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Abandoned Towers Magazine

2nd Trimester 2009

The stories in this magazine are works of fiction. Places, events, and situations in the stories are purely
fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. No part of this magazine may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission
of the editor or publisher.

Abandoned Towers is published three times a year on March 1, July 1 and Nov. 1, by Cyberwizard
Productions, 1205 N. Saginaw Blvd. #D, PMB 224, Saginaw, TX, 76179.

ISSN 1945-2861 (print)

ISSN 1945-287X (online)

Managing Editor - Crystalwizard

Copy Editor - Lucille P Robinson

Forum Administrator - Stephen Morgan

Editorials - Bill Weldon

Editorial Staff:

Michael Griffiths Ed McKeown Timothy Ray Jones

Paul McDermott Chris Silva Thom Olausson
Daniel Devine Grady Yandell Heather Wilkinson
Ramon Rozas Cortny Woodworth

Front cover art: A Levianthan Ascendant by Richard H. Fay

Periodicals postage paid at Saginaw, and at additional mailing locations.

Postmaster: send address changes to Cyberwizard Productions, Saginaw, TX.

Abandoned Towers Magazine© 2009 Cyberwizard Productions

Individual art and written content © 2009 to the originating author or artist.

All Rights Reserved. No portion of this magazine may copied by any method or used for any purpose other
than personal reading enjoyment without written permission from the publisher. Permission is hereby granted
for the perchaser of this issue to make copies of the coloring page for personal use only. Such personal use shall
be limited to the perchaser and his or her family. (In plain English tha tmeans that if you bought this issue
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i
 Table of Contents
July Editorial: A Different Path - Bill Weldon, Editor iii

Featured Story
The Ghost of Preston Manor By S.J. Higbee 57

Short Stories
The Crystal Cage By Timothy A. Sayell 1
Spirits By Jaleta Clegg 8
A Fish was I By David J. Cohen 12
Fireworks at the Check-out By Samantha Priestley 13
Treasure By Aurelio Rico Lopez III  21
Dr. Talbot’s Cider  22
Political Camp Pains by Jonathan D. Scott 26
Dungeons and Dental Plans By Tim McDaniel 31
The Time to Strike By Andrew Braun 41
Pests By Aurelio Rico Lopez III 45
Missing in Action By Bruce Durham 46
The Mailbox By Colin P Davies 52
Another Piece of Pie By C.E. Chaffin 52
Eternity’s Prelude By Tommy B. .Smith 59
The Witch of the Westmoors By Jeff Draper 64
Realities By Lyn McConchie 65
Pathless By Michael D. Griffiths 70
And the Wind Sang By Bradley H. Sinor 76
The Thousandfold Magic By TW Williams 14

Poetry
Weights By Harry Calhoun 21
Reptile Bushido By Scott E. Green 26
Cricket’s Melody By Del Cain 46
The Shadow By Carol Allen 51

Special Features
Interview with Scott Green 25
The Death of Batman by Eric S. Brown 85
Pernese Picnic (serves 8-10) Created by Jaleta Clegg 87
A Leviathan Ascendant Coloring Page by artist Richard H. Fay 56

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 July Editorial: A Different Path

For centuries the vast majority of fiction stories have been based on real places, real events, or fa-
miliar surroundings. While this is great entertainment, the writer is restricted to familiar plots and places.
Enter a group of literary pioneers to take the reader into unknown realms. The likes of Jules Verne
and H.G. Wells, as well as David Lasser, Stanley G. Weinbaum, Hugo Gernsback, and Sam Moskowitz.
daringly introduced the world to science fiction. They gave us time machines, space travel and far fetched
stories of future possibilities.
Lewis Carroll told the story of a young girl stumbling into a world run by rabbits, Cheshire cats,
and mad hatters. Mark Twain temporarily stepped away from his tales of Americana to send us on a fan-
tasy trip to King Arthur’s court. J.R.R. Tolkien and Stephen Lawhead took us to different worlds to fight
many forms of evil.
Stepping away from what is normal and usual to write about strange and unknown frontiers can
be overwhelming. Science fiction, fantasy, and sword and sorcery writers take that plunge every day. There
are no dates, facts, or places to authenticate. They are limited only by their imaginations.
Writers of these genres must struggle to make their imaginings believable with a certain degree
of reality. They must put forth the same effort as any other author, no matter what their choice of genre.
While writing can be a very enjoyable career, it can also be the most frustrating.
Readers of Sci-fi, fantasy and S&S, relish the entertainment and escapism offered by these writers.
Writers of these genres find an outlet for their creativity that can be therapeutic.
Every issue of Abandoned Towers contains stories and artwork from around the world to engage
our readers and motivate writers and artists. The editorial staff hopes you find enjoyment and incentive as
you delve into the nether worlds between our covers.

