“And who are they?” asked Krull, leaning forward atop his advancing monstrous steed.
“The Seven Maidens.” Atlas straightened his back and stood tall and proud as a soldier. “It is by their will that I stand between you and this poor child.” He gestured to Michelle. “It is their power which I wield in my hands.” He held up his sword above his eyes. The blade lit up with blinding, glorious white light.
The beast men shrieked and howled as they shielded their eyes and recoiled from the overwhelming glare. Even Krull threw up his arms over his face, hissing out a few curses, his dark steed rising up and bucking and kicking under him.
To Michelle it seemed like Atlas was holding a small white star in his hands, warding off the evil spirits gathered around him and driving them back into the dark holes they crawled out of.
Atlas thrusted his sword toward Krull. “Behold! Maiden’s Soul—forged from the seven souls of Ordin’s chosen—the sword that shall extinguish your dark flames.”
The light slowly died and the sword returned to its normal state.
Krull regained control of his winged horse with a forceful yank of the reins. He glared at the cloaked swordsman for the longest time, as if he was trying to grasp the gravity of his words.
Michelle hoped Krull would believe them and retreat back to the castle empty handed with his slaves. She hoped for too much.
It took a while for the chimera slaves to recover, but recover they did, regaining their courage once they heard their master’s cruel cackle.
Krull’s wicked laugh bellowed over the desert. “You?” He thrusted his finger at Atlas. “An old man? Ordin’s anointed knight? Senile fooooool!” He swiped at the air before him. “Nothing more.”
“If that’s so, then what are you waiting for?” asked Atlas through a thin smile.
Krull’s arrogant bravado shattered with the old swordsman’s question. His horse paced impatiently and he shifted in his saddle nervously. “Such insolence,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Truly thou art mad. But mad or not, from one knight to another, I give you a choice. Honor demands it.”
Atlas scoffed. “Honor?”
“Retreat and leave the girl to us. Do this and I shall spare your life today.”
The beast men advanced on Michelle and Atlas, thrusting their knives and cleavers into the air and chanting in primitive muddled voices: “Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!”
Atlas bared his teeth. “What would a dog who chases down little girls know of honor?”
“The choice is yours, Marauder,” said Krull, stalking forward atop his steed with his lance aimed at the old swordsman’s heart. “But I should warn you. You are standing in the eye of the storm—move an inch and you’ll be dead.”
The chimera slaves started jumping up and down like excited children. “Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!”
Michelle swung her arms around Atlas’ leg and hugged him with all her strength—clinging to him as if she was a kitten terrified of getting wet.
Atlas had to pry her off. He pushed her away.
She locked eyes with him—shocked to find his eyes teary and filled with rage. Not toward her but for her.
“Stay,” he commanded her with a whisper.
She nodded.
“My choice was already made long ago.” Atlas stepped past Michelle and took a fighting stance, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, Maiden’s Soul raised and blazing blue. “Now come, I ain’t gettin’ any younger.”
“Bah,” Krull roared. “So be it. Die where you stand!” With a whip of the reins his horse charged, flapping its wings and snorting out puffs of furious air.
Atlas parried the speeding lance with the edge of his blade. Sparks flew and the sound of sheering metal rang out. He shoved the lance away and rushed in to close the gap between him and Krull. From a distance, Krull had the advantage. Speed, mobility, and reach. But one weakness: after each pass and missed strike—for a precious few seconds—the battle became a contest of close combat. Atlas slashed his sword at the winged horse—aiming to bring it down. He came up short.
With a powerful flap of its wings, the steed leaped up and over Atlas and into the air—and kept on running. It was if there was an invisible bridge beneath the beast’s hooves leading up to the heavens. Krull circled above Atlas like a shark in blood tainted waters—laughing and swooping in, now and then, to stab at Atlas with his lance. It was obvious Krull was just as aware of his weakness as the old swordsman. Now, in the safety of the sky, he could use his long weapon to its fullest advantage, striking without ever flying low enough to be within a sword’s reach.
