20 stories of brawn and battle filled with must-read deeds, fast-paced fiction, and thrill-inducing tales of man’s triumphs over unbelievable odds! Words to stir the soul and renew a lust for life!
from “THE MASK OATH: A Tale of The Faceless Sons” – by Steve Goble (243 words)
One mask, white as bone,
another bloody red,
a third as black as midnight’s own
– and seven demons dead.
~ from Song of the Faceless Sons
Dried flesh and brittle bone crackled as the Faceless Son drove the demon’s skull upon the blackened stake.
The man in the bloodstained white mask contemplated the impaled head. It stood in a row with three others, ghastly trophies mounted before the great fortress city.
The dead quartet stared at him as he hefted his massive warhammer to his shoulder. Scaly, petrified flesh clung stubbornly to the skulls, for not even crows would eat this foul meat.
From the walls of Brythane, soldiers and clerics and whores and laborers peered at him. Above them, from a balcony, his king and queen looked down with grave countenances. All of Brythane wished to see whenever one of the Faceless Sons returned. They watched in hushed awe; Gharan’s sons had been the first to take the mask oath in centuries. The mask was a symbol of dedication, of a vow made kneeling before the gods. Those who wore the oath mask renounced much of what was enjoyable in life and declared themselves willing to die in pursuit of their quests. Such mighty oaths were seldom made in these days of peace and plenty, but the Faceless Sons belonged to an ancient and noble house where the old ways were kept. Or had been, once.
They would see those days revived.
from the introduction to Harold Lamb’s classic tale “RED HANDS” – by Howard Andrew Jones (267 words)
In the 1950s, almost anyone researching the history of Asia would have turned to the works of Harold Lamb, just as, a generation earlier, readers turned to his stories set in Asia – tales featuring Russians, Mongols, and Muslims – for swashbuckling, page-turning adventure. While Lamb’s name is no longer as well known today, his reputation as both historian and storyteller is untarnished. He was one of the first adventure writers to craft tales with a modern, cinematic sense of pace, and wrote convincingly from the viewpoint of other cultures. His prose was moody, bloody, exotic, and riveting, and it’s no small wonder that Robert E. Howard, best known as the creator of Conan of Cimmeria, named Lamb as one of his favorite writers.
Once Lamb’s work was difficult to find; until 2006 his stories were sandwiched only in dusty library collections and moldering pulp magazines. You’re in luck, though, because today his work is available again through several venues. The University of Nebraska press has recently reprinted a set of four books that collect all of Lamb’s tales of adventurous Cossacks: Wolf of the Steppes, Warriors of the Steppes, Riders of the Steppes, and Swords of the Steppes. Each volume features stories from Lamb’s heroic Cossack cycle, although the final volume features almost a dozen standalone adventures. This short story is one of those. Mayhem, action, danger, surprise, exotic setting – it’s all here. Best of all, Bison Books will shortly be printing more Lamb collections. If you like what you see in these pages, I hope you’ll seek out the rest of his work. You won’t be disappointed.
from “VALLEY OF BONES: A Tale of Mortlock” – by Bruce Durham (258 words)
The Khatana magicians had brought the long dead and buried back to animated life.
A creature charged from the mist to my left and launched itself at the adjacent square. There was no time to react, and the formation buckled as men backed in fear. It vaguely resembled a giant bear, its earth-clotted bones oozing earthworms and maggots. The thing crashed among them.
Men died under its powerful assault, torn limb from limb by ancient claws and long, jagged teeth. It rampaged until tangling among the soldier’s pikes. Slowly the men applied leverage to the thick shafts, snapping the horror bone by bone.
Fearson shouted, “Where’s our bloody magicians?”
Sergeant Clantalion brought his halberd down on something unseen and cried, “Hold steady! Hold! The bastards die!”
Someone snapped, “They’re already dead!”
I grinned in spite of myself. Good one! I sensed the sky grow brighter and glanced at the sun. It was no longer blood red, but a deep yellow.
My humor was short lived. A monstrously large creature emerged from the haze, a massive skeleton on four thickly boned legs. Two impossibly long tusks protruded from its fearsome skull. It vaguely resembled an elephant, a beast I’d seen years past with a traveling circus. It was large, deadly, and it walked. Tufts of earth flew from its skeleton with each lumbering footfall. It rumbled directly toward me.
