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Twilight World Volume 4 Issue 4
= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 4 Issue 4 (July 28th 1996) ========================
You can do anything with this magazine as long as it remains intact. All
stories in it are fiction. No actual persons are designated by name or
character and similarity is coincidental.
This magazine is for free - get it as cheaply as possible. It is also
uncensored. Ban any sites/servers/people that hinder freedom of speech!
Please refer to the end of this file for further information.
= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================
EDITORIAL
by Richard Karsmakers
THE ASSASSINS
by Guilford Barton
FLYING SHARK
by Stefan Posthuma
SELECTOR FILE ABSURD
by Richard Karsmakers
GAUNTLET II
by Richard Karsmakers
BARBARIAN II
by Stefan Posthuma
= EDITORIAL =================================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
A new era of "Twilight World" is upon us. The most important thing that
changes is that it will no longer be released every two months. As a matter
of fact, it will only be released again when the total amount of stories
ready to be published amounts to around a 100 Kb. As it is, I have run out of
readily usable stories; my own store of stuff written in the past 10 years or
so - as well as that of other stuff written for the "Twilight World" mother
magazine, "ST News" - has run dry. This won't mean the end of "Twilight
World", for I think that would be a shame. No, it just means that it will
only appear a few times per year, at least if things continue the way they
do. This issue is, therefore, a bit less bulky than usual. Make the next
issues bulky again and submit a good story!
Secondly, the future of "Twilight World" on the Internet has been secured. I
now have a private email account which is on a commercial Internet provider.
So you might check the tail of this document to find the new details.
As it is, this issue is already late. I've been busy with my teacher course
and time has been precious indeed. So without the proverbial further ado I'd
like to wish you the best holiday you can possibly have, a successful next
academic year (if applicable), and fun reading!
And remember...spread the word...*and* the file!
Richard Karsmakers
(Editor)
= THE ASSASSINS =============================================================
by Guilford Barton (ggb14@aol.com)
I know who killed John F. Kennedy. You all can embrace the conspiracy
theories if you wish. Cling fast to Castro and his band of not-so-merry men.
Hold the CIA close to your quivering heart. Keep one eye open for Russians,
the Mafia, the second gunman, or even the mysterious man with the umbrella if
it helps you sleep a little more soundly. But I was there. I saw him pull the
trigger.
I know who did it, it was Corky.
I was eight years old when my family made its annual pilgrimage to Florida
in the fall of 1963. My younger brother and I endured the long trek from
Michigan while lying prone in the rear of our old station wagon. Dad would
fold down the back seat and toss in a pile of blankets, while mom filled the
remaining void with toys and food and comic books and any other tranquilizing
materials she could lay her hands on. Lord knows what they were thinking.
Granted, this was long before the days of mandatory seat belts, but it didn't
take a physics degree to realize what would have happened to us in the event
of an accident --launched through the windshield like a pair of missiles clad
in cut-offs and matching Beanie and Cecil T-shirts.
We entered Miami Beach the same way we always did, from the north end of its
magical strip which allowed for a ceremonial procession past those fabled
icons of tourism: The Shellborne, The Fountain Blue, The Desert Inn, The
Surfcomber, The Dunes, The Castaways; each with its own aura, its own
distinct gaudiness, its own devoted clientele. Our loyalty belonged to a
motel called The Aztec, a rambling stucco beast that squatted close to the
water's edge.
Apparently the brutal laws of nature also had applications in the world of
hostelry, for each year we returned to find that the beast had extended its
lair by devouring one of its weaker neighbors. We'd also find Corky waiting
for us.
He was a year or two older than me, red headed and freckled and already well
down the long, slippery road to obesity. I remember that he liked to wear
shirts with wide horizontal stripes that made him look even fatter than he
was. He came to Miami each year with a mother unfortunate enough to find
herself divorced in a time when it wasn't nearly so chic. She would lie by
the pool all day long striving for the tan that never surfaced. Always in the
same white straw hat and frumpy bathing suit, always with a Coppertone
stained paperback lying open across her stomach, always alone; politely yet
firmly shunned by the wholesomeness of the American family.
That was also the year an outsider managed to infiltrate our little circle,
a dark haired boy about my brother's age with a toothy grin and a startling
square face. Corky instantly dubbed him Blockhead, so quickly in fact that I
don't think I ever did learn his real name. Together the four of us lived
those precious few days with an intensity known only to children who would
otherwise be mired in a snowbound classroom, with nothing but close gray
skies and a falling barometer waiting just the other side of the final bell.
It was like a stay of execution, and we were determined to wring the sweet
nectar of our fleeting childhood from every last moment.
Each morning we rose early and raced to the sea, not to beat the
beachcombers to the conch shells and other precious flotsam, but to run and
jump on the shimmering, oily blue man-o-war that had washed ashore the
previous night, delighting at the satisfying pop their bubble-like bodies
made beneath our tennis shoes. We could sit for hours at the feet of the
mystical "Hat Man" as he wove his palm leaf creations and tales of scorpion
encounters with equal dexterity.
The limbo dancers mesmerized us as they slithered ever lower beneath their
golden bar, and then lower still until their bronzed shoulders kissed the hot
sand.
Whole days were devoted to catching the chameleons that haunted the alien
shrubbery, releasing the poor creatures only after pulling off their tails so
we could watch them writhe and twitch long after the rest of the lizard had
disappeared.
Great forts of sand were defiantly built just beyond the surf line inviting
desperate battles against the tide, which were lost, forcing us to fall back
and dig into new positions that were just as quickly besieged and overrun by
the sea's endless strategy of advance...retreat...advance...retreat.
If all else failed, one of our parents could always be found and
systematically tormented. My father was a favorite target. We'd wait until he
fell asleep on the beach, then sneak up and fill his oddly hollow chest with
sand. One day he woke to this indignity, rose up on his elbow and said, "Why
don't you boys wade out a couple of feet into the water and get lost in the
Bermuda Triangle?"
"What's that, Daddy?" my brother asked.
"It's a place where weird things happen," he said before turning over. It
was a brilliant move on his part (I can imagine him smiling into his towel
even now), because we spent the entire afternoon roaming the surf in a vain
quest for the supernatural.
