Tag: fiction

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Love and Iron

An illustration for my short story “Love and Iron”.

The dread in Bjorn Svenssen’s chest weighed heavier than the hammer of Thor himself. Holding his spear and shield with sweaty hands, the young chieftain led his band of Daenish warriors marching over hills that glowed bright gold in the face of Sol’s eastern ascent. Far to their left rose a high plateau that curved inward like a giant arena overlooking the scene. Truthfully, it was almost as beautiful a sight as Bjorn’s sweet dear Nobuhle.

It was better to think of her than the impending battle. So many balmy nights had the pair spent in each other’s company, with nobody watching but the silver circle of Mani high in the star-dotted sky. At least that had been so until one of her father’s high-ranking induna warriors had caught them in the heat of lovemaking. So furious was the Inkosi of KwaXhulu that he had wanted Bjorn and the entirety of his “unruly” countrymen put to death, never mind all the years the Daenes had aided the Inkosi’s impi armies on the battlefield.

So what if they had a problem swigging themselves mindless on the local pombe beer? Were not sellswords like themselves prone to such indulgences the world over?

It must have been a merciful twist in how the Norns wove fate that, after much heated argument, the Inkosi had instead accepted Bjorn’s offer to settle the matter through a trial of combat. The terms had been clear. If the Daenes won, Bjorn could claim Nobuhle’s hand in matrimony. If the Daenes lost, they would all lose their lives as well.

Assuming, of course, that the Xhulu did not massacre them to the last man in the thick of the battle itself. In which case, not even the glories of Valhalla could cure the loneliness Bjorn would feel in the afterlife.

The higher Sol rode in her flaming chariot, the hotter the day grew. Nonetheless, Bjorn did not regret the mail shirt he wore over his tunic. If anything, it gave him comfort him against the chill that shivered his limbs from within. He and his warband would need all the protection they could afford.

No, he could not bother himself with those thoughts. Better to think of embracing Nobuhle’s lithe, gold- and copper-bedecked figure and savoring the kiss of her moist lips. It would all be worth fighting her father’s warriors in the end.

A herd of zebra galloped away with frightened brays when the Daenes arrived at the flat field they had agreed to fight on. The Xhulu were nowhere to be seen. Not on the field, nor anywhere on the surrounding hills that Bjorn could see. It did not make sense. He had never known the proud Xhulu to shirk battle. Nor were they prone to running late, even in a country as rugged and treacherous as this far southern land.

“Where are you Xhulu dogs?” Bjorn cried out. “Show yourself!”

All he could hear was the bounding of his own voice between the hills.

Bjorn squinted at a copse of stunted trees at the field’s far end. The Xhulu could have been hiding there, plotting some sort of ambush. Again, that would be out of character for them, and it would dishonor their terms of agreement. It would still be prudent to flush them out just in case.

Across the field the Daenes stalked until they penetrated the shade of the trees. On Bjorn’s order, they dispersed to comb through the woodland, looking up and down every tree and overturning every log they could find. Still no sign of the enemy, not even tracks.

Again, Bjorn yelled to the sky for the Xhulu to come out. Other than the squawking of spooked birds, nothing.

He slammed the butt of his spear into the ground and growled a curse. “I should’ve known they were cowards!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” one of his warriors said. “They must be planning something.”

“Or maybe we should simply wait a few moments,” another Daene said. “We might’ve arrived earlier than they expected.”

Bjorn sighed. “Fair enough. Let’s set up camp out in the field until they come.”

The moment the dejected Daenes walked out of the woods, a wall of ovular cowhide shields bristling with iron iklwa greeted them. It swept across the field with the speed of a storm-tossed wave, bending into a concave formation like a bull’s horns around the warband. As the Xhulu impi closed in, they chanted their traditional war cry. “Usuthu! Usuthu!”

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Arrows at High Noon

Two archers from different worlds clash in a dusty first-century Arabian street!

1 AD

The boy kept his eyes on the clay bowl beside his remaining leg, waiting for the next coin to drop into it. High noon was blazing near, and he had only received a couple of coppers since sunrise. It would barely be enough to afford a loaf of flatbread even if the town baker were to take pity on him. The very thought made the boy’s stomach moan like a desert lion that had starved down to skin and bones.