A thunderclap exploded from behind, the concussion stinging my ears. Another thunderclap exploded, overhead this time. A series of rumbles followed, cumulating with yet another blast, closer to the enemy.
from “WHAT HEROES LEAVE BEHIND” by Nicholas Ian Hawkins (222 words)
“To arms!” the monk called to no one in particular. “Raiders have come to sack the monastery!” He ran off to spread the alarm elsewhere.
Raiders? Tolasun thought. The man he chased during the night must have been a scout. But what of the ancient shadow? He rubbed his chest and coughed again.
Wenlos gave Tolasun a grave look. “We have little with which to defend ourselves, Tolasun. A few of us were once warriors, but we cannot hope to fight them off. Will you help us?”
Tolasun lurched to his feet. He did not seem himself, weak as he was from his journey. But the porridge and herbs had strengthened him, and a battle waited. He nodded at Wenlos, took up his falchion and shield, and ran through the door of the hall.
Outside, the thatch roof of a small outbuilding blazed, covering the monastery grounds in dense smoke. Torches carried by invisible raiders hovered and shifted in the soot and added their glow to the early dawn. The scant light revealed scattered bodies of dead and dying monks, their warm blood melting the blanket of frost on the ground. Enraged, Tolasun strode toward the nearest torch, intent on slaying its bearer, but a familiar face emerged from the smoke.
“Ebren!” Tolasun yelled. “What in Wode’s name are you doing here?”
from “TO DESTROY ALL FLESH: A Tale of The Servant of the Mantycore” – by Michael Ehart (255 words)
“Yes, Ninshi. I will trust no one except you.” Miri thought for a moment. “Will you kill them then, if you cannot steal back what was stolen?”
Ninshi was quiet for a moment. “Bandits sometimes are a different thing from what you are used to, traveling as we do on the great caravan roads. In a place like this, they are often simply the men of a poor village, forced to banditry not by wickedness or greed, but by starvation. This valley is fertile, from years of cultivation and by nature of the steaming water which flows from its mountainsides. I do not imagine the next valley up will be prosperous at all. The men who ambushed us were ill-fed and no great warriors. Had they known their business, they would have stayed in the rocks above and filled us with arrows. Perhaps they had no more to shoot.”
“But they still tried to kill us.”
“Yes, and they stole our goods, though at great cost. A poor village cannot afford the death of six men. I fear they may lose still more before we are done. Still, it does not please me to kill poor men who are driven by the starvation of their children, even after all the centuries of murder I have done.”
Miri reached across the cot in which she rested and patted her mother’s arm. “You will do what is needed, and what is wise.”
Ninshi shook her head. “I suspect I am not wise,” she said. “Just very old.”
from “THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE CROWN” by Nathan Meyer ( 249 words)
Blood.
The stream was pink with snaking tendrils of their blood. Above them the bridge was flooded with great black-red pools of horse blood amid the cast off weapons and bits of broken armor. Each warrior’s lungs burned, screaming for air. Their hearts bounded in the cages of their chests while their hands ran slick with fear-sweat inside their gauntlets.
Conn let Garrett’s blade slide off his and answered with a wild slash. It came fast, forcing Garrett back and giving Conn time to rise. As soon as he reached his feet Conn parried another chopping slash. He could feel his strength ebbing and he knew if he did nothing to come off the defensive he would soon falter and die on the other’s blade.
It was then that he saw it: the crown.
Garrett had worn it under his great helm. The war-band of Dwyer Deep. A flat band of hammered steel inset with the rune of command. There was a palace crown as well, to be sure. It sat in palace vaults encrusted with jewels and formed from the thinnest crafted gold. But that crown had come after, later.
