Grimdark 2: Grimdark, #2

By M. Vijayara, Rick Ansell Pearson, Brianna Bullen and 3 more

Grimdark literature is characterised by its dark and violent tone, as well as its focus on morally ambiguous or flawed protagonists who are often struggling to survive in brutal and unforgiving worlds. While there is no strict definition of what qualifies as grimdark, common elements include graphic violence, bleak settings, and characters who are often driven by self-interest or survival rather than altruism or a sense of justice. This subgenre is often associated with fantasy and science fiction, but it can also be found in other genres such as horror and thriller. Sometimes seen as controversial, it can be a powerful critique of traditional heroic narratives and a reflection of the darker aspects of human nature. Regardless of one's perspective, it's clear that grimdark literature has become increasingly popular in recent years.

 

Seventeen authors bring you their tales of dark and dastardly heroes.

 

Ken Alders

Brianna Bullen

Jordan Chase-Young

Kim Z. Dale

Kai Delmas

Kay Hanifen

Tim Hanlon

Kevin J. Kennedy

Brett Mitchell Kent

Catlyn Ladd

Tim Law

John Leahy

Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

Kelly Matsuura

C.C. Parker

Rick Ansell Pearson

Dash Rai

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Hare Press
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223217640

Book preview

Grimdark

Various Authors

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Black Hare Press

GRIMDARK 2 title is

Copyright © Black Hare Press

First published in Australia in March 2023 by Black Hare Press

The authors of the individual stories retain the copyright of the works featured in this anthology.

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All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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All rights reserved. No part of this production may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

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A catalogue record for this publication is available from the National Library of Australia.

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Cover design by Dawn Burdett

Editing by Kimberly Rei

Formatting by Ben Thomas

Also available and coming soon from Black Hare Press

PUNK

GRIMDARK 1

GRIMDARK 2

WAR

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Twitter: @BlackHarePress

Facebook: BlackHarePress

Website: www.BlackHarePress.com

Contents

1. Two Heads Are Better Than One

2. Fairy Tales

3. A Chimeric Quality

4. A Godmother's Vengeance

5. Dread Knight

6. Holy Highwaymen

7. Devour

8. The Addict

9. New Landlords

10. Collateral Damage

11. The Selkie Skinner

12. One Mountain

13. All to War

14. The Fox Hunt

15. The Exterminator

16. The Gourmet

17. Daddy’s Girl

18. Steel Soul Killer

19. Artem1s

20. Taming Dinner

21. Walnut

22. White Pulse

23. One Mountain - While Men Sleep

24. Sleeping with the Fishes

25. Slag

26. The Drinking Horn

27. The Mercy of Moons

28. One Mountain – The Plague

29. Legion

30. Seer

31. Edge of Honour

32. A Murder in the Pack

33. The Tomb

34. Author Showcase

35. About the Publisher

36. Acknowledgements

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Two Heads Are Better Than One

Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

Trembling, wrinkled hands turned up the intensity of the oil lantern by the bedside table and beckoned the stranger to come closer. Yet the dark figure remained motionless, concealed amidst shadows, with only the sizzling of a freshly lit pipe alluding to his presence. Foul wisps of smoke filled the cramped room. The old man in the bed began coughing and sputtering, clumsily covering his burning nostrils and mouth. Bedbound, he pointed to the window, face red as he gurgled and pounded upon his chest. Another long puff. A hint of illumination from the tobacco embers betrayed an almost sadistic look in the stranger’s eyes. Finally, after he grew weary of hearing the agonised wheezing and choking, he shoved the window outwards. The frail man was given a moment of reprieve as the smoke was vented.

Why...would you...do that? Fool! the old man cursed, almost delirious, as he caught his breath amidst deep-seated coughs. With a sound of jingling metals at his waist, the figure took an unnerving step forwards. The old man’s eyes widened, and he held up a hand. The figure paused, hand hovering over his belt.

No, no. I only…meant… he stammered, terrified. Look, I asked…for you. I am no longer…able-bodied. I’m infirm. Doomed to…suffer, bedridden until my last breath. But…there is a filthy scoundrel I want, no I need, punished. As I rot here, he steals my…business. Robbed me of my livelihood. Living a comfortable life with his wife and child. He must pay! A one-way trip…to the hell to which he belongs!

Hmm… That can be arranged. Pray tell me you’re not wasting my time, old man, replied the gravelly voice from the darkness, taking another puff in anticipation.

A thousand gold crowns! the frail man replied, voice suddenly filled with a booming confidence.

There it is. Much obliged, good lad. Name? replied the stranger, sounding more accommodating.

Errol. Lives in…Waywright Estate. Make him suffer.

There was an unsettling chuckle as the figure turned and casually sauntered out of the room, the wisps of smoke trailing behind him.

And tell him…it was me! yelled the old man after him, wheezing.

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The estate was not far. Errol and his family were living a private life, about a day from the hub of the town. Errol knew something was amiss that morning after suffering a particularly restless night. It was midday when his gnawing nightmares began to materialise. His wife was out hanging linen and his young son was trying his hand at making stew. Errol was staring aimlessly at the clouds above in his rocking chair.

