Nobody
spoke as the close group stood in their tight circle in the dimly lit foyer of
some dark mansion, a rustic lord’s mansion of giant timbers with only two lamps
that oddly did not flicker. The amber-orange light seemed frozen. In fact, the
entire atmosphere seemed unnaturally still. Jack and Wolf looked at each other.
Wolf the wolf whined softly. Six stood unmoving, looking uncannily like a
mannequin. Wolf the wolf turned in a half circle and paced to the heavy double
doors, and stood there, head cocked, listening, whining insistently. Something
was coming. Something was on the other side of the doors. Something was out in
the night.
“What
is it, boy?” Jack said, his voice sounding too heavy and too thick in the
frozen room. Breath emitted visibly from the youth’s mouth as he spoke, and he
shuddered, realizing for the first time just how cold it was in this weird
room.
“Don’t
call him boy, he’s not a dog,” Wolf
the man said.
“Do
I really have to start calling you...Wolf?” Jack said, snorting. “I like
Stacey better.”
“In
this world, apparently I’ve been brought here to fight, and Wolf is my fighting
name,” Stacey, Wolf the man, replied, sinking into his deep cloak, reflected
light catching and sparking briefly on his eyes as he looked to the double
doors where the great wolf stood listening to something. “Plus, with a name
like Stacey, my whole life, I’ve almost been the boy named Sue.”
“Made
you tough, though,” Jack said, containing his snicker, almost. “You know, the
whole my name is Sue, how do you do!”
“Probably
just gave me a lifelong bad attitude,” Wolf said, his cool black shillelagh
extending from his hand like a walking stick, its tip delicately touching down
on the shiny wood planks of the floor.
“I
don’t know, that’s the first thing I noticed about you,” Jack said, grinning,
his bow sliding off his shoulder, an arrow nocking almost magically between his
nimble fingers. “It’s unusual, your great attitude.”
“Six,”
Wolf whispered, cuffing the man on the arm. He glanced at Jack. “What is going
on? He’s catatonic.”
The
big man stood like a pillar of plastic, mouth slightly open, eyes unfocused,
one hand extended for their Three Musketeer salute, the other hand clasping a
medallion extended on a chain about his thick neck. Jack thought he looked like
some statue they would put out at the entrance to a Renaissance Festival.
“This
whole place is catatonic,” Jack replied, shivering, “and cold. I didn’t get a
cool Aragorn cloak like you did. In a few moments I’ll be as frozen as him.”
Wolf
slipped out of his big cloak, and held it open for the kid.
“Really?”
Jack said, “I don’t think that thing is going to fit me.”
“In
this place, it will probably size itself to fit you perfectly,” Wolf said,
aiding Jack into the warmth of the cloak.
But
the cloak did not resize itself to Jack’s slim build. He stood with the garment
swimming huge on him.
“I
feel like I’m trying on my Dad’s clothes,” Jack laughed, nervously, smiling up
at Wolf, tugging back the sleeves.
Wolf
hugged him, briefly.
“Whatever
happens next,” he said, with gravity, “I want you to stay safe, try and stay
behind me. Don’t let the beauty of this world fool you, it’s dangerous. Let me
do the rough stuff.”
Wolf
the wolf whined softly, and scratched at the door.
“What
is it, boy?” Wolf said, moving stealthily to the great beast’s side, and then
he realized what he had just said and chuckled. “Sorry, what is it, Wolf?”
The
big wolf growled and lapped out with his huge tongue, catching Stacey under the
chin.
“You
know, I kind of like it, don’t be sorry,” Wolf the wolf said, eyes glowing
amber lamps.
Wolf
the man ruffled Wolf the wolf’s fur, and scratched up between his ears.
“You
be careful out there, too. I don’t want you getting hurt, just be ready to back
me up if a six-armed giant punches me in the head,” Wolf the man said.
Wolf
the wolf scratched at the door again.
“Do
you know what’s out there?” Jack said, joining them at the doors, his bow at
the ready, clasped in his left hand.
“Men,”
Wolf the wolf growled deeply. “Bad men. And many of them.”
Wolf
the man tucked his shillelagh beneath his left arm and seized the heavy beam
across the door.
