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Flashes of the Night

‘…and then a sailor told me to head to The End, to find work there.’

The flask was long empty and Flin was thirsty. She had told the whole story, of how she had arrived in Youlbridge, and how she had fled, the death of Kadan, meeting Lang, and then parting to find her home and her travels since. She felt tired.

‘And what now? Will you stay on Taura Furnace longer?’

Flin thought for a moment and shook her head.

‘No, or at least, not that much longer. It is time to move on. My friends, Shint, Niffen, and Ounell were also talking of leaving.’

‘You will go with them? Where?’

‘South. We want to see more of the islands. For me, using The Ribbon makes sense in the search for my home. It is an edge of the world, from what I understand, like the ice to the north and the ice to the south, no one can pass through to the other side. Can you?’

Leaf was silent for a moment, a look of pain on her face, deep, old pain.

‘No. I cannot. When the Ribbon was created during The Breaking, some of my closest friends, no!’ She paused, ‘Closer, they are closer—they are family of a sort. We were separated, some on one side, some on this with me.’

‘But that was thousands of years ago! How old are you?’ Flin was shocked. She had known the woman was older than she looked, had known from what she had already said, but timescales like that seemed too outlandish, too far-fetched to be real or plausible.

‘Much, much older than I look, and probably even older still. I told you, we have a way to stay sane, to stay who we are. One day, maybe, we will talk more about this.’

‘Will you not travel with me, with us?’

‘No. I think, from what you have told me, that I should travel to Youlbridge. It seems there are things I need to see there, and I have not been to that corner of the world for a long time. Yes. I will go far east, as you travel to the south.’

‘Did the sun really once rise in the west and set in the east?’

Leaf laughed at the question. The woman seemed reassuringly human, despite all she had said and done.

‘That depends on how you look at it. If you set the fact that the sun always rises in the east and sets in the west, then no. But, if you look at a compass and accept that if you face the rising sun, then north is on your left, then yes, for a time, I suppose it did. In reality, it’s a little more complex than that. Lang is the one to ask, when next your paths cross. He is far more of a scientist than I am. Or Erland. He records things, many things. He’ll probably know. I am a hunter and a warrior, there’s little else for me, although I do enjoy the simple pleasures in life too.’ She smiled at Flin.

‘Do you think I will see Lang again? I’d like that. He really did save my life and he never once asked for anything in return.’

‘I hope you do. And I hope it is under better circumstances. There’s every chance you will. As I said earlier, much depends on how things happen, on what you do, the road you take. Now, here, I think you should keep this,’ she held out the ring, but Flin did not reach for it.

‘No. I don’t think I can. I don’t think I want it, knowing what it was used for, what—who—used it.’

‘Very well. That is something I need to talk to you about, however. In a moment. First, tell me, do you want me to take any message to your friends in Youlbridge?’

Flin’s eyes tightened briefly, the woman was being considerate, not adding the fact that there was every chance the Maze Fighter had burnt to the ground, with everyone she knew inside it.

‘Yes. Please. If you do see them, please tell Sarah and Mariea that I made it out from under the city. Tell them what happened—I told you it all, you decide what to pass on. I tried to have a message sent, paying for a writer and stamped-passage, but I do not know if it would have made it. I do not even know whether Youlbridge is still standing.’

‘Most cities are more resilient than you may imagine. I have known of cities which have burnt on many occasions, and yet still thrive for thousands of years. They are strange things, cities, they are humanity made into an organism of its own, the people who live there the lifeblood, the buildings the bones, organs, and muscles. After all this time, they fascinate me still.’

Beside them, Mart stirred, but did not wake.

‘I think it is nearly time we move along, Flin,’ Leaf said.

She had remained close as Flin had told her tale and, as she stood, Flin felt a strange sense of parting, of loss.

‘You should get paid for this,’ Flin waved back at the entrance to the tunnel where the once-woman now slept, entombed behind rock and stone.

‘No, it is best Mart and you receive the pay. I do not need it. I’ll make sure you do. Now, as I said, we need to do something about, all this.’ She gestured to herself and the tunnel Flin had pointed to.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Remember how I said it was easier for me to deal with a healthy mind, one not full of terror?’

‘Flin! How’s your head?’ Shint asked, kindly keeping his rich voice a touch quieter than usual.

‘I am never drinking again. And I am certainly not trying any other fungi.’ She sat down opposite him, the smaller of the two taprooms in The End empty but for him.

Omena entered and smiled at them, returning moments later with a large jug of water.

‘I shall cook some eggs and bacon. My father swore it is the only cure for a hangover. Cook has the day off, we’ll be closed today as people nurse their heads and pay their respects to the dead.’

She left the room, still smiling.

‘That’s more words than I’ve ever heard her say,’ Shint said.

‘Oh, she can talk, she just prefers to listen. Now,’ Flin groaned and poured herself some water, cursing as she moved too quickly, head sending a fresh pounding through her temples, ‘I have some gaps in my memory. What happened last night?’

Shint laughed, and there was nothing quiet about it.

Flin winced in response, which only caused him to laugh more. She could not help smiling, despite feeling like she wanted to die.

‘We danced and laughed and partied Flin! Even more, after the news came through! You don’t remember at all?’ He reached down to the bench beside him and handed her a leather bundle.

She took it, and unwrapped a long coat.

‘Mart! I remember him, remember meeting him. He was hunting the killer, the man who had been murdering people.’

‘Yes!’

She felt something heavy in a pocket and withdrew a purse which she untied and peered into. It held a considerable amount of silver and gold.

‘He left, didn’t he?’ She was beginning to recall flashes of the night, of meeting Mart, then a pursuit and fight somewhere deep beneath the earth. She remembered after, when they had split the purse, Mart insisting she receive a half share, as she had helped him confront the killer, even throwing her own knife to stop him fleeing at one point.

‘Yes, he met a sailor who was on a vessel leaving for Mamak this morning and they left together. He gave me his coat and your purse, thought you were too drunk to keep hold of it safely. Seemed a decent, brave man. I can’t tell you how happy people are, now that the killer is dead. I guess tomorrow, once word has spread further, and heads are less sore, there will be more drinking, more celebrating.’

Flin smiled. She still could not remember the details, the drink and mushrooms clearly burying them in a haze.

‘There’s a lot of money here.’

‘Yes, there is. Do you remember what we talked about, after getting back?’

Flin thought, hard. She remembered staggering down the steps and considering sliding down the scaled serpent at their centre, before Shint and Ounell had talked her out of it, pointing out how the scales went the wrong way for that. Before that, she remembered dancing and drinking. Lots of dancing and drinking.

‘Remind me.’

‘We talked of leaving soon, of booking passage today—to leave at the next full moon. Do you still want to do that? We talked of exploring the Ribbon, of heading south.’

‘I remember! You said we should use our pay to book a private cabin, on a longer voyage, spend the time working on new songs, trying new things.’

‘Yes, I did. I think it would be time well spent.’

‘I agree.’ Flin took another long gulp of water. She was slowly beginning to feel a little more alive, so much so that the scent of cooking bacon made her feel hungry, rather than want to vomit.

‘So we head down to the offices at the harbour later?’

‘Yes. We will. Why didn’t Mart want to come with us? I remember him saying he wanted to leave the island.’

‘Something to do with a story he had heard of, something north of Mamak, in the Drowning. He left the coat for you, said he thought it suited you better.’

She looked at the coat again, remembering how it had hidden weapons beneath, how it had flapped when he had chased after the killer. A thought flew across her mind, then was gone and she frowned.

‘My head is like a mouldy, holey cheese. There are gaps everywhere. I really am never drinking again.’

Shint laughed again.

‘I’m going to go see if Niffen and Ounell are awake yet, and get them up if they aren’t. There’s a whole day we have free and, look,’ he pointed at the window Flin had been avoiding, the light too intense for her eyes, ‘the sun is out!’

Flin smiled. She had yet to see full sunlight on the island.

There was a mild shaking and creaking from the timbers of the inn.

‘That’s the third time today. Albin thinks Taurie is awakening again. You know him though, he is adamant The End will be fine, that it’s stood here for a thousand years.’ He left the room, singing softly to himself, Flin following him with her eyes, down and up again. He really was a remarkably handsome man.

The shaking returned, then stopped again. Why did it remind her of something? A scent of some sort. She held the leather coat to her face, inhaled, and frowned. It was close, but not that.

She swirled the coins around in the purse and noticed a ring hidden at the bottom. It was old and worn, but pretty, and she slipped it on a finger. Something else tickled at her mind, something hidden behind the veil the alcohol and mushrooms had cast: the ring, the coat—each a clue, a step to the truth.

For some reason, she could recall the scent of leather mixed with oil and fresh sweat, something about tattoos and a sword, strong arms holding her tight and safe. She felt she almost had it, then the door opened and Omena arrived with her breakfast. She smiled at her friend and pointed to the bench opposite, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow, Omena smiled back, nodding.

Flin laid the purse to one-side and, as she did so, the hidden memory and tickling sensation vanished entirely, as though they had never existed.

Outside, the sun shone on Taura Furnace.

Flin, and many of the other characters, locations, and ideas I’ve shared in The Tales of The Lesser Evil will return in a longer work, tentatively a trilogy, wrapped in the title of The Lesser Evil.

Before that, however, I will share a further two tales in the series, both of which I am currently editing. One will be a novel, the other shorter, each featuring characters and places already introduced in the previous stories, along with some new faces, names, and settings.

To make sure you don’t miss these forthcoming works, do please subscribe (I shall be making ebook versions of each of these Tales available to paying subscribers very soon, if that is something you might like?).

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Many thanks for reading Dancing With Death. This story will remain free to read until I begin to share the next one.

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

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Different Talents

Mart was slumped against the rough wall and, at first, Flin feared he was dead, but then she saw his chest rising and falling. Her own head hurt, and she sat down hard, next to him.

The still-unnamed woman appeared a short time later.

‘Can you do anything for Mart? I think his arm is broken, and maybe something is wrong inside too.’

‘Yes. I have never been the best healer, but simple injuries I can deal with. Battlefields have been my home for many years.’ She squatted down, bouncing the creature’s ring on her palm, then laid the other hand on his head.

There was a crack and he gasped loudly, waking for a heartbeat, before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

‘He’ll sleep for a time, and awake with a terrible hangover, but he is well.’

Flin nodded and noticed a water flask on Mart’s wide belt. She unhitched it and took a long swallow, before passing it to the woman. As she moved her head, she realised the floating lights were gone and her brain felt clearer, less padded.

‘Now, please tell me how you know my name? Who do we know in common? What is your name? You are one of those who use power, like you said, but you stay like this? How?’ she gestured and the woman smiled in response.

‘Yes. It is time for questions and answers and stories. I do use the power, of course I do, and I and some friends of mine have a way to stay sane, to not lose ourselves.’ Her face clouded briefly and she took another mouthful of water, before handing the flask back to Flin, ‘It is not easy, but it has worked for us for a long time. One of those friends found you, after you met someone we both know, someone who gave you that.’ She pointed at the green amulet Flin wore.

‘Did you follow me to Taura Furnace? I saw you on a boat at the harbour and, again, here in the city by the serpent steps.’

‘No. I was following the rumour of the vampire. I had been in Mamak, dealing with something else in the Mamak Drowning, when I heard whispers of her. At that time, I did not know it was something I had met before, but I caught the next vessel available. You, I felt as we approached the city.’

‘Felt, how—the amulet?’

‘Partly, yes. Partly just you. We who have used the power can feel one another over short distances. I suspect that was how you were found by Yara, by the woman who gave you that.’ She pointed again. ‘It is certainly how my friend found you. He has always been better at moving around, finding others. I think he wants to try and help them, stop them turning into, well, you saw. We all have different talents and a balance needs to be kept.’

‘Are you saying,’ Flin paused to swallow, then repeated herself. ‘Are you saying that will happen to me? Are you saying I have magical powers?’ She could not help but shiver, her sense of fear definitely returning.

