The First Flower After the Flood

Varten's whole body hurt. A battlefield of flesh and blood. The ruddy white scalp of his bald head was baked red from time on the road, skin cracking and peeling. His arse was raw from months bouncing in the saddle, knees and elbows scraped from day after day of tightly strapped armour. He let go of his reins to rub at his neck again, trying to massage the painful ache seeded there from a whole year wearing the godforsaken metal. The straps were too tight, the heavy plate shirt pulled down eternally on his shoulders, his neck, his head. The armour itself was battered and dented so much it looked like the Orcs had gone at him with a battering ram.

Which they all but had done, of course.

The column of soldiers continued on. No sound but the clop of hooves. The occasional sniff or sneeze. No one seemed to be focused, no one really aware, just existing. Varten himself knew he barely felt like he was present at all, just riding along in his body. Waiting until he saw the buildings of Tinangels crest the horizon, and see the faces of his wife and daughter, and knew that his life could begin again.

Varten was dimly aware of the men around him, the last tired remnants of his shattered platoon. One face missing out of every three. Those that remained not the same. Doc Bartlett was riding immediately to Varten's left. The medic's maimed left hand held tight against his chest in a crusty makeshift sling. The broad frame of Moore was to Varten's right. Varten's closest friend, his tight frizzy hair was filthy. Big calloused hands gripped his reins tentatively, wrapped as they were to protect the wounds of a massive rope burn.

The black stallion at the head of their troupe was just as tired as his rider. The long and lean frame of Sergeant Volsh was slightly stooped in the saddle. Varten couldn't see from this angle, but he knew that Volsh's cold eyes would be staring ahead. Probably the only one among them paying attention.

They had every reason to be happy. The war was over. Apparently they had won, but Varten wasn't sure at what point that had actually happened.

His unit had moved from conflict to conflict across the country from the capitol. Endless days of marching and fighting. Stopping for a few hours to recover, and then marching again. Last night had been the first night they'd slept not under a state of war in eight months. The first night he wasn't meant to expect to be woken any moment with the screaming horde upon them. Every man in the unit had still slept twitchy and disturbed, fully dressed in their stinking road clothes, blades gripped in their hands.

They'd been waiting to move on the latest in a seemingly endless series of small occupied country villages when the riders had come.

The war was over, they were heroes.

Apparently.

Varten wasn't exactly sure what a hero was meant to feel like, but it wasn't much like he expected it to feel.

The remains of a wooden sign stood on the wayside, sticking out of the dirt of the road they clopped slowly down. The sign itself was broken, half knocked from the pole and face down in the dirt. The name of the little town that was partially appearing through the trees up ahead was probably on it.

Varten had noticed an ugly silence in the air the entire journey back towards home. He used to think of silence as peaceful. The absence of conflict.

The war had changed Varten's perception of silence. Riding into a town where there was screaming, crashing, blazing fires, meant there was still time. Noise meant there was something left. There was something to be done. Something left to save. Varten now knew that when there was silence, that there would be nothing left to save.

He wasn't wrong.

Whatever the village had been called didn't matter to anyone in it anymore. As the heroes approached the little village, they saw it was a husk.

Hadn't been big in the first place, a stopover between larger towns. Didn't even look like there was a building large enough to have been an inn. Impossible to tell though, with the black state of most of the remaining constructions.

The corpse of a horse lay in the street, twisted body slouched across an overturned cart. Black lumps that had maybe once been fruit lay nearby.

The skeletal remains of most buildings yawned out at the street, fallen rafters and partial supports bent out like broken teeth. Ashes spread out of every doorway, belched from every shattered window, spilling out into the dirt of the street. The heavy afternoon sun, while at the right angle to enter one side of the street, seemed just not to bother. The golden light barely penetrated the burned out buildings, leaving most of the interiors in shadow.

Doc Bartlett was staring straight ahead, ignorant of the horrors, and Varten was used to that. Bull of a man that Moore was, however, looked like he'd taken a blow to his great frame. Shoulder slumped, he stared into the empty scar of a nearby house as they passed. Smashed pottery spilled out the broken front door, and a thin arm, scorched black, protruded from just within.

"How did we miss this?" Moore asked. For a man of his size, his voice was barely above a whisper. Varten tilted his reins and moved in closer to his friend.

"You what?" Varten asked. His voice was hoarse, sharp, and cut through the empty town like a knife. He repeated himself more quietly, and immediately felt foolish. No one in this town cared anymore.

"We would've come this way. We had to," Moore said softly.

Varten thought. Moore was right, they would logically have come down this road on the way west.
Doc Bartlett piped up, without looking over at the pair.

"Nah, we went the forest route. Remember?" Bartlett said.

Bartlett's voice was unpleasant on Varten's ears. It was a sneering voice that matched the medic's wide, lizardlike mouth, but it wasn't that. Every time Bartlett spoke it put Varten straight back to one of any of a dozen times that he'd been lying on a battlefield, bleeding from a cut or a smash or a lance in the gut, with Barlett staring down at him telling him to stop fidgeting so he could work.

"This was when we done the fast ride through the forest. Bournecam was getting razed. We made double time through the forest and bit 'em in the arse. Remember?"

Varten nodded, Moore didn't move.

"If we'd come this way we might have been able to stop this," Moore said.

Bartlett snorted, and gestured with his good hand.

"Yeah, but if they'd taken Bournecam that fucks the whole west front dunnit? Take this place, and what? Middle of nowhere, no value."

"Then what're we fighting for? Hold the bridge and the people on the other side of it die? Why?" Moore asked.

Bartlett gave a shrug.

