Lancelot and Talon.

 

Talon and Lancelot.

Within the massive city of Oculus the crown jewel of Norica, through its mighty geared furnaces, past glorious inventions, prosperous laboratories, a single mansion posed on noble hill shuddered with strife.

Panting, Lancelot awaited the next assault, rapier in hand, wig discarded to clear his sight.  Looking over the railing at his opponent with grim reality.  Love is painful. “I have the high ground, surely you can see reason in this matter.”

With a grunt, a short sword cleaved rope, as the chandelier rocked, its weight pulled down by gravity. The man below rode the severed strand up, easily vaulting the railing twenty paces from Lancelot. Expensive glass shattering upon the polished marble foyer causing Lancelot to wince in dismay. Drawing a black powder pistol once firm purchase was obtained the man brushed black curly hair from his face.

“Reason? That is rich coming from you, bastard!” Barked Talon, pulling the hammer back on the pistol.

Lancelot ran a hand over his bad head, before reaching for the banister. Confused sadness marking his voice. “I warn you sir, you are about to make a mistake most foul.”

Breaking into a run Talon leveled the pistol with his charge. The floor parted as Lancelot pulled the banister lever leaving a gap heading down to the foyer. Leaping the trap, Talon dove tucking into a roll. Springing up, only to have his pistol bearing hand caught at the wrist as Lancelot grappled with the man.

“How dare you make this impersonal! She told me everything you two did, confessed!” Hissed Talon, losing his grip on the pistol as Lancelot jabbed a nerve cluster near his armpit.

“She is lying!” Was all Lancelot could get out as Talon used his superior strength to heave the man away.

Gasping for air, Lancelot flipped back to his feet, clicking his heels. The spurs on his boots whined as they rotated rapidly in a whirl, powered by the tension wound springs. Parrying an incoming strike from Talon with a back kick, sparks showering from the impact.

Rapier met shortened blade, as Lancelot added more kicks into his defensive dervish. Snarling, Talon withdrew before thrusting out an arm, palm facing Lancelot. A sliver of steel exited the opening in the man’s palm. Cursing, Lancelot ducked nearly taking the projectile in the face.  Seizing the opportunity Talon grappled with Lancelot, hands seeking his throat. Pressed against the railing, Lancelot fought for breath, stars dancing on the edges of his vision.

“Dad? Father? What are you doing?” Came a tiny voice followed by a petite yawn.

The pair stopped in mid motion, muscles tensed and minds reeling. Heaving for breath, Lancelot composed himself first. Eyes of five winters blinked blearily as the girl yawned again, watching her fathers. A clockwork bear tucked under her arm that rarely ever left her side, ragged and worn.

“Uhhhh, we were talking, is that not right, Talon?” Lancelot said, expression begging for concurrence.

Blowing wig strands from his mouth, Talon smiled quickly with tension. “Yes, your father and I were just talking, roughly and loudly. What are you doing out of your repose chamber, Zelda?”

“I could not reach sleep. The room is too cold after Regina left.” Answered the child.

Looking to the other, puzzled the pair considered Zelda. “What do you mean your room is too cold?” Ventured Lancelot.

Hugging the bear close, Zelda shrugged. “Regina put me to bed and went out the window, I could not shut it. Who broke the hanging glass
?”

“We are sorting that out. How about Daddy tucks you in and your father can meet me in the kitchen and help clean up the glass?” Talon said with a smile, the heat of conflict making it awkward to present proper subterfuge.

“Sounds like a smashing idea, Daddy. I will give the house a once over to make sure there is no…stray glass.” Replied Lancelot.

Kettle whistled as the steam rocketed free. Lancelot sat slumped at the counter back to the door. Sensing Talon at the doorframe, Lancelot sighed as he poured the boiling water into a teapot that lacked a handle.

“My long rifle is missing.” Lancelot said.

Talon chewed his lip; grateful he did not have to look at the man he accused so recently. “She is tucked in and sealed up. It will not open until morning. Why would Regina take your rifle?”

“I could care less of the firearm. Why did she say we coupled? Even further, why did you believe that nonsense?”

Talon leaned on the opposite counter; regret etched in flesh. “She was in the guest chamber, sleeping with your tunic on.  When confronted she told me that you two had been having a tryst for nearly a month.”

“And of course, with your temper, I see. I would never sleep with the help; it is just crass.” Lancelot said turning to his husband.

“I would not blame you if we parted ways. I have no words to amend what has been done.” Talon said with growing misery.

Sliding to his feet, Lancelot slipped an arm around Talon, edging his husband closer. “I broke a thousand hearts before I gave you mine. I will not take it back any more than I would let you throw out this teapot.  Let us have tea, and then sort out this enigma that Regina has woven.”

“When I get my hands on that bitch…” Talon started, massive muscles tensing. Glancing at the teapot, the man leaned Lancelot upon his shoulder calming slowly.

“I was so nervous that night. It felt as it the world was ending in slowest most hideous way. I was late for our first viewing.” Talon said with a wince.

Pouring a cup Lancelot passed it to Talon with a reassuring smile. “The attendees were awful at that café! Two men is service to the King and they somehow managed to run out of tarts when already paid for?”

“I was so tense; I broke the handle off the teapot.” Talon said nearly laughing at the memory.

“What ever happened to the handle?” Lancelot asked as he had so many times before.

Taking his husband’s hand in his own, turning it over before raising the hand to his lips. Kissing the bonding band of silver smelted and forged from the handle of the pot, Talon’s eyes never left Lancelot’s, leaving him feeling renewed and balanced.

“It is somewhere safe.” Came the answer as always.

Finishing tea the pair rousted the servants from their guest house and proceeded to the study knowing the help would ask no questions as was tradition until the dawn.

“She has my long gun. What events are happening this evening?” Lancelot asked.

Talon rolled his eyes, “You jest? It is Baroon Uncle to the King’s birthday. We were invited to attend the event by the Seneschal. I was not going to go because I am no good with nobility and would be easy prey for the Seneschal.”

“There is no love lost between he and I either, yet…” Lancelot mused.

Snapping to his feet, Lancelot’s mind reeled. “We have to get to that party!”

Tea forgotten as the pair made their way from the lavish house to the stables. “Which one are we taking? I like Strider.” Talon said, donning a pair of goggles.

“She takes too long to warm up, we are taking Bruce.”

Making a face Talon gripped a sheet cloth and yanked it free, stirring dust from the old chariot. “I think you are being too nostalgic about this, Lance.”

Clucking his tongue, Lancelot led a massive steel laden horse from its stall. The whine of steam wisped from its ears. Muscle met gear as steel hooves clanged on the floor of the stables.  Patting the flanks of the steed, Lance grinned as the horse’s eyes flashed from red to green. “So, call me old fashioned. All styles have retroactivity. Let us be off in the name of Norsica.”

Dashing through the streets of the industrialized Oculus, Lance felt the chill of the air and danger brewing.  Carts maneuvered out of the way, yet the road grew clogged with carriage and pedestrians. Cursing, Lance made a rude gesture at a man on a smaller, faster, mechanical horse.

“Toll house ahead! Light the authority lantern, we could use the short cut.” Barked Lancelot, already angling the chariot towards the structure.

Bearing down on the wooden structure the man sitting on the roof nervously gripped the handle as Talon lit the golden light on the lamp. The flickering flame signaling the man on top of the house. Yanking the lever, gears trundled, rope and pulley whined as the house split open, folding on itself by panels. A woman cried out as she was forced to move the kitchen table before it was run over by the colossal mechanical horse.

Beyond the house led into an alley, steel hooves sparking off cobble stone. Picking up speed as the road dipped. Talon clutched the railing standing over his husband.

“How do you know she is out to kill the King?” Talon asked.

Unable to resist, Lancelot maneuvered himself to rest his back against the chest of his husband. “She kills him using my rifle, leaves the rifle. Everyone knows my gun. She shoots and wounds him. Proves that we are inadequate, the Seneschal has us replaced with guards of his recommendation. She gets caught; she is under my employ. Too few reasons not to make the attempt.”

“And the irony to consider. The Seneschal planted her in our laps. Such a slap in the face once realized.” Added Talon.

Gritting his teeth, Lancelot spurred the horse on, “Precisely.”

Ferrell the Farmer 13 Cont.

Ferrell buried his head in his arms, weeping. His cousin Xavier sat next to the farmer, hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “The matter was quite clear. Aideen was accused of conducting forbidden rites and when approached about it she attacked, sealing her guilt. She was executed as a heretic worshipping outlawed gods.”

The farmer shook his head, his heart stuttering as he prayed it would just stop all together. “It cannot be true! She would never.” The rest of his words lost in warbled cries.

“She killed seven of a dozen skilled men, one of the survivors will never walk again. Such skill was not granted naturally but fueled by forces one should protect themselves from. I did everything in my power to make sure those same charges were not leveled against you, cousin.” Xavier explained, though he was growing impatient quickly.

Pounding the table top with his fist, Ferrell grit his teeth. “I want to see her body. I want to bury her and tell her family.”

Looking about the quaint cottage, Xavier adjusted the crude chair. “You know that is not possible. This is now a delicate matter of diplomacy. I am having her remains taken back to the Isles. I will go and inform her kin; your presence would just entangle things I am afraid.” The man kept his words light, almost reluctant to proceed.

Lifting his head, Ferrell’s bloodshot eyes streaked with tears over his shaven face. He had been married to Aideen only a winter and a half. His will and resolve bleeding out of him through his feet. “Will you carry a message for me?” The farmer asked as the emptiness in him grew.

Xavier’s look softened, reaching in a satchel for quill and parchment. “Anything for you cousin.”

Ferrell relayed a message as Xavier forced himself to write it out, unsure if the farmer was still unable to read. “What will I do without her, Cousin Xavier?”

Patting Ferrell’s arm, Xavier rose to his feet. This part he at least practiced for. He needed air and more so to get away from this now depressing place. “I am sorry for your loss. You stepped outside the grace of the Emperor. Mourn and then resume your singular role. You are a farmer and the Empire needs you focused upon your profession. Produce and do so again. You are part of something greater than what you experience, remember that.”

Dipping his head back into his hands, Ferrell shuddered. “Thank you, Cousin. You have always been good to me.”

Snapping his booted heels together, Xavier half saluted the farmer. “I strive to do my best, cousin.”

Exiting the cottage, Xavier heaved a sigh. The farm seemed very still, the hair on his neck standing on end in dread. Ravens dotted the trees of the orchard facing Xavier silently. The pair of cows pushed against the fence almost as if staring at him. No, glaring? A large pig in its pen finished eating one of its young, looking to Xavier as if the man was next to be eaten.  “Yer gonna pay for that.” Came a voice to his side.

Almost leaping out of his boots, Xavier snapped a look towards the voice. A pair of guards he had left outside amused themselves with a dice game. Clouds scrolled overhead growing dark and heavy as the first rumble of thunder came forth. This normal looking farm appeared more and more threatening to the Empire diplomat by the moment.

“Let us be off.” Xavier said stiffly and quickly.

Days passed, the farmer constructed a coffin with bleary eyes, his hands barely able to work the hammer to bring the wood together. Filling the humble box with her belongings, adding the last bottle of Mule Cider she was fond of. Selecting a spot at the entrance of the orchard the fertile earth parting easily as he worked his shovel. Ferrell decorated the mound with quartz and rose quartz as the fields yielded an abundance of the stuff.

It was a custom of the Isles to celebrate ones passing but Ferrell’s heart could not rally to the tradition though he did get drunk often. Three winters sped on by, Ferrell did not shave or cut his hair, his clothes threadbare. Working the land, he seldom spoke to anyone when he brought goods for sale to the nearest post and only coming when there was no other choice. All the neighboring farms had been raided by bandits or orcs until the people around him fled for safety or died. All save for his farm.

** *** ***

Tills put his back into his effort to turn the stuck wheel. “Damn! Full stop! Full stop!”  The ship plunged through wall of clouds, men clamoring over the deck as the Captain kept calling for the ship to cease its movement.

“She’s stuck, Cap’n! The throttle has been wanged open wide!”

A pair of dark shapes flashed overhead bringing a hush among the men. The lookout cried out, “Wyvern! Starboard!”

Tills slammed a hand against the wheel, issuing orders. “Man the quad guns! Raise the barricades!”  Grabbing a man, the Captain hissed. “Get to the engine room, see what can be done.”

“Aye, Sir!”

The Wyvern abandoned stealth, commanded by their riders to come at the ship from the front. Strafing the craft, the first rider cast down a javelin piercing a sailor through the back. The other held a ball fire in hand pitching it at the deck. Crimson flame washed a section of deck, catching the wood and men in its greedy wake.

Gauges cracked as the gears fought to keep moving forward, steam leaking from cherry red pipes. Lady Dana gripped a post as the ship rocked, the robed figure of death peeking out from the doorframe of the engine room. “I will wait my turn if you do not mind.” The bard said to the imaginary figure.

Quad guns were useless against the speed and agility of the smaller Wyvern. Bolts slipping away into empty air. Coming around for a third pass, the winged reptiles tore into the sides of the ship, their claws extended with honed steel tips. The riders of the beasts were swathed in muted green cloth, a single strip of white lashed over their eyes. Tills fired a crossbow, planting the bolt in the rider’s side sending the attacker plummeting.

Roaring in rage the now unguided Wyvern banked at an impossibly sharp angle, landing on the upper deck of the ship. Its wings tangling in the rigging leading to the bulbous armored balloon. Laying into men from side to side the creature snapped a sailor in two in its jaws. Spears began to dot its thick skin, driving it mad as its thrashings increased.

Kicking the door open to the furnace Dana peered at the single palm sized blue flame as it danced with concern. “I am rather sorry about this. If I happen to survive this, I am going to need your help.” The bard said to the flame with hurried regret.

Picking up a slender, polished wooden box, Dana flinched as her forehead banged into the cusp of the furnace as the ship lurched to the side. “Hey what do you think you are doing? Step away from her!”

Wrenching the pistol from her bag, the bard cocked the hammer back pointing it at the sailor. The man held up his hands, his face desperate. “Are you mad?”

Wincing, the bard shot the sailor through the leg. “I am rather sorry about this. Please accept my deepest apologies.” Waving away the smoke from the shot, her ears ringing from the loud bark of the pistol.

Doing her best to ignore the screaming man, Dana opened the box, herding the cool flame into it. Snapping the box shut, the bard shoved the object in her satchel. Scaling the stairs Lady Dana lost her balance as the ship casted sideways the Wyvern destroyed the last of the rigging on one starboard side. Sliding along the planks, chipping her nails as she desperately clawed at the deck. Hooking her arm on the bottom of the deck railing, her legs dangling over the side of the wounded ship.  The ship slowly spiraled down like a broken toy, men cried out as they fell to their deaths. Thick forest drew up to meet the ship, the other Wyvern rider casting more fire into the ship.

Again, the robed figure of death appeared, laying on the deck at an impossible angle, tickling at her elbow. Steeling her breath, the bard let go as the burning ship began to trench through the trees. Hands scrambling for any form hold. Nettles scratched her skin, coming away in her digits as green wood bent failing to stop her fall. Battered about the bard finally hit the ground. Her tunic bore a hole near her shoulder that came away with blood when she touched it.

“That worked out so much better in my head.” Groaned the bard, feeling for more injuries.

The snapping crash of trees brushed away her current thoughts as the ship ploughed through and came to a final rest, small fires dotting the deck and ports of the destroyed craft. The wails of men as the survivors staggered about trying to find their companions.

On unsteady legs a sailor headed her way, “Where’s the Cap’n?” the man asked as if the bard would know. Lady Dana froze, taking in the thing behind the sailor. Tall and slender, its skin purple like the bruises forming on her body. Lithe naked muscle from the waist up, a strip of white cloth over its eyes tucked behind long pointed ears.  In a lightning motion the creature snapped a cord around the sailor’s neck pulling it tight strangling the man.

Lady Dana scrambled to her feet, running away from the murder taking place.  Sharp ears tracked her movements as it calmly strangled the man. Dropping the dead sailor, it sprinted after the bard. Not daring to look back, the bard ducked under branches, twigs snapping under her feet. The cries of men carried through the forest.

An arrow sprouted in her back sending the bard down. The ground gave way, the air rushing around her cheeks as she impacted with underground river.  Unable to reach the arrow, Lady Dana clung to a damp log which broke, carrying her further down the river. Using the satchel strap, she tied herself to the log. Water swept the bard out and into the sun as the river came above ground. Death stared waiting at the bard on the other side of the log as the river calmed. Forcing her legs to kick she got to shore at last. Checking the satchel, she found the pistol was missing but she still had the box. Breathing was a chore and becoming more difficult by the moment.

