by J G Jerome
Ismael shrugs. “Dragons are susceptible to ‘influence’ abilities. You just have to be careful to get their attention prior to them eating you and be careful not to scramble their brains once you have them. The Lord...”
“Farouk,” I interject.
“...Farouk is convinced that he can still do it with the six remaining Sidhe,” Ismael finishes.
“Can Farouk use ‘influence’ abilities?”
“No!” Ismael exclaims. “Only the Sidhe can do that!”
I look at him intently for a moment. “I can, Ismael.” I drain my bottle of water and squish it. I stuff the remnant back inside the plastic of the case. “I told you my name is Jack - Jack Jerome to be exact. I am what is known as the Green Lord.” I wave my left hand at him. “I have the ability to use powers of creation to heal, influence, and control people of many races. I am essentially the same race as Farouk, but I also have a very small bit of Elven heritage, too. Additionally, I am also the reigning king of the Goblins.” I take a deep breath and release it.
“I’ve come to end the Dread Lord and all his line. I killed Hakim.” Ismael’s eyes get big at that. “Now I am hunting his father. I need to get to this dragon before Farouk does. How do we do that?”
Ismael is incredulous. “You killed Hakim? He was nearly as deadly as his father and maybe more vicious. He killed all three of his older brothers and all his younger ones above the age of sixteen.” He wipes a hand across his face. “I have a map, but I don’t think we can beat him on the roads. We can’t beat him by going cross country.”
“We’re going to have to. First stop Camili?”
Ismael nods. “Okay we need to get to the top of the ridge.”
“Okay. Let’s do that.”
Ismael crushes his bottle and stuffs it inside the plastic wrapper.
I stand and tell him, “Hold the case tightly to you. We’re going to do two blinks in quick succession.”
“Bloody hell,” Ismael mutters.
I focus on the apex of the ridge where there appears to be a bit of an incline up to the top. I aim about ten feet above that, grab Ismael’s collar, and blink. I look down from the air, and find a nice flat spot several hundred meters forward. I blink again just before we reach the ground.
I release Ismael, and he doesn’t move. I look at him, and his eyes are squeezed shut. He mutters, “Bloody Elves. They are the bane of all existence.”
I chuckle, and he opens his eyes to frown at me. I tell him, “Don’t judge one until you get one into your bed. I think you will find that Elven ladies are quite worth keeping around.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. I tell him, “One of my wives is a High Elf, and one of my concubines is a Drow. Very worth getting to know!”
*Thank you, husband!*
*Lili?*
*Yes, husband. Just checking you’re okay. We are in the air on our way to Kuwait.*
*Thanks, Lili. I’m trailing the Dread Lord. Stay safe, my Darling wife. (smile)*
*Yes, my Lord Husband. Love from all your ladies plus Miranda, Adele, and Victoria - our flight crew. (smooches)* I feel her disconnect from my mind.
“Let’s see that map, Ismael.”
He pulls the map out of his cargo pocket and hands it to me. “Do you have a compass?” I ask.
“Nope. I have a calibrated eyeball,” he answers.
I orient the map to the terrain based on what I know of my starting position. Something doesn’t look right.
“Ismael, where are we going again?”
He points up the mountain to our left. He points up the mountain.
“Hey Ismael, that is Peynirli. Güles is about eight miles due east over that ridge,” I say as I point in the direction of Güles while I watch Ismael.
He turns to look me in the eye and says, “Listen and obey, Jack. You will go where I tell you to go.”
He’s strong! Fortunately, he will need a lot more power than what he has at his disposal to take me. Let’s see what his defense is like.
“Okay, Ismael. Listen and obey!” I push my brain into his. His expression goes slack. I think, ‘That was way too easy.’ “Ismael, tell me why you are leading me to Peynirli.”
Ismael responds, “The Lord is waiting there. The dragon was seen there and in Camili. He’s setting up in Peynirli first. If I survive to deliver you to him, he will give me Dalia.”
“How much of what you told me before was lies?” I ask.
“None. He planned to refuel in Güles. Dalia is carrying my baby. I love her. She loves me. I have to win her freedom!” Tears run down his face.
