Mitchell Lüthi's Blog, page 2

Write Like Hell: Kaiju is now available on Amazon! You c...

 Write Like Hell: Kaiju is now available on Amazon! You can pick up a physical or digital copy of the anthology HERE.

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Complete with stunning illustrations, the anthology weighs in at just over 380 pages! You can check out some of the illustrations below, as well as the anthology’s foreword.

 

Foreword

 

There’s a certain inevitability to any kaiju story. Notwithstanding the rare digression here and there, most unfold with the same irrepressible logic. The domain of routine life, epitomised in bustling metropoles, is suddenly encroached upon by a bafflingly large monster of inscrutable origin and enormous destructive power. Before the disposable citizenry has time to react, the rampage begins. Buildings topple like dominoes, the survivors run for the hills, and a recklessly extravagant military response is crushed in short order—you know, the usual kaiju pageantry. For a brief moment, man comes to know his place in the cosmic food chain—and it’s not at the top. It is at this point that the genre embodies the central tenets of cosmic horror and, in its response, promptly bins them.

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When these mythical creatures emerge from the depths of the ocean, or from long-dormant volcanoes, it goes without question that the future of humanity’s existence is at stake. But instead of reeling in psychosis-inducing terror from the revelation of man’s flimsy position, an overweening optimism, baked into the very fabric of the genre, propels the plot onward. Apart from mild apprehension, no significant psychic backlash registers in the minds of the heroes. Rather, in a rare show of global solidarity, a unified front develops, and a crack team of scientists, engineers, and grizzled soldiers of fortune form the vanguard in a hackneyed counter-offensive against the colossus, leading to its demise.

It’s tempting to watch such stories from afar, detached and indifferent. After all, mankind always prevails, right? The monster will die, or otherwise return from whence it came, and everything will go back to normal, right? We disentangle ourselves from the interconnected stories of the individuals and look at the narrative as a whole, smiling when humans succeed, despite the cost.

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One would think we’d have grown tired of triumphing over adversity by now. A cursory glance at the Marvel Cinematic Universe, or any major blockbuster, reveals not. And it’s a testament to how time-worn that storyline is that Infinity War—specifically supervillain Thanos—became so popular, so infamous, so upsetting to the average viewer. In the final act, man’s every attempt to triumph over evil fails, and Thanos snaps his way to a catastrophic but refreshing break in consensus storytelling.

Kaiju stories rarely indulge plot twists of that sort, preferring to present an indomitable threat and then see it defeated. The monsters central to these stories have every possible advantage, and yet they often lose. There’s nothing wrong with this approach to storytelling per se, even if it requires a near constant suspension of disbelief in the face of absurdity. But it could be argued that it is that very absurdity that has cemented kaiju’s place as a genre unto itself. From its obscure origins as a kind of Japanese post-war expressionism to a universally beloved medium of the modern day, it has always been charmingly ridiculous. It’s why Pacific Rim pays homage to it the only way it can, by cranking up the apocalyptic zaniness to eleven. There’s a ceiling to escalation, however, an inherent limit. The emotional stakes can only be raised so high before there’s very little joy to be gained from beating the odds. This effect may go some way to explaining why the sequel was such a monstrous dud. Too much chaos and carnage; too much of a good thing. Fortunately, there are countless other ways one might write a kaiju story, paths that might take more seriously the existential threat such a being poses to humanity.

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It’s quite possible, if not probable, that an event of such magnitude would be the undoing of humans, a fight we’d lose at the very outset if some super-being were to awaken. And even in the best case scenario, a residue of helplessness and hopelessness would linger long after the monstrosity was vanquished and a sense of ‘normalcy’ had returned. What’s more, it might be thought that the mere existence of such a thing would be enough to shift the nature of our beliefs, for what God could allow such creatures to exist side-by-side with us? It might be enough to make us question our history, and how much we truly know of what is possible and impossible. And lastly, it would doubtless make us pause and think—truly think—about what it means to survive in a world where such beings exist. Would anyone want to continue on in such a place?

Write Like Hell: Kaiju presents a glimpse into such a world. With twelve stories of monstrous beings, this anthology covers huge swathes of genre territory, which is something that delighted us when we first selected the manuscripts that would eventually make it into the book you find before you. Mention a ‘kaiju tale’ and people often think of titanic figures clashing over cities as mankind watches on, impotent and lost. Well, this collection has that—of course it does! But it has something else, too. A touch of fantasy for the sword & sorcery lovers, a sprinkling of horror for the cult of Lovecraft, and a glimpse at a possible future among the stars.

Scott Miller and Mitchell Lüthi

 

Write Like Hell: Kaiju – Story Details!

Twelve tales of monstrous beings, twelve different approaches. Write Like Hell: Kaiju is an anthology of stories focused on terrifying creatures, and the humans who must face them. From Viking sagas, to sci-fi thrillers, you’ll find a host of imaginative and compelling fiction within these pages.

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Featuring stories from C. L. Werner, Justin Fillmore, Mitchell Lüthi, Scott Miller, Adam Gray, André Uys, Leon Fourie, Matthew Fairweather, Erik Morten & Samantha Bateson, Andrea Speed, and Tyron Dawson, as well as illustrations from Stephen Spinas, this anthology offers up a wide range of tales from authors around the globe, each with their own perspectives and ideas, and all eager to contribute to the genre of kaiju.

You can read about the stories in this anthology collection below! You can preorder HERE.

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There’s been a murder. Of course there has, but this time it’s different. Something strange is happening on the streets of London. People are disappearing, and nobody knows why. Working with little more than a hunch, Captain Stopforth of the London Police must investigate every clue and follow every lead, no matter how horrifying their conclusion. Adam Gray’s Big Bloody Ben is a rip-roaring adventure set in Victorian London, pitting the indomitable Captain Stopforth against, well… You’ll just have to read to find out!

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When the crew of the longship Varúlfr take refuge from a storm on a mysterious island, they are confronted by the relics of an ancient belief, and the remnants of a long forgotten civilisation. As the true horror of the island reveals itself, they’re forced to wonder if they really have stumbled upon Hel’s kingdom… or something worse. In The Bone Fields, Mitchell Lüthi paints a bloody picture of Vikings, the old faith, and the perils of the high seas.

