Hero Wanted

by Dan McGirt

  I grasped the rope cautiously. “Where did this come from?”

  “Grisham's House of Hooks on the Street of Metalworkers in the Grand Bazaar of Caratha.”

  “No, I mean just now.”

  “I pulled it from beneath my cloak.”

  “But it wasn't there before!”

  Mercury shrugged. “Magic cloak. Very roomy.”

  “So I see. Hey! Did your clothes just change color again? You were in black and now your cloak and garments are the same grey as the wall.”

  “Trick of the light.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “My clothes are made of Morf.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Mercury sighed. “Morf is the leading brand of Raelnan morphing fiber. An enchanted textile can become any cut or color of clothing I desire. It is also self-cleaning and self-mending.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you want to talk fashion or climb the wall? Let's go!”

  I climbed the rope to the top of wall. There on the platform I found two fallen guards. They were apparently asleep, but in full kit. Mercury joined me. He knelt to examine the men, peeling back their eyelids, feeling for a pulse, and bending close to listen to their breathing.

  “DormaDose,” he pronounced. “An alchemical vapor that induces a restful sleep of up to a day's duration.”

  “I saw no cloud of gas.”

  “DormaDose is invisible, but it smells of raspberries,” said Mercury. “I don't like the looks of this.”

  I sniffed the air and thought I did detect a faint scent of raspberry amid Offal’s overwhelming odor of garbage and decay.

  “Let's take a closer look,” said Merc. He led the way down the stairs to ground level. I smiled to myself at his sudden change of heart. He professed indifference to the plight of others, but could not resist this mystery.

  Beyond the gates was a wide unpaved plaza. At its center was a cracked and weathered fountain surmounted by a headless statue of a forgotten hero. Arranged around the margins of the plaza was a ramshackle row of market stalls heaped full of junk—broken farm tools, leaky barrels, heaps of rags, scraps of wood, decrepit carts, tattered tapestries, cracked crockery, and other worthless wares. Offal’s junk traders—who mostly traded with each other—lay sprawled on the ground or slumped over their displays of goods.

  Six unattended wagons from the caravan, loaded with crates and barrels, were drawn up around the fountain. The draft horses were still in harness, though asleep like every other creature in sight, including dogs, birds, and rats.

  Several narrow lanes, strewn with garbage, led from the plaza, winding into the dim shadows between Offal’s ill-built tenements.

  On the west side of the plaza was a blockish keep. Its highest battlements stood some eighty feet above the ground. There lived Palish Birksnore, Lord Governor of Offal. The remaining four wagons from the caravan were parked before the keep’s open gate.

  We walked across the plaza, stepping gingerly over the comatose bodies. Mercury climbed aboard one of the wagons and rummaged through the crates until he found a blue metal canister some six inches in diameter and a yard long. At one end were a conical nozzle and a small lever.

  “This is a pressure canister, designed by the mechanists of Caratha,” said Mercury. “When the nozzle opens, it sprays the gas within over an area of several hundred square feet. Canisters fired from each wagon would be enough to put the whole city to sleep. Especially on a near windless day like today.”

  “But what of the caravan drivers? They would be affected too.”

  “Not if they wore protective masks or took an antidote beforehand.”

  “So where are they?”

  As if in reply to my question, an arrow thunked into a crate beside Merc. The wizard dove from the wagon, did a handspring, and landed in a crouch on the ground. I spotted the archer on a rooftop across the plaza. He let fly another arrow even as Mercury pulled me under the wagon.

  “Arkayne’s hood!” said Merc. “I was careless! They were watching us from the moment we entered the city. We're surrounded by now.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Five more arrows struck the wagon. Each came from a different direction.

  “Just a hunch,” said Merc.

  A dozen rough-looking men rushed out of the keep, armed with an assortment of swords, cudgels, maces, and flails. Recalling how handily Mercury dispatched the Black Bolts, I didn't doubt we could take them. But if we got into a brawl the archers could pick us off at leisure.

  “What about those magic spectacles of yours?”

  Mercury shook his head. “Not yet recharged. I might give them a bad sunburn at best.”

  “Can you move this wagon with your mind like you did Dylan’s net?”

