SOME obvious changes for this issue of RAGEMag. The print version is gone. The schedule is now monthly. And you can subscribe if you like. What hasn't changed is the great variety of good genre fiction. You'll still find space adventures, detective tales, horror pieces, westerns and sword-swinging fantasy all here in one magazine. I thought about adding some non-fiction but why? It's about a fast-paced, good read. It always has been. It always will be.

I'd like to address some of these changes here. Why did I get rid of the print version of RAGEMag? Poor sales. The ebook sells well. People email me and tell me how much they enjoy the book. How they can't wait for the next one. Thus the change in schedule too. I love the illustrated paper magazine. Don't get me wrong. If people would buy them (at what amounts to a very pricey mag) I'd make them. But they don't. And I can't blame them. $12.99 is a lot to pay for five stories with pictures.

The subscription change has been a side effect of TIME m a c h i n e Books. Before our ebook versions were created by Renaissance eBooks. When I decided to create TIME m a c h i n e Books, I knew I wanted to control when they were released, not a second party. Now that I have complete control over the ebooks at RAGE m a c h i n e I can offer a subscription without fear that the new issue might get side-lined once out of my own hands. I create the magazine. I create the ebook version for Fictionwise.com. If you want a subscription, I will make sure you get your version as Fictionwise is getting it (in effect, a week before everybody else.)

Now onto our issue! Everette Bell is the featured novella-writer this issue with his dark and wicked fantasy world of Cehennem. Like Robert E. Howard, he must use red ink to write such a blood-thirsty tale! Jack Mackenzie, always a favorite, returns with "Moon Eyes", a monster tale that is also a nicely-spun first-person Western. The third installment of To Drive the Cold Winter Away makes some startling revelations about the weird creatures invading our planet. "The First Principle of Power" is a science fiction tale about psionics by Jason Andrew. The contest between the psions is like something out of a wizard's duel. "Behold the Beast" by Shelley Lesher is a strange and fascinating take on an old monster. This story will linger on your mind for some time afterwards. "The Sword of Tenneron" is a good-natured tale of a barbarian usurper who encounters a few more problems than old Conan ever did. Lastly, "The Cordero War" is a Texas Western written by a Texan, David Hardy. The first of hopefully many from this talented writer.

Enjoy the stories! See you in a month!

G. W. Thomas

THE MOURNING EDGE OF IRON By Everette Bell

BEYOND the maelstroms of the abyss and the well-springs of time...

There is a desolate world of ice and stone, forever embraced by twilight, a world rank with the stench of rot and disease. Frostbitten winds and bitter cold lay eternal claim to the barren wastes, rocky crags, and skeletal forests of the brutal landscape. The killing of the weak and the devouring of their flesh is the first order of life. Tooth and claw are supreme. The fires of anarchy light the way through the darkness, so the hunt can carry on. Iron clangs and bones rattle, roars shatter the stillness in the air. The only drive equaling that of survival is dominance. Carcasses litter the earth, life reduced to useless debris. Death is the only rest on the hard world of Cehennem.

Rival tribes of demons have swarmed the ravaged world for eons in petty wars of supremacy like maggots churning rotting flesh. The Xahara with their fierce tusks, deadly tails, and serrated battle blades have an insatiable hunger for carnage that makes them a formidable adversary even though their unity has been fractured by infighting for countless generations. Indahti warriors rule the skies on insectoid wings, and their vicious venom-dripping fangs can easily tear through iron or stone. As nimble, hairy, cave dwellers the Urgrish are easy kills, but their knowledge of war machines and explosives make them a force all the other tribes fear. Far fewer in numbers, the reptilian Sakaths stick to the shadows and hidden places of Cehennem. Their shifting allegiance, depending on who can offer most, has turned the tide of many conflicts. Instinctual rage and deep-rooted hatred keep the engine of war and destruction on course as it pounds Cehennem, laying waste to all in its path.

Vatuz, Goddess of decay and disfigurement, smiles down at the drama of death unfolding across the world. Over the ages the mighty Katusi, Gods of war, have grown weak as Vatuz's influence increased with her appeal to power and violence. The stability offered by the old Gods paled in comparison to the glory of bloodshed. In time they were forgotten, and Vatuz became the most powerful of the Gods. Her worship has become widespread throughout the tribes, and she lovingly accepts the atrocities committed in her name. Genocide, torture, chaos, all fill her black heart with joy. Dressed in her cloak of bloody, worm-riddled hides, she sits in the dark chasms of Methsheva--the place of death for her fallen subjects--and savors the fruit of her labor.

Cehennem is in a time of great unrest, a time when destinies are being shaped. The balance of power is tipped in Vatuz's favor; the small numbers of followers of the Katusi--long accustomed to persecution--are Cehennem's only hope. If Vatuz is not destroyed, the last remaining fragments of civilization will fall.

