You get what you pay for. When comic book advertisements go bad. Part One.

 Hypno-Coin

It’s always tough fitting in at a new school, in a new social environment. But it can be even tougher when all the kids in your new class are just a bunch of withering shits that get off on others misery. My misery, to be precise. God how I hated them. Miss Perkle didn’t help either, she didn’t give a crap, all she cared about was banging the Head Teacher, after hours, in his big red car. Little Slut. But I was going to show them, and her, how it felt to be the one under the microscope. It was a rainy Saturday and I had nothing to do. I was flicking through my big-brothers comic books when I saw the advert for the Hypno-Coin on the back page. I didn’t know such miraculous items existed! I had to have it. I dug a wrinkled dollar bill from my savings piggy, carefully clipped out the order form, stuck it all in a self-addressed envelope and mailed it that very day. The next week was glacial. Each day an epoch, filled with boys pulling my braids, the other girls making fun of my braces, and my skirts, and my epilepsy. They were generally just being the bunch of pricks I had come to know and hate. By Friday morning I was beside myself and ready to run away, but when I got home that afternoon, and found a letter addressed to me, well, I suddenly felt a whole lot better. I spent the weekend learning how to use the coin, and by Sunday night I felt fairly confident on how to wield it. The cut on my hand (from the ritual prescribed by the book) still hurt like mad, but compared to the torment I felt on the inside, it was a breeze. Monday came. I managed to find Miss Perkle alone in her classroom on the third floor. She looked up over her gull winged glasses when I called her name. I coughed nervously and began to explain how I wished she would intervene more on my behalf when the other children stood around at laughed at me when I had one of my ‘episodes’. But the bitch just kept on chewing her gum, and flicking through the latest fashion magazine. I put my hand into my pocket and felt the Hypno-Coin lying there, heavier than it should be. It felt dry to my touch, flaky, like a thousand slewed snake skins, it wiggled gently under my fingers as I began to recite the words required to activate its powers. She looked up now, putting down her magazine, pushing her chair across the floor. There was a look of, what was it, fear? I couldn’t be sure, but the words were flowing now, like a river of poison, a litany of pure hate that filled her dainty fucking ears. She was wearing the earrings that I liked too, but it was too late for all of that now. The coin was in my hand, spinning, throwing strange beams of hypnotic light around the stark white classroom walls. The bitch was in my thrall at last. I was going to ask her to be nicer to me, cut me some slack, but the way she was standing there, with her arms limp at her sides, well, she looked just like a marionette that had had her strings cut. So, with that in mind, I made her dance. Up and down the classroom I made her go, banging into chairs and tables, making a huge mess. It was pure inspiration when I made her jab her eyes out with pencils. I laughed really hard at that one. Made me feel good, made me feel like I hadn’t felt in such a long time! Making her dive head first through the window brought our little show to an end, just in time as it turned out because the bell began to ring loudly snapping me from my fugue state. It looked like Miss Perkle had finally learned her lesson, and, as I watched the rest of my class file in to the room, it was high-time I taught them their lesson as well…

 Role Playing Game

“Roll the dice, roll the dice,” they chanted. I picked it up, blew on it for good luck, then unloaded the emerald green fate-sealer across the paper strewn table. Everyone held their breath waiting for the result. I leaned forward and told it like it was.

“Only a natural twenty you dumb, bastards,” I said. The room erupted with jubilation, elation, relief.

“Not so fast, not so fast,” said the new Dungeon Master. He was pissed. I’d potentially killed the Ettin.  “You still need to roll for damage. What you using?”

The choice was obvious.

“I’ll use my two-handed sword,” I said. What else would a skull-splittin’ barbarian of the Northern Wastes use?

Everyone nodded in agreement. Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells album rose to a fitting crescendo in the background.

I picked up another of the green dice and prayed for a high number, following the same procedure as before, but this time, I slowed it down for dramatic effect before throwing it.

Outside, it was a Friday night and most of the kids in our town were swimming in the mainstream. But in here it was buckets o’ blood, and bravery... with the promise of gold and treasure beyond compare.

 We were playing a pen and paper game called D&D, where the only limits, were those of your imagination. We had seen it advertised in the back of a comic book. It looked like a lot of fun, and it was. Dice and charts are used to determine whether or not you are successful in any particular action, like I was doing now: fighting a severely wounded two-headed Ettin who had been slowly and systematically emptying a village of its inhabitants.

The die rolled and ricocheted off a miniature dungeon wall, then came to rest at the feet of a Pringles can towering over assorted maps and figurines like a giant God of junk-food.

It was a twelve. The Ettin would be going down, soon.

“Hell yeah,” went the cry, and it was high-fives all around. I sat down and felt remarkably calm after everything we had just been through. I checked my watch, still several more hours to go before I would have to head home. I didn’t dare tell my Mom what I was up to, she just wouldn’t understand, and I didn’t have the energy to explain it to her either. Besides, she hated me playing D&D. She saw an expose on Fifteen Minutes once, on how it was a ‘gateway-game’ that lead you to Satanism and/or suicide. What bullshit. It had gotten such bad press lately, especially when all those kids disappeared in the steam-tunnels while playing it. The adults said they had been summoned to hell, by the devil himself. But we kids knew the truth: that they had actually all run away from their over-controlling and manipulating parents.

But I digress, we had an Ettin to slay. Mike the dwarf was up next.

“Come on, Mike. Finish the son-of-a-bitch off so we can loot his cave,” I said, smiling, thinking of all the treasure that lay ahead. I looked at the Dungeon Master. It was the first time we had played with him, we got his name from a friend of a friend. In fact, the friend, was one of the kids that had disappeared from the tunnels.

