By Sword, Stave or Stylus

By Andrew Knighton

A gladiator painting with manticore blood.

A demon detective policing Hell.

A ninja who can turn into shadow.

Prepare to be swept away to worlds beyond our own in these thirteen short fantasy stories. This collection includes:

Live By the Sword – art and magic combine in a fantasy version of the Roman arena.
Leprosaria – a knight and his chronicler uncover strange goings on in a leper hospital.
Long Nights in Languedoc – something monstrous pursues an English army through medieval France.
The Essence of a Man – the magical power of art is tested under siege.
Shadows, Stones and Hungry Ghosts – a prisoner faces a haunting interrogation.
The Wizard’s Stairs – a young man, an angry wizard and a test of love.
Striking Black Silence – a ninja becomes the shadows on a deadly mission.
The Edge of the World – a lowly gutter dweller carries a vital message across a strange rooftop world.
The Hunter in the Stacks – a scholar takes up his spear and goes hunting knowledge.
The Suspicions of Shadowvalt – a demonic whodunnit.
The Faces of the Fallen – Detective Shadowvalt returns to investigate a murder in Hell.
The Magpie Dance – a group of morris dancers are more than they seem.
One Minute of Beauty – art, revolution, absinthe and a visionary moment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Oct 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781386314967

Andrew Knighton

Andrew Knighton is a freelance writer and an author of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk stories. He lives in Yorkshire with his cat, his computer, and a big pile of books.

Book preview

LIVE BY THE SWORD

Ubu ducked and Klaus 's sword hissed over his head, death missing him by a fearful inch. Sand spurted into the air as he span left, rolling across the packed floor of the arena, his heart racing. The crowd roared as the huge German stomped after him. It was said that Klaus was half cyclops, his close-set eyes and eight-foot frame the mark of a monstrous heritage. Ubu felt the ground shake as he dived clear of another blow, grabbing a discarded trident as he landed.

Ubu swung the spear upwards, blocking a strike with a clang and a shower of sparks. He rolled back through Klaus's legs. The giant stood for a moment bewildered, peering down in confusion through the narrow gaps in his helmet. Then Ubu thrust upwards with the might of desperation. The prongs struck below Klaus's scraps of chain-mail, piercing flesh and scraping bone. The German turned, shaking the trident free. A crimson rain poured across the sand. He roared, raised his sword, and then staggered to one knee as pain and blood loss hit.

Ubu grinned in relief, white teeth gleaming in the sunlight. He leapt, feet first, crashing into Klaus's chest and sending him sprawling in his own gore. Ubu heaved the long sword from the ground and turned his gaze to the imperial box, waiting to see his opponent's fate.

The emperor's thumb rose in the sign of death.

BACK IN THE GLADIATORS' pit, Ubu sat staring at the wall of his cell. He reached out with a red-stained hand and dabbed damp remnants onto the chiselled stonework. Trembling fingers sketched crimson curves in the blood of his opponent. As his pulse calmed so did his mind, memories of the day's struggle for survival fading to gentler images of his southern home, running with his brother over the plains where the zebra played.

'I hear you killed Klaus today,' Tereus said from the next cell. 'You beat the odds on that one.'

Ubu picked up a scrap of charcoal and, in two swift movements, marked out a curved body beneath the red stain. He imagined the savannah stretching out before him, bounded only by the horizon.

'Have you seen these?' Tereus asked.

The Thracian held up two pieces of discarded wood, whittled into the shapes of bears, one in a combat stance, the other holding a cub to her chest.

'Klaus made them,' he continued. 'This is what his tribe does around the campfire. Carve things they've seen in the forest. Klaus hadn't been to the forest in years, but look how well he remembered it.'

Ubu carried on with his drawing, silhouettes of animal tracks and wind-blown grass filling the void of the figure's body. The charcoal gave the picture shape, but the blood gave it power. Fresh blood. Klaus's blood.

