by Scott Baron
It was all coming back. The fight, knocking Horgund to the ground, the clear line to his unprotected flank.
“I was about to win, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, you were. But then you faltered. At first, I had no idea what was happening. I thought maybe you’d just somehow stepped on uneven ground. But then quite suddenly you went from winning to very nearly dying.”
“And you saved me.”
A grim look flashed across the assassin’s face. “No, Charlie. I did not. Dennis, your guard––“
“Yeah, the kid who was talking shit behind my back when I got here. I’ve been tutoring him on some of his fighting drills in private. A good kid, once you get past the attitude.”
“He’s dead.”
Charlie sat silent a long moment. “What happened?”
“He broke the rules of the contest and rushed to your aid. He struck King Horgund. He was killed almost immediately when the guards stepped in.”
“Well, isn’t poisoning your opponent against the rules, too?”
“Impossible to prove in the heat of the moment, and by then the fighting had already broken out. Captain Sheeran tried to stop the combatants, but they had already committed.”
“But we were evenly numbered, Bob. And you’re the Geist, for chrissakes. Why didn’t you stop them? There was no reason to keep up the disguise at that point.”
“No, there was not. However, before I could act, dozens of Horgund’s troops rushed from the treeline.”
“But we had scouts. There was no one there.”
“I know. Somehow, they possess a form of magic. Something that hid their soldiers, camouflaging them to our men’s eyes. Had I been the one scouting the woods, I’d have undoubtedly spotted them. But on this world, well, this type of magic shouldn’t have come into play.”
Charlie mulled over the implications. Ara had been right. There was some magic on Earth. And now it seemed they had somehow come across it.
“How many died?” he finally asked.
“Most, though many were captured, and a few managed to escape, from what I could see. I was a little preoccupied.”
“Carrying me to safety. Thank you for that,” Charlie said, locking eyes with the pale man.
“Of course, my friend.”
“He has Leila, Bob. Taunted me with that piece of her dress. I’m afraid he got the reaction from me that I wanted out of him.”
“Completely understandable, Charlie. Had it been Hunze’s, you may rest assured I would have done the same.”
Charlie drank more from his cup, cracking his stiff neck as his head slowly cleared. Bawb refilled it from a pitcher, and he drained it once more.
“Good. Flush it from your system.”
“The bastard has her, Bob. She could be dead already.”
“I do not think so. The queen is very popular among the people, and to kill her––especially when no outright war is declared––would earn him more trouble than he wants. No, I think he will keep her alive and locked away. At least until the people’s anger fades and they become used to their new king.”
“You really think so?”
“It is what I would do.”
“But what about Baloo? And where the hell is Ara?”
“I was going to ask you that same question. She is nowhere to be found, Charlie. I assumed when you were injured she would come immediately to your aid. You share a blood bond, after all. But nothing. Not a trace.”
“We’ve got to rescue Leila,” Charlie said, rising to his feet, then falling right back over again.”
“We must bide our time. Learn what we can about our enemy. We must not be foolish and rush in blind. Instead, we shall develop a strategy as intelligence comes in.”
“And how exactly do you propose we gather that?” Charlie said, disheartened.
Bawb smiled. “As I told you before, I have paid my spies very well. Now that foresight shall bear fruit. We will know exactly what we are up against soon enough. But for now, you must rest and regain your strength.”
Charlie leaned back and took a deep breath, all the possibilities of where Ara could be, and what they might be doing to Leila running through his head.
“Oh, shit. Hunze!”
A flash of emotion crossed Bawb’s face. “Trapped in the castle, with the others.”
“But if they find her––“
“Thomas and his people will protect her. And remember, there were a lot of temporary faces helping in the kitchen due to the illness going around. Which I must admit, I now have to wonder if it was natural in origin.”
“I’d begun wondering the same thing. But if someone could cause an outbreak like that, we’re dealing with more than just trace magic, aren’t we?”
“I’m afraid so. But my original point is that it is something which also plays to our advantage. Hunze will blend with the kitchen staff. They adore her, and I am confident she will be protected as best they can. And remember, she has learned to bake, so not only is her disguise fleshed out, she is actually good at it. She has value to them.”
“So they’ll likely add their own to the staff to oversee, but let those already there stay on so long as they do a good job.”
“Precisely. But now, you rest. You will be safe here, and I have things I must attend to.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
It wasn’t much by Wampeh standards. By pretty much anyone from his galaxy’s, for that matter. But Bawb had been generous with the seized kingdom’s coin, and it had paid off.
Kind words of appreciation, and a very hefty payday when there was nothing pressing motivating it, had made him very popular with his spy network. They’d all become rather well off, thanks to the newcomers, and that had earned him more than a little loyalty.
Now King Horgund had now seized the throne, but long before he ever set foot in their land, the men knew his reputation. Tight with his money, and reined in by his mistress. Ever since his queen’s passing, he had been an even more difficult ruler. Taking a new lover-–even one who would finally provide him a son, as his queen had been unable––hadn’t diminished his ire.
