In a World of Thieves...

those dark, dun streets in dreams, twisted by memory.

Tricks, of the mind that it plays, plays on you in every cruel way,

imaginable

And as I walked, they came to me, in visions so colourful, so bright

making shabby the dull brown constructions of recollection, in bitter relief.

Mocking, they came

With voices, singing song and rhyme, teasing and taunting as they

picked and pulled at my dreamings, bringing them low, low into the mud,

Those overly bright, glaring, LED things. Though, here- and there, one saw the fond glow of old sodium bulbs, flickering a gentle orange.

The air was chill, but it sat there with no breeze to blow it this way, or that, for that matter. Silence reigned, but for his shallow footfalls

and the distant rush of a passing car, some streets over. Not here, where it was quiet and dark, save for the lamps, all orderly in fashion, like

soldiers, lined up for parade, or on a midnight watch. Lonely battlements under a starless dark. All- that was missing was the fog.

It had been foggy that night, you see. On this same road, or, at least, one similar; perhaps. They all looked alike, 'round here. And-

none quite alike the road he was looking for, no potholes then. Just smooth, black bitumen, still soft from the warm, afternoon sun, even now as the fog

It was a fine day, like most round these parts. The sun had peaked in the sky and was making its slow descent to the west, out across the plains and to the mountains beyond. The air, warm and fresh against the old man's cheek, smelt of grass and of animals, and carried with it the sounds of people busy at a day's work. An eagle shrieked its cry high above and he watched its path as it effortlessly glided and soared, reading the currents of the wind, before dropping sharply to swoop onto some unsuspecting prey. His ageing eyes centred on a thick trail of dust in the near distance. He raised his hand to shield the sun from his eyes and smiled at what he saw. The old man stood slowly, feeling every year laid upon his tired joints, and rested on his cane to watch her come on in. She was pushing her beautiful dappled grey mare hard and he could see the lather on its neck as she slowed to a trot. He almost gasped as he saw the beast she led behind her, shaking his head in disbelief, he couldn't help but grin. She gave the reigns of her mare over to a stable boy and led her new acquisition into the corral, before striding over to the old man, a satisfied look on her face.

"Well, what's his breed?" she asked, brimming with excitement.

The old man took his time with his answer, peering over the girl's shoulder to look at the beast tramping about the corral. Its black coat glistened in the afternoon light as it surveyed its surroundings.

"Rey de los Caballos." he replied at last. "Not pure, mind."

"Is that rare?"

"Well, his name means 'King of Horses'. Sounds pretty rare, but there's a whole mess of them up beyond the mountains."

The horse reared up in the corral, as if its ears were burning.

"He don't like us talking about him." the old man laughed. "Don't like being penned in either, best set him free."

"Set him free? No, sir. I roped him, I'm gonna break him in."

The old man had to laugh at that, which turned into a wheeze, which set him coughing. He tottered back to his bench and motioned the girl to follow.

"Come sit a spell, girl. I'll tell you why you ain't ever breaking that horse."

"When I was but a boy, back when this town had nothing but a dirt track and a few rickety houses to its name, the mayor had some grand ideas about putting our little corner of the frontier on the map. Once such idea, more of a dream, really, was to breed horses. Folks always have need of horses out here, as well you know. Now, they mayor, being a man of wealth, set about acquiring the finest breeding stock money could buy. He even went as far to send for a prize stallion from the old country and for months and months was crowing about the fame and fortune the animal, the king of horses, would bring the town when it arrived. Well, he was right about that, but not in the way he had planned."

"The horse arrived late that following summer, just as we were preparing for the harvest. The whole town poured out once the news spread. The courier handed the reigns direct over to the mayor, along with an envelope containing the deed of sale that listed 'Rey de los Caballos' as the horse's name. Well, they mayor was as pleased as punch as he led the horse over to that there very corral. But his mood darkened over the coming days and weeks as it became clear that, as special as this horse may have been, there was no chance in hell of us taming him. No man could break him, he even killed one of the stable hands with a vicious kick when the boy foolishly approached him from behind. It soon got that no man wanted to try and tame him."

