Queer Fantasy and Weird Tales for the People
The wind howled across the steppe. I should have been afraid, but I was not aware enough for fear; hunger and cold were my constant and only companions for so long that I had ceased to notice even their presence. I stood and gripped my makeshift spear, my fingers numb and my body shivering. I was accustomed to cold, but I was undernourished and insufficiently clothed.
It is February 13, 1922. Three days ago, Oxford professor of archaeology Emundr Ragnarsson was found dead in a London hotel room. At first, it was assumed that his death was a natural one, but there are too many questions surrounding it. Who has been following the professor around Oxford? What happened on his last field expedition, that was cut short and declared a failure? What does his work have to do with a mysterious blight affecting plants around the country? And how did he drown, miles from the harbor and with no other sources of water nearby?
Listen. Let me tell you a story.
I will tell you of my journey, from the ocean at the end of the world to the mountain of iron, beneath which slept a horror of ages long past.
I will tell you of the daughter of the stargazer, who found me on the northern wastes at the end of my long winter.
I will tell you of the woman who dared to defy the seven gods of the citadel.
And I will tell you of the barefoot prophet, for the man who now sits on the throne of Phyreios is not the same as the one who walked among its people in the days before the cataclysm.
Space Whales Press 