Operation Omniscience

This article contains content for Geheimkrieg, Nevermet Press’ alternate World War II pulp setting. Our content is community driven so we want feedback from you. Please leave a comment here, write about it on your own blog, or contact the Lead Designer, Michael Brewer, if you would like to contribute directly.

Stuttgart, 01:15, 12Mar42

“Ich hab’s gefunden!” the soldier whispered to himself as he stuffed the fluorescently glowing canister into his satchel.

Wilmot Schröder hurried along and heaved himself up and over what used to be the outer wall of Stuttgart’s most infamous Nazi research lab. It was now just a blackened mass of crushed concrete and twisted metal.  The night air carried with it no sound, nor smell, nor scent of life.  Putting out of commission Das Schloss, as the facility had come to be known by the Allied Forces, was no small challenge to the Allies or the Merc Squads that had assaulted it. Finally, a well-timed bombing raid proved successful in destroying the stronghold.

Schröder felt his bag to ensure that the canister was still there. It was the final component to his Dr. Merken’s masterpiece.  He thanked the Almighty he hadn’t had to use his pistol this time and disappeared into the night.

Ulm, 06:53, 12Mar42

“Where in the hell is that bastard?  He should have been here well over an hour ago!”  Professor Merken tapped his reading glasses against the instrument-laden table as he cursed his Vaterland-loving assistant in English.  Tomorrow it would most likely be French.  Merken appreciated the Nazis’ sense of scientific exploration, but didn’t give a damn about Greater Germany, the 3rd Reich or anything outside of his current legacy-in-the-making…The Viewer.

The door burst open and an exhausted Wilmot Schröder stumbled in, collapsing on the floor.  “Was ist passiert??” Merken demanded to know what had happened, though did not wish to waste any time with the boy’s pathetic English.

The boy, no more than 17, coughed up bright red blood onto the floor.  Between spats of blood and bile, he mouthed the word “Amerikaner”.

“Did you bring the battery?  Die Batterie.  Hast du die Batterie mitgebracht?” Professor Merken watched as Schröder’s life fled from his broken body.  There was little chance that Americans had actually wasted a bullet on his assistant.  Most likely it was a hunting party, little more than a band of thieves lurking in the dark forest between the Grand Research Facility and the small, private lab Merken called home.  He dug through the torn backpack, hoping to hell the battery hadn’t gotten lost or stolen.

“Yes.”  Merken felt the warmth of the alien device as he withdrew it and tossed the grungy bag aside.  “All this trouble for such a small piece of space rock.”  The professor looked at the metallic object, briefly forgetting the urgency of the moment.  The loud bell of the antique Swiss clock in the corner striking 7:00 am snapped him out of the hypnotic sway the object had held over him.  “Scheiße.”

The door opened and in stepped a highly decorated Gruppenführer of the SS.  “Heil Hitler,” he began, stepping over the dead assistant’s body without so much as a courtesy glance.  This guy was a real son-of-a-bitch.

Merken let a quiet Heil Hitler escape his throat.  “Good morning, Herr Schultz.”

“Is it ready?”  Straight to business.

“Almost.  My aide there brought the final piece to this puzzle just a few minutes ago,” Professor Merken explained as he nodded his head in Schröder’s general direction.

“Finish the assembly so I can get the hell out of this shithole you call a lab.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the frustrated and pressured scientist.  If everything wasn’t aligned perfectly, the device wouldn’t work.  “It’ll only take me a few minutes, then I’ll make sure my theories are correct…which they are.” Merken let that last sentence trail off into silence.

“Will this thing really do what you say?  Will it really open a portal to another dimension or are you just full of shit?”  Schultz had mastered the English curse words early in his studies, as he found English the perfect language in which to degrade someone.

Quite irritated now, Merken ran through the instructions to the obtuse officer who couldn’t see past the tip of his patriotic nose.  “No, it doesn’t open a portal…sir.  The Viewer allows the operator to instantaneously observe events as they unfold in parallel universes.  It’s the most perfect piece of reconnaissance equipment ever imagined.”

Merken tightened the final bolt and stepped back to enjoy the beauty of his new masterpiece.  He then placed his forehead against the leather strap designed exactly for that purpose and flipped on the machine.

“Scheiss—!” he screamed before falling completely silent and motionless for several seconds.  The SS Officer hurried to the machine and grasped the scientist’s shoulder but was shocked violently by a buildup of electric charge around the man.

Merken regained use of his motor skills and awareness as he removed his head from the device.

“You’re as white as my grandfather’s hair.  What’s wrong?” asked Schultz.  “Does it work?”

Merken stumbled slowly backward toward his fallen comrade lying on the floor of the modest lab, oozing what little blood remained in him.  “Yes…in a manner of speaking,” began the distracted man.

“What did you see?” Schultz demanded.

“I saw…well, that…” Merken grabbed the assistant’s Luger and quickly pointed it at the officer’s head.  “I saw that this is the only way I’m getting out of here alive.  In those few seconds I observed 14 different universes.  This is the only way I’m getting out of here.  You could have had this device to monitor Allied troop movements, figure out how to end this stalemate, get rid of those fucking aliens…anything…but you were going to kill me.”

“That’s the way things are done, Merken.  You can kill me, but there are many more of us than there are of you.  I can find a hundred assholes on the street that can do your job.  Why do you think we made you work in this rubble heap of a lab?  You’re nothing.”

“Fuck you.” He squeezed, and the Luger made a small pop. Five grams of lead flew into the waiting head of the German officer.  The bullet ripped the man’s eye apart and turned the right half of his brain to mush before bursting through the back of his skull, letting gray matter and blood splash against the floor and wall of the tiny work space.  Merken dropped the gun and grabbed his invention, rushing headlong into the night.

Algeria, 15:44, 08May42

“Sir, something’s cresting the hill.”

“I see it.  Looks like some sort of machine.  Sergeant, take a squad and flank it from the south.  I’ll stay here and confront it head on.”

As Staff Sergeant Young rounded up bravo section, Captain Trent and his soldiers took position behind some trashed mud huts.  They watched as a mechanic exosuit smoothly made its way down the hill and towards the waiting ambush.  In the middle of the battlefield the suit stopped and remained motionless for a few seconds, then animated again as a crackling spark of blue light traveled quickly from the suit into the ground.

“What the hell was that?” asked Corporal Jeffries.

Captain Trent shook his head, “No idea.”

The exosuit bolted toward the waiting soldiers and let loose a flurry of rocket-propelled grenades to the south from the launcher attached to its left arm.  As the grenades landed, Captain Trent heard cries of agony over the radio.

“How the hell did he know they were there?” asked Jeffries as the squad relinquished their hiding places and leapt into the open, releasing a barrage of gunfire at the mechanical monster.  Whoever was operating the suit knew exactly where to run and when to duck.

“This isn’t working, sir,” cried a private seconds before a bullet found its way through his neck.

“My God.  It must be one of the Fox’s new super soldiers,” said Trent.  “It doesn’t have any Nazi markings, though.”  He dodged the gunfire and falling soldiers as he a bee-line for the radio operator, who had gotten separated from the officer at the onset of the battle.  Reaching for the radio, Trent switched frequencies and managed to utter one sentence before his life ended.

“Germans have super soldier able to see the future…

A Brief Introduction to Geheimkrieg

This article contains content for Geheimkrieg, Nevermet Press’ alternate World War II pulp setting. Our content is community driven so we want feedback from you. Please leave a comment here, write about it on your own blog, or contact the Lead Designer, Michael Brewer, if you would like to contribute directly.

