So, in No Man’s Land, in the lost colony of Elly, in the semi-tropical continent of Brinar, there is a festival so old that though it’s called Thanks for the Boats, no one knows which boats, why thank for them, or whom they’re thanking.

But there’s food and liquor and …. the king has a new interest. Sure. Spying. Let’s go with that.

Without further ado, listen to the clanker singing about Thanks for the Boats

Update:

Missa’s Confession, or the Sea Is Dark and Deep, which starts a new playlist: Songs from Elly.

Every time I hit x, I find someone talking with great certainty of what appears to be a parallel universe.

I’m not talking here of the doomers who are almost certainly foreign (or clankers) who mix up timelines and history, and seem convinced we’ve been living in dystopia since the 70s but also think that the US is somehow responsible for the inflationary policies of the rest of the world. (In the seventies! When the Mediterranean countries were already on the third or fourth cycle of inflating away their debt. Which arguably is also what the US tried to do.)

I’m talking of people I read and respect, who seem convinced all of the right has suddenly, overnight, become anti-semitic or worse.

They’re living in bubbles. And can’t seem to see outside them.

I wish I could say that this is a problem of the internet. Or perhaps not, since the internet isn’t going away. But honestly it’s weirder when the bubble is in real life.

For years I laughed at people who said that the communists were taking over or the like, because it was so weird and out of touch. What I should have done was check where they were coming from.

Yes, there are states, professions, locations where your view of reality will be completely distorted. It doesn’t make your view any more accurate, but it does explain why you think that.

I found this out in 2020 when we had to cross the country during lockdown. I found that the hard lockdown, unavoidable in urban Colorado, where the signs on the highway told you that you should be home, even though driving alone in your car (or with the person you lived with) could not cause contagion. But a couple of hours away, still in Colorado, little towns were fully open and people looked at you oddly if you wore a mask. And in other states, the enforcement was far less draconian and sometimes wildly spotty.

Another point at which I realized my bubble had blinded me was yesterday while talking about all the stratagems we used to go through to figure out which churches were less likely to serve up sermons on the wickedness of the right and the saintliness of the left. This was a theme of the last six years in Colorado, and I suddenly realized we haven’t found anything even half as bad since we moved. In fact, the worst sermons here would be very good in those days. (Like, I get annoyed because I think I know what the sermon is driving at, but not thing is explicit, and sometimes there is at least an attempt to head that idea off.)

Here’s the thing, yes, the net, and particularly X can make it worse. It’s still not as bad as the days the left controlled twitter. But– But other countries have realized that they can sow dissension and truly weird ideas in the US with their fifty cent army, some of which aren’t even clankers.

Can I tell you how to fix this? Well, I can’t tell you to regularly drive across the country and observe other places. I can’t tell you even to ignore all the bots and the crazies on X. But you should. Honestly, you should. It’s just that you might become confused about who is a bot or a foreign agent.

There are tells of grammar and syntax for foreign, more importantly there’s tells of worldview, like thinking the US is evenly divided by race, or that um… the media is perfectly accurate about how we live* and if you look, it starts to become obvious. For the clankers, not sure. Except sooner or later the “wait what?” comes through. (*Yes, this will also catch our hard left. or, as I said, foreigners.)

However and beyond twitter, keep one very clear thing in mind “Who would benefit if I believed this? And are they the kind of countries who would be paying for a fifty cent army?”

Other than that? Look at facts. Facts are hard to ignore or explain.

If there is a great anti-semitic movement in this country, how come the violence are the same ol’ leftist rentamobs and open-borders invaders we’ve always seen? I mean, it’s a good question, isn’t it?

In the same way, about my long running argument linked above, if everyone’s standards of life have been declining since the seventies, how come they actually haven’t, and if we were transported to the seventies most of us would bitch? I agree that currently the US is screwing the young, but that’s because we’ve become a stupid gerontocracy. And by “we” in this case I mostly mean the left. However, the young still have options we didn’t have, and those with a modicum of drive can forge their own paths. Claiming they can’t because Phds are more expensive or manual labor pays less doesn’t help anything and makes me want to b&tch slap the doomers. (Okay, that last one is constant, but still.) Yes, I’ll write about why the future is so bright we should all buy stock in shades, BUT first and more importantly, if your view of the present and future is that dark and you’re not a bot or a driven ideologue (For some reason the “everything has gone to hell since the seventies” is a favorite of card-carrying communists. I’m not sure why, except in the seventies the USSR still seemed ascendant?) check your bubble. Check what you might not be seeing.

As always, I’m going to recommend you listen to people talking in the grocery store, engage in casual chatter with your delivery people, and compare to what you think you know.

And if the future seems dark, go and look at the new tech, the new things we can now do, and don’t look at it through cautionary tales written half a century ago (No, truly, even if you discount USSR propaganda, a lot of the writers were just trying to write for the money.) And then think how you could use that to forge your own path.

Things feel dark because the left is dying. And they still have enough control over the opinion industrial complex to influence how the rest of us feel.

Talk of past unity and present strife ignores the fact that in the past there was only one opinion broadcast: the left’s.

Today the world seems to be falling apart but the truth is that we’re finally, at long last, fighting back.

Which is why the left is trying to obfuscate by being louder, crazier, and more than occasionally pretending to be on the right.

Oh, yeah, another reality check, people who say they’re on the right but parrot all the leftist talking points, probably aren’t on the right. High chances they’re ALSO not your friends.

We all tend to fall into the occasional bubble. And heck “Obsessed with politics” is a bubble. BUT thanks to the net, we can reality check.

Always reality check.

And don’t fall into despair.

Sursum corda. In the end we win, they lose.

No other outcome is possible — they’re at war with reality — but more importantly, no other outcome is acceptable.

Be not afraid. And keep your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark.

This is mostly an update state-of-the-writer post, but there’s also a reference to the kind of linguistic misunderstanding I love and which my fandom excels at, and which actually helped through a dark/difficult time. And is still helping.

So, first the state of the writer: I’m trying to finish Witch’s Daughter to send to my editor while I’m away, so it can go to my copyeditor next week, so I can bring it out on my birthday. As soon as it goes to the copyeditor, the earcs will go to substack subscribers, and go up for pre-order. I also intend to put the prequel, Witchfinder on 99c sale when Witch’s Daughter comes out. (I’m planning on taking everything off KU and going wide, so this is probably last hurray of 99c sales starting on my birthday and extending to Christmas.)

I am objectively 10k words from the end of WD, but my troubles never come singly, and these last two months have been extra special, so… our oldest cat, our beloved, fuzzy Havelock Vetinari (worst named cat ever! He’s sweet and brainless) is now in pain all the time, and peeing on things four or five times a day, which has kept me distracted and busy.

It is likely we’re approaching that awful, inevitable last visit to the vet. Certainly if he keeps acting like he’s in severe pain. And I can’t keep washing the protective covers on the leather sofas 4 times a day. But we’re leaving it till we return from SD. And maybe a week, to make sure it’s not just the upheaval of these last two months.

But– The visit is Thursday through Monday, because of driving time. The rest of the family will be home, so he’ll be cared for an maybe he won’t notice my absence? Sigh. We’ll see.

Anyway, wait till the fifth or sixth for me to be regular and coherent. While I’m gone, Holly will make sure you don’t have dead air, here, but I’ll try to check in. Likely to be busy at event 10 hours a day, so mornings and evenings, maybe?

Oh, yeah IF YOU WANT TO SEND A BOOK FOR PROMO, DO SO TODAY, AS I’M LEAVING THE PROMO POST SETUP TOMORROW. IF YOU DON’T HAVE IT TO ME BY TOMORROW, IT WILL BE NEXT WEEK, SO SORRY. Also if people freak at my absence (more likely spottiness) at insty, reassure them. Okay, just super-busy.

Now, the Chinchilla of Hope: if you guys read the acknowledgements of NML (right? Who does that?) I thank my chapter by chapter cheerers on and readers for the Chinchilla of hope.

How this came about: the Portuguese word for Chancla is Chinelo. I often threaten the chilluns (some older than I) with my Chinelo. But one of them is special-gifted on typos. And keep in mind this is me speaking.

So she started threatening people with the Chinchilla. This was so amusing it took off. So now the Chinchilla of Hope is a thing, coming out when the black dog has me by the heels and chasing that dread beast into its cave again.

While I’m intermittently absent from this blog till the fourth, may the Chinchilla of Hope be with you and keep you going.

Because we all need more fantasy animals in our lives.

So, one more song for the sound track. You knew this was coming!

We live in very weird times. People have forgotten what the real “march of communism” was like and therefore don’t realize how far we’ve come.

Yesterday one of my ducttape children was arguing with someone about his own age that communism was indeed collapsed/in a state of disintegration on twitter, while she believed that the future is a boot stepping on a human face forever and that the boot would have snazzy hammer and sickle ties.

I was too tired — curse jetlag — to jump in on that. I’m probably still too jetlagged, but since I come from an ancient time and bring you news of dinosaurs (no, really. I confirmed with brother while visiting that in the village we grew up in I’d be — likely — six feet underground, and he’d surely be. I don’t know why almost-63 doesn’t feel that old. Well, except that dad has lived more than 30 years as long and mom lived 30 years plus as long, and they are/were both still self-caring, autonomous and living independently.) I will say something about this.

People under 40 — and older people with bad memories — think that the night of communism is getting ready to fall. That it is invincible and impossible to avoid. That we’re all already doomed.

They are not only wrong. They’re hell to the wrong. Communism is already the defeated enemy. It might still do a lot of damage as it collapses, but it obviously can’t do the damage its followers believe it should do. Look, if communism were that surging force, we’d now be living under the Kamala regime, and it would stretch on forever. Well. Someone else would be living under the Kamala (high heel) boot. You and I and those like us would have been put in camps in 2020. IF NOT 2013.

The truth is that communists (no, are you going to argue this?) captured the highest reaches of US power — the presidency and most legislative offices) clearly and unequivocally in 2008. Obviously and via a color revolution in 2020. And yet we’re still here, still talking, still fighting. If that’s not proof of Red Impotence, I don’t know what is.

Let’s therefore talk about communism, what it was what it did and how it spread, and more importantly how it stayed “on.”

First of all communism is and has always been fiction. Fragile fiction that needs to be protected and have its vulnerabilities hidden.

