by Shae Hutto
“Yes, and it looks better on me. I’m too tired to chitchat,” said Claire who was standing in the south entrance to the throne room with an exceedingly grim look on her face. “So, just die already.”
“The saying is you’ve made your bed, you ignorant whore,” shouted Amanda as she punched the bound woman in the side of the head as hard as she had ever punched anything in her life. It was like hitting a granite statue and she felt the painful jar all the way up her arm to her shoulder. Nevertheless, it was effective and the scream choked off as the dazed Queen toppled to the floor to writhe in her flaming bonds. Black shadows coalesced from the ether into the form of an angry boy, dressed as an 18th century naval officer and wielding a dagger, who immediately stabbed the nasty little weapon into the Queen’s stomach. Nick seethed and pulsed with malevolence. His aura of greasy, stinking evil was cloyingly thick. Black spots swam in the whites of his eyes. He released the dagger with an obvious effort and placed a severed hand with a tattoo of a crown on the ground next to the Queen’s writhing form.
“At the behest of the Queen,” he intoned ironically.
“What?” the Queen managed to gasp. “NO!” she screamed as she realized what was happening.
Nick placed a bloody scrap of skin covered with a tattoo of a black heart on the Queen’s own hand and forced it onto the floor with all his strength.
“Permetior,” he said. As the powerful magic manifested and Nick felt himself begin to fall out of existence, he forced himself to disintegrate and disperse as fragments of darkness one last time. The Queen’s wail of pain and despair was superseded by the deep brazen ‘bong’ as she fell out of the fairy tale world and into another reality entirely, still with the evil dagger stuck in her abdomen. The flaming lasso snapped out of existence as she vanished and Claire stood looking at the blackened, bloody spot on the floor where the evil Queen had been just a moment before.
“Take that, you poxy beour,” said Roger as he threw his bloody sword onto the ground where the Queen had vanished. Amanda managed a chuckle before she noticed Gardener laying unmoving on the ground and Weenie whimpering in the corner. Nick abruptly reappeared on the floor, looking stunned but much less evil. The black spots in his eyes were gone.
Stan poked his head out from behind the throne. He stared in shock at the awful gory scene in the room and sat back down out of sight.
“Roger,” she called. “Go make sure Weenie is ok.” Roger was already moving toward the dog. Claire knelt beside Gardener. He was unconscious and deathly pale, but he was breathing. His bright red uniform tunic disguised how much blood he had lost until she was right next to him and could see the spreading pool beneath him. She pulled out her own knife and cut his coat away from the raw, pulsing wound. Using her wand, she made a little jet of bright blue flame and tried to cauterize the wound. The smell of burning meat made her hungry, and then nauseated at being hungry. Gardener’s eyes flew open as he gave a strangled gurgle of astonished pain. He tried to sit up and move away from the wand at the same time, but collapsed again in a dead faint.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” asked Amanda who was standing over them, holding her side and standing awkwardly.
“No!” wailed Claire in panicky frustration. “Do I look like I know what I’m doing?” Blood continued to trickle steadily from Gardener’s torn shoulder. She could see the ends of broken bones in there. His Clavicle? “I’ve only ever seen this done on TV!”
“It’ll never work,” said Amanda. “We have to get him to a hospital.” She started trying to maneuver the turnip cart with one arm. It was obvious that the cart had suffered some pretty serious trauma and wasn’t going to be rolling anywhere in a straight line ever again. Her pitiful attempts to move the wonky cart with only one arm would have been comical if the situation wasn’t so sad. Weenie and Roger came to help. Weenie was limping on one tender paw but seemed to be OK. Roger manhandled the cart over to Gardener and they tried to lift the massive man onto the cart. After several attempts, they finally managed to get him into the cart, for the most part. He sprawled awkwardly over the top, his limbs dragging the floor and his head lolling, causing his wound to work in the most disgusting way.
“I don’t think this is going to work,” said Claire sadly. “Roger, do you think you can put him across your shoulders?”
“It’ll do no good, Mavourneen,” he said. “He’s passed.” Roger crossed himself.
