Rejected Worlds

By James Maxstadt

Magic, danger, and the end of the world!

What if a hotel opened that allowed you access to a thousand different worlds? What if a rider went seeking vengeance for a horrible murder in a wild west that had never known guns? Or if you woke up in Heaven, and found it not at all to your satisfaction?

Perhaps the world ends, but you're left to care for the one person you truly love. Or maybe, you're the last of your kind, hunted as you try to find others like you.

Here are twelve separate worlds. Worlds where danger lurks, magic happens, and the odd is an everyday occurrence. Step into one, get lost for a while, and when you've explored it to your heart's content, turn the page and step into another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Maxstadt
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215866443

James Maxstadt

James is the author of more than fifteen fantasy novels. He loves writing books with quirky characters that are full of action, humor, and a lot of adventure. A fan of fantasy since he was young, James thinks a good story that can take a person away from their everyday life is something worth reading. He’s found over the last several years that writing such stories can be just as rewarding. When he does have his head in this world, he can usually be found relaxing at home with his beautiful wife Barb, doing some home renovation or woodworking project, or signing books at comic conventions and Renaissance Faires. Follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DukeGrandfather

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FOREWORD

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The world of storytelling is a tough one. Sometimes, the quest to get your stories out there for other people to read seems almost mystical itself. A fantasy world that’s never going to be true. And it’s frustrating.

Here’s how it works. You come up with an idea. A brilliant idea! A glorious idea! This one is the strike gold idea! And then you write it down, and it usually doesn’t have a shape that’s all that much like what you first thought of. But that’s okay. That’s how it works, at least for me.

The characters took the story in the direction they wanted it to go. The horrible monster hunter is now an old, yet still honorable knight. The king under the water never does make an appearance after all. Huh. Thought for sure he would.

But you write it all down anyway, and then you put it away for a while. A day, a week, several months, I have no strict formula for that. Then you look at it again, and sometimes, you think, well, this is a better story than I thought. More often you think, okay, pretty good, but let’s tweak it here...and here...and what was I thinking here?...and...

Then it’s good to go. You’ve got it set and it’s a damn good story and you send it out to.... who? The market for short stories is getting smaller and smaller. And more and more of us are out there pounding on keyboards, putting those visions we had into words to try to share them. But you send the story in anyway and wait.

Sometimes, you don’t have to wait long. It’s come back to you with a modern version of the rejection letter attached. No thanks. Not right for our publication at this time. But keep trying. Thanks anyway. So, you take it, give it a once over again, and send it on to the next place. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Now, here’s the thing. You have no idea, really, if the story is any good or not. You might, on occasion get a rejection with a few notes saying what the reader liked or didn’t. But those editors are so busy looking at hundreds and hundreds of these, that getting something like that is pretty rare.

But you read the magazine, be it on-line or in print. And some of those stories...my word, some of those stories! Some of them you read and you think, I’ll never be published. This is amazing and I’ll never live up to that.  Then there are others. Ones that don’t resonate with you and you think, Why? How did this one get in, but mine was soundly rejected.

You look at your stories again. Are they horrible? Is the writing off? Is the story boring?

Pretty soon, you have a stack of them. A whole stack of rejected worlds.

That’s what this anthology is. They’re worlds that I’ve created, stories I’ve written, that didn’t make the cut for one reason or another, mostly unknown to me. I’ve been over them all several times. I’ve done it again for this edition. I’ve made some more tweaks here and there, I’ve corrected, and I’ve rewritten.

Overall, I think they’re fun stories, and I hope you do too. I’m sure a few, (hopefully not more than that), won’t do it for you. That’s okay. There’s more worlds out there.

Just turn the page, and step into the next one.

The world always changes around us, whether we want it to or not.

TROLL

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The cold, sun shone down, but the wind was brisk, as it often was this high up in the mountains. It whistled through the evergreen trees and broke against the large shape crouched there. The shape shifted, moved to a more comfortable position and became still again.

The troll had braved the sun and come out of the caves a few days before, looking for something that he could no longer find underground. He had searched all through the caves, going deep, through passages leading to chambers filled with rocky growths and lichens. Caves with large pools of cold, clear water where blind fish swam and could be caught by a clever hunter.

