by James Lecky
in Issue 74, March 2018
Now this story begins, as do so many in my life, with me fleeing from the Wrath Of…
No ordinary Wrath Of…, you understand. Certainly nothing so minuscule as the Wrath Of Thorvos the Lender (to whom I find myself owing many berries on occasion) nor anything like the Wrath of Benvidian the Torian Assassin after he finds me in flagrante delicto with his middle wife.
No, this is a Wrath Of… a different nature and comes courtesy of the flapping, beaky manifestation known as Quexcodial, the Bird God. My own fault – as these things often are – since I eat one of her unhatched offsprings in an omelet, this being the time when my navel and columna vertebralis become closer neighbours than nature ever intended. But I reason that Quex the Feathery will never miss one little boulder-sized egg since she lays these things in regiments.
As it turns out, I reason incorrectly.
So picture if you will the sight of Runyan the Wizard, fleeing as hard as his skinning gams will carry him, through the Bizarre Bazaar of Zedikteer, while above him soars the Big Beaky and all around him the good citizens of our city run for cover.
If nothing else, I take some small consolation that I go to the bone-yard with a full belly, when a voice like barbed honey calls out:
“Aroint thee, demon! Return to the Hell that spawned thee!”
I take a little moment to see who speaks these words and almost stop right there in my size eights.
I know it is a sworder, since no one else speaks suchlike.
But, brother, what a sworder!
Should you ever find yourself in Zedikteer-By-The-Raging-Sea, you will notice that sworders are as common as flies on a dung-pile. Great big brutes, for the most part, long on muscle, short on smarts, much given to loin-cloths and torcs regardless of the prevailing climatic conditions.
Few, though, are given to gold-mesh two-piece ensembles; fewer still have curves that would make a scimitar jealous.
And so I get my first glimpse of Franech the Bloody – so called due to her ability to get ketchup flowing with her tilter.
Now I am not a man given overmuch to the company of Shebas, nor they given overmuch to mine since most Shebas require to be both wined and dined. Wine I can usually find the berries for – but dining not so much.
But this Sheba makes even me look twice. And then once more to ensure that my eyes do not play tricks upon me.
They do not.
Six feet from mane to toe – a good six inches taller than yours truly – blacker than black hair that cascades down her back, and holding a tilter almost as tall as she.
“Aroint thee,” she calls again. “Or thou shalt face the might of Franech the Bloody.” And this time Big Beaky pays attention.
Now Quexcodial is not the type to take any wooden bronzes. Visiting her Wrath upon a skinny fellow like me is one thing, but facing the might of such a hard-boiled sworder is a different kettle of herring, especially when she has a regiment of hatchlings back home in the Temple. She turns in the air – graceful as a granite pillar – and makes with the flap-flap back the way she came.
“No thanks are necessary, old one,” Franech says, making the assumption that I am grateful.
“Don’t let the beard fool you, sister,” I tell her, “There may be snow on the roof but the fire’s still burning.”
She thinks on this a moment and then laughs. All sworders, regardless of creed, colour or gender, have the same laugh – a big boom that involves throwing back the head and placing the hands upon the hips – and Bloody F is no different.
“I like you, little man,” she says, and the word ‘little’ has me curling my lip. “Come, let us drink to my victory! Dost thou know a tavern?”
“Oh, I dost,” I say, and my lip uncurls. “I very much dost.”
*
In the whole of Zedikteer there is only one tavern worth frequenting, that which goes by the name of the Jolly Strangler. The reasons for this are many and various – the clientèle is well behaved and not given to rough-housing, the décor ungaudy, the wine cheap and plentiful and the owner, One Eye Jym, allows me to run a tab for which he does not pester me overmuch.
We find a table and bend our elbows a while, Franech the Bloody matching me quaff for quaff and scattering bronze berries around like she has just come into a fortune.
“Your name, greybeard?” she finally asks.
“Call me Runyan,” I say. “Most folk do.”
She eyes my robe and pointy hat – the one decorated with much-faded arcane symbols and the other much battered and dented.
“Art thou a sorcerer, Runyan?”
“A wizard, the distinction is important.”
“And hast thou power?”
“I scrape by.” Usually losing a layer of my dermis as I do so, but she has no need to know that.
She takes a big swallow of Jym’s best giggle water and leans in close to me.
“I have come here in search of a man,” she says, in that typical sworder whisper which is just one decibel under a shout. “A sorceror who has dishonoured my family.”
I am tempted to make the point that running around in mesh and waving a tilter might do the same business, but common smarts keep my lip shut – or at least just open enough to quaff another jug of Jym’s finest.
“He stole from us our greatest treasure. His name is Ophrel.”
