Glimpses: A Collection of 16 Short Fantasy Stories

The Killing Fields

Sarah KL Wilson

Today a dream will die with me.

Teree-wa-wa, Teree-wa-wa, the yellow banabird sings from the creeping vine that grows on my ancestors’ ancient shrine. As always, his cries sound out just as the first rays of dawn paint the sky. I pour the rose-steeped water from a pewter cup over my head and shiver as it trickles over my naked body. Steam rises from my skin where the icy air meets flesh, and I inhale the purity of the cold. Our ancestors taught that cold freezes out impurities both in flesh and in the human soul. They chose the perfect place to found our Empire: New Greenland, where cold is ever present, even as spring swells over the northern hemisphere.

I continue the ritual, clearing my mind in meditation and boiling the tvasa in water. My eyes trace the carved scenes of the shrine as my mind follows the path of the meditation. First, Sato MacIver banishing his father to the planet Anki in his first act as Emperor, showing us that only the strong may lead. Second, Siobhan MacIver wrapping the cord around her lover’s neck to strangle him while he fished for neo-salmon in the Tam River, reminding us that people come and go and only Empire remains. Last, Tangstan MacIver defying his mother, the Empress, when she ordered him to sue for peace — an eternal symbol to be true to ourselves.

My lungs fill with the effervescent scent of the tvasa and tranquil calm floods my mind. The fecund smell of earth and cedars wafts in from the open sides of the shrine, and I pour the tvasa into a tiny pewter cup, hands forming the proper ritual shapes by muscle memory.

I hear the soft shuffling of footsteps ascending the hundred steps to the shrine, but I do not hurry. Dawn is gilding the horizon. Today is important. The ritual must be completed without haste. I finish my meditation with care, my eyes closed for the last of it, sensing rather than hearing the servant finally reach the top step and pause outside the entry to the shrine.

I open my eyes and let them linger, unfocussed, over the mountain range below me. Evergreens dot the steep slopes, crusted with the frost of a late-leaving winter. I pull in a full, frigid breath, cleansing my mind one last time with the delicious icy tang of mountain air and then allow my face a beatific smile. The servant girl spreads a traditional pink kimono over my shoulders as I rise. It is embroidered carefully with the history of the last five generations of MacIvers. The sure knowledge that the next Empress will wear a kimono with my deeds embroidered upon the hem satisfies me, as it has a thousand times before.

The servant kneels before me, presenting a shining katana in both hands above her head. The MacIver Sword. I take it delicately from her hands, seeing my own eyes reflected in the blade, green as the cedars. I remember distinctly how green my father’s eyes were the night I killed him with the same katana. He smiled at the end. Only the strong may lead.

The servant girl presents the hakama and uwa-obi, assisting me as I dress. In the clearing beside the shrine the hop shuttle descends, making the cedars sway wildly and blowing my hair out of place. The servant girl rushes to smooth it. Her hem brushes against my clothing as she pins the hair back into place.

Like a flying beetle, the hop-shuttle settles between the pines and two of my bodyguards jumped out, standing on either side of the doors. I hold the MacIver Sword in front of me as protocol requires and walk without hurry to the waiting shuttle. Today I will meet another enemy on the fields of battle as honor demands to defend my right to Empire.

As I approach my bodyguards bow low in unison, heads almost meeting their knees. I sign acceptance.

Is all in order? I ask.

We made preparations exactly as you ordered, one of them says, hand over his heart.

And has Haas sent word?

He said that he could not find confirmation that your opponent has acquired illegal technology from The People’s Freehold.

I frown for a moment before smoothing my face back into my studied half-smile. I do not like the rumors I have been hearing that Neal Matsumoto is dabbling in biotech and I am even more irritated that my spies have found nothing in their searches. A lack of information can kill the unwary as easily as a sword.

We will proceed, I say, ascending into the shuttle. I pause, about to enter and look back. And kill the servant girl before we leave. She fouled my clothing with the touch of her own. Leave her head on the shrine steps.

A meandering stream threads between the Killing Fields and cherry trees, heavy with pink blossoms, surround the valley and fill the gullies between the fields. Their blossoms drift on the breeze and dot the green grass of the fields. Along one side a line of statues stand; the likeness of each person the MacIvers have killed in defense of our Dynasty. Under their granite forms, my family is lined up in traditional dress. If I fall today, they will pick up my sword and take up the fight until my opponent dies or every one of them falls with me. I have never needed their support, and I don’t now, but traditions are vital.

I walk down the line, and each member of my family genuflects in a gentle ripple as I pass. The strict discipline of their actions makes me feel warm and full. Discipline is the key to power.

The Blackwatch media are present, filming and photographing the event. Live broadcasting will only be possible on New Greenland, but for everyone else, it will be encrypted and sent on couriers to the other planets of the Empire as soon as our ritual battle is over. This is the fifth time I have met an opponent on the field of battle. I have their heads preserved in jars and placed under my throne. There isn’t room for a sixth jar. Perhaps, as a special treat, I will spend the afternoon deciding where to put Neal Matsumoto’s head. For a moment, my smile is genuine.

