Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors

By Scott Toney

Featuring gripping Independent authors from around the world, FUSION is the first collection of short works published by Breakwater Harbor Books. Contributing heart-pumping tales of Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror and Crime are seven stories that will thrill and rivet you. Authors from across a wide variety of genres, Dee Harrison, Ivan Amberlake, Claire C. Riley, Scott J. Toney, Mindy Haig, Cara Goldthorpe and C.M.T. Stibbe.

The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale – 'and you thought it was safe to look in the mirror?'

Diary of the Gone - Without a girlfriend, bullied by the Principal’s son, and haunted by the dead, Callum Blackwell thinks his life can’t get any worse. But he’s wrong.

Life Ever After. Nina's Story: Part one. – When the dead begin to rise, it's time to put your differences aside and run!

NovaFall – When the Meteor falls, the essences will come, forging flesh and planetary souls as one.

Cybilla. – To claim his Muse, one man must find the gate between the mortal and the immortal worlds.

Capturing Perfection – An artist's tale of love, loss and beauty in Renaissance Milan

Until The Ninth Hour – Until a man loses his daughter to a serial killer, until he loses his best friend, until he is down on his luck, Darryl Williams must put all thoughts of retaliation out of his mind.

An excerpt from Dee Harrison’s The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale

Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith, exited the wayportal directly into the seaweed stench of Abilon. The foul odour tickled the back of his throat and he gagged on a rise of bile. Mirrorsmith Guild protocol demanded that he preview his destination before he arrived but it could not prepare him for an assault on his other senses. He vomited onto the trackway, just thankful that there was no-one to witness his most pitiful entrance ever. He loathed the smell of mouldy greens – it stirred up too many reminders of his wretched childhood in the back alleys of Varna, largest city on his homeworld of Vargo – but this was kabbige soup intensified tenfold.

When his heaving subsided, Junah sank down onto his rump, trying to ignore the early evening dew which was soaking into his leggings. He pulled a kerchief from his belt-purse, to wipe the spittle from his lips, and cursed this ill-favoured world. Sissik, his wail, chittered and scurried around him like a silver-furred cyclone, mewing her distress. Junah winced when she skipped onto his tender stomach, the better to peer into his face with her large, prosimian eyes. He ran a finger down her spine and she slowly relaxed beneath his touch.

Junah ill? She sent.

No, I’m fine, Little One he reassured her. He grimaced. The smell caught me out, that’s all.

Sissik wrinkled her own nose. Nasty, nasty stink, she concurred.

Junah delved into his purse a further time and extracted a couple of lozenges from a packet. A few chews later and he could smell nothing.

“Next time I’ll take ‘em before I get here,” he promised out loud. “Not that there’ll be a next time!”

Junah clambered to his feet and peeled the sodden fabric from his buttocks. Sissik took her accustomed place on his shoulders, hiding beneath his long, dark hair and curled around his neck like a fur collar. Wails were native to all the worlds of the Regium, even the undeveloped ones like Abilon. Some wails, the silver-furred ones like Sissik, were prized for their ability to generate the acoustic frequencies that Mirrorsmiths depended upon. Others, the plumper, browner ones, made good eating. Whenever Sissik irritated him, which was often, Junah threatened to dye her coat russet. Now, however, she was quiescent, understanding that it was time for work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Toney
• Release date: Aug 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301523597

Scott Toney

From the author: I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, the son of a mathematician mother and basketball loving father, and so naturally my passion became writing! It all began as a youth when I wrote tales to go with the computer game Oregon Trail, creating stories to go with Jimmie getting typhoid or Susie getting small pox. Oh the fun of younger days... but one must advance. From there I tackled poetry and received a $100 prize in High School for winning a poetry contest. In college I earned degrees in Journalism and Public Relations. Later I married my wonderful wife, Laura, and we now have an amazing daughter that fills our lives with such joy! Just before I met Laura the idea came to me to write a Fantasy story based on the story of Noah's Ark in the Bible. It was a 'what if' tale centering on Maanta, a merboy who descends from people who, instead of drowning in the flood, adapted to be mer people. Because of Noah's age when he died in the Bible that also left things open for me to incorporate Noah in the book as well. Thus 'The Ark of Humanity' was born. Since then I have been inspired by other things and have gone on to write Eden Legacy and Lazarus, Man. Eden Legacy is another Fantasy work and Lazarus, Man is the story of Lazarus of Bethany, told through tale and tribulation. I've joined forces with other authors as a member of Breakwater Harbor Books and am enthusiastic about the worlds and stories to come! My family is my most treasured achievement. I don't just choose to write. Writing is a part of me.