Other trolls had once lived in the caves, but he hadn’t come across any in a long time. For many turns of the moon, he hadn’t seen as much as a single one. No males to test his strength against, and no females to mate with.

So he left the caves, where he had spent all of his very long life, and came outside, searching. Out to where the sun beat down and made it hard to see and his head hurt. For the first time, he left the caves where he had lived long enough to see tiny rock formations grow large with the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the ceiling.

He shifted again, turning so that the sun was on his back, and his face was in the shadow of the trees. It helped, but it wasn’t like being underground, in the cool, still darkness of the caves. He wanted to go back there, but he more wanted to find another like him. One more fight, or one more mating, before he went back underground, lay down and became stone himself.

His belly growled, but he had no luck finding anything to fill it. The plants here all tasted strange and made his stomach hurt. The animals were all very quick, and he couldn’t see in the brightness well enough to catch any. So he stayed hungry, but maybe tonight, when it was dark, he’d have better luck.

Until then, he was going to stay where he was, still and turned away from the too-bright sun. When it got dark, and his eyes wouldn’t sting so badly, he’d find food. Then he could move on to the next mountain, and the one after that if need be, looking for another like him.

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Gustave unsaddled his horse, Charger, removed the saddle blanket and his string of trophies, and started his grooming routine. There were three things that a knight always did before anything else, whether it was out in the wilderness like this, or in the safety of a keep. You took care of your steed, your armor, and your weapons. When they were all seen to, cleaned, fed, sharpened, or polished, then you could turn your attention to yourself. Then, and only then, could you take the time to eat a meal, drink water, or get rest.

Brushing the glossy, black coat of his horse relaxed him. He enjoyed the routines that came with making camp and would rather be out here, in the world, than holed up inside somewhere, trying to avoid the intrigues that came with court life. He was a hunter and a monster slayer, not a courtier looking to curry favor. Let other knights have lands and estates. As long as he could ride and swing a sword, he’d have the whole world as his fiefdom.

He had been on his own for many a year now, tracking down monsters in the wilderness beyond the towns and cities. His hair had turned gray over the years, both on his head and in his drooping mustache. His lined face was tanned dark by the sun, and his hands, although wrinkled, were still steady and strong. This life was getting harder, but he was loath to admit that it was nearing the time that he would have to give it up for good.

There you are, he said, patting Charger on the flanks. All clean and beautiful.

The horse turned its head and nuzzled against Gustave.

Okay, he chuckled, yes, I’ve got something for you.

He went to his saddle bag and pulled out a wilted carrot, which he offered to the horse.

Take your time, it’s the last one. At least until we find a town or a farm.

As much as Gustave liked living in the wilderness and being on his own, he was hoping that they would find either of those things soon. They were running short on supplies, and Gustave had some items that he could trade in a town. If instead, they happened upon a farm, he would allow the farmer to show the proper gratitude for clearing monsters from the area and provide him with some needed supplies and a place to bed down for the night. It was customary as payment for his services.

With a final pat, he left Charger and saw to his equipment. He took out his stone, pulled his sword from its sheath and began to hone it. In truth, it didn’t need much attention. There hadn’t been many monsters to slay in the last few days, or even the last few months. He had killed a roving band of goblins recently, but that was it. He hadn’t seen a wyvern in some time, and it was even longer since he had seen a troll, but that memory brought a smile to his aged face.

Trolls were a prey worth hunting. Tough as boiled leather, cunning as a fox, and strong as ten horses, they were a challenge to the worthiest of knights. Gustave had battled a few in his day and been victorious each time. The trophies from those fights were strung on the line that he kept with him, too valuable to trade for mere food. He had three sets of troll ears, interspersed with some other items, on a line that hung from the saddle and ran across Charger’s chest, displayed for all to see.

Gustave had been killing monsters since he was a page, sworn in service to Edward, a knight of remarkable renown. They had travelled the land, Edward killing monsters by day, and Gustave taking care of the equipment and the horses in the evening. He did all of the cooking and set up and took down their camp. In return, Edward trained him in how to fight, and how to hunt monsters.

Then, while travelling through a small city, Edward had instructed Gustave to find an inn to spend the night at, and to make sure that the horses were stabled and fed before seeing to himself. He had walked off, and not returned until the dinner hour. They had eaten, drunk more wine than was wise and retired to their beds.

