The Steel Trident of Bal-Sagoth (fiction)

jrhume · 21 Sep 2004

THE STEEL TRIDENT OF BAL SAGOTH

Escape from Castle Bibelot

Slim slashed the throat of one Varlet and threw himself backwards on the stone steps to avoid the axe swung by another. A quick kick in the chest sent that one over the rail. Another slipped on the bloody steps and tumbled back into those following. Slim levered himself erect and scrambled to the head of the stairs.

â Å“Lance,â ? he panted, â Å“now would be a damn good time for a bit of magic. There must be thirty of these sods!â ?

â Å“Nonsense,â ? replied the wizard. He raised his diminutive crossbow and put a quarrel into the left eye socket of an officer-caste Varlet crouched on the landing below. The creature made a sound like a rusted gate hinge and toppled to the floor. Lance levered another quarrel into position. â Å“There are twenty-seven -- less the three we've killed. A reliable spell will take too long and I don't have any to waste.â ?

The Varlets milled about on the stairs and landing, bereft of directing authority. Slim glanced over his shoulder. â Å“I don't know where this hallway might lead, but we've got to go back down. We'll be caught like rats if we let them push us any higher.â ?

Lance planted his next quarrel dead center in the chest of the Varlet highest on the stairs. The bolt slammed through chest carapace, punctured various vital organs and cracked the thing's back plate. It tumbled down, kicking spasmodically.

â Å“Come on,â ? said the mage. â Å“I seem to recall a service stairwell.â ? In a swirl of black robes, he spun and stalked down the dim hall. A single arrow smacked into the wall beside Slim's head. He jerked back, cursed and scrambled after his companion.

####

Their rescue effort had gone awry from the first. The ancient drain tunnel they used to slip under the castle wall should have brought them out in the lowest dungeon level. Instead it ended at a solid brick and mortar plug, obviously put in place both for security and to keep drain water from flooding the dungeon.

Lance led the way up a rusted metal ladder to an iron grate set in an open courtyard. He had to use a small bursting spell to free the grate. Either the noise alerted the Varlets or a human Sensitive detected the spell-ripple and gave warning. Some Naturals still allied with Twisted kind, even as the power of wizardry waned.

Unable to return to the drain, the two men sprinted from the courtyard and sought a way down into the dungeons. A quick sortie might still allow them to free their friend, the ex-legion corporal and one-time safe cracker, DanJanou. But Lance, who hadn't been in the castle for many years, soon lost his way. Now they were two floors above the courtyard level, with pursuit close behind. Unable to reach DanJanou, their own escape seemed less and less likely.

####

â Å“This way,â ? hissed Lance. He shoved through a plain wooden door and led the way along a dark, narrow hall between two large rooms. Several doors opened into each room. On either side of the doors small sliding panels were set at eye level. Spy panels, thought Slim. He slid one open. That room held rows of empty chairs. Lance opened a panel on the opposite wall. â Å“It's empty,â ? he whispered. â Å“Come on.â ?

At the end of the hall another door opened on to a landing and a square stairwell. Narrow stairs snaked around the walls. Taut ropes stretched from the dim reaches above and disappeared into the gloom below. The two men crept down the steps. Two levels down a wooden platform hung in the center space.

Lance stopped Slim. â Å“It's a service elevator.â ? He stepped onto the platform and grasped a thin rope that led from a hole in the center. A slight upward pull caused the elevator to move down a trifle. Slim stayed on the landing, well clear of the contraption. He had a bad feeling about the mage's intentions.

â Å“Come on,â ? said Lance. His come-along gesture was impatient. â Å“Get aboard! This thing will take us all the way to the dungeons. We may yet be able to retrieve DanJanou!â ?

â Å“Right. We mustn't forget about old DanJanou.â ? Slim's thoughts were occupied with the horde of Varlets soon to be pounding down from above. He put one foot on the platform, then drew it back. â Å“What makes you think it goes down that far?â ?

â Å“It's for the kitchen, dummy! The kitchen serves all levels of the building.â ?

Slim nodded. He still had qualms. â Å“You sure this is the right building? What if the dungeons ain't under this one?â ?

Lance stomped a booted foot. The platform lurched down a handspan. â Å“Are you coming or not?â ? The mage was always a little petulant when he ran out of logical responses. With a muttered prayer addressed To Whom-It-May-Concern, Slim consigned himself to the elevator.

####

A fair distance below, DanJanou angled a pork chop bone into his cell lock mechanism and pried at the latch. He willed it to move.

The ancient lock was a simple over-center latch encased in an iron box -- paper thin iron. Three days earlier he had punched a hole in the metal and tried to open the latch with a fried chicken bone. That attempt failed. He hoped pork bones had more tensile strength. Over the last two days he had shaped and scraped the bone. He now had a curved tool with a small indentation in the tip. With any luck he would be able to pry the latch out of its slot in the door frame.

A single human jailer occupied an office near the stairwell. The only other humans in the dungeons were prisoners. Two Varlets were always on duty. DanJanou shivered to think of his eventual fate under their clawed hands. Sometimes one would stop at his cell, rattle the bars and gnash its heavy jaws. A dim red glow pulsed in their multi-faceted eyes. DanJanou tried to assure himself that it was just a reflection of the corridor lamps. At times he even believed it.

Minutes earlier, both Varlets had pounded up the stairs and out of hearing. The one human wandered out of his office and stood, perplexed. After a moment, he shrugged and went back inside. DanJanou retrieved his bone tool and crept to the door.

The rusted latch scraped and squawked as it moved. DanJanou stopped and eyed the jailer's door. Sweat stung his eyes. He heard the man push his chair back and get up. He must have heard the noise! Liquid splashed into a cup. Coffee! The idiot had gotten up to get more coffee! The chair scraped again. Hands atremble, DanJanou moved the cell door back and forth and worked at the latch. With a loud tink!, it went over-center and popped into the open position. DanJanou scooted back to his thin mattress and sat down.

Nothing. The jailer must be deaf as a post. After several minutes, DanJanou eased the door open and stepped into the corridor. As his foot hit the floor he heard the lift ropes begin to creak. The Varlets were returning! He crept toward the jailer's office looking for a weapon. Bloodshot eyes watched his progress. None of the other prisoners made a sound.

Squeak. Squeak! The lift came closer. Sick fear threatened to gag him. His hand closed on a heavy club leaning against the wall. The feel of well worn wood under his hand drove the cobwebs from his brain. Two steps to the door, a long stride inside and it was over. The jailer never said a word, though his mouth hung open as DanJanou brought the club down on his skull. The man flopped to the floor â â€œ out for the duration.

Squeak! SQUEAK! DanJanou sagged against the door frame. He was too late. The lift was almost to the bottom. No time to free the others. No way out but up the stairwell.

â Å“Gods Above!â ? yelped a voice. â Å“It's him!â ?

â Å“I can see that!â ? snarled another, less pleasant speaker. He knew those bitter tones.

â Å“Lance!â ? DanJanou blinked, unable to believe his eyes. â Å“Captain Slim?â ?

Slim grabbed his arm. â Å“Keys, lad! Where are the keys? How many other prisoners are there?â ?

â Å“Come on, you fools!â ? cried Lance. â Å“We have to get out! Forget the others!â ?

DanJanou swore a black oath. â Å“No!â ? He snatched the keys off a hook beside the jailer's door. â Å“There are only a few. Give me a minute!â ? No way he was leaving without trying to free the others. Those eyes would haunt him forever.

####

In any event, there were only three living prisoners. The humans, now six all told, whisked back up the lift, slipped out of the building and crept up stone steps leading to the top of the castle wall. A great hue and cry could be heard some distance away. No sooner had Slim stepped onto the wall than a clacking Varlet emerged from a tower and began trotting toward the group. Lance barked a cruel laugh and fired a bolt into the creature's throat. It was still kicking and croaking as the last man went over the wall and slid down Slim's rope.

They were three days getting clear of the forest surrounding Bibelot. One of the freed prisoners died in a clash with a Varlet patrol. Two days after leaving the forest, the five survivors reached Fraught, a friendly town well south of Varlet territory. They gathered in a small tavern and toasted their escape with tankards of ale. Lance, in his manner, contributed a frown and a litany of complaints. Late that evening, Slim and DanJanou bundled the other two ex-prisoners, now pleasantly inebriated, into a coach headed in the general direction of their homes. Lance skipped the leave taking.

The Gang of Four

â Å“All right, lads,â ? said DanJanou. â Å“Much as I appreciate being sprung from Castle Bibelot, I can't help wondering why you bothered.â ? The three men sat at breakfast in the Lost Illusions Bar & Grill. Lance partook of his usual sour milk and bile-soaked cucumbers. Slim and DanJanou started with coffee and worked their way through a more normal fare. DanJanou's attention kept wandering to the shapely contours of their server, the morning shift barmaid. He'd been in stir for some time.

â Å“We came the instant we heard,â ? replied Slim. â Å“A friend in need is â â€œ well, you know.â ?

Lance essayed a creaky laugh. â Å“Don't kid yourself. We need a cracksman. And if we could have found one with any skill, you'd still be rotting in Bibelot.â ?

Slim shrugged and concentrated on mopping up the last gravy on his plate. â Å“Well â â€œ true enough, I suppose.â ? He flashed a toothy grin. â Å“But I'd have fretted about you.â ?

â Å“I'm sure you would have,â ? muttered DanJanou. He stared at Lance. â Å“I was about to break out on my own, as you well know. Besides, I'm not in the business of cracking safes anymore. Every detective in the Three Cities knows my handiwork.â ?

â Å“We don't want you to open a safe in the Three Cities,â ? grated Lance. He creak-laughed again. One corner of his mouth twitched upward. Slim turned away. The wizard's smile hinted at blood and death and cruel winter winds and seven years bad luck. A bit of oral hygiene would have helped, but even with clean teeth and sweet breath Lance's mirthful expressions had been known to abort calves, bring codfish out of a clear sky and cause painful sores in private places.

DanJanou shuddered. â Å“W-where is this job. N-not that I'm interested, mind.â ?

â Å“It's away south,â ? said Slim. â Å“Far south. Beyond the Black Fang Mountains.â ?

â Å“There's nothing on the other side of the Black Fangs but desert,â ? said DanJanou. His heart began to knock against ribs. There were rumors of places south of the mountains. Places no sane man would consider as a travel destination.

â Å“It's properly called the Desert of No Return,â ? intoned Lance. â Å“And our goal lies further south.â ?

â Å“You can't mean . . .â ? DanJanou's mouth seemed to fill with ashes.

â Å“We mean . . .â ? Slim struggled to say the NAME.

â Å“Castle Dread,â ? hissed Lance. â Å“The last wretched hideout of Direful Dorosh.â ?

â Å“The blackest warlock left alive,â ? whispered Slim. "And don't forget Brin. Mistress of Dread.â ?

â Å“A witch, a she-devil,â ? added Lance. His usual pallor faded to parchment white. â Å“Men shriek for death in her presence.â ?

DanJanou swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to flee â â€œ to leap up and run screaming from the inn. Strength drained from his limbs. He couldn't move. It must be a mage-spell. â Å“Let me go,â ? he whined. â Å“Release me! I'm no kind of adventurer. Let me go.â ?