Edited by Cassey Toi

“Jesus Christ! What kind of sick fuck did that?” I spit the words past teeth clenched on one end of the tourniquet I’m applying to my shredded left arm. My forearm looked like hamburger and my blood was flowing freely. It would heal soon enough on its own, but I still wasn’t used to my new regenerative abilities.

Tying off the compression wrap, I kneel down to inspect the carcass of the hideous creature that had caused my injury. “Lieutenant, this is definitely the work of Fremder,” Zora informed me. Zora Skerrit was a biologist attached to my unit by the OSS. Her Slavic accent was more pronounced when she was frightened. “The mutations resemble similar specimens found in a laboratory in Argentina we believe he was operating. It also shares traits with the Parisian Marauders.”

Parisian Marauder MKII by Rob Torno

The creature was once human, or rather, several humans. It had been hanging from the ceiling in the passageway of the underground bunker we were searching, when it surprised us and pounced on me. It was disgusting. It scampered around on six arms… where six hands used to have fingers and thumbs, there were four razor sharp talons.

The arms were elongated, with an extra segment, effectively giving each arm two elbows. These arms protruded from three torsos conjoined at the waist, almost as if their flesh has been kneaded together like clay. The creature had obviously been formed out of two men and one woman. The mutant has no legs, but the other end of each torso terminates with a head in which resides a giant, impossibly large, needle-toothed maw. Each head sits atop a long rubbery neck.

One of those maws had minced my left forearm before my team had been able to react. It had continued to chew on my arm even after Sergeant Burgess had lit the other two heads on fire with his pyrokinetic blasts. I had to resort to my trusty sidearm to spray the mutant’s grey matter on the wall. Burgess’ fire did nothing to improve the smell of the beast either.

“Nazi bastards must have realized they were wasting a precious commodity by killing Jews and instead decided to turn them into beasts of war,” Private Jasinski, our scout, muttered as he turned over an arm with several digits tattooed along the forearm.

“We’re burnin’ daylight kids,” said Burgess. “Let’s get the shit we came for so we can get the hell out of here.”

I looked down at my arm, the wounds had already closed. I untied the tourniquet and used it to mop up the blood which was the only trace that an injury had ever occurred. I threw the blood soaked compression wrap onto the floor beside the mutant and nodded my head in agreement with Burgess, “You’re right, Sergeant. Men, check your weapons then move out. Continue down the corridor, don’t bunch up. Maintain a five yard distance with the man in front of you.”

Jasinski turned to me and said, “You know sir, you shouldn’t waste our medical supplies, some of us don’t recover from injuries as well as you do.”

I looked up at Jasinski, “I tend to forget I’m so resilient when my arm’s being chewed on by a mutant monster. Jasinski, I want you to take point.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jasinski responded as his form faded from sight. I couldn’t even hear the footfalls of combat boots as he moved ahead of the unit to keep anymore mutant nasties from surprising us. Privates Marcone and Campbell ensured their Thompsons were good to go before stepping off down the corridor at a brisk, but cautious pace. Zora and I followed while Burgess brought up the rear.

It’s early September, 1945, though I can’t quite remember the exact date; the days all run together after a while. We’ve been tracking and eliminating German insurgents that had been wreaking havoc behind the Paris front-lines for the past month. The local units had dubbed them the Parisian Marauders. Only these insurgents were not your average krauts; they were mutant terrors very similar to the beast we just put down. Except the ones tearing apart GIs in Paris were still single monstrosities instead of the macabre amalgamation we just encountered.

My squad is a special team of commandos assembled by the O.S.S., the Office of Strategic Services. Each of us had a unique gift that set us apart from regulars, even other highly trained commandos. Though people like us were becoming popularized on radio programs, newspapers, and even on the silver screen, I suspect people possessing powers beyond the capabilities of average humans have always existed. It sort of lends new credence to Greek myths like Hercules or even more recent legends and folktales like John Henry. Only, modern marvels like the television are making the world a smaller place along with radio and telephones. So information travels faster and is becoming easier to validate.

The governments of the world mostly ignored Extraordinaries, the label the papers have officially pinned on them, or treated them as threats. Them. I guess I mean us. Well, at least until the Great War. That’s when they began instituting programs to recruit them for use in clandestine missions. But they found it difficult to command what amounted to a bunch of hot shots with powers beyond the government’s limited imagination. So they turned to programs to develop Extraordinaries in-house, so to speak. Most of those programs failed too; Jasinski being one of a handful of recent successes from some project called Wraith. The rest of us were born Extraordinary or, like myself, gained that status through mishap.

I see Pvt. Jasinski’s form waver as if looking at a mirage as he and his equipment turns invisible so he can scout ahead of the squad. Hopefully we can secure this bunker without anymore surprises and shut down Fremder and his vile operation before anyone else falls victim to his experiments. I hear our boys in white lab coats back stateside are real close to finishing some super weapon to end this war; it could not end soon enough.

---

The D-Day invasion of Normandy by the Allies was not as successful as they had hoped. They had surprised the Germans, but Hitler’s war machine quickly recovered. The Allies were able to strike into Paris before the Wehrmacht was able to counter attack. The city is currently under the control of the Allies, but has switched hands twice since Operation Overlord. The war effort has devoured the resources of both the Allies and Axis in Europe which has resulted in what amounts to be a stalemate in the European theater. Hot spots still flare up along the front lines as the Axis and Allied powers test defenses, new tactics, and technologies.

America is still fighting a war of attrition in the Pacific and the atomic weapons that could end it have yet to be deployed. The Manhattan Project, which was tasked with creating the first functioning atomic bombs, has suffered several major setbacks from Axis agents who sabotaged their plutonium enrichment program. The African theater was secured as planned, but the Germans are using guerrilla warfare tactics against the occupying Allies in Egypt and proving difficult to root out.

The Soviets were routed during the German offensive of Operation Barbarossa. The winter was not as harsh as normal, and there are some intelligence reports that indicate some sort of Italian weather device guaranteed the Axis victory against the unprepared Red Army. The remnants of the Soviet military withdrew into the harsh expanse of Siberia after the destruction of Moscow, but have recently made contact with Allies and are planning a massive counter offensive against the Eastern Front of the Third Reich.

But this war is far from conventional.

As the second World War trudges on, both the Allied and Axis powers begin to look for alternative resources to secure the final victory. Thus the Secret War, the Geheimkrieg has begun. UFOs have begun supplementing the Luftwaffe over Parisian skies. Dead soldiers are rising to eat their comrades. Strange electrical storms roll out from Siberia. Extraordinary people begin to make their presence known and are answering the call to arms. Become a part of Geheimkrieg and stop the Nazis and their evil agenda.

Interview with Felix Sundown (Part 2)

Edited by Cassey Toi

Hello again!

Finally, we  have time to sit down and discuss Loaerth & Feywyrd again. What a pleasure! I’m glad to see you again, and this time around lets chat some more about the Fey. Some of you had some questions, and hopefully we’ll get them answered.

Who are the Fey you ask? Well, for one, feytrolls aren’t all of them. There is fey blood running through the veins of creatures other than my own kind. Our brothers and sisters in magic, whose very flesh is made or tainted with the stuff of the Feywyrd, include elves, hodolu faerys, giants, myrmidons and many others which I have not even had the chance to meet.

