Grimdark Magazine Issue #6 mobi Read online

  Contents

  From the Editor

  By Adrian Collins

  A Fair Man

  From The Vault of Heaven By Peter Orullian

  The Grimdark Villain

  Article by C.T. Phipps

  Review: Son of the Black Sword

  Author: Larry Correia

  Review by malrubius

  Excerpt: Blood of Innocents

  By Mitchell Hogan

  Publisher Roundtable

  Shawn Speakman, Katie Cord, Tim Marquitz, and Geoff Brown.

  Twelve Minutes to Vinh Quang

  By T.R. Napper

  Review: Dishonoured

  By CT Phipps

  An Interview with Aliette de Bodard

  At the Walls of Sinnlos

  A Manifest Delusions developmental short story by Michael R. Fletcher

  The cover art for Grimdark Magazine issue #6 was created by Jason Deem.

  Jason Deem is an artist and designer residing in Dallas, Texas. More of his work can be found at: spiralhorizon.deviantart.com, on Twitter (@jason_deem) and on Instagram (spiralhorizonart).

  From the Editor

  ADRIAN COLLINS

  On the 6th of November, 2015, our friend, colleague, and fellow grimdark enthusiast Kennet Rowan Gencks passed away unexpectedly.

  This one is for you, mate.

  Adrian Collins

  Founder

  Connect with the Grimdark Magazine team at:

  facebook.com/grimdarkmagazine

  twitter.com/AdrianGdMag

  grimdarkmagazine.com

  plus.google.com/+AdrianCollinsGdM/

  pinterest.com/AdrianGdM/

  A Fair Man

  A story from The Vault of Heaven

  PETER ORULLIAN

  Pit Row reeked of sweat. And fear.

  Heavy sun fell across the necks of those who waited their turn in the pit. Some sat in silence, weapons like afterthoughts in their laps. Others trembled and chattered to anyone who’d spare a moment to listen. Fallow dust lazed around them all. The smell of old earth newly turned. Graves being dug constantly for those who died fighting in the pit. Mikel walked the row, one hand on his blade, the other holding the day’s list.

  He passed a big man sitting in a spray of straw. The fellow wore several brands across his chest. A prisoner. More than forty fights. Each win burned into his flesh with a simple hash. He’d die in chains. Or die in the pit. Blood caked his left foot below an iron manacle that had torn up the flesh of his ankle. Dust clung to his sweaty skin. The prisoner didn’t look up at Mikel, any more than he blinked away the fly drinking at the corner of his eye. But there was something foreign about the man. And something menacing. Indifference?

  Further down, a young man practiced thrust and parry combinations, his boots lifting more dust into the hot haze. The fellow narrated each movement, the tone of his voice like a man trying to convince himself he’d survive the pit. Mikel hated this type. Not because they sought glory. No one was that stupid. It was desperation. The pup had a bit of training and had almost certainly wagered on his own victory, hoping to turn a few thin plugs. The young man’s sad, nicked sword told the story of his need.

  Across from the pup came a hissing laugh. Mikel turned to see an old pit survivor. Jackman. An incomplete fellow. One arm. Wood stump beneath his left knee. A face that whitened around scars when he smiled. The bastard kept a list of his own. Odds for bettors. He limped up beside Mikel to watch the pup dance.

  He said nothing for a long moment, then took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Smell it?’

  ‘Just you.’ Mikel turned to finish his round.

  Jackman caught him with his one good hand. ‘Pup’s already dead. He just doesn’t have the sense to lay down in the grave yet.’ The hissing laugh followed. ‘Ten seconds for ten coins.’

  Mikel gave the pup another look. The young man would never best a pit fighter. He’d die wearing the surprised look of a man who’d thought too much of his own skill. Mikel stared into the milky eyes of the odds maker, anger burning at the truth of it.

  ‘Maybe,’ he finally said. He pushed two thin plugs into Jackman’s dirty palm, taking the odds, and crossed to the pup. ‘Your sword arm is slow. Don’t use it to attack, only defend. Then jab with your knife hand. You’re faster there. Be patient. Winning is more important than looking heroic.’

