Tag Archives: Free

The Fight

Following is another short story I wrote. This one not necessarily in the world of Zarathuz. I hope you enjoy.

This work is copyrighted 2013 by Nathan Washor. All rights reserved.

The little girl pulled herself up onto the barge, water streaming onto its weathered wooden deck. “Daddy, watch me!” She yelled as she ran and leaped off the opposite side, splashing into the gentle river’s blackness.

The little girl’s father barely noticed her pleas for attention as he spoke to his wife of ten years. “I know, that’s what I told him.” He said.

She sat, legs crossed, on an upturned crate in front of him. “Jake, then you need to get him to pay us back. We can’t keep living like this.” She grasped his arm, causing him to look up into her eyes. She had to get through to him. She said again, “We need that money back.” She held his gaze until he turned away in shame. She hadn’t meant to do that.

“I’ll talk to him again.” His demure voice betrayed his feeling of hopelessness.

She gently shook his arm, causing him to look back up at her. She smiled warmly and added, “I love you Jake. You can do this.”

He smiled back, some small bit of his youthful vigor returning.

His daughter pulled herself back onto the barge from the other side. “Did you see that daddy?” She asked him. “Did you see my splash? It was huge!” She exclaimed.

He turned around and grinned. “You’re amazing sweetheart. You got me wet all the way over here.” He lied as he flicked his hand pretending to dry it in the air.

She beamed. “Watch this one daddy.” She said as she ran and jumped back off the other side of the barge.

Jake turned back to his wife and said, “I will try again Mel, but he’s not likely to let us out of it. And I know what you’re thinking, but no. The authorities won’t help us in this matter.”  Annoyance prevailed over his carefully checked emotions. He added in an accusatory tone, “Besides, it’s our own fault we’re in this mess, Mel.”

Her eyes bit deep. “You want to start that again Jake?”

He really didn’t. He was tired of this same old fight. They both had made mistakes. She more than he he thought, but that was not how she felt. Inevitably though, every time they quarreled it came back to this, and here they were.

“Look Mel, I really don’t want to fight today. I will talk to him tonight. I doubt he’ll agree, but you never know, right?” He just said this to get Mel off his back. Jake knew talking to Oli was a hopeless task. He probably wouldn’t even try, but Mel didn’t have to know that. Asking for an audience with Oli was dangerous. Mel realized this, but she didn’t really appreciate it. She figured since Jake and Oli were close friends as children, that afforded Jake immunity to his notorious temper. While this may have been partially true, Jake did not want to try his luck. People had a tendency to disappear around Oli when he got in one of his moods.

Mel’s jaw tightened as he had spoken those last words. She replied, “If you can’t handle it, I’ll go. I don’t know when, but I’ll go.”

“You want to go? Fine. Have fun.” He said smiling, his hands thrown in the air. “I’ll get you the contracts from the vault tonight.”

She said, “I can’t go tonight. It’s ladies night. I’ve had plans to go with Kellie for weeks. You know that. You bought me the tickets.” She stared at him, her face flushed crimson.

“Fine, don’t go tonight. I’ll get you the documents and leave them out for you. You go whenever you can.” He said disgusted. He stood up, suddenly wishing he could go for a walk, but he was trapped on the barge. Jake sat back down and sighed.

“Where’s Ana?” Mel asked, horror already creeping into her voice. “Jake!” She screamed. “Where’s Ana?”

Jake leaped into the water where Ana had jumped in only moments earlier. He grasped frantically at the water’s depths trying to find a strand of hair or a limp limb but felt only water. He came up for a breath and quickly dove back under, desperate to find his little girl. He kicked himself down deep and felt his foot connect with something solid. He turned around grabbing, but she was not there.

He twisted around feeling for her with stretched palms. He tried to calm his racing heart. He told himself not to panic; things would be okay. He’d find Ana, pull her up to the barge and pump the water from her lungs. She’d be okay. He grasped about aimlessly until he realized his searching was useless. He needed to get onto that barge and scan the water. Again, the back of his right hand touched something solid. He twisted it around and curled his fingers about a leg. Ana’s leg.

He pulled her to the surface and swam back to the barge. It had grown agonizingly distant from them. With all his strength he threw Ana up onto the platform and practically jumped up out of the water. Mel was already holding Ana, wailing a mother’s worst fears come true. Jake shoved her away and laid Ana flat on her back. He breathed into her mouth and pumped on her chest. Water poured out of Ana’s mouth as she choked and gagged on her first breath. Jake reached down and gathered her into his arms, sobbing.

