What Hellhounds Dream: & Other Stories

By Steve Diamond

A collection of award-nominated short stories, gaming fiction, and more, some never before seen! Published with author commentary and insights about the writing process, this collection is a must have for fans of horror and thriller short fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outland Entertainment
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954255180

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

It’s weird to put together a collection of short fiction. Going through published and unpublished pieces took me on a trip through memories. Through feelings of success and disappointment. Some of the stories have held up better than others, but I think that’s natural from any author’s body of work.

The stories here are a mix of published, rejected, and never submitted. It includes the first story of any kind that I ever finished, my first sale, a Hugo Nominated tale, and some personal favorites from the catalog.

Real quick, I want to thank Alan Bahr, Larry Correia, and Jon Rock. Alan for publishing this collection, Larry for being instrumental in some of these stories being published, and Rock for looking over my unpublished pieces and giving them a once-over. And of course, a huge thanks goes to my wife, Jenny, for putting up with my writing for all these years.

A long time ago, I was reading a collection from Norman Partridge. After every story in the collection, there was a brief couple paragraphs explaining where he got the idea for the story. I loved it. So that’s what I’m going to do here. However, I’m going to go an extra step. I’m going to talk about what I learned. Why I think the story was accepted. More importantly, why I think the story was rejected. Hopefully it gives readers a little insight to my mind and process, and makes the stories more enjoyable than I think they already are.

I think that’s it. Have fun!

—Steve

A SINGLE SAMURAI

My father taught me that the decisions you make are nothing more than the product of who you are. In a way, you could say that the future is all predetermined. Fated. You just have to decide, right from the very beginning, who you are and how far you are willing to go to do what is right. Any early doubts will cause your failure in the end.

So who am I?

Samurai.

It is no easy task to watch your entire land destroyed. Whether real or imagined, I suppose it makes no difference that I can still hear the screams coming from the throats of thousands as they died. I could do nothing at the time. No, I suppose that is untrue. I could have hid my eyes. Covered my ears. But how would my ancestors have regarded me then?

No, I watched. I listened. I took in every death. Every scream of terror and pain.

How did I escape the devastation, you wonder? I could comment that, in a way, I didn’t. That I was right there in the thick of it, and that I am still experiencing it. But I don’t think that is the answer being requested of me.

The truth of the matter is that I escaped my certain death by riding on the creature—the kaiju—that was in fact the instrument of the destruction and chaos left behind me.

It is hard to describe a monster the size of the one I current ride. It is a mountain. Massive. Unyielding. Indestructible. Imagine if the mountain nearest you suddenly began moving. Imagine if, one day, it slowly began unfolding itself like a bear emerging from hibernation. What is a village to a mountain? More, what is a person to a mountain?

Nothing.

This is not the first time kaiju have been stirred from the depths of their slumber into our world. My ancestors fought them, though those monsters were nothing compared to the one upon which I traveled. To compare myself to a flea on a dog would not do justice to the scale of the monstrosity. It had no definitive form that I could identify. It was simply too big, and my view too limited.

All I know is the kaiju utterly obliterates anything that crosses its path. Armies have tried to stop it with cannon. Other samurai have tried with blades. Nothing causes even the most subtle of reaction from the beast.

Yet here I am, riding the kaiju. It heads south, where in a matter of weeks, if not days, it will reduce my entire country into little more than rubble. I have one goal. Climb the kaiju, and kill it. How does one kill a mountain?

Somehow.

What is a true samurai without a daisho? There are many myths and legends surrounding a samurai and the two blades he carries. Wearing a daisho not only marks a samurai for all to see, but it innately conjures the whispers of heroic deeds, demonic opponents, and traditional duels.

In public, in the rare event that a samclimurai is asked the question, a samurai will brush aside the myth. We don’t brag. We don’t boast. It accomplishes nothing to let the common masses know what we truly protect them from. We kill the demons before they can do untold levels of harm, and then we tell the people that nothing untoward has happened. We keep the darkness at bay while most people struggle to even understand that there is and encroaching darkness.

The katana and wakizashi—or whichever desired combination of blades the samurai chooses to wear—are sacred weapons. They are more than just status symbols. They are physical representations of what we should all be spiritually. There are some blades that are passed from father to son, but these are a different sort of katana. They have not been forged in the old way. The secret way.

My katana and its matching short sword are different than those weapons wielded by regular samurai. Like myself, with their appearance, they don’t brag. They don’t boast. The scabbards for both are simple and lacquered black. The hilts are wood wrapped in grey shark skin. The blades stone polished.

It is not the look of them that makes the blades special. Again, it is how the blade is made. It is what is inside the blade that makes it different. When blades are forged in the old way, that forging is done literally with a piece of the samurai’s soul inside. How it is done is a mystery even unto the samurai and a secret kept by the monks who forge our blades. A unique bond is formed between the samurai and his weapons. Should the blade break—which is rare in the extreme—a samurai’s soul breaks with it, and dies. Likewise—and far more common—when a samurai dies, his sword crumbles to dust.

