Sword & Saturday, Week 74 - Running Like the White Rabbit
Sharpen your blades, and ready your shields. Dip your quills, and put ink to page. Sword & Saturday has returned for its 74th week, and ye have been granted audience once more!
Today’s proven to be quite the scramble for me, so let’s dive right into the reminders and get this moving quick! Don’t forget to subscribe to
if you haven’t already so you won’t miss their full day’s roundup later this afternoon. Additionally, make sure is on your list as well for her Sunday Castle speculative fiction roundup featuring some of the best in fantasy, sci-fi, and horror on Substack.Now onto the contributions!
We begin the day with a fairly fresh face to Sword & Saturday! After some urging from The Brothers Krynn and myself,
has resumed work on an ambitious science-fantasy story. And to keep himself driven to work on it, he’s begun sharing what he has finished, starting with his first chapter, “THE HIGHLINE.”An automated announcement crackled over worn speakers, “Line 10-07, The Marching Duck, departing by the Dominion Port Authority, please enjoy your stay.”
Steel rang on steel as a massive epilocomotive pulled away from the station. A distant horn announced departure loud enough to echo along steel rails below. Adamus took a deep breath and felt weight lift from his shoulders, he sank into the seat of the small cabin. He hadn’t realized how desperate he’d been to leave that city behind until just this moment. He still wasn’t sure if he was running away or running forward. Those towers of glass and neon and steel had been distant when he was still a boy. They looked unnatural against a formerly mountainous horizon. Home, such as it was, had become stifling. Hot with the warmth of millions of new inhabitants.
The train shook under his ass; massive diesel engines forcibly yanked passengers ahead car by car by car. The seven or eight carriage cars were mostly empty. Maybe at one-fifth capacity, so he had the cabin to himself. It wasn’t exactly glamorous, accommodations were minimal for passengers like himself. It was nice to be alone, properly alone for the first time in… it’d been a long time. The last two nights, he’d stayed at a crowded hostel. This was the first real quiet since he’d landed in a barracks; a multi-year contract, the better part of a decade ago. Adamus glanced out through smudged glass and down to where evening light crossed over a paper route map sitting in a seat pocket. He extracted the sheet and ran a finger along disjointed paths through the Penrose.
The captains continued arguing as night approached. Lordan had proclaimed that every captain who wished would have his say: all would have a chance to speak, all would have a chance to convince the others, and Lordan, of the future strategy of the fleet. It was, in retrospect, brilliant.
Of course far too many wanted to cut and run, with the mainland patrolled by Soraina's army and her fleet ready to smash us in the strait of Soppressatas. Of course many wanted to retreat to the Isthmus, making their stand with our armies at their back on the mainland, so upon a ship loss, their sailors could swim back to friendly troops. But while the issue was in the air, and up for debate, they would not take unilateral action—would not simply leave the fleet one by one and be picked off by one of Soraina's naval patrols. And a debate with 378 captains can take quite a while. The 180 ships Tarmel controlled gave us 180 voices, some that backed up my points—that we must do battle in the confined waters of the strait to have any chance of victory—and some that gave long speeches, equivocating and discussing the merits of each course of action without committing to any. The captains of the kingdoms that lay to the west of the Isthmus inevitably would advocate retreat, some more angrily than others, and threaten to leave the rest of the fleet in a lurch if we did not come along. But until the meeting was over, they would not move.
Shortly into the night, another captain arrived—Aristides, formerly of Tarmel and then hailing from a home port upon one of the islands. He asked me to leave the meeting and have a word with him.
"Veltrin," he said, "this meeting is pointless. Whatever they decide, none of the captains will be able to leave. As I sailed in to join the fleet, the exits to the strait were being surrounded by the Dark Empire's ships—I barely got in before their blockade closed. You'd better tell them."
I grinned broadly. "You've brought the best news I've heard this war. Let me explain: we can only win by doing battle in this strait, but neither our allies nor the Dark Empire would cooperate. Now, they'll fight whether they like it or not. But you'd better be the one to tell them, or they may think it simply a tale to convince them to stay."
“I love you, oh, I love you, Lord Valeur!” Pearl whispered, whilst Val held her as tight as he could, and gifted her his sweetest kisses.
“Val, call me Val, my beautiful Pearl! We have shared too many kisses for you to call me a Lord…” he loosened his embrace to look into her eyes.
“Is there something wrong, my Lord…Val?” Pearl asked, looking around. Though Cinnia stood outside the orchard guarding them from being caught, one could never be too careful.
Lord Valeur did something incredible, he went on one knee, pulling out a tiny ring from his pocket.
“Pearl, you are… I did not deserve such joy… would you?” he stuttered.