The tiny media drones buzz around me, and when one wanders too close, I snatch it from the air, flinging it to the ground and crushing it under my heel. My bodyguard bends to retrieve it and notes the name on the side of the black insect. He will deal with the agency when today’s conflict is finished. I envy him the pleasure of their pain.

When I pass the last of my relatives, my feet sink into the freshly turned earth, and I look up at the statue of my latest challenger. I examine it to see if the workmanship is true to life. Alison. I can still feel the softness of her cheek under my thumb. The MacIver Sword made no sound when it slipped between her third and fourth vertebrae. The sculptor has perfectly matched the pout of her full lips. I will compliment him when I see him again. He has almost brought her back to life. People come and go, and only Empire remains.

By long tradition we meet in the centre of the field, our supporters arranged on the edges and only the tiny drone cameras close enough to hear what is said between us. Our fight, after all, is personal as much as it is representative.

I watch him walk across the muddy fields towards me. He carries his katana like he had never held one before, trembling like the seventeen-year-old leaf that he is. In the frigid spring air a plume of vapor rises from his open mouth and floats out from him like a soul released from death.

It bothers me that he is not wearing traditional dress. His simple black clothing is starkly cut and undecorated. Does my kimono look garish beside it?

I let myself float in the meditation, preparing for the battle. He will speak first, as is the challengers right. I remember the last time I saw his father. He was standing in muck, too. That cell I put him in was waist deep with the filth. I have never liked Matsumotos. Death feels too clean for them.

Can I tell you a secret? he says, as we wait for the signal from the rim of the field that will tell us the drones are ready. After today I plan to make a vow of pacifism.

He should not address me like an equal. After today he will be cold in the ground. I maintain my perfect almost-smile.

A green light blinks from the onlookers and the drones buzzed hungrily.

I, Neal Matsumoto, he says, like he’s testifying, challenge Empress Melanie MacIver for the throne of Blackwatch. She has crushed our people into the ground with her ceaseless wars, killed our best and brightest with assassinations and challenges that ought not to be legal in a civilized Empire and taken from us our freedom as citizens. Which family among you has not borne the pain of drafted family members slaughtered in her military posturing? Who has not lost friends to false imprisonment for speaking out against her excesses? Our children weep with hunger, and there are no living parents to feed them. Our citizens bleed the price for Melanie MacIver’s ambition and greed.

He clears his throat, wiping his forehead on the back of his sleeve. I like how nervous they are when they are young. They have so much to lose.

I promise you this. I will see her dead on this field, and when I win, I will bind myself and my dynasty to new laws to keep you safe from the excesses of royalty. Citizens, I will free you from this madness! The Matsumotos alone will bear the burden of sacrifice for Blackwatch.

It was always the idealism that cannibalized them eventually. A practical boy could have let well enough alone.

We will swear to marry only who the Emperor allows and we will not have dalliances with our citizens. No longer will you need to fear for your beautiful sons and daughters. We will not snatch them away to make them playthings for a summer and then dump their bodies in the Tam.

Alison. He's referring to what I did to the girl. Why do they keep harping on her? She was a plaything, nothing more.

We will swear to personal pacifism. No longer will an Emperor gain the kingdom by killing all who stand in his or her path, striking dead anyone that offends in the smallest of ways.

He's still rambling on with his nonsense. Five heads under my throne. One waiting on the steps of my shrine. I don't need to worry about his speeches.

To ensure all of this, I will have my descendants swear to obey me in all things. I will not allow them to break these promises to you, my people. We will rule you with fair mercy and take on your burdens as our own. As long as a man or woman bears the Matsumoto name, we will be responsible for the well-being of this great Empire. I so swear.

He spreads his arms wide as if he’s already won. My eyes trace the spot where his ribs cover his heart. I’ll slide my katana into his chest in that very spot. I laugh.

You laugh? What do you promise, Empress? More of the same?

I give him a mocking bow before making the same speech I have made five times before.

I promise to kill you. I will be true to myself.

The thing I love best about killing people is how well it allows you to be yourself. I am made to kill, and I embrace it. That is the way to happiness.

I settle into the ready form of The Method. It has changed over the centuries, but I imagine it exactly as my original teacher described it: fox sniffing the air. Neal Matsumoto mirrors me down to the angle of my forearm, and we wait for the red light that will signal the start of battle.

The light flashes, but neither of us moves. In The Method the first move of the battle is choosing your moment. I project violence with my mind, trying to dominate him mentally. If I can crack his nerve before a single move is made, I’ll have won. I wait to savor his fear, but taste surprise instead. He is not wavering. We wait, letting the moment stretch out. It vibrates with the tension and demands that one of us release it.