“You
sure you should open the door, I mean while Six is in this state?” Jack said,
unable to suppress the quaver in his voice.
“Open
the door,” Wolf the wolf growled.
Wolf
the man easily lifted the beam out of the brackets and propped the beam up on
its end beside the door.
“You
did that so easily,” Jack said, measuring the beam with his eyes. He doubted he
could have moved it, as it must be seven feet in length, and twelve inches by
six inches in girth, and it looked solid. Jack felt maybe they should have left
the beam in place, because it could probably hold off a battering ram.
“Ready?”
Wolf the man said.
Wolf
the wolf nodded his big head, once.
Jack
swallowed, hard. It sounded like an egg was stuck in his throat.
Wolf
the man pulled upon the huge ring on the right-side door and swung the
eight-foot-tall door inward, bracing himself. Wolf the wolf immediately shot
through the door, his large paws strangely quiet in the night. Wolf the man
stood in the open doorway, listening. There was nothing. The strangeness inside
the manor extended beyond its door, with the world hushed and resting. Yet
there was that sense, that the night crouching outside the door waited, ready
to pounce.
“What the hell are you
doing!”
Jack
and Wolf started, whirling about. Six stood a few paces away, his sword in his
hand, crouching.
“Shut
the door, you idiots!” he cried.
Wolf
ushered Jack back into the manor and gently, quietly closed the door, and
remained with his shoulder against the monstrously heavy door, leaving a crack
which he could peer through, as Six came forward.
“Glad
to see you’re okay,” Jack said, “but you almost gave us a heart attack sneaking
up like that.”
“You
don’t know what you’re doing,” Six said, “you don’t know what’s coming. Close
the door! Lock it, put the beam back in place.”
“The
lamp,” Wolf said.
They
turned to the lamp upon the table. The amber flame flickered in the rippled,
smoky glass. And everything felt different. While they focused on the door, the
whole world came back into existence.
“Oh
no, we’re not ready, but it’s happening, now, they’re here, right now, outside
the door,” Six said, his sword lowering until the tip rested upon the floor,
and his left hand clutched at his heart as if he were suffering an attack.
“Calm
down,” Wolf commanded, his voice low, almost a growl. “Isn’t that why we’re
here?”
“Yuh-yes,”
Six stammered, “buh-but I’m not ready. This is our very last chance, and you
don’t even know—”
Rough
voices sounded outside. Wolf tensed at the door, crouching. Jack scrambled
back, raising his bow, an arrow ready, and Six finally steadied himself and
flanked Wolf to the right.
Six
felt frozen throughout his bones, because he had lived this moment, too many
times, it seemed countless times, and here it was again, the two giants outside
the door. The seven-foot tall brute with the ax—Six had felt that ax, right
here, in his breast—and the squat brute with the spear, and Six had experienced
that particular delight, as well.
Except
now this incredible Stacey guy was here, taking charge, that was decidedly
different. And the wisp of a kid, he was here too, with his bow up and an arrow
sighted.
Okay,
Six thought, this time we’re all in. I’m fighting, and even if I have to die,
I’m doing it, I’m going for it, I don’t care anymore.
Loud
boots sounded on the porch outside, the dragon warriors not even attempting
stealth.
The
first crash would strike the door in moments, and Stacey was just standing
there, the blow would drive the door into him and he’d fall backward, but when
the giant went to kill Stacey, Six would take him, oh yes, this time he would
pay back some of the torment these raiders delighted in so much. This time.
Then
Wolf pulled the door inward.
Six
cried out and scrambled backward as the two hulking figures appeared in the
doorway, the seven-foot giant swinging his ax.
Wolf
twirled his shillelagh in his left hand and caught the downward swing of the ax
crosswise, smashing the giant’s fingers and driving the mighty ax swing to the
side, and with one continuing fluid movement he stepped in close and drove his
right fist (garbed in the ludicrous thorny snakeskin MMA glove) directly upward
into the giant’s chin. The gloved fist cracked upon the tip of the big chin,
and the giant’s head snapped backward, tilting almost comically upward, and
suddenly the monstrous attacker was doing little mincing ballerina steps,
backward, crashing over.
