Fantasy Friday

Minden squatted on a small, steep-sided hill, jutting above the ford on Salt Creek, a ruined widow of questionable character. In the days of the righteous kings it had been a minor fortress of some strategic importance, protecting the western route to Melas and the crossing. Now it was a fossilized fragment of the empire, broken, half-buried in filth and overgrown with briars and buckbrush.

The remains of a stone gate post, barely belt-high, lay just beyond the long evening shadow of a limbless oak snag. A thick-bodied copperhead crawled awkwardly up the broken, slanted post to absorb the warmth of the day’s autumn sun retained by the rocks. The snake was observed with disgust by one of the two men sitting with their backs against opposite sides of the long-dead tree. Seated the man appeared to be tall. When he stood he was only of middle height, appearing even shorter because of the width of his shoulders and his muscular bulk. His powerful arms could not quite straighten at the elbows, and he could not really look back over his shoulder. He held a short, broad-bladed spear in his right hand, matching three other spears in a sort of quiver on his back. The fist that held the spear was so broad that it made his wrist look thin, but it was not. Beneath a head of light brown hair, his massive forehead overhung deep-set, perpetually squinted eyes.

Most people who met him tried to ignore him, knowing instinctively that he was not what he appeared to be, but whether better or worse, it was difficult to say.

He moved lightly to the old post and studied the snake for a moment. Slowly he raised his hand and paused. With a flicker of movement -- impossible to follow with the eye -- he snapped the butt of his spear down on the snake’s head, obliterating it.

The sound of the stroke startled the second man on the other side of the forlorn oak. In an instant he was on his feet, sword drawn. “Odan! What are you doing?”

Odan turned to face his companion, the lifeless body of the copperhead across the blade of his spear. He smiled, the usual grimness fleeing his face. “Rattlesnakes make a pretty good meal. Ever try a copperhead?”

“No! And I don’t care to try it now.” The second man was taller than Odan, markedly slender with a narrow face, high cheeks, and long, straight, jet-black hair. Like his companion, he was dressed in a rough cowhide tunic, leggings and low boots. In addition to his broadsword, he carried a huge dagger on his belt, a small knife in a hidden pocket of his tunic, and a leather-covered targe about eighteen inches across slung over his left shoulder. “Get rid of that vile thing, will you?”

Odan chuckled and flicked the remains of the snake into a thicket on the line of the old fortress wall. The grim squint returned. “Where do you suppose that old madman could be, Mark?”

“He’ll be here. Not much entertainment in place, though. It would be nice if he’d hurry up.”

“Prophets!” Odan snorted. “A less dependable tribe couldn’t be imagined.”

“On the positive side, it gets you away from your wife for a while.”

Odan smiled again. “Indeed. A drought means less work at harvest. Perhaps she’ll appreciate me when I return.”

“Perhaps she’ll figure out she doesn’t need you around, or find herself another, less pigheaded man.”

Odan snorted. “I might find an ale-spring, a cow that milked out red wine, and a hen that laid silver eggs, but I ain’t got the luck that will rid me of them shackles.”

Mark shook his head. “She’s not that bad.”

“Oh, she’s not? Did I ever tell you – ho, do you hear that?”

“No, what?”

“Steel on steel. Down on by the ford. Let’s go!”



Even Thurik was astounded at times, not by the treachery of Zhinor, but by its reach. Admittedly the Emperor of Zhinor had great wealth and traitors in Ekklas could be bought cheaply, but to have agents operating east of the Blackdog seemed incredible even for the Zhinorites. Perhaps that is why the old prophet had his guard down, why he did not immediately realize what Jebus was trying to tell him when the cat came streaking out of the underbrush as Thurik and Piers neared the ford. Then the cat tripped him. Thurik stumbled, sprawling in the dust, and he heard the hum of the crossbow bolt through the air where he had been.

“Down!” he shouted to Piers. More bolts sang above them. “Into the trees.” Thurik dashed into the woods along the stream. The hunter was right behind him. In an instant, Piers had strung his bow and fitted an arrow.

“Far left.” Thurik called softly. Piers caught the movement and sent the heavy arrow through the middle of one attacker.

“Brigands?” Piers asked.

“Zhinorites. I should have known. Word gets out.”

Another volley of crossbow bolts came zipping through the brush. The hunter sent another arrow and was rewarded with a shriek and a curse. “Two down, probably five or six more,” Thurik observed. The prophet drew a large knife from his belt. The long blade curved downward from the middle. “How are you at close-quarters?”

Piers shrugged. “I’ll manage.” He drew out his axe and stuck it lightly in the tree next to him.

“They are going to circle around and then try to charge. Leave a couple of their best shots to hold us in place.”

Bolts continued to sing through the trees, confirming the prophet’s judgment. Suddenly four men dashed across the clearing. Piers managed to get off one more quick shot wounding one assassin. Then he dropped his bow and took up his axe. Though an exceptional bowman, the hunter had never been in actual hand-to-hand combat. As the son of a Red, he had some training, but it had never been his strength. Two of the men went for Thurik and one came for Piers. The wounded man was up and had his sword out in his left hand, but he was hanging back. The arrow in his right shoulder made his strong arm useless.