Maybe it is to do with the fact that my wine goes down the wrong way, or maybe it is more to do with the name she speaks, but my next words are more splutter than speech.
“Ophrel The Green?”
“Thou knowest him?”
Everybody in Zedikteer knowest Ophrel The Green, and the same everybody also knowest enough to maintain a respectful distance. It is not so much that Ophrel is a bad fellow, you understand, but he is known to be somewhat short on temper and big on retribution. Once, he has a fellow visited by Snow demons in the middle of summer for the crime of mispronouncing his name as ‘Oaf-rel’, with the result that the fellow in question is found solid and transparent in the morning.
“I may have a passing acquaintance,” I say. “And what, if I may be so bold as to enquire, might be the nature of your business with this verdant Ophrel?”
“I intend to slay him.”
“Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”
“And you will aid me in my endeavour. Did I not save you from the winged terror?” she says. “You owe me your life, Runyan,” and the way she says it makes it clear that this particular debt cannot and will not be cleared by berries alone.
I think about making a run for the door. It is a distance I have covered many, many times when debtors have come knocking, and I have the capacity for making it in four strides or less, but something tells me that nothing short of a seven-league leap will take me away from Franech the Ketchup-Spiller.
“You can count on me. Runyan the Wizard is a man who always pays his debts,” I say, nothing better coming to mind.
And the last thing I hear before I slide under the table into the arms of Bacchus and his good friend Morpheus is the laughter of One Eye Jym. Joke’s on you, Jymbo, thinks I, since if I tangle with Ophrel the Grassy then I am a dead man – and dead men pay no bar tabs.
*
When I wake there are three little hangover demons doing the cha-cha-cha on my noodle and I do not know where I am.
Not knowing where I am is part and parcel of my everyday, so this does not distress me unduly and after shooing away the booze demons I take stock of my present whereabouts.
It is most certainly not my own sweet hovel since I lie upon a soft bed who’s sheets are mostly clean except for the parts beneath me, also the glass in the windows in likewise clean, letting in streams of too-bright sunlight.
If ever I need a libation it is now.
Said libation is not forthcoming, however. Instead the door bursts open and in strides Big Bloody.
“Thou art awake,” she says. “Good. Come, we have plans to make.”
The prior evening of quaffing does not touch her one little bit, except maybe a little around the eyes which are as hell-demon red, and she is filled with the get-up-and-go for which sworders are so well known.
As for me, my get-up-and-go wishes it had got-up-and-went, but this is not the time to say such things.
“Plans,” I say, “Sure, that’s swell.” I do not tell her that the only plans I intend to make are to skedaddle in the direction of Away as swiftly as possible.
She leads me down some stairs and I am surprised to learn that we remain within the confines of the Jolly Strangler – a place which I rarely, if ever, see in the hours before noon.
Despite the earliness of the hour, One Eye Jym stands behind the bar and offers me the first glass of the day, which I quickly follow with the second and then the third. It is the third which finally opens my peepers properly.
“Ophrel The Green,” Franech says. “Where shall I find him?”
“He has a palace by the Garden of Shrieks which is where he makes his home,” I say, seeing no good reason not to. “But, lady, the way you were flapping your gums last night, chances are that he’s already looking for you.”
To if prove the veracity of my words, the door of the Strangler splinters open and three of the biggest sworders I ever see stride manfully in, tilters at the ready. They are quickly followed by four more of their brethren, equally armed and ready, and finally by a last sworder dressed in spiffy black. This last individual I know only too well – a sneaksome fellow who rejoices in the name of Brother Sable and is Ophrel’s right hand man.
“Seize them!”
“Them?” I squeaks. “There is no ‘them’ here, Brother Sable, there is a her and a me, which in no way constitutes a ‘them’.”
This last part is muffled somewhat by the sack of rough hessian which is placed over my noodle with no gentleness by Brother Sable. It also means that I miss the next part of the tale, which consists mostly of clangings and slashings and other such sworder-type sounds.
It is a time when I once again wish that my bag o’ tricks is not so depleted. A little pinch of Ploughshare and Good Companions does wonders in such a situation, making even the worst of enemies into the best of friends. But given the here and now of the circumstance I might as well whistle for a tub of Ambrosia and the combination to Queen Sadara’s Unlockable Chastity Belt while I am at it.
No doubt you wonder why such a spiffy fellow as I finds himself without the necessary items to make with the legerdemain. Well…
…the truth is that I very rarely have the necessary. Do not misread me. I am, without fear of contradiction, one of the finest makers of both hocus and pocus in the city of Zedikteer-by-the-Raging-Blue-and-Wet. But a predilection for placing my hard-earned on the slowest dragon in the race or the fighter with the glassiest jaw means that my purse normally contains more moths than berries. And the tricks of my trade cannot be purchased by moths alone.
