RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (10 page)

“And as the legend has it, one day, the servants came to tidy up Prince Brian’s room and make his bed, and what they found betwixt the sheets, and not beneath the bed, where such contrivances are usually kept, was a bright and shiny golden chamberpot, embellished with some emeralds and rubies, much like the ones that Brian always wore on a chain around his neck.” He paused again and looked around, nodding significantly. “Well, need it be said, there was no sign of Brian, and though the king sent men to search throughout the land, no trace of him was ever found. The chamberpot, ‘twas said, had disappeared as well, stolen by a servant who thought to prise the jewels from it and sell ‘em, but when he tried, lo and behold, the chamberpot cried out! The frightened servant left well enough alone and sold it to the first trader he came across, and what became of it after that is anybody’s guess.

“However, legend has it that when the moon is full, Prince Brian walks again as his normal self, such bein’ the nature of the curse, so that he can always remember how it feels to be human, a cruel and brief reminder to torment him when he turns back into a receptacle for human waste, which is what Katherine’s father considered him to be, and had thus condemned him for eternity. So if you should ever find yourself in some strange hostelry or tavern, take care if you should feel the call of nature in the middle of the night, especially if the moon be full. For should you reach down underneath your bed and happen to pull a golden chamberpot with gems set in it, have a care... for you never know, it just might turn out to be a royal pain in the arse.” “Well told! Well told!” “Bah, I’ve heard it better.” “Nay, I liked the bit about the starvin’ kids in India. And the frolickin’ with vigor, ‘twas a nice touch.” And so it went, with critical appraisals being exchanged and argued back and forth, until the evening started to grow cold and they all retired to the great hall in Brewster’s keep. They built a big fire in the hearth and Mick broke open a fresh cash of peregrine wine. Torches were lit and placed up in the wall sconces. Brewster sat in the honored place at the table on the dais, with Mick on his right and Bloody Bob on his left, while all the other brigands and a few of the farmers in the crowd packed the other tables, drinking heartily and laughing boisterously, pounding each other on the back and looking very much like a scene from an Errol Rynn movie.

And what of poor Pamela, waiting patiently in London for her fiance to return? Well, Brewster had not forgotten about Pamela and was concerned that she might be worried about him, but under his current circumstances, there was really nothing he could do. He was stuck until he could locate the missing time machine, and though he had salvaged what he could from the one that had exploded, intending to use some of the parts for his project in the keep, there was no hope whatsoever of rebuilding it. The best he could do was to make himself as comfortable as possible in his new and unfamiliar surroundings, and hope that word would spread about the missing time machine and that someone would turn up some information.

Mick had announced to everyone that Brewster Doc had lost a magic chariot and then Brewster gave them all a brief description of it, asking that if anyone should see or hear about such a device, they should immediately let him know. However, no one had stepped forward, though they all promised to keep their eyes and ears open.

All of them except three of the younger brigands, that is-Long Bill, Pifer Bob, and Silent Fred, who looked at each other nervously when Brewster described the appearance of the missing time machine. However, Brewster didn’t notice this, nor did anybody else. (Nor will the narrator explain at this point why they did not step forward, for they obviously knew something. This is a technique of storytelling known as foreshadowing and all will be made clear at the proper time. Don’t worry, remember, always trust the narrator.) Anyway, where were we? Oh, right, we’re in the middle of this rowdy, boisterous banquet scene in the great hall, with Brewster sitting in the place of honor at the table on the dais, Mick on his right. Bloody Bob on his left, torches flickering, fire burning in the hearth, peregrine wine flowing, food being thrown, and a good time generally being had by all... but wait. What’s this? The sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching, unheard by the revelers because they’re making so much noise. Unheard, that is, until the horse and rider came bursting into the great hall with a noisy clattering of hooves on the stone floor.

A table overturned, and people scattered, and the handsome, jet-black stallion reared up dramatically and neighed as it was reined in by the black-clad rider in the center of the hall.

Silence descended like an anvil... only much softer. Silence that was not broken by a single whisper or a murmur, save for a very quiet “Uh-oh” from Bloody Bob.

