Today, three story extracts from three different authors – J A Ironside, J S Deel, and Frank Coffman – taken from a recent anthology I edited, to give you a taste of what you’ll find in there. Earlier this year, I completed perhaps my single most enjoyable editorial task so far – the anthology Hell’s Empire: Tales of the Incursion. The authors involved, mostly recruited through open calls, were delightful to work with, marvellously inventive, and eager to embrace the concept as a whole, whilst our anchor writers Matt Willis and Charles R Rutledge couldn’t have been more enthusiastic.

And in the process, we created something unusual – a concept anthology with wildly varying approaches and viewpoints, yet linked up to the point where the anthology can almost be read as a novel. I added intervening text to continue that fusion, and we had what we wanted. A degree of sadness followed, for this was something I had had pitched to my dear friend Sam Gafford of Ulthar Press, only for him to die unexpectedly in July 2019, not long after Hell’s Empire came out. Sam was a gem of a guy, and in the spirit of his enthusiasm for this book, I’m going to keep the flag flying.

I’ve chosen three very different pieces, because that’s what you’ll find within. The Ginger Nuts of Horror review site said:

“Hell’s Empire” combines elements of horror, history, social commentary, weird fiction, occultism and folk mythology… a wonderful excursion into the realm of fictional possibilities and is one of the best anthologies I’ve read in quite some time. “Excellent” doesn’t quite do it justice!

If you enjoy these, why not buy the book? 300 pages of period weirdness, horror, mayhem and courage.

Yahn Tan Tethera

by J A Ironside

Cadi Owens didn’t give the war a thought as she leant into the sharp autumn wind. The fighting had been confined to the coasts and cities, and even though her brother had joined the South Wales Borderers eight months ago, the war seemed distant. Information had been sparse, and what did arrive in the Border, had stretched local credulity. Inhuman invaders? Supernatural creatures? Demons? Border folk were stoic and unexcitable in general. They spoke English when required to go to the sheep market in Hereford, or Welsh at the one in Abergavenny y Fenni. At home they spoke the inscrutable Border dialect – a mixture of the two and some much older language. For the most part Border folk kept themselves to themselves, and were Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s loyal subjects only insofar as they paid their levies and caused no trouble if they were not interfered with. They would wait and see as far as the truth of war reports went.

Cadi was glad Pa wasn’t with her today. The cold and damp always made his leg pain him, and then her normally even-tempered father gained all the contrary moodiness of a wounded bullock. She skipped back and forth between countries as if she were still a child, rather than a grown woman of nineteen. Shadow frisked around her feet, leaping side to side with her, tongue lolling in a doggy grin that said this was fine sport. Blue, a much older dog, trotted just ahead, every so often pausing and casting a glance of disdain back over her haunches.

“Come on, Blue, you’re not so old as all that.” Cadi made another neat leap as Shadow crashed heedless through a puddle and drenched her skirts. For answer, Blue curled her lip a little and lifted her leg at a tree stump, apparently considering Cadi to be wasting time when they ought to be moving the sheep. Cadi chuckled, adopting a more appropriate gait as they reached the village.

Wych Hill had only one street, cottages staggered at intervals either side of a narrow, unpaved road that was fast turning to silty mud in the drizzle. She heard children’s voices raised in a singsong chant before she saw them.

“You’re in Cymru, I’m in Lloegyr,

I know you for a saucy rogue!

Yahn. Tayn. Tethera.

Methera. Mumph.

Hithier. Lithier!

Your house is straw, mine is gold,

In the winter, you’ll be cold!

Anver. Danver. Dic!”

Two teams spread out along either side of the street. Every time the caller – currently a skinny girl called Beca Carrag, whose pinafore skirts were mud splashed to the knee – gave a count, all the children jumped to the opposite side of the street. If you fell in the mud, you were out. If the caller forgot the count, then she was out and another took over. The winning team was the one who made it to the end with the most players still ‘in’. Cadi counted the children silently, almost without being aware of it, and frowned. Over half were missing.

“Where’s your Billy?” she called to Beca.

The girl jumped, just missing the mud. “He’s sickly. So’s th’others.”

The light didn’t change, Cadi was sure of that, but it felt like a shadow passed over the scene and a cold foreboding gripped her. And something – something she only half remembered? – dangled for a moment on the edge of her awareness like sheep’s wool caught on hawthorn. She shook the feeling off. “Give him my best.” Children sickened and grew well again. Why should it bother her? Behind her the chant began again…

(copyright j a ironside/ hell’s empire 2019)

Reinforcements

by Frank Coffman

A Tale from the Great War with Hell (being Excerpts from the Diary of Corporal [Brevet Lieutenant] Gareth Williams, Royal Welsh Fusiliers)

16 June-

This has been the worst season yet in our struggles against the demon hoard and the various other spawn of Hell. Our regiment has been more than decimated—just over the past two weeks. And we were at half our original strength before that.

Word has it that the Scots lost half their numbers in the fighting near Glasgow and most of the Highland Regiments have retreated back whence they hail from to attempt to guard kith and kin. The cities of the North are mostly laid waste as we understand it. But news travels slowly—and poorly—a these days. But here near the Cornish coast—not far from Tintagel—we’ve regrouped ourselves.

Some local men have joined our ranks—civilians, some actually with farm implements for weapons! “Swords from plowshares” I guess, so to speak. But we’ve had some trouble finding actual weapons for them—not that even true swords would do much good.

All for now. I’m tired as Hell SCRATCH that bloody word! Tired as a man alive and awake can be.

