The Human (sci-fi 5)

Murphy studied the readouts on his sector of the air cruiser with the ease of long practice, but the tension in his mind refused to go away. Despite the fact that this was a normal trade run, despite the fact that this was his fifth trip through it in as many months, there was something about this run that he sincerely didn’t like. It felt… ominous, like it was just waiting to pull the rug out from under him.
Again, he checked the readouts, but everything was normal. The Legacy tech airship was running as smoothly as ever, all needed fuel materials were in full supply, minus the small amount they had used so far, and all scheduled maintenance had been performed and logged, such as there was. As with all Legacy artifacts, the ship was designed to run for centuries without needing repair or replacement, as long as it was not damaged by hostile action.
As if on cue, an alert began to blare nearby. With a jerk, Murphy yanked his rangy six-foot frame from the seat and spun. Across the instrument rotunda a shocked intern sat at a rarely-used station, where a white danger light flashed imperatively. Seeing the lack of comprehension on her face, Murphy ran to her side, but there was no time for him to act. As he reached her station, one of the little countdown timers in the center of her display flashed to zero, and a new message flashed up on the screen next to it. Translated from the ancients’ language, it read:
“Hostile Missile Impact”
Murphy had one fleeting second to wonder why it designated the missile as ‘hostile,’ (as opposed to what) before he was thrown violently to the deck. The ship jumped like a startled cat and a huge hollow booming rang through the hull. The crew on the bridge could also hear an ominous sound – air whistling through an open hole.
There were several bangs and thumps, and the ship lurched upwards. Murphy assumed something had just fallen off the ship. He hoped it wasn’t the wings. It didn’t feel like they were free falling, so it was likely not.
As far as he could tell, almost everybody was screaming something; orders, prayers, curses, or just noise. He looked forward, and Bosun Marcus happened to be looking at him while she yelled.
“Emergency Procedures, you curst slackers! Clear the decks for Emergency Procedures!”
He realized he was standing still and broke into motion, running to his station and frantically entering in commands on the interface. He saw others doing the same around him out of the corner of his eyes, but he paid no attention. They had been trained on ‘emergency procedures’ before being posted to the ship, but since Legacy Tech (if they got it working at all) almost never broke down, no one paid much attention. However, Bosun Marcus ran frequent and exhaustive drills, and everyone had a place and purpose under her eyes. Even panicked, people entered commands, worked machinery, or simply got the hell out of everyone else’s way.
Unfortunately, they were too close to the ground. Even as a high-pitched whine started up, and the descent started to slow rapidly, they hit.

The Merchant 2 (sci-fi 4)

“..And that is my story, Master Merchant Hamjiir.”
Yax’s recital had taken long enough that Najef had emerged from the control cabin and served drinks; Hot Khavi for Hamjiir, and a clear flask of the nutritive brew Warriors used as an herbal stimulant for Yax. Najef now squatted on another flat perch and had listened with his eyes wide to the harrowing tale of Yax’s scout squad. It was apparent to both adults present that he was brimming with questions, but his training as a merchant was well-imprinted, and Hamjiir and Yax both noted that he restrained himself without any too-obvious sign of impatience. Hamjiir felt pride at his trainee’s control, but he, too, had questions; as well as the authority to ask without impoliteness.
“A Legacy weapon? Is it likely to be dangerous to the crawler?”
Legacy tech was, by definition, ill-understood. Relics of the great races that had once resided on this world, such devices were notable for their innovation, power, and danger. The great races had seemingly only designed devices for their current needs, and rarely produced more than one of any single design. Therefore any creation of theirs was unique, and knowledge of similar devices was only a little help in figuring out the function and capabilities of a new discovery. In addition, many Legacy devices had built-in fail safes to prevent them from falling into the hands of the great races’ enemies. Sometimes the modern inhabitants of the world were classed as enemies by legacy traps, and sometimes they were not.
“Friend Merchant, I know not. We never found any sign of the weapon. But the reports our Council received said that it was inactive at this time. It is likely that it is not a danger.”
“Ah. Thank you, Scout Harpath. Your report was concise and informative. You are a credit to your Council. Would you care to join me in the control tower? I believe the Transport Guild’s Emergency Provisions will allow me to increase speed a touch to get you back to civilization.”

The Warrior 2 (sci-fi 3)

Yax had been scouting with the other 2 members of his squad, chasing down rumors that a legacy weapon had been hidden in these ruins. Legacy tech was valuable enough that the War Council of the Zeequess had purchased the scouts passage on a flying vessel scheduled to pass nearby, but Yax wished they had had the additional funds available to bring along their Suits. The rugged and powerful mech-like exoskeletons would have easily saved the rest of his squad from the crocadon, the heavy weapons they mounted would have had no difficulty penetrating the beast even through the frill. But Yax was a Warrior, and knew that wishing was a futile occupation.
He contemplated his options as he set about retrieving his and the other scouts’ gear from where it had been strewn. Some of it was inside the crocadon, and retrieving it was a gory task. Afterwards he thoroughly scrubbed his skin off with sand. Though the digestive juices would have difficulty penetrating his tough epidermis, it was better to be prudent.
Forcing carpals into his legs for maximum length, he quickly strode around and gathered everything into a heap. It wasn’t much, but as a scout he was accustomed to working with little in the way of resources.
His battle spike he stored in its normal place, along with his pack. There were two other battle spikes, which he set aside. Scout Mecio’s burn tube and windhammer he laid on the ground next to Scout Darcis’s ping rifle and cleaveall. The burn tube was a low-power flame projector, the windhammer fired high-intensity bursts of air designed to knock an opponent down or even out. Neither seemed to have much utility in Yax’s current situation, though he noted the burn tube’s use as a signaling device.
The ping rifle had definite possibilities. It fired a very small projectile at very high speeds. It was accurate to a long distance and it would be perfect for hunting small game. He strapped it to his pack in place of his own lightning rifle. The lightning rifle did a great deal of damage, but it was slow and heavy, and unless there was another crocadon around, or similar large beast, it wasn’t going to be particularly useful. And since the crocadons were extremely territorial, Yax would be surprised if there was any creature larger than a cat within miles.
The cleaveall he looked at wistfully, but he knew he wouldn’t be bringing it along. The high-speed rotating teeth would cut through nearly anything (and might have seriously damaged the crocadon if Darcis hadn’t been the first to get killed) but it, like the lightning rifle, was just too heavy to make it worth carrying for any long distance.
Finally he picked up his own secondary weapon, a light but fast-firing automatic pistol called a Dowser, and stored it in its accustomed holster. It weighed little, and its lack of penetration was made up for by his familiarity with the device’s characteristics. The Zeequess military placed a great deal of emphasis on how an individual’s training made them a better Warrior, and it was understood by all Warriors that a weapon you knew well was a much better asset than a weapon you didn’t.
Shrugging the straps on his pack and readjusting his carpals for their best endurance configuration, he picked up the burn tube and started walking in the direction of the nearest trade route.
A day later he spotted a transport crawler and fired the burn tube to get its attention. Quickly he extended his legs and raced to its side, climbing the long ladder hanging from its side and reaching the top in time to face Hamjiir exiting the rope house. The dust that had coated him caused him no discomfort, his skin being proof against such irritants.
Yax Harpath, looking upon Hamjiir for the first time, saw an average sized Var, its pyramidal shape emphasized by the squat legs growing from each corner of its body. Two long arms, jointed so they could work in tandem either forward or back, were currently folded on the Var’s wide lap. The dress-like garment it wore had the stripes of a Master Merchant on the shoulders, and the seams where the stripes had been sewed on were long since worn smooth, indicating that he had held his rank for a long time. Yax’s eyes noted that a pair of hand guards – sort of like the basket hilts on fencing swords but with no blades – in the Var’s belt also had a worn look, as if they had been dented and then polished many times.

The Warrior (sci-fi 2)

For a long minute, Yax Harpath kept one careful eye out for movement on the edge (about 50 meters away) of the ruined wall he was up against, but there was nothing. In the meantime, the three stubby thumbs on his left hand deftly twitched free the depleted charge cell of the lightning rifle and replaced it with a fresh one from the dispenser under the heavy pack his two lower gripping tendrils held on his back. One of the upper tendrils held the barrel of the rifle steady, and the other gently touched the wall, feeling for vibrations. He had configured his legs for stability, with a thick core of carpals which left him short and not very fast, but he resisted the urge to lengthen his legs – land speed would not save him here.
In a flash the crocadon swept around the corner, and Yax diverted control of his body from his normal thought processes to his Warrior mind.
Everything slowed. Suddenly accelerated reflexes combined with preternatural clarity and quickness of thought made Warriors almost unbeatable in combat, all things being equal. Of course, the crocadon was nearly 7 tons of furious predator, and hardly counted as an ‘equal’ to anything below its weight class.
Yax dropped his steadying tendril from the rifle as his ‘listening’ tendril snapped him away from the wall. His body described a lazy cartwheel away from where he had been standing, and the crocadon’s spear-like tongue fired through the recently vacated space. The tongue snap was normally an action too quick to see, but the processing speed of Yax’s Warrior mind allowed him to note the sticky barbs that coated that tongue as it pulled back into the croc’s capacious mouth.
While inverted, he completed his recharging of the rifle by twisting the energy gate between the recently installed cell and the central turbine of the lightning rifle open, and hit the button that started the turbine cycling.
The crocadon, its multifaceted eyes keeping track of Yax’s spin through the air, turned its heavy neck towards him and ‘girkked.’ Yax began the muscular contraction necessary to withdraw the carpals from cohesion in his central structure, and when he hit the ground he deformed into an even squatter shape than he had been before. The croc’s tongue whistled just past the top of his now bulbous head, and a wash of fetid breath accompanied its journey. The croc, still charging, was now only about 20 meters away, and he depressed the firing stud of the lightning rifle.
The turbine, drawing energy from the new cell, rotated its filaments through the charging screens and spun a bolt of pure lightning forth at the croc. Yax avoided the scars that had previously been made around the frilly head of the crocadon – prior shots from he and the other scouts had found that the bone plate hidden in the frills was just too tough to shoot through – and on instinct aimed instead for the currently-retracting tongue.
With a ‘Grakk!’ of agony, the croc’s tongue finished withdrawing, leaving some three feet of the end lying smoking and quivering on the ground in front of it. Its fore claws tried to push back away from the sudden pain, but the hind claws, nearly 10 meters back, didn’t get the message as quickly and kept pushing forward. As a result the middle section of the reptilian crocadon spiked up almost 4 meters off the ground before the hind legs reversed as well and the beast started pulling back.
Yax used the time given him to leap forward, reforming his torso and extending his legs as he jumped to add distance. He dropped the now-expended lightning rifle and grabbed his battle spike from his gear even as his lower gripping tendrils cleared themselves for battle by dropping the heavy pack behind him.
Landing face down, just underneath the snout of the crocadon, he sprang up, latching all four of his back tendrils up and around the top of the beast’s muzzle.
Surprised, the croc reared up and back to get away from this annoying thing, and Yax swayed forward and plunged the spike into a suddenly revealed thin-looking spot in the armor on its upper chest.
The resulting spasm of agony from the beast snapped Yax free from his grip, and he instinctively disconnected all of his carpals from their sockets, pulling into a ball with only stubby proto legs and arms, his tendrils still waving in the hopes of catching onto something to slow his fall. But he was flung too far from the edge of the ruins, and he slammed down into the sand hard enough to partly bury himself.
Bruised but not seriously injured, he popped his head up, and for a long second watched the crocadon spasm into death, his battle spike lodged firmly in what was apparently a kill area. With no enemies in sight, the Warrior mind dropped control, and everything perceptibly speeded up. Grains of sand blew by in a sudden rush from where the croc now lay, and the lightning rifle let off a sudden spark and was quiet. For a second he fought the instinctive panic that resulted from dropping out of combat status, but he calmed himself down and began the painful task of drawing his bone structure back into place with bruised muscle. As he did he made a mental note to report that area of the crocadon to other scouts spending time in the desert.
Now if he could only figure out a way to get home.

