Biyernes, Mayo 25, 2012
"Keet"
BY'fernand jiro
Keet (unfinished)
Keet saw the raven.
Stop
, she told Tardiff, while raising a hand to halt her companion as well.
Tardiff stamped his feet, radiating a tense, aggressive protection. She soothed him with another thought.
No danger here. Rest.
He relaxed slightly. The messenger’s gelding was a passive dullness behind her, totally reliant on Tardiff. He would be unless told otherwise.
She waited as the raven flapped lazily towards her. He always looked lazy, but if attack was imminent he would have been broadcasting before he even came into view. The emotions weren’t strong enough this time.
"Keet," said the messenger, "what is it?"
"Wait," she replied.
The raven floated to a nearby tree. He was thinking about danger, not urgent, but danger nonetheless. She tried to focus on his mind, to get a more coherent message.
Predators waiting, shiny.
That’s why she liked ravens, crows and magpies. Couldn’t get much more than predators, prey, or food out of any of the others, but these ones liked shiny things. Shiny things meant the potential for weapons, armour, or at the very least, people.
"Ambush," she said to the messenger.
"Where?" the messenger did not seem unduly alarmed. She had been hired to provide this kind of advance warning. He did eye her suspiciously though. She watched him, trying to hide her discomfort. Humans had strange customs and she didn’t want to embarrass him by stating what would have been obvious to one of her kind long ago.
She eyed the human for a moment. He was thick bodied like all his kind and must be very young by her standards, yet his face showed lines. He was not as graceless and clumsy as first appeared, nor as thickwitted. She found that out at the same time she found out he could fight.
"Some way ahead," she said. "Within ten minutes ride."
He continued looking at her with one eyebrow raised. She stared back, saying nothing. He would work it out eventually.
"I was hired to protect you from attack, not when under attack," she explained. Any ten humans could provide that kind of brute protection, and at a much cheaper rate.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "pointy ears must hear well. What do you recommend Keet?"
"You will wait in that grove there," Keet said, ensuring it was more than just a recommendation. "I will go on ahead."
They slid off their mounts and lead them across the ditch and up the bank beside the road, Tardiff scrambling much less than the gelding in spite of his vast bulk. The messenger also scrabbled a bit on the slope, knocking a rock down into the ditch, his armour jingling madly. Keet sighed. He may have been nimble for his size but he certainly wasn’t quiet.
Ward. Danger.
She said to Tardiff, trying to project an image of a large fierce Tardiff alongside a helpless brown figure. He grunted and moved slightly closer to the messenger.
"Be wary," was all she said in parting.
"You too," the messenger replied. She grabbed her bow from the saddle and slipped out between the trees.
She ran hard, concentrating on the forest, twisting and turning to avoid the branches and twigs, trying not to brush the leaves, yet still travelling faster than her human companion could. That was why she left him behind. He would make more noise at a walk than she would at a run.
She kept one eye on the raven and when he slowed and roosted, she stopped. Resting her back against the tree Keet slowed her breathing and began to concentrate on the forest around her.
Ever so slowly, so as not to be overwhelmed, she expanded her awareness embracing all she could. First she encompassed the higher animals, a squirrel was just there, a nest of small sparrows just there, others hovered at the edges of her perceptions. She then took in other creatures, the insects, the worms and the grubs. They all became part of her mind as she became part of them. Lastly she took in the trees. They had no awareness but their souls were the very essence of the forest, she could sense the youth in some and in others an age greater than her own.
Slowly she arose and began to glide effortlessly through the forest, disturbing nothing. If any but those of the strongest mind saw her now they would not notice. She was part of the forest and their eyes and ears would pass her by.
She soon came upon their camp. There were ten of them, alert but unaware. Only their horses were uncomfortable, sensing some spirit of the forest. She increased the strain on her resources, touching, soothing their minds with a gentle caress as she passed them by.
She made a slow circuit, staying away from the road where the forest that now protected her was broken. They were definitely waiting in ambush, and too well organised to be common bandits. Two archers were set on either side of the road with a guard set at the back of the camp to give warning in case of attack from the forest. The others lay in wait, weapons drawn. With no one else on the road there was little doubt who they could be waiting for.
The archers would have to go first, for when she attacked she would lose her contact with the forest. Once visible they would pose the greatest threat. Keet positioned herself where she could see them all, drew her bow and began firing. Three of the four archers were dead before the others began to react. She finished off the last one then turned and put two arrows in the guard behind her.
They were good soldiers for humans, obviously far more than common bandits for they responded extremely quickly. Three came straight at her and two tried to circle, they had shields ready so she dropped the bow and drew her dagger and sword.
She could tell by the way they moved that the man in black was the only real threat. He seemed to be in charge. Divide and attack the weaker. She feinted left, drawing the man towards her and then spun the other direction, ducking, diving, stabbing, killing the two to her right and leaving the man in black behind.
She was almost sad. These men were well-trained soldiers but she had been fighting five hundred summers before their grandparents had been born. She knew what they were going to do before they did.
Again she drew the man in black towards her and then darted way, leaving a dagger buried in one of his remaining companions and beheading the other. The man was very good though. Better than she thought. He had marked her as she flew by. But it was done now, he was alone. She stepped back and eyed him. She could tell he would not give in. She saluted him and then killed him, but not without sorrow.
Keet took a deep breath and then checked her leg, drawing her finger along the wound. It would be fine. As she retrieved her weapons the crow settled down on the body of the man in black. Normally she wasn’t squeamish. It was natural and, after all, that was why the beast followed her. But he had been a worthy opponent. She shooed bird to a different body and then went to check their horses.
That was when she saw it. There were eleven horses, and one was harnessed in elf fashion, Kestrel Clan by the markings. If the elf was not here then he or she must be seeking the messenger.
Keet launched herself aboard one of the horses and galvanised it into action with urgent messages of speed and fear. She raced down the road and the other horses panicked by the residuals of her sending followed eyes rolling, broadcasting their fear to her and momentarily overwhelming her. She reeled in the saddle before shutting them out.
There was no time for stealth. She only hoped that the stampeding of the horses would confuse her opponent. When close enough she opened her mind again, reaching for Tardiff. She couldn’t reach him though. His mind was overwhelmed with aggression and fury. Still alive at least.