Without removing literary merit from 1984, it is important to remember it works because the author does what Jerry Pournelle called “the fan dance” really fast and really well, so we never catch the world-building bareassed. But brethren and sistern, it is not only bare assed, it’s got a big booty and it cannot lie. A regime such as 1984 could only subsist if it had absolute and complete control over everything its people saw, did and lived.

Yes, Orwell does a good job of showing that, and I can even believe it was like that in the cities, down to large towns, and that the state had total control over a certain number of people. But it presupposes the whole world is a large city: I bet you in the country side, they might vaguely wave at big brother, but he’s not in fact part of their lives. And it presupposes that tech will never change (It changed and in a big way, long before 1984.) More importantly it presupposes that everyone is a sort of introverted, agreeable Englishman. Even Irish culture, by itself, would break the regime badly. Now introduce your average rural American…. (I have in fact a long-delayed in fulfilling promise to a friend/fan that I will write what happens to a 1984 type regime when a Heinlein character is loosed on it.)

Communism is a hot house plant because it originates from intellectual abstraction; because it doesn’t work mathematically; because, contrary to image, its biggest fans are always intellectuals of a certain type; because it can’t survive without leeching off functional systems, and because it can’t survive the free dissemination of information.

I trust I don’t need to explain why it’s an intellectual abstraction. Marx was not well informed or knowledgeable but he was an “intellectual” in the sense that he spoke a language that is spoken by academics. (Don’t argue the not well informed or knowledgeable: the man couldn’t understand the role of distribution in an economy. I won’t argue he was dumb, as facile verbal/written persuasion is a type of intelligence.)

It doesn’t work mathematically: It can’t. You can’t redistribute yourself into wealth. Yes, this dips into psychology and the fact that humans don’t work as much/as well as slaves, but that’s just one way to look at it. Communism, by its very own top-down structure makes it impossible for people to know how much they can produce, how much they have produced, what demand there is for what’s produced. Ultimately it makes it impossible to know the true price of ANYTHING. (Like the US health system, currently.) This makes it an immiserating and slowly collapsing system. Or if you prefer it in blunt terms, if you administer the Sahara on communist principles, you’ll find you run out of sand.

Its biggest fans were intellectuals, particularly intellectuals in the humanities. Why? Because it’s a just-so story, one that works beautifully if you stay inside your own head. As such, it’s well suited to college professors and such, who have no real world expertise and feel hard done by society, since they are so “smart” they should rule everything.

Yes, I saw the posters with all the marching workers. That’s part of communist disinformation and propaganda. It always was. It was maintained by claiming anyone who objected to communism was “rich” and an “exploiter.” The Kulaks were small, edge of starvation farmers, proclaimed Kulaks because they didn’t want to be expropriated. The fact is that communist regimes use a lot of propaganda about being “for the people” but always devolve into an elite living off the people.

It can’t survive without leeching off more functional economies, because no one — including the information functionaries — know what is produced, what is needed or what could be produced. It’s deaf and blind and it always leads to starvation.

The USSR survived as long as it did because we subsidized it directly (“to avoid war”. See wheat exports, etc.) and indirectly, by letting it swallow vast stretches of the world, including most of Africa. And even then its elites lived at lower-middle-class level for free countries.

Now, the USSR and the various other communist hell holes could survive that long because they were either small (population wise, and absent the lies) or because its people were used to a miserable level of life. Yes, I’m talking about Russia and China.

To swallow something like the US and last communism would need another entity at least as large and rich as the US to leach off of. When you find one, let me know.

The truth is that the long march was a dismal failure. Yes, they captured all important institutions. The reason McCarthy failed is that everything was already captured and the fully-controlled means of information turned on him and destroyed him.

However, the institutions it captured weren’t static, and the means of information weren’t going to be the same forever. This is btw, a big problem with communist thought. It is mired circa the early 20th century and it can’t process anything more recent.

So they took over the institutions and made them…. unusable, really, which damaged their prestige. They took over the media and made it unreliable, which facilitated the rise of the internet and free lance journalists. They took over book publishing and made it unsaleable, which resulted in indie publishing.

In fact the communist destruction of everything it touches brought about the development and purpose of technologies that makes it possible to bypass everything the long march took over, which in turn allows us to take back our government.

Look, if I can’t convince you any other way, believe me when I say: if they had the ability to do it, after the stolen election of 2020 we’d all have gone down for the count. They tried. G-d knows they tried. But their goons are fourth generation nepo babies, whose parents and grandparents were given power and enriched not because they were competent, but because they had the “right” (left) beliefs. This creates a degradation of intellect because they’ve never been required to use it. Regardless of natural ability, these people are too dumb to pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the sole.

BUT beyond that, leftist intellectual constructs don’t work in the real world. Its need to control the flow of information and its inability to process anything that doesn’t accord with its theory mean that anything it touches stops functioning.

They could — it was their only competence — lie like pros and have a complete, hermetically sealed lie that by its very ubiquity succeeded in creating the illusion of working.

(When you see those “defectors” talking about how the Soviet plan is still working, that’s actually what’s going on, whether the speaker knows it or not. They’re retconning the past like a cat falling off furniture and giving the “I meant to do that” look. The Soviet Union couldn’t make a single five year plan work, but we’re supposed to believe their almost-100 years plan is working perfectly. Let alone that a lot of it was stuff that never touched the people. It was elite projection and propaganda 24/7.)

As I tell people, if Obama had been president in the 50s the left would by now have convinced everyone he was a great genius and that his time was one of great prosperity. Because it would be in every “news” program, every erudite dissection, every TV sitcom set in the time.

But life is better now, at least for free people. You have a reporting device in your pocket, that can communicate with the world. And I can write for tens of thousands of people on my very own sofa, petting my very own cat. (Yes, Indy is a pain. He keeps pulling my left hand off the keyboard, making typing a very difficult endeavor.)

The USSR was brought down by … fax machines.

Communism is an illusion that can’t be maintained in the face of the ubiquitous ability of any citizen to become a citizen-journalist.

Now, does it mean it can’t do damage? It can and it will. It has after all captured most of our institutions and made them unusable. That was always going to hurt, no matter whether it collapsed or not. Its collapse just allows us to — actually — build better. And different. And clean out the infection.

Is it gone? Oh, dear heaven no. This type of infection will take as long to clear as it afflicted us. Cultural change moves very slowly. Arguably at the rate of filling graves. And we’re living much longer than previous generations, so it’s even slower. But even in Europe, claiming to be a communist is no longer a positional good.

In fact, the only place “communist” is still a badge of honor is in Academia. And “Democratic socialist” only flies because in Europe for a century Democratic Socialist was the right. That whole edifice collapses once they process that “democratic socialism” is slow suicide, versus the communist shot to the head. How will they process it? Well, first we stop propping up their socialist regimes. Trump is making a good start. Yes, it’s going to hurt and make them hate us. However, news flash, they have always hated us. They just used to keep quiet about it. (TRUST me, traveling in Europe as a young woman who spoke multiple languages, I heard the whispers. The fact that I was technically one of them helped in hearing things, too.)

Someone, and I can’t remember who, said that most of the casualties occur during the mop up after the war.

So I’m not telling you everything is roses. Honestly, I’ve been surprised it’s been as bloodless as it’s been so far. (Knocks on head.)

But in the end we win, they lose, because there is no other outcome possible. They were never going to win. They could just project that they were and maintain the illusion for a while because they had captured the mass industrial communication complex.

Which is now largely irrelevant.

Be not stupid, but be not afraid. We’re winning.

And as always, keep your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark.

Book Promo

If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion.– SAH

I AM CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED TO STILL PROMO NO MAN’S LAND OR MY HUSBAND WILL BE VERY SAD

To make it worth your while, this is the clanker-assisted sound track so far. (Note there are five songs, not just one. For some reason if I link the playlist, people think it’s just one song. So, all five get linked. And no, Ellyans don’t sound female (well, anymore than they sound male.) Most of their voices are in the high tenor low alto range. However when talking of bearing children it freaks us normal humans out less if it’s a female voice: Space Admiral’s Son; Seventeen; New London, New London (is a Hell of a town.); The Prodigal; Royal Escape. (Yes there will be more songs soon. I have a trip this weekend to South Dakota, which I can’t get out of for various reasons. (Friday to Monday.) After that and a few days of rest I should be back to normal.)

FROM SARAH A. HOYT: No Man’s Land

Sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic.

On a lost colony world, mad geneticists thought they could eliminate inequality by making everyone hermaphrodite. They were wrong. Catastrophically wrong.
Now technology indistinguishable from magic courses through the veins of the inhabitants, making their barbaric civilization survivable—and Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus Kayel Hayden, Viscount Webson, Envoy of the Star Empire—Skip to his friends— has just crash-landed through a time-space rift into the middle of it all.
Dodging assassins and plummeting from high windows was just the beginning. With a desperate king and an archmagician as his only allies, Scipio must outrun death itself while battling beasts, traitors, and infiltrators bent on finishing what the founders started: total destruction.
Two worlds. One chance. No time to lose.

FROM DAVID WELCH: The End of the Feud

Clarence Stone grew up surrounded by violence. In the hills and hollows of West Virginia, his family feuded with neighboring Burton clan, the big dogs of the region After seeing countless family buried before their time, Clarence set out to escape. His plan was simple: Run away and join the army. Unfortunately for him, his did it just a few months before shots were fired at Fort Sumter…

Now, despite his best intentions, war has made a far better killer than any of his quarrelsome family ever were. Still, his plain remains the same; go home, pick up his prize horse, and get as far away from the feud as possible. Let the fools dumb enough to fight it wipe themselves out. But the few remaining Burtons are not going to let any Stone escape, and are ready and willing to chase him all the way to the Rockies to see the job done. Stone’s only ally is a strange tomboy travelling west alone, convinced of her own toughness for reasons he’ll never understand. Adding to his troubles, an uprising of plain’s tribes rampages across the plains, endangering his chosen path. The man has seen enough of war, and wants only a place to carve out a life of his own; but in the end it may be that the fight he flees is the only thing awaiting him.

FROM LEIGH KIMMEL: Gnawing the Bones of the City

Tikhon Grigoriev has a problem.

He’s a member of the civil police, but has come to the attention of the political police. In Stalin’s Soviet Union, that is a very dangerous situation. He’s hanging on by his fingernails in besieged Leningrad, and he has a family to think of.

