Grimdark Magazine Issue 24 PDF
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1 Contents From the Editor Adrian Collins A Slow Kill Peter Orullian An Interview with Richard K. Morgan Beth Tabler Review: Persephone Station Author: Stina Leicht Review by malrubius Berzerker Matthew X. Gomez Robert E. Howard: Godfather of Grimdark? Matthew John How Not to Invade a Country Anna Stephens An Interview with David Wong Beth Tabler The Hunt Matthew Ward 2 From the Editor ADRIAN COLLINS Sweet literary gods this year just keeps escalating, doesn’t it? Australia burned at the start of the year, now the US burns at the three-quarter buzzer, and over all of that madness the plague runs rampant, a huge chunk of our species still starves and thirsts anyway, and global superpowers have decided that this year is the year to really see how close to the line they can push each other. I’m pretty sure Death has had all of his lunch breaks and evening plans cancelled for 2020. However, amongst it all, we’re still fortunate enough to be alive and publishing, a fact for which I am incredibly grateful for. Whoever you are, and wherever you are, I hope you and yours are safe and healthy, you have a cupboard full of food, and you’ve retained employment or have a government that’s looking after you. There are still plenty of amazing books and stories coming out this year for us to escape in to—it’s so good to see the creative world keep rolling on, despite the apocalypse seeming like it’s on our doorstep. And I hope, that in these pages, our dedicated team have brought some of that amazing fiction, and those brilliant voices right to your imagination. So, I hope you enjoy this issue of Grimdark Magazine. As I have said all year, if you know somebody, anybody, anywhere, who is really struggling—they’ve lost their job, said goodbye to a loved one, are locked down without any mates to bring them out of dark times—give me a shout and I’ll hook them up with a few free issues of GdM. 3 Happy reading, mates. Adrian Collins Founder Subscribe to Grimdark Magazine: https://patreon.com/user?u=177000 Connect with the Grimdark Magazine team at: facebook.com/grimdarkmagazine twitter.com/AdrianGdMag grimdarkmagazine.com 4 A Slow Kill PETER ORULLIAN Spring sun came down hard. Left everything dry. Dusty. Hot. Jak Mylen stepped back from the irrigation ditch he and his employer were digging, and eyed the wide tract of newly tilled earth. Setting the tip of his shovel in the dirt, he leaned forward over the tool, resting his back and arms. Felt good to have his muscles ache. Forty-five was a good age for hard work. Next to him, Murar Narya, the farm owner, rested, too. After a long silence, Jak’s boss spoke softly, “I didn’t always lay seed to soil, Jak. As a younger man, most my life... I killed for a living.” The words settled on the hot air with more reflection than regret. Jak had waited three years for the farmer to admit it. Three years of field-hand work. Three years with Murar and his family in this small valley a day’s ride from the city. But men share things after enough time, and often when they’re working out in the sun. “That makes us a pair, then,” Jak said matter-of- factly, and kept watching the dry, dusty field. “That so.” Murar nodded as if it made sense enough. “You have an affiliation? Or run alone?” Jak caught a hint of skepticism. Didn’t matter. And it was time to tell him. “Dannire.” His employer swallowed hard, the sound loud in the dry silence. Murar turned to look at Jak, his eyes scrutinizing, searching for a lie. He found none. And the skin on his arms prickled as if brushed by a winter wind. “Dead gods, really? A holy clipper?” Murar’s voice tried to sound incredulous, but hinted of a tremble. “I 5 figured Dannire was a thought model. A sort of kill- without-prejudice technique.” “I think the Dannire are misunderstood” was all Jak offered. Sweat dripped off his nose. “What about you?” Murar didn’t seem to hear the question, muttering to himself. He was mumbling through the many myths about the Dannire: that they only worked cathedral districts and enemies of faith, that they could kill by thought, a handful more. But he kept circling back to the notion that the Dannire existed at all. He seemed stuck on it. “Couple of knife-and-alley men, out to pasture, then. That it?” Murar asked, making a