Letter From The Editor - Issue 55 - February 2017

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Issue 26
Stories
Arkmind
by Niall Francis McMahon
Story with Pictures and Conversation
by Brontops Baruq   FREE
Tales for the Young and Unafraid
Orson Scott Card - Sneak Preview
Excerpt from Ruins
by Orson Scott Card
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews

Writing Fantasy

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-   -   -   -   P   r   e   v   i   e   w   -   -   -   -

The Lair of the Twelve Princesses
    by Amanda C. Davis

The Lair of the Twelve Princesses
Artwork by Julie Dillon

I. The First Night

Bay followed the dance of the ivory dice across the table. Her bitten-dull nails dug into her palms. A bounce -- another -- and the pair fell still. A one and a three. There went the last of her coins. Oh well, she thought, grinding the heel of her hand into her eyes as the narrow-faced man across the table from her raked in his winnings. Wasn't enough to buy a room anyway.

The winner called out false condolences; Bay gave him a halfhearted sneer in return. She gathered her army kit from under her chair. Waving away the sniggering offers from her fellow-gamblers to share their beds, she collected her sword at the tavern door and limped out into the warm city evening.

When she was well into the shadows of the streets, a cloud of ash swirled from the lead bottle tied at her waist. It settled atop her shoulder and solidified into a deep-red, oddly handsome imp, who made himself comfortable between the collar and epaulet of her faded army uniform. "Poor fortune again, I see."

Bay limped along, steadfast and slow as always. "You could have been more help in there, Khloromain."

"I would have," sniffed the imp, "had you simply wished me to. But you chose to trust your dice to fate."

"Between you and fate, I trust fate further," said Bay. "I thought I saw an empty alley behind the butcher's a few streets over. Stunk to hell but I bet nobody'd bother us until morning."

Khloromain made a noise of interest and rose from her shoulder without warning. "Wait." He zipped away. In a moment he returned carrying a poster bearing the seal of the king. He waggled the poster in Bay's face. "Why don't we lodge in the king's manor instead?"

Bay brushed the poster aside. "What's it say?"

The imp's eyebrows rose craftily. "You wish me to read it?"

"No, I want you to read it, Khloromain," said Bay, with the patience of a weary parent. "No wishes. You'll know when I use my wishes."

Khloromain gave an elaborate sigh. "Fine, fine. If it will save me from sleeping in a butcher's scrap pile. It's a royal notice. The king's daughters require a bodyguard. Permit me to suggest, my battle-hardened mistress, that you might make an ideal candidate to guard a passel of princesses."

Bay stroked her sword-hilt with her thumb, thinking. The leather there had long since worn smooth. "You're leaving something out," she said. "What's the catch?"

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