8FOLD/HCC: Mighty Medley # 24, December 2015, by Messrs. Brenton, Perron, Russell, and Stokes

[Tom Russell]

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-------------- ISSUE # 24    DEC 2015 --------------
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-----------SAXON BRENTON---ANDREW PERRON------------
-------------TOM RUSSELL--COLIN STOKES--------------
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--------------- Editor, Tom Russell ----------------
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE

"Hibernation Holiday Halt" [HCC]
  by Andrew Perron
In response to the current HCC, "Back From Holiday", Mr. Perron
imagines quite a longer holiday than most of us are used to, and gives
us an oblique sneak peek of wonders to come in 2016.

"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 22
  by Tom Russell
In which Skin of Snake take on the persona of Jack Peake as part of
the planned rescue of Celine. Detailing on the complications that
ensue, and the consequences thereof.

"Empress of Pages" Part 9
  by Colin Stokes
The Librarian moves in. On the give-and-take of her symbiosis with the
Eighth Library, and on the pleasures of manual labor.

"Roundheads"
  by Tom Russell
In which a traveler recounts his mistreatment at the hands of both the
godly and the malignant, and also on the cruel nature of his
recompense. Several luminaries of the age are name-dropped, but
unfortunately Boye the Battle Poodle is not among them, for which the
author apologizes most profusely.

"Beyond the Fields" Part 23
  by Saxon Brenton
Marcus and the ladies warily feel each other out, trying to determine
who or what they have allied themselves with, and if they can be
trusted. On the gulf between their suppositions and reality. Touching
helpfully on the uses and limitations of Shadow.


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------------ HIBERNATION HOLIDAY HALT --------------
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-----------Copyright 2015 Andrew Perron-------------
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  Awake
  Fuzz gray fuzz pressure fuzz slow asleep awake fuzz
  Awake
  Aware
  (there is a pull)
  Bright slow grump grump slow fuzz bright less bright
  Day
  Stretch yawn snuffle needs
  Urination
  Hungry need find crunch nom nom crunch smack mmmm
  Not enough
  Enough for now
  Grump grump
  Present aware
  Self aware
  Rethizon
  (there is a pull)
  Droppings
  (who is he)
  Bath
  Dust roll roll warm
  Water shallow splash splash roll nice
  Yawn
  (there is a pull)
  (he is awake)
  (find him)
  Outside
  Looking searching walking
  <The others are awake! Hi!>
  (find him)
  New smell!
  Lick lick lick lick froth froth rub rub spine rub nice good
  (something is wrong)
  Grump grump
  Walking searching smelling
  This way
  (find him)
  Faster
  (Sander)
  Hello
  (where is he)
  Grump grump
  (something is WRONG)
  Grump ANGRY grump
  (where IS he)
  Angry angry RAGE grump RAGE
  (FIND HIM)
  Find him

...To be continued in KAIJU KORPS # 1!


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--------------SEVEN 'GAINST THEBES------------------
---------------------Part 22------------------------
------------Copyright 2015 Tom Russell--------------
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   It made him sick to look at that face, so Skin of Snake looked away
from the mirror, letting his eyes drift onto the butcher's block where
Peake did most of his work. The block was soaked through with blood
and with pain. Ever since he started borrowing faces, Skin of Snake
had been mighty sensitive to others and their sorrows, and to the
traces they left behind in objects. It overwhelmed him just looking at
that block. Touching it would be an agony. He was careful not to do so
as he picked up one of the flaying knives. The knife was well-used,
and well-stained with pain and slick pleasure. He placed it in the
sheath strapped to his jeans. The jeans and sheath both being things
made of his own tissue, it did little to deaden its terrible pulse.
   He went upstairs, and quickly found his way to the kitchen. Trumpet
was there, noisily sucking on a lemon. "Boss?" he said. "Whatcha doin'
back already? Quick even for you."
   He might have had Peake's face, but his voice was another thing. He
knew if he even tried the whole thing would fall apart. Skin of Snake
just kept walking.
   "Boss?" said Trumpet. "I said, that was quick even for you. Where's
the boss, boss?" Trumpet grabbed him by the arm. "Boss?"
   Skin of Snake stuck the knife in Trumpet's throat. Trumpet opened
his mouth to register his shock at this development, but no sound came
out. The knife came out, and so did a little bit of blood; Skin of
Snake was surprised how little blood there was.
   He put the body in the pantry.
   There were only two guards posted outside the bridal suite, one on
either side of the door.
   "That was quick," the one on the right said.
   Skin of Snake threw his head toward the hall and took a step forward.
   "Now, hang on, Jack," said the left. "You know the rules. No one
but the boss."
   Skin of Snake stopped and stared at the man on the left. He counted
to five in his head. He pulled out his knife, wiping Trumpet's blood
on his sleeve, staring at it in admiration. He put the knife back in
its sleeve. He looked up again at the man on the left. Then, he
smiled.
   "Come on," said the right. They got out of there right quick.
   Skin of Snake opened the door just wide enough to squeeze himself
through, letting the door close behind him. He expected to see the
poor helpless girl strapped to the bed, and was much disturbed by her
absence. Did he have the wrong room? Had something happened to her?
   He didn't see her until she had opened his throat with his own knife.


