by Cory Barclay
When he arrived at the building, he looked in all directions. He turned east and saw a small group sitting in a circle, toward the edge of the bazaar, away from the crowds. They didn’t seem to be selling anything—they had no stalls or booths set up—which he found odd.
Drawn by the strange group, Steve walked toward the circle. He noticed they were all small, elderly characters, conversing loudly or arguing. He wondered who let the retirement community out on a field trip during such a cold night.
To his amazement, he recognized someone in the group.
Lig, the Lees’ household brownie, was speaking with a small woman, also with wrinkly skin and gray hair. The brownie noticed Steve as he approached, his big eyes growing even larger in his sunken skull. He seemed scared to see Steve.
“Ah, a familiar face,” Steve cheerily said as he walked up to the small creature. “How’s it going, Lig?”
Lig frowned. “What are you doing here, wafer-man?”
“I could ask you the same, my friend.”
“My peoples gather here every season. The browniefolk congregated on this rocky bluff long before the Others set up their wares for trade. They have congested our ancestral grounds.”
Steve scratched his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. You don’t want them here, I’m guessing.”
“They bring unwanted attention to Bayfog.”
Steve nodded. He hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Lig said, “You’re going to ask me how Annabel is doing. And I will tell you how the banshee fairs, if you promise not to tell the family you’ve seen me here.”
“They don’t know you’re here?”
Lig scoffed, putting a tiny hand to his tiny chin. “Of course not, fool. I am a house brownie. We’re expected to stay in the house.”
Like a house cat, Steve thought. Surely Lig is treated better than an animal, though . . .
He felt sorry for the diminutive creature. “You have my word, Lig. Your secret is safe with me.”
Lig studied Steve, then turned to his female brownie friend. She said nothing. Facing Steve, Lig said, “Annabel is in despair. She grieves over your loss, like a little girl might feel over a dead pet fish.”
Steve thought the analogy was a bit harsh, but he understood Lig’s point. He didn’t know whether to feel good or bad about what he was hearing. He didn’t want her to be sad, of course, but he also felt hopeful, since she missed him. Then, he felt guilty, because her sadness was his fault. His mind was a rollercoaster of emotions.
“Her sorrow also stems from having to marry her returned fiancé.”
Steve snorted. He didn’t like hearing this “Amethyst” character referred to as her fiancé.
Over the low din of sellers and buyers behind them, Steve overheard a loud voice: “Unfee, you scoundrel! Have you been hiding from me?”
Steve spun around and saw Geddon between a row of stalls, walking to the front of a tent. The man he’d described stood in front of the tent flap, talking with a black-haired woman who wore filthy clothes. When Geddon arrived, facing the lanky man, the woman walked away.
“Shit, I’d better get going,” Steve said.
“Yes, wafer-man, you’d better,” Lig replied. As Steve started to hurry away, the brownie added, “Nothing about this to my masters!”
“Of course not!” Steve called over his shoulder. A moment later, he was beside Geddon, Kaiko, Selestria, and Barns.
Unfee had a humanoid appearance, but Steve could tell he wasn’t quite that. The veins on his pale neck and hands seemed to protrude too much and were too purple . . . a very distracting quality. He had crafty eyes and a cunning smile.
“Geddon, I venture my messenger reached you,” the man said.
“He did. And you have the paintings?”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me.” Unfee opened the tent flap and motioned for Geddon to enter the tent. It was large—larger than most any other tent on the summit. When Steve tried to follow Geddon, Unfee said, “Two of your friends will have to wait out here. It gets . . . stuffy.” Steve assumed Unfee didn’t trust them, that he wanted to be able to keep his eye on everyone inside.
Barns and Kaiko decided to stay outside, to keep guard. Steve and Selestria followed Geddon. It was dusty and stuffy inside, with only a few covered candles to light the place. Paintings hung from the soft ceiling, and trinkets adorned the tables and ground. It was like stepping into a busy watchmaker’s shop.
