8FOLD: Mighty Medley # 15, March 2015, by Messrs. Brenton, Perron, Russell, and Stokes

Tom Russell joltcity at gmail.com
Fri Mar 6 16:30:56 PST 2015


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-------------- ISSUE # 15  MARCH 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

"Beyond the Fields" Part 15
  by Saxon Brenton
In which our heroines draw conclusions about the World around them,
and discuss possible courses of action. Which end of the flaming sword
to hold.

"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 14
  by Tom Russell
In which Skin of Snake, disguised not as Ned Strife, but as someone
who looks like him, introduces himself to Jack Peake and Hank's widow,
Celine.

"Empress of Pages" Part 3
  by Colin Stokes
In which the daemon realizes that the Librarian, like all members of
that vocation, are not to be trifled with. The Jade Throne, the hot
red sting, and twin lights of yellow-gold.

"The Fear-Killer"
  by Tom Russell
Murder, Nazis, and exclamation points: the Golden Age in miniature.
Revealing why the Shadow Cabinet is targeted, and the secret of Head
No. 4.

"Swallow with a Forked Tail in the Family Stone"
  by Andrew Perron
In which we spend time with an old friend. On the perils of abandoned
supervillain hideouts, and riddles. The difference between banter, and
punning, and wordplay. Living without regret, and the theft of a
single egg.

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-----------------BEYOND THE FIELDS------------------
---------------------Part 15------------------------
-----------Copyright 2015 Saxon Brenton-------------
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Joan Smith and Deidre Landowski did not linger near the still-burning
remains of the Nindenheim death camp. Joan barely had to glance at the
place to confirm that the industrial scale death magic that had been
perpetrated at the camp was at least partly responsible for the foul
state of the psychic atmosphere. It took a few minutes more to confirm
that the vast ball of fire that dominated the camp's remains was
powered by elemental forces rather than those same death magics. Then
they departed, mindful that although they were shielded with a subtle
'don't notice me' effect, the protection it offered was not absolute.
   After all, Lee Ardock had seen through it, and he wasn't even a
particularly powerful or influential member of the neo-Nazi movement
in Edmonstown back on Earth. No doubt random denizens of this world
could be granted similar immunity and then pushed forward to defend
their home. And perhaps as part of all that, Deidre had a lingering
sense that the two of them were being watched.
   Deidre was frowning as they took a roundabout route back towards
town, and Joan asked her what she thought. The human shook her head in
frustration and admitted, "I don't know what to think. It would be
really satisfying if the Nazis had simply overreached themselves and
been destroyed when their own power rituals overloaded and
backfired... But it's pretty clear that's not what happened."
   "Yes," agreed the angel. She glanced around the winter forest,
including tracing out the path of the animal trail that they were
following along the edge of a stream. "I don't like the idea of an
unknown third party, already ahead of us in opposing this Reich. If we
end up following in their wake, there's a greater risk of us getting
caught when whatever local security comes to investigate. But we don't
know what their motives are, let alone their plans."
   "Mmmm. They might not even be a potential ally. It might be some
sort of internal Nazi power play," said Deidre. She realised to her
chagrin that that her all-too human sense of outrage at encountering
an active Nazi death camp had distracted her into a sense of
schadenfreude. Thank goodness Joan was here to keep her focused on the
main game. "Okay then. That suggests that we might need to pick up the
pace a bit, pushing synchronicity to try and get ahead." A look of
consideration briefly crossed her face, and then said, "I think I can
do that, but it could be exhausting." She turned to Joan and said, "I
presume that you'll be able to ride shotgun?"
   "I might not be one of the warrior angels, but I do know what end
of a flaming sword to hold," Joan joked drily. Then, more seriously:
"That said, what you're suggesting might even be futile, if the target
you're pushing towards isn't a simple 'Go here and do this' or 'Find
the clue at this location'." If instead it's a 'Be at this place at
this time and intervene in this sequence of events'..."
   Deidre nodded. "Yeah. A lot of effort for nothing." Then she looked
ahead along the path and said, "Well, that's quaint."
   'That' was a small wooden bridge that crossed the stream. It was
decorated with ornate carvings. And as the two women stepped onto it a
voice was heard: "Who's that tripping across my bridge?"


