The Will of the God of Music

by P. H. Low

You hear the door open as if in dreaming.

Back when you were a conservatory student, you chewed a third of a melatonin tablet every night — to keep yourself from snapping awake before sunup, chest tight, your head still achy with exhaustion. Now, mornings are difficult: your eyelids weighted, sliding; thick grey wool between your temples. Your body drifting in a warm, slow sea.

Evan’s voice. “Rach?”

A groan, from deep inside you. You do not want wakefulness — do not want the heat pulsing from your knuckles, a beacon, a warning; do not want your boyfriend watching, wary, as you massage the meat of your thumb. Too late — slow electric fear coils in your stomach. Your breath draws short as you open your eyes.

“What is it?” Your performer’s voice — clipped, a little haughty, though it still creaks from sleep. (Continue Reading…)

The Troll Road

by Tony Dunnell

Sir Lederick dismounted in the Humble Woods on the southern flank of the Hopewine Valley. Here, on the boundary between the king’s realm and the Trollands, the Troll Road began. The ancient road had long offered the only viable route east, and the footfalls of man and horse once thundered along its path. Now, silence. An uneasy silence, if belligerent councillors were to be believed. They used the threat of a troll invasion to stoke fear and distrust among the populace, their whispers never far from the young king’s ear. As for the trolls, they were content with the treaty. The Long War was over, half a century had passed, and, being isolationists by nature, the trolls had embraced a policy of exclusion toward their cantankerous neighbours to the west. Two realms divided, but now the king of men, keen of mind and wise beyond his years, sought a conversation.

“Wait here, Tammy,” said Sir Lederick, stroking the muzzle of his chestnut steed.

The horse snorted and pawed at the ground. Not even a mount as gallant as Tamaleen enjoyed the smell of a troll. And it was a sleeping troll, a fully-grown male, that now blocked access to the road east. He lay snoring, stretched out, his massive head resting on the upper bank, his body obstructing the road. He was naked save for a simple sackcloth around his waist. His skin was a muddy, blotchy brown. (Continue Reading…)

Gray Skies, Red Wings, Blue Lips, Black Hearts

by Merc Fenn Wolfmoor

A girl has lost her soul down deep in the City. It wandered away while she chipped out another grave in the catacomb brickyards. She set down her pickax, wiped grit from her cheek, and noticed how empty her body was. Looked down at her wrist and found it blank.

That’s what she tells Redcap Kestrel as she sits cross-legged on the abandoned warehouse floor, well away from the grimy windows. The girl who lost her soul doesn’t offer a name. Few people do in the City.

“You want me to find it?” Redcap Kestrel asks. She crouches at a right angle to the girl, not looking her in the face. It’s for the girl’s sake. No one likes to look at a half-alive thing for too long, lest you find yourself on the wrong side of dead. (Continue Reading…)