Flashing Swords Press

Issue 4 saw the start of three closely-connected tales from the pen of Robert Richardson. It was weird, wild, and hugely inventive. I'd be sadder about bringing it to a close if the close weren't so darned satisfying. And it won't be the last we'll be seeing from Robert here or elsewhere. I asked Robert for a few words about himself and his work. He writes: My guiltiest pleasure as both a writer and a reader is going to other worlds. It's some ethereal combination of tone, mood, and setting that really fires my imagination (I know it's supposed to be character and plot... but for me it isn't). Thematic integrity, character motivation, plot logic, and prose style are all important factors in helping me believe in the world, but it's all in service of a whiff of someplace else.

That's why I write, and that's why I read Flashing Swords, too.

There's more about Jack Nimble's world that you can find here, at Robert's site, not to mention more about Robert's writing and links to an exciting, web-based fantasy comic penned by Robert.

--Howard Andrew Jones
The Dead God's Punishment
Robert Burke Richardson

The trip from his mid-height apartment to the broken sea level landscape of Gloom triggered shifts in Phillipé’s thought-patterns. He felt the everyday noise of his thoughts quiet with each level he descended and arrived at Melinda’s humble home at one with his innermost core. A once-beautiful terrace had crumbled into dust and green boulders, and for just a moment Phillipé thought he understood why Melinda chose to live amid such ruin.

Her lockless wooden door had been smashed in and large, expensive boot-prints marked the mud. Phillipé suppressed an urge to charge into the house. The tracks were old, and he would find no attackers within. And no Melinda. Whoever had done this had struck at his very core, and he promised himself that they would pay. Later. He had to find them first.

A woman scrounged in the dirt a little ways away and Phillipé approached her. She wore a coat that had belonged to Melinda, and Phillipé experienced a flash of rage as he wondered if the woman had taken it from Melinda’s broken home. She looked up, haggard eyes meeting his, and the rage dissipated. Melinda had given her the coat, of course.

“She’s gone,” said the woman, tears breaking and flowing down her dirty face. “Men took her. A few hours ago.”

Phillipé knelt in the dirt. He felt a pressure in his own eyes that signalled tears, but struggled against them. “Can you describe them? Did they have any identifiable marks?”

The woman thought about it, then pointed towards the remains of what had once been a long wall. “A smaller man waited by that wall. He didn’t know we saw him. He wore a robe with a picture on it.” She scratched three lines into the fine gravel with her stick. The first line was horizontal, the second and third jutting from it like horns. The symbol meant nothing to Phillipé.

“Thank you,” he said, and handed his change purse to the woman. “Please disseminate this.”

He stood. “Bring her back to us,” said the woman.

This time, Phillipé couldn’t keep the tears from his eyes. He turned away. “I will.” Concentrating to keep the symbol clear in his mind, he hurried off to find Jack.

#

Jack flipped the pages of the trade papers he had just purchased, reading while he walked back home. The fourth family’s troubles had resulted in a power vacuum, and it was expected that various cults -- always eager to be near the Anarchy -- would take the opportunity to expand.

Phillipé sat on the floor outside Jack’s apartment, in his Platypus costume. Jack saw that he had removed one glove, and held a knife in one hand. Dried blood crusted the edge.

There was no one else in the hall, but Jack addressed him by his professional name, just in case. “Platypus,” he said, helping his partner to his feet. “I think you’d better come inside.”

Phillipé wandered to the nearest chair and sat. Jack had never seen his friend like this before. “What happened?” he asked.

Phillipé held up his hand, and Jack saw that he had cut the symbol of one of the dead god cults into the back of his hand. “They took her,” he said, a tremble in his high-pitched voice.

“They took who?” Jack asked, gently slipping the knife from Phillipé’s hand. He looked deep into his partner’s eyes, hoping to steady him.

“Melinda.”