‘I do not know. Sometimes it depends on what you do in your life, whether you strive to learn more about this, or let it go. I never know how it works, I just know that sometimes it does.’ She shrugged, the tattoos which climbed her arms moving in the light.

Flin looked at her, silent for a time, studying the intricate designs on the woman’s darkly tanned skin. Some of the lines were wrought into pictures of animals, weapons, and birds, but others were simple lines and crosses, still others patterns, swirling together, weaving around her arms. She had short black hair, straighter than Flin’s, and dark eyes. Her face was smooth and unlined and she looked no older than her fourth Sixthday.

‘What is your name?’

‘I have been called many things. At the moment, I prefer to be called Leaf, but it changes often. I don’t like being pinned to one name, it makes no sense to me when I don’t have to.’

Before she could respond, a sudden jolt to the ground made Flin gasp.

‘Is that her? Is she free?’

‘No, that is the mountain. I suspect it is waking up again. She, however, is definitely asleep. Now, Flin, I would like to know more about Youlbridge. About you, and what happened. I had some of it from Lang, but…’

‘Wait! Lang! That is who you mean! You know Lang! He saved my life, after Kadan, without him…’ she stopped talking, a sudden and surprising ragged sob breaking free, tears welling in her eyes.

She was surprised when the woman sat beside her and enfolded her within a tight embrace, letting her cry on her shoulder, all the while making soft reassuring sounds. She smelled of leather, of metal and honing oil and fresh sweat.

Eventually, her tears slowed and stopped. Flin hugged Leaf and then pulled away, taking another mouthful of water. Her head still hurt but, somehow, crying seemed to have helped. She felt a profound sense of peace, the like of which she had not felt since she and Lang had followed different paths.

‘I told you,’ Leaf said, gently, ‘Lang likes to try and help people. He has spent a long time trying to be the best version of himself he can possibly be. Me, I am more fluid, I go with what I am given and my idea of good and bad is perhaps a little bit more flexible. Now, can you tell me the whole story?’

‘Mart, will he wake soon?’

‘He will wake when I am ready. Not before.’

‘Wait!’ Flin called again, what about the other man, Dinavi? He was badly injured, he…’

‘He sleeps too. He will be fine, with bed rest and time. I healed the worst of his injuries, but I can do little to remedy the mind, what he saw. I clouded some of it, as best I can, but he may be damaged. A healthy mind is easier to manipulate than a terrified one.’

Flin felt a moment of shame that she had forgotten the injured man, but she knew it had been the blanket of the mushrooms, softly subduing senses and doing strange things to her mind. She rallied her thoughts and spoke.

‘For the first dozen years of my life I played in the woods, climbed the hills, ran through the meadows, and swam…’

Many thanks for reading.

Go back to the previous episode here.

Head to the introduction and contents page here.

Read more about my fiction here or map making process here.

If you have enjoyed this, please consider subscribing to ensure you do not miss the next chapter:

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Buy me a nice cup of tea!

Skip to the story by clicking here.

This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

To read an introduction to this novella, and the backcover blurb, click here.

Apart from a select few Beta readers, this particular story has not been shared before!

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Too Cruel

‘How do you know my name? Help how?’ Flin asked the woman in front of her.

‘We need to stop it, we won’t get a better chance than this, not before it kills again, at any rate. We have a mutual friend, we can talk more later but, for now, I need your help.’

Flin nodded in reply, the lights at the corner of her vision moving up and down with her head, swirling and spinning. She still felt fear, but it had no control over her, merely a suggestion amongst many.

‘Did you see? It was flying!’

‘It was floating, levitating. Not flying. There’s a difference, believe me. Now, we need to track it. Will you help?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Flin said, a small voice at the back of her mind wondering why she so readily agreed. ‘What mutual friend?’

‘Later. It left through that doorway there, let’s go.’

‘What about Mart?’ she asked, looking at where he sat against the wall. One arm was clearly broken, the other holding his knife.

He waved her on.

‘Go. I am no use at the moment, I’ll be fine here,’ he called.

She nodded and Flin followed the woman through the doorway, pausing only to pick up her knife and remove a lantern from where it hung beneath the stairs.

The tunnel had a rough, dusty floor, and it was clear the creature was not flying—or floating—any longer. Instead, long drag marks marked its passage, the lantern light gleaming off sporadic drops of wet blood. After a while, the trail disappeared, as the ground became more rocky.

They walked silently, Flin’s thoughts flitting from subject to subject, thinking of the monster they followed, its utter rage and cruel almost-smile, then her mind jumped back to being led by the Tanuthian through similar dark tunnels, before she noticed she was wondering whether the cook at The End knew how to make the thin, small pancake wraps and, especially, one of the tangy sauces, a faint smile on her face at the memory of the food, her mouth watering. The sensation of her mind being free and scattered was not unpleasant, but a part of her did ponder whether it was appropriate, given the circumstances.

She almost collided with the back of the tall woman, failing to see she had stopped and was pointing ahead.

‘Look, the tunnel splits into three. I am going to take the middle passage, if you could take the left?’

‘Won’t it hear us talking, if it is close?’ Flin whispered.

‘Of course. And it will also see your lantern light,’ she replied, smiling, ‘And, as it can sense life even if in pitch darkness, there’s little point in hiding from it. It will find you if it wants to.’

Flin nodded in reply, that little voice silently asking why she was not terrified, why she was not running out of the Caverns as fast as she could. Clearly, something in the mushrooms made her feel less fear and she stored the information away, to ask Shint what they were and where she could get more. Shint was an incredible musician, they played so well together, each understanding the other. Her mind jumped to thoughts of his muscled body dancing, then to his slender hands on the neck of his instruments. She wondered what those hands would feel like on her own neck, maybe a gentle caress...

‘Flin? Flin!’ The woman called, loudly. ‘Are you listening? Are you drunk?’

‘Mushrooms and beer,’ she nodded in reply, then giggled, the sound making her smile, it was so incongruous with the situation.

‘Ah. Well that’s probably not a bad thing. If you are distracted from the fear, the creature loses a powerful weapon. Now, you go down there. If you find any trace of its passage, or see it, then call as loudly as you can. Have you got that?’

‘Call if I see it, or tracks. Got it.’ Flin answered, and immediately began walking down the tunnel, her thoughts already returning to what she might eat for breakfast.

She walked for some distance with no sign the monster or anyone else had passed along the tunnel in years, and had just started to wonder whether she would go dance some more once they had killed it when she realised the lantern light picked out a shape on the floor ahead.

It was another body, dressed in rags, limbs spread out at strange angles, laid on its back.

Flin walked closer and raised the lantern to see better, then found all her breath disappearing as she crashed into the ceiling, lantern dropping and smashing against the floor. Flames leapt up in front of her, but the heat and stench of oil was forgotten as the corpse rose in front of her.

She tried to be scared, but instead all she could think of was how difficult it would be to get the smell of burnt lantern oil out of her clothing, those fumes stayed long after the flames.

She was pushed back and down, to hang suspended in the tunnel, unable to move beyond gasping breaths, each more painful than the last, as the heat forced its way into her chest.

The flames died down to a flicker, as though the broken lantern had somehow been shuttered or turned low and the low light showed the corpse-pale creature rise in front of her, smiling that hideous smile once more.

Flin knew she should do something, that there was something she had to do, but she could not recall what. Was it to do with dancing? Or food? Maybe Shint and his hands?

She watched as the monster came closer, its stench now stronger than that of the burning spilt oil and, for the first time in what seemed an age, Flin felt the effects of a flicker of fear as she noticed something inside her, a tugging, a pulling, and saw a tiny bead of blood float away in front of her face, then another, and another.

She was being drained.

The beads became a faint mist, as though she had exhaled on a cold day, breath clouding in front of her.

Then she fell to the ground.

‘That’s enough,’ the tattooed woman’s voice from behind Flin was surprisingly gentle. ‘It’s time to sleep again.’

Flin coughed and spat, another flicker of fear as she wondered if her voice would somehow have been damaged. She coughed again and wiped a hand over her damp forehead.

‘What do you mean, sleep? How are you going to kill it?’ she asked, happy she could still talk, and pushing herself up to sit in front of the frozen monster. Only its eyes were moving, and they now looked terrified.

‘You remember me now, don’t you? Yes, you do. It needs to sleep Flin, it is impossible to kill it. That’s the problem, they’re always impossible to kill.’

‘It can’t be killed? Never?’

‘Not by any means we have ever tried. No.’

‘Can you not cut its head off? Or throw it into a shaft with molten rock? Or…’

‘Flin, we’ve tried every way possible. We’ve been doing this a long, long time.’ The woman softly interrupted, ‘The only thing we can do is seal it away.’

‘But, but what is it?’ Flin changed what she had been going to say, again studying the monster. It no longer looked powerful, merely sick and ancient and near-death.

‘It is something which has forgotten what it once was. It was once like you, human, but it found a way to,’ she gestured with one hand, the other held firm in front of her, palm flat, as though holding the monster still, ‘to alter, to manipulate the universe. It is something which is relatively common over the generations. Many people find this, they have tricks they can do, secret things, things which are not normal.’

‘Magic?’

‘Some call it that, yes. Of a sort. All magic is simply an exchange of power, a basic law of the universe. That’s it. But, sometimes, people do this too much, they strive for more, initially maybe for good reasons but, as they age, they find they do not want to die, do not want to give in to the passage of time. They find ways to prolong their lives, but the secret is staying sane.’

‘You speak as though there are many of these monsters,’ Flin coughed again. She had a headache and felt thirsty.

‘There are. As the mind loses control, what was once human becomes beast, or less than beast, animalistic, full of rage and hunger and little else. They forget what they were. It feels the need to take power, to convert it into longer life, and it is unable to stop doing so. The only way their damaged minds can cope is to create a fantasy. Some, like this,’ she gestured again, ‘think they need blood to survive. Others eat human flesh, perhaps a heart, or even a child. Still others collect trophies, maybe keeping skulls, or teeth. The human mind, even warped and lost, is a strange thing.’

Flin noticed the creature seemed less, somehow more withered, more corpse-like, cheek bones sharp, nose shrinking, eyes sinking.

‘What is happening to it?’

‘I am restoring balance, returning it to the state in which it will sleep deeper, more peacefully. All power can only ever come from another power, another source. A fire,’ she pointed to the smashed lantern, ‘needs fuel, it needs air, and it needs an ignition source. Remove one of these three and it will not burn. Another basic law of the universe. Energy is converted. But energy can also be stored. Look.’

Flin looked back at the monster. Its face was shrunken, like leather aged over decades, left to dry, its eyes were much smaller, but still darting from side to side, tight and panicked, angry and hungry, all at once.

The woman was pointing, and the creature’s arm raised in response. At first, Flin wondered if it was breaking free, but then she realised the tattooed woman was manipulating it. For the first time, she noticed the ring, slowly being twisted free from one bony finger.

‘I met her once before, and failed to take the ring. Sometimes, objects can be invested with the power, or be manipulated in other ways, such as absorbing potential damage, providing protection. They can be markers, beacons, for example. This ring is invested with power, it is a long, long process to fully charge it, to fill the reservoir. Time helps, simply absorbing background energy, and the sun helps, immensely—although I doubt she has seen the sun in a long, long time.’

‘Her? She?’ Flin turned back to the woman.

‘Yes. I met her when she was younger. A lot younger. She was a healer then.’ A look of pain and sadness crossed her face. ‘Flin, she was kind and gentle, and willing to put her own life at risk for the sake of others. In other times, other places, she would have been holy, a saint or deity of her own. The ring helped her escape this time. Usually it takes time to wake from a long slumber, perhaps hours or even days, depending on how long has passed. I suspect the ring had slowly been drawing energy from the volcano itself, and aided when she was found. Without the ring,’ she plucked it out of the air as it floated to her, ‘it will be safer.’

The creature, the vampire, had closed her eyes. Flin studied it and felt a dose of pity mixed in with the revulsion. To be someone dedicated to healing, then to turn into the opposite felt too cruel.