Before rounding the last turn she leapt from the horse to the top of the bank and sent the herd one last barb of urgency to speed them on their way. The noise of their passage masked her approach and when within sight of the grove she stopped and listened. She could hear nothing and Tardiff was still a wall of fury. Her approach would be blind.
The oneness would not conceal her from another elf so she would have to rely on simple stealth to survive this encounter. As she inched closer she could hear rasping breath. It was when she finally craned her neck around a deadfall that she saw the body.
If the ungainly, motionless sprawl did not confirm death then the near arms length of blade jutting out the back of the facedown figure certainly did. But the body was slender, and dressed in black. It was not the bulky brown body she was expecting. And it was definitely the messenger’s sword embedded in the corpse.
Just beyond the body stood Tardiff, glaring at the dead figure, his nostrils flaring. Almost underneath the great horse was the messenger himself. He was sitting with his back to a tree and a long dagger buried to its hilt in his shoulder. The man was in obvious pain but the blow did not seem a mortal one.
"Be still," Keet said, stepping from cover.
"Moving isn’t really a priority," he gasped, and after pausing for a few breaths, "or an option really."
Keet settled down Tardiff and then checked the body. The dead elf was younger than she and was likely less experienced. A long life cut short. The loss of a single one, even from a rival clan, was a tragedy for all her people. Still, it was an amazing feat for the human to have defeated him and a frightening one too.
She returned to the messenger and knelt to examine his wound. He tensed up, his good hand still clutching a short knife. He was not as incapacitated as he pretended and she did not sense the same complete trust she had felt in the past, in spite of the clan bonding her to him. She would have to remedy that or her task would be doubly difficult.
She touched the handle of the dagger gently, feeling for any power other than that of mere steel. The messenger watched intently, not moving yet not relinquishing his grasp on his knife either. If he had truly lost his faith in her then he was displaying great courage, and forbearance. Keet realized then how much she admired this human. Astonishing, given how little time she had spent with him.
"I will treat this," she said, "and then you will tell me how you bested one of my race. I nearly failed in my bonded duty and I owe you my honor for that."
She paused again and took a breath. "First though you will tell me your name."
She watched as the messenger blinked in surprise. He then nodded solemnly for a moment, finally relaxing and loosening his grasp on his weapon. He obviously knew what this meant.
"Axel," he replied softly. And then as if to himself, "When an elf asks your name …"
"The Dragon´s Eye"
THE DRAGON'S EYE
He did not open his eyes but lay still and listened. Hearing nothing, he raised his head and looked around the copse of scrubby trees. Still nothing, so he rolled from his blankets and crept to the edge of his hidden camp.
A braid of her hair was tHe did not open his eyes but lay still and listened. Hearing nothing, he raised his head and looked around the copse of scrubby trees. Still nothing, so he rolled from his blankets and crept to the edge of his hidden camp.ied around his neck and he stroked it as he carefully scanned the steppe. There were no signs of pursuit but he knew time was running out. Princesses were supposed to be sacrosanct so her father would be relentless. Safety lay beyond the Dragon's Eye. He must attempt it today or resign himself to whatever fate the King decreed. He went to the horses tethered deep in the copse and spoke to each in turn. Although they had eaten much of the vegetation he still fed them oats from his hands, making sure the huge destrier got more than the others. Only then did he see to his own breakfast.
He did not remove the braid while preparing for the gauntlet he must run. First he donned the silk arrow-catcher, then the padded woolen tunic, the boiled leather cuirass, and finally the studded bucklers and greaves. The helm curtailed his vision so he donned a heavy leather cap instead.
He slid a dirk into each boot, a last resort that had once saved his life. He belted on the longsword, then strapped the broadsword over his shoulders, settling the hilt behind his right ear. His compound bow was very long and he needed both hands to string it, bracing one end against the base of a tree and placing his foot in the middle. He considered the armour-piercing arrows but their weight limited their range so he chose the competition arrows instead. They had greater range and accuracy than all but the heaviest crossbows and could still stop most men. He packed the remainder of his arsenal on his weapons horse and pulled on a cloak. He mounted the little mare, saving the destrier for battle and rode into the sunlight.
It was early yet but sweat was soon trickling down his back. Small clouds of dust rose from the hooves of his horses as he walked them south towards the towering Dragonbacks. He stopped short of the pass but in full view of anyone hidden inside. He carefully examined the rocky slopes before dismounting. He was relieved to see no signs that the King had guessed his escape route and sent men to await him. The pass would hold bandits but they were less formidable foes than the King's men.
Bandits might also be intimidated, accordingly he made his preparations very deliberate. He took off the cloak, folded it carefully and tied it onto the mare. He then walked the mare to the back of the string of horses and brought the destrier to the front. The big stallion began to stamp its feet. He stroked its nose to settle it. The broadsword could only be used on horseback so he drew it and looped its lanyard over the high pommel. He unslung his bow, nocked one arrow and put another between his teeth. He stroked the Princess' braid one final time before he picked up the reins, and led his horses slowly into the pass.
He kept his eyes moving constantly, looking not just for movement but for concealment terrain. He spied a narrow defile to the left. It was a good site for an ambush, filled with scrub and rocks. Crossbowmen were the greatest danger but none fired as he passed by the little gully. As it fell farther behind him the hair began to stand up on the back of his neck and he turned to look back several times.
The Eye itself was formed by spurs of rock that jutted into the pass from either side. They created a narrow cleft, a killing ground. As he approached it he heard the sound of charging men. He spun to face them as they came out of the narrow defile. There were only six men, not mounted, a diversion. He turned and dove to his left as one quarrel buzzed by his ear and another glanced off his shoulder armour. He aimed his two arrows at the crossbowmen who had stepped from behind the spurs to shoot their bolts. His rapid reaction surprised them. He did not wait to see the shots strike.
Spinning again he shot six arrows at the running men as rapidly as he could draw the bow. He could hear horses coming through the Eye and knew there was no more time for arrows. He dropped his bow and heaved himself into the saddle. He kicked the charger into a lumbering gallop while unhooking his broadsword and was nearly at full speed when he slammed into the tight pack of scruffy bandits. He swung his great sword on either side as the weight of the huge horse sent men and ponies tumbling. He rode well clear of the melee before turning for another pass.