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---------------- EMPRESS OF PAGES ------------------
----------------------Part 9------------------------
-----------Copyright 2015 Colin Stokes--------------
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Less than a month later - days full of walking, talking, bartering,
and searching - the Librarian had found a suitable location. It was in
the southern area of the landmass, amidst the gently rolling hills
overgrown with wildflowers and untended vines: a small network of
ancient ruins.
   She had recognized it immediately - from the aerial photos,
fortunately; what a convenient world this was turning out to be! - as
a form of energy collector the Library had catalogued in eras past.
Discreet inquiries had brought her to the conclusion that it was in
some way damaged, or otherwise inoperable, and so no one else was
bothering with it - or was likely to, which made it perfect for her.
   As the site lay some distance away from 'civilization proper',
without reliable roads, the Librarian had managed to acquire a small
four-wheeled cart without too much trouble, simply providing some
much-needed repairs in exchange. It felt good to get her hands dirty
for the first time in a long time, tinkering and fixing and improving,
and the local people certainly seemed appreciative enough to have
their irrigation systems in better condition. She'd have to go back
and visit again when time allowed; but now, she had a new home to
prepare.
   The Librarian pulled her little cart up to a shaded spot near one
of the taller stone pillars and killed the engine, which made a sad
little sputtery sound before falling silent. She added 'improve the
cart' to her mental list and hopped out, the small conveyance lacking
any safety features like seatbelts or doors. The vehicle wasn't her
only upgrade, either; the Librarian's tattered robe was folded up and
stashed away in the depths of a weathered brown backpack, while she
wore an equally worn brown leather jacket over a featureless gray
shirt and a pair of light blue denim jeans. Her original black boots
she kept, because she didn't feel like showing anyone her feet until
she knew they wouldn't react poorly to their inhuman appearance. Her
fusion with the Library did have its drawbacks on occasion.
   She walked toward the pillar and placed a hand on its cool stone
surface - the other side would be warmer, but this one had a better
chance of getting some sort of reading, if there was anything /to/
read. After a moment, she felt the tendrils of wire sliding out of the
center of her palm, delicately exploring the pillar's surface; another
moment, and she felt the vibration and heard the quiet, almost
ultrasonic whine of a host of tiny drills at work.
   -It is as we expected,- the Library spoke from within as the drills
ceased their shrill digging after less than a minute of work. -Broken,
or perhaps... heartless. The pathways themselves are mostly intact,
but the core of the network is damaged, or missing; I cannot tell
which from here.-
   "But you know where we should go, then. Underground, I hope," the
Librarian mused, stepping away from the pillar with a thoughtful
expression as she looked up at its vine-covered expanse.  "If those...
flying eyes, or whatever they are, can take pictures once, they can
surely do it again; and the less interference we have, the more
quickly and surely we can proceed with our plans."
   -Underground it is indeed, but not too deeply.- The familiar light
of one of the Library's waypoints overlaid itself on her vision, and
she turned to follow it, slinging her backpack over one shoulder and
stepping through the carpet of plants. The cart had suffered enough
getting her this far, and she didn't intend to overtax it without
cause. Past more pillars, under arches, over small fence-like rows,
she finally came to the waypoint marker and stopped. With nothing
immediately evident, she turned a quick 360, letting the Library do
the work of analyzing her visuals. It was an arrangement both had
become used to by now, after the loss of the Legion.
   -There,- the Library murmured after a short pause, the waypoint
winking out and regenerating in the shadows no more than a dozen yards
away. -That is the way in.-
   The Librarian stepped over cautiously, her boot heels ringing
softly against weathered stone wherever the vegetation was thinner,
and squatted down to peer at the just-larger-than-normal separation
between two massive slabs of granite. From this angle, it was hard to
tell, but there was definitely empty space further down that crack.
She looked around, more out of habit than any expectation it was
necessary, and let wires slide out of her sleeves and down between the
two slabs to investigate. "How is it down there? Any problems?"
   -There is a pathway that should lead us directly to our destination
without any surprises,- the Library returned with what might have been
a quiet sigh, -but it is narrow and part of it is obstructed. Some...
alterations would likely be wise.-
   "Tearing up ancient ruins? Sounds just like old times to me." The
Librarian grinned, and clenched her fists, her wires retracting with a
sound like a pit of metallic snakes. "This is going to be /my/ home,
after all. I think it's only fair that we kick things off by...
redecorating."


