A BP&G adventure - Pockets; Heretic
May. 25th, 2009 02:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joegodaPeter, Lord Mayor of Underhill, stood panting hard and heavy. He was bleeding from a number of small wounds; cuts he had accumulated on his journey into the kingdom of Tears. He had crawled through the tunnel that lead under the moat and came up into the old Cistern on the Northern edge of the city. His eyes showed mostly white from his terror. He had never truly been on an adventure of any sort, although he had dreamed of it many times safe and snug in his little village on the other side of the Nomad land wall. This was what he had wanted and now that he was here, he wanted anything but.
He slowed his breathing, and kept his heart from leaping out of his chest. He was here for a reason. He was here as reconnaissance for Bags' assault on Tears, to evaluate the number of men in the kingdom and to see what sort of weaknesses they might have. He had studied over the years as much military literature he could find. It was a luxury back in his study. It was a necessity here in the middle of Tears, where he could just as easily get killed as gather information and leave successfully. It was far easier, in fact, to be killed.
Gathering his wits about him, he shoved his body forward, across the stone floor. His hooves scrabbled up the shattered stone and he reached the top, and stood shaking in the not quite dawning morning. The morning dew felt cool and sticky on his flanks and he was sweating, a thing not quite proper on the Lord Mayor of Underhill. Lord Mayors shouldn't sweat.
Peter had decided to do the reconnaissance alone. He felt that it was simply too dangerous for any of his little contingent to risk their lives. After all, when you're only three feet tall, it's too easy to be noticed, and centaurs are not something you see everyday. Regardless of his bravado of sneaking in and sneaking out unseen, Peter was not a fool. Or much of one, anyway. He felt he knew the risks and took the responsibility for his own, cautioning his men to hold back until called.
Off to the southeast, in the middle of town, there was light and commotion. Swallowing hard, Peter trotted silently in that direction, keeping to the shadows of the trees and bushes, and when the trees and bushes ran out, he kept to the darkness created by the walls of buildings and wagons.
He wound through the alleyways of Tears, wondering how humans could possibly live this way, crowded together. The thought passed without much consideration; there were other things to think about. Like survival.
He reached a small clearing where the alley spilled out into a thoroughfare, and there he stopped and pushed back into a cloaking shadow created by a rain barrel. A group of men, thirty and more, were gathered, standing and tense. Some were carrying lit torches and all were carrying weapons. They were listening to a man, gray haired and wild-eyed. He stood beneath a sign that read 'Swinehart's', and was speaking in a strong voice.
"Boys," said the man, "we know that Bags and his little army are camped just outside the walls. And I know that you've been champing at the bits to go out and have at them."
A fierce roar rose from the crowd, and they waved swords and clubs above their heads. "When?" There was a hungry anticipation in the word. "Now?"
"We are waiting for the right time, boys," said the man, who Peter imagined to be Beegle. "We are waiting for them to bring the fight to us. I want to see how many fighting men Bags has. Sure, sure, I know we can take 'em all." Another roar came from the crowd of thieves and cutthroats. "And we can see he has a fairly large encampment, but somehow I don't think he has all that many fighting men. I want him to show his hand first."
A disappointed grumble crept through the assemblage. "They're just a buncha circus freaks, Boss!" A man with a patch over one eye and a shock of black hair stepped forward. "Just freaks, that's all!"
Beegle's voice dropped a decibel and he took a step forward and placed his hand on the shoulder of the one-eyed man. "Jimbo, freaks can cause an awful lot of damage." He waved his hand toward the North. You saw what the Preacher did to the Mansion, and just a few years ago, you were calling him a freak. Remember?"
"Yeah, okay," Jimbo grumbled loudly. "I sees your point. Greenie's still a freak, if you ask me."
"Exactly, Jimbo." Beegle turned back to and faced the rest of the throng. "And freaks, no matter how you look at 'em, are dangerous! Even a tiny scorpion can kill a man. Remember that! So we've waited, boys. But not for much longer, for you see, the Preacher had a vision last night. A vision that today, and in fact this very morning, he would face the Heretic and do battle! Today is the day!"
A cheer went up from the men, and there was a great deal of fist shaking and sword waving. Peter took that as a sign to make his way silently back to the Cistern and report back to Bags. He had never seen this Preacher that Beegle had talked about, but he suspected he would not want to meet him. He had seen his share of magic and wanted no part of it.
Back at camp, Peter found Bags sitting with Grizelda in front of their tent. He reported what he had seen, and that this Preacher, whoever he was, had gone to find Pockets.
Bags grimaced and looked away. Grizelda nodded and said, "I figured something like that had happened. Esme came in about 2 hours ago and woke us up, crying. She said that Pockets had gone away, to do something important and he wasn't coming back for a long while."
"Ah. Erm." Peter didn't know what to say to that. He had seen how close the child and Pockets were, and how they shared such a strange bond as if they were of the same mind. Finishing each other's sentences and laughing at jokes that were unspoken. Finally, he just asked, "Is she all right?"
"Oh," Grizelda sighed, "she's fine or will be. She's sleeping right now." Grizelda offered Peter a mug of tea, which he accepted. "She and Pockets are an odd breed, Peter. Even we," she indicated Bags, "don't know what it's all about. It's like they're joined at the soul or something."
