Adventures of the Weird: 12 Short Stories of Fantasy, Horror and Beyond

By Ty Johnston

Here can be found a dozen tales of Sword & Sorcery, horrors, and of recent pasts unimagined before now. Discover worlds where stout warriors face off against mighty foes, common folk gain powers undreamed of, and the edges of the dark sometimes loom oh, so close.

The Stories

Iron Men of the Amazon
Daedalus Reborn
Violence Claimed
Culination of a Cold Year
Blotting Out the Sun
App
Flip Phone
Assassins of Opportunity
Marazook
Cold Snap
Promises Whispered in Days of Darkness
That Time Nazis Kidnapped a Serial Killer and Took Him Back to the Past to Become a Monster

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Dec 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005274481

Ty Johnston

Originally from Kentucky, Ty Johnston is a former newspaper journalist. He lives in North Carolina with loving memories of his late wife.Blog: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

Book preview

Adventures of the Weird

12 Short Stories of Fantasy, Horror and Beyond

by Ty Johnston

a Monumental Works Group author

Copyright 2020 by Ty Johnston

visit the author’s website: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

sign up for the author’s newsletter: tinyletter.com/TyJohnston

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

for Mike

Contents

Introduction

Fantasy Stories

Violence Claimed

Culmination of a Cold Year

Horror Stories

App

Blotting Out the Sun

Flip Phone

Alternate History Stories

That Time Nazis Kidnapped a Serial Killer and Took Him Back to the Past to Become a Monster

Daedalus Reborn

Iron Men of the Amazon

Awakened Stories

Assassins of Opportunity

Marazook

Cold Snap

Promises Whispered in Days of Darkness

Introduction

Finding a home for a short story is not always easy. It can be difficult enough to win past editors and publishers, but even if that task is accomplished, it doesn’t mean a story is going to make it to readers. Sometimes a story is accepted for publication, but it still isn’t published for some reason. Often enough a magazine or a Web site folds, or a publisher decides not to publish a particular anthology.

These stories, the ones collected here, are all tales that were at one time or another accepted for publication. Some of them actually were published, but others were not for one reason or another.

For instance, the Sword & Sorcery tales Violence Claimed and Culmination of a Cold Year were accepted by editors, but then the Web sites went under.

The horror tales App, Blotting Out the Sun, and Flip Phone were also accepted by online publishers, but then for various reasons the publishers didn’t follow through. It happens.

The alternative history stories presented here were actually a part of a planned anthology with other authors, but then that collection of short stories never saw the light of day. Again, it happens.

However, The Awakened stories at the end of this collection were published, all except the last one, Promises Whispered in Days of Darkness. The fantasy world of The Awakened is one with two moons and where individuals are sometimes born with magical powers. Assassins of Opportunity was originally published in the collection The Awakened by the publisher Dark Quest. Marazook appeared in the collection The Awakened II. And then there was Cold Snap, a story of The Awakened set in the modern, real world, this story appearing in The Awakened Modern from eSpec Books. Lastly, there is Promises Whispered in Days of Darkness which was supposed to be published in yet another collection of short tales about The Awakened, but that anthology never appeared, which is a shame because I personally consider this tale one of the best stories presented here.

Anyway, all of these short stories found a home, but none of them were published for one reason or another. Until now. Some are better than others, but that’s for readers to decide. At the least, I hope you find something here to enjoy.

Fantasy Stories

Violence Claimed

T’thargo couldn’t help but sneer from his hiding place among the boulders. On the trail below rode three heavy men in piecemeal armor, each wearing rusted swords or carrying spears, the strips of black hide tied around their foreheads showing them as soldiers for Okalthu, the regional warlord. Worse yet a fourth rider appeared dressed in dingy gray robes and bearing crimson tattoos of chains and snakes running up and down his arms, pure evidence he came from the clan of Koltish mages.

Everyone hated mages, especially T’thargo. Magic had destroyed the world, after all, and the wizards had been at fault. Or at least most believed such. T’thargo didn’t know what to believe. Other than it had been Koltish mages who had burned his birth city, using their magic to keep the gates sealed so none could escape as a storm of flame swept along the streets and through the neighborhoods, leaving nothing behind but stone walls to surround a sea of ash.

Vengeance would not fill one’s belly, however. But the packs tied to the back of those four horses might. The mage and the three soldiers were days away from the nearest encampment, which meant they had to be carrying food and drink. T’thargo found himself in dire need of food and drink. Outnumbered and facing a sorcerer he might be, but he would have surprise and the high ground on his side, plus his massive size and strength and spear. Regardless, desperation drew him on, kill or die being his options. Considering who rode below him, T’thargo chose to kill.

