Once upon a time in Mexico, Jack Covell was taking a walk through his goat farm, when he tripped and fell. When he looked up, he saw his favorite little goat, Paco, in a heap, with two holes in his neck, both with little driblets of blood leaking out onto the ground.
“Paco!” cried Jack. He fell to his knees. “What happened?”
“It was…the Chupacabra,” Paco said, weakly. The ground shook for a moment and a little boy with a guitar shot out of a gopher hole. He smiled and played an Em chord before shooting back down into the dirt.
“What should I do?” asked Jack.
“Tocame una canción,” replied the little goat.
“What?” asked Jack. He furrowed his brow. “You know I don’t speak Spanish,”
“Play me a song!” shouted the goat, impatiently.
“Oh!” cried Jack. “Of course!” He ran off to get his guitar from the house.
“Wait!” Jack stopped and turned around to see what the goat needed.
“It can’t just be any song! You have to play it on the magical guitar of Carlos Santana” Jack’s eyebrows shot up in his surprise, almost leaving his face.
“Oh dear!” cried Jack. He looked up the dusty road. A jeep was coming, very quickly, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it. “Then I must go to the house of Carlos Santana and get his magical guitar.” The jeep stopped just beside the couple and Antonio Banderas leapt out of the passenger seat. Selma Hayek blew Jack a kiss from the driver’s seat and peeled out, kicking rocks and dust out from under the tires.
“It seems you are in a bit of trouble,” said El Mariachi, whipping out his guitar. He played an Em chord and threw the guitar back in its case.
“Can you help me?’ asked Jack.
“Of course I can help you! And I plan to!” Antonio replied. “Follow me!” He started down the road. Jack and Antonio walked down the road for quite some time. As they walked, the sun grew tired and slowly fell from the sky. The stars came out and twinkled a bit. The full moon crept up over the hilltops.
“Have you seen my sun?” she asked.
“He went that way,” said Antonio. The moon rolled her eyes and began her trek across the night sky. Not too far off down the road, a pair of eyes glinted in the soft white light. A Chupacabra leapt out from behind a cactus, blood dripping from its fangs, its eyes burning with tiny fires.
“Who dares pass my road?” it hissed. A nearby cactus turned brown and shriveled.
“My name’s Jack!” cried Jack. Antonio rolled his eyes and smacked the author on the back of the head!
“Don’t be redundant!” he shouted, rolling his eyes and smacking the author on the back of the head.
“Stop that!” hissed the Chupacabra. “You cannot pass!” It licked its bloody teeth and crouched low, ready to pounce when a pair of headlights came on in the distance, accompanied by the dull, but growing roar of an engine. A red Ferrari came to a sliding stop, kicking up another dust cloud. From the front seat, his guitar already strapped around his neck, the amplifier hooked up to the speakers in his car, leapt the mighty Carlos Santana. He raised his hand high in the air and threw it down hard on the strings, which sent beautiful music rocketing out of the car’s large speakers. The Chupacabra hissed at the music and backed away into the shadow, glaring at everyone with its blood colored eyes.
“Hey, man.” Said Carlos. “That’s not cool!” Drums filled the air, and Carlos played more and more and the Chupacabra could not stand it. The beast roared and scampered off into the darkness. Carlos did not see it go and continued to play, stuck in one of his long solos. Jack slowly walked over to him and put his hand on Carlos’ shoulder. The man looked up in surprise.
“Oh, is he gone?” he asked, looking around for the first time in a long time.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
“Oh, good!” said Carlos happily. “Do you guys need anything? Drinks? A bite to eat? A dying goat in need?” Jack’s ears perked up and he immediately remembered Paco, loosing blood in the field, a few miles back down the road.
“Actually we do have a dying goat!” Jack replied.
“Oh, that’s sad,” said Carlos. “Well, hop in and I’ll give you a lift!” Jack and Antonio jumped into the red Ferrari and it sped off. They came to a screeching halt and Jack jumped out, followed by Antonio’s guitar, then Antonio. Carlos jumped over his car, sliding on the hood and hooked up his guitar. Jack got down on his knees.
“We made it Paco!” he said happily.
“Well, that’s good,” said the goat weakly. “I didn’t…”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack, panicking.
“I’m dead,” said the goat, going limp, its tongue hanging out of his mouth.
“NOOOOOO!” Jack pounded his fist on the dusty ground. Carlos was hooking his guitar up to his car again. He started to play the same song Jack heard in his heart. Paco opened one eye. He lifted his head up off the ground for a moment, then climbed to his feet. Jack’s eyes were shut tight, wringing tears out like a washcloth. He flung his arms around the goat and pulled him close. “OH, PACO! WHY’D YOU HAVE TO BE DEAD?”
“Felt like…the right…thing…to do…at the time” said Paco, gasping for air. Jack’s sobs ceased. He opened one eye…then pulled his head away from the goat’s body. The goat looked at him, with a small smirk on his face.
“You’re alive!”
“I’m alive!”
“Let’s dance!” Santana started to play. The drums came back from their unknown source. Antonio and Carlos sang, while Jack and his goat danced under the moon. It was awesome.
The End.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The Barq's Bandit
“They say he’s a ghost. A myth. A legend. I know better though. I was there when it happened. I’d say that guy got what he deserved…but he didn’t really deserve that. The kid came in and sat at a table in the back. It was really shadowy, like you’d expect from his type. It was almost like a movie the way he moved. Even the jukebox seemed to know he was here. It started playin’ a song I ain’t never heard before. Didn’t even know I had that song. He sat in the back table and ordered a drink. Root beer, it was. Barqs’. Ya know how the commercials say “It’s got bite”? Well, he bit that drink right back. That’s when it all started. He let out a burp that made the lamp shake. The jukebox skipped. One of the waitresses fainted, and dropped a plate full of Southwestern Frijole, Bean, Cheese and Queso Burriots right in Spartacus Webster’s lap. Now he got up and he was real mad. He was redder than the salsa runnin’ down his face. He stood up and he walked over to that boy and he said. “Hey, boy” everything went quiet. “Ya dropped somethin’” he said. “Actually, that was your order” the boy said. Then, it all started. The boy took out a guitar. And he started to play. We couldn’t tell what it was at first, but after a little while it got real clear. Super Mario Brothers. Spartacus stood there, his veins poppin’ out of his head, one hand in his pocket, around a knife, the other in his nose, tryin’ to get a bug that flew up in it. Once he got that bug, he flung it, snot ‘n everything right at that boys high e string. The string snapped with an evil “twang!” and that boy stood up. He put the guitar down on that table, like his girl after she’d been shot. Well we was on that old Spartacus faster than Japanese tourists on a good pi’ture. He flung him into a chair and yanked the laces right out of his boots. Tied him up so quick his eyes started whirly giggin’ around! In the total opposite direction, they spun and spun and spun…and that’s when it got nasty. Ole Spartacus said “You get me outta this chair, ‘fore I tell ye a joke!” But the kid didn’t let him out. He just walked over to his table and opened up his guitar case. We couldn’t tell right away what it was he took out, but we knew it couldn’t a’ been good. “Why’d the chicken cross the road?” Spartacus was just settin’ himself up fer a hurtin’. That kid turned around and I’ll be damned if he didn’t have the biggest, softest looking feather I ever seen! He kicked Spartacus, chair ‘n all up ‘gainst a wall, so there wasn’t no room for him to move. Then he sat right down in his lap, one leg on each side and he took that feather and tickled that poor man till he wet himself. Then he stood up, packed his things, paid for his drink and left. The jukebox seemed to know he was goin’ too, ‘cause it started playin’ another song I ain’t never heard come out of it before. And that was the last time I saw him.”