His face seemed to change somewhat, maybe it was the flickering of the candle, I wasn’t sure, but his skin had taken on an almost unmistakable, reptilian glow. And his voice had got deeper too, more, animal like.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. It was as if I was stuck to my chair. I wasn’t alone. I looked around the room, everyone else was struggling to get up. The Dungeon Master’s face had changed completely now. It was demonic. Eyes, pitch-black and emotionless. Teeth, pointed, wicked, and a tongue that danced maniacally in the air. It spoke, slowly. Dreadfully.

“So, Mike,” it said, “the Ettin swings around to hit you.” The demon rolled a dice. It flew over the table leaving a trail of sparks and smoke behind it. The numbers glowed red and fierce.

“It hits…” hissed the demon. He threw another dice. Mike was trying to scream but something was muffling his voice.

The demon bent over to examine the result. His head was bowed, with his twin horns clearly evident, arching outward from his skull.

“Max damage,” he snapped, looking up.

Mike’s head fucking exploded everywhere. I took the brunt of it. Bits-and-pieces of brain, blood, and bone slugged down my face, to fall on my character sheet. Tears filled my eyes, and I realised that whatever this was, it wasn’t a game anymore…

(True) Grit.

The donut was stale and the coffee was tepid at best, but Jimmy wasn’t there for the food, or the ambience, he was there for the money.

He sat with his back to the glass door of the diner, hunched down in his tattered overcoat sneaking sidelong looks at the old man behind the till counting out the days takings. He was arthritic and slow and it was beginning to get to Jimmy, especially when he began to sort through the assorted coins.

Jimmy sat at the end of a long counter, studded with salt and pepper shakers and the occasional bottle of sauce. The gun was in his right pocket; a silver 9mm bought from a ‘friend’ in a back alley about a thousand miles away from where he was now. Outside it was snowing but inside the diner he was sweating. He tried focusing on the white cup between his hands, swirling the oily dregs in a slopping circle. A scrim of snow framed the front window. The jukebox was playing ‘God Bless ye Merry Gentleman.’ Jimmy hated Christmas.

“Get you a refill, darling?” said a voice, breaking his strained concentration. It was harder than he thought, trying to look innocent. Small towns were all the same Jimmy had come to realise; security was always lax. You just walked in and made a withdrawal.

“No thank you,” he mumbled, looking up quickly at the face of the friendly waitress standing behind the counter. He gave her a token smile. The pink name badge said her name was Kathy. He looked down quickly hoping she hadn’t got a good look at his face because the last thing he wanted was her picking him out of a line-up.

“You all right? You look a little green around the gills,” Kathy asked the sweating man.

“I think I’ve got flu,” Jimmy said, grimacing, hoping this would make her go away.

“That’s a pity. Do you want some chicken soup, honey? The chef makes a mean one, guaranteed to take care of any sickness you got in your body,” Kathy said.

She looked as if she was in her late fifties, early sixties perhaps, with a full head of soft white hair that floated above her concerned face in a maternal cloud. He shook his head and told her he was fine. It would take a lot more than chicken soup to take care of the sickness that lived inside him.

“Suit yourself,” she said. Jimmy watched her as she ambled through a set of doors that led into the kitchen. He looked around; he was the only customer left, everyone else had slipped out the doors and into the snow. He checked his watch, five o’clock. If he wanted to be at the rendezvous by ten then he had better get a move on.

“Ok... show time...” he said, under his breath, hoping the Hollywood style one liner would give him the balls to proceed because he’d never done this before. Burglary, fraud, and dealing drugs, you name it; Jimmy had done it all. But armed robbery? No, that was not his cup of tea... he didn’t like guns, detested them actually. He had even hated fireworks when he was a kid. But desperate times they say, eh?

And boy was he desperate. He felt like he had been born desperate; doing whatever it took to earn money. He’d even sold Grit as a kid. He got the idea from the back of a comic book. In the advert, the boy (also called Jimmy) was making money enough to buy himself whatever he wanted. Jimmy decided then and there, that he wanted in on that, that he wanted a little piece of that action.

 So he stole the money needed to join from his Mom’s purse one Friday night, and two weeks later he was out proudly selling Grit. The problem was, was that no-one wanted to buy it. And when he did eventually get a postal order from the Head Office, it was for 20c. Twenty fucking cents. Jimmy felt like his head was about to explode. He kept at it though, and made the swift realisation that if he stole whatever he found at those premises where he knocked where no-one was home, well, he could sell that stuff on and make a lot more cash in half the time. And that’s what he did. But right now, it was time for Grit of another kind. He pulled out the gun and started shooting.

Things went wrong almost from the word go. And when they took his body to the morgue an hour later, the coroner couldn’t believe that it was Little Jimmy lying there, on the slab; Little Jimmy that used to go door-to-door selling… what was the name of that paper again?

 Grit? Wasn’t it?

Spam

He was different when he came home from the war. Thinner, both outside and in. And angrier too, man, he would fly off the handle at the littlest thing. I learned to live with it, we all did. We had to. He’d fought his war, now it was our turn. He was a butcher, my dad, and would bring home the choicest cuts of meat for Sunday lunch. We might not of have had much, but we never went hungry. It was Thursday. Mom would be out at her sewing club. Dad had cooked Meatloaf, again. But this time it wasn’t half bad. I asked him about and he pointed at the advert in the paper. Spam, it said, in lurid colour. The tag line was, ‘Life with Father is LOTS more fun since we found SPAM.’ And, if tonight was anything to go by, it was. I had never seen him happier. We laughed and joked like we didn’t have a care in the world. But I should have known better. I should of, but I didn’t. In fact, up until I found the earring in my ‘Spam’, life was as good as I could ever remember. But it went south rapidly after that, when I asked him where Mom was… and he pointed at the advert again, and said, in a dull, emotionless voice, that life with father is lots more fun, since we found Spam…

The Last Patrol

My new story of cold and camaraderie can be found here at the OSR Today site, for all the snowbound northern hemisphere readers.

