Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer

Rolla takes a swig from his mug and smiles.
“Gather round, my children, and listen well. Heed not the screams of the monshaga as they roam. Within these walls, we are safe. Behind the great door, we will thrive.”
Gesty spits into the fire.
“I ain’t your kid, and I sure don’t feel safe.”
That’s disrespectful. I lean forward.
“Mind your manners. You ain’t got the time here to be talking like that to our old boy.”
Gesty nods.
“True enough, but elders is elders and they’re always full of it. Moment the ’shagas decide they needs this place again? You, yours, and your old boy will be nothin’ but muck and screams.”
Rolla shakes his head.
“We’re protected, Gesty-man. No need to fear, here. Let that anger go. That way you keep your wits keener for when you do go outside.”
Gesty snorts.
“Protected? All I saw were mutant skulls on the warn-off stakes. No ’shaga parts. You all look the part, but your totems are nothin’ but meat and bone. You got nothing to scare mechanicals. You lying to your people, shaman. What else you hidin’?”
Tarana rises and puts a hand on Rolla’s shoulder, stopping him before he can reply.
“Rolla’s my boy, stranger. His words and tales kept us sane through the dark times, and weave us together now.”
She points to his tattoos.
“You wear the marks of the one-eyed god. He’s not one for those abusing guest rights. Who are you to call my people deceived?”
Gesty brushes his arms dismissively.
“Gods a’ gone the way of kings, woman. All that’s left is the future what we takes for ourselves.” He leers at her. “I think my future’s gonna be warmer tonight. This place needs a new chief, an’ none o’ you got ways to stop me.”
Rolla reaches up to touch the back of her hand.
“You saying you’re taking over?”
Getsy nods, rising slowly to his feet.
“Guess I am that. You live well, but too soft. I’m thinkin’ I’ll winter here. Lead south those who deserve come spring.”
Tarana smiles coldly.
“You’ll be thinking right now about killing anyone you reckon could challenge. Hunting accidents, dying in their sleep, all of that. We know you, little man. You’ll not make your kingdom out of us.”
Getsy takes a deep breath, inflating his chest while drawing a pair of big Bowie knives.
“Who of you gonna stop me?”
Tarana snaps her fingers. A thin silver cord whips down. Gesty vanishes into the shadows above, scream cut short by braided wire tightening about his neck.
Rolla nods sagely.
“Once again we’re reminded why we’re inviolate, my children. The upper reaches of this place used to be a monshaga lair, until they took my brother Rocka and failed to break him. What he is now, none dare say. But in the fleshly grey spaces betwixt man and machine, enough remains of my big brother to be our saviour.”
Tarana nudges him, pointing to the floor by the fire.
Rolla smiles.
“Who needs a better knife? We have two fine blades.”
The rising clamour is stilled as a pair of scabbards drop from the darkness above to land by the fire.
Rolla chuckles.
“Oh, that’s handy.”
He looks up.
“Thanking you.”