Teller of Fate
Fourth Movement: Custodians of the Incunabulum
Chapter Twenty-Six
* * *
Tumbling, rolling, grinding, grating—like ancient echoes of hurricane winds scraping land free of forests, hills, and cities long ago.
Hear it change. Slowly, it begins to sound like something else. Rattling, bouncing, tumbling, rolling—two bright, blue acrylic polyhedrons dropping out of a large, calloused hand onto a white, plastic tabletop.
* * *
The two d10s stopped, just touching a tiny cardboard divider painted to look like a half dozen trees—the edge of the forest that brushed to road to Loch Ness.
Beyond, the flat tiles of a faux cobblestone road led to the bloodstained leather shirt of a gamer. The sole light was a shaded bulb too low to illuminate the faces of the four seated at the table.
On the road was a small plastic figure. It was covered head to toe by a black cloak. Just ahead, close to the gamer, behind crumpled bits of paper standing for boulders, were three more figures—thieves.
A voice, gruff and gravelly, “My character senses the thieves. He advances—” the hand that had tossed the dice moved the cloaked figure almost parallel to the ‘boulders’ at the side of the road—“and prepares a defensive spell.”
Another voice, feminine and smooth, “My thieves—” delicate hands with manicured, lacquered nails cup and shake. Another rattle of dice, with its odd echo, and scarlet polyhedra tumbled across the tabletop—“hide in the shadows. This one—” she moves one of the thieves to a position behind the cloaked figure—“prepares to back stab.”
A fourth, with a voice deep and resonant as nightmare, “And you?” turning to the last player, another woman.
“Well…I know that the other thieveth are in the manor houthe.” No building is on the table. “There are many trapth that they will have to ditharm before they can get me. I will thtay with the Book—” The capital could clearly be heard—“and wait for my brother.” No one ever laughed at her lisp more than once.
The shoulders of the player to her right, he of the bloodstained shirt, pivoted to the left, “He might not get there in time. He might not get there at all. You know how she—” a thumb jerked toward Miss Perfect Nails—“is. My character might end up missing both legs.” There was good-natured laughter at this.
A movement of her elbows indicated a shrug. “I’ll take my chanceth.”
Mr. Voice-from-hell, “Are we ready, then?”
No one spoke.
There must have been nods, for dice rattled and tumbled. Miss Perfect Nails said, “Successful attack.”
Gravelly voice said, “My character—”
* * *
—intercepted the arm swinging the poisoned knife, crushed the fingers holding it, and dislocated the shoulder of his foe as he pivoted on his left foot, flipping her over his shoulder. The spell he was muttering fizzled.
The flying figure knocked the legs out from under another running to help his falling comrade, bringing his head down to meet the rising boot of the cloaked figure.
A crack loud enough to be heard over the downpour ended that thief’s career.
The career of the tumbling thief trying to get her feet under her continued. She stumbled spastically, causing the third thief to jump awkwardly to one side.
This gave the cloaked figure time to fling one side of the cloak back and draw a broadsword.
The last thief slowed abruptly and, with rather better grace than his leap, flung his knife.
It missed.
Now unarmed, he faced a taller, heavier opponent who had so far shown a breathtaking lack of consideration for fellow professionals just trying to earn a living.
He decided on the better part of valour and took to his heels. His one surviving partner staggered along in his wake.
Standing over the body of the third thief, the cloaked figure sheathed his sword and pulled his heavy, oiled cloak back over his shoulder.
Some of the damp had made its way under his protection from the rain. After relieving the body at his feet of all its portable wealth, he trudged on.
His damp shirt began to itch.
* * *
An ordered constellation of bright yellow-orange points of light in the middle distance just below him was the only thing visible.
Dozens of bony fingers tapped on the deep hood of his cape; the rain had lessened not at all. He felt just the slightest touch of wind on his face, forcing the rain in. It made stitches of cool damp on his chin and right cheek.
A bright, stuttering flash and for a moment there were soaked, wind bent trees clustering near a muddy footpath that wound down to a cluster of stone buildings. The lights became windows.
Then darkness followed by a deep rumbling in the air, and they were just an array of lights again.
He was about to take his first step when—
* * *
A triplet of high-pitched beeps in the darkness covered the rumble of a pair of golden yellow dice.
“That would seem to be our time,” said Gravelly Voice.
“I’d like to play some more,” Perfect Nails.
“Sorry, folks. We do have to work for a living.”
A sigh from his left. Then, “I thupose, tho.”
A large hand reached up and the sole light clicked out.
There followed a scraping of chairs then, more distant, the sound of metal sliding on stone and the muffled sound of coats, chainmail, and cloaks being donned, the still more distant sound of boots on tile and, most distant of all, the echoing boom of a large door closing.
* * *
The cloaked character, John Airkhart by name, continued toward the manor.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
