SHORT STORY: "Kiss of Embers" by Thomas Grayfson
- L. D. Whitney
- Mar 17
- 16 min read
Updated: Mar 19
Something interesting to me about the relatively recent outpouring of Sword & Sorcery publications is that I am beginning to recognize the names of new wave authors despite perhaps not being super familiar with their work. Case in point - author Thomas Grayfson. While I've had the opportunity to be published in the same publication as him, Crimson Quill Quarterly (he in Vol. 5 and me in Vol. 4 & 6), I've not had the opportunity to read his material beyond that single issue.
The following story "Kiss of Embers", at least by my definitions, aligns more with the aesthetics of Dark Fantasy and perhaps Grimdark than S&S. We have an inhuman warrior, seemingly inspired by Tieflings (I think?) who was raised within the ranks of a barbarian horde who also despises his race. The tale also courts the heavy-handed machinations of Gods, bringing together the down-to-earth brutality of S&S with more high fantasy underpinnings. Some of the descrinptions are reminiscent of Dark Souls visuals, which I feel is seeping into a lot of stories I read lately. Goes to show the power of good art direction (or maybe its influence on myself).
Thomas Grayfson is a fantasy and sci-fi author whose works have appeared in Crimson Quill Quarterly and Waystation. He is from Perth, Australia.
Enough talk, here's the tale!
-Logan
Kiss of Embers
by Thomas Grayfson
Revenge drove Talman towards the cathedral. Burdened by the weight of a killer's resolve, his footsteps were measured and silent. As the sun rose over the city of Zharka, its golden rays pierced through towering spires, illuminating sacred grounds strewn with the bodies of his kin, the Felsworn. Some lay still, while others groaned, their tails twitching and horns shattered.
Talman recognised one of the fallen. She tried to speak but only broken sounds came out. Her legs were snapped and twisted in strange ways. The bitter taste of her name lingered on his tongue, along with a searing ache that pierced the dense, spiralling bone of his horns. Memories flooded back of the terror that gripped Zharka as barbarian hordes infiltrated the city walls. Led by Skyleia, their battle-queen, a thousand hungry blades mercilessly slaughtered the Felsworn under the cover of darkness.
Did this dying woman remember him? Once scorned by his people as a runt, he was banished by the elders when he dared to defend himself. He hoped she could understand the loneliness that drove him to seek refuge with Skyleia, leading him to confide in her about a weakness in the city’s defences, a betrayal that condemned his own kind to death.
As her breathing slowed, he flattened his ears, unable to bear witness to her suffering any longer. With a dagger tucked up the sleeve of his coat, he vanished through the grand cathedral doors. Standing in awe beneath the arched ceiling, an unfamiliar warmth settled in his stomach, adding to his growing unease. His gaze fixed on a stained-glass window in a side wall, depicting the goddess Ordaine. She wore a thorned crown, pouring water from a clay pot into the river below, the source from which Zharka had originally been built. Lines etched in the corners of her eyes spoke of sacrifice, while her lips were painted a deep, intense red, reminiscent of blood.
The cathedral lay in ruins, its holy relics and artefacts stolen or destroyed, its pews empty. Echoes of laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the once-hallowed halls. Massive stone pillars lined the nave, adorned with flickering lanterns that bathed Skyleia’s new throne in a half-light. There she lounged, drinking from a dusty bottle of wine, a lioness basking in the heat despite the misery she had inflicted upon the city.
To Skyleia’s right loomed the witch Eliphelet, shrouded in a black corset, her angular face outlined by the veil she wore. Her gloved hands were clasped at her belly, fingers twitching with a sense of anticipation.
Byrald kept watch below the throne. A typically short Dokkrin from Greymarsh, he stood a wisp taller than Talman, his stout frame encased in plate armour. He clenched his favoured warspike, which pointed menacingly toward the heavens. Always at Skyleia’s side, he remained eager to win her favour after decades of servitude, relishing the chance to dispatch anyone who posed a threat.
Talman’s ears perked up as he moved closer. He forced a broad smile across his face as the warmth in his stomach twisted into a sickening churn. Skyleia’s nostrils flared as she caught sight of him.
“Look who joins us, the last of his kind.” A glint of amusement shone in her eyes. “Are you now the King of Zharka?”