A Glorious Death

The crowd bayed for blood as the two Oni fought one another ferociously. Batsu standing firm, his thick legs planted in the sand of the Ring of Fire. His opponent, BoBata, was staying just out of reach of a mighty bell that Batsu was swinging over his horned head.  The tolling of the bell was distracting BoBata, the great clanging noise it fashioned, as it swirled round, and round, and round, set his nerves on edge.

 It reflected the light of the bonfires and torches as it made its thundering rotations. It was a weapon of beauty thought BoBata, a weapon he desired for himself.

BoBata circled his opponent slowly, carefully. He switched his spike-studded club from hand to hand, to throw his opponent off balance; to keep him guessing, keep him on edge. Batsu lunged forward releasing the bell at BoBato’s head. He saw it coming and ducked out of its path, he heard the chain slither and rattle past his ear as he moved out of the way. But Batsu was far cleverer than that.

He followed up the very obvious attack with a swift kick to BoBata’s midriff, sending the younger of the two Oni flying. Dust rose into the air as BoBata came to a halt. He tried hard to catch his breath. That last kick had driven the wind from his lungs. Batsu, his opponent, was not waiting for him to get up; he towered over him, the rotating bell filling BoBata’s vision. The noise was deafening.

BoBata tried to roll out of the way, but he was tiring quickly and moving too slowly to escape. The bell connected, hard, sending a shockwave of pain through his skull. Black motes filled his vision. He groaned audibly. Batsu hearing this, pressed on. He kicked and stomped all over his foe’s muscular red body. But he too was tiring.

They had been at this for hours.

Two foes locked in a duel, a duel to the death. BoBata managed to roll away this time, as the bell landed where his head would have been; he knew that he would not have survived such a powerful blow. He staggered to his feet and lashed out with his club, striking Batsu on the back of the head. The spikes penetrated the thick folds of skin with ease, but stopped at his opponent’s tough skull. Blood sprayed from the deep puncture wounds landing on BoBata’s face. He licked the salty drops from his lips and smiled. He loved the taste of it; he craved its iron texture on his tongue.

Batsu was fading fast now. His breathing laboured, his arms tiring, his knees starting to buckle. It was time for one last attempt at victory he thought. Batsu dropped to his knees and grabbed a handful of sand. He spun quickly and threw it into BoBata’s eyes, blinding his enemy.

Batsu threw himself into the fray. The bell tolled louder and louder as he struck BoBata with several brutal blows. His heart swelled with pride as he saw how much damage his adversary was enduring and yet, how he failed to yield to the furious onslaught. BoBata was dimly aware of the audience howling for death and triumph.

To die in combat was an honour. Death at the hands of an enemy was a glorious thing, but he was not going to die today. Today death beckoned for someone other than him. BoBata went berserk, shrugging off numerous blows from his bell-wielding assailant. He closed quarters quickly, grabbing his enemy by the throat. He rained mighty blows down on his opponent’s face and head. He could feel his enemy start to weaken.

BoBata must end this quickly he realised. He did not have the strength to continue with this combat. He must kill his foe now, and end this bloody struggle. He struck Batsu across the eyes with his club, one of the rusting spikes wedging deep inside the eye socket, lodging itself in Batsu’s brain.

Batsu dropped to his knees, the fight leaving his once mighty frame. He was done for, he realised that now. He was going to die and yet, he had never felt happier, his training and administrations of his ward coming back to reward him, coming back to rip off his mortal coil.

The length of chain slid from his hands as the bell tumbled to the blood soaked sand as he collapsed on his back. He squinted up at BoBata standing over him. He felt the young Oni looping the cold links of the chain around his massive neck. He felt the blood swell in his head, his eyes bulging from his sockets. All communication was cut off now, he could not speak, the chain tightened around his neck and he knew it was over. A smile formed on his lips as the breath was squeezed from his lungs. He was dying! He was dying! He was...gone.

BoBata stood back from the body of the fallen Oni and howled into the night sky. His breathing was ragged and laboured, his massive heart beating hard in his chest. He felt a wave of savage delight at besting his opponent. He was proud that, he, BoBata, had felled the mighty Batsu; no one else but him.

He kneeled reverently before the body of his vanquished foe, watching the departed Oni’s soul waft its way upward, like a tendril of black smoke. He felt a sense of honour as it joined with his own. He perceived that his strength was far greater than before, the consumption of the dead Oni’s spirit, fuelling the potency and vigour that coursed through his mighty being. Even in death does an Oni live on. The souls of the fallen enemy, fuelling the vessels of the living...

He loosened the chain from around his dead opponent’s neck and raised high the bell. The throng of spectators chanted his name over and over again, as he swung it in a bloody arc around his head, spurring their shouts to even greater levels.  “BoBata, BoBata, Bo-Ba-Ta!” yelled his brother Oni in admiration of his skill at arms.

”BoBata!” he roared, as he exited the ring, leaving his dead father behind him, his body cooling in the dust.

