Ragged Heroes Read online

  “Yes, yes.” The old man sipped his tea. Ten crowns. Two crowns to his sister on Cheapside to keep her family afloat. Four crowns to the Morningside orphanage. No, three. Two crowns to cover his rent for the next month, leaving him with three. He’d have to stretch those three if he was to help old Mrs. Spenem on the second floor and the Hurstwiths on the first. “Ten crowns, then.”

  Mr. Gallows took out his lockbox and the old man looked away once more. He’d have to apologize to a dozen dependents for not being able to help. He trembled at the thought of the conversations to come.

  “…just because a man can lift stone pylons out of the sea to prop up the harbor doesn’t mean he understands a lick about commerce now, does it?” Mr. Gallows was counting out the coins. “Your father wouldn’t have stood for this.”

  “’What I can raise I can surely topple,’” quoted the old man. “A declaration of power.”

  “Hard to believe anyone took comfort from such a promise, eh?” Ten gold crowns were pushed across the counter. “Even today it’s hard to believe we made him exarch.”

  “It’s not quite so bad,” said the old man, pocketing the gold. “A time of trouble, but nothing untoward. A month or two and all will settle back down.”

  “Easy enough for you to say. You do well enough working for him,” said Mr. Gallows, turning away and not meeting his eye.

  The old man stiffened. “I –”

  “No, no. Forget I said it,” said his old friend. “It’s nothing. We all have to survive.” His smile was forced. “Thank you for the dawnbell. How about this: if I sell it, I’ll cut you part of the profit as an apology.”

  “Very kind of you,” said the old man.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. You know I didn’t mean it.”

  The old man placed his hat on his head, took up his valise, and pulled his coat closed. “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Gallows.”

  “Tomas,” protested Mr. Gallows, but the old man walked stiffly to the door. He half turned, and in a voice as clear and cold as a pick he said, “My father believed in finding one’s place in the world. I do as well, and have found mine. Good day.”

  He stepped out of the shop and into the alley. He took five steps so as to be out of line of sight and then stopped, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

  But you work for him well enough.

  The orphanage. His sister’s family. Mrs. Spenen and the Hurstwiths. The Order of the Blind Sisters. The guards at the corner station who kept an eye on their street. Emilia, his cousin’s daughter all the way out in Canen studying medicine.

  The golems.

  The old man sighed. He felt weary, unspeakably weary. He was a righteous man. He had his place in the world. He did what he could. With effort, he straightened his back and set out for Mrs. Spenem’s shop.

  ***

  A plume of smoke still rose from the gutted remains of the store. The old man stood quietly across the street from it, staring vacantly at where Mrs. Spenem’s shop had stood but yesterday. Cats curled their way amongst the fallen beams and blackened walls. The leatherworker’s shop next door was also destroyed, the story above fallen in to obliterate the one below.

  “Sad business, eh?” A scruffy-looking man stepped up beside the old man. “Happened last night. You a friend?”

  “Yes,” said the old man. His tongue felt wooden. He could so vividly recall the glass windows, the cheerful banner displaying Mrs. Spenem’s ribbons and scissors. The welcome mat she’d made herself with the words, “Welcome Cats” done in black thread against the brown.

  “Tragic, really. I was right here when it happened, I was. Saw it all.” The scruffy man rubbed the back of his neck and gave the old man a meaningful glance.

  Numb, the old man dug into his pocket and gave the stranger a crown.

  “Thank you kindly – wait a second. That’s a whole – ah, never mind.” The man secreted the coin away and then stood a little straighter. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Mrs. Spenem’s neighbor,” said the old man, voice hollow.

  “Fair enough, fair enough. Well, we’d been gathering at her shop each night this past fortnight. Very generous, was Mrs. Spenem. Served us each a bowl of gruel and some warm bread while we did our planning.”

  “Planning?” The old man turned to regard the stranger for the first time. “You’re a rebel?”

  The scruffy man looked taken aback and then gave a smile. “Who, me? Never. Oh, no. Long live the exarch. We was planning to, ah, start a soup kitchen. Mrs. Spenem was our inspiration.”

  “I don’t care,” said the old man, looking back at the shop. He searched in vain for the rocking chair in which he used to sit. The one set in the front corner by the display window, where the warm sun would fall.

  “Well, someone must have tipped off the exarch. Benjamin Blue was supposed to drop in last night to give us our marching orders. The golems must have wanted to catch him, but they came too early. Two of ‘em came right through the front wall. Was an ugly business, I’ll tell you that much. Most of us got away, though.”

  “Mrs. Spenem?”

  The scruffy man’s face hardened. “Most of us, I said.”

  The old man thought of his golems. Thought of Hugo’s blood-smeared fists. Of the clotted gore and hair in Ingot’s chest. He felt sick.

  Three other men approached. The scruffy man gave them a nod and looked back to the old man. “Now. Who did you say you were? The truth, now.”

  “I told you,” said the old man, blinking as he forced himself back into the present. The three other men were as rough and raw-looking as the first. All wore grim expressions. “A neighbor.”

  “A neighbor? Giving away gold crowns like they’re coppers?” The scruffy man smiled. “Mrs. Spenem didn’t live in a fancy part of town, now. You don’t seem like no neighbor of hers.”

