by M. K. Gibson
“That is by design. Family is weakness. Caring for something other than myself leads to love and love leads to trust. Trust leads to betrayal. It is the inevitable nature of all things.”
“But I’m your family.”
“I stand by what I said.” I lit another cigarette and tried to enjoy something while I was subjected to this familial hell. Paige stood there, slack-jawed, confused, and crestfallen. In other words, in one of her five natural states. The others were sleeping, eating, rutting, and watching reality television on a couch.
“OK, I am going to ignore that and get to why I’m here.”
“Please, don’t hurry on my account. It isn’t like I have a business to run,” I said as I ashed my cigarette.
“Your business is why I’m here. I think you should consider teaching Randy the family business. An heir.”
I stared blankly at Paige, deciding if my promise to Mother and Father had a statute of limitations. The 1911 was still on the desk.
“You cannot be serious,” I said.
“Why not? He’s your nephew. He’s your blood.”
“Please, don’t remind me that I am related that walking advertisement for proper condom use.”
“Dude . . . I’m sitting right here. I can hear you.”
“I wasn’t whispering.”
“Julian Jackson Blackwell!” Paige announced in her loudest authoritative tone. She used her will over this dimension to flicker the lights for effect. “Do not talk about my child that way!”
Have you ever noticed when an asshole is presented the truth, they get offended? And they replace the word “kid” with the word “child” when they feign indignity? I’ve found the same applies for “house” and “home” when you aptly describe someone’s garbage pile thusly.
“Paige, what do you want? More money? I will have another deposit in your account by the time you return home. A new house? Fine, I will move you both . . . again, to the nicest home you will no doubt destroy and lower the property value of. However, a place within my organization? Let alone an heir? You are . . . how do the kids say now? Cray cray.”
Paige said nothing. She walked across my office to the couch and sat down next to Randy. She put her arm around her son. I heard her sniff a few times.
“Julian . . . Jackson, we are the only family left. Mom and Dad are dead. We have no one else besides each other.”
Damn. This speech again.
I rolled my eyes and snubbed out my cigarette and waited for Paige to finish her rehearsed speech. I’d heard it so many times before I could bob my head in time to the cadence while I pretended to listen.
Blah blah blah family. Senseless noise and rhetorical nonsense about looking out for one another. Poorly-constructed clause pertaining to the future. Some snot-drenched indecipherable babble. And, for the usual crescendo, the eventual question of what would become of them once I was gone.
Like anything was going to happen to me.
Once the speech was over, I took a sip from my drink and lit another cigarette while I pretended to consider her words.
“No. Go home.”
Paige wiped away her crocodile tears and stood. “Fine, asshole. Give Randy a job and give me more money and I won’t bother you ever again.”
“I doubt that,” I said as I considered the offer. “Fine. Here is my offer. I will take Randy with me to the realm of Caledon, to the Eastern Empire and Al’ Garrad Baron Grimskull’s capital, while I conduct my business. If he does not come across as complete idiot, I will consider a position in one of the far realms as a field operative and give him a chance to move upward. Will that suffice?”
“Oh Julie!” Paige cried out as she rushed towards me, wrapping me in a hug.
Again, my thoughts reached out to the Colt 1911.
“You won’t regret it! I promise, Randy will pick up on your every word and surprise you!”
I doubted it. “Sure, sure.” I nodded, trying to placate my sister to get her to release me. Based off her wild affection, I feared for her bedfellows.
“And of course, the money,” Paige reminded me.
“Yes. And the money.”
Me and my idiot nephew off to make an idiot warlock warlord a beloved ruler. What could possibly go wrong?
The Fourteenth Rule of Villainy
Trust leads to relationships. Relationships lead to betrayal. Betrayal is your own damn fault.
Ergo, trust is dumb.
Chapter Five
Where I Contemplate the Evil Nature of Horses, the State of the Poor, and Waste Teachable Moments on the Young
The sun was hidden behind a wall of gray clouds and the sky threatened rain. The entire Eastern Empire was in that perpetual haze between fall and winter. Most of the leaves had fallen and the ground seemed to be muddy and wet at all times. Everything smelled of musty, rotten wood and horse dung.
Essentially, everything was a moist bucket of cold shit.
Fantasy realm villains, sigh. Their concept of a kingdom was almost always the same. Cold, wet, and sad. They thought by using their magics and influence to keep the realm in a perpetual state of despair, the people would be ground into submission.
Idiots have zero agricultural sense. No sun and no seasons equals no food. Unless you count mushrooms.
Which I don’t. Fungus is repugnant. It grows near death and excrement.
If you say “But it’s good on pizza,” then you will suffer my wrath. I will not destroy you. No. Instead, I will purchase the bank that holds the mortgage to your parents’ home, sell the home out from under them and force them into the streets. Or worse, into your home.
And if your parents are already deceased . . . well, ha ha, you’re an orphan.
But I digress.
I rode along on horseback with Courtney in the lead with and seven of my elite field operatives flanking the small caravan. All of them personally selected by Courtney.