"No woman, either." he said pointedly in response the girl's raised eyebrow. "The mayor was mad with rage, felt the whole town was laughing at him and his uncontrollable horse, until a funny thing started to happen. People began showing up from all over, looking for a chance to quell this fearsome beast. Word had spread and, well, sure enough, the mayor saw gold. He took out adverts in the national papers, sent flyers to every town within a few hundred miles. Come tame the untameable Devil Horse! We had a genuine tourist attraction on our hands and the fortunes of the town were on the rise. Soon, people took to calling the horse Chomper, on account of the number of fingers foolish hopefuls had lost to the beast. Dozens of riders fell beneath its hooves and, suffice to say, there was more than one fatality, but that never diminished the interest in the horse, nor cut short the number willing to try their luck."

"Then, one day, a wiry looking man strode on into town. Said his name was Silas and he was here looking for a horse. He wasn't much of nothing to look at and seemed to rub folk the wrong way as he dismissively examined the stock in the stables. Then he set eyes on Chomper. 'How much is that horse?', he asked, only to be told that the horse wasn't for sale and, besides, there was no way he could ever break him. Well, Silas looked the mayor in the eye and said to him 'Mister, I got a way with horses. They speak to me and if I break that horse, you're gonna give him to me for free'. To that, the mayor agreed and the whole town gathered to watch Silas undoubtedly fail like so many others had before."

"He did it, didn't he?" the girl asked.

"Hush now, have some patience, girl." the old man scolded, before continuing on with his story.

"Silas stood alone in the corral, seemingly unperturbed by the challenge he was about to face. They brought out Chomper, two stable boys struggling to control the animal, who had become more and more crazed since the day he arrived. The stable boys closed the gate and Silas was left alone with Chomper. At first, he did nothing, save for spitting a glob of tobacco juice onto the ground before him. Then, he started to slowly circle the beast, their eyes locked together. This went on for some time and people began to jeer, but Silas carried on staring until, slowly, he paced forwards, always keeping his eyes on Chomper's."

"He got within a foot and reached out. The crowd let out an involuntary gasp, waiting for the moment when Chomper would live up to his name and liberate Silas of his fingers. But the moment never came. Silas stroked the beasts mane and leaned in close, whispering into its ear. Shock washed over the crowd as they could visibly see the beast calm, then, with one hand on the back of Chomper's neck, Silas launched himself up onto the horse's back. Another gasp from the crowd, followed by pandemonium as Silas sat straight and brought Chomper to a trot, doing laps of the corral with that stupid grin plastered on his face."

"The people were cheering now, while the mayor just starred in disbelief. 'Deals a deal', yelled Silas, before sticking his spurs into Chomper's flanks and making for the fence, Chomper clearing it easily in one giant leap. The mayor was crestfallen and had to be helped back to his house, but years that followed he cursed bitterly the day he ever bought that horse, right up until the day he died."

"So what happened?" the girl asked, interrupting the wistful silence the old man had lapsed into.

"Oh, yes. Well, rightly that's a different tale altogether, but I'll give you the abridged version. Next spring, word got back to us of an outlaw terrorizing communities throughout the frontier. They said he rode a fearsome black horse with a mean streak a mile wide, one that out-paced any who gave chase. For years more we heard tales of their misadventures. They turned over more banks and stagecoaches than you could keep track of, robbing and killing any who got in their way, and it wasn't long before their special brand of trouble came riding back in our direction. But, it was only a flying visit. A blur of mean-tempered, black coated madness, tearing through town with a whoop and a holler, a posse of twenty or more lawman hot on their heels."

