EDITOR’S NOTE
One of Pulp Adventure’s most enduring icon’s is undoubtedly Zorro, the swashbuckling masked hero of Old California. Spanish for “Fox”, the masked avenger first appeared in the serialized novel THE CURSE OF CAPISTRANO, published in five parts throughout 1919 in ALL-STORY WEEKLY. The author, Johnston McCulley, would go on to write sixty-three short stories starring the eponymous character, while alse writing a number of Pulp characters including Black Star, The Bat, and the Spider, a notable recurring Pulp supervillian.
Zorro would quickly find a home on the blossoming silver screen. In 1920, while on their honeymoon, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford chose CAPISTRANO to as the first film to be produced and released by their new studio, United Artists. The film released the very same year under the title THE MARK OF ZORRO. Eventually, over forty Zorro films were produced, fueling the public’s desire for more stories. McCulley was obviosuly up to the task. My personal first introduction to Zorro was through the Disney produced television show, which I watched regularly as a young boy.
Author Kevin Beckett has crafted here a loving homage to Zorro, originally intended for a continued publication of an off-brand Zorro inspired character called The Scarlet Cloak. Unfortnately, the publishing of the NEW ADVENTURES OF THE SCARLET CLOAK fell through, freeing up the story. Here, the character appears re-named as EL DIABLO, a fitting title reminescent of The Fox himself. A recording of the thirty-one minute radio pilot still exists and can be found here: ADVENTURES OF THE SCARLET CLOAK.
DEATH FROM THE STEPPES!
Kevin Beckett
It was just another day in Monterrey, California, that one July in the Year of Our Lord, 1841.
It was a day where the sun’s heat beat down upon desert and chaparral with indifferent malevolence. Whether on four legs or two, the beasts and people of the land shuffled about, knowing any exertion would lead to more sweat, thirst, and suffering.
It was not until the sun was at its highest and the church bell rang out the peal of high noon that the donkey strode down the road with the grinning Devil on his back.
The donkey’s head hung down from the burden of its rider—a rider whose hands were bound and resting on the pommel of the saddle.
The rider’s head moved side to side and back to front, carried away by the steady swaying gait of the donkey, whose tail lashed out to bat at the cloud of flies that orbited around the rider. No matter which way the rider’s head pointed, the people could see a wide grin splitting a shiny scarlet face crowned with two crimson horns.
No one feigned interest in this rider’s curious face. They instead stared with mild anticipation for when the inevitable happened.
The donkey finally arrived at the central fountain where the folk of Monterry quenched their thirst on hot days like this. As the donkey bowed its head in relief to drink, the rider slumped to the side and tumbled to the ground with the inevitable weight of an avalanche of flesh and bone hitting sand and stone, punctuated by the crack of wood.
Various men, women and children sauntered over through the waves of summer heat to look down at the body that they knew had no signs of life, even before they saw the flies clustered at a wound that would lead to the heart. They looked at two broken halves of a devil’s grinning face made of lacquered wood. At some point, they would be claimed as souvenirs, but for now, the curiosity was to see the head that wore it and the face it had concealed. As expected, they recognized the face as one belonging to one whose portraits were attached to posters offering a reward for their bounty.
The townspeople knew that bounty would be unclaimed, as the Devil mask the corpse wore marked the figure as yet another victim of the rough justice of the scarlet-cloaked man who protected the folk of Monterrey, California. The scarlet-cloaked protector they called El Diablo.
*****
“So the dead man was…?”
“Confirmed to be Jack Calvin, the bandit leader of the Blood River gang that was terrorizing the countryside.”
Two men spoke a week after Calvin’s corpse had ridden into town. They were situated in the villa on the outskirts of Monterrey. The white stucco walls of the villa were blinding under the California sun. The two men were inside to remain cool in the shade of the roof overhead.
One carried about himself the elegant confidence of seeing the entire world as his domain and granted his presence to only those he deemed worthy. He was a man with a tall, broad-shouldered frame who leaned against an oak table, dressed in fine riding clothes and whose hair was black, interwoven with distinguished silver. At the same time, his moustachioed face radiated authority. He was Don Ramon de la Torres, and it was his villa where the men conversed.