Worse, he has reason to believe that something uncanny stalks the frozen ruin that is a besieged city in subarctic winter. But as a member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, he is not supposed to believe in the supernatural.

How can he keep his head in this impossible situation?

A short story.

Note: includes intense scenes that may be disturbing to some audiences. Reader discretion is advised.

FROM JEFF DUNTEMANN: Ten Gentle Opportunities

Caught cheating a powerful magician out of ten nuggets of pure uncommitted magic in a rigged card game, Bartholomew Stypek needs a place to hide. As a spellbender he is a partial magician, who can read and change magic spells, but absent a stash of magical force, cannot cast his own. With his anarchic familiar spirit Pickles and the ill-won magical Opportunities, Stypek leaps blindly across universes…and lands in the break room of a small ad agency in upstate New York.

Because New York State doesn’t support spirits, Pickles manifests as the nearest local equivalent: AI software in the agency’s heavily networked copier. She wanders into a nearby corporate network looking for allies, and discovers a virtual universe where AIs live off-hours. Pickles is soon seducing Simple Simon, a naive AI tasked with controlling an immense robotic assembly line in the corporation’s manufacturing plant. Stypek, meanwhile, is mistaken for a penniless Eastern European computer science intern, and is taken in by Carolyn Romero, the ad agency’s copywriter. Expecting the usual suspicion and contempt, Stypek is humbled by the kindness he’s shown, and one by one uses the Opportunities to help his new friends with their problems, including Carolyn’s failed marriage.

But Jrikk the magician isn’t so easily thwarted. Soon Stypek, Pickles, Simple Simon, Carolyn, and their human and AI friends must fight for their lives against the evil force sent to retrieve Stypek to the magician’s dungeons.

FROM MARK VRANKOVICH: The Hikikomori: The Girl Who Couldn’t Go Outside

Hikikomori are Japanese recluses. Right now in Japan over a million hikikomori are hiding in their bedrooms, hiding from their past and future. Hiding from the disappointment that having dreams can bring.

Miko is a hikikomori. As Miko’s dreams fade her Tokyo bedroom becomes her entire world. The city outside transforming into the realm of nightmares, a place where horrid memories and growing fears wait to pounce.

Playing car racing games on her laptop is all that distracts Miko from her situation. Then one day her parents are away, and her mouse batteries run out.

So Miko stands trembling next to the apartment door. Unable to live without her racing games, she must venture out into the world to buy batteries. But little does Miko know the consequences for herself, and for Japan, if she steps out that door.

What Japanese Readers Say: “A must-read for all Japan fans. Could even a Japanese writer portray contemporary Japan so realistically and poignantly… The Hikikomori is certainly a powerful piece of work.. I hope this story will spark interest in Japan and the Japanese people… You will surely be a fan of Miko… The perfect balance of pain, laugh and tears… It is a gem of a book that I, as a Japanese, am confident to recommend… It exposes social problems in Japan that are never visible from the outside… This novel will make you happy like eating chocolate… My heart was full of positivity by reading your novel… When I finished reading your novel, I felt confident and motivated to live positively. I am so glad I was able to read this book this summer!!”

FROM JOHN BAILEY: The Reluctant Spy of Tharsis Heights: A Martian Mystery (Mars Fiction)

Josef Kellerman thought he’d left intrigue behind when he fled the collectivist takeover of Ceres. On Mars, he rebuilt his life as a simple architectural photographer, keeping his head down and his past quiet.

Then his camera is found containing classified images of Martian defense installations.

Administrator Chen offers him an impossible choice: face trial and twenty years in the deadly Hellas Processing Facility, or spend seven days at the ultra-luxurious Olympus Crown resort identifying the real spy among thirty-seven suspects. Josef has no training in espionage. His only skills are a photographer’s eye for detail and a businessman’s instinct for reading people.

With the reluctant help of a sardonic intelligence officer, an investigative journalist who suspects his cover story, and a wealthy widow with secrets of her own, Josef must navigate diplomatic receptions, corporate intrigue, and multiple intelligence agencies—all while someone who doesn’t want to be found watches his every move.

Set against the backdrop of 22nd-century Mars, where domed cities cling to red mountains and three great powers circle each other warily, THE RELUCTANT SPY OF THARSIS HEIGHTS combines the classic spy-under-pressure thriller with humor, heart, and a protagonist who would really rather just take photographs.

Perfect for fans of Eric Ambler, John le Carré, and The Expanse.

BY EDMUND HAMILTON, REVIVED BY D. JASON FLEMING: The Vampire Master: The classic weird pulp horror novel

A thrilling novel of corpses that would not stay dead, and a gruesome horror in the hills of New York.

• This iktaPOP Media edition includes a new introduction giving genre and historical context to the novel.

FROM S. T. GAFFNEY: China Harbor: Out of Time

Sheila Reilly, once a prominent research physicist aboard the Wells Explorer, now an American refugee living in China Harbor after the Millennium War destroyed America, has barely survived the last 5 years. Sheila’s very life may now depend on the secrets she keeps. Even from Yam, the man she loves and who has helped her eke out an existence for the last 2 years.

Discovery of the wreckage of the Wells Explorer sets in motion a chain of events wherein Sheila must come to terms with her past and is given an opportunity by the enigmatic ancient Lin Yi to change history, but perhaps at the price of losing everyone she now loves. Suddenly everyone in China Harbor is looking for her, from General Chen, the conflicted head of the often brutal People’s Guard and the villainous Colonel Kwan, who will stop at nothing to get the power he wants, to one mysterious stranger out of Sheila’s past, who started it all so very long ago. As Sheila races against time to save the past, no one in China Harbor who has touched her life is safe, from an innocent produce vendor to Yam’s young daughter who longs for Sheila to take the place of her dead mother.

Approx: 180,000 words (This would be the equivalent of 450 pages in a trade paperback. Average novel is 100,000 words.)

FROM HOLLY CHISM: Normalcy Bias: Look closer…things aren’t always what they seem to be.

Look closer. The things that you’re assuming you’re seeing? May not be what you think. Is that really a mouse, or is it a Brownie? Is that really an owl? Is that polished gemstone a stone…or an egg?

We take so many things for granted. Some of them may be harmless, but many are a lot less so. I wonder how many people ignore red flags every day, because they only see what they expect to see?

This collection takes what’s “normal” and asks “What if it’s something more?”

FROM DEX QUIRE: Crocodile Words

Crocodile tears are fake tears, can crocodile words be fake words?
Joffrey Simpson O’Day moves from the dry badlands of Eastern Washington State to the lush greenscapes of Western Washington to a Seattle-like city called Sunbreak City. Hayseed, Joffrey attempts to turn himself into a big-city sophisticate but he commits the ultimate faux pas—he insults a book held sacred by millions. He draws upon his head the wrath of everybody. Crocodile words come at him from all quarters. Will he survive?

FROM BLAKE SMITH: A Small and Inconvenient Disaster

Everywhere she goes, Maria Mason is plagued by little catastrophes. Getting caught in the rain, running from the friendliness of a muddy dog, tripping over her own feet at the worst possible moment- she has been subject to all manner of accidents, and to fend off the worst of them, she has learned to be silent and still.

Until she accompanies her friend Miss Gordon to London for a season of gaiety and pleasure. Life in Town is full of wonder, and soon Maria has new clothes, new friends, and the attention of the amusing and clever Mr. James Callahan. She begins to wonder if she has outgrown her propensity for falling into disaster, only to find herself embroiled in the worst sort of catastrophe when she is obliged to mediate between her feuding friends. One wrong word, one false step, and she might lose the regard of her friends- or worse, the love of a good man.

FROM MICHAEL FURTIG: Whiskey: The Quintilogy Part 1

It’s a big galaxy out there. As mankind reaches out, new planets are identified, terraformed, and settled. These new frontiers can be dangerous places for the settlers. Fleeing to these places are intergalactic fugitives, and following them are bounty hunters.

Landing on a newly terraformed planet in his ship Vengeance, bounty hunter Quint Walker gets more than he bargained for with his bounty. Trapped on the planet by a scheming governor, a gang of vengeful terrorists, an angry mob, and a barkeep making sure he pays his tab, Quint scrambles to keep his footing. All the while, a deadly tally is climbing. When it reaches five, he knows he’s going to die.

FROM MARY CATELLI: Sorcery and Kings

Tales of wonder and magic.

A fire master must find a magical starter of fires.

A mysterious queen holds a ball in a city filled with magic.

Magic of roses and gold are needed to fight a dreadful war.

An oath keeps a ghost captive.

FROM KAREN MYERS: On a Crooked Track: A Lost Wizard’s Tale (The Chained Adept Book 4)

Book 4 of The Chained Adept

SETTING A TRAP TO CATCH THE MAKERS OF CHAINED WIZARDS.

A clue has sent Penrys back to Ellech, the country where she first appeared four short years ago with her mind wiped, her body stripped, and her neck chained. It’s time to enlist the help of the Collegium of Wizards which sheltered her then.

Things don’t work out that way, and she finds herself retracing a dead scholar’s crooked track and setting herself up as a target to confirm her growing suspicions. But what happens to bait when the prey shows its teeth?

In this conclusion to the series, tracking old crimes brings new dangers, and a chance for redemption.

Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.

So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.

We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.

If you have questions, feel free to ask.

Your writing prompt this week is: MIXED

Stories? ooh, boy, do I have stories. Next time we need a Hun intervention force in Madrid, or I don’t promise the city will be standing when I come back. The full epic cluster f*ck of our almost 26 hours in Madrid can only be told in a Viking Canto which will include Dan raiding for water, twice, in the most Coloradan thing I’ve ever seen him do. (Yes, it was hot. Also, shut up.)

But that’s not the time, right now: When I was running past a kiosk in the Porto airport the whole weird relationship of Portuguese and sunglasses came to me.

You see, I actually have light-sensitive eyes. So did mom. But sunglasses aren’t for that. Sunglasses are for looking snazzy. So mom’s first wrinkles, and the most prominent ones at the end were the same I’m getting on my forehead, from squinting against the sun’s brightness.

Because the country is mostly dark-eyed people sunglasses were never associated with protecting your eyes. Just like sunblock is for smelling nice and hydrating your skin. Because honestly the spf is mostly “decorative.” Most sfps in the grocery here just plain don’t exist.

BUT American movies and TV show people wearing sunglasses, so sunglasses became what you do to look “rich”.