Sweat beaded his brow from the baking heat despite the shade the date palm tree cast over him. Still he watched the bowl, and still it remained empty but for those two copper coins. He might as well have not existed to the passerby streaming past him in the trading souq. Even the resident priests of Zoroaster, though compelled by their faith to aid the needy, had seldom proved any more generous in his experience. This was supposed to be one of a string of ports on the northern coast of Arabia which prospered from the trade between east and west, yet none of it had trickled down to the people who needed that prosperity most.

The boy cursed the striped hyena that had taken his second leg, as if the loss of his mother and father had not been enough. Had he kept both legs, at least then he would have been able to sneak up on the souq’s patrons and snatch away what he needed. They deserved it less than he did after everything he had suffered.

The clinking of square scales of iron armor sounded over the muffled jingle of coins. The man who strutted past was no tawny-faced local, but rather a lighter-skinned type from the east of Asia who wore his straight black hair in a bun. Slung to his back were a quiver and crossbow like those Chinese soldiers were known to wield. To have ventured so far from his homeland, the man must have had enough in that purse of his to afford the trip. He might even have enough to spare with some persuasion.

The boy grabbed his wooden crutch, propped himself up with a groan, and made his way to the Chinese man with the clay bowl in his other hand. He made sure to widen his eyes like an orphaned pup as he shook the bowl with a whimper.

“Please, kind sayyid, lend me a coin or two,” the boy said.

Glaring down with narrowed eyes, the man spat onto him. “You should’ve known better than to lose your leg, urchin. Begone!”

“I am sorry, sayyid, but a hyena bit it off years ago. I beg of you, one coin will be enough.”

“You beggars are all the same. Afraid of honest work, so you take advantage of others’ pity. I bet you cut off that leg yourself for the purpose!”

The skin of the boy’s face broiled with anger even hotter than the Arabian sun that had almost reached its zenith. He rattled the bowl in his hand, jangling the two coppers within it. “Again, I ask only for one coin! Do you never feel sorrow for those in need?”

“I feel no ‘sorrow’ for those who cannot help themselves. For the last time, and for your own good, begone!”

The slap of the man’s hand stung the boy’s cheek with an explosion of pain, and the bowl dropped from his hand to break apart on the ground. Only by firmly planting the butt of his crutch in the dirt had he been able to keep himself from falling over. Baring gritted teeth in a snarl, the boy slashed his fingers at the fat purse hanging from the man’s belted sash.

The man sidestepped away. He unslung his crossbow, which already had a bolt secured in place, and pressed its front tip into the boy’s forehead. “I’ll teach you to rob your elders, you little thief!”

A bowstring creaked from behind. “Like you’ve already robbed so many, Huang Xiang?”

It was another foreigner who had interjected, an ebony-skinned man with short curly hair who wore a blue shendyt loincloth in the Kushite style. He had his longbow drawn with the arrow’s iron point glinting beneath the noontime sunlight, aimed at the man named Huang Xiang.

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Stronger Together

The Valerian emissary drummed his bony fingers on a low table while watching the sundial. The shadow its black granite arrow cast had drifted down half an hour’s angle since he had arrived at this Agyptian watering hole, and his correspondent still had yet to appear.

Despite the shade the palm-thatched awning cast over the establishment’s rear veranda, the southern sun had sunk to a low enough angle to tan his complexion a darker shade of olive, with sweat from the heat sticking to the tunic under his toga. If he had to wait a full hour, he would become almost as dark as the locals blabbering around him.

What was taking the emissary’s correspondent so long? Was that accursed fool more loyal to the whore he called Pharaoh than he should have been?

Surely, nobody in her court could have approved of her recent dalliance, given their customary attitude toward foreigners meddling in their affairs. These were supposed to be the proud and glorious people who had beaten back hordes of invaders over the ages. Any of them should have shown more indignation, more outrage, more than enough to storm over here without a second’s hesitation. Even more so with the promise of gold.

Besides, the less time a gentleman of Valerium had to spend around these stinking Agyptian nigri, the better.

At long last, a man of Agyptian stock approached the emissary, wearing a fine white robe of pleated linen beneath a bejeweled collar and a wig of curled black locks. The Valerian exhaled through his nose with relief and straightened himself up on his stool.

The correspondent addressed him in Ellenic, the language of commerce, with a melodic Agyptian accent. “Apologies for having you wait, my Valerian brother. I’ve been working harder than usual.”