Book preview

The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale

by DEE HARRISON

Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith, exited the wayportal directly into the seaweed stench of Abilon. The foul odour tickled the back of his throat and he gagged on a rise of bile. Mirrorsmith Guild protocol demanded that he preview his destination before he arrived but it could not prepare him for an assault on his other senses. He vomited onto the trackway, just thankful that there was no-one to witness his most pitiful entrance ever. He loathed the smell of mouldy greens – it stirred up too many reminders of his wretched childhood in the back alleys of Varna, largest city on his homeworld of Vargo – but this was kabbige soup intensified tenfold.

When his heaving subsided, Junah sank down onto his rump, trying to ignore the early evening dew which was soaking into his leggings. He pulled a kerchief from his belt-purse, to wipe the spittle from his lips, and cursed this ill-favoured world. Sissik, his wail, chittered and scurried around him like a silver-furred cyclone, mewing her distress. Junah winced when she skipped onto his tender stomach, the better to peer into his face with her large, prosimian eyes. He ran a finger down her spine and she slowly relaxed beneath his touch.

Junah ill? She sent.

No, I’m fine, Little One he reassured her. He grimaced. The smell caught me out, that’s all.

Sissik wrinkled her own nose. Nasty, nasty stink, she concurred.

Junah delved into his purse a further time and extracted a couple of lozenges from a packet. A few chews later and he could smell nothing.

Next time I’ll take ‘em before I get here, he promised out loud. Not that there’ll be a next time!

Junah clambered to his feet and peeled the sodden fabric from his buttocks. Sissik took her accustomed place on his shoulders, hiding beneath his long, dark hair and curled around his neck like a fur collar. Wails were native to all the worlds of the Regium, even the undeveloped ones like Abilon. Some wails, the silver-furred ones like Sissik, were prized for their ability to generate the acoustic frequencies that Mirrorsmiths depended upon. Others, the plumper, browner ones, made good eating. Whenever Sissik irritated him, which was often, Junah threatened to dye her coat russet. Now, however, she was quiescent, understanding that it was time for work.

The wayportal, part of the network of gates that connected all the worlds of the Regium, had opened between a pair of standing stones that dominated the headland to the north of Abilon. Junah looked down at the coastal town, which nestled within the arms of a sheltering bay. A slash of fire on the horizon marked where the sun was setting and silhouetted the ugly, squat fortress guarding the harbour mouth. Somewhere among the sleazy alleyways of this provincial rats’ nest below was the inn where his contact waited. It was supposed to be a routine mission according to Teren Lemmick, Guild Master but also his oldest friend. All Junah had to do was locate the sliver of Desecrated Mirror, secure it then return it to the Mirrorsmiths’ Guild on Vargo, where it could be destroyed in relative safety. He had carried out scores of such ‘grabbits’ but this time unease pricked his spine. Mirrorsmiths tended towards the superstitious and worlds like Ysreal, with its triple moons, were considered inauspicious but this went deeper than that. Junah’s senses were trained to detect distorted vibrations and this place was riddled with them – probably due to the presence of the sliver. Sissik’s tail tightened around his neck so he dampened down his disquiet. Wails were sensitive to heightened emotion. He checked his accoutrements once more then headed for Abilon, thinking it best to get this trip over with as quickly as possible.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Abilon were crowded. Every third house seemed to be selling ale and shabby, ill-visaged townsfolk bumped and barged their way through the densely-packed lanes. Junah knew roughly where the inn lay but he had previewed it during daylight and it took him a while to reach the waterfront. He spent a few minutes reconnoitring then pulled his hood up and entered the tavern.

Not surprisingly most of the patrons were fishermen and the uneven floorboards must have made them feel right at home. Junah jostled his way through the raucous hubbub, towards the booth where he had arranged to meet his accomplice, but an overripe, blousy serving girl intercepted him.

"What can I get you, Dearie? she asked. She leaned into his chest and expertly fondled his crutch. The house special is only a couple of rels for a tall fellow like y’self."

Junah removed her hand and pressed a coin into it.

I’ll settle for a jar of ale, sweetling.

She pouted, pretending disappointment, then sashayed back into the press. He straightened his semi-erect member and resumed his errand. On occasion there were some perks to the job, he mused. Though you’d better ensure that all your vacs are up to date, old son, he reminded himself.

Junah walked past the booth, as if going out the back door, and scanned the occupant. A morose-looking man, with the local curly brown hair and a bushy moustache, stared into an untouched beaker of ale. The pre-arranged signal, a red-spotted kerchief, was knotted around his neck. Junah slid onto the bench opposite to him and startled him, such that some ale slopped onto the table between them.

