Vestigial Surreality: 18: Dragon Warriors

episode EIGHTEEN

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Dragon Warriors.

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.

Next Episode.

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Vestigial Surreality: 13: Fight

episode THIRTEEN

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08 09 10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33 34 35

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Fight.

The great serpent thrashed its head to the soil again, attempting to annihilate the profane creature that clung just beneath its jaws with a sickening determination to do the god harm. Again, the great serpent failed in its attempt at freedom. The vermin would not release its throttling grasp. Stupid mouse, no, plump rat! Ah, but even its foul touch was profane, the serpent could not stand being touched, and the vermin seemed to be locked in a death grip.

The main obstacle to the serpent’s freedom, aside from the profane creature itself, was the fact that it had pursued the infuriating creature around the sacred fruit tree, more than a few times, and thus could not bring its powerful constricting body to bear. In its efforts to free itself from the infuriating rodent, its entire body had come up thrashing about the sacred tree, and many coils were now tangled throughout the branches of the tree, and fruit was knocked free, smashed, and many of the sacred branches were snapped and damaged. If the serpent continued in the same fashion, it would destroy its own sacred vessel, the very instrument that produced its life-giving meat.

The great serpent went still. It was exhausted, as the parasitical creature clamped to its head was exerting amazing pressure, constricting, and the great serpent—a god—had never met such a foe.

Stacey did not know how much longer he could manage to cling to the monster. Despite the perfect condition and strength of his fantastic new body, this duel had been going on for far too long—he had expended too much energy in eluding the snake’s first violent attack—and he was battered and smashed, slammed both onto the soil (which at least was soft) and up against the slim, delicate tree. His body was wet with the smashed fruit scattered all about the snake and its coils, wet with fruit juice, and his own profuse sweat. For much of their frantic battle, the snake’s vast coils thrashed all about him, seeming to fill the sky with monstrous, sinuous cables of death.

Now the great serpent seemed to be tiring, its vast body tangled throughout the tree, and a few times it seemed to have him in its constricting coils, save for the fact that Stacey had its head seized in both his arms and legs.

He wanted to slam his thumb into the snake’s bulbous eyes, but was too afraid to loosen his grip to make even one or two offensive strikes. He had his legs wrapped around the snake’s body, his ankles locked together.

“Stupid snake,” Stacey gritted between his teeth, “I am going to pop...your...stinking...eyes!”

“How dare you threaten me,” the snake hissed in reply. “Never have I been so defiled by my meat. Damned rat! Rodent!”

Stacey was rocked to hear the thing speak. He understood it perfectly. Come on, this was just too ridiculous, it was absurd that he was lying here tangled up in a snake the size of sewer piping, and now the thing was speaking to him; more, the stupid thing was actually insulting him.

“Stop talking!” Stacey roared, infuriated. “Think I’m a...parseltongue?”

“Get off me! Release me!” the snake hissed, the sound grating and loud, irritating as fingernails on a chalkboard—if the fingernails happened to be twelve inches long!

The snake responded by slamming its head, and thus Stacey’s whole body, again and again up against the tree, and the tree was not soft.

Stacey grunted and dug deep his legs, flexing his muscles for all he was worth, scissor-locking the snake until it ceased its new violent thrashing.

The serpent went still again, save for its gasping breath, dazed, for in its attempt to smash the rat, it had more hurt itself than the clinging rodent. It could barely breathe, so strong were the creature’s legs tightened upon its throat. The great serpent was confounded, because no creature so insignificant should be able to apply such amazing strength.

Stacey released his flexing legs. His whole body seemed to be cramping up, and he doubted he would be able to apply any more bursts of strength. This last battle of strength pitted against strength was almost too much. He ought to just release the thing. Let it have him. He didn’t stand a chance against something as vast as the great serpent. It was too strong. It was too powerful.

No, no, NO! He would not give up. He would kill this thing before he ever surrendered to a slithering, hissing monster.

Stacey unclasped his right hand from his left wrist. He surged up and punched up and around with his left fist, striking the snake savagely in the eye. When the snake reacted, writhing, he immediately returned his lock upon its throat. That was close, for he almost couldn’t get his left hand returned in time, and the snake almost bucked him off.

That was it. Stacey had expended all his strength. He was wiped. His vision swam. He had failed. The next time the snake attempted to free itself, poor Stacey would peel away like a wet sock.

“Oh, you hurt me!” the snake gasped. It could not begin to understand the strength of this rat, its very meat, for the pitifully small thing, barely a snack, just would not give up, its strength seemed inexhaustible.

The great serpent coughed. It could barely catch breath, and now its eye throbbed. It clenched a scaly shield down over its wounded eye. What if it were blinded? Had the rat actually blinded its sacred eye? If it was not so tangled in and about its own sacred tree, the great serpent would retreat, it would just leave, because this was just not right, like suffering indigestion on the outside of its body! The snake would depart, right now, but the rat would not let it go. No, the foul rodent meant to kill its own god! This was not right!

“I’m about to hurt you again,” Stacey gritted, but it was an idle threat. He doubted he could even manage a soothing game of patty cake, let alone throw another monster punch. His arms felt like rubber. His legs felt like rubber. Stacey doubted he could even bring harsh language to bear on the vicious monster.

“I am a god!” the snake complained.

“Yeah? Well I’m Howdy Doody,” Stacey gritted through his clamped teeth.

The snake wheezed, its body spasming. For a moment, Stacey actually felt sorry for the thing, as it shuddered, and began to issue a sighing cry, a whimpering noise that sounded more like a puppy than a monster from nightmare.

“Please,” the snake hissed, now softly, “Release me, just let me go, and I promise, I will reward you.”

“Lying snake,” Stacey said.

“I do not lie,” the snake hissed. “I am a god, and this is not right. You have wounded me. I think you poked out my eye.”

“Oh shut up, what kind of god are you anyway?” Stacey said. The thing had no self-esteem. At worst, he had merely put a little dent in the eye. Poked out its eye—good night—what a big baby!

“I admit it, you have bested me, Howdy Doody. You are not my meat, I admit it,” the snake hissed, and it sounded like it was weeping.

“Don’t call me Howdy Doody,” Stacey snarled.

“But isn’t that your name?” the snake hissed, sounding almost reasonable.

“It is if you’re a god,” Stacey said, “but call me...Wolf.” He said it on a whim, as Wolf was the name he used for the years when he was a boxer, it also was his favorite nickname.

“Ah, Wolf, yesssssss,” the snake hissed. “See, this was all a mistake, for wolves do not partake of the sacred fruit. Wolves are not my meat. Never, I can promise you, have I ever harmed a wolf.”

“So you just want me to...let you go?” Stacey said, and he half-chuckled. “I’m going to let you go, and what, we are just going to shake hands?”

“If you wish, you can shake your hands, but I will show you my tongue, in peace. I promise you, and I do not lie.”

Stacey didn’t know if he liked the idea of the great snake showing him its tongue. That just didn’t seem right. Kind of unsavory. It sounded...wrong. But, if that were its thing, who was Stacey to judge?

“Okay, so, let’s say I release you, just let you go,” Stacey said.

“Yessss, yesssss,” the snake encouraged, drawing out its sibilant pleadings.

“You are going to reward me, and then we are going to part...as friends?”

“Yesssss, I promissssse!”

“Okay, I’m trusting you, here,” Stacey said, with some caution. “But if you show any sign of going back on your word...I will not be very happy.”

“I promise, we are in agreement, you can trust me, Wolf.”

“What is your name, snake?” Stacey demanded.

The great serpent remained silent.

“Tell me your name,” Stacey commanded.

“I am not supposed to tell you my name,” the snake hissed, so softly Stacey barely heard its words.

“Look, I told you my name, now tell me your name. If you want me to trust you,” Stacey said, still hugging the snake just below its great head. It was like holding onto the neck of a very long bull.

“I tell you my name out of my great respect for you, in trust,” the snake said.

“Well? You still haven’t told me your name,” Stacey said.

