by Simon Hawke
Not even the brigands whom she led knew much about her history, though by the time her path crossed theirs, she had already developed quite a reputation. She was known to be a swordswoman of extraordinary skill, and when she first took up with the brigands, a few of them had this confirmed for them the hard way. This gave her no small measure of respect. By virtue of her abilities and her intelligence, she soon became their leader and they prospered under her direction.
Though Shannon was a woman of lusty and, some might say, rather excessive appetites, she had always avoided romantic entanglements with any of the brigands. She knew that it would only complicate things. She had an instinctive grasp of the fact that excessive fratemalization does not make for good leadership. Aside from that, she did not find any of the brigands especially attractive. Most of them were great, big, hairy louts who rarely washed-though she insisted they bathe in the creek whenever the stench became too rank. In general. Shannon preferred to indulge her lusty appetidtes on her frequent scouting expeditions, or by abducting the occasional handsome male traveler encountered during one of their holdups.
She was never recognized, because whenever the brigands plied their trade, she always wore a mask consisting of a large black bandanna with two eyeholes cut in it, which covered her entire face except her mouth and chin. In imitation of her, the other brigands wore black masks as well, which led to their becoming known as the Black Brigands, which they thought had a very nice ring to it, indeed. Most of the local citizenry knew what Shannon looked like without her mask, but she had nothing to fear from them. The bandits never robbed the locals and Shannon never hesitated to provide assistance if local citizens were in need of help. She never asked for any compensation in return. This, she reasoned quite correctly, was merely good public relations. The result was that every time one of the king’s patrols came to Brigand’s Roost, there was not a brigand to be found and no matter whom they asked, the replies were always the same.
“Brigands? What brigands? We’ve never been troubled by brigands around here. Actually, we only changed the name from Turkey’s Roost to attract tourism.” Which brings us back to Shannon’s angry and dramatic entrance, just in case you thought your narrator got sidetracked. When she returned from one of her scouting expeditions, much like king’s patrols, she found the town almost completely empty, except for a few old people who were habitually cranky and never felt like going anywhere. From them, she’d learned that everyone had gone off to a revel at Mick O’Pallon’s mill. They didn’t bother telling her about the sorcerer who’d recently arrived, because the oldsters were rather crotchety and rather liked the thought of getting the young folks into hot water.
Shannon did not take kindly to this news. She had gone to all the trouble of setting up a system to be followed in her absence, whereby the brigands would work in shifts, lurking by the forest trails, waylaying coaches and unwary travelers, and instead of following instructions, they were goofing off. She paused only long enough to change before galloping off to kick some brigand butt. As she rode, she grew angrier and angrier, and as she approached the keep and heard the sounds of revelry, she became absolutely furious.
Had she paused to think, she would have realized that there was something unusual about this situation. For one thing, .Mick O’Fallon was not known to be especially gregarious. For Mick to hold a revel was decidedly out of character, and it was unlikely that he would allow anyone else to hold a revel at his mill. Furthermore, just about everyone in Brigand’s Roost had gone, including One-Eyed Jack, the tavern keeper, who never left his place of business, and Dirty Mary with her fancy girls, who were actually rather plain, and even the Awful Urchin Gang, a band of grubby little children whose awfulness was measured by the fact that all their parents insisted they were orphans. And no one, least of all Mick, would ever consider inviting them anywhere.
Shannon had not paused to consider any of these things, however, and as she approached the keep, all she could think of was that the brigands were Absent Without Leave, and for that, heads were going to roll. Or at the very least get generously thumped. She kicked her horse and went charging up to the front door.
Rascal Rick had chosen that unfortunate moment to go answer the call of nature. As he opened the door, he saw the fearsome apparition of Shannon mounted on her black stallion. Big Nasty, bearing down on him. He froze in his tracks and was knocked ass over teakettle as she rode right over him and galloped straight into the hall.
She dismounted and angrily demanded to know what in hell was going on. When a reply was not immediately forthcoming, she grabbed the nearest brigand by the hair and violently yanked him backward off the bench, onto the floor.