A few minutes later Ana asked, “Daddy, did you see me?”



Filed under Short Story

The Sacrifice

Warning: This post is rather graphic and contains ritualistic human sacrifice.

Following is another very short story I wrote. I hope you enjoy.

This work is copyrighted 2013 by Nathan Washor. All rights reserved.

Small circular windows shone thin beams of moonlight down from the vaulted ceiling. Their glint off the medallion’s silver was reflected by the jewel’s innumerable facets, cascading tiny rainbows about the blackened chamber. Lights danced to the medallion’s slow spin as its beaded chain twirled between her finger and thumb. The scent of oranges and cloves clung to the air. The scene hypnotized, lulling her sacrifice to trance. The time was near.

* * *

He came willing, hearing his master’s call from beyond death’s veil. Still, terror of the act gripped his heart with claws that dug deep into that muscle. Fear’s fist would not be the one to tear flesh from his ribs. That job was reserved for the slender digits that suppressed his panic with their mesmerizing motion. Those delicate fingers. They had so loving caressed him that morning; his master’s final act of gratitude on this side of the veil.

She had said it would be quick. She had said, “Almost painless. Just a little prick.” She had not said how the waiting would be torture itself. She stood there so beautiful in her poise, naked in the moonlight, rainbows twinkling in her eyes. He laid there sheathed in sweat, strapped to the altar, trembling in the dark. Her perfume wriggled up his nose, gently massaging the knots of panic in his mind. Gradually, his shivers calmed and his breath steadied. The time was here.

* * *

The moon shone full through the tenth window. The medallion angled the beam and the gem glowed green. The portal was opening.

She withdrew the knife from its plain leather sheath. Its glass blade was so fine and delicate, so incredibly sharp, its purpose so sinister. The point glided through his exposed neck, separating throat from jaw. His head tilted back. His eyes bulged and rolled as his body spasmed under its restraints. Blood pumped furiously, flowing in a torrent down chiseled grooves to pool around her bared feet. She raised the blade and sliced a long, deep furrow down the center of his torso. She set the blade in the bowl of water resting on a side table and looked down with purpose.

She flattened her hand as it dove into his cavity. It quested following the stalling beats and grasped the organ tight as she ripped it free. She held it aloft in the green glow of the open portal.

She cried with zeal, “Blood and muscle, join with my flesh and bones so that my body may become a perfect vessel for my lord!” She bit deep into the heart, chewing savagely and swallowed. She cried again, “Lord Nosos! Master of disease. Enter me, your willing servant!”

The portal winked out. Her face contorted in dismay and shock as she dropped lifeless to the ground. Rejection was something she had never conceived.

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The Murder

Following is a very short story I wrote taking place within the world of Zarathuz. It is to be continued.

This work is copyrighted 2013 by Nathan Washor. All rights reserved.

Colors swam over his vision, a liquid ball of pigments swirling over and around one another, but never mixing. His hands began to tingle and his legs were already numb. This was the cost of life, and payment was due.

Half his skull had been shattered by the red knight wielding his awful mace. He somehow retained consciousness as he had fallen from his own steed to land beneath stomping hoofs and fighting men. He had lain there, bodies piling up all around him, cloaking his still breathing corpse under a guise of death. The battle still raged on, but this piece of blood soaked ground had already been claimed. Its true victor waited for one more soul to pass into its grasp.

He closed his eyes, but the colors would not dissipate. He longed for oblivion’s sweet embrace to take away the pain, the nausea, the involuntary twitches that wracked his body. Death did not come though, and had it, it would not have been so merciful.

He had lived a hard life. A mercenary’s life. He had killed innocents and vented his rage and lusts on the victims of his warfare. The gods, whether he believed in them or not, would not grant him peace everlasting. Instead he had a visitor.