St John’s Eve – 23 June-

There’s news reported today that a new force (don’t know about strength of numbers: brigade?, regiment?, company?) has actually attained a victory or two! At least holding actions are reported.

One report—most likely myth or wishful thinking—says that one sizable “Helliment” (as we call them) of demons was actually defeated up near Glastonbury. Wonderful news—if true, of course. I’m more than weary of the other sort of news. Mum, when and if you see this journal, I hope you and young Dylan are all right. I’ve heard nothing more about Da’s company.

St John’s Day – 24 June (Midsummer’s Day to the pagans)

It was a glorious day today. At least as “glorious” as days in these impossible times will permit. Reinforcements have arrived! A sizeable regiment of men, well organized and marching into our encampment in well-formed, well-disciplined ranks. I’m guessing made up of mostly Cornish chaps, based upon their accents.

Their general is a most imposing fellow. He rode in at the head of the columns on a handsome white stallion—reminded me of our trusty old Gwyn back on the farm. God! It seems like ages, yet it’s only been a few months! I’ve heard nothing of Da’s unit. I haven’t seen him since we lost Anglesey, and that’s been three months ago.

Anyway this group seems to indeed be the regiment that has achieved some defences and even victories in recent weeks. But there are some really strange things about them—but what ISN’T strange these days for that matter? For one thing, though obviously well-trained and hardened troops, they are totally irregular in dress, looking more like a collection of farmers or folk from small villages just finished with chores and saying, “Ho-hum. Might as well go off and join in that war against the Devil thing.”

No uniforms. But they’re carrying banners. Another queer thing, the banners are not regular guidons or flags, but, rather things that hang in front of the suspending carry-poles, square in shape and held by a horizontal rod. In the old illustrations of Roman legions in books I’ve read they’re called “vexilla.” Nothing on them by way of a design—only the capital letters “RQRF”—and that ain’t the “SPQR” that I learned in Latin class. Really odd bunch.

But that general is certainly a striking fellow. About average height, dark hair—but greying, looks like in his 50s, but a wiry, solidly built man. His big tent is pitched just across from our tents, with those of his men behind and around. In fact, his tent is just opposite mine.

I’m going to try to find out more about this bunch. Dog-tired now. We were on alert all day, and the sounds of battle echoed through the hills around our camp. But it was a bright, clear day, without much wind, and sounds will carry. All for now…

(copyright frank coffman/ hell’s empire 2019)

Profaned by Feelings Dark

by Jack Deel

October 7th, 1891

Ganey had travelled up from Waterford with Patrick Higgins, and they had met a third man in Limerick – a fellow named Hanlon, a friend of Higgins from some socialist society. He was a man in his early thirties, tall and thin, with a pinched, hawk-like face that Ganey didn’t like the look of.

Ganey tried to avoid conversation by reading the newspaper. In the centre of the front page was an illustration of a shadowy monster, shaped like a man with bat’s wings, which had been sighted in Liverpool. Had a similar picture appeared in the same paper just two years before, the monster would have had Parnell’s head, with ‘Land’ written on one wing and ‘League’ on the other, and it would have been swooping on a fainting woman representing Ireland. What a shame that the Incursion had robbed the caricaturists of their favourite clichés.

Hanlon waved to catch Ganey’s attention. Ganey ignored him for as long as was feasible, and then reluctantly looked him in the eye.

“I don’t know if you’ve been told, a chara,” he said, “but our friends want you to know that they value your hard work, and they appreciate your willingness to share your findings.”

Ganey looked back to the paper, pretending to read. He spoke through gritted teeth. “They’re no friends of mine. Ten years is a long time to be left out in the cold.”

“For Christ’s sake, man,” Higgins said, “you’ve been vindicated. All those years in America with the spiritualists and table-tappers and medicine-men – your efforts are about to be rewarded.”

“We’ll see.”

Ganey folded the newspaper and turned to look out the window. Everything in this country seemed wet and chilled and miserable.

Why on Earth did I come back? I could have just vanished, taken a new name and forgotten it all; I could have escaped.

If I had, though, it would have all been for nothing. And with that, the daydream of flat, empty prairies faded. He was, once again, sixty years old, shivering on the Limerick-to-Killaloe train, and very, very tired.

Higgins was in his late twenties, and slightly too old to still be so optimistic and cheerful about everything. Ganey was not the only one to remark that Higgins had the wrong temperament for a revolutionary – he was a romantic with utopian dreams, but he detested violence. He made for a passable research assistant, though, and he had made himself useful during the Dublin survey.

“What’s the story with our transportation once we get to Killaloe?” Ganey asked him.

“Nobody wants to go all the way to Clais Cama,” Higgins said. “There’s some bad business going on up there. Scores of paupers being turned out of their homes.”

“Really? How come there was no mention of it in any of the papers?”

“The Incursion,” Hanlon said. “That’s the only thing the papers want to print these days. Anyway, this James Carmody fellow behind it all is a gombeen man with enough pull to keep the eviction story quiet.”

There was no figure in rural Ireland quite so hated as the fear gaimbín – the gombeen man, the scavenger who profited from the misfortune of his neighbours. Such men were like crosses between usurers and class traitors, and loathed as much as both combined.

“Aren’t they all,” Ganey grunted. “So, how will we get there?”

“There are four stables in Killaloe,” said Higgins.

“Is it wise to ride around in the open when people are shooting at each other?”

“Shooting?” Higgins shook his head. “Nobody’s shooting up there – the poor bastards can barely afford to feed themselves, let alone buy guns.”

Hell’s Empire: Tales of the Incursion is available to purchase here: