joegoda | A BP&G adventure - Pockets; Heretic (Reply)

The entryway to the Kingdom of Tears was only large enough for four good-sized men to stand abreast. Or two good-sized men and a small wagon. Or two small wagons and a child. It was a bit cramped for a all out brawl, which was what Bags had hoped.

Of course, it also meant that it was a bit small for a full sword-swinging melee, so Bags and his men had to make due with jabs and fisticuffs, taking out as many of the forty thieves as they could before pushing forward into the Marketplace.

Bags stood in the center of his dozen men, marking his time with jab of sword, jab of sword, punch or kick in the face or any other part that might work to incapacitate the enemy. He wasn't completely silent as he moved, but his sounds were those of a man who knew that barks and small cries would help push his energy from his shoulder to his arm or his legs. He let the others make the battle yells and cries. His were the sounds of focused power.

In the first seven minutes of the battle for Tears, Bags and his dozen dispatched twenty bad guys. The bodies of the dispatched or wounded or merely severely unconscious were pushed to the side, to pile against the wall, like discarded rags.

One of the thirteen was wounded in his leg pretty badly, a young man named Frank, though nobody got away without a cut, a nick, or a bloody wound on the head or the arm or the leg. Bags ordered the Frank to go back to the camp as best as he could, get patched up and return if possible. Frank, knowing that to fight further would mean his death, left reluctantly, vowing to return as soon as he was patched up.

The remaining thieves, somehow gathering a brain cell among them, sensed that the tight space of the entryway was doing them no good, and they pulled back to the open air of the Marketplace. Bags and his small army followed, punching and fighting as they went.

Once in the larger area, the world changed. Somehow, Bags and his men became encircled by the remaining thieves and the going was very rough. Not all of the army had swords. Some of them had clubs, some frying pans, and some just the weapons they were born with. The odds however, were a bit better. Now it was two and a half to one.

Through the fighting, Bags caught sight of Hawk, who was swinging his sword silently, not uttering a word. The older man fought with deadly accuracy, slicing an arm here or casually blocking a thrust that seemed destined to end his life. Through it all, Hawk made no sound, and Bags was impressed with the near dance-like moves that Hawk employed. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Hawk's face, where a blade had attempted to remove it. Hawk caught Bags' eye, smiled and nodded curtly before offering a slash at an attacker's legs.

Bags took a quick inventory of the remaining bad guys. His men had fought valiantly, and there were about eighteen or so of Beegle's men left. But his men were tired. He was tired. Only Hawk seemed to be a fresh as a morning breath, taking on two or three attackers at a time.

The good news was that there were fewer attackers, so the three that Hawk took on meant three less for everyone else. And it seemed that Bags and his men were winning.

"Give it up, boys!" Bags called out during a lull when someone wasn't trying to take his head off. "You're just about done in." He was nursing his sword arm and he had a nasty cut on his other arm. His head was pounding furiously and he felt like he was about to pass out.

A bit of confusion occurred right then. It seemed to Bags that the bad guys had suddenly thinned out, magically cut back to only a small knot and that knot was busy fighting in the other direction.

"Bags!" A familiar, gruff sounding voice called out. "Bags! About time you showed up!" A old man who was on the other side of seventy and pushing back, sidestepped a slashing cut to his side and parried with a thrust that removed the distraction.

The old man was not tall, just over five feet and his gray hair was trimmed to just above his scalp. He had a boxer's body, and gave the impression of being tougher than nails. He stepped up to where Bags was barely standing and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Damned good to see you! Beegle had me and a few others locked up in the Keep. Damndest thing, though. A few minutes ago, the locks on the doors just melted clean off the door." He looked around. "Glad you left a few for us to take a bit of old man's frustration out on."

"Briggs," Bags muttered between heavy breaths, "I can't tell you how good your timing is."

"Your Majesty," Briggs said, "I had no doubt you had the situation under control."

"I was afraid you were dead." Bags said.

