Grimdark Magazine Issue #6 ePub Read online

  [AdB] Mostly because not writing would be a lot like not breathing, I suspect! I write about what catches my fancy, and I have fairly eclectic interests, so that covers a lot of things. Also, having some content on the website hopefully helps people decide that they want to buy my books (ok, in the case of the recipes, buy a non-existent cookbook that I would need to get around to writing). But I'm mostly blogging about the things that make me happy, and hope that they make other people happy, too.

  [GdM] Lastly, would you mind making us an almond, orange blossom and lemon cake, if we promise to send back the Tupperware?

  [AdB] Hahaha I think you'd have an easier time making it from the recipe (http://aliettedebodard.com/recipes/almond-orange-blossom-and-lemon-cake/), because Australia is a bit far away, and our postal system is fast, but not that fast, and the cake would be stale by the time it arrives (if not actually stolen by the postman on its way there).

  [GdM] You can catch up with Aliette over on her website (which has a whole host of free fiction and recipes), http://www.aliettedebodard.com, and on Twitter @aliettedb.

  More information on House of Shattered Wings: http://aliettedebodard.com/bibliography/novels/dominion-of-the-fallen/house-shattered-wings/

  Free sampler story set in the universe of House of Shattered Wings: http://aliettedebodard.com/bibliography/novels/dominion-of-the-fallen/free-stories-in-morningstars-shadow/

  [GdM]

  At the Walls of Sinnlos

  Michael R. Fletcher

  Introduction from the Author: I wrote my first book, 88, in 2007/2008 and immediately set about trying to find a publisher, which involves sending off your proposal and then waiting six months or more for the rejection letter to arrive. Being stubborn I wrote another book while I waited.

  In early 2008 I had an idea for a fantasy world where belief defined reality. The twist was that only the insane could believe something so utterly that they would alter reality on their own. I wrote a few short stories to explore different concepts and worlds. The first, Fire and Flesh, was a retelling of Francisco Pizarro's interaction with Atahualpa, the Incan Emperor. The Spanish muskets were replaced with manifest delusions. This was the first appearance of the character Gehirn (the Hassebrand in Beyond Redemption—at that time I was calling them Pyrocasts). I wrote At the Walls of Sinnlos next. Gehirn appeared again—in yet another form—and by the time I finished I knew I had my magic system. The story was forgotten and gathered digital dust until Adrian asked if I had any short fiction for Grimdark Magazine.

  If you've read Beyond Redemption you're going to recognise some of the character names. These are not the same people. This story does not take place in the same world. What you are seeing here is an early exploration of the idea that would later become the world of Manifest Delusions. This was an experiment in writing insanity.

  I hope you like it.

  * * *

  I rode at the Captain's side, sweat pooling in the folds of my fat and soaking my shirt. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He sat slumped in the saddle, his once crisp, blue uniform crimson with the blood-red dust of the Sinnlos Desert. My heart broke and I had to look away. His parents had died the day we rode from Grauschloss, slain in the Theocrat's latest cull of the old-guard families. Their lands and holdings confiscated, the Captain's entire family were hung in the traitors' cages to starve and rot. We'd ridden past them as we left the city; he hadn't spared them a glance. He dared not. Had they not disowned him when he'd joined the ranks of the Theocrat's army, he would have shared their fate. But years of impeccable service did not lift him above suspicion. Trust is something the Theocrat commands and demands, not something he gives. I couldn't help but think the Captain had been sent to Sinnlos to die. I knew why I was here but dared not share that truth. My silence felt like betrayal.

  I knew the Captain's sins as he knew my own. Sometimes I think our friendship was based on that knowledge more than anything else. How could either of us judge the other without condemning ourselves? Not that we didn't condemn ourselves. Far from it. Much as I loved him, I was contemptible. Beyond redemption.

  Belief defines reality, and the beliefs of the deranged can be truly dangerous. We, the broken, could believe something so utterly it altered reality. The mental instability that was my source of power made me the ruin of a man I am today. The Theocrat found use in that ruin. He fed that ruin, reminding me of my crimes, fuelling my self-hatred, to make use of the manifestations rising from my insanity. In those moments when I was not in sway to his power, I loathed the man. I wanted to punish him for his casual manipulation of my emotions.