The
spear! Six was about to shout out in warning, the squat brute, the one with the
long spear, he was already driving forward, and Six meant to cry out, he
intended to warn his new friend, but there just was no time, everything was
happening sickeningly fast, and yet everything seemed to be moving slowly,
dreamlike, and it was too late to issue any kind of warning.
Wolf
snapped his shillelagh around and knocked the head of the spear, deflecting the
very deadly tip, if only the fragment of an inch to the side, and impossibly
Wolf was moving forward, his shillelagh never ceasing, snapping up between the
squat warrior’s splayed legs, and it whumped loudly, but Wolf did not pause,
but rocked a right elbow forward and smashed the bracer on his arm into the
squat warrior’s face.
Six
swallowed hard and glanced to Jack. The kid was moving forward, the same arrow
nocked at ready, his face grim and resolute. Six moved in close behind the kid.
He’d watch their backs, make sure nobody snuck up on them.
The
squat warrior did not fall, but staggered backward, and it looked like Wolf was
giving him little love taps with the end of his black stick, just a rapid
tap-a-tap tapping, all about the warriors head, but still the massively wide
warrior did not fall. He tried to bring his spear back into play but Wolf
stomped down on the staff of the weapon, smashing it from the warrior’s grasp.
The
fallen giant was scrambling to his feet, growling. With an almost leisure
consideration Wolf swung his black shillelagh to the right and tapped the giant
on the head, knocking him back down.
Torches
appeared all about the porch as a multitude of warriors rushed forward.
Wolf
drove in again and smashed the wide end of the black fighting club into the
squat warrior’s face, driving him end-over-end backward, tumbling down the
steps that lead from the porch.
Wolf
turned his attention again to the fallen giant, who had flipped over and was
crawling away, and Wolf could not resist the cheap shot and swung his boot up
between the giant’s scrambling legs. Yes, it was a dirty shot, but who did
these creeps think they were, invading a man’s home and castle by night,
sneaking in like thieves. Wolf thought better of it and drove his shillelagh
into the same tender place where his boot had just struck. The giant groaned
loudly and collapsed face down. Wolf strode over his back and stood on his
neck, his shillelagh ever twirling.
For
a moment everything went still, with Wolf astride the giant’s neck, the wide
warrior sprawled flat on his back at the base of the stairs, a ring of perhaps
twenty invaders encircling the front of the manor, torches lifted high and
wielding massive battleaxes.
Jack
stood behind Wolf, his first arrow still nocked, ready to fly, sighting from
warrior to warrior. Thank goodness there did not appear to be any bowmen
present.
“This
is my manor!” Six cried, raising his sword, moving around Jack. He wanted to
cut off the giant’s head, because he clearly remembered all the many times
before. All the repetitious attacks, played over and over, always with the same
result of death, rape, and destruction (not necessarily in that order). This
giant, this squat warrior, they were the rapists.
“Wait!”
cried the squat warrior, pushing himself into a crouch, appearing remarkably
undamaged—undiminished—despite the brutal caning the man with the black
shillelagh had just delivered.
Wolf
leaped from the top of the stairs, a full ten steps, and crashed down into the
squat warrior, flattening him again. He tapped the warrior on the back of the
head with the end of his stick.
Six
howled and rushed at the giant, slashing down, his sword striking at the prone warrior’s
neck, but impossibly the giant rolled over and batted away the sword strike
with a bracer on his arm. The giant kicked up with both legs and struck Six at
the knees, buckling him over. Grinning despite his bloodied face, the giant
rolled at Six with a wicked dagger.
Jack
tracked the knife and with hardly a thought, loosed the arrow. The dagger fell
from the giant’s pierced hand.
The
giant howled and snapped the arrow in his wounded hand, and with jutting teeth
he came at Jack, who stepped back a quick shuffling dance, and smashed the
widest part of his bow across the man’s snarling face. But the giant was hardly
deterred and swung his arms to seize Jack, but Jack surprised himself and leapt
to the bannister along the porch and balanced there, another arrow nocked and
sighted on the giant’s chest.