My fourth grade class trip I have a picture of all of us wearing huge, plastic sunglasses and feeling SO cool. (I never got the electronic version of that. Should ask brother. It’s so goofy.)

In the same way, the sunglass stand I ran past clearly looked like “Glasses to look cool wearing” not in any way functional.

Speaking of my mom gave me a pair of white raybans sometime ago. Not sure why, but she wanted me to look rich, I guess. It’s…. waves hand…. somewhere. I probably should find them. Unholy expensive glasses, and I’m getting those wrinkles on my forehead.

I was thinking of that as I ran past the sunglass stand. That’s a minor cultural misunderstanding. Now imagine that over and over and over again.

It’s what I’m trying to capture in No Man’s Land. Some cultural differences are rooted in physical differences, and are particularly hard to cross over and understand, because what’s bred in the bone is inherently “how things are.”

And this is why the UN was always a pipe dream and a lunatic idea. And why Americans, the land of many people who merge (or used to. Still do, actually. It’s just slower against resistance) into one didn’t understand how crazy that idea is. Because we’re not uniform at all. I might not need sunglasses, but my neighbor might, my wife might, might kid might, so it’s not possible to misinterpret what they’re for.

Something to think on. I’ve just had the first decent sleep in ten days, the cats are in a state of revolt, and I need to go clean the cat boxes and figure out where they peed in the family room.

I’ll PROBABLY be semi-coherent by Monday.

We live in interesting times. Oh, not in the Chinese sense but in the funny fantasy novel sense.

Over the weekend the usual hodge podge of commie fronts and losers got together to protest kings. In the US which has never had a king. In the rest of the world, too, where the cowards changed the name to “No tyrants.”

The US doesn’t have a tyrant, either. You can usually tell when a country has a tyrant. There’s capitals with barbed wire and troops guarding it, because tyrants are afraid of their people. They might also lock up their people with curfews and rules against getting together. And, oh, yeah, they definitely control what can be said on social media. The boldest ones will have policies against sharing disinformation and might even hire an evil Mary Poppins avatar, a Mary Scolddins, you could say to determine what information the darling little peasants can even see and which is stomped on.

Arguably — looks at the UK — countries where they had the no tyrants protests have both a king and a tyrant (Hello Two Tier Keir.)

And then … and then they have the unmitigated purple-painted gal of saying that these were the biggest protests ever — ignoring the tea parties, where not a single one of us was paid for attending only — and that Trump has no support because there were no counter protests.

Dude, dudettes and dudelings, what kind of counter protest do we make to pure fantasy?

They’re out the streets, claiming Trump is a king and they don’t want kings. This while their bought and paid for federal judges (or the ones drunk on racialist nonsense) run around stopping Trump at every jointure, in things they plain have no jurisdiction over, like who can be sent back to their country of origin when here illegally, or where he can send the national guard. (As my veteran friends keep saying, federal judges are not and have never been in the direct line of command for enlisted.) They’re screaming Trump is a king, when he’s there for another three and a half years, and never said he’d rule by pen and phone, isn’t keeping people locked up or forcing them to inject experimental drugs.

People, if Trump is a king he’s a lousy one. I’d expect a lot more cloth of gold and the designation of his son as his successor, at a very minimum. And if he’s a tyrant, he’s failing to tyranize in a totally American way.

So when they’re protesting against their illusions — the same people, I’m sure given htey’re older than dinosaurs — who failed to protest Clinton taking droit due skeevy on a subordinate and Obama “ruling” as he said via pen and phone…. what do they want us to counter protest?

Do they want us to hold up signs saying “Trump for king?” WHY? We’re the original, non adulterated “leave us the f*ck alone” individualists. We have never hankered for a king. We never even, in a very Roman turn, deified our presidents. Oh, sure, we sometimes call Trump God Emperor, but that’s a joke (though it’s possible the left doesn’t know that. They are remarkably lacking on sense of humor, like all possessed. The devil, after all, can’t laugh.) We never said that he was sort of a god, standing above humanity. That was them talking about Obama. (Never was so much adoration lavished on so unworthy a subject. Caligula might have been despicable, but he wasn’t the little man who wasn’t there.)

I finally had a great idea, should they ever have another of these again. Next time they have one of these, we should immediately counterprotest with “No Unicorns either.” And “Down with Pegasi” And “Chimera have to go.”

Or perhaps just stand around with signs that read “No old hippies.” “No 50 year long LSD trips.” “Better mental health” and the like.

Because if beardo the weirdo is demonstrating against what doesn’t exist the only defense is to point out it doesn’t exist. With various degrees of wit. And I fear mine is lacking as I’m unslept, have been fighting bureaucracy for a week, and have a hard day of travel ahead.

Do you have more witty ways to respond to the floridly delusional who still haven’t come down from that trip they started in the 70s?

I’m all antecipation.

At least these interesting times are written by Terry Pratchett — note that having demonstrations about something that doesn’t exist is vintage Pratchett — not, say, C. M. Kornbluth. It could be worse. Though we’re at serious danger of giving ourselves an injury through excessive laughter.

   

The Dragon Awakes- a guest post by the phantom

The dragon slowly became aware that something was tugging insistently on his face. It wasn’t painful, more as if somebody had grabbed his mustache and was gently pulling on it. He opened one basketball-sized eye a crack and discovered a small boy, about eight years old, dressed in some sort of colorful costume. Clearly not his, the outfit didn’t come close to fitting properly. The little oil lamp on the ground was no better than it needed to be, clearly something seized from the trash and pressed into service. The boy had hold of his whiskers and was yanking as hard as he could. Being a dragon bigger than a city bus, it didn’t feel very hard. He opened his eye a little wider and looked at the boy, who froze in mid-yank.

    “Kid,” he inquired quietly, “do you really think that’s a good idea? Pulling on a dragon’s whiskers like that?”

    The boy let go and stepped back, putting his hands behind him.

    “That’s better,” said the dragon, then yawned widely. Teeth the length of the boy’s leg flashed briefly in the light of the lamp, long forked tongue curled up, then he smacked his lips a couple of times. “Ugh, jungle mouth,” he muttered.

    The boy backed up a couple more steps, but didn’t run away.

    The dragon looked at him skeptically. “Still here, kid?”

    “Ah, if it please you, your Greatness, I am sent here as a sacrifice to propitiate your righteous temper,” the boy stuttered. He was clearly reciting something he had been taught, hesitating on pro-pish-ee-ate in an attempt to get it right. “Please consume me, as is your right.”

    “You’re shitting me,” said George flatly, opening both eyes to examine the child closely. “Where’s your mom and dad?”

    The dragon was off-script. The boy got a panicked look on his face, because none of his lessons contained an answer for that. “Uhm,” he managed, and began nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

    “Let me guess,” said the dragon sourly. “Based on the shocking condition of you, you’re an orphan. The village elders keep you around to do all the shit jobs nobody else wants, and the sons of bitches beat you every day. They trained you with a bunch of fancy speeches and dressed you up in that monkey suit to keep me happy so I’ll do what they want. Right?”

    “Uhm, yes?” ventured the boy. “You’re supposed to eat me.”

    “Oh, well then. Let’s get right on that,” said the dragon sarcastically. “You want me to eat you?”

“It would be easier,” said the boy sadly. “They’ll kill me for sure if you don’t. They don’t like me, the villagers.”

    “Okay then,” said the dragon. “C’mere, kid. Let’s see what’s going on with you.” He reached out a foreleg and grasped the boy in a surprisingly dexterous forepaw. The child gave up completely, assuming the monster was going to bite him in half and resigned himself to death. The dragon sniffed at him, licked him with his immense forked tongue, looked into his eyes one at a time, then considered him at some length. “You are a mess. You’ve got damn near everything wrong with you there could be. I’m surprised you can walk.”

    “I’m sorry I’m not a good sacrifice, Great One. I’m not good at anything,” the boy sniffled.

    “Here now, no crying,” said the dragon sternly. “If you want to be a proper sacrifice you have to be brave. Buck up.” The dragon poked the boy gently with his nose, and the boy subsided. “That’s better. You’re a tough kid. Now, I have to test your blood. I’m going to take a single drop from your finger. Hold your hand up for me.”

    The boy dutifully held up his hand, and the dragon pricked a finger with one claw. It was so sharp the boy didn’t even feel it, then a drop of red swelled on his finger. The dragon carefully took the drop onto his tongue, then tasted it for a while.

    “Hmm,” he said as he tasted. “Malnutrition, rickets, worms, fractures, starvation, and there’s something weird going on with your liver. Flukes, maybe? Nope, sorry kid. Can’t eat you.”

    The boy was crestfallen at that.

    “Seriously, you’re sad I’m not going to eat you?” snorted the dragon. “Tell you what. You can be my assistant. First job you have is to hold still while I fix all that stuff that’s wrong with you. You’re no use if you’re fainting from hunger all over the place.”

    The dragon rolled his eyes and felt around in his mouth with his tongue, then extruded a large dollop of viscous purple goo onto the forked end. This he slathered on the child liberally from head to foot, front and back. The boy made a face because it was slimy, but it sank into his clothing and skin leaving him clean and dry.

    “That’s better,” said the dragon as he surveyed his work. The boy’s colour was already improving as a billion nanobots invaded his tissues and began the long job of repairing all the damage there. “Ready to go to work?”

    “As you wish, Great One,” said the boy bowing. “What would you like me to do?”

    “We’re going to go have a word with the geniuses who thought it would be a good idea to wake a sleeping dragon,” he said with an evil glint in his eye. “Then I’m going to get a coffee. You’re going to find me a coffee shop. Sounds good?”

    “Yes sir!” said the boy enthusiastically. Going for coffee sounded a lot better than being eaten, whatever coffee was.

#

The dragon put the little boy with his busted pottery lamp on the top of his head, between the antlers. From there he would light the way as they made their way to the surface. It was a comfy spot, as big as an overstuffed chair. Lots of fur to sit on, and the roots of his antlers to grab onto. The boy held the old lamp carefully to be sure the oil didn’t spill out of the cracked lid, keeping the burning wick from singing the dragon’s fur.

The dragon had awoken in a grand hall with a high ceiling and rich carvings on the walls. Heroic statues of the Gods of Asgard stood between fluted pillars. The rock walls were marble, cut and polished to a high sheen that glistened in the lamplight. The ceiling was vaulted like that of a cathedral, a great dome with ribs that started down on the floor and soared to the pinnacle in graceful arcs. It was tall enough that the dragon could sit up on his back legs and stretch his neck full length. Over to one side there was an archway leading to a tunnel large enough to provide him passage if he went on all fours.