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--------------SEVEN 'GAINST THEBES------------------
---------------------Part 14------------------------
------------Copyright 2015 Tom Russell--------------
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   The injun steadied himself before the flap and, letting his deep,
flat voice take on a higher and sweeter register, called out, "Mr.
Peake?"
   A ghostly hand reached out through poor Hattie's hide and gripped
Skin of Snake about his borrowed throat. At its touch, he presently
found his whole body taking on a ghostly aspect, like he was being
gripped at every possible inch and shook violent-like. Skin of Snake
found himself passing through Hattie and into the hut, and now he was
crumpling to the ground.
   Afore him stood Jack Peake, mean as summer. That meanness faded in
an instant, as the fastest man in the West now regarded him with a
kind of queer awe. "You ain't Ned Strife," said Peake, collecting
himself.
   "You're quite right, sir," said Skin of Snake. "Though you will
admit that I bear a certain passing resemblance to our employer?"
   "Our?"
   "You are in the employ of Mr. Strife, are, ain't you?" said Skin of
Snake. (He had almost said "aren't", but corrected himself swiftly.)
   "That I am," said Peake. "I'm also what you'd call his foreman. I
manage all the hiring and firing at Thebes, and I don't recall doing
either for you, sir."
   "I'm new," said Skin of Snake. "From Pinkerton. Name's Brad Clay.
You do conduct business with us, if I recall..."
   "I recall," said Peake.
   "And you did request a new Pinkerton man lately." (Leastways that's
what Paul Strife had told them.)
   "I did," said Peake. He took out his whittling knife, and a piece
of wood. He let the knife drag long and slow across the block, a layer
of hickory peeling off like skin. "We also got him two days back."
   "Oh," said Skin of Snake, dusting himself off and picking himself
up. "I suppose there has been some kind of misunderstanding; I will
bother you no more, sir."
   "Nah," said Peake. "I can see how you might be of more use to Mr.
Strife, on account of your resemblance. Yes, a number of situations
where that might be of use. I'll take you up with me and the girl to
Thebes."
   "Girl?" said Skin of Snake.
   Peake pointed behind the injun with the tip of his knife. He turned
himself 'round, holding his hands clasped behind his back, and took a
look at Hank's widow. She was a comely woman indeed, daughter of a
Chinaman, as small and delicate as Hank had been big and hardy. Even
for that, even though Peake had her bound and gagged something fierce,
she didn't strike Skin of Snake as looking particularly helpless.
There was fire in her eyes, something fierce and violent.
   Skin of Snake turned back around to glance at Peake, to see if he
saw it too. He didn't; more the fool him. "Who is she?"
   "Boss's new wife," said Peake.
   "He's a lucky man," said Skin of Snake. With his back still to the
widow, he unclasped his hands to show her Hank's locket. When he heard
her breathe in, sharp and short, he knew she had seen it and worked it
back into his pocket.
   He turned to face her again. The hate had melted away for a second.
Skin of Snake smiled at her. "Yes, a lucky man indeed."


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---------------- EMPRESS OF PAGES ------------------
----------------------Part 3------------------------
-----------Copyright 2015 Colin Stokes--------------
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The heat in Fn'ordh's stomach began growing, an oily, greasy sensation
that lacked any redeeming qualities. He wasn't quite sure just what it
was, but he knew he certainly wasn't fond of it.
   The darkness continued to thicken to all his senses, only the
Librarian's form remaining distinct as the ground beneath her lost all
clarity, presenting her against a perfectly black backdrop; and all
this time, the dry whispering noise coming from within the darkness
continued to intensify, sounding like parchment being shuffled about
or dragged across itself.
   There might have been words in the noise, but Fn'ordh was more
concerned by the sudden appearance of two points of yellow-golden
light within the smothering darkness, as though someone's - or some
/thing's/ - eyes had just opened. Despite their featureless
brightness, they seemed somehow... hungry.
   Fn'ordh shuddered, involuntarily.
   The Librarian finally looked up and stared directly at the daemon,
the golden 'eyes' above her head seeming to do the same. "If you leave
now, you may spare yourself harm," she began, as softly as before,
"but if you stay then I cannot say what will befall you."
   "I will do what I came to do," Fn'ordh spat, despite his growing
unease. "Your bluffing will avail you nothing; your secrets are mine!"
   -Your infinitesimal mind could not bear the weight.-
   It wasn't the Librarian's voice, but it was eerily similar; just
different enough to be, if Fn'ordh had to have described it in a word,
inhuman.
   The daemon recoiled, purely out of instinct - an instinct that
hadn't come to the fore since last he stood before the Jade Throne of
the Netherworld - and felt a cool, firm grip on his wrists, looking
down to see tendrils of blackness wrapped around them; tendrils that,
as he followed them back with widened eyes, disappeared into the
impenetrable black void around the Librarian.
   The twin yellow-golden lights seemed to shine even more brightly
than before as the firm grip tightened like a vice, more tendrils
darting out of the blackness to hold Fn'ordh where he stood. And again
came the voice, over the shuffling parchment sounds: -You will give me
your secrets instead.-
   There was a slight pause as the darkness descended further, and
Fn'ordh started to lose sight of the Librarian, even of himself, of
everything except those burning golden lights - so close they seemed
to be in his face by now.
   -And perhaps,- the voice continued, -you will receive something in return.-
   Fn'ordh wanted no such thing, regardless of what it might be. He no
longer wanted this woman's- this /thing's/ secrets, whatever they
were; he only wanted to escape, to flee, to get away and never be
summoned again -
   'Ah,' he thought to himself, with a moment of clarity before the
blinding golden light took him. 'That's what this feeling in my
stomach is. Fear.'