No, it was the war-band that had united the clans and calmed the kin killing. It was the war-band that had made scattered tribes into one people. It was the only crown that those people would now swear fealty too. The only crown the kingdom needed. And to the hand that held the crown would that kingdom go.
from “CLAIMED BY BIRTHRIGHT: A Tale of Azieran” – by Christopher Heath (262 words)
“I would not need to orchestrate a duel if I merely wished to rid the land of its most infamous clan-king. I want his defeat to be legendary; I want all to know the sheer strength of even the mightiest brute is no match for the sorcery within the ancient halls of Holbard. It has been reported that some of our subjects have been consorting with barbaric clans in plotting our downfall – I want to send a message to our people. We will put an end to this rash of disloyalty by instilling despair into their hearts and persecuting a few key instigators.”
“Even if I agreed to such a base act, stooping to duel as a gladiator for the amusement of our subjects, how do you propose to capture Brom or persuade him to cooperate?”
Old Wyvgrin stood and moved to the side of his throne. He pulled forth a mighty blade from behind the ornate oaken frame. Strange runes ran the length of its polished steel, runes that harkened back to the ancient kings of frigid Bjorsek. Its quillons and hilt cast of cross-latticed steel, the bands conformed beneath the rain guard into a skeletal hand that clutched a diamond the size of a horse’s eye. That diamond shone with the crimson light of a captured eldritch soul; some whispered it belonged to the ancient, long-vanquished queen of the dracul. The arch mage felt the power in his hands and yearned to unlock its secrets. They would come in time.
“Behold, Avva’rin, Shard of Ice.” Wyvgrin enjoyed his theatrics.
from “FATEFIST AT TORKAS NAHL: A Tale of Arnoux Trav” – by David Pitchford (231 words)
The plains of Torkas Nahl fell silent. Comfortably outside bowshot, a champion from each camp strode forward and cast a javelin in the ancient tradition. Parties from each army rode out to meet within the triangle bordered by the javelins.
“Terms!” Badru barked.
“Keinwhid offers life and liberty to all who concede,” said Primus Keinwhid.
“How kind,” Badru said dryly, his lips curling in contempt.
“Rajan Vace offers swifter death in his inestimable mercy,” offered the dark emperor. His eyes broiled with hatred, malice, and ambition enough to send a shiver through the whole group.
“Another magnanimous offer,” Badru said, this time in soft scorn.
“What terms offers the glorious and terrible Badru Ibn Abbas Ibn Sayyid Ibn Din?” Keinwhid bowed, his voice toned for calculated diplomacy.
“To Keinwhid,” Badru smiled and bowed in the manner of his people. “I offer one fresh horse from my own stable and leave to retire to his own kingdom—having remunerated the lands and people of Din Aashra.
“To Vace,” his eyes flashed menace. “Withdrawal in full and I shall require only a trifle to repay abuses to my peoples – the life of Rajan Vace, Usurper of the Katchka!”
“We are agreed then,” Rajan drew his sword and saluted. The others returned his salute, and each moved to join his respective army and await what promised to be the monumental battle of the age.
from “DEEP IN THE LAND OF THE ICE AND SNOW: A Tale of Belgad of Dartague” – by Ty Johnston (229 words)
The wolves were too many. Belgad knew that as soon as he spotted the beasts. There were nearly a score of them, and the creatures were huge, nearly the size of a riding pony. What was worse, the wolves were quiet and had managed to surround him without his spying them sooner.
This was no ordinary pack. They had appeared from nowhere, and they had no qualms about scaling the side of a mountain for their human prey.
Belgad forced himself to climb higher, the bitter cold winds whipping at his long yellow hair. His fingers, the tips protruding from rags he had used to swaddle them, gripped the edge of another boulder and lifted him with the help of solid placement from his fur-lined boots.
On top of the rock, Belgad found a flat spot and sat, letting the cold air fill his tired lungs. His body needed rest after days of hiking dense forests and climbing steep hills, but he would not close his eyes; the wolves were drawing nearer, below and above. It would only be a matter of time before they would attack.
After what felt like hours to the big man wrapped in furs, one of the wolves, the largest, began to creep its way along a narrow path toward him.
Belgad watched the animal with anticipation, knowing soon he would be in battle.
from “Swords Drawn: A Tale of Heroic Promise” – by Jason M. Waltz (20 words)
Heroes are those who continue to do the ordinary in extraordinary times, and to do the extraordinary in ordinary times.
Copyright 2008 Jason M. Waltz. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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