Crawling up the embankment Lady Dana painfully made it to the edge of the road that lead to the farm country. An ill kept man walked the road at a ponderous pace with two cows in tow. Death flicked the fletching of the arrow in her back. Holding out a hand to the man, she struggled to find her voice. He moved like he did not see her.  She tried to speak only to find no words came forth. Feebly taking up a stone she lobbed it at the man, striking him in the boot before her eyes shut.

The bard stirred, half an eye opening she could make out the road, she was draped over one of the cows the man pulled behind him. Death stood in the middle of the road, growing smaller with every step of the cow. “Better luck next time.” She whispered to the imaginary apparition before passing out again.

*** ***

The creature had been seen, the pride of its people and clan were now in question. It would have no choice but to track down the violator even if that meant going outside the bounds. Sharping more arrows for the hunt to come, it would bring back the head of the female human…

*** ** ***

Ferrell the Farmer 13

Episode 7 Part 1

*** ** **

Rothman did his best not to leer as he sat naked with Lady Dana in the luxurious steam bath house. She was an exotic beauty, one of the last Silvians that had not been murdered by the Empire. They were a peaceful people, founders of many a philosophy and profound wanderers. Leaning back on the warm marble bench the bard considered the Lady. “So ye have heard from me. How did ye meet de’ farmer?” Rothman asked casually.

Lady Dana’s eyes darted to the ceiling, steam swirling above. Her voice wavering, growing tight. “I am to mentor the prince today and you would desire to sink my heart? Almost nightly I weep for that man, be it one tear or a glass worth.”

Knitting his brows, Rothman felt for his student. “A good bard kin change their heart in less thn’ a breath.”

Wiping at her eye, Dana nodded accepting the challenge. “That is a skill I hope to never master easily.”

*** *** **

The capital of Silvia being overrun and burning reflected in the bard’s eyes. Cannons snapped, finally toppling the massive statue of King Tristan the Even Handed. Plumes of smoke clogged the air as libraries and factories burned. Below, grey uniformed men swept the streets like rats piling up and dragging down the golems animated to protect the city one at a time.

Lady Dana found her eyes dry; she had used her tears up weeks ago at the news of her brother’s death as he and hundreds of others tried to defend the outer cities. All that remained was resignation of what was inevitable. The Nosican king refused to reinforce the Undying Emperor but allowed the Empire’s armies through his land, directly into the weakest point of Silvia to the west.  Turning away from the scene the bard faced her captor. It had been easy work to convince him that she was no threat, so shackle and binding were not required. They were already so high up that escape would only end in her death anyways.

Captain Tills of the air ship Wave Dodger skirted the city, working the wheel to veer away. Pausing to pack more Grak into the side of his mouth, Tills spit expertly over the side of the medium sized ship. “We are wastin’ time they never leave anything behind worth looting.” Complained, the first mate to the Captain.

Adjusting his belt under his gut the captain muttered, “Aye, we got our prize already. Set a course for the Tower, three fourths ahead.”

The Captain was keen enough to set to men ready to seize the bard as the order was given louder for all to here. “Set spans for the Tower, three fourths ahead!”

Holding up a hand to show she was not going to leap off the side, the bard set her gaze coolly on Captain Tills. “How much?” Dana asked simply as she straightened her tunic.

Tills averted his gaze in shame as the helmsman took the grand wheel. “Half your weight in platinum. You will receive every luxury my humble crew can provide and I swear you will arrive with your virtues intact.”

Staring a hole through the captain, Lady Dana stopped herself from snorting. “Not that it would matter after the visit to that cursed place. My thanks Captain Tills.” The last of her statement dripping with sarcasm.

Whipping his head up, Tills lumbered closer to the bard his breath reeking of cheap Grak. “I have done all I can. A man does what he needs, to keep on.”

Turning on her heel, Lady Dana walked the deck away from the Captain. “Sooner or later the litany of the Emperor will come for you. By his own words. What I create is good. That which bends to me is favored. That which serves survives. The rest is clay to mold or discard.”

Pausing at the entrance to the cabin areas, the bard shook her head in pity for the Captain. “How does it feel to have the same value as clay?”

Tills refused to look her way, spitting over the side of the ship as he pretended to busy himself with other matters, checking the rigging and issuing orders.

*** ** **

The Captain had altered the course, choosing a black route. Air pirates often used the gale winds near the mountain tops to gain speed and surprise slower ships from above. It seemed her words inspired guilt in the man and he chose to get the matter over with as quickly as possible. They were still eight days out but the maneuver and route cut off at least three. It also brought more concern as talk among the crew grew quieter and horror stories were passed about.

They were uncomfortably close to the lands of Unseen. The murderous creatures had holed out a section of the Empire’s western border. All attempts to contact the creatures received no response as the messengers never came back from the mist riddled forests and mountains save for one. Even that sole survivor died from infection after they cut his eyes out. They used the severed heads and stripped skins of less fortunate men to mark the bounds of their lands. What they even looked like was up for debate as well, no one could say with certainty. Other than they were tall, fast and did like to be seen.

In her cabin Lady Dana checked through her satchel. A few maps that could only be read in various lights, a compass and her quills. They had taken her books likely to sell them on the Dark Market. Scooting her bed, the bard began to paw at the floor, knocking softly. Pirates and smugglers did not even trust their own so there was a good bet something of use was hidden in the room even from the master of the ship, Captain Tills.

Noting a drain grate under the tub, the bard would deal with that later and kept searching. Her efforts were finally rewarded after tapping a knothole in the wood grain at bed height were the original comforter was placed. Whistling as she pulled a double shot Javin black powder pistol from the small compartment. The gold plated inlay of a snarling, wingless dragon, wrapping around the brown hickory. This was quite a beauty, its light weight obviously from being mixed with star metal unlike the bulky rifles the dwarves used. This was a gentleman’s weapon for display but it appeared serviceable. Slipping the pistol in her bag, Lady Dana set about removing the bolts that held the tub to the wooden floor.

The rivets were loose from some service in the past that involved pulling them out, making her task almost too easy.  Pulling the grate gingerly, the sound of the steam engine chugging grew louder. Slipping into the hole, her hands and knees soaking with rotted sludge and trickling water. She did not bother replacing the grate, the tub was out of the way and it would just be wasted time on subterfuge.

Measuring her crawl, the bard counted mentally paces; falling back on Waldo Zyke’s lector on airships from nearly three seasons ago. Save for the Javin and Dwarven blimps, most airships were pretty much the same according to the scholar. On the side of the tube lay a circular hatch. Working the wheel of the hatch she found she had to adjust and use her leg muscles to work it open. The stench was deep and Dana did not want to imagine what was in the sludge. Slipping out with a good deal of water and waste, the bard looked at her hands with distaste not using them to fix her hair as was habit.

The head engineer snoozed, bottle of rum in his lap the harmony of the piston steam engine music to his ears her presence undetected. Slipping past the man Dana considered the engine. Now the choice; was she to die causing the ship to crash into a mountain or be torn apart by the nearly unknown? Taking up a steel wrench she tossed it into the gears leading to the engine on what she thought was the port side. The steel met greased brass, gears locked as ship veered sharply to right.

Chiding herself Dana forgot all movement starts from the stern. Instead of the mountain she sent the ship into the territory of the Unseen…

Ferrell the Farmer 9

Quarter Master Rupert Schumacher dug a groove into the wooden table top with the sharp tipped hook of his left hand in irritation. Before him stood one of the wagon men. “What do you mean the barrels are empty?” Rupert words snapped with heat.

The man swallowed, “As I said, sir. The dwarves took the silver and gave us empty barrels and told us not to come back.”

Stamping his right peg leg into the ground Rupert grabbed a crutch to steady himself as he stood. “Dwarves do not cheat. Did you insult them?”

Hobble stalking the retreating man, the Quarter Master pressed on as the wagon man pleaded. “No, sir. Things went as they always do. Except an encounter with an Imperial checkpoint well over the border and they shot Fritz for not listening to them quick enough!”

Placing the flat of the hook under the man’s chin, Rupert ground his teeth, body shaking. “Send word to the King. Work has slowed but with the new workers we might not need the powder. Go.”

As the mand went to leave, Rupert turned the hook, carving a groove near the man’s collar. The wagon man clutched at the wound as Rupert shook his head. Adjusting his wig, the Quarter Master smiled as a pair of guards dragged a struggling stout woman with her hands bound behind her back. Mock bowing to the larger lady, Rupert continued his smile. “Lady Meriwether. It has been a long time. I had hoped to run into you earlier but as they say, all ships eventually meet again.”

Spitting at the Quarter Master, Meriwether jerked a kick at the man. “How’s yer arse? Noah’ mind, see it moved to yer face.”

Wiping at the spit, Rupert jutted a chin towards an empty area of the camp. “Bring out the post and one of the workers. The Lady and I will catch up over and evening meal. Have the man whipped until the Lady calls to take his place.”

Trying to surge forward Meriwether spit at Rupert again finding herself held in place by stronger arms. “I take ‘is place now. Is it true the frost took yer bits too?”

Rupert had survived by the sheer hatred he had for the woman before him. His hand, taken by a bitch of a Baroness. His right leg at the knee by frostbite in the frozen wastes of the ocean. His body would forever shake with Kuru, doing what he had to do to survive and claim revenge. The time for retribution was here and he would savor it.

*** **

Ferrell dropped the heavy sack in the back of the wagon. The sound of metal came from the container leaving Cedric curious as to the contents. From the dark silhouette of the fort a light signaled. “They are calling everyone back to the fort, sir.” Spoke one of the sailors.

Nodding the farmer climbed in the back of the wagon. Opening the sack for a peek Cedric found his hand around his dagger as he looked from it to the back of Ferrell. In all his life he had never seen such wealth, beckoning with the circular golden gleam. It would be so easy, a knife plunge to Ferrell’s back, a kick to knock the sailor off the wagon, round up his sister and flee. Still even if he took out the farmer it would be two on one and he did not know their skill with a blade. With a breaking heart the bandit closed the sack before climbing in beside Ferrell.

At the fort chaos brewed as Lance had come down with Gnat. Swords out they kept the orc at bay, shouts of alarm raked through their ranks.  Ferrell leapt from the wagon putting himself between the orc and frightened mob. Gnat signaling that she eat many of their faces.  “She is with me, any man that wants to get her will go through me.” Ferrell called trying to gain order.

Lance proved to be more effective, standing with Ferrell. “And ye will have to git through me! We need all the allies we kin git. We do not git luxury of choosing who serves wit’ us, stand down!”

Walking arm and arm with a blushing Blane, the duelist took one look at Gnat and screamed in a tight trill before fainting. The female bandit barely able to hold up the unconscious duelist and settling for laying him down somewhat gracefully.

Raking a hand over his face, the farmer listened to the sounds of blades being set back in their sheaths though their hands would not leave hold of the weapons. Lance gave forth the latest news of the mine. “They have brought more of our captive brothers. And sisters.”

The latter part of the statement shook the men, many of them shaking their heads. “We canna fight dem, then.”  Said one with sorrow.

“Tell us everything.” The farmer stated grimly.

The report was indeed bad. They had brought in nearly every surviving captured islander. Along with the additional one hundred and fifty, a score of soldiers had been sent to reinforce. Most of the soldiers did not enter the camp, instead they were directed to break ground to start construction on a garrison fort to oversee the mine. Most disturbing to the men was news of the arrival of their female kin. The women were transported in a special, wheeled cell, with guards nearby under order that at the first sign of revolt they would slaughter everyone in that large cell.

One man cast down his sword followed by another.  Bewildered Ferrell looked to Lance for an explanation. “They won’t fight if they think not doing so will save the women. I am sorry, it is over.”

Ferrell felt frustrated and overwhelmed with hopelessness. “There has to be a way. We just have to find it.”

Blane fanned the fallen duelist with concern. Shamus moaned opening his eyes, “I saw the most horrible thing. A green pig that walked like a man. I hate pigs. Fucking hate them.”

*** *** ***

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 6 part 6

The farmer instructed Cedric to journey to Stringburg and buy as much explosive powder as he could with the gold that Ferrell had harvested from the previous invaders of his farm. The bandit helpfully offered to have Blane come along with him and to his surprise Blane turned her brother down. The two broke into an argument in their created language. Cedric watched in dismay as his sister walked away nose high in the air. Crying angry tears, the bandit snapped the reins of the cart, guiding it on its way in the early morning.

Blane joined Gnat, Lance and Ferrell on the ridge. Passing out hardtack Blane settled in on a branch of a tree watching the activity at the mine. “There be no blasting fer the last day. I be thinkin’ the powder is wet maybe?” Lance said as Ferrell stayed glue to the long viewer.

The farmer focused on the rolling cell. It was sealed and armored and nearly thirty paces long and twelve or so wide. It took ten horses to move the thing. There was a front and rear entrance barred like a cell and half a dozen windows with bars. Four guards at both entrances, the wagon was centered in the clearing with no tents within thirty paces of the cell. That left no way to sneak to the structure.

A lookout tower had been set up near the road, the platform could only hold one man, and he would either have stand the majority of the time. They finally had enough manpower to send out a patrol to search out the escaped prisoners that had broken free nearly four days ago. Sooner or later they would cross the border and spot the fort they were using. The soldiers kept the workers weak with little food, water and rotated them often enough to make restful sleep even more difficult.

“I am starting to think there is no powder.” Reasoned the farmer finally setting the long viewer down.

“What if we get word down to the workers that we are going to rescue them?” Blane asked.

Lance shook his head as he tossed Gnat an apple. “They wonna do a thing until they know de’ women be safe.”

Gnat chewed the apple her fingers working in sign, growing impatient. ‘Fight them. Fight them all.’

Ferrell patted the orc on the arm, putting on a hopeful face. “Soon. We have to be smart about this.”

“What about getting word to the women, then?” Blane asked coming down from the tree.

“How would we go about doing that? It is not like I can get close enough to shoot an arrow through the window with a note.” Ferrell said, tapping the long viewer on his thigh.

“Simple. I will let them catch me.” Blane answered, hands on her hips over the poncho.

Lance stroked the stubble on his face, considering the bandit. “Ye be pale enough but letting them just catch ye is not going to convince them.”

Ferrell frowned confusion cluttering his mind. “Blane is no woman.”

Rolling her eyes Blane skirted her poncho off and pulled her tunic up, showing her chest wrappings.

Gawking the farmer averted his eyes as the blush built in his cheeks. “How did I not see that?”

Snapping his fingers Lance grinned. “Slavers. They roam about tey’ parts, we could sell ‘er to ‘em.”

Gnat glared at Ferrell, rubbing it in. ‘Is female. Stupid Apple Man. Gnat win!’

Splaying his hands out to the orc, Ferrell sighed. “I am sorry, Gnat. You win.”

Turning to Blane next, Ferrell looked at the bandit’s attire. “You are going to need to look the part, we need to find a dress or something.”

Gazing down the mountain towards the direction of the fort, Blane smiled thinly. “I think I know where to get one.”

*** ** **

“Are all women such beauties in your land?” Blane asked, as Shamus worked on her hair.

“Yes, they are but the Nosicans wear it better. To put a woman of the Isles in such finery would shatter the world.” Replied the duelist coolly.

“Ouch!” The bandit flinched as Shamus worked a braid of hair tight.

“It will be over soon. You did not give me much to work with hacking it so short the way you do.”

“Why are you braiding it then?” Blane inquired, struggling to hold still.

Taking a deep breath, the duelist grew quiet. Looking over his shoulder to assure they were alone. “The women of the Isles have a secret language. They send messages in the way they wear their braid and color cords. I am letting them know you are there to help if you are unable to tell them aloud.”

Curiosity enthralled the bandit. “What sort of messages? How did you learn it?”

Tangling more of Blane’s hair Shamus started weaving brown cord into the mix. “Everything from, my husband has small cock, to he beats me. Messages of happiness. Seeking divorce. Things of that nature.”

“So how did you learn it?” Blane repeated herself, wanting to know more about the duelist.

Motioning for the bandit to stand, Shamus shook his head. “That is not up for discussion, perhaps not ever.”

Stepping into the hastily made dress of reworked tunic and burlap, Blane stuck her tongue out. “This thing is awful!”

“Yes, a true crime of humanity yet, it will have to do. Let’s get the corset on, come on, lively now.”

