PLANET MAGAZINE

Illustration: “Dover Cat” © 2007 by Robert Sorensen

It exploded off of the ceiling and went crashing down with a resounding bang that echoed around the chambers and shook the woodlands outside, jarring the blue jays from their midday rest.

The tower shook in response, the earth grumbled in protest. A lithe feline made her way up the stairs, the yellow dress she wore glided gently over the cracked sandstone steps.

“Arthos, what’s all this noise?” She shook her head and made a gentle clicking sound with her teeth as she tapped a sharpened claw against them.

“S-sorry Deliasssh.” He bowed his head in shame, “I was just practicing.”

“You should do this sort of stuff in the basement, where it’s quieter. You’ve gone and woke the dead.” She turned her back and studied the bookshelf in front of her.

He pulled his red robes tightly around his body, “Yes, milady.”

The silence was deafening. Delias selected a cracked leather book, pulled it from the shelf and brushed her paw lightly against it. She blew hard on the cover.

Dust danced in the streams of light that filtered in from the ceiling.

Delias shook her head sadly; a single strand of silver hair pushed its way out off her cowl, and she reflexively swatted at it, pushing the troublesome hair back into place. “We simply cannot have these kinds of experiments going on in the tower. At least, not without the permission from and knowledge of the rest of the council.” She squinted at the title on the book and smiled to herself as she made her way to one of the recliners in the far corner.

“I will seek the permission, milady.” Arthos bowed low, excusing himself, as he hobbled down the steps descending into the blackened heart of the tower of elders, leaving Delias to her studies.

She was the head of the governing Council of the Seven Roses, entrusted with the supervision of all magical activity within the realm.

The golden rays of sunlight faded into twilight’s purple hues; the room grew dark.

“E’glan.” Her soft voice accented the phrase as the room grew brighter, as if lit by dozens of invisible candles.

She opened her book and soon became lost in her studies, oblivious to the sound of the approaching hooves.

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[Illustration: “Fairyworld” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

Bobby Burns is gone, and with him the fair tongue he spoke. I pray, therefore, the ancient Celts to forgive me as I interpret the Gaelic tongue in order to bring appreciation of it to a newer time. As a babe, my ears heard the words:

Those words remain behind, but I shall bring you the story.

Thomas the Rhymer, Lord Earlston, gave birth to prose before the likes of Chaucer had even worn a Christening cap. Thomas took much pride in his silver tongue, by which he oft wooed the fair maidens, but by which he mainly escaped the sweat of the plow.

It was a fine day when Thomas chose to lay on Huntly bank at the foot of the Eildon Hills. His mind wove a magical verse for use with the evening’s ale, but the thread was spoiled when down the bank rode a lady of great beauty. Thomas knew her for a queen. Her steed strode with majestic pride, carrying its burden gladly. Thirty silver bells and nine hanging from the mane played the magical songs of the wind. The lady’s saddle was of royal bone laid over in gold. Her attire gave homage to her beauty, not daring to shine greater. Yet, strangely, she had a bow in her hand and arrows in her belt - a huntress. Only a faerie queen could muster such strength yet remain so fair.

The faerie queen deigned to pass Thomas by, intent upon the trail her hounds followed. Thomas could not allow such a sight to escape him.

“My lady,” he called, rising from the bank.

Within moments the hounds surrounded him, guarding their lady from harm. She spurred the great steed towards the intruder of her hunt, and brought a dirk to bear on his throat.

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[Illustration: “Den” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

Den had made himself a good life after leaving the service of King Alexander. He started a small farrier’s shop in the northern border town of Gladia, the kind of town that was full of a variety of passersby on any given day, but without much to speak about except a few shops and the old fort that hadn’t been manned for a hundred years. He made a decent living forging weapons, horseshoes, and whatever else he was contracted to make. He had a wife of five years, and was forty years old. Before his retirement from the King’s army, his service, being both voluntary and full of illustrious duty, had earned him the highest honors and recognition, along with a measure of fame. Some considered him one of the greatest Kingsmen of the age, and tales of his heroic deeds were well known throughout the land.

