by Daniel Kozuh
“Fellow Lingerians,” the voice of Wrence began, “there have been a lot of rumors, of late, that our savior, The Author, has returned to our land as I prophesized. I have met with the man making this claim, and I tell you now …” He paused, for effect. “He is a fraud!”
The crowd gasped and muttered amongst themselves, like extras in a community theater musical.
“He is a false idol!” Wrence screamed. “And I tell you more – he is a warlock, and the one who brought The Thick Shadow to your land.”
“Bullshit!” Norman exclaimed “And ‘The Thick Shadow’ is the worst name ever.” A few in the front row of the crowd heard this and saw Norman’s head peeking out from the dungeon window. One of them, Norman recognized. “Rick!” Norman shouted. “Rick, it’s me!”
The goblin seemed embarrassed that this traitor was calling to him. He turned to the goblin next to him. “Do you know a ‘Rick’? Anyone know a Rick? No Rick? That’s weird. I’m not Rick, goblins don’t have names.”
“Rick, come on! Help us get out of here!” Norman shouted, desperately.
The goblin refused to look at Norman and took a few steps backwards, letting himself be swallowed up by the crowd.
“You reptilian jerk!” Norman shouted.
“I can feel your manhood against my neck,” came the annoyed voice below him. “I am done with this.”
Tahra knelt down and rolled Norman off her shoulders.
“Tomorrow morning,” the wizard’s said, “the imposter and his cohorts will be brought before the Pinnarchs, tried, convicted, and executed. Hung from this very balcony until they are dead.” After a pause, during which the crowd broke into noisy chatter, Wrence continued his announcement. “Additionally, the real Author has spoken to me during my morning prayers and I present to you … A new Volume!”
The Lingerians cheered wildly.
“What!?” Norman jumped again trying to see out the window.
“The inspired word of God … from his lips to my pen!” Wrence shouted. “Lots of new prophesies and a couple of new rules.”
“Don’t believe him,” Norman shouted at the window with every jump. “It’s just fan fiction!”
“Also, a little bit of housekeeping. I’ve noticed a lot of garbage being left behind, after market day. I’d appreciate it if, before you leave today, you check around your cart and the carts of your neighbors, to make sure you didn’t leave a mess. Um. Okay, I think that’s all I have for today. We’ll see you all tomorrow for the execution. Should be a good one.”
And, with that, the mongers and tradesmen went back to work.
Norman slid flat on the ground, defeated. Sure, only a few days ago he was attempting to end his life, anyway, but – even with all the tribulations of the past few days, he’d actually grown to enjoy it slightly. This “living” thing.
A door somewhere in the maze of the dungeon creaked open and slammed shut. Moments later, Norman spotted Rick’s chipped tusk round the corner. He approached the guard. Norman almost leapt up but kept his cool, he showed no sign of recognition.
“You are relieved,” Rick announced to the guard.
“Change isn’t for another hour,” the guard responded. Goblins thrived on schedule.
“You’ve been chosen as one of the sentinels for the execution tomorrow and the general wants to discuss it. I can tell him –”
“No, no. I will go!” The guard replaced his helmet and high-stepped it out of the prison.
Norman waited for the last bang of the dungeon door before speaking.
“Oh my god, Rick! Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. You are he who named me. You must be The Author.”
“I am. I really am. Now, get us out of here.”
“No,” Rick said, firmly.
“What? Why not?” Norman pleaded.
“There are too many guards. You’d be spotted as soon as you left the prison. Tomorrow, before the execution, when you are being led to your deaths … I think that will be the best time to attempt an escape.”
“Well, after the execution would be inconvenient for me,” Tahra replied.
Norman turned his head and looked at Tahra. He smiled. “Did you just tell a joke?”
Tahra was fixing a loose strap on her boot and didn’t acknowledge him or the fact that she herself had even spoken.
“We have an hour to come up with a strategy, before the next guard arrives,” Rick explained.
And, so, they set to work planning on their escape.