“Ismael, the Dread Lord will not give her to you. From what I know of him he is much more likely to gut her, bury your face in her viscera, cut your throat, and ass-fuck you until you’re dead. Which of those two futures seems more likely, Ismael?”
He drops to his knees on the ground and covers his head in his hands. “Please, Jack. Kill me. You are right. There is no hope for Dalia and me. If you kill me at least she will still survive.”
I put a hand on top of his hands and wrap his soul in warm, unconditional love. “Ismael, as long as you both draw breath, there is hope. If you had told me this up front, I would have gone with you. Tell me the name of the Dread Lord.”
He looks up at me, “Farouk bin Jaber Al-Sabah. He’s nearly 150 years old and barely looks a day older than you.”
I nod at Ismael. “We will still go to Peynirli. Now we don’t go as victims, but as hunters. We will find Farouk, and I will kill him.”
A wind blows in a small cyclone and resolves itself into a person in desert camouflage robes.
20 - On the trail
The figure standing before us has features that remind me of Zandra.
I say in my terrible Turkish, “Would you be Zahra Sadik?” She nods slowly and carefully. “I am Jack Jerome, the Green Lord. I ask permission to marry your daughter.”
She gives me a brilliant smile and again nods slowly and carefully.
“I am hunting the Dread Lord. You call him the Grey. He is traveling with six others. Do you know where they are?”
She points up the mountain and speaks a single word. “Peynirli.”
I tell her, “He is hunting a female dragon. Is he likely to find one there?”
“No,” she says. “The old man of the mountain is there - the original bearded dragon from our stories. He is watching for the Grey.”
“I would like to ensure the old man doesn’t get troubled by the Grey. Can you lead me to the Grey?”
“No,” she answers with a gentle shake of her head. “Ask the Rock People.”
“Rock People?” I ask to demonstrate how with it I am.
She nods, “Tall like a mountain tree, skin like gravel, long teeth.” She points into a shallow valley to the north. “Rock People.”
“Do they speak my language?” I ask.
She shakes her head slowly. “Persian.”
I look to Ismael. “Do you speak Farsi?” I ask in English
He shrugs, “A little. Not much worse than your Turkish,” he replies in broken Turkish.
I mutter in English, “Asshole.”
“Cheeky Yank,” he responds with a grin. I roll my eyes.
I turn to my soon-to-be mother-in-law. I tell her in Turkish, “Many thanks for your assistance, Zahra. I hope to see you at the wedding.”
She grins at me before she responds in flawless English, “I look forward to it, Jack. Take care of my daughter.”
I laugh out loud, “Yes ma’am.”
She winks at me and spins into the wind.
Ismael chuckles, “I don’t think Turkish is her native language either.”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure it’s Farsi or one of its earlier forms. From what my regent told me, the Rock People are probably Rock Trolls. They are one of the Goblin races, but they pretty much keep to themselves. I expect them to be underwhelmed by my ascension to the Goblin throne. Let’s go find out.”
It’s damned col
d. I think, ‘I’m happy for my coat’ as I reach out and grab Ismael’s collar. Then I blink as close to the valley as I can get in one jump. We’re about fifty meters away, so we start walking warily forward. As we pass between two large rocks in the dry grass, one of them moves. It stretches out and pushes off the ground on arms that are nearly five feet long. Suddenly it launches toward me with a reaching hand.
I blink between his legs. Yes, it’s obviously a him. Then I punch upward into his balls before blinking next to Ismael, and blinking him out from between the two Rock Trolls. The second one is squatting on the ground watching. The first one is probably eight feet tall or taller. I’m guessing the second one will be about the same, but I can’t tell how big it is as it is keeping fairly compact in it’s posture. They have long, sharp tusks like a Goblin, but the rough texture of their skin makes them look otherworldly. I imagine that if you bred the Ents from the Lord of the Rings movie with skinny Goblins the result would look like Rock Trolls. The one I punched is holding onto his package and moaning on the ground. I blink back in and touch his arm. Then I numb the nerves in his groin and give him a trickle of healing energy.
