by Jean Davis
I dropped into my seat and tossed back the drink. Two more followed.
“How much does it hurt?”
“A lot, but don’t worry,” Shayla said, “Angels can’t get sick.”
“Right, I forgot about that.” Even the employees and the guy who had been going on about the protocols had left. I got up and grabbed a bottle from behind the bar.
A lump formed in my throat. I coughed into my hand to clear it only to discover flecks of blood in my spittle. I’d only been with her, what, an hour?
Dirk might have left me without a credit to my name and a deadly virus, but I had a nice girl to talk to, a lot of good booze and there wasn’t a soul looking at me with suspicion. I intended to enjoy every second I had left, secure in the knowledge that those I’d just infected would see to it that Dirk didn’t live past morning either. There wasn’t a big enough rock for him to hide under with that many execs on his tail. Screw me over? I shook my head and took a long draw from the bottle and then another.
“I was really looking forward to a massage.” Warmth flowed down my throat and settled in my stomach. I fished all the credit chips out of my hidden pockets and set them on the table.
Shayla began to build a tower with them while I emptied the bottle. I helped her finish her creation, topping it off with the last chip I’d received from traitorous Dirk. She knocked it down and laughed. It was a beautiful sound. We built it again.
“Let’s leave this one,” she said.
It would be our memorial. A shining tower of empty chips.
I picked her up and set her back on my lap. Despite all the liquor I’d just drank, my throat was dry. My head throbbed even through the pleasant haze of intoxication and black spots edged my vision. “We might as well sit here together while we wait for the big boss, eh?”
She snuggled up against me and then landed a little peck of a kiss on my cheek. “I’d like that very much.”
CHETRIC THE GRAND
First published in Legends: The Den Anthology 2017
Lightning flashed outside the basement window. Chet Wykowski gripped his controller, praying to the game gods that the power wouldn’t go out while he was in the middle of the quest he’d been working on for the past two hours. Rain beat against the house and thunder rumbled, but the TV and game console stayed on. He relaxed into the couch, reaching out blindly for the bag of nacho chips that had been his sole source of sustenance since downloading Wizards and Warriors six hours ago. His fingers met with nothing but greasy crumbs. Wiping his hand on his pants, he reached for the can of lukewarm soda beside him and settled back into the game.
As he took yet another beating from the heavily armored Orc Lord and applied his last healing potion, he began to consider that he might need to waste more time on side quests to level up his character before trying for the Orc again. A level five wizard just wasn’t cutting it. But he was sick of delivering items from one town to another or providing safe passage for hapless travelers in exchange for a rusty knife or a threadbare rug posing as a magic carpet.
The Orc battle promised enough experience to gain him several levels and enough gold to purchase the rune-covered cloak and spell book he’d seen in the last shop.
The Orc swung his tree-trunk size spiked club at Chetric the Grand again, knocking the wizard into the wooden wall of a livery across the town square. The stupid chickens that seemed to be milling around in every town scene scattered with crazed squawking. The wood shattered with a crack that came through the sound system so loud that he thought his eardrums would burst. The room around him flashed white. Chetric’s body slid down the wall and landed on the ground with a pathetic grunt and a puff of dirt. Everything went black.
Chet opened his eyes, blinking away the fog of heavy sleep. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Or shutting down the game. His heart raced as he fumbled around, searching for the controller to verify that he’d hit save before nodding off.
The damned controller was nowhere to be found. And no matter how much he blinked, he couldn’t quite clear his aching head. In fact, his entire body ached, even worse than his doomed two-week stint on the wrestling team in high school. He hadn’t liked all the aches then, and now, three years after graduating, he didn’t like them even more. Grimacing, he worked his way into a sitting position.
He tried to find the can of cola to wash away the sandy grit he discovered on his teeth, but that was gone too. The sun beat down on him, making him sweat. Why was there a sun in the basement? And what the hell was this long-sleeved tunic he was wearing instead of the t-shirt and shorts he’d fallen asleep in?
Chet’s eyes and mind suddenly clicked into working order.
A worn backpack lay by his side. He reached in, pulling out three turnips, a leg of mutton, and a three-page book. His eyes bulged as he read. It was the beginner spell for shooting balls of energy that worked for hobs but not much else. On the last page as a weak healing spell. Both useless.
Chickens clucked nearby. A woman in a peasant dress wandered over to him.
“Do you have a ring for me?”
“No. Go away.”
“Very well. Find me later. I’ll be at the Comeright Inn.”
The only thing keeping Chet from losing it entirely was the fact that the Orc wasn’t in the square with him. All that remained of their battle was a broken wagon and two broken boards on the side of the building where he’d been landed after being smacked with the giant club. No wonder he ached all over.
But that meant he was in the game. Like in it. Chet leaned against the livery, hunched over with his hands on his knees, hyperventilating.