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As a boy, Toshi bonded with a 300-foot kaiju, and saved the world. Now, as an adult, he’s finding that protecting the world from a rampaging monster may have been the easy part. How do you have a social life when your best friend could wipe out a city in hours? Toshi hopes to find out. A Boy and His Monster, by Andrea Speed, is a heart-warming tale of the trials of early adulthood, and how even saving the world won’t stop you from being nervous on a first date.

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Brittany, a devoted wife, is left a widow when her husband doesn’t return from the war. Left damaged and alone, she realises that life must carry on, and so it does… Until the discovery of a strange creature in the marshes changes everything.

André Uys’ January Through the Years is a beautifully written story about love and loss, and the voids we fill along the way.

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Across unchartered seas, hidden by lush forests and unscalable mountains, the New World flourishes. Untouched by the ravages of the Old World, Tepin and his people explore the vast wilderness that surrounds them, and share great stories of the creatures that lurk within the woods. But beneath the shadow of the pyramid something stirs, and it is hungry. Scott Miller’s Cipactli is a spellbinding glimpse at a world before the West, with captivating characters and a thunderous climax that’ll see you looking to the next page for more.

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Another village has been found in ruin, with only the massive prints of a monstrous creature left to identify the culprit. The Honengyo has turned upon the people of the Hoshin clan, and only death and destruction will sate its appetite. Left with little choice, Lord Torogawa calls upon the infamous wandering samurai, Shintaro Oba, to deal with the beast. But can he and his demon-killing sword, Koumakiri, prevail against something as old as the very mountains themselves? And what of his own personal quest for vengeance?

C. L. Werner’s Honengyo transports us to Feudal Japan, where quarrelling clans and treacherous assassins leave chaos in their wake, while cunning sorcerers and demons align with one another to bring about a new order.

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The South Sea Company plies its trade all across the Atlantic, harvesting from the seas with reckless abandon, and little thought of anything but profits. Where their whalers go, blood is sure to follow, and who is to stop them? But things change when the mysterious Xa joins the whaler Agnor Rose at the port of Namibe.

In Justin Fillmore’s The Whaler, we join the crew of the Agnor Rose as they hunt the open seas for whales, before learning the truth about the mysterious Xa and his glowing eyes.

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Petrus Kruger is an expert in the occult, and an investigator of all things paranormal. Convinced that he’s responsible for unleashing an accursed pandemic upon the world, his investigations take him to the very heart of the catastrophe as he searches for the cause of One Monstrous Pandemic.

Leon Fourie’s dark tale is both timely and imaginative, weaving a link between many of the world’s great myths and folk tales, and creating a vision of a new and hidden history co-existing alongside our own.

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Great kaiju swim between the stars, and upon their backs, nestled between moon-sized craters and great limbs, are the cities of humanity. Though the future has given us boundless technology and the ability to do wonders, it is not without its own threats…

Erik Morten & Samantha Bateson offer up a truly unique take on mankind’s future among the stars. Featuring a host of characters and high stakes, Starchild is a thoroughly enjoyable tale of cosmic proportions!

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The 20th century gave birth to modern marvels, industrial empires, and technological phenomenons, but beneath the sooty chimneys of Dublin, it gave birth to something else, too.

Tyon Dawson’s Dominion focuses on the plight of the downtrodden, and the struggles of a family on the brink. Set in Ireland at the turn of the century, Dawson’s tale blazes its own path as it spins a yarn that falls somewhere between Lovecraftian horror and a story of real-world threats.

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Down on his luck, detective Donald ‘Mick’ Murphy is content to drink himself to death until a client walks in with a case that will change his life forever. In a world where going beyond city limits means a tango with giant monsters, Mick leaves no stone unturned in his search for Dr Jochovic, a kaiju scientist. Ruffling the feathers of mob bosses and hitmen alike, Mick discovers the dark secret at the heart of his city.

In Kaiju Noir, Matthew Fairweather takes well-worn noir tropes and flings them in the face of a kaiju tale, creating something both enjoyable and fascinating. Featuring tough, cynical characters, and a bleak and inhospitable world, Kaiju Noir is both absurd and fantastic, and well worth reading.

Don’t forget to preorder!

Write Like Hell: Kaiju

It is finally done!

DREGMERE – Audiobook on YouTube

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We’ve released the first story from Write Like Hell Volume 1: Dark Fantasy & Horror to listen to for free on YouTube.

You can check that out HERE

DREGMERE is the first story from the Write Like Hell: Dark Fantasy & Horror Anthology. Written by Mitchell Lüthi and performed by Scott Miller, Dregmere is a classically inspired tale of gothic horror.

Volume 1 of Write Like Hell is available on Amazon and Audible.

Write Like Hell is the first horror and dark fantasy anthology released by Sentinel Creatives. Adapted from the zine released under the same name, Write Like Hell features stories from Scott Miller, Justin Probyn and Mitchell Lüthi.

Sentinel Creatives is a South African indie press, production house, and distributor of superb works of fiction and near-fiction in a variety of formats.

 

Kingdoms – SAMPLE

The following is an excerpt from something a little different I’ve been working on. It’s a bit of a mix of dark comedy and flintlock fantasy, and follows the life of a prince after a bloody revolution sees his birthright snatched from him. I plan on spending more time on this after completing the Plagueborne Trilogy, but here’s a little sample! 

 

Ah, yes, “kingdoms”. We had them once, for a time. We gave it an honest go, really we did… honest. The great experiment lasted for about as long as it took for the first royal highness to mouth off the first royal serving boy. Never have a go at someone with easy access to the silverware, else he’ll nick it—right after slitting your throat.

You see, the thing about kingdoms is that they require a king—or queen, but these are far from enlightened times. The first to the throne is always the proudest, the most determined to see things done right. He’s also normally the most blood thirsty. How else would he have become the first king? His heir—if he finds enough time between killing off the peasantry and beheading any opposition to make one—is an oaf. Always. Half- drunk, sleepy-eyed, and quite happy to bask in the successes of his father, the first heir will always, inevitably, unavoidably, die an early death. You see, he lacks the innate violence of the father—and the paranoia, too. Poison in the cup… a knife in the dark… A viper between the sheets—either serpent or wife, though usually the latter.

