The Broken Reign

by Jeremy Michelson

  Something whizzed by him and struck the trunk of one the smaller trees. Arrow. He slapped the reins to the horse’s neck.

  “Giddy the Fuck UP, damn you!” he shouted at the horse.

  The horse just snorted and kept the same pace.

  Two more arrows whizzed by him. He leaned down low on the horse's back, trying to make a smaller profile. Of course, now he was inviting them to shoot arrows in his ass. Which, on second thought, was probably more survivable than getting shot through the heart.

  The shouts were getting more distant and the arrows stopped whizzing past him. He risked a backward glance. The men were falling behind. Anta Vin’s people must not have had horses.

  A small bit of luck for him. Not that it meant much. He was stuck in some crazy barbarian world where his Grams was apparently the devil. He was on the run, a soft city bred man in a harsh and wild land.

  Grams, what have you gotten me into?

  Ten

  Lord Fortune

  Lord Fortune sat upon the Bramblevine throne, scratching his nose. Three days ago the world shifted. It was subtle, but noticeable to him. The color of the gray winter sky was off. Just a hair. Dark gray, but not too dark. Except now it was. Fried eggs tasted different too. The chickens had started laying eggs with larger yokes. He wasn’t that fond of yokes. They left a gassy wake through his intestinal tract.

  Yord the Dog groveled his way into the drafty and dark throne room on all fours, bringing his perpetual wet dog smell with him. Even after all these years Lord Fortune wasn’t used to the floppy ears and fluffy tail Yord sported. That and the way he scratched fleas with his leg, thump, thump, thumping on the cracked stone floor.

  “My Lord–Yip! Pardon me, my Lord. General Hemdell has returned from the field,” Yord said, “He begs an audience with you. Rrrrarf! Pardon me.”

  Lord Fortune sighed. The itch on his nose had traveled to his chin and he vigorously scratched his graying beard there. Was Yord bringing fleas into the castle? The apothecary has promised him the last solution of nasty smelling stuff would do the trick. He looked at Yord, who quivered with anticipation. The tip of his tail wagged.

  “Very well, send him in,” Lord Fortune said.

  Yord didn't move, his eyes fixed on a spot near Lord Fortune's right foot. Sighing again, Lord Fortune bent down and picked up the leather ball lying there. Yord's rear twitched back and forth and his eyes gleamed. A low whine escaped his throat. Lord Fortune had long surmised that there was some sort of herding dog in him. Yord was a very good secretary and building administrator. He enjoyed having a great deal of work to do.

  In a way, that bitch, Amaya, had done him a favor, turning his brother halfway into a dog.

  He threw the ball through the archway leading out to the great hall. Barking madly Yord went running after it. If he wasn’t so good at his job...

  Moments later Yord came bounding back into the room, leather ball in mouth, General Hemdell following in his wake. Yord deposited the ball at Lord Fortune’s feet, then retreated to his spot behind the throne.

  General Hemdell, tall and aristocratic looking, gave Lord Fortune an exaggerated bow. He was wearing his light leather armor today. The red and brown leather was stamped and embossed in elaborate patterns. The man spent a lot of gold on looking nice.

  Lord Fortune wondered where he got it from. Certainly not from him. Fortune was a name, certainly not a description these days. Unless it was ill fortune. If he still had the family fortune he would have hired a stone mason to fix the drafts in the throne room. Or maybe just tear the whole pile of rock down and build something new.

  “My Lord Fortune, I am grateful for the audience you have given me.” General Hemdell said. His voice was rolling and melodious. Lord Fortune considered ordering Yord to bite the man in the balls. How melodious would the general be then?

  “Have you found anything?” Lord Fortune asked. He drummed his fingers on the ancient wood of the Bramblevine throne.

  “Yes, my Lord, I have indeed found something,” Hemdell said, “Or I should say my spies have found what may be the cause of the disturbance you have felt.”

  “Well? Get on with it.”

  General Hemdell stroked his manicured beard. "My Lord, approximately one day ago, a stranger was brought to the castle of King Hurdroth. A red-haired stranger."

