In a world where information is digitized and books are considered obsolete, you are the custodian of a secret, underground library. One day, a desperate visitor arrives, begging for a forbidden text that might hold the key to saving their world.

I could not fit all aspects of the world into the short story itself without interfering with the characters so the sci-fi aspect lies more in the context of the larger world as compared to the short story so be sure to read the snippet and author commentary for it to make more sense.

Here is a snippet of the larger world of this short story:

Science is magic. That was what the society of Terra discovered in the twenty-second century. The discovery of new ways to manipulate new forms of energy paved the way for the great innovation age that followed in the next thousand years.

But as Michael navigates the underbelly of a digital world where magic is bought and sold in malls and alleyways, he soon discovers that whenever people invent world-changing inventions, they stumble upon world-ending possibilities too; while the medium changes, the stakes always remain the same.

As gangs and corporations dabble in sinister forces beyond their understanding, Michael soon finds himself having to stake everything he holds dear in a deadly game with beings that manipulate magic and science as easily as breathing.

I hope you enjoy the short story.

Welcome to this week’s short story by Quotes Unknown. Each week I write a fantasy or sci-fi (generally) short story.

If you like Fantasy or Sci-fi short stories but you’re not yet a subscriber, here’s what you missed recently:

1. Why are there no evil necromancers?

2. The freedom of flying

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The man fell through the double doors leading into the library and, like with all visitors, I greeted him with a wide smile. As our eyes met, I saw a series of emotions flash through his eyes. Shock, fear, and finally determination. 

His lips hardened into a hard line as he met my gaze.

This was unusual, my normal clientele consisted of either confused people who unwittingly stumbled upon the Library’s double doors or wide-eyed children amazed that a list of instructions they had chanced upon actually worked. This man, I analyzed, knew that the Library existed, and he had actively sought it out in search of something. 

My curiosity was piqued, it seemed like this rare occurrence might serve as a good break from my eternal boredom.

The man dusted himself off, trying to clean up his clothes covered in what looked to be grime and human blood. He failed at this miserably but it seemed to help him collect his thoughts. As if remembering something, he fumbled around, patting every pocket in his fishing vest and cargo pants before pulling out a hand-held tally counter, clicking it for each second that passed.

I waited patiently, my smile growing wider with each passing second. The man knew the rules and was clearly prepared to meet me. 

“Welcome to the library of forgotten things.” I pulled out a small lamp lit up by an ethereal glow onto the receptionist counter. “As you seem to already know, no open flames are allowed near our books.”

I paused and looked him in the eyes. I was in no rush for him to reply so I waited silently as he continued to stare back, unblinking.

The pause stretched for what seemed like half an hour, the silence filled only with the soft clicking of his tally counter. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Finally, he nodded, and I beckoned him forward to take the lamp from the surface of my desk.

He walked forward cautiously, his free hand reaching  forward to grasp the handle of the otherworldly lamp. He kept his other hand close to his chest, consistently keeping up the monotonous drone of the tally counter. 

Once he had a good grasp on the handle of the lamp, he pulled it back quickly, as if worried a snake might suddenly strike at it if it remained outstretched for too long.

I paused and watched him inspect the lamp. Finally, he finished the inspection and he held it tightly, knowing it was his only lifeline in the place which he would need to go.

“Great! Now what would you like to find out today?” I asked. 

One of the noble duties of the custodian was to help weary travelers find what they are seeking, given they had made it all the way to the hidden library. I waved a hand at the vast number of shelves behind me. 

“We have everything you would like. Fiction, fantasy, science-fiction, romance,” I droned on, knowing full well that someone as well-prepared as him would not be seeking out books for mere entertainment.

“I am looking for a book on how to reverse an eldritch ritual.” His voice was tight but controlled. 

I felt my smile falter slightly. It seems that this man had come looking for some highly classified information. The atmosphere in the Library seemed to darken slightly at his words but I pressed on regardless.

I reexamined the man more seriously. 

He had a wild look in his eyes but I brushed that aside. Anyone who was deliberately seeking the library of forgotten things was desperate. They also had to be well-prepared otherwise rushing in would be akin to suicide. 

Nothing else about him stood out so it seemed that I would need to read up a bit on what was happening beyond the Library’s grand entrance once he gave me more clues about what world and time he was from..

“This way then,” I signaled for him to follow after me.

The man’s combat boots thumped against the floor as I glided soundlessly past the decorative shelves at the entrance. I noticed he glanced at the tally as we started walking and I smirked. Visitors’ plans always seemed sound, but it only took a moment of carelessness for their gamble to fail.

The tally currently recorded one hundred and twenty.

He followed me as I travelled past countless shelves, each filled with books both ornate and simple, their varying colors meant to catch the eyes of unsuspecting browsers. We ignored all of them as we travelled deeper into the library and I felt the familiar darkness start to surround us, held only at bay by the light of the ethereal lamp.

He hugged his light source closer, knowing it was the only lifeline protecting him from the darkness tendrils. 

I smiled back at him wondering if I would get to witness the first person to leave the library in over five centuries. He had a good plan but people failed to perform halfway through their high-stakes gamble.

As we journeyed in the darkness, we could hear the sounds of the Library’s servants hard at work in their eternal toil, shuffling around in the dark rewriting books and reorganizing information for the umpteenth time. The Library was updating its stacks again and I would need to remember a brand new system once this new traveler had either left or lost.

I sighed, the Library was merciless to its inhabitants as usual.

-

We finally arrived at the shelf containing information on accounts of mortals successfully convincing other entities to reverse their involvement. As I stopped, the man once again glanced at his tally.