What is a true samurai without a daisho?

Soulless.

I was not truly expecting the carnage I stumbled upon. It could be argued that it was luck that lead me to the clearing in which I now stood. I would not be the one to argue that point, for I do not believe in luck. I believe in my ancestors and the guidance they give me should I be worthy to hear it.

As the kaiju moved, crushing everything in its path, it began shedding the stone and foliage that covered it. Up the great beast I traveled, along a faint animal trail with the monster’s back my goal. How long must this kaiju have rested in its one place for it to have grown trees? To have these animal paths crossing its surface? And not just the evidence of their passing, but those creatures themselves with their homes? More than once I saw the passing deer, or heard the distant growling of predators.

Every step the kaiju took shook loose the debris—some of my country—that clung to it. Great rockslides cascaded down the monster’s sides. Trees three times my age would rip free from where they had rooted and tumble away. More than once I sought shelter in small caves to wait out the upheaval surrounding me.

It was after waiting out a particularly violent series of earthquakes upon the kaiju—likely nothing more than a sequence of quick steps from the abomination that resounded upwards—that I found the path I had been following completely gone. It had been swept away completely, and there was no clear route for me to follow to reach the top of the monster. I backtracked for the better part of a day until I found another, steeper path that I never recalled previously passing. Climbing it took the remainder of that day, and that was when I found myself in a clearing of sorts as the sun was falling.

The first thing I noticed was the coppery smell of blood.

It assaulted my nose, and I could tell without seeing it that the quantity of spilt blood was enormous. I could tell that it was human blood.

I drew my katana.

In the center of the small clearing I quietly turned in a slow circle, taking in the picture. The clearing was more of a hollow set between large rocks. The trees were sparse, and I began picking out smallish pools of darkness that I realized were caves. In the middle of the clearing were the scattered remains of a small contingent of soldiers.

It was impossible to tell just how many had been here. Heads lay like discarded and rotting fruits that the peasants had neglected to harvest. Arms and legs lay strewn about the clearing, and I soon saw even more hanging in the few trees surround me. Blood arced and streaked everywhere. I picked a point of reference and turned again in a slow circle, this time counting legs I could see. When I arrived back at my starting point, I had counted twenty-five legs. At least thirteen soldiers had died here. I saw signs of gunfire, but nothing that suggested what the men had been firing at.

Samurai have a sense of when events have turned perilous. A shift in the breeze. A sudden stillness. An icy chill that slips insidiously into the heart. There was something here. Watching me.

I do not claim to never be afraid. That is foolishness. My father taught me that lesson when I was very young. He taught me that fear is a tool; perhaps even the most valuable tool a samurai can have. When controlled, that fear can serve as an extra sense of protection. But it does not rule me. I rule it.

I pivoted to my left and carved upward with my blade before I even had time to register the nearness of the danger. My katana bit deep into…something. I used my momentum to pull the blade clear and felt the spray of liquid—blood?—cover me. I did not pause to look at the thing I had, hopefully, killed. As I spun back to my unguarded flank, I caught the briefest glimpse of a vaguely cat-shaped animal bounding towards me.

Diving to the left, I rolled and came back to my feet with my katana held at the ready. The thing was the size of a mountain cat, only it looked to have rocks covering its back for protection. I had never seen a monster like this, nor heard of the like. As the creature and I circled, I wondered if the appearance of these small creatures had anything to do with the sudden awakening of the kaiju.

I feinted a strike at the thing, then pulled back, looking for a weakness. I now saw four eyes, vertically slit, that gleamed in the waning light. Claws retracted into the thing’s paws. It did not make any further move to attack me. Almost as if it were waiting—

I threw myself to the side and felt claws rake my left shoulder from behind.

Pain is nothing. It is simply a feeling, like hunger, or worry. It can be tolerated and banished with proper discipline. There are demons that live off that pain, that thrive off their victims succumbing to it. So I feel no pain. I do not just ignore it, for that implies a recognition that it was there to begin with.

Two more of the cat-things had emerged from their caves, making four that faced me. They moved to surround me, sniffing the air, and likely smelling my blood. But not my fear.

One leapt at me, and I drew my wakizashi and buried it in the thing’s neck. Its momentum wrenched the short blade from my grasp. I took three running steps at the nearest of the other three cat-things, and swung low with my katana, cutting off the two legs on it right side. It bellowed in pain, a sound somewhere between a wolf’s howl and a cat’s shriek.

I turned, keeping the thrashing beast between me and the other two. I reached out and tapped my blade on the wounded monster’s rocky hide. It clinked like it would against stone. I needed to send the creatures a message. I needed them to understand that they were not the predator here. I was.

I stepped quickly around to where I had easy access to the cat-thing’s unprotected belly, and drove my blade into it. I did not make the cut quick. I slowly dragged my blade, gutting the monster. I felt the connection between the monster and myself. I felt as the bit of my soul in the blade eradicated the soul in the creature. I had only felt this a few times before, and only when necessity had forced me to kill an oni slowly. Through my katana, I felt the creature die.