“Explain yourself!” she demanded.
Unfortunately, the brigand she had grabbed was Silent Fred, who spoke only about once or twice a year. No one could recall him ever actually speaking an entire sentence in a conversation.
“Well....” said Fred, and shrugged elaborately, which was quite a speech for him, all things considered.
Shannon grunted with disdain and kicked him aside, then gave him another kick in the rump for good measure as he scuttled away. She seized the next nearest victim by the ear.
This misfortune fell to Froggy Bruce.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, twisting his ear painfully. “Who gave you miserable curs leave to depart the Roost?” “Well, actually,” said Froggy Bruce, speaking in a calm and level tone of voice, despite the painful grip she had on him, “there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. You see, the fact of the matter is that...” She walloped him across his head, which made his eyes bulge out even more than they normally did. The sound of the blow echoed in the hall and made everyone who heard it wince.
“Ow,” said Froggy Bruce with characteristic understatement.
Shannon’s hand flashed to her sword hilt and the blade sang free of its scabbard, whistled through the air, and came down on the table, passing uncomfortably close to Long Bill’s left ear and splitting an entire roast turkey in half.
“Who watches the trails?” she demanded furiously. “Who lurks in the hedgerows? Who waylays unsuspecting travelers? Am I expected to do all the work around here? Am I to bear all the burden of responsibility? Do you think money grows on trees?” Brewster stood and cleared his throat politely. “Uh... excuse me. Miss Shannon?” Shannon turned and, for the first time, noticed his unfamiliar presence.
“I’m afraid I’m the one who’s responsible for all this,” he said. “I’m sorry, I truly didn’t realize that it would cause a problem. I hope you won’t hold that against me.” “And who might you be?” she asked with a frown.
“Uh, this is Brewster Doc,” said Bloody Bob helpfully, getting up to perform the formal introductions. “He’s-“ “Did I ask you, you great oaf?” Shannon interrupted brusquely.
“Uh...no...” “Then sit down and be silent! Let the man speak for himself,” she snapped.
With a sheepish grimace. Bloody Bob meekly resumed his seat.
“Brewster Doc, eh?” Shannon said, approaching so she could look him over.
“Well, most of my friends just call me Doc,” said Brewster with a smile.
“ Tis early yet to presume friendship,” Shannon replied. The entire hall was silent, every eye upon them.
“Well, yes, I suppose I see your point,” said Brewster. “However, I’m very pleased to meet you, just the same.” He held out his hand.
She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then sheathed her sword and clasped his forearm.
“I am called Shannon,” she said.
“You have a strong grip,” said Brewster.
“For a wench, you mean?” she said sarcastically.
“For anyone,” said Brewster with a shrug. She looked him over appraisingly. “ ‘Tis strange garb you wear. You have not the aspect of a native of these parts.” “Well, actually, I came from London,” Brewster said.
“Lun-dun?” She looked puzzled.
“I know of no such place.” “ Tis in the far distant Land of Ing,” said Mick, “in another place and time.” “Another place and time?” said Shannon, glancing at him sharply. “What do you mean?” “ ‘Tis a mighty sorcerer, he is,” said Mick. “His magic chariot fell from the sky.” “Are you drunk?” she asked him.
Mick drew himself up with affronted dignity. “We little people do not get drunk,” he said with an air of wounded pride. “We merely grow loquacious.” “Babbling nonsense by any other name is still babbling nonsense,” Shannon replied. “I have never heard of wizards who could fly.” “Faith, and I was there, wasn’t I?” said Mick. “I saw it, I tell you. ‘Tis a place of mighty sorcerers, this Land of Ing. People fly there all the time in magic chariots. ‘Tis such a commonplace occurrence, they do not even call ‘em magic chariots; they call ‘em plains. He told me so himself.” “And you say you saw this magic chariot fall from the sky with your own eyes?” said Shannon dubiously, glancing from Mick to Brewster, then back to Mick again.
“Aye, that I did, and didn’t it almost crush me when it fell?” said Mick.
“Where is this chariot now?” asked Shannon, still not entirely convinced.