In the morning, a large package had been delivered to the inn with Gustave’s name on it. Tearing the linen cloth from it, he discovered a suit of armor and a new sword within. Edward had him kneel right there in the common room, and in front of the innkeeper, the other guests and God himself, he had knighted Gustave. They had a celebratory mug of ale to wash away the cobwebs of the previous night, and Edward had helped him bring the armor to the smith, where it was fitted to Gustave’s frame.

From then on, he was Sir Gustave, a monster hunter in his own right. He still rode with Edward most of the time, and they still killed monsters and traded the trophies they collected for supplies or sold them outright. But over time, the monsters became fewer and they had parted ways to cover more area.

Gustave hadn’t seen Edward in close to twenty years now. He wondered if he were still alive, although he would be ancient by now. Perhaps he had settled down in a keep somewhere, enjoying the benefits of a life lived in service to others and kept warm at night by a plump wife. He smiled thinking of his old mentor’s reward and wondered if that was how he would end up too.

He built a fire, fixed his supper, then lay back with his head on his saddle and looked at the night sky through the tree branches. Tomorrow he would move on again, heading back down the mountainside toward the river far below. Rivers were good places to find towns, so there was a decent chance he’d find a farm or two as he neared the outskirts. In the meantime, he would keep his eyes open for monsters, and maybe earn another trophy or two along the way.

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The sun finally dropped below the surrounding peaks and the troll moved again. He stood, his head poking into the branches of the pines ten feet above the ground and sniffed. There was the smell of animals on the wind, strange animals that he didn’t know, but with warm blood. His stomach rumbled again, and he bent, turning in a circle, trying to locate the scent.

It came to him again, thick and musky. Down in the caves, everything smelled cold and hard, but his nose could pick out individual odors. In that still, silent, dark, where eyesight was almost useless, hearing and smell were much more important. But out here, everything was different and he didn’t know what smells went with what beasts. The wind was always blowing and sounded like a gale in his ears all the time, so he couldn’t hear well enough to be able to tell which way his prey was going.

But now that it was night, and there was almost no light in the sky, eyes that were used to the black of the caves worked better. Now he could see well enough to catch something, if he could follow the scent.

He walked slowly, heading down the mountain, sniffing at the air, and turning when the smell came stronger from one direction or another. Soon, he could follow it easily, and even with the ever-present noise from the wind in his ears, he could hear the animal, close by and below him on the slope, coming through the bushes.

He froze and squatted down, blending in to be another stone on the side of the mountain. He would wait, and let the animal come to him.

It broke cover and started up the slope, sniffing and pawing at the dirt as it came. It was large, almost as big as the troll himself, heavily muscled, and covered in brown fur. Its head was massive, with a snout that pushed rocks and weeds around as it searched for grubs and insects. The paws were huge with large claws that dug into the ground as it walked. It grunted as it came nearer, but the troll stayed still, his gray skin blending in with the ground around him.

When it was near, the troll rose suddenly and sprang toward it. The beast reared back with a roar and rose to its hind legs, standing as tall as the troll himself. They came together, the animal’s limbs circling the troll, its claws pulling him closer and cutting into his back. The troll ignored the pain and used his fist to pummel the beast, hammering its body. The beast’s snout opened wide, exposing large, sharp teeth, which it used to try to get a grip on the troll’s neck. But the troll pulled his head back, and then snapped it forward, smashing into the beast’s snout. Teeth broke, flying in all directions even as one punctured the troll’s forehead and stayed there, sticking out like a miniature horn.

They grappled, swaying back and forth; the beast clawing and biting, and the troll landing blow after viscous blow. Finally, the animal let go of the troll and fell back onto all four legs. It turned and tried to flee, but the troll leaped on its back, his great weight bearing it to the ground. He got his arm around the animal’s throat and squeezed, muscles popping with the strain. The animal made choking noises and tried to rise and throw him off, but the troll stayed on, strangling the life from it.

Soon, it was over. The beast lay still, the troll on top of it, panting. He finally stood and looked down at his defeated foe. It had been a good battle, almost like fighting another troll. But he had been the stronger and triumphed. He would finally eat well, and for that, and the fight, he honored the beast.