“I imagine being the Pharaoh’s physician would be taxing work, Khaheru,” the emissary said. “Call me Claudio, representing the triumvir Actavio Kesare. But don’t call me ‘brother’.”

Khaheru chortled with a full-lipped grin. “We Agyptians call every man ‘brother’. But what on the gods’ earth is a ‘triumvir’? Is that some Valerian word?”

“Correct, it means one who oversees a third of a nation. Now, how much do you know about Valerian politics?”

“I’ve overheard a little at court, but not much,” Khaheru replied with a shrug.

Claudio cleared his throat. “Ever since our civil war, the Valerian republic’s territory has split threefold, each third under the control of one of its finest generals. Kesare, as triumvir, governs the central provinces where Valerium itself lies. Marco Lepido governs the provinces annexed in the west, and the triumvir of the east is none other than Julio Antonio.”

Khaheru’s eyes widened. “You mean the man Pharaoh’s been courting the past two years? I swear by Ma’at’s feather, I don’t know what she sees in that pale-arsed barbarian!”

“You’re far from the only one who disapproves. I daresay the majority of our ‘pale-arsed’ citizens back home find their affair outrageous, most of all Kesare. Not only did Antonio divorce his sister to be with your Pharaoh, but my triumvir has good reason to fear their allied forces will come ramming down Valerium’s door itself.”

“You Valerians can never resist warring with one another, can you?” Khaheru snickered.

“Moving on, I believe you had some business to offer me? You did offer a generous price.”

Claudio dipped his head toward Khaheru’s ear and spoke in a whisper. “We need Julio Antonio eliminated.

“How so? I’m no stealthier than an elephant and have little training with a dagger…unless you count my surgeon’s blade. Oh, I could poison the man, but I warn you, Pharaoh has almost as many tasters as she has guards.”

“You’re the finest physician in all Agyptos, aren’t you? You must know every form of magic out there, not just poison.” Claudio scratched his chin in thought. “For example, aren’t you Agyptians good with animals? Because, while Antonio may be a distinguished fighter of men, he’s not so much known as a beast slayer.”

A light sparked in the royal physician’s black kohl-lined eyes. “If it’s magic you want me to use, I know not only how to control beasts, but how to create them as if I were Ptah the creator himself. Pharaoh’s menagerie supplies me with all manner of animal parts. By mixing together the parts of different creatures in a potion and enchanting it with Ptah’s blessing, I can bring to life a monster of my own design!”

“Impressive. Are you able to have it track down and attack a specific man?”

“Of course! It won’t even be difficult. Our barber can provide the hair cuttings I’ll need to train its nose on.”

“Excellent to hear, my Agyptian amico.”

Claudio took out his purse and poured out a shimmering pile of gold coins. Khaheru pinched one up and let its yellow gleam reflect in his eyes.

“You almost didn’t have to pay me, brother,” Khaheru said. “I would’ve been more than happy to rid our court of that barbarian interloper at no cost whatsoever.”

“So why haven’t you done it already?” Claudio asked.

The Agyptian physician cackled with greed with scooping the coins on the table toward himself with his arm. “On second thought, I might have needed just a little more incentive.”

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Essence

A marker portrait of the character Essence.

The sky had turned a darker shade of purple than the violets I’d picked for my bouquet. Essence had said those were her favorite color in our chats. I checked the time on my phone. She should’ve arrived well over half an hour ago. Most restaurants would have closed by now, and the next showing of the movie I’d picked would not be until tomorrow.

Where was she?

I sent her another message. No response. The waning moon was almost halfway up in the sky. Still no response. I could make out a few stars overhead despite the streetlights’ glow, and the passing cars were dwindling in frequency. Still no response.

That wasn’t like Essence. She’d always been good about getting back to me within seconds on the app. The dread was shaking me up. I had to call her.

Still no response. Not even a ring.

Maybe she was stuck in traffic. Rush hour had long passed, but I was desperate.

I called her again. Nothing.

Was something wrong with her? Was her phone dead? Why hadn’t she kept it charged?

I shouldn’t preoccupy myself with worry. Better to think of all the positives instead. We had so many great conversations. About her studies in English literature, about her cute little dachshund, about her equally adorable niece. How she liked strawberry cheesecake and gospel music, how her last ex had hurt her so badly, and how she thought I was the most sensitive man she’d ever met. In turn, I could tell her everything about myself, and no matter what was bugging me, she knew how I should deal with it and how to cheer me up.

