StoryHack Action & Adventure, Issue 4: StoryHack Action & Adventure, #5

By Sidney Blaylock, Jr., Spencer E. Hart, Jason Restrick and 6 more

StoryHack, Issue Four is finally here! And it's extra full of action and adventure. Here's what you'll find inside:

HawkeMoon

by Sidney Blaylock, Jr.

The captain of the King's Guard vows to kill the assassin after the death of the King. There's only one problem: it turns out she may not have been the killer.

Island Rescue

by Spencer E. Hart

College-age Frank Mason accompanies his father to the private island of a reclusive billionaire and his lovely, yet lonely daughter. When armed men storm the house, what can they do to rescue their fathers?

Beyond the Temple of Baktaar

by Jason Restrick

Three years ago, Sam Walters emerged from those ruins, alone, unable to discover what had happened to his friend. Now, as he fights in the trenches of France during World War 1, a mysterious apparition in the night hands him his friend's journal.

Wild Yellow

by Brandon Barrows

Clint Hagar never encountered a foe he couldn't beat with bullets or fists - until he met the desert, alone and afoot. And though he survived, something inside of him has broken and he must now battle both his own fear and self-doubt while trying to protect a small, isolated town from the outlaws who terrorize it.

My Foe Outstretched

by Misha Burnett

In a future world two men fight a duel in the ruins under the city. The rules are simple--two men enter the tunnel, one man leaves.

Alpha Equation

by Julie Frost

A young werewolf, an abusive alpha, and a new pack--in space.

The Bouncer's Tale

by Jon Mollison

Trapped in a life as muscle for a crime syndicate, Robert "Bomber" Robinson struggles to maintain his humanity during the second worst night of his life.

Retirement Plan

by John M. Olsen

A retired military veteran settles down on a distant planet away from his old life only to find that violence is a universal trait. Old habits resurface as he is forced to step up and defend his neighbors.

The Spirit of St. George

by Damascus Mincemeyer

In an alternate 1922, a biplane squadron must engage in aerial combat with dragons that are ravaging the American Rockies.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baby Katie Media, LLC
• Release date: Aug 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393207481

Book preview

StoryHack Action & Adventure, Issue Four

Authors: Sidney Blaylock Jr., Spencer E. Hart, Jason Restrick, Brandon Barrows, Misha Burnett, Julie Frost, Jon Mollison, John M. Olsen, Damascus Mincemeyer

Editor: Bryce Beattie

Cover Art: Michal Krasnodebski

Interior Art: Vladimir Novidsky, Gian Luca, Ana Critchfield, LeandroYepYep, Emma Villamañe, Bryce Beattie, and the public domain.

copyright © 2019 Baby Katie Media LLC. All stories appear with permission and copyrights held by their respective authors.

StoryHack Action & Adventure, Issue Four

HawkeMoon

Island Rescue

Beyond the Temple of Baktaar

Wild Yellow

My Foe Outstretched

Alpha Equation

The Bouncer’s Tale

Retirement Plan

The Spirit of St. George

Editor’s Note

Cover

Table of contents

The captain of the King’s Guard vows to kill the assassin after the death of the King. There’s only one problem: it turns out she may not have been the killer.

HawkeMoon

by Sidney Blaylock, Jr.

I. Predawne

The wind whispered through the falling leaves with a sibilance that bordered on speech. It was as if the very trees wanted to whisper the name of the King’s murderer.

That was how it seemed to Hawke, Captain of the Royal Guards, as the funeral procession made its way down the winding, rutted dirt track that also functioned as a road. The sound of the axles as the wheels turned was like that of a saw used to grind bone into gristle. The procession was silent–eerily so. No one spoke, there were neither cries nor sniffles. No sound could be heard except for footfalls. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts–or perhaps their own private hells.

Hawke’s own thoughts mirrored the dirge-like procession. Unnatural things were afoot and he berated himself. He should have kept the king safe! The world had grown become grim and he should have done more. But what could have he done? He’d used all available men and women in the King’s Guard, and he’d even set extra patrols and watches. But then the Empty had crept up from the Old Town.

And now, Hawke thought sourly, the Empty stalked the streets. No one knew what they were or where they had come from, but they shambled through the wharfs and down the rutted lanes of Old Town’s streets. They had the clothes of the deceased, but not their features. The Empty shambled along with no head, hands, or feet. Only formless shell of a torso with arms and legs. That would be unnatural enough by itself, but somehow, something roiled underneath the rotting clothing. No one that Hawke knew had ever ventured close enough to find out what was underneath. Indeed, even the most bustling of streets and lanes had a way of becoming deserted whenever an Empty appeared.

And now the King, the very lifeblood of the Seven Lands, whom the people had depended on to keep them safe from this new and terrible threat, was dead. Smothered in his sleep–his mouth and nose stuffed with straw.

