Finn slumped to the floor in the darkness. Owen stepped into the stall and sat beside Finn for a long time before saying, “He was a good dog.”
Finn’s chest shook, but he held in the sobs, taking a shuddering breath. I’m never going to cry again. “Now all I’ve got left is Pip.”
Owen punched Finn hard in the arm.
Finn’s anger built, but the hurt look in Owen’s eyes made him pause. “What?”
“You’ve still got me.” Owen pointed at the other kids. “Us.”
Finn fought back the tears, and a frown mixed with hope spread across his face. “I guess we’re still almost brothers.”
Owen smiled, then Finn punched him in the arm.
The other children came into the stall and surrounded the two boys. They all fell asleep on the moldy hay, sleeping like a litter of puppies.
The pounding rain on the roof finally stopped, but water dripped down into murky puddles.
“Riders on the road,” Nagel whispered.
Owen and Finn crept out of the stall where the children huddled together in the darkness.
“Too late to run.” Nagel barred the doors with a plank. “Boys, close the back way.”
Finn and Owen quickly finished their task, returning to find Nagel had loaded his crossbow and unsheathed his greatsword. The big man’s eyes were nearly invisible in the darkness, and he kept peering out a crack in the barn doors, watching the riders come ever closer. Finn stared into the night through a knothole at six riders bearing torches.
“What do we do?” Owen asked.
“Tell the little ones to be quiet.”
Owen held up a pitchfork. “We can help.”
Finn raised a stout ax handle.
“Damn Tarnite orphans,” Nagel grumbled.
Six horses stopped outside the barn. In the torchlight, Finn saw Shaggy-beard with a bloody cloth around his head. The red-haired man pointed at tracks in the mud. Two men rode to the rear of the barn and Red sent another man—a skinny fellow with a hooded cloak—to the front. Skinny held an ax in one hand as he sloshed through the mud, then peered into the barn.
Nagel plunged his sword through the gap between the doors. The tip pierced the man’s gut. Nagel yanked the sword out and Skinny fell into a puddle clutching at his belly.
When Skinny stopped moving, Red and Shaggy-beard circled the barn and spoke with the other two horsemen. They argued. Finn heard Red say, “We took coin from Sir Maddox. We deliver tonight or he’ll have our heads on pikes. He’s probably after us already.”
Thunder boomed in the distance as two men approached the rear, while three came at the front, all on horseback.
Nagel handed his crossbow to Finn. “Aim, then pull this lever here. Wait until he’s close.”
Finn nodded, intimidated by the size of the weapon and wondering how to hold it. Nagel sent Finn and Owen scurrying away to hide, and pressed himself into a shadowy alcove.
The slavers tossed ropes over the handles of the barn doors and used their horses to tear them open. They dismounted and marched into the barn with torches held high, each carrying a club or ax. Nagel leaped to attack, his greatsword arcing toward the slavers. Red and the other two men jumped back, recoiling from Nagel’s slashing blade. Shaggy-beard came from the rear and checked the stalls, getting closer to where the children huddled together. The kids screamed when he appeared in the doorway.
Finn stood in front of the little ones, squinting in the torchlight. He scowled at the grinning slaver and thought about his dead dog. Shaggy-beard sidestepped out of the way just as Finn pulled the crossbow lever. The bolt thunked into the chest of the other slaver as the recoil sent Finn tumbling backward.
Riding Nagel’s horse, Owen burst out of a stall and charged Shaggy-beard with a pitchfork held like a lance, yelling as he attacked. The slaver dropped his torch to ward off the blow. One of the tines pierced Shaggy-beard’s hand as Nagel’s horse knocked him down.
Finn screamed and rushed out of the stall with the ax handle held over his head in two hands. All of the children followed him out, makeshift clubs in their hands and feral screams erupting from their lips. They descended on Shaggy-beard and pummeled him mercilessly.
Smoke and flickering orange light made Finn stop hitting the slaver’s bloody skull. Flames erupted all around them where the torches had been discarded. The rear of the barn was engulfed in a rapidly spreading fire.
“We’ve got to get everyone out!” Owen shouted to Finn as Nagel’s horse bucked and screamed. Owen jumped onto a pile of hay as the horse sped out the front of the barn, past Nagel and Red.
