Bards and Sages Quarterly (January 2017)

By Taylor Harbin, Andrew Knighton, A.J. Flowers and 9 more

Celebrating our 9th year in publication!

Each issue of the Bards and Sages Quarterly seeks to offer readers a unique collection of original  speculative fiction tales from both new and established writers. 

In this issue:
An interview with John J. Rust and Mark Gardner about their newest project, War of the Worlds: Retaliation.

Original short fiction by Andrew Knighton, A.J. Flowers, Steven C Evans, Taylor Harbin, Walter G. Esselman, Steve Coate, Sean Garvey, PJ Keuning, Molly N. Moss, B.C. Nance, Eric Lewis, and Josh Pearce.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: Dec 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386570318

Book preview

Mutiny

By Andrew Knighton

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The Atlantic wind snapped at Captain Bradey, his hands half-frozen on the wheel. That fierce easterly had led the Isabella to two fat Spanish merchant ships in the past month, but he still cursed its cold and wished for a thicker coat. Riches warmed his heart, but his body felt like ice.

A cry went up from the foredeck, the bosun's voice high with a panic that infected Bradey. Was the Navy onto them again? They’d barely got away with their lives last time, and the Isabella had been fighting fit then.

He handed the wheel to Sands and rushed off down the deck.

Half the crew stood muttering anxiously at the prow, eyes fixed on the figurehead, which had been turned to face back up the ship. Paint peeled from the wooden woman and woodworm pocked her cheeks.

What's got you lubbers in such a stir? Bradey asked.

The figurehead raised her arm, and he stood stunned. In all his years, he’d never seen anything so uncanny as this figure blinking her flaking eyes.

You, she rasped, through lips once cherry red. Turn us south.

Bradey took a deep breath. He'd seen things nearly as strange. That hairy-tailed Frenchman at Gateshead, or the striped horses in Benin. He could cope with this.

I ain’t changing course, he said, trying not to tremble as he wondered what dark spirit had animated this thing. This here is the tip of the Golden Triangle. We're making a fortune.

I am old and tired. The figurehead frowned, paint cracking on her forehead. I want warmth and sunshine. Turn us south.

Not happening, Bradey said, his courage growing. We’ve taken a lot of risks for our fortunes. We ain’t wasting that so some wood can retire.

‘It’s not just me. The sails agree."

With a whirring of ropes, the sails flapped free. As she lost the wind, the Isabella slowed, while more of the crew gathered round. Pirates were a superstitious bunch, and they clutched their crosses at the uncanny sight. But they were a mutinous bunch too, fast to criticize and faster to attack. If they thought this was Bradey’s doing, or that he was losing control, then they’d turn on him.

Bradey battled down his growing anxiety. Something was itching at his brain. He smelt a scam.

If you can do that, why not just sail south? he asked.

The tiller, the figurehead said scornfully. Too much time being pawed by human hands. It’s on your side.

Bradey glanced around at his crew. He couldn’t look soft. They were muttering among themselves, toying with their cutlasses.

This is mutiny, he declared. I won’t stand for it.

And I won’t stand for another day of frost on my paintwork.

The wind was growing, tongues of icy rain lashing at Bradey’s face. He thought about fetching the cat-o-nine-tails, but what use would that be on a lump of wood. Panic mounting, he grabbed a lantern from its hook.

Set the sails, or I’ll set you on fire, he said. Oil sloshed around the lamp as the ship tilted.

Will you burn the sails as well? the figurehead asked. And the rigging, the trapdoors, the gunports?

Doors slammed like thunderclaps, the whole ship echoing her words.

Maybe they’ll learn from your charred example, Bradey said.

And maybe you’ll burn down the ship, said the figurehead. Can you captain flames?

The wind was howling now, threatening to hurl Bradey into the sea. Men swayed spider-like in the rigging, trying to haul in the sails, but the canvass ripped itself from their hands. Others still stood watching him, and a spokesman was stepping forwards, a cutlass in his hand. Someone younger and stronger than Bradey. Someone who thought he could do this better.

Bradey grabbed an axe from its mounting. One hand clutching the rail, he waved the blade in the figurehead’s face.

This I can control, he yelled, his words snatched away on the storm. End your mutiny, or I’ll turn your pretty face to kindling.

I’m the only part of the ship with ears, she said. The only one with a mouth. Smash me, and you can’t talk with the rest. They’ll writhe and fight as the storm sinks us. But better that than this endless cold.

Bradey staggered as a wave crashed against the bow. His feet slid across wet boards, numb fingers barely clinging on to the axe. And through the spray, the challenger strode towards him, black spot in his outstretched hand.

He stared defeat in the face. He was soaked and frozen and miserable. He couldn’t govern his ship, couldn’t govern his crew, and if he was lucky he might get demoted to bilge cleaning instead of murdered. Some fights you couldn’t win.

