Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

I’m a devotee of Japanese comics. A fan, a fanatic, a mangaphile, call me what you will. Not a collector, though. I don’t collect the books. I read them, enjoy them, and them slip them into the donation boxes of libraries and thrift stores for others to enjoy.

Why? I suppose it got me through tough times. No matter how bad things got, I could relate to the heroes of manga, struggling with daily life even as they piloted giant robots or summoned demons to battle. Manga definitely helped to steel me for my own battles to come.

Every time I finish a manga, I commit it to memory. There’s no point in reading it again. And every time I finish a particularly enjoyable volume, I leave a picture in between the pages when I pass it on. The pictures are usually of husks that I have banished demons from, laying where they fell.

I am sure that there are others out there, like me, who can see the demons walking amongst us. I hope the pictures of their broken and bloodied forms gives these other warriors the strength that many of the manga stories gave me.

When I have quietly hunted down and slain enough of the demons to complete the Star Pattern, I will need their help. Until then, let those tails and the proof of my good, if bloody, work sustain them.

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What little heat the day had was fading away fast, chasing the light as it headed west. The chill cut through the thin sweater, working its way through the knit gaps as a hundred tiny daggers of ice. Remembering an old movie, they’d torn out their pocket linings to wear as makeshift gloves, only to find that they offered little warmth once the sweat had soaked in. The unlined pockets funneled arctic air in as well, and soon the only part of their body they could feel was their tongue.

Hypothermia stalked in the distance, with a chilling death lurking behind it as a grim shadow.

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They wanted to build a damn, they said
It wouldn’t hurt anything, just a little water
A year later, an earthworm washed up on the new shore
Like nothing ever seen before, a new and unique species
‘Swimming’ through the old beaches, their only habitat
All of them drowned before they were even discovered

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As the last survivors of the doomed world fled in their magical Ark toward the New Worlds, the most powerful among them gathered to watch the death throes of their former star, undone by sorcery so vile that it could not be comprehended. Those who could not flee would perish in the final eruption, and the light of the mother-star would be no more.

The shockwave would give the Ark the tailwind it needed, in a matter of speaking, but all those on the aft decks would surely perish if not protected by the strongest enchantments. And yet a group of sages and scholars braved the danger, predicting–rightly–that the last light of the mother-star would hold tremendous power. Over three thousand attempted the feat, and when the mother star had faded after its final eruption, only seven remained alive. But each had captured that last light in a bauble or vessel, and each of these seven would have far-reaching consequences for the New Worlds…and beyond.

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Hopefully this missive reaches you, sister. The Skineaters don’t exactly take regular post but we have our ways, and anything is possible for the right bribe. We were beyond relieved to hear that you and Cirrus were alive, since we’d had no news for nearly a year.

I’ll say first: don’t apologize for anything you’ve had to do to survive. Murderer or not, you did what you had to do with that halfling and anyone else that has gotten in the way. As long as you and Cirrus are alive, it is all good. Your new friends sound like a funny bunch. Perhaps some of them will be worth sparing? If you do kill the dwarf, remember to strike down between the breastbone and the ribs for the heart from above. It will leave no trace and you can disguise the corpse as sleeping while you make your escape. Perhaps your pretty dwarf would make a good slave? Innocent ones always do.

As we sisters have gotten older, we’ve had to get tougher. It works most of the time. Members of the horde know not to trifle with us when we’re together. Bad things don’t happen to us nearly as often. I lead a whole squadron of girls now, and we are good enough at growing and felling trees that we usually have wood left to burn and food left to cook. Strange as it seems to say, I feel like I have a place here among the Skineaters now, almost like I belong. Not to Gash, but to all the people under him and his boys. They look up to me almost like you sisters do. Things are going well enough that I want them to change.

Zeffir is still her quiet self, but she is a whirlwind when she has to be, and has become very sneaky. We suspect she’s behind some well-deserved stabbings of late. Perhaps it’s her way of dealing with the loss of Skye, by taking on some of her twin’s old traits. She’s started writing, too, and transcribes letters for Gash’s illiterate boys. I think she might have a fella or a gal on the side that she is writing little love notes to, but I have let her keep her secrets.