In the time it takes to explain this little nugget of backfill, I am lifted from my feet by Brother Sable and carried away, the sounds of battle fading rapidly behind me.
Time passes before the bag is taken from my head.
Realisation of my whereabouts comes quickly, but the knowledge is not welcome since the principal colour surrounding me is the same as grass – Green as in Ophrel The.
And there he is, sat upon his Jade Throne, wearing robes of bright emerald and a tall dome-like hat of dull lime. It may be trick of the light but I think he looks a little green around the gills, too.
I do not like the way he is looking at me, tapping long fingernails against the arm of his throne, making a sound somewhat like a ticked-off death-watch beetle.
“Runyan, you son of a Urine Demon!”
“What’s shaking, Green-and-Magnificent?”
Sorcerers, unlike like the humble wizard, are much given to colours as a power source. Hence the Green tag that Ophrel gives himself – other notables might include Berric the White, Piccaro the Blue and Caparro the Brown. Once, I even encounter a magic man who gives himself the moniker Miltona the Puce, a fine and noble fellow who shares my passion for cards, dice and other games of chance. I mention this only by way of passing, since such knowledge has little bearing upon my current predicament but may be of use to you should Lady Fortune ever direct your toes towards Zedikteer.
“You son of a diseased boar!” He stands and comes down to where I cower. “You would dare to plot against me!”
“Hold your equine forms of transport,” I say. “Do I plot? I do not.”
“Then deny that you were in the company of that she-devil Franech the Bloody, my sworn enemy.”
“This I cannot do,” says I. “Nor can I deny that she intends to remove your noodle from your neck. But these doings are none of mine since I am at best an accessory after the fact.”
He frowns at this. Then nods.
“I did not think that such as this would be your caper,” he says and I am relieved that he uses a smattering of the ancient hep-talk now. “But dammit, the woman has been a thorn in my side ever since I stole the Jewel Verdigris from Duke Traynor.”
Ah. Now things begin to make a little sense to me. The Jewel Verdigris, for those who do not know, is one of those artefacts of Great Doing that lie scattered around the world these days. This particular one I know a little about.
It is by nature of what men call a Wish Stone, giving the owner the ability to conjure the heart’s desire from the thinnest of air. And that, my friend, is no small potatoes. This explains the ire of Franech the Bloody since to lose such an item might cause ire aplenty.
“She must die,” Ophrel says.
“That might be easier said than done, My Lord,” this is the voice of Brother Sable who has been lurking in shadow as the black-clad tend to do. “She killed seven warriors with as many blows. It was only through good fortune that I escaped with my life.”
Good fortune and a healthy yellow streak, thinks I. But I do not voice this opinion since I have enough on my plate as it stands.
Instead I say: “I have no doubt that Lady Luck stays with you in all your endeavours, Ophrel. As for me, I have three hangover demons to reacquaint myself with.” In saying so, I make my way towards the nearest door in the hope that it may be an exit.
“A trap of some sort,” Ophrel muses, and the way in which he muses it quickens my step toward the hoped-for exit. “But a trap requires bait. A boon companion in danger perhaps.”
It is an inalienable fact of life that, no matter how you slice it, one and one will make two. Except that there are certain occasions when one and one will place Runyan the Wizard – boon companion of Franech the Bloody – in danger of the mortal kind. Now the fact that I only meet Franech the Ketchup Spiller through the most misfortunate of circumstances does not register with Ophrel the Green.
“Stop him, Sable!” These are words I dislike to hear.
I dislike even more the feeling of a sharp dagger pressed against my ribs and the throaty chuckle of Brother Sable as he does so.
“Come, Runyan,” he says. “We have a trap to bait.”
*
So it is that, as the sun slides her merry way towards set, that I find myself bound to a particularly secure stake in the Garden of Shrieks. This shrieky garden is so called since the many plants contained therein love nothing so much as to give voice to their condition. I do not blame them as I, too, would like nothing more than to give voice to my own condition but am prevented from doing so by a wad of fresh cotton lovingly placed in my trap.
“It’s nothing personal, Runyan,” Ophrel tells me. “When this is all over – and if you survive – you and I may share a glass or two from my cellar.”
For the first time every in my life I feel like refusing a quaff. Fortunately the gag prevents such rash utterances.
Wishing me the fondest of farewells, Ophrel the Fink and the ever-present Brother Sable take themselves off behind a particularly large and loud shrub to await the arrival of Madame Bloody.
