One Cog Dreaming

By Andrew Knighton

A shipwrecked sailor hunting for a way home from a land of talking animals.
A rebel desperate to carve out her own path in a steam-powered city.
A casualty from the trenches of World War One looking for a reason to live.
A time traveller seeking knowledge in the past while trying to protect history from the future.

 

Meet all these people and more in fifty-two short stories, ranging from the ancient past to the far future and into words utterly unlike our own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393971283

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

FANTASY

Three Little Pigs

The wolf prowled into town on paws as soft as mist and as deadly as winter. Her every breath made the leaves trembled in the trees.

Three pigs fled before her. The first, skinny and clad in rags, ran into a house of straw. The second, in his simple, sturdy tunic and tool belt, ran into a house of wood. The third, decked out in a bowler hat and waistcoat, ran into a house of bricks.

The wolf grinned, drool dripping between saw-blade teeth. She would eat well today.

She stopped at the first house.

You think this can protect you? she called out with a sneer.

It’s all I have, the first pig replied, his voice high with fear. But there’s no meat on me. Am I even worth eating?

He wasn’t worth answering. The wolf took a deep breath, her lungs swelling with all the power of the east wind, pursed her lips, and blew.

The house exploded beneath the force of the gale, straw bursting apart and billowing through the air.

The pig cowered in the ruins, frozen by fear. The wolf snapped her jaws shut around his throat and tasted hot, delicious flesh. She gave in to her hunger, rending, tearing, chewing, until all that remained was bones and blood-spattered chaff.

She brushed a straw from her nose and frowned. The pig had been right - he wasn’t nearly enough to sate her appetite.

She stalked over to the house of wood. It was carefully constructed, timbers linked with dovetail joints and wooden pins, an apple carved into the frame above the front door. The windows were shuttered and bolted.

You think this can protect you? the wolf called out as she admired the handiwork.

I built it with all my skill, the second pig replied, his words sharply edged, the voice of a creature failing to hide his fear. I have faith that it will stand.

Let’s put that faith to the test.

The wolf stepped back and took a deep breath. The wind was a great power within her, a living, surging, seething thing. Then she blew.

The house shook. Shutters rattled in their frames. Joints creaked under the strain. The wolf kept blowing determinedly, her breath the full force of the elements.

I told you, the pig shouted over the howling wind. I said that it-

With a splintering crash, the front door flew in, wrenching away half the doorframe. Timbers around it buckled and broke. Splinters whirled. Walls fell. The roof went tumbling across the street.

The pig tried to run but the wolf was faster. Paws pinned him in the mud. She smelled the blood seeping from a hundred splinter wounds.

I don’t want to die, the pig whimpered.

And I don’t want to be hungry, the wolf said, a moment before she sank her teeth in.

When she was done, she wiped the blood from her muzzle with the back of her paw. That had been good. The carpenter had more flesh on him. But still she hungered for something more.

She approached the brick house, standing tall amid the scattered straw and pulverised planks. The third pig looked down at her from a crenellated turret on the northeast corner.

You think this can protect you? the wolf asked, licking her lips.

I bloody well hope so the pig replied. I spent half my fortune on it.

The wolf took a deep breath, her chest expanding, her body flooding with the wind’s power. Then she blew.

The wolf’s breath battered at the brickwork, blowing dust from the mortar and whistling through the roof tiles.

The house stood firm.

The wolf frowned, took another deep breath, and blew gain.

The wind was a vast force pounding at the house. The turret trembled and the pig clung on with gritted teeth. A chimney pot shattered in the street.

But still the house stood.

The wolf growled in frustration. This wasn’t how it was meant to work. She blew, houses fell, pigs got eaten. That was the way of the world.

She took another breath, the deepest she had ever known, sucking in air until she felt she would explode. And then she blew.

The tower wavered. The pig crouched in terror behind the battlements. The front door rattled in its frame like the battering of hail on a frozen pond. The wolf blew and blew until there was nothing left in her and she lay panting in the dirt.

Still the house stood.

The pig peered down from his tower, drew out a cigar and lit it with a gold-plated lighter. He grinned and blew a smoke ring.

The wolf forced herself up onto her paws. Her head hung in shame and her belly rumbled.

You win, she growled. I’ll go.

Why the rush? the pig said. I know a way you can stay here and still be well fed.

Stop taunting me, the wolf snapped. We both know you’re not coming out to be eaten.

True, the third pig said. But you see those windmills I had built on the hill? They could feed quite a community. Lots of hard workers for my new factory. Lots of succulent little piggies for you. Offer them bread and jobs and not too much death and they’ll come from miles around. All I need to make those mills work is a little gust of wind...

The Shadow of the Warlord's Throne

So, we meet at last, Torbad the Invincible.

The voice boomed across the throne room, so deep and menacing that it rattled the goblin skulls hanging from Torbad’s belt. It had taken him days to fight his way into the fortress of Angvald the Merciless, but it had been worth it. The place had everything he looked for in an evil overlord’s lair: a faceless figure perched on a throne carved from ancient granite; a towering bodyguard at the back of the dais; flickering firelight to add shadows and uncertainty. Who knew how many guards were waiting to leap out when Torbad attacked?

Slaying this sort of villain was the stuff of legends.

I have crossed vast deserts and towering mountains to face you, Torbad proclaimed, unslinging the war axe from his back. Do you have any last words before your reign of terror ends?