ONE

THE scent of war lingered in the cold, black night. It was the sulfurous mixture of Urgrish firepots and the reek of entrails spread across the battlefield. For the past nineteen moon cycles, the nimble ape-like Urgrish had mounted dozens of attacks, bringing battle to the heart of the newly reborn Xahara Empire. There was a time in a long forgotten age when no foe would have reached the mighty gates of Cymalithru, grandest city in the Empire. All Xahara was loyal to the emperor and his emblem of a skull pierced through the base by a barbed spear. But the influence of Vatuz had crept into their hearts beguiling them with promises of power.

Massive walls of blue stone encircled the ancient city, and the teeth of iron gates bit deep into the earth, resisting the invasion of the vermin race. If the stone could have spoken it would have told a tale of death and sorrow, for the tremendous blocks were stained with the blood of slaves, the mortar of all empires. Asymmetrical towers and spires with claw-like angles grasped at the floor of Hilshulma--the great hall in the heavens where the battle-slain gathered in the afterlife. A system of arches topped with stone walkways connected the network of buildings that comprised the guts of the citadel.

In the rich darkness Malloch was invisible to all but those with the keenest of sight. Still early in years, the black of his thick hide had just begun to take on a hint of the deep purple that would one day mark maturity. Approaching eight feet in height, the stoic Xaharan male standing on the observatory platform was a specimen of chiseled muscular symmetry, a machine sculpted for war by the hand of carnage.

Burning Urgrish heads--flesh charring, vital juices hissing--impaled on spears illuminated cryptic diagrams carved on the stone floor, and by their light Malloch watched the chaos below. Dozens of Xaharan warriors clashed against a wave of advancing Urgrish, mercilessly cleaving heads with serrated swords and severing limbs with savage slashes. The howls of the dying shook the night. In the distance Urgrish war machines sat at the fringes of battle like crouching giants. Firepots were lofted into the air by the flexible arms of catapults, and burning liquid splashed over friend and foe. Iron-tipped bolts and boulders slammed into the great walls of Cymalithru. Fierce pride blazed in Malloch's iridescent green eyes as he gazed upon the battering ram lying unmanned before the main gate. Vatuz's maggots had abandoned their attack in the face of Xaharan iron and strength.

Angry growls reverberated in his throat as the chieftain of the Wartooth Clan pondered the failure of his guards. Snarling, meaty lips barely concealed the razor-sharp fangs in his mouth, and two ebony, dagger-like tusks jutted upward from his solid jaw, framing his face in bony death. It made no sense that the Urgrish army had marched undetected through the Dlekka Pass. Malloch had doubled the watch along the only feasible northern route to the city.

Knobs and ridges climbed up his wide forehead from his thick brow and disappeared into the tangle of black hair that fell down his shoulders and back. Wide pointed ears poked free of his weedy mane. But his most prominent feature was the thick armor-plated tail that extended from the back of his head down the full length of his back, ending in a vicious barb.

Suddenly, barely audible over the sounds of war, he heard the call, a series of low growls the Xahara used to communicate on the battlefield. The message was an urgent call to Malloch himself. He was able to interpret only a portion over the drone of war before the notes suddenly stopped. Treachery ... Blood...

A firepot smashed into a segment of the outer wall of Cymalithru, and the splash of flames pulled the shadows of night away from the demon lord. A thick black kilt covered his massive legs to the knee. Slung over his back was a truculent battle blade of black iron, each edge serrated in order to inflict massive damage that took longer to heal. Bloodsong was like his brother. He had forged it as part of his petition to leave Sodaka's slave camp and later used it to gain his freedom by defeating his former master.

Bloodsong had liberated him from the chains and filth of the slave pits, and Malloch had never failed to repay his debt to the War God that had inspired its creation. The jagged teeth of the battle blade routinely offered the death of Vatuz's followers to Wodan.

Malloch let his gaze drift up to the dark sky. His dam had taught him that the stars held the secrets of destiny, and if one knew what to look for, fate could be deciphered. He saw nothing but the faint twinkle of distant stars framed in choking blackness. Cehennem showed no mercy toward hope in any arena.

A Xaharan roar exploded from nearby. Immediately, Malloch recognized it as a challenge made to a demon of another race. Had it been to another Xahara the sound would have been a much shriller tone. The Urgrish had somehow breeched the wall.

Malloch yanked Bloodsong free from the hide scabbard on his back and ran for the archway leading to the stairs. Long clawed toes allowed for perfect footing on the smooth platform. Dancing shadows flickered from torches hanging in iron rings on the wall. The tall tower had no windows for him to see out, but his sharp ears picked up the muffled sounds of battle. Once at the end of the blue staircase, the Emperor stood before a doorway open to the night.