"You know as well as I do these little towns are a shit place to get caught in a fight. Too much in the way. Everything made of wood, no cover. You want to take on a horde in a place like this don't you come crying to me to put your big arse back together again."

"Look at the damage. This wasn't no horde. Small force did this. We could've stopped this if we were here."

There was a rising tension before the men lost their temper, and the Sergeant sensed it.

"We moved ahead to Bournecam because orders told us to," Volsh said. His sharp voice, though low, carried clearly, "We moved to fortify an important military foothold in a campaign that was, at that point, uncertain of success. If we'd not been there, the horde might have broken the bridge resistance, and swept into the westcountry weeks earlier. The bridge breaks, that opens up Zenance, Polperrus, and the Foul Mouth to land attack. The horde would have gained unstoppable momentum."

Volsh turned in his saddle. He was a fine looking man, lean and angular, with sharp blue eyes. He regarded his men.

"They call us heroes because we were there, and we fortified Bournecam, and the bridge held, and the Horde broke in half to try and flank. Their entire strength broke apart. You ask me, that was the lynch-pin of the entire war. Moore, I am sorry we weren't here for these people, but we were instead there when the country needed us. Thanks to you, this will not happen again."

Volsh turned back, and with that the conversation was over.

Moore continued to look at the buildings as they slowly passed. One after the other, empty and broken. Varten fought for something to say, but he had never been good with words.

Moore's horse slowed, and Varten turned to look at his friend. The dark-skinned warrior was staring up at the smashed front of a small house, set back from the main thoroughfare a dozen yards. Two stories, with tiny little farmhouse windows. The little house seemed to have dodged the fire that consumed the rest of the town, but hadn't avoided whatever attack had swept through. The front door was cracked in and broken, lying flat in its own frame, and most of its windows had been smashed in.

"Stop," Moore said. Varten's horse came to a stop, and he shrugged.

"I know, mate. I wasn't going to say anything. You take as much..." Varten started, but Moore waved a hand at him.

"No, stop. Shut up. Listen." His arm hovered in the air, demanding stillness. Varten patted his horse's head calmly, and listened.

"You hear that?" Moore whispered.

Varten heard nothing, and was about to say so, when he heard a distinct sound deep within the little building.

Moore turned to look at him, and he stared back. The sound found it's way deep inside Varten.

A few years ago, Varten had returned from work in the old Tinangels smithy to find his wife mad with fear that their daughter was missing. He'd searched high and low, in and around the house, and eventually followed a path into the nearby woods, where he'd located his five year old daughter sobbing within a large hollow tree stump, scared that her father would be angry that she had broken one of his farming tools while playing with it. The strangely muted sounds of her sadness had carried through the woods.

Varten could have sworn he heard the same sound now.

The unit was moving on, and no one seemed to care that the two soldiers had stopped at the roadside. Varten hopped from his horse and strode towards the house.

Varten's blade was in his hand already, the motions to unsheathe and ready it were so casual to him now it hadn't even registered.

The windows above were barely wide enough to get an arm through, let alone climb through, and Varten stared into them for any sign of life. The north-facing building entirely blocked the light, and nothing could be seen within.

Varten stopped for a moment before the little house. He felt a weight on his shoulders that was deeper within him than the tug of his breastplate. Crossing the boundary of the house felt like choosing to go back into war. Within the dim room beyond he could see an overturned stool. Smashed plates. Spilled liquids stained the floors.

Varten took a deep breath, and stepped in.

The house had once been a simple home. The whole first floor mostly kitchen, a large stone oven, some small stools. The stools were shattered, and the floor was littered with the contents of a shelving cabinet awkwardly leaning against the far wall. A tiny wooden staircase was in the far corner, leading up to whatever lay in the floor above.

Varten tentatively moved further in, and looked to the ground. A large table lay on the ground, one of its legs broken, and the whole thing overturned. From beneath, a twist of limbs protruded. Varten gripped a table leg with his hand, and pulled it aside.

Two bodies lay beneath, embraced.

The man and the woman had both been lean people. Their clothes, before they had been stained with blood, were simple. They wore no jewelry. Varten leaned in, curious.

You'd sometimes see non-humans out in the rural areas, but it was rare. Little towns tended to xenophobia, in his experience. Neither of them were big enough for orcs, and their skin was the wrong colour. He wasn't sure what they had been.

There were blade wounds on both of them. The ground below them stained. Varten knew they'd both bled out here, together.

"Worse ways to go," he muttered.

There was a clear intake of breath. Varten jerked up, his blade in his hand. Silence resumed, the little house stood still. His eyes swept the room for any motion, and found none.

He looked up at the little staircase, warily taking a step towards it, and nudged a kettle out of the way with his foot.

The rattling drew his attention to the floor, to a series of scrapes in the wooden floorboards.

His gaze followed the scrapes, along the floor, inch by inch. His eyes came to rest on the heavy old cabinet against the wall, and he saw what had been done.

The cabinet was empty of its contents, spilled over the floor though it was, but still the thing was a heavy piece of work. Varten tugged it aside with a grunt, and eyed the little door revealed behind it warily. There were no locks on it, and a simple latch held it closed. He pulled at it, and it swung open. The smell that greeted him was foul.

The pantry was small, barely larger than the outhouse it smelled of. Sacks lay open on the ground, empty bags were up against the door. Around were moldy vegetable ends, carrot greens, mushroom stalks.

Varten stared, putting away his blade, and opened the door as wide as he could.

In the far corner, among sacks of dry grain, huddled a child. She had two hands clamped over her mouth, desperately choking back sobs, and on the floor immediately beside her was the brown layers of a half eaten raw onion.

