The Vanguards of Scion
Page 24
"My brothel, after all," Tom muttered. "I know. I get it. I was just thinking about the girls. You didn't tell them you brought some strange sea creature into their home, did you?"
"No, they don't know what's in it. It's in Doctor Finney's room."
Tom burst out in laughter. "Doctor Finney's room? Oh dear, that's genuine poetry! He'll kill over dead if finds out!"
"Well, that's why I told them to use his room. He's so obsessed with the cleanliness of his room, the ladies have donated to him, using it only when he makes a visit. Madame Praline keeps it locked so it stays immaculate for him. He's a high-profile client."
Tom sighed. "I bet it's stinking up the place already. Very well. I'll be up there in an hour. But Tincup will not be making an appearance. I'll conjure someone else to visit the brothel. Tell Madame Praline you hired an important specialist to inspect the contents of the crate, and that you'll have it removed as soon as it has been inspected by a. . . Doctor Tomas."
Cranley rubbed at his brawny neck. "As you wish." He shook his head. "You should let me assist you. This thing might be dangerous, or poisonous. What would we do if you were killed?"
Tom smiled broadly and held his hands far out to his sides. "Then, all this would be yours!" He elbowed Cranley gently. "And Rew's, of course. I mean, you could split it or have a card game." Tom's eyes widened. "Oh, you could have a dual!"
Cranley rolled his eyes. "Just be careful, Tom. Rew and I like things the way they are."
Tom winked. "Go on, then! Go tell the Madame!"
Cranley turned on his heels and headed off into the sewer tunnel, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles invading the stone walkways on the side.
* * * *
Doctor Tomas slammed the brass knocker sculpted in the shape of a woman's lips four times on the huge oaken red door of The Red Corset.
An exceptionally tall woman with chestnut hair pinned up and curled wearing little more than a sheer robe and pink loincloth opened the door. She shared her ample curves generously, stepping out onto the doorstep and brushing Doctor Tomas's cheek. "Welcome, Good Sir! What can I do for you tonight, love?"
Doctor Tomas pushed her aside and let himself inside, knocking into her knees with his leather bag of instruments. "Nothing except out of the way, my dear! I've urgent business in this establishment!" He rushed over the lush carpets and tried to take in some of the decor he'd paid so much for as he walked by it. Rew had shown it to him on a wagon after he'd bought most of it, but Tom had never seen in tied together in The Red Corset in its full splendor. He grinned under his wide-brimmed black hat that was part of his Doctor Tomas persona. A black linen cape swayed as he walked hurriedly in search of Madame Praline. He hoped she was not occupied with a client. Already, a few of the ladies had begun to follow him down the halls as he paused and glanced at each door. He really didn't know which room was Doctor Finney's.
"Oh, good sir!" came a middle-aged, husky female voice. "Are you here to inspect the box?"
Doctor Tomas turned around to face Madame Praline. Her voluminous strawberry red hair framed a plump freckle peppered face, with blue eyes set slightly far apart. She had on the red corset the brothel was named for.
Doctor Tomas removed his octagonal spectacles to gaze at her across the hall. He could only see with them close-up. "I am. Can you show me to the room?"
"Oh, certainly, my lord!"
"Doctor Tomas." He tipped his hat and put his spectacles back on.
"Oh? Another Doctor then? Are you a friend of Doctor Finney?"
"Acquaintance. Colleague. Yes."
"Oh, please don't tell him they put it in his room," she pleaded, lips pouted. "He's ever so finicky about it being clean."
"As a Doctor should be," he told her. "However, I won't stir the pot. I would be on my way to the business of inspecting the contents so Lord Cranley can have it moved to another location more suited to its storage."
She led him all the way down the red-carpeted hallway to the room at the end where she removed a key from her bosom and unlocked its thick red door. "Go on in."
Doctor Tomas opened the door and couldn't help but take a deep breath before he went inside. "Let no one in behind me," he said before he entered and closed the door.
The room did smell, but it was not so awful as he imagined or expected. No fishy smells at all. A soft briny aroma lingered in the air with the faintest hint of rotten egg smell. A bit annoying at its worst. The crate had mostly dried on the outside. It rested in place of where a bed seemed to have been. Doctor Tomas walked around the crate several times taking it all in before he reached between the planks to feel the seaweed stuffed inside. When he did, he jumped back, startled by a hand that emerged from the clustered fronds of seaweed. It moved lethargically, fingers trembling.
Doctor Tomas set his leather bag on the floor and pulled out a small hammer with claws on it for removing nails and commenced removing the rusty nails holding the lid of the crate on top. He pried them out and tossed them onto the floor. Some of the weathered planks crumbled and split when he pulled the lid off with his fingers. He uncovered the creature, discarding the obscuring layers of seaweed onto the floor. Luckily, the floor in this room was hardwood. Clean up would be easy enough after he was finished and repacked everything.