The next day it began to rain. By mid-morning we were desperate enough to
shuffle into the formerly scorned craft room run by a middle-aged woman known
to one and all as Miss Sandy. She gave us idiotic plaster figurines that we
glumly painted with idiotic colors. Just after lunch the sky quit messing
around a really let go, sending curtains of water that we tried to visually
part for a signs of a break in the storm, and we loitered on the brink of
panic when it became obvious that none was coming.
"What do you want to do, Corky?" I asked as we sat in the lobby, swinging
our feet off the end of a vinyl couch.
"Shit if I know," he said, shoving a handful of M&M's into his mouth.
"There's nothing to do."
"But we're on vacation," my little brother pleaded, very close to tears,
"there has to be something to do!"
"Well there ain't, so shut up." snapped Corky, whipping one of the little
candies across the tiled floor.
We watched in silence as a man came out the rest room and crushed it under
his flip-flops.
"I know," ventured Blockhead, "let's play assassinate the president." It
was one of those rare moments of inspired genius. Assassinate the president!
My brother and I sat in mute wonder of the possibilities, and Corky--who I
knew thought of Blockhead in literal terms--grinned widely and wrapped a
massive arm around the smaller boy's neck. We split up into two teams each
armed with water pistols purchased from the motel gift shop. The younger boys
acted as the president and his faithful bodyguard, while Corky and I garnered
the plum roles of the treaded assassins. We gave the other two a fifteen
minute head start before giving chase, which led from the steaming machinery
and snaking pipes of the basement, to racing across treacherous rooftops
slick with rain and guano left behind by the generations of seagulls that
roosted along the parapets. We dangled from slick fire escapes, hid inside
the huge commercial washers and dryers, careened into guests along the narrow
corridors, monopolized the elevator, and screamed past a sulking crowd of
grownups as they huddled around the cabana bar clutching their cocktails for
dear life.
Time and again we would catch a glimpse of our quarry: a couple of heads
hovering above a cascading pile of unused lounge chair cushions; two small
bodies streaking along an upper balcony, a pair of feet disappearing around
the corner at the far end of a long hallway. Each encounter was closer than
the one before, and our excitement grew as the gap diminished. Twice we
thought we had them cornered only to let them slip through our fingers, but
in the end something a simple as a wrong turn trapped the prey in the second
floor game room. Corky pressed his wide back against the door jamb and leaned
into the opening. A stream of water shot over his head and splattered against
the opposite wall.
"Cover me!" he gasped, diving through the doorway and behind the pop machine
while I wildly sprayed the far end of the room. He returned the favor with a
withering volley as I belly flopped my way beneath a row of pinball machines.
Slowly we advanced, inch by inch, game by game, driving them back, popping up
just long enough to draw their precious liquid fire, which sheeted off the
game tops and dripped onto the small of my back. By the time we had reached
the last pair of pinball machines the return fire had ceased altogether.
Someone cursed from the corner of the room and a bright yellow water gun
bounced off the Skeeball game next to Corky and skittered across the floor.
Then my brother rose from behind the chalk scarred pool table and, with a
valiant yell of defiance, emptied the last of his water in my direction. I
ducked behind the table, rolled to my left, and brought my own weapon to
bear. Blockhead dove in front of my brother and cried, "You can't shoot, he's
the president!" I pulled the trigger and a wet stain spread rapidly across
the Secret Service man's chest. Then Corky took careful aim and sent a lethal
stream straight between my brother's brown eyes.
Nothing happened for a full minute, we all just stood there staring at each
other as the water dripped off the end of my brother's nose. Then Corky let
out a loud whoop and we all dutifully followed suit.
"Wow!"
"Cool!"
"Let's do it again!"
The four of us skipped down the main lobby's spiral staircase arm in arm in
arm in arm like the gang from the Wizard of Oz. Before we were halfway down
we knew something was wrong. Knots of people stood here and there in obvious
distress and confusion, while the bellboys huddled near the front desk and
conversed in reverent whispers. One couple sat on a bright orange couch
sobbing uncontrollably, their children and luggage strewn about their feet.
A weeping Miss Sandy stumbled by us with her make-up in streaks.
"What is it, Miss Sandy?" Corky asked. "What's the matter?"
"Didn't you boys hear the announcement over the loud speaker?" she asked
with a puzzled expression.
"No. What announcement?"
"Oh, its just awful, Cork." she answered, wiping her cheeks with a flowered
tissue. "Some damn fool's gone and shot Jack Kennedy."
Of all the memories I carry from that day one stands out in sharper focus
from the rest. It's the image of the man who stood alone in the middle of the
lobby, silhouetted against a huge plate glass window that looked over the
ocean. He stood very still, with his back to me, staring out at the rain, and
from my vantage point it appeared he was about to embark down the path that
meandered between two rows of palm trees as they marched down to the sea. An
enormous, overstuffed suitcase hung from each arm and, although they must
have weighed a hundred pounds each, he chose to hold them as he stood there,
rather than let them on fall to the floor. From the set of his shoulders I
knew that he would always carry that burden.
The Warren Commission scared the crap out of me, and I lived in fear of men
with dark suits and sunglasses who might swoop down like birds of prey and
carry us off into oblivion. Each night in the months that followed, my
brother, flashlight in hand, made his way down the narrow hall that led to
the my bedroom sanctuary. Beneath the covers we tried to confront the
mystery. "How could it be?" we would ask the darkness. "How could four dumb
kids kill the President of the United States a thousand miles away?" For
there was never any doubt in our young minds that we were in some way
responsible; that we were involved. We had never played that game before and
we sure as hell would never play it again. Did that make it pure coincidence,
or just one of those nasty pranks that fate sometimes plays on the guileless?
It was my brother who eventually offered the explanation that we came to
embrace. "Maybe dad had it all wrong," he said one night as the glow from his
upturned Eveready garishly lit the underside of his chin and highlighted his
nostrils. "Maybe the Bermuda Triangle doesn't stop at the beach, maybe part
of it sticks into the game room."
It was not long afterward that he stopped climbing into bed with me.