  Lord Fortune sat upright. "Red-haired? A woman?" His heart was pounding, and his palms suddenly clammy with sweat. If she was back...

  The general gave him a smile as if he were a not very bright child. “No, my Lord, a man. But he claimed to have come through a portal, from the other world.”

  Lord Fortune slapped his sweaty palm on the throne. “Impossible. The bitch destroyed all the portals before she left.”

  “That was what we were led to believe,” Hemdell said, “But what if she kept the one she left through? Perhaps out of sentiment. Or perhaps in case she wished to check on, shall we say, the integrity of the treaty?”

  Lord Fortune rubbed the side of his nose, thinking furiously. What if...What if...

  "It could be," he said, "I wouldn't put it past that sneaky, unholy wench." He looked up at Hemdell. "But what of this red-haired man? Who is he?"

  “From the report of my spies, the man did not seem at all the warrior. Though it was told that he was of good size, broad of shoulder, but perhaps lacking in muscle.”

  “Go on,” Lord Fortune said, leaning forward.

  “He seemed confused and spoke of a painting that fell on him and his Grams. He said he found himself in a snowstorm and rushed to a nearby cave where he was captured by a warrior. The warrior took him to King Hurdroth’s castle. They were questioning him when the man passed out after having a single cup of mead.”

  “Then King Hurdroth still has him?” Lord Fortune asked, “Then perhaps we can negotiate a–”

  Hemdell coughed politely into his hand. "Unfortunately, the red-haired man escaped from Hurdroth's castle. In his escape, he also set fire to the castle and burned the King out of it. He is rather upset."

  Lord Fortune sat back. “Oh. That’s not good. Where is the King now?”

  Another polite cough and Hemdell looked away. Lord Fortune’s heart sank. Not good at all.

  “I’m afraid he and his men are outside your gates right now,” Hemdell said.

  "What! You could have told me that right off, you traitorous cur!" Lord Fortune screamed. He leapt up from the throne. Behind him, Yord growled.

  “I have actually come to negotiate the surrender of your castle, my Lord,” Hemdell said, “I would not recommend asking for concessions, as the King is not in a good mood, and is anxious to get out of the weather.”

  Lord Fortune sat back on the Bramblevine throne, his body heavy and limbs weak. The seat of power that his family had held for generations. Until now.

  The world had shifted more than he thought.

  Eleven

  The Gray Witch

  The Gray Witch sat naked before the small fire pit and watched the fragrant smoke curl and eddy across the rough stone ceiling. Patterns formed and drifted apart among the broken rocks. A gust of icy wind blew in from the cave entrance, erasing the big pattern that had been forming.

  She muttered a curse at the wind. But not too loudly. She didn’t feel like pressing her luck. Not with what the smoke had been forming. A day of reckoning was being foretold.

  Maybe.

  The patterns wouldn’t coalesce. It was hard to tell just what was going on. It felt like something bad, though.

  “What do you see, sister?”

  The Gray Witch didn't look. Instead, she focused her eyes on the smoke, curling up from the green branches she had laid on the fire. She ran her hand over her smooth, shaved skull. Her entire body was shaved of the offending hair.

  “It tells me little,” she said.

  Footsteps behind her. The Gray Witch could imagine her delicate, blond haired sister, Javanae, stepping gingerly over the bones that littered the threshold. Wrinkli
ng her dainty nose as the odor of decaying flesh and the bitter herbs burning in the fire. She never liked the dirty work. Which was why The Gray Witch knew she was happy to let her sister commune with the smoke.

  “Something has happened, I can feel it,” Javanae said, “Mother feels it, too.”

  “I doubt that,” The Gray Witch said.

  “She does. She stirs and moans,” Javanae said, “Since three days ago. Something has changed the fabric of the world.”

  The Gray Witch shook her head. “The world is the same as it always is. There is something else in it though.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. The smoke won’t show me.”

