by Simon Hawke
Brewster’s presence at these campfire tales was especially appreciated, as most sorcerers had a tendency to hold themselves aloof from the common throng and avoided socializing with the general populace. Each storyteller tried to top the others for his benefit, and the audience was nothing if not critical. Each tale was followed by a chorus of “Well told! Well told!” or “Bah, I’ve heard it better!” or “Nay, you forgot the part about the virgin!” Brewster heard “The Tale of Frank the Usurper and How the Kingdom Got Its Name,” an abbreviated version of which he’d already heard from Mick; “The Tale of the Undeflowered Whore,” which was apparently a very popular one; “The Life and Times of Bloody Bob,” told haltingly by Bloody Bob himself, in which most recalled encounters ended with the phrase “And then I smote him good!” and “The Lament of Handsome Hal,” who was driven mad by a nymph who fell in love with him, a story Brewster thought was a marvelously witty fairy tale, never suspecting for a moment that it had really happened, which it had.
“Pat, tell the tale of The Werepot Prince,” said Calamity, nudging her husband sharply in the ribs with her elbow.
“Jane, they’ve all heard it a dozen times or more,” protested Pikestaff Pat.
“Perhaps Doc hasn’t,” Calamity replied. “And anyway, I like the way you tell it.” “Yes, I’d like to hear it,” Brewster said.
“Mike tells it better,” Pikestaff Pat replied.
“Nay, go on, you tell it. Pat,” Malicious Mike insisted.
And after a bit more coaxing. Pikestaff Pat stood and embarked upon his tale.
“ ‘Tis ‘The Tale of the Werepot Prince,’ “ he began, “and they say it happened hereabouts, a. long, long time ago. Perhaps”-he paused significantly and glanced around-“at this very place where we are gathered on this night.” There was a collective “Oooh!” and someone remarked, “Nice touch, very nice touch, indeed.” “The prince I speak of was a handsome, bold, and strapping young chap name of Brian,” Pat continued, “sole heir to his father’s throne. Now, bein’ an only child, Brian was a wee bit spoiled by his folks and allowed to have his way in most things. If he wanted to have himself a brandnew puppy, why ‘twasn’t good enough that he had one, but he was given three. If he wasn’t up to finishin’ all the veggies on his plate, why no one made him do so, never mind that kids was starvin* off in India.” “India?” said Brewster.
“Aye, well, no one knows quite where this Kingdom of India was, y’see, and ain’t no one anybody knows what’s ever been there, but ‘twas gen’ral knowledge that kids was always starvin’ there,” said Pat.
“I see,” said Brewster with a puzzled frown.
“Anyways,” continued Pat, “Prince Brian ain’t never had to do no chores around the palace, never had to mow the lawn or clean his room, nor even make his bed. Had servants for all that sort of thing, y’know, provided by his mum, the queen. And he never said ‘please’ nor ‘thank you,’ neither,” Pat added with a glance at Malicious Mike, who nodded in acknowledgement that he hadn’t left that important part of the story out.
“Prince Brian the Bold was his proper, officially sanctioned appellation,” Pat continued, “but to most folks in the kingdom, he was merely Brian the Brat, and a bit of a royal pain, to boot. The young girls of the kingdom loved him dearly, they did, for he was comely to look upon, what with his curly golden locks and pleasin’ form, and word had it he was right properly endowed, as well, though ‘twas only hearsay, mind. Y’know how young girls talk.
“Many’s the time our Brian hopped a fence and had himself a lovely moonlight interlude with some fair young village maid, but he was never caught, y’see, so either he was very much adroit or else the lad was blamed for every other swollen belly in the kingdom, like as not to protect a boyfriend who wasn’t royalty, y’see, and therefore not immune to parental retribution. But either way, by the time our lad was some twenty summers old, there was more lovely little gold-haired rug rats in the kingdom than you could shake a stick at, and a surprisin’ number of them was named Brian, too.
“Yet one day, there came a time when our Prince Brian cast his wanderin’ orbs in a somewhat unfortunate direction. Unfortunate for him, as ‘twould turn out. He got himself right bent out of shape over a young maid name of Katherine, who was as pretty a wench as you could ever hope to see. Fifteen summers old, she was, a ripe bloomin’ young thing, with big blue eyes and lovely bosoms and a saucy look about her what made you want to throw her down and mount the pony- Leastwise, she had that effect on Brian, whom she discommoded somethin’ awful.