Available at www.bushido-thegame.com

Bo and the Beast Part Five

V. Of Black Stones and Forgotten Buddhas. The Beast Comes. Courage and Rectitude. 

In the morning the sky was baleful; skittish clouds and orange thunderheads stacked up on the horizon. Kaidan and Bo stood at the smouldering remains of the inn. Charred beams, like tossed yarrow sticks, lay criss-crossed over one another, resembling the I-Ching’s symbol for loss. The cloying smell of burnt hair and flesh was everywhere.

“What happened here?” asked Bo.

A young man, part of a gathering crowd of onlookers, stepped forward and said,” The beast came again. It ripped the doors off the walls then slew all that it found inside... I think a lantern was knocked over. Had it not been for that rain storm, the entire town would have gone up in flames. I saw the whole thing from across the road.” The man pointed with his thumb over his shoulder.

“What do you see, Bo?” asked Kaidan.

“Death,” said Bo quietly, overturning a broken sword with his boot. There were several smoking corpses gathered around where the bar would have been. He wondered which one of them was the man with the top-knot.

The beast had done him one favour though, a much unanticipated one; it had taken care of his competition for him. Bo was now on his own, whether he liked it or not.

“And did you see the beast?” Bo asked the man.

He shook his head. “No, but I heard it... it, bellowed. Like a bull.”

 Kaidan stood leaning on his staff as Bo walked the muddy perimeter of the inn looking for something, anything to tell him more about the beast that had caused this destruction. He bent to pick up a blackened lantern and was rewarded by the sight of an unusual footprint beneath it.

“I think I have something here,” shouted Bo.

“What is it?”

“A footprint, and a big one at that; it’s clawed like a bear’s, but more angular towards the heel, human almost,” said Bo kneeling, examining the mark more closely. He was excited; at last he had something to work with. Bo carried the lantern absentmindedly as he followed the trail down the street and up the small path that passed by the smithy. The footprints went all the way up the hill through the standing stones, under the ancient tree, stopping beneath a large jagged stone twice Bo’s size that reminded him of a shark’s tooth. Bo ran his hand over the flaking black rock slick with dew. He felt a strange sensation; as if he were standing in a long corridor that whipsawed under his feet throwing him from side to side. He felt buffeted by a strong wind that blew through the imaginary passageway in his mind. The feeling he got was that it led to a dead place, a place of ancient dreams that were as dry and dusty as the scrolls housed in the Temple of Light. Bo wasn’t sure what it was, but it stopped the moment he let go of the damp stone. A crow sounded its disgust at being disturbed; he watched it take flight into the overcast sky. Off to one side, almost as an afterthought, was a statue of Lord Buddha that Bo hadn’t spotted from the road. It felt out of place amongst such primal imagery.

“The footprints stop at the largest stone Kaidan, what kind of place is this anyway?” asked Bo wiping his wet hand on his legs.

“An old one,” said Kaidan. “My master said it was an ancient site of human sacrifice and best left alone. But when the new Daimyo came, he began executing prisoners here. It’s an awful place,” said Kaidan quietly, the discomfort audible in his voice. Kaidan pulled his robes around him and shivered, as if he were standing in a cold, harsh, wind.

“I need another favour from you, brother Kaidan,” said Bo.

“Anything, Bo. What can I do?”

“I need you to go door to door and tell the people to light no light tonight, nor make no sound. I need us to be the only ones making a racket. When you’re done, meet me back here; there is much work to be done.” He watched the monk walk down the hill with his robes catching in the wind. Bo and Kaidan spent the remainder of the day preparing for the clash that lay ahead. When done, they retired to the temple an hour before sunset.

“Will you have something to eat, Bo?” asked Kaidan, standing over a steaming pot.

“No thank you, I fight better on an empty stomach,” said Bo as he rubbed lamp-black on his hands and face and sword blade. He wore an old lamentation robe over his armour; now more grey than black, but it would help Bo remain undetected in the dark. Kaidan was dressed the same, but with a Biwa strung over his back instead of a massive two-handed sword. When they had finished their preparations, the two men walked slowly through the darkened town toward the hill. Their thoughts focused on way lay ahead.

“No matter what happens, I want you to stay in the tree, Kaidan, don’t come down, understand? Play only until the beast arrives, then no more.”

“Fear not, brother, I will be as silent as the grave...sorry, that’s a poor choice of words,” said Kaidan laughing, and slapping Bo on his armoured back in apology, “I’ll be as silent as I can.”

The sell-sword laughed too. He had come to enjoy Kaidan’s companionship, which was strange for Bo who had always been a loner. They walked up the path that led to the hill where Bo planned for this to play out, and hopefully, if the Kami were kind, in his and Kaidan’s favour.

They skirted the gallows tree, under which Bo had placed their trap. He had laid the fisherman’s net out on the bald spot beneath the noose. It was here that hanging victims kicked the earth as they were pulled up by the rope, then left to hang in the tree until dead.  He had concealed the net with grass, fallen leaves, and piles of dirt. The net was attached to ballast, and the ropes wound around the thickest branches of the tree. All Bo had to do was to wait until the beast reached its centre, before releasing the weight. The net would close, and the monster would be pulled up into the tree. Once there, Bo and Kaidan could dispatch the beast safely from below. That was his plan anyway, but Bo was seasoned enough to know that every plan goes awry after first contact with the enemy.

 They had stuck thirteen torches into the ground between the standing stones. As Kaidan climbed the tree, using his Ki to sense the world around him, Bo sat in front of the forgotten statue of Buddha and offered up a prayer.