Some, like the elves, were in the World since the dawning of history, they are not true natives of the World. Looking back eons, myth speaks of the elves fleeing from another world into our own. They fled, as an entire race, from things so dark and unspeakable that the names were eventually either lost or stricken from their history. They stayed and made a home here. It’s also thought that the elves brought my people, the feytrolls, with them as servants, watchers, and scholars. And, they brought with them Magic.

The humans at the time were probably living as tribal nomads, or in rudimentary villages when Magic was first taught to them. The World’s primitive dwarf and troll peoples are believed to have been unable to learn its secrets or refused it at the outset. Nonetheless, the humans learned about magic from these elven newcomers and, within a few generations, boasted formidable sorcerers and ritualists in their own right. Eventually, the dwarves and trollkind also fostered traditions of Magic that were unique to each of their racial heritages.

In time, the elves prospered and eventually became the dominant race of the world. They eventually built vast civilizations on the backs of trolls and dwarves. Humans, for the most part, escaped this fate and were able to live in relative peace with their elven counterparts. But only the men and women of Loaerth managed to carve out an independent existence. These people, and perhaps a few more in other pockets of the World, escaped subjugation at the hands of the elves through careful negotiation and strong military might.

What is Loaerth? Just look out the window! Loaerth is a coastal city state that sits on the edge of the Degra Sea. Loaerth has a long, and deep rooted, history of independence. It’s a city of merchants and scholars, soldiers and sailors, artists and thieves. Loaerth is a flickering light, struggling to stay lit even as the winds of change try to blow it out. It is and has been the center of the world for five centuries, ever since the Helfay left the world a vacant place. All the non-Fey, the races of Man, have grown to call Loaerth home. They have also ventured far out into the wild to explore the empty frontier – empty because there are whole cities that were suddenly devoid of anyone living there after the Helfay.

What are the people of Loaerth like? Considering you are no doubt new here, I’ll take a bit more care in answering that. Well, for one, the humans of Loaerth for the most part keep to traditional, plain dress. All too often you will see a man or woman dressed decidedly boorishly, only to be sporting the latest clockwork or coal-work gizmo, bauble, or trinket. “The more it whirls, the more it twirls.” they say. I’m still not sure what in the gods name that means, but you’ll hear them say it all the time

The dwarves of Loaerth are staunchy folk. Quick to anger, but dependable. Clever too. Most of the new gizmos and “wonders of the world” that have been made in the last century or so were invented by dwarven machinists. As you would expect, most dwarves love to drink ale and eat hearty meals that would send many a grown man to a physician. The interesting thing about dwarves is the way they live. Their homes are dense, I mean 10 to 20 families to a house. They prefer these deep basements where they all lay about in tight quarters. I’ve heard them say it makes them feel “safe” while they sleep. Baths? Forget about it. They do take dust baths in the summer, but I have yet to see a dwarf with a bar of soap. Not that they are averse to water, but soap for some reason is taboo.

The trolls of Loaerth are few and far between. Most trollkind moved out of the city a century or so ago after a great fire burned the Troll Ghetto to the ground. They have a few scattered communities , so I’ve heard, hidden away in valleys rarely traveled by city folk. They are more commonly seen along the frontier. Trolls are a quiet, thoughtful folk. Slow to anger and gentle with their hands, even for their great size. You will often see trolls in the employ of merchants looking to travel, or in the company of explorers venturing out to the frontier in the hopes of finding lost riches. Trolls, unlike dwarves, have a unique language that has never gone out of use. It is said that they do not write down their own history, but that it is part of their language so by using trollspeak, “Gua’Fig Na”, they are keeping their history alive as well.

There’s so much more to tell. I’m just at a lost on where to start or to continue from. What else would you like to know? Please ask me anything! Leave a comment after this interview is done, or send me question via tweeting birds.

Until next time, I’ll leave you with a common nighttime blessing for children:

“May the gods wrap me in copper and coal.
Protect me from harm, and heat my soul.
May my dreams spark the light keeps hodolu away,
and may I wake with my heart free from the Fey”
– Blessing For a Child’s Night

Interview with Felix Sundown (Part 1)

I am not really sure why I have agreed to do this interview. Perhaps I’m worried that, once I do eventually die, there will not otherwise be anyone else to tell my story. Or, perhaps its because, given the recent discovery of the Feywyrd, I am now finally able to speak about things that I’ve been forced to be quiet about for over four hundred years. Whatever the reason, consider yourself fortunate to be the one to hear it first, before things get twisted by history’s lens. There is so much to tell though, I guess I might as well get started at the beginning. You asked me to introduce myself? Fair enough.

My name is Felix Sundown. In a children’s book, I might be called a gnome or perhaps a troll, but these terms are in truth derogatory names that have replaced the proper name for my kind: Fey. I have lived for more than six hundred years, with the last four centuries confined within the walls of Loaerth, the city of my captor and once teacher, The Archivist. Recently, I finally managed to escape the cursed bonds that have kept me silent for so long. How? I can only guess, but I suspect that it is because someone else discovered the fate of the Feywyrd, and thus unwittingly released me from my bonds. Allow me to explain…

When I first arrived in Loaerth the world was a place full of colorful and fantastical creatures of all sorts. Mythic demihumans, fey beasts and strange magic were commonplace. It was a world of abundance and diversity, where imagination was the only limit on possibility. I was a student of this magic, a Steward of Aram Court in fact. I had come to Loaerth to further my training under the tutelage of the Archivist Eurig Talfrun. He accepted me as his last student and bonded me into service. The bond was one from the Old Ways, a curse really. At the time I felt it was worth the sacrifice: a little of my freedom to be the sole pupil of one of the most influential archivists in all the realms. Little did I know of Talfrun’s ambitions, and it took decades before I eventually regarded my bond to him as a curse.

You may have heard a story of something the Helfay that happened an eon ago. It is often used as the reason humankind can lay claim to all the world and why Loaerth can expand the boundaries of its empire unopposed. But the Helfay is not a myth – it happened. The whole world was as I described it: a fantastical place full of strange and magical things. Then, in an instant, poof! On one mid-winter night all the world’s strange and mythical creatures, the Feywyrd as they were called, vanished in a silent icy moment. From wizards and students sleeping in Aram Court, to dwarves deep in Forgeholme. From dragons sailing on the winds of the Faertwins, to myrmidons a thousand leagues under the Degra Sea. Their lights just went out as they vanished like fireflies in the twilight. Whole kingdoms vanished in fact. I expect all the world’s Feywyrd vanished, save for one: me. You see, the Helfay was not an act of the gods, but an act of greed and hubris by a man, my master Eurig. It was the result of an ancient ritual he believed would return the Feywyrd the world he believed they came from. But he failed, and the failure carried with it the instant annihilation of not just the Feywyrd, but every other creature beyond the horizons of Loaerth.

Since I unknowingly participated in this ritual, I was fortunately protected by it, and soon found myself to be the last of the Fey. Eurig also allowed me to live on as his assistant and pupil. I was now a curiosity to him. He was the last of the Archivists, the only remaining practitioner of the Old Ways, and having the last of the Fey as his personal thrall was too great a prize to ignore. He bonded me to him again, only this time his bond would last until the Feywyrd returned, something he believed would never happen.

It was no coincidence that, after the Helfay, the people of Loaerth soon discovered the King and the royal family had vanished as well. They soon appointed Eurig Talfrun as Regent of Loaerth, and in time he became the leader of the world’s only remaining civilization: the Empire of Loaerth.

What else would you like to know?