Lance raised an eyebrow. â Å“I'm not holding you. It must be the eggs you ate. Foul things, eggs.â ?

Slim guffawed, breaking the tension. â Å“Fowl things!â ? He pounded the table, laughing.

Lance shook his head and frowned. â Å“What's so funny?â ?

While Slim tried to explain puns to the mage, DanJanou sat with his head down, contemplating a short, bloody future. He was glad he hadn't run. The thought of the whole town calling him a girly-man and clucking as they passed didn't bother him â â€œ they'd done that before. But he didn't want the buxom barmaid to know he was an arrant coward.

â Å“I'll go,â ? he muttered. â Å“But what are we after?â ? The barmaid stopped and refilled his coffee. She smiled and her eyes promised more, much more. Naturally, DanJanou failed to notice that she offered that same look to all paying customers.

â Å“We're after a steel trident,â ? said Lance. â Å“The Steel Trident of Bal Sagoth.â ?

â Å“Trident?â ? chuckled Slim. â Å“It's a frog sticker. The Plain Steel Frog Gig of Who-Knows Jones.â ?

Lance shot the big swordsman a pained look. â Å“That was before the warlock, B-S, got hold of it. He charged it with baleful spells. It is now the Steel Trident of Bal Sagoth!â ?

â Å“All right â â€œ all right. Have it your way.â ? Slim winked at DanJanou. â Å“The frog sticker is locked in an iron safe deep within Foghorn Fortress. We're going to steal it. That's where you come in.â ?

Lance simmered over the 'frog sticker' reference, but said nothing.

DanJanou flashed a brave smile at the barmaid, but she was drawing a brace of ales for better-paying customers. â Å“You've got yourself a safe-cracker. When do we start?â ?

â Å“Soon,â ? said Slim. â Å“We need another swordsman. In fact, I'm supposed to meet an old comrade who may be interested. He should be along any time.â ?

A shadow fell across the table. â Å“Captain Slim,â ? squeaked a voice. They turned as one and beheld a monstrosity. Or, rather, a Monstro. Of all the Twisted creatures, they are the most ugly â â€œ even more unbecoming than Varlets. In thaumaturgical circles, Monstros were known as Half-Twisted, since they were bred to emphasize certain physical attributes, but received no outré additions, like carapaces, multi-faceted eyes or even much in the way of brains.

Slim stood up and bashed this one a couple of times on the upper arm â â€œ as high as he could reach. â Å“Baker!â ? he cried. â Å“Monstro-at-arms, Baker! It's good to see you â â€œ ah, lad.â ?

Monstro Baker had tiny, close-set eyes, an outsized nose and a mouthful of odd-angled teeth. He wore a plain, conical steel helmet. A mail hauberk covered him from neck to knees. Over this he sported a breastplate and laminated armor at his shoulders. A good-sized buckler hung on his back and an iron sword rode at his left hip. This heap of ironmongery seemed to inconvenience him not a whit. Slim introduced his two companions.

â Å“Don't walk up on Baker unannounced,â ? explained the Captain. â Å“His reflexes often outpace his brain. He'll remember your names and body odor after a week or so, not to worry.â ? The huge creature pawed the floor and brayed out a sort of laughter. Monstro Baker evidently had a sense of humor.

â Å“Well,â ? said Lance, when introductions were complete. â Å“We have our full complement. It's time to depart. Captain?â ?

â Å“Aye,â ? said Slim. â Å“Get your gear and meet me in front of the stables in ten minutes.â ? He glanced up at Baker. â Å“Follow me, lad. We don't want you getting lost. You ended up in the circus the last time.â ?

(to be continued)

winchable · 22 Sep 2004

I love these!

I've got an odd request for you...
Do you think somehow in your next story you could work pirates into it...and I could be the Pirate King...or perhaps the Lord of the admirality...I'd settle for Commodore honestly, but the others are good too.

Burrows · 22 Sep 2004

well if che gets a part..... Can we work myself into one as well? LOL although i really wouldnt mind...
I say maybe PO not Commodore...... just kidding che!

Lance Wiebe · 22 Sep 2004

Lance partook of his usual sour milk and bile-soaked cucumbers

Allright, who's been talking?

Or have we met, Old Guy?

jrhume · 22 Sep 2004

Castle Dread

Direful Dorosh, known to his friends as D-D, leaned on the balcony rail and surveyed his domain. Goats bleated in the courtyard below. Bells tinkled as the animals filed through the broken castle gate and down toward the village. Brin, Mistress of Dread, stepped onto the balcony wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

She eyed the short-cropped grass growing between tilted and broken courtyard paving stones. â Å“The grass looks better. You should have the goats brought up more often.â ? She struck a kitchen match on the railing and lit a slim cigar.

Dorosh didn't answer. He sniffed and shook his head. â Å“Those cigars are vile. I thought I smelled something a moment ago â â€œ but now it's gone.â ?

â Å“Smelled what? Goat crap?â ?

â Å“No.â ? He stared at the Black Fangs, ominous even at this distance. â Å“It was the scent of danger or maybe adventure. Lost youth. Missed opportunities. Bread mold.â ? His brow furrowed and he grew serious. â Å“I â â€œ I think it was a disturbance in the Force.â ?

She laughed. Brin, the she-fiend who once drove men mad with a single glance, whose face and figure still burned in the nightmares of old warriors. Brin, Mistress of Dread, now gone somewhat to fat and these days killer of nothing much more than barnyard fowl â â€œ laughed at the once fearsome Overlord of Castle Dread. â Å“A disturbance in the Force? I think you drank too much of that grinkleberry wine.â ?

An aged and bent creature tottered onto the balcony. â Å“Milady, I've finished with swabbing the decks. I'll go to my hammock now, if you please.â ?

â Å“Good night, Infanteer,â ? murmured the two most feared magicians south of the Black Fangs. The old demon knuckled his forehead and wandered away.

â Å“Poor Infanteer,â ? said Brin. â Å“Is there nothing you can do for his arthritis?â ?

D-D sighed. â Å“You ask me that at least twice a week. Without magic, I can do nothing. Infanteer spent too many years before the mast navigating the Styx, the Boiling Ocean and the Sea of Fate.â ? He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. â Å“Look at me! Once my name was feared from here to the Ultimate Ice. Now I have to hire goats to manicure my lawn and my last demon is racked with old age. If my enemies find out, we'll soon be stoking furnaces in Hell.â ?

â Å“Don't worry, dear.â ? Brin patted his cheek. â Å“I'm sure all the other wizards have lost their magic. I'll bet the Shining Spear of Boil Saggy is the last spell repository in existence.â ?

â Å“For the tenth time â â€œ it's called the Steel Trident of Bal Sagoth,â ? said Dorosh. â Å“A fat lot of good it does us! I haven't the power to access the spells! That Sagoth fellow saw me coming.â ?

Brin puffed on her cigar and blew a long streamer of smoke. â Å“Not to worry. We have a roof over our heads, albeit a leaky one, and we have food to eat â â€œ even if we have to grow most of it ourselves. I don't mind working my fingers to the bone and watching our beautiful Castle Dread fall into ruin.â ? She sighed. â Å“Being evil was always a lot of work. I've fallen into lazy habits.â ?

Dorosh massaged his bald scalp and stared at the distant mountains. â Å“Me too. Making magic seems more effort than it's worth.â ? He pulled his good luck buzzard foot from his shirt and fingered the claws. â Å“I wish I could shake this feeling. It's confusing. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.â ?

â Å“I know that feeling,â ? said Brin. â Å“It comes to me every time I find your underwear on the floor, right beside the hamper.â ?

The foulest wizard still alive didn't hear the gibe. He wore a strange expression, as if afraid an impending fart might be liquid. D-D shook his head. â Å“I detect the approach of danger and doom mixed with insanity and a slimy sort of evil.â ? He shuddered. â Å“Just like the old days.â ?

Brin flipped her cigar over the railing. â Å“You drank too much wine. Let's go inside. If it will make you feel better, I'll consult my mirror.â ?

â Å“It might be a good idea. Just in case.â ?

The Road to Forty Mile

Three days travel brought Captain Slim's party to Quagmire Swamp, which was not a single swamp but a vast network of treacherous bogs and fens. The road degenerated to a muddy track as it wound through thick stands of gray-bearded swamp oak. Gloom lay under the trees, even at mid-day. Rotting leaves and dark patches of sullen water covered the ground. The men rode single file, Slim in the lead. Baker, too large for any horse, plodded along behind.

Each man moved in silence, as if speech might draw the attention of some unknown creature lurking at the edge of vision. This sense of dread grew as they plunged deeper into the swamp.

At a rest break, in a tiny patch of sunlight, DanJanou led his horse to where the Captain stood staring into the shadows.

â Å“I've seen no animals at all,â ? murmured DanJanou. â Å“Neither Natural or Twisted.â ?

â Å“No,â ? said Slim. â Å“But they've seen us. Swamp animals are shy, secretive. Most are small.â ?

â Å“Good. I don't want to meet anything big and hungry in here.â ?

Slim started to say something, but thought better of it. â Å“Mount up! I want to be in Forty Mile by dark. I don't think any of us fancy spending the night inside Quagmire.â ?

By late afternoon the trees began to thin out. The road ran on dry ground for the most part and the pools they passed had a cleaner, more wholesome look about them. As the men rode two abreast through a thin stand of pine, a dozen or more Bog Nasties filed out of the trees and blocked the road. Each Nasty carried a stabbing spear, short sword and shield. Their faces were painted blue save for a single, fist-size white spot centered on the left eye.

They were Half-Twisted, of course, as were their diminutive mounts. Some wizard had once needed a work force of stunted humans and stubby ponies. One, evidently the leader, rode a few feet forward and clashed his spear on a red shield.

Slim slid from his horse and walked toward the runty leader. Standing, he was still a few inches taller than the boss Nasty. He stopped within arms length and swept off his helmet. â Å“Howdy, Franko! I thought we might run into you.â ?

The sawed-off runt uttered a string of filthy words in Standard. "Slim! What are you doing here? There's nothing in our swamp or in Forty Mile worth stealing."

"Business trip," said Slim in an aggrieved tone.

Franko chuckled. "Have you come to settle your debts? You left our last card game rather abruptly. Something about a missing payroll, I understand."

"Lies! Falsehoods spread by jealous competitors!" Slim frowned. "What debts?"

"You left the game owing me a round fifty." Franko held out a hand and whispered. "Pony up, Captain. The lads will think I'm collecting the toll. Otherwise . . ." At his glance the Nasty cavalry troopers clashed their spears and growled. Slim reached for his wallet.

Baker lumbered up next to Slim. He drew his sword, a garish, four foot long Saturday Night Special. "You want me to slaughter these guys, Captain?"

Save for Franko, all the Bog Nasty stalwarts vanished into the brush.

Slim put his wallet away. He thumped Baker's arm. "Good job, lad. Back with the others now -- that's right. Go on back with the others. Good lad!"

"I'll bet he's handy to have around," grumped Franko.

"Sometimes he is," admitted Slim. "Though one has to be careful about getting him riled up."