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Guitar Poem
What soothes him is the guitar,
that hollow piece of wood,
with its cold and steely strings,
singing songs borne from Andalusia
at the behest of his firm grip, but
gentle pluckings. Songs from
the streets of Seville, from the
moors of Malaga, and the cathedral
of Cordoba, the smell of oranges
seeping from the wooden neck of
his instrument, carved from the
very trunk of an arboreal inhabitant of Iberia.
Two, one, open
Two, one, open
Change strings
Two, one, open
Two, open, change strings, three
Do it again
He could do it all day
Throw in those high E notes
Faster!
Home from school, he walks through the door
And there she is. Her strings are so cold
Untouched since the dawn, but he
Warms them as best he can, making her
Gypsy Fire burn like the lamps in the Spanish sidestreets
The melody flows from her like a river,
Esperanza is her name and she sings so beautifully
Whether with nylon or steel
That she’s hollow becomes irrelevant
He fills her with love and she sings until dinner
Then it’s time for homework
Or maybe another song
that hollow piece of wood,
with its cold and steely strings,
singing songs borne from Andalusia
at the behest of his firm grip, but
gentle pluckings. Songs from
the streets of Seville, from the
moors of Malaga, and the cathedral
of Cordoba, the smell of oranges
seeping from the wooden neck of
his instrument, carved from the
very trunk of an arboreal inhabitant of Iberia.
Two, one, open
Two, one, open
Change strings
Two, one, open
Two, open, change strings, three
Do it again
He could do it all day
Throw in those high E notes
Faster!
Home from school, he walks through the door
And there she is. Her strings are so cold
Untouched since the dawn, but he
Warms them as best he can, making her
Gypsy Fire burn like the lamps in the Spanish sidestreets
The melody flows from her like a river,
Esperanza is her name and she sings so beautifully
Whether with nylon or steel
That she’s hollow becomes irrelevant
He fills her with love and she sings until dinner
Then it’s time for homework
Or maybe another song
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Golden milk from a golden calf
"This looks like pee." said Saladin, firmly, pushing the cup away.
"Such a fool," said the small man, through his rotten, wreaking teeth.
"It smells like pee."
"This is milk from the Golden Calf of the Hebrews!" said the man, as though offended.
"The Golden Calf produces golden milk?" The old man nodded, smiling maniacally. He pushed the cup toward the boy.
"One tiny sip and your bones will turn to metal, impenetrable and unrelenting against whatever may assualt your body!"
"Since when does a statue suddenly become milkable?!" Saladin demanded.
I'm not sure what comes after that...but it was just a thought that popped into my head...and I had to get it out.
"Such a fool," said the small man, through his rotten, wreaking teeth.
"It smells like pee."
"This is milk from the Golden Calf of the Hebrews!" said the man, as though offended.
"The Golden Calf produces golden milk?" The old man nodded, smiling maniacally. He pushed the cup toward the boy.
"One tiny sip and your bones will turn to metal, impenetrable and unrelenting against whatever may assualt your body!"
"Since when does a statue suddenly become milkable?!" Saladin demanded.
I'm not sure what comes after that...but it was just a thought that popped into my head...and I had to get it out.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Bronze and the Hag.
Bronze stood below the beautifully painted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, staring up at it with a smile. The sword at his belt gave a little shake and the ground shuddered. A bit of dust drifted down from the marble archway and landed on the hard, cool floor. He turned around to face the exit. The center doors flew open and crashed into the wall, ripping one off its hinges. It slammed onto the floor with a loud bang. Bronze peered through the cloud of dust that had formed and saw a dark shape at the opening. Moon beams cut through the darkness as they streamed into the great church through the tall, elegant windows. The figure stepped forward, out of the dust and into a stream of light, revealing herself to be a mad looking, hunched woman, garbed in a long black dress and a dark silk shawl that wrapped around her shoulders. In her mangled untidy hair, a pair of dead roses, their frail petals clinging to the stem, seemed to keep the mess at least modestly tame. Her arms fell at her sides after the force needed to wrench the doors apart was no longer needed.
"THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE, HERE DID YOU?" she screeched. Bronze took a step toward her. Her cry echoed off the stone walls and the high ceilings. It traveled between the columns and dug into his ears leaving a tingling and an unpleasant burning.
"What do you want, Thorn?" he asked, in his deep voice. His sneakers gave a small squeak on the smooth floor.
"Oh, you haven't figured it out yet?" she asked snidely.
"Well, it's obvious you want me dead" he replied, with fire in his tongue. He rested his hand steadily on the sword at his hip. The ragged woman entered the chapel. The cold stone floor began to crack and splinter under her feet. She began to laugh at this, with an unpleasant cackle that would have sucked all the humor from the room had there actually been any.
"I missed you in Bern, little one," she said, twisting her hair around her crooked finger. She ripped a few strands out and tossed them at him. As soon as the hairs left her hand, they became rigid and flew across the floor at him. Bronze dove out of the way and they slammed into the stone column behind him. The rock exploded, sending bits of stone flying.
"Seems not much has changed since," the woman said, nonchalantly. "No problem, though. I don't see much of a way out of this place for you." Bronze climbed to his feet and drew his sword.
"I can still go through you," he said, raising the point. The woman smiled, and took a few steps closer.