The crow looked down on him with an intelligence one only thinks capable of men. A new fear welled up inside him. He wished to flail his arms to shoo the little beast away, but they did not obey. He growled at it, but all that came out was a choked gurgle. The colors danced more brightly from the strain and his head throbbed in pain. The bird hopped forward and in one fast motion, plucked his left eye out with its beak. The man watched in stunned horror with his remaining eye as the thing tilted its thick black neck back. It opened its beak and scoffed down its morsel. A savage urge of delight welled up in the man, mixing with his already present anguish and horror as it choked on its prize. It only lasted a moment and a deep feeling of loss replaced delight as the creature managed to get its meal down. It cocked its head at him, stepped forward again and plucked out the other eye.

The man tried to scream, but met the same shortcomings as before. Colors still swam before the vision that had so permanently been robbed of him. A flutter of wings foretold of the beast’s friends arrivals, but the flutter soon became a chorus, and then a roar. The air about him stank of carrion and a rhythmic wind pattered his face, drying to his cheeks the blood that dripped from his empty sockets. The man now knew fear. This was his payment; to be eaten alive. How he wished he had been luckier.

Had he not blocked most of the red knight’s furious assault, he would already be dead. The jealousy he had of his fellow corpses flared with each moment as the murder descended on them. Tiny claws gripped onto exposed flesh as the clinks of feet on metal were all but drowned out by the ruckus. Then he noticed a voice in the commotion, as if the thousands of wings themselves spoke.

“Mortal man” the murder said. “You can hear us mortal man?” It asked of him.

The man gurgled, “yes”. He choked on his own words and coughed hard, relieving the phlegm in his lungs for a moment. He reiterate with a stronger voice, “yes.”

The murder responded, “Good. Mortal man, We have need of you. Will you obey us? We will return life to your dying body.”

The man cried, “My eyes. I can not see.” He whimpered, crying too difficult to achieve. “How can I help without eyes?”

The murder said, “We took your eyes. You will not need them. Had they remained, you would be dead.”

The man just sobbed in self pity.

The murder said, “Will you obey us? Or will you die? We are not patient and grow ever hungry.”

Fear jolted the man again. The thought of a god consuming him was a horrible one. “I will obey”, He squeaked as another coughing fit racked him.

The murder said, “Then sleep.” He obeyed.

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Filed under Short Story, Tree of Dreams

Old Friends

This is the introduction chapter of one of the main protagonists in The Tree of Dreams, Aban.

This work is copyrighted 2013 by Nathan Washor. All rights reserved.

Aban’s considerable bulk was masked by the narrow alley’s shadows. He lowered his head to the ground to study the ruined metal grate. Its thick iron bars looked as though they had been cut by something very hot. Their melted tips protruded about an inch creating a large hole through which almost anyone could pass. Aban rubbed a tentacle over a severed prong and held up a glass vial with a tiny jellyfish bobbing within. He gave the flask two quick shakes. In response the creature lit up with a bright blue glow. Under the expelled light Aban looked at his tentacle inspecting for rust. He found none, the cut was fresh. He squeezed his massive frame through the grate into the sewers below.

He landed in a crouch, his hands and feet splashing in a shallow runnel of waste from the city above. The water barely crested his naked toes and although it wasn’t drinkable, the smell could have been much worse. Aban breathed in surprised relief when he realized the upper crust of Krasnyi must have their filth carted and dumped in the slums’ sewers.

There was only one way to go. He clutched the jelly lamp high with one of his tentacles. Its light extended far illuminating a long tubular corridor. Aban waddled forward, his feet and hands quietly slipping forward as he crawled. He held his other four tentacles free of the filth not wanting to get unnecessarily fouled. After half a league the first man-sized connection joined with his tunnel.

Before approaching the intersection, Aban slipped the jelly lamp inside his tunic extinguishing its light. He approached silently, probing with his tentacles for any clue of Sindar’s passing or a trap he may have set. It wouldn’t be the first trap Aban discovered that could have proved fatal. As he approached the corner of the adjacent tunnel, he heard a clatter of metal on stone followed by two cries of surprise. He withdrew his kukris holding one in each hand and turned the corner to confront the commotion.

Two human men, Aban figured most likely Wealdish by their size, struggled with a monstrous snake. It coiled about the farther man’s waist. The free man, seeing struggle was pointless, nearly slammed into Aban’s form as he turned to abandon his friend. His metal oil lantern clanged on the floor and almost went out after being dropped in shock. Another lantern lay snuffed next to the serpent’s body. Two blurs of Aban’s kukris were nearly invisible as they separated chunks of the snake from the trapped man’s torso.

