Short Story: "Melbourn's Storm"

I have apparently forgotten that not everyone who reads me on this blog follows the Annex blog, as well. As such, I've been forgetting to post links here to fiction on the other site.

Below is the most recent edit of "Melbourn's Storm." The short story - about 17 pages, or about 4,700 words - is set in the world of my Heroes... novel work-in-progress (which to you who are new here is entirely done, just in the process of being redone.)

It is dark fantasy, with all that entails. For those of normal, sane tastes, I'll warn you: consider it Rated R. There is quite a bit of violence, a hint of carnal relations, and more than one naughty word.

I'm not trying to shock anyone with this; it's just a look at the life of one of my characters. Enjoy! If you have an opinion, please let me know. I'm always seeking feedback - whether you like it or not.

I've posted just a bit below. You can continue to read it by following the link to the Annex.

A couple of brief notes for those of y'all who know nothing about Melbourn, or my work-in-progress: mal sidhe basically translates as "lesser elf" - a shorter, more agile, less strong elf-type; "Nender" refers to the nation, Nenderen; and believe it or not, Melbourn is one of the good guys.

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"Melbourn's Storm"


Dirt crunched underfoot as the mal sidhe reached the end of his pilgrimage, at the sprawling house overlooking the sea. Early spring wind blew off the water; his long bronze-colored hair had blown and snapped in the constant breeze and become snarled. Cold, brittle surf washed on the rocks only a few feet away. Whitecaps dotted the dark gray waters. Overhead, the light gray sky roiled with tumultuous clouds, and seagulls sculled the air from land to sea to land again. The weather came from the west, where the sea was, where the house faced.

He was miles from any settlement, more than a day’s journey from the nearest cattle station, and more than fifty miles north of Harbordown, the city he called home. No road came closer than a dozen miles to it, and the only trail to follow was one he’d blazed himself more than a decade ago, the first time he’d came.

The house sprawled just above a rocky shore on an isolated point. Two stories rose above ground, capped in nine towering gables. Three wings had struck out in their own directions. There was a cellar too, but he’d never seen that. Fewer than half the windows were glassed, a handful was shuttered, and some were simply voids, empty holes. He yearned to touch those voids, as a tongue longed to prod the cavity where a tooth once was. He hadn’t. In all the times he’d come here, the thief had left the house unadulterated, as had anyone else who’d come. Windows that were glassed now had been glassed then, and those shuttered then were still shuttered now. He had little doubt that in years and decades to come, those windows would never change.

As he approached the small garden wall at the front of the house, he slipped his arm out of his cloak and into the chill air, running his hand along the top of the wall. He rubbed the rough stone-dust into his fingers and thumb as he strode to the garden gate. He beat his hand against the cloak, sending dust flying, then shoved open the rotten wooden gate. He walked to the stoop, and turned to look at the sea.

He almost always came in the spring, but he’d felt the urge to travel early this year, traveling while some patches of snow and ice still clung to Nender soil. He’d only missed the spring appointment once, coming his fourth year in late summer. It had proven… difficult. A late-summer cyclone had followed him then, brutally assaulting the shore and the house.

None of the windows remaining had broken.

Sniffing ozone in the air, feeling wind upon pointed ears, he turned and drew a key from his belt pouch and held it up in the faint light. Three separate barrels of three different materials – each ended in a different gem fragment, each studded with complex layers of teeth. Gold, silver, and steel; diamond, ruby, and onyx – they key had cost him nearly a year’s take. And though the fence, Danerel, swore that this was the only one he had recreated, Melbourn knew better than to take the crooked keymaker at his word. Others might have made the pilgrimage to the house overlooking the sea. Danerel himself had come – one time, he said, only the once.

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