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-------------------- ROUNDHEADS --------------------
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------------Copyright 2015 Tom Russell--------------
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On the road between London and Oxford, I saw a small group of
soldiers, well-seasoned in mayhem, and appropriately fond of murder
and pillage. Wishing to avoid their attention and thus their
ministrations, I went off the road to take a circumventious route.
This did in truth do the opposite of mine intention, and soon I found
my path set upon by sixteen men, most armed with filthy, gore-streaked
pikes, and a few handgunners among them. Thankfully, it were a wet and
dreary evening, so it is unlike that any match once lit would stay
ablaze long enough to fire the ball. Most like they would use them as
clubs.
   "King or parliament?" asked the ugliest of them, their captain.
   "I wish no trouble, sirs," I said, and then began to walk as if I
had not seen them.
   "Then you shall answer the question, cur; are you for the King or
for Parliament?"
   "If I only answer thy question, then you shall let me leave in peace?"
   "Provided thy answer is goodly and correct."
   "Gentlemen, I have been asked this question six times in the last
fortnight, and find it tiresome, and unEnglish."
   "Then you should have no trouble answering it, immediately."
   I was uncertain to which they owed their allegiance, and a quick
study gave me no hint of what answer would end in violence. At this
point, there was no hope for it, and I decided to give them an answer
that would be sure to enrage them; and I later comforted myself with
the knowledge that I had given them a chance, though it were but a
small comfort.
   "The problem, sirs, is that the answer changes depending on the
inquisitor. In Wales, I said I was the King's man, and there they let
me pass. In the South, I claimed allegiance to Parliament, but had the
misfortune to stumble upon a stronghold for his majesty, and so was
shot in the face as a traitor." I pulled back my hat, so that they
might see the ruin of my right eye. "Two days later, I did return the
favor, and carry his right eye in mine pocket; here, I will show it to
you now.
   "Travelling in the North, I gave the wrong answer to men under the
Fairfaxes, and it was decided by those godly soldiers that I should be
hanged as a Malignant." I unraveled my scarf, so that they might see
the thick welts about my neck, which did horrify them a goodly amount.
"All those men, rest assured, are quite dead.
   "Not four days ago, I was asked quite a different question by
Masters Hopkins and Stearne, and as a consequence I was made to burn
at the stake." The doffing of my shirt did satisfy their curiosity in
that regard. "I shall settle my accounts with them to my satisfaction
presently. Or at least that is my intention, but I am afraid that you
gentlemen have delayed me unduly."
   I grabbed hold of my head on either side and twisted it off with a
quick and well-practised motion, then did replace it with Head No. 8.
I left one of them alive, discovering upon inquiry that they had been
roundheads, and when the business was done, I did charge this man,
with burying his fellows, save of course for the heads, which at my
instructions he gathered into my sack. This he bore upon his back, and
then he did follow me, and in remembrance of the event, I did bid him
answer for the rest of his days to the name of Winslow, for it means
the hill where one's friends have been buried.