Several bandits were down and confusion reigned amongst those who were left. A second attack should break them. He centered his charge on the one man who was still thinking. He had pulled one of the crossbows out of the dust. The bandit managed to cock it and fire once before being crushed under the hooves of the great destrier. The shot took the soldier high in the left shoulder. The force was brutal and only the high back of the saddle kept him on the horse. The second charge had done its damage however and by the time he regained control of his body the bandits were scattering.
He glanced back at the first group of bandits, two had survived his arrows but were fleeing. The bandits had stopped fighting as a unit and they were now caught in their own trap. They were no match for a Battlemaster on a warhorse. He ran them down one by one. Three fled into the defile and where chasing them would be suicide but no others escaped.
His first act after dispatching the wounded was to make sure the braid was still secure. Then he scanned the field of battle and allowed himself a small smile. This did not help conceal his trail from the King. Not many men could ride into an ambush and leave behind nearly twenty dead men. Posting a sign saying the Battlemaster travelled this way would be less obvious.
The Battlemaster began to assess the damage. It was hard to tend ones own wounds but he knew he must remove the quarrel immediately. It was not near any vital organs but it might permanently harm his muscles. He caught up his horses and retrieved his surgical kit. First he cut the bolt flush with his armour using specially designed clippers. Then he unstrapped and carefully eased off his shoulder guard. When he cut away the padded wool he was relieved to see the arrow catcher had done its job. The silk had not torn but had twisted around the head of the bolt. The silk had not only slowed the quarrel but allowed it to be pulled back out with minimal damage.
He took a swig of the brandy and after touching the long, dark braid for luck he gave a sharp tug on the silk around the entrance wound. The bolt slid out and he grunted as the world darkened. He shook his head to clear it and then poured some brandy into the wound. This time he screamed but still did not pass out.
When the sharp pain eased to a pounding ache he bound up the wound. He replaced his armour and mounted the mare. The sun was high in the sky and the Dragon's Eye was turning into an oven. He could be out of it in an hour and into the forest west of the Dragon Backs. He could gather a force there and return. He rode gently through the pass still alert but far less tense. He stroked the braid he had cut from the head of the Princess. She would be his and neither she nor the King could stop him.
He was still plotting as he rode out of the Dragon Backs and so he did not see the arrow. He did not even hear it until something smashed into his back and tumbled him clear of the saddle. The pain was tremendous and although he tried to get to his feet he only succeeded in rolling over. He could see the heavy head of the arrow protruding from his chest. He had been shot at close range by an assassin he still could not see. He tried to raise his hand to touch the braid but his wrist got caught on the point of the arrow and he did not have the strength to move it farther.
He was still struggling when the assassin warily entered his field of vision.
She was wearing russet and brown and carried her bow at the ready. She was tall and had very high cheekbones. Even with her head shaved she was more beautiful than he remembered. She approached and looked down at him, her face an impassive mask. She drew a dagger from her belt and knelt down beside him placing it against his right eye.
"You can keep my hair," she said, "I'll bury you with it."
The last thing the Battlemaster saw was the muscles of her arm tensing to drive in the blade.
"Gate Keepers Choice
By;fernand jiro.l
Captain Quine eyed the reserves he commanded at Selan's North Gate as they joked back and forth. His shoulder felt better and Goddess willing he would soon be back with the Xth. That pleasant thought was all that kept him from taking a whip to these toy soldiers to try and improve their attitude.
"Legionnaires," he yelled and then winced as the guards slouched to attention. "Today is market day gentlemen. You must at least look at the people passing through. I won't tell you again."
The guards eyed each other and then Quine. He groaned. "Don't watch me." Quine indicated the people bustling in and out of the gate on their morning business. "Watch them."
The guards scrambled to their posts on either side of the recently opened gate and began to glance at each person passing through. Quine bet himself they would lose focus again in less than ten minutes. He sighed and wandered partway up the road carefully examining the morning rush.
The crowd had begun to lessen when Quine noticed a carriage in the distance. He could not see a standard but knew it belonged to a noblewoman. "Damn! That's the last thing I need."
He jogged back to his post. "Shut the gate you fools, a procession is coming." Market morning too, someone wanted to attract attention.
The guards hustled to shut the gate and came to attention, five on either side of the road, crossbows across their shoulders. "Well done men," said Quine. "You might be mistaken for real soldiers."
The citizenry knew the ritual as well as he did and stood to the side of the road waiting for the gate to be reopened. Quine had a brief flash of irritation; the civilians responded as quickly as his guards did.
Quine then stood square in the middle of the road ready for Recognize or Challenge.
The crowd recognized the standard first and began to mutter. Quine began to worry when he saw what caused the excitement. The Guardian was bearing the device of the kidnapped princess. If he Challenged and someone could prove a right to bear the standard it could mean his head. If he Recognized and allowed an imposter through the gate it could also mean his head. He turned to examine the cavalcade for clues as to which choice to make.
The carriage was a fine one, filigreed and well sprung, but like many he had seen before. The honor guard was far from normal. Nomads. Not mercenaries, with a veneer of civilization, but savage men in leather armour and skins. Quine remembered the conscripts giggling at the gate moments earlier and wished once again that he had the Xth at his back.
He tried to examine the shield of the standard bearer. If some popinjay lordling was from a prestigious enough family he might have been granted the right to carry the princess's banner. Who knows? The carriage might hold a royal pet or something equally foolish. The shield revealed nothing. Even at a distance Quine could tell it had been covered with black cloth.
When the procession drew close enough for Quine to make out individuals, he began to worry even more. The standard bearer rode an enormous charger that highstepped and jerked on the reins. He wore not a fine cape over decorative show armour but a hooded cloak of untreated wool thrown back to reveal some of the finest South Kingdom steel Quine had seen; well used but well cared for. A longsword and a dented helmet hung with the shield on the saddle pommel. The man's head was shaved like a nomad's but the remaining hair was braided close to his skull in thin rows. This was no court fop, this was a warrior.
