Witch Mountain

By Lon Varnadore

A bloodthirsty sword versus a powerful witch on the planet of Callisto and Bors is trapped between the two.

Bors, the barbarian swordsman from Mars, leaves behind his friend Tosh du'Vaul, in search of his own glory and fame. Driven by a dark and bloodthirsty sword, he finds himself on Callisto battling a witch of great power. He finds an ally in Rick Tavish, Space Ranger, whom he finds on his path towards Witch Mountain.

This is not a story of science fact. This is fantastic science fiction. The old guard kind. The raypunk kind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lon Varnadore
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005570712

Lon Varnadore

I have been a fan of sci-fi and fantasy for years. Hard at work at the next book.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Witch Mountain

by

Lon Varnadore

This is not a serious story. Not in the sense of hard science facts and what we know. This is more fantastic. Instead of reaching into the future to what could be, I have reached into the past, into the times before people knew Mars was a dry, dead world with no air—i. Instead, it held giant, four-armed monsters and savages., Wwhere Venus was a lush jungle world under a constant barrage of rain, and where the outer planets were so massive their satellites held life foreign to humans in more than one sense. And beyond that, deep in space, the bug-eyed aliens and strange creatures existed that shocked, terrified, and entertained us.

This is not a story about science fact. This is fantastic science fiction. The old guard kind, the raypunk kind. It’'s one I think that should be dusted off and played with from time to time—; the pulp era of science fiction, when Mars had canals, Venus held dinosaurs, and man could travel to other places in rockets or spheres coated in anti-gravity paint, or even mysterious beams of energy. Where savages could hold axe and sword, fighting alongside a raygun-toting gunfighter or Space Ranger.

Won'’t you come along for the ride?

CHAPTER 1

The sun, distant as it was to Mars, hung low in the sky when Bors spotted the marauders’ first sign. He’d gone ahead to scout the edge before the dead Northern Ocean shore. The dry, shriveled chasm that had once held water stretched out to the north. His eyes roved over a massive, dry bed of the bleached bones of ancient sea creatures with long-dead patches of seaweed gone to discolored dust. He spotted the distant trails of dust as signs of a coming force. The dust rills grew thicker and wider, speaking of the great number of the coming marauders. Once he spotted the signs of the oncoming horde, he spun to return with swiftness to those who’d hired him.

Unlike the Blue Hand merchants or a majority of those who called Mars home, Bors was able to keep pace with their wagons and scouted ahead on foot. His tribe, the Hidden Mountain, now lost to time, were fleet of foot. It was one of the reasons he had been hired by the Blue Hand. Another was for the fighting prowess he would bring to bear on marauders and cutthroats for the dyed-woad merchants. When he crested the last rise, away from the Northern Ocean basin, he saw that the horde skirmishers had gotten around him to soften the Blue Hand. The battle was already joined by marauding Sharpteeth and those of the Blue Hand who could wield some kind of weapon.

When he saw that it was the cannibalistic Sharpteeth attacking, his rage doubled, fueled by what the villainous tribe had done to his own kith and kin. This spurred him forward. It was a losing battle from the moment Bors joined. Even his skills couldn’t stop the merchant train of ten wagons from being cut in half from the twenty that had hired him. The Soul of the Mother started to sing in his head, though he didn’t wield her, not yet. He did not wish to pay her price if he could help it. The song still filled his eyes with a red haze, making his body thrum with a berserker’s power. While he cut down the first few marauders with his long dagger and axe, he lost himself in the battle rage.

Coming out of the rage, shoving the cracked haft of his axe forward, Bors pushed an attacking cannibal away from him. It gave him a moment to breathe and take in the battle scene. Looking over the broken remains of the caravan, he realized the caravan was lost. The Sharpteeth will kill everyone. Once all the merchants were dead or dying, the three Sharpteeth tribesman turned to focus their attacks on Bors. They laughed, licking their blades to heighten their own rage and bloodlust to overwhelm Bors.

The shove of his weapon also caused the crack along the haft to splinter more, causing the head of the axe to drop to the blood-caked soil. Bors dropped the useless axe haft with a grunt. With the axe gone, the black iron sword on his back was the only weapon left to him. He felt more than heard the singing of the Soul of the Mother in his head pitch lower, thrumming inside his own chest. For a heartbeat, he felt the weight of the sword lighten, desiring to come forth and taste blood. He paused, not wanting to accept more of her help. Before another moment passed, the shriek of an attacking Sharpteeth cannibal bearing down on him drove his instincts. His calloused hand wrapped tight around the age-worn leather of the sword hilt, pulling the Soul of the Mother free with a single, fluid movement.

The Soul of the Mother weighed little in his hands. He sliced upwards, taking the top third of the first attacker’s head off. Her song in his head was forming a full-throated dirge of death. He brought the sword blade down on the other two Sharpteeth that rushed him. The diagonal slash downward clove through one, with the pitted black blade stopping in the pelvis of the