You the Mirrorsmith? asked the other, when he had recovered his wits. Junah nodded. ’Prentice, journeyman or Magister?

Journeyman. A competent but not too-threatening rank.

"Where’s your wail?"

Don’t have one, only Magisters are entitled, Junah lied, again. The man’s larynx quivered and he pulled at the kerchief. Junah traced a pattern through the spilt liquid. So, when do we leave? The other, a retainer in the household of the local Prefect, had agreed to smuggle Junah inside the fortress, which was where the sliver was reported to be.

Shadows swallowed the brittle candlelight as three thickset bullyboys neatly penned them in. One, the nearest, slant-eyed and balding, twitched back the edge of his cloak and rested it on the hilt of a regulation thief-taker’s dagger.

"You leave when we say so, this one said. He glared at Junah’s table-mate. The man fled, muttering, I’m sorry, I had no choice, my wife, you understand, I’m sorry," over and over like a litany.

Junah placed both hands on the table.

There some problem, Judicar? he asked carefully. Hard-earned experience had taught him that local peacekeepers were a touchy lot.

That depends on you, Matey. Stand up and keep yer hands where we can see ‘em.

Junah slid along the bench but, as he rose to his feet, his elbow caught the abandoned ale beaker. Its contents sloshed out everywhere, distracting the Judicars’ attention for vital seconds. Judah shoved his hand into his purse, pulled out his firestick and flicked the tip. The ale ignited with a spectacular flash and Junah legged it for the door.

He almost made it. The blousy serving girl stepped in front of him, winked and smacked her tankard into the side of his head. Junah went down, senses spinning.

Should’ave taken me offer up, Dearie. It wouldn’t hurt so much, she advised him with a leery grin. A second blow, from a boot this time, catapulted him into blackness.

#

Junah awoke in a strange bed. This, by itself, was not unusual but the lot of a roving Mirrorsmith. On this occasion, however, Junah had not expected to come round in quite such delectable surroundings. An ornate plasterwork cornice, delicate silk hangings and a Farrian rug bespoke wealth and fine taste. There were no mirrors though, he noted with a wry snort, and a grille at the window confirmed that, however sumptuous the decor, the chamber was still a prison. He sat up but his vision see-sawed so he sank back down and probed at his temple. Sensitive fingers detected a large contusion already healing at the accelerated rate enjoyed by members of Junah’s profession. A few more hours and it would be gone completely.

A foray beneath the coverlets revealed that he was naked. White scars, old friends all, showed against his tanned skin. He scanned the room for his belongings but they were not in obvious sight. Mindful of his head, Junah slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. The inky darkness of the sea blended seamlessly into the night sky. He placed a hand on the granite pilaster that divided the casement and sensed the throb of the tide from somewhere below him. There were no lights visible from the town so he surmised that he was being held within the fortress on the seaward side. It was the place he needed to be, but not quite the manner of it.

Junah tried to ignore his throbbing headache and focussed his attention on Sissik. Before entering the inn he had offloaded the little creature into a hidey-hole where she could monitor proceedings in relative safety; a practice that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had sewn her a special harness and backpack to hold his most precious possessions; the silver wire and tools to extract and bind the slivers of mirror; the crystals which manipulated the wayportals and other technology of the ancient race that had created them; the woven tri-gold ring that signified his true rank and authority.

Little One, where are you?

Junah! The wail’s delight was clear. Sissik was worried! Nasty men put Junah in a wheely thing and carry him away. Sissik follow and the thought was accompanied by feelings of disgust. Sissik’s paws stink now, need bath. Junah need bath?

Junah smiled. Sissik was such a fusspot when it came to keeping her claws and fur clean.

Yes, Junah needs a bath, he answered her then, more seriously, are you in the fortress? He imaged the stone structure for her.

I is in the kitchen. Nasty men not look for Sissik. It was easy to get inside. Junah want Sissik to seek him out?

Junah deliberated then decided against it.

No. Remain out of sight for now but be ready to come if I call. I need to find out what’s going on here.

There was a sense of exasperation from the wail.

Junah knows what happened last time… and she let the thought trail off. Junah mentally blushed, if that were possible.

I meant to fall in that… A key turned in the lock and a bolt was withdrawn. Stay hidden, stay alert, he commanded. Sissik sniffed agreement.

Junah remained by the window. The door opened and a man of prodigious girth waddled into the chamber. He was much older than the Mirrorsmith and sported a magnificent beard that spread like a grey tablecloth over his huge belly. His silk robe and jewel-decked ears bespoke a person of consequence. He started when he realised that Junah was naked and harrumphed his displeasure.

