The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

  “Hello,” said Tom, as it was indeed he, “and who the hell are you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, in fact I don’t even know why I bothered.” The man shrugged, and made to get back on his feet.

  “What’s been happening to you then?” The Magus thought it might be worth a laugh.

  Tom grunted and lay down again. “Nothing much. I’ve been spirited away from my home by a gorgeous tart, smothered by a bogie or ten thousand, been dumped by the babe, fallen in love with another babe, had her killed by the Smorgs, and now I’m stranded on some godforsaken planet, somewhere in the arse end of the universe, with no chance of getting home before I starve to death.”

  The Magus screwed his face up. “Huh call that bad. You think you’ve got troubles. I’m stranded here too, and without the remotest possibility of getting another ale. Now that is serious.”

  “Ale, you said ale?” Tom started.

  “Yes, according to the brochure, there’s none here, miserable bloody place as you said. What’s that got to do with you anyhow?”

  “Nothing.” Tom shrugged. “It’s because we drink rather a lot of it on my planet...”

  “I drink rather a lot of it anywhere.”

  Tom looked pensive. “If there aren’t any pubs what’s that you’ve got there?” He indicated the Magus’ last can.

  “Nothing. Well, perhaps some, er, lager, I found lying about. You wouldn’t like it, being an ale-drinker and all that.”

  “Too right,” said Tom. “Noble of you to spare me the agony. So there’s nothing like a proper drink anywhere?”

  “I haven’t found any yet. I was going to ask, but I guess you don’t know where to find one either.” The Magus stood up and stretched. “Catch you later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “So am I. Can I come with you?”

  “Suit yourself. Which nowhere?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Have you been down there?” The Magus pointed to the path on the right.

  “I could do.”

  “I’m going straight on.”

  “Are you, then that’s the way I’m going too.”

  “Then I will go to the right.”

  Tom fell in behind the Magus, and they trudged aimlessly in silence. The Magus halted suddenly and Tom, who had been abjectly gazing into the trees, walked straight into him.

  “Are you following me?” He turned and waved his fist in Tom’s face.

  Tom regarded it sadly, and made no attempt to defend himself. He looked over the Magus’ shoulder. “I might simply be going in the same direction, by accident, but what’s that over there?” The Magus looked round, to see Tom staring at the ruins of a stone building. “Could it be a pub?”

  The edifice was tall, and sprawled into the trees on either side. A dense growth of creepers covered most of the stones, and tangled across dark, forbidding doorways. “Now that is fascinating,” said the Magus. “The dour gloom suits my mood. What do you think?”

  “Only some old temple,” said Tom, “shame. Nothing fascinating about it, unless you like miserable old stone buildings. I don’t, I used to work in one. It was called a bank.”

  “No, not only the temple. I’m getting the feeling there is something really extraordinary in there.”

  As the Magus spoke, a pair of beady eyes flashed in the darkness. He pointed. “Told you. Look at that… er…”

  A snout sporting huge curved tusks poked through the creepers blocking the main doorway.

  “Phoist!” The Magus paled. “It’s one of those giant wild pig-dogs I was warned about. They are permanently annoyed, and attack without provocation. I think you’d better run.” He transported himself up into the safety of a tree. “Aren’t you going to scarper?” He looked down with interest, as his companion dithered.

  “I don’t care what happens to me anymore. Let it do its worst.”

  The creature eyed Tom up and down for a few seconds, and then charged.

  As it burst away from the building, the Magus noted it was as tall as Tom was. “Ooo, going to be messy… Do you know, the manual said that there are more people killed on this planet by these things than anything else?”

  “Don’t care,” said Tom with his eyes shut. “Bring it on.”

  Wok could possibly go Wrong?

  The Smorgs receive a delivery.

  Junk mail proves useful.

  V

  ac skidded to a halt, as the night sky filled with a roar of anti-gravity engines, and lit up with the landing lights of a spaceship. “Wait, can’t you.” Crimson’s voice sounded through the PA system. He held up his hand, and the first Smorg in the queue to the dais stopped in mid fang-plunge. A groan rippled through the crowd.