The other who spoke sat lackadaisically in one of the wooden seats, dressed in the battered leathers of one who rode much in the desert. The man in leather had a tanned and lined face that remained handsome as his calloused hands clasped behind his neck, and the chair leaned back. He spoke back to Don Ramon in Spanish, showing traces of his American accent. The townspeople of Monterrey knew him as the American traveller Bradford. But the truth was, it was but one of two false identities used by the man whose real name was Brad Carver. The second and more notorious identity was the one that required him to wear a devil mask and a scarlet cloak. It was the identity of El Diablo.
Don Ramon lit a cigarillo and looked at the man he knew as Señor Bradford:
“I do not like what is happening. El Diablo was an old wives’ tale when I was a young man like yourself. To have someone going around killing these people and sending their dead bodies into Monterrey wearing devil masks is unsettling.”
Carver stroked his chin thoughtfully,
“I think the fact that everyone who died this way is all bandits, outlaws and worse is what has been keeping people from feeling afraid. Quite the opposite.”
“Yes, but you have to wonder what drives this man? What is it he truly wants? What will happen if he ever gets that? What will happen then?”
While hearing this, Carver grabbed the mug of beer before him and drank deeply with closed eyes. It was the only way he could disguise his reaction to the questions Don Ramon asked, for they were questions he asked himself quite often. As Don Ramon lapsed into silence, Carver knew what he could do and change the subject.
“Who knows? Now, are we going to practice some duelling today or what?
Don Ramon’s pensive face broke into a grin, “I have been amused that something we have promised ourselves to do one day has become such an unattainable goal due to our busy lives. But yes! On such a beautiful day, let me slip off this coat and shirt so we can duel under the sun. Let me have one of my servants fetch us two foils to practice with.”
It was then that a third voice, a feminine one, emanated from the shadows of the doorway to the interior of the villa.
“I am afraid, Papa, you will have to delay that once again.”
Don Ramon expressed startlement. “Maria, have you been lurking in the shadows all this time?”
The raven-tressed pale beauty of Senorita Maria de Esmeralda became imminent as she stepped into the light.
“I have received words that there are riders in Monterrey who are demanding to speak to you.”
Don Ramon cocked his eyebrow. “Do they give a particular reason?”
Maria shook her head.
“They say they come to parley. Alfonso says they have not been violent but are strangely dressed and do not speak Spanish or English as their first tongue, but he said their appearances are intimidating to the rest of the villagers.’
Don Ramon stubbed out his cigarillo on the wall.
“Alas, for the good of the people, it is best that I meet with these riders then.”
Carver rubbed his jaw, causing an audible rasp as his callused hand scraped at the stubble on his face.
“I’ll go with you. I’d like to see these people for myself, and I certainly need to go to the inn to clean up after riding in from Los Angeles.”
Don Ramon nodded.
“Maria, tell Alfonso to get my horse and that of Señor Bradford’s ready. We will be riding out to Monterrey shortly.”
Maria nodded and turned before Don Ramon called out again, “Oh and Maria? Best get pistols and my rapier for me.” He exchanged glances with Carver.
“It is best to take precautions for situations like this.”
*****
The sun was nearing the horizon west, leaving a purple sky behind it and shadows to lengthen when Carver and Don Ramon arrived at the fountain where the strangers prowled on horseback.
Riding upon massive horses, they were men with wild and shaggy beards who wore a curious mixture of woollen pants and peasant shirts dyed unnatural shades of blue and red despite the heat. Though no blades were carried in their hands, one could see massive hooked sabres and daggers tucked into their sashes.
“I am Don Ramon de la Torres. I understand you have called upon me by name. Why is it that I owe the pleasure?”
The leader, a rangy pale hawk-nosed man with drooping black mustaches, had a haircut like a horse’s mane. He prodded his horse to a step out of the company of a dozen men—a dozen men who still circled their steeds around the fountain.
He spoke in Spanish, but with a heavy accent that was not American.
“I am Konrad of the Siberian Host, and these are my men. Proud Cossacks all!”
Don Ramon looked at Carver.
“Señor Bradford, you have spent time in Europe. Do you know who these men are?”
“Cossacks are from the Russian Empire, far north of the land of Ukraine, where most of their fellow Cossacks live. Nevertheless, a fearsome cavalry for the Tsar,” Carver replied in a conspiratorial whisper.
“You are a long way from home, señor Konrad.” Don Ramon replied.
The men broke out in hoarse laughter.