“Know that I am Bo, and tonight I seek to rid this village of what ails it. Hear my words and guide my blade to restore the balance to this place.” He bowed courteously to the unseen host of Buddhas both past and present then stood, and lit the torches one by one. The flames were pulled horizontally by the breeze. He sat in the shadows beside the path to the village, with his naked blade across his legs.  Behind him, the village was dark and silent. No sound carried on the wind, except for the creaking of the ancient tree before him. He shouted to Kaidan to begin his playing as the moon rose languidly over the horizon; not yet full, but Bo was glad for the extra light that it afforded.

 Kaidan played and sang; his voice strong and sure, belying how he felt inside. Before long, Bo felt the hairs on his neck rise. They were not alone. Bo knew that to see things in the dark, you mustn’t stare straight at it, but to its side, so he focused on a spot just left of the black standing stone, and saw the darkness shift and swirl and give birth to a creature more fearsome than he imagined. Kaidan, sensing the arrival of the creature, stopped playing. His last note hung in the air like the screeching of a rutting tom-cat.

Bo watched as the beast took shape, transforming shadow into flesh. It stood tall and wide, and carried a huge hammer with a wooden head that was the size of a cask of rice-wine, and banded with iron spikes that caught the glare from the torches and threw them back at the night.

The beast tilted its horned head backward and sniffed the air. It held its fearsome weapon at the ready and walked forward cautiously into the ring of stones.

 It was an Oni...

The Wizard Yozz and the War-Pigs of Power

Toward the final moments of the Battle of Beltane, the Wizard Yozz saw which way the blood was flowing and the wind was blowing, so he did what any craven of his kind would do... he fled.

He dragged a passing cavalryman from his horse, and made all haste to his tower so that he might take several of his most valuable possessions with him, before fleeing the inevitable retribution. He packed only the essentials, his notebooks (kept in such tiny handwriting you needed a scry glass to read them), his spell books, and several crates containing his life’s ambition.

 All of this was loaded onto a wagon by the remaining four members of his house staff (the others he had experimented on), who were in turn set on fire for their troubles; in fact, when the Lord of Storms finally made his way through the darkened wood, to the glade of the fell Wizard, the bodies of the unfortunate henchmen were still roasting and spitting on the doorstep giving off the most frightful aroma.

But alas for the Lord and his men, for they were too late, the Wizard Yozz was safely ensconced below decks on a smuggler vessel called the Cracked Tusk, making its way across the choppy waters to what is known as Eilean Dubh, but called the Black Isle by those who dwell there.

Shortly after dusk of the following day, the boat made landfall at the harbour town known as Tenkar’s Landing. Here, the Wizard slipped ashore as quietly, and as deadly, as the ship’s rats that had brought the plague with them, all those years before. He cast a dweomer on his appearance so that none of the Lord’s spies might recognise him, and proceeded to blend into the local populace.

And so it went, for at least six months, and during this time the Wizard did nothing more wizardly than light his pipe with his finger! In fact, he spent most of his time, deep in his cups at a flavourful and favourite local establishment, called Tenkar’s Tavern. Run by a particularly grumpy dwarf, also called Tenkar, the Wizard found solace amongst the riff-raff and ruffians that frequented that place. It was a good place to lose yourself Yozz decided, so that’s what he did.

But he longed to get back to his work... it gnawed at him day and night, haunted his dreams, and chased him vigorously no matter where he went. On the seventh month, having decided there was nothing for it, he began again.

No one noticed at first.

Especially not the genial inhabitants of the Landing, no, they were too busy living life to see the darkness that blossomed among them. It was the children that disappeared first, the unloved, the orphans, the by-blows no one wanted. Then it was the sick and the elderly that went next. It was only a few weeks later when suspicions were aroused, and the local constabulary raided his dwelling. In the basement they found terrible things, unspeakable things, and it is not for me to tell you what it was exactly... but know only that it was unholy and defied the very gods themselves. But again, whatever foul deity the Wizard served must have been smiling down on him, as he was well beyond the Landing’s limits as armoured dwarves were kicking in his doors.

He journeyed for days, weeks, months, through hill and vale stopping only to eat, and gather more specimens. It was nearly another six-month later that he found himself at the heart of a foul and pestilent swamp just a few miles from a sheltered cove on the south-west side of the isle. It was perfect for his needs. Six miles at least, in any direction from anything even remotely resembling a town, here he could do what he wanted and no one would be any the wiser. The only problem was the lack of human subjects, but again the dark lord’s blessing fell into his lap, and he was gifted by a multitude of escaped pigs gone feral , called Razorbacks by the few locals.

Here he bred them, and attached them, and morphed them, and sewed them together with whatever else he could get his hands on...and eventually, after many years of foul sorceries and wyrd energies, he had finally created what he deemed worthy of his attentions...the War-Pigs.

Taller than any man, and nearly ten times as strong, these giant, walking Razorbacks, are now his personal army, and trained to carry out his commands without question. An unhealthy amalgamation of both man, and Razorback, they walk on human legs with pig’s feet at the end of them, and use their human arms to swing whatever weapons they have been given. Their heads and faces are those of the pig, but with tusks like a wild boar, and they possess the keenest sense of smell that allows them to sniff out their foes, be they hidden by shadow or sorcery.

Trained in armed combat from birth, they are fierce warriors and now number in their thousands. Tired of living in the backwaters of the  Black Isle, the Wizard has decided to march them north to Tenkar’s Landing to settle old scores, then commandeer a vessel for another assault on the mainland. Only time will tell what happens, but if the Wizard’s past is anything to go by, you can be assured that this time, fortune might just indeed favour the insane...

I interrupt your regular viewing to bring you, 'Barleycorn'.

“Barleycorn”

Rain rippled the surface of the fish pond as Hiro stood looking out into the gathering storm. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, its iron clanging filled him with apprehension. There was a black sky over Eddo, huge storm clouds boiled above the harbour city. The cold, biting wind bent the trees violently in its path. The storm was an omen, he thought, and not an auspicious one either.