He waited until the riders were past him so they could not easily fall back through the ravine, then T’thargo sprang down, a javelin flying from his right hand while his left brought forward his spear. He fell a distance twice his height and landed in a crouch as the stone head of his spear darted forward to catch one of the horses in the rear. The animal bucked high, sending a surprised warrior rolling from the saddle to crash onto the dirt road at T’thargo’s feet. T’thargo’s spear snapped forward again, this time catching the downed man in the throat and ripping to one side, spraying scarlet.

By then the others had spun their animals about. Still crouched with his spear ready for further action, T’thargo felt disappointment to discover his javelin had missed its mark, the tattooed wizard, but no small amount of pride welled within his stomach to see the remaining riders fearing to make a move towards their enemy. T’thargo could not help but chuckle as he shuffled forward to squat next to the man he had slain, that fellow’s horse now rampaging away and through the others, soon past those three to find its freedom.

One of the warriors pointed a long straight sword at T’thargo. Lushinite! the man shouted, then spurred his horse.

If the man had meant calling out T’thargo’s race to be an insult, T’thargo did not take it that way. Instead, pride filled the Lushinite as the rider sped forward, that lengthy sword now swinging down for the crouched figure.

At the last moment, with horse and rider practically on top of him, T’thargo rolled to one side, lashing out wish his spear as the sword stabbed where he had been hunched but a moment earlier. While the sword hit only air, the head of T’thargo’s weapon scraped across the front of the horse, not causing the beast any real harm but bringing it surprise as flint and wood smacked its nose and left behind a thin line of red.

T’thargo then rolled again, this time further away, as another ride came forward, this one with a spear of his own, the weapon tipped with black iron.

Damned ebon! the rider shouted, stabbing at the dark-skinned man rolling about.

The words brought a smile to T’thargo’s lips. Let these pale villains of Okalthu curse the inky devils. T’thargo did not care, him being one of the inky devils. Let them fear him and his kind.

He improved upon that fear by bounding to his feet and vaulting to one side, avoiding altogether the jabbed spear of his enemy. But T’thargo’s own spear found purchase as he pressed it forward into the thigh of the attacking rider, the flint blade striking beneath hanging straps of armor while piercing cloth and flesh and muscle. The rider let out a great cry, but before he could steer his animal away or make any kind of defense, the spear of T’thargo found him again, this time slipping between iron plates at the rider’s waist and jabbing through into skin, sending scarlet to pour out and glisten down one side of the horse.

The rider let out another scream, throwing his head back to the sky. He never got to scream again. T’thargo sprang up, stabbing with his spear yet again. This time his lengthy weapon sank into a throat beneath a leather chin strap, silencing a warrior forever as the man’s body jerked. Blood then splashed and a corpse slid from the saddle.

Do something, worthless mage! the last warrior in a saddle shouted to the Koltish wizard.

The wizard had been busy, however, his steed nervous and obviously not familiar with the din of battle, the animal jerking about left and right. Now frowning at his last surviving companion, the mage pointed to the dark-skinned enemy in their midst. Keep him busy another moment!

The final warrior nodded and swung his animal back around to face his opponent.

But T’thargo had not wasted those precious moments while his foes had communicated. He had swept in low so that when the last man in armor swung about his horse for attack, T’thargo was already directly beneath the animal’s snout, the Lushinite’s spear flashing upward.

Stone can only stand against metal so long, however, and the flint tip of T’thargo’s spear cracked and exploded into splinters as it struck against the chest plate of the saddled warrior. At this the man of Okalthu laughed and brought up his sword to strike at the Lushinite.

T’thargo would not give him the chance. Not deterred by the destruction of his weapon, T’thargo grabbed the rider’s horse by all those leather straps around the animal’s head. T’thargo put all his strength into pulling with his arms and hands and, despite the muscles within the horse’s neck, the animal still found itself yanked downward. Not only did this surprise the horse, but it surprised the swordsman as well, a swordsman who suddenly found himself pulled down nearly face to face with a mad enemy who had the eyes of a savage.

Yet before T’thargo could take his assault further, and before that last warrior of Okalthu could do anything about his own situation, and even before the horse could snort and right itself, a blast of cold fire sprang from one side, slamming into the Lushinite and throwing him across the dirt road and into a massive tree.

As he fell into the dirt, the wind knocked from him, T’thargo thanked his gods he had suffered no further damage, no broken ribs or limbs, no burning from that magical flame. He knew only blackness for a moment, or he thought it but a moment, then he felt the outside world rush back in upon him. He felt sore all over and his head rang, his vision blurred, but as he climbed to his knees and then to his feet, he knew he would be strong enough to continue the fight. Surrender could not be an option, nor could curling up and playing dead, for his foes would surely trounce upon him. No, whether it meant his death or not, T’thargo would do his ancestors and himself proud and he would stand and fight. Blinking away the last of the dizziness, he clenched his hands into fists and stood tall, lifting his head to look at his opponents.

