Warrior Wednesday, Week 79 - Our Fight for Literary Independence
Warriors of the Word, rise! Your day has come!
Welcome to week 79 of Warrior Wednesday, the place to be for the greatest in fantasy epics and new myths on Substack.
July 4th is on the horizon, marking the United States’ 249th year of age. Obviously, as an American myself, I can’t help but find this a bit stirring. Next year will be my homeland’s Semiquincentennial celebration; 250 years as a nation. Short in the grand scheme of things, but quite a lot of time to reflect on when you really stop to think about it. A lot of history, and a great many stories to look back at.
Why bring this up? Because the fantasy genre lives and breathes on looking back at the lessons and wonders of our past, as well as in ourselves.
Before we get to the contributions, make sure you’re subscribed to
if you aren’t already so you don’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 let’s dive into what we’ve got this morning.
We begin again with
and her Word of the Day prompt. Today’s word is #521: bow, and you can read the flash fiction she’s written for it below, or choose to participate yourself. Or better yet, why not both?‘Thalen, wake up!’
Thalen opened his eyes and sat up. He glanced around the campsite, taking in the slumbering forms of Jaxon, Elara, and Lyra, their faces serene in repose. Aeolian, was unhurriedly grazing on a patch of grass that defiantly grew through the cracks in the ancient, cobblestone road. He rose from his bedroll, the horse barely acknowledging his movements.
‘Follow me, Thalen’ said the mysterious voice. It sounded like a man’s voice but soft and ethereal. Curiosity getting the best of him he walked toward where it appeared to be emanating from. He followed the path, passing by several tall buildings as desolate as the rest. He could feel the history of the ancient city, hear its echoes emanating from the very stone. The whole place made him feel strange, as though he had some sort of strange connection to it.
‘This way’ said the voice.
He slowed and looked to his right. A narrow alleyway deviating from the path. He hesitated the stark warning of the Peri fresh in his mind.
‘I mean you no harm.’
“Then show yourself,” Thalen challenged.
As if in response to his demand, a shadowy figure materialized at the end of the alley, giving form to another spectral presence. It advanced towards him, prompting his hand to instinctively reach for the dagger at his belt. But as the phantom drew closer, its form became clearer, revealing a towering figure. The spectral entity was a man, taller than any he'd ever encountered, and was arrayed in a resplendent suit of silver armour that shone even in the dim light.
“Who are you?” Thalen asked.
“"I am Arandal, Champion of Miramar. My bones lie in the valley back yonder but my soul lingers here." the ghost intoned, his voice echoing softly around the ancient stones of the alleyway.
Our founders looked back to the ancient world when they were trying to establish their methods for how this country should be run. Many of their ideas were drawn from Greece and Rome, and the same is true for
’s Olympian epic, The Haunting of Guaritori Diolco. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most elegant comparison. Doesn’t take away from the great effort Bill puts into his work; a great effort that results in great quality.I should have felt panicked, but I felt nothing at all. I saw myself as if I were floating above my body, looking down at it. It was like dreaming—or dying, though the idea didn’t shock me as it might once have. Whether I was dreaming or not, I felt weightless and drowsy, as if someone had heavily sedated me.
But I was still capable of some thought, and I wondered what had happened to me. Perhaps ripping my mind apart had disrupted me so badly that the disaster had driven my soul out of my body. I’d never heard of such a thing—but only in the last few months had I been forced to accept the reality of other planes of existence, faeries, ancient gods, golems, and magic, among other things. There were doubtless many things I’d never heard of that really existed.
Without a soul, my body couldn’t survive for very long. However, I could feel that it wasn’t quite dead. The Philosopher’s Stone kept the heart beating, the lungs breathing, and other vital functions continuing. How long could it maintain my body that way? I had no idea.
The presence of Hermes in my body, unhindered by the collapse of my mind, might make a difference. Could he function as if he were my soul, keeping my body going indefinitely?
I couldn’t see much point in that unless my mind could be restored, and I could reclaim my body. Maybe it would be better to resign myself to death and let Hermes keep the body. He might well make better use of it than I had.
“Stop that!” said Hermes. “You can’t give up yet!” I felt him gripping me with his psychopomp skill. But having wielded that power myself for a while, I knew how it worked well enough to slip through his grasp.