The Merchant (sci-fi 1)

The sand, as it puffed up around the treads of the huge transport crawler, gave off the acrid scent of alkali. Hamjiir nodded to himself and made a mental note to make sure all of the water barrels were checked for bacteria that night. If an infection was caught early, it could be purified: a long and aggravating prospect, but better than being out in this desert without water. For sure anything they found here would be contaminated.
Hamjiir checked their forward progress by watching a tuft of wire grass as it passed the front tread and counting until it finally went by tread number eight on the left side. He did some quick calculations and frowned as he figured their speed at a few points above the Transport Guild’s regulation 35 miles per hour. He trundled his squat pyramidal body around on its axis, each of his four legs working in tandem, and headed for the control tower near the middle of the crawler. Having eyes that faced forwards and back, and a very adaptable motile structure, Hamjiir could have walked back the way he came with little problem, but most Var, as his kind was called, settled on a primary orientation when they were still young, and clung to it thereafter for convenience.
As he reached one arm forward to activate the door mechanism he felt a slight pull towards the front of the crawler and smiled. They had slowed. Sure enough, when the door opened Najef was looking guiltily at him from the drive controller.
“I am sorry, Master Merchant; I was not paying enough attention to our progress. I have corrected the error, but the burden is mine.” Najef gave the Var equivalent of a bow, squatting on all four legs and linking his long arms in front of his body, and then spreading his arms and raising up slowly, as if lifting a heavy object.
“No, no, Najef, you will carry no weight for me,” Hamjiir waved his arm under Najef’s, “I too wish to leave the desert, but we would make this trip not at all if it wasn’t for the notes to be made at the end.”
Najef’s unconscious haste in traveling was understandable – to get out of the desert was eminently to be desired – but if they arrived early, fines from the Transport Guild would wipe out Hamjiir’s profits.
“Thank you, Master Merchant. I will be more attentive,” Najef said with relief. This job was a good one for a young Var, and a bad review from Hamjiir could have spelled the end of it for him. He maneuvered himself back to the controls with a visible determination to make no more mistakes.
Hamjiir hid a grin as he slowly turned away. He remembered his years of rising through the ranks as a Merchant, doing odd jobs and errands for the masters, and occasionally, like Najef, driving over the more boring stretches of a travel route. He knew how easy it was to become impatient and lose track of speed when everything looked exactly the same, and no forward progress was obvious.
Hamjiir looked forward once more, at the unending sands, and sighed. Knowing the reasons for their slowness did not help to end it, after all.
A thin pillar of flame suddenly shot up off to the side of the crawler, and he focused his eyes on the spot from whence it came. Some creature of the desert? But no, there was a figure there waving some kind of device. It was short and lumpy, but it stretched upwards into a lankier form as he watched. A Zeequess, then. The warriors had the ability to change their shapes. It was a matter of muscular contractions moving small bones in their bodies rather than true shape-shifting, but it made them very recognizable.
Hamjiir frowned in thought. He was tempted to just pass by, but only for a brief second. Despite his long years as a Master Merchant, he had never taken to the idea that business overcame decency. The Zeequess loping towards the crawler was far from home, and he would leave no one in this bleak desert unless he absolutely had to. His profits would not be lessened by a brief stop, after all. Rising from his flat perch, he waved to the central control tower, and immediately felt the crawler slow. Quickly he trundled himself into the forward rope house, closing the door behind him. As the crawler stopped, the huge tail of dirt, sand, and alkali that was rucked up behind them would sweep forward and coat anything that was still exposed before it settled.
A few minutes after the crawler came to a complete stop he reemerged, to find the Warrior standing before him on the crawler’s deck. Hamjiir scrutinized the squat rubbery looking figure, rough skin its only covering aside from a complex battle harness and the aforementioned dust. Zeequess had no visible sex characteristics to conceal, and were hardy enough not to need clothing for either heat or cold. It had two arms ending in three powerful thumbs each, and two legs with three toes each as well. It also had four tough tendrils growing from its back in a rough square. The Warrior’s carpals – the bone fragments that could be moved inside the Zeequess’ body to provide support for various configurations of muscle - were obviously moving from the rapid climbing form it had used to ascend the ladder on the side of the carrier to a more comfortable standing posture. The heavy pack the Warrior carried with the bottom two tendrils, in addition to two small insignia on the harness, told Hamjiir he was a scout, but no other information could he glean from mere appearances. Carefully, he settled himself on his perch and awaited the Warrior’s tale.

Gutterblood 4 - Torture

In a cold chamber in the darkness, a creature was being tortured. It thought of itself as a person, but the ones who had bound it there disagreed. They disagreed with it on many points. For one, they thought of themselves as virtuous, and the creature as evil. For two, they did not believe that what they were doing to it was torture, because they did not believe it felt pain as they did.
The creature did not think of itself as evil. Neither did it label its captors so. But it knew that they were misguided, and foolish, and arrogant, and cruel. And it felt pain, very keenly and in the same way as the ones who caused it.
‘Its’ name was Arrazia, and she was Templeton’s sister.

Arrazia’s captors had strict instructions not to do what they were doing. Abden Carter had told them explicitly that they were not to harm their prisoner in any way. He had said that she was very valuable, but had not told them why. And, like small-minded people everywhere, they had made up their own reasons.
Arrazia was beautiful. Some of the half-fae had a certain charm to them, with thin and regular features that most found attractive in a rough sense. But she was far beyond attractive. So the men who watched her had decided that Carter was looking for the same thing from her that they themselves would seek.
Truth be told, Abden Carter would never have even thought of the idea. And if someone had brought up even the possibility of his sleeping with her, he would have been ill at the thought. Oh, he had no problems with the idea of passion, or even forced passion, but she was not human. He would have been revolted. She was there to keep Templeton in line, and he thought of her as good for nothing else.
His guards, in their zeal to win favor, had decided that if they could teach ‘the creature’ to feel or at least mimic desire they would be rewarded. And so they pawed and groped and fondled, and gave her pain when she did not respond.
The plan was to give her better food when she finally learned to behave, but they had had no luck as of yet. They could not refuse her any food at all, as they were afraid she would sicken or die, but they fed her on refuse barely short of spoiling and bitter water that tasted of the tar used to seal poorly made casks. To give her pain they used a small iron rod, beaten to that shape from ore with only a hammer and much sweat, rather than forged. It left only a red mark that soon went away, so that there was no evidence of its use, but it reacted with the fae part of her blood to cause excruciating agony at the slightest touch. Perhaps because of the lack of outward sign of hurt, and because of their arrogant beliefs, the guards did not know how much pain they caused. Arrazia had never cried out nor spoken, nor made any noise at all since she had been brought to this prison. She did nothing at all but resist, and hurt, and think.
She thought about many things. She thought longingly of her home in the woods, where she once would play the harp and sing for the elohir, tiny spirits of the woods. She thought desperately of her brother Templeton, and wished with all her heart that he would find a way to come and rescue her from this place, to take her away back to the woods. And she thought with a black and abiding hatred of the man who had put her in this place in the beginning.
But of her current situation, she thought not at all.

Gutterblood 3 - Awakening

To his great surprise, Treyvas woke up. He was aching from cold and his clothes were soaked through, but he was alive, and all of his limbs seemed to be intact and still attached. Without opening his eyes, he took in the information his other senses told him; he was lying on a hard rock surface across which sluggish rills of water crept, and it smelled of leaf-mould and the distinctive dry scent that caves usually have. He could hear the heavy pounding of rain a short distance away, and occasionally the clicks, hoots, or peeps of common nocturnal creatures.
With no sound or smell of the half-fae, Treyvas felt secure enough to open his eyes. He was, as he had surmised, in a cave. The walls were not so far apart that he couldn’t touch them with outstretched arms, and they towered up above him further than he could see in the night. Beyond his feet was the entrance, and a waxing half moon gave him light through a clearing in the clouds towards the horizon. Behind him, past the line where the moon illuminated, he could not see. Afraid that Templeton might be in the darkness there, Treyvas sat still and listened with straining ears to catch any clues of the half-fae’s presence, but he heard nothing except the rain and the night’s normal sounds. Slowly he relaxed a little and sat up, searching around him to see if there was anything here that could be useful to him.
His investigations turned up nothing more than rotted vegetation and loose rocks, so Treyvas picked up one of the latter that felt good in his hand and got to his feet. He wasn’t sure why Templeton would have left him in this cave unless it was to store him for later consumption, and if that was the case he didn’t want to stick around to experience it.
Carefully he moved out to the mouth of the cave. Despite the downpour he could see the moon clearly, and it provided enough light that he could make his way easily. He would get wet again, and probably muddy, but it was better than becoming food. Still, he hesitated before leaving. Where would he go? Obviously he didn’t want to go back to the wagons and slavery, but he had no idea where there might be settlements nearby. He was familiar with the dangers of the borderlands, but that did not make them any less dangerous to a young boy on his own, with no weapons. And what about food, and water? He had no way to carry either, and though he knew some of the safe plants to eat, and how to tell if the water was bad in a stream, he must still be constantly scrounging in order to live. Treyvas was a brave boy, but he was not foolish. He knew he would have a rough time of it. As he thought he realized he had made up his mind. It was better to die free than live a slave. And he had debts to repay at the caravan.
From a tree limb far above, past where Treyvas’ vision could reach, a thin figure stood silently on a limb jutting from the bole of an ancient hardwood. It made no move as the boy stood in thought, nor as he walked away into the gloomy underbrush that even its excellent night eyesight couldn't penetrate. Only several minutes later did it spring lightly from the limb, landing some thirty feet below. Its legs bent, and its feet sank into the mud of the forest floor almost to the top of its calf-length leather boots, but it showed no pain at the landing, and merely pulled its feet free and slowly stalked after the boy, making no more sound than a panther on the hunt. Blood dripped in a slow stream from its eyes.