Bags tossed the remaining tea on the ground and stood, angry. "So he wants us to go meet him, huh? No surprises there. He always was a lazy bastard." He turned to Peter and looked down at the centaur, eyes blazing under bushy eyebrows. "Pete, go find all the men you figure are worthy to fight. If Beegle wants the war to come to him, then by the seven hells, we'll bring it to him."
"But...," Peter began and stopped. "But what about Pockets?"
"Pockets?" Bags snorted. "Pockets will be okay, Pete. Hell, he's been killed more than any other person I know and he's always come back. A little stranger each time, but he's always come back. I don't worry about Pockets, and you shouldn't either."
There was a tremendous flash of greenish light from off to the northeast, and a brisk wind picked up, stirring the desert sand into little spiraling wind-devils. A cry from Esme, who was inside the tent, startled Grizelda to action.
"I'd say that was a sign from Pockets that it's time to get moving." Grizelda stood and dusted her sleeping gown. To Bags she said, "I've laid out your leathers and your sword. Not your fancy go to Sunday sword either. That old thing that you had when we first met. Better useful than pretty, like you always say." To Peter she said, "Go do what Bags said, Peter. Get strong men, who look like they've been in a fight before. Look for scars. All fighters have scars." She looked at the two men, who were just standing there. Her eyes grew hard and her voice grew dark. "Get a move on! You think the world is going to wait for you? Heeyah! Git 'em up!"
The men scrambled to do what Grizelda had commanded. Bags disappeared into the tent to ready for battle, and Peter sped away to the rest of the encampment, some of who had just started to awaken.
"I don't know why that stupid Pockets feels he has to die in every adventure," Grizelda groused as she too, tossed the rest of her tea into the fire and turned to disappear into the tent to see to Esme.
Bags stood before the gathered men. There were twelve humans, thirty centaurs, and an assortment of flying sprites and fairies. He sighed. Granted, the twelve men looked hard and able to handle themselves, and each carried a proper weapon... a sword or dagger or battle-axe. Some had clubs with spikes in them, and some carried shields.
But the centaurs? Three feet tall, never having been in battle before and most of them looked like they would break at the first sign of blood. And their armament looked like something out of a fancy dress show. No wear among the lot of them, at all. He sighed again.
"All right," Bags growled. "I'm not going to lie to you. This is going to be ugly, folks. We have twelve fighting men among us, and there are forty of them. Those odds don't look good and if it was any other sort of battle I'd say our best bet would be to run away."
Peter clopped forward. "You seem to be forgetting the centaurs, your majesty." He looked around at his men and smiled bravely if not a bit wanly. "We are ready to offer our arms to your service."
Bags did not smile back, and if anything, his face grew harder. "I know you are Pete, and it's appreciated, really. But I think you guys would be best used here, guarding the camp. Griz is the commander here, and if anything should happen to us..."
"Gods forbid," interjected Peter.
"Yeah," Bags went on, "if anything should happen to the rest of us, I'll depend on you and your men to make sure these folks are safe. They're gonna be patching up wounds, if there's anything left to patch up, and taking care of business back here." He stopped and considered the earnest face of the Mayor of Underhill. "You'll be the rear guard, Pete. And to be honest, I'd hate to think of any of your men being kicked to death just because they couldn't find the space to turn around. It'll be awful close in there. Out here, in the open, you guys would have a much better chance of success. Okay?"
Peter thought about it, briefly. "All right, your majesty. I can see the logic in what you say, and the rear guard is an important function in any military endeavor."
"Damn straight," Bags nodded.
The look of relief that crossed the other centaurs was very evident. Peter turned to his troops. "Men! We have been assigned the post of rear guard! We will report to her majesty Queen Grizelda for our posts." He turned back to Bags and approached him. In a quiet voice he said, "Thank you, Bags. That was much better than saying we were too little to be of use."
"You're not too little, Pete," Bags said in a soft voice. "You have big hearts and that counts a lot. This really is the best placement for you guys. In there, you can't turn as quick and I'd hate to think of any of you getting kicked or stepped on." Bags stood and took attention. Snapping a sharp salute, he growled out "Carry on, soldier."
Smiling wryly, Peter, Lord Mayor of Underhill, snapped a salute back. "Best of luck to you, your majesty." Turning, he ordered his men to assemble in front of Bags and Grizelda's tent, to await orders from Grizelda.
"She's not going to like me very much for a while," Bags muttered to himself. Then, looking at the humans and magic folk gathered there, he spoke out. "You magic folk may not be good at hand to hand, but I'd bet that you're pretty good at buzzing around the enemy and causing confusion, right?"
Tinkles and chimes of agreement reached out to Bags ears. "That's what I figured. Now, I know that some of you might be good in a fight, because I've heard tell that some of you are nasty little bastards in your own right and if you are, then have at it. I'm not gonna stop you, 'cause we need all the help we can get."
A bit of laughter came from the men and it was echoed by the flying sprites and fairies. Bags nodded. At least they were of good spirits.
