A Tale Of Doings

by Philip Quense

  David and Patrick gasped as the ginger and her black-robed partner hauled Tara with her long white hair and Domin with his gimp from the pit. “Tara,” her husband groaned. She was bruised but still beautifully defiant. Phel held out his leather-gloved hand to stop the missionary from charging into the clearing. Patrick bit his tongue. “By the cross, I’ll…”

  “Silence, or that ginger will beat you to a pulp.”

  “Or string you to a tree,” David added.

  “I know how to fight, take care of myself.”

  “Maybe in another place, another time, uninjured,” Phel insisted, Patrick settled for a moment. “Look over there!” Phel whispered.

  Gayle and the older woman from the cottage were dragged into the clearing. Guards roughly attached their bound hands above their heads to the waiting wooden stakes next to Tara and Domin. The four of them glared from their wooden posts at their captors.

  “I guess the blue apron who set us up didn’t fare well,” Patrick mumbled, staring daggers.

  About thirty other slaves, who looked like they’d been brought from stone huts at the edge of the mountain, were forced into the clearing, tugged to the ground and hooked as a group to a massive iron ring that was connected to a pillar. The pillar was thirty feet tall and painted around its wide base with wild scenes of people worshipping an unknown figure. Men, women, and children were mixed into the group that was chained to the pillar. Phel pointed out Danielle, his Mastan fling, and Eric, his training companion. “You two ain’t the only ones who know people here.”

  The hidden men heard a crunch and a growl nearby. David froze in fear. His body stiffened as the growl repeated. He looked into the dark forest, not daring to move. Then he saw a massive canine, the size of a large tiger.

  “Not again!” He began to shake and retreat. “No, no.” The mastiff let out another low, deep, deadly growl. David scrambled back on his good arm away from the beast, the underbrush and the thorns tearing at his arms. The beast’s muscled chest undulated as it prepared to bark a warning to the camp, but the monster swallowed drool and, instead of barking, leaped at David, its neck bulging in excitement. David tried to move out of the way, but the devil was much faster than he was. As he placed his broken arm down, it gave out, and he collapsed on his back. He clenched his eyes shut and waited for death.

  A heavy weight pressed on him, and something hard banged his face. He waited for the teeth. The sharp pain never came. A warm liquid oozed onto his face instead. Biting his lip and closing his eyes, tongue gushing blood and saliva. Fear forced him to gag and vomit. Still alive, he opened his eyes with hesitant suspicion.

  Rolling off of him, Phel had been quicker than the attacking mastiff, diving on David and protecting the group with a now-bloodied sword. The blade jutted from the canine’s back. The dog whimpered a final dying moan, licked Phel’s face, and stopped moving.

  “Gods, forest sounds creep me out. Hey, what’s all that noise?” Crunching feet sounded at the forest’s edge, a close distance away.

  “Did you hear Junker bark?” A question and a human growl.

  “Junker, boy, come out.” The feet came closer.

  The sword slid from the kill. As the feet came closer, Phel pulled a large branch over himself and David. They lay hidden under the vine and the dead canine.

  David held his breath. His heartbeat quickened once more with hopelessness. They can hear the sound of my thumping heart! he worried. The branch hiding them scratched his face; sap dripped. A cut opened on his left cheekbone. Thorns again! Dammit, Phel!

  Two robed men with swords, whips, and hoods stepped into the bushes under the dark trees. Lit torches blazed, casting dancing shadows around the forest. Patrick had no time to hide, and the men saw him immediately. The men moved their torches and saw the prostrate dog.

  The closer slaver said, “Good work, Junkie! You found a spy!”

  “Double carne for you tonight.”

  “Maybe we feed a leg of this spy to him as a reward.”

  They don’t see their monster is dead, David thought. They don’t see me! He and Phel were well hidden behind the blooming pink roses, pine bow, and twisted vines. The torches flickered and sputtered, casting hellish shadows. The smoke smelled like burning dung.

  I should help Patrick, he thought guiltily. But then he thought, I can’t help him. I will be caught. Never stick your neck out in a useless cause. He felt dread and guilt at the same time. Fear and self-preservation won out. Don’t move, he told himself. He tried to shrink into the dirt farther, ignoring his broken arm.