Gutterblood 2 - Affray

The column had been travelling for two months, and in the minds of Carter and Left-hand Pierce it was almost over. They were only a day from the edge of the borderlands, if they pushed a little, and once in the centerlands they would not have to worry about chase. In a week of easy travel they would be at the slave blocks. However, in the end it was the weather that stopped them. The gentle rain that had started falling in the morning had, by evening, become a drenching downpour that made it unsafe to drive any farther. So, barely on this side of the border, they were forced to halt and circle up for the night. As was the custom, some of the men immediately erected a canopy under which to put a fire. Others locked down the wagons, and more scouted the area for danger. Carter retired gratefully to his own wagon out of the rain, and Left-hand Pierce rode the perimeter, looking for anything he could dress down the men for. Templeton was ordered to stand near one of the wagons and keep an eye out for attack. By chance, it was the wagon in which Treyvas rode. Tendry Alis watched from where he was chained to his seat on the next wagon back.
For Treyvas, it was too much. The thing was only a few feet away, and he could do nothing to it. He had watched it wrap its hat in oiled leather earlier when it started to rain, but he could still smell the lingering odor of blood around it. Unintentionally, he growled under his breath, and to his shock the thing turned around and stepped closer. In one stride it was almost touching the wagon, and it was less than a foot from his nose. He could see where the blood was constantly washing away from around its eyes and slowly oozing out again. The raw wounds were always there, he remembered his father saying. The half-fae desire for blood was said to stem from those wounds. He suddenly recalled that his father had always referred to them by the polite term ‘half-fae’ instead of the racial slur gutterblood, and the irony twisted his face into a grimace. He was working up his mouth to spit, but Tendry Alis acted faster.
Through the bars at the back of the wagon sailed a large chunk of bloody meat. It landed between Treyvas and the huddled child next to him, and the sharp acrid taste of fear suddenly made itself known in the wagon. Slowly Treyvas looked from the meat back to Templeton, and he would swear that he saw a smile, just for a second.
Then all hell broke loose.
With a jerk Templeton grabbed the bars and set himself. Treyvas and every other child in the wagon simultaneously started screaming and tried to push themselves through the far wall. A guard saw what was happening, and saw the meat, and swore in a loud voice as he spurred his horse towards the wagon. Templeton’s arms moved, and two bars popped from their sockets and clattered to the ground. He grabbed the next pair of bars out and set himself again.
The other guards who were near noticed what was going on and moved closer, yelling for Pierce and Carter. The drover chained to the wagon Templeton was attacking tried to throw himself over the side and was brought up just short of the ground by his chains. The other wagoneers all started frantically whipping their horses to get their wagons away from the danger, including Tendry Alis.
Templeton ripped the second set of bars out. The opening was wide enough now for him to squeeze through, but instead he grabbed the next set out and set himself once more.
Several of the children in the wagon fainted, others went catatonic, and still others kept struggling against the bars on the far wall. Treyvas realized the futility of their flight response instinctively, and stepped from the mass, standing only three or four feet behind the chunk of meat. He was determined to meet his fate as bravely as had his father, though he could barely see for fear. Carter heard people yelling for him while he was changing, and quickly began pulling on his wet clothing again. Left-hand Pierce was just spurring his horse around the rapidly dispersing circle of wagons when his horse was clipped by an axletree and fell over to the side. Pierce lost his seat and the horse reared up again and took off, leaving him to struggle to his feet and run through the muddy ground.
Templeton ripped the third set of bars out and tossed them away. He easily hopped up into the wagon, and faced Treyvas over the piece of meat. The men around the wagon kept shouting at him, or for Carter and Pierce, but none dared to try and stop him. The cook was even banging a set of pots together as if Templeton was a bear, but the half-fae ignored them all.
A long second passed, and then Carter slammed out of the door to his wagon, and the sound broke the uncertain tableau. Templeton leaped forward in a flash and grabbed Treyvas before he could react. Treyvas, sure he was about to die, fainted dead away. A quick jerk of a clawed hand and Treyvas’ chains snapped with a clang. Almost as an afterthought the half-fae grabbed Tendry’s piece of meat before springing back out of the hole. Pierce, finally rounding the last wagon to see what was going on, slammed into Carter and the two hit the ground.
In one bound Templeton jumped over the circle of warriors and raced into the woods, carrying Treyvas and the piece of meat. The soldiers stared after him, then slowly turned to face Carter and Pierce, who were just getting to their feet.
“Sir, you should … ”
“What the hell was that?” blustered Carter, cutting off Pierce in mid-sentence. “It sounded like…” Then for the first time he saw the wagon. “Good god! What did that?”
Pierce held back his anger at being cut off. “Your gutterblood took a child and ran off, SIR. I was going to say you should order him back here while he could still hear you, but it’s too late now. He’s long gone.”
Guards quickly rounded up the wagons, including Tendry’s. He went meekly where he was told, but inwardly he seethed. Why couldn’t the boy have struggled more? He had been hoping that the gutterblood would eat him on the spot. Then no one would have paid attention to Tendry’s wagon until it was done. And maybe it would have gone on to eat others and give him a good chance to get away. Oh, well, he thought. At least I can say that all the other drovers tried to run too. But that trick wouldn’t work again. The fate of the boy he passed off as nothing.
Others in the column also thought nothing of the boy’s fate, assuming he was being eaten already, but a great deal of thought went into the current whereabouts of the gutterblood. Guards nervously fingered their weapons and looked through the downpour at the suddenly menacing woods. To calm them, Pierce broke out their store of crossbows and handed them out, wrapped in oiled leather which could easily be pulled off in seconds. It worked to a degree, but everyone was nervous nonetheless.
Carter asked around in vain for someone to go out looking for his pet investment. Finally he asked Pierce.
“Sir, going after the thing in its current state is a death sentence. It will come back on its own after it has fed, or it will not. Frankly, I don’t care. I never liked that thing. But we’re only a day from the border at most, and we need to leave. What if the thing hits a town nearby? Search parties could maybe track us in the morning, and then where would we be? We should move out immediately, and damn the rain.”
Carter thought it over, and seemed hesitant. “But, I have the thing’s sister. It won’t go far. We need to retrieve it.”
Very interesting, thought Pierce. He had wondered why Carter trusted the thing so much. Family ties amongst the half-fae were supposed to be very strong. “Well, in that case it will come back. But it can follow our trail better than we can follow its, and we would be safer to move anyway.”
Carter seemed to accept that, and they set several warriors to work patching the hole in the wagon that Templeton had torn. When it was solid enough to keep the remaining children from escaping, they got everything ready and cautiously drove off. As they rode, the guards kept one eye on the treacherous roads and one on the woods.