"Here's the deal. We're gonna march across the spit that bridges the moat and into the Kingdom. Then we're gonna beat the hell out of anyone that tries to stop us. Try not to get yourself killed." He paused, looking at the faces of the men. One looked familiar.
"You," Bags pointed at the man and waggled a finger at him. "Do we know each other?"
An older man, a bit older than Bags, stepped forward. He wore light brown leather armor, and carried a well-beaten shield. He had dark brown eyes and his nose was bent in a couple of places. He wasn't very tall; maybe half a head shorter than Bags, but how he stood brought his eyes in line with Bags' own.
"Name's Hawk, Bags," the man said, his voice soft and hard at the same time. "It's possible, I guess. We might have met, a long time ago. I didn't know who I was for a long, long time, so it's possible we've known each other."
"Didn't know..." Bags scratched at the stubble on his chin. "What? You had amnesia?"
"Or something," Hawk said. "I woke up on the Southern Continent almost fifty years ago, didn't know who I was, how I got there... nothing."
"Huh," said Bags. "Southern Continent. Always wanted to go there."
"No, you really don't." Hawk unsnapped his cuff and showed long white, ropy scars on his arm. "There's beasties there that would as soon have you for breakfast as look at you."
"I can see why you came back," Bags mused, looking at the battle scars of the other.
"No, you can't," Hawk said. "Neither can I. I'm looking for something I left here, I think. I can't remember. I just had this feeling that I had to go north. Hell, I didn't even remember there was a North continent until one day my boat bumped against it."
"Huh," Bags said again, thoughtful. Then, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and to get back to business, he said, "Well, we can talk about it when you buy me a pint at Swinehart's, if Swinehart's is still there when we're done."
"Deal." The older man nodded and snapped his cuff back in place. "Let's go fight."
"Son," Bags said, "I like your style." To the rest of the assembled men, he growled, "Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, let's take the fight to the bad guys."
Grizelda ran up just then and tossed her arms around Bags neck. "Don't you dare leave without saying goodbye, Timothy Bags!" She had tears in her eyes and muttered in his ear, "That was a good thing you did for Peter and his men. He told me all about it. It's okay." She kissed him soundly, which brought hoots from the rest of the soldiers. Turning to the little army, she said, "You will come back with your shield, or on it! You are all soldiers of the Kingdom of Tears, and don't you forget it, or I promise you, Mamma Grizelda will be most unhappy."
"And if Mamma ain't happy, boys, then tain't nobody happy." Bags raised his sword above his head, and roared. "For the honor of Grizelda and the honor of Tears!" All twelve of the men raised whatever weapon they carried and echoed his words. "For the honor of Grizelda and Tears!"
And off they strode, across the short expanse of desert, to the High Gate, the army of thirteen, to defend Queen and Kingdom. Tiny sparkles of flying magic folk flittered above them, giving them an almost magical halo that reflected the morning sun.
-*-
The High Gate, which stood at the entrance to Tears, lay across the moat and was closed. Bags and his army stood across the moat, just before the little bridge of land that lead up to the entrance.
"It's closed," someone said.
Bags nodded grimly. "Give that man a medal for stating the obvious." He looked up at the top of the wall, and saw small glints of metal. "We're being watched, guys. There may be archers." He waggled a finger at one of the flying sprites. "Hey you, come 'ere."
A small cloud of flying specks flew down to Bags. "You guys think you can handle anything that comes flying at us? Like arrows or spears?"
A tinkle of assent. A rumble of doubt about the spears, though, as spears tended to be heavier than arrows. And forget about rocks. Rocks and sprites just don't mix well.
"Then," Bags said, "let's hope they don't toss rocks or spears." He brushed the smog of fairy folk from his head. "Thanks. Watch for 'em, okay?"
A merry tinkle like sunlight on water came from the sprites at the fun game humans played. The cloud of them spiraled up and joined the sparkly mist overhead.
"What now, fearless leader?" Hawk came up to Bags and nodded at the Gate.
"Well," Bags said, "when I first got here I just went on up and knocked." He scratched at his ear. "I wonder if it still works." He took a couple of cautious steps toward the gate, keeping his eyes on the top of the wall.
"Archers!" came a cry from behind him. Sure enough, a rain of arrows suddenly appeared, arcing up and then down towards the men.
"Drop to the ground!" Bags yelled as he fell into a ball. "Make a small target!"
Looking behind him, he saw the other men follow his example, curling into a fetal position on the ground. There were a few thuds as a couple of arrows hit the ground near and around him, but that was all.
Cautiously, Bags looked up at the sky. There was a sparkly translucence hanging over him, and it seemed that the every arrow that entered that sparkly area was being caught in mid-flight and tossed higher up in the air, far away from Bags and his men. The few arrows that made it threw fell harmlessly to the ground. Just as cautiously, Bags stood and brushed the sand off his leathers.
"Nothing to be afraid of, men." He said to the men still crouched on the sand behind him. "Just a little rain is all, and we have air support!" Looking up at the sky, he smiled. "Milk and honey at Swinehart's for you folk, when this is all said and done!" He was answered with sound of a thousand tiny wind chimes.