  The boy stared, confused, but nodded. Mikel clapped his shoulder and returned to the row. And the list. Jackman called after him, ‘Don’t go frustrating my odds, you whoreson! Leave the row alone.’

  Toward the end of Pit Row, he found a man with thin shoulders seated on a tree stump. List said he was a debtor. In front of the man knelt a woman beside two children. The young ones stood quietly, around them all the feeling of goodbye.

  The man had calloused hands, but no weapon. The list shared no further details.

  Mikel approached. ‘I don’t see a blade. Do you have one?’

  ‘Was told they’d give me something,’ the man said, his eyes still fixed on the ground.

  ‘What are you good with?’ Mikel asked.

  He finally looked up. ‘I’m a cobbler.’

  ‘A debtor,’ Mikel added.

  ‘Money was for a roll of boot leather and some mink oil. And they took me in the morning on my day of payment.’

  The cobbler didn’t need to say more. It was a common practice. Take a borrower before he can pay all. Especially one with an interesting story for the pit. Makes better theatre. Spectators root louder, bet emotionally. And what better story than a simple boot maker fighting against impossible odds for his wife and children. Would love prove stronger than an opponent long acquainted with this theatre court? And when the cobbler died, his death would stir a moment’s regret in its witnesses. And all would feel blessed not to be in the pit. All would feel a moment’s humanity.

  Keeps the pit fights from becoming routine. Keeps its patrons from disinterest.

  And it wasn’t fair. None of it.

  ‘You ever handle a weapon? Ever fight?’ Mikel asked, surveying the man’s family.

  ‘I make shoes,’ he replied.

  These children would be fatherless by dusk. For the price of a hide and some bootseal. Deafened gods. Mikel stood silent and shared a knowing look with the man. The cobbler knew it, too. Only the little ones might be unaware.

  This fellow was not a gambler. Not a whore-monger. Not a spender beyond his means. He was a cobbler who’d bought material enough to earn a week’s keep. And fallen behind.

  Sent to Pit Row for sport. For good measure. For the law. For the entertainment of those who walked on marble floors and drank water chilled.

  Deafened gods.

  Mikel stared at the cobbler’s little girl and thought of his own daughter. Soon to reach her cycle. Soon to visit one of those homes with marble floors and chilled water . . .

  . . . Mikel let that alone for now.

  He took out his writing lead and scratched out the man’s name.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the cobbler asked. ‘It’ll go worse for me if I don’t—‘

  Mikel raised a hand to silence him. ‘Go home.’

  The cobbler stood, looking Mikel in the eyes for a long time. Then he proffered his hand in thanks. The surprise of it almost caused Mikel to smile. Almost. The man had a grip every bit as tight as Mikel’s own. He then gathered his family and left Pit Row.

  Mikel looked back at the list and wrote his own name into the blank.

  * * *

  Sword and shield held loosely at his sides, Mikel stepped into the pit. Blood old and new stained the dry ground. Around the perimeter, the bodies of the fallen lay strewn, reminders of the st
akes. The pup was among them. Behind Mikel, the door shut and the cross-brace slammed into place. A moment later, a boulder of a man ducked through the opposite door. When Mikel’s opponent stood up straight . . . Silent gods. The cobbler had drawn the pit fighter with the branded chest.

  He remembered thinking the man looked foreign. The branded giant stood an arm’s length taller than Mikel. His limbs twice as thick. In his broad face resided that indifference.

  He’s Inveterae, Mikel realized. Inveterae were a race from beyond the Pall Mountains. Some said they felt no pain. No emotion. The perfect pit fighter. Mikel now noticed brands over much of the rest of the man’s skin. This Inveterae was either a decorated soldier or a traded commodity with a long history of owners. Or both.

  They were called to the centre of the pit to face the prince and his coterie. Mikel realized he might be recognized by one of the platform captains, so he scooped up some of the blood-drenched earth and smeared his face and beard with it, making it appear an elaborate ritual.