   A black void pinpricked by countless stars, with a sullen gray moon
in the distance...
   The shelves in a library, taller than buildings, full of books and
tomes and scrolls...
   A white sand beach caressed by waves, with a radiant sun overhead...
   A white room with a white bed, occupied by a frail and hairless
woman, her skin speckled with silver spots...
   A tall, many-faceted crystal of unknown size, pulsing with soothing
purplish light...
   A clockwork-make... koala?... chittering angrily about something...
   An empty bar with a single bartender polishing a glass...

   The whirl of images faded, and with a feeling as though he had been
somehow violated and yet hadn't the slightest memory of it, Fn'ordh
took a deep breath. He was in the beach cave again, with the Librarian
in front of him; everything was just as it had been before he had gone
into her mind.
   Except that now the woman's eyes were closed, and she was... smiling.
   There was a small metallic noise, like a dagger sliding from its sheath.
   Fn'ordh sprang back, and his earlier fear redoubled as he felt the
hot red sting across his defensively raised arms, and the slight
wetness that could only be blood from a wound made by a weapon he
hadn't even /seen/.
   The Librarian opened her eyes, and they were now a burning
yellow-golden color; and Fn'ordh the Lesser knew that even if he lived
through this, he would never be able to erase her face - her /eyes/ -
from his memory, no matter how hard he tried.


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------------------THE FEAR~KILLER-------------------
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------------Copyright 2015 Tom Russell--------------
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"Operator, give me Whitehall Twelve-Twelve!" It's the third such
murder in as many nights. All of them prominent members of the Shadow
Cabinet, and all of them vocal critics of Mr Chamberlain's government.
   "The most baffling thing about it," explains Inspector St
John-Davies, "is that in each case, there seems to be no cause of
death. No wound, no poison - but each man was found with their eyes
and mouths open in terror!"
   The visiting detective from the continent nods. "It's as if each
man was frightened to death."
   "How absurd!"

In a secret room, the continental detective recounts his conversation
for his manservant, Winslow. "It is not as absurd as the gentleman
believes! I have heard whispers about a man who kills in such a
manner... The Fear-Killer! I believe I know where he will strike
next!"
   "Shall I notify the Yard, master?"
   "No! It is too dangerous! I shall go alone!" He puts one hand on
either side of his head, and then yanks it off. "For only THE HEADSMAN
can thwart his evil scheme!"
   Winslow takes the head, and places it on a pedestal. "Head number
six, back in place! And which of your fantastic heads will you be
wearing tonight, master? Number seven - the tiger? It will give you
the ferocity and fearlessness of that animal! Or number twelve - the
dragon? Perhaps his breath of flames will stop the Fear-Killer!"
   "Number four," says the Headsman.
   The manservant stares at the pedestal. "Number four? Forgive me,
master, but Head number four is your only head that has no special
powers! You must have misspoke!"
   "No," replies his master. "I know exactly what I'm doing!"
   ...BUT HOW CAN THE HEADSMAN SURVIVE?

"I say!" exclaims the Fear-Killer. "You're not the minister!"
   "No, I am the Headsman! And now you shall be punished for your crimes!"
   "On the contrary, old chap," says the Fear-Killer. "I expect to be
richly rewarded by Adolf for weakening His Majesty's next government."
   "You're worse than a killer! You're a traitor!"
   "And you're dead!" The Fear-Killer turns his weird power against
the Headsman... the eyes goggle... the mouth opens as if to scream...
the arms flail out in terror... he flings back... dead!