Bags walked up to the massive gate, thirty feet tall, and made from the trees that used to populate the land around Tears before the desert came. His men followed until they were all on the wall side of the moat, out of the range of the archers.
"I feel like an idiot," he said, as he raised his hand and knocked. The sound was just as he remembered it, from six years ago. The knock made no sound at all, other than the sound one hears when knocking on a 50 year old tree covered in cement.
There was no answer, just as he remembered. So he grabbed the edge of the gate and pulled. It opened easily, noiselessly. He opened it just the barest of cracks before turning to the group behind him. "Be very careful men," he cautioned. "There's no telling what we'll find inside."
He peeked one eye into the crack of the door and saw nothing threatening. "That's odd," he muttered. He pulled the door open wider and slipped inside and tripped over a body.
"Yessir," came an old voice from next to him. "I told him that nobody messes with my gate."
The Gray man, the old man who worked the office at the gate, was standing there, holding an axe handle. Out of breath, he helped Bags to his feet. "'bout time you got here. How many you bring? Sixty? Seventy? A hundred?"
Bags shook off the shock of seeing the Gray man. "What the hells are you doing here?" He looked around at the other bodies, five in all, that littered the entry. "What the hells happened?" He eyed the old man suspiciously.
"Now boy," the Gray man grumbled, "don't be giving me that evil eye of yours. I keep the gate. That's what I do. That's what I am. Been here for hundreds of years, I reckon I'll be here for hundreds more. As long as there's a gate, there's a me, and when that gate there opens, this is where I'll be."
He nodded his wrinkled head at the others on the ground. "That's what comes of them that tries to tell me otherwise."
There was a growing noise at the other end of the entryway, the way into the market place. There was a darkness there that couldn't be explained, as if a gate was dropped that nobody could see.
"Yessir," the Gray man said, indicating the darkness. Nobody gets in or out, as long as I'm standing here and don't give 'em permission. Must be thirty or forty of them trying to get in here." He cast an eye at Bags. "Wanting to talk to you, I reckon."
Bags nodded, making a note that this was just something else that made him go 'huh'. "So, as long as the gate is kept open...?"
"No need for me to hang around, don't you see?" The Gray man chuckled. "That's what I liked about you running the place. Gate was always open, so I took me a little whatchacallit... a vacation. You left and the whole place went to hell. Gates not been opened in the year since you left, and I just sat here, waiting... bored out of my skull."
"Uh. Okay." Bags didn't push it further. Magic and enchantments were just part of the scenery. Weirdness abounds. He shrugged his shoulders and opened the gate further. "Get in here," he called to the men outside.
Hawk was the first in, followed by the others that squeezed into the little entryway. He surveyed the men on the ground. "Didn't leave any for us?"
Bags indicated the Gray man with a nod of his head. "Wasn't me, bud. He did it before we got here."
"Huh." Hawk bent down and checked the nearest body. "Been dead a while." He looked up at the Gray man. "You did this?"
The Gray man chuckled. "They messed with the gate, and they had no respect for Bessie."
"Bessie?" Hawk looked up at Bags.
"His cow," Bags explained. "The sweetest cow on the face of the earth. And you better believe it."
"Okay." Hawk stood and asked the Gray man, "Where's the rest of 'em?"
"How should I know?" The Gray man gruffed a bit. "I just run the Gate. The rest of them quit coming around after I bopped these five. Scared of me, I guess." He cackled and then said, "You want to find them, just go on inside. You'll more than likely find them just on the other side of that." He pointed to the curtain of dark leading to the market place.
He turned to Bags and said, "I've already checked you and your men in as military. You're free to go inside anytime you give the word. As you've got no baggage or wagon, you don't have any assigned parking."
"Thanks," Bags said. "Good to know some things don't change."
"Probably never will," the Gray man nodded. "This is all you got, though? Thirteen of you?"
"I'm hoping these will be enough." Bags noticed the gathering sparkles above his head. "Oh, and there's a bunch of magic folks with us. Is that all right?"
"Since I am one, I hope to eat a toad it is!" The Gray man cackled again. "'Sides, you can't keep 'em out. Lil' buggers fly over, through, and under the wall. Be kinda stupid to try, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I reckon it would be." Bags thought for a second. "Say... I don't suppose there's a way into the Marketplace that might be a bit... secret?"
Again, the Gray man cackled. "Like what? A secret passage cut in the wall? You're out of luck there, son. Nobody ever thought about it, and besides, the wall's just made out of old trees, no thicker than you or me." He thought for a moment. "How come you didn't use the passage under the moat?"
The noise at the other end of the entry was getting louder. "That way was too small. I'd never have fit."
"I can see that now," the Gray man agreed. "How bout where there isn't any wall? Where the Mansion is?"
"There's no Mansion there any more! The whole place is a big hole in the ground!" Bags was getting frustrated. "Look, this was the only way I figured we could almost have a chance of getting in, okay? A small enclosed space, where we could meet the enemy head on, limit movement and the amount of the bad guys coming to meet us."
"Ahhhh," nodded the Gray man. "The old squeeze play." Nodding harder in agreement, he said, "It just might work." He looked at the assembled men. "Are you ready? 'Cuz you better be. I'm opening the other gate." He disappeared into the little office off to the side. "Here they come."