The Binding of Mnemysyx

Written by Paul King

The demon’s iron grip closed around the halfling, crushing his lungs and stifling his scream of agony. Turning to face the remaining invaders of its profane temple, it tossed the tiny, limp form over its shoulder where it landed beside the charred remains of one comrade and betwixt the sundered limbs of another.

Now only two remained – a wizard and a warrior. A wicked grin full of sharp teeth split a face that might have been disturbingly handsome, had it not been covered in gore. A voice as smooth as silk and sweet as honey drifted forth as it took a step forward.

“Poor insects, you’ve rushed headlong to your deaths. But it need not be so. Bow to me, and be spared; worship me, and be filled with power beyond comprehension.”

“Never trust a demon!” Brogan spat and raised his enchanted sword before him. While the sword was capable of wounding the demon, it could not kill him. Behind him, the wizard Zuric worked feverishly to complete the ritual that would finally banish the demon back to the foul pit from which it had crawled and free the kingdom from the corrupting influence it had spread and drawn power from.

“How much longer, wizard?” The warrior called over his shoulder. He feinted to the right and suddenly reversed direction. As the demon raked the empty air where his head was a split-second before, he drew from it an inhuman scream of pain and anger along with the slash he landed on its left side. A kick from the demon sent him flying backwards, nearly taking out the wizard and ruining the ritual on which they had placed any hope of victory. The warrior crashed into a stone pillar, stars exploding across his field of vision as his head struck the hard granite.

“Fool!” The demon stopped and looked down at the gash, one that would have killed a mortal man. It was already beginning to mend. “You cannot deny the inevitable. I have ruled the infernal realms and now I will rule this world!”

Brogan crawled to the sword he had dropped and staggered to his weary feet, dizzy and sore. He managed to shake off enough of the daze he was in to see that the demon had now taken an interest in Zauric, kneeling directly between them and chanting from the mysterious scroll he had picked up during their investigation of the demon and his growing influence. The sounds his friend were making were gibberish to his admittedly uneducated ears, but seemed to alarm the demon, now that the din of battle had lessened and he could hear them.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!?” it roared and started to lean into a charge against the defenseless wizard. Brogan, his world still spinning, managed to get a couple of steps in before launching himself at the rushing demon. The armor he wore gave him just enough weight and momentum to carry his much larger, heavier opponent wide of his target. They tumbled to the bloodstained floor, a tangle of limbs and talons. Finally getting his bearings, Brogan was horrified to discover that the demon had ended up on top of him. He struggled to bring his weapon up, only to have his sword arm pinned under a large bony knee. The demon, leering evilly, wrapped his hands around the warrior’s helmet and ignited them. The hardened warrior started to scream as the metal heated.

The demon’s leer suddenly turned to a look of shock. The fire left its hands as it began to seize violently. His helmet still trapped in the demon’s unholy clutches, Brogan managed to squirm out of it and out from under the rigid, twitching form of his foe. Tendrils of brilliant white light lanced into the body of the demon from a crystal held by the unflappable Zauric.

“Now, while the demon is bound – strike!”

Brogan raised his sword over his head, “Back to fires of hell, monster.”

To his shock, the demon managed a tiny agonized smile, the smallest of movements a struggle. “Ignorant fools,” it spat. The sword descended, splitting the demon’s horned skull right down the middle. A high keening wail echoed in the chamber. The crystal held by the wizard flared once and exploded, knocking the two heroes off their feet. They were dimly aware of a rushing wind and the odor of brimstone and burning flesh which lasted but a moment. By the time they were upright and oriented, it was over.

There, like a statue out of some twisted sculptor’s nightmare, knelt the grey, lifeless form of the demon, still clutching Brogan’s scorched helmet, his sword embedded in its skull. As they watched, the figure began to break and collapse in on itself. Soon it was nothing more than a pile of ashes.

Brogan retried his sword and helmet and made his way to a pile of rubble, setting himself down on one of the larger pieces.

“Blasted demons,” he spat. “Be sure and thank whoever it is gave that spell, ‘Ric”

Zauric surveyed the scene as one who had just woken up from a dream, his face scratched and bleeding in several places where fragments of the exploding crystal had struck him, “I’m not eager to see them again, or ever.”

Brogan, having taken a scrap of clothing from one of the cultists who had come between his party and the demon, began to clean his sword. “Why? Was it stolen?”

“Not stolen. The individual who provided the ritual was a former acquaintance of our vanquished foe.”

The warrior looked up, “You mean a cultist? Or . . . ?”

Zauric turned to his remaining companion. “It was a demon, Brogan. To kill a demon, I summoned a demon.”

“Oh ‘Ric, you can’t trust those things! It might have just as easily given you a spell to open up an infernal portal or some such!”

The wizard shook his head, “No, you see, Mnemysyx was banished here by his own kind. Once upon a time, he tried to conquer the infernal realms – nearly succeeded, too. The other demon lords banded together and overthrew him. No, he has few – if any – friends back home. Besides, from what I studied of the ritual, there were clearly binding elements to it. You don’t use those for portals. Shame about the crystal, though. I would have liked to keep it.”

Brogan shook the soot from his helmet and inspected it. He placed it on his head. It was still warm – which unnerved him a little, after nearly having his brain boiled inside it – but undamaged, aside from a few minor scorch marks. He exhaled. Having purchased his armor as a matching set after their last adventure, he was loathe to replace even a single part of it. As he looked around the room, he realized that he could see into even the deepest shadows – and there were many shadows in the foul temple – as if the sun was falling directly upon them.

“Hey Zauric, I think that spell enchanted my helmet! I can see in the shadows!”

“A fortuitous side-effect of the ritual. Some of the demon’s abilities may have been transferred into the items it was in contact with. Such effects often dissipate over time, however, so don’t get too attached.” Zauric walked over to the remains of their companions and sighed. “Tiff just needs a visit to the temple; Kent and Jaquio, on the other hand, will need some more work. Let’s load them up and get our reward.”

A sudden shove and a burning sensation began to spread through the wizard’s body. He looked down to see the tip of an enchanted sword sticking out of his chest.

“I think not,” the voice of his longtime friend, smooth as silk and sweet as honey, whispered in his ear, “you see, there was only one survivor of the epic battle with mighty Mnemesyx – and it isn’t you. Sadly, the rest of the party was beyond saving.”

Zauric managed to stagger around to face his betrayer. “H-how?”

The warrior sneered, “Ignorant wizard, those accursed weaklings went to such great effort to kick me out, what made you think they’d help send me back?”

Brogan withdrew the sword from the wizard and wiped it clean on his robes before turning to walk away. As he sank to the floor to join the bodies of his friends, the last thing Zauric heard was, “Never trust a demon.”

Changing Directives

Written by Matt Cicci

Sentinel Five hunkered low, remaining hidden from the view of the men surrounding the campsite. This act of stealth was an impressive feat considering the figure’s tall, metal frame. Unmoving and unbreathing, Sentinel Five had sat still behind a thick bush of gooseberries for approximately three hours. The only evidence of the steel warrior’s presence was a faint whirring noise, the sound of the crimson-tinted lenses that served as eyes readjusting to the dimming light of evening. Through the ever-focusing gaze, he, the sentinel had only recently adopted the pronoun, had spent silent hours studying a quintet of dwarves carouse around a roaring flame.

Seeing the sturdy folk, axes and hammers at their sides and a bottle of whiskey being passed around, reminded Sentinel Five of his father, Rendersson Forgegrinder. Though Rendersson rarely drank in the fashion these dwarves were, the mere physical qualities, the stoutness, the beards, the deep voices all reeked of his creator. For a scant moment, Sentinel Five envisioned Rendersson, wrench clutched in hand, oil smearing his stone-hued skin. He knew his father had fled his own kind, but was also aware of the fleshed races capacity for emotion and sympathy . . . would Rendersson be capable of killing members of his own race?