  Patrick, seen, got up to run.

  Thank the human stock! David moaned in relief. Patrick should take the fall since he was seen. Self-preservation was a virtue of David’s.

  Patrick bounded, stumbling, into the clearing. His sprained ankle, even with the makeshift brace, slowed him down. David watched as the two guards followed him, untying their whips and giggling at what they had found. Patrick’s awkward hopping run across the clearing was impeded by a slashing whip that wrapped around his leg and pulled him onto his face with a bone-shattering grunt.

  While the two guards were distracted by Patrick, Phel and David pushed the dog off them and crawled on all fours, like rats, away from the point of discovery and behind a large boulder just to the left of where the prisoners were lashed to the wooden posts in the glade. They watched in horror as Patrick was thrown by his captors into the center of the lit space. Hushed voices of the prisoners mixed with the cackle of the fires.

  “What have we here?” a disgruntled and bored voice drawled loudly as the guards dragged Patrick with their whips.

  “Boss, we don’t need another male. We hit our quota already,” said a slaver shrouded in a hood, and he kicked Patrick hard on the back. The man leered and watched the Tri-Coalition man struggle to stand.

  They shouldn’t hurt him for no reason, even if he is just a human being invader. David was a bit surprised by the sudden rush of empathy. The feeling of caring made him shiver. It felt foreign, uncomfortable. Selfie would reprimand him harshly. Compassion is a virtue that can get a good human-doing injured. He instinctually scratched his brand arm. The brand is allowing empathy to go unpunished? he wondered in surprise. This brand revision has been so faulty. Having to make choices without a nudge of common sense from his tattoo made David feel alone.

  “Human scum!” The bullwhip snaked out with a crack, latched on to Patrick’s leg, and pulled on him hard. Patrick fell on his face in the dust. He looked up to see his wife, Tara, who was tied to the wooden beams. David looked at her face. She smiled, a smile that tore at his human heart. Her smile and tears were filled with unbridled joy and anguish.

  Next to Tara, Gayle shook her head in warning at the two of them. She whispered and strained at her chains, trying to warn the lovers not to let on that they knew each other.

  Patrick couldn’t hold back.

  “Tara, love,” he yelled. He rose to reach her. But another robed man stepped between them, his hood pulled back and his bald head gleaming in the firelight, before the limping and broken lover could reach his wife. The man’s pointed white teeth shone with a wicked smile.

  “Let’s teach this one a lesson. Slavery 101—you aren’t allowed love.” He whipped Patrick across the face, knocking him to his knees. Patrick’s hand came up to defend himself. Tara screamed.

  “Stop hurting him!”

  “Be my guest, Jonny,” the man with the bored drawl said. “If you don’t need ’em, then use ’em for all they are worth. Some free entertainment will be pleasurable while we wait for the manager to arrive.”

  The bald man with the sharp teeth, Jonny, flicked his wrist, and the leather whip leaped back to his hand like an extension of his own body. He smiled a sharp, shiny smile at Tara. An angry red welt formed across Patrick’s face and started bleeding.

  “Oh, we may have orders not to touch you yet, future girl. But watch and prepare yourself.”

  “Teach them all a lesson, J
onny,” one guard cheered and raised a frothing metal mug to his lips, smirking.

  “Future girl, watch closely,” Gem said, resting her chin on Tara’s shoulder. “The order to save your breaking for the season premiere is stupid. But Jonny has no such orders for this new tidbit that found its way to you.” She slapped Tara. “Suffering can run deeper than the skin, darling.”

  “Leave him alone. He has done nothing. Let him speak.” Tara strained at her bindings, attempting to intervene as the torchlight shone off the bald man, who lashed out with his whip again. Patrick rolled onto his back like a corpse, his face torn, his arm bleeding, and his shirt frayed across the front from the harsh leather snake.

  “Tara,” he said. “I searched for you. I…sorry it took so long. I failed.” The fires burned brightly around the scene and sent up dark smoke to the night sky above the hidden valley, darkening the moonlight.