‘Now, I suggest you get up and walk back to where your companion is. I will be with you soon, I just have to seal her away.’

‘Will she feel pain?’

‘No. She sleeps now, a deep sleep. With luck, she will stay that way for many years. Maybe forever, but I somehow doubt that.’

Flin stood and moved away, behind the woman, looking back once more at the vampire, as it was slowly lowered to the ground. She walked slowly along the tunnel, one hand on the wall, taking careful steps in the gathering darkness.

Behind her, she heard a sharp crack and a sudden rush of air, then another.

She carried on walking, feeling a deep sadness she could not explain.

Many thanks for reading.

Go back to the previous episode here.

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Read more about my fiction here or map making process here.

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Buy me a nice cup of tea!

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

To read an introduction to this novella, and the backcover blurb, click here.

Apart from a select few Beta readers, this particular story has not been shared before!

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To Feel Fear

Later, Flin could not explain why she had accompanied the boy, Peither, and Mart. She knew her natural curiosity, her urge to seek material for true stories, was a part of it. Another part she blamed on the mushrooms and how they had reacted with the beer.

As she followed the pair, she felt trapped inside someone else's body, watching events from behind a mask not her own, noting details and filing them away dispassionately. She was lucky she could run fast; the others took off so quickly she barely had time to see which corridor they ran along.

She chased them down a level, taking steps two at a time, then through a door painted with red and white stripes. The next corridor had similarly striped doors, but each with an added stylised animal. The one after with intricate images of trees in winter. Finally, they went down again, far down, the steps wide and deep and dim.

Flin sensed her own terror, just below the surface, and found she could somehow easily push it to one-side, bury it. She felt strange, somehow strong and resilient, as a tall tree bending to a storm, her will powerful and her body the same. She shook her head, but the sensation did not diminish. To feel fear, to know it was there but not in control, that was a new sensation.

The next tunnel was long and rough, with no doors to be seen, only gaps where other corridors joined it and unlit chambers echoed with their pounding footsteps.

Flin almost collided with Peither, he had stopped so suddenly. Then she spun around, sure she had heard someone approaching from behind, but the sparse lantern light showed an empty corridor, motes of dust hanging in the wake of their passage.

‘Where now, Peither? Where?’ Mart asked, pulling out the pair of knives he had mentioned. They were clearly well made, balanced to throw with a lightly curving double edge. Flin hoped they were enough.

‘The tunnel, it crosses this one, just ahead, there... Dinavi and Long Rik sent me to find you, they…’

His terror was palpable, and he could not finish what he was saying, instead turning and fleeing back the way they had come. Flin’s curiously detached mind noted that this seemed very wise. Her gaze followed him.

‘You did not have to come, Flin. You can go, if you wish?’

She waved her hand from side to side and shook her head.

‘No, I want to see.’

‘Then stay behind me, and run if anything goes wrong, tell the staff what happens.’ He did not seem to have any outward fear, checking the edges on the knifes and walking to the tunnel Peither had pointed out.

Flin followed at a short distance, surprised to realise her own small knife was in her hand. She had not remembered drawing it and knew it would be of little use. The green stone amulet she wore was warm and she raised a hand to it, but was unable to trap the thought it triggered before her attention was pulled to the horror in front of her.

The next corridor was a mess. In the poor light of the lanterns, the black of the rocks shone and it did not take Flin long to realise the gleam was fresh blood.

A man was propped against the wall, face drawn and haggard, looking old and somehow hollow, his clothes were heavily stained with blood and his face smeared with it.

‘Dinavi, where is Long Rik? Where is it? The monster! What happened?’

The man pointed through an opening a short distance away, but said nothing, his breathing ragged. His eyes were wild and white, terror in control of twitching limbs, chest rising and falling too fast.

Mart asked no further questions and immediately walked forward—the man was clearly brave, or perhaps simply foolish. In Flin’s experience, bravery was a questionable pastime.

The chamber they entered was brighter and tall, a set of stairs ascending in a spiral at the centre, light entering from somewhere above. Then Flin noticed two things.

Firstly, a man hung in the air, barely visible through a swirling cloud of blood. He was still moving weakly, arms and legs jerking as though he was trying to run in midair. His head was limp.

The second thing she noticed was the figure on the stair.

It looked human, or at least human-shaped. It was clothed in rags and dirt and blood, hair lank and long and fingernails closer to talons. It had bare feet and its eyes were closed, head tilted back and a smile on its face, as though experiencing something wonderful.

Mart threw his knife, then the other, arms whipped back and forward, very, very fast. Both found their target, the first slashing across the creature’s neck, opening a wide cut, the other burying itself deep in its chest with a solid yet somehow hollow sound, echoing across the chamber. The first knife crashed to the ground and was closely followed by the drained body of the man Flin assumed had been Long Rik.

The blood hung in the air still.

It opened its eyes and looked at them, blinking as though awakened from a deep slumber. It staggered back a step, then reached down to touch the knife hilt sticking out of its chest. Slowly, so very slowly, it pulled it out and turned its gaze on Mart. He pulled a short sword from a sheath and, leather coat flapping behind him, ran to the vampire. Then he stopped abruptly, as though he had hit a wall.

And the creature screamed.

It was nothing like a sound any human would make, nothing more than a simple animal noise of pure fury, rage encapsulated in every moment of the rising call. It sank to its knees and the cry ended as its head dropped to its chest.

Flin felt a surge of hope, then realised that Mart was held by an invisible force, unable to move, incapable of escape or attack. She looked more closely at the creature and realised the gash on its neck was knitting back together, that it was somehow healing itself. She had to do something, had to help, but she could not think what. Flin looked at her hand holding the knife and back at the monster, paused, and threw it.

Her aim was true but a hand lashed upward and caught the handle bare fingers from its face. It peeled back lips in a mockery of a smile, hissed and stood.

‘Fuck.’ Flin was rooted to the spot, not by any unseen magic, but by simply having no idea what to do next. She just stood there, waiting, the amulet she wore hot against her chest and her mind remaining detached, the mushrooms still in her system, somehow simultaneously dulling and heightening sensations and emotions all at the same time.

The creature—the vampire—leapt straight up, higher than any normal human could jump, twisting in the air and passing through the static cloud of blood from Long Rik. It landed behind Mart, reached out with one thin, bony arm and threw him across the chamber. Flin watched as he cartwheeled through the air, crashing into the wall and slumping to the ground. She noticed he was still moving, somehow not unconscious, somehow still aware of what was happening. The man was tougher than he looked.

‘Fuck.’ She said again, as the monster walked to her, covered in blood, licking it from its lips and making a strange, mewling sound.

Flin could not tell if it was a man or a woman, the dirt, the blood, the ragged clothing and the changes wrought to its body disguised any hint of gender. She stood still as it came to her, nose picking up its scent of decay, of coppery fluids and ancient graves. Its eyes were clear, with no colour to the irises, just small black pupils staring at Flin, staring at the amulet around her neck. The bony arm reached out again and the hand grasped the tiny green stone hook she had received four years ago, just outside Youlbridge.

It screamed again—a different scream—tearing charred and smoking flesh away, leaping back. Somehow, the stone had burnt its hand and the action broke whatever spell held Flin entranced. She turned to check on Mart and noticed him sitting up, slowly pulling another blade from the small of his back, shaking his head to clear it, then she felt herself lifted off the ground, slowly, one hand span, then another.

Before she had been raised above waist height, she fell and the monster in front of her catapulted away to crash into the stairs, as though it had been fired from a giant bow. Somehow, it stood and staggered away into the darkness, one leg dragging, one arm bent at a strange angle.

Flin looked back at Mart, wondering what he had done, but he was still sitting on the ground, hand holding the knife, ready to throw. Beside him, at the entrance to the chamber, stood a tall woman—a tall woman with tattoos winding up bare arms. The sword she carried on her back was still sheathed, but she held a fist out in front of her, as though she had just punched the monster. Like everyone else, she was dressed for the warmth of the Caverns, wearing little more than a leather vest, partially open at the front, a short kirtle around her waist and soft, knee-high boots on long legs.

‘Flin. I’m going to need you to help me.’

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When Details Align

They danced and danced and danced some more, swapping back to the faster, louder room at some point, the beat even more frenetic than earlier, Flin’s steps progressively wilder, arms above her head, swaying, flailing, eyes closed. She felt weightless, floating in her own cloud, feet barely touching the ground.

When she opened her eyes she realised everyone else in her group was missing. She vaguely remembered someone, maybe Niffen, maybe his sister, Ounell, telling her they were going to get some cooler air and rest for a time, but she had no idea how long ago that had been. She also remembered eating another two mushrooms and hugging Shint, telling him how much she loved The Caverns, seeing her own joy reflected in his eyes.

‘Time to rest again, I think,’ she said to herself, smiling at her fellow dancers, who made space for her to move to the striped yellow and black door.

She wandered from tunnel to tunnel and room to room, not quite sure what she was looking for but enjoying the exploration. Finally, she sat down with a large tankard of light beer in a room hazy with smoke and rested, toes still tapping to the beat in her head.

After finishing her drink, Flin left the room, following a different corridor, then another. As Shint had said, she tried every door she passed, peering into rooms strewn with cushions and sleeping people, or others with low tables and card games, people eating or drinking or sharing in various scents of smoke.

She wondered how large the complex was, especially when she tried several doors and found them locked. What was hidden behind there, locked away? Were they stores, or rest areas for staff? Flin guessed it was one of the largest businesses on the island, and she made a mental note to ask who owned it.

Ahead, she saw two shorter figures, hooded and wearing short kilts and she hurried to catch them. She longed to talk to the Tanuthian, to learn their tales, but she was too late—they passed through a door, which was then locked behind them. Perhaps they were staff, or perhaps they had their own community down here, below the city. Flin had so many questions. Seeing them made her remember Youlbridge, and she breathed deeply and slowly, one finger twisting a spiral in her hair, trying to calm herself.

Looking around, she felt a little lost and the sensation made her heart race, the memory of being beneath Youlbridge flooding her, the soft light no longer comforting, but a dim, dangerous menace, her sense of joy slipping. She heard the beat of the drums from somewhere ahead and her mind twisted the sound into something large approaching, something hungry; no longer were muffled voices friends she had yet to meet, but those who wished her harm.

‘No, I am safe. I am safe.’

‘You are safe?’ The question came from behind her, ‘Why do you say that? What is safe?’

Flin managed to compose herself, somehow neither jumping or shrieking at the sudden voice. It took her another moment to realise she had spoken aloud, and the man had replied in the same language.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,’ Flin was unsure how she had missed him.

‘No, that is my fault, I have a bad habit of creeping around silently, of not being seen at times,’ he declined his head towards her. ‘Please accept my apologies. I am Mart.’

‘Flinders Jeigur, or Flin Goldenfingers, or Flin Manytales. It depends.’

‘You are a musician, you work here?’

‘Yes, and no. I work,’ she paused, looking at the man properly for the first time, taking in his clothing, a long dark leather coat covering him from neck to ankle, a glimpse of weapons at his belt, telltale bulges showing where he was concealing them. He must have been hot. ‘I work elsewhere. Do you work here?’ She gestured at the bulges, ‘Are you a doorman? You speak Interior.’

‘I speak several languages. I work here, yes, and elsewhere too,’ he smiled, ‘Why did you say you were safe?’

‘Bad memories, tunnels,’ Flin gestured around her, then paused and added, ‘Why are you wearing a coat in here? Are you not hot?’

‘As I think you noticed, the coat is just to hide my weapons. The other staff thought it would be a good idea.’ The man smiled again, alarmingly disarming, ‘Most people do not even see me, let alone the fact I have these.’ He patted his waist.

‘What do you do here with those?’ Flin asked, reframing her question to make up for his evasion, also pointing to his hidden weapons. Other than the cudgels on the doormen, and the belt knives everyone carried, she had seen no weapons within The Caverns. He was quiet for a moment, before replying.