  The ship, an interstellar freighter, touched down neatly on an open space near the stage, cleared by scattering Smorgs, eager not to be crushed. A slipway unrolled and a many-armed crustacean slithered down the ramp and scuttled up to the Crimson, who shuddered visibly.

  “You Smorgs?” came a tinny voice from the quadrillipod’s translator unit, amplified by the microphone.

  Crimson nodded.

  “Sign here, squire.” One of the appendages offered a stylus. The Smorg signed automatically. “Where would you like your woks?” The quadrillipod motioned towards the ship.

  The Crimson looked puzzled. “Is this a mistake? We ordered ten billiard tables, aren’t they.”

  “According to this docket, squire, you signed for woks.” The quadrillipod gave a mirthless laugh. “Ten thousand I believe. We thought it might be ‘ten million’, but that would be silly. This is your order.” It waved to the man at the loading ramp, who released a chain, and ten thousand neat packages cascaded over the immediate area.

  “But tables aren’t woks. How can you mix that up, didn’t you?” protested the Crimson.

  “We outsourced the warehouse to Malania, squire. I expect the words for ‘table’ and ‘wok’ are similar in ‘Malanianese’, as they do all their cooking on metal tables there.”

  “I’m not interested in the social study of your hired help, aren’t they,” stormed the Crimson. “Take them back. We are not paying for this lot, dearie me, not.”

  “Oh fol-de-dee,” said the quadrillipod. “Then we will have to change your minds. It says here on the docket that returns are not accepted. Did you not read the small print?” It flicked a dozen sets of appendages back at the ship, and instantly, an eerie green glow bathed the valley. Vac felt an overwhelming desire to stir-fry something in a deep curved pan. This feeling seemed to have a much greater effect on the Smorgs out in the open. There was a mêlée into the wok pile, and the whole Smorg assembly departed, carrying the trophies away to their cottages.

  The Skagans on the stage remained motionless in the arena, deserted except for the JWSU delivery ship. The quadrillipod assuming a smug expression, which would have been obvious to another quadrillipod, but went unseen in this dark, and mostly crustacean-free environment, and scuttled back into the ship. The craft roared off, in a cloud of environmentally unfriendly smoke. None of the Smorgs saw it go, busy as they were, searching for matches, and lighting stoves for cooking.

  Vac glanced around, but there was nothing between him and his people. He resumed his run into the valley and up to the stage.

  “About bloody time, Vac,” said one of the women. “Where’s the rest of the invasion? Are they coming later?”

  “Only me, Clutch, my love,” said Vac, undoing her bonds. “I’m the new leader.”

  “Things must be bad,” said Clutch, “if you’re in command.”

  “Worse than you think,” muttered Vac. “Can you help untie the others? What’s up with them?” He indicated a few of the Skagans, who were not shouting, ‘Me next,’ or ‘have you got anything sharp to kill people with?’

  “It’s the Smorg poison,” said the woman, freeing the
next man. “Some of us are more resistant to it. Come on, Spigot, lets release the others, and see if we can find an antidote. There must be one. The Smorgs don’t like to eat anything that doesn’t struggle.”

  “I wish you’d said that earlier,” said Spigot. “I could have pretended to be dead.”

  “Is this the cure?” said Vac, opening a wooden chest on the stage. He withdrew a syringe, containing a pale yellow liquid.

  “I’ll give it a try,” said Clutch. She jabbed the needle into the nearest Skagan. Almost instantly, the man revived, greeted his new leader with the traditional clip round the ear, growled an obscenity and stamped off, muttering about finding a weapon.

  One by one, they released and revived the remaining Skagan prisoners. Finally, Vac came to the golden-haired girl. He had tried to ignore her as he resuscitated the others, realising he needed the support of fellow warriors, to fight their way out, but as he looked more closely, he drooled. Her skin was a pale gold colour and her legs seemed to go on forever. He reached out to touch her, shook his head, and injected the serum. It had no effect. She stood, motionless as before, her golden eyes dull and unseeing.