“I am Oros Borealis, Deity of High Vale, God of Violence and War,” the great serpent hissed, sounding very official, and very proud of itself.

Stacey coughed, and steadied his weary voice. “I, Wolf, Pugilist, accept your surrender, Oros Borealis, Deity of Violence and War.”

And Stacey unlocked his hands, but they remained frozen into clamped claws. He gritted his teeth and released the lock on his ankles.

The great snake jerked out of his embrace, and slowly, hesitantly, slithered slightly, creepingly away. It regarded him with its one huge eye (the other eye remained lidded beneath its scaly shield).

Stacey, on his side, the great weight of the snake’s head off his leg, remained prone, his whole body clumped together in the mother of all cramps. Dripping with sweat and crushed fruit, Stacey regarded the snake.

Something emerged slowly, sinuously from the snake’s mouth. The thing, bloated and yellow gold, seemed too fat and big around to be a tongue, but the thing came forward, and softly touched Stacey’s face.

“Ohhh,” Oros Borealis crooned, “Wolf, you look so...delicioussssss.”

Stacey lifted an eyebrow and gave the snake a hard look. “Mind your manners, Oros Borealis.”

“I keep my word,” Oros Borealis hissed. “I vow that I am your friend, Wolf, and shall come at your great need. You are not my meat, although you certainly are the most delectable morsel I have ever perceived. I honor thee.”

“Thanks,” Stacey said, finally able to unclench his hands. He felt utterly drained, and it was only by the concentration of his will that he was able to remain conscious.

“I allow you access to the Sacred Pool of the Sacred Tree, please, refresh yourself,” Oros Borealis hissed, and Stacey was able to push himself up on one elbow as he felt the ground move beneath him.

He watched, wonderstruck, as a great mouth appeared in the soil near the tree, the ground withdrawing like living flesh to reveal a glimmering water source. The pool opened further until it revealed itself in the shape of a great eye, thirty feet across from corner to corner, perhaps ten feet across at its middle. Stacey crawled to its edge.

“It won’t blink, will it?” Stacey said, glancing at the snake.

“Please,” Oros Borealis soothingly hissed, “enter the pool, and drink of its waters.”

The poor snake appeared as exhausted as Stacey. It sprawled limply, looking a deflated garden hose meant to water valleys.

Stacey went headfirst into the pool and found the water cool, scintillating. His toes could just touch the bottom, which felt mossy, spongey beneath his feet. He floated. It felt good, liquid energy. Stacey poured handfuls of water over his face, then submerged his head, opening his mouth, drinking.

It was the most amazing water he had ever tasted, or felt. His body and face tingled, as if an electric current ran throughout his being. He closed his eyes and lazed in the water, spinning, floating onto his back, looking up at the too-blue sky, the deepest blue he had ever seen.

Other than a run-in with a meat-voracious serpent, this place really could be heaven.

Stacey registered movement and glancing to the side witnessed the snake plunge its nose and mouth into the waters. He felt the water level drop in the eye pool as the great serpent sucked in water.

Stacey moved to the edge of the pool and drew himself easily from the water. He felt fully alive, washed clean, refreshed, not a sore place on his body. He felt even stronger than when he first awakened in this place, High Vale. Stacey strode in the grasses, luxuriating in the feel of the sunlight upon his naked body.

It was incredible, he should be suffering the most hilatious asthma attack, but his lungs felt open, and huge. He breathed without a hitch, without a touch of phlegm in his throat. He laughed out loud, boomingly large. Again he felt the need to cry out. Bring me giants!

He refrained. The last time he had shouted that challenge, well, just look at how the universe had answered him.

Oros Borealis watched him, lazing at the water’s edge, its one eye still lidded, looking swollen.

“Would you like me to look at your eye?” Stacey said.

“Please?” the snake god hissed.

Stacey strode to the serpent and dropped to one knee before its scaly lid. He gently pushed at the lid, but the snake kept it clenched shut.

“You need to open this, I’ll be careful,” Stacey said, feeling bad about damaging the creature.

Flinching, the snake slowly folded up the lid and Stacey peered close. It didn’t appear damaged. There was no great dent, as Stacey feared. But it did seem swollen, compared to the unhurt eye.

