by Travis Smith
The audible inhale Laura made behind him did wonders to soothe his mood.
“The only silver lining is that I get the pleasure of killing the bootless fool twice.” Now he turned to face her one last time. Uncertain tears stood in her eyes, refusing to fall until sure that this sour hope could possibly be real. Bernard cherished that uncertainty for a moment. “I will return, and things will be different.”
With that he slammed and locked the door.
Back in the castle’s main floor, he cast a wayward gaze upon the Throne Room’s great marble door. The stubborn magic would not budge until his brother’s royal blood flowed through living veins no more. He reached a hand out and placed it upon the door, where he’d lain the child’s hand countless times before, thinking him the next rightful heir to the throne.
“Everything will be different …”
9
Brandon Dare had been chided throughout his youth for being a boy of few words. He’d found that the power of words was lost on those who used them generously and that introspection often afforded him a greater advantage. It was this skill which he’d honed in order to survive all this time on his own. The ability to plan his words carefully and to tailor them to those who may be listening had gotten him and his companions out of a great number of predicaments.
Jake, on the other hand, was a surly young man who, too, offered few words, but whose presumed introspection had yet to reveal a benefit.
The two were sullen and silent as they were marched to Fanxel prison from their campsite. Brandon dwelled sourly on the events which had led to this current quandary. He’d lost his temper at the thought of placing Olivia back at risk for their silly plans, and he’d thusly lost his diplomatic edge. For this, he blamed himself for Philip’s death and his own capture.
He continued to stew in brooding silence for the first half of his stay at Fanxel prison. Jake seldom broke the silence or seemed any more put off than usual by the lack of conversation. Despite—and perhaps in light of—Brandon’s silence, he practiced a great deal of observation while confined to their cell. He watched the slow and lame who once lived in shadow now toting weapons around the prison courtyard with authority. He watched the lackeys place bets on forbidden duels in the courtyard when Boss was away. He watched new inmates get dragged in and auctioned off based on their prior skills and physical prowess. He watched poor and troubled souls as they were dragged in front of all and tortured until the evil possessions fled their ailing minds. Eventually he watched the clouds of monsoon season roll over the distant mountaintops and threaten to flood the entire sunken crater within which Fanxel lay.
But most importantly he watched a scabby and overzealous lackey named Skuttler deliver inedible chow day in and day out. He watched the wretch watch others and attempt to mimic and adhere to their behaviors. He watched him pick fights and scrounge for reason to be afforded a promotion, only to be chastised and kicked in the neck like a semi-loyal mutt. He watched him torment a group of men in the far end-cell more often than others. He watched him withdraw to the shadows and rifle quietly through discarded crates of strange materials and shipments from other lands.
The man existed to go unnoticed. Despite all his daily efforts and irksome interventions, he remained but a gnat for the armed guards to swat aside and dismiss anew. His true nature they would never know and never bother to investigate. But Brandon could read him like a book.
“I have a plan,” Brandon spoke at last. Was this the first time he had addressed Jake since arriving here? He thought it may have been, but the monotony had melded all the days together, and his memories of the past were fading to give way to a new determination.
—
Brandon leaned upon his cell’s door, his head resting between two bars, as he routinely watched the events unfolding within Fanxel. He ignored his breakfast and observed the man called Skuttler as he rummaged through nearby crates of odd relics and supplies in the nearby barracks, as he often did. He held up and inspected a square, metallic device with strange symbols and letters on it. Brandon recognized the device from his travels and conquests.
Skuttler tossed the object into a nearby pile and continued his foraging. After he was satisfied he’d inspected everything he hadn’t already looked over, he sighed and turned his attention back toward the courtyard, where armed guards paced and taunted the troubled captives. He was not an observant man, it seemed, and he took no heed of Brandon’s watchful gaze, as usual. He stared wistfully at the large weapons and the confidence they endowed. Brandon surmised that the man had likely had access to the weapons in his not-too-distant past.