Gutterblood 1 - Introductions

The column of wagons wended their way through the darkness quietly. There was little conversation from the grim-faced handlers as they guided their teams, and the passengers huddled fearfully against each other, hardly daring to move lest the chains that bound them rattled and drew the wrath of their captors. Alongside rode men with swords facing out, and others with whips facing in. No one spoke or moved unnecessarily, and silence seemed to follow the column hungrily. The wagon wheels and axles had been greased heavily to avoid squeaking, and even the horses hooves had been muffled with burlap sacking. The ones who led the column knew what a reception they might receive if they were found.
Slavery was not technically illegal in the borderlands, but murder was, and the warriors of the column had killed many in taking these slaves. Their only chance for escape was speed and quiet. The master of the column rode just behind the point, a dark and sullen man with a heavy paunch from indulgence. He hated these trips, not because of any personal distaste for the suffering of others, but rather for the discomfort they invariably brought. However, he had learned long ago not to trust others with such tasks after he had led a similar slaving column for another man, and had seen how many opportunities there were for graft. Perhaps it was surprising in a man who was a slaver by trade, but Abden Carter absolutely detested cheaters.
Pierce Farrell rode in silence next to Carter. Known as ‘Left-hand Pierce’ to the men who worked for him, he was in charge of all of the fighting aspects of the column. He was severely competent at his work, enjoyed the feeling of power he got from seeing those around him humbled, and hated everyone he had ever met. He continued to work for Carter because the work allowed him to bring down those who might otherwise be powerful, but he planned on someday killing his nominal boss, and spent a great deal of time thinking about it. However, the sullen, brooding silence he rode in at this point was firmly focused on another target, one that ran easily along in the point position, with its head swinging from side to side to watch everything around it.
‘Templeton,’ as he was called, was a rare sight in the predominantly human borderlands. His sunken and blood-rimmed white eyes marked him as gutterblood, with a heritage descended from the lost fae of the centerlands. Gutterbloods, despite the intelligence of some of the varieties, had been treated as property and shock troops for hundreds of years, ever since the fae had disappeared. Very few were allowed to leave the military forces, and Carter, at least, considered it quite a coup to have gotten one through his contacts. Pierce, however, was not as pleased. Because of their very rarity, little was known about them in the common populace. And sure, the thing ate less, slept less, and fought harder than any four humans would have. It never yelled in anger like so many of the warriors, (a blustery sort, given to arrogance and loud boasts) because it never spoke, or seemed to get angry at all. And yes, the terror it inspired in the villagers and light mercenary forces they had encountered was worth far more than the mere money they had paid for it. But Pierce had had a chance to see it fight alone against a mercenary squad, and it had shocked him to the core. The thing was faster, stronger, and more ruthless than anything he had ever seen. He considered himself a master of the blade, but he had a shaking suspicion that he would not last long against it. And after the fight was over, and the mercenaries were dead, it crouched down and dipped its ragged reddish-brown hat into their blood. Figuring out what colored the unpleasant-smelling beret was bad enough, but the thing had looked at him while replacing the cap on its head, and it had seemed to be … evaluating him. Only the fact that it had never failed to follow an order immediately and efficiently kept him from asking Carter to destroy it. Besides, he knew Carter saw it as an investment, and Carter disliked not getting full price from any investment. At least so far it had followed orders, he thought, and shuddered.
Behind him watchful eyes saw the shudder, and instantly surmised what caused it. Tendry Alis had been taken as a slave several long years before, and was kept by Carter as a wagon drover after informing on an escape attempt by some of Carter’s other slaves. As far as Tendry was concerned, it was doomed to fail anyway, and besides; he hadn’t been invited. He was one with an eye for the main chance, and so he had stayed as close to Carter as possible. Being a slave for a slave trader was bad, but being sold to a hard labor camp like the Ten Months Mine was worse. It was named for the average life-span of a laborer, after all.
He hoped to get a chance on one of the raids to escape, but Carter kept his slaves in line very carefully. Tendry was chained to his seat while driving, and there was a guard around at all times. But Tendry waited, and hoped. This trip his hopes were riding on the gutterblood. He was hoping the half-fae would go berserk and create a diversion. To this end he had stolen a hunk of meat from one of the storage wagons. Half-fae were supposed to go crazy for raw meat, and he would throw it in front of Pierce at the best moment he could find.
The slaves taken so far by the column were varied. Some were chosen for their huskiness; to work in the fields or the labor camps, some for beauty; for the pleasure of those who bought them, some for servility- to work in houses. But two of the wagons contained only children. There were always those who were willing to make an investment in a slave for what they might become, rather than what they were. And the opportunity to mold them was a powerful lure. The knowledge that many of the young slaves were bought for perverse pleasure was an unspoken knowledge amongst the slavers, most of them simply didn’t care. Carter himself looked down on those he suspected of harboring such desires, and preferred to sell his young slaves to other types, but if there ware no other buyers he didn’t linger over the sale, nor did he fail to spend what he made off the deal.
In an environment where discipline was enforced with a whip, most of the children were quickly reduced to huddled quiet shapes that took no actions unless instructed. However, one of the recent captures harbored a silent hatred that kept him awake long after the others fell into fitful sleep. Treyvas Cerridwyn’s father had been a mercenary for 15 years, finally retiring to the borderlands after Treyvas’ mother had died of a fever. Donner Cerridwyn had kept in shape afterwards, and practiced his already proficient skills daily to keep busy. He was the local sheriff for their village, and was given a small stipend for the service.
When the slavers had come, both a 15-foot wall and an organized militia under Donner’s leadership met them. Normally the defenses of the town would have deterred even the heavily armed slavers as being too difficult, but in this case Carter had a trump card to play, and he played it with a vengeance. He had brought the column by the front of the village as if going by, and then a figure had streaked out from behind a wagon and cleared the wall in a single prodigious bound. While the villagers and militia were still staring in shocked amazement, Donner had leaped off the wall and engaged the fearsome gutterblood. Treyvas had seen the whole fight, and its gruesome end. Donner made a good show of it, blocking several attacks, and even wounding the thing’s arm once as it swung, but it was just too quick for him in the end. It had parried a hasty thrust with the short, oddly shaped ax it carried, and immediately flashed in and plunged a clawed hand into Donner’s chest. It dropped the ax and grabbed Donner’s sword arm, and then it had just stared at him from inches away as his mouth worked and the life faded from his eyes. Then, supporting his limp body only with the claws in his rib cage, it had pulled off its cap and soaked it in his blood. When the thing had gone to open the gate, no one dared to try and stop it. The militia had been slaughtered by the slaver’s warriors despite the fact that the gutterblood had thereafter stood in silence just outside the gate, slowly consuming Donner Cerridwyn’s still-wet heart. The people were made slaves or killed at Carter’s whim. For the death of his father, Treyvas planned to kill the thing.
Templeton rode at the head of the column, watching the sides of the road for ambush, and what he thought remained unknown.

Flashback - Part Four (Pulp 11)

I started to try and talk him down, but I never even opened my mouth to speak. All of a sudden his eyes flared, and he slapped me across the face like a formula one car hitting a hay bale. I never saw him move, but I went sprawling out of the booth, spitting blood and curses. At the same time, the waitress, who was on her way back to our booth, blossomed a deadly red flower out of her midsection. She went down screaming, and her intestines coiled out like the grossest slinky you ever saw. I had my gun out and pointed at the Wide Man, when finally the sequence of events registered in my brain, and I realized he had just saved my life. There was a hole in the window next to where my head had been.
He dived out of the booth, again moving far faster than I would have expected. I noticed that he actually broke the heavy bolts that held the table in place when he swiveled his hips to move. It slumped down a bit, canted over and resting on where I had so recently been sitting. His dive carried him to the waitress, and his big hands shook as he tried to figure out what to do for her.
A second bullet shattered the glass and clipped my chin. I had just started to rise, and I accelerated it into a jump, one foot on the sagging table and right through the open window frame. My gun was out and seeking a target, and my blood was cool and purposeful.
I saw a quick movement at a first-floor window across the street and I put a round through it on reflex before I stopped to think about poor Uncle Fred trying to check out what was going on. Fortunately, I saw a sniper rifle tossed to the side, which cleared up who I was shooting at. Unfortunately, I must have missed, and the figure who had tossed the rifle took off out of my view.
I made a quick bet based on the construction of the front of the house, and ran like a shot to the alley off to the right of it. I legged down it about halfway before I heard clanging and banging from a fire escape in the back. My horse had come in.
As I slammed around the corner my guy was just recovering after jumping the rail. He was quick about it, too. He was white, maybe 5’10”, built lean. He had cropped hair like a marine and he was wearing a charcoal gray track suit. I slid to a stop and put two rounds in him, dead center mass. The track suit was tight enough that there was no question but that I hit him.

He gave maybe a little grunt, and then he took off. And when I say took off, I mean he looked like Usain Bolt would’ve had a hard time keeping up. I watched him run in a straight line like that for three blocks before he finally turned out of my sight. I just couldn’t move. I kept expecting him to drop, but he just ran. Maybe even accelerated. And when I slowly walked a block in the direction he had run, there was no blood at all.

I didn’t know it then, but I was going to get used to impossible things happening to and around me.

Flashback - Part Three (Pulp 10)

He looked at me like I had swallowed a tuna and then spit out a perfect model of the Eiffel Tower made of fishbones. "Murder? Excuse me?"

Again, I could detect no false note in his face or eyes. His hands were steady on the table, and there were no nervous twitches at all. I watched him for a second, but there was no change.
"The murder of Angela St. Ives, Mr. Sinclair. At the Concord Inn, her place of residence."

Now there was a change, but not the one I had expected. He relaxed totally and wiped his forehead. "Ahh, sir, then there has been some mistake. For you see, I had breakfast with Ms. St. Ives this very morning, and she was alive and well..."
I stared at him for most of a minute. In the meantime the waitress came by and took his order. Two bacon cheeseburgers with fries and onion rings. She turned to me and then she got kind of nervous and walked off. She tossed something about coming back over her shoulder but I didn’t hear it all.
I turned my expression down a notch. The Wide Man looked a little relieved. It actually looked like he was getting worried about me.
“I’m sorry that you have wasted your time, Mr. ahh…?” When I didn’t answer he went on. “But I’m sure you can verify for yourself that Ms. St. Ives is well. The Concord is only a few minutes away, I’d be happy to drive you over after lunch, if you’d like.”
I didn’t like this. He wasn’t lying that I could tell, but it didn’t make any sense.
“Angela St. Ives,” I said, “36 years of age, 5’ 8” tall, blonde hair, green eyes?”
“Well, yes, that seems to describe her, and it is not an ordinary name.”
“The Angela St. Ives that until recently you were, ah, dating?”
The Wide Man looked displeased at my tone, but nodded readily enough.
“The Angela St. Ives that you owe approximately sixty thousand dollars to?”
All of a sudden, my lunch partner was not a friendly sight. I suddenly realized exactly how big he was, and he loomed over me, all without moving an inch. I had my hand half on my gun before he spoke.
“Yes.” His voice was cold as a dead hobo, and his blue eyes went flat. “The lady has helped me. And now you will tell me why I am answering your questions.”
It wasn’t a request. I could see the slabs of muscle twitching a little under the tailored tweed suit he wore. But as far as I could tell, it was a righteous anger. I had dealt with a lot of criminals before, could read ‘em like comic books, and there wasn’t a twitch of guilt in him.

Flashback - Part Two (Pulp 09)

I got into town okay, and only missed Winchester once. I found a vacant spot on the street itself and slid into it, dropped a few coins in the meter and walked over to the Hotel. There weren't any rooms for rent, but they served a mean shot of whiskey. I ordered two and went over to where the Wide Man sat. He wasn't difficult to pick out from the crowd, sitting in a big bench seat and taking up most of it. He had blond hair and a puffy handlebar moustache that looked out of place under his bright blue eyes. The sketch of him had been black and white, and the shocking blue lent new strength to a face that looked sort of dissolute without it.
He looked up from his menu and smiled. It was a good smile, a movie-star smile, and I found myself feeling a bit more sympathetic than I had when I parked the car outside. However, I was a professional, and I pushed it aside as he began to speak in a deep bass voice.
"I am Devon Sinclair, and you must be my mystery caller from the Capitol. I must say, I was a bit surprised to get a call from a private detective, and despite your hints, I have no idea what you might have asked to meet me here for."

I searched his face, but there was no clue that he might be hiding anything from me. Either he was a top-notch poker player- something he was rather poor at from the accounts I had been given, or he didn't know anything about the murder at all.
"Mr- um, Sinclair," I said (I had almost called him 'Mr. Wide Man', and coughed to hide my slight flush) "I have to ask you where you were one month ago tonight, at approximately 6:00."
As I asked, I happened to look at the clock and saw that it was 5:52pm exactly. The sweep hand on the ornate grandfather clock had just hit the twelve when I finished the question.

The Wide Man looked thoughtful for a second. "I believe I would have been with Ms. St. Ives, at the Concord Inn, engaged in business of a rather... private sort."

I stared at him, and saw him register my astonishment before I could smooth my features again.
"I- I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair, but to admit to it, so baldly! I was unprepared for this. Do you have... a statement you wish to make about the murder?"

Flashback - Part One (Pulp 08)

It was a cold but sunny morning. The juxtaposition did nothing to ease my mind as I drove into Kentown. The heavy weight of the three guns I carried should have helped, but the queer ammunition in two of them made me nervous, and I didn't like being nervous. I liked being calm, and rational, and in the know, but silver bullets weirded me out, and I didn't like it.
I realized I was repeating myself in my head and made myself stop.

