by Power, P. S.
“Things... will probably change for you now, but remember we're here for you. Just remember that immortal or not, you can still be killed, and Countier is just another name for fool half the time. Don't let those things distract you from your studies, and come visit on break, if you can? For that matter, now that you can make it here and back in a few hours, we expect to see you every few weeks, alright?” She glanced at Trice and smiled. “That goes for both of you. All of you really. I know Timon would like to have your friend Sara come visit. I'll try to explain the age difference to him again. Don't be shocked if he shows up at the school with flowers for her though.”
Tor chuckled, but next to him his fiancée got slightly wide eyed and nodded instead, very seriously. The cultural differences in relationship issues were so vast. Amazingly so really. Tor wondered what parts of all this he'd really been missing so far that everyone else around them would have just gotten without thinking? For that matter, how many people had he been going around offending and not even realizing it?
Just as they began to leave, Terlee came out of the bakery with a basket, one of the nice covered ones that the family used on their rare outings. She bypassed everyone else and walked up to Count Thomson directly, her hair pulled back and spine rigid. As she handed it to him, she leaned in and whispered something. It wasn't Tor's business, but he was kind of curious. After all, Terlee talking to a near stranger like that was... bold. A huge step for her really. Tor wasn't a social butterfly by any means, but Terlee was shy even around her own family as often as not. Whatever this was, he felt an upwelling of pride for his sister. They spoke in hushed tones for nearly two minutes, both of them smiling by the end. Happy smiles at least, not forced looking, whatever that meant.
Tovey packed the basket up in one of his pieces of luggage and they got into the air a few minutes later. They flew too fast for talking, but did take a break halfway to the school. Mainly so they could discuss plans and whatnot without anyone else around.
Rolph started, smiling at Tor slightly.
“So, you get the whole deal, that I'm just Rolph Merchant and not Prince Alphonse Cordes the brilliant and shiny toothed or whatever? At least at school? Some of the faculty know, but really, unless they mentioned it to you openly, just pretend nothing has changed that way. I can be the one all impressed rooming with a Countier and all.”
Tor shook his head, thinking for a few seconds. “Nah. I'm just Squire Tor at best. I don't really know what mom and dad are planning to do yet, so it's all quiet there for the time being too. And the Squire thing's just a fiction, right? So that probably won't come into play ever anyway.”
Count Thomson cleared his throat and looked at Tor with a smile.
“Well. That isn't exactly right. You shouldn't have too much to do as a Squire, true, since it's mainly ceremonial now anyway. But you have a Knight and all that, and you have to do what he says as far as training goes, he's required to see to that, as one of his duties, and if there's a war, you're off to battle with him to make sure he stays cared for and provisioned, which means you could see combat too. It isn't a lark. If it comes down to it, you'll be expected to try and protect the kingdom at the cost of your life and take his place on the field if he falls in battle.”
Rolph smirked and grabbed a sweet roll from the basket Tovey held out for everyone. They were walnut honey rolls, which made Tor half choke when he took the first bite. Not that they weren't good, they were of course, since Terlee had made them, but...
“God! Tovey... do you get the... These rolls, they're a traditional Two Bends courting gift!”
The huge man smiled a bit and nodded.
“I know. The tradition's the same in county Thomson. Lairdgren and Thomson border on the east side after all, so even the accent's not that different, a lot of shared customs and all too. Plus, you know, I figured it out when she asked if I was engaged to be married. Which I'm not yet. These rolls are really good. Anyone would be pleased to receive them I think.” He took a big bite and closed his eyes, obviously enjoying the complex flavors and textures.
Tor started to apologize for his sister. It was awkward, and he didn't know what to say, which turned out to be a moot point.
Rolph punched him in the arm. Hard. Harder than was playful.
“Shut it dwarf.” He said, a name that he'd never called Tor before, which got him to spin on his friend. At least Rolph smiled at him.
