Sneak Peek - Abandoned Towers Magazine Issue3

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Abandoned Towers Magazine

2nd Trimester 2009

The stories in this magazine are works of fiction. Places, events, and situations in the stories are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. No part of this magazine may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the editor or publisher. Abandoned Towers is published three times a year on March 1, July 1 and Nov. 1, by Cyberwizard Productions, 1205 N. Saginaw Blvd. #D, PMB 224, Saginaw, TX, 76179. ISSN 1945-2861 (print) ISSN 1945-287X (online) Managing Editor - Crystalwizard Copy Editor - Lucille P Robinson Forum Administrator - Stephen Morgan Editorials - Bill Weldon Editorial Staff: Michael Griffiths Paul McDermott Daniel Devine Ramon Rozas

Ed McKeown Timothy Ray Jones Chris Silva Thom Olausson Grady Yandell Heather Wilkinson Cortny Woodworth

Front cover art: A Levianthan Ascendant by Richard H. Fay Periodicals postage paid at Saginaw, and at additional mailing locations. Postmaster: send address changes to Cyberwizard Productions, Saginaw, TX. Abandoned Towers Magazine© 2009 Cyberwizard Productions Individual art and written content © 2009 to the originating author or artist. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this magazine may copied by any method or used for any purpose other than personal reading enjoyment without written permission from the publisher. Permission is hereby granted for the perchaser of this issue to make copies of the coloring page for personal use only. Such personal use shall be limited to the perchaser and his or her family. (In plain English tha tmeans that if you bought this issue then you can make copies for yourself, your kids, grandkids or other personal relatives, but you can’t make copies for your friends, your kids friends, your students or any other people not related to you. If someone else bought this issue, then you need to buy your own copy of it if you want to copy the coloring page.) i

Table of Contents July Editorial: A Different Path - Bill Weldon, Editor

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Featured Story The Ghost of Preston Manor By S.J. Higbee

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Short Stories The Crystal Cage By Timothy A. Sayell Spirits By Jaleta Clegg A Fish was I By David J. Cohen Fireworks at the Check-out By Samantha Priestley Treasure By Aurelio Rico Lopez III  Dr. Talbot’s Cider  Political Camp Pains by Jonathan D. Scott Dungeons and Dental Plans By Tim McDaniel The Time to Strike By Andrew Braun Pests By Aurelio Rico Lopez III Missing in Action By Bruce Durham The Mailbox By Colin P Davies Another Piece of Pie By C.E. Chaffin Eternity’s Prelude By Tommy B. .Smith The Witch of the Westmoors By Jeff Draper Realities By Lyn McConchie Pathless By Michael D. Griffiths And the Wind Sang By Bradley H. Sinor The Thousandfold Magic By TW Williams

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Poetry Weights By Harry Calhoun Reptile Bushido By Scott E. Green Cricket’s Melody By Del Cain The Shadow By Carol Allen

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Special Features Interview with Scott Green The Death of Batman by Eric S. Brown Pernese Picnic (serves 8-10) Created by Jaleta Clegg A Leviathan Ascendant Coloring Page by artist Richard H. Fay

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25 85 87 56

July Editorial: A Different Path For centuries the vast majority of fiction stories have been based on real places, real events, or familiar surroundings. While this is great entertainment, the writer is restricted to familiar plots and places. Enter a group of literary pioneers to take the reader into unknown realms. The likes of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, as well as David Lasser, Stanley G. Weinbaum, Hugo Gernsback, and Sam Moskowitz. daringly introduced the world to science fiction. They gave us time machines, space travel and far fetched stories of future possibilities. Lewis Carroll told the story of a young girl stumbling into a world run by rabbits, Cheshire cats, and mad hatters. Mark Twain temporarily stepped away from his tales of Americana to send us on a fantasy trip to King Arthur’s court. J.R.R. Tolkien and Stephen Lawhead took us to different worlds to fight many forms of evil. Stepping away from what is normal and usual to write about strange and unknown frontiers can be overwhelming. Science fiction, fantasy, and sword and sorcery writers take that plunge every day. There are no dates, facts, or places to authenticate. They are limited only by their imaginations. Writers of these genres must struggle to make their imaginings believable with a certain degree of reality. They must put forth the same effort as any other author, no matter what their choice of genre. While writing can be a very enjoyable career, it can also be the most frustrating. Readers of Sci-fi, fantasy and S&S, relish the entertainment and escapism offered by these writers. Writers of these genres find an outlet for their creativity that can be therapeutic. Every issue of Abandoned Towers contains stories and artwork from around the world to engage our readers and motivate writers and artists. The editorial staff hopes you find enjoyment and incentive as you delve into the nether worlds between our covers. Bill Weldon, Editor