"Seems Silas had made some powerful enemies, as you are like to do if you make a habit of robbing rich folk, and the best thief takers from across the frontier had banded together to track Silas down. They drove him mercilessly until, left with nowhere else to run, they had him trapped between their guns and the hundred feet drop down into Gulch's canyon. Silas knew he was done for, so he spiked his spurs hard into Chomper's side and made for the canyon. The lawmen gave chase, ready for any trick Silas might have up his sleeve, and watched on as, urging Chomper faster, Silas approached the canyon's edge. 'Well, I guess it's you and me until the bitter end, Chomp. So long, fellas!' Silas called, pulling hard on the reigns to make his mount jump."

"But Chomper didn't jump. He bucked, hard, and down Silas fell into the canyon's depths with an angry cry, all alone. One of the lawmen managed to get his fingers ahold of Chomper's reigns, but he bit the man's hand clean off at the wrist. The lawmen fired their guns, but Chomper was too quick, galloping away as fast as the winds. He made for the mountains and that was the last we ever saw of Chomper. But, a few years later, we increasingly started to see young horses on the far plains and beyond the mountain passes, horses with dark black coats and as fast as the wind. That there is one such horse, my girl. A Rey de los Caballos." the old man said, pointing to the beast that was now pacing angrily in the corral.

"You see girl, as good as you are with horses, you'll never tame that stallion. Oh, you might get him to cooperate for a while, like Silas did, but he'll never be truly tamed and he'll never truly be yours. A creature like that belongs only to itself and Silas made the mistake of thinking he was in control."

"I'll break him, you'll see." the girl said. "Just think of how valuable he could be if we got him put to stud. Hell, he's near twice the height and size of most of the nags round these parts."

"That value's worth little if he kicks you from the saddle and you break your neck. I'm telling you girl, let this one go." the old man implored, rising to his feet.

"I'm sorry, but you know I've got to try."

"Hmmph, well, if we're lucky he'll only damage your pride." the old man snapped, more harshly than he'd intended, but he feared for her.

as flowers bloom beneath her feet, through snaking cracks in broken streets

and buildings come alive with ivy and grass, a shroud over the mistakes of the past,

vibrant orchids hang from every sill and frame, vine and branch sprouting from pipe and drain,

the scant survivors awaken to a world renewed, blanketing the city that they once knew,

pulled raggedly from tired lungs, that bubble and wheeze

as blood seeps from exposed depths to pool beneath the dying wreck,

the twisted, broken frame of what once was man,

but now is little more than a bundle of mangled flesh and bone,

bleeding out in the baking sun, the contorted remains

that, even now, still quiver in pain. A moan escapes,

as mashed lips feebly attempt to form words that god only knows,

yet their message is clear, all the same.

Afraid and alone, blood flecked and trampled,

dying slowly, painfully, beneath these bright and sunny skies,

that belie the carnage wrought below, the fields of horror,

painted viscera red, the trails of carnage and crushed bone.

He begs for death, in the end, but when the last breath comes,

that halting, incomplete intake, the sudden shudders

that pull and twist his form, making these final moments

ones of an agony indescribable. The pain is searing and white,

but as it fades, as he feels his body and mind slowly slip away,

all that remains is the deep, overwhelming blackness,

Winter came in full force that year, the wind howling down through the mountain passes and bringing with it deep flurries of snow that clung tight to the land. Huddled in their houses, the people waited. They had become adept at waiting. Waiting for the winds to die down, the snows to falter, the ice to melt. When not under winter's grasp their whole year was spent in preparation for the winter to come and, when the winter innexorably arrived, they waited to start it all over again. It was a hard life, cold and harsh the year round, isolated to the extreme and matching well the demeanour of the men who lived it.

One such man sat staring at his hearth, wrapped tight in a bundle of furs. His fingers worked the ornate carvings on the hilt of an axe, ancient and worn, that had been passed down between father and son for generations. Though winter had barely set in, he waited for the Thaw with a dark anticipation, the anger building in him as the temperature dropped. It was a matter of honour and Agamar could bear no more slights. Tevan was too stubborn by far, that had always been his problem, and it blinded him to the realities of his situation.