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-----------------BEYOND THE FIELDS------------------
---------------------Part 23------------------------
-----------Copyright 2015 Saxon Brenton-------------
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   Marcus kept running, undistracted by Deidre's bluster. Not that he
was dismissing it entirely. If these two women were powerful enough to
keep turning up where he had encountered them - not to mention
punching unconscious one of the Hunds! - then of course they might
prove to a possible threat to him. But he had more pressing concerns
at the moment.
   A scant handful of seconds and a turn into a side street later, and
he spied a store with an alcove-like entry. He ushered them inside,
then made a small gesture. A gossamer of shade obscured the entryway
from the street. There was a slight drop in temperature, noticeable
even in the already chilly, snow-dusted midnight. "That should buy us
some time."
   Joan looked at this, and in a neutral voice observed, "Shadow."
   Marcus turned to face them, trying to think how to win their trust.
He had no idea that the angel had already noticed his soulless state
and was idly wondering which demon he had traded it to and what the
price had been. "Yes, shadow," he agreed. "One small safety tip.
Magical shadow has its limitations, but when it's used properly it
actively obscures the evidence of its own presence. But the ability
that you were using to keep yourself unnoticed? It reaches out to
cloud the perception of anyone who might be watching. That will work
fine on most people, but powerful mages will be able to detect and
track it."
   "Like yourself?" asked Joan, pointedly.
   "I did not track you," he replied bluntly. "I stumbled across you.
Twice," he added, holding up a pair of fingers for emphasis.
   "Twice?"
   "The death camp at Rotswald," said Deidre. Her arms were crossed
and was looking at him thoughtfully. Neither of the women seemed
particularly frightened, and in fact the dark-haired one looked
somewhat grim. Marcus wondered if the memory of the Nindenheim camp
was aggravating her. (Actually she was still wondering whether he had
been led to them by the antibody reaction of this world in an attempt
to put a stop to the activities of Joan and herself.) But the
practical result was the same: Despite the attack that they had just
fled from, they were not cowed, and had the mien of people who would
bring more firepower to bear if they thought it necessary. "What were
you doing there?" Deidre asked.
   "I had just finished destroying the place," said Marcus, and he was
surprised how easy it was to admit that. If these two were some sort
of trap, to locate him and get him to admit to something treasonous,
well... He could probably fight his way free. Magical shadow could be
used as a very effective disintegrator if its energy draining was
applied to molecular bonds, and Marcus knew that he could vaporise a
city block in a defensive strike on an instant's notice. Even if it
didn't destroy them, if would act as a useful distraction to cover an
escape. However he had an unpleasant feeling that whatever these two
actually were, they weren't part of a trap.
   "Listen, this is important, and I don't have much time," he said, a
touch of urgency entering his voice. "The Reich has been exploiting
death magic for something like the last two decades, and that's led to
magical pollution that had to be stopped. I've destroyed the
infra-structure that they were using and taken steps to keep it from
being set up again, and now there's only a final bit of tidying up to
do. But in the midst of all that you two kept appearing, making
cryptic comments about history gone wrong and being perpetually stuck
in 1963 and God only knows what else." He scowled as he tried to
gather his thoughts. "Most of that I won't pretend to understand, but
there was stuff you said about things coming from America."
   "The chocolate?"
   "That's it," he agreed. "Or the starting point for it, anyway,
since I also started thinking about all the Zane Grey novels." He
waved this away. "Whatever the case, I urgently need to know what you
were talking about when you talked about the world breaking up and
everyone dying and the bits leaking into somewhere else. I get the
feeling that things are much worse that I realised, and you two seem
to be the only ones who could help me fix what's wrong."


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-----------------SEE YOU NEXT MONTH-----------------
----------------FOR OUR DOUBLE-SIZED----------------
-----------------TWENTY-FIFTH ISSUE-----------------
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All stories are the copyright of their authors. Sander and Rethizon,
about which more very soon, were created by Tom Russell & Andrew
Perron.