Six
swung and punched the giant squarely in the eye and the brute came back upon
him and they grappled. Six was a big man, six-foot-four and more than two
hundred fifty pounds, but the giant dwarfed him, and they snarled and twisted
at each other.
A
torch-bearing axman rushed across the grounds at Wolf but Jack placed an arrow
through his ax hand. The raider dropped his torch and fell to his knees,
grasping his wounded hand. Yes, Jack nodded, he could do this. He had Stacey’s
back.
“Wait!
Wait!” the squat spearman hollered, scrambling away from Wolf on his back and
elbows, his legs kicking frantically.
“What,
you want to talk?” Wolf growled, tapping at the scrambling feet with the
shillelagh.
“The
Pugilist!” one of the raiders cried, waving his torch.
“It’s
the Pugilist!” another raider cried, stumbling backward, and surprisingly, the
ring of raiders drew back, still in violent postures, but undecided in their
next actions. All along the line of raiders, like crickets beginning a chorus,
they began to say that word, pugilist, over and over again.
“Maybe
we should hear what he has to say?” Jack said, easily striding the length of
the bannister, his boots sure upon the narrow railing, another arrow nocked.
Six
continued to struggle with the giant. He had his hands on the brute’s throat,
but despite his savagely twisting fingers, he was unable to effectively
throttle the monster, who had him in a bear hug and was squeezing for all he
was worth. Six groaned and dug deep his fingers. This was his first chance to
get in a few licks of his own, and he was taking some delight in the
life-and-death struggle. The bastards!
Finally, he would show them how it felt. He squeezed harder with all his
considerable strength and felt some slackening in the giant’s deadly embrace.
“I
think I might enjoy knocking you down again,” Wolf growled at the squat warrior
who continued to scramble away. “Get up.”
The
squat warrior complied, rising to a crouch. His face was bloodied and swollen,
but he still seemed to have a lot of spite ready, glowering at his
shillelagh-wielding tormentor.
The
giant lifted Six off his feet and slammed him into a wooden pillar, cracking
the mighty wood. But Six did not release his hold. Think pitbull, he commanded himself.
“We
did not know you were present, Pugilist,” the squat warrior snarled. “We raided
the rich lords, as is our right. They are our enemies, and killing them is our
right. Raping their women and children is our right.”
“No,
it’s not your right,” Wolf said, going still, the shillelagh for the first time
frozen, held parallel along his left arm. He was going to kill this
self-righteous savage. For the first time in his life, he felt the killer
instinct, deep down. The killer instinct always missing when he was a boxer.
And he was almost ashamed to acknowledge that it felt pretty...good.
“I
don’t look kindly on rapers.”
“Rapists,”
Jack corrected.
Wolf
sighed. That kid.
Six
and the giant came crashing down the stairs, Six with his fingers buried in the
giant’s throat, the giant yet squeezing the smaller man in a bear hug.
Stacey
glanced to watch the savage encounter but made certain to maintain the squat
warrior clearly in his peripheral vision.
Six
gritted his teeth and got up close to stare into the giant’s eyes.
“Not
this time,” Six whispered, and clamped his hands, not looking away, watching
the giant’s bulging eyes glaze and finally roll up into his head, but still he
squeezed, trying to make his palms meet. He wanted to interlock his fingers
with the giant’s throat between his hands. The giant legs and arms spasmed,
then fell limp.
Six
collapsed across the giant’s chest.
“He
killed the Krogurr,” many of the raiders muttered, aghast, disbelief evident in
their voices. But the truth was, they didn’t sound very outraged, not at all.
“Plant
your torches!” the squat warrior thundered, raising his fists at his ears in
the classic muscleman pose. Without pause, the raiders obeyed, slamming the
ends of their long torches into the loamy soil. Even the raider with the arrow
through his hand managed to retrieve his torch and plant it in the soil.
“Now
you fight me, and prove if you are the Pugilist of legend,” the squat warrior
snarled, stripping off his shaggy armor and dashing each piece to the ground.
Wolf
spun his shillelagh and planted it in the soil. He’d keep his cool MMA gloves.
