by Simon Hawke
Brewster stared thoughtfully at the broken-up mineral lumps he'd dropped. He reached down and picked them up again.
Mick stared at him with a puzzled expression. "What's that you've got there, Doc?" His eyes grew wide when he saw what Brewster had picked up. "Faith, Doc, and 'tis just clay!"
"Not clay, Mick," Brewster replied. "Bauxite."
Mick frowned. "Box-ite?"
Brewster smiled. "Yes, Mick, bauxite." He glanced around at the sloping ravine. "And it seems as though we've got a plentiful supply."
"I don't understand, Doc," Mick said, still puzzled.
"You will," said Brewster. He clapped the leprechaun on his muscular shoulder. "Mick... how'd you like to learn how to make aluminum?"
CHAPTER FOUR
As Teddy the troll dragged the hapless, screaming prisoner across the floor, Warrick stood watching with his arms folded, frowning in concentration. It was difficult to concentrate with all that screaming going on, but he was getting used to it. What he wasn't used to was the frustration that he felt.
Each time a subject was strapped into the device, and Warrick spoke the spell that activated it, there was a crackling of energy and a peculiar stench, followed by an annoying clap of thunder that had a tendency to break all the glassware in the sanctorum, and then the subject disappeared. Thus far, nothing Warrick had done had succeeded in bringing any of the subjects back, consequently, there was no way of knowing where they had disappeared to.
Warrick stood back from the device each time he activated it, and when the process was complete, he approached it once again and cautiously glanced inside, where he could see that some of the symbols displayed upon the control panel of the time machine had changed mysteriously, but he had no idea what any of it meant.
"Control panel?" said Warrick, frowning. "What is a control panel?"
Teddy paused in his task of strapping in the struggling prisoner and glanced at his master uneasily.
"Were you talking to me, Master?" he said.
"No," snapped Warrick irritably. "Get on with your work."
"Yes, Master," said Teddy, with an apprehensive glance up toward the ceiling.
"Noooo!" screamed the prisoner as Teddy strapped him in. "No, please! Don't! Don't kill me, Master Warrick, please, I beg you! I'll do anything, anything, I swear it!"
"Oh, do be quiet!" Warrick said, with an abrupt, sorcerous gesture toward the prisoner. The prisoner jerked as if struck, then fell unconscious. Teddy finished the task of strapping him in and hastily backed away from the machine. It frightened him, not only because everyone he strapped into it kept disappearing, never to be seen again, but because Warrick himself hesitated to come too close to it. And anything that made Warrick nervous made Teddy doubly so.
"It does not make me nervous," Warrick protested.
"What, Master?" Teddy asked.
"I am merely exercising proper caution," Warrick said.
"What, Master?"
"I was not speaking to you, Teddy," Warrick replied.
"Ah. Sorry, Master."
"My wand," said Warrick.
Teddy simply stood there, staring at the time machine with nervous anticipation.
Warrick cleared his throat. "I said, my wand."
Teddy remained motionless.
"My wand, you misbegotten wart hog!"
Teddy jumped, startled. "Oh! Forgive me, Master, I thought you were speaking to the one you call the narrator again."
He hurried over to the table to fetch his master's wand while Warrick sighed heavily and shook his head. "You are making my life very difficult, you know," he said.
"I am sorry, Master, I do not mean to," Teddy said, handing him his wand.
"No, not you, Teddy, I was speaking to the narrator."
Teddy bit down on a hairy knuckle. This whole thing with his master speaking to the invisible narrator all the time was making him very uneasy and confused. He was starting to develop a nervous tic. Not to mention the effect that it was having on the narrator.
"Well, 'twould make matters a great deal easier if you were simply to tell me what I wish to know," said Warrick.
"And what would that be, Master?" Teddy asked.
Warrick rolled his eyes. "Not you, Teddy, the narrator!"
"Oh. Sorry, Master."
"And stop doing that!"
"Stop doing what, Master?" Teddy asked.
