This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons—living, dead, or undead—or actual events is purely coincidental.

Achten Tan and related characters and locations are the shared intellectual property of all contributors. Individual creative pieces are the intellectual property of their respective creator.

Tales from the Year Between is a publication of Skullgate Media

“Tales From the Year Between,” “Skullgate Media” and associated logos copyright © 2020 Skullgate Media LLC

Cover design and internal layout by Chris Vandyke

Cover illustration by Phanduy via Fiverr

Maps drawn by Aaron Hocket

Section break illustration for Spring and Fall by Camilkuo, Summer by Nataniil, and Winter by Lui Zishan. All four are licensed through Shutterstock.

All other images are original, with rights retained by the credited illustrator, or in the public domain. All fonts are either licensed or open-source. If you believe any images or fonts were used without license or attribution, please contact us so we can correct the oversight.

Tales From the Year Between is not associated with Avery Alder’s The Quiet Year.

To the Writing Community

&

Dolphin Joe—rest in peace, old friend.

Factum Est Bonum

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

This Book is Weird.

Inside these pages are drama and humor; action and longing; violence, death, and love. It’s strange and beautiful, a living instance of the old aphorism regarding the whole being greater than the parts. Oh, and there are also giant ants and a city obsessed with barbecued ribs.

Achten Tan is a shared fantasy world, a desert city built into the skeleton of an ancient leviathan and populated with elves and gnomes, wizards and prophets, ant-riders and restauranteurs. It is a world we created together that belongs to none of us and all of us.

On May 27th, “Achten Tan” was a nonsense phrase, a series of syllables chosen at random so we would at least have a name to call the town we were about to create.

By June 11th, it was an actual city, filled with characters and locations. A town with a past, a present, and a future. One month later those characters were real people, imagined and fleshed out by 30 different writers scattered from Dubai to Alaska.

Because there are so many contributors, there is no one Achten Tan. There are as many iterations of the city and its inhabitants as there were creators involved in this project. Some of the stories overlap; some contradict each other. All of them work together to create a fantastic world none of us could have created on our own.

Inside these pages are poems and short stories, one-act plays and flash fiction, epistles and excerpts from academic texts, erotic tales and even recipes.  It’s a wonderful, fabulous, bizarre, and exciting mix of fiction that I am honored and humbled to have helped assemble. This is also but the first installment in a planned series of such voyages to (as of yet) unknown worlds. The Writing Gods willing, you will be holding Volume Two half a year from now.

But that is the future. In the meantime, welcome to the first installment of Tales From the Year Between. May the Ribs shade you from the sun, may your g’ant be ever swift, and may your feet stay free of tar. Welcome to Achten Tan!

Chris Vandyke

Editor-in-Chief & Grand Hierophant

Contents

A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR

Introduction to the First Edition

C. Vandyke

Foreword to the Second Edition

C. Vandyke

MAPS

Part I: SPRING

Hindsight for Eyes of Vision

S.L. Parker

Beneath the Ribs: Spring

Dan Berison

Bog Bonbons For My Bae

Kelly Washington

Soar

Allison N. Moore

A City of Bone And Tar

Darby Cupid

An Excerpt from “Achten Tan Days”

By Garris, Son of Key Lore, &

Elvira Canaveral

The Girl And C’Naga

C. Vandyke

Speechless

Debbie Iancu-Haddad

The Fine Art of Riding a Trained G’ant

Dan Berison

Jon Andra’s Daughter

Roger Kristian Jones

A Genealogy of Trees

Benjamin Blattberg

A Short Discussion

Between Old Crawman and His Son, William Crawman Williams

Chris “Terry” Durston

Rrekwe’m of Blood

Allison N. Moore

PART II: SUMMER

Some Her Rises

@isparkit

Beneath the Ribs: Summer

Dan Berison

Om-Noms, The Holy Ones

Chris “Terry” Durston

A Short Theatrical Production of “Om-Noms, The Holy Ones

Reproduction of the Common Boggoliz

(An Excerpt)

Ian Barr

Quietus

CD Storiz

Recipe for An’cher Burgers

Darius Bearguard

Recipe for Craven burgers

Darius Bearguard

Harmonies of the Dead

Erin Rae Hoffer

Scattering: Midsummer Night

(Mature Content: Erotica)

Chapel Orahamm

Morning at the Godtree

Gregory Coley

The Sand Runner

Darius Bearguard

A Note, Found in the Abandoned Craven City

C. Vandyke

PART III: FALL

Falling Frames of Seasoning:

Reason Realised/Razed as we Repeat, Reuse, that Harvested

S.L Parker

Beneath the Ribs: Fall

Dan Berison

A Change of Seasons

An attempt

Gregory Coley

The Errand

Sarah Remy

Curious

Diana C. Gagliardi

Awake

Paul Worthington

Moving Forward

(Mature Content: Erotica)

Sarah Houck

(Breaking News) Commun[e] ic[n]ation’s new day:

a service & a system of [jumbled and clarified] inter/connectivity [if you attune]

Sarah Parker

Devastation Song

(A Kiss in the Acid Rain)

Debbie Iancu-Haddad

The Wind in the Leaves

Kyle D. Beers

Bone Borne

Rosalind Dando

Fire And Peace

C. Vandyke

The Girl and Her Pet

Imelda Taylor

Dust Motes

Chapel Orahamm

An Incomprehensible Animal

Excerpts from the journal of the celebrated poet, Marrowflower

Vincent LaBate

PART IV: WINTER

Vice Dice

Sparks

Beneath the Ribs: Winter

Dan Berison

Haiku Cycle

C. Vandyke

Sealment of Ichor

Jesse Nolan Bailey

Old Crawman’s Replacement

Chris “Terry” Durston

By Bone and Blood

Ian Barr

Achten Tan Lullaby

Darby Cupid

The Shrinkening

Jonathan Beck

The Bone Whisperer

Gabrielle S. Awe

Hymn of Birth & Rebirth

(An Essay)

Chris “Terry” Durston

The View from the Ribs

C. Vandyke

Red Moon Sunday

S.L. Parker

Appendices

Appendix I: On The Town Of Achten Tan, As Well As The Regions of the Boneyards Surrounding the City

The Town

Notes on the People & Customs of the City of Achten Tan

The Region

Notes on the Areas Surrounding Achten Tan

Appendix II: The People, Places, & Phrases of Achten Tan

Index of People

Mostly Significant, Some Less So, all from in or Around Achten Tan

Index of Places

Businesses, Religious Establishments, Neighborhoods, Food Carts, Regions, Et Cetera in & around the City of Achten Tan

Words & Phrases

A Collection of Words & Phrases Unique to the People of Achten Tan, With Translations & Explanatory Notes to Aide the Uninitiated

Appendix III: Timeline Of The Year of Great Peace

Timeline of Events

Taking place between the end of the Craven Wars & the opening of the Gate

Appendix IV: On Achten Tanish

Notes from One Librarian to Another

Chris “Terry” Durston

On the Written Modalities of Achten Tanian

Chris “Terry” Durston

Post-Structural Semiotics of Reconstructive Osseotopography

Chris “Terry” Durston

Acknowledgments

About “Tales From the Year Between”

The Tale of “Tales From the Year Between”

The Contributors

A Note on the Fonts

Introduction to the First Edition

C. Vandyke

Written by Brother Huwgogh von Gurnsbock

Scholars have always argued over the exact nature of Achten Tan. It is generally, if not universally, accepted that “Achten Tan” roughly means “Place of Rest” in the Old Tongue, but beyond that there is little common ground. Is Achten Tan the homeland of our people, the ancient realm to which our modern civilization can trace its roots? Is it a mythology, spun from oral traditions and pointed allegory, used to explain such things as our prohibition against the eating of ants and the ritual consumption of barbecue ribs during High Fletchings?[1]

Is Achten Tan the fever dream of a drug-addled prophet, the last remnants of an alien race, proof of parallel universes, or even a practical joke spun out of control? Some have pointed out that “Achten Tan” spelled backward is “Nat ’n Ethca,” but while the absurdist poets Nathanael D’cor and Ethca Loristol certainly were capable of such an extended and high-minded concept, it seems unlikely that even those late-century literary geniuses could have pulled the wool over our collective eyes so completely and for such an extended period.

And so, ultimately, what we are left with is the texts themselves: this sometimes marvelous (sometimes frustrating, always fascinating) corpus of bizarre writing. Extant but in a single manuscript—the infamous Codex Covidica no. MMXIX (known more commonly as The Achten Tan Codex)—the contents run the gamut from somber to lighthearted, from sublime to profane to ridiculous. It seems impossible that such diverse texts would be the work of a single mind, but it seems equally unlikely that any literary collective would have created such a chaotic melange.

Every few years the old conspiracy that the Codex does not, in fact, exist at all rears its preposterous head. The fact that you are holding this book in your hands belies that notion. Stalwart fools will insist this publication proves nothing, as the original Codex has not been seen outside of Baron Covidica’s private collection since 1287 C.D.E, and even before that date only a handful of select lexicographers, ethnographers, and cryptozoographers were ever granted access to the manuscript.[2]

Of course, the Baron’s own account of his discovery of the Codex does nothing to sway the skeptics. That such an important and obscure volume would be found in a locked cabinet in a disused lavatory in the basement level of a local municipal planning office is ludicrous—though, of course, such ludicrosity is par for the course in any small town bureaucracy. Anyone familiar with such byzantine systems will know that this very unlikelihood serves, ironically, as some degree of proof.

But now, at long last, thanks to this definitive edition (made possible by the trustees of Blelchor University, as well as the generous contributions of my patron, the esteemed Baron Covidica himself) you can make up your own mind regarding Achten Tan. Is it a hoax? A glimpse into our forgotten, collective past? An eschatological treatise attempting to warn us against repeating an apocalypse we do not remember? Is Achten Tan a tragedy? A satire? A modernist passion play whose message has been lost forever, along with the cultural context in which it was written?

Perhaps none of the above. Perhaps all of them, consecutive and concurrent.

But whatever it is, Achten Tan is now in your hands. For those of you who have yet to pace the scorching desert of the Bone Wastes in your mind: I envy you. If this is the first time you will smell Old Crawman’s ribs as they sizzle behind North Ribs Ribs, your first time making the acquaintance of dear Drizko or Fizzlewink, your maiden voyage accompanying the brave an’chers as they ride their six-legged steeds into battle, to you I say: enjoy! For where, when, or whatever Achten Tan is, or was, or will be, the one certainty is that it will change you forever. Godspeed! Factum Est Bonum!

With Fear & Trembling,

Brother Huwgogh von Gurnsbock, Q.E.D.

High Archivist and Rector of St. M’lestor College

Blelchor University

1 That is what Professor Elud of the University of Droth argues in his recent article, “Achten Tan: Gustatory Echoes of Polymorphic Semiotics,” and more than a few in academia subscribe to his view.

2 For a long while, rumors persisted that any and all who read the manuscript would die a mysterious (and gruesome) death. I myself am proof that this is a ridiculous idea; the fact that eight others before me are all deceased is merely a horrific coincidence.

Foreword to the Second Edition

C. Vandyke

Written by Doldor Blanch

In the 50 years since Brother Huwgogh first released his so-called “definitive edition” of the Achten Tan Codex, much has changed in the scholarship surrounding the text. Most importantly, scholars now agree that the late head archivist was “tripping balls” (as they say) while assembling this collection. Colleagues attest he was “high as a freaking kite” 24-7 during this stage of his life, and thus it is highly likely that everything in this book is, to use the vernacular, “utter bullshit.”

Everyone is, of course, familiar with Brother Huwgogh’s rapid and historic fall from grace; given all that came to light via the tabloids and the highly publicized “Trial of the Century,” it is most likely he invented the entire “manuscript” out of thin air as an excuse to get into the Baroness Covidia’s shapely pantaloons. Certainly that was the Baron’s belief when he challenged von Gurnsbock to the duel that subsequently led to both their untimely, if unintentionally hilarious, deaths.

Despite the fact that at one time “Brother Huwgogh” was a household name, all that von Gurnsbock has left by way of legacy is a popular volume of dirty limericks (who has not blushed at the one that begins, “There once was a young man named Blashole?”) and, of course, this book: the Achten Tan Codex.

Although thoroughly debunked at this point, we at the Blelchor University Press have reluctantly issued this new edition of Gurnsbock’s ridiculous work because, to be frank, we’re flat-ass broke and this book has sold like hotcakes. In fact, year after year, Achten Tan has consistently been one of the University Press’s bestsellers, second only to Lady Erstwhile’s Naughty Engravings of Shepherds and Shepherdesses in Various States of Undress,[1] which is commonly prescribed by doctors to patients afflicted with hysteria and malaise.

So read this book… or don’t. Use the pages to line your child’s pet hamster’s cage. You’ve already bought it, so it’s all the same to us. Just please, for the love of God, stop writing your dissertations about this nonsense. It’s embarrassing.

Doldor Blanch,

Exchequer to Blelchor University

Editor-in-Chief of Blelchor University Press

1 Available for purchase on the university’s website and wherever somewhat ill-reputable books are sold.

MAPS

Part I: SPRING

Hindsight for Eyes of Vision

S.L. Parker

a resting place:

pieces (peace(s)) nestled in a year;

gearing growth, gathering community;

differences adding; to a world for all to see:

when our bones turn to dust,

gilded ideas rust

to be lost—

to be wise—

all guise (seen through another’s eyes)

until one realizes, until one is recognized

we will not be cognizant

of each other/ we are

one expanded two

three seasons fold over into fourth

. . .

& we are quartered      up & cornered;

caught in traps/of our own making

meshing maps for bringing cartesian together

we have a more complete picture of terrain

are able to refrain, reframe; entertain divergent thoughts

. . .

and down, we are sports

we are spots

we r [modern poet musings, juxtaposing supposings]

reductionist in an ever-expanding world

* * *

Beneath the Ribs: Spring

Dan Berison

“We live beneath the ribs. We live beneath the North Ribs. We live beneath the Northribs Ribs! And our bibs are never clean!”

Deep down beneath the surface, where the ill-fated town of Achten Tan stews in endless, perpetual tragedy, we reside. Out of sight and out of mind. We are the tomgoblins and the hobs, one green, one blue. Two races together in harmony, each no bigger than a human fingernail.

We travelled from the great towering mountain Srin’Zalah, true home of our people, where the food is limp and flavourless. Northribs Ribs is our utopia, overflowing with succulence and unrivaled delectations. Each day, we rejoice to be here.

But even for us, living the dream beneath the greatest ribs in the land, it has been a complex and difficult year...

Spring Special: “Sylvan-Honey Ribs, drizzled with scorching Satama spices”

Silas Bullswater, worldly hob traveller, pushed through the saloon doors and glared at the mess beyond. Sauce was everywhere. Ceilings, walls, floors... nowhere had been spared. Sat astride long communal benches, hobs and tomgoblins chattering merrily, gnawing on the colossal ribs that spanned the table length. Three such tables existed, enough meat to feed a hundred.

‘Welcome to Jan’s Ribs, serving only the tastiest morsels. I’m Elsa, your waitress for today... what can I getcha?’

The place was the epitome of disgusting. He’d seen Craven with better table-manners. Boneyarders, he grumbled inwardly. Worse than their reputation.

‘Hey, you’re new! Don’t get many out-of-towners down this way. I see you’re a hob of distinction. Perhaps you’ll enjoy today’s special, free rib-tips with every meal... step right this way.’

Before Silas could object, he was taken by the arm and placed on a stool near the edge of a sweet-smelling rib. He could smell the honey. Despite his reservations, he had to admit it looked delicious.

‘Hey guys! We got a pass-by,’ one tomgoblin muttered, spitting honey and rib-pieces everywhere. Grabbing hold of a sack of honey sauce, the fool chuckled as he squeezed it over the nearest rib, flooding the area around him. ‘Don’t mind if I do!’

Before him, an old wizened hob stared contemplatively. Using a fragment of sharpened bone, he carved off a large chunk of rib and then tossed it up into the air, catching it in his awaiting mouth. With a single tooth, he chewed for nearly a minute before swallowing.

‘Welcome, outlander. Take a bite, don’t be shy. I’ll introduce you to the gang.’

He was hungry, he could feel it. And the smell was entrancing. Silas gave in and, picking up a finger of bone, he cut the rib and took his first bite. He’d been to the streets of Satama, to the tunnels of the Craven capital and beyond. Nothing tasted this good.

‘They call me Gramps... ‘cos I’m old. The resident spit-monkey’s Pallora, named after some great human explorer, apparently. Then it’s Gassy-Jean, you don’t wanna know why... and finally Hambo, the resident know-it-all.’

‘I pride myself on acquiring knowledge’, he responded pompously.

‘More like acquiring a pot-belly! He loves his ribs as much as the next tomgoblin. So, what’s an outlander like you doing at the Boneyards? We don’t see many from home.’

‘Travelling through to Skunkmere. Now the Craven paused their assault, it seemed the best time. But I had to check out Jan’s Ribs... it’s legendary back home.’

‘Best ribs in the business, no doubt there. Juiciest, freshest meat on the bone, drizzled in scrumptious sauces. All courtesy of Northribs Ribs.’

‘Ah, that’s the human place upstairs?’

‘Yep. Old Crawman’s recipes are radical. We take a few ribs a day. Just enough to feed the colony, mind…’

A commotion sounded as the doltish Pallora coughed and spluttered. Silas knew immediately what was happening. Eating too fast, the fool was choking.

Jumping onto the table, he grabbed the tomgoblin and smacked him hard on the back. It didn’t work. Staring at the choking Pallora, Silas tried to remember his biology. Tomgoblins were famous for their huge expandable throats. Choking only happened if something got lodged. The remedy was to either pull it out... or push it in. A plan formed.

Grabbing a bladder-sack of honey-drizzle, Silas pressed it into Pallora’s mouth and commanded the group to join him. As one they jumped. The sauce launched furiously into his open mouth and Pallora swallowed it all. With a gasp of breath, he cackled madly with hedonistic joy.

‘Good sauce’, he murmured before collapsing on the floor; exhausted, but alive.

* * *

Bog Bonbons For My Bae

Kelly Washington

It was nearing the end of another warm spring day. I was fitting Kreshmore with a new ant-thorax armor plate to replace the one he ruined in battle-training practice when he cleared his throat. “Gerwyn the Wise is back in Achten Tan,” he said. “I plan to get my fortune read to find out if I should finally declare my feelings for Tamsenna.”

We were standing in my workshop near the armory, which was filled with the metallic odor of soldering tools. The door was propped open so we could get something of a breeze from the desert wind, but it was still warm. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about love, so I thought it was strange that Kreshmore, a half-orc, would suddenly display softer emotions.

Half-orcs would sooner chop your head off than make declarations of love. Kreshmore, a seasoned fighter who was well over six feet tall with long, jet black hair, thick eyebrows above obsidian black eyes, a strong nose, full lips, a chiseled jaw, and a well-formed body full of story-worthy scars, surprised me by being enthralled with the elven beauty, Tamsenna, Achten Tan’s new head archer.

Tamsenna also happened to be my cousin, on my mother’s elven heritage side. Other than my being shorter than Tamsenna, my cousin and I could pass as sisters: we had the same long flaxen hair, dainty elven ears, emerald green eyes, the same lithe and athletic figure. She was full elven and graceful, whereas I was half-elf and all grouchy. My dad, who was human, died defending mom’s honor from the Savaalti Elves, a puritanical race of elves who condemned elves who married into other races. After his death, my mom, in a deep state of mourning, wandered into the Darkmere Forest, never to be seen again. I was ten when I moved in with my dad’s brother, my Uncle Rorey, here in Achten Tan, a desert town nestled literally in the bones of a long-deceased gigantic leviathan.

I rolled my eyes at Kreshmore as I finished securing the armor plate to the lower part of his back. Sliding several small tools back into my crosswise torso sash, I stood back and I studied him. Everything he wore was of my creation, from his boots, to his custom-stitched battle breeches, to the brand new armor fitted across his thighs, torso, shoulders, and arms.

“All done,” I announced. “You can do whatever you want, just don’t bust the seams of my armor plating or I’ll send you into battle wearing someone else’s armor.”

“Oh, I’d never do anything to anger you, Willowmere.” There was a mischievous gleam in his onyx eyes as we grabbed our battle-satchels—there was always a threat of outside attacks, so we had to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.

“Anger, no? Irritate, yes,” I said as we climbed out of my cellar workshop and into the desert’s waning sunlight.

Kreshmore and I had been battlemates since we were fifteen and in the two years we’d been partners, I had learnt he had some tricks up his sleeve. As he inspected my repairs, he posed in front of me, flexing his muscles and making goofy expressions. Several of his sparring buddies, headed toward the chow hall, whistled at him.

“Don’t be jealous,” Kreshmore said to their backsides and a laugh escaped my lips. As we followed them to the chow hall, which was near the East Skull entrance in the first Northribs spires, Kreshmore said to me, “I was hoping you’d come with me to Gerwyn’s.”

There was a soft timbre in his tone that sent an odd shiver through me. That was new. “No thanks. She always speaks in riddles.”

“I thought elves were into solving riddles?” He elbowed me in the shoulder. It didn’t help that he was a foot taller than me, so I had to crane my neck to see the smirk on his face. As I thought of at least ten insults I could say in response, I realized we’d passed the chow hall and were standing next to Gerwyn’s bone hut.

“You distracted me on purpose.”

Gerwyn the Wise’s door was made up of strung together finger bone beads that made hollow clacks with the desert wind. The scent of warm jasmine mingled in the air and I could hear her humming before she yelled at us to come inside. The ancient widow’s voice was raspy and touched with impatience.

“Forgive me, Willowmere. I’m a fool in love, remember?”

I quipped, “No, you’re just a fool.”

“Sorry about that, Councilwoman Gerwyn,” he apologized to the elderly widow. “I’m Kre—”

“Already know you. Saw you coming. Sit.”

It was surprisingly cool inside. Dressed in a linen shift, Gerwyn sat on her haunches. Before her was a darkly stained slab of wood. It held two powdery mounds, one in each corner. An orange powder and a glittery white powder. In the center of the slab was her bone-framed mirror shard. It was one of the most powerful communicators in all of Achten Tan.

I felt its magnetic pull as we sat on floor, our knees touching. The atmosphere was static and the hair on my arm prickled. I felt itchy and wanted to leave.

“We’re here to—” Kreshmore started.

“Already know why. You seek to reveal what is far away and which is almost within reach.” Shaking her head, she clucked her tongue as she took a tiny pinch of the orange powder in one hand and a large pinch of the glittery white powder in the other, and sprinkled them atop the mirror.

She began to chant foreign words as a mist formed from the joined powders, creating a semi-transparent orb that hovered just above the mirror. The orange powder swirled into patterns, first into two stick-like images and then, after a few seconds, they were shaped like two people holding hands. Seconds later, the two figures embraced and kissed before the mist dissolved.

When she looked up, her piercing slate gaze inspected me before settling upon Kreshmore. “True love requires true sacrifice,” she said. “How do you plan to pay?”

I watched in horror as Kreshmore removed a dagger from his belt and placed it before Gerwyn. The blade was crafted from melted down ores and the handle was carved from a larger block of petrified tar-wood.

It was as beautiful as it was deadly and it had been the first piece I was truly proud to have made for him.

“Tonight, journey to the bog, select the finest bonbons, and all will be revealed when you present them to your love,” Gerwyn said.

Kreshmore’s head tilted. “The bog? I’d rather decapitate sandwyrms or wrestle the wolves from Darkmere Forest. I’ve been told I’m an excellent wre—”

Gerwyn gave him a withering glare. “Get out of my hut or I’ll curse you.”

“Thank you for your time, Councilwoman.” Grabbing Kreshmore’s tunic, I pulled him out of the hut, and kept pulling all two hundred and fifty pounds of him until we were at the chow hall.

“We should head out now,” he said. “To get an early start.”

“You cannot be serious.” My stomach growled as the final bell for dinner chimed. “When did you last eat?”

“Let’s see.” He tapped his index finger on his chin. “This morning, before sparring practice.”

“You’re not in love, Kreshmore. You’re just hungry. You always feel better after a hearty meal. I’ll give you my gnome cake; they’re too syrupy sweet for my tastes.”

Because he went inside the chow hall without uttering a single complaint, I knew he wasn’t done arguing his case. He was just biding his time.

The wind had picked up and the desert sun was setting into an orange haze when we left the chow hall thirty minutes later. Achten Tan’s citizens were a merry bunch. Cigarette smoke and laughter filled the air. Bawdy singing erupted from Old Crawman’s rib joint. Sentries, riding giant ants, made their routine patrols while children of all ages and races sped about, their footprints making tiny divots in the sand.

I was about to wish him a good night and climb the spiral staircase up the bone spire that led to my uncle’s dwelling, but Kreshmore said, “I’ll just go to the bog without you, Willowmere.”

I shook my head. “Gerwyn told you what you wanted to hear, and she got a valuable dagger in the process.”

His quest had nothing to do with me. Kreshmore was my battlemate and we spent a good deal of time together. Wherever Achten Tan sent its soldiers, the armor specialists accompanied their partners, which meant when Kreshmore came back to camp with broken armor, torn clothes, or busted weaponry, I fixed it. Our partnership was forged as much by trust and respect as it was by thorax armor and metal.

“I’ll play dirty.” Shadows played on his face. “I’ll ask another armor specialist to go with me, instead.”

I’d never live it down if anyone found out I didn’t accompany Kreshmore on a mission outside of Achten Tan.

Defeated, I capitulated. “You owe me big time for this.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

No one questioned us as we walked through one of Achten Tan’s tar-moat checkpoints, traveling southwest.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon and far off mountains framed the landscape as desert dunes rose up and flattened with the constant wind. Sinewy rabbits bolted from behind bushes and the caw of soaring birds serenaded the night sky. The temperature began to cool and stars winked into existence as the lights from Achten Tan receded.

“I’ve always liked that star,” Kreshmore said. We’d been walking in silence for some time when, as we stood at the top of a steep dune, he pointed toward a golden haloed star in the western sky. “The star’s golden hue is beautiful, like my ladylove’s golden hair. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Glancing at me, he seemed to want a reaction. “If you say so. Let’s keep moving.”

Orcs and elves have excellent night vision, so it wasn’t difficult to see, in the distance, the outline of the bog’s abandoned tower that once belonged to C’Naga, the legendary worm-wizard who may have been more myth than fact. We could also hear the growls of the bog’s patrolling guardians, the Boggoliz; large creatures but mostly harmless as long as you didn’t confuse them. If you did, it enraged them, and they’d trample anyone nearby.

If Kreshmore kept waxing poetically about my cousin, I might trample him myself.

“And what of her eyes, Willowmere?” he asked as we crested the next dune. After the next ridge we’d reach the outskirts of the bog. “Do you find her eyes as entrancing as I do? Are they green, like the bright moss-covered boulders at Everfall’s waterfall, or would you consider them more like gemstones? Twin emeralds, perhaps?”

I wasn’t sure why, but my insides felt like hot metal. “When we get back,” I said tightly, “we should ask the healer to check to see if you’ve been poisoned.”

I’ve seen Kreshmore’s destroying side, his training side, and his humorous side. I’ve even seen all his naked sides as I ran a tape measure every which way. But I don’t think I’d ever seen this side of him—the besotted fool side.

Kreshmore must have known the direction of my thoughts. “I’m not all orc. My mother is human, you know.”

I jerked my head in his direction. His black hair flew in the wind and his dark eyes were like mini night sky orbs. “I’m not an idiot, Kreshmore. Your mother is one of the kindest women I know.”

Looking heavenward, he murmured with a sigh, “I thought this would be easier,” before skidding down the unsteady sand.

I wanted to ask him why he thought it’d be okay to barter away the dagger I made for him, especially to win the affections of my cousin, but it didn’t feel like the right time. He avoided eye contact as we covered the last of the desert’s dunes.

The sand began to mix with sprouting green reeds and we were bathed in wafts of warm, rotten-smelling breezes. Algae-covered boulders littered this part of the landscape and every once in a while, the lonesome warble of some bog bird called out for a mate. Boggoliz grunts echoed from the far side of the bog while the gurgle of water sloshed against the edge. The bog’s music was a commingling of cheeps, peeps, and warbles, as well as our slurping footsteps.

“What are we looking for again?” I asked.

“Bog bonbons.”

“Which are what exactly?”

All of a sudden he dropped to all fours, plucked something from the ground, and jumped back up. “This,” he said, opening his palm to show me a small red orb, “is a red bog cerise bulb. They bloom in the springtime but wilt and die when the temperature rises. The flower cocoons itself in this fermenting bulb. If you pluck it at just the right time of year, it’s a delectable morsel. The bog is full of them right now. There are blue sapphire bulbs as well as golden bulbs.”

He popped it in his mouth and the bliss etched on his face was something I’d never witnessed before.

“And out of all the conversations you’ve had with Tamsenna, you believe she’ll enjoy these?” I knew my cousin. She did not have a sweet tooth. Like me, she preferred more tangy and tart food.

“You don’t know all my secrets. My ladylove and I have had many conversations and no, she won’t enjoy the red ones, but I have a feeling she’ll prefer the golden ones. The nectar inside is more sour than sweet.”

I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but the desire to push him into the bog water was so strong I had to put several feet between us.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Find your damn bog bonbons.”

Just then a grunt from a Boggoliz came from our left, so we quietly retraced our footsteps to avoid it, but the distraction wasn’t enough to silence me as my anger multiplied each time Kreshmore bent down to collect a golden orb.

“The sooner we get out of here the better,” I fumed.

“Mm-hmm,” he answered.

We stole down a new path just as a Boggoliz glided over the spot where we had been standing.

“When we get back to Achten Tan,” I continued in a low hiss, “I’ll ask the battle captain to assign me a new battlemate. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your ladylove.”

“You wouldn’t keep me from her at all.” He dropped a palm full of golden bog bonbons into an external pouch on his satchel. “That ought to be enough. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a selfish person who would give away a meaningful gift in order to impress someone who barely knows you. I’m leaving.”

“Willowmere, wait—”

I ran out of the bog and was already climbing the second desert dune when Kreshmore caught up. Desert nights in the Boneyard Region didn’t last long and the gentle embers of faint golden light bubbled on the eastern horizon. Even though the wind stole most of his words, I heard snatches of his voice as Kreshmore called my name.

My hair, which had come undone, was stinging my eyes, so I was fixing it when he came to stand in front of me. I huffed at him. “Can’t you tell when a woman is ignoring you?”

I didn’t expect him to smile lovingly at me. “You’ve been ignoring my hints for two years, Willowmere. So yes, I can tell when a woman is ignoring me. I hope you’ll forgive me for trying to get your attention in this dramatic fashion.”

My heart started beating erratically. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The dagger you made me was the most precious thing I owned, so I knew I couldn’t barter with anything less when I decided to declare myself. Every time you touched me to measure me, every time your eyes glided over me in that analytical way of yours, and every time you patched me up after a tough battle, I always hoped you’d finally notice me.”

How could I not notice the sexiest man in all of Achten Tan? I’d always felt he was off-limits, so I’d never entertained the thought. Not until now.

“And Tamsenna? You were trying to make me jealous?”

“Yes. I was really talking about you. How could I be in love with someone I hardly know when the person I’ve always wanted was right in front of me? Here,” he said, opening his palm to reveal a handful of the golden bog bonbons. “I got these for you.” His other hand tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear.

I’d never eaten anything that came from a bog before, but I trusted him. The bonbon had a crispy outer shell and when I bit into the golden orb, the watery nectar inside was tart enough to wake the dead.

“It’s delicious,” I said as I closed the gap between us. “All will be revealed. That’s what Gerwyn said, right?”

Kreshmore nodded. He leaned down to press his sweetly scented lips to mine. “I think I could get used to this.”

“Me, too.”

We took our time getting back. Fingers interlaced, which reminded me of the image produced by Gerwyn the Wise’s fortune reading, the orange sun was high in the sky by the time we reached Achten Tan.

* * *

Soar

Allison N. Moore

I drag Sozi by the wrist, impatiently pulling him behind me.

“Valla, where are we going?” he whines, stumbling and puffing for air as we rush up the spiral bone stairs, higher and higher.

I grin and laugh as I gaze up at the landing several stories above, where I’ve hidden my treasure.

“You’d see sooner if you’d stop your grumbling! Come on!”

The north wind bellows the cloth awnings that extend over the fronts of the houses, flapping the fabric like the wings of majestic beasts that once soared the skies. It is exactly what I need.

“Come on, come on!” I urge Sozi faster, skipping two and three steps at a time, my raven bangs bouncing on my forehead.

“Valla!” he pants, bumbling after me. He never was very graceful. I don’t look back.

At last we reach my destination. He doubles over with his hands resting on his knees, sucking in fast and desperate breaths as I rush to the bone railing overlooking Achten Tan. I grin ear to ear as I take it all in. Despite the haze of dust settling over the town, the view from Northribs never fails to amaze. Down below, the market bustles with tiny figures going about their day. I pity them and their boring lives.

I whirl around, laughing as I eye Sozi, red-faced and looking as though he might collapse any moment. I go to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a good thing they sorted you into the gatherers! You wouldn’t last a week out on patrol.”

Huffing, he glares up at me. His soft green eyes are anything but menacing. I can’t help but smile even more.

“Gee, thanks.” He glances around at the plateau I’ve brought him to. “What are we doing up here?” He pulls out a rag and wipes the thin layer of sweat and dirt from his face, tucking loose strands of his wavy crimson hair back behind his ears.

I pull my lips back into a toothy grin. Grimacing, he shakes his head. “Oh, gods… What is it this time? Valla, I swear, one of these days your crazy contraptions are going to get you killed!”

“Oh, come on, Sozi! Where’s your sense of adventure?” I laugh as I whirl around and rush to a nearby tarp.

I look back at him and wiggle my eyebrows, dramatically unveiling my latest masterpiece. We both cough as the tarp sends up a massive plume of dust. When the dust clears and I can see him again, I burst into a fit of laughter as his eyes widen when he lays eyes on my invention.

“What. Is. That!?”

I put my hands on my hips. “What’s it look like, genius?”

He tilts his head to one side as he studies it. “A… bird… thingy?”

Laughing, I lift the bone structure to give him a better look, proudly displaying my masterpiece. The frame I’ve constructed from bone, modeling it into the rough shape of wings. Straps of sinew and dried tar secure the pieces in place. For the wings themselves, I used simple stretched and cured leather hides. However, the plain brown looked awfully boring, and so I decided to decorate it with hundreds of feathers, making it appear almost as if they truly are the wings of a large bird.

“Close. I’m calling it a ‘wind-glider’.”

Sozi blinks as he eyes it with uncertainty. “A… wind… glider?”

I nod enthusiastically. “Yep.”

His brow furrows. “Glide? Glide where?”

I grin as I strap on the harness, securing the device to my back. “Out there.” I point over the ledge towards the center of town.

His face pales, nearly matching the sun-bleached bones woven into my braids. “What!? You can’t be serious!” Laughing, I nod and step towards the railing. “Valla! No!” He rushes to me and grabs me by the arm, frantically shaking his head.

I look back at him and my smile fades as I recognize the panic in his eyes. Gently, I place my hand on his. “It’s okay, Sozi. It’ll work. I know it will.”

He swallows dryly as he holds my gaze. “But… What if it doesn’t? What if this is the last time I see you?”

I take his hand in mine and my smile returns. “Then I guess I should kiss you.”

He blinks and before he can register what I’ve said, I lean in and plant my lips squarely on his. My heart skips a beat as I savor the moment. It’s exactly how I imagined. I pull away and laugh as he stares at me with his mouth hanging open, looking as though I’d just hit him over the head with a bone club. Leaving him in his shocked state, I brush away his hand and climb the railing before he can come to his senses.

“Valla! Wait!” Sozi calls after me, but my feet have already launched me into the air.

The wind whips by my face and catches my wings. I spread my arms and soar.

* * *

A City of Bone And Tar

Darby Cupid

A shout carried across the sand, echoing against the sun-bleached bones that encased the city. Kaii looked up, squinting against the midday sun at the small elven boy sprinting toward him, sand billowing. He had been hoping there would be no news this soon. Kaii clenched his teeth as Tac skidded to a halt at his door.

“I have news, Master Kaii,” Tac gushed as he doubled over, gasping for air.

Kaii raised a dark eyebrow. “You don’t say. Where is she?”

Tac straightened, his pointed ears peeking through his thick blonde hair. “She’s with Pan.”

A deep growl rumbled in Kaii’s throat as his fists clenched at his sides. Tossing a coin at the elven boy, he strode off in the direction of Pan’s house, his blood boiling with every step until his purposeful stride turned into a sprint.

Kaii arrived at Pan’s door to find it open. His nails sank into his palms at being denied the act of wrenching it from its hinges. Stepping through the shadowed doorway, his dark eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw Pan’s green eyes watching him over Saphira’s limp shoulder as he stood in the centre of the room.

With one hand around Saphira’s waist and the other in her long white-blonde hair, he ran the tip of his tongue along her delicate neck as he drawled, “Come in, why don’t you?”

Kaii leapt forward, tearing Saphira from his grasp. “How dare you touch her!” he roared, as she flopped against his chest with a low giggle.

Pan dusted himself off, shaking his blond hair from his forehead, his hands held in mock surrender. “She came willingly.”

“Of course, she came willingly,” Kaii snarled. “You know she’s been on that damn godfruit paste again.”

Saphira laughed again, her head lolling back as she wrapped her arms around Kaii’s neck. “Hey,” she murmured. “When did you get here?”

Kaii kept his steely gaze fixed firmly on Pan. “You stay away from her. If I hear you’ve so much as looked at her again, I will personally throw you to the Terefs!”

Without waiting for a response, Kaii scooped Saphira up and stomped into the dusty sunlight. His heart smashed against his chest as he carried the still giggling Saphira across town to her small house in the Southern Ribs.

Casting an ominous shadow as they drew closer, Kaii glared up at the Godtree in disgust. As son of the Chief, he’d worshipped the tree with the rest of Achten Tan, but since Saphira and her friends had discovered the addictive, hallucinogenic properties of the tree’s fruit, he longed to cut it down and burn it.

Kaii gently placed Saphira on her bed, her home cool from the shade of the Godtree. He wished she didn’t live so close to the temptation. Perhaps when she was sober, he could convince her to move. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he ran his fingers through her silken hair, lingering on her cheek. She stared up at him in surprise.

“Kaii? What are you doing here?”

His heart contracted. “I’m looking after you,” he whispered.

Saphira reached up and pulled his face to hers. He resisted for the briefest second, but as she sighed against his lips, his will dissolved. Sinking into the kiss, he wound his hands in her hair, pushing her mouth open with his tongue.

He recoiled in disgust; his passion vanished.

Godfruit.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grabbed a cup from her bedside and swilled his mouth with the tepid water, ridding himself of the bitter taste.

“Kaii,” she moaned. “Come back.”

He stood. “Get some sleep, Saph. I’ll check on you later.”

As Kaii left, he stared up at the Godtree, fighting the urge to spit on its roots. He and Saphira had been friends since they were children, chasing each other amongst the bones and sneaking to the Everfall to dance in the rainbows.

Eventually, they’d become more than friends, but she continually danced around his affections, disappearing for days, weeks at a time, sometimes returning with a new man or woman on her arm. It worsened when she discovered godfruit paste. Her addiction was growing and he could feel her slipping even further away.

The next day, Kaii sought out Drizko, the city’s scientist. He found him hunched over his high wooden table amidst the clinks of delicate bone vials and the dripping of liquid. Kaii coughed from the doorway.

“Master Kaii!” Drizko spun around, his unruly hair sticking up in every possible direction, his green eyes wide. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Kaii sank onto a wooden stool with a grunt. “I need your help, Drizko.”

Drizko grasped his crutches, nervous energy emanating from his slight frame. “What can I do?” he asked.

“I need an antidote,” Kaii said, his dark eyes pleading, “to the godfruit paste.”

Understanding flashed across Drizko’s face. “Saphira.”

Kaii nodded. “I can’t stop her. Her addiction is getting stronger. If I could combat the effects…”

Drizko shifted on his prosthetic leg. “I’ll get to work on it right away, Master Kaii.”

Kaii attempted what he hoped was a grateful smile. He opened his mouth to thank the scientist, but the words were swallowed by a familiar yell. Tac.

The young elf slid to a stop in the doorway, his eyes wide. “She’s gone,” he choked.

Kaii’s stomach turned inside out. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Tac wheezed. “She left the city. There were a few of them. They were singing.”

Frustration burst from Kaii in a mighty roar, sending Drizko stumbling backwards into his table.

“Which direction did they go?” Kaii demanded.

Tac trembled, backing away from the door. “They took turtles across the moat by North Ribs.”

His broad chest heaving, Kaii stormed from the scientist’s house.

The an’chers’ huts in North Ribs were quiet. Those that weren’t on patrol, sat on low stools playing cards or feeding the enormous ants. As Kaii thundered toward them, they stood to attention, their cards fluttering to the floor like feathers.

“I need a patrol. Now!” Kaii barked. “A group of citizens left not long ago. They’re in danger and we need to retrieve them.”

Karak, head of the ant patrols, stood, fighting to keep the bewilderment from his bearded face. “How many men, Sir?”

Kaii’s eyes fixed on the dusty plain across the moat, scanning for any sign of Saphira and her drug-fuelled companions. He could see nothing. “Four should do fine,” he muttered.

Around him, the an’chers bustled, pulling on bone armour and saddling the gleaming black ants. Kaii eyed the scuttling creatures warily. He’d seen the ants in action and there was no denying they were effective, but he was yet to ride one.

Karak’s ant drew beside Kaii, his mandibles clicking. Karak leant down and held out an arm, his bone helmet obscuring the top half of his face. “You can ride with me, Sir.”

Kaii grabbed hold of Karak’s forearm, heaving himself up onto the giant insect.

“Yes, Sir,” Karak nodded. “Go on!”

At his call, the ants reared, before scurrying toward the moat.

Swirling, inky tar lapped around the undulating feet of the giant turtles that carried them across. Kaii could sense the trepidation of the giant ants and not a word was spoken as they crossed. Kaii kept his eyes on the horizon.

Saphira was out there somewhere; her mind filled with hallucinations as she danced through the hazardous wasteland. Kaii’s stomach churned as his mind laid out the many different ways she could be harmed, or killed.

“Something’s wrong,” Karak murmured.

Kaii frowned, wrenched from images of Saphira’s limp, pale body in the clutches of a Boggoliz. “What is it?”

Karak peered into the dark depths. Sweat dripped from under his bone mask, disappearing amongst the thick bristles of his beard, as the ant beneath them fidgeted, its feet tapping at the shell of the semi-submerged turtle. Despite the sweltering heat, Kaii felt the beads of perspiration on his back turn to ice.

A creature burst from the blackness with a screech that tore into Kaii’s mind, splitting it in two. Blue-green scales covered something that looked as though it might have been human once. Long, sharp yellow teeth protruded from its screaming mouth as it launched itself toward him. A Teref.

Beneath them, the turtle bucked, sending the ant scrambling toward the tar. Its mandibles clicking wildly, Karak clung to the reins, trying to gain control. Long claws tipped the end of swollen, webbed fingers as they snatched at Kaii’s leg. Gritting his teeth, he kicked out, but the Teref’s claws sank into Kaii’s thigh like teeth into the flesh of overripe fruit and his roar echoed across the city.

Two an’chers had reached the other side of the moat and launched spears at the Teref amidst yells of support. Spots danced before Kaii’s eyes as he unsheathed his blade and swiped with his free hand at the claws sunken into his calf. His vision blurred into a mix of blue, green and black as he slid towards the sludge.

The moat swallowed Kaii whole, filling his gasping mouth with thick, black tar. He lifted a hand to plunge his blade into the Teref’s scaled chest, but his fist was empty. As he broke the surface, gasping for air, he caught sight of the gleaming yellow eyes of the Teref, dancing with desire. Kaii stared, his mind dull with pain as he tried to fight against the claws sinking into his shoulder blade, dragging him down.

A gush of red billowed from the Teref’s eye, lacing the black liquid with plumes of crimson. Kaii stared in confusion as the claws retracted and the creature slipped down toward the depths of the moat.

Many hands hauled Kaii’s bloodied body onto the shore. He lay, gasping for air and spitting tar from his mouth as his body quaked with pain from the lacerations on his back and leg. Someone pulled out a vial of pain relief and put it to his lips. His chest stilled as the pain leaked away into the sand. Someone set about binding his wounds and he turned his head, seeking Karak.

“Thank you,” Kaii rasped. “I owe you my life.”

Karak knelt before him, lifting his mask from his dirt-streaked face. “As much as I would like to have that honour,” he said. “It wasn’t me.”

Kaii pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Then who?”

“It was me.”

Kaii looked up, squinting against the sun, as a tall, lean an’cher stepped forward, tar dripping from their bone armour. “What is your name, brave an’cher?”

“Anai,” the n’cher replied, lifting the helmet from their face.

Kaii’s eyes widened at the short black hair, full lips and large black eyes staring down at him. “Thank you,” he said. “I owe you my life.”

Anai nodded, the dozens of silver and bone earrings along her lobe jingling as she did. “You’re welcome.”

“How did a Teref get in the moat?” Kaii asked, his eyes flitting to Karak. “How could it possibly survive?”

Karak frowned, staring at the still, silken black moat. “I have no idea.”

Despite the disappearance of the sun, sweat covered every possible inch of Kaii’s body as they celebrated his survival around the campfire. The ants fed noisily, tethered to a fossilised tree stump nearby. Kaii stretched out his injured leg, wincing as the dried blood cracked away from his skin.

“I’ve seen you, you know.”

Kaii looked up as Anai lowered herself down beside him. “Excuse me?”

“Around the city,” she said, her dark eyes narrowed on the fire. “Following Saphira around like a lost calf.”

Kaii’s mouth opened and shut a few times. “That’s hardly fair,” he choked out.

“I’ve often wondered why you put up with her,” she asked, picking at the fine sand beneath them and letting it fall from her fingers. “She’s so flippant with your loyalty.”

Kaii sighed and looked up at the darkening sky. Stars were beginning to appear between the two moons. “I’ve known her since we were children. I feel responsible for her.”

“I know of her addiction,” Anai said, her eyes flicking toward him.

Kaii’s fists closed around the sand. “It’s not her fault.”

Anai turned and stared at him, the flames of the campfire flickering in her dark eyes. “She treated you badly before the addiction.”

“Just how closely have you been watching me?” Kaii asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

Anai flushed and looked away with a jingle of earrings. “I’m just saying,” she murmured. “You deserve better, Kaii.”

His chest tightened at the way she said his name and he swallowed in surprise. “I have to… I have to save her.”

“I’m not saying don’t try to save her,” Anai said. Her eyes found his again. “Just don’t lose your own life in the process.”

Kaii looked away, staring at the fire as it hissed and crackled. He tried and failed to remember the last time Saphira made him smile; had filled his heart with light.

“If I let Saphira go,” he said to himself more than Anai, “I’m not sure who I am.”

Fingers traced their way along his jaw, and he looked up in surprise. Anai stared at him, her eyes filled with understanding and purpose. “You are kind, strong and deserving of happiness,” she said. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against his stubbled cheek.

Kaii’s stomach somersaulted, his torso filling with heat as he turned to look at her.

Anai ran a finger across his lips before standing and walking away from the campfire into the darkness of the desert.

A smile played on Kaii’s lips as he raised a finger to the skin still burning from Anai’s touch, an unfamiliar lightness in his heart. He stood and followed her into the darkness.

* * *

An Excerpt from “Achten Tan Days”

By Garris, Son of Key Lore, &

Elvira Canaveral

NO PLACE LIKE BONE

The Village of Achten Tan[1] lies on the “source” of the Everfall, the edge of the Boneyards, looking west across the blue-green water to the Darkmere Woods.[2]

From the south, the Ancient Way of the Lost City aims for the Everfall, bends hard left to the magnificent Bone Towers, and eases over the leg of the hill past the NVHR TAN sign (The Underplace), bringing the traveler in on the Bone Boulevard (the Village’s one road), an ancient spine worn flat by foot traffic. The tall Towers of Ribs shade the Bone Boulevard.

Along the ragged dust paths between the spine and ribs a child slowly walks to the East Skull Gate, kicking a chunk of bone ahead of her. It is a chunk that, after kicking for three ribs, she is now mesmerized by, and to which she is completely dedicated. At the G’ant Stables the dry spine begins. A breeze off the Everfall brings a sweet air of mud and rotting wood, a slightly musky smell, and picks up a sweetness of old grease, a sharp whiff of alcohol, fresh Giant Ants (g’ants), spring dust, and (from the other side of a Tower Rib), the faint essence of carbon-serpent at the North Ribs Ribs. A stout figure in green coveralls disappears inside. The girl kicks the chunk at the spine, once, twice, then lofts over the spine across to the bone island of Dark Oil pumps. She jumps three times on the Gnomesum bell hose, making three dings in their dark workshop. The Magistrate of Matters Material, Clink Gnome-sum, peers out from the grease pit, under a black tar powered carriage. Her brother Clank, wiping the signage clean (Gnomesum Movements—Fnord—New & Ancient— Created & Fixed) with part of an old human sock, giant in his hand, knocks back three times in response. The girl follows the chunk back north to North Rib Ribs which displays a mournful bone serpent, its body marked with the numbers of cuts.[3]

An old woman sits on North’s bench, white hair as fine as spun glass poking out under her green leaf cap, her grizzled chin on her skinny chest, snoozing, the afternoon sun reaching under the faded brown canvas awning up to her waist. She is not North; North is the thin woman in the white apron who has stepped out the side door of the store, away from the meat counter, to get a breath of fresh, meatless air. She stands on a scrimshaw ledge that looks across the Everflow a bone’s throw away. The shore there is jagged; the softer, rounder, shores are further down. A boy, perhaps one of hers, stands on a diving dock, plugs his nose, and executes a perfect Boulder Drop, and she hears a dull thrush. Twenty-three strides away a silver boat sits, tied off in the mosses below the Godtree; a woman in a bright blue jacket waves her pole, the line hooked on the moss.[4] The sun makes a trail of shimmering lights across the water. It would make quite the picture if you had the right lens, which nobody in town has got.

The Everflow is 678.2 sectors, an ever eroding distance to the Everfall, fed by cold springs and draining to the west by the Everfall, which falls such a great way the water mists before it hits leaving the observer to assume the falls go forever from wherever you see it.[5]

The Weird Woods are transplanted red hoak, maydell, sproog and hine, natural pirch, partder and thick brush, except where g’ants have been put, which is like a park.

The municipal boundaries take in quite a bit of reclaimed pasture and aquaculture of fish, algae and mosses. The bones themselves are hollowed out into thin walled homes of some nine hundred souls, living in the various bone towers, caves, and dwellings, many of them boasting tidy vegetable gardens in modest spaces, many featuring bone carvings of plants, small windmills, clothes poles and clotheslines, or various bone animals such as squire moles and clambs and small drynox. Along a white bone path to the sky lies a nice bed of plantunas placed within a bone wheel, and in some various shrines in their calcified gardens the Blessed Queen stands, challenging, her eyes penetrating, limbs akimbo above the beonies and marisilvers. In the garden behind the monkery of Our Lady of Perpetual Maintenance, she stands on a bone pedestal, and her eyes meet yours with an expression of deep empathy for the suffering of this world, including this little village.

It is a quiet village, where much of the day you could stand on the middle of the bone boulevard and not be in anyone’s way; not forever, but for as long as a being would want to stand on an ancient bone road. It’s a wide boulevard—the ancient beast’s spine could handle a lot of traffic, worn down flatter and wider by the thousands of cycles of casual passage. Here and there are remnants of a failed toll system, coins melded into the bone to pay a toll for life (and luck).

Merchants call the surface “Downtown.” Underpeople say the surface as “Uptown” (one word), while the surface refer to the higher ribs as “Up Town” (two words), meaning vertical, as in “I’m going up town to get me some sky slogs.”

On the north surface, between the Skull and the Godtree, stand four massive towering ribs: four shorter ribs in the south and the central building, three stories, which has bone blocks with carved scallops above the third-floor windows.[6] The Rib buildings have different designations like “Sentinel Ribs,” “Guild Rib,” “Chief’s Rib,” “Heaven’s Rib,” “Harvest Rib,” and the broken “Healing Rib,” their names carved in bone tablets with fancy bonework to the top of bleached lattice work, bonework that doubles as battlements, and calcified towers that look palatial. Eighteen cycles ago they hung a gnome from the highest rib for stealing. She took it rather well. They were tired of her sneaking around lifting hardware off carts, so they tied a rope to her belt and hoisted her up where they could keep an eye on her, gusts turning her into a contrary windsock.

Many creatures wear their belts low here, there being so many outstanding bellies, some big enough to have names of their own and be formally introduced. Those creatures don’t suck them in or hide them in loose shirts; they let them hang free, they pat them, they stroke them as they stand around and talk. How could a being be so vain as to ignore this old friend who’s been with them at the great moments of their life?

The Short Ribs are quite proud of their false equivalence, trying everything their shorter ribs can be and a little bit more. The first stories have newer fronts of bone-made faux marble and translucent thin bonework meant to look like thin skin. It looked as if a child could punch through it.

Three old elves leave South Ribs Ribs from their serpent platter lunch; three old elves with wispy white hair, sensible black boots and long print gowns with the waist high under their bosom, and a fourth in a deep purple outfit with purple boots, wearing a tar-black wig. She, too, is seven hundred but looks like a mere 34 cycles of someone who has led a very hard life. She is Krawli Subjuvat’s Mother, Otara, who, they say, enjoys two pink Dakaroots every Fifth Night and (between the first a second) hums “Take Me To The Tidepools” while executing the same turn that won the eye of the Warrior Kal the Lumbering, whom she utilized in her army of young healers. She has real talent; people have always told her so, and several times in her life she was stolen away to other towns begging for her talents. Perhaps she is still considering the offer.

Her wife, Florian, pulls her 23-hands-long g’ant into a space between two supply carts in front of the broken Healers rib. To look at her g’ant you know that there is mental communication between the two, in the way that the two start to look alike, with Florian looking insectoid with her matching black wig forming mandibles and Pickles, her Giant arthropod six-legged mount and confidant, looked more like an 55-cycle-old human than any g’ant could. Florian’s outfit has red tubing that matches the reins delicately siting around Pickles’ antennas—not that they have been needed for cycles, the two are so linked. Pickles is 36 cycles old, due to regular healings from Otara and her students as a “practice body” to hone healing skills and a mutual fondness for vinegar. Under Florian’s black wig (pulled down tight on her head) is the face of a girl, and when she talks her voice cracks with an endearing whistle, as if she hasn’t talked enough to get over adolescence completely. She has lived here all her life; time hardly exists for her, and when she looks at this place and when she sees her wife, she sees them brand new. And with all the healing that is happening they are new; she never thinks of what she has forgotten.

In the Healers they sang:

Heal to thee, let woe be gone, we bestow the healing youth. We shall remold the bone and blood in order and in truth. Keeping high our Glaps, our healing saps, and will drive out dark and fear For Achten Tan, we do all we can, our home we love so dear.

And also:

We’re going to fight, fight, fight for Achten Tan and be strong and resolute, and our mighty foes will fall in rows when we stab ‘em in the snoot! (Rah! Rah!)

