Two people approached with a mangy pack mule in tow. One of them was small and scrawny, and the other tall and womanly. As they got closer, Vengar recognized both the lusty woman who'd conned him and the underaged guard from the gate.
The con-woman called out to him. "Hell of a thing you did there, hero. Do you leave every city a smoking ruin?"
"Be gone, wench. It was your deceit that caused this horror, and I should kill you where you stand."
She sauntered up and plopped down beside him in the grass, while Lilandra clutched closer to Vengar's side. "Don't be like that," the con-woman said. "It was just another job, and I didn't even know what the prince was up to. You know the score."
Vengar grunted.
"I'll take that to mean, 'Fine. Come along, vile harlot, and lead me to mind-bending riches and adventure as has never been known.' And thank you. I cordially accept your offer."
He grunted again.
"I'm Vica, by the way. This is my little brother Shep, the magician."
"Hi," Shep said sheepishly. "Pleased to meet you again, Mister Barbarian."
Vengar had run out of grunts, so he nodded.
They all sat there in silence for a few minutes, too tired to do anything else, until the silence was broken by a crackling sound and a few sniffles coming from inside of Vengar's journey-bag. He clumsily opened it with one arm, and out floated a disembodied nose the size of a fist.
"You stole a besniffler egg?" Lilandra asked. "Why on Earth would you steal janitorial staff?"
"I thought it was breakfast," Vengar said. "Brilliant. That's just what this day needed."
The baby besniffler floated up beside Vengar and let out an itty bitty sneeze, and Vengar smiled a little despite himself.
Together, the five of them watched Tensara burn late into the night, and when the last embers gave up and died, they packed up and marched off towards parts unknown.
Thus began the third week of the Hyperbolic Age, an age of treachery, of catastrophe, and of woe. The week was obviously off to a miserable start, though perhaps not quite so dreadful as the two that had preceded it... and at least it would only be seven days long.
The End.
* * *
About the author:
Chris J. Randolph is a slacker and wannabe from somewhere in the middle of California. His credits include... ummm... this story... and a science-fiction novel coming very, very soon. His lifelong dream is to own a giant robot with which to conquer the Earth.
Interested in more indie fiction? Come visit our label at oktopods.wordpress.com
Copyright © 2010 Chris J. Randolph
This story is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
The King, His Son, Their Sorcerer and His Lover Page 4