I surprise myself with a tiny twitch in my cheek, and Matsumoto lunges forward with viper strikes the foot. I dodge back; ship leans in the wind. Blossoms swirl around us as the wind whips up, obscuring my vision, and then suddenly there he is, fawn leaps at his shadow meets my counter, charging ram. He deftly turns me aside, and I press in from the left, rolling the ribbon. His counter is flawless and immediate, twin ladies dancing.

My eyes narrow as I withdraw to regroup. His movements are impossible. He held that sword as if he had never seen one before, and yet his forms are flawless, and his counters match my attacks with an almost mechanical precision.

I try a gamble, leaf drifts in the wind. Out of nowhere his blade arcs inside my guard, drawing blood from my wrist, taunting weasel. I have never seen it used with such success. My foot slips slightly in the muck, and I gasp. It has been twenty years since last I lost perfect footing.

His eye glitters, and he springs forward, thunder over the mountain. I barely turn his blade aside, willow bends. A strangled noise escapes my lips. No human alive is my match in The Method.

He flicks his wrist and my vision spins. Trees, then sky, the rim of the fields and then the muddy grass. The shreds of rumors I set my spies to chase must have been true. He has found some kind of biotech that has granted him this skill. It is unthinkable! My vision is spinning because I’m toppling through the air.

I land on the ground with a thud, a pink blossom blocking out most of my vision, and I reach to move it, but my hand wouldn’t budge. What has Matsumoto done to me?

His brown hand brushes the blossom away, and his eyes meet mine once more. He winks and then all I can see are his black boots walking away until they step over my headless body in a pink kimono. A red pool is spreading around it, the color clashing against the pink silk. Garish.

I was right this morning at the shrine.

Today a dream will die with me.

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Daydreaming is what I do best. When I was a kid, my family took long road trips and I spent a lot of time looking out the window and daydreaming stories to entertain myself. Now I write them down and entertain other people. I find run-of-the-mill stories boring and I love philosophy, so if you want something different and with a mind-bending twist then look no further.

I maintain a robust fan base. Join us.

www.sarahklwilson.com

You can read more in the world of the Matsumotos here:

THE EX-PACIFIST : http://hyperurl.co/theexpacifist

THE SPLITTING: http://hyperurl.co/thesplitting

THE MATSUMOTO: http://hyperurl.co/thematsumoto

ROMAN ADRIFT: http://hyperurl.co/romanadrift

Stolen Magic

Victoria DeLuis & Meg Cowley

I'm a city guy, born and raised, but I'd seen more than my fair share of the world. My home was in the heart of Camden, a stone’s throw from the Regent’s Canal, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of London life. If my roots lay anywhere, it was there. Where the streets were lined with urban street art, and a punk mentality permeated the air, along with the appetising smells and constant cawing of traders in Camden market. A far cry from my current surroundings.

The wind screamed as a sand storm shrouded the sky and turned day into night. The once calm waters of the Nile rose in towering crests. Sand, wind, and an icy spray battered my fishing boat and tossed it around like flotsam.

My heart pounded and my skin felt stripped raw. I checked my bearings and steered the boat starboard. I had to be close, but the forbidding storm had consumed sky, land, and water with a sandy blizzard. The boat juddered to a halt and sent me tumbling to the deck. At last, I’d run aground.

A sensible man would have hunkered down, ridden out the storm, but no-one had ever called me sensible, and besides, I was one of the Magicai. Whether reckless behaviour came with magical powers, or it was just part of my innate nature, who was to say, but one thing was for sure, I had an advantage over most men in this cruel environment. Ordinaries, we called them; people with no magical power. Most of whom lived their lives unaware of the magic around them.

I clutched at the rune stone on a leather cord at my neck. It thrummed, acting like a conduit and drawing on the energy of the ley lines to infuse me with magic. The Eye of Horus, etched in the stone, flashed as I called upon its power to shield me from the worst of the elements and guide me through the storm.  

I spat out the sand lodged in my mouth and launched myself into the onslaught. Protected by a magical shield, the sand no longer flayed my skin, and the incessant roar of wind was a murmur.

I trudged over the inhospitable terrain, following the pull of my rune stone. The power calling me intensified as I neared the convergence of ley lines: a potent beacon of energy in the distance. After a while, the sand blew away, the winds abated, and the storm cleared. I dropped my shield as the remains of an ancient city rose before me. The Nubian Pyramids of Meroë.

My path wound between the dunes and through the crypt-quiet city. Neither man nor beast moved around me, not even a scorpion scuttled along the sand. The only sign of the once raging storm was a deathly stillness to the air.

My throat was as dry as the desert. The sun beat down from a clear sky, stabbing me with spears of heat and covering the landscape in a haze that blurred my vision. I pulled a canteen from my backpack and savoured the water as it moistened my mouth and slid down my throat.

With my senses on high alert, I approached the final structure and stood in