But those were propaganda. In our (some multiple) hearts, our loyalties to home have been more modest, along the lines of the motto on the town crest: Metock tec metock. “We are Who We Are,” a phrase that can be spoken with mandibles, it often being the first lesson in communing with a g’ant. Having your g’ant pronounce the town motto has been the first lesson since long ago, when the g’ants only came up to your knee. Thousands of generations of selective breeding have brought the g’ants up to a size where they become not just pack animals but warrior mounts. Other phrases are taught as well. The traditional turn phrase of “Tarat gem Ma Tan goot” (“There is no place like home when you are not feeling well”), first uttered by a long-dead leader who had missed an important feast and dance due to a case of the trots, and even Madam Diener’s observation, “When you are around it all the time, you do not notice it so much.” She said this after she tore out a wall between her scrying and eating places, which she had not done before for fear it was there for a reason. In the wall she found the remains of a g’ant who had been missing for over a cycle. The Dinners had not been getting full use of their eating area and had been secretly blaming each other. “It’s good to know it is not us,” she said, blaming the rare lapse of the collection of the dead by G’ant Escorts.

In their education and religion, they were called to high ideals—such as truth and hunger—by someone perched on the Rib of Truth, hollering for us to rise up. But the Rib of Truth was... short.[7]

Every Great Thaw, the Thanatopsis Society continues a ritual in keeping with the will of the late Master Born Son of Lore, who founded the society of words, and though they have long since evolved into a communication society, the Thatopsians were bound by the terms of her bequest to hire a High Speaker once a cycle and listen. One cycle it was Unified Language (including a Demonstration of conversational Ki’tol tic), and then it was the benefits of unified leadership; for 30 cycles a woman of learning told us of our future, which has long past. She told us of everyone living in newly made ribs, with walkways connecting them; they told us we would be building clouds we could live in. A floating factory to process the Algae, untouched by beings. We sat and listened and clicked, but when asked if we had any questions we didn’t dare ask, “We waited a cycle for this?”

Left to our own devices, we in Achten Tan go straight for the small tubers. Majestic does not appeal to us; we like the Everfall with plenty of beings between them and the drop. We feel uneasy in its Momentous presence.

Achten Tan babies are born in the same rib and are held under a sorter glass by a healer named Betrox who has worked there for three hundred cycles—then the “Mother” hauls their “Child” from their Birther to their home, the Mother thinking of how her life hours have turned towards rectitude and sobriety and a decent regard for the sanctity of life; having now binded flesh with a gift of a newly Born, she wants to discuss the new truths she has discovered in the binding; she wants to talk to her own Mother, who will sit up in the darkness, waiting for word about the new Born name and species. Then they want to return to bed.

There is the rare occasion that Achten Tan people leave this world in that rib; usually they are quick about it, and denied the preparations for the Grand Ride. When Mother’s Mother died, she had been unconscious for three days. She had prepared a healing Journey Pod three days before, not waking up. She lay asleep, fading, as she was prepared into the Journey Pod. She lay asleep, so dark, so fat. It was the High Suns. We held cool mosses to her head and moistened her with fresh algaes. An Antical leaned over and said into her ear, “Do you know we are one with the godfruit?” We thought this was only a “light heresy”, but not wanting clickings and chantings, we told her that, yes, she did know the godfruit, so they will leave us be. Six of us sat around that pod, each holding a limb, four physical, two corporeal. We spoke in high-rib whispers but didn’t know what to say, as it was rare for a being to die of old age. “Mother wanted them to carry her in her sleep,” my mother said. “She wanted to be carried in one piece.” I felt we should be saying profound things about Mother’s Mother’s life and what it meant to each of us, but our mere presence was testimony to what it meant. Rare was the surface dweller that aged out of this world, and had six children to hand her on her final journey into the ground itself held aloft by the mandibles of her escort to the Secret of the Elders, sealed below the Chamber of the Queens, her next life began, I still miss her familiar voice, in time I will hear her voice now as I remember it then, familiar, comforting and joyous. The cold clicks are not the same, but nobody needs to be told that, except me, and now I’ve told myself.

Here are tales and artifacts of Achten Tan, where the ribs are high, life happens on many levels and the ants are much larger than average.

* * *

1 40 cycles population doubled

2 Right on this road to SOUTHERN CAVES then to ACHTEN TAN or “Resting Place” (4223 alt. 542 pop) named for the ancient bone body which defines its borders. Bleakly typical of the Boneyard, Achten Tan has its possible origins in the utopian vision of Mew Elemental Alchemists but now it is populated mainly by Gnomes, Elves, and Humans who attend service at the HOUSE OF BIRTH and HOUSE OF REBIRTH, neither of which are remarkable outside of their advertising. The “Source” of the Everfall flows blue-green and brightly sparkling in the brassy summer sun and neighbored by the warm-colored mosses teaming from the Source, quickly changing colors as exposed to the bright light. The view is somewhat spoiled by a large GODTREE in the Everflow. North of town is the BONEYARD REGION

-HOWLIN’ JED’s Guide to the BONEYARD (2nd edition)

3 The Village had a (usually friendly, rarely deadly —for Achten Tan) rivalry between North Ribs Ribs and South Ribs Ribs. There is debate, often along sectarian lines, of who was the original Rib Rib, What is the best Rib Rib, What the components of the rival Rib Rib are REALLY. The South Sauce is the differentiating trait, as the hand and face wiping attendees to the COLONY OF BIRTH attest. While the COLONY OF REBIRTH argues that the sauce is to cover the “Sins of the South” and that their Dry Rib Rib is superior, with their sauce being applied meagerly to their “Enchanted North Rib Rib,” that is rumored to harden you for desert travel and offer recovery after injury, especially after intoxications. Travelers and the Local Secret and Public Double Ribber do support the claims of North Ribs Ribs as well as “South Sauce Slither” which may or may not feel like one is slipping in time, the issue being that the time slippage is not apparent to anyone involved in the process with the exception of the Staff of South Ribs Ribs who claim to keep a running but secret tally of all the time slippage, but as part of their curse/enchantment they cannot reveal their information as to do so is said to cause the cavernous underground to collapse and send us all tumbling in terror from our beds. The North Ribs Ribs claims that it also carries seven curses that, if they are not satisfied, would also lead to a variety of calamities befalling the inhabitants of Achten Tan, ranging from Rib Collapse to the Long dead beast they reside in returning to life and running off the Everfall to “Shake off the parasites.”

4 This is Ursula The Ungainly, retired after forty-odd cycles of bone work, now free to play in the waters in the Mouthbone II and drop a line where the fighting tar eels lie in wait. “Open Wide,” she says “This may sting a bit. Okay. Now bite down.”

5 1836 cycles ago a Kobold Count climbed the cliffs of the Everfall, towing a boat, camping on the cliffside where he imagined building a heroic fortress into the face of the Everfall. Then something about the place made him decide he was wrong. He was right, as water flowed out of the entire porous side of the plateau, emptying a continental aquifer, but there was something that compelled him. Some... things have made so many others think: ‘Let’s not start…’

6 The Bone Plaque on the facade fell off one hot scorching afternoon, the plaque that reads “Colony of Birth” and crashed on the Bonewalk, almost hitting Gerwyn The “Wise,” who had just stopped and turned to walk the other way. If she hadn’t, she would have been killed. She didn’t know why she turned. “It was like something spoke to me right then,” she said. Others realized that they had been on the verge of walking by the House of Birth moments before and something spoke to them. ‘You know, I was thinking, ‘Maybe I’ll go to Skulllug’s and purchase a scratcher,’ but then something said, ‘No, you wait on that,’ so I didn’t go. If I had gone, it would’ve killed me,” Old “Crawdad” North said. He was one of many whose lives had been spared by a narrow margin. The plaque broke into five pieces, which Opu Haku fused together, and it was remounted on the rival facade with a prominent “Re.” “Colony of Rebirth,” as it now hangs on the other Colony. Colony of Birth then created a new plaque formed out of bone and teeth that can only be read when the light that gleams off of it is obscured, simulating the idea of the blinding light of birth.

7 I grew up among the HIGH slow talkers, men in particular, who dropped words a few at a time like bones in a moat, and when I got to the Settling City, where people took an Achten Tan Uptown pause to mean the end of the story, I couldn’t speak a whole sentence in that company and was considered not so “illuminated.” So I enrolled in a special class by Trem Sand, the founder of Mandible Max, a self-hypnotic technique that enable a being to speed up to 300 communications a span. He believed that slow speech deprives the surface of a great deal of thought by slowing down the thought process to the surface communication speeds. He believed that the mind had unlimited powers if only a being could learn to release them and eliminate the backup caused by the slow discharge. I believe that is what he said—it was hard to understand him. He’d be rattling on about Maximizing Mandibles one moment and then he was into blood portraits, his mother, the Bottom Rung Dwellers, algae mold, birth and death, water cooling systems, the orgasm—which was satisfying for him, but left me in the dust, so I quit, having only learned how to click about 85 communications in a span. After a greater Moon cycle I was back to about ten or eleven.

The Girl And C’Naga

C. Vandyke

A long time ago, when the world was new and the Ribs still shone smooth and white...

Ppht. The ribs was never shiny!

Oh shush. That’s just the way these stories start.

But they always start that way, Mana!

And you always interrupts, so hush or you won’t get a story at all.

Anyhow. There once was a young girl. Now this particular girl lived here in Achten Tan, in Skullgate. She was an orphan, but she had been taken in by a kindly old bonesmith who was known far and wide for crafting the finest armour in all the Wastes. An’chers came from Northribs and Southribs and Godtree to buy his wares. Now one day the bonesmith sent the young girl to collect bones from the fields north of town.

“Mind you,” said he. “Gather the bones and hurry back! Don’t talk to anyone you meet and be back before nightfall!”

And so the girl went into the fields to gather bones. The day was hot and gathering bones is hard work. When the sun was high, she sat in the shade of a massive femur to have her lunch. But she was tired and the shade was cool. “It won’t hurt if I close my eyes for a wee bit,” she thought.

Don’t do it! It’ll end badly!

Shut it, Orin! She can’t hear you!

You shut it, Gheran!

Both of you shut it or you shan’t hear the ending.

I already know the ending!

So you’d likes me to stop tellin’ and just send you to bed?

No, no, Mana Weyzil! We’ll be good, promise!

Cross your hearts and hope to be eaten by wyrms?

Yes, Mana! Promise!

Okay, then. Where was I?

The girl was closing her eyes.

Ah, yes.

“It won’t hurt if I close my eyes for a wee bit,” she thought. But instead of a wee bit, the girl fell fast asleep. When she awoke, it was night. Neither moon was up, so the world was dark as dark can be. She looked around, but she was lost!

“Oh no,” she cried. “How will I ever make it back to my home now!” But just then she saw a light in the distance, moving betwixt the bones. As she watched, the light slowly drew closer and closer until she saw a cloaked figure carrying a lantern. The girl remembered the bonesmith’s warning not to talk to anyone she met. But she was more scared of being lost than of any stranger, so she cried out, “Help me! I am lost and cannot find my way home!”

The figure stopped and turned, and the girl realized it was C’Naga, the wicked half-elf wizard who lived in the bog! C’Naga drew back her hood and her dark hair framed her bone-white face as she said...

Oy! What do you mean “she!” C’Naga was a boy!

Not when I tells it, she isn’t.

But C’Naga was a wizard! You said it yourself! And there ain’t no girl wizards. Yeah! Them’s called witches!

There are too, girl wizards. C’Naga, for starts.

But when Mama Cletha tells it ...

Well, then go and find your mum and have her tell it and I’ll go have a cup of tea and a pipe by myself.

No, don’t stop! We’ll stop interrupting. Right, Orin?

Okay, okay. I’ll stop. But C’Naga weren’t no... ow!

I said, right, Orin?

Right, right. I’ll be quiet.

C’Naga said, “You must be a brave one, being such a wee girl as you are and being all alone in Bonewastes at night.”

Now the girl did not feel at all brave right at the moment, but she nodded.

“And you must be a special sort of brave to hail C’Naga! Did your parents not warn you about the wizard of the fetid bog?” Now the girl thought of pointing out that she had not known the figure was C’Naga when she first called to her, and had she known it was the half-elf wizard she may have stayed silent and tried to find her way home on her own, but it was too late now and she feared saying anything would anger the wizard.

“Please ma’am,” she said. “I just want to get home to Achten Tan. It is late, and the bonesmith is expecting me.”

“C’Naga is not a nursemaid, child. And I do not work for free. The price of a wizard’s aide is steep.”

The girl held out the sack of bones she had gathered. “You can have these,” she said. C’Naga laughed and pointed to the desert.

“I have all the bones my heart could desire, little one. What else have you?”

The girl undid the kerchief that held her lunch. “I have a bit of cheese and bread. You can have that.”

Again the wizard laughed. “I have not needed to eat the food of mortals for many a long year, child. What else have you?”

The girl shook her head. “That’s all I have. I am but a poor orphan. I have nothing else save the shift on my back and the shoes on my feet, and you cannot leave me to walk naked through the desert.”

C’Naga peered at the girl and licked her lips. “Oh, that is not all you have, my pretty little one.” The girl suddenly felt very afraid. “I may have no need for cheese or bread, but I am always hungry. So, so hungry.”

C’Naga opened her mouth wide, wider than was possible, and her teeth were sharp. Before the girl could scream, C’Naga gobbled her up. All that was left on the sand was her sack of bones and one lonely shoe.

The end, time for bed!

What?

That’s not the way it ends!

Yes, it is.

Is not! The girl tricks C’Naga into swallowing a bone and C’Naga starts choking and the girl says she’ll save her if she promises to help her and then...

No. That ending is a lie. It is told by soft parents to help their soft children sleep at night.

Mana Weyzil, why would you tell us such a horrible thing?

Because it is the truth. And the truth is often a horrible, scary thing.

But now we’ll never get to sleep!

No. But you will stay awake and listen for the dark things that creep in the night. And that is good. Now good night, children. I won’t stay sleep tight. Don’t sleep at all. Stay awake. But if you make it to dawn, it will be a good night indeed. Good night! Good night!

* * *

Speechless

Debbie Iancu-Haddad

When you never speak people tend to forget that you’re there. I hadn’t spoken a word in five years.

Being invisible has its advantages. You learn to move through the world differently. Silent as smoke. You learn to listen and remember. You never know what will come in useful. You gather information like trophies, hard-won.

I shake my head, tossing my braids side to side and the jangle of bone and wood, shell, and stone alerts the Ant riders to my presence.

A tall rider with hair as red as his ant starts and clasps a hand to his massive chest, laughing, “Gave me a fright. I forgot you were here.”

I bare my teeth at him. Maybe he’ll interpret it as a grin. I gesture with my chin at the bowls of stew they’re dishing out of a rapidly emptying pot. I don’t know what’s in them, but the smell makes my stomach rumble.

“You want to eat?”

I raise my elbow. ‘YES’ is tattooed on my forearm and his eyes light on the word. I’ve been tied up since our meeting on the plains outside Achten Tan. It’s hard to explain your business when you can’t speak.

The An’cher captain grunts his approval and the red-headed boy dishes out a steaming portion into a bowl carved of stone. He stomps over and starts to hand it to me. I raise an eyebrow at him. I don’t have a tattoo for this but it doesn’t take a wise man to figure out that I can’t eat with my hands tied. I watch as the information makes its slow way through his brain. He might be pretty to look at but not much is going on behind those moss green eyes. Finally, realization hits and he shuffles his feet.

“Karak, should I feed her or untie her?” He asks his captain.

The captain gives me a hard look, “You going to run?”

I lift my other elbow—NO. Why would I run when they’re taking me where I’m going?

“Untie her but watch her.” He grumbles, and Moss eyes pulls a knife from his belt and severs my bonds. I stretch as blood flows back into my wrists and give moss boy another grimace. He shoves the bowl at me and a bone spoon to go with it. Fancy. Back home we use dried, hard-packed algae for practically everything.

Thinking of home hurts, so I shove aside those thoughts and focus on eating.

After the meal, Moss is assigned guard duty and nobody thinks to tie me up again. The six giant ants are arranged in a circle, huge bodies curled against the cold. The An’chers place their bedrolls by the ants. There is no way to leave the ring without climbing over an ant, which I have no intention of doing. The giant mandibles click closed behind me, sending shivers down my spine. I didn’t travel all this way to be an ant snack.

Most of the An’chers ignore me. I see one making a sign warding against evil, clutching his Godtree amulet. The youngest of the riders doesn’t speak but eyes me curiously. He isn’t wearing the amulets of the Godtree worshipers. His only adornment is a black band of ink around his bicep, the same place where my name tattoo lies.

As I try to make myself comfortable on the hard ground by the fire, he beckons to me. I glance up at the giant insect he’s leaning on so casually. Mandibles longer than my arms click and hum above his head.

“She won’t hurt you…” He smiles, “not unless I tell her to.”

My steps falter. He chuckles darkly and beckons again. His face is lit up by the fire and the moonlight above us. The reddish glow and silvery light compete, casting his face in a maze of shadows. There is something about him so familiar it calms me.

He lounges against his ant’s body.

“Sit down,” he says.“It’s warmer here. Namala blocks the wind.”

I sit and ease back gingerly till my shoulders touch the chitinous shell. A shudder runs through me at the sensation and he notices. He places a hand on my shoulder, just above my name tattoo.

“Mila. Is that a common name where you’re from?”

I tap YES. He frowns, forehead creasing in concentration as though trying to recall something. He parts his lips as though he wants to say something but doesn’t. Instead, he lets his eyes take a long sweep up my body. Impertinent little shit.

“I’m Kamal.”

I tap my tattoo. MILA. Now that my arms are untied the lines of text along my body are easily accessible.

“Come here often?”

He grins as though he knows how cheesy that line is but he uses it to be funny. He’s cute, but he’s at least two years younger than me. He’s taller and bulkier than I am, but with his pale skin tone and golden-brown eyes, we look similar enough to be brother and sister. A small hope burns brighter in me, but I don’t know enough yet to fan that flame.

I raise my chin. Underneath it says, Zedayen, which is gnomish for ‘Fuck off’. He reads it and laughs. My Nora frowned when I got that one tattooed, but I can’t tell you how often it comes in handy. Most Onra place the words in easily visible places, but not those kinds of words. Luckily, when I’m insulting people taller than me, they can’t always see the inscription, even when I lift my chin. That’s probably saved my life a few times.

Kamal pulls his knees up and places his chin on them, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “So, are you a witch?”

My head jerks up in surprise. I look around, wondering if any of the others heard him. His eyes twinkle, reflecting the starlight.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he whispers in my ear, leaning in so close that his breath ghosts over my cheek. I gently place my hand on his chest and shove him away. If my suspicions are correct, I’m doing him a favor. I think about it for a moment and then finger my braids, plucking a feather from one of them. I balance it in the palm of my hand and mouth FLY. No sound leaves my lips, but still, the feather rises softly and hovers between us. Kamal claps his hands together as joyous as a child.

“So, you can do magic but you can’t speak?”

I show him the line of text inside my wrist. SPEECH IS FORBIDDEN.

He nods solemnly, as though he understands, but of course he doesn’t. He can’t know what it’s like to have not spoken since puberty. Speech is forbidden by magic. I mustn’t therefore I can’t. He can’t imagine the shame and frustration to still be an Onra at eighteen when all my cohort has already found their words of power and become Misra. My Nora thinks there is something holding me back. Something I lost, which is why she sent me on this journey to the Nora of Achten Tan. I hope she’s right. I pray this works.

Kamal’s leg presses against mine, warm and reassuring. I pat his shoulder and arrange my blanket around me, lean back against the ant and close my eyes, signaling the end of the conversation.

I wake with the dawn breaking over the boneyard desert. In the distance, I can now see the distant spires of the Ribs and the Godtree rising above it all. During the night I slipped sideways, my head coming to rest on Kamal’s shoulder. He pretends not to notice, and I’m grateful.

“Ride with me?” He asks as we get ready to leave and I nod. I’ve become comfortable with him in just a few hours. I’ll be heartbroken if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am.

Kamal mounts the giant ant, positioning himself on the thorax just behind the ant’s head. He leans down to give me a hand and pulls me up behind him. My legs dangle and I scoot closer to him to avoid slipping.

“Hang on,” he shouts, and the ant lunges into motion. Luckily, I can’t embarrass myself by squealing, but I run my arms around his waist and hang on with all my strength.

As we enter the city, I wonder how I will find their Nora, but I shouldn’t have worried. My Nora said Gerwyn the Wise is a seer, and as we trundle through the skull gate a small wizened figure hails the An’cher captain.

“Ho. You have a delivery for me.”

Her voice carries through the brittle early morning air. Karak looks around in confusion, but I’m already preparing to dismount the ant.

“If you’d be so kind…” Gerwyn’s voice stops me. “My old bones ache and creak and it’s a long way on foot back to North Ribs…”

Karak nods, knowing better than to cross a wise woman.

“Kamal, take Gerwyn and your passenger to her home.”

Gerwyn steps up to the ant as though she’s done this before and scrambles up with surprising agility for a person who just complained of creaking bones. She settles behind me and Kamal nudges the ant into motion. Even with all three of us weighing it down the giant insect moves fast and soon we’re at the base of one of the ribs. Gerwyn squeezes Kamal’s arm.

“Come up for some sweet cakes. A thanks for taking me home.”

Kamal nods eagerly. Apparently, his fascination with witches extends to those far beyond his age.

Gerwyn leads us up steps carved into the Leviathan’s bones until we reach a door several turns up. Inside there is a large room with a single window not so different from my Nora’s at home. In bone jars and glass vials is every conceivable natural element; Bird’s feathers, hay, leaves, snakeskin, herbs, colored gemstones, seashells, and snail shells.

“Is that a Boggoliz tooth?” Kamal whistles.

Gerwyn lifts a box and places it on the table.

“Open it,” she says to me, but there is no key or latch.

I let my fingers roam the seams, searching for a hidden spring. Something pricks my finger. I hiss and draw back. There’s a click and the box springs open.

Gerwyn speaks from the shadows, her voice cold as the spray coming off the Everfall, her eyes greedy.

“Finally. I’ve been waiting for you,” she says through crumbling teeth. “Your blood is the key.”

I shake my head. Tap NO. She’s supposed to help ME unlock MY power. She shoves me towards the box. It’s empty.

“Fill it,” She commands, “with blood!”

I hold my dripping finger over the box. As the first drop falls it shimmers, now looking as though it’s coated in gold.

“I think we need a bigger sacrifice than that,” the witch grins. Fast as lightning, with a speed, I thought impossible for a woman of her years, she kicks the back of Kamal’s leg. He thuds to his knees in front of her and she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck. Her bone knife presses against his throat, the slightest touch already drawing blood. She draws her finger along the wound and flicks the blood into the box. The shimmer intensifies. Gerwyn leans harder on her knife.

“STOP!” I shout, then freeze.

I spoke.

The word shoots out of my mouth and hangs in the air, vibrating with chords of power.

The world stops.

Drops of water, knocked over when Kamal fell, glisten mid-flight. All three of us stare at them. The witch grins through the wreckage of her teeth. I glance at her knife and move towards them, pushing forward slowly as though moving against resistance.

I drop to my knees and peel her hand away from his throat. My fingers rubbing away the scratch across his skin.

“HEAL” I whisper and the blood reverses its course as the cut fades away. I look up into his eyes, glistening with tears.

“START” I say and the world moves again.

Kamal doesn’t move, looking at me with wonder in his eyes. For a moment he stares at me but doesn’t speak, as though I’ve traded my voice for his. When I grasp his shoulders to shake him, he gulps and blinks several times, as though awakening from sleep.

“You can speak now?!” He asks and I nod and tap my arm, YES, still unaccustomed to being able to use my voice.

“You broke your silence for me.” His eyes search mine. “Why?”

“You’re my brother,” I stammer as tears glide down my cheeks, cutting grooves in the desert dust. “You were six when you disappeared. I was eight. I was supposed to watch you…” Panic and guilt rise again to choke off my words. Like I deserve. “It was my fault.”

“Pffft,” Gerwyn mutters, lowering herself into a chair built of bones, the glowing box forgotten. “Not your fault. Not your burden. Our healer Otara found the boy on her way back from the Algae farms. He’d fallen, hit his head. She saved his life and raised him like her own.”

I touch the black band on his arm. “This used to say Turosh. Your name.”

“Kamal means ‘found one’ in Svaalti,” He says.

I throw my arms around him, “Then it’s perfect.”

“You will stay and train with me.” Gerwyn states as though I have no say in the matter. “Learn the power and role of a Misra.”

“Will you stay?” my brother asks, his eyes full of hope and wonder. And I nod, my heart too full to speak once more.

“My sister the witch,” he muses.

“My brother the Ant rider,” I reply and bat his shoulder with mine.

“Shut up, both of you. We have much to do,” grumbles Gerwyn. And so we do.

* * *

The Fine Art of Riding a Trained G’ant

Dan Berison

As witnessed by Bach Gor’man, Chief Ant-ologist and serial An’cher

A Short Chronicle of Human to Ant Interactions

It was Septic Blatt, the great explorer, who first tried to tame one of the Giant Desert Ants. History tells us that Septic was an eccentric hermitic gentleman, with a great affinity for the desert and all its creatures. He travelled everywhere, from the labyrinthine under-tunnels to the great easterly dunes, in the never-ending quest to understand the sprawling world around Achten Tan, his hometown.

During a foray into the West, he came across a small tar-pit, bubbling with thermal activity. Deep underground geothermal springs warmed the area. Caught inside the pit, he found a Giant Ant. It was as big as a wolf, striped red and black. He didn’t know at the time this ant was not an adult, for he had not yet witnessed how large such arthropods could grow. Nonetheless, its unusually large head and sharp-looking mandibles made it a ferocious-looking creature.

Legend has it that Septic spent five days by the side of the ant, watching and learning, feeding it a burrabone algae collected during his travels. Burrabone algae is, of course, now banned for its poisonous effects, even on ants, but such things remained unknown. Nowadays we feed them more standard algae, but I digress…

During that time, he constructed a collection of small harnesses from bone and twine and managed to extricate the ant from the tar-pit. It was a bold and crazy move, something only a man like Septic Blatt would dare do. Yet, when it was finally free, the ant did not attack Septic, and instead sat calmly next to him. An affinity was reached that was truly remarkable and to last the rest of their lives.

It was then the Craven war pack attacked. Septic noticed the scout barely seconds before the rest of the pack came over the cusps of a nearby dune. Even then, Craven were vicious and merciless creatures. The war pack was furious and relentless in their attack, desperate to kill Septic and his newfound companion. We now know the Craven are known for crushing ants to make their various tinctures and medical compounds and to find a giant ant was a prize worthy of risking death.

Septic and the ant fought side-by-side, each working together to defeat the Craven. The records were unclear about the fight itself, but it is believed during that battle Septic Blatt became the first human to sit atop an ant. A historical moment that changed our world forever. The remnants of the war pack fled the battle, leaving Septic gravely injured. Somehow, the ant understood what to do. With its keen sense of smell, the giant ant hauled Septic onto its thoracic segment and walked all the way back to Achten Tan. Nearly two days’ walk!

Since then, we found the various roaming grounds of these Giant Ants and have brought several back to Achten Tan for use in our militia. They have become one of the sole protectors of the village against the very real and regular threats we face out in the desert. We owe a great deal to Septic Blatt… and to the many ants that help defend the Boneyards.

The Psychology and Physiology of the Giant Ant

Before one can learn to ride an ant, one must understand its true nature. What makes an ant tick? In truth, they are simple creatures, driven by the need for food and drink, as we all are. Unlike their smaller brethren, the warrior ants roam alone or in packs rather than in huge colonies and are known to be fiercely loyal. It is that loyalty that one must generate if one is to ride an ant into battle.

As all An’chers will tell you, you need to study the anatomy of your steed. Learn the words like petiole and gaster, understand how its dorsal aorta functions work much like our human hearts. When the Craven war packs return, this knowledge may save your life and the life of your steed. Learn their weaknesses and their strengths. Learn how to tend to their wounds as you would your own.

A note now on the psychology of an ant. Each ant has its own unique personality. They are often fickle, often highly temperamental critters, just like humans, elves and gnomes, and can be just as unreliable if you don’t understand their individual personalities. Some ants are haptic; they enjoy the touch of an An’cher on their back. Others prefer to only be ridden when necessary.

It is for this reason that almost all An’chers sleep next to their ants, in the stables and shelters at the edge of the town, away from civilisation. You must become one with the ant, eat together, sleep together… breath and smell the same air. It will give you a bond with your ant that will last a lifetime, for a bonded ant will never leave its master.

An Understanding of How to Control an Ant

So, you have gotten yourself ready to become an An’cher. It’s the dream of so many, to ride an ant… but it is not for everyone. They are uncomfortable creatures to ride, their bodies rarely staying still and that can cause nausea, dizziness and day-long migraines that you just can’t shake. And they are tetchy critters, with their own quirks and foibles. It takes many weeks of dedicated training to even start to get the affinity needed to ride without fear of falling off.

Things that many would not want to admit, but you have to tolerate it if you are going to become an An’cher. It’s a smell that lingers for days, a putrid, vile smell that can make even the strongest men and women empty their stomachs. Even in your dreams, you will smell it, for An’chers need a great many baths to free themselves of the malodour.

Once you have bonded with the ant, got past the smell, and can sit firmly on its back without being tossed off, you are ready to control the ant. And actually, this is often the easy bit. It requires coordination and calmness; the ability to not rush into decisions without thinking about the consequences.

Each ant is given a bone harness, similar to that constructed by Septic Blatt many years ago, though the modern-day harness is far more streamlined. As an An’cher, you are given a small gauntlet to place on each hand. These are thin and simple, effectively giving you a couple of small pieces of bone that wrap around your middle fingers. Do not worry, you can still hold a sword, spear or bow in your hand… there is only a minor hindrance that can quickly be ignored.

Over the next two weeks, you will be given the opportunity to train your ant. Now, we have already trained all the ants in the ranch to some degree… you won’t ever be given a wild unruly ant, which means this process should not take as long as it could.

Using the bone-finger, you simply tap on the side of the insect and stroke in the direction you want. Up, down, forward and back can be done this way and you can use either hand to perform such actions. The thick carapace on the insect is strong enough to withstand any scratches should you push too hard, but the ants have a remarkable strong sense of feeling, allowing them to easily read your actions.

Left and right are slightly trickier, but in truth you quickly learn it. A single tap on the left-hand side of the ant, will command it to move left whilst a double-tap suggests the opposite. In other words, go right. For the right hand it is the reverse, as you can imagine. The reason for this is clear. In battle, you may be holding a sword in one of your hands, so control needs to be done entirely one handed.

And that brings us to the final point of instruction: key commands that you can give the ant, particularly useful during a battle. That is to attack, to stop, and to flee. Stopping is the simplest. Simply pull on the reins much as you would a horse or caiba and the ant should quickly respond, It also alerts the ant to potential danger. To flee, you tug twice, hard and fast. The ant will spin on the spot and race in the opposite direction.

We keep these simple to avoid confusion for the ant and the An’cher riding it. And remember to stay calm at all times. Think before any pull or scratch or tap. The ant will respond instantly, they are trained to do so, which means that the wrong action at the wrong time could cause you severe problems.

An example I can give you on that is old Fusebone. Hal Fusebone was an An’cher, fairly new to the discipline, but bold and keen. He rarely listened to advice, and though he passed his tests and was allowed to roam the deserts, many believed he should have been banned from riding, fearing his recklessness would be his undoing.

One late afternoon, as the sun was going down, he came across a band of scarlet elves, known for their bitter hatred of humans. An arrow flushed past his head and crashed into an errant rock beside him as the scarlet elves looked to kill him. Panicked and without thought, he tapped and pulled and scratched at his ant, not caring what commands he was giving. The ant was confused, twisting left and then right in quick succession. Finally, it lost its footing and dropped down into a huge chasm. It took three weeks before the body of Fusebone was found, his ant next to him, dead. A sad day for any An’cher.

A Final Note to Any Would Be An’cher

I have talked about the background of ant riding, the psychology of the ants, and how an An’cher must give their life and soul to their ant. But remember, it is a blessing to be given such an opportunity and one that can reap huge rewards. Being an An’cher is about discipline and control, that is true, but it is also about fun.

That moment when your ant is racing up a large dune, arriving at its apex to the flush of the desert winds around you… it is utterly exhilarating. Though regular confrontations can be hard and dangerous, riding atop one of the giant ants has a thrill to it that cannot be denied. Perhaps the biggest perk is in having a constant companion with you at all times, one that you have grown to respect and appreciate. Such a bond is amazing. It is the reason I have been an An’cher for so long now and I would recommend it to anyone. And, let me tell you, all An’chers know how to party!

I hope everything above will help you to understand more about becoming an An’cher. It is a privilege and richly rewarding job, but only for those willing to dedicate themselves to it. Hopefully, I will see you soon. Good luck and may the blessing of the Godtree be ever with you.

* * *

Jon Andra’s Daughter

Roger Kristian Jones

Cass reached up slowly and grasped the rock outcropping, carefully lifting herself up to the wet, uneven ground. She lay for a moment, allowing the mists of the Everfall to drift down upon her as she listened to the steady crash of water.

Sitting up, she scanned the upper Everfall and was reassured that it fell in a gray glory as yet not lit by the dawning sun. She peered down to the bottom of the falls a few hundred feet below, scanning for any boats seeking to scoop up the dewed algae before its quality evaporated. Or perhaps, like her, some soul wished to gaze up and witness the glory of the Everfall as it lit with fantastic solar rainbows.

She didn’t see any sign of her people, all of whom likely still slept inside their houseboats arrayed below along the lake blanketed with a peculiar purple algae nursed by the ever shade of the rock walls. Her tribe of harvesters didn’t take a shine to Cass’ insistence that the ‘great water shows of light’ would begin early this year. She hadn’t dreamt it, she felt it in her blood. The blessing would begin today. Among other things, this early display of the Everfall’s rainbow show would signal a strong augury to a prosperous and stable year ahead.

Standing upon the rocky shelf, Cass gazed up to the plateau and watched the water flow freely, falling down before her. She grinned. The climb had invigorated her, not exhausted her. She was ready. Glancing east, she confirmed that the horizon was steadily growing brighter. Soon the sun’s blanket of rays would hit the top of the Everfall and Cass would stand witness, amazed and answered.

Young hope rose in her chest as she stared at the curling tumble of water where the plateau’s river poured itself over the edge. The answer would be yes. Of course it would. Sparkling thoughts of a future life infused her as she waited for the sunlight to hit the waterfall.

Then...

... the dawning sunlight kissed the top of the Everfall and the whole world slowly brightened like a molten explosion. Golden stars within water turned into silver light plunging down.

Cass gasped. She was right!

Colors swam in the tumble of water and air, exploding out like splashes of a god’s breath. Violet pulsed through the crescendo of falling water, birthing a blue only spied in the rarest moments in the world of Achten Tan. Green bloomed throughout the spray ‘til a yellow dawned inside it all… and a spiraling orange splashed throughout the waves of falling wet. Finally, within the tonnage of water, beamed a scarlet like the solid gleam of a volcanic ruby.

Cass breathed in her joy and her peace. Her answer was hers. Her true love was true. Her future happiness was gathered. Her mind tumbled to all the scenes of bliss that were sure to follow.

As murals of domestic and personal happiness flooded Cass, something turned at the top of the Everfall. Then…

It darkened. The whole Everfall. Like waking to a nightmare.

Cass’ heart clenched. Her breath escaped. No...

The water turned murky. The darkness instantly doused any remaining jets of red, green or orange. Dismayed, Cass tried to suck in a breath. She had heard of this happening in before years. The black water that now cascaded to the rocky pools at her feet wasn’t the neutral gray of the predawn light. This water was the color of doom.

She couldn’t pull her eyes away. Thundering shadows inside the water writhed like titans in struggle. Growing up, she heard stories of rare darkenings of Everfall, but this was something far worse, something opposite of the blessed omen she’d believed this morning to deliver. She cut away thoughts of her vanished bliss. If those were real rocks crashing down from within the falls, she might not survive to regret the loss of her true, true love. The rumbling increased.

With a deafening crack, dark lightning lanced outward in a phantom display of destruction. A massive shard from the dark tower of Everfall tumbled impossibly away in confounding loss and confusion.

Cass shook her head. Can anyone else be seeing this? This was more, so much more than her question. This meant…

Then the smell hit her nose and Cass fell to her knees, retching.

It was rot.

Sour, pulsating, and burning.

Cass emptied her stomach upon the rocks. She was cursed to see this. But blessed, too.

Some moments later the girl from the tribe of algae harvesters finally managed to look up around her to see the Everfall ordinary in the morning light. The roar of the falling water, the sunlight, all was normal.

As if she’d dreamed the whole thing.

Cass knew better.

This terrible display at the Everfall meant something much more than the end of her dreams of true, true love. It even meant more than a good or awful season for algae harvesters. This meant something to the whole of Achten Tan for the upcoming year. This dark riddle of foul water might still serve as a good thing, if it be held as a warning.

She could be the one to deliver the warning. All the way to Achten Tan itself. This was her destiny. Not true true love.

The year ahead would be a year to survive.

This could be her year to thrive. To be useful to all the people.

Cass didn’t even take a last look at the thunderous beauty of the Everfall before she began her climb down to the rest of her life. To her destiny.

As her mind wandered over the challenges ahead, cataloging the many adventurous tasks to fulfill, Cass didn’t even notice as she stepped on a slimy rock and fell off the side of the cliff.

* * *

A Genealogy of Trees

Benjamin Blattberg

O bright star, hear and learn: the explorer plant sends out questing vines towards light and water. When a questing vine finds such a thriving place, it plants a seedling in a nest of its own nourishing leaves. The questing vine buries itself, the tip of the vine splitting into roots that intertwine with the seedling’s own. This seedling will grow and send forth questing vines of its own, but never lose its connection to the parent vine which bore it, which in turn connects to its own parent, and so on.

In this way, the plants are both alive and part of a greater living web, nourishing each other: transporting water to the thirsty in the dry places and sap to the hungry in the dark places. Thus an explorer plant colony may cover an entire countryside, and, so say the Elvish professors, there is one colony in the northern forests bigger than the span a wild horse could run in a season.

O bright star, now tell me what you have heard and learned.

Serrah finished the litany on explorer plants and waited for her teenage daughter to repeat the lesson, but Cat didn’t seem to be paying attention.

Cat’s foot trailed in the water behind the raft, in the silt kicked up by the turtles’ movement through this narrow part of the river. Serrah watched her, saw that when Cat turned her attention to the world around her, she looked at one of the river boys piloting the turtle caravan that carried them. Serrah watched her daughter see him, his arms sculpted from the work of keeping the turtles on course, but his wrists supple and his movements delicate as he manned his pole.

Serrah laughed at that phrase: manned his pole. The human languages Serrah knew rarely had poetry, but they sometimes tripped and fell into meaning.

Cat’s eyes darted from the boy to her laughing mother, then continued the movement into an expressive roll. Those eyes flashed malachite bright even in the shadows of the river valley at evening, as bright a green as the stained glassware in the chemistry lab at the university.

“Careful,” said Serrah, nodding her head towards Cat’s foot in the water, trying to bring her own attention back to the here and now, away from the university. “Snakes.”

“I’m always careful, mother,” said Cat, kicking her foot out of the water and showing the shockfish skin she had wrapped around herself.

Then Cat closed her eyes and repeated the lesson of the explorer plant, in the same sing-song of academic Elvish that Serrah had used, even her accent matching her mother’s. The rolling assonance of her own words in her daughter’s mouth was a bitter thrill to Serrah, that eternal split of maternal feeling: mine, not-mine.

Serrah thought of this thrill, thought of her own litanies—the ones she had learned, the ones she was even now composing in her mind—as she fell asleep, her bedroll only somewhat softening the hard pine raft tied between two turtles. As she drifted in half-finished rhymes about the Godtree, its seeds and fruit, Serrah felt Cat stand in the darkness, and was instantly awake, a shock of unaccountable fear vibrating through her like a plucked string, the blade in her left hand before she caught herself and remembered to breathe.

Cat stepped onto the rope bridge leading from their raft to the turtle where the river boys drank and sang. That plucked string of fear in Serrah twanged, a whole chorus of worries. She has to learn her own songs, thought Serrah, trying to quiet the chorus which sang back why?

“Careful,” said Serrah, the only thing she could get out from her clenched throat.

“Always,” said Cat, her eyes flashing a smile in the dark before she turned to scamper up the rope bridge, as if she weren’t a thing half-made of stone.

O quick star, hear and learn: in the high western desert that the Elvish professors know as the Late Titanic Shale Uplift, there lives a herd of wild horses of all colors. How did this variety come to be, when most wild herds only show one or two colors?

The riddle masks and marks the solution: This multifarious band did not start wild, but as trained circus horses from several competing circuses among the Western League cities, where they performed for generations, only going wild after a feud left the circus act in tatters and the horse trainers dead or mad.

Fierce and clever, these horses fought off lions and snakes and sandwolves, and soon attracted other horses gone wild, who were taught as well the skills of the circus: to balance and dance and pull together.

So if you go to the Late Titanic Shale Uplift today, you will see young horses beat each other’s legs with sticks held in their mouths and bark commands in the mangled remnants of Western League language. Thus, many centuries since the desert swallowed the League and its circuses, do the traces of the dead horse trainers live on.

O quick star, now tell me what you have heard and learned.

Cat began the litany, each phrase counterpointed by the twin thunks of their walking sticks as her and her mother walked west, the turtle caravan and its river boys days behind them. Cat knew enough to look at the cracked clay and to see the geologic ages: sea bottom, marshland, forest, the Breaking that ripped through the land and made it this wasteland, ridged with buried titan bones.

And towering over it all, the Godtree, the last of its kind, their destination, the end of their quest, standing like an unbroken stylus poised to scrape letters into the waxy sky. The Godtree was impossible to miss as a landmark, and every morning Serrah set her face to it, and sang quietly to herself her half-finished litanies of the Godtrees and their genealogies, her dissertation song, the work that would end their exile from the university.

Cat held her breath as she listened to those litanies, hoping to hear in the cracks of the unfinished rhythms the truths that her mother never said. This was her own private wonder song, a litany of the unknown waiting to be answered, with verse headings for all the questions she could not ask: my father; the tattoos of academic mastery you have peppering your skin and the ones you don’t have and the one that seems inked over; the songblade you carry on your left side and how it got its name.

The chorus repeating: Who are you and who am I and who are we?

When Serrah saw Cat’s questioning eyes, she smiled her unknowable smile and gave Cat a litany to consider instead: wild horses, red-feathered sword quail, the scour winds and the soft winds, the omwegang hunger sickness.

Cat sang the litanies back, occasionally but rarely stumbling over a dropped meter or breathing a caesura in the wrong place, which Serrah corrected as they walked, though never taking her eyes off the Godtree.

Cat too considered the Godtree, the key that would open the doors to the home that she had never known, but only heard about: the libraries whose stacks she had already memorized; the labs she could even now smell over the seared dust and sweet myrtle her mother used when no water-bath was available; the lined faces of the lectores who would nod along as she recited her litanies before adding her own tattoos of mastery, just like her mother’s.

Then, the thought flashed through Cat’s mind, like a fish almost too fast to follow, she will have no more secrets from me.

And, like a smaller fish escaping from that first fish’s mouth, the thought, too fast, too flashing bright to put into words, too sharp to consider for long: Then I will not be alone.

So it was a relief to put away her thoughts when the spear-shaking, giant ant-riding militia rode up to them, with their shouts of “Who goes there?” and “What business do you have with the Achten Tani, old woman?”

Cat had run into wasteland tribes like this before, a mismatched, ragged bunch: a bone cuirass here, leather arm-guards there, stone-edged swords, rusted metal spears; the ants bridled with rope, leather, twine, bone. Cat could smell them even over the tar sands, sweat and sulfur. Cat laughed to keep herself from crying in pity.

Serrah heard the laugh and gave Cat a quick challenging look, a raised eyebrow, the question clear: O savage star, tell me what you have heard and know of giant ants?

Cat sang the litany silently and angrily, grinding into the internal rhymes in the verse on bone meal diets before her anger melted against the flame of her habit and attention. She tapped rhythm with the couplets on the use of red-mallow paste to block pheromone receptors and drive the ants into blind panic, tapping unconsciously at the space on her arm where her tattoo would go to show she had mastered the study of social insects.

Serrah saw that tap, again felt that bitter thrill go through her, a love so piercing it could draw blood. She dropped her walking stick and approached the militia, raising her arms placatingly, slowly, so that her hollow left arm didn’t echo with the click-click-whirr of her songblade re-arranging.

O far-wandering star, hear and learn:

When the Empire of Machines first contemplated the forging of etherships, the generation engine that ruled the empire calculated that etherships would preserve the empire whereas its own self would not. Since the etherships required key components that existed nowhere else but in itself, the generation engine authorized its own dissolution as a sacrifice to reach empires beyond the ether.

Thus when the etherships launched (causing the Abhorrence Flowering; see Otherrealm Gates), the Machines that were left behind had no mechanism for generating new Machines. Many even had no desire, releasing their servitors and shutting down without funeral song.

But several Machines went to the Childan Jungle and began to experiment with the indigenous spiderfolk, seeking to extend their lineage. They had only limited success before they were destroyed by the many hands of the spiders’ first army. There are still some clockwork spiders in the far lands, living often as mystics and hermits and assassins without oath, but not many. It is often said, by the Elvish professors, that the Machines’ enduring legacy is not the clockwork spiders, but the spiderfolk themselves, who to this day will not abide Machine order, even going so far as to introduce flaws in their otherwise symmetrical web cities and to place a single night-mad weaver in every battalion of the army that still patrols their borders.

O far-wandering star, now tell me what you have heard and learned.

This section of the Godtree—less than halfway up and still high enough to be able to see Achten Tan and the whole wasteland, from the tower ruins and plateau in the west to the swamps in the east—had so many branches and leaves that the wooden monkeys could easily hide nearby when Cat began her morning litany, if they would only keep silent.

Instead, they clacked their wooden teeth in laughter as they prepared to throw fruit and hoot and swing around her, all in an attempt to distract her as she tried to repeat the litany. If she broke and swore, they laughed their wood-echoing laughter so hard that it shook ripe fruit off the branches. Sometimes, they would laugh so hard that they fell, catching themselves on branches before the long fall or being caught by their fellows, who in turn would be saved from falling when they laughed too hard.

They were mischievous little imps, and sometimes even Serrah laughed at their antics. Easy for her, since the wooden monkeys listened attentively when Serrah sang, arm-in-arm with their fellows, as if they too were to be tested one day on their knowledge of the Childan Jungle and the Abhorrence Flowering. When the monkeys scored a particularly good trick on Cat, as they had just done with some golden itch berries that grew on the Godtree’s lightning-scarred west side, Cat shook her climbing claws at the monkeys and scowled at her mother’s laughter.

And yet, Cat laughed behind her scowl, shook her climbing claws more in mock-anger. It was good to hear her mother laugh at the monkeys, a pure unalloyed silver sound, a pure hearth-fire feeling.

But soon, Serrah turned her attention back to this morning’s Godtree fruit, as she had picked a fruit each morning they climbed, to split it open and examine the insides, breathing in the sweet and tangy smell of them. Serrah sat crosslegged in the nook of two branches and licked the inside of the fruit, her face hovering between disgust and curiosity. Serrah rolled the taste around her mouth, trying to find the words for it: ginger, plum, lavender, oil, tar, ash.

Serrah was in her own world, humming her secret songs, and Cat had been left behind again, as in a magic mirror show where her own reflection went further into the glass the more she tried to reach it. When Cat finished her litany, with a tremolo-tinged tercet that indicated she could go on to give both the standard view of the Elvish professors and her own interpretation of the litany, Serrah did not correct or praise, but seemed absorbed watching a wooden monkey use its spiky thumb to puncture a Godtree fruit and suck out sweet sticky insides with its multiple, splinter-barbed tongues. Serrah felt almost like she herself was being emptied, torn, drained.

What were the words, what was the language for this feeling?

Serrah began, haltingly, a wonder song: could the monkeys explain why this Godtree’s fruit had no structure and no seeds inside, so unlike the preserved slivers of ancient Godtree fruit she had been shown by the bird-headed monks at Antrim Monastery? (If she had. Had she? Or had she merely read some traveler’s account from ages ago?) Or perhaps the town below—or the lack of water—or—

There were too many unknowns to start theorizing, Serrah knew, so many unknowns that she felt almost dizzy, and yet she felt a song in her breast, felt it strum her heartstrings, felt it vibrate in her fingers to the tree’s own beat. And the song said:

This Godtree is the last of its kind; there are no seeds in the Godtree fruit; there will be no more Godtrees; the Godtrees have decided to die; they have decided to die because your world is dying; the university has crumbled to dust; your sins are worse than punished—they are forgotten.

Now that Serrah let herself sing this litany out, she felt she had always known it: the Godtrees were letting go, letting go was the only thing left to do.

And Serrah saw what was coming: a flowering of evil; songs going sour, harvests of rot; a dark seed burning at the center of the universe; starlight flickering on black petals and then being extinguished by the breath of eternity from that flower; and all becoming—or finally showing that it always was—nothing nothing nothing.

Cat grabbed her mother’s right hand before Serrah fell completely from the branches, held on, screaming her mother’s name as Serrah’s eyes fluttered, her mother’s tattooed face dappled by the leaves as the monkeys raced around them, shaking the branches, and clacking their wooden teeth now in fear. Cat held on with both hands until she felt herself slipping and then grabbed the Godtree trunk with one hand, feeling the rock under her skin dig into the tree, until the wood splintered where she tried to hold on, and she felt herself slip further off the branch unless she let go of her mother.

That dark flower at the center of the universe woke and looked at Serrah in her haze of new understanding. It drew her in like a scent, a bit at a time. It made Serrah feel colorless as over-watered paint dripping to the floor; as powerless as the silt drifting in water stirred by vast and nameless power and brought to the surface to flicker for only a moment in the light before sinking to darkness forever; a thing without will or reason to hold on; preparing to let go.

Until that thing heard her name in song and knew herself not a thing, but Serrah, and heard a litany of herself, the professor-in-waiting, bladesinger, wanderer, daughter, mother. Her mind reached out, grabbed onto that litany like a rope, held on, and then started to pull herself up the melody, out of the darkness.

When Serrah came into the light, when the world stopped spinning and her haze lifted, she found herself caught by the wooden monkeys, arm in arm to form a web suspended from the branches, silent with the effort except for the creaking of their wooden limbs. Not just silent from effort, but silent and listening, listening to Cat sing, sing out a litany that Serrah had never taught her, a song of wonder and terror and love, Cat’s song that was also Serrah’s song and also not.

Serrah reached up to take Cat’s lowered hand and for a long moment after—even after they had caught their breath and the wooden monkeys had grown bored and returned to their clattering games—Serrah held on to Cat’s hand.

Then they continued to climb the Godtree, for there were no true ends on their path, as there are no true ends to our songs, only places to take a breath and prepare to sing again.

* * *

A Short Discussion

Between Old Crawman and His Son, William Crawman Williams

Chris “Terry” Durston

‘Son, you’ve been raised on ribs. You’ve been raised in ribs. You eat ribs. Your house is a giant rib. Your family business is in ribs. Ribs paid for you to live in... a rib. Where would you be without ribs?’

‘Autofellating?’

‘Get out.’

* * *

Rrekwe’m of Blood

Allison N. Moore

The citizens of Satama cheer as the xenthalor impales the human with the massive spike that forms the end of its tail. It protrudes out of the man’s back as a brilliant red spear, a spattering of blood coating the sandy arena floor. Seated above in the center of a large platform, Virago Aislinn Rrekwe’m, warrior chieftain of the Svaalti elves, looks on. A reserved smile pulls at the edges of her glossy lips as the human looks down at his chest in horror, spasming and sputtering as the xenthalor lifts his body into the air. The crowd cheers again as the beast grabs him with all four of its arms and pulls his body in four separate directions. He briefly screams in agony as his bones pop and snap. His skin tears, followed by muscle as he is separated into four unevenly-sized chunks.

The beast roars in satisfaction, thick saliva dripping from razor-sharp teeth the size of daggers. The crowd enthusiastically reciprocates, standing and roaring back with approval, their cheers almost loud enough to drown out the beast. Aislinn remains seated in her ornate throne. She allows her citizens a moment of elation before wordlessly raising one slender hand. In an instant, the crowd falls silent and returns to their seats.

She turns her gaze towards her advisor, Vaola, who bows her head respectfully as she gleans the meaning of the look. “The next will be the last, Virago. The half-elf man called Narain.” Her voice is sweet as nectar and filled with the pride of pure blood passed down to her from her ancestors.

Aislinn’s smile dips. There should have been one more. One of her own betrayed them, setting free the white-haired human named Saphira. Aislinn’s jaw tightens as she clenches and unclenches her fists. Letting out a steady breath, she turns her attention back to the matter at hand—Narain. She’d saved him for last.

She nods her thanks to Vaola and slowly rises, Vaola and Seer Olammin beginning to rise as well. With a casual, yet elegant wave, Aislinn motions for them to remain. Obsequiously, they obey as she descends the stairs towards the arena. Thousands of elven eyes watch her every step. She holds her head high, reveling in the gasps of awe and slack-jawed stares of the men and women lining the aisle as she passes by. She made sure to place as many commoners as possible here, ones who would normally only see her from a distance. It’s times like these that she most needs their support.

General Rolinn meets her at the bottom platform near one of the reinforced metal gates leading to the arena. The metallic stench of blood wafts out towards her. Rolinn drops to his knees, unsheathing his sword and placing it on the ground at her feet, keeping his eyes downcast.

“Rise,” Aislinn commands. He nods and takes up his sword as he stands before her with impeccable poise, his emerald eyes unwavering as they meet hers. She offers him a small nod. “Clear the arena and fetch me the half-blood.”

Rolinn nods and immediately turns to his men, shouting orders. Twenty silver-armored men and women hastily gather before the gates. Aislinn patiently waits as they enter the arena. She catches a glimpse of the xenthalor stomping its feet as it catches sight of them, its black chitinous scales shimmering along its arched back, the spikes lining its spine standing on end like an agitated cat. The door closes and for several minutes she simply stares it, listening to the roaring, growling, and shouting as her warriors herd the beast back into its pen. It doesn’t take long, the creature knows to expect a sizable meal waiting for it inside.

The gate swings open and Rolinn and several other warriors greet her with a formal bow. She responds with a small dip of her head before stepping inside onto the soft sand as they stand to the side. She glances towards several warriors dragging the prisoners’ body parts from the arena. She glances at Rolinn.

“Make sure they keep the heads.”

He passes the order to one of his subordinates and they jog away to inform the others. Aislinn stops near the center of the arena. Her warriors fan out on either side of her, several steps in front, careful not to block her view of the prisoner as he is led out of the cells. The crowd jeers and offers him numerous offensive gestures as two warriors escort him towards her.

Rolinn shouts a single command and the warriors guarding Aislinn react with precise discipline, drawing their weapons and pointing them towards the prisoner, taking up defensive postures. Aislinn eyes each of them carefully and is not disappointed. None of her personal guards would have the audacity to hold themselves to anything less than the highest of standards. Her eyes linger on Rolinn’s back, his long, straight golden hair draping over his squared shoulders down to his narrow, taut waist. His lithe form and stance are the image of perfection.

She pries her eyes away as the half-blood approaches. Her lip curls as she examines his short, stocky build, like a block of clay half-finished by the same creator that sculpted the elves. His pointed ears are barely long enough to protrude beyond his curly, sandy blond locks. She struggles to hold his gaze, her stomach roiling as she stares into his brown irises. They are not a warm honied amber or the brilliant gold of the twin suns, but dark and muddied like a river after a storm.

