by Robert Bevan
The king turned to Randy and cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s see what you’ve got, paladin.”
Randy walked jerkily toward the sergeant like he wasn’t fully in control over his own legs. In truth, he was just trying to keep from throwing up. Why couldn’t he have just pricked himself like he did with Denise? If it was meant to display how much faith he had in Randy, it was far more than Randy had in himself.
Stopping at the edge of where the blood puddle was slowly expanding, Randy leaned over and was just able to reach Sergeant Moore’s shoulder. It felt cooler than it should, and his face was paler. He’d better hurry this up.
“In Jesus Christ’s name, I heal you.” He forced the words out unceremoniously, but felt the magic flow out of his hand. The river of blood slowed to a trickle, then merely a drip. Warmth returned to the sergeant’s shoulder as full color returned to his face.
The king stared at Randy and Sergeant Moore for a long time, but his face betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking. He finally said, “Clean him.”
Randy was at a loss for what to do. He didn’t have a towel or a sponge or anything. He’d just have to do his best. He spit in his palms, rubbed them together and started wiping down from the sergeant’s chest to his abdomen, willing himself not to get aroused. But the man did have some fine, hard muscles. For all of his effort, he was just making more of a mess, smearing blood everywhere.
Sergeant Moore, who hadn’t so much as moved a muscle through this entire ordeal, now glared at Randy.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Randy. “I’m doing my best.”
Sergeant Moore jerked his head to the side, which Randy took as an indication that he should back off.
Randy stepped back and found that two more bald servants had been patiently and uncomfortably waiting behind him, one with a stack of folded towels, and the other with a basin of clean water. He stood with his red, sticky hands held out in front of him while the servants wiped away enough blood from Sergeant Moore’s torso to show that he’d been completely healed.
“Impressive,” said the king. “Turn and face the High Priestess.”
Sergeant Moore turned to his right precisely ninety degrees.
An elven woman wearing a gown of aquamarine scales nodded her head. “What we’ve witnessed cannot be denied. Truly this man acts as a servant of the New God, Jesus Christ.”
The king looked at Randy, who responded with a nervous grin. “I suppose a new god must take what he can get.” He snapped his fingers and another bald servant emerged from behind a column near the throne. These little guys were everywhere, like the king’s own Oompa Loompas. “See that the sergeant is thoroughly bathed and well fed. Sergeant Moore. You are dismissed.”
Sergeant Moore genuflected in the pool of his own blood. “It has been an honor to serve Your Majesty.”
Randy certainly wouldn’t have minded being thoroughly bathed and well fed, but he had a feeling the king’s business with him had only just begun.
As the single bald servant escorted the sergeant out of the audience chamber, a swarm of them came out of nowhere armed with towels and buckets. Most of them converged on the massive pool of blood, but a few of them crawled behind the sergeant, mopping up his bloody footprints.
“What is your name, paladin of the New God?” asked the king.
Randy thought it best to give his proper formal name when addressing a king. “Randal Perkins, Your Honor.”
The king cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” said Randy. “Force of habit. Randal Perkins, Your Majesty.”
The king shrugged. “‘Your Honor’ has a nice ring to it. I’m sure I’ve been called worse.” He looked past Randy but pointed down at him.
Before Randy knew it, two little bald guys had wet towels wrapped around his hands and forearms. Instinctively jerking his hands away, he was shocked to see that they were as clean as they’d ever been. Even stranger, so were the towels.
“That was amazing,” said Randy. The servants bowed and retreated behind him.
The king nodded. “Keepers of the Cloth have served the palace for ten generations. They are trained from birth in the matters of loyalty, subtlety, and cleanliness, in that order of importance.”
Randy turned to look behind him. There was no trace of the two servants who had cleaned his hands. It made some kind of sense. They was even more subtle than they was clean.
The king cleared his throat. “If I may have your attention?”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Go on.”
“My sources inform me that you frequent an establishment known as the Whore’s Head Inn. Is that correct?”
“That is correct, sir. I actually kinda live there.”
“Forgive my curiosity, but how is it a man of such piety and profound moral character would choose to spend his time in a place of such ill repute?”
“That’s where my friends are,” said Randy. “I couldn’t very well count myself a man of profound moral character if I was to abandon my friends.”
“Loyalty is indeed important, but –”
The chamber door swung open, and a golden eagle flew into the audience chamber, screeching at the king. Randy let out a little yelp.
The king smirked at Randy, then addressed the giant, luminous bird. “Desmond, you’re scaring my guest.”
The eagle took human a human form so much like the king’s, except for the pharaoh beard, that they might be related. “He is right to be scared, Winston.”
A look of concern broke the cool, casual demeanor the king had been putting forward. “What has you so shaken up, little brother?”
“Timmon Bloodsoul lives again. He heads this way, even as we speak, to make good on the promise he made to our forefathers.”
The king maintained his serious face for a time, then laughed out loud. “Are you back on the poppy?”
“Heed my warning, Winston. You must flee the city at once.”
“I will do no such thing. This is preposterous!”
“I saw him with my own eyes.”
