Free Short Story

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Besides working on The Inner Lands series, I also write songs, short stories, poetry, and am busy planning a Science Fiction trilogy currently entitled Space Seekers.

Read one of my prize-winning fantasy short stories, Orund and the Shapeshifter, below.

Orund and the Shapeshifter

Pink wisps of cloud straddled the horizon as the darkening hills melted into the haze of a lowering sun. A shrill animal call signalled the dying day’s end, as though warning of the treacheries of night. Orund scanned the valley below but the blanket of trees and waning light made it a futile act, and he was easily distracted when a small, blue jakkabird hopped its way along a nearby branch to peer at him through orange eyes, full of curiosity. Orund reached out to the bird and it froze for a second, before flapping briskly away; a thinning trail of blue light the only trace of its brief foray into their camp.

They had made camp in a dense copse, inhabited only by its ancient, twisted trees and the occasional bird that came to sing amongst their withered branches. It would not have been a defensive place of choice for Orund’s army, but his forces were leagues away and he was confident no opposing legions were tailing them now. A wizard, an elf, a dwarf, a woman, and me, he thought incredulously. That’s who they’ve relied on to save the world?

The woman, Serra, was human, like Orund. But only she possessed the innate magic needed to oppose the Warlock and send the Dead Army back to their graves. The rest of their party were simply there to protect her, on her journey to meet the one with the Crescent Crown, who could help Serra release her magic unto the world. It was thought a large force would attract too much attention and surely draw out the Dead Army, who even Orund could stand no chance against. There was no denying it: this was their last resort.

Orund feared the Dead Army. Warriors, Kings, age-old heroes – all could now be summoned back to the land of the living by the Warlock. Some of those dead would not be too pleased with me, Orund thought, recounting past battles. But it was not the Dead Army that concerned him now. The Shapeshifter was the one Orund and his companions feared.

The Shapeshifter, Bradick, was cunning. His master, the Warlock, cruel and merciless. Bradick had been human, too, once upon a time but he had been changed, shifted, and now he wasn’t anything. Neither human, nor one of the other races. Perhaps, no longer truly alive. Nobody knew if he still had a form of his own, since he’d only ever been discovered inhabiting the bodies of others; bodies that usually ended up dead.

The group protecting Serra had been chosen largely because they were each thought strong enough to detect, or resist, the Shapeshifter’s presence, but Orund thought otherwise. The Shapeshifter had forged the flow of wars, toppled Kingdoms – even killed future Kings in their sleep – so legend told. He had never been caught, never been seen in his true form – if indeed he still had one – and never failed his master’s will. The Shapeshifter had no fear, no remorse, no humanity. He was pure evil; a monster. Orund knew better than to heed such myths. Every man has something to fear, he knew. Even me. Nobody shapes the fate of the land if there isn’t something they’re afraid of. For the Shapeshifter, perhaps it was his master. He’s the one they should really fear.

Dagen had built a fire, stacking wood like a pyre that reached up boldly into the dusk. Its flames now licked carelessly at the dark, daring it to encroach on the fire’s wild light. But, beneath the flames, its branches were already blackening and soon they would crumble and break apart, forcing Dagen and the others to add more branches, or risk the cold of this wintry night.

The cold did not bother Orund. He had survived in far worse conditions than these. But he strode over to sit down next to Serra, absently aware of Faradax’s eyes, tracking him all the while. There are greater monsters out there than me, wizard, he thought bitterly. Despite their shared task, his companions appeared as wary of him as he was of them. Bradick could be any one of you, he thought. None of us are safe.

‘You know this fire is certain to give us away?’ he asked Serra as he sat down beside her.

‘I’m cold.’ she said, as though the admission justified everything that was done for her.

‘Winter is a stranger to welcome, but be wary of,’ Orund told her, and she turned, shivering, to look at him. ‘If you let it get too comfortable, it will turn around and bite you.’ He grinned at her, knowing she had grown to enjoy his smile.

Serra turned away but was smiling too. Then she shuffled closer and, hesitantly, leant her head on his shoulder.

Orund returned Faradax’s glare as he put his arm around her. The wizard seemed to snort but soon returned to whatever wise pondering he no doubt thought he had been doing.

‘He’s out there somewhere, isn’t he?’ Serra asked.

‘I won’t let anybody hurt you,’ Orund told her in reply. You’re too important.

‘Can he really turn into anyone?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, truthfully.

‘But he could already be one of them?’ she said in a low voice. ‘I mean, it’s possible?’

‘Yes, it’s possible. But then if he was, and he wanted you dead, I guess you already would be. So he can’t be that bad.’

She smiled again. ‘You’re the only one I trust,’ she whispered.

‘Let’s keep it that way.’ Orund knew he had to be on guard at all times. He would not sleep tonight as he had not done for days. Any lapse in concentration could be the end of him.

As his companions gathered around the fire, he began to survey each one of them – an act that had become habit – assessing their strengths, weaknesses, attitudes and any shifts in their behaviours.