Then I blink away. I ask my helm, *Eliana, how am I doing on power reserves?*
She replies, *One hundred percent, Lord. You’ve done this all on your own. I haven’t helped you at all. You’re getting stronger, Jack.*
I respond, *Good. I’m going to need it.*
I ask the Trolls in English, “Do you understand me?” Both Trolls look at me quizzically.
I try in Turkish, “Do you understand me now?” The first one still doesn’t get it, but the other one holds a large hand up with fingers slightly apart.
It responds, “Little.”
Ismael asks in Farsi, “Do you understand me?” Both Trolls look at him and nod.
I tell Ismael, “Ask them if they have seen Farouk’s party.”
They talk back and forth, and the Trolls gesture and point up the mountain.
Ismael turns to me. “They will lead us to him. They want to take the entire tribe.”
I shrug. “Okay. Tell them not to look into the eyes of the pretty ones.”
Ismael translates and then chuckles at their response. “They think Sidhe are ugly because of their horrible smooth skin and lack of tusks.”
I smile.
He nods and speaks to the Trolls. They nod and then launch into the small valley running on all four limbs. They are FAST!
Ismael sighs heavily. “Okay, you cheeky Yank. Let’s follow along.” He puts a hand on my left shoulder and hugs the water to him with his other hand.”
I blink right behind the Trolls. I wait a minute, and then I do it again. I stop there as we’re right inside the mouth of the valley surrounded by the pines, cedar, and juniper trees that are native to this land. In the shadows, I see four more large figures. They wave us forward. The largest one that sits in the back of the valley reaches a hand out slowly. I reach out and shake his hand. He withdraws it and points a long finger at me. He says one of the words that Turkish and Farsi share. “Şah.” I nod as he recognizes me as his king. He bows his head with restraint and respect. I return the gesture. Then he shows me the scariest smile I think I’ve ever seen.
Ismael tosses me a water, and I drain it. Then I grab a spare and put it in the pocket of my coat. Ismael gives each of the Trolls a bottle. They each twist the tops of the bottles off carefully. One by one, they tilt back their heads and squeeze the water into their open mouths. We leave the empties in the plastic of the case.
Then we head up a trail out the back of the valley. It’s nearly mid-morning. I’m guessing it’s roughly 9am. Surprise isn’t going to be in our favor. The Trolls bolt up the trail, and I blink along behind them with Ismael in tow. I keep the jumps short and assess the terrain at each stop.
After we go about a mile up the trail, the Trolls all stand on the side of the trail. The males point their hoses down the mountainside to the right of the trail. The females squat and tilt their hips forward and pee in the same direction. I shrug and add my stream to the deluge. I put Little Jack away as they all turn and head uphill to the left of the trail.
We climb slowly and carefully. We work our way up the hill slowly. Eventually we come upon some fields and pass them without disturbing them, staying inside the edge of the forest of squat trees to the east and north of them. We move slowly as we circle the open fields, watching for farmers tending the fields.
About two hours after we left the trail, we are all sitting inside the fringes of the forest to the north of Peynirli. There is an open, rocky pasture between our position and the nearest buildings, which are about two hundred meters away. There are some sheep in the pasture, but no sign of shepherds or dogs. The Trolls all sniff the air, but shake their heads. They’re not finding anything. There is a sparse stand of trees that follows another trail into town from the north. I slink in that direction. Ismael follows along. Two of the Trolls move quickly and quietly behind us. They are freaky in how they make no noise as they move on all fours like huge lizards. The leader stays with one of the females near the back of the pasture. Another pair circles around the pasture to the south.
The treeline takes us right up to a small house built of stone and a matching barn. I watch and listen. I don’t see anything that is disturbing, but I expected to see people out and about. At 9AM in a farm community, I expect people to be out working. Apparently not so much in winter. No one is about. Suddenly one of the Trolls hoots softly. It points to the barn. I make my way slowly to the barn door facing the pasture. I check with the Troll, and she bobs her head up and down. Her partner nods, too.