"No, Beegle couldn't afford to do that." Briggs ran his hand through his hair. "He figured that killing me would cause a riot among the merchants. So he locked me and a few others up in the Keep until he could safely dispose of us, once public memory of who we were had faded." He looked around. "I suspect that was his mistake." His eye fell upon Hawk. "Who the seven hells is that?"

Bags followed Briggs' look. "That's Hawk. He just sort of... showed up." Bags waved Hawk over. "Hawk, this is Briggs, my military advisor and retainer. Briggs, this is Hawk."

Hawk reached out to shake Briggs hand. "Hello," he said.

Briggs dropped his hand and his mouth. His eyes grew wide and he took a step back. "Hawk?" He rubbed his eyes. "Hawk," he repeated. "As in... Weehawk?"

Hawk looked embarrassed. "Well, not so wee anymore, so I dropped that part, but yes. Do you know me?"

"Know you?" Briggs choked on his words, sputtered and turned to Bags. "Bags, do you remember a few years ago when you sent a couple of young sprouts out to find Pockets? When Pockets when to the mountains?" Without waiting for an answer, Briggs turned back to Hawk. "What the hells happened to you, son? Last we saw you, you were only about fifteen or so."

Hawk shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what you're talking about." He looked at Bags, imploringly.

Bags stared at Hawk and explained. "Hawk has amnesia about his younger years, Briggs." He stepped closer to Hawk and nodded. "Yeah," he said slowly. "He does sort of look like young Weehawk." He clapped his hand on Hawk's shoulder. "Bud, I'll bet you got a hell of a story that needs a beer or six to listen to." Bags turned back to Briggs. "Is Swinehart's still...?"

And that was all he got out before the dagger pierced his heart. The dagger, thrown by Beegle as he was trying to sneak out, was long and sharp and found an uncovered space on Bags' breastplate just below his left armpit. The evil blade slid in between Bags' ribs and did the job for which it was intended. Bags heart stopped and he fell.

"Bags!" Briggs cried out as he caught his kings falling body.

One of the men near the gate, a circus weightlifter named Gregg, saw what had happened. He spied Beegle nearing the gate. Gregg picked up a chunk of granite the size of a breadbox and threw it at the retreating Beegle, crying out in fury as he did so.

The rocky missile was true to its mark, catching Beegle right above his shoulders, and removing anything that was above them. Beegle's body, headless, fell to the ground, shuddered briefly, and was still.

Bags lay on the ground with his head in Briggs lap. "Dammit," he whispered. "Griz is gonna be seriously pissed at me." And then he died.

-*-

It was the arrow that did her in, the stories would say. It flew half a mile from where the fairy folk deflected it, carried on the winds high into the air, to fall, fall, fall, to its mark.

Thom was standing nearby when it happened. The sun was shining and nearby birds were calling out, bragging about how glorious the day was going to be. He was checking the fire below a large kettle where he was making stew from what little meat and vegetables he could find. He was making lunch for the army of twelve when they returned... if they returned.

Grizelda had just returned from checking on Esmeralda, to see if the little girl was all right. Her daughter was sleeping fitfully, tossing and turning, muttering in her sleeping dreams. Grizelda was worried and paced back and forth behind Thom.

"Thirteen," she muttered. "Thirteen against forty. It's insane."

Thom poked the fire. "Bags is very good at what he does, Griz. He'll be okay."

Grizelda threw her arms into the air. "Men!" she huffed. "Why do men always say it will be okay when they don't know if it will be okay or not!" She paced a few more passes muttering darkly under her breath. "I should have gone with him." She tossed a hooded look at Thom. "I'm as good at fighting as any man, you know!"

"I'm sure you are, Griz," Thom agreed, trying to calm his worried Queen. "Bags believed you were more needed here, to keep the rest of the folks calm."

"Calm..." Grizelda grumbled. "Keep them calm. Sure, easy to say, when these bunch of rag tags are still mostly sleeping. Why should I keep them calm? It's not their husband that's gone to fight and maybe die." She huffed over to the kettle and gave it a mean stir.