“It’s time,” I said. Even in the shifting darkness, it was hard for me to miss Thanatos hovering nearby, waiting to make my death official. Though his garments and his skin were as black as the surrounding shadows, it was a glowing blackness, filled with undeniable power.
I was also aware of Iskios, still standing in a nimbus of alternating light and darkness. He looked distraught, though whether because the had heard my conversation with Hermes or spotted Thanatos—or both—I couldn’t tell.
The moon rose, argent and round, over Na Talla na Draoidheachd, pouring rivers of silver across the ancient green groves. The Darach trees breathed beneath its gaze, each vast trunk holding the gentle rise and fall of sleeping sisters within moss-softened hollows, prepared by the Kur-ahn seed planters when the world was young. A cool hush lay upon the land, as if the goddess herself paused in her stride to witness what must unfold.
Within the hall, darkness reigned, thick as spun wool, broken only by seven pale circles of moonlight set in the black stone floor beneath seven glass skylights. Mist, cold and fine as breath on iron, coiled around the bare feet of the seven ritual casters who stood there, arms hidden within the folds of robes heavy with the scents of myrrh ash, cedar oil, and sweet larch resin. Each bore the silent weight of kith and kin upon their shoulders, their breath a quiet litany as they waited.
Upon the obsidian chair sat the Speaker, robes layered in the shadows like the wings of a crow. His eyes reflected the moonlight, cold pools of polished jet. When he spoke, the mist paused in its slow dance, listening as though commanded.
“What news do you bring, bearers of the circles? What of the old one’s monastery, where he who watches keeps the hearths warm for the frost-bitten soldiers, beneath the songs of the maidens who guard the flame?”
Astrid, the First Magi, she who had woven mastery through all seven streams of draoidheachd, stepped forward into the moon’s path. She bowed low, the scent of sage smoke lifting from her robe as if acknowledging the Speaker’s grief.
“We, the seven who shape the world by will, journeyed to the monastery of the old one, called there by the one known as Mac Draoidheachd, at the behest of the circle and the covenant of breath and blood.”
The Speaker raised a hand, and a breeze of silvery mist rose from the floor, brushing each caster’s face in blessing, cool and soft as a mother’s hand.
“And how fares the Mac Draoidheachd, whose breath is a covenant, whose hands carry the weight of flame and river?”
Astrid’s breath caught, a pale cloud in the cold air, and she pulled back her cowl. Moonlight caught the sorrow etched into the lines beneath her eyes, and the mist pulled gently at the edges of her robe, lifting the last notes of larch resin and old iron.
Lastly, we end our morning foray into the realms of fantasy with another of our early Warrior Wednesday contributors,
. Like Joseph, he, too, stands as one of the most intensely creative fantasy writers on this platform, bringing us stories that weave the past, present, and future with the weird, the wonderful, and the absolutely wild. Case in point? The first chapter of his new story, American Minotaur, as read by the writer himself.
And there we have it, Warriors of the Word, your morning selections for Warrior Wednesday, week 79. 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. And to my fellow Americans out there, happy Independence Day.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
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- Kathrine’s Substack
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- Made From What’s Not Real
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- Von’s Substack
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- Josh Tatter Has Thoughts
- The Môrdreigiau Chronicles
- Windflower
- R. H. Snow’s Deep Thoughts from the Dubble-wide of D00m
- Donn’s WYKKYD AMBITIONS
Wednesday Warriors/Saturday Swordsmen & Sorceresses
- Work in Progress
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- Stay Free & Crafty
- Meaningful Differences
- Dan’s Deliberations
- Naptime Novelist
- The Magic Lantern
- Through A Glass, Darkly
- Book of Time
- Michaela McKuen’s Metamorphology
- Tales of the Godswood
- A Complete Nutter’s Ramblings
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- Tranith Argan Fantasy Series
- Fyle Stories
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- Tower of Adam
- Victoria’s Books & Short Stories
- The Library of Celaeno
- Victorian Vignettes
- 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
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- Tenkage HQ
- A Writer’s Journey
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- Brian Heming - author and pulp fiction fan
- More Magic
- True World
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- Dave Warr
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- Adam Metta Fusion
- Epic Indie
Thanks for the mention!
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