Ten Summoners Tales
🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢for June 19, 2025
Good Morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the 2nd issue of 🤠Thursday Roundup!🪢where we bring you at least ten stories from the stack.
Have you ever looked up at that beautiful moon and wondered what ships sail the Mares? Well, it’s the HMAS Posideon and they hunt down the pirates that sail the moon’s oceans. James Kenwood tells a rousing tale.
It was the year of our Lord 1862, and our second patrol of the lunar seas had been going well.
We had recently celebrated the silver jubilee of our beloved monarch, Queen Victoria, and the men were still in high spirits. Our ship, the HMS Poseidon, was fully stocked with supplies from our last visit to Port Arcturus, and the hum of our gravitic aether engines was as smooth as the day they had left the Thames yards almost ten years ago.
We were over the Sea of Serenity, some distance east of Port Arcturus, when the first news reached our ears of the attacks on Sloveton and Marshal Point. These small settlements, scattered atop the lush atolls of ground that rose from the otherwise semi-barren seas around them, were frontier posts in our plans to expand the empire, and the cattle herds which they raised on the grey grasses of the Sea of Serenity were a key component of our logistics network in the region. News of their attack came by carrier pigeons, the white creatures fluttering in amongst our rigging before descending, and once Master Brighton had captured them and collected their message capsules, there was a great deal of gossipping about their contents.
Of course, our captain, Sir Franklin Devworth, did not stand for that, and once he emerged from his cabins he gave short shrift to the gossipping men. You are men of Her Imperial Majesty’s Aeronautical Fleet, he roared from the quarterdeck, and clucking about like a pack of London hens is beneath your station. He then roared at the sergeants and other officers to assemble, and within minutes the news about the settlement attacks was out. Two French privateers, flying merchant flags, had descended upon first Sloveton and then Marshal Point, and stripped the settlements bare of their prized herds. Not only animals, for food, but also hoards of moon coral and star diamonds, found scattered across this strange landscape, had been taken by the privateers. They had departed in a cloud of cannon smoke and burning roofs, and the governor of the region, Lord Fartheron, was demanding justice. (To continue, click here.)
Our second story comes to us from Canadian writer NovaHeart and it is a chapter from her book “The Crown of ashes and blood.”
I hadn't been to Ka’nar since I was a dustling, and it had changed a lot since then. Most of the slanted shacks and tents were gone. The people were building stone homes, like Seraphim, and instead of the open, dusty expanse between them, there were now proper paths. It seemed that some of the Ka’narians had even brought desert plants into the area, creating little gardens. I remember running through the dilapidated city with Kavi as dustlings, using dry sticks as swords. Kavi pretended to be a Ka’narian elite, and I played a marauder. I would sneak around, grabbing his stash of 'gems', which were just grey rocks, and then tear through the desert, laughing as he chased me. One time, he had this idea to go into one of the abandoned mines to hunt for real gems.
“I bet they left something behind down there, and then we can buy real swords to play with.”
“I don’t know, Kavi. I hear those old mines are picked clean.”
“Well, I know this one dustling found a ruby in one, and he had enough to buy an elite sword.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, he showed it to me. It had a snake carved into the grip for protection, and he cut down a huge cactus like it was nothing.”
“Oh wow, let me ask Papa if I can go.”
“No don’t do that, they won’t let us go in there. You can’t tell anyone Cavren, okay?”
I agreed, and when I got trapped in a cave-in, Kavi ran back to Ka’nar to get help. When our fathers asked if we had gone into the mines, threatening severe punishment if we had, Kavi got scared and lied, saying I took off without him. After three days trapped in the dark, I was finally found, dehydrated and frightened. I hadn’t talked to him since. Though he kept sending apologies through to Kazaki, and I kept tearing them up. Now, here I was with him again, in his home city, trying to help save his father, Kaspar, from the Seraphim attack. I wondered if I should have forgiven him sooner, how much time we had lost together, and I did not know if we would survive this battle. My father ever stoic stopped as the audible screams began to ring in our ears and the black smoke filled the streets. (To continue, click here.)
The Third story this week is sby Isha Jain, and it’s entitled “Under the lonely tree.”
The smell of smoke felt soothing to the man as he sat beside her on the left side of the bench. An old abandoned one, away from the buzz of main road, looking at the lone banyan tree, shrouded in darkness.
