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    The Bounty and Conscious Fragments
    The Bounty and Conscious Fragments
    The Bounty and Conscious Fragments
    Ebook143 pages1 hour

    The Bounty and Conscious Fragments

    By Levi Shipley

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    About this ebook

    The novella "The Bounty" with short story compilation "Conscious Fragments" bundled together. The Bounty is a tale of Gadren Amon, a monster slayer for hire, commissioned by a wealthy client to solve the mystery behind his niece's strange behavior. Though possessing a supernaturally long life and resilience, he relies on mundane methods to hunt his quarries. Conscious Fragments is a collection of short stories and flash fiction, ranging in genre from urban, science fiction, horror, and fantasy. Widely varied, with easy-to-read and short-in-length tales, it is sure to have a little bit for everyone.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLevi Shipley
    Release dateMar 12, 2018
    ISBN9781370437467
    The Bounty and Conscious Fragments
    Author

    Levi Shipley

    I am a writer. Not because of my vocabulary or any particular push in that direction. I simply feel like the person I'm meant to be after a good session at the keyboard. Otherwise, just an average person.

    Read more from Levi Shipley

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      Book preview

      The Bounty and Conscious Fragments - Levi Shipley

      The Bounty

      And

      Conscious Fragments

      Table of Contents

      The Bounty

      Light Keeper

      Red Sun

      Faceless

      His Christmas

      Holiday Blues

      Different Plans

      Swing

      Chivalry

      The Inside

      Doves

      Heretic

      Zion

      Daedalus

      Break Me

      Character Flaws

      Peace

      Clerk

      Six Words

      The Washup

      Late Arrival

      Taboo

      Writer’s Mountain

      The Last Relic

      The Bounty

      The shovel rises, specks of its edge glinting in the moonlight. The man, our hero, scoops the fine dry earth into the boy’s grave. Overhead the parched leaves rustle before autumn’s discontent winds. Crickets chirp all about, stubborn to recede against the cold. The digging was hard, but the burial is easy. If only this body would stay covered. He wipes his brow, glances about the wood, and pitches earth like coffee grounds upon the child’s still blue face. All of a sudden he becomes quite certain it was he who slew the boy, but he can’t remember how. The notion passes as quickly as it came, and he pours more dirt. The innocent dead face stares up at him, repelling every bit of earth.

      Gadren Amon opens his eyes slowly, with intention. Dispelling this old dream has become as routine as shaving. No longer holding the adolescent charm it once did when one could brag of it, it has become a mundane chore far beyond the haunting it once was. He shifts his weight in the rented bed, its springs lamenting his muscular frame, and he turns his attention to the barren side. His female companion, whose name now eludes him, has vanished. He wonders if this one has taken it upon herself to lighten his satchels. Sometimes they do this, seeing the mortal in him. While others ride the fantasy of his legends and carry too much fear to betray him.

      Coin or no, he rises from the bed, vaguely aware that little bites plague his skin, and dresses himself.

      Pants equipped and shirt left behind he ventures into the privy. He draws water from the sink (bless these machines) and combs out his beard. Salt and pepper, he thinks as he applies oil to his cheeks in the mirror and rinses off a disposable razor. He can hear his mother’s voice, a voice now younger than his own, drifting into his ears like a bedtime whisper. When are you going to settle down? She asks, I’ve waited long enough for grandchildren, and your father’s leaking at the seams with stories and cheap magic tricks. He goes to work on the cheeks, revealing the leather hide below. His features, once smooth and handsomely angular, have hardened into a rough cover. Gadren is tall and fit, able to snap to in any circumstance, but he wears his years like a cowl, and his age can be clearly seen in his dusky grey eyes.

      When it’s safe. He washes away the excess.

      It’s winter now, about the time the mountain harpies descend to pillage storehouses. The northern winds drive ice up the shore, from time to time causing frost sprites to wander up toward coastal farms and freeze the simple folk in their sleep. The dragons and scalekin are thankfully hibernating, but the werewolves are always out this time of year, and in the short days one must be wary of his own shadow. For the liches and their necromancers play with the dark the way a child plays kraken with the bath water, toying with the ebb and flow with reckless disregard.

      Gadren journeys up the Verain coast, responding to a letter from a prominent client. His plethora of armaments in tow upon the back of a burro. In his unnaturally long life he has only ever responded to two such employers, this one a renowned alchemist, the other a crestfallen prince. Typically his travels take him from one burdened burg to the next, for his words to his long dead mother are more than mantra; they are a promise.

