The Messengers Menagerie (The Courier Chronicles Book 1)

by Joey Anderle

  Delvar’s eyes widen as he watched the beast snap at him, one of its sharp fangs pierced the dwarves light armor, tearing at the leather and shirt underneath.

  Booker froze inside his mind, attempting over and over to process what he saw as red slowly began to seep out, that’s not supposed to happen, he repeated.

  Izimandius and Mordecai put in extra effort in attacking the monster, buying time for Ranquel to make his way back and help attend to Delvar’s wound.

  “It’s not that bad,” Ranquel promised, looking Delvar over.

  “As opposed to what,” Delvar questioned, grunting as he was placed against a nearby wall, “TWO wolf bites?”

  “One moment,” Ranquel asked.

  How does this happen, what do I do? Booker questioned, his mind now racing with questions and ideas.

  His thought train was promptly derailed as Ranquel popped into his mind space to backhand him.

  Haven’t I had enough of those today? Booker questioned.

  “Apparently not,” Ranquel responded.

  The two seemed removed from time; both thought entities now stood on an eternal white plane. Ranquel was manifested as his Ranger self, armed to the teeth. Quiver dangling on one hip, the ebony hilt of his sword on the other, the end of his bow peaked just over his shoulder, on the same horizontal as elven eyes that peered into him underneath the cowl.

  Booker hesitantly took a step back from the imposing figure.

  “You’re not a Ranger,” Ranquel informed Booker.

  “That’s what I said,” Booker pointed out.

  Ranquel waved the boy’s declaration aside, “Yet,” he finished.

  Booker shifted his weight to the foot he placed behind him, instead of adopting a retreating attitude, he slumped his shoulders and crossed his arms, “Please, don’t.”

  “Too bad,” Ranquel told him, “Since we’re sharing this body…”

  “Hold up,” Booker interrupted, “since when has there been we?”

  “Do you think you have been the one doing all the fighting?” The Ranger questioned.

  “Well no,” Booker held his right elbow, the boy's right arm pivoted up to scratch his head as he turned away. “Keep doing you, just come knocking when it’s time to drive.”

  Ranquel snapped his fingers twice at Booker to get his attention. The human tensed as he debated how to respond to such an action, deciding to tilt his head up enough to be able to see Ranquel by sliding his eyes up.

  “And I’m not sure if you know this,” The Ranger pulled back his hood, revealing a majestic mane that was tied into a knot underneath the hood.

  It’s gorgeous; Booker admired before he continued his message.

  “But, we can’t be flooded with fear or worry if we expect to come out of this a hero.”

  The human pondered a moment, “Can’t or won’t.”

  The elf closed the gap between the two, “Either,” He answered.

  Booker took a step back, “Fair enough, but on the other hand, I’m still just a- “

  “Runner?” Ranquel finished with a knowing smile.

  Damn it, walked straight into that one, Booker lamented.

  “Got you, now let’s get going.” Ranquel began shaking his hood, preparing to throw it back onto his head.

  “Wait,” Booker’s brows furrowed in a query, “That’s it? No speech on how you used to be a Runner, or how you’ve faced a fear or enemy just like this? Some heroic tale of overcoming to get my spirits up?” He looked left and right for his answer.

  “Why?” Ranquel questioned, “a grandiose speech would just waste time, it would be more motivating if I told you, you couldn’t do it.” The Ranger threw an arm up, gesturing to Booker, “Plus you’ve seen me when I was in your shoes, I don’t know what got me to dodge that Worg, but I’m still healthy today for it. Now let's go.”

  Ranquel dissipated before Booker’s eye. The Runner squinted in his eyes where the Ranger once stood, “You know what,” Booker told the surrounding air, “I already hate it when he’s right, and I just met him.”

  Booker felt a pull and went along with the feeling, ripped from their stasis and returned to the living. He still didn’t have control, but he was okay with that.

  You keep doing you buddy, Booker encouraged as Ranquel drew his sword again.

  “Mordecai, Izimandius,” Ranquel called out.

  “What?” The troll answered back from above.

  Ranquel looked up to see Mordecai carefully balancing atop the shaking Worg, giving the dragon ample opportunity to spit fire at the beast.

  The Ranger slid his sword back into its scabbard, “I have an idea, can you keep the animal still for a moment?”

  The Worg’s efforts increased, bashing itself against the walls to throw the unwanted passenger off. Mordecai slid and dug one of his hand axes into the body, using the monster’s body to steady himself. Scrambling, Mordecai jumped off the front of the Worg, rolling once his feet connected to the ground.