The dragon spent a good few minutes surveying the hall, looking at all the statues carefully, and pausing in front of a few of them as if he recognized them. When he got to the statue with the goat-drawn chariot and the big hammer he snorted with amusement. “What a musclehead,” he muttered and moved on to the next.

The little boy clung tightly to the oil lamp in one hand and an antler with the other. The dragon was moving his head so smoothly the boy felt he could have balanced there standing up, but it was quite some distance to the floor so he held on just to be sure.

“So, boy,” the dragon asked as he continued his examination of the hall, “any idea who carved all this stuff?”

“If it please your greatness, it is said that the hall was made by the dark elves long ago,” he answered. “They came from Svartálfheim to make it. Carved from the living rock, while you slumbered there in the middle.”

“You’re kidding,” the dragon retorted, rolling his eyes to try to see the boy’s expression. “I know those guys. It seems extremely unlikely they would do that.”

“The elders told me this,” shrugged the little boy, starting to relax as the dragon showed no signs of wanting to eat him. “All I know is that the cave which leads here is all carven. Right from the mouth on the mountain to this great hall. Part marble, part common stone. More than a mile, great one. It has many turns within it, and the waters gather in fountains and rivers. In some places even the flagging of the road is carved into pictures.”

“Yeah, they get bored,” said the dragon absently, peering closely at a carving of a god with a hammer calling lightning down on a snake. “They’re also the most amazing liars. See this one here?” he indicated the carving. “I was there that day. Big boy with the hammer didn’t show. A bunch of girls beat that thing.”

“Maybe they lied to make you angry,” suggested the boy. “You would know this for an empty boast.”

“Maybe,” mused the dragon, bringing his head closer to the carving to examine the detail. “Or maybe they wanted me sit here searching every carving for clues. They have a lot of time on their hands. They’ll have made up some complicated thing that’ll end badly.” He turned from the carving and proceeded directly out through the arched doorway. “When in doubt, drive on.”

As the boy had said, the long tunnel rose and fell, zigged and zagged, had long curving sections and right-angle corners, every inch of it carved with beasts and gods of legend. The more spectacular the carving, the more extravagant the depiction, the more the dragon paid no attention to it and strode past. “Here’s a piece of advice for your future, kid,” he said as they passed by a mural of brilliant tiles that glittered with precious metals in the lamplight. “The more a guy tries to make you look at something, the more you should wonder why he wants you to look at it.”

“I’m going to have a future?” the little boy asked bravely.

“Did I go to all the trouble of tasting your blood and everything just to eat you later?” snorted the dragon with amusement.

“Well, I don’t know,” muttered the boy with a touch of resentment at being made fun of like that. “I’ve never seen a real dragon before. Who can say what you might do?”

“Touché,” granted the dragon amiably. “Well, anyway, the sparklier and louder these pictures get, the more you want to ask yourself why those elves went to all this trouble. Knowing how elves are, these are all traps. You spend a while looking at it, and you might want to kill yourself. Or kill somebody else, they like doing that too. They’re bored, right? It’s an ugly thing, boredom.”

“Dragon,” the boy asked, “why were you asleep down there?”

“Dunno,” he said absently, maneuvering his length around a right-angle corner in the tunnel. “Can’t remember, if I’m honest. I’m pretty suspicious to hear that dark elves are involved. If you ever see one, run away. They’re a lot worse than me, I’ll tell you that.”

“Worse than a dragon?” the boy wondered. “How can that be? Dark elves are not huge and mighty like you.”

“They’re sneaky,” said the dragon with lowered brows, and then said no more.

It took the dragon about half an hour to meander through the tunnel, past all the fountains and murals, statues and relief carvings, to exit into the noonday sun on the side of a mountain. Tall doors of oak and iron lay open to either side of the tunnel, flanked by statues of armored women with swords and grim expressions on their beautiful faces. Twenty feet tall, depicted wearing short skirts of weighted leather straps, swords raised in one hand, round shields at the ready. The one on the right wore a winged helm, the one on the left was bare headed and had an owl sitting on her shoulder, a bundle of javelins on her back showed over her shoulder.

The dragon smiled proudly at the sight. “There’s my girls,” he murmured, reaching to touch their stone faces with his forefoot. “Nice statues, eh kid? The boys did a good job here.”

“The village elders told me that the warrior on the right is the Queen of the Valkyrja, and the one on the left is the goddess of wisdom,” said the boy uncomfortably. “I do not see how that can be. The Valkyrja ride through the town all the time. Their Queen is an old lady. The goddess of wisdom is a demoness who serves ale at the inn down the road. Last stop before Niflheim, it is said.”

“Nice to hear that the Valkyrja are out riding around in Valhalla,” said the dragon, looking out over the landscape. A couple of miles away there was a tiny village of ten houses or so around a building next to a mountain stream. It had a water wheel, making it the mill. A mixture of sacks and squared logs lying around it showed they were cutting lumber and milling grain in the same location. “How does that town have enough people to even have elders?” he wondered.

“It’s the miller,” said the boy. “He is vassal to the laird of the valley, but he has all the money, so everyone does what he says. The town grannies have a knitting council and tell him what to do, but he pays them no mind.”

“Where do you fit in?” wondered the dragon.

“My parents were debtors when they died of pox,” he shrugged. “I am bound until I pay their debt to the miller. That’s what they tell me, anyway. I’ve heard a different version from some when they drink mead. My mother was coveted by the miller and she and my father died in a big fight. Some of the miller’s men have scars, so it seems equally likely. Most of them hate me, so there was bad blood somewhere.”

“And why did they want to awaken a sleeping dragon?” he wondered, eyeing the mill. “Seems stupid, don’t you think?”

“I think they were hoping you would eat me and then go back to sleep,” said the little boy sadly. “That’s what the stories say. The village propitiates the dragon with a sacrifice, then it slumbers on.”

“But nobody can remember the last time, so they’re not sure,” nodded the dragon, his head bobbing pleasantly and making the little boy giggle. “What’s your name, kid?”

“I am called ‘boy’’ by all the villagers,” he sighed. “Even the other children call me that when they throw stones at me. It has been so since my parents died. Before that my mother did not say my name, lest a sorcerer gain power over me. Two more winters until my Naming Day, great dragon. I am only eight winters now. Two since my parents died.”

“Okay,” agreed the dragon. “I see how it is. What do you say if we take a little walk down to town and burn the mill to the ground?”

“All the farmers and towns up and down the valley will starve,” said the boy practically. “Thirty miles or more to the next mill, great one. Three days with an ox and cart.”

“Is that a problem for you?” asked the dragon. He took the boy off his head and put him on the ground, observing him closely. “I’d say, based on your story, that they’ve been asking for it.”

“Some give me food,” he shrugged listlessly. “Some beat me. The miller is like a demon, he beats me whenever he can. I wouldn’t mind seeing him starve.”

“Not bad for an eight-year-old,” said the dragon with approval. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“What will you do?” wondered the boy as the dragon put him up on his head again.

“Whatever the hell I want,” laughed the dragon. “They woke me, so I’m going to jack them up for whatever they’ve got, just because. Always remember kid, you can get more with a smile and a gun than you can with just a smile. Being a dragon is the biggest gun you can get.”

#

A Clean Getaway

As the dragon had said, the negotiations went entirely in his favor. The boy was riding on the dragon’s head again, now wearing proper clothing for traveling instead of the ceremonial costume. Some distance behind the dragon there followed a fine riding horse, formerly the miller’s pride and joy. The dragon was leading it on a long rope from its halter, the dragon had insisted on tack to go with his new mount, of course. Tied to the saddle was a wooden coffer containing twelve gold crowns, each fat coin stamped with the king’s head on one side and the holy tree Yggdrasil on the other. There was also a good sword of workmanlike quality. It had decent steel, not like the flashy one with gems on the hilt that the miller wore, even though he wasn’t supposed to.  

Thanks to the dragon setting fire to a forest pine with one languid puff of his breath, the boy had been clothed from the miller’s chests and fed from the miller’s larder, the best meal of his life. No wonder the miller and his wife were fat.

The dragon was humming an odd tune to himself as they walked down the valley, and the boy was feeling drowsy from all the rich food. They were going down to the last inn on the road, to seek wisdom from the demoness. The boy privately thought that trusting a demoness was the purest folly, everyone said nothing good came from them. But the dragon had laughed and said “we’ll see, kid,” and that had been that.

They had ambled along for almost a mile to an open section where rail fences lined the road from the fields on either side, when they heard a clatter of horses behind them. The dragon turned himself around and pulled his skittish new horse in to stand trembling next to him. The dragon petted the horse absently as a man might comfort a small dog, and to his amazement the boy saw the animal settle right down. The horse even rubbed his cheek against the dragon’s scales. “That is a wonder, Great One,” he said respectfully.

“I’m cheating,” chuckled the dragon. “I’ve created a scent that horses like and rubbed it on him. Now he’s happy for a little while. It’ll wear off later, and he’ll remember I’m a horse-eating monster.”

“Still, I’ve never seen him behave so well,” marveled the little boy. “He’s spoiled. He kicks too.”

“Rich man’s pet,” nodded the dragon. “Oh well, he’s mine now. We’ll teach him to behave properly. No problem.”

The riders who followed crested a hill and caught sight of the dragon. Two hundred feet of saurian might, standing tall between the fences. Green scales glittering in the afternoon sun, his mane of golden hair flowing gracefully and showing his antlers to good effect, his great eyes flashing with intelligence, and the grin on his face promising mischief. A presentation of many contrasts.

“Oi! You!” shouted the rider in the lead, spurring her horse forward and signaling the rest to follow. The twelve riders were all women, hard faced under their helms and hard muscled from a life in the saddle and the battlefield. They galloped up and reigned in late, coming to rest far too close to the dragon, mere steps away. “By Surtur’s flaming beard, dragon! What in the nine hells are you doing here?!”

“Hey girls,” he chuckled, waving to them jauntily. “How’s it going?”

“None of your cheek!” commanded the first in line, frowning darkly. “You are not supposed to be here, jester. How came you hence?”