  “The cure will probably have no effect on an outlander,” said Clutch, watching him closely. “She will be under the drug until she fades away and dies. Her mind is gone. We must leave her to the Smorgs—it is better that way.”

  “No,” said Vac, “she comes with us. Give her your cloak.”

  The woman shrugged. “Mad bugger.”

  “And you will give me some respect.”

  “Respect has to be earned.”

  “I saved you all, didn’t I?”

  “I suppose you did, and there’s no need to talk like a Smorg. I’ll be watching you, boy.”

  “Up yours.”

  “In your dreams, buddy.”

  “I expect it’s the poison making her tetchy,” said another of the men as he stood near, rubbing his wrists.

  “And you can shut it too, Groat,” said Clutch. “I remember your parents. They had respect.”

  “We should go,” said the man. “Everyone is free now, and most are armed, and spoiling for a fight.”

  “Best we make our escape,” said Vac, thumbing through a discarded kitchenware catalogue. “We don’t know how long it will be before they realise we’ve gone. I’ve got my prize. You others will have to get your own.” He gave Clutch a defiant stare, and tightened her cloak around the girl’s shoulders. “Come on, Outlander.” He took the hand. It was cold and limp. “You will come with me,” he ordered. The girl’s dead eyes regarded him briefly, and then she moved towards him. The Skagan band, mainly armed with wok lids and spatulas, tramped off towards the road home, with Vac leading the way. He made a quick detour into the cottage, and released the Smorg girl. She was snoring happily.

  “Who’s this?”

  Vac started as a voice sounded by his ear. He turned to meet Clutch’s disapproving gaze.

  “A friend,” he said sheepishly. “She, er, gave me some vital information to help rescue you all.”

  The woman scented the air. “That’s not all she gave you…”

  “I had to make the sacrifice…”

  “Very noble, a true leader,” said the woman, sarcastically.

  As they slipped by in the shadows on the return journey, Vac noted the stone cottages were now occupied,. From the interiors came sounds of the chivvying of rice and vegetables, and rich voices chanting cooking songs. They travelled quickly, and passed the final fort, unchallenged, although it too now showed signs of occupation.

  The escapees were halfway across the causeway, and Vac was beginning to think that they were home and damp, when a shout went up from the Smorg shore. The Smorgs, having eventually become ready for their meat course, now spotted it escaping across the water.

  “We stand here,” said Vac when they reached the far shore. He separated a large group of the weaker Skagan men and all the women. “You people go to the forest. We will hold the Smorgs until you have escaped.”

  “We stand with you,” said Clutch.

  “No, I need you to protect the rest of the tribe. Take my outlander, and make sure nothing bad happens to her.” He frowned at Clutch. “On your responsibility.”

  “Pah. What happens when she dies? Will you blame me for that too?”

  “If I return, she had better still be alive.”

  “Bloody make sure you do return, then,” said Clutch.

  “Go.”

  Vac deployed the strongest of his men to block the end of the causeway. He seemed surprisingly self-assured, as they waited idly for the Smorg warriors.

  “He knows something,” Spigot said, naively. “What can give him so much confidence? Stand firm, men.”

  The rest of the band retreated towards the forest, the women, apart from Clutch, throwing worshipping glances towards Vac. This tale would be repeated in legends. The name of Vac, the brave and glorious hunter, warrior, leader, saviour, Smorg-loving pervert would not be forgotten.

  The causeway was only wide enough for three people at a time so the Smorg forces arrived in an extended line. They attacked with a ferocity seen only in men who have been deprived of their dinners. Vac’s long sword however was more than a match for a damp and hungry rabble, hampered by the flow of the water, and the wok lids the Skagans had taken proved to be effective shields. The water ran crimson with Smorg blood, and their discarded weapons were soon in the hands of Skagan defenders, being wielded to greater effect.