I walk up and slowly open the barn door and slip inside. Farther back, sitting in a ray of sunshine on a pile of loose hay is an old man with a long grey beard. He smiles at me with a feral grin and his eyes glow gold.
He says, “It’s about time you showed up, Jack.” He spoke in English.
21 - Old Man on the Mountain
I look at the old guy. He appears ancient, yet strong and vibrant.
“I suppose you are the one the Djinn call the ‘Old Man of the Mountain.’ How do you know who I am?”
Ismael asks, “You okay, Jack?
I nod at him and return my attention to the old guy.
He grins. “My granddaughter called a local that I visit frequently. She said she met the Green Lord, and his name is Jack Jerome. She hopes to reveal herself to you the next time she meets you. She would like you to give me a great grandchild. I will let her make her case when you next see her.” He takes a big breath and releases it. “So Jack, why are you here?”
“I’m hunting the Dread Lord. The Djinn refer to him as a Grey. Essentially, he’s the same race of being that I am, but he chose a different path than I did.” The old man nods at my explanation.
I say, “I keep thinking of you as ‘old man,’ and I find the term lacking in respect. Do you have a name?”
He nods, “My given name is Xerxes. The Persian kings of that name are likely named after me. My surname translates ‘Sharp Claw of Fate,’ but it’s a horrible mouthful in my original language. I usually use the Persian words ‘Klô’ and ‘fāt,’ which loosely translates to ‘claw of fate.’ Most people call me ‘Father,’ or ‘Grandfather.’ I’ll let you pick.”
I nod, “Xerxes, it an honor to meet you. My name is Jacques Guillaume Jerome. Please call me Jack.” I walk closer so he doesn’t have to get up to shake my hand.
Xerxes grips my hand firmly and gives it a gentle shake. He chuckles. Then he asks, “What do you know about your race, Jack?”
“The Elves told me that genetically Green and Grey are essentially the same. We have powers. Those powers require a bite of Sidhe flesh to activate. The Greys make a choice to focus on hate rather than love. It mutates their powers. I don’t know exactly what their abilities are. Mine are what Elves call ‘powers of creation’ - growth, healing, manipulation of living matter - all derived from using love as a superp
ower. The powers of the Greys appear to be the opposite. Based on what I saw from Hakim, their powers are destructive and delivered by nanobots. Assuming the Djinn story is correct, my people, the Sidhe, and the Dragons came from space. The Djinn claim the ‘small hairy people’ were plentiful when we arrived - I’m assuming that means Brownies were here. The Elves said we arrived before humans were human, and that they came afterward. Essentially, I don’t know much - just a bunch of bits and pieces.”
He nods as he looks at me. “Generally accurate; however, they are not the mutation, Jack. You are.”
I was hoping to hear the Djinn had it wrong.
Xerxes continues, “I suspect you are in a hurry, so I will give you the short version of our history.”
“Okay,” I respond. “My friend is Ismael.” I sit in an open handcart in the shadows. Ismael shakes Xerxes hand and sits beside me.
I grin as Xerxes readies himself. He starts, “Long ago, in a galaxy far, far, away…”
I groan, and he laughs. I tell him, “The direct path please, Obi-wan.”
All three of us laugh. Then he starts again.
“Our people actually do come from a different galaxy. There were four races that together became a space-faring power. The Dragons were the warriors. The Sidhe were the psionics. The Elves were the technomancers and navigators. The Kraatchok, or as the Djinn called them - the ‘Greys’, were the warlords. They subjugated the Sidhe and the Elves in nearby systems within thirty-five standard years of becoming a space-faring world, about forty of our years here in this system. They used the Sidhe to control the Dragons, and another twenty standard years later the Dragons were subjugated. The Elves created technologies that made the Kraatchok’ ships nearly invincible to the civilizations in that galaxy. The Kraatchok bred with the Sidhe and the Elves, and over time they both developed longer lifespans that were nearly half of the Elven lifespan of roughly 1,000 standard years, or 1,200 of ours here. The dragons don’t have a defined lifespan. Most died in battle or through murder; very few aged and decided they no longer wished to live.”