Geddon immediately beelined for the hanging paintings, of which there were four. Another stack was piled on the ground.
Unfee said, “The stacked paintings were all made on Mythicus. These four hanging ones were taken from Terrus.”
Steve was bummed he didn’t have a better grasp on painters. He thought he might have noticed an invaluable piece sitting there—a lost Monet or something.
Geddon glanced at the first three paintings, then came to the fourth, hanging near the back of the tent. Selestria gasped when he took the framed work from the shadows and laid it on a table.
Unfee smiled devilishly. “I see the Portrait of a Lady catches your eye, sir. It is a fine painting—an oil on canvas by Gustav Klimt, believed to have been finished in 1917. It was acquired by the Galleria Ricci-Oddi in Piacenza, Italy, in—”
“Nineteen twenty-five. I know its history,” Geddon snapped. He was lost in a trance while staring at the painting. He put his fingers on the glassy frame and caressed the woman’s face.
She wasn’t attractive, in Steve’s opinion, but looked like a white-faced geisha from Japan, in a very lively, expressionistic style. He’d heard of Gustav Klimt before, so this painting must have been priceless. He suddenly wanted to know its history and wished Geddon hadn’t cut off Unfee’s monologue.
Geddon turned to Selestria, who was also studying the painted woman. In a low voice, he said, “So?”
Tears welled in Selestria’s eyes. “This is it,” she said.
Geddon stood to his full height. “We will take it, appraiser. For the agreed price, of course.”
“Of course,” the art dealer said.
Reaching into his jacket, Geddon came out with a hefty leather pouch of coins. Judging by the clinking, Steve estimated there must have been at least a hundred gold coins in there, just like the one he had in his back pocket.
Geddon handed the weighty bag to Unfee. He took the linen tablecloth and started wrapping it around the priceless object.
“H-Hey,” Unfee said with a small frown. “That’s my tablecloth . . .”
Geddon gave him a single, cold stare, and Unfee sighed.
Once done wrapping the painting, Geddon hefted it under his arm like a briefcase and said, “Let’s get—”
A piercing scream split the night outside the tent.
It was much louder than the regular, constant wave of bartering voices.
Geddon shared a worried look with Selestria.
The flap swung open and Barns came barging in. For the first time since Steve had met the burly man, Barns showed the first signs of real emotion.
Panic. Mixed with anger.
“The bastards have found us,” he snarled. “We’ve been betrayed!”
Geddon swore under his breath.
The screaming outside intensified. Loud crashing sounds of stalls and booths being overturned filled the air.
Steve didn’t want to step outside to face whatever awaited him. His feet felt glued to the floor. He’d been joking when he’d imagined Francesca the Third leading him into battle . . .
“Steve!” Geddon called again, snapping his fingers.
Shaking the glazed, vacant look from his eyes, Steve came to. He stared at Geddon with sheer terror on his face.
Geddon grabbed him hard by the arm, keeping the painting tucked under the other. “Come on!” he said, then burst out of the tent.
The scene outside was chaos. Men dressed in black coats and iron, black helmets walked in from the fog. They surrounded the marketplace like a group of
disciplined zombies. They had spears and swords in their hands—real swords!
People ran screaming from their stalls as the black-garbed men calmly desecrated anything in their way.
Some of the sellers tried to protect their goods—their livelihoods—but it was a poor decision.
Steve watched as an angry merchant circled around his booth, his fists up to his chin. He spouted curses at two descending marauders. From a distance, Steve could tell the marauders had soot or ash darkening their faces.
The wiry merchant leaped at one of the blackguards but was easily pushed aside. Steve’s eyes bulged as everything went into slow motion. The blackguard swung his heavy sword around and buried the blade in the seller’s spine. Blood spouted like a geyser from the wound. The man gave out a sickly cry before sinking to the ground.
This all happened less than twenty feet from Steve.