The dark curtain on the other side of the entry sparked away and men poured into the opening. Bags and Hawk and the others rushed at the men, weapons bared and yelling at the top of their lungs.
He slowed his breathing, and kept his heart from leaping out of his chest. He was here for a reason. He was here as reconnaissance for Bags' assault on Tears, to evaluate the number of men in the kingdom and to see what sort of weaknesses they might have. He had studied over the years as much military literature he could find. It was a luxury back in his study. It was a necessity here in the middle of Tears, where he could just as easily get killed as gather information and leave successfully. It was far easier, in fact, to be killed.
Gathering his wits about him, he shoved his body forward, across the stone floor. His hooves scrabbled up the shattered stone and he reached the top, and stood shaking in the not quite dawning morning. The morning dew felt cool and sticky on his flanks and he was sweating, a thing not quite proper on the Lord Mayor of Underhill. Lord Mayors shouldn't sweat.
Peter had decided to do the reconnaissance alone. He felt that it was simply too dangerous for any of his little contingent to risk their lives. After all, when you're only three feet tall, it's too easy to be noticed, and centaurs are not something you see everyday. Regardless of his bravado of sneaking in and sneaking out unseen, Peter was not a fool. Or much of one, anyway. He felt he knew the risks and took the responsibility for his own, cautioning his men to hold back until called.
Off to the southeast, in the middle of town, there was light and commotion. Swallowing hard, Peter trotted silently in that direction, keeping to the shadows of the trees and bushes, and when the trees and bushes ran out, he kept to the darkness created by the walls of buildings and wagons.
He wound through the alleyways of Tears, wondering how humans could possibly live this way, crowded together. The thought passed without much consideration; there were other things to think about. Like survival.
He reached a small clearing where the alley spilled out into a thoroughfare, and there he stopped and pushed back into a cloaking shadow created by a rain barrel. A group of men, thirty and more, were gathered, standing and tense. Some were carrying lit torches and all were carrying weapons. They were listening to a man, gray haired and wild-eyed. He stood beneath a sign that read 'Swinehart's', and was speaking in a strong voice.
"Boys," said the man, "we know that Bags and his little army are camped just outside the walls. And I know that you've been champing at the bits to go out and have at them."
A fierce roar rose from the crowd, and they waved swords and clubs above their heads. "When?" There was a hungry anticipation in the word. "Now?"
"We are waiting for the right time, boys," said the man, who Peter imagined to be Beegle. "We are waiting for them to bring the fight to us. I want to see how many fighting men Bags has. Sure, sure, I know we can take 'em all." Another roar came from the crowd of thieves and cutthroats. "And we can see he has a fairly large encampment, but somehow I don't think he has all that many fighting men. I want him to show his hand first."
A disappointed grumble crept through the assemblage. "They're just a buncha circus freaks, Boss!" A man with a patch over one eye and a shock of black hair stepped forward. "Just freaks, that's all!"
Beegle's voice dropped a decibel and he took a step forward and placed his hand on the shoulder of the one-eyed man. "Jimbo, freaks can cause an awful lot of damage." He waved his hand toward the North. You saw what the Preacher did to the Mansion, and just a few years ago, you were calling him a freak. Remember?"
"Yeah, okay," Jimbo grumbled loudly. "I sees your point. Greenie's still a freak, if you ask me."
"Exactly, Jimbo." Beegle turned back to and faced the rest of the throng. "And freaks, no matter how you look at 'em, are dangerous! Even a tiny scorpion can kill a man. Remember that! So we've waited, boys. But not for much longer, for you see, the Preacher had a vision last night. A vision that today, and in fact this very morning, he would face the Heretic and do battle! Today is the day!"
A cheer went up from the men, and there was a great deal of fist shaking and sword waving. Peter took that as a sign to make his way silently back to the Cistern and report back to Bags. He had never seen this Preacher that Beegle had talked about, but he suspected he would not want to meet him. He had seen his share of magic and wanted no part of it.
Back at camp, Peter found Bags sitting with Grizelda in front of their tent. He reported what he had seen, and that this Preacher, whoever he was, had gone to find Pockets.
Bags grimaced and looked away. Grizelda nodded and said, "I figured something like that had happened. Esme came in about 2 hours ago and woke us up, crying. She said that Pockets had gone away, to do something important and he wasn't coming back for a long while."
"Ah. Erm." Peter didn't know what to say to that. He had seen how close the child and Pockets were, and how they shared such a strange bond as if they were of the same mind. Finishing each other's sentences and laughing at jokes that were unspoken. Finally, he just asked, "Is she all right?"
"Oh," Grizelda sighed, "she's fine or will be. She's sleeping right now." Grizelda offered Peter a mug of tea, which he accepted. "She and Pockets are an odd breed, Peter. Even we," she indicated Bags, "don't know what it's all about. It's like they're joined at the soul or something."