The sun was arcing downward before he’d gotten himself under control. If he’d somehow gotten into the game, there had to be a way out. He spotted a rusty sword in the dirt near where his backpack had been. Upon picking it up, he realized it fit in the scabbard that hung from the thick leather belt around his waist. With his backpack slung over one shoulder and the sword at his side, he ventured out into the street.
A large, grime-covered man wearing a leather apron and reeking of smoke and hot metal, took a lumbering swing at his head.
Chet dodged out of the way. “What the hell was that for?”
The big man scowled. “You’re the wizard, right? You can send me home.”
Revealing that his powers were not quite up to that task as of yet didn’t seem wise. “I am a wizard, yes. Where is your home?”
“The north coast.”
Chet did his best to recall the map in the lower corner of the screen that had slowly revealed itself during his travels. “Right. If you take this road to the left, you’ll come to the port and from there you can take a ship. That’s the fastest way.”
“Can’t you magic me there? I don’t have gold for a ship.”
“Sorry, no.”
The blacksmith snorted. “Some wizard you are.” He stormed back to his forge on the other side of the street.
Not even ten steps later, someone hit him in the back of the head with something hard. Chet put his arms up, trying to defend himself, and spun around to face his attacker.
“Send me home,” cried a young boy with a long stick in his hands.
“What is it with you people?” Chet finally got out of range enough to muster his energy ball spell and send the kid flying backward.
“My uncle stole me away. He sold me.” The boy got up from the dirt, tears flowing down his face. “Please, sir, you can help me?”
“Sorry, I can’t.” Chet hurried down the street, trying his best to avoid everyone. Sore and hungry, he sought out the inn the woman had mentioned. The more he walked around town, the more he remembered about where he’d been and where things were. Once he got his bearings, he made his way to the inn.
As he walked more footsteps followed him. He turned around to see two men, one with a large fish, the other with a game board under his arm, and a woman with a rolling pin following close behind. All three of them stopped when he caught sight of the
m, smiling nervously but all with the same determined gleam in their eyes. He started walking faster, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing further and further.
Finally, he could take it no longer. He turned around again to find a well-dressed man with a deck of cards had joined the other three stalkers. “What the are you people doing?”
The four of them looked from one to the other, shifting their feet in the dirt and pursing their lips.
The woman spoke up, “Your sign, we just want to go home.”
“What sign?”
“The challenge pinned to the back of your shirt,” said the man with the fish. “Beat me, and I’ll send you home.”
Chet tried to twist his head around to find the note. He contorted his arms to try and grab it, but his muscles were too tight. “Where?”
The man with the deck of cards approached slowly and after a tug, handed Chet a handwritten note and a pin.
“I did not put that there. I’m not sending any of you home or anywhere else. Now, leave me alone!” He crunched the note in his hand. That’s what he got for blacking out in the middle of town. Some stupid kid had probably thought he was being funny.
Chet stormed off to the inn. No one else accosted him along the way.
Beggars sat in a row on the boardwalk outside the inn. One of which was the urchin he’d sold the threadbare rug to before he’d gone off to battle the Orc. The kid looked happy to have a rug to sit on, though the rug looked even worse for wear, now covered in mud and food crumbs.
“Looks like you’re not starving then,” he said to the urchin.
“No, sir. Are enjoying the stone?”
Chet had to trace back his transactions. He’d received the rug as payment for returning a doll to a girl, but then had accidentally started a riot and killed two men with his sword when his performance skill was too low. Then he’d meant to do a simple magic trick to win the favor of the miller’s daughter who had promised to teach him another spell but instead had set the town’s wooden granary on fire. To gain back some of his good karma, he’d traded the urchin the rug for the boy’s favorite stone. The stone fit into a hole in an old woman’s wall, sealing her home against the wind and earning him three turnips. He still had no idea what he was supposed to do with those.
He nodded to the urchin.
Dust puffed from beneath the boy, making the beggar next to him cough. The boy pressed his hands firmly on front corners of the rug, but the back corners continued to flap. Chet swore he heard a muffled voice, but the boy nor the man next to him said anything.
“Who is that?” He peered around.
The boy’s eyes grew wide and he rocked back and forth until he was violently pitched forward, rolling head-first out into the street.
The rug rose up, standing end to end, as if it had legs. It walked forward on two corners, slapping Chet in the cheek with the third.
“You idiot,” said a feminine voice. “I could have brought you anywhere you wanted to go, but you traded me for a stone? You took one look at me and thought I was worthless, didn’t you?” The corner drew back as if it were going to slap him again.
Chet stepped back. “Uh, sorry?”
The rug pointed to the wad of paper in his hand. “I see you found my note.”
“Yours?”
“Look at me. I mean, look at this mess!” The rug twisted side to side. “That kid hasn’t had a bath in, well, ever, and his feet are covered in mud. I’m filthy.”
“So...” Chet bit his lip, not sure whether to run screaming or laugh. “You want me to...beat you?”
“I thought the note was quite clear. You clean me up, trade the kid something else for me, and I’ll send you home.”