‘I’m hunting. Looking for,’ he paused, ‘I suppose you’d say something, rather than someone. I think it was once someone. I am not really sure.’

‘You are hunting a monster?’ Flin asked, then paused and thought, adding, ‘You are hunting the vampire.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ Mart was silent for a moment, ‘Not many people use that name in public. Tell me, Flinders Jeigur, Flin Manytales, what do you know of the vampire? Do you have time for a drink and a talk? It might help. Anything you want to eat or drink, it’s on me. Or on The Caverns, more precisely.’

Flin felt suddenly ravenous and desperately thirsty. She shook her head to clear it, faint trails and sparkles of blue light followed at the corners of her vision, the mushrooms awake inside her. She felt the urge to sit down and nodded mutely to the man, following as he led.

They passed several doors, before reaching one which was entirely orange.

‘Through here,’ the man held the door open and Flin entered, but not before checking the interior and noticing a dozen other people sitting around low tables. Her mind was hazy and felt full of wool, but she still had her survival instincts.

The room was not large but it was full of conversation. A woman stood behind a small bar and looked up when they entered. Flin thought she saw lines of tension on her face, then they were gone, replaced by a smile. The man Flin had followed ordered drinks and food, she rang a small bell and a boy arrived, listened to the order, and ran off through another door, almost without pausing.

They walked to an empty table in a corner and sat down on the cushions, the woman behind the bar bringing over two pottery tumblers and a large crock of beer. The man thanked her and waited until she was out of earshot.

‘Now, Flin Manytales, what do you know about monsters? What do you know of the vampire?’

Flin poured herself and Mart some beer and thought for a moment, pulling out the details from all the stories she knew.

‘I could tell you stories of monsters all day and not get to the end of them. Of vampires, not as much. I know stories suggest they can fly, others that they shape-change to bats or owls or crows. They drink blood, that is true in every tale I know. They can make you a vampire by biting you, but not draining completely. They sleep in the day, in dark silent places, usually caves,’ she gestured around them, ‘or ancient tombs or cellars. They burn in the sun, hate keys and hemlock, can freeze you in place with a whisper or a spell, can be kept asleep if you place a stone in their mouth, or a stake through their chest. They are the never-dead, like certain other creatures, in a wide variety of tales. It is very hard to destroy them. They appear in stories throughout the world I have travelled, and that is a long way indeed.’

The man was silent for a time, sipping his beer and nodding.

‘I knew some of that, but not all. I have travelled to the Interior, and even as far as Eastsea, and I too have heard stories of this creature wherever I go. I collect tales of monsters, and I hunt the monsters themselves. Usually, one town’s monster is simply a rabid wolf, or a wounded bear but, sometimes, it is more than that.’ He looked around the room carefully, then leaned in closer, ‘When it is more, it can be very very hard to stop. That is where the legends, the tales of as many cultures as possible are essential. When details align, it is a sign, a marker of what I need to do.’ He stopped talking again, frowned, and ran a hand through his short hair. ‘This vampire, this creature, it is the hardest job I have taken.’

‘Why do you think it is here?’

Mart began to respond, then paused as the boy returned to the room, bearing a tray of food. He took it to their table and carefully laid it down. The man slipped him a small coin and the boy ran off, smiling.

‘It’s useful to keep the staff on my side. Here, eat,’ he gestured.

There was a platter with roasted meat, cut thin, another with another meat, pulled apart, several dipping sauces, small, thin pancakes, and sticks of vegetables. Flin watched as the man rolled meat, sauce, and vegetables together in one of the wraps, and copied him. The mixture of food styles on Taura Furnace never ceased to fascinate, and this was a dish she had never seen before.

‘It’s from further south, the island of Hima,’ Mart said, noticing her expression, ‘I came up that way, from Eleventh Harbour and along the Ribbon. Now, let me tell you what I know, but please tell no one else. The Forge is being very careful to control the details of this creature, of what is happening, and I would hate to lose my job.’

Flin nodded, enjoying the food and washing it down with the mild beer.

‘I also believe it needs blood to survive. How, I do not know—none of the dead have been found with bites or teethmarks. The killings—this time—began some time ago now, nearly three moons. It was just luck I was here. I had been planning on leaving for the Interior again, I had heard stories of a giant flying lizard sighted somewhere in the marshes north of Mamak, and wanted to track them down. The thing is,’ he took a large swallow of beer before he continued. ‘The thing is, it was found not too far from where we sit. The Caverns employ a team of engineers, to keep the place from falling down and to find other rooms, other possible dancehalls. The whole of Taura Furnace is riddled with tunnels. Most are from the volcano herself, but some are made by people—or other Talking Races, maybe. The team was led by a Tanuthian, an Underworlder, you know? They know more about the underworld than anyone else and his engineering skill was, apparently, remarkable. He had detected a large chamber behind an old wall, and they broke through. There was no air inside, but they were ready for that, and left before there was any risk. When they returned later, they widened the hole and went inside. This is where the story gets strange.’

Mart paused long enough to roll another wrap of meat, and Flin copied him, trying a different combination of meat, vegetables, and sauce.

‘I spoke to a woman who was also on the engineering team. Her mind is damaged, but I believe her account. She is the only witness to what happened, the others left Taura, or, well…’

Flin took another mouthful, the part of her brain which gathered tales and songs and story storing away the words, subconsciously altering, embellishing and crafting a better version. She could not help it, her long training and urge to perform too strong. The better her stories, the more she earned. The more she earned, the more chance there was of affording her way home.

‘There were five of them. Three men, one woman, and the chief engineer. The Tanuthian was the first to die. When they entered the chamber, they were happy—it was large and strongly vaulted, other blocked passages suggesting doors and ventilation systems. It was exactly what they were paid to find. Then they found the corpse. It was dressed in rags, with a sash around its waist, as used to be the fashion here a generation ago. It was very, very dead, mummified, dried out completely. There was no telling what had killed it, no marks that they could see, although they were loathe to touch it, that wasn’t their job. The body looked like it had simply laid down on its back to sleep, and died, slowly drying over the years.’

Mart took another mouthful of beer and cleared his throat. Flin did not say anything to fill the pause: she had learnt long ago not to interrupt if she was getting the detail she needed, and there was certainly no need to coax anything more from the man, his tale was rich already, and would make an excellent story for a dark winter’s night with just a few changes and extra layers.

‘The chief engineer ordered his second to go and tell the manager they had found what they had been looking for, and to organise some labourers to remove the corpse. She was climbing out the hole they had made when she heard a noise behind her and turned. That is what damaged her mind. The Tanuthian, her boss and friend, was suspended in the air a husk of what he had been, blood and other fluids leaking from him, pooling in a series of floating balls. The sound she had heard had not come from him, however, but from the corpse, which was now sitting up, making a strange, crackling, hissing sound. She did not wait, but ran, and could hear the others in the team behind her, doing the same.’ Mart stopped and looked directly at Flin, ‘You don’t seem too surprised. You’re not laughing or giving me the look which usually means someone is questioning my own sanity.’

‘I’ve seen things and I’ve heard others from voices I trust. In my vocation I have learnt it is better to listen with an open mind. Some stories may be just stories, but I wonder how many have a seed of truth behind them, something—no matter how small—to start the tale growing. Sometimes, that which seems most outlandish, most far-fetched, is told exactly as it happened. Now, carry on, please.’ She waved her hand and watched as it seemed to leave a trail in front of her.

Mart nodded, silent for a moment, thinking about Flin’s words, then he continued.

‘The second engineer ran very fast, all the while hearing that strange noise in her head. She said she still hears it when she tries to sleep. To her credit, she returned a little time later, with eight of the Cavern’s guards—the doormen and those who guard the coin. When they got to the chamber there was no sign of the corpse, sitting or laid down. It was gone. There was blood, and the shrivelled remains of the chief engineer. And footprints, leading towards a fresh hole in the chamber, where another wall had somehow been pulled apart. No one ventured far into the new tunnel, instead they stayed and guarded it as the room was cleaned. Then they blocked the tunnel with a triple layer of masonry, hoping that whatever had been awoken would be sealed away inside but, as you know, that did not happen.’

He reached into a pocket and withdrew a piece of cloth, eating some more of the meat and taking a long drink before he unfurled the cloth and handed it to Flin, who studied it, running her fingers over many small stitches in an array of different colours.

She knew it was a map, but could not work out of what. It seemed strange, a jumble of colour and thread.

‘What is this?’

‘It is a map of this part of the city, around the Caverns. It is embroidered so it can be used just as easily in lower light, underground. The reason it looks different is because it represents what is above and what is below the surface. See, this top layer, here, those are the roads and streets. Here, these are the tunnels of the Caverns and, here, those are other tunnels and caves we know about.’

Flin looked back at the map, tracing lines and trying to understand it.

‘And these?’ she asked, pointing to small yellow crosses, ‘I am guessing they are where the deaths have occurred?’

‘Yes. All the deaths. Not just those the city above knows about. The Caverns have lost staff, the temple you passed on your way here has lost two priests. In total, we know of thirteen deaths. The people who run the Caverns are paying for the hunt to find this monster, this vampire—they know it is their fault it is free, and they know they might face closure without being seen as proactive. That’s why they pay me. So far, though, I’ve always been just a little too late.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Once.’ Mart nodded. ‘Just once, as it was leaving. It,’ he paused and cleared his throat, ‘it turned and saw me and I froze. I was terrified. Flin, it was floating above the ground! Then it simply came back down and walked away. It knew I was frozen, it knew I was useless.’ He lowered his head, ‘I let everybody down. I could have stopped further deaths, could have confronted it.’

Flin was silent for a moment, her mind distracted by small flickering blue lights appearing at the edge of her vision. She wished she had not eaten the mushrooms.

‘I suspect, if you had attacked it, it would have killed you too. I’ve heard stories of other creatures which can freeze victims with a stare, transfix them in place entirely. How were you planning on killing it? It was walled up alive, something that looked dead, but wasn’t? What about the blood, the draining, the fact it floats? This must be sorcery of some kind, some sort of magic?’

‘I had a pair of throwing knives made, blades coated with silver. I heard a tale that it can paralyse these creatures, turn the tables on them. Then I can have it dropped down the temple shaft, into the molten rock.’

‘That’s the plan? What if you miss?’

‘I won’t. I’m a good shot, always have been, and I’ve been practising a lot.’

‘And if the silver won’t work?’ Flin asked, ‘I heard silver was for other monsters, wolfmen.’

‘Then I’m fucked, and the Caverns has to find someone else to do their hunting.’

Flin looked at the man, studied him closely. He was perhaps in his early thirties, his face smooth and youthful, but his eyes carried age. A white scar ran across the back of his right hand, standing out against skin which was gradually losing its tan, a series of dots were tattooed on his left. For a moment she felt an urge to touch the dots in turn.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Far away. I was born in Greystilts, but left when I was young. Why?’

‘You can always run away, you know? That is the sensible option, rather than chasing a predator like this. Run far, far away. But,’ she held up a hand to forestall his inevitable rejection of her idea, ‘but, in case it helps, let me tell you more of the stories I know about similar creatures. Or maybe the same one, I don’t know. Maybe there’s something in there, in the details, which can help?’

Flin rolled another pancake and ate it silently. She drank deeply, and noticed that the blue flickers seemed to somehow respond to the beer. She frowned, unsure what was best to clear them from her system, then she began her tale. Perhaps telling stories would help.

‘What I believe to be the oldest of the stories I know comes from my old home, from before I was apprenticed. It is a tale from the mountains, of a creature which lived in dark ancient woods, preying on isolated individuals and leaving them drained of all their blood. Other animals were found, similarly drained. Let me tell the whole.’

She began, and then she told another, a more recent story of a mining team who discovered a similar corpse which rose from the dead. Then another, of a caravan south of The Pit, attacked each night, no matter what they did to protect themselves. She started on a fourth story, set in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the Ninth Tower in Eastsea, and a spate of killings which followed, but she did not finish. Instead, the door burst open and the serving boy entered at a run.

He came straight to their table, a short, breathless whirlwind, gulping air and gasping.