The
warrior stripped down to a loincloth, and his body proved tattooed on every
inch of flesh, tattoos that glowed iridescent in the torchlight. He had a
barrel of a chest, a big man’s body, like a powerlifter, ripe with jiggling
fatty muscle, with quite a pair of breasts, to boot.
“Be
careful, Stacey,” Jack called, “you know he’s going to cheat.”
“Wolf,”
Wolf the man called back.
Jack
sighed. “Yes, I know, I know, Wolf.”
“I
love fighting a cheater,” Wolf said.
Six
pushed himself to a sitting position, gasping, his head whirling.
“Get
him,” he croaked.
Wolf
marched toward the squat tattooed warrior.
The
squat warrior snarled and hurled himself upon Wolf, who sidestepped and tripped
the rushing warrior. But to his credit, the squat warrior did not fall, but
merely stumbled, and swung back around and lashed out with a fist, which Wolf
ducked. The squat warrior kept his fists up as if he were flexing his biceps,
and from this stance threw punch after punch in swiping motions, like a cat.
“You’ve
been watching too much Chuck Liddell,” Wolf muttered and stepped in close and
snapped a machinegun jab into the warrior’s face, peppering him three times,
even breaking his nose.
The
warrior sat back with a grunt and landed on his butt. Dazed for a moment, he
stared up at his tormentor and then flinched, thinking Wolf would kick him
while he was down.
Wolf
almost did kick him, right in the face, but held himself back. He motioned with
his fingers, come on, get back up—let’s play.
The
watching raiders murmured.
Jack
noticed more raiders slinking in from the darkness, joining the outer ring.
These too had torches, which they lit from the flaming stakes planted about the
clearing. They waved their torches and began to call out encouragingly to their
leader. Jack couldn’t count how many raiders were present, but he figured
thirty to forty to be a good ballpark figure. Perhaps, fifty. He kept his bow
half-drawn, an arrow nocked. He figured he had perhaps twenty arrows, at best,
but he also had his nifty dagger on his belt. He danced nervously on the
railing.
Out
in the darkness Jack caught sight of a large shape moving quickly around the
ring, just on the very edge of the light. It must be Wolf the wolf, he thought.
The
squat warrior surged to his feet and attacked, throwing punch after monstrous
haymaker punch, all of which Wolf slipped and dodged, ducked and eluded.
Wolf
considered. He had certainly never fought anyone like this in the ring, neither
in sparring or professionally. The guy was a brute, a big, strong, meaty
warrior, even dangerous, but he certainly didn’t know how to fight. Heck, with
this new body, he could fight like this for hours. He wasn’t even winded, not a
bit, with nary a sign of asthma. He danced in close and planted a fist deep in
the squat warrior’s body, just beneath the ribs. The warrior woofed. It was
like hitting the heavy bag, with only a little more gush from inside. Wolf
half-blocked another powerful blow, and then he snapped down his right fist in
a short, driving blow, catching the warrior in the mouth.
The
leader of the raiders tumbled over backward.
Surprisingly,
many of the raiders cheered.
The
warrior rolled onto his hands and knees and glowered up at Wolf. Sheesh, Wolf
thought, the guy is just full of piss and vinegar. He had certainly never meant
an opponent like this. The guy was scary.
Wolf
tittered his fingertips at the warrior, come on, get up again.
The
warrior got up again. Wolf knocked him down again.
The
raiders cheered again, only now more were cheering.
The
warrior, enraged threw himself on Wolf, and they grappled. The warrior stomped
down on Wolf’s foot, but Wolf was watching for that and moved his foot, and
when the warrior attempted to seize him by the nuts, Wolf hurled himself upward,
seized the warrior around the neck, and when his feet touched down he launched
himself up and around the man’s broad back, but didn’t release his hold on the
man’s neck—he flipped up and over, to land on his feet—the warrior gurgled,
strangled, and Wolf applied all his vast strength and pulled the heavy man up
and around onto his own back, so that they were back to back, with Wolf’s
stranglehold sinking in deeper.
Utterly
helpless, balanced on Wolf’s back, the warrior’s neck stretched and twisted
about, his feet up in the air, kicking, arms flailing.
The
watching raiders roared, and now there were even more of them gathered, perhaps
more than a hundred, and they were cheering, watching their chief strangled.