“Oh…” Pearl fell onto her knees devastated. “I can’t… how could I?”
“Do you not want me?”
“More than anything. But…how? I am to marry Sturnus in a couple of days.”
“Run away with me! Please, Pearl…” Val begged, sliding the ring on her finger. It was a perfect fit; a golden ring with a beautiful pearl gracing it.
“I…cannot! Forgive me…” Pearl cried out, jumped to her feet, and ran through the garden like a mad woman, nearly ramming King Olor on her way. He gave her the most devious look, full of suspicion. Even more so, when he noticed Lord Valeur chasing after Pearl, but slowing down at the sight of the King. Cinnia tiptoed past King Olor with a guilty smile on her face.
“Cinnia!” he bellowed.
“Yes, my Lord?” she turned back.
“Summon the Hebenian Nobles! Summon the court, and my son!”
The court erupted after they heard King Olor’s suggestion; to change the day of the royal wedding. It was to take place a day earlier. Every eye in the hall looked at Pearl. The Queen had the final word. But little did they know that one furious look from King Olor’s black eyes was enough for Pearl to nod approvingly and declare the new date of the royal wedding. The castle, the whole Citadel, and the city was overtaken by manic frenzy of wedding preparations, and king Olor marched among the chaos he caused, murmuring under his black beard, “She will not make a fool out of my son, messing with that blond bastard behind our backs! Enough!”
This is an auspicious week for
, as he’s recently completed the final part of his new fantasy novella, A Brief Interlude.Pain carved through Davi's consciousness sharp as a blade. Then came the cold. So cold. His body trembled against the metal floor, each breath a struggle against air thick as water.
He forced his eyes open. Portable cell. Rough prisoner’s garb clung to him, stained dark with blood. Through the bars, glimpses of changing landscapes flashed by as the cage moved. The vibrant beauty of the fae forest gradually withered into blighted lands where magic had been violently drained, leaving only festering corruption in its wake.
This is what she would do to everything, given time.
Consciousness drifted in and out like the tide. In his lucid moments, he understood where they were taking him: Vexis's stronghold. He knew his future, Vexis would savor his torment before draining every last spark of essence from his broken form. The prospect should have filled him with dread. Instead, a fierce satisfaction burned in his chest.
Asra escaped. That's what matters. She's free.
In the haze of his mind, he saw her swimming through crystal waters, her form dissolving like moonlight. Davi… Soft as distant music. Then urgent. Desperate. Echoing.. The crystal waters began to churn and darken. Heat rose from the depths as the lake started to bubble and boil. Steam rose around her as she writhed, her mouth open in a silent scream. She reached for him, her fingers stretching into liquid tendrils that couldn't…
The cage jolted to a stop with enough force to tear a cry from his throat. Through the bars, he saw they had arrived at a fortress that erupted from jagged rock as if the stone itself had been tortured into architecture. The dark stone walls climbed impossible heights, broken only by narrow windows that glowed like infected wounds. At the base, a massive archway gaped open, its mouth burning with hellish red light that spilled down wide steps like blood.
It was strange but where the Kings of other lands had taken to treating Herakles as something of an underling, or worse a criminal, the King of Lérnē had a considerably different view of the youth. He was a man to be respected in his eyes, not only for having put Neméa in its place and ridding the world of the terrible Dire Lion that had once haunted her, but on account of Amphitryon.
Hardly taking notice of this he was to throw himself forward inside. As the warrior did so he ignored with some difficulty the song that the monarch requested from the musicians of his court. The song in question was that of Herakles’ own ancestor, the noble Perseus.
“Sing as all do, Muse,
Of the glories of Perseus the Intrepid!
He whom didst make use
Of a bronze-shimmering blade that the Gorgon didst resent,
He who in tender years,
Knew precious little of tears,
Ere all was torn asunder,
For his uncle didst thunder
From hall to hall,
Past high stone walls,
In summer years he travers’d,
Whither across wide seas intrepid,
His blade was swift,
The ladies he hew’d filth,
And his love deep,
On feet most fleet
He didst render them to Hades,
Whom judged them as only he couldst,
Yet the minstrels do still sing,
Even as melancholy dost seize e’ery king,
That dost hear his song
As none in right or wrong
May e’er equal his glory,
For none may e’er know it as fully
As he the mightiest of Zeus’ sons’,
Who in the Gorgon’s hour, shone more brightly than the suns’
Sing as all do, Muse,
Of the glories of Perseus the Intrepid!
He whom didst make use
Of a bronze-shimmering blade that the Gorgon didst resent,
For I wouldst know,
In the future and now,
How oh how,
Might I or any other,
Be he enemy or brother!
E’er come to combat as swiftly,Or as knowing of valour as fully
As noble Perseus!
