The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set

by William David Ellis

  He picked up his hand to draw closer to Raleigh and placed it right in a pile of cold dog feces. It was the straw that broke the Bigfoot’s back. As the cold feces spread across his hand and its stench broke free, Brady rose to his feet screaming and pounded the walls. He hammered them till he bled. Raleigh jumped into a corner, lips curled and teeth bared, one moment growling and the next whimpering as Brady raged against the immovable wall. He pounded and screamed, dust flying and sparks flashing as his metal bracelets hit stone. He railed against the medieval stone, his breaths coming in quick gasps, spittle dropping from his lips.

  Then he just stopped. He got very quiet. His face twitched and a grin broke across his darkened face. Slowly he moved the hand with dog feces all over it toward his nose and sniffed. The strong odor of ammonia struck his sensitive nostrils. He choked on the ammonia fumes and then started laughing, and laughed for a long time while Raleigh, whimpering, curled into a frightened ball in the corner of their cell.

  Finally, Brady stopped laughing. He gulped the air, wheezing. As he stared at the silver bracelets now stained with his blood, he wiped some of the blood off on the wall and in a saner mind noticed that the bracelets had bent and one had even developed a crack where he had hammered it against the wall. “Hmmmm…” he murmured and then saw blood dripping from his wrists where a few of the bracelet barbs had been knocked loose. “This keeps getting better and better.” Raleigh crawled submissively toward him, still whimpering. Brady looked at him. “Raleigh, the Nazis made a mistake. They placed a professor of organic chemistry who is also married to a Sasquatch herbalist in the same cell as a two-hundred-pound wolf with a high-protein diet…” Then he laughed again, accompanied by the loud rhythmic thump of Raleigh’s three-foot tail.

  Chapter 37

  Sarah felt strong, gentle arms lift her from Kusaila’s broken body. Dazed, she started to resist, then saw it was one of Kusaila’s elders. His face was covered in ash and his robes in blood. He whispered as he lifted her, “It’s time to go, princess, it’s time to go. He’s gone… many are gone and this is not a safe place.”

  “I know, I know.” She blinked, caught her breath, and nodded. As she allowed the warrior to help her up, she noticed that several of Kusaila’s soldiers surrounded her, each face drawn, some with pain, others with grief. As she turned to walk with the elder, the men made a path. One of the lesser chiefs barked a command. “Rise!” The warriors shifted into an ancient form of attention, struck their chests, and held the pose. It took a moment before Sarah realized they were saluting her. She started to shake her head, not accepting their gesture.

  The elder whispered, “They need to do this, princess. Let them. Had you not been here and taken down the other dragons, they would have perished and they know it. Let them honor you.”

  Sarah nodded, too tired to argue. The warriors gathered around her and before she knew it, hundreds fell in beside them. As they came upon a small knoll and she turned to look back, she was astonished to see the hundreds had turned to thousands. They had picked up the body of Kusaila, made a makeshift stretcher, and carried him upon their shoulders.

  Sarah was stunned. So many of them, unbowed, unbroken. Once again, they turned back the dark host that threatened them. Then she looked at the elders who stood beside her, and hot tears began to flow down her cheeks, not tears of fear or pain, but of pride. They were her people and she loved them and was fiercely proud of them. As she looked on them an idea came to her. “Izzar.”

  “Yes, my princess.”

  “Would it be appropriate, and by that, I mean would the people receive it, if I spoke to them from this hill?”

  The old man’s eyes widened and a pleased grin spread across his face. He nodded. “They are yours to address, my princess.”

  Sarah cringed inwardly at the word yours but pushed through her hesitancy and walked to the small overlook. She looked over the people who had sat on the grass and rocks. Their numbers had swollen; what was left of their nation was gathered. The warriors had been joined by their wives and families. When that had happened, she wasn’t sure; she had been so consumed with her own grief and trauma. Someone in the crowd noticed her standing on the overlook and began to silence the others. She pushed her reluctance down and drew on her years of experience in her father’s court. She was a princess by birth and training and had the ability and now the motivation to address people. As a wave of silence rolled over the crowd and their eyes turned toward her, she began.

