The knight lead his army against the besieged wizard in his tower. There would be no escapethis time. There was a sudden bolt of green light, and he just had time to raise his shield before the spell hit him. Disoriented, he opened his eyes on a beach, surrounded by wreckage. He called out, but his throat would only make shrill, wordless noises. He stood, and his small body felt strange, and light. He had to figure out where he was, and more importantly what he was, before it was too late. In panic, the gull took to the sky.
Dwerbin sat at the mouth of the cave and listened. From the entrance, he could hear a steady drip, drip, drip. To the untrained ear, the sounds weren’t out of the ordinary. But Dwerbin was a dwarf, and caves were his business. He sat at the entrance, eyes closed, and really listened to the sounds, the way they echoed, the frequency, the direction. And they sounded wrong to him. Water flows to the lowest point, and these sounds were moving in the wrong direction. Dwerbin readied his axe and called his cousins. They had a slime infestation to deal with.
The vampire limped into his hidden lair, bloodied but still upright. These wounds were not enough to kill him, but he was still fuming. He sat gingerly at his desk and wrote instructions for his daylight servants. Centuries of wealth and influence would serve where his unholy powers failed him. Every manufacturer, politician and columnist under his sway would be brought to bear. The vampire lay in his coffin to begin a long, healing sleep. When he awoke, backup cameras would be mandatory on all road vehicles. This was the last time someone backed into him in a parking lot!
The Sky Warden makes his rounds, souring from tower to tower, weaving through the thin spires gracefully on the string air currents. He checks each hanging cage, ignoring the hateful glares of the prisoners. Their shouts don’t quite cover the howl of the wind. He reflects on the irony of his position as he lands and folds back his wings. He is as free as, well, a bird, while they are trapped in the same skies. But he cannot afford to pity them. The Sky Cells are reserved for the most dangerous inmates, and they’d love to clip his wings.
The Ferryman stood at the dock, staring out at the fog. The paths through the channel were narrow and rocky, requiring a skilled navigator. The leader of a party of travelers approached nervously. “Coin for passage, two silver each,” the Ferryman said. “Er, in the pub they said you were…” she stammered. He cocked his head and held out a gloved hand. The Ferryman poled his little boat silently out into the dark. He was the best, but he didn’t socialize. He couldn’t rest until he repaid his debt to those he’d drowned in life, two coins at a time.
He made a vow to taste everything, and considered himself fortunate to live in times that made such a quest possible. His ancestors had to make do with what was locally available, often devastating their environment. Thanks to advanced technology, the galaxy was his oyster. He traveled the stars, seeking out new life and new cuisines. He returned to the restored Earth and dined on guilt-free dodo eggs and wooly mammoth steaks. But after a lifetime of epicurean delights, he looked over his to-eat list and found only one dish left on the menu: Human. That one would be tricky.
The lizard lay on the rock, sunning itself. It was only a foot long, but the whole rest of the courtyard was utterly destroyed. “I don’t get it,” the rogue said. “The Basilisk is a magical experiment that escaped and went feral,” the wizard explained. “Its barely contained power causes earthquakes with each footstep, and its very gaze is death.” “It’s only natural predator is the weasel,” said the ranger. “But since we don’t have one, let’s just leave it alone. Why pick a fight with something that powerful?” That’s when the rogue spotted the barbarian sneaking up behind it.
The other orders considered the cult of the Shadow God to be odd and superstitious, even by their standards. But the priest and his small but fervent congregation paid them no mind. They met at dusk, when the shadows were longest, and he did not preach to the people, but to the projections at their feet. Their esoteric faith claimed that the physical world was an illusion and that only the shadows were truly real. The other clerics laughed at such silly notions, but they did so in well-lit rooms with their backs against the wall. Because you never knew.
It was the start of another beautiful Independence Day in Washington, DC. The janitor robot looked out over the Mall, which was already buzzing with anticipation for the festivities. It wasn’t every day you celebrated a country’s 300th anniversary. The rising sun sparkled off the reflecting pool as stalls and tents prepared for opening. Busses and smart taxis ferried visitors on early bird tours, while essential personnel working on the holiday made their commutes. It loved this city, and its country. It was so glad they got rid of all the humans. They were just making a mess of things.
Elegy was unique among professional assassins in that he was hired by his victims themselves, rather than their enemies. They had a number of reasons. Some wanted to experience the thrill of being hunted, thinking they could outwit him. Some victims had incurable diseases. Others were simply overcome with despair. These last cases he considered very carefully. Other killers considered him little better than a social worker. What challenge, they asked, was there in assassinating someone who wanted to die? Elegy didn’t mind. He knew what they did not. There was a satisfaction in helping others, even to the end.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 