She was a scrawny little thing. Small and shaking with fear. Her hair was choppy and messy, a natural chalky white. Her skin was green.

Going from his experience with his own little girl, Varten thought the child might be four summers old at most.

He took a step into the pantry, and the girl scrabbled away, further into the corner. Her eyes wide.

"Hey...hey I'm not gonna hurt you, I..." Varten mumbled, panicked. He could barely talk to his own daughter when she was upset, let alone a child of a foreign species who'd been huddled in a pantry for weeks, jammed in by the last act of murdered parents.

He tugged at the little pack on his belt. Within it were an assortment of items he'd picked up on the road, but also some assorted rations. Varten pulled out a pack of dried salt meat, and offered it to the child.

"Here, look," He said, offering the little dried snack at arms length.

She stared at him, her body still shivering, but after a moment, she reached out with skinny little arms to take it. She bit into it, sharp little teeth tearing.

Varten turned at a sound, and saw Moore peering in through the door. He raised an eyebrow at Varten.

"There's a little girl in here," Varten said, Moore's jaw dropped.

"Survivor? She been in there the whole time?"

"I... think so." Varten looked back at the filthy little child, who looked at him over the meat, her big eyes were wide, gleaming blue through the grime on her face, though puffy and bloodshot with tears.

"We passed the well, just back there. Get water," Varten said, Moore turned immediately to do so.

Varten took off one of his gloves, sticking it under his armpit and extended an open hand out to the girl.

"I'm Varten. Varten," he said, "What's your name?"

The little girl didn't talk, just stared. She gulped down the rest of the meat, coughing. After another moment, she suddenly stretched out with both arms, reaching for Varten.

The girl felt like she weighed nothing. Huddled against Varten's broad body, he stood with her.

He covered her eyes from the sight of the house as he carefully stepped across the room. He sensed the girl knew already, but she didn't need to see.

When they got outside, Moore was approaching with a bucket and one of his horse blankets.

The girl gave a low murmur as Varten placed her down on the ground. Her little knees knocking, and her arms coiled around her body.

Moore knelt, and smiled at her. Moore had a warm, wide, winning smile when the mood took him, and the child seemed to take to him.

They washed the girl clean of the filth of her internment in the broken little house. She was so small, it didn't take long. He was reminded of a time when his own child had slipped and fell directly in horse manure out in the fields, and it had taken Varten and his wife some time to stop laughing before they could clean her off.

The child still had not yet spoken, and Varten surmised that she either could not, or, like him, simply didn't know what to say.

When she was sufficiently cleaner, certainly cleaner than Varten was under his layers of filthy travel gear and dented armour, Moore wrapped his blanket around her bare body, and Varten hoisted the girl up into his arms. She coiled her little hands around the straps of his breastplate as he walked back to the thoroughfare.

Having noticed the conspicuous absence of two of his longest serving men, sergeant Volsh had doubled back, with Doc Bartlett trotting along beside. The two horses came to a stop, and Bartlett gave an incredulous laugh.

"What have you gone and done now Shrikes?" the medic barked at Varten, his mustached face lit with glee, "what in the hell is that?"

Varten looked to Moore, then up at his commanding officer.

"She was hiding in one of the buildings, Sarge," Varten said, and Volsh looked at the girl with an air of suspicion.

"Orc?" Volsh asked, Bartlett interjected again, immediately.

"She's Nadyr, Sergeant. Snakefolk."

Volsh glanced at Bartlett, and the medic nodded.

"Any others?" Volsh asked. Varten shook his head. The girl rested her head in the crook of his neck, her hands gripping tightly to the straps around his shoulders.

"Hm. Can't very well leave her, I suppose." Volsh looked at the girl with a disinterested stare. "Take her back to Truronia. There's homes for war orphans there. Some of them are supposed to take in non-humans."

Volsh abruptly turned his horse, and proceeded back towards the front of the line. Bartlett sat atop his mount a moment longer, shaking his head in amusement.

"The other lads find a buried bag of coins, or loot some art off a wall somewhere, but what do you do? You find someone's kid. You're awful at this, Shrikes."

"Toddle on, Doc. They'll need your skilled hands back in Truronia," said Moore.

Bartlett scowled at him, and turned his horse around. The difficulty he had maneuvering the beast with one hand wasn't lost on the soldiers.

"You can't take her to one of those places, Varten," said Moore, looking down at the girl, "no place for a little one. Especially..."

"Yeah, yeah I know. Moore, I can't... I mean, what the hell is Moira going to say?" Varten asked. The thought of his wife's incredulous face filled him with warmth. He hadn't set eyes on her in months.

Not much longer now.

With a sleeping blanket rolled up on the saddle before him, the girl could be seated unobtrusively on Varten's horse. Her little hands gripping the reigns, or reaching out for the animals black mane as it swayed in stride.

He watched the little girl as they rode on, through the forest surrounding the town, and out onto the lonely moors that swept up from the coast, mile after mile. The girl slept, rocked to slumber by the slow motion of the horse.

Varten watched her with a smile on his face.

There was a fierce strength to be found in the scene, deep in Varten's chest. It had been so long since he'd been on the road, since he'd seen children just exist, that he'd forgotten what moments of true calm looked like.

He pitied the girl. He knew she'd probably not rest easy for years, but then neither would he.

But if she could doze off on a horse heading to a uncertain future with battered old soldiers she didn't know, then he supposed he had no excuse not to brush off the dirt and allow his life to continue once more as well.

He became aware that Moore was watching him, and turned to the big man.

"She's beautiful," Moore said, nodding to the little girl, "Been a long time since my one was so small. He's almost as big as me now."

Varten nodded, brushing the girls scruffy hair out of her face.