Most importantly, Stormy’s had a new baby girl since you’ve left. We think the father was one of Nosebrass’s hangers-on or one of the mercenaries that he sometimes hires, but it doesn’t matter. She is the world’s prettiest little half-orc in her auntie’s eyes, and very smart. The spitting image of her cousin! Stormy called her Cumulus, and we call her Lissy for short.

There is a problem, though. Nosebrass has been making noises about selling off another round of infants, says there’s getting to be too many mouths to feed. Normally, if one of Nosebrass’s orcs or some merc hunter tries to touch Zeffir or Stormy, I will fillet them like a day-old mackerel. But babies are another matter. It’s difficult to protect them, and Stormy is still so weak. Even though the girl is walking now, the childbearing took a lot out of her.

You remember the last time Nosebrass did this, before Cirrus was born. The children were sold into the breaker’s yards at Caldhollow. None survived. Your example has inspired us, and we think we can buy Lissy ourselves, perhaps send her to live with her auntie and cousin. But we don’t have the coin, and time is of the essence. If you’ve any to spare, though we’ve no right to ask, I would beg that you send it by the same route when you can. It wouldn’t be difficult to buy a baby. Nosebrass would welcome it, ask no questions. He’s cruel but fair that way.

Sorry if the letter isn’t pretty. I’ve not your skill with letters but I had Zeffir help me. Girl has a way with words and is an incredible sister and the best person. We love and miss you dearly.

-Lightning Thaighs

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“Now, in those days, the will of the King was supreme,” said Coym. “He could only be challenged by a gathering of the Tynmoot, and even that required all the nobles to gather to summon him – and woe betide a noble who called a Tynmoot that nobody came to.”

“What happened to them, Uncle?” said Aden.

“You might’ve heard of Baron Kurnovius?” Aden shook his head, and Coym continued. “No? After he called a Tynmoot that was not well-attended, he was executed, and his head spent more time on a pike than his arse had sat on a baron’s throne.”

“Wow,” said Aden. “Did the Bloody Prince know that?”

“His real name was Crown Prince Semaj, and you’d better believe he knew this, and so when his father King Ekip III fell into dotage, he decided that his time had come. He canceled the treaties of friendship with the Prosperous East, and began to seize the land of any baron who disagreed with him, putting in place their more pliable sons, uncles, cousins, what have you. A sharper wit than mine said that Prince Semaj found a land ruled by men of iron and replaced them with men of reed, who bent at whatever breeze he gave them.”

“Dotage?” said Aden.

“He was old,” said Coym, laughing a little.

“As old as you?” Aden said. “Are you in your dotage?”

“He was…a bit younger than me, actually,” said Coym, not laughing at all now. “And I am surely not. I hear that word around the cloister, and you’ll feel my cane on your arse. We clear?”

“Yes, Uncle!”

“Anyway, since the King himself had done none of those evil things, there was no cause to remove him – even though the old man scarcely left his chambers, knew none but his chambermaid by name, and was bound up in gilded diapers. And even if the Tynmoot were to gather to remove him, the Crown Prince would then take he throne himself! And as king, what few things he could not do, such as begin a war or replace the head of the Lightbearers, were his to perform.”

“So that’s why Crown Prince Semaj is known to history as the Bloody Prince. People who spoke against him were silenced, imprisoned, killed. And while the Royal Guard and the mayors of the various burgs were not sworn to him, he found like minds in the worst sort of men and raised them to power alongside them. Men of the sort that would kick a dog to death when no one was looking, men of the sort that would father a hundred bastards without giving any a farthing…the sort of men who will ooze up whenever they sense opportunity. They were formed by Semaj into the Prince’s Life Guards, but there was plenty of dark humor in such a name, as they really existed only to sow death.”

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“Master, I have a question,” said Initiate Aden.