“My brother is going to lose his mind when he finds out what I have done.” Blane looked at herself in the mirror with growing uncertainty.

Standing behind Blane, Shamus studied the slender bandit. “Why are you doing this for those you do not even know?”

Shivering, goosebumps appearing on her arms thinking of the thrills and dangers ahead. “As you said. That is not up for discussion, perhaps not ever.”

“Touché.”

Ferrell sat on a stool as one of the sailors shaved off his beard. Around him sailors filed the handles of daggers flat. The wind brushing his now naked skin felt odd, Aideen loved it when he shaved. Recalling her voice in his head as she would playfully chide him about the would-be briar patch growing out of his face.

Shamus walked the common area of the fort, picking up a blade being worked on eyeing the handle critically. “Thinner.” The duelist said tossing the blade back to the sailor.

Spotting Lance the duelist’s pace became purposeful. “Where is the demon pig?” Shamus said, nearly demanding an answer of the sailor.

Lance spit to the side, unimpressed. “Sod off ye dandy.”

Shamus’s hand darted for his sword only to have the seasoned sailor get nose to nose with him leaving no room to draw. “I be havin’ me fill of yer noise. Look down yer nose at me again, I break it.” Lance’s heated words sending the activity in the courtyard into a hush.

Tense seconds passed as Ferrell rose, not sure how to break this up. Ever since Shamus had fainted at the sight of Gnat the duelist took every opportunity to verbally jab Lance about his relation with the orc. Seeing the other men standing behind Lance the duelist loosened his grip on the sword. “Just keep that thing away from me.”

Pointing away, Lance did not even blink. “Kick der road.”

*** *** **

Cedric frowned as the dwarf went on about not having any more explosive powder. The wagon was full, twenty barrels worth. “Maybe the hammers are ringing too loud but I need all the powder, Herr Rink”

The dwarf’s gaze grew intense. “We ain’t got no more. That was supposed to go to Swenton, manling. It would take time to make more.”

Cedric looked about the small dwarven community, its simple stone buildings were a façade to the intimidating fortress he knew that was many meters under his bootheels. A procession of dwarves clogged the road. Their stunted broad bodies, marched steadily. Armored head to toe, axe and shield the crest of the serrated gear on their banners. Sliding a silver over the counter to the merchant, “Who are they?” Cedric asked already knowing the standard was that of the Tonk clan.

Taking the coin, the dwarf shrugged. “Broken Nose. The war machine makers.”

Cedric balked, he could already hear his sister now. How’s that elven cock taste, brother? Passing another coin to the dwarf. “Where are they off to, Herr Rink?”

“Freeman’s Port. Won’t tell ya what it is about.”

Looking at the still mostly full sack of gold, Cedric considered running off with the remainder. His sister and the rest of those fools were going to get themselves killed trying to save a bunch of slaves. For all he knew they were already dead. That farmer is going to get someone killed. Wrestling with wanting to run or go back, his breath became rapid pouring into panic. He needed to be around her, he was nothing without her! If she was dead or soon to die, they would pay for it dearly. And the instrument of doing that was marching right on by the tomb raider.

In the center of the procession a steam powered carriage on thick iron rimmed wheels that crushed pebbles on the sturdy road. In the carriage a lone greybeard stared straight ahead. Timing it, Cedric slipped through the break in the line leaping into the carriage. Rough hands were on him instantly looking to haul him out. “I wish to open an account!” Cedric yelled, the bag of coin spilling over the table top.

Holding up two fingers the older dwarf stared at the bold man. “Release him.” Said the dwarf in a voice of deep gravel.

Picking up a small sand timer, the dwarf set it down starting the sands running. His other hand settled over a silver bar before drawing it off the table and out of sight.  “Begin.”

Wrenching himself free, the bandit sat across from the Dwarf rolling a coin over his fingers nervously. Cedric gave the details as quickly as possible, the dwarf never took his eyes off the coin as it flitted over the man’s fingers. When the time was up the dwarf gave no sign to agreeing to the arrangement and tossed Cedric out of the carriage without ceremony and little warning.  Rolling, the throw earned the bandit new bruises and a good lung full of dust stirred up by the marching dwarves.

Sitting in the middle of the road, the bandit shook his head armed with the knowledge that the dwarf did not say yes but also did not say no. It meant he was considering the offer, nothing more. Dusting himself off Cedric made his way back to the wagon and turned it about to head back to the fort.

*** *** **

The next morning Ferrell walked the road near the mine with Blane shackled in tow. He wore an Empire uniform that had been stripped of rank. A man-catcher in his off hand. “Are you sure you want to do this, Blane?” The farmer asked already knowing it was too late as they had been spotted.

The guards at the mouth of the road leading to the mine stopped the two. Quarter Master Rupert Schumacher waited curiously as the slaver and slave were brought into the camp. Swallowing hard, Ferrell recognized the man using the man-catcher to steady himself. Tilting the wide brim hat low over his eyes, the farmer was forced to play it out. Rupert examined the slave. “A bit too skinny for my liking. I will part with two gold for her.”

Trying to haggle, Ferrell deepened his voice. “Five.”

Squinting at the farmer the Quarter Master drew up from his desk. “You look familiar, sir. Where did you find her?”

“Rolling Hills to the northwest.” Ferrell said casually, chewing the inside of his cheek furiously until it bled.

“Never heard of it. Three and not a penny more.” Retorted the former emissary.

“Four and six silver.” Came the counter offer from the disguised farmer.

Rupert stared at the waif of a slave, his mind delving elsewhere. Excitement flooded his being as a thought hit. Lady Meriwether was just a mark in a book. As long as the number was maintained he could do whatever he liked to the overweight noble now. He would still have twenty rare captives. He would have to get medicine to revitalize himself from the apothecary but the idea of her suffering in the meantime was appealing.  Snapping his fingers Rupert found his smile. “Pay the man. Add two coppers for the irony of an Empire man selling slaves then escort him out.”

Blane shuffled along as the guards took her away to the massive locked wagon. Puzzlement nagged at the Quarter Master, looking at the slaver one last time. “I swear I know that man. It will come to me later I am sure.”

Ferrell the Farmer 8

News from the mine brought more confusion to the farmer. “No change? No riders leaving?”

The veteran of the mines, Lance nodded as he greedily drained a canteen of water. “Aye. They working harder but not a one has left to investigate or send word out. Which is no outa sorts for ‘em.”

“What do you mean?” The farmer asked taking in every detail.

Lance explained why the King ran things lean. One guard for every five to eight prisoners. Enough men to keep the prisoners in line but not enough to gamble on incidentals. Likely the King would send more men if there was no activity from the mine to see why there was a delay. They were also almost out of powder and expected receive some in a pair of days from a wagon team that constantly on the move between the mine and Stringburg. The Quarter Master would send silver ingots back as payment for more powder.

Turning to the twins, the farmer nodded. “How many men were on that powder wagon?”

Cedric tapped his cheek. “Two.”

“And two riders flanking.” Blane added.

The men began to cluster around, sensing the farmer was about to act. Jabbing an excited finger at the first man he saw. “Light the forge, quickly now.”

“The rest of you, tear this fort apart. I want every piece of silver you can find! Anything, candle stick, coin, spoon, platter. Go!”

Shamus snorted, tossing down a silver tankard as he finished draining it. “What are you thinking, farmer?”

“I am about to commit an act of villainy, care to help?” Ferrell grinned wickedly to the duelist.

The silver began to pile next to the tankard as the men set about their task.

** ** **

Ferrell needed word quickly from activities going on at the mine. Lance and Gnat would watch the site. A trio of runners were strung along the now marked trail the man at the bottom would use sailor’s flash code to relay messages. The forge produced five and one half ingots. Ferrell had iron nails tossed in to flesh the last bar out.  Cedric and Blane examined one of the silver bricks, arguing over details.

Light flickered from the tree line of the mountain, the sailor at the look out tower of the fort called down to the farmer. “Silver is on the way out, sir!”

Rubbing his calloused hands together the farmer nodded pushing away the nervousness. “Alright then. Let’s get to it.”

Shamus fumed at the uniform in his hands that had been taken from the fort. “I’m not wearing this wretched thing.”

“Then stay here, I would rather you be at my side for reasons other than your sword.” Snapped the farmer, having no time to argue.

“I vowed to kill men that wore these.”

“Plenty of time for that later. You in or are you out?” Ferrell said putting on the long coat of an infantry man.

With a bitter look, Shamus donned the uniform, the pins marking him as a Captain. “It is almost too big.”

The six of them disguised as Imperial soldiers piled into the wagon using Blane and Cedric’s horses to pull the wooden cart. The bars sat on the floor of the wagon as the men set out. Crossing the Swenton border the wagon crossed through open fields, angling for the main road that the silver from the mine was to take. They rode in near silence, even Cedric and Blane were oddly quiet.

“Think this will work, sir?” One of the sailors asked the farmer breaking the silence.

Placing a hand over the pouch which held the figurine of Lady Dana, the farmer put on a brave face. “It will. It is about time we used the weight of the Empire to our advantage.”

Checking the map Ferrell chose a bend in he road for the act. Placing the wagon across the road the six waited. Passing skins of water around and chewing on iron rationed hardtack. “They are going to be suspicious of an Empire checkpoint inside their own border.” Shamus said scratching his neck in annoyance.

“That is why I brought you, Captain.” Ferrell replied with a smirk.

“What do you mean by that?” Shamus asked as his hand drifted over the hilt of his sword.

“I need someone that knows how to talk to…lesser folk. In the proper way.” The farmer explained hoping that the duelist would not take offense real or imagined.

It was Shamus’s turn to smile after a short chuckle. “I see. I shall endeavor to do my best, you filthy peon.”

“Perfect.”

A pair of hours passed before the sounds of horse and wagon could be heard rounding the bend. The green tabard wearing riders wheeled their horses around in front of the wagon. “Lo! Empire brethren!” Yelled the lead rider. “What is your purpose?”

Shamus took his cue, setting his frown deep. “Bandits have been spotted on these roads. All travelers are to be stopped and examined.”

The lead rider laughed, “But brother, we are obviously not bandits and you are in Swenton. We can understand the mistake as we are such close allies.”

The duelist raised a hand, Ferrell and the sailors raising crossbows in response. “Where we are is not for you to question! Dismount and prepare to have your goods examined!”

Confused the man did as commanded, keeping his hands where they can be seen. “There must be some mistake, sir.”

Shamus motioned for the others to take to the wagon. “The Empire does not make mistakes! Suggest it again and I will carve your tongue from your head.”

Throwing back the covering on the wagon, Ferrell expected a sealed, locked chest. It was three open wooden boxes with ropes tacked on for handles. Three bars a box. The driver of the wagon turned to watch the Imperials as they checked the wagon. “You there! I said dismount!” Shamus focused on the driver now.

Blane’s crossbow discharged, the bolt slamming into the man’s thigh. The soldier from Swenton cried out, tumbling to the side of the wagon. By the expression on the bandit’s face it was clearly an accident.  Those of Swenton went for their weapons, the lead rider and Shamus calling for everyone to hold fast.

“Your man, just shot my man!” The lead rider lamented as Ferrell traded two of the bars in the box and Cedric trading out his at the back of the wagon, unseen.

Recovering quickly Shamus glowered. “You were all told to dismount. If your man had obeyed, he would still be able to walk!”

The other rider of the wagon circled the wagon from the front, rushing to his fallen comrade. Bolt lodged deep in his leg; the wounded man struggled to pull the shaft free. Ferrell signaled they had finished, passing the fallen man with a look of pity.

The Swenton rider’s face twisted into helpless anger. There was nothing he could do other than report the incident. “The King will hear of this.”

Shamus laughed until he cried inside, feeling no compassion. “I sincerely hope he does.”

The silver laden wagon got back underway, the wounded man lying in the back with the precious metal. Muttered promises of violence as the soldiers of Swenton passed was music to Shamus’s ear.  Once the wagon was out of sight, Ferrell let out a loud rush of air.

Traveling back to the fort the farmer basked in the setting sun happy with himself for the most part. “So why did we trade out silver for silver?” Shamus asked, grateful for the skin of wine to wash out the Imperial taste out of his mouth.

“Sometimes it is not the trade that counts. It is what one makes of the trade.” Ferrell replied closing his eyes for a nap to the gentle sway of the traveling wagon the answer leaving the duelist puzzled and the twins cackling.

*** ** **

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 6 part 5

Lance sent down the bad news. The dwarves had still sold the soldiers at the mine the powder, reporting the wagon had arrived loaded. Ferrell slumped forward on the railing of the parapet of the ruined fort. “Pleasant attempt, General.” Shamus said mockingly, pouring himself more brandy.

There would be no stopping Swenton now. The farmer looked at the men who were expecting something more from him but Ferrell was out of ideas.  With heavy heart Ferrell turned to Cedric, “Why did it not work?” the farmer asked.

Sticking a tongue through a gap in his teeth the bandit considered the matter. “They could have over paid in the past. Dwarves are sticklers for record keeping. Everything must be accounted for and exact. They even keep count of every hair in those bushes they call beards.”

“What if we bought the rest of their powder?” Ferrell asked, maybe he wasn’t out of ideas yet.

“We would need a lot of coin to tap out a dwarf and we don’t have any more.” Cedric explained.

“Get the wagon and two of the men and meet me at the farm.” Ferrell said, grasping at a tattered string of hope.

** ** ***

Shamus stared at his reflection in the dirty water of the horse trough the men used to wash themselves. Making a face, the duelist refused to bathe in such conditions. Making his way up the wooden steps, Shamus opened the door to the Kessler’s personal quarters. The lanterns were already lit as if he was expected. Velvet curtains and fine wooded chairs led to a plush four post bed. The drawers lay askew as the room had been plundered for silver earlier.

Shedding the distasteful uniform Shamus ran a dry cracked hand over the fabric of the curtain. Partially swathing his body with the red curtain, looking at the full sized mirror he let his mind wander.  A splash of water broke the duelist’s wistful musings. He was not alone.

Drawing a dagger, the duelist slipped over to the set of screens someone had erected to shelter an ongoing bath. Peering around the corner he watched Blane dip head under water in a decent sized brass tub. Coming up in a spray the bandit giggled, spraying water from the mouth, pulling back blonde hair. Hands groping for the blanket at the side of the tub. Shamus handed the blanket to Blane, a smirk on his lips. “Is the water still warm, Mademoiselle?

Blane’s eyes bulged as she shot to her feet, wrapping herself in the blanket quickly. “What are you doing in here?”

Offering a hand to Blane, which she refused stepping out of the tub on the other side and away from the duelist. “Same as you, trying to be civilized.” Shamus replied eye brow cocked in amusement.

Working his boots off then his trousers, Shamus watched the dripping bandit. “What are you going to do?” Blane asked, taking another step back.

“I am going to take a bath, with company or not, a bath I will take.” Said the duelist simply.

The still warm water though slightly dirty was heaven upon his skin. Settling his back against the side of the tub, “Oh, this is indeed nice. Still enough room if you desire to come back.”

Frowning, the bandit appeared worried, pulling the blanker tighter against her body. “Please, sir. Are you going to tell anyone about me?”

Running a hand over the ridge of the tub, Shamus’s eyes grew predatory. “Tell them what? That I had a bath with a woman? We all know what you are already. Well maybe that ridiculous farmer does not but I seldom care for what he can see.”

“How did you…” Blane began, only to be run over by Shamus.

“You don’t piss with the rest of us. Your brother is overly protective of you. You do not know any bawdy jokes and when you try to tell one you blush. I think I already sorted out why you do it but I would like to hear you say it.” Shamus spoke moving a wet cloth nonchalantly over his filthy arms.

Still dripping Blane shook her head. “They don’t let women serve in the Empire military.”

Splashing water at Blane, the duelist smirked. “That is correct but you are no soldier. Try again or next time I take that blanket.”

Going for her clothing, Blane quickly spoke. “I don’t know what else to tell you, sir.”

Exiting the tub with alacrity, the duelist caught Blane by throat, pushing her until her back came to a rest against one of the posts of the bed. Annoyance bit at the duelist’s face. “You are a tomb raider like your brother. An executable offense if you are a man.”

Blane turned her face away from Shamus, shivering as the duelist bent low towards her ear murmuring. “You are a woman so it is to the Tower straight away for you. That’s why you do it. Is it not?”

Blane clamped her eyes shut, giving a single nod. “Yes.”

Releasing his hold, the duelist gave Blane an appraising eye. “Still, it is such a shame that scum as you could house such beauty.”