 He was leaving in the morning, parting from his wife and child. For how long he did not know. Until the job is done he had whispered to her earlier. She had said that she understood, but he could see by her red-rimmed eyes that she did not. She would not say it though, not on the eve of his departure. She knew how much it would unsettle him, and divert his focus from where it had to be. He should be concentrating on his men so that they may return safely to their loved ones, just as she hoped Hiro to return to his.

 The nights when he was away were long. Dark thoughts assailed her mind, making her fear the worst. Caring for their boy relieved some of the angst that she felt, but even he was now of an age to question his father’s long periods of absence. His queries made her realise he was growing up faster than she would have liked. Before long he, too, would be in service to the Prefecture. Just like his father, and his father’s father.

Hiro heard his wife approaching and turned to face her. They felt as melancholy as the weather but refused to show it. They had to be strong for one another, and strong collectively for their child. Hiro loved his wife and child deeply. They made him a better man and a finer officer, he believed.

She slipped into his arms and they held each other tightly. The storm raged all around them but they were oblivious to its power. Locked in a loving embrace, it felt as if time had slowed, and they were the last two people in the Isles. There was so much they wanted to say, but didn’t. They had been married long enough to know exactly how the other felt.

“Come inside,” she said, “It’s getting cold out here, and your son wants to talk to you before he goes to sleep.”

Hiro let himself be led by the hand into the warmth of the house, proud that he had such an understanding wife and loving child. Honour was not always found on the battlefield, he realised; it is found in the words and actions of your loved ones on the eve of conflict.

^

“But weren’t you scared?” his son asked, wide-eyed and curious.

“Scared? Well of course I was scared,” said Hiro.” I had never been so scared in all my life. I was shaking so much, my armour was rattling!”

The boy stifled a grin despite the seriousness of the topic. It made Hiro smile. The wonderment of children is a powerful thing, he realised. He tousled the hair on his son’s head and smiled. Hiro’s heart felt as light and free as one of his boy’s paper kites. But then, the familiar knot of fear sat in his gut like a millstone. He did his best to mask his mixed emotions, to smile, even if it felt strained upon his face. He would not scare the boy. He was relieved when his wife broke the tension he was feeling.

 “Hiro, it’s time he was asleep,” she said. “Five more minutes,” he replied.

“So what did you do?” asked the boy, now very much awake.

“I did what any good soldier would do,” he told him. “I fought harder, and with honour. What more is there?”

Hiro would not elaborate; the boy was too young for that. He didn’t feel comfortable telling him how it felt to go to war for your first time. One day he would find that out for himself. All Hiro could do was make sure he was prepared, just as Hiro’s father had done for him. Hiro, sitting now on his son’s bed, admitted to himself just how scared he had felt when faced with death at the hands of a soldier just like himself.

He remembered that day as if it were yesterday, the day that he first killed a man. He could recall the tiniest details. Insignificant maybe, but to him they were important. He could evoke the odour of the horses they rode, the smell of the dust rising from the road, the relentless sun beating down on them, and how relieved they were when night came and they were allowed to dismount and make camp. He remembered the hum-drum routine, rubbing down the mounts and feeding them, hobbling the horses in a picket line in the middle of the camp, pitching tents and stowing gear, before standing guard on the perimeter. Hiro remembered all of it very clearly; he also remembered the enemy attack in the quiet hours before the dawn.

He recalled the hiss of flaming arrows that streaked and sparked over their heads, setting the tents ablaze and scattering the horses.  Hiro recalled how they had charged up the gentle slope into the forest, and how the Shiho clan had advanced to receive them. He could smell the burning hair and skin of the man next to him who had taken a fire arrow in the face. He was about to turn and help his compatriot when he spotted an enemy soldier closing quickly upon him.

He wheeled to face his foe; sword held high with his master sergeant’s training mantra in his head. First your stance, then you stab, keep moving at all times, keep your opponent guessing where the next blow is coming from. Be like water, flow around your enemy and envelop him completely.

And that’s exactly what Hiro did.

He positioned himself to accept the charge. The enemy swung recklessly at his helmet and Hiro countered easily, blocking the downward trajectory of the attacker’s blade. A small shower of sparks erupted as their swords connected. Hiro moved to his opponent’s left and swung without thinking, letting the years of practice take control. The sergeant’s voice coming again from down the years: You kill not with the sword, but with your mind. Your weapon is merely an extension of your will; remember that and you may live, forget that and you will surely die.

In some curious twist of light and shade, his enemy reminded Hiro of a boy from his childhood. Hiro could see that the warrior felt as unsure as he did: nervous, uncertain, and riddled with fear. The fight was not pretty, that’s for sure. It was like the panicked flailing of a drowning man when he realises how far out he is, and just how very deep the water is. His chance of survival diminishing with every wave that smashes over him.

The two combatants were oblivious to the skirmishes that were taking place around them in the light of the burning soldier, the only thing that mattered to Hiro was that he live, never had he craved something so badly. It is one thing to wield a weapon in training, striking at wooden marshalling posts and straw dummies with grace and ease and perfection; but when you are face to face with a living breathing opponent and one small blunder will cost you your life, well, that is another beast entirely.