“If it’s how to trill your R’s for the incantations, or how to knit together broken bones without turning a man’s blood to ivory, I don’t want to hear it,” groused Elder Coym. “I’ve been teaching you kids the basics all day, and my voice is tired from shouting.”

“It is a question for you as my great-uncle, rather than as Master of the healing arts,” said Aden. “I know you do not like for me to speak of our relation, that you’re afraid of giving me special treatment, but…”

“Oh, for the Light’s sake, come in and close to door, boy,” said Coym. He set down his quill after a few final, brisk strokes to remind him of where he left off and then gestured to a seat. “If I didn’t know he was still alive in his dotage, I’d say you were my brother reincarnated. He was always slinking about like a chastened dog too, even when–especially when–he’d done nothing wrong.”

Aden took the seat, pushing his white healer’s robes to either side and letting his legs dangle. He favored his mother’s side in terms of looks, but in that serious temperament couples with astonishing naivete, Coym very much saw his younger brother Kias. “Uncle,” he said, pronouncing the term with the same deadly seriousness as ‘Master,’ “the other initiates today were comparing their favorite stories of war and heroism, and I noticed something.”

“Hmph, you finally wondered who cleans up the messes in all those stories, eh?” said Coym. “Good for you, I was twice your age and mopping up after the Battle of Brigantine Pass when I came into that bit of wisdom.”

“No, Uncle, I began to wonder – why are none of the heroes in the stories and songs healers, like us? There are warriors, powerful wizards, even wily sneak-thieves…but never healers and pacifists such as ourselves. Why is that?”

Coym froze, looking into his grandnephew’s earnest eyes. A bitter, cutting remark was on his tongue, about the sorry lot of those who help and heal in a world where histories were written by the bloodsoaked. But it died unsaid, and Coym cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “That’s because the best such stories are held secret by master healers like myself, and then misinterpreted by oafs centuries later. I know of one such–a healer and pacifist, wide-eyed and wonderful–who not only did great things but shook the world to its foundations.”

“Oh!” Aden said, leaning joyfully forward in the seat, his young legs tapping anxiously on the wood. “What was their name?”

“Ah,” Coym said. As a child, even as a young man, he’d been famous for his bold lies and ripping yarns. After a moment, the cobwebs fluttered and his old skills came rushing back, little rusted for decades of relative disuse. “His name was, ah, Initiate Sanah, and it was through him, without the lad raiding a hand in anger, that the mighty and terrible reign of the Bloody Prince was brought to an end.”

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1. Take one teaspoon of ash from a dire future.
2. Mix with a pinch of dust from the unsettled past.
3. Add a cup of sunlight from yesterday, to taste.
4. Stir in a tablespoon of the forever undiscovered, to taste.
5. Bake in a prophecy made, unfulfilled, yet destined to pass.
6. Let cool in the last breeze of a dying world.
7. Release. Apply second dose if first is ineffective, but do not exceed three.
8. If all else fails, alter to suit your taste.

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“It’s a generation ship, see. Titan-class, like the one that founded Aeon Prime. Only this one never made it to where it was going. It got stuck in a wide orbit of an uncharted black hole, and the radiation killed everybody onboard. The computer’s still active, see, and the ship is still working, and it’s still babying its crew of dead husks like they was alive.”

“Your point?”

“All we’d need is some decent third-gen radiation shielding and someone who knows the Titan-class! Then we could reset its course, see, slap an aftermarket FTL drive on it, and sell the whole thing off for scrap someplace that don’t ask no questions.”

“You keep saying ‘we’ as if you’d be coming along, as if I’d trust a shyster like you on a mission like that.”

“Well, see, that’s the thing, Shabani. I’ve got it all nice and tidy, ready to just drop a crew in and go. I’m either part of that crew, or you buy me out from the start as a finder’s fee. Unless you fancy adding yourself and your crew to that list of babied stiffs, so blasted by rads that you fuse into your suits. It’s your choice.”

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