The two warriors force the prisoner to his knees. His face contorts into grief as he glances toward the pile of bodies at the edge of the arena. Trembling, he looks up at her with tears glistening in his eyes.

“Why? Why would you do this?” His use of the common tongue grates her ears.

She glares down at him and raises her chin. Reluctantly, she decides not to respond in elvish, uncertain if he would understand. She wishes for him to understand. “You know why. You take what should be held sacred and pervert it for your pleasure. If you are not punished, then we may all be forced to pay for your crimes.” The foreign words leave a foul taste in her mouth.

His grief transforms to rage. “I don’t believe that for a second. You’re just a heartless bitch who gets her rocks off watching people die!”

Rolinn steps forward and presses his blade to the man’s throat. “Watch your tongue, half-blood! You address Virago Aislinn Rrekwe’m and you shall show respect.”

His elvish accent is common, and while it likely sounds odd to the human, Aislinn finds it pleasing, almost musical. Part of her envies him, but her royal ancestors learned long ago that they must sometimes make small sacrifices to properly negotiate with the other races such as forcing their tongues and lips to make unpleasant sounds. She would have to teach Rolinn to do the same if she chose him to rule by her side. The thought of tainting him in such a way weighed down her heart.

Forcing the thoughts from her mind, Aislinn steps forward past her line of warriors. Gently, she places one hand on Rolinn’s shoulder. Without argument, he lowers his sword and turns towards her, dropping to his knees.

“Forgive me, Virago.”

“Give me your sword,” she responds.

He holds it up to her as an offering, raising his face to hers. She reaches down and takes it by the hilt. With sharp scrutiny, she examines the blade, taking in all aspects of it—the heft, balance, sharpness of its edges, cleanliness, and the small fluctuations of the metal formed during the forging process. Again, she is not disappointed. She looks back down to Rolinn and for a split second, his resolve waivers, a flicker of uncertainty flashing across his eyes.

She holds back a smile as she extends one leg towards him. A soft gust of breath escapes him. He quickly composes himself as he takes her foot and slips off her crystal slipper, not allowing his hands or eyes to wander too far up her calf. He sets the slipper aside and she offers him her other foot, repeating the process.

Once both slippers are removed, she removes her crown. Part of her is glad to be rid of it. It is incredibly heavy and the small gems that dangle over her forehead often annoy her, however, she could not deny its magnificence. The headband of metal that stretches over her skull supports slender feathers two hands tall on either side forged of pure silver. She lowers the crown to Rolinn and he takes it with careful reverence. She turns away from him toward the prisoner and his two guards.

“Release him,” she commands.

They unshackle the prisoner and force him to his feet. She nods to the female warrior to his right. She quickly obeys the unspoken command, offering her sword to the half-elf hilt first.

The man looks towards the sword as he rubs his wrists, then towards Aislinn. “What’s this?”

Aislinn meets his gaze. “Defeat me, and you shall go free.”

He arches one eyebrow as he eyes her immaculate white silk dress, encased in a jewel-encrusted edging that drapes to the floor like raindrops suspended in a spider’s web. His gaze lingers on the plunging neckline revealing a generous portion of her pale chest.

“You want me to fight you?” he asks, like a dumbfounded child. She simply nods as the other warriors surrounding them back away to a reasonable distance. He scoffs as he eyes their weapons. “They’ll just kill me anyway.”

“I swear by the Godtree, they will not.” She glances towards the large pen behind him. “If you prefer, I will release the… ‘tar wyrm’.” She almost rolls her eyes at the common name given to the creature. Humans never were an exceptionally creative race.

He glances behind him and grimaces. Shaking his head, he takes the sword offered to him and the warrior retreats with the rest. “Alright…”

He grips the sword with both hands as if it is a club, holding it parallel to his body as he widens his stance. His shoulders are low and his back subtly arched, his feet facing odd directions. She’d waited for the prisoners to recover from the intoxicated state in which they’d arrived a week earlier, but it clearly did little to improve their skills in combat.

Sighing, Aislinn widens her stance to a high lunge with her weight shifted towards the rear, tightening her core and keeping her shoulders square, holding the blade parallel to the ground in front of her face, gazing down the long steel to align with the prisoner’s chest. The half-blood swallows dryly as he registers the fact that she is not to be taken lightly. Perhaps he is reconsidering his odds against the wyrm, but it’s too late for him to turn back now.

Eager to end this miserable excuse of a life, Aislinn makes the first move. In a flash of silver, the prisoner attempts to parry. She allows him to do so and spins in the opposite direction of the deflection, coming around to his unguarded side and slashing out. He stumbles forward, holding a bloody gash under his ribs. The crowd cheers. Aislinn circles him, watching with cold sapphire blue eyes as he defiantly holds up his sword towards her, keeping her at bay.

She shakes her head at him in disgust. “You are pathetic. I can only pray the gods will be satisfied by your blood and spare the rest of us from your sins.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” He growls as he lunges.

Effortlessly, she avoids him and in return sinks her blade through his stomach. She steps to the side as he retches and falls to his knees, dropping his sword and sending up a small plume of dust. Scoffing, she pulls out the blade and leaves him gasping, holding his wound in a vain attempt to slow the bleeding. She stares down at him with her lip curled. Such a useless race—unable to even put up a decent fight. They held the fate of the world in their hands, and yet refused to acknowledge it. She feared their Godfruit addiction was incorrigible, and this would mean their doom. She steps up behind him and with one forceful and precise strike separates his head from his shoulders. A stream of blood spurts into the air. The majority of it stains the sand beside her, but several warm droplets sprinkle her skin.

The crowd erupts in cheers as the prisoner’s head rolls across the sand and his body slumps to the ground. She raises her eyes to them and they cheer louder, some standing as they chant her name. She lowers her gaze but does not give the dead half-blood a second glance. Instead, she turns to her warriors patiently waiting behind her.

They all kneel as she approaches Rolinn. She extends her feet one at a time for him to replace her slippers, then returns her crown. Once it is securely back on her head, she tips his chin up to look up at her.

“What would you have us do with them, Virago?” he asks.

She tilts her head to one side as she studies him. “What would you do?”

He hesitates, but only briefly. “Send their heads back to Achten Tan as a message to those heathens.”

She nods. He smiles in return as she pulls on his chin, signaling for him to stand. He does so, standing straight before her. She offers him his sword and he takes it, wiping it off before sheathing it. Looking down, she frowns at the small red stains on her dress. She looks back up at Rolinn.

“It appears I am in need of refreshment. It would please me for you to be my escort.”

Rolinn eagerly nods. “The pleasure would be mine.”

He steps beside her. She places her hand on the inside crook of his arm as they walk together from the arena.

* * *

PART II: SUMMER

Some Her Rises

@isparkit

Some; follow her

Some; follow him

Some; follow another

Er, some more please, sir?

We follow, and flow; forge and forage

Hollow, these bodies have become seedlings

Saplings, the God Tree carnes within hearts, carves flesh, craves freedom

As the bone of those mammoths before us, bores within us, born to die

Our ribs too shelter secrets, swelter in the sun

Deserts, just desserts …

The East skullgate gapes, smiles; could close her mouth

Letting the Lord of the Flies in to swarm doom amongst us

We were motley, we’ve gathered moss - over many a matter we gloss

As children climb the spires, they aspire

Expire or refine their Tartule, their An’cher status

Consuming that raised, razing raison d’etre

Et al en masse wander,

Listless, reasonless, abateless

A wyrm w/hole w/e wonder

A skeleton astride C’Naga defying life rebirthed

Dom staved, doom savored

Bone-flacking dust, comet dusting sky

Yet the eye does not look within without

Debris (for no hubris) details the lost

(though our bodies do not lay the land) The ants march on

Dolphin dives, Drisco shines; suns dip low again

Our peace, in pieces, is nigh

Giant ants clamber from giants’ tombs

Acid rain spills over from molten tar pits

From newly excavated caves —

Both open & hidden; they are present

Pre.sent, people; be.

The Teref and algae farmers now harvest red berries

It precipitates; soon they’ll chant

We attempt wielding glass shards and helmets

Mirroring prior predicament

Spring forth: Summer bound to Fall

Apex; when days shorten, where desire lengthens

Shadows extend, peace retracts

Covering tracks, we fall

To sleep many succumb

The earth will open before the God Tree

The Satama will claim the subterrain

The Elves settle Nh’var Tan, the Under Place

Ar’Dyoun rise from the Southern caves

Cave, cave, as you eat the ribsss

As you munch on boness

As blight is declared blessings

A third will reflect and seek afresh

Sons, go West

West is where you will expand, my daughter

A pod of time, with obsidian overlay

Dust ribs with algae and other offerings

The red berries will purify Jed’s lunacy

With appeased thirst comes clarity of mind

Soon you will see, Soon some will see

Not all that wander are lost

Not all that is

* * *

Beneath the Ribs: Summer

Dan Berison

Summer Special: “Hunky-Honky Ribs, Infused with cacklin’ fruit gravy”

Laid on the floor of Jan’s Ribs, Silas felt like his stomach was about to explode. He’d just tasted the summer special for the first time and lost all willpower to stop. He’d eaten a quarter of a rib in under an hour.

‘Crawman’s worked his magic again,’ he mumbled. Pallora whined beside him, equally as stuffed.

The ribs were remarkable, but the true power of the North Ribs Ribs was in the sauce. So rich, so tasty, the cacklin’ gravy was to die for. Thick and sticky, it took every ounce of his strength just to free the meat from his hands.

The sign of a good sauce, Hambo proclaimed excitedly only yesterday.

Elsa ambled past them, ignoring them as she pushed the emptied rib into the waste chute, destined for the ancient tunnels beneath the city, uninhabited for centuries.

She was just about to walk away when the chute door rattled energetically and the discarded rib shot back through the opening and into the room. At the same time, there was a huge squealing sound and the room froze in panic. They knew that sound.

‘Veng!’ a terrified Gramps shouted as he reached a hand down to pick up Silas.

‘What’s a veng?’

‘Horrid carnivorous creatures, burrowers, predators. Teeth the size of a full-grown hob.’

The chute rattled again and flapped outwards as the huge beast tried to push its way through. A horrid stench filled the air, causing several to gag. Veng did not smell nice. The veng bit into the bench next to Pallora, causing it to splinter.

Silas grabbed a half-eaten rib and smacked it against its nose whilst Gramps and Hambo slashed at it with the sharpened bone-finger cutlery. They were holding it at bay, but not for long. The whole room trembled, causing a pot of cacklin’ gravy to spill out across the floor. It cooled immediately on the cold stone surface. Gramps tried to move but failed; the sauce setting like concrete. A plan formed.

‘Use the sauce, Silas!’ Gramps shouted. ‘Seal it up!’

Silas understood. Placing a pack of rib-tips on a large platter, he drizzled it in cacklin’ gravy and hoisted it upwards. With Pallora helping, he held it in front of him like a shield and pushed towards the chute, placing it over the aperture. The veng snarled viciously, prodding its nose into the shield. And then the sauce cooled. The effect was immediate.

Not understanding the danger of cacklin’ gravy until too late, the veng’s nose stuck in the hole, glued to the platter. It screeched and squealed frantically, but no matter how much it pulled, it couldn’t get free. It took three days for the veng to die. Three days before Jan’s Ribs could open again.

‘Now that was a sticky situation,’ Gramps cackled as he reminisced over a hot pot of cacklin’ gravy. Silas simply shook his head in disgust at another appalling joke. Gramps should know better.

* * *

Om-Noms, The Holy Ones

Chris “Terry” Durston

Being a Historical Comedie in but One Shorte Acte, thatte such a Performance may be Mightily Enjoyed by the Many Peoples in the Briefest and Moste Efficacious Mannere.

The setting is thus: an Imagined Reconstructionne of a Past Time in the Historie of Achten Tan, thatte a Morall Fable might be spunne.

Any Resemblance that might be Borne to those Non-Fictionalle Citizennes of Achten Tan, be they Living or be they Passed On, be not Purely Coincidental but for Legal Purposes is herewith Stated: At Least Mostly Coincidental.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

- CRUMPT, a Gnomee

- CRAWMAN the YOUTH, a Restaraunteure

- BARTIMAEZEL, a Mysterious Visittor from the Heavens

- JEZEBONE, a Filthee Whoore

Enter CRUMPT and JEZEBONE.

CRUMPT: Dear Jezebone, sweet Jezebone, my love

When may poor Crumpt once more caress thy breasts?

JEZEBONE: You frugalest of gnomes!

You give me no hot meal and expect that I

Should be willing to grant a dirty fondle?

You’ve no manner with women.

CRUMPT: Yet there lieth before me no such food

That I might grant, e’en willing as I am.

This city, Achten Tan, is e’er starving,

And poor Crumpt has for his due

Not a single slice of dirty ham.

CRUMPT attempteth to deploy a Firm Squeeze upon the bosom of Jezebone, who shalt dismay the Gnomee’s Lecherous Digits with a hearty Slappe.

JEZEBONE: Then how mayst thou explain

Yon endeavour so successful

Whereupon the sale of meat most juicy -

And juicier e’en than I, mark thee -

That Crawman the Youth hath established?

Enter CRAWMAN the YOUTH.

CRAWMAN: Alright?

JEZEBONE: Good sir, with pockets lined of gold,

Mark me!

For this callous gnome shall expect for free

All the range of wares I have to hock:

From a gentle kiss to rear-end stuff.

And in exchange not even a plate to fill my belly!

CRAWMAN: Oh. That’s no good, is it?

CRUMPT: This lady, if a lady she doth be,

Hath cast doubt upon mine generosity!

You must tell me, O vendor of fine mealings,

The secret of thine success, that I might find

Myself in throes of lavish woman-feelings!

CRAWMAN: You want me to let you in on how I’m making my business a success so that you can bone a prostitute?

CRUMPT: Thine laconic and cutting speech doth express

This is a man with cloaked and veiled success

The secret t’which he shall not willingly part.

CRAWMAN: Did you mean to say that out loud? ‘Cos you were sort of staring off, but I could hear you.

CRUMPT: Foiled!

JEZEBONE: I do think I shall leave you, gnome

And seek th’embrace of a real man with real gold!

CRAWMAN: I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’ll knock you up a plate of wings at my restaurant, North Ribs Wings!

JEZEBONE and CRAWMAN doth take each other by the Arme, that they might make Hayste to the Bedde and perhaps Less Haste thereafter. Suddenlye their Progress is Halted by the Appearance of BARTIMAEZEL, who doth Glowe with a Mysterious Aura. (Which might be achieved, with Grave Cautionne that the Mistaykes of the Premiere might not be Repeatedde, by the Settinge Alighte of the Actor’s Clothinge.)

BARTIMAEZEL: Halt thee, Restauranteur.

CRAWMAN: Oh, shit.

JEZEBONE: Can it be? Doth my newfound proprietor

Have connections reaching e’en heavenward?

I have dug for gold, and gold I have unearthed!

BARTIMAEZEL: Tell me, O Crawman of the Feeding:

How is it that thou cometh to thine luxury?

When all of Achten Tan doth struggle

E’en to find but a single potato or a peanut

That might feed the hungriest babe.

CRAWMAN: Look, I’ve already been through all the proper processes. We’ve had the inspection, we’ve passed all that, we were audited and that was fine, and all our suppliers are reputable -

BARTIMAEZEL: Holdwith thine babbling!

Your tongue is like a giant rib

In which a Tanite builds their home:

Sharp, perhaps, but dead.

JEZEBONE: What can this visitor be implying?

Is North Ribs Wings less reputable than’t seems?

BARTIMAEZEL: Four score and nine of my kind

Hath now descended, messages to convey:

Great warnings and potents that must be spake

The harbingers of Achten Tan’s great fate.

Yet these warnings hath been heeded not

Nor hath my brethren heavenward returned,

And lo! What should I smell one morn

But th’scent of spice, and angel meat thus burned?

The next Line spoken by CRAWMAN the YOUTH to be Delivered Unconvincinglyee, if the Prowess of the Actor doth allow.

CRAWMAN: What? Oh, no. Surely not.

JEZEBONE: Alas! We hath all eaten

Of the meat of th’ambassadors

That come to show us divine grace!

CRUMPT: All but I, for I can ever ill afford

To dine at such presumptuous tables.

Ha! My lack of coin doth now me aid,

For I am innocent!

CRAWMAN: I’ve also been putting angel meat in the food packages for underprivileged gnomes.

CRUMPT: Fuck!

BARTIMAEZEL: You, Crawman, must now come with me

And meet thine heavenly judgement for thy sins

No more shalt thou distribute juicy meats

That you hath ground from angels’ ribs and wings.

BARTIMAEZEL taketh a Firm Holde of CRAWMAN and doth begin to Ascend to Heaven. (Which might be achieved, with Grave Cautionne that the Mistaykes of the Premiere might not be Repeatedde, by the Bouncingge of the Actor upon a Large Springge.) Before the Ascension might be completedde, JEZEBONE doth strike BARTIMAEZEL with a Bigge Sworde.

CRUMPT: Jezebone! From whence hath thou

Withdrawn that Bigge Sworde?

JEZEBONE: Thou wanteth not to know.

BARTIMAEZEL: Ow! Fuck! What the actual shit?!

JEZEBONE: I am sorry, divine heav’nly guest,

But I am in love with Crawman, though it be capricious.

I will not let thee take him. And the rest

Is that I also think thou looketh quite delicious.

JEZEBONE and CRAWMAN doth finish the acte of Killinge the Angel, that he might be Dismembered and Consumed.

CRAWMAN: Much obliged; I’ll get him on the grill now.

Exit JEZEBONE and CRAWMAN, carryinge the Deceasede Boddye of BARTIMAEZEL.

CRUMPT: Good heavens, or bad heavens, that’s the rub.

Who knoweth what punishment may strike for such

A deed, done both in malice and in knowledge?

I surely hope that this transgression not

Define a future, such that Achten Tan be cursed.

And the moral of the story, fair audience, be:

Though today’s Old Crawman surely is

Much greater and more reputable than

This past fiction hath presented,

It remaineth good habit, just in case, to ever

Check thine ribs for any trace of feathers.

Exeunt.

* * *

A Short Theatrical Production of “Om-Noms, The Holy Ones

Acted out in the style of a “Radio Drama” and LINKED HERE for your audio pleasure.

Reproduction of the Common Boggoliz

(An Excerpt)

Ian Barr

Written by Mick ‘Booggoliz’ Dunderp[1]

The Boggoliz, a reptilian species hailing from fetid swamps and brackish marshlands, have peculiar mating rituals. Most people have only seen females of the species, as the sexual dimorphism of the Boggoliz is exemplified in the smaller males, generally only one third the size of their female counterparts. The male body mass primarily consists of the virile gonads that keeps the species alive, fertilizing up to one thousand of the female’s eggs per breeding session.

Boggoliz spawn are fully formed and ready for birth after three cycles of the larger of our moons (approximately three-hundred and forty-one days) and the pregnant Boggoliz are able to function day-to-day as normal until halfway through the pregnancy. Once the spawn have come to term, they burrow out of their mother (usually in a violent explosion that leaves the broodmother fighting for her life) and are driven to hunt down their father, identifying him by scent and tracking him by means of a mental link. The one who successfully catches and devours their paternal relative is decided to be the alpha of this new brood and will become their leader once they have matured to adults.

If the alpha is a female spawn, she will become a highly desirable mate and males will often fight to the death for her attention and amusement. If the alpha is a male, his gonads will become so large that he is unable to move and will be dragged about by his kin until he passes on his genetic material.

* * *

1 Note that Boggoliz are at their most dangerous when breeding. Dunderp himself was consumed by a pack of broodmothers in the final phases of their pregnancy after failing to sufficiently disguise himself as a mammoth mud toad in the bogs near Achten Tan.

Quietus

CD Storiz

All that I own, I carry on my back: A few trinkets to remember my mother; her carving tools, and a walking staff, carved from the branch of a tamarisk tree. On one end of my staff, I carved an arrowhead out of bone. Its purpose is twofold; I use the staff for balance and to pull the dead weight of my leg through the sand. The arrowhead is used for protection. I am teased for my deformity. My walking stick has been my constant companion since the accident. Strangers see my limp and underestimate me, but I can defend myself. Though lately, I am weak from hunger. So, I fend for myself and curse the gods as I silently pray for my death.

In the distance, through the dusty haze, are the cliffs of the plateau. Geologic layers of time give some clues to the past. And, they foretell the future; that life in Achten Tan will be harsh. The midday sun bakes my skin and continues to chap my lips. They’re so badly cracked, I wince from the pain.

There are other orphans who wander the sand-filled streets and collect bone fragments for food. I’ve seen the bruises on the children. Rumors of Orem’s deviant ways makes my skin crawl. And I want no part of it. I don’t trust Orem, a pliant follower of Opu Haku, and try to find my own way. I scavenge for remains of a world long gone and peddle my wares in the market, sometimes begging for food. The wealthy with their guilt-ridden faces click their tongues at me and throw me a coin or purchase one of the carved figurines I whittled from the bone and branches of pinyon.

It isn’t enough to buy back my home, but it is enough to buy food when I’m hungry. Though lately no one is selling their wares. The Craven have been attacking our dismal city; for what reason, I can’t understand.

Malika, one of the orphans collecting bones, reminds me so much of my sister that I ache. She has the same sunbaked skin and big brown eyes with tiny flecks of gold. She urges me to collect bone fragments and tells me the food isn’t so bad. It fills her empty belly and gives her a reason to continue. But I want more than just to collect bone fragments for the bone master. The shards remind me of what I’ve lost, and the pain is still too real.

I want to save the coin I earn to pay for training. I want to be a turtle rider and take to the sea. But that is costly. Near the center of Achten Tan, the villagers constellate as they wait for the bone master to make an appearance. They sing his praises and make way for him. I inch my way through the crowd, hoping to get a glimpse of him. Perhaps he will bless me with magic, but he is surrounded by sycophants and I am pushed to the ground like trash. I smile as I pick their pockets. I am especially pleased with lifting godfruit paste from someone’s pocket along with a handful of coins. I remember when my father rode with the an’chers on their harnessed g’ants — giant ants that tower over us. This left my mother, younger sister, and I to fend for ourselves; though mother refused to believe he wouldn’t return. “He’s a warrior now,” she would say with a distant longing in her eyes. But he never returned from the last war.

Today, it is a parade of some sort. As the crowd merges to cheer the an’chers riding into Achten Tan on their g’ants, I am pushed aside. The villagers sneer and call me ‘ulnoth’, meaning ‘dirt beneath my feet’. I am nobody. Undesired. Unloved. Someday, I’ll show them. Not wanting to take part in the festivities, I leave through the west gate near the 400-meter tall Godtree. I despise the an’chers and the g’ants they ride on.

I walk for what seems like hours, searching for nothing in particular, but anything of use. The juniper and sage brush clings to the dry, sandy earth—not willing to give up the last vestige of hope of staying rooted, thirsting for water. But clear skies with only a wisp of cirrus clouds deny this parched desert land. I try to remember the last time it rained. Too long ago. When the skies finally opened up, the people of Achten Tan praised the gods, but the rain wasn’t the blessing they prayed for. Its bitter acid wreaked havoc on those caught in its path —my mother and younger sister included.

Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I too had perished in the rains which caused the earth to open up and swallow everything we’d worked for.

As I rest under the scant shade of a tamarisk tree, the heat plays tricks on me. In the mirage under the midday sun, a figure approaches. It, too, is scavenging. It has matted fur, bleached from the sun, and is filled with specks of drifting sand. I see nothing but skin and bones, under its matted fur, but it appears friendly as it wags its tail. Perhaps it senses my hobbled leg and doesn’t see me as a threat.

I cautiously extend my hand. His nose is cool and wet. He sniffs my hand and then sits on his haunches, his tail still wagging. His ears perk as I reach my hand behind them and give them a rub. “I have no food,” I explain, as if expecting an answer in return. It is a lie, but I only have a handful of berries, the stolen godfruit paste, and a stale bannock. He tilts his head and gives me a saddened expression and then scampers off. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I pull a few of the berries from my satchel and pop them in my mouth. I hate the bitter taste of zentlor berries, and they wreak havoc on my stomach. But when you’re living alone on the streets of Achten Tan, you eat what you can find. The lack of food and the exasperating heat makes me tired. I take the stolen godfruit paste and let it dissolve on my tongue; its hallucinogenic effects lull me to sleep and I dream of my mother and sister.

They are collecting shards just outside the North Ribs of Achten Tan in the bone fields. I refused to help them that day. I complained my gimp leg—mangled by a g’ant when I was just a child — was in pain. But honestly, it is just an excuse to get out of the boring work of collecting bone shards. My mother, a gifted artist, uses the shards to create unique jewelry for the wealthy residents. People travel from afar to have a piece she created. She gives me shards to whittle away at, which I use as toys. It is enough to help support our family, that and what my father sends home until we receive word the hunting party was lost on a mission. Without my father’s income, we are starving. The war has made the pockets of the rich lean. They haven’t been buying my mother’s wares, yet she continues to carve and piece together the bones into intricate designs.

Before my mother and sister leave that day, I see an an’cher in the distance. The memory of father riding off on one of the giant ants, the same creature that mangled my leg, disgusts me. Mother senses my agony, touches my face, and gives me a reassuring smile as she offers a taste of godfruit paste to ease the pain. I greedily take the paste, and let it dissolve on my tongue, licking my lips. My mother kisses my cheek and tells me to rest while my sister mocks me behind my mother’s back.

“I know you’re lying,” she whispers, but doesn’t tell mother.

I give her a wry smile and ruffle her inky, long hair.

I close my eyes as the gentle rain pitter patters across the roof of our mud hut, not knowing when I fell asleep. I am awakened by the neighbors screaming out that the earth has shifted. People run from their homes, lamenting about the damage and loved ones lost.

With my walking staff in hand, I stumble into the chaotic streets; trying to get someone, anyone, to answer my questions. My heart sinks when I am told the quake was in the bone fields. The bile burns at the back of my throat; even though I am dreaming, I can taste it. Though there was a chance of survivors, I know in the depths of my hardened heart my mother and sister are not among them. I felt it.

I am jolted awake by the screams in my dream but realize as I wipe the grogginess from my eyes the sound echoing off the desert sand is real. I hear a screeching noise that draws me to my feet. I follow the eerie sound. Behind an enormous boulder, an injured g’ant cries out. He has a broken leg. The sharp claws at the end of it twitch back and forth as his thorax writhes. At first, I am glad. It’s as if the gods have paid back the pain I felt when a g’ant crushed my leg. But his endless cries makes my breath hitch.  I walk away, covering my ears with my hands, leaving it to die alone in the desert.

I am not ten meters from the beast as the sun sets on the horizon, turning the sky from a deep crimson to violet, and I hear my name whispered on the zephyr. The winds gently ease through the boneyards of Achten Tan, whistling as they bring tiny swirls of sand to my feet. The lyrical sound beckons me to the Everfall, where ominous shadows chase rainbows in the mist. But when I turn to reply, not a soul is in sight; only the ant who appears to have tears in his compound eyes. And I can’t help but wonder if they are salty tears or bitter, like mine. In the desert mirage I see my mother wagging her finger, telling me I know what to do when an animal is maimed. I cannot leave the g’ant to die on his own.  My mother’s spirit will not allow it. In the palm of my hand is a stale bannock. It is all the food I have left. I hold my breath as the giant ant uses its antennae to examine my offering. His mandibles click together before nibbling small bits and taking it into his mouth. The food mixed with saliva intrigues me, as ants rarely eat solid food as adults. I am terrified and in awe at the same time as he ingurgitates it.

My mother’s voice again appears in the wind, “Lehi, my son, you know what you must do.”

Though I hate the beast and blame it for my leg, and blame it for my father marching off, I do not have the courage to stab it. If I leave the creature as night falls, he will become a meal for some wild thing. If he survives and the other an’chers see it, they will kill it. I look at the g’ant and he cocks his head to one side, his mandibles clicking. I don’t understand what he is saying to me, but I sense he is pleading for a quickened death.

I run my hands through my hair, mustering inner strength. If only I hadn’t taken the last of my godfruit paste. I could at least ease his pain. I consider walking back to Achten Tan and pulling the fruit from the tree, but I know it must be boiled to take effect. I feel a gentle breeze against my cheek, soft like my mother’s kiss goodnight and I know what I must do. I pull the bone-carved blade from the sheath at my waist and wipe the tears from my eyes.

With a trembling hand stroking the creature, I sing a lullaby my mother used to sing to me as I pull back my other hand. The setting sun caresses the earth in shades of vermillion as the horizon seeps into the coming darkness. As the two moons rise; the beast cries no more.

This story is dedicated to my Dad.

* * *

Recipe for An’cher Burgers

Darius Bearguard

From the Kitchen of Susanah Depoin

The life of an an’cher affords no room to waste, so even when an ant is critically injured, or sadly has to be put down because they’ve gone feral, we find a way to use the resources given to us by the great tree. This was my father’s favorite meal, and now I’ve updated it to work with ant meat.

Directions

1. To prepare the ant meat it’s important to sever the gaster from the mesosoma and head, as there are fluid sacks that can spoil the meat. Boil the mesosoma and the head without removing legs, antenna, or mandibles to preserve the meat inside the hard carapace. Once boiled for an hour the hard carapace should be easy enough to peel back with a knife, and from there you’re left with delicious ant meat.

2. Grind the meat, and mix in finely diced onion, relish, rib sauce, and seasoning. Do not overwork the meat. Add the egg and small amounts of rib dust until the mixture sticks together easily.

3. Form into patties and grill over high heat until cooked through.

4. Serve with fixings as desired, and enjoy.

Recipe for Craven burgers

Darius Bearguard

From the Kitchen of Chief Shaman Tark’Na’Ma

Directions

1. Raid Achten Tan.

2. Kill the an’chers.

3. Eat their burgers.

Harmonies of the Dead

Erin Rae Hoffer

Wearing her dead mother’s flute necklace transformed Nal’uin. (Illustration by E.R. Hoffer)

Wearing her dead mother’s flute necklace transformed Nal’uin. She brushed rough knuckles under the tinkling beige tubes and felt emptiness. In the mirror shard reflection, she tilted her lined face to study the ornament and combed the gray strands squiggling in deep brown. She closed her dark eyes to summon a memory of her dead parents, Aldis and Lan’ina, the hardest working an’chers in the village.

The warped bone door of the hut squealed open. Niskan, her brother, burst into the room.

With a stiff smile, she studied his leathered face. “How was it?”

“I hate you.” He frowned, shook his head, and ran blistered hands through his unkempt locks, releasing a cloud of sand. “It was amazing.”

She shook her head and gestured with a thumb to the paddock where their string of titanomyrma, giant ants, scratched in the sand, mandibles clicking. “We need you here.”

“We?” He raised an eyebrow and noticed her outfit. “I thought you got rid of that stuff.”

She covered her chest with both hands. “Don’t change the subject. We’ve got to keep them fed. It’s too hard and dangerous by myself. If we have another attack…”

Niskan stepped closer and grabbed her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “It’s been more than a year. The Craven are gone.”

He gently pushed her hands aside and tapped the calcium tubes with his fingers. “I know you’re tone-deaf. You should give it to a musician, or a family with children.”

She tightened her lips in a wounded look, turning back to the jagged glass.

He sat atop an egg-shaped stool, pulled his hair back, and spoke with widening eyes. Niskan described how the village’s bone-dwellers came out of homes in the leviathan’s skeletal remains, and an’chers stopped roping and riding their giant ants to gather and celebrate the crew of adventurers that embarked on a risky mission into the desert.

“You should have heard the Chief’s send-off speech! They had a massive flag with ‘Bog Signal Mission’ in red letters! The an’chers built wagons for the journey, a rig with a hoist and pulley for the second helmet. It’s so massive that Bil’ain and Alsuat harnessed their four strongest tites to pull the thing. When they get to Wizard’s Tower, they’ll use it to send back messages from the edge of the world! Imagine the discoveries!”

Her brother raised his feet and balanced with his elbows the way he did as a child. “Since I can’t go, I volunteered for shifts at the station. We’ll monitor the mission from inside the village helmet.”

She pulled up a stool beside him and dabbed a cloth to his face, shining with excitement and beads of sweat. “What a waste. The important work is here, on the an’ch.”

“Don’t start, Nal. I’ll keep up with my chores.” He pushed the cloth away. “You’ve been spending too much time with the livestock. You’re picking up their culture.” He pressed hands to his temples, rolled his eyes, and clacked his teeth, imitating one of the giant ants in the herd, trying to get a smile. “An’cher males are good for more than propagation, you know. I don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Nal’uin knew better. Her brother had his eye on Alsuat. He was angry to miss out on an adventure with her. Brothers were so transparent.

A week later, Niskan and Nal’uin stood with a crowd of anxious an’chers and bone-dwellers near the base of the Godtree. The titanomyrma of the Bog Signal Mission had returned riderless that morning, dragging the rigs.

The siblings of missing riders leaned on the empty harnesses, searching the crowd with wounded eyes. The parents gripped the shoulders of their remaining offspring, faces worn and lined.

“What happened?” said Nal’uin in a whisper.

“The team made it to the bog a few days ago. They got the helmet working and made contact. Alsuat. She saw something in the distance. Lights, maybe. Lost the signal yesterday afternoon…” Niskan’s voice trailed off.

We are waiting—a voice in her head.

She searched the crowd. Otara Subjuvat, the village healer, stared at her, hollow cheeks painted white, arms filled with the fruit of the Godtree.

Nal’uin whispered to her brother, “Did you hear that? Who is waiting?”

He clenched both hands as he watched Chief Opu Haku pontificate with a royal pikestaff of intricately carved bone.

“Craven?” she squeaked.

He ignored her, raised both arms, and shouted, “I’ll go!”

The village leader pointed and said, “Niskan will lead the mission. Volunteers to join the Bog Rescue Mission to find our friends and family members? These lights are a threat to the village. We must prepare our defense! Our families are in danger!”

Other hands appeared over their heads. The desert wind pulsed through the necklace as she reached her arm toward her brother’s.

“Me,” she shouted. It was her voice, but she didn’t recognize it.

After an arduous trek, the four ant riders and seven bone-dwellers reached the bog. A chaos of torn clothing and broken objects stretched across the muddy ground. The dank wind ruffled the Bog Signal Mission’s festive flag, matted to the moist edge of the bog, still clinging to its splintered bone standard. Without words, the bone-dwellers began collecting the debris.

“What will we do without them, Mymil?” Nal’uin patted her tite, as the ommatidia in the creature’s eye flickered.

Niskan shook his head. “No. Alsuat is alive. I feel it.”

“And Lan’ina and Aldis? What do you feel for them?”

Her brother growled. “Stop it Nal. We have work to do. For them.” He gestured to the others as they brushed each item clean with reverence.

She imagined her mother enfolding Bil’ain and Alsuat in the full-armed an’cher embrace of greeting after a long absence. She longed to join them.

With difficulty, four muscular bone-dwellers lifted the pock-marked helmet, the size of an an’cher startup dwelling, onto the biggest rig. A skinny youngster with long red hair showed off her climbing skills by scampering up the smooth curving side of the structure. She adjusted the energy collectors on top, raised an arm circled with glittering electronics to signal the others, and slid back down. Three techies crammed inside the helmet, tinkering with the controls. A high-pitched buzzing sound moaned from the spherical structure. A lanky young man with a gleaming grin and a cloud of black hair emerged from the helmet and pumped his fist. “Got something! Signal the village?”

“No,” said Niskan. “The other tower. We might find them there.” He pointed at a small beam flickering on the horizon. With a nod, the tech dove back inside the helmet.

Niskan and the two other ant riders led the creaking wagons away from the bog, back into the desert. Nal’uin brought up the rear of the silent caravan.

Come closer. Her chest tingled as the necklace vibrated.

Eventually, the trail meandered into the shadow of a plateau. As the travelers plodded onward, the escarpment rose steeply. They enjoyed the respite from the harsh sun as the rocky cliffside grew. At night, the first moon rose to light their way.

They made camp near the Everfall, a striking torrent of water that fell hundreds of yards from the upper plateau to the plain of the boneyard region called the Wastes. The group, parched by the journey and their desiccated lives, inhaled mist-filled air.

Six bone-dwellers spread out in wagons, mesmerized by the strange, flickering blue light in the mists, and slept. The redhead remained awake, deciphering the helmet’s eerie sounds, searching for meaning in the signal.

Niskan, Nal’uin, and the other ant riders unrolled bedding near the tites. The giant creatures rested with their thoraxes and gasters on the ground, dullness masking large compound eyes. The an’chers’ breeding had long ago removed the species dependence on power naps. Domesticated titanomyrma rested in long blocks to match human cycles. But they took turns, as the species had always done. Throughout the night, one remained alert to watch over the others, antennae twitching. Nal’uin sensed a pattern in the movements that matched the helmet sounds, flute vibrations, and the blue light circling the land around them as if searching for something.

The next day, the company trekked north, away from the falls. As the sun dropped below the horizon, they reached their destination, the second tower. A smudge of blue enveloped the monolith, glowing in the darkening sky. Nal’uin ran her hands across the base of the building. The cooling surface felt like a skeleton.

Niskan organized search teams and left to comb the area for signs of the missing villagers. Suddenly, the helmet jolted with a thin shriek that shattered into a loud growling utterance. All three occupants leaped from the sphere, grimacing, hands clapped over their ears. Nal’uin’s throat tickled as her necklace vibrated in sync with the noise.

You are ready now.

She heard her mother’s voice and fell against the tower, slapping the pale surface. At the spot where her right palm met the exterior, a thin crack appeared and feathered in two directions. She stood back. The line rushed toward the base. Then it traced over and down to the ground, a half-moon shape. The facade shook. An arched chunk disintegrated into rocks, crumbling to the ground at her feet. The dust felt hot. As it cleared, she sensed a throb in the dimness of the tower’s base.

Niskan ran toward her, yelling, “Wait!”

Drawn to the mystery, Nal’uin took a step forward. The musty interior was redolent of orange spice and refreshing herbs. Beams of blue light dropped to the floor, illuminating broken shards, artifacts, and stones. In the far corner sat a glowing bowl, tipped sidewards. A chill radiated from its glistening azure contents. She tingled like the first time she’d linked with a tite.

Listen.

Her brother rushed into the void. “No!”

Admiring the beautiful texture, Nal’uin reached her hand into the bowl and felt a soft looped fabric. She pulled a handful up to the blue light. It was a luminous robe. She slid both arms into the sleeves and pulled the hood over her head. The iridescent surface shimmered, swallowing her frail form. She felt ice throughout her extremities and murmured a sound in her head itlaa. Her brother swiveled his head around the room. Following his glance, she saw the letters I-T-L-A-A splashed in dark red splotches. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t understand his words.

Outside the door, giant ants darkened the arch. Nal’uin’s tite, Mymil, pressed forward and raised a slathered gaster.

You become ‘In Titanomyrma Live All Ants’ itlaa. A tinny whisper echoed in her mind.

The noble creature bowed its head.

A crowd of questions and realizations surged into her mind. Her consciousness drifted outward, experiencing the scene from multiple points of view. She was inside the minds of the tites, then the bone-dwellers, the other ant riders, and her brother. Through her human eyes, she saw Niskan’s face, a contortion of shock. Inside his mind, she felt guilt and torment. She tried to reach out with her arms, but her limbs were dead weight, immovable. The robe tightened, pinning her extremities, enveloping her face. Her body slid to the ground. In the cacophony, familiar sounds. Bil’ain’s laughter. Her mother’s soothing words of encouragement. She heard music and marveled that bone flutes could sing so breathlessly.

The second moon rose, cutting a swath through an unfamiliar star pattern. The rescue mission had decamped hastily and was rushing back to the village. Nal’uin floated, disconnected, in a world beyond the physical. She sensed the emotions of beings, living and dead, traced the spirits of plants, and molecules of moisture deep underground. She felt bonds between the tites as they relayed wordless messages, but the lack of individuality confused her.

Her body lay in the wagon, wrapped, cold, and trembling. She felt it succumb to the robe, fragmenting into numbness, dissolving. The bone-dwellers eyed the shrouded form, fearful. She meandered through the terror inside each of them, marveling how their minds flitted from worry to gossip and back to worry again.

“The Godtree fruit drives them crazy,” said a slight bone-dweller with spiky white hair threaded with ribbons. He elbowed a nervous companion who nodded and pointed at the swaddled shape between them. “Maybe that’s what she needs.”

Niskan turned in his saddle and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” the two conspirators mumbled in unison, looking down.

The bone-dwellers inside the helmet sent urgent messages to the village until the energy drained, disappointed and anxious when no one answered. The redhead mourned the loss of her uncle from the first mission.

As Nal’uin’s awareness drifted, she realized how little she knew about any of them, even her brother. Worry for his sister’s survival electrified Niskan as he urged his tite forward at a rapid pace. Deeper inside, his love for Alsuat, denial that his beloved was gone, an abiding ache for the loss of his parents. She was sorry she’d doubted his grief. So alike; so different.

The team returned to the village. Niskan opened the wagon’s sides, revealing the wrapped body to the shocked crowd.

“Get the healer,” he ordered. Otara Subjuvat came forward. Nal’uin sensed apprehension as the woman ran through a repertory of cures and curses.

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Otara touched the shimmering fabric, then jerked her hand away as the swaddled shape twisted and writhed. Niskan elbowed in front of her. The crowd scattered, retreating to a safer distance.

The harnessed titanomyrma circled the humans and stepped into the gathering. Nal’uin felt drawn to them, as the meaning in their network resolved into higher truth. The villagers, alarmed at the unusual herd behavior, fell back, ceding ground to the creatures. Across the village, fenced colonies pressed against their enclosures and shattered the brittle bone structures. Thousands of tites, antennae jittering, joined the others, surrounding Niskan and his tortured bundle.

The wrapped figure began to shake uncontrollably. Azure layers flaked white and blew away in translucent sheets. Nal’uin unfolded her six long legs, shook off the last bits of cocoon, and lifted her gleaming exoskeleton. Her fibrous wings grew stronger as she flexed them. The electricity of itlaa flowed through her and all her followers. Niskan fell backward with his hands to his mouth. She reached out to his thoughts and emotions, but horror blocked her message.

I am here.

As she stepped down from the table, the tites circled her, a dark cloud of exoskeletons and clacking mandibles with a shared purpose. She linked to her mother, and the others who had gone before; ants, humans, all creatures, even the colossus whose body housed the village. She knew their languages and understood her mission, to connect them, remember, and sing their songs. The shards of the bone flute necklace woven throughout her new body would paint the harmonies of yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Our melodies are joined forever.

As she took off toward a new home, the long string of tites snaked out behind her, a chorus of vibration.

* * *

Scattering: Midsummer Night

(Mature Content: Erotica)

Chapel Orahamm

“The tents? Really? There’s plenty to be had here if ya look,” Barz squawks.

I slump forward over my steed’s head to flick away detritus from his antenna. “I don’t see why it concerns you.” I shift back in my saddle and press him home to the stables.

“Strange people out there. Sure you wanna socialize with ‘em?” Barz sneers, spitting in the sand.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a prick, Barz?” I clear the saddle and lead my ant to its stall to curry the thin coating of grit from its carapace. I’d need to reapply its wards in the morning before patrol.

“Don’t be late for morning patrol. And take a bath. I don’t want to smell ‘em all day.” Barz pulls his saddle off his ant.

I hold my tongue, instead slipping a note into a thick envelope. I smile at the dossier. On my way out, I pop my head into the super’s office. Handing it to him, both of us nod as I flick an eye back toward Barz’s stall. He won’t be here in the morning.

Leaving the stables and the edge of the Ribs, I follow the curvature of the spine as the sun slips the horizon, sifting gold along the ridge. Canvas and boggoliz leather beckon in the distance. Trailing fingers of incense steep under awnings, wafting in the early evening breeze to trace spirals up my arms. Men and women duck in and out of a dance circle around a fire in the center of a triangular arrangement of tents. A pair sit off to the side, flute and drum sinking into hearts and hips.

Smiles flash as dark eyes under kohl meet mine. “Evening!” Dancers bow and dip skirts to the sand as I enter their camp. Soft rugs and low chairs spread under strung lanterns. One of the men breaks away from the gyration to light the wicks. Midsummer and the haze of sunset casts clouds of blush and arousal, painting the encampment in a cascade of scattered jewels and riches.

One of the women, her eyes bright in the firelight, smiles from a tent flap. “Looking for Sarai or Dorsa?”

“Evening! Either of them occupied?” I bow, my hand above my heart in mimic of the group’s greeting.

“I’m not.” Dorsa, his deep bass dripping down my shoulder, towers over me.

“You called?” Sarai peeks from behind his back, her bright skirts swirling around his legs.

“Dinner?” I offer, pulling a pack from my back.

“Ribs?” Dorsa eyes the bag, a grin crinkling the corners of almond eyes.

“I’ll make tea,” Sarai offers. Dorsa takes the pack as the two lead me to the farthest tent. I duck into the low structure, following Sarai. Dorsa strings the flap closed behind us.

“But first.” His fingers slip up mine. I still, savoring the heat scattering across my skin. Smaller hands find the hem at my knee, tracing along the line. I close the gap, tunneling my fingers in Sarai’s thick hair to find the corner of her lips with mine, kneeling between her legs. Feathering kisses along the line of her jaw, I shift, our weight settling to the rugs. Dorsa pulls the shirt from my waistband to crawl fingers across my stomach, nibbling along my backbone.

“I’ve wanted to try something. Thought about it all day,” I whisper at the edge of her clavicle where her collar dips over her curves.

“Try something?” Her voice hitches as I trace her lines, savouring the tuck of her ribs, the flair of her hips.

“Let me taste you.” I run the tip of my tongue along a peaked nipple beneath her shift, the contrast in textures igniting between us.

A note catches. “You sure?” Her cheeks spot a soft pink, eyelashes sweeping low.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t.” I pause from my ministrations, watching her thoughts brush across her face, the difference between sunset and sunrise.

“No one’s ever offered.” Her laced hope, tight in the space between us, draws me in. I raise an eyebrow, resting my weight into the cradle of her hips. Dorsa leans heat across my back, straddling my legs to continue with his fixation. Electricity crawls beneath my skin in desperation. “I’d like to.” Her fingers find the column of my throat, the soft spot behind my jaw, pulling me to her for our tongues to dance as Dorsa creeps starburst up my thighs.

“Where do you want me?” His voice glides across my shoulders.

“Tantalize for a bit. That work for you?” I turn to him, his lips brushing fire up my neck.

“I think that’s called torture.” He nips at the tip of my ear, sliding to kiss my cheek.

“Got a tie? I’ll come back to you.” I promise against his lip.

“I prefer touching, thanks.” He releases me from his spell to let me turn back to Sarai.

Pulling pillows together and clothes off, we settle into the comfort of exploration. Feathering kisses from knee to inner thigh, I keep an eye to her nerves. Under thick lashes, she’s watching Dorsa’s fingers memorize my shoulder blades, the dip of my lower back. “You two are beautiful together, you know that?” she admires as I slip fingers between her folds.

“That’s all Dorsa,” I admit, tasting the tang of her, the slight bitterness of aphrodisiac Godtree nectar slick along my taste buds. Sliding across folds to her nub and back again, the warble in her breathing is music at my fingertips. A soft flick, a bit of pressure changes her tune. She startles beneath me when Dorsa finds a spot that sends me sighing. She melts into the view as he sinks into me, nectar easing the transition. I relax against his intrusion, his fingers finding the path I had traveled along Sarai’s leg to send her twitching.

Her dusky skin swaths in shades of kyanite and cinnabar as her honey tucks into my tongue. Sparks flick along my senses and I’m diving into an abyss of hands and lips. Pressure, finding that sweet spot between her and me, Dorsa drives my desires as I push at Sarai’s. The world is slipping at the edges and we are drifting in the amethyst and coral seeping through the stitching of the tent. Spirals and swirls, she’s singing beneath me and his breathing is harsh in my ear. Time follows the rise of the moons, dipping with the whistle of the flute at the fire and she’s drawing in tight, asking me to pause and listen. A shiver beneath my tongue, her gasps flutter as she tries to hide behind her hand. Dorsa leans over me, delving deeper, to steal the pleasure at her lips. Following his push, I move up to lavish attention on the under curve of her breast, glimmers of gold flecking low, numbness creasing my hips as pressure builds in my toes and fingers. He returns to me, his hand finding my sensitivity. Teeth test my shoulder, demanding. The smoulder at the edges of my senses catches, the inferno taking me over. He holds tight, supporting as I wring us out in the floating world.

Gasps

Dragging ragged breaths

Sweat drips

Slides

Pools

Drops from curls and curves

“Are you sure you won’t join us, an’cher? You’re better at this than most.” Dorsa nuzzles my ear, kissing my jaw.

“Who’d bring you ribs?” I take possession. His passion is sweet against my lips. He pulls himself free to retrieve a pile of towels.

“Who needs ribs if you can do that?” Sarai takes the proffered cloth from Dorsa.

“I do, or else I won’t be able to muster the strength to do that again.” I tease.

“I’m taking that as a promise.” Dorsa snares me to curl between them.

“Long as you’re here, I’ll come back.” I whisper in our cocoon. The stars pulse against the seams of the tent and the heat of summer begs for our attention. Ignoring it, I lean into Dorsa’s chest, tucking Sarai’s locks beneath my chin. The sands slip by in the darkness and I’m left twisting in eddies, wrung out and content.

* * *

Morning at the Godtree

Gregory Coley

The sun stretches across pearlescent sands,

Ant-mounted warriors leave trails in dunes,

Protected and safe to the very last stand,

Even as the world outside still lies in ruins.

In the east, the Godtree stretches and yawns,

The boughs greeting the waking morning sun,

The light caressing leaves the deepest bronze,

Always they will engulf every loved one.

Scents of fresh food reach the highest bones,

Laughter of children dances in the chilled air,

Greeting the day, the people wake in droves,

Beneath the protector of every prayer.

* * *

The Sand Runner

Darius Bearguard

“Oh — by the Tree…” The younger guard trails off, prompting the older one to tip his hat back and take a gander. The gate into Achten Tan faces east into the surrounding barren wastes. It takes a second to scan the horizon, so whatever has the younger one bothered is from within. The older guard tips his hat back down over his eyes.

“What is it, Trip?”

The half elf guard rolls his eyes, seeing the quarry approaching slowly. “That an’cher kid, whassis name… T’dyn?”

“E’de’an,” the old man corrects. “Figures. End o’the week, you could set a watch on it.”

“We should turn him away, shouldn’t we?”

“I ain’t doin’ it.”

“C’mon Lesl—” Trip almost chokes pretending to cough as his superior tips his hat back to glare at him, “Halberd, sorry, but… I mean c’mon, he’s a kid.”

Lesley Halberd — “Halberd” to anyone who wants to keep their hands unbroken — puts his hat back over his eyes and returns to leaning in his chair. He’s been guarding the skull gate for the last eight months. He’s one of the oldest soldiers in Achten Tan. He was there when the Ant Cavalry formed and the first patrols went out. He knows every man, woman, child, and otherwise that has ever come and gone in this city. And he knows E’de’an Ar’chimbal is the last person they need to worry about being in the wastes.

“Stop ‘im if you want to, Trip. Kid’ll get out either way.”

Trip rolls his eyes at his superior, who clears his throat almost like he saw it. Trip slowly peels his eyes away from the old man and looks at the kid.

He’s maybe four lengths tall, knobby-kneed, and all skin and bone. Blonde hair hangs down in front of his eyes. His clothes are ratty, and his wide-brimmed hat has a chunk missing, likely from an ant he got too close to. Tied across his body is a harness made of iron and leather, which is lashed to a large metal sled filled with tools and other contraptions Trip has never seen before. The weight looks considerable, especially when the boy’s size is taken into consideration, but despite that — or perhaps in spite of it — a huge smile is plastered on his face.

Trip is about to yell a warning, when E’de’an yells up to them both, “Hi Trip! Hi Mr. Halberd!”

“How the hell did he know we were up here?”

“I told you, we could set the city watch by him.” The old man can be heard grinning under his hat. He shouts without turning around or removing his hat from over his face. “How goes it, kid? Off to play in the sand again?”

“Yeah,” the boy says nodding, “y’know I think it was the metal last time? When I went down the dune, I got good momentum towards the end but then I couldn’t get the motor running fast enough, so I found something a little lighter and I made the spindle bigger so I can-”

“Oh by the Tree, does this kid ever shut up?” Trip says, talking over the kid who continues to prattle on.

“Nope. You two could be twins.” Halberd can be heard grinning again.

“—so I’m hoping that gives enough torque, but maybe not? It’s impossible to test on the hard pan in the town because there’s not enough grain in the ground for the paddles to get—”

Halberd grins, knowing the boy will go on like this until he’s too far away to hear, and even then he’ll probably still be talking to himself. As the boy passes, the old man tips his chair back a bit more to get a look at the kid. The kid tries to hide it, can’t hide a bruise that big though. Every so often the kid would come through the gate with a fresh one and Halberd would ask. E’de’an always answered the same, “Sometimes the ants get away from me.” But the old guard was good at reading people…

The boy continues chatting away, “—wouldn’t that be amazing though? Like if I could get something to push me through the desert? Like, that would be awesome, but maybe not super practical? Because while it’s pushing it’d also be pulling sand into my—”

Halberd smirks and shakes his head, listening to the young man go off into the desert.

Three days later Halberd and Trip are on shift together again, climbing the stairs to the top of the skull gate at sunrise. The sounds of the three soldiers on the night watch trying to frantically hide their bedrolls comes from the guard post. Halberd stops about halfway up and looks east.

“What is it?” Trip asks, almost running into him.

“Shh!”

Trip goes quiet, but hears nothing. “C’mon Halberd, I love it when you chew someone else out for a—”

“Quiet!” The old man snaps before going back down the stairs.

“Fine! Jeeze,” Trip says as he’s being shoved out of the way. “What is it?”

A few moments later E’de’an, out of breath, can be heard panting as he approaches the gate. “Almost there, almost there.” he says to himself.

“You were supposed to be in last night E’de’an, those’re the rules.” Halberd calls after him, grinning, taking a drink of his morning coffee.

“I know! Had an accident!”

“Where’s your sled?”

“That was the accident!” he says with a wave, a huge smile plastered on his face.

Halberd grins and shakes his head. “Kids.” He glances at Trip who looks at his tough-as-fangs mentor with adoration. Halberd’s smile immediately disappears. “Get up there and kick those three out of bed before I break all of you in half.”

The week is uneventful. Halberd continues to train Trip, and also finds time to give the night watch grief. “So you really think I’ve got a chance with her?” Trip asks.

“Sure, ‘course kid,” Halberd answers, his hat tipped over his eyes while he leans back in his chair atop the gate.

Trip considers Halberd for a moment before looking out across the badlands. “You weren’t even listening, were you?”

“Not one bit.”

“Sir, we’re stuck up here all day, why can’t—”

“Shh!” Halberd stirs, cocking his head to the side, putting his ear to the east.

Trip tenses up and looks out across the desert, his hand reaching for his crossbow. The young man feels his pulse in his ears as his eyes dart along the horizon. Nothing. Silence. He stands straight, suddenly, then looks down at his feet in frustration. “You were just trying to get me to be quiet. Weren’t you?”

“Now, would I do a thing like that?” And that smile under his hat shines through in his voice, same as always.

“Hi Trip! Hi Mr. Halberd!” E’de’an calls out to them. Today he’s carrying only a small sack, and a scarf wrapped around his face, muffling his voice.

“Hi kid.” Trip calls back. His commander, always more concerned with resting his eyes, puts his hat back on his head to look at E’de’an as he approaches.