      The months pass, the ice thaws, and spring’s green tide washes in. The continent, once again, offer him no surprises this year. On his way to the alchemist’s manor he’d slain a dozen winter hounds, twice that number in harpies, a stygian troll, a black cult (that is a cadre of necromancers), and two deer for clothing and meat. The rest of the supplies he’d needed were given mostly with glad hearts from those he helped.

      The name of the manor is Green Bastion. When Gadren approaches from the south on what has become a well-kept highway, he notices the turrets and iron fence about the place. It had once been a fortress. In his youth, his real youth, it had been called Fort Constant, a place where men had used machines and weapons the likes of which Gadren wishes could still be made. The concrete had all been blasted away, and these days it had a homely air to it, what with its trimmed animal hedges, flower gardens, and mild mannered servants about. There is a statue outside of a robed man holding the sun in one hand and a lightning bolt in the other. An enamel plaque is pitted into the base below, and Gadren takes a moment to read.

      The stars, for our part did align

      By our hands wrought wonders divine

      Until God, our mortality, did He remind

      And cursed this soil for all humankind

      Samuel the Starbreaker

      Master Kellar hopes mankind will hold the stars again someday. A man’s voice reports. I wasn’t aware the Grey Guardian was interested in the academics.

      The servant’s approach hadn’t startled Gadren in the least. He continued getting a feel for the symbolism of the statue and replied, I wasn’t aware people still called me that, and you know I’m quite perceptive. He sighed. We used to call these people astronomers.

      Ah, forgive me. Your appearance deceives your age, Master Amon. He bowed. A simple yet dignified man, his manner was practiced and sterling. He wore plain work clothes like those of the coastal farmers, but he looked better suited for something austere. I am Phil Hopsis, head caretaker of Green Bastion. Master Kellar has been eager for your arrival.

      The world had changed so much in so many areas, but when it came to the aristocrats and their layers of formality, Gadren decided little if anything had been lost. Call me Gad. I may be old enough to be your grandsire, but I won’t be having everyone waste their time with all those syllables. Kellar, he’s in his lab, yes?

      Yes, sir. I can take you to him if you’d like, though I’d recommend a moment of respite. I can have someone fetch you—

      No need, friend. I was here before you were born, and it doesn’t seem to have changed a wink. If you want to help me, take my packer. he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, To the stable. Just be careful with the gear.

      Gad had been hoping this excursion would prove lively, refreshing, but so far it was pacing along beaten down paths. Victor Kellar had summoned him here before to quell an infestation of imps at a nearby cave. The alchemist wanted the cave’s unique moss, had said it would be pivotal in developing a serum to save sufferers of bloatface. Based on how many staff now roamed, Gad assumed the serum has been a success.

      He enters a tower on the north side of the manor and begins to ascend a spiral staircase. His boots, thick leather workers, thud against each of the stone steps. The echo carries up and down either way but only a short distance, giving the effect that he’s gone nowhere and is making no progress.

      Gad reaches the top, an open area filled by bottle covered tables and hundreds of research notes and diagrams. A low wall goes around the circular space, and a dome shaped glass covers it, not without windows marking the circumference every couple feet. Despite having reverted to a previous title, Victor understands the importance of ventilation. A hunched over old man sits at one of the tables, his spotted hands clasped together behind his head over the last white tuft. His back is turned to Gad, and the reflection of his eyes darting back and forth can be seen off the corner of his substantial spectacles as he studies his own notes.

      After seeing the old chemist absorbed utterly, Gad releases a short reverberating cough.

      The old man’s eyes quit their feverish endeavor, his hands unclasp, and he turns with his whole body, being no longer able to simply crane the neck, to inspect the interruption. His rheumy eyes alight, and the familiar creases on his face thicken where ten thousand smiles were made. How’s it feel, young man? Those steps give you any trouble?

      Walked on my hands the whole way up. Think I’ll do cartwheels next time.

      Still a wisenheimer, yeah. Good. There are too few constants, if you ask me. I’ve got plans drawn up for a simple lift. I want it in by next spring prospectively. That’s the hope and dream, anyway. Takes too long getting up here, and I’m liable to have the old ticker freeze up on one of these climbs.

      Why not move the lab to the ground? I know you’ve got an answer for that, and I want to hear it.

      Gad, you know how we hang onto things. Victor raised a sagging arm and swept it across the room. "I can’t give up that view, and at night . . . indescribable. At my age, were I to move to the ground or heaven forbid

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