"Only a couple years short of mine, I think. You reckon they'll get on?"

Moore snorted and shrugged his great shoulders.

Varten laughed, and looked ahead. The sun was heavy in the sky, sending their shadows far into the future. If things could grow, things could rebuild.

They rode like that for some time. The afternoon grew warm. The moors ended, and eventually gave way to the long rolling green fields that made up the final stretch to Truronia.

There had been a time, long ago, when Varten had remembered being impressed by the capitol city, but now he was eager for the military pomp to be over, and the short journey south, towards home, to begin.

Varten and Moore had fallen far behind in the unit, the rows of horses and sleepy soldiers stretching out into the distance. The long shadows of clouds moved dreamily across the fields all around. Varten became aware of a rider approaching the front of the line across the grass. They were galloping through the gold light, seemingly made of silhouette alone.

There was a muttering down the line, exchanged words, a sudden severity in what brief conversation there was. Varten heard a few weary curses. He leaned slightly in his saddle, the child cuddling up to him for warmth as he moved.

Moore nodded up ahead.

"What is it?"

Varten began to shake his head, but stopped. The figure seemed not to ride out of the shadow that concealed her, but instead to part from it, draped entirely in black as she was. She had come to the front of the column, and as soon as her black mare drew level with Volsh, she came to a halt.

Her cowled head did not move to acknowledge the sergeant.

"Shit, Crier up ahead." Varten murmured, he seated himself upright. He saw men in front of him sobering, stiffening. A few muttered holy words, signs passed over chests, or offered to the skies.

Moore shook his head, knowing.

"Don't let you enjoy ignorance for long do they?"

Varten shook his head once, slowly and firmly. He watched as the Kyni Crier stood sentinel as the rows of men passed her. Every so often her hand would rise to an approaching soldier, and she would make her delivery.

Varten could see the satchel hanging from her horse. For once, it looked blissfully light.

The minutes seemed to stretch, the steady thud of Varten's horses hooves slowed along with his heartbeat, as the black rider drew nearer, and nearer.

The girl  nestled in his lap was looking up at him, her blue eyes gleaming, the colour of the azure sky above. He ruffled her hair, and put his arm tighter around her.

The rider's cowl twitched as Varten's horse neared. He wanted to speak aloud, to scream in denial. That maybe if he stopped her before she moved it wouldn't be true.

Time came to an end. The rider's hand was extended, her black glove pointing at Varten's chest.

Varten's eyes tried to focus on the little silver letter he was being handed, but they wouldn't. It blurred before him. The letter, the figure who gripped it, then the ground beneath him entirely fell from focus.

He heard Moore's voice, but didn't understand the words. Somewhere up ahead a soldier was wailing in despair, having seen the names on his own letter.

It faded out, the sound of human voice drizzling away like rain. Varten felt the pressure of Moore's hand grip his shoulder, but not the touch.

Varten took a deep breath to steady himself, and it came in ragged and sudden, the breath of a man who was choking.

The girl stirred, her tiny body against his. He looked to her. His pain stared back at him, mirrored in her eyes.

Varten held her close to him.

There was silence.

Comic Review: Legion

Of all the recent superhero shows filling the box the last few years, none have quite stood out like last years out-of-nowhere sleeper hit, Legion. The psychedelic, music inspired sci-fi comedy horror romantic-drama told the story of a troubled antagonist, inspired by the X-Men franchise's character of the same name.

It's been a while since we've seen David Haller, as Legion much prefers to be called, in the comics. Last seen in a truly seminal run penned by Simon Spurrier, X-Men Legacy confronted the nature of Legion's many personalities, giving them individual faces, names and forms, and ended with the incredible finale of David's fractured mind finally coming under  his own control at last. Sane at last, David uses the reality editing power of his ultimate personality to remove himself from history, choosing to exist only in the mind of the woman who loved him.

Now Legion is a complex character, and not just thematically. Since his introduction in The New Mutants, David Haller  has been through the ringer. He's a deeply haunted and troubled young man possessed of a plethora of conflicting personalities, some good, some evil, and some utterly beyond human understanding. Over the years writers have taken him from a mentally handicapped child, to an all powerful anti-villain splitting universes apart, to a lonely traveler seeking redemption.

Milligan's Legion begins at an unspecified time in David's life, when the wandering mutant, garbed in his hospital scrubs, is tormented by a fierce and dominant new personality, Lord Trauma. Desperately seeking freedom from his increasingly aggressive alter-egos, David encounters New York Psychologist Hannah Jones. A shrink to celebrities, Dr Jones appears to be encountering strange and unexplained phenomena all her own, with apparitions and hallucinations warning her of dangerous events to come.

Finding each other in their time of distress, David Haller and Hannah Jones meet, and perhaps will be able to help each other. 

There's some great moments in the first issue of Legion, with the sinister telepath Lord Trauma manifesting himself in the brain waves seen as David undergoes an Electroencephalogram being a particular high point. The interior art is stylish and colourful, Wilfredo Torres using a mix-up of dutch angles to leave us feeling as off balance as the characters within the story, and the sharp blacks and hard edges are reminiscent of classic Mike Allred work. The cover image is a puzzling one though, which shows a much more cartoony styled theme than what new fans of the character attracted by the show are likely to take to.

Where Peter Milligan's Legion fits into the greater picture of the character isn't clear yet, but I do hope it acknowledges past (or future?) events from the previous runs (and please don't forget David's often neglected accent Pete!) There's still a lot to explore with the character, and a whole plethora of new personalities to explore it with. If anyone can do justice to David's twisted and warped mind, Peter Milligan is sure to write from experience.