Many were chanting.
Pugilist! Pugilist!
In
a second or two, the warrior’s neck would snap. The fact that it hadn’t snapped
already was a testament to the warrior’s powerful body, but the dynamics of
this unheard stranglehold would not allow even the strongest neck to survive
such pressures, all of Wolf’s strength, all of the huge squat warrior’s weight,
and Wolf felt it, what he always felt in his boxing career.
He
felt sorry for the other guy.
Wolf
flipped the warrior over and slammed him into the ground. He stood away from
the fallen warrior, breathing hard. He looked at the roaring, cheering raiders.
They shook their axes and spears above their heads, many of them clashing their
weapons together with whoever stood closest to them.
“Anyone
else?” Wolf thundered, planting his fists upon his hips.
As
one, the encircling raiders quieted and dropped to their knees, placing their
weapons reverently upon the ground.
The
squat warrior, the once leader of this group, lay gasping and coughing.
Six
appeared at Wolf’s side, woozy and gasping.
“You
did it, you actually did it, you turned the whole raid aside!” Six said with
wonder, placing his arm about Wolf’s shoulders.
“Was
this your chief?” Wolf called about the unnaturally quiet glade. For so many
violent men to be so silent, it was weird.
Jack
leapt lightly from the deck bannister and landed gracefully upon his feet, and
quickly trotted to Wolf’s side.
They
looked and were surprised to see the leader of the raiders kneeling, placing
his forehead in the dirt, taking handfuls of the soil and rubbing it into his
head. It appeared to be some form of symbolic gesture of humiliation.
“That’s
incredible,” Six said, shaking his head. “Never heard of anything like this,
not with dragon warriors.”
“They’re
your guys now,” Wolf said, shaking out his muscles. He was exhausted, utterly
drained. It truly had been a long couple of days. He thought of the six-armed
monstrosity. The vast serpent and their duel under the sacred fruit tree. The
sky falling like shards of crystal. The bug-eyed Martians in the alley.
“I
don’t think so,” Six said doubtfully, certain any one of the raiders would
cease their prostrations and leap for his throat at any moment.
“I
do not care what your mission in life was before,” Wolf boomed. “I do not care
what you thought your rights were. There will be no more raping. The dragon
warriors will from hereon be a people of honor, and your primary goal in life
is to protect the lands and life and peoples of...”
He
glanced to Six and whispered: “What in the world is your name, here? Your full
name?”
“Lord
Meren Dulance of High Vale,” Six said, feeling a little self-conscious. It was a
good name, right? He could have picked any name he desired, and he’d gone with
Lord Meren Dulance, of course that was years ago, and in those days he was just
playing a very cool game.
“Your
mission in life is to protect the lands and life and people of Lord Meren
Dulance of High Vale, this good man standing here beside me,” he boomed.
The
raiders bowed and scraped, murmuring like a wave: “Pugilist. Pugilist.
Pugilist.”
“You
are the protectors of this land and its people. Any harm you have caused here,
you will repay,” Stacey boomed, to cries of Pugilist!
Pugilist! Pugilist!
“Can
you think of anything else?” Wolf whispered to Six.
Six
shook his head, feeling dizzy, and liberated, and free.
“How
about tributes?” Jack whispered in Wolf’s ear.
“Yes,
you will make tributes to Lord Meren Dulance, every year!”
“Twice
a year,” Six said, automatically, blinking his eyes.
“Yes,
you will make tributes to Lord Meren Dulance twice a year! Tributes of ten
percent of your profits, twice a year!”
“Twenty
percent, no, twenty-five percent!” Six said, getting into it.
“Don’t
be greedy,” Wolf snapped.
“Oh
look,” Jack said with glee, “the moons are coming out, one on either side!”
And
sure enough, there on their left (Wolf didn’t know the directions here) was the
big swollen moon, and right on cue was the smaller moon emerging on the right.
Hours
later Wolf reclined in a plush wingchair that fitted his body suspiciously like
a La-Z-Boy recliner, a tall tankard of Dark (what Six called it) in his fist.
His eyes were drowsy, and he could see the first light of dawn illuminating the
windows.