The Fear-Killer returns home, locking the door behind him. "Tonight
was a bust... but tomorrow I'll get right back to work!"
   There's a knock on his door.
   "Who could it be at this hour? ... Yes, yes, I'm coming. What is... You!"
   On the other side of the door stands the Headsman, his face still
twisted in grim and unspeakable horror! The Fear-Killer can't believe
the sight... his eyes goggle... the mouth opens as if to scream... he
flings back... dead!

"I knew that the Fear-Killer would kill whichever head I wore, and
then I would lose that head's powers forever. That's why I chose
number four, the only one without a special power."
   "Very cunning, master! And now you have a new number four, the
Fear-Killer's head!"
   "It will make a keen weapon in my battle against fascism!"
   "Frankly, master, I never understood why you kept the old number
four anyway. Why keep a head that doesn't have any powers?"
   "Sentimental reasons, Winslow," says the Headsman. "You see, Head
number four was the head I was born with."


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------------ SWALLOW WITH A FORKED TAIL ------------
---------------- IN THE FAMILY STONE ---------------
-----------Copyright 2015 Andrew Perron-------------
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Over the rooftops of the city stalked a mask with no name. Driven by
vengeance, by crime, by the job. But tonight, driven by fatigue, back
'home'.
  Doublecrossword's old place. The man in black lifted away the sheet
metal that made it look like another rusty hulk left by white flight
and slipped in.
  He made it to the tiny room, filled with old mainframes - once the
'Cryptic Crypt'; now, 'the only room with functioning electricity'. He
opened the minifridge and pulled out one of the frozen dinners, turned
to pop it in the microwave, skidded on a wet patch that hadn't been
there yesterday. Before he could catch himself, his hip thudded
lightly into an old server.
  Clumsy. In here, that didn't matter, but on the job--
  Then he heard the hum. The wailing of an old modem, transmitting
over a phone line. A message was being sent. He spun. The phone jack--
There!
  The wire parted from the wall. Had he interrupted the transmission in time?
  No such luck. On the monitor, a command line prompt in black and white:
  CONNECTION COMPLETE. SENT TO: DOUBLE A DOUBLE WITHOUT MATH | THE
OCEAN ROLLS IN EQUALLY | SMELLING OF CREAM SANS EXISTENCE | EVEN MORE
TOWARD THE ORIENTATION OF JAPAN
  For one tired moment, he just slumped. Supervillains. Four-color
apophenia fiends. He thought he'd left them behind, driven them off
his turf. But when you were weeding, you couldn't cut the stems - you
had to pull out the roots.
  He pushed himself up, out of the funk and into the job. Okay. This
was clearly one of Doublecrossword's cryptics, wordplay-laden clues
that she left at the scenes of crimes - and in her own systems,
apparently. There were four of them, corresponding to four words - the
destination of the message. If he decoded them, he'd hopefully be able
to stop whatever had been set in motion.
  Double a double... two times two was four, but without math...
twins? Identical doubles? No, it wouldn't be that literal, or that
confusing. Doublecrossword liked to make you feel stupid by putting
the answer right in front of your... ah. Without math, two and two was
twenty-two.
  (He'd never been *bad* at wordplay. Banter, he'd really gotten into.
He dabbled in puns. But he'd never cultivated the mindset that flew
from one word, one concept to the next, following the chain with
casual ease.)
  (He doesn't regret it. He lives without regret. But wouldn't it be handy.)
  The ocean rolls in at the tide. Was there a word for halfway between
high tide and low tide? What *was* a neap tide, anyway? Go simpler.
Equal tide, even tide - wait, there was an Eventide Avenue that passed
nearby. Eventide.
  'Smelling of cream sans existence' wasn't 'avenue', though. Exist, I
exist, I am - 'cream' without 'am'. Smelling of cre, cre-smell,
cre-scent. 22 Eventide Crescent, a short jog of the avenue off a
five-way intersection.
  He had his address - but he had another word. The mystery deepened.
The orientation of Japan... Pacific? Pacific-est? Pacifist? Taking too
*long*...
  Suddenly, a metallic thumping. The side door - he was caught!
  He crept, slowly, quietly, towards the broken window above the door.
He leaned over, peered out. Saw something pink on the ground. A man in
a pink van, trundling off. Crept down and found a basket with fake
grass, chocolate bunnies, and a note: "Glad to have you back in the
neighborhood!"
  Even more toward the orientation of Japan - east-er. She had an
automated order for Easter candy. What... the... hell.
  He dropped it off in the kitchen of the orphanage, sans one cream egg.


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-----------------SEE YOU NEXT MONTH-----------------
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All stories are the copyright of their authors.

The mask with no name created by Tom Russell. All other characters are
the creations of their authors.


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