‘What is it Peither? Catch your breath,’ Mart said.

‘You are to come immediately, sir. There’s been another killing.’

Many thanks for reading.

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This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

To read an introduction to this novella, and the backcover blurb, click here.

Apart from a select few Beta readers, this particular story has not been shared before!

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Dancing is Dancing

A turning of the glass later and Flin was definitely having one of the best nights of her life. She was sure of it. The place was magical, the music extraordinary and even the wine was good, although she wondered whether that was simply due to the quantity she was drinking, such was her thirst.

Before she had started dancing she had studied the musicians, raised on a wide, curving dais around one half of the chamber, the other half taken up by a long bar, with two sets of double doors on either side of the chamber. At the rear were the drummers, some with smaller drums to the sides, others standing behind huge bass drums and massive hollowed logs towards the centre. They worked in harmony, each seemingly doing their own thing, but each a part of a whole, fitting perfectly. They controlled the speed of the music and took it in different directions.

In front were other instruments: fiddles and strings, flutes and woodwind, and the chorus. There were twelve of them, with voices ranging from a deep bass that somehow managed to rise above and below all the other sounds, through to a trio of sopranos, each striving to support the other. Again, the whole was a unit, well-rehearsed and well-versed. There seemed to be no particular words, just sounds, the music powerful and hypnotic, making Flin want to move, making her feel good.

Then she had begun to dance.

Apart from teaching steps, Flin had not danced since before Kadan had died, four years earlier. Shint and the others each had their own style of dancing, each happy to dance as they pleased, demonstrating steps and moves as they did so. Everyone in the room was content to do their own thing, with no fear, and Flin knew it was an important lesson: dancing is dancing, there can be no wrong moves when you enjoy it. And enjoy it, she did.

Above, the chamber was lit with lanterns shaded in different coloured glass, some which spun, casting moving pools of light, or sharply focused beams on the dancers below. Flin guessed people were employed to move the lanterns, to keep them twisting, changing the direction and speed, perhaps in keeping with the beat. It was a remarkable operation.

Flin had never felt constrained before, never felt she had held back from moving her body as she desired but, that night, she realised she must have been. She moved to the rhythm, fitting in between beats, driven, guided, following her own path and it felt utterly right.

‘Come on, we should rest a while,’ Shint shouted in her ear and took her hand.

Flin looked around and realised the others in their group were no longer there; she had been so busy dancing that she had not noticed them leave.

‘Where are the others?’ she called over the pounding beats.

‘They left to get some food and have a rest, quite a while ago. You’ve been well tranced, haven’t you? That’s a good thing. Come.’

As they walked out of a bright yellow and black striped door Flin looked to the stage. The musicians were all different, she had not noticed them swapping over, either.

‘They do it gradually, the beat never breaks, all night, all day,’ Shint shouted, as he followed her gaze.

‘What can we eat here?’

‘What do you want to eat? There are several options.’

Flin thought about it, listened to what her body told her.

‘I think I would like some of the vinegared rice and fish things they sometimes have at The End.’

‘This way.’

After a short tunnel, they passed through another chamber, this with just one drummer and five men playing strings, their bows rising and falling, coaxing out melodies and harmonies together. The people in this room were dancing too, but slower, less frenetic. The idea felt good, Flin realised—she was exhausted.

Shint and Flin ate and rested, barely talking, but catching their breath, drinking cool mint tea and watching the other people in the room come and go.

The food was perfect, sticky vinegared rice cakes with pieces of fish and vegetable within, a strong and spicy dipping sauce, and a plate of some kind of fruit Flin did not recognise. There was also a very small bowl of mushrooms and Flin popped one in her mouth, chewed and swallowed, before realising they might be more than simple food.

‘Don’t worry, one shouldn’t make too much difference, even if you aren’t used to them,’ Shint replied to her worried query, ‘I’d recommend not having any more for a while though, see how you react, everyone is different.’

They ate the rest of the rice and fruit, and Shint ate several of the fungi, before handing the rest to Flin.

‘Put them in a pocket and see how it goes. Now, shall we go dance again?’

‘Yes, maybe slower for a time?’

‘Good idea, let the food go down.’

They left the room, but not before Flin felt the strange sensation of being watched. She looked around and saw someone leaving via the opposite door, someone with swirling tattoos running up her arms.

Many thanks for reading.

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Hangover

‘Here we are,’ Shint had his arm around Niffen, swaying slightly, both already a little drunk and both expecting to get considerably more so.

The performance had been their best so far and Ana had been delighted with the response from the packed crowd, giving each an extra silver bonus and wishing them a good night. The next day was Midsummer and, by law, no music was to be played in any inn, public, or private space across Taura Furnace. It was supposed to be a day of introspection, of reflection, thoughts directed to the dead and departed.

Albin had explained that in the city Midsummer was also unofficially known as Hangover. The night before the longest day always full of celebration, alcohol, drugs, dancing, carousing, and general merrymaking.

They had left The End and taken the same route uphill Flin knew from her previous visits to the temple. She had become used to stairs, to living on a slope again, and her legs felt good and strong, the muscle thickened and the spring returned to her steps. Physically, she could not remember being in this good a shape, the excellent food and the comfortable bed and rest certainly helped, as did the constant exercise.

They had climbed up the stairs, at times holding on to the scaled serpent in the centre, or supporting each other, laughing and singing, exchanging good wishes with others they passed, and cheering when they passed a newly-wed couple, ankles still bound together, as they attempted to climb the stairs with three legs instead of four.

The joy felt good, a collective sigh of release from the city, a chance to breathe and try and forget the recent killings. People, Flin knew, all too quickly forgot or ignored danger.

At the temple square they turned right and continued along the final road of the city, parallel to the upper slopes of Taura Furnace, the mountain clearly visible above, midnight light reflected on wet flanks. This far north, at this season, there was little true, utter darkness, no matter what time it was. For Flin, this had sparked a memory of home, of summers where the sky also stayed bright, the sun merely dipping below the horizon, before rising a short time later in the very early morning. She had begun to develop an uneasy feeling that to head south along the Ribbon was a vast step in the wrong direction, but Albin had convinced her he knew sailors who swore the same occurred all the way down at the other end of the Ribbon, tales they had heard from others, passed from person to person, in a chain as long as the archipelago itself.

Shint gestured to his left, uphill, to a wide level space, similar to that outside the temple, but circular.

‘The Caverns.’

He led the way, exchanging words with alert door staff and guards with thick cudgels at their belts. Their eyes were everywhere, looking up and down the street, checking everyone who approached, but they laughed in response to Shint, slapping his broad back, beckoning the others in the group forward, through the doors. Shint was clearly well known, which did not surprise Flin. Of all the performers at The End, he was not only the one she felt closest to, but he was also the best. His skill with instruments of all kinds was nothing short of incredible, surpassing even that of Flin herself, and she knew just how good she was. Before meeting him, she had never known anyone else to be as adapt with all kinds of instrument—her own skill had quickly stripped that of Rharsle, who had taken it well, knowing he had chosen his apprentice wisely. It was an odd thrill to meet someone better than her.

The entrance to The Caverns was a tall, wide archway, made from gleaming imported pale stone, veined with something darker, perhaps a green or blue. It was hard to tell in the poor light. Beyond, the doors stood open, and lanterns lit the way into the mountain. The only other non-local stone Flin had seen was at the temple, and this was a clear marker of wealth and importance.

Each door they passed was brightly painted with stripes, both vertical and horizontal, complementing and contrasting with its neighbours, individual and memorable. The patchwork was a curious effect and Flin wondered at the cost of the colours—simple paints were cheap, but limited, and some of these colours she had never seen outside of the natural world, had not even known they could be replicated.

There was a small queue of people ahead, waiting to pay the doorman and doorwoman standing behind tables to the sides of the tunnel. They too looked tense. When it was their turn to enter, Shint paid for them all, letting them know he would welcome drinks and mushrooms in return. They were then each handed two small balls of wax, which at first puzzled Flin, before she saw the others moulding and softening them, then pushing them into their ears.

‘It can be very, very loud,’ Niffen said, demonstrating how to place the wax for a good seal. He raised his fist and Flin rocked hers back in return. She could hear very little.

Waiting in the queue had made Flin cold, the sweat from their earlier performance and climbing the stairs cooling her skin in the night air. As soon as the door opened, however, she felt glad she was not wearing too many layers.

The scent of torches, of alcohol, of smoke of different kinds, and the heat of packed, sweating bodies all assailed her nostrils. Somewhere below them she could already hear a pounding beat, deep and persuasive in her chest, a percussive rumble like an approaching avalanche or earthquake. Her heart began to match the rhythm, her fingers started to tap together.

‘Down here,’ Shint said loudly, leading them to one of the striped doors and pointing around the hall, addressing Flin, who was the only one of the performers not to have visited The Caverns. ‘That one leads to toilets, that one leads to a cooler area, where you can rest for a time between dances, that one to a hall with slower music. This is the main dance arena. Each place has bars and places to buy food or drugs, should you wish.’

Flin nodded in return and followed the group through the door. Everywhere was lit with large, expensive lanterns, and she could see small holes here and there across the ceilings and walls, a ventilation system clearing the fumes and somehow bringing in fresh air.

The music grew louder as soon as they passed through the doors, even behind the wax earplugs and, when a door at the end opposite swung open, the rumble became a roar.

A man and a woman exited, both laughing loudly, both covered in sweat. They saw the group and walked over.

‘Shint! Good to see you!’ they shouted, ‘The drummers are on sparkling form tonight, you are going to love it.’ Each clasped forearms with Flin’s friend, nodding and smiling to the others, before disappearing into another corridor.

‘How big is this place?’ Flin called, over the pounding, beckoning beat.

‘Huge. The Caverns themselves are only a part of this labyrinth, many tunnels and chambers are unused—there’s simply too many of them,’ Niffen responded, talking loudly and ensuring Flin could read his lips.

‘The rule is, if a door is locked, it’s locked for a reason. Anything else you can explore to your heart’s content. Just don’t get lost. If you do, follow doors with a horizontal red stripe, they all lead to the exit,’ Shint added. ‘Now, let’s go get a drink and then we dance!’ The big man laughed and they all followed, the beat entering through ears, through feet, and down into their chests.

Flin smiled. This would be a night to remember.

Many thanks for reading.

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To Learn A Place

The moon waxed and waned twice, the season slowly growing into early summer, although the weather seemed little altered by the progression of time. It rained a lot, and the sun never seemed to appear from behind a constant blanket of cloud or mist. Often she could be seen, a silvery white disk, masked, obscured by a veil. It felt strange, not to see or feel direct sunlight for so long.

Flin worked hard, more than earning her keep and pay. She was bought drinks and offered meals and beds, asked for her ankle in marriage twice, threatened only the once and made enough money from tips that she knew she could travel as far south as The Maelstrom without needing to work again, if she was frugal.

Every week or two brought news of a new death. A new killing, a draining. Those who talked about the deaths said there seemed little pattern to the dead, to who was targeted, but Flin noticed each man or woman held power, held charisma. They were people who others would follow and listen to, whether one of the islands most talented rock carvers, the auctioneer from the whale market, or the first mate of a tall-masted long-distance trade ship.

The city was on edge and real fear gripped the populace. As with most large cities, people were killed all the time—bar fights, robberies, duels, murder, feud and revenge—but this was different. Each corpse was found completely drained, blood and fluid liberally splashed across a wide area, bare footprints leading away. More details began to escape, the authorities—The Forge—failing to keep things hidden.

Sometimes, there were symbols written in blood, sometimes there were none, but the corpse was arranged neatly, arms crossed, feet together, a piece of rock in its mouth. The bloodied footprints did not always make sense either, they always headed uphill, but sometimes they were absent before suddenly appearing, as though the killer had leapt an impossible distance. One outlandish claim suggested that at the site of the auctioneer’s death, footprints were found walking along the side of building, at right angles to the path itself, although everyone agreed that was simply people adding impossible details to embellish the tale—but Flin was unsure. She knew many stories, and she knew many of the stories were real.