“Can you see?” he asked.

“Blurry,” the snake said.

“I’ll wash it. Let me put some water from the pool on it.”

Stacey put his hands together in a cup shape and scooped up as much water as he could, and then came dripping back to the snake and slowly poured the water over its eye. Funny, just before he came to this place, his own eye was swollen shut and bleeding.

“Oooh, that feels good, yessss, soothing,” the snake said, closing its good eye and sighing.

Stacey repeated the washing process, scooping up several cupped hands of water and applying the wash all over the great orb. Stacey retrieved a smashed piece of fruit that was mostly whole and knelt again at the snake’s eye.

“I’m going to rub some of the sacred fruit on your eye. It’s gotta have healing properties, in this place,” he said.

The snake did not complain or flinch away, but held still, as Stacey gently rubbed the fruit over the eye. As he watched, he seemed to notice the swelling decrease, if only marginally. Then he washed the eye again with handfuls of water.

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Stacey said, “you’re not going to be blind in that eye.”

“Thank you,” Oros Borealis hissed.

“Let me help you get unwound from the tree,” Stacey offered, and proceeded to guide the snake’s body out of branches. He couldn’t manage more than lifting the body an inch or so, but with his hands guiding the process, he managed to aid the serpent in unwinding from out of the tree, and then back again the opposite direction to free it from around the tree. Other than several branches, the tree appeared okay, it would survive.

As he aided the great serpent, Stacey glanced to the pool where the huge eye slowly closed its lid, leaving the ground again merely soil and grass.

“You are very kind,” Oros Borealis hissed.

“One reason I never was the best pugilist,” Stacey replied, grinning.

“Oh, but you are a pugilist among pugilists,” the snake said, doing its best to compliment him, but Stacey was more than sure the snake did not quite understand what it was saying in its nicety. Nonetheless, the thought was pleasing.

Stacey flexed and shook out his muscles. He felt fully enervated, not a shred of exhaustion remaining. The pool had restored him and then some.

“Thank you, Oros Borealis,” Stacey said, “that dip in the pool was a wonderful reward.”

“Oh, no, Wolf, that was not your reward, that was just a pleasant drink among friends. If you will step back, I will produce your reward,” the great serpent hissed.

Stacey complied, stepping back several paces from the serpent’s head, as Oros Borealis began to hitch, and cough. Stacey had no idea what was going on, but it certainly didn’t seem like anything that would lead to a reward, of any kind.

It was ironic, but here, with this massive serpent, Stacey felt safe. He trusted, yes, he actually trusted a snake. Back where he came from, when someone told you they were sorry, and that you could be friends when you let them up, as soon as they got to their feet they’d more than likely pull a razor on you. But not so here, the snake made an oath, and Stacey fully trusted that it would keep the oath. Since releasing his hold on the serpent, Stacey had not doubted the beast’s integrity, not even a little bit. Funny, ironic, how you could trust an alien serpent, in another world, whereas you couldn’t trust your own kind in your own place. He couldn’t count the sucker punches he’d received over the years, all because he was a man that organically trusted the word of others. It probably came down to the fact that what you were, you expected of others.

Something foamy looking began to appear from the snake’s mouth, fibrous, something that looked woven of hairs, bleached hairs, as its jaws unhinged, and the bulbous something emerged. Within moments, several feet of beige hairball in the shape of a distended egg hung from the serpent’s mouth, and it kept coming as the snake strangled and coughed.

Sheesh, Stacey thought, I certainly hope this isn’t some indigenous ritual, where I have to eat a snake’s half-digested hairball. He felt queasy. What if this was some person the snake had swallowed?

With a final cough, the snake spat the long, tubular mess onto the ground. Stacey sighed, at least it wasn’t writhing, as it did look something like a beige maggot, wet, glistening.

“This is for you,” Oros Borealis hissed, looking pooped, as if it had just given birth.

Yikes, what if that is the reward, some kind of baby pet snake? Or a whole bunch of writhing snakes? What was he supposed to do? Smile and drape the snakes around his neck and shoulders?