Shaking, Blane covered herself as the duelist stripped the blanket off her. “Please. Don’t ravish me.”

Wrapping the blanket around his waist Shamus cocked his head in a serious expression. “I am many things. A killer first and foremost.  Yet through all my marbled past, a rapist I am not. You can go if you like or stay, which I would hope.”

Nearly ripping her tunic as she put it on in haste, “Why would I stay?”  Blane asked as her feelings mixed in confusion.

Padding back to the tub, the duelist dropped the towel, sinking back into the water. “Softer conversation is so hard to find in this motley brood. Pass me that sponge if you would be so kind.”

Not sure if she was to regret it or not, Blane took up the sponge requested before passing it to the duelist…

Ferrell the Farmer 7

Episode 6 part 3

Entering the fort in the early evening the farmer found the islanders nervously waiting, talking amongst themselves, a pair of low fires smoldered in which they used for warmth. They had also emptied out the armory, taking a small comfort in the weapons. Without upkeep the fort suffered accelerated rot, moss growing on the walls and rooves. Shamus was drunk and leaning sleepily on the wall to the barracks. They all had heard about the fate of this place and did not want to be here after dark.  Every noise had to be investigated and warded out of suspicion.

The men looked his way, giving their thanks and continued their stares.  Ferrell shifted uncomfortably, not knowing why they were watching him.  Turning away from the dozen, one called out to Ferrell. “What be next, sir?”

Tired eyes swiveled back to the speaker, “What do you mean?” Ferrell asked.

Rubbing his wrists, the man had been wearing the shackles for so long to not have them on made him uneasy on top of rumors of the fort. “Ye freed us. Are we to go home or did ye have different plans?”

Shifting without comfort, “What kind of plans?” the farmer inquired.

Staggering off the wall Shamus swirled about with bottle in hand. Pointing at the farmer the duelist snickered.  “They are looking to you for direction. If I was this lot and I am, I would be looking to stick it to those bastards.”

The majority of the men nodded at Shamus’s intoxicated words. “Aye.”

“What about the silver you promised?  They are free we get silver.” Cedric interrupted.

“Oh, so er’ lives are just coin to ye? Hope ye rot ya heartless bastard!”

“We were promised payment! It is only fair!” Blane shot back at the sailor.

Gripping a pouch on his belt Ferrell felt overwhelmed. Inside the pouch was a wooden figurine of Lady Dana he was sculpting. She had been away for so long he almost forgot how her face looked, the only spot on the crafting left unfinished.  He wished she was here now. She always knew what to say.

Raising his voice Ferrell bellowed. “Enough!”

Shocked at the effectiveness of the word, Ferrell experienced the scrutiny of every eye. Pointing at the bandit, “You want silver? You will get it.”

Looking to the others, Ferrell took a leap of faith with his orders. “You want revenge? You will get that too. Someone, find me a map. You over there. I want to know who can fight and who cannot. I want to know who has been in the mines the longest and tell me how things go in there. And finally, I want the sternest mind among you. That does not include you.” The farmer ended his jumbled rant by indicating Shamus to be excluded from the last request.

Oddly, the men went to task, half of them turned out to be sailors and had some sense of discipline. Every man had some sort of experience in warfare, even the merchant knew how to bend a bow; if he could actually hit a target was up for later discussion. Blane managed to find a map and the farmer set about, chewing his lip, tracing roads. “Alright then. Ced’ric, your brother said they are getting powder from, Stringburg which is southwest of the mine. Tell me about the wagon, how much powder was it carrying?”

Cedric began counting on his fingers before giving up in a shrug. “I know not. It was stacked fairly high. They were stacked standing up.”

Dipping a quill Ferrell began to draw crude cylinders on the far side of the map, “Like this?”

Nodding the bandit continued to watch, “Yes. Like that.”

The farmer kept drawing, his mind churning. “Tell me when to stop.”

Twenty barrels give or take was the result. The veteran of the mines spoke of the two mines he was forced to work near the port. They used about four barrels a day for blasting. The mine veteran was also deemed the keenest among them. Taking the man back to the farm, Ferrell took a huge risk introducing him to Gnat.

Having to restrain the man from fleeing, Ferrell explained the purpose. “I need eyes on the mine. She can get you there and back.”

Gnat glowered at the man, pacing, throwing a few jabs in the air. The orc tended to do that when she was uncertain of things. The man refused to work with the orc nearly panicking. “Tis no natural!”

Ferrell struggled to reassure the man, “She will not hurt you.”

‘Yes I will.’

Ferrell put more steel in his tone. His frown deepened knowing there was no time to ease the two into his plan. “I understand how this is. You do not like orcs. You do not like humans. If you want to set things right, we do it my way.”

Gnat shook her head, fingers moving. ‘Want fight. Fight man now!’

Ferrell put himself between the man and the orc, the veteran of the mines cowered in the corner as Gnat began to push her way past the farmer.  Straining against the growing orc, Ferrell lost ground as his booted feet slid along the barn floor. “Gant please, stop. I need you to do this for the big fight that is to come.”

The orc ceased, peering around Ferrell to the frightened man. Running a thick hand over her short mohawk, beady eyes zeroing in on the farmer. Fingers working in a wary fashion. ‘Big fight?’

Lightly pushing Gnat back Ferrell sighed in relief. “Sometimes you have to watch and wait for the big fight to come.”

Turning to the man in the corner Ferrell made a fist, grinding his words.  “Sometimes you have to delve into the taboo to get the revenge you crave. You doing this could save lives. Please, you two. Sort it out.”

Gnat sniffed the man, her shoulders tense. ‘How big?’

Ferrell winced as the sun sank low in the sky, signaling a new problem on the rise. “It will be so big -you might have scars to show off at home.” The farmer said in a rush.

Gnat appeared interested now, pawing at her arms imaging where the scars would be and what they would look like. ‘I will do this.’

Ferrell smiled faintly, “Great.” Addressing the mine veteran. “And you?”

The man took a half step towards the orc extending a trembling hand to the orc. “Aye.”

*** ** ***

King Foster read the mine reports his brow working into a frenzy. “Unacceptable!” Tossing the scroll aside the monarch slapped a hand on the table, causing his advisor to jump.

Looking at the table top the advisor braced for what was to come. “Your Excellency. The mine is dry. The second is waning and now flooding. It is not a matter of the workers being slow it is that there is no more silver.”

Displeasure raked over Foster’s face.  Pacing the lavish room, the King paused at the window overlooking the refinery smoke stacks, surrounded by soot covered hovels of thatch and wood. “I made simple rules for these people. Meet the need and they live. They failed to meet the need. The rumors of the mines being dry is yet another excuse. There are penalties for these matters.”

“Yes, your Excellency. What penalty will you invoke?”

Snapping a finger at a guard near the door the bitter monarch addressing the man. “You, go to the pens and have one of their precious women hung. That should be sufficient motivation for those islanders.”

As the guard left, the King eyed the last unopened scroll. Considering the object Foster held his breath. A slender smile appeared, the tension easing. “At last. Good news.”

The advisor eased himself up and out of his chair, glad for whatever soothed Xavier Foster. “Your Excellency?”

Foster chuckled, “The new mine in the south. The initial findings bode well, very well indeed! Make preparations to have more workers sent down there immediately.”

The advisor nodded quickly. “Shall I halt the hanging then, your Excellency?”

Turning from the man, suspicion flashed over Foster’s expression before resuming its smile. “You favor those people, I see.”

The advisor froze, “No, uh no your Excellency. I just felt the King could be…merciful this once?”

Tossing the scroll on the table, Foster watched his advisor with sad eyes. Holding out a ring laden hand to be kissed.  “I understand the appeal. There are passionate people and I have tasted that passion in the past. Do you know what the result was?”

Leaning down to kiss the hand of the King the advisor found his wrist cuffed by the monarch. Side stepping the advisor Foster gripped the man by the back of the belt and ran him three steps before heaving him through the glass window. Shards erupted as the man burst through the window, spiraling down five stories before fatally hitting the ground.

“It left me dead inside.” The King answered gazing down coolly at the crumpled man.

*** *** **

Ferrell ran for the fort, heart racing, his breath ragged. The moon lit the way and the dead were already at the ruined outpost.  Leaping over a crawling skeleton, shoving his way passed a pair of zombies the farmer kicked himself into a slide under the lumbering legs of the two headed, undead giant.  Rolling to his feet, gasping for breath Ferrell frantically scanned the courtyard.

The escaped prisoners were building a hasty barricade as the dead filled the common area of fort. Shamus trembled in the throng, his muscles locked unable to move, his sword half drawn from its sheath but looked unharmed yet.

Ferrell cupped his hands, “Duchess! Duchess, I can explain!”

Cara Mia rose from behind the farmer’s shadow, her hood hiding most of her face. “Peer Ferrell. Always a pleasant surprise. I was just about to have a meal.” The Duchess’s voice smooth and almost soothing.

Waving his hands around frantically Ferrell pleaded with the vampire. “Please don’t hurt them. I know those men. I need them. Alive.”

Smirking, the Duchess circled Ferrell until she stood in front of him. “You are responsible for them?”

Dusting himself off the farmer attempted to make himself presentable for the vampire. “I am and if I succeed there will be more.”

With a gesture the dead halted their advance, as the Duchess grew curious. “What is transpiring?”

Ferrell explained the happenings of the recent days and his plans for the future which was brief. “So, if you save all those people, what will you do?” Asked the Duchess, casual concern showing its face.

“I was hoping you could help me with that.” Replied the farmer.

Discerning what Ferrell was implying the Duchess set a slender hand on hip. “You would turn the town I founded into a boarding house for refugees? That borders on insult, Peer Ferrell.”

Shamus slammed the blade back in its sheath and began to dance a jig against his will, the man snarling the entire time.

Ferrell played on the one weakness he knew of concerning the vampire. Nostalgia. “Perhaps it would not be a boarding home. They could maybe help restore it? Bring back some of its luster?”

Duchess Cara Mia turned towards the gates. The heart beats of the panicked men loud in her ears. Closing her eyes, the vampire’s mind fell to the past. Back when symphony of such hearts was soothing and a comfort. The progress of the residents always a surprise as humans made discoveries and dared to dream. Now it was her opportunity to start that process all over again if she desired.

“Well played, Peer Ferrell. They may stay for a time on the stipulation that if so much as a silver spoon enters my town the deal will be void.” The vampire paused adjusting the head of a skeletal soldier, straightening it.

Bowing, Ferrell sighed. “My thanks, Duchess. It is good to see you.”

The two headed giant knelt as the Cara Mai stepped onto its palm. Speaking airily to the farmer. “As always Peer Ferrell you are mildly interesting with your simple thinking. One would pray it never changes.”

Confused, the farmer watched the giant rise placing his friend on its shoulder. “What would happen if it did ever change?”

Finding a firm clump of hair to cling to as the giant turned the Duchess smiled. “Then Kings would have something to truly fear.”

 

*** *** **

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 6 part 4

Ferrell began to question his sanity. As the last of the dead exited the fort disappearing into the night the living began to look at one another in confusion. Dropping wooden boxes and sacks of wheat, each wondering what they had been doing and why they were doing it.  Shamus rubbed at his inner thighs, muttering about how sore his legs were.

“I understand she can be a bit dramatic.” Ferrell began unsteadily.

Shamus frowned, “Who are you talking about, farmer?” still working on his leg muscles.

The farmer pressed on with his words. “The Duchess! She was just here. With her…you had to have seen them. Her army of the dead?”

One of the sailors made a warding gesture quickly. “No one ‘ere but us, sir.” Looking at the hastily made barricade the man shrugged. “Building a wall against ‘em don’t seem like a bad idea now. In case they be comin’.”

“May-be ye need some rest. Ye be pushing hard fer us, sir. No gettin good sleep one kin see things.”

Ferrell looked at the shattered gates in the near dark; a sideways broken, jagged toothed smile that mocked the feeble minds of the men around him. “Yes. I could use some sleep I suppose.”

The farmer lost a few hours to sleep waking as Aideen’s braid slipped from his grasp. Picking up the braid, the farmer sat on the edge of the stiff bunk, inhaling her scent as it had become part of his morning ritual. Sometimes it felt like she was close or her smile on his back. Ferrell was not in the mood for the challenges ahead. “I know not what to do, I am not a leader of men.”

Still the farmer had to do something with this situation he created. Cedric and Blane were examining the Dwarven battle wagon, tapping the metal plates on the side and arguing in a language no one else seemed to understand. “What are you two doing?” Ferrell asked hoping for a distraction.

Blane looked up before pushing his hat lower over his brow. “Cedric thinks the armor plates were made the Tonk clan, when it is clearly from Broken Nose.”

Cedric spit on the machine, “Broken Nose my foot. The markings are clear, it is from Tonk or I’m a elf cock sucker.”

“Let me find you an elf, brother!” Blane shot back with a wry grin.

Breaking the two up as they began to try and choke the other, Ferrell asked quizzically. “How do you know of the Dwarves?”

“Father used to fence a lot their goods that were lifted from their tombs. They mark everything so they knew what was theirs and everyone would know who made it. That’s why they make such wonders. It is like bragging without words. The mark says it all.” Cedric and Blane said, taking turns speaking causing Ferrell to have to switch back and forth to face whom was talking. It was quite dizzying.

“I swear it is like you both share the same mind.”  Ferrell said blinking in bewilderment.

“We were born at the same time.” Replied Blane with a glint in the eye. “But Dad knows I was first.”

“Was not!”

Again, Ferrell had to break up another near fight. “Stop. Just stop. How can we get the Dwarves to stop selling powder to Swenton?”

The two pondered the question rolling their shoulders in unison. “They won’t. They love gold, silver any slight can be mended with enough coin. The only unforgivable crime is to steal from them.”

“Steal from them.” Ferrell repeated to himself aloud a fragment of a plan forming in his head.

Ascension’s Requiem (Demo)

*Apparently there is interest in my hand at space opera. So here ya go. More Farmer later.*

Falling with Claudia I had to shut my eyes as the rush of reconstituted air forcefully assaulted my eyes. Plus, what she was doing was calculated insanity and I certainly did not want to witness the possible error. I could only imagine what was going on in her processors. The descent slowed as her legs tensed, clattering along something metal skidding to a diagonal stop.

Chancing a look, I could see the expanse of the impound port going down as far the eye could see. In a normal station there would be the hustle and bustle of ships coming and going. This was an impound ring, no traffic going out unless you had deep pockets.

Claudia held on to me like a piece of cheap luggage, her other hand holding on to a hose of one of the magnetic impound claws. Glancing down at me, her lips twitched into a thin smile, “Ready?”

Shaking my head, “No- not really.” trying to puzzle out what she had in mind as my lungs worked in overtime to catch my breath.

With a wink the android hurled me seemingly without effort out horizontally towards the center of the impound ring. Flailing, I try to form a scream as Claudia launches herself after my falling body. Slipping her arms around me, she giggled in my ear as our bodies twisted around the other. The hull of the ship went into vertigo as the android contorted her body to protect me from the impact. Arms closing over my head, knees tucked under my hips, rolling perfectly along the top of my ship. Finally, we come to a stop with me on top, my face buried in the expanse of her chest. The texture of her ‘skin’ was very uncanny valley. It almost felt human. Almost.

Arching her back slightly, Claudia gazed towards the rail we originally took the plunge from. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” She asked teasingly.

Placing a hand on her chest I pushed myself off and lay face down on the deck. The cool metal doing little to calm my hammering heart. “I…next time we are taking the stairs.” I didn’t have to see her to know Claudia was pouting. “I keep hearing about how humans have a sense of adventure. What happened to yours?”

Staggering to my feet, I field my automatic response. “We have gone over this a dozen times already. Adventurous humans-“

“Get deported back to Earth.” Claudia completed my statement with a mirthless huff. “But you are a-“

“Don’t” I snap. “Just don’t.” My cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

Looking around the android whispered loudly, “You are an Aldrin. You come from a line of risk takers.” Her eyes dilated until the striking green was overtaken by black. “And judging by the reaction in your pants, the fall was thrilling.”

Snapping my long coat closed, I stamped my foot. “Get in the ship.”

Claudia shrugged and sauntered by with a mock airy sigh. “Right away, Captain Aldrin.”
********** **********
Settling in behind the controls, I open a channel to the station listening for news on the emergency. Claudia busied herself checking the ship systems, “When are we going to trade this ship in?” She inquired, instigating one of her favorite rituals.

