Archive for the ‘Jason Fischer’ Category
Prefaces from Failed Fantasy Novels
Thursday, April 30th, 2009
a) It was a troubled time for Gaul. The Dauphin, orphaned son of a murdered king, grew shackled to a gilded throne. While his powerful neighbours nipped at his heels, the sinister Magisters plotted against the boy, seeking to lure him into their sorcerous order. With one hand, the Regent guided the Dauphin’s rule, but the other was poised to snatch the crown from his head.
Little did anyone know how important tiny Outremer, a colony far across the sea, would play in the dark days to follow. This is an account of those days…
b) Between the time of the Old Masters and the Age of Reason, the Sons of Nesh rose up. Fought they did, and conquer and settle. The fires of war ceased, and what was once their prison became the spoils of war. By tusk and trunk, the Sons of Nesh ruled an Empire for time untold.
In a bloated and decadent Empire, Two Heirs arose, and all that came before was washed from memory, washed with blood and terror…
c) When I walked the earth as a man, I was a teller of tales, never short for words. It comes as some surprise to me that I find difficulty in recording this chronicle. I suppose it has been a long time though, over a lifetime since I was a cheerful young nomad, regaling the children of my Kaari tribe with clever and funny stories.
My name is Tok, and once I was a man. Once, but long ago.
For many decades, I have been more machine than man, little more than a brain and its supporting tissues, encased in a suit of steel. I am a cyborg, what my master calls “a robot with a dash of humanity”.
d) ‘Lord Valiant! I do not fear your Hawk-Sword!’ Sacre-Morte roared from his tower. ‘You were deceived by the Lady of Blades. Nothing can harm me!’
‘Come and face me then, coward,’ Valiant bellowed. ‘If thou art truly the Blade-Master that thine heralds and brigands declare that thou art, thou wilt not fear mine Hawk-Sword. Foul varlet, I spit on your Tower of Terror,’
The blonde-haired saviour of the realm turned his defiant chin to the Tower, and did just that. As the hero’s spittle ran down the foul magical creation, Sacre-Morte screamed in rage.
Unleashing Vulture-Blade, he jumped from the parapet to join in a clashing and epic battle…
Raiders
Wednesday, April 15th, 2009
‘It’s raiders,’ says my da, but I know what the big drum means. Last time the smith was bellowing and beating on it, a longship bore down on us from some distant land. The prow was carved into a serpent’s head, and the boat bristled with oars like a hedgehog.
I was too young, they sent me up to the wood to hide with the women and children. The raiders leapt from their ship with flame and axe. Butchered six men that day and burnt half the village down.
We were lucky. A passing company of the Duke’s men saw the smoke and drove the reavers back into the sea. This wasn’t so much for us but to defend the monastery from pillage. Now the drum beats again, but the Duke is off fighting another Duke. Our luck is run out.
Da gets his sharp hatchet, passes me the pitchfork. Twelve years old and now a man.
‘That God-house brings them,’ my da says, ‘when they come driving across the seas for plunder and killings.
They know the monks keep treasures in there.’ The abbey stands high, on top of the big hill. You can see it for miles. Will God help me today, when a raider drives an axe into my head? I’ve never raised a hand in anger.
I can see the long-ship now, the sail limp against the mast, torn in several places. They’re not even driving the oars. When the prow pushes into the sand I can see the raiders on the deck, their helmets reflecting the sun. There’s movement on board, but they don’t leap over the sides like last time.
The first of them falls over the railing, landing heavily in the shallows. He gets up, an axe tethered to his wrist with a thong. He isn’t gripping it, and leaves his shield bobbing in the water. He takes a teetering step towards us, then another. An almighty stink comes from the boat now, the worst thing I’ve ever smelt.
Even from here the raider doesn’t look well.
‘Plague!’ someone screamed, but we’ve seen plague. There’s none can walk under the pox, let alone sail the seas.
Another raider slips into the water, and when they notice us standing on the shore they begin falling over themselves in a rush. We can hear their groans now, their excited slaverings.
Two dozen of the reavers are shuffling through froth and foam, groaning and gnashing their teeth. Now I can see the flesh fallen from their faces, yellowed bones where there should be muscle. They trudge out of the water, all reaching hands and hungry eyes.
‘Run!’ someone says, and by God we run.