Of course, if her photos on the app were anything to go by, she was as beautiful on the outside as the inside. I should dig them up.

Footsteps clipped on the sidewalk. My stomach fluttered with delight. That had to have been Essence. But why had she not called or texted me first?

It was not Essence. Too tall, too big and stocky, too clad in black, and much, much too white to be her. Whiter than me, even. The tattoos on his hand stood out like black clouds in front of the moon. As he regarded me with eyes as gray and sharp as the steel blade in his grip, he grinned with a show of bejeweled teeth.

“Waiting patiently for your Nubian queen, eh, Dylan?” the man said with a thick Russian accent.

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Rhomu and Djula

Rhomu and Djula, two lovers from warring families in a prehistoric fantasy world

In another world, in another age…

Rhomu poked his head out from under his lean-to shelter’s roof of leaves and branches. The rest of the camp remained asleep as far as he could see, the campfire having shrunk into a pile of dim embers. It was the pale glow of Grandfather Moon beaming through the treetop canopy, gleaming on the mist and the damp undergrowth, that helped Rhomu see through the darkness. For that, he was thankful.

He crawled out of the shelter with a hunter’s practiced silence, carrying his bone-pointed spear for protection. After a second scan of the camp around him, he glided on his toes out into the jungle beyond. A gentle warmth embraced Rhomu as he followed a familiar game trail. It was not the humid heat of the night, but something far stronger.

A loud crunch split through the nocturnal singing of crickets and frogs. Rhomu tensed to a halt with cold sweat on his brow. Branches cracked beneath heavy pounding on the moist earth. It was coming his way.

Rhomu hurried to hide between the high buttress roots of a kapok tree, hugging his spear while his heart drummed. Across the trail ahead lumbered a massive bull hornface on its four stout legs. The creature’s scaled hide shone like wet pebbles from the moonlight, and a glinting pair of horns longer than Rhomu’s spear curved out of its brow over two stubbier horns on its snout. A missing chunk of the rigid frill that shielded its neck attested to a survived confrontation with a mighty deathjaw, and the broken shaft of a hunter’s spear jutted out of its hip.

The hornface stopped to snip at some fan palm saplings with its hooked beak. While it browsed, Rhomu crept past it on all fours, careful not to snap a single twig on the jungle floor. Hornfaces may have eaten plants rather than flesh, but they could be as aggressive and dangerous as any deathjaw, not to mention vindictive.

Once he had sneaked out of the beast’s earshot, Rhomu rose back to his feet and jogged down the trail. The flutter in his stomach returned to lift him up with every step. All remaining thought of danger subsided under his eager anticipation. When the trickling of a low waterfall reached Rhomu’s ears, he accelerated into a joyful skip.

It was to his pleasant surprise to find Djula already there on the stream’s bank. The curves of her dark-skinned figure glistened like fine obsidian beneath Grandfather Moon’s gaze, and the coils of her black hair sparkled. Between cheeks dotted with traditional scarification, her full lips spread into a smile of white teeth brighter than either Grandfather Moon or Grandmother Sun. Rhomu’s heart erupted into a ceremony of jubilant percussion.

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The Ancient Abomination

Eumenes and Sadeh seek shelter from a sandstorm in a desert cave.

Sadeh staggered in defiance of the wailing gale even as the sand slashed red streaks across her deep brown limbs. Through the billowing orange haze that engulfed the world, she could tease out with shielded eyes the silhouette of a rocky outcrop up ahead. In its side yawned a darker shadow, the mouth of a cave. If there was any place in this forsaken desert she could find shelter from the storm, it would be in there.

She did not know whether to thank the gods for such a small blessing. Had they been looking out for her and her army, they would not have let those goatskin-caped Temehu raiders lure them into an ambush and crush them. As far as Sadeh knew, she was one of only two survivors of the Khumetian force sent to punish those marauders. The other was her dear Eumenes, and she could hear him collapse into the sandy ground behind her, overwhelmed by his exhaustion and the wind.

Sadeh turned to trudge back, still fighting against the storm, and hauled up the man’s bulky body with her arms. Eumenes was not a Khumetian or even a native of the larger continent, but rather a Sherdenu whose light olive complexion and wavy brown hair betrayed his origin from across the northern sea. His armor of thick banded leather and the horned bronze helmet on his head added to the big burly man’s weight. Despite the strength she spent dragging him through the sand-choked wind, Sadeh could never give up on him. Brave and strong Eumenes was all she had left between here and their garrison’s fort to the east.

