Then General Squeak, commander of the Royal’s ruffian army, leader of the bully legions, scourge of the Boundary wimps, began to bawl in front of his men.
He wasn’t the only one, either. The entire army began to cry. Their heads swam with an overload of fresh oxygen, and their memories ran adrift on the shores of tender yesteryears, and these tough, mean soldiers, who only minutes before had been ready to bash in the heads of the little group of third graders for no more than a fistful of lunch money and a “Job well done” from the Royal, now convulsed in one enormous blanket of sniffles and sobs.
Several long minutes later, when General Squeak finally managed to stop the flow of his tears, hoist himself back into a normal sitting position, and reassert his awareness of the situation, he scrubbed the remaining tears out of his eyes and glared angrily at the five children and their unconscious cowboy friend…or rather, he glared angrily at the space where the captives had recently been. Now, there was nothing there but an unconscious redheaded Scab, the cowboy’s six-shooter missing from his waistband.
The prisoners had escaped.
An Interlude
The Royal watches the five children and their protector slink off among the trash and the filth, winding their way through a host of soldiers distracted by their own awkward movements. He watches the captives steal past their aggressors and slip across the lintel into the first world they see, a world where everything is made of peanut butter. Even the great beasts that prowl the dream and prey on visitors are made from it. The Royal is disgusted yet again by the number of crude and useless imaginations in his kingdom. Then he watches them cross out of that dream and into one of floating rocks.
All of this makes the Royal angry.
His junkyard army has failed. They allowed themselves to be made a mockery of, and this embarrassment, in turn, makes a mockery of the Royal and all he has built in his centuries at the heart of the Boundarylands. General Squeak will pay for his failure, but he will pay for his weakness, as well. And the price will be far greater than anything the glorified rabble-rouser can imagine.
The children are moving steadily closer. Not quickly, but steadily. He can begin to make out their features now. Nothing so telling as an eye color, or a scar, or a birthmark…but their faces are beginning to take shape. The curve of a nose here, a loose tuft of hair there. They are children, all right, just as his instincts have assured him, all of them except their guide, the grown man with the trail hand’s hat. He does not know who this cowboy is. He does not care. This stranger aligned himself against the Royal the moment he crossed the threshold with these children, and that is enough to seal his fate.
He beckons to Roark, and the servant scampers to the base of his master’s throne. “Yes, lord?”
“The lesserbeings have failed me,” he said. “See to the Scabs.”
Roark bows low, scraping the stone floor with his knuckles. “Yes, liege. Will there be anything else?”
The Royal nods slowly. “I would speak to the dentist,” he says, picking at the bones that are laid into the carved marble of the arm of his chair. “He need not waste time traveling here, but see that I speak to him within the hour.”
Ever the faithful servant, Roark bows once again and backs slowly away from the throne. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The servant slinks back into the shadows, and the Royal feels himself relax. There was a time long, long ago when nothing could cause the Royal tension. But the appearance of these children, whomever they are, has stirred something in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it is destiny. Perhaps he is meant to match wits against this band of intruders. Perhaps he is meant to destroy them with his own misshapen hands.
Perhaps these children are a reckoning.
Or, to be more exact, perhaps he is a reckoning for these children.
This revelation brightens his disposition somewhat.
He will face these children if it is what the Fates decide. He feels neither fear nor hesitation toward them, yet if he can spare himself the effort, he will.
The Royal has some tricks up his sleeve.
The dentist is one of them. He has seen that the dentist shares his hunger for these troubling wanderers. He will play that hand and see whether the intruders fall to the suit. If they do, all the better. If they do not...well, there are other cards to try, and other hands to play.
The dentist will serve his part.
And so the Royal turns his attention to other pressing matters.
-
The IF series will continue in Part III: Gods and Monsters
About the Author
Clayton Smith is a Midwestern writer who once erroneously referred to himself as a national treasure. He has been described as “too tall to live,” which hardly seems fair.
His work includes the novels Apocalypticon, Post-Apocalypticon, Anomaly Flats, Na Akua, and Mabel Gray and the Wizard Who Swallowed the Sun; the plays Death and McCootie and The Depths; and the short story collections It Came from Anomaly Flats and Pants on Fire: A Collection of Lies. Some of his short stories have appeared in such publications as Canyon Voices, Write City Magazine, and Dumb White Husband.
Clayton would like very much to hear from you. You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram as @claytonsaurus.
And if you’re enjoying this series, you should join his email newsletter! It’s fun there. There’s cake! (There’s no cake.) Find more information at StateOfClayton.com.
IF: Boundarylands Page 9