Other Realms: Volume Three

By Shaun Kilgore

Fantasy and sci-fi author, Shaun Kilgore, returns with another volume of his short fiction. As with the previous collections, Other Realms: Volume Three features a range of tales including sword and sorcery, UFO encounters, urban fantasy, and paranormal, among others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Founders House Publishing LLC
• Release date: Jun 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393945949

Shaun Kilgore

Shaun Kilgore is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. He has also published numerous short stories and collections. Shaun is the editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Temple of the Damned

The Earthly Spirit

Transcend

I See Monsters

Tale of the Water Thief

Hopewell

The Sapphire Sword

In A Giant’s Eye

Born of Silver Fire

A New Age

March On The Mountains

A Wager in Caldred

Walking Back

About the Author

Copyright Information

OTHER REALMS

Volume Three

Collected Fantasy and Sci-fi Short Fiction

SHAUN KILGORE

Introduction

A FEW MONTHS AGO, I released the second volume collecting more of my short fiction. Now, I’m back with a third collection of stories that include both fantasy and science fiction of various types. In this volume, you’ll find thirteen different tales. Sword and sorcery mingles with urban fantasy and paranormal fantasy. Tales of the near ftuure in a resource-depleted and ravaged civilization follow strange UFO tales.

I’ve grown to love short fiction much more than I thought since I started writing regularly. I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I did writing them.

Regards,

Shaun Kilgore

June 2020

Temple of the Damned

THE WORLD WAS ASLEEP and wrapped in the cold embrace of late winter. The snow was deep and bowed even the thickest branches of the trees so they crackled and moaned in protest and lent an eeriness to the land. The air was icy and cut through the thick layers of fur and other hides draped across the weary bodies of the men marching along the remote passage through the highlands. They looked like a pack of beasts. Beasts bearing long sharp teeth in their cloth-wrapped hands.

Ten wearied souls trudged together in a ragged line, climbing the steepening path into the craggy hills that formed natural barriers to all who wished to pass. The snow was much deeper and higher than they had thought when setting out from their camp that morning. The winds that scoured the jagged cut that was their road sought to peel away their pitiful attempts at protection.

These ten bore up under the pain, trusting to their warrior strength to move them forward to the temple that waited above them in the heights where the rock was naked of all but the heartiest shrubs and the mountain goats roamed along their own solitary runs.

As the road sloped up further one of the ten stumbled forward, plunging into the drifting snow bank that was slowing everyone. The warrior was lost for a moment, but broke the surface and started brushing the snow from his furs. He bellowed loudly and kicked at the snow. Another of the warriors stopped and came back to him.

Are you well, Master Fendreg?

"Ha! Am I well? Am I well? Damnation’s foot, Rolas, do I look like I’m bloody well? I’m tromping in the bitter cold up the side of a mountain just to have the privilege of speaking with these high priests. The privilege, I tell you."

Fendreg brushed away the snow from his arms and dug into it ahead of him with the tip of his blade.

Rolas said nothing but set out beside him. They caught up with the other eight who were making their way along with mutters and curses of their own, though they were apparently respectful enough to keep their blasted voices down.

Fendreg bit his lip and kept moving though the wind stung his eyes and numbed his cheeks. He traveled the last few miles with the other nine warriors from the village of Nebany wondering what else he could have done to avoid such an entanglement. The Senagran knew the reasons. It came down to bloody honor. He should have been on the roads further south where the Orealian Crossroads cut a wide swath in the heart of a kingdom called Al’Benwat. But fates or the gods, or a little of both steered him into the business of strangers. Again.

You act like you couldn’t have refused when Nila asked for your help to get her merchant caravan around the Crossroads. But no, you were swayed by pouty lips and and fluttering eyes when word of some warlord demanding tributes from passersby gets mentioned. ‘Oh, Fendreg, you wouldn’t leave me without a coin to do business in the ports of Wessala, would you?’ Time and time again, for Fendreg, the pleas of strangers had drawn him all directions since he’d left Senagra. One task led to another and soon he was far afield of his original course, the beautiful Nila a fond memory, the welfare of the simple folk of Nebany now his primary concern—that and the purse of coins promised should he fulfill his mission there to ease his burden. Fortune and glory were fine things, but the luster had worn off and Fendreg had decided it was time to return home to Everhold and his duty in its hallowed halls.

Blessed Mothers, why such a meandering road?

With the wind gusting and tossing the snow at him in blinding sheets, Fendreg though he’d received a sort of answer. Stop asking and just keep walking, maybe?