He felt Geddon pulling him again. He didn’t need to be convinced twice—he ran like an Olympic sprinter down the 100-yard dash, toward the lighthouse and the horses.
Kaiko and Barns protected their backs as Steve, Geddon, and Selestria made their escape.
Glancing over his shoulder, Steve saw Kaiko had some sort of blunt staff in his hand—a pole from a knocked-over tent. He spun the weapon around in fluent circles in front of him as two blackguards approached.
Barns had only his fists, but they were big, heavy fists.
A blackguard descended on Kaiko with a spear, lunging forward. Kaiko sidestepped and brought the pole down on the enemy’s arms with a loud crack.
Steve spun around so he could see where he was running, but the fog made it difficult. It seemed to have seeped into the summit when the mystery men appeared.
They arrived at the lighthouse, along with a few other frightened people. A stranger tried to grab the reins belonging to Barns’ big warhorse.
Steve cried out at the stranger as the man un-looped the reins from the pole.
Selestria flew in, her hand shooting out like a cobra, catching the man in the throat.
With a gurgling sound, the man clutched at his neck and collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Steve finally got the knot out of Francesca the Third’s reins. He jumped on her back, but she backpedaled, sidestepped, and made things very difficult, out of fear.
After spinning around in three circles, Steve could finally see straight. He was facing east, away from his friends. He wheeled the horse around to face Geddon.
His eyes shot back to the east and he saw Lig in the distance, with his little girlfriend. A menacing blackguard with a dark cape was stepping toward the brownie couple.
Steve clenched his teeth and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. He was shooting off before he realized what he was doing.
“Steve!” Geddon called after him.
The blackguard walked calmly, his back facing Steve. He unsheathed a curved blade when he was a few feet from the two brownies. Lig and his friend shook and hugged each other, petrified.
As the blackguard lifted his blade high, Francesca the Third bore down on him.
At the last second, the marauder must have heard Francesca’s hooves rumbling the ground near him. He looked over his shoulder—
Steve leaped at him from the saddle like a spider monkey.
Steve collided with him and they both went tumbling to the ground, the curved blade flying to the grass.
Air exploded from Steve’s chest. He stared into the pale eyes of the enemy and fought for his life. Focused only on staying alive, he rolled around on top and then under the blackguard.
With the blackguard’s weight bearing down on him, he felt himself losing what little air he still had. Hands clenched tightly around his neck. He could smell what the man had eaten for lunch, could see his sharp yellow teeth locked in a grimace.
Steve was ready to let go, to drift off into oblivion. He was getting weaker, the edges of his eyes darkening . . .
A blade pierced through the marauder’s neck and blood poured from his mouth, onto Steve’s face. His body slumped, his full dead weight piling on.
In shock, Steve tossed the dead man aside. Panting and heaving, he wiped the slippery blood from his face. Selestria stood over the blackguard, his discarded, curved sword in her hands.
Steve got to his knees and struggled to stand.
Lig ran up and threw his arms around him, hugging him fiercely.
For whatever reason, Steve had rescued the brownie’s life.
Lig whispered something in Steve’s ear, then caressed his cheek and disappeared into the fog, with his little friend.
Steve had no time to comprehend what Lig had whispered. He stood on wobbly legs and leaned on Selestria as the blood rushed to his brain.
“Where’s Geddon?” he asked, taking in the chaotic scene all around.
“I told him to leave—he has the painting, which is all that’s important right now.”
Steve’s mouth fell open. It hadn’t expected such an act of cowardice from Geddon, and the look of dismay must have shown on his face.
“I forced him to, Steven Remington. He didn’t wish to flee—” she cut herself off, reaching for her horse’s reins. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Come on!”
Steve gathered his wits. He jumped on Francesca’s saddle.
He saw Barns and Kaiko in the middle of broken tables and tents, surrounded by four black-cloaked marauders.