The briefing materials I had been sent were complete, down to a practically photograph quality sketch of the body on the floor, surrounded by a halo of blood. There were ancillary sketches of all of the people involved, which I had categorized in my head by nicknames: The Wide Man, Grandma, The Laughing Man, Knives, and Joe Cool were my primary suspects. There were others that would bear an interview or two, but they seemed to have the best motives.
The Wide Man topped my list. He had had an affair with the victim, which she had cut off abruptly and recently. He owed her money, and did not have a dime in his accounts to cover it. And finally, he had had mob connections in the past, and had a fair to middling rap sheet... but with no convictions.
Of the others, Knives was a convicted murderer now out on parole, Grandma was a confidence women and part-time psychic, Joe Cool was another ex-lover of the victim, and the Laughing Man had no information available about him whatsoever, except that he was on an Interpol watch list.

I had decided that the Wide Man was my first stop, and had called him from DC on my way in. He was to meet me at a bar on Second and Winchester, in a not-very-nice section of town. I had talked to a few people that knew Kentown, and they all said that the Hotel Marrones was a good place to talk without attracting attention or being overheard by nosy parkers.

I had brought the guns I had been given along with the briefing materials, but had decided to keep my own trusty Beretta in an in-the-pants holster instead of the fancy shoulder rig that I had been given to go with the new guns. I was comfortable with the Beretta, and didn't want some new trick messing me up if things got tough. And I had a feeling things might get tough...

A List of Truths (Pulp 07)

"I walked three blocks to the corner of Mercer Ave. and caught the bus to Kentown. While it rattled along I thought about the truth. I hadn't seen much of it in my life, like most people, and I was a bit wary of it. I thought about the various things I knew, and decided that there were three things I was pretty sure were 'the truth'.

"One: Someone, or -ones, had hired me to investigate a murder... a murder that had not yet happened when I was hired.
"Two: I had not killed Angela St. Ives, and neither had the Wide Man, because we were sitting in the same booth at the Hotel Marrones having lunch when it happened.
"Three: My death was desired by parties unknown. There had been 6, maybe 7 attempts so far; Once with a knife in an alley, twice by poison, twice by sabotage, once by a sniper's bullet, and then the shootout, which may or may not have been started in order to get me dead.

"In addition, I had some bits of information that were not necessarily the truth, but begged attention nonetheless. First, the fact that no one seemed to know who the person was that hired me, including myself. I had received an unmarked envelope containing the details of the case and a rather large amount of cold hard cash. The details were unerring, despite having already been in my possession at the time the murder occurred. Second, I had been given a second unmarked package with two finely-matched pistols and about 500 rounds of ammunition, the ammunition being made of fine, that is .999, silver. And as a side note to that, I had used my own gun when I showed up, and in a chase had fired two rounds into the dark figure I was pursuing, which had no apparent effect whatsoever. And finally, I was currently attempting to follow instructions written for me by a man IN a tarot card.

"So far that last seemed almost normal ..."

"It was time I started getting some answers, but since nobody was volunteering, and the session at Venga's was 50/50- It could mean something but I had no idea what -I decided to bring my mind back to the time when I had first shown up, before all the bad stuff had gone down..."

A Reading - Part Two (Pulp 06)

"'This is your past. It is the you that once was, the you that may never be again. It talks of your base nature and root causes.'
"The card she flipped was of a poncy-looking guy standing in front of a table with a cup or something on it, with one hand up and a sideways figure eight over his head. An infinity symbol, I realized.
"'This is the Magician. It speaks of taking action, of concentrating, and of experiencing power.' She looked at me a little funny and I gave her a half-grin.
"'Must be from when I was a cop,' I said, 'but the only power I remember experiencing was from the brass, kicking me out.'
"She didn't look real satisfied, but she flipped another card. This one looked like a queen from a normal deck of cards, except not split in half, and this one was carrying a sword and a pair of scales.
"'This is your present. It is the you that is here now, and it is the focus of your current actions. It talks of your predicament, but not of how to get out of it. This is Justice. It speaks of assuming responsibility, preparing for a decision, and understanding cause and effect.' She went on this time without pause, and I was just as happy. I knew these two, it was the next couple that I was interested in.
"'This is the first branch of your future, if events are not favorable to you. It is the likely outcome if you only react to the doings of those around you.'
I knew as soon as the card hit the table that it was a bad one. It had good old goat-legs satan on it, with two little demons at his feet and a pentagram above him.
"'This is the Devil. It speaks of experiencing bondage, staying in ignorance, and feeling hopeless.'
"Yeah, that was about right. Jail, I never find out what's going on, and I can't do anything about it. Sounded great. 'So what's my other option?' I said, and she flipped the last card.
"This is the second branch of your future, if events are favorable towards you. It is the possible outcome if you are proactive in solving your predicament.'
"It was a guy in armor in some kind of cart that looked like it was being pulled by sphinxes.
"'This is the Chariot. It speaks of achieving victory, using your will, and asserting yourself.'
"I pondered it for a second. It seemed to be an obvious choice. Let things slide and wind up in jail, or keep slogging and beat 'em all. But it was too pat. I didn't like things to be so cut-and-dried.
"And then the guy in the cart winked at me. I mean, the one on the 'Chariot' card, the little painted figure turned his head to the side a little and winked at me in a real exaggerated way, like someone in a bad play - or worse, a car commercial.
"I looked at Venga to see if she was paying attention, but she was lighting up a nasty smelling cheroot and was puffing furiously, head held high. I looked down again, and the guy was writing something on the side of the cart..."

"'TURN THE TRUTH AROUND, AND SEE HOW IT READS FROM THE OTHER SIDE' wrote the man on the Chariot card, in quickly drawn neat block letters, and then rubbed his elbow on it and the words disappeared. It looked for a second like he was going to speak, but then he froze into a normal painting again, and Madame Venga puffed a horrifically dense cloud of smoke at me. It was like being assaulted by a wet and somewhat diffuse angry cat that smelled of poorly burned cherry wood.
"I coughed once out of politeness and then stood up. 'I'll show myself out,' I said, and turned to the door.
"She never even bothered to say goodbye.

A Reading (Pulp 05)

"When I got to Madame Venga's, it was nearly one o'clock in the morning, but the lights were all on, and Bobby was standing out front, looking like a Mack truck someone had carelessly parked on the sidewalk. He was near on to eight feet tall, and the black trench coat he wore turned him into a solid squarish shape, with a head bobbing atop that looked small until you got close and realized it was probably bigger than your torso.
"He waved me in without even a courtesy frisk. That was a bad sign. It meant Venga had told him to expect me, and didn't think I was a threat. Which meant ... Sure enough, the Smiling Man was sitting in a corner of the 'foyer', grinning away at a newspaper that looked upside down until I realized it was in Chinese. Without looking up he pulled a small bright bead out of a pocket and flicked it with two fingers. It bounced off a bell hanging over the 'parlor' door that was at least twenty feet away, and made a bright cheerful noise that was out of place in the seedy-looking room.
"The door opened immediately and out came Grandma. Madame Venga was wearing a flower-print dress, an off-white sweater, and a lime green shawl, and looked about 70. I didn't trust it for a second. Her birth records (Claudia Louise Carroll - I had looked them up once out of curiosity) said she was more like 40, but she wanted people to think she was old and feeble. Today, however, her face didn't have the usual friendly Grandma look. She was wearing her Venga face, the one she wore when she was doing readings. The somber, intelligent, and a little crazy face.

"She took a long look at me and then just turned and walked back through the door, leaving it open behind her. I glanced over at the Smiling Man, but to all appearances he was absorbed in his paper. I wouldn't have been surprised if he couldn't read Chinese, and was just holding it there to look like he could. It would be typical of the man, as much as anything was.

"Finally I sighed and walked into the darkish room behind her. I had come here for answers after all, and just maybe I'd get some. And if she wasn't going to give them to me willingly, maybe I'd see if there was another option..."

"Madame Venga was already seated in her reading chair when I got into the room. The crystal ball and all the crap she put out for the tourists was gone, and only the solid grain table remained, with a deck of cards on top, so ancient the backs had mostly worn off. What you could still see was a weird-looking collection of circles tied together with lines that didn't mean anything to me.
"She pointed to the cards and I picked them up and started to shuffle. After a while I felt like I was about done and laid 'em back on the table. She looked at me then, and her eyes seemed to open up just a little wider, and I could see a little glint in them that almost reminded me of stars, just for a second. And then she took the top card and flipped it over.

A Quick Draw (Pulp 04)

"It was time to get some answers, and I had an idea where a few might be roosting. It was time to visit 8th Street, and Madame Venga's.
"Only I hadn't gotten more than a few feet from the office door before the girl in the uncomfortable heels grabbed me by the arm. My right arm. My gun arm.

"I spun around like I was doing a veronica and ducked my shoulder down to break her grip. I twisted my left hand and managed to drag the piece out of its shoulder holster and put it into a close approximation of the ready position, but then I stopped.
"She was looking at me with eyes the size of truck-stop pancakes, sheet-white and motionless as a garden gnome at rest. Then she broke and ran, kicking off the heels as she went and screaming like mad.

"Poor kid, probably wanted a light or something. Well, it was a lesson for her, to never grab someone like that. Why, she could've been killed! I switched hands with the piece and put it away, then rubbed my left wrist. That twist had pinched something, I thought, and as I walked away, for good this time, the building behind me belched smoke and flames as the fire finally found the cabinets of old film reels that the last tenant had left there when he was evicted.

"Guess I didn't have to worry about paying my back rent."

A Visit to the Office (Pulp 03)

"I tried to get all the pieces to fit together in my head, but it was no use. They just sat, unconnected, like strangers in a dim and smoky bar. There was the Wide Man, and his dark-haired female accomplice, sipping Scotch on the rocks at a mahogany table. There was Antonio Rosseli, and the shiny gleam of a knife as he sliced lemons behind the bar. There was the fraudulent Madame Venga of the Three Veils and her enormous manservant Bobby, who I had watched crush a heavy bar glass in one hand without suffering injury. There was the Smiling Man - Peter Lawrence Reading, who had more passports than a stripper had dollar bills on a good night, tossing peanuts into a glass from ten feet away and never missing. And sitting in his own secluded corner was the man from the dump, eating a bowl of rat stew.
"Finally, there was a huge mural painting of the gunfight this morning, and the nine bodies left behind, and the three that walked away, of which I was one. Somehow my image even managed to look confused as it walked towards the streetlight.

"I got up and walked out of the dump. There was nothing I was going to figure out here, and the smell was getting to me. Besides, the dump was near the docks, and I had a man to see about some fish...

"It was just after dark when I got back to my office, and there was a dame leaning against the wall outside in the rain, wearing trashy makeup and a black mini and tank-top. The heels looked uncomfortably tall for such a short girl, but it was none of my business.
"I went to unlock the door but found it was already open, and the smell of cigars was harsh and annoying. I checked the piece to make sure it was loaded and cocked it before I went inside.