  Jonny motioned to his fellow slavers with a sleazy nod of his large skull. “Looks like our frustration with this gem from the future will have to come out by beating her lover.” He smiled. “Hahaha. Bitches need to be trained.”

  “On your knees, dog!” The man with the mug joined in, clearly enjoying the show. Mead frothed over the brim of his mug. He stood near a large wooden barrel for easy refills.

  Jonny raised his arm again to hit Patrick. Patrick was crawling toward his wife, leaving a trail of bloody handprints in the dirt. But Jonny’s arm faltered midwhip. A steel crossbow bolt whisked through the air, thudding with a crunch in Jonny’s chest, piercing the black robe, many links of glinting chain mail, and his heart. The leering group of slavers and the chained, cowering slaves looked around in surprise at the intrusion. Two men emerged from the largest cave in the cliff wall. The foremost was a man of considerable girth who wore an extravagant purple robe and had greasy cheeks and an evil, self-important grin. He was followed closely and overshadowed by a tall, red-armored knight with the symbol of a whip on his chest. The scarlet knight had a double-handed sword slung over his back. The two stopped theatrically in the middle of the glade. All eyes were on them.

  “Grandpa Greg,” David sputtered. “All is lost.” He groaned.

  Disdainfully Grandpa Greg released the crossbow, letting it dangle at his waist next to two several bolts, as if it were beneath him to enforce the law.

  “What have I told you about getting too deep into our story, team?” The bald, girthy manager clapped his hands as if speaking to children and seemed more evil for it. “We need to maintain some corporate discipline even in this world of uncivilized swine.” He looked at dead Jonny and wiggled a chubby finger at the twitching body. “Don’t damage my property unless I tell you to.” His voice cracked on “unless.” “I have a plan. My plan is the way, the truth, and the life! By the empty, damned stock, must I do everything myself?” he complained to the sky, exasperated. “Where will a man find his equal? Not in this world or company.”

  The red knight growled at Patrick, who was still struggling on the ground. “Chain him up to the group on the iron ring for inspection by the boss.”

  Hooded guards hoisted the beaten man by his feet and dragged him to the ring with the slaves, but he continued to struggle. A young, freckled boy, head bobbing like a duck, yelled, “Mr. Patrick!” David noted about five other stolen captives from the Lave Labs were among the group chained to the iron ring, though not all of the Lave Labs slaves were present. The others must have been sold to the Majors.

  Grandpa Greg declared, “Mr. Missionary, start playing along with my game, or else I’ll kill the hapless duckling from your world.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I know what you are. I’ll find a use for you. My new master will tell me everything.”

  “Who is your master? Bargain with me.”

  “I manage, not barter, haggle, or debase myself. Oh, you’d cringe if you knew who pulled the strings.”

  The children from Lave Labs, Logan and Brac, cringed as the old man took a crossbow from a nearby guard and marched in front of the group chained to the iron ring. Patrick ignored the threat and continued to struggle. Rage and despair filled him.

  “Patrick, stop!” Tara yelled, trying to calm her husband. The guards kicked Patrick until he subsided. His shirt was torn across the back, and all could see the black cross brand of the missionary. He gasped for air as the wind was knocked out of him. The second guard kicked him in the groin. Patrick buckled over, turning blue in the face.

  “That’s savvy discipline.” Grandpa Greg applauded the guards as the chain clinked into place around Patrick’s left leg. “ I always preach—cheap shots are worth a thousand punches.” The steel ring rattled as Patrick rolled in pain.

  “Now, my dear. Thank you for helping that being beast see reason.” The fat manager in his ridiculous purple robe turned toward Tara. “Which child should I kill to keep you in line? I hear you bit a man’s ear off before they got you in the pit.” He smiled wickedly. “It doesn’t really matter what dies.” Turning, he wildly loosed a crossbow bolt into the group of children. They screamed. His fat finger wiggled at Tara. “It’s more important that the lesson is taken to heart.” Blood oozed out of a child’s torn arm and leg. Grandpa Greg fired again. He didn’t kill anyone, but the bolts drew blood from several children, Logan among them, an arrow through his leg.