At last Skuttler scowled and adopted his usual hunch-necked posture before meandering his way through the prison center to look for trouble.
“I’ll give ya a paga for one of those square bundles,” Brandon muttered as he approached.
Skuttler stopped and glowered at the prisoners lounging casually in their cells.
Brandon could tell the lackey wanted to berate him and create a scene for his own self-gain, but he also knew the notion of retrieving some coin appealed to the weaseling man. He knew this because he’d watched the wretch slink through the shadows and scrape up single coin after single coin following each raucous brawl in the courtyard, and he’d watched him collect and count his coins in various dark nooks within the nearby barracks. He’d watched Skuttler propound for a meeting with Boss to discuss the possibility of a promotion and acquisition of a weapon of his own. He’d watched the other guards refuse him his requests and make unlikely demands of paga before Skuttler had finally appeared to give in and begin collecting.
“Fuck’re ye gonna get a paga, young ’ne?” Skuttler growled, looking suspiciously around and back toward the piles of crates nearby. “An’ wot business is it of yers t’ watch me in my private matters?”
Brandon smiled a broad smile and spread his arms before him. “Nothin’ else t’ do in here but watch!” he explained. “Do forgive me, my liege,” he added, tipping his head forward in a gesture of servility. He knew, too, that this addition would cater to Skuttler’s nature.
“Ye didn’ answer me first question, brat. Where ye two gettin’ any coin?” He lowered his voice and approached the cell, despite how close the prisoner was standing. “I know ya ain’t won any fights in the yard.”
“I have a small stash,” Brandon lied. “There’s other guards in here willing to make deals.”
“Ya got nothin’ I want!” Skuttler growled. “An’ ye’d best watch yer tongue wi’ me, lest I bring the less forgivin’ ones down on ye.”
Brandon tipped his head again and backed away, arms spread. “I mean no disrespect. Only thought we could help each other.”
“Wot ya want wi’ the guards’ supplies anyway? Likely t’ get me exiled or worse, tradin’ yer arse somethin’ like ’at!”
Brandon shrugged.
“Wot is it anyway?”
Brandon shrugged again and shook his head. “Just wanted somethin’ new t’ look at. If I figure it out, I’d let ya know.”
Skuttler eyed the boy suspiciously for a moment more in silence. His eyes darted around the boys’ cell as his tongue darted from a sore on one side of his mouth to a new one forming on the other side and then back again. He growled at last and turned back to make his way through the yard. Brandon saw his hand go unconsciously to the small pouch at his side and touch the coins he had so far collected.
All said, the encounter went better than their first. Brandon had been watching as an armed guard berated Skuttler then knocked him on his backside and thrust the butt of his weapon down into the man’s exposed gut.
“Real brave warrior t’ kick an unarmed man while he’s down,” Brandon had lamented as Skuttler shuffled by, hunched nearly all the way to his hands and feet like a beast.
“Fuck you,” Skuttler had barked before skirting his way down into the shadows of the barracks.
Several days following the more recent discussion, Brandon was in his
cell watching a boisterous upheaval develop. Jake was on his cot quietly gazing at nothing. The guards were dragging two shrieking prisoners out into the courtyard as the guards rallied and formed a circle after placing their bets. Brandon saw Skuttler appear by the crates near his cell, as he often did, to watch the events.
As the fight unfolded, the crowd of guards grew increasingly unruly. The shouting grew louder than ever, and soon the excitable dynamic had shifted to chaos. Many of the guards began pushing one another, and a few had drawn their weapons.
“He’s killed ’im!” Brandon was able to make out someone shout.
“A’right!” another voice bellowed. “Get ’im back to ’is cell! Let us sort this ’n’ out!”
“That’s it! Everybody back t’ yer barracks ’fore I bury every last one o’ ya!”