Finn and Owen herded the children as the flames swept along the floor of the barn and up into the loft. They stopped near the entrance where two slavers lay dead, gruesome gashes across their bodies.
Red and Nagel still faced each other, the slaver staying beyond the reach of Nagel’s sword. Red held the blade of a throwing knife in one hand and an ax in the other.
Nagel could barely stand, a knife handle protruding from each of his thighs, and another in the center of his chest. A cut across the right side of Red’s neck appeared to be his only wound.
Finn and the other children reached Nagel as the big man fell hard to his knees, still holding up his sword. Finn and Owen flanked the Bloody Barber, brandishing ax handle and pitchfork. Nagel coughed and the tip of his sword hit the dirt. Bright red blood leaked out of his chest. Finn reached for the knife.
“Leave it.” Nagel shook his head.
Smoke billowed around them and Red backed out of the barn, a content grin on his face as Nagel fell backward. Finn and Owen tried to ease him down, but the big man was too much for them and he fell hard.
Nagel whispered to Finn, “Take my razor. Hide it. Then cut that bastard’s throat when he falls asleep.”
Finn took the folded razor out of Nagel’s hand. “I will.”
“When he’s dead . . . get the children back to Ryeland,” Nagel whispered. “Protect them all. The Deacons want you there. Especially you two boys.”
Finn shook his head. “But we’re nobody.”
Nagel managed a gurgling laugh. “I’m nobody. An orphaned bastard from Tarn who became an unworthy servant of the Deacons. But you’ll both be knights in the Order of Saint Mathias. The Deacons told me that.”
Finn and Owen exchanged wide-eyed glances. Knights? Impossible.
“Now get out of here and let me die in peace.” Blood leaked out of Nagel’s chest.
“But you’ll burn to death!” Finn urgently grabbed onto Nagel. “We’ll drag you out.”
“No. I’ll be dead before the fire comes. Now go.”
“We’ll pray for you.” Owen’s lips trembled.
Nagel pressed his greatsword into Owen’s hands.
“Go!” Nagel commanded as he coughed and choked on the blood filling his lungs.
Sad at leaving Nagel behind, Finn helped Owen lead the children out of the burning barn.
The slaver waited as horses galloped down the road toward them. Red grinned at the children after staring through the darkness at the incoming armored warriors. “Look! Sir Maddox comes for his slaves. There’s nowhere to run.” The slaver smirked at the children. “That big man was a fool to steal you from me.”
“Shut your bloody mouth!” Finn lunged, but Owen held him back.
“Sir Maddox will cut your tongue out for that.” Red turned as the riders emerged from the darkness. “Sir Maddox! I have your slaves.”
The leader galloped toward Red and drove a lance through the slaver’s chest. Red splashed into a puddle, gasping, “But . . . I . . .”
Finn knelt down and put a hand over Red’s mouth, then slowly cut his throat.
Shadowy horsemen in full plate armor ringed the children, helms down, faces hidden, lances and swords drawn.
Owen lifted Nagel’s sword, his small hands around the massive hilt. The knight who lanced the slaver dismounted, drew his longsword, and faced Owen.
Bloody razor in his
hand, Finn stood shoulder to shoulder with his best friend.
“Yield.” The knight commanded, his voice muffled by his helm.
Owen’s arms trembled, barely able to hold up the heavy sword. “Never,” both of the boys said in unison, as Finn helped Owen lift the sword.
The other children stepped forward, some with clubs, others with rocks to throw at the shadow-cloaked knights.
“Go back to Tarn!” Finn shouted.
Laugher erupted from the riders and many raised their visors. The dismounted knight took off his helm and stared at Finn and Owen, his steely eyes and scarred face revealed in the growing firelight. “Tonight we’re headed to Ryeland.” The knight’s eyes softened. “I’m Sir Gregory. The Deacons sent us to find you. Now I understand why.”
The barn fire raged higher; in the burgeoning light Finn saw emblazoned on their shields a Celestrian angel raising a silver sword. Overpowering relief made Finn’s strength fade away. The greatsword fell as Finn realized the horsemen were knights in the Order of Saint Mathias.