"No, Teddy, not you, the narrator! I was speaking to the narrator! Each time I address a comment to him, he makes you reply, thereby avoiding the necessity of answering me."
"He makes me reply? You mean, I am being con-trolled?" asked Teddy, glancing nervously from side to side and wringing his hairy hands with concern.
"You see? He's done it again! Now cease, blast you, and face me like a man! Teddy, leave us alone."
The little troll hesitated uncertainly.
"No, you don't," said Warrick. "Teddy, go to your room. Now."
"But, Master...."
"I said, go to your room! At once, do you hear? And none of this hesitating nonsense. I will send for you when I need you. Now come along. And before the little troll could think to reply, the wizard took him by the arm and walked him to the door, opening it and urging him on through, then closing it behind him."
That was sneaky.
"You left me with no other choice," said Warrick with a crafty smile. "And none of this cutting to another scene business, either. I'm wise to that game."
All right. You win. For the moment. So... what is it you want?
"You know very well what I want. I wish to know the secret of the time machine," said Warrick.
Now you know perfectly well I can't tell you that. You already know a great deal more than you're supposed to. If you start finding things out in advance of the plot, you're really going to screw up the story.
"That is your problem, not mine," Warrick replied.
There was a loud knocking at the door.
"Forget it," Warrick said. "I'm not falling for it."
The knocking was repeated, louder this time.
"Sorry, 'twon't work," said Warrick. "You can put a squad of men at arms with battering rams out there for all I care. I am not budging from this spot until I receive an answer, so you might as well give it up."
Warrick yawned. He suddenly felt extremely tired. He'd been a long time without sleep and-
"Stop that," Warrick snapped. "I am not tired and I will sleep when I am damned good and ready."
In spite of himself, he felt his eyelids growing very heavy. He could barely keep them open. He-
"Oh, no, you don't! Warrick wasn't in the least bit sleepy. He suddenly felt a fresh, invigorating burst of energy and the narrator realized that 'twas pointless to resist. Despite himself, he felt the immeasurable strength of will the wizard brought to bear upon him and he felt irresistibly compelled to do the sorcerer's bidding."
No, he didn't.
"Protesting vainly, the narrator nevertheless felt his will weakening in the face of Warrick's power. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to tell the sorcerer the secret of the time machine, who made it, and where it came from, and where-"
Without warning, the narrator typed in a space break and cut to another scene.
Sean MacGregor and his three henchmen dismounted in front of the roadside hostelry and tavern, and not a moment too soon, either. They were dusty from riding all day and the small hostelry looked like a good place to spend the night. The wooden sign hanging over the door identified the hostelry as The Dew Drop Inn, which testified to the fact that cliches not only withstand the test of time, but cross its boundaries, as well.
There were several horses tied up outside at the rail and, by the look of them, they did not belong to peasants. Their tack was not only lightweight and functional, to facilitate fast traveling, but well-made and expensive, as well. Sean MacGregor did not fail to note this as they tied up their own horses and went inside. The three brothers went in first, making a beeline straight for th
e bar. MacGregor stopped just inside the doorway and looked around.
It was a simple, country roadside inn, with planked wood flooring stained by years of spills, a rough oak bar ringed with the circular stains of wet mugs of ale being placed upon it, and a roaring fire in the hearth, over which hung a large black kettle in which stew simmered. The tables and the benches were all made of heavy, rough-hewn redwood; the better to withstand the occasional disagreement among the patrons.
The man behind the bar was large, ruddy-faced and heavily bearded, with shaggy brown hair that was liberally streaked with gray. He looked quite capable of taking care of any trouble, despite his years, and his face bore the disinterested, noncommittal expression of a man who'd seen most everything at one time or another. However, he wasn't the one who caught MacGregor's attention. Mac was far more interested in the group of men sitting together at a table in the corner, near the hearth.
While Hugh, Dugh, and Lugh were interested in nothing more than quaffing copious quantities of ale, MacGregor took a long look at the men huddled together at the corner table. And they, in turn, took a long look at him, as well. There were six of them, and they were a rough and surly looking lot. Several of them had scars upon their faces and all of them had shifty eyes. They were all bristling with weapons, too. MacGregor saw one of them spot the Guild badge on his tunic and nudge the others.
