Virtue Inverted

by Piers Anthony

  Virtue Inverted

  Piers Anthony

  And

  Kenneth Kelly

  Virtue Inverted

  Copyright © 2017 by Piers Anthony and Kenneth Kelly

  All stories are copyright of their respective creators as indicated herein, and are reproduced here with permission.

  Cover Art & Design

  Mitchell Bentley, Atomic Fly Studios

  Interior Formatting

  Niki Browning

  Editors

  Kristi King-Morgan

  Ally Fell

  Editor-in-Chief

  Kristi King-Morgan

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2017

  ISBN 13: 978-1-947381-00-1

  ISBN 10: 1-947381-00-8

  Dreaming Big Publications

  www.dreamingbigpublications.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note: Piers Anthony

  Author’s Note: Kenneth Kelly

  About the Authors

  Dedication

  To Kurt Van Wilt,

  October 1,1949 to May 20, 2016.

  May the muses be with you

  Preface

  Few people who travel the main road through Gold Mulch Wood notice the little trail leading into the thick fir and conifer trees, and if travelers actually did take this passage into the forest, they would be even less likely to spot the fairy tale cottage that seemed to sprout out of nature itself. It was old by anyone’s standards, with decades of vegetation camouflaging its structure. Sheet moss, Red Heather, Bluebells, and Violets coated the entirety of the roof and walls in thick layers, leaving only the door and windows uncovered. In the surrounding garden, there thrived other flora whose names even the proprietor had long forgotten: Fireweeds, Bleeding Heart, Pink Pussytoes, and Monkshood. And sitting on the side of the cottage, under a particularly large red caladium, was a little tow-headed boy in a red felt cap, playing with one of the giant mice that shared the garden with the humans. The old man watched him silently from the kitchen window, just a few feet from the child, and enjoyed the innocence of the moment.

  The few people who knew about the secluded homestead – mostly fairies, gnomes, and other likewise isolated creatures – called him the Pawben, but his names were as vast and numerous as those of the stars in the midnight sky. He was an elderly man with a long white beard and crooked back, but if his years were known one might think he looked quite good for his age. Apart from his ugly gash of a mouth.

  “Where’s me pipe?” the man asked himself.

  Turning from the window and setting down the half-eaten roll on the wooden counter, he walked to the snug sitting area by the fireplace, beside the ladder to the second floor bedroom where he slept. He sat down in a high-backed chair, almost as swathed in plants as the cottage, and found what he was searching for resting on the small table beside him. It was an ancient pipe, the stem splitting into two different bowls. In one he stuffed a homegrown blueberry tobacco; in the other, White Sage. The two together created a pleasant aroma as he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and remembered…

  Chapter 1

  It was a scorching cold night in the mountain town of Gant. Most were asleep in their hovels, wrapped in blankets and animal furs, dreaming of a golden spring. Benny Clout, however, was wide awake. His older brother and guardian, Aiken, had been kicked out of the local Inn and Tavern, the Fox Den, and came home in a rage. He commenced with the usual, dragging Benny out of his bed, knocking furniture around, and shouting incoherent demands. Thus, the boy did what he always did: he kicked Aiken in the groin and hauled tail.

  “You bloody pig!”

  His brother’s voice trailed off as Benny ran out the front door of their home and down the cobblestone streets. Benny wasn’t wearing his coat, only a pair of cloth boots, tan leggings, and a loose fitting nightshirt. But Benny was hot blooded by nature, and the bite of frost felt great against his face as he ran downhill, passing through the market, past the chapel and apothecary, to the dark alley which led to the bar his brother had just come from. Aiken might have been prohibited for the rest of the night, but Benny wasn’t.

  The Fox Den was built with the same half-timbered architecture as the rest of Gant, and was in fact two separate buildings, one on each side of the Gant River – for which the town was named – and attached to each other by a small hallway connecting the third floors. Benny had always been scared to walk across it as a younger boy, fearing he would fall through the floor to the water below, but now that he was a teenager he knew better.

  “Ho, there!” A voice called.

  Benny stopped just before the stone steps to the front door. He looked for where the voice came from, and saw his old friend Laughing Jack Baldwin, the innkeeper. He was standing on the small stone balcony that looked out on the river, and quickly came down the ramp to where Benny was. Ever since Benny’s father died, Jack had been like a second father to him.

  “Aiken’s home safely, I presume?” he asked.

  “Yep, and starting in on me like always.”

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Jack crossed his arms.

  “He tried, but I set him down a notch.”

  “He’ll tear your hide in the morning.” Jack frowned.

  “I doubt he’ll remember!”

  Jack laughed and put his arm across Benny’s shoulder as they walked to the front door. As they entered the dining hall, Benny was greeted by the familiar smells of tobacco smoke and hops as the roar of laughter and drunken chatter filled his ears. He looked around at the familiar faces of town drunkards, a pair of mountain dwarves, and of course the Halfling bard, Nap, wearing his typical garb of polychromatic clothing. After one too many strokes on his lyre, a pugnacious she-elf threw her entire pint of ale into his little red face. With his hair plastered to his head and instrument hanging beside him, he waddled towards the kitchen.