“Another t-t-toad.” The reeling man stuttered as he looked up in horror at Aban.

“I, am not, a toad,” Aban wheezed from the sudden exertion. After a few more breaths, his breathing steadied. He said, “I am a negroil. I am here looking. Looking for another. Another like me. You said another. You have seen another? Tell me. How long ago? Where?” Aban’s stare held the man fixed in place. The coward seemed to lose all senses, able to reply only in stammers. Aban snapped his mouth open and shut and croaked, “Listen! Answer me. Time is short.”

The man, startled by Aban’s flashing teeth, sobered up. He replied, “Yes, this, this morning. I, we saw it, him, she.” The man seemed to falter, not wanting to offend this creature that could so quickly end his life. When no provocative action was taken, the man continued, “Apologies if I offend…” The man paused, unsure of how to address the toad-beast in front of him. “Sir?” He added.

“My name… Aban. Continue please. Where was he?” Aban asked in a grating croak.

The other man, now clearly recovered from having his life nearly squeezed from him, answered for his terrified friend. “Sir, we see’d him. Yes, we did. We see’d him this morning, yes we did. Aaron and I see’d him near the slum pits we did sir. We can take you there sir. Take you there sir, we go. Come sir, follow Jarek, we take you,” The simple man stooped down, grabbed and re-lit his lantern with the twist of a switch, and ran down the hall with Aaron in tow who was too fearful to be left alone.

Aban followed the pair along winding corridors and down steep stairways until Jarek grabbed Aaron by the shoulder and hissed, “Jarek, you bear-brained fool. I don’t think our master here wishes us to alert his friend. We should let him go alone from here.”

Only a stairway back, Aban had noticed a faint wind pulling him forward. Here, the wind was stronger and an audible roar could be heard ahead in the distance. Aban knew he was close.

Jarek said, “Right, right. You so smart Aaron. That’s why you is the leader, it is.” Then Jarek screamed as Aaron’s head toppled forward.

Aban croaked, “I am sorry.” Mercifully, he did not give the child-like man time to truly understand what was happening. He quickly decapitated him in the same manner as Aaron, sighed sadly and hopped onward.

Aban turned a corner. An intense heat washed over him from the mouth of a cavern less than a stone’s throw away while the howling wind he’d been following sucked him onward. An ancient stone bridge crossed a dark lake connecting the tunnel to an island. At its center a great column of fire was devouring a huge pile of refuse. The flame’s light reflected off still waters illuminating giant stalactites poised overhead as if aiming to bring down the whole cave’s weight on those within. The city’s trash was collected and incinerated here, though never were the flames so greedy in their voracity. Most of the smoke poured up and out through pits in Krasnyi’s slums. Still, a choking haze hung low and thick enough to burn Aban’s windpipe even as he remained in the hallway. Standing in front of the great pyre and commanding it was Sindar. There was no mistaking the other negroil even from this distance.

All five of Sindar’s tentacles were raised in the air tracing patterns of command as he stared upwards, a look of determination etched in the squint of his eyes. His left hand held straight forward the silvery rod those of his order require to focus their energy in the casting of flame and metal. His right moved like a child feverishly digging in the sand, seemingly directing the base of the fiery tornado as the monstrosity danced in similar fashion.

Aban drew shadows about himself, making his form impervious to the light flooding the entry into the chamber. Wary of his quarry siting him, Aban crept forward onto the old bridge probing with both his tentacles and shadows for the inklings of the trap he knew Sindar would have placed to warn him of any intruders. The stones beneath him burned with absorbed heat. Aban knew he’d need to reconsider his slow approach across the expanse. He hopped forward, but as he landed the stones beneath his bulk screamed in protest. Together, they fell away into the waters below.

Surfacing, Aban heard Sindar bellow, “Aban, old friend! There is no sense denying. I know it is you who joined me here. Only one so fat as you could have smashed through those stones I weakened so cleanly.” He chuckled and added, “You took down half the bridge, Aban! And besides, I’ve known you’ve been following me for quite some time, old friend.”

Old friend. Indeed the two were old friends, but only in the sense they were friends a long while ago. Different choices on life’s journeys brought the two to very different destinations. Those decisions shaped who they had now become. Sindar’s path was often found delving into the darkest regions of the world. Aban now pitied his childhood playmate for the task he was set on more than three years earlier. Aban had been sent to kill Sindar.