The third to throne… Well now, this is where things get interesting. I could wax lyrical about how the son learns from the mistakes of the father, is gentle where Granddad the Butcher would be hard, sober where his father was a drunkard, blah, blah, blah. But that would be tooting my own horn—and I’d rather have someone toot it for me. Ah, and here she comes right now, just on time. Toot toot.

The Bone Fields – SAMPLE

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THE BONE FIELDS

ACT I

 

Thoril braced against the cold wind, and gripped her oar tight as the storm buffeted the longship Varúlfr. Beneath them, all around them, the ocean was a broiling black cauldron, heaving its might against their own. It had not yet found them wanting.

Inge hunched up beside her, and grinned madly as the sea crashed over the side of the longboat. Her shaven head was lathered with sweat and rain, and the tattoos that covered her skin shone as though freshly inked.

“Njǫrd is in one of his moods again,” she called over the wind.

Thoril spat out salt water, and wiped her lips. “He is always angry this time of year. Halvor was foolish to make us stay for so long.”

She stared along the aisles, past the ragged band of figures that made up the rest of the company. Halvor stood at Varúlfr’s helm, unbowed by the frantic gale that hammered the ship. His long hair was soaked through, matted against his head and neck. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, in search of their sister ship, Kveldúlfr, who had disappeared into the storm.

“Halvor’s raids are always the most rewarding,” said Inge. “That is why he chose to stay, and that is why we chose to come. This old god’s anger is a small price for what we have taken.”

Thoril nodded. It had been a bountiful raid, and Halvor’s company had made enough for them all to secure land and power upon their return home. They had stuck to the coast at first, like any other raiding party, and taken what they could from the farms they found there. But Halvor was ambitious, and they’d soon found themselves sneaking into larger settlements, and then sacking them. It had been slaughter, but one well worth the wait. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the covered stern of the boat. She’d even managed to secure a slave on this expedition – her first. He sat huddled up beside two others, shivering into his soaking rags.

“Fritjof better not have gotten himself lost.” Inge squinted her eyes against the rain. “Or sailed Kveldúlfr to the ocean floor, then we’ll never see half our spoils. Afterlife or no, I’ll hunt him down and wring his thin neck until his eyes pop out.”

Inge had another reason for wanting to see Kveldúlfr again. Her lover, Akes, sailed with Fritjof. The warrior had spurned her advances at first, but Inge was not easily dissuaded. The first night on Bretland soil had seen them share a bedroll, and they’d spent every night together since.

“Not even Fritjof would dare sink his ship when he carries Halvor’s cargo. You will see, once the storm relents, then you will see that stupid boy’s face again.”

Inge slapped her on the back and grinned. “I’m more interested in what’s between his legs.”

Thoril rolled her eyes, and sank her oar into the water. The pull of the waves was getting stronger, and she struggled to find a rhythm. Others in the company, Herleid and Ovil, but others too, had already given up. They sat wrapped in great furs beside sheltered braziers, taking what little warmth they could.

“Halvor will tell us to stow away the oars soon,” said Inge, her smile fading. “Then we will need to hold-fast until the storm passes, or join Fritjof at the bottom of the sea.”

Thoril shrugged. Halvor was too shrewd a sailor to let a mere storm defeat him, but when one’s time came, even the trickster himself would be hard put to evade his fate. She turned to the sea, and watched as it rampaged and turned beneath grey clouds. For too long she had been away from the open waters, and her mood had dampened with each day they had moved inland. Now that she was back, cold as she was, wet as she was, she felt her spirits soar.

Her eyes narrowed as a wave rose up beside Varúlfr. It drew the ship toward it, until they were tilted horizontally against it, and a gauzy mist of water splashed over them. Halvor rode the wave expertly, bringing the longship over it before it could crest, and plummet them all to their doom. As the wave diminished beneath them, Thoril thought she saw a flash of silver below the surface, the scales of an enormous shape riding alongside them. But when she blinked again it was gone.

“Land!” She shook free the vision, and looked up as the call rang out again.

“What land is here?” Inge rose from her seat beside her, stepping up onto it in an effort to see over the heads of the rest of the company.

“There is nothing,” Ulfgar said from the seat opposite them. He ran a hand over his stubbly head, and shrugged. “Not for many days still. There must be a mistake.”

“There is… something.” Inge leaned on Thoril’s shoulder for support, and rose on her toes for a better look. “I see a thin line, barely a smudge, but it has the look of land about it.”

“To your oars!” Halvor’s voice boomed above the storm. He strode between the aisle, pulling the crew back down to their seats. “We make for the shore, and a break from the storm!”

Inge plopped back down beside her, and laid her hands on the oar. Together, they pulled deep against the chopping waters, for the smudge on the horizon.

 

***

The howling wind relented as they navigated their way into a sheltered cove, where the ocean was strangely dead and still. The land around them was unfamiliar, and Thoril felt herself tense as she stared up at the grey crags above. Where had they come from? She had never seen this place before, and the maps did not speak of it. Unless the storm had blown them further off course than she realised.

Halvor had them moor Varúlfr along the coast, and then set a team to repair what little damage the storm had done. Thoril took up her sword and shield, and walked along the beach with Inge while the rest set up camp. She could see Halvor’s pathfinders moving up ahead of them, slipping in and out of the trees that hemmed in the shoreline.

“Maybe they will find us another farmstead?” Inge thumped her sword against her shield and smiled. “Or perhaps a little lord and his castle, too far from anyone to call for help. That would be enough to settle my debt with Dag, no?”

Thoril stayed quiet. Her own debts had been covered weeks ago, and she did not have it in mind to raid again.

Inge stared at her from out of the corner of her eye, and then bumped into her with her shield.

“You are never smiling, even when things are good. Troubled Thoril, that is what they should call you in the songs.”

“Only because that hole in your face never closes,” she replied, returning the shove.

Inge laughed loud, and skipped about her, kicking up clumps of sand.

Troubled Thoril!

Aesirs’ daughter did not smile

Troubled Thoril!  

Cold as Jötunn, with rage like Freyja

 

Thoril dropped her sword and shield, and covered her ears. “You sing like a dog, Inge. If the gods could hear you now, they’d cut out your tongue.”