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comed into the nurturing embrace of the Trycadian Empire before they could be exploited by some unscrupulous kingdom or other. Where was I, Hazerium? Oh, yes! Thelosius! He was granted a stark, cold keep overlooking a tiny village in a vale at the foot of the mountains. The little valley was surrounded on three sides by tall, steep mountains making it highly defensible and sheltered from the cruel winds. However, it was susceptible to small but regular avalanches. The place was named Vesterholt long before Thelosius got there. But within three days, our countrymen began calling it ‘the Snowbowl’. After a week of freezing misery, witnessing Thelosius issue proclamation after boring proclamation… something interesting happened in the village. I looked down from the keep and saw a gathering in the village square below. It set my insatiable storyteller-senses aflame, and I simply had to find out what was going on. So, quick as a wink, I rushed to discover the goings-on among the natives. It was a fellow named Rolglor who’d been out checking his traps for rabbits or wolves or some such, and found something he did not expect. It was one of his own, a Holgonn, though apparently from the village of Zowtholt. The poor fellow was beaten and bloodied, and I understand he breathed his last just mere moments ere I arrived. “I found him just beyond my farthest trap,” Rolglor told his fellow villagers, the Trycadian soldiers, and me. “He’d been badly hurt. I think the cold kept him alive so long. He was babbling about a magician who’s claimed the abandoned tower not far away, and goblins, and a kidnapped princess!” “Goblins! Here?” I exclaimed, along with a few others in the crowd. All of the Holgonn spun in place for a single revolution, and then spat upon the snowy ground. One of the soldiers said,” Lord Thelosius will not like goblins in his territory, whether they are the servants of a magician or not!” “I know where this man was found, and his tracks should be easy enough to follow,” said Rolglor. “Tell your Lord that I shall scout ahead and gather what information I can for the soldiers

The Crystal Cage By Timothy A. Sayell Illustration by A.R. Stone

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azerium, my friend! It’s been a dog’s age since last I’ve seen you! I’ve been abroad, didn’t you know? By invitation of a very good friend of mine. You recall Thelosius the Centurion? He is now one of the sovereign Lords, charged with watching over the Holgonn Territories in the name of the Mother Empire! Thelosius sent for me especially, you see. Oh yes!”Ganderamathrus,” he said to me.” Please, I implore you to come and witness first hand the dramatic changes I shall introduce to this land.” How could I refuse an invitation like that, I ask you? Exotic lands and exotic peoples mean exotic stories! What an opportunity and what a terrible place it is, Hazerium! Picture it: the Holgonn Territories, far north of our beloved Trycadia, beyond even the arid plains of Yzaruam and the rolling steppes of Engathar. It is a place of unforgiving mountains and slanted fields of snow. I swear upon the grave of the First Emperor, it is always winter there. If my visit told me one thing, it is that the Holgonn are in desperate need of our guidance and leadership. They are a simple, superstitious, and uncivilized people. Instead of togas, they all—men and women alike — wear trousers and tunics made of… yak-skins… or something equally unpleasant. Still, they are an intimidating lot. They are all bred tall and wide-in-the-shoulder up in Holgonn. A strong and burly people, and small wonder. Their legends all claim they are somehow descended from an extinct nation of giants. Nonetheless, a remarkable people, with surprising talents! They are skilled hunters and skinners. They know the intimate secrets of metalsmithing, supposedly a knowledge their ancestors stole from the dwarves long ago. And sailing! I’m told they are sailors and ship-builders without peer! Hmm, you know, it’s actually quite lucky for those simple barbarians that they were wel1

he is sure to send.” As I recall, he said these words with great respect and admiration. Though, had I not spent a week among their funny manners and customs, I should have mistaken his tone for sarcasm. The soldier consented and rushed to the keep. The barbarian adjusted the heavy sword strapped to his back, then turned without saying another word and trudged back into the snow. And I followed him. Well, I had to, didn’t I? We all know what those simple barbarians are like. Their primitive minds would jumble all the facts into gibberish. In order to obtain all the proper facts and put them into the proper perspective for the story’s maximum potential… Well, I just had to go with him. He asked me why I was going, too, nervy fellow. “I am Ganderamathrus, a teller of tales,” I told him, “and I go where the story wills. What is your name?” Please understand that I spoke much more slowly to him than I am now speaking to you. I was fortunate. Except for his weird Holgonnic accent, he followed the Emperor’s tongue well enough, as long as I avoided the use of large or even medium sized words. “I am called Rolglor,” he said to me, poorly hiding his awe and reverence of my Empirical heritage behind a phony sneer. “I am a hunter. The animals I trap provide the village with meat to eat and skins to wear.” I smiled at his effort to impress me. “Very admirable! I mean, very good and noble of you!” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. It is the way they show appreciation in his culture, so I’ve observed. Hazerium, I can honestly say that I spent more time out in the snow that day than I ever in my life wanted to! And if I have my say, I never shall again! Rolglor told me it was no more than an hour ere we found the farthest of his traps, but I do not think his primitive mind keeps an accurate account of time. A dozen yards beyond that trap was the spot where he found his dying countryman. The barbarian pointed at the shallow crater in the snow, at the end of a shallow trench. “This is where I found the Zowtholter,” he said placidly. “He stopped crawling here. Come on.” He headed