Bill Weldon, Editor

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The Crystal Cage
By Timothy A. Sayell
Illustration by A.R. Stone
H
azerium, my friend! It’s been a
dog’s age since last I’ve seen you!
I’ve been abroad, didn’t you know? By invitation
of a very good friend of mine. You recall Thelosius
the Centurion? He is now one of the sovereign
Lords, charged with watching over the Holgonn
Territories in the name of the Mother Empire!
Thelosius sent for me especially, you see.
Oh yes!”Ganderamathrus,” he said to me.” Please,
I implore you to come and witness first hand the
dramatic changes I shall introduce to this land.”
How could I refuse an invitation like that, I ask
you? Exotic lands and exotic peoples mean exotic
stories!
What an opportunity and what a terri-
ble place it is, Hazerium! Picture it: the Holgonn
Territories, far north of our beloved Trycadia, be-
yond even the arid plains of Yzaruam and the roll-
ing steppes of Engathar. It is a place of unforgiving
mountains and slanted fields of snow. I swear upon
the grave of the First Emperor, it is always winter
there.
If my visit told me one thing, it is that the
Holgonn are in desperate need of our guidance and
leadership. They are a simple, superstitious, and
uncivilized people. Instead of togas, they all—men
and women alike — wear trousers and tunics made
of… yak-skins… or something equally unpleasant.
Still, they are an intimidating lot. They
are all bred tall and wide-in-the-shoulder up in
Holgonn. A strong and burly people, and small
wonder. Their legends all claim they are somehow
descended from an extinct nation of giants.
Nonetheless, a remarkable people, with
surprising talents! They are skilled hunters and
skinners. They know the intimate secrets of metal-
smithing, supposedly a knowledge their ancestors
stole from the dwarves long ago. And sailing! I’m
told they are sailors and ship-builders without peer!
Hmm, you know, it’s actually quite lucky
for those simple barbarians that they were wel-
1
comed into the nurturing embrace of the Trycadian
Empire before they could be exploited by some un-
scrupulous kingdom or other.
Where was I, Hazerium? Oh, yes! Thelosius!
He was granted a stark, cold keep overlooking a
tiny village in a vale at the foot of the mountains.
The little valley was surrounded on three sides by
tall, steep mountains making it highly defensible
and sheltered from the cruel winds. However, it
was susceptible to small but regular avalanches. The
place was named Vesterholt long before Thelosius
got there. But within three days, our countrymen
began calling it ‘the Snowbowl’.
After a week of freezing misery, witnessing
Thelosius issue proclamation after boring procla-
mation… something interesting happened in the
village.
I looked down from the keep and saw
a gathering in the village square below. It set my
insatiable storyteller-senses aflame, and I simply
had to find out what was going on. So, quick as
a wink, I rushed to discover the goings-on among
the natives.
It was a fellow named Rolglor who’d been
out checking his traps for rabbits or wolves or some
such, and found something he did not expect. It
was one of his own, a Holgonn, though apparently
from the village of Zowtholt. The poor fellow was
beaten and bloodied, and I understand he breathed
his last just mere moments ere I arrived.
“I found him just beyond my farthest trap,”
Rolglor told his fellow villagers, the Trycadian sol-
diers, and me. “He’d been badly hurt. I think the
cold kept him alive so long. He was babbling about
a magician who’s claimed the abandoned tower not
far away, and goblins, and a kidnapped princess!”
“Goblins! Here?” I exclaimed, along with
a few others in the crowd. All of the Holgonn spun
in place for a single revolution, and then spat upon
the snowy ground.
One of the soldiers said,” Lord Thelosius
will not like goblins in his territory, whether they
are the servants of a magician or not!”
“I know where this man was found, and
his tracks should be easy enough to follow,” said
Rolglor. “Tell your Lord that I shall scout ahead
and gather what information I can for the soldiers
he is sure to send.” As I recall, he said these words
with great respect and admiration. Though, had
I not spent a week among their funny manners
and customs, I should have mistaken his tone for
sarcasm.
The soldier consented and rushed to the
keep. The barbarian adjusted the heavy sword
strapped to his back, then turned without saying
another word and trudged back into the snow. And
I followed him.
Well, I had to, didn’t I? We all know what
those simple barbarians are like. Their primitive
minds would jumble all the facts into gibberish. In
order to obtain all the proper facts and put them
into the proper perspective for the story’s maxi-
mum potential… Well, I just had to go with him.
He asked me why I was going, too, nervy
fellow. “I am Ganderamathrus, a teller of tales,” I
told him, “and I go where the story wills. What is
your name?” Please understand that I spoke much
more slowly to him than I am now speaking to you.
I was fortunate. Except for his weird
Holgonnic accent, he followed the Emperor’s
tongue well enough, as long as I avoided the use of
large or even medium sized words.
“I am called Rolglor,” he said to me, poorly
hiding his awe and reverence of my Empirical heri-
tage behind a phony sneer. “I am a hunter. The ani-
mals I trap provide the village with meat to eat and
skins to wear.”
I smiled at his effort to impress me. “Very
admirable! I mean, very good and noble of you!”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. It is the
way they show appreciation in his culture, so I’ve
observed.
Hazerium, I can honestly say that I spent
more time out in the snow that day than I ever in
my life wanted to! And if I have my say, I never
shall again! Rolglor told me it was no more than an
hour ere we found the farthest of his traps, but I do
