Old Dogma New Tricks (The Elven Prophecy Book 2)

by Theophilus Monroe

  Once the bus arrived at the stop nearest my apartment, I ran as fast as I could. First things first.

  If Brag’mok had some kind of bug in my car, maybe I could let him know what was going on. He might be able to help.

  I pulled my keys out of my pocket and clicked the fob to unlock my Mitsubishi, which still sat in my usual parking spot in the back of the pub parking lot with four flat tires.

  “Brag’mok,” I said. I took a deep breath. It felt a little strange talking to some kind of bug that supposedly existed. “I need to talk to you. Something has happened, and I don’t think I’ll be able to help you until it’s resolved. But I need your help. And this time, just come to my apartment or something. I’d rather not meet you on the bus. I’m sick of the bus. Someone slashed my tires, you know.”

  I cleared my throat. I didn’t know how much sense I was making. I was rambling. I tended to do that when I was anxious.

  No sense waiting in the car.

  When I walked into the apartment, Agnus was sitting at the door, waiting for me.

  “About time you got home,” my cat said.

  I sighed. “I had to take the bus. Do you know anything else? Did Layla tell you more about what I should do while she’s doing whatever it is she’s doing?”

  “Nothing,” Agnus said, head-butting my shin. “There was a knock on the door. Some elf dude was there. He told her that her father had been assassinated and there was a struggle for control. And Hector was suspected to be responsible. He was trying to claim the throne in her absence.”

  I sighed. “They want to make her the queen?”

  “Hell if I know,” Agnus said. “But the elf priest didn’t want to see Hector or whoever they think is Hector in charge.”

  “It can’t be Hector,” I said. “You were there when he died. You saw his body turn to dust, right?”

  “That was what we thought we saw,” Agnus equivocated.

  A loud thud on the door startled me. “I wonder if that’s Brag’mok?”

  I checked the peephole. All I could see was a massive chest, so it probably was. I opened the door, and, sure enough, Brag’mok stood in my hallway, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

  “Thank God you came,” I said.

  “I know a little about the affairs on New Albion. Do you have some time to chat?” Brag’mok asked.

  I nodded. “Of course. I’d offer you a place to sit, but—”

  “Never mind it,” Brag’mok said as he ducked even lower and walked in. He barely fit through the doorframe.

  “I’m sorry, Brag’mok. I can’t do anything to close the gate. Not until Layla gets back.”

  Brag’mok nodded. “I understand. Nonetheless, my need remains what it was until my brother is given the proper rites.”

  “It hurts,” I said. “I get that.”

  “But you are right,” Brag’mok said. “The situation on New Albion is volatile. I’ve been in communication with our prime minister.”

  “Prime minister?” I asked. “You have a parliamentary government?”

  “We borrowed the system from what you would call Old Albion or Great Britain. Our people, like the elves, have studied your world. Not so we could take it over, but so we could defend it from the elves if need be.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “Upon King Brightborn’s return, his request that the elven priests revisit their interpretations of the prophecies in the light of all that had happened was met with resistance.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Our intelligence network is extensive. There are friends of the giants even amongst the elves. Many do not agree with the former regime’s plans to conquer this world.”

  “So King Brightborn was assassinated. I mean, aside from the fact that Layla just lost her father, from a political standpoint, that’s a good thing, right?”

  Brag’mok shook his head. “The revolution against the king was of his own making. They believed he’d gone soft in the wake of his daughter’s entanglement with a human. When he suggested the priests consider what it might mean if the chosen one was a human, it caused outrage.”

  “And Layla is going back into that climate?” I asked.

  Brag’mok nodded. “Presumably, she’s going to support the faction that would see her inherit her father’s throne. Since the revolutionaries want to see her family’s dynasty replaced by Hector, you can be sure she’ll fight for whatever’s left of the establishment.”

  I sighed. “So if she becomes queen, she might not come back?”

  Brag’mok shook his head. “I do not know. But if the prophecy binds you two together, I should think she would come for you one way or another, either to bring you back to New Albion with her should she succeed in ascending to her father’s throne, or she would come back to you if the revolutionaries have their way.”

  “And the matter with B’iff at the source?” I asked.

  “It might be wise that we table that matter for the time being. I would like to see my brother put to rest, and it is no small pain to see this issue delayed, but we must do what must be done.”

  “So what do I do in the meantime?” I asked. “Layla said I should train, but I don’t know where to start, other than to keep going to the gym.”

  “I cannot go to your gym. It is best if I remain in the shadows. But you should continue to do what she told you. And if you like, I can teach you orcish combat.”

  “Orcish?” I asked. “I thought you found that term offensive.”

  “We do not like to be called orcs,” Brag’mok said. “We are giants. The word ‘orc’ to us is what ‘barbarian’ might be to you. In terms of combat, it describes an old, primal style of fighting that we giants still use today.”

  I snorted. “So, you’re going to teach me to fight like a primal giant?”

  Brag’mok nodded. “That is what I know.”