“I’m not a kid y’know!” E’de’an corrects, agitation in his voice, “How’s it going today?”

“Sorry E’de’an. And things are… Y’know… All’s quiet.” Trip says, his attention torn between the two.

“What’s in the bag, kid?” Halberd asks, leaning over the rail.

“Oh man, well I had this idea about navigation. Like, what if we could use the stars to figure out directions? So I’m going to start mapping—”

“Hey!” Trip interrupts, offended, “how come you let him call you kid?”

“I like him.”

“You don’t like me?” Trip asks, taken aback..

“Haven’t decided yet!” The boy yells back, a huge smile plastered on his face. “But anyways! I found some glass out on one of the rides this week and I discovered if I smooth it down I can make an embiggener! I can use it to get a clearer picture of things and then I can properly map out not just the terrain, but the stars! And if I—” the boy continues to talk about his tools and the mapping as he gets further from the gate.

When he’s far enough away Trip leans in conspiratorially to ask Halberd, “What’s got you spooked?”

Halberd, who had tracked the boy as he left, now hesitates for a moment. He turns to look back inside the city, and can see the boy’s father who watches E’de’an from the edge of his property. “The coverings.”

“What?”

“All the times he’s ever—” Halberd catches himself. “All the times an ant’s ever hurt him… He’s never had to cover his face before.”

Trip looks back to the kid. He can still hear E’de’an’s voice, faint echoes across the hardpan. “Maybe the kid was tired? Got careless?”

“Maybe.” Halberd says, setting his jaw as E’de’an’s father heads back inside. “Maybe.”

As dusk approaches two days later, Halberd steps out of North Ribs, having had his fill of both food and beverage. He stretches and feels his back pop with every flex. He absentmindedly rubs his hand across his stubbled chin as he takes in the view of the town. He starts to cross the city proper, as his home is in one of the southern spires. As he does, he passes the an’chers. Most of them have their ants already penned up. The boys at the Kimbal ranch have their weekly ant race going, torches now being lit as the night approaches. Halberd smiles while watching the young men and women at play. But that grin fades as he turns his head east, towards the Ar’chimbal ranch. He’d taken his suspicions and what he’d seen over the last few months to his superior, but he knew before they told him; it doesn’t matter unless he’s seen something happen. They ordered him not to get involved, and he knows he shouldn’t…

And maybe it’s the drinking, but suddenly he finds himself turning and walking towards the eastern most ranch.

As he walks, his pulse races in anticipation. He can hear his commander’s warning in his head. ‘What if you’re wrong? Boys his age? They get knocked around by those ants all the time. If you accuse the dad, and it turns out the kid really is just accident prone, you will make an enemy of one of the most influential families in Achten Tan. Hell, most of our cavalry ants were trained by them!’ And as he walks, the doubt builds inside of him. His mouth goes dry as he gets close to the front gate of the property. He reaches for the latch.

“Hi Mr. Halberd!” E’de’an says, arriving at the gate just after Halberd, startling him, and smiling away. “What’re you up to? Checkin’ to make sure I’m,” the boy hesitates for a moment, reaching up to his bare face, “alright?”

Halberd knew that something was wrong, but the gaping laceration that runs from the boy’s temple, through the eyebrow and down to the cheek isn’t what he expected. As he looks at the scar, he thinks the boy is lucky to still have his eye.

“I had a, really, uhh—really bad run in with an ant. Got careless at feeding time.” The boy looks at his feet then back up to Halberd, his face red with embarrassment. “That’s why I was wearing the mask the other day.”

“E’de’an!” The boy’s mother, Goldie, shouts from the front porch. Her clothes are simple but well kept, despite living in a desert. People commented on her clothes all the time at town gatherings. Her answer is always the same: ‘You know Terrance, always likes me looking my best.’

She hurries frantically up the walkway towards the gate. “And just who are… Lesley? Lesley Halberd, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, uhh, sorry Ma’am I was just…” Halberd trails off, concentrating too much on hiding his drunkenness and not enough on what he needs to say.

“I was late coming home last week,” E’de’an interjects, “so Mr. Halberd said he was just checking up on me.”

Halberd looks to the boy, and nods, then back to Goldie. “Yeah, just checking up on him is all.”

“Dear?” Terrance calls from the porch. Terrance is a giant of a man, standing nearly a full length over Halberd and with the muscle to boot. The torch he holds highlights his chiseled features as he asks, “Is everything alright? Halberd, is that you?”

Goldie glances nervously back at Terrance, then smiles at Halberd as she grabs E’de’an’s arm and rushes him through the gate. “Well, the boy’s back home, and early, as you can see Lesley, so no need to fret. The Tree’s blessed night, Lesley,” she says, walking with E’de’an in front of her up the walkway.

Halberd hesitates a moment. A strange look from Terrance snaps him back to reality, and he gives the traditional reply of “And many more unto you!” Halberd watches the family retreat into their home, his gaze lingering on Terrance.

He may not have proof, but he knows what he knows. He’s always been good at reading people.

An uncomfortable and anxious look rests on Trip’s face as he stares at his commander. Halberd sits on his chair, but leaned over, his elbows on his knees, and his hat propped on his head. The old soldier has been like this all week, without explanation to anyone. Trip tried to engage him in conversation, but to no avail. Halberd would just nod and continue to grit his teeth. Trip turns to the stairs, deciding it’s time to tell a superior, but he stops suddenly and looks to the an’chers. “It’s the end of the week.”

“Yeah.” Halberd says, now wringing his hands.

“Where’s the kid?”

Halberd takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah.”

Two more weeks go by, but still no E’de’an.

On the third week, Trip and Halberd worked the night shift. On their last shift, Halberd wakes Trip with a hand over his mouth. Trip panics but sees Halberd’s finger pressed to his lips. “No sudden movements. Look to the north.” Halberd whispers. Trip rises slowly peeking out over the railing to see their quarry. There’s a cloak pulled tight over his head, but his size makes him unmistakable; Terrance Ar’chimbal, with a huge length of fabric over his shoulder as he approaches the gate.

“What’s with the cloth?” Trip asks quietly.

“That’s a whole month’s worth of coin slung over his shoulder. Only one thing you buy that much cloth for.”

Trip looks back slowly to his mentor, hesitating briefly. “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been thinking it too.”

Halberd locks eyes with the young recruit. “We do this, we’re done as soldiers, maybe even exiled.”

“I want to help.”

They’re at the edge of the ranch in an instant, Halberd pushes through the gate. “On me.” They run up to the path to the front door. Suddenly E’de’an emerges from the house, followed closely by Terrance. “E’de’an get behind me!” Halberd shouts as both men draw their swords.

“Mr. Halberd?” E’de’an asks, nervously.

“Behind me boy, now!”

“No, wait!” Terrance whispers back frantically, backing away from Trip who is threatening him with his sword.

“E’de’an!?” Goldie shouts from inside the house. “Where are you, you ungrateful little brat! You come here this instant or I’ll give you another one over the other eye, I swear by the Tree!”

They all freeze. Halberd looks from Terrance to E’de’an, who for the first time ever isn’t wearing a smile.

Terrance pushes past a confused Trip to kneel in front of E’de’an. “I’m sorry son. This isn’t how I wanted this.”

“Dad, no.”

“You have to go.” Terrance says with urgency. “It’s time.”

“But Dad—” Tears well up in the boy’s eyes.

“I’m sorry E’de’an.” He hugs him close, cradling the boy’s head, “Go. Stay with him?” Terrance asks Halberd, who nods. “Go. Go now and don’t look back.” Terrance runs inside the house where Goldie can still be heard screaming.

“Where the hell is he, Terrance! Where is that little piece of ant scat!”

Trip covered for Halberd at the gate, while the old soldier walked with the boy through the night as E’de’an cried quietly. Halberd offered to take the fabric, but the boy refused, hugging it closer. He tried to talk to him, but he refused that as well. It wasn’t until they were further east than Halberd had ever seen, that the sun broke over the desert and the boy spoke. “Dad said her mind is sick.”

“Her mind?” Halberd asks, half startled and half desperate for answers. He was so certain he knew what was going on, but after last night, he just wanted to make sense of things.

“Yeah. Dad thinks maybe it was the Craven or something? But sometimes… sometimes she would get mean if I didn’t do things right.” He speaks quietly, evenly. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I’m sorry.”

Halberd shakes his head, fighting back tears. “No. No, that’s…” He doesn’t know what to say.

“Things weren’t great, but the other week I was late because of the accident, and then when you came to the house to check on me…” The boy trails off, fighting back fresh tears. “It’s not your fault Mr. Halberd. You were only trying to help, and her mind is so sick!” The boy breaks out into sobs, dropping the cloth. Halberd steps forward and holds the boy.

They stand like that, both crying into each other.

Eventually, as the sobbing subsides, Halberd asks. “So, tell me what the cloth is for.”

The boy pulls back, his eyes red. “I’ll show you.”

A few minutes later they arrive at the edge of the known world, where the hardpan ends and the great sand sea begins. And here, at the edge of everything Halberd has ever known, sits E’de’an’s creation. Two sleds secured together by wood and bone, and by rope and leather lashing. In the larger sled, a seat with what looks to be maps clipped to a wood panel sat in front. Handles and levers sit nearby which are attached to gears and pulleys. Finally, spanning across both sleds is a giant wooden frame. “This… This is… This is… You made this?”

The boy nods, beaming with pride. “Yup! Wanna help me finish her?” The triangle piece of fabric Terrance gave him runs from the top of the long wooden spire down to the crossbar, and as they finish securing it E’de’an demonstrates the controls. “See, the flapper will catch the wind, and I can use these to steer!”

Halberd can’t believe what he’s seeing. He’d seen some of the contraptions from the South Ribs Workshop, but nothing like what’s before him, built by a child no less. “What do you call this thing?”

“Well, I call it a clo’glide. But that’s not her name.”

“What’s her name?” Halberd asks, grinning at the boy’s enthusiasm in spite of circumstances.

“The Sand Runner.”

After securing his supplies to the sled, and goggles to his face, the boy looks solemn for a moment. “Y’know, if you want, you could come with me. I think I could rebalance the—”

“Kid,” Halberd cuts him off before he gets too far gone, “I’ve… I’ve never even been this far out of town before. I’m not built like you.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s your time.”

E’de’an nods and takes his seat. His hands flex over the controls for a moment. He moves his hand to the anchor lever. The Sand Runner moans against the wind which fills the flapper, threatening to take the clo’glide, ready or not.

With a big smile plastered on his face, he releases The Sand Runner.

* * *

A Note, Found in the Abandoned Craven City

C. Vandyke

Discovered by Eltion Lap, Unknown Author

You called us Craven. That wasn’t a name we gave ourselves; you bestowed it upon us, as your tongues could not wrap themselves around our consonants and vowels. Our syllabication. We called ourselves “The People,” but then, doesn’t every tribe?

You hated us. With reason, I suppose, as we waged war on you for generations. Blood and bone and fur as we flung ourselves at your city.

It wasn’t what we wanted. At first, we sent ambassadors with gifts. To beg. Beseech. To warn. But you couldn’t understand our language. Our overtures were interpreted as an offense and you slaughtered us out of fear. Tragic. Not inexplicable, but tragic. We sent more, this time armed and cautious, but again they were killed. Gutted and left to die in the desert, far from the Homeland.

Thus: war. This was long ago, in the days of my father’s father’s father. When the blood-shamans first saw the signs, when the haruspex and augurs read the entrails and stars and learned the truth of your Godtree.

We tried. First with supplication and then with steel, but neither words nor swordplay worked. We failed. And so the world will die. We are, even as I scribe this, a dead people, a colony of ants on a piece of bark sent down the Everflow. We whirl and gyre a while longer yet, but our doom is coming.

It is already here.

When you find this, know that your end is nigh upon you as well. The Na’Fer Vem Cazim, I believe you call it. The Doom of the Gods. This is no longer a warning, as the time for that has passed; merely an utterance of the truth. A eulogy for both our people. Weep or laugh or flail about in paroxysms of remorse, it matters not. Return to your town. Lie with your wives and husbands, kiss your offspring.

Know that we never hated you. We only wish you heard us and understood.

* * *

PART III: FALL

Falling Frames of Seasoning:

Reason Realised/Razed as we Repeat, Reuse, that Harvested

S.L Parker

It’s autumn, and ashen bone is more prevalent than snow. Bones chill us.

To the bone. But night light casts green as Mack walks Westward.

Her mind expanding, as the landscape does. Unearthing these earthlings. The everthings.

As everything grew, all around, all around. The elements and the forces. The obsidian door Unearthed in the same natural disaster, revealing the bones before Mack. Miss Mack, macks, all Dressed in black. Black, the night is not shadows of black, but embers of emerald.

Emerald. Royal, roy et al. ROY G BIV: benevolent rainbows, were they, claimed from the Everfall? Mesmerizing, as ever falling. As everyone falls. Down We will. learn: what a bone of Contention is, what conversations alight, light, make right … is it, right? Pondering moment and Meaning, leads to musing: Right … and … towards … says Pan. And we peter out as we attempt to follow him, for He is outside our time, our temporal, our temperament. Meant to … What? We question, questions resound:

the ghost of technology (psychic spies), the ghosts of family (at the edge of the world); creatures here before us (have broke the spell of aging): creatures present among (spheres singing songs), and after, us — we are united by forces of life (destruction breeding creation). By times and cycles. By recycling, we survive. But can we thrive? Can we passit one? Can we be passive? Pacifists? Pause it: the sway of winter winds, bracketed by still days.

The Godtree brims green leaves as winter tides turn. As waves wash over our minds. We waiver. Certainty, fact, reality; become the heated waves, and with aired lengths of roped wonderings we hang ourselves. We hang in the balance. We hang, cold-drying heat rising on . . .  cool, chilled, knights, firstborn unicorns,

… have left us. Winter is now:

* * *

Beneath the Ribs: Fall

Dan Berison

Autumn Special “Chopper’s Explosive Ribs with Nitrosalata”

Thunder pounded from the kitchen of Jan’s Ribs, quickly followed by another plume of smoke that billowed into the feasting room.

‘Old Chopper’s at it again,’ Silas mumbled gleefully.

Since Crawman’s latest speciality, their resident hob chef had been experimenting with his own recipes. It led to some interesting and often dangerous concoctions. This was the third explosion in one day. A noise sounded as Hambo recklessly raced through the saloon doors.

‘The Everfall! It’s coming!’ he shouted, panicked.

‘What?’ Silas responded incredulously, dropping his rib-tips onto the floor. ‘It’s a waterfall, how can it be coming?’

Flustered, Hambo perched himself on one of the benches, catching his breath.

‘I took a quick run up to the surface and saw it. It’s flooding.’

‘Hang on... you were on the surface?’ Gramps inquired, shaking his head. ‘You were checking out those South Rib Ribs, weren’t you?’ he accused.

Hambo looked sheepish, denying nothing. Since the cavern gnomes moved into the Boneyards, there were rumours that Crawman’s claim to the throne of ribs was under question. With a special blend of algae, the gnomes had apparently produced perfection. Immediately, the under-town leaders banned anyone from visiting and guards were placed in the under-tunnels, preventing access. It meant the only way to go was over the surface... a risky business with boggoliz about.

‘Well... that isn’t the point!’ He squirmed awkwardly. ‘The fact is the flood is coming, and it’s heading for the Godtree.’

‘What? The under-town! We must seal the tunnels.’

‘It won’t be enough’, Silas interjected. ‘The city’s embedded in the roots of the Godtree, the flood will drown everything from above, even our homes. We need to divert the water down, perhaps into the tunnels below.’

A faint smell floated through the air and the approaching Pallora, famous for her sense of smell, whispered. ‘Boom!’

On cue, the kitchen exploded. The rib joint rattled violently. Above them, they saw a thin crack appear in the ceiling, exposing one of the main joists that held it in place. Silas looked at the ceiling and then smiled. Hambo knew exactly what he was thinking.

‘You think it would work?’ he asked excitedly. ‘We’d need to be precise.’

‘We don’t have time for precise. We just gotta try and hope. Come on.’

Silas raced into the kitchen, pushing through the smoke until they found Chopper covered in soot, slumped on the floor.

‘Well, that was a good one’, he cackled, gladly accepting Silas’ outstretched hand. ‘Say, why are you in my kitchen?’

‘Hambo was on the surface. The Boneyards are about to flood.’

‘And you think I can help? I’m just an old chef!’

‘You’re younger than me! Anyway, we plan to redirect it through the subways beneath the city. Tactical explosions across the surface around the Godtree should cause the ground to collapse.’

‘Tactical explosions... of my sauce!? You’re crazy. Such a flood will open up the tunnels forever. It could awaken anything.’

‘We have no choice... the under-town is at risk. Please!’

The hob stood up proud and tall, his chest out and his ears pointed upwards. ‘Chef Chopper reporting for duty!’

‘Great, let’s grab what we can... time is drastically short.’

‘I’ve enough ingredients, if I can just remember the exact recipe’, he muttered as he started to pack things up, giving each of them bags of spices and jars.

Silas looked at the hob and chuckled.

‘Exact recipe? Chopper, seriously? You’ve been making things explode all month! Just shove it all together and watch what happens.’

Through the saloon doors, up the twisting stairs towards the surface, they bolted, each laden with bladder-sacks filled with ingredients. Silas arrived first. His heart pounded furiously from the run, but what he saw then took his breath away. A wave bigger than he had ever seen flushed ominously towards them. It would arrive in minutes.

‘We’re doomed’, Hambo muttered unhelpfully next to him.

‘Grab the ingredients, everyone. We don’t have time to strategize. Lay anything and everything across the ground between the water and the Godtree.’

Minutes passed as they rushed to deposit what they could before the dreaded yell came from Hambo. ‘It’s now or never.’

Chopper grabbed a jar of Nitrosalata and tossed it at the ingredients spread across the surface. The reaction was immediate... and explosive. Cascading across the surface, the floor trembled and collapsed, cracking around them and the glorious Godtree. Silas watched proudly as the water flooded forward and plunged into the chasms below, fizzing as it burnt through the base of the tunnels.

‘The under-town is saved!’ Came jubilant shouts from those dancing on the surface.

They had saved the under-town. They were heroes. Yet it came at a terrible cost. The under-tunnels had opened, they had run out of sauce and the biggest tragedy of all... a chasm had formed around the Godtree, cutting them off from North North Ribs. It could take days to traverse.

Silas cursed as his stomach churned. He wasn’t sure he could wait days.

* * *

A Change of Seasons

An attempt

Gregory Coley

From the Journal of Drizko Tinkersbane

This typing machine is on its last leg. Fiddlewinks! I will need to fashion more ink tape. The cold is coming soon. I feel it in my bones. I always feel the cold in my bones. Blast old age!

Frizzle is proving helpful, despite my initial hesitations. A half-orc woman has been carried into town by one of our scouts. She looked injured, but I make a point not to trouble myself with others… though it was strange enough to warrant note. The troubling goo that adhered itself to my bone prosthetic on my lower left leg has fallen silent. It is worrying. What is it? It felt… intelligent.

Now to the business at hand. Frizzle convinced me to go down to ask the tree for help. Well, I thought it was utterly preposterous. We walked down to the dark canopy of the Godtree to pray. To ask it for… something. As we reached the inner shadows near the trunk, my forearm crutches slipped in a strange substance, sending me sprawling across the roots. I am not proud to say it but I swore, yes I did!

The closing of a door startled him from his reverie. Drizko sat in front of his typing machine, where he had been lost in his latest journal entry moments before. He grabbed a grey cloth from his workstation, realizing he’d knocked over his warm cider in his surprise. He climbed from his chair and, slowly and painfully, got onto the floor to clean up the mess.

His full, brown beard was mottled in singe marks, grey hairs, and multiple colors from failed experiments. His wild, thinning hair was brushed back away from his thick spectacles.

He looked up from the floor into the darkness of the rest of the hut. “Child? Is that you? Frizzy?”

A small gnomish girl poked her curly head around the doorframe. Her bright amber eyes were vibrant against her mahogany skin. “Sorry, Mr. Drizko! Didn’t mean to startle you! I just wanted to tell you about this really cool thing I just saw!”

Frizzlewink was young and still learning, but she seemed to show much promise. Drizko wouldn’t call the little gnome a prodigy, but she wasn’t far off. He didn’t want to accept her as an apprentice because he knew exactly what it meant. She was being groomed to replace him one day. Drizko hoped it was later rather than sooner.

He hadn’t had what one would call an easy life, but it had been a well-earned fulfilling one. Born to a dwarf father and a human mother, he was already in for a rough road. The two bloodlines were never meant to mix, causing him to be born with underdeveloped legs. By the time he was a teen his mother was dead, his father had disowned him because he saw him as ‘incomplete’, and his legs had been amputated below the knees. He never saw his father after that. He was left in the care of the settlement of Achten Tan. The town, with its high arches of bone and windswept plains, was his home and it always had been.

Drizko reached up and put the wet cloth on the workbench before climbing back up into his wooden wheelchair. “Now, what is it you saw?”

“A woman! She was covered in bone and had to be like seven feet tall! She was terrifying and completely awesome!” she squealed in her high-pitched voice.

“A newcomer? At this time of nig—” He stopped mid-sentence, noticing the broken glass on his workstation.

“What’s wrong, Drizko?” asked Frizzlewink, suddenly serious.

He tore his gaze from the broken vial. “Nothing my young apprentice, nothing. You should be getting home. It’s late and we have experiments tomorrow, you know! Tally ho! Hurry home!” he said, reaching down from the wheelchair and patting her shoulder.

Frizzlewink raised her eyebrows mischievously. “Okay. That doesn’t seem like a good idea with you acting so weird… but you are my teacher so… I’m just down the block if you need anything, alright old man?”

He forced a smile. “I promise. I am fully capable of living my life on my own.”

Frizzlewink nodded and disappeared around the corner of the archway and back into darkness. He sat there for a moment, listening for the closing of his front door before rolling to look out the window. Once he saw her walking down the steps, he rolled his rickety wooden wheelchair across the dusty floorboards to get back to his workbench.

Eyes wide and heart racing, he looked at the broken glass vial and the viscous black liquid slowly spreading across his work surface like an incoming storm cloud. He rolled away from the desk, turning this way and that to look for a new receptacle for the goo. Grabbing a nearby petri dish, he held it under the edger of the desk to catch it. Plopping into the dish, it bubbled and moved. It appeared to be breathing. It whispered in his mind. Unable to make out what it was saying, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs. It was a mistake.

Momentary loss of focus caused the black goo to spill onto his worn, calloused right hand. Screaming, he dropped the dish and grabbed the cloth he used to clean the spilled liquid off the floor. The goo burned, bubbling on his hand like rolling, boiling water.

A central bubble began to grow. A face appeared beneath the surface like a man drowning below a plastic sheet. The featureless skull screamed and spoke beneath the surface of the goo. Stretching out from his hand, it nearly reached Drizko’s face before it popped, showering him in the substance. Before he could clean it up the goo began to absorb into his flesh, disappearing within moments.

Grabbing his head with his hands, Drizko screamed in pain. So many voices. Feelings of anger, defeat, and hopelessness flooded his psyche. Was it the thoughts of the tree? What were they doing to it? Slumping forward in his wheelchair, Drizko grew still. No sign of the strange black substance remained on his body or the table.

The sound of the whistling gusts of wind outside brought Drizko back to consciousness. Lifting his head, he looked around. He was alone. Hadn’t Frizzle been with him? He could have sworn he was just talking to her. He shook off the strange feeling with a sigh before rolling back up to his typing machine.

I seem to have dozed off. Where was I? Oh, yes. I slipped in the strange, lovely blood of the Godtree. It was terrifying. It truly was. I have to make these people listen to me… listen to the tree! I have this nuisance of an apprentice badgering in my ear about science and newcomers and everything else. None of that matters! None of it matters! All that matters is what we want… what the tree wants!

* * *

The Errand

Sarah Remy

For the third time in as many days, Crow wished he wasn’t a vegetarian. The delicious scents wafting around North Ribs Ribs made his stomach grumble and his mouth water. It felt a little like a betrayal, to want so badly what he couldn’t have. Still, his gaze followed each plate of ribs and sauce as Old Crawman shuffled orders from the kitchen in the back to the hungry customers waiting in the dining room out front.

Crow’s supper, when it came, was much less appetizing: cold algae soup with a hunk of crusty bread. At least the bread was still warm, and there was an extra pat of butter. Crawman, for all his gruff exterior, had a heart of gold.

“Eat up,” North Ribs Ribs’ proprietor said as he thumped the food down onto the table. His wrinkled face creased in a smile. “You’re on in ten. Looks like it’s gonna be a busy night. Good night for tips, if you’re lucky.”

Crow grunted acknowledgement. The tips he’d pull in his traveling troubadour disguise were a nice bonus, but the tip he really wanted was from the contact he’d been expecting to meet at North Ribs—three days earlier.

Feeling sorry for himself, he broke off a bit of bread and dipped it in his soup while surreptitiously scanning the room for strangers. Thirty-six hours hanging about in Achten Tan’s most popular food joint, and by now Crow knew most of the regulars by face, if not by name. The majority were an’chers enjoying an evening pint before heading home for the night. They had the weathered look of people who spent too much time out in Achten Tan’s unforgiving elements. Crow didn’t envy them their calling, or the limbs and digits many of them had lost in battle or to their giant charges. The an’chers kept mostly to themselves, huddled around the largest table, talking—as far as Crow could tell—mostly of the changing weather, war, and, in whispers, of the strange things happening around the village’s Godtree.

The remaining smaller tables were taken up by locals in ones or twos or threes. A young person scribbling in a book while they sipped at their pint, a loud family chowing down on a dangerously tilting pile of sauce-slathered ribs, a couple holding hands across the table and grinning like two love-struck mooncalves.

All locals. As far as Crow could tell—and Crow was very good at paying attention—he was the only out-of-towner inside the place. And that was a problem. Because he really couldn’t afford to linger, waiting for a contact that never showed. He had bills to pay, expensive habits of the sort that a troubadour’s tips just couldn’t cover.

Besides which, he’d come all the way to Achten Tan on a specific errand. He was an assassin, not a bard. He took pride in his work. He enjoyed killing, and he especially enjoyed killing well. He was a professional, for Ichor’s sake, and always upheld his end of the bargain.

He expected others to do the same and grew irritable on the rare occasions they did not.

Old Crawman circled back around from the kitchen, slapped Crow affably on the shoulder.

“You’re up, bard. Another pint to wet your whistle?”

“No, thank you.” The beer was sweeter than Crow liked. Pushing away from the table, he grabbed his gittern and made for the single stool placed at the front of the room. The gittern was special. Carved from a single piece of wood and strung with Teref hair, it had belonged to Crow’s great-grandmother and was his second most treasured possession.

The crowd quieted when he took his place, cradling the gittern on his lap as he tuned the strings. Travel over the desert was difficult, and Crow understood he was the first wandering musician to visit Achten Tan in quite a while. He didn’t have the strongest singing voice, but he had nimble fingers and a skill with the gittern that came from decades of practice. He was talented enough that maybe word had spread; Northribs Ribs was busier than Crow had yet seen.

He finished tuning and looked up to introduce himself and his first number. As he did so, the restaurant door burst open and his contact fell inside.

“You don’t look like an assassin,” Crow’s contact grumbled. Crow’s first set was over and they were back at his table in the corner.

Crow didn’t take offense. He was small, soft around the edges, and wore spectacles for close reading. He knew he looked like a man who loved his couch more than murder. It was part of his charm.

Crow’s contact, on the other hand, looked like she could break a man’s neck without any effort at all. She was at least twice his height, her bare forearms corded with muscle. She wore the loose robes preferred by seasoned desert travelers, but Crow had no doubt the softly draped fabric hid a soldier’s body.

“You’re late.” He pointed out as she pursued a menu. “Three days late, in fact.”

“Trouble with elves in the east.” She met his stare. Her eyes were black, her lashes iridescent. Orc blood, Crow thought, and wondered what business an orcish soldier had running errands for the Guild.

But it wasn’t his business to ask questions. Nosy assassins soon found themselves out of a job, if not dead and dumped down the handiest tar hole.

“They say you should be careful what you eat in Achten Tan,” said the orc. “That it’s like with the faeries. A bite of the wrong thing and maybe you never want to leave, maybe you stay here forever. I’m not worried. Nothing will keep me more than a day in this scorched shithole.” She waved a hand as Crawman hurried past. “Hey, old man! I’ll have a bucket of the Boggoliz Five Alarm, with extra sauce.”

Crow found the orc’s hubris impressive, and her dedication to small talk alarming. “Have you got my mark or not?”

“Sure.” She showed him a mouthful of teeth before reaching under her robes and passing over a small square of actual paper. Crow’s expression made her snort. Real paper was costly this side of the desert.

The orc said, “Whoever ordered this hit must have plenty of coin to spare.” She, like Crow, would have no idea of the mark’s origins. They were cogs in a much larger machine. The piece of paper would have passed through several different hands before landing in front of Crow on a greasy table in North Ribs Ribs. “Came west over the mountains before reaching the desert, is all I know. Very hush-hush, as usual,” she added.

The blob of innocuous wax sealing the folded paper was still intact, the Guildmaster’s stamp clearly visible. Crow slit the note open with the small knife he kept on his belt. He unfolded the precious paper carefully, enjoying the feel of it on his fingertips. He wondered if it would smell like the old books he kept in his very expensive library—a library built up over decades of taking profitable Guild contracts—or if the trip across the desert had somehow tainted that perfume.

He would not reveal himself by sniffing it in front of the orc, however, so instead he read the two brief lines inked in the Guildmaster’s familiar, messy hand:

Opu Haku

Before Mabon

“Mabon?” Crow exclaimed. “That’s just two days from now. Your trouble with the elves has cost me valuable time!”

The orc shrugged. “That’s your problem, friend. I did my part. I delivered the mark into your highly qualified hands, and now I’m going to have a lovely big supper and sleep in a comfortable, sand-free bed for the first time in eleven days.” She lifted her pint glass, toasted Crow. “Cheers and good luck, and if anyone asks, what business we did here is none of theirs.”

Opu Haku was easy to track down. As the village chieftain and a respected elder, the man’s name was on every wagging tongue. Unfortunately, Opu Haku was also very visible, very much in demand, and—as far as Crow could tell—never allowed a moment of solitude.

Not even when he needs to take a piss, Crow thought with sympathy as he watched a group of loudly arguing an’chers accost Opu Haku mid-stream. The an’chers seemed to think nothing of interrupting their chieftain at his business. Opu Haku’s resigned expression as he fastened his trousers was one of a man who had come to accept the weight of his responsibilities.

Crow couldn’t hear what the an’chers were arguing about, or whatever it was Opu Haku said to calm them down. Crow was concealed in the small crowd of villagers who gathered daily near Achten Tan’s disturbing Godtree. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, Crow was told when he inquired. A show of respect, both to the Tree and to the an’chers who had lost their lives trying to protect it.

Crow suspected that as the days grew shorter, colder, and dustier, the people of Achten Tan were just looking for a bit of entertainment, something to take their mind off the threat of winter.

“He won’t dare try to rebuild the fence,” a young woman, standing on her tiptoes to better see past those around her, declared. “Will he? Not if it brings more of those creatures up from the ground! We lost half the Mirror Militia overnight. And besides which, we haven’t got enough lumber for repairs.”

If by ‘lumber’ the young woman meant the man-sized bone pickets lying broken at the foot of the Godtree, Crow couldn’t help but agree. And why would anyone build a fence out of bone, anyway? Were the people of Achten Tan too poor to trade for something sturdier? Or was there something in the culture that insisted on osseous architecture?

The Godtree, with its gigantic canopy and massive charred trunk, was alarming enough in itself. The horse-sized ants, red and black carapaces glittering in the twilight, mandibles working as they scuttled to and fro beneath and around the tree, made Crow sweat. He didn’t much like insects, not even the small and harmless variety. Ants big enough to ride into war, he could definitely do without.

He’d been to a lot of unsettling places in the service of the Guild. Achten Tan was quickly climbing to the top of Crow’s ‘never-again-for-love-nor-money’ list.

“They’ve found another body in the burrows!” cried someone at the front of the crowd. A gasp went up. Crow wormed his way forward until he stood up against the barrier—also bone—Chief Opu Haku had erected to keep curious villagers back. An an’cher lingered on the other side of the barrier, leaning against his ant, pretending relaxation as he scanned the crowd with sharp eyes.

Whatever had attacked the fence around the Godtree had come up from below, leaving behind gaping holes in the dusty soil before shattering bone and retreating into the depths again, dragging with it the corpses of the unfortunate an’chers who had been guarding the tree. A few of the bravest soldiers had volunteered to ride search and rescue into the gaping holes. As far as Crow knew, they hadn’t found any survivors, but there had been no lack of corpse-parts.

Opu Haku hurried around the Godtree to one of the larger burrows, squatted to look down into the earth. Whatever he saw there made him shake his head and grip his beard in grief.

Crow sighed. It was going to be a long evening, but surely the old man had to sleep sometime.

“Ah,” said Opu Haku when he entered his hut and found Crow sitting on his cot. It was long after moonrise and the cold, silver sky made the night as bright as day. “Who sent you? C’Naga? The Svaalti?”

Crow rose. In his hand he held his first most treasured possession: an elegant, brass-handled ice-pick with a long steel tooth. It, like the gittern, had also belonged to his great-grandmother. She’d used it to crack ice for her nightly cocktails.

Crow preferred a bloodier addiction.

Opu Haku backed toward the door, but the chieftain was a tired old man, and Crow was a practiced killer. Quick as a dune snake he darted, blocking the exit and crooking an arm around Opu Haku’s throat. Opu Haku struggled, wheezing as Crow choked off his air. Crow’s slight stature and soft edges fooled most people into believing he was harmless. He wasn’t. He worked hard to stay fast and strong.

“It doesn’t matter.” Opu Haku gasped when Crow stabbed him neatly in the armpit. Warm blood bathed Crow’s fingers and ran down his wrist. “The Godtree will overcome. Sachnummavt kelthsorrick!”

What was this? Magic? Releasing Opu Haku, Crow backed away. The contact had said nothing about magic. Magic cost extra, and for good reason. Crow never approached a mage without proper protection, and proper protection came dear.

Opu Haku collapsed on his cot where he lay dying, his blood staining the bedding and the dirt floor. Crow was more concerned with the sudden smell of ozone in the hut and the shaking of the ground beneath his feet. He turned to run, but not fast enough. He was caught about the ankle, anchored in place by a thick, prehensile tentacle bursting up from beneath the hut’s foundation.

No, not a tentacle. A root. The Godtree? Could it reach so far? By Ichor, it seemed it could. And if the bone-snapping strength of the root was any indication, the Godtree was angry.

“Fuck me,” groaned Crow, as he hacked at the root with his ice-pick. If he survived Achten Tan, he needed to have strong words with the Guild Master.

Agony made his stomach curdle. For a moment he feared he would pass out. Instead, he stabbed again and again, driving the steel tooth through bark and fleshy pulp. Sticky black sap mingled with Opu Haku’s blood on the ground. The root flexed, making Crow scream, but then his blade must have landed a real hit because it flinched, quivering as it loosened, retreating beneath the foundation.

Crow was, suddenly, astoundingly free. His ankle would never be the same. Weeping at the pain of it, he scrambled on hands and knees out of Opu Haku’s hut and into the moonlight. The night was quiet; the village sleeping. And where were Opu Haku’s eternal guards?

Something’s off. Leaning against the hut, he pulled himself upright. He could barely walk, let alone make a break across the desert on one leg. I’m screwed. The thought of a botched errand made Crow furious. The thought of being strung up for a murder made him shiver.

“Hey. Hey, you, bard. Looks like that problem of yours fought back. Need a hand?”

It was the orc soldier, grinning at him from shadows, Crow’s gittern was tucked under one arm, the reins of a giant black ant, harnessed and saddled, looped around her wrist. Opu Haku’s two guards lay crumpled in the dust at her feet.

“You knew,” Crow accused. He took an angry hop forward, swayed. The orc caught him before he could fall.

“That the chieftain was a powerful necromancer? Yes, the elves in the east had a thing or two to say about old Opu Haku and his nastier tricks. But you’ve got a rep, you’re supposed to be the best. I figured you could handle it.”

“I did!” Pain and frustration made Crow snarl. “The bastard’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Congratulations,” replied the orc mildly. “Would you like a ride out of town before the villagers realize you’ve murdered their bone wizard? Or do you prefer death by angry mob?” As if as an afterthought, she added: “I should say my help doesn’t come cheap.”

“Help me.” Crow thought he heard voices in the distance, Achten Tan stirring. “Name your price. I’m good for it.”

“Oh, I know you are.” The orc smiled as she helped him onto the ant. Her sharp teeth shone in the moonlight. “Why do you think I stuck around?”

* * *

Curious

Diana C. Gagliardi

“Wait! Hold up! You’re gonna get hurt!” Soft phosphorescent light was plenty for two young cavern gnomes, long accustomed to the dark, shadowy shapes of caves and caverns. It certainly didn’t stop them walking along rock faces and across the rope bridges they were technically checking. Well, Shashi was; Aanis had been taking measurements of something; checking lines in the stone above the ponds, pushing a stick into standing pools, and writing it all down.

Checking the rope bridges was technically a cover, but there was no need to advertise they weren’t simply moving from their family’s algae farm to the community centre or out to various other ponds. The algae lit the caverns and there was nothing good away from the algae, according to their parents. Even Shashi’s logic— “Everyone glows, isn’t the algae everywhere?”—hadn’t changed their minds.

Shashi felt a tug on their sleeve, no longer the impatient, grubby little hands slowing them, but actual warmth in touch. A kid turning into a person. “Hey, if I could get hurt, you could get hurt! Don’t go alone.” Aanis couldn’t help grinning as she reminded them, “You didn’t teach me so you could leave me behind. I wanna see where you’re going!”

Little Aanis had kept on Shashi until they finally relented and taught her everything from the “Adventuring Handbook” they could do at home. The real issue arose once she wanted to learn the rest of it; Aanis had no intention of only learning in safety, she had to learn it ALL.

ALL had included following Shashi as they went to deeper and darker spaces. Their parents thought it was good for the siblings to bond, so never cared about Shashi’s frustrations. Pointing out dangers would have gotten them both stuck.

Right now, no one was watching them while the adults dealt with the Moon Harvest. It was hurriedly declared: the people who lived in the Bone City of Achten Tan weren’t prepared for winter, and the People of the Caverns decided on a humanitarian journey.

Shashi, technically employed by the community and the first eager volunteer when asked, would leave when it was ready. This last trip was personal, a need to see the sun through the Everfall before they left.

Shashi looked critically at her, the not-so-little sister. Shashi was being honest, Aanis could handle it, had handled everything even while Shashi grumbled. Something softened.

“Alright.” Aanis caught the rope bundle Shashi tossed. “We’ll weave your harness when we get to the flue. Come on.”

The climb wasn’t difficult really, just one that took attention, but Shashi had judged correctly; Aanis took care of herself without distracting. The companionable silence was filled with the rub of cloth on rock and the soft clink of metal pieces until it was covered by a soft roar. It grew louder, filling the space of a large opening with actual light, not just the flora and fauna of the Caverns glowing in the dark. The roar came from the same place as the light- down a passageway into… what?

Aanis looked quizzically at Shashi, unsure where they were and not willing to shout over the noise. She was desperate to cover her ears when she realised Shashi was holding out pellets of kelp paste. Shashi wadded the paste into their ears. Aanis did the same. The noise cut out and they reached the passage’s end to where it opened out.

They were behind the Everfall! Aanis hadn’t even known there was a space here, had no idea how long it had been here or who had made it; she was certain it had been created, noting what looked like obvious seating and tables made from stone. The light refracted and filled the space with shining crystal beams, a strong diffused light that drove away the normal darkness of the caves but didn’t hurt her eyes.

Aanis continued looking, amazed at what Shashi had found and kept secret. Further spaces in their wandering let in the light but left the roar of the Everfall. A collection of chambers filled the cliff behind it. Away from the main chamber they could remove the kelp pellets and talk.

Aanis was enthralled. “How did you find this place!? Did you just randomly decide to go up that flue?”

Shashi shrugged, a loose, careless gesture that always frustrated the neater and more scholarly Aanis, “I was curious. I knew it had to go somewhere, wanted to know where.” Aanis understood. In fact, she was getting a tad curious as well…

“Let’s head back, we’d better not be late for your last meal with family before going to the wasteland.” She took a last look around before following back where Stashi was affixing a rope near the flue.

Shashi shrugged again. “In case you want to visit when I’m not here. Easier to get back down too!” With a grin, they dropped over the edge and led the way home.

Riding a g’ant was an exhilaration Shashi had never felt. In the Caverns it was important to move at a controlled pace, slowly and surely with enough time to brace yourself if anything goes wrong; nothing like this.

Shashi was reminded of going over a waterfall without worrying about landing; the speeds they reached as they sped across the plain created a wind that blew the hair from Shashi’s ears and sun-goggles, but they weren’t even going as fast as they could, keeping the pace down so that other g’ants could pull the wagons. Shashi could see far ahead of their caravan, the bones of a former great beast rising from sun-drenched sand while the Everfall glittered and shone across the plains behind them from the west.

There was no reason Shashi could see why people want to live in such a place: barely shaded by the great bones, pounding sun on their carved homes built into rings on the ribs themselves high off the ground, the center covered where ants and turtles were corralled on the city’s floor. Above it all, a tree that reached even higher than the bones, taller than anything Shashi had ever seen except the Everfall. Shashi was proud of the People of the Cavern who always made sure their sun-drenched cousins could survive, but they couldn’t understand, not yet.

The bridge to Achten Tan was on the opposite side from the Everfall, forcing the wagons to circumvent the city in order to enter. Shashi was frustrated to be so close. They held back until they were riding with the g’ant guards escorts. Shashi had been too overwhelmed to really talk to them earlier, but they had been very encouraging. Shashi had taken to their g’ant and the an’chers had cheered as they sped off and returned to be welcomed back as a junior g’ant rider.

“Do you have to go all the way around every time you exit or enter Achten Tan?” Shashi understood one end held the giant tree and the whole city was surrounded by a moat... but did they really ride all this way every time?

The antriders (“An’chers,” Shashi recalled, riders of the great g’ants) chuckled lightly before an older rider grinned and jerked her chin. “Balak, why don’t you show ‘em, might be educational for the little one” Shashi blushed at “little one” but was still pleased they weren’t coldly polite like with some of the other gnomes, ones on wagons who wouldn’t ride.

Balak started banking left, clicking at Shashi’s mount so it followed. They caught up to Balak on the edge of the moat where he had dismounted and was doing adjustments to his saddle. He gestured for Shashi to dismount; the g’ant lowered itself to the ground for Shashi to clamber off. Balak was adding leather loops on the saddle, buckling onto what Shashi had assumed was barding as it jingled during their run. Finished with his mount, he clicked and whistled while swinging the loops, Shashi’s huge beast playfully catching them before settling and allowing Balak to buckle the pieces. Shashi had been up on their knees on the ant-saddle as they raced across the sand (for balance and control over the thorax, the an’chers taught) but now it was all different. “Come on, let’s fit you properly, ants can climb on ANYTHING.”

Shashi didn’t realise it, but Balak had the same look in his eyes Aanis often saw in theirs.

What followed was a wild ride where more than once only the straps held them to their mounts. They crossed the moat using cunningly placed... rocks? bones? Shashi couldn’t tell as they darted from one to the other across the thick greasy liquid. At one point what Shashi took to be a rock raised from the moat and appeared to greet the g’ant, its shell shimmering as its flippers roiled the muck, nearly splashing on them. Once across, Balak asked if they were up for more. Shashi took the challenge and he laughed, aiming their mounts and galloping them directly at a rib.

If Shashi had thought crossing the moat was exciting, it was nothing compared to a vertical climb up the giant bone. There was a clear path up the side, and Balak explained how an an’cher could reach any cohort rings on the ribs using the paths. By the time they had reached the top, Balak calling greetings and Shashi waving shyly at Cavern-curious children, the sun was lowering, shining off the Everfall, visible even from here.

The winds snapped this high up, darkness falling in a friendly way to a person raised in the Caverns. They could hear ants settling, clicking to each other in the night. Suddenly, Shashi realised they were alone on top of this giant bone, entire neighborhoods from the ground.

“Balak!?” It was hard not to panic.

“I’m right here, are you okay?” Shashi was reassured by his voice but something felt off.

“Where are you, why can’t I see you?” Shashi was confused until Balak took their hand. Shashi felt his touch and realised his hand was cloaked in darkness while theirs was glowing faintly. It had never occurred to Shashi that this was something unique to the people of the Caverns, that people here didn’t have lifetimes of being underground and eating phosphorescent algae. Shashi looked surprised at Balak for his lack of glow, a look just as surprised as his that Shashi did. Balak started grinning first.

“That’s thorax! How do you do that?”

They stayed on the rib for most of the night, Balak pointing out different places of interest while Shashi talked about home, the caves, and Aanis. It was tense when they returned- the leader of Achten Tan had been killed just last week and everyone was nervous. Shashi and Balak’s appearing together in obvious friendship had been a needed release.

Now Shashi was upgraded to cultural attaché, young enough to meet people of Achten Tan with open inquisitiveness and build a bridge between them. Shashi had enjoyed time in Achten Tan and was proud of the connections being made: hanging out with Balak and other an’chers, trying the North Rib Ribs (if only Shashi’s mom could give them algae paste tips!), and helping pass out supplies.

It only lasted until the rains. Balak had said the ants were nervous, that people had spoken of bad omens. Shashi knew there had been trouble this year, that’s why they had brought food, but they hadn’t realised it was still happening.

When the rains came, they burned.

Shashi spent the first day of the rains with others from the Caverns, the overcast room lightened slightly by their faces and uncovered skin. The elders were stoic, but by day three inside, trapped by the rain, even they appeared to have doubts.

Shashi found Balak at the stable enclosure where an’chers were trying to keep the great ants calm and under cover. Balak smiled through his obvious exhaustion. “All the tunnels are flooded. We’re trying to convince them to stay in the arena, but only some of it’s protected.” There was a deep sadness in Balak. “I think we’re gonna lose some of them, we just can’t keep them safe, they don’t understand.”

Balak was correct; once the rain ended half the ant pasture was washed away along with many of the young, unbonded ants. The trip back to the Caverns is hurried and difficult. Large portions of plain have fallen into great chasms. Achten Tan could only spare a formerly retired an’cher- pressed back into service- to escort them back.

The Everfall roared fiercely, larger and stronger than any of them have ever imagined, swollen with days of rain. As they approached, they realised the entrance was flooded. Not knowing what had happened to their people, some of the travelling gnomes despaired, sure that all was lost. Their keening added to the roar of the falls, neither fully blocked by kelp pellets.

Shashi is shocked, afraid everything is gone, but not willing to give up. Balak had shown how to adjust the g’ant’s saddle straps and they are ready to climb the cliffs before any of the elders understand what they are up to, let alone gesture them to stop. Clinging to the straps holding them to the g’ant, Shashi climbs the cliffs.

It’s not an easy climb. Shashi isn’t sure any gnome/g’ant combo has ever attempted it. But Shashi has to find out what’s happened; to the Cavern People, family... Aanis. If the lower levels are flooded (the thought drops their stomach) Shashi has to start from the top and work down to find...

The numbness helps, the g’ant moving parallel to the Everfall up to a ledge, a ledge that leads to a hollow opening behind it, a room carved out of the cliff itself. Shashi’s so focused, plotting moves and trying to remember what Aanis had said about which sections drained out faster, they don’t notice—

“SHASHI!!!” Even with pellets and the Everfall, a sister’s shout pierces over all.

Shashi turns to the side room when a streak of small person barrels straight for them. They fall in a pile, laughing as Shashi finally looks around, noting toys and supplies in the large room, spying people in other chambers moving about caring for the community. Shashi doesn’t realise what they are looking for until Aanis points to a corner where their mother and father are working.

Something in Shashi’s chest loosens, stress they didn’t know they had flowing right out of fingers and toes, unable to form any thought more coherent than, “How?!”

Aanis grins, “You showed me this place and I couldn’t stop thinking about it- who made it, why, were you the first person to find it… so I started looking.” She explains how she had delved into histories, finding an old map that showed original corridors easily leading to the Everfall chambers. Aanis had found it, convinced some bored friends to help clear it. “Once the Council saw all that, I was able to convince them we should shift some general supplies up here, far away from the ponds… just in case.” Aanis gestures. “And it just… worked out!”

Shashi keeps hugging her. There’s still work to do. The group returning from Achten Tan has to be retrieved and reassured, but for the moment it is the moment and that is enough.

Shashi reluctantly returns, “Okay, that’s HOW everyone got here, but all that research to begin with- why?”

Shashi knows Aanis’ grin and looks forward to seeing it for years to come. “Howdja put it? I was curious!”

* * *

Awake

Paul Worthington

An an’cher and his loyal g’ant make camp in the Bonewastes. Illustration by Daniel Jackson (@WorldofMrGrey)

The infernal sound of snoring filled the entire dwelling, vibrating the very bone that shielded him from the elements. Tandu couldn’t believe how fast it had spread through his family. Zarrath was to blame; Tandu’s sister, it all started with her. He had told her not to enlist with the an’chers, everyone had told her, but no advice would penetrate her stubborn skull.

Joining the ranks of the an’chers was not to be taken lightly. Taming a huge insect and not getting killed by it and then learning to fight while riding the Ant was not the easiest of jobs. The an’chers traveled all over this region, far and wide, poking their noses into everything and ultimately bringing trouble back to the fair town of Achten Tan. Nobody would say that the an’chers brought this sickness to the town, but there were whispers and rumours; for some, that was enough.

For Tandu there was no debate about where the sleeping sickness had originated. Zarrath had returned from the latest skirmish near Satama, exhausted and dehydrated (as was usual after time out on patrols). She slept for a long time, almost a full day and the night. That was strange enough, Zarrath had never slept for such a long time... ever.

Strangely enough, it was when Zarrath was awake that Tandu became really spooked. Calling her state of being ‘awake’ was not strictly accurate. Her eyes were open, but they contained very little clarity and none of their previous sparkle. She was usually an energetic soul, moving with purpose and vigour that had ramped up even further since she had become a g’ant rider. Tandu watched her waft around their home, listless and vacant. An empty vessel.

Tandu became so obsessed with watching her deterioration that he failed to notice the other members of their family display the same symptoms. Powerless to delay or to stop the rampant illness, he watched them fall one by one. Zarrath had been the first, and she was quickly followed by their mother Delith and father Haavtor.

Tandu woke in the corner of his room, even before he’d wiped the sleep from his eyes he could hear the droning soundtrack that filled the hut. Like the princesses of some ancient fairy tale, his family were fast asleep, but would never wake again. No kisses from a handsome prince could break the spell manifested by this dreadful illness. Loud noises, tearful pleas, and even violent shaking did not work. Nothing could cure the mysterious sleeping sickness.

The three most important people in Tandu’s life were slowly slipping away, still alive but unresponsive, and soon they would take their last breath. His entire family would soon be gone forever. A tragedy for anyone to bear, but for a boy of only fifteen years, an event that would surely shape his life for decades to come. He’d cried until his eyes were left red and dry, sobs catching in his throat.

Tandu wanted to scream and wail and smash up his home, and the homes of others, until somebody would try to stop him. That would give him an excuse to hit someone. The desire to beat another person to a pulp was the only outlet for his rage and grief that he could envisage. The only trouble was that in the back of his mind a sensible voice reminded him that he did not have the monopoly on grief.

His family was dying, his whole world would be gone in a matter of days; but they were not the only victims, and he was not the only grieving survivor. All over Achten Tan, on both the North Ribs side and the South, there were deaths from the sleeping sickness. There was no escape from the snoring death.

The corpses were piling up and the town’s administrators were clueless about stopping the spread of the fatal sickness. The buck stops at the top, doesn’t it always, and at the very top of the Achten Tan hierarchy sat Chief Opu Haku. Tandu paced his hut while muttering to himself, the sound of the snoring washing over him but as inconsequential as background noise.

Angry, emotional, and wracked with a grief that consumed his rational mind, his musings turned raced to venomous rhetoric that fanned the flames of his anger into a blazing phoenix of rage. The Chief was doing nothing about the sickness. Nothing apart from sitting on his arse, rib sauce matting his beard while families were burying their loved ones. It was about time Chief Opu Haku stepped up and tried at least to save some lives. Tandu was going to make him take action; he would do something or else, resolved the boy.

Tandu rehearsed the tirade he would unleash as he marched to the Chief’s hut, but was left crestfallen when a surly neighbour yelled from a near-toothless mouth, “Chief’s out on official town business boy!”

The angry young man tried to negotiate for more information, but he soon grew tired of the old geezer’s incoherent ramblings and left the scene.

Tandu searched the settlement high and low for the Chief, and although their paths brushed close, they didn’t cross until much later that evening. Hours of marching to and fro between the North and South Ribs had done nothing to calm Tandu’s consuming anger. An anger bolstered by witnessing other victims of the sleeping sickness being carried through the streets by grieving relatives.

Chief Opu Haku was a large man with a well fed belly and a bushy beard flecked with grey. For Tandu to spot him coming out of North Ribs Ribs, a box in one hand and a sticky, sauce covered rib in the other was somehow poetic. The Chief chuckled to himself and tore into a delicious rib as though he hadn’t eaten in ages. Tandu could not believe his eyes, and his anger burned up into rage in an instant as he stormed over to confront the Chief.

Opu Haku was throwing a finished bone back into the box before sucking the delicious sauce from his index finger and thumb when suddenly the box flew from his grasp and he watched in dismay as his ribs scattered over the ground. His eyes flicked angrily from the spilled food to the wiry figure that had ruined his supper. Before the Chief could say anything, Tandu barked “How can you smile and laugh? People are dying all over this town and you do nothing but fill your face with ribs!”

The accusation forced the anger from the Chief for the moment and put him on the defensive. Opu Haku frowned at Tandu, weighed him up, and quickly saw the grief in his face, just beneath the anger. The Chief sighed before trying to throw an arm around the youngster’s shoulder, “Ah, come here, lad...”

Tandu wriggled free before he was drawn in for a hug, stepping away from the chief and standing orthodox, ready to fight.

A standoff ensued, although only one had violence on his mind. Tandu’s brow furrowed deep and his teeth clenched tightly together; his frustration ready to blow at any moment. The Chief stood a head taller and was barrel wide, but Tandu had come too far to back down now. The Chief extended for a handshake “This whole town is hurting boy, there’s death wherever you look. Let’s not add to the strife.” His smile was warm and diplomatic, well practised.

Tandu was so hurt that he couldn’t care less about the other cases of the sickness. There were only three victims at the forefront of his mind. His eyes were wild, blazing with fury as he spat, “I couldn’t care less about your sandy shithole town! My family is dying and you don’t lift a finger to... to do anything!”

The Chief’s shoulders sagged. “Do you really think I don’t care? This is my town, and these are my people. I wish I could save them all, but this sickness is new and nobody knows how to stop it. It has to run its course and hopefully it’ll go as quick as it came.”

“Run its course!” repeated Tandu incredulously.

“I know it sounds harsh but we’ve no defence against this thing, it’s got us by the balls!” reasoned the Chief.

Tandu had heard enough, and with a yell of anger he lunged at the town Patriarch, leading with an arcing right hook that landed flush on the Chief’s jaw, his beard squashing between fist and face. Opu Haku took a step back but did not crumble to a heap on the floor as Tandu had envisioned—something that only infuriated him further.