****
The hour went by fast and the next morning came even faster. Calamity Jane was the only one who got any sleep.
The guards came in the early hours, to retrieve the prisoners and take them to their “trial”. They were led into a chamber, several levels up in the tower from the dungeon. It was a cold, grey auditorium, lined on both side by steep bleachers, with only a narrow aisle between them. On the far end of the room was a comfortable-looking chair, decorated in velvet and gold. This was obviously Wrence’s seat.
After an hour of silence, hidden doors behind both rafters opened and twenty-five Pinnarchs entered. Under their thick, hooded robes, nothing could be deciphered as to their identity, bipedal was all that all one could ascertain.
In the original timeline of Norman’s books, Pinnarchs were devoted to understanding the mechanics of Lingeria. They were like ecclesiastical scientists. They charted the stars, taught agriculture, brewed potions, debated philosophy, and arbitrated disputes. Towns would hold weeklong festivals when a Pinnarch visited. What Norman saw was not the Pinnarchs from his imagination.
The Pinnarchs stood when Wrence entered. The wizard wore a gold-trimmed purple robe. The desaturated room made his clothing almost shine. Wrence raised his arms and the Pinnarchs slid back the hoods of their robes.
To one side of the condemned, were men clearly living in luxury. Thick links of gold hung around their necks. Their fingers, still oily their fatty breakfast, were weighed down with glittering rings. Dalgard was among them, festooned with glimmering finery.
On the other side, the robes were empty shells, housing the ghosts of executed wise-men – men who were unwilling to be swayed by Wrence’s bribes. Their heads were simply blue smoke, beholden to the image from the dead man’s execution, necks hemorrhaging ethereal blood.
“You are being tried for blasphemy and heresy,” Wrence began. “For impersonating The Author, unleashing The Thick Shadow, and prophesizing without a license. If found guilty, you will be hung.” Wrence bent to sit and then stood again, “Oh, until you are dead, obviously.” He sat. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
“Yes, we do,” Norman said.
“‘Yes, we do’, what?” Wrence pried.
“‘Yes, we do … Your honor’.” Norman could barely spit out the words.
“Carry on,” Wrence said, rolling his wrist, as if to shoo this nonsense away.
Norman turned to his jury. “I am The Author. I can prove that because I know that you were all once good, honest men. I created you to be men of honor, truth, and research. Before this man, behind me, twisted your minds, darkened your hearts and, for some, took your lives. You were the nonpartisan scientists of Lingeria. Inventors, professors, philosophers, mathematicians, horticulturists, clerics, historians, botanists, zoologists … geoscientists … meteorologists – you probably officiate weddings …”
“Quit stalling!” shouted Wrence.
“I’m not stalling!” He was. “No matter what you were, the one thing you were not was … was corrupt. And I know that, deep in your hearts – no matter what this man has said, given, or done to you – that honor is still there.” Norman turned to look at a single Pinnarch in particular. “Dalgard. Dalgard The Wise. Dalgard The Pure. There was once a time when that name stood for something. A time, specifically, when you were called to a small fishing village on the southwest coast of Lingeria. A town where, for some reason, their nets were cast but returned empty. The economy had co
llapsed, the tradesmen were out of work, and children went to bed hungry. So, what did you do? You found the town barber and requested that he shave your head and beard – hair that had never been cut since you took your Pinnarchial Vows. And, then, what did you say?” Norman asked, rhetorically. “You said, ‘Take this hair’. It has been anointed in The Oils of the Elves. Weave it into a net and your town will once again prosper. And it did. Now, I ask you, Dalgard. I ask all of you: How would I know that, were I not The Author?”
“All those who find the prisoners guilty?” Wrence instantly asked.
Twenty-five hands went up.
“Oh, Goddammit!” Norman cursed.
“Guards, sound the trumpets, prepare the gallows, and bring the prisoners to the balcony.”
“What about my dog? You can’t execute a dog.”
“Ugh fine,” Wrence said. “Toss the mutt outside the castle. Let it fend for itself.”