“To be or not to be, it must have asked when they cut down all its friends.” She pointed with the cigarette in between her fair fingers, to the tree that now seemed to tower over them from far away with its overhanging branches.
He looked at his dirty hands, sliding his sack behind the rickety seat.
“Life does not provide everyone with that choice.” He hid his cracked feet beneath the bench as she tilted her head in his direction, still looking ahead.
“What would you have chosen?” Her smooth voice matched the silk she wore.
He straightened his dhoti and looked at the tree, avoiding her gaze, “I started earning for my family in the village when I was twelve.”
“Where is your home?” She offered him the stick as an owl cried on the tree, not bothering to look at him.
His eyes widened as he shook his head. She shrugged after a second, waiting for his answer with another deep drag.
“I don’t know. Where is yours?” It was getting late, not safe for a lady of her kind.
“I don’t know.” She pursed her lips to hide her smile.
He looked at her face when he was sure she couldn’t tell. She must be the daughter of local moneylender, or the contractor, to know this place. Her face was the kind that did not see the sun for long. And she looked too young.
He slid farther away at the glow she radiated from her being. He had heard tales about the witches who roamed, scorned at the loss of their abode in the trees.
She threw her head back and laughed heartily, her hair almost touching the ground, “So, you have heard the rumors,” crushing the stick on the rusty back of their seat.
“I wish!” Her face turned serious as she leaned closer to him. He could see the glow in her eyes. (To continue, click here)
Story number four is Chapter Nineteen of “One Hundred Refusals” by Kathrine Elaine.
Prince Sturnus was the most frightened man Gema had ever seen; the poor thing sat in bed shivering, too timid to raise his eyes to the one coming in.
“I must beg you to forgive me, Pearl! I… I do not…” he stuttered meekly.
“May I blow out the candles?” Gema asked.
“Of course, of course!” He agreed.
Gema quickly got rid of every source of light in the chamber, the darkness was pitch black, and although Gema knew that the Birdlings had a bad vision in the dark, she begged,
“Please, would you turn away while I undress?”
Prince did as asked. He was a nervous wreck, he didn’t comprehend what was happening; Gema took off her clothes, so did Cinnia-turned-human. Gema laid down as far away from the prince as she could. A tiny bell rang; she knew how Ash’s magic worked, the curse was broken, because the one getting into the wedding bed with prince Sturnus on their wedding night was indeed the real Queen Geminaris. Such was the plan. Now it was time to move on to the next part of it.
“What was that?” The prince asked, after hearing the bell.
“I’ll take a look,” said Gema. She got up but never laid down next to prince Sturnus.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Gema reassured him.
Cinnia took her place, slipping beneath the covers naked and frightened. Meanwhile Gema picked Cinnia’s maid’s dress, creeping into the darkest corner of the chamber. King Olor was patrolling by the chamber; they heard his impatient footsteps marching back and forth. Gema had no magic to become a snake or a bird, therefore she hid in the corner, shutting her ears to the events taking place in the wedding bed.
“Dear Pearl, you are a wonderful woman, but as you know, I see you as nothing but a sister to me. Therefore, this deed shall be vile. But we must sacrifice our flesh for the greater good. The peaceful future between two kingdoms depends on this night. For Avem!” Prince Sturnus made a speech with his voice trembling. He crept closer to the one lying in the bed, and his shaky hand touched her face. The prince leaned over her and gave Cinnia the gentlest of kisses.
“For Avem!” Cinnia whispered under her breath, and kissed the prince back, praying the Foreverold would forgive this dark deed.
None of the two expected that the Foreverold shall take mercy upon their innocent souls, and bless them with passion of love beyond measure. By the time Cinnia had returned the fifth kiss the prince gave her, they forgot themselves in the gentle rage of lovemaking. Shaking hands turned steady gliding across the other’s skin, and lips followed the path the hands had discovered. Both weaved around each other, moving in perfect harmony of two birds flying side by side. And, indeed, Cinnia recalled how flawless their flight over the garden was, how easily they conversed afterward, and how handsome the prince suddenly became in the last rays of the dying sun. (To continue click here.)
The fifth story is by The Brothers Krynn, and goes by “The cult of the Black Pillars.”
