Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors

Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors

  Featuring gripping Independent authors from around the world, FUSION is the first collection of short works published by Breakwater Harbor Books. Contributing heart-pumping tales of Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror and Crime are seven stories that will thrill you, rivet you and some will even make you sleep with the light on.  Authors from across a wide variety of genres, Dee Harrison, Ivan Amberlake, Claire C. Riley, Scott J. Toney, Mindy Haig, Cara Goldthorpe and C.M.T. Stibbe.

  Fusion: A collection of short stories from Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors

  By Dee Harrison, Ivan Amberlake, Claire C Riley, Scott J. Toney, Mindy Haig, Cara Goldthorpe and C.M.T. Stibbe

  Copyright 2013 Breakwater Harbor Books

  Breakwater Harbor Books, Inc.

  Scott J. Toney and Cara Goldthorpe, Co-Founders

  www.breakwaterharborbooks.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Breakwater Harbor Books

  Release, August 2013

  License Notes

  This novel is a collection of short, fictional works. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of our authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living, dead, or otherwise is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owners.

  Breakwater Harbor Books maintains the copywright for Fusion: a collection of short works by Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors, while Breakwater Harbor Books’ authors retain the rights to distribute and do anything they wish with the works they have individually submitted.

  Breakwater Harbor Books is an Independent Author Imprint that is dedicated to its members and to the production of high quality works.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale – 'and you thought it was safe to look in the mirror?'

  DEE HARRISON

  Diary of the Gone - Without a girlfriend, bullied by the Principal’s son, and haunted by the dead, Callum Blackwell thinks his life can’t get any worse. But he’s wrong.

  IVAN AMBERLAKE

  Life Ever After. Nina's Story: Part one. – When the dead begin to rise, it's time to put your differences aside and run!

  CLAIRE C. RILEY

  NovaFall – When the Meteor falls, the essences will come, forging flesh and planetary souls as one.

  SCOTT J. TONEY

  Cybilla. – To claim his Muse, one man must find the gate between the mortal and the immortal worlds.

  MINDY HAIG

  Capturing Perfection – An artist's tale of love, loss and beauty in Renaissance Milan

  CARA GOLDTHORPE

  Until The Ninth Hour – Until a man loses his daughter to a serial killer, until he loses his best friend, until he is down on his luck, Darryl Williams must put all thoughts of retaliation out of his mind.

  C.M.T. STIBBE

  The Sliver of Abilon – A Mirrorsmith Tale

  by DEE HARRISON

  Junah Venmark, Master Mirrorsmith, exited the wayportal directly into the seaweed stench of Abilon. The foul odour tickled the back of his throat and he gagged on a rise of bile. Mirrorsmith Guild protocol demanded that he preview his destination before he arrived but it could not prepare him for an assault on his other senses. He vomited onto the trackway, just thankful that there was no-one to witness his most pitiful entrance ever. He loathed the smell of mouldy greens – it stirred up too many reminders of his wretched childhood in the back alleys of Varna, largest city on his homeworld of Vargo – but this was kabbige soup intensified tenfold.

  When his heaving subsided, Junah sank down onto his rump, trying to ignore the early evening dew which was soaking into his leggings. He pulled a kerchief from his belt-purse, to wipe the spittle from his lips, and cursed this ill-favoured world. Sissik, his wail, chittered and scurried around him like a silver-furred cyclone, mewing her distress. Junah winced when she skipped onto his tender stomach, the better to peer into his face with her large, prosimian eyes. He ran a finger down her spine and she slowly relaxed beneath his touch.

  Junah ill? She sent.

  No, I’m fine, Little One he reassured her. He grimaced. The smell caught me out, that’s all.

  Sissik wrinkled her own nose. Nasty, nasty stink, she concurred.

  Junah delved into his purse a further time and extracted a couple of lozenges from a packet. A few chews later and he could smell nothing.

  “Next time I’ll take ‘em before I get here,” he promised out loud. “Not that there’ll be a next time!”

  Junah clambered to his feet and peeled the sodden fabric from his buttocks. Sissik took her accustomed place on his shoulders, hiding beneath his long, dark hair and curled around his neck like a fur collar. Wails were native to all the worlds of the Regium, even the undeveloped ones like Abilon. Some wails, the silver-furred ones like Sissik, were prized for their ability to generate the acoustic frequencies that Mirrorsmiths depended upon. Others, the plumper, browner ones, made good eating. Whenever Sissik irritated him, which was often, Junah threatened to dye her coat russet. Now, however, she was quiescent, understanding that it was time for work.