Six hundred and twelve. 

It seemed that he may leave the Library intact yet.

“Here is the entire section on beings that escape your world’s inhabitants' understanding. On the bottom shelf are those that your Fae have and will fail to understand, on the eighteenth shelf are those that have and will escape any human understanding, and all the way at the top is information on beings that your entire universe has and will fail to even discover. In between are for all the other races in your world,” I explained as his eyes widened.

I paused, waiting for any exclamations or for him to ask any questions about the undiscovered races of his world. He remained silent, wisely choosing not to act on the shattered belief that his world was not shared with other intelligent species.

I continued to explain the current system which the knowledge was organized in. 

“Each book covers the events from each civilization from its beginning to end to its end and we cover the entirety of the time from the start of your universe until its eventual heat death. You have way too many civilizations,” I complained to him even as I finished explaining.

He stared up at the endless number of books, overwhelmed at the sheer amount of knowledge contained within. Even a single page within was likely to change his life if he managed to make it back intact.

I smiled expectantly, knowing he would have to speak again to get my help sieving through the multitude of information. If he had specified in his earlier request, he would have had more breathing room.

I saw him look at me, worry written clearly on his face, illuminated only by the otherworldly glow of the lamp held in his hands. I could almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he attempted to structure a specific enough sentence to enlist my help in his search.

“I am looking for a way to reverse any eldritch rituals performed in Elmoral or its alternative names which has negatively impacted on its residents in the human year of 1753.”

I waved my hand and we heard a book fly from the shelf before it landed at his feet in a thump. One of the Library’s servants had climbed up the shelf and pulled the book out before tossing it into the circle of light.

“Pages 9013 to 14532. You are lucky your society is still in it’s infancy. Enjoy your reading,” I gave him another wide smile before I silently slinked back into the dark, out of his sight.

I left, leaving only the dark, his imagination, and the sound of his tally clicking to accompany him in his quest for a solution to his world’s current problem.

-

“I have learnt enough and would like to leave now.”

I snorted at how forced this sentence was. Evidently, in his world, it was rumored that those exact words were necessary in order to leave. I stepped forward through the darkness, allowing myself to be illuminated by the lamp once again. I glanced down at his tally. 

One thousand and eighty-three.

If he was accurate, the path to return home remained open.

“Alright, follow me.” I moved back through the darkness, the glow of his lamplight causing me to cast a strange shadow as he kept up pace behind me.

Our surroundings gradually began to fill with light again as we walked out of the darkness. With every step forward, I could see the relief wash over his face. 

The ornate and bright surroundings faded back into view and its colors filled our vision again. The entrance’s red rugs and brown wooden shelves provided him with welcome warmth compared to his time reading by the cold light of the Library’s lamp. 

As we reached the place he first fell through, I saw his pace quicken. He unceremoniously left the lamp by my librarian counter and walked briskly to the double doors. He stopped clicking, slid the tally back into his right cargo pocket, and firmly grasped the double doors.

Now came the moment of truth. He pulled hard against the double doors in an attempt to open them.

It flung open, revealing a set of stairs leading upwards.

The tally was accurate enough. I saw him visibly relax now that the path back was right in front of him.

“Goodbye. I hope to see you again.” I said with a soft smile.

He turned back towards me and opened his mouth as if to reply. 

I held my breath as I awaited for the first syllable to leave his mouth like they had for many others who had made it this far. The relief and sudden rush of security often left visitors careless enough to say something before they realized their mistake a little too late.

The joy would drain from their face and the panic would set in as they turned back just in time to watch the stairs fade out of their reach. They would then run straight into the waiting darkness in an attempt to get away from me, the acolyte of the Library.

They did not know it was not me they should have been wary of.

The darkness would digest them, uncaring if they were lost school boys or heroes on a quest to prevent the demise of their world. It would then mold them into servants of the Library, seeking only to rearrange information and rewrite books for all eternity.

He snapped his mouth shut and turned before bolting through the double doors, ignoring me completely. A tiny part of me felt overjoyed at witnessing the first person to leave in five centuries even as the Library rumbled darkly.

I waved it off, knowing the Library would present me with another visitor with another purpose shortly. I doubted I would get to witness such a rare event for at least another millennia though.  

Soon, the Library would modify the rules to prevent them from keeping time like it did when the visitor used a candle to keep time the first time. The books were impervious to heat and flames anyway, it was solely to make the gamble harder to win.

I watched as the list of rules updated on my desk.

1. Visitors are only allowed to remain in the library for 30 of their world’s minutes.

2. Visitors are only allowed to speak less than 3 sentences within the library.

3. Visitors are not allowed to bring an open flame into the library.

4. Visitors are not allowed to make any noise in the library other than speaking to the librarian.

I knew that even as I read it, the new condition was being propagated through every world the Library was connected to. 

In this place outside the realm of time, I knew the next person would have read their own version of the urban legend with the updated rules when they entered. Winning the information they sought solely depended on if they could stick to the rules of the increasingly dangerous game the entity enjoyed playing.

I sighed as I heard the double doors creak open once again. I turned towards the doors to greet them with a smile like I had to with any visitor to the Library.

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Author’s commentary

Thanks for reading!

So I actually thought this one was just alright. But I really enjoyed the premise of the world and the inspiration of the story.

With regards to the world, I love the idea of a world which treats science and magic similarly because what is magic but a new way to manipulate a new form of energy. It would be akin to the manipulation and use of electricity which has lead to so many new possibilities. However, as with all new advances in science, things we cannot control will be found: Nuclear energy, atom bombs, etc. In this case, I believe that it would give us a method to contact and work with beings we cannot control, and that would be considered forbidden magic. It would be akin to building a nuclear reactor in your backyard (dangerous but technically possible for people to do).