Thunder split the heavens. At any other time this might have alarmed those within the keep by the sea. The great din was matched in volume only by the great roar of the sea as it battered against the great coast of the Scáilbeinn-Mountains the mountain ranges that were to be found all along the land of Korax, with these ones crossing all along the coast through the south-westernmost part of the Ogre kingdom.
Rain swept over the land drowning out alongside the lightning the noise of the screams that tore through the night. It was these very screams that had pulled the young man from his bed so that he traversed through the wilderness as speedily as he could. The plains that separated the keep from the mountains were not vast so that on horse-back it took most little more than an hour.
Through the worst of the tempest Leonid advanced up alongside the side of the greatest of the local mountains. Advancing up along the mountain-side he had but eyes for the mountain’s peak, having reached the foot of the mountain he had left his horse behind and journeyed through one of the larger caverns that was to be found some distance up the southern face of the mountain. Few ever treaded thither such was the infamy that the mountains enjoyed so that it was unlike their other hiding places throughout the realm hardly hidden. It was an almost public location so that it was a favourite place of worship for the Black Ring of Scáilbeinn.
The Black Ring had not been convened therein nigh on three years, the young traveller mused to himself with a great deal of satisfaction. He only hoped that it might be another three years before he was made to play host to another of these meetings.
The sound of thunder tearing through the night once more, gave the robed figure pause once more. He had not expected it.
What he also had not expected was for him to step out from deep within the black caverns of Scáilbeinn, advancing with sure-feet to the back of the cavern to find himself looking up along a long pathway that seemed carved out of the mountain even as it seemed a natural part of it. Pleased that his journey was drawing to an end, the youth continued along the road with an eagerness that might well have surprised those within the city who had never known him to be a man prone to emotions.
Still, he mused to himself, he was as much a man as the next one might well be, or the previous one. This last thought was one that amused him to no end; it filled him with a great deal of relish to know that this sacred place of the Cult of Malvoch had never and could never be discovered by the small-minded peasants that inhabited the region. All because of their dread borne from their certainty that the unknown, the shadows of the night might do them harm. (To continue, click here.)
Fron the Black Pillars, we go the “Countryside” an idyllic piece by CP. Night
Bimahn charged down the narrow alleyway. She knocked over a young boy as she rounded the corner onto the dim street, but she didn’t stop. His stream of curses faded, overtaken by the hum of aircars zooming above, circulation units at the base of buildings so tall they disappeared into the gray sky, and the distant screeching of sirens.
She dodged a few maintenance bots and leapt over the carcass of an aircar. Just a little more. The timer displayed in her enhanced eye ticked down and updated her estimated time of arrival. It flashed red, and she pushed herself faster until it returned to green.
The empty, dark and dirty street shifted into something slightly less dirty and empty. A line flashed white around the door to her destination, the timer still green with a few seconds to spare. She kept her pace, not bothering to gawk back at the people observing her. So much for being subtle.
A pleasant tone played when she stepped into the recessed entryway and an access panel came to life just to the right of the red door. Calling up the file, she used her finger to draw the symbol her employer had given her and stepped back. Nothing happened, but she heard a whirring sound from behind the door. Don’t panic.
The next few seconds ticked down on the timer. She took a breath, even though the oxy implants along her ribcage provided all the oxygen she needed.
A click, zip and the door slid aside. Beyond it was a hallway illuminated by white lights along the base of the walls. At the end was a cyborg, its shoulders as wide as the corridor and its purple mohawk tall enough to brush against the high ceiling. Bright, laser blue eyes stared at her. Of all the—.
“Three seconds,” the cyborg’s deep voice called out.
Shit! She leapt inside, covering the distance in less than one second.
The cyborg clamped its hands onto her arms, not so tight it hurt, but tight enough she couldn’t move. She had been told there would be a security checkpoint, but she hadn’t expected an old-school cyborg with grabby hands. Its blue eyes looked her up and down, scanning her. She did the same, but all she saw was static. Jammed. Wonderful. One sided encounters always made her nervous. She couldn’t counter what she didn’t know. I’ll demand double the pay for the humiliation. And risk.