“Now Brian, used to havin’ his own way, went and set his cap at her, and some other parts what were located lower down, as well. He started sendin’ her love notes and flowers and the like, which gifts the wench did not refuse, but she went and showed ‘ena to her father, which was when the trouble started.
“Saucy Katherine’s father, as it turns out, was the local sorcerer, a fearsome wizard name of Catrack or Hatrack or some such thing-“ “ ‘Twas Catrack,” Malicious Mike said. “Nay, ‘twas Hatrack,” Fuzzy Tom disputed. “ ‘Twasn’t neither, ‘twas Camac,” someone else called out, and a loud and vociferous argument ensued, which ended abruptly when Pikestaff Pat put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly and piercingly.
“As I was sayin’,” he continued, “there seems to have been some dispute as to his name, but whatever in bloody hell his name was, he wasn’t pleased with this attention bein’ royally bestowed on his one and only child. He went to the king and said, ‘Now listen here. Your Majesty, boys will be boys and all that sort of thing, but I’d kindly appreciate your tellin’ your young whelp to keep his royal, horny little mitts to his own self, if it please Your Majesty. I’d sorta had my heart set on Katherine marryin’ an adept and keepin’ to the family tradition and all that sort of thing, and while I’ve nothin’ against royalty, y’understand, I’d just as soon she not go marryin’ beneath her station, if ‘tis all the same to you.’ “Now, such remarks ain’t gen’rally considered proper protocol when speakin’ to your basic monarch,” Pat explained, “but be that as it may, the king had no choice but to swallow it, or else risk bein’ turned into a toadstool or havin’ himself struck with a spell what makes his loins go dry, and so he grinned and bore it and nodded that he understood and told the wizard, ‘Aye, indeed, I quite see what you mean. I’ll have, a word with my young royal son and see to it that it won’t go happenin’ again.’ Whereupon the wizard left and His Majesty the King turned to Her Majesty the Queen and said, ‘Go tell Brian to leave young Katherine alone or he’s liable to cock everything up.’ “ A collective groan went up around the campfire.
“Well,” said Pat, as he resumed the tale, “the queen spoke to Prince Brian about young Katherine, but young blood runnin’ hot and all that, our lad was not dissuaded. He pursued his suit, and one night after Katherine’s dad set out for a meetin’ of the Guild, he pressed it home. Her father was not expected back for quite some time, y’see, as the journey would have taken many days and then there was the meetin’, what with banquets and speech-makin’ and activities and all, and then the journey back, so Katherine and Brian made the most of Daddy’s absence and frolicked with great vigor every night he was away.
“The trouble came much later, after Katherine’s dad came home. One day, he noticed that his daughter was puttin’ on a little weight, y’see, and then she started feelin’ sickly in the mornin’, and fairly soon it all came clear that Katherine was carryin’ a child. She confessed all to her father, who flew into a frothin’ rage and retired to his wizard’s chambers, from whence he did not emerge for many days and nights.” Pat paused for dramatic effect, looking around at his audience, who waited eagerly for the tale to resume.
“In the meantime,” he continued after a moment, “Prince Brian was hangin’ about the palace with his falcons and his hounds, dashin’ off on huntin’ expeditions and carousin’ with his mates, little suspectin’ that he was about to be a father... nor that Hatrack-“ “Catr
ack,” Malicious Mike corrected him. “Katherine’s dad,” said Pat pointedly, “was gatherin’ his powers to cast a nasty evil curse, a spell most horrible and frightful. The way he saw it, his daughter had been spoiled, her honor and her dignity besmirched, and nothin’ would do but for Prince Brian to suffer the same fate. So, in the darkness of his wizard’s chambers, the sorcerer conjured up a spell, usin’ a lock of hair that Brian had carelessly given to Katherine as a keepsake.