“’Twas broken in the fall,” said Mick. “And then McMurphy’s foolish bull attacked it, and Doc had no choice but to blast it with a bolt of thunder.” “Aye, ‘tis true,” McMurphy added. “ ‘Twas nothing left of it but bits of roasted meat scattered about.” “Hmmm,” said Shannon, pursing her lips thoughtfully and staring at Brewster with new interest. He certainly did not look like a mighty sorcerer, she thought. He dressed strangely, but there was nothing noble or fearsome about his appearance. She knew that most sorcerers took great pains to look noble or fearsome, preferably both at the same time, and if they couldn’t manage that, they at least sought to look striking. This one did not even look striking. He looked rather rumpled, and there was something about him that brought to mind a little boy. A lost little boy. She decided to find out more about this sorcerer.
“Leave us,” she said to the others. “All of you, back to the Roost! And, you farmers, back to your turnips and your milk cows! I would speak more with this sorcerer, alone.” Some of the brigands exchanged nervous looks and Dirty Mary’s fancy girls hid smug little smiles behind their hands, but no one questioned Shannon’s orders. They all left, with much scraping of benches and shuffling of feet and clinking of swords and other accoutrements, until only McMurphy, Mick, and Bloody Bob were left with Shannon and Brewster in the hall.
She raised her eyebrows. “Well?” she said.
“You mean us, too?” McMurphy asked innocently.
“I said that I would speak with the sorcerer alone, did I not?” she said, a dangerous edge to her voice.
“But Mick and I are his apprentices,” protested McMurphy unwisely.
“Uh ... and I am his loyal retainer,” Bloody Bob added.
“Retainer, eh?” said Shannon, “Well, if ‘tis your teeth you’ll be retaining, theti you’ll do as you’re bloody well told, you great ox. As for you ‘apprentices’...” “We’re going, we’re going,” McMurphy said hastily.
Mick glanced uneasily at Brewster.
“So long as you would not object, of course,” said Shannon, her voice dripping with irony as she turned to Brewster. “Far be it from me to order your apprentices about,” she added with a nice dollop of sarcasm.
“Oh, no, I have no objection,” Brewster said.
“How nice,” she said wryly. “My thanks for your indulgence.” She gave him a little mock bow and then turned to the others. “Out!” With uneasy glances at Brewster, they departed without another word, leaving him alone with Shannon.
“So,” she said, coming around the table and stepping up onto the dais, “now we may become properly acquainted.” She came closer, gazing at Brewster with an intense, predatory look.
“You shall be my first adept,” she said. “And I do hope you are. Adept, that is.” “I beg your pardon?” Brewster said.
“Of course, if you really are a wizard, you could strike me with a spell,” she continued, drawing nearer. “Or perhaps a thunderbolt. You could have me completely at your mercy.” She reached out and grasped the lapels of his jacket with both hands, then abruptly pulled him toward her and gave him a kiss that would have weakened the resolution of a priest. (Some priests, of course, have more resolve than others, but this is merely a figure of speech. Suffice it to say that Shannon’s skill at kissing was exceeded only by her willfulness.) Brewster’s eyes were wide with astonishment as Shannon broke off the kiss, smiled, and said, “You see, I also know how to cast a spell.” She unsheathed her sword and swept off the surface of the table with the blade, sending goblets, meats, and fruit baskets crashing to the floor. Then she tossed her sword aside, swung him down onto his back on the tabletop, sat astride him, and ripped open his shirt. Now, it is a recognized fact of life that most men are intimidated by self-confident, aggressive women. This is because men, generally speaking, like to feel that they are in control. And most women know that so long as a man thinks that he is control, he’s not too difficult to manage. Shannon understood this very well. She was an expert at making men think they were in control, when she was actually controlling them quite subtly. However, when she chose to, she could also take control directly and there was nothing subtle about it whatsoever. She knew that both approaches had their uses.