As for Corky?...he and his mother left for New York the morning after that
terrible day and never came back. Sometimes when the weather turns
particularly wet I'll let my thoughts fall on the memories of my old friend,
wondering how far his road has taken him. And I don't know if they'll ever
catch him or not, I just hope he doesn't squeal on us if they ever do.
= FLYING SHARK ==============================================================
by Stefan Posthuma
Feed the babies who don't have enough to eat,
shoe the children with no shoes on their feet,
house the people who live in the street,
oooohhhh there's a solution....
Steve Miller was again lifting my spirits through my walkman as I walked
toward the bi-plane. Thinking back to the meeting I had the day before I
still couldn't imagine why I ever agreed to do it.
I mean, I had to fly a bi-plane, right into enemy territory, defended by god
knows how many planes, tanks and other terrible weaponry. I had to cross an
extremely large area of all sorts of terrain giving the enemy plenty of
opportunity to hide themselves. My only help was a powerful gun with the
capability to increase firepower when I picked up certain items left behind
by certain enemy planes, and a smart bomb launcher which would sweep the
immediate vicinity of my craft.
Some people call me the Joker
Some call me the Gangster of Love....
Steve Miller had moved on to his next song and I was having second
thoughts...
Then my mind wandered off to the promises they'd made. If I succeeded, I'd
become a national hero. Every network would pay huge amounts of money to get
me onto their shows. I would become famous, girls would finally notice me and
I could buy myself a Digital Watch.
Especially the last argument persuaded me to climb into the small cockpit
and run the checklist. The voice of the tower crackled in my helmet giving me
all sorts of information on pressure and wind velocity. But I was not
listening and engaged the controls. Slowly, I manoeuvered the machine out of
the hangar, entering the runway. Pushing forward the throttle, the engine
started roaring and I was pushed back in my seat as the machine sped forward,
like a hungry tiger.
When the wheels lost contact with the ground, a shiver went through me. This
would be it.
Then, after some time, they came. Two planes in a tight formation, racing
towards me, sending some bullets in my direction with alarming precision. I
quickly evaded the deadly metal, and noticed two other planes coming. With a
powerful blast, I sent them both to their doom. Another formation, this time
three of them, approached me. Banking quickly left, I evaded their bullets
and pumped death into them.
Blackened is the end
Winter it will send
Throwing all you see
Into obscurity
Metallica had arrived and I turned up the volume of my cockpit speakers. I
specifically requested a powerful stereo system to be built into my plane so
I could at least enjoy my final moments...
After taking care of some more planes, I spotted movement on the ground. A
large, sluggish tank was moving across a dirt track and its barrel was
pointed in my direction. The wings of my plane shuddered when I hit the
controls and barely avoided a grenade. A mere push of the red button reduced
the tank to a smouldering carcass.
A small cluster of trees appeared at the horizon, soon afterwards followed
by a large forest. Soon I was skimming the tree tops and the unavoidable
happened. As I approached a clearing, I barely noticed the tank hiding under
the trees. It entered the clearing and fired. I merely avoided the bullet and
fired back. A direct hit.
After a while, the forest cleared and a little village appeared. It seemed
peaceful, until the tanks appeared. At the same time a little lake with some
gun boats and a large formation of planes came into sight. They all fired at
me. I don't know how I did it, but I avoided all bullets and blasted them all
to pieces. Destroying the last plane of the formation revealed a special,
floating sign. Picking it up increased the power of my gun and I spread death
ever more efficient. Planes exploded, tanks burned and boats sunk. Blasting
away, dodging the enemy, picking up firepower, I felt great.
When a man lies he murders
some part of the world
These are the pale deaths
which men miscall their lives
All this I cannot bear
to witness any longer
Cannot the kingdom of salvation
take me home
After destroying some large guns which required multiple hits and revealed
some hidden arms storages, I finally reached a large clearing which was
occupied by a large, extremely well-armoured vehicle. No matter how much lead
I sprayed over it, it still kept spitting lead and mayhem at me. Finally it
exploded and soon afterwards a runway came in sight. Sighing deeply, I turned
off the music and landed the plane to get my plane fixed.
Ten minutes later I was in the air again. Feeling fresh, my plane repaired
and Metallica blasting away, I felt ready to take on every sucker standing in
my way. The enemy came in large numbers. Planes, tanks and little boats threw
themselves at me. Using smart bombs and huge amounts of bullets, I destroyed
countless foes. I reached the sea, destroyed some landing vessels and soon
some large ships approached. Blasting away at them, I reduced their decks to
firestorms. Then a very large aircraft carrier appeared. Armed with countless
guns and guarded by a large aircraft which was literally spraying bullets, it
was hard to handle. Somehow, I managed and I left a crippled carrier behind.
I was becoming tired. My trigger finger ached, my plane was battered and my
senses were numb. Only Metallica showed no sign of fatigue, and continued
hammering away. The enemy came in large waves. Tanks suddenly appeared from
under large rocks, numerous little boats were firing and large formations of
planes were flying around. Then two very large vehicles rolled into sight.
Desperately, I fired at them, hurled smart bombs at them, but it seemed to
have no effect. Tanks appeared and it was hopeless. I fired, fired and raged
until my finger slipped off the trigger and my throat was hoarse from
shouting. I ran out of smart bombs, and one of the two vehicles was already
disabled, belching black smoke. But the other one was still there. Another
formation of planes came into sight and with a last desperate attempt I tried
to blast them.
Death was in my eyes and the grenade hit me hard. The left wing was ripped
off, and my craft sped towards the ground. I let go of the controls and
relaxed, not bothered by the fire around me. Burning kerosine was pouring out
of my plane and before the fire reached me, the plane hit the ground.
Blackness struck me as life left my crippled body. The last thing I heard
were the sounds of the stereo which had miraculously survived the crash. I
closed my eyes and never opened them again....
Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up I cannot see
That there's not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now
Originally written autumn 1988; rehashed slightly July 1996.
= SELECTOR ITEM ABSURD ======================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
A really absurd piece of writing relating to a mystic item called "The Atari
File Selector Box". There is really deep religious significance in between
the sheer absurdity of this story that will challenge the taste buds of your
mind and eyes...