“And as the legend has it, one day, the servants came to tidy up Prince Brian’s room and make his bed, and what they found betwixt the sheets, and not beneath the bed, where such contrivances are usually kept, was a bright and shiny golden chamberpot, embellished with some emeralds and rubies, much like the ones that Brian always wore on a chain around his neck.” He paused again and looked around, nodding significantly. “Well, need it be said, there was no sign of Brian, and though the king sent men to search throughout the land, no trace of him was ever found. The chamberpot, ‘twas said, had disappeared as well, stolen by a servant who thought to prise the jewels from it and sell ‘em, but when he tried, lo and behold, the chamberpot cried out! The frightened servant left well enough alone and sold it to the first trader he came across, and what became of it after that is anybody’s guess.
“However, legend has it that when the moon is full, Prince Brian walks again as his normal self, such bein’ the nature of the curse, so that he can always remember how it feels to be human, a cruel and brief reminder to torment him when he turns back into a receptacle for human waste, which is what Katherine’s father considered him to be, and had thus condemned him for eternity. So if you should ever find yourself in some strange hostelry or tavern, take care if you should feel the call of nature in the middle of the night, especially if the moon be full. For should you reach down underneath your bed and happen to pull a golden chamberpot with gems set in it, have a care... for you never know, it just might turn out to be a royal pain in the arse.” “Well told! Well told!” “Bah, I’ve heard it better.” “Nay, I liked the bit about the starvin’ kids in India. And the frolickin’ with vigor, ‘twas a nice touch.” And so it went, with critical appraisals being exchanged and argued back and forth, until the evening started to grow cold and they all retired to the great hall in Brewster’s keep. They built a big fire in the hearth and Mick broke open a fresh cash of peregrine wine. Torches were lit and placed up in the wall sconces. Brewster sat in the honored place at the table on the dais, with Mick on his right and Bloody Bob on his left, while all the other brigands and a few of the farmers in the crowd packed the other tables, drinking heartily and laughing boisterously, pounding each other on the back and looking very much like a scene from an Errol Rynn movie.
And what of poor Pamela, waiting patiently in London for her fiance to return? Well, Brewster had not forgotten about Pamela and was concerned that she might be worried about him, but under his current circumstances, there was really nothing he could do. He was stuck until he could locate the missing time machine, and though he had salvaged what he could from the one that had exploded, intending to use some of the parts for his project in the keep, there was no hope whatsoever of rebuilding it. The best he could do was to make himself as comfortable as possible in his new and unfamiliar surroundings, and hope that word would spread about the missing time machine and that someone would turn up some information.
Mick had announced to everyone that Brewster Doc had lost a magic chariot and then Brewster gave them all a brief description of it, asking that if anyone should see or hear about such a device, they should immediately let him know. However, no one had stepped forward, though they all promised to keep their eyes and ears open.
All of them except three of the younger brigands, that is-Long Bill, Pifer Bob, and Silent Fred, who looked at each other nervously when Brewster described the appearance of the missing time machine. However, Brewster didn’t notice this, nor did anybody else. (Nor will the narrator explain at this point why they did not step forward, for they obviously knew something. This is a technique of storytelling known as foreshadowing and all will be made clear at the proper time. Don’t worry, remember, always trust the narrator.) Anyway, where were we? Oh, right, we’re in the middle of this rowdy, boisterous banquet scene in the great hall, with Brewster sitting in the place of honor at the table on the dais, Mick on his right. Bloody Bob on his left, torches flickering, fire burning in the hearth, peregrine wine flowing, food being thrown, and a good time generally being had by all... but wait. What’s this? The sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching, unheard by the revelers because they’re making so much noise. Unheard, that is, until the horse and rider came bursting into the great hall with a noisy clattering of hooves on the stone floor.
A table overturned, and people scattered, and the handsome, jet-black stallion reared up dramatically and neighed as it was reined in by the black-clad rider in the center of the hall.
Silence descended like an anvil... only much softer. Silence that was not broken by a single whisper or a murmur, save for a very quiet “Uh-oh” from Bloody Bob.
The black-clad rider dismounted and dropped the reins, and the stallion obediently remained standing still as the rider took several steps forward and stopped in the exact center of the room, sweeping it with her smoldering gaze as she stood, legs braced wide apart, one hand on the dagger in her belt, the other on her sword hilt. “What the devil’s going on here?” “Who is that?” Brewster asked with awe. “That,” Mick replied in a soft voice, “is none other than Black Shannon.”
