Jak Barley-Private Inquisitor and the Case of the Seven Dwarves

by Dan Ehl

  She continued her glowering while absent-mindedly fingering the partial parchment.

  "There is nothing we can do without the rest of this curse. I suggest you obtain it as quickly as possible," Morganna finally spoke. "The Ghennison Viper Mage who placed this spell must also be aware of our visit. With the fear of us lifting the curse, he may attempt more drastic mischief than just deep slumber.

  "I can easily deal with your trifling Reverian Assassins, but Ghennison Viper mages would sorely test even my powers. I recommend, Master Barley, that you be swift in your retrieval of the spell. I suggest Lorenzo and I wait here while you recover the other half."

  I could hardly believe the witch was obviously admitting she regarded anyone her equal in such arts. But Morganna was no fool. She knew my friend would give her an added advantage. Lorenzo had twice trounced two of the sorcerers.

  Walking to Lorenzo's side, I softly spoke, "Ah, Lorenzo, could I possibly borrow a couple marks?"

  He laughed. "Just tell Klis to put it on my bill."

  I sighed, not about to ask him how he knew where I had gotten the manuscript.

  "Just how did you come upon this curse?" Morgana asked once we were in the witch's coach. "My mother said the mages are a very secretive assemblage and go to great lengths to see such knowledge does not fall into the hands of outsiders."

  "Oh, we private inquisitors have our ways," I answered mysteriously, though she would find out soon enough when we arrived at Klis Klester's manuscript shop. "One has to have numerous connections in the profession, though some are of a sinister and dubious social standings frowned upon by the society you are used to mingling among, I am sure."

  She laughed. "You are so full of bullshit."

  "What? I am full of what?"

  "Bullshit. That is what I heard your friend, Lorenzo, say."

  "About me?"

  "Maybe," she laughed again.

  "I am not sure a young lady such as you should be associating with blackguards like Lorenzo if you are taking up such speech. What will your mother think? She may not want you keeping company with someone who claims such disreputable friends."

  "I am thinking that having such a companion as Master Spasm is a boon with my mother. She seems to be quite taken with him."

  "There is that," I admitted, only partially involved with our conversation. My mind was paying just half attention to our banter. The other half was spellbound by the way her full, sumptuous lips formed their words. There were also a number of other physical attributes fogging my thoughts that I fought in vain to ignore. If only we were not in the coach of a powerful witch driven by a henchman who no doubt would relay all that occurred to his mistress. I could see why Morgana might have trouble finding admirers.

  "Though being a progressive maiden, I am not one to be overly concerned with what my mother thinks," she broke into my thoughts.

  "That may be easy for you to say as her beloved daughter. I believe the same cannot be said for a suitor," I replied in a sincerity I had not meant to admit.

  "So, Jak Barley, you are saying you look upon yourself as a suitor? Am I to believe a self-professed rogue as yourself is--"

  Our conversation was roughly terminated as if by a monstrous hammer. The blow sent the carriage hurtling off its wheels and sending it to drag on its side for a couple dozen feet. Dazed by the impact after being tossed about to finally land in a heap upon Morgana, I felt like a hooked carp cruelly yanked from the water to be slammed to the bottom of a fisherman's skiff.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My first thought was a self-rebuke. For the past two days I had not been focusing on the tasks before me. I could try to excuse my daze on a number of recent dilemmas tossed at me, but the truth was I was being careless. I took a deep breath and resolved to act the professional private inquisitor that I purported to be.

  I untangled myself from Morgana's garb and limbs then struggled to stand in the toppled carriage. I could hear the frightened horses screaming. No time was to be lost. It was a situation where to make a wrong move was still better than to waste a moment in indecision.

  Throwing up the carriage door, I thrust my head into the sultry late afternoon air. I was struck by the dreamlike azure sky and lush green vegetation that bordered the public road.

  "Quick, we need to escape this carriage," I shouted to Morgana as I reached down for her hand.

  I hauled the witch's daughter to her feet then vigorously pulled myself up through the door. Without a glance at our surroundings, I shinnied across the side of the carriage and twisted around to again clutch Morgana's hand. When she was free of the coach, I slid over the side, pulling her with me.

  We fell to the gravel bordering the cobblestone road. Scanning the landscape, I perceived the rough beach along Duburoake's harbor. There were several freighters with sails half furled. They were gliding into the docks where half a dozen ships were already birthed. Teamsters were lined up with their wagons to haul freight both to and from the ships. Just off the public road in the disorder of ditch weeds were the usual castoff items such as shattered wine jugs and weathered cargo crates.

  "I hate people who litter," Morgana's voice snapped me back to our current circumstances.

  "I am sure there is a special place in Hades for them," I agreed.

  I was just now feeling the throbbing in my left shoulder as I pushed myself on tiptoe to look over the carriage. Far above me towered the granite cliffs that retreat inland and mark the abrupt boundary of Duburoake. Closer were the small cottages that signaled the outskirts of the town.