  Merc smiled. “Just what I was thinking.”

  At Merc’s mental command, the peg attaching the tongue to the frame of the wagon flew out of place, freeing us from the dead weight of the slumbering draft horse. Mercury and I clung to the underside of the wagon, wedging our fingers between the floorboards. The wagon rolled backward toward the city gate, gaining speed quickly. Arrows thunked into the wood above, but the body of the wagon shielded us.

  The approaching ruffians broke into a run. They were surprisingly fleet of foot.

  “They're gaining!” I said. “Can you go any faster?”

  “Do you want to drive?” snapped Merc.

  Ahead of us a second band of brigands emerged from the gatehouse. One was an archer. He knelt to take aim under the wagon. Mercury swerved away from the gate, denying the archer a clear shot.

  A fire arrow hit the wagon, igniting a barrel of Brythalian brandy. Flames spread quickly, blistering my fingers as the planks grew hot.

  “Hot! Fire! Hot!” I said.

  Merc increased our speed, again steering for the gate. The men in our path scrambled to get out of the way.

  “Can you open the gate?”

  “One thing at a time!”

  “Slow down! We're going to crash!”

  “Speed up! Slow down! Make up your mind!”

  Just before we hit the gate, the wagon made a hard right turn and skidded, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Driven beyond its limits, the vehicle rolled over. It broke apart as it tumbled across the ground, finally smashing itself against the gate, which buckled, but did not give.

  The impact hurled us into the air. Mercury did an acrobatic flip and made a graceful three-point landing. I landed flat on my face and sucked up a mouthful of dirt.

  “Hmph,” said Merc. “I thought that would work.”

  “If the idea was to break every bone in my body, I think it did.”

  “Oh, get up!” he said, helping me to my feet.

  We scrambled up the stairs leading to the battlements, only to stop halfway as a trio of hard-faced crossbowmen appeared on the top landing. The two dozen men chasing us gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Archers on several nearby rooftops also had us in their sights.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We'll go easy on them,” said Merc. He raised his hands. “We surrender.”

  The outlaws seized us, tied our hands behind our backs, and marched us to the keep. They led us up a winding staircase to the Lord Governor's office on the top floor. An open skylight and a balcony overlooking the plaza lit the room.

  Lord Governor Birksnore snored fitfully in the corner. He was a rotund man, dressed in a threadbare blue robe of office. Seated in the slumbering Lord Governor’s chair, with his feet propped on the desk, was a garishly dressed man with dark olive skin and short black hair. A long white scar ran down his left cheek. His boots were bright yellow. He wore baggy pantaloons with purple and white vertical stripes, a broad red sash around his waist, and a loose green shirt open at the chest. Gold bracelets, earrings, arm bands, rings, and necklaces adorned the appropriate parts of his body.

  Behind him stood a living mountain. I had never seen anyone so big—ten feet tall and a yard wide at the
chest. His neck and limbs were of similar massive proportions. He wore only a black loincloth, revealing the vast, muscular expanse of his bluish-grey skin. His square face was pocked and scarred, and made uglier still by filmy yellow eyes, beetled brow, sneering purple lips, and jagged teeth. His greasy black hair, knotted around a human rib, hung to his shoulders.

  One of our captors raised his fist in salute. “O Great Commander! We have captured the interlopers!” As an afterthought, he added, “They might be wizards.”

  The man at the desk looked us over with disdain. “Wizards, you say! How so?”

  “They made a wagon to move without horses to pull it!”

  The leader laughed. “Propelling wagons! A truly fearsome display of power. Wizards indeed! These are spies sent by the corrupt tyrant of this backwater kingdom to subvert our glorious revolutionary activities! Yes, I know their ilk.” He stood, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am Zaran Zimzabar, Supreme Commander of PANGO, the People’s Army of the New Glorious Order. It is my glorious mission to liberate the oppressed masses of Arden from their miserable subjugation to all outmoded forms of society and government in favor of slightly less miserable subjugation to the New Glorious Order of universal brotherhood.”