"I've heard that when Monstros get angry they just plod along in a straight line, bashing everything in sight, until they run into a large, solid object or they get tired and fall asleep."

"True. The secret is to have them facing the right direction."

Franko eyed the ponderous Monstro with interest. â Å“I'll hire him, if he's willing. We could use a brute like him in dealing with Pyro Gators.â ?

â Å“He's engaged for the moment,â ? said Slim. â Å“Maybe later.â ?

The Bog Nasty leader swung his pony around. â Å“Town is only a couple more miles. I'll ride along, if you don't mind. Got a Ways and Means committee meeting tonight.â ?

â Å“Come along. What's this about a meeting? Have you gotten into politics?â ?

â Å“Of course. You ought to try it, Captain. It's easier than robbery and safer than soldiering. We'll spend thirty minutes organizing graft and corruption for the month, then adjourn to a local pub for an evening of pasteboards and ale.â ?

â Å“No thanks,â ? replied Slim. â Å“I have a problem with telling lies. Remember?â ?

â Å“Gods Above!â ? Franko brayed with laughter. â Å“I'd forgotten. Your ears turn red when you lie, right?â ?

â Å“That's it. Makes it tough to be a politician.â ?

â Å“Damn straight it does.â ? Franko considered the possibilities. â Å“Long hair might do the trick,â ? he said. â Å“Except your ears are sort of prominent.â ?

â Å“Never mind my ears!â ? snarled Slim. â Å“Tell me about Forty Mile.â ?

â Å“Nice place. There are a few mines operating this side of the Black Fangs. Ranches between the swamp and the mountains. There's a territorial outpost complete with a company of troopers â â€œ mercenaries. So we have miners, cowboys and mercs â â€œ a volatile mix at best. The soldiers are a mixed bag of human and Varlet. The town has the usual ordinary businesses, up above the swamp. That's where the regular citizens live, too. Well away from Quagmire.â ?

Slim nodded. â Å“We need to pick up a few supplies.â ? He thought about miners and cowboys and soldiers. â Å“There must be a sizeable red light district.â ?

â Å“It's called Swamp-side. No zoning regulations. Not much law. You'll like it.â ?

â Å“You have any trouble with Pryo-Gators?â ?

â Å“Sometimes. My lads have thinned 'em out a lot the last few years. They're not as much trouble as the dragons that come down out of the mountains.â ?

â Å“Dragons? I haven't seen one of those for an age.â ?

â Å“Bad news â â€œ the lot of them. Can't understand monetary denominations and whiskey gives them hiccups â â€œ complete with belches of flame. Besides that, they're belligerent drunks.â ?

Encounter with a Dragon

Franko led Slim's group to a semi-respectable place well back from Quagmire and somewhat above the helter-skelter of Swamp-side. A wooden sign over the entrance proclaimed it as the All Species Inn. As if that wasn't plain enough, there was a stenciled notice on the door â â€œ

Mutants Welcome.
All creatures must wear hoof guards or shoes,
by order of the Ministry of Health.

The tavern doorway and ceiling were quite high. Baker had to stoop only a little. He wore boots, so his hooves were no problem. The little band halted inside and looked around. Several uniformed Varlets sat at tables with humans in matching uniforms. Slim snorted and drew the other's attention to the mercenary shoulder flashes denoting the 5th Assault Brigade. â Å“Those clowns have never assaulted anything more dangerous than a back-alley whore.â ?

â Å“Quiet!â ? hissed Franko. â Å“Let's not start any brawls just yet.â ? A serving wench led them to a table in back, overlooking the garish lights of Swamp-side. Two sweating helpers dragged out a plank bench for Baker and a booster seat for the boss Nasty.

Ale was ordered and served up in quick time. Two Varlets and one human occupied the next table. All three wore the pips of 5th Brigade demi-colonels and all were engaged in eating their way through a large platter of Hex-Grubs. The human methodically broke the legs off each grub, then passed the three-segment body to one of the Varlets. He then cracked the thick legs and ate the meat therein, dunking each bit in melted butter. His companions tore at the bodies, pausing only to dip them in a tasty ranch dressing.

Franko eyed the heap of Hex-Grubs. â Å“I'd enjoy some of those, but I can't stand the stale beer flavor of the bodies â â€œ even with dressing. One really has to share them with a Varlet.â ?

DanJanou kept his face away from the grub-eating spectacle. â Å“I used to like the legs myself, but then I worked in the kitchen at a restaurant in Griffin.â ? His voice fell to a whisper. â Å“Did you know that the grubs shriek and call out in Standard as you drop them into the boiling water?â ?

Lance snarled and rolled his eyes. â Å“Really? What do they say?â ? He mimicked DanJanou's voice. â Å“Save me! Don't throw me into the water! I can't swim!â ? The others snickered.

â Å“No.â ? DanJanou shook his head and spoke so low they almost didn't hear him. â Å“They said things like 'Tell my wife I love her' and 'I forgive you' â â€œ stuff like that.â ?

The ensuing silence stretched until Slim coughed and said, â Å“A Concordia scientist recently proved that Hex-Grubs exude a hallucinogen when boiled. It causes anyone nearby to hear and see all sorts of odd things.â ?

â Å“Still,â ? said Franko. â Å“A nice haunch of croc or a brace of giant water rats might be more to our taste.â ? Thus, it was settled. Roast water rat all around, save for Lance. He prevailed on the chef for a small platter of grilled newt tongues basted in lamentations.

The two Varlets munched and chewed their boiled grubs. Few humans looked their way. A Varlet at table is not an agreeable sight.

Our heroes finished off a delightful meal and ordered a round of coffee and pastries, along with stale pickle juice and a twice-baked maggot crisp for Lance. Their deserts arrived just as a dragon bashed the door open and staggered inside and swept the room with red rimmed eyes.

â Å“Blast!â ? muttered Franko. â Å“It's Padraig. And he's had a snoot-full already.â ?

â Å“A friend of yours?â ? asked Lance. Dragons were a particular interest of his. The creatures often hoard objects of interest to mages, though they usually attach unrealistic values them.

â Å“Padraig has no friends,â ? said Franko. â Å“Even other dragons avoid him. Let's hope he doesn't stay.â ?

The beast uttered something incoherent, toppled into a wall and slid to the floor. The manager must have expected something of the like, because he had three burly helpers at hand to drag the limp body back out the door. Lance laughed, if laughter can ever sound like a soul frying on the floor plates of Hell. He left the table and followed the men and their unconscious charge outside. Half a minute later, the helpers returned. Lance trailed a few steps behind.

â Å“What was that all about?â ? asked Franko, as the mage sat down.

â Å“I applied a little Oil of Clarity to your friend, Padraig.â ? Nervous laughter â â€œ except from Baker. He was busy blowing bubbles in his coffee.

A hideous scream rose up outside, climbed to toothache intensity, then sank to a bubbling gasp.

â Å“Oil of Clarity?â ? asked Slim. â Å“Do you have something against the poor dragon?â ?

â Å“I just wanted him sober â â€œ and soon. He may be useful to us.â ?

Another scream cut off all conversation. As it died away, DanJanou shook his head. â Å“How long will this go on?â ?

â Å“One more bout of screaming ought to do it,â ? said Lance. â Å“Maybe two. It's hard to tell with dragons. Depends on how much booze has to be scourged from his system.â ?

Four shrieking fits later, the mage nodded and stood up. â Å“Bring a large bucket of water and a raw steak.â ?

They found Padraig curled up, mewling like a kitten.

At his direction, Slim doused the dragon with water. The creature opened dull yellow eyes, whimpered and sat up with elaborate care, as if afraid his head might roll off. DanJanou waved the steak close to flared nostrils. Padraig's eyes began to glow and such sanity as a dragon ever possesses crept back. â Å“Where â â€œ where am I?â ?

â Å“In the military barracks at Camp St. George,â ? announced Lance. â Å“You've been drunk for three days. Yesterday you ate your drill instructor and are to be shot at dawn.â ?

The dragon snarled. â Å“I know that rat-like voice.â ? He stared at the mage with bloodshot eyes. â Å“Still in the warlock business, eh, Lance?" DanJanou handed over the steak and Padraig ate it with a single gulp. "Ale. I need some ale."

Lance shook his head. "No ale. You've had a dose of Clarity. Water only."

After downing the water remaining in Slim's bucket, Padraig handed it back and nodded toward Lance. "More, please, Captain. How did you manage to fall in with this washed-up trickster?"

"Bad luck," said Slim. "Besides, I owe him money."

"A sad state of affairs," rumbled Padraig. "Were females or booze or cards involved?"

"All three, I'm afraid."

"Enough idle chatter!" snapped Lance. "Padraig lives in the Black Fangs. I believe he may be of use to us on our journey over Eye Gouge pass."

The dragon stepped back and glanced around. "Don't say that out loud! Why, by all the gods, would you want to cross the Fangs?"

"That's our business," sniffed Lance. "I'll engage you at the usual rate. Once beyond the pass you're free to go about the business of drinking yourself into an early grave."

"No thanks, Mr. Mage. I'll just stay here in Forty Mile. I'd rather die drunk in a gutter here than go to all the work of climbing Eye Gouge just to die sober."

"Not so fast," purred Lance. He indicated two stout men standing to one side. One rattled a heavy set of manacles. "The local gendarmes have an interest in this. You smashed your way through an amazing amount of public and private property this evening. These gentlemen will guide you to the local penal facility. I believe the usual sentence is six months on the chain gang. The current project involves rebuilding a stretch of road inside Quagmire."

Padraig crouched, ready to spring at the constables. A half-dozen club wielding Varlets stepped out of the night and lined up behind the lawmen. "Leap forward, dragon," hissed the command Varlet. "You will not last long in Quagmire with bleeding sores and a pair of broken legs."

The dragon grumbled something unintelligible, then stepped back. "You win, Lance. Get rid of these vermin before I forget I'm a pacifist." The mage dismissed the constables and Varlets.

"Since when are you a pacifist?" asked Slim.

"I'm not. I just couldn't think of anything else to say."

Lance laughed his creaky, spine-shivering laugh. "The power of speech is wasted on dragons. They use it only to tell lies and order strong drink."

Baker hee-hawed and pawed the ground.

(to be continued)

jrhume · 22 Sep 2004

The Mirror of Mistress Brin

"Are you sure this will work?" asked Dorosh. "You haven't used the mirror for a long time."

"Of course it will work." Brin slid a large round mirror out from under a pile of blankets. "Needs cleaning, though. Come on -- let's take it to the kitchen."

A few minutes work with a hog-bristle brush saw the worst of the scum off the gilt frame. Brin cleaned the mirror surface and propped it at a comfortable angle on a counter top. She tossed the cleaning rag aside and flicked back a loose strand of hair. "Maybe I should put on some makeup,â ? she murmured.

D-D chuckled. "You just want to ask a few questions. No reason to be overly formal.â ?

"You know how demons are. They can get into a snit over the least thing.â ?

Nevertheless, Mistress Brin decided to go ahead without further preparation. She raised her arms and drew a deep breath. A few seconds later she sighed and lowered her arms. "I've forgotten the words!â ?