Michelle looked on along with the cheering and clapping beast men. They had all but forgotten about her, their primitive minds focused on the fight. She watched carefully too, to learn what it meant to be strong.
Atlas parried and dodged each of Krull’s strikes well enough but even so he was still stuck on the defensive. It was only a matter of time before the old swordsman grew tired and faltered.
But despite this truth, it was Krull who was the first to fall prey to impatience.
Michelle could see it in the increasing sloppiness of each new stab and failure. Atlas was calm and collected, moving only as much as he had to. Krull, on the other hand, was cursing under his breath, his frustration coming to a boiling point.
She rose to her feet—her fear shrinking with Krull’s rising temper. This fight will be over soon. Don’t blink, Michelle, or you’ll miss it.
“Cursed old fool. Why won’t you just die?” Krull blasted out the question.
Atlas parried another blow. “You can’t win, demon.”
“Oh? Delusional and mad, I see. I have the high ground. This fight belongs to me.”
“You’ve never lost a battle, have you demon?” asked Atlas, his hood and cape flapping in the breeze. “I can tell. Those who have never tasted failure can never truly understand what it means to struggle, to persevere against all odds, and still hope. I have lost many battles—foul creature—yet here I still stand. A small light in the shadow. Waiting patiently for my time to shine.”
Krull scoffed as he dove in atop his winged horse. “Ha! Patience is for cowards not brave enough to act. Fortune favors the bold.” He sped toward Atlas, aiming his lance, now shrouded with dark aura, straight for him. But at the last moment he shifted his aim and plunged the lance into Atlas’ shadow. He caught the tip of the old swordsman’s cloak and drove it into the sand, pinning him down.
Atlas dropped his sword and fell to one knee.
Krull laughed. “Fooool! I got your shadow! You’ve left your guard down and now you won’t be able to—huh?”
Atlas grabbed hold of the lance and glared up at Krull. “You think you’re the first shadow master I’ve fought?” He rose to his feet, pulling the lance out of the sand and off of his cloak—the purple fabric not even sporting a scratch.
Krull struggled atop his winged horse to break his lance free of Atlas’ grip—but it was no use. The old swordsman’s strength was monstrous. “Inconceivable. Your cloak. How could my blade not pierce—Ahhhh!”
Atlas roared and, brandishing all his strength, brought them both down like a sledgehammer. Krull tried to unhook his lance and kick his feet free from the iron stirrups of his saddle but there was no time. Once the heavy horse teetered over, head over hooves, gravity did the rest. They crashed in the sand before Michelle’s feet.
The beast men scattered the way barn mice do in the sight of an owl and fled back into the forest.
Krull squirmed under the weight of his dead horse, trying to worm the lower half of his body free. “Worthless cowards,” he screamed at his fleeing slaves. “Come back and lift this dumb beast off of me!”
Michelle retrieved Maiden’s Soul from the sand and gazed down at the strange sword in her hands. It was lighter than she expected and cool to the touch, despite reflecting off the hot desert heat. She felt Atlas’ large hand fall upon her shoulder.
“The struggle isn’t over yet, little one,” said Atlas.
She brushed her bangs from her eyes, wiped away the sand from her face, and peered up at him.
“You have a choice to make. Will you vanquish your fears, here and now, or keep running from them forever?”
She nodded, turned, and walked back over to Krull.
Krull was still wiggling under his horse—finding little luck in his efforts. He finally noticed Michelle when her shadow loomed over him. “You there, girl… something or other… Lillian, was it? Never mind. Your name isn’t important. Just hurry up and get this—” That’s when he spotted the sword in her hands. “Is that… why are you…”
Michelle showed him her death scowl.
Krull let a nervous laugh slip. “What’s with that face? Wait, you aren’t still mad at me for killing your parents, are you? Oooh, crap-baskets. Ummm, Jessica, was it? No? Natalie? Why am I so bad with names? Look, I’m sorry, all right. From the bottom of my nonexistent heart. Believe me, it was nothing personal. I was only doing my job—”
She raised Maiden’s Soul and took aim. “So am I.”