not think his primitive mind keeps an accurate ac-
count of time. A dozen yards beyond that trap was
the spot where he found his dying countryman.
The barbarian pointed at the shallow crater
in the snow, at the end of a shallow trench. “This
is where I found the Zowtholter,” he said placidly.
“He stopped crawling here. Come on.” He headed
2
off deeper into the woods, following the trench.
Before too long we found the place where
the Zowtholter had fallen. The snowy ground was
trampled; footsteps over footsteps, and Rolglor said
it had been the site of a small battle, perhaps with
the goblins.
To know for certain, we followed the
footprints.
“Do you suppose that Zowtholter was try-
ing to save the princess?” I asked as we picked our
way through the woody foothills. “But couldn’t get
past the magician’s goblins?”
“Perhaps,” Rolglor replied, his steely eyes
ever-wary of our surroundings. “The Zowtholters
often cross the mountains into Engathar. There is
much trade and mercenary work to be had with the
chieftains of that land.”
“I see!” said I through a gleeful grin.
“Or,” he continued, “perhaps he was no
more than a hunter, like me, who wandered too
close to the magician’s tower.”
“Oh,” said I, disappointed this time.
It was about that time that we found the
clearing. In it was a great white slope skirting the
rocky outcropping low on the mountain. Upon
that outcropping, just where it ought to be, stood
the ancient tower. Its great bricks had been carved
out of the mountains themselves. Its top was
crowned with horns.
I’ve done a bit of research since, and ap-
parently this tower once marked a caravan route
through the mountains into Engathar. There ought
to be another up in the mountains someplace, and a
third where the path meets up with Engathar’s roll-
ing steppes. Something curious as well: I couldn’t
find any reason for them to stop using that route.
There must be a story there somewhere…
Oh! Sorry Hazerium, I apologize for my
distraction, but that route’s demise does intrigue
me! On with the current story then. The way up to
the tower was easy enough to follow. There was a
roadway, covered with a skin of packed snow, com-
pressed by a fair amount of foot traffic. We could
have followed it high into the mountains, I sup-
pose, but we only went to the tower’s wide steps.
A courtyard was at the top of that short
stairway, surrounded by a stone wall only three feet
tall. There was snow there, too, swept up against
the wall in dunes while the center of the courtyard
was mostly clear. Clear save for splotches of red,
the spilled lifeblood of fallen Zowtholters, four of
them.
Rolglor looked the place over, turning bod-
ies and weapons over with his foot. His piercing
eyes examined the floor for footprints, but there
were none that I could see. He glanced with some
concern at the double doors left ajar, that led into
the darkened keep.
“These men fought hard,” he said at long
last, “They are Holgonn, great fighters. They should
be avenged.”
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Hazerium,
how fiercely that statement seized me. I was certain
a worthy story would unfold, and here it was, do-
ing just that, right before my eyes! All it needed was
a little… nudge.
“Yes, and avenged they shall be!” I made
sure to sound excited, Hazerium. Barbarians are
sometimes thick of brains, as I know you under-
stand. “For when Lord Thelosius’ men arrive, these
goblins shall be shown the price for murdering
people under Trycadia’s protection!”
“The Holgonn need no protecting!” he
growled at me. “We avenge our own!”
I must have smirked. I simply hadn’t ex-
pected it to be quite that easy, yet the hook wasn’t
set all the way. I looked askance at my reluctant
barbarian and affected a doubtful tone. “Do you
mean to say that you are going into that tower to
kill those goblins, and the wizard, and save the
princess?”
His expression transformed into one of
confusion. “Well…,” he stammered, and I began
to worry that I’d pushed too hard.
I smiled and raised one hand in a calming
gesture. “That’s all right, Rolglor. No one expects
you to do anything heroic.”
“Heroic?”
“Yes, yes. You are simply Rolglor the
Hunter. No more, and no less,” I said in my most
understanding tone. “No one will be disappointed
in you, or think you a coward. Why, none have any
reason to expect you to be brave.”
His eyes flashed and I took a step back,
3
concerned that I might have gone a bit too far. “I
am brave!” he insisted with more intensity than I
had expected.
“Of course you are,” I attempted to as-
sure him and regain control. “But to kill those gob-
lins…the wizard… To save the princess… These
are not jobs for a simple hunter. No, you would
have to be a Great Hero. You would have to be
Rolglor… the… “
A terrible thing happened at that moment,
Hazerium. I was so flustered that my mind went
blank! Words, which are ever my servants and
friends, failed me and I simply could not produce
an adjective that would make a good title for a bar-
barian such as him. I floundered.
“Rolglor the what?” he insisted.
So I said the first word to spring into my
mind: “Palindromic.”
He peered at me distrustfully through nar-
row eyes. “What does that word mean? Why not
Rolglor the Good? Or the Strong? Or the Mighty?”
I chuckled at his ignorance. “There are
heroes already claiming those titles. Fear not,
Palindromic suits you. It, uh, means all those other
things… and more!”
He considered it for a moment, and then
shrugged. “Fine, we shall go inside. No Hero
who awaits soldiers could dare to call himself
Palindromic.”
I smiled and held my tongue.
Rolglor drew the sword from his back,
turned, and eyed the doorway with childlike trepi-
dation. We trembled in the cold mountain winds for
long moments while he stared stupidly. Overcome
with the cold and impatience, I said, “Well?”
“It is unlucky to enter a wizard’s house
for the first time through the front door,” he said.