It seemed the rest of the marauders were gone from the summit—vanished back into the fog.
Selestria and Steve went charging toward their allies.
Kaiko was bobbing and weaving, fending off sword blows with deft, circular motions of his staff.
Barns had found a nasty, broken piece of wood and was currently sticking it into the neck of one of the enemies.
Selestria whistled and found the reins of both Barns’ and Kaiko’s horses. She bundled them into her hands, which slowed her down, and Steve and Francesca took lead of the charge.
Steve arrived on the scene but decided against jumping from his horse like a madman this time. Instead, he screamed, causing Francesca to whinny and start kicking in all directions.
Kaiko and two of the marauders were drifting away from the flailing horse. They fought with mad abandon, while Francesca trapped the other two bad guys in her vicinity.
One of the marauders took a hoof to the face and dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The second started fleeing, back toward the fog.
Steve turned his head—
Just in time to see a spear skewer Kaiko in the stomach.
Barns roared like a man possessed. He smacked his bloody, broken piece of timber on top of one of the marauder’s heads, smashing his skull like a ripe watermelon.
Kaiko fell to his knees. He clenched his jaw and bared his teeth as blood seeped down his chin. He tried to stand but a spear was in his side, making it difficult.
He reached out to grab the spear . . .
The marauder smoothly pulled it out and stabbed Kaiko again, this time in the chest.
The blackguard peeked over his shoulder and saw Barns had caved in his friend’s head. That was enough incentive to make him flee, his black hood flowing behind him as he dropped the spear and took off.
But, Barns was huge, with long strides, and he caught up to the enemy within seconds. He tackled the marauder and they went flying through the air.
Steve and Selestria jumped from their steeds and knelt beside Kaiko, who was on his back.
Tears were streaming down Selestria’s face.
Steve heard the loud, sickening crack of a rock or other heavy object coming down on the marauder’s head. Steve thought about saying something, to spare the man’s life, to use him for questioning . . . but Barns was having his way, growling and roaring in futile anger, blood splashing him from nose to knees.
Kaiko coughed and tried to smile at Selestria. He took the woman’s hand in his and nodded, gulping down blood. He surprised Steve by taking his
hand, too. His grip was cold and clammy.
He looked up at Steve with a blank stare. “You’ve proved your worth, b-braddah. I saw you . . . save . . . the little folk. T-That’s what a Kinsman would do.”
Steve was confused. He felt hot tears pooling in his eyes. He’d known Kaiko about a month, but that didn’t make him any less of a friend.
“S-Save him, m’lady,” he said to Selestria, his smile bloody. “You have the . . . m-means now.”
Selestria petted his shaggy hair and leaned over him, letting the tears fall on his chest.
Steve clenched Kaiko’s hand as hard as he could. He couldn’t be sure if Kaiko’s words to Selestria were directed at himself or someone else entirely.
By the time Barns came back from slaughtering the last man, the Hawaiian Menehune, Kaiko, was dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RIDE BACK TO OLD Town was a somber affair. They rode in earnest, in case some of the blackguards decided to double back. Selestria led the way, as she seemed most familiar with the cliffs and roads.
Barns and Steve had trouble keeping up. Steve’s entire body hurt from colliding and rolling around on the rocks with the blackguard. He could still feel the handprint of the man’s strong grip around his neck.
Halfway through the ride, when they felt they were out of danger, Steve started shaking uncontrollably on his horse. His adrenaline had worn off and was replaced with exhaustion and fear.
The image of the blackguard—his blood gushing from his mouth and pierced neck—kept playing in Steve’s head. The man’s blood had cascaded onto Steve’s face like a waterfall, getting in his eyes, mouth, and nose. He instinctively spit, still able to taste the man’s blood in his mouth.
Steve had saved Lig, but he was also aware Selestria had subsequently saved him. If she hadn’t shown up, he would’ve been a strangled corpse and Lig would have been dead, too.