The question quickly left Sentinel Five’s mind. It was a thought of purely inconsequential matter. Even if his father could not, he had constructed his children with the capability to do so. He watched one of the dwarves fall backwards clutching his sides in laughter, and realized now was the time to put that capability into action.

Sentinel Five strode through the sparse woods, his heavy frame carefully snaking through branch and brush. His objective became clearer with each measured footstep; these dwarves had mentioned the Hidden Vale, therefore they must be eliminated. A blade sprung from his right arm, ushered in by the sound of grating metal.

He was five paces from entering the ring of campfire light, four paces, three paces . . .

A quick blur of motion sent Sentinel Five ducking forward and down; he heard the thrown hammer thud solidly against a nearby tree. He was not surprised by the suddenness of the dwarves’ perception and action, he knew from previous encounters, and from the military history books he had read, that the stout race valued combat prowess. Still, Sentinel Five allowed himself a split-second of hollow disappointment before sprinting towards the dwarven encampment.

Sentinel Five broke into the orange light of the campfire only to see dwarves with brandished weapons and eyes already clear of the night’s drunken glaze. They shouted tactical commands in their thick, consonant-heavy tongue. Sentinel Five spoke the language fluently; however, he refused to register the dwarves’ baritone chatter, his thoughts instead focusing on his own strategy.

He sprinted towards his most visible foe — a young dwarf with a wild blond beard — with his sword arm held high and leading the way. His blade came down in a heavy cleave, but rang hard off the hilt of the dwarf’s battle axe. Sentinel Five was prepared for this, his automated reflexes were already responding as his brain whirred through myriad maneuvers and strategies. His foot was kicking out before the dwarven warrior even had a chance to smile at his defensive success. Sentinel’s steel heel landed solidly in the chest of the axe-bearer causing him to roll backwards with a pained exhalation of breath.

“By the forge! He’s made of metal,” one of the other dwarves remarked.

Sentinel Five did not offer a verbal reply, but did spin towards the speaker.

The dwarf, a pot-bellied old warrior, was flanked by two of his brethren, one who spat out a thick wad of tobacco through gold-plated teeth. “I guess that just means, we’ll get to melt down your bones when were done, eh?” He nodded slightly to his compatriots , who began to fan out in a tactical approach Sentinel Five realized was designed to cut off any angle of retreat.

Sentinel Five realized their tactics were in error immediately; retreat was not an option for him.

The metal soldier charged towards the fat dwarf, an action that forced the flanking dwarves hands and pulled them towards him with the hopes of collapsing his flank. Seeing their thick hammers rising for a synchronized strike, Sentinel Five swept his sword-arm low and horizontally across his path. The sword swipe was so sudden, yet so strong and fluid, the dwarven warriors immediately dropped the heads of their hammers to block the vicious cut. The moment the dwarf to Sentinel’s left lowered his hammer, the steel soldier raised his free hand level with his foe’s face. A spring-loaded dagger jumped from his wrist and sank into the dwarf’s skull.

A gout of blood sprayed upwards and out, barely preceding an inhuman and high-pitched wail of pain. The dwarf fell backwards clutching at the dagger buried hilt-deep in his eye socket; his movements, spasmodic and weak, were quickly recognized by the arrayed combatants as death throes.

To their credit, and as Sentinel Five had predicted, the dying dwarf’s companions pressed on, their faces etched with a clearer hatred and a battle-hardened determination. The pot-bellied dwarf raised his shield and barreled forward; despite his girth, he moved quickly and efficiently, leaving the metal warrior no hopes of avoiding the rush.

With a resounding crack and the splintering of wood, Sentinel Five was driven backwards by the heavy dwarf’s pumping legs and great weight. It was all he could do to maintain his balance as the dwarf continued to press. Still from the corner of his eye, he noticed the blond dwarf he’d kicked earlier standing up and preparing to rejoin the battle.

The remaining dwarf, the older, craggly faced man with gold plated teeth, followed in after the shieldbearer. He brought his hammer downwards with an overhand swing. The crushing chop came up short as a series of swift jabbing parries from the harried steel warrior kept the blow at bay; the gold-toothed dwarf cursed loudly and spat a dark stain of juice on the sentinel’s metal exterior.

Sentinel Five was acutely aware of the battle’s rising threat. While it was true one dwarf lay dying, another was returning to the fray, one was pinning him backwards with heavy wooden shield, and the other was taking advantage of that distraction. Assessing the threats and running impossibly quick strategies through his mind, Sentinel Five formulated the most efficient plan to ending the menace.

He bent his knees and leaned forward in an impressive display of strength that stopped the pushing dwarf stone cold. Following through on his sudden use of applied force, Sentinel Five drove his free hand forward in a fist. The steel gauntlet crashed through the shield and connected with bone-breaking force into the dwarf’s jaw. Accepting inevitable retaliation from the gold-toothed dwarf, he swung his sword-arm from its defensive riposte into a cutting arc that cleanly severed the now shieldless dwarf’s head from its shoulders.

Before his latest victim’s head had even touched the earth, Sentinel Five was driven to his knees by a wicked hammer swing that rang into his back with enough force to break stone. Unable to twist himself into a guard, Sentinel Five braced for another impact, one that came as the gold-toothed dwarf dropped the hilt of his hammer into the sentinel’s metal face.

Sentinel Five’s vision splintered into plethora of fractured images; one of his lenses had been cracked from the heavy handed smash that had also sent him spinning to the ground. Above him, Sentinel Five saw a number of gold-toothed images standing with a thunder cloud of hammers waiting to rain downwards.

“Gods-be-damned machine. If ye have a soul, may it burn in hell!” The dwarf brought his hammer down in an arc on course to crush the sentinel’s face.

With clockwork precision and speed, Sentinel Five shut off the damaged eye, bringing his hammer-swinging enemy into sudden, crystalline view. He shot his sword-arm up and inside the arc of the dwarf’s swing; the blade cut tendon and muscle. The vicious wound stole the strength of the hammer swing and the head of the weapon bounced off Sentinel Five’s skin with only a faint force and a dull, weak thud.

He kicked out, sending the dwarf backwards and down. Instead of rising to his feet, Sentinel Five rotated his head around and backwards. The sentinel’s awkward, inhuman motion gave the blond dwarf who’d been sneaking in from that angle pause. Sentinel Five took advantage by raising his free arm and letting fly the remaining four daggers loaded there. Sentinel Five had risen and turned back towards the campfire before the dwarf even fell.

“By all the fires that light the forges of the Great Hall, that was impressive.”

Sentinel Five realized the voice belonged to the fifth dwarf, the one who’d remained out of the fight. He turned towards the figure who stood on the other side of the fire from him. The dwarf was skinnier than most, with a long single-braided, red beard that swept the earth with its length. He was also unarmored and unarmed, wearing little more than a brown cloak and travel-worn breeches. Sentinel Five began formulating plans to deal with spellcasters.

“You must be the one sent out from the Hidden Vale.” The skinny dwarf ran a hand backwards through his scraggly red hair. “How long have you been . . .”

Sentinel Five jumped forward, clearing the fifteen feet and the fire in a single bound. His great weight came crashing down on the dwarf, his sword-arm twisting free to deliver a killing blow. Instead, surprisingly as he landed a sudden jolt of electricity welled up from his felled foe and blasted him upwards and back. He landed hard, his arms and legs twitching.