Yes, it was true that the land Agamar owned had once belonged to Tevan's line, that it was among some of the most fertile land in the valley, but it had come fairly to Agamar's father's father over a hundred cycles ago. It was Agamar's now by right, yet still Tevan lusted over what he felt should be his, though he would never say it. No, instead all Agamar received were poisoned looks and the whispers of his fellows behind his back. They all knew that, thanks to land gained two generations past, Agamar ate better than the rest, that Agamar's larders were stocked against even the hardest of winters, and they hated him for it.

Tevan's land was mean and impoverished, more rock and oozing bog than field or pasture, and Agamar had at last come to the end of his patience with the way his neighbours looked down upon him, in spite of the honour his line and land should accord. So, upon advice from his brothers, he went to Tevan's hold with open arms, towing sleighs of provisions in his wake. But Tevan wanted no charity and would not even let Agamar into his hall, naming him thief and honourless. Agamar had to be held back from cutting the man down there and then and doing Tevan's family a favour. He stalked off back to his own hall, leaving the sleighs where they lay.

The snow had covered them now, too. Three indistinct humps sitting untouched when the blizzards came. Agamar again cursed Taven's stubborness. It was he who was forcing Agamar's hand here, he who could not see the confrontation he provoked. It was a matter of pride, a matter of honour and one that could no longer be settled with words. So, with dark thoughts playing across his troubled brow, Agamar waited, as they all did in the valley. Waiting for the Thaw and, for Agamar, the day he would regain the respect and honour he so rightfully deserved.

When the Thaw came at last to the valley and the winds died down and the snows faltered and the ice melted, the people wearily crept out from their halls and began the rituals and routines innexorably linked to this time of year. First and foremost, they checked up on their neighbours, some out of kindness, others out of curiosity. It wasn't uncommon for death to silently take his fill during the winter sleep, or for dark deeds to transpire behind doors locked on the inside, snow-bound without. Arguements often boiled in the confined and cramped halls.

Agamar had only one thing on his mind, however, as he stalked through the melting slush, down the hill towards Tevan's hall. The oaken doors remained steadfastly shut, Agamar's sleighs still sitting, fully laden, outside. He brandished his axe and slammed the hilt three times to the door. There was no answer from inside. A crowd had begun to gather and Agamar rousted the men into helping him force the doors. After much crashing, the bar finally gave way and the door swung inward. 

As cold as it was outside, it was colder still within. The next thing Agamar noticed was the stench and with that his anger seemed to fade away. There, by a long-extinguished hearth, huddled together for warmth, was Tevan and his family. His wife, his mother and his daughters, all clutching tight to their father and husband and son who sat, crosslegged, with his own father's axe across his lap. Agamar still despised the man, still despised his rigidity and stubborness, but he had not wanted things to end like this.

He had never known that someone could express so much through their eyes, before that moment. Oh, he'd lost himself in a beautiful girl's stare before, or been enchanted by the twinkling, cinematic gaze of a film star, but he had never before experienced a moment where words weren't enough, or more precisely, where words were beyond reach. The first time he'd been to see her, he broke down and had to leave the room. The tubes, the machines, the intrusive disinfectant smell and, most importantly, her. Lying there, broken. It had all been too much to handle, but even when he got over the sight and mustered up the courage to re-enter the room, he couldn't keep the tears at bay, try as he might. It felt weak of him, and he felt that he had to be strong, but when she came to all his strength melted away. It turned out that she was strong enough for the both of them, as she silently gave what little comfort she could, while he sat there, crying warm tears upon the hand of hers he fervently clutched. After a while the tears dried and he began to talk about news from the outside. The new neighbours had moved in. An elderly couple from up north, with two cats and a little dog. And the council finally got around the fixing the street light outside no. 70, but the bin collection was a day late this week. He started to talk about how things would be back to normal, once she was out of here, but her silencing glance stopped him in his tracks. Doctors came and gave injections, removed tubes, replaced tubes and bags and, as the days passed, he felt himself falling into the routine. 

