Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Four seconds.

  Sweat prickled his brow.

  Three.

  Finger from shoulder to knee…

  Two.

  He crouched and swooped, turning the page with his free hand as his body swept close to the earth.

  “You’re not getting lucky again! No one else will die because of your witchcraft, boy!”

  One.

  Tamos grabbed Jack’s elbow just as he finished the final manoeuvre. In one swoop, he twisted the teenager’s arm hard behind his back. Jack felt a knee hit the back of his thigh and he crumpled. He winced, struggling to squirm free.

  “Get off me!” he cried, suddenly aware of the strength weighted against him. His voice cracked.

  Despite being almost seventeen, Jack still wore the gangly limbs of an adolescent which offered him false confidence. He swung his free fist behind his head, catching the elf awkwardly on his helmet. Tamos laughed. Jack tried again but with the same result, this time grazing his knuckles. The third time he swung, his fist plunged into open air and yet, for some reason, he heard the elf yelp.

  At once, the pressure in his shoulder slackened and he fell to all fours. Whirling, he glanced up. The elf was caught in a whirlwind of violence, grappling with a hefty labourer. It was a neighbour of his, Mr Ramsworth. Normally a wordless man who happily left conflict to the village councillors, he was beating down Tamos like he’d caught him stealing his sheep.

  Brave, thought Jack. Very brave. The magic! It worked.

  There had been no flash of light this time. No indication of a reaction in the air or a shift in the weather. Now that he noticed it, though, he could see evidence of its effects everywhere. Villagers who had felt terrified were now charging back into the square brandishing rakes and sickles. Others were barricading alleyways and dismantling log stores to look for weapons.

  He looked at his shaking hands. They were missing something. The book. Scrambling on all fours, he located it several feet away. His feverish fingers grabbed it. Then a boot landed on them.

  “Ow!” he howled.

  “Get up and fight, boy!”

  Jack looked up and realised his attacker was considerably less elven than he imagined.

  “Papa?” he said.

  His father’s soot-covered fist slammed into the side of his head before he managed another word. Recoiling, he rolled to an upright position, not entirely sure what had just happened.

  “What was that for, Papa?”

  “My enjoyment!” came his father’s reply. He swung again but this time Jack was ready. Ducking under the brick of a fist, he scooped up the Booke of Spells and dodged another attack.

  “What are you doing? Fight them!” he said.

  “I’ll fight whoever I w–”

  Mrs Hemp – a shrivelled old lady who baked the best cookies in the village – slammed into Jack’s father, head-butting him square in the nose. He fell onto his back screaming as she followed up her ambush with a hailstorm of scratches to his face.

  “What!” Jack peered at the book in his hand. He shoved it into the back of his trousers then scanned the village square.

  He was wrong. Yet again, he had messed up. It was obvious now. The villagers were brave, sure. But on closer inspection, they weren’t coordinated against a common enemy. It was every man and woman for themselves. Whatever the spell had done, it wasn’t helping. If anything, it had turned six enemies into hundreds, all fighting each other.

  Stopping their bid to fetch their possessions for the invaders, the Wilderfolk – innocent farm hands and laymen – had started an all-out brawl. Fighting the elves. Fighting each other. Some were even hitting themselves. Even the giant monsters weren’t safe. The villagers were jumping onto them like jackals.

  Amidst the terror, Jack caught sight of the princess in chains. Her ragged hair covered her face as the monster holding her prisoner tried to defend itself. She was screaming but was powerless to shake herself free of her restraints.

  Jack’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll save you, Miss!” he called, hurdling a couple grappling on the ground.

  Seeing him coming, the monster roared and swung one of its gargantuan claws. Jack fell back and tripped over his own feet. The creature didn’t come for him, though. It was too distracted by the onslaught of the villagers’ mass attack. Clambering to his knees, he slid the now warped Booke of Spells out of his belt.