Dorosh stared at the gray, mottled surface of the mirror. "I think it starts out, 'Mirror, mirror . . ,' but I can't remember what comes next.â ?

In the end, Brin had to find her Giant Book O' Spells, which took nearly an hour. Then she had to burn a pinch of dried mouse testicle while reciting a lengthy cantrip and walking widdershins around the book ten times before she could even open it.

"My knee is killing me,â ? she grumped as they walked back to the kitchen. "I need to put a simpler spell on that book.â ?

"Magic can get to be a pain,â ? said Direful Dorosh. "Good thing you had the mouse testicle.â ?

"Yeah. I wasn't sure it would work. The stuff was a couple years past its expiration date.â ?

Brin stepped in front of the mirror once more, took a moment to compose herself, then began again. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, come ye demon to my call. Mirror, mirror, deep and gray, send demon O'Leary out to play.â ?

A distant thrumming sound rose and faded. Doors slammed. Someone muttered a filthy curse. Steps echoed. There came a scritch-scratch noise - as if an unseen claw were flipping a light switch back and forth. More low curses.

"Aw right! Aw right!â ? The mirror surface roiled in greasy reds and yellows. A vile stench filled the room. "Aw right. I'm here! I'm here!â ? The face floating in the mirror glowed a bilious green. Clumps of weedy hair hung down over black, broken teeth, red-veined eyes, and a long crooked nose. The eyes swept the kitchen. "What have ye done with the mistress?â ?

"Attend me, foul O'Leary!â ? snarled Brin. "I am thy mistress! Keep a civil tongue or I'll send thee for a long stint in the furnaces of Level Thirteen.â ?

Though the demon well knew Brin would keep her word, he couldn't resist another barb. "Have ye seen a surgeon, miss? A strange condition has ravaged thee somewhat.â ?

The Mistress of Dread slammed a fist on the counter. "Quiet, thee! Time has not done you any favors either! Thou art foul and fouler than ever before.â ?

"Really?â ? O'Leary simpered. A skeletal hand brushed back imaginary curls. "I'm pleased you noticed, mistress. I work so hard at my cadaver skills.â ? The demon touched the rotted stump of a tooth. "I'm not one of those character demons, thee well knows. I have to live the part.â ?

"Enough! I summoned thee to ask a simple recon mission. Are ye ready?â ?

"Of course, mistress. I'm yours to command.â ? O'Leary held up a gnarled claw. "Howsoever, the bonds that hold me to your plane have grown thin. Magic fails. This may be our last little tête-ÃƒÂ -tête. What do ye wish me to do?â ?

In a few terse words, Brin explained D-D's icky feelings and instructed O'Leary to search toward the Black Fangs for possible intruders - especially those of the sorcerous kind.

O'Leary regarded Direful Dorosh with interest. "Has he been off his feed? Is it p'raps a touch of the plague? Distemper? Is he dyslexic? All manner of things can cause the ickies.â ?

"On your way!â ? snapped Brin.

Still grumbling, the scabrous creature faded away. Noxious fumes boiled from the mirror.

The once-powerful couple fetched up outside. Once she could breathe regularly, Brin began planning revenge. "I'll singe his tail off!â ? she vowed. "He'll spend a century shoveling souls into the furnaces! That worthless, rotten, good for . . .â ? She broke off, coughing.

"Don't get your hopes up,â ? panted Dorosh. "You heard what he said. And you've seen that things are becoming disgustingly normal around here. The magic is almost gone! If he manages to come back and report at all I'll be surprised.â ?

The Mistress of Dread nodded. She gazed over the broken ramparts of her once-fearsome castle. "Ooooh,â ? she moaned. "I don't really mind being normal. It's just --,â ? her voice fell to a whisper, "it's just that I do so miss the occasional torture session. The blood and screams and the gibbering confessions. The stories you tell when you come home drunk from the village pale in comparison.â ?

D-D patted her shoulder. "I know, dear. I know.â ?

Brin wiped away a lone tear and touched her cheek. "That foul fiend! I haven't aged that much! Have I dear?â ?

Direful Dorosh, most feared warlock on the planet, quailed inside. He knew what was coming.

His lady twitched her house dress. "Does this outfit make me look fat?â ?

The Road South

Lance's intention to be on the road out of Forty Mile before dawn was thwarted by the sodden state of his entourage and their endless whining about headaches, loose bowels and a hundred other complaints -- all related to an excess of booze the preceding evening. Thus, it was mid-morning before the expedition passed out of the south gate and headed toward the mountains looming on the horizon.

Franko drew rein outside the gate. "I'll leave you here, lads. Much as I'd like to accompany you on this suicide -- ah, scientific mission, I must be back at the village for our Mid-Summer Barbeque and Drinking Festival."

"Is that the one where you sacrifice a virgin?" asked DanJanou.

"Not any more. Seemed such a waste of young talent, y'know. Instead we knock off a few gators and roast those. The gator heads we solemnly offer to the Gods That Be, by way of tossing them in the fire."

"What about tradition?" snarled Lance, already out of sorts owing to the late start. "Have you no respect for the practices of your elders?"

"We decided to make our own traditions," said Franko, unperturbed. "Drinking, eating and dancing around a huge bonfire are much more fun than slicing up a sacrifice."

"Bah!" The mage kicked his horse into motion. "The old Dark Gods need blood! No wonder our magic is fading. The younger generation isn't paying attention to the proper rites."

Franko rubbed his aching head. He nodded to Slim. "I'm in no condition to argue religious rituals with him. Good luck. Stop by on the way back -- if you survive."

Slim grinned. "We won't be in time for the Festival, I'm afraid."

"No matter," said Franko. "We'll make a new festival. How about, I Survived the Black Fangs Celebration and Orgy?"

"Perfect. I'll take that as a promise."

Slim and DanJanou trotted after Lance. Baker plodded along in their wake. Padraig brought up the rear. He carried a six-foot staff and bore a sheathed broadsword, a leaf-shaped shield and a pack slung over his broad back.

Lance glared at Slim as the captain reined in beside him. "A late start, but at least we're away from the temptations of Forty Mile. We'll make better time from now on."

"Maybe. The Black Fangs can be full of other surprises." Slim eyed the distant mountains with obvious concern. "For instance, some of Franko's lads saw a dozen 5th Brigade troopers ride out this morning, headed south, toward the mountains."

The mage shrugged. "They patrol to the foothills and probably beyond."

"That may be. But we should keep our eyes open. The 5th is known for being a gaggle of thieves and bushwhackers. They'd rob and kill us on a whim or just to steal our gear. Or they could be in the pay of someone who wants us dead."

Lance rode in silence for a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Aye. You and I together have collected a host of enemies in our time and they're not all dead. We'd best be alert."

"I'll tell the lads to spread out. Can you draw on any powers to detect danger?"

"Some. Not many." Lance growled in his throat. "Only one, in fact. A near-worthless demon."

"Well, don't call on such help until we get into the mountains. I don't think they'll try anything here on the plain. Too open. Too many little farms and the like. We'll need to be most cautious in the valleys ahead, where they have better cover and we have less room to maneuver."

"As you say," agreed Lance. "My demon has to be watched carefully. These open plains would be an invitation for desertion." He made a horrid laughing sound, not unlike a goblin's death rattle. "Old Fusilier is a troublemaker and a scamp, but he's all I have left."

"Fusilier, eh? An odd name. But, then I suppose most demons have odd names."

"Not at all. Demonic surnames tend to run in the Smith and Jones territory more than you might imagine. Those tend to be lawyers and accountants, though, and not the openly evil types one encounters within a pentacle."

"I'm not surprised," admitted Slim. He glanced back at the others. "I'll send DanJanou out to scout ahead. He and I can do that better than Baker or the dragon."

"Good idea. Padraig will be best at rear guard anyway. I know for a fact that field rations give him extraordinarily bad gas."

####

Spread out in open formation and with DanJanou or Slim always out ahead, Padraig found himself with a lot of quiet time. Not that any of the others were overly loquacious anyway. Baker kept to himself, responding to questions with monosyllables or stony silence. Padraig had known only one other Monstro and that one had never uttered a word in the six months they shared a cell.

DanJanou spent most of his time mumbling about the gods-knew-what. Grandiose plans spilled from his lips at every rest stop. Most of these involved turning away from their present object and traveling endless distances to steal a fabulous gem, loot caravans or rescue the sure-to-be grateful occupants of a seraglio. No one paid him any heed.

Slim was known to Padraig from several previous encounters, both in jail and in various Imperial military units. They had friends in common -- mostly dead -- and a good store of adventures to relate, though each avoided tale telling. It's tough to tell rousing stories in the presence of one who may well remember the situation differently.

Lance stayed up front, which suited Padraig just fine. He and the wizard had a rocky relationship going back a good many years. The dragon tried not to dwell on the situations where Lance had left him holding the bag, but it was difficult. Most of the incidents involved long treks across burning deserts, icy wastes or otherwise dangerous conditions, ending with desperate hand-to-hand combat in swamps, sewer drains or howling sandstorms. The dragon shook off memories of torch-bearing mobs and dank jail cells. The past was the past. Surely Lance was no longer a feckless wastrel, intent only on his own profit.

Padraig's stomach knotted and churned with fear. Maybe Lance HADN'T changed. What if he still sought only to enrich himself at the expense of others? The way ahead would be dangerous. Padraig had lived in the Black Fangs for many years, when he wasn't in prison elsewhere. He trembled in the grip of a gaunt wave of terror.

A long blast ripped the evening air. Padraig sighed. Baker looked back, but said nothing. Up ahead, DanJanou giggled. The dragon walked along, content. It wasn't fear, it was the rations.

(tbc)

jrhume · 23 Sep 2004

Lost and Found

They spent the first night in an empty hay shed. Lance wanted to continue through the early hours of darkness, but Slim vetoed the idea. He reminded the mage of the 5th Brigade troopers whose tracks they had followed all afternoon. "Some of 'em are Varlets. They can see better in the dark than we can. I'd rather meet 'em in daylight."

Everyone bedded down inside the shed, except for Padraig. He was directed to a scrub oak, downwind of the others. When his turn for guard duty came around, the dragon conscientiously patrolled all around the shed, regardless of his companion's cries of alarm. The combination of field rations and dragon digestive system was close to lethal.

The next morning they entered the foothills and began a steady climb toward the summit of Eye Gouge Pass. The road appeared to have seen little recent use. Weeds encroached on both sides, reducing it to a single, fairly wide path. Their route kept to the valleys, winding through gaps between the hills. Scattered pine trees grew on the high ground. A mixed forest -- pine, alder and cottonwood -- filled the valleys. It was good country for an ambush.

At their first rest stop, Lance constructed a field expedient pentacle and summoned Fusilier, his sole remaining resource from the Underworld. The summoning took longer than expected and resulted in a less than satisfying Pop!, along with a choking cloud of brown smoke. Lance gagged and stumbled back, almost losing the demon back to his subterranean haunts. But, just as the cackling creature began to disappear, the mage rallied. Arms raised, he shouted the words of binding: "Ventral foot!" The demon swore a string of black oaths and stood defeated.

"What is your will, master Lance?"

"Don't 'master' me, you black-hearted rogue! You fought me all the way!"