Through cold and bitter, frost shrouded streets we wearily trudge,

leavings our nests early in hopes of beating the morning rush,

herded like cattle through gate and pen, in an all too familiar reprise

with calls of "mind the gap" and "move up the platform, please",

as, with numb, shuffling steps, we patiently await the train's presence,

It was an auspicious night, The Archer ascendant in a clear night sky. The full moon shone fat and yellow, casting its pallid glow across a slumbering land of forests and fields, of grand country estates and sleepy, picturesque villages, smoke rising in silvery tendrils from chimney stacks and glowing braziers, burning brightly to ward off the chill of the night. In the distant hills, winding an inexorable, fate foretold path, a wagon trundled on. At the reins an old man dozed, while behind him, in the darkness of the wagon, a faint, arcane glow shone. 

The book was handed down through the generations, its cover inscribed with runes of a long dead language that none, save for the seventh sons of the Kings of Alimar, had the knowledge to decipher. Its mysteries had long been coveted by all manner of dark and nefarious covens, cabals, clans and cults, which made its current whereabouts all the more suspicious. Such a dread, dangerous tome, talked of only in hushed whispers, to be travelling unguarded by no more than a decrepit old man and his weary mules. 

But, long were the days since Alimar had shone with a glory so intense that it had burned the heavens, long and almost forgotten amid the mists of history, a history penned by victors of a war that toppled a kingdom as old as time itself. All that remained of Alimar were the devoted few, those heretics, those heathens, those sorcerous rogues, shunned and feared by all who knew of that for which their order stood. The Knights of Alimar, it was they who were tasked to guard the book. A book that they themselves could not read, trusting only to prophecy that, one day, the stars would align and mark a path toward Alimar’s reascension.

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The old man had failed to raise the innkeeper when his wagon trundled into town, so with weary, creaking limbs, he stabled the mules and bedded down in the back of his wagon, falling swiftly asleep, bathed in a faint, luminous glow. Morning brought with it a chill, as silken folds of fog draped themselves across the dirt streets and up into the hills from whence he had came. He found the innkeeper tiredly opening up for the day and placed an order for breakfast, as well as purchasing some hay for his mules, before returning to his wagon to make sure everything was ready for what would come.

If the stars were right, this time at last the long journey of his order would be complete, and he, one of the last remaining few, would have the honour of restoring balance to the world. A world infected, deep set with rot and corruption, a world that practically cried out to be taken by the hand and led back to civilisation. It would be his greatest accomplishment, the fulfilment of a life’s work. Which made the next few hours all the more important. The boy had to truly believe, had to feel the blood that coursed through his veins, the blood that, fates willing, would allow him to peer through the mists of time and take command of that which was lost.

But there was so little time. The old man felt the icy fingers of death drawing closer with each passing day, draining the warmth from his bones and sapping the strength from his limbs. With each and every sunrise the chances of him finding a seventh son became slimmer and slimmer, and there already were so few of his brothers left. If they failed to bring about the prophecy’s fulfilment, then the world would never awaken from the darkness that had gripped it like a vice since Alimar’s fall. If not now, then when? The boy had to listen, he had to.

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The derision was written on the boy’s face, plain for the old man to see. His words faltered in the face of the youthful arrogance of the brash blacksmith’s apprentice, the old man’s hopes dashed and beaten just like the metal the boy worked upon the anvil. He didn't believe. No one did, not any more. That was the real problem. There was no magic left in the world, no sense of wonder. The cloud of corruption had settled, seeping into every pore and burying it’s vile touch deeper than the old man and his brothers could reach.

Alimar was but a but a scrap of half-forgotten legend to these people, shrouded in folklore and song, and though the light it had shone upon the world still glimmered, it was a faint candle flame amid an impenetrable fog of darkness. He remembered when he was young, when his words had cut through the darkness like a scythe, when the truth had illuminated and inspired those poor, failed hopefuls. When the order had not had to resort to methods that reflected the very darkness they fought.