The echoes of chanting had ebbed away and the candles had been reduced to
smouldering piles of molten wax.
The room had something about it that could only be called 'eerie'. The
cobweds hung in a disjointed way from the vaulted ceiling. A small fire threw
disembodied shadows on the walls that were partly covered with algae.
The fire was under an altar, and on top of that altar were the dismembered
remains of what was still recognisable once to have been a floppy disk.
Some careful examination would reveal a fairly inconspicious text written on
the label that was stuck on it and which was severely burned at its edges.
If someone would have taken the trouble of this rather straightforward bit
of examining, the text "Universal Item Selector II" would have been
distinguishable.
The disk had been crudely burnt, and looked as if it had been sacrificed to
some kind of divine being.
Which was, actually, precisely what had happened to it.
The High Priest of the Worshippers of the Atari File Selector Box had cast
an ominous glance on the disk, and he had carefully put it on the altar.
A deep and vibrating hum arising from the bearded throats and pegged noses
of several dozen disciples had filled the vaulted room, and the smell of
their sweaty armpits and cheesy toes had momentarily beaten that of centuries
old vaulted room.
But not for long.
When the fire was lit, the scent of incinerating plastic was present in a
rather omnipotent way throughout all Worshipper's nasal cavities.
They had started chanting. They had started clapping. They had started
alternately stamping and brushing the ground with their travel-worn sandals.
When the disk had been sacrificed to enough a degree, the High Priest had
extinguished the fire, decreasing it to a mere slumbering bit of wood that
had no other power but to throw a couple of those disembodied shadows of a
couple of Worshippers on the ceiling and walls of the rancid old dungeon.
The High Priest had cleared his throat and had taken the peg off his nose.
He had spoken in a very deep, solemn voice about freedom, safety, peace, and
the Atari File Selector Box.
After they had chanted a bit more (and clapped and stamped a bit as well),
they had left the room in a very happy mood.
After about five minutes of invisible but extremely vicious battling, The
smell of centuries old vaulted room had once again prevailed over that of
sweaty armpits and cheesy toes.
The disk was lying in a very quiet fashion.
It was totally incapable of doing anything else, of course, for disks do not
have any tendency towards moving, and if it had it wouldn't have been able to
anyway because it had just been sacrificed during which process it had
sustained burns that would surely have disabled it from moving for the rest
of its times.
At that moment, the disk must have sensed something of the chronicler's
thoughts and started to move.
If the chronicler would have been able to sense something of the disk's
thought, it would have been something like "that's what you think!"
Nonetheless, the disk moved.
It moved very much in a fashion the dead don't - least of all when they're
disks.
It seemed to bulge.
Yes. That's what it did.
It bulged.
It seemed to grow.
Indeed, it grew.
After it had done some quiet growing to itself, it raised on top of the
altar. In spite of its molten bits and the burnt label, it seemed to stand
proud as two arm-like forms grew out of it.
Indeed, two arms it were.
The hand-like forms that were located at the far ends of the arm-like forms
started tearing at the label.
They tore.
Under the tattered, fire-worn label, a new shiny label became visible.
Slowly but surely. The molten bits of the disk seemed to be reforged by
invisible entities, until after a bit of tearing and reforging there stood a
shiny disk, just as new, on which a clear and shiny label read "Universal
Item Selector *III*".
There was a puff of smoke.
There was a blindening roar of thunder and some numbing lighting as well as
a couple of deafening shockwaves.
After the smoke had lifted, an unscathed disk lay on the altar.
Would anyone have had the ability to sense a disk's hushed communications,
and would any of these have been present in the vaulted dungeon at that
moment, it would have revealed some soft grinning.
The grinning of something that is obviously terribly pleased with itself.
The High Priest lifted a hand and suddenly halted, causing several of his
fellow-worshippers to bump into the back of him.
Before him had arisen what could be nothing other than an apparition. A
rather squarely built apparation, with long sideburns.
It had appeared out of a door that had suddenly leapt out of the nothingness
before the High Priest, and after the door had closed itself, it had leapt
back into the void it had occupied before.
The apparition, after sniffing suspiciously, spoke in the common language of
humans, vaguely remembered by the High Priest.
"Do you serve Kuwaiti beef here?"
The High Priest stood rooted to the ground. His fellow-worshippers had all
kneeled to the ground, afraid to look at what they considered to be a
Prophet; a Prophet who could kill them with a glance or turn them into savage
heathens with the snap of a finger. Or both.
"What dost thou sayeth, Oh Prophet, My Lord, Oh divine Apparition?" the High
Priest probed.
"I said 'Do you serve Kuwaiti beef here', pal!"
The voice of the apparition sounded like thunder to the fragile ears of the
Worshippers, who were used only to deep humming, soft chanting and the
occasional bit of "Woe! Woe!" and "Hail! Hail".
The High Priest turned around to his followers, and stretched his arms out
to where the sky should have been but where actually only were the vaulted
bits of a low corridor.
"My dear friends! Hearken me! The coming of this Prophet signals a new
period, and I foresee it will be one of timeless joy and titillating
chanting!"
The apparation was somewhat baffled - in a way someone would who is trained
to fight rather than think.
It therefore undertook an action it considered most fit for this occasion,
took out something unrecognisable from under its coat and pulled something on
it that looked like a trigger.
Indeed, a trigger it was.
The High Priest forgot to cry, or even to startle.
Instead, he looked down in amazement at an enormous hole in his body out of
which all kinds of unpleasant things came.
Without even letting out but a sigh, he folded to the ground.
At the very moment the skull of the High Priest cracked open on a rather
crude bit of stalacmite that happened to protrude from the ground, a door
revealed itself from what seemed like utter nothingness.
It opened in a mysterious way.
The apparition disappeared through it, after which the door closed itself
and similarly disappeared into the void it had seemed to come from.
None of the High Priest's fellow-worshippers had seen anything of what had
happened, and when the first of them ventured to lift his head, he stood
erect in total disgust and fear.