The king laughed again. “And how did you recognize a man you’ve never seen, who most sane people don’t believe ever truly existed? Was he holding a sign? Did he introduce himself? Hello. I’m Timmon Bloodsoul. I’ve come to end your lineage.”
Things had been sounding pretty serious. Randy didn’t know who Timmon Bloodsoul was, but he sounded like bad news. The king’s humorous derision of his brother’s news helped him breathe a little easier. He cracked a little smile, enough to show the king he appreciated the joke, but not so much as to insult his brother.
Desmond’s face was dead serious. “He rides the Phantom Pinas.”
Randy laughed out loud. Desmond’s deadpan act had caught him completely off guard. “He rides the phantom penis. Oh man, why is that so funny? What is that, like, a dance move?” He thrust his pelvis back and forth. “Look at me. I’m ridin’ the phantom penis!”
Both the king and his younger brother stared down at Randy. Neither were smiling now. The king even looked like he might have aged five years in the past ten seconds. Randy held his breath to keep from laughing.
The king turned to his brother. “How can you be sure?”
“I saw his junk in the moonlight.”
All of Randy’s held breath and laughter exploded out through his nose. “I’m sorry!” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Don’t mind me.”
“Who is this tittering buffoon?” demanded Desmond.
The king frowned down at Randy. “This is the only known paladin of the New God.”
“Oh, big brother. Surely you tell a taller tale than I.”
“It’s true. He invoked the name of –”
The chamber door flew open again. “Your Majesty!” A burgundy-suited man ran in clutching a rolled up piece of paper.
The king rolled his eyes. “What is it now, Quelby?
“This message arrived by falcon from Port City.” Quelby held out the paper to the kin
g, who snatched it out of his hand and unrolled it.
The king’s eyes darted left and right at an increasingly frantic pace as they made their way down the page. He let out a long exhalation and crumpled the letter in his fist.
“What is it, brother?” asked Desmond. “What news from Port City?”
“There is no Port City.”
Desmond laughed nervously, as if hoping for a punchline to follow. “What do you mean?”
“Ten thousand orcs descended on the town in the night. They burned the place to the ground and commandeered every seagoing vessel they could get their filthy claws on. They’re headed north along the Barrier Islands.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne for a moment, then looked out across the granite table. “Balharr. Lock down Shallow Grave at once.”
A tall, unusually handsome half-orc stood erect at the far end of the table. “Permission to speak freely, Your Majesty.”
“You may.”
“This will not win you any favor with the orcs of Shallow Grave.”
“That’s why I need you to convince them it’s for their own protection.”
“The men I would require for such a task would be better used fighting the enemy. The residents of Shallow Grave long to prove their gratitude and loyalty. Giving them this opportunity to fight alongside us as brothers would go far in integrating them into our society.”
“I’m more concerned with their actual brothers.”
“I have blood ties to Meb’ Garshur,” said Balharr. “Do you doubt my loyalty?”
The king put his hands on the arms of his throne and leaned forward. “That all depends on how resistant you are to following your king’s direct order.”
Balharr’s fists were balled up at his sides, but he bowed low. “As Your Majesty commands.” He marched out of the room.
When he was gone, the king let out a long exhalation, as if he hadn’t been sure how that whole thing was going to play out.
He looked down at Randy. “I shall expect to see you on the wall above the South Gate. There will be much need for your gifts. For now you are dismissed.”
Randy raised his hand. “Your Majesty?”
The king sighed. “What?”
“I was wonderin’. Them folks you got locked up in the dungeon? Do you think you might pardon them?”
The king furrowed his brow. “You mean the men who blasphemed against the god you serve?”
Randy nodded. “Them’s the ones. I seen a change in their hearts, and Jesus is a god of forgiveness.”
“I don’t have time for this.” The king waved his hand like he was shooing away flies. “Fine. Whatever. Release the prisoners into the paladin’s custody.” He looked out at the table. “Sorbin.”
As Randy was escorted out, a man with a long white beard and a powder blue robe rose from his place at the table. “Your Majesty.”
“Summon the prophet. Tell him to bring some more of those… What were they called? Roasted Beef Sand Witches? And more of the seasoned potato curls. We have a siege to prepare for.”
Chapter 31
The sign above the entrance to what had formerly been known as “Professor Goosewaddle’s Potion and Scrolls Emporium”had been replace by a sign which simply read “Arby’s”. Severed wires dangling from the bottom suggested this was a genuine sign which Goosewaddle had stolen, and that the light emanating from it was produced through magical means.
Business was booming. Tim had been standing in line for hours, more out of curiosity than any desire to eat Arby’s food again so soon. The street was littered on both sides with creatures picnicking on the sidewalks, enjoying their roast beef sandwiches, while angry magic shop owners threatened to blast them with Lightning Bolts if they didn’t stop blocking their storefronts.
The line moved slowly, and Tim was stuck between a centaur and a bugbear, one of whom had a serious gas problem. It was like the universe had conspired to make sure Tim was farted on at all times.