Have you ever heard such nonsense? If you listened
to a superstitious oaf like him, you’d think a wizard
was some fantastical beast and not a man at all!
Naturally, his prejudiced comment offend-
ed me, and I fear I snapped at him, risking the well-
being of the story. “We espied no other entrance,
you ignorant fool!”
He grimaced and sheathed his sword. “I
will not set off some spell cast to safeguard this
gateway! You are from the Empire of Wizards, you
should know of many curses that could be placed
to fall on the uninvited guest.”
Ah ha! My stalwart hero unwittingly pre-
sented me with the answer to this problem!” I do,
indeed,” I said, feeling rather coy. “And also the
chant to ward off such affects. I will teach it to you,
if you will scout out the tower.”
He was most eager to learn it. So I showed
to him a game the children play, with much clap-
ping and the slapping of one’s own shoulders and
knees. Also, I taught him the nonsense chant
“Owahta Phool Eyeyam.” Satisfied with his safe-
ty, he drew his sword and slipped into the keep. I
wiped a tear from my eye, and followed.
The entry hall was frigid, and cobwebs
filled the corners. Platters of half-eaten food rested
on a table with stout legs. A time-worn tapestry lay
in a heap on the floor by a wall.
Looking around, awed by that historical
place and the stories which must have occurred
there, I jumped when Rolglor spoke without so
much as a hint of warning. “Story-man! You are
Trycadian. Tell me… what sort of wizard would
deal with goblins?”
“Not a Trycadian wizard,” I sniffed haugh-
tily. “A Gyltari or perhaps a Karithman. Evil and
wizardry are common in both kingdoms. Why?”
Rolglor sighed. “To hunt a wolf, you must
know it.”
I will spare you the step-by-step search of
the keep, Hazerium. Suffice it to say that my new
barbarian hero was a finely trained hunting dog.
He tracked the goblins through the winding pas-
sages and I’ve no idea how he could have done it,
lest he smelled them.
Of course, I followed him. Down halls,
through rooms, and to a stairwell that led down
to an utterly dark basement level. We returned up-
stairs and sought out a room with a blazing hearth,
where upon we seized a burning piece of firewood
to use as a torch, and then continued down.
We crept through a hall down there when
we turned a corner and saw a light through an open
door ahead of us. Rolglor turned to me, raised one
finger to his lips, and then tip-toed toward the door.
Being the smart one, I remained at the
corner with the torch. From my vantage point, I
4
watched him creep stealthily to that doorway and
peer inside. Then his fingers tightened about the
hilt and he charged in with his sword high. That
was when the screams began.
Obviously, a heroic deed such as this is
meaningless without a witness to verify it so I be-
took myself to trod softly down that dark hall and
peeked into the room.
It was not a very large room. Boxes and de-
bris were piled by the walls, a statue stood in the
center of the room on a squat pedestal.
There were goblins there, but not the gob-
lins I was expecting! I expected the stout green
goblins known to wander the Engatharian steppes.
Instead, these were thin, red-skinned devils from
the cursed Yzaruam deserts. Their scimitars flashed
dangerously in the light of those long brass teapots
the Yzari call lamps.
There had been three of them, but one was
bleeding on the floor by the time I arrived. “Yoo-
man, you die now!” the others were screaming.
But he didn’t, of course! No, he parried
and dodged, thrust and feinted, and all those oth-
er things that swordsmen do. In frustration, one
goblin threw its lamp at him. The oil splashed all
over the barbarian’s tunic and caught fire. He didn’t
seem to notice, but the goblins’ eyes went wide in
terror.
“You spilled Holgonn blood!” he cried
amid hacks and slashes, felling another goblin so
only one remained.
“You no keep me from cellar! We find stat-
ue’s secret!” the red goblin snarled at him, “The
princess is mine!”
The barbarian let out a mighty roar, and
ran his sword through the goblin’s chest. The Yzari
devil choked on a cry, fell to his knees, and then
slid off the sword to the floor. Rolglor stood over
him, glaring down at the body for a moment then,
as the flames licked at his face, he rushed to remove
the thick flaming tunic and carelessly tossed it onto
a pile of splintered boxes to which the fire quickly
spread.
“Did you hear the goblin’s words, story-
man?” he cried as he slipped the baldric over his
head again. “There is a princess here!”
“Yes, I also heard something about the
statue having a secret.”
He frowned at the small stone figure criti-
cally, stroking his cheeks like some smart men do
when lost in thought. It was a crude little statue
of a warrior with fists on hips, standing perhaps
four feet tall. At last he said, “Well, I see no words
carved on the statue or the stand.”
I nodded and realized it was time for a lit-
tle nudge. “Didn’t that goblin say something about
you keeping him from the cellar? I thought we were
in the cellar!”
The barbarian nodded slowly for a mo-
ment. Then his head jerked back in my direction,
with eyes and grin wide as they could go. “Aha!
Perhaps it’s like a pit trap!”
On the inside I was smiling, on the outside
I frowned. “A what?”
“A pit trap!” he enthused. “You dig a pit
and cover it with branches, then an animal comes
along and falls in!”
With just the right dubious tone I asked,
“You think this statue is covering some way down
to a deeper floor?”
“Yes I do!” he cried as he grabbed the stat-
ue’s shoulders and heaved, muscles straining, and
grunting with effort.
One side of the pedestal rose shakily from
the floor. Rolglor grunted some more, pushed some
more, and tipped the statue so it was dangerously
balanced on one edge of its stand.
I rushed over and looked. “You were right!
There is a shaft here. And a rope!” The rope was