"Of course. It's in my job description. You wouldn't have me scamp my duties, would you?"

"Fusilier, one of these -- ." Lance subsided into inarticulate muttering.

The demon grinned up at Slim. "Howdy, Captain. Got a cigar?"

Slim handed over one of his cheap Hot Southern Island knock-offs. He didn't like Fusilier, but he enjoyed seeing Lance get his shorts in a knot. Besides, the demon had a certain aura about him -- Slim figured it had to do with the open sores and vile hygienic practices.

Fusilier flicked a flame on his bare thumb and lit the cigar. He drew deeply and exhaled in a fit of coughing. "That's horrible!" he squawked.

"Too bad," said Slim. "I saved it especially for you. Give it back, if it don't suit."

"No -- no." Fusilier took another drag. "It's not so bad after a puff or two."

The demon appeared to have been stamped from the same mold as every other one Slim had run across. Fusilier had the usual sunken forehead, long bent nose, rotten stubs for teeth, scalp covered -- to all appearances -- by lank seaweed and barnacles, along with a gross round body encased in greasy rags. He had spindly arms, claw-like hands, pipe stem legs and narrow feet with a single great toe. His feet were bare and scorched from long hours shoveling souls on the floor plates of Hell. Coarse black hair grew out of various moles and warts on every visible surface of his body. Demons sported various skin colors -- all mildly nauseating. Fusilier's seemed to be a virulent yellow, wherever it was visible through layers of dirt, bruises and sores.

The best thing about demons, Slim decided, was that it looked like they weren't going to be appearing on the local scene much longer. He handed over another cigar. "Let me know when these are gone. I have more." The cigars smelled marginally better than Fusilier.

"Forget the cigars," growled Lance. "I want him out front, scouting." With a few terse words, several oaths and a couple of kicks, the mage briefed Fusilier on his mission.

"Where are you lot headed?" asked Fusilier. He didn't seem to mind the rough treatment.

"Over Eye Gouge pass," said Slim. "And across the Desert of No Return."

The demon blew a puff of smoke in Lance's direction. "You've taken a wrong turn, then. Unless you planned a side trip through Rancor and Irony, the twin cities of the Sarcastic Dynasty."

A few minutes sketching in the dirt convinced Slim and Lance that they had, indeed, taken the wrong turning just outside the foothills, where the road forked.

"I could have sworn the east road goes to a mine and a dead end," said Lance.

"It's dead this way," sneered Fusilier. "Dead cities. A dead civilization. But I daresay the road goes on south and rejoins the main route some ways along. At least it used to."

"I'm out of my reckoning," said Slim. He stared southward, where the road vanished over the shoulder of a hill. "And I've never heard anything good about the Sarcastic Dynasty."

Lance made an impatient gesture. "It's long dead. As Fusilier says. Hundreds of years gone. I have my bearings now, I think. This track has deteriorated since I last saw it, but it does go on south and rejoin the main road."

"The main road ain't much more than a cow path," snorted DanJanou. "Are you sure there's still a way across Eye Gouge?"

"No, I'm not sure," admitted Lance. The brief burst of honesty surprised even him. Flustered, he covered his embarrassment by barking a string of useless orders. After a flurry of disjointed activity, the group got under way once more, with Fusilier roaming out front as scout. He flew back and forth, seated as if in an easy chair, trailing cigar smoke. Every hour or so he looped around, checking their back trail. Slim was still concerned about 5th Brigade bushwhackers.

DanJanou, no longer needed for scouting duties, fell back and walked with Baker for a few miles. Eventually, he tired of holding up both ends of the conversation and drifted back to where the dragon plodded along at drag.

"Get anything out of the Monstro?" asked Padraig.

"Not above two grunts. I'm not sure he knows more than ten or fifteen words."

"Either that, or he has nothing to say. There's others that could profit from that example."

DanJanou blushed and fell silent â â€œ for all of twenty seconds. "There are fewer trees."

"I noticed," said Padraig. He let the subject drop and walked along, keeping a silent step count.

Nineteen steps later, DanJanou burst out with: "Any idea why?"

"Maybe

Seventeen steps. "Grass has changed to a sort of gray green, too."

"Yep."

Fifteen steps. "Is it a blight of some sort."

"No."

Eleven steps. "Blast it, Padraig! What's with the trees and stuff?"

"Sarcasm."

That was enough for DanJanou. Snarling, he spurred forward and pulled up by Slim.

"Captain, what's the problem with the trees? And the grass has turned gray."

"Sarcasm."

"It's true," explained Slim, when DanJanou quit weeping. "The Sarcastic Dynasty had a bad reputation for oblique insult one-upmanship. Strangers were not exempt. If you couldn't hold your own you couldn't conduct business there."

"Let me get this straight," said DanJanou, wiping away tears of frustration. "It sounds like the Dynasty raised sarcasm to an art form."

"Something like that. Lance probably knows a lot about the place. Ask him when he's got a snoot full. He's not a bad sort when he's drunk."

"So what happened to this dynasty?"

"I don't understand it myself. But I heard that the citizens got to where they never spoke at all except in phrases heavy with sarcasm and irony. Drained the life right out of 'em." Slim noted DanJanou's incredulous look. "I'm just telling you what I heard, lad. Something sucked all the life out of the twin cities and the surrounding area. Even the soil has turned gray."

It was true. Slate colored dust kicked up underfoot. The grass and brush on either side lay pale and lifeless. Trees near the road seemed half alive at best.

"How far are the cities?" asked DanJanou.

Slim shrugged. Lance glared over his shoulder. "Not above two miles. And this waste, this horrible waste only gets worse."

"I'm surprised you feel that way," said DanJanou. "Destroying all these trees and such. Not to mention the people. It's a crime, for sure."

"People?" sneered Lance. "Plants? I'm talking about the sheer waste of magical energy! Just look at all the magic used up by those fools!"

(tbc)

jrhume · 23 Sep 2004

King's Crypt

They began to see buildings. Some were massive and still recognizable as human habitations. Most were small, individual structures long since reduced to rubble by time and weather. A fitful wind scoured the ruins and the sterile landscape. Such trees as still stood upright were reduced to skeletal remains. An occasional moan of wind mingled with the crunch of shod hooves and the heavy scritch-scritch of Padraig's claws. No other sound could be heard, save for DanJanou's constant, reedy-voiced inquiries: "Are we there yet?"

The road surface changed from packed dirt to broken paving stones to the worn concrete of a once proud boulevard. A grove of dead alders lined either side of the street -- black and twisted sentinels. Their aspect was so grim it even DanJanou fell silent. Death and ruin pressed in from all sides, as if they marched toward Hell itself.

Slim drew his horse to one side and halted the column. "Lance," he murmured. "Come up."

The mage rode forward and drew rein a short way in front of Slim. "It's the main crossroads." He pointed to the left. "That way is Rancor. Irony lies to the right. Our way is straight ahead. This road rejoins the main route some thirty miles south."

DanJanou joined them in the intersection. "What's that big round-topped building off to the left? It looks like a mausoleum."

"An astute observation," said Lance. "That is the tomb of the Querulous, first king of the Sarcastic Dynasty."

DanJanou blushed just a little. No one had ever complimented him is such a way before. He resolved to formulate more 'astute observations' â â€œ whatever those might be.

Slim started forward. "Let's go. I'd like to be clear of this place before nightfall."

DanJanou began to pout. "I wanna go see the tomb."

Lance nodded in agreement. "When I was last here, the sorcerous wards were still in place. We might be able to get inside now â â€œ now that the magic has drained away." Undisguised lust glowed in his eyes. Few people came this way. The gods only knew what might be found in the sharp-tongued old king's tomb.

"We need to move on," insisted Slim. For the first time he wondered if their taking the wrong road had really been an accident. Lance and DanJanou paid no attention to him, but trotted off toward the tomb. Baker wandered over to an empty plinth and sat down. The statue that had once occupied the stone block lay in the street, shattered beyond recognition.

Padraig stopped beside Slim. "I'm not going into any tomb. They give me the willies."

"Stay here with Baker," said Slim. "I better go. The gods know what those two will get into."

Fusilier flew in from the north, executed a fancy loop and thumped down. "Riders coming up behind us, Captain. Maybe five or six miles back."

"Well, who are they? Can't you tell?"

"Lance has me leashed to a two mile radius, Captain." The demon assumed a sulky look. "It's almost as if he don't trust me."

Slim swore in several languages. "Keep a sharp watch," he said, when calm enough to speak. "Padraig and Baker will stay here. Report to Padraig when they get closer." He slammed a fist on his saddle horn. "I'll bet it's those bastards from the 5th Brigade."

"Aye, Captain!" Fusilier snapped off a caricature of a salute and zoomed off.

Padraig chuckled. "Never rains but it pours, eh, Slim? Go round up our strays and bring them back. Me and the Monstro will stay here." He brandished his weighted walking stick. "I'll split a few skulls and Baker can do some carving. We'll have a good time."

"Hopefully, I'll be back before that happens," said Slim. "Take care." He galloped away.

Padraig removed his pack and leaned it against Baker's stone block. He pulled his sword around to where it was within easy reach and unlimbered his shield. His technique was to start with the staff and use the sword when things got serious.

The Monstro readied his own shield and sword. He tossed his pack alongside Padraig's and sat back down. "Why do you speak to them?"

The dragon was so startled he stepped back a pace. Baker hadn't said more than two words to him so far. In fact, he couldn't recall the Monstro addressing him at all. "Speak to who?"

"Them. The Naturals. They're all so stupid. You shouldn't talk to them."

"The humans? Stupid?" Padraig was still shocked to hear a Monstro running off at the mouth.

"All of them. They can't do linear equations in their heads. Most think a periodic table is something to eat off of at stated intervals. Stupid."

"Um â â€œ I mean, it's true that some of them are pretty thick." Padraig tried to recall where he'd heard of a periodic table. Maybe at a fancy restaurant somewhere. "Slim's no dummy. Neither is Lance â â€œ though he has the morals of a snake. And DanJanou â â€œ well, you may have him pegged."

"Fools! Every one. They don't even know their proper Lord and Master."

"Which lord and master would that be?" Padraig sidled back from the drooling Monstro.

"ME!" Baker sprang up and stood on the plinth. "I AM THE ONE TRUE LEADER!" He raised his huge sword aloft and poised there, a heroic, if overly large, swag-bellied figure.

Padraig decided it would be an error to laugh. "Righto, boss." He retrieved his gear and moved to the opposite side of the intersection. "I'll take up a defensive position over here."

The One True Leader squinted into the gray haze and ignored the dragon. Twisted creatures, like dragons and Varlets had no place in the True Democratic Half-Twisted Caucus. When he came to power such beasts would be allowed to work the mines. Only the Half-Twisted and the Anointed of Humanity were capable of leading Stupid Herds into the future. Baker lowered his sword and leaned on it in for a moment in a Tired, but Heroic way. Then the One True Leader whined and rubbed at his aching arm.

####

Slim dismounted before the crumbling entrance to the tomb and tethered his horse beside Lance's and DanJanou's. He drew his sword and dashed up a flight of stone steps.