  “One question,” I asked. “How much of the style depends on brute strength and size? Will I be able to master it without those assets?”

  Brag’mok smiled wide. “Even the weakest of creatures who master this art are fierce in battle.”

  “Good,” I said. “Because you’re about to teach the weakest person you’ve ever met how to fight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Hit me as hard as you can,” Brag’mok directed, bracing his core and clenching his fists. The breeze fluttered through the single tuft of black hair he’d tied like Poppy’s pinker version in Trolls. We didn’t have access to a boxing ring, not even a dojo, so a clearing in the woods in the middle of St. Louis’ Forest Park had to do. It was early enough on a Monday that the only people we were likely to encounter were morning joggers.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “How can I teach you to fight if you won’t even throw a punch?” the giant asked.

  I sighed. “Just don’t hit me back.”

  “How can I teach you to fight if you do not learn to block a strike?”

  “Your fist is the size of my head,” I said. “If you hit me—”

  Thump!

  Right upside my head.

  Another thump.

  This time, it was my body hitting the ground.

  “Dude!” I shouted. “Concussions are real.”

  “You will heal,” Brag’mok assured me.

  “I can’t use magic to heal myself!” I protested. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then I will heal you,” the giant nodded confidently.

  I sighed. “Not if you kill me.”

  “I’ve killed before. I know what I’m doing.”

  I wobbled as I got back to my feet, still dazed. “Why don’t I find that comforting?”

  “If you don’t want to be hit again, learn not to be.” Brag’mok nodded self-assuredly.

  I took a deep breath. Brag’mok’s way of training someone to block a punch was akin to how my father had taught me not to drown. No, I didn’t learn how to swim when he tos
sed me into the lake without warning. All I figured out was how to kick my legs furiously and barely keep my head above water…and to avoid being near both my father and a body of water at the same time.

  After this, I’d be heading to the gym. Thankfully, unlike Layla, Brag’mok couldn’t hide there. He wasn’t just massive. The greenish-brown skin and oversized lower incisors overlapping his upper lip made it much more challenging for him to blend into human society than it was for Layla. All she had to worry about was hiding her ears, and even then, at places like the gym, most people didn’t give them a second thought. It was becoming a regional trend because of the Elven Gate cult.

  “Now hit me back,” Brag’mok said.

  “What the hell is this teaching me?” I asked.

  “Just do it.”

  I clenched my fist, reared back, and struck him in his rock-solid abdomen. The giant didn’t flinch.

  “Again,” Brag’mok said.

  I shook my head. “Do you even feel that?”

  Brag’mok nodded. “I feel it.”

  “Sort of like when a fly lands on your skin?” I asked. “Probably feels like I just threw a cotton ball at you.”

  “More or less,” Brag’mok confirmed. “Try to make it hurt.”

  “I don’t know if I can hit harder than that.”

  “Focus your mind. You have magic, do you not?”

  I sighed. “But using magic for war… Isn’t that the reason your planet is running out?”

  “This is not for war,” Brag’mok said. “It is to end the war.”

  I shook my head. “Said every person ever who led an army into battle. Always the battle to end all battles.”

  “But you will not throw your fists, using magic or not, in order to win a war. You will only do it to protect your world. To save your elf. Such reasons are not beyond the purview of what the Earth’s magic is meant to accomplish.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you saying that the Earth will examine my motives?”

  Brag’mok huffed. “The Earth is a mostly peaceable place, is it not? It provides you air to breathe and its soil nurtures crops, so it feeds you, too. But the Earth can strike back. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Extreme temperatures. Such things are not acts of vengeance, nor do they occur because the Earth wishes to kill you. But they are a part of the Earth’s mechanism to defend and protect itself.”

  “So, you’re saying I should strike like a hurricane?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “That sounds like something a boxer would say.”

  “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” Brag’mok agreed.

  “How do you know that phrase?” I asked. “I think I learned it from playing Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out on my Nintendo.”

  Brag’mok cocked his head. “We have butterflies on New Albion. And we have bees.”

  I cocked my head. “And you just happened to put those things together in a metaphor that corresponds precisely to the one I learned from a video game?”

  “It was Muhammad Ali,” Brag’mok said. “He was the one who said it first, and we’ve studied your world’s most influential persons. But now, you can harness the power of the butterfly and the bee. You can draw from the well of nature, Earth’s magic, and hit me.”

  “What good is that going to do if we have to go to New Albion to rescue Layla?” I asked. “If there isn’t much magic and the elves there are more proficient with it than I am?”

  “First, who said we were going to have to go to New Albion? Did she tell you to prepare yourself to rescue her?” Brag’mok asked.

  I shook my head. “Well, no. She wanted me to keep training.”

  “She said she’d be fine,” Brag’mok reminded me.

  “But you’re the one who told me if she went back there, if I told her the truth about what you wanted me to do at the wellspring, she’d be in peril.”

  “That was before the situation with the elves changed. Before the revolutionaries assassinated the king,” Brag’mok said.