A cold wind rushed in through the doorway, howling as it made its way up the stairs. In its wake the torches flickered out one at a time. Malloch was in complete darkness. Pain stopped him dead in his tracks before he was even under the arch of the door. Savage sounds of confrontation passed between his sharp tusks in a storm of spittle conjured from the depths of his throat. He spun wildly, and Bloodsong cut through the air in search of flesh.

Clang! The mighty sword had made contact with another weapon of iron.

A huge explosion lit up the night at Malloch's back. Without even turning he knew one of the Urgrish firepots had made it over the wall. The glow of the burning oil dispelled the darkness in the tower, and Malloch was able to see two figures crouching before him, each wearing black cloaks and carrying sabers. Scaly tails and arms poked out from the folds of the cloaks. Red eyes glared bitterly at Malloch over long pointed snouts.

Hissing angrily, one of the Sakaths leapt forward with its blade aimed for Malloch's leg. The Xaharan jumped backwards, and as he did so brought Bloodsong down in a thunderous arc. Iron clanged again, but this time the deadly teeth of Malloch's sword cleaved the Sakath's saber in two.

As if the broken weapon was a sign foretelling certain doom, the Sakath charged forward in desperation, baring his fangs, flicking his long forked tongue. The scaly creature's speed proved faster than Malloch's, and he raked his sharp claw across the Xaharan's rippling abdomen. The roar of rage and the glint in the injured demon's eyes gave warning to his foe, and the Sakath dodged the savage slash of the Xaharan's fierce tusks.

A second attempt at Malloch's bleeding stomach was brutally intercepted. The reptilian creature's head was rocked by a pounding blow from Malloch's knee, and in the same vicious instant, the iron hilt of Bloodsong was brought down on the top of the beast's head. The vice-like force squirted blood from the creature's eyes and mouth before it fell limp to the ground.

Spinning around with bloodlust in his eyes, Malloch was ready to set upon the remaining Sakath, but he saw nothing and heard only the sounds of battle moving off down a distant corridor. Knowing the cunning and stealth of the Sakaths, he carefully looked into the dark corners of the tower room--nothing. Outside the building in the stone courtyard there was only the flicker of flames from the Urgrish firepot. Draining his anger in a burst of wrath, Malloch stomped on the lifeless Sakath's already ravaged head--a moist crunch, then more blood pooled on the floor.

His sharp hearing detected a faint sound. Gripping Bloodsong tightly, Malloch was ready for battle as he saw a section of wall swing away on the other side of the flames. A hump-backed figure wrapped in a cloak of woven midnight stepped into the courtyard from a secret passageway. The demon lord slowly relaxed when he saw the figure's odd gait, accentuated by the wooden staff knocking against the ground. Long black nails on a pale fist gripped the dark wood. Mystic light radiated from the head of the staff, fighting back the gloom around the figure.

"Sire," the grizzled voice slid evenly from the dark folds of the hood. "Beyaz has returned, but we must make haste. He has little time."

Wordlessly, the gargantuan demon followed his sorceress into the secret passageway. Echoing in the cramped corridor was the sound of wood against rock as Merhaba moved along with the aid of her staff. Torches flickered from their seats in iron rings on the walls, keeping the darkness at bay. After multiple turns, Malloch was lost, but he had complete trust in his sorceress. Gradually they left the noises of the battle behind, and a final turn brought them to an abrupt dead end. Slowly Merhaba moved her pale hand across the smooth stone, long fingers on a deliberate mission.

Stone grated and the rock spread apart, granting them leave.

A bed of skins and pillows had been made on the hard floor in front of Malloch's throne, and lying motionless on the hides was a badly injured Xaharan. Two robed figures knelt, silently tending the wounded.

"Did you apply the salve?" Merhaba's voice had the quality of crackling flames consuming dead wood.

"Yes," one of the kneeling attendants answered.

Merhaba threw back her deep hood and made her way to the attendants. "Merak, fetch me a goblet," the ancient female croaked her command. "Let no one disturb us!" With nods of understanding to their mistress, the acolytes hurried away.

The elder female's crimson shade had lightened considerably through the ages, now more of a pale pink. Like all Xaharan females, she did not have tusks. Instead, two thick horns spiraled off the side of her broad forehead. Draped down her chest and back was a brilliant white mane, almost blinding to gaze upon. The protective armor and the formidable spike that once adorned her tail had long since withered. Now a thick snake of flesh resembling a giant rattail hung over her shoulder.

Beckoning to her lord she said, "Come, Malloch."

He knelt beside Beyaz. Both tusks were broken, and dark blood flowed from countless gashes in his purple hide. A deep wound in his gut, moist and bloody, festered with the black rot.