Down Among the Dead Men (A Cerce Stormbringer Story)

Cerce frowned down at the long length of metal in her hands. The black leather grips of her halberd were stained with blood. Dried to a dull brown, the crusty smears were deep in the tightly wrapped grips, coming off like powder under Cerce’s thumb as she worried at it.

She’d have to unwrap the whole thing again to get it clean.

She placed the heavy weapon down on the camp floor. Heavier than usual today. Her arms were tired from swinging it.

There were bloodstains in her clothes too. Blood where it had splashed onto her skirt and the bare green flesh of her legs beneath. Blood trodden into the soles of her high boots. Cerce wanted to take it all off, toss it to the ground and run and dive deep into the lake like after her old days working the forge. Long time ago now. The lake was a long way off. Cerce had a gut wrenching thought, that her father’s forge might be cold now, but quickly told herself that someone must have taken over it. Belerion needed regular metal work like any other town.

Looking around at the human debris that filled the camp, she didn’t think bathing was a commonplace event anyway. Everyone here was fully dressed in multiple layers to brace against the night cold, or the occasional spatter of chill coastal rain. Sleepy travelers and merchants were slumbering on the bare ground, laying in hammocks strung between creaky trees, occasionally in small cots or snoring in chairs. A fiddle was playing from across the camp somewhere, a jaunty but off key din that reminded her of the low streets in the Foul Mouth.

Most of the real soldiers had gone. Moved on the to next battle before they’d even had time to mourn anyone lost today. A circle of armoured mercenaries played scruffs around a fire not too far away, a touch too far to make sense of their chatter. One had come over earlier and cheerily asked if she’d care to join their game. Cerce was shit at cards though, and knew better than to accept. She had politely declined the offer.

One old timer was seated on the bare ground, a poor makeshift wooden right leg in place of his real one stuck out before him. He was staring miserably at the food being consumed by the mercs. She felt bad for the old bloke. This was no place for old soldiers. She had known a place for old soldiers once. Long time ago now.

Cerce was lying to herself though. She didn’t want to be social. It was too much effort after today. She didn’t feel like fielding the questions. The usual ones Cerce got anytime she passed through these places alone. There was always someone who’d heard a story or two about the Stormbringer and needed his questions answered. Someone who swore that his uncle or cousin or ex-boyfriend had been at the battle of Belerion field and desperately needed validation. Sometimes just someone who wanted a crack at getting into the knickers of a Nadyr girl.

She’d noticed the questions were more scarce when she was travelling with friends. Her travelling partners were otherwise occupied, and Cerce missed Adam and Carnaby somewhat worse than she’d admit to them. Carnaby knew how to scare off unwelcome attention with a practiced snarl better than anyone, and Adam was always good for some spry entertainment.

A figure ambled over past Cerce’s corner of the camp, his stride a little bent, a bottle in his hand. Cerce watched him out of the corner of her eyes. He wore a faded military coat and boots. Her aching body was unwilling to admit it, but her mind was still there, still twitchy, antsy, expecting something else. It wasn’t until the man pulled out his cock and proceeded to let loose a stream into a nearby tree that Cerce reminded herself to relax, to unwind, that the fight was over.

She flexed her hands out, her claws were uneven where she’d broken a couple. She started making mental plans of what to do with the money.

Go back to the Mouth. Get all her clothes cleaned and fluffed and restitched. Big bath with soap in the hotel by the shore, with a pretty Elven girl to brush the knots from Cerce’s long hair. Eat the biggest fish baked with lemon on the seafront, wash it down with sweet wine that looked like crystals.

Cerce found her water-skin and took a pull of cheap sour wine from it. They’d never let her back in that hotel again after last time, but she could dream. As for the hair, she’d probably end up sitting on the rickety stool in Jiera’s pub, the proprietor grumpily shearing the congealed blood and dirt from Cerce’s hair with scissors while Cerce ate a greasy pasty with her hands.

What to do with the money then? Give it all to a legless soldier, she supposed?

Cerce smiled in spite of herself.

The drunk finished up and was liberally shaking his whole body, and turned to face Cerce as he tried to button himself up one handed, the other tipping his bottle back.

“Saw you lookin’,” he slurred, giving Cerce a toothy smile.

Cerce shook her head once in warning.

“Not tonight, jog on,” she said evenly, giving her head a tilt back towards the camp.  

The man raised his hands in mock surrender, then wiped his hands on his filthy coat.

“Oop, fine, fine, don’t mind me none. You sit here all by yerself then,” he muttered, heading off.

Cerce finished off her wine and smirked to herself, remembering the fine exit strategy for dealing with overzealous suitors Adam had come up with. She was surprised how many men were open to the suggestion that a Nadyr’s cunt was deadly poisonous to humans.

The drunk crossed paths with the portly figure of the recruitment officer as he went, and the well dressed man gave the wastrel a look up and down as he headed over to Cerce’s spot.

“Giving you any trouble, Stormbringer?” he asked. Cerce cringed. She still felt like a child playing pretend when people called her that.

“He’s fine. Nice to see someone enjoying himself after today honestly,” Cerce said, looking up at the man, her fingers toying with the hem of her skirt.

He fought for something to say, before he raised a finger in acknowledgment of an unspoken question, and reached into his waistcoat for a pouch.

“Here you are, sorry to keep you waiting. I hope the weather hasn’t been too unpleasant. Awful out here on the moors though isn’t it? Always raining. Can’t wait to get home.”

He blathered on as Cerce reached for the pouch. It was small, but satisfyingly heavy, and the coins clinked as she hefted it in her hand.