“We come from Fort Ross, a colony up north that the Tsar established. We came over to serve as an elite force to protect those who wish to trade with Mother Russia.”
Carver called out at that point.
“That colony, I hear, has closed down recently.”
Konrad cocked his head to one side, and pale grey eyes fixed on Carver in a way that suggested a hawk assessing when to dive and kill its prey.
“Who is it that speaks for you, Don Ramon? He speaks Spanish with an accent as strange as my own. More like the Americans.”
Carver yelled back: “The name’s Bradford. Just an American traveller visiting here. In all my travels, the Russians kept to themselves, so that’s why I’m curious why you’re here.”
Konrad nodded in surprising agreement. “A fair question. The good folk of Fort Ross have left these shores. The people have gone back to the Motherland to serve the Tsar once again.”
Don Ramon exchanged glances with Carver and replied, “And you, Konrad? What about you and your men?”
“We see new opportunities here, unlike going back. We think men like yourself would require expert horsemen like ourselves, for scouting and patrolling.”
“A most gracious offer, Konrad, but we have more than enough men here that could do that.”
“Perhaps, but I reckon none are as fast as us. If that does not interest you, may I point out that we are superb warriors? The dozen of us who are here right now will make sure that bandits and potential invaders like your Americans up north.”
“A dozen? There are more of you?”
“We have yet more in the hills surrounding here.”
He left a silent pause for Carver and Don Ramon to absorb this implied threat. Don Ramon spoke again.
“A promise I am sure you can keep, but I would need evidence that you are as fearsome to enemies as you are at making the good people of Monterry afraid of you.”
Konrad’s lips pulled back to reveal crooked teeth.
“Ah, you are willing to negotiate then? Perhaps we can do it over a feast at your villa?”
“I would not have enough to feed all of your men.”
“Oh, I assure you that it will just be me. As a sign of good faith, my men will camp outside of Monterrey. It is not like we haven’t slept in more extreme conditions on the Russian Steppe.”
“Very well, I understand there are bandits up in the mountain from Blood River. If you can hunt them down and bring them to justice, I will be happy to have you over for the following day to reward the bounties if you find at least three of them.”
Konrad’s unpleasant grin split wider.
“There were six.”
Carver blurted out, “What?”
“We had gathered from our scouting that their leader, a man called Calvin, had died among several other men, but our forays gathered there were still six men left.”
Carver knew this as they were the six that escaped when he crossed swords with Jack Calvin himself while wearing the Scarlet Cloak of El Diablo.
Konrad’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Carver.
“I said there were six men in the hills who might have continued to strike fear in the good folk of this place. However, my men always make sure to get the job done. Aleksandr!” Konrad cried out, and one of the other Cossacks stepped his horse forward. He had a boyish face, free of the wild beards the other man had, but for a long scraggly goatee that clutched to his chin like a coiling serpent whose fangs had sunk into his chin and refused to let go.
Aleksandr grinned, showing off teeth filed to a point. He reached down and pulled on a large leather satchel that hung from the side of the saddle, stirring the horde of flies that clung to it into an angry swarm as he opened up the flap and turned the satchel upside-down.
With six sickening thuds, six human heads fell upon the ground.
“You will find them all accounted for,” Konrad spoke.
“I will see you at your villa tomorrow.”
*****
It was late in the afternoon when Carver came back to the Villa De La Torres. To his dismay, he saw that Konrad’s black stallion was tethered outside.
He was led into the main hall by Don Ramon’s manservant, Alfonso, where Carver saw three of the four chairs taken. There was Don Ramon at the head of the table. To his left was Maria, and on the opposite end, with a chair leaned back, with crossed legs and boots on the table, was Konrad dressed in something resembling finer clothing than when Carver saw him last.
Once again, Konrad cocked his head and fixated a baleful grey eye on Carver.
“Once again, I find this American in connection with you, Don Ramon. Do you have to run every single decision you make past him for affirmation?”
“Not at all,” Don Ramon retorted, “He is, however, a friend of the family due to his rescuing my daughter from an angry mob. For that, he has my eternal gratitude.”
As the head of the villa said this, Carver took a seat opposite Maria as their eyes met, and Carver let himself flash a quick smile to her that was returned in kind.
He looked over at Konrad to see the man’s face, a dark cloud with his own eyes flashing like lightning at their side of the table, with one glance too long at Maria.