Fendreg growled and picked up speed again, stabbing his sword into the snow so hard that it struck the stony ground beneath and rang dully. He grumbled and carried on until the wind died away and he could see the top of the temple far above them. The tips of the jagged roof pierced a dense curtain of fog that wreathed the hills of the surrounding country and was creeping downward towards them. There was something odd about the fog, something that made Fendreg’s skin crawl. A glance at Rolas confirmed he wasn’t alone in his thoughts. The ten men eyed the fog as they marched on. In time, they were swallowed up and only vague details of the land were visible. The air grew colder, strangely and disquietingly cold. Fendreg covered the last steps with the other warriors breaking a rime of ice that covered the snow. The furs he’d wrapped around himself did little to hold back the deep, bone-biting frost.

What madness is this? Sorcery? Fendreg’s voice seemed muted like the fog was holding back. None of the other warriors answered him.

They seemed entranced by the cold, white curtain that roiled around them. Rolas grunted softly and clenched his jaw. The man was having a hard time putting another foot in front of the other. Fendreg breathed deeply though the icy air entering his chest made him cough noisily. The crunch of the snow was suddenly very loud.

Rolas?

The wind suddenly blasted, hurling snow and ice into a blinding storm. The man looked at him and mouthed something but the sound was lost over the howl. Fendreg closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the strain mounting through his body. He pushed harder, so that hot sweat poured from his skin only to freeze in moments. Fendreg was almost completely blind now, eyes squinting in the half-light. There was no way to know if he was still heading in the right direction. Only the dim shape of Rolas trudging beside him anchored and kept him moving. The other eight warriors were nowhere to be seen.

An uncomfortable feeling passed through Fendreg: fear. He’d learned long ago to master fear, to subdue it, and even banish it. But this fear was powerful, a palpable force that pressed him. Suddenly, he lost sight of Rolas. Fendreg searched in vain, but the man was swallowed. The storm raged on, battering the Senagran. He could not make out even a trace of the others, not one print in the snow.

"Damnation’s foot, what is this?"

Though his throat strained and his jaw creaked with the desperate cry, Fendreg could not hear his own voice in the midst of the maelstrom. He plodded forward in the snow, even as the winds reshaped the powder into drifts that deepened until they reached Fendreg’s knees, then above them and the frigid winds hardened so that the passage was becoming difficult. Fendreg struck out with his blade to keep moving. His thick cloak grew heavier as snow clung to it and froze. The devilish storm was almost playful. The winds rose and fell, spiraling around and striking him head on then from behind, keeping him off balance. The storm was a living thing—a cursed, monstrous thing bent on his destruction.

Fendreg felt his strength ebbing away with every labored step through the hardened snow. Somehow, the Senagran endured and kept moving in what he thought was the direction of the temple. He would not be defeated by some bloody snow!

The howling around him intensified, the sound piercing though the layers of the hood, the wind-blown snow so intense he had to keep his head almost facing the ground just to stave off blindness and frostbite on his cheeks. A muttering turned to a moaning.

Fendreg stopped, wrenched back his hood, and lifted his head to the skies in a wordless yell. Enough, damn you! Gods curse you. The Mothers take you!

The keening ceased suddenly. The winds slowed until they were but a shadow of what they’d been moments ago. Soon, only the fog remained. Fendreg stared him, dumbfounded by the change. A calm settled on the land, then he heard something. No, he heard someone calling faintly.

Master! Master Fendreg? Are you here?

The Senagran called back. Rolas, is that you?

Yes, it is.

The hillside trail transformed. Fendreg wasn’t sure at first but as he looked around him the fog retreated and the outlines of the crags gradually resumed their solid shapes and colors. The sky returned and with it the sun. The deeper cold faded a bit. The retreat of the fog also revealed his companion. The other man was kneeling in the snow, barely recognizable beneath the blanket of snow that clung to his own hide cloak. Fendreg made his way to Rolas’s side and drew him to his feet.

Rolas pointed. Look. I see the temple.

Fendreg looked too. There now looming above them, built from the surrounding rock of the highlands, the Asashi Temple seemed to reflect the sunlight that filtered through the winter clouds. The golden glow was certainly inspiring. Fendreg heard Rolas gasp beside him.

It’s beautiful. Just like my mother said.