He almost shuddered at the thought of ruling the city. It had long been governed by Ordaine, and the weight of a crown would only plunge him deeper into seas of bloodshed. “I would never presume such a thing,” he replied, his voice unwavering despite a constriction in his throat. “The city is yours.”
Skyleia placed a hand over her chest, relishing the attention, while Byrald lifted his chin, tracking Talman’s every movement like a thirsting hound.
The scents of black orchid, plums, and patchouli overwhelmed Talman as he approached. They evoked memories of nights spent in Skyleia’s private chambers, where she would rub her body with fragrant oils before their trysts. Once, he had delighted in her, but now shame washed over him as he realised their tenderness had merely been a prelude to war.
A shadow flashed across his path. Instinctively, he halted and looked up, only to realise it was just the long stem of Byrald’s warspike. The Dokkrin grunted like a volcano clearing its mouth of ash, “Where is Jorlit? He was meant to return with you.”
“He found a youngster cowering beneath a mulberry cart,” Talman lied with ease. “You know how he is.”
Byrald snorted. “I’d wager you’d know more than I. After all, you trained under him after we took you in.”
Talman tried to shoulder past Byrald, but the Dokkrin pressed forward, batting his warspike against Talman’s chest. “He taught you weapons by day, and obedience by night. It’s a pity you only learnt one of those lessons.”
The insult threatened to crack Talman’s amiable facade, yet he managed to take a deep breath through his nose, remaining calm as he met Byrald’s gaze.
In the fading hours of the previous night, he had been paired with Jorlit to hunt down Felsworn in the smouldering town markets. There, amidst the wreckage, they scavenged the pockets of the dead for rare jewels and gold known to be hoarded by the Felsworn. Jorlit took the lead, naively trusting of his new companion, positioning himself at the front line with his bow, while Talman trailed behind, lingering in shadows.
As they walked past a fountain dedicated to Ordiane, the statue of the deity seemed to come alive. Talman's steps faltered as she locked her gaze upon him. Time slowed to a trickle, the market blurring into obscurity. Unaware of her presence, Jorlit pressed on with the hunt, his movements becoming indistinct.
Ordaine silently judged Talman for betraying the Felsworn. He tried to speak, desperate to know why she never helped when his kin abused and banished him, but his tongue felt slow. His words came out unclear. Her stone eyes showed a hint of recognition, as if she understood his thirst for answers, yet deemed it unworthy of response.
Talman felt her intangible will creep into his mind. He tried to resist, but found himself feeling strangely numb, his resolve fading. Before him, two colours appeared—crimson and obsidian—each showing a different path: one offering forgiveness if he murdered his barbarian allies, the other promising her wrath if he refused.
He made his choice, stabbing Jorlit in the back. The blade cut deep, and he watched as his prey collapsed onto the cobblestones, a final breath wheezing from punctured lungs. After disposing of the body, Talman made his way to the cathedral.
Had Byrald realised what he’d done? The cold touch of that same dagger pressed against his wrist. Perhaps this was as far as he would go. Shame. At least he could take the Dokkrin with him.
“Leave him be,” said Skyleia, the mirth drained from her voice.
Another grunt, and Byrald lifted his warspike, spitting a mouthful of phlegm on the floorboards. Talman offered him a wink before mustering the courage to approach the throne. His hands trembled, his tongue felt thick and dry. Skyleia had taken him in when he had no other place to go. She had provided food, shelter, and more.
But she couldn't protect him against a goddess. And that would be her downfall.
Eliphelet stood motionless yet she drew Talman’s gaze. He could feel her eyes boring into his flesh from beneath her veil.
“Is something wrong?” said Skyleia, relaxing back into her throne. “I assure you none of this blood is mine." She inspected her arm where a light scratch had been marked from wrist to elbow. “Well, most of it isn’t mine.”
“It’s your beauty that gives me pause,” Talman whispered as he knelt before Skyleia. Running his hands up her calves, he felt the tautness of her muscles beneath his hooked fingertips. She snorted softly, then fondled his horns in a way that made his ears quiver. Talman slipped between her legs, causing her to sigh, before pulling the dagger from his sleeve.
“My Queen!” cried someone from the entrance to the cathedral. Talman turned his head to see a ranger approach. She wore the feathered cloak of a captain and carried a bundle of bloodied rags in her arms.