  “You're a lunatic,” said Merc. He turned to me. “I thought I smelled this rat. Zaran is a notorious Carathan terrorist responsible for dozens of political murders, hijackings, kidnappings, and massacres. He kills men, women, children, nobles, peasants, and pets without remorse, all in the name of a twisted ideology only he can understand.”

  “So you've heard of me?” said Zaran.

  “You killed several friends of mine,” said Merc. “What brings you to Darnk? Run out of babies to butcher in the civilized realms?”

  “Hey!” I said. “Darnk is civilized! Mostly.”

  “My mission knows no boundaries,” said Zaran. “In due time, the dictates of history will bring all lands under my sway. I have come to claim this ill-protected pimple of corruption in the name of the New Glorious Order. This squalid city shall be renamed Zaranopolis! I will liberate its downtrodden people from their bondage to foul monarchy so that they may serve PANGO! Zaranopolis shall be a haven for my cause, a training ground for my cadres, a base from which to strike numerous stout blows for the New Glorious Order!” He crossed his arms. “But what am I to do with the two of you?” Zaran nodded toward the monster looming behind him. “Yezgar here is a half-ogre. He enjoys killing. He would enjoy killing you. Can you give me a reason why I should not let him?”

  “Give us a second,” I said quickly, before Mercury could hurl another insult.

  I need not have bothered. At that moment, two small glass capsules dropped from the skylight and shattered on the stone floor. From the broken spheres issued a hazy cloud of what I soon learned was tear gas.

  I choked and gasped as the noxious vapors enveloped me. My eyes stung as if pierced by many needles. Zaran and his men were similarly affected.

  Through my tears I saw a figure that might be mistaken for a goddess of war descend into our midst. She was my height, but certainly not my build. Her every firm, female curve was outlined in silver sheen by a bodysuit of metallic mesh. A winged helm hid most of her tan face, but what I could see was grim and lovely, dominated by blood red lips drawn taut. She held a gleaming broadsword in her right hand, a hand axe in her left. An array of other blades were strapped to her arms, thighs, and calves.

  “Zaran! You are finished!” she cried. “Natalia Slash has found you at last!”

  *****

  Chapter 5

  Mercury, unaffected by the tear gas, shook off the ropes binding his arms. My bonds fell away too, surely his doing.

  Yezgar was also immune to the blinding vapors. With a roar, the half ogre sprang across the chamber and swung a massive fist at Natalia Slash. She sidestepped the blow and hurled her axe into the monster's chest, where it stuck. Undaunted, Yezgar swung again. This blow sent Natalia flying. She hit one of the stone walls, which cracked under the impact. Natalia crumpled to the floor.

  I jumped aside as Yezgar charged again. One of Zaran's other minions was not so quick. Trampled by the man-ogre, he died with a bloody crunch and splash. As Yezgar loomed over her, Natalia leapt to her feet and drove her sword deep into his gut. She yanked the blade free and skipped behind him. Yezgar crashed into the wall. It collapsed, burying him under a deadfall of mortar and stone.

  Natalia raised her sword. “Your turn, Zaran!”

  “Kill her!” commanded Zimzabar. His men—blinded, burning, and retching—weighed their chances against a woman who had defeated Yezgar so handily. They dropped their weapons and fled.

  Zaran spat in disgust. He drew a curved knife from his sash. “You'll not stop me, woman! I am the Living Scourge!”

  I had noticed in my brief heroic career that combat seemed to involve a great deal of seemingly superfluous dialogue. Lombardo, Dylan, Mercury, and now Natalia and Zaran—with all the posturing, hurling of insults, declarations of intent, and assertions of identity by the combatants it was a wonder anyone had breath left to fight. Perhaps they did it to bolster their courage or simply to break the monotony of the endless life-or-death struggles that consumed their days.

  But I had yet to acquire the habit. So while Zaran waved his knife and ranted, I acted, tackling him from behind. We grappled on the floor. My greater size and strength gave me an advantage, but he was fast and agile.

  Meanwhile, Yezgar rose up from the pile of rubble, holding a large chunk of stone in each hand. The axe remained embedded in his chest. His gut wound oozed thick green blood, but was obviously less than fatal.