“Bloody business eh?” he said, clapping his hands together. When Cerce looked up at him she looked into a familiar expression. Excitement, hopefulness. She saw it most often in young untested soldiers or in children. The ones who thought battle was something to get excited and geared up for. Cerce had been in many battles now. More than she cared to count, and though the situations changed, and the people she had to fight changed, two things stubbornly refused to change. These were that she’d spend the hours before shitting herself with terror, and the hours after with a vague and formless feeling of depression and nihilism.

“Bloody indeed,” Cerce said, “Takes ages to get out of everything, and by the time you got it clean it’s usually time to do it all over again.”

“No rest for the wicked eh?” the officer said. Cerce didn’t return his smile at all, and he lost his steam.

“Well, we know where to send word if… when we need you again, Stormbringer. The right honorable High Chairman thanks you for your invaluable service.”

The recruitment officer turned and strode away, and Cerce watched him go. She coughed and spat up a wad of phlegm, which was a fairly general reaction to hearing the High Chairman mentioned in conversation.

Cerce stood, and stretched out. Her legs were stiff. Her arms ached. She half bent to pick up her halberd, and stopped. She found herself looking across the camp instead. To the old soldier, to the mercs, to the lowly wastrels, to those who mourned.

Her high black boots hurt her feet. She pulled them off and left them on the ground by her halberd. Bloodstains and all.

Barefoot, the cool dirt beneath her toes, Cerce walked across the camp. One of the mercs gave a smile at her, and faces turned in her direction.

“Ho, Stormbringer. Come for a hand?” one asked. Cerce tussled her hair, scratching her scalp.

“Just to watch, boys. Who’s winning?” she asked, smiling.

There was a clamor of comments in return, with a few fingers being pointed and a few laughs and insults exchanged, a flung apple core bounced off the side of someone’s head, prompting more laughing.

Cerce looked over to the man with his little food cart, his closely guarded meats housed in a salt crate, a flame burning, ready for a hot plate to be put to. Cerce pulled a few coins from the purse.

“Two of them, with the breads. Garlic. Throw it all on,” she said, gesturing to his hot plate.  

The cook nodded, tossing long strips of salted meat onto the hot plate. Smells began to drift. He was facing down at the cooking food, but his wary eyes were taking a good long look at Cerce from under bushy eyebrows.

Cerce smiled and thanked him as he passed her the sizzling meat wrapped in hard bread. Her coin was quickly spirited into a metal box nearby.

Cerce took one apart in a few mouthfuls, juice on her chin, her fangs tearing.

The other she walked over and offered to the old timer, who was still sat against his tree in silence.

He looked up at her with curious, rheumy eyes.

“Go on, eat. Skinny old bastard,” Cerce said, waving the meal at him. The hands that reached for it were gnarled, shaky, with big blue veins coiling around the joints. His fingertips brushed Cerce’s as he took the food, they were calloused, tough like seashells.

He ate at the food quietly, still looking up at the towering woman before him.

“Where did you lose it?” she asked. She briefly touched his wooden leg with a bare foot.

“Zenance.”

Cerce nodded. He was apparently old as dirt.

“The first night? Heard it was rough.”

He nodded gravely, taking another bite and hungrily swallowing without much chewing.

“Was. Third night I lost this though,” he gave a knock on the wood.

Cerce raised a white eyebrow.

“Stuck out till the third day? Good work. Heroes, they said. 78 hours. Zenance never fell.”

“You a hero too then, girl?” He asked. Cerce thought, and after a moment, pulled aside the collar of her black shirt. From just below her ear, to well down her shoulder, crossing her collarbone, was a thin and pale scar. It was jagged, cruel looking. The old man looked, and nodded.

"Yep. That's what being a hero will get you," he pointed at her with the dwindling food. 

“Eyes aren’t what they were. Thought you were an Orcress at first. Sorry.”

Cerce smiled. He reminded her of more than a few old men she once knew.

“Thanks,” he said. Cerce gave a toss of her head.

“Come over by the fire. Get warm. Tell some stories. The young ones will love it.”

Eyes were watching Cerce from across the camp. Suspicious, curious, and aggressive, by turn. Cerce took a few more coins from her pouch; then, after a moment, a few more.

“Anyone else hungry?” she said, loud enough for it to be heard across the camp. A few faces turned up hopefully. Cerce put a handful of coins into the cook’s hand.

“Cook it all up. Make a night of it eh?” she said, “and whatever wines you got left. I’ll take them.”

He shrugged.

“Got some ales. Out of wine.”

“Ales it is then. Hear that? Come get it. On me,” Cerce said to the camp. She gave a smirk at the drunk who standing, trying to steady himself against a tree supporting some meagre belongings.

“A big bottle for my friend over there with the big cock!” she laughed. He gave a knowing wink and raised a hand in salute.

The old man settled in by the mercs. They were greeting him.

“Zenance? The Orc siege? My dad was a kid during that, he remembers hearing about Zenance,” it started.

Cerce had strode over to the bard, who played his little fiddle. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and gave Cerce a look up and down like she was the goddess of beauty walking the Earth. She put a few coins in his waistcoat pocket, and gave him a wink.

“Got anything more lively in the repertoire eh?”

“If you’ll sing along miss? Stormbringer’s got a great voice, I hear,” the boy said. His accent branded him from the Mouth, clear as day.

“Ah, my reputation precedes me!” Cerce said, slipping into a little of the accent that Adam spoke with, “I got one I think you’ll know.”

She gestured with a hand raised above her hair, and the freshly handed out bottles were raised in turn to her.

“A ballad from my youth!” she declared, her face flush and her heart fluttering with excitement.