And so they circled one another, striking and smashing when they could, blocking and dodging when they could not, their armour soaking up numerous blows. Yet neither one of them was able to land that decisive strike, the killing blow. Hiro remembered how weary he felt, and how his flaws were being mirrored by his opponent. And then finally a stroke of luck; the Shiho warrior, stumbled over an exposed tree root, and Hiro brought his sword down into his opponent’s un-armoured neck. Blood shot up into the dark as the soldier collapsed to his knees and fell onto his back. Hiro felt no victory in this. In fact he felt like he was going to vomit. He looked around him to see if any enemy was near. He was alone; the attackers had been overwhelmed by the soldiers of the Ryu.

He dropped his bloody blade on the ground and knelt reverently beside his fallen enemy. Hiro felt almost ashamed that he had done this to another human being. He did not hate this man; he did not even know him. Hiro felt nothing but revulsion for what he had done.

He realised that it could have easily been him laying there, his life’s blood pumping out into the forest floor to soak the roots of the trees.

He took the soldier’s helmet off and made him as comfortable as he could. The young man’s face was pale and splattered with gore; eyes wild and searching and filled with fear. Hiro took his hand and held it firmly, squeezing it to show the dying man that he would not have to die alone in a place so very far from his home. There was a sense of relief now in the young man’s eyes, and he squeezed back just as hard. There they were, two soldiers locked in the brotherly embrace of honour and duty, one the victor, sitting death watch on his fallen rival.

Hiro had cried silently when he saw the keep-sake around the man’s wrist. It was a little figure woven from barleycorn, obviously made by a child. That was the turning point for Hiro; he sobbed uncontrollably when he realised that he had killed not just a man, a soldier, an enemy, but a father. His tears dripped from his cheeks to mix with the blood of the dead soldier. Hiro looked at the face. He would remember it forever; it was seared into his brain now, and he would never forget that evening.

He let go of the hand and folded the dead man’s arms over his chest then reached out and closed the man’s eyes. He said a prayer for the soul of the departed while he slid the barleycorn memento from the man’s wrist onto his own. He would wear it to remind him that no life should be taken lightly. It should be a last resort only. Such is the way of Bushido.

He stood and dried his eyes. He picked up his bloodied blade with trembling hands and cleaned it absentmindedly then returned to the smouldering remains of the camp.

 Life is made up of firsts: Your first love, your first command, your first day of being man and wife, the birth of your first child. All these are beautiful and poignant and make us human. But as a man it is your first kill you remember the clearest, and that is what makes us warriors, Hiro thought. Or did it really? Did it not just drive the light of humanity further away in to the dark of endless cruelty and brutality? Did it not just kill all that was good inside you?

 But that was the sacrifice you made in order to bring calm to the isles of Jwar, Hiro had come to understand.

Hiro realised that he had been staring out into the garden; he looked at his son and saw that he was asleep. He smiled to himself again and lent forward to kiss him on the cheeks.

 “I will be home soon son. That I promise,” he whispered to the sleeping boy. In the morning he went to war.

Bo and the Beast Part Four.

IV. The Standing Stones of the Hangman’s Hill. The Temple under the Trees.

Outside, the heat of the day waned as purple shadows bloomed and pooled together at the base of the buildings. The town looked slovenly and run down, as if no one took pride of ownership anymore. Maybe, because of all the extra taxes, there was simply not enough coin to go around; hard times, made even harder by the beast that stalked them, Bo thought.

 He passed several derelict dwellings on his way to the temple; whether the owners had been killed, or simply left Waterfall for somewhere safer, Bo had no way of knowing. Their doors and walls were daubed with wards of superstitious protection. On his right was a blacksmith’s stall, the smith was head down and hammering on a piece of steel; his arms bulging with every blow. Sparks flew like fireflies as he pumped the wheezing bellows with his foot. The sound of metal on metal echoed off the emptiness of the street spinning the noise upward to a fading sky. A small path, between the smithy and a closed feed store, led toward a low hill. 

On top of the mound was a ring of broken stones that stood in stark silhouette against the rising dark, and in the centre of this, an old tree, hunched forward and naked with age. A noose, hanging from the stoutest branch, spun in the evening breeze. It looked eerily similar to the kanji for ill-omen thought Bo; with the thin black line of the hangman’s noose at its centre. Bo continued to the temple.

At the end of the road was a small copse of trees, and beyond that, the Daimyo’s residence. It shone and sparkled in the setting sun, radiating wealth and opulence; the opposite of everything Bo had seen so far. Freshly lit torches flared and spluttered while archers patrolled its crenellated walls. There were groups of heavily armed men camped outside its stout, wooden gates. Flags, bearing the sigil of the Shiho Clan, snapped in the light wind.  Lord Black Heart’s taking no chances, thought Bo, sarcastically. He shook his head at the thought of a mujina pretending to be their Daimyo.

He felt the temperature drop as he walked under the trees and up the path to the temple. Night rose like the closing of a giant eye as the lights from the sanctuary sparkled through the foliage. He passed under the gaze of somnolent stone Buddhas that lined both sides of the paved pathway. They were stained with age and their cheeks stubbled by verdant moss. A large pond, filled with turtles of all sizes, stood in a courtyard at the bottom of steps that led up to the temple. Two fu-dogs of polished white marble sat on either side of the steps, standing guard against the terrors of the night. He patted their heads for good luck.

Bo heard chanting from within. He mounted steps worn smooth by countless visitors, stopping just outside the door in respect. Inside the temple, candles and incense burned from every available surface. The roof beams were blackened by years of smoke from the burning braziers. A pantheon of carved wooden gods pressed tightly together inside the confines of the humble temple. They swelled then diminished in the wavering candlelight; their judgemental gaze focused intently at the altar in the middle of the room.  A robed monk sat in the lotus position before an intricately carved butsudan; its opened doors revealed a Gohonzon with the words, Nam Myoho Renge Kyo written down the centre in kanji form. It was these very words that the monk was reciting over, and over again, as he performed his evening prayers. To Bo, the recitation sounded like the buzzing of bees. The monk reached for a small wooden stick, then struck a bowl-shaped bell seven times. His prayers over, he stood and turned to face his visitor.