Sentinel Five lay motionless for what he realized to be a dangerously long few seconds. Only the whimpering of the gold-toothed dwarf with the wounded arm, and the heavy, pained breathing of the spellcaster alleviated his concerns. The dwarves seemed to be in equally bad shape and unable to capitalize on his sudden lack of mobility.

Sentinel Five’s one functioning eye focused on the swirl of stars lighting the sky above the forest’s sparse canopy, and wondered if, as fleshed races sometimes believed, his father was looking down on him from above. If he failed to gain his feet first and was killed, would his father be disappointed in his failings? When his father died, would he join Sentinel Five in some form of afterlife? Was afterlife even an option? Did it even exist?

Sentinel Five realized that these were inconsequential thoughts; he felt his legs regain movement while the sounds of incapacitation still emanated from his foes. He stood and raised his blade; the spellcaster was the main threat. He strode forward with steps still uneven from the electrical blast and poised his sword for a quick kill.

The dwarf lay there watching the sentinel approach with a slight smile on his face. He lifted his arm. Where flesh should have been, a thin steel skeleton, full of the same bolts and connectors as the sentinel’s arm, existed. “Sentinel Five, I presume? I’m Vanfried Forgegrinder, son of Rendersson.”

Sentinel Five paused, sword still held high and deadly. The firelight danced and flickered along its edge impatiently, as if unable to stand still with blood so close at hand. “You are my father’s son?”

Vanfried chuckled. “Your father? I suppose so; it seems as if we are brothers.” Vanfried propped himself up on his automated arm. “Regardless of relations, Five, we need to get back to the vale.”

Changing Directives by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

Jango: Dead Master Living

Written by  Jonathan Jacobs
Illustrated by Matt Lichtenwalner

“What is this?”

Jango sat up in the dark with a start.

The dead silence, the acrid smell of mildew, the moisture on the back of his neck: all his senses told him he was not in his sleeping chamber.

He gently turned his legs and placed his bare feet on the floor. It was cold and unfamiliar.

It was at this moment that he felt a small trailing line of moisture running down the side of his face. Unable to see, he touched the bead with his finger and tasted it.

“Blood.”

The realization sent a sudden, and unexpected, surge of fear through him.

“How is this possi…” His whisper was cut short by the loud grinding of stone on stone as a door opened some ten paces from where he sat. Bright light streamed in, momentarily blinding him. Standing in the archway stood three figures wrapped in cloth and covered by heavy red cloaks.

“The Red Monks.”

“Did you sleep well?” one of the asked. “We weren’t certain if you were still alive when we brought you here.” said another. Then a third voice followed, “Welcome, Master Jango, to the hidden kingdom. You are likely somewhat disoriented, but I assure you that, without our help, you would have been dead by the morning.”

He was still confused. All the expected questions followed, “What am I doing here? Where is my wife?”

“I am Brother Ptolemy, and these are my attendants. We are here to help you.” Ptolemy stepped into the stone chamber and set the lantern onto the floor. “You were assaulted by brigands shortly after you left town. Don’t you remember?”

“No. All I remember was sitting in the carraige with my wife. We came to a stop and there was some sort of commotion outside. It was dark, so I stepped out and was struck down by a crushing blow to my head. That is the last thing I recall. Where is my wife?” His voice was telling: he was afraid. Fear was not something he was accustomed to.

“Your wife is safe with us. How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling? I’m exhausted. I’ve been sleeping in a what looks like a sepulcher for Gods know how long. How do you think I feel?” His fear was slowly turning to anger. These monks obviously had no idea who Jango was. “I would like to leave this chamber and see my wife immediately. Please stand aside and have one your attendants lead me to her.”

“That won’t be possible at the moment. She is still in repose. You may see her once she awakes. If you wake her now, she may never fully recover.” Ptolemy turned to leave. “You may rest here for a time while you get accustomed to your new body.”

“My what?”

“Your new body. As I said, you would have died without our help. Some local townsfolk happened upon your carriage and brought you to our monastery. You had suffered multiple stab wounds to your face, neck and arms. It’s amazing you lasted as long as you did, but in the end we were unable to stop your wounds from bleeding. So, more drastic measures were taken.” Ptolemy dropped his hands and reached inside his cloak. There was something there he grasped with intention; a wand perhaps?

Ptolemy stood like a statue, his even gaze trying to read Jango’s face. It was like stone. Jango knew that Ptolemy’s account was a lie. Why was he bleeding?

“We preformed The Embalming Ritual on both you and your wife.” added one of the attendants. “Your flesh proved difficult for the dweomer to take to, but eventually we succeeded.”

Master Jango Turpis had heard the rumors. The Red Monks, as the people had named them, were shepherds of the poor and the weak. They were a charitable group in a time of extreme destitution. Most of the people held them in very high regard. Some, however, believed they were also a cult who held the secrete of eternal life, and that those who joined them were transformed into the living dead. Fables? Not likely. Jango could smell the living from a hundred paces, but now something was not right. The only living flesh he could smell was his own.

Jango’s gaze met that of Ptolemy’s for the first time. Their eyes locked into a silent exchange of strength, a contest of dominance. There was something odd about the silver gleam in Jango’s stare, and it didn’t take Ptolemy long to realize his mistake.

“Yes Ptolemy. I was not bleeding to death, was I? For how would that have been possible for someone who was already dead? Do you have an explanation for that?” There was a brief moment of silence while Brother Ptolemy’s grave stare belied a slight twinge of surprise. “Once I have recovered my strength, I will have my revenge!” Jango leap to his feet and shut his eyes, concentrating. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and with an electric snap, he vanished. A trace of ash plumed from where he stood only a moment before.

“Brother, what has happened?”

Ptolemy answered, “It seems we have made an important, accidental discovery. The Embalming Ritual seems to make the flesh of the dead living again.” He also now knew why Jango Turpis had never been in public: he was a vampire. “What an unexpected turn of events! Find him, we must know how the ritual has changed him.”

“Yes Brother, I will see to it personally.”

Jango: Dead Master Living by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

A Day with Mr. Ambrose

Written by Stephen Dewey
Illustrated by Kenya Ferrand

The overstuffed leather office chair protested loudly on its wheels beneath Laok’s weight. In their natural form, imps were rather light creatures – most being under three feet tall and composed primarily of hot gas and loosely concentrated nightmares – but it was no secret that Laok was immoderately obsessed with his “bargaining form,” Mr. Ambrose.

“Besides,” Laok had argued on several occasions, “to sit in a chair properly, one must shed unnecessary shoulder baggage. Wings make the entire experience of relaxing substantially more difficult.”

Therefore, Mr. Ambrose was the form Laok favoured more often then not, insofar as comfort was concerned, and the same form whose weight the chair now protested against.

It wasn’t a bad form, all things considered, despite the distinct lack of a tail which made general balancing – not to mention hanging from rafters – a new experience entirely. Just under six feet tall, Mr. Ambrose appeared all in all as a very well-put-together sort of chap. A tailored suit, charcoal coloured of course, with black dress shoes that reflected the light of fire quite exquisitely. A crimson undershirt, and a tie – cross knotted – that seemed the colour of orphan tears. He had a thin sort of build, looking not unlike both a nimble human and a rather large viper all at once. His face was sharply angled, adorned only by a soul patch beneath his lower lip – both for the classic appeal and the sheer irony of it. His hair was black and slicked back, making the two dark red horns emerging from his forehead even more pronounced.