I wouldst know,
As wouldst any and e’ery other man,
Here and now!
How wouldst he handle our burdens as a man?
I wouldst know, How might the Gorgon-slayer,
Sing and dance,
And how might the Evil-flayer,
Combat and love and lance
Through life’s many travesties?
How O Muse, might I equal a quarter of his deeds?
Oh I wouldst know indeed!
Sing as all do, Muse,
Of the glories of Perseus the Intrepid!
He whom didst make use
Of a bronze-shimmering blade that the Gorgon didst resent.”
Don Pedro Rodriguez de Roda was a tall, distinguished, and handsome gentleman: he was the favorite of the ladies in love affairs and the terror of the knights in duels. Although his past was not without affairs with various high-class ladies, he had not yet fallen so much in love with any of them that he decided to marry.
It was then that the King set the date for the Royal Hunt of that year and invited Don Pedro, who did not hesitate to attend, mounted on his spirited chestnut horse with a long mane and his best hunting dogs. The trumpets sounded, and the procession began to move slowly until they spotted the stag with the seventeen-point antlers. Don Pedro galloped off behind the animal, which he eventually brought down.
Once the animal was ready to be taken to the castle and become the main course for its inhabitants and companions, Don Pedro separated himself slightly from his companions and headed toward the lake to drink from its crystal-clear, fresh waters. He did so, and was about to return when, on top of a rock, he saw a beautiful woman, dressed only in her long, lush hair, carefully combing it.
Don Pedro approached carefully so as not to frighten her, but she heard him and, at first, made a move to escape. But she stopped and looked at him with eyes the same green color as the lake water from which the knight had drunk. It took little for Don Pedro to swear eternal love to her and ask her to marry him, to which she agreed, but on only one condition:
– On the nights of the first days of each week, I'll come to the lake, and you can’t follow me. Do it just once, and you'll never see me again.
Finally, we finish off this morning’s contributions with
, one of the very first fantasy writers I followed here on Substack. We initially met back when we both participated in the image prompts shared by on their website. While I’ve not participated in one of those in some time, Harold has continued to allow them to inspire him. Today’s story, “Blood and Glass,” is one such example.The end had come for those on this forsaken planet, none would or could deny that. For many decades had debauched folk escaped justice and death. They would escape death no more.
Laura had long since given herself to the many vices this city could give—always telling herself there would be a tomorrow to change when the thought occasionally entered her head. Even now, she didn’t want to leave the hidden and not so hidden dens of gambling, drinking, murder, and worse. The world might last one more day yet. Besides, what was there to life but pleasure, comfort and anything to stave off the encroaching boredom.
The vortex had appeared three days ago, and those who had studied it noted with a pleasant horror and grim fascination that the energy contained therein was steadily rising, and within the week, if not half that time, the planet would be torn apart. It was red, large, and hung over the most densely populated place on this refuse pit of a world.
Many of it’s denizens were attempting to escape, but where would they go? Laura didn’t know if they could make it to any of the colonies in time. But why would she want to, or they for that matter? She wouldn’t be able to get all the drink, blood, and gambling this world so easily provided.
Thanks to my busy morning I haven’t got anything new of my own to share today, but I can still direct you to the latest entry for The Jarl’s Son with part 1 of chapter 17: “The Twin Pendants.”
Facing the tent, Marten took a deep breath and concentrated. Like the rest of the glade its interior would be recreated through his memories, both those he could recall consciously, and those he couldn’t. He pictured where and how everything was laid out. The weapon racks along the tent’s rear panel. The chests and sacks of loot scattered about. The large bed in the center, and the long table not far away, covered in empty plates and bowls, with the pendant tucked behind one of them.
After searching the camp, Marten had brought clothes to the kidnapped girl and tried to ease her fears. That proved difficult given all she’d witnessed, including his battle against the Foe-Breaker and his brigands. They’d treated her roughly, he saw that much when the cur drove her out of the tent he was so focused on now. Looking over her after the battle, he saw numerous cuts and lacerations across her back, thighs, calves, and forearms. Signs she’d been switched by a juniper branch, like they’d been doing to her horse. Most of the cuts were shallow and wouldn’t bleed much on their own, but she’d been switched so many times that some of the welts had been struck three or four times over, plenty enough to fully open the wounds.
Marten recounted all of this to Renald after meeting the chatty fox in his dream that night. He took some time to clean and dress the girl’s wounds and once she realized he wasn’t going to hurt her, he helped her dress and brought her straight to Tårnkryss. They’d arrived just before sunset, and Marten transferred her to the custody of the local guard. Quickly, they sent a courier to Halvfjord to retrieve the læknir, Hlín, and took the girl to the common house so she could eat and rest.