Wet breaths barely sustained him as he turned his gaze upon his liege. "Raiders--" His fading words were interrupted by a wracking cough and a stream of blood from his mouth. "Fortress is on--" Another violent cough ravaged him. "Be ... on ... your..."

"Where is the fortress?"

Malloch was answered with silence.

"Beyaz!" This time the word jumped urgently from Malloch's strong jaws.

Merhaba's time-weakened hand clasped her Lord's shoulder. "The Gods call him home, Sire."

Malloch gripped Beyaz's forearm in the customary greeting of warriors. The fallen warrior returned the honor on his Lord's muscle-knotted forearm, his last ounce of strength dedicated to clan loyalty. The eyes of battle tested comrades beamed with mutual respect. They would meet again in Hilshulma. The breath of life vanished.

Beyaz's weak grip faded.

Low and threatening, a growl of rage rumbled from Malloch's throat. "Your death will be mourned with the misery of your foes!"

The mighty Xaharan rose with volcanic fury. Blazing eyes fixed on his sorceress. "I want the location of the raider fortress!" His molten gaze lingered, imposing his anger on the female. "Do not fail me, Merhaba!" Hard breaths reverberated in his throat as he stalked to the nearby onyx throne. In a thunderous release of anger, Malloch thrust Bloodsong into the stone floor beside his high seat. The loud collision of elements subsided, and the battle blade stood menacingly in the floor, easily within reach of its master. Drained by this catharsis, Malloch fell into his throne, silent and pensive.

"Sire--" Merhaba's pale face wore a practiced mask of humility. She had no intention of testing Malloch's wrath.

The sorceress was cut off by a robed figure scurrying nervously into the room. The echo of the master's anger had undoubtedly reached the servants. Trembling crimson, a hand extended a silver goblet to Malloch's advisor. Merhaba took the cup and with a wave and a snarl dismissed the acolyte.

She began again, holding the goblet. "Sire, I shall give what you seek." The female made her way to the lifeless form of Beyaz. Using her staff for balance, she knelt on the cold stone. A sudden jab of her finger embedded her sharp nail into the dead Xaharan's eye. The moist orange gem slurped from his head, clinging to the empty socket by a long thread of tissue. Squeezing the eyeball over the goblet, a translucent fluid drained through Merhaba's fist into the cup.

The old female fought with her crippled legs to stand, slow and unsteady. Grunting, she wobbled to the foot of Malloch's throne, clutching her precious cargo. Her bloodstained hand raked across his broad chest, tearing through dark hide. Blood streamed down his chest into the waiting goblet.

"Drink." Her outstretched hands offered the cup to Malloch.

THE dark fortress jutted up from the pale green sea like a spearhead passing into flesh. Its tooth-like towers stabbed toward the boiling gray sky. Connecting the rocky coast to the massive, silent stronghold was a smooth stone bridge of the same dark color.

From his throne, the unseen watcher could see corpses littering the bridge. Rotting heads impaled on spears looked out along the stone pathway, monuments to slaughter.

"SIRE," the voice of his sorceress pulled at his mind, slowly withdrawing him from his lurid vision. Then he felt her touch on his arm. Like a light at the end of a dark tunnel it told the way for him to leave the dream world of the dark fortress. Malloch went toward Merhaba, her voice. "Sire, the Blood Guard has returned." For a brief but intense moment he felt he was walking through the strongest storm he had ever encountered...

...then he opened his eyes.

Merhaba nodded and backed away from the throne. Standing too close to a male Xaharan for too long could ignite his territorial instinct causing him to mindlessly lash out at anyone in the area. Touching was not done in the Xahara culture without invitation, but Malloch had total trust in Merhaba.

"There is a fortress off the Jagged Coast," he growled. "Whoever is responsible for Beyaz's death will taste the fury of Xaharan loyalty."

The intensity in the Xaharan's voice was bordering on insanity. Merhaba averted her gaze fearing that in his state of mind her master might lose control of himself. She did not want to issue the slightest challenge.

"Forgive me, Sire. I understand the matter of your kin weighs heavy on your thoughts, but one of the servants has informed me the last of the Blood Guard have returned and are engaged in battle at the back gate."

Bloodsong withdrew from the floor with a forceful pull, and Malloch came to his feet. "How long was I asleep?"

Feeling it was safe to meet his gaze, the sorceress lifted her head. "The potion took four hours for full effect."

"The state of Cymalithru?"

"Most of the Urgrish have retreated, but we took heavy losses. There are reports that Sakaths are still within the walls."

Malloch fixed harsh eyes on the old female. "I want one captured alive."

Knowing there was only one acceptable response, she nodded her head.