Summary: By Edward Cowan Read by Bruce Busby Discuss on our forums. For a list of all Escape Pod stories, authors and narrators, visit our sortable Wikipedia page The First Book of Flaccid Swords by Edward Cowan It was a snake–and Gods, what a snake it was. Fifty feet from sweeping tail to flicking tongue, its eyes as cold as deepest space and dim as the farthest star, its fangs dripping poison so vile the stench alone would kill a lesser man. This, then, was the dreaded Doom of Lla Haathra, into whose black maw the unlucky and damned were fed to the Impotent God. Never having counted myself among His faithful, I saw no reason to submit meekly to His wrath. His priests had made one crushing mistake when they lured me onto the trap door: they failed to relieve me of my blade. _Wind,_ they called it, those for whom that name was the last word to leave their lips. I rushed the foul altar, upon which lay my Darinda, black chains coiling about her supple form, her body purest alabaster against the crimson stone marbling her flesh. Tsutu Kalai, highest of the wretched priests, cackled as I approached, throwing the lever that opened the trap. Darinda’s scream followed me down the endless, serpentine flue. Beyond that, darkness. Rolling to my feet, I stood in the shaft of light piercing the abyss from the chamber above, Wind held before me, daring the almost tangible shadow to draw near. Within moments came a rasping omen, as of a great mass dragging itself awake after a slumber of eons. Now the Doom reared before me, thrusting its head into the light. We goaded one another to strike–it with the insolence of the predator that has never known failure, I with a rage that would never be clenched till the serpent’s blood coated my blade from point to pommel. From above echoed the laughter of the priests and the muffled screams of my Darinda. Here there was only silence–the sweet anticipation of the moment before death. Finally I saluted the beast with a nod and spoke: “At least your masters have granted me a worthy adversary. Very well; let us have at it. I will not pretend to the ancient patience of the serpentfolk.” It hissed its reply. At that I lunged. Its mammoth head darted forward quicker than mercury, but primal speed avails not against human cunning. I ducked its strike and gripped my blade for the piercing jab: up under the jaw and through the skull. I sprang up, mighty thews tensing for the killing blow– And found myself holding a wet noodle. BREAK Static shrieks as Jessica tears off her headgear and hurls it to the floor. Test pattern jackhammers my eyes and ears. That’s the thing about couples therapy: when one quits, she drags the other with her. And you can’t do it unless you do it together. Repeat ad nauseam and there–you’ve got a bead on the entire experience. She glares at me from her couch. “You died _again,_ didn’t you?” BREAK Clearing his throat, Dr. Freundlich removes his own headgear with none of his patients’ violent frustration. He regards us across the vast mahogany plane of his desk, steepling his fingertips, tap-tap-tapping them together. “We are not making the progress we had hoped for, hmm?” Jessica and I shift on our couches–the same vivid red as Lla Haathra’s altar–searching for comfort or at least a spot of dignity in what she calls the “birthing position”: feet level with head, ankles parted. This posture is designed for optimum relaxation, says the doctor. I say it’s designed to keep us permanently at bay; from these positions we gaze up at him as children to father. Jessica shushes me when I mutter things like that, but the doctor doesn’t disagree. _It is in fact necessary; in the realm of the neue psychology, patients no longer want friends or confidants. In these times of broken homes, late marriage and early divorce, they desire discipline, orde[...]