Claire looked at the broken body of the Royal Marine and felt the tears well up again. She used her fingers to feel his neck on the opposite side from his wound and could find no pulse. She listened for breathing but felt and heard not the faintest whisper of air.
“He saved my life,” said Roger mournfully.
“Mine, too,” said Nick.
Weenie lifted his head and howled, a mournful sound filled with pain and loss. The sound of the grieving dog seemed to jar something in Amanda’s memory.
“Oh, my god,” she murmured and quickly touched her metal circlet, encasing herself in silence. Seconds later, the first strains of a lullaby rose from behind the throne as Stan began playing the Minotaur’s Horn. The crooning melody was buttered honey to their ears and made them feel swaddled in a warm confining blanket simultaneously. Instantly, Claire, Roger and Weenie felt their eyes droop involuntarily and they began to sink toward the bloody floor, under the command of the magical saxophone and powerless to resist. Just before Claire lost consciousness entirely, she saw Amanda stalk around to the back of the throne and the sound of the sax was cut short, to be replaced with the resounding echo of someone being slapped in the face several times.
“You traitorous little coward!” yelled Amanda as she slapped Stan silly. Claire began to shake off the magically induced lethargy and walked on unsteady feet around the throne. She arrived in time to grab Amanda’s wrist and stop her from slapping an already stunned Stan again.
“I think he’s had enough, ‘Manda,” she said. “What was he doing, anyway?”
“He was trying to put us all to sleep. If he had succeeded, he could have done anything he wanted. He could have been king. And if I had let him put you to sleep, I could have been Queen. The Eye showed me that possibility when I touched it in the corridor a while back. I think it was a bribe. It was offering to let me be Queen.”
“In return for what?” asked Claire. “Returning it to Connix?”
“Actually, no,” replied Amanda with amusement. “For not returning it to Connix. I get the feeling that it doesn’t want to lose its individual identity and that it’s afraid that is exactly what will happen if it gets popped back into Connix’s head.”
“And where would that leave us?” asked Claire, a little annoyed that she was just learning about this proposed bargain.
“Asleep on the floor?” guessed Amanda. “Completely at my mercy, for sure.”
“Well, thanks for not leaving us comatose in this mess,” said Claire, indicating the pools of gore and scorched debris. “What are we going to do with that piece of crap?” She pointed at the sniveling jazz musician.
“I don’t think he could help it,” replied Nick who had arrived behind the throne with Roger and Weenie. “Look at his forehead.” They all looked closely at Stan’s forehead, making him extremely anxious.
“What?” he said in a near-scream. “What’s wrong with my head?”
“Horns,” said Roger. “You’re sprouting bleeding horns from your noggin.” It was true. Stan frantically felt his forehead and the tiny stubs of horns that were trying to break through the skin. He nearly screamed in fright.
“Not just horns,” said Claire as she examined his face. “Is it just me or is his nose starting to look more cow-like?”
“It’s the sax,” said Nick. “It’s turning him into another Minotaur. Like I said, I don’t think he has much choice. Believe me. I know what it’s like to be possessed by something that wants to use you for its own ends.”
“How’s that going, by the way?” asked Claire war
ily.
“I can’t feel the dagger any more. I can’t call it to me. I know, I couldn’t help but try. It’s wherever the Queen went. As far as the darkness that was in me, it’s not completely gone but it’s not helping make any decisions anymore.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Claire.
“Back to the business at hand folks,” said Amanda impatiently. “What do we do with this potential Minotaur? Put in the maze?”
“Please, no!” wailed Stan in despair.
“Why don’t we just take the sax away from him and take him home?” suggested Nick. Claire nodded in agreement. Stan clutched at it possessively.
“Then what do we do with the sax?” asked Amanda.
“Give the bloody thing to the poxy dragon, like,” suggested Roger.
“If he’ll take it,” mused Claire. “I always read that dragon’s love treasure. Surely he would like this thing and where would it be safer than guarded by a foul tempered dragon?”