"Woe! Woe! Bad times are nigh!" he cried, his voice filled with sincere
emotion and grief, "Our beloved High Priest has departed! A new Item Selector
must have appeared!"
"Woe! Woe!" the others yelled.
"One for all, all for one!" the first one now yelled, "Hail the Atari Item
Selector!"
"Hail! Hail!" the others now yelled, after which they all started a quiet,
deep hum and set off through a door that had suddenly appeared from
nothingness.
A copper plaque above it featured a word that would have been an awfully
good name for an Iraqi restaurant provided it served a good piece of Kuwait
beef.
Then, as if it was the most normal procedure in the world, both the plaque
and the door it belonged to vanished into a void.
And the disk just kept grinning, though of course nobody heeded this much.
Originally written July 1990; rehashed moderetaly July 1996.
= GAUNTLET II ===============================================================
by Richard Karsmakers
"Keep your hands off of me!" A female's voice echoed through the trees.
"Shut up!"
SLAP!
In a dark place in a dark forest, one of Odin's handmaidens was being held
by a couple of mean looking trolls. They pinched her and growled at her while
she lay on the ground, cunningly tied.
"Just wait until my master comes to my aid!", she cried, "I am Thyra the
Valkyrie and I have duties to attend; he will surely find out when I'm
missing and have you filthy trolls for breakfast!"
The trolls uttered some vicious fits of laughter as they saw her hands
trying to get loose. No matter what's been said of trolls -they sure knew how
to tie knots, so Thyra found out at her own expense.
"You will surely regain your freedom," laughed the biggest and ugliest of
the trolls, "albeit temporarily! Har har!"
In the mean time, somewhere else in the dense forest undergrowth, an Elf lay
on the ground, listening. He was Questron son of Glorfindel, hiding from a
mean looking bunch of trolls that were looking for trouble. Or, now he came
to think of it, maybe they were just looking for him. As far as he was
concerned, they could get trouble if they wanted, but they had him
outnumbered so he resumed to lay flat on his face, even afraid to breathe.
For the time being, this seemed the smartest solution.
Unfortunately, Questron had an illness that only very few elves ever had. It
was called..."Aaatchew!"...hayfever.
The trolls heard a sudden noise and saw the elf lying in his shelter.
"Food!" some of them yelled, and drew their knives. They were just about to
utilise their sharp blades at the brave but outnumbered elf when a stout and
low voice shouted, "Halt, you fools! Are your brains filled by dwarfs' guts?
You know what we have to do when we find any fair people!" When speaking the
last two words, he made a face as if he was chewing on something he disliked.
He spitted in the elf's face to get rid of it.
Merlin looked up from his thoughts as though he imagined to hear a distant
cry in the forest. There it was again: A long, wailing cry that went right
through his bones. "The Troll King is on the hunt for Sauromancer the reptile
eater," he knew, "my assistance is needed!"
He walked down the hill, leaning on his stick. Suddenly, he vanished into
thin air.
Thor's axe had already cleaved several trolls' skulls, and blood was
dripping from it. There must have been a dozen corpses at his feet, and the
trolls just kept coming.
A giant troll with a crown tilted on his filthy head appeared on a nearby
hill and screamed: "We want him alive! I'll personally dine on whoever dares
to kill that warrior!"
Thor felt himself strengthened when he heard that, and his mighty muscles
made the axe sway around once more, beheading several trolls. Blood sprayed
around, and eyes grew dim.
A heavy piece of wood was lifted above Thor's head - obviously manned by a
troll that was the smartest at home.
THUD!
All Thor further saw that day was a black darkness, filled with tiny stars
as he kneeled down and fell forward like a slab of concrete.
It was already getting dark when Merlin discovered a trolls' camp on the
mountainside. There were several guards, and inside the tents he could hear
aggravated cries. He tried to get a little bit closer and caught something of
the conversation that was going on between what turned out to be two highly
ranked trolls inside the tent.
"Finally we've got what Lurkhead, our dear monarch, wants!" said one of
them.
"Yeah, sure, he has to feed the dragon in the maze or otherwise the beast
will come up and look for food - right at Sauromancer's palace!" answered the
other one, "and we're the ones suffering: That damn warrior killed about two
dozen of us, and that damn valkyrie castrated old Grindleguts!"
"All we now need," continued the first troll, "is...."
"...A WIZARD perhaps?" Merlin looked behind him and saw a troll standing
there. Damn! Why had he forgotten to take his invisibility spell with him?!
The troll took Merlin's magic staff and broke it in two. It then laughed with
self-satisfaction.
The other two trolls came out of their tent. "Grindleguts!" one of them
pronounced, "what have you there? A wizard?!" - "Yep," Grindleguts proudly
said, "and I was the one who captured him. All on my own!"
Merlin kept quiet and hid his inflatable spare stick in one of his boots in
the commotion. Shortly after, he was led to a tent where he met Thyra,
Questron and Thor.
After that, the trolls had left them alone. Only a couple of guards were
outside that now and then peered in with water dripping from the corners of
their mouths, especially when they let their eyes dwell on Thyra.
"What are they going to do with us, Merlin?" Thor asked, while gently
stroking a bump of formidable dimensions, partly hidden under his long brown
hair.
Merlin sat silent for a while. "As far as I know, they are going to feed us
to the dragon in the evil maze near to Isnagoth."
"Isnagoth!" cried Questron, "the place where my forefathers died in the
battle against he whose name we shan't mention?"
The wizard did not say a word, and merely nodded. Some tears appeared in
Thyra's eyes: "When will that be, Merlin?"
"We will know more in the morning. Sleep now, you'll need all the strength
you can muster before the moon rises again!" Merlin cast a spell and they all
fell in a deep and untroubled sleep.
The sun had barely started shining when they were awoken by the hoarse
voices of trolls. "Arise! Arise, fair people!" (SPIT) They were on a wagon
that was pulled by twelve ferocious Wargs, obviously put there during their
deep sleep, on their way to the city of Isnagoth. Already, the dark
silhouettes of the towers of the doomed city loomed in the hazy distance.
The procession left the road and headed for an amphitheatre that seemed
lost, partly hidden behind large oak trees. The town was not their
destination; it was the maze they were heading for.