He wouldn’t seek out and execute the spies. Every kingdom had them, and every ruler knew it. That’s why they kept their aides and trusted associates close. But while they wouldn’t be punished, neither would they have employment. It would be back to scraping up coin by whatever means they could, and that was not a pleasing prospect.
Bawb had been in constant contact with his network before the duel between the two kings, but since they had fled, his normal channels of communication were simply not an option. He had other means at his disposal, but it would require the use of the last of the magical charge in the lone konus he had secreted on his person.
Had it not been for his desire to help Hunze in her baking adventures, he might not have even possessed it at all. She was having a bit of trouble with baking temperatures, and more than a few loaves of bread had burned in the process. But she was so enthused, he found himself unable to resist the urge to help her.
It was a small konus, but with its help, he adjusted the ovens while she worked, a little boost while she improved her trade. From what Thomas had said, she had mastered much of the baking arts. Now she just needed to be able to do it on her own.
Unfortunately, her unknown magical lifeline was cut a few days sooner than Bawb had planned, interrupted by the untimely invasion.
“Very well,” he muttered as he slipped into the peasant’s clothing he had stolen from the dead, slaughtered and left on the roadside when the invaders arrived.
The blood had come out with a little rinse, but he hadn’t dared give the attire a full washing. To do so would not only remove the camouflaging stench of old sweat, but would also make the fabrics stand out amongst the commoners.
So it was that Bawb layered the stinking clothing upon his frame, carefully hiding his musculature with additional bits of fabric, making him seem a bit larger––and softer––than he really was. No one
was terribly intimidated by a fat man. Especially not a fat drunk. And that persona was one that had served him well on countless occasions.
The assassin slid the konus onto his wrist.
“Occulo,” he said, forming a reflection on a piece of broken glass.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to suffice. Carefully, he began layering a series of spells, a closely-held secret of disguise known only to a handful. He had to modify as he went, given the constraints of the rapidly draining konus, but it would work well enough.
In a few short minutes, his pale complexion had darkened to that of a ruddy-cheeked field worker, his hair and eyes shifted to a mousy brown. Even his teeth had taken on the stained look of a peasant, though he could still summon his fangs, should he require.
A fully-charged konus would have afforded him so much more to work with, he noted as he stared at his transformed visage in the reflection. But this would do. This would do quite well. Only one more thing remained.
He took a bottle of cheap wine and pulled the cork, then liberally poured it down the front of his clothes.
“Sweat, filth, and wine,” he said, satisfied at the resulting slurry of stinking grime. He gave a fake little hiccup and tipped his hat to the man in the reflection.
“Binsala, my friend,” he slurred to himself. “Nice to see you again, my friend.”
Binsala the trader stumbled his way through the realm, a bottle in one hand, a half-eaten loaf of dirt-crusted bread in the other. Bawb originally worried he might be going a bit far with the act, but the general mood of those he came across was one of despair. And what better way to deal with that than with alcohol?
His seeming drunkenness fit right in with the others drowning their sorrows. He could go where he pleased, for the most part, because a drunk of Binsala’s demeanor was never seen as a threat.
Just as planned.
He covered a great deal of distance that day, staggering up to familiar faces, giving the secret passphrase of the king’s aide to the incognito spies.
“You work for the king’s aide?”
“Aye, thass right,” he slurred in reply. “Wass told to pass along whatever news there was.”
“Are you sure you can keep the message straight?” the spy asked. “Perhaps I should carry the news.”
“Nah. Thass okay. I’ll be fine,” the assassin said.
“Very well. I have news of the forces and their numbers. And of the queen, as well. But if you need my help delivering the message, you need only ask.”
Bawb was impressed. The man seemed legitimately concerned about his ability to carry out his task. He made a mental note. If they survived this ordeal, this man would see a bonus for his performance and loyalty.
The disguised Wampeh repeated the process several times when he managed to find one of his spies in their usual haunts. The news was the same from all of them, give or take a few minor variations. King Horgund had claimed victory after Charlie fled the duel, his men dispatching many of the king’s guard before subduing the rest.
Captain Sheeran had apparently survived, apparently convincing his men to lay down arms and embrace the new king. Thus, the castle had been turned over without a fight. It raised his ire, the lack of spine, but there was a silver lining. Hunze would be safe. Had the castle fallen in a siege, her circumstances would be far less stable.
Having gathered as much information as he thought possible for the day, Bawb turned and cut through the trees, heading back via a much more direct route. He was making good time, and when he came to a small clearing on a hill, he paused, looking out over the land.
The skies were starting to shift to shimmering pre-dusk hue. Despite the current circumstances, Bawb did have to admit this planet’s golden hour truly was a thing to admire.
“Hey, you,” a gruff voice called from the treeline across the clearing.