Each of us had changed into appropriate garb for the location. I, dressed as a traveling merchant, wore my black leather trousers, matching thigh high boots, an emerald green silk shirt, a black doublet, a dark green hooded cloak, and forearm-length black riding gloves. Courtney wore a similar outfit, less expensive-looking of course, with bits of armor to pose as my man-at-arms. The remainder of my men wore their standard field tactical gear under their rough, homespun tunics and leggings. Each was armed with visible swords and daggers. Yet each also concealed a mixture of firearms and magical items in their packs.
And then there was Randy.
Randy was behind me trying to play a game on his phone while on horseback. He refused to wear traditional garb and settled on the fantasy realm equivalent of sweatpants and a hoodie. If questioned, I would refer to him as my servant. My simple, simple servant.
The trek from the dimensional gate to Grimskull’s capital of Al’ Garrad was not unpleasant. Except for the horse. I hate horses. They seem to exist to maintain as much air between my ass and the saddle at all times. Despite all my time working operations in the field in the fantasy realms, horsemanship was never a skill I mastered.
Laugh if you must. Horses are an instrument of the underworld. It’s true. I’ve had dealings with the Never Realm. And I have it on good authority that horses were a creation of a darkest of lords. Don’t believe me? Just talk to someone who is into horses. I mean, really into horses. Don’t they act as if they are possessed? Don’t they talk about their undying love for horses and how beautiful and majestic they are in the same wide-eyed, simple-minded way that cult members speak of their leader?
That is by design. Horses are trying to invade your soul at all times. They are sinister beings from the darkest realms of hell, moving from continent to continent enslaving the people they encounter. Why do you think it is called a nightmare?
“Hey, dude, when are we gonna get there?” Randy asked.
“Tomorrow,” I replied, for the third time in the last hour. “We will stop for the night in the town of Ashraven. In the morning,
we will depart and make it to Baron Grimskull’s fortress by the evening. In time for rest, baths, and dinner.”
“So, why didn’t we, like, y’know, just teleport into Grimm-dude’s castle? Wouldn’t that be faster?”
Because, you moron, the dimensional gates I establish across all the realms are set in locations that provide a strategic advantage for me. If I were to create a gate inside one of my client’s lairs, they could potentially use their own magics and discover a way into my realm by analyzing the inter-dimensional residue left behind from the magical gate. Hence, I rotate my gates so they are never in the same place, and very few people know that schedule.
And, if you had listened the first time I explained this before we left, you would know. Since you do not care to listen, perhaps a training accident is what is needed, and I would once and for all be free of a barely vertebrate monkey child who happens to carry DNA similar to mine.
I sighed inwardly, wanting to scream and perhaps maim. Instead, I contained my frustration. “Randy, why are we here?” I asked, hoping to turn this into a teachable moment.
“To fix Grimm-dude’s land or something like that.”
“Yes. Correct.”
“Then why are we stopping in this town?”
“Why do you think?” I asked. Perhaps the boy might at least have one natural instinct.
“Wench boobs?”
Well, so much for hope.
Hope is a stupid emotion anyway. Hope, like faith, only leads to disappointment. Those who say they hope for things are too frightened or weak-willed to make something happen for themselves. Those who say hope is the best of things clearly have never achieved a goal.
“No, dear, sweet, simple Randy. We are stopping in Ashraven because it is the last major township before we reach the borders of Baron Grimskull’s capital.”
“And?”
“And people who live close to, but not in, a capital have a strange sense of insulation against the regime that governs them. Much like the grandstanding morons who post political opinions on their social media accounts, these blowhards love to talk about the local politics but never truly do anything about it. Thus, what you get is an unfiltered, and often underinformed, opinion of the populace’s disposition towards the powers that be.”
“What was that, dude? I wasn’t really listening.”
“It means, dumb people talk too much and we can learn what they think of Grimskull.”
“Oh, cool.”
“Yes, it is rather cool.” I smiled. Perhaps there was something I could kindle within the young man.
“Yeah. This phone you zapped for me still gets reception out here? So cool.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. It was not worth wasting my breath, nor my time. My dearest Randy was a brilliant example of this generation’s ability to be distracted by colorful, shiny objects and pleasant noises. An indictment of the modern education system, free-range parenting, time-outs, and entitlement. Ah, youth . . . perpetual goldfish in a digital bowl.
“Courtney,” I called out to my loyal man.
“Sir?”
“Please ride ahead to Ashraven and secure the rooms. I believe the Corolan Inn will suffice for the evening.”
“Yes sir,” Courtney acknowledged. He kicked his horse in the flanks and the beast took off in a gallop. Two of my field agents, wordlessly and without preemptive command, rode forward to take point along the forest trail as their commander departed.
I smiled.
Efficiency gave me a mental erection.
After another hour of two of riding, we reached the town of Ashraven. The town itself wasn’t much to look at. It was little more than two dozen freestanding structures made of stone and wood and a wall surrounding the entire complex. Hardly a city, but big enough that a few strangers could get lost in the crowd.
Ashraven served as a trading station between the outlying farmlands and the capital. Even from outside the walls, I could hear the town still bustling with activity as night descended. The oil lamps were being lit among the streets and all the minor gates were being locked for the night.