Krull’s jaw dropped with a shriek of terror. “Wait!”
Michelle drove the sword right through Krull’s gaping mouth and out the top of his skull. His flames went out like a snuffed candle and his boney face caved in, crumbling to bits of bone fragments. The shadows melted away before her feet and Maiden’s Soul lit up brighter than ever before, basking her face in a white glow.
Atlas stepped to her side. “I think she likes you.”
Michelle’s pale gray eyes were mirrored back in the double-edged blade, eyes without fear.
The old swordsman laughed. “Some girls have all the luck.”
***
A stream of bullets zipped over Michelle’s head—ricocheting off the metal dumpster past her, shattering the window above, and chipping away the brick wall of the alleyway in a snaking cloud of red dust. The twirl of two machine gun cylinders and the sound of the cascading shell casings bouncing off the asphalt echoed off the surrounding buildings. Her boots splashed the brown, slushy puddles as she made her mad dash for the corner. Jon was just behind her, firing back over his shoulder at their pursuers with two six-shooters. There were at least three now—androids—hot on their heels and gaining.
Jon fired his last shot and squeezed a few fruitless clicks for good measure. “Empty. Great. Some guys have all the luck.”
“Shut up and keep running,” Michelle hollered back. The corner was within sight. Which way they turned, left or right, didn’t matter. We have to keep cutting corners—running for too long in a straight line will just get us killed faster. Ducks lined up in a row make for easy target practice. And there was always the possibility they were running into a trap. Rats in a maze—scurrying toward our slaughter. One path leads to more enemies and the other the cheese—the mirror and my ticket back to Arthur. Think, Michelle, you have to think…
“Ummm… Michelle?” asked Jon.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”
Then she saw the light and felt the approaching heat on her skin.
“Fire,” Jon yelled.
Michelle cut the corner, grabbed hold of Jon’s arm as he passed her and spun him against the wall with her. A blast of fire barreled past them.
They both stood there in each other’s arms—gazes locked, their faces an inch apart, panting and cheeks flushed.
“Ummm…” Michelle whispered finally.
“Yeah?” asked Jon with a smirk.
“Could you move? I’m about to ambush the robot.”
Jon awkwardly cleared his throat and stepped back. “Right.”
She drew her sword, scooted closer to the edge of the building, and waited. And waited some more. But nothing came out of the alleyway. She peeked out and found the fire littered alley empty. She trained her ear but heard only the crackling of flames. “Damn it. They’re gone.”
“Ain’t that a good thing?” he asked.
“Not gone for good or long, I fear.” She sheathed her sword. “Come on, we need to keep moving.” She turned ahead and that’s when she saw it—a red floating balloon tied to a bare branch of a small dead tree.
Jon pointed to the balloon. “Who put that there?”
“Let’s find out.” Michelle crossed the street and walked up to the tree. A note was attached to the balloon’s ribbon. She untied it, opened the letter, and slid out a card.
Jon stepped to her side. “What does it say?”
“’Dear Marauder’,” she read off the small rainbow-colored card. “’You are invited.’”
He peeked over her shoulder. “To what? A party?”
She sighed. “I have a feeling we’re going to find out.” She tossed the card aside and trained her sights to the open field of rubble and crumbled, collapsed buildings before them. More balloons tied to crooked signs and iron bars sticking out of broken concrete were floating ahead—forming a trail for them to follow.
He loaded his pistols. “So, what’s the plan now, boss?”
She inched up an eyebrow. “Plan?”
“We gonna go whole hog at this here shindig or do we give them the short end of the stick and run for the hills?”
“We?”
“Yeah, you’re gonna need a dance partner.” He spun his pistols before holstering them. “Just watch the boots—they’re real snakeskin.”
“Hadn’t noticed. Either way, we’re in for a fight. You should run for it. It’s me they want.”
“Not on your life, little missy.” He tipped the bill of his hat. “A man has his pride after all.”
She shot him a smirk. “Ego, you mean.”