  “He always has a way with the ladies,” Benny remarked.

  As they walked back to the kitchen Benny gave one last look around his favored hang-out spot, and through the smoky haze saw the various murals painted on the walls depicting colorful scenes from local myths. His favorite was the legend of the rainbow gnomes, which depicted six little gnomes, each one’s skin a different color of the color spectrum. They wore little red hats and were depicted as frolicking in a forest. However, when the smiling Benny laid his eyes on the two particularly sullen men sitting underneath the fresco, he quickly averted his gaze. He then entered the kitchen to hear the mouthful of complaints from the spirits-sodden halfling.

  “You need to do something about that imp! I’m telling you, I don’t get paid enough for this!” he squeaked.

  “You don’t get paid at all,” Jack retorted, “and I’ve told you before not to hassle my customers.”

  “Oh…well…you should be paying me. I’m a world-class entertainer, I tell you! These sots just don’t know good music when they hear it.” Nap shook his sea-foam green coat, sending drops of stale beer
flying into Benny’s face.

  “Remind me why I tolerate him?” Jack asked Benny.

  ’Cause you’re an idiot.”

  Jack nodded in agreement and walked past the flustered Nap. He began ladling stew into wooden bowls from the large pot hanging in the fireplace and turned to Benny.

  “Take this to the two gents sitting in the gnome seat, how about it?” Jack asked. Benny remembered the two creepy men and began to protest.

  “You mean those two rogues in the corner?” Benny asked, swallowing hard.

  “Yeah. They haven’t touched a drop of ale, but they’ve nearly emptied my larder.”

  “They don’t look overly friendly, Jack. I don’t know…”

  “They won’t bite, trust me. They’re old acquaintances of mine. They already paid for everything else. Tell ‘em the soup's on me.”

  With that, Benny took the bowls and left as Jack went to the scullery. Benny was naturally shy, but over time he had grown to know most of the regulars at the inn. He could handle the usual rabble-rousers, even the likes of his brother, but he became quickly nervous around people he didn’t know, especially two vagabonds like these. Their macabre appearance only worsened as he got closer. The one on the left was large and muscular, wearing a moldering leather jerkin over a tattered shirt. His ears were knotted like oak burls, and his short white-blond hair shot out in every direction. From the top of his crown clear down to his chin he had a hideous scar that seemed to split his face in half. His nose was missing, leaving two gaping holes in the center of his face. The scar had obviously split apart before healing completely, leaving a small hole just above his upper lip. As he chewed, food oozed out of it like pus from a cyst. As revolting as this man’s face was, however, it was his companion who scared Benny the most. This man was dressed in robes of deep burgundy and velvet. He had long jet-black hair and a beard that was braided into thick cords, like a mop, from which hung coins, animal bones and other strange trinkets. A red floppy hat was pulled low over one side of his face, and what little bit of his face that wasn’t covered with hair looked almost gray in color. Tobacco smoke rolled out of his mouth as he sucked on a twin-bowled pipe. As Benny stood there, holding the soup, the man grew annoyed and spit a mouthful of food back on his plate.

  “Do we look funny to you, kid?” the scarred man asked.

  “No, I was just…” Benny held out the soup.

  “Then go ogle someone else!” he bellowed.

  The man’s voice was so loud it seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. Turning, Benny saw all the patrons had stopped to look in their direction. After a few seconds, they all began chuckling and returned to their prior engagements.

  The man began to laugh, spitting food in Benny’s direction. “Lighten up, boy!”

  The other man chuckled silently, still puffing on his pipe.

  “I…I was just bringing you the soup…compliments of Laughing Jack.” Benny stammered.

  “Ah, and how is the ol’ spineless weasel?”

  “Good, I guess.”

  “Youguess?” He lifted a glass of what looked like plain milk to his lips, “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Benny.”

  “You don’t have a last name?” His face grew annoyed again.

  “Clout…Benny Clout.”

  “Well, I’m Beranger.” He placed a massive hand on his chest and then pointed to the silent man next to him, “and this is Cycleze.”

  The silent man nodded.

  “A pleasure…” Benny nodded in return.

  A tiny hand slapped Benny on the arm, and he almost jumped out of his skin. Benny relaxed when he saw it was only Nap, ready to serenade another customer.

  “Hello, me lads! I’m Nap of Ken, famed bard, poet, and lyricist extraordinaire! You boys look like you could use a tune, so allow me…” he quickly began to strum an unpleasant melody.

  A huge hand shot out and grabbed Nap by the neck.

  “The next time you interrupt me, I’ll rip your guts out and choke you with ‘em!” He pushed Nap away so hard that the halfling fell to the floor, whimpering.

  Beranger jumped to his feet, knocking the table forward several inches. Cycleze had a look of annoyance as his stew sloshed out of its bowl and into his lap. For a split second, Benny thought the man’s eyes had flashed an eerie shade of turquoise and that a deep growl began to issue from his lips. But his attention was quickly diverted when he noticed Beranger advancing on the poor halfling. Several surrounding patrons began to cheer him on until Jack burst upon the scene, stepping in front of Nap and embracing Beranger.