With this story, I was hoping to capture a bit of that, but I don’t think I succeeded so I might try again down the line, fleshing out the world a bit more.

Then the next idea which really captured my attention was a concept like Household rules on TikTok or the Elevator game on the internet. These to me always seemed like ways to enter another world or communicate with other beings in ways which raised the stakes but gives the protagonist a promise that if they follow properly, they may escape with a prize against these greater beings or creatures.

I tried to tell it from the other perspective but it might be the case where that works against the format as the whole point was feeling a slight suspense for the character and taking the perspective of the more powerful being does not deliver on that.

Again, I don’t think I managed to capture the idea fully so I will likely approach this again from a more conventional angle which will (hopefully) capture that feeling more.

That is just my opinion but if you personally liked this, I am glad.

Do let me know if you want to see Michael or the Librarian again, the option is definitely still open for him (or his world) to make an appearance again in future short stories!

Exiled from his homeland, a man must reveal his hidden powers to survive in a world which does not believe people of his abilities exists.

Here is a snippet of the larger world of this short story:

The Maran empire had long forgotten they shared the world with two other races. However, as an ancient force begins to cause natural disasters to become frequent and catastrophes become abundant, the races are soon driven to remember a pact made by their forefathers more than a generation ago.

Among the Assian peaks, Arthurian is accused and banished. He now seeks a way to prevent the ever increasing number of disasters that threaten the entire Avian kingdom, restore his family name, and be able to see his brother again.

On the plains, Embern has left her home in Irandsi, hoping to train in the monasteries which lay to the north of the Maran empire. However, Ember’s motives lay not in the theological studies of old men, but she hopes to find sanctuary from the courts which seek her family’s army.

Deep in the oceans, Franklin hides away from the city guards after failing to steal a treasure that belonged to the Gorn royal family. As he plans his daring escape, he begins to have dream enticing him to seek out a treasure hidden somewhere on the continent.

The sea belongs to the Finns, the forest and plains to the Marans, and the mountains to the Avians. Now each of them must come together to unlock the secrets lost to the centuries before their races separated.

I hope you enjoy the short story.

Welcome to this week’s short story by Quotes Unknown. Each week I write a fantasy or sci-fi (generally) short story.

If you like Fantasy or Sci-fi short stories but you’re not yet a subscriber, here’s what you missed recently:

1. Why are there no evil necromancers?

Subscribe to get notified when there are new short stories and access our archive of short stories!

The sea stretched endlessly before Arthurian. They had been walking along the cliffs for days already and there was still no end in sight. 

When they first came upon the cliffs, it left them in awe. The oceans were an endless expanse, a never seen before wonder. However, after trudging along its side for days on end, the splendour had slowly worn off. The novelty of the sea had quickly faded away.

The sea breeze was refreshing, but it brought a chill which no cloak could shelter him from. The clear waters were sparkling and beautiful, but combined with the wind, the spray left their clothes constantly damp and salty. It was a sight to behold, but a pain in the ass to travel along.

The sun was already just inches above the horizon and setting fast. The rag tag group slowed their pace. It was already hopeless to speed up; they would not be able to reach the sunset groves in time to set up camp for the night so they would have to camp by the sea yet again.

“Alright, let’s set up camp here,” Aron slammed the point of his walking staff into the ground like he had every other evening. A groan of relief was let out from everyone as they relieved themselves of their heavy travel sacks and began to unpack their items.

Aron pulled Arthurian aside as the others busied themselves with the preparation of dinner and building their individual tents. 

“Within the next day, we will be leaving the cliffs behind and will be heading into the woods again. That’s when I will really need your eyes to be out for bandits.” He waved his hand out in front of him at the plains surrounding them. “It ain’t gonna be as easy to spot them as this.”

Arthurian nodded. He knew that was what Aron needed him for and the only reason he was allowed to travel with the group. 

For no other reason would they have allowed a random stranger they met at a roadside inn to accompany them other than for the promise of a little added protection. He had offered his sword and eyes in return for food, drink and company until they parted ways.

“Don’t look so worried Arthur, the tribes have been quiet lately.” Aron clapped Arthur on his shoulder as he turned to head back to help with the crew futilely trying to start the campfire.

“That’s what I am afraid of,” Arthurian muttered darkly after him. He gave the copse of trees in the distance one final glance before striding back to the camp circle.

-

Cutlery clattered against tin bowls as the party of seven ate their meals without speaking. 

A salted hog broth was on the menu tonight. Remnants of pork from the boar they caught a day ago, spare vegetables and some plants scavenged along the way, stewed in water until the smell wafted through the air.

That was what Arthurian wanted to believe was in the soup, yet he knew that there were probably other ingredients thrown in to add flavour on top of the little pork that was left. It was far from the usual fare he had back in the Eyrie but that was in the past. He too ate his stew in silence. 

It seemed no one was in the mood for merrymaking after the seven days of hard travel.  Not that that meant anything to Aron. He leaned forward two hands grasping his tin bowl and a mischievous glint in his eye.  

“Well then, shall we have a story to go with our dinner?”

Gregor shrugged his shoulders. Timothy and Calen simply looked down and continued eating. None seemed to want to pander to Aron’s whims tonight.

“Me mam always warned me never to tell old stories by moonlight. Said they could tell,” a small voice spoke out. The usually silent Agnet passed on her mother’s warning. 