When they entered the amphitheatre, they saw that it was filled with trolls
- the troll king was also present, sitting next to a man clad in red and
black: Sauromancer the reptile eater. They all started to make humming noises
as they recognised the four figures on the wagon.
In the middle of the amphitheatre, a large hole had been dug. A hole that
was large enough for the dragon to get out, and more than large enough for
four of these 'fair people' to be dropped in.
The whole theatre fell silent when Sauromancer arose.
"Citizens of Isnagoth! Behold the feeding of he who has to be fed! Let the
prisoners step forward!"
Sauromancer stepped forward and climbed down the tribune. He passed the
prisoners and they suddenly felt cold and dead. He stood still at the edge of
the giant hole in the ground. He took a cross from his robe and held it in
the air, upside down.
"Astorath! Astorath!" he yelled, "ye habe ne vara ili gom sato!"
A growling sound arose from the depths of the maze, and shivers ran down the
spines of the prisoners (as well as those of some younger trolls looking at
all this). Sauromancer nodded to the guards to let the prisoners down the
steep stairs.
Thor, Thyra, Questron and Merlin were prodded and forced to climb down the
steps - to face a maze in which death would almost certainly loom.
Grindleguts kept well away of Thyra, and thought he saw her eyeing some
other trolls when she disappeared down the stairs as the last one, into the
dragon's maze...
Originally written somewhere in 1987. Rehashed, but not much at all, July
1996.
= BARBARIAN II ==============================================================
by Stefan Posthuma
An acrid wind was sweeping the desolate plains, polishing the many skulls
lying around with the sand it carried. The brimstone vapours in the air made
the lungs of the young warrior ache and the dust made his eyes very sore. But
he grimly wielded his double-bladed battle axe as he approached the scorched
hills.
Suddenly, he heard a growling sound behind him and he turned sharply and
faced a massive man-like creature which was carrying a club as large as the
warrior himself. Rabid with evil, the creature attacked him. The young
warrior barely evaded the first swing of the mighty, iron-padded club which
surely would have cracked his skull like a newly laid egg being thrown
against solid rock. His fighting instincts took over and with a very sharp
blow, he made a large cut in the creature's upper leg. It howled and stumbled
for a second, but retaliated with such might that he had to retreat several
steps before he could attack again. This time he chose a more direct approach
and swung his axe above his head and hit the creature, which was still
regaining its balance after the wild swing, full in the chest. Blood
splattered into his face as the chest was cut deeply. The creature howled and
stumbled back. Quickly, the young warrior swept the blood from his face and
made the one move on which he had practised for so long. With one fluent
turning movement, he decapitated his opponent. The ugly head fell spinning to
the ground, and the large body immediately exploded and disappeared in a
thick, green mist.
"You must come up with more than that, Drax," the young warrior muttered
under his breath as he continued towards the desolate hills.
After the defeat of Drax by the mighty Barbarian, the despicable sorcerer
had taken refuge in the Southern Hills. Deprived of all his powers, he
disappeared and the Land was free from evil for a long time. But Drax was not
entirely defeated and slowly, very slowly, regained his ill powers. First, he
created an immense complex of caves and dungeons in which he now dwelled.
After that, he started breeding large numbers of creatures which were all
infested with Drax's unstoppable evil. They flooded the Hills, and
exterminated all life on them. Once a happy and lively place, the Southern
Hills were now like an open wound in the country, heavily infested with a
dark disease. And slowly the evil started spreading, infecting the
surrounding lands.
Many have tried to destroy Drax, but none have returned from the barren
Hills. It is said that Drax has resurrected two of the Old Demons who guard
his private dwellings.
The young warrior had reached a crack in the ground which looked like an
abyss to the very depths of Hell. When he looked into it, he saw far below
him a sluggish river of red-hot lava plunging through the crevice. The hot
air seemed to reach out for him with burning fingers and he quickly
retreated. He took a few steps back and with one mighty leap, he crossed the
deadly cleft. When he recovered his balance and looked up, he was confronted
with a creature so horrible that he nearly stumbled and fell into that
dangerous crack. Quickly, he regained his composure and, with a hoarse cry,
attacked the monster.
It was a large, green dinosaur-like creature with a long neck which ended in
a small head that was all mouth and fangs. It stood erect on two large paws
and the long tail wagged vigorously. With one blow of its paw, it threw its
opponent against the bare rocks. The warrior got up and swung his axe towards
the dinosaur. He hit it full in the shoulder, but the thick skin was not
easily penetrated. He stepped back and delivered another blow with all the
powers he could find within him. This time he struck the creature in the
softer part of its chest and he felt the axe cutting the flesh, ripping apart
tissue and tendons. The creature growled and stepped back. Then it happened.
Maybe it was a shriek from one of the large black birds in the sky or perhaps
it was the sight of a head on a stake, watching the desperate fight with
hollow eyes, but the warrior was distracted. The creature took its chance,
and quickly stretched out its neck to bite off the head of the unfortunate
warrior. With one snap of the jaws, the head was separated from the body
which fell to the ground with the life fluids streaming from it. The head was
swallowed by the dinosaur, which burped loudly and pushed the body into the
fiery crack.
Giggling maniacally, Drax put aside the glass orb in which he had been
following the warrior ever since he had entered the Southern Hills. He was
content. With one subtle movement of his arm, he stirred the fires which
burned under a figure captured in heavy chains. The man writhed in his
chains, his face contorted with agony.
When she heard about the fate of young Huor, who was the son of Dagron, the
captain of the Palace Guard, Queen Mariana made up her mind. She decided that
Drax had to be stopped. But this time no young warrior had to be sent to his
doom. She would go there herself. Filled with grief she retreated to her
chambers as she thought of the fate of her husband, who was the first to
perish in the Dungeons of Drax. He was the one who had defeated Drax many
years ago and now he was either dead or captured by the evil forces. Slowly,
she opened the large chest in which she kept her most prized possession: a
sword forged by the masters of iron-lore in Mount Thunder itself. She patted
the gleaming blade and thought about the many years of training she had gone
through. Her father, who had passed the blade on to her, had said that it
contained unknown powers that could be lethally dangerous if the one wielding
it was unworthy of such a weapon. Even her husband, the mighty Barbarian, did
not dare to use it. But she had deciced.