"There it is." she said, through her rotting teeth. "There's that fighting spirit I've heard so much about." Her hair began to stand on end, as if she'd walked around on a great fuzzy carpet in nothing but a pair of wool socks. A soft crackling began to emanate from her and small beams of electricity traveled up from her scalp. "Let's see how you hold up against this." She bent her knees, raising her hands high over her head. The static climbed up her arms and wound itself into a pair of tight balls at her fists. Bronze held his sword in front of his face and she launched a vehement volley of lightning at him. The bolts coursed into the sword, which slowly became hot in his hand. He dared not drop it, but instead squeezed more tightly at the pain which began to travel up his arm.
"Give it up, boy!" she shouted, intensifying her attack. "We've been through this before!" Moving his second hand onto the sword's handle, Bronze managed to deflect the assault and leapt behind one of the tall marble columns. The lightning stopped and a loud crack of thunder shook the stone walls. Bronze flailed his blistering hands in the cool air, trying to soothe them. He looked out from behind the column and saw the woman, still standing in the middle of the hall.
"Oh, come now," she said, annoyedly. She began to walk toward the column. "You tried this in London and it got you nowhere." Bronze looked to the window on the far side of the Chapel and noticed two dark shapes pass by the glass. He smiled to himself.
"It's about time," he said under his breath. He watched intently as the shapes swung past the windows unknown to to the frazzled woman pursuing him.
"Where are your sisters?" he asked, trying to buy some time.
"Oh they're around somewhere." she said, lazily. "Honestly it's hard to keep track of them all the time. What about your little friends?" she asked, and static leapt from her hair.
"They wanted to talk to the Coliseum." Bronze replied. "Can't be in Rome without seeing that! Maybe they ran into your sisters."
"Oh, I don't think so," the witch answered. She flung a small bolt at the stone shaft. Bronze leapt, thrusting off the base and took refuge behind a different column, while his hiding place exploded. "We've already seen it." He put his back to the stone surface, still cold without his touch to warm it. He turned his head toward the windows. The foul woman began to creep toward him again.
"Why don't you come out and play?" she sneered. She readied another static charge and tossed it from one hand to the other, like a baseball.
"I was never really big on Hide and Go Seek as a kid," said Bronze, gripping his sword again.
"What about Kill the Carrier?" called a new voice. The witch wheeled around, her hair back on end, and to her fury, two more men stood in the door way, silhouettes against the brightness of the moon. She screamed and launched another barrage of static. The surge flew toward the men, but they leapt out of the path, into the chapel, narrowly dodging the powerful bolts as they exploded into the square. Thunder cracked again, and the men leapt to their feet. They drew their swords, one, a beautiful, curved shamshir and the other, of the same design as Bronze's. The witch screamed at the top of her lungs, but no words formed. The windows shattered and shards of colorful glass rained down onto the floor, joining the dust that had finally settled. The scream brought her to her knees and a trickle of blood began to dribble from the corner of her mouth, but she continued until she could no longer stand it. She looked up, wiping her mouth, in a small crater where she had sunk into the floor to her ankles. She panted, but did not attack, as if waiting. The trio surrounded her, but still, she did nothing.
"Always nice to go out with a bang," said Saladin, raising his shamshir. The other two raised their swords, poised to strike when another sound, apart from the woman's heavy breathing came. A pair of screams pierced the boys' ears and they froze. They backed away and covering their ears to block the blood curdling cacophony. To the left, a woman with silvering blond hair floated through the window, clad in the same, dark, mangled, aged garb as the first woman and to the right, a woman much the same save for the fiery strands of red growing from her scalp drifted in, narrowly missing the jagged edges around the broken frame. They landed softly on the floor, their dresses flowing around their ankles.
"How about a little three-on-three?" said the redhead.
"THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE, HERE DID YOU?" she screeched. Bronze took a step toward her. Her cry echoed off the stone walls and the high ceilings. It traveled between the columns and dug into his ears leaving a tingling and an unpleasant burning.
"What do you want, Thorn?" he asked, in his deep voice. His sneakers gave a small squeak on the smooth floor.
"Oh, you haven't figured it out yet?" she asked snidely.
"Well, it's obvious you want me dead" he replied, with fire in his tongue. He rested his hand steadily on the sword at his hip. The ragged woman entered the chapel. The cold stone floor began to crack and splinter under her feet. She began to laugh at this, with an unpleasant cackle that would have sucked all the humor from the room had there actually been any.
"I missed you in Bern, little one," she said, twisting her hair around her crooked finger. She ripped a few strands out and tossed them at him. As soon as the hairs left her hand, they became rigid and flew across the floor at him. Bronze dove out of the way and they slammed into the stone column behind him. The rock exploded, sending bits of stone flying.
"Seems not much has changed since," the woman said, nonchalantly. "No problem, though. I don't see much of a way out of this place for you." Bronze climbed to his feet and drew his sword.
"I can still go through you," he said, raising the point. The woman smiled, and took a few steps closer.
"There it is." she said, through her rotting teeth. "There's that fighting spirit I've heard so much about." Her hair began to stand on end, as if she'd walked around on a great fuzzy carpet in nothing but a pair of wool socks. A soft crackling began to emanate from her and small beams of electricity traveled up from her scalp. "Let's see how you hold up against this." She bent her knees, raising her hands high over her head. The static climbed up her arms and wound itself into a pair of tight balls at her fists. Bronze held his sword in front of his face and she launched a vehement volley of lightning at him. The bolts coursed into the sword, which slowly became hot in his hand. He dared not drop it, but instead squeezed more tightly at the pain which began to travel up his arm.
"Give it up, boy!" she shouted, intensifying her attack. "We've been through this before!" Moving his second hand onto the sword's handle, Bronze managed to deflect the assault and leapt behind one of the tall marble columns. The lightning stopped and a loud crack of thunder shook the stone walls. Bronze flailed his blistering hands in the cool air, trying to soothe them. He looked out from behind the column and saw the woman, still standing in the middle of the hall.
"Oh, come now," she said, annoyedly. She began to walk toward the column. "You tried this in London and it got you nowhere." Bronze looked to the window on the far side of the Chapel and noticed two dark shapes pass by the glass. He smiled to himself.
"It's about time," he said under his breath. He watched intently as the shapes swung past the windows unknown to to the frazzled woman pursuing him.
"Where are your sisters?" he asked, trying to buy some time.
"Oh they're around somewhere." she said, lazily. "Honestly it's hard to keep track of them all the time. What about your little friends?" she asked, and static leapt from her hair.
"They wanted to talk to the Coliseum." Bronze replied. "Can't be in Rome without seeing that! Maybe they ran into your sisters."
"Oh, I don't think so," the witch answered. She flung a small bolt at the stone shaft. Bronze leapt, thrusting off the base and took refuge behind a different column, while his hiding place exploded. "We've already seen it." He put his back to the stone surface, still cold without his touch to warm it. He turned his head toward the windows. The foul woman began to creep toward him again.