Skyleia groaned, “What is it, Marion?”
Marion cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt the celebrations, my Queen. This cannot wait.” She held out the rags and Talman recognised, heart thundering in his chest, the shredded remains of Jorlit’s cowl. “We found this shoved into a grain barrel. The colour and consistency of blood suggests a mortal injury. My men are searching for the body now. We’ll have further—"
“Impossible,” Skyleia scoffed. “Jorlit is a seasoned warrior. Am I to believe he’s been slain by one of these cross-eyed rats?” She ruffled Talman’s hair. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“He may live,” replied Marion, her voice strained. She bowed her head and added, “We’ll find him before daybreak, and then—”
“Stand down, Captain.” Skyleia turned her attention to Talman. “Find Jorlit and report back to me. Don't let anyone stand in your way.”
Talman repressed the urge to burst into laughter at the irony of the situation. With as much grace as he could muster, he untangled himself from Skyleia and descended from the throne. Killing her would have to wait until another opportunity arose, even if it meant going against the will of Ordaine.
A gloved hand seized his wrist. “This one is a serpent,” Eliphelet declared. Talman struggled to free his arm, but her grip was like stone. An aura of dark magic emanated from her shadowy form. “It lurks in tall grass, waiting for its chance to strike with deadly venom.”
Skyleia sighed. “Eliphelet, you’ve been drinking too much wine again.”
“Listen to your Queen,” said Talman through clenched teeth. But Eliphelet ignored him, reaching inside his sleeve. Drawing the dagger, she held it aloft for them all to see.
“Bastard!” screamed Byrald. He charged towards the throne, his warspike stretched forward.
Marion moved as if to aid the Dokkrin, then faltered, her hand lingering over the hilt of her mace as she weighed her options.
As Eliphelet focused on the blade, Talman wrenched his hand free. Skyleia, seething with anger, rose from her throne and flung her bottle of merlot at his head, “Vermin!” He ducked, narrowly avoiding the bottle as it shattered against the wall behind him.
"It thought it could deceive us," Eliphelet purred with smug satisfaction, "but nothing can hide from me. I am the eternal Watcher."
"Watch this." Talman spiked the heel of his free hand into Eliphelet’s nose and felt a crunch of cartilage. Her head snapped back, veil falling off her head to reveal an ivory face slick with blood and snot.
The sound of clinking metal gave Talman enough warning to dodge Byrald's warspike. He landed with a grunt and peered up to see Eliphelet speared through the chest. Blood drenched her black gown. She gurgled, eyes wide with shock, before vomiting up a mouthful of gore onto the Dokkrin.
"Blasted witch!" cried Byrald as he ripped out his warspike to the sounds of her deathly howling. Skyleia’s face twisted with fury as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She singled out Talman with a pointed finger, her words seething with intense loathing. “Eviscerate this Felsworn wretch!”
“At once,” replied Marion, her face hardening to a soldier’s mask as she hustled towards the battle.
Talman's dagger clattered on the ground—he licked his lips in anticipation of being united with his favoured blade—but caught sight of a flash of steel. He drew his sword just in time to deflect a swing from Marion's mace. Staggering backward, he cursed himself for being caught off-guard. The force of the attack sent a jolt of searing pain up his shoulder, sparking agony in his muscles.
Pressing her advantage, Marion met Talman with a flurry of blows he struggled to parry, each wracking his body until his sword arm was numb and shaking. Talman retreated until his back hit against a stone pillar, blade hanging loosely at his side.
Marion grinned like a wolf cornering its prey. "Nowhere to go but straight into the depths of a traitor's hell."
"Wrong direction," replied Talman. He scrambled up the pillar, his movements swift and coordinated as he found purchase with his hooked fingertips and feet, using the nooks and crannies of the stone structure to propel him upwards. He narrowly avoided a lantern brimming with burnt oil.
Byrald joined Marion, wiping a stream of blood and bile from his face. "Your kind are such acrobatic little shits, but you crack like brittle glass." He gripped the base of his warspike and rammed its full length towards the column. Talman’s reflexes kicked in, twisting his body to evade the attack. His footing lost purchase and he frantically reached out to steady himself against the wall with his good hand. His muscles strained as he fought to support his own weight. His sword dropped from his fingers, and he could only watch as it clattered on the ground.