“Well, I woke up this morning in a cave not far from here, the one carved by dark elves, the kid here tells me.” He indicated the little boy, who was trying to make himself very small between the dragon’s antlers. “He was yanking on my whiskers. Told me some tale of being a willing sacrifice, and I was supposed to eat him.”

“I told you that miller was bent,” one of the other women told the one in the middle. “What a sorry excuse for a man.”

“That is unwelcome news,” said a voice in the back. An older woman, tall and strong but with a face lined with age and white in her blonde braids drew her horse to the fore. She faced the dragon with a calm expression. “I greet you, dragon.”

“Your majesty,” he said in reply, and to the little boy’s surprise he bowed to her. “You and the girls are looking pretty good today, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, expression not changing. “What have you been doing?”

“Jacking up the miller,” the dragon said with a grin. “I didn’t take all the gold in the village, but his face was red when I was done.”

“Yes, so I heard. His screaming and the smoke from that lone tree summoned us from miles away.” she nodded. “Impressive restraint for a dragon. Still, you must have been angry.”

“I’m taking it easy today,” he nodded, sobering. “No need to go hog wild and wreck the place, right? Not yet, anyway.”

“Perhaps,” she nodded. “Still, the affront weighs upon your spirit. I thank you for your forbearance, great dragon.”

“You are entirely welcome, your Majesty,” he said, cheering up and grinning again. “Kid, may I present her Majesty the Queen of the Valkyrja, known far and wide as the Stone Maiden of Asgard. Your majesty, this is my new assistant, a young man of great promise, who has not had his naming day. Will you kill me if I tell him your secret nickname?”

“I will not,” she replied evenly. “Still, many ears are flapping and many tongues will be wagging if you do, so I will give you a hearty smack on the head in recompense.”

“She loves me,” the dragon snickered to the little boy, who eyed the stern-faced Queen doubtfully. “Unfortunately, she’s right about all the rest of it. She can tell you some day, if she wants to.”

“Shut up,” she said and looked away abruptly, cheeks becoming rosy.

“Idiot,” muttered the other woman who had spoken first, putting a supportive hand on the Queen’s shoulder. “So, jester, should we expect to find the woods teeming with dragon-spawned monsters?”

“Well, you never know about that,” he said thoughtfully, becoming serious again. “It’s been a busy morning. There’s a cave that was carved by dark elves, who clearly had a lot of time on their hands to get every inch of the place like that. Orphans to be rescued from durance vile, me being here where I’m not supposed to be, you being here too, there’s a lot going on. Could be the odd giant spider wandering around, right? Or maybe not. Either way, not your problem.”

“Oh, well then,” she scoffed at him. “Hear that, girls? Not our problem!”

That got him jeers and pokes from the odd spear butt, as the Valkyrja voiced their opinions of his statement.

“Huh,” he said, obviously surprised. “Hey kid. Looks like we have new babysitters. Didn’t see that coming.”

“If we don’t stay and mind you, you’ll wander off and fall down a well like stupid sheep,” she told him irritably. “What are we doing, dragon?”

“I’m going for coffee,” he said, and shrugged. “Do you think they have any at the crappy inn down the road? I hear it’s a real dive.”

“We shall all go and see,” said the Queen, recovered from her blushing and stern once more. “The demoness will know if there is coffee to be had, that much is sure.”

“All right!” enthused the dragon. “Off we go! Which one of you beauties wants to carry my assistant while I confer with Her Majesty here?” He put his head down so they could reach.

“Um,” objected the little boy, seized off the dragon’s head by the woman in the middle. “Hello?” he managed unsurely.

“I’ll have him,” she told the dragon. “You shall ride on my fine horse with me, good sir,” she told the boy. “Right here in the front, where I can keep a good grip on you.” She settled him in behind the pommel of the saddle, right in her lap. “There you are. Comfy?” She grinned at him cheekily, enjoying his concern with the situation. “Not to worry, brave lad. I can’t be more fearsome that a dragon, can I?”

“Well, no,” he admitted, “but I have heard many tales of the Valkyrja, and how fierce you are.”

“I’ve heard those tales too,” she snorted. “All nonsense, my boy. Although to be fair, I am quite short with liars. And lechers, thieves, scoundrels, and so forth. You seem a bit young for any of that, if you don’t mind me saying. Also, the dragon did not eat you. That is a mark in your favor.”

“Um, if I may ask, great lady,” he assayed, because he felt he needed to know, “Is the dragon safe? I mean, he says he won’t eat me, but he did get quite angry at the miller just now.”

“The dragon is a pile of sentimental mush,” she scoffed, and pointed at him accusingly when he raised a scaly eyebrow at her. “Yes you are, don’t pretend otherwise, oaf!” She aimed a kick at his ribs, which he avoided with a subtle side-step, assuming a hurt expression which gained laughter from some of the other women. “Naught but a great pudding,” she continued to the boy, rolling her eyes. “Unless an innocent like yourself is endangered, or one of his mates. Then we see the other side of him, the implacable destroyer. So, brave little one, the truth of the matter is, you are safe. The miller is lucky. You understand?”

“He’s not that lucky,” said the boy without thinking. “The dragon has the miller’s horse and tack, and half his strongbox on its saddle.”

“What will riches avail, if one has no head?” wondered the Valkyrja. “That one came within an inch of winding up in Hela’s throne room today. She’d have given him the back of her hand too, I can tell you that.”

“Do you know Hela?” asked the little boy with wide eyes. The Queen of the Dead was known far and wide, the merciless giantess and her dog Garmr, fastest beast in the Nine Realms.

“I certainly do,” smirked the woman and blushed a little bit thinking about it. “Trust me when I say the tales do her no justice, little one. She is a magnificent woman, tall and strong, with the most graceful limbs and the fairest countenance. Many a fine guesting I have had with her, I assure you.”

“They say she eats people,” the little boy replied doubtfully.

“I know they say that,” she nodded. “They also say I’m fiercer than a hundred tigers. Does that seem likely?”

“Well, no,” he conceded, looking up at her. “But maybe you are, too. If there were bad men, then you might be.”

“Look who is a little sage,” she said and held him tight with both arms. “Maybe you might be right, little one. I hope we do not find out today.”

#

The Valkyrja took charge of leading the dragon’s new horse, and looking after his new assistant. They went ahead of him and the Queen toward the inn, leaving the Queen on her horse to confer with the dragon.

“So, what’s new?” he asked her when the rest were out of earshot.

“A dragon has awoken in Valhalla,” snorted the Queen with sour amusement. “No doubt the forests and fields fairly bristle with monsters of immense cheek. Ragnarök is waving at us from behind the next hill.”

“No, I mean how long have you been back here?” he asked, rolling his eyes at her response. “I woke up in a cave that took a thousand years to carve!”

“I know,” she said, glancing up at his impatient expression. “The realm celestial does not move as the realm mundane, great dragon. Here, cause need not precede effect, action may not beget reaction. Here, all may not be as it seems.”

“Is that why we’re sticking to the no-names thing?” he asked, and snorted smoke from his nostrils when she nodded. “That’s so irritating. No point wondering what’s going on, I suppose?”

“It is a surprise to me,” she said calmly. “You are quite the last person I expected to see today, Great One. Mayhap our demoness will have wisdom for us.”

“You’re keeping the stone-face thing going pretty good,” he observed, peering at her sidelong. “Somebody twisting your tail lately? Maybe I could pound a few people for you?”

“No one of any note,” she said, allowing a small smile to curve her lips. “If you see the mighty hero Sigurd in your travels you could clout him for me, that would be satisfying.”

“Okay then,” the dragon nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Nice set of bruises for friggin’ lover-boy Sigurd, check.” He looked her up and down the way a man might with a woman he liked. “Looking fine for an old lady, your Majesty. Want me to give you a nice squeeze?”

“Yes, but we have things to do, improper lout,” she said, her smile widening. She glanced up at him and looked a hundred years younger. “How do they put up with you at home?”

“I’m fabulous at home,” he said and gave her a poke with his nose. “They love every minute. Tell you what, everybody gets a squeeze when we get to the crappy inn. Poor old demoness will probably need one, am I right?”

“She is better seen to now than previously,” the Queen told him, sitting up proudly on her saddle. “Certain men have learned their proper place, certain women have stopped hiding from the world behind high walls, and do come for the odd visit now and again. Certain Valkyrja have been lavish with their attention, I must say.”

“Progress,” nodded the dragon. “And I’m here today because somebody doesn’t like this, I take it?”

“Perhaps,” she nodded. “Or just for a visit? I have missed you, improper one.”

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully. It was quite an expression to see on the face of a monster so large, the surprise at being desired by so fine a woman. “Pretty cool of you to say so, queenie.”

“If you start being funny with my titles I shall have to scold you most severely,” she said, schooling her face to a look of stern disapproval. “It might take several hours.”

“I’ll race you to the inn,” he said immediately. “Last one there gets squashed.”

“Impertinence!” she accused him, shaking her finger. “We shall proceed sedately with all due decorum, as befits my high station. When we arrive, the Valkyrja will take turns telling you off as befits your station, mirthful one. Jesters must be dealt with severely.”

“I’ll go quietly,” he said, a foolish grin fairly splitting his head from side to side. “This day is certainly looking up, your Majesty.”

“Isn’t it?” she sighed and put a fond hand on his side. “I shall warm myself at your fire for a little while and take the chill off my bones. Already you have brought a bloom to my cheek, beloved.”

“All part of the service,” he said quietly, deeply moved by her appreciation.

They walked on in silence for a while, until he had a chilling thought. “Did I die, do you think? At home, I mean. That would explain me waking up here.”

“If you were here after death, all the forests would be filled with spirits come to pay homage, beloved.” She smiled up at him, calming his concern. “The path from here to Helheim’s gates would be lined with them, cheering you on. Even the wolves and goblins would honor you. This is probably a dream, my dear.”

“Pretty good dream,” he said, looking around. “Better than average, if I’m honest.”

“Did you think you would meet the Queen of the Valkyrja and nothing in your life would change?” she asked archly, poking his ribs. “To say nothing of the others, gods and goddesses of legend. Beings so old and so mighty their names are not even known by mortals. It is not surprising your dreams would be thus.”

“Good point,” he nodded. “So tell me, great Queen. Are you doing alright here without all of us lippy kids getting in your business?”

“I abide in patience,” she said, and shrugged. “You will all be along to join me soon enough. No need to rush, great dragon.”

“Just checking,” he said and nodded thoughtfully. “Pretty glad to not be dead though. That might be tough.”