“She’s not a mutt.” Norman found himself arguing for no reason. “She’s purebred. She has papers!”
But court was adjourned and Wrence had left the room.
****
The wind on the balcony was fierce, for such a clear day. As soon as he stepped out, Norman was almost pushed off the edge by a harsh gust. Banners and flags whipped and snapped above them, providing a symphony of chaos.
There were already two guards leading them. Five more guards were awaiting the condemned, before their arrival. They all held long staffs, with ornate, sickle-type blades on the end. One of them sported a chipped tooth.
A large crowd had gathered below to watch the execution. Wrence stepped forward to give them a cordial wave. He turned back to the guards. “Make sure their necks snap, this time. I hate watching them wiggle.”
Three thick, brown ropes dangled from the balcony, their ends tethered to the underside. The damned souls would be pushed off the ledge and dangle like a macabre fringe.
“Lunch is getting cold!” Wrence snapped.
Rick and two other guards lined up behind Norman, Tahra, and Roe, nudging them forward with their weapons. They were stopped just as their toes touched the edge of the overhang. Rick had aligned himself with Roe, as was the plan. All of the guards bent down and picked up the nooses. These were slipped around the necks of the heroes, and then pulled tight.
Norman could see for miles from his death perch: to the north, there was Mount Piras. To the west, he could make out the massive expanse of the Forest of Kath, populated with Elves he still hoped to meet. Eastward, he could see the shimmer of a dry savannah, a wild land populated with ferocious beasts and other creatures mutated to handle the harsh conditions.
He could feel The Black Cloud in his gut. It was somewhere out there, sucking the life out of this world.
“It really is beautiful,” he said.
And then, they were pushed.
****
Ever the diligent researcher, when Norman was studying different ways to kill himself, he learned that over sixteen-hundred people have jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Of those, only about twenty-six people are known to have survived the impact of the two-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop. Norman estimated that was the distance they were about to experience to the moat below, assuming the ropes were cut.
Rick had only tightened Roe’s noose enough to make it look taut. When the little man fell, he slipped right through the hole into a free-fall. Rick then hastily shot his blade out to Norman’s rope and sliced enough of the fiber that the rope split under the weight of Norman’s body. The other guards were on the traitor before he could get to Tahra. Luckily, her guard was already so distracted by Rick’s actions that his push was only a slight nudge. Tahra lost her balance and fell but was able to catch the edge of the balcony with her shoulder, slowing her fall. She merely slipped off the edge. Her neck didn’t snap, but she was choking to death, hundreds of feet above the ground.
“No!” Norman heard the Wizard scream.
Norman felt his stomach lurching up into his throat, he’d never fallen with time to think about it before. Had he better core strength, he probably could have righted himself but, instead, he spun around like a ribbon. Every time he came around, he saw Roe’s tiny body spiraling with him. But no Tahra. And then he froze, midair as if he landed in an invisible net.
This had all transpired within ten seconds, slightly according to plan. Wrence had used his extrasensory abilities to stunt Norman and Roe’s fall. It was an involuntary response to thwart an escape attempt. He didn’t seem to realize that, had he just let them fall, they would have died, anyway. Rick knocked two of the guards off the balcony and hurled his lance at Wrence.
The wizard had to break his psychic connection, in order to avoid the weapon. Norman and Roe fell again but this time only the remaining fifty feet into the moat. The landing still felt like being slapped by a giant but they survived.
Roe thrashed about in the water. He’d been too shy, during the planning process, to tell anyone he didn’t know how to swim. “Help! Help!” he cried, between mouthfuls of water.
Norman himself was discombobulated from the impact, seeing spots, and struggling to find the edge of the moat. “Janey!” he called.
From somewhere in the market (probably nosing through garbage), the venerable Coonhound burst out of the crowd, as though she were a puppy again. Her sagging folds of flesh rolled like a victory banner, as she came to her master’s call.
She bounded into the murky moat water and bit loosely onto Norman’s wrist, paddling him to the shore.
“Now, Roe, girl! Go and get Roe!”