  When he and his opponent came foot to foot, a chill shivered through him. Not fear of the match. Or even of dying, exactly. He’d felt the closeness of mortality before. This was different. This was the feeling of standing next to a creature who didn’t fight with fear. Or aggression. Or anger. Or even to win, necessarily. This was the feeling of a fighter who simply put down whatever stood up in front of him. Without care. Without concern for himself.

  A perfect killer.

  Mikel would never best him. Any more than the cobbler would have.

  Together they turned to face the prince. Aron was the prince’s given name. He’d dubbed himself Aronal—the “al” appended by most of the new aristocracy to suggest they served all the people. It was a feeble and transparent attempt at democracy, further betrayed by the prince’s attire. Aronal took great pleasure in how he dressed. Loved clothes that proved difficult to acquire. Especially boots, which he had polished several times a day.

  Aronal held a long pause, drawing attention to himself. A hint of a smile turned his lips up at the corners. All self-congratulation that smile was. Smug as every last hell. Mikel hated the sight of it. Especially because the prince had a way of turning it beneficent when he needed to.

  Aronal began to announce the match. ‘It is civilized of us to resolve our disputes . . .’

  Mikel heard very little, instead seeing the young girl beside the prince. Today’s offering. What was she, twelve? Maybe thirteen? A fledgling woman come to her cycle, and so taken into the prince’s company for his entertainment. Until he tired of her. The Monarch’s Privilege. The girl stared out with deadened eyes, looking small.

  ‘. . . from the land of the Bourne. Never defeated . . .’

  Mikel’s own daughter would reach her cycle soon. Would she sit here like this young one? Would she watch death with dead eyes? Would she have to learn such things so early and hard and lose something of herself?

  ‘. . . against a simple cobbler. A good man who fell behind. Whose family . . .’

  That’s when Mikel noticed two young boys behind the prince. Each with the same dead look in their eyes. Around them sat men and women in stainless clothes, woven of Soren Silk, sharing quiet conversation and amusements. They were a new caste. A new ruling class, whose rule was lawlessness for themselves.

  And yet they kept the peace.

  They took their privileges, but the roads were safe.

  And I’m a part of it. I carry their lists.

  Because the law mattered. Keeping people safe mattered. And so sacrifices must be made. It was a fair trade.

  But early arrest wasn’t fair. A cobbler against an Inveterae wasn’t fair. Mikel had taken the boot maker’s place thinking his own skill against a pit fighter would be a fairer match. Maybe even that he’d have the advantage. He was a skilled wrestler, after all. And this pit, where he’d competed, had once been a place of high sport. And he usually won. Nowadays, though, he mostly taught his little ones how to defend themselves. And today he’d be fighting an Inveterae. Even his skill didn’t make it a fair match. He would leave his wife a widow and his children fatherless.

  He’d seen these pit fights a thousand times. The prince or another of the new aristocracy would tell the story of the fighters in dramatic detail, while blood-thirsty revellers listened in rapt attention. A few tattered pennants would flap in the breeze like tired accompaniment. And at the end, instructions for the match would be laid out. A few simple rules. When to start fighting. An invocation to honour.

  Mikel listened closely now. Waiting.

  Prince Aronal raised his palms toward them, like a grateful benefactor. ‘The match will start when I say “begin”.’

  Without moving his feet, Mikel swept his sword up and thrust it into the Inveterae’s throat. Blood sprayed from the gaping wound, splashing across his hand and arm. The Inveterae dropped to his knees as the crowd gasped. Growled complaints rose on the hot afternoon air.

  Mikel drove the blade deeper into the other’s flesh, pushing the Inveterae to his back. Blood covered the giant’s neck, but it made no attempt to fight back or remove the blade or staunch the flow.

  When Mikel came near, that chill shivered through him again—the Inveterae’s indifferent eyes hadn’t changed. They looked at him, as if waiting to die. Though he thought he saw something else. A small flicker of acknowledgement. Gratitude maybe.

