Midmorning, Hamarr called in at the blacksmith, Kjetil, who slapped Hamarr on the back. “You missed quite the drinks party last night. The men were eager for their mead and the women were eager for their men.”
Kjetil, now in his fifties, no longer participated in the raids, but Hamarr suspected he missed the excitement. Though twice Hamarr’s age, the men had bonded over their mutual interest in things mechanical. “I passed a quiet night in my bed,” Hamarr said. “I suppose you woke with a sore head today, though, did you not?”
“That I did. But the warriors are gone now and we have our time to ourselves. You said you received a new material from the Far East? When will you show it to me?”
“Now.” Hamarr reached into his tunic and removed a square of cloth tied into a bundle. He set the bundle on Kjetil’s work bench and gently untied the thong. The cloth fell open, revealing a mound of black powder. “I have a barrel of this, for which I traded more gold than I’d like to admit.”
Kjetil poked the powder with his finger. “What is it?” He brought his finger to his lips and touched his tongue, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“Those in the Orient call it fire medicine. They use this powder to make stones fly like arrows.”
Kjetil scoffed. “It takes a catapult to make a stone fly. You were suckered out of your gold.”
“We’ll see.”
Hellshund sneezed at that moment, launching a small hot coal through his nostrils. The coal landed on the black powder, resulting in a huge explosion for such a tiny pile.
Hamarr laughed at Kjetil’s expression. “You see the possibilities, my friend? There is indeed fire locked inside this powder.”
Shaken, Kjetil could only nod.
They passed ten days exploring the black powder. When they threw a handful into the flames of Kjetil’s forge, the powder flashed and burned unusually hot. When Kjetil struck a pile of powder placed on his anvil, the powder exploded and caught fire.
“It’s a wondrous substance,” Kjetil admitted as the two men drank mead in front of Kjetil’s hearth. An Irish slave girl served them venison roasted over the spit. As she placed the wooden platter at Kjetil’s side, he reached out to pat her bottom. “Aileen here is a pretty thing, is she not? Dumb as a bag of hammers, though. She can’t understand even simple speech.”
“You have had her for more than a year, have you not?” Hamarr said. “She should have learned to speak by now, savage though she may be.”
“Eh, she probably fakes her ignorance. I bought her last year after the raid upon Dublin. She keeps my bed warm at least, now that Torhilda has joined her ancestors.”
Hamarr dismissed the inconsequential plight of a slave with a wave of his hand. “Let’s figure out a use for this powder. I want to have something to present to Chief Trygve upon his return. If we have nothing new, we will not receive our shares of the raid’s proceeds.”
“If we are to please the chief, we need to fashion the powder into a weapon.” Kjetil stroked the back of his own mechanical dog, a beast nearly as large as Hellshund. “A magic as powerful as this can conquer the world.”
“If we have to get close enough to our enemies to sprinkle them with powder, we are unlikely to survive the encounter,” Hamarr mused. “We need a way to send the powder some distance. Perhaps a catapult, as you suggested.”
They tinkered with the fire medicine for a couple more weeks, whenever they could steal time from their duties.
Their work was interrupted one night by the arrival of a slave from another farm. Kjetil pointed him out to Hamarr when he spotted the youth skulking into his yard. “That one is brother to my own Aileen,” he said. “Come. Let us see why he is disturbing her in her labors.”
When they entered Kjetil’s home, the two Irish slaves were chattering in their own incomprehensible language. “Something’s not right,” Kjetil whispered to Hamarr. “This is the first time the girl has smiled since she arrived. What are they up to?”
“What can a slave be up to?” Hamarr asked. “Let’s go. We have work to do.”
The breakthrough happened one night when Hamarr was alone. He’d been sitting on a log in the woods after a hunting trip, warming his hands in the steamy breath of Hellshund. The dog sneezed, scorching Hamarr’s hands with a pellet of coal.
Hamarr patted the dog. “That’s it, Hellshund! We shall use your steam to propel this fire medicine.”