  I wanted to burn.

  The rest of the time I loved and worshipped him. It made thoughts of treason difficult. Almost impossible.

  The Captain's horse looked more depressed than its rider, who examined the blackened fingertips of his left hand as he rode through the blowing bloody dust. The once proud warhorse dragged hooves that seemed too heavy to lift. Its back sagged where it had previously been ramrod straight. Its saddle and skirt were caked red with sand and horse sweat and chafed the poor beast's sides raw.

  Behind us strode a platoon of Dysmorphics, massive parodies of physical perfection. Muscular arms and legs, thicker than many trees, pumped in perfect unison as they kept pace with our exhausted horses. Watching their eyes dart as they measured themselves against their comrades, I imagined their thoughts: Are his arms bigger than mine? Is my left leg more muscled than my right? Do I look lopsided? I'll have to work on that when we break for camp tonight.

  Small minds in big bodies. At least that's what I told myself. It was unfair that they might manage such bodies and intelligence while I fell well short of brilliance and was both fat and ugly.

  These men weren't under the Captain's command; they merely followed us as we marched to meet with the army already surrounding Sinnlos. Unlike myself, the Captain had left Grauschloss with a distinct lack of orders. My own orders were twofold. I was to spy upon my only friend, watch for signs of disloyalty, and deal with him should the need arise. Finally, if all else failed, I was to turn my Hassebrand powers against the Empress of Sinnlos.

  But I had plans of my own.

  The Empress was the one person who could challenge the Theocrat's iron grip on the hearts and minds of his subjects. As long as she lived the Theocrat would know he wasn't untouchable and that fear would temper his choices and actions.

  I think the Theocrat wanted the Captain to fail this test. Or was this a test of my own loyalty?

  I ran a hand across my bald pate and through its greasy fringe, all that remained of my black hair. My hand came away dripping sweat and gritty with russet sand.

  ‘Captain?’

  For a moment I thought he hadn't heard me as he continued to stare at his fingertips. Finally he looked up, turning lifeless grey eyes in my direction.

  ‘Yes?’

  I nodded at the hand he held before him. ‘Is that...’ I couldn't finish the question. The Captain had been depressed for so long I could barely remember what he used to be like. I had long worried he might become suicidal.

  ‘I think so,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Is that...everything?’

  ‘So far.’ He rubbed fingertips with a greying thumb. ‘I'm numb.’ He twitched the hint of a smile. ‘It's numb,’ he corrected.

  ‘Oh.’ What else could I say? That I was sorry? What good would that do? Could I offer him my love and support?

  I opened my mouth to extend what comfort I could and the Captain turned away. He gestured forward with blackened fingertips. ‘Sinnlos. We'll reach the wall by nightfall.’

  I squinted through the swirling sands and made out the towering walls. Not surprising I hadn't noticed them; they were the same gods-awful red as the blowing sands.

  I had been right, the Captain was suicidal. What I hadn't foreseen was how that desire would manifest. He didn't merely desire death—he craved th
e punishment implicit in a slow, rotting death. The Captain, whom I once would have sworn was a pillar of sanity, was a Cotardist. He'd surrendered all hope and was decaying before my very eyes. I swallowed my helpless anger.

  I dared no unchecked emotion.

  I had wondered if the Captain regretted abandoning his family to serve the Theocrat.

  I had my answer.

  Behind us the Dysmorphics sang songs of blood and plunder, stomping and clapping in time to their chants. They too had spotted the distant walls. Their songs failed to lift my spirit. Judging from the grim look on the Captain's face they didn't do much for him either. Behind those towering walls lurked the Empress of Sinnlos, a Delusionist of great power. How would her delusions manifest?

  When all else failed, when armies lay shattered and dead, I would be called to face her, the Delusionist Empress of Sinnlos. Me. Gehirn Schlechtes, Hassebrand of the Theocrat's cadre of the dangerous and deranged. If my will held strong I would turn my back upon my Theocrat and do what I must to keep her alive. Then and only then would I allow myself emotion.