Rolling my eyes, I play along. “I inherited this ship. She handles fine, never for a lack of fuel. Did you have your eye on some other junk pile?”

Pointing out the viewport, “How about that one? The cozy looking blue box.” She replied moving her eyebrows suggestively.

Squinting at the tiny craft, “Leave it to the Manks to impound an escape pod. Look at those view ports on the side. So tiny and impractical.”

Shrugging her shoulders, “It is probably bigger on the inside. Still, that blue is eye catching.”

“Makes me wonder what luxury liner it came from.”

The comm crackled dragging my attention back to the task at hand. ‘Begin evacuation of the station. All personnel and patrons are required to proceed to the nearest vessel. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill!’

Level by level the docking ring of impounded ships lit up as clamps unlocked. Dozens of turbo lifts began to move as the station began to evacuate. Claudia brought up a schematic of the ship, the all too familiar metal box on long legged tripod thrusters flashed on the screen. “Core is online. Thrusters are hot.” Drawing out the last word and batting her eyelashes.

Taking the controls, I whistled at the growing space traffic. Several near collisions occur as ships jockey to achieve escape velocity. “Someone is going to lose it and start blasting their way out.”

On cue a Crux saucer opens fire on a much bulkier K’Tar hauler, rapid bursts of heavy laser fire nearly cutting the vessel in half.

The android clucked her tongue, “I am getting readings all over the station. Every panic button has been activated. Look out!”

The resulting explosion turned the rest of the docking ring into a space version of the iconic saloon brawl. Ships bounced off each other due to raised shields and deflectors. Repulsors flared, rail cannons soundlessly fired. Long streams of disruptor fire lit the darkening ring of the station. Slamming the thrusters forward I rolled the ship in a starboard direction as plasma bursts raked the sections of dock the ship occupied seconds ago.

Claudia worked quickly on the console, “Shields are up!” A squealing navigation droid impacted off the shields at our viewport as it ejected from a small fighter. “What are we going to do, Brett?”

Racing the ship along the ring of the station, giving any attackers a limited attack scope as I flicked a switch. “Time to do what humans do best; piss everyone else off. Seismic charge armed, launch!”

My ship didn’t carry any weapons, its design was for busting asteroids and mining the smaller pieces for fuel. The released canister flipped through space and detonated in an orange ring of sonic particles. The generated force knocked several combative ships into each other. Punching the accelerator, I angled the ship to the now clear path.

With the path of panicked destruction fading to our backs, I guided the ship towards the nearest slip gate. Only to find it was already activated as a phallus shaped Mank heavy cruiser spilled out already launching fighters. Everyone’s favorite race of law enforcement had arrived…

Picking up speed and barrel rolling to the port side, we clipped one of the Mank unmanned drone fighters sending it spiraling out of control. The comm chimed politely, Claudia smirked. “They are hailing us.”

Pushing the reply option on the console. “This is the Ice Breaker; how can we be of assistance?”

A short humanoid face appeared on the screen. Typical Mank, it was more grey hair than face. Its large crooked nose tattooed with warts snorted. Beady deep set black eyes peered unamused back at me. “This is Commander Slen-Bak-Tu. You will power your ship down and prepare to be boarded.”

“We aren’t a part of the mess going on behind us.”

“I will not ask again!”

I nod holding my hands up. “Ok. Ok. You win. Just give me a second.”

Claudia posed her face to portray a disgusted look as I cut the channel closed. “Just like that? You are going to just let those as you call them ‘space dwarves’ walk all over you, again?”
Closing my eyes, I let out a long breath. Claudia was right. I already owed an outrageous sum to them. They would just impound the ship again and I would be deported to a place I have never even seen.

Glancing over to my companion knowing her look never wavered. I guided the ship into docking range with the heavy cruiser, a cluster of ion cannons already trained on my ship. At five meters from the docking port I kicked the accelerator into over drive, rocketing my ship towards the still open slip gate.
The android flickered an expression of shock as we sped along the body of the cruiser, the guns rapidly training on us. The first ion bolts began to work over the rear shields, a price I was willing to pay. Once we reached the gate we were home free…

The ship rocked under the firepower of the heavy cannons, panels blew out in a shower of smokeless sparks. The displays on the console sputtered and died as the ship lost control, tumbling end over end as we entered the slip gate.

“Oh, fuck me.” I cursed as the view port went from the blackness of space to the milky white of the slip stream.

“Not now.” Claudia replied clutching the arm rests of her chair.

Well that was a first.

Ferrell the Farmer 6

Episode 6 part 1

Lady Dana pulled back from the hug she gave Rothman. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Welcome to Edina, Kingdom of the rolling sands.”

Rothman smiled, ruffling the short hair of the female bard.  The trek to find her had taken nearly a month. “Still sportin’ that boy cut I sees. No exactly laying low I see.  Mingling wit’ nobles no less!”

Lady Dana turned to the railing of the massive town ship watching the sunset as she began to fix her hair, “Edina values scholarship. They need good, keen minds to keep their population growing or their air ships flying and sailing the desert.”

Frowning, Rothman joined Lady Dana at the railing watching the dunes shift below. “The Empire has taken a pair of these flying ships. They be working round the day in an’ out to make ‘ore.”

Shaking her head Lady Dana let the last rays of the sun dance on her face, “I have heard the same. They enlisted the help of the Dwarves who are just as at a loss as the Empire. Simply put they are asking the wrong race. So, what brings my favorite mentor to this grand place?”

Setting down his pack, Rothman piled through it, pulling a stack of papers. Watching her reaction as he tried to hand them to her as he spoke.  “Yer farmer friend be alive. It appears ye gonna have to change yer song about ‘im.”

Hearing the news Dana’s hand went to her heart, clasping the other over it as she took in a joyous breath. Silently thanking the gods, the bard hugged Rothman again. “I will gladly change it! I was so worried for him.”

Rothman grew insistent, “We need to talk of him. Tings of import. How did ye meet the farmer?”

Lady Dana felt her heart slide into sadness, “I did not meet the farmer. I met a man so rooted in grief even the mightiest of the gods could not move him. -I call for protocol. You came to see me and that means you tell me what you have seen, first.”

Settling in a deck chair Rothman pulled at his beard. “Ye be right. See, I just escaped the custody of two of the most imbecilic brigands I ever lay eyes on. Convincing dem to take me safely north in return for plans to rob a silver mine near the border of Swenton…”

** ** ** *

The farmer woke, head aching, body stiff from sleeping at the table. Nursing a tankard of water, Ferrell looked about bleary eyed. “Rothman?”

Silence greeted the farmer, spinning the map on the table he read the words the bard had left. Rolling up the map, the farmer shook his head, immediately regretting the gesture. Draining more water, the farmer set about creating a meal of pork and sliced apples. Bosco bounded up, leaping up on the table, “The bard left?” The kobold asked.

Shrugging, the farmer sighed. “Bards do that. They come and go.”

Wringing its tiny talon laden fingers together. Bosco watched the farmer. “Good. Now we can come out?”

Attempting not to nod, the farmer stretched. “Get some sun. We got chores to do.”

Checking the wall inside the pantry the farmer noted a series of strings were slack in the elaborate network. Someone or something was on his property and triggered the series of bells he slept through. The orchard. Considering the season and timing, it could only be one cause. She had returned and ready for more. Cranking open a chest the farmer donned a heavy leather and hay filled vest. Taking up padded mitts and placing them over his hands, a smile reached his lips. Not all intruders were unwelcome…

*** ** ***

Ferrell watched the large growing hands move, ‘More!’ the hands signaled.

Nodding, Ferrell stuffed more bundled hay into the protective vest he made for the exercise. “Alright then. Hands up. Good.”

Swinging a slow fist at his opponent, Ferrell continued his instruction. “Back step left. Back step right.  Lean left, snap the right! Perfect! Again! Watch your feet, shift right.”

A large fist beat against the cotton and hay stuffed mitt covering his hand. “Again! Faster! Harder! Faster. Twist right, go left.”

Throwing a series of strikes the farmer watched his slightly smaller opponent duck and weave and finally take the opening provided. A fist slammed into Ferrell’s padded chest sending the farmer down on his back, stars littering his vision.

The pig nosed creature loomed over the farmer, its eyes glittering in delight and success.  Its stubby fingers twisted forming into signals. ‘Win. I win. Is good.’

Groaning the farmer sat up before getting to his feet knowing the growing orc wouldn’t help him, it was not their way.  Blinking rapidly. “Yes. You are doing well. You mother would disapprove you being here, regardless.”

‘She does not. In quiet. In tribe yes. Very loud.’

Ferrell had learned that orcs could indeed understand human speech, it was just too whiny and distracting for them to warrant a reply in speech. Too much talking not enough fighting. Those that spoke the human languages were the lowest of the low in the tribes, right up there with cripples and the insane.

Uncovering a basket of apples, the farmer stood aside as the female orc tore into them with reckless abandon. “You did really well today, you will be gaining scars in no time.”

‘Good Apple Man.’

Chuckling Ferrell looked at the stance and boxing charts he had hung around the barn. “I do try, Gnat.”

Ferrell had saved the orc from a pair of heroic opportunists and the little one kept sneaking back for apples ever since. She caught the farmer shadow boxing a few times and started using the moves to bash the trees to shake loose apples she could not reach. Gnat grew, yet not as fast as the books say she should and was of the age were dominance battles began to happen.

She was faster than the average orc so the farmer only added to it with teaching fisticuffs or at least the basics. It had caused quite a stir already. Of the fights he could translate she had won eight out of nine. Losses were never talked about but amount of fights was always up for display.  Orcs did not bob, weave, duck, jab, or continuously use fists. They were more prone to biting, clawing, grappling and utterly breaking their opponents.

Gnat paused from her gorging, ears flittering and centering on sound. Tiny eyes falling to slits as the orc grew agitated. ‘Danger.’ Stubby fingers said to the farmer. Taking up the loaded crossbow, Ferrell nodded.  Checking the door to the barn, the farmer saw two men on horseback draped in ponchos of oil canvas and masks over the lower parts of their faces wheeling their horses about obviously upset.

The larger of the two yelled, “Rothman! We know you are here, come out. We demand explanation!”

Measuring the odds, the farmer found them in his favor; speaking to Gnat. “Stay here. I will make them go away.”

Gnat stamped a foot, drawing it back slowly as her fingers worked in signal. ‘Fight. Want fight.’

Quickly finding a middle ground Ferrell tensed. “Stay here and protect me if I get attacked.”

‘I will do this.’

Stepping out of the barn the farmer closed the doors with the rear of his foot. Facing off with the two highwaymen the farmer felt a chill over his bones. “He is not here. Why do you want him?”

The smaller one piped up, “That be our business. Think you can take us with a single shot crossbow?”

Kicking a tuff of hay outside the barn, the motion planted another crossbow in Ferrell’s off hand. “I got one for each of you. Now, state your business with my friend who is not hear to defend himself.”

The pair looked to the other before slowly raising their hands in surrender. Ferrell felt his eye twitch, “Put your horses in the barn. One at a time.”  Gnat could use the practice…

 

Farrell the Farmer

Episode 6 Part 2

The pair huddled in the far side of the barn as Gnat snorted and paced. Daring them to try and get passed her. Ferrell tossed the orc an apple after setting down one of the crossbows. “Alright then. Let us start off with who you are and why you are looking for my friend.” Taking a seat on a closed barrel the farmer laid the crossbow on his lap, still pointed at the two.

The smaller bandit pointed at the orc, fearfully. “You have a pet orc?”

Ferrell winced as Gnat stopped in mid chew. Slowly turning to the smaller bandit, the orc snarled, hands working rapidly. ‘Stupid female human I eat your face!’

The larger bandit showed a bit more courage, putting himself between the two. Pulling down the mask showing ugly black gapped teeth, the man balled his fists. “Don’t you dare cast on…him! You’ll have to go through me first! You green skinned-“

The bandit never finished the sentence as Gnat hit the man in the stomach and clubbed him behind the ear dropping the man like a sack of wet mud. Ferrell hung his head, voice tired already. “Gnat that is enough. You two will start talking or my friend is going to be really upset.”

Holding his stomach lower torso, the larger bandit groaned. “Just keep that magic using orc back.”

It was the smaller man’s turn to shield the fallen bandit. His voice pitched high, scared and obviously very young. “I’m Blane and this is my brother, Ced’ric! We have business with Herr Rothman.”

Gnat snorted and kicked loose straw on the fallen man before padding away back to Ferrell. ‘Stupid female human. Want hit it.’

The farmer signed back to the orc, correcting Gnat curiously. ‘Is male child.’

‘Female.’

Giving up before he grew frustrated the farmer watched the two once more. “What sort of business? And my friend here can smell it if you are lying.”

Gnat sniffled and narrowed her gaze playing along. Blane swallowed hard, Cedric interrupted angrily.  “Don’t tell him nothing!”

“Unfortunately, you are going to talk one way or the other.” Ferrell reminded the two, patting the crossbow and nodding towards Gnat.

Blane stammered, “Herr Rothman exchanged safe passage north for information on a new silver mine in Swenton. The three of us planned to plunder it and retire rich as lords.”

Arching a brow, the farmer looked amused. “The three of you? Looting an Imperial influenced mine? How?”

Blane huddled his shoulders as Cedric took over, “Rothman had the details. It was his plan. It would be easy, he said.”

Nearly falling off his perch on the barrel Ferrell laughed. “I see!”  Looking to the roof of the barn, the farmer sighed in relief. “I am sorry to say that Rothman was indeed here but left about six days ago.”

“Where?” The two asked at the same time.

Rolling his shoulders in a shrug, the farmer took up his crossbow. “I know not. However, you two have to be dealt with. I do apologize.”

“Please! We can come to an agreement. We won’t tell anyone about this place or your orc friend.  We swear!” Cedric pleaded, putting himself in front of Blane.

Lifting the crossbow Ferrell aimed. “Do not make this any harder than it already is.”

Blane cried, the man on his knees begging.  “Herr Rothman said it would be easy because there were guards for the slaves but not as many to protect the silver when it was on the move.”

“Slaves? From where?” Ferrell asked, his mind trying to sort this out. The Empire did not use slavery but it appeared their appeasing allies did?

Cedric took over again, his bluster gone with the wind.  “He did not say. Please good farmer, shoot me and let my brother go.”

Lowering his aim Ferrell took to swirling his thumb though his growing beard. “Where is this mine?”

Blane shut his eyes, awaiting the end. “Near Barrows off the northern pass. As, Herr Rothman said.”

“I know Rothman and you are going to need more than his word.” Ferrell mused.

The pair looked at each other, then Blane brightened. “They are buying dwarven powder from the post at Stringburg. We passed through there when a shipment was heading north. Cost us a whole day till we could be sure the road was clear.”

Giving Gnat a side look, the farmer nodded. “Alright then. Let’s have a peek.”

*** *** **

The four made their way through the rough forest terrain at dawn the next day. Gnat in the lead, carrying the shoddy weapons of the bandits. Blane and Cedric followed with Ferrell crossbow in hand another over his back brought up the rear. The two bandits conversed among themselves in a language only the two could seem to understand. They moved so similar to the farmer it only added questions for the farmer. Gnat stopped, going stock still. The pair nearly bungling into the orc the began to complain only to be silenced by the farmer. Thunder sounded in the distance; the farmer checked the late afternoon sky. Not a cloud to have caused the noise.

Gnat placed her hand on the ground and motioned for the farmer to do the same. Again, the thunder sounded, Ferrell could feel the vibration through the rock faintly. Eyes darting to the crest of the mountain the farmer pushed his way ahead. Grey smoke that smelled of heavy sulfur crawled over the ridge top to meet them. The ridge dropped steeply; the sounds of tools no longer shielded by the mountain side. Dropping to a crawl Ferrell pulled Tetsuo’s long viewer focusing it on the activity below. Men toiled with pick and shovel, clearing freshly blasted rock. Tents ringed in a horseshoe around the site, the green uniforms of Swenton men dotting the milling crowd. Horse drawn wagons were loaded with debris and taken to a make shift on the far left of the camp.

“I count about twenty soldiers, maybe one hundred workers.” The farmer remarked darkly collapsing the long viewer.

Moving along the ridge, the four stopped again at a clearing that could be seen from below. Hastily lashed together wooden beams creaked as the wind picked up, swaying the corpses of three men that hung by the neck from them. Gnat pawed at her snout, ‘Dead man smell bad.’