"Why don't you come out and play?" she sneered. She readied another static charge and tossed it from one hand to the other, like a baseball.
"I was never really big on Hide and Go Seek as a kid," said Bronze, gripping his sword again.
"What about Kill the Carrier?" called a new voice. The witch wheeled around, her hair back on end, and to her fury, two more men stood in the door way, silhouettes against the brightness of the moon. She screamed and launched another barrage of static. The surge flew toward the men, but they leapt out of the path, into the chapel, narrowly dodging the powerful bolts as they exploded into the square. Thunder cracked again, and the men leapt to their feet. They drew their swords, one, a beautiful, curved shamshir and the other, of the same design as Bronze's. The witch screamed at the top of her lungs, but no words formed. The windows shattered and shards of colorful glass rained down onto the floor, joining the dust that had finally settled. The scream brought her to her knees and a trickle of blood began to dribble from the corner of her mouth, but she continued until she could no longer stand it. She looked up, wiping her mouth, in a small crater where she had sunk into the floor to her ankles. She panted, but did not attack, as if waiting. The trio surrounded her, but still, she did nothing.
"Always nice to go out with a bang," said Saladin, raising his shamshir. The other two raised their swords, poised to strike when another sound, apart from the woman's heavy breathing came. A pair of screams pierced the boys' ears and they froze. They backed away and covering their ears to block the blood curdling cacophony. To the left, a woman with silvering blond hair floated through the window, clad in the same, dark, mangled, aged garb as the first woman and to the right, a woman much the same save for the fiery strands of red growing from her scalp drifted in, narrowly missing the jagged edges around the broken frame. They landed softly on the floor, their dresses flowing around their ankles.
"How about a little three-on-three?" said the redhead.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Worse than libel...
John sat in his comfortable arm chair, reading his news paper. He furrowed his brow, reading articles about the unpleasantries of the world and the corruption of those running it. His eyes widened when he came to a page regarding the attack at the Grand Canyon in the United States.
The article made reference to the rift that had opened in the Grand Canyon and the unusual creatures that poured forth from it and began wreaking havoc on the tourists as they ran in fear. One account told of a man who tried to protect his family by charging one of the creatures on a mule, used to climb down to the river, bu they were both brutally killed. Animal experts could not classify the beasts as any sort of animal that already existed. Religious figures called it a plague from Hell, punishing mankind for their sins. When the US government got involved, however, the stories grew more and more interesting. Their soldiers killed several hundred of the beasts and had their bodies sent off to labs for testing, but not long after the arrival of their combat vehicles and tanks, beasts much larger and more formidable had begun to appear. The story took up several pages. John could not keep himself from reading more and more.
He turned the page and his heart skipped a beat, when he saw a picture of one such creature. It was a smaller beast, probably one of the first to fall under the guns of the Americans. Despite the gunshot wounds, the body was intact. The color picture revealed its skin to be a shade of burgundy. There were markings on the thick hide that looked as if someone had drawn on the beast with red hot poker. Curiously precise designs covered the hide and hanging limp in the air, like a turtle, its four limbs, each adorned with a large set of claws rested with an awkward look, as if they had been frozen like that. A bead of sweat slid down John's cheek and he looked closer, at the beasts head. The head, large, like a cows was covered in small scales, like a lizard. Its jaws were filled with sharp, but crooked and carelessly placed teeth, and above the mouth, a pair of glazed yellow eyes burned, left open from the shots to the head which brought it down. John looked close at the full page picture, putting his head very near the paper. He peered into the yellow eyes of the beast, trying to see something hidden by the angle, something that would have told him more about the creature's origins.
Frustrated, he got to his feet and put the paper down on the coffee table, then, stalked off to find a magnifying glass. Upon his return he found the paper on the floor. He looked at it suspiciously and moved toward it slowly as if expecting it to burst into flames. He picked it up and held it close to his face, with the magnifying glass in the middle. He peered at the larger image. When he had had enough of the cryptic runes, he shifted his gaze to the rest of the beastly face. He looked hard into the large face, expecting it to do something. A car drove by, casting an eerie shadow upon the creature and it appeared as though it had indeed moved. First struck with a quick jolt of fear, John pushed the small table away and the glass fell to the floor. When the car passed, John looked again to the newspaper and froze, as an icy chill crawled up his spine, stinging with fearful spines. The front page of the paper suddenly ripped open and a clawed hand was tearing at the surrounding paper as the terrible beast pictured, had begun an attempt at escaping! John screamed in terror and fell to the floor. A hideous, clawed arm reached out of the paper and slammed down on the wooden floor, scratching the shining surface. The wood splintered and another arm emerged. The head followed until the beast was half way out of the realm of print and paper. Its fiery eyes glared at him and the beast roared. John got to his feet and backed away into the corner. The demon let loose an unholy screech and on its hands alone it tore into the wood, crawling toward him. Looking around for a weapon, or any solid object, his eyes fell on a candle stick on the table beside him. He picked up and holding it by the top, he swung it at the beast hitting it squarely on the snout. It lost its balance just long enough to fall back into the paper. John inched closer, his body still quivering with fear. He peeked over the edge of the ripped paper and saw the beast circling under the opening, only a few feet below. It looked up, staring him straight in the eye, drool and slobber dripping from its jagged jawline. It sunk low to the ground, bending its spindly legs and suddenly leaped up. It crashed through the paper with such force that it knocked John through the door way into his front hall. He clamoured to his feet as the creature shredded the news paper into hundreds of tiny black and white pieces. It then turned its spit sodden jaws to John. He backed up the stairs, slowly, fighting his fear as best he could. The demon sprang at him and he shrieked and leaped out of the way. The beast slammed into the wall, knocking down a a portrait and a small, round mirror. The glass shattered and shards tumbled to the floor. John ran up the stairs and the beast roared after him, tearing up the carpet as it clawed at the floor. It shot up the stairs and roared down the upstairs hall after him. It cornered him again, this time against a window. John turned around and looked hopefully through the glass, only to see the unfriendly street, hard and uninviting. He turned back to face the growling beast. It stopped its slow approach and crouched low, its hot breath coming slow and blowing in John's face with every exhale. John turned again, hoping this time to see something different. A white BMW pulled up outside, just below the window. Its shiny exterior glistened with the light of a nearby street lamp. Where the hood ornament would have normally displayed the traditional logo with the azure and white in a ring of black with the letters "BMW" at the top, was instead, a ring of chrome, within which a red cross was lain over a white background. John turned. The beast pounced. John ducked as quickly as he could and it broke through the window. Followed by a trail of broken glass, the beast crashed into the street. It rolled across over the opposite sidewalk and up the stoop of the neighboring houses. The car door opened and a young man, clad blue jeans, and a white t-shirt, with a pair of red Converse All Stars, and a sword climbed out. He held the sword ready and shut the door with a loud "bang!" The beast bounced to its feet and leaped down into the street to meet the boy.