"It was the Wide Man, and he wouldn't be sipping anything ever again. He had a hole in one temple the size of a dime, and it looked like the whole carnival had waltzed out the other. It wasn't pretty, but there was no matching circus debris on my wall. Apparently he had been carted in special, just to make a point. I walked over to the body and tugged at the big handlebar moustache: It didn't move - I had always wondered if it was a fake. Then I closed his remaining eye and said goodbye. I grabbed the whiskey out of my desk drawer and poured a hefty slug on the table for him, and as I left a tossed a match at the puddle. It lit with a whoosh and I walked out. There was nothing there that I needed anymore, and it was a fitting tribute for a man who had lived true to the old blood he was born to, in the land of the midnight sun.

"I would see what I could do to send him an escort, if I didn't die first..."

A New Friend? (Pulp 02)

"When I woke up there was warm July rain pooling up against my face. I was on the ground, and the smell of garbage was too damn close. I blearily opened one gummy eye and saw a huge hairy face right in front of it. I shot to my feet and drew my gun- ... well, I tried. I jerked a bit and then pain hit me like a hug from a chain-link fence. But it was enough to see that the rat was only a little bigger than a baseball as it scurried away.
On the other hand, I was glad I had woken up when I did.

"The smell of trash was everywhere. In fact, trash was everywhere. I realized after I managed to unstick my other eye that I was in a dump. And not the kind that your ex-wife turned your house into after the divorce, I mean the real thing. It smelled less than I thought, but almost more than I could stand.

"It wasn't until I wrestled myself into a sitting position that I saw the guy from before I passed out. He was sitting quietly under a raggedy piece of tarp, and there was a small pot bubbling in front of him with a light blue glow beneath it. It smelled like Sterno and heaven.

"He offered me some without speaking, and I nodded acceptance. If he wanted me dead he would have just strangled me when I was unconscious, no need for poison. Of course, after tasting it, I had to wonder. I suspected that rat was a major ingredient. It certainly smelled better than it tasted, but it was warm, and I needed to eat if I wanted to recover.

"The guy stayed quiet the whole time I was eating, just looking at me, no real expression on his face. It was a little wierd, to be honest. But I ate my way through the stew, and when he quietly offered me another bowl I took it and made it about halfway through.

And then, without a word, he handed me my gun and then walked away ..."

A Bad Day (Pulp 01)

"I inhaled deep, dragging the smoke into my lungs like it would somehow save me, but I knew there would be no redemption ... not this time.
The Thursday breeze blew up the road and ruffled my hair as it passed, whispering in my ear of things that could have been, and things that should never have happened, but I ignored it and kept on walking. Thinking about the past wasn't going to change a thing, and regrets just weren't my style.
I was having a hard time getting my right leg to move. It seemed like the new lead inserts weren't helping very much. I guess I should've gone to a doctor if I wanted surgery, instead of just getting shot a few times. At least I had stopped leaking blood into the street.
A thought struck me then, and I checked my piece, just to see. The cigarette was a little tough to juggle around, but I was used to it, and I got the clip out no problem. A big silver-coated bullet winked at me from the top, with a whole happy family below it, and I smiled. I might not be able to stop them from taking me out, but I at least wanted to get some of my own back, and I was glad to see that I had reloaded. The last few hours were a little blurry for me, but I knew the clip holsters on my belt were almost empty.
I stumbled a bit then, and I might have passed out briefly, because when I looked up from the ground there was a guy standing over me.
I tried to raise the gun but he almost casually slapped it out my hand. He was big, but he looked half and half Dumpster and derelict. His breath smelled like week-old gin, and he was haloed in the streetlamp far above me. The lamp kept getting farther and farther away and I decided it was time to take a nap.
What the hell, I figured he'd wake me up when the torture was about to start anyway, and until then I might as well get all the rest I could."

Meetings (Amrocar 6)

Aston was waiting outside for him. And the Knight Commander had said that Aston could introduce him to the Adept.
“Aston,” Joshua said, “can you tell me about the Adept? The Knight Commander said I might want to talk to him.”
Aston was nodding before he finished. “Yes, yes, the Adept can help you if anyone could. I should have thought of it myself.” He started to usher Joshua through the camp once more, and kept a stream of patter going as they walked. “The Adept is a master of many disciplines. He normally teaches at the university in Amrocar City, it’s lucky he was along for this trip. He doesn’t come out on these very often, you see. He’s really very powerful, and most of the time the Paladins don’t need someone with his, er, experience, to help them.”
Joshua nodded and looked interested, but inwardly his mind was seething with possibilities. Perhaps the Adept had come here to retrieve a demon? Those who sought knowledge were well-known to the lower world. Many of the demons who had been summoned had gone to serve such.
Aston kept talking blithely, unaware of Joshua’s thoughts. “I understand he did a viewing, and determined it would be a good idea for him to be here.” Aston’s voice held great respect on this point in particular, as if the Adept’s viewings were well-known to be accurate. “And, of course, we found the prisoners, and you as well. So I should have thought of him immediately when we found you.” At this Aston seemed truly sorry, and his face was so hang-dog that Joshua couldn’t resist speaking, despite the turmoil of his inner thoughts.
“No harm done, Aston. I didn’t suffer any ill effects, and I hardly see how the Adept could have taken better care of me than you have. Besides, the Knight Commander told me he had been in to look at me, so he was notified.”
Aston looked absurdly pleased by the compliment, and Joshua felt warmed that he could have made the poor man’s day. He really had done a good job, after all, and been very helpful.
Aston suddenly stopped short and said “Arestides’ tent.”
Joshua gazed at him blankly for a second and he blushed. “Um, the Adept’s tent, I mean. The Adept’s name is Arestides.” Aston twitched the tent flap aside and leaned his head in. After a brief exchange, he leaned back and waved Joshua forward. “He’s not busy, said to come right in. I’ll wait out here for you.”

The interior of the tent was a marked contrast to the organized neatness of the Knight Commander’s. Cases lay about in grand disarray, with vials both unmarked and marked covering several camp tables. There were cloths covering a suspicious lump in the corner that might have been a bed, and an odd contraption hung from the ceiling that appeared to be designed as a candle-holder, but instead had strips of paper hanging all over it.
Aside from the mess, the Adept sat on a small folding stool in an area of less disarray in the corner. He wore a sparkly purple coat that Joshua decided must be sequined. Lace poked out at the cuffs and collar, and perched on his head was a neatly brushed top hat. Below the knife-edge seam of his slightly longer than knee-length pants were high silk socks disappearing into oiled leather shoes. All in all, the effect seemed totally out of place in the room. The Adept himself, aside from his clothes, was middle-aged and handsome, and his smooth brown hair appeared to be pony-tailed back.
“Good morning, Joshua.”

Questions (Amrocar 5)

Joshua realized that they had reached their destination when he nearly ran into a tent post. He noticed that Aston was watching him solicitously.
“Is the sun too much? Don’t worry, we’ll get a shade of some kind for the return trip. Oh, I do hope the Adept lets us travel at night. Maybe we could rig a travois? Mm. Too uncomfortable. Well, the Knight Commander is inside, I’ll be back before you come out.” Aston scurried away before Joshua could reply.
Joshua thought quickly about what kinds of questions the Knight Commander might ask, and replies for each of them. For a moment he thought about avoiding this meeting entirely. After all, this was a Paladin he was going to see. Could his disguise hold up? But to run would only give him away for sure. Besides, he felt confidant enough in himself and his Summoner that he was actually looking forward to the challenge. Without questioning this odd feeling, he squared his shoulders and walked into the tent.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the comparative dimness within, even though the tent was well lit with lanterns hanging from each post. An older man sat at a camp table, writing in a neat hand what seemed to be columns of figures. After he had finished the entry he was on, he raised his head to look at Joshua. His eyes were a striking blue, and held steady on Joshua as he spoke.
“You’re the wanderer. My healer says you’re from Chalcydon?”
Joshua just nodded. The man’s presence was amazing. He seemed to fill the tent, and though he was a good foot shorter, he made Joshua feel small next to him.
“Well, then, do you need shelter for the trip back?”
“No, no shelter.” Joshua thought quickly. He didn’t want to seem like the sun wasn’t a problem, since ‘Chalcydonians’ obviously didn’t like it. “Perhaps a light cloak that would cover me but not be too hot?”
The Knight Commander nodded. “We can find something. Good. Now. Why are you here?” His eyes searched Joshua’s face, and Joshua resisted the urge to give anything away. He used his recently-prepared answer.
“I was captured by a small group of demons. They were trying to bring me back and interrogate me for information about Chalcydon. The demons didn’t seem to know much about my homeland,” (true enough, as Joshua knew) “so their questioning wasn’t very effective. I managed to slip away in the night.”
The Knight Commander snorted. “I’ll just bet you did. No, don’t get all in a huff, I know the tricks you folks can do with shadows.” Joshua wondered again what natives of Chalcydon were capable of. “Well, we’re leaving tomorrow morning. Talk to Aston about a mount and a cloak. You’ll ride with him.”
Joshua couldn’t conceal his surprise. Was this it? One simple question, the answer accepted immediately?
The Knight Commander saw his expression and laughed. “No, the vigilance of Amrocar is not as over-rated as you seem to think. I had you thoroughly examined by the Adept.” At this the commander had looked down to turn the next page and so missed Joshua’s flicker of fear and shock. When he looked back up Joshua was again controlled. “He gave you a clean bill. Human variant, basically good moral view, memories of torture.” The Knight Commander’s expression softened. “If you want someone to talk to, I suggest Aston, if you don’t mind him. Otherwise, talk to the Adept. Aston can introduce you. It must have been a tough time.”
“Th- Thank you, sir. I’ll think about it.” Joshua managed. Torture? Maybe his time in the sun?
“Do that. If you need anything else, let me know.” The Knight Commander returned to his work and Joshua started to leave the tent. “Oh, yes. We have some prisoners in the red tent, try and stay away from them.”
Suddenly interested, Joshua stopped in the opening. “Prisoners?”
“We caught a Haglarite trying to summon a demon at the pit. He had a girl with him that he insists is his apprentice, but we think she was supposed to be a sacrifice. She isn’t talking.”
This could be his Summoner, thought Joshua. He tried for casual. “Haglarite? Is that some sort of dead-walker, or will-adept?”
“One of the crazies from the Theocracy of Haglar. We don’t think he has any particular powers. Just the insanity of the power-hungry. But he could try to hurt someone, so we keep him chained up.” The Knight Commander looked at Joshua and misinterpreted his look of speculation. “Don’t worry, he’s guarded day and night, just in case he does have some ability. He won’t escape.”
“Um, excellent. I’m sure you have it well in hand. Well, I’ll see you later.” Joshua exited the tent with a cheery wave.
Well, this was a lucky turn of events. With his Summoner here! But Joshua stopped. Was this man, this Haglarite, really his Summoner? It sounded like he was merely insane, not powerful. Granted, insanity had a way of strengthening the will past normal human limits, but how could Joshua have been examined by ‘the Adept’ and remained disguised? He couldn’t believe that someone talented enough at his task to be called an Adept could be fooled by a madman. A thought struck him. Was it possible that the Adept himself was his Summoner?