off deeper into the woods, following the trench. Before too long we found the place where the Zowtholter had fallen. The snowy ground was trampled; footsteps over footsteps, and Rolglor said it had been the site of a small battle, perhaps with the goblins. To know for certain, we followed the footprints. “Do you suppose that Zowtholter was trying to save the princess?” I asked as we picked our way through the woody foothills. “But couldn’t get past the magician’s goblins?” “Perhaps,” Rolglor replied, his steely eyes ever-wary of our surroundings. “The Zowtholters often cross the mountains into Engathar. There is much trade and mercenary work to be had with the chieftains of that land.” “I see!” said I through a gleeful grin. “Or,” he continued, “perhaps he was no more than a hunter, like me, who wandered too close to the magician’s tower.” “Oh,” said I, disappointed this time. It was about that time that we found the clearing. In it was a great white slope skirting the rocky outcropping low on the mountain. Upon that outcropping, just where it ought to be, stood the ancient tower. Its great bricks had been carved out of the mountains themselves. Its top was crowned with horns. I’ve done a bit of research since, and apparently this tower once marked a caravan route through the mountains into Engathar. There ought to be another up in the mountains someplace, and a third where the path meets up with Engathar’s rolling steppes. Something curious as well: I couldn’t find any reason for them to stop using that route. There must be a story there somewhere… Oh! Sorry Hazerium, I apologize for my distraction, but that route’s demise does intrigue me! On with the current story then. The way up to the tower was easy enough to follow. There was a roadway, covered with a skin of packed snow, compressed by a fair amount of foot traffic. We could have followed it high into the mountains, I suppose, but we only went to the tower’s wide steps. A courtyard was at the top of that short stairway, surrounded by a stone wall only three feet 2

tall. There was snow there, too, swept up against the wall in dunes while the center of the courtyard was mostly clear. Clear save for splotches of red, the spilled lifeblood of fallen Zowtholters, four of them. Rolglor looked the place over, turning bodies and weapons over with his foot. His piercing eyes examined the floor for footprints, but there were none that I could see. He glanced with some concern at the double doors left ajar, that led into the darkened keep. “These men fought hard,” he said at long last, “They are Holgonn, great fighters. They should be avenged.” I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, Hazerium, how fiercely that statement seized me. I was certain a worthy story would unfold, and here it was, doing just that, right before my eyes! All it needed was a little… nudge. “Yes, and avenged they shall be!” I made sure to sound excited, Hazerium. Barbarians are sometimes thick of brains, as I know you understand. “For when Lord Thelosius’ men arrive, these goblins shall be shown the price for murdering people under Trycadia’s protection!” “The Holgonn need no protecting!” he growled at me. “We avenge our own!” I must have smirked. I simply hadn’t expected it to be quite that easy, yet the hook wasn’t set all the way. I looked askance at my reluctant barbarian and affected a doubtful tone. “Do you mean to say that you are going into that tower to kill those goblins, and the wizard, and save the princess?” His expression transformed into one of confusion. “Well…,” he stammered, and I began to worry that I’d pushed too hard. I smiled and raised one hand in a calming gesture. “That’s all right, Rolglor. No one expects you to do anything heroic.” “Heroic?” “Yes, yes. You are simply Rolglor the Hunter. No more, and no less,” I said in my most understanding tone. “No one will be disappointed in you, or think you a coward. Why, none have any reason to expect you to be brave.” His eyes flashed and I took a step back,

concerned that I might have gone a bit too far. “I am brave!” he insisted with more intensity than I had expected. “Of course you are,” I attempted to assure him and regain control. “But to kill those goblins…the wizard… To save the princess… These are not jobs for a simple hunter. No, you would have to be a Great Hero. You would have to be Rolglor… the… “ A terrible thing happened at that moment, Hazerium. I was so flustered that my mind went blank! Words, which are ever my servants and friends, failed me and I simply could not produce an adjective that would make a good title for a barbarian such as him. I floundered. “Rolglor the what?” he insisted. So I said the first word to spring into my mind: “Palindromic.” He peered at me distrustfully through narrow eyes. “What does that word mean? Why not Rolglor the Good? Or the Strong? Or the Mighty?” I chuckled at his ignorance. “There are heroes already claiming those titles. Fear not, Palindromic suits you. It, uh, means all those other things… and more!” He considered it for a moment, and then shrugged. “Fine, we shall go inside. No Hero who awaits soldiers could dare to call himself Palindromic.” I smiled and held my tongue. Rolglor drew the sword from his back, turned, and eyed the doorway with childlike trepidation. We trembled in the cold mountain winds for long moments while he stared stupidly. Overcome with the cold and impatience, I said, “Well?” “It is unlucky to enter a wizard’s house for the first time through the front door,” he said. Have you ever heard such nonsense? If you listened to a superstitious oaf like him, you’d think a wizard was some fantastical beast and not a man at all! Naturally, his prejudiced comment offended me, and I fear I snapped at him, risking the wellbeing of the story. “We espied no other entrance, you ignorant fool!” He grimaced and sheathed his sword. “I will not set off some spell cast to safeguard this gateway! You are from the Empire of Wizards, you 3

should know of many curses that could be placed to fall on the uninvited guest.” Ah ha! My stalwart hero unwittingly presented me with the answer to this problem!” I do, indeed,” I said, feeling rather coy. “And also the chant to ward off such affects. I will teach it to you, if you will scout out the tower.” He was most eager to learn it. So I showed to him a game the children play, with much clapping and the slapping of one’s own shoulders and knees. Also, I taught him the nonsense chant “Owahta Phool Eyeyam.” Satisfied with his safety, he drew his sword and slipped into the keep. I wiped a tear from my eye, and followed. The entry hall was frigid, and cobwebs filled the corners. Platters of half-eaten food rested on a table with stout legs. A time-worn tapestry lay in a heap on the floor by a wall. Looking around, awed by that historical place and the stories which must have occurred there, I jumped when Rolglor spoke without so much as a hint of warning. “Story-man! You are Trycadian. Tell me… what sort of wizard would deal with goblins?” “Not a Trycadian wizard,” I sniffed haughtily. “A Gyltari or perhaps a Karithman. Evil and wizardry are common in both kingdoms. Why?” Rolglor sighed. “To hunt a wolf, you must know it.” I will spare you the step-by-step search of the keep, Hazerium. Suffice it to say that my new barbarian hero was a finely trained hunting dog. He tracked the goblins through the winding passages and I’ve no idea how he could have done it, lest he smelled them. Of course, I followed him. Down halls, through rooms, and to a stairwell that led down to an utterly dark basement level. We returned upstairs and sought out a room with a blazing hearth, where upon we seized a burning piece of firewood to use as a torch, and then continued down. We crept through a hall down there when we turned a corner and saw a light through an open door ahead of us. Rolglor turned to me, raised one finger to his lips, and then tip-toed toward the door. Being the smart one, I remained at the corner with the torch. From my vantage point, I