Cerce began. A few words in there was a resounding cheer, and the boy was able to accompany, with gusto.

Weigh hey and up she rises

Weigh hey and up she rises

Weigh hey and up she rises

Early in the mornin’

In Cerce’s experience you could count on it to get a bunch of old sailors or pirates going, seemed it works for soldiers too.

Turns out she did have a pretty great voice.

Cerce spent the rest of the money in the camp.

In the morning, after the long walk back to the Mouth, she’d wash in the rainwater that perpetually doused the port town. She’d wash her clothes in Jiera’s storehouse. She’d eat cheap greasy pasties bought for copper pieces. She wouldn't think back to todays battle.

For a moment she had forgotten the bloodstains, and was thinking of a place she knew.

Long time ago. Long way away. Back in a place for old soldiers. With a lake nearby she could leap into. Where her fathers forge was still hot.

Review: 'Phasma' by Delilah S. Dawson

The Star Wars series has never been good at fleshing out the villains. We had to wait 30 years for an entire trilogy of films before we learned the backstory of Darth Vader, so it's no surprise we learn next to nothing about the characters that make up the face of the First Order in the new films.

As before with the original trilogy, fans interested in a deeper exploration of their favorite characters can turn to the novels to find out more, and a look into the chrome suited warrior Captain Phasma is a great place to start.

Phasma begins with the capture of a young spy, Vi Moradi, by the First Order during a scouting mission for the resistance. Instead of being taken for routine processing however, Vi is placed under a secret interrogation by a high ranking Stormtrooper in scarlet armour, Cardinal.

Locking the spy deep in the bowels of a First Order ship, Cardinal bargains with Vi for information on his military rival, the enigmatic Captain Phasma, and so Vi must become a space-faring Scheherazade, playing to Cardinal's curiosity and telling the stories of Phasma's origins, all the while seeking a way to steal her freedom.

After my disappointment with the recent Thrawn novel, I was a little hesitant to dive back into the new Star Wars novels. I wasn't convinced yet.

Where Thrawn felt like treading all too familiar territory with a character we've dealt with many times before, Phasma takes a refreshing attitude to the Star Wars universe, showing us a character we've never seen before, in ways a little unexpected.

It follows the adventures of a barbaric group of warriors across a wasteland of conflict, complete with a moving setting, road-adventure feel, and many of the elements of a classic sci-fi fantasy magazine that you might not expect from a Star Wars story.
Our protagonists are a hard edged group of young men and women who face bloodshed and horror with smiles and bare blades. Encounters like finding themselves in a bloody arena of death for crazed spectators or catching the attentions of an abandoned mine full of lost droids gone mad all feel lively and visceral like the adventures one might encounter reading Conan or Richard Blade. Oftentimes in novels the important fantasy element of Star Wars is forgotten in favor of pure science fiction, but Phasma brings it in wonderfully.

Blending the hard edged barbarian heroes with the strict precision of the First Order characters is a lot of fun, and it reminded me of reading some of those wild Star Wars comics from the 70's that really played with the fantasy element. Thankfully Phasma doesn't stray too far from its purpose either, featuring a lot of character development for the leading lady, and, perhaps just as interesting, a lot explored about the sinister child indoctrination of the villainous First Order.

A common problem with books focusing on minor characters is the tendency to lose track of the elements that made those characters likable in the first place. If you like Phasma because she's a mysterious, practically faceless warrior, that image isn't tarnished within the pages of the book. Her strength is not undercut by her backstory, and neither is her enigmatic nature over-explained and ruined. The book isn't a who of Phasma, but a why.

Phasma builds to a satisfying conclusion, and perhaps most successfully of all, makes me like the titular character a lot more than before I'd read it. It's clearly a work of love from the author, and it made me eager to see what's next. You could say I'm convinced.

Comic Review: Kid Lobotomy

The birth of a new comic imprint can be a thrilling thing. In a field that tends towards stagnation, new imprints in the past like Vertigo and Helix have produced some of the most surprising cult hits in years. Based out of Los Angeles, Black Crown, a brand new imprint of publisher IDW, promises a line of new books from a variety of creators, exploring a myriad of subjects and introducing a host of new properties.

In Kid Lobotomy, the first title coming from Black Crown, we're introduced to a partnership of old hand and new talent. The pen is held by British writer Peter Milligan, whose notoriety in the comics business can't be overstated. The artwork is the blood and sweat of rising talent Tess Fowler, whose most recent work can be seen on covers across multiple major publishers. 

Milligan has a long reputation as a skillful craftsman of the grotesque and hilarious, from his genre-defining creation X-Statix to long tenures on Hellblazer, Shade the Changing Man and a plethora of others, he's known for pushing the envelope on the norm, and the boundaries of taste. He's on top form in the world of Kid Lobotomy.

It's the story of a young man, Kid, who after a series of twisted events finds himself manager of the city's strangest hotel. Tortured by a past shrouded in macabre music, madness and medical experimentation, Kid finds allies and enemies alike in the denizens of the building known as The Suites.

Part Overlook Hotel, part Mos Eisley Cantina, The Suites are home to a variety of strange and unusual lodgers. The biggest charm of Kid Lobotomy so far is in the very building Kid must discover. He explores the workings of The Suites and just what he's got himself into, and along the way the many inhabitants, not all apparently human and not all even apparently alive, go about their own unique business within the walls of the mysterious building.

The art is sharp and fitting the world we find ourselves ready to explore. Fowler's distinct talent for expressive faces gives equal attention to the cute, the sexy, and the macabre alike, and no two characters look the same. The halls of The Suites are both shadowy and dreamlike, with a wonderfully moody colour scheme that reminded me of The Neon Demon.