“Old wives tales,” Aron brushed it off casually. “Now shall I tell you the story of the King of the Plain, Zellfreed-“

“We’ve heard that tale plenty of times, the man unites the scattered clans, gathers his army and slays a chimera that guards the Tree of life,” Ramone interjected. “You’ve told it three times already, to three different members of our crew.”

“Well then, why don’t you tell one?” Aron remarked, visibly put out by Ramone’s comment.

“Very well, let this wandering troubadour weave you a tale tonight.”

Ramone sat a little straighter, his professional demeanour taking the place of his usual foolish personality. He gave a little cough to clear his throat and began to speak. Gone was the whininess found in his usual tone, his voice was lowered to be an octave deeper, his words were firm and confident. He spoke with a certainty as if the Earth and the Sky were willing to attest to his words.

“Sit and listen well, for this is a story I heard whispered from tavern to tavern  from the northern reaches of the map, in a town called Falkurn.”

He paused for effect, letting the fire add to the atmosphere with its dramatic flickering.

“It is the legend of Jacal the Skylord.”

At that statement, six pairs of eyes fixed on the troubadour. Even the air seemed to stand still and hold its breath in anticipation. A legend from a faraway land, told by a professional storyteller. Even the sour-faced Gregor and the usually uninterested twins, Timothy and Calen, had their ears open and eyes focused.

He cleared his throat.

“In the Northern reaches of the world, they speak of a legend. Of a single man, with strong arms, a tongue for magic and wings on his back. Now, our tale starts, of Jacal and Sternrir, beings whose power made the heavens crack.”

Arthurian’s stomach sank. He knew this story, just never told by a campfire and by a human bard..

“For Stenrir knew the weaving of the world and the whispers in the heart of the shadow. And what he knew how to make, he could undo. Dark Stenrir stood atop the mountains his eyes aglow. His gaze descended upon the fair city of Mahal, his intent clear. His eyes no longer saw neither beauty nor splendour. Whispering the words of the world, the shadows rose to his control, eating away the colour in the grass and trees, the bay and walls. The shadows crept along the gullies and enveloped the city like a dark smog. A rising wall of black mist, sweeping first through the sprawling streets of Mahal before pulling down the spires of the great castles that rose above the once sparkling city.”

“He watched indifferently as the city decayed in the summoned darkness. Uncaring to the destruction he wrought. Wherever Dark Stenrir went, he brought a similar fate. As the darkness overflowed the city walls, a shadow fell over Stenrir. The sun lay on the Skylord’s back, casting upon the demon a shadow that even his words could not cast away.

He looked up at Jacal with glowing eyes, seething with rage. For Jacal had hunted him for 70 days and 70 nights, dogging his tracks and his wake of destruction.”

“With silver magicks flying from his tongue, Jacal swept down upon Stenrir, his sword arm strong and blessed by the great Mahallan watching from the heavens. The demon Stenrir whispered his words of hate and the shadows leapt to his defence. All but the ones cast by Jacal, for they yielded to no one but the Skylord.”

By now, Ramone had left his stew aside and lept up to swing his own invisible sword at an invisible opponent for his captive crowd.

“The battle lasted long through the day and night. Lights from magic lit the darkness. Every breath of Jacal was silver with magic, keeping up with the black breath that spewed like sewer water from Stenrir’s mouth. His sword blessed by Mahallan almighty prevented it from rusting at the rot Stenrir’s magic brings. With blinding speed it clashed with the shadows made physical, matching the thrusts and slashes from Stenrir’s commands.”

“Upon the first signs of dawn, Stenrir’s magic grew to a frenzied pace. Before the dawn’s light could weaken his foul magicks again, he decided to settle their skirmish. Slash for slash, Jacal had kept up throughout the night. But even he grew weary of their long battle. Soon, he was forced back and his blessed sword struck from his hand.”

Ramone paused for dramatic effect, his audience waiting with bated breath.

“His sword lost, Jacal was soon overwhelmed and bound by the demon’s shadow magic. His own silver magic barely kept him breathing in the face of Dark Stenrir’s power. Still, Jacal stared into the demon’s furious eyes with nary any signs of fear.”

“With his last ragged breaths, he prayed to the great Mahallan: Mahallan give thy strength, for my arms are not strong, support me and I will lift the greatest mountains on earth. Mahallan protect me, for I am defenceless, be with me and I shall fear not the king of daemons. Mahallan grant me, stay with me and light your fire in me. The fire that even the greatest will fear to come near me.”

As Ramone chanted, his voice dropped deeper, giving the entire verse a more solemn feel. Arthurian could see others around the ring mouth the verses involuntarily. Being a passage from the sacred Sakar book of Mahallan, the verse was well known as a protection charm said by many when in fear. It was no surprise that they knew the verse by heart as veteran travellers.

Ramone took a deep breath as his chant ended before continuing.

“As he completed his chant, once again Mahallan saw the great virtue in his heart. He saw his love for the world that he was willing to die fighting this great demon and reached out and into Jacal. As he did so, Jacal’s entire body began to glow a brilliant silver. A halo surrounded him, like a small sun born on Earth. The great light drove away the multitude of shadows that had held down Jacal, chasing them to the far corners of the Earth, it blinded even the glowing eyes of Dark Stenrir, completely blowing away his black arts like a wisp of smoke.”

He mimicked a pose of a man in flight, as if to emphasise how a person might glow with divine power rather than in the harsh campfire light.

“The holy light was so great, even the breaking dawn’s light stood in awe of it. It engulfed both parties of the fight, swallowing them both, they cast not a single shadow. As the light slowly died, as all heavenly touches do, for the heavens must not maintain contact with this earthly realm for long, only one party stood victorious. Jacal’s body stood frozen and standing tall and proud while even Stenrir’s body was annihilated. Vaporised completely, not even the smallest piece escaped.”