  Her sister put her delicate hand on The Gray Witch's shoulder. The Gray Witch closed her eyes. The touch of warm flesh on her own cold skin. She tried not to think of the perfect little hand, with its clean, shapely nails and soft, soft skin. Skin that did not suffer the abuse of work. Javanae's distress must have been great to touch her naked, foul-smelling sister. But oh, to be touched at all, what a pleasure.

  The Gray Witch gave a small, sighing shudder. Her sister knew her weaknesses. How could she feel such hate and love at the same time?

  “You know something, don’t you sister?” Javanae asked.

  The Gray Witch did not shake the hand off her bare shoulder. A second hand touched her other shoulder. The Gray Witch could not help herself, a tiny moan escape her lips.

  “What have you seen, dear sister?” Javanae asked.

  Her delicate hands moved across The Gray Witch’s shoulders, pressing down, lightly kneading the flesh. The Gray Witch felt a shaming warmth spread out from her loins. But she did not move away from her sister’s hands.

  “Something has entered our world. Someone.”

  “Someone? Who?” The delicate hands continued to move over The Gray Witch’s shoulders. The Gray Witch couldn’t help herself. Silent tears slid from between her eyelids.

  “I could not see,” The Gray Witch said.

  “How did this someone enter our world?” Javanae asked, “There are no more portals, are there? The Death Queen made sure of that, didn’t she?”

  The Gray Witch shivered at the thought of the Death Queen, Amaya. So much power. If only she had that power. Even a piece of that power would be enough to change The Gray Witch’s life forever.

  “There is much we do not know about Queen Amaya,” The Gray Witch said.

  The delicate fingers suddenly stopped and dug painfully into her shoulders.

  “Do not use that name,” Javanae said, “She is the Death Queen.” The fingers released their grip and went back to massaging The Gray Witch’s shoulders. “Do you think she kept a portal for herself?”

  What the Gray Witch knew with certainty about Queen Amaya could fit in a teacup. She had been born well after the short reign of Amaya. Most everything she knew was filtered through the fear and hate of the adults.

  “I don’t know,” The Gray Witch said, “She had such power, she could have made one if she wanted.”

  “Do you think so? Where did the portals come from anyway?” Javanae asked.

  “They were brought here by the First Ones,” The Gray Witch said.

  Javanae sighed and the hands stopped and slid off her shoulders. The Gray Witch bit off the cry that wanted to leap from her lips, begging for the touch to continue.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Javanae said, “Keep divining the smoke, sister. Something has happened. We need to know what. The world isn’t safe for us now. If things get worse, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

  Soft footsteps padded away. The Gray Witch waited until they were gone before opening her eyes. The smoke had formed a perfect image of her sister’s face. The Gray Witch waved her hands through the fine and delicate lines. The smoke swirled and drifted apart.

  Muttering a curse, The Gray Witch threw more bitter herbs on the fire. She bent down and blew on the weak flame. Embers glowed, tossing sparks into the air. Smoke curled around her naked body like the caresses of a spirit. There was something different in the world now. The smoke would tell her what it was. Eventually.

  Twelve

  Joshua

  The horse stopped running when it came to the gorge. Joshua slid off its back into the deep snow. This time without planting his face in it. He held the reins tight and inched closer to the edge. Cold air slapped at his face and the breeze brought the scent of something musty to him. The gorge was a huge, wide gash in the earth, stretching as far as he could see in either direction. The huge trees had thinned and gotten smaller as he and the horse approached it.

  Joshua had been hoping for something else. Maybe an airport. Or a Wal-Mart. Something that told him he was close to civilization and still on his home planet.

  Instead, he got a seemingly impassable gorge.

  Briefly, he glanced down into it. He made out a river far, far below, before dizziness made him retreat. He pulled the reins and stepped back several yards, crunching in the deep snow. He looked at the horse.

  “What the hell do I do now, Damnit?” he asked.

  At some point in their wild ride, Joshua decided the horse needed a name. He’d been shouting Giddy-up Damnit every few seconds. The name seemed a natural fit. Not that he and the horse were bonding that well.

  Damnit snorted and shook his head at Joshua. Joshua sighed and tried to pet the horse on the nose. Damnit snapped his teeth at Joshua’s fingers, barely missing them.

