January 25, 2012

From “Noodlemancy” by Birmingham Lewis Cobb

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The spaghetti spellbinder, or noodlemancer, is an arcane knack that manifests itself primarily among foodservice workers, short-order cooks, and gourmands. Repeated and extensive contact with noodles and noodle-like substances results in the ability to manipulate, levitate, and eventually command filaments of processed starch.

Most noodlemancers use their knack for creating gravity-defying dishes or fine-tuning the consistency of their pasta for the perfect al dente feel. The “dancing rigatoni” from Shaper’s Row in Naples and the “thousand dragon lo mein” found throughout Taipei are perhaps the best-known examples of this.

There are fewer records of noodlemancy being used for offensive or defensive purposes, but such cases do exist. A 15th-century Tuscan noodlemancer once used his knack to strangle patrons and steal their valuables; oral tradition holds that he was defeated by a rival spaghetti spellbinder in an epic duel involving nearly a ton of fresh lasagna. The Despot of Dalmatia, who had risen to power from humble origins, reportedly used noodlemancy to foil coup attempts by surrounding himself with a whirling shield of linguini.

The legendary Antonio Calvini, long revered as a master of nearly every known magical knack, reportedly used noodlemancy as a tool of assassination, causing wealthy targets to choke on their dinners. At his execution in 1899, noodles were among the 1,770 items carefully removed from a one-mile radius to prevent their use in an escape attempt.

 

January 1, 2012

From “A Crucial Curse” by Bates T. Rolyat

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“And this,” the Omnitron said with a wave of its clawed manipulator, “is Zeke Fiddlewood.”

The new recruit took in the portly man before him, from his stained beater shirt to his long grey greasy hair. “The janitor?”

“Negative. In 1984, a voodoo priestess cursed Zeke when his lawn service ran over her prize azaleas. She condemned him to be ‘as dumb as the day is long.'”

“I believe it. So he’s here to cancel out the rest of the genius?”

“Of course not,” the Omnitron said, its synthesized speech sounding vaguely offended. “The Agency sent him to Antarctica. Now, for six months out of the year, he’s the smartest human being on the planet.”

 

November 18, 2011

From “The Tale of Nfashō in the Illustrious North” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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In the region of the Illustrious North, where the rule of the Son of Heaven was not yet universally acknowledged, many arrived seeking to gain favor with the imperial court through the subjugation of rebels and barbarians.

One such traveler was Nfashō, a man of modest birth who had once enjoyed a position of considerable influence thanks to his silver tongue and gift for unabashed toadying. A change in daimyo had gone ill for him; the nephew of the deceased lord was a coarse man with no need for flattering courtiers.

In order to make a name for himself and to provide another comfortable position with another daimyo–or perhaps even the Son of Heaven himself–Nfashō spent his savings to outfit an expedition to the Illustrious North. He hoped that by hiring skillful yet disgraced men at arms, he could reap glory for himself against the barbarians with little cost.

He was wrong.

 

November 16, 2011

From “The Ntishan Throne” by Magdalena Elise Mueller

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“Ha!” Carver said, his lips thick with mead and meat. “Many a starry-eyed dreamer has sought out to reclaim the Ntishan Throne, and they’ve all failed. The Empire was a long time ago, and we’re all too different and too mistrustful after a thousand years of war.”

“So people say,” Melly said evenly.

“Tell me then, how are you different from all the others? How do you propose that someone without title, property, or wealth–and a woman no less–will succeed where men with ample measures of all three have failed?”

“I won’t,” Melly replied. “They’ll lift me up on their shoulders and beg me to take the throne.”

The old general gave a bawdy laugh. “Just like St. Honorius, huh? And why, pray tell, would they do that?”

“To protect themselves from a far greater threat of course.”

“And what might that be?”

“Why, you of course.”

 

November 2, 2011

From “Island of Souls” by Joe Kull

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“That’s right. This peninsula–this island–was designed as a massive conductor of spirit energy. It attracts, traps, harnesses. Murder births the power, makes it grow, taints living souls to spread death and destruction.” The Cajun tightened the noose around his own neck.

“But why?” Vincent cried. His words should have been drowned out by the storm, but somehow they carried. “What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“Immortality,” the Cajun said. “That was the plan, at least at first. But things have reached a tipping point, now. The massacre, the bombings, the war…it was too much. The ritual, if performed now, would result in soulstorm, in annihilation! The only hope is to join the flow and hope to direct it.”

“You’re insane!” Schiller cried from below. He tried to train his machine pistol on the Cajun, but the church’s architecture prevented a clean shot.

“Remain among the living much longer and you’ll see exactly what I mean,” the Cajun cackled. “Only the act of self-sacrifice will-”

He was cut short. Two massive, red stains were blossoming out on his white shirt; the Cajun barely had time to regard them with shock before plummeting. Caught in the noose, he swung freely in the church atrium.

Cobh appeared behind him, revolver in hand. “…deliver the power to one who can use it,” he finished.

 

October 17, 2011

From “The Darkwood Covenant” by Lawerence Boyd McKee

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The Vle-Ya were willing to palaver with humans, but found it difficult to do so. The slightest touch of sunshine or snow was unbearable for them, and the tongues of mankind were, to their ears, so slow and stilted that misunderstandings were common. For every human who listened to a Vle-Ya speak of what their long years had taught them–the lay of the land, how to grow and harvest, what the trees and animals wished to say had they the tongues for it–there was another who found them insulting, frightening.