She would leave the next day.
Two weeks later, she was standing at the edge of the Southern Hills. She had
sent back her horse because the terrain was too dangerous for the fair beast.
With the sword in one hand, she took a deep breath and started towards the
hills.
Drax laughed aloud as he beheld the frail figure in his orb.
"It seems like your little wife has decided to seek her death in my realm,"
he said aloud, not taking his eyes off the orb. Behind him, the chained
figure shuddered and groaned softly. "No, Mariana," he muttered softly.
"Let me have some fun," said Drax as he cast a small amount of green powder
into the fires. Immediately, a large cloud of a sick, green gas erupted from
the flames and disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.
Mariana heard a sharp, hissing sound and saw a large cloud of green mist
erupt from a small crack in the ground. The mist instantly formed itself into
a small, broad ape-like figure which immediately attacked her. But she was
not affected by it at all, and with one mighty blow of her sword she struck
the monster. The blade came alive as soon as it hit the monstrous shape. The
ancient powers put in it by its learned forgers sprang alive and it seemed to
consume the ill flesh. With a sharp pang, the creature was reduced to a
quickly dissolving cloud of green gas.
Drax startled as he saw his pet being destroyed. He recognised the Old
Powers immediately and retreated into his chambers, searching for a way to
counter the unexpected forces.
Creature after creature was slain by the swordsmanship of Mariana. She
quickly advanced deep into the Hills and soon after, she found the entrance
to the caves. Without hesitating, she entered the dark mouth and disappeared
into darkness.
But the caves were not entirely dark. The very rocks themselves seemed to
glow with evil, casting terrible shadows on the many pillars, stalactites and
rocks. Mariana was assaulted by many creatures, from giant lobsters to large,
eyeless lions. But they all were slain by the ancient blade she wielded so
skillfully. Smeared with blood and dirt, she advanced through the eerily
luminated halls.
After a long time of searching, crossing large hallways as well as small
tunnels and fighting the foul creatures of Drax, she finally found the
entrance to the Dungeons. Drax was becoming desperate. He could feel the
might of the Old Powers each time one of his creatures was destroyed by her,
ruthlessly. He had searched through the countless ancient tomes he had in
his possession, but none of them revealed how to counter the forces hidden in
that mighty blade Mariana was carrying. The only thing he could do now was to
rely on the two Demons that guarded the entrance to his home and to charge
his personal powers when - if - he had to face Mariana himself. He cursed the
figure in the chains and hurtled a small glass ball at it. The ball exploded
when it hit the wall next to it and a yellow, steaming liquid splashed over
the tortured body of the man. Groaning with pain, he endured the burning,
acid pain. But it was clear that he could stand this torture not much longer.
Searching the Dungeons, Mariana was surprised to see a very small green orc
running towards her, carrying an axe which was as large as the creature
itself. It giggled loudly and tried to hit her with the axe. With one swing
of her sword, she splitted the creature in two parts which disappeared in
bellowing green mist. Then she heard a low, rumbling laughter. When she
looked up, she saw a giantish man coming towards her. He was dressed as a
wrestler and was empty-handed. Awed by the size of the man, she hesitated for
a second. With unbelievable speed, the man kicked her full in the chest. She
was thrown back and hit the floor with a painful crash. The man laughed
again, evilly. throwing his head back, then again started towards her.
Mariana quickly scrambled to her feet and assumed a fighting position. But
the giant was not impressed by the blade which was gleaming, almost humming
with the powers concealed in it. He swung a foot-thick arm in her direction,
but this time she was prepared. With one quick and fluid movement, she evaded
the blow, turned and hit him full in the chest. Once again, the blade seemed
to explode and penetrated the body with unbelievable power. The impact was so
great that the heart of the giant was cut out and sent tumbling through the
dungeon's humid, oppressive air. The large body fell to the ground, and like
every other creature slain so far, disappeared in a green cloud that prickled
her senses and made her giddy and nauseous.
She took a deep breath and heaved up her head. With a grim look upon her
face, she started down the corridor and towards the large door at the far end
of it.
When she passed through it, the door immediately disappeared and was
replaced by solid stone. The chamber she was in had only one door at the
other end, which was guarded by a creature enveloped in a cloak of fire. She
recognised it immediately - it was one of the Old Demons. Fear fell upon her
like cold rain and she clenched her sword until her knuckles whitened.
Then the creature stirred and hurtled a bolt of fire towards her. She heaved
up her sword in an instinctive reaction and the bolt of fire hit the blade
with a massive blow. The two powers clashed with a loud explosion of sparks
that made the very air seem to burn. Mariana could do nothing but hold on to
the blade as she slowly advanced towards the doorway. Bolt after bolt hit the
sword and the violence was immense. But Mariana was preserved by the Powers
in the blade and when she reached the Demon, it disappeared with a piercing
scream. She fell through the doorway when, suddenly, the chaos ceased.
Drax was beyond himself. He had witnessed the defeat of the first Demon and
was overcome with rage. But he was working on something. With trembling
fingers, he pulverised small pieces of a clay-like substance in a small pot.
After adding some other ingredients, he heated it above a fire and then drew
a small dagger from his cloak. He dipped the dagger in the already boiling
poison and walked towards his prisoner. Slowly, he carved a pentagram in the
man's heaving chest. His victim struggled feebly, then at last fell silent.
Drax giggled nervously as he felt the pulse of the Barbarian. It was totally
gone.
Mariana was alone in a small chamber which had only one door at the other
end. But she felt a presence. Unspeakable evil was there without any doubt.
The blade in her hand gleamed as if it was being forged at that very moment,
and the air was thick with malice. Very slowly, she advanced towards the door
in the other end of the chamber when she suddenly noticed a round opening in
the floor.
