frustrated daughter. She was upset, to be sure, but would probably only berate her mother once the children were asleep.

Later that night, when Granny was praying at the lunar shrine in the garden, she heard small footsteps approach. Hanako waited until her grandmother had finished her prayer before asking with a bow, “Granny, please will you tell me your story? Mother is asleep now… and I promise I won’t tell her!”

The old warrior chuckled, motioning for the child to sit beside her before continuing the end of her tale:

---

The Shogun did not look up from his prayer when I entered, but I did not wait for him to finish as you just did now. I was done with traditions and politeness. This was war. Still, I had honour. I tossed the wizard’s katana to him, readying my own in a defensive stance.

“Your wizard is dead,” I said, “your emperor is dead. You are as good as dead. Fight with honour, and perhaps the moons will shine favourably upon you.”

The Shogun opened his eyes now. Looking up at me, my blade raised, he began to laugh.

“Ah, Hikomi, I always knew it would be you that would betray me. Of all your peers, you were always the most dishonourable…” He stood, his heavy armour clacking noisily as he drew the sword. “Yes, the war is already lost. I would be a fool not to see that. And yet, the emperor and I worked hard to make this city what it is. I will not let it fall into the hands of rebels like you. So, I will kill you now and then destroy the entire city with you!”

He lunged suddenly with a speed unbecoming of a man his age. Ready for his strike, my blade met his with a fiery clash, arcane energy radiating from the point where the edges met.

The battle was silent and furious. It was nothing like those silly films they put on at the theatre. We only clashed for but a moment, but it was quickly becoming apparent that the Shogun was the better swordsman. With each strike, I was driven further back.

He brought his katana down in a huge, arcing swing that clashed with my own weapon centimetres above my head.

Another lunge came directly for my unarmoured chest. I swatted it out of the way, trying desperately to gain control of his blade.

Only a few passes of strikes occurred before I realised I would lose the battle. But I still had one last trick. It was not honourable, but it was certainly vengeful.

“Moons bless the Shogun.” I said, dropping my guard open to attack.

Irate, the Shogun made one final lunge for my torso, thrusting the point of the blade in a strong slide along the length of my blade. I allowed the attack to pass my defence, piercing directly through my ribcage. Dropping my sword, I grabbed his right hand with my left, pulling him and the blade closer in towards my body.

And with my right hand I drew the pistol I had retrieved hours earlier.

And fired it directly into his skull!

The Shogun’s unarmoured head exploded in a cloud across the room before both our bodies collapsed on the bloodied floor.

---

Hanako gasped at this. By now it was completely dark, but by the dim light of the twin moons overhead, Granny Hikomi could see her surprise.

“!” The girl intoned, “Did you survive?!”

The old lady simply laughed. “Yes, dear. The rebel army broke through the imperial defences soon after. When they reached the Shogun’s office, they found our bodies and figured out what happened. They set their best healers to the task of fixing me up, and I was fighting-fit by the end of the week. That is how I met your grandfather!

“He tried to convince me to join the war, but I was done with fighting. I told him to find me after the war and then left the city. And I never turned back.”