“Hai, who comes?” asked the monk. “I can hear your breathing.”

The monk was at least a head taller than Bo. His receding hair framed a large forehead and a sharp nose. Bo could see at once that he was blind.

“My name is Bo, and I have come to make an offering,” said Bo bowing to the sightless monk.

“That is very kind Bo,” said the monk. “I will gladly accept it. Lately, donations are all but forgotten.”

Bo pressed coins into the monk’s hand.

“That is very generous brother, thank you. Come sit and tell me about yourself. I so seldom receive visitors these days.”

“You’d think that in times like these, people would be coming here in droves,” said Bo, sitting on a woven mat in front of the butsudan.

“Not the case I’m afraid. They tend to pull within themselves, as the tortoise does when under attack,” said the monk sitting beside him. “My name is Kaidan,” he added. “But where are my manners, brother? Can I perhaps make you some tea? I have a delightful blend that I grow myself; just the thing to raise your spirits after a long day on the road. I take it you’ve come far?”

“Very far. I followed the coast road all the way up from the Hanging Lands turning inland at Lover’s Point.”

“That is far,” said Kaidan nodding his head in agreement,” Let me get a fire going for the tea,” he said, about to stand up.

Bo placed his hand on the monk’s knee and said, “Never mind, I’ve brought some refreshment of my own. Would you care to try some?” Bo pulled out the bottle from the inn, uncorked it, and guided it carefully between the monk’s outstretched hands. The monk took the bottle and passed it under his nose, his nostrils flared as he took a deep sniff. Kaidan took a deep pull from the bottle.

“Ho, but it’s strong,” said Kaidan spluttering,” and it’s been a while since I had someone to share a drink with.”

“I’m glad I could be of service, but I have a favour to ask.”

“After your generosity, how could I refuse?”

“I need a place to stay for the night. The inn is full and I have nowhere to sleep.”

“By all means, you are most welcome here. Come, let me lock the doors and we can retire to my quarters. I have a spare mat for you.”

“Thank you,” said Bo as they stood. The monk closed the wooden doors and bolted them.

“Come this way, brother,” said the monk who navigated the confines of the temple as if he were sighted. He led Bo behind the wall of the altar and down a passageway that ended in a simple stone room which served as both kitchen and bedroom. The monk busied himself with their supper as Bo unpacked his belongings and replaced his armour with a faded robe. He had taken the armour from his father’s corpse. That, and the sword, was the only keepsakes Bo had of him. The rest was nought but ash and memories. He took a whetstone to Nigashi even though it hadn’t been used in weeks. The edge of his blade shone in the candlelight as Bo worked the stone rhythmically over the cold steel. Monks pray thought Bo; I care for my sword. It helped to clear the clutter in his mind. Once the meal was cooked, and Bo had finished sharpening his weapon, both men sat on the floor slurping their noodles, passing the bottle back and forth.

“This is delicious,” said Bo,” thank you.”

“I pick the mushrooms near the waterfall.”

“Ah yes, I was beginning to think there wasn’t one,” said Bo, “Is it close by?”

“About a league south of here; it’s truly impressive, or so I’m told. I can take you there in the morning if you like.”

“Thank you, but tomorrow I plan to kill the beast. Maybe after, when I’m done. It might do a lot to better my impressions of this place.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“It feels like there is something amiss with the town, apart from the obvious, that is. It’s as if it’s under a pall of some sort.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Kaidan shaking his head sadly.

“And what do you know of the beast?” asked Bo, getting to the heart of the matter.

“As much as the next person; it strikes at whim and leaves no one alive. The Daimyo is terrified that this is retribution for his acts in this world. Karma come to life if you will,” said Kaidan, “That’s why no one has seen him in ages. He’s tucked up safely behind his walls, surrounded by his samurai, scared the beast will take him next.”

“Stranger things have happened I suppose,” said Bo, knowing that the Daimyo had other reasons for wanting to be out of plain view. Bo wondered how the long the mujina had been mimicking its victim? The sell-sword knew he was going to have to kill the beast, whatever it was, in order to get close to his real target. There was no way he could just march through those gates and kill their leader, even if their leader was an imposter.

 “Can you tell me, what were the men doing before they died?” Kaidan did his best to describe the circumstances surrounding their deaths, and when he was done, he had confirmed Bo’s suspicions as to the why it came, but not what it was.

“It’s attracted to noise,” said Bo. “Every time it’s struck, the victims have been celebrating, raucously. It seems as if that is what attracts it.”

“Then what do you plan on doing?” asked Kaidan.

“Making as much of a clamour as possible, then killing it; you are more than welcome to help if you want, Kaidan.”

“I dabble in the Biwa, Bo. I don’t know how much help a blind monk can be, but I’m willing to assist where I can.”

“Good,” said Bo. ” We can talk more in the morning.”

“These are strange days, Bo, strange days indeed.”

“There are many curious things in the Isles of Jwar my friend; I find it sometimes hard to understand their nature. What do you believe, Kaidan?”

“I believe in the mystic law of cause and effect,” said the monk, readying himself for bed. Bo rolled out his blanket and made himself comfortable for the night. Sometime later, as the men listened to the sawing rhythms of the frogs in the forest, Kaidan spoke.

“So what do you believe, Bo?” asked the monk.

“I believe in... sleep,” answered Bo, laughing, before turning his back on the monk.