Jack stumbled backwards, the implications literally staggering him. If Melinda had been taken by this particular cult, it was all Jack's fault.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “We’ll get her back.” He needed to go -- to track down the cult’s whereabouts -- but he wasn’t sure he could leave Phillipé alone in his present state. “I’ll send Avasa here.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find out where Melinda is. And then we’re going to go get her.”

#

Jack found Umdread in his office, a spacious room crowded with books, maps, and folios of all shapes and sizes. A master thief in his day, Umdread had done much to legitimize the guild, and Jack was glad to see him spending his elder years thinking and reading. It was one of the ways Jack wanted to end up.

“Master,” Jack said when Umdread didn’t look up. The old man had three books open, reading a line or two from each one in turn.

Umdread looked up and grunted, annoyed at the interruption. “What do you know about allegory, Nimble?”

“Allegory?” Jack rubbed at his jaw, wondering how he could steer this potentially abstract conversation towards the likely headquarters of the Rathastra cult.

Umdread stuffed a bookmark into the largest of the books and closed it. “What separates the literal from the allegorical? And how does one traverse it?”

Jack pursed his lips. He had never considered anything like what Umdread described before. “I don’t know, sir.”

“A mingling of the known and unknown, perhaps,” the old man said. “The possible and the impossible.”

“Like the Anarchy?” Jack asked, intrigued.

Umdread nodded significantly. “But you didn’t come here to discuss such matters, did you my boy?”

“I need to know where to find Rathastra.”

“Rathastra,” snorted Umdread. “The dead god is dead. That’s why he’s called the dead god. Rathastra is a pretender.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack. “But he’s been able to take advantage of recent shifts in power to gain a stronger foothold. And he’s stolen an oracle.”

Umdread frowned. “An oracle, you say? And you would get him back?”

“I’d get her back, yes.”

Umdread reached out a hand, and Jack helped him to his feet. “Let me see what I can do,” said the Master, moving to one of his many bookshelves.

“What you were saying before,” Jack said. “Were you speaking specifically about the Anachy?”

Umdread turned confused eyes on him. “The Anarchy?”

“You seemed to be drawing a parallel between the Anarchy and allegory.”

“That’s a fascinating notion,” said Umdread. “Where did you come up with it?”

Jack sighed. Umdread’s focus wasn’t what it used to be, and Jack hoped his intrusion hadn’t cost the world a major philosophical breakthrough.

“You were looking for Rathastra’s lair,” he prompted.

“Right.” Umdread slid his fingers over dusty spines with great purpose, then slipped a large atlas off the shelf. “Here,” he said, flipping to a certain page. “They were stationed in the old quarter, last anyone knew. No reason to suspect they’ve moved on.”

Jack nodded. He knew the place the map indicated, though he had never been there before. “Thank you, sir.”

The old man’s eyes became lucid, and the hint of a smile played at his thin lips. “Your endowments to the guild have been... generous, to say the least. And I trust you will put the information to good use.”

Jack couldn’t suppress his smile. “Yes, sir.”

#

Painfully aware of its inadequate size, Jack led his party of three into the old quarter. This was the first Jengao, built right on the edge of the Anarchy, before the true dangers of that shifting realm became known, and quickly abandoned. Buildings of iron and stone jutted from the murky water that had flooded the entire area. Shar’s chubby face stared at them from a temple built in his image. The god’s reflection rippled in the water, a tranquil image that belied the danger Jack knew was to come.

“Is he going to be alright?” Avasa asked as Jack led them along the roof of an all-but-submerged building. Phillipé hadn’t said a word since Jack returned, and his mouth remained locked in a frown. His brow creased so markedly it could be seen through the fabric of his mask.

“I don’t know,” Jack said, swatting at a swarm of nearly microscopic flies. His voice seemed louder in this haunted place. “I’ve never seen him like this before,” he added quietly.

Avasa slipped on the wet fungus that grew over one side of the building, and Jack took her hand. “Be careful,” he said.

Avasa surveyed the sunken city. “How are we supposed to get around?”