Piers realized immediately that he was up against a skilled, experienced swordsman. His opponent nearly beheaded him with the first stroke. The hunter parried successfully with his heavier weapon but he could not attack without being cut. He knew it was just a matter of time before the other attackers joined in. He caught a glimpse of Thurik and saw one of the Zhinorites stagger and go down. The man with the arrow in his shoulder suddenly rushed in on Piers’ left. A flash of black and white struck the first swordsman’s head. The man bellowed and stepped back. Piers took a quick chop with his axe and the second attacker fell. The first man gathered himself and lunged at Piers but the swordsman’s right eye was ripped, bloody and blinded. Behind him Piers could see two more soldiers coming with swords drawn. Piers knew he had only a moment and went on the attack. The faster weapon and years of experience still worked to his opponent’s advantage, but the Zhinorite was one-eyed, his perspective off. Piers ducked under a blow and desperately slammed the head of the axe straight into the man’s middle, doubling him over. A quick slash and the enemy fell.

Piers whirled around expecting the other attackers to be upon him. Instead he saw Thurik wiping his blade on the shirt of a Zhinorite, Jebus sitting on a low branch passing the time licking himself in typical feline fashion, and two rough-looking strangers going through the pockets of the last two assassins, now obviously beyond caring.

“Are you all right, Piers?”

The hunter nodded. “But I was a dead man until Jebus helped me out.”

The cat looked up at the mention of his name and gave his odd little squeak.

“Like you, Jebus is a hunter rather than a warrior, but yours is not the first life he has saved.”

“Who are those two?”

“Friends -- well, acquaintances, anyway. Odan and Mark. They are brothers, though you would never guess it to look at them. They are sons of the tyrant of the free city of Nyon, where the Murdark flows into the Blackdog.”

The brothers approached Thurik.

“I was just telling my companion, Piers Grannor, about you. Thank you for your help. You arrived at a most convenient time.”

Odan gave his customary snort, smiling slightly. “I’m sure you would have finished them off without us.” He pushed his lips out and scowled critically at Piers. “You, uh, won’t mind if we lighten these carcasses a little before we cover ‘em up?”

Piers, slightly taken aback, shook his head quickly.

Jebus squeaked. Mark glanced over at the great feline then spoke to his brother. “Don’t worry. He likely just wants any eats we find. What would a cat do with silver?”



Four of the five fellow travelers spent the night at the village inn. Jebus found a stable with a straw-filled loft and an overpopulation of mice. He not only had the cleanest accommodations, he may have had the best meal.

Piers had been against eating what the unclean proprietors offered. He finally agreed to some stale black bread and a hard cheese. The beer was decent. Like Piers, Mark and Thurik sampled the food and drink lightly. Conversely, to the hunter’s thinking, the burly Odan had the appetite, taste and digestion of an opossum. The man wolfed down everything in sight, and the more he ate, the more pleasant he became. The grim surliness fell away and he became almost lighthearted, even witty.

Gulping down half a mug of beer, Odan addressed the prophet. “Thurik, sir, with your vast knowledge and experience, what do you know of the afterlife? If you had died on the field this afternoon, what would have become of Thurik?”

“We cannot understand life as we live it. I doubt there is much hope of understanding what happens when a physical body dies. If Thurik, known in this mortal body, had fallen, that which is truly Thurik would have gone on. He, or it, might not know or be known by that name, but the being will not change or cease. This I know. What is that existence like?” The prophet shrugged. “When one is in a given state, it seems impossible that one could exist in another state.”

Odan’s broad brow ceased in thought. “That seems sensible. A man – a, uh, being in the afterlife will think that life as natural, and, uh, what’s the word? – When you think a thing must happen or can’t be another way?”

“Inevitable?” Piers offered.

Odan grinned broadly. “That’s it. Thank you. As natural and as inevitable as this one seems now. And this life would seem as foreign and mystical as talk of heaven does to us. That makes sense.”

“I think when you are dead, you are dead,” Mark interjected. “I don’t think there is any difference between us and that bobtail cat.”

“You are wrong,” Thurik said. “Jebus is a higher order of creature than you are, son.”

Mark frowned. “Well, all right. That particular cat is not a good example.”

“Pay no attention to his babbling. My brother is afraid to believe in anything he can’t see. If he started, he might not know where to stop.

“But here’s something else. How much does God get involved in our lives? Again, look at today. You’re a prophet and some fool tries to skewer you. Did God intervene to save your life?”

Thurik sighed. “The will of God rules the world. But, there are two kinds of people, really, just two kinds in the end. There are those who seek to know and do the will of God, and those who seek their own will. The will of God was done today.”

“So, if a crossbow bolt had gone through your heart that would have been the will of God?”

“Yes.”

Mark shook his head. “That can’t be right. If everything is God’s will, what would be the point of ‘seeking’, as you say, the will of God. It will happen anyway.”

“No, remember I said there are two kinds of people. The will of God is only done in those who are seeking His will. In my case, live or die, succeed or fail, God’s will is done because that is what I desire and believe.

“Though God’s will was done today, for me, it may not have been God’s will for those Zh – highwaymen to die. They were seeking their own will and when their desire to kill me encountered God’s intent for me to live a while longer, they lost.”

Mark frowned but nodded. Odan chewed another mouthful of the slop on his plate. “I’ll have to think about that,” he said slowly.