  “And you want me to what?” Mordecai questioned, rising from his curled position with only one of his hand axes.

  “I need a clear shot either through his eyes or up his mouth,” Ranquel explained.

  “Get the dragon to fly above his head,” Mordecai offered, “Get him into a bite, while his jaw is open I can wedge my axe in.”

  The Worg snarled at Mordecai who was twirling his one axe in his hand.

  “Good idea,” Ranquel agreed. He whistled three different notes, and Izimandius came back around.

  Ranquel shouted Elvish in Booker’s voice, which closest translated to, “bait.”

  The whelp did circles around the beast's’ head, diving and spitting flame into one of his eyes to draw all his attention.

  Ranquel took a step back and kneeled, drawing his arrow and aiming. Waiting on Mordecai to find the right time to lodge his last axe to buy him enough time to give the Worg an impromptu lobotomy.

  Like an Olympic sprinter at the sound of the starting gun shot, Mordecai launched himself into action when he saw the opportunity, roaring at the wolf as he swung his axe across himself and then brought it down on the Worg’s mouth, attempting to lock the beast's jaw.

  Ranquel needed no other signal that it was his turn, releasing the string and watching the arrow soar straight into the mouth of the beast at the same time the Worg tried closing his mouth, meeting the resistance of the axe. The arrow landed on the roof of its mouth, sinking its arrow tip into its gummy mouth.

  The Worg roared in pain, but didn’t die. This was opposite of what everyone wanted. And now Mordecai had no axes since he didn’t want to reach into the Wolves open mouth.

  “Could have gone worse,” Mordecai backed away.

  Ranquel pulled the scabbard from Booker’s belt, tossing the long sword to Mordecai, “My bad, needed to aim a little farther back.”

  The wolf was still busy roaring due to the incredible amount of pain the duo had just caused.

  “Happens to the best,” Mordecai remarked, “Do you have another arrow?”

  Ranquel responded with a surprised tone, “I have exactly another arrow.”

  Mordecai nodded as he panted heavily, “One more shot?”

  “Let’s not throw it away,” Ranquel agreed.

  He shouted the same order to Izimandius who made a screech that was assumed to be a noise of understanding. Ranquel notched his arrow and rolled his shoulders before pulling the string back. His arms were aching in pain after the first several attempts, and if Booker and Ranquel were honest with each other, they would express doubt on how long they could hold the arrow in place before launching it.

  Mordecai drew the sword out, giving it a few practice swings before setting himself. This time an odd serenity washed over the troll. He was ready for whichever outcome at whatever price, like any other troll eventually faced after the initial heat of battle and all that was left in front of them was the final smolders that were left for the living.

  SNAP

  The wolf t
ried to chomp Mordecai instead of Izimandius, no issue for the Troll, he expected this. Leaping back and slashing the Ranger’s sword to discourage the wolf from trying that again. Mordecai moved forward with heavy feet.

  “In the way of my shot,” Ranquel informed Mordecai.

  “How badly do we need this sword?” Mordecai asked.

  Ranquel gave a heavy sigh and started to mourn the loss of his favorite blade, “Just make sure I have my opportunity.”

  Mordecai made a flourish with the sword, the glinting metal drawing the wolves attention one more time. Another snarl from the Worg was met by Mordecai growling back with an equal amount of menace. Batting the next bite aside, watching the wolf snake its head and launch into its next strike, opening his mouth to chow down on Troll.

  Mordecai flipped the sword so he could stab the blade down. Sinking the tip into the beast's lower jaw, keeping it in place for Ranquel to try again. The Troll dove toward Ranquel forcing the beast to follow. When Mordecai landed on the slippery floor, he heard the twang of Ranquel’s bow string, and then something clattered on the ground. He quickly crawled away, knowing that a prone troll is a dead troll. Ranquel grabbed one of the Trolls arms and grunted as he tried to pull Mordecai away with urgency. Mordecai decided it was safe to turn around when he saw Izimandius zip by behind Ranquel, looking back to see the beast swaying before collapsing on its weak legs. When its head hit the ground, the Ranger’s beloved sword flung out, clattering past them covered in blood and slobber.

  Ranquel swiveled his head to watch his sword go by, “Did he have to get blood and saliva all over it?” He complained while setting the heavy troll back down.