“There’s a ferryman not far off.” Jack stopped for a moment, trying to find the right series of roofs to take them that far. “If we can reach him, he’ll take us where we want to go.”

“Oh,” said Avasa. “I see him.”

Jack discovered a path, but it would require leaping from a squat building onto a slime-covered dome. He knew he and Phillipé could make it, but wasn’t sure about Avasa. Maybe --

An ear-splitting call broke the silence, startling him, and for one terrifying moment Jack loomed out over the dark waters before scrambling for footing.

Avasa had yelled. “Hey ferryman!” she called again.

Jack glanced at Phillipé to be sure he hadn’t been similarly startled. The Platypus stood stock-still, arms crossed on his chest, glowering in the direction of the ferryman.

The sailor spent a few moments attending to whatever he had been doing before pushing his long boat towards them with a pole. At first Jack thought the ferryman had a white beard, but it soon became apparent that he’d been shaving.

“What can I do for you?” he asked as he glided over. A vest covered some of his bare chest, and the sun had burned his neck and arms. The messy collection of things in the boat suggested it doubled as the ferryman’s home.

“We’d like a ride,” said Avasa. “That is what you do, right?”

He smiled and made as if to bow, then thought better of letting go of his pole when the gondola bumped the building. “You’ll have to jump down.”

“We have rope,” said Jack.

“Don’t worry,” said the ferryman, his gaze fixed firmly on Avasa. “I’ll catch you.”

Jack jumped into the gondola and the man leapt backwards to avoid him, nearly falling over the side. Phillipé jumped into the prow, settling the boat with a wide stance.

Avasa jumped down and Jack caught her. “Off we go,” he said.

“Off we go to where?” asked the pilot, smiling affably. Grabbing a rag, he wiped the lather from his face. Patches of stubble marked his chin and jaw.

“We’re going to pay a visit to Rathastra,” said Jack.

The man’s annoying grin vanished. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“Look,” said Jack. “I’m sure there are clever things to say, and subtle negotiations to be had, but I’ve got five-thousand zaras, and I want you to shut-up and take us to Rathastra.”

“Shutting-up, sir,” said the ferryman. “Please be seated,” he said to Avasa.

Leaning into his pole, the man pushed off and the boat glided through the fetid water. It stunk, but not horribly so, and the flies were mostly of the near-microscopic variety.

Avasa glanced about, an appreciative expression on her face. It was a bit romantic, he supposed, gliding through the beautiful ruins. The scummy lagoon glittered green in the afternoon sun, but Jack kept imagining tentacles breaking the surface as some long-slumbering thing awoke. The still, stagnant water troubled him.

They came to a very large rectangular building with no front wall. The roof and sidewalls jutted from the water, forming a dark cave.

“I’ll have to insist on payment now,” said the ferryman. Jack produced the bag of coins and handed it to the man. “Also,” the sailor continued, “you won’t be able to bring weapons.”

Jack nodded and unbuckled his dagger. The sailor’s tone suggested that some kind of enchantment enforced the no weapons rule.

Avasa unbuckled her dagger, then slid a huge knife from a holster on her calf. Jack blinked, astonished at the size of it.

Grim expression never changing, Phillipé stood and began to divest himself of weapons. He came prepared for war, Jack thought, amazed at the number of knives the Platypus had been able to conceal in his costume.

The ferryman showed them a large cupboard he had built in the rafters of the building where they could store their weapons.

“We’ll retrieve them after,” Jack said as Phillipé stowed his armaments. The ferryman looked doubtful.

They sailed into darkness, but their guide lit torches set in brackets on the wall at regular intervals. The building had been a large temple with very high ceilings. Scripture in a language Jack didn’t recognize decorated the wall, and pious bronze heads peeked from the gloom.

The water rushed a little faster as the boat started down an incline. Humming and a soft red glow suffused the tunnel, and Avasa gripped Jack’s hand more tightly. A huge gem had been fastened to the ceiling, and Jack saw Avasa’s hair stand on end as they sailed under it.