  “People of Kusaila, you have taken me, a stranger, one who did not know your ways, one who stumbled over your customs and ruined your tents…” A ripple of sad laughter peppered the crowd. Sarah smiled back and shrugged, garnering another louder ripple. “And you have loved me as one of your own. I had never known that before. I did not know it was possible or what kind of people could gather a stranger to their hearts. But I do now!

  “I love you. I also loved… your king…” Sarah’s voice trembled, came close to breaking, but then rose on the high tide of that emotion and said, “Kusaila! A king who led his people from the front of the battle lines, who loved his people, who honored his people, and who died for his people. I was there when he died. He held me in his arms and shielded me as the arrows pierced his flesh. I saw him taken up to meet the honored hosts and the great King of us all.”

  Every eye was glistening, every cheek tear-stained.

  “And as he ascended into his glorious state, I saw something else. I saw pride, a fierce pride, in you. He was so proud of you. Once again you had turned back the dark tide of your enemies, you had stood your ground, you had met the best they could muster, and you had broken them. You had bent their shields and broken their swords. You crushed them. Their intent was to destroy you, but they met a wall of people who would not be broken, who would not bow, who stopped their madness and sent them running. You won!”

  As she spoke, the tempo of her voice increased. She had not realized the power of a dragon person to hold a crowd in their hands with their voice and emotion, but she wielded it now. As she shouted, “You won!” the people’s faces changed from downcast and grieving to hopeful and strong. They changed from a broken vessel to a newly formed one. Like clay beneath a potter’s hand they molded to her touch. They broke forth whole and healed. And they roared… someone in the back began to shout, “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” The whole nation took chant and soon the canyons echoed their cry.

  She was taken aback at the outburst and wanted them to stop. She turned to the elders and was surprised to see they were as caught up as any. Izzar leaned into her and whispered in her ear, “It’s not about you, Sarah, it’s really about their need for hope and a future, and you just gave it to them.”

  Finally, the roar died down and she spoke again. “In my country—excuse me—in the country I came from. Not my country, you are my country.” Another roar threatened to break loose, but she calmed it before it could get too far. “There was a famous general who defeated his enemies even when they vastly outnumbered him. One of his strokes of brilliance is encased in his famous quote, ‘When they start to run, chase them!’ My people, our enemy expected to crush us, but they did not; they expected us to run from them, but we did not; they expected to kill our warriors, ravish our women, and enslave our children, but they did not. Instead they ran from us; we crushed them. And now they are stunned, they lost their leaders, they are licking their wounds, wondering if they can ever own us. Now, when they are confused, it is time to attack them, strike them. They expected lambs for the slaughter, they encountered a dragon and his lions. Now is the time once and for all to destroy them and send them packing. I know you are hurt, I know you are tired, I know you have dead to bury, but so do they, and they expect us to cower, to retreat, to pull back. They do not expect the lions and the dragon to come forth!”

  A silence lay on the crowd like a heavy blanket. Her words were new to them; they carried an unfamiliar idea. Sarah thought, I pushed too hard. I asked for too much… they are go
ing to turn on me. Then Izzar, Kusaila’s second-in-command, moved beside her and began to clap. Slowly at first, like a single drum beating against a tide of indecision, another joined him, then two more, a fourth, and then the thunder rolled and the people drew on her strength and girded themselves, and this time they shouted for a long time.

  Chapter 38

  Belle shook her head, trying to break the stupor that clung to her as the guards grabbed her, pulling her up.

  Laden Long laughed at the glazed look in her eyes. “Not much left, is there, Belle? The heroic dragon rider is reduced to a gibbering ape, huddled in the final refuge of his fleeting mind.”

  The dark clergy’s grating laugh yanked Belle from the last glimpse of her vision. She was tempted to share what she had seen but realized it would only cause the old dragon to inflict more pain on Harry. So, she allowed her anger to rise like a rumbling cradle of lava forcing its way through a dormant mountain. Finally, it erupted in a cold spew.