Den reached such a place of esteem during the many years of his service that King Alexander even offered him knighthood, a position of honor typically never entrusted with someone not of royal blood. The last commoner to receive such an honor had saved the King’s life on two occasions, nearly two-hundred years past. Den respectfully refused, choosing a simpler life, hundreds of miles from the glory, the riches, and especially the intrigues associated with positions of power. He wanted a simple life for his family, to retire in peace. Let the stories speak for themselves; he had lived it and no longer wanted the glory. Besides, the realm was settled, peace was gained on a level that had not been known in hundreds of years, and he believed his duty to be done.

But it was not to be. Five years after his settlement in Gladia, a northern race known as the Dumerians invaded, a surprise attack that spread nearly the entire length of the border west of the towering mountains. The main force marched on Castle White, many days ride east of Gladia, and raiding parties were sent into the western lands. Den was on an errand south to Cambria at the time of the invasion, to obtain ore from the foundries there. When he returned along the packed-dirt road, he spotted the hulking creatures smash into a home on the outer edge of town. Seven- to eight-feet tall, wearing leather and fur, their lumbering gaits and large, hairless heads were unmistakable from even hundreds of yards out.

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[Illustration: “Henge and Druids” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

Thousands of years ago on a flat bit of land that eventually would be called Salisbury Plain, in what eventually would be known as Southern Britain, stood a ring of wooden uprights that would be compost. For generations the ring had taken many forms and signified many things, including the free availability of wood and where the smell was coming from in damp weather. At that precise moment in the ancient religious site’s history, a single great stone lay on its side, surrounded by the men and women who had dragged it across the land. It had been stopped by an obstacle more serious than steep hill or flooding river. The leader of the band, App Front, had to face the final problem alone.

“You’ve got no appreciation of Nature,” accused the protester.

“I’m a druid,” replied App.

“But not a real druid. You were fast-tracked. You’ve not spent decades getting in touch with the Earth Mother. You wouldn’t know a shamanistic ritual if one bit you on the bum. When did you last explore the entrails of –”

“Please,” App interrupted. He was doing his best to keep his patience. This was hard, especially when his opponent began sounding like Master Thunder Cloud, and he just knew, if he didn’t stop this right now, there’d be some comment about his beard.

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[Illustration: “Fortune Maker” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

“Eww, there’s that creepy Johnny,” Amanda said, squishing her face up.

Megan wondered why her face didn’t look that cute when she practiced that expression in the mirror. Then she was fighting to keep her balance as Amanda jerked her behind one of the striped carnival tents. Her stumbling feet stirred up the scents of dust, old hay, and stale popcorn.

“I can’t stand him,” Amanda stage-whispered. “He’s such a nerd, and he’s always trying to touch me.”

Megan snuck a glance at the outlines of Amanda’s push-up bra showing through the tight shirt and knew why every boy in school tried to brush up against her. If it was Brandon or one of the other football players Amanda was currently in love with, she didn’t seem to mind. Glancing down at her own sweats, loose and form-concealing, Megan almost wished she had Amanda’s nerve.

“We have to hide somewhere,” Amanda said. Then Megan found herself being dragged along by the elbow at a near sprint to the opposite side of the tent. Amanda stopped so fast that Megan nearly ran into her. And Coach wondered why she preferred long distance to the stop and start of sprinting.

Amanda pointed. “There, the fortuneteller’s tent.”

“I don’t know,” Megan said. Her parents had warned her about messing with the occult — at best, they were scams, at worse, it was Satan’s realm. Knowing Amanda wouldn’t be turned from her course without a good alternative, she pointed at the building next to the fortuneteller’s somber black tent. “What about the freak show?”

“Eww, gross! Come on, I want my fortune told.”

So much for a good alternative. Megan found herself running behind her friend, unease tightening her stomach and shoulders. Amanda pushed aside the flap of the tent and ducked in. Megan stopped and allowed the flap to close with a puff of warm, cinnamon-scented air. It didn’t remind her of her grandmother’s kitchen. There were several other scents mixed in — something that might have been sandalwood and a green, crushed-herb scent that made her jittery. If she waited outside for Amanda, Megan would have to put up with the resulting silent treatment because she didn’t follow. And Johnny was kind of a jerk. She lifted the tent flap and slipped in.