He led the dog to Kjetil’s workshop and the two men worked feverishly for several days. Hamarr added pine resin to the fire medicine to allow it to burn longer. Interestingly, this created a liquid fire that clung to all it touched. When he added a trace of quicksilver, even water could not extinguish the flames. The two men burned Kjetil’s storage shed to the ground the first time they tried this combination, but so jubilant were they that Kjetil did not mind the loss of the outbuilding.
Hamarr named the new substance Thor’s Breath. He had Hellshund’s chest open and was digging in its depths. “Look, Kjetil. If I add an earthenware pot here, Hellshund can carry the liquid fire in his gut. Then, using steam, he can launch Thor’s Breath from a pewter spigot in his mouth and light it from the fire of his breath.”
Kjetil continued Hamarr’s thought. “And if it works in the dogs, we can place it into the figurehead of the raiding boat just as easily.”
Hamarr laughed. “But instead of steam coming from the dragon’s mouth, it will be fire!”
Aileen brought them a cold supper and two flagons of mead. She grinned as she placed their meal on the workbench.
“She’s making me crazy,” Kjetil said to his friend. “She smiles. And she sings. I think she and her brother are plotting something.”
“What will they do? Walk to Ireland? You worry too much. Let us focus. I want to create a prototype before the warriors return.”
“You know,” Kjetil said, “We could sell this for tons of gold. The Orient may pay for the improvements we’ve made to their black powder. Or the Greeks! The Greeks are always looking for new weapons.”
“You want to sell liquid fire to the Greeks? That’s a horrible idea. They’d just try to use it against us.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.”
The next morning they began construction on the dogs’ new innards. While Kjetil created the earthenware bladders and the spigots for the two dogs, Hamarr worked out the details of the program for the dogs to follow. After only ten days, Hamarr was satisfied with their work.
“This should do it,” he said to Kjetil. “All we need is to test it.”
“I cannot offer my storage shed, I’m afraid,” Kjetil said, “since it is already in ashes.”
As it turned out, they did not need a building on which to test Thor’s Breath.
They were strolling through the forest, trailed by the two hounds, when Aileen and her brother ran past.
The men followed the youths toward the shore, mechanical dogs hissing and clanging behind them. The Irish boy turned to look at them, then pointed out into the fjord.
On the horizon, a small warship sailed toward the village. As they watched it approach, the boy said, “My father is Irish chief. We go home now.”
Kjetil grabbed Aileen by her arm. The brother swung at Kjetil, striking the older man in the jaw before Hamarr could react. Aileen took advantage of his surprise to wriggle free. She ran to the dock, followed by her brother. Hamarr helped Kjetil to his feet, steadying the dazed man.
By now Aileen and her brother were on the village dock, waving frantically to the ship as it approached.
“Don’t let them get away,” Kjetil demanded, rubbing his sore jaw. “I will have that boy’s head on a stake by the end of the day.”
“More importantly, if those Irish warriors invade the village while the raiders are away, they will find it easy pickings,” Hamarr said, pointing at the ship now dockside. Fierce men in full battle armament lined the ship’s side, helping the two Irish youth board.
Kjetil swore. “We need to warn the village. Send one of
the dogs for help.”
“We need them,” Hamarr said. “Gather them by the shore. Maybe Thor’s Breath can repel those warriors.”
Together they propelled the dogs to the dock just as the first of the Irishmen climbed from the warship. This man, tall and strong with fiery red hair and beard, was clearly the chieftain, for all the Irishmen looked to him for direction. The man paused, assessing Hamarr and Kjetil and their dogs.
“I wager these barbarians have never seen a mechanical dog,” Hamarr said. He and Kjetil flung coal from their knapsacks into the bellies of the hounds as quickly as they could, stoking their fires higher.
Hamarr slammed the coal bins closed. He pulled the levers, first on Hellshund, then on Kjetil’s dog, freeing the flow of Thor’s Breath to the dogs’ maws. On his command, the dogs stepped onto the wooden dock.
The chieftain spouted orders in his native tongue and Irishmen disembarked the warship, lining up in front of their ship, weapons at the ready. In moments, the entire band would be ashore.
“Fire!” Kjetil shouted.