The two bandits made warding gestures; Cedric removed his hat placing it over his chest. Ferrell frowned as he examined the bodies from the edge of the clearing. No whip marks yet there was a plethora of bruises. Their tattered clothing still hailed where they were from. The farmer looked away bitterly. “They are from the Isles.”

Blane tapped Ferrell on the shoulder point down the way breaking the farmer’s train of thought as ice flooded his veins. Along the main road leading to the site a pair of wagons stalled in the mud of the overworked road. The four made their way down the mountain, hiding in the tree line near the road Ferrell again used the long viewer. “Five guards, twenty prisoners. By all that is unholy…”

Wiping his eye in utter disbelief, the farmer peered through the tube again, centering it a bald man the guards had hauled with a few others to lighten the wagon and push the cheap wagon. Puffing his cheeks, the farmer regained his composure. Looking to Gnat, “Give them their weapons.”

Gnat shook her head rapidly, tensing. ‘No.’

Hefting his crossbow, Ferrell stared at the pair. “Help me free these people. Help me and I will help you steal all the silver you could possibly want.”

Cedric and Blane nodded in unison, the farmer moved his fingers signaling Gnat. ‘Want to fight?’

Slapping a meaty hand in the other, the orc snorted. ‘Yes! Fight now!’

The first wagon lurched, making progress as muscle began to overcome nature. “Then give them their weapons.” Ferrell said again.

Gnat tossed the belted weapons at the bandits harshly. Blane squeaked as his short sword hit him in the chest. “Hey watch it!”

Cedric strapped his sword belt on, watching the wagons as he spoke to Ferrell. “What’s the play?”

One of the guards broke off heading towards the tree line, by the pace he set there could only be one reason. “I guess we let that one come to us first.” Replied the farmer.

Hiding in the brush the quartet waited, the guard whistled tunelessly working the top of his trousers down. Sighing in near ecstasy the man began to relieve himself. Ferrell figured he would wait until the man was done but Gnat had no such scruples.  Breaking cover the orc punched the man in the kidneys, knocking him into a nearby tree.  The wind exited his lungs from the impact, Gnat spun the man to face her a stream of still flowing urine pattering her along the leg. Taking offense to the ‘insult’ the orc worked over the man’s midsection driving the blows deep, twisting the fist at the end of each blow.

The guard managed to sound off a scream before Gnat made stew of his innards. “Shit!” Cedric said knowing all too well the other guards heard the call.

Readying their weapons Ferrell loosed his crossbow, in a rare moment the bolt missed, flying between the pair of guards. Dropping the first the farmer readied the second only to find the bolt had come out somewhere along their wanderings. Loaded but useless. Cursing, Ferrell drew the fallen guard’s blade. Running after the bandits as they broke cover the farmer circumvented the battle as he headed to the wagons.  The prisoners barely held in check by the remaining two guards, “Get back in the wagons or you will hang when this over!”

Spotting Ferrell the remaining guards chose to go after the armed farmer. Ferrell hurled the sword with purpose between the two, and held his hands up in surrender. “I give up! In the name of the Undying Emperor, I yield!”

Confused and angry the guards shouted for him to get on his knees, the prisoners began to scatter trying to make it for the trees. Skilled fingers closed one at a time over the hilt of the fallen sword. Lithe, wiry muscles outlined in ground mud flexed and stretched. A shark like grin played over the bald man’s chapped lips. The sword was rubbish in the man’s opinion but it would have to do. Whistling loudly the bald man tested the eighteen inches of chain the shackled his wrists.

Cedric and Blane struggled with their opponents, the further apart they were from the other the worse things seemed to get for the two. Blane cried out as the bandit took a cut to his off arm. The prisoners making for the trees back peddled as the yells of ‘ORC’ took to the air.

The bald man casually swaggered as the armed guards rushed to meet him. Flicking his sword, he tapped the flat to the charging guard’s blade brushing it wide. Half turning, the bald man bashed a lightning quick elbow into the soldier’s face sending the attacker flying off his feet. The man was grim poetry in motion. Parrying an incoming blow, slapping down another sweeping strike with contempt before slicing through the guard’s neck. Rolling to stand the fallen never got to his feet as the bald man cleaved through the back of his enemy’s head without hesitation. Wrenching the blade free the man’s expression twisted into one of anger upon seeing the farmer.

Unarmed, Ferrell was still kneeling, knowing he would have no chance against the man even if he was armed. The farmer waited, looking the man in the eye without flinching. “Still angry with me, Shamus?”

The duelist said nothing as he wiped the bloodied flat of the stolen sword on the shoulder of Ferrell’s tunic. Flipping the sword Shamus repeated the motion on the farmer’s other side. Glancing back at the two dead soldiers the duelist glowered. “I am still very upset with you, farmer. If I had a few more of these to dance with I might feel better about it.” Shamus fell back into his fake Noskie accent.

Pointing to the beleaguered bandits, Ferrell dared a grin. “As luck would have it…”

*** *** **

Casting the last of the shackles into a pile Ferrell pondered quickly of what to do. Cedric and Blane bore minor wounds but whined continuously. Gnat had all but vanished, the farmer knew she was nearby but chose to hide which she could do rather well. Shamus looked impatiently down the road. “Where is Aideen?” The duelist asked a sliver of hopefulness in his voice.

“I’ll take you to her.” Replied the farmer trying to keep his nerve.

In the end, eight of the twenty chose to remain and scatter to buy time for the others to escape with Ferrell and his band. The night made things tricky as the moon was hidden by the trees and Ferrell was the only one with a lantern. Ferrell coaxed the ragged line to keep moving. He seemed to know the way when in reality the farmer was following apple cores the orc was leaving behind.

Reaching the farm stead at the false dawn, Ferrell led Shamus to Aideen’s grave at the opening of the apple orchard. Shamus grew rigid sword tumbling from his fingers.  Collapsing to his knees the duelist murmured, tears streaming in muddy stripes. “No, no, no. Me friend. Me friend! How?”

Clawing at the ground Shamus howled, trying to dig at the grave. Ferrell struggled to restrain the duelist from behind. Shaking the duelist’s lithe form wracked with sobs. “How kin dis be?”

“She was murdered by soldiers of the Empire nine years ago.” Ferrell said his voice growing uneven with renewed grief.

“Why?”

“I know not. You need rest, we will sort this out. I swear it.”

Tear blurred eyes fell to the sword on the ground. Grief turned to rage, “De’ Empire did this? I see a grey uniform I kill de’ man wearing it.” Shamus vowed.

*** *** **

Ferrell listened to the news of the Isles from the escapees. Economic growth had risen so much those of the Isles looked to settle unclaimed land to the north. For two winters the land prospered then in the spring an army bearing no colors composed of mercenaries swept through the land using Empire weapons. Capturing the small villages and seizing nearly impenetrable port cove. Eight cycles after Aideen’s murder.

A man named Foster anointed himself as King and immediately allied with the Empire. From there the King attacked the Pyrat navy only to be humbled by the swift ships and seasoned sailors of the Isle people. The King of Swenton enlisted the help of the Dwarves who were always happy to serve the highest bidder made odd machines to traverse the sea in winter. Every year the contraptions got closer and of better make.

This year spring had come early, a stroke of luck for the Isle people as cluster of steel vehicles could be seen from the shore. They moved without the pulling power of horses and belched black smoke. The ice gave way sending every single machine to the bottom of the bay. The Emerald Queen ordered two of the outermost islands to be stripped being made into large shipyards. Every man, woman, child was to undergo military training. Six of the thirteen flotilla communities were broken up to increase the size of the Pyrat navy.

Due to Swenton’s numerous failures the Empire taxed the life out of the small kingdom. Demanding tributes of iron and silver to the point where Swenton’s people were merely slaves without chains.

Putting the escaped prisoners up in the remains of the fort, Ferrell pondered what to do, it would be an easy matter for Swenton to cross the border looking for the Pyrats. He would have to act fast…

Ferrell the Farmer 5 Cont 6

Episode 5 part 11

Aideen pleaded with the large man in front of her. “Ye be great, never a question. I spen’ many a night recalling yer fights when I was wee. Jus’ let this one go. Please, brother.”

The mountain of a man considered his younger sister. Scar tissue on his forehead grew tight, his voice deep as any giant of seven feet. “It is me duty to fulfill the contest, just as it is for yer suitor.”

“His name be, Ferrell.” Aideen snapped defensively.

Working a set of tongs, the massive blacksmith checked the steel rod in the furnace. “I make it quick, ye’ah see. Ye thank me fer it dow’ the road.”

Stamping her foot, Aideen fumed. “I be thanking’ ye now if ye just’ walk away!”

Settling on an overly large stool, the giant checked his cup. Seeing it was empty the man groaned. “If ye liked women like I hoped ya would dis no’ah be an issue. Even if she ‘as from the Em’pire. I have me own problems to mull over, larger den a fight with a mere farmer.”

** *** **

Xavier stood at the foot of the bed Ferrell was resting upon. The farmer stared at the ceiling; uninjured arm draped over his stomach wound. Pulling up a wobbly chair next to Ferrell the Captain sat down, his brow heavy with concern.

“Hagen Ryan has his own problems. Used to be a brawling champion turned avid gambler. Too bad he is no good at the latter.  He is in some serious debt to rather nasty people. Word is the delegates are willing to pay the difference if he puts you down. Cutting the Empire out of the trade picture for at least a pair of  solar cycles. No one likes to trade with losers.” Explained the Captain, watching his cousin.

Slowly checking the sealed wound on his stomach, the farmer hissed in dulled pain. “Guess I will have to win that brawl then.”

Xavier debated continuing, the need to succeed battled with what little conscience he had left. Against all sense his conscience armed itself with guilt and words spilled out. “I did a little tree shaking and something unexpected fell out.”

Focusing on Xavier the farmer frowned deeply. “What do you mean, Xavier?”

The scoundrel captain winced, failing to brush off the question as usual. “He is on a permanent regiment of willow root. For his head.”

Ferrell stiffly sat up, flexing his injured hand. “I could use some of that now. Why for his head? You are being oddly specific, Cousin.”

Lending a shoulder Xavier helped Ferrell ease into a sitting position. “He’s brawled for years. One too many shots to the head, the healers have warned him in the past a decent strike there could kill him or leave him without use of his arms or legs. Still he is as stubborn as you are and refuses to quit. This could be good for us; he has a secret that we now know. I suggest we use it.”

Touching the stitches under his jaw, Ferrell replied. “I am not killing that man.”

Snapping to his feet Xavier paced at the foot of the bed once again. Face distraught with anger. “Damn the man! Save the Empire! You have four days to rest when the healers say you need at least fourteen.”

Ferrell painfully reached for a cup of water on the stand next to the bed, “I will not kill that man.”

Xavier surged towards Ferrell, clamping hand over the top of the cup staring his cousin in the eyes. “You might not have a choice.” Releasing the grip the Captain straightened out his uniform.

*** ** ***

Xavier left the Wilson’s abode, noting the crowd growing in the front of the property. Abbey Dunn was telling the farming community all about the fight she witnessed between Ferrell and Shamus as the sun set behind her.  That and she was still missing seven pigs. Ren Wilson sat in a chair on the front porch with the prostitutes from the carriage, one on each lap. Each taking turns whispering dirty deeds and invitations to the elderly hero, giggling the whole time.

“Well I be no satyr in spring ‘dese days but the invitation has appeal.” Ren said with an amused smile.

Spotting Xavier walking away from the house, Ren quickly payed the two a coin a piece. Urging them up with a pat on the rump. “Me thanks fer gettin’ Ferrell here safely. Now if ye kin excuse me I have’ a man to talk to about a dog.”

Calling to the Imperial, Ren strode to catch up with Xavier. “Captain. A word if ye please.”

Slowing, Xavier sighed, waiting miserably. “What can I do for you, Captain Wilson?”

The air had grown cold enough for breath to be seen, Ren peered at the stressed Imperial. “How did ye fall?”

Flicking invisible lint off his sleeve, Xavier muttered. “What are you talking about?”

Ren Wilson hefted his tankard, sipping the contents before offering it to Xavier. “Yer’ drowning in lies an’ schemes. How that come to be?”

Accepting the container, the Imperial took a heavy pull of the tankard. “You think I wanted it this way? I did it to stall the inevitable. I have seen good people put to the sword and noose for resisting the Emperor’s word. Lands that no longer exist because they angered him. I did this to save this place.”

Silence passed between the two, Ren taking back the tankard, sipping at it again. “Everything dies eventually. Ye did it because ye knew what he be doing is wrong but you no’ah wanted to face ‘im.”

Wiping at an eye Xavier felt too tired to get angry again, “He is going to come here one day with his armies and wipe this place out. The survivors will be peacefully cowed and complacent. Just like Ferrell.”

Ren’s lips creased downwards as Xavier went on. “All his life people have called him simple. Just a farmer. Until that is all he wanted to be, it is his purpose of being. To dutifully serve the Empire in a singular role. Now look at what my bringing him here has done.”

“Even simple folk kin ‘ave dreams, Captain. Tis why yer Emperor kin no truly win.” Ren again offered the tankard only to have the Imperial turn his back to the elderly man.

“Yet the complicated man has the nightmares. Where is the justice in that?” Xavier replied bitterly, ending the conversation by walking away.

*** *** **

Abigail grunted tightening the wrappings over Ferrell’s hands as the two sat in a small wooden alcove of the live stock center. Reminding the farmer of the rules as she worked on Ferrell. “Three ways ye kin win, Ferrell. One, knock yer opponent out. Knock ‘em down for a count of ten. Or toss ‘im out the box for a count of ten. No rules on blows, the only law is the bell. It rings ye stop.”

Adjusting the bandages Abigail covered them with strips of red cloth around his stomach. “If he sees ya bleeding he is going to target it. Dis should ‘elp a wee bit.”

Ferrell felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the roar of the crowd grew. “What are my chances?” The farmer asked, trying to keep Abigail talking; it helped with his nerves.

“I wouldna go toe to toe. Hagen be slow, if he git his hands on ye it be quick. So be quick, use yer feet, tire ‘im out.” The hero replied, leaning forward kissing Ferrell’s wrapped hands and then his forehead. “Fer luck.”

The crowd booed as Ferrell was escorted to the wooden walled ring. The place was packed with rows upon rows of spectators. Torch light was spread to illuminate the ring with angled reflective metals. The Baroness’s balcony box was dark but the farmer could make out the outlines of occupancy. Wondering if Aideen was hidden in the shadows of the box, part a head of rotted cabbage bounced off the farmer’s shoulder bringing him back to the affair at hand.

Xavier sat in the front row with many of the opposing delegates, listening to their jeers. They apparently sat on Ferrell’s side because they would not be able to see around Hagen if they took seats on the champions side. The crowd parted as joyous cries erupted, announcing Hagen’s arrival. The monster of a man flexed, shaking hands his beard had been shaved off, head coated with tattoos of black flames.  Where Ferrell had to be let into the ring by a gate, Hagen straddled the wooden wall before stepping over it.

Settling in his corner, the fence groaned from the weight of the man as he sloppily kissed a female fan.  Turning an eye towards Ferrell as the hammer met bell the giant was on the move immediately. The farmer padded forward to meet Hagen in the center. Hagen bellowed freezing Ferrell in place with the sudden yell. With a ham hock palm the brawler slammed it into the center of Ferrell’s chest lifting the smaller man off his feet.

Playing to the crowd the giant held up a finger as the crowd began to count. ‘One!’ ‘Two!’

The farmer sucked wind, rolling to his feet at the count of four. Hagen half turned when Ferrell punched the man in the side. Back stepping from the return blow, Ferrell hit the same spot, the big man leaning into the blow tensing muscles to absorb the hit. A massive boot stomped forward planting itself in the farmer’s stomach sending him into the wood railing. Instinctively Ferrell moved as the follow up fist shattered a plant of the fence.

Twisting around Hagen, the farmer lined up a punch to the bent man’s head before balking at the action. The hesitation cost the farmer as Hagen grabbed Ferrell in a crushing hug. Ferrell’s back popped as the man shifted the farmer around like a rag doll. Managing to slip and arm free Ferrell jabbed the blacksmith in the eye with a finger. Dropping the farmer, the former champion held his eye, Ferrell kicked the man behind the knee.  The bell clanked, Hagen trying to get at the farmer was barely held in check by a pair of guards that hopped the wall to break the two up.

Slumping on the stool, holding his chest Ferrell felt like he was breathing fire. Abigail cleaned Ferrell’s face with a wet rag. “No ‘ah bad. Ye need to loosen up, yer workin too stiff. Hit’em in the face.”