Bags tossed the remaining tea on the ground and stood, angry. "So he wants us to go meet him, huh? No surprises there. He always was a lazy bastard." He turned to Peter and looked down at the centaur, eyes blazing under bushy eyebrows. "Pete, go find all the men you figure are worthy to fight. If Beegle wants the war to come to him, then by the seven hells, we'll bring it to him."
"But...," Peter began and stopped. "But what about Pockets?"
"Pockets?" Bags snorted. "Pockets will be okay, Pete. Hell, he's been killed more than any other person I know and he's always come back. A little stranger each time, but he's always come back. I don't worry about Pockets, and you shouldn't either."
There was a tremendous flash of greenish light from off to the northeast, and a brisk wind picked up, stirring the desert sand into little spiraling wind-devils. A cry from Esme, who was inside the tent, startled Grizelda to action.
"I'd say that was a sign from Pockets that it's time to get moving." Grizelda stood and dusted her sleeping gown. To Bags she said, "I've laid out your leathers and your sword. Not your fancy go to Sunday sword either. That old thing that you had when we first met. Better useful than pretty, like you always say." To Peter she said, "Go do what Bags said, Peter. Get strong men, who look like they've been in a fight before. Look for scars. All fighters have scars." She looked at the two men, who were just standing there. Her eyes grew hard and her voice grew dark. "Get a move on! You think the world is going to wait for you? Heeyah! Git 'em up!"
The men scrambled to do what Grizelda had commanded. Bags disappeared into the tent to ready for battle, and Peter sped away to the rest of the encampment, some of who had just started to awaken.
"I don't know why that stupid Pockets feels he has to die in every adventure," Grizelda groused as she too, tossed the rest of her tea into the fire and turned to disappear into the tent to see to Esme.
Bags stood before the gathered men. There were twelve humans, thirty centaurs, and an assortment of flying sprites and fairies. He sighed. Granted, the twelve men looked hard and able to handle themselves, and each carried a proper weapon... a sword or dagger or battle-axe. Some had clubs with spikes in them, and some carried shields.
But the centaurs? Three feet tall, never having been in battle before and most of them looked like they would break at the first sign of blood. And their armament looked like something out of a fancy dress show. No wear among the lot of them, at all. He sighed again.
"All right," Bags growled. "I'm not going to lie to you. This is going to be ugly, folks. We have twelve fighting men among us, and there are forty of them. Those odds don't look good and if it was any other sort of battle I'd say our best bet would be to run away."
Peter clopped forward. "You seem to be forgetting the centaurs, your majesty." He looked around at his men and smiled bravely if not a bit wanly. "We are ready to offer our arms to your service."
Bags did not smile back, and if anything, his face grew harder. "I know you are Pete, and it's appreciated, really. But I think you guys would be best used here, guarding the camp. Griz is the commander here, and if anything should happen to us..."
"Gods forbid," interjected Peter.
"Yeah," Bags went on, "if anything should happen to the rest of us, I'll depend on you and your men to make sure these folks are safe. They're gonna be patching up wounds, if there's anything left to patch up, and taking care of business back here." He stopped and considered the earnest face of the Mayor of Underhill. "You'll be the rear guard, Pete. And to be honest, I'd hate to think of any of your men being kicked to death just because they couldn't find the space to turn around. It'll be awful close in there. Out here, in the open, you guys would have a much better chance of success. Okay?"
Peter thought about it, briefly. "All right, your majesty. I can see the logic in what you say, and the rear guard is an important function in any military endeavor."
"Damn straight," Bags nodded.
The look of relief that crossed the other centaurs was very evident. Peter turned to his troops. "Men! We have been assigned the post of rear guard! We will report to her majesty Queen Grizelda for our posts." He turned back to Bags and approached him. In a quiet voice he said, "Thank you, Bags. That was much better than saying we were too little to be of use."
"You're not too little, Pete," Bags said in a soft voice. "You have big hearts and that counts a lot. This really is the best placement for you guys. In there, you can't turn as quick and I'd hate to think of any of you getting kicked or stepped on." Bags stood and took attention. Snapping a sharp salute, he growled out "Carry on, soldier."
Smiling wryly, Peter, Lord Mayor of Underhill, snapped a salute back. "Best of luck to you, your majesty." Turning, he ordered his men to assemble in front of Bags and Grizelda's tent, to await orders from Grizelda.
"She's not going to like me very much for a while," Bags muttered to himself. Then, looking at the humans and magic folk gathered there, he spoke out. "You magic folk may not be good at hand to hand, but I'd bet that you're pretty good at buzzing around the enemy and causing confusion, right?"
Tinkles and chimes of agreement reached out to Bags ears. "That's what I figured. Now, I know that some of you might be good in a fight, because I've heard tell that some of you are nasty little bastards in your own right and if you are, then have at it. I'm not gonna stop you, 'cause we need all the help we can get."
A bit of laughter came from the men and it was echoed by the flying sprites and fairies. Bags nodded. At least they were of good spirits.
"Here's the deal. We're gonna march across the spit that bridges the moat and into the Kingdom. Then we're gonna beat the hell out of anyone that tries to stop us. Try not to get yourself killed." He paused, looking at the faces of the men. One looked familiar.
"You," Bags pointed at the man and waggled a finger at him. "Do we know each other?"