After what seemed like a lengthy passage of time, they reached the cave at last. Sadeh laid Eumenes on the floor and leaned against the rocky wall with heavy panting, taking a swig from her waterskin to wash her parched throat. She ran her fingers through the braids of her black hair to get the grains of sand out.

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The Seven-Headed Serpent

785 AD

The waterhole glimmered like gold beneath the setting sun. Eadric admired it with a lick of his lips while he guided his steed down to the bank. After a sweltering day spent riding across the savanna the Saracens called Bilad as-Sudan, or the Land of the Black People, even a pond as small as this one was a welcome blessing. While his horse lapped away at the waterhole’s surface, Eadric cupped his hands together and scooped up as much water as he could. He took a swig of the cool, if earthy-tasting, fluid and splashed the rest onto his sunburned face with a satisfied moan.

Thus rehydrated, Eadric unsheathed his iron sword, planted its tip into the muddy bank, and knelt with one hand on its hilt. He murmured his thanks to Woden, the Allfather, and all the other gods for his good fortune. Unlike most of their countryfolk back in distant Saxony, Eadric and the people of his village were never willing to surrender their old faith in favor of the new Frankish god Christ, no matter how the Franks might have threatened him. Alas, they had made good on their threats, and only by fleeing to the ends of the known world had Eadric evaded the same fate that had befallen everyone he knew and loved.

He could still hear, and feel, the hot roaring flames engulfing his village, as well as the screams of men, women, and children fleeing the Frankish ambush. One woman’s scream in particular rang louder than the rest. It might have been Eadric’s dear sister Hilda, whom the Franks ravished before butchering her. He would never forgive himself for not being able to cut down the Christ-worshipers and save her in time.

No, wait, that was not a scream from his memories. It was a real woman’s scream, in the here and now, piercing out from somewhere nearby!

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Yandi and the Fire Mountain: Chapter One

The below is an excerpted chapter from my prehistoric-fantasy novella Yandi and the Fire Mountain, which is now available on the Amazon Kindle Store.

In another world, in another age…

Yandi stood poised with her bone-tipped spear and watched the river’s surface for movement. The lukewarm current licked her thighs while the perspiration on her black skin fended off the steamy heat. Weighing down on her hip beneath a thong of twisted plant fibers was a butchering knife fashioned from a deathjaw’s serrated tooth.

A long shadow drifted through the water in front of her. Drawing her spear overhead to build momentum, Yandi struck with lightning swiftness and pierced her prey in the head. She drew out a violet legfin larger than her forearm, more than enough to feed her family for the night. Watching the fish flail its leg-like fins about, she smacked her lips as she anticipated savoring its tangy flavor.

A flurry of frantic splashing shattered the calm, flinging droplets of water onto Yandi’s side. Her sister Benje, younger than her by five rainy seasons, was attacking the river’s surface while yelling with frustration. The tiny silhouettes of Benje’s intended targets all darted away from her with every desperate jab.

Looking up to see what Yandi had caught, Benje pouted. “Why does the river favor you so, Yandi?”

Yandi gave her sister a playful chuckle. “Because I don’t attack it the way you do. Remember what our mother taught us. Stay still until the fish comes to you.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, and yet the fish don’t come to me at all. What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing, Benje. You only need patience. I was that way once, remember?”

Yandi closed her eyes and prayed thanks to the river for offering her its bounty, imploring it to bless her sister as well. It was only a few heartbeats later that Benje yelped with triumph.

Benje had skewered a young watersnapper. The squirming creature was scarcely larger than Yandi’s legfin, nowhere near as massive as its kind could grow upon reaching adulthood. It was still plump for its young age. Both sisters had eaten watersnapper meat before and knew it to taste as good as any fish. Together, the two sisters would bring back to camp more than enough river meat for their family.

Yandi waded to her sister and laid a hand on her shoulder, stretching her lips into a proud beam. “It seems the river favors you too, Benje.”

Her heart jolted within her chest when a flat black form, as long as a man stood tall, surfaced with an eruption of foam behind her sister. A pair of green eyes with slitted pupils glared from its far end with what could have been either hunger or parental rage. As it zoomed toward Benje, drawing a steep wake behind it, the great watersnapper twisted its head aside and parted sharp-toothed jaws, ready to chomp down on her with crushing force.