poor laugh. Jak shrugged and mopped his face with a kerchief. “You needed help opening up new land for a beet crop. I’m not above shovel work.” He lifted the tip of his tool, then slid it back into the dry-tilled soil. “Come, then,” Murar pressed, getting a shade of his grit back. “Share a kill with me. Let’s have a Dannire story.” Jak smiled more genuinely. “I could use a break,” he said, and eased into a memory of the time when— * * * I waited outside the door until the soft sounds of two people together—bed-linen sounds—came to an end. Then I slid into the room. In the dim light of a low-wick candle, the woman lay beneath a sheet, the man was already dressed. I cleared my throat. The woman turned to see me standing there, her expression one of confusion and irritation. “Jak Mylen,” I said, announcing myself to solve the mystery. “And you are Pamala Wright. Mrs. Pamala Wright.” The man stood and gathered a few things from the bed-table. I handed him three realm handcoins and a small vial as he passed me. He drank down the liquid before he’d left the room. 6 “Think you’re clever, do you? Finding a woman with a man other than her husband?” From a tin tray on the bed table, she picked up a lit tobacco stem. After a deep pull, she blew the smoke out in a slim stream. “And you needn’t have paid him. It’s not like that.” I smiled. “Like what?” Her expression twisted. “I’m no whore.” Shaking my head with amusement, I drew a chair from a small table and set it bedside. She flipped her tobacco stem at me, which was a nice surprise. I’d frankly expected more shame. Maybe pleas to keep it quiet. Promises to reform. “My husband’s a sheep,” she argued, answering an unspoken question. She lit another tobacco stem. “Follows the rest of the wagon-trade labor. No backbone.” “Married you when he’d rather not, though.” I sat and crossed my legs as one who’s keeping an appointment. “Because he got you pregnant. Seems like there’s some backbone to all that.” She shot a burst of laughter. I joined her. Why not? Then I looked around the small apartment. “I suspect this place has but one purpose, am I right?” She eyed me. “You’re a man who asks questions he has answers for.” “Guilty,” I said. “Is it names you want?” She took a long draw of her tobacco. “Or do you have something else in mind.” Her gaze grew suggestive. “You are remarkable,” I said. “Thank you.” She gave an impish look. “I don’t think you took my meaning.” I shook my head, still smiling. “I think I can take—” I held up my hands to stop her. Much as I might have enjoyed the barb-filled banter, time was short. “You’re spreading around a chlymic disease.” 7 She looked down at her own womanhood, as if she might see something there. When she looked up again, her smile had returned. “I see. And you’re here to admonish me. For the public good.” Her eyes narrowed, searching for an insignia on my clothes. “You work for the League of Civility?” That’s when seriousness entered in. Into me. Into the room. “The husband you shame,” I pointed at the bed, “raises a child born crippled because of the disease you carry. He knows you take men into your bed in this private apartment.” She laughed again. This time it came caustic and casual. “I know he knows. I told you: no backbone.” I leaned forward, the chair legs creaking under my weight. I wanted to be sure she saw my eyes clearly for the next part. “Your husband won’t leave you because there’s honor in him. Honor for your child. For your marriage. Even, by every deafened god, for you.” I paused. “There’s a small bit of foolishness in that. But I respect the last hell out of him for it—” “Fine,” she blurted, “then you marry him.” I held my tongue a moment. Smiled. “I also won’t let his shame go on.” The woman opened her mouth to argue back, but said nothing. Her eyes slid to my long knives. Worry furrowed her brow. To settle her nerves, she took several long pulls on her tobacco. Her eye caught something on a short chest of drawers. “There,” she pointed, “I have bladders and sheaths for them all. Every last one of them. Their choice if they wear them or not.” I nodded. “Like this last fellow, right?” “Yes, that’s right. And this one,” she wagged a finger at the door, “skittish he was. Wore both.” I stared at her a long moment before saying, “I know.” This time, her brow positively tied itself in knots.