A pretty, young, dark-haired serving wench was busy filling several plates of stew on a wooden tray, which she then proceeded to carry over to the group in the corner. She did not fail to notice MacGregor as she crossed the room, for Mac was a rugged and good-looking man whom pretty, young serving wenches invariably found attractive, as this one apparently did. She gave him a coy look and an inviting smile, which he returned. He took a table on the opposite side of the room, where he could have a clear view of the others, and left the three brothers to their chug-a-lugging contest. A moment later, the serving wench came over to him.
"Welcome, good sir," she said, with a dazzling smile, which is a required attribute in any pretty, young serving wench. It goes with the long, flowing hair, the dimples, the clear blue eyes, and the saucy wiggle. "And what would be your fancy on this fine evening?"
The way she said it suggested that she might not necessarily be referring to anything on the menu, which was probably just as well, as menus hadn't been invented yet. This was hardly a five-star dining establishment and the deal was that if you didn't like whatever was simmering in the pot, then you were pretty much left with whatever was fermenting in the keg. Either way, Sean MacGregor wasn't particularly choosey, at least not when it came to food, although he did draw the line at eating spam.
"My fancy on this evening would be a bowl of your fine stew, a tankard of good ale, and that twinkle in your eye, my love, together with your smile, which is nearly sustenance enough all by itself."
Now a line like that would normally produce a rather pained expression in the average modem waitress, and possibly even a tart rejoinder, but that's only because the fine art of courtly flirtation has, unfortunately, become outmoded. Chances were, however, that even a modern waitress would have reacted favorably to such a line coming from a man like Sean MacGregor, because he was a fine, dashing figure of a man, indeed, rather like a cross between Errol Flynn and Sean Connery, with a bit of Harrison Ford thrown in, and his delivery would have had Shakespearean actors calling their vocal coaches in despair. The knives in the crossed bandoliers didn't hurt, either.
"Why, thank you, kind sir," the serving wench replied, blushing prettily. "I do believe we have at least a bowl or two of stew left in the pot, and of the ale and the rest," she added with a wink, "you may drink your fill."
"Have a care, my love, I am a very thirsty man," MacGregor replied with a grin.
"Then I shall make every effort to see your thirst is quenched," the serving wench said, gazing directly into his eyes.
Ah, well, you just don't hear dialogue like that nowadays, unless you hang out with the Society for Creative Anachronism. Personally, I think it's the clothes. Lines like that simply don't play when you're wearing jeans and polyester. However, put on a rough-out leather doublet, some tight breeches, a pair of high, swashbuckling boots, and buckle on a blade or two, and the next thing you know, you'll be declaiming like Scaramouche. Unless, of course, you're rather dim, like Mac's three apprentice henchmen, who couldn't turn a phrase if it had power steering. They were already on their third pitcher, and trying to see which of them could belch the loudest.
"What is your name, my love?" MacGregor asked.
" 'Tis Lisa, good sir. And yours?"
"Sean MacGregor," he replied. "Tell me, Lisa, those men over at the corner table, have you ever seen any of them about before?" .
"Why, no, they are all strangers to me," she replied. And then she grimaced. "And a rather coarse lot they are, too."
"They haven't been giving you any trouble, have they?" asked MacGregor with a frown.
"Not really, but I have seen their sort before," said Lisa. "Mostly, they have been asking questions about some men they're seeking."
"What men?"
"Three men, they said, who were traveling together. One tall, with a long face and dark hair, one of medium height and balding, with a fringe of light-brown hair, and one with dark-red hair and a beard, who doesn't speak."
"Indeed?" MacGregor said. "And have you seen such men?"
Lisa drew closer. "Truth to tell, I do remember three such men who stopped here once," she said, "but I have told those buzzards nothing, for their rudeness and coarse ways."
