Tales From the Magician's Skull #12

Behold the wonders of Tales From the Magician’s Skull #12!

Strange realms of horror and adventure lay in the pages ahead, spun to life by master tale tellers recruited by The Skull himself for your entertainment! Do not delay in the expression of your joy; instead, shout from your rooftops and tell all you know of his magnificent accomplishments!

Eight new narratives fill the pages of issue #12, and includes material crafted from these yarns for the Dungeon Crawl Classics role-playing game.

Tales From the Magician’s Skull is the premiere magazine of sword-and-sorcery fiction, providing all-new stories from some of the industry’s top writers.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor’s Introduction by Howard Andrew Jones 

The Skull Speaks by The Skull Himself 

Seekers of the Southron Shard • by John C. Hocking
A Tale of the King’s Blade • Benhus goggled at the thing as the demon struck at him again. He tried to back away, felt his spine thump against the rooftop’s low wall, dropped to one knee and met the monster’s fist with the white dagger’s blade.

Dragonlight • by David Gullen
Robert took the scabbarded sword and reached for the hilt. It leaped into his hand, and when he moved, the blade flowed with him, seeming to anticipate each move.

The Oracle • by Gregory D. Mele
A Tale of Azatlán • Sarrumos Koródu rode north; the Empire of Azatlán’s vengeance at his back and his name condemned from the summit of its patron god’s pyramids, as it was cursed by a father’s lips.

Breakers • by Dan Thurot
The silver crunched into Lip’s palm, hundreds of flakes burrowing into her flesh. She gasped and bent forward, then realized that the wind-chimes were dancing madly, as though she’d reached out and struck them. She had struck them.

The Last Warrior of R’Kim • by Cintain
The braided leather cord tightened, its rough edges digging under the scaly hide of Durkalar’s neck. His hands lay useless at his sides, unresponsive to his furious commands.

Mote in a Monster’s Eye • by Rhonda Eikamp
“The segments take on a life of their own and can be destroyed by normal means, but —” Crahl slid forward, eyes moist, drowned. “The One is the the One. What blade could hurt horror itself?”

Flight of the Marsh Man • by Ian Ableson
He handed his right arm hand-first to Yarlung, who accepted it in stunned silence. “I recommend you swing it by the wrist. Do not touch my blood, for it contains a substance which is paralytic to your kind.