“I
couldn’t do without my Guinness Stout,” Six said, sipping appreciatively at his
own tankard. “I actually brought some Stout over here and had my brewmeisters
work to get it as close as possible. “We’ve just called it Dark, but from
hereon, it’s Wolf Dark!”
“How
about Dark Wolf?” Jack contributed.
“I’d
prefer White Wolf, but then that would be an odd stout, wouldn’t it?” Wolf
said, sleepily.
“Dark
Wolf it is!” Six laughed.
“A
stout named after me, it’s always been one of my highest aspirations,” Wolf
said. He usually would not drink anything this strong in the morning, but he
really needed it now.
“In
about half an hour my cook will be up and I’ll have him rustle up some
breakfast, you have to try the bison bacon, it is really good, much better than
pork,” Six said.
“Vegetarian,”
Jack and Wolf said as one, and laughed.
“We’re
still doing that,” Jack said.
“I’m
glad one thing is still solid from the old world,” Wolf said.
“I
like your goatee,” Jack said.
Wolf
felt at his chin. “Funny, I haven’t seen myself in this new world. You’ve got
one too, you know?”
“I
do?” Jack said, delighted, feeling at his own chin. “I have a real moustache!
I’ve always wanted a goatee! Awesome!”
“Yeah,”
Wolf said, yawning, “don’t worry, it’ll fill in, give yourself a couple of
years.”
Jack
looked crestfallen.
“No,
I’m kidding, you look like Errol Flynn,” Wolf said, chuckling. “Very dashing.”
“Yeah,
Robin Hood, that’s me,” Jack laughed.
“Well
come on,” Six burst, “you guys don’t have to be vegetarian any more, come on,
live a little. It’s not like you’ll be eating real meat, not in High Vale.”
“I
think for us,” Wolf said, glancing at Jack, “the rules probably don’t change
too much, as the animals here are as real as the animals back where we came
from.”
“Where
I come from,” Six said, “everyone is vegetarian; it’s literally a crime to eat
any kind of animal—there just aren’t that many of the critters left—so here, I
cut loose. Everyone thinks that eating animals is barbaric, and disgusting, but
I think we are all pretty much animals, so we just love to rip into other
animals. It’s the blood that is so good. When you live with the animals, live
like the animals, am I right?”
“I
think I just need to conk out,” Wolf said, blinking his eyes.
“Me
too,” Jack said, stifling a yawn.
“Conk
out? What’s that, some kind of vegetarian thing?” Six said.
“No,
it means we’re pooped. We need to keel over and sleep the sleep of the dead,”
Jack explained.
“Coma,
it’s calling, I’m about to meet a coma,” Wolf said.
“We
have two or three guestrooms; you can take your pick. Stacey, you take the room
right over there, and Jack there’s one right at the top of the stairs on the
second level.”
“Not
to be weird or anything, but you don’t have a room with two beds, do you? I
don’t want to let Stacey out of my sight,” Jack said.
Wolf
did not correct them. He supposed his name would follow him, wherever he went.
He was Stacey the Wolf and Wolf the Stacey. But his former self seemed far
away. He was in a whole new world, after all.
In
their room Wolf did not even remove his boots. He fell face down on one of the
small beds, and was instantly asleep.
Jack
grinned and removed the older man’s boots. Then he fell onto the other bed and
was snoring before his head hit the fluffy pillow.
Six
paced in the great hall. He felt overjoyed. Finally, they had done it. Thanks
to Old Ben, with a little of the hoped-for luck, they had done it.
He
wished the guys could have remained awake long enough to meet Varra, who should
be waking soon. Ah, Varra, love of my life, our future is open to us! I gave up
everything from my old world, for you, Varra. He slammed his right fist into
his left palm. Ah, but he felt good.
Six
heard a tiny wind chime on the periphery of his hearing. He called up a window
and received a notification of an incoming visitor. He opened the notice. Hey!
Great! Seven was coming! This would be truly epic! She should be arriving in
the High Vale visitor center on the morrow. Lovely. He couldn’t wait to see
her.
Seven
could meet his two new friends, Jack and Wolf.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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