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90 pages, ebook
Giving in now meant accepting a woman’s life on the farm, toil and pregnancies and worst, hands too fatigue-clumsy to shape wood. She must meet her fear.
“Greed and cruelty have poisoned men’s souls. That is what’s twisted. Even the best men – or those thought to be best – bend against such wicked tides. They don’t even see the evil they do.”
Soon, rays of sun would blast through windows and awaken the city to its freedom. Vora wondered how she might use hers. Honor and valor shone brighter than stolen gold and silver, she decided.
He unslung the war hammer strapped to his back. It had carried him through many battled. It must again today.
“I will fail, without doubt, but not soon. Not with my coming army. And oh, I shall leave my mark, and live on in the rubble of razed cities and in frightful dreams.”
Besting the Beast by Scott Forbes Crawford
(2024, Kindle); Cover art by Ben Greaves
More leaves crunched. Nearer now. Before Resh’s eyes grew a hulking, barely comprehensible form. Humanoid – vaguely – its bulbous torso was a purple shade and it lumbered nearer on limbs of black chitin. Four tentacles swelled from its chest in place of arms. Two organic tubes, the hue of intestine, stemmed from its back and bent over its shoulders, belching a stream of the lavender gas. No features contoured its face; utterly flat, the head served only to host a single mammoth eye, white but for some speckles of red, like blood-spattered milk...In a hollow of her mind, Resh sensed the Imps were nothing more than phantasms born of the gas. This demon, though, was all too real as it stood before her father and wreathed him in gas. The creature’s tentacles embraced his head and chest. He dropped the spear without a fight, his empty hands savagely clawing air until they froze and he flopped beside the useless weapon, his head pulped, a rotten melon.
...he spied a furry lump outside the first hut – what was that? He moved closer: a large, floppy-eared dog, torn into ragged, gory thirds. There, at the next hut – three more, and there, beside the well, seven bodies of cats, sworn enemies, who had in death become brothers and sisters. Loosening his katana in its scabbard, Kokoro quickened his step – and then he froze. A stack rose ahead of him, like of firewood. A stack so tidy and geometrical and perplexing, Kokoro took a moment to recognize it was made of men. Children, grandmothers, sun-browned farmers. What had happened to their chests?
... a gauntlet closed around her throat and lifted her. Choking, she stared at the blank eyes of the Drooler, her mind flailing for some action to take. The edges of her vision darkened. Another moment and the dark would swallow her. But an idea sparked. The Drooler hadn’t fully locked her right arm. Slowly, she reached for his wrist and with fingers made cunning by years picking pockets, she untied the lacings which fastened the gauntlet to his forearm. Her vision clouded and she felt consciousness dwindling away, but finally she undid the last lacing. The gauntlet fell and she tumbled free, rolling as the Drooler tried sweeping her up. Shaking off a woozy head, she leaped into the mill wheel, folding herself in the cramped hollow between the wheel’s blades as it swooshed her down and away.
On an impossibly long, spindly arm, a hand shot from the water, snatched a Jomon trooper from the front rank and yanked him screaming into the pool. A red cloud mottled the surface. Another arm whizzed out. Another. Long fingers raked in Guardians. Now the water swirled and frothed. A head broke the surface and swooped up on a lengthy, sinuous neck.
The whole of the chamber released a collective, ecstatic sigh. Kai reeled at what hovered above the water – a woman’s head, in some demented fashion, with strings of blue-black hair. Eyes like moons filmed in the hue of blood, a jumble of sharp teeth set in an outsized mouth. What form of body lurked beneath the surface?
Kong parted his robe.
Waist up was immense flab, the flesh of his belly coarse, grainy, gloppy. Incongruously, his legs rippled with muscle. Kong began massaging his stomach and chanting ancient words. Cruel, bestial words Janza had never heard, yet somehow, her blood recognized them, recognized and feared them. Janza could only lie there, frozen and terrified, until the sorcerous, blood-thieving assassin had his final say.
Yet with every bead of sweat wetting Kong’s brow, more disgusted heat blasted through her body. Rage warmed her. By inches her limbs began melting free.
Kong rubbed his paunch furiously . . . and he dug his fingers in and tore away bloodless wads of paunch. These he piled on the floor.
Hooves pounded nearer. They were almost on top of Manius. He snatched the two pila javelins he kept on his horse, just as the enemy rounded the bend. The lead rider now was a squat man wrapped in furs, not that giant. Judging his speed, Manius drew back a pilum, coiling his muscles like a tensed spring before whipping forward and launching. The javelin arced true, striking the horseman to the dirt.
Manius readied his throw against the next man. No, only a beardless boy, unarmed. From his speeding horse he looked up at Manius and their eyes locked, the boy’s seeming to register in that split second his life had been spared. Around the bend came the giant. Manius sent his last javelin soaring up and as it arced, he knew it had its victim’s scent. The barbarian seemed to freeze, gazing stupidly at the onrushing projectile, at his end foretold. ... Mouthing a curse, Manius clawed out his gladius, dashed at his surprised foe and thrust for his ribs. In one fluid motion the giant drew his sword. There was a clang and a silvery flash as the barbarian’s curving steel batted away the short, straight Roman sword. Manius was open now to a follow-on strike and braced to receive the killing blow...