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[Illustration: “Abadonna” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

The Hill of Magnificence had been in sight all day, but it was only on the eve of dusk that Samuel reached it. It was tall and verdant, and standing at the base, he could not see the top, where the stone slab stood embedded in the wild grass.

Samuel’s head swam as he ascended the slope. Now, after so long, reaching his destination felt like the final step on the gangplank, or perhaps the final tightening of the knot that held him to the guillotine. His calves were screaming, his feet blistering, but none of that registered.

He had spent what seemed like an eternity, lumbering along desert roads, with the eastern mountains at his back, searching for the Hill, which was somewhere in this desert world between the mountains of his home and the mysterious sea in the west. Finally, struggling over the crest of the Hill, he was bombarded by scarlet sunbeams. They stung Samuel’s tired eyes, and he raised his arms to block them.

The stone sentinel was there in the center, just as he had been told; silent and austere, it cast its long shadow towards where he stood. He sensed the energy in his body evaporate like the sparse morning dew on the desert roads. He fell to his knees and slid forward on the slick grass. He hid his face in his arms, despairingly, and lay prostrate, weeping uncontrollably. As the sun sank, the headstone’s cold shadow reached out and kissed his face, taunted him, made the memory of Michelle jump to life and fill him with guilt. He knew it was his fault that she was dead.

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[Illustration: “Like I Don’t Exist” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

It’s not easy being a superhero. Snap judgments are what it’s all about. I mean, all I saw was her, running out of her bedroom. Him, panting at her heels, his face red — leering — his shirttails hanging out of his pants. He grabbed her when she reached the top of the stairs, pinning her against the banister and she cried out. It sounded like a scream.

So I only did what any superhero would do. I yelled, and when he turned, I concentrated all of my energy in the heel of my foot and I kicked him downstairs. How was I supposed to know that he was her boyfriend?

His neck was bent at an odd angle from how he landed, head first, knocking against the wall at the foot of the staircase. Mom and I craned our own necks to look at him. “What did you do?” Mom whispered. She stared at me as if she didn’t know who I was. Not for the first time I thought: She doesn’t appreciate me.

She walked downstairs like the bride of Frankenstein, limbs all unhinged. She leaned to get a closer look at him, her hair falling forward and hiding her expression. She didn’t touch him though. She didn’t lay a finger on him. Then she walked into the living room and I sent myself to where she was walking. She yelped when I materialized in front of her. You’d have thought she’d be used to it by now — I’ve only been doing it for about seventeen years.

“What are you going to do, Mom?” I asked.

She gazed at me steadily. Then she said, “Jacie, I’m going to call the police.”

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[Illustration: “Wolfman” © 2006 by B. Lloyd.]

Dwelis Spurnfit exited the tower of the Order of the Watch and looked up at the night sky. His long, brown hair swayed with a passing breeze. It was cold and coming from the north. Soon the snows will cover the land, he thought.

The last embers of dusk glowed, low on the horizon, and stars appeared in its wake. He slung saddlebags over his mount, Loth, and prepared for the night’s patrol of the woods that surrounded the tower. The tower itself, a large structure of solid rock standing taller than a giant, overlooked much of the Split Land. This was where the knights surveyed the land for any trouble that might be seen.

Dwelis looked to the two brothers who were also preparing for the patrol. Chaltin Locke stood as tall and as proud as his brother Welthin, although the two could not be more different. Chaltin was always clowning around, and as knights in training had often gotten the three of them many detentions.

His brother, Welthin, was the opposite. Quiet and reserved, he calculated every movement and observed every detail.

The three knights had entered training together from the town of Thistlehorn, a day’s ride southeast from the Castle of the Order. Their training in combat and the codes of the knights made the three almost inseparable over the years. Now, among the two siblings, Dwelis couldn’t help but feel like a brother with them. He looked forward to the patrol this evening with the two men he admired most, even though they would be patrolling different areas.

“Any signs of trouble?” asked Welthin.