Questions had swirled before the procession began. Would the king come back as an Empty? If so, would he turn them all Empty? If he was already dead and returned, could he be killed again? Was their Prince-Heir Empty too? Was the whole family–did it reside in their blood? Should steps be taken to protect the people from an Empty-tainted Royal Family?

At that point, Hawke had moved quickly to squelch that line of thinking. As captain of the Royal Guards, he was sworn to protect the royal line. A few bashed heads and broken bones ended that murmuring before the procession had even begun.

For all his dedication, he had failed the King. Somehow that witch of an Assassin had gotten to the king. Moon. Her pale skin shone like moonlight on the darkest night. Some say that is how she got her name. Other, more fell voices, said that her name came from the blood red moon that shone once a year over the Lands. It was often known as the Blood Moon or the Killing Moon.

True, he had never heard of her killing her targets by suffocation, especially nothing as despicable as to fill the very air passages with straw. But, she had to be the killer. No one else could have penetrated the castle’s defenses, not with the extra patrols he had so carefully crafted and coordinated. Only a master assassin could have breached his defenses. And she was the only master assassin in the entire Land. He didn’t know why she wanted the King dead, but the fact that only she could have done it was proof enough. He didn’t need a Judge-Advocate to find her guilty. She was an assassin–that said it all.

Hawke’s lip curled. He made a solemn vow as the funeral procession entered the Royal Boneyard. He would find her, and he would end her. For his Majesty’s sake. She was a blight on the land that had been permitted to fester for far too long.

The procession came to a halt in front of the door of the open mausoleum. Prayers said, rites performed, wards cast, and then the body committed to the gray stone tomb. The door was sealed with mortar, cantrips, and scholastic invocations. Hawke watched as the procession turned away.

No one felt safer.

He sent the Guards with the Royal Family as they began the long procession back to the keep inside the Grand District of New Town. Investiture would occur tonight and Hawke wanted to take no chances. The Prince-Heir would be crowned king–Hawke would make sure of it.

Raising his arm, he sent a quick thought to Talon. Gracefully, the hawk winged down from the sky and lit on Hawke’s arm. Hawke formed an image of Moon’s face in his mind from the sketches his artisans had constructed from eyewitness accounts. With a practiced flick of his arm and a strong mental imperative, Hawke launched Talon into the air. A pariah in his own land, his ability to hear and talk with various types of birds of prey had made him an outcast among his tribe. He had left his birth-land, broken and alone, like a rock split asunder. Here, however, the eyes of the hawk he had bonded with had allowed him to climb to one of the highest positions that one not born of nobility could attain in the Lands.

A strange calm came over him as he watched the powerful predator carve its way into the sky. He fingered the pommel of his sword. If he had anything to say about it, today would be the assassin’s last day alive.

II. Middaye

A hawk circled overhead. Moon watched it pensively as hawks rarely penetrated the gloom of Old Town. The sun rose in the sky like a ghost coalescing from the ethereal white mist that clung to the deep lakes or the sea smoke on the slowly flowing rivers of Old Town. Mist that had clung to the city like a shroud since early morning refused to shed itself from the wooden ramparts and towers of the dilapidated buildings.

Moon sat on a roof, thinking. She knew what was coming. She could feel it.

The King was dead, killed in his sleep. Assassinated. Those very words were whispered in the streets, in the back alleys, and in the Scholastics’ Halls.

Assassinated. That meant an Assassin. They would be coming after her soon, and in force. They would catch her eventually. Then they would try her, judge her, and burn her under the Articles–never mind that the Articles had been written for the use of witchcraft. They’d twist them to fit their needs to make an example of her.

There was only one problem–she had not killed the king. She was an assassin, true, but she was not stupid. Even if she had thought the king needed to be killed–and she hadn’t–she still would not have accepted the contract. Kill a king and his successors would move heaven and earth to find the killer. That was trouble that she did not need. Only now, it had found her through no fault of her own. She bit her lip–stay and find the real killer, or leave all together? That was the only real question left to her.

A great cat, apparently sensing her mood, came padding silently out of the shadows to her. It rubbed its taut body against hers, trying to calm her. She smiled and rubbed its coarse fur. It helped, if only a little.

Suddenly, Graylisk arched his back and hissed at the sky. She just barely heard the slight woosh that sounded for all the world like a sword cleaving through the air.

Instinctively, she threw herself forward, rolling and grabbing her Crescentblades at the same time. The blades were simple–only scythe-like blades with a pommel smelted onto the dulled inner edges while the outer edges had been honed to razor sharpness. In the noon-day sun, the blades looked like common farming instruments meant to quickly scythe through wheat or hay, but in the glistening moonlight the blades resembled crescent moons of silvery death.