The city was angry, it was afraid. No one knew who would be next and the rich and powerful began to travel everywhere with bodyguards, especially when night approached. When the first killing occurred within a locked bedroom, those with power who could began to leave. Two members of The Forge took sail to the south, after selling their businesses for a fraction of their worth. A price beyond that they had received was put on their heads, the others in the council effectively making it illegal for any of their number to flee.

Yet not everyone could afford to escape and people still needed to work, they still needed to eat, and they still sought distraction from their fear. The crowds at The End did not thin but seemed to grow, friends arriving and leaving together, groups perceived the safest way to travel.

The one constant was that the killings all took place late at night and Flin made use of this fact, exploring Taura Furnace during the day, when she rarely worked, learning as much as she could about the city and The Ribbon beyond.

She learnt of the cult of The Maelstrom, those who wore clothing of purple and travelled from across the known world towards the one place in the whole Ribbon where people could see through to the other side. She learnt of the Ribbon itself, what it was—or what people said it was. Beyond simply being a long archipelago of islands, it was also the name applied to the strange, purple-tinged clearly magical barrier separating two halves of the world, a remnant from the time of The Breaking. The islands themselves had once been far fewer but whatever cataclysm had formed the impregnable Ribbon had also raised the seabed in places, pulling new land into existence, volcanoes and earthquakes an unfortunate aftermath for generations. Try as she might, she could not learn when The Breaking had happened, no one seemed to know for sure, but it had been many, many thousands of years since those days.

Flin was told of the ice flows, and the places where the sea became solid, giant icebergs and shelves home to flightless swimming birds, huge white cats and wolves and even bigger white bears which preyed on seals, caribou, and small, hairy oxen. She heard of the places where land reared above the ice, with cliffs teeming with migratory birds, which all disappeared before the winter arrived, only to return every spring. It seemed another world, and she was tempted to visit, but she knew it would be a distraction from her goal of finding her home.

Her home had not been ice-bound. It had been cold in winter, with deep snow, but the valleys and many of the slopes had been full of trees and drenched in sweaty, hot summers. The only white animals she remembered were the varying hares, which lived high in the mountains, the long sinuous ermine, and the small foxes, different to their russet cousins of the forests. They all changed their coats with the seasons, and did not stay white in the summer.

She sampled black salt and tasted smoked puffin. She dined on raw whale dipped in a vinegar made from rice and drank a strong alcohol made from the same plant. There were many tongues spoken in the city, each with dialects and accents of their own, and Flin learnt many new words. She saw crafts she had never seen before—the beautiful lines, tiny dots and hashes of scrimshaw, and the intricately-woven silver thread-work, each piece of art dotted with jewels or other materials, both of which Taura Furnace was famous for.

Once, walking down the steps from the temple, Flin felt someone watching from behind and turned to see the same figure she had seen on the boat the morning of her arrival in the city. The woman was still wearing a broad hat, the hilt of a sword visible above her shoulder, tattooed arms still bare. Flin raised a hand in greeting, and began to climb, but the woman also turned and quickly outdistanced her, long legs powering her up the mountain. Whoever she was, she clearly did not want to talk and Flin turned to head back down, one hand playing with the amulet she wore. Perhaps the tall woman recognised Flin from somewhere, perhaps she was looking for someone similar, she was unsure, but she did not feel any sense of worry, and Flin was good at listening to her instincts.

Despite the fear palpable across the city, Flin felt rested and comfortable. She rarely had any panic attacks, and those she did she managed to calm without anyone noticing. Her friendship with Albin and Ana grew, but she was surprised to find that, outside of the circle of performers the inn employed, the quiet waitress and kitchen help, Omena, become one of her closest friends.

Omena and Flin talked about many things, with the small, dark-haired girl opening up and sharing her own background, how she had come to the city from the south, how she had hidden away on a trading vessel to see more of the world, then wished she could return home, before washing up at The End and finding a purpose and joy in life. Flin told her about her past and surprised herself when she told her about Kadan, and his death. She left out much of the detail, but simply opening up and talking about it, and what had come after, really helped Flin—how she had been saved by a passing traveller named Lang, how he had cared for her and nursed her back to some semblance of herself, teaching her how to grieve, to process her loss, and to learn to calm her mind, all the while asking for nothing in return, before they had parted ways over a year later.

Omena loved her job, and although she missed her family and friends back home, she did not want to leave. She knew life in the smaller town she had departed would be very different to the one she had.

Wherever she travelled, Flin easily made new friends. It was something she had always been good at, even before becoming Rharsle’s apprentice, on those trips to town with her father to sell their wool, or at the summer gatherings or autumnal markets. Over the years, she had finely tuned this gift, knowing where to place words or a touch on an arm, when to give a friendly smile or tilt her head just so, listening attentively, and, crucially, knowing when to step back if someone—and they always seemed to be a man—mistook friendship for something more. It came naturally, but it was a gift honed through constant repetition and practice.

The other musicians were from places Flin knew, places she had yet to visit, and places she had not even known existed. Different styles all fed into each other, this beat or cadence, that harmony or descant, all mixing together into something exciting, something fresh. Ana ran the entertainment The End was famed for, placing the performers in a certain order, always finishing the night with an ensemble, new music no one had ever heard before, very occasionally failing to enrapture the crowd but, usually, creating a wild atmosphere.

Flin appreciated the effort Ana put into the running order. Some nights she was able to tell stories, early in the evening, or even in the afternoon, or slow ballads and verse-poems. Other nights she could lead jigs or skips, the stamping of the crowd shaking the small stage. It was a thrill and privilege to work at The End.

‘Tonight we go to The Caverns,’ Shint said, thick locs, banded with silver rings and woven with silken strands, swaying in time to the complex finger work he was practising.

‘After the performance? How late is it open?’ Flin asked. She liked the man, his ready smile and pure joy in music made him an instant compatriot; he had an energy, a magnetism she could not escape.

‘After. The Caverns do not close, Flin! Night is day and day is night. If we wanted to go dance now, to drink and laugh and smoke or chew, we could. We have it lucky here at The End, we work hard, yes, but those at The Caverns work shifts, some in the day, some at night. My friends there sometimes see no sun in months.’

‘We see no sun, Shint, it’s never there!’ Flin said, laughing, ‘What sort of music do they play?’ She had heard of the place, but had yet to visit. Since arriving in the city, she had spent most of her spare time practising, exploring, learning the languages and customs of The Ribbon, and planning, poring over charts and maps of the Ribbon, listening to stories of the islands, tales of the Maelstrom.

‘Oh, you will see. Wear comfortable and light clothing though, it gets very hot, especially with all the dancing. And dance, we shall.’

Many thanks for reading.

Go to the next episode here.

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Head to the introduction and contents page here.

Read more about my fiction here or map making process here.

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Here’s to the next 250 letters.

Skip to the story by clicking here.

This is a fantasy series—not quite grimdark, but dark nevertheless—with complicated and believable characters doing their best to survive in a world simply indifferent to their existence.

To read an introduction to this novella, and the backcover blurb, click here.

Apart from a select few Beta readers, this particular story has not been shared before!

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The Shafts

Flin’s room was simple, but it was her room. Clean, solidly furnished, with a window opening out over the city below—a window with real glass—the view suggesting the sea, somewhere in the mists and beyond the rooftops spread below like giant steps, speckled with gulls and other birds. Of all the places she had stayed, she had rarely experienced a room as comfortable as this one. The pillow was full of feathers, the chair upholstered, even the bed linen would be exchanged and washed every week. A whole room, just for her.

The terms of the contract they negotiated gave her one night off every week, and a full four day break once a month, but she also had the first three nights to do as she pleased—Ana had insisted she would not start until she was rested and ready. She had been adamant that there was no point in risking a voice weary from the long sea voyage, and the different air on Taura Furnace made it wise to adjust. Again, it was unexpected and made Flin feel welcomed, normally she would have to perform immediately.

Ana suggested she stay at The End for the first night, to see what the clientele were like, to see who else performed, and to tailor her own billing to fit. Two nights a week would be spent leading dances in the bigger room, a backing band provided. She would rehearse with them first, prepare and learn new material where needed, check she knew the steps and learn new dances where necessary.

The other nights were left to her to choose what to perform. If there were a smaller number of clients then she would probably sing a few songs, telling more tales as her grasp of the language increased, or even tell stories in languages from The Interior or The Isthmus. Taura Furnace was built on trade and, where there was trade, most people spoke more than one tongue. The more people, the less likely they would be quiet for her work and, in those circumstances, it was better to play and sing popular tunes, provide background music. Flin knew what she was doing—she had been performing for over a dozen years, if she counted her apprenticeship.

The food was excellent, the staff friendly and welcoming. Ana oversaw everything, but was a calming, familiar presence, rather than a tyrant. Albin ran the kitchens, and took great pride in doing so, creating fantastic dishes with the cook, from a range of different cultures and cuisines, despite never having left the island. Every so often Flin would see him talking with sailors or travellers, asking about the dishes they knew, encouraging them to help him add to his repertoire in exchange for a free meal. The smell of spices and herbs was ever-present and alternating, a constant swirl of scent.

That first evening, Flin truly relaxed. She had dressed in her smartest clothing and spent the time observing the crowd and studying the other performers from where she sat, tucked in a corner. She drank wine, good wine from The Isthmus and other places she had never even heard of, but she made her drinks last, alternating with water.

When she headed to bed, many hours later, she felt comfortable, knowing the sailor had been right. She felt at home, glad she had signed for the spring season, get some money into her belt pouch, before she began her journey and the search to the south. She slept well and, for a change, dreamt little. That in itself was a powerful blessing.

‘What will you do today?’ Albin asked, from where he sat opposite Flin, polishing reflective plates from the inn’s lanterns.

‘I think I will go exploring. See something of the street life. I find it is useful to get a taste of a place.’

‘You should head to the upper city slopes, go visit the Shafts.’

‘The Shafts?’ Flin paused, spoon partway to her mouth.

‘You’ve not heard of them?’ he asked. He placed the rag he was using on the table, before continuing, ‘Have you noticed the streets?’

‘The streets?’ Flin was aware she was simply repeating words and added, ‘No, what do you mean? The cobbles? The steam?’

‘That is part of it, I suppose, but no. I meant how clean they are. We have few outbreaks of disease here, the Taura Blacksmiths, or The Forge, that’s what we call our council leaders, they say it is due to how to we get rid of our rubbish.’

Flin suppressed a shudder, remember the last exceptionally clean city she had stayed in. Things had not fared well for Youlbridge, despite its cleanliness.

‘The Shafts are a part of this,’ Albin continued, picking up the rag and polishing furiously, ‘The entire island is riddled with holes, with caverns, tunnels, pits and hollows. Mostly made by the mountain herself, by Taurie. Some of these holes descend all the way down, a long way down to liquid rock and fire. We throw our rubbish down there,’ he paused, ‘and we also use some of them for the dead. We do not bury our people here.’

Flin ran her finger over the scar on her forearm, remembering the tunnels beneath Youlbridge. She forced the thought away, breathing slowly and deeply, recalling the calming techniques she had been taught in the months after she had fled the city.

‘You throw your dead into holes?’ she asked.

‘It’s a little more complicated and respectful than that, but essentially, yes, I suppose that’s exactly what we do. If you follow the street uphill and turn left at the top, then take the steps leading past the Blacksmith’s Forge buildings, you will reach one of the most famous and beautiful Shafts. Go have a look, it is worth the climb, trust me and, if the fog lifts at all, the view is spectacular.’

Some time later, Flin found herself taking stair after stair, sweating, breathless, hot, uncomfortable and cursing Albin in several languages. The climb was long and painful and her legs felt afire. It had been more than a year since she had last been in mountain country, and the change from walking on the flat hurt. She was out of practice.

The stair seemed to go on forever, lined with houses built into—or from—the mountain, all made from the same black volcanic rock. The effect was strangely beautiful, a city that in many ways was uniform, the dark rocks giving the whole a sense it had been created all at once, perhaps overnight—another similarity to Youlbridge.