Kallagan, the elf stared, stern-faced, into the crackling flames as though he hoped to see the future etched out in the blackening wood. Not a bad place to start, Orund thought. Fire is as honest as winter, except that you get burnt instead of bitten. The elf’s pale-blue robes gathered up around him where he sat, disguising the fact he had legs. The lines of runes shone intermittently in the firelight, making the material look alive. Elves really are the most ridiculous creatures, Orund thought, suppressing the urge to laugh. Kallagan’s elegant features and glittering chestnut hair were probably attractive to women, Orund supposed, and the way he moved so gracefully, as though he glided, where humans and dwarves merely walked. But vanity could well be his downfall. The elf also bore tiny bells, which hung from chords tied-in to the waistline of his robes. The bells jingled when he moved. Or in a light breeze. Or pretty much anytime at all. Those are sure to keep you safe, Orund remembered thinking when he’d first met Kallagan. Their noise had now grown to irritate him so much it took all his strength to refrain from chopping them off with his sword whilst the elf slept. Elves are always so lofty and pompous, he thought. Slim, Kallagan may be, but he was plump with his own self-importance.

Dagen, the dwarf, was almost the complete opposite of Kallagan and the pair looked yet more ridiculous for the close proximity in which they sat. Where Kallagan was tall, slender and lithe, Dagen was short, stocky and immovable; a little rock of a man who seemed to compensate greatly with the huge hammer he wielded as a weapon. His beard was thick and long, his face worn and weathered. Orund could see that the beard concealed a large scar, stretching down from just below his right eye. Wounds only heal on the outside, Orund thought, the pain of his own memories rising to sting him briefly, before he shoved them back down. Dagen was straightforward, outspoken, brash and brave. Orund liked that about him at least. But he was still a dwarf and dwarves were renowned hoarders. Such avarice tendencies were bound to make easy prey for a Shapeshifter like Bradick. I should watch him closely.

His final companion, Faradax, was an aging wizard who’s bright-blue eyes shone with an alertness and intellect that belied his many years. Surely a man such as he is not susceptible to a Shapeshifter? Orund wondered. Still, the power he wielded could be a temptation. If Faradax could be possessed it might make things very interesting. No, don’t think that way, Orund told himself. That’s just the kind of thinking that’ll make you vulnerable. Despite the matched wariness of his companions, Orund cursed himself for his negative thoughts. Our job is to protect Serra, he reminded himself, and mistrust only leads to more mistrust. I must remain vigilant.

Serra herself should be protected well enough by her own magic. She would have to be weakened considerably before someone like Bradick could affect her. If there was any chance at all that the Shapeshifter was amongst them, somebody would be wise to try to draw him out.

‘Walk with me,’ Orund told Serra, easing her head from his shoulder to stand.

‘Where are you going?’ Faradax asked, suspicion showing in every feature of his aged face.

‘To see the sunset, wizard,’ Orund replied. Let’s see who follows.

Both Faradax and Kallagan rose as Serra did, perhaps using the guise of graciousness to mask their true purpose. Perhaps not. Orund could not tell. Only Dagen remained seated. Sometimes the one who seems least interested is the one to watch out for, Orund knew.

He led Serra just a short distance, back to the cliff-face that overlooked the tree-filled valley and receding sunset. The trees below now glowed an ominous red, baked in the last light of the near-hidden sun. A semi-sphere of burning orange still poked out from the distant hills, a small beacon of hope, dwindling, on the blurred horizon.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Serra said, sighing into the dusk.

Then the jakkabird appeared again, this time making its ‘jakka-jakka’ call until they both looked at it and the blue bird flew fearfully off. Even you I can’t trust, Orund realised.

‘Orund,’ Serra said, ‘could all this really be gone?’

He turned to her and put his hands on her hips, pulling her close. She wrapped her arms around him and he felt the softness of her breasts pressing against his strong chest and the gentle flow of her breath against the back of his neck.

‘I’ll always be here,’ he whispered. But he did not mean Orund, for Orund the warrior had been gone for some time. ‘I promise it won’t hurt,’ Bradick, the Shapeshifter, told her. Not yet. The look on her face delighted him as he let his aura ease into her, consuming her body and mind.

‘No!’ He heard Faradax yell and a sword flew through the air to land, embedded, in Orund’s limp body.

‘Too late, wizard!’ Bradick laughed as Orund dropped to the ground, his hands clutching in vain at the hilt of the sword protruding from his chest. A mixed expression of shock, hatred and defeat scrunched the warrior’s features into an ugly grimace. ‘You can’t hurt me now!’ the Shapeshifter told Faradax, amused at the way his voice sounded through Serra’s lips.

The dying Orund managed to grasp his ankle and Bradick skipped away, sparing a brief pang of pity for the helpless warrior. All those years hardening yourself and yet you were still so powerless against me. The feelings weren’t his. They were remnants of Serra’s compassion, Bradick knew. That was always the worst part of entering a new host; memories of guilt and other emotions. He ignored them and laughed again, thrilled at the success of his plan. Master will be so pleased, he thought. He won’t need me anymore. Not after this.

Orund and the Shapeshifter; Copyright © A.J. Austin 2015