  I was trying not to panic, but it was not without effort. The driver was lying in a disorderly jumble in the middle of the road. The horses, now on their feet, were lunging in panic against their thick leather harnesses. The carriage shuddered each time the pair surged forward.

  I was at a loss. There was no sign of our attacker or attackers. I didn't know if they were preparing another barrage from a ship in the harbor, from an innocent appearing lodge, or from the green veneer of stunted shrubs coating the limestone bluffs.

  "This can only be an assault from Ghennison Viper Mages," Morgana gasped.

  "Great," I replied, still scanning our surroundings and trying to catch sight of anything that could be the source of our assault. "I never thought I would be glad to be attacked by Reverian Assassins. How long until the cavalry arrives?"

  "Cavalry?"

  "Your mother. Doesn't she keep close track of you?"

  Morgana pressed herself against me. I could feel her slim body shivering and I placed an arm around her, only to wince when a sharp throb reminded me of my injured shoulder.

  "My mother has spoken often of these mages. She is obsessed with them, saying not only are they talented in the black arts, but they are master strategists. Who knows what cloaking they are capable of? I would not count upon my mother's rescue."

  "Great."

  I heard and felt her anxious laugh. "I am pleased you find my speculations so heartening."

  There was no close shelter. And what shelter might turn to be the viper's nest? I took a deep breath and considered our plight. The horses had quit their blind lunging, though they continued an uneasy prancing within the confines of the carriage harnesses.

  What force had toppled our carriage, yet left no mark of its blow on the carriage? I thought back to our escape from the tumbled coach. There was no sign of damage to the side of the carriage from which we had exited and where a side blow would have struck.

  Dragon dung! Emerging from my reflections came a completely unbidden thought. I jerked my head upwards, the only direction I had not been scanning. Circling lazily against the faint wisps of clouds was a broad-winged silhouette--one that seemed to be getting larger very quickly.

  Dragging a startled Morgana to her feet, I barked, "How good an equestrian are you?"

  Morgana gaped in confusion, not aware of our danger. It was a rhetorical question. I did not wait for an answer. I spun her, took her by the waist, and
heaved her on to the back of the nearest horse. She frantically scrambled to a sitting position as the spooked team once again began lunging against the harness. I drew my light blade and with a two-handed grip began slicing through the taunt leather straps.

  "Jak, what are you--" was all Morgan could say before the few remaining strips of harness were ripped free and the horses bolted down the street.

  Not waiting to see if Morgana retained her seat, I threw myself backward and rolled until I slammed against the toppled carriage. A sweeping shadow gave but a short-lived forewarning before a deep grunt sounded--forced from a clumsily landing piss dragon.

  I held my sword straight before me in a two-handed grip, still sitting with my back against the carriage. Piss dragons! What in Hades was a piss dragon doing this side of the mountains? Their few scattered populations barely subsist in the far eastern wastelands after centuries of human hounding.

  Do not start getting beast rights on me about dragons. There are swamps, dark forests, and mountain crags in Glavendale still host to a number of horribly insufferable creatures--and humans still defer to their right to exist.

  Take Direpoodles Forever, a society formed to protect the few remaining prehistoric canines. Even though these ferocious beasts sporadically descend from the Xaveian Mountains to devour the unfortunate cow, goat, and even occasional peons, Direpoodles Forever is dedicated to preserving the species. They even forced through a limited hunting season and create food plots for the monstrous fiends--usually rabbit warrens or pygmy moose fens.

  Yes, maybe the hunting members of Direpoodles Forever are more driven by the exhilarating expectation of killing an almost extinct quarry than the specie's actual long-term survival, but the point is that even bloodthirsty direpoodles are still grudgingly tolerated in Glavendale. Not the piss dragons. That right there ought to tell something about their nasty nature.

  The purplish mottled beast straightened its legs and stretched its serpentine neck to where its small head weaved in tight, spastic circles four or five feet above me. Only a quarter of the weight of its more common relatives, the piss dragon makes up for its lack in girth with an insane ferocity, oversized talons, and dagger-like fangs--all which at this moment seemed aimed at me.

  Keeping one hand tightly gripping my sword hilt, I slowly pressed the other to the ground for balance as I pushed myself to my feet.

  One should always watch the eyes of an adversary as they often foretell their owner's next actions. The piss dragon's gyrating head made such counsel difficult to follow. By now the beast should have struck in its well-known need for immediate gratification. Instead it was almost toying with me like a griffin playing a trapped cat.

  I barely processed the distant sound of human cries and fleeing hooves as fellow highway travelers came upon this mini-drama. It was then I realized the hypnotic effect the piss dragon's swinging head was having upon me--just as it struck.

  I had fallen enough under the creature's spell that I had not partially brought my sword back in preparation for a swinging blow. Instead, I gripped my blade in an ineffectual stance, tip straight out as if to parry another blade. I threw myself sideways and the beast's head struck the tipped roof of the coach with a resounding crash. The piss dragon shook and wrenched its head from the breach.