History (Amrocar 4)

“Everything fit okay? Yes, yes, looks good.” The healer walked around him, looking at the way the clothes hung. “Excellent! We have few items that would fit someone as tall as you. I’m glad they worked out.”
Joshua realized that the people he saw going in and out of tents in the camp weren’t ducking the way he had. In fact, they had a comfortable space above them. Looking down at the Healer with new eyes, he had to readjust his age estimate up by almost a decade. He had unconsciously assumed that the healer was an adolescent, having only height to judge by, but in fact he had probably reached his full growth a number of years ago. Joshua overtopped the tallest man in camp by a good eight inches. He snorted mentally. Maybe it wouldn’t be as easy to fit in as he had first thought.
“We could go see the Knight-Commander now…?” The Healer left the words hanging as an invitation. It was the last thing Joshua wanted, but he guessed it would be seen as suspicious if he refused.
“Sure.”
“Great!” The healer seemed pleased, and Joshua felt warmed that it was so easy to make this fellow happy. Again he felt that the people in this camp, especially the healer, were friendly folks.
“I’m so glad you don’t mind, being out in the sun and all. It must be horrible for you, so hot and dry. And- Oh!” The healer stopped dead. He turned to Joshua and stuck out his hand. “My name’s Aston.”
Joshua looked at Aston’s hand for a second before cautiously taking it in his own. “My name is Joshua.” It surprised him again that he was possessed of a name, maybe one of the first in hundreds of years among his own kind.
Legend had it amongst the lower worlders that the first demons had had names. They had been powerful and fearsome creatures, considered near deities, and frequently worshipped as such by the credulous upper worlders. At that time, of course, there had been no Shining Nation of Amrocar. The lower worlders thought of it as the golden age of demonkind. But the old demons had grown greedy, and had asked for more and more from their upper world worshippers, until at last the upper world had risen in revolt. Led by legendary heroes, like Burak the Everbright, Lord Dalton, and Vendire Greystorming, and commanded by Prince Amrocar the Dawn, they fought back the demon hordes until at last they had forced them to the edge of the Pit. No mercy was shown to those of the lower world, and they were killed one by one until the remainder of the once proud demon army leapt into the unknown of the lower world. Barely one in a hundred survived, and that only because the same ripple effect that prevented a mass assault from the lower world to the upper spread the change barrier so wide that it crossed the fission layer below and the fusion layer above. The breach made it possible to survive the crossing, but made the time spent in the Barrier considerably longer. It saved demonkind from total destruction, but at the cost of their original forms and worse, their names.
The surviving heroes of what was later called the Demon Wars had continued to make their mark on the upper world. Prince Amrocar had formed a company of knights and built a military outpost near the Pit. He was joined by Burak and Sharburne the Second King, and the outpost eventually developed into the Shining City, and then the Shining Nation of Amrocar.
The six noble houses that followed Lord Dalton’s banner set up kingdoms in the central lands and lived out their lives in feudal bliss, marred only by the raids of Fygur Desert nomads to the north and poaching from the wily fen tribes to the southwest. Dannis Dalton himself built a grand castle on the top of Beheaded Mountain in the very center of the world, despite the advice of his councilors. When it was finished, (despite delays due to persistent ghost sightings and a constant stream of exorcisms performed by weary priests) it was a display of modern convenience, with flow-through jakes and ‘showers’ fueled by huge cisterns on the roof. However, the first night of Lord Dalton’s residence, he and the closest 199 people to him (by dead reckoning in distance, not emotion) were spectacularly rended apart by a chill wind that hurricaned through the royal quarters. The castle was abandoned and the new Lord Dalton (a nephew) built his city prudently far from the mountain.
Lord Dalton’s advisory council, disgusted with the whims of nobility, struck out on their own and settled across the inland sea, forming a small society where intelligence and research were valued over brawn and noble birth.
Lich Master Sebastien, first and greatest of the human dead-walkers, took his disciples and his army of the dead to the Pallidus Islands in the Great Western Sea, the free-willed dead on Greater Pallidus, those controlled left on Lesser Pallidus. The practice of dead-walking was immediately outlawed anywhere else.
Laric the Channel, healer and confidant of Prince Amrocar, tried to live in seclusion, but his ability to ease the suffering of others warped from disuse, and he began to draw strength from pain. He became Laric the Bloodletter, and he and his followers fought several wars against Dalton’s 7 Kingdoms before finally crossing the Inland Sea and settling far to the north.
Vendire Greystorming had disappeared, some said because of fatal wounds suffered at the pit, but others maintained she had gone to study her arts of self-discipline and mental prowess in secret.
Evan Blessing, Evan the People’s Vision, had dropped out of the Demon Wars early. In a large battle he had suddenly called on all his troops to march south, leaving Prince Amrocar and Burak the Everbright’s forces holding off a vastly superior demon army alone, with no reinforcements expected. Only the surprise arrival of Lich Master Sebastien (who had previously been neutral) and his undead army tipped the balance. The other heroes referred to Blessing as Evan the Traitor, and several times had tried to get Prince Amrocar to mount an expedition to bring him to justice, but the Dawn refused them. Evan formed his own nation, across Greenwater Moor from the 7 Kingdoms, and never gave an explanation for his actions. Eventually their descendants forgot, and trade was initiated between the nations.
Historians were in debate about the last of the Heroes that had survived. Some believed he shouldn’t be counted as a true ‘Hero’, because he participated in so little of the actual fighting. But demonkind knew better. The very first demons had been named before language was developed, and of them, only one had survived to the beginning of the Demon Wars. His name was Gaw, and He was as powerful as whole armies in His own right. He had masteries of lore that had disappeared centuries before, and it was very likely that His presence would have tipped the scales and won the war. But He was instead the first casualty. A single person, Maladuan of Tefiyar, Protector of Treehaven, and self-styled King of the Smiling Mountains, Maladuan the Base of the Pillar, met and destroyed Gaw in a week-long fight on Beheaded Mountain. The upper worlders were barely cognizant of his act, and no one really knew why or how it had been accomplished, but the lower worlders held a special hate for Maladuan and his descendants, and blamed him for their life of exile as much as they blamed Prince Amrocar.
And now, Joshua mused, a descendant of the demon lords of old walked the upper world, and he once again had a Name.

Awakening (Amrocar 3)

Again the dreams came to him. His master had decided that their residence was dirty, and He had been set to cleaning it, using only a small brush and rag. He knew that His master was growing more and more power-hungry and insane, but was unable to do anything about it. He tried once to tell a kindly looking stranger what was happening, how His master had committed several murders, but His master had seen Him talking to the poor man, and the stranger had been killed. He had been beaten severely after that, and His memories of the next few days were hazy from pain. He scrubbed at the wooden floor angrily, with tears in His eyes. It seemed there was nothing He could do.

Joshua awoke once more to the inside of a cool tent. He was wrapped in loose bandages, and he could feel some sort of cool salve against his skin. Even his hands and face were wrapped, and he immediately developed a desire to itch. With an effort he restrained himself. With the amount of damage he remembered suffering, his skin might very well flake off if he scratched at it. But soon the desire was overwhelming, and his hand twitched to his side and scraped along it as best it could despite his misgivings. But instead of the pain he expected, it was merely the satisfying relief of an itch well scratched. Gratified, he set himself to scratching, and in a few moments felt better. Finally he looked about the tent. There were no furnishings except the cot on which he lay and one chair, and nothing to indicate who had rescued him, or what their intentions were. At the very least they couldn’t very well have locked a tent, so he rose and went to the opening. Pulling the flap aside a little, he peered out through the slit onto a busy camp. There were people cooking over small fires, people cleaning weapons, and people eating and talking in small groups. They looked friendly, was his first impression. It was early morning, and it seemed that the camp was breaking its fast. At the sight Joshua’s stomach gave a loud rumble, and he felt hollow inside. He weighed his options in his mind for a minute, but the lack of any obvious restraints seemed to indicate that he was not a prisoner. When he carefully poked his head out the door, there wasn’t even a guard. Emboldened, he ducked his head to clear the low opening and stepped outside.
The camp was large, but not so large that he couldn’t see the outskirts from where he stood near the center. And stationed around the edges were men covered in shining metal plates. With the sun low, they were tolerable to look at, but Joshua could see how the man who had found him had been too bright to see. These, then, were the Paladins of Amrocar. But why hadn’t they killed or restrained him? Were they so confident of their abilities that they had no fear of him? Joshua shook his head ruefully. At this point, without his Summoner unlocking or explaining his powers, he was little threat to anyone.
His line of thought was interrupted by an excited voice. “Master! Master, you must not move around!” Joshua’s first thought was that his Summoner had somehow found him, but a glance soon dispelled that notion. The young man who appeared from around the corner of the tent was only too obviously a healer, wearing the rising sun insignia of Amrocar on his tunic. “Master, you must stay in bed until you have healed!" The healer hustled him back inside and onto the bed, not touching Joshua any more than he had to. Joshua allowed himself to be fussed over, not knowing how to stop this bundle of energy from plying his trade.
“Now, these dressings must be-“The healer stopped himself. He had begun to unwrap the dressing from Joshua’s right arm, and encountered the healthy pink skin beneath. “But, what is this?” He looked at Joshua in surprise. “You were badly burned last eve.” Suspicion grew in his eyes, and Joshua cursed himself for a fool. Of course his Summoner would make his new form heal quickly. But his sense of disaster was forestalled.
“Ha! You are from Chalcydon, yes? You have healed in the shadows of night!” The healer seemed quite pleased with himself for figuring this out. “I have heard about your folk, of course, but never seen one myself. I will so inform the Adept. Perhaps he will allow us to move at night from now on. Well, no worry, I shall fetch clothes for you from our stores.” With that he hustled out of the tent and off into the camp.
Joshua looked at himself with some consternation. He had never heard of Chalcydon, nor of anyone who could heal themselves in shadows. In fact, almost everything the young healer had just said was incomprehensible, excepting one thing. The healer was going to bring him clothes. He was obviously not a captive, and with clothes he could perhaps ask around and see if anyone knew what might have happened to his Summoner. He seemed to have the features to pass as a native of ‘Chalcydon’, wherever that was. It occurred to him that his Summoner must be a person of great subtlety and intelligence, to have made him blend in so well. But why had the Paladins not identified him as a demon? His Summoner must have somehow protected him from detection, but he was sure it wouldn’t stand up to a close inspection.
In a relatively short time the young healer returned with an armful of clothing. He laid it out on the chair and Joshua rose and went over to look at it. It was mostly dark brown and maroon fabrics, of a loose and flowing cut.
“We didn’t have all of this in black, of course, but I got as close as I could within our stores. I know your folk prefer loose clothes over tight, so these are the largest we have. You may need to wear a belt for the pants, so I brought one. Oh, and I brought you”; here he pulled a long curved knife out from where it had been clipped behind his back. “Ta-dah! A Chalcydonian longknife. One of the Paladins had bought it for his son, and he said you could have it.” At Joshua’s blank look he said quickly, “Oh, don’t worry, he’ll get another one. We trade with Chalcydon regularly.”
Joshua essayed a smile and the healer seemed relieved. “Don’t worry, I would never try to indebt a Chalcydonian to myself.” With that strange statement he left the tent and pulled the flaps closed behind him, fastening them with a simple thong to indicate the occupant did not want visitors.
Joshua quickly started pulling off his bandages. His skin was completely healed underneath, so he wiped off the remnants of salve with the bandages and donned the clothing provided. Unfamiliar to clothing in general, it took him a few minutes to figure out exactly what went where, but common sense and some quick peeks through the flaps of the tent showed him where he had gone wrong. What he had originally thought was a hat with holes for his ears must be worn under the other clothes, then.
After sorting himself out he clipped the longknife to his belt and walked back and forth for a bit, getting a feel for the new restrictions on his movement. The clothing wasn’t as much of a hindrance as he had feared, so he opened up the flaps and ducked outside. The Healer was waiting