Now, sensible fellows like you and I would never endanger themselves for the sake of a casual acquaintance. Moreover, a sensible fellow such as myself would not even endanger himself if his own Sainted Mamma is tied to a stake in a shrieky garden. But sworders are not like you and I – particularly not like I – their thinking being tangled up with notions of honour and derring-do and other such concepts which tend to get a fellow ventilated.
As such it is not long before Franech the Bloody comes striding through the Garden of Shrieks, titler in hand and a determined look upon her kisser.
“Fear not, greybeard,” she says to me. “I will save thee.”
I nod and smile as best I can – which is to say not at all.
“Ophrel the Green!” she bellows, putting serious strain upon the upper part of her two-piece. “The hour of retribution is at hand.”
“On the contrary, my dear Franech,” says Ophrel, emerging from behind his noisy shrub with Brother Sable by his side – who by now has a tilter in his hand and a sly grin upon his dial.. “I think you will find that the hour of your death is closer than you think!” He laughs at this in a sorcerous way – which is somewhat similar to the way in which sworders give vent to the funnies but in a higher pitch.
“I think not,” she says. “For it would take an army to stay my hand this day.”
“An army, you say?” He reaches into his robes and produces a rock so green that it can only be the Jewel Verdigris. “Oh how I wish,” says he. “That I had an army.”
No sooner does he make with this than a second Brother Sable is standing by his side. And then two more. And then two more. And then…. but you get the picture.
And before there is time to utter the expression ‘pitched battle’ I find myself at the epicentre of the most pitched of battles that I have ever seen or ever wish to.
The air is filled with much slashing and clashing and ‘have at thees’ as the army in black goes toe-to-toe with the Sheba in gold, although from where I stand it looks as if the Sheba is getting the best of things, army or no army. Still, it is a fact that, given time, the Many will always overcome the One.
A tilter goes ‘thunk’ into my stake and, by lucky chance, severs the ropes which make me its bosom companion, so I wind my way through a blizzard of whirling steel, keeping both hat and turnip low, looking for the sign that says ‘This Way Out’.
When I lift my head again the Garden is filled with much by the way of severed limbs, and Franech the Bloody stands hacking left and right at the multitude of Brothers Sable who continue to pour forth and, from what I can see, pour fifth as well. But for all her slicing and dicing I see she is starting to tire and that the Gentleman With the Scythe is getting ready to claim her for his own. A miracle, she needs, and miracles I do not do. Normally.
Ophrel the Verdant is still making with the laugh-laugh and holding the Jewel Verdigris aloft.
It is then I do something that surprises even me.
“Cheese and crackers,” I utter, pointing in the direction of Over There. “Where did that dragon come from?”
There is, of course, no large-and-scaley to be seen but the tiny moment that Ophrel the Curious takes to verify this fact gives me the opportunity to snatch the Jewel Verdigris.
“Runyan! What in the Three Devils name do you think you are doing?”
I do not answer him since I have neither time nor inclination to do so. Instead I say:
“Oh how I wish these things had never been.”
The world goes screwy for a moment – like when you trip on the hem of your robe or drink that last inch of Mongravian Brandy that you swore you would never touch again – and before I know where I am I know exactly where I am.
It is the Jolly Strangler in the wee small hours and I am sitting at my usual table with my usual lack of berries, an empty goblet in front of me and seized by a sudden hankering for scrambled eggs. No Green-and-Sorcerous, ‘natch, since in my haste for safety I wish the day – and my possession of the Verdant Wishstone – away.
“You’ll get no eggs this time of night, Runyan,” I am informed by One Eye Jym. “Unless you want to steal them from Quexcodial.” He laughs at this and goes back to pretending to polish goblets.
“No,” says I. “I believe that I no longer hanker for eggs of any variety at this particular juncture.” Upon saying this I bid him a good evening and return to my hovel, making maximum use of the pavement area as I do so. This time, I make sure that I take the route that goes anywhere except past the Temple of Quexcodial, and if Baalphromet the Goat God happens to lose a kid in the night I am sure no one notices.
The next day, with my mouth tasting of roast goat deity and my friends the hangover demons doing a spirited rumba on my pate, I pass a tall lady sworder in the Bizarre Bazaar.
She does not recognise her old friend and boon companion Runyan the Wizard since thanks to the Jewel Verdigris we never meet before. For this I am glad. Later that week I hear that some person or persons unknown has crept into the palace of Ophrel the Green and redecorated the throne room with his insides.
To a nicer fellow it could not happen.
The End
©March 2018 James Lecky
James Lecky is a writer, actor and (occasional) stand-up comedian from Derry, Northern Ireland where he lives with his wife and cat. His short fiction has appeared in a number of publications both online and in print including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Arcane, the anthology Chilling Horror Short Stories, as well as previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine. You can find his musings on various topics at https://jameslecky.wordpress.com.