Opu Haku held up two placating palms and pleaded, “Take it easy, lad. I know this is a tough time, but you can’t lay the blame at my feet. We’re all suffering in this town.”

Tandu lunged again, but the Chief moved faster than his bulk would suggest. He caught the oncoming fist and threw the boy backwards onto his ass. A crowd that had amassed outside of North Ribs Ribs began jeering and cackling at Tandu’s failed attack. His blood boiled with rage and as he stood back up, he pulled a small knife from his belt and once again tried to attack the Chief.

Before he could get anywhere near Opu Haku, a gaggle of gawkers seized his neck and wrists and dragged him away from the clearly shell-shocked Chief. A friend of his sister’s and fellow an’cher warned, “You’ll be locked up if you carry on like this... banished maybe! I tell you now, boy, the only thing outside this town... is death!”

Tandu angrily shrugged off the do-gooders and skulked away from the scene of the scuffle, still stewing in self pity and seething with anger. He stormed through Achten Tan, frustrated and fighting to hold back his tears. Near a crossroads between huts, he sat against a rock and allowed salty tears to run from his eyes to his chin. His mind raced with emotions he was ill equipped to deal with. He sat with his face buried in both hands, unable to work out what to do next.

A low humming roused Tandu from his wallowing. He gazed up and saw a little Orc girl, only eight or nine, standing beside a doorway and humming a mournful song that instantly brought a vicious lump to Tandu’s throat. A mixture of Orcs and humans filed from the hut, carrying a pair of adult sized bodies wrapped in white cloth. The girl’s parents, guessed Tandu. Her singing never faltered and when the bodies were taken away, she scooped up a tiny toddler Orc and carried it back into their hut.

The way she had carried herself and handled the situation shamed Tandu, and for the first time he saw that he was making a terrible situation even worse. The an’cher’s words flashed back into his mind and the very real possibility of banishment terrified him. Tandu tossed his knife away and headed for the Chief’s hut, although this time there would be no violence, only apologies.

Thankfully, the rude neighbour was not in the vicinity, but while Tandu was looking the wrong way he bumped into a cloaked figure hurrying in the other direction. Both politely apologised to the other, but while Tandu halted for a moment, the stranger made haste. Tandu shrugged, and once at the Chief’s hut he tapped the bone doorway to rouse the Chief. The boy held out both hands to show that he was unarmed and waited nervously for the Chief to appear, hopeful that it was not too late to save his own skin.

No answer came, so he banged the bone again, and the door swung open a little, but nobody stood on the other side. Tandu called out to Opu Haku several times, but there came not one reply. Eager to make an apology before his future was decided, Tandu pushed the door open and ventured inside.

“Chief... are you home, Cheee!” the final part of his sentence got stuck in his throat as he gazed down at a bloody mess in the middle of the floor.

Chief Opu Haku lay in such a state that he looked like a g’ant had savaged him. Stab wounds covered his face and torso, and blood lay in a pool around the corpse and had been splattered during the struggle. Not long ago, Tandu himself had wanted to inflict such damage to the Chief, but the scene horrified him.

It then suddenly smacked him in the face. The fight with the Chief, the knife and the threats of savage retaliation, had all been witnessed by many townsfolk. The whole of Achten Tan would blame this murder on Tandu. He didn’t blame them, he would have thought it was him if he didn’t know that it wasn’t.

In the dying light of the day, Tandu slipped out of the Chief’s hut and hurried to his own. There he packed a few meagre belongings into a sack and with little food he left his hut and Achten Tan forever. The last sound he heard in his former home, and one that would live in his head until his final days, was the damned, infernal snoring.

* * *

Moving Forward

(Mature Content: Erotica)

Sarah Houck

It had to be after midnight when the soft rap on my front door dragged me from my morose thoughts. A heartbeat later, a voice I knew as well as my own whispered my name. “Lakshmi? Are you home?”

It was Niall, the man who’d been my brother Narain’s best friend since childhood. He was also the man I’d secretly been in love with since I was eight.

I should have known he would come. He’d checked in on me every night since I’d returned to Achten Tan, but it never failed to quicken my pulse each time I heard his voice on the other side of the door.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

In the few weeks I’d been back home, I’d gotten into the habit of telling Niall that I was fine before sending him away. Tonight didn’t start any differently.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

No sooner had the word “fine” left my mouth, I heard his heavy sigh on the other side of the door. Previously, he’d accepted my obvious lies and gone home without complaint, but tonight he broke our usual script with a question.

“Can we talk?”

For a moment, breathing became impossible. Until now, I’d been determined to act like things were fine, but hearing the unexpected question caused an epiphany to hit me as fast and unexpectedly as a lightning strike. I needed to talk to someone. More specifically, I needed to talk to Niall, who might be the only person left in the world who didn’t blame me for leading a dozen of our friends to their doom.

“Okay.”

The decision was made in seconds and, with admittedly shaky nerves, I climbed to my feet and slowly headed towards the door.

Why hadn’t I realized how sick I was of living out my days in guilt-fueled self-isolation? With absolute clarity, I suddenly realized that I needed to change before life passed me by. The only way that could happen was to open the door, both physically and emotionally.

Just as my hand grasped the knob, I looked down and realized I wasn’t wearing nearly enough to be considered decent, but I also knew myself well enough to understand that if I stopped to put on some clothes, I’d completely lose my nerve.

As soon as I opened the door, what little light came from outside was blocked by Niall’s tall frame and broad shoulders sculpted by years of manual labor. The contrast of his tawny skin and honey-colored eyes was striking, even in the dim light, and right then those eyes were full of surprise.

I’d never opened the door for him this late at night, determined to keep any gossip about our relationship to a minimum. If Achten Tan was good for anything, it was rumors. And I’d especially never greeted him wearing night clothes, knowing Narain would have killed us both, but the slight smile that graced his lips as he attempted and failed not to look me over from top to bottom, sent an unexpected wave of pleasure through me like I’d never felt before.

I stepped aside to let Niall in, before turning my back to him in an futile effort to control my suddenly racing heart while I closed the door. I knew I couldn’t hide for long but I also feared that if he saw my face now, Niall would get a full understanding of my feelings and I couldn’t risk that now, not when he was one of the few friends I had left in this world.

Several long seconds after the door was closed, my hand still rested flat against its cool surface as I gathered my thoughts. Unsure what else to do, I screwed my eyes shut and conjured up my most cheerful voice, praying that somehow he would fall for it.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Even to my own ears, my inflection was too fake, too over the top to be believed.

“Lakshmi…” My name was a breath on his lips, causing butterflies in my stomach.

When I didn’t turn around on my own, I felt the gentle pressure of his hand on my shoulder and, after a brief hesitation, I allowed him to turn me around but I couldn’t look at him yet. Instead, I dropped my forehead to his chest and inhaled deeply, allowing myself to absorb Niall’s scent so perfectly. That, in itself, was enough to soothe the worst of my nerves, and I relaxed against him in a way that I’d never allowed myself before.

I was relieved when the tension in his shoulders melted away and, in a subtle movement, I felt him lean into me.

“Talk to me,” he urged gently, wrapping his arms loosely around my shoulders and pulling me a little closer. “Please.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I finally murmured when I didn’t have the heart to leave him waiting any longer.

“Anything.”

Perhaps it was the earnestness of his tone or the fact that I just needed to get things off my chest, but the dam I’d set up to hide my true emotions crashed down and I told him exactly what was wrong.

“I miss my brother and I miss my friends. But, more than anything, I just want to be happy again... but I know I don’t deserve it.”

The last sentence was little more than a whisper, but that didn’t stop Niall from sucking in a sharp breath in obvious disagreement. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” I insisted, burying my face a little further into his chest and muffling my voice in the process. “I suggested getting revenge. I led our warriors to their doom. I should have been the one to die out there, not them!”

His heavy sigh said so much. Remorse. Regret. Concern. But, after a moment of quiet contemplation, he pressed his lips to the top of my head and pulled me in tighter until we were chest to chest. “I should have gone with you.”

“No!” My shout was still echoing off the walls when my head snapped up and I looked directly into his startled eyes.

Niall’s words shook me to the core. When I thought of the two little sisters at home that he was raising, his reason for not joining the revenge mission, my blood ran cold. Lowering my volume but not my intensity, I repeated the word, searching his handsome face for understanding.

“No. I’m glad you weren’t there. It was terrible... just terrible.” I paused, allowing a shiver to run up my spine at the memory of what had transpired before continuing. “But I’m so, so incredibly relieved that you weren’t there. I don’t know what I would have done. I... I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d lost you too.”

As I spoke, I placed my hands on his chest, moving closer to convey my true feelings. Just the thought of losing Niall had broken down my defenses, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. If I’d learned anything over the past several months, it was that life was too short to wait. If I wanted my life to change, I needed to grab it by the horns and make it happen. This was my one chance, and I only hoped he’d understand.

For a moment Niall didn’t move; his eyes simply searched mine, although I wasn’t completely sure what he was looking for. I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath until he exhaled in a rush. A heartbeat later he dropped his forehead to mine, our breath mingling.

“When you went missing, I thought I’d go crazy. I wanted to find you, to rescue you, but I couldn’t just leave the girls.” There was an intensity to Niall’s words that made me certain he was sincere. “Everyone was sure you’d be tortured and killed, but I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t allow myself to believe it.”

By that point my heart was beating so hard I was sure he’d feel it against his chest, but it didn’t matter. His own breath had turned ragged and the feel of his hard cock against my abdomen proved his interest. I wasn’t in this alone and, for the first time in months, I let myself relax.

Slowly, I slid my hands from his chest to his neck, wrapping my arms around him. With our foreheads still pressed together, our lips were mere inches apart, his warm breath caressing my skin. I wanted to close the distance between us, but I hesitated another moment before he spoke again, voice thick and low with desire.

“What do you want from me, Lakshmi?”

The question was simple, but the answer wasn’t. So, instead of fumbling with my words, I tilted my head back just enough to softly press my lips to his. It was gentle, questioning, but he met me halfway, sinking into our closed mouth kiss. As we lingered together, his hands snaked around my waist, closing any remaining distance between us and allowing me to feel exactly how interested he was.

When the kiss ended, we both let out a contented sigh, but it was his words that touched me the most. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Me too.”

For some reason, my simple confession seemed to surprise Niall because he pulled back enough to look me in the eyes once more, again searching for answers. Unlike before, this time I knew exactly what he was looking for and I tried my hardest to convey all the deep emotions I held for him, along with the desire that went with it.

I wanted Niall. I wanted him in my heart and in my bed. Tonight. Now. Always.

I wanted to lose myself in his embrace. I wanted to feel him like I never had before. I wanted to grasp my newfound happiness because, any way you looked at it, I was absolutely certain that my future happiness would include the gorgeous man who looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. And maybe, for tonight, I could be.

I’m not sure who moved first, but one moment we were staring into each other’s eyes and the next his lips were crashing into mine, instantly deepening the kiss. Niall’s movements were hungry, as if he’d held back for so long that he’d become lost to the moment and I was right there with him.

My fingers wound into his hair, holding him close while his fingers found the hem of my top. A moment later, the touch of his fingertips against the bare flesh of my stomach caused a soft moan to escape my lips. I probably should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. In fact, the feel of his skin on mine caused a stirring between my thighs that couldn’t be denied.

“Please,” I begged, willing him to take the next step.

He smiled against my lips, kissing me hard one last time before leaning back to rid me of my top. If my lack of undergarments surprised Niall, he didn’t say so, but the appreciation in his eyes as he now openly looked me over assured me that he liked what he saw.

Not willing to be topless alone, I tugged at the bottom of his shirt until he helped me pull it over his head, tossing it to the floor. A few more kisses and discarded garments later, I was pulled back into his arms, naked and thrilled to feel his warm body against my own, but I didn’t want to linger. I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed him now.

Not quite breaking the kiss, I pulled him over to the bed, backing him against it and pushing just enough that he fell onto it with a chuckle. However, his amusement was quickly replaced with momentary shock when I pushed him onto his back and climbed up to straddle him.

“Do you mind?” I asked, unable to keep the smug expression off my face.

The flash of pure lust that shone in his eyes was all the answer I needed, and when he smirked I nearly swooned. “I don’t mind at all.”

Leaning forward, I pressed my lips to his once more. Lingering rather than ravaging. Slowing down the pace, unwilling to let things end too quickly.

For a long time, his hands caressed my skin as we took turns kissing, nipping and tasting each other. I felt hot and wet and every passing moment became a slow torture as my body begged for the release I’d been denying us both.

Ultimately, to my great satisfaction, it was Niall who waved the white flag first. “Lakshmi, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.” His words were nearly a growl as he nipped the skin behind my ear, sending goosebumps across my flesh.

In answer, I pulled back, positioning myself above him so I could clearly see his face when I sat back, taking him in all at once. I’m not sure who moaned, maybe both of us, but he filled me in a way I’d never experienced before. But, more than that, it felt right, and I instantly knew that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I rolled my hips, enjoying the way Niall bit his bottom lip as he watched me move. His hands found my hips, helping me along the way, and before long we were bucking against each other, gasping for breath as my body tightened around his length. I climaxed first, still pulsing wildly around him when he pulled me down, crashing his lips into mine and holding me tight when he finally let go.

Long after we were done, Niall held me in his arms. We lay on my bed, the covers pulled over our shoulders. Never in my life had I felt so cherished or so safe; I never wanted to let that feeling go.

* * *

(Breaking News) Commun[e] ic[n]ation’s new day:

a service & a system of [jumbled and clarified] inter/connectivity [if you attune]

Sarah Parker

J.C. Suessez, Staff Reporter Posted #########

[Modified by Drizko Tinkersbane]

[This article was written 1,000 years before the people of Achten Tan opened the door. Their existence and their mysteries are still being examined by Seekers. Leading scientists debate the impact of a bottle of Black Ink or a hit of Godtree fruit on consciousness, often after imbibing Absinthe. Rhetoricians are reluctant to reveal affiliations. Commoners are cool towards mankind. Words have failed us all … ]

Energy and properly lowered nouns are expelled in each breath, and we call this communication. Identified as an exchange of in.formation [information must be re:viewed as a collective unit; we are in.form.ed by it all]. We dub this inaptly, as one can out without another taking in. Still, we say, “I see.” [As if words take temporal form.] It is not like breathing; it’s not effective without conscious effort. [As the inhabitants of Achten Tan learned when their bodies stopped listening to their minds. When lips loosed another language, and they spoke of foreign things].

[Report: The skin, the mind, now the words of the inhabitants have become infected. In the course of communication, at almost randomized moments, words turn to garbish. No confusion appears on the face of the speaker, as if they hear themselves making perfect sense. Listeners have begun inscribing a communal record of last words heard in the native tongue, as if a key to translation might manifest itself. As if wise words might be preserved. No one knows who is contributing as the cavern walls outside the dome are where the stone-scratched listing appears— always found when one searches there in solitude.

Investigation: Passe and primitive. Hush-hush, too shy shy; no seeing eye to eye. Something lyrical about that bit tho . . .

Summation: What can we conclude from list-less words? if they are only aired grievances? The people are (dis)satisfied. They need a new methodology to convey that. Words contain more (root meaning).

Extrapolations: Re-read and re:interpret. Invert and flip the script. Try a translation to:

Nuance: meaning. Deeper understanding is needing. These words aren’t sufficing, as much is surfacing, as much is effacing. What systemic effort can embrace this? Talk to the Babylonians. Ongoing action(s) required.

Up the ante, as you elevate your words, dote on particulars. Reflect on truths uttered unknowingly. Ant/I; have we become one yet? This is the science of discussion, of analysis. Da, it is. Finis: This is the voice of people, plagued by dis.ease. [Dis]cover their inflection and diction. Remember Lehi’s choice. Remember your own voice, the chittering sounds that rubbed you the wrong way.]

The efforts of communication can manifest many ways. Many interpretations. Many extrapolations. Minds field. Battles ensue. Suing starts. Starting trends. Trends revolve; a new resolve… [another riddle to solve, another world to exploit.]

“Die to words and you die to self.” But what if words are only a shield, not something we wield? Words have been weaponized for some time now. Before, they were a force of creation. Realize what you’ve spoken forth as you reflect on recent conversations. [Note mirrored movements. Recall body language and other nonverbal means of self expression.]

“Hear me out!” This does not decree what one is about. Often it is a response to input. [What’s put out/there comes back/wanting/not for lack/of trying—translation of inscribed lines ascribes the law of diminishing returns.]

“That’s what she said.” These deflections take away your power and the power of the one you reference. Our retorts as-is are making us the punch line of the rhetorical turn.

“You know what they say about assuming . . . “Still, we assume [and amass and attack]. Let’s abstract. If you consider words and context, then exchanges are more than happenstance. [What has changed; consider closely that lost and found. Mirror, mirror, we all fade out; the world ripples out.]

Take in the composite meaning. Death is the message of the first communicator cited here [and our final, but not eternal destination, Fe we are forging still]. The second only exists outside their own being, when embraced by another [species non-specific]. The third cannot credit, nor originate, and taxes tired lines to prop up self, thinking himself a co.habitant of catchy, a humorous hunter, or she is self deprecating.

But these surmises too hold surprises [and each of you holds part of the truth], for they are of my mind’s eye [and your heart’s holding] and may be not the message of intent [despite interest, er bent]. Intersect. Dissect. Then you can identify core communications [core discrepancies, to unearth true historical account and futures planned. Ink must spill or blood will].

Comments:

Word [to the wise — don’t forget her songs! Act out of aged wisdom, re: which ripens akin to aged wine.]

* * *

Devastation Song

(A Kiss in the Acid Rain)

Debbie Iancu-Haddad

Riding a giant ant is the closest thing to flying.

On Namala’s back, I sit straight and tall. Perched between her antennae twenty feet off the ground, I wear my pride like a mantle.

The residents of Achten Tan clear a path as our patrol sweeps through Skull Gate on the way to the Boneyard. We pause at the moat, waiting for our transport–the giant Tar-tule that will take us safely over the thick, dark sludge.

I compose myself, trying not to look too eager as a giant shell grows closer, but my heart races. My heart straining, not towards the beast, but towards its rider.

“Fancy the algae-chomper, do you?” Paba says too loudly, casting her voice in a taunt aimed for more than my ears. I snap my gaze up, praying he’s too far out to hear her. His bright, clear gaze steadies me enough to bear her next jab.

I squirm as Ophira, my squad leader, and her sidekick Paba watch me with amusement. I peel my eyes away from D’or the Tar-tule rider’s impressive form, strong and proud atop the hard shell.

“Feel like going for a swim, do you? Want to get your toes wet?” Paba laughs and I let my eyes drop back to the dusty pier.

“Methinks it’s not his toes he wants to get wet.” Ophira and Paba bump fists and cackle. Despite my efforts to ignore them, my ears warm under my bone helmet.

“He’s as red as his ant,” Ophira jeers, swiping her braids back over her shoulder. “A perfect match.”

“Shut up,” I grumble under my breath, itching to kick Namala into movement, but I’m trapped here until our ride pulls up to the dock.

The smile drops off my commander’s face. “For that back talk you have first watch at Skullgate tonight.” Ophira narrows her eyes at me. “One more word and you can enjoy polishing my harness.”

I glower silently but keep quiet, focusing on D’or’s smile lighting the gloom under the ribs. Joining the An’chers made all the difference for me. These days I feel less like the crippled kid from south-ribs, the healer’s damaged son, and more a part of this unit. The An’chers are an elite squad of warriors and I try hard to believe they selected me thanks to my merits, as opposed to my mother’s position. Hoping they valued my plucky spirit and eagerness to serve, but who knows really?

Well, I guess Captain Karak does, but I hope he never tells me.

I hear the grumbling among other cadets, but I’ve never fit in, so why start now? I stand out in every way. I’m as pale as a cursed algae farmer from the underground caverns at the Everfall. I’m broken and bruised from the accident that changed my life and erased my memories of before. I was always only tolerated, never loved, except by Otara.

A giant head surfaces in the moat. I shiver at the sound of the clear voice calling out in the silence.

“Ho An’chers,” D’or cries as he guides his mount to the dock.

“Tar-tule rider.” Ophira’s tone is just this side of a sneer.

The long-standing rivalry between the two corps ebbs and flows like the tar in the moat, as dark and as suffocating. We’re supposed to work together in the defense of Achten Tan and yet the An’chers hold themselves superior. I guess I did too until I realized the most perfect boy in the city rides a Tar-tule.

I was on Namala’s back the first time the giant beast lumbered by. The misty grey-green moss of its rider’s eyes finding mine. I’d met them fearlessly, and he’d smiled as though I wasn’t a broken, worthless kid from the top of the rib, as if I truly was twenty feet tall.

D’or would never have seen me on the ground. On the ground I shuffle, tripping over my own feet, raising bone dust and taking up space. But on Namala’s back, I soar.

The three ants clamber aboard the Tar-tule’s wide back and I find myself up front. D’or climbs atop the creature’s head to make room, and we’re almost eye to eye. My face catches fire and I duck my head, pretending to arrange my pack.

When I lift my head again his eyes find mine.

“You’re Kamal, right? The healer’s son?”

My words dry up as a desert wind sweeps through my brain, stealing all moisture. I manage a nod.

“We grew up close to each other.” He continues as if I’d spoken.

My head jerks in surprise. I didn’t think he’d even noticed my existence.

“You’re talkative, aren’t you?” He grins, despite my silence.

I hang my head in shame. The first time I talk to him and I lose the power of speech. He’ll think I’m full of myself like the other An’chers, too proud to talk to a Tar-tule rider.

“Does she have a name?” I croak as we approach the shore.

His smile widens, and his face is a joy to behold, as luminous as phosphorescent algae. “Her name is Lotan.”

“Beautiful,” I murmur, and I think he knows I’m not talking about the Tar-tule.

On the way back after our patrol we have a different transport and I focus my eyes on the gate, preparing for my night watch. I don’t really mind, first watch means I have the longest time to sleep afterwards.

As the night draws on, I pull my cloak close around me, watching my breath mist into the air. Fall is upon us, the nights getting colder. Rain patters and I feel Namala shifting in unease.

I run a hand up her antenna, “What is it, girl?”

A drop hits my hand and I hiss as it sizzles on my skin. This is no ordinary rain. This is acid.

The acidic rain is gentle at first, slowly turning to sheets of falling filth. People rush into their homes for fear of being melted down to the bone. We take cover as best we can, struggling to bring the ants to shelter and higher ground.

Midmorning, the efforts were going slow as the ground shifts and rumbles. Sighters at the top of the 400-meter Godtree report that in the west, the Everfall has overflowed, and the ground is giving way. A rift begins, opening into a massive canyon that swallows up the landscape.

The citizens of Achten Tan flee to high ground as the squelching cracks span towards us at perilous speed.

Tasked with guiding the people to safety, I try to steer the river of refugees, but they are mad with fear. Despite my cries they enter the canyon, a faceless mob, howling as they stampede, pushing the weakest to the ground. My mother’s healer cloak flaps as she’s spun around, and I glimpse her pale, wide-eyed expression. Her eyes find mine, then she falls, the crowd surging over her like a hungry beast.

I drum my heels into Namala, driving her through the panicked townspeople, not caring that we’re moving deeper into the dead-end canyon.

“Mother!” I shout. “Otara!”

A ripple crashes through the earth, and the ground bucks like Namala when she’s feeling playful. Namala is steady on her six legs, hugging the ground as the ripple runs through her. I drum my feet into her sides, but at first, she refuses to move. My eyes are wet, moisture streaming down my cheeks and obscuring my vision as I search the ground for my mother’s cloak.

“Come on girl,” I beg my ant, “You can do it.”

Namala shakes off her fear. Despite her survival instinct to run the other way, she obeys me.

“Thank you, girl,” I run a hand over her head, encouraging her. “We’re almost there.”

I can’t see my mother. I reach the spot where she went down. Her tan healer’s cloak lies on the ground close to the bend, torn and covered in blood.

A distant roar shakes the plain. A gust of moisture hits my face, a wrathful precursor before the mighty Everfall comes pouring down on us. I can’t turn back. Mother could be there, just past the bend. I guide Namala forward, her feet splashing through runs of tar. The edge of the gulley has washed away, and the moat is pouring in.

I spot a fin, a giant head, and my heart lurches again. D’or perches on the edge of his seat.

“Kamal,” he shouts. “Get out of there. The flood is coming.”

“I can’t,” I shout back, urging Namala deeper into the canyon, “there are people down there. My mother is down there.”

I turn away, but hear splashing, sloshing, and look back to see him sliding his Tar-tule down a tar rivulet into the canyon. I’m so grateful I can’t speak.

We press on together. There’s no sign of my mother or the townsfolk. Only steaming rifts in the earth.

The ground shakes hard, a crack opening beneath us, swallowing one of Namala’s hind legs. She goes down hard and I fly off her back, tasting dust and blood from my split lip. I push myself up and turn in time to see her back legs and lower body disappear into the widening hole.

“Namala!” I run to her, clutching at her forelegs helplessly. Her mandibles click. Antennae caress my face tenderly. Slowly, like sand running through my fingers, the ground collapses under her weight and she disappears into the pit.

I fall to my knees. The roar of the ripping ground fills my ears and noxious fumes from the underground caverns burn my eyes.

Across the rift, I catch D’or’s gaze.

Pushing myself to my feet, I stumble towards him.

“We have to run,” I cry, my weak leg buckling as I struggle forward.

D’or shakes his head, “There’s no time. It’s too late to run.”

He slides off his beast, ripping off his bone helmet and throwing it to the ground. Green-grey eyes fill my vision as he closes the distance between us.

My heart beats a staccato rhythm.

“What are you doing?” I gasp.

“What I should have done a long time ago.” He threads his fingers into my hair, pulling me closer.

Am I the one who’s shaking, or is it the world around us?

His warm breath ghosts over my cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Is that my heart pounding or the trembling of the earth?

His body wraps around me, the last solid thing in a crumbling world.

His burning lips touch mine.

The ground falls away.

We’re flying.

* * *

The Wind in the Leaves

Kyle D. Beers

I remember the day when the Ar’Dyoun first came to Achten Tan. In the beginning of the autumn, after a meager harvest, a strange disease swept across the town. The horror of watching my own sister fall into an eternal slumber was overwhelming and, with all the other disasters that soon struck the town, I mused about ending my pain with my old broken axe. What was unusual about the deep sleep was that the bodies seemed to have no need of food or drink; they seemed to maintain themselves. I only know of this because while the rest of the victims were dragged to the village’s house of medicine, I hid my sister Xan away from my neighbors who, like me, lived near the center of town. I knew it was stupid and risky, seeing how we assumed anyone could suddenly fall into eternal sleep. Xan was all I had left in this world. I felt—and still feel—justified in my choice.

It was one brisk fall day when the Ar’Dyoun were first spotted en route to Achten Tan. They were a most unusual bunch, heavy robes draping nondescript ancient bodies covered with a dried bone meal paste. Amidst the ever growing tension with the elves of Satama, we feared that they had launched a crusade. As they first approached town, they lowered their hoods. They looked like mummies to me when I first saw them, a startling sight indeed. The Ar’Dyoun spoke with a sing-songy cadence in a language that was unknown. “Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw,” they repeated in rounds with other phrases that I found hard to make out.

The people gathered in the nearest open space to the medical center where the strangers stopped. The crowds talked among themselves, sounding like wind through tall grass from a distance. “What news do you have of a fellow among you, Rapaecio Pallor?” spoke a robed Ar’Dyoun who stood tall, almost as if they were a descendant of the giants of old. “We thought he would have told you, oh citizens of Achten Tan, of our coming?” Rapaecio, of course, was an old explorer. He was strong for his many years, and many in town looked up to his wisdom. Then, one day, he stole a compass and vanished.

“We come with glad tidings,” another one of the robed strangers called out to us, “for the Godtree awakens!”

I was the first to speak my mind. “We have no glad tidings here. We have experienced an earthquake, and a segment of our population has fallen into an unbreakable slumber.”

“But those are glad tidings,” one of the robed ones joyfully declared. “Your sleeping, O awake ones, are the seedlings of the Godtree.” The tall one raised their hands high to the sky, turning to the giant tree. Achten Tan, and its towering ribs, sat in its shadow. As the Ar’Dyoun turned and faced the tree in prayer, I could hear the wind cry and moan. I felt like an enthralled, punished child; angry at their parents, yet devoted and loving towards them. The hairs on my arm stood on end.

“I think,” said the town’s doctor, “that the people who indulged in the Godtree gumbo Saphira had cooked up are the only ones who have been affected by the sleeping plague.” The tall Ar’Dyoun grimaced in anger at the term used to describe what they called a blessing. Plague; it made the process sound like a doom, a pox upon the town.

As the talks continued near the medical center, two conclusions were reached. The first, and perhaps grimmest we faced, was that there was no waking the sleeping people. A process had begun to change them into the proper vessels for the Godtree. Survival or not, they had a fate to fulfill. Though we had our endless questions, we grimly accepted that fact. I turned from the crowds and hid my sorrow. No one knew Xan fell into slumber, that I hid my afflicted sister. It would have been what Saphira wanted. Xan loved Saphira passionately. I would have loved to have Saphira as a sister-in-law.

The second decision was that the Ar’Dyoun would live among us. Not only that, but we would help them build their temple of birth and rebirth. This temple would be dedicated to worshiping the Godtree, our village’s eternal guardian. This led all of us, including myself, to welcome the newcomers with open arms. The temple had a second purpose as well, to prepare the seedlings for their final goal, as well as train us for our ultimate purpose to repay the Godtree.

As I and the rest of the villagers went our ways to begin our mornings, I kept a low profile, making sure no one followed me back to my home. I watched over my shoulder as crossroad after crossroad darted past my vision. I pushed through my front door and unlocked the bedroom in haste to see my sister Xan. I knelt at the foot of the bed, prostrating my body across my sister’s legs.

“I kept you hidden,” I wept, lips trembling. I sorrowfully walked around to the side of the bed where I kept a pot of water to place wet cloths on her forehead. “They say you have been chosen to be a seedling to propagate the Godtree’s species.”

The Ar’Dyoun instructed us to feed the sleeping ones a bonemeal paste, closer to a broth or a thin gruel. That is what the seedlings being brought to the temple would be fed. The bonemeal paste would alleviate the stomach pressure and swelling the seeding process would cause. It was expected that all sleepers would be brought there, but the thought of leaving my sister with a group that I barely even knew was too much for me. It was too much already to think of leaving her behind with the town’s medicinal practitioners.

To my surprise, my sister seemed to eat the gruel I fed her as if she were in a feverish state of delirium. I watched her carefully as the paste slowly disappeared from the bowl I made it in, leaving behind dust and paths made by my spoon as I scooped it up. In that moment, Xan changed.

“Please,” I begged through sobs and protestations to the Godtree, “please don’t take my sister away.” I rested my head on the bed next to her shoulder, nuzzling closer to the crook of her neck like a young child to a parent. “Xan is all I have left.” I looked out the window towards the Godtree.

The wind howled and slammed the rickety shutters on the windows. I lifted my head to notice that hours had passed, and the moon had taken its course in the heavens among the stars. I looked out the window; the stars looked different to me. A voice called my name in the wind, beckoning me across the chasms that formed from the most recent earthquake, and down the acid trails to the foot of the Godtree. As I approached, the voice became more and more obvious. It was Xan!

“Xan!” I screamed as loud as I could, but it felt like the wind itself stole the words from my very throat. In anger, I turned to look at a nearby root to see a shiny, recently forged axe. Deliriously, I took hold of the axe and caressed the haft, taking aim at the tree itself. As I held the axe high above my head, the polished metal twinkling like the full moon, I noticed movement above. Craning my head upwards, I saw a sickly branch reach down. With a violent lunge, the branch grabbed the axe and wrested it from my grasp.

My head bolted up from where I had last rested it. The wind, Xan’s voice, the Godtree wrestling the axe from me; all a dream, all a terrible dream. Sitting cross-legged upon the floor, I ruminated over the imagined events. In horror I remembered the last moments in keen detail. The Godtree wanted my anger, the Godtree wanted me to feed it.

I hid in my house for days, holding fast the shutters to block out all vision of the Godtree. Even with the shut windows, I could feel the shadow looming, watching. I swore I could hear the wind calling to me, each breeze beckoning me with invisible hands. I only emerged to eat, and what I ate was the bonemeal paste I fed Xan. As I ate, I felt myself slowly lose myself to anger. I was mad at the Tree and the Ar’Dyoun for taking my sister, even if she was still hidden for now. I was angry at myself for letting things get this bad.

And then the day of the temple’s completion came. The wind ripped through the house, tearing the shutters off, leaving me with the dismal vista of the Godtree. There laid Xan in all her horrific beauty, slowly becoming the seedling of the Godtree, all in view of my front door. I no longer cared. The people had emphatically embraced the Ar’Dyoun faith. The people eagerly sung the praises of the teachings.

Even I, admittedly, have become one of the Ar’Dyoun. However, I am a reluctant member, as the very thought makes me uncomfortable.

My worries and concerns grew to a peak when the wind whipped down the pathways and across the acidic chasms ripped open by the earthquakes. As I looked out over the square and the chasms, I saw people quaking in holy fear and holy need. There they stood, dropping everything that they were doing, some people even falling to their knees as if they were trying to placate a vengeful god. The way they all watched the tree, I could swear, for a moment, that the Godtree was speaking. The branches shook and trembled as if they were coming to life and longed to stretch. All of us who lived in the shadow of the Godtree could hear voices from on high as the leaves rustled about. I could see the distant villagers coming closer. And then my sister speake; the first time I heard her voice since her slumber began.

“Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw.” At first I could not make out what she began saying. “Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw.” Her voice sounded like rustling leaves, blown about in the crisp winds of an autumn storm. The woman that lay in that bed, I feared, was no longer my sister. Whatever it was had taken Xan’s form. I lost my sister that day, in more ways than one. Then she continued: “Arl eai seairs rrir eailllreaisirel Ichor whi sirss rrir nhe weairl eair nhe seairres.”

I ran outside into the whipping zephyr and ran about a mile before the Godtree. There the voice was deafening to me. The wind in the leaves cried, “Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw.” Everything was the Ar’Dyoun’s hymn to my ears. And then it dawned on me. They sang about how we had a fate tied to the seedlings, a debt to pay to the Godtree. What else does a tree need besides sunlight and water, I theorized, but nutrients in the soil? The Godtree’s seeds needed fertilizer, and the seedlings would grow from our rotting flesh, our sacrificial mound.

Where the tree could not grasp me with devotion, like with the rest of Achten Tan, it ensnared me with vehement vitriol. In my anger, I realized what the dream was telling me to do with my old axe. In a dismal sense, I had always known. I had to get her away from the tree that was feeding on her, feeding on me. I knew only that if we stayed any longer, we would both be lost to the Godtree that was once our protector. I’d never cut down a sapling before, but if it meant protecting my sister from a terrible fate, then it had to be done.

I sang a short and sad yln under my very breath as I walked home in grim determination. I entered the main room and spied my axe by the hearth. I closed my eyes to avoid looking at its form. It was the axe of my nightmare. My horrors were transmuting themselves into reality. The same force that made Xan sleep was now leading me to murder. Whether or not I would lose myself was no longer my concern, as long as Xan was free.

I fondled the haft of the axe, worn by the long ages since our parents first crafted it. Slowly I stepped into the bedroom, looking over at Xan. The anger subsided, and I collapsed to my knees, dropping the axe to my side. With the last of my strength, I kicked the axe out of the bedroom and slammed the door. For the next two days I locked myself into the bedroom, unwilling to leave lest I look at that horrid axe. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, I would sometimes peak at its head all a-twinkle. I would then pull myself back. I even threatened myself that I would rend my eyes from my skull if I would look at it again. It was a promise that, while I was unwilling to keep it, stopped the glances.

She has muttered the most horrid of things to me, things that have driven me mad. I knew I had to cut the growing sapling, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I decided the only thing I could do is steal her away in the dead of night and grow our own Godtree, with me as its fertilizer. Many nights now, I’ve listened to the wind creak through my shutters, and sung with my sister in the Godtree’s language. It is in the same language the Ar’Dyoun sung when entering Achten Tan. We sang the songs of my nightmares, the sound of wind in the leaves: “Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw.”

EDITOR’S NOTES: These are the translations of the ancient phrases:

Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw.

The Godtree loves me, this I know.

Arl eai seairs rrir eailllreaisirel Ichor whi sirss rrir nhe weairl eair nhe seairres.

I weep for the lost Ichor, who longs to hear the wind in the leaves.

* * *

Bone Borne

Rosalind Dando

“I was born by bone; to bone I’ll return.”

It’s Mam’s favourite saying. She’s never gonna leave this place, not before the Godtree cracks or the Everfall runs dry. Stubborn as an ant, she sits in her carved ivory chair, rearranging the threadbare blanket over her knees. “Bone knows these ol’ bones best.”

It doesn’t matter how many times we show her the lush green woodland and clear, sparkling river in the tiny mirror shard we smuggled back from the hive. She always comes back to blasted bones.

“She’ll be bones herself soon if this keeps up,” Tarsi grumbles as another dust cloud engulfs Achten Tan. “I’m going with Erka and the others.”

I stare at her, aghast. “You can’t leave. Not without us.” We’ve never been apart, not for more than a few hours. If Tarsi follows the mirror visions, she might never return. And when Mam dies of the dry lung that’s been eating away at her, I’ll be here—alone. No blood sister, no parents. Just another soul trying to eke out a semblance of existence out here in the Boneyards.

Tarsi shrugs. “Come with me, then.”

“But Mam…”

“Won’t last another three moon-rises, you know that as well as I. She wants what’s best for us.” Tarsi stretches out the kinks in her spine and stares into the ochre storm from behind the tiny glass window. Sand scours the towering ribs, wearing away at our shelter a hair’s breadth at a time. One day, all that remains of Achten Tan will be dust.

“And that’s leaving her behind?” I fidget, drawing shapes in the dirt at my feet on the grubby floor. I want to be outside, not cooped up in here, talking about abandoning everything I know.

“After she dies, she won’t care if you’re here or not. But when she’s alive, she’ll want to know you’re doing something—doing anything—to get out of here. She’s got enough people around who’ll take care of her, people who aren’t going anywhere.”

My jaw clenches and it’s hard to swallow. I don’t want to stay here in Achten Tan for the rest of my miserable life. I want to paddle in clean water; I want to know what it feels like to lie under trees in the woods, and to feel fresh grass beneath my bare feet.

But I don’t want to leave Mam to die with strangers.

And yes, they might not be actual strangers—although strange they might be—a slew of non-blood relations would doubtless take mine and Tarsi’s places by Mam’s chair, and watch over her final weeks in our absence. It would still feel like I’d abandoned her.

“Can’t you wait?” I ask. My voice comes out strangely past the lump in my throat. “For… for her to pass?”

Tarsi shakes her head. “They’re going in two days, once the storm blows over.” She finally turns to look at me, her beetle-black eyes shaded with the smoked glasses of her An’cher riding gear, chestnut brown hair tied up in a mess of curls and tangles. “And I’m going with them. Your choice.”

I don’t go.

I want to—part of me will always wonder what would have happened if I did—and as I watch the last of the riders vanish into the far horizon, the overwhelming urge to scream rises within me. Perched on the top of one of the outlying ribs, far above the hustle and bustle of the marketplace below, I let it out. The sound is snatched away by the dry wind, thin and weak despite my fury and misery. It ought to have been loud enough to make the people below gasp, drop their bags and peer up, to see what terrifying thing the desert was throwing at them next.

But only the desert hears my distress, and the desert does not care.

I stay at the top of the rib until the wind has dried the tears on my cheeks and even the dust of the Third’s passing has drifted into the hazy horizon. Tarsi, my blood sister from the womb, has left Achten Tan.

The market is too loud, garish and full. Full of conversations, full of sound, full of smells and bodies and gossip.

“… Arkin’s youngest, she went with them. Damn fools, I say…”

“… can’t bare move for fear of raiders an’ elves and whatnot, I give ‘em a few days at best…”

“… real? I don’t know. Maybe. Best ribs this side of the Everfall–wanna try?”

“… sake of a piece of Bashdun glass. Pictures? Rubbish, if you ask me. Besides, did you…”

I stumble through the crowds, each conversation blurring into the next, until all I hear is a jumble of sounds and humanity. I wish I’d gone with Tarsi and Erka and the rest of them. I wish I’d been braver. I wish…

I wish we’d never seen the damn images in the glass.

That’s what it comes down to, in the end. If we hadn’t seen, we never would have known there was anything out there past the dust and sand and dry bone.

Kicking my way through the windblown sand, I think of a world where Tarsi would be waiting for me to get back to her. When I reach our rib, I climb the arm-aching ladder to home, a part of me still expecting her to be sitting by Mam’s chair, her expression one of impatient affection.

She’s not there.

Of course she isn’t; I saw her ride away. I watched her leave. Watched her abandon us and everything she’d known.

Mam’s sat by the tiny window, staring at the desert below. From up here in our sparse home, the one thing we have is views across the Boneyards. At dawn and sunset, the blown sand turns the sky to fire, the stark silhouettes of the vast ribs jutting from the ground, speckled with lights from other carved windows. Other families trapped here in the emptiness. Each of those candles reflects another lost hope, another fractured dream that’s come to die in Achten Tan.

“Is she gone?” Mam doesn’t even look at me as she hears me scrambling through the hatch.

I grunt an affirmative, then set about cleaning and sorting things for dinner. She won’t have eaten–she looks even thinner and smaller than I remembered when I left this morning. Maybe Tarsi going took a part of Mam with her, I muse, as I pick through the bare cupboards in search of something vaguely nourishing. I want to show Mam we’ll be okay without Tarsi; we don’t need her.

In the end, I settle for merely edible, and we sit in silence, eating. Afterwards, I wipe the plates and go to bed because the silence aches like hunger.

Lying in bed, I stare at the chipped bone overhead and wonder who made this place, and what happened to them. Did they wander off into the desert, like so many do when they tire of living here? Or were they like Mam, born by bone and destined to become part of the dust blowing across the wastelands from the Achrin mountains to the Plateau? Turning onto my side, I run my fingers over the smooth bone wall and trace the letters carved next to the bed. T for Tarsi and S for Samiki. We were maybe seven years old when we gouged those letters from the bone. They were supposed to show how we would always be together.

The letters don’t know she’s gone.

I don’t realise I’m crying until the tears are hot on my cheeks.

The next storm comes to Achten Tan after midnight, low and ponderous, rolling across the desert on legs of sharp lightning and carried by waves of thunder. I haven’t slept–couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. My head is full of jagged thoughts and broken mirror shards and cascading rivers–and I slip out of bed at the first sound of its approach. The air is thick and heavy, but the wind is picking up as I climb down the ladder. I can practically taste the rain, sweet and enticing on my tongue, as I hit the ground and run. I want to be out in an open space, away from people.

I want to be with Tarsi.

When the rain hits, it comes in a deluge so fierce it’s like standing beneath the Everfall. Gasping, I make it out past the wider ribs, past the outer fences to the edge of the canyon. I lie down and stare up into the roiling clouds and violence, daring them to do their worst. If Achten Tan is wiped off the surface of the desert, maybe we can follow the Third and leave the bones to the dead.

Dawn rises and the bones still stand.

As I help to clear up the damage caused by the storm, I wonder if this is why Mam is so adamant she will never leave. The bones have a permanence, a resilience I could never have. When she dies here, she’ll become part of that.

I can’t decide if that is reassuring or horrific, the idea of never leaving this place.

I’m still musing on this as I climb back up the ladder to home and collapse into bed. Sleep eludes me, though, and I’m awake when Mam gets up and makes her unsteady walk from her bed to the chair. She doesn’t know I can hear her crying. I don’t know whether she cries for Tarsi—or for me. Was Tarsi right? Did Mam want me to leave, to see me finally brave enough to break the invisible ropes that tie me to Achten Tan? I was never the brave one, not like Tarsi. Maybe she wanted that for me, and I’ve let her down by doing what I thought was the right thing.

I pull the blankets over my head and try to muffle the sound of Mam’s sobs; I can’t face her right now. My fingers automatically reach out and trace the letters again.

“I wish you hadn’t gone,” I whisper into the rough blanket. I press up against the wall, the bone cool and smooth and reassuringly familiar. I wonder what Tarsi is doing now, if they were caught in the storm. How far have they gone? Could I still catch them, follow a trail if I left now? It’s tempting—so tempting. My fingers slide down between the wall and the mattress, as if holding onto the bed will keep me from falling off and into the abyss of my thoughts.

There’s something there.

The tips of my fingers brush against a piece of cloth, folded round something hard and thin. Levering it out, I carefully unwrap the layers to reveal a tiny mirror shard. Even in the shadows of my bed, half-buried under thick blankets, it gleams.

It’s half of the one we brought back. There’s even a clean edge where it’s been recently broken.

As I stare at my face in the glass, another face emerges from my reflection and stares back at me.

Tarsi.

She looks weary but elated, her dark hair wild and windswept, her smoked glasses pushed up on her forehead.

It worked! she mouths, clearly delighted. Sami!

I can’t help it; I grin like a child at the Midyear Festival. My sister beams back at me.

We’re miles apart, but I can hold her in the palm of my hand.

“I miss you,” I say, carefully shaping my words so she can understand.

Her smile fades and she nods. Me too.

“Are you safe?”

She nods again, then glances off to her left. She touches her fingers to the glass in a gesture of farewell and then vanishes.

I don’t care. It’s as if a huge weight has been lifted from me, and I wrap the fragile splinter of glass in its protective cloth and tuck it safely beside the bed once more, below our letters. Just knowing she’s there, that I can see her and talk to her, is enough. It gives me hope – hope that one day I’ll be able to follow in her footsteps, when Mam has gone and there’s nothing tying me here. I may be bone-borne, like Mam and those before her, but I’m not like her. I’m not destined to be dust in the desert, and just because I stayed doesn’t mean I’ll never leave.

* * *

Fire And Peace

C. Vandyke

“Just two measures of Drath Fire paste.”

The wizened figure who ran the stall dipped a wooden ladle into a barrel and carefully filled a clay jar with rust-red sludge. With deft movements that belied her frail form, the old woman covered the jar with a swatch of oiled wyrm hide and tied it with a bit of sinew.

Eltean could almost taste the paste on her tongue, could almost feel the harsh burn down her throat. And the peace that followed the fire.

Somewhere a Bashdun sang out the hour, and the chaos and cacophony around her paused briefly as the deep ululations wafted from the peak of a Rib to settle on the marketplace. For a moment there was no movement, no chatter, no clatter of coin and bone and mirror shards exchanging hands. Only dust and breathing and heat.

And silence.

The final throbbing note faded, and, like a femur or ulna bent too far, the silence snapped and the bazaar sprang to life once again.

“That’ll be two shard an’ a knuckle, dearie. Or one Heckle, if’n ya got it.”

Eltean reached into her purse. For a moment she hesitated. She thought of Cletha’s face. Her wife’s brown eyes, wide and wet with disappointment when she stumbled back into the apartment, her breath heavy with paste. How Cletha wouldn’t say a word. Wouldn’t be angry, wouldn’t be fucking anything, and how that would make it worse. And Orin. How he’d sit in the corner while she raged at Cletha, as if he could turn invisible. As if he could sink through the bone floor of the apartment.

But she also thought of the fire and the peace. The silence. She fished out two thin fragments of glass and a cracked bone.

Eltean always hesitated. But she always paid.

The old woman took the payment and slid the jar across the wooden counter. The contents sloshed enticingly. Eltean licked her lips and swallowed.

“Pardon me, dearie.” The old woman peered up at her from beneath the wide cowl of her robe. “An’ forgive an old woman if it t’aint my place, but perhaps this t’aint what ya need to be bringin’ home right now.”

Eltean’s face darkened. “You don’t know what I need, old woman.”

The figure held up a hand. “Peace! Now, ya got the right to do as ya choose, no mistake. But I’se been sellin’ paste since ya was knee high to an an’cher’s mount, if’n I ain’t mistaken, and I t’ain’t ashamed at all. I’ve seen it bring solace an’ comfort an’ jubilation. Marked births an’ weddin’s and wakes. But I’ve seen it swalla’ lives whole, as well. Seen it eat families and futures like they was ribs, an’ lick its fingers and go back for seconds.” Her milky eyes rested on Eltean’s forearm, where the marital tattoo marked her bond to Cletha. The ink was blue and faded from decades under the hot sun, but the lines were as clean and crisp as the day they’d been wed.

“Perhaps, dearie, my stall t’ain’t where ya need to be today.” She nodded her head to indicate the maze of stalls and carts of the market. “Mayhap there’s something out there ya should be taking home ta your wife. A peace offering.”

Eltean stared at the old woman. “A peace offering?”

“Aye. Somethin’ that speaks to her.”

“Speaks to her.” Eltean laughed, a thin, brittle laugh. “And what, when it speaks, says I’m sorry your cousin joined a cult. I’m sorry he ran off into the fucking desert? And I’m sorry he had his fucking head cut off?” Her laughter cut off abruptly. “Can you suggest anything in the market that might say that?”

Before the old woman could respond, Eltean grabbed the jar and walked away. In a moment she was swallowed up by the crowd.

* * *

The Girl and Her Pet

Imelda Taylor

Once in a land unheard of by many, where bones were dwelling places and algae was sustenance, an elven girl explored her new home underground.

The girl with rope-like hair, all tangled and matted, and eyes as green as emerald, wandered the surroundings. There were caves to discover, rocks and moss to investigate, and perhaps a new friend to meet.

As she ventured on her own, she found a creature unknown to her. It was round like a log, yet plump and squidgy. It was too big to be a worm, yet too slimy to be a wyrm. It moved like a caterpillar but clicked like a beetle.

She looked around; it seemed all alone. ‘You need someone to take care of you,’ said the girl to the... thing. Then she decided to keep it as a pet.

She knew that her guardian didn’t like creatures of any kind, unless they could be eaten. But she knew she couldn’t hide it in their cave house, so she had to ask. She left it outside, hoping her guardian would let her keep it.

‘Can I have a pet?’ the girl asked nervously.

‘No, you may not,’ was the reply she got.

‘Why?’ the girl persisted.

‘We haven’t got enough food for us all, let alone a pet,’ her guardian answered, holding back her irritation.

‘But I can share my food,’ the girl said.

‘We hardly have space for ourselves, let alone a pet,’ argued her guardian.

‘But I can share my bed,’ persuaded the girl.

Teeth clenched, her guardian replied, ‘Well... you can barely wash yourself, let alone a pet,’ followed by a sigh.

The girl paused. She knew it was true, so she couldn’t give an excuse. However, she was not giving up.

‘So, if I have a wash, then I can have a pet?’ she tried once again, fluttering her eyes with a stiff grin on her face.

‘Look around you, none of us has had a wash! We are all a mess,’ her guardian replied.

‘If we are all a mess, why does it matter if my pet doesn’t wash?’ she answered back.

‘No! No ifs, no buts! You are not having a pet. Go about and do your chores, just give me peace until teatime,’ her guardian snapped, quite annoyed by her persistence rather than the thought of actually having a pet.

The girl left with her head hanging. She went back to where she left the creature, but she didn’t have the heart to let it go. Instead, she decided to make a home for it.

Cradling the creature in her tunic, she moved it out of sight. She made a den in a place only known to her. Slime and dirt were all over her, but that didn’t matter. She gathered some things to keep it safe and comfortable. However, she didn’t know what the creature really needed.

Little did she know, the creature knew exactly how to look after itself. It made a hole for a bed when left on its own. The girl didn’t know what it ate, but everybody seemed to eat algae, so that was what it was fed. Every meal, she gave half of what she had. The creature didn’t seem to mind, and it stayed happily with the girl.

Days passed and food became more scarce. The creature grew bigger despite the lack of food. Its hole became a burrow which went wider and deeper and deeper until there was a tunnel unknown to the girl.

Then one day, it grew a head with antennae. The girl was pleased with how well her pet had grown. The hunger seemed worth it.

On her next visit, she was in for a surprise.

‘Hello, mother,’ said a little voice. The girl looked around, worried that her secret was discovered. However, she was all alone. The girl was relieved until: ‘You look a little pale, mother,’ the voice spoke again. She looked around once more, but it was only her and her pet there.

‘Mother, it’s me. I can speak now.’ The girl jumped as she realised the words were coming from her pet.

‘How can you talk when you haven’t got a mouth?’

‘I don’t know, mother. I’m only young,’ answered her pet.

‘Why do you call me mother?’

‘Aren’t you my mother? You took care of me and you said it in your lullaby,’ said the voice so sweet, the girl’s heart melted.

‘But I’m only a child! Alright, I suppose I do take care of you, but you didn’t come from me,’ said the girl.

‘I don’t understand. You are all I know,’ said the pet in a lonely voice.

The girl smiled and her heart swelled. She started singing the old Svaalti Lullaby and eased her troubled pet.

Hele hele

Suckle my sweet

Till you fall asleep

Hear my heartbeat

Till you fall asleep

Hele hele

Close your eyes

No more cries

Lulli lulli

Baby ikke ghal

Mors barn syngal

Mors barn syngal

Barn af Alfheim soom

Mors elsker baby

Lulli lulli

Mehmehna mehmehna

Hele hele

Lulli lulli lulli

The girl and the pet’s bond grew stronger each day, but the girl got weaker and weaker. The creature, now nearly an adult, became worried.

‘Mother, you look so weak.’

‘No need to fret, I’ll be alright later when I eat.’

‘I’ll find you some food.’

Before the girl could answer, she fell asleep.

Now that the creature had grown, it learnt to use its senses. Deep underground, it searched for food in stealth. With the use of its antennae it observed what other beings fed on, where other beings got it, and how they gathered nutrition.

To the North Rib Ribs it headed and collected as much provision as it could carry. Back to the girl, it brought its offerings. Not long after, the girl regained her strength.

Deeper in its burrow, the creature sought water. It dug further till it found water. It made a well for the girl. Now she had enough to drink and perhaps to wash with too.

From then on, the girl and her pet shared a home in the burrow. Never again was the girl hungry, or thirsty, or filthy. Satisfied with the girl’s love alone, they become inseparable, the girl and her pet.

* * *

Dust Motes

Chapel Orahamm

“I’ll be back late.” Mab calls from the door. “Hearirs will drop by to help with lunch and a bath. You sure you don’t need anything before I leave?” The time it takes for me to shift my chin from left shoulder to right is the sound of the door clicking shut. It takes longer for me to turn back to watch the world from my window. Morning sun sparkles on golden dust motes drifting across the bone sill at my arm. Threadbare curtains cast nets across the blanket on my lap, leaving my fingers dappled in autumn and winter.

The market below is wrapping up, soon to move closer to the Ribs for protection from the coming winds. Bright patterns and whirling prints flit about the street on this last sound day. Children dash in and out of the awnings and barrels of goods. Their chirping echoes in the morning above the clash of hawkers bartering their wares. They are heedless in their scrabbling pursuit of pleasure.

An undercurrent runs through the market below my window. The anxiety of the biddies scampering from stall to stall permeates the fog of dust clinging to the underside of the ribs as a cancer. It is in the way they bob to and fro. The way their men curl their shoulders in. The way the squealing ankle biters escape to their houses well before the rising moons cast fingered shadows across the square.

In the morning calm, that noxious persistence settles at café chair feet. Warm cups and soft words tamp it into the sand. It is with the shift in shadows and the rotation of guards that the mood scuttles away. Reality shatters that bubble, sending shards hurtling to the ground. Downcast heads. Furtive eyes. Robes and capes clutched at the throat. Hands reaching for little wrists to pull questioning voices away.