His high pitched croak sounded almost sickly. With sucking shallow breaths Aban responded as the illusory magic he commanded threw his voice in all directions. “Oh Sindar. You have fallen so far. Yes. My body is fat. My movements slow. My voice winded. But don’t underestimate. My spirit. Or my body. They are powerful. I regret. Regret I could not spare. Spare you the knowledge. The knowledge of your impending death. I wished you that last mercy.” He eyed Sindar from the concealing depths.

A chortling croak erupted from Sindar’s thick lips. “Aban, old friend. Must we war? We were spawn brothers. I would have you an ally, not another victim of our masters’ wills. Throw aside your delusions. Join me. I will show…”

Aban cut him off. “Show me Sindar? Tell me lies? Feed me poison? Throw my flesh to Yrdel? Like you did to Khalil? No. Old friend. You know why. Why I have tracked you. Tracked across nations.” Aban dove beneath the surface. An enraged Sindar bent the column of fire over on itself to churn and burn the waters where he had been hiding only moments earlier.

Aban’s massive legs kicked as his powerful arms pulled. The giant webs on both thrust him far from the hellish cauldron that section of the lake had become. Sindar’s fury was relentless. He cast the flame across the waters all around the island. The bowed jet carved furrows into the surface leaving a boiling wake as it passed. If Sindar were allowed to keep torching the water, Aban would be cooked alive.

Aban swam deep below the passing flame. He came up silently and quickly swam to the island’s shore. The ripples would give away his location, but Sindar’s back was turned. Aban’s magic muffled his noise as he remained shrouded in shadow, all light passing right through him. He crouched on the trash strewn soil a mere three hops from Sindar. He unsheathed the khanjar his masters entrusted to him for this purpose only and leaped.

Something warned Sindar of his presence. He whipped around, just as Aban had closed in for the kill. The tower of flame lashed Aban’s leg, burning skin and muscle, charring bone. Aban spasmed. The artifact fell free of his hand to fall useless at Sindar’s feet as agony racked his body.

Sindar shuffled back in shock. He looked down at the blade. Crafted of violentium, sheer ribbons of purple danced just below the dull-silvery surface. Realization dawned. Sindar grinned savagely at the sight of his old friend twisting in agony at his feet. Two flicks of the flame and Aban lay motionless. “Old friend.” Sindar said with only a hint of remorse. He crouched down, gathered up the blade and its sheath off of Aban’s corpse. Sindar turned back to his task, searching through the pile of refuse, for something.

* * *

Aban awoke. He was shackled in chains. His leg throbbed, his back burned, his left eye was blinded. He looked about with his good eye, but saw nothing more than shadowy outlines. A small square room, a shallow puddle of water pooled in the low corner. No, not water. Ordure and urine by the rank smell of it. The pain was too much. He blacked out.

“Wake friend. We have some questions for you.” The velvety voice lulled him from his fevered dreams. A torch now sputtered in the far corner by the room’s only entry, a heavy wooden door with a small barred window. A man stood near in crimson robes, head cast in the shadows of his cowl. “Yes. That’s right. Wake up now. We would like to know who you are and how you came to inhabit our sewers.” The man asked Aban as he slowly came awake.

Aban’s body agonized, his leg most of all. He tried to make out his injuries, but the shackles held him tightly. Straining against his bonds only resulted in increased pain that was just too much to bear. Aban looked at his captor, finally understanding his situation. He had failed. Sindar was gone and now he lay in some rank dungeon beneath the Rhokian capital city of Krasnyi. Worse, the labyrinthine tattoos snaking over the hooded man’s exposed hands marked him as a seer – the bane of his own order, the illusionists.

The seer said, “I can ease your suffering, but you need to first tell me who you are.” The man’s voice seemed to pull at Aban’s very nature. He wanted to tell this man the truth, and all of it. From when he and Sindar were children to the day his masters tasked him to track and slay the renegade negroil. Aban knew this was sorcery tugging at him, imploring the truth free itself from his mouth, but there was nothing he could do. Resistance was hopeless. He was trapped, bound, and unable to control his umbra. He had no defense save his own willpower and that was so weak. The honeyed words worked their magic.

He said, “My name is Aban.” With those words, the truth flew from his mouth in a torrent.

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Filed under Tree of Dreams