He threw his head back and howled, loud and long. The call, once familiar in the caves beneath the earth, was ancient. It spoke of battle and blood and triumph. He did it again, only this time there was a note of pleading in it as well. If there were any to hear and understand, maybe they would answer.

He stood for a moment, listening, but heard only the wind.

––––––––

Gustave was sleeping near his fire when the noise split the night. It was an eerie, haunting sound, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it at first. Then his sleep addled wits cleared, and he remembered. He had heard the noise before, or one very like it anyway. It came again, similar, but slightly different from the first.

Troll, he said to himself. Then, Did you hear that Charger? There’s a troll around. Maybe tomorrow will be good hunting.

He chuckled to himself as he lay back down. He knew he was getting old, maybe too old to keep doing this much longer. He didn’t sleep as soundly at night and was stiffer in the morning when he woke. Long days in the saddle took longer to recover from, requiring much walking about and stretching, and he found himself making excuses to cut a day’s journey short. Most telling, he had actually enjoyed the last time he had stayed in a keep, even though he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself.

Perhaps one more battle with a troll would finish the job. He regarded the ears that hung from his trophy line, carefully hung over a nearby branch. He was slower than he had been the last time he had faced one, he knew that. His blows might not carry the same force that they once did. But he was experienced; he knew how to move and how to read an opponent. One more trophy to adorn his home in his old age would be nice.

Of course, it could end up that the troll would make dinner out of Gustave instead. He chuckled again at that thought. Well, that would be okay too, he guessed. At least he would leave this life doing what he loved. What he had always loved doing, ever since he had first been taken on by Edward.

When the sun broke through the clouds, Gustave rose from his bedding and made ready to break camp. He had been awake for some time, thinking of that call from the night before. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to do. On the one hand, it would be glorious to find the monster, to battle it and prevail one more time over such a foe. On the other, he was stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground, and looking at Charger, in no hurry to climb into the saddle.

Maybe he would take a few days in a town, just to revitalize himself. After that, he could return and find the troll.

He gathered his supplies, packed them on to Charger and then taking the reins in his hand, he led the horse further down the hill. He intended on riding when they were nearer to town, but for now, it was more pleasant walking, and watching the morning sun melt the mist away.

The sun felt wonderful on his face as he walked; warm and comforting after the chill of the night. He relished it and was glad of its safety as well. Although Gustave was an accomplished monster hunter and fighter, the mountains held other dangers, like wolves, bears and bandits. All of which roamed more freely at night, when it was hard to see them coming. He hadn’t been run out of the wilderness yet, but he was always glad to see the morning arrive.

Midmorning saw him reach the river that wound its way along the valley floor. The water was clean, clear, and cold, and he splashed it on his face and neck, sputtering. Rising up, he surveyed his surroundings, mounted Charger and picked his way along the shore, heading downstream. One direction was as good as another, and he hoped that he would find a town or other shelter before night fell.

His instincts proved right and a short time later he saw a small group of buildings in the near distance. It looked like a house, made from river stone stacked carefully together, roofed with pine branches and wood, and with smoke wafting from the chimney. There were a couple of out-buildings as well, all made the same way. Chickens scratched in the yard, and looking up the slope, Gustave could make out a few stringy cattle grazing on a hillside meadow.

Hello, the house! he called when he neared.

Out here in the wilderness, it was always good practice to announce your presence. People lived out here to escape the company of others, so there was always the chance that you wouldn’t be welcome. Monster hunters like Gustave usually were, since they provided a valuable service, but still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

The door opened and an old man stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sun with his left hand. In his right, he held a woodcutter’s axe, an inadequate weapon against a knight like Gustave, but apt to ward off a random thief.

Who’s that yelling? the old man called.

A weary traveler, Gustave yelled back. Looking for a drink of water, a bite to eat, and perhaps straw to lay my head upon!

The old man screwed up his face.

Come ahead then, he called, but he kept a careful eye on Gustave as he approached. I don’t suppose ye’ve coin to pay for your meal?

No, Gustave said, but I’ve earned my keep in performance of my duties as a monster hunter.

The old farmer snorted at this. Ye have, have ye? Tell me this then, what’s the last monster ye’ve killed that warranted any fright?