The boat moved too quickly for any torches to be lit, so they sailed in darkness. Jack no longer heard the scrape of the pole against the side of the boat. They were gliding.

“What can we expect when we get there?” Jack asked.

“There are no guards as such,” said the ferryman, “but you won’t get far unescorted.”

Jack considered Avasa and poor Phillipé, divested of all his weapons. If they encountered great resistance, he’d simply surrender and look for opportunities later. He patted his chest pocket to confirm that the strange gem hadn’t affected his lock-picking supplies.

“No refunds of course,” came the ferryman’s voice, “but it’s not too late to turn back.”

“No.” Phillipé’s voice, strained and dry. Jack waited, but the Platypus said nothing else. A hot wind started blowing, and Jack became aware of a low, continuous roar in the background.

“What’s that smell?” he asked.

The gondola slowed as the water levelled off and a hand-held torch flickered to life. “Everwood,” said the ferryman. “It burns for decades with little maintenance. I wish I could get some for my torches.”

They drifted through a subterranean cavern. Jack saw clear water dripping from stalactites. He thought back to the building they had entered, and couldn’t figure out how they’d ended up underground. Avasa flashed him a puzzled look, then stared upwards, trying to divine their location.

The boat pushed onto a sandy shore, and the passengers disembarked. Jack realized the sand must have been imported, to allow boats to beach without breaking up on the rock. The ferryman nodded curtly, then pushed off with his pole, taking the boat in a new direction. Three caverns branched out ahead, distant firelight providing the only illumination, and it took a moment for Jack’s eyes to adjust.

A carved rock column stood to the side and three men stepped from behind it, drawing scimitars. Jack held up his hands as the first man approached, a gesture of surrender. The man yelled something in a strange language and pushed Jack onto the sand.

Another man grabbed Avasa and twisted her hands behind her back. The third pointed his sword at Phillipé, who stood impassively, watching.

Barking orders at the man holding Avasa, and gesturing for him to take her away, Jack’s attacker raised his scimitar for a killing blow. “Wait,” Jack said. “We give up.” He considered trying to get to his feet, but any sudden movement would surely result in swift reprisals from the blade. A smile came to the man’s face as he watched Jack come to the realization that there was no escape.

The man staggered back, blood gushing from his throat, and Jack followed the dark blur as Phillipé attacked the other man. Blocking the curved sword with a small metallic object, Phillipé flicked his wrist and a blade appeared, slicing through the second man’s throat. Phillipé had stolen the ferryman’s razor.

Jack scrambled to his feet to rescue Avasa, but her captor relinquished his hold on her and took off running down the central cavern.

“That was amazing,” Avasa panted.

Phillipé closed the razor, picked up a scimitar, and marched after the man.

Jack tossed the other scimitar to Avasa and took a last backwards glance at the carved pillar. A long-melted candle sat in an alcove, and deep knee prints marked the sand. Rathastra may not have had guards as such, but keeping armed men praying behind the pillar certainly helped secure the shore.

#

A man -- unarmed -- empty bucket in his hands. Phillipé passed him by.

Rushing feet. A female warrior zoomed around the bend, scimitar swinging. Phillipé ducked and forced his sword through her abdomen.

Her partner rounded the bend and shrieked his rage. Phillipé watched Jack twist the sword from the dying warrior’s limp fingers, square his feet, and fling it into the newcomer’s shoulder.

“Phillipé,” Jack said. “We can’t just go barging in. We need a plan.”

Phillipé ignored him and continued to walk.

“They’re rallying,” Jack said. “And you won’t be any good to Melinda when you’re dead.”

Phillipé stopped. They had reached the mouth of the cavern, but a man blocked the way. He stood silhouetted by flickering firelight, his sheer size and huge sword a deterrent to attack. Phillipé raised his blade.