“What about those berks in the glass cases?” asked Roger. “Shouldn’t we try and wake them up?”
“We already tried,” said Amanda. “I think they’re dead, just like the prince in the case I smashed. We could try again, I guess. But it would be up to Stan and he would risk turning more bullish.”
“You already tried?” asked Claire. “If they’re dead, then why did the Queen say the Minotaur’s Horn could wake them up? That’s the whole reason we went and got the blasted thing!”
“She has wanted that Horn for a long time,” said Nick. “It didn’t cost her anything to try and get you to get it for her. Don’t blame yourself, Claire. I fell for it, too. That and more.” He looked particularly sour. “But if you want to try again, we just have to convince Stan,” he added.
They all watched with interest at the war on Stan’s features as revulsion at turning into a Minotaur battled an obviously overwhelming desire to play the Horn again. Claire was about to grab the saxophone away from him when he threw it to the ground of his own accord. It clattered across the marble and lay in its own pool of soft golden radiance. It made Claire’s eyes itch.
“I don’t think I’ll play ever again,” he said with equal parts disgust and regret.
“That just leaves Connix and Gardener,” said Nick.
“I have an idea,” said Claire grimly as she grabbed the sax roughly.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Bye, for Now
“And in real life endings aren’t always neat, whether they’re happy endings or whether they’re sad endings.”
-Stephen King
The weary group of adventurers limped and lurched out of the south door to the throne room and made their way out of the castle. Roger was laboriously pushing the wobbly, squeaking turnip cart with Gardener’s body draped over it, leaving a thin trail of blood. They gathered in the dawning light of a new day in the courtyard and gazed in awe at the wanton destruction they had engineered and perpetrated on the castle grounds. A couple of buildings within the wall had burned to the ground and one was still merrily ablaze. The sky was awash in black, stinking smoke. The wall was a crumbling ruin where the south gate had stood and bodies by the score littered the blackened and plowed up ground where once green grass had grown. Claire mused that the grass would most likely grow back thicker and greener than before.
“Call him,” she instructed Amanda, who gave her an annoyed look but stuck her hand in the ruck sack anyway. Almost instantly, the massive one-eyed dragon dropped through the smoke to buffet them with his wings as he alighted on the sward, indifferent to the destruction around him.
Nick and Roger began to gather wood and stacked it to build a pyre.
“Mein Eye,” hissed the Dragon with anticipation as Amanda dug the Eye out of her ruck sack and held it aloft.
“Not just your Eye,” said Claire as she tossed the Minotaur’s Horn on the ground. “You can have that as well.”
Connix hissed in anger and revulsion and actually recoiled from the evil Horn. “Nicht!” he roared unhappily. “Connix will not touch it. You deal with it your own selves.” He stepped gingerly around it in a manner that looked quite amusing for a dragon. Claire picked it back up with obvious irritation.
“I’d forgotten Connix had just as bad an experience with it as I did,” said Amanda. “I don’t blame you at all, big guy.” She held the Eye up to the dragon as it approached ponderously. With surprising reverence and dexterity, the huge reptilian beast used his taloned forepaw to pluck his Eye from Amanda’s hand. Quickly, as if afraid it might get away, the dragon popped the Eye into his empty, ragged socket. Claire had wondered how the dragon would get the Eye back into his original hole. Would it require surgery? Some sort of magic spell? Would the Eye even work again? Apparently, all it took was being placed back in its rightful place. The dragon’s magical nature apparently took care of the rest.
Connix raised his head to the leaden sky and let loose an ear-splitting shriek of victory and triumph that reverberated from the clouds and the stone castle to resonate with itself in an awful harmony. Simultaneously, a psychic shriek of defeat and despair spiked into the minds of everyone present as the Eye screamed in hateful resignation at the surrender of its identity. It was no longer The Eye of the Dragon, but was simply an eye. Claire wondered if all its enchantments and powers had transferred to the dragon. She thought probably some, but not all, had.