  And I would burn the Theocrat's army.

  * * *

  For two months the Theocrat hurled troops at Sinnlos.

  No new orders came for us and I stalked the camp at the Captain's side, sweat soaking my robes in comic juxtaposition to his dust-stiffened uniform. The dark stain of rot on the fingers of his left hand spread past the second knuckle.

  I watched the Theocrat's army dwindle as countless lives were thrown against the red wall and once again swell as replacements arrived. The Dysmorphics were never called forward and remained in their own separate camp. So many Dysmorphics in one place, it could be no mistake or coincidence.

  The Dysmorphics were an inhuman force.

  They would be ash in the wind.

  The Captain and I took our meals together, the only real human interaction I had. Sometimes he would fumble with his fork before cursing and passing it to his healthy right hand. Raised in a family of wealth and privilege, this minor breach of etiquette pained him beyond all reason. Once he paused in mid-meal to stare down at the chipped plate.

  I sat across the table, shovelling army gruel—a mash of fried beans and what might have been goat—into my face. ‘Sand gets in everything, eh?’ I said between mouthfuls.

  He didn't answer and instead rose to his feet, spun on a booted heel, and left without a word. But not before I saw his eyes. I wanted to follow my Captain. My friend. Instead I remained sitting, finished my meal, and hated myself for my cowardice.

  * * *

  Uniforms tattered and frayed in the relentless desert wind and paled under the unflinching sun. Men shrank inwards on themselves, their skin leathery and desiccated. The camp was dry like old bones. An entire world poised on the brink of ignition.

  I dreamt I was flint and steel.

  Still no orders came for the Dysmorphics. When the Captain had no need of me I would watch them as they exercised obsessively, compared muscle measurements, and fretted over their perceived inadequacies. Rubbing my round belly and thinking about my small eyes and bald head, I wondered why I could not share their insecurity. I'd much rather be a parody of fitness than the very definition of slothful gluttony.

  Each night I thought about burning those bright lives. Each morning I awoke soaked in sweat and hoarse from screaming.

  * * *

  Early in the fifth month a cadre of the Theocrat's personal guard arrived. They were a small squad of only four members. The Captain sent me to greet them and, though my ego grumbled at being given such a lowly task, I went.

  I approached slowly to have more time to examine them. There were three men—one of them towering seven feet tall and shaggy with coarse brown hair—and a single heavy-set woman. She couldn't have been much over four-and-a-half feet tall but was thick with muscle. Her hair was black and hewn short and her eyebrows twitched and arched as she conversed with her squad. A dark lust rose up within me before sobbing and retreating back into whatever seldom visited part of my soul it came from.

  They saw me coming, ceased their conversation, and turned to await my arrival. The smallest of the three men grinned at me showing black gums and teeth filed to sharp points. I ignored him.

  Go ahead. Taunt the fat man. I'll burn you to ash.

  I stood before the huge man—who else could be the leader of this squad?—and stared up into his face. His brown eyes were surprisingly gentle.

  ‘I have been sent to welcome you to camp,’ I said.

  He merely watched me with sensitive eyes.

  The third man muttered something sibilant under his breath. When I turned to face him he blinked nictating secondary lids over yellow slit-pupil eyes. His nostrils flared as if tasting the air and he nodded towards the woman. I turned to face her.

  ‘You are in command?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I am Asena of the Theocrat's Therianthropes.’ She stared at me with the ice blue eyes of a northern wolf.

  I'd heard of the Therianthropes, these shape-shifting animal-spirit warriors.

  ‘I am Gehirn Schlechtes,’ I said. ‘Hassebrand.’ Like any dog, these shape-shifters would only learn respect once they learned fear. ‘Come.’

  I turned and headed back towards the main camp. They'd follow or not. Going out of your way to accommodate the insane is rarely worth the effort.

  They followed, Asena quickening her pace to walk at my side. Her booted feet kicked up plumes of rust-coloured dust that spun away like fleeing spirits.

  ‘The walls of Sinnlos still hold,’ she said, stating the obvious.