Carver cleared his throat and spoke:
“You must excuse me. I usually come anyway when I am in town. I knew you were going to speak with Don Ramon, but I did not realize you’d be here already.”
“Konrad here was telling us that it is a specific outlaw they are hunting for here and around Monterrey. A fellow American of yours.”
“Oh, is that so? I might be able to help with that. Who is it?”
Konrad snorted his skepticism about Carver’s offer, but after slurping back some of Don’s wine, he looked at Carver again.
“The man has the name, Tom Smith. He is easy to recognize. He has only three fingers and a thumb on his left hand. The ring finger is missing like this,”
Konrad pulled on a finger that was well bedecked with rings of his own.
“That sounds like a memorable fellow. What did he do to cross you and your men?”
Konrad spoke a little too quickly and glibly.
“A thief. He stole a Bible we had at the colony. A book we hope to regain someday.”
“That must be some Bible.”
Konrad shrugged. “I came here not to be mocked.”
Don Ramon stepped in.
“And you are not. I am sure Señor Bradford here will be on the lookout. I will tell all those I can trust as well to seek this man out. Since you have done us a recent favour by killing the rest of the Blood River gang, I feel I must know what the terms are for our continued employment with us.”
Konrad shrugged his shoulder yet again.
“Give us the patrols of the mountains east of here and free rifles and ammo, and that will be worth more than their weight in gold. My people saw no issue with this arrangement with the Tsar. Certainly, we can have the same arrangement here.”
“It’s entirely possible that could be arranged, but is that all you want?”
“My people know the true meaning of happiness. Wind, horses, a clear sky, and,” He paused and looked at Maria.
“The ability to take what we want.”
Carver glanced over at Maria, who used a napkin to conceal her expression of concern. Carver spoke out.
“If you and your men can find happiness with only those things, why do you wish to remain here across an ocean instead of returning to the Russian empire? Surely your Host would be glad to have you back.”
Konrad’s grey eye looked at Carver with a guarded intensity. Then his face broke up as peals of laughter issued forth.
“Don Ramon! Your pet American seems inclined towards pushing me away from here!”
Konrad grabbed the goblet of red wine before him and drank from it deeply before speaking again.
“Surely you Spaniards and you Americans understand the appeal of a New World to carve out a kingdom of your own. Yes? Sure, you understand why when the Tsar called for the colonists to return, the rest of the men and I realized we preferred to remain and start a Host of our own at some point. The first Cossack Host of the New World!” Konrad laughed again.
Carver leaned forward, sensing something not yet told by the Cossack leader.
“If that’s the case, surely you would prefer other lands to travelling south to these lands. Why here? Why do you seek this man, this Tom Smith?”
Konrad cocked his head so that, for once, the mane of black hair fell away from his face, and both grey eyes locked with Carver’s blue ones.
“Very well. You should know, American, that Tom Smith is a trapper. An American like yourself would bargain with the colony for supplies. He saw an opportunity in the Tsar’s command for the people of his empire to return home. He stole a Bible of great importance to the colony in the chaos of removing everything for the journey back over the ocean. A Bible that is centuries old. We had remained to find the man, kill him for his dishonour, then one of my men, old Ivan, who would prefer a return to mother Russia before the Grim Reaper comes for him, and Ivan will deliver it.”
Konrad looked over at Don Ramon.
“Our questioning people along the way seem to show he has taken to somewhere in the hills here. My men and I see this is good land, and I would like us men to remain here under your protection, Don Ramon, but we will remain here one way or another until we find this Tom Smith. The sooner we find him, the sooner we will leave if you, and not your American friend here, wishes it.”
Carver looked over at Don Ramon’s face, which remained impassive during the entire conversation.
“Very well, I will have my men look for this Smith person as well. You must forgive señor Bradford’s manner here. He only seeks to protect my family and me.”
Konrad stood up and yawned, then shrugged.
“We appreciate your support, Don Ramon. Perhaps you and your family do need protection. I assure you, you might find my men’s protection more effective than the protection you currently have. Now, forgive me; these verbal jousts bore me when there is no steel involved, and I prefer to sleep under an open sky tonight, far and away from here.”
Konrad strode off, but Carver, Don Ramon and Maria remained quiet until Konrad’s stallion faded away into the evening’s silence.
“I suspect he will be most troublesome, Don Ramon.”
