“Shit!” with each bite.

Thirty feet up, growing exhausted from the climb, the rungs fell with alarming frequency. Buttons had it the worst since he had his own weakening branches to contend with and those his fellows tore free. The snake-pigeons took no pleasure in their torture, but they kept up at a regular rate.

A platform appeared. The fog broke and something like sunshine shone through a hole. A trap door. They quickened the pace. The snake-pigeons gave up their attacks, flew up to the platform. The companions wondered if they waited at the top to renew the challenge. Or if they’d be back for a later test. None spoke the concern.

Another short story written for a submission call. The task was Baba Yaga. Apparently I crossed too manyeven thought to fight until the Baba Yaga shrieked at them from deep within the jungle. The Loyalists chiseled wood into cogs and wheels or braided thin ropes. One, the leader and the first to die (again) held the key to their activities; he carved a marionette. Dead men building clockwork children. Baba Yaga didn’t disappoint her reputation for strange horrors.

They came for a sword. There were other reasons, but the sword stood foremost, he thought. A sea serpent in the Atlantic took Theo’s crew to the depths. Vengeance required a mythic blade. Silvia, the harpy they met in Italy, claimed the Baba Yaga had such a sword. She thought the Baba Yaga might part with the blade if they played her game. A game that could kill