Waxed carapaces flash bobbles of red sparks across the scrap walls. Insignias, charms, wards swirl across their mandibles in perpetual prayer that we will survive another day. Riders in uniform sit proudly behind swiveling heads, waving to the thinning crowd. Months ago, they would have been greeted with cheers and applause. Now, we watch from the corners and the doorframes.

The patrols leave the main thoroughfare. Anger and disappointment curl inside my unyielding fingers. Tension crackles in the void they leave behind as customers fill the empty lane.

A knock at the door and a rattle of keys tells me my day has spilled away from me like an upended mug once more. Hearirs is hurried and brisk. Impersonal. Her meals are simple and nutritious, if bland as always. She works for the guard. Cares for those of us who no longer serve. She doesn’t ask needless questions. Helps that she was there when my ant went rogue. When my world spun out of control. When I became a burden.

That moment, staring at a washed out sky, unable to communicate with my limbs, slips through my fingers every time her soapy rag finds another patch of garbled nerves. Hearirs’s proximity rubs at me. An intrusion. She has helped me though. Months have sanded away at my composure, but she works with me to speak again. To chew. To hold a fork. To stand upright.

I want Mab. Hearirs’s attention drives thorns of loneliness into my flesh. Mab, their light brings me home. I want to be home. I want my space to feel correct. It’s never correct when they walk out in the morning. They work now, to keep us fed. They could have left, when everyone thought I was dead. They stayed, when I wanted to give up.

Hearirs leaves me back in my chair, where I can watch the world tick by. Where people gather, shuffling along in mobs, in droves. I slip into an afternoon nap with the cool shade of the sun passing its zenith.

Sitting on the edge of the falls. Laying in the cool opening of the caves, the curve of their back fitting into my hands. I watch Mab laugh, tucking their curls behind their long ears. Whispered sweetness is an anchor to the boggy depths that demand my return.

Evening sets in, shadows creeping across the canopies. Fires burst forth in alleys, drawing me from my dreams. Giggling ricochets against tent poles. Calls for food, the smell of roasts waft through my sill. My hands go cold with the lengthening dark.

Musicians pull their instruments to their fingertips and cheers permeate the air in punctured hollows of the night. Chords drift over the raucous applause and a beat sets in as the door creaks open.

My brain settles; the twitch in my digits yield to the calm that walks across my floor. I look up to Mab who sets down parcels and packages in the little area we call a kitchen. They are tired, but their smile embraces me.

“Have a good day?” they ask, pulling their cape clasp from their throat and setting the garment on its hook.

Time seeps through ice as I grapple with my head to move my chin toward my chest.

“Did you see anything interesting?” They shift foodstuffs through the pantry, placing a pan to the burner. The raffle of papers and chaffe of bone drains away the edges of my day.

Lifting a shoulder is moving a mountain, but their patience in waiting for my reply is a blanket around my heart. They are radiant in our little space, setting away shadows in their glow. I want to watch them move forever.

“What can I do?” Mab asks, worry creasing their brow. Some days I wonder if they can read my mind, how attuned they are to my melancholic whims.

My heart breaks with the question. I know what I wish I could do with them. I reach, my hands unwilling to obey. My voice catches between my brain and my throat, refusing to bow to my rule. I drop my gaze, frustration burning across the tips of my ears. Somewhere in the distance, between my skull and my chest, a far off sound begs for understanding. “Dance?”

Mab, deep brown eyes sparkling with tears, leans down to me, wrapping their arms under mine to take the weight of my back. Sensations shift and the world tilts, but their arms are warm and reassuring in the scuffle of nerve endings. I do the best I can to wrap my hands around their shoulders, resting my head against the top of their curls. Exhaustion screams, demanding it’s cruel expectations. My chair is five leagues away and I sway, my legs jittery as I fight to command them to stand.

The drums from the musicians reverberates through our little home. For a minute, for a time, for this one second in our lives, we are golden dust motes floating in the morning sun, twisting around our center of gravity. “Love you.” It’s garbled, and slurred, words crashing against my teeth as rain breaking against the Ribs, but I mean it with every bone in my body.

“I love you too,” they whisper into my shoulder, their grip tightening against my back.

And we are floating. Dust motes on the wind.

* * *

An Incomprehensible Animal

Excerpts from the journal of the celebrated poet, Marrowflower

Vincent LaBate

the fifth day of Spring

So lovely to start the season with a wedding, after how tense and dour the last several decades have been! Fayeth wore a blue dress, all covered in sparkles, that she bought just for the occasion; I brought out the red gown I had originally worn to my sister’s wedding, so many years ago, when we still lived in Satama. Part of me still thinks fondly on those days, living among my own people, surrounded by other elvish voices. It is very easy and very tempting to forget the nightmares of our old lives.

The gown is a little more snug than I remember it, but I have not received any complaints.

blue, a night sky full of stars;

red, the rush of blood, when I see you beneath it

The Sixth Day of Spring

Woke up late, after a night of what may have been overindulgence. Fayeth already out running errands, cheerfully immune to the common hangover. I poured myself a glass of wine—the green algal stuff you find down in the markets—and sat out on the balcony, gazing at the spires.

(It is tricky to try and write poetically about your home when it is built in the skeletal carcass of an ancient, massive, and nameless beast. How can one be figurative in the face of such ham-fisted symbolism? But we do our best, I suppose.)

I was, I shall confess, beginning to doze in the sun when a songbird alighted on the railing. His feathers were plain, but his eyes were bright. I asked him:

how can i give my voice to song

when i live in a cage of bone?

To which he replied:

once we walked together, this beast and I;

now he is dead, and I remain;

I am the cantor who sings dirges of the dead past

I cannot be killed

I cannot die

He was lying, of course, but that hardly matters. I’m a liar as well. It’s one of several things the songbird and I have in common.

The Tenth Day of Summer

A small party on the terrace at the Osseum tonight. Largely dull until someone noticed that both moons were in eclipse; suddenly everyone was in a tizzy. My darling Fayeth attempted to explain the celestial mechanics, but of course that crowd is far more interested in portents and immediately fell to arguing over what it might mean. They talked themselves in circles for hours—very little to be gained from listening to them, but quite a lot to be learned from watching.

wheels turn overhead in grand slow arcs;

we mirror their motions, in miniature, and so much faster

the fifteenth day of Summer

The third day of dust storms. Grit pelts our shutters in waves; the light that filters through it is strange, like being under water. We’re comfortably holed up, of course—it’s hard to overstate the privilege of two boozy elvish women in a cozy North Ribs flat. We’re ridiculous people, and ridiculously lucky.

Fayeth is painting me, again—right now, as I put pen to paper. She’s been at a feverish pace, says she wants to capture this light before the storms pass. It does feel as if we’re in another world—timeless, amber.

we drift downward in a sea of gold;

i am a reflection in your eyes, and nothing more

the eighth day of Autumn

There was a caravan in the market today—gnomish traders, apparently, on the heels of a good harvest. It is very unusual to see new faces in the city, and quite welcome, after the unpleasantness of recent events. It was the first time in a while that the market felt alive.

We bought breads and spices and some bits that Fayeth hopes to make new pigments out of, but what really excites me is the fish. I’m not sure what kind of fish it is—no one could quite manage a translation—but it’s clearly the meat of something very large. None of it’s fresh, obviously, but even after the curing it has a beautiful texture. I am certain I can make a stew of it, though my darling wife does not believe me.

dining on the flesh of a strange and incomprehensible animal

we remember, after so long, that we are not alone

the twenty-ninth day of Autumn

Caught out in the rain as I made my way home tonight—a clean rain, for once, not foul, as it has been for the past few weeks. I confess, I may have had a bit of a prance about before I realized it wasn’t going to let up, at which point I took shelter under an archway with a little human girl. She asked me if she would be allowed to play in the rain when she was my age. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’ve already lived three or four human lifetimes.

I was carrying some candies I bought from a shop in the South Ribs, and we shared those until the rain let up.

our years roll off us like rain

while our moments soak into our soil, and grow

the first day of Winter

Woke from a strange dream. The memory of it dissipated instantly, but the feeling remained—disjointed, disquieted, out of place. It was still quite dark, so I left Fayeth sleeping, poured myself some wine, and sat out on the balcony. That late, with all the lights out, Achten Tan is nothing but the looming shapes of bones in the darkness, the empty hump of a skull standing out against the sand to the east. It is a very distinctly dead thing, and I am a tiny, fragile woman, naked upon its back.

Then a little songbird alighted upon the railing, his bright eyes capturing the reflection of my candle in the darkness.

We sat in silence as I drank my wine.

Eventually, he said:

once we walked together, this beast and I;

now he is dead, and I remain;

I am the cantor who sings dirges of the dead past

I cannot be killed

I cannot die

* * *

PART IV: WINTER

Vice Dice

Sparks

An ode to that imbibed

ribs & joints

drinking Black Ink

dipping finger in God Tree paste

lifting center to the world

voting values as if core of care

oh, a revelation, inspiration, aspiration

as air dispels dust, as hearts rust

we’re quick to rush, languish to wait

are you ready for this? this mirrored

frame of gilt guilt

of grafted drafted

of ember’s emissions

what are you lighting? what alights?

are ideas not our own once they take

flight or fight that held/let by another —

other a lens all the better to see self with?

without you, what I am—existential exist

stance consequential as we quarter

as we quell and swell rooted words

words that roof or rip

have we riffed off or simply ruffled

feathers flocking, stockings ripped

from pages we propagate world

whirl, wind, wonder: it’s all in the aired out

humanity, which echoes virility, vitality, verily

* * *

Beneath the Ribs: Winter

Dan Berison

Winter Special—“Standard Rib, plain, no sauce... sorry.”

Up above, humans and half-elves only dreamed of delicious ribs. Even the cavern gnomes ate little beyond the tasteless godberries. The great flood had created a dire supply shortage, leaving nothing but plain unseasoned ribs on every menu.

Below was the same, each day as plain as the next. It was a calamity of epic proportions; the walls of utopia collapsing around them. And worst yet, rumours had proliferated throughout the city that Crawman was retiring. A search for his replacement was in progress, but to many he was a legend, irreplaceable. It was a tragedy.

Silas knew something needed to be done and quickly spread the word. He had an idea and the under-town was buzzing with anticipation. Leaving the safety of the under-tunnels, he followed the routes up to the basement of North Ribs Ribs and paused. It was late at night... that was when the tomgoblin foragers usually travelled to collect new ribs.

A sound came from above and Crawman stepped down into the basement, returning the uneaten ribs from the day. Not hiding, not anymore, Silas stood there on the counter, plain as day.

‘Wh... what are you?’ Crawman stammered, surprised by his small blue visitor.

‘I’m a hob... one of many that live beneath the city.’

Behind him the community appeared. Hobs and tomgoblins flooded into the room, until nearly the whole community was standing, watching eagerly.

‘Why are you here?’

‘We are here to pay homage to the greatest ribs we have ever tasted. You are a master!’

‘Ah, I wondered where my ribs had gone.’

‘Thank you, Crawman, you are a legend from here to Srin’Zalah.’

At that the community started a slow methodical clap in honour of Crawman and his ribs. The basement filled with a thunderous applause as everyone showed their appreciation for years of classic sauces. It lasted several minutes. Old Crawman struggled to hold back a tear.

As the applause died down, Chopper stepped forward and placed a small quarter-rib on a plate, covered in the last of the Chim-Chim Sauce he had made himself, a mirror of Crawman’s greatest ever sauce.

‘That’s Chim-Chim Sauce... it smells just like the real thing’, Crawman muttered as he picked up the rib and tentatively tasted it. He smiled warmly at the serendipitous joy this day had brought.

‘It’s perfect... did you make this?’

‘I did…’

‘You have a great sense of taste. Perhaps I should make you the next chef!’

‘If you got the time, I’ve got the desire’, Chopper replied with a cheeky smile. ‘To learn from the master would be... delicious’.

Crawman laughed heartily then and agreed to begin training him the very next day.

* * *

Haiku Cycle

C. Vandyke

To the west, the Tree

To the east, the massive skull

Life in Achten Tan

Feel the earth shifting

Taste the bitter Godfruit paste

And dream of the past

Clicking mandibles

The creak of saddle leather

Twin moons rise at night

Tartules swim the moat

Unhurried in their voyage

Pause to breathe, and breathe

They turn to omens

To augury and cast bones

What will be will be

The rain eats the earth

Reveals buried mysteries

Sun after the clouds

Silence from the west

Nothing but wind from the falls

Questions unanswered

Wyrms churn the desert

In search of something unknown

I eat ribs, alone

Those who sleep and dream

Mutter in an unknown tongue

We wait and wonder

Visions in the shards

Verdant fields beckon to some

Echoes in an empty room

Passage, prophecy

Our land of fruit and honey

Sours upon the tongue

Friend spills blood of friend

Schism and now heresy

Water upon sand

The gateway beckons

The other side: a riddle

Farewell, Achten Tan

* * *

Sealment of Ichor

Jesse Nolan Bailey

Svaalti Tomes, Fifth Oral Iteration. Abridgment of Sealment of Ichor. Translated from the Na’Fer Vem Cazim Chants into Prose Narrative

This account is of the Sealment of Ichor, during the Second Zenith B.D. (Before Devolution). At the end of the Nithlia Era the cosmos began Devolution. The Nithila[1] knew their time grew nigh, having been bestowed the foreknowledge of Devolution[2]. The flesh of the earth would soon descend closer to the dirt, that is, to break apart into smaller flesh. The Nithlia saw this movement of the cosmos as a strive towards furthering individuality.

But the Hive resisted this transition. One of its spores, Ichor[3], brought great strife during this time.

This is the account of Ichor’s Sealment beneath the sacred Godtree. It has been translated into narrative for the ease of its readership, and thus contains creative liberties not found in the original texts. However, this translation strives to honor the spirit of the myth.

Ichor shrieked for every mile of the trek to the Pit. The sounds ravaged the land, expelling all manner of life within earshot. Birds took to the skies and beasts trampled the earth to escape whatever horrid thing emitted those cries of fury.

Three women strode across the forsaken land, keeping in steady pace with each other in a triangular formation. Kubrathai and Ha’heneth walked in an adjacent line, while Tevo led the trio further ahead. With intense focus, each stared at the space within the center of their formation, where a collision of motion and energy writhed.

As such, this required Tevo to walk backwards on her heels toward their destination. The sacrifice of a forward vision outweighed the luxury of an easy journey. Without her aide, the force field that hovered before her now wouldn’t hold. Her sisters needed her, just as she needed them. The power of a pyramid prevailed, and sustained the trap they’d laid for Ichor.

Together, the sisters marched with the trust that the others wouldn’t falter

in step or become distracted. Each held a wand made out of meteorite. Silver beams of celestial energy poured from the tips of these objects, leaving no doubt in regards to their power. A constant steam without flicker, these beams met at the center between the three sisters to form an iridescent orb.

Trapped within the confines of this orb, writhing like boiling water, was Ichor. Tevo still couldn’t believe they’d managed to trap the entity. Cutting it off from the Hive had failed numerous times, and many other Nithlia had lost their lives attempting the same feat with other spores like Ichor.

Tevo never took her eyes off the entity, though she desperately wished she could. Keeping the flow of magic required a concentration unlike any she had ever endured. One fleeting thought, or a misstep of her feet that would tug her mind away from the task at hand, very likely would spell doom for the cosmos. But witnessing the dark mass of squirming elastic tissue distressed her. Something about its appearance—like a spider or starfish covered in a layer of black tar, with appendages constantly evolving out or retreating into its torso. Perhaps the lack of a distinct face could be blamed for her unease.

Despite the churning in her stomach, though, she never broke focus. If they could seal Ichor away, the promise of chaos at the Hive’s behest might be avoided. A period of discomfort would be worth this victory.

“The Pit is just behind you,” Kubrathai shouted.

Tevo knew she still couldn’t look, and appreciated her sister’s warning. Somewhere over Tevo’s shoulder, the burial grave awaited Ichor. The pit would host the spore forever, though it would take something much grander to ensure Ichor remained sealed within its crater.

Ichor’s shrieks ceased at Kubrathai’s announcement, replaced by a manic cackle and followed by deranged words. Its voice gurgled as if underwater.

“You wish to bury me! You think you can dig a hole deep enough to end me? The cosmos birthed me from a void thicker than the dust of this earth. Fools!”

Tevo ignored its taunts, though a flash of panic surged within her. Words still had great power to bend the powers of the cosmos. If the cosmos listened too closely, Ichor’s words would demand some sort of consequence. Great blessings and curses of doom had been birthed by little more than prophetic utterings.

“We’ve arrived,” Kubrathai yelled above Ichor’s ranting.

Tevo halted. For a moment, the three sisters stood silent and still as the silver energy poured from their wands and held the mass of frothing liquid suspended in the air. A shiver passed through Tevo, a telepathic signal from her sisters that the time had arrived to execute this plan.

In eerie synchronization, all three women yanked their arms up to point their wands skyward.. The silver energy followed the trajectory of the wands, casting the encased Ichor overhead. Tevo watched the orb, with Ichor inside, fly above her. She turned, finally permitting herself to face the land that had been to her back until now. As she did, her outstretched arm fell limply to her side, effectively severing the silver beam connected to Ichor’s spherical cage.

The other two beams also evaporated. Cut off from the source that maintained its composition, the orb encasing Ichor vanished. Ichor plummeted through the air until splattering in the pit’s crater. Tendril appendages branched out from its bubbling torso, latching onto the ground in an effort to drag itself across the ground.

Kubrathai came up beside Tevo. “We need to make this quick before it has a chance to crawl out.” She swallowed as a rare look of urgency set across her face. “And before it has a chance to lay curses galore on all this.”

Ha’heneth took a few steps forward. Tevo’s other sister had not spoken for days. The plan largely hinged on the conservation of Ha’heneth’s voice. Blessings held more power when uttered from someone who spoke rarely, or had abstained from using their voice for periods of time.

Below them, Ichor screeched again, and Ha’heneth wasted no more time. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke with a voice of thunder. The air around them contracted, banishing any other sound to make way for her voice. Chasms broke across the earth as the terrain reacted to this shift of energy, some pockets erupting with geysers of tar.

“O, lush land of the south, bear witness to me. Let every life, every rock, every speck of dust adhere to my voice.”

Beneath them, still dragging across the earth, Ichor released a howl.

“We bind this abomination beneath the soil,” Ha’heneth continued, “to never rejoin its kind again. Ichor of the Hive will be sealed here until the end of Devolution, and until the end of time.”

Tevo flinched as Ichor released a torrent of curses and feverish words.

“You curse this land with my burial,” Ichor shrieked. “The dirt here will eat away at all that walk across it. Every beast that treads across me, every maggot to which you’ll devolve into—I will devour it all until this place is nothing but a sea of bones!”

Ha’heneth attempted to shout over the incessant cries. “We gift this land an anchor with which to seal Ichor.” Her hand dove into her pocket, returning clenched. “A tree shall weigh down its efforts to escape.”

“A Tree cannot contain me!” Ichor screamed. “At the waning years of Devolution, I will escape the throes of this cage.”

Tevo cringed and twisted her fingers around her wand. “Hurry. Its words seep into the cosmos.” She looked towards the sky, drawn by the swift onset of clouds. Sunlight faded away, relenting to a dark overcast that had been nowhere in sight moments earlier. Elemental shifts—a sure sign of a curse’s enactment.

Kubrathai turned from watching Ichor to face Ha’heneth. “Cast it in.”

Ha’heneth threw her arm back, and swung it forward to release the object in her clenched hand. A tiny speck flew through the air, disappearing in the gravel near Ichor.

Tevo had a flash of recollection over how she’d marveled over the Yegetechi Seed. Such a small, fragile thing upon which their entire plan rested. No other Yegetechi Seeds existed to their knowledge, having been used up in failed attempts to seal away other Hive spores. If this didn’t work, then Ichor would escape back into the world, and the Hive’s ideologies of stagnation might very well overwhelm Devolution.

Tevo and Kubrathai quickly pointed their wands towards the area the seed had landed. A new colored stream of energy burst from the wands, and in response, the seed that Ha’heneth had cast into the pit sprouted a stem and leaves. With unnatural acceleration, the plant grew and expanded.

“May this tree keep all manner of Ichor’s wickedness sealed within its roots,” Ha’heneth pronounced.

“I will seep out of the roots of this abomination,” Ichor shouted in defiance before she’d stopped speaking, “and bless your descendants with my sentience. Your offspring shall become my offspring.”

Ha’heneth’s words spilled from her lips, quickening in reaction to Ichor’s counter curses. The two voices stomped across each other in a duel for a final word as Tevo and Kubrathai fueled the tree’s growth. Roots wormed through the ground, webbing across Ichor before it could climb any further up the pit’s slope. Ichor howled as the plant pierced its body, the roots serving as pikes to immobilize it.

“May this tree remain seedless,” declared Ha’heneth.

“This tree will bear fruit,” Ichor screamed. “Your children will eat of it and see the truth of the stars and of death.”

“The fruit of this tree will be our vessels,” Ha’heneth countered. Her voice shook from the strain of out-shouting her opponent. “Those who partake of it will carry on our spirits of justice and truth. They will understand the wisdom of this pact.”

Ichor’s voice, raspy and reaching a fever pitch, dragged across her every word. “Those who drink my blood and partake of me will hear my whispers and be my voice. They will conquer the earth as the Hive has willed it.”

“This tree shall know no enemy,” Ha’heneth spoke.

Tevo struggled to make out Ha’heneth’s next words over the manic protests in the pit. She thought her sisters spoke of the tree’s resiliency, against any manner of weather and destruction. Yet Ichor countered this with some curse, but the full utterance was lost. Tevo caught the phrase Na’Fer Vem Cazim, but couldn’t be sure who had spoken it. Between their shouting and the creaking of the tree’s wood as it matured and filled the great pit, it all became noise in her ears.

Relief filled her as the tree’s growth neared its end, nearly finished with overtaking Ichor. She could only see a small portion of the spore’s writhing appendages still desperately trying to outpace the tree’s expansion.

They had won. Ichor wouldn’t be able to escape before the tree finished its growth.

A tendril cord of black snapped through the air towards Ha’heneth. Tevo cried out in the seconds it took for Ichor’s sliver of web to twist around her sister and yank Ha’heneth forward. Time slowed. Tevo dropped her wand, ending the fuel to the tree, and dove forward to catch her sister by the hand.

She missed it by inches.

Landing on her stomach, she could do nothing more in the seconds it took for Ha’heneth to crash into the ever-expanding tree and become buried in the tossed soil and twisting roots. Along with Ichor, Ha’heneth disappeared from sight.

The tree’s growth ended, and all grew still.[4]

* * *

1 Known by many current nations as “g’ants”

2 Inconclusive expeditions among the Svaalti have hinted that the elves regard the mirror shards as somehow responsible for this foreknowledge of Devolution.

3 It is currently unknown how many spores exist within Svaalti lore, but it is estimated that at least thirty are named within Svaalit texts.

4 The text ends here, though scholars in Achten Tan concur that the script is incomplete and that this is but a fragment of Ichor’s Sealment. Expeditions to the Svaalti have not yielded results to complete the text. However, some have speculated that the Svaalti lore surrounding Na’Fer Vem Cazim, the Reckoning of the Gods, is closely connected to this legend.

Old Crawman’s Replacement

Chris “Terry” Durston

* * *

By Bone and Blood

Ian Barr

Aislinn scrubbed her hands in the diluted acid, the habitual burn of vitriol familiar on her skin. It seemed that she washed her hands often these days, thinking there was still blood on them. Blood that would not wash out. She never felt clean, however, and the washing added only a physical sting to her internalized pain. She pulled her hands from the slightly smoking solution, inspecting them under the ghostly blue light. Clean – for now – and raw, scrubbed to the point of bleeding around the knuckles. Yet as she looked on them, feeling the capability in their joints, she recalled all the lives that had ended under their touch. Most justified, but one weighing heavier than the rest. She resisted the urge to wash them again.

“No, please,” pleaded the voice of Opu Haku, the chieftain of Achten Tan. “It does not have to be this wa—“ Those had been his last words. Aislinn had wrenched his head, the vertebrae in his neck cracking before they snapped and the man fell silent forever. Aislinn shuddered, retreating to her meagre bedding and sitting down heavily.

She had killed hundreds of beings before, perhaps thousands. As a Virago, her militant prowess was legendary amongst her people. Never once had she lost sleep over the lives she’d ended in the heat of battle. But a single man, one whom she could never have counted as a friend, weighed on her more heavily than all the others that had fallen by her hand. To kill in hot passion was one thing. To kill in cold blood was another. She sighed, rising to push back the curtain of her abode and look out onto the caves she now called home.

It had been a simple thing to light the caverns of Nh’var Tan – or the Under Place, as they called it in the filthy common tongue – due to veins of combustible gas that permeated the new home of the Svaalti elves. Simple fittings had been made to plug the veins, complete with a small valve that could control the flow. Cyan flame burned steadily at random intervals and Aislinn could see the other drawn curtains of the homes of her people, burrowed into the ribs of the long-dead gargantuan beast that the upper dwellers also used as housing. Below, the sternum of the beast dangled over a massive chasm, the shadows reaching down too far for their lights to penetrate. The gnawing darkness put into her mind the memories of the wyrm that had destroyed Satama. And the fell being who had commanded it. As though on impulse, she rushed back to her basin.

Aislinn laid her hands on the sides of the vitriol basin, her panicked reflection staring back at her. Her sharp slanted eyes were like that of a cat; the twin crescent tattoos beneath them, marking her as a Virago warrior chieftain, were dark in the blue light. There were small lines at the corners of her thin lips, stress wrinkles upon her high brow, and her pointed ears sagged slightly from exhaustion. She breathed deep the acrid scent of the acidic water and resisted the urge to wash again. She wished she could simply sleep to avoid these attacks of anxious feeling, but sleep would not come. She had not slept more than a few hours since her people had settled in Nh’var Tan, and it was beginning to show. She wondered idly just how long the elven mind could go without a proper rest. Perhaps she had lost hers already, hearing voices as she was.

“You are in my debt,” said the cold voice in her mind. Aislinn didn’t know if it was just a memory or if the voice had returned to remind her of the weight of wicked obligations on her shoulders. “And I always collect, Virago Aislinn. By bone, I endure…”

“But by blood, made pure,” Aislinn whispered, finishing the mantra. She waited to see if the voice would speak again, listening hard in the quiet of the night, and breathing easier when it remained silent.

The voice, which Aislinn decided had been a memory, was that of C’Naga. Just thinking the name of the shunned wyrm wizard was enough to make Aislinn rise and look about the room as if to ensure the undead half-elf was not there. The blue light carried over the pitted walls of fossilized bone, casting shadows on her rumpled pallet, but revealing no spectres that stalked her. Present or not, C’Naga haunted Aislinn’s mind incessantly. After all, it was by her power that Aislinn found herself in a position of authority.

Memories of the night Aislinn took command of the Svaalti drilled back into her mind like the wyrm that had destroyed Satama. Aislinn had completed the necromantic ritual outside Satama’s limits. By the bone of a loved one, taken from her mother’s grave, and the blood of an enemy, spilled from the throat of Satama’s former chieftain, Aislinn had summoned C’Naga and made her appeals. Unquestioned loyalty from her people, the destruction of her enemies, and a chance to give her community a fresh start. She wished she had chosen her words more carefully.

She had unquestioning loyalty, of that she had no doubts. She had led her people from Satama as C’Naga and her wyrm ravaged the town. Her feet were still stained black by the tar the wizard had brought with her into the city. Her enemies had been destroyed, crushed by the draconic beast’s tunneling through their homes or lost to its gullet. She could still hear the cut off screams and popping bones as the wyrm devoured elven flesh. And a fresh start? Nh’var Tan was highly defensible and a suitable settlement, despite the inferior peoples living on the surface above them. What C’Naga had done for her had not been what Aislinn had in mind, but she could not deny that her requests had been honoured. And in exchange, she had yet to give C’Naga one final favour.

“My patience grows short, Virago.” The voice struck Aislinn like a cold wave, driving away any fatigue. The doorway was filled with shadow, consuming the grey-blue cast of the bone beyond and opening to a void. A skeletal form stepped out, a translucent layer of skin clinging to her rattling bones. She was shrivelled and ghastly, skin hugging the skull tight and pulling her face into a horrifying grin. But her deep amber eyes spoke of intellect and guile.

“C’Naga,” Aislinn said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Your hands are bleeding, my dear,” C’Naga said, her voice painfully dry. Her eyes roved and the wizard huffed. “I do not think you have the backbone to fulfill my wishes, Virago.” Aislinn stiffened.

“Have I not proven myself enough?”

“Proven yourself ill-suited to my ends, perhaps.” C’Naga chuckled at Aislinn’s indignant expression. “I watch you, Aislinn. I see how you suffer for that fool Opu Haku.”

“And yet you offer no explanation of why I had to kill him!”

“My motives are my own,” C’Naga threw off. “You have thus paid me twice for my aid. First, giving me form and function with the ritual. Next, for killing Opu Haku. It is time that you deliver unto me my final request.” Hot lead dropped into Aislinn’s gut, knowing what C’Naga wanted. She steeled herself.

“I am ready.”

C’Naga cackled at her words, stepping back into the shadowy void she’d come from and vanishing. Blue light filtered through the doorway once more.

Aislinn made quick work, feeling bile in her throat as she gathered an obsidian dagger from beneath her pallet – one that the Achten Tan soldiers had not managed to strip from her – and swiftly left her room.

The catwalk was forged of bone fragments, dangling from support vines and leading all over Nh’var Tan. The lateness of the hour was such that naught but Aislinn’s muffled steps could be heard in the colony. She moved quickly, trying not to dwell on her intentions, and met no one as she drew back the curtain of another home and entered silently. The lights were turned down in Adriana’s rooms, the sounds of sleep coming from her pallet. Aislinn crept forward, looking down on the face of her daughter which was so like her own.

Adriana’s tattoos were fresh, inked shortly after the settling of Nh’var Tan. A pair of stars under her eye, marking her as a warrior of Svaalti. She had aided Aislinn in rallying those who could escape the wyrm in Satama, had fought at her back when raiders had accosted them in the wastes thinking they were easy pickings. Adriana had the makings of a Virago and reminded Aislinn much of herself at that age: Impetuous, spry, and brimming with life Aislinn couldn’t be prouder of her offspring. It was no wonder C’Naga wanted her.

“Do it.” The voice was barely more than a breath and caused Aislinn to start. C’Naga had materialized behind her, staring hungrily at Adriana. “Do it, Aislinn. I would be reborn of your line. End her life so I may steal her remaining years.”

“Why her?” Aislinn replied. “Why my only child, C’Naga?”

“It is my will. With all pleas for power come the undertones of betrayal.”

“Surely there are—”

“Enough,” C’Naga commanded. “You will do this, Aislinn.”

Aislinn nodded, tears springing to her eyes. When was the last time she had shed tears? She could not recall. Likely the day Adriana had been born. She knelt next to the pallet, resisting the urge to stroke Adriana’s umber hair. The girl had the same reflexes as her mother and would wake on the lightest touch. Aislinn raised the knife, turning it so she could plunge it into her child’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Aislinn breathed, lurching down.

An iron grip locked around Aislinn’s wrists, redirecting the blade. Aislinn made no sound as the obsidian pierced her chest, finding her heart and halting its rhythm. A skeletal hand settled over her mouth, silencing any noise she might make. Aislinn tried to draw breath through the bony fingers, the edges of the world going black as she clawed weakly at the knife. C’Naga loomed above her darkening vision, that skeletal grin mocking.

“Die now, Virago Aislinn,” C’Naga said. “Die with the knowledge that you would kill your own kin to claim more power. Die knowing that while your dishonourable intent is gone, your body will remain. For you know nothing of real power, elf. And you do not deserve the position I have given you. I, however…”

Aislinn heard no more, sound and sight fading to nothing.

* * *

Adriana woke with a start, hand flying to the cudgel she kept in her furs. She flung herself out of bed and into a crouch, searching for the one who had woken her. She blinked, confused to find her mother stirring on her floor. Dropping the cudgel, she moved forward.

“Mother? Mother, are you okay?”

Aislinn’s eyes snapped open. They were wild at first, softening. Adriana frowned. Had her mother’s eyes always been amber?

“I am well, child,” Aislinn said, rousing. “I had a sudden urge to check on you, but I... slipped in this dust here.” Adriana looked, seeing a fine greasy dust strewn across the floor.

“Where did that come from?”

“Who can say, child?” Aislinn replied, raising a hand and laying it on Adriana’s cheek. “Best we both go back to sleep. Help your mother up.”

“Have you quelled your night terrors then?” Adriana asked, helping her mother up. It was common knowledge that Aislinn had been unable to sleep much since the fall of Satama.

“Oh yes, dear,” Aislinn replied, stepping with vigour to the door. “By bone and blood, I do believe I am feeling much more like my old self…”

* * *

Achten Tan Lullaby

Darby Cupid

Hush little bone child,

Still your breath,

The wind blows cold,

A touch of death.

He’ll smell your flesh,

He’ll taste your fear,

He’ll travel the desert

For you, my dear.

Tuck in your toes,

To keep them safe,

Beneath your blanket,

My little waif.

So, don’t you leave

Your bed, my dear,

The Boggoliz knows,

He’s always near.

Hush little bone child,

Still your breath,

The wind blows cold,

A touch of death.

* * *

The Shrinkening

Jonathan Beck

The Jelthune schooling house, like many of the structures in Achten Tan whose front wall faces the Godtree, has a large window through which the rising suns can be seen.

It is well after midday, but Eren has yet to rise over the distant Everfall. As Mana, that is, teacher of Jelthune’s younglings, this means I have another while yet with these little bashdun.

“Mama Weyzil! Mama Weyzil!”

“What is it, Nuuli?”

“Mama Weyzil,” the child had been running around with another, and now struggles to catch her breath, “My isky, Mama Weyzil, Grod keeps taking my isky!”

Grod, for better or worse, has followed Nuuli over and is rolling his eyes in a way that belies his tender age. “It’s a tartule Mana,” he offers, as though that explains everything, “and everybody knows that g’ants are better than tartules.” This addition is intended to stir up little Nuuli, and does exactly that.

“Liar!” Nuuli’s fists are by her side, her chin and chest thrust forward. Her father would do well to teach her some basic combat, were he not dead, and were she not only six years old.

“Silence!” I seize each of them by an arm, tugging them to my sides.

“But Mama!”

“It’s Mana, Nuuli, not Mama,” I correct her, my voice softening as I do. The little ones so often struggle with this distinction, given that so many mothers in Achten Tan are mama to more children than merely their own. I hate having to train them out of it. “Now, where is isky?”

“He took her!”

I clear my throat, looking at the accused. “Grod?”

His sigh is dramatic, another borrowed affectation. “G’ants are better though.”

It isn’t the apology I was hoping for.

Still, he passes the bone-carved tartule, or (as the giant turtles were once called) Ischyros across. Nuuli’s smile is more of a scowl. Her name for her toy tells me she’s enjoying her animal lessons, but this debate—g’ant versus tartule—has only been set aside until another day.

Through the window, the sky beyond the Godtree is changing hue. With the unpleasantries behind us, I rise like Eren herself, and although I release my hold on the children, I find their small hands soon working their way into mine.

“Gather ‘round,” I say, lifting my voice above the playful murmur from the other younglings, “I think we have just enough time for a story before Erenrise.”

I settle on a small mound of bone, its smooth surface covered in bestyr-hide, cushioned with dried moss. The children arrange themselves in a circle of smaller mounds.

“Which story, Mana?” Grod’s question echoes around the circle, and with a glance between Nuuli and Grod—the two sitting closest to me—I know precisely which one.

“It was not always this way,” I begin, a dozen pairs of eyes fixing upon me, a dozen mouths closing, hushing. “Before the Shrinkening, all creatures were great. Giants were not Giants, simply people: divided into three great nations—Elves, Gnomes and Humans.

“For a very long time, these nations lived completely separate from one another. Indeed, the world was so grand, you might never meet another kind in all your years.

“When the Elves and Gnomes did make themselves known to the growing Human population, there was peace, for a time… but the Elves grew tired of the Humans meddling and mistakeling, for Humans are such a curious and clumsy kind. The Humans grew jealous of the magic and beauty of the Elves, angered too by their rules against interbreeding with their people.”

“What’s interbreeding, Mana?”

Examining Grod’s face with narrowed eyes, I decide the question is innocent.

“The Elven-kind did not want any of their own to marry, nor to have children with the Humans,” I smile towards Shuz’Nah’yu, our half-elf beauty, nimble fingers twirling in a beaded braid. “They did not understand how precious such children could be.”

Grod nods his head.

“The Gnomes,” I continue, “though admired for their craftsmanship and inventiveness, grew to be covetous of the materials that could be found within lands of Humans and Elves, and became fiercely protective of their own resources. The peace that had existed did not last, and a great war came to pass.”

I pause to savour the quiet but know that it too cannot last.

“And they were big, Mana?” It’s Nuuli, trying so hard not to call me Mama again. “All of them?”

“Yes Nuuli, this was before the Shrinkening. The Humans say it was Elven magic gone awry. The Elves say the Gnomes bored too deep into the ground, releasing mystical energies that should never have been released. Both Elves and Gnomes agreed that without Human meddling there never would have been a war in the first place. Whatever the cause, the Shrinkening came and the skies were forever changed by it. The air breathed by all was…different somehow.

“For every generation wherein war continued to rage, the creatures of the world became smaller than before, yet the war raged on. We continued to un-grow. The animals, too: rats, cats, canids, even the bugs and flying insects the Elves cast against their enemies—all those used in some way in our wars were diminished.

“But not all creatures. The g’ants remained neutral, continuing their own works, undistracted by our petty ways of war. The bees continued to pollinate; the tartules continued to swim and graze. They were pure, where we were not.”

“That’s why they’re so big?”

“That’s right Pazrak.”

“B…but,” Nuuli frowns, “the g’ants and the tartule…they do help us!”

Her intuition saddens me some and, sensing her next question, I nod slowly. “Yes, Nuuli, and perhaps they too will be smaller than they once were.” Perhaps they already are, I consider, but the change is so slight, we have yet to notice. This line of thought, however, will not put their minds to rest. “Perhaps, because it is with their help we have found peace, they will be spared from the Shrinkening. Only time will tell.”

Of all the many stories I have told them, be they fact or fiction, this one seems to have affected the younglings most, in a way I did not anticipate.

Too close to home, perhaps: too much fact. Even at this young age, they understand that our current peace is but temporary, and also, that war diminishes us. My heart breaks for them.

“But,” I say, hearing the first shuffle of feet outside the schooling house doors—the changing light in the room telling me Eren has risen fully—“there is nothing to say that the Shrinkening is not reversible.”

“What do you mean, Mana?”

“The ways of war can be terrible, but they started because of greed and jealousy. Had the Elves been open to sharing their culture with the Humans; had the Gnomes been willing to share their resources; had the Humans not been so quick to fight over what belonged to others... perhaps they would never have been a Shrinkening.

“For millennia, there have been wars with very little peace. We are in peace now children and, here in Achten Tan, our nations are joined. Look around,” I tell them, “and share with each other. Be kind to each other. Be accepting, and open with each other.”

I rise to my feet slowly, drawing their gaze with me. “Perhaps, doing this, we can all be giants again.”

I turn about to stride towards the window, the soft fabric of my long skirt breezing against my stiff legs. With a pull on a cord, I rattle the bone chime that signals the end of today’s schooling, and behind me the children stir, the murmur reasserting itself in a way that brings me a measure of relief.

The door opens, parents summoning their little ones to their sides, into their arms, or onto their backs. I see Grod with Nuuli’s tartule once more; see her smiling at him; see her holding Grod’s g’ant toy in her small hands. It’s carved from bone, just like her isky.

I cannot help but smile and hope that their peace, too, may last.

The Jelthune is quiet without them, now, but tomorrow they will return. A Mana bears a great responsibility to their younglings, I know, but these younglings are a blessing.

By every noisy one of them, I am blessed.

* * *

The Bone Whisperer

Gabrielle S. Awe

The bones are whispering to me again. I thought I left them behind in the cavern, in the underground grave where they’d been left for centuries, but it turns out I still carry them with me.

That’s what I get for eating Atrocity Bones. In my defense, I was real hungry, and they were rib bones. You would have done the same.

“Mack!”

I blink and Drizz is in front of me, his crutches planted in the snow and bone dust that makes up the streets of Achten Tan. I try to focus on his face but his bone crutches are whispering to me now too, they’re trying to tell me a secret but Drizz is blinking at me owlishly and I know I don’t look right. I don’t feel right, either. I shove aside the bone whispers and now Drizz is looking at me with concern.

“You ok there, Mack?”

I run my hands through my hair and try to remember what I’m doing out in the street.

“Yeah, Drizz, I’m alright. Sorry I almost knocked you over.”

Drizz shakes his head at me. “I think you’re still a bit shaken up from your trip to the Craven. It must have been awful, finding that mass grave.”

It wasn’t, but I can’t tell Drizz that.

Drizz clasps my arm for a moment before moving on. I look around the street and still don’t know what I’m doing out here, but I’m facing West and I’m terrified at the thought that maybe I was trying to walk back to the land of the Craven; that I might have been trying to get back to the bones in the mass grave.

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

So I do the only reasonable thing; I pull up my collar against the biting wind and head north, to North Ribs Ribs.

When I get there Old Crawman is nowhere to be found but I see Alma moving between the tables, her leather pants and studded vest both riding low, and I know I’m in the right place. The air is full of spices and smoke and I head to a booth in the back, trying not to make eye contact with anyone along the way. The town has been pretty grim since Dolphin Joe died and the rumors of war started to spread; none of us are feeling real neighborly these days.

Winter is harsh in Achten Tan.

The booth is sticky and I catch a whiff of algae brew and my stomach turns. I’d tried the algae drink once—once—and between the hallucinations and convulsive vomiting I gave it a pass. All my friends loved it though; they loved it more than they loved me, I guess, because I haven’t seen them in a while.

Alma comes up to my table and squints at me.

“What you want?”

I can’t afford the ribs but I’m starving. I’m also distracted by Alma’s low vest and I’m worried she can tell what I’m thinking. She raises an eyebrow and looks me full in the face.

“Mack? Mackenzie Yawson, is that you?”

I can’t talk; I nod and look down at my hands. She leans in, real close, and I can smell spices and clean sweat and I can see even more of what her vest isn’t covering and I think I’m turning bright red.

“Crawman told me you’ll be eating free for a while after what you did to help with the sentry towers,” she says, her breath tickling my ear. “And maybe if I get free for a bit I’ll come sit with you and you can tell me all about the land of the Craven.” She winks at me and calls to the kitchen.

“Plate of ribs for our friend Mack!”

I hunch down in my seat, hoping no one looks at me, but my luck isn’t and never has been that good because right then Opu Haku walks up to my table and plants his giant hands down in front of me.

Which is weird, because Opu Haku is dead.

He doesn’t say anything. (Of course he doesn’t say anything he’s dead he can’t say anything, my brain is gibbering at me) and my muscles seize up and I can’t move and I don’t say anything either and it’s cold in here now, so cold.

Opu leans in, and in, and in towards me in my booth, and he smells like a bone saw, and he’s so close I don’t want to breathe but I can’t hold my breath and it doesn’t matter anyway because he leans into me, like he literally presses himself against me but there’s no resistance, there’s nothing to keep him out and so he just dissolves into me and it feels like static in my body, like the charge in the air right before lightning hits, and I can feel him rummaging around inside me and then the echoes come, the screaming of the bones from the land of the Craven and they are screaming about what was done to them. I’m shaking, my muscles spasming, and my eyes are going to pop at any second, there’s so much pressure. All I can see is darkness.

And then it stops; it just stops, and Opu is standing in front of me again. He shakes his head and his eyes are filled with disappointment and I feel something like shame squirming in my stomach. His mouth moves like he’s saying something but the only sound is a sigh. I watch his lips, straining to understand what he’s saying:

“You have to get it out.”

Get what out?

He’s gone and I’m chilled to the bone.

Alma sets my plate down and presses a hand to my forehead.

“You okay, Mack? You look pale.”

“Just hungry,” I say, picking up a rib and forcing a smile. “Thank you for the ribs.”

I’m worried they’ll start talking to me too but they don’t. They’re just ribs.

Really, really good ribs.

It’s three hours later and I’m back on the road out of town, the road that faces West. The road that leads to the lands of the Craven, where this all started. I don’t know how I got on this road; I don’t know why I’m here. In my left hand I’m holding a bone, a tiny little metacarpal, and it’s singing to me with a voice made of a thousand knives, a keening, digging, slicing sound in my brain, and the song is all about death. In my right hand I’m holding a travel pack, heavy with supplies, and I decide I’m done fighting this, as the bone dust under my feet tells me to leave town, to get out, to leave and take whatever this is with me before it destroys the whole town.

I’ve walked this road before, starving and half frozen, stumbling in delirium on the way back. This time I’ve got a pack full of supplies and a belly full of ribs and the warm memory of Alma telling me to come find her when I get back, so I’m good, I can do this. I can get there and back again, I’ll be home in time to take Alma dancing at winter solstice while the Illuminaarah lights up the night.

The metacarpal whispers in my ear while I walk; it tells me about all the lovely bones under the ground and how I can use them. There are bone fragments in my blood and they are talking to each other about all the things they’ll make me do and I’m starting to think that eating the bones under the Craven may have saved my life but somehow doomed me to a worse one.

I try to look out for wild ants or marauding Craven but it doesn’t matter because the road is empty and silent and strange. Night falls and I use my goggles to see in the darkness, everything tinted green, and I eat as I walk. The bones fall into a quiet murmur and I walk in a sort of waking dream, with monstrous shadows writhing in the night and visions of a falling tower.

When day breaks I stop walking, because I am there, but I am not where I expected to be. Instead of the villages of the Craven and the hills with their hidden entrance to the grave I see a broken tower. I blink and it’s whole; I blink and it’s broken. There is nothing but the tower. There is nothing.

I try to turn to walk away—I have no business with a wizard’s tower, and it has no business with me—but when I turn I am, somehow, still facing the tower. I prod at the metacarpal but it is sullen and silent and the bone fragments in my blood are clenched and waiting.

There is no help to be found in old bones when a wizard’s tower calls you to itself. The door swings open before I can touch it and, oddest of all, the steps go down into the earth instead of up to the tower’s top. Lacking any better options, I begin the descent.

Down and down and down they twist, the unyielding stone steps covered in dust. Even without my goggles the walls glow faintly green and the air smells of decay, a smell that repulses me but also, somehow, doesn’t.

And then the stairs end and I find myself in an abandoned laboratory, filled with tables and beakers and a few decaying bodies. Standing over the bodies, holding a ludicrously small saw, is a wizard. It’s a little hazy around the edges so I squint at it. It lowers the saw towards nothing, then raises it again. It flickers, and then does it again.

“Are you a ghost?” I ask, and it shakes its head. It totally looks like a ghost so I’m not sure I believe it. The bone in my pocket stays silent.

We see ghosts like this, especially around old tech. Afterimages of the world that came before us; memories and dreams from ancient machines, still missing the ones that built them. Those don’t respond to us, though; they are their own dreams, not meant to interact with ours.

“What are you then?” I ask, and it points the saw at one of the bodies on the ground. I pick my way through broken glass and then kneel down to look at the body. It’s holding a saw, just like the wizard, and it appears to have cut its own throat. Its ears are slightly pointed and I realize it’s half-elf and I scramble backwards, away from the corpse of the only half-elf wizard I’ve ever heard of: C’Naga.

This is C’Naga’s tower.

I’m in deep shit.

I look at the flickering image of the wizard and it taps one long finger against its head—no, its ear. Fine.

I lean back over the corpse and look. At first I see nothing, but then I see it—a thin trail of blue coming out of its ear. I look back at the wizard but it’s gone; instead, there’s an image of a massive battle; the Craven fighting an army of people I don’t recognize, fighting like madmen, and all of them have blue-stained ears.

Then the image changes and I watch the Craven pile bodies underground and set fire to them; the fire burns and burns and burns and when it is done, they cover the mass grave and never look back,

The bones; the bones I found, that I ate, that we used to build our sentry towers.

There’s something wrong with the bones.

And then C’Naga, standing at the top of her tower, burning incandescent in the night— C’Naga, with blue in her ears, controlling the Boggoliz and laying waste to the villages around her tower.

The stories say C’Naga was defeated using Blackbeard algae but what is the truth? Because it looks instead as if the algae had somehow infected her just as it did the warriors who attacked the Craven. I feel sick, and it gets worse as the image shows me one more thing.

C’Naga, trying to fight it. Fighting back. Running down here to her cellar, her laboratory, getting her saw, and then collapsing, then the saw reaches up, and C’Naga dies. Running and collapsing and dying, over and over, on a loop.

I take the metacarpal out of my pocket and look at it. Where did I get it? Why am I carrying it with me? I toss it on the ground and crush it and no part of me is surprised when I see the blue staining the stones under my boot.

My head feels clearer and I watch the image in the loop to see what C’Naga was going to do with the saw before she turned it on herself.

It’s right there, right in front of me; the giant pit of a Godfruit seed. I take the saw from C’Naga’s hand and I set the teeth against the pit and begin to saw, back and forth.

We made our sentry towers out of those bones; we didn’t know any better. Opu Haku was dead, and our bone magicians have almost all died out. I didn’t think to ask how they did it, how they fused the bones together; Opu was the last who had that power and it should have died with them. But I led our people to the bones and they found a way to use them, and I didn’t think any harder on it than that. I should have.

The bones did it themselves. They knew what we wanted, and they gave it to us; and now we are surrounded by them, our whole town, surrounded by sentry towers built out of bones full of this blue algae that drives people mad.

I keep sawing; the pit is tough but the saw was built by a wizard. The bone shards in my blood are whispering again, desperately; telling me to stop but I don’t. My father was an an’cher but what we don’t tell anyone is that my mother used to speak to the dead. Bones don’t tell me what to do.

The saw breaks through the tough shell of the pit and a clear liquid comes out; the whole pit is full of it. I touch it and bring my fingers to my lips and taste it; it burns like fire but it tastes clean and my blood burns and burns and I fall to the ground, shaking, shaking, as the bone shards in my blood burn away.

When I wake the voices are gone and the pit is still there. C’Naga is still dead but there is still time to save my town; still time to dance with Alma under the Illuminaarah and taste her sweet lips. I gather up the pit, careful not to spill, and seal it in one of the jars in my travel pack. I hope I can get back before it’s too late, before the blue algae makes my people burn our town to the ground. Before I go I lean down and wrap my hand around hers and I listen to her bones and the stories they have to tell; then I whisper my thanks to the dead wizard and the tower that still protects her—and us—and I start walking home, to Achten Tan.

* * *

Hymn of Birth & Rebirth

(An Essay)

Chris “Terry” Durston

Written by Nathilaen the Literate

This short hymn is one of our most popular and enduring; believed to have been composed some several hundred years ago, it is still performed to this day.

The original author(s) may have devised the music and the text together or separately, or perhaps multiple branches of work by multiple creators took place simultaneously. The composition borrows from Far Southern pagan worship singing in its harmonic progression, making use of chord colours not frequently seen in early music outside that region. The entire arrangement is emblematic of birth and rebirth, presenting a motif which is briefly set aside before returning: the same, yet anew.

I have seen some suggestion that the melody may itself be borrowed from an earlier hymn to the Landwalkers (cf. Ellirdith’s Worship of the Walking Mountains), but have not been able to corroborate this independently.

The hymn, originally notated with ambiguous instrumentation, has been arranged here for four voice types and accompanied by a calcarray (a kind of percussive melodic instrument played by striking several rows of tuned bone ‘keys’ with small felted mallets); I believe this permutation likely to be close to the original setting, if not exactly correct. The calcarray predates the hymn’s purported composition by some decades and appears a good tonal match, if nothing else. (An approximation of the music has been performed and sealed into a vibrating device of sorts which reproduces the tones of the calcarray and uses strings to mimic the vocal parts.)

You will notice that I have given several variations of the lyrics. Those given in the first set below and in the notated music are the original Middle Achtean (on the phonetic and linguistic characteristics of which more below), in a particular religious dialect used mostly for oral storytelling and music. The second set is, as near as is possible, a direct or ‘literal’ translation of the text with no regard for rhyme or meter. The third set is an early modern setting of the hymn in what would now be considered archaic (albeit comprehensible) modern language, and the fourth is a contemporary setting (by a teacher of mine, in fact).

Original: Rhun v’rhun / Jzeilh dho tyun / Farhadh lleith /Rhun dho lajz / Dho rhun /Rhuti v’rhuti /Tyun dho mheun

Direct translation: Bone of bone / Feeds into earth / Rises in motion / Bone to beast / To bone / Birth of birth / Soil into life

Early modern: Begotten flesh / Wort afresh / Peripatetic / Corpus flora / Corpus fauna / Beget begotten / Unforgotten

Contemporary: That which dies / Becomes new lives / Walk once more / Flesh feeds the earth / New birth / That which ends / Begins again

Most performances of the hymn continue to use the original Middle Achtean, despite it being officially a ‘dead’ language with no remaining speakers (either native or as a second language, since not enough examples outside religious texts such as this remain to extract conversational phrases).

One idiosyncratic difficulty in translating Middle Achtean is that it has no strict temporal delineation, nor does it have affixes such as ‘re’ which would point to one thing coming before or after another in sequence. As such, the word for ‘birth’ (rhuti) is the same as that for ‘rebirth’, which is perhaps to be expected given that the doctrine of the time held that there was no difference between life and death and subsequent new life, that they were simply variants on the same state. See Callerow and Greycrown’s Dogmas of Bygone Ages for commentary on the theological teachings; and the fourteenth letter in the Collection of Letters to the Prodigy Mataghart from His Humble Teacher Once-Illuminated Jhar (sadly posthumously published in an incomplete form, but I understand Tylia of the Great Library may be working on a new edition) for some compelling, if deliberately obtuse, musings on Middle Achtean speakers’ perception of time as a unified one-directional sequence as opposed to a multitude of microsequences in which infinite before-after progressions form no single ‘timeline’.

At any rate, those phrases in Ieilla v’Rhuti which imply a direction in time (‘bone to beast to bone’ in that order, for example) would be interpreted as much more cyclical and simultaneous by a Middle Achtean speaker than the linear travel a modern listener would likely hear.

Phonologically, Middle Achtean is considered one of the more transcendent languages of its age (which is to say it is still regarded as capable of accessing divine beauty to a greater extent than other languages more suited to everyday transactions). This is of course a matter of subjective preference on the part of the listener, but I find it hard to disagree with those who observe that it is uniquely well-fitted to music intended to inspire some sense of awe in those who hear it.

Some of the sounds that a modern reader may find less familiar (and harder to reproduce) are given below in the hopes that it will aid performance and appreciation of this piece.

- dh - an extremely light, transient sound made by forming a close circle with the lips and passing air quickly through the front of the mouth while gently striking the teeth with the tongue (ought to sound close to a very breathy soft ‘th’)

- rh - as with dh, this sound is close to the modern light ‘r’ but should be produced very far forward in the mouth, enlisting the help of the tongue to create a sound alike to a spring breeze passing under a frosted leaf

- jz - almost a whistle, there is a brief vocalised expulsion of air before the sound moves to the roof of the mouth (towards the back, near the opening of the throat); like the modern ‘sh’, this sound can be held until it becomes almost a vowel with a preceding palato-alveolar consonant

- ty - I have often heard this sound described as a halfway point between the modern sounds commencing the words ‘chute’ and ‘tune’; thus tyun (‘soil’ or ‘earth’) is pronounced very similarly to the modern ‘tune’ but with notable ethereality on the release time of the first consonant

Vowels are almost always in what would now be considered a ‘long’ form—so ‘u’ is as is ‘chute’, ‘e’ is as in ‘meet’, and so on. (The most common exception is the short ‘a’ where ‘a’ is the last letter of a word.)