Finn and Owen stared at the burning barn. Celestrian knights stood guard as Owen drove Nagel’s sword into the mud, then gathered the children for a silent prayer.
Finn wiped his eyes, telling himself it was the smoke from Nagel’s pyre that made them water. As he thought of Nagel’s sacrifice a new path for his life suddenly opened before him. He turned to Owen and looked into his friends clear blue eyes. “Someday, I’m going back to Tarn—as a knight. I’m going to find my mother and sister.”
Owen put his hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Brother, you’re not going back alone.”
A lump caught in Finn’s throat. He knew they would always be there for each other. No matter what. Until the day they died.
“Let’s get you all home.” Sir Gregory motioned to the horses.
“Not yet.” Finn unfolded Nagel’s razor and splashed water from a puddle onto his hair. “There’s something the Bloody Barber would have wanted.” With slow strokes, Finn shaved his head clean as tears streamed down his face.
THE QUEST
Donald J. Bingle
“Incoming!” yelled Ian over the commando headset as he dove for cover beneath the burned-out shell of an enemy troop transport. The electronics gear the members of the squad wore dampened the volume of the warning to keep the micro-speakers in the ear buds from cracking, but the static-punctuated shout was still loud enough to induce several winces as the squad reacted. Carmen, Dweezer, and Gabe hit the ground hard, rolling into the nearest bomb crater or depression they could find. Lucinda spun in place and threw her hands upward at a sharp angle, energy coursing between her outstretched fingertips, waiting to be discharged. As her green eyes searched the smoky haze that passed for sky on this godforsaken world, the others assumed the position: legs tucked up to protect their torsos, fingers interlaced behind their necks to protect their spinal cords, and helmets tilted back to perform the same function, as their faces pressed into what they hoped was mud on the ground below them.
They did not see the hint of a smile that flickered over Lucinda’s countenance as she found her target arcing toward the squad from a battered redoubt in the hills before the distant fortress. “It’s only a time-delay fireball,” she called out as her fingers danced, directing the energy they held toward the sphere of red, fiery plasma that descended in a shallow, yet ballistic-defined trajectory toward them.
The flattening of the fireball’s flight path was due to the .83 Earth gravitational ratio of this hellhole of a planet, Ian knew, as he risked a peek at the unfolding scenario. He realized it was safer to cover his eyes; the light-blast of an explosion, or even the flash of a successful magical countermeasure, could affect his night vision for hours to come, but he wanted to acquire an instinctive feel for the rate of fall-off on missiles in this world. Besides, he loved to watch Lucinda in action, using her arcane knowledge to save their butts, allow the squad to reach their objective, and advance yet another level toward ultimate victory.
Ian’s quest for battlefield smarts meant that he was the only one who saw the look of sudden shock in Lucinda’s eyes as the energy radiating from her fingertips reached the rapidly descending death from above and fritzed and fizzled across its surface, neither slowing nor deflecting it a bit.
“Oh my God!” muttered Lucinda, as she stood transfixed by the approaching annihilation. “It . . . it’s . . . magic resistant.”
Ian could hear the thuds of his heavy boots pounding on the dirt beneath him before he even consciously realized he was running toward Lucinda. Then there was silence, except for the rush of air, as he leaped toward her, engulfing her in a bear-hug tackle that would have constituted an ejection-worthy personal foul in any sporting league in any society anywhere. He did not roll in the air to take the punishment of hitting the ground himself, but instead remained on top, slamming her into the far bank of a small ditch that ran alongside the road, knocking the breath from her lungs as her ribs compressed and he felt one crack.
The fireball detonated at the same moment as Ian and Lucinda hit the ground, a blast of compressed plasma expanding from the impact point to levitate the intertwined comrades for just a moment before slamming them again into the side of the ditch as the fire ignited the back of Ian’s clothing and sprayed his neck with the mystical equivalent of burning napalm. Ian clutched Lucinda fast for several seconds until the wave of dancing flame had passed, then leaped up to his feet, automatically extending a hand to help his injured comrade up.