"And it serves them right, too," said MacGregor. "Tell me, Lisa, when those three men were here, did they by any chance while away the time by playing chess?"
"Funny you should ask that," Lisa replied. "I do recall it, for they seemed upset that one of their game pieces had been lost. They asked me if I had a thimble they might borrow, so they could use it in its place."
"Would you know, by any chance, if it was this piece they were lacking?" asked MacGregor, removing the carved wooden knight from his pouch.
"Why, yes, I do believe 'twas a knight," said Lisa. "I heard two of them arguing about it, each blaming the other for its loss. Were they friends of yours, then?"
"Not exactly," said MacGregor, "but I am most anxious to make their acquaintance. Thank you, Lisa. You have been most helpful. And very charming, to boot."
"And you are a shameless flatterer, Sean MacGregor," she replied with a smile.
"I only speak the truth," he replied.
"Why is it that I think you only speak it rarely?" she responded with an arch look.
"Because 'tis true," said MacGregor. "You see? I am completely honest with you."
She laughed. "Go on with you."
She went over to the bar to draw a tankard of ale, giving a wide berth to the three brothers, who were beginning to have some trouble making a connection between the rims of their tankards and their lips. She brought the ale over to MacGregor, then went to get his stew. As she crossed the room, one of the men sitting at the corner table got up from his bench and sauntered over to MacGregor's table, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
"I see you wear the badge of the Assassin's Guild," the burly stranger said. He was a big man, powerfully built, with long brown hair hanging to his massive shoulders. His steely gaze flicked from MacGregor's face to the badge on his tunic, and back again. "And I also see it has a star upon it. Unless it be a counterfeit to impress pretty serving maids, that would make you Mac the Knife."
"My friends often call me Mac," MacGregor replied, "but I fear I do not know you, sir."
"The name is Black Jack," the stranger said. " Tis a name that is well-known in certain quarters."
"Indeed? And whose quarters would those be?" MacGregor asked innocently.
"You seek to mock me, sir?"
"I seek only enlightenment," MacGregor said.
"Well, then, perhaps you would be so kind as to enli
ghten me as to your business in these parts?"
"I fail to see where my business is any of yours," MacGregor replied.
"Well, then perhaps this will improve your vision," Black Jack replied, drawing his sword with lightning speed and holding its point to MacGregor's throat.
Mac remained seated, calmly gazing at the man before him. He did not even glance down toward the sword point held at his throat. The three brothers remained slumped over the bar, oblivious to what was going on behind them. The tavern keeper merely watched, his face expressionless, but Lisa gasped and dropped the bowl of stew that she was bringing to MacGregor. Her hand went to her mouth in alarm.
"I believe I see your point," MacGregor said calmly, taking a sip of ale. " Tis a bit too close for comfort, I might add."
"If I do not receive an answer very soon, the discomfort is liable to increase," said Black Jack, pressing home his point ever so slightly.
"Well, in that case, I suppose that I had best oblige you," MacGregor replied. "My business is with a client who has employed my services to seek out certain individuals."
"By any chance, would these be three individuals?" asked Black Jack while his companions watched intently from across the room.
"Perhaps," replied MacGregor, taking another sip of ale.
"And would one of them happen to be tall, with dark hair and a long face?"
"Perhaps," replied MacGregor, once again.
"And would another happen to be of medium height and balding, with a fringe of brown hair?"
"Perhaps," replied MacGregor, for the third time.
"And would the third happen to have dark-red hair, with a beard, and have been never heard to speak?"
MacGregor calmly sipped his ale. "Perhaps," he said, yet again.
"In that event, perhaps we seek the same three individuals," said Black Jack, his sword point never wavering from MacGregor's throat.
"Perhaps," MacGregor said.
"And since there is a handsome bounty on those individuals, which my friends and I hope to collect, perhaps it would be in my best interests if I were to eliminate any potential competitors. And if such a competitor happened to be the number-one-ranked member of the Assassin's Guild, then perhaps it would only add to my reputation if I were to dispatch him."