Thank the Two Mothers. Fendreg realized he was relieved. The pressure on him was gone and he could breathe easier despite the coldness of the air. His eyes found the furred shapes of the other warriors lying in half-buried in the snow. One by one they began to stir, shaking themselves off. One of the men pointed back at them and the men waved. The same man motioned towards the temple gates. Fendreg waved back and nodded to indicate he understood.

Rolas shivered. Master Fendreg, that storm. It didn’t seem natural. The storm, the cold, it all closed in around me and I sensed something lulling me to sleep. I don’t know what it was.

Fendreg nodded gravely. Some kind of sorcery, I think. Maybe a way to dissuade visitors?

Rolas shrugged his shoulders. Yes, you may well be right, Master Fendreg. It is said that the priests of Ashashi have mysterious ways. We rarely seek their counsel.

Fendreg snorted. I wonder why? Wind gusted and snow sprayed him in the face. Come, my friend. Gather up the others. I’m ready for a warm fire and some wine if we can find it.

THE GATES OF THE temple were tall and rugged, the features of the stone had been worn away by generations of cold winds so that only traces of the beautiful carvings were visible. Fendreg admired them all the same as he passed between them and into an inner courtyard where the rest of the warriors waited. The walls were high enough that much of the wind was blocked and stillness rested over everything. Fendreg pulled the fur hood off his head and his long dark hair spilled out. The chill had made him stiff.

The Senagran looked around the courtyard. Where is the welcoming party? Surely whoever manages the affairs of this place would have someone watching for visitors.

Rolas shrugged his shoulders again. As I said, little is certain with the priests and those that care for the temple. Contact has been sparse in recent months, Master Fendreg.

Fendreg grunted. Seems awfully quiet. He adjusted his grip on his sword and trained his eyes for any sounds.

The other warriors exchanged glances. They had sheathed their blades. One gave Rolas a sharp look. The man bowed his head and turned to Fendreg hesitantly.

Please, Master, put your sword away. It is disrepectful to bring a naked blade into the sacred temple.

Fendreg gritted his teeth again. There were reasons to tread lightly. He knew he was in the temple grounds to get answers for these men from Nebany and for himself, hopefully. Looking around him at the seemingly deserted stone buildings, hope was fleeting. Fendreg put his sword away, grudgingly.

Thank you, said Rolas.

Fendreg growled. Now what? Do we wait?

Rolas shrugged and started to speak.

Who are you? Why have you come here? The voice was deep and resonating, echoing off the stone walls like one of the great amphitheaters home in Senagra.

Fendreg sought the bearer of such a voice. His gaze swept the perimeter, slowing on the shadowed spaces between the pillars beneath the porches. The Senagran decided to speak first, naturally taking the lead. He stepped away from the others, placed his hands together and bowed at the waist. His earlier irritation at the whole situation rekindled and he had to rein in his mouth.

Honored one, keeper of this sacred temple. We have come seeking aid for these men of Nebany and their kindred.

What is your name stranger? What sort of aid to you seek?

The Senagran hesitated. While he did not think he was widely known in Al’Benwat, he wasn’t eager to announce his presence. Fendreg sighed. I am Fendreg of Senagra, honored ones. The folk of Nebany are suffering from a terrible sickness that corrupts the flesh and leaves barren the mind. A wasting disease that the common healers in the valley below cannot cure. Those that suffer we have had to lock away unless the sickness spread to the others.

Fendreg bowed his head. Rolas and the others did the same. Please, might know some way to treat this?

Yes. We have heard of this sickness, the disembodied voice replied. There was a catch and a clearing of a throat. Those touched by it wither away, their minds twisted with madness. They show an unnatural strength...and many are prone to excessive violence.

Fendreg grew wary. His skin prickled and his muscled tensed. He wasn’t sure why. Yes, this sounds like the same thing. Do you know how to stop it? A scraping sound resounded in the silence of the courtyard. Fendreg’s hand reached for his sword.

Deep, rumbling laughter spilled out and bounced off the walls and pillars of the temple. Stop it? Why...why would we wish to stop it? The priest of Asashi stepped into the light. His flesh of his face was twisted and covered in a sheen of sweat. His toothy smile and wide-eyed gaze struck Fendreg like a punch to the gut.

The plague. Blessed Mothers!

More scraping sounds and rattling erupted around the warriors. Other men in robes and an assortment of foreign garb appeared from the shadows, surrounding them, all armed with spears or swords. All were taken by the disease. The lead priest stepped forward, clutching a black staff, the ghastly grin pinching his withered cheeks.