“Um, uh, thanks?” Stacey managed, although he didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.

“Open it, open it,” Oros Borealis hissed, sounding excited, like a parent who can’t wait for a child to open that perfect gift, the one that cost half a paycheck.

Stacey knelt in the grasses by the lump, and tentatively poked at it with his finger. Thankfully, the lump did not move, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Here, here, let me help you,” Oros Borealis hissed, grinning at Stacey, producing a fang fully twelve inches long, and proceeded to draw the tip of the fang through the skin of the lump. It reminded Stacey of television programs where medical examiners sliced into cadavers.

“Okay, please, open it,” Oros Borealis hissed excitedly. Stacey could almost imagine it dancing about on imaginary legs, clapping imaginary hands.

Stacey grimaced, and seized either side of the incision in either hand, and drew them back away from each other, parting what still felt like sopping hairball fabric. The fleshy, gooey substance seemed to rend easily, separating into a gaping hole.

Something squarish was in there, very odd, and Stacey felt it with his hands, and lifted it out, and thankfully the thing came away mostly clean. It was a backpack, or messenger bag, all made out of snakeskin. Stacey had to admit, it was a beautiful piece of luggage.

“A backpack?” he asked, peeking at the snake.

“Yesss, yesss, but there’s more, lots more!” the snake laughed, at least it sounded like it was laughing, and gleefully too. “You are the first, Wolf, you are the first.”

The next thing in the hairball sack appeared to be a crumpled wad of clothing, and as Stacey drew it out, it resolved into a pair of leggings, and looking closely, Stacey appreciated the fact that the pants were made out of fine scales, of an iridescent brown, only as he turned it in his hands they flickered with light, now looking more dark purple, with glimmers of scarlet.

He was about to comment when he recognized something else in the hairball sack, it looked like a pair of cotton boxer-briefs, the kind of underwear he usually wore. He chuckled and pulled out the cotton shorts.

“Well, this is convenient,” he said, stepping into the shorts and pulling them up over his legs and hips. At least they didn’t have the faux-opening in the crotch that was pretty much useless. “My size and everything.” He pulled on the legging-things, and they were stretchy, but thankfully didn’t fit him like tights, and were thick, and comforting. They felt like leather, but what did you call snakeskin? Probably snakeskin.

“Yesss, yesss, but there’s even more!” Oros Borealis hissed.

Stacey produced a pair of snakeskin boots that matched the leggings, and he liked them immediately. They looked like something from the Tolkien calendars of his youth, painted by the Brothers Hildebrandt. Stacey slipped into them and pulled them up just under his knees where they folded in this cuffs. If needed he could probably wear them unfolded, all the way up to his crotch, but he felt that might appear a tad too S&M. The boots were tough, serviceable, not fashionwear.

Stacey found more cotton—he wanted to call it a shirt, but the thing definitely was kind of blousey, reminding him of the infamous Pirate Shirt episode of Seinfeld. Still, there was no denying, it was a very nice shirt. Stacey pulled it over his head, and of course, it fit him perfectly, well matched to his broad shoulders. He rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and tucked the bottom into the breeches—yes, these were breeches, not leggings, not tights, thank goodness, he was much more comfortable wearing breeches!

The next item was a vest made out of the same skin as the breeches, thick and braced with what felt like boiled leather about the chest and shoulders. When Stacey wore the garment, he felt how heavy it was, and discovered daggers hidden inside the vest, on either side so that his underarms pressed against the hafts. He drew one of the daggers. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry, with a horn handle, and perfectly sharp double-edged blade. He tucked it back into its sheath in the vest.

All this was feeling disturbingly familiar to Stacey.

When you got your gear in a video game.

But still, he consoled himself with the fact that all of this felt as real as waking up in the morning, or hiking, or even breathing. Yes, there more than a few fantasy...tropes, abundant signs that this was some sort of game, where you beat the boss and win its treasure, tropes abundant, but hey, he didn’t have much choice. Plus, he had to admit to himself, this was bad-ass cool, he liked these clothes, these daggers, these boots. Heck, he was equipped for Middle-Earth.