My group came upon the main gate and several armed guards held out their hands for us to halt. Now was the time that I hated the most. The most odious of tasks that every field agent, myself included, must accept as a hazard of the job.
Common people.
It isn’t that I hate people. No, that’s a lie. I do hate people. But the common folk of these realms? Well, they are an acquired taste, like anal play and Morrissey. The grate and wail, stink and moan. They are generally disgusting and serve no purpose other than the delineation between the sane and damned. And yes, I am still referring to Morrissey.
“Put your hood up,” I said to Randy as I placed my own hood over my head.
“Why?”
“Because I fucking said so,” I hissed at the idiot. I had no time to explain the nuances of the realms. Like this one, for example. A group of armed men riding to a town’s gate at night should be a red flag to any guard and denied entrance. But whenever said men have their hoods up and speak in unctuous tones, ninety percent of the time they are let into the city with only a few coppers for a bribe and a half-hearted warning that they will be watched.
“Whatever,” Randy said, but the boy obeyed and placed his hood over his head.
“And stash the phone,” I amended. “These people have never seen such a device and we are not trying to draw more attention than we already are.”
“God,” Randy said, rolling his eyes. But once again, he listened, and turned his phone off and stashed it into one of his pockets.
“May I help you, good sir?” I called to the lead guard. The overweight bruiser with the bulbous alcohol nose waddled over to me. I swear I could not tell where his chin began and his throat ended.
“Oy, what business do you have in Ashraven this time of evening? Respectable folks have already found their way inside the town’s walls.”
I smiled and pulled out a small wineskin from within my cloak. “Now, what fun is there in being respectable, my good man? Thirsty?” I asked as I shook the wineskin gently and discreetly.
The guard raised his eyes and took a step closer. “What fun indeed?” the guard replied.
I passed him the wineskin with a few coins. “My name isn’t important. I am just a merchant with my guardsmen. By my honor, we are here for the night only and will be on our way at first light. And if you happen to be here in the morning when we leave, then perhaps another gift like this could find its way to your excellent town guard. My gift to the underappreciated guards of this fair town.”
This was the moment of truth. I’d judged the guard’s character as a bit of a lush and a bit on the apathetic side. However, I’d been fooled in the past. That was why I had my other hand under my cloak. I had the option of reaching for my silenced semi-automatic pistol or a Wand of Induced Memory if things went south. The wand had only a finite amount of charges and the item itself was very expensive. The pistol was more final.
Decisions, decisions.
“Welcome to Ashraven, Master Merchant. Enjoy your stay. If there is anything you require, then please, ask for Bircham.”
“I will indeed, good Bircham. A pleasant evening to you.” I nodded and then urged my horse forward.
“Damn, Uncle Jack,” Randy said. “You totally Jedi mind-tricked that dude.”
“Please, Randy.” I waved my hand dismissively to him. “Getting past a town guard is Villainy 101. And besides . . . I prefer The Sith.”
Chapter Six
Where I Discuss Shoes and Orchestrate a Bar Brawl
The Corolan Inn was pleasant, as poor, run-down crapholes go. The establishment was a simple rectangular building with a kitchen in the rear and a main bar lining the back wall. There was a fire pit in the center of the common area.
People had gathered in for the evening, with transients passing through like myself and my men. A few local farmers who couldn’t make it back to their h
omesteads before nightfall had come in for the night. An obvious adventurer or two were mixed into the crowd. They were always easy to spot if you knew what to look for. Cleaner faces. Cleaner clothes. All their teeth. Weapons that radiated a legacy of magical energy. The lack of the human-shit smell.
There were other people in the crowd of the common folk definitely worth noticing. I caught the eye of Courtney, who was standing by the bar ordering a round of meals and drinks for us. I nodded towards several of the other odd people I noticed and Courtney nodded.
“What’s up, dude?” Randy asked.
“What do you mean?” I asked the boy, curious that he caught the exchange.
“You totally just gave muscle-dude the eye about some of those dudes over there and there,” Randy said. Before he pointed to them, I held out my hand to stop him.
“No, don’t point, and for God’s sake, don’t whisper. Both draw attention. Speak normally. What do you mean? What do you see?”
“That’s the same look I give my bros in the club when some douche is starting some shit. So, who are we going to have to fuck up?”
Hmm. It seems Randy the Useless Wonder has keen eyes when he wants to use them. And apparently, the mettle in him to get into a fight. Maybe he could make a field agent. With proper training, who knows.
“So, who are those dudes? Need me to put them down?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Just tell me what you see.”
“Hmm.” Randy considered the command. I could tell he was interested because he put his phone away. “That dude is keeping to himself, but he’s got his back to the wall so no one can sneak up on him.” Randy inclined his chin towards a cloaked man standing just off the bar nursing a drink.
“Go on.”
“And that dude over there,” Randy said, nodding slightly at another hooded and cloaked man standing near a table smoking a pipe, “he hasn’t moved in like fifteen minutes. And that chick over there, the one wearing dude clothes, is listening to the serving girl’s conversations.”