He removed his three turnips and set them on the boardwalk. “Those are for you, kid Sorry, I need the rug back.”
Chet motioned the rug over to a grassy lot with two chickens scratching about. “Go stand over there.”
The rug floated over the street and stood in the lot. Chet summoned three energy balls one after another, hitting the rug and knocking the mud and dirt away. On a whim, he threw a health spell its way too.
Color ran over the rug, bursting into intricate patterns. Long golden tassels dripped from its corners. The rug leaped into the air, laughing, rolling in tight spirals.
“You can call me Nora. Promise you won’t trade me again?” it purred his ear, rubbing up against him and running a silken tassel against his cheek.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Nora.”
“Then hop on then, it’s time for you to go home. If you play your game right, I might even go with you.”
Other books by Jean Davis
In a hard future were most of humanity are slaves to a select few, the words of a prisoner lead Joshua to the truth behind the smiles of his masters. What he does with that knowledge might save them all or doom humanity for good. Buy it here
Sahmara, an escaped slave in an enemy country, prays for help, but the assistance of the gods has a price. Along with her lovers Olando and Sara, she may be the one to help take her homeland back if she can only find the strength within herself. Buy it here.
Abducting the angry and suicidal god of war might not be Logan’s wisest choice, but she’s the weapon that might be able to defeat the army of Matouk, who destroyed his homeworld. If he can show her how to love, they might save each other from the terrors that plague his nights and all of her days. Buy it here.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jean Davis lives in West Michigan with her musical husband, two nerdy teenagers, two attention-craving terriers and a small flock of chickens. When not ruining fictional lives from the comfort of her writing chair, she can be found devouring books and sushi, weeding her flower garden, or picking up hundreds of sticks while attempting to avoid the abundant snake population who also shares her yard. She writes an array of speculative fiction..
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SAMPLE • SAHMARA
Chapter One
Tall grass ripped at Sahmara’s bare legs as she dashed across the moonlit field. She glanced over her shoulder. The shadowy forms of her recent captors had grown distant, their voices no more than whispers on the cool wind. Desperate to catch her breath, she slowed and bent low in the thick blades. Her chest heaved.
Her sprint to freedom had saved her yet another night of drunken fondling by her captors. But alone now, in the autumn winds and far from home, dressed in only a tattered shift, with no food, water or weapon… The Mother save her, she may have sentenced herself to death. She clamped a trembling hand over her mouth to stifle the sob.
Wasn’t this where Zane was supposed to ride and whisk her away? That’s how rescues happened according to the storytellers that had graced her father’s hall. But Zane's sword hadn’t saved her when the Atherians burst into her home, and the only time she’d seen his blue eyes and silly smile in the past four months was in her dreams.
She hugged her knees to her chest. The storytellers had lied. No one was coming to save her.
They were too late anyway. She wasn’t worth saving anymore.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She had to keep moving. If the Atherians caught her, they’d throw her to the ground and form a line. At least back in camp, she only had to deal with one soldier a night. Memories of their dirty hands and rank breath made her shudder.
Staying low, she crept forward. Her bare skin turned to gooseflesh now that she'd slowed. She trudged onward into the low rolling hills until the blush of dawn edged the skyline. There she sank into the grass and curled into a tight ball. The grasslands couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, she’d run into the ocean. And home. If she lived that long.
Sahmara’s cheek itched. She wiped at it, still hal
f asleep and dreaming of the weight and warmth of the white furs atop her bed. Her hand met with something small and hard, followed by a sharp prick on her finger. Her eyes snapped open.
A large black beetle had its pronged mouth buried in her flesh. Blood dripped from the wound. Sahmara ripped the beetle from her skin and flung it into the grass. She sprang to her feet, but her sleep-fogged mind woke in time to remind her to keep low. With her bleeding finger thrust into her mouth, she scanned the grass for any sign of the soldiers.
Nothing but the wind stirred the sea of blades. Either the soldiers were still sleeping, or they'd abandoned their search.
Hunger pangs seized her stomach. The mug of thin broth she’d had the night before hadn’t been enough to fill her then, let alone after a night of running.
Morning dew clung to her matted hair and bare skin. She rubbed her hands over her body, trying to generate warmth. Her rush through the grass had covered her feet in cuts. For just a moment she wished for the warmth of the other women she'd huddled with on the Atherian wagon that had brought her here. The soldiers had considered her valuable, and like others in the wagon, had reserved her for the officer's use. Those that walked beside the wagon had served lines of hungry-eyed soldiers. Most of those women were dead. Like she would be if she didn't keep moving.
The sun rose overhead. The chill of the morning turned to searing heat. Her feet burned. Her body ached.
Her father had thought her valuable too, as a trade item for marriage. He'd even gone so far as to purchase an expensive Ma'hasi bodyguard for her. The numerous offers for her hand had affirmed her worth. The Atherians had assigned her value thanks to that same Ma'hasi.