Doctor Tomas's mouth fell open when he saw the entirety of what lay inside the crate. It was a man. Albeit a strange looking man. He was like none Tom had ever seen. He was naked and his skin glistened the bluest white. His hair was a bleached pink color and clumped in tight mats on his head. His facial features resembled that of the northern desert black men, with a wide nose and protruding brows. Just as Tom had noticed the previous day, this poor, strange figure had no right hand.
The man opened his eyes revealing shockingly white pupils with a pin of black in the center. He stared at Tom. He opened his lips to speak, revealing the white of his tongue and gums within. "Where am I?" He tried to lift himself upright. "Where is Nochtli?"
Author Biography
Michael E. Thom was born May the 4th 1972 and grew up and still resides in Fort Smith, Arkansas. His father Larry Thom is from Sacramento, California and his mother Loretta Thom is from Scranton, Arkansas. This made for Michael to be raised with a unique outlook and perspective on extreme differences of culture.
He started writing fantasy and horror in his late teens after having been a rabid fan of Stephen King and Dungeons & Dragons. The first novel he ever read was Time of the Twins of the Dragonlance series. He started playing D&D when he was 11 years old and found most often he enjoyed being the Dungeonmaster because he loved creating worlds and stories for people to enjoy within them. After many of his D&D players suggesting he write fantasy novels based on some of the worlds he created, he decided to start writing and immerse himself in creative writing classes and groups at Westark College (now UFAS). There he came in contact with a creative writing teacher who helped him join a writer's group.
He wrote many short horror stories and began a fantasy novel series and a horror novel, both of which he never submitted, but he did get a few of the short stories published in small periodicals in the '90s.
During this time he also endeavored a career as a fantasy illustrator where he took on many art jobs for several gaming clients even to this day. He also worked professionally as a graphic designer for a few years and now has a day job as a tattoo artist. All of these combined skills allowed him to be able to illustrate his own books.
In his free time, when he has it, he works on art for Shadowrun Rpg, private oil painting commissions, and teaches painting classes locally. He also has sang and played guitar in various heavy metal and rock bands over the years. He lives with his wife Rachael in the city of Fort Smith with their two dogs Brutus and Rogue. He enjoys reading, cooking, table-top rpgs and philosophical discussions on the regular. He's a total Beatles fanatic and never tires of watching Beatle documentaries or listening to their albums on the original vinyl releases both US and British catalo
g.
67
YURKA
“We should start over with only trogs in charge. This Varl and Crone Mother are making a mess of things it seems to me,” said Rondokk. “I do not like them much. They do not inspire victories for the trog. We are sinking as a race.”
“You talk like a man,” said Yurka. “Close minded and dense as a burl in an oak shield. Did you not see all the cucks Varl Vanos cut down? Did you not see the Witch God magic Crone Mother Vendronia uses to slay them? They are strong and make trogs stronger. Why should we not let them lead us to more victories, if that is what they’ve done so far?”
“So far,” said Rondokk. He adjusted his helmet which kept falling down over his eyes. He had taken from a much larger dead trog fighter with a fat head. It was too big for him and his ears poked out awkwardly from being smashed too far down. “I think things will not go so well forever. It’s just not the trog way. We should be led by our own.”
Yurka rolled her eyes. “Varl Vanos is strong. No man has fought me the way he did, otherwise I’d be wearing his cock for decoration with the others.” She glided her fingers over her belt of dried out penises. “He has proven himself, and that is the trog way as well.”
Rondokk scoffed. “He has only proven he can beat a trog girl. That is not enough to make him Varl.”
Yurka kicked him swiftly in the side.
He groaned and cringed from her.
She held out her wideblade to his face and shook it at him. “You want me to add your cock to my collection? See if you can beat a trog girl if you think its such an easy task! Besides, I should take your pinky finger for talking such disrespect! Do you forget I am Fist to the Varl?” She snatch his wrist and let the edge of her blade kiss the flesh at the base of his pinky just enough to draw blood. “I might just do it, maybe. Or would you cry like a cuck?”
Tork stood motionless, his tight muscled jaw jutted out with resignation. “I would take my punishment like a trog man.” He blew air from his nostrils and fiddled the fishbone necklace he wore with his thumb and forefinger. “But see if I catch you any stripers for supper if you do.” He pulled his hand away and went to make a casting motion with his hand, demonstrating the usefulness of his pinky finger. “See there, I wouldn’t be able to toss out my hook would I?”
“Yurka snorted. “I’d just use your finger for bait, might catch me a shark or something good!” She headed off down the animal trail they’d been tracking for signs of the Crone Mother.