  “My old friend, it’s good to see you! Hey Benny, go help Nadia clean the dishes, there’s a whole heap of ‘em. Now, you rascal…” With that the old friends began a roaring conversation of obscene gestures, vulgar stories, and hysterical laughter. Glad to be out of the conversation, Benny walked towards the kitchen.

  Actually he was more than willing to work beside Nadia. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and her body was completely covered by her barmaid uniform, but that did not conceal her nice figure and pretty face. He would have liked to have something more to do with her, but she had made it plain that at age eighteen she had better things in mind than a stripling boy two years her junior. So, he focused on his work, satisfied to be this close to her. Maybe some day--

  “Stop it!” she snapped.

  Benny paused with the pot he was scrubbing. “What?”

  “You're thinking of me as if I'm your girlfriend. I'm not and never will be.”

  He wanted to protest, but couldn't, because she had him dead to rights. How did she know? “Sorry.”

  Partially mollified, she returned to the dishes. “It might be different if you were a real man.”

  Was this an opening? “Like who?”

  “Like Dale.”

  Benny had no idea who Dale was and didn't want to advertise his ignorance, but he made a mental note to be alert for Dale. He almost thought he had heard the name before, but couldn't place it.

  Chapter 2

  It was almost morning by the time Benny left the Fox Den, Jack and his old comrades still living it up in the corner booth. He’d tried to wave goodbye to Jack, but he was far too preoccupied with Beranger and his silent companion. Nap was nowhere to be found, and the few patrons who hadn’t gone home or checked into a room across the river were passed out drunk in the dining hall. Benny was surprised Jack didn’t call for Liverwart, the mountain giant, to drag their unconscious bodies out of the building, but he was tired and didn’t really care. The sun had begun to rise, but with the surrounding forests and mountains on either side, Gant remained in an almost eternal twilight.

  Upon entering the small hovel he called home, Benny saw Aiken passed out on the floor by his bed. Benny tried to wake him, but he was incoherent and still hung over from his nightly binge drinking. Of all things, it was Aiken’s job to travel to and deliver barrels of beer, mead, and food supplies from the neighboring town of Down Mountain to the Fox Den. Benny knew the hell he’d go through if Aiken stayed sober for more than a day, so after drawing water from the well outside he threw the contents onto Aiken. He jumped up like a bat out of hell, grabbing for Benny, but Aiken had grown fat and Benny was still in the prime of youth.

  “What the…” Aiken stammered.

  “You gotta get going if you expect to make it back from Down Mountain before tomorrow morn.”

  “Ah, bullocks! Have Jack get it himself,” He stumbled over to the bed, fell face first onto the fur blankets and passed out cold.

  “Aiken? Aiken, WAKE UP!” Benny screamed.

  He shook his brother with all his might, but all he got was the same drunken babble.

  “To hell with you then!”

  Benny changed his clothes, drew some more water to wash his face and walked back to Jack’s place. Jack was the only real friend Benny had, and Jack knew how Aiken was, which is why he always kept some coins aside to give to Benny when the drunkard spent it
all.

  Benny found the Den deserted except for Liverwart, carrying two drunken dwarves over his shoulders. He was only around 8 feet tall, short for a giant, and he could barely fit in the dining hall, but he was always handy when it came to carrying bodies. Throwing them down hard onto the cobblestone path, he turned to Benny. Upon seeing the young lad, he waved a huge, wart covered hand and wobbled over.

  “Me glad um see you.”

  He pushed his bushy brown hair out of his face and smiled down at Benny. Liverwart could understand the common tongue perfectly, but he could barely speak it; usually mixing it in with his own tribal dialect.

  “Yeah, same here. Where’s Jack?” Benny asked, eager to walk away.

  “Mun um…Jack gone.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Um dum.” The giant stated.

  “Well, that’s a great help.” Benny said.

  The barmaid, Nadia, was busy rearranging the tables and weaving between equally large puddles of urine and vomit. A single man wearing a dirty coif lay rolled up in a ball in the corner, hiccupping.

  “Where’d Jack go?” Benny asked.

  “I dunno. Somewhere with those fellas from last night.” she replied.

  “Beranger and Cycleze?”

  “Dale and the other, the funny dressed one.”

  “That’s them all right,” he said. Then he picked up on something else. “Dale?”

  “Dale Beranger, Jack’s friend.”

  His mind was racing. Dale? The hideous hulk was Dale? The one that Nadia liked? How could that be?

  “Don't look so astonished. Dale's a real man. That's what counts.”

  “I guess you judge by more than looks,” he said weakly.

  He sat down in the seat where the two had been sitting last night, looking behind him at the cheery faces of the gnomes painted on the wall. The blue one was hanging upside down on a tree limb, seemingly winking at Benny.

  “Aiken go to pick up the stuff?” Nadia asked, changing the subject.