Janey was into the water again, happy to be of service. Roe was moving too chaotically for the dog to take him by the hand, so Janey ended up clamping on to his shirt and dragging him – like a dead, hunted duck – to safety. Roe coughed and spluttered, but was safe.
Norman wiped the water from his face and checked the situation above him. All he could make out was the struggling body of Tahra.
Back on the balcony platform, Rick made a dive for Tahra. Wrence wouldn’t fall for it a second time. Rick couldn’t cut the rope again – she’d only plummet. Two more guards were on top of him before he could reach his hand out. As they wrenched him away, he managed to kick Roe’s rope and it swung in Tahra’s direction.
Tahra’s face was turning purple. She pulled at the rope around her neck, allowing minimal air into her lungs. The other cord swayed towards her and she saw that as her only option. Releasing the grasp on her own rope, she felt the noose pull tighter and tear into the skin of her neck. She reached out and missed the first attempt. Her eyes were starting to bulge and her lungs burned.
In a last-ditch attempt, Tahra shot her legs out and her foot caught the hole of the other noose. Contorting her legs, she was able to reach down and grab hold of the other rope, pulling it from her ankle. This gave her the slack she needed to remove her own noose and swing freely away from it. She rested her feet on the knot, while catching her breath.
Ten feet above her, Rick wrestled with the guards. He couldn’t let either of them stand up or else they would be able to retrieve their staffs and the battle would be lost. He grappled with them, locking his feet around one goblin’s waist, while holding the other by the neck. They sent blow after blow down on him – under the arm and behind the knee, where a goblin’s scales are thin and vulnerable. One of the guards was able to get his thick, yellowed fingernail under one of Rick’s scales and peel it away from his body. Rick screamed in pain.
The attackers used the slick stone to push Rick closer and closer to the edge. At one point, his head rolled off the side and he saw his fate, hundreds of feet below. But he also saw his escape.
Using the last bit of his strength, he thrust his torso off the ground and lifted the goblins into the air and towards the ledge. A human hand reached up from nowhere, gripped one of the guards by his leather vest, and yanked him over the side. The second guard got distracted by the sudden loss of his comrade, and Rick was able
to roll over on him, sending him on the same path over the edge.
Without a moment to recover, Rick crawled to the side of the balcony and put his hand out for Tahra. She took it, instantly, and he pulled her up to safety. Well, minimal safety, because as they panted and gasped, the two remaining guards stood steadfast protecting their master.
Hate filled Tahra’s green eyes and her lips pulled into a snarl. She grabbed one of the lost spears and climbed to her feet. Rick joined her. They planted their feet, ready to fight.
In the doorway, just behind Wrence, a rested and ready horde of goblins arrived. Wrence smiled and they created a barrier around him.
“And to think,” Wrence said to Tahra, “I used to fantasize about you.”
“Why don’t you come over here? I’ll show you a good time,” she said and took a step forward, ready to take as many goblins with her as she could.
Rick, however, had a more level head about the situation. Without a word of explanation, he grabbed Tahra’s hand. She could feel the mucus glands in his hand producing a thick gel that bound their fingers together. He then ran directly at Wrence and his gang, leaving Tahra little option but to run with him.
Just before they met with the guards, Rick took a sharp right and leapt off the balcony towards the slick stone edifice of the castle. He slapped his free hand against the surface of the turret and started to slide down towards the moat, his hand leaving behind a slug-like trail of slime as they plummeted.
This was by no means a slow, controlled descent, but Rick was able to steer with his feet, sending them into the drink.
Norman and Roe pulled the others out of the water, just as a patrol tore across the drawbridge. There was no time to strategize, as the four turned in the opposite direction from the advancing forces and ran. Even Janey seemed to understand the urgency, keeping pace with them as they fled.
****
Who knows how far they ran – miles, for sure, until their legs turned to jelly and refused to continue. They lost themselves in a field of wild bamboo. A floor of mud that clung to their feet made the escape even more tiring and arduous.