When he finally made it through the doorway, Tim discovered that the sign wasn’t all Goosewaddle had swiped from some no-doubt-currently-very-confused-and-angry franchise owner. Four booths, the likes of which would not be found elsewhere in this world, occupied the space where once stood hefty oaken racks full of potions, ointments, and minor magical knick-knacks. On each table there were two plastic squeezy bottles, one red and the other white; Arby’s sauce and Horsey sauce respectively, a napkin dispenser, a set of salt and pepper shakers, and for some reason a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
He also discovered why it was taking so goddamn long. There was only one guy working the counter. Beads of sweat shone high on his forehead along his receding hairline. The pit stains on his uniform green polo shirt ran down to where it was tucked into his lame-ass triple pleated khakis.
Anyone who can steal and magically teleport signs, food, condiments, furniture, and presumably kitchen equipment, could also swipe himself a couple of uniforms. But a few details gave this guy away as the genuine goods. He was wearing a pair of modern eyeglasses, which Tim had never seen in this world. His name tag read “Paul Gonzales (Manager)”, which screamed “I’m from Earth.” But the biggest clue was how ineptly this poor schlub was dealing with the angry minotaur who was currently shouting across the counter at him.
“Two gold pieces for so little food!” the minotaur boomed. “How can you call that a value meal?”
Paul Gonzales (Manager) did his best to answer without crying. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t set the prices. Please don’t kill me.”
“Is there a problem here?” said Professor Goosewaddle as he flew in from the staircase and hovered above the counter, his hands crackling with electricity. He wore the same green polo shirt as Paul, but his fit more like a wizard’s robe, the bottom hanging past his toes. “If you find my prices unreasonable, there are a multitude of other dining establishments in the city.”
The minotaur hung his big head and placed two gold coins on the counter. “I’ll pay.” His voice was low and mopey.
The situation diffused, Professor Goosewaddle grabbed a cup, filled it with Mountain Dew from the fountain, and floated above the crowd to the one empty booth, no doubt reserved for him.
The better part of an hour passed while Tim impatiently waited for his turn. Occasionally, a young girl named Jennifer would bring food out from the room Tim had once teleported to Earth from. She might have been pretty if her face wasn’t covered in sweat and terror.
“Welcome to Arby’s,” said Paul Gonzales (Manager). “How can I help you?” His voice was much calmer than it had been with his previous customers. Tim’s lack of fangs, claws, antennae, or horns probably had something to do with that.
“Two Arby’s Roast Beefs and a large curly fry.”
The manager swallowed hard, gawking down at Tim. He looked like he wanted to say something not roast-beef-sandwich-related, but after a quick glance in Goosewaddle’s direction, he thought better of it.
“Anything to drink?”
“Nah,” said Tim. “Brought my own.”
“That’ll be three gold pieces.”
Tim patted his pockets, suddenly remembering something very important. “Fuck. I don’t have any money.”
The manager shook his head. He was breathing hard. “I’m very sorry, sir.” He looked past Tim. “Next.”
Tim stood on his tip-toes and leaned closer. “Come on, Paul. Hook a brother up.” He hoped his use of modern American colloquialism would sway the manager, or at least fuck with him.
Paul glanced in Goosewaddle’s direction again, then leaned down to get right in Tim’s face. His breath smelled like Scope and Marlboro. “Are you… Do you know where I’m from?”
“Gulfport? Biloxi? D’Iberville?”
Paul stopped breathing Tim was pretty sure his heart stopped beating for a second. “You have to get me out of here!”
Tim made a mental note that he said ‘me’ rather than ‘us’. He guessed Jennifer could go fuck herself as far as Paul was co
ncerned. Typical fast food manager.
“I can’t help anyone on an empty stomach.”
“Listen, kid. I’d love to hook a brother up.” Paul’s attempt at hip urban slang was less convincing than if the minotaur had said it. “But if my till comes up short, the boss… I don’t know what he’ll do to me.”
“Dude, chillax.” Tim would never use the word chillax, but he was intentionally going as heavy as he could on the slang. “Your boss and I are tight.” He turned around to face Goosewaddle’s booth and shouted, “Yo! Goosewaddle!”
The restaurant went completely silent, save for the echoing slurp of the professor’s Mountain Dew.
Goosewaddle turned around slowly to see who dared address him so informally in his own restaurant. When he saw Tim, his eyes lit up.
“Tim! Welcome! What do you think?”
Tim nodded. “I like it. A little taste of home.”
“Come over and join me when you’ve gotten your food.”
“Will do.” Tim turned back to Paul. “Throw in an order of mozzarella sticks, and I’ll see what I can do.”
When Tim’s food was ready, he carried his tray to Goosewaddle’s booth, where he ran into an invisible force field, upturning his tray and spilling all his food on the floor.
“Fuck.”
“Oh dear,” said Professor Goosewaddle. “My apologies.” He snapped his fingers.
Tim reached out for the force field, but it had been deactivated. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve eaten off the floor of the Chicken Hut.” He piled his curly fries and mozzarella sticks back onto the tray. At least the sandwiches were wrapped.
“Tell me, Tim,” said Goosewaddle. “How did you hear about this place?” It sounded like he was more interested in marketing data than small talk.
“Someone threw a cup at my head.”
Goosewaddle rubbed his little hands together. “Outstanding!” Tim could practically see dollar signs in the old gnome’s eyes.