watched him creep stealthily to that doorway and peer inside. Then his fingers tightened about the hilt and he charged in with his sword high. That was when the screams began. Obviously, a heroic deed such as this is meaningless without a witness to verify it so I betook myself to trod softly down that dark hall and peeked into the room. It was not a very large room. Boxes and debris were piled by the walls, a statue stood in the center of the room on a squat pedestal. There were goblins there, but not the goblins I was expecting! I expected the stout green goblins known to wander the Engatharian steppes. Instead, these were thin, red-skinned devils from the cursed Yzaruam deserts. Their scimitars flashed dangerously in the light of those long brass teapots the Yzari call lamps. There had been three of them, but one was bleeding on the floor by the time I arrived. “Yooman, you die now!” the others were screaming. But he didn’t, of course! No, he parried and dodged, thrust and feinted, and all those other things that swordsmen do. In frustration, one goblin threw its lamp at him. The oil splashed all over the barbarian’s tunic and caught fire. He didn’t seem to notice, but the goblins’ eyes went wide in terror. “You spilled Holgonn blood!” he cried amid hacks and slashes, felling another goblin so only one remained. “You no keep me from cellar! We find statue’s secret!” the red goblin snarled at him, “The princess is mine!” The barbarian let out a mighty roar, and ran his sword through the goblin’s chest. The Yzari devil choked on a cry, fell to his knees, and then slid off the sword to the floor. Rolglor stood over him, glaring down at the body for a moment then, as the flames licked at his face, he rushed to remove the thick flaming tunic and carelessly tossed it onto a pile of splintered boxes to which the fire quickly spread. “Did you hear the goblin’s words, storyman?” he cried as he slipped the baldric over his head again. “There is a princess here!” “Yes, I also heard something about the 4

statue having a secret.” He frowned at the small stone figure critically, stroking his cheeks like some smart men do when lost in thought. It was a crude little statue of a warrior with fists on hips, standing perhaps four feet tall. At last he said, “Well, I see no words carved on the statue or the stand.” I nodded and realized it was time for a little nudge. “Didn’t that goblin say something about you keeping him from the cellar? I thought we were in the cellar!” The barbarian nodded slowly for a moment. Then his head jerked back in my direction, with eyes and grin wide as they could go. “Aha! Perhaps it’s like a pit trap!” On the inside I was smiling, on the outside I frowned. “A what?” “A pit trap!” he enthused. “You dig a pit and cover it with branches, then an animal comes along and falls in!” With just the right dubious tone I asked, “You think this statue is covering some way down to a deeper floor?” “Yes I do!” he cried as he grabbed the statue’s shoulders and heaved, muscles straining, and grunting with effort. One side of the pedestal rose shakily from the floor. Rolglor grunted some more, pushed some more, and tipped the statue so it was dangerously balanced on one edge of its stand. I rushed over and looked. “You were right! There is a shaft here. And a rope!” The rope was tied around a wide stone ring which was attached to the bottom of the pedestal and knotted every foot or so. Right at that moment, the statue fell over and landed on the stony floor with a loud thud. I must confess Hazerium, the sound startled me and I jumped, but Rolglor didn’t seem to fright. He was panting and rubbing his arms, staring down the shaft beneath the statue. By this time, the goblins’ Yzari lamps and the barbarian’s fiery tunic had caught the boxes and other debris aflame, filling the small room with ample light. So he took the torch from me, his sweat glistening in the firelight, and dropped it down the shaft. “We must hurry,” he said as he sat upon

the lip of the shaft, “The goblins are sure to have heard that.” Then he reached for the rope and froze still. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the hand of one of the dead goblins. I looked and saw the gleam, also. I crossed over for a closer look. “It is a ring.” I plucked it from the goblin’s finger and examined it. “It has the word ‘Truth’ inscribed upon it. Hmm, wonder what that means?” “Who cares? Hand it here.” said Rolglor. I gave him the ring and he slipped it onto his finger and gasped in awe as it expanded to fit over his thick digit. “Did you see that?” he cried with enthusiasm. “I wonder what other treasures they might have… “ With that he went to each of the bodies and rooted through whatever pockets and pouches he could find amongst their ragged clothes. He found little of interest, and less of value, but he did find a well-worn scrap of papyrus which he held to me and said, “There is some writing on this, I cannot read.” I took the paper from him and recognized the ornate curlicues of the flowing Yzari script. “It says, ‘The Ring of Truth Shatters The Fragile Glass of Lies’. Hmm, another puzzle!” “Bah!” he said, as he waved dismissively at the strange clue. “Come along, story-man! We must be getting close!” Then he shimmied down the rope, quick as a blink. Once we got to the bottom, there was no trick to deciding which way to go — there was only one hall to follow and light came through the door at the end. Rolglor handed me the torch and we continued on. The corridor ended at a wide chamber, empty of furniture, save a quartet of blazing braziers, one in each corner. I deposited the torch in one of them and turned my attention to the woman in the center of the room. Tall, shapely, statuesque. Long flowing hair adorned by jewelry about her head, gems about her neck, her wrists, and her ankles. She wore one of those funny outfits, like a dancing girl in the court of some Yzari desert sheik. Oh yes, Hazerium, she was imprisoned of course! She was trapped inside a giant shard of what seemed to be ice that floated above a skull 5