  “You’re a savage,” Gayle yelled.

  Keep quiet, Gayle! David thought frantically. Don’t prod that monster.

  Gayle said loudly and clearly, “David and Nnect will stop you!” She tore at her bonds, but the rope that held her arms above her head to the post were securely fastened. “This is a human-doing rights infringement.” She didn’t stop as he came toward her. “Thrive laws state that youth need to be nurtured and trained and kept in sound working order.” She gulped as he spat into her face. He wiped his hand on her shirt, taunting her to continue. She spat back at him.

  “Speaking of violations to our glorious Xchange policies.” His pudgy fingers grasped her shirt and tore the entire sleeve off. The remains hung in tatters. He grabbed the arm where the fake green brand was smudged. “Traitor!” He smeared the brand and rubbed the green dye onto her face. “You are a disgrace to the stock market. Removing your brand and pretending to be a free person.”

  “The brand is a disgrace to human dignity,” she said. “But Thrive will want me back unharmed.”

  The blood boiled in David’s veins. “I need to stop this,” David said. Phel reached a hand out to stop a mad rush toward the slave, but David was frozen in place. “I don’t help people or risk myself. Not going out there.”

  Phel looked at David strangely. “Great, a crazy person on my team. Farmer talks to himself. What next?”

  Meanwhile, Grandpa Greg taunted Gayle, “Oh, I have all the leverage, and I’ll keep you here as long as I want. I wonder if your PPRE boyfriend”—he smirked wickedly at the forest—”that fake start-up manager, is lurking around as well.” He waved at his guards to search the woods.

  Minutes later, a slaver returned at a trot to the glade, throwing an article of clothing down at Grandpa Greg’s feet.

  “Explain yourself.”

  “Manager, sir, this was found at the cottage when we searched hours ago. It is a torn Sonz legionnaire doublet. We were as stealthy as we could have been and don’t think any of the Sonz know of our hideout location. Also we found fire burning unattended in the woods near the cottage.”

  The black-robed Gem sauntered over and picked up a shred of the doublet with her long, thin blade tip. Her eyebrows scrunched. “That is an insignia that the Sonz used over a year ago. The forces of the king of Alexoria don’t wear this symbol anymore. See here.” She pointed out the sun over an island. “The rays are angled and missing here and here.”

  Having ceased his external debated, David glanced at Phel.

  “You ripped that off my shirt when you tripped your way into the cabin instead of waiting as I told you to,” Phel whispered in explanation.


  “Oops,” David whispered back. His heart raced. He hoped he didn’t have to die or face the monster in the ring of fire.

  “Oh, I have an explanation for this mystery!” Grandpa Greg laughed, delighted with himself. “Here is my theory. That loser manager from Nnect has found help from a lost and lonely traitor of a warrior. The only warrior who still wears the old insignia of the Sonz is the turncoat Phel.”

  “What the hell is Nnect, and how does everyone know my life? Freaking witchcraft at play in the wood tonight.” Phel cursed.

  Grandpa Greg nodded to the woods, raising his voice. He spun in sweeping circles, looking in as many directions as he could. “Come out and join the meeting, boys. Coffee break is over!” He screamed it again as he looked out and around.

  The two remained hidden, knowing they were outnumbered and that Grandpa Greg still held a crossbow, which he swung wildly around. David was frozen in place out of fear and selfish preservation. When the woods didn’t respond, the manager marched over to Tara.

  Grandpa Greg touched Tara’s face. “So nice to have your husband join the party. This will make for some amazing expansion episodes. I hope you are ready to be sold into Storyworld, ‘future girl.’”

  “You…”—a raised hand—“will never break us.” A fierce slap. “I’ll tell people that there is a world outside of this bubble.”

  “The people here will think you are crazy. Nothing you can say will convince them you are sane. You have no proof. People never want to hear that their world isn’t real. Such truths are heresy to the human heart and insanity to the mind. But you’ll be broken like the rest of our slaves.” Greg pointed to a slave pit. “If you try to convince people that they’ve lived in a bubble their entire lives, I will be most entertained. Breaking you will bring me much joy.”