Everyone else did too, so he shrugged and looked around. Finally, thankfully, Sara explained the situation to simple little Tor. She was good like that.
“Tor, your sister... She's a Counserina. That makes her something like one of twenty or thirty women that Tovey could really marry in the whole kingdom, at least after you correct for bloodlines and such. She's within two years of his age, and really good looking too. So, you know, it's a good match. Plus, they seem to actually get along, which is a rare thing. If Tovey didn't take her advances seriously, he'd be worse than a Doretta, he'd be a moron... Sorry, Tovey, but it's true.” She blushed but didn't duck her head in shame or anything.
Tovey just tilted his head at her a little and very seriously gave her a half nod of agreement and took another bite of his roll.
“Oh.” Tor decided to let them deal with it then, and rubbed his arm instead. He really needed to remember to leave his shield on more often. Especially going back to where Wensa was going to be.
“Right, well, not my business. Unless, you know, you hurt her somehow.” He gave his best mock glare to the Count who simply nodded, accepting the idea easily. Tor expected a laugh from the others, but they just nodded too. Right. Well, he could probably get away with calling the Count names now or something, right? If he had to.
“Hey, wait!” He said, changing the topic, since that had gotten awfully uncomfortable fast.
“I have an actual Knight? Who?”
Rolph nodded and pulled out a piece of paper for him, a sealed document with an official imprint and everything. “Your introduction. There are only three Knights at the school, and Wensa's one of them. Dad didn't think you'd enjoy working with her too much for some silly reason. So you're assigned to one of the others. Sir Martin Kolbrin, Baron third. Knight of the realm, obviously or you couldn't be his Squire.”
The name didn't ring a bell.
“Uh... So I have to meet him? Is that set up or something or...” The idea of just showing up at some guy's house unannounced seemed hard, but if that's what he had to do, he'd manage it. It was his duty.
It was Tovey that clued him in, keeping his face serious.
“Um, Tor? Martin Kolbrin? That's… Kolb. Our weapons instructor?”
“Oh.”
Well, Tor thought, that wasn't intimidating or anything. Not at all.
He just hoped Trice appreciated all he was doing for her, since having Kolb as a Knight might just lead to his death.
Oh well.
At least there wasn't a war going on or anything like that.
Tor flew back with the others, deciding to try and be happy. It was exciting anyway, right?
Right.
Here's a bonus chapter from the first book of the Gwen Farris series, “Abominations”
By
P.S. Power
Chapter one
Gwen woke up in a strange room, unable to move. Not even twitch. At first it felt like a night terror or sleep paralysis, but after a minute it was clear something more serious was going on. She tried to struggle for a second but got the idea pretty quickly.
Whatever was happening, she wasn't allowed to just get up and leave on her own. Beneath her the bed... table... whatever it was, felt hard – cold – like stone. Not the softly comfortable memory foam she'd gone to sleep on at all. Something in her mouth kept her from making more than the smallest of sounds. Oddly enough it didn't keep her from breathing through her nose, an uncomfortable thing for her to do at the best of times. Right now the air flowed easily for some reason. No pain came from that area of her face, so it was
n't that someone had just freed up her breathing passages by cutting her open or anything like that either. Not that she could tell at least. If they had wouldn't the blood be getting into her lungs?
She should probably panic about now, Gwen knew, since her hands and feet seemed to be tied securely to the surface below her. That just couldn't be a good sign. She couldn't even begin to wiggle enough to start trying to escape. That got a try for a bit, because there should be more movement, unless someone had her legs and arms strapped down too? Considering that as an option – panic – Gwen decided to put the idea aside for now. It would leave her something to do later if things really got bad.
Always good to have a fallback position and her realistic options were a bit limited at the moment. Panic or not panic... that was about it, as far as she could tell.
Gwen looked around, only a little frantic, trying to stay calm and take in everything she could, in case she managed to get out of this one alive somehow, as unlikely as that seemed.