“Good enough for the beer halls, but not for Troubled Thoril eh?” Inge made to push her again, but Thoril raised a hand.

“It’s Bjarki,” said Inge, following her gaze.

Halvor’s chief pathfinder was bounding over the beach toward them, his sword and shield strapped to his back.

“What have you found?” Thoril called as he loped past.

Bjarki slowed, breathing heavily. “Kveldúlfr. We’ve found her, she’s up ahead.”

“See, I told you,” said Thoril, turning to the other shield-maiden. “Fritjof is too much of a coward to lose his ship. He will be sitting fat on Halvor’s loot, like Hreidmar and his dwarves.”

Inge knitted her brow, her eyes still tracking the pathfinder as he jogged over the sand. “And of the crew, are they all there?”

Bjarki shrugged as he picked up his pace, heading toward the camp. “There is no one.”

 

***

 

Halvor’s company – over twenty warriors all told – stood at the top of a dune, and stared down at Varúlfr’s sister ship. Fritjof had moored her on the beach, away from the draw of the tide. Her oars had been stowed away, and sails furled, but there was no sign of life anywhere aboard.

Bjarki and his trackers stood by Halvor, engaged in whispered conversation, while the rest of the party edged down toward the ship.

“Do you think an ambush?” Inge’s question lacked any conviction, but Thoril shook her head anyway. She couldn’t see any of the signs of a fight from the dune; no bodies littered the sand, and there wasn’t a drop of blood to be found around Kveldúlfr.

“They must have moved inland.” She waved her shield toward the dense forest beside them, and then squinted into the gloom herself. A coarse thicket covered the land between the beach and the rock face that loomed above. The trees were tightly packed, leaving hardly enough space for a man and his shield to pass through, and malformed roots snaked their way across the forest floor. Fool that he was, it was unlike Fritjof to leave his ship unguarded, and for what? A walk through parts unknown?

A shout from aboard the boat saw Thoril’s eyes snap back to Kveldúlfr. Ubba and Katja, two of Halvor’s senior blooded-warriors, had clambered up the rungs of the ship and were waving everyone closer. The pair of them were covering their faces, and Ubba retched up something watery before climbing back down.

“I do not like this,” said Inge as she grabbed Thoril by the shoulder. The two navigated the steep incline together, slipping and sliding as they made their way onto even ground.

They were among the first to reach the bottom of the rise, and they pushed their way toward Halvor and his trackers, who had moved down ahead. Ulfgar gave them a curt nod, and shifted up to let them through. He was normally the first to crack a smile, but his face was grim.

“Might have been better we remained away from this bay.” He gritted his teeth and turned to look at the sea. Beyond the shelter of the cove, the storm still raged, and the wind still howled. But beneath the crags of this new island, everything was peaceful.

“I am reminded of the tales of Náströnd in this place, of the cursed and the damned.”

 

That hall is woven

of serpents’ spines

There Níðhǫggr sucked

corpses of the dead

and the wolf tore men

on Dead Body Shore

 

Thoril shivered. “You are always one to set a mood.”

“It is not me.” The old warrior thumbed his hand, and then rolled his neck, before meeting her eyes. “Old Ove has felt it too. We were not meant to come here.”

Inge guffawed. “Ove always feels something, but sometimes it’s just the madness inside his own head.”

“Mock him if you like, but he has seen more than you can know, more than you can understand.”

Inge shrugged at that, and they walked in silence for a moment, behind Halvor and the pathfinders. Ulfgar took such things seriously, more so than most. To argue with him was like pushing a bull through mud, with its horns pointed at you. He bore his faith on his skin, and his shaven scalp was adorned with symbols of protection – Othala runes, the Fe, and tributes to Heimdall himself.

Inge was about to snap back with a delayed retort when she gagged.  “That smell.”

Thoril made a face, and covered her nose with her forearm. “Like rotten fish.” Her eyes started to water at the stench that assaulted her senses, but she walked forward gamely, even as others choked and swore behind her.

The rest of the party gathered at the base of the longship, and waited as Bjarki and Ulfgar clambered up the rungs, and stared over the side.

“They’ve left their shields.” Thoril glanced up at the rack, which remained untouched.

“That’s Akes’s,” said Inge, pointing her sword toward a red and white shield above them. “They must have needed to move quickly.”

Thoril nodded, but she felt the first hint of uneasiness grip her as she watched Bjarki and Ulfgar turn to face the gathered party.

“It is a serpent’s brood,” Bjarki stated solemnly. He made the sign of the Fe and spat at the boat. “This is Jörmungandr’s lot, and we are not welcome in this place.”

Ulfgar dropped down onto the sand, and then helped the older warrior down.

“It is an ill-omen,” he said, once Bjarki was on the beach beside him. A crowd of confused faces stared back at him, until Halvor strode forward, and nimbly clambered up the side of the boat.

“Eels,” he said simply, as he stared down at the hold. “The storm must have seen them dumped in Fritjof’s boat, nothing more.”

Ulfagr mumbled something from below, but Halvor silenced him with a wave of his hand. “There is nothing of the Midgard serpent here. Do you think we would have found this ship if the World-Snake had come upon it?”

Ulfgar shrugged, and thumbed his palm nervously. “I simply say what I see.”

The jarl shook his head and then stared at the party for a moment, sweeping his gaze across the dunes. “Fritjof is a fool,” he said. “We all know this.”

Some of the men chuckled at his words, but most were quiet. Ulfgar had put them on edge.

“He has left his ship unguarded, and charged off to see what treasures he can find for himself. He means to leave us with his ship, like a nursemaid.” Halvor jumped down from the boat and dusted his hands off. “But we are not his nursemaids, are we?”

Thoril found herself muttering her dissatisfaction with the idea along with the rest of the party.

“We will move inland and find the fool, then he can make a bed from the eels he left in his boat!” A grin split Halvor’s face as the mood lifted, and raucous laughter was joined by his warriors.

“Come, now,” said Halvor once the laughter had receded. “Fritjof can’t have made it far.”

He nodded to his pathfinders, who moved off quickly into the forest. “There is still a little light before nightfall.”

As the company moved toward the tree line, Inge pushed past Thoril and headed toward the boat.