  A skillful warrior would have used those few precious seconds to snap to his or her feet and bring their blade down upon the vulnerable neck. Being a private inquisitor, I was only moderately familiar with swordplay and my reflexes only honed to the level expected of someone who spent their idle hours on a tavern stool rather than a practice field--though I was an acknowledged master of Kimchi, an ancient martial art utilizing only the thumbs.

  As it was, I found myself scrambling to my knees and crawling hurriedly around the corner of the carriage; a temporary move since the piss dragon had only to stretch its neck over the toppled carriage to bring me back into its view.

  This time I was ready and swung my sword in a desperate panic. I felt the gratifying impact of the blade against the piss dragon's neck for a brief instance before the blade was jerked from my hands. The piss dragon let loose with an ear-numbing screech as it wove its head back and forth with an even more frenzied pulse. The sword was now lodged several feet above my head in the beast's neck.

  A piss dragon's narrow head is tiny compared to the rest of its scaly body, but not small enough that its fanged jaws could not snap off one of my arms or haul away a good sized chunk of my shoulder. It made to strike at me several times, but jerked back halfway through the lunges as if in pain. The blade in its neck was obviously hampering its movement.

  It began clumsily circling the carriage where it could more easily attack me. Graceful in the air, all dragons are lumbering beasts on the ground. Its kite-like wings were held stiffly upright and folded against its body. Thick, dark red blood spurted from its wound.

  I took a chance the piss dragon was in no condition to take to the sky where it could easily swoop down upon me. Pushing myself away from the carriage, I leaped onto the cobblestone road and began running. There had to be another word for my mad dash. I have run before, but never in this all-out flight that had my legs frantically pumping, arms madly penduluming, and my mouth wide open gasping for breath.

  Several times I imagined I could feel its fetid breath on my neck. I could certainly hear its unwieldy gait close behind. It took all my resolve not to look back as I ran down the roughshod street, nearly tripping several times as my strength began leaking from my body like fat from a punctured sausage on the coals. My lungs burned. I felt sick with exhaustion. I stumbled to my knees and hands.

  I weakly rolled about to a sitting position so I could at least face my demise with some dignity. My gaze met a dark lump some hundred feet behind me. The sword had finally taken its toll.

  It was some minutes before I could again regain my feet. I wearily retraced my flight and with shaking hands, drew the sword from the piss dragon's neck.

  "My gods, what have we here?"

  I was so dazed by the ordeal I had not heard the approach of one of the Baron's highway guardsman; a knavish looking lout with a mean face and shaved scalp. He was wearing a scowl that I was willing to wager was just as much part of his professional appearance as his uniform. The eyes of his horse were wide in panic and it was breathing roughly at the scent of the pooling piss dragon blood.

  Young constables are usually miscreants; once the schoolyard bullies that society should most be on guard against. Yet here they now are, the werefoxes guarding the pixie eggs. Many mellow with age, but from the looks of this one, he would just advanced to a more malevolent plane.

  The highway guardsman was taking in the bloody sword and disheveled figure before him with a disdainful lift to a corner of his mouth. I am sure my unkempt long hair made him think that I was one of the destitute who make their homes under bridges and abandoned edifices.

  "You cannot do this sort of thing on a public road," he chided me.

  "What kind of thing?"

  "This kind of thing," the pinhead snapped as he waved at the piss dragon's corpse.

  I immediately took a dislike to his demeanor.

  "Why not?" I asked innocently.

  "Eh? What do you mean, 'why not?' You just cannot do this sort of thing on a public road. Look at the mess you have caused. That thing will soon be putrefying and creating a public nuisance."

  "You are absolutely right. You better get this cleaned up right away."

  His head, which reminded me of a chomping turtle, snapped about to firmly place me in his reptilian glare.

  "Whom do you think you are jesting with," the guardsman spoke softly in what I'm sure he believed to be in an even more intimidating tone of voice.

  "What?"

  "What do you mean, 'what'?"

  "I mean, what did you say? I cannot hear you when you are mumbling," I answered.

  "I am not mumbling," he all but screamed.

  "Good, I can now hear you,"
<
br />   He paused, trying to regain his composure.

  "You were asking if I knew to whom I was speaking," I tried prompting him.

  "You said you could not hear me."

  "I could not."

  "And yet…." He then abruptly stopped, grasping the conversation was going nowhere. I was hoping that upon this realization, he would not resort to smacking me with the torch attached to his belt. They really hurt.

  He switched tactics. "Let me see some identification."

  By now I was feeling pretty good. My nerves were calming and I was coming to terms with my encounter with the piss dragon.

  Yes, I had clumsily bumbled that brief encounter, but I was alive and the piss dragon was highway kill. Yes, piss dragons are not noted for their cleverness, but they are vicious. Since no one had witnessed the encounter, I was free to omit the panicked flight. It would look very nice to include it as a reference in the next "Who Is Who in Private Inquisiting" tome. How many other private inquisitors could boost of single handedly slaying a piss dragon?