tied around a wide stone ring which was attached
to the bottom of the pedestal and knotted every
foot or so.
Right at that moment, the statue fell over
and landed on the stony floor with a loud thud.
I must confess Hazerium, the sound startled me
and I jumped, but Rolglor didn’t seem to fright. He
was panting and rubbing his arms, staring down
the shaft beneath the statue. By this time, the gob-
lins’ Yzari lamps and the barbarian’s fiery tunic had
caught the boxes and other debris aflame, filling
the small room with ample light. So he took the
torch from me, his sweat glistening in the firelight,
and dropped it down the shaft.
“We must hurry,” he said as he sat upon
5
the lip of the shaft, “The goblins are sure to have
heard that.” Then he reached for the rope and froze
still. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the hand
of one of the dead goblins.
I looked and saw the gleam, also. I crossed
over for a closer look. “It is a ring.” I plucked it
from the goblin’s finger and examined it. “It has
the word ‘Truth’ inscribed upon it. Hmm, wonder
what that means?”
“Who cares? Hand it here.” said Rolglor.
I gave him the ring and he slipped it onto his fin-
ger and gasped in awe as it expanded to fit over
his thick digit. “Did you see that?” he cried with
enthusiasm. “I wonder what other treasures they
might have… “
With that he went to each of the bodies
and rooted through whatever pockets and pouch-
es he could find amongst their ragged clothes. He
found little of interest, and less of value, but he did
find a well-worn scrap of papyrus which he held to
me and said, “There is some writing on this, I can-
not read.”
I took the paper from him and recognized
the ornate curlicues of the flowing Yzari script. “It
says, ‘The Ring of Truth Shatters The Fragile Glass
of Lies’. Hmm, another puzzle!”
“Bah!” he said, as he waved dismissively
at the strange clue. “Come along, story-man! We
must be getting close!” Then he shimmied down
the rope, quick as a blink.
Once we got to the bottom, there was no
trick to deciding which way to go — there was only
one hall to follow and light came through the door
at the end. Rolglor handed me the torch and we
continued on. The corridor ended at a wide cham-
ber, empty of furniture, save a quartet of blazing
braziers, one in each corner. I deposited the torch
in one of them and turned my attention to the
woman in the center of the room.
Tall, shapely, statuesque. Long flowing hair
adorned by jewelry about her head, gems about her
neck, her wrists, and her ankles. She wore one of
those funny outfits, like a dancing girl in the court
of some Yzari desert sheik.
Oh yes, Hazerium, she was imprisoned
of course! She was trapped inside a giant shard of
what seemed to be ice that floated above a skull
upon which weird runes were inscribed. She saw us You know, I glared at him in much the
as we entered and pressed against the transparent same way you are glaring at me now, Hazerium.
walls from within, screaming pleas I’m quite sure, I was dumb-founded by it, but I’m sure he didn’t
though we could not hear. even realize what he’d said. After all, how could an
“That must be the princess!” Rolglor ex- ignorant barbarian know of the great crystal statue
claimed as he rushed into the room. “She is trapped in Sadurnius Square?
by the magician!” “How are we supposed to get her out of
“Yes,” said I, rubbing my chin thought- the wizard’s crystal cage?” he wondered aloud.
fully. “Perhaps the magician is an Elementalist. “I don’t know.” I said as I watched her
Perhaps he specializes in Water-Magic and thus en- pounding against the walls and crying, almost cer-
cased her in this ice.” tainly, for help. She was beautiful in that cocoon,
“An Ice-Mage, eh?” the barbarian said as and I felt a great swell of pity for her. “Poor girl.
he drew his sword. He looked at the girl in her To be able to see people who can help her and not
scant outfit. “We’d best save her before she dies of be able to touch them, to speak to them. No won-
cold, then!” der she screams out at us,
Before I could desperate and frustrated.”
reason with him, “I know why
Rolglor drew back his the caged girl screams!”
sword and swung. He Rolglor barked indig-
managed such a heavy nantly. Then his face soft-
blow that had his ened. “I just don’t know
blade managed to shat- how.”
ter the magical cage, “What?”
it would also have cut “How can she
through the girl’s waist. breathe in there?” he ges-
Fortunately, the sword tured toward the crys-
didn’t break the spell. tal. “There can be no air-
I rushed to join holes, or we’d hear her.”
him, and then almost Suddenly I was
lost my composure in impressed with him.
mirth! The bumbling “Very astute of you!”
fool was still vibrating “I did not!” he
from the impact when barked in reply, fixing me
I reached his side. I ex- with an accusatory glare.
amined the cage where Rolglor’s sword struck and “Don’t blame me for your wind!”
saw nary a mark. With a frown, I cautiously prod- With a quiet groan, I rolled my eyes and
ded the spot with one finger and made a startling saw the princess franticly pointing past us. The
discovery: goblins were upon us.
“It’s not cold! It’s not ice!” The goblins hollered out in anger and we
“Oh,” said the barbarian, scratching his turned as they raised their wickedly curved scimi-
head. “Not an Ice-Mage, then?” tars and charged. Rolglor pushed me aside and be-
I examined the cage, sliding my hands over gan swinging his long sword with fervor. He fought
the faceted surface as the girl within watched us well against the small horde, yet though goblins
anxiously. “I think this is some sort of crystal,” I fell, some dead, most merely wounded, they finally
sagely said. wrested his mighty blade away from him.
The barbarian frowned. “What then? A Undaunted, he fought on, his meaty fists
Crystal-Wizard?” cracking goblin jaws. But that was not how he won