  “And you think they’re going to be any kinder to the king’s daughter, who is the heir-apparent to the throne that they’re trying to usurp?”

  “The upheaval in the elven kingdom will work to her advantage. Unless she attempts to assert a claim on her father’s throne, chances are that no one will even notice she’s returned.”

  I cocked my head. “Then why did she go back?”

  “I cannot say,” Brag’mok said. “I have no intelligence on the matter, which is probably a good thing. It means that so far, her return has gone unnoticed.”

  “I just hope she’s okay,” I said, staring into the distance, watching the trees' limbs wave in the wind.

  “Hit me,” Brag’mok said. “Focus all your worry, all your anxiety, into the punch.”

  I bit my lip. “I thought I was supposed to clear my mind?”

  “Clear your mind of distractions, but focus on how you want your magic to manifest. A punch is an act of aggression. Focus on the emotions you’d channel into that.”

  I took a deep breath. I thought about Layla. I felt helpless. I hated feeling like I needed to do something but not knowing what I could do. I hated that I was training for what might amount to nothing, but I had to in case the fate of the world depended on my physical fitness. Most people worked out to lose weight. To be more attractive to potential love interests. To reverse diabetes or improve their overall heart health. But I was working out to save the world.

  Usually, when I’m pressured to do something, it motivates me, but that only works to a point. Once the pressure becomes crushing, I freeze. I had that pressure, combined with the temptation to gamble on the possibility that one way or another, we’d close the gate. If we did that, I wouldn’t need to fight. I could go back to eating Twinkies and frozen pizzas without any sense of guilt. I had mixed feelings about that, too.

  If Layla came back, it probably meant she’d failed to stop the coup for her father’s throne. I couldn’t imagine she’d make it back, at least not for any reason other than to say goodbye if she succeeded. Then I could do what Brag’mok wanted: retrieve B’iff from the source and close the gate.

  My relationship with Layla had progressed quickly. Maybe too quickly. Faster than you’d think it would, considering that I hadn’t been in a relationship since my divorce. Now, it felt like I was about to lose her. Not because we’d fallen out of love, not because we decided to end it, but because of some elven bullshit. Because the ghost of an elf I was sure had died had shockingly killed the elf king. It was all too much. Hector, besides being dead, had been one of the former king’s most loyal subjects. But was his loyalty to the king’s person or to the elven dogma he felt had been violated by my fulfillment of the elven prophecy?

  I was pissed that there wasn’t anything I could do. I was ticked off that I didn’t understand what was going on. I was furious that Layla had left without telling me face to face what was happening before she went.

  I channeled all those feelings into my fist and threw it at Brag’mok.

  The giant went flying, struck a large oak, and crashed to the ground.

  “Shit!” I shouted, running to Brag’mok. “I told you I didn’t want to hit you!”

  The giant stood up, wobbling as he tilted his head. “Good punch, human.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “My bones are strong and my skull is thick. I’ll be fine. Remember how that felt. I will meet you back here tomorrow.”

  “All right.” I couldn’t help but notice that the giant still hadn’t recovered his balance. “You sure you’re fine?”

  “I’ll survive,” Brag’mok assured me.

  “Do you have a place to go until tomorrow?” I asked.

  “I’ve found a few places to hide. Again, human. I’ll be fine. If you need me once again, you can speak to me from the confines of your car.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was strange walking into the gym without Layla at my side. I felt like a fish out of water. With Layla here, I ju
st did whatever she told me to do. Now, I stood staring at the gym floor, unsure of where to start. She had me on a schedule, working certain body parts each day. We’d had a leg day. I still wasn’t over the last one. We did chest the day before. I was pretty sure that today was supposed to be back day. What the hell do you do to work your back?

  Chin-ups, maybe? I mean, that’s a lot of arms, but I think it works the back, too. Forget free weights. Maybe I’d just focus on the machines. They had little pictures showing what muscles they were supposed to work. Maybe I could just do all the back machines and call it a day.

  Then there was a hard thud on my back.

  I turned. Jag was staring down at me, smiling.

  “Ready to crush it?” Jag asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, if only I knew what to do.”

  Jag smiled wide. “That’s why I’m here. I didn’t think you’d show.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Why you’re here? I figured you were just here because don’t you live here?”

  “Almost,” Jag said. “But your girlfriend called me last night.”

  I bit my lip. “Let me guess. After eight o’clock?”

  Jag nodded. “I thought she was looking for something on the side. No offense, but a man with some girth if you know what I mean.”

  I stared at Jag blankly. “Why would you think that?”

  “Never mind,” Jag said. “I’m just fucking with you, little man. She asked if I could train you.”

  “Fuck,” I said, laughing to myself. Not just because she’d signed me up for personal training without consent, but because he’d just called me “little man” with a straight face. “Of course she did. And how much did she offer to pay you?”

  Jag shrugged. “She said she’d pay me with favors.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I said. “Really, how did she say she’d pay you?”

  “She said you had a credit card.”