The black-clad rider dismounted and dropped the reins, and the stallion obediently remained standing still as the rider took several steps forward and stopped in the exact center of the room, sweeping it with her smoldering gaze as she stood, legs braced wide apart, one hand on the dagger in her belt, the other on her sword hilt. “What the devil’s going on here?” “Who is that?” Brewster asked with awe. “That,” Mick replied in a soft voice, “is none other than Black Shannon.”

Some entrance, huh? The funny thing is. Shannon did not think of it that way at all. Which is not to say she lacked a sense of drama. Under most circumstances, she was very good at thinking things out in advance, which was one of the reasons she was the leader of the brigands. She knew how to plan a job, and she often planned them quite dramatically, indeed. However, when she lost her temper (and it didn’t take much), it was like a case of spontaneous combustion. She rode her horse into the great hall of the keep not so much for effect, but because it was the quickest way to get there. She had never been one to waste much time, especially when she was angry.

She had been away, casing a few jobs and doing a little cruising on the side. She often did this sort of thing. She would leave her trademark, black leather, lace-up jerkin, and matching, skintight, leather breeches and high boots, in Brigand’s Roost, then ride off to some town or village, looking quite demure in a long, sweeping peasant skirt and low-cut blouse, with dainty little slippers on her feet. Once there, she would circulate and keep her eyes and ears open, on the lookout for any gossip about trade shipments and the like.

Often, she would take a job for a few days, working in a local tavern, where one could hear all sorts of things. With her stunning looks, she never had any trouble getting hired or getting men to talk about their business, the better to impress her. While she struck up conversations and remained on the lookout for income-producing opportunities, she kept a lookout for possible romantic opportunities, as well.

To say that Shannon was beautiful would be an understatement. Ordinary adjectives simply wouldn’t do her justice, only superlatives sufficed. She stood five feet seven inches tall and was perfectly proportioned, with the kind of body that could only be described as luscious. Her face was breathtakingly lovely and deceptively angelic. She had pale, creamy skin and blue eyes that were so bright, they almost seemed to glow. All the usual cliches applied-lips just made for kissing, raven tresses that simply begged to be caressed, etc., etc.-only more so. However, these were only her most obvious and superficial attributes.

What most men failed to note was that she was astonishingly fit. Her arms were slender, but they were firm and hard, and if she were to flex, disconcertingly developed biceps would stand out. Her shoulders were lovely, but they were also broad and well defined. And if her waist did not betray an ounce of fat, it was because she had stomach muscles like a washboard. The way she held herself, and the catlike way she moved, revealed to the observant eye that this was no ordinary peasant girl, but a young woman who had trained long and hard, and not at waiting tables.

What most men also failed to see (because they were too busy looking elsewhere) was that behind those coyly fluttering eyelashes, her eyes were not only blue enough to get lost in, but alert, direct, and penetrating in their gaze. Men also never noticed now easily she led them into talking about themselves, about their business, their plans, their personal lives, their foibles, and how much money they had. They were so busy trying to impress and flatter her that they were never aware of being cleverly manipulated.

Men, however, have always had a tendency to see that which they want to see in women, and then to act, often compulsively, on their impressions. This was something Shannon learned while she was still quite young, and she had also learned how to take advantage of it. Men, so far as she was concerned, were really only good for two things- sex and lifting heavy objects. Beyond that, she didn’t have much use for them. However, as Shannon saw it, just because men were rather limited in their uses was no reason not to use them. At least once.

Shannon had started early and learned quickly. At the age of thirteen, she had been seduced by the handsome, eighteenyear-old son of a very wealthy merchant. Within about six weeks, that merchant gradually lost a significant proportion of his inventory. Shannon sold the goods her ardent swain had stolen from his father and turned a tidy profit in the bargain. The profits, she had told the merchant’s son, would be used to start a brand-new life. She somehow neglected to mention that this new life did not include him.

Thus Shannon had embarked upon an ever-escalating life of crime. At one time or another, she had been called an evil bitch, a soulless heartbreaker, an accomplished liar, a crafty thief, a merciless killer, and an amoral slut (which raises the question of what a moral slut would be, and the answer is, of course, an honest one). Though Shannon would have reacted quickly and decisively had anyone the foolishness to call her any of those things to her face, privately she would admit to all of them, for she was not given to hypocrisy. Men had taught her what she knew and she merely paid them back in kind. She was not, she often told herself, completely without scruples. If a man came along who treated her with civility and honesty, she would treat him likewise. However, she had learned that such men were in very rare supply.

Not even the brigands whom she led knew much about her history, though by the time her path crossed theirs, she had already developed quite a reputation. She was known to be a swordswoman of extraordinary skill, and when she first took up with the brigands, a few of them had this confirmed for them the hard way. This gave her no small measure of respect. By virtue of her abilities and her intelligence, she soon became their leader and they prospered under her direction.

Though Shannon was a woman of lusty and, some might say, rather excessive appetites, she had always avoided romantic entanglements with any of the brigands. She knew that it would only complicate things. She had an instinctive grasp of the fact that excessive fratemalization does not make for good leadership. Aside from that, she did not find any of the brigands especially attractive. Most of them were great, big, hairy louts who rarely washed-though she insisted they bathe in the creek whenever the stench became too rank. In general. Shannon preferred to indulge her lusty appetidtes on her frequent scouting expeditions, or by abducting the occasional handsome male traveler encountered during one of their holdups.

She was never recognized, because whenever the brigands plied their trade, she always wore a mask consisting of a large black bandanna with two eyeholes cut in it, which covered her entire face except her mouth and chin. In imitation of her, the other brigands wore black masks as well, which led to their becoming known as the Black Brigands, which they thought had a very nice ring to it, indeed. Most of the local citizenry knew what Shannon looked like without her mask, but she had nothing to fear from them. The bandits never robbed the locals and Shannon never hesitated to provide assistance if local citizens were in need of help. She never asked for any compensation in return. This, she reasoned quite correctly, was merely good public relations. The result was that every time one of the king’s patrols came to Brigand’s Roost, there was not a brigand to be found and no matter whom they asked, the replies were always the same.

“Brigands? What brigands? We’ve never been troubled by brigands around here. Actually, we only changed the name from Turkey’s Roost to attract tourism.” Which brings us back to Shannon’s angry and dramatic entrance, just in case you thought your narrator got sidetracked. When she returned from one of her scouting expeditions, much like king’s patrols, she found the town almost completely empty, except for a few old people who were habitually cranky and never felt like going anywhere. From them, she’d learned that everyone had gone off to a revel at Mick O’Pallon’s mill. They didn’t bother telling her about the sorcerer who’d recently arrived, because the oldsters were rather crotchety and rather liked the thought of getting the young folks into hot water.

Shannon did not take kindly to this news. She had gone to all the trouble of setting up a system to be followed in her absence, whereby the brigands would work in shifts, lurking by the forest trails, waylaying coaches and unwary travelers, and instead of following instructions, they were goofing off. She paused only long enough to change before galloping off to kick some brigand butt. As she rode, she grew angrier and angrier, and as she approached the keep and heard the sounds of revelry, she became absolutely furious.

Had she paused to think, she would have realized that there was something unusual about this situation. For one thing, .Mick O’Fallon was not known to be especially gregarious. For Mick to hold a revel was decidedly out of character, and it was unlikely that he would allow anyone else to hold a revel at his mill. Furthermore, just about everyone in Brigand’s Roost had gone, including One-Eyed Jack, the tavern keeper, who never left his place of business, and Dirty Mary with her fancy girls, who were actually rather plain, and even the Awful Urchin Gang, a band of grubby little children whose awfulness was measured by the fact that all their parents insisted they were orphans. And no one, least of all Mick, would ever consider inviting them anywhere.

Shannon had not paused to consider any of these things, however, and as she approached the keep, all she could think of was that the brigands were Absent Without Leave, and for that, heads were going to roll. Or at the very least get generously thumped. She kicked her horse and went charging up to the front door.

Rascal Rick had chosen that unfortunate moment to go answer the call of nature. As he opened the door, he saw the fearsome apparition of Shannon mounted on her black stallion. Big Nasty, bearing down on him. He froze in his tracks and was knocked ass over teakettle as she rode right over him and galloped straight into the hall.