“Yes, but what can I do? What we saw in town was but a fraction of his men. The rest are camped out in the hills. There is no army but my own that could engage them in combat, and I fear my men will not be enough.”
Carver sighed. “Perhaps he’ll find his man quickly and depart.”
Maria reached over and touched his hand.
“Possibly. Before you came in, señor Konrad had stated that if he found El Diablo before then, he’d be willing to kill the Devil himself.”
*****
The moon was full and bright outside the cave where the peasant known as Sanchez stayed. He was comfortable enough from his decades of duty keeping its secrets hidden that staying in the dark, looking out at that silver moon, did not bother him. Besides, he preferred not to have the light of his lantern cast on the wooden wall affixed behind him. The light would have been cast on far too many sinister grins borne by the multitude of devil masks, each one tethered by a leather strap to red nails driven into the wood.
He took a sip from his flask to keep him warm in the chill of the night, but nearly spit it out when he heard a familiar voice. The voice of the man he had sworn to serve for the sake of the man’s father.
“Hello, Sanchez.”
“Señor Bradford! I was worried you would not be here tonight.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to travel here on foot. I felt I was followed by one or more of the Cossacks, so it had been a slow and steady march here, taking many a stop in hidden spots to make sure they could not find me and grow bored and leave.”
“Who do these men look for you?”
“Their leader, Konrad, seems to be a proud man and an ambitious one. He does not quite know why Don Ramon works with me and sees me as a threat that has to be removed. I suspect if they had found me, they would have let me in a shallow grave somewhere and let Do Ramon and Maria wonder what had happened.”
“They seem quite interested in removing any American. I have been asking around about the Tom Smith they seek. A man is matching his description farther east from here. He is a scalp hunter. Though he does more than kill the warriors of the tribes out there. He takes their children and sells them as well.”
In the darkness, Carver made a sound of disgust.
“Is this what my father had to deal with? To protect the people he loves so, but for every bandit, murderer, and outlaw that El Diablo slays in the name of justice, ten more evil men arise?”
As those words hung in the air, Sanchez reached out in the dark to rest on Carver’s shoulder. He could hear the bitterness in which those words were spoken.
“Your father would be proud of what you have done. I am sure he is in heaven looking down, and even he knows, you are only one man.”
Carver’s slumping shoulders righted themselves. The words he spoke next were with an iron resolve.
“You are right. I may be only one man, but I am a man who at least can ride east and put an end to this Tom Smith. Sanchez, hand me that Scarlet Cloak.”
As Sanchez did, he heard the clasp of the cloak’s collar as Carver affixed it around his neck as he walked over to that wall where many a devil mask still hung. One each for an evil man to wear when he is dead at the hands of Monterry’s mysterious avenger.
“If Konrad and his Cossack Horde see that Tom Smith is dead and the Bible returned. Perhaps they will leave Monterrey alone. And if not,”
Sanchez could see Carver’s arm reach out and fingers pale in the moonlight, trace the lacquered wood the masks were carved from before taking it and donning it over his face. When next he spoke, it was with a resounding echo of almost preternatural power.
“Then they will suffer the wrath of El Diablo.”
*****
Tom Smith and his scalp hunters camped in a valley grove using the trees for cover. The scalp hunting business was profitable that day. They had sold the captured children to a trader who would himself sell them first to eager Spanish noblemen and American ranchers alike who needed slave labour at prices cheaper than the legal markets allowed. The saddlebags of gold weighed heavily for him, and his men planned to celebrate by spending out west. There were still scalps that needed to be turned in for even more profit, and flies collected around those saddlebags that rested beside the ones filled with gold.
They had bunked down within the grove of dead trees. The fire was put out. Two guards set up to watch for anyone who thought they could take on Tom Smith’s gang as a cheaper, easier way to make the gold. When the men were in a line of work where life was that cheap, murdering those more successful than you were was just the price of doing business.
The first guard vanished on patrol before the moon rose high. The second disappeared an hour later when he went to seek his fellow. There were no torches, no sounds, to set them on guard. By the time Tom Smith woke at the sound of clashing steel and lit a lantern, he saw three more of his men lying sprawled on the ground, already dead in pools of blood. He saw the newest recruit swing a knife that a cloaked figure stepped away from almost casually before lunging forward three feet with a steel rapier, impaling the recruit. Billy, his right-hand man whose bulky frame obscured Tom’s sight, swung both fists at the cloaked figure, who spun underneath the man’s hands and slid a dagger between Billy’s ribs. With a groan, Billy fell forward, face-first into the ashes of the fire that his gang had huddled around just a few hours before.