The standard bearer drew up in front of him and halted the cavalcade. He quickly scanned the guards then turned to face Quine. He was very young but Quine could read nothing in the sharp, gaunt features or blue eyes. Quine felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
Quine walked around to the right side of the charger. He was frightened; first time in years. The man on the horse said nothing, waiting for Challenge or Recognition. Quine realized the crowd had grown silent. He stalled for time.
"Please declare both your title and that of the carriage occupant?" Quine was relieved that his voice was both steady and respectful. The Guardian regarded Quine impassively for a moment then turned up to the standard. He then looked back down at Quine.
Quine remained silent for a moment before realizing he could stall no longer. He took a deep breath then spoke clearly and formally. "I, sir, recognize the standard and hereby Challenge your right to enter the city beneath it." Quine waited for the traditional response, a formal complaint against him on behalf of the carriage occupant.
The response was anything but traditional. Quine could not even swallow as he stared at the steppeknife held in front of his throat. The mysterious warrior had leaned far down out of his saddle, his arm was cocked and the blade was rock steady. The speed of the maneuver terrified him. There was no way Quine could step backward quickly enough to save himself. He pulled his eyes up from the blade to the cold blue ones gazing down from above.
The warrior spoke for the first time. "You have questioned my honor." His voice was quiet but easily heard. "You shall withdraw the Challenge or accept the consequences."
Quine glanced down to the blade and decided to accept the reprieve. Let someone else Challenge this one, he had already lost the game. Quine spoke very quietly, hoping his voice wouldn't carry too far through the silent crowd.
"I will withdraw the Challenge and issue Recognition of the princess and her Guardian."
The warrior nodded and straightened up in his saddle returning the steppeknife to its sheath down the center of his back.
"Uh...sir, who shall I announce as the princess' Guardian?"
The warrior looked over his shoulder at the carriage for a moment and then turned back and smiled. Even his eyes lit up. "They call me Kitten."
Quine shook his head in confusion as the procession passed through the gate. If that was a kitten he would hate to meet the cat.
"News From Home"
“Come on Cliff, Alison’s bringing a friend. I am sure she is … uh … available.”
Cliff slouched further into the old desk chair as he watched Del checking his already perfect hair in the pitted mirror that hung from the back of the door.
“Available for you maybe … so long as Alison isn’t around. But I’m not Delmore Jamieson the third.” Cliff deliberately exaggerated the ‘r’ to take the sting out of his bitterness. He really didn’t want to watch Del go out again.
“Oh … come on … don’t be stupid,” Del turned and leaned against the edge of the cupboard by the door. “The girls do like you, you know. Goodness knows why, ya big oaf.”
“Oh get lost, girlie boy,” Cliff said shortly.
Del laughed. Cliff had shared this small dorm room with him for five months now and knew he could rag him about his pretty face. It had taken him two months to get used to it though. This banter had seemed odd to him at first, coming from his staid family where quiet courtesy was a watchword. Educated at his outpost home by a tutor he had few of his own age to make friends with. This large school had been both frightening and new.
Del, however, had seemed comfortable harassing Cliff from the moment he ducked his head under the doorway on the day before term started. Del had sat straight up on the bed as soon as he saw him.
“Goodness, look at the size of you boy. And what are those things at the end of your arms, spades? Well, I am sure glad they could work the handle, or you would have punched that great noggin right through the door.” It had never seemed mean though. Just friendly. Cliff felt one of the boys right from the start, largely because of Del.
“I am Del,” he had said cheerfully, holding out a hand, “and sometimes DJ3 although I hate that, so Del is fine.” It had been a whole week before he had found out that Del was a Jamieson, one of the great families and regular member of the Council.
He didn’t look so noble at the moment as he and cast his lanky frame backwards onto the narrow bed. He almost looked petulant.
“You can’t tell me you have work to do,” said Del. “Its only January and we don’t have another bank of exams for six months. And I know how meticulous are about getting started on assignments early. You are probably half done the February logistics paper already. One night out is not going to hurt the top student in the school.”
Del knew all his excuses in advance. He was laying it on thick about the top student in school bit though. That was Del himself. Cliff had long ago realized his roomie was a bit of genius. With seemingly no effort Del got marks that, although pretty much the same as Cliff’s, were way ahead of anyone else. But Cliff worked like a dog for his.
Cliff felt like a bit of a heel. He had been lucky to get Del as a roommate. Cliff had been a complete outsider, winning a scholarship to come into the best space academy on earth for his final year of school. Coming into a place where the rich kids and their cliques were well established, a jerk could have made his life miserable. But Del had been his friend, right from day one. Del deserved the truth.
“Look,” said Cliff. “Its just that I am a little low in the card right now. I just can’t afford to go off campus.”
Del opened his mouth to say something.
“Wait,” interrupted Cliff. He levered himself from the chair and flopped down onto his bed, across from Del’s. It creaked ominously. It wouldn’t break though. Like everything else in the room it had been around for hundreds of years. The antique desk lamps, screwed down to the edges of the old wooden desks; and the scratched wooden cupboards either side of the door. Dorms had been built like this for thousands of years because they were pretty functional that way.
“I know you are going to offer to pay, but I just can’t take that.” Cliff angled his head into the corner of the bed where the wall met the desk and eyed his feet as they dangled off the end of the other end. “You paid the last time we went out. I like you. I know you’re my friend and I know your family has so much money you wouldn’t even notice a hanger on, and you are generous enough not to care.
“But I would care. I don’t like feeling like a hanger on. I don’t want to be a parasite. So you go out with the boys … and the girls,” Cliff smiled at the ceiling, knowing exactly how many would crowd around. He briefly imagined Del rolling his eyes at him as the flirty ones called him the hated ‘DJ3’. “I will say here and work on my math.”
He tilted his head up to look over at Del who was staring at he ceiling. “I’m ahead of you in logistics, the math I need to work on.”
“Of course you’re better in logistics,” said Del, still staring at the ceiling, “more room in that monster head of yours to carry around all that detail.”
They lay there in heavy silence for a few minutes.