6
that battle, if ‘won’ is the correct word. No, he won
by missing.
He swung, you see, and the goblin dodged.
So instead, Rolglor’s fist, the one wearing that
ring, slammed against the crystal. And the crystal
cracked.
The battle ceased instantly, all eyes watch-
ing as the cracks raced up and around that crystal
cocoon. The barbarian and the goblins alike forgot
their skirmish and backed away. None too soon, ei-
ther, for the crystal shattered, littering the room. I
pulled my arm from my face, Hazerium, and then
I saw the princess.
She had fallen to the floor, her long scraggly
hair hiding her face like a curtain. She pressed her
rough red hands against the flagstones and pushed
herself to a squat standing position. I was shocked
speechless to see that the princess…was in reality
a goblin! Her costume was the same, though her
body was a cruel parody of the image in the crystal.
She was short and pudgy, with unkempt wiry hair
and red, rubbery skin.
She looked about with bewildered eyes and
finally asked, “What has become of the yoo-mans?”
“They are here, O Hargrah!” one goblin
obediently stated, indicating Rolglor and myself.
The goblin princess frowned. “Where are
the others? There were a dozen or so…and only
two of you! Where did the rest of you warriors
come from?”
The goblins frowned and muttered among
themselves. “There were only the two yoo-mans,
Highness, and the one in the glass.”
“I was in the glass, dolt!” Hargrah barked
as she smacked the goblin.
“You mean I went through all this to res-
cue a goblin!” Rolglor exclaimed in disgust.
“It was not you, yoo-man!” Hargrah in-
sisted. “I saw him clearly; he was a handsome and
strongly-built goblin warrior!”
“I think I could offer an explanation!” I
announced. I plucked a crystal shard from the floor
and held it up for all to see. “Behold the trickery
infused upon this ensorcelled shard! It tricks the
eyes so that humans appear as goblins, and goblins
as humans!” I could tell by the outburst of gasps
that they saw this to be true. “Tell me, please, O
7
Princess, how have you come to be here?”
She sneered as she looked me up and down.
“I am Hargrah, Daughter of the Big-Chief. I was
kidnapped by the wizard Al-Qajara so my tribe
would serve him. He took me up to this cold place,
guarded by yoo-mans like him… “ Here she indi-
cated Rolglor with a contemptuous gesture. “And
locked me inside the magic glass. Now I under-
stand why I saw so many goblins, and why they
would not help me!”
“Yes!” Rolglor blurted out. “They must
have been Zowtholter mercenaries, hired by this
wizard of yours!”
“And the Big-Chief sent us to save you,
Highness!” one of the goblins stepped forward.
“He promised your hand in marriage to the war-
rior who freed you!”
Everyone looked at the barbarian, who
wore an expression of shock and dismay. “Uh… no
thanks are needed!”
“He killed our kin!” one goblin accused,
pointing at the barbarian with a scimitar. “He
should be killed in kind!
“But he saved the princess!” another gob-
lin announced. “We should take him back to the
desert to present him to the Big-Chief and marry
his Daughter!”
“What?” Rolglor exploded. “I’m not going
to any desert! And I don’t want to marry your prin-
cess!” He reached over his shoulder for his sword,
but it wasn’t there. It was on the floor where some
goblin had dropped it after wrestling it from his
grasp.
The goblin princess stood before him,
hands on hips, and looked him over with a cold,
appraising gaze. “You will come with us to the des-
ert so my father can choose your fate,” she said
sternly. “Or else we shall kill the both of you here
and now.” A host of scimitars came uncomfortably
close.
Thus, my noble barbarian hunter made the
supreme heroic sacrifice. Upon muttering, “Well,
since you put it that way… “ they pulled their
swords away.
Thankfully, they only wanted to bother
with Rolglor. They hastily departed from the tow-
er, making for the mountain pass into Engathar.
But they left me there in the courtyard to await
the coming of the Trycadian soldiers. I promised
Rolglor I would tell them all that occurred, and
with a look of relief, he went with the goblins. The
soldiers arrived not much later, and I told them ev-
erything! I told them how he single-handedly drove
those filthy goblins out of Holgonn! He had be-
come a sort of local folk-hero in Vesterholt by the
time I returned to Trycadia. And why shouldn’t he?
His story had the sort of ending we want all stories
to have…from a certain point of view. I mean, our
simple hunter did go back to Yzaruam to marry the
princess….
I suppose it also has a moral: to get all the
facts before embarking on such quests!
By the Seven Sacred Spells! When did the
sun sink so low in the afternoon sky? I’m sorry,
Hazerium, but I’m expected elsewhere! We should
get together for lunch, sometime, perhaps in the
Square, beneath the statue, eh? But for now, fare-
well my friend!
The End
Spirits
By Jaleta Clegg
Illustration by T A Markitan
A
thick fog drifts over the ground
beneath a gibbous moon, stirred
by the passing of a tall, dark shape. Frogs stop their
spring mating calls as the shadow sweeps by. All is
still. A single frog peeps uncertainly.
The fog parts again. A slender creature the
size of a small goat, burning white in the moon-
light, trots from the forest, following the shadow.
It pauses, posing. Moonlight glistens on the single
spiraling horn that lifts from the masses of curling
white hair. The unicorn blinks its lavender eyes and
dances on split hooves after the shadow.
The shadow strides on, unaware of the uni-
corn. The land rises in undulating swells, cresting
to a flat plain. Tall fingers of stone rise in the dis-
tance, a mysterious circle of monoliths. The shad-
ow moves unhesitatingly towards them, mist and
unicorn trailing at his heels.
8
Clouds play tag with the moon overhead,
casting racing pools of darkness over the grassy
moorland. The unicorn snorts delicately, pranc-
ing lightly to avoid touching too many shadows.
The figure it follows stretches the distance between
them, reaching the stones and fading into their
more ancient darkness.
The figure reaches the center of the stone
circle and stops, dark cloak billowing loosely.
A hand reaches for the hood, pushing it back.
Moonlight brushes over the scene, spilling silver
light over the figure.
He is young, not quite a man, but too old
to be called child. Downy hair sprouts haphazardly
from his chin. He swallows nervously, glancing at
the lichen covered stones. A single hand reaches for
the clasp of his cloak. It drops behind like a dark
wing, leaving him exposed.
He wears a strange assortment of leather
straps, most looking as if they’ve been cut from an
old plow harness. Clumsy stitches hold them to-
gether. A ragged pelt from a mangy rabbit serves as
a loincloth. An ancient scabbard, much mended by
an amateur hand, hangs at one side.
The youth raises one fist to the stones. He
clears his throat.
“I come seeking truth!” he declaims. His
voice squeaks. He clears his throat and tries again.
“I come as a supplicant to the powers of the stones.
Reveal my destiny this night!” He raises his fist to
the sky.
The velvet shadows of the stones swirl,
moving curiously through the night. The youth
drops his fist. He takes a step away, fear glints in
his eyes. He trips over a knot of grass and tumbles
to the ground. Ghostly laughter peals through the
circle of stones.
“Very impressive attack move you’ve got
there.” A ghost warrior leans out of a stone, pull-
ing himself free of its shadow. He stands over the
youth, moonlight passing through the apparition.
Three others float free, moving to join the
first. They study the youth lying on the ground.
Four barbarian lords, arrayed in spectral finery,
kings of the moorlands centuries past, they are not
