Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part Five

FIVE Today, I have found my god. She had strayed from me once, “Follow me!” she commanded, Then left me bleeding On cold, slick tiles. I had asked my family, All that they knew. “Love,” one said. “Accountability,” nodded another. Grace in all things, forgiveness in others. Who is this god we seek? And why Hasn’t she been revealed to me? I asked my lord of his god. And he said, “I have none.” For in his realm, There is only blood. I’ve lived long and hungry, Awaiting the day, I’d again know peace. Today, I have found my god.…

Dark Fantasy Editor's Pick Short Fiction

Sky Over Mountain

Under the mountain, known to the trolls who lived in her caverns as Cairn, winter was held at bay. In the cavernous network worming through Cairn’s rocky heart, the temperature remained constant, no matter the season. For trolls, with hides as thick as an ox’s, the near-freezing atmosphere was favorable to their hardy constitution. Not unlike the caves within Cairn, Hakon, the clan’s chieftain, was neither warm nor cold. He was stern, but fair, and his mood, like the innards of the mountain, seemed held at a constant. Such was his stoicism when he approached Noma, an elderly troll who…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part Four

FOUR Let me tell you, boy A tale of down below. Where the days are hard And the beds are stone. I’ll tell you the tale Of when time had split. And the fires of hell Were our only light. Ephraim (-54 to 47) “Down Below,” published Year 40. I — In the sky, crossing the threshold Grahtzildahn, second layer of Pandemonium The dreamlike threshold separating the unceasing storms of the Vale Betwixt shimmered with the furnace heat of Grahtzildahn. The nearer they drew, the sorcerous wall appeared more like an illusion than something material. The barrier danced, milky tendrils jittering…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part Three

THREE You have been robbed. Of something. You didn’t know. Could be taken. Syr Arthur Cain (-13 to 35) “Awakening,” published Year 36. I — A conversation, somewhere far away. The Kaza’dur left a gross power vacuum in their wake. In the years following your knighthood, you rose through the ranks of Valentine Aristocracy. Valencia was no longer a humble fortress, subservient to a crumbling empire. The Kaldean capital, the Great City of Baltaire, fell the instant the invasion began. Once the Lord Governor Vidoq perished of dysentery, Syr Laszlo Balderas the First put a crown upon his head and declared…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Vigilant — The Weight of a Torch — Part Three

Deep in the archives, far below the streets of Yed’ol, Kaia poured over an antique journal. Its pages were yellowed with age, the ink beginning to fade. She sat at a desk, old leather-bound volumes piled high on both her flanks. The only illumination, a large five-wicked candle, burning steadily. She quickly flipped through pages, spending no more than a few seconds on each one, her silver eyes darting across the words written therein. “There.” Gregory’s raspy voice spoke inside Kaia’s mind. “That’s what we’re looking for.” Kaia stopped, and ran her fingers over a diagram, covered in arcane symbols…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part Two

TWO In our darkest hour We trudged through the sands. Beneath clear, open sky We boiled in our armor. My horse collapsed at my feet And I was thankful. Her suffering was great Existence tortured. I did not give her a name If I had, I would not have remembered. Unknown author “March to Idraan,” found on a soldier’s body, Year 31. I — On a thoroughfare in Monrovia The Vale Betwixt, first layer of Pandemonium There had been no time to think; she could only run. Kateryna had no desire to think. Thinking meant reflection, and what she had…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Ashen Rider — Part One

ONE Tonight, we have lost our god! I asked my sister where the god went, And she did not know. “Poof!” she said, “Gone in a cloud of smoke!” And I asked, “What of dearest grandmother? What of her?” But sister only shrugged. “We are alone now,” she said, “No one helms the ferry.” The river has flooded with silver And no one helms the ferry. We are alone now. And so I left my home In desperate search for my god. But still, I did not find her. I found only gray carrion fields, Glowing red by brutal light…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

The Scarlet Chair — Prelude to Ashen Rider

Year 398, during the first Wystran rebellion We made camp in the Kaldkrik, a moldering bog just beyond the borders of the Golden City. The march was merciless and brutal; we’d lost three hundred men crossing our own lands. We knew the risks. We knew the land. We were tired of the southerners laying claim to our home, weary of the Valentines telling us how to be—we’re Wystrans. We know how to be. So we assembled and followed the infallible Queen Collantz over the deadly chain across the Wyse. The motherland is ours, but her winds care not for whom…

Dark Fantasy Serial Fiction

Synchrony — The Weight of a Torch — Part Two

Nael jolted awake. His breath was rapid. Shallow. He gasped. Gulped for air. Heart pounding in his chest. Skipping beats. Speeding up, slowing down, threatening to rip free. “Nael? You okay?” a gentle voice said above him. A teenage girl peered down from her bunk, dangling upside down to face him, her thin face only visible by the moonlight spilling in through the window, reflected in her hazel eyes. She wore fine silken pajamas, simple in design but of a much higher quality than what Nael wore. Her long blonde hair draped all the way to the floor; her expression…

Dark Fantasy Short Fiction

Demons

When I was young, no older than eight or nine, I would covertly enter my stepfather’s basement workshop to marvel at the miniature kingdom he had built. The display was set up over the pool table my real father had used, now little more than a platform to support stream-fed caverns and mountain chambers, the subterranean strongholds within. Gothic towers linked by arched bridges rose up and stretched under the domes of hollowed rock, which may have been plaster or papier-mâché, but had been expertly painted to look like natural stone. My stepfather was a talented hobbyist, there is no…