“You know,” said Del. “I feel like a jerk. I forget that you’re a scholarship student. Look, I’m not gonna just stop going out because that would probably make you feel guilty too. But I did want to go out with you tonight. So I’m gonna fire a quick email to Alison and cancel out. Let’s go down to the Common and shoot some pokie. Next time you have enough money to go out let me know … don’t wait for an invite.”
Cliff thought for a moment. He should really press Del to go out on his date, but shooting some pokie sounded like a great idea. “Deal,” he said, “and if we team up maybe we can win enough to go out tomorrow. I don’t object at all to you putting up the stakes …”
Del was still laughing as they left the room.
* * *
Sandhurst Academy was several hundred years old. It was one of the first schools of its kind, built shortly after the Collapse on the site of an ancient military school in the British Isles. The dormitories were shaped roughly like a six-pointed star. The points were the wings and the centre was the common. This is where Del and Cliff went to shoot the pokies.
Cliff had never seen pokies before he had arrived. They were like big black cockpits on gimbals. Del had explained it after Cliff had somehow folded himself into the cockpit for the first time.
“Like all the best games,” Del had began, “shooting pokie is simple. Once you shut this door and operate the controls the box zooms around like you’re flying it. The inside of the box is like a giant v-helmet. You will be surrounded by are shapes and different coloured lights. Each time you fire it up it’s all different. Some lights you shoot. Some are your friends. You can hide behind the shapes and stuff. You can play against the machine but playing against other players is the best.
“Other schools will have fancier games with fancier graphics. They may be prettier but pokie is still the best ground level, 3D flight and fight training there is.”
“Why is it called pokie?” Cliff had asked.
“I dunno,” Del had replied. And before he shut the door, whereupon Cliff had ‘died’ almost instantly.
He had become hooked on the game though. He had to make sure to ration his playing time or else he would fall behind on his academic work. But he was dedicated and Del was, of course, superlative. They had become a terrific team. Del was just a brilliant flier, his box turned on a dime, and his reflexes were fast, very fast. He seemed to intuit what an opponent would do before they did. Cliff had to be more methodical and careful. He always remembered where the shapes were though the course of a game. He also always remembered the tendencies of their opponents. It was only two months before they teamed up in the top flight and only another before they became the school’s top pokie team.
“See any patsies?” muttered Del, as they entered the common. He had come to rely on Cliff’s judgement of people.
“Not yet, they’re all juniors and you scare ‘em so much they have to cross their legs.”
Betting was technically not allowed so it had to be slightly covert. Cliff noted the juniors looking up at them and moving to one side as he circled the room. Then he saw them. There were eight of them and only a year behind Cliff and Del. One of them wandered up to a first year student who was waiting patiently for his turn at the pokies and whispered something in his ear. The kid turned and opened his mouth to say something. Then thought better of it and turned to go. The others were doing the same.
Cliff glanced at Del.
“Saw it,” said Del, “jerks. They need a lesson but they won’t take us on. Not even all together. Not for coin anyway.”
“He will if we have bait,” said Cliff, and he reached out a hand and snared the young student as he was walking quickly past. His jaw was clenched, jutting his chin out and his face was red. He spun and looked up at Cliff. He was obviously as mad as all getout and not at all intimidated. Perfect.
“What … sir.” The kid had guts. Better still.
“Call me Cliff, we aren’t on duty. And this here is Del. What’s your name?”
“Uhh … Jalen ... sir.” The kid was starting to look confused now.
“Well, are you any good at the pokies Jalensir?” Cliff could almost feel Del trying not to laugh, but the kid was finally smiled.
“Uh … I guess so … uh … Cliff. I have beaten everyone else in my year.”
“Perfect,” said Cliff.
“Jalensir,” chimed in Del, “we have a little proposition for you, and I am paying the stakes.”
* * *
Del and Cliff, strolled over to the pushy student. Whose name it turned out, was Bertram. Which absolutely delighted Del.
“Hey Bertie,” said Del. “Did someone make you king of the pokies?”
Bertram was no fool.
“No Del that would be you. Would you care to go first?”
“Don’t be a jackass Bertie – and call me sir please. Do you think I would act like you and push these kids out of the way when they need practice? Well, actually, you need the practice more than young Jalen here, but still no way to toss him aside.”
“Sir? I am not sure I understand.”
“Well … young Jalen isn’t much of a player at all. But for a fourth year student you are really poor. You do need the practice more than him.”
“Uh … I respectfully disagree sir.”
“You do nothing respectfully, you’re a jackass. But I can prove your idiocy at the game, there would be a small wager of course.”
“I am not going to take you on for money sir, I am not that good yet. But I would love to play you for sport.”
“Hmmmm … how about you your gang of eight against me and my pal Cliffy here?”
“No deal sir, I have watched the two of you play.”
Cliff watched with interest. Del was playing him like a fish, but would he take the bait.
“I guess we need a handicap somehow … well, the machines are all the same so we can’t jimmy those. How about you guys take on some extra team mates?”
Bertram thought for a minute. “Let me talk to my roommates.” That was important info for Cliff. Unlike seniors, the fourth years lived eight to a room, and if these were roommates then they were probably very tight.
Bertram huddled with them and came back a moment later.
“We still won’t do it that way. We think the best handicap is for you to take on an extra. A passenger. A first year.”
Bertram shot a look at Jalen as he said this. He was almost bouncing on his toes so Cliff rested a heavy hand on his shoulder before he gave the game away.
“… and,” said Bertram looking triumphant, “he has to survive.”
“What, him?” Del looked stunned and jerked a thumb at Jalen. “You want us to risk 200 Cs carrying a squirt?” You would never have guessed this was the plan all along.
“Two hundred Cs?” Bertram licked his lips, before going on more firmly, “Yeah … two hundred Cs.”
“Deal,” said Del, then he turned to Jalen. “Just remember the plan Jalensir. I am point, Cliffy will slide in behind me. You ride under his belly like a calf sucking milk. Your job is to shoot downward … and that is it.”
Not only did Jalen follow instructions to a T, but he was talented. Bertie had been good too, very good, but not good enough. It only took them about two minutes to win their two hundred Cs.