Gustave was taken aback. He had never had his credentials as a monster hunter called into question. Weren’t the trophies hanging on his horse proof enough? Why, a fortnight ago I did away with a roving band of goblins, which very well may have attacked this farm.

The old man raised an eyebrow. Aye, a band of goblins ye say. Well now, that’s different. It might’ve taken both me and the missus to chase them cowardly dogs off. Still, ye saved us that trouble, mayhap. The horse will be comfortable in the shed over yonder. Come to the door when ye’ve finished and we’ll give ye some fodder. I imagine yer head will feel most comfortable laid down next to yer fine beast.

He turned and went back inside the house, leaving Gustave standing in the farmyard, the reins of his horse held loosely in his hand. He had half a mind to pound on the door, demand that the farmer care for his horse and show him the respect due a knight, but in the end, he decided against it. In his heart, he knew that the farmer had a point. Any man and wife tough enough to survive here would have been able to deal with the goblins, or anything else that Gustave had encountered recently.

Head down, he led his horse to the stone building the farmer had indicated and opened the door. It was musty inside, with bits of old straw scattered about and farming implements standing along the wall, some with broken handles or chipped blades. There was enough room for Charger, and a bit left over for him. He took off Charger’s saddle and blanket, set them aside and led the horse back outside for grooming. When he was done, he led him back into the shed, scraped together the straw that he could, and made a sorry pallet for himself. Then, he swallowed his pride, and went to the door of the house and knocked.

I hope ye find the accommodations suitable for yer horse and for ye, the farmer said when he answered it. Missus says I’m to let ye into the house to sup with us, agin my better judgment, ye understand. Still, ye’d better come in.

Gustave entered the small house. It was typical of any farmer’s cottage on the edge of the wilderness. A hearth for cooking, baking bread, and warmth dominated the small room. There was a small table with four chairs around it, presumably still set from when the farmer’s children were living here as well. A bed with a comfortable looking blanket was pushed into the far corner, and there was one rocking chair in front of the fire.

He made a courtesy to the old woman as he came in, and she smiled at him. Sit, good sirrah, she said. Tis not often these days that we get visited by so august a person.

Gustave looked at her, searching for signs of mockery, but saw only warmth and good cheer. He sat at the table; in the chair she had indicated.  My thanks, he said, and truly felt it. It will be good to have food prepared by someone more able than myself.

She smiled again and ladled soup from a large pot hung above the fire. Careful now, she warned, tis hot, but good, or good enough tis to be hoped. Not much meat in it, what with the lean times upon us, but plenty of good barley and beans.

The soup was hot, and very good, as was the crusty bread that she had baked and placed on the table as well. The farmer kept an eye on him as they both ate. Where be ye headed from here? he asked.

I’m not entirely sure, Gustave answered. The nearest town, for the nonce. If you could point me in the direction, it would be much appreciated.

That would be downstream, not far. One, maybe two days, depending on how ye push yer steed. Not much to the place, but it’ll serve to lay yer head for a night or two.

Gustave thanked the man and finished his soup and the rest of the loaf. When the meal was over, the farmer went to a chest and removed two pipes, which he filled with tobacco. He handed one to Gustave.  We’ll take a pipe to settle the food, he said, and then it’s time for ye to move on. Either to the shed to spend the night with yer horse, or the town down the river a spell. Yer choice, either way.

Gustave nodded and accepted the pipe. While he thought the farmer’s manner coarse and rude, he also didn’t really blame him. The man hadn’t asked for company, and although there had been times that Gustave had probably saved both the farmer and his wife from wandering monsters, those times seemed far in the past.

They smoked and blew rings and for the most part remained silent. The old woman cleaned up after the meal and hummed to herself.

Finally, the last bit of tobacco was smoked, and Gustave stood. Thank you again for your hospitality. I will stay the night, in the shed, with my horse. We’ll be up and moving again early in the morning, so we won’t disturb you.

He bowed his head to them and opened the door.

A word of caution though, he said, turning back to the farmer and his wife. I heard a troll last night. He was calling in the wind. I didn’t hear a response, but where there is one, there are often others.

Ha, the old man scoffed. "A troll. Why, there hain’t been one of those seen in these parts in ages. Didn’t yer kind kill them all off years ago?