easily impressed.
“At least he’s trying,” one of them says, tug-
9
ging at its ear. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve
had it with those tree-hugging druids. Another
chant about peace and love and I’m going to start
appearing with my head cut off.”
“Pitiful specimen, if you ask me,” another
ghost speaks.
“Nobody measures up to your standards,”
the second specter replies. “If you ask me, this land
could use heroes like us. It’s too tame these days.
Nobody fights anybody. They just sit around and
talk. Where’s the glory in that? Blood and gore,
that’s where it’s at.”
“I miss the ale,” the last specter sighs. “You
just can’t get a good sloshing from spirit ale. It’s a
pity that no one makes Dwarven beer anymore.”
“That’s because the fools lost the recipe.”
“The druids bring mead sometimes,” the
third ghost says.
“They pour it on the ground! I’m not lick-
ing it up from the mud!”
“As if you could.”
“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it off!”
“Blood and glory! YES!”
The apparitions draw swords.
“Stop it or I’ll seal you in your stone like
poor Aelfwold,” the first ghost threatens.
The three ghosts sheepishly sheathe their
spectral blades.
“Now, boy, tell us why you disturb us this
night.” The first ghost nudges the youth with one
hairy boot. The boot passes through the youth’s
shoulder.
The youth shudders and scrambles to his
feet. He backs away a step before remembering
his quest. He tries to speak. It comes out high and
squeaky. He clears his throat.
“I come as a supplicant in the name of
Throthgar and Hroruridin and um, the three dei-
ties of-”
“Yes, yes, get to the point,” the second
ghost says peevishly. “You’re wasting moonlight.”
“Uh,” the youth stammers. He mutters
under his breath for a moment. He counts on his
fingers.
“Well?” the second ghost asks impatiently.
“But the ritual naming of the glorious deeds
of the great barbarian heroes,” the youth protests,
10
“the naming of the gods of the past, the recounting
of the glories of Burtha. I mean there’s supposed to
be lots of it.”
“Why don’t you sing us a song about hug-
ging trees and fluffy little bunnies?” the third ghost
asks sarcastically.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing about my great
deeds,” the fourth ghost states.
“They got it all wrong in the fifth verse,”
the second ghost mutters. “Made me look like a
bumbling farmer’s son.”
The first ghost rolls his eyes. “Just tell us
what you came here for.”
The youth bobs his head and clears his
throat again. It doesn’t help, his voice still cracks. “I
come seeking my true name and destiny.”
Silence fills the stone circle.
The four ghosts trade glances, trying to
suppress mirth. The youth looks about to cry.
“Look, boy, you’ve obviously put a lot of
thought into this,” the second ghost says, “so, not
to be mean, but you really should just go home,
find some farmer’s daughter and settle down
somewhere.”
“But I want to be a great barbarian hero,
like you.” The youth’s chin quivers.
The first ghost raises one eyebrow.
“I am Tharg. I came here seeking the what-
cha thingie that comes after my name. You know,
like Yuru the Dark, or Gorlan the Slayer.”
“Belio the Drunkard,” the second ghost
says, eying the third ghost.
“Tungar the Mud Eater,” the third ghost
answers.
The two ghosts growl and reach for swords.
The first ghost raises a warning finger. They subside.
“You’re supposed to bring your loyal com-
panion with you to the naming,” the first ghost
says to the youth. “That part of the ritual has to be
observed.”
The youth sags with disappointment.
“He did,” the fourth ghost whines. “He
brought that.” He points with a spectral finger at
the white creature lurking furtively at the far edge
of the circle.
“What kind of a barbarian hero brings a
unicorn as his loyal companion?” The third ghost
frowns at the creature. “You do know what that im-
plies, boy?”
“But she’s very nice,” the youth protests.
“She’s very protective. I think she’s sweet.” He smiles
insipidly at the unicorn. She tosses her curly mane
and shoots an evil look at the barbarian ghosts.
“Let’s all just have a big group hug, shall
we?” The third ghost shakes his head and jams a fist
into his beard.
“So the unicorn is more than a little un-
traditional,” the second ghost says, “but it still fits
the requirements. This is the first time in centuries
we’ve been asked to do this. So give the boy some
slack. A few years and the unicorn won’t be any-
where in the picture. Right, lad?”
A look of puzzlement creases the youth’s
face.
“Never mind,” the first ghost says. “Tharg,
you say? There is a price to this, you know.”
“The books all agree it must be something
most precious to me,” Tharg answers. He reaches
into his rabbitskin loincloth.
The four ghosts all shudder.
“I think we can accept your pride as a good
enough price,” the first ghost says hastily. “Anyone
showing up with a unicorn at a barbarian circle has
already sacrificed enough of it for a lifetime.”
“But I brought this for you.” The youth
pulls his hand free and opens it. A single glistening
pebble rests on his palm. “I wasn’t sure where else
to carry it. There aren’t any pockets.”
“Worthless river rock,” the fourth ghost
says.
“It’s kind of pretty,” the third ghost
comments.
“It’s a nice token,” the first ghost says firm-
ly. “Just put it in front of the tallest stone.”
The youth kneels on the damp grass and
sets the pebble in the shadow of the stones. He does
his best not to shiver in the cold night breeze.
“I like the goosebumps,” the second ghosts
says to the third. “Kind of endearing.”
“Like a big, clumsy puppy.”
The youth stands and faces the specters.
“My name?” he reminds them.
The first ghost clears his throat. “Ah, yes.
Your name and your destiny.” He puckers his lips,
11
thinking.
Time passes. The fourth ghost lays down in
the shadows and begins snoring. The second ghost
fiddles with his sword. The third ghost eyes the
unicorn speculatively. The unicorn lowers its head
and threatens with its horn. The youth’s teeth begin
to chatter.
“Got it,” the first ghost announces. “From
this day forth you shall be known as–” He pauses
dramatically.
“Wait for it,” the second ghost chants.
The youth stops shivering, eyes agleam.
“Yes?”
The first ghost raises his fist into the air.
“Tharg the Insipid.”
Nothing moves. Even the mist quits
billowing.
“What?”
The first ghost sighs. “Sorry, kid. You can
try, but the fates just don’t have you cut out to be
something great like Impaler or Destroyer or even
Bloody. You’re just going to be Insipid.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Look it up, boy,” the second ghost says,
but not too unkindly.
The first ghost glances up at the moon.
“Time is moving. Take your unicorn and go home,
Tharg the Insipid.”
Tharg’s shoulders slump a bit. He picks up
his cloak from the ground and wraps it over the
odd collection of leather straps he wears. He walks
slowly from the circle, the unicorn trailing at his
heels. It gives a last nasty look to the ghosts, snap-
ping sharp teeth as a warning.
The first ghost shakes his head.
“Why did you have to go and do that?” the
second ghost demands as the youth passes out of
sight. “It could have been blood and glory again.”
“Those days are past. Besides, that boy has
a greater destiny waiting for him.”
“Greater than being a barbarian hero?”
“Oh, yes.”
The ghosts begin to sink back into their
stones.
“He’s going to rediscover the recipe for
dwarven beer. And he’s not going to forget us when
he does. I’ll make certain of that.”
 “The real stuff?” “Now you’re catching on.”
“Completely authentic.” A thick fog swirls around the standing
“Dwarven beer passes the spirit barriers,” stones, hiding them from view. Destiny stalks the
the fourth ghost says excitedly. moonlit night.