Renn! he called over his shoulder. The bald man from the inn sauntered into sight. Have his things been examined yet?

Yes, Prefect.

Was anything found?

Just the usual crap.

Then bring the man’s crap here!

Renn curled his lip behind the Prefect’s back and sneered at Junah, rubbing his own temple in the exact place of the Mirrorsmith’s injury before sliding from view.

Being unclothed did not bother Junah. Vargo was one of the hottest realms in the Regium and the Mirrorsmith was accustomed to wearing very little next to his skin. In fact, the coarse shirt, leggingss and hooded jerkin he had put on for this sortie into Abilon were an irritation of the first order. The Prefect looked around the room for a perch then slumped onto the bed, fidgeting all the while with his beard. Renn returned a moment later with Junah’s clothes and flung them at the Mirrorsmith.

Now get out, the Prefect snapped at his henchman. Renn looked like he might argue but then spun on his heel and left. The Prefect indicated that Junah should don his garments. Junah deliberately took his time and made a show of checking the contents of his pouch but everything was there, including several gold pieces and his firestick.

If anything’s missing I’ll hack the thieving bugger’s fingers off myself, growled the Prefect. He exhaled loudly and slapped his thighs, murmuring under his breath. Junah waited. "You should know that I made the request to the Guild for the services of an off-world Mirrorsmith, the Prefect said at last. Renn was sent to the inn to escort you back here but he was…over eager."

Junah recognised the truth in the statement. He stowed the pouch at his belt and then inclined his head and offered the formal response.

"Magister Junah Venmark answers on behalf of the Guild."

Magister? You told that…hah, well, never mind. The Prefect wobbled to his feet. Come, Magister Junah, he waved a ring-girt hand, I have a tale to tell and I need a drink.

#

They sat together in the Prefect’s library before a crackling fire which did little to dispel the chill.

I’m well aware that Ysreal is considered one of the poorer worlds of the Regium. And not without some justification I might add! But we’ve always prided ourselves on our independence and are fiercely protective of it, hence the injunctions that limit commerce and traffic to the other realms.

Junah listened to the Prefect drone on, wondering for whose benefit the lesson was.

The Guild has always recognised the rights of indigenous people, he responded smoothly.

Quite, quite. The Prefect cleared his throat again and Junah wondered if it was just a bad habit or indicative of a chest complaint. We have our own Mirrorsmiths too, perfectly competent and versed in all the Lore, but, the Prefect exhaled, perhaps not competent enough. He looked Junah in the eyes. Some months ago reports started to come in of strange happenings in the villages south of here. Murders, mutilations, ritual burnings… in fact, just the kind of acts that my predecessors took hundreds of years to stamp out. So I dispatched a party of Judicars to investigate. None of them returned. I sent a larger squad. They vanished too. Finally, I sent out a small army under the command of my eldest son and accompanied by several Mirrorsmiths. He rubbed a hand down his face and clutched his beard. A week later two of the company were found wandering the shoreline; drooling, giggling and pissing themselves. They gibbered on about strange lights and demons but whatever they had witnessed had driven them quite mad. I ordered the evacuation of the villages between there and Abilon and set up a defensive perimeter to keep the plague, or whatever it is, away from here but I don’t know how effective it will be.

And your son?

The Prefect aged ten years. One of the survivors. He’s being well cared for but my leech holds out no hope of a recovery. It would have been better if he’d perished.

How close to a wayportal is the site of the original disturbances?

Now there’s the rub. As far as I know there isn’t a portal for fifty leagues in any direction from where the trouble started.

Junah pondered this. When the Mirror of Creation was shattered by the insane last lord of the Wayfarers, the ancient non-human race whose arcane technology constructed the portals and seeded them throughout the Regium, the fragments were dispersed via that very portal network. The slivers could lay dormant for centuries until a suitable host, human or otherwise, had the misfortune to stumble upon one and become ‘infected’ by it. Semi-sentient, the pieces of mirror migrated through the host’s nervous system to take control and carry out their polluted task. Rather than create and enhance, their purpose was now to destroy and diminish. Outbreaks of unprecedented violence within five leagues of a wayportal were invariably caused by an awakened sliver. Mirrorsmiths, aided by their wails – the only species known to be immune to the Mirror’s effects - were trained to track down then extract even the tiniest speck from a host and contain its malign energy.

Junah tipped his beer down his throat.

I’ll need a volunteer to guide me to this village, he said.