Tereus began singing a Thracian ballad, a love-song from a land-locked pirate to his mistress the sea. The other gladiators fell quiet, watching him through the bars. A good tune was enough to transport a man away from the gloom that enshrouded them all. None of them understood the words, but the tone of Tereus's voice carried its own meaning, a sense of longing for the life from which he had been snatched, rising to the hope of return. At the end there was a contented silence, disturbed only by the scraping of charcoal on stone.

'What you drawing?' asked Brigant the Celt. He had only recently been brought to Rome, captured fighting her legions half a continent away. He had yet to master the bastard Latin the gladiators spoke, clipped for combat and scattered with words from across the empire. His face scrunched as he strained to be understood, to be accepted into the ragtag tribe he had joined in the cells.

'It is the great spirit,' Ubu said. 'He who moves men through the world. I am calling him forth to carry me away.'

Nods and appreciative murmurs greeted this answer, and for a while the gladiators sat watching Ubu at work, until food was followed by the darkness of night.

THE MANTICORE SCREECHED and lashed out with one clawed foot, sending Marcus skidding across the sand, his guts a steaming red river through the golden grains. The crowd cried out its excitement, not caring whose blood was shed.

Brigant and Tereus thrust their spears at the same time, swallowing their terror long enough to force the creature back across the arena. Ubu circled behind them, short-sword clutched ineffectually in his hand. Marcus had shown what would happen to anyone getting close enough to use such a tiny weapon.

The manticore gave a scream of pain and frustration as it tried to flex the ruin of its once-beautiful wings. A stray silver feather tumbled to the ground, trailing a spiral in the dirt. Unseen by the distant crowd, puss oozed from around its manacles. Ubu gagged on the stench of unwashed fur and rotted meat.

It lunged forwards again, feinting towards Brigant before turning on Tereus. The toxic barb of its tail slammed into the ground inches from his foot. He jerked back in alarm and it followed, hissing and swinging its claws.

While the creature was distracted Ubu took his chance. He dived forwards between its legs, running his sword across its ribs as he passed. Rolling out the far side, he launched himself off the wall and up onto the manticore's back, grabbing its thick, matted mane in his free hand. It swung its head and he clung grimly on, determined not to be thrown beneath the vicious claws. He raised his sword and plunged it again and again into the sinewy neck. The creature stumbled, trying to claw at its own back, and slid forwards, head first into the sand. In one last desperate reflex it stabbed at Ubu with its tail. He leapt aside, leaving it to spear itself on the poisoned prong.

The three gladiators stood in the centre of the ring, back to back, fists raised towards the heavens in triumph. They had that which all gladiators prayed for on entering the ring. They had survived.

The crowd went wild.

As they left the arena, Ubu stopped to dip his hand in Marcus's blood.

SIMON THE JEW HAD BEEN an acrobat in his old life. His easy athleticism served him well in the arena, and was sometimes a source of entertainment to his fellow gladiators. Tonight he was in good spirits. The death of the manticore had saved him from facing it tomorrow, and he performed a grand routine in tribute to the victors. Even the guards joined in the celebration, beating a rhythm with the butts of their spears as he swung up the walls and cartwheeled across the confines of his cell. There was laughter, singing and extra meat for the warriors who had entertained the crowd so well. For a while they almost forgot where they were.

Ubu briefly joined in the merriment,grinning and slapping a rhythm on the floor. But watching Simon stirred memories from childhood of watching young warriors dancing round the fire. The pang of absence filled him and he returned to his wall.

The shadowy figure was growing across the stonework, its body darkening as he filled it with denser signs and symbols. After the torches were put out Ubu carried on by the moonlight that filtered through the window. His picture loomed like a shadow out of the silvery beams, a spirit coming ever closer. A dream of freedom.

'It's not just a picture, is it?' Tereus whispered, peering through the bars of his cell.

Ubu shook his head. 'When it is complete, the great spirit will carry me away on the wind of his passing.'

'On a trail of blood, more like.' Tereus's laughter was hollow. 'I've seen what you use to draw your great spirit. There's Marcus up there, and Klaus, and a dozen more. Your steps out of this pit are built