An older man, a bit older than Bags, stepped forward. He wore light brown leather armor, and carried a well-beaten shield. He had dark brown eyes and his nose was bent in a couple of places. He wasn't very tall; maybe half a head shorter than Bags, but how he stood brought his eyes in line with Bags' own.
"Name's Hawk, Bags," the man said, his voice soft and hard at the same time. "It's possible, I guess. We might have met, a long time ago. I didn't know who I was for a long, long time, so it's possible we've known each other."
"Didn't know..." Bags scratched at the stubble on his chin. "What? You had amnesia?"
"Or something," Hawk said. "I woke up on the Southern Continent almost fifty years ago, didn't know who I was, how I got there... nothing."
"Huh," said Bags. "Southern Continent. Always wanted to go there."
"No, you really don't." Hawk unsnapped his cuff and showed long white, ropy scars on his arm. "There's beasties there that would as soon have you for breakfast as look at you."
"I can see why you came back," Bags mused, looking at the battle scars of the other.
"No, you can't," Hawk said. "Neither can I. I'm looking for something I left here, I think. I can't remember. I just had this feeling that I had to go north. Hell, I didn't even remember there was a North continent until one day my boat bumped against it."
"Huh," Bags said again, thoughtful. Then, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and to get back to business, he said, "Well, we can talk about it when you buy me a pint at Swinehart's, if Swinehart's is still there when we're done."
"Deal." The older man nodded and snapped his cuff back in place. "Let's go fight."
"Son," Bags said, "I like your style." To the rest of the assembled men, he growled, "Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, let's take the fight to the bad guys."
Grizelda ran up just then and tossed her arms around Bags neck. "Don't you dare leave without saying goodbye, Timothy Bags!" She had tears in her eyes and muttered in his ear, "That was a good thing you did for Peter and his men. He told me all about it. It's okay." She kissed him soundly, which brought hoots from the rest of the soldiers. Turning to the little army, she said, "You will come back with your shield, or on it! You are all soldiers of the Kingdom of Tears, and don't you forget it, or I promise you, Mamma Grizelda will be most unhappy."
"And if Mamma ain't happy, boys, then tain't nobody happy." Bags raised his sword above his head, and roared. "For the honor of Grizelda and the honor of Tears!" All twelve of the men raised whatever weapon they carried and echoed his words. "For the honor of Grizelda and Tears!"
And off they strode, across the short expanse of desert, to the High Gate, the army of thirteen, to defend Queen and Kingdom. Tiny sparkles of flying magic folk flittered above them, giving them an almost magical halo that reflected the morning sun.
-*-
The High Gate, which stood at the entrance to Tears, lay across the moat and was closed. Bags and his army stood across the moat, just before the little bridge of land that lead up to the entrance.
"It's closed," someone said.
Bags nodded grimly. "Give that man a medal for stating the obvious." He looked up at the top of the wall, and saw small glints of metal. "We're being watched, guys. There may be archers." He waggled a finger at one of the flying sprites. "Hey you, come 'ere."
A small cloud of flying specks flew down to Bags. "You guys think you can handle anything that comes flying at us? Like arrows or spears?"
A tinkle of assent. A rumble of doubt about the spears, though, as spears tended to be heavier than arrows. And forget about rocks. Rocks and sprites just don't mix well.
"Then," Bags said, "let's hope they don't toss rocks or spears." He brushed the smog of fairy folk from his head. "Thanks. Watch for 'em, okay?"
A merry tinkle like sunlight on water came from the sprites at the fun game humans played. The cloud of them spiraled up and joined the sparkly mist overhead.
"What now, fearless leader?" Hawk came up to Bags and nodded at the Gate.
"Well," Bags said, "when I first got here I just went on up and knocked." He scratched at his ear. "I wonder if it still works." He took a couple of cautious steps toward the gate, keeping his eyes on the top of the wall.
"Archers!" came a cry from behind him. Sure enough, a rain of arrows suddenly appeared, arcing up and then down towards the men.
"Drop to the ground!" Bags yelled as he fell into a ball. "Make a small target!"
Looking behind him, he saw the other men follow his example, curling into a fetal position on the ground. There were a few thuds as a couple of arrows hit the ground near and around him, but that was all.
Cautiously, Bags looked up at the sky. There was a sparkly translucence hanging over him, and it seemed that the every arrow that entered that sparkly area was being caught in mid-flight and tossed higher up in the air, far away from Bags and his men. The few arrows that made it threw fell harmlessly to the ground. Just as cautiously, Bags stood and brushed the sand off his leathers.
"Nothing to be afraid of, men." He said to the men still crouched on the sand behind him. "Just a little rain is all, and we have air support!" Looking up at the sky, he smiled. "Milk and honey at Swinehart's for you folk, when this is all said and done!" He was answered with sound of a thousand tiny wind chimes.
Bags walked up to the massive gate, thirty feet tall, and made from the trees that used to populate the land around Tears before the desert came. His men followed until they were all on the wall side of the moat, out of the range of the archers.
"I feel like an idiot," he said, as he raised his hand and knocked. The sound was just as he remembered it, from six years ago. The knock made no sound at all, other than the sound one hears when knocking on a 50 year old tree covered in cement.