For their entire length, the centre of the steps held an ornately carved hand rail, scaled and long, the head of some sort of snake or sea serpent resting at the base of the climb. The germ of a new song nagged at her, and Flin was so engrossed in the idea she was surprised when she reached the end of the stair and the tip of the serpent’s tail at the top, aching muscles forgotten.

A squat building stood opposite, across a wide square, men and women stretched in curved lines in front, all marshalled and shepherded by a flock of priests in deep red robes, the queues a human echo of the snake she had followed. She wondered if that was deliberate.

Taura Furnace, Flin knew, had its own religious customs, developed by their proximity to the great mountain towering above, as well as their location as a nexus of trade, a crossroads of cultures and the last great city before the ice.

Flin stood and watched as people carried offerings inside, each bowing deeply to every red-robed figure they passed. All in the lines carried offerings, but a group of people who were entering a side door had none and Flin decided to follow them.

She climbed more stairs to a wide viewing platform, which stretched the width of the rear of the temple building, which was unroofed and open, sitting directly beneath the empty mountainside above. The platform was sparsely dotted with people standing together in small groups, or sitting on raised, stepped benches made from the same stone as everything else. Below, she heard chanting and murmurs of conversation and she walked to the edge and looked down.

At the centre of the temple was a wide hole, fringed with a low square wall of an entirely different stone, this one red like the priests’ clothing, speckled with flecks of white, gold, and black. There was a golden chain atop the wall, perhaps to stop people accidentally falling in, or perhaps for some ceremonial purpose she did not understand. From her vantage point, Flin could see that the hole went deep and was circular, with the mouths of dark tunnels puncturing the sides. The effect made her feel she was seeing a tree from within, somehow turned inside out, after being attacked by countless giant woodpeckers. The whole was lit with a flickering red glow from somewhere below, and a different, brighter light from the great lanterns hanging from many wide columns. The sun remained hidden.

The walls and columns held rough figures, the stone clearly not suited to fine carving, although each statue or relief was recognisably different, with associated carved symbols. Flin did not know what the glyphs meant, or who the carvings represented.

It was a powerful experience. She felt a little lightheaded and could not decide whether it was the walk up the mountain, or perhaps gasses from molten rock far below. As she watched, offering after offering was sent down into the volcano, as the queue snaked past, each person pausing, bowing, then throwing whatever they carried into the hole.

A loud gong sounded, and everyone stopped moving and bowed their heads, silent and respectful. To the rear of the temple, a wide pair of doors opened and a string of priests exited, some bearing an ornate platform on their shoulders, a shrouded body tightly wrapped in bandages of black, red, and white. The effect reminded Flin of the Spring Pole she had danced as a child, and she knew the work was considerable and meticulous. An image of red-robed priests doing likewise, dancing around a hanging body, weaving as they chanted, leapt into her head and she quickly pushed the thought away, to better concentrate on what she saw.

They slowly walked to the lip of the hole, feet stepping in time, movement perfected. They barely paused before letting the corpse slide off the board, those at the front of the platform lowering it, those at the rear pushing up, actions synchronised. The body fell, turning and spinning down into the invisible depths and red glow beneath. Whoever it had once been was lost to view and committed to memory.

As soon as the body was out of sight, the priests disappeared through another door and the activity in the room resumed. Flin was still feeling dizzy and sat down on a free bench, listening to the others in the viewing area. Most of the talk revolved around the reason they were in attendance—to witness family members throw in offerings, or to pay their respects to relatives or friends. To her right, however, one whispered conversation stood out, catching her ear.

‘That’s the third this moon. Each found the same way, drained, like they’d somehow been dried out without rotting. Like,’ she paused, clearly thinking what to say, ‘like salted fish.’

‘What’s The Forge doing about it? Nothing. I hear nothing but denials that its back.’

‘Exactly, they don’t want to acknowledge it, they simply ignore it. Maybe they think it’ll just go away.’

‘My mother and grandmother were talking about it, between them they remember the last two times, years and years back, when my grandmother was my age and when she was the age of my own daughter. It was the same then.’

‘Do you think the killer is the same? If he is then he’s really, really old? Maybe it’s not the same person? If it was then they really are ancient.’

‘I don’t know. My grandmother called it something else, she said it was no longer human, but something different. She said that the blood is used for evil rites, drunk. This last death, my uncle was nearby and saw the aftermath, strange symbols written in blood, bloody tracks leading away, up to the mountain.’

‘What did your grandmother call it?’

The other woman looked around, before she whispered her reply.

‘She called it vampire.’

The pair moved away and Flin resisted the temptation to follow. She was not entirely sure what she had heard, wondering whether her language skills were good enough to affect a decent translation but the last word, the word vampire, she knew. It was the same in other places, an ancient word, crossing time and language. The idea of someone drinking blood made no sense, but then she had witnessed other things that made no sense. She felt a chill, despite the warmth, forcing down fear and calming her mind once more, as she had so many times since Kadan had died.

A tear slipped free and she wiped it away. It was not the only tear to be shed in the temple.

Time to go.

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Start At The End

‘You’ll want to start at The End,’ the sailor called over to where Flin was standing, on the verge of leaving the ship, thickly calloused hands neatly coiling the rope he was holding. He made it look simple.

‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’ Flin had not expected to discuss philosophy with one of the crew of The Henray Raphial.

‘Turn down the second street past the warehouse over there, continue up the hill quite a ways, it’s there. Straight up, can’t miss it. The End. Tales say it used to be the last inn before the Maelstrom, or maybe the northern ice, but that was a long time ago. Now, it’s the place to listen to the best of you lot. Now, we bring over several Merries and Mirths every year, something about The Ribbon draws you lot to this place, and I think you’re the best I’ve heard. Now, I thinks you could make a pretty penny up at The End.’

‘My thanks, I’ll start at The End.’ She gave a short bow to the sailor, who smiled, his entire face creasing into a series of dark furrows, freshly ploughed skin, nodded back and moved away, returning to tidying the deck.

Flin was glad to be heading ashore. After three weeks at sea, each rougher and colder than the last, she had just about had enough of boats. For a while, at least. There were always new places to explore, new places to search and the waters always held and swept along new stories.

As she clambered down the studded plank bridge to the dock below, Flin again wondered what she was doing in The Ribbon and, especially, what she was doing so far north.

When she had originally thought of the idea, many weeks travel earlier, the logic had seemed simple but sound: start at the top, work down. Nobody knew all of the islands in The Ribbon, the archipelago stretching thousands of miles on a roughly north-south axis, beginning in ice and passing through fire all the way to reach more ice. At least, this was what the stories said. There were rumours of huge islands, many, many days’ travel across. Perhaps her recollection of home had been wrong, perhaps she had been raised somewhere out here, deep on an island which had not felt like an island? She had no idea. It would not be too hard to visit the bigger islands, try and find things that felt familiar: mountains, forests, snowy winters, and warm summers. On her travels, Flin had learnt that snow could be found everywhere, no matter the latitude; if a place was high enough, it would receive snow. It made her search even harder.

To her right another, larger, ship was being moored, a scatter of passengers on her deck, all but one looking up at the city. That lone passenger seemed to be staring straight at Flin, face hidden by the shade of a wide brimmed hat, worn despite there being no sun. She was wearing loose trousers and a short sleeved leather vest, with a battered pack slung over one shoulder and what looked like a sword hilt beside it. Swords were very rare: few bothered with something which was only ever used to kill other people—axes and knives made more sense. Even from this distance, Flin could make out swirls of tattoos running up her bare arms. She wondered why she was sure she was being stared at and paused for a moment, considering waiting for the woman, but then turned back to the city and continued walking. Anyone searching for her would not find it hard to do so. Besides, the woman had probably been looking elsewhere, her gaze shielded by the hat. For some reason, the tiny green hook Flin wore at her throat felt warm.

Dodging cursing longshore workers, sweating hauliers, hawking vendors and an array of others, Flin picked her way past a broad and relatively squat lighthouse to the warehouse to which the sailor had pointed. Everywhere she looked, the buildings were all constructed from the same black stone extracted from one of the quarries on the flank of the vast volcanic mountain which made up the centre of the island. Level and wide skirts from ancient flows, extremely fertile soils, and temperatures which were warmer than many other islands this far north lured the first settlers. Now, there was little space left for crops, the whole mountain encircled by the great port city of Taura Furnace, the docks interspersed with salt pans producing the famous black salt for which the island was renowned.

Flin knew the island was not large, but it was widely considered the best place in The Ribbon to sail into from Westsea, Mamak, or any port further north in The Drowning. The biggest settlement before the stretches of icebergs and thick winter ice was a good place to begin this leg of her search—a point on a map, a place in time—even though she knew she had not been born in a treeless place, knew she had been born somewhere lacking the scent of the sea, and certainly knew there had been no volcanoes. Those, she would remember.

‘You any good with them?’ The woman was sitting beneath an awning outside a non-descript, squat house, darning thick socks. Beside her, two men and three children were doing likewise, mending clothes from a large pile on a low table between them. She pointed with a jerk of her chin at the instrument cases hanging from Flin’s shoulder, beside her rolled blankets, water bottle, haversack and cooking pot. She needed to get a proper pack again.

‘Yes. Very.’ Flin had long learnt it was best to answer truthfully. She knew she was good, ‘I also sing, tell stories, lead dances, make people laugh or cry.’

The woman nodded silently in reply.

‘I was told to start at The End. Am I on the right path?’

‘You are, you are,’ she paused in her sewing and looked at Flin carefully, eyes flicking to either side of them, up and down the street. ‘Listen Songstress, be careful here in The Furnace. Things are not as safe as they once were. Things happen here, every generation or so.’

‘Do you mean danger?’ Flin replied, unsure of the woman’s exact meaning, some of the words unfamiliar. Although she picked up languages fast, she had only been learning the main trade tongue of the northern Ribbon for slightly longer than the length of her voyage: lessons, meals and passage given in exchange for entertainment every evening.

‘Danger, yes. But more than that, I mean,’ the woman gestured, clearly frustrated that she had no other language to fall back on, ‘I mean danger from the other, not normal, not even real like you or me. Not human. You understand?’

Flin frowned. She thought she knew what the woman meant—a supernatural danger, something Other. She shivered a little, despite the warmth.

‘Yes, you do understand. Just be careful, don’t head out alone at night. This city is on edge right now, Songstress. I would say don’t draw attention to yourself, but I guess that’s what you do? Good luck, you need anything mended, you know where to find us.’

‘My thanks.’ Flin nodded and continued uphill. Wherever she voyaged, wherever she searched for home, she found people spoke to her, told her things they would not volunteer to other travellers. It was one of the benefits of being a Merry-Mirth, people knew you always meant well, brought joy and raised spirits. When they weren’t trying to rob you of your earnings, they were extremely welcoming.

She walked up cobbles glistening with recent rain. The weather here was grim, something everyone she had spoken to before arrival had agreed—if it wasn’t raining, it was foggy, if it wasn’t foggy, then the winds were trying to blow you to the pole. The pair of locally-born sailors she had managed to quiz on the subject had agreed, summer in Taura Furnace was swift and still windy, but at least if you could escape the gales it was always warm, thanks to the volcano. The streets steamed gently, but there was no sun, heat bounced from the road and off the walls around her. It felt odd, like being in a steambath fully clothed, drifting towards a heady, damp sleep, with sudden, occasional blasts of icy air to wake you.

Flin walked past other shop fronts offering a wide array of goods and services. She saw cobblers and tailors, bakers and fishmongers, cutlers, potters, glassmiths, cabinetmakers, upholsterers, and even a shop dedicated to the rare craft of writing and reading. Everything was here, everything you ever thought you needed, and a thousand other things you did not, was either imported or made in Taura Furnace. Raw materials and basic goods arrived in the city: leathers, skins, great whales, woods, fabrics, glass, horn, bone, ivory, gems, even gold and silver; all transformed by a host of crafters and creators. Their goods were then traded out to the cities and towns further south along The Ribbon, or taken across the sea to Mamak, or further south to the Isthmus, and beyond. Even the rich, fertile soil had once been traded, dug out and shipped to other, rockier islands, until the local leaders had put an end to the trade when they realised no soil meant no fresh vegetables, no fresh salad crops, and no fruit—grain and other dried staples could be imported, but fresh, green plants could not.