“When your time comes, you will be fine,” she told him. “No point in worrying about it, my dear. What else is on your mind?”

“My new assistant,” he said, looking forward to where the little boy was riding on the shoulders of a Valkyrja woman, laughing with delight. “Those bastards sent him to die, your Majesty. Chances are good that I won’t be here for long. Who’s going to look after him?”

“You think those thirsty women will let him escape?” she snorted with amusement. “He is a little gem, my dear. His future is assured, now that he has met us. My sisters in arms will see him to adulthood, never fear.”

“Good,” grunted the dragon. “I feel like he’s important somehow, and he’s familiar. He reminds me of someone.”

“The realm celestial is tricky, great dragon. Who knows what that little boy might be, or from where? But now that he is mine, he will be raised as a prince. Hunting, swordplay, the arts, letters and numbers, all will be granted unto him.” She bowed in the direction of the little boy and his new guardians. “So be it.”

“Awesome,” said the dragon with heartfelt satisfaction. “Would a new horse and a few gold coins make life easier? I probably can’t take it with me, know what I mean?”

“I think it likely those things are his birthright, robbed from him along with his parents,” she said. “Give it to the demoness and ask her for a song, great dragon. She will know what to do.”

“I like that plan,” he nodded. “Demon girl is the bomb.”

“You are so silly,” sighed the Queen, and held out her arms to him. “I can’t wait any more, you must squash me now.”

“By your command, great Queen,” he chuckled. He plucked her off her horse and wound her up in his coils.

#

Down the road, the little boy was having fun being passed from one Valkyrja to another, then riding on their shoulders. He glanced back to see the dragon had wrapped himself around the Queen and had a hold of her shoulder with his huge teeth. “Oh no! By your leave mistress, the dragon is eating your queen!”

“Already?” she said in surprise and looked back at the dragon. “She’s getting her innings now, while she can,” the warrior told the little boy. “See her face? That is not the look of someone being consumed. He’s nibbling on her, the cheeky bounder.”

“She does seem happy,” the little boy said doubtfully. “Is he hugging her?”

“At least,” chuckled the woman. “How about a hug for you, young man?” She held him before her on her saddle and wrapped her arms around him for a nice squeeze. “That is what our Queen is having. I’m looking forward to one like it from him presently. He owes me at least that after making us all gallop for miles.”

“This is very different from what the tales say,” the little boy told her, enjoying his hug. “Dragons are huge and breath fire, the Valkyrja are ferocious and always seeking battle. Their Queen drinks from the skulls of her enemies, that’s what they say.”

“Yes, and so surprising to find all the tales are balderdash isn’t it?” she laughed. “Who would think the great dragon of legend to be such a jester? But there he is, nibbling on my poor Queen and making her giggle.”

“I was sore afraid before,” the little boy said in a small voice. “He’s so big, mistress. But he loves you, doesn’t he?”

“More than you know, little one,” she sighed and turned forward. “He has a heart as big as the world, that one. Room enough for all us old women, and for you too.”

“Me?” asked the little boy in surprise. “I’m nobody!”

“You are all you need to be, my little sprout,” she told him and kissed his cheek. “Beloved of the dragon, and the Valkyrja too. How would you like to have all of us for aunties, eh? And my Queen for your guardian. Would that be fun?”

The little boy just looked up at her, shocked to hear such an offer. “Truly?” he begged, sure that it was a rough jest but forced to hope anyway.

She looked down on him, and a great fire of anger built in her eyes. Not anger at him, but at what had befallen him. “Truly,” she vowed. “You shall choose, little one, and we of the Valkyrja shall abide. “I will give you until we get to the inn to make up your mind, little boy. It is too much to ask of you, but needs must.”

“Yes, please,” he whispered to her, fear of being rejected filling him and closing his throat.

“Yes, is it?” she growled, grinding her teeth. “So be it. My sisters will be pleased. Don’t mind me, beloved, I’m a little angry to see you frightened, that’s all.”

“You are fiercer than a thousand tigers,” he whispered and then cried on her doublet, gripping on so tight that death itself could not tear him away.

“Oi, dragon!” the Valkyrja called, trotting her horse back to where her Queen was emerging from his coils and straightening her riding jacket. “He’s ours now, alright?” she shouted, indicating the little boy clutching her jacket. “Never to be parted!”

“I was going to make a proclamation, but you’ve beaten me to it,” said the Queen as the dragon nodded his approval. “You offered, did you?”

“Aye, and he said yes!” she shouted to her sisters in arms, gathering around on their horses.

“So be it!” they all answered, fists in the air. A few spears were thrust at the sky for punctuation.

“So be it,” agreed the Queen. “Well, that’s settled. On we go, my dears. Our demoness awaits.”

The dragon poked the little boy with his nose. “Hey kid, you like my girls huh?”

The little boy didn’t lift his head, just nodded into the Valkyrja’s doublet.

“Well, that’s good,” The dragon nodded sagely.  “How about me? You like me?”

“He likes you,” the woman assured him as the little boy gripped her tight and tried to say yes. “I’m a bit put out at the treatment he’s been getting. I hope you squeezed that miller for every drop of blood, dragon.”

“As much as I thought I could get away with,” the dragon agreed seriously. “I was going to blast the lot of them to hell, but the kid reminded me the valley would starve. Her Majesty said the screaming could be heard for some distance.”

“Like a stuck pig he was,” she grimaced as the Queen laughed. “I’m tempted to go back and make him scream some more, let me tell you.”

“Vengeance avails thee naught,” said the dragon, holding up a forefoot to indicate it was a quote. “Somebody cool told me that once. I’d say her name, but she might arrive here with fire in her eye and start kicking the place apart.”

“We all know who you mean,” said the first Valkyrja, rolling her eyes. “Another great pudding she is, squashy and sentimental just the same as you are, trickster. The Wolf of Vengeance, forsooth. A jest of the Gods, dragon.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said sheepishly, hanging his head down because she’d called him on his quotation. “But anyway, we’re going to go get coffee and let shit-for-brain miller guy flip out on his own, agreed? No sneaking off to get some payback later.” He poked the Valkyrja holding the little boy with his nose again. “Gimme back my assistant, tough chick. I want him to meet some people when we get to the inn. Hey kid, relax. They’re not going to dump you in a snowbank, you get me? They said ‘so be it!’ and everything, you’re good.” He copied their serious intonation so well that the little boy giggled in the middle of crying.

“Truly?” he begged, emerging from hiding against her doublet to look into her eyes.

“I swore, didn’t I?” she snorted. “That’s all you get, you little cheeky face.” She grasped his cheek and tugged gently. “Go sit on the dragon now, and stop dripping on me. I’ll melt away to nothing, otherwise.” She lifted him and deposited him on the dragon’s head. “Now get on with you. We must feed him soon, and the inn keeper is as slow as a winter toad. Hurry up.” Then she looked away and swiped at her own eyes, pretending it was a bit of dust making her weep.

“Come on kid,” said the dragon, lifting his head and proceeding down the road. “Not much farther now.”

Smelling the Coffee

Another half an hour’s walk brought the old inn into sight down the valley. The building had seen better days. It was black with age, the timbers ancient, the roof peak sagging in the middle, the thatching ragged. As they drew nearer the little boy saw there was a broad porch out front next to the road, and a long railing to hitch the horses. Some newer outbuildings surrounded the old central structure, horse barns for customer’s mounts, and little cottages to house the help.

On the porch there was a round table with benches, where several women sat at their ease taking afternoon refreshment. Three old blind ladies, wizened and hunched.  A horned demoness with auburn hair who was playing gentle tune on a lute, middle aged and shapely. A tall woman so strong and burly she must have been a blacksmith, next to her a slender warrior woman in leather, hung about with daggers, and a spectacular demoness with the blackest hair the little boy had ever seen. But on the edge of the porch there sat a giantess too large for the benches. Even seated thus, her head was level with the other women.

As the procession of Valkyrja and dragon arrived, the women looked up expectantly. “I told you the portents were dire,” said the giantess, raising her eyebrow at the dragon. “And look who it is.”

“Much worse than we thought,” agreed the dark-haired demoness, rising to put her arms around the dragon’s neck. “Greetings, beloved. Her Majesty did summon us here to see what had created such a commotion in the heavens, the signs and stars all pointing to danger and destruction.”

“Hey girls,” he said with a mischievous grin, hanging his head over the demonesses’ shoulder to smirk at them. “How’s tricks?”

“Cheek!” exclaimed the three blind women. “By the Gods, is that Nobody?” demanded the one closest to the dragon.

“Hell yeah it is,” he chuckled, reaching his head over to rub his big cheek on her. “Hi grandma. Good to see you.”

“Where’s my eye?” she demanded, holding out her hand. The one next to her opened a little box and dropped an eye into her hand. She held it up and pointed it at the dragon. “There he is. Cheeky face! And who is this poor little boy you have captured on your head?”

“This is my assistant,” the dragon explained. “He’s keeping me out of trouble today.”

“He’s got his work cut out for him,” snickered the demoness still hugging his neck. “Little boy, dost thou know that this dragon is the greatest jester in all Midgard? Gods, goddesses, heroes and villains alike he has made jokes upon. Not the high and mighty nor the low and humble have escaped his wit.”

“Is this another of your japes, dragon?” demanded the old woman pointing the eye at him. “I can’t wait to hear the punch line.”

“This one might be getting played on me,” he admitted thoughtfully, observing the assembled women. Each one a goddess in her own right. “The sun and moon couldn’t make it?”

“They’re busy,” said the old woman tartly. “It’s still daylight, jester, and the moon is rising.”

“Obviously,” said the one sitting next to her, looking off in the wrong direction. “They sent their followers.”

“Idiot,” muttered the third and rolled her blind eyes, a very teenaged expression for such an old woman.

“Why are you all here then?” he wondered, lifting a foreleg to put around the tall demoness. She was clinging to him longer than expected, it seemed she missed him.

“Did you think a dragon could arise in Valhalla and we wouldn’t be here?” asked the giantess with a small smile. “The signs have been foretelling your coming for a whole season. Nearly standing up in the night and baying it for all to hear.”

“The forest creatures are growing their coats extra thick, preparing for a hard winter,” remarked the woman clad all in leather. “Squirrels putting up extra nuts, otters digging their burrows deeper, and so forth. I thought it could be that the Fimbulwinter approached, but it turns out to be only you. My cart horse and I came along in case you needed telling off.” But then she winked at him, and her brawny companion scoffed and elbowed her with an expression of patience at a being called a cart horse, so the communication was a bit confused.”