“I have a request,” Claire said to the dragon who looked at her warily. “Nothing to do with the Horn,” she said to allay his apprehension. She gestured toward Roger and Nick who had built up a pyre and were trying to get Gardener’s body out of the turnip cart and onto the pile of wood and combustibles. “He was our friend, if only for a short while,” she explained. “He helped us and we are sad that he is gone. We want to honor his sacrifice and I thought that dragon fire would be an awesome way to honor his passing. Would you mind?”
The dragon looked at her with both his eyes. She noticed that one was a different color, much like her own. She had the familiar feeling of being weighed and judged. Claire stood straight and returned the dragon’s intense gaze.
“I would be honored, little warrior,” said the great dragon. Once again showing surprising gentleness and dexterity, he lifted Gardener’s body from its awkward sprawl in the turnip cart and placed it on the pyre. “Stand back,” he admonished needlessly. Everyone was already backing quickly away from the funeral pyre. Connix inhaled a prodigious volume of air and, with just the tiniest pause, reversed the flow. A gout of bluish green fire sprayed from his gaping, toothy maw like a hellish blow torch. Gardener and the pyre instantly burst into flame under the intense heat of the other-worldly flame. After what seemed like an eternity, the dragon ceased his fire and the flame turned to a more natural color. The dragon backed up and stood amongst his new-found friends and watched the pyre with reverence and respect.
Roger approached as close as he could get with Gardener’s sword in hand. Roger tossed Gardener’s broken sword onto the pyre, then unbuckled his own sword belt and threw it and his sabre in as well. Weenie limped up next to him and laid the disgusting hunk of meat he had been enjoying at Roger’s feet. He used his nose to nudge it toward the fire. Roger understood and picked up the nasty gobbet and tossed it to burn as Weenie’s tribute to his fallen friend. One by one, they each threw something into the fire to honor Gardener. Amanda threw the chrome .45 she had taken from Happy Jack. Claire threw in Intermediate Wand Magic. Nick threw in his wand. Claire looked at him oddly.
“I’m done,” he said simply. Claire nodded in sympathy.
Connix was last. He tore off a scale that was hanging from the slowly healing cannon wound in his shoulder. He lobbed the glinting piece of armored skin into the fire where it landed heavily, sending up a cloud of sparks and embers, to sit wholly unaffected by the fire.
“Imperishable,” said Amanda. Claire spelled it for her and Amanda gave her a weak smile and a thumb up.
Roger suddenly reached into one of his trench coat pockets
and threw a handful of metal coins into the fire.
“For Spanky,” he said. “Last I saw of the wee beastie, he was being blasted by lightning and smashed by doors, like. Rest in peace, little creepy wanker.”
Claire shuddered in revulsion at the thought of the little psychic alien, but took a moment to mourn his probable passing as well.
Slowly, the group drifted close to each other. Of mutual accord, they all hugged one another, even Connix, who bore it graciously. Stan stood awkwardly, hugging only himself and regretting his moment of weakness. Nobody seemed inclined to offer to hug him.
“Let’s go home,” said Claire, hefting the sax.
“Do you need a ride?” asked Connix, who was obviously hoping they would say no.
“No, thank you,” answered Claire for all of them. “We know the way.”
___________________________________________________
After they all went through the door into the corridors, the door seemed to turn dull and somehow less vital after they closed it. Claire thought they would probably never see that door again. They marched wearily through the corridors, half-heartedly keeping an ear out for anything threatening the corridors might throw at them. The corridors seemed to sense that they were leaving and offered no resistance. Nothing bothered them and the elevator appeared quickly as if eager to see them gone. There was no sign of Roger’s elevator, though. Roger hesitated at the elevator doors.
“Oh,” said Claire. “How thoughtless of me. Do you want to go back to your island? Or with us? I know you don’t want to be homeless or live in an orphanage or something.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” said Roger with a hint of a grin. He held up a large chunk of gold that had been blasted off the throne. It must have weighed ten pounds. “That ought to be worth enough to keep me in beer in skittles, eh?” He put it back in his backpack. “Besides,” he continued. “I want to be wherever you are, mavourneen.” Roger stepped into the elevator with the rest of them.