It could not be helped, that was the sad reality of the situation. For too long they had struggled and sacrificed to bring back that which was lost, and as their numbers dwindled and the remains of Alimar faded further into history, their need had become too great to let prospective seventh sons slip through their fingers. It was with regret that the old man decided once again upon this course as he trudged angrily back to the inn where his wagon waited and inside, the book and its eerie, arcane glow.

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The boy’s eyes no longer held derision, but only anger and a hint of fear. The old man sympathised, he really did. “If only you had listened”, he assured the boy. “If only you could imagine the future that fate has in store for you” he said, as he prepared the instruments he would need for the ritual, and then “You’ll thank me in the end”, although that one was more to comfort himself than the boy. With trembling hands he lit the candles and placed them carefully about the clearing far from town where his wagon now sat.

The moon was obscured, its light visible only as a halo wanly shining through the thick bands of cloud that stalked the starless, ink black sky. In a few hours the sun would rise over the town and someone would notice that the boy was gone, but not before the ritual was complete, and by then he would be beyond the concerns of his past life, in one way or another. The old man glanced sadly over at the boy, still straining futilely against his bonds. The boy had not suspected that the old man, dishevelled and wild eyed, could ever pose him a threat, as his legs canted a drunken course home from the inn. 

So now he sat, trussed and gagged, awaiting his fate with less than good grace. The preparations complete, the old man returned to the wagon and retrieved the book. Its glow lent a sinister hue to the clearing, turning the orange yellow candle light green and lengthening the shadows that snapped and clawed as wind fluttered flame. The old man placed the book before the boy and opened it to the first page, the arcane runes that were unreadable to him writhed upon the crackled parchment. The boy looked at him with hatred, and then fear as the old man produced a blade from the folds of his cloak. Wielding the knife with care, the old man nicked the goose prickled flesh on the boys neck. 

Blood dripped slowly, steadily onto the open page, falling upon darker, older stains of those hopefuls who had come before. The old man waited, while the boy glared, and then, with a painful familiarity, the boy shuddered. It started with the eyes, the capillaries bursting, letting blood free until the sockets of his skull welled up and overflowed. A vile blackness spider-webbed through the boy’s veins, reaching his fingertips that shrivelled and crumbled at its touch. The old man staggered back with the book in trembling fingers, desperate not to get any of the corrupted blood on himself. His hands pressed to his ears as his futilely tried to block out the disturbing gurgles emanating from the convulsing body.

tide breaks

bough upon

blessed shores.

Long thought lost,

yearned for

The ship screamed its angry protests in every creak and groan of every worn and weathered timber, as the wind buffeted and blustered from all sides, whipping the sea into a frenzy, and sending airborne the cold, salty spray that chilled him to the bone. Hands gripped fervently on the tiller, he wrestled against the weight of the waves, eyes locked upon the dull, vague haze at the edge of the horizon that marked his destination and his journeys end, if only he could see the storm through. And, as if sensing his thoughts, the wind then redoubled its efforts, returning with a renewed vigour to rip at his sails, and to pierce his sodden body with its icicle-laden fingers, that burned their mark on shivering flesh with every touch. There was no shelter in the little skiff, no galley to stow himself in and wait for the storm to pass him by, just the tiller and the mast, and the billowing sails that afforded little shelter from the wind's malevolent disregard. He cursed his luck, to be caught among this squall like a fish in a net, his own catch released back into the waves as the storm bore down on his heavily-laden boat, forcing him to abandon that which he had risked the storm for in the first place. It's not a night to be sailing, the old fishermen had said, but fear is for the old and the weak, he had replied, and began to boast of the haul he would draw from the ocean depths. And what a haul it had been, the deck near overflowing with fish that flapped and gasped ankle deep upon the deck.