Jon took the lead. “Come on, Miss Marauder, let’s go see if there’s cake.”
Chapter Four
Michelle found the last balloon, blacker than a spider, tied to a door handle inside a gutted, hollow building. “Get ready,” she told Jon.
Jon nodded.
She turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped on through.
“Surprise!”
Michelle was greeted by the blaring of foil party horns, noisemakers, and tasseled tooters. A cloud of confetti and multicolored balloons rained down upon her and Jon from a trap door in the overhead balcony above.
Jon swatted some balloons away. “What in blue blazes?”
Through the descending confetti she saw them, past the open stretch of land squared off by fallen buildings and broken concrete walls, at the far end—lined up in a row—stood eight androids. They were clapping their metal hands together. Before them, leaning back with crossed legs in a beach chair under an umbrella, sat Mr. Buttons. He was in his trademark black and white tuxedo paired with two white gloves and an old knapsack over his head. He wore a cartoonish smile of stitches under two large black buttons serving as his eyes. And of course, just like Krull, there was a black sun stamped on his forehead.
Michelle’s heart raced. No, you shouldn’t be here. You’re dead. I saw it with my own eyes. Atlas shoved Maiden’s Soul right through your rotten, diseased heart.
Next to Mr. Buttons was a food cart with a large cake with pink frosting and a circle of lit blue candles on top.
Jon stepped forward. “Well douse me with tar and a barrel full of tail feathers then call me a rooster—there is cake.”
Michelle’s hand shook as she instinctively reached for the hilt of her sword. “Damn it.”
“Happy birthday,” shouted Mr. Buttons with a spread of his arms.
She stalked forward. “Mr. Buttons.”
“It’s your birthday?” asked Jon with a smile. Her glare gave him his answer and his smile shrank to a pucker.
“Welcome to the party, Marauder.” Mr. Buttons put a noisemaker to his stitched smile and blew. “Your party. The last party of your miserable life.” He hopped up to his feet and made an exaggerated bow. He was as thin as a scarecrow and mo
ved as if he truly was stuffed with straw. “Are you surprised?”
She scowled.
“From the look in your eyes I can tell you are.” He tapped his button eye.
“Ummm… the hell?” asked Jon as Michelle stepped to his side. “I’m lost. Let me guess, Mister Jeepers-Creepers over there with the party hat is an arch nemesis of yours?”
She gritted her teeth. “Not for much longer.”
Mr. Button scratched at his knapsack chin. “You never told me your birthday so I just picked a date. Today.” He shrugged. “Hope you didn’t already have plans for tonight.” He turned his black button eyes on Jon with a sudden, jerking twist of his head. “Hot date? No? Didn’t think so—he doesn’t look like your type.”
Jon leaned in using the back of his hand to hide his mouth from eavesdroppers. “Hey, what is your type anyways?” he asked in a sly whisper. “If you don’t mind me askin’.”
“I do,” she fired back. “Shut up. I’m thinking.” There’s too many. The eight androids alone are overkill… but with a shadow master at their helm… She glanced back at Jon, cold sweat beads forming on her brow. He’s too relaxed. He doesn’t get it. I can’t win this fight.
Jon scoffed. “Which one of you is the cold emotionless android again?”
“No need to thank me, Marauder,” Mr. Buttons said with a clasp of hands and a school girlish wiggle of his butt. “Just seeing your lovely face again fills my new heart with joy.” He opened his suit jacket to expose a beating heart inside a hole in his chest—worms crawling on top and falling off. “Who says the Devil doesn’t believe in second chances?”
“Well, that’s unsanitary,” said Jon.
Her own heart threatened to beat right out of her chest.
“Michelle,” whispered Lefty. “You have to calm down.”
She heard but did not listen, her laser focus was glued on her target.
“If only Atlas hadn’t kicked the bucket before my resurrection,” mused Mr. Buttons. “I’d love another go at him. But I guess I’ll have to settle for his little sidekick instead.”
The Marauder: Episode One Page 4