"Now, Grizelda," Thom began, trying to think of something to calm an upset woman down. Not coming to any miraculous conclusion, he gave up and just stood, silently.

"Oh, I know, Thom," Grizelda said as she stirred the already well-stirred stew. "Bags has to do what Bags has to do, and if I was there, he'd be worried about me and couldn't focus on what he was doing." She shoved the spoon hard. "I KNOW this, Thom, but it doesn't make it any easier."

She turned to face Thom, tears streaming down her face. "For years, I watched that man go off on some adventure or other, not knowing if he would come back, or if he would find some other new shiny thing to get attached to. I always knew that there would come a time when some wisp of a girl would drag his attention away. Even after we were married, I still worried about it." She sniffed and dragged a sleeve very unqueenly across her nose. "He always said the right things, and he always tried to do the right things."

Her shining, tearful eyes rose to meet Thom's own. "He's a good man, Thom." She smiled and gave a tiny chuckle. "I was always afraid that some other woman would steal his heart away from me. And you know," she gave a very unqueenly sniff, "I never once was worried about him being killed or lost or that something else would take him away. I always knew he would find his way back from wherever he had gone. As long as it wasn't another woman." The tears started to fall anew. "But this... Thirteen against forty. Thom, this is just nuts. I think I'd rather have another woman steal him away than to have him die like this! I can fight another woman, and win him back. But not something like this."

Thom stepped forward, saying, "He's not dead, Griz. He's not. Bags has just gone to do what he does. And it doesn't matter if it's just him against twenty. He'll find his way back to you." He hugged her then, hard, whispering in her ear, "I've sent for Capitani. I figured that you'd need another woman's point of view." Stepping back, he gave her a shy smile. "There's just some things that I figured she would understand better than me."

Thom went back to the kettle to see if Grizelda's mad stirring had caused any damage. "As for that other... I've seen how Bags looks at you Griz. Sure, what man wouldn't have his head turned by some pretty thing? I mean, Bags is legendary, Griz. That's bound to cause a young girls heart to go pitty pat. Doesn't mean he'd just up and leave you for her. It just means that he might be temporarily distracted. But just like his other adventures, he'd come back to you."

Grizelda turned and gave Thom a smile. "I know he cares about me, Thom. I know he does. He even loves me! He wouldn't have married me otherwise, I don't think. I just wish that he wouldn't find those heart that go pitty pat so tempting. I just wish that he knew how much and how hard I love..."

The arrow, not being the polite sort of arrow that waits for the end of a sentence, fell down from on high, down and through Grizelda's heart. She dropped to her knees, a gasp falling from her lips. More of surprise than of pain, that gasp, and she stared at the arrow where it had buried it's bloody self in the dirt at her feet. She stared at her heart's blood as it gushed out, ruining her gown, and she frowned at that thought.

"Griz!" Thom rushed to her and took her in his arms. "Griz!" he repeated, in shock at the sight.

Grizelda reached for Thom's hand. "You and Capitani help him with Esme, Thom." She grimaced sharply and gave a gentle groan. "Dammit," she said, "Bags will be seriously pissed at me." And then she died.

-*-

Stories would be told of that day, how the Queen and King of Tears had died with each other's names on their lips. How they fought bravely to win back the kingdom from the evil that had stolen it away from them and how in the saving of the kingdom, they gave the greatest sacrifice that one can give. These stories would be told around campfires and at the knees of those who were there, and passed from kingdom to kingdom until the legends far outgrew the lives of those who lived them.

Thom and Capitani took Esmeralda to be their own, and she grew to be a kind and gentle ruler of Tears. And if she tended to speak to the empty air at times, addressing the wind as if it were her parents or her uncle Pockets, well... that was just all right. Because, really now, who could say? In the Kingdom of Tears, on a calm sunny day, out where a Mansion once stood, it has been said that one could almost hear laughter and the raising of glasses as three strangely familiar voices said in unison, "To Legends!"