Crossing her arms, she managed to catch the blade of a sword in an X between her twin blades. The man stood pressing down hard on his sword trying to force it past her warding stance. He was dark, almost ebon, but his eyes burned with such passion, such force, that she could barely stand to be seared by his gaze. She did not know this man, however. She was sure she would have recognized someone with his … intensity.

His uniform, however, gave her an important clue. Decked in the King’s own colors, she guessed that he was part of the King’s Guard. Then she spied the King’s Signet on his collar. Captain. Captain of the bloody Royal Guard. No wonder she’d not recognized him–she made it a point to absent herself from any scene that might require the King’s Guards. They were among the elite fighters of the Realm and the Captain was reputed to have preternatural powers. And now, he was trying to kill her.

Well, she her own uncanny abilities. She reached into Graylisk’s mind and borrowed some of her tawny companion’s speed.

With the additional speed, she went on the offensive, slashing and cutting, reversing and riposting with a speed that seemed to defy description.

Amazingly, even though he fell back into a defensive posture, the Royal Guardsman was able to withstand her flurry of attacks. Usually, all but the most accomplished blademasters withered under her furious assault. His blade whirled and spun as he deftly countered and parried. Even more stunning was the fact that she had to duck and parry herself after falling for a couple of cleverly disguised feints. This man was a master swordsman. His movements were precise. Not one movement was wasted.

Neither wasted breath on speech. He was there to kill her. She wanted to live. Nothing else mattered. Blades clanged in the shrouding gloom that was Old Town.

Graylisk hissed in pain as his sword scored her arm. She redoubled her attack and felt satisfaction as her blade bit into his thigh. Somewhere in the distance she heard the cry of a hawk. She thought it strange, but saved considering it for another time.

She had an advantage now. Her wound, though painful, was but a nick. His wound was more severe. He began to give more and more ground as they fought across the uneven and mismatched wood of the roofs of Old Town. He limped ever so slightly. She pressed her advantage even more and finally was rewarded as he slipped on a protruding board.

He caught himself and was up in but a moment, but they both knew the outcome of the fight was no longer in doubt. She kicked his injured leg on the blood-soaked cut. She was rewarded with a wince of pain from the guardsman and he went down again. As he stumbled to his feet, she cut one of her Moon-blades down at his neck.

Realizing at the last second that killing a guardsman in such an obvious fashion immediately after the death of the king would probably seal her fate, she instead hit him with her fist and the pommel of the blade. There was a satisfying crack as blood flew from his cheek. Moon reversed her blow and smashed her elbow into his jaw.

Another plan came to her. If she could make it seem as if he’d fallen onto the pier below, it might seem as if he had tangled–and lost–with some of the many footpads in the deep belly of Old Town. She barged into his chest with her shoulder and he stumbled backwards. His injured leg gave way completely and he fell off the roof.

She stepped over to watch his fall hoping to see his crumpled body lifeless below her.

What she saw instead made her jaw fall. As a hawk screamed in defiance somewhere in the distance, he floated slowly to the ground. His gaze bored into her, searing her. Hate flowed from him like a thunderstorm crashing onto shore. He landed gingerly on the decking below, alarming several fishermen returning with their early morning haul.

As he limped away, she could only think of one thing. He’s like me. Even though they looked nothing alike, he also apparently could talk with and draw abilities from animals. Something resonated inside her like a tone sent reverberating through crystal. Her curiosity spiked and suddenly she wanted–no, neede–to find out more about this man who was at once intense and quiet. She just realized that not a word had been spoken during their fight. While clearly no assassin, he was still able to more than hold his own against her. If he had scored the hit on her thigh instead, the fight might have gone a very different way.

This man hated her, she had to remind herself. Who wanted to kill her because of something she had not even done.

Still, as she watched him disappear into the gloom, she thought she saw a hawk glide past him in the miasmic mist. That clinched it. If it was death he craved, she would give it to him–but she had to know if he truly was like her and could talk to the hawk just as she talked to Graylisk. If so, he would be the only other person who she had ever met who could do what she could do.

She slid into the shadows and followed him from rooftops above, with Graylisk padding silently behind.

III. Sunsetting

Hawke stood at attention even though his leg throbbed. He gritted his teeth, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the waves of pain under control. He winced, but that was all that he allowed to show of the pain. He would not miss the Investiture. He would be here for the new king. She wouldn’t dare show her face here, not with the old king dead, and every guardsman he could muster out here on duty.

The pain was so fierce a tear slid down his cheek as the autumnal breeze bit at his face. Inwardly, he seethed. How could she have beaten him? How? It galled him to have had to reveal his power to her, let alone to have had to use it to run away like a beaten dog.

The wind bit harder, chilling him, reminding him that winter’s sting was on its way. Or was it…something else?