If Brewster was, indeed, as powerful a sorcerer as the others claimed, then he represented a potential threat. She had seen how quickly he had upset her system and had everyone in Brigand’s Roost and the surrounding farms at his beck and call. Mick, who was hardly the gregarious sort, had a fascination for the thaumaturgic arts and if he was going to be this sorcerer’s apprentice, then he would have less time for making arms and brewing wine, which were both commodities the brigands needed. McMurphy and the other farmers would have less time to tend their fields and provide the Roost with produce. Bloody Bob had even sworn allegiance to this sorcerer as his retainer, as if he were a king or something, and the other brigands had actually been working here, performing physical labor, which was unheard of. She’d seen the signs of it when she rode up to the keep. Her brigands, working? Nay, she thought, this wouldn’t do at all. This was clearly a threat to her leadership and one that needed to be dealt with quickly and decisively.
She knew that taking on a sorcerer entailed a certain amount of risk; however, this sorcerer was nevertheless a man and men were all pushovers. The thing to do was take control of this situation in no uncertain terms, and do it quickly. She was confident of her abilities to arouse passion in a man and she knew that if she took the initiative in a firm, aggressive, brook-no-nonsense manner, she would quickly gain the upper hand.
The more important a man was, she’d learned, and the more power he wielded, the more susceptible he was to being dominated. Especially by a woman. Deep down inside, it was what they really wanted-to have the pins knocked out from under them by a strong, maternal figure who would tell them what to do. hi her own uneducated way. Shannon was quite the student of human behavior, particularly male behavior, and she felt confident that this was the proper course to take. Besides, the guy was kinda cute.
“Uh... excuse me,” Brewster said as she started to undo his belt, “but I think you have the wrong idea. You see, I happen to be engaged.” “Engaged in what?” she asked, momentarily thrown off her stride by the zipper and the little metal hook on the waistband of his gray flannel trousers. She frowned with puzzlement, uncertain how to proceed.
“Engaged to be married,” replied Brewster.
“Oh,” said Shannon, plucking at his waistband uncertainly. “You mean you are betrothed? What matters that to me?” “Well, it matters to me,” said Brewster. “And I expect it matters to Pamela, as well.” “Pamela? Is that the name of your intended?” The hook on the waistband popped free and Shannon uttered a satisfied “Ah! I see.” “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive, you understand,�
�� said Brewster, looking up at her, “it’s just that I love Pamela, you see, and, well... I guess I’m a bit old-fashioned when it comes to this sort of thing. Besides, we hardly even know each other.” Shannon had finally figured out the zipper. She pulled it down, and her face lit up with a childlike delight.
“Oh! How clever!” She pulled it back up again, then down, then up, then down and up, repeatedly, like a kid with a new toy.
“I mean, you said so yourself,” continued Brewster, over the sounds of zipping, “ ‘tis a bit early to presume friendship, isn’t it?” “What?” said Shannon, looking up from his trousers to his face.
“I said...” “I heard what you said,” she replied irritably. Somehow, this wasn’t going according to plan. “Who said anything about friendship?” “Well...” Brewster hesitated awkwardly. “I mean, that is my zipper you’re playing with, isn’t it?” “Zipper?” said Shannon. She zipped it up and down a couple of times. “Oh! I see. It does make a sort of zipping noise, doesn’t it?” “Yes, well, ripping open someone’s shirt and unfastening their trousers does presume a certain degree of intimacy, doesn’t it?” said Brewster.
Shannon frowned. She wasn’t used to being distracted like this. Or to men being recalcitrant in such a situation. “Intimacy?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “What has this to do with intimacy? You’re being ravished, you fool!” “Oh,” said Brewster. He cleared his throat. “I see. Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’d really rather not be ravished right now, if you don’t mind.” “You wouldn’t?” “No, I wouldn’t,” Brewster said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re very good at it, but I’d really rather not.” “S’trewth!” said Shannon. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I’ll have you know that most men would go quite out of their way to have me ravish them!” “Oh, I’m sure of that,” said Brewster, “and my reluctance is no reflection on you whatsoever. It’s just that I happen to be spoken for and I think commitments are important, don’t you?” Shannon sighed. “Well.. .I suppose.” “This doesn’t mean we can’t be friends,” said Brewster.