“However, a touch with the gods is never without cost. In exchange for Mahallan’s touch, his body was frozen in stone, his soul pulled to join the heroes in the heavens. For defeating Stenrir, Jacal the Skylord paid with the rest of his time on Earth, his frozen statue standing guard over the city of Mahal for all eternity.”

Ramone’s last words drifted away, his story coming to an end.

Unexpectedly, the first to speak up was Timothy.

“Troubadour probably made the entire thing.”

“How dare you!” Ramone shouted, his voice aghast at the accusation. He leapt up to his feet. His face went crimson. His eyes bulged and his eyebrows were knitted together, his face the very expression of indignation. 

Timothy reclined further back, his expression smug, but his eyes focused on the angry performer.

“Well then, where is this mythical city of yours? Or the statues standing for all eternity? Sounds like a made up fairy tale.” He smirked.

You could see the vein bulge on Ramone’s forehead. But as with all stories said by campfire like that, even Arthurian knew there was no way for Ramone to prove it. Arthurian could, but that was not an option at the moment. Although Ramone was an amiable guy, it was not worth the consequences just to save a bard’s pride.

“I repeated the story I heard verbatim. If you have a problem with it, you can go ahead a stick your head up your-“

Ramone never got to finish his insult. At that exact moment, his neck sprouted feathers. Feathers attached to an arrow that had lodged itself deep into his windpipe and out the back of his neck. His eyes bulged this time from shock, but it was already too late. 

Arthurian whipped around. In the direction where the arrow came from, he saw only pitch darkness.

“Curse the campfire. Curse the laid back atmosphere. Curse my carelessness,” Arthurian thought to himself as he dove to the ground to make himself a smaller target. They had been completely caught unaware, thinking they still travelled through peaceful territory. 

The other 5 now were scrambling to find their weapons. Timothy and Calen had made a break for their tent, probably in hopes of retrieving their crossbows. That hope was quickly dashed when they too sprouted arrows in their back, collapsing unceremoniously on the ground.

Arthurian continued to curse under his breath as he crawled on the ground. The irony of it all, one of his kind, rubbing his face in the dirt like a worm. His right hand gripped his sword and with his left, he pulled himself forward, away from the fire. He needed to get into the cover of darkness if he was to have any hope of getting out of this alive. 

Inch by inch, he finally managed to crawl into the taller grasses. He pulled himself into a squatting position and surveyed the damage. Ramone was wheezing away near the campfire, hanging on tenaciously to life. Timothy and Calen lay motionless in the dirt a little further away. Aron was nowhere to be seen, presumably in hiding like himself. Sour Gregor’s legs could be seen peeking just out of the tall grasses. They too, were motionless. 

Gregor was simply too big a target to miss. Arthurian found a morbid humour in that. The huge man had always been proud of his size and his ability to overwhelm his opponent in the arena. Now it had become a fatal liability.

Just then, he heard a quiet voice begging. Agnet was face to face with one of their assailants. In her fear, she had stumbled when backing away from him. 

He could hear the high pitched squeak of her voice. Even from his own hiding spot, he could see the fear in her eyes, eyes that were trained on the naked blade the assailant held which gleamed wickedly in the campfire light.

Arthurian realized he had been holding his breath the entire time. He let it out slowly and silently. His mind cleared, the initial panic was gone. The smart choice was to leave, he had barely known this group for a week. He had no attachments to any of them. The dumb choice would be to rush out, save the girl and more than likely get hit by an unknown assailant in the dark. The great tale of Arthurian coming abruptly to a close.

Then again, his friends have always told him he had more morals than brains.

Bursting out of his hiding place, he ran perpendicular to the directions where the arrows were known to come from. At least, that would make putting an arrow in him marginally harder. He managed to get a clean swing, feeling his sword slide through flesh. Warm blood sprayed out as the metal sliced through muscle and bone. 

The element of surprise he held as he closed in on the assailant was now gone. 

He rushed past the dying man, his left hand reached out and gripped Agnet’s arm, yanking her off the ground and back onto her feet.

He pulled her out of the campfire light, his hands still gripping tightly onto her arm, forcing her to keep up with his longer strides. He could hear rustling behind them as the other assailants gave chase. His tiny hope that it was just a two-man team vanished instantly.

He could hear Agnet’s ragged breath as she struggled to keep up. He knew they could not outrun them. Alone he could have kept this pace until dawn, but Agnet could not.

There was also no place to hide, not in the direction they were forced to run to. They were caught between the cliffs and the attackers.

Turning, he pushed Agnet behind him. Arthurian judged his prospects. 

He saw three men in black cloaks. They were dressed like peasants, so that would place them in the category of desperate highwaymen rather than tribesmen. Even if they were untrained, he knew a three-on-one sword fight while protecting someone would end in his death or mortal injury. 

His friends were right, he always had more morals than brains. 

He felt Agnet pressed against his back, could feel her trembling in fear. Dumb choice if he died, but the right one if he could get them out of this situation. 

He felt the wind on his back and knew there was only one way out. 

On land he had no chance of taking down three, but in the air, it was a different story. In a flash, he had it all planned out: grab the first, pitch him over the cliff, swoop down and kill the second. Lastly pick off the third as he ran in fear. However, doing so would break the only Avarian cardinal rule. He would be like Zi’roc, banished and hunted. 

His name may be immortalized only in a mocking song to warn little children.

“And in stories by half-baked troubadours around dingy campfires,” He thought.