"I know you cared for this one, my Queen," said Marion, loud enough for her words to fill the cathedral. "But his actions are unforgivable. He shall meet a coward's death."
When there was no response, Talman glanced towards the throne to find it empty. His grip on the wall faltered, and he let out a gasp as he slid down an inch. He snatched onto the lantern, his fingers burning from the heat of its metal surface.
"Let's finish him off,” said Byrald. His impatience was palpable. “Now, before she returns. We can wipe our own bloody arses.”
The Dokkrin readied his warspike just as the lantern wrenched off the column.
Talman dropped towards the floor, hurling the lantern as he fell. It smashed into Marion's face, hot oil drenching her feathered cloak, which then caught alight. She screamed in terror as her hair erupted, skin reddened and blistered, her muscle melting from bone. Dropping her mace, she fled across the cathedral, arms outstretched for aid that never came. Her strength waned as flames consumed her, and she collapsed in a smouldering heap.
Hitting the ground with his tailbone, Talman cracked his head against the wall behind. Sharp pain focused his reflexes as he rolled past a thrust of Byrald's warspike. He then sprung up inside the Dokkrin’s guard, thrashing with hooked fingers that barely scratched his armour.
Byrald discarded his weapon and enveloped the Felsworn in his burly arms. Talman felt the breath squeezed from his lungs, his chest crushing under the force.
"I always dreamt of spearing you like a fish," Byrald remarked, his upper lip glistening with sweat. "But this will suffice."
Talman's vision blurred, his attempts to break free proving futile as his arms remained pinned to his sides. He managed to choke out a response, "No spear... just a good hook."
“What?” Byrald snarled, confusion etched across his features.
Rearing his head back, Talman thrust the tip of his horn into Byrald's eye socket. There was a burst of jelly, and the Dokkrin let out a high-pitched squeal. Talman drove his horn deeper, feeling bone and brain tissue mush together. Byrald released him and desperately grasped the horn, snapping it in two all the way to the quick. Crying out in agony, Talman fell backwards, his mind reeling, blood spurting from the stump where his horn had been.
Byrald fixed his one good eye on Talman. The severed horn still protruded from the other, dripping sludge into his gaping mouth. His body convulsed, and he collapsed to his knees before slumping over to his side, motionless. A sticky pool spread beneath him.
Marion's charred body lay smouldering, the fire had ignited nearby pews, sending waves of torrid smoke throughout the cathedral. Talman’s eyes and throat burned as he struggled to his feet. Leaning against the wall for support, he extended a trembling hand, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Navigating the corpses of his former comrades, he stepped over their lifeless forms to retrieve his dagger. Its weight sent a throbbing pain through his off-hand. He sheathed it with clenched teeth.
High above him, the stained-glass window of Ordiane crackled red as the water she poured turned into molten flame. Skyleia emerged from the haze and leaned against her throne, wielding a golden axe in one hand, the other encased in a bejewelled gauntlet.
Talman swung his sword, slicing it through the air with his good arm. "You fled, how un-queenly of you."
"My axe thirsted for your blood.” Skyleia stared at the blade, her reflection wavering in its steel. “You will pay for showing such disrespect for my rule.”
"You lead a band of savage murderers,” replied Talman. “Why should your fate be any different than the Felsworn?”
Skyleia bared her teeth, “Because even death fears me.”
“You exaggerate,” replied Talman, although the words felt hollow. He paced around Skyleia and the throne, “Besides, the wrath of a goddess is worse than death. Ordaine will come for me, and I intend to balance the scales before she does.``
“Coward.” Skyleia dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "You could have been a King. Instead, you've fallen back into the role of a lackey."
Talman ground his teeth, hearing the truth in Skyleia's words but refusing to acknowledge it.
"We are lovers," she whispered. "Will you at least speak to that?"
"Yes, we were. And now I'll be your killer.”
Charging forward, Skyleia exploded with powerful blows that Talman reeled against. Her blade was like an extension of her arm, each attack blessed with grace and precision. Too weak to deflect with his sword, Talman relied on his acrobatics to dodge and weave, careful to avoid the encroaching flames. Despite his efforts to find openings for counterattacks, they were few and far between. For every thrust or slice he attempted, she blocked with her gauntlet, sparks hissing between their weapons.