upon which weird runes were inscribed. She saw us as we entered and pressed against the transparent walls from within, screaming pleas I’m quite sure, though we could not hear. “That must be the princess!” Rolglor exclaimed as he rushed into the room. “She is trapped by the magician!” “Yes,” said I, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps the magician is an Elementalist. Perhaps he specializes in Water-Magic and thus encased her in this ice.” “An Ice-Mage, eh?” the barbarian said as he drew his sword. He looked at the girl in her scant outfit. “We’d best save her before she dies of cold, then!” Before I could reason with him, Rolglor drew back his sword and swung. He managed such a heavy blow that had his blade managed to shatter the magical cage, it would also have cut through the girl’s waist. Fortunately, the sword didn’t break the spell. I rushed to join him, and then almost lost my composure in mirth! The bumbling fool was still vibrating from the impact when I reached his side. I examined the cage where Rolglor’s sword struck and saw nary a mark. With a frown, I cautiously prodded the spot with one finger and made a startling discovery: “It’s not cold! It’s not ice!” “Oh,” said the barbarian, scratching his head. “Not an Ice-Mage, then?” I examined the cage, sliding my hands over the faceted surface as the girl within watched us anxiously. “I think this is some sort of crystal,” I sagely said. The barbarian frowned. “What then? A Crystal-Wizard?”

You know, I glared at him in much the same way you are glaring at me now, Hazerium. I was dumb-founded by it, but I’m sure he didn’t even realize what he’d said. After all, how could an ignorant barbarian know of the great crystal statue in Sadurnius Square? “How are we supposed to get her out of the wizard’s crystal cage?” he wondered aloud. “I don’t know.” I said as I watched her pounding against the walls and crying, almost certainly, for help. She was beautiful in that cocoon, and I felt a great swell of pity for her. “Poor girl. To be able to see people who can help her and not be able to touch them, to speak to them. No wonder she screams out at us, desperate and frustrated.” “I know why the caged girl screams!” Rolglor barked indignantly. Then his face softened. “I just don’t know how.” “What?” “How can she breathe in there?” he gestured toward the crystal. “There can be no airholes, or we’d hear her.” Suddenly I was impressed with him. “Very astute of you!” “I did not!” he barked in reply, fixing me with an accusatory glare. “Don’t blame me for your wind!” With a quiet groan, I rolled my eyes and saw the princess franticly pointing past us. The goblins were upon us. The goblins hollered out in anger and we turned as they raised their wickedly curved scimitars and charged. Rolglor pushed me aside and began swinging his long sword with fervor. He fought well against the small horde, yet though goblins fell, some dead, most merely wounded, they finally wrested his mighty blade away from him. Undaunted, he fought on, his meaty fists cracking goblin jaws. But that was not how he won 6

that battle, if ‘won’ is the correct word. No, he won by missing. He swung, you see, and the goblin dodged. So instead, Rolglor’s fist, the one wearing that ring, slammed against the crystal. And the crystal cracked. The battle ceased instantly, all eyes watching as the cracks raced up and around that crystal cocoon. The barbarian and the goblins alike forgot their skirmish and backed away. None too soon, either, for the crystal shattered, littering the room. I pulled my arm from my face, Hazerium, and then I saw the princess. She had fallen to the floor, her long scraggly hair hiding her face like a curtain. She pressed her rough red hands against the flagstones and pushed herself to a squat standing position. I was shocked speechless to see that the princess…was in reality a goblin! Her costume was the same, though her body was a cruel parody of the image in the crystal. She was short and pudgy, with unkempt wiry hair and red, rubbery skin. She looked about with bewildered eyes and finally asked, “What has become of the yoo-mans?” “They are here, O Hargrah!” one goblin obediently stated, indicating Rolglor and myself. The goblin princess frowned. “Where are the others? There were a dozen or so…and only two of you! Where did the rest of you warriors come from?” The goblins frowned and muttered among themselves. “There were only the two yoo-mans, Highness, and the one in the glass.” “I was in the glass, dolt!” Hargrah barked as she smacked the goblin. “You mean I went through all this to rescue a goblin!” Rolglor exclaimed in disgust. “It was not you, yoo-man!” Hargrah insisted. “I saw him clearly; he was a handsome and strongly-built goblin warrior!” “I think I could offer an explanation!” I announced. I plucked a crystal shard from the floor and held it up for all to see. “Behold the trickery infused upon this ensorcelled shard! It tricks the eyes so that humans appear as goblins, and goblins as humans!” I could tell by the outburst of gasps that they saw this to be true. “Tell me, please, O