The hands released her, and she stepped back. It was impossible to tell what the result of her scan was since the cyborg’s face was entirely mechanical, a metal mask that showed no emotion. The purple mohawk was almost comical against the grey matte finish of the face. Though, she had to admit the shade went nicely with its eyes. (To continue, click here.)
The Seventh seal is broken, releasing “The Witch’s Apprentice” by Alexandra Hill.
The street outside was quiet, cloaked in fog. The candles burned low, their flames flickering faintly as if uneasy. Elspeth moved with quiet purpose, drawing chalk symbols across the floor—concentric rings interwoven with protective glyphs that shimmered faintly under her touch.
She set candles at the cardinal points. Small bundles of herbs—mugwort, wormwood, lavender, salt—were placed at precise intervals. The air filled with the acrid sweetness of crushed leaves and the low hum of something old and watching.
Bell stood near the wall, barefoot and uncertain.
“Elspeth?” she asked softly.
Her mentor didn’t look up.
“You’re too entangled now to ignore it,” she said, voice low and steady. “Whatever this is… it won’t pass you by. You’ve been marked. Called. Watched.”
Elspeth struck a match and lit the first candle. The flame flared blue, then settled into gold.
“You might not be able to change fate, Bell,” she continued, lighting the others one by one, “but you can prepare for it.”
Bell stepped forward, staring at the circle.
“What is this?”
“A tether. A boundary. A ward against what might try to follow you back.”
Bell swallowed hard. “Follow me back from what?”
Elspeth’s eyes finally met hers. They were calm. Unblinking.
“Wherever it is you go tonight.”
The words sank into Bell like stones into deep water. She glanced at the circle again. The symbols pulsed faintly now, breathing with an energy of their own. The scent of the herbs grew stronger, wrapping around her in invisible threads.
“Get inside,” Elspeth said gently. “Sit. Center yourself. If the dream comes again, this circle will hold what needs holding… and shield what needs shielding.”
Bell obeyed without another word.
She stepped into the circle and sat cross-legged at its center. The chalk felt warm beneath her skin, though the room had grown cold. She closed her eyes, heart pounding. She could already feel the tug—faint but insistent. Like a hook embedded in her chest, reeling her toward the field once more. (To continue, click here.)Th
The eighth story is “Out of missiles, the Damocles extended its “sword” and rammed the enemy ship.” by Parrish Baker.
“Pilot!” Mercutio shouted into the commons. “Pilot!”
The circuit burred with static.
“Teru, get her back!”
“Circuit’s fine. She’s just not there,” Teru said.
“Fika fiku,” Mercutio said. “Maltego—“
“They’ve kicked loose Cal-9,” Teru interrupted.
The little shuttle, released with a bright flash of gas from the airlock, drifted aside, starting a slow spin.
“They’re gonna run with her,” Maltego said. “Theremals say the engines are going hot!”
There was a flicker of burning hydrogen at the tuyeres.
“Merdo! Feko!” Mercutio pounded his fist on the console. “Maltego! Give me running engines!”
“Estro, I can blow feko up, but I ain’t an engineer. Pilot’s good for that.”
“Thanks, Maltego,” Mercutio said bitterly. “She’s good for piloting, too. Teru!”
Teru raised her hands. “Apollo’s Dart’s gonna fly rings around us, estro. I can hit the engine room and maybe get the tokamak burning in half an hour, but he’ll be out of the trailing Trojans and heading for Zeus before we get underway at a tenth g.—And they’re hailing.”
“Put them through.”
“Oi, MI, how’s the weather over there?”
“Come over here, and I’ll show you,” Mercutio said, trying not to snarl.
“Oh, I think I’m happier over here, and you heavysiders can stay with that hunk of junk over there.”
Mercutio ground his teeth. “All right, you’ve got the cargo, give me back Kuŝim.”
“She’s got a better job over here now. Say goodbye, Kuŝim. No? Well, she would if she could.” The pirate laughed. “Goodbye, MI.”
“And he’s gone. Her suit circuits closed, too.” Teru looked up bleakly. “I’ll go to engineering, try to spin up the tokamak.”
“Dalibor, we got anything to throw at them?”
“All Damoklos had was two missiles, and we already used ’em. I could perforate them with the chain gun, but we’re likely to kill Kuŝim and everyone else, tear up the tokamak, and kill ourselves with it at this range.”