The man’s first blow shook Phillipé’s arm, numbing it, but he raised it again. The man slashed sideways, wrenching the sword from Phillipé’s grasp -- but it was too late: Phillipé had lashed out with the razor. The man fell backwards, down a stone staircase and into the main chamber beyond.

The stench of everwood grew stronger, leaving a metallic taste in Phillipé’s mouth. Wooden beams held up a smoke-darkened ceiling. Steps on the far side lead to a large room with open wooden doorways. A massive fire raged within. Phillipé assumed that steal lined the inner portion of the room, and that a vent of some kind provided air.

His eyes moved to the bulk of Rathastra’s force, which clustered around a large, horned statue. Every person in the room was armed but one: Melinda. Phillipé’s heart lifted at the sight of her.

Melinda gave her captor a fierce kick in the groin and ran towards Phillipé. The mob surged after her, and Phillipé leapt down the staircase. Melinda fell against his chest, sobbing, and Phillipé wrapped his arms around her.

“We only want the oracle,” came Jack’s voice. He walked down the stairs at a leisurely pace, Avasa following with her sword.

Rathastra’s followers had stopped a few steps from Phillipé, apparently uncertain how to proceed. Peering at them over Melinda’s shoulder, Phillipé opened his palms to indicate a lack of weapons. He had tucked the razor into his belt.

“We need her,” said a smallish man with a white robe. “It is time for us to move beyond this place.”

“If that’s true,” said Jack, “you should be able to find an oracle willing to assist you.”

Phillipé admired Jack’s attempt, but he could see that Melinda’s captors would not be swayed. Nuzzling his nose into Melinda’s sweaty hair, Phillipé found that some of her fresh, natural scent remained, but that most of it had been obscured by the heavy smell of everwood. He glanced from the roaring fire to the dancing shadows cast by his aggressors, and was reminded of Jack’s story of the dead god’s puppet-show.

“I know where this is,” Avasa whispered, coming up behind him. “We’re below the Bathhouses. That’s why there’s such a large fire.”

The Bathhouses were near the old quarter. Phillipé stared at the wooden rafters, stalactites of cobweb and dust reaching down. From some unlikely crevice in the foundational rock and wood above, Phillipé caught a glimpse of the afternoon sun. If Avasa was right, an alleyway ran directly above them.

Phillipé looked from a charred support beam to Jack. The thief’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“Serving us is an honor,” said the little priest.

“No one else sees it that way,” Jack countered. “You’ll have a hard time on the surface if you proceed. Trust me.”

“Lies!” cried a man with a serrated sword. He lunged towards Jack and Phillipé tackled him, coming in under the blade. They fell against the beam, and Phillipé heard it crack. It bent, splinters extruding, but did not break completely through.

The mob had begun to surge forward but stopped now, concern stretching their faces. Phillipé had no way of knowing how things would turn out if he broke the beam. There was a very real chance that Melinda could be crushed by whatever he brought down on them.

Shadows surrounded him. He had to choose the sun.

Back and head leaning on the splintered beam, Phillipé's assailant locked eyes with him. “You haven’t got the guts,” the man sneered.

Phillipé allowed a smile to spread across his face. The man’s eyes went wide. Pitching forward, Phillipé smashed his forehead into his opponent’s, and the beam broke. Phillipé tumbled forward, stone and rock crashing down behind him.

He closed his eyes, remembering the sun on the ruins of the old quarter, and also in Gloom, where he had spent so many afternoons with Melinda. He opened his eyes to sunlight and settling dust. Helped, perhaps, by the mental images, Phillipé's eyes had adjusted.

Jack appeared on top of the small pile of rubble, then hoisted Melinda up. Phillipé helped Melinda down, embracing her once more. Only the space directly above the beam had caved in. With their eyes so thoroughly adjusted to the dark, none of Rathastra’s followers could see.

“Off we go,” said Jack, squinting as he and Avasa traversed the rubble.