There was a whispering, and then the booming voice echoed through the room.

Words are cheap, barbarian. Show me some action.

Torbad frowned. That had been a good line, and he hoped that the bard he’d dragged along was paying attention, but something seemed out of place.

Did that guy behind you do the talking? he asked, peering over Angvald’s shoulder at the looming bodyguard.

There was whispering again.

I speak for myself, intruder, the voice boomed. And I say it is time for you to die.

It is him. Torbad pointed with his axe. I can see his lips moving behind the helmet.

Angvald rose from his throne, plate mail gleaming blood red in the light from the fire.

Fine, he snapped, his voice shrill. I don’t have the booming overlord voice, so I get Bors to do it for me. But I can still kick your spleen out through your spine.

Wait wait wait, Torbad said, narrowing his eyes as he peered at Angvald. That armour, does it even fit you?

Of course it fits me! Now come forth and fight.

I know armour, and that’s clearly not your size. The helmet’s wobbling, and the fingers on your gauntlets don’t move.

This was a disappointment. Maybe Angvald wasn’t the mighty warlord Torbad had hoped for, just another faded wannabe. The bard would have to make some careful choices when telling this tale.

Fine! Angvald shook his arms until the gauntlets and vambraces fell off, revealing pale, slender hands. He kicked away thickly soled boots, losing half a foot of height. Finally, he wrenched off his helmet, revealing the face of a teenage girl. I built it big to look intimidating. You got a problem with that, mister stuffed loincloth?

Torbad stared up at her. This story wouldn’t just take some careful telling, it would need a complete rewrite. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen.

He burst out laughing. The sound filled the throne room, echoing back from looming pillars and a high, domed ceiling. Here was Angvald the Merciless, up and coming warlord of the east, a name whispered in words of terror, nothing more than a little girl. Was this who the knights of Gellent had fled from at Crimson Moor? The tyrant who squeezed a king’s ransom from the Republic of Crows?

Maybe the bard should tell this tale straight after all. The lads at the Adventurers’ Arms would love it. Torbad laughed until his sides ached and he had to catch his breath.

Something amusing you? Angvald asked, sinking back into her seat, fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of the throne.

Nothing, nothing, Torbad said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. So, do you want to show me straight to the treasure vault, or do I need to spank you first?

What? Angvald’s face turned cold and hard as a gargoyle.

I just don’t know how this is meant to work. I don’t see many little girls dressing up as a warlord.

I am a warlord! Who do you think came up with the flanking manoeuvre at Crimson Moor, or forced the Republican troops into submission? Just because I have to put on this show for idiots like you, that doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.

Sure, of course. Torbad chuckled. Now seriously, show me the loot. I’m not meant to hit women, but that won’t stop me flinging you over my shoulder and—

How dare you!

Everyone knows that girls can’t be warlords.

Well it’s a good job everyone doesn’t include my mum, because she told me—

Enough! Swinging his axe, Torbad strode towards the throne. Let’s get this over with.

Angveld’s hand shot down into the shadows beside her throne. There was a twang, a thud, and a shock of pain that brought Torbad to a halt. He stared, bewildered, as blood ran down his chest from the hole created by a crossed bolt.

But... He tasted iron on his breath.

Angveld picked up the other crossbow, the one to the left of the throne, took aim, and shot Torbad through the throat. He hit the ground with a satisfying thud. Behind him, the bard soiled his britches, then turned and ran screaming from the hall.

Barbarians are such idiots, Angveld said, setting the crossbow down with a sigh.

Now, now, Bors’ deep voice came booming from behind the throne. I taught you better than to use cheap stereotypes.

Dread the Dawn

I dreaded the dawn, not because it would change anything, but because it would show me the truth.

Night after night we had fled across the desert, straining at every step against the sand that tried to hold us back. My legs ached and my throat rasped from the dry, dusty air. Patches of skin that had been blistered by the midday sun now felt the bitter chill of the cloudless dark.

Every moment was etched with terror as I watched for our pursuers. Sometimes I would see one of them looming out of the moonlight, would raise my hand and summon ancient power. My palm would blaze and the creature would be driven back, teeth gnashing and claws slashing at the air, or it would be exposed as just a figment of my fearful imagination.

When the creature was real we could fight it. My staff and Kotali’s sword swinging in the darkness while the child clung to her back, whimpering in fear. That was the sound driving me to strike harder and faster, to fling my magic around with wild ferocity, to scream and shout and hammer each fallen beast until it was nothing but broken bones and blood seeping into the sand.

When the creature wasn’t real, only my fear and anger lay exposed, a bloody wound on my soul.

For the sake of our innocent burden, I was becoming a monster. The soft, compassionate woman who had left the city was gone, replaced by a ruthless killer. And yet it wasn’t the loss of myself I feared. It was the coming of the sun.

This is the night, Kotali said as we strode up a dune, sand sliding down between our feet. This time we’ll get there.

You said that last night, I said.  And the night before. And the one before that.

This time it has to be true. We’ve come so far.

Who says it’s far enough?

You’ve got to have hope.

I can’t.

Hope had killed Arden, when he walked towards an oasis and straight into the creatures’ claws. Hope had killed Zell, when she tried to make peace with the sorcerers of the old city. Hope wasn’t getting me, and it sure as hell wasn’t getting the child.

But the creatures