Lucinda looked at the outstretched hand of assistance in apparent disbelief, batting it away with her right hand as she jerked herself painfully into a sitting position, resting on her left elbow.
“You’re on fire, moron!” she shouted, the over-peaking static of her protest over the com gear causing the rest of the squad to finally look up from their positions of cover. “Drop and roll, idiot! Drop and fucking roll!”
Ian, always the gentleman, stared at his own proffered hand in dazed confusion. Was Lucinda angry? Had he hurt her badly when he tackled her? Who was she yelling at? Despite the heightened reaction time afforded by his adrenaline-soaked state, he was bewildered, dithering. Maybe something in the impact or the blast had bollixed up his logic and command-processing facilities. He started to look around to assess the situation and find out who Lucinda was still screaming at, when he noticed the oily, black smoke curling around his chin line and the sudden sensation of heat from behind.
Oh, yeah, there was this incoming fireball and . . .
Lucinda clipped him on the back of his knees and he collapsed like a tower of Jenga pieces, hitting the edge of the small ditch and rolling down its mud-slicked side until he landed in the pool of slime-covered water at the bottom with an audible hiss. As his thoughts cleared, he saw the rest of the squad looking down at him, laughing and pointing. Gabe’s arm was casually draped around Carmen’s waist. Dweezer was practically doubled over with guffaws. And Lucinda was clutching her ribs.
“Stop looking so stupid,” she protested. “It hurts when I laugh.”
“Your ribs?” said Ian with obvious concern in his voice. “Dweezer, stop laughing and cure the lady,” he continued, his voice taking its more accustomed tone of command.
“It’s not just my ribs,” said Lucinda playfully, as Dweezer began a healing incantation. “It’s you, Ian. You’re so damned chivalrous on the battlefield, you made me snort Diet Dr. Pepper out my nose.”
Ian rolled his eyes and muttered “Time out, everyone,” over his headset before thumbing the button on his controller to “pause.” The feedback sensors in his incredibly sophisticated, expensive gaming chair immediately began to cycle down, replacing the sensations of the battlefield with the sensations of sitting in his den. The cameras on his console and the sensors in his gaming glove powered off with an audible click, leaving his avatar frozen in time on the plasma gaming screen. The rest of the squad froze in place as they did the same at their own far-flung locations.
Ia
n toggled the switch on his headset to out-of-game communication mode. “Guys,” he began (he always called them guys even though Carmen and Lucinda were definitely of the female variety), “we’re never going to take the fortress and bump up to paragon level if we don’t take things more seriously and work as a group.”
“Hey there, flame boy,” chided Dweezer, “we all did what we were supposed to when someone shouts ‘incoming.’ You’re the one being all noble and stupid and setting yourself on fire.”
“You really have got to get over the whole damsel-in-distress mentality,” complained Carmen. “Lucinda had it under control, I’m sure.”
“My wife is correct in every way,” chimed in Gabe, as if on cue. Gabe and Carmen were newlyweds, just approaching their first anniversary.
Ian shook his head, then realized that with the game’s tracking gear turned off, no one could see him doing that, so he verbalized his sentiments. “No, Gabe, she may be wonderful and charming and, when I finally meet her in person, I’m sure I’ll find her to be beautiful and sexy, but she is definitely not correct in every way. In the first place, she married you, which makes her judgment questionable. In the second place, I didn’t tackle Lucinda because I’m a male chauvinist. I did it to save her life. Didn’t you hear? The fireball was magic resistant. She was startled and she choked. The fireball would have vaporized her if I hadn’t knocked her below the equator of the powerblast.”
“Uh . . . no,” Lucinda retorted, with just the hint of an edge to her normally subdued voice. “I mean, I was startled, but you don’t honestly think that I went into this battle without magicking myself with ‘blast resistance’ do you? I’m not some first level sorcerer’s apprentice, you know.”
“Oh,” was Ian’s only response.
“It’s probably just as well the spell doesn’t protect from melee attacks or I would have held as firm as a redwood when you did the whole macho bullshit flying tackle thing and the fireball blast would have twisted you around my rock-solid, yet comely and curvy, torso like a piece of newspaper around a parking meter.”
Fellowship Fantastic Page 3