  “Drop that book, you cluckwit!” screamed the princess. Her eyes exploded with regal fire. “I’d rather get eaten!” Spitting her hair out of the corner of her mouth, she fought feebly against her reins. “Seriously, get out of here! You’ve turned everyone into psychos. Point that books at me one more time and – so help me – I’ll ram it up your–”

  “Arrest that boy!”

  Jack’s head snapped sideways, struggling to focus on anything now. He felt light-headed – hollow – the same way he did after a long stint in his father’s forge. Was it the magic? Everyone else had become a psychopath. Had he hexed himself, too? He had no idea. What he did know was that Tamos had regained his bearings and was heading his way. He didn’t look happy.

  “I’ll come back for you,” Jack called over his shoulder, already scrambling out of sight. “I promise!”

  “I’d rather you didn’t!” the princess called back.

  In that moment, he couldn’t say he blamed her. She was right; he was a cluckwit. Despite that, he was smart enough to realise he’d get nowhere if he stayed out in the open without a weapon. He needed time to think. Or, better yet, he needed advice from someone who knew what they were doing.

  What’s a hero without his mentor?

  Chapter Three

  Jack’s idea carried him to the top of the hill at the far end of the village. There, he hurdled a garden fence into a small allotment. Accidentally kicking cabbages aside, he reached a shabby door and knocked three times.

  The sound of a chain being drawn across the wood and a stiff bolt being jimmied confirmed that the person he wanted was at home. The door opened part-way and a head appeared in the slit.

  “What do you want?” said the old man with a hoarse voice.

  “Oh good, you’re not affected.” Jack paused, catching his breath. “Help, Mr Propp. I need help. You’re a mentor, right?”

  “Mentor?”

  “Yeah, you teach teenagers how to be heroes.”

  The man’s eye rolled in the dark. “Not this again. Go away, lad. You’re barking down the wrong burrow.”

  The door swung shut but stopped suddenly before closing all the way. Jack grunted.

  “Get your foot out of my door before I snap it off!”

  “Look,” Jack said, emboldened by his self-surprising display of backbone. “I know how this works; I’ve read all the Old Sagas. The young hero goes to the mentor asking for help, the mentor turns him away because he’s retired, or traumatised by the loss of a previous apprentice, or whatever. Then something happens to the mentor and the hero bursts into action, surprising him enough to win him over. I’d love to go through that process, I really would, but there isn’t time.”

  “Forget it, lad. I’m no mentor.”

  “Listen to me! The village is under attack! Some guy called the Scarlet Overlord has sent law keepers to take our treasures. Six elves and a handful of these big, ugly things. Monsters, they are, all teeth and pink skin. They’re–”

  “I can’t help you. Now, good day.”

  The door slammed again. This time Jack barred it with two open palms. A bolt of pain shot up his wrists. Frustrated, the old man decided on a different tactic. Flinging the door open, he launched onto his front step, surprisingly lithely for a man of his age. He loomed over Jack, chest puffed out, his fog-coloured beard filling the space between them.

  “Stand back. Now,” he warned.

  “But–” Jack was leaning back, squirming under the larger man’s stare.

  “Just because I’m a lonely, old man and I have a beard, that doesn’t mean I’m som
e sort of hero-maker. You know what you are? Ageist!”

  “But Angelo said you trained him to–”

  “Angelo? That boy’s an idiot. My grandson, yes, but still an idiot. He believes he’s come sort of Chosen One. I didn’t train him to do anything. I get him to move wardrobes and paint fences whenever he visits. If he gleans some other meaning from doing chores for me then good for him. Honestly, you young boys and your ridiculous ideas about changing the world. I don’t know where you get them from. Back in my day–”

  “But you were a warrior, weren’t you?”

  “Not exactly. I served as a chef in the White Sorcerer’s army.”

  “A cook?”

  “A chef… There’s a difference. And anyway, I’m retired now. Sorry, but if you’re looking for someone to teach you how to wield a sword, I’m not your man.” The old man paused and then looked over Jack’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

  Jack spun and followed Mr Propp’s gaze. Down at the square, a fire had broken out. A pillar of cottony smoke billowed from the epicentre of the chaos.