As he pulled off his own cloak and felt his own wings tearing the fabric of his shirt, in his mind, he could still hear the cautionary tale of Zi’roc in his mind. 

A tale every Avarian child knew. 

Zi’roc the weird, Zi’roc the foolish. Showing your wings, the price to pay. To the ground, was he banished. Stole the Eyrie sword and stole away. No house, no home, was his anguish. Hunted by all, he ran away. Got into a fight and ended in pieces. So ends Zi’roc’s last day.

With a great ripping sound, Arthurian’s wings extended to their full wingspan. 

Each wing was as long as a man was tall, a pure white which gleamed silver in the light of the crescent moon. He stretched his wings a little more, working off the ache of hiding them for the past two months. At that moment, it struck him that it had already been two months since he too was sent away from the Eyrie. Time really flew by.

He read the shock in all three men’s faces and knew Agnet had already backed away from him as well. 

“Ma was right, they know when you tell their stories by night” He clearly heard the awe in her voice. 

Quickly, before their shock wore off, he had to put his plan into motion. He gripped the closest man and burst off the ground with a great sweep of his wings, dust and dirt dancing left dancing from the great gust of wind his wings produced.

As he dropped off his burden and heard him scream all the way into the ocean, he reveled once more in the joy of flying.

It has been too long.

With the wind rushing through his wings and hair, all thoughts and fears were left on the ground. He saw the endless sea spread before him, the sky welcoming like an old friend. He glided on the strong sea breeze, tilting and twirling, turning back to go in for his second kill. 

Gone were the worries, wondering if he would be another Zi’roc, or if his tale would be told in awe around human campfires. 

In the air, it didn’t matter.

He was free again.

Bring Arthurian into your world.

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Author’s commentary

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This short story was actually written quite a few years back, rediscovered recently, and published only now. I had completely forgotten about them so imagine my surprised when I found them buried in the recesses of my Drive.

At the same time, I guess my whole life I have been circling around the same path which hopefully indicates it is a path which I should tread upon.

At the same time, it was an interesting experience, having to edit a short story which I wrote years ago. I could definitely see the influences from the authors I was reading at the time within my own story writing. I almost didn’t catch that both the campfire tale and the children’s story was meant to reference the same figure.

Talk about looking at it with fresh eyes (A few years worth of freshness).

Anyhow, I really hope you enjoyed the story and if you ever get the chance to go paragliding or just visit Torrey Pines National Reserve (like I did) please do. Sunset at the cliffs really made me inspired me to dream up a world in which someone would be able to fly freely in the air.

Do let me know if you want to see Arthurian again, the option is definitely still open for him (or his world) to make an appearance again in future short stories!

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In a war, dead bodies from both sides can quickly pile up, leading to risk of plague being spread. A guild of necromancers took on the job of raising the dead, preserved and send them back to their hometown to be buried.

Prompt credits: u/Other-Research-3970

Here is a snippet of the larger world of this short story:

The city of Loach has long held a lenient view to the crimes of men, clinging to the ideal that all people deserve chances to find their way back into the redemption. Although they were known as a beacon of hope for the wrongfully accused and the repenting, the city also served as a safe haven for thugs and fugitives. Salem has managed to build a new life in the streets of Loach, its illusion of peace hiding both him and the city’s dark underbelly from the world outside. But as he begins to build new ties to the society around him, he finds that he still has things to lose, both from his past and present. Faced with a plot that threatens overturn not just Loach but the entire Welsion empire, Salem needs to reconcile with a past filled with guilt to save a world he is no longer a part of.

I hope you enjoy the short story.

Welcome to this Short story by Quotes Unknown. Here, I write a fantasy or sci-fi (generally) short story.

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The setting sun lit the horizon in orange as crows circled overhead the crowd of humans who shuffled forward, followed by a figure clothed in a black robe. At its side, a smaller figure, swaddled in an oversized piece of cloth, skipped along humming a bittersweet tune, one  that was equal parts melancholic yet hopeful. It served as a prayer of safe travels to the Sunset who ruled over nightly succor and was the guardian of the process of change.

Soon the opportunistic crows would rest for the night, the human crowd’s movements denying them, for the tenth day, the feast which they had been anticipating since the figures began their journey.

The procession of twelve soldiers and their guides would walk through the night, trying to cover more ground before eventually having to find shelter at dawn to wait for dusk again. This way they could travel while avoiding the cruel heat of the afternoon sun.

Dead bodies rot faster in the heat and humidity and the faster they rot, the worse the long journey will be for the man and his only living companion.

-

The pale middle-aged man retrieved his beaked mask and robe which had been laid out in the merciless midday sun to rid itself of any clinging miasma as the group rested. Now that the sun had begun to set, he waved his young apprentice over to perform their evening ritual as they had since the beginning of their journey, and as he had done together with his teacher during his own apprenticeship.

The man began by soaking his mask-rags in distilled alcohol and watched carefully as his protege mimicked his movement, casting a keen eye to ensure that both their rags had been fully submerged in the detoxifying liquid for roughly a candle’s worth of time. 

“The alcohol dispelled the dead’s miasma like fire dispelled magic energy. This prevents the miasma’s curses from getting into your body as long as you properly pack the rags in, so do it correctly if you don’t want to have to be ferried back by me.” The nagging warning his predecessor gave him played in his head as they both quietly packed the mask-rags into the beaks of their masks. They then latched the masks onto their hoods and walked over to the first of the unmoving bodies.

He pulled his rubber glove off as he approached the unmoving masses who had collapsed unceremoniously over each other when the magic he had imbued faded that morning. One by one, he touched the bodies, calling them awake to begin their night’s journey, his ungloved skin warm against their forehead. His apprentice stared wide-eyed behind him as after a moment of silence, the bodies would rattle and shake, shambling into a standing position, still dressed in their garments of war.