For his part, Marten checked on her one last time before he retired to a private quarters that had been prepared for him. He’d flushed a little at the girl’s embarrassed surprise upon her learning who he was. She hadn’t expected a rescue to come for her, much less to be saved by the firstborn son of Jarl Ostock himself. She was a pretty young thing, blonde of hair with dark brown eyes and round, gentle features. It was little wonder those contemptible dastards targeted her the way they had. It was fortunate that he’d arrived before they could do worse than switch and strike her.
The Jarl's Son, Chapter 17-1
“They do look remarkably similar,” Renald murmured, his sapphire eyes shifting back and forth between the pair of runic pendants.
Marten and Renald were back in the glade. The silvery winter fox had taken a seat on one of the large stones that bordered the brigand camp. Marten stood on the ground beside him and laid out the two pendants for him to look over. On the left was the one he’d taken from the tent of Halvar the Foe-Breaker. Slightly smaller than his palm, the bronze pendant warped and had a tarnished green patina on some of its surface. Small dents dotted its surface, and chips along its edge damaged the ring of runes inscribed on the outside.
And there we have it, scribes and scriveners, your morning selections for Sword & Saturday, week 74. As usual, don’t forget to subscribe to
so you don’t miss their roundup of the day’s full selections this afternoon. Until next time, remember to keep your swords and quills sharp, and your inkwells full.My dark fantasy/mystery novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! You can find it on Amazon in hardcover, paperback, and digital formats. I’ve also got the first two chapters available to read for free on my Substack.
In the Giant's Shadow, Contents & Links
Sinister deeds haunt the town of Jötungatt. Lured to this sleepy farming community by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares. Can she uncover the secret hiding behind the town’s ancient, monolithic gate? Will she be able to survive the truth if she does?
The Leaders of Warrior Wednesday/Sword & Saturday
- Tales of Calamity and Triumph
Champions of Fantasystack
- A Literary Eye
- Crann na Beatha
- Falden’s Forge
- Senchas Claideb
- Kathrine’s Substack
- Redd Oscar Writes
- Fragments and Pieces
- Treats of Writing
- Germanicus Publishing
- Knights of the Autumn Crown
- The Storyteller’s Corner
- Made From What’s Not Real
- Mil y una historias
- Von’s Substack
- The Vaporous Realms
- The Môrdreigiau Chronicles
- Windflower
- R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m
Wednesday Warriors/Saturday Swordsmen & Sorceresses
- Work in Progress
- Always The Horizon
- Goatfury Writes
- Stay Free & Crafty
- Meaningful Differences
- Dan’s Deliberations
- Naptime Novelist
- The Magic Lantern
- Through A Glass, Darkly
- Book of Time
- Donn’s WYKKYD AMBITIONS
- Michaela McKuen’s Metamorphology
- Tales of the Godswood
- A Complete Nutter’s Ramblings
- The Lake of Lerna
- Thunderbolt Fiction
- Josh Tatter Has Thoughts
- Mrs. Has Thoughts
- Scribbler -- The Golden Years
- Wolf
- Mommy’s Writing a Novel
- Dr.’s Substack
- Minuteman’s Monitor
- Lighthouse
- LEAVES
- Cole’s Chapters
- Coracle Voyager
- Choose Fiction
- V.T.’s Substack
- LucTalks
- Tranith Argan Fantasy Series
- Fyle Stories
- Rediscovered Realms
- Tower of Adam
- Victoria’s Books & Short Stories
- The Library of Celaeno
- Victorian Vignettes
- Spirit Animals
- On The Storytelling Animal
- Tales from the Defrag
- Pen of Ben
- The Legend of Leanna Page
- A Writing Diary by E.P Woodhouse
- Your Friendly Neighborhood Abberation
- The Wandering Wonderer
- Joyce’s Place
- The Fantastic and Mundane Chronicles of a Fantasy Writer
- Samuraipunk
- Matrixbearer’s Substack
- AroundSciFi - Read - Imagine - Discover
- Polymathic Being
- THE FICTION DEALER
- Writings of Milton Lane
- Mineya’s Newsletter
- Fragments From the World of Ar’rin
- Pandora’s Box of Infinite Stories
- A.M. Productions
- The Way Teller’s Aetheric Emporium
- Zuko’s Musings
- 365 Infantry
- K.M.’s Substack
- Tenkage HQ
- A Writer’s Journey
- Mechanical Pulp
- Brian Heming - author and pulp fiction fan
- More Magic
- True World
- Resurrecting the Real
- Dave Warr
- Bellageist
Thanks for the shout out and the work it must take to put this together
Thanks for the shoutout!