  ‘The walls still hold,’ I agreed. Even in the day's heat I felt the warmth of her, breathed deep her animal musk. Much as I wanted to shy away I dared not. ‘Tell me of your squad,’ I said to distract myself.

  ‘The big one is Bär. The one with the teeth and bad temper is Stich. The other is Masse.’ Her blue eyes glanced up at me, the eyebrows arching in mute humour. ‘Stich is the dangerous one.’ She grinned, showing pronounced canines. ‘He's crazy.’

  ‘And Hassebrands aren't dangerous at all.’ I'd meant it to be a casual joke but sounded tight and defensive.

  'Has the Empress shown her strength?’ she asked, ignoring my pathetic attempt at humour.

  ‘No. We won't see her until the Theocrat commits something of his own strength.’ We both knew what that meant: We were his strength in this battle.

  ‘It won't be long now,’ she said.

  * * *

  The siege dragged on. Men hurled themselves at the wall and died, their corpses left to rot and swell in the desert sun. Asena sought me out often. I could never be sure if she saw something of a kindred spirit in me or if she simply avoided her fellow shape-shifters. I had not the courage to ask. That this strong, confident woman could see anything at all in me beggared explanation.

  When I dined with Asena, as I often did, the Captain took his meals alone. Did he see this as abandonment or betrayal? I would have. I dared not risk my tenuous friendship with Asena, but saw no way for that friendship not to come between me and the Captain. He made no mention of it and seemed not to notice I was rarely available. Meanwhile, the stain grew to encompass much of his left hand. He took to wearing leather gloves and sometimes I caught hints of the sweet stench of rotting flesh. Each night I told myself I would talk to the Captain on the morrow, and each day cowardice won out. What would I say? Guilt gnawed the frayed edges of my soul.

  One night Asena followed me to my tent after dinner and we sat talking until the sun rose the next morning. She seemed to be waiting for me to say or do something but I couldn't imagine what. Or rather I could but dared not. She left the next morning with a sad smile but followed me again the next evening. Since I hadn't slept a wink the night before, I dozed off only to wake with her curled at my side, sleeping peacefully. For the first time in years no nightmares haunted my sleep. Unwilling to awaken her for fear she might leave, I neither mo
ved nor slept for the rest of the night.

  The following day the Therianthropes and Dysmorphics were summoned. The Theocrat was impatient with our lack of progress.

  With Asena called away to receive her orders, I sought out the Captain. I found him watering his horse, stroking the animal with his bare right hand and whispering into its twitching ears. I saw how the horse's wide eyes followed his left hand, and I hoped the Captain didn’t notice. His uniform had become rigid with red filth, his brown hair grown wild to his shoulders. I wouldn't have recognised the once dapper Captain should I bump into him in a crowd.

  I cleared my throat and saw his shoulders tense. He stopped stroking the animal and slid the glove back onto his right hand. But not before I saw the bruised colour of the fingertips. How do you ask after someone's sanity? I wanted to hug him close, to shield his wounded soul with the fat bulk of my body.

  ‘I heard the Theocrat sent new orders,’ I said instead. Coward.

  The Captain turned to face me with lifeless grey eyes.

  ‘Have you received orders yet?’ I asked.

  Seven months without word. Happy as I was not to push my already fragile sanity with heavy use of my Hassebrand power, I felt unwanted, unneeded and unloved. Such is the power of the Theocrat. He abuses your love and worship until you hate him. Then, when he casts you aside, you feel abandoned and can't wait to once again serve. Even though I plotted against him, I felt forgotten.

  ‘No,’ said the Captain, staring at his gloved hands.

  ‘We should pack up and go home,’ I joked.

  The Captain stared at me, unblinking, and I could have kicked myself when the realization hit. Home. The Captain's parents were dead. He had no home. I hated my self-centred thoughtlessness.

  He offered a wan smile. ‘Tomorrow we send in the shape-shifters and Dysmorphics. Go and see the woman.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, old friend. You deserve more.’ He turned away from me then, pretending to examine his horse. The animal shied when he reached to stroke it with the left hand. ‘If we face the Delusionist tomorrow, you must be ready. We know nothing of her. Nothing of what she believes. Nothing of what she fears.’