  Then the blood stopped flowing. The Inveterae’s eyes stopped seeing.

  ‘You’re a coward,’ called the prince. ‘You’ve disrespected our rules—‘

  ‘No,’ Mikel said, turning. ‘You said the match would start when you said “begin”.’

  Aronal considered for a long moment. A small smile crept upon his lips. ‘Clever.’ He raised his arms to the pit theatre. ‘Our match champion,’ he announced. ‘And the day’s fastest win by more than a full minute.’

  A roar ascended all around as Mikel walked from the pit to find Jackman. The pup had beaten the odds; Mikel had twenty plugs to collect.

  * * *

  Night came on full as Mikel patrolled the Tides. Sever Ens wasn’t a port town. It had no harbor. But it had a traveller’s district. Cheap rooms. Cheap food. And a plug bought you a seat at any table of odds. Whores were easy to come by, too. Male whores made double the rest, as they tended to have a broader tolerance for risk. The Tides was where drifters rolled through Sever Ens. Where people washed up on its shores and away again as if drawn by one of the dominant moons.

  Mikel walked the south side of the market street, keeping a close eye on idlers. Experience had taught him idlers in the Tides were either flimflam men, or marks. Trouble either way. On each side of the street, every thirty paces, stood a thick post topped with a lamp—an attempt to discourage pickpockets and the like. The lamps created pools of darkness that needed to be managed closely.

  At the edge of light thrown by one of these street lanterns, an old man strolled. Men do, sometimes, when their luck has been good at the tables. Stupid thing. Beating one set of odds makes them confident enough to walk as if they haven’t anyplace to be. Mikel wondered, though, if it wasn’t as simple as feeling a little contentment. The fear of debt once removed—if only for an hour’s time—allows a man to imagine happiness. And happiness is rarely hurried.

  Into the old man’s path stepped a street scamp. Gunnysack jacket. Smears of coal on his cheeks. Part costume for a mark, part disguise against a man like Mikel.

  The waif—maybe twelve years old—petitioned the old man. Mikel couldn’t hear the words, but he recognized the tone easy enough. A palm went up. Suspicion in the old man’s shoulders fell to compassion, and his hand went into his pocket.

  The lad pointed to the mouth of the alley. Mikel started to run after them. The old man followed the scamp into the shadows. By the time Mikel rounded the corner and turned up the alleyway, the old man was surrounded by seven waifs—three boys, four girls. Each held a knife.

  ‘Enough,’ Mikel called, rushing to the o
ld man’s assistance.

  Behind him—as he knew would happen—three more scamps closed in to block his retreat. Didn’t matter. Alley kids folded when you crushed the will of their leader. Mikel needed to quickly identify which one led this gang. Then either talk him out of his prize or pound him senseless.

  ‘They’ve robbed me,’ the old man said, pointing to a boy who wore a satchel over his shoulder.

  Too easy, Mikel thought. The leader wouldn’t be wearing an obvious telltale.

  ‘Doesn’t concern you, coat,’ said one of the girls. ‘You can go back the way you came. No harm. But if you stay to play hero, you’re getting cut.’

  Men who carried the city’s lists—like Mikel—or walked patrol, or kept the peace, were called ‘coats’. Not because their coats matched, as a uniform might, but because they had a coat in the first place. Authority to act in the name of the ruling seat was a piece of paper folded into a waxed pouch against his chest.

  ‘No one’s getting cut,’ Mikel said, nearing the circle. ‘And no one’s getting robbed. Return the coin, and I won’t drop you into a work camp.’

  These kids wouldn’t have parents. Not in the sense that it would be a threat to invoke their names. And jail was out. Scamps were too young for that. But the work camps. Worse than jail they were. And Mikel didn’t make idle threats.

  ‘You’ve not walked a turn in the Tides in a while, have you, coat.’ One of the girls turned to face him. Hers was a different kind of confidence. It wasn’t the same as the Inveterae’s, but it lived in that direction. Scary as every last hell to see that look on one so young.