Vowel digraphs are generally spoken as an approximation of the sound between sounds (as opposed to taking one sound or the other); thus ‘ae’ is voiced neither as ‘ay’ nor as ‘ee’ but as a kind of hybrid ‘eih’. The common exception is with digraphs begun by an ‘i’, as this is often used as a semivowel similar to the modern ‘y’. (Frustratingly, this is inconsistent in texts, which could be a quirk of the original writers or a mistake by one of the many copiers over the years; the letter ‘j’ is used to express an identical function.) Thus, ieilla (‘hymn’, as in the title of the piece) is spoken like ‘yi-ay-la’, albeit with significant characteristic blurring between the two distinct vowel sounds and soft inflection of the ‘ll’ creating a rather more contiguous sound than the impression likely given by the divided syllables.

I hope that this essay will bring a new appreciation of Ieilla v’Rhuti to a modern audience.

—Nathilaen the Literate

* * *

The View from the Ribs

C. Vandyke

From the top of the Ribs, Achten Tan spreads out before you like a child’s blocks strewn across the desert floor. Toy-sized food stalls by the market in Nord Scrapings. Toy-sized an’chers and Ar’Dyoun acolytes rushing to and fro in the disorganized chaos of their days. Toy-sized ant riders patrolling the town’s perimeter. And in the distance, shrouded by a haze of sunrise-lit dust-storm, the massive shape of Skullgate, ivory-dull bone glowing pale and white with the dawn.

From here all of it is... distant.

Removed.

Which is why you come here, of course. When Mother Eltean comes home high on Godfruit paste after a bender at the Twisted Wyrm in Southribs and Mama Celtha can’t stop crying and apologizing. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. As if any of it is her fault, and you want to shake them both and tell them how much you love them and how much you hate them and can’t they just stop making everything worse? But you don’t have the words, and besides, after everything that’s happened these last few months you honestly can’t blame them. Either of them. Not after Ma Eltean saw half her patrol slaughtered by the Third, not after the Svaalti returned with Narain’s head. Ma Celtha cried over her cousin’s brutal death for a week. Eltean, of course, just ate paste and stared at the dull white walls of the apartment.

No, you don’t blame them. But you can’t stay there, not when it feels like the bone walls of your house are about to collapse and smother you. Not when it feels like your skin is going to catch fire or your heart claw its way out of your chest and fling itself at their feet.

Not when you can’t breathe.

The world is ending and you can’t breathe, not imprisoned with your mothers and all their pain and grief.

All the love that’s soured in the absence of hope.

So you climb.

Trellises and planter boxes and the struts that prop up balconies and awnings make for easy hand-holds, the ornaments and metalwork of the other residents’ abodes transforming the smooth sweep of the rib into one giant ladder, a ladder you climb almost all the way to heaven. Almost as high as the Godtree.

Almost.

Not quite, but far enough. Far enough that the chittering of the ants and the stench of tar from the moat doesn’t reach this height. That you can no longer hear the chanting of the afflicted sleepers, no longer hear the mutterings of omens. You can’t quite touch the stars, but you’re not down in the dust either.

The wind blows off the plateau from the east, cold and thin, and if you strain your ears you can hear it sighing through the boughs of the Godtree. Sometimes you imagine there are voices in the wind, incomprehensible words whispering the promise of far off places. Whispering of the Everfall, of the plains that sent forth the Craven in endless waves of fur and blood and death. That sent back the Third. Whispers: what if there is something even further?

But you don’t come here for what you can hear. You come for what you can’t.

Up here, you can’t hear your parents fighting.

You pull your parka closer against the chill. At this height the wind is always cold, even during the heat of summer, as it blows from the far-off glaciers and ice that Mana Weyzil used to speak of in her kindertales.

You don’t mind the cold.

Cold clears the mind.

Clears the soul.

The wind always blows from the west. Today it whips the sand to howl between the ribs, to scrim the house and shops and stalls with grit, to roil in clouds that shroud the east.

But on other days it blows cold and clean. No sand, no clouds. Only the wind, blowing east and east and east.

On a clear day you can see past Skullgate. Past the borders of Achten Tan. Past the newly revealed ruins and the canyon with its ominous dome and gate. Past the Boneyards, past the Tar Wastes. Past and past and past.

On a clear day, perched alone atop the Ribs, you can see forever.

* * *

Red Moon Sunday

S.L. Parker

The door opened . . . and they were in a mirror world, as if the domed orb was not a gate but a looking glass. The world they’d built over the last year still existed within this space. Saphira again presented with the glory of her youth.

But what stood before the populace was not a singular woman; rather iterations of her, versions of who she was, had been, would be (as decided). She was thirteen, and proud beside her stood Chip (everyone knew that was the year Chip’d fallen in love with her); she was fifteen and partnered with Zan (the man’s man); she was seventeen and holding the hand of Kaii (what a prince). All her eyes were affixed on the firmament, and so all looked up as they entered. The sky was shades of red; a permanent sunset.

Saphira scanned the horizon, took everything and everyone in, and so they did too. The zentlor berries that had sustained them for a time were clear sacs, plump with fresh and ready water. More of the plant grew in patches added along streets, in gardens bordering houses, spilling over window boxes of establishments.

Other substances had materialized, but nothing had been lost. Gerwyn greeted them all with open arms. Motherly in nature, her smile, eyes, and splayed arms engulfed all with welcome sentiment. Red tears fell, though her gaze and lips never wavered. “I had to go first, to make a way, my seedlings, my siblings.”

Their wise one spoke on.

“Had I not gone, had I not had Ursula pen the note, then my sacrifice could be overlooked as circumstance and opportunity paving the way. All your choices led you here. Where paths have diverged, so too have you. Those who’ve minded or opened most are manifested moreover here where we can dwell abundantly free.

“Dark, but transparent, you who have come here to join me, have confronted the thoughts of your heart. You have heard the deepest longings, and you have understood the nature of those who have born soul to you. You have seen the truths of others and yourself. You are shadow no more.”

Monologue of madness or accumulated foreknowledge— how would she be received?

“This gateway was blue, these streets will turn green as you walk them. Obsidian was a way out of oblivion. We are strengthened at this time. Without, within; we are present here to continue on.”

A pause, a shifting tone. All eyes were upon their aged one. Did she dare scoff?

“Beware of the Heuchera growing. If we harbor hatred, we’ll harvest horror, and water the land with tears. These walls we live within will become black snowflake if we do not respect the still days. This is no afterlife, no afterthought. Here, too, you live out that before you. Time cannot be stopped, nor can the cycles of life cease while one still lives. You are present, you are permeable; the days leading to this place only preamble. Your attachments to the temporal have been banished.” As Pan wished.

“Rainbow aura will be our night sky. Dreamer’s delight and sailor’s fright our guiding light. Here we are sheltered from both the unknown and that made known.”

Saphira’s eyes glinted — what did she know?

Drizko considered the science of wonder as he contemplated the ranging looks that grasped at perplexity: no others yet saw clearly what he had. He spared a look behind. Fewer followers than he’d anticipated, than he’d envisioned. Was something amiss?

Pan was the last of them to enter, and only he saw fully that they left behind. His bulk and arms blocked the frame as the door swung shut. All who refused the reed needle were among those on that fading shore. Cast lots had left them choking on settling dust.

The newest resident alien had made known the purpose of the plants with the red berries. He’d shared with each household a delicate reed needle, a spile used to tap the plant so that the water could be harvested while the plant continued to produce a fresh supply, come dew or frost. Those who feared the unknown refused to make use of the gift; they were now among the refuse.

Pan’s baggy trousers billowed and his hat blew off; the last thing to manifest in the realm they’d unearthed. As he turned to face them all (they all had followed Drizko’s about face) they saw his horns; there was no need for him to hunch any more. No need for panic or tunes to change. He thoughtfully stroked his beard. It was his turn to speak.

“In Achten Tan, we had but shrubbery and the Godtree. Though the Everfall ran us into waters of many sources and sustenance. And soon the multicolored moss grew all around, all around.” They’ll all fall down.

“We used rhymes once and again to mark the poxy. And wore beaked masks to turn up our noses at the plague. Of bone, we propagate bone. We pick bones, we spare ribs. We skewer that we cannot embrace, but we embrace much within our clustered community.”

One mother clutched her fist at chest. Drizko frowned.

“Taken from the ribs, as Eve culled from Adam, we established ourselves within remains. We forged identities, and took stock in that which appealed within what others offered. Folds grew, sects secured, and we burrowed within borrowed bodies.”

The youngest Saphira squirmed.

“We, present here, who have guided you, are the persistent ones. We preamble every society. They shape us as they see fit”.

The eldest Saphira snuggled against Kaii.

“Ever-expanding, we must turn inward to reflect on what we truly know and understand; and there is a difference.”

Tylia’s eyes were affixed, fleeting; her thoughts floating.

Unified by diversity. Juxtaposed positionality. Just what phase of existence were they experiencing? Saphira the Third began to wonder about this being with which she had formed animity. She still shunned who she’d once been, Syrinx. Scoffed the ode to her form before that; attributed to some feline man. The human race always consolidating, always boxing one in. Those sand-dwellers had heralded her representation Spinx. A simple switching of letters and someone was newly minted. Her judgments grew harsher. Her heart began to turn against these new chosen people.

Tylia recalled that for Gerwyn to be here, there must likewise be doom. She’d caught a glimpse of what Pan had shrugged off behind him. Swirls of darkness, but she assumed not much else, remained of the world they had known, had discovered, had established. Was doom akin to destiny when one did not play a part in the choice? Chosen option; default decision - what had led her here? She wondered.

There had been two towers, twin towers; the ruin used by C’Naga in the middle of the bog, and the one to the West, near the Darkmere forest. Might a third have fallen in the Craven passageways where Mack unearthed the bones of many? Could that triune erected upon the land have balanced out the power of the Godtree? She came to understanding.

The garden of good and evil, where a root word held dual meaning; they had again destroyed their Eden. The final words Tylia transcribed now made sense. An Eden wasteland; antithesis had arrived, for gardens didn’t grow deserts. Her mind ablaze, curiosity burgeoned, ideas opened possibilities. Unfortunately, her knowledge was written on her face. The change within her heart seen outwardly. Her sights were dimmed as Pan withdrew his knife and the center Saphira lowered her bow.

Tears tore at the eyes of the youngest Saphira, but she dared not spill them; did not know what color they’d turn as they ran down her face. That which welled in the eyes of the small gathering before her marked them. She drew the attention of all to herself.

“There is a new fruit here, and new opportunity. Come, all, together. We turn the page of His story.”

“Who,” a murmur began that Pan muted. “No man. Man is not the maker. Man is a marker. Leave the indicators be.” His gruff last words were clearly a command, but few seemed to understand.

“In time,” Drizko’s muttering consoled the community members who walked silent beside him.

Gerwyn made her way close to Drizko. He looked deep into her eyes.

“You did what you knew to do. Had to do.”

“Do not think I enjoyed it.” His words too were gruff, but for different reasons, and his eyes shot darts at Pan.

“Don’t trust the man,” he whispered to Frizzlewink. Apprenticed to Drizko, she abided by his word. She wondered all the more after the words the community had written on the wall. Words that rang as echoes, truths lingering before those they cared for began to speak in other tongues.

Eyes looked ahead. Arms crossed, at sides, none linked to another; they entered this new land, a portal of promise, in silence.

Appendices

Appendix I: On The Town Of Achten Tan, As Well As The Regions of the Boneyards Surrounding the City

A Few Notes & Musings (Jotted Somewhat Haphazardly & Without Much Consideration to Thoroughness, it Must be Said) on the Physical Locations in & Around the (Former?) City of Achten Tan, Namely the Boneyards, Everfall, Mysterious Towers, et cetera, et cetera as they Existed At the Start the Year of Great Peace.

The Town

Notes on the People & Customs of the City of Achten Tan

Achten Tan (“Resting Place”) is located in the Desert in a region known as “The Boneyards.” The town itself rests within the massive, sweeping arc of the ribcage of some long-extinct leviathan, whose bones are so large that the people have carved dwellings, shops, and city offices into the ribs themselves. At the east end of town is an enormous skull whose gaping jaws act as the east entrance, as well as the center of the neighborhood of East Skullgate. The north and south edges of town are bound by the neighborhoods of Northribs and Southribs. At the western edge of town is the Godtree, a towering 400 foot tree that is not only the only example of its species but the only thing larger than a shrub that grows within a day’s march of Achten Tan.

The Godtree is the only living tree of its kind in the area, but fossilized imprints of other trees like it dot the land, forming some long low hills where they fell. The Godtree fruit is seedless, so it is unclear how it would have propagated back in the olden times.

The population of the town is a motley collection of all peoples—dwarves and elves, orcs and humans, and the inevitable variations that result when people live in close contact and fall in, love (or, at least, find ways to warm one another during the cold, harsh winter nights).

The town has drawn the outcasts of many people and those outcasts have welcomed more, each group bringing their own cultures, families, and ways. Family groups vary, but the strongest bond is from where you live and your immediate neighbors. These cohorts support each other and it is common for marriages between children who grew up together before moving to their own home. New neighborhoods and cohorts are created in the deeper ribs of the city as it grows.

The children spend their days foraging for the bone fragments we use for everything - the decorations in our house, the ornaments for our hair and bodies; the larger pieces that we use to fortify our city. Our bone magicians fuse them together and our city is a monument to the ancient dead. As the children age, many aspire to join the ranks of the infamous an’cher or the renown tartule riders. Those with an affinity for finding join the foraging parties that are searching for more and more of the ancient technology, the mirror shards and the electronic pieces that we hope will one day allow us to extend beyond this city.

Most homes are built up along the “spires”—the name given to the enormous bones that occupy the North and South of Achten Tan. Homes are built partially into the enormous bones with supports jutting out which attach to the spiral walkways.

The ant ranchers or “an’chers” are less than enthused about this arrangement. Given the deadly nature of the ants, they require constant tending, lest they grow hungry for a ‘snack’, so the an’chers are forced to live on the ground in bone huts with the tamed ants. However, this means the an’chers are left exposed to the dangers that exist in the area, such as the young Boggoliz who venture into town on raids.

The Winters have been remarkable. “The Winter Winds” start with a bi-annual “Still Day,” the day where the winds are still. The next days the Winter Winds start, slowly at first and then over the weeks increasing steadily as temperature drops. Unidirectional snowfall causes huge drifts to build up along the north drift, at times filling the north ribs with a wall of frozen “flesh” reconnecting the ribs in a very temporary form before it blows through the village and collecting on secondary drifts inside the south ribs. As winter progresses, the winds grow more and more intense. Finally, on the last day of Winter, an event known as “The Cracking” occurs. The cold winds abruptly shift to warm, and the thick sheets of ice shatter with a series of deafening cracks that lend the day its name. This marks the formal end of winter; within a few days, the now hot winds obliterate all signs that winter was ever there.

The community stocks up and prepares for the winters with a tradition of inside activities, crafts, and performing arts. It is a tradition to create works of art “to lure the warm winds” as children, a practice carried on into adulthood in more individualistic ways. It is thought that if you do not have an activity to lure the warm winds back, the cold winds will blow your mind away. Most activity is inside with tunnels and Breezeways connecting up the town between the bones.

One place of renown is ‘North Ribs Ribs: The Best Ribs in North Ribs’ is a restaurant specialising in ribs in North Ribs, run by Old Crawman.

The Region

Notes on the Areas Surrounding Achten Tan

Achten Tan is in the southern edge of the Boneyards, an area in the desert littered with the skeletons of long-extinct megafauna. The region stretches North for a two days’ walk - bones jutting from the sand and hard-packed soil, and the people gather it to use for building and tools.

Also scattered through the desert are ancient scraps of electronics, broken detritus from a long-lost prior civilization. These parts are considered valuable due to their scarcity.

To the southeast, there are molten tar pits. To the southwest, a large bog. Directly west, a little more than a day’s march, is the edge of the Great Plateau. A two-thousand-foot cliffs marks the end of the desert and the start of the Plateau. The cliffs are split by the Everfall, a massive waterfall that tumbles from the plateau into a series of underground caverns. The caverns and the underground river would be a great source of water, were they not cursed and so the people shun them. Or most people. Despite the curse, the algae farmers live there. They live in houseboats on ponds of phosphorescent algae filled with strange cavefish; they harvest both and make a glowing drink they sell in the dark corners of the market.

Two days northeast is the town of Satama. It is the home to the Svaalti, a cult of elves who believe in racial purity and abhor all non-elves but especially part-elves and elves who have partnered with other races. Their preachers come to Achten Tan from time to time with apocalyptic street sermons about the coming punishment from the Gods.

At certain times of year, the light of the rising sun strikes the mists of the Everfall to produce strange geometric rainbows. Some folks make a tradition of rising early and trekking out there to observe them.

The bog to the southwest is home to the Boggoliz, creatures that live on anything that produces a certain bodily chemical (still unknown since it has been difficult to study the creature itself). It is believed the Godtree provides protection to the dwellers around it and keeps the Boggoliz away. A few know that it is not the Godtree itself that deters the Boggoliz, but rather the fruit that grows upon it. The fruit itself contains a neurotoxin that can make Boggoliz go mad with rage. While more mature Boggoliz do not care for this change in them and understand that long-term effects are dangerous, the more brash adolescents are more willing to throw caution to the wind, ingest the fruit, and raid villages.

Deep within the bog is an abandoned helical tower as high as the sky, encircled by the fetid bog. This was once home of the shunned half-elf C’Naga, wyrm-wizard of the north, master of the mutated Dark Boggoliz. Defeated using rare Blackbeard Algae years ago by Rapaecio Pallor and his trusty sidekick Sven, her body should have been burnt and her ashes strewn to the winds.

The molten tar pits once covered a much larger area, almost twice the size that it does today. For miles around the tar pits is a region filled with the horrible preserved corpses of giant beasts and giant men and women (said to be of the same people who planted the Godtree.) It is this region where the giant ants can be found. They have built their nests in the tar-preserved bodies, where they swarm constantly in and out of the gaping mouths and eyes of the mummified remains of the giants who succumbed to the tar pits. While some brave ant-wranglers have ventured there to capture drones to tame and ride, none have determined exactly where in the horrible Tar-Wastes lies the hive of the Ant Queen.

To the West rises the cliffs to the Great Plateau, homeland to the Craven. For generations the Craven had sent their troop —armies of man-sized rodents—into our desert, as their priests were obsessed with felling the Godtree. Then, just as last Winter ended, the attacks suddenly ceased.

Appendix II: The People, Places, & Phrases of Achten Tan

A Somewhat Comprehensive Catalogue of the Major Loci & Personae Featured in the Pages of this Book—Famous, Infamous & Unfamous—as they Existed During the Year of Great Peace, a Year which Should Really Have Been Named Otherwise, but to be Fair to the Poor Scribe Responsible for the Nomenclature, that Appellation was Assigned at the Start of the Year (a Tradition that really must be Reconsidered)

Index of People

Mostly Significant, Some Less So, all from in or Around Achten Tan

NOTE: In the interest of completeness, due to variations in titles and spelling, some individuals have more than one entry. In these instances, their entry is cross-referenced with the others. Usually.

Aanis - (she/her) Young gnome scholar, sister of Shashi. (Curious)

Adriana - (she/her) Aislinn’s daughter. (By Blood and Bone)

Aislinn Rrekwe’m - (she/her) A Svaalti elvish puritan Virago (e.g. warrior chieftain) with sapphire eyes, and silver feather crown. (By Blood and Bone, Rrekwe’m of Blood)

Alan the Carpenter - (he/him) One of the competitors in the Machtentansterchef. Eliminated largely due to his godfruit-paste-crusted cucumbers. (Old Crawman’s Replacement)

Aldis - (he/him) Spouse of Lan’ina. Father of Niskan and Nal’uin. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Alma - (she/her) Waitress at North Ribs Ribs. (The Bone Whisperer)

Alsuat - (she/her) An’cher woman on whom Niskan has a crush. Missing after the mission to C’Naga’s tower. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Balak - (he/him) A young an’cher, friend to gnome liaison Shashi. (Curious)

Bartimaezel - (they/them/Your Celestialness) A mysterious visitor from heaven with a distinct resemblance to an angel from the Christian Bible. Killed by Jezebone and served up as a delicious (one might even say “heavenly”) meal by Old Crawman - I mean Crawman the Youth, who is definitely not based on Old Crawman because if he were then that might be a whole legal issue. (Om-Noms)

Barz - (he/him) Prejudiced jerk an’cher who gets fired for being a bigot. (Scattering)

Betrox - (she/her) Ancient nurse of the broken rib of healing. Specializes in “unusual” births. Every surface-dwelling citizen of Achten Tan arrived in her hands, to be parented as prescribed by the scrying lens. (Achten Tan Days)

Bil’ain - An an’cher, missing after the mission to C’Naga’s tower. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Bohne - (he/him) A skilled employee of the Lantern World brothel. Once teamed up with colleague Ganth to perform as a pop duo. (Apocrypha: The Lantern World)

Broomhilda Holdbroom - (she/her) Janitor of the House of Worship, Birth and Rebirth. Sadly best remembered for being cut from the Machtentansterchef after attempting to serve ant ribs. (Old Crawman’s Replacement, in which the newspaper’s reporter appears to have mistransliterated her name as ‘Broomholder’. Unfortunate, but undeniably appropriate.)

Cass Andra - (she/her) Teenage girl from the algae gatherer community. (Jon Andra’s Daughter)

Cat - (she/her) Daughter of Serrah, who studies the ancient rites of the Godtree. Possibly an automaton? (A Geneology of Trees)

Child with Webbed Fingers, Small - (he/him) Silent assistant to Uu’lang. Burned the elven syllabaries and claimed he did so in order to “stop a great evil,” but was put to death. Which, given the fact he was a kid is a bit harsh. And under Achten Tanian law “to stop a great evil” is an affirmative defense against charges of arson and vandalism, but hey, that’s mob justice for you. Go re-read Arthur Miller’s Crucible if you don’t believe a group of terrified, superstitious townsfolk won’t just up and kill a small child, especially if it furthers an allegory for the McCarthy hearings before the House un-American Activities Committee. (Note From One Librarian)

C’Naga (she/her/he/him. No one’s really sure, actually. Let’s go with they/them, shall we?) - Half-elf Wyrm Wizard of the North (although their tower is to the West?), master of the mutated Dark Boggoliz. Shunned from Satama. At some point in the past C’Naga was (most likely) a flesh-and-blood person, but has populated kindertales and folk-songs for so long that they exist more as an urban-legend or cultural phenomena than a real person. Though they seem to have returned at some point, much to the consternation of the citizens of Achten Tan. (By Blood and Bone, Bog Bonbons, The Bone Whisperer, The Girl and C’Naga, Red Moon Sunday, Some Her Rises)

Character Who Does Not Explicitly Appear In Any Stories But Is In The Background Of All Of Them Unnamed And Unseen, The - (zhei/zhuin) You won’t find this person by looking at the words of any of the tales within this collection, but rest assured that they are there in every single one of them. They’re in this index right now. They’re in every book you’ve ever read. They are the eyes watching you from between the lines of every sentence of your life. (None and all)

Chip - (he/him) Assistant to Saphira. Sometimes rival to her other assistant, Xan. (Wind in the Leaves, Red Moon Sunday)

Clank Gnomesum - (he/him) He runs the office Gnomesum Movements -Fnord- New & Ancient - Created & Fixed with his sister Clink. (Achten Tan Days)

Clink Gnomesum - (she/her) Magistrate of Matters Materia. She runs the garage of Gnomesum Movements -Fnord- New & Ancient - Created & Fixed with her brother Clank. (Achten Tan Days)

Clink and Clank Gnomesum - (see also: Clink Gnomesum, Glank Gnomesum, and Tappit Twins) The collective of the twins Clink and Clanks. Known as “the Tappit Twins” as their first course of action is to tap on it. (Achten Tan Days)

Cletha - (she/her) Wife of Eltean, mother of Orin. Cousin of Narain. Hasn’t ever been the same since the Svaalti beheaded Narain and returned his head to Achten Tan. (Fire and Peace, The Girl and C’Naga, The View From the Ribs)

Crawman, Old - (he/him) Infamous proprietor of North Ribs Ribs and local legend. (Beneath the Ribs, Bog Bonbons, The Bone Whisperer, The Errand, Notes From One Librarian, Om-Noms, On Written Modalities, A Short Exchange)

Crawman, Younger - (he/him) Son of Old Crawman, and ungrateful little snit who can’t even show one iota of respect for the fact his father built North Ribs Ribs from the ground up using his own two hands. After everything I’ve done for him, the spoiled brat wants to go and pay money to some fancy-ass school and … what? Read books? Just how the hell does he think he’s going to make a living reading books? (A Short Exchange)

Crawman the Youth - (he/him) A fictional version of Old Crawman in his youth, or perhaps an ancestor thereof. Not to be confused with William Crawman Williams, sometimes known as Younger Crawman, who is in fact Old Crawman’s son. See: Old Crawman. (Om-Noms)

Crow - (he/him) Human assassin from out of town (The Errand)

Crumpt - (he/him) A rude and lascivious gnome with no sense of personal space. (Om-Noms)

Dolphin Joe - (he/him) Eldest member of Achten Tan. Fought in war. Said to have crossed something called “an ocean,” but no one believes him (or really knows what an “ocean” would be). Deceased. (The Bone Whisperer, Old Crawman’s Replacement, Post-Structural Semiotics, Some Her Rises)

D’or - (he/him) Tartule rider; his Tartule is Lotan. (Devastation Song)

Dorsa - (he/him) Brothel worker at the Lantern World (Scattering)

Dimensionless One Who Dislikes Ribs, The - (it/Terror/pleasenopleaseno) A being without time and outwith space, nevertheless somehow living in the basement of North Ribs Ribs. (Old Crawman’s Replacement)

Drizko (Drizz) Tinkersbane- (he/him) A small human scientist, disabled and used bone arm crutches. Has some arcane knowledge of the black goo… and possibly everything. (The Bone Whisperer, Breaking News, A Change of Seasons, A City of Bone and Tar, Notes From One Librarian, Red Moon Sunday, Some Her Rises)

Duryn Pravel - (he/him) Eccentric overthinker. Having spent too long in the desert wastes licking balmbeets, his mind had been entirely befuddled and his view obscured so much that many believe he has reached the nadir of reality, which brought him an even greater clarity of thought than anyone could imagine. Others just think he’s mad. The two are not mutually exclusive. (Apocrypha Poem - |)€@|) €¥£$)

E’de’an - (he/him) A young talented engineer and an’cher. (The Sandrunner)

Ellirdith - (they/them) Author of an apparently well-known text on the creatures that walked the world before their bones became the frame of Achten Tan. (An Essay on the Hymn of Birth and Rebirth)

Elsa - (she/her) Waitress at Jan’s Ribs. Would she rather be working at North Ribs Ribs? What a question! (Beneath the Ribs)

Eltean - (she/her) An’cher. Wife of Clethea, mother of Orin. Between losing most of her fellow an’chers on the expedition to the Tower and her wife’s inability to recover from her cousin’s gruesome death, Eltean’s been turning more and more to drunk and Godfruit paste in order to numb the sense of emptiness inside. (Fire and Peace, The View From the Ribs)

Eqelia the Naiad - (she/her/they) Despite typically just sitting atop the Everfall and staring into the distance, she somehow managed to be one of the two finalists in the Machtentansterchef. (Old Crawman’s Replacement)

Fayeth - (she/her) An elvish painter and scholar. (Journal of Marrowflower)

Frizzlewink - (she/her) Gnome apprentice to Drisko Tinkersbane. Mispelled by that hack pseudo academic, von Gurnsbock, as “Fizzlewink.” (A Change of Seasons, Red Moon Sunday)

Florian - (she/her) Wife to Otara Subjavat, under her black wig pulled down tight on her head is the face of a girl, and when she talks her voice cracks with an endearing whistle, as if she hasn’t talked enough to get over adolescence completely. She has lived here all her life, time hardly exists for her, and when she looks at this place and when she sees her wife, she sees them brand new, and with all the healing that is happening, they are new, she never thinks of what she has forgotten. (Achten Tan Days)

Ganth - (he/him) Ganth peen good. Ganth work Lantern World using Ganth peen for make happy customer. (Apocrypha: The Lantern World)

Garpeck, One Thumb - (he/him) Friendliest of the evening shift guards at East Skull Gate and all-around swell guy; everyone was thrilled that such a decent chap managed to be a finalist in the Machtentansterchef. (Old Crawman’s Replacement)

Gerwyn the Wise - (she/her) An elder widow who is something of a “seer” whose prophecies come true more than not. Legendary for -ALMOST- being crushed by a falling bone sign that read House of Birth, it now reads House of Rebirth. (Achten Days, Bog Bonbons, Old Crawman’s Replacemnt, On Written Modalities, Post-Reconstrural Semiotics, Speechless, Red Moon Sunday)

Goldie Ar’chimbal - (she/her) E’de’an’s mother, and a member of one of the old an’cher families. Wife to Terrance. (The Sandrunner)

Graildith - (he/him) The first archteologist, responsible for the peculiar and generally ignored period during which large sections of the populace ignored each other entirely. (Reconstructive Osseotopography)

Grurlpmf - (wee/waa?) Gruuuuu! Gruuuuuuuuuuuuulll. Grurl. (Compiler’s note: sorry about that. Grurlpmf is my pet, a meaningless string of letters who occasionally gets its muddy paws on my work. It won’t appear in any of the actual works in this volume, though, promise.)

Haku, Jeff - (he/him) Cousin of Bone Chief Opu Haku. An actor who portrayed Bartimaezel the ill-fated angel in the Great Library’s recorded performance of the play ‘Om-Noms, the Holy Ones’. (audio version of Om-Noms)

Haku, Opu - See: “Opu Haku, Chief”.

Hearirs - (she/her) A caregiver working for the an’chers to help those injured in the line of duty (Dust Motes)

Howlin’ Jed - (he/him) A weird eccentric that believes he can interpret the howls of distant wolves who tell him warnings. Seems to have some form of innate magic. Author of HOWLIN’ JED’s Guide to the BONEYARD, 2nd edition. (Achten Tan Days)

Ichor - (it/that thing from beyond/oh my God what the hell is that?) Can possess people, may kill when leaving. Has communicated with Drizko, found near the dead body of Dolphin Joe. Drizko suspects there are more than the one trapped in his tied-off bad leg end. Imprinting can go both ways. (The Errand, Sealment of Ichor, The Wind in the Leaves)

Jezebone - (she/her) The fun loving, body-positive founder and proprietress of Jezebone’s brothel. While some authors have attempted to slut-shame her by referring to her (or a very poorly disguised fictionalised version of her) in their libelous theatrical productions as a “filthy whore,” she in fact maintains a very strict regime of personal hygiene, as the editor of this text can personally attest, having spent many a fulfilling evening in her refined and delectable company. What a woman. (Om-Noms)

Kaii - (he/him) Only son of the Chief. It is rumoured he was in love with Saphira. Disappeared for a season. (A City of Bone and Tar, Red Moon Sunday)

Kamal - (he/him) An an’cher, Otara’s adopted son, he has pale skin and hair like the cavern people and golden eyes. His g’ant is Namala. (Devastation Song, Speechless)

Karak - (he/him) Leader of the ant patrols - found dead in the canyon river below the Godtree. (City of Bone and Tar, Speechless)

Kreshmore - (he/him) Half-orc/half-human and a soldier/warrior in Achten Tan’s militia, and the battlemate to Willowmere. (Bog Bonbons for my Bae)

Lakshmi - (she/her) The half-elf younger sister of Narain and a friend of Saphira. Hatches a failed mission to kidnap a Svaalti priest after her brother is killed. She’s taken captive, only to be returned by Aislinn in exchange for sanctuary. (Moving Forward)

Lan’ina - (she/her) Wife of Aldis. Mother of Niskan and Nal’uin. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Laraminde - (she/her) A filthy whore. Works at the Lantern World brothel and once played the role of Jezebone in a performance of the play ‘Om-Noms, The Holy Ones’. (The Lantern World, audio version of Om-Noms)

Lehi - (he/him) Fifteen year old orphaned male, dark hair and eyes, skinny, uses a walking stick due to a mangled leg. (Breaking News, Quietus)

Lesley Halberd - (he/him) Head Guard for Achten Tan. (The Sand Runner)

Lumberjack - (he/him) Tyila’s assistant at the Great Library, or perhaps not assistant. Ask a different person, you’ll get a different answer. (audio version of Om-Noms).

Mab - (they/them) The caring partner of an injured ex-an’cher. (Dust Motes)

Mackenzie (Mack) Yawson - (she/her) Discovered the Atrocity Bones in the Land of the Craven. (The Bone Whisperer, Falling Frames of Seasoning)

Malika - (she/her) A small orphan child. (Quietus)

Marrowflower - (she/her) a renowned elvish poet and hedonist. (Journal of Marroflower)

Mick Dunderp - (he/him) A now (quite messily) deceased Boggoliz expert. (Reproduction of the Common Boggoliz)

Moise - (he/him) Tarok’s son. Found wandering wearing nothing but a cotton shift. His father is missing but he has no clue what happened to him. (Does not actually appear anywhere in the pages of this volume)

Mila - (she/her) A tattooed witch girl from the cursed algae caverns. Mila uses her tattoos to communicate since she has temporarily lost the power of speech. If she flicks her chin up at you it’s most likely to tell you Zedayen - which is “Fuck off” in Gnomish. (Speechless)

Mymil - (it/they?) Nal’uin’s titanomyrman (tite) g’ant mount. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Nal’uin - (she/her) Daughter of Lan’ina and Aldis. Sister to ant rider Niskan. Rides Mymil. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Narain - (he/him) Older brother to Lakshmi. Half-elf, curly, sandy blond hair, brown eyes. Joined that crazy hippy cult to wander off into the desert and got himself beheaded by Aislinn of Satama. (Gets his head chopped off in Rrekw’em of Blood. Mentioned in The View From the Ribs. Not mentioned by name but referenced Fire and Peace.)

Narwhal Joe - (he/him) An ancestor of Dolphin Joe. (Reconstructive Osseotopography)

Nathilaen the Literate - (he/him) Arranger of hymns and author of essays on musicology and linguistics. (Ieilla v’Rhuti)

Niall - (he/him) Best friend of Narain and Childhood Friend of Lakshmi. Tall Human Male, Broad Shoulders, Tawny Skin, Honey-colored Eyes. (Moving Forward)

Niskan - (he/him) Son of Aldis and an experienced an’cher, determined to find the source of mysterious flashing lights. (Harmonies of the Dead)

North - (she/her) Meatchopper, she has many children and has only sharpened her knife once. Her true name is unpronounceable and she is the reason North Ribs Ribs’ ribs have a rarified consistency. She also portrayed Crawman the Youth in at least one performance of the play ‘Om-Noms, the Holy Ones’. (Achten Tan Days, audio version of Om-Noms)

Nuerthemi Pallor - (he/them) Grandson of the famed Rapaecio Pallor and one-time narrator of the play ‘Om-Noms, The Holy Ones’. (audio version of Om-Noms)

Olammin - (she/her) Svaalti seer. (Rrekwe’m of Blood)

Old Crawman - See: “Crawman, Old.”

Opu Haku, Chief - (he/him) The Chief of Achten Tan (as should be obvious from the entry, I suppose). He is one of the last magic users who can fuse the bones and fortify them. His name means ‘Bone Master’. He has one son, Kaii. Deceased (at the hands of at least two different assassins, depending on whom you ask). (Achten Tan Days, Awake, By Blood and Bone, The Bone Whisperer, Curious, Harmonies of the Dead, Old Crawman’s Replacement, Quietus, The Errand)

Orem - (he/him) Creepy man rumoured to prey on children. (Quietus)

Orin - (he/him) Teenager, son of Eltean and Cletha. Longs to leave Achten Tan. One could write that off a normal teenage rebellion, the whole “needing to find his own way and discover himself” sort of thing, but this goes beyond reading The Motorcycle Diaries and suddenly deciding you’re a Marxist and wearing a Che Guevara poster to Thanksgiving at your uncle’s house even though you know he’s been a lifelong republican. No, Orin’s longing to leave goes deeper than that. After all, between the beheadings, the acid rain, the tar and the sand wyrms, getting the hell out of Achten Tan seems to be the only sensible move, really. (Fire and Peace, the Girl and C’Naga, The View From the Ribs)

Otara Subjuvat - (she/her) The community’s leading medicine woman - trampled to death in a natural disaster. Known for deep purple outfit, purple boots, wearing a tar black wig. She is Krawli Subjuvat’s Mother and Kama the an’cher’s adoptive mother. Deceased. (Achten Tan Days, Devastation Song, Harmonies of the Dead)

Pan, Petar/Peter - (he/him) Player, associate of a young female warrior and Saphira, discovered in the passageway between the kitchen and residence halls. (A City of Bone and Tar, Falling Frames of Seasoning, Red Moon Sunday)

Pyggaemus - (they/them) A thespian gnome who originated the role of Crumpt in the Great Library’s performance of the play ‘Om-Noms, The Holy Ones’. (audio version of Om-Noms)

Rapaecio Pallor - (he/him) An old explorer who stole a compass from the teref, which he believes is the reason for the curse of the waters. The compass led him to the cave peoples (the Ar’Dyoun) and their strange religion. Became so lost that he does not actually appear in any of these stories, other than as an aside in one newspaper clipping. (Old Crawman’s Replacement, The Wind in the Leaves)

Refugee Child, Elven - (she/her) Discovered and secretly adopted what appears to be a larval tar worm in the caverns beneath the city. Because that won’t end badly. (The Girl and Her Pet)

Rolinn - (he/him) Svaalti General, emerald eyes, golden hair down to waist. (Rrekwe’m of Blood)

Samiki - (they/them) Tarsi’s sibling, left home to take care of Mam. (Bone Borne)

Saphira - (she/her) Young kitchen worker who discovered hallucinogenic godfruit paste, and popularized its recreational use in some circles. (A City of Bone and Tar, Old Crawman’s Replacement, Red Moon Sunday, The Wind in the Leaves)

Sarai - (she/her) Brothel worker at the Lantern World. (Scattering)

Sentient Ancient Language Virus, The Gibbering - (it/what’s going on/oh god, make it stop) Runs through the town making anyone who catches it feverish and speak in a forgotten language before they get better. First appears after the child with webbed fingers is put to death for burning the ancient texts (see: “Child with Webbed Fingers, The Small”). Can infect many people and become individuals, otherwise operates as a hive mind. See: “Ichor,” “Sentient Liquid”

Septic Blatt - (he/him) A self-professed eccentric gentleman explorer, who first tamed one of the Giant Desert Ants, many years ago. (Fine Art of Riding A Trained G’ant)

Sentient Liquid, The - See: “Ichor,” and possibly “Sentient Ancient Language Virus.” I guess they’re the same? There can’t be two unconnected weird hivemind monstrosities, can there? Can there?

Serrah - (she/her) Mystic who travels from afar to study at the Godtree. Mother of Cat. (A Geneology of Trees)

Shashi - (they/them) A young gnome liaison to Achten Tan, sibling to Aanis. (Curious)

Silas Bullswater - (he/him). Worldly hob traveler. (Beneath the Ribs)

Sozi - (he/him) Red hair, green eyes. (Soar)

Susanah Depoin - (she/her) Well-known cookbook author and friendly rival of Old Crawman. While best known for her recipe for “An’cher Burgers,” her impact on late-era Achten Tanian “home style” cooking cannot be overstated. (Recipe for An’cher Burgers)

Sven - (he/him/they) Trusted companion of Rapaecio Pallor who followed the famed explorer on many of his most infamous adventures, it was Sven who realized that the Blackbeard Algae could be turned into a tincture and used to defeat the wyrm wizard, C’Naga. Sadly left out of many ballads and sagas dedicated to Pallor, Sven is perhaps the most important figure from recent Achten Tanian history to not have a special at North Ribs Ribs named after him. (Does not appear in any stories, so it looks like his legacy of being overlooked continues)

Tainted One, The - (they/them) An unnammed and unnamed citizen whom Gerwyn says is preventing the citizens of Achten Tan from passing through the portal. Now that’s a great way to get finger pointing going. Good job, Gerwyn! You’d think after that whole “Child With Web Fingers” incident you’d learn not to set a terrified populace off on a blind goose chase.

Tandu - (he/him) A young man who bears the brunt of the sleeping sickness and confronts Opu Haku. (Awake)

Tappit Twins, The - see also: Clank and Clink Gnomesum (Achten Tan Days)

Tark’Na’Ma - (they/them? We guess?) Chief Shaman of the Craven and well-known burger gourmand. (Recipe for Craven Burgers)

Tarok - (he/him) Elder town leader. Disappears while investigating the aftermath of a recent dust storm. Like his unfortunate son, Moise, he ended up being rather unimportant and appears nowhere other than this index, and ghost in the machine. (Appears in no stories, the poor dear)

Tarsi - (she/her) Samiki’s sister, an’cher and adventurist. Leaves with The Third to find a edenic region glimpsed within the mysterious mirror fragments. (Bone Borne)

Terrence Ar’chimbal - (he/him) E’de’an’s father and one of the old an’cher families. Husband to Goldie. (The Sand Runner)

Titanomyrma (Tite) - Name for a genus of giant ant. The siblings Niskan and Nal’uin maintain a colony of these creatures, on their “an’ch”, a property outside of Achten Tan. (Harmonies of the Dead)

Trip - (he/him) Young guard training under Lesley Halberd. (The Sand Runner)

Tronk the Unappreciated - (call me whatever you want, I’ll just be happy if somebody calls me) Compiler of indices. Trawler of other stories, never the hero of my own. Writing my own entry in this index I’ve been tasked with creating, even though I don’t appear in any of the entries in this volume, in a fruitless attempt to feel better about my unbearably dull life. I did meet Old Crawman once, though. That was a good day. (None, due to sucking)

Tyila - (she/her) Head Librarian and Chief Archivist. Or was it Head Archivist and Chief Librarian? Anyway, she’s Head of Something and Chief of Something Else, both of which involve her being a general knowledgeable person. Credited with drawing the most well known map of the Bonewastes, which while cartographically accurate, prominently features the phrase “Year of Great Peace,” which is almost laughably inaccurate. (Hymn of Birth and Rebirth, Notes From One Librarian to Another, Red Moon Sunday)

Ursula the Ungainly - (she/her) Clumsy woman who has used tar and bone spells to cure fractures in the limbs of her family and animals. Semi-retired; thinks her true calling is fishing. (Achten Tan Days, Red Moon Sunday)

Uu’lang - (they/them) Was in charge of the elven syllabaries, apparently. They had one job—one job!—and that was to keep the syllabaries from being burned and they couldn’t even do that right.

Valla - (she/her) Teenage girl, invents a winged glider. Black hair: braids with bone ornaments. (Soar)

Vaola - (she/her) Svaalti elf. Advisor to Aislinn. (Rrekwe’m of Blood)

Ventaaku - (he/him) A nephew of Opu Haku and a would-be author, but inexplicably decided to write a book about the taxonomy of a species containing a single member. The manuscript never made it past the draft stage, naturally. (Notes From One Librarian to Another)

Vunnusil Elementswalker - (they/them) A great hero of whom many, many songs have been sung and many, many tales have been told. Such a ubiquitous figure in Achten Tan’s history that their constant heroism just sort of goes without saying, and as such there are no stories about them. (None)

William Crawman Williams - (he/him) The son of Old Crawman, and generally underappreciative of the life his father’s efforts have afforded him. See also: “Crawman, Younger”, an entry about the same individual but evidently written by someone a little more partisan. (A Short Exchange)

Willowmere - (she/her) Half-elf/half-human armor specialist, and the battlemate to Kreshmore. (Bog Bonbons for my Bae)

Weyzil, Mana - (she/her) A kindly old woman given to telling kindertales and folkstories, especially to young children. As a ‘Mana’ (teacher) in the community, her appellation is often mangled as “Mama,” and while she corrects the little-ones, she secretly takes great pleasure in being called “Mama Weyzil.” (The Shrinkening, The Girl and C’Naga)

Xan - Assistant to Sephora, sometimes rival to Chip. Falls sick to the mysterious sleeping sickness. See: “Ichor” and “Sentient Ancient Virus Alien” (Red Moon Sunday, Wind in the Leaves)

Index of Places

Businesses, Religious Establishments, Neighborhoods, Food Carts, Regions, Et Cetera in & around the City of Achten Tan

Note: We have done our best to note where where there is a disagreement in spelling or nomenclature, merely noting the difference without taking sides, except, of course, when the correct variation is so mind-numbingly obvious as to make neutrality impossible.

Achrin - A distant, mountainous country bordering the Great Desert.

Achten Tan - After this entire book, do we really need an entry for the city of Achten Tan? The title translates as “Place of Rest” in the Old Tongue, but that’s been mentioned before. Really, it’s all been mentioned before.

Acthen Tan - An alternate, archaic spelling of “Achten Tan,” largely fallen into disuse except for by the types who get angry when people “misuse” “irregardless.”

Bonewastes - The region of the Great Desert where Achten Tan is located. The bones of long-dead megafauna are scattered across the landscape.

Boneyard - see: “Bonewastes.”

Caverns of the West in the Southribs Ribs - Best Ribs in the Southern ribs. Don’t believe the shills from South Ribs Ribs who’ll try to tell you otherwise.

Cavern Lake - Underground lake where algae farms are kept up and harvested by families on houseboats.

Craven City, Abandoned Subterranean - Found above the Everfall dug into the surface the plateau, mysteriously abandoned.

Darkmere Forest - A forest in the distant north, filled with wolves. I mean, it’s called “Darkmere,” so there’s got to be wolves.

East Skullgate - The neighborhood located just inside Skullgate on the East side of town. Note that there is no “West”, “North”, or “South Skullgate,” though some ambitious real estate developers have recently tried to establish “North East Skullgate” by popularizing the nickname “NoEaSku,” but it has mainly been met with derision and eye-rolling.

Everfall - The large waterfall that pours from the Great Plateau down to the Great Desert (geez, those old cartographers needed to learn a new adjective) to form Cavern Lake and the other subterranean rivers.

Everfall Caverns - A series of caves located behind the Everfall.

G’ant Farms - The central stables for housing and training g’ants, the massive ants ridden by an’chers.

Garden of the Godtree - Area prepared for the birth of new seedlings.

Gladiatorial Arena - The brain-child of Gerwyn the Wise, who thought that a series of bloody, one-on-one duels was just what the townsfolk needed to distract them from the series of misfortunes befalling them. Bank Holiday and cost overruns delayed the building of the Arena, but it finally got finished, and this time it should not tip over in the winds because it is a large square of weighted banners on a series of long bone pikes as tall as two humans. Inside the arena is the Black Bone Box, a black platform designed for sport/mass sacrifice; as the bones get wet with blood, the channel system coats the Black Bone Box and it becomes the Red Bone Box Who Speaks.

Gnomesum Movements -Fnord- New & Ancient - Created & Fixed - Repair shop run by Clink and Clank Gnomesum, also known as the Tappit Twins as their first course of action is to tap on it.

Great Library - Actually not a particularly good library, but hey, titles can be misleading. They say dress for the job you want, right? Run with an iron fist by Tyila, who is, in fact, a pretty good librarian and accomplished(ish) cartographer.

Green Glass Dome - Located in a chasm opened during a recent cataclysm. Found by an’chers, and containing a mystical portal leading to another dimension.

House of Worship, Birth & Rebirth - A building in the center of Achten Tan for the followers (and parish) of the Ar’Dyoun. A place of worship with facilities for the care of Godtree Seedling hosts.

Jan’s Ribs - Located beneath North Ribs Ribs, catering to tomgoblin and hobs.

Jezebone’s - The most well-known brothel in Achten Tan, run by the eponymous (and curvaceous) Madame Jezebone.

Lantern World, The - The other most well-known brothel in Achten Tan, featuring locally famous faces such as Ganth and Bohne. It’s a versatile place, able to cater both to the discerning erotic customer and the very silly adventurer.

Lost City - Ruins of an ancient city recently unveiled after a dust storm. Contains the Mirror Bee Hive, a huge beehive made out of mirror shards.

Nh’var Tan - Translates as “The Under Place.” A new settlement beneath Achten Tan, housing the elvish refugees of Satama.

Market, The - You know, a market. Where people sell stuff. Gotta have one of those, or else you don’t have Market Day, and what sort of fantasy book would this be without Market Day? Not much of one, let me tell you.

Mysterious Tower to the West, The Second - A tower almost identical like the one used by C’Naga, and yet unknown until very recently. Very mysterious.

Northribs - The neighborhood located in and around the ribs that comprise the north edge of the city.

North Ribs Ribs - The best ribs in Northribs, and widely agreed to be the best ribs in either rib, north or south. Run by local legend, Old Crawman. There is an intense debate as to whether it is officially “Northribs Ribs” or “North Ribs Ribs.” The former would match how the neighborhood is written (as one word), while the latter puts the emphasis of the double “Ribs” and allows for some nifty looking calligraphy when writing up adverts. The debate will likely continue for some time, as whenever he’s asked his opinion, Old Crawman bellows: “SHUT YER GOB AND HAVE ANOTHER RIB!”

Osseum, The - A restaurant, known primarily as a gathering place for artists and poets.

Ribs, various - There are 9 distinct ribs that form Achten Tan’s distinctive sky-line. Five are part of the district of “Northribs,” and four form “Southribs.” For notes on the individual ribs, see below.

Satama - A town to the northeast of Achten Tan. Home of the Svaalti elves.

Southribs - The neighborhood located in and around the ribs that comprise the (wait for it!) south edge of the city.

Southribs Ribs - The main competition to North Ribs Ribs. Ironically, not currently located in the neighborhood of South Ribs, though the name is a reference to the original location, which sadly was sacked and burned during a Craven attack during the Winter of Fangs. What is now South Ribs Ribs was, at the time, known as East South Ribs Ribs and was a satellite location only offering a limited menu of take-away. After “Old South Ribs Ribs” was destroyed, East South Ribs Ribs dropped the “East” and became the central location of the franchise.

Southribs Workshop - A home from home for a disparate group of electronics (and other things?) tinkerers.

Southern Caves - Home to the religious order of the Ar’Dyoun, a group of mystics who use bone meal paste for henna-like body decorations, amongst other purposes. The Ar’Dyoun have an unusual kinship with g’ants, though really, who in this book doesn’t? Unsurprisingly, the Southern Caves are located to the south of Achten Tan, though logically they are north of other locations, leading to the question: are the Southern Caves still the Southern Caves when they lie to the north? Ah, it seems that Drizko’s been hitting the good stuff again.

Srin’Zalah - A mountain, far to the west, that is the homeland to the tomgoblins and hobs. As part of the current diaspora, both peoples have set up abodes beneath North Ribs Ribs.

Tar Wastes - Area around the Molten Tar Pits filled with the preserved remains of giants - nest of the giant ants and the Ant Queen The Tars recede with no residue. Where and Why is the Tar moving?

Tartule Pens - Tartules—the large, shelled reptiles used as transport in the town moat—are housed here.

Wizard Tower, Abandoned - Old Tower used by C’Naga. Long believe to be abandoned (thus the clever addition of the word “Abandoned” to the titles—see what we did there?) ever since the Wyrm Wizard’s defeat by renowned adventurer, Rapaecio Pellor, and his stoic side-kick, Sven. More recent events suggest the tower is, in fact, still occupied. But by whom? Or what?

Notes On The Ribs

- Chief’s Rib - The residence of the Chief and their “Family.” Currently occupied by Opu Haku.

- Forgotten Rib - Only recently named after some bright citizen looked at the official map and said, “Oy! There’s only eight ribs on this here map, but there’s nine!”

- Guild Rib - Moneyhouse and guildhall, hollow on the inside, with seating spiraling to the top where members sit when the guild meeting is in session.

- Harvest Rib - Serves as the town granary. Dry goods and other preserved foodstuffs are stored here for distribution.

- Healing Rib - This broken rib serves as the hospital for the town. In addition, when children are born, the medical staff decides what household will raise the children, as child-reading in Achten Tan is a communal activity.

- Heavens’ Rib- Topped with ancient surveying equipment for the stars, the ancient lenses blurry with sand scratches.

- Sentinel Rib - Named from when four separate ribs were all named “Sentinel.” At the time, sentinels would pass the tales to one another as they have for a thousand cycles, as rarely is there much to see and the tales soothe the time. More recently, the other “Sentinel” ribs were renamed as “Wanderer” “Spare” and “Forgotten,” mainly because giving directions was too damn confusing.

- Spare Rib - Just in case. You can’t ever have too many ribs.

- Wanderer Rib - Local legend says that Wander Rib used to move about during the full-moon, appearing and reappearing in a new location. Most are skeptical of this; Drizzko himself has pointed out that the story behind “Wanderer” most likely evolved to explain the name rather than the other way around, and that the original title was “Woyn’Drer,” which in Old Middle High Achten Tanish meant “Hey, no one’s claimed this one yet.” As Old Middle High gave way to New Middle High and then Old Modern, the name was mispronounced until it took on its current form.

Words & Phrases

A Collection of Words & Phrases Unique to the People of Achten Tan, With Translations & Explanatory Notes to Aide the Uninitiated

Note: For those etymologists out there longing for an even more thorough discussion of Achten Tanian (i.e. a super word-nerd wonk-fest), please see Appendix IV: On Achten Tanian, which is comprised of numerous essays touching on the language of Achten Tan.

Alfheim - “Elf world”

An’cher - While once a contraction for “g’ant rancher,” the allided version became so wide-spread as to become the official title for the brave souls that train and ride the massive g’ants that live in Boneyards. While technically a job, most an’chers believe their occupation to be a calling, and bear their title with pride. Many of the most popular ballads and sagas of the Boneyards relate the stirring (though likely apocryphal) exploits of brave an’chers. There is a well known rivalry betwixt the an’chers and the tartule riders, though most of the time it retains a familial, rather than adversarial, nature.

Ant Exoskeletons Don’t Even Have Ribs - Old Crawman’s beloved catchphrase, so pithy and memorable. When Old Crawman bellows these words, all within earshot will joyously scream this catchy bit of delicious truth along with him.

Arl eai seairs rrir eailllreaisirel Ichor whi sirss rrir nhe weairl eair nhe seairres - “I weep for the lost Ichor, who longs to hear the wind in the leaves.”

Ascetic warriors, Cadre of - These warriors provide guidance and inspiration for the people. During the Year of Great Peace, the elite guard banded together, feeling that the best path of protecting and unifying the people was to side with the Ar’Dyoun.

Ar’Dyoun - Religious Order from the Southern Caves. Ageless and sexless, their bodies are decorated in sun-roasted bone-meal paste designs - all they wear beneath hooded cloaks. The heart of their worship of the Godtree is in their divine right to oversee its propagation.

Bashdun - The singers who sing the hours from the top of the ribs. Also used by those who dislike the noise as a derogatory descriptive.

Bog Bonbons - The common name for the bulbs of the bog cerise plant. The flowers are edible and come in a variety of colors.

Boggoliz - Creatures that live in the bogs, they are known to be driven into violent rages after eating to Godfruit. Young Boggoliz often sneak into Achten Tan just to eat the fruit, as the resulting chaos is a fun distraction from life in the bog.