Who were already dead.

The last of the warriors slumped in his saddle, a pair of pale arrow shafts protruding from him, one from the neck and the other from a shoulder between armored plates, the dead man’s horse now ambling about and nipping at what little scrub it could find. As for the wizard, he lay upon his back in the middle of the road, his horse long gone, an arrow planted directly between his eyes.

T’thargo glanced about, his eyes working to find whomever had launched those arrows, but he saw nothing other than the dead men and some of their steeds. He crouched lower to the ground once more and backed towards the tree for what little shelter it provided, and all the while he stretched his other senses, hoping to hear or smell anything untoward.

Yet nothing came to him, no scent of sweat, only that of the drying blood of the dead. No sounds other than the whistle of the sky’s wind reaching down into the ravine to scour across the surface of the road, of the land, of the faces of the living and dead alike.

T’thargo remained motionless, hunched beneath the limbs of the tree for the longest time, for hours. He watched in silence as the last of Okalthu’s warriors slid from a saddle to crash upon the road next to the dead mage. The sun then began to dip lower beneath crags to the west, and a half dozen black scavenging birds began to circle the sky overhead, only T’thargo’s presence keeping them at bay since the horses meandered off to their own fates.

Still the Lushinite remained motionless. He had not seen from where the arrows had come, thus he had no idea where danger from an enemy might lay. He also could not trust that the archer had meant to save T’thargo, for he knew the enemy of his enemy was not necessarily his friend. Many hated Okalthu and his men and many hated the Koltish wizards, but T’thargo’s own people had not been loved by everyone before they had been reduced to nothing more than a few stragglers, those lucky enough not to have been at home when disaster had struck.

Day turned to night, and only then beneath the shadows of a moonless sky did T’thargo dare move. He remained low, scooting forward slowly upon his bare feet, heading towards the dead men. Regardless of the threat which might still face the Lushinite, he had waited his patience. Besides, he needed food and drink and weapons.

T’thargo made it to the nearest dead, the soldier with the two arrows in him. Pausing to listen and sensing nothing, T’thargo went to work, soon acquiring dagger and spear for himself as well as a shoulder bag filled with dried meats and a skin full of water.

Barely able to see within the dark, the Lushinite made his way to the dead mage, hoping to discover more food and perhaps some valuables he could trade.

As he reached for the wizard, he thought he heard something behind him, action of a sort, perhaps the soft shifting of a foot upon ground or the gentle rustle of garb as a person moved.

Remaining crouched, T’thargo spun about, his spear extended to ward off an attacker.

Thunk!

The arrow caught the Lushinite in his right thigh, the head sinking deep into muscle, the shaft bouncing as the projectile came to rest. T’thargo cried out his surprise and anguish, but being an experienced warrior he did not allow this to take all fight out of him. He slapped down a strong hand, breaking the shaft of the arrow so it would not so impede his movement, then he rolled away from his original position, circling back to the tree.

Thunk.

An arrow hammered into the ground just inches from him, fortunately his assailant no better at seeing in the dark than T’thargo himself. Soon the Lushinite made it back to the relative shelter of the hanging limbs of the tree, knowing the archer must be behind him and further up the hillside, otherwise more arrows would have targeted T’thargo long before.

Hunkered there in the night, the pain in his thigh shooting up through his body like lightning dipped in fire, the warrior gritted back his pain and waited. As long as he remained against the tree and had its few arms hanging above, he thought he would be safe. The archer might eventually try to move down the hillside and around its wounded prey, but T’thargo thought that unlikely at least until morning.

There in the dark, alone and pained, T’thargo realized he might be an experienced warrior, but he had proven foolish enough to attack a sorcerer and three men armed with metal while he had only had his flint spear. He had not even had armor of any sort, only the barest of garb, a wrap made from the skin of a great cat he had hunted and slain in his youth. At least now he had weapons, though that would do him little good if he could not find many days of rest for his leg, possibly with the addition of a poultice of some sort to assist in his healing.

He glanced out into the darkness once more, the stars just allowing him to make out the still forms of the dead men in the road. Perhaps the wizard would have healing herbs, at least some wrappings.

T’thargo sighed. He could not go out there again, not in his condition, not with a deadly enemy waiting for him.