After each body, the man would take but a quick moment to take a deep breath before moving onto the next resting corpse on the floor, his face expressionless. It had taken him years of practice to master his craft to this degree and it showed in his smooth motions from body to body. In his greener days, after each reanimation, his face would be screwed up in pain or he would be retching up what little food he was able to consume in the day. His teacher would shake his head and finish up what remained of his work. 

Now, the younger boy watched in wonder at a professional hurrying through his noble duty, making it look like working his magic was as easy as waving their hand or saying hello.

As the man squatted next to the last body and closed his eyes for the twelfth time that evening, the young apprentice snuck glances at the silver crest adorned on his teacher’s robes even as he watched his teacher work.

The crest of the necromancer’s guild were seven large silver strokes on black cloth, merging together to form a giant arcane character. It was a symbol that represented the holders of a noble duty, to prevent illness and disease with their magic, and it was respected across multiple kingdoms.

It was also the only school of deep magic which had never produced a murderer, war lord, or any criminal associated with killing. It was a point of pride for him and the other young mages who were training in the guild. “Necromancers never turned evil,” they would say as they puffed out their chest if they ever met the schools.

As his thoughts started to drift towards a time he would eventually be able to wear a robe adorned with the crest he began to fidget, ready to embark on the night’s journey. This was his last night of being an inexperienced acolyte, an Unseen.

“Salem, it is time to go.”

Awoken from his daydreams, his ears perked up as the middle-aged man brushed off the dust on his cloak and stood up. The last corpse had already shambled off in the same direction as the first eleven.

Salem was almost skipping as he chased after the first of the twelve while his teacher plodded along, rounding up the rear of the travelling party, keeping watch to be sure none of the bodies strayed away from their predicted path.

-

Midday came and left uneventfully as the corpses lay in the cave, squirrelled away from the searing heat. The man sat hunched near the entrance, poring over a large map scrawled over a piece of leathery parchment. His alabaster skin traced the black lines as he measured the distance between their haven and their destination.

He nodded to himself, sure that they had only a single night’s travel left before reaching the town which their dead-and-alive troupe was headed for. He turned and saw Salem was sleeping soundly in the deepest reaches of the cave. He let a wave of sadness wash over him as he knew that this was likely to be the last of his comfortable dreams for the foreseeable future.

With a small sigh, he turned back to watch the sun high in the sky, past its crest but yet to begin sinking into the horizon. He knew what he had to do but having to stand by as someone experienced their first time being Seen is never something he was prepared for.

After all, to suffer by yourself is easy compared to having to guide others onto a path you know is filled only with pain. 

He sighed again as he cast a glance back into the cave, at the single silhouette, the only one whose chest kept rising and falling rhythmically, buried amongst the twelve other shadows resting completely still and unmoving.

A shepherd, his unfortunate son, and his herd of dead sheep.

He turned back and continued watching the unbothered sun continue to shine across the plains, it’s bright light uncaring of the concerns of the person resting in the shadows.

-

As the sun began its descent below the horizon, the man beckoned for his apprentice after they were adorned in their beaked masks. He inhaled sharply as the child, barely a teen, skipped over eagerly, clearly filled with nervous energy and anticipation for his first duty. The mask-rags smelled like alcohol and the sun but his thoughts and tongue were filled with only the bitter taste of guilt.

“Remember what you have to do, don’t get overwhelmed. Having to overwrite instructions is troublesome at best and nearly impossible at worst.” He nagged before giving Salem’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

Salem nodded enthusiastically before walking over to the first unmoving body. He gazed warily upon the first soldier’s face. 

He looked a few years older than he was. His eyes were staring unblinkingly at the barren cave ceiling. His face was unmarked by wrinkles, his lips a cold hard line, pale and grey, unblooded. He looked peaceful but that was just a trick of time;  no soldier that the necromancers had to move ever passed peacefully.

He closed his eyes and mentally ran through the checklist which the guild taught every young soul. 

My name is Salem. I am fourteen seasons this year. I am a necromancer-in-training. My favourite color is green.

He proceeded to check off eight more facts about himself before squatting down next to the unmoving teen soldier. His ungloved fingers brushed the corpse’s forehead and he let the magic flow out of his body and into the dead body. It soaked in without any resistance, the thirsty body a sponge desperate for any breath of life.

He felt himself tumble forward out of his own body and into the soldier’s.

-

There are only three things a dead person remembers. 

A Person, a Place, and a Pain.

The school of necromancy taught every new recruit this fact on the first day of their training. These were the only things that remained engraved on their body after their souls had left for the great beyond. However, three words passed down academically would never be able to encompass the power of the memories each person had experienced. After all, even in death, people only retained things that were truly important to them.

That meant in the span of a minute, Salem would fly through the dead man’s three core memories. 

As he focused on retaining his sense of self, he knew from his studies that this was the moment he had to act. He fed the soldier’s longing for home with his magic and hoped the amount was just enough to keep the body moving through the night before fading at dawn.

Once that was done, he relaxed slightly, his work complete. He floated along the young man’s memories and allowed himself the small luxury of enjoying the feeling of having a loving family and the feeling of belonging. 

He felt the warmth of a mother’s hug, a childhood surrounded by familial love, a hometown he could return to. He felt something in his untethered soul ache to return to that town as well.

Then came his Pain.