They had been in decline for many years before mankind had arrived; tradition held that the number of Vle-Ya had been set at the dawning of the world, and they did not deign to reproduce–every encounter that ended in bloodshed and every accident in the dark and secret parts of the forest diminished them forever. In time, the leader of the Darkwood Vle-Ya, Ervolos, called for the mayor of Brightspear to parley at forest’s edge at midnight on midsummer.

The exact words between them were taken to Mayor Burrowe’s grave, but he reported that Ervolos had spoken of the dwindling of his people, and that there were no longer enough to discharge their traditional duties as keepers of the forest. He charged the humans with its stewardship and opened the lands to settlement. He and the remaining Vle-Ya departed the next day, never to be seen again. Some say they settled in a smaller forest near Harwickshire, others that they walked into the sea at Durnsmere.

But every family that settled in Darkwood kept their memory alive through the telling of tales, and many a farmer felling trees and clearing the land has worried what might happen should the Vle-Ya return.

 

October 5, 2011

From “The October Solution” by James A. K. Smithe

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The revels at court went on long into the night. When his guards attempted to wake him, however, they found King Francis III unresponsive. Over the course of the evening he had been stabbed through the heart with a miniature stiletto which had blended in with his festive clothing, worn thick against the October chill.

The event caused an uproar, with courtiers scrambling over one another–many still bleary from the night before–to implicate enemies and exonerate themselves. Matters were made worse by the uncertainty of succession; Francis III was only betrothed, not yet married, and had no brothers or uncles, and had in fact been a compromise between two other claimants. It fell to the captain of the guard, a man not a generation removed from low birth, to decide the next step.

His solution was to execute every courtier, noble, guard, and page in the room with Francis III when he died.

 

September 25, 2011

From “Fall of the City of Brass” by Carlos Juvenal Schmidt

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Estaban appeared in the subtle way people appear in dreams: one moment he wasn’t there, had never been there, could never be there.

The next, he was and had always been.

“You can’t fool me, Esteban,” Jan whispered, fighting whatever sorcerous glamor suffused the area. “I know what will happen if I shatter the crystal, if I read the spell.”

“Yes, you do.” His hands were on her shoulders now, a gentle caress. “You’ll have the power that you’ve always dreamed of, from your first days in that Latónian gutter to your appearance at court mere weeks ago. The power to reshape the world, to remake it in your own image–a more compassionate, more just image.”

Even as the rational part of her mind cried out that Esteban was employing his most powerful sorcery, Jan felt her instincts move in the opposite direction. Esteban was a snake, a traitor…but even treacherous serpents could be right once in a while.

 

September 17, 2011

From “Botchpot” by Brandon Ellis Civert

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“Which one of you here is Leah Botchpot?”

A loud clang echoed from the furthest part of the kitchen, and a puddle of steaming water spread out from behind one of the many fireplaces.

“Does that answer your question?” the head cook said.

Henry made his way back and stepped briskly through the spill to find a woman on her knees with a rag, furiously trying to soak the water up.

“Oh, is it any wonder they only trust me to boil water?” she muttered.

“Leah Botchpot, is it?” said Henry. “I need to talk to you about your father.”

“He’s dead,” the woman said without looking up. “If he hadn’t been friends with the owner I’d have been fired long ago, but I can’t say he’s done much else for me lately.”

“And his research? His notes?”

Leah Botchpot looked up. “His what?”

 

September 16, 2011

From “Hunter’s Mark” by T. W. Reyauld

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I know what it is like to be alone, without identity, without family, without memory. I am Sigma Albion, and I don’t know what, or who, I truely am. My life before the age of ten is a gaping void, with only a dim, dreamlike recollection of burning flames and the name ‘Sigma’ known to me.

I awoke near the a great city, dirty, naked, and alone–resorting to petty thievery to survive. Caught by the guardswhile stealing a bread loaf, I was taken to the town orphanage. There I met Helma Albion, the nurse who is my first recollection of kindness in this bleak world. She cared for me so tenderly that I often imagined her as my mother, or as my mother must have been. I remained at the orphanage for five years, until the elderly Helma died.

I struck out on my own, under cover of darkness, determined to carve a place for myself in the world, and taking the old woman’s family name as my own as a reminder that compassion does exist. I was unprepared for the rigors of travel, however, and nearly met my end at the hands of bandits. A guard patrol came to my aid, and I remained in the area for three years. I trained vigorously under the captain of the guard there, determined to be able to protect myself from the dangers that the open road holds.

I set off the night before I was to be officially initiated into the local guard. A rumor had come to the barracks, telling of a similar case of lost identity. However, the person had vanished by the time I reached the city, and I once more found myself dominated by others–not through steel this time, but through a honeyed tongue. I became a bounty hunter, chasing down those my ‘master’ convinced me were standing in my way. My final mission was to track a pair of thieves who had robbed a nobleman. It wasn’t easy, but I finally cornered Nyla Corvus and Jinx Galien after a month of pursuit. Nyla’s uncle, Miller, intervened. He stood, unarmed between my cowering marks and I. “Would you truly reward one injustice with another?” he asked.

 

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