Bertram was already waiting as the three of them exited their pokies. He was smiling, a bit ruefully, but smiling. “Learned a lesson today sir, and it wasn’t in the pokies. We’ll credit your card in the morning.”
“Thanks Bertram,” Del answered, and then he too smiled. “but split it three ways sixty-six to each of us … oh … and don’t call me sir.”
Cliff watched amazed as Bertram laughed. Del had really charmed this guy, maybe he really had learned a lesson. Bertram nodded to Jalen and then started to leave.
That was when they saw the Major enter the room. The Major was the assistant head, he was ramrod straight and tougher than steel. He marched straight toward them. Everyone in the room came to attention. He stopped in front of Cliff and Del. Cliff could feel the sweat beginning to pool in his armpits.
“That wasn’t particularly discrete was it?”
“NO SIR!” they both shouted.
“Hmmm,” the major’s dark eyes were set deep in his head. Cliff tried to look into them but he could just tell the Major was staring directly at him. He seemed almost sad rather than angry.
“Senior Hughes, you will come with me.”
“Yes, sir!” said Cliff, stepping forward.
Astonishingly, Del interrupted, “Permission to speak, sir.”
The Major’s head turned slowly and he fixed his gaze somewhere to Cliff’s left, ‘Yes, Senior Jamieson?”
“I was involved too sir, I should go with Senior Hughes.”
“Me too sir!” said Bertram, stepping forward. Jalen said nothing but also stepped forward. Cliff was suddenly very proud of his fellow students.
The Major’s eyes focused back on Cliff. “Friends of yours Hughes?”
“Yes sir! This is Undersenior Bertie, sir, and Pledge Jalensir, sir!” There were stifled snickers around the room. Cliff knew what he was doing. He did not want to disrespect the Major, or add levity for levity’s sake. There were two hundred other students in the room, and by bestowing nicknames on them in public, in front of the major like this he had just made them legends. That was the least they deserved from him.
The Major’s mouth twitched slightly. He obviously knew his motives, and respected them enough to let it slide.
“Very well, the Colonel has asked to see you. It has nothing to do with … whatever may have gone on here earlier. But it may be difficult for you and it pays to have friends at times like this. Senior Jamieson, U.S. Bluefield, and Pledge Holland. You may accompany us.”
As the marched from the room Cliff heard Del mutter behind him. “Bertram Bluefield? Parents must have hated you …” Cliff could have sworn he saw the Major’s shoulders twitch as the marched along.
Once out of the dorm complex they crossed on a breezeway past the tall buildings that housed the classrooms to the Head’s house. It was an imposing home as befits the head of one of the best schools in the world. Cliff had only been here twice before, and both times he had been forced to wait in the hall before being called in. He dreaded it. The chairs were uncomfortable, especially for one of his size. And he always sweated like a pig when he got nervous.
They did not have to wait though. When the Major pushed open the big double doors, the Colonel was waiting for them in the front hall. He didn’t seem surprised to see an entourage.
The Colonel might have been the Major’s older brother. Same size and shape, same black eyes and dark, dark skin, and he also seemed sad somehow.
“Men, you wait here. Hughes, please come into my office.”
The Colonel’s office had big double bay windows looking out down the breezeway they had just marched up. Large book cases lined most of the walls. There was a small model of a C-class destroyer in the corner. The Colonel pointed to the red chair in front of his desk.
Cliff watched him slowly circle the desk and sit down in the big chair behind it. He fidgeted briefly with a piece of paper on his desk for a moment. Then he looked up from his desk right into Cliff’s eyes, and Cliff knew then it would be terrible news.
“There is no easy way to say this son. This is an email I have just received from your Uncle. Your father has died.”
It was the last thing Cliff expected. He stared at the model in the corner. The glass case was carefully polished, but the little C-class inside was a slightly dusty. He felt a tear on his cheek, but didn’t feel any in his eyes.
“How Sir?” he had to force the words. His heard his voice waver but he couldn’t control it. “Some kind of accident?”
“Yes. His was a hard occupation, and very dangerous.”
The little model was so detailed. It even had tiny battle scars on the right side of the nose, and scorch marks around the missile ports. It was definitely a labour of love. Cliff knew his father would have appreciated it. He loved attention to detail. It was what kept him alive so long.
“Do … do you know what happened?”
“I have no details. He was a mine manager. We can both guess.”
“Yes sir.” Cliff didn’t know what to think about. He tried to picture his father’s face but couldn’t. All he could see was that damn model in the corner.
“Hughes?” Cliff dragged his eyes away from the model. “Did you want a few minutes here?”
“No sir, I would rather return to my dorm sir.”
“Okay then,” Cliff realised that the Colonel fingers were flexing slightly where they rested on the desk. His face was calm, and reserved but the fingers gave the game away. Only they showed his agitation. He had never seen the Colonel look discomfited by anything.
“Hughes, I have arranged for you to miss classes tomorrow. You have an appointment with the MO at 0h-nine-hundred. This is not optional. I have reserved tight beam time for you to contact your family at 14 hundred hours tomorrow. It was the best I could do.”
Cliff was astonished. He had never had tightbeam time before. In fact no student he knew of had.
“You may go Hughes … and I am sorry. Terribly sorry.”
The Colonel’s face was stern and sad, and something in it made Cliff know he meant it.
"The Brass Cross"
"Eric's just not normal," said Hoarlegh. I was just off duty but he had been at it all afternoon. "No right minded loon would have that job." He took another swig of ale. "Brought in 'nother this very morning. He hunts too well by rights. Makes me queasy he does."
"Queasier if you knew how well I could hear, you sot."
Eric had materialised behind Hoarlegh's chair. It was unnerving how he could just appear that way, particularly with his great size. We all looked up at him. I still had my tankard raised to my lips, and wondered if I would ever get that sip.
With startling speed he reached down and picked up Hoarlegh chair and all. Hoarlegh was sputtering and still trying to wriggle out of his chair as Eric took three steps and threw him through the door. Fortunately it was unlatched and we caught a glimpse of Hoarlegh and the chair bounce together once before he rolled into the mud of the street. A little old duffer by the door reached out and casually pulled it shut again, looking for all the world like he had just helped through a lady.