Massive bronze doors filled a doorway surrounded by cracked and weathered stone blocks. One door hung half ajar, pushed open by the two fools. Slim stepped inside. He was surprised to find a vast open space. The dome soared up at least a hundred feet, supported by thick, curved beams. Faint light filtered in through openings spaced around the apex of the dome. The air inside was stale, hard to breathe and thick with gloom. If not for the unknown riders coming up their back trail, Slim would not have gone another foot into the tomb. Muttering futile curses, he gripped his sword and started across the floor. He followed a pair of foot prints toward a blocky, indistinct shape rising in the center of the chamber.

The prints wandered around vague lumps littering the floor. Seats, he thought. Wooden seats with stone supports â â€œ supports covered now with wood dust and rotting fragments. Something squeaked and skittered away. Slim stood swaying, certain his heart had burst. But no, it thudded against his ribs and subsided into frightened pumping. He forced his legs to move.

Red flame leapt up, driving back the shadows. Lance stood atop a raised stone dais, torch in hand. As Slim hurried forward, DanJanou climbed up to stand next to the mage.

"Lance," called Slim. He pitched his voice low, fearful of what might lurk in the crypt. A single echo came back, distorted and deadened.

"Come up," said Lance. He spoke in eager tones. "We've found the old king." His words came back from the dome in a cacophony of squeaks.

Slim drew a shaky breath and made his way to the dais. Beyond his two companions stood a single massive throne. The stone platform was square and the throne faced the entrance they had used to enter the dome. A strange, wizened figure sat on it, slumped forward as if in sleep.

"What king?" asked Slim. He glanced around. Nothing moved in the flickering torch light.

"The founding king of Sarcasm," replied Lance. "Querulous the First."

"Doesn't look like much," said DanJanou. "No gold rings, no crown, nothing."

Lance raised the torch higher. "Thieves have been at his corpse. At everything." He turned in a circle. "Whatever was here has long since been carried off."

Slim sheathed his sword. "Let's get out of here! There are riders approaching!"

"Riders?" Lance glanced down at Slim. "5th Brigade brigands?"

"More than likely. Come on! There's nothing here."

"Aye." Lance stepped close to the throne. He nudged the dried remains of King Querulous. "I'd hoped to find something magical â â€œ a ring or crown. The protective wards must have died away years ago. Thieves have already stripped the place." With a rustling noise, the grinning, desiccated skull rolled forward, struck the seat and bounced across the dais, shedding bits and pieces as it went.

DanJanou emitted a girly scream and staggered to one side. Lance laughed. "It's dead. There's no harm in it." He pushed the torso. It slumped forward with a sad, grating sound, but didn't fall to the floor. "See," said the mage. "Just bone and a few scraps of tissue."

Slim turned to go. DanJanou, emboldened by the sad state of the corpse, stepped closer to the throne. "Hey, look at this." He pulled a dagger from between two ribs. "Looks like old Q Boy didn't die of natural causes."

"Bring the dagger," said Lance. "I'll look at it outside." He jumped to the floor. DanJanou followed.

"WHO DARES VIOLATE MY TOMB!" The three men staggered and went to their knees.

"WHO DARES VIOLATE MY TOMB!"

"Gods Below!" snarled Lance. "It's in the dome! The magic is in the dome!"

"Out!" cried Slim. "Get out!"

"WHO DARES VIOLATE MY TOMB!" Cracks opened high in the dome. Pieces of masonry rained down. The men dashed for the door, arms held high, as if to ward off hailstones.

DanJanou sprinted outside, followed by Slim. Lance stumbled and fell in the opening. Slim skidded to a stop, ran back and dragged the wizard clear just as the main part of the dome fell in. The huge doors rang under the battering of stone blocks. Down the steps flew the three men. They tore the frightened horses loose, scrambled aboard and galloped away just as the great bronze doors swayed outward and crashed down. A great sad sound rolled up into the sky, as if from a giant bell.

Lance dragged his mount to a halt a few hundred yards from the ruined dome. "The dagger!" he cried. "Let me see that dagger!" DanJanou pulled up next to him and handed it over. The mage examined it avidly, then cursed and flung it aside. "It's useless! Drained!" He glanced back at the vast, rising cloud of dust. "It was but a trigger. Pulling it out of the corpse activated a spell that destroyed the crypt." He cursed and kicked his horse into motion.

DanJanou stepped down and retrieved the dagger. "It has a good blade." He showed it to Slim.

"Keep it," said the Captain. "Whatever magic was in it is gone now."

"Why is Lance so upset?"

Slim shrugged. "I suppose he could have drained off the magic and used it â â€œ had he noticed what it was." He grinned at DanJanou's crestfallen look. "Not your fault. No way either of us could have known."

"Aye. He's the wizard." DanJanou swung into the saddle. "What about these strange riders?"

"I don't know. Let's get back to the crossroads and see how our companions fare. Whoever the riders are, they haven't had time to come up yet."

"Good," muttered DanJanou. "We can run away â â€œ avoid a fight." He glanced at Slim. "I suppose you think me a rank sort of coward?"

"Not in the least, lad. In military circles we call it a strategic withdrawal."

DanJanou managed to laugh. "Sounds vaguely sexual." He shifted in his saddle. "Is there a term for pissing one's pants? Somewhere during that trot out of the tomb, I wet myself."

"No special name that I know of. It's bad form to discuss it, but being embarrassed about warm piss dripping down your leg means only one thing."

"One thing? What's that?"

"It means you're still alive."

(tbc)

jrhume · 23 Sep 2004

Stub-Toe Pass

Slim pushed them hard. As they left the crossroads, Fusilier reported a half-dozen riders, human and Varlet, about two miles to the north. He was able to identify them as 5th Brigade troopers. The pursuers lost ground throughout the afternoon.

Few words were spoken. Lance maintained a sullen pout, speaking only when spoken to and then in the crudest of terms. Baker walked in silence. He said nothing of his status as the One True Leader. Padraig kept his distance behind the Monstro and readied himself for headlong flight if Baker were to go mad again. Even DanJanou rode along without speaking. His damp trousers were chafing.

Fusilier cruised by at regular intervals, reporting as pursuit lagged. "I believe they've worn their horses to a frazzle," he told Slim. "Poor nags. All that delicious horseflesh."

"Keep an eye on them," snarled Lance. He was sick of the demon's cheeriness. "Stub Toe pass is just ahead. Once clear of that it's only a mile or so down to the main road."

"I wonder why they're pressing us?" asked Slim. "It makes no sense."

Lance shook his head, but said nothing further. Slim dropped all the way back to Padraig, at drag. "Fusilier says the troopers are about four miles back. They're horses are fagged out. But there's only six of them. The patrol that left Forty Mile before us was at least a dozen strong. I wonder what happened to the others?"

"Maybe Dire Bears ate 'em."

"Dire Bears? This far south?"

"Could be." Padraig flashed a glittering array of teeth. "You thinking those bushwhackers might be in front of us."

"It's a stretch, I know. It would have been a damn hard ride. What do you think?"

"You got me, Captain. I've been busy watching our Monstro." He told Slim what had happened at the crossroads while he and Baker were there alone.

"Thanks," said Slim. "One more thing to worry about. What do we do if he has another episode? We can't tie him up and carry him."

"I planned on deserting at the first sign of madness," said Padraig. "There aren't enough of us to handle a berserk Monstro."

"True." Slim rode along in silence for a few minutes. "I'll try to figure something out."

Baker chose that moment to take his short, final drop into insanity. It may have been his conversation with Padraig that sparked the episode or it could have been some sort of flashover from the spell that destroyed the crypt of King Querulous. The cause might even be traced to lingering effects from their last meal at Forty Mile. Speculation is pointless.

Suffice it to say that Baker, the Monstro, succumbed to the fantasy common to conspiracy and political theorists everywhere -- the belief that all problems have simple answers and that one only has to slaughter all but the True Believers to obtain Nirvana. Normal people know Nirvana has gone out of business.

Luckily, Baker's illness manifested itself in delusions of grandeur rather than effusions of blood. He stopped and waited for Padraig and Slim to approach. "I'm going into the wilderness," he intoned. "Only those ready to follow the One True Leader may accompany me."

"I can't leave just now," said Slim, hedging his answer in the interest of personal safety.

"Wilderness is hard on my claws," said Padraig. "I'm always getting tangled in something."

"Very well." Baker nodded wisely. He raised one hand in salute. "I go."

DanJanou and Lance halted at the base of the first switchback leading up to Stub Toe pass. The Monstro ambled into the woods and vanished, though they could hear him crashing through underbrush for some time.

"Let's go," said Slim. "The gods know what he'll be like after bashing into a few trees."

Halfway up the climb to the crest of Stub Toe, Slim halted the group. "Listen," he said.

The words were faint but clear. "I am the One True Leader." A strange, high-pitched howling swelled and died away.

"Dire bears," said Padraig.

"Dire bears," agreed Lance. "Baker found a willing audience."

####

Slim stopped again at the last switchback. Above him, the road sloped to a sharp right turn through a notch cut into the top of the hill. The hill was crowned with a few pine trees and clumps of brush.

Lance rode forward. "See something?"

"No. But I've got a bad feeling. There's only six of those clowns behind us. I keep wondering where the others are. Can you get Fusilier back?"

"Not hardly. We're lucky he's cooperating at all." The mage eyed the top of the hill. "He's been checking ahead as well â â€œ but only for a short distance. I didn't think about the other brigands."

"I did. I should have mentioned it sooner." Slim swung off his horse. He waved DanJanou and Padraig forward. "I'm going right up the slope above the road. I'll take DanJanou. Padraig can take point. You follow him and get your crossbow ready."

Padraig slung his pack on Slim's horse and readied his equipment. DanJanou and Slim pulled on their helmets, thrust arms through shield straps and drew sword. At a nod from Padraig they all stepped off, Lance still in the saddle, trailing the dragon.

In response to a hand signal from Slim, DanJanou angled to the right as they moved upslope. It was an easy climb and the air cool, yet his limbs shook as if with ague and sweat stung his eyes. "I hope there's no one there," he whispered. "I hope there's no one there."

Padraig reached the notch and hesitated, examining the brush above the cut. Nothing moved. His heart hammered and he was sure Lance would notice his shaking. If it got any worse his scales would be clacking. He drew a deep breath, hefted his staff and moved forward.

The Varlets were concealed in the brush to Padraig's right. Their ambush position was perfect, if the ambushees were to wander through the notch head down and all bunched up. Two things bollixed their plan. One, their commander, an ensign fresh from the crèche, raised up in order to better see into the cut. Lance slammed a quarrel straight into his multi-faceted left eye. In the ensuing confusion, Slim and DanJanou struck the other three Varlets and two humans as they stood up to fire arrows at Padraig and the mage.

Slim slashed one human across the back of the neck and smashed a Varlet with his shield, knocking him over the edge of the cut. DanJanou stabbed a Varlet through the rear carapace. His sword stuck tight and the struggling creature dragged them both over the edge.

Padraig pulped the skull of the first Varlet that came rolling down the bank. DanJanou and another of the Twisted creatures tumbled down together. The dragon finished that Varlet with one vicious stroke, then stepped on DanJanou as he sprinted up the embankment.