“I can’t. I can’t hit him in the head.”  Ferrell replied taking a gulp of water.

“Why not? No like he gonna git uglier.”

Taking another gulp, “He has Bucket Head.”

Focusing on Hagen the elder nodded. “I understand. There be something wrong with his right foot. He favored it after the kick he put on ye. Suggest ye investigate it.”

With the call of the bell the two engaged again, Ferrell worked his feet staying ahead of Hagen, ducking and coming in, working the body of the massive man. Hooking a punch towards Hagen’s chest the blacksmith blocked it allowing Ferrell to step in and stamp on the top of the former champion’s foot. Hagen howled as the ingrown toenail of his large toe burst.  Seizing the farmer with almost inhuman strength, the blacksmith raised the smaller man overhead and pitched him into the crowd!

Crashing into a group of patrons, the farmer held his ribs, arms, legs and curses tangled about him. Hagen paced in a pained tight circle calling for the count to start. With the help of the angry crowd Ferrell was hauled to his feet and tossed back in as the count reached eight. The rest of the round the farmer did his best to fall well as Hagen punished him. Ferrell let his hands drop as Hagen’s fist eclipsed the farmers face. The world blurred, spinning as if one had too many bottles of wine. Ferrell staggered, his knees buckling.

The Imperial captain bolted to his feet, checking the sand timer the bell bearer had next to him. It was almost out but Ferrell had just gone down. The time keeper raised the hammer towards the bell eyes going to the falling sand. The crowd began to count. Gritting his teeth, as the count reached seven but the sands had more to pour as Xavier acted. Sneezing the Imperial Captain ‘accidently’ bumped into the time keeper, causing the hammer to strike the bell. The crowd roared it disapproval as the count was broken. Spinning on Xavier the time keeper began yelling angrily. Putting out his hands Xavier kept the man distracted until he was certain the sand had run out before backing away.

Abigail hauled the nearly unconscious farmer to the corner. Xavier slipped over the rail with Abigail, fanning Ferrell before dumping a bucket of water over the beaten man. “He’s not getting tired. You have to finish him.” The Imperial said frantically.

Pushing part of an iron bar that was sized for an average man’s fist into Ferrell’s palm. “You have to go for the head.” Xavier explained.

Abigail frowned seeing the object but said nothing. Ferrell stared at the bar before closing his fingers over it. Abigail waved an herb bundle under the farmer’s nose Ferrell spasmed his eyes shooting open, wildly trying to focus. The crowd cheered as the bell rang. Hagen plodded forward, Ferrell hunched his shoulders.

“Ye be giving as good as ye get, Ferrell.” Hagen said with a sliver of respect as the fighters circled each other.

“I know.” Was all Ferrell replied with a he locked up with the massive man.

Grinding the heel of his boot into the injured foot of Hagen. Using the fist load on the man’s side punching down for the hip. Hagen curled as Ferrell gave him everything he had. Punching Hagen’s kneecap, side, chest, shoulder, elbow. Ducking wild swings Ferrell fell back only to return like a relentless rabid dog.

Pivoting to protect his injured side, Hagen was forced to use his off hand to attack. Hagen’s thick hand found Ferrell’s neck finally, squeezing. The farmer clubbed his iron loaded hand into the spot just below the blacksmith’s arm pit repeatedly. Shoving Ferrell back, Hagen made to follow when his knee gave out with a pop. On all fours, the blacksmith’s face red with rage battling with pain. The scar tissue on his forehead suffered enough tension a rivulet of blood mingled with sweat spontaneously.

A hush fell over the crowd, Ferrell blew the rank moisture from his face, one of his eyes seeking to seal itself shut from swelling. Resting painfully on his heels, Hagen’s heavy arms flopped, beckoning the farmer to continue. With dragging foot steps, the farmer readied the fist load once more, pulling his arm back.  “I know about your head, Hagen.” The farmer said with labored breath.

Spitting the former champion lowered his gaze. “What are ye waitin’ fer den? Finish it.”

“Do it, Ferrell!” Yelled Xavier, his voice carrying hope ridden excitement.

“Finish it, Ferrell!” Hagen yelled, pushing his head forward for the farmer to get a better shot.

Opening his hand, the farmer let the iron piece fall to the floor. “I will finish this.” With a look to the Baroness’s box Ferrell guided the blacksmith onto his back, standing to start the count.  Calling to the crowd, “If I spared that sack of pig dung, Shamus I am not going to kill this man! START THE COUNT!”

“One!” Screamed the Baroness from her now lighted balcony box.

The throngs of patrons reluctantly followed suit. Four. Five.

Hagen stared at the iron piece; pride demanded he get up. His leg twitched refusing to comply.  Seven. Eight.

TEN! The witnesses of the contest applauded weakly but as the realization of what the farmer had done became apparent the roar grew deafening.

*** *** **

Hagen nursed his injures hours later, working a tiny file over the iron piece that could have killed him, etching details with care. The distraction kept him feeling much of the pain and what he knew was coming next.

The door to the shop opened, Hagen did not bother to turn around. “So that is that, eh? Obviously, I donna ‘ave the money to pay. Jus’ make it quick, assassin.”

A small pouch thumped on the workbench next to blacksmith. “I paid your debts, Hagen Ryan.” Ferrell said, leaning heavily on a wooden staff.

Turning to the battered farmer, Hagen’s brows furled. “How ye do that?”

“My cousin used the expenses set aside for my grave and placed a bet on me. You are no longer in debt to those people. I hope you keep it that way.”

Nodding to the pouch, Hagen grumbled. “What is all this then?”

Smiling, then stopping as he remembered how much it hurt to do so. “I want you to make Aideen a new sword.”

Pouring out the contents the blacksmith counted the coins, “There is enough here to make two.”

“I also you want to make one in honor of the child we will have.”

 

*** *** **

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 5 part 12

Ferrell was still sore when summoned to court, along with Cousin Xavier. The farmer resisted bed rest since the fight with Hagen. He was not allowed to work, so he made himself a friendly nuisance to those he knew. The courtroom felt empty; no voices sounded from behind the door as the guards opened them to the grand hall. Xavier immediately grew suspicious, his eyes combing the area.

Baroness Sylvia Ryan sat upon the throne, speaking quietly with Aideen. The room had been decorated in celebration for the mid winter festival that would take place later that evening. Candles of hope unlit, crystal shards hung from various beams of the hall.  Ferrell felt nervous. He had not been allowed to see Aideen until her challenge to him. So, this was it, there was no time to plan, no information to glean, just her and he in whatever way she decided…

The Baroness was curt with Xavier, her expression nearly bland. “Captain.”

“Baroness.”

Looking down from the dais, Aideen smiled almost sadly at Ferrell, her eyes filled with worry. Not waiting for the Baroness, the shield maiden went into her words, keeping her voice light. “I asked for the Baroness to summon ye.”

Blinking, Xavier cast a hand about. “And we have arrived. Where are the others?”

“I felt this matter should be private.” Interjected the Baroness quietly.

Aideen shut her eyes, struggling with her next words. “Sir Ferrell. These challenges have been brutal even among our own people’s standards. Even now, I feel small at de size oh yer heart.”

“I would endure them again.” Ferrell said evenly.

Shivering, Aideen nodded. “Aye, ye would. I know. It is with regret that I announce the withdraw of my challenge. I have found ah man to marry and canna go through with this.”

Ferrell felt the world coming down on him in inexplainable pieces. Xavier protested yet the farmer could not hear him. Fighting like a drowning man in a sea of despair Ferrell rallied what was left of his resolve as the Baroness spoke.

“Enough, Captain. Aideen has de’ right to accept or decline as is our way. She ‘as declined.”

Looking at the floor, the farmer forced his hands to his side. Sniffling, “This man you are to marry. Is he a good man?” Ferrell asked not knowing what he would do upon hearing the response.

Aideen hiccup sighed; her voice soft as if handling something fragile. “Aye.”

“There is no man that loves her more than you, Cousin! This is a…” Xavier resumed his previous protests.

Ignoring his cousin Ferrell felt tears breaking loose from the pools at his eyes. “Does he love you?”

Green eyes welled with tears of their own as the shield maiden responded. “Aye.”

“I mus’ go, me husband will be at the altar soon for us to wed.” Aideen added, unable to stay in Ferrell’s heart broken presence a moment longer.

Nodding his head with a stiff jaw, gazed sadly one last time to Aideen. “Then that is enough for me to know. I am happy for you and this man you have chosen.”

Xavier nearly exploded, fists balled. “That’s it? You are just going to give up, Ferrell? You have lost blood for this woman. Took ridicule of her people for nearly a season! Saved her ignorant brother’s life when he sought to end yours! Played through these ridiculous rituals and won only to have her back out because she cannot defeat you.”

Ferrell was already on the move when Xavier spoke. Pausing at the door, head bent low. “Cousin. I will not build a cage for someone I helped set free.”

Baroness Sylvia Ryan slipped from her position on the throne to meet Ferrell at the door. Speaking kindly to the farmer, “Let me walk with you a few moments. Such heavy news can be often misunderstood.” Placing a reassuring arm over the farmer’s own.

Ferrell felt numb as his legs moved mechanically down the hall without direction, yet the Baroness was there to keep him moving. “Did I do well at least in those challenges?” Ferrell asked, his heart rolling in the dust of ruin.

Sylvia gave a small laugh, the Baroness turned them down an empty hall. “Ye changed the coin economy for a good while with all the betting against ya. Aye, ye did well. Better than some heroes I hear tale of an’ better than could be asked of a simple man.”

A servant passed by handing the Baroness something that Ferrell failed to notice other than the passing. “I did not fall in love with her position or her family power. I fell for her.”

The Baroness smiled ruefully, tugging at Ferrell’s tunic, moving it up and off. “I know yer heart, Ferrell.  It is still a shame the way things went.”

Slipping her hands over Ferrell’s shoulders, taking longer than she should the Baroness felt his torso muscles, she replaced the tunic with an open ended robe of sea green. Skillfully tying a black leather belt around his waist. Taking a wreath of green, yellow glass seaweed, she placed it on Ferrell’s brow, stepping back the Baroness’s lips twitched in a smile.

Looking at his attire confused, Ferrell felt duped and childlike.  “I do not understand. I did everything right and I still lost. What is all this?”

Sylvia pressed her back on a set of doors Ferrell had never seen in all his time in the castle the Baroness kept her smile. “It be possible to do everything right an’ still lose. Yet, that day be no this day.”

From the open door poured light bright and true from a dozen windows.  Shielding his eyes Ferrell stepped past the glare into another broad hall filled with people. The finery of the nobles and their servants sat on one side of the expansive temple. The farming community sat upon the other, each side rising to the appearance of the farmer. Wordless applause followed, as Ferrell looked to the high center of the place.  In the center stood the altar, with no man waiting.  Kicking his legs into motion, Ferrell forced himself to run, chasing the impossible dream to its end. Zig zagging to clasp with as many of the inner aisle out stretched hands as possible.

This was a great moment in his life and the greatest was yet to come…

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 5 Finale

Ferrell felt as if he was in a dream, one he had no desire to wake up from and yearned to relive. Aideen made her way down the aisle flanked by her brother who through sheer will walked without use of a cane. The brace on his leg made his steps stiff but timely. Attired in a sheath dress of sky blue, looped with a golden belt about her waist. Her sword strapped over her back, poorly accessible but ever present. Her sun set red hair hung loose around her shoulders, the beads of valor that ended her braids were worked into a neckless around the neck of the shield maiden. The slender wreath upon her head was emerald encrusted in the shape of the rolling landscape of the Pyrat Isles and dotted with rubies that danced like fire as she moved.

Every row the shield maiden passed the attendees rose and shifted, the two sides of the temple mixing. Noble with commoner, merchant to soldier, sailor to midwife. For the hour there was no rank, just people of one land, together. Clasping hands the two looked upon the other silent vows exchanged along with simple spoken ones. The priest dutifully looped a cord of green and blue over the clasped hands, his blessing was in the native tongue of the Pyrat bonding the two together.

As the priest finished the crowd erupted into cheers as the new husband and wife kissed. The couple walked down the steps to the aisle, the Baroness without her crown of office stood in before them. Wiping at her eye, the noble considered the two. “Tonight, ye both will be expected te’ attend the mid winter celebration. It starts on the seventh bell as always. You are given permission to arrive before the ninth bell.”

Aideen blinked with her confusion. “Why are we allowed to be late?”

Ferrell gently gripped the dress of the shield maiden at the hip pulling her closer. Watching the blush curl to the woman’s cheeks, the farmer grinned. “I think you know why…” His words rang deep with invitation and promise of things to come.

*** *** **

The celebration also served as the reception of the newlyweds. The couple received many gifts that Ferrell did not understand for they were mere scrolls of paper with writing. Aideen promised to explain them later.  Abigail Dervish and Ren Wilson sat at the back of the ball, hands together as they drew their final breaths. Sights fading at the edges of their vision drawing to a close upon Aideen and Ferrell as the two danced in the country way. Ren’s famous silver tankard slipped from limp fingers to the ground, a single stream of amber liquid trickling from the container. Their passing would not be discovered until the morning as they both appeared to be merely sleeping peacefully.

Days passed and the two proved to be inseparable. Hagen flipped the near molten steel over. Hammer ringing upon anvil in time to the activity happening in the loft on the other side of the shop. A missed strike caused the blacksmith to glare in annoyance which changed to a sigh capped smirk. Jabbing the steel back in the furnace the massive man cleared his throat. “Ye know, ye can take that elsewhere if ye like!”

The two prostitutes Shamus had hired for his post battle celebration crossed their ankles for warmth under the trio of heavy blankets as they rested on the roof of the carriage watching the night sky.  The vehicle rocked side to side. Eyeing the sand timer, one of the working women yawned. “Gonna hav’ to flip it again in a few. Like a pair of hares they are.”

Other giggled, “Could think of worse ways to spend time. Sides, all the motion down there feels good on me back up here.”

*** ** ***

Rothman feverishly worked his quill through the night and into the start of the dawn. Ferrell had fallen asleep after telling the tale at the table. Half a cup of brandy near his head. Hand clamped over the braid of Aideen his thumb minutely moving over the strands of red.  Sometime during the night, the farmer had brought out an ornate wooden box during Rothman’s distracted writings.

Curious the bard opened decorated container, peering inside. Gingerly, Corbin pulled out a wrapped cord of green and blue, an odd cluster of coin sown to leather came out with it. Looking at the cluster of coins, there were lapped over the other like a piece of armor.  Setting it aside the bard worked through the pile of scrolls. Reading the words lips moving in time with the pace he read. Flicking a glance at sleeping farmer in disbelief, the bard began comparing the scrolls to the other. “Tis no chance this be true.”

Pinning down a scroll with brandy bottle the bard spread out a map. Making marks the bard worked through the rolled parchment as Ferrell slept. Falling back in his chair as he made the final mark. Tugging at his beard Rothman considered the markings. It was roughly the shape of the northern kingdom of Swenton. Ferrell’s farm was at the southeastern most point. Taking the quill up again, the bard struck through the title on the map with the writing instrument. Scratching down a pair of words over the marked area. It read simply, Ferrell’s land? Replacing everything in the box after taking hasty notes the bard found he had a desperate need to find the nearest fellow bard and work through what he discovered. Shoving the box into his backpack, he would need evidence to support this outlandish tale.

Speaking to the snoring farmer, Rothman was beside himself with intrigue. “I ‘ate to leave ya like this but I must.”

Packing up enough supplies, the bard found his fatigue had faded and replaced with nervous excitement. Stepping out into the stead, Rothman produced a piece of flat steel in the shape of a dolphin on the end of a thin silver chain. The piece spun as Corbin chewed his lip. “Com’ on there has to be ‘ah someone close. I have just spent nearly thirty days with Ferrell Ryan! Unbelievable!”

At last the dolphin stopped spinning and slowly centered on a direction to the east. The amount of time it took to settle down informed the bard the closest of his brethren was quite a way off. At least a quarter of a season. “Oh, kick der road!”

*** *** ***

King Foster walked the parapet overlooking Freeman’s Bay, though the locals had a different title for it. Hangman’s End.  The Imperial war machine was a demanding mistress, as they called for more silver from Swenton. More iron. More, more, more.  The King had taken to wearing his armor as there had been a pair of attempts on his life in the last half of the solar cycle. The people obviously did not understand to the lengths that were required in their role to the Empire. He would have them instructed by force, again. As many times as it took.