Princess, how have you come to be here?” She sneered as she looked me up and down. “I am Hargrah, Daughter of the Big-Chief. I was kidnapped by the wizard Al-Qajara so my tribe would serve him. He took me up to this cold place, guarded by yoo-mans like him… “ Here she indicated Rolglor with a contemptuous gesture. “And locked me inside the magic glass. Now I understand why I saw so many goblins, and why they would not help me!” “Yes!” Rolglor blurted out. “They must have been Zowtholter mercenaries, hired by this wizard of yours!” “And the Big-Chief sent us to save you, Highness!” one of the goblins stepped forward. “He promised your hand in marriage to the warrior who freed you!” Everyone looked at the barbarian, who wore an expression of shock and dismay. “Uh… no thanks are needed!” “He killed our kin!” one goblin accused, pointing at the barbarian with a scimitar. “He should be killed in kind! “But he saved the princess!” another goblin announced. “We should take him back to the desert to present him to the Big-Chief and marry his Daughter!” “What?” Rolglor exploded. “I’m not going to any desert! And I don’t want to marry your princess!” He reached over his shoulder for his sword, but it wasn’t there. It was on the floor where some goblin had dropped it after wrestling it from his grasp. The goblin princess stood before him, hands on hips, and looked him over with a cold, appraising gaze. “You will come with us to the desert so my father can choose your fate,” she said sternly. “Or else we shall kill the both of you here and now.” A host of scimitars came uncomfortably close. Thus, my noble barbarian hunter made the supreme heroic sacrifice. Upon muttering, “Well, since you put it that way… “ they pulled their swords away. Thankfully, they only wanted to bother with Rolglor. They hastily departed from the tower, making for the mountain pass into Engathar. 7

But they left me there in the courtyard to await the coming of the Trycadian soldiers. I promised Rolglor I would tell them all that occurred, and with a look of relief, he went with the goblins. The soldiers arrived not much later, and I told them everything! I told them how he single-handedly drove those filthy goblins out of Holgonn! He had become a sort of local folk-hero in Vesterholt by the time I returned to Trycadia. And why shouldn’t he? His story had the sort of ending we want all stories to have…from a certain point of view. I mean, our simple hunter did go back to Yzaruam to marry the princess…. I suppose it also has a moral: to get all the facts before embarking on such quests! By the Seven Sacred Spells! When did the sun sink so low in the afternoon sky? I’m sorry, Hazerium, but I’m expected elsewhere! We should get together for lunch, sometime, perhaps in the Square, beneath the statue, eh? But for now, farewell my friend! The End

Clouds play tag with the moon overhead, casting racing pools of darkness over the grassy moorland. The unicorn snorts delicately, prancing lightly to avoid touching too many shadows. The figure it follows stretches the distance between them, reaching the stones and fading into their more ancient darkness. The figure reaches the center of the stone circle and stops, dark cloak billowing loosely. A hand reaches for the hood, pushing it back. Moonlight brushes over the scene, spilling silver light over the figure. He is young, not quite a man, but too old to be called child. Downy hair sprouts haphazardly from his chin. He swallows nervously, glancing at the lichen covered stones. A single hand reaches for the clasp of his cloak. It drops behind like a dark wing, leaving him exposed. He wears a strange assortment of leather straps, most looking as if they’ve been cut from an old plow harness. Clumsy stitches hold them together. A ragged pelt from a mangy rabbit serves as a loincloth. An ancient scabbard, much mended by an amateur hand, hangs at one side. The youth raises one fist to the stones. He clears his throat. “I come seeking truth!” he declaims. His voice squeaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “I come as a supplicant to the powers of the stones. Reveal my destiny this night!” He raises his fist to the sky. The velvet shadows of the stones swirl, moving curiously through the night. The youth drops his fist. He takes a step away, fear glints in his eyes. He trips over a knot of grass and tumbles to the ground. Ghostly laughter peals through the circle of stones. “Very impressive attack move you’ve got there.” A ghost warrior leans out of a stone, pulling himself free of its shadow. He stands over the youth, moonlight passing through the apparition. Three others float free, moving to join the first. They study the youth lying on the ground. Four barbarian lords, arrayed in spectral finery, kings of the moorlands centuries past, they are not easily impressed. “At least he’s trying,” one of them says, tug-

Spirits By Jaleta Clegg Illustration by T A Markitan

A

thick fog drifts over the ground beneath a gibbous moon, stirred by the passing of a tall, dark shape. Frogs stop their spring mating calls as the shadow sweeps by. All is still. A single frog peeps uncertainly. The fog parts again. A slender creature the size of a small goat, burning white in the moonlight, trots from the forest, following the shadow. It pauses, posing. Moonlight glistens on the single spiraling horn that lifts from the masses of curling white hair. The unicorn blinks its lavender eyes and dances on split hooves after the shadow. The shadow strides on, unaware of the unicorn. The land rises in undulating swells, cresting to a flat plain. Tall fingers of stone rise in the distance, a mysterious circle of monoliths. The shadow moves unhesitatingly towards them, mist and unicorn trailing at his heels. 8