"Go back down," the boy said, aiming the blade at the beast. It roared and swiped a clawed hand at him. "You don't want to fight me," he replied. The beast crouched low. The boy readied his sword. John watched from the window, mesmerized by the goings on below. The beast lunged, shredding bits of the road under its stride. It sprung at the boy and he ducked, raising his sword as the beast floated overhead, catching it in the soft underbelly. It landed on the ground and slid down the street, as its entrails leaked out on the blacktop. It glided into the nearest intersection where a double decker bus, slammed into it, knocking it far down the street. Screams filled the air and breaks screeched. There was a rush of fire and a great blast of light issued from around the corner. And then it was dark.
The article made reference to the rift that had opened in the Grand Canyon and the unusual creatures that poured forth from it and began wreaking havoc on the tourists as they ran in fear. One account told of a man who tried to protect his family by charging one of the creatures on a mule, used to climb down to the river, bu they were both brutally killed. Animal experts could not classify the beasts as any sort of animal that already existed. Religious figures called it a plague from Hell, punishing mankind for their sins. When the US government got involved, however, the stories grew more and more interesting. Their soldiers killed several hundred of the beasts and had their bodies sent off to labs for testing, but not long after the arrival of their combat vehicles and tanks, beasts much larger and more formidable had begun to appear. The story took up several pages. John could not keep himself from reading more and more.
He turned the page and his heart skipped a beat, when he saw a picture of one such creature. It was a smaller beast, probably one of the first to fall under the guns of the Americans. Despite the gunshot wounds, the body was intact. The color picture revealed its skin to be a shade of burgundy. There were markings on the thick hide that looked as if someone had drawn on the beast with red hot poker. Curiously precise designs covered the hide and hanging limp in the air, like a turtle, its four limbs, each adorned with a large set of claws rested with an awkward look, as if they had been frozen like that. A bead of sweat slid down John's cheek and he looked closer, at the beasts head. The head, large, like a cows was covered in small scales, like a lizard. Its jaws were filled with sharp, but crooked and carelessly placed teeth, and above the mouth, a pair of glazed yellow eyes burned, left open from the shots to the head which brought it down. John looked close at the full page picture, putting his head very near the paper. He peered into the yellow eyes of the beast, trying to see something hidden by the angle, something that would have told him more about the creature's origins.
Frustrated, he got to his feet and put the paper down on the coffee table, then, stalked off to find a magnifying glass. Upon his return he found the paper on the floor. He looked at it suspiciously and moved toward it slowly as if expecting it to burst into flames. He picked it up and held it close to his face, with the magnifying glass in the middle. He peered at the larger image. When he had had enough of the cryptic runes, he shifted his gaze to the rest of the beastly face. He looked hard into the large face, expecting it to do something. A car drove by, casting an eerie shadow upon the creature and it appeared as though it had indeed moved. First struck with a quick jolt of fear, John pushed the small table away and the glass fell to the floor. When the car passed, John looked again to the newspaper and froze, as an icy chill crawled up his spine, stinging with fearful spines. The front page of the paper suddenly ripped open and a clawed hand was tearing at the surrounding paper as the terrible beast pictured, had begun an attempt at escaping! John screamed in terror and fell to the floor. A hideous, clawed arm reached out of the paper and slammed down on the wooden floor, scratching the shining surface. The wood splintered and another arm emerged. The head followed until the beast was half way out of the realm of print and paper. Its fiery eyes glared at him and the beast roared. John got to his feet and backed away into the corner. The demon let loose an unholy screech and on its hands alone it tore into the wood, crawling toward him. Looking around for a weapon, or any solid object, his eyes fell on a candle stick on the table beside him. He picked up and holding it by the top, he swung it at the beast hitting it squarely on the snout. It lost its balance just long enough to fall back into the paper. John inched closer, his body still quivering with fear. He peeked over the edge of the ripped paper and saw the beast circling under the opening, only a few feet below. It looked up, staring him straight in the eye, drool and slobber dripping from its jagged jawline. It sunk low to the ground, bending its spindly legs and suddenly leaped up. It crashed through the paper with such force that it knocked John through the door way into his front hall. He clamoured to his feet as the creature shredded the news paper into hundreds of tiny black and white pieces. It then turned its spit sodden jaws to John. He backed up the stairs, slowly, fighting his fear as best he could. The demon sprang at him and he shrieked and leaped out of the way. The beast slammed into the wall, knocking down a a portrait and a small, round mirror. The glass shattered and shards tumbled to the floor. John ran up the stairs and the beast roared after him, tearing up the carpet as it clawed at the floor. It shot up the stairs and roared down the upstairs hall after him. It cornered him again, this time against a window. John turned around and looked hopefully through the glass, only to see the unfriendly street, hard and uninviting. He turned back to face the growling beast. It stopped its slow approach and crouched low, its hot breath coming slow and blowing in John's face with every exhale. John turned again, hoping this time to see something different. A white BMW pulled up outside, just below the window. Its shiny exterior glistened with the light of a nearby street lamp. Where the hood ornament would have normally displayed the traditional logo with the azure and white in a ring of black with the letters "BMW" at the top, was instead, a ring of chrome, within which a red cross was lain over a white background. John turned. The beast pounced. John ducked as quickly as he could and it broke through the window. Followed by a trail of broken glass, the beast crashed into the street. It rolled across over the opposite sidewalk and up the stoop of the neighboring houses. The car door opened and a young man, clad blue jeans, and a white t-shirt, with a pair of red Converse All Stars, and a sword climbed out. He held the sword ready and shut the door with a loud "bang!" The beast bounced to its feet and leaped down into the street to meet the boy.