Others maybe you shouldn’t.

Fine, he said. You win."

He swung the axe, hacking the legs out from beneath his startled challenger. Blood sprayed across the deck.

The crew gawped, caught between failure and their next plan.

Bradey seized the moment.

Mister Sands, set a course south, he bellowed. I’ve had enough of this god-awful weather.

The crew turned uncertainly to each other.

Sunshine, dusky maidens, and all the rum you can drink, Bradey called out. What d’you say, lads?

With a chorus of approval, they returned to their stations. The air of mutiny had dispersed, for now.

Bradey smiled at the figurehead.

You win, he said.

Don’t we all? she replied, and turned to face south.

BOOK ANNOUNCEMENT

A Mosaic of Stars, Andrew Knighton

http://andrewknighton.com/publications/a-mosaic-of-stars/

A demon detective and a steam-powered samurai. An engineer from the distant past and a pilot from the far future. Love, loss, pain and triumph in worlds beyond our own. Enjoy brief trips to other realities in these fifty-nine flash stories including fantasy, steampunk, science fiction and historical fiction.

Castle Burberry’s Curse

By AJ Flowers

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Lies. They sprouted up like weeds watered by fear and ignorance until angry vines strangled any voice of reason. Freethinking was replaced with repeated phrases meant to stave off the abhorred past.

An obedient daughter’s silence will ensure Burberry’s curse never returns.

A faithful wife’s patience will keep the dark past where it belongs.

There was only one place Minna could escape the endless pleas of caution from every corner of Castle Burberry.

The tunnels.

She’d left her skirts behind the trapdoor and now fled through the cobwebbed catacombs with naught but plumed undergarments and a ribbed corset. The latter she tugged and pulled until she managed to undo the bound straps, allowing her lungs to gasp full with air as it popped off her chest.

Where knitting her nephew’s nightshirt next to the fires had been stifling, the tunnels offered a sweet musty coolness that Minna drank in like nectar.

She’d memorized these tunnels years ago, and a wild grin spread across her face that she finally was left alone long enough to escape into its silence for the night.

She was always watched. Always judged and forced into propriety and social acquaintances fitting for her station.

We’re human now. This is a better life. You were too young to know what it used to be like.

Father’s words harnessed the worst of lies. Human? Minna had seen what it was like to be human. Her poor sister had married one, born him sons he only saw as political objects and forced to look the other way when he lusted after women half her age. All out of the unfounded fear that if she didn’t, the curse would come back.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, another offer had been made for Minna’s hand to build an alliance with the north. Propriety, honesty, these were qualities her future husband valued, and undoubtedly did not share for himself.

When father refused to undo the match, she’d begged him to at least tell her what they’d been before, if not human. Monsters is all Father would say, quickly followed by, And if you don’t want to be one, do as you’re told.

She’d obeyed all but one command.

Never go into the catacombs.

Minna’s breath frosted the air as she reached the bottom level.

Minna sped around the final bend and took a sharp left— head-first into a nest of cobwebs. She coughed and sputtered, flinging them off her face.

She’d never gone this way. An eerie cold in the air and an unsettling feeling of dread had always kept her out. But now, the forbidden cloister felt like her savior. She feared the future more than the curse. Perhaps they were already living the curse, and it was her fate to free them all.

The corridor split open into a massive crevice that shot into the cathedral arches of the ceiling. Beams of moonlight cascaded down like frozen rain from slits in the wall. Minna gazed up at it, mesmerized and in awe. This place smelled of lost knowledge and power. Surely, such things could only revive her people?

Minna approached the centerpiece of the chamber. A single gray pillar rested along the deep grooves of the cracked ground.

She held a finger out and grazed the surface. The edge was unexpectedly jagged and flayed her skin. She lurched and cried out, leaving a dark splotch across the stone.

As Minna gripped her wounded hand, the ground trembled and a low growl came from the tomb.

Minna froze.

The stone’s surface cracked and crumbled, revealing a withered husk. The husk’s skin went from a pasty gray to a flushed pink, layers of flesh webbing over its arms and face until he became a man, as handsome as any Minna had seen in court.

Minna blinked and gasped, recognizing who she was seeing. The ridge of his nose was sharp, and there was a black freckle just below his brow; he looked exactly like her father. This was the Lost King of Castle Burberry.

When the King opened his eyes, Minna expected to see cruelty or insanity fitting a cursed monster trapped in the catacombs. Instead, there was kindness.

He unwrapped his arms and took a careful step out of his prison. He kneeled and placed a cold finger under Minna’s chin.

He offered a sad smile. You don’t know what you’ve done, my child.

Even through the walls, Minna could