In the time since the Great Canal between Eastsea and Westsea had become unnavigable, the trading power of Taura Furnace had grown exponentially. What had been made in Eastsea was now made here, then sent on a long journey, to arrive in the tower markets, available at a much higher price than before. Items which would be incomprehensibly expensive in Eastsea could be bought here for a fraction of the cost, making small scale traders rich once, or if, they made it across the Isthmus or from Mamak and onwards, through Fea Little. In recent decades, the journey had become exceptionally dangerous, pirates, raiders, and bandits proliferated, often effectively blocking routes for weeks or months at a time. For those who risked the journey, the rewards were high, but the potential cost could easily include their life.

Flin needed little, but the idea of upgrading her worn clothing, buying new strings for her fiddle, spare pegs, a new bow, maybe even a better blanket, was tempting. After freezing on the Henray Raphial, thicker socks seemed a good idea too, and maybe new underwear. She had long ago learnt that, when you could get it, new underwear was always wise.

As she walked, she marvelled at how everything seemed jumbled together: a butcher beside an apothecary, a chandler to the left of a rug merchant. She assumed the tanners, blubberhouses and slaughter yards would be somewhere else on the island, somewhere their smell could be blown out to sea. Most cities had streets where shops of the same ilk clustered together, but not Taura Furnace, here, everything was dispersed.

For Flin, learning about a place was important, and she always paid attention. It added layers and details to her own stories, those she made up entirely—if she recognised an accent in a crowd, or a word spoken in a language from somewhere she had visited, it made sense to slip in real facts about a location, change where the story was set to hook the audience, before reeling them in with fantasy and tales of adventure, love and loss, yearning, treasure, or despair. It nearly always worked, adding extra coin to her purse, longer laughter, or more sincere tears.

The End was exactly as Flin had imagined. Taking up the whole corner of a street junction, it stretched in two directions, uphill and sideways, with a wide and tall gate she guessed led to a courtyard. She wondered if they had stables, there seemed little need for horses or ponies on such a small island, at least not beyond haulage purposes and perhaps public transport. To keep such a beast on an island with precious little natural plant cover seemed foolhardy and she had only seen one pair of small, hairy ponies since she had arrived, all other traffic seemed to be on foot, or pushed or pulled by handcart.

She stood still for a moment, looking at the building from across the street and catching her breath after the steep climb. The cobbles were bright, the glare forcing her eyes to squint, despite the lack of direct sunlight; this island was odd, the weather even stranger. People passed by, barely glancing at her, some wearing some sort of wooden eye-ware she guessed cut down on the glare. The inhabitants and visitors in Taura Furnace seemed as diverse as the shops and businesses she had passed, with many styles of clothing, different hair, different tattoos, languages, and a wide variety of colours and shapes. There had even been three Abriki down by the harbour, as well as several Seafolk, and two short, hooded people who vanished before she could catch up to them. She was sure they were Tanuthian, and she longed to ask them more about their underground world. A chill ran down her spine and she felt a strange flutter and stabbing pain in her chest, as she always did when she thought about Youlbridge. She twisted a hair around her finger and forced her thoughts back to the inn in from of her.

She counted three storeys, with extra windows in the sloping roof and small, barred windows at ground level, indicating a cellar or basement. Five floors was a very rare and rich establishment. Most inns she had visited were lucky if they had a set of stairs. Usually, all Flin would find was a ladder to a shared loft, space allocated on a first come, first served basis, sometimes with straw pallets, other times simply bare wood or a covering of rushes. She had stayed in other inns where there were comfortable bedrooms, sometimes even individual, unshared, beds and she guessed The End was one of these. If she could play here, it could prove a very comfortable stay.

The sign hanging above the broad, red-painted door showed a rough sea, with a stylised version of the inn standing alone on a rocky headland, the volcano looming above, red lava flows streaking its flanks. She crossed the street for a closer look. Above the red door in the picture she saw the same sign, painted in miniature. A repeating idea, each smaller and smaller, onwards into infinity. It seemed a strange touch and, for some reason, made her feel a little uncomfortable.

‘Come in,’ the voice from the street behind her made her jump. She had not heard the man approach, ‘I am Albin and this is my mother’s place.’ He walked to the door and waved Flin closer. ‘We are always keen to add to our entertainment bill, but then you must already know that if you are here. Come, come in.’

Flin followed the man, Albin, through the door he held open with his hip. In each arm he carried a large basket, each brimming with produce. She wondered whether the cuts of meat or the vegetables had been brought in by boat, or raised or grown somewhere on the island. The nuts had certainly been imported—there were definitely no trees on Taura Furnace.

If the sky was ever to clear she knew she should be able to see the great chain of The Ribbon to the west, to the north and to the south. Tall peaks, pounding waves, an unknown number of islands disappearing into the great ice sheets of the north, or the vast ocean of the south. The sailors had told her the nearest islands were scant hours’ sail away, given good winds or a powerful galley and, the further into the chain you went, the less windswept and barren the islands became.

Flin was about to close the door when a tremor ran up through her feet, the wood vibrating beneath her hand. Birds shrieked and leapt into the air everywhere she looked, dogs howling from every direction.

‘Come in. It’s just Taurie; she’s grumbling about the change of weather. Come on, The End is solid, well-built, we’ve stood here for centuries and it’ll take more than a little shaking to dislodge us.’ He smiled and Flin smiled back, giving the streets a last quick glance before shutting the door on the cacophony outside.

The man she followed was not tall, nor was he short. He was neither fat nor thin and Flin had to look closely to see what colour his hair was. She had met such people several times on her travels, they could pass unnoticed in any room, passing no comment and gaining no attention. It was a peculiar thing and, in the right circumstances, a useful gift. The last such man she had met had tried to kill her—which had certainly gained her attention.

‘Here we are. Tell me, who may I say is here for an audition?’ he asked, laying the baskets on a scarred table.

Flin realised she had so far not said a word to the man and smiled at him, launching into her prepared speech. She knew she would get better at the local language, she always picked up new tongues within weeks, but it was always wise to have something ready.

‘My name is Flinders Jeigur—Flin. I can play my fiddle or flute, my drum or kora, and any other instruments you can hand me. I can sing, fast and slow, joyful or melancholic, I can lead dances quick, and dances tender, in groups and lines, circles, singles, or pairs. I can tell stories comic, epic, folk, or my own, I jest, I share the news, I weave a web of my own travels and ways. I make people laugh, I make them weep, I make them gasp, never let them sleep. My tutor was Rharsle Tren the Eloquent and...’

‘Rharsle Tren the Eloquent?’ The new voice came from above, descending the wide stairs to Flin’s left, ‘Now that is a name I have not heard in years.’

‘You knew Rharsle?’ Flin asked, smiling widely. This was not the first time she had applied to play in an inn, only to find she was walking in the footsteps of the man who had taught her, the man who had paid gold to take her from her family. It always gave her hope that she was on the right track, that she was heading home.

‘Oh yes. Back before Albin here was born, Rharsle spent a winter in The End. We got on very well. He was captivating, could enchant a crowd better than almost anyone else I’ve ever met, before or since.’ The woman reached the foot of the stairs, ‘I am Ana, I am lucky enough to run The End. Come now, let’s head into the smaller taproom, it will be empty at this hour, and we can talk, eat, and listen to you.’

Flin nodded and followed the woman, who gently patted Albin on his shoulder, thanking him for bringing the food and finding Flin. He smiled in reply. It was clear this was a happy household which, in Flin’s experience, meant the inn would be a good one. Happy staff and happy owners meant a happy ambiance. She relaxed for a moment, just a little, then remembered The Maze Fighter and Sarah and Mariea. Again, the memory of Youlbridge brought a sharp pain in her chest and she turned her attention to Ana, concentrating on the details, pushing the pain away.

Ana was the opposite of her son—where he was invisible in a crowd, she stood out. Her thick, lustrous hair was arranged in complicated braids and twists, piled atop her head and sporting several ornaments and exotically coloured feathers. Although lighter than Flin’s, her skin was still darker than that of her son, making piercing green eyes stand out from a face which had held enough smiles to leave a trail of their passing around her eyes. Where Albin was of an average height, she was short, although her hair made her feel a more imposing presence, as did the way she moved, confidently, in control. It was clear she was someone not to be trifled with.

Flin laid her bags and coat on a table and joined Ana and Albin at another. Ana rang a little bell on the wall, ordering some tea and toasted bread and jams from the young woman who entered, listened, nodded, bowed, and left without a word.

‘That was Omena, she doesn’t say much, but I’ve never known her get an order wrong. Now, tell me, how is the old fox Rharsle? I miss him.’

Flin drew a breath, this was a conversation she had experienced more than once, and it was never easy. In her life, talking of death was always either the death of Rharsle, or a death in a song or story. She had never known anyone else long or well enough. In some ways, she liked this—she did not know which friends still walked the earth, and which had returned to it, and each lived on in her memory. Her son, Kadan, was the sole exception to this rule, and she never spoke of him.

She took a breath and told the story, her story, not the whole truth, but a version of it. Throughout the telling, Kadan remained a constant presence in her mind.

Many thanks for reading.

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Buy me a nice cup of tea!

The Sixth of The Tales of The Lesser Evil

Even after all she has seen, Flin does not expect her stories to come true. But sometimes the monsters are more than just a tale. Sometimes the monsters are real.

Flin has arrived in the vast archipelago of The Ribbon, still seeking her home, determined to put the events of Youlbridge behind her.

But Flin has a habit of finding answers to questions she does not ask and, before she knows it, she is pulled into another life-altering experience.

Who is the swordswoman who seems to be watching her?

And who is murdering people in this misty, steamy city, killing them in ways which suggest the perpetrator may not be human? Surely the whispers cannot be true, surely there is no such thing as a vampire?

As the truth is revealed, Flin discovers answers which could alter everything she—and the world—believes. The stories are real.

Set between the two interwoven episodes of Flin’s life featured in Death in Harmony, Dancing With Death tells a story of discovering friendship, of hope, of answers and questions, monsters, and terrible, horrific danger.

Following Only One Death, Dust and Death, Death and Taxes, A Clean Death, and Death In Harmony, this tale—Dancing With Death—introduces new locations and characters to the reader, all the while adding fresh levels of intrigue and mystery to The Tales of The Lesser Evil.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Dancing With Death builds on the other Tales, adding layers to the overarching story of The Lesser Evil, with certain plot points set to appear in the longer work ahead—although there will be no need to have read these Tales, attentive readers will be rewarded with added depth, flavour, and ‘Easter Eggs’.)

Each Tale (there are currently six, with a final two on their way) is essentially standalone, but each also features returning characters or locations which give the reader a deeper experience when read in order. They are a part of what became a rather long prologue to a trilogy of epic fantasy novels, outlined and currently being (tentatively) drafted.

The serialisation (I’m from Scotland, hence the spelling) of this novella will be released from November 2024 to early 2025. It will initially be free to read, with a new episode in your inbox every Friday, at one minute to midday, French time. At some point after this, once complete, the archive will be only be available for paying subscribers, with additional download options also made available.

Unlike the others I have shared here, this story has not been available to read anywhere else: this Substack serialisation is the first time it has been out in the world.

Contents:

To read more about my map making process, click here.

Episode One: Start at The End

Episode Two: The Shafts

Episode Three: To Learn a Place

Episode Four: Hangover

Episode Five: Dancing is Dancing

Episode Six: When Details Align

Episode Seven: To Feel Fear

Episode Eight: Too Cruel

Episode Nine: Different Talents

Episode Ten: Flashes of the Night

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