"Go back down," the boy said, aiming the blade at the beast. It roared and swiped a clawed hand at him. "You don't want to fight me," he replied. The beast crouched low. The boy readied his sword. John watched from the window, mesmerized by the goings on below. The beast lunged, shredding bits of the road under its stride. It sprung at the boy and he ducked, raising his sword as the beast floated overhead, catching it in the soft underbelly. It landed on the ground and slid down the street, as its entrails leaked out on the blacktop. It glided into the nearest intersection where a double decker bus, slammed into it, knocking it far down the street. Screams filled the air and breaks screeched. There was a rush of fire and a great blast of light issued from around the corner. And then it was dark.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Excerpt #1 - Guards of the Phoenix
As dawn rose early the next morning, its amber rays of light fell upon a small outpost in the desert. As the cool air began to warm with the rising of the sun, three men clad in armor of the Protectors of the Phoenix of Earth awoke from their sleep. Rubbing the remaining sleep from their eyes, they put their bare feet on the carpeted and ground and yawned. Three horses stood outside, lashed to a post, though by a long cord. They took turns at a wooden basin, drinking water collected from the fronds of a nearby cluster of palm trees. One of the men, squinting his eyes in the bright light, emerged from the sleeping quarters and, with a wide-mouthed jug in his hands, he walked to the group of trees and began shaking the morning dew from the palm fronds into the jug. When the water was collected, he emptied the liquid into the basin. When he stood up, he stretched his sleepy muscles and whispered a few words to his horse. The creature neighed affectionately and nodded its head. The man smiled and patted the animal on its long nose.
One of the men called out to him, “Duad! Hurry up! Duad…”
He then kissed the top of his horse’s furry head and strode back into the thatched buildings. When he stepped inside, he found his comrades with their beds made and most of their armor already strapped on. Their armor consisted of coats of metal scales, which were reminiscent of bird feathers. Below their hauberks of scale armor, were light mail skirts, which were hidden behind flowing capes. About their heads, would be placed a steel skullcap, around which long cloth turbans would be wrapped. When they were dressed and their armor was presentable, they took their curved swords from a rack above their beds and walked outside. They turned to face the sun and stood for a moment taking in deep breaths of the warm morning air. They raised their curved bladed weapons into the sun’s light and began uttering a prayer in their ancient language. After a moment they got down on their knees and placed the sword on the ground, with the tip pointing to the east. They then bowed low to the ground and continued their prayers. When they had finished speaking with the gods, they sat up and looked to the east. They got to their feet and placed their sheathed weapons on their belts.
A group of three spears sitting in the corner waiting to be needed had begun to collect dust and spiders had woven their silky threads between their wooden shafts. The men stood outside in the light of the rising sun taking in the day when they each, in turn, noticed the giant cloud surging forward from the south. They froze where they stood, each instinctively moving a hand to the blade at their hip. The cloud passed over their heads and they took shelter under the thatched canopy over the door of the small barracks. They watched in awe as the cloud moved over them, yielding no precipitation. The horses stomped their hooves in the sand and neighed furiously. They tugged on their bonds, but to no avail. The men tried to calm the frightened animals, though their efforts were largely wasted. They abandoned the creatures for a moment and watched the cloud.
“This is an unexpected weather pattern,” said one of them.
“Yes,” said another. “And, it moves against the wind!”
“Look!” cried a third, thrusting a finger to the South. His two companions moved their gaze to see what it was he pointed to. Far off in the distance they saw the flowing cape and shimmering armor of another man stationed as a scout with them. Below the man, panting heavily, galloping as fast as its legs would permit, was a fine black horse. Both the rider and the horse bearing signs of a conflict, they raced through the dunes hoping to alert the others. A clap of thunder roared across the sandy planes. The horses became very frantic and they tried with all their might to free themselves from the bar they had been lashed to. They snorted and kicked the supporting post, but it was too deeply secured in the ground to have any effect. As the man on horseback cam nearer to the outpost, the men beneath the canopy heard that he was shouting at the top of his lungs. They could not understand what it was he screamed about, but they assumed it had something to do with the rapid change in the weather. After a brief while longer, the men began to understand him, though his cries made no sense.
“Run!” he cried. He disappeared behind a large dune, but then reappeared at its peak. “Retreat to the city!” He pushed his horse as fast as it would go. “If you value your lives, you will run for our city!!” he cried loudly.
The men stood firm, baffled as to why they should retreat to the city simply because of a quick change in the weather. Finally, the man arrived at the outpost. The men surrounded him and pulled him off his horse, which then ran off to the north. They sat the man down in the sand, though it was a great struggle.
“What’s wrong?” asked one of them. Another went to fetch the man some water.
“We cannot stay here!” said the rider.
“What do you mean?” asked the second man. He kneeled in front of the man.
“Where are Rashid and Kalai?” asked the man returning with a cup full of water. The man downed the water in one messy gulp.
“Dead!” said the man, wiping his chin. His armor was stained with red blood.
“How?” asked one of the men.
Still breathing heavily, the man pointed to the south and said, “Orcs!”
The men looked in the direction of the accusing finger but saw only sand and the endless dark cloud. They turned back to look at the tired man, questioning his sanity, despite their long friendship.
“Khasim, what happened to the others?”
“I tell you, Orcs are coming. They come this way and with them are fourteen dragons and their riders.”
“That’s impossible,” said one man. “There should only be…”
The third man interrupted him, “fourteen.”
The men looked up at him and found him looking wide-eyed to the south, a look of pure horror on his face. The others looked and immediately clamored to their feet. The horses had destroyed their water basin, but continued to fight for freedom. The men ran into their shelter, erupting seconds later with saddles. They threw the saddles over their terrified mounts and hastily fastened them trying to avoid flying hooves. Khasim ran back into the hut and took the three spears from their dusty corner. He threw the poles out the door and grabbed his own from another corner before running back through the door into the desert. The others had fastened their saddles to their horses and gone to collect their spears. In his rush, Khasim stuck the tip of his spear into the armored leg of one of his comrades. He paused for a moment and apologized.
“I’m fine! Let’s go!” said the man.
Khasim ran toward the horses, but stopped again.
“There aren’t enough horses!” he cried.
A roar thundered behind them. The men looked to the south and then to the north.
“Just get on!” shouted Duad. “We’ll manage or we’ll die!”
The other two men untied their steeds and took off as Khasim climbed aboard Duad’s horse. Afraid to lose too much time untying the line, Duad drew his crescent blade and cut the line with one smooth stroke.
“Sayyid! Jafa! Wait!” he yelled over another roar. His horse struggled a bit to pick up its speed, but when it did, it had no problem keeping the pace when he caught up the other two. They charged into the north as their fine horses grunted and snorted below them. They looked behind and their eyes met terror. They spun around and urged their steeds to go faster. Encouraged also by fear, the horses ran as fast as their powerful legs would go. A large shadow passed over them, followed by another and another and several more. The men looked up and saw flying over them the winged demons, their undead riders aboard their backs. Their hearts racing, sweat pouring down their faces, the men tightened their grip on their spears and their reins and continued across the sandy plane. One of the large shadows lingered. Before they knew what had happened, the men found themselves trapped by a pair of large clawed feet. The horses neighed in frightened protest. Duad thrust his spear into the flesh of the foot, but the tip merely bent and became blunt. The dragon roared and squeezed its large foot around the men. Sayyid’s spear snapped in two and the pieces fell to the dusty ground. The dragons roared again as they sailed through the air, making a painful symphony that each of the men feared would become a requiem only too soon.