CHAPTER SIX
Some entrance, huh? The funny thing is. Shannon did not think of it that way at all. Which is not to say she lacked a sense of drama. Under most circumstances, she was very good at thinking things out in advance, which was one of the reasons she was the leader of the brigands. She knew how to plan a job, and she often planned them quite dramatically, indeed. However, when she lost her temper (and it didn’t take much), it was like a case of spontaneous combustion. She rode her horse into the great hall of the keep not so much for effect, but because it was the quickest way to get there. She had never been one to waste much time, especially when she was angry.
She had been away, casing a few jobs and doing a little cruising on the side. She often did this sort of thing. She would leave her trademark, black leather, lace-up jerkin, and matching, skintight, leather breeches and high boots, in Brigand’s Roost, then ride off to some town or village, looking quite demure in a long, sweeping peasant skirt and low-cut blouse, with dainty little slippers on her feet. Once there, she would circulate and keep her eyes and ears open, on the lookout for any gossip about trade shipments and the like.
Often, she would take a job for a few days, working in a local tavern, where one could hear all sorts of things. With her stunning looks, she never had any trouble getting hired or getting men to talk about their business, the better to impress her. While she struck up conversations and remained on the lookout for income-producing opportunities, she kept a lookout for possible romantic opportunities, as well.
To say that Shannon was beautiful would be an understatement. Ordinary adjectives simply wouldn’t do her justice, only superlatives sufficed. She stood five feet seven inches tall and was perfectly proportioned, with the kind of body that could only be described as luscious. Her face was breathtakingly lovely and deceptively angelic. She had pale, creamy skin and blue eyes that were so bright, they almost seemed to glow. All the usual cliches applied-lips just made for kissing, raven tresses that simply begged to be caressed, etc., etc.-only more so. However, these were only her most obvious and superficial attributes.
What most men failed to note was that she was astonishingly fit. Her arms were slender, but they were firm and hard, and if she were to flex, disconcertingly developed biceps would stand out. Her shoulders were lovely, but they were also broad and well defined. And if her waist did not betray an ounce of fat, it was because she had stomach muscles like a washboard. The way she hel
d herself, and the catlike way she moved, revealed to the observant eye that this was no ordinary peasant girl, but a young woman who had trained long and hard, and not at waiting tables.
What most men also failed to see (because they were too busy looking elsewhere) was that behind those coyly fluttering eyelashes, her eyes were not only blue enough to get lost in, but alert, direct, and penetrating in their gaze. Men also never noticed now easily she led them into talking about themselves, about their business, their plans, their personal lives, their foibles, and how much money they had. They were so busy trying to impress and flatter her that they were never aware of being cleverly manipulated.
Men, however, have always had a tendency to see that which they want to see in women, and then to act, often compulsively, on their impressions. This was something Shannon learned while she was still quite young, and she had also learned how to take advantage of it. Men, so far as she was concerned, were really only good for two things- sex and lifting heavy objects. Beyond that, she didn’t have much use for them. However, as Shannon saw it, just because men were rather limited in their uses was no reason not to use them. At least once.
Shannon had started early and learned quickly. At the age of thirteen, she had been seduced by the handsome, eighteenyear-old son of a very wealthy merchant. Within about six weeks, that merchant gradually lost a significant proportion of his inventory. Shannon sold the goods her ardent swain had stolen from his father and turned a tidy profit in the bargain. The profits, she had told the merchant’s son, would be used to start a brand-new life. She somehow neglected to mention that this new life did not include him.
Thus Shannon had embarked upon an ever-escalating life of crime. At one time or another, she had been called an evil bitch, a soulless heartbreaker, an accomplished liar, a crafty thief, a merciless killer, and an amoral slut (which raises the question of what a moral slut would be, and the answer is, of course, an honest one). Though Shannon would have reacted quickly and decisively had anyone the foolishness to call her any of those things to her face, privately she would admit to all of them, for she was not given to hypocrisy. Men had taught her what she knew and she merely paid them back in kind. She was not, she often told herself, completely without scruples. If a man came along who treated her with civility and honesty, she would treat him likewise. However, she had learned that such men were in very rare supply.