“If I’m that big a deal, why aren’t the Big Boys here to deal with me?” he asked, raising his own eyebrow. He was beginning to suspect there was a joke, and it was indeed on him.

“The god of war and the god of thunder were invited to push off,” the brawny blonde told him, flexing her shoulders suggestively. “Since our dark beauty has escaped their chains, things are running a little differently here in the celestial realms. Now they tend to their own business, rather than getting in mine quite so much.”

“How about you?” he asked the auburn-haired lute player, still calmly strumming her tune as she listened to the conversation. “Anything to add?”

“I dwell here in peace with my beloved dark beauty,” she said with a little shrug. “All these fine ladies do come to visit us betimes, and have guesting here with us at the inn. The Valkyrja seek our company as well, and the inn has become a merry place indeed.”

“That is excellent news,” said the dragon, and bowed to her. “But I was more wondering if you might have wisdom for me and my assistant here. The kid is having a hard day, right?”

“I’m alright,” the little boy piped up, and put a hand on the dragon’s eyebrow. “Honestly, great dragon, I am.”

“He’s terrified,” the Queen off the Valkyrja told them dryly. “My mad followers have taken him for their own, and he scarcely knows which way is up.”

“And he is sitting on a dragon’s head,” snickered the giantess, covering her smile with a graceful hand. She held out her arms to him and beckoned. “How would you like to sit upon the knee of a monarch, my boy? Will you brave my forbidding mein?”

“She’s begging you, kid,” the dragon whispered to the little boy. “The old girl is dying to have you sit on her knee.”

“Is she really the Queen?” he wondered, then shrugged and accepted her request, standing up to be taken into her arms.

“I am most certainly the Queen,” she told him, settling him comfortably. “Everyone says so.”

“They’ve been telling the most dreadful lies about you,” the little boy told her, looking up into her eyes. “The stories aren’t true at all, are they?”

“Some are a little bit true,” she said regretfully. “It is true that I never came out of my castle for a long time. It is also true that I do not have much patience with liars and cheats. But, once upon a time a young man came to my halls and sat with me, even as you are doing now, and told me nothing but the truth.”

“Then what happened?” he wondered, being a little cautious because she was a queen, after all.

“Then I married him,” she said in a matter-of-fact sort of way that had all the other women laughing. “A most agreeable young man, to be sure.”

“Where did he go?” asked the boy, sad that the Queen’s husband wasn’t there with her.

“Well, that is a complicated thing,” she confided. “In a way, I have not yet met him. But in another way I met him long ago. This celestial realm where we dwell is a peculiar place, my dear. Things do not necessarily follow as one might expect.”

“Oh,” he said, thinking about it. “Well, I could tell you the truth. Would that help?”

“I am sure it would,” she said gravely, then hugged the little boy with great care. “Dragon, it seems you have found a pearl of great price.”

“Yeah,” the great beast agreed, nodding. “So it seems. He’s been quite a help to me today. What do you think, goddess of the lute?”

“I?” she asked demurely. “You seek wisdom from this humble minstrel, mighty dragon?”

“No one better to ask, holy one,” he told her and bowed again.

“Sadly, I have no wisdom to tell,” she said. “All is shrouded in mystery, and even the all-seeing eye of Fate is clouded.”

“As if we were blind,” snickered one of the old blind women, gaining laughter from the other two.

“Oh well,” said the dragon. “Any chance of a coffee then?”

“Here?” laughed the brawny blonde goddess, gesturing to the open fields and the ancient inn. “As well ask for strawberries in January.”

“Play him a song, my dear,” said the demoness with the dark hair, going to the lute player and kissing her cheek. “That will be the thing, will it not?

“Aye, that’s it,” agreed the queen of the Valkyrja. “What will be your price, dear demoness?”

“I will say when I hear the song he wants,” she said and grinned at him.

“Cliffs of Dover,” said the dragon with a perfectly straight face.

All eyes went to the auburn-haired demoness. “You want me play that here?” she asked, skeptically.

“If you can,” he said, his grin challenging her.

“He’s being cheeky again,” said one of the elderly women. The Queen of the Valkyrja snorted with amusement and elbowed the dragon in the ribs.

“Very well,” said the demoness standing to face him. “Hear now my price, impertinent one. I shall require a small boy, about eight winters or so. This boy shall sit at my feet and learn the ways of the lute. For his future the boy shall require a fine horse, a sword of quality, and twelve gold crowns for his fortune. He shall require twelve guardians, each as ferocious as a thousand tigers, to see to his safety. He must have a teacher to show him the ways of the blade, and another to show him the ways of wood and metal. The very Fates themselves must approve of his spirit before I will teach him a single note.”

“Wow,” said the dragon, grin getting wider. “Don’t hold back, girl. You’re on a roll.”

“The boy must suffer the kiss of death before we begin,” she said with a frown. “And I will have the scale from a mighty dragon for surety.”

“That’s a pretty tall order,” he said, trying to appear serious but failing. “Anybody know where we can get all that?”

“I’m sure you can find a horse somewhere,” laughed the giantess. She leaned down and gave the boy a kiss on the cheek. “Will one from me do, dear lady?”

“Close, but it must be from death itself,” said the demoness sternly.

“Do you see the lady with the eye there, brave one?” asked the giantess. “She sits with her sisters so calmly, does she not? Go to her and beg a kiss, that we may hear our beloved play the song.”

“Is it alright?” he asked her, just to be sure.

“She will be happy,” the giantess told him seriously. “She has been lonely, living with just her sisters. We lend her our attentions when we can, but if you ask it will be very special indeed. Go and see to it.”

Not really understanding why, but deciding to go along anyway, the little boy went to the three elderly sisters and tugged on their sleeves. “Dear ladies, the Queen sends me to you. I must beg a kiss, that we may hear the song.”

“I see,” said the old woman holding the eye. “Let me look at you, my dear.” She hummed and pointed the eye at him. “Yes, a fine boy indeed. My sisters, take my hand and see this boy the dragon has brought.” They held hands and looked some more.

“He is wise,” nodded one.

“He is brave,” nodded the other.

“He is steadfast,” nodded the third.

“He’ll do,” all three old women said to the demoness with the lute. Then each one kissed his forehead. “Our blessing be upon you.”

As the little boy looked at the three old ladies a little warily, because they seemed like they might all hug him at once and the prospect was a bit scary, the Queen of the Valkyrja led the miller’s horse up to the inn’s porch.

“Here we are, all present and correct, mistress minstrel. A horse, a sword, twelve fat Crowns, and twelve Valkyrja more ferocious than a thousand tigers. I expect great things from this song, my dear.” She shook her head, thinking of how hard it was to get a single gold crown. “In truth the ransom of a prince.”

“Where’s my dragon scale then?” demanded the demoness holding out her hand.

The dragon plucked one from his foreleg and gave it to her. “If he ever gets so sick you think he’s going to die, put that in his mouth,” he told her quietly. “There’s not much that’ll beat what’s in there.”

She nodded and held up the scale. “Behold, dear ones. The price is paid. The dragon has asked to hear Cliffs of Dover. It is said that this song was written in one sitting. It flew from the fingers of he who made it, arriving whole as if gifted to him from the Gods themselves. The Fire of Creation, cast into music and given life in the land of Midgard, by a mortal man.” She went into the inn for a moment, and returned with a guitar case in one hand and a boxy amplifier in the other. “These are the gifts of my most beloved follower. He told me that for some things, though she is mighty, the lute alone will not suffice.”

From the guitar case she drew a Stratocaster with a sunburst top and a white pick guard. A little digging turned up a beatbox computer and some cables. She plugged guitar and computer into the amp, and poked at the beatbox to bring up the song she wanted. “It is not too late to relent,” she said to the dragon.

“Both barrels,” he said. “I want to see you set the grass on fire in front of this dump. Light ‘em up!”

“Menace,” she muttered, shaking her head and reaching to turn up the volume to ten.

As the demoness flexed her fingers and checked the tuning of her Strat, the three old women told the little boy to go back to the dragon. “This is a thing of his world,” they whispered to him. “The dragon will love to share this with you.”

He nodded smartly and did as they told him, running back to be lifted up onto the dragon’s head once more. “Great dragon, why this song?” he asked as the demoness struck a chord on her guitar and made the amp wail with distortion and feedback.

“Because it rocks,” the dragon answered. “And because she’s gonna play it so hard, this freaking place will never be the same. This is for you, kid.”

The demoness began with a jazz/blues fusion chord progression, starting slow and letting the guitar speak through the fuzz distortion. She played for nearly two minutes, the progressions speeding up, her fingers flashing up and down the fret board in seeming disharmonies that resolved into beautiful chords and then flickered on. The complexity condensed down to the hook as she began the meat of the song, rich tones and bluesy bending being taken up with the baseline and drums played by the beatbox. The demoness played her heart out for six long minutes, after the first three the Valkyrja were dancing and shouting. The giantess was screaming and banging her head, throwing the horns and losing her composure completely. Even the three old blind ladies were smiling and waving their hands over their heads in time with the beat.

As the music finally drew down to a close, the demoness made one last run down the fretboard, the fastest of all, and ended on a screaming high note. Feedback launched the last note across the valley to echo back from the mountains. Then she sat heavily on the bench, her energy spent.

The song had done something to the dragon. He was spent as well, and laid down on the ground in front of the inn porch. The little boy was concerned and gestured to the Queen of the Valkyrja.

“Well dragon, was that what you wanted?” she asked him, getting down on the ground with him.

“That was awesome,” he wheezed, stars starting to sparkle in his eyes. “Hey kid. Awesome or what?”

“I loved it,” said the little boy, petting the dragon’s eyebrow. “Thank you, great one. I will never forget it.”

“She’s going to teach you how to play it,” the dragon said drowsily. “Work hard, kid. And play hard. And listen to her Majesty, she knows what’s up.”

“I will,” he promised. “Are you going now, great one?

“Dunno,” he admitted, feeling his consciousness fading. “Am I going, queenie?”

“You’re having a dream,” she breathed into his ear as he phased out. “Wake up, lazy.”

#

He slowly became aware he was lying down. In his own bed. He inhaled deeply and smelled coffee, then smiled.