The coin mail was a comfort as the King gazed out over the land he killed for.  Fingering the ripped section of the armored vest, the king failed to repair it. Using it as a reminder of the lengths he would go to get where he stood now. Watching a ragged line of slaves that were once settlers from the Pyrat Isles being guided into the mines which were nearly stripped of their silver due to the needs of the Empire.  Their numbers were dwindling, Foster figured they would have to raid for more in the early summer.  His forces had yet to make land on the Isles but with the Imperials weapon advancements it would only be a matter of time.

Turning to the south a bitter line of thought rose from the dead, the King rarely wondered of the man but this morning it was different. A simple man that brought ruin to his dreams. A pair of things made him uneasy concerning the simple man. The guards he sent to eliminate the man nearly a decade ago did not return. Nor did the next set. The second reason was the simple man was just too stupid to be stopped. Like a raging bull that did not understand that its heart had been pierced and it was supposed to be dead.

Shivering, the King blamed it on the morning cold. He had his duty to the Emperor to think of. King Xavier Foster, knew his role…

Ferrell the Farmer 5 Cont 5

Episode 5 part 9

The next evening Ferrell was summoned to court. Sitting next to Xavier the pair faced off with Sylvia and Aideen Ryan across the grand hall. The rest of the court was spread along the sides of the room, Abigail and Ren waited patiently taking turns whispering to the other. Finally, Sylvia stood addressing the crowd. Her voice steady and practiced. “Two venerable heroes. Blessed by the people to be the embodiment of our gods. Stand before us submitting themselves to be challenged and seen if they are still fit for the titles granted. Who here will challenge?”

Murmurs rolled through the crowd, no one was in haste to commit. Aideen fumed having had more than enough. Rising to her feet brushing off the Baroness’s attempt to stop her, striding towards the two.  Glaring at the crowd with barely suppressed spite, “I am glad to see the respec’ ye give Ferrell’s champions. It tis the shame that respect no reach the man whom brought them ‘ere first.  Likely, they wouldna answer yer call anywho by yer actions present.”

Xavier winced, silently chuckling. “Ouch. She just hamstrung the entire court.” The Captain whispered to Ferrell.

Hand on her sword Aideen bowed to the two, respectfully. “Ye grant me hope, a debt I kin nora pay.” Turning to Ferrell the shield maiden’s eyes grew soft, her smile gentle. “I accept yer challenge and me thanks for the gift.”

Ferrell clicked his tongue, watching Aideen somewhat confused. “You are welcome?”

Twisting back to the elderly couple the shield maiden stared at Abigail. The elderly woman’s eye twitched as she returned the stare.

“Really?” Was all Abigail said with menace before dropping the war hammer and dragging the sword of office that hung at her husband’s hip out of the sheath.

Wrenching her own sword, Aideen ground the blade edge along Abigail’s new weapon with a joyous ringing sound. Ren sighed taking another swig of his tankard before considering Ferrell who sat worried, “There is nothing finer; than watching women fight.”

The initial clash between the two sent Abigail into a spin. Grabbing Ren’s arm the woman hauled him into the battle. “Ye donna get to watch! Flank that slippery tart!”

Flicking the contents of his silver container out, the stream of amber liquid slowed and curved into a frothy cutlass with the tankard as a handle. Ren rolled his shoulders sheepishly, mock resigned to do as he was bade. “As ye wish, love.”

Ferrell sat transfixed; the summoned blade was the first act of magic he had ever witnessed. Aideen seemed to be holding her own, definitely faster and had more endurance but there were two of them and they knew each other inside and out. When one faltered the other covered.  The crowd shifted uneasily, scattering when the fighting got too close and regrouping on the other side to continue to watch. Aideen tried to use distance to get them to chase her and they merely plodded after her. If she concentrated on one for too long the other would flank her away.

Abigail locked her sword with Aideen’s blade dragging the shield maiden’s arm down. Putting muscle to use, the shield maiden worked to power out of the pin only to be sent into a half spin as Ren unapologetically thumped the body of the tankard into Aideen’s temple.  Whirling, Aideen stopped her blade neck to Ren’s throat leaving a skin parting scratch white scratch. Abigail had reversed her hold of the sword she held, stopping it a hairs breath from Aideen’s chest, her off hand closed over the back of the hilt to shove the blade clean through the maiden. Gasps and tension filled the air, Ferrell nearly fainting.

Breathing hard, Ren tenderly pulled his head back from Aideen’s blade, then worked Abigail back.  With a turn of the wind, Abigail smiled at her husband,  “I like this one. Always have.”

Stepping back Aideen touched the spot Abigail’s sword nearly punctured taking a breath to make sure should could hold it before releasing it in a rush.

Ren coughed, dabbing at his lips. Holding a hand out to Aideen. “I offer a draw.”

“I be unsatisfied yet agree to the offer.”

The shield maiden and elderly woman glared at the other for saying the same thing at the same time.  Aideen took the offered hand from Ren, Abigail clamping her wrinkled digits over the two. “Well fought.” Abigail wheezed.

“Well fought.” Replied the shield maiden.

“I think I may have hurt me back.” Complained Ren.

Xavier sidled up to the Baroness trying to be casual. “So now how do we proceed?”

Wiping her eyes from witnessing the battle, Sylvia composed herself. “Not a ting. It be out of our hands now. She accepted, now it be a lottery. One fer a champion of water, one for fire. The last challenge she calls personally. Yer Cousin has little to no chance.”

The Captain moved to comfort the Baroness only to be held back by a suddenly firm hand from her. “If he fails your people will quickly recover.”

Angrily blowing stray hair from her face, Sylvia Ryan gritted her teeth in a rare moment of expressed anger. “Ye donna understand. Ye brought him ‘ere as a lamb to slaughter. To hide corruption ye have brought for years to dis court! Yer mistake was not knowing me people could tell still good from de bad.  Despite your plots he flourished!”

Xavier tried to grasp her words, shoring up his bravado. “Yet he has been successful if quite the handful.”

Watching the elderly couple instruct the shield maiden post battle, the Baroness turned to the Captain her expression one of hurt. “He brought back love to my court. I opened my chambers to ye… hoping for the same. He truly loves her.”

Frowning, Xavier jutted his chest, “I love you as much as he loves, Aideen. That is apparent is it not?!?”

Draining her glass of wine, she offered Xavier to take it, when the man reached for it, she let it fall to the ground shattering upon the stone. “Ye do not love me. I took yer cousin’s clothes an’ what did ye do? Not ask me why, yet ye punished yer cousin. As if I be a stolen an’ sullied property not worthy of conversation or parlay!  I change not a word of the trade arrangement yet ye look for ah’ lie. Ye love what I can give ye, what would come from me. Yet, ye donna love me.”

The Captain’s mind scrambled, he chose to try and appease. “How can I make this right?”

Sylvia turned her back on Xavier with stone cold finality. “Ye need to help ‘im. If he loses, ye lose everything. Should he win, ye might salvage past trade agreements.”

Xavier gripped the arms of the chair Sylvia sat in moments ago, desperate. “What of us if he wins?”

The Baroness refused to turn around, “No change. I loved you, yet ye do not for me. I will carry on, suggest ye do the same. I sculpted the best part of ye weeks ago out of stone me-self for remembrance so I might look at what might have been. Ye can stay till the thaw, yet ye will do it elsewhere than me chambers.”

 

*** ** ***

Ferrell the Farmer

Episode 5 part 10

The farmer leaned on the bar at the tavern Aideen had first taken him to. The mulled cider steamed, inviting with its warmth yet Ferrell found he could not drink. The champions had been selected by lottery and tomorrow he would face the first one. He was not allowed to see Aideen until the ordeal was over but they could send messages to the other. Draping part of a braid the shield maiden had cut from her own hair over his fingers, feeling its smoothness, clasping his other hand over it. The man looked to be praying as he gently inhaled her scent.

Xavier pushed his way through the patrons as they had clustered near the farmer.  They had kept their voices low, not entirely sure what to do with Ferrell. Leaning his back against the wooden bar, Xavier took in the quaint ambience. “Got news, Cousin.”

Staring at the back of the bar, Ferrell waited. Flagging the barkeep, Xavier asked for schnapps. The barkeep spat into a tankard, blowing his nose in a rag and using it to wipe the rim before filling it with the clear liquor. Stamping it down on the bar, flecks of liquid spattered the back of Xavier’s hand. With a resigned sigh the Captain, considered the mug. “Charming people you run with, Ferrell.”

“They know what you are about. I just wish I knew sooner.” The farmer replied sullenly.

Xavier measured the distance to the door with an eye, just in case. “You would never understand my life, Cousin Ferrell. Look, I am here to inform you about your opponents, not to revive beratement. Deserved or not.”

Closing his eyes Ferrell disliked the way the Captain tended to draw everything out. As if he was doing Ferrell a favor when it was more than obvious the Captain’s future was on the line as well. “Who is first?”

“Shamus Giovanni. His real name is Shamus Gunn from the outer Isles. He adores the Noskie style. Their greasy hair, puffy clothes, even uses those quill thin swords they fancy. He is a self proclaimed duelist when he is actually a murderer with a hundred excuses at the ready. He wants to know where you will meet him.”

Hearing the name, the crowd came alive. Coins and stories of the man’s reputation began to circle. Ferrell absorbed the words, the not knowing had ended. Now he could plan. “Would you say he is a fop cousin?”

“One that can kill you, yes. Uh, I would like to place a wager if you please.”

Tucking the braid in his tunic, Ferrell looked over the crowd then to his cousin. Draining the tankard of cider not setting it down before every cooled drop was gone. Tossing the empty cup to the barkeep, Ferrell found his feet. “Tell him I will be waiting for him at the Dunn’s pig farm.”

“A pig farm?” Xavier repeated confused echoes of memory scratching at his mind. He knew the name, from so long ago.

“I have an urge for bacon…”

*** ** **

Shamus exhaled the last the Javin opium smoke, the warmth flooding his senses. The carriage rocked over the frozen road making one of the passed out prostitutes to fall over in the lap of the other. Studying the swallow breathing pair the duelist smiled setting down the opium pipe. “Sleep well you two, you will be needed after this.”

Adjusting his black curled wig, Shamus frowned in the mirror at the sharp mustache. Twirling the hair and pulling it tight until he deemed it perfect. The carriage came to a stop. The wind rattling the leather flaps at the window of the horse drawn vehicle. Pulling back curtain, even in the winter the stench of farms made him nauseas. Piling out of the carriage the duelist donned his wide brimmed hat. Sorting his belt out before putting it on, selecting two daggers and his favorite rapier. The farm was distastefully bland. Pigs huddled in the cold, sheltered by a wicker awning. Pulling his cloak over his shoulders, the duelist grinned wickedly as the farmer stepped out of the humble cottage.

The farmer held a sword awkwardly as he stepped towards the duelist. Starting his games Shamus spoke, “I am unfamiliar with your stance, sir. Do you know how to use that?” teasing the farmer.

Ferrell’s expression did not change from its concentration on Shamus. “Not as much as you.”

Bowing lightly, Shamus adjusted his cloak. “Then we have time for a few lessons.”

Readying his blade Ferrell moved to circle Shamus. Flicking his cloak, the duelist snapped the heavy cloth forward, the metal plates sown in the hem bashing the sword out of the farmer’s hand. “That is a disarm.”

Stepping back Shamus motioned to the fallen weapon, the most insincere expression the duelist could muster in the cold on his face.  “I apologize I am being unfair.  Let us begin again.”

Ferrell lunged for the weapon sweeping the steel at the duelist who side stepped the attack and jabbed the thin sword lightly into Ferrell’s stomach. “That is a wound. Won’t kill but it hurts. As you can clearly see.”

Clamping a hand over the bloodied spot, Ferrell hacked at Shamus. Nearly laughing the man parried the weapon, down and away. Rolling with spin the duelist lashed out with a back kick. The sharpened spur on his boot cutting Ferrell under the jaw line. The duelist began to look bored as he dished out another light wound upon the farmer, gashing Ferrell’s forearm. “Please sir, do something other than bleed!”

Yelling a curse Ferrell charged the duelist sword looking to cleave the man in two. With a pivot Shamus side stepped the charge as the farmer barreled on by the duelist striped the back of Ferrell’s vest with his rapier. Off balance Ferrell fell towards the cottage sword clattering out his hands.

Whipping his cloak gallantly Shamus bowed airily. His next taunt stuck in his throat as he returned from the bow taking a clod of frozen earth to the face. Sputtering and spitting Shamus ran a gloved hand over his face and wiped it with a sleeve. A streak of blood creased his wrist. Fuming the duelist traced the blood to a nostril, eyes narrowing on the farmer as Ferrell fled around the corner of the cottage. “Bad form, sir! Ye be a cheat!” Shamus was angry enough his native accent reared its head.

Giving pursuit Shamus’s eyes shot wide as he rounded the corner a scythe arced in an upward swing. The crude iron blade made contact with thin steel, snapping the rapier and tearing off the duelist’s wide brimmed hat. Working the farm tool in a twirl Ferrell swept low for Shamus’s legs. Leaping the attack, the duelist’s cloak was pierced pinning it to the wall of the cottage. Quick drawing a dagger Shamus’s eye sight blurred as Ferrell punched him the jaw, loosening a few teeth.

Slashing with the knife, the duelist kept the farmer at bay nicking the back of Ferrell’s hand. Clutching his wounded hand, Ferrell again fled.  Ripping his now ruined cloak free the duelist cast the remains of his rapier aside. Following the droplets of blood Shamus set eyes on the on the large pen of pigs. “Hidin’ among yer own wonna save ye!”

Inspecting the herd, the duelist opened the gate to the pen his vision trying to sort through the filthy animals. Stepping into the pen, Shamus kicked at a piglet. “Let us finish this, ya bastard!”

Ferrell inhaled painfully, blowing into a pig whistle. Squeaks and squeals of alarm ripped through the herd.  In a panic the farm animals charged for the entrance of the pen. Bumped and jostled by the animals, Shamus found himself being drug down by the cloak as the pigs trampled him. Curled into a ball the beating was brief but effective as the duelist struggled to move with pigs bleating their distress in the cold still ringing in his ears.

Rolling off his perch on the roof of the sheltered pen, Ferrell dropped into the mud near the crawling Shamus. Taking length of rope the farmer lassoed one of the larger pigs who had stopped moving as the pig whistle had ceased its terrifying call. With shaky hand, Shamus gripped the top of the fence to haul himself up. His clothes were ruined, and the smell of pig shit was everywhere. Wheezing, the duelist was certain he had several fractured ribs.

Putting his back to the fence Shamus stopped upon seeing the farmer with a leashed pig at his side. Ferrell smiled darkly with the whistle clenched between his teeth. “Did you know pigs can eat a man if they get hungry enough?” The farmer asked before puffing the whistle.

The pig lunged, trying to get away from the sound, its mouth snapping in fear too close to the duelist, ripping the man’s boot. “They can chew through bone. Like a hot knife through butter.” The farmer added, struggling to hold the pig back.

Glued to the rail the duelist wailed, “Get that ting away! Take it away!”

“She is telling me she is rather hungry. I might not be able to stop her.” Ferrell said bluntly, again blowing on the whistle and loosening some of the rope.

The terrified farm animal knocked the duelist over, the pig now inches away from his face. Its breath was of rotting death, the teeth promised messy dismemberment for the duelist. “I yield! I yield! Anything, just donna let it eat me!”

Ferrell dropped the rope and Shamus clamped his eyes shut, screaming, hands held out in a last ditch effort to ward off the monster before fainting. The pig snorted, moving away from the duelist having no interest in eating the man. Ferrell removed the remain dagger from Shamus’s belt, using the tip to peel off the wig. “I will be taking this.”

*** *** **

Aideen practiced with her bow, trying to master the technique Ferrell had shown her. One of the kitchens servants approached with a silver covered tray. Her heart leapt into dismay letting the bow drop on the stones of the courtyard. Shamus had vowed to serve Ferrell’s heart to her on a silver platter. Tears welled in her eyes, holding herself with one arm the other reaching to the tray top.

Pulling the lid up, her expression grew confused. In a nest of dark hair two daggers lay crossed one over the other. Duelist daggers and Shamus’s wig!  Hurling the lid away, she laughed with relief. Grabbing the servant in a hug the platter and its contents clanging to the floor.

“He’s done it! He’s done it!” Aideen swung the shocked servant around before setting the man down. Kissing the man on the forehead the shield maiden dashed for her room, she had to send a message to her suitor. What message, she had no idea but she would think of something!