They managed to turn around and get a look at what was below them. Their already saddened eyes were pushed into further dejection when they eyed the large black mass below them. Cheers rang out as the dragons flew the massive group of Orcs. The beasts began to form a circle and spiraled downward to mark their landing. Jafa noticed that they were heading toward a small group that had been separated from the main force. The dragons formed a circle around the isolated group and the dragon holding the men along with their petrified steeds dropped them in the center. They fell to the ground and were sprawled on their armored stomachs for a moment. Jafa lifted his face from the sand and looked forward. To his dismay, he recognized the beastly form before him. Surrounded by armed, snarling, vicious underlings, the mighty Orcish general Oorlog stood with a spear clenched in his fist. The rest of his weapons rested in various sheathes and belts around his body. The small squad of Orcs behind him flashed swords, though they also carried bows.
“What have we here?” asked the general through his cracked, but jagged teeth.
The dragon rider who carried the men opened his mouth. “Scouts, general,” he said in his scratchy tone.
The general smiled. “Well, I’d say they’ve found something!” he laughed.
The thousands of Orcs behind him laughed as well, though the ones toward the rear had no idea of the goings on at the front. The laughter died down quickly.
“Well, I’ll not keep you long,” said the general, eyeing Sayyid hungrily. His eyes then darted to Khasim who glared a the foul creature with fire burning in his eyes. Oorlog gave a small chuckle and his small troop of Orcs cackled and thrust their weapons at him. The general’s eyes, though blood-shot and dark as they were, showed more clarity than the glazed orbs of his minions. They showed depth and a spark of logic and sophistication. They slid over Khasim and moved to Duad, whose expression was one of vacant fear. Oorlog’s smile broadened.
“Are you afraid of me, boy?” he asked bending over slightly.
“No,” stammered Duad trying to raise his voice.
Oorlog took a sword from one of the many sheathes at his side. He walked up to Duad, who fell onto his back trying to escape, and put a large armored foot on his chest. He put his face close to Duad’s.
“It would be wiser if you were,” he said threateningly. He pulled away from the men and resumed his place among his underlings.
“Take this message to your king,” he said with a fierce tone. “We will make camp tonight, but within two days we will arrive at your city and it will fall. Our banner will wave from the top of the nearest dune by dawn on the second day. When we arrive, we will not lift our siege until your city has fallen to the Horde. Those who do not surrender will be slaughtered like meat stock.”
As he spoke, fear coursed through the men’s veins. Jafa sat, quaking in his armor. The War chief, as he would have been called were he addressed by an Orc, finished his speech and sheathed his sword.
“Now, go!” he ordered, “and warn your king of our coming.”
The men sat frozen in place. Their horses had been restrained by Orcis ropes and stood, unable to move while they waited for what would come next.
“Get on your way!” shouted Oorlog, losing his patience with the men.
They clamored to their feet and ran to their steeds. Khasim leapt onto Jafa’s horse and they took off. Two of the dragons moved aside, granting them passage. Their master whispered hauntingly into Oorlog’s ear.
“Tell, me, my good general,” he rasped. “How many men does it take to bear a word?”
“One, my lord,” replied Oorlog, looking up at the dark figure.
“Very Good,” There was a rush of wind and the flaming dragon took to the sky. It shot toward the terrified horseman and devoured all but one of them. There were screams and a large cloud of sand, kicked up in the excitement. Then there were only hoof beats. And a low, dull, droning roar.
One of the men called out to him, “Duad! Hurry up! Duad…”
He then kissed the top of his horse’s furry head and strode back into the thatched buildings. When he stepped inside, he found his comrades with their beds made and most of their armor already strapped on. Their armor consisted of coats of metal scales, which were reminiscent of bird feathers. Below their hauberks of scale armor, were light mail skirts, which were hidden behind flowing capes. About their heads, would be placed a steel skullcap, around which long cloth turbans would be wrapped. When they were dressed and their armor was presentable, they took their curved swords from a rack above their beds and walked outside. They turned to face the sun and stood for a moment taking in deep breaths of the warm morning air. They raised their curved bladed weapons into the sun’s light and began uttering a prayer in their ancient language. After a moment they got down on their knees and placed the sword on the ground, with the tip pointing to the east. They then bowed low to the ground and continued their prayers. When they had finished speaking with the gods, they sat up and looked to the east. They got to their feet and placed their sheathed weapons on their belts.
A group of three spears sitting in the corner waiting to be needed had begun to collect dust and spiders had woven their silky threads between their wooden shafts. The men stood outside in the light of the rising sun taking in the day when they each, in turn, noticed the giant cloud surging forward from the south. They froze where they stood, each instinctively moving a hand to the blade at their hip. The cloud passed over their heads and they took shelter under the thatched canopy over the door of the small barracks. They watched in awe as the cloud moved over them, yielding no precipitation. The horses stomped their hooves in the sand and neighed furiously. They tugged on their bonds, but to no avail. The men tried to calm the frightened animals, though their efforts were largely wasted. They abandoned the creatures for a moment and watched the cloud.
“This is an unexpected weather pattern,” said one of them.
“Yes,” said another. “And, it moves against the wind!”
“Look!” cried a third, thrusting a finger to the South. His two companions moved their gaze to see what it was he pointed to. Far off in the distance they saw the flowing cape and shimmering armor of another man stationed as a scout with them. Below the man, panting heavily, galloping as fast as its legs would permit, was a fine black horse. Both the rider and the horse bearing signs of a conflict, they raced through the dunes hoping to alert the others. A clap of thunder roared across the sandy planes. The horses became very frantic and they tried with all their might to free themselves from the bar they had been lashed to. They snorted and kicked the supporting post, but it was too deeply secured in the ground to have any effect. As the man on horseback cam nearer to the outpost, the men beneath the canopy heard that he was shouting at the top of his lungs. They could not understand what it was he screamed about, but they assumed it had something to do with the rapid change in the weather. After a brief while longer, the men began to understand him, though his cries made no sense.
“Run!” he cried. He disappeared behind a large dune, but then reappeared at its peak. “Retreat to the city!” He pushed his horse as fast as it would go. “If you value your lives, you will run for our city!!” he cried loudly.