She froze as an immense figure slowly emerged from the pit. It was the
second Demon, which was climbing from its lair. His skin was scaled and
coloured a hellish red. When he opened his mouth, a bolt of fire sprang forth
from it while he fixed Mariana, like a cobra hypnotising its prey. When he
had fully emerged from the pit, he blew another of those bolts of burning air
towards the woman. She heaved her arm to protect her eyes from the scorching
fire. She was forced back by the immense heat until she was standing with her
back against the solid wall. Slowly, the Demon approached her and his
slithering tongue was licking his lips, as if he could already taste her
sweet flesh. With one blow, he knocked the sword from her grasp. With a sharp
metallica ring it hit the dungeon floor.
The demon did not strike immediately. Mariana was a very beautiful woman,
and the Demon was somehow fascinated by her features. With one claw, he
slowly stroked the forehead of Mariana who could do nothing but press against
the cold wall. Then his attention was slowly drawn towards her breasts and
his yellow eyes became radiant with lust. Mariana quickly reacted as she
noticed the distraction of the Beast. With one movement, she pulled the cord
from her hair and slung it around the neck of the Demon. The monster was
startled by the sudden actions of its victim and reacted too late. Mariana
had already positioned herself behind the creature and was pulling the cord
with all the strength she could find within herself. The creature raged and
immense jets of fire emerged from its mouth. Mariana was lifted from the
floor as she held on to the cord. Then the Demon made such wild movements
that she could no longer hang on and was thrown to the wall. But she was not
defeated. With a swift movement, she grabbed her sword and sprang towards the
creature again, which was still struggling to release itself from the choking
cord around its neck. With a mighty blow, she struck it right in the face.
Flesh was ripped apart and bone was crushed by the solid metal. Blood spilled
richly. Deprived of sight, he creature raged through the room. When Mariana
struck again, it stumbled and fell into the pit. She felt the jarring crush
of more bones when it struck the rocky floor, thirty feet below. Mariana fell
to her knees and recollected herself. Now she had to face Drax himself, she
knew.
Drax had prepared himself fully for the battle. He had pushed his personal
powers to their limits and his hands were glowing with might. The prisoner
was hanging, limp, in his chains. The last bits of life had left the body and
it was slowly being consumed by the fires. Then the wooden door was knocked
in and the slim but proud figure of Mariana appeared in the doorway.
"So we meet again," said Drax ominously as his eyes met hers. "I can still
remember the fun we had together in the old days."
Mariana shook her head as she suppressed memories of her captivity. She
could never forget the terrible things Drax had done to her. Then she saw the
Barbarian hanging in his chains. "No!" she cried and started towards her
husband. But Drax waved his arms and fires blazed from cracks in the floor,
blocking the way to her loved one. Turning sharply, she faced Drax, cried
aloud and attacked him. Blind with rage, she ran towards him. But Drax
stretched out his arms and silver sparks emerged from his hands. They struck
Mariana like a sledgehammer. She was almost knocked unconcious and fell back.
But she was still holding her sword, the sword Drax feared more than
anything else and did not dare approach. From a distance, he kept on
hammering her with vile blows of his dark magic. Mariana was wounded deeply.
Black specks appeared before her eyes and life seemed to leave her body. Then
she noticed the heat coming from her sword. As she looked at it she saw that
it was red-hot but when she touched it, it felt as cool as rain on a summer
night. The contact with the blade pumped new force into her and she
erected herself. With the last vestige of her power, she raised the sword and
threw it at Drax.
Hell broke loose as the blade hit the evil sorcerer. It pierced the body,
which immediately caught fire. Within seconds, Drax was enveloped in raging
flames. He fell to his knees and his body started emitting pulsating rays of
energy which crushed the rocks as they struck the wall violently. Racks of
books and pots were splintered and massive pillars where blown away like
straws. Then the body heaved itself upright again and started spinning. Jets
of fire sprang from it as it spinned faster and faster. It crashed into rocks
and pulverized them and when it hit the wall, it exploded so violently that
the floor cracked open and the ceiling started caving in.
Mariana crawled towards her husband and with what strength remained in her
she released him from the chains. Then she dragged the body to a small
chamber where they were still safe from the falling boulders. She noticed the
pentagram carved into her husband's chest and when she felt his pulse, she
knew that life had left him. Overcome with grief, she stumbled out of the
chamber. Tears blinded her as she entered the hall. The floor had cracked
open in several places; huge boulders were falling from the ceiling.
Screaming aloud, she ignored the danger. "DRAX! I HATE YOU!!". She ran
around madly, stumbling over rocks, and time and time again she was struck by
falling stone. Then she noticed the handle of the sword lying on the floor.
The blade was gone but the gem set into it was blazing with a white fire. She
picked it up and when she looked into the gem, she saw clearly some dark and
very sharp lines forming a pentagram. Gasping for breath, she dashed towards
the small chamber were the body of her loved one was lying. With trembling
hands, she placed the gem on the pentagram in the chest. The flesh hissed as
the gem touched it, but still she pressed it to the body as if she sought to
sink it in. Then she felt him tremble and she pulled back the handle. It fell
from her limp hands. The light in the gem was gone and it shone dully like it
always had. But the Barbarian moved. He started breathing again and stirred
like somebody having a bad dream. Mariana laid herself beside him and held
him closely while she felt life flowing back into his battered veins.
Originally written in or around 1988. Rehashed ever so slightly July 1996.
= THE NEXT ISSUE ============================================================
The next issue of "Twilight World", Volume 4 Issue 5, is to be released
somewhere later this year. It will be uploaded to the FTP sites mentioned
further down.
It is not yet possible to say which stories will appear in the next one.
Make sure one of them is yours, and submit a good story!
= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================
DESCRIPTION
"Twilight World" is an on-line magazine aimed at everybody who is interested
in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to concentrate on fantasy-
and science-fiction, often with the odd bit of humour thrown in.
SUBMISSIONS
If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published
world-wide, you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard mail.
At all times do I reserve the right not to publish submissions. Do note that
submissions on disk will have to use a PC compatible disk format on 3.5"
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(see below), you will get your disk back with the issue of "Twilight World"
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stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or
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The address:
Richard Karsmakers
P.O. Box 67
NL-3500 AB Utrecht
The Netherlands
Email cronos@worldaccess.nl
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EOF
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