Lance levered another quarrel into position and fired at the second human. The bolt struck the man in the upper left arm, knocking him down. The dragon leaped into the fray and dropped one Varlet by crushing in his front carapace. Slim split the skull of the remaining Varlet. The whole fight lasted no more than twenty seconds.

The dragon examined their fallen foes. He casually bashed the brains out of the moaning human trooper.

"Hey!" exclaimed Slim. "That one was wounded!"

"Not anymore," said Padraig. He flipped the now-dead man over. "Just be glad I've grown used to civilized ways. Not too many years ago I'd have eaten the carcass."

"Are you two all right?" called Lance.

Slim stepped to where the mage could see him. "We're fine. We had one wounded trooper. Padraig just brained him."

The mage shrugged and put his crossbow away. "No matter. We've no time for a torture session anyway."

"See?" said Padraig. "It's all a matter of perspective."

"Right." Slim wiped his blade on a dead Varlet. "Perspective."

"Check for incriminating documents, money belts, pieces of eight and detective novels."

The Captain knelt to examine the pack of the man he'd killed. "Why detective novels?"

"No reason. I just like them. The first one I ever read came from a dead man's pack."

Lance yelled from the far end of the notch. "Their horses are here!"

"Ah," sighed Padraig, rifling a Varlet's pouch. "Extra horses. A decent dinner for Fusilier and I."

DanJanou staggered up from the road and stood gasping.

Slim clapped him on the back. "What's wrong, lad? Get clouted by one of these vermin?"

"No," puffed DanJanou. "Our own blasted dragon stepped on me!"

"Sorry," said Padraig. He didn't look very contrite, but it's hard to tell with dragons. They'd be formidable poker players if the cards didn't reflect in their eyes.

"Come on!" shouted Lance. "Let's get a move on."

"He's right," sighed Slim. "That other bunch isn't far behind."

"Let's drag these down and pile them in the road," suggested Padraig. "The others might decide to head home instead of following further."

Slim was doubtful. "I wouldn't count on that. Varlets are pretty bloody minded."

"You mean they won't give up?" asked DanJanou. "Not even with half their number dead?"

Padraig laughed. "Varlets don't know when to quit."

"Well, let's get the hell out of here!" cried DanJanou.

"Help me carry these down," said Padraig. "We'll arrange the bodies in funny positions."

Eye Gouge Pass

Our heroes had no trouble on the descent from Stub Toe to the main road. From there the land rose steadily and the vegetation changed to a few wind blown trees, low brush and scattered clumps of yellow-green grass. They rode between barren, jagged-top ridges. Heaps of broken rock lay along the ridges.

Fusilier kept a close eye on the remaining brigands. Lance had a short, vicious talk with him about the duties of a scout after the skirmish at the top of Stub Toe. As they settled into camp that evening, he reported. "Your friends have given up the pursuit. That ensign you killed must have been the patrol leader. They argued for some time, but finally decided to return to Forty Mile." He flashed a stump-toothed grin. "Blighters tossed the bodies off the road and left."

"Nice guys," said Slim. "I figured they might at least bury their buddies."

"Varlets don't have friends," said Padraig. "They sneer at their fellow troopers, if human, and see themselves as competing with other Varlets for drone privileges."

DanJanou glanced at the others. "Drone privileges? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Favored drones get to mate with the crèche queen," said Lance. "I don't think any of you are interested in the details, but I can tell you process involves dismemberment."

"Ha-ha." DanJanou hunched over his coffee. "I'll pass on the gory details, thanks. Seeing Padraig and Fusilier polish off a whole raw haunch of horse was bad enough."

"Somehow," said Slim, "I never envisioned DanJanou, criminal extraordinary, as being such a sensitive lout." The greatest safe cracker in the Three Cities elected to keep silent.

"If I recall correctly," said Padraig, "we're only a short march from the crest of Eye Gouge."

Lance swept a spot of dirt clean and drew out a rough map. "It's less than a day's walk from here to the top of the pass. By noon tomorrow we should be at Bitter Spring. After that there's no more drinkable water until we reach the oasis at Last Chance. From the top of Eye Gouge it's a good two-day hike to Last Chance.

DanJanou tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. "I don't like the sounds of these places. I suppose the water at Bitter Spring tastes like one of Padraig's cigars smells?"

Padraig tapped some ash in DanJanou's direction. "What's wrong with my cigars? Would you rather put up with Fusilier's stench?"

"Fusilier we can send away," muttered DanJanou.

"Bitter Spring has good water," explained Lance. "I don't know why it's called that. The reason is lost in antiquity."

"Lost in antiquity!" Fusilier cackled. "You wizards -- I know why it's called Bitter Spring."

"Be my guest," snarled Lance. "Enlighten us, o' savant of the Greater Gulfs." Mages really, really do not like being upstaged by nasty old demons.

"Can't," said Fusilier. "It's against the Edict."

"Oh, for . . ." Lance spewed a selection of black curses and stomped out of camp.

Slim sat chuckling. "What edict is this, Fusilier?"

"There isn't any. And I don't have a clue as to why the place is called Bitter Spring. I just like to pull his chain now and again. I am a demon, you know."

(tbc)

jrhume · 24 Sep 2004

Back at Castle Dread

Mistress Brin was more than a little peeved. "Mirror - mirror, bring that lying O'Leary back TODAY!" The mirror stood mute and blank. Brin snarled wordlessly for some time. Direful Dorosh sat on a nearby stool and maintained a polite silence.

"He could have WALKED to the mountains and back by now!" raved Brin.

"Um . . ." D-D hesitated, then plunged on. "It's a two-day ride to the top of Eye Gouge pass, dear. He couldn't really have walked there and back by now, eh?" Her basilisk glare swept in his direction. He hurried on: "But, regardless of his mode of transport, he should have been back by now."

"O'Leary SHOULD have been able to slide through the magical ether . . ." Her face fell. "You don't suppose the ether has deteriorated so much it's unusable, do you?"

Dorosh shook his head. "I don't know, eh? Things are falling apart. It could be that bad."

Brin stared at him. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Ending sentences with that dumb 'eh' sound. What gives?"

Dorosh's face paled. "I hadn't noticed. What could it mean?"

"When it happened the other day I checked my handbook, 'Plague, Pestilence and Piddling Diseases of Husbands and Other Livestock.' According to the book, you're turning Canadian."

The most feared warlock in the known world squeaked like a stomped mouse. "Not that!"

"Easy now, dearie. It could be something else. How do you feel?"

"Well - I don't feel any different. Should I be on the lookout for anything in particular?"

"There were other symptoms that appear as the disease progresses. Are you craving beer?"

"Sure. But that's nothing new. An ice cold Molson's would go good . . ." Dorosh's voice trailed off. "I've never drank Molson's in my life."

"Okay, that's still not definitive. How do you feel about socialized medicine?"

"It's an imperative for a civilized society." His eyes had a haunted look. "Uh - oh."

Before Brin could say anything further, the mirror made a sucking sound, like a toilet backing up. Bilious green swirls filled the glass. O'Leary's strange, ugly face swam into view. "I'm back."

The two mages stared slack-jawed. Brin recovered first. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry, milady. The ethereal planes are melting away, like ice sheets in spring. I spent most of my time on laborious detours. Hell is going to Hell in a hand-basket."

"What news do ye have of possible dangers?"

"I have seen many things - several of interest." The demon rammed one gnarled finger up his left nostril and rooted around. Whatever he pulled out wiggled and emitted a tiny scream as he flicked it away. "Let's see - where was I? Ah, yes! Magic fails even faster now. The spell holding up old king Querulous' tomb has been expended."

"Blast!" exclaimed D-D. "I had hopes of using that bit of force. Who drained it off, eh?"

"T'was not drained, so to speak, milord. The old crypt is a ruin, a heap of stones."

Brin nodded. "Everything is slipping away. What else have ye seen?"

"An oddly assorted party of malcontents heading this way." O'Leary scratched at the weedy growth on his misshapen skull. "Three humans, including a mage, name of Lance. I know him of old. One dragon. And one demon, named Fusilier, a lowly mobile scrub - nothing like the quality one finds in your average mirror demon."

"Where are these interlopers, eh?" asked Dorosh.

"I spotted them this side of Bitter Spring, near the top of the pass. That was two days gone. By now they ought to be nearing Last Chance, unless the desert has claimed the lot."

Brin sighed. "Another day and they'll be here. What could they be after?"

"The Steel Trident, of course," said Dorosh. "There's nothing else, eh?"

O'Leary peered at the has-been mage. "What's ailing old D-D, milady? He sounds Canadian."

"Never mind that!" Brin touched the mirror. "Go back to your proper place, demon."

"Aye, lady. But this is the last of it. The lower levels are rotting away. I fear this trip will be no more than a long fall to where I left my shovel, in the Lowest Level, Furnace Room Three."

With that, the demon faded away. As the last moldy green light faded, the mirror shattered.

"It really is over," mourned Brin. "I'll never see old O'Leary again."

"Well, I for one won't miss him," said Dorosh. "Every time you conjured him up, I'd have a sick stomach for three days, eh?" He wandered over to the icebox and peered inside. "A Molson's would go very well about now."

"Oh, Dorosh. I think you really are turning Canadian. What will we do?"

"We'll cope, dear. It's not as if we were becoming American - or French, eh?"

Brin patted his knee. "Canadians have to learn to speak French, dear."

"Noooooooooooo!"

Showdown at Castle Dread

Slim swung down, stretched and waved the others forward. They gathered on the crest of a low hill. A small valley opened out below. Goats grazed on the flats surrounding a massive, broken down structure. "Doesn't look like much, does it?"

"It's a wreck!" exclaimed DanJanou. "That can't be Castle Dread."

"The place has seen better days," admitted Lance. "But the walls and buttresses owed much of their strength to spells laid down during construction. Now that magic is fading -- well . . ."

"But is the Trident you seek still here? And is it of any use?" asked DanJanou.

"I believe it is. Fusilier and I both sense the presence of magic -- a concentrated flux such as I haven't seen for a hundred years or more. I'll know more when I see it. Let's go."

"Wait a minute," said Slim. "What are you going to do with this Trident thingmie?"

Padraig snorted. "Fine time to be asking that, Captain!"

Slim nodded and touched his forehead. "The question just popped into my head. Like a mind fog had lifted. But it does seem like something I should have asked long ago."

"The magic is draining away!" cried DanJanou. "I'll bet our old pal Lance has had spells on us all this time!" He blinked owlishly. "Although -- my mind don't seem any different."

"Some people are just naturally in a fog!" snapped Lance. He leaped on his horse and galloped down the hill toward the ruins of Castle Dread.

"Come on!" shouted DanJanou. "Don't let him get away!" He and Slim mounted their horses -- and promptly fell off. Their saddle girths had been cut. Padraig sprinted past, hot on the heels of the fleeing mage.

Slim got up and brushed at the dirt clinging to his clothes. "Blast! Lance couldn't have done that!" He looked around.