Mr. Ambrose rubbed his temples as his eyes darted back and forth, looking carefully over the sheaves of parchment that covered the broad rosewood desk.

A gentle rapping noise on his door shook the imp from his concentration.

“Enter,” the devil called, making use of the rich human accent the altered form provided him.

Brymstor was quite gangly for an imp, which by imp standards is saying something. The little devil was a good deal shorter then the height of the doorknob – no doubt having had to fly up to it in order to gain entry into the office. Scrambling his way into the room with a small stack of papers gripped in one claw, the imp landed on the desk with little more then a snap of its wings, laying the pile before Mr. Ambrose.

“Another signed contract,” the imp shook its tiny devil head, as if in disbelief. “A priest of light. Seven years of service postmortem, and three favours prior. Just plain impressive sir.”

Mr. Ambrose smiled at the imp.

“Damn fine devilling, if I may be so bold to pat myself on the back Brymstor,” Ambrose joked.

“Pat away sir, pat away. How do you do it?” The small imp enquired.

“You know, it’s not as hard as one might think,” Mr. Ambrose mused, accompanied by a conniving grin. “Let the powers that be boast all they want about keeping evil alive on the mortal plane. Master a few simple steps and any slick minded imp with half a brain can keep the fires stoked.”

Mr. Ambrose laughed, a wicked sort of noise that sounded not unlike both a cheerful chuckle and the screams of tortured innocents all at once. Brymstor however, intrigued by the man’s musings, cocked his head to one side and sat eagerly on the desk – ready to learn. Ambrose studied the inquisitive little imp for a moment, before sighing and nodding.

“Very well Brym, very well. We need more imps who know what they’re doing so I don’t mind letting you in on some of the finer techniques. Where to begin…” Mr. Ambrose stroked the small tuft of hair beneath his lower lip which, for all Brymstor knew, was one of the many souls the elder imp had bargained for. “Soul bargaining is a many layered, rather complex task…” he began.

“Like balancing?” Brymstor interrupted, toying with his tail.

“You get used to that too,” Ambrose jested. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“Now then, something that most devils fail to realise is that it’s not our job to simply wait around for someone to offer a deal. Waiting for those magical ‘I would give anything’ words is not the way to go about things. The simple truth of the matter becomes, hundreds of people would sell their soul daily, if given the chance, on really the most pointless of things. A good harvest, a healthy baby, a night with the bar wench… It gets tiresome really, mortals are all want, want, want. When it comes right down to it though, a quick glance around the torture pits will show you the real problem. No one’s worth torturing! The vast majority of mankind lives in shades of gray and hardly anyone these days makes a name for themselves. What’s the good of eternal damnation if they’re not even going to put up a fight? People who think they deserve it are no fun. No, you’ve got to aim for quality, not quantity.”

“Find some suitable subjects. Make a list of two hundred or so of the most valiant, stout-hearted and decent folk you can locate – the kind who look down on those shades of gray as blasphemy. Adventurers, politicians, and religious figureheads are my personal favourites. Adventurers are nice because any treasure-seeker worth his salt packs more punch then your average mortal but always wants to pack more. Politicians usually seem to need only the slightest of pushes to put them right onto the throne, and into the palm of your hand. And religious folk, well, it’s just so cute when they fall from grace.”

“Then you watch, and you wait. Everyone has a moment of weakness eventually. Everyone. But even then, when you see their willpower wane, patience is the key. If it’s meant to be, you’ll know. Finding the perfect moment is just as important – if not more so – then finding the perfect candidate. You have to time it precisely, because if you’re bargaining with the right people, there’s a good chance they will be defensive, suspicious, paranoid, and in possession of both powerful weaponry and a general animosity towards anything with horns that appears in a puff of smoke.”

“I’ve always hated that puff of smoke clause. Seems… counterproductive,” interjected Brymstor.

Mr. Ambrose nodded, “True, but good business practises must be maintained. Besides, if the timing is right, the smoke and horns should be the least of their worries. Desperation… That’s the time to strike. When a mortal reaches the end of their rope, whether figuratively or literally,” the man grinned, lost in a memory for a moment. “Yes, when they’re flat out of options, preferably alone, and terrifically distressed – that’s when you strike. They’re so distracted that nine times out of ten they think they’re composed enough to outwit you. They’re dead wrong of course… and the bargaining begins.”

“The soul bargaining?” Brymstor questioned excitedly, now that things were getting interesting.

“Well, sure. That is an umbrella term of course, but not so rigid as you might think. Most adventurers have read just enough storybooks to assume that souls are all we bargain in. Souls can be a tricky business though, especially with the religious folk.” Mr. Ambrose here switched into a mocking tone, “My soul belongs to Flufflekins! God of flowers and bunnies! It is not mine to give!” The man rolled his eyes. “Bloody ridiculous. The key Brym, is to ask for something that seems relatively innocuous – something that would bring no immediate consequence to the poor chap giving it away. The beauty of souls is that the ownership of them does not even become a point of interest until the time of death.”

“The price you ask should be relative to the weight of whatever is being requested of course. A permanent boon to a mortal should come with a permanent penalty, while a gift that only aids them for a few moments or days should have a similarly temporary price. Where creativity enters the picture is in convincing the mortal in question to agree to a deal where you are actually getting the better end of the bargain, regardless of what they think. For example, an adventurer may think that promising something as simple as say, a ‘favour’, is well worth it when their own life is on the line. But when the favour is called in, and you demand three innocents killed, it’s a net gain on our part. Favours are better than gold and silver – a fact that, thankfully, mortals still don’t grasp. The lives of firstborn children are always a good standby too, though it works best if you know the child is going to grow up to be a great champion of good or some such rubbish. Besides that, bargaining for things like names, talents, faith… Hells, even the use of some words. I’ve seen it all. I’ve done most of it,” the man chuckled.

“Is it true,” Brymstor perked up, “that you made a deal so a holy man couldn’t say the name of his God anymore?” Mr. Ambrose smiled at this, leaning back in his chair, puffing out his thin chest as best he could.

“Poor sap had to use nicknames from that day forward. The best part of that bargain? He was on a quest for some ancient relic of that very same God when we hatched the deal – chap had run afoul of some quicksand.” Ambrose could barely tell the story through his laughter as he continued. “So he reaches the temple and finds this dreadfully old artifact – an orb of some sort or another. Three guesses what the final word of the incantation was to activate it!” The two devils filled the office with laughter, Brymstor nearly falling off the desk.

“He must have been furious!”

“He was,” smiled Ambrose.

“How in the hells did he last?”

“He didn’t.” Ambrose stated simply, as Brymstor’s laughter subsided and the imp raised an inquisitive eyebrow – or at least the ridge where an eyebrow might have been on a more hairy creature. “Village was invaded by Gnolls a few months later,” the man continued. “He decided his silence wasn’t worth the death of his family, so he broke the bond to activate the relic.” Ambrose shook his head sadly. “If I wasn’t the devil whose brilliance spawned that contract I might have even felt bad for the man. He was a decent fellow, all things considered. A paladin, a knight of purity, chosen by divinity with a shiny chair and a set of wings waiting for him in the afterlife… Death for him and his would have done the whole family a bit of good really – being relocated to a cottage on the clouds and all. Peace, happiness, and such.”

“He died a fortnight later, unrelated causes, leaving behind two children and a wife who relocated swiftly to the bed of his squire.” The man shrugged.

“What happened to him? His, well his soul I mean?” Brymstor asked tentatively.

