Very Bad Wizards

Zorbus Glitterwand walked smugly into the Conclave. He was universally regarded as the worst wizard in the world, with several guild awards on his mantle at home testifying to that fact.

So he was disappointed to be met not by awed expressions and veiled jealousy, but rather sniggers and disdain. Did these amateurs forget who they were in the presence of?

The room became deadly silent. Zorbus turned to find his old nemesis, Otto Orriblé. He'd left the wizard for dead after their last duel, 300 years prior.

This night, the Conclave died in a hail of fire and maelstrom.

Duel At Dawn

The cool, crisp morning air is cold, even in the fog I see my breath. “10 paces I’ll count; 10 paces then turn and shoot,” said my friend. I begin to walk. One. The wet, dewy grass is under my feet. Two. I wore my best clothes today, complete with the gray coat. Three. Black crows call in the distance, laughing at us fools. Seven. Dear god he is already at seven, I think. Eight. The black trigger of this 50-year-old pistol will have another kill. Nine. “Forgive me, Anne. Forgive me,” I pray. Ten. I turn, aim, and shoot.

From Guest Contributor Hayden Unfred

The Hour Before Sunset

Dax Morgan policed the town of Ashland with a harsh tongue and pair of Colt revolvers. He tolerated no dissent, even from his own sons. The town tolerated him in return, as long as peace was maintained.

Gil Thompson hated the sheriff more than most. Dax’d been responsible for his ranch being seized by the government, using technicalities and subterfuge to cheat him of his birthright.

Each wanted the other dead. They finally faced off on a lonely dusty road in the hour before sunset.

As Gil rode away, a rivulet of blood soaked into the thirsty clay behind him.

The Sword And The Brush

Jiro gripped his sword lightly, parallel to the ground. He regarded his opponent through unblinking eyes.

Bird song lilted over the courtyard, from a jōbitaki perched overhead. A stray cat licked the festering wound on its right paw. The scent of porridge drifted from the kitchen.

Seventeen students lined the walls, holding their wooden swords in clenched fists. They would not attack, so long as their master was alive. But should Jiro emerge victorious, they would feel obligated to fight for the Dōjō's honor. He would regret their deaths.

His opponent lowered his sword by several millimeters. Jiro attacked instantly.

Genre: Samurai