Craven, The - The society that waged war on Achten Tan until just the end of last Winter. For generations, The Craven had sent their troops, armies of man-sized rodents into our desert, as their priests were obsessed with felling the Godtree. Then, just as last Winter ended, the attacks suddenly ceased.

Drath Fire Paste - A particularly potent strain of Godfruit paste.

Dundergunder - Just about the worst name you could possibly call anyone in Achten Tan. It’s so very obscene that it doesn’t appear in any of these stories, because the authors find it so offensive that they transcribe it as some other, less horrendous phrase wherever it appears.

Etherships - Referenced in a few ancient texts, no one really knows what the etherships were. Clearly the term “ship” suggests a vehicle for travel, but their origin and use (if indeed they ever actually existed) remain shrouded in mystery. A few scholars have suggested the old tomes tell of alien species traveling in the etherships to this planet from beyond the stars, but they are generally dismissed as eccentric.

Factum Est Bonum - A mysterious creed in a mysterious language. What it might mean none can guess, but one thing is certain: when you hear these words, prepare for something.

Fa’einkhro mehnsteir nj tzrhivs - An old Ar’Dyoun phrase meaning something along the lines of ‘gods-given meal’. Notable for its phonetic similarity to the contemporary tagline ‘if it ain’t Crawman’s, it ain’t ribs’.

Flowering, Abhorrence - A phrase found in the old texts alongside “Ethership” and “Otherrealm Gate,” it seems to refer to a time when the Godtree reaches full maturity. The use of the word “Abhorrence” does suggest it is quite sinister.

Gair’Tsaa raiaissar ralhaeair I rsaiw - “The Godtree loves me, this I know.”

G’ant - Like “an’cher” (see above), this was once two words: “Giant Ants.” (which, of course, begs the question: are there regular-sized ants in the Boneyards? If so, are they biologically related to the g’ants, or of an entirely separate species that merely bears a striking—and statistically unlikely—resemblance to the latter?) G’ants are an integral part of the culture and defense of Achten Tan, as they are used for everything from agriculture to military mounts to powering the kinder-rides during the annual Bone Festival.

Godfruit - The fruit of the Godtree. Strangely, the fruit contains no seeds, leading biologists to wonder how the Godtree ever managed to propagate itself in the past. The fruit is edible, though recently many people have begun making a concentrated paste from the juices, as the resulting concoction has a very strong psychedelic effect.

Godfruit paste - Made from the concentrated juices of the Godfruit, when eaten Godfruit Paste is a powerful psychedelic with narcotic-like qualities.

Godtree - The massive tree that grows at the eastern edge of Achten Tan, and whose shade has sheltered the generation of Achten Tanians. The sole surviving instance of a species whose petrified remains are scattered about the Boneyards, the Godtree is the source of much folklore and superstition. During the Craven Wars, the invading rat-people repeatedly tried to destroy the Godtree. What no one in the town suspects, however, is that it is, in fact, an ancient sentient parasite whose ultimate goal is to use the entire population as hosts for its offspring. What? Yeah, that got dark fast. And it’s pretty ironic, since the town likes to think the Godtree “shelters them.” Looks like the Craven were right all along. Dang, even more irony.

Hele - “Rockabye”

Hob - A race of minute people originally from the mountain region of Srin’Zalah. Like their close relatives the Tomgoblins, a group of hobs currently resides beneath North Ribs Ribs. See: Tomgoblin

Ikke ghal - “Don’t cry”

Lectores - Ancient scholars

Lulli - “Lullaby”

Mabon - A harvest festival held during the autumnal equinox.

Machtentansterchef - The unfortunately awkward title given by The Sentinel Rib Sentinal to the series of competitions run by Old Crawman in order to chose his replacement. Chronicled in a series of articles run in the paper, the Machtentansterchef famously ended with no clear victor, and Old Crawman returning to run his Rib empire, no thanks to his layabout, no-good waste of a son.

Mana - An honorific term for a maternal teacher. Often bastardized to ‘Mama’, which individual Manas receive with varying degrees of disdain.

Metock tec metock - “We are Who We Are.” The town moto of Achten Tan. Emblazoned on the town crest, it is a phrase that can be spoken with mandibles and is the first lesson an an’cher teaches a new g’ant.

Mors barn syngal - “Mother sings” (for a child)

Mors elsker - “Mother’s love”

Na’Fer Vem Cazim - “The Doom of the Gods.” A prophesied future apocalypse, it is just as bad as it sounds. And could be taking place right now. I mean, that would explain a lot about this last year, wouldn’t it?

Nithlia - The ancient, original name for the creatures now known as g’ants.

Obrijun obredun - An old battle cry of the Craven, believed to be a mistransliteration of a phrase meaning ‘we’d really like to get this over with ASAP so we can go home and have tea’.

Osseodemographics - The study of the populaces of each area of the skeleton in which Achten Tan is built.

Otherrealm Gate - Like “etherships,” whoah boy does this term suggest a lot of crazy conjectures about other worlds and what the g’ants and Godtree are really about.

Sachnummavt kelthsorrick - “The Godtree will overcome.”

Sandwyrm - see: Wyrm.

Shrinkening, The - A prehistoric event that suggests that it isn’t so much that the g’ants are “giant ants” but that everything else in the world is tiny. Some think the Shrinkening is an actual event that literally occurred while others think it is but a fairytale. A third school of thought says the Shrinkening is a metaphor or allegory for something that occurred, but that whatever that event was it didn’t involve literal “shrinking.” The proponents of this theory tend to use phrases like “universal subconscious” and “Jungian archetypes” and like to think Joseph Campbell’s books explain everything, so take them with a grain of salt.

Shrubbalubbawubdub - Go to the market in the southeast every other Thursday evening and you’ll find plenty of people more than willing to extoll the virtues of shrubbalubbawubdub, and perhaps even lend you a cheeky puff.

Soom - “Sleep”.

Songblade - No idea, but it sounds wicked cool.

Svaalti - A sect of elves who believe in elven supremacy and racial purity. They primarily live in Satama and look on the people of Achten Tan with disgust. They hold elves to be superior to all other races and hate nothing more than elves who have mixed with other people. Basically they are all around assholes.

Tarat gem Ma Tan goot - “There is no place like home when you are not feeling well,” first uttered by a long-dead leader who had missed an important feast and dance due to a case of the trots.

Tartule - Formally written as “Tar-Tule,” as the years have advanced it has become increasingly common in contemporary writing to see it written simply as “Tartule,” a development that has caused much head-shaking and tutting by the sort of geriatric grammar-mavens who worry about those sort of things. Anyway, tartules are the giant, shelled reptiles that live in the Bonewastes. Like g’ants, they are trained and used as beasts of burden, most commonly as transport across the moat that surrounds Achten Tan. The tartule riders infamously have a rivalry with the an’chers, most likely because they don’t have a cool name with an apostrophe in it, but are stuck with just being “tartule riders.”

Terefs - Nasty things, they live in the bog and sometimes the moat around Achten Tan. Webbed fingers, claws. Just generally not nice to run into.

Third, The - A group of Achten Tanians who left the city in search of a better life in a supposed Edenic land to the West. United by vision in the mirror shards showing verdant pastures and lush grasslands, nearly a third of the population (thus the clever moniker, “The Third”) left as a group in an attempt to find the source of their vision. Instead, all they found was the horrific truth behind the Craven Wars and the Godtree. Instead of founding a new utopia, they returned to wage a violent war upon their own people, ultimately failing to stop the machinations of the Godtree, but succeeding in further traumatizing the city of Achten Tan.

Tite - Another term for g’ant.

Tomgoblin - A race of minute people originally from the mountain region of Srin’Zalah. Like their close relatives the Hob, a group of tomgoblins currently resides beneath North Ribs Ribs. See: Hob

Veng - A horrid, carnivorous creature. It burrows through sand and soil in search of prey, and loves the taste of tomgoblin and hob when it can catch them. The canine teeth of an adult veng can grow to the size of a full-grown hob.

Virago - Svaalti title for their Warrior Chieftain.

Wyrms - Gigantic worms that live beneath the sands of the Boneyards. They are most often associated with C’Naga, who was known as the “Wyrm Wizard of the North.” Spelled with a “y” because it makes it more fantasy-like.

Xenthalor - A giant, insectile monstrosity used by the Svaalti in their area. It’s got a wicked barb on the end of its tail that it uses to kill people. Evil but kind of badass, like the Svaalti themselves.

Zedayen - “Fuck off,” in Gnomish.

Appendix III: Timeline Of The Year of Great Peace

A Partial (but by no ways Comprehensive) Accounting of Events (both Major and Minor) Taking Place Betwixt the Ending of the Craven Wars and the Passage Through the Mysterious Portal, also Known (Somewhat Ironically) as the Year of Great Peace

Timeline of Events

Taking place between the end of the Craven Wars & the opening of the Gate

The time period covered by this accounting begins at the start of the Spring of the Year of Great Peace. Although the next year turned out to be anything BUT peaceful, it was given the name because the year began with the sudden cessation of the so called “Craven Wars,” during which the rat people of the plateau above the Everfall, had attacked Achten Tan for generations in wave after wave of vicious fighting. As the previous year drew to a close, the attacks suddenly ended. In a pique of optimism, the Scholar, Librarian, and Accomplished Cartographer dubbed the newly minted year “The Year of Great Peace.”

SPRING

- A human, Saphira finds that she can process the Godfruit into a paste that brings pleasurable hallucinations. She and her group of friends continue to use it; eventually they begin to hear voices and believe to be able to hear each others’ thoughts. Sadly, this leads to fights when it becomes clear that her assistants Chip and Xan both love Saphira.

- Communication helmets are found in a chest between Achten Tan and the waters below the Everfall. A signal is picked up from a supposedly abandoned tower in the bog. A group of an’chers are sent with one of the helmets to explore the bog and find whatever is communicating with it from the tower. They report back that they have found a room full of glowing devices... but their message is cut short and cannot be reestablished.

- Rapaecio Pallor, explorer, returns from his journey to the South where he met the religious order who uses bone paste. Most remarkably, the giant ants appear to react differently to Pallor, who has taken to their custom of wearing the bone paste smeared on his skin. The g’ants begin to seek out the bone-paste even when it is not offered.

- To further protect the city, the people decide to create a moat filled with tar from the southeast. Along with the g’ant patrols, the moat will be patrolled by turtle riders, known as tartules, and a friendly rivalry builds between them.

- Youthful warriors, eaters of the godfruit paste, followers of Saphira, singing of love, head north to Satama. That is where the Svaalti elves, worshippers of the Godtree, live. They dance across the borders bearing Godfruit paste. Their heads are returned, carried by a priest of the Svaalti who tells the people the blasphemy of their actions and warns of Na’Fer Vem Cazim (The Reckoning of the Gods). Lakshmi, the sister of Narain whose head was returned, swears vengeance on the Svaalti. She gathers a group of warriors and heads north towards Satama with a plan to kidnap a priest and force them to reveal the secrets of the sect.

THE HEAT AND DUST RISE, TAKING ALL OF THEM INTO...

SUMMER

- Esteemed townsperson Dolphin Joe needs royal jelly to survive, the doctor says. A group is sent to the hive of giant bees whose honey is made from the nectar of the Godtree flowers.

- Lakshmi and her group capture a priest and then are themselves killed when the priests are actually warrior monks. Lakshmi is taken to Samara to await execution.

- Opu Haku, last Bone Master of the town, has a throne glittering with mirror shards. They have not functioned for as long as memory, but one has begun to glow. When investigated, it appears that Opu Haku’s son, Kaii, had taken a separate bone shard and left the city, perhaps in pursuit of the missing Saphira.

- Animals—the g’ant, the tartules, and even four bogglitz—have been acting unnaturally. Some say the Svaalti priest placed a curse on the town, some believe it is his warning coming true. A group of angry men from East Skullgate are angry at the Svaalti and decide to burn the symbol of their faith, the Godtree itself.

- The giant bees are also unnaturally riled; the travellers are unable to retrieve any royal jelly, but they find humming mirror shards filling the hive. They manage to take some shards as they flee, without the needed royal jelly. When they bring the shards to Opu Haku he exclaims that he can see Kaii in them.

THE COLOR OF LIGHTS ARE CHANGING, IN THE SKIES, IN THE EVERFALL, IN THAT UNEARTHED, AS THE HOPE THE INHABITANTS HOLD BEGINS TO . . .

FALL

- As the days grow shorter with fall, a mysterious sleeping illness appears among the members of the community. The old are afflicted first, finding it harder and harder to wake up, but the sickness spreads quickly. Soon many are plagued by long sleep, ravaged by nightmares predicting the arrival of the Zenith.

- An acidic rain begins to fall in the night, gentle at first, but turning to sheets of falling filth that drives people into their homes for fear of being melted down to the bone. Only the Godtree seems unaffected by this vile downpour. The an’chers struggle to bring the ants to shelter and higher ground. Away in the west, the Everfall is gushing and overflowing, the subterranean cave dwellings filling rapidly with the putrid acid water. The opening ground reveals a series of caves that managed to escape the flood. The Satama refugees, taking advantage of the confusion and disorder surrounding the death of Opu Haku, decide to re-settle in these caves just outside Achten Tan before anyone can deny them. The caves lead down to the sternum of the great beast that forms North- and Southribs. The elves settle below the town, naming their new home Nh’var Tan (Under Place).

- The young an’chers weren’t really out to explore per se, but they insist they’ve been out here near a hundred times without ever seeing it. Regardless, they find a massive chasm several hundred meters deep. Now, this in and of itself isn’t bizarre… But the great dome inside is. From one end of the several kilometer long chasm to the other is a glass dome. The surface has been scratched and eroded over time, so it’s hard to say for sure what’s inside, but it’s very obviously green. At the southernmost end of the canyon there is a large obsidian door.

- Kaii, Chief Opa Haku’s only son, returns to the decimated Achten Tan and gives a dire warning: There is an evil hidden inside our community and it’s causing everything from his father’s assassination to the recent natural disaster. If the evil is not rooted out further destruction for Achten Tan is assured by year’s end. Even the Godtree will fall. Kaii teams with the surviving Ant Riders and their commander and forms an Elite Guard whose job it is to discover and punish/kill the hidden faction causing all the disaster.

- A faction of strangers wanders out of the southern desert and wish to speak to Kaii. They are from the southern caves, a parish of unsexed, ageless beings in hooded cloaks, whose bodies - when revealed - are entirely covered in intricate bone-meal paste designs that have darkened over many years in the sun (and many reapplications). The Ar’Dyoun.

MORE ILL OMENS CONTINUE TO DISTURB THE TOWN, AS THE CHILL IN THEIR BONES INFORMS THEM ALL IT’S SOON TO BE . . .

WINTER

- Frizzlewink wakes from a dream, certain that the answers are with the whispering goo at the Godtree. He sneaks out in the depths of night to the Godtree and finds a ghostly figure dressed in black, who is in fact Saphira. She will not speak to him, despite his pleas. She gives him a tea made from the Godtree fruit and after experiencing a pain of white light that makes him think his head will explode… He can understand the strange language of the black goo. In fact, he can understand everything. Salvation for them all lies on the other side of the obsidian door. They must all go through, but the root of evil still lives among them. If that person goes through the door, they will all perish. Suddenly able to read all the ancient texts, Frizzlewink quickly finishes the translation project.

- The harsh cold makes it impossible for the usual supply routes to run between Achten Tan and neighboring settlements, or even for those within the town to go too far to collect resources. While essentials had been stockpiled for the winter, so nothing too bad happens, North Ribs Ribs and South Ribs Ribs both find themselves unable to get hold of most of the spices they need.

- The Third, the segment of the population that left in order to follow the vision of a verdant utopia, has continued to trek across the great plateau. Frantic excavation revealed an entrance to a subterranean city, entirely carved into the rock beneath the plateau. It appears to be a settlement of the Craven, but it is entirely empty, with rotting food left out on tables, as if the entire population vanished overnight. The Third decide to winter amongst the ruins. While they shelter from the snow, they begin to explore and map the newly discovered Craven settlement. One of the first discoveries are ancient manuscripts. While their meaning is obscure, they seem to be a escetological in nature, bizarrely written prophecies foretelling the coming of the “Frozen Ones” and how they will bring destruction when they pass from their world into ours.

- Gerwyn the Wise is loudly unwilling to give up her special bone-framed mirror shard for the sake of opening the Obsidian Door. Luckily for Frizzlewink and his ragtag army, Gerwyn disappears overnight, leaving behind her scrying mirror, her beloved cat Fergus, and a neatly written confession: “I am the Tainted One! Long live the Godtree and its seedlings! Signed, Gerwyn the Wise.” Fizzlewink points out that the confession is written in far too neat a hand to be Gerwyn’s own.

- Hastily Gerwyn’s mirror is placed in the last empty spot around the Obsidian door. The survivors of Achten Tan, lead by Mack Yaswon who seems to have acquired an unusually handy amount of necromantic knowledge in a short period of time, gorge themselves on Atrocity Bones while the elves prepare their most risky spell yet.

- The survivors of Achten Tan, bloated with bone power, begin to glow gently red. The elves speak their spell aloud and in unison as they draw runes around the Obsidian Door. And on the lintel, the many shards of mirror fuse into one long curve of silver glass.

THE DOOR OPENS. THE SURVIVORS FROM ACHTEN TAN STEP THROUGH TO … WHATEVER OR WHEREVER LIES ON THE OTHER SIDE.

Appendix IV: On Achten Tanish

Being a Collection of Letters, Essays, and Folk Tales Relating to (or at Least Touching on) the Language of Achten Tan, as Written, Spoken, and Mumbled in or around the Time of the (in Retrospect, Very Ill-Named) Year of Great Peace

Notes from One Librarian to Another

Chris “Terry” Durston

Written by an Tylia, Head Archivist of the Great Library

To whom it may concern:

Hello, future librarian.

Welcome to the Great Library of Achten Tan.

As you’ll come to discover, it may not seem particularly ‘great’ in the scheme of things, but… well, it’s the only one for quite some distance in any direction. It’s also home, as are all good libraries, to several texts that are much more interesting and important than you might expect. Don’t forget that books aren’t only the records of history: knowledge from books is what those who live through history use to change it, to set the path.

I may not have lived through much history – youngest appointee ever to the position of Head Librarian, and if you’re younger than I was when I took the position I just want you to know that intellectually I don’t hate you, but there is a good chance you’ll occasionally catch me staring at you with what seems to be unbridled rage and you’re just going to have to deal with that – but I have lived through some truly odd times. I was the librarian in That Year (perhaps you remember it; certainly you won’t have forgotten it, if you were here to see it).

Enclosed are a few of my notes on some of the more unusual works in the Great Library. Perhaps you’ll have the time to finish some of the work I started. I’m not disorganized, but there tend to be an awful lot of interruptions around here for some reason.

My name is Tyler, and this is my legacy.

Ignore that. I don’t know why I wrote that. Look, I’m writing this now because it seemed like a worthwhile thing to do but you’re probably reading this years in the future and to be honest I expect I’ve explained all this in person anyway. Maybe I’ll just sign this page and then burn it.

Hey, if I’m burning it, I can write whatever I like.

FUCK

Ha. Always wanted to write that in a serious document.

With regards and probable irrational disdain,

Tylia, Head Archivist and Chief Librarian

* * *

Elvish Syllabaries, The (modern version, third edition, unabridged, both original and translated texts; current status: ashes)

Author unknown, though Praneilus the Fourth posited at least six contributors. From stylistic and syntactic clues, I infer two authors familiar with the Proto-Ar’do-Satamean language and at least one author who was extremely hungry.

Translation by Praneilus the Fifth, since the Fourth apparently got to the point of suggesting six writers and decided that that was enough of a contribution to the work for him.

Comparison of the Syllabaries to the limited extant fragments of Old Ar’Dyoun yielded some interesting results – extremely improbable, but some suggestion of etymological link between ancient religious term for ‘gods-given meal’ (fa’einkhro mehnsteir nj tzrhivs) and modern idiom meaning ‘brand-specifically delicious’ (if it ain’t Crawman’s, it ain’t ribs) – right up until a small child with webbed fingers burned them all. I don’t know whether we ever found out what that was about. Extremely frustrating.

Taxonomy of the Godtree & Associated Phylum (pre-first edition, not yet published)

Why Ventaaku decided to write a taxonomy manual about a group of living beings containing a single member is utterly beyond me. The fact that he’s Opu Haku’s nephew is almost certainly the only reason he was given funding to write the thing in the first place, but it’s utterly unpublishable. I daren’t tell him that, though, so as far as he knows I’ve been subjecting it to ‘peer review’ for the last four and a half years.

Treatise On Ribs (a page ripped out of a longer book of essays and recipes, presented to the library by the Gnomes formerly of the cavern and latterly of South Ribs Ribs)

This appears to be an essay – not a recipe, for there are no instructions and no specific notes on ingredients or method – on the philosophy and mental state required to create the perfect ribs. Much of it seems to be in song form; perhaps more words rhyme with ‘ribs’ in the Gnome language.

This might seem of little import, but reading the text has induced a peculiar state in several of my assistants. I recommend caution (unless you enjoy desperately attempting to cover every inch of your body in ribs sauce).

Craven: Biology, Society, Toilet Habits (first edition; includes some handwritten revisions by Mack Yawson, frequently illegible)

A new addition to the library, this one. The intention seems to have been to catalogue as much information about the Craven as possible in preparation for waging war against them, but most of the information given is inference or outright guesswork.

Yawson’s additions are… interesting; as one of the few ‘good’ half-elves with necromantic abilities, and with some first-hand experience of Craven settlements if nothing else, her perspective on their lifestyle and weaknesses would, I think, be extremely insightful were her handwriting not appalling.

I adjudge from the original author’s tone, and frequent mentions of information sources not adequately cited or referenced (and thus impossible to corroborate), that they had almost no direct knowledge of the Craven, and might even have considered them potentially fictitious. Nonetheless, their enthusiasm in making deductions about twelve different types of recreational dance purely from a report about a Craven ankle bone buried in faeces is to be applauded, I suppose.

Grand Unifying Theory Of Geography, Geometry, & Fuana, The (fifth edition, sustained heavy damage when one of my assistants was desperate for toilet paper)

This one I do recommend returning to. It is an old work, but each new edition has contained new insights into the previous work based on new findings of the time.

If one day we develop the instruments to test some of the theories expressed in this text about how the earth under our feet relates to the lights in the sky, I think our minds will be broadened forever, and some of the images conjured up of the great beasts who left behind the bones in which we now live are astoundingly beautiful.

Ignore chapter six, though. It’s just a list of boats. I don’t know why.

Annals of the Most Consequential Year Of Achten Tan (only edition, only copy?)

Entered possession of the Great Library some generations ago; two Head Librarians before me drove themselves mad attempting to decipher it and at least one had met an untimely demise shortly after announcing their intentions to read it, so the rest chose to ignore it.

In the winter of That Year, I decided to attempt the project. It was cold, so I was stuck inside with some spare time, and my work with the Syllabaries was prematurely ended by the whole burning thing, so I figured I’d give it a go.

I had just about deduced that one recurring phrase seemed to suggest that That Year was so disproportionately eventful because some other-dimensional gods were playing some sort of quasi-random game of (to them) amusing disruption, and then I was called away from the work to help gather berries.

I know. A librarian. Gathering berries.

In the process – because I’m a librarian and neither a berry-gatherer nor a particularly experienced avoider of tunnels – I fell into a network of underground caverns and discovered an enormous colony of giant ants. I assume in the future we all still ride giant ants, so this won’t sound alarming. It was very helpful, in fact; once I found my way out, I was able to direct some more tunnel-appropriate people to the location and many larvae were brought out to grow into new giant ants of our own.

So that worked out alright. I only returned to the Annals after That Year ended (don’t ask what happened to me at the end of it) and found that I was able to finish uninterrupted this time. As it turned out, the Annals catalogue many of the events of That Year with remarkable specificity. I can only assume that whichever gods wrote them didn’t want us knowing what was going to happen until all was done.

Erotic Ghost Stories From East Skull Gate (second edition with special foreword by Drizko Tinkersbane)

The less said about this one, the better.

On the Written Modalities of Achten Tanian

Chris “Terry” Durston

From ‘Writing What You Mean to Say: A Rough but Not Foolproof Guide’ (a textbook commonly given to young children, who would almost inevitably use it as a ladder to reach treats or a weapon with which to assault their foes rather than read it)

It is not all that peculiar that a single society using a single spoken language should have multiple forms of writing. Think of the Carradanious people, who lived many thousands of years ago; they had but a single way of writing each concept, but borrowed from several different systems of proto-writing before them so that they conveyed most information pictorially but used a simple system of increasing lines to denote numbers. (It is no wonder that they suffered an extremely severe economic crash that ultimately all but wiped them out entirely; have you ever tried to count adjacent lines numbering in the thousands, even without accounting for the fact that those lines represented figures that it would be extremely important to get precisely correct lest the entire monetary system collapse? I thought not.)

Still, Achten Tanian is unusual in that it has no fewer than three completely distinct written modalities.

The first is of course the one I am using now, the most frequently used; this is believed to be the latest to have developed, in chronological terms. We call it Phonemic Tanian, because it employs an alphabet each letter of which represents a specific sound; by combining sequences of letters, we can create a graphical representation of a word as we would speak it aloud.

This seems elementary, but it is not something that in fact ought to be taken for granted. If I wish to communicate something in Phonemic Tanian, my first task is to work out how I would speak it aloud; I must then convert each phoneme, the discrete bundles of noises I would create by means of flapping my oral apparatus, to a letter of the alphabet or a combination thereof. Similarly, for a reader, the task of deciphering Phonemic Tanian is the task of mentally converting visual stimuli to audible ones. A reader ‘hears’ the words by means of combining the noises represented by the letters.

As might be guessed from the name, Phonemic Tanian is the only one of the modalities to work in this fashion. It is perhaps for this reason, however - that it is the most direct representation of the language spoken aloud, which most of us are the most comfortable with—that it is the most frequently used for expressing everyday concepts, writing shopping lists, coming up with new and inventive swear words, and most sorts of missives to friends and relatives.

(It is worth noting here that there is a semanto-phonetic variant of Phonemic Tanian—that is to say, a sort of spin-off written dialect which uses compounds of characters (generally one semantic, to do with meaning, and one phonetic, to do with sound) to represent concepts, as opposed to directly mapping on to the spoken language. Most consider this not a modality in its own right, referring to it instead as Phonemic Tanian B. It is believed to have been invented by a distant ancestor of Old Crawman: a generations-ago proprietor of North Ribs Ribs who was apparently dissatisfied at Phonemic Tanian A’s inability to represent menu items in a way that would not only tell the customer what it was but also communicate precisely how alluringly delicious it would be.)

Logogrammic Achteanian represents not individual phonemes but entire lexical units: that is, every written character is an entire word. Indeed, some characters do the job of multiple words, since it often circumvents the need for articles and auxiliaries.

Custom dictates that it be written on dried ant hide using a quill formed of bone cut from one of the Great Vertebrae and filled with ink concentrated from Godfruit paste; for this reason, it is quite rare these days to see an example of this written form that a pedant would consider a ‘true’ use. Historically it seems that it was most commonly used to send ominous notes of demand or ultimatum to one’s military opponents, since the medium lent itself to being somewhat creepy and the simple logograms were easy to decipher as threatening even if the recipient had no familiarity with the language.

In chapter forty-six, we shall consider some of the implications of having a pictorial language which bears no isomorphic relation to the spoken one. For one thing, being able to communicate ideas to someone who does not understand spoken Achten Tanian is of specific interest to historians of language, as well as those who want to share information with other societies (generally recipes; there is a disproportionate mountain of evidence pointing to the influence of ribs restaurants on how every form of language in Achten Tan has progressed).

One peculiarity of this mode is that its lexigrams cannot be disambiguated without cardinality. That is to say, reading from left to right is possible, as is reading from right to left, but the form is not palindromic: the meanings of the occidental and oriental phrases are not the same. This has caused no end of trouble, notably when Marlend the Ambidextrous failed to realise that they were in fact incapable of telling right from left without the aid of the common trick wherein one holds up one’s forefinger and thumb and knows that if an L is formed then this is the left hand. (That trick, of course, is utterly meaningless if the person does not know how to read Phonemic Tanian.)

Note that some lexigrams are palindromic in the sense that they are symmetrical. One might expect that this would entail that they retain the same meaning whether read in one direction or the other, but these characters invariably bear two or more completely distinct meanings which can only be resolved from the context of the surrounding sentence.

Finally, Meaningful Dave. (As an aside, nobody is entirely sure why the second word in each modality’s name should be different. Why not have all three be ‘Tanian’ or ‘Achteanian’, and what is a ‘Dave’ anyway? Nobody knows, but this is the convention now, and what is a convention if not something to be carried on in ignorance even when patently better solutions are readily apparent?) Meaningful Dave is neither phonetic nor pictorial, its characters neither depicting sounds nor words nor images of the referent. It is rather a method, as the name suggests, of directly representing the true meaning of a statement.

It is impossible to attempt to explain this. We can easily think about a sentence formed by transcribing the words we would use to express the concept aloud—as I am doing here, of course: you can read this text out loud and have an exact spoken equivalent of what is written on the page in front of you—or about a written communication which in some way visually expresses a sort of picture of the thing being communicated, but direct one-to-one mapping of semantic content to lines on a page escapes imagination entirely.

As a result, very few people can deliberately set out to write a sentence in Meaningful Dave and get it right on the first try. However, anyone can read a sentence in Meaningful Dave and immediately understand exactly what it means. They may not be able to report what it means aloud, since it may not be possible to express in the kind of words we are used to using, but they will perfectly comprehend precisely what is being communicated.

Gerwyn is one of the only people I know of who can write in Meaningful Dave as naturally as most of us write in Phonemic Tanian A. She uses it often to disseminate the wisdom she gains from her visions, but has also used it to utterly destroy her foes. Perhaps you can see how this would work—don’t think about it too carefully, because then you might accidentally represent the concept in a Meaningful Dave excerpt and then you would comprehend it in its entirety and that would be extremely problematic—if Gerwyn can communicate something in Meaningful Dave, then she can force anyone who sees that bit of written language to immediately allow into their consciousness a fully-formed statement or concept. If that concept is something which is harmful purely to understand (inescapable realisation of one’s own mortality; a sentence which can be neither true nor false; a description of a ‘meaning demon’ which, once understood, replicates in the reader’s mind until it consumes every other bit of content until it is the only thing known to the person, leaving them unable to function), the person can be rendered to various degrees emotionally, cognitively, or existentially incapacitated.

It is of peculiar note that there is a single arrangement of lines which can be written down to create an apprehensible communication of longer than three words in all three modalities.

It is as follows:

The tower of bone may one day fall, but that day will be too late.

Of course, the meaning of that Phonemic Tanian sentence is clear to anyone who has been able to follow this text so far. When written in cursive, however, the series of pen marks you see form logograms and semantophores as well as the phonetic alphabet.

To a Logogrammic Achteanian reader, it would mean something like ‘She who ended the chief will begin the witch anew’.

I am assured that, despite sounding rather ‘prophecy-like’, the fact that these sentences can be understood does not necessarily mean that some ominous event is going to come to pass.

One familiar with Meaningful Dave might see, when this sentence is written in a kind of ‘bubble writing’, ‘Don’t do it, y’all. Don’t eat that fruit. It just ain’t gon’ go well, my dudes’. It is odd to come across a sentence with such definite dialectical inflections in Meaningful Dave, since it has no faculty for representing the manner in which to speak the concepts aloud, but there you have it.

(Just for the sake of completeness, it bears recording that it is also meaningful in Phonemic Tanian B: it reads ‘My Old An’cher Mate And His Macroscopic Telescopic Lenticular Monocular’, which happens to be the title of a children’s song that was very popular in my youth.)

There are of course other, smaller-scale (again, the above sentences are the only instance of more than three words, which still leaves a lot of scope for trouble) overlaps where using the same graphical sequence has multiple meanings depending on the language interpreted by the reader, which has caused no end of trouble on more than one occasion. I, for one, performed some extremely deviant sexual acts on my editor as a result of a misunderstanding in a communication about a typo in chapter six of this textbook.[1] [2]

1 Editor’s note: This isn’t true. Didn’t happen. Delete this before publishing.

2 Publisher’s note: For some reason the editor did not delete this before sending to us for publication. We thought it sufficiently amusing to leave in.

Post-Structural Semiotics of Reconstructive Osseotopography

Chris “Terry” Durston

Many generations ago, when Gerwyn the Wise was… well, still old, as most reckonings went, but far less old than she would become, the incumbent permutation of the Achten Tan council found itself facing an unusual problem: science.

It had long been a truth held self-evident that the village-town-city-settlement thing that had become Achten Tan was established within the encircling skeleton of a single enormous beast sometimes referred to as ‘the Boundary’, ‘the Landwalker’, or ‘the bit where it stops being Achten Tan and starts being something else’. There were stories, passed down from teller to listener to a new generation of listeners, about the creatures that had walked the desert long ago; the beast that had died and left the bones in which Achten Tan was built, so said the stories, was one of many colossal animals that strode through the sands. In some of the stories, people worshipped them; in others, people got eaten by them; in still others, both or neither.

Still, the only one of the great ancient beasts that most in Achten Tan had ever seen (excepting those few who ranged far out into the hostile desert and stumbled across more bones with less civil planning) was the one in which they lived. It just sort of went without saying that they were all living within the remains of one extremely large, extremely dead creature, and everyone was terribly comfortable with that.

It was, therefore, somewhat perturbing when Graildith, the first person to attempt to make an entire career out of studying the bones (‘Archteology’, he called it), hijacked the ‘any other business’ section of what had otherwise been a thoroughly enjoyable council session during which nothing whatsoever of interest had happened to make an announcement.

‘There are two sets of bones,’ he proclaimed.

‘Eh?’ This from the council’s de facto leader, Narwhal Joe (the great-grandfather of the famed Dolphin Joe, whose death in That Year would be of enough significance to be considered noteworthy but not enough to have a whole piece done about it).

‘Well, at least two,’ Graildith corrected, tapping his forefinger against his fuzzily-bearded chin with the air of one who is around eighty percent certain that they’re smarter than around eighty percent of the rest of the people in the room (and is thus on a (somewhat misapplied, admittedly) Bayesian analysis likely to be somewhere around the sixty-fourth percentile of smart people in said room). ‘There’s the creature whose ribs make up North Ribs and South Ribs, and whose skull is the defining feature of East Skull Gate, and then there’s the one whose limbs stick up in the middle.’

‘Limbs sticking up in the middle?’ Carnamus the librarian demanded. ‘There are none.’

‘Everyone’s been calling them vertebrae, but… they’re segmented limbs.’ With great aplomb, Graildith unfolded a large map from somewhere—it was the size of a small book when he withdrew it, but expanded into a square of several feet—and pointed to several of the cartographical diagrams of geographical skeletal features using a telescopic rod. ‘This comes from some sort of quadruped—this I suspect is avian, probably flightless given the scale—this could be either but I think it more likely to be a third thing rather like a whale, and almost certainly facing in the opposite direction than the other two.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘Well,’ said Aryla Who Tends The Godtree eventually, if only because she was becoming increasingly aware that if nobody said anything it would take much longer for her to get back to her knitting, ‘what do we do about that?’

‘We spread the word, and I become very rich and famous,’ said Graildith smugly.

‘No, I think we should suppress it,’ Narwhal Joe mused in flat tones. ‘I don’t think much good can come of it.’

‘Riches!’ pleaded Graildith. ‘Fame!’

‘Nah,’ said Narwhal Joe. ‘I just don’t think it’d be worth the hassle.’

By the next week, Graildith had made sure that everyone in Achten Tan was well aware of the situation—hyperbolically aware, even, given that it really ought not to have made much practical difference. Things were still in the same place, after all, and yet in the minds of many who learned the news, they were not.

By the week after that, there were four distinct groups of citizens: the Colossal Canine Citizens Front; the Avian Achtentanians; the Cetacean Civilians Union; and the Undecideds. Then there were those who didn’t know which group they wanted to be part of, and the Undecideds were quick to claim those people as their own, but most of them were staunch in their stance that no, the fact that they were undecided did not automatically make them Undecideds, with the political and ideological baggage that came with that declaration.

By the week after that, each of the four groups had begun wearing clothing emblazoned with the symbol of their belief, so that a stranger wandering through Achten Tan would be greeted by the sight of crowds of people all wearing tunics with big embroidered dogs or hats in the shape of birds or giant round outfits that looked vaguely whale-ish or green blazers dotted with question marks. Plus, of course, there was another faction, just as large as any of the others, which was resoundingly and decidedly non-committed to anything in particular, and which would in fact have been terrifically offended had anyone attempted to tell them that they were a faction.

Each of the groups, at this point, was perfectly content to continue getting along with their lives and allowing everyone else to do the same; it was just that they were in disagreement about what kind of city they all lived in. They lived in the same city, that wasn’t in dispute; it was a matter of emphasis rather than of ontology.

This changed the week after the week after Graildith spread the word.

One of the Colossal Canine Citizens made the mistake of asking a Cetacean Civilian for directions to a friend’s house on the other side of the city, and was thoroughly dismayed when they found themselves in entirely the wrong place. As it turned out, the Cetacean Civilian had been using ‘east’ to mean ‘west’ and vice versa. With some difficulty, the Canine Citizen found their way back to the Cetacean Civilian (who had, fortunately, not moved in the intervening period) and challenged them on this.

Using a surprisingly well-drawn diagram, the Cetacean Civilian patiently explained that while, yes, cardinal directions ought to be reasonably objective, the fact of the matter was that animals were usually drawn walking from left to right, and thus ‘east’ simply meant ‘on the right-hand side of the map because that’s where the big skull is so we assumed that was the way the thing that left the bones that made the city was walking’. New evidence, however, suggested that the skull of the cetacean would in fact be on the opposite side, were it unearthed, and therefore east was the other way.

There resulted a public and highly mean-spirited exchange of barbed insults, then of thrown cutlery, and following this the factions each resolved to simply believe that none of the others existed. If you were an Avian Achtentanian then you could only see and hear other Avian Achtentanians, and all your directions were given relative to the positions of the avian bones. (And, of course, over time each of the groups claimed all the bones as part of their own animal, so that according to the Cetacean Civilians the Formerly-Known-As-East-Skull skull was not actually part of the enormous canine skeleton but of the cetacean: a friend, or perhaps offspring, of the original.)

For many months, the city was divided into four, but ideologically rather than geographically. There were shops for each kind of person, all in a line right next to each other, but three of the four were insistently invisible to most visitors. (The fifth group, of course, just went wherever they liked however they liked and thought that the whole thing was just a giant embuggerance up with which they would have preferred not to put.)

Then came the splinter groups. The first was a literal splinter group: a tip of rib came crashing down one day, sheared by the forces of time and sand and wind from one of the giant bone structures, and some postmodern-leaning smart aleck declared this a new creature, the bone of a worm that was very small by leviathan standards but very big by normal worm standards. After this, more and more subgroups began to form, each taking it upon themselves to decide that one or another of the many bits of bone that formed the topography of Achten Tan must be from a hitherto unconsidered new creature.

The floating rib caused no end of trouble, since none could agree what it came from nor even where it was. Depending on who you asked it was ‘hovering above the sixth rib of our beloved canine’; ‘north, when cardinality is calibrated by one who is lying down between the wings of the great bird’; ‘reached by sort of taking a kind of left turn between the third and fourth vertebrae of the cetacean, and that’s where it is but it isn’t there because it’s also up’; or ‘nowhere, everywhere, who cares?’.

In the end, it was Graildith who resolved the trouble. He’d begun the mess, so it was only fitting that he ended it, and end it he did by announcing once and for all that in fact Achten Tan was officially… indeterminate. Undeterminable. The Undecideds took this as a great victory, but Graildith was quick to point out that in fact every group was both correct and incorrect, since it was (he had objectively and finally determined) impossible to objectively and finally determine whether any of the bones came from any particular creature: it could have been that every single bone was a different animal, or that a single mishmashed creature had left one complete and utterly bizarre skeleton, or both or neither.

To help with ongoing interosseodemographical relations, the position of Bone Chief was created; a hallowed office acknowledged by all, respected by most, to which many aspired, and about which a few hatched nefarious schemes. The Bone Chief’s function was to be the final arbiter, resolving any disputes that might arise: if the Bone Chief said something was a radius rather than a femur then that was what it was—not just what it was called but what it was, making it another position that ought to have worked mostly in the realms of linguistic determination but was in fact insistently ontological.

So Achten Tan—with much grumbling—cohered back into a single unit of confused Achten Tanians, exactly as it ought to have been, and as it would ever remain.

Acknowledgments

Each and every person involved in this project poured so much of themselves into the book you are holding — turn to the Contributors Section to see the real “Acknowledgments” page. I am amazed that my somewhat random tweet asking if anyone would be interested in joining me to create a weird-fiction anthology drew in so many creative and talented writers. This started as a distraction and turned into a weird hybrid between a literary anthology, a family, and a cult. Y’all are the best.

While every contributor’s contributions were invaluable making this the uniquely bizarre work it is, a few went above and beyond the call of duty to help this see the light of day. Kelly, Rosalind, Colleen (CD Storiz), Chris D, Diana, and Chapel put in countless hours pouring over multiple iterations of the manuscript to make it as flawless as possible. With no money to offer them, I somehow wound up with a hard-working, dedicated editorial staff. Every story in here shines a little brighter thanks to their work. If it wasn’t for them, there would be approximately 635 typos they managed to catch.

Before the manuscript was even collated, a few contributors threw themselves into editing the submitted final drafts. Erin, Ben, Ian, Darius, Darby, Sarah H., S.L. Parker, Rosalind, Kelly, Chris D, Colleen (CD Storiz), and Diana all helped comment these pieces into being slightly better versions of themselves.

S.L. Parker and Colleen were also social media champions, promoting and boosting Achten Tan at every turn, and Sara R. purchased advertising all on their own.

While the above members overwhelmed me with their dedication to this project, every single other person is an integral part of this book beyond just their writing; I meant to start an anthology, but I somehow wound up with a family. Or a cult. Anyway, I love all of you.

Special thanks to Avery Alder and her game The Quiet Year and for giving this project her unofficially blessing. That said, Tales From the Year Between is not associated with Avery Alder’s The Quiet Year in any official capacity. Her game was used as a prompt to generate ideas, but none of the text of her game is included in the final product, and while she approved of the project, she has no connection to the stories and content of the anthology. Tales From the Year Between is not an extension, expansion, or in anyways part of The Quiet Year game or any of Avery Alder’s projects. So don’t blame her. Instead, go buy a copy and play it yourself. Maybe you’ll wind up with a book.

The amazing maps at the start of the book are both by Aaron Hockett. When I said “Hey, you made an awesome map for our D&D campaign, wanna do something for this weird book I’m making?” I wasn’t expecting the results to be as fantastic as they are.

Our crazy-cool cover art is by Phaundy. You can hire him on Fiverr. He’s worth every penny. When I sent my details (“We want someone holding a spear and riding a giant ant in the desert, like Dungeons & Dragons meets Mad Max! Oh, here’s a picture by Frank Frazetta I like a lot and makes me think old-school pulp fantasy.”) I honestly had no idea how it would turn out. I think we can all agree it turned out awesome.

Daniel Jackson painted the illustration, “An an’cher and his loyal g’ant make camp in the Bonewastes” which appears at the start of “Awake.” You can follow him on Twitter @WorldofMrGrey or find him on YouTube at “Dan Jackson Draws” and “World of Mr. Grey.”

Thanks to the #writingcommunity on Twitter for the support and love. If you think the internet is a cess pool, come swim in our end. It’s supportive and a lot of fun. There’s too many to mention, but some of the accounts that showed us a lot of love and support by joining us in the daily #AchtenWrite prompt include: @PromptAdvant @PromptList @powerndreams @thewriteprompt @kaitwrites @crispinakemp1 @parkin422 @Isannearcher @Candispillard @jimblack1 @AnconaDanielle @JPWaltersAuthor @StinkenderKase @JeanMead12 @Rubi_Rosa_ @LindaJenLambert @SumbulShahin @SmartyMarty1126 @JacobKlop @RamblineJane. If you’ve joined since we went to press, thank you! You’re in our hearts, if not our book.

Also, thanks to the reviewers who agreed to look at advanced review copies and then sharing their thoughts with the world. You were the first tourists to wander the streets of Achten Tan, despite the State Department’s Level 4 travel advisory. Cass Beaty, Phebe Yawson, Erinne Lansing, and Terri Harrington. Thanks for braving the sand wyrms and C’Naga! If you read an ARC after I uploaded the manuscript, I’m sorry to not thank you in print, but while time may be an illusion (and lunch time, of course, doubly so), print deadlines are not.

* * *

The contributors would like to thank Chris Vandyke for his boundless enthusiasm, ludicrous productivity, and for generally keeping afloat a ship that was hastily assembled out of parts from many vehicles, almost none of them designed for buoyancy. As the person assembling the manuscript, Mr. Vandyke would like to state he feels slightly uncomfortable typing, but graciously accepts the accolades with only a slight blush while muttering, “Oh, really now, that’s not necessary.”

All the contributors would also like to generally thank their friends, family, and writing peers for their love and support of this and their other writing endeavors. Thanks for tolerating our eccentricities and “that weird story about ants.”

About “Tales From the Year Between”

Tales from the Year Between is the flagship publication of Skullgate Media, a new indie-publishing company dedicated to changing the way authors collaborate and publish.

Part literary magazine, part writing club, part cult, and all creativity, Tales From the Year Between is a semi-annual speculative fiction anthology with a unique premise. Twice a year it gathers a disparate group of authors from all across the globe to collaborate in shared world-building and creative writing. Using a modified version of Avery Alder’s fabulous game The Quiet Year as a massive writing prompt, each volume of The Year Between begins with nothing more than a simple premise (“a desert fantasy world, like D&D’s Dark Sun”). Contributors participate in a week-long “game” to create a shared canon of people, places, events, and themes. From this chaotic melange of ideas, each participant then creates their own stories, poems, letters, and even recipes, all set in the world they created together. Intrigued? Sound like fun? Contact us to see how you could be part of the next volume!

The Tale of “Tales From the Year Between”

The idea for Tales From the Year Between came to Chris on May 27th 2020 while quarantined in Brooklyn during the Covid-19 pandemic. He missed playing D&D with his friends, and although he was getting a lot of writing done while being stuck at home with his kids, he wanted to do something social. He’d been sitting on the idea of a massive game of The Quiet Year for… well, years, and it seemed like a good time to try it out. He put out a call on Twitter hoping for 10-15 participants, and in under 24 hours had more than 30.

He spent the next week home-brewing custom rules for The Quiet Year, as the game is designed for 4 people sitting around a table, not 32 people spread from Dubai to Alaska.

Wait. What’s The Quiet Year, you ask? The Quiet Year is Avery Alder’s fantastic, genre-bending collaborative story telling game. Go buy it! Right now! It’s awesome.  Starting with a very simple premise for a community (we’re a town in a desert. Mixed fantasy races, like elves and dwarves and such), the game gives players a series of random prompts and decisions to make each turn. By answering questions, creating projects, and “discovering” new locations on a map, players jointly tell the story of a small community as the year unfolds.

The Quiet Year was our prompt, the engine we used to create a world. Using shared google docs and email chains, all the participants added to the world one after another. Six days later, there was a document with roughly 10,000 words outlining the major characters, events, and locations in our town. Using this document as our canon, each writer created within that space, with the explicit encouragement to do “something weird,” to push the boundaries of genre fiction. Chris’s mantra became: it’s all good. Factum Est Bonum.

Over the next six weeks, we wrote, shared, edited, laughed, and formed a community.

And then we had a book. The book you’re holding in your hands. We hope you enjoy it. And just maybe, we hope you help us write the next installment…

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The Contributors

Chris Vandyke started The Year Between because he was bored and it seemed like a good idea at the time. When he isn’t teaching and parenting, he’s writing things. Too many things. You can see the things at cvandyke.com and follow him at @aboutrunning

Gabrielle Awe is the writer and narrator of the  podcast Stories in the Dark. She has previously published a collection of stories from the podcast titled “Stores in the Dark: The Horror” as well as “Empire of Sky,” a YA Fantasy. Read more at GabrielleAwe.com

Jesse Nolan Bailey is an indie author who prefers to explore the dark and weird in his stories. With one dark fantasy book and more on the horizon, this anthology seemed like the perfect opportunity to try out shorter fiction in a collaborative way. Check out his work at: jessenolanbailey.com

Ian Barr is a fantasy author hailing from Northwestern Ontario. Ian joined The Year Between project for the opportunity to express some of the rogue ideas rattling around in his mind between his solo projects. You can find him on Twitter @RoyalsNRogues or by email: ibarrwriter@gmail.com

Darius Bearguard grew up in British Columbia Canada, in a town caught between a village and a city nestled within acres of mountain and backwoods. He started his writing journey writing fan-fiction for the Duke Nukem games, and has been enamored with writing since. @OSTBear

Jonathan Beck is a singer & writer from Northern Ireland who loves cats, whiskey and traveling; in the absence of the latter is hitting the other two pretty hard. When he’s not running or watching Star Trek, he can be found in coastal cafes, writing odd tweet-sized stories under the name @diminufiction.

Kyle Beers is an all-around nerd and lover of nerdy things. When not writing, Kyle meditates, hikes, cooks, paints, and spends time with his dogs. He enjoys turning traditional fantasy tropes on their heads. You can find Kyle on Twitter at @KDBAuthor and online at Wordpress.

Dan Berison is a weaver of tales, drinker of ales and dancer of rock... in any order. Betwixt my lips and fingers rests a million stories waiting to be told. Author of the Starlab Chronicles and Molly Banjo series, released 2020. Tweets as @StarlabChronic1 www.starlabchronicles.co.uk

Benjamin Blattberg is a software developer, improviser, and writer currently living in Austin, TX. His stories have appeared in Tina Connolly’s Toasted Cake, Crossed Genres, Pornokitsch, Podcastle, Pseudopod, and Diabolical Plots. He tweets as @inCatastrophe

Elvira Canaveral (Garris, Son of Key Lore) is a sincere satire (sintire.com) of Elvira Canaveral creator of GameOfDepth.com,  Pincombo.com. Go to WordCrimes.com for work or dial HAHACOMICS for Rep Ryan Richards r@sintire.com

Gregory Coley is a disabled writer from Dallas, Texas. In 15 years he has written everything from poetry to novels. He enjoys writing supernatural/fantasy with the help of his cat Luna. His website is: https://gkcoley.wixsite.com/gregorycoleywriting

Darby Cupid isn’t sure how she ended up on the giant ant to Achten Tan, but has enjoyed the ride. You can usually find her hiding from her kids, writing YA and MG books. Find out more at darbycupid.com or find her on Twitter @darbycupid.

Rosalind Dando is a primary teacher, artist, and master of procrastination. When not writing fantasy, she can be found knitting, playing board games with her partner, or hibernating with a book and her grumpy Turkish Angora cat. Find her on Twitter at @ortyallin.

Chris “Terry” Durston lives in England’s West Country, where he subsists on cider and ‘taters. He doesn’t know what’s going on, ever, but is OK with it. His first novel, Each Little Universe, was released in April 2020 and isn’t half bad, he hopes. Find his stuff on chrisdurston.com or on Twitter @overthinkery1

Diana C Gagliardi talks to kids about books at a middle school & has written for various East Coast LARPs. While accused of being fictional, she lives outside of Philly PA with four feline companions, three guitars, & a ukulele. She & her child enjoy singing in harmony & quoting Monty Python.

Erin Rae Hoffer writes about post-fossil fuel futures in the hope that positive imaginings might slap humanity hard enough to change things. You can find her  website here and her tweets at @erhoffer

Sarah Houck wrote fanfiction for years and is now working on her first Contemporary Romance novel. Originally from Southern California, Sarah currently lives in Anchorage, Alaska with her husband, son and two cats. She Tweets @sarahhouckbooks

Debbie Iancu-Haddad grown up but never matured, and now channels her inner teen into YA SFF. She lives & writes in Meitar, Israel, balancing a day job as a public speaker with writing VSS on twitter. Follow her on @debbieiancu or at her author website

Roger Kristian Jones was Idaho-born and raised. He moved to NYC to write plays and fall in love and apparently teach English to Brooklyn high school students.  Sonneteer, novelist, screenwriter, playwright.  Blessed with a wife who celebrates nerdom and a teen daughter who hasn’t gone to the dark side.

Vincent LaBate produces and plays on The Chimera, an actual play RPG podcast, where his roles have included a loud-mouth vampire, a living financial instrument, and a hippopotamus bartender. Writes in fit and starts. Passable tweeting at @MrReciprocity and @chimerapod.

Rob McIntosh lives in Brooklyn and teaches Acting, Playwriting and Production at Repertory Company High School for Theatre Arts in Times Square.

Allison N. Moore is a stay-at-home mom who lives in MN. She may look sweet and innocent, but her characters know better.  She is querying her first adult fantasy novel, which you can find out more about at her website: authorallisonmoore.com. Her Twittter is @MooreWriting89.

Iseult Murphy is drawn to horror, fantasy and science fiction. She currently resides on the east coast of Ireland with four dogs, two cats, a parrot and a couple of humans. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads, and purchase her horror novel and short story collections on Amazon.

Chapel Orahamm is an illustrator, academic, &  author. They live in the middle of no-man’s-land big sky country. They have a passion for slipstream, romance, LGBTQ novels & the odd short story. Straddling the line between grunge and sappy prose, their world can be found online at the Kavordian Library.

S. L. Parker (nicknamed Sparks by fellow contributors), world builder, wonderer & as a result, writer. Plays well with words & others. Prior publications in poetic (s.parker) & academic veins (Sarah Parker). Tweets via @isparkit.

Sarah Remy/Alex Hall is a nonbinary, animal-loving, proud gamer Geek. Their work can be found in a variety of cool places, including HarperVoyager, EDGE and NineStar Press. Find them online at SarahRemy.com or on twitter at @sarahremywrites

CD Storiz loves to escape by reading and writing Science Fiction and Fantasy. Her previously published novelette, Relevant, can be found at Kyanite Press.  As @LeChatGris3, she tweets samples of her writing and rants about her cat.

Imelda Taylor worked as an English Tutor, play worker and science presenter before becoming a full-time mother. She’s passionate about writing for children, including Princess Flo the Daydreamer and other titles. She lives in Hertfordshire, England and tweets at @lostsheep2.

Kelly Washington is a 3rd generation soldier. Her writing has appeared in Pulp House Fiction Magazine, Kaleidotrope, Heart’s Kiss, and various Fiction River Anthologies. You can find her on the web at Kellywashington.com. She tweets as @kellywashwrites.

Paul Worthington lives happily in South Wales U.K. with his partner and two children. When not working a mundane day job likes to write Sci-fi, Horror, Fantasy and Post-apocalyptic fiction. He tweets as @werthyp, and can be found both on Wordpress and YouTube.

A Note on the Fonts

Cover and title pages are set in Wilson Hawk by FontKong. I spent a long time looking for the perfect old-school pulp fantasy font, and I think Wilson Hawk hits the mark.

The “TFYB” logo is set in Old London, by Dietter Steffmann; Neon Lights, by Allen R. Walden; Army Rust, by Jayde Garrow; and Heaters, by MLKWSN studios.

The headlines for “Old Crawman’s” replacements are set in Almendra,” an open-source font.

In addition to the above, the faux catalogue pages and advert use: MADE Sunflower, by MadeType, and Assassin$, by Paolo Vannucci and inspired by Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed.

All fonts are either duly licensed or open source and used under free creative license.