I was secretly rather pleased. Not that I disagreed with Hoarlegh, I just didn't like him much. He was older than us younger officers and a loudmouth know-all to boot. My pleasure was short-lived though for Eric was returning to our table looking ominous. Even though there were four of us, fit and highly trained, Eric was clearly unperturbed by thought of taking us on.
Daynor, who always had been a quick thinker, spoke up. "Thanks Eric," he said cheerily. "He was beginning to make me feel queasy. Care to join us for a drink?" I was grateful to Daynor, I had wanted to meet Eric for a long time.
Eric seemed to accept the peace offering. "Thank you, I do believe I will."
He snatched up a new chair and plunked himself down. We were a bit surprised and most uncomfortable. None of us knew him socially. His unusual post and the status that went with it kept him distant from us. I had never even seen him in the tavern before, let alone having a drink.
We were not made any more comfortable by his imposing size or the fact that we had just been talking about him. Worries were soon dispelled however as Eric proved a charming companion. Not drinking much but cheery and light-hearted, displaying an almost silly sense of humour. This did not seem to be the fierce and brooding King's hound we had known and been so wary of in the past.
The others were starting to relax a bit but the unasked question still hung above the table. I knew the others wouldn’t broach it, especially after what happened to Hoarlegh, who had likely slunk back to barracks. I wanted to know though.
"Eric, do you ever find your job difficult?"
Eric was not at all fooled. "Yes being the Royal Huntsman is physically demanding," he said, neatly dodging my question.
There was a prolonged silence before he looked up from his beer. His gaze seemed almost placid. "That isn't what you want to know though, is it? You really wonder what I feel, if those I have killed weigh on my conscience."
He leaned back in his chair. "No … for two reasons.” He counted them on is thick fingers as he spoke. “I always give the hunted a chance and I am merely the tool of the King, his weapon. The dead are more likely to haunt him than me."
Daynor looked confused. "What do you mean you always give them a chance?"
So much for the quick thinker. I already knew, but Eric answered anyway.
"I always wait 'til they are alone and then challenge. If they kill me they go. It is a streak of compassion that I picked up from my predecessor."
Not much of a chance it seemed to me, for most men a fight with Eric was an execution, not a duel. But even if Eric did seem to appreciate bluntness, I wasn’t quite ready to speak up on that. So I went a different direction instead. "Eric, how the seven hells did you get into this business and why are you so bedamned good at it?"
There was much shifting in chairs as the others tried to look anywhere but at Eric, or me for that matter. I kept looking at Eric, and he at me. After an eternity he nodded.
“More beer first,” he said. Which was odd, as he hadn’t had much yet, but then neither had I. The others seemed to be making up for us though. So we quickly ordered up some more along with some bread and a couple of roast chickens.
"I grew up in a little village not too far north of here. It was there that I took the first step on the road to be the Royal Huntsman. I must have been eight summers because that was the year I accidentally burnt down the innkeeper's hay barn and my father was making me work all summer at the inn's stable."
Eric smiled as he reminisced. "I thought the punishment unusually harsh. It had been an old barn anyway and Master Willard seemed to find the affair rather amusing. He still worked me hard though.
"So there I was at the door of Willard's stable when a huge red stallion trotted up the village road. Even today I have rarely seen so fine a horse and you know how young lads are about horses. I was drawn to it like a bee to honey. I barely noticed the rider or the two pack animals trailing behind before they pulled up at the stable.
“I stepped forward, eyes only for the horse, I guess I thought I would take the bridle or something and the rider just said stop. It was that simple. Then I noticed him.
“There was nothing special looking about him, dressed in brown, bits of armour showing through. But the voice, and the eyes …” Eric shook his head, he seemed at a loss as to what to say.
“Leave the red he had said or it would have my hand off. It would have too, bloody great brute. But he handed me the other two while he looked after the red. He was so plain looking, with his brown clothes, and his brown bag of things, and his, to my untutored eye, plain old weapons. A brace of daggers, with a matching sword. All had a small brass cross on the guard … just above the blade.
“It was Steele of course, my predecessor. I helped carry his bag to the door because he fascinated me. Those eyes were what did it. They were filled with such pain, such anguish. We had a dog once that died of a wasting sickness and he had that same look in this eyes. That was his weakness I guess. Too much compassion. Forgot what his job was.”
It was odd to hear Eric talk of anguish and compassion in a voice that never seemed to change. Gone was cheery joking companion of earlier. Now we sat with a man who seemed bereft of any emotion whatsoever.
“Anyway, Master Willard met us at the door. I think he knew who Steele was. The way he licked his lips and threw me a funny look I figure he even knew why he was there.
“He was very polite to Steele as they went inside, offering a room. Willard tried to take the bag from me but I wouldn’t give it up. I was just too fascinated by this lean man with the plain weapons and the plain clothes. And even as an eight year old I could tell that this man somehow frightened Willard and I liked that. Willard had been an old bastard to me anyway.
“Steele then said he was looking for someone in town, and started to give a description … big, black hair, thick ropey arms. Willard froze, looking at me, not saying a word. ‘That’s my Dad’ I said, ‘biggest man in the district.’
“Steele looked at me then, if I thought there was pain in his eyes before, he looked like the world had ended now. He asked me my name and how old I was and where I lived. He bade me to stay with Willard. Then taking only his weapons, he rode away on his big red horse.
“I never saw my Dad again. See, my Dad was one of the Three Generals.”
This created stir among my friends. Daynor even gasped aloud. We all knew about the Three Generals, me more than the others I guess. Early in the King’s reign a cabal of three generals, unhappy with a young King forcing a war with three neighbours at once tried to stage a coup. It failed when they were betrayed by one of their own, a fourth General, who had been rewarded with a Dukedom in Aynsford.
The three had fled along with their officers and the position of Royal Huntsman had been created to track them all down. Steele had been the first.
Eric, still unemotional, helped himself to another chicken leg and took a bite before continuing.
“My dad was the first one he caught. Not the first rebel of course, he had been tracking down officers for six years. He was the first of the Generals though. I don’t know what happened out at the farm but Steele stopped and picked me up on the way back. All he told me was that my father was dead and that he had promised to look after me. Willard just watched us leave without saying a word.