  “Laden,” she said gently, like she was asking him to pass the butter at a meal, “you have a history with Harry, don’t you? When he was a peasant boy and then as an old man? Those two encounters didn’t come out well for you, did they?”

  Long grew still. His jaw clenched and his eyes burned. Smoky tendrils started to drift from his nose as she continued.

  “As I recall, an elderly man even rose from the dead to defeat you in one of those encounters.”

  Every person within the sound of Belle’s witchy hypnotic voice froze, each listening intently, captured by the spell her words were casting.

  “Laden, Harry isn’t dead. He’s waiting…”

  Long’s face contorted in contempt; his eyebrows stitched in permanent disdain. He nodded to the guards holding her arms. They shoved her away from the steel table, arms bent behind her tightly, imposing enough pain to control her but not harm her. Long rolled his eyes as she was marched away.

  Cadmus the Greek demigod also watched as she was shoved through the dungeon door, but his eyes did not roll. He looked back on the bloody body of his captive, clenching his hands to keep them from trembling. He didn’t notice it, but his eye was also twitching.

  The guards pushed Belle down the dark corridor, past the cell she and Fawkes had ripped apart, into the older part of the ancient cathedral. They were joined by three other soldiers, all armed with the ever-present MP 40. When they came to a particularly damp and moldy part of the dungeon, they halted. One took out a set of keys, picked one, and gingerly inserted it into the rusty lock. A dark tension blanketed the moment. Belle could sense the fear in the guards.

  The leader nodded to the man holding the key, then looked at the others and laughed. “This is going to be interesting.”

  Belle frowned. She pushed her senses forward but was blocked by the thick stone walls. The soldier holding her arm was prepared for her to resist. As soon as his companion opened the door to the cell and the other guards pointed their guns into the darkness of the opening, he shoved her through and slammed the door behind her.

  Belle landed hard on the cold stone floor. A faint glow seeped through the small window seated high in the wall. She smelled animals, old feces, and blood. Then she heard a growl. Her heart began to race and sweat formed on her brow.

  A voice, familiar but out of place, whispered, “Well now, looka here, Raleigh… we have a visitor. It’s Harry’s witch woman, Belle Rodum. The one who betrayed our friend and stole the thorn, leaving him helpless.” Raleigh’s benign growl turned vicious.

  Belle slowly rose to her feet, her eyes adapting to the gloom. The cell was small and she intended to find a corner so she could defend from one direction. Suddenly Raleigh’s growl changed. It went from about-to-jump-and-eat-you to confused, and then curious. Brady asked, “What is it, boy? What’s going on?”

  “Lady is not bad girl… is good. She fight to save Harry, is Harry’s girl.”

  “What?! Raleigh, you been in here too long, fella, you need a walk real bad. She is not Harry’s friend. She’s mean and hurts people.”

  “Raleigh know she be bad sometimes, but no more. Harry chase off bad ghosts, she smell different, she love Harry, want to make babies with Harry.”

  Belle also had the ability to speak to animals. Usually she simply commanded them; she had never actually met one with Raleigh’s level of intelligence. “I beg your pardon!”

  Brady laughed. “You can beg it all you want, but you ain’t going to get it till we pencil this out.” He paused. Belle started to slide down the wall and sit on the floor, but Brady stopped her. “You need to be real careful where you sit because me and Raleigh,” he leaned into her and whispered, “been making a bomb and right now it looks a whole lot like a pile of dog shii…stuff, and your foot is real close to stepping in it and setting it off.”

  Belle jumped, stepped right where she shouldn’t, stopped instantly, and then slowly pulled her foot back, dragging a pile that had attached itself to her. “Uhhh, yuck!”

  Brady peered through the gloom and sniffed. “Not quite done yet… I suppose that is a good thing. Be a mite disturbing iffen it was. Mighta lost a foot or two.”

  Belle turned to him; her face twisted in disgust. He grinned. She shook her head, rolling her eyes and giggling. Raleigh laughed a throaty doggy laugh.