  Mercury now entered the fray. A discarded mace flew to the wizard’s hand. He hit Yezgar in the back with a strong blow to the kidneys. This distracted the monster long enough for Natalia to dance in and again sink her sword hilt-deep into the monster's gut. She twisted it hard. That got his attention.

  Yezgar slammed a stone block against her head and shoved her to the floor. She lost hold of her sword, which remained lodged in the monster’s abdomen.

  With Natalia on her hands and knees, Yezgar slammed the second stone block down on her back, flattening her. He stomped on her head for good measure. Natalia didn’t move.

  Yezgar, his foe dispatched, now turned his fearsome yellow gaze upon the fool who dared to attack his master. Namely, me.

  “Run, Cosmo!” said Merc. There was real fear in his voice. “Run for your life!”

  I gaped up at Yezgar's snarling face. A growl like the clash of colliding millstones rumbled from the monster's throat as he crouched to spring.

  I shoved Zaran away from me and started for the door. But hearing Yezgar back in the fight, Zaran’s men regained their courage and now poured through the entrance. That way was blocked.

  Yezgar pounced.

  I vaulted over the desk.

  Yezgar smashed it in two.

  I spied a narrow alcove in the wall behind the desk and lunged through it. It opened into an equally narrow passageway. Not caring where it led so long as it was away from the angry half-ogre, I ran. I had a brief hope that Yezgar would be unable to follow due to his size, but he plunged after me. The encroaching walls gave way to his massive shoulders like tall grass before an oliphant. His horrible roar reverberated in the enclosed space.

  I emerged into what had to be the Lord Governor's bedchamber. It was opulent by Darnkite standards, with a large feather bed and imported furnishings. Frayed tapestries adorned the walls. A threadbare rug covered much of the floor.

  But what caught my eye was the shapely young woman sprawled across the bed. As I sped by, I noted tan skin, honey-blond hair, and a barely-there garment of gossamer red silk. I was in too much hurry to drink in all the details, but such was her beauty that—even with Yezgar at my heels—I was distracted. Distracted enough to trip over a second woman slumbering on the floor. She was—I saw as my chin hit the rug—identical to the woman on the bed, but clad in blue. Each woman wo
re a manacle on her right ankle. These were attached by long chains to an iron ring set in the floor. It looked like Lord Governor Birksnore was holding them against their will.

  Yezgar burst into the room. I clambered to my feet and tried the bedroom door. It was barred from the outside.

  There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.

  Using only one hand, Yezgar grabbed me by both shoulders and lifted me off the floor, his thick fingers pressing against my neck. He crooked his arm so that our faces were on a level. I felt his hot stinking breath, reeking of regurgitated carrion.

  “Yezgar,” I said, “Perhaps we could discuss this like civilized men.”

  He snapped his arm to full extension, propelling me through the bedroom door and across the sitting room beyond. I landed on the floor with a backside full of splinters, my head ringing like a temple bell.

  Yezgar snatched me up again and flung me at the ceiling. Fortunately, he missed. Rather than smacking against stone, I crashed through the glass panes of a skylight and sailed some twenty feet above the top of the keep. While aloft, I had a fine view of the rolling brown hills of the surrounding countryside, the jagged rocks and white rapids of the Longwash at the base of the tower—and of a purple dragon with golden wings hovering high above.

  I fell, landing on a large potted cactus waiting for me on the balcony like a bad punch line. The hapless plant absorbed the brunt of my fall while I absorbed most of its spines. I was wedged into the pot with sand in my trousers and my knees at my ears, unable to move.

  Yezgar lifted the pot over his head and slammed it to the tiles. Sitting there amid the crushed plant matter and broken clay, with burning eyes, broken body, and a homicidal half-ogre towering over me, I decided that Mercury was right—we should have gone on to Brythalia. This was the end.

  But the deathblow never came. Instead, Yezgar tottered as a couch flew out of the sitting room and struck his broad back, followed by several chairs, a desk, a table, and a rush of gaudy bric-a-brac. I feared he would fall on and crush me, but the monster’s high center of gravity carried him over the parapet and off the balcony. He hit the water far below with a thunderous splash. I saw him go under, bob up into sight again, then vanish beneath the rushing waters for good. Or so I hoped.