There's a world waiting to be discovered here, with Kid's family, staff, and the many lodgers making up the main cast, along with hordes of quirky background characters. There's so many distinct characters lurking in the first issue alone, I look forward to seeing who among them will be fleshed out, what will become of them, and what's really hidden in the shadows of The Suites.

Kid Lobotomy, in all it's twisted, funny, and grotesque glory, comes out on October 18th. 

Review: 'Thrawn' by Timothy Zahn.

The expanded Star Wars universe can be a bit of a roller-coaster to follow at times. From the vast library of books comprising three different continuities, to the trifecta of canons that sometimes, but not always, intersect, it's hard to get a grip on certain characters or the stories they live through.

The enigmatic and mysterious Mitth'raw'nuruodo, better known as Thrawn, is unique among the characters found in the Star Wars universe, as one who has appeared in fiction both before and after the prequel reboot, as well as within the new modern continuity as well. Astoundingly enough, each time written by the same author. This gives a character cohesion unseen anywhere else in the wide-spread Star Wars universe, with Timothy Zahn taking up his flagship character again with a clearly comfortable hand. 

The villainous genius of Grand Admiral Thrawn originally menaced the heroes of the Star Wars story over 20 years ago. With his unrivaled military tactics and analytical mind, he eliminates any and all threats against him systematically, and seemingly effortlessly. He's a cold and calculating character, with a focused mind of conquest and fear, destroying any who would stand against him. 

These elements made Thrawn one of the stand out villains of any Star Wars story, and probably one of the overall best characters to ever come from the entire setting. They make him a looming, ever-present threat, far beyond the match of our heroes in the rebel alliance, and a mind greater than that of the Emperor or Darth Vader combined. 

A great villain is made by these strengths, his unstoppable nature becoming something the heroes must overcome, the 'one in a million' chance to defeat the superior foe. This is the making of a great antagonist. These same elements do not make a quality protagonist, however. 

Thrawn gives us the backstory of the titular Chiss mastermind from the first days of his interaction with the Empire, and chronicles his rise to Grand Admiral rank through his many extraordinary military conquests. We follow Thrawn and his unfortunate and mostly unwilling aide, the young Ensign Eli Vanto, as they venture through Imperial military academy, facing the quiet discrimination directed at the alien among the ranks of human officers, and proving himself step by step as the tactical genius he truly is. 

The story takes on an awfully familiar feel a short while in. Each new situation the duo face is swiftly overcome by Thrawn's brilliance, marveled at by the long-suffering Vanto as he observes his friend and ally with a jealous but admiring eye. Vanto acts as Thrawn's personal aide and translator, his friendly and personable character a much-needed buffer between the socially aloof alien and the rest of the imperial command. It's Holmes and Watson in space. It's enjoyable, and some of Thrawn's schemes and crafty escapes are great fun, but much like the classical detective, it begins to grow tiresome when we realize no one will best him. A hero is built by flaws, and apart from the seemingly irrelevant aspect of his social awkwardness, Thrawn is virtually flawless throughout the story. 

Furthermore, for a story claiming to detail the rise of the greatest military mind in the empire, I felt the events somewhat harm Thrawn's legacy rather than exalt them. Thrawn constantly beats the odds by his genius tactics, and inevitably gets in trouble with the high command. This should be the time to show his skill at manipulation, or give Vanto more time to shine as a character in his own right, but instead each time Thrawn is exempt from punishment due to simple cronyism, Emperor Palpatine having seen something in the Chiss that he admires, and so continually gets him out of of trouble with no repercussions again and again. 

There are new characters aplenty, ranks upon ranks of the imperial navy that will taunt and belittle Thrawn, only to find themselves outranked by him a chapter or two later. What I was personally hoping for was a chance for Thrawn to interact with great classic characters that, due to old timelines, he was never able to cross over with. Grand Moff Tarkin, Vader, and the Emperor himself all make brief (a matter of paragraphs in some cases) appearances, but unfortunately the interactions I hoped for never take place. This seems a wasted opportunity. Not only would it be great to see how the seemingly unflappable Thrawn would face with such notable great minds as Tarkin, or react to the intimidating presence of Darth Vader, but it was a chance to use the newly created canon where these characters are all alive at the same period for the first time to its fullest. 

The exploits of Thrawn and Vanto are fun to follow, and their friendship is one of the more interesting ones that has developed in the setting. I wished there could have been a little more downtime between the two, like what they get up to off the clock. We follow the pair for many years of their careers over the course of the story, and there's definitely a missing element of personal time to the story. What do these two do with their time off? Following Thrawn outside his military command environment, maybe exploring his obsessive love of art, could have been a hell of a lot of fun, but there's precious little moments in the whole story when he isn't outsmarting someone or another, or solving a tactical problem. Oddly enough, with his every-man viewpoint and exasperated character, it's Vanto who shines as the most enjoyable personality in the book.

While Thrawn is a well written book in its own right, it really isn't the great backstory the character probably deserves. If anything, for a military character, the path of his career is a little run of the mill. Throughout the entire book there is a thread of mystery, a clandestine effort hidden within the Empire that only Thrawn seems to notice, yet instead of this building finally to something significant, it fizzles inexplicably to nothing. It seems a lot was built towards with very little final resolution.  

In the end, it boils down to one major element of fiction. Only in rare situations does a great antagonist also make a great protagonist. What works with Darth Vader does not work with Grand Admiral Thrawn. He is a character far better kept to the opposing side of the narrative, with his schemes and genius veiled from the reader. Walking beside him every step of the way removes some of the charm, and the threat, of one of the greatest characters to be found in the Star Wars universe.