She dismounted and angrily demanded to know what in hell was going on. When a reply was not immediately forthcoming, she grabbed the nearest brigand by the hair and violently yanked him backward off the bench, onto the floor.

“Explain yourself!” she demanded.

Unfortunately, the brigand she had grabbed was Silent Fred, who spoke only about once or twice a year. No one could recall him ever actually speaking an entire sentence in a conversation.

“Well....” said Fred, and shrugged elaborately, which was quite a speech for him, all things considered.

Shannon grunted with disdain and kicked him aside, then gave him another kick in the rump for good measure as he scuttled away. She seized the next nearest victim by the ear.

This misfortune fell to Froggy Bruce.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, twisting his ear painfully. “Who gave you miserable curs leave to depart the Roost?” “Well, actually,” said Froggy Bruce, speaking in a calm and level tone of voice, despite the painful grip she had on him, “there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. You see, the fact of the matter is that...” She walloped him across his head, which made his eyes bulge out even more than they normally did. The sound of the blow echoed in the hall and made everyone who heard it wince.

“Ow,” said Froggy Bruce with characteristic understatement.

Shannon’s hand flashed to her sword hilt and the blade sang free of its scabbard, whistled through the air, and came down on the table, passing uncomfortably close to Long Bill’s left ear and splitting an entire roast turkey in half.

“Who watches the trails?” she demanded furiously. “Who lurks in the hedgerows? Who waylays unsuspecting travelers? Am I expected to do all the work around here? Am I to bear all the burden of responsibility? Do you think money grows on trees?” Brewster stood and cleared his throat politely. “Uh... excuse me. Miss Shannon?” Shannon turned and, for the first time, noticed his unfamiliar presence.

“I’m afraid I’m the one who’s responsible for all this,” he said. “I’m sorry, I truly didn’t realize that it would cause a problem. I hope you won’t hold that against me.” “And who might you be?” she asked with a frown.

“Uh, this is Brewster Doc,” said Bloody Bob helpfully, getting up to perform the formal introductions. “He’s-“ “Did I ask you, you great oaf?” Shannon interrupted brusquely.

“Uh...no...” “Then sit down and be silent! Let the man speak for himself,” she snapped.

With a sheepish grimace. Bloody Bob meekly resumed his seat.

“Brewster Doc, eh?” Shannon said, approaching so she could look him over.

“Well, most of my friends just call me Doc,” said Brewster with a smile.

“ Tis early yet to presume friendship,” Shannon replied. The entire hall was silent, every eye upon them.

“Well, yes, I suppose I see your point,” said Brewster. “However, I’m very pleased to meet you, just the same.” He held out his hand.

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, then sheathed her sword and clasped his forearm.

“I am called Shannon,” she said.

“You have a strong grip,” said Brewster.

“For a wench, you mean?” she said sarcastically.

“For anyone,” said Brewster with a shrug. She looked him over appraisingly. “ ‘Tis strange garb you wear. You have not the aspect of a native of these parts.” “Well, actually, I came from London,” Brewster said.

“Lun-dun?” She looked puzzled. “I know of no such place.” “ Tis in the far distant Land of Ing,” said Mick, “in another place and time.” “Another place and time?” said Shannon, glancing at him sharply. “What do you mean?” “ ‘Tis a mighty sorcerer, he is,” said Mick. “His magic chariot fell from the sky.” “Are you drunk?” she asked him.

Mick drew himself up with affronted dignity. “We little people do not get drunk,” he said with an air of wounded pride. “We merely grow loquacious.” “Babbling nonsense by any other name is still babbling nonsense,” Shannon replied. “I have never heard of wizards who could fly.” “Faith, and I was there, wasn’t I?” said Mick. “I saw it, I tell you. ‘Tis a place of mighty sorcerers, this Land of Ing. People fly there all the time in magic chariots. ‘Tis such a commonplace occurrence, they do not even call ‘em magic chariots; they call ‘em plains. He told me so himself.” “And you say you saw this magic chariot fall from the sky with your own eyes?” said Shannon dubiously, glancing from Mick to Brewster, then back to Mick again.