But he could be patient. He could wait. He had done so many times before and could do so again. He had been hit and his enemy must know that, so if T’thargo remained motionless a good long while, perhaps his foe would think T’thargo dead. Then perhaps the archer would come down from the hill, and perhaps then T’thargo could kill the person. At least he might get a chance to throw one of his new weapons.

Perhaps.

If he lived through the night. If he didn’t go into shock, or early infection. If his assailant didn’t decide to move before the breaking of the sun many, many hours in the future.

Another sigh escaped the Lushinite, then he leaned back against the tree, gritted through his pain, and allowed himself to close his eyes. His body needed rest. He feared what condition his leg might be in when he woke, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He would have to wait until some opportunity presented itself, then he would attack or find aid of a sort.

Being a warrior experienced at the slightest noise waking him, he slept.

For a good while.

When he woke, the sun’s brightness filtered down through the tree limbs over his head, shedding splinters of warmth and light upon him. Movement ahead stirred him to action.

Wincing at the pain and stiffness in his leg, T’thargo still managed to push himself back further beneath the tree, all the while knowing it did him little good, there being no way the woman standing in the middle of the road did not see him.

In fact she did see him, her eyes locked upon his, her bronzed skin glinting beneath the sun and garb of spotted animal hides, her arms pulling on the might of a massive curved bow, an arrow aimed directly at the Lushinite stretched upon the ground and against the tree. The copper bands circling her forearms told T’thargo right away the woman belonged to the priesthood of Fealthites, distant cousins to his own people.

Why she did not immediately kill T’thargo, he could not know. She had spent so many other arrows seeking his life, but now she did not kill. Her eyes remained hard, but she seemed unsure as she stood there over the bodies of dead, her weapon upon the downed figure beneath the tree.

Slowly T’thargo lifted a hand flat towards her to show he meant no harm, that he proposed nothing deadly between the two. Her eyes darted to the spear in the man’s other hand. He shrugged back at her. Why should he let lose his weapon when she presented the stronger danger, her bow back and arrow aimed. Seeming to sense this, she eased back on the bow and shifted the arrow so it pointed off to one side.

A mistake.

Even with his wounded leg, T’thargo moved like a flash. His spear came up and his arm slung out, shooting the iron-tipped weapon across the short distance. The black head sank into the woman’s stomach just as she brought her arrow around, but by then the pain and the long shaft sticking out of her midriff stole any chance of her making the shot. The arrow tumbled uselessly from her bow as the bow itself dropped from her hands and she fell back, hands at the spear in her stomach, her head thrown back as she screamed and hit the ground.

Just as her back landed in the dust, T’thargo drew forth the dagger he had taken and he scrambled across the way to her. Seeing him coming, she briefly tried to raise her hands in a fight, but she had been too wounded, found herself too weakened. T’thargo bit back his own pain tearing at his leg, yet he had the strength to brush aside her flailing fingers and then thrust his blade forward, the metal sinking into the flesh beneath the woman’s neck and up into her skull.

She shuddered, convulsing, then dropped back motionless, one hand wrapped around the shaft of the spear within her and the other hand falling at her side. Not fully trusting her, T’thargo thrust the dagger one more time, and only then did he withdraw the weapon and stare at the carnage he had wrought.

Why did he slay her? Because she had deserved it. Because she had shown a moment of foolishness, of weakness, and in the world that could not be abided.

A weakness overcame him then. His head spun and he watched as the knife dropped from suddenly clumsy fingers. For a moment he did not realize what had come over him, but then pain lanced through him once more and his eyes were drawn to the wound in his leg. He stared down at the bloated, reddened flesh surrounding the broken arrow still protruding from his leg. Infection had set in there overnight, and perhaps something worse than infection, it not being impossible those arrows had been coated with poison.

The morning sun’s brightness now wailing down upon his shoulders and he suddenly more tired and thirsty than he had ever been in his life, T’thargo tried to turn to crawl back to the shade of the tree. But his body would not cooperate. He could budge an arm and shift a leg, but he could not find the strength in him to move about, to put one hand or knee in front of the other to crawl.

Heat nearly destroyed him then, his head swooning, his eyes rolling within their sockets. A small part of him recognized he should not feel this, that he was a strong warrior who should be able to withstand more than a little warmth from the sun, but the festering and the pollutants now coursing through him told otherwise.

T’thargo wanted a drink. He wanted a drink more than at any point in his life. His eyes growing more and more blurry looked around for anything to drink but found nothing. Hadn’t he had a water skin at some point? That would be nice.

Then he fell over dead, there in the road next to the woman who had killed him, next to the men he had slain.

And there he lay.

Until the vultures grew more bold.

Culmination of a Cold Year

Terek smelled the horses an hour before he