Skyleia deftly feinted with her axe, causing Talman to shift his sword in defence. Seizing the opportunity, she brought her knee into his belly, knocking the breath from his lungs. While Talman gasped for a mouthful of air tinged with ashes, she followed up with a powerful slice that ripped across his thigh, unleashing a spray of crimson blood that splattering against her face.
Talman stepped back but folded on his wounded leg, wildly slashing his sword to keep her at bay. She lifted her axe for the killing blow, but a breath of fire licked between them, disrupting her rhythm, and allowing Talman precious seconds to recuperate. His hands trembled as he struggled to steady his blade.
Skyleia burst through the flames, arcing her axe over her shoulders, bringing it down towards Talman, who raised his tail in a last-ditch effort to defend himself.
The axe cleaved through his tail but snagged on a piece of bone, causing Skyleia to lose her balance. Talman saw his chance, pushing past overwhelming pain to thrust his sword towards Skyleia’s chest. The blade sank deep, eliciting a sharp breath from her.
Undeterred by the wound, she struck out with her gauntlet, delivering a powerful blow that split Talman’s cheekbone. As she struggled to raise her axe, Talman lunged at her weapon arm, drawing his dagger and sinking it deep into her flesh.
Skyleia growled in frustration. Yanking Talman’s hair back, she slammed his head onto the floor, loosening his grip. She pulled away, her eyes flickering with pain as she plucked the dagger from her arm, only to be confronted by the sight of Talman’s sword jutting out from her chest. With a grunt, she reached towards the handle, grasped it firmly and pulled it out. A shudder coursed through her as the blade slid free and visceral organs spilled from her belly.
Talman quivered in fear of another strike. Skyleia ignored him, staggering towards her throne. She slumped onto it, wincing as steam rose from where her skin touched scorching metal. Her head hung limply as she surveyed the blazing cathedral and the corpses of her tribe scattered below.
"So be it," she hissed through red-stained teeth, "take your revenge. But my spirit will not rest until you have suffered. I will devour you."
To the side of the cathedral, high above the throne, the stained-glass window shattered into a thousand pieces. An image of the goddess emerged from its fragments, pulsating with an ominous red glow. Talman lay frozen, stricken with fear, as Ordiane sauntered towards the throne, her silken robe flowing behind her.
Despite wounds that ravaged her body, Skyleia snarled in defiance as the goddess closed in. Ordaine, her smile twisted with malice, leaned in to kiss Skyleia. The queen turned her head away, tightly shutting her eyes. Undeterred, the Goddess let out a scornful laugh, her hand finding its way to Skyleia’s throat to turn her chin, forcefully sealing their lips together.
As they separated, a trail of spittle lingered between them. Skyleia growled. With a final surge of energy, she snapped her head forward, sinking her teeth into Ordaine’s exposed neck, rending flesh like a rabid beast. The goddess emitted a curious cry, an otherworldly blend of ecstasy and agony. A blinding flash of white-hot flame engulfed them both, shrouding their forms in searing brilliance. Their silhouettes dissolved into an explosion of radiant light.
Talman shielded his eyes, trying to make sense of what had just happened. When he cautiously opened them again, he saw nothing but a void where the throne once stood. It throbbed with intense energy. He was smothered with the pungent smell of black orchid, plums, and patchouli. Coughing up clouds of ash and dirt, he scrambled away, tormented by the mocking laughter of both goddess and queen as he fled.
He barely escaped the cathedral before it was consumed by fire. Limping across the desolate city, the corpses of the Felsworn seemed to reach out to him with hooked fingers. He dared not look back until he had reached the outskirts, where the tall, pointed buildings of Zharka loomed in the distance, casting shadows over abandoned streets. Thick smoke billowed from the ruined cathedral, obscuring the sun, which cast a sickly yellow light, throbbing like an infected sore that would never heal. The only sounds were the rasp of Talman’s breathing and the pounding of his footsteps until, overwhelmed with terror, he sank to his knees.
Covering his mouth, his anguished scream escaped as a suppressed whimper. His heart sank as he realised there was nothing left for him. Everything he had ever known had been destroyed by his own hand. The weight of his betrayals bore heavily upon him, and he shuddered at the thought of the sacrifices yet to be made in a world where he was truly alone. He had to keep moving, but his legs refused to obey, and in that moment, he longed for oblivion.
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