Curses spilled forth from Tom Smith’s lips as he twisted back, and claw-like hands grasped at his rifle. By the time he felt the wood of his rifle’s stock, the pain had run up his other arm as if a rapier blade were piercing it, causing him to cry out and withdraw his fingers from the rifle.
“Tom Smith, ” the figure said.
“You have a Bible that is not yours. You will give it to me now.”
The voice had a strange timbre and echoed it. Tom Smith looked up and saw that the figure was worse; a mask glinted under the silver moonlight. With horror, Tom Smith saw it was the grinning mask of a devil.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
He screamed, hoping someone would hear. Even someone who was planning on robbing and murdering him. Because he at least knew that he would not be at the mercy of a madman like he saw before him now.
At least he hoped it was a madman and that devil face was just a mask.
He felt more pain shoot up his arm as the rapier blade twisted within his arm before being withdrawn from the wound. Tom used his right hand to grip the injury and staunch the bleeding for a moment.
The devil-masked figure knelt.
“One such as you has only one chance at mercy. Tell me the truth, or I, El Diablo, will run you through with a rapier a dozen times, a hundred times more before I let you die. You stole a book, a Bible, from Fort Ross. You will tell me what you did with it, and I’ll let you live to face mortal justice. You might even escape facing the hangman. Now tell me.”
Tom Smith felt the point of the rapier press lightly against his other arm. Feeling fear like he never had before, he still choked out a laugh of disbelief.
That book? There is no bible! It’s a journal of a Spanish monk! The monk wrote of some fortress beside a silver mine somewhere in the mountains! No one knows where it is, but if it’s real, then you have enough silver to carve a kingdom of your own!”
“So you have it?”
Tom Smith briefly pondered whether he could lie and realized no. He nodded his head towards the saddlebags.
“The one to the left is the one that has it. Take a look for yourself.”
The scarlet-cloaked figure gave him a long, silent look before standing up and walking over. As he did so, Tom Smith sat up slowly. He kept his forearms resting on his knees, ignoring the pain and blood from the wound on his arm. As the man in the devil mask unbuckled the straps of the bag, Tom wondered if he could slide his hand down to the hilt of the knife hidden in his boot. The man they called El Diablo pulled out the musty leatherbound folio and, with gloved hands, began to flip through the vellum pages that glowed pale in the moonlight.
“Is that good enough for you?” Smith growled.
El Diablo did not even glance in Smith’s direction as he continued to flip through the tome.
Smith looked over at the rifle he had reached for before. Instinctively, he grabbed the rifle’s stock with his wounded arm, ignoring the throbbing, and stood up with a speed that made him the most dangerous man to cross in his line of work.
Using one arm to balance the barrel, his other hand slid down, and fingers rested on the trigger as he drew aim to see that El Diablo had moved the book to hold in one hand while the other disappeared into the folds of the scarlet cloak he wore. \
Before Tom Smith could pull the trigger, there was a flash of something as silver as the moonlight before yet more pain blossomed in Tom Smith’s throat. He dropped the rifle as two hands and nine fingers clutched at the knife hilt that sprang from his throat before his eyes rolled back deep in the sockets of his scarred and bearded face, and the slave trader fell dead.
TO BE CONTINUED…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kevin Beckett lives in a Canadian city that is, on some nights, colder than the planet Mars. At various points in life, he has been a radio show host, a nightclub DJ, and a music promoter, and once ran social media & promotion for New Edge Sword & Sorcery Magazine.
His previous works include “AKA The Sinner: Games of Dying Men” and “High Road to Hy-Brasil!” published in Hell Hath No Fury from Pro Se Press, and “The Inn of the Seven Stars” from Water Dragon Press. His story “Shade, Skin, Heart” appears in Swords & Sorcery Magazine. His story “A Song for the Dead” will appear in the upcoming horror anthology Necro Sapiens from Savage Realms Press.
Return Friday, November 21st for the final swashbuckling installment of “DEATH FROM THE STEPPE!: Part 2” by Kevin Beckett!
Cliffhanger! Magazine 
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