  Eventually however, the weight of numbers began to tell. The man, Calliper, on Vac’s left, previously weakened by the Smorg venom, faltered. A Smorg warrior plunged his short sword deep into the man’s chest and gave a shout of triumph. The shout died as the Smorg’s head flew off his body, removed by Groat, who was standing next in line. It disappeared into the water with a plop.

  Wave upon wave of Smorgs followed through. Those killed were washed away by the river, so there was always space to stand and fight. Vac’s men were tiring. He scanned his force, and raised a tiny wrist moon-dial, muttering calculations under his breath. A Smorg broke through his defence. Spigot despatched it with a single blow, but others were pushing behind.

  “Thanks mate,” said Vac.

  “You should watch that,” said Spigot. “You know it’s against the law to check personal devices while fighting for your life.”

  “Yeah, so.” Vac shrugged, slicing at another Smorg. The enemy line faltered, and Spigot took a breath, resting on his captured sword.

  “We’ve got to run,” he said. “We’ve got a chance now the others have reached the treeline.”

  “Hold to the last man,” Vac bellowed. “Keep the line! Not much longer. Ah, here we go.”

  “The tide, the tide!” shouted a voice from the Smorg host.

  The cry was quickly taken up by their whole army. The Smorgs turned and began a hasty and disorganised retreat back across the causeway. The Skagans began to follow to cut down the rear-guard, but Vac called them back.

  “Leave them. There’s been enough death already.”

  “You spoil all our fun,” panted Groat, returning and throwing himself down on the greasy bank. “It’s part of our tactics to pursue, and then be cut off by a rally. Fighting out of that situation is more of a challenge.

  “Yes,” said Spigot. “Standard attack formation 221-alpha.”

  “I thought it was 224-alpha,” said Groat.

  “No, that’s the one where we all pretend to be dead.”

  “We’ve done a lot of that so far,” said Vac. “I’m the leader and I’m telling you to stand your ground—formation 69-beta.”

  “I thought that was the one where we stop for a quick shag.”

  “No, that’s…”

  There was a metallic clang as Vac banged the men’s heads together. The others flopped down on the mud at the river edge to rest, and then had to move further up the bank as the water rose. They gave a cheer.
With every step, the retreating Smorgs seemed to be sinking deeper. Within minutes they were swimming, and it was a very sorry remnant of survivors who crawled up the distant bank, leaving many of their comrades to a watery death. Those who had made it turned to shout obscenities at the Skagans, but the warriors were already collecting the spoils of the battlefield, weapons, armour, cash, cooking utensils and sticks of charcoal.

  “We were lucky,” said one of the Skagans. “We couldn’t have held on much longer.”

  “Yes, thank Norbert,” replied Vac.

  “Which one?” asked Spigot.

  “Norbert, the God of War and Unbelievable Victories, of course.”

  “I only asked.19 It’s important to know to whom we owe our thanks. Now can we go?”

  Vac grinned as his hand reached into a back pocket, and fingered the cookware catalogue. On the back page, next to an advert for a pair of inflatable water-wings, free with a large cooking pot, was a short list of times and dates, with the heading ‘Tides of Skagos, When Not to go Swimming’.

  Ale and Allegory

  Tom has a drink.

  Vac takes the lead.

  T

  he pig-dog thundered towards its waiting target in a landslide of fur and tusks. Tom shut his eyes in anticipation of the impact. It came. The large tree beside him shuddered as the animal ran full tilt into its heavy trunk. Fruits, small tree creatures, and the Magus rained down. Tom opened his eyes, one at a time. The pig-dog sighed and collapsed, with what looked suspiciously like a smile curling its lips. Its mouth opened and it let out a long belch, breath heavy with the smell of alcohol. Tom looked at it with disbelief. “It’s drunk,” he said.

  “Lucky for you it was,” said the Magus, standing up and brushing the leaves off his cloak.

  “How did you get up that tree?” Tom glared at his companion.

  “A bit of matter teleportation, nothing special.”

  “You could have got me out of the way with you.”

  “You said you weren’t bothered.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”