  “It’s a long story,” Jack said. “The villagers are fighting back.”

  “Fighting back? They didn’t just hand over whatever these law keepers wanted? But… that goes against tradition!”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault.” Jack flashed his Booke of Spells. “You see, I–”

  “Woah!” Propp leapt behind his door. “Don’t wave that thing around, boy!”

  “What? This? But it’s just–”

  “It’s not just anything. Where did you get a thing like that?”

  “Found it in the woods.”

  “You steal it off a traveller?”

  “What? No! I told you; I found it in the woods. It was green with lichen but I cleaned it up well. No idea how long it’s been there.”

  A distant scream told Jack the riot had spread from the square. He could already imagine the wave of enraged villagers tramping up the hill. Within minutes, they could be at the front gate, stomping all over Mr Propp’s garden.

  “They sound angry. What did you do?” The old man’s feathery eyebrows knitted together in the middle of his brow.

  Jack shifted from one foot to the other, fiddling with the book’s spine. “I cast a spell.”

  “A spell? Which spell? Be specific.”

  Jack shrugged. “Dunno. Bravery, I think.”

  “You think? You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, do you? Don’t you know magic is dangerous, lad? You could’ve killed someone!”

  “I’m starting to work that bit out.” Jack winced, and tried not to think about Angelo’s crumpled body. “So, can you help me fix it?”

  Propp shook his head. “I’m no trained magician, sorry. I can barely train my dog Wet Nose, never mind a boy.” He pointed at a scruffy mongrel chewing its tail behind him in the cottage.

  “Fine!” Jack hoisted the book in front of his face. “I’ll manage myself. After all, if I did it once, I can do it again. I just need time.”

  “Ha! Time! And you think five minutes will be enough?”

  Jack lowered the book below his eye-line and asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Magic isn’t something you can learn in an afternoon,” explained Propp. “I watched the White Sorcerer practicing every day for over a decade while I dropped off his lunch. He was a hundred and forty-seven and was still practicing hard. The steps, the language, the feeling – everything has to be just right. If it were as easy as you make it out to be, don’t you think everyone would be a master magician? No, it’s… Have you read the Old Saga about the Xao Tao monks?”

  “The Tongue Fu masters?”

  “Exactly. They took ten years just to teach newcomers the basic principles of Tongue Fu. And, even then, faced with battle, the majority forgot everything they learned. Not everyone’s tongue becomes a deadly weapon capable of disarming an attacker.”

  “But I’m–”

  “Different?” Propp snorted. “Every kid from here to the High Mountains tries martial arts at some point. Most never keep it up long enough to become anything more than a whirlwind of drool and flailing limbs. It takes a lifetime to become a master. Magic is the same.”

  “Uh-hu.” Jack turned over a page, distracted. “A lifetime. Got it. In that case, I won’t try to lick them to death.” He folded the corner of a page entitled The Brain Melter before skipping ahead. “What I need is something impressive? Something to scare the law keepers, a big flash or something?”

  “Oh gods,” Propp groaned. His eyes flicked towards a cobbled path he had built the previous summer. The din of rioters was growing closer. Soon, he realised, they would be on his doorstep. “Where’s Angelo?” he asked.

  “Down at the square. He’s… er… busy,” Jack lied, burying his nose deeper into the Booke of Spells to hide his reddening cheeks. He glanced up at Propp to catch his reaction but was relieved to see that the old man hadn’t yet peeled his gaze away from the brow of the hill. “I doubt he’ll be visiting soon.”

  “Hmm,” Propp mused. Spotting his broken cabbage patch for the first time, he eyed the damage with annoyance then gave one last lingering stare past the tree at the border of his property. “They’re coming,” he whispered to himself. “Two minutes at best.”

  “Aha! Instant Apocalypse. Just add water. That sounds pretty simple,” Jack chirped.

  “And messy,” added Propp.