When travelers from far beyond the mountains came to our doors, seeking shelther, we as we always have, provided them a refuge and sustenance. But, these strangers brought a gift with them, hidden in the guise of sickness. A man among their group was bitten by a creature in the forests of Rivan far to the east of this place. Or so the story was told. But none of that matters. The priest breathed in the frigid air, his nostrils flaring, head thrown back, eyes, closed. What matters was the gift that he gave to us. Just a single bite while we attempted to treat the wretch and it spread. Yes, a great gift. It has awakened us. Freed us from the shackles of our paltry morality. Now we serve ourselves. We are pleased that the gift has come to them below. He that left us has been fruitful in sharing. Nebany will know its pleasures.

A gift! Fendreg spit the words. He was flushed with rage. You’re mad, priest. This must be stamped out, here and now. It is an abomination. A curse.

The air rang with the release of the Senagran’s blade. The other men in his company hesitated only a moment before their weapons were drawn. Fendreg eyed Rolas who was looking around at the priests. There were twenty or better, all of them ready to kill.

We’re outnumbered, Rolas whispered.

Ya think? Fendreg growled.

The men of Nebany gathered about Fendreg, backs straight and weapons at the ready.

You will not leave this place, Fendreg of Senagra. At least not without our gift.

Ha! I beg to differ, Fendreg spat.

The priest smiled. So be it. He chopped the air with his hand. The priests and other victims of the foul plague leveled their weapons and came like a single wave.

Fendreg and others met the attack with their swords, swinging and thrusting wildly, shuffling to and fron in the confines of the temple court. The din of battle was tremendous amidst the weathered stones. Slowly the snow-packed ground was tinted pink then red with blood. The battle grew heated as scores entred the fray, taking the places of those fallen to Fendreg and the Nebani warriors, inching the tide against them. The Senagran knew they could not keep up under the onslaught. Between blows, he searched the perimeter of the court and eyed the priest watching the fight, his gaze cold and calculating. The calm surrounding the man unnerved Fendreg.

A scream returned his attention to the battle. One of the men from Nebany stumbled to one side, his sword dropped to the crimson snow. A spear had gotten through his defenses and protruded from his shoulder. But, that wasn’t the worst part: the one that attacked pawed at him, and reached in to bite his exposed hand. A second later, one of the other Nebani sheared the man’s head clean off.

The downed Nebani shook his head wildly, eyes bulging, denials rising for a moment above the fighting. He knew what it meant as surely as the Senagran. He was infected.

Damnation’s foot!

Fendreg struck back blades and spear tips in turn, dancing his way closer to the injured man. The other men from Nebany did likewise, their expressions grim and knowing. Anger lent more strength as he bodily shoved the damned out of his way to close the distance. He stepped over severed arms, corpses torn by swords, and other bits of gore until he was standing right over injured Nebani. The man was cradling his hand like it was a newborn child, rocking back and forth and mewling wordlessly. The warrior, Alten, looked up at Fendreg. His face was wet with hot tears.

Please, Master Fendreg, don’t let me become one of them! I beg you.

Fendreg grimaced, a pain like a dagger in the gut twisted him up inside. Two Mothers lead this poor wretch into your loving embrace.

The next instance, Fendreg sunk his blade into Alten’s chest. The man gasped but was dead the next instant. The other Nebani spared only a short look back while batting away the remaining attackers. Fendreg met Rolas’s gaze and the other man nodded solemnly and refocused his own defense. It had all happened in the blink of an eye. The calm at the center of storm that came and now went.

Fendreg jumped up, twisting about and lanching himself into the thick of the bloodied priests. His body moved with sinuous grace, slipping through the slimmest break in defenses, deftly striking with his sword, cutting through jugular veins to leave men to bleed out as often as simply ripping out throats. The priests fell in droves.

Priest! Fendreg roared. Priest, do you hear me! I’m coming for you!

He torn off the fur cloak, now drenched in blood and gore, and advanced towards the steps leading to porch. His polished leather armor gleamed in the torchlight. More of the damned came at him to slow him while the priest stared at him, his eyes almost burning with a feverish light. Fendreg struck again and again, slowed by those pressing in to halt him, to make suicidal attacks just so they could get close enough to bite him. The Senagran beat them down and left them behind. He would not be stopped. Rage burned in Fendreg like a fire in the blast furnaces back home in the fortress forges where all the weapons of Everhold were made.

The priest held his hands aloft, arms open in a mockery of welcome. His sickly smile