“I don’t know if it’s ready,” Hamarr complained. “We haven’t even tested the propulsion.”
“Unless you wish to become an Irish slave, fire!”
With a muttered curse, Hamarr engaged the mechanism and pressed the control button on Hellshund.
Thor’s Breath spurted out, ignited by Hellshund’s breath. He did the same with Kjetil’s dog with the same results. Instead of a long stream of burning liquid, the dogs only managed a weak spit and drool.
The chieftain and his men backed up closer to their ship but they did not yet abandon the fight.
“You need more propulsion if you are going to reach the ship. Fire again!” Kjetil said.
Unfortunately, neither dog managed to propel Thor’s Breath more than five feet. From their position at the land’s edge, they were not able to reach the Irishmen with the Thor’s Breath. They did, however, manage to set fire to the dock. The flames, fanned by the sea breeze, advanced on the Irishmen until they were forced to reboard their ship. The ship pushed away from shore as the last of the dock burned into the water.
“At least they can’t invade us without getting their feet wet,” Hamarr said. The two men continued to add coal to the dogs, trying to build up enough heat to propel Thor’s Breath onto the warship.
At long last, the chieftain seemed to give up in disgust. He waved a fist at Hamarr and Kjetil and shouted what must have been curses in his language. Then, turning to his crew, he gave an order and the ship set a course back to Ireland.
Hamarr and Kjetil deconstructed the event over mead and roasted pigeon by Hamarr’s fire that evening. The youngest son sat on his father’s knee, playing with his beard as the men spoke.
“We have failed,” Hamarr said. “We needed Thor’s Breath to spew with the strength of a waterfall, and instead it bubbled with the force of a drooling infant.”
Kjetil gestured at Hamarr’s son. “Is your boy a slave on an Irish ship? No, he is not. We did not fail. We discouraged the attackers who would rape our women and steal our children. We just need to tweak a few details.”
“You made an interesting point earlier,” Hamarr said, “about sending one of the dogs for help. If we could work out a way to use steam to send messages over long distances, that would be useful indeed.”
Kjetil scoffed. “That will never happen.” He waved the leg of his roasted pigeon. “You might as well ask the birds to carry messages for us.”
Hamarr laughed. “Perhaps you are right. So, what do you think Chief Trygve will give us when he sees Thor’s Breath?”
“I want a new slave,” Kjetil said. “And she’d better be beautiful and strong.”
“And not the daughter of a chieftain,” Hamarr agreed.
Arthur
Sandra Murphy
“Arthur, knock it off. Popcorn farts are the worst.” Debbie left with the bowl, like that would do any good. I’d already eaten my fill. Mostly.
In a minute, she was back, spritzing clouds of air freshener, which made me sneeze. “Sleep on the couch. We’ve got Detweiller’s tomorrow. I need my rest.” Like I cared. A comfy couch and an afghan to keep me warm. Ha! There’s dropped popcorn under the table—five-minute rule!
*
Debbie and I disagree about the car. I don’t drive and there are times I think she shouldn’t either. The way she takes a turn would make anybody a little sick. I like fresh air; she likes the heat on high. We had our usual argument about that, but since I’d held back a few popcorn farts, I won.
We arrived at Detweiller Industries twenty minutes later. It might have taken fifteen, if I hadn’t gotten into a bit of a shouting match with a pint-sized big mouth in the next car at a red light. Debbie tried to be the peace maker. She should have had my back, no matter who was right, which of course, was me. But I digress.
Usually, we see the receptionist, the security guy, a secretary or three and a few assorted minions, but today, the big man himself met us at the door. Ted’s nothing special, taller than Debbie but only a little. not by much. That’s balanced out by outweighing her by a hundred pounds, not much of it hair, most of it stomach and tush. Ted worries a lot and I would guess, nervous eating is his way of handling stress.
As best I can figure, and I admit I don’t pay a lot of attention to details, Detweiller makes stuff for the government. Ted’s employees have to be trustworthy, and most of all, sober. That’s where I come in. I’m the drug tester.