Not that she cared that much about living really. The thought occurred to her for what must have been the twentieth time that week, an old and familiar thing at this point in her life. Now, not letting these creeps, whoever they were, get away with this, that gave her a real reason to live. For the moment.
It felt ironic to her that these freaks, and face it, they had to be pretty freaky if they wanted to tie her up, gave Gwen more of a reason to go on than anything else had for quite a while. Possibly ever.
Maybe a Christmas card would be in order, to thank them for thinking of her? A choked chuckle came from low in her throat. She'd take what she could get and run with it for now, a laugh, a reason to live, whatever. When you had nothing, a crumb could feel like a feast. She'd feasted on enough crumbs to know the feeling.
A man in a black robe, with the hood up, the floppy kind that covered the top part of his face, hanging down nearly over his eyes altogether, walked over and gestured to someone else who was just out of her field of vision.
She assumed it was a person. It could be this guy's imaginary friend for all she knew. Giant invisible rabbit maybe? Her head didn't turn to the side, so she could only see a small portion of the room. The guy acted like someone else was there, if that meant anything. Who could tell with crazy?
“She's awake! Good, we can begin. Anything to say dear, before we start?” The man bent down, as if actually listening to her. Nice of him.
Gwen made a noise, trying to form words around the gag, the taste of rubber in her mouth as her tongue moved against it. The object tasted and felt like a car tire to her tongue. Not pleasant, but at least they hadn't just shoved a used sock or condom in. She'd had both done to her in the past, along with a lot of other things, some of them worse. Bullies, for some reason, always seemed really drawn to her mouth. Attacking what they feared.
He looked slightly shocked and asked her to repeat herself, which she did, calmly. Mostly calm. She tried for peaceful, if nothing else. Gwen understood that she was going to die, the knife in the hand of the man that walked into view looked sharp, wickedly so. Pointy too.
So hey, the imaginary guy was real. Well, main hood guy should be happy he had friends. Never could have too many of those, or so she'd heard.
Scrambling mentally, she tried to think of a reason someone would kidnap her from bed, probably drugging her somehow first, as a prank or to do something that didn't involve simply killing her. Any reason at all. She came up blank. Rape would be right out. In her entire life, after dozens of assaults, from men, women, and even a few kids, not one of them had even bothered trying to feel her up. Not looking like she did. So, someone had apparently just decided to make her life easier and do it. Kill her.
Well fuck.
After the third, very calm, she thought, all things considered, attempt to speak the man seemed to grow curious and loosened the gags strap, pulling the fairly large ball of black rubber out of her mouth. Her jaw ached as the pressure was relived, and she moved her mouth a little, trying to regain circulation.
“Here, this will make it easier to speak, dear. Do you have some kind of last request or statement you wish to make before the sacrifice?” His tone sounded nice – kindly – almost like a grandfather from a television show or something. That or some old country doctor, but with a slightly British accent that had to be fake. No one talked like that in Nebraska. Even English people didn't. Not that she'd ever heard at least.
He drew his hood back, heavy black material of some kind, showing him to have a face that matched the voice. Older, in his sixties she guessed, face lined, but with smile lines as well as others, not someone that frowned all the time. Hair a mix of white and gray, neatly combed and freshly cut looking. It was a good face, she realized. One that people would trust. It would be a mistake, but people would do it anyway. People almost always judged based on looks.
Swallowing so that her voice wouldn't sound too rough, she looked at him with her eyes, head and body still bound somehow, or frozen from drugs. Her tongue moved, so maybe her voice would work. Only way to tell would be trying.
“I said, fuck you, motherfuckers. I hope you all burn in hell.” Her voice sounded strange to her, softer than normal, less nasal, lower pitched. Then again she didn't know what she really sounded like after having her mouth stretched for hours, or however long it had been, by a black rubber ball gag. It sounded better to her. Another thing she'd missed out on then. Who would have thought gags could have therapeutic value?
The man smiled at this, laughing suddenly.