  A thick silence hung in the air, the sounds of combat ceased along with the life of the monster. Ranquel got up and surveyed the outcome; the huge beast blocked off the way they came, the walls were battered with holes and tiny craters.

  Could be worse, Ranquel commented to Booker.

  We can find that out real soon if we don’t get to moving, Booker answered back. We need a way out and fast; I think there are some doors down this way that might eventually lead us back.

  Ranquel went back to where Auralee was still sleeping. Why not just walk back the way we came?

  If you think we can just turn invisible feel free, Booker responded, then launching into several scenarios’ and how they would have to adjust if certain outcomes occurred.

  Ranquel took Booker’s advice as he scooped up Auralee, ignoring the burning sensation in his right arm. He carried her back out and looked over to Mordecai who was already mostly recovered, “Do you think you can carry your Dwarf-friend? I can get us out of here much faster if we could sprint out the doors that got us here.”

  “How do you figure that?” Mordecai questioned, rolling his arms before lifting the bloodied dwarf like a toddler. Holding him in one arm like an oversized football.

  “There’s still some excess magic from whatever summoned that Worg; I always stored some in my bracelet, and a drop from your magi here means I can cloak us for a good bit of time,” Ranquel explained.

  Inside his head, Booker was explaining the third scenario, ”So when the guards come if we just-,” “What do you mean ‘cloak?'” Booker asked.

  “Camouflage, hide us,” Ranquel answered aloud.

  “Well, aren’t you just our Ranquel-ex-Machina,” Booker remarked.

  When Ranquel turned around to make sure Mordecai was ready, he spotted his sword and paused, “Well I don’t want to leave it behind,” He worried, “But it’s also covered in disgusting Worg juices.”

  Then an idea came to mind, so he set the Princess back down.

  No, Booker started already able to tell what the Ranger had in mind, don’t you dare.

  Ranquel jogged back into the room he had been stored in, retrieving the expensive racing jacket, and moved back to his sword.

  Leave the sword they can make more, Booker pleaded; we don’t need to do this.

  Using the jacket as a glove, Ranquel picked up the sword to clean it off with the leather to the sounds of Booker throwing up and sobbing softly in his head.

  You bastard, how could you have done that, Booker grieved forced to watch from the inside.

  The stuff on the sword coated his jacket as Ranquel slipped the blade back into its proper scabbard, placing it back on his belt so he could resume their exit. Booker was mourning his third favorite jacket in the corner of his mind.

  When Mordecai and Ranquel made it over the mountain of a wolf, Ranquel cast his spell. Drawing out sparks of blue, red, and green.

  Are we slowly becoming the Power Rangers? Booker questioned during his time of moping to witness the lights, Because if so I’m down.

  The colors spiraled around Mordecai and Ranquel as they slowly became transparent in their surroundings.

  “I hope you can keep track of your hands without being able to see them,” Ranquel wished as the colors died, leaving Mordecai and Ranquel gone to the naked eye.

  It was a slow process getting out of the museum, with both Booker and Mordecai having to remember their steps to get out as well as dance around to not collide with any of guests moving about. To Booker’s surprise, everyone seemed oblivious as to what happened. There was now some caution tape on the door that led to Ranquel’s exhibit but other than that, nothing seemed outside the usual affairs.

  Maybe we don’t need all this invisibility, after all, Booker remarked.

  Too late now, can’t just dispel in front of a crowd with a troll in the group. Ranquel answered.

  After making it through the crowd and outside, Booker directed them to an empty park bench.

  Set them here, give me my body back I can get the car, He instructed, Its New York they won’t look too out of place.

  Mordecai looked like a father with two tired children with both Auralee and Delvar resting their heads on his arms. Ranquel took an extra moment to cast a glimmer on Delvar to hide his wound.

  Alright now give me back the body, Booker sounded excited.

  Are you sure about that, Ranquel questioned, this body has taken a toll, do you think you can handle it?

  Yeah, Booker assured, if you can do it, why can’t I?

  Because I’ve had years of training and have built up my will and fortitude, Ranquel explained.

  Just hand it over, Booker demanded.

  “Ok,” Ranquel said, taking two steps back and closing his eyes before unshackling his mind, slipping away from control as Booker’s consciousness raced past to take over.

  When Booker’s eyes fluttered, open there was a sense of calm for the briefest moment; then his eyes dilated as the burning sensation in his arms and legs cause him to crumple to the ground. Groaning to himself

  “It hurts so much,” He complained.

  I told you, Ranquel reminded.

  “Why does it hurt so much?”