“What are you doing?” Thoril sighed, and followed after her friend. “You heard Halvor, we don’t have much light left.”

“I want to see.” Inge dropped her gear into the sand, and turned to Thoril. “Are you not curious to see what Jörmungandr has left us?” She didn’t wait for an answer before pulling herself up the side of the boat.

Thoril sighed again and dropped her own gear to climb onto Kveldúlfr.

The wood had started to rot, and the smell of decaying flesh intensified as she pulled herself up.

Inge exhaled as she reached the top and stared down into the hold. “Gods, Bjarki was right.”

“What is it, Inge?” Thoril asked, hearing her tone. She didn’t wait for a reply before peering down herself.

The entire floor of Kveldúlfr was covered in a writhing, seething mass of serpentine bodies. Their silver forms shifted in the half-light, wrapping themselves around one another in a slippery embrace. Thoril nearly gagged at the sight of them, and turned away as the smell threatened to overpower her.

“There are so many.” Inge curled her lips in disgust, and watched as the creatures rolled across the floor of the boat. “Fritjof and his company will have much to clean once this lot rots in the sun.”

“They will have no help from me,” said Thoril. She took one last look at the flowing mass of bodies, and then clambered back down the rungs. “Come! Inge! Or we will be left behind.”

ACT II

 

Of Halvor’s company, four were left to guard over Varúlfr, and another two to wait by Frtijof’s ship in case of his return. The rest set out into the dark forest, with torches lit against the coming of night.

“I have not seen nor heard any sign of beast or bird in this place.” Ulfgar swatted away a gnat with his torch. “Only these bastards.”

“Your blood is too pure,” said Inge. “But I have the cure.” She swigged from her flask and handed it to Thoril. “They will not eat you if your blood is poison.”

Thoril shrugged and took a sip, almost spluttering as the bitter liquid went down her throat. “What is this?” She asked, wiping her mouth with a hand, then looking at the flask sceptically.

“Baht gave it to me as a gift before we left. It was all he had left from his journey East.”

“No wonder his mind is so addled.” Thoril sniffed at the container and made a face. “I would rather be eaten, I think.”

“Suit yourself,” said Inge, taking back the spirits. “But don’t cry to me when your skin is raw from scratching.”

Ulfgar snorted. “Inge the generous.”

“It is Inge the Bloodied, now that I have fought the Christians, and stolen their silver.” She adjusted the shield on her arm and stared up into the canopy.

They had walked for many miles beneath the outstretched limbs of ancient trees, and there had been no sign of Fritjof or his company. Not long after leaving the shore, Bjarki had found a single path that cut its way through the forest. It was the only way past the near impenetrable undergrowth, and Halvor led them on it toward the great crags they’d seen from the boats.

“There are no stars.” Inge frowned up at the branches, and then shook her head. “They hide from this place.”

“They’re hidden behind clouds,” said Thoril. She’d felt uneasy since finding Kveldúlfr and its slippery cargo, and didn’t need Inge’s superstitions compounding that. “There was a storm, remember?”

“Or it is that this place is outside of our own.” Ulfgar glanced around him, holding his torch close to the trees. Their boughs and roots were scarred with age, and the leaves seemed to shrink away so close to the open flame. “Beneath the roots of the World Tree, there exists a place of terrible suffering, it is Hel’s kingdom.”

Thoril rolled her eyes. “But we have not died, Ulfgar. Ove is getting into your head with his stories. Unless you think we sunk to the bottom of the sea in that storm?”

The warrior shrugged. “Who’s to say that we didn’t?”

“Our flesh!” Thoril pulled down her sleeve and pointed to her bare skin. “Our sweat and thirst! Do you think the dead suffer these things?”

Ulfgar flinched at the tone of her voice, and raised a hand in supplication. “It is only a thought, I do not mean to anger you, storm-maiden.”

“It is not you, Ulfgar.” Thoril took a deep breath and rolled her knuckles against her shield. “I am sorry. It is this place, the quietness is getting to me.”

“It gets under my skin too,” said Ulfgar. “When these bastards aren’t busy eating me.” He swung his torch at a cloud of insects, and then beckoned to the other shield-maiden. “I’ll try some of your poison now, I think.”

Inge grinned and handed him the flask. “It gets better after the first sip, promise.”

Ulfgar raised a sceptical brow, and took a hesitant sip. His face paled and his brow creased as the liquor passed his lips. “This is what Baht calls a drink?” He spat on the forest floor and groaned. “No wonder he always stinks of cat piss.”

Inge grinned and took back the flask. “It has kept me warm through many a cold night, and it’s better than being eaten alive.”

“That it is,” said Ulfgar pressing on ahead. He waved an arm toward the thinning trees as a pale moon emerged from behind the diminishing canopy. “It looks like this dark forest has finally come to an end. Now we will see what wolfish murderers and serpent spines haunt this island.”

***

The forest opened up into a wide valley nestled between steep, windswept hills. A thin strip of silver hinted at the existence of a river not far ahead. Its snaking path ran the length of the valley, and then disappeared beyond the grey walls of the mountain range in the distance.

Halvor ordered the company forward, beyond the shelter of the forest, toward the river. The warriors were relieved to find themselves with empty skies above their heads once more, and moved with purpose.

As they moved out from the undergrowth, Thoril couldn’t help but notice the lack of stars. Even without the cover of clouds, the sky was like a black sheet, with only the wan light of the moon guiding their way.

“We will camp by the river.” Halvor led the company himself, setting a gruelling pace that soon saw them all wet with sweat and breathing heavily. He waved his axe at his chief scout and motioned to the grey peaks.

“Bjarki and Sigurd will move into the mountains while we rest.” He turned to his warriors, walking backward as he took them all in. “Do not sip too heavily on your mead this night, I think we will all need to be sharp come the morning.”

His warriors grumbled to themselves, but accepted his warning without rebuke. Most were too tired for thoughts of drink, and the idea of a proper night’s sleep was enough to keep them motivated.

Inge had gone off to see if she could not join Bjarki and his scouts, and Thoril found herself walking between Ove and Ulfgar. The moon had not yet reached its zenith, and its pale light made everything look a shade of grey.