  Not listening, Jack placed the book on the ground and cracked his knuckles. He fidgeted with anticipation, slowly thinking his way through the moves. There was no time to browse any more pages. If Propp was right, he had just over a minute left to come up with something.

  “Lad, you don’t want to do that.” Propp moved behind his door. “Pick up the book.”

  “I have to do something. They’ll be here in a min–”

  “I said pick up the damn book! And come inside while you’re at it. The last thing I want is some godforsaken mercenary tearing up what’s left of my herb garden.”

  “But the Scarlet Overlord’s law keepers are–”

  “Just doing their job.” Propp pounced from behind the door. “And they’re probably getting short-changed for it, too. What you’re doing is madness. It’ll get everyone killed. Is that what you think a hero would do?”

  “Well… I,” Jack faltered.

  “I’ve seen that spell in action once before. If you manage to pull it off, those soldiers won’t be scared away. They’ll die. And that’s if you do it right.”

  Jack gulped and withdrew his hands. “What happens if I mess it up?”

  “You ever stepped on a slug?”

  Jack felt the colour drain from his face. “Yeah.”

  “Well let’s just say that slug could beat you in a beauty contest if you get it even slightly wrong.”

  “But… I need to fix this.”

  “And you will, but not this way. Not with anything you’ve read in that book anyway. It’s a book of Dark Magic. No wonder you’re not thinking straight.”

  “Dark Magic?” Jack frowned. A dagger of anxiety twisted in his intestines. “What are you saying?”

  The old man sighed. “I hate to break it to you, lad, but by picking up that book, you’ve contaminated yourself. There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just come right out with it… Lad, you’ve cursed yourself. You’re one of the baddies.”

  Chapter Four

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Having followed Mr Propp into his dark lounge with its flagstone floor and small, open hearth, Jack sat in an old, leather armchair. He slid the Booke of Spells through his fingers and withdrew into his own head, chewing the end of his thumb nail. Wet Nose – Propp’s toffee-coloured terrier – nudged his head into Jack’s lap but he pushed away the dog which, insulted, skulked past a set of bookshelves into a back room.

  Ignoring Jack for a second, Propp stood at his living room window, inspecting the path outside from behind the curtain. Only whe
n he was satisfied that they weren’t about to be interrupted by a foot booting the front door off its hinges did he relax and perch opposite his young visitor.

  “You haven’t started sniffing the pages yet, have you?” he asked. “I hear that’s the first sign you’re addicted to the book’s power.”

  “No!” Jack lowered it from his face.

  “I realise this is a lot to take in,” Propp said.

  “It is,” Jack confirmed. “Or, at least, it would be if I believed you. There’s no way I’m infected with Dark Magic. I’m not evil. I’m going out of my way to stop evil. Now, the Scarlet Overlord – he’s evil.”

  “Is he?” Propp raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever met him?”

  Jack hesitated, then shook his head.

  “I thought not. Jack, good and evil aren’t as simple as they seem in the Old Sagas, you know. Bad people do good things and pure hearts become misguided. When I worked for the White Sorcerer, practically all his enemies considered him pure evil.”

  “And was he?”

  “Oh, without a doubt. He murdered thousands of people and bathed in their blood.”

  “It doesn’t really paint a great picture of anyone when you use war metaphors like that.”

  “That’s not a metaphor. He literally bathed in their blood.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know. Odd habit, but he did have exceptionally smooth skin. Look, my point is, he wasn’t bad to his men. Yes, he was a tyrant. A war criminal. But, to us, he was just Old Whitey – our boss. We thought our purpose was just, and we were getting paid. Everyone was happy. Except our victims, obviously. I mean, everyone’s a villain to someone but a hero, spouse, or parent to someone else. These Overlords do bad things for good reasons. Like your little mistake. I mean, it’s bad but nobody’s died, right?”

  Jack gulped. “Uh, nope… Not at all. Oh, I suppose Mayor Tusk is a little bit dead.”

  “Tusk is dead?”

  “Yeah. Not because of me, though. One of the elves’ monsters ate him. So… this Dark Magic thing? It can be changed, right?”