“I don’t know how he persuaded the King I deserved to live. These days the King and I know better. Nits make lice. We are still tracking down the children of those rebels. I guess Steele was reluctant to go after them, not realising they were the spawn of trouble.”
Eric tossed the bone on the table and ever so carefully wiped his hands on a cloth as he continued to speak.
“Anyway he raised me from then on. Taught me how to hunt. He didn’t just wander around looking for tracks. He stayed here for the most part and ran a vast network of spies and informers. He also taught me weaponcraft. There was no better teacher, no better fighter. Those plain seeming weapons with the brass cross were some of the finest ever made. Perfectly balanced, with them he could defeat any three of the Kings’ Guard.
“He continued to hunt the rebels down. Killing them off one by one. It took ten more years for him to find the last one. By then he barely seemed to sleep. He let the job get to him. He thought about the dead too much. He took the weight on his own shoulders instead of leaving it at the King’s feet where it belonged.
“Then he disappeared. And I took over the position. By then I was nearly twenty. The King was used to having me around I guess, and I could best all but Steele in combat.”
Daynor interrupted then. He had both his elbows on the table and a full pint mug had been sitting in front of him since the second round had arrived. He seemed less entranced by Eric than the others.
“What really happened to Steele?” he asked. “I mean we all know that the first hound disappeared mysteriously, but that was almost twenty years ago. You of all people should have been able to find him.”
Eric leaned back in his chair and it creaked ominously. He looked around at us. He seemed to be gauging us, studying us anew. He rocked slightly in his chair, eyes passing from one of us to another.
“I suppose enough time has passed. The story can be told.” He leaned forward again and stared at a point on the wall above my head, as if the tale was written there.
“The duties were too much for Steele. He broke when the King sent him after the Black Bitch, the King’s cousin, Alanna. She had been married to Garsh, the last General Steele tracked down. She was the mastermind of course; the generals needed her for their claim.
“He eventually found her and instead of killing her, he took her and her child, and fled. That was when the King came to me. I pledged my service to him in my own blood. Hunting down the nits and whelps of the rebels was the lesser part of my job. For the King my primary task was to find the traitor Steele, the Black Bitch and her son and kill them.
“It took me twelve years to find Steele. He heard I was in town and met me in the street. Gave me this, he did.” Eric drew a finger along a scar on the side of his face. “He was old by then though and was missing those brass cross weapons of his. I may have killed him but he succeeded in the end. The Black Bitch and her nit escaped.
“I eventually found her but by then she had died a natural death.” He paused a moment. “Still looking for the kid though.”
Daynor was now looking very uncomfortable. He had pushed the pint away untouched and was eyeing Eric nervously. Eric seemed not to notice, and was still staring at the wall above my head.
That was when I asked the question, the one I had wanted to ask for such a long time.
“Eric, why keep doing it? If Steele, with all his dedication, couldn’t stomach it after the original rebels were done for, then why keep on? Is there an honour in hunting down the frightened few, just to please the King, or cow anyone else who might bear him ill will? Is there really a ‘threat’ or is this all in the King’s head?”
It was a strange question for one of the King’s guard, and Eric knew it. He was looking at me carefully now, ignoring the others, he nodded before he began to speak.
“There are always enemies within our borders, not just the nits and whelps of those bygone rebels. They are everywhere masquerading as common farmers, or shopkeepers … or even soldiers. They think they are safe in their secrecy, but I know what they do. I know what they think. So does the King and when he decides it is time for them to see the error of their ways, then I act. We can not be strong in face of enemies from without, unless we crush those enemies within. I do it because I keep this Kingdom strong.”
Eric was leaning forward in his chair now. His voice hadn’t changed but his fists were clenched on the arms of the chair, as if trying to strangle it into submission. It was the first emotion he had shown. The entire tale of woe, his father’s death, killing the man who raised him, the murders of hundreds, and the only emotion he showed was anger at imaginary threats. I stole a glance at the others. Their impassive faces said it all. They at last knew what we were dealing with.
“But those few rebels are still about. Proof is in recent deeds,” he went on. “Duke Aynsford’s death last week was not natural. He was murdered. The one member of nobility the King trusted, the one who saved him from the Three Generals.”
He paused now, leaning back in his chair again. He seemed to have calmed himself.
“Only a member of the King’s Guard could have done that deed … when and where it happened. And whoever did it was forced to leave a weapon behind, wedged into the body. A dagger, with a brass cross on the handle, right above the blade, Steele’s old dagger. Only one person could have had that, the Black Bitch’s son.”
He had dropped his gaze from the wall and we were looking at each other, eye to eye. The others had to have caught on, but I didn’t dare look at them. They hung motionless on the edge of my vision, like portraits in a hallway.
“I have just one question little nit,” he said. “Why the Duke first? If you stuck the mate of that dagger in your belt into the King first then this would be over. You’ve been in the Guard for nigh on six months. There must have been an opportunity.”
He was watching me very carefully now, one big hand wrapped around the handle of the dagger at his belt. I let him stew for a moment, then slowly drew my dagger, the one with the small brass cross on the guard. He tensed briefly as I jammed into the table.
“The King is old. He is going to die soon anyway. Besides, do you think I left my dagger in the Duke by accident? Oh no, I wanted it to be found. I wanted to be found. I wanted to be found by you.”
I stood up and glanced quickly around at my friends. Their stunned faces mirrored the uncertainty on Eric’s face.
“I didn’t come here for the King, Eric. I came here for the murderer who hides behind his throne. I will wait for him outside.”
With that I turned and walked for the door, drawing my sword … Steele’s sword … as I went. I could hear Eric’s chair scrape as he got to his feet to follow me. I didn’t look back. Eric was about to find out just how good a teacher Steele really was.
"The Redeemer: Episode Three"
I was Fernand jiro marantal Ezaker and this is The final episode to Ezekiel's nightmare. Can he face his past and walk away with his sanity in tact?Episode Three; by;fernand jiro.
A flash of light; I find myself back at my home in New York City. I look in the living room and see my daughter sitting near a Christmas tree. My wife walks into the room and hands her a glass of milk. “Merry Christmas” my wife says to our daughter.
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