“There is no sign of that fool or his company,” said Ulfgar. “No tracks, no fires, nothing of our friends. Halvor leads us on a merry chase.” He spat at the ground and shook his head. “This place is empty.”

Ove snorted from beneath his hood. “It is not empty, Ulfgar. You are just blind to what occupies this land.” He waved a hand at the mountains before them and smiled. “We walk where few have walked before, in the place between the living and the dead.”

It was Thoril’s turn to snort now. “Old Ove, you have seen so much, and yet your stories are always the same. The living and the dead, the beasts of Náströnd, the serpent that eats the world. Why have we seen none of these things? Every year you cry your tale, and every year we ship back home, alive and richer than before!”

“I only repeat what I have seen, girl.” Ove made the sign of the Fe with a gnarled hand, and then turned to look at her. His skin was weathered by years of salt and sun, but his blue eyes were as piercing as ever.

He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled. “You have seen something too, I think.” Thoril shrugged, but in her mind’s eye she recalled that flicker of silver beneath the waves, that formless shape slipping through the sea.

“It is no blessing to have hold of the sight,” Ove continued. “To see one’s future played out before one’s very eyes has damned many a man to insanity. But you must be better than that.”

“What is it that you saw?” Asked Ulfgar.

“It was nothing.” She shook her head, readjusting her shield on her arm. “Ove is mad, you know that as well as I.”

“I have seen it too, girl,” Ove barked. “It is the world’s end that slithers behind your eyes!” He retched out a hacking cough and laughed. “Do not be afraid. Soon they will all see!”

Thoril snarled at the old warrior and picked up her pace, leaving the pair of them behind. It was only when she was at the head of the company, and Ove’s choking laughter had faded away that she felt her mind settle.

He is mad, she thought to herself. Him and Bjarki both. Still, there was something in the way he had looked at her that made her think otherwise. The old man had seen more years than any of them, and his words, though often veiled by myth, were rarely false.

She sighed to herself, and tightened her grip on her shield. Either way, she would meet her fate head on.

 

The first night on the island was cold, and Halvor ordered massive fires to fend off the chill. He cared not that someone might see them. After all, who would dare attack Halvor and his company of bloodied? The warriors drew lots for sentry duty, and those that could, tried to slip in a few hours sleep before dawn.

Thoril and the other shield-maiden had laid their kit out beside one of the bonfires, and sipped from Inge’s bitter liquor while Ove told stories of the night, and of the first fires.

“When Loki, Odin and Haenir crossed the vast mountains, they came across a herd of oxen!” The old warrior took a bite from his dried meat and crinkled his nose. “Fresh meat, not like what we’ve been nibbling on, eh Ulfgard?”

Ulfgard blinked into wakefulness at the sound of his name, and stared across the fire at the old warrior. “What now?” He said.

“Come, come,” Inge rolled across the grass, and extended her flask toward him. “Don’t be boring, Ulfgar. Sit with us.”

He shook his shaven head, and pulled his blanket tighter about his chest. “I have the next watch. It would look poor for me if Halvor caught me drunk. You heard what he said.”

She stuck out her tongue and took a steady draught from the bottle. “You will be sad when there is none left.”

He shrugged and closed his eyes. “As long as I get my sleep, I do not care.”

“What about you, Ove?” Inge turned to the veteran. “Something to fend off the cold, and make your heart kick like a newborn’s?”

“I already see things that are not there,” said Ove, chewing on his meat. “I rather not tempt fate with your fire water.”

“More for me and Thoril, then,” she said as the others laughed. She took another sip from her flask and squinted into the darkness surrounding the camp.

The mountains were mere silhouettes in the distance, looming over the sides of the valley like the bastions of some great castle. The river they’d seen from afar was, in fact, two concurrent streams, racing beside one another toward the sea. They’d bathed in its water, and even fished, but there was no life to be found in it, and the warriors had made do with dried meats once more.

For a moment, she thought she spotted a movement on the ridge above their camp – a single figure stepping into the moonlight. She squinted up at the hill, trying to bring it into focus, but whatever it was she’d seen had gone.

“You alright, girl?” Ove cocked his head, a strange look on his face.

“It’s nothing,” said Inge, shaking her head and then bringing her eyes back down to the fire. “It is only shadows.”

“Is it nothing or is it shadows?” Ove showed his teeth, before winking at Inge. “They are not the same.”

The shield-maiden rolled her eyes, and leant back on her bedroll. She was tired of Ove and his riddles. “It was both and neither,” she said, turning her back to him and the fire. He could figure that one out for himself. She closed her eyes and let the warmth of the fire, and the soft hum of her friends chatter lull her to sleep.

In the morning, Ulfgar was gone.

 

***

 

Bjarki shook his head as he walked over to Thoril and the others. “There is no sign of him. Sigurd saw him take the watch, but after that he did not return.”

 

“Where did he stand sentry?” Thoril had been the first to wake, and to find his bedroll empty.

“Not far from here,” Bjarki said. He pointed to the base of the ridge, on the other side of the river. “He took over from Eyva, and left camp well after midnight. His watch was to end a few hours before dawn, but no one has seen him.”

“He can’t have gotten far,” said Inge, staring at the ridge.

“But why would he have left us in the first place?” Thoril licked her lips and followed Inge’s gaze. The drink had given her a splitting headache, and she was finding it hard to concentrate. “It makes no sense,” she concluded.

“I am inclined to agree,” came a deep voice from behind her.

Halvor stood next to Bjarki and nodded to them each in turn. His mane of hair was wet from the river, and his beard had grown out. Flecks of white and grey dotted the scruff, making him appear even more distinguished.

“It is not like Ulfgar to disappear like this.” Thin lines creased his forehead as he frowned. “I suspect he has been taken by whoever has been tracking us this last day.”

Thoril and Inge’s immediate questions were ignored, and Halvor silenced them with a wave of his hand. “Bjarki spotted them when we landed. A small band, maybe three or four in total. They have been shadowing us since we moved inland, but I had not expected them to act so boldly. Not against our numbers.”

Inge shivered, remembering the silhouette she’d seen on the ridge.

“Who are they?”

“I cannot be sure. Locals, perhaps. Or other folk like us who’ve been washed up by the storm. The pathfinders have been instructed to catch one of them, if possible. Then we will see.”