Darling? came a sweet lilting voice. Wrenched from his reverie, he looked at his wife. Someone is coming.

His eyes trailed to the figure clad in black and crimson leather garments that did little to ward off the heat of the afternoon. The tattered cloak billowed in the relentless wind. A grey knapsack was slung over his back, heavy articles concealed within. He took slow, confident steps towards the homestead. There was a clinking echoing from the horizon as he approached, courtesy of the hooks and vials at his waist. The echoes were almost mystifying amidst their seclusion. Errol stood, eyes welling with tears, and he gagged on a nagging lump in his throat. Struck with dread, he suspected his doom nearing. He wiped his sweating brow, took a deep breath, and calmly entered his home.

The figure stopped at his doorstep. He glanced over to look at the woman nervously tying clothes to a line. The stranger loosened the cowl about his neck and set his backpack down. The woman was tempted to ask him of his presence, but resisted, waiting for her husband. She knew Errol had got them out of harrowing situations before, and she had to believe in him. The stranger lit a pipe, despite the wind, one eye constantly cocked as Errol returned with a sack. The sweaty man stared at the leather-clad stranger for what felt like an eternity, gulping as he tried to find the right words.

Are you…here because… stammered Errol.

Mmhmm… the man replied, taking a puff. Errol’s eyes widened.

Curse that old codger. He will never leave me in peace. A thousand gold crowns! Errol exclaimed, placing the sack before him. The stranger smiled, licking his lips and taking another puff.

The old man claims you stole his business. He offered a thousand, so naturally, I expected more from you, he replied, clearing his throat.

Quentin…lies! I took nothing of his. This is all I have, built from my own two hands, Errol insisted. The stranger squinted, tapping his waist before starting to pace. Slowly, he turned to face Errol, eyes fixed in a malicious glare.

You see. I had a price in mind as I was walking over here. And that, just so happens, sets certain…expectations. With that in mind, it seems discourteous of you to disappoint. You have a lovely home. Business going well? Healthy family? Compared to the old vermin, who will undoubtedly croak in no time at all, I think you could do a lot better than one thousand. Am I making sense? Am I making myself clear, Errol?

You…you can’t be serious, replied Errol, at a loss.

Oh, but I am. Care for an illustration?

His reflexes were quick, the chain from his belt launching in one fluid motion. It shot past Errol’s wife, before retracting aggressively. It took only moments before the linen was drenched in swaths of red, and the woman began clawing at her neck. A piece was missing. She fell to the ground, screaming and frothing. Their son came bursting out of the house, running up to her in terror.

No! Errol yelled, looking down at the dying woman. The bounty hunter began wiping the chain clean, picking away remnants of flesh.

You were saying? the man asked, nonchalantly. He looked down at the panicked boy and started gently swinging the hooked chain back and forth. Perhaps it might take more to change your mind.

He has a lot more than a thousand! He’s a fraud! replied Errol, tearful and defeated.

Perhaps. And you?

Errol’s knees were crumbling. He wanted to approach his wife but knew the stranger’s patience was growing thin. He turned, eyes flooded with tears. He re-entered the house, leaving his son trying unsuccessfully to stymie the wound. By the time he returned, the writhing body was already motionless. He had another sack, which he rested down at the stranger’s feet. His face was long, his will destroyed.

Two thousand. Every bit…of what we have left. Curse Quentin. I pray the old fool suffers a slow…painful death, said Errol, voice breaking. A smile crossed the bounty hunter’s face as he glanced at the sacks and he stopped swinging the chains. He lowered the black mask covering his mouth. Innumerable scars, almost organised and neat, lined the entire bottom half of his face. His eyes were blue and hollow, fixated on the trembling man. His bounty was weak, powerless as they always were in his presence. He gently tapped the serrated brown whip coiled by his waist. He then tilted his head upwards and began sniffing the air.

Is that stew I have the pleasure of smelling? he suddenly asked over the sound of tears of the boy shaking his mother.

Errol nodded, still nauseous and pale from the sight before him. His entire frame trembled.

I’d like some.

Errol turned, but the man stopped him.

No, not you. The boy…if you would be so kind, he interjected. Errol began to blubber, tears in his eyes, as he looked down at his son.

Boy, go get the…man some stew, please.

But, Pa—

Now! Stew. Now, Errol insisted.

The boy wiped the tears from his face, vanishing into the house, traumatised. Errol looked back at the bounty hunter’s stern gaze.

See, that was not so hard. Or at least—he looked down at the woman— it didn’t have to be.

Will you take all the money and leave us be? It is much more than that fool promised. Perhaps even…make him pay? pleaded Errol. There was a glint in the bounty hunter’s eyes and a smile crossed his cracked lips. For a moment, Errol truly believed he would consider the offer.

I really wish that it were that simple, Errol. As generous as your offer is, I do take my bounties…so very seriously.

The deafening sound of the kettle whistling within the house made Errol turn. In that instant, there was a whizzing as the hooks glided through the air in a macabre dance. Before Errol could look back, he crumpled to the ground, olive shirt drenched in crimson. His vision blurred as he watched the man cleaning his hooks. He gurgled indiscernible words.

The bounty hunter knelt