Bawb had seen the half-dozen soldiers as they made their way through the woods, but as King Horgund had already taken the castle, he hadn’t placed much concern in his men’s appearance. The battle was won, and their king was victorious, hence, no need for a fight.
Unfortunately, the men didn’t seem to be the sort to pay attention to that kind of detail.
“I’m talking to you, peasant,” the man said again, lumbering toward Bawb, his men in tow.
“Shorry,” Bawb said, drunkenly. “I dinn’t hear you over there. I’m Binsala. Nice to meetcha. Issn’t it a nice evening?” he slurred.
“It’ll be nicer when you hand over that wine.”
“But iss mah lasht bottle.”
The soldier snatched it from his hand, uncorking it with his teeth and taking a deep swig. “This wine is piss!” he griped. “How the hell do you stomach such swill?”
“I told you. Iss mah last bottle. The good shtuff is loooong gone.”
The soldier’s men formed a circle around the drunken peasant.
“You have any coin on you, friend?” one asked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“Only enough fer a bottle and a loaf,” Bawb replied.
“I’ll take that, then.”
Bawb looked around. They were far from the roads, and they were alone. He staggered and fell against the man, his stench rubbing off on him, causing him to step back a stride. The soldiers had assumed this drunk was weak. A victim.
They assumed wrong.
“Stupid drunk. You’ll regre––“
The soldier was cut short when the knife he’d been reaching for in his belt––and found mysteriously missing––sliced through his neck, nearly severing his head from his body. Bawb mused that perhaps he had a little more aggression to work out of his system than he had first realized. And what better way than this?
Two more soldiers fell before they even drew their swords, the vital arteries the stolen knife found its way home to rapidly draining them of their blood as they were opened in fountains of gushing crimson.
That left three, and Bawb had to remind himself this was a unique situation. He had to hold back. This had to look sloppy. Like the work of resistance during the takeover. In other words, he had to use all of his skill to make his strikes appear as if he had no skill. He smiled in amusement at the thought as he stole the men’s lives as crudely as possible. This, was a most unusual, and surprisingly welcome, challenge.
Twenty seconds after the first man had fallen, the other five had joined him, lying on the ground, their organs rapidly cooling to match the evening air.
Bawb scavenged anything of value, as anyone else would have done, then made sure he was clean of all traces of blood and turned to head back to his temporary home. The dead soldiers would be found, eventually. Just a few more casualties on the field of battle, lost in the confusion of the takeover. The Wampeh assassin would be long gone by then.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A shakily cast disabling spell just missed the pale Wampeh, his sixth sense reflexes instinctively jerking him aside.
“Jesus, Bob. Knock first. Or whistle or something. I could have killed you.”
The assassin began shedding his disguise, dumping the captured weapons valuables on a low table.
“First, you were nowhere near killing me. Second, whistle? You do realize we are trying to avoid attention, not draw it to ourselves.”
“Point taken,” Charlie grumbled.
“And third, do you realize what you just did?”
“I know, I know. Don’t use magic in public, it’ll freak out the locals if they see.”
“That too,” Bawb agreed. “But more importantly, you just cast a defensive spell at me.”
“Yeah? And?”
“And you are still without a konus. And recently poisoned, no less.”
Charlie paused, staring at his bare wrists.
“Holy shit.”
“Yes. Holy shit, as you are so fond of saying.” Bawb pulled up a stool and sat, removing his boots with a firm tug. “You are still not fully recovered from the poisoning, and your mind
is obviously a bit clouded, yet, but your inner power seems to be growing.”
“I’m a spell-casting badass,” he replied with a grin.
“Yes. Such a badass,” Bawb joked.
Charlie crinkled his nose, then mock-gagged a little. “What in the world is that smell? Is that you?”
“Part of the disguise. One must blend in, and when among filthy farmworkers, the smellier the better,” he said, then stood and dropped his trousers.
“Whoa! Hey, now!” Charlie blurted, turning away from the naked, pale man.
“This prudish reaction to nudity is ridiculous, Charlie. And you lived among pirates, slaves, and gladiators. I know for a fact none of those living situations lend themselves to much privacy, especially come bathing time,” he said, grabbing a cloth and bucket of water to scrub the stink and grime away.
A quick dip in the nearest stream would have been far preferable, but given their situation, a public appearance of that nature was most definitely not in the cards.
“Yeah, well, fine,” Charlie said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to spend my first moments of healthy sight staring at your frosty, white, Wampeh junk.”
“One, you are not healthy yet. I estimate it will take at least until tomorrow for the remainder of the poison to be processed out of your system. And two, it may be frosty and white, but I assure you, the women I have bedded would agree, it is not junk,” Bawb said with a wry grin.
“Oh, man. I did not need the visual,” Charlie said with a pained laugh. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just face the wall for now.”
“It matters not to me, one way or the other,” Bawb replied, giving himself a good scrub.
The wall was nothing special to look at, but for the moment, Charlie found it quite interesting. “So, what news out there? How screwed are we?”