“And what of Ulfgar?” Thoril’s eyes narrowed as she watched her jarl. She already suspected the answer.

“There is nothing that can be done. We don’t know the land, and Bjarki says the surrounds turn into more gulleys and ravines than he can count – too many places to disappear. We will find what has happened to him when we catch one of his captors.”

Thoril nodded. She knew Holver did not allow for dissent. What was done was done, and she’d just have to hope Bjarki and his trackers were as good as they thought they were.

“None of this to the others.” Holver met her eyes, and then stared down Inge and Ove. “I would not have fears of shadow men spread through the company. They will learn of this when the time is right.”

“We will keep your secret, Ironnson.” Ove smiled. “But do not think to catch these spectres, or to harm them. They cannot be hurt. They walk between the worlds. This I know, Ulgfar knows it too.”

“We will see, old man,” said Halvor, already turning to leave. “There is little that walks in this world that does not fear the sharp end of my axe.”

 

The Black Hussars – NEW COVER

If you’ve subscribed to the Sentinel Creatives Book Club, chances are that you’ve read or received a copy of The Black Hussars, the first prequel novella in the Plagueborne universe.

Set in the years leading up to The Ritual, The Black Hussars follows Yaro Anatoly, the captain of an elite unit known as The Black Hussars. This prequel has gone through three covers now! The first, while detailed and quite lovely, just didn’t fit into the greater scheme of the Plagueborne universe. The same, I think, can be said of the second. The intent behind the third cover was much clearer, and the novella now fits the aesthetic of The Ritual and The Zealot.

 

Here it is:

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I have it in mind to write two more prequel novellas, once I’ve completed the third and final instalment in the Plagueborne Trilogy. While The Black Hussars delves into much of the lore left unspoken in Plagueborne – the role of the monarchy prior to the revolution, the old gods etc. – the second prequel novella will examine The Iron Lancers, and the third will expand upon the early existence of The Order and The Order Militant. That’s still a while away though, for now I need to keep cracking on with The Heretic (the third book in the trilogy) and a couple of short stories I’m penning for the Write Like Hell anthologies.

 

If you haven’t read The Black Hussars, you can pick up a copy HERE

Write Like Hell Volume 3 Submissions

Write Like Hell Volume 3

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We’ve opened up to submissions from the public for the first time ever! If you’re unfamiliar with Sentinel Creatives, we’re an indie publishing and production house based in Cape Town, South Africa. Though our focus is on books and ebooks, we also do audiobooks, and will be doing audio dramas in the near future!

 

WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR? 

While the overarching theme should be Kaiju, we’re looking for less common twists on the genre! That means we’d like you to keep the Pacific Rim stuff for another time, fun as it is. We want to see coal miners in industrial era England uncover some horrific beast, or samurai warriors trying to deal with kaiju in medieval Japan. We have a preference for stories that include horror elements, but that is not a deal-breaker when it comes to volume 3.

Got a Sherlock Holmes v Monsters inspired tale? Let’s see it!

The submitted stories should have a focus on character development, with less emphasis on Hollywood style action scenes. We don’t mind a bit of action, but we’re looking for stories that have heart, not just brawn!

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

Send your submissions to: sentinelcreatives@gmail.com with the subject “WLH3 Submission”.

All manuscripts should be sent as a word document. Our preference is for Times New Roman, or another clearly legible text.

Submissions should be between 5,000 and 9,000 words. This is not a hard limit, but preference will be given to those stories that meet this requirement.

Please include a short summary of the story in the body of the email, as well as a short bio and a list of any previously published works.

We’re looking for original works that have not been previously published! 

REMUNERATION: 

All accepted stories will be paid for up front!

As a small time indie press, our budget is limited! Accepted stories can expect between $10-20.

In exchange, we ask for exclusive rights to publish the story, said rights will maintain for the duration of one year. After that, we retain the non-exclusive rights to the story, but you’re welcome to submit and publish elsewhere after that!

It is likely that we will produce an audiobook version of WLH Volume 3, and we ask for the same rights as the book and ebook rights.

A Note on Science Fiction – From Write Like Hell Volume 2

[image error]Blackness. A starless sky. The vast emptiness of space.

Ever has the collective imagination of mankind been preoccupied with the heavens above our heads, and with the prospect of a future tied inextricably to our navigation of that infinite void. Perhaps it is an obsession with the unknown that drives our wonderment with space, and our desire to see it conquered. Only, the oceans upon our very planet remain a mystery to many of us. Our obsession with the seas, while it certainly peaked at various times during the course of human history, can hardly be said to be comparable to that of our obsession with the stars. Something else, then?

Perhaps it is the thought of technological advancement, and the opportunities such a society would afford us as individuals. Perhaps it is the thought of new challenges, new dangers and the new adventures such a frontier would offer.

Or, perhaps, as Max Weber suggested, it is something altogether more poignant. We have become disenchanted with our state of affairs, and so we turn to science fiction in an attempt to bring some mystery back into our world. Life, as it happens, has become mundane and boring—predictable, in the worst of ways. And so we have lost the wonder we may once have reserved for the environment around us. Weber’s assertion, while more nuanced than the summary I have provided here, certainly provides us with one conceivable explanation for our fascination with science fiction.

In a sense, then, it may not be too controversial to say that science fiction fulfils the same role that fantasy does. Some have gone further than that, and claimed that science fiction is, in fact, just fantasy dressed up with pseudo-science. The wizard has become the scientist, the mysterious island became the distant planet, and so on. If this claim held any weight, it would mean that science fiction stories are little different from fantasy, and aside from cosmetic changes, follow the same core structure. Of course, like any good fantasy story, this can be quite complex, with various characters and separate arcs. Nonetheless, one would be able to recognise trappings from the genre as it is translated into sci-fi.

Here’s the thing, though: science fiction almost always has more in common with horror or dystopian fiction than it does with fantasy. Inevitably, there will be a common strand between the two genres, as with any fiction. World-building, conflict and tensions, the antagonisms that drive the story onward, but these are necessary characteristics for any piece of genre fiction. It is in the details that the distinctions become more obvious.