Renn can go. He hails from that region. The Prefect snorted at the less-than-enthusiastic expression on Junah’s face. Don’t worry, he’ll behave.

I’m certain he will, stated the other glumly, but I was hoping for a more agreeable companion to while away the hours with!

Later that night, before he retired, Junah reported back to the Guildhouse via his comm-crystal. It was barely noon on Vargo and his old friend, Teren Lemmick, was still on duty. When Junah expressed his puzzlement at the Prefect’s ruse to get an outrealm Mirrorsmith to Abilon but agreed to continue the mission despite his misgivings, Teren was dubious.

"I don’t like the sound of this, Junah. Shall I send you some back-up?"

Junah considered the offer.

"No, not yet but there are a couple of things I could do with."

Teren snorted when Junah finished his request.

"I’ll see what I can do," he promised, then added, "in the meantime, Junah, watch your back. If anyone’s going to bite your ass it’s me!"

#

Two days later, just after sunrise, an immense, leather-winged dacta spiralled out of the roseate clouds and set down in the middle of a desiccated field. After the dust settled, Junah and Renn unbuckled themselves from the reptile’s back and slid down onto the ground. The dacta screeched and rolled opal eyes impatiently while they unclipped their gear, its talons raking deep grooves into the brown earth. Junah tossed the fee for the ride up to the dacta’s handler.

Return here at this time for the next three days. Wait for an hour then, if we don’t show, take off again, he said. The dacta handler nodded and stowed the purse inside his jerkin.

Guild Master Lemmick said he’ll see I get paid the rest regardless but I’ll be here, rely on that, the man confirmed. He waited until Junah and Renn reached the edge of the field then tapped the dacta with a long goad. The reptile beat its wing membranes then launched skywards in a skirl of dirt. When the air cleared once more man and beast were already well out of sight.

Renn spat into the bushes.

Come on, Matey, we’ve a long way to go yet.

For the next few hours Junah and Renn tramped across open pasture and patchwork fields but, as the sun began to wester, the landscape altered dramatically. Coils of smoke marked where crops had been torched, or smouldered in the bowels of ravaged homesteads. Animals lay slaughtered in yard and paddock, oozing maggots or feasted on by carrion birds that squawked skywards at the men’s approach. Sissik, curled as ever round Junah’s neck, mewed her distress.

Junah and Sissik go home now, she pleaded. This a bad place.

Junah was in full agreement. He had been to some devastated areas before but this was the worst in many a year. He desperately wanted to return to Abilon and the safety of the wayportal but retreat was not an option, for him at least.

They had paused by a stream, hoping to refill their flasks, only to find it choked with the bloated corpses of sheep. Beside him, Renn cursed and kicked at the water. The Judicar was becoming more agitated as the miles passed, clearly affected by the sliver’s proximity. Junah reckoned that the centre of the discordance must lie quite close now.

This is as far as you go, he told the other. Renn growled.

My orders are to get you to Ferivan and that’s what I’ll do.

Junah shook his head. No, you stay here. In fact, you should go back to that barn we ate our midday meal in, you’ll be safe enough there from Mirror Madness. Your task was to guide me to the source of the trouble and you’ve done that. If you go any further the chances are you’ll turn into a dribbling idiot and be of no use to anyone.

Don’t worry yer pretty head about me, Matey. I ain’t no weak-brained ninny like Prefect Yennik’s son. I can take care of mesel’.

I’m not being charitable, believe me. If I have to watch out for you I might end up spelled myself. Junah stroked Sissik’s tail and the wail emitted a low purr. Renn’s eyes glazed over as deeper, sub-audible notes acted on his hypothalamus.

Now, said Junah, do you walk back to that barn under your own steam or do I put you to sleep right here?

Damn tricksy shine-merchant! the Judicar cursed. He sank to his knees, unable to control the urge to doze off. I’ll go, bastard, but you’ll regret this, I promise yer!

Sissik ceased her wailing and released him. Renn clambered to his feet, face redder than a dacta’s arse, then he stormed off without a backward glance. Junah was almost sorry to see him go, almost.

The sun’s dying rays bathed Ferivan in scarlet gore. It was a typical Abilonian fishing village. Dour stone-built houses perched precariously above the shingle beach on which a motley collection of smacks and wherries were marooned by the tide. Junah approached cautiously from the seaward side, using the boats as cover. He had already evaded several packs of feral villagers, their faces contorted with hatred for all that lived, their rags splattered with the blood of their prey. Junah was feeling the unsettling effects of the sliver’s influence himself but Sissik’s crooning protected him from the worst of it.

He moved stealthily from cot to cot, clinging to the twilight shadows as he searched for