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ging at its ear. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had it with those tree-hugging druids. Another chant about peace and love and I’m going to start appearing with my head cut off.” “Pitiful specimen, if you ask me,” another ghost speaks. “Nobody measures up to your standards,” the second specter replies. “If you ask me, this land could use heroes like us. It’s too tame these days. Nobody fights anybody. They just sit around and talk. Where’s the glory in that? Blood and gore, that’s where it’s at.” “I miss the ale,” the last specter sighs. “You just can’t get a good sloshing from spirit ale. It’s a pity that no one makes Dwarven beer anymore.” “That’s because the fools lost the recipe.” “The druids bring mead sometimes,” the third ghost says. “They pour it on the ground! I’m not licking it up from the mud!” “As if you could.” “Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it off!” “Blood and glory! YES!” The apparitions draw swords. “Stop it or I’ll seal you in your stone like poor Aelfwold,” the first ghost threatens. The three ghosts sheepishly sheathe their spectral blades. “Now, boy, tell us why you disturb us this night.” The first ghost nudges the youth with one hairy boot. The boot passes through the youth’s shoulder. The youth shudders and scrambles to his feet. He backs away a step before remembering his quest. He tries to speak. It comes out high and squeaky. He clears his throat. “I come as a supplicant in the name of Throthgar and Hroruridin and um, the three deities of-” “Yes, yes, get to the point,” the second ghost says peevishly. “You’re wasting moonlight.” “Uh,” the youth stammers. He mutters under his breath for a moment. He counts on his fingers. “Well?” the second ghost asks impatiently. “But the ritual naming of the glorious deeds of the great barbarian heroes,” the youth protests,

“the naming of the gods of the past, the recounting of the glories of Burtha. I mean there’s supposed to be lots of it.” “Why don’t you sing us a song about hugging trees and fluffy little bunnies?” the third ghost asks sarcastically. “I wouldn’t mind hearing about my great deeds,” the fourth ghost states. “They got it all wrong in the fifth verse,” the second ghost mutters. “Made me look like a bumbling farmer’s son.” The first ghost rolls his eyes. “Just tell us what you came here for.” The youth bobs his head and clears his throat again. It doesn’t help, his voice still cracks. “I come seeking my true name and destiny.” Silence fills the stone circle. The four ghosts trade glances, trying to suppress mirth. The youth looks about to cry. “Look, boy, you’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this,” the second ghost says, “so, not to be mean, but you really should just go home, find some farmer’s daughter and settle down somewhere.” “But I want to be a great barbarian hero, like you.” The youth’s chin quivers. The first ghost raises one eyebrow. “I am Tharg. I came here seeking the whatcha thingie that comes after my name. You know, like Yuru the Dark, or Gorlan the Slayer.” “Belio the Drunkard,” the second ghost says, eying the third ghost. “Tungar the Mud Eater,” the third ghost answers. The two ghosts growl and reach for swords. The first ghost raises a warning finger. They subside. “You’re supposed to bring your loyal companion with you to the naming,” the first ghost says to the youth. “That part of the ritual has to be observed.” The youth sags with disappointment. “He did,” the fourth ghost whines. “He brought that.” He points with a spectral finger at the white creature lurking furtively at the far edge of the circle. “What kind of a barbarian hero brings a unicorn as his loyal companion?” The third ghost 10

frowns at the creature. “You do know what that implies, boy?” “But she’s very nice,” the youth protests. “She’s very protective. I think she’s sweet.” He smiles insipidly at the unicorn. She tosses her curly mane and shoots an evil look at the barbarian ghosts. “Let’s all just have a big group hug, shall we?” The third ghost shakes his head and jams a fist into his beard. “So the unicorn is more than a little untraditional,” the second ghost says, “but it still fits the requirements. This is the first time in centuries we’ve been asked to do this. So give the boy some slack. A few years and the unicorn won’t be anywhere in the picture. Right, lad?” A look of puzzlement creases the youth’s face. “Never mind,” the first ghost says. “Tharg, you say? There is a price to this, you know.” “The books all agree it must be something most precious to me,” Tharg answers. He reaches into his rabbitskin loincloth. The four ghosts all shudder. “I think we can accept your pride as a good enough price,” the first ghost says hastily. “Anyone showing up with a unicorn at a barbarian circle has already sacrificed enough of it for a lifetime.” “But I brought this for you.” The youth pulls his hand free and opens it. A single glistening pebble rests on his palm. “I wasn’t sure where else to carry it. There aren’t any pockets.” “Worthless river rock,” the fourth ghost says. “It’s kind of pretty,” the third ghost comments. “It’s a nice token,” the first ghost says firmly. “Just put it in front of the tallest stone.” The youth kneels on the damp grass and sets the pebble in the shadow of the stones. He does his best not to shiver in the cold night breeze. “I like the goosebumps,” the second ghosts says to the third. “Kind of endearing.” “Like a big, clumsy puppy.” The youth stands and faces the specters. “My name?” he reminds them. The first ghost clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Your name and your destiny.” He puckers his lips,

thinking. Time passes. The fourth ghost lays down in the shadows and begins snoring. The second ghost fiddles with his sword. The third ghost eyes the unicorn speculatively. The unicorn lowers its head and threatens with its horn. The youth’s teeth begin to chatter. “Got it,” the first ghost announces. “From this day forth you shall be known as–” He pauses dramatically. “Wait for it,” the second ghost chants. The youth stops shivering, eyes agleam. “Yes?” The first ghost raises his fist into the air. “Tharg the Insipid.” Nothing moves. Even the mist quits billowing. “What?” The first ghost sighs. “Sorry, kid. You can try, but the fates just don’t have you cut out to be something great like Impaler or Destroyer or even Bloody. You’re just going to be Insipid.” “But what does it mean?” “Look it up, boy,” the second ghost says, but not too unkindly. The first ghost glances up at the moon. “Time is moving. Take your unicorn and go home, Tharg the Insipid.” Tharg’s shoulders slump a bit. He picks up his cloak from the ground and wraps it over the odd collection of leather straps he wears. He walks slowly from the circle, the unicorn trailing at his heels. It gives a last nasty look to the ghosts, snapping sharp teeth as a warning. The first ghost shakes his head. “Why did you have to go and do that?” the second ghost demands as the youth passes out of sight. “It could have been blood and glory again.” “Those days are past. Besides, that boy has a greater destiny waiting for him.” “Greater than being a barbarian hero?” “Oh, yes.” The ghosts begin to sink back into their stones. “He’s going to rediscover the recipe for dwarven beer. And he’s not going to forget us when he does. I’ll make certain of that.” 11

“The real stuff?” “Completely authentic.” “Dwarven beer passes the spirit barriers,” the fourth ghost says excitedly.