From one of the nearby scuffles a sack of paga fell to the dusty ground and spilled out. One coin bounced and rolled across the courtyard and stopped in front of Brandon’s cell. As he contemplated reaching through the bars to take it, his eyes locked on Skuttler’s. The man had crawled on all fours out of the shadows and snatched the coin. Now he looked up at Brandon and silently implored the boy to make not a sound.
The crowds dispersed, and only a few guards remained in the courtyard. They surrounded a limp and bloody body of a prisoner who lay slain from the fight.
“They ain’ s’pose’ t’ kill ’im,” one of the passing guards mused.
“Shit happens,” another lamented.
The guards picked up the corpse and carried it out of the prison center and out of sight. Brandon stood in his cell, and Skuttler remained on all fours just outside the cell, where the coin had been retrieved.
“Boss don’t even know ’bout the fights,” Brandon said, “but I bet he’d love t’ hear who’s allowin’ his prisoners t’ die out here over some bets.”
Skuttler’s worried face worked, and his tongue rolled faster than ever side-to-side over his cracking lower lip.
“He paid good paga for ’em.”
“Aye,” Skuttler croaked at last. “Bet ’e’d love t’ hear.”
10
Monsoon season brought with it a caustic breeze that had no end. Even when the persistent clouds broke and the rains stopped falling, the hum of the autumn winds was there.
It was an out-of-place silence in the air that broke The Stranger’s thoughtless muse as he lay on the cot and stared at the roof of the cell. He rolled over on the cot and peered into the prison courtyard. Nothing apparent had changed, but others around Fanxel seemed to notice the altered quality of the air. Time seemed to stand still. Ian let forth a tiny, almost inaudible gasp, but The Stranger could discern nothing that should have prompted it.
Eventually a tall man stepped around the side of one of the buildings. The man was well groomed, with short, black hair. He leaned casually on a heavy cane with his four-fingered right hand. A nearby guard raised his gun at the unfamiliar man and called something in greeting or warning.
A whirl appeared from a nearby shadow, and some small creature shot forth in a blur to accost the guard. The impact shocked his finger into pulling the trigger, and as many as six rapid explosions shot out of the tip of the gun. The bullets sprayed all around the tall man with his cane, blasting up splashes of mud and clay with their impact. The man did not flinch.
In an instant, the guard was flat on his back, his gun strewn far from his grasp. A dwarfish, animal-like pygmy man hunched over the body, panting and glancing around frenetically for its next victim. Several other guards rushed toward the commotion, and countless other blurs appeared seemingly out of nowhere to halt their progress. A few other guns erupted in brief spurts of fire, but the pygmies moved impossibly fast, and they were fatally efficient in their assault.
All the while, the intruder stood unbothered. He glanced around the prison and took it all in, nodding with satisfaction and approval.
“Anybody gonna bring the boss down here, or what?” he shouted at last. His voice was slow and confident, with a brash western drawl.
The guards who’d been knocked asunder were glancing around with profound confusion. Others shuffled nervously, not daring to raise their weapons, lest they, too, be brought down by the camouflaged pygmies.
“Go get Boss!” someone out of sight whispered harshly.
The man stood in wait with serene contentment. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to the sky as the sun peeked through some heavy clouds. He inhaled a long, deep breath through his nostrils, and the sound could be heard across the entire silent prison.
“Jus’ who the fuck’re you then?” Boss demanded as he whirled out of the barracks with two nervous crewmen lingering far behind. He raised his weapon and nestled the stock against his shoulder. “Assailin’ my men?”
The man raised both hands in a calm gesture of surrender as Boss approached. His cane he pinched between his right thumb and the palm, and The Stranger could see an infant-sized skull adorning the tip.
A whoosh erupted from behind a nearby crate, and a blur shot forth between the two men. In an instant, Boss was standing in empty-handed awe. His weapon was flung across the courtyard. The man continued to hold his hands above his head nonetheless.
“M’ name’s Maldeive Dorn,” he said with a charming smile, “but y’all c’n call me The Preeminent.”
Boss stood in slack-jawed disbelief.