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Illustration: “Dancing Flame” by Steve Cartwright (c) 2005

Five black candles were set on the points of a pentagram, in the center of which stood a lonely, desperate young man obsessed by the occult and the black arts. In his mind, necromancy seemed the only way to obtain that which he desired: friends who respected him, an attractive woman who would love him, power, and his own money to spend. As Craig said the words of summoning, a mystical darkness, evil and strange, surrounded him. He shivered in terror. There was real danger. If he was successful, an awful power would threaten his very being, his soul, his aura. If he lost control of that power, he would be sucked into the vortex to be lost and damned forever, to suffer excruciating torture for eternity. In order to prevent the demon that would appear from touching him or tricking him in any way, he needed to concentrate mightily. Nonetheless, if he succeeded, he would have the stupendous power of a dark angel at his beck and call.

In a loud and sonorous voice he called out the names of power and repeated the incantation that he had memorized from an ancient book. A loud clap of thunder sounded like the clap of doom, the room suddenly brightened from a flash of lightning, a torrential rain beat against the walls, and a howling wind tore at the ancient Victorian mansion where Craig had lived alone for years. The old house creaked and groaned.

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Illustration: “Joes vs. The Cat” by Romeo Esparrago (c) 2005

There were twelve of us. Just twelve, and no more. We lived in the box, only let out once every 365 days. The fresh air revived us, barely enough to sustain our life throughout the long year.

One year, we were put away on a damp spot on the cellar floor. Toward May, Number 5 said, “The cardboard is weak around me from the moisture.”

Being Number 1, everyone looked to me for direction. “Let us act on this,” I commanded.

We dug and scraped, wiggled and writhed, until Number 9 gasped, “I feel a slight draft!” This inspired us to new lengths, and before long a fresh breeze blew through the box.

“Onward, eleven soldiers!” I cried, and we broke free.

The cellar was huge and cavernous. A bright square at one corner revealed a window high in the wall. “We’ll make for that,” I said, pointing with my gun.

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All the lights were on inside the little, bright-red Mustang. Even the dome light was cutting through the darkness on either side of the road. She really didn’t care that she might be pulled over. For her, at this point, nothing mattered. She told the bear buckled firmly into the seat next to her this fact several times. The animal was made up of polyester fiber and PE pellets and was incapable of responding. Its brown felt face registered no emotion as the dark scenery flew by its black button eyes. She kept going over the same ground conversationally, and she kept referring to the inanimate object beside her as “Pookie.” Occasionally she grabbed a fluffy paw and gave it a squeeze.

“I thought this was going to be different,” she told Pookie around a ghastly nasal sniffling. “He was so good at telling me how much he loved me.”

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Author’s note: This translation of “The Fall of Leuyoldedd”, also known as “The Second Coming of Skell’aenthid”, represents only parts five, six, and seven of the full tale. The other parts have never been found.

“How could I possibly say ‘no’ to the Queen’s Champion?”

In response, Sir Leuyoldedd put on his well-known, woman-swooning smile, but said no more. The old man had, after all, spoken true — he could not refuse Sir Leuyoldedd, the Queen’s Champion, not if he wanted his business to continue to thrive. A slight to Leuyoldedd was as good as a slight to the Queen herself. And though refusal of a man like Leuyoldedd was by no means treason, word of such denial would spread quickly. The small crowd already gathering around the two would see to that. People wouldn’t trust a man who didn’t trust the Queen’s Champion. Sir Kape Leuyoldedd: not just the Queen’s Champion; the People’s Champion. Leuyoldedd maintained his smile as he held out the sword.

“Look at this,” the old man said. “Nitre’d good, she is.” His bony fingers scratched at the calcified deposits layered over the old blade, dislodging a few flecks onto his rickety table. “A sight shabby fer the likes of you, sir, but nothing a good rasping won’t fix. But a fine eye for sword craft you have, sir; I do believe her blade is still keen!”

The small crowd around Leuyoldedd and the scrutineer leaned in to get a better look, ever cautious not to jostle the brown-haired Champion.

“Strip her, then!” Leuyoldedd called, for the crowd’s benefit as much as the old timer’s. “Let’s see what fine lines she has beneath her modest shell!” Sure enough, Leuyoldedd heard the intended sighs from the women and emboldened chuckles from the men.

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