A Fish was I
By David J. Cohen
Illustrations by A.R. Stone
I think that once I was a fish
And as a fish I’d often wish

That ocean beds were filled with trees

For oceans are quite bare of these

But ‘neath their boughs the carp and I

Could hide from shark and octopi
And so ne’er fear to end a meal
for hungry whale or gliding eel

And under tree we fish and shrimp

could frolic, party till we’re limp

‘til lumberjacks come swarming in

and chop our trees to kindling
 Fireworks at the Check-out Shouldn’t it just happen without so much thought
and effort going into it? That’s the way it had been
By Samantha Priestley with her husband. Natural. Organic. Meant to be.

J ane had heard the supermarket was one

of the best places to meet men these
days. Unfortunately, the only one she’d seen so far
Fireworks when she looked at him.
‘£16.52, please.’
Jane turned back round and faced a man
of around 45, with dark curly hair and sleepy blue
had just moved away, staring into Jane’s junk-filled
eyes. Not bad, she thought. Not exactly drop-dead
trolley with an alarmed look on his face.
gorgeous, but not bad.
Still, at least he noticed her, which was
‘Sorry?’ she muttered.
more than could be said for the men in the library
He grinned at her. ‘£16.52.’ he said.
where she lingered on a Saturday afternoon. Or the
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ Jane fumbled in her bag for
gym, the local pub, t’ai chi at the church hall, the
the purse she’d bought in a Friday market while on
park where she walked her dog or the silent queues
a singles holiday in Gran Canaria the year before,
at the bus stop Jane stood in every morning.
and brought out a credit card.
She’d tried it all. Had desperate written
She was just watching the man behind the
across her forehead, no doubt.
check-out take it from her hand, noting the clean
She pushed her trolley to the check-out
fingernails and absence of a wedding ring and mov-
and began unloading her shopping. Steak and kid-
ing her eyes up to the badge on his uniform that
ney pie. Toilet tissue. Small tub of ice cream – ok,
read Mike, when the other man, the younger one
not that small. Family sized chocolate cake and
in the next aisle who’d been so interested in her sad
box of Chardonnay. She sat the Chardonnay down
shopping, leaned over and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t
on the shaky conveyor belt and glanced up at the
want to say anything before, but well, actually, I
next check-out. He was still eyeing her sad shop-
think that might have been my trolley.’
ping like it was a nest of wasps. Pity. He was re-
Jane stared at him. ‘What?’
ally good looking, with soft brown hair like buffed
Mike was looking from Jane to the items
up suede and dark eyes like chocolates that Jane
now strewn across the bottom of the conveyor belt.
couldn’t stop looking at. She shook herself. She was
‘Back there, before I joined my queue,’ the
left with a plunge inside. Get real, she thought.
man said. ‘I think you might have taken my trolley
Probably too young for her anyway. Mid-twenties,
by mistake.’
she guessed. Probably looking at Jane and hoping
‘What are you talking about? This is my
he’d never wind up so lonely. Probably got a gor-
shopping.’
geous girlfriend at home who didn’t have shadows
The man cleared his throat, blushed
under her eyes and emotional baggage.
like the bloom of a pink carnation, and held up
So much for supermarket dating. At this
a box of wine from his own pile of shopping. ‘I
rate Jane would have to start clubbing again, and
don’t like Cabernet Sauvignon.’ he said. ‘In fact,
she hadn’t done that since her husband…
I don’t drink red wine at all. But I do usually buy
She turned the other way and slumped
that Chardonnay you’ve got over there. And the
against the till. It was five years since her husband
toilet tissue, I think you’ll find, is blue… like my
had died. A heart attack, aged thirty-seven. Five
bathroom.’
long years. Five years of steak and kidney pie for
Jane turned the toilet tissue over and re-
one, and comforting tubs of ice cream. After five
read the label. Arctic blue. She looked over at the
years of being alone Jane knew she’d almost ex-
shopping still in his trolley and saw the pure white
hausted all respectable meeting places for people
roll she always bought. He was right about the
like herself. Now she was down to the desperation
wine as well, Jane did always buy the red. She sud-
of bus queues and the freezer aisle at the local store.
denly felt better. She wasn’t the only person with
The trouble was it felt too much like hard work.
lonely shopping.
It wasn’t fun. Shouldn’t you just meet someone?
13
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