“Keep going, keep going,” Oros Borealis hissed.

“There’s more?” Stacey said, now feeling somewhat delighted. Hey, he felt it, it was like being a kid on Christmas morning.

He pulled free what had to be the coolest cape—a traveling cloak! It was fitted to his shoulders, with a large hood, he experimented by pulling it low on his head, and yes, as he expected, he could almost completely obscure his face in its shadow. There were even inner sleeves so you could wear it like a coat. Yes. Yes! He used to have an oilskin duster, but this traveling cloak was far cooler. He did a quick check and it was equipped with pockets for all kinds of things. He removed the cloak, for now, and folded it and placed it on the messenger bag (he really shouldn’t think of the bag that way, it was almost as bad as a fanny pack!).

The bag seemed empty now, just blackness inside.

“Keep going, Wolf,” Oros Borealis hissed.

“I don’t suppose there are some cigars in there?” he said, joking, but his hand found a small leather pouch, hardened into a rectangular shape, and when he pulled the top half up and away from the body of the (leather box?) pouch, he found himself staring at a clump of seven dark sticks that could only be called cigars. They were rough, and irregularly shaped, but they were cigars!

“You gotta be kidding me,” he said, extracting one, looking it over, sniffing it. Whoa, it smelled spicy, but had that underlying stink of cigar tobacco. He should probably think aroma, and not stink, but let’s face it, cigars stank, pure and simple (not that there was anything pure or simple about stinking). Without thinking, he nipped the end of the cigar with his front teeth and spat the tip to the side, and set the cigar in his teeth.

“Pinch the end,” Oros Borealis hissed.

Stacey pinched the end of the cigar and it burst into flame. He moved his hand away from the flame, and then puffed, extinguishing the flame, and overjoyed by the billows of smoke that erupted from his lips. Oh, it was glorious!

“Do I know how to reward a conqueror?” Oros Borealis hissed.

Stacey checked, and sure enough, there was a pocket inside the vest conveniently shaped for the hard cigar pouch.

“I have to admit, I am very pleased,” Stacey said, chuckling, grinning around the cigar, as he merrily puffed. And the cigar tasted good, unlike any cigar he’d smoked before. These guys must have a direct line to Cuba. Or a fantasy Cuba, perhaps from the 1930s.

“One last thing,” Oros Borealis hissed.

Stacey peered into the bag, but he didn’t see anything. He felt around and found something hard. It felt like a pool cue, but if it was, it was the kind that disassembled, because whatever it was, it couldn’t be too long, as the bag was no more than four feet in length. Stacey produced the rod, and it was black, and about four feet long, with a knobbed end, and a few nubs up and down the sides which could only have once been sawed-off branches.

Stacey, removing his cigar from his teeth to examine the stick better, recognized it at once; it was a black shillelagh.

“That is of the Ironwood Tree, and it is unbreakable,” Oros Borealis hissed, and it really did sound like he was smiling.

Stacey immediately spun the shillelagh in his hand, spinning it in one hand and then transferring it to the other, making the black weapon spin so fast it looked like a propeller. He ended with the walking stick smashing butt-first into the ground, as if he were Mr. Peanut.

He chuckled. He had never touched a shillelagh in his life, and here now he had the skill that martial artists would literally kill themselves to achieve.

“There’s only one thing left,” Oros Borealis hissed, drawing suddenly into the air above Stacey, a great hood spreading out from his neck, a canopy of colors that winked in the sunlight.

Stacey looked up at the snake’s head twenty feet above him as it peered down at him, all spread out, a majestic winged serpent.

“What’s that?” Stacey inquired, hefting his shillelagh in both hands, but loosely, at about his waist.

“Now that I have rewarded you, and we both are whole, oh but now, Wolf, I really must...eat you,” hissed Oros Borealis, Deity of High Vale, God of Violence and War. He sounded and appeared like the Big Bad Wolf hovering over Little Red Riding Hood. “I am certain that you will prove ultimately satisfying, and blissfully delicious.”

Next Episode.