When I withdrew my blade, the other two creatures were gone. I had not seen them flee, but I knew they would not trouble me further. I retrieved my wakizashi, cleaned my blades on a strip of cloth from my robes, and continued through the clearing and up towards the spine of the kaiju.

If it was not luck that saw me through my encounter with the cat-things, what was it? To me the answer was simple.

Guidance.

I was barely fifteen when my father committed ritual hara kiri. Had he given offense to some lord? Had he given offense to some lord’s wife? No. My father was the most honorable of all men. At least, that is how I remember him. And is not that what truly matters?

Son, he said that morning. I must do something that you will find hard to understand today.

I was very confused, and said, What do you mean, father?

Today, my son, is the day I must task you with watching over the family.

Where are you going? I was still confused, but looking back on that day, my father did not regard me with a look of indignation or impatience at my questions.

I go to join our ancestors.

Why?

Because sometimes sacrifices are needed to protect those we love.

A few hours later, I served as my father’s second. The katana I held then was not the one I hold now, but I remember that blade in every detail. From the way the grip was ever so slightly uneven beneath my grip. How the sun reflected off the polished blade. There was the smallest of nicks near the end of the blade’s edge. I never was able to learn how that had come to be there.

In front of our local magistrate, my father shrugged off the top of his robe and let it fall to the ground. He slipped his wakizashi from the scabbard, reversed his grip on the blade, and settled the point against his flesh.

I glanced at the magistrate and saw the sadness that filled his eyes.

My father had not been the one to cause offense. My father’s lord had been the one to do that. But even with his faults, our lord was the best person to lead. The best person to see our people through difficult times. My father knew this.

So he offered to cleanse his lord’s honor with his own life.

I lifted the katana, poised to end my father’s suffering.

My father took one calming breath, and plunged the blade into his flesh. I could hear the wet tearing and cutting as he gutted himself. Just the sound of it was nearly too much for me. I remember blackness encroaching at the edge of my vision. My hands shook.

My father looked up over his left shoulder at me, pain and sweat streaking his face. He managed a small smile.

"Learn from me," he said, his voice a bloody whisper. Then nodded his head once.

My vision cleared. My nerves calmed. I lifted the katana high, then brought it down and gave my father the one thing he deserved and had earned with his sacrifice.

Peace.

I could see beauty for leagues upon leagues.

In front of me, and in the path of the kaiju, the landscape of my country unfolded like the secrets of an origami crane. I could pick out dozens of individual villages, and several walled fortresses. The land was green and full of life. I took in a deep breath of crisp air, savoring the sharpness of it. For a moment, I let myself become lost in the beauty.

I exhaled. Turned.

Behind me lay destruction for leagues upon leagues.

Had there ever been life in this beast’s wake? Had I not personally traveled these lands in the past, I would not have believed it. There was no green in the path of violence the creature had wrought. What was left was inhospitable wasteland. It was not unlike when a nervous horse paws at the ground, gouging it. Only this was on the magnitude of a mountain. Gouges the size of lakes. Great rents in the earth that I doubted would ever heal.

If there had been villages in that devastation, they no longer existed. As high as I was, I was impossible to actually see if anything had survived. But I did not need to see to know. Nothing lived. Nothing would have survived the kaiju’s passage.

I turned again to the front and looked at the beauty of my country. If I did not stop the kaiju, it would all be gone. All of it. Every village, town, pasture, samurai, woman, peasant and child. They would not just die or be destroyed. After the kaiju passed, it would be like they never existed, and their futures would be murdered as surely as if they too had been caught in the path of the monster.

I resumed my journey.

I had been climbing this monster for days, and with each of those passing days, more of the creature was revealed. It sloughed off rock and vegetation like a snake discards old skin. I could discern a tail, and the head would wave from side-to-side. There was something distinctly reptilian about its head and the way its eyes seemed to regard the world which it annihilated.

The kaiju moved forward, unabated.

I had little time if I was to stop it from crushing the rest of my country.

My path was virtually unobstructed now, and I was able to keep at a run for hours. The head of the monster grew steadily larger in my view. There was a clarity within my mind as I ran, and I pondered how I could kill the beast.

I had hoped that my ancestors would have given me a sign by now, but they had been silent thus far. Perhaps it was not time yet for them to give me direction. Or perhaps they had no direction to give. Could it be that my ancestors were as overwhelmed as I was? What if they did not know how to kill this monster, and I was running to my death?

Well, that is the purpose of samurai is it not? To make the sacrifices—regardless of how difficult or contrary to what logic declares—that no one else will make.

I ran on.

The catlike creatures followed me at considerable distance. Did they know my intentions? If they did, they made no move to attack me. They only stalked, no doubt waiting for me to do something careless. Why bother attacking me if I would do them the favor of dying on my own?

Crossing the neck of the kaiju was treacherous, but of no great challenge. The biggest worry was not the shifting terrain, but what lay ahead. I could see major landholdings ahead. From this unfamiliar vantage it was hard to say whose land the monster approached, but I knew what would happen once the kaiju reached it. Everyone living there