Yandi yanked her sibling out of the way. The watersnapper’s jaws clamped a narrow breadth away from them, their closure blowing out a gust of wind that almost shoved them off their feet. Together the two sisters jogged toward the riverbank as fast as the water would allow them. Swimming faster than either woman could run, the great watersnapper caught up to their rears in little time.

The giant reptile opened its jaws behind Benje for a second attack. Yandi hurried to punch it in the eye with the butt of her spear. The watersnapper threw its immense head back with a guttural bellow, letting the sisters rush all the way to the water’s edge. As they sprinted over the riverbank’s damp and sticky mud, the aggravated beast stormed out of the water after them on its sprawling legs.

It swung its head like an oversized club of bone and scaled flesh at Benje. She ducked with a stumble and slipped face-first onto the mud, losing hold of her spear. Scrambling to recover it, she rolled back onto her feet and brandished the weapon at the incoming beast. The baby watersnapper Benje had caught earlier flung off the spear’s tip and landed one pace in front of its huge parent.

Whether or not it recognized the young as its own, the elder creature scooped up the little carcass with its teeth and swallowed it as if it were an ordinary fish. In the meantime, both women had run to a safe distance farther up the riverbank. They watched with relief as the great watersnapper lurched and swam back into the river without giving further pursuit.

A panting Yandi patted her sister on the back. “That was swift thinking there, Benje.”

Benje brushed mud off her breasts with a disappointed frown. “A shame I had to give up my catch.”

“Don’t worry about that. The river will always offer more.”

“If only I could catch them as well as you can.”

“That’s only because I am older and have more experience than you, sister. You’ll catch up in time. It will get dark soon, so we should return to camp.”

Benje nodded. “And we wouldn’t want to be around if that watersnapper is still hungry.”

Yandi led her sister parallel to the river’s upstream course. Their path straddled the shaded juncture between the riverbank and the towering rainforest that walled its far edge. She kept her gaze swaying between the river and the forest undergrowth, never forgetting the myriad threats lurking in both.

Even the sky overhead could present danger should a great skinwing swoop down to pluck either of them up in its beak. Those soaring giants ruled the sky as much as the great watersnappers ruled the waterways and the deathjaws the deep jungle.

As she trailed behind her elder sister, Benje still held her head low with a gaze aimed at her spear’s empty tip. Yandi gave her a soft tap on the shoulder while cradling her necklace of fangs, claws, and eggshell beads in her hand. It was their late father who had strung each sister’s necklace after she had earned her facial scarifications of womanhood. Their necklaces were therefore the last tangible things the sisters had connecting them to his memory. Yandi would not lose Benje the way they had lost both their parents several rainy seasons ago. This she had sworn by Grandmother Sun and Grandfather Moon.

A subtle tremor shook the earth beneath their feet with a rumble. Far beyond the jungle along the river’s opposite bank, a gray stream of smoke meandered up from the summit of the eastern horizon’s tallest mountain. A chill slithered up Yandi’s spine. Never in her life had she seen that ancient dome of black rock leak smoke like that, but she recalled the elders’ stories well enough to recognize what it meant. It was something even the fiercest deathjaw or the most colossal longneck feared, something more powerful than any beast or man.

After generations of slumber, old Fire Mountain was stirring once more.

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Raid of the Deep Ones

In prehistoric Africa, the huntress Ekan’e and her saber-toothed friend Orru attack a marauding party of Lovecraftian Deep Ones!

East Africa, 100,000 years ago

Ekan’e grimaced as she crunched a brittle strip of dried ostrich between her teeth. The meat’s flavor had all but faded, yet it had been all she and her blade-fanged companion Orru had had to eat for the past couple of days. It was the middle of the dry season, and both game and forage had been hard to come by on the savanna. Oh, how her stomach growled like a famished lion for the juicy tenderness of fresh meat or sweet berries! Ekan’e’s mouth turned to water even imagining such luxurious treats.

Slipping out the remainder of the dried meat from the small pouch she had hanging beside her short gazelle-hide sarong, she tossed it over her campfire to Orru. After it fell between his front paws, the cat lapped it up with his tongue and swallowed it whole. His whimpering moan afterward suggested that he too had grown tired of the stale leftovers and craved fresh, bloody meat.

Ekan’e gave him an empathetic smile and stroked the fur on his head with her fingers, receiving a satisfied purr in return. “We shall eat better before sunrise, my little Orru, I promise.”