  The wayportal, part of the network of gates that connected all the worlds of the Regium, had opened between a pair of standing stones that dominated the headland to the north of Abilon. Junah looked down at the coastal town, which nestled within the arms of a sheltering bay. A slash of fire on the horizon marked where the sun was setting and silhouetted the ugly, squat fortress guarding the harbour mouth. Somewhere among the sleazy alleyways of this provincial rats’ nest below was the inn where his contact waited. It was supposed to be a routine mission according to Teren Lemmick, Guild Master but also his oldest friend. All Junah had to do was locate the sliver of Desecrated Mirror, secure it then return it to the Mirrorsmiths’ Guild on Vargo, where it could be destroyed in relative safety. He had carried out scores of such ‘grabbits’ but this time unease pricked his spine. Mirrorsmiths tended towards the superstitious and worlds like Ysreal, with its triple moons, were considered inauspicious but this went deeper than that. Junah’s senses were trained to detect distorted vibrations and this place was riddled with them – probably due to the presence of the sliver. Sissik’s tail tightened around his neck so he dampened down his disquiet. Wails were sensitive to heightened emotion. He checked his accoutrements once more then headed for Abilon, thinking it best to get this trip over with as quickly as possible.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the streets of Abilon were crowded. Every third house seemed to be selling ale and shabby, ill-visaged townsfolk bumped and barged their way through the densely-packed lanes. Junah knew roughly where the inn lay but he had previewed it during daylight and it took him a while to reach the waterfront. He spent a few minutes reconnoitring then pulled his hood up and entered the tavern.

  Not surprisingly most of the patrons were fishermen and the uneven floorboards must have made them feel right at home. Junah jostled his way through the raucous hubbub, towards the booth where he had arranged to meet his accomplice, but an overripe, blousy serving girl intercepted him.

  “What can I get you, Dearie?” she asked. She leaned into his chest and expertly fondled his crutch. “The house special is only a couple of rels for a tall fellow li
ke y’self.”

  Junah removed her hand and pressed a coin into it.

  “I’ll settle for a jar of ale, sweetling.”

  She pouted, pretending disappointment, then sashayed back into the press. He straightened his semi-erect member and resumed his errand. On occasion there were some perks to the job, he mused. Though you’d better ensure that all your vacs are up to date, old son, he reminded himself.

  Junah walked past the booth, as if going out the back door, and scanned the occupant. A morose-looking man, with the local curly brown hair and a bushy moustache, stared into an untouched beaker of ale. The pre-arranged signal, a red-spotted kerchief, was knotted around his neck. Junah slid onto the bench opposite to him and startled him, such that some ale slopped onto the table between them.

  “You the Mirrorsmith?” asked the other, when he had recovered his wits. Junah nodded. “’Prentice, journeyman or Magister?”

  “Journeyman.” A competent but not too-threatening rank.

  “Where’s your wail?”

  “Don’t have one, only Magisters are entitled,” Junah lied, again. The man’s larynx quivered and he pulled at the kerchief. Junah traced a pattern through the spilt liquid. “So, when do we leave?” The other, a retainer in the household of the local Prefect, had agreed to smuggle Junah inside the fortress, which was where the sliver was reported to be.

  Shadows swallowed the brittle candlelight as three thickset bullyboys neatly penned them in. One, the nearest, slant-eyed and balding, twitched back the edge of his cloak and rested it on the hilt of a regulation thief-taker’s dagger.

  “You leave when we say so,” this one said. He glared at Junah’s table-mate. The man fled, muttering, “I’m sorry, I had no choice, my wife, you understand, I’m sorry,” over and over like a litany.

  Junah placed both hands on the table.

  “There some problem, Judicar?” he asked carefully. Hard-earned experience had taught him that local peacekeepers were a touchy lot.

  “That depends on you, Matey. Stand up and keep yer hands where we can see ‘em.”

  Junah slid along the bench but, as he rose to his feet, his elbow caught the abandoned ale beaker. Its contents sloshed out everywhere, distracting the Judicars’ attention for vital seconds. Judah shoved his hand into his purse, pulled out his firestick and flicked the tip. The ale ignited with a spectacular flash and Junah legged it for the door.

  He almost made it. The blousy serving girl stepped in front of him, winked and smacked her tankard into the side of his head. Junah went down, senses spinning.

  “Should’ave taken me offer up, Dearie. It wouldn’t hurt so much,” she advised him with a leery grin. A second blow, from a boot this time, catapulted him into blackness.

  #

  Junah awoke in a strange bed. This, by itself, was not unusual but the lot of a roving Mirrorsmith. On this occasion, however, Junah had not expected to come round in quite such delectable surroundings. An ornate plasterwork cornice, delicate silk hangings and a Farrian rug bespoke wealth and fine taste. There were no mirrors though, he noted with a wry snort, and a grille at the window confirmed that, however sumptuous the decor, the chamber was still a prison. He sat up but his vision see-sawed so he sank back down and probed at his temple. Sensitive fingers detected a large contusion already healing at the accelerated rate enjoyed by members of Junah’s profession. A few more hours and it would be gone completely.

  A foray beneath the coverlets revealed that he was naked. White scars, old friends all, showed against his tanned skin. He scanned the room for his belongings but they were not in obvious sight. Mindful of his head, Junah slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. The inky darkness of the sea blended seamlessly into the night sky. He placed a hand on the granite pilaster that divided the casement and sensed the throb of the tide from somewhere below him. There were no lights visible from the town so he surmised that he was being held within the fortress on the seaward side. It was the place he needed to be, but not quite the manner of it.