Rather than head towards the shore where they would be cornered, Phillipé lead them in the opposite direction, hoping to find -- or create -- a way to the surface. He turned towards the staircase and his heart flip-flopped in his chest: the statue had moved.

Rathastra glowered at them. Red eyes peered from under long, blunt horns. Hairy fists clenched. The god stepped forward, cloven hooves clicking against the rock.

“I thought you said Rathastra was a fraud,” Phillipé whispered.

Jack shrugged. “Just because he’s a weird creature does not make him the dead god.”

“Maybe this isn’t the time to be having this conversation,” Avasa snapped. “He’s waiting.”

Jack stepped forward and knelt before the angry god. “We surrender to your grace. It was I who crippled the fourth family and allowed the cult of the Monkey Testicles to gain a foothold in Jengao. And I who convinced them it would be better for them to leave, opening up the opportunity for you to come to the surface.”

A sick feeling came to Phillipé’s stomach. Could Jack have masterminded all of this just to help Rathastra?

“Great Lord,” Jack continued. “I speak only as your humble servant, but I must inform you: you have no credibility in the outside world. Let us return the oracle to the surface. Show the community that you can be merciful as well as powerful.” He looked up, daring to meet Rathastra’s unfathomable eyes. “It’s time to send a message.”

Some of the cultists, Phillipé saw, had recovered enough to take up weapons and amassed behind them. In front of them, Rathastra raised a claw to his goatish beard, considering.

“We will return the oracle,” he said, his larynx structured in such a way that two voices spoke, one deep and booming, one high and broken. “But someone must pay for the damage caused here. And for the lives lost. The dead god is not to be trifled with: that is the message we shall send to the surface.”

Phillipé stepped forward. “I did the killing and caused the damage. I will pay.”

Jack stood and faced his partner. “It’s my fault, Phillipé,” he whispered. “It’s because of me that these freaks are on the move.” Phillipé shook his head. “Listen,” Jack continued. “You have to take care of Melinda. Get her to the surface.”

Avasa stepped forward and took Jack’s hand, searching his face for emotion. How could Phillipé allow them to sacrifice their love so he could be with Melinda?

“Go!” Jack yelled. He turned to Rathastra: “How do they get out of here?”

Rathastra gestured to the room with the fire, and Phillipé saw a maintenance ladder leading up to the Bathhouses. Avasa started up the ladder, followed by Melinda. Phillipé lingered at the bottom.

Jack had returned to his prostrate position on the floor. Rathastra stood over him in judgement.

“This is the message I am sending to my people: beware. You have wandered far from my decrees. And I sentence you, interloper, to a life of wandering.” He reached a long black talon to Jack’s forehead and scratched him once. “As in the days of old, I condemn you to walk the earth until the end of all things. Even the peace of death shall be denied you.”

Phillipé felt his knees go weak, and held the ladder for balance. It was a punishment far out of proportion to the crimes Jack had committed.

Eyes expressionless, the thief rose and walked slowly toward the ladder. His shoulders slumped. His feet seemed made of lead.

“Jack,” Phillipé whispered, throwing an arm around him. “I’m so sorry.” Jack remained stiff.

Phillipé turned back to the ladder. “Let’s get out of here.”

He climbed a few rungs, relieved to hear Jack following. Somehow, he would find a way to make things better. Maybe even undo Rathastra’s decree.

#

Halfway up the ladder Jack stopped, overcome by emotion. Twists and turns, he thought, reflecting on how it had all played out. He remembered the night he had first met Avasa. What do you hope to gain from this little caper? She had asked him. The usual, he had replied. Eternal life. World domination.

For a long moment, he hung in the firelight, unable to continue climbing. His emotions got the better of him, and he was glad that Phillipé had already climbed through the maintenance hatch, and couldn’t see his face.

He knew his wide smile said it all.

Eternal life accomplished, he thought. Next up: world domination.

END

Stand, Stand
Shall They Cry!

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