Discoveries (Amrocar 2)

He shot into the air, out of the Fusion Layer and over the lip of the Pit. He spread his wings to brake himself, but found he had none. For a surprised second he seemed suspended in the air, but then he was falling, crashing into the ground with barely an attempt to catch himself. He smashed his head into something hard and lay dazed under a blue sky. He thought he must be making a terrible first impression on his Summoner, but couldn’t seem to get himself moving. He smelled lavender faintly on the breeze. He could do nothing but lay there, and as he did he heard voices.
“Hey! You! Get away from there!” There was a loud clanking of armor, and then, “You’ll come with me, then. We’re going to see the Captain about this!” The tone seemed malicious to him, and he tried to raise himself to help, for surely this was his Summoner being caught by the Paladins, but the effort was too much for him, and he passed out. His last thought was that he had never heard of an unconscious demon before, and he felt a sort of horrified embarrassment at being the first.

He had dreams for the first time in His long existence. He had become the slave of a more powerful demon somehow, and was forced to do demeaning tasks for His master’s amusement. He tried to fight once, but His master’s power was much greater, and He had no chance against him. He was beaten, badly, and never dared to fight back again. But there was always a core of resentment in Him. He found a pet once and cared for it, but His master found out and killed it in front of Him as a ‘lesson’. The core grew.

When Joshua came to, the sun was shining directly on his face. Opening them in reflex he was nearly blinded by the huge orb seemingly right over his head. It was very hot, and he realized it was only a few hours to dusk. The sun had finished its transit of the sky and was getting ready to make its descent through the Pit into the lower world. Joshua rolled over and got to his feet. Despite his confused and already-fading dreams, he felt rather good, his enforced slumber having given time for his body to stabilize in its new form. He took stock of his new body, trying to determine the abilities his Summoner had given him.
At first glance it was relatively unimpressive. Well-formed and male, with above-average musculature and skin density. No wings, horns, or spikes. Flexing his fingers produced no claws, and a quick feel of his teeth revealed them to be human normal. Neither could he find any poison-producing glands in his mouth. A cautious spit yielded only a wet spot on the dry baked ground, with no fire or sizzle of acid. With regret, he supposed he must have been given more subtle gifts, and would need the assistance of his Summoner to work them out. Or it was possible that his Summoner had locked them somehow, to only be unlocked in his presence. Somewhat comforted by that, Joshua looked at his surroundings for the first time.
Dry sun-baked plain stretched in all forward directions, turning to desert in the middle distance. As the sun came down it would heat this area up to the point where nothing could live for long. Looking at his nude body, Joshua realized that he was in trouble. Despite the uniform tan covering his body, he would burn badly without covering. For a moment he wondered whether his Summoner had given him resistance to fire, but the burn of the sun on his skin made it unlikely. He couldn’t count on it, and so had to flee like a normal human. Sighing, he trudged away from the Pit, regretting the loss of his wings more and more.
An hour later Joshua was starting to realize exactly how much trouble he was in. His skin burned from the unrelenting sun, he was parched and dry, and his head was beginning to ache. He had several times seen scuff marks in the ground that indicated he was following a large group of people, probably with horses. He assumed that this was the Paladins, and had been intentionally following them so that he could later free his Summoner, but at this point he would be almost relieved to be captured if they would just give him some water and shade from the sun. He thought that the heat was starting to affect his mind, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate well enough to tell. He wasn’t sure why he kept going, but there was something pushing him to continue. He was seeing shapes in the distance for nearly half an hour before he realized it.
He tried to jog towards them, but stumbled and nearly fell. His legs were too tired to move any faster than he was already. He kept plodding on, his skin feeling incandescent and his mind wandering. He kept thinking he was back in the change barrier and chanted his name softly as he walked. After a time he heard the same clanking of armor that he had heard back at the Pit and before him came a glowing figure, too bright to look at. He swayed to a stop, and the figure approached him. Joshua tried to raise a hand to block the glow, but the motion was too much, and he fell. The hot sand was a bruising and burning agony to his tortured body, and he passed out once more.

The Barrier (Amrocar 1)

From where He floated on the thousand degree air currents at the top of the lower world He could just see the edge of the upper world. It looked insignificant, not worth the trouble He and His kind had gone to to try and re-subjugate it. But as unbelievable as it might seem, for thousands of years the residents of the cold blue upper world had beaten back His kind. He had never gone personally, of course. Those who left never came back. Shimmering in the air between Him and the cliff edge of the Pit was the reason why. The distortion was the Change Barrier. Where the Fusion Layer above met the Fission Layer below, the interaction created a veil of widely varying entropy. Anything passing through it was sure to be affected in one way or another, and the longer an object or being was within, the more they changed. In addition, every time something passed through it the Barrier distended, growing thicker at the point of passage and for some distance around. So passing any kind of force through it intact was nearly impossible. The beings of the lower world were limited to sending in small groups one at a time and hoping that they would be able to assemble into a coherent army. However, roving patrols from Amrocar soon caught most of them.

Amrocar was the Shining Nation, a thorn in the side of the lower world since the Demon Wars. It was those warriors, the famed Paladins of Amrocar, which He had been watching this day. Reputedly knowing no fear, the Paladins came to throw the corpses of those they had vanquished into the Change Barrier, to dissolve in the Fission Layer below. Almost nothing could survive the downward trip. When heading upwards, the lower worlders were already resistant to the Fission Layer. They would be then changed in the Barrier and the changes made permanent in the Fusion Layer. On the downward trip, they would be further fused, and then Changed, then ripped apart, with little or no protection or malleability left. So going to the upper world was pretty much a one-way trip.

There were only two passages between the upper and lower worlds, even through the Barrier. The Pit was the easiest if you were looking to get to habitation, but had the problem of Amrocar’s Paladins. The Abyss, directly across the world, was surrounded by impassable mountains, impassable ocean, and almost impassable desert filled with insane nomads with sharp swords. And so the lower worlders were kept quiescent. In the past some of the upper worlders had come to the edge and made deals with those below, to give one or a few of the lower worlders aid in escaping the Paladins, in return for aid against their enemies. He had hoped to find one such, despite the improbability, but with Paladins around, there was no chance whatsoever. No mortal dead-walker or mindleech would dare a Paladin camp.

Even as He thought of leaving, however, He felt a pull from above. Startled, He stopped. What was this? A trick? But only those with great desire and will could call to the depths. Quickly He focused his own great will and sent back the thought of His presence. Communication through the barrier was affected as well, and it was best to keep things simple to avoid misunderstanding. He tried to convey a measure of his power with the message, but in effect it was merely a great mental shout.

“I AM HERE!” he thundered to the Barrier, and from somewhere above He was answered.

“come to me…” The voice seemed small, but He reminded Himself that the Barrier would be altering it, perhaps unfavorably.

“WHAT CAN YOU OFFER ME?” he cried, and there was silence for a minute. But the answer, when it came, stunned Him to His very core.

“you will be…joshua!”

He floated, unmoving, for long seconds as His mind tried to weigh the possibilities. A Name! He was being offered a true Name! It was a gift both weakening and empowering. Those with the capability to grant a name to one of the lower world, who had no Names of their own, gave the lower worlder an unparalleled ability to cross the barrier. A Name was like a touchstone upon which the lower worlder could draw to keep their form from being as badly affected by the passage. With a swift enough transit, there would be almost no warping at all! In addition, the Summoner could impart some of his own powers to the demon, in addition to the demon’s own. And sometimes the fusion of powers was considerably more powerful than either alone. The disadvantage was that the one who gave the Name to some extent set the form and personality of the one who would bear it. However, for the ever malleable lower-worlders, who were used to many different bodies and styles of thinking over the ages of their lives, this was little bar. He realized then that he had already accepted. In fact, His major concern was merely if He had enough time to make the crossing before His form became unsuited to flight, leaving Him to climb up the cliff face and thus spend too much time in the Barrier, to His detriment.

He felt the changes beginning inside him and He had not yet started moving. In a heartbeat He spread his great batwings and clapped them together beneath His suddenly hurtling form. Faster and faster He flew, until the very air compressed around Him like a second skin and a huge noise echoed behind Him. He no longer had the ability to change direction, but in this, speed was more important than finesse. In a second he had entered the Fission Layer, and He felt the burning of entropy, but then He was into the Change Barrier. For one horrible second everything in existence seemed to be inside him. He struggled to chant his Name, and everything seemed to recede slightly. Then he was through into the Fusion Layer, and He felt His body calcify, no longer the fluid and malleable form He was so used to, but instead becoming something new, something set. Something called Joshua.