There was no answer, just as he remembered. So he grabbed the edge of the gate and pulled. It opened easily, noiselessly. He opened it just the barest of cracks before turning to the group behind him. "Be very careful men," he cautioned. "There's no telling what we'll find inside."
He peeked one eye into the crack of the door and saw nothing threatening. "That's odd," he muttered. He pulled the door open wider and slipped inside and tripped over a body.
"Yessir," came an old voice from next to him. "I told him that nobody messes with my gate."
The Gray man, the old man who worked the office at the gate, was standing there, holding an axe handle. Out of breath, he helped Bags to his feet. "'bout time you got here. How many you bring? Sixty? Seventy? A hundred?"
Bags shook off the shock of seeing the Gray man. "What the hells are you doing here?" He looked around at the other bodies, five in all, that littered the entry. "What the hells happened?" He eyed the old man suspiciously.
"Now boy," the Gray man grumbled, "don't be giving me that evil eye of yours. I keep the gate. That's what I do. That's what I am. Been here for hundreds of years, I reckon I'll be here for hundreds more. As long as there's a gate, there's a me, and when that gate there opens, this is where I'll be."
He nodded his wrinkled head at the others on the ground. "That's what comes of them that tries to tell me otherwise."
There was a growing noise at the other end of the entryway, the way into the market place. There was a darkness there that couldn't be explained, as if a gate was dropped that nobody could see.
"Yessir," the Gray man said, indicating the darkness. Nobody gets in or out, as long as I'm standing here and don't give 'em permission. Must be thirty or forty of them trying to get in here." He cast an eye at Bags. "Wanting to talk to you, I reckon."
Bags nodded, making a note that this was just something else that made him go 'huh'. "So, as long as the gate is kept open...?"
"No need for me to hang around, don't you see?" The Gray man chuckled. "That's what I liked about you running the place. Gate was always open, so I took me a little whatchacallit... a vacation. You left and the whole place went to hell. Gates not been opened in the year since you left, and I just sat here, waiting... bored out of my skull."
"Uh. Okay." Bags didn't push it further. Magic and enchantments were just part of the scenery. Weirdness abounds. He shrugged his shoulders and opened the gate further. "Get in here," he called to the men outside.
Hawk was the first in, followed by the others that squeezed into the little entryway. He surveyed the men on the ground. "Didn't leave any for us?"
Bags indicated the Gray man with a nod of his head. "Wasn't me, bud. He did it before we got here."
"Huh." Hawk bent down and checked the nearest body. "Been dead a while." He looked up at the Gray man. "You did this?"
The Gray man chuckled. "They messed with the gate, and they had no respect for Bessie."
"Bessie?" Hawk looked up at Bags.
"His cow," Bags explained. "The sweetest cow on the face of the earth. And you better believe it."
"Okay." Hawk stood and asked the Gray man, "Where's the rest of 'em?"
"How should I know?" The Gray man gruffed a bit. "I just run the Gate. The rest of them quit coming around after I bopped these five. Scared of me, I guess." He cackled and then said, "You want to find them, just go on inside. You'll more than likely find them just on the other side of that." He pointed to the curtain of dark leading to the market place.
He turned to Bags and said, "I've already checked you and your men in as military. You're free to go inside anytime you give the word. As you've got no baggage or wagon, you don't have any assigned parking."
"Thanks," Bags said. "Good to know some things don't change."
"Probably never will," the Gray man nodded. "This is all you got, though? Thirteen of you?"
"I'm hoping these will be enough." Bags noticed the gathering sparkles above his head. "Oh, and there's a bunch of magic folks with us. Is that all right?"
"Since I am one, I hope to eat a toad it is!" The Gray man cackled again. "'Sides, you can't keep 'em out. Lil' buggers fly over, through, and under the wall. Be kinda stupid to try, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I reckon it would be." Bags thought for a second. "Say... I don't suppose there's a way into the Marketplace that might be a bit... secret?"
Again, the Gray man cackled. "Like what? A secret passage cut in the wall? You're out of luck there, son. Nobody ever thought about it, and besides, the wall's just made out of old trees, no thicker than you or me." He thought for a moment. "How come you didn't use the passage under the moat?"
The noise at the other end of the entry was getting louder. "That way was too small. I'd never have fit."
"I can see that now," the Gray man agreed. "How bout where there isn't any wall? Where the Mansion is?"
"There's no Mansion there any more! The whole place is a big hole in the ground!" Bags was getting frustrated. "Look, this was the only way I figured we could almost have a chance of getting in, okay? A small enclosed space, where we could meet the enemy head on, limit movement and the amount of the bad guys coming to meet us."
"Ahhhh," nodded the Gray man. "The old squeeze play." Nodding harder in agreement, he said, "It just might work." He looked at the assembled men. "Are you ready? 'Cuz you better be. I'm opening the other gate." He disappeared into the little office off to the side. "Here they come."
The dark curtain on the other side of the entry sparked away and men poured into the opening. Bags and Hawk and the others rushed at the men, weapons bared and yelling at the top of their lungs.