  “You’re no help,” Joshua said.

  He had no idea how far he had ridden. No idea how fast his pursuers would follow. No idea of which way to go.

  “You don’t happen to have wings hidden somewhere, do you?” Joshua asked Damnit.

  The horse snorted and looked away, as if embarrassed to be there. Of course, the horse was a native. He probably would have gone a different direction if Joshua had let him.

  Joshua wondered how Vazsa had made the horse fly before. He remembered there was some kind of red ball that she threw. But not much after that. It all happened rather fast.

  His eyes lit on the fur wrapped bundle Vazsa had thrown on the horse before they escaped the castle. It seemed like a hundred years ago now. He was surprised it was still there. There weren’t any ropes holding it in place and the horse didn’t have a saddle.

  He made his way to the back of Damnit with caution. The horse had already shown a fondness for nipping at his legs and other protruding body parts. Joshua grasped the furry bundle and pulled. There was an electric-like crackle as it resisted for a moment, then it came away. He overcompensated and ended up with his butt in the snow. Damnit gave him a shake of his head, then nickered something that sounded a lot like laughter.

  “If we happened to pass a glue factory, I’m leaving you there,” Joshua said.

  The horse ignored him and pawed at the snow, looking for forage.

  Joshua’s cold-stiff fingers fumbled with the fur wrapping. Maybe there was an inflatable house in there. Or maybe a grilled cheese sandwich. His stomach rumbled, reminding him his last meal was becoming a distant memory.

  “Shut up stomach,” he said, “Go chew on the reserves for a while.”

  He’d been a little chunky all his life. Eating was a compensation for an absent father and an emotionally distant mother. That’s what he told himself, anyway. Sitting all day in front of a computer didn’t help either. He kept thinking about starting some kind of exercise program.

  Damnit butted his head against Joshua's side. At first, he thought the stupid horse was finally being affectionate. The horse pushed at him again and Joshua realized it was just trying to get at some grass he was sitting on.

  Joshua stood and moved a few feet away, taking the bundle with him.

  “I know when I’m not wanted,” Joshua told the horse, “I’ve been getting that all my life.”

  The horse let out a long, blubbering fart that ended with a squeak. Joshua moved even farther away, over to a rocky outcropping. He had never con
sidered the notion that horses passed gas. Which made him feel stupid. Of course, horses passed gas. They probably passed a lot of it, eating so much fiber and whatnot.

  There was an overhang of stone that had blocked the snow, leaving a relatively bare patch of ground. Joshua backed into it, grateful to be out of the breeze. He sat on the cold rocks with the bundle in his lap. Maybe there was a pair of gloves in there. Gloves would be freakin’ awesome.

  He unwrapped it, folding the fur back to reveal...sticks. No, not sticks. He picked one up, looking at the ends. Tightly wound scrolls of paper. With stiff fingers, he partially unrolled one. It was filled with indecipherable markings. They probably made sense to someone, but not him.

  He dropped the scroll back on the bundle. He shifted through the pile of scrolls, hoping for a piece of beef jerky. Or gloves. Gloves would still be awesome.

  There was something beneath all the scrolls. His fingers touched something hard and flat. He knocked the scrolls aside and pulled it out. A large knife in a plain leather sheath. His cold fingers fumbled at the hilt, pulling it out. The blade was dark gray and pitted. Rust dotted the edge. He tested it on one of the scrolls. It cut the paper, though reluctantly.

  Great. A bunch of useless scrolls and a dull, rusty knife. He looked up at Damnit. The horse had its rear end pointing at Joshua as it continued to paw at the ground.

  “This really isn’t turning out to be one of my better weeks,” he said.

  The horse snorted, but otherwise ignored him. Joshua tried to tamp down the rising panic he felt. As he saw it he had three paths available to him. One, freeze to death. Two, starve to death. Three, wait for Anta Vin’s people to catch up and kill him.

  You are not much of a hero.

  “I’m not any kind of hero,” he replied to the memory.

  Suddenly it made him angry. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He had just been trying to help Grams out of the house and her stupid, cursed painting fell on them.