“Wait,” Mercutio said. “Wait, wait. Sit down and buckle up, Teru. Give me attitude jets.”
“You don’t need to back off, estro,” she said. “He’s gonna be moving and fast in about sixty seconds.”
“No,” Mercutio said. “Give them full, and drop out the grapple.” (To continue, click here.)
Story number nine is “The Jarl’s Son,” by D.S. Brandt.
Marten’s brow furrowed. Moving to Renald’s side, he picked the pendant back up off the ground. He closed his fingers around it, let its heft linger in the palm of his hand as he ran his fingertips over its rune etched surface. Such a small trinket, yet weighty in its meaning. A last reminder of his mother, a woman he ultimately never knew. She believed it held power, the ability to protect her, and sought to one day pass that protection onto him, her son. Now he bore it into a dream, only to be told by a denizen of this strange and shifting realm that his mother’s gift was rife with the same scent as the nightmare that harried his lover. What was he to feel about this?
What was he to do?
The latter question was easily answered. He needed to return to the nightmare of the razed village to see what effect his mother’s pendant had there, if any. Making the journey would be a challenge, though. Traversing dreams wasn’t so simple as just picking a path and following it. Renald made that clear the moment Marten told him of his plan, but that didn’t mean the journey couldn’t be made. A difficult path may lay before them, but difficult wasn’t the same as impassable.
How they would make the journey had yet to be decided, and Renald puzzled on precisely that. “As I currently see it, we’ve a trio of options to choose from,” he said. “The safest of them would be to wait until the next time you naturally dream and let me guide you there, though that may take some time.”
“Too much time. I know what the Foe-Breaker planned to put that girl through, and the gods only know what they’ve done to Gaiur by now.” Marten’s gaze was downcast, his eyes vacant, but only for a moment before hardening like steel. “We act immediately, whatever the risks.”
Renald grinned at that, and replied with a curt nod of his vulpine head. “Then it’s a good thing I’m inclined to agree with you!” he stated. “So two choices, then. Again, beginning with the safer, I could try to blaze a trail to the nightmare from here. We’d have to hop between dreams to pick our way and that would come with its own set of unique dangers, but as that pendant of yours carries the place’s unpleasant scent, I should be able to find a path.”
It seemed a decent enough plan, though Marten wondered at the aforementioned ‘set of unique dangers’ that would await them. He was sure one of them must involve the dream spaces attempting to expel or destroy him like Gaiur’s nightmare had. A risky prospect, but well worth it if they could find their way tonight. Marten was tempted to select this option here and now, but he held off, asking Renald what his final idea was. (To continue, Click here.)
Story number ten is “The Shards of Tomorrow” by Father Roderick
The dark mirror had a simple bronze frame. A smooth oval surface set upright on a sturdy stone pedestal in the village square. Sometimes it stood dormant for months, a cold dark slate. Other times, it stirred like a pool before a storm. And once every few years, it showed what hadn’t happened yet.
When the mirror darkened on a clear spring morning, the village gathered in haste. Chickens wandered loose. Loaves half-kneaded were left on floured boards. The smith came with his gloves still smoking.
The surface shifted.
First: a man coughing in the dust, sores blooming across his skin.
Second: wings beating against the sky. A storm of dragons swarming low.
Third: a firelit raid. Brigands laughing as they struck down anyone in their path.
Each vision struck the mirror like a hammer. By the time the stone went still, a jagged crack ran from top to base.
The Hero
They held a meeting that night. No shouting. No debate. The mirror had to be repaired.
Everyone turned to Cael.
He was young and reckless, yes. But brave. He’d once fought off a wildcat with nothing but a broom and a wooden chair. He’d climbed the old monastery cliff on a dare. When a cart lost a wheel and threatened to crush a child, it was Cael who jumped beneath and held the axle until help came.
He looked uneasy when the elders pressed the cracked mirror into his hands. It was cold to the touch, heavier than it should have been.
Three things they gave him to aid the journey:
A flask of healing potion, for sickness.
A packet of dried fruit and bread, for hunger.
A silver-hilted sword, forged long ago and laid to rest in case of need.
“Go to the Mirror-Maker in the mountains,” said the seer. “He is the only one who can mend what is cracked. We dare not look again until it is whole.” (To continue, click here.)