“Now you’re catching on.” A thick fog swirls around the standing stones, hiding them from view. Destiny stalks the moonlit night.

A Fish was I By David J. Cohen I think that once I was a fish And as a fish I’d often wish That ocean beds were filled with trees For oceans are quite bare of these But ‘neath their boughs the carp and I Could hide from shark and octopi And so ne’er fear to end a meal for hungry whale or gliding eel And under tree we fish and shrimp could frolic, party till we’re limp ‘til lumberjacks come swarming in and chop our trees to kindling

Illustrations by A.R. Stone

Shouldn’t it just happen without so much thought and effort going into it? That’s the way it had been with her husband. Natural. Organic. Meant to be. Fireworks when she looked at him. ‘£16.52, please.’ Jane turned back round and faced a man of around 45, with dark curly hair and sleepy blue eyes. Not bad, she thought. Not exactly drop-dead gorgeous, but not bad. ‘Sorry?’ she muttered. He grinned at her. ‘£16.52.’ he said. ‘Oh yes, sorry.’ Jane fumbled in her bag for the purse she’d bought in a Friday market while on a singles holiday in Gran Canaria the year before, and brought out a credit card. She was just watching the man behind the check-out take it from her hand, noting the clean fingernails and absence of a wedding ring and moving her eyes up to the badge on his uniform that read Mike, when the other man, the younger one in the next aisle who’d been so interested in her sad shopping, leaned over and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say anything before, but well, actually, I think that might have been my trolley.’ Jane stared at him. ‘What?’ Mike was looking from Jane to the items now strewn across the bottom of the conveyor belt. ‘Back there, before I joined my queue,’ the man said. ‘I think you might have taken my trolley by mistake.’ ‘What are you talking about? This is my shopping.’ The man cleared his throat, blushed like the bloom of a pink carnation, and held up a box of wine from his own pile of shopping. ‘I don’t like Cabernet Sauvignon.’ he said. ‘In fact, I don’t drink red wine at all. But I do usually buy that Chardonnay you’ve got over there. And the toilet tissue, I think you’ll find, is blue… like my bathroom.’ Jane turned the toilet tissue over and reread the label. Arctic blue. She looked over at the shopping still in his trolley and saw the pure white roll she always bought. He was right about the wine as well, Jane did always buy the red. She suddenly felt better. She wasn’t the only person with lonely shopping.

Fireworks at the Check-out By Samantha Priestley

J

ane had heard the supermarket was one of the best places to meet men these days. Unfortunately, the only one she’d seen so far had just moved away, staring into Jane’s junk-filled trolley with an alarmed look on his face. Still, at least he noticed her, which was more than could be said for the men in the library where she lingered on a Saturday afternoon. Or the gym, the local pub, t’ai chi at the church hall, the park where she walked her dog or the silent queues at the bus stop Jane stood in every morning. She’d tried it all. Had desperate written across her forehead, no doubt. She pushed her trolley to the check-out and began unloading her shopping. Steak and kidney pie. Toilet tissue. Small tub of ice cream – ok, not that small. Family sized chocolate cake and box of Chardonnay. She sat the Chardonnay down on the shaky conveyor belt and glanced up at the next check-out. He was still eyeing her sad shopping like it was a nest of wasps. Pity. He was really good looking, with soft brown hair like buffed up suede and dark eyes like chocolates that Jane couldn’t stop looking at. She shook herself. She was left with a plunge inside. Get real, she thought. Probably too young for her anyway. Mid-twenties, she guessed. Probably looking at Jane and hoping he’d never wind up so lonely. Probably got a gorgeous girlfriend at home who didn’t have shadows under her eyes and emotional baggage. So much for supermarket dating. At this rate Jane would have to start clubbing again, and she hadn’t done that since her husband… She turned the other way and slumped against the till. It was five years since her husband had died. A heart attack, aged thirty-seven. Five long years. Five years of steak and kidney pie for one, and comforting tubs of ice cream. After five years of being alone Jane knew she’d almost exhausted all respectable meeting places for people like herself. Now she was down to the desperation of bus queues and the freezer aisle at the local store. The trouble was it felt too much like hard work. It wasn’t fun. Shouldn’t you just meet someone? 13

We hope you enjoyed this sneak peak at Abandoned Towers Magazine, issue #3. If you would like your own copy, it’s easy to get. Just visit Abandoned Towers Magazine at http://cyberwizardproductions.com/AbandonedTowers and click on the small, rectangular icon on the home page with the words Print Issues. That’ll take you to a page with the covers of all of the issues that are in print. Just click on the cover of the one you want and you’ll be taken to the order page.