A girl obsesses over the development of artificial intelligence. A colony wakes up to the realisation that they are just clones—spare parts for the affluent. A man links his brain with a computer, and loses his own sense of self. Virtual reality. The singularity.

Could these stories exist in any other genre? Perhaps, though it seems the role of modern fantasy, at least in part, is to grapple with the social issues we’re able to identify now and in the past, while science fiction grapples with a host of possible problems we may face in our future. Many of the obstacles science fiction confronts relate to our relationship with technology, and how society might operate in a hyper-advanced reality. That is to say that, many of the problems science fiction grapples with are self-made. The examples I gave in the above—of AI, and cloning and human modification—are, historically, issues that are unique to the realm of science fiction. Fling a reasonably sensible protagonist into the mix, and the stories almost write themselves. Of course, these days, such stories are as likely to be a part of a news report as they are to be part of some sprawling science fiction film. But doesn’t that say something about science fiction, too? Rarely, one would think, would the themes or ideas encompassed within historical fiction or fantasy suddenly appear as reality. Perhaps that is another reason we find the genre so appealing: it tells us of what might be, and very well could be.

The point here is that the genre can be characterised by many of the qualities commonly found in other genres, and yet it retains a number of traits unique to itself. Yes, sometimes the ideas are merely “magic paraded as science,” but other times… Well, other times it’s quantum. And isn’t that the same thing?

 

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Plagues and Fiction – A Note on Plagueborne

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Stories featuring plague are no rare thing in the world of fantasy and fiction. There’s something deeply fascinating about the setting that has inspired writers for years. Even the word alone is enough to inspire a flicker of fear. Plague. That disease that rampaged through Europe, nearly wiping it out. But what about it has inspired writers and directors, video game producers, and graphic novelists to continue creating stories about it? Is it the sheer apocalyptic nature of the event? Or is it, perhaps, the feeling that mankind’s true nature comes to the fore when confronted with such an end?

In Plagueborne, a devastating plague is sweeping across a continent still recovering from revolution. The plague seems incurable, inescapable, but for the province of Rothenberg, which has remained untouched. Of course, as religious hysteria rises, and talk of witchcraft and fell beasts spread, the stakes get higher and higher. The story itself follows Katarina Lorenz, a noble of the city of Rothenberg; Tannhauser, a mercenary; Ezekiel Smith, a Prelator of The Order; and Gelt Brunner, a former knight of the now dethroned king.

Following Katarina across Greater Virren as she tries to discover the cause of the plague has allowed me to delve into some interesting themes, and answer some questions I’ve always wanted to take the time to consider. One of these questions is one that Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Žižek often poses: “… but what happens after the revolution?” It is a question spurred on by the fact that, often, the story we are told is how the revolution came about, and how the ruling elite or tyrannical government was overthrown. But do things actually get better after the revolution? How does society shift and change once the revolutionaries have control? How are those who advocated against revolution treated? Perhaps things actually get worse, and if so, how do the people react? Exploring these questions has always appealed to me, and I think they make for compelling themes in any work of fiction.

In Plagueborne, the reader is plunged into a world still coming to terms with its own revolutionary past. The monarchy is gone. The king is dead, his empire dissolved, and independent city-states now cover the continent of Greater Virren. Much of how the continent has been shaped, in terms of political and religious ideology, is intrinsically linked to the role the monarchy played in the years prior to revolution. Indeed, the revolution itself—a deeply political act—was triggered by the execution of Bartolomeu Kezia, a religious figure. The resulting conflict saw both religious and political tensions boil over, which left a power vacuum once the war was over—a vacuum that The Order was only too happy to fill.[image error]

Followers of Kezia and worshippers of The Twins, members of The Order reject any and all beliefs contrary to their own. It was for this reason that they, as well as the Brother and the Sister, were outlawed under King Behan’s rule. It was for this reason that Kezia was executed. Now, in the aftermath of revolution, The Order has become the dominant religious faction on the continent, with only the barbaric “painted men” of Vorgar left to their pantheon of gods. This flip from polytheism to monotheism is interesting to me, as it is one that has played out in our own history. The rise of Christianity and Islam both involved a similar shift—either brought about through the state, or as a cultural phenomenon. Examining that period of time, the precise moment when such a shift occurred, is fascinating for myself, and I hope for my readers, too!

A more recently devised character, who features in the later novels, explores what this really means in a most interesting way. Gelt Brunner rejects the Faith and The Twins, preferring the worship of the old gods. But for him to even admit this fact could see him shunned, or even killed. How is it that people, many of whom would have believed the same thing a few years ago, would now see someone killed for expressing that same belief?

There’s another idea that I’ve always found quite intriguing, but you’ll have to forgive the fact that it was inspired by a re-watching of The Mummy (1999). In the film, we are presented with Christian, Islamic, and “pagan” characters. As events unfold, it becomes increasingly clear that the pagan characters’ beliefs are the only ones with any real power in the film. This is illustrated a number of times throughout The Mummy, from the awakening of Imhotep and his seemingly immortal nature, to the coming of the ten plagues and the power of the Book of the Dead (both to awaken him, and to have his soul spirited away, making him mortal once more at the end of the film.) The main characters in the film, Rick and Evelyn O’Connell, take all of this in their stride, despite the fact that it may very well mean that all they believe in is wrong—that the ancient Egyptian beliefs are valid to the exclusion of all others. But what happens when you are presented with the diametric opposite of your own faith? The result may vary between individuals. Some may double down on their own belief, and claim the devil is at work, while others may find themselves completely lost. This idea is never fully explored in the film, but it certainly inspired my approach to Plagueborne and plays an important role in the development of Ezekiel and Gelt.

If you like gritty, dark fantasy, then be sure to check out the first in the Plagueborne trilogy: The Ritual. It’s more of a novella than a novel, but it serves as an introduction to Greater Virren before the story really kicks off in The Zealot!

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Mitchell Luthi is the author of The Ritual and The Zealot, the first two books in the Plagueborne trilogy, as well as The Black Hussars, a Plagueborne prequel novella. He has written short stories for the Write Like Hell anthology series, with the second volume set for release on the 27th of January! You can find his work on Amazon, Audible, and iTunes. He is currently working on the final instalment in the trilogy, with The Heretic set for release by the end of the first quarter of 2020.