A sickening grin crossed Mr. Ambrose’s face as he leaned forward and locked eyes with the small imp, forcing Brymstor to utilise every ounce of his willpower to keep from running in terror at the man’s overwhelmingly malevolent presence. Suddenly, a snap resounded through the tiny devil’s mind as memories rampaged forth through his unprepared mindscape. A scream escaped Brymstor’s lips as his thoughts were wracked with terrible understanding. Falling from the desk, the imp writhed on the floor as Ambrose stood – letting forth a contented sigh.

“And that, Sir Brymstor, is the bit of soul bargaining that warms my heart. The true art of it shines forth most impressively in a broken contract, and in carrying out the punishment very clearly laid out in the fine print.” Mr. Ambrose walked around the rosewood desk to better watch the waves of burning realisation as they washed over the tortured man. “Don’t you worry, Sir Brymstor. The memories will subside soon and you can go back to filling out my rather impressive pile of paperwork, and of course seeing me as I am – a brilliant, brilliant man.” Even now the fits of anguish in the small creature began to be replaced by obedient complacency. “And you can continue, Sir Brymstor, your afterlife of blissful ignorance. At least, until tomorrow.” With a final satisfied sigh, Mr. Ambrose returned to his chair and began glancing over the newest contract that the former paladin had brought him.

A devil’s work, thought Ambrose with a smile, is never done.

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A Day with Mr. Ambrose by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

Short Fiction: The Ceremony

The Ceremony, Grizzled Lions by Hugo Solis

Written by Jason Cristofaro
Illustrated by Hugo Solis

Ardo sat on the precipice of the Grizzled Lions roof, gazing down at the proceedings below.

“So what do you think of our new Mayor Yorrick?”

The dwarf next to him shifted uncomfortably. Not a fan of heights, he was perched farther up, his hands white-knuckled as he grabbed at the shingles.

“He’s an admirable fighter and an honorable man; I served with him in the 75th battalion over twenty years ago. I give him four months.”

Ardo cocked an eyebrow and grunted. “He’s already eying a promotion?”

Yorrick released his grip on roof and carefully studied his fingernails. After a moment, he looked toward the city center and mused, “No Ardo, in four months he will be a dead.”

“I think you’ve been drinking too much ale old man. Caragen is head of the Order of the White Rose; he has a phalanx of Paladin guards around him at all times. For heaven’s sake look that entourage!”

Ardo gestured to the hundreds of fighting men gathered in military uniform and organized in rigid phalanxes in front of the ceremony. The spectacle stretched out to fill the entire courtyard and extended as far as the marketplace. Closer in, a large group of Paladins in glittering plate mail bearing shields emblazoned with a white rose formed a semicircle in the front of the ceremony.

“He could have ten thousand soldiers under his command Ardo and it wouldn’t matter.” Yorrick looked down and softly whispered, “He has already earned the displeasure of the true lord of this city. I have heard rumblings from some of my contacts that a price has been put on his head. Caragen is a good man, but his enemy is cunning.”

“And who holds such power that a legion of the king’s finest troops is no obstacle?” Ardo mocked.

Yorrick glanced about him for some moments, making certain they were not being observed. He cautiously scrambled down the roof, looking around on more time he drew close to Ardo. He released one hand from its hold cupped it over his mouth, whispering into Ardo’s ear, “Look at the fourth woman to Caragen’s right.”

Ardo peered across the crowd; he muttered a few words of power to enhance his sense of sight and his gaze finally came to rest on a red-haired woman wearing a deep green velvet dress. She was slight in build and appearance, dwarfed by the other dignitaries on the coronation stage.

“I know that woman, that’s the widow Desirae von Edenhaller. What are you talking about you old fool? The lady von Edenhaller has been working tirelessly since the death of her husband for the poor of this city. She personally has funded a number of orphanages and shelters for the poor!” Ardo explained.

“Shut your mouth, fool! Who knows who could be listening!” Yorrick hissed. He gazed down at the stage, looking for a reaction from the widow, but her gaze remained transfixed upon the proceedings.

“Listen to me Ardo and mark my words well. She controls every brothel in this city, every penny of illicit money and every stolen good passes through her or her underlings. Have you not heard the rumors of the children who ‘go missing’ from her orphanages? Many of them are sold into to slavery, or worse. Do not think to cross her. I made that mistake once and Ruttanian paid for it with her life.”

Ardo furrowed his brow, “How do you know all this old dwarf? I thought Ruttanian was killed in a accident, her horse buckled and she was thrown! There were witnesses.”

Yorrick sighed, “Ruttanian confided in may several days before her death that she had been scrying to discover the location of several missing children. After months of tireless work, she eventually was able to discover that the disappearances were related to slavers. Slavers she eventually discovered were hired by the widow herself, but that’s not the whole of it. Ruttanian snuck into the widow’s estate and found evidence that the she was not just involved in slaving, but theft, bribery, prostitution and smuggling as well. Upon discovering this she confided in me and then left to inform the Order of the White Rose. That was the last time I saw her.”

After a moment of silence, Yorrick continued, “Since then I have discretely done my own inquiries, but everything I have learned supports Ruttanian’s allegations.”

“Caragen is a good man, but his war against vice and his recent shuttering of gambling dens and whorehouses has cut into the widow’s business. She is not pleased. Gossip among Caragen’s gnomish servants is that over the course of the past few months several comely young maiden’s have joined and left Caragen’s employ. They told me that the dismissals occurred after these servants acted in ways inappropriate for ladies of high virtue. Apparently Caragen is the rare man for whom such temptations are ineffective.”

“It’s a pity really,” Yorrick continued, “He would probably have been far happier and lived much longer had he been a weaker man…”

Ardo gazed at his friend for a few moments, looking down as the dwarf clung tightly to is seat. He seemed sincere, but Ardo had realized long ago that fanciful tales always sound sincere. Ardo chuckled, “Paranoia and suspicion don’t suit you old man. I suspect you have been led on a goose chase and have spent too much of your time listening to idle gossip and scullery maids for your own good. I didn’t realize the romantic lives of nobles were of such interest to grey-haired old soldiers.”

Yorrick shook his head sadly, “I wish that were true Ardo, I wish I wasn’t right, but mark my words and speak of this to no one.”

They sat silently for a few moments. The ceremony below had reached its nadir and the high priest was about to place the ceremonial coronet on the new mayors head.

As he placed the coronet on Caragen’s head, the priest’s voice boomed, “In the light of the all holy God, I pronounce thee Lord-Mayor of this fair city! Serve thy God and serve thy king!”

Caragen turned to face the crowd as a loud cheer erupted from his men. As he walked to the podium a noticeable amount of sweat beaded on the new Mayor’s brow, suddenly Caragen doubled over and began screaming, “Get it off! Get it off!”

Several of Caragen’s guards moved forward as blood began to trickle from his forehead. A second later, the mayor collapsed. As he fell forward and slammed against the ground his body shattered as if made of glass. Fragments of his person scattering all over the stage. Screams of horror began to swell in the crowd and confusion set in. The guard’s seized the high priest whose countenance belied shock and horror.

Ardo turned to Yorrick who simply shook his head and looked back at the crowd on the stage. It was then he noticed Desirae von Edenhaller. A chill ran down his spine. As he watched the face of the widow, no one else paid notice, but Ardo could clearly see the outlines of a faint smile. It was easy to discern as her eyes were not fixed on the scene unfolding before her. Her gaze turned upward, toward a dwarf and an elf sitting on the roof of a tavern…

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