Fusilier sat on a nearby boulder, cleaning his claws with a pocket knife. "Sorry, Captain. Lance threatened to put in a good word to my supervisor. I'd a been busted back to neophyte and put to shoveling magma." He put the knife away and gave a cheery wave. "So long, lads. Maybe we'll meet again -- in a more convivial spot. I generally hang out at the Brimstone Tavern, just off Red Hot Iron Plaza." The demon faded away with a tooth-loosening screech.

"Don't that just beat all!" Slim led his horse out of the foul smelling smoke cloud Fusilier left in his wake. "Can you ride bareback? We ain't got time to repair the saddles."

DanJanou clambered aboard. "I'll manage. Just take it slow."

At the bottom of the hill they met a two-wheel cart going the opposite direction. A handsome woman drove the single mule. Her companion was an ill-looking, drunken sod.

"Are you from the castle?" asked Slim.

"Aye," replied the woman. "I am Mistress Brin, sirrah. My husband has been somewhat taken aback by recent events. Meet Direful Dorosh, once the most feared sorcerer in these parts."

Slim grinned. "Been some changes, I see. Where are you going, Mistress?"

"Eventually, to Canada. Poor Dorosh has been stricken with all the symptoms -- the 'eh' sound, a craving for Molson's, liberal politics -- the whole 8.2296 meters." She covered her mouth. "Oh! I think I've caught it, eh?"

"Sorry, ma'am. How do you plan to get to that worldly plane?"

"No problem, eh?" Brin shook her head. "Did you stop at the trading post at Last Chance?"

"Sure. We had to drag DanJanou out of the gift shop."

"Then you know the place. Outside, at the back of the shop there's a stairwell that runs up to a blue door set in the wall. You climb to the landing, grasp the knob and say the words -- Vast Right Wing Conspiracy. If you've said it right, eh, you will find yourself in the storage room of a Woolworth's in New Hope, North Dakota."

"Why are you telling us this?" asked DanJanou.

"You look like decent sorts." She shrugged. "Things are falling apart here, eh? You may need to escape -- and soon."

"Vast right wing conspiracy?" muttered Slim. "What do we step into if we get it wrong?"

"I don't know," said Brin. "An innocent storeroom, eh? A Hell tube? My advice is to say the phrase with fervent belief, regardless of your position vis-ÃƒÂ -vis conspiracies in general."

"Your advice it well taken," said Slim. "What will you do in New Hope?"

"Our fate lies north, in Canada. We'll go to Calgary. I hope to start a new age tanning salon and channeling studio there -- and find help for this creeping Canadian syndrome."

DanJanou sniffled. He always cried at funerals, weddings, goodbyes and long-drawn out story endings. "Can anything be done, milady?"

"Probably not, eh? We can live with the speech impediment and liberal politics. I just hope we can be cured of the Molson's craving. LaBatt's is more to my taste."

"Be careful there," said Slim. "Last person I know who took the Molson cure ended up drinking nothing but MGD."

"Gods! A fate worse than death, eh?" Brin shook the reins. "So long, lads. Watch out for Lance! He's not what he seems!"

The two men watched the ex-wizards drive off. "What did she mean by that?" asked DanJanou.

"I don't know. Let's ride on up to the castle and find out."

"I wish my mind would clear. So far it's the same old smog and native drums."

Slim stifled his curiosity about the native drums in DanJanou's head. He had a feeling the fate of the cosmos depended on his not asking about that.

####

They tethered their horses to a clump of bushes growing in what once was an impressive moat -- now little more than a low spot before crumbled walls. Slim scrambled over a pile of broken masonry and led the way inside.

"Nice place," said DanJanou. "Even if it is falling down. Look how the grass between the paving stones is neatly clipped. I wonder how they do that?" He skidded and thumped to the ground.

Slim backed away. "Ewwww. Goat crap. I think we just discovered their secret to first rate lawn maintenance." He waved DanJanou back. "Stay behind me. And clean that off your shoes."

Sword drawn, the Captain led the way around a sagging house. They could hear Lance yelling and carrying on. "I'll bet he stepped in the poop too," said DanJanou.

"Maybe. Come on. Around this way."

They found Lance standing to one side of a swath of close-cropped grass littered with goat droppings -- and something else. Padraig stood over a plain steel rod stuck in the ground.

"Let me have it!" screamed Lance.

"Oh, I'll let you have it," rumbled Padraig. "You bet I will." He touched the steel rod.

Slim was close enough now to see that the rod was really a handle, the handle of a three-pronged frog gig, sticking points-first into the turf. "Is that Bal Sagoth's Trident?"

"Yes!" cried Lance. He stomped a foot. Goat stuff splattered. "Make that big nincompoop give it to me! I hired you! Do your job!"

"As to that," said Slim, "I haven't seen a farthing of your promised pay. I'm more interested in the answer to DanJanou's question. What are you going to do with this thing?"

Lance assumed a lofty mien as he wiped excrement off his shoes. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Never mind," said Padraig. "He won't tell. But I will."

At that moment a small, ugly object leaped from the roof. It cannoned into Padraig, gave a small sob and rolled off. It was Fusilier. Padraig placed one clawed foot on the demon.

"I thought you went back to the Underworld," said Slim. "Came back to get your boss out of one last mess, did you?"

The imp groaned. Padraig squeezed tighter. "All right! All right!" shrieked Fusilier. "He made me. He made me. He made me."

"That's all you'll get out of him," said Padraig. "Watch this." He pulled the Trident out of the turf. Lance yelped and twitched toward the dragon, then sidled back.

"It looks like your average frog gig to me," said DanJanou.

"Watch," repeated Padraig. He touched Fusilier with a point. The demon blurred and popped.

"Stop," whined Lance. "You'll exhaust the charge."

"Yes," said the dragon. "I will." Lance sank to his knees and began weeping.

"What happened to Fusilier?" asked DanJanou.

Padraig laughed. "He's back in Hell, but probably not where his demon status is known. I'll bet he's back to moving magma -- by hand."

"Stop - stop," moaned Lance. Padraig tapped DanJanou with the Trident. The safe cracker jerked, but kept to his feet.

"Feel any different?" asked Padraig.

"No. Nooo. Well, wait. The native drums have gone quiet."

"I don't know if that's good or bad," said Padraig. "Now to finish this." He aimed the trident at the sun and spoke a trenchant word. "Diatomaceous earth!" Lance squeaked once, then was still.

Slim glanced up at the sun, then back at trident. "Nothing happened."

"Sure it did," said Padraig. "The thing is discharged. Did you think that a puny little frog gig packed with black magic would have the slightest effect on the sun?"

"Well . . ." Slim scuffed the dirt a couple times. "So what do we do . . ." He jumped back. "What's -- what's going on?"

Padraig's form wavered and shrank. The process was soundless, but nauseating to look upon. DanJanou turned away, green-faced. The Captain stood his ground, but only just.

In the dragon's place stood a beefy man in military fatigues. He wore the insignia of a United States Marine Gunnery Sergeant, but none of the others knew that.

"Are - are you still Padraig?" asked DanJanou.

"I've always been Padraig." This new and strange Padraig produced a fresh cigar and lit it using an archaic stainless steel lighter. The Trident of Bal Sagoth lay at his feet. He picked it up. "It's now a plain steel frog gig, just as nature and the gods intended." Lance whimpered.

Slim dragged the mage to his feet. "Is that the last of the magic?" A brief nod from Lance.

"It's all gone," said Padraig. "Our little shaman friend here wanted the spells locked in the Trident to relight the black spell generator at World's End. He's gone completely over to the dark side."

Lance collapsed. Slim let him fall into a heap.

Six 5th Brigade troopers chose that moment to assault over the castle wall, or rather over the pile of rubble which once stood as a wall. They were five Varlets and one human. How they managed to track our heroes across the Black Fangs and down to Castle Dread is a legendary feat of military cunning - which must remain a mystery.

Padraig drew a large caliber handgun and methodically shot them down. None had ever seen or been up against an M1911A1 semi-automatic pistol.

The Captain and DanJanou drew their swords, but never so much as scratched a carapace. "What the Hell is that?" asked a thoroughly shaken Slim. "I thought all the magic was gone."

Padraig reloaded his weapon and holstered it. "Not magic. Just good old American know how."

"What do we do now?" asked DanJanou.

"I'm taking our ex-magic man and going back to my online combat simulation forum. We're about to start a new campaign and old Lance here is the best and most diabolical planner we have. Every once in a while he gets delusions of adequacy and wanders off to another dimension, trying to take over the world." He dragged Lance to his feet. "Come on, lad. We have a simulated war to win. All we have to do is find our way back."

"Does this faux war need soldiers?" asked Slim. "I think I've worn out my welcome at most every place north of here. It would be a good idea if I vanished for awhile. Besides, I know how to get out of here." He grinned. "An ex-witch told me."

"I wouldn't turn down the company," said Padraig. He eyed DanJanou. "What about you?"

"No." DanJanou shook his head. "I'm going back north. The barmaid at that tavern, back in Fraught, seemed mighty friendly. I'll try my luck in those parts."

Slim and Padraig exchanged a sad glance. The lad would have to learn the hard way. Padraig tossed the frog gig to DanJanou. "Take this with you. The gods know it might be useful."

Slim kicked a dead Varlet. "Good of these blighters to bring more horses."

####

Two scroungy Dire Bears lay gnawing a day old moose haunch. One glared across the clearing at the huge female resting at ease on a flat boulder. "Bleedin' tart!" he muttered.

"Whoza bleedin' tart?" asked his pal.

"Unga, thas who. Took up wi a hairless one, ain't she?"

"True - true. Better watch yer flappin' jaw. Unga's a mean un."

"Aye. Wish she'd be mean ta me."

"Bloody well kill ya, she would."

"Oh, aye. But what a way ta go."

The aforementioned Unga nuzzled her new companion. "Wake up, sweets. Cravin' more attention, I am."

"Gods, woman, it's only been a couple hours."

Unga crooned chainsaw-like. "What are hours an' woman? Good eats?"

"Never mind. I'm thirsty. No chance of a beer, I suppose."

"Thirst? Unga fetch water." With a heavy, but sensuous motion, the female waddled over to the stream and filled a container made from a knocked-in human skull. "Unga fetch for Bak-ter."

Bak-ter watched her sidle back towards their honeymoon rock. "Gods," he murmured. He'd seen other Dire She-bears. His was the best looking, bar none.

End

>

jrhume · 24 Sep 2004

That's it, folks! I'll be gone for a few days -- so the lynch mob can't find me. LOL

When I return, I'll begin the process of adapting another sorbid tale -- "Sky Pirates"

It has flying wings and parasite fighters ala 1930s Popular Mechanix covers -- pirate lords (two), various toadies, tough and not-so-tough pirates, pilots and so on. A tongue in cheek homage to Gilbert and Sullivan.

Who could ask for more?

Well, most anyone, I suppose. I'll just be off now.

Later,
Jim

Ex-Dragoon · 25 Sep 2004

Looking forward to it Jim.

brin11 · 25 Sep 2004

Loved the last one Jim...and I didn't even get killed off like I suspected. Looking forward to the next ones.

Lance Wiebe · 25 Sep 2004

Quite the imagination you have there!

And, a lot more talent than I have!

I'm looking forward to the next one....

The Steel Trident of Bal-Sagoth (fiction)

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