  Junah tried to ignore his throbbing headache and focussed his attention on Sissik. Before entering the inn he had offloaded the little creature into a hidey-hole where she could monitor proceedings in relative safety; a practice that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had sewn her a special harness and backpack to hold his most precious possessions; the silver wire and tools to extract and bind the slivers of mirror; the crystals which manipulated the wayportals and other technology of the ancient race that had created them; the woven tri-gold ring that signified his true rank and authority.

  Little One, where are you?

  Junah! The wail’s delight was clear. Sissik was worried! Nasty men put Junah in a wheely thing and carry him away. Sissik follow and the thought was accompanied by feelings of disgust. Sissik’s paws stink now, need bath. Junah need bath?

  Junah smiled. Sissik was such a fusspot when it came to keeping her claws and fur clean.

  Yes, Junah needs a bath, he answered her then, more seriously, are you in the fortress? He imaged the stone structure for her.

  I is in the kitchen. Nasty men not look for Sissik. It was easy to get inside. Junah want Sissik to seek him out?

  Junah deliberated then decided against it.

  No. Remain out of sight for now but be ready to come if I call. I need to find out what’s going on here.

  There was a sense of exasperation from the wail.

  Junah knows what happened last time… and she let the thought trail off. Junah mentally blushed, if that were possible.

  I meant to fall in that… A key turned in the lock and a bolt was withdrawn. Stay hidden, stay alert, he commanded. Sissik sniffed agreement.

  Junah remained by the window. The door opened and a man of prodigious girth waddled into the chamber. He was much older than the Mirrorsmith and sported a magnificent beard that spread like a grey tablecloth over his huge belly. His silk robe and jewel-decked ears bespoke a person of consequence. He started when he realised that Junah was naked and harrumphed his displeasure.

  “Renn!” he called over his shoulder. The bald man from the inn sauntered into sight. “Have his things been examined yet?”

  “Yes, Prefect.”

  “Was anything found?”

  “Just the usual crap.”

  “Then bring the man’s crap here!”

  Renn curled his lip behind the Prefect’s back and sneered at Junah, rubbing his own temple in the exact place of the Mirrorsmith’s injury before sliding from view.

  Being unclothed did not bother Junah. Vargo was one of the hottest realms in the Regium and the Mirrorsmith was accustomed to wearing very little next to his skin. In fact, the coarse shirt, leggingss and hooded jerkin he had put on for this sortie into Abilon were an irritation of the first order. The Prefect looked around the room for a perch then slumped onto the bed, fidgeting all the while with his beard. Renn returned a moment later with Junah’s clothes and flung them at the Mirrorsmith.

  “Now get out,” the Prefect snapped at his henchman. Renn looked like he might argue but then spun on his heel and left. The Prefect indicated that Junah should don his garments. Junah deliberately took his time and made a show of checking the contents of his pouch but everything was there, including several gold pieces and his firestick.

  “If anything’s missing I’ll hack the thieving bugger’s fingers off myself,” growled the Prefect. He exhaled loudly and slapped his thighs, murmuring under his breath. Junah waited. “You should know that I made the request to the Guild for the services of an off-world Mirrorsmith,” the Prefect said at last. “Renn was sent to the inn to escort you back here but he was…over eager.”

  Junah recognised the truth in the statement. He stowed the pouch at his belt and then inclined his head and offered the formal response.

  “Magister Junah Venmark answers on behalf of the Guild.”

  “Magister? You told that…hah, well, never mind.” The Prefect wobbled to his feet. “Come, Ma
gister Junah,” he waved a ring-girt hand, “I have a tale to tell and I need a drink.”

  #

  They sat together in the Prefect’s library before a crackling fire which did little to dispel the chill.

  “I’m well aware that Ysreal is considered one of the poorer worlds of the Regium. And not without some justification I might add! But we’ve always prided ourselves on our independence and are fiercely protective of it, hence the injunctions that limit commerce and traffic to the other realms.”

  Junah listened to the Prefect drone on, wondering for whose benefit the lesson was.

  “The Guild has always recognised the rights of indigenous people,” he responded smoothly.

  “Quite, quite.” The Prefect cleared his throat again and Junah wondered if it was just a bad habit or indicative of a chest complaint. “We have our own Mirrorsmiths too, perfectly competent and versed in all the Lore, but,” the Prefect exhaled, “perhaps not competent enough.” He looked Junah in the eyes. “Some months ago reports started to come in of strange happenings in the villages south of here. Murders, mutilations, ritual burnings… in fact, just the kind of acts that my predecessors took hundreds of years to stamp out. So I dispatched a party of Judicars to investigate. None of them returned. I sent a larger squad. They vanished too. Finally, I sent out a small army under the command of my eldest son and accompanied by several Mirrorsmiths.” He rubbed a hand down his face and clutched his beard. “A week later two of the company were found wandering the shoreline; drooling, giggling and pissing themselves. They gibbered on about strange lights and demons but whatever they had witnessed had driven them quite mad. I ordered the evacuation of the villages between there and Abilon and set up a defensive perimeter to keep the plague, or whatever it is, away from here but I don’t know how effective it will be.”

  “And your son?”

  The Prefect aged ten years. “One of the survivors. He’s being well cared for but my leech holds out no hope of a recovery. It would have been better if he’d perished.”