Let me give you my credentials. Usually, I’m called Artie, but when annoyed, Debbie calls me Arthur. Come to think of it, she does that a lot. My full name is Arthur T. Terrier. T for Trouble, and Trouble’s my middle name! Terrier is my dad’s name. He’s John Russell Terrier, Jack for short. That’s where I get my tenacity. Mom is distantly related to Bloodhounds. That’s where I get my super-sniffer, some forty-five times better than a human’s puny nose. My small stature allows me to tunnel under, climb over and search places no one, except the bad guy, would think of going.
My training was expensive from what I hear, but I don’t really deal with cash, you know? The first two jobs I had, well, they didn’t go so great. I’m not the best fit for corporate life. There’s no room for thinking outside the box, where, if you want to know, a guy like me finds the most drugs. Debbie and I are partners. It works as long as she listens to me.
On the way to the plant, we saw Greg, the janitor, in the lobby. He wiped his runny nose, scratched himself (Debbie says I shouldn’t scratch there when we’re out in public) and dumped a bunch of gray water on the floor to mop. I wouldn’t have wanted to be Greg if it had gotten on Debbie’s new suede boots, the ones with only a couple of bite marks that show.
In the plant, Debbie took off my leash and told me, “Find it!” I love that part! Boy, did I ever find it. There was a stash under the big machine. People seem to think that the smell of machine oil and general crud hide the odor of marijuana, but it doesn’t—not from me. I did a perfect point so Debbie could see the hide. I found more back where they cut the wood for pallets. In the bathroom, the smell of orange was strong, but not as strong as the old nose. I’ve got to say, I did a stellar job.
We ended up in Ted’s office, a rare thing. Ted droned on about a leak and the computer. Frankly, I don’t get computers except YouTube. There’s a video of this one bitch…but I digress. I tuned out most of what he said and caught a few zzzs.
On the way out, Debbie talked to herself. I could tell because she didn’t say Artie first. It was about who could have access to the computers. Plant employees would be too noticeable. Maybe security? Ted’s secretary, a nice lady with dog biscuits in the desk drawer, the third one on the left, couldn’t be the one. (I don’t eat on the job so she always gives me a to-go bag.)
Debbie rambled on but I’d caught The Smell. I went into Stealth Mode, and for once, Debbie noticed right away. Ahead of us in the hall was Greg, running the thing that swirls around and makes the floor shiny an
d good for a running slide, if one is not held back by the other end of the leash. I knew I’d have to show Debbie instead of just pointing so I ran as fast as I could (that’s real fast), jumped up and bit Greg on the butt! It was stellar I tell you! I tore his coveralls and eww, there was his hairy old butt hanging out, all wrinkly. The swirly machine went wild until security pulled the plug.
Janitors can be anywhere without being questioned or even noticed—except by Yours Truly, who sniffed out the cocaine in his back pocket. Some gizmo called a flash drive hit the floor and Debbie got all excited. Turns out, Greg was Gregor, a Russian, sending information to the Old Country.
Ted was pleased, we got a raise…and me? I got more popcorn! Debbie sat in the recliner and pointed the fan in my direction.
Debbie said she’s calling this The Case of the Flashing Butt.
Fractured Memories
Julie Tollefson
Keith clamped his jaws together. The inside of his mouth crackled as the dried sugary residue that coated his mucous membranes shattered into tiny shards like broken glass.
Good lord, how much bourbon and Coke did he drink last night? He had the massive headache that in his younger days meant he’d had a helluva good time. Today, it just meant he’d survived another of Andrea’s legendary Fourth of July parties.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, then fell back against the sofa cushions when nausea threatened. He’d passed out on the sofa, head tilted back, mouth wide open. Thus, the crackle mouth. Whatever he’d done, Andrea must have been pissed to leave him here like this. She was usually such a stickler for sleeping in the same bed every night, no matter what.
He closed his eyes. A kaleidoscope of dizzying images from the party flashed against his eyelids in harsh, red-tinged colors. Tanks and rockets and things Keith couldn’t identify that buzzed and jumped and sparked and popped. He opened his eyes again before the images made him sick.
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