The rush of conscription, a feeling of absolute powerlessness. Despair at a king that did not care and commanders that did not listen. Fear as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow recruits not much older than him, their own fears and regrets a mirror of his. An overpowering wish to return home safely and see his family again. The shock of a stray arrow and the cold of metal piercing his skin as he stared up at an unbothered blue sky. Lastly, the soft whimper of begging and pleading at an uncaring world to save him and all his unlived years.

As the world faded from his eyes, it was as if someone poured cold water over Salem’s soul. He felt his disembodied self shivering even as he was thrown out of the teenage soldier’s Pain. He shuddered and braced himself for what came next.

The darkness flooded in like it had during his training in the guild. Each time enveloping him when they practized with dead ducks and rabbits. However, this time, darkness swallowing him felt alien. It was deeper, more profound. A pang of fear shot through him as the silence crept into his soul. Instinctively he knew there was a difference. This was a darkness that had consumed a human soul like his.

He was also not alone. 

He felt a surge of panic as the feeling of being watched in the darkness began to overwhelm him. He wanted to run or thrash about but he had no limbs.

Suddenly, he felt something tighten, yanking him backwards. Colors began to inflate his soul with warmth and he saw the darkness recede in a blur. As the darkness disappeared, he swore he heard something hiss in disappointment.

The world and its sounds came back in a rush as Salem was thrown unceremoniously out of the necromancer’s trance. He gasped for air as he clutched himself, grateful for the heaviness of his body. His heart raced madly as he collapsed on the ground, undergoing the sudden whiplash from having lived as a child in their mother’s arms, died in the war, and felt the coldness of death in the last quarter candle’s worth of time.

As he lay there hugging himself, he heard the grating sounds of metal-on-metal and from the corner of his eye, he could see the corpse on the ground shakily stumble up onto its two legs. He tilted his head upwards to get a better look at his handiwork.

The soldier no longer looked like a stranger. He looked like a young boy filled with his family’s love. He wore his parent’s clothes and his chainmail was ill-fitting and loose in all the wrong places. Even the light leather plates strapped on his pants were too big for the parts they were defending. He knew intimately that they were a gift from a family that could not afford it, a desperate plea for his safe return.

Salem saw himself in the teenager’s face. He remembered the view from the teen’s empty glassy eyes and he felt the teen’s ineffective armor slide over the young boy’s body as if it was his own.

Salem turned away from the teenaged soldier, it felt too much like looking at his own death. As he tilted his head the other way, he felt a warm hand touch his back. His teacher looked down at him silently but with eyes full of concern. Salem gave his teacher a weak nod, a signal that he had made it through his first spell with his mind intact.

His teacher smiled at him proudly before standing up. He nodded to himself, certain that his apprentice had made it through his first spell and retained his original sense of self without any major side effects. 

The man glanced at the other eleven bodies and then back at Salem slumped over the floor. Next, he peeled the glove off his hand as he watched the first teenage soldier stumble towards the entrance of the cave. After all, he could not let the gap between people in the procession be too large otherwise he would not be able to watch for stragglers in the group.

There was still work to be done.

He proceeded to squat over the next teenaged soldier and brush a warm hand over his cold skin.

- 

The crows continued to circle ahead as the caravan of fourteen people moved forward at a slow stumbling pace. The first twelve human figures shuffled forwards, their path unnecessarily lit by the moonlight, their longing for home guiding them instead. Behind them trailed two figures, the first marching wearily followed solemnly by a smaller silhouette, distracted by the evening’s experience.

That night as Salem trekked silently behind his teacher, he reflected. He had finally gotten the answers to the two mysteries that plagued the trainees.

The first was about the pride of the guild among the trainees. Necromancers never turned evil as their fates were too intertwined with the dead they reanimated. There was no room for the feeling of power or control in necromancy, each experience with the magic only left practitioners with the feeling of melancholy and absolute powerlessness to save the dead. 

The second mystery was whispered among trainees. The acolytes were never told the reason why the trainers and teachers referred to the inexperienced as the Unseen. Tonight, he knew to his core why they were called Unseen and why from that evening he could never go back to being Unseen.

From that first spell, he had seen death and death had seen him.

Enjoyed the glimpse into Salem’s world?

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Author’s commentary

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I must say I really did enjoy the flight of fantasy creative writing has provided after over a decade of only writing non-fiction and “persuasive” corporate documents. But, I am still very rusty. Hopefully, creative writing begins to come more naturally to me like how it was ten years ago, after some practice.

Regarding the premise of this story and this newsletter, I’ve always enjoyed the feeling of being parachuted into a rich and lively world and getting a glimpse of what it has to offer. It lets my mind wander into all sorts of amazing nooks and crannies, filling it with possibilities.

I was hoping to try and capture some of that feeling with this short story by (hopefully) alluding to a much wider world that I, personally, would want to explore more of.

At the same time, as I started writing, it gave me all sorts of ideas about the world and story that Salem, our protagonist, wanted to tell through me.

This short story would be one part of the slow recollection of the backstory of Salem spread throughout the book, on the circumstances that eventually lead to him being the empire’s first criminal necromancer, and while showing how Salem was a foil to his teacher, both traveling on different journeys in the lifecycle of a necromancer - as his teacher regained his emotions through teaching, Salem becomes more apathetic because of his duties.

This would then be set among the wider adventure where Salem has find it in himself to save an empire who has demonised him.

There would have to also be a cast of misfits as the environment has been set up to introduce our motley crew of both residents born and indoctrinated into a very forgiving culture and hardened criminals looking to clamber their way to the top of the food chain.

Do let me know if you want to see Salem again, the option is definitely still open for him (or his world) to make an appearance again in future short stories!

Share this story with a friend.

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