  Brady offered his manacled hands and she shook them. “You must be Brady Huslu. Harry told me a lot about you.” Then she turned to Raleigh. “And you must be the great white wolf Raleigh. You are a good friend of Harry’s. I am glad to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances but… here we are. Now what’s this about a bomb?”

  Chapter 39

  Harry shivered as his broken body struggled to survive. He was strapped to a steel table in a cold stone cell; there was no heat and the barred window in his cell was open to the December air. This was his third or fourth day of torture. His captors were experts on ways to inflict pain. Both physically and chemically. He had been briefed on interrogation techniques, not how to inflict them, but how to survive them. They had not been his favorite classes, and even as he faced the test himself, he couldn’t help but remember. Most of the briefs had ended in “Worst case scenario, you should try to bite your tongue off.” After the third such lecture, Harry decided to skip the rest in that series. Now facing days of torture from experts in the field, he was having second thoughts.

  On the first day of his humiliation the Nazi guards had stripped him naked and strapped him to the steel table that was to be his home for the duration. His country boy modesty had been shaken when Dr. Alice Oberheust, a beautiful Nazi blonde wearing traditional pigtails and dark wing-tipped glasses and bright red lipstick, had walked in holding a clipboard to her chest. She looked Harry over from head to toe, taking special note of certain organs. She noticed his inevitable blush and sneered. “Modesty is a manifestation of the lesser races, Herr Ferguson, and you most certainly are not of those.” She wrote something on her clipboard, then bent over Harry and sighed, “In one sense it is a shame. You are a beautiful man and have well-defined Aryan features, but we have need of you, Herr Ferguson, and such are the sacrifices we must make for the Reich and science.”

  Harry’s resolve stiffened and he growled, “You will not break me, woman. I may die at your hands but I will die with my soul intact, and that is more than you will ever be able to say.”

  Oberheust looked down on him with a brief glimpse of a smile. “Herr Ferguson, we are not after your soul, no, not at all. Just various other parts—your blood, your pain, your strength, and even…” she paused at this, knelt closer to him, and whispered, “your seed.” Then she pulled back and glanced around the room to ensure no one had heard. “And we will have that, Herr Ferguson, we will have that.”

  Harry’s face contorted with surprise and then with realization of what she intended to do.

  Oberheust answered his unasked question. “Oh yes, Herr Ferguson, we can… The procedure has actually been in existence since 1884 and was first practic
ed by Dr. William Pancoast, a Philadelphian. I studied his methods and,” she paused, “let’s just say your amazing physical characteristics will definitely survive your demise.”

  Harry had been prepared for almost anything but never in his most absurd imaginations had he considered the possibility the German physician had just mentioned. He strained against his straps. His face grew crimson and the veins on his head and arms jutted out as he struggled to exhaustion. He fell back against the steel table, wheezing.

  The blond young doctor’s eyes widened, awe and fear battling for dominance across her face. When Harry fell back, she sighed, wrote in her notebook, and whispered, “Impressive, impressive indeed.”

  She reached out, cautiously, almost shyly, and stroked his face, then his arms, her intensity and passion rising. Her fingers massaged his chest muscles, touching his extremely defined abs, slowing as she slid them seductively across his stomach, finally working their way to his legs. She broke her caress when she saw that her indulgent massage did not bring a single response.

  She stepped back, her lips curled in a sneer. Then she bent over Harry’s head and touched her lips in feigned surprise. “Oh, I almost forgot the most challenging part, for you at least”—she giggled—“will be the new drugs we have developed. We call it vagusstoff. It is an acetylcholine inhibitor. In case you don’t know what that means—and I’m sure you don’t—it’s a drug that enables your nerves to experience every stimulation completely. I’ve used it for my own entertainment, but… you”—she laughed—“won’t have that pleasure.” Her face beamed as though bragging to a celebrated friend. “My own contribution has been to combine it with Anectine. When the cocktail is administered correctly, it gives people the sense they are burning… you can imagine what the combination of total nerve stimulation and burning might accomplish. We have only used it on animals and the lower races; I’m anxious to see how it affects someone of your magnificent bloodline.”