He turned and looked around the outdoor pavilion that had been erected while he had been searching for Moon. Nobody but the King’s Court, the Upper Houses of Nobles, and the bankers, merchants, and burghers that fawned for higher status from the entitled nobility. He looked closely at the crowd, but saw no one who remotely registered as a threat. He especially did not see the woman who had bested him as if he were but a raw recruit.

A chill tingle went up the base of his spine and he thought he saw something shuffling in the distance, near the wooded fens beside the castle grounds–from the area of the river that fed Old Town.

Hawke gripped the hilt of his sword. She may not be here, but…something was coming. He could feel it. In the distance, he heard Talon screech.

Moon watched the Captain of the Guards silently from one of the many smaller tents adjacent to the pavilion. She had learned his name when she had stolen the monk robes that she now hid inside.

Hawke.

Probably not his real name–just as Moon wasn’t hers. Still, it fit him well.

A part of her wondered why she was here, risking her neck just to watch this man. Another part of her knew, however. He was like her and she had never met anyone, ever, who had her same…affinity.

And if nothing she did could convince him that she had not killed the king this type of research could be invaluable later on. She would hate to kill him, but she had no intention of dying just because it might be convenient for him.

She heard the hawk–she had discovered he named it Talon–cry out in the ever-chilling wind and watched his face go taut. His every movement seemed bird-like and she watched for a moment, fascinated.

Then she heard Graylisk hiss and a strange shiver went up her spine. She cast her eyes to where Hawke was looking and she could see a strange procession coming up from Old Town.

She stood–knowing that the monk’s hooded cowl and general bagginess of the robe would hide both her features and her form. Few ever looked closely at monks, she had learned–even other monks. People just saw the habit and made assumptions about the person inside.

Even from where she stood, she could tell that there was something wrong with the procession. They lurched forward and there was a kind of ungainly grace to their movements. At the end of the procession, a figure towered over the rest. It took a moment for Moon’s brain to process what her eyes were seeing.

She recognized those shambling figures coming up the banks of Gray Sonne, Old Town’s river. Some of the figures she had even killed herself on contract.

They were now the Empty.

~

Make safe the King! Hawke shouted as he drew his sword. Men and women of the Guard scurried to form a ring around the newly invested King and the royal court.

He watched this second procession as it made its way towards him with a curled lip. Someone seemed to be mocking his former King as it was very much like a grotesque and unholy parody of the King’s funeral procession.

Hawke squinted. In the distance, he saw a figure in the back, clothed in shadows. This figure was not shambling or lurching, but walked upright and erect. He could almost peer through the gloom to make out a dark cowl that covered the figure’s head. It seemed for all the world that this figure, this thing, was somehow their leader and that this was some sort of dark procession.

Hawke’s attention was torn away from the shadowy figure at the back, however. One of the Empty had shambled into the sputtering torchlight at the edge of the clearing. Normally, the Empty seemed to fear the light and would come no closer. Hawke prayed to the heavens that this one would be no different.

The creature kept coming.

Hawke cursed and found he was not the only one. Curses and prayers slipped from the lips of the Guards as the creatures closed in. The new King remained tight-lipped, but moans and cries escaped from the members of the tightly confined royal court who were hemmed in the guards’ cordon like sheep in an ever-constricting pen.

One of the Empty raised its arm. There was no hand, of course, but Hawke’s keen eyesight saw something roil underneath the sleeve. Hawke was about to call out a warning when tendrils whipped out from the sleeve weaving, twisting, and twining in mid-air. They engulfed the head of a young recruit–Vettese–and the guardsman fell to his knees, dropping his sword in the process.

The guards and the royal court alike all sprang back from Vettese’s writhing form as the guard’s hands clawed desperately at the constricting tendrils. His legs gave one last lurching kick, then he moved no more.

The tendrils whipped back into the formless deep beneath the Empty’s clothes. Hawke was too stunned to move or speak as was everyone else on the Coronation Field. And while he doubted anyone else would have paid attention to what his eyes had clearly seen, he began to feel heat rise within him. He clenched his blade even tighter.

The tendrils had been made of straw.

He had found his assassin.

~

Time to go, Moon thought to herself. She, like the others, had watched stunned as the Empty had revealed its deadly secret. She didn’t know the guardsman that died, but she didn’t want to share his fate. Part of being an assassin was learning when you were overmatched and these poor fools were most definitely out of their league. Only Hawke, with his abilities, might stand a chance against them as a delaying action, but anything more would be foolhardy.

As she turned to survey her exit lines, she noticed that the man who shared her same talents wasn’t moving away, but in fact striding to the center of the area, out in front of the guardsman’s body lying in the grass and dirt.

What does the idiot think he can accomplish?

Stand fast! he yelled out to the Guard.

Was he