Maldeive lowered his arms and extended one to be shaken. “This a damn fine prison we got ourselves.”
Boss glanced at the outstretched hand for a moment before snatching at his waist to retrieve a smaller secondary weapon. He was dropped to his backside like a sack of corn as two of the knee-high men bolted forth in coordinated effort. One deftly removed the handgun, and the other barreled beneath Boss’s feet, sweeping them out from under him. As quickly as they’d appeared, they scurried back into the shadows on their hands and feet.
Maldeive shrugged and dropped his hand to his side. He stepped forth and planted the cane in Boss’s chest, tilting his head to address the stuporous man. “You ever hear ’bout eternal life?” he asked.
Boss slapped away the cane from his chest, but Maldeive replaced it with ease. “Someone kill this man!” he shouted at his stunned guards, who shuffled and glanced around nervously. Not one made a move for fear of the hiding hordes of tiny fighters.
“They’ll die for me,” Maldeive promised. “I seen what’s on the other side, and, friends, what I offer my followers is soo-preme! I got more men hidin’ here than you got in plain sight, and not a damn one of ’em wouldn’t take the bullet right out from under me.” He smiled broadly. “Wanna try ’em? They’re all itchin’ for the sweet release of salvation!” With that, he threw his head back to the sky and stretched both arms out and raised them high.
The courtyard remained silent. Not even a prisoner made a sound.
“What do ye want?” Boss growled at last. The bitter defeat in his voice was unmistakable.
Maldeive smiled even wider at the question. He flipped the cane around between his fingertips and allowed it to slide through his grasp so that he was holding it upside down. The small skull atop the cane, he now placed against Boss’s cheek as if to mime a kiss.
“I want you t’ wonder.”
With that, he flashed a wink to the guards across the prison center and flipped his cane back around. He turned and walked back the way he’d come, just as casual and carefree as when he’d walked in.
11
After what seemed to be an endless and trying journey across the Great Sea, The Baron stepped off his great ship and curled his lips at the foul air of Fordar’s shore. Unmotivated armed men glanced lazily at the crew departing the ship.
“Excuse me!” Bernard bellowed. “Which of you scoundrels can point me toward the boss of Fanxel prison?”
“Boss?” one of the men inquired. “The fuck’re you, anyway, fancy pants?”
Bernard’s crew audibly reeled at the insolence. They raised th
eir weaponry in unison against the unruly man. “Come here, my friend,” Bernard said, motioning the man onto the large dock.
Some of the port guards raised their weapons with uncertainty, but others merely glanced around at one another. The man in question walked up the stairs onto the dock with an ingrained obedience to authority.
Bernard smiled as he snatched the machine gun deftly from the man’s hands. He promptly returned it with a thrust into the guard’s chest, doubling him over with a heavy thump. He thrust an elbow into the back of the man’s head and forced his face against an up-swinging knee. When the man fell, Bernard placed a heavy boot on his chest and shoved his body into the ocean beneath the pier.
“I am he who brings you these powerful weapons from worlds which you could never know!” he bellowed, raising the gun above his head at the small crowd below. “I am he who brings you this life of luxury which you enjoy! I am he who brought you swine forth from the shadows to live and prosper in the light of every bountiful day! I am your Baron!”
The few guards who were still aiming weapons at the large crew still filing off the luxurious ship dropped their arms to their sides.
“Now bring me the damned boss!”
—
“Please, sir, lemme apologize again fer my men,” Boss implored once he had finally arrived at the docks. “There ain’t much talent or smartness ’round ’ere, an’ we gotta settle fer loyal most times.”
The Baron waved a hand in dismissal. “I’d like to depart this foul nation in as timely a manner as possible, so, if you could, spare me the trivialities and get us to the prison.” They’d been travelling for most of the day, and the bumbling moron had not stopped gabbing. “You say the prison is a half day’s journey, and yet we’ll be walking straight through the night at this rate. I still see nothing before us aside from wasteland and distant sierras.”