She looked out to the ocean which sprawled eastward from below the cliff atop which she and her bladefang friend sat, the crests of its little waves glimmering pale yellow beneath a full moon and innumerable stars. Ekan’e and Orru had come to this coastline precisely to take advantage of its wealth in food, which they would harvest with her spear and his claws and fangs after going down to the nearest beach. It would be the first time Ekan’e had fished from the sea, but she had fished from streams before and figured it could not be that different.

Close to the bottom of the cliff, something sliced up through the water’s surface, shimmering wet. It was a thin and membranous ridge like the dorsal fin of a fish, and four more of them rose from behind it, forming a triangle that cut in a diagonal path toward the shoreline. Beneath her dark skin, Ekan’e blanched, the air around her turning cold. Those fins might not have been pointed like the fins of the ocean predators known as sharks, but they reminded her of even more terrifying denizens of the deep. Those were the ones that people had always spoken of in hushed tones in the campfire stories.

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Mask of the Cliff-Dwellers

A valiant adventuress confronts a fin-backed pelycosaurian predator within sight of some ancient cliff dwellings.

Ezegbe of Amozey tugged the reins of her gallimimus. The shaggy-feathered creature halted with a squawk, with the dust kicked up by its long and slender legs settling over the desert floor behind it. After slipping off its saddle, the Amozean warrior gave her mount’s elongated neck a gentle rub while treating it to a handful of dried dates and beetles, which it pecked up with relish. Once Ezegbe had tethered the gallimimus to a tamarisk sapling, she brushed sand off her green cotton top and skirt and her bun of fluffy black hair. She then surveyed the landscape to her left with a hand over her umber-skinned brow to shade her eyes from the midday sunlight.

The canyon below her cut westward through the desert like a colossal scar. Its sandstone walls burned as brilliant as burnished copper beneath the sun’s unobstructed glow, sinking as far into the earth as many mountains stood high. A narrow forest of palm and acacia trees choked the gorge’s very bottom, their leafy crowns blocking any view of whatever rivulet supplied them with water. On the numerous ledges that jutted from the cliffs’ faces, the weathered edifices of an extinct people stood crammed together as slouching beige stacks of boxy and cylindrical structures.

Ezegbe could not find any steps carved into the canyon walls that would allow passage between these old cliffside settlements. Surely these people, whoever they were, had set up wooden bridges and ladders connecting village to village which had since disintegrated into dust over the eons. Squinting at the face of a cliff beneath one cluster of ruins, the Amozean did notice pairs of little pits gouged into the rock that ran down its height to the ravine floor, which could have served as climbing holds for the ancient denizens while they went to fetch water beneath the trees. It was still hard for her to imagine any human being having the strength or stamina to make regular climbing trips up and down the canyon walls.

Assuming, of course, the beings who built these cliff dwellings were human to begin with. Priests, shamans, and philosophers all over the world spoke of races of other creatures that had evolved sapience and erected shining cities millions of years before humanity’s descent from the trees. All over the world, these earlier civilizations’ ruins lay like innumerable rotting skeletons on a past battlefield. There were even legends of old cities deep within the vast sea, their monuments long since encrusted by coral and seaweed. Even if humans were the race who had built this canyon’s villages, humankind itself had been around for a few hundred millennia, plenty of time for entire nations to rise and fall as nations always had.

Regardless of the cliff dwellings’ origin, what Ezegbe had to do was find a way into one of them. Akhenhotep, the Hekuptan priest who had hired her, claimed that the canyon hid a mask-like idol that might have retained enough magical energy for him to exploit. What he planned to do with it, he had withheld, and Ezegbe could not promise that she could even find such an artifact lying there unmolested over uncounted centuries. Still, the middle-aged Hekuptan had plenty of gold cowries to spare, and he had even paid half the price upfront.

An agitated shriek from her steed shattered Ezegbe’s musing. The gallimimus was hopping on its feet while waving its plumed forelimbs in a panic while a hungry dimetrodon charged at it. The dimetrodon may not have been nearly as large as the giganotosaurus of the southern savanna or the tyrannosaurus from the Amozean jungles even further south, but these lizard-like monsters were nonetheless the desert’s apex predators and were still big enough to prey on humans or gallimimuses. The tall semicircular fin that reared on the dimetrodon’s back did not hinder its darting speed in the least.

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