The men stood firm, baffled as to why they should retreat to the city simply because of a quick change in the weather. Finally, the man arrived at the outpost. The men surrounded him and pulled him off his horse, which then ran off to the north. They sat the man down in the sand, though it was a great struggle.
“What’s wrong?” asked one of them. Another went to fetch the man some water.
“We cannot stay here!” said the rider.
“What do you mean?” asked the second man. He kneeled in front of the man.
“Where are Rashid and Kalai?” asked the man returning with a cup full of water. The man downed the water in one messy gulp.
“Dead!” said the man, wiping his chin. His armor was stained with red blood.
“How?” asked one of the men.
Still breathing heavily, the man pointed to the south and said, “Orcs!”
The men looked in the direction of the accusing finger but saw only sand and the endless dark cloud. They turned back to look at the tired man, questioning his sanity, despite their long friendship.
“Khasim, what happened to the others?”
“I tell you, Orcs are coming. They come this way and with them are fourteen dragons and their riders.”
“That’s impossible,” said one man. “There should only be…”
The third man interrupted him, “fourteen.”
The men looked up at him and found him looking wide-eyed to the south, a look of pure horror on his face. The others looked and immediately clamored to their feet. The horses had destroyed their water basin, but continued to fight for freedom. The men ran into their shelter, erupting seconds later with saddles. They threw the saddles over their terrified mounts and hastily fastened them trying to avoid flying hooves. Khasim ran back into the hut and took the three spears from their dusty corner. He threw the poles out the door and grabbed his own from another corner before running back through the door into the desert. The others had fastened their saddles to their horses and gone to collect their spears. In his rush, Khasim stuck the tip of his spear into the armored leg of one of his comrades. He paused for a moment and apologized.
“I’m fine! Let’s go!” said the man.
Khasim ran toward the horses, but stopped again.
“There aren’t enough horses!” he cried.
A roar thundered behind them. The men looked to the south and then to the north.
“Just get on!” shouted Duad. “We’ll manage or we’ll die!”
The other two men untied their steeds and took off as Khasim climbed aboard Duad’s horse. Afraid to lose too much time untying the line, Duad drew his crescent blade and cut the line with one smooth stroke.
“Sayyid! Jafa! Wait!” he yelled over another roar. His horse struggled a bit to pick up its speed, but when it did, it had no problem keeping the pace when he caught up the other two. They charged into the north as their fine horses grunted and snorted below them. They looked behind and their eyes met terror. They spun around and urged their steeds to go faster. Encouraged also by fear, the horses ran as fast as their powerful legs would go. A large shadow passed over them, followed by another and another and several more. The men looked up and saw flying over them the winged demons, their undead riders aboard their backs. Their hearts racing, sweat pouring down their faces, the men tightened their grip on their spears and their reins and continued across the sandy plane. One of the large shadows lingered. Before they knew what had happened, the men found themselves trapped by a pair of large clawed feet. The horses neighed in frightened protest. Duad thrust his spear into the flesh of the foot, but the tip merely bent and became blunt. The dragon roared and squeezed its large foot around the men. Sayyid’s spear snapped in two and the pieces fell to the dusty ground. The dragons roared again as they sailed through the air, making a painful symphony that each of the men feared would become a requiem only too soon.
They managed to turn around and get a look at what was below them. Their already saddened eyes were pushed into further dejection when they eyed the large black mass below them. Cheers rang out as the dragons flew the massive group of Orcs. The beasts began to form a circle and spiraled downward to mark their landing. Jafa noticed that they were heading toward a small group that had been separated from the main force. The dragons formed a circle around the isolated group and the dragon holding the men along with their petrified steeds dropped them in the center. They fell to the ground and were sprawled on their armored stomachs for a moment. Jafa lifted his face from the sand and looked forward. To his dismay, he recognized the beastly form before him. Surrounded by armed, snarling, vicious underlings, the mighty Orcish general Oorlog stood with a spear clenched in his fist. The rest of his weapons rested in various sheathes and belts around his body. The small squad of Orcs behind him flashed swords, though they also carried bows.
“What have we here?” asked the general through his cracked, but jagged teeth.
The dragon rider who carried the men opened his mouth. “Scouts, general,” he said in his scratchy tone.
The general smiled. “Well, I’d say they’ve found something!” he laughed.
The thousands of Orcs behind him laughed as well, though the ones toward the rear had no idea of the goings on at the front. The laughter died down quickly.
“Well, I’ll not keep you long,” said the general, eyeing Sayyid hungrily. His eyes then darted to Khasim who glared a the foul creature with fire burning in his eyes. Oorlog gave a small chuckle and his small troop of Orcs cackled and thrust their weapons at him. The general’s eyes, though blood-shot and dark as they were, showed more clarity than the glazed orbs of his minions. They showed depth and a spark of logic and sophistication. They slid over Khasim and moved to Duad, whose expression was one of vacant fear. Oorlog’s smile broadened.
“Are you afraid of me, boy?” he asked bending over slightly.
“No,” stammered Duad trying to raise his voice.
Oorlog took a sword from one of the many sheathes at his side. He walked up to Duad, who fell onto his back trying to escape, and put a large armored foot on his chest. He put his face close to Duad’s.
“It would be wiser if you were,” he said threateningly. He pulled away from the men and resumed his place among his underlings.
“Take this message to your king,” he said with a fierce tone. “We will make camp tonight, but within two days we will arrive at your city and it will fall. Our banner will wave from the top of the nearest dune by dawn on the second day. When we arrive, we will not lift our siege until your city has fallen to the Horde. Those who do not surrender will be slaughtered like meat stock.”
As he spoke, fear coursed through the men’s veins. Jafa sat, quaking in his armor. The War chief, as he would have been called were he addressed by an Orc, finished his speech and sheathed his sword.
“Now, go!” he ordered, “and warn your king of our coming.”
The men sat frozen in place. Their horses had been restrained by Orcis ropes and stood, unable to move while they waited for what would come next.
“Get on your way!” shouted Oorlog, losing his patience with the men.
They clamored to their feet and ran to their steeds. Khasim leapt onto Jafa’s horse and they took off. Two of the dragons moved aside, granting them passage. Their master whispered hauntingly into Oorlog’s ear.
“Tell, me, my good general,” he rasped. “How many men does it take to bear a word?”
“One, my lord,” replied Oorlog, looking up at the dark figure.
“Very Good,” There was a rush of wind and the flaming dragon took to the sky. It shot toward the terrified horseman and devoured all but one of them. There were screams and a large cloud of sand, kicked up in the excitement. Then there were only hoof beats. And a low, dull, droning roar.
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