“Oh ho! Very good! You know, most people try to beg and plead their way out of things at this point. Too bad you're about to die, I think you may have been a very special woman, Katherine.” He flipped his hood up and took the knife back from the person next to him, a man she thought, from the hands. No identifying rings, but the hands didn't look old and wrinkled, for what that meant. Why couldn't the bad guys ever have identifying tattoos on their hands in real life like they did in the movies? It would make things so much easier later.
Even knowing she'd probably die, she kept making herself record everything, the scent of the room, something she didn't recognize but tried to hold in memory, just in case. How many people? Six or seven, her head held in place somehow, so she couldn't just look around, there could be more, out of range. Keep everything, just in case.
As the man spoke something – maybe Latin? She couldn't tell exactly, something like that, it sounded like movie gibberish to her, but it clearly meant something to the freaks watching the whole thing, because some of them chanted along. Gwen felt tempted to start a counter chant of “kegger-kegger” just to throw them off.
This whole thing reminded her a little of some kind of frat house movie for some reason. Some weird hazing. Gwen laughed, sounding slightly panicked, at the thought. Really, no one wanted her in any club enough to go to this length. No one wanted her enough to make a phone call or send a letter, it wasn't her being down on herself, just what was.
The one with the knife would have to be the oldest college student ever. Maybe it was the Freemasons or something instead? She'd never heard of them doing any human sacrifices, but then they were a secret organization, who knew what they were into behind closed doors? When the old man raised the blade high, just as his voice reached a fever pitch and it felt like he'd plunge the blade into her chest, she spoke what she figured would be her final words.
“My name's Gwen Farris, bitch. Remember it.” She spoke just loud enough to be heard over his thunderous voice above her. He paused for a second, as if he wanted to ask her a question, a quizzical look on his face. With what looked like a tiny shrug, his hands holding the knife above his head, he quickly brought them both down, hard, thrusting the blade into her chest.
The pain!
She couldn't breathe, the sharp burning in her chest so intense she almost passed out. Tasting copper and iron, blood she thought, the world going black around her. As her dying act she tried to gasp out one last thin
g.
“Fuck you...”
Not original, but she hadn't planned out anything ahead of time. Really, they should have warned her if they were expecting a speech, right? It would have to do, because she'd run out of time. Gwen tried to repeat it, but no sound came out. Hopefully the man could read lips.
She heard something as she lay in the dark, a crashing sound followed by yelling, maybe the police had come? That would be good, the creeps would be caught in the act, so even for killing her, there'd be punishment. Very good. About time something worked in her favor.
Everything went blank. Not black, because it would have taken some kind of thought to allow that, no, it was just nothing. As things dimmed, she wondered if there would be anything else after. The thought never finished itself.
When she opened her eyes she felt a sense of shock. After all, when you look down and see a god-damned knife sticking out of your chest, you have a right to assume that you were pretty much finished. Right? It sounded reasonable in her own skull at least.
She turned her head slowly, the burning sensation in her chest letting her know that she'd indeed been stabbed. That, or it was the most vivid dream ever, but those didn't include pain, did they? No. Gwen seemed to have survived somehow.
Go figure.
So much for the “maybe it was a dream” theory.
The room around her seemed... odd. The light fixtures looked more like oil lamps than normal and hospitals almost always used fluorescents these days anyway, not... whatever these were. She'd been in enough of them over the years to know. These had what looked like a white ball of flame hanging in the center of the glass lamp shades and gave off a small hiss. They were bright, whatever these kinds of lights were called. The light felt a bit cold, a pure white, so at least they gave the room a hospital kind of feeling. Stark and joyless.
Check.
The sheets were course woven for a hospital bed, almost like thin canvas, not overly comfortable, but warm enough, not that the room was cold. The bed itself was a wonder. At her feet, a shiny piece of wood, oak she thought, made up the foot board. It looked like real wood as far as Gwen could tell anyway.