  “Gold crowns, Sin?” A second man sounded eager. “He gave you a crown?”

  “Who are you?” Sin, the scruffy man, sounded more urgent now, almost angry. “You one of the exarch’s men come to sniff around?”

  Weariness draped the old man like a leaden cloak. “No.”

  A hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him onto his heels. An arm wrapped around his throat. “Easy now,” rasped a voice in his ear. “Struggle, and I’ll have to clock you.”

  Urgent hands at his pouch, tearing it free. Valise as well. A rising tide of anger and outrage seized the old man; he let out a cry and went after the valise only to be knocked to his knees by a heavy shove.

  Laughter, then whoops of celebration. His valise was opened, rifled through, then dropped and kicked into the gutter.

  Sin leaned down to stare the old man in the eye. “Tell your boss Benjamin Blue’s coming for him. Don’t matter how high he lifts his walls or how many he kills with his golems. Caerleon's going to be free again.”

  Then they were gone, footsteps echoing off the buildings, around a corner, out of sight.

  On all fours, the old man stared down at his hands. Liver spots and mud. Slowly, laboriously, he climbed to his feet. He tried to dust himself off, but mud had soaked into his knees and the edges of his coat. His gathered the contents of his valise, his brushes and picks and trowels, and buckled it shut.

  He stood straight, and only then did his loss hit home. His pouch. Gone.

  The old man bit down on his groan and began to walk. To where, he didn’t know. He just stumbled on, at times through crowds, at times through empty streets. He heard more shouts. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.

  He thought of his father. Elegant. Generous. Handsome. An advisor to the old king. He’d been honored with a stately funeral procession down Ptarmigan Way. A different era.

  He is my son, and I am his father

  A scream shattered the air one block over.

  Caerleon's going to be free again.

  The old man walked on.

  Your father wouldn’t have stood for this.

  Laughter, wild an
d raucous, and a gang of youths sprinted past him, banners streaming from their hands.

  The old man blinked and looked around. He was by the palace wall. His feet had guided him back to the small iron door. Without thinking, he took out his small iron key and let himself in.

  Most of the golems were gone. Called away on duty, no doubt. But Ingot still lay on his back. Hugo crouched by the pool once more. Penelope stood in the corner, facing the wall.

  Their fists were still clean.

  The old man stood shaking by the doorway. For this to be an ordered world, one had to find one’s place in it. Ritual and routine, rhythm and – and –

  His heart was pounding.

  Am I understood?

  He thought of the cats he’d wanted to purchase. How they’d have slunk into this courtyard, fanned out to explore its corners, perhaps leapt up onto Hugo’s shoulders or curled around Penelope’s feet.

  He knew they would have brought the golems solace.

  With shaking hands, the old man opened his valise.

  He is my son, and I am his father.

  The old man drew forth his largest pick. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. He stepped over to where Ingot lay, and knelt beside him.

  I know they are but stone.

  Ingot didn’t turn to look at him. His chest opened, however, revealing the now starkly clean interior, along with the rune box at his core.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered the old man, and with both hands plunged the pick into the box. The runes flared to life. The old man wrenched the pick from one side to the other, tears springing into his eyes. The light of the runes faded and died.

  Gasping, the old man rose to his feet. He moved over to Penelope. Then Hugo.

  The palace door opened. A dozen guards filed out, boots ringing on the stone.

  The old man dropped the pick and closed his eyes.

  The End

  * * *

  To learn more about Phil Tucker’s fiction, please visit

  www.authorphiltucker.com

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  About the Author

  Phil Tucker is a Brazilian/Brit that currently resides in Asheville, NC, where he resists the siren call of the forests and mountains to sit inside and hammer away at his laptop.

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  Another Chosen One

  Daniel Parsons

  Chapter One

  When the village’s ancient battle horn sounded, Jack Mortlake was the first to react. Tucking his Booke of Spells down the back of the waistband in his trousers for safe-keeping, he raced downstairs to the kitchen where his mother was preparing a roast duck.

  “Jack, where are you going?” she asked, wiping greasy fingers on her apron. “Luncheon’s almost ready.”

  “We’re being attacked, Mama! A siege!”

  “A siege?” her brow knotted in mock worry. “We haven’t been attacked in a hundred years. Something should be done.”

  “Exactly what I thought! We’re unprepared,” he answered. “Our people need a hero. They need me.”

  He headed away through the kitchen’s stable door then dashed straight back inside a moment later.

  “Where Papa’s…?”

  His mother pointed to a set of padded clothes his father wore when weeding the garden. Shooting her a grateful smile, he grabbed them and left without saying another word. He bounded outside and followed a short path round their cottage to the front garden. There, his leather breastplate was on in seconds but he found himself teetering into the road as he hopped on one foot to pull on his father’s old shin pads.

  “Don’t be late, dear!” his mother called from the door. “Duck’s not the same cold.”

  “I won’t.”

  She shook her head as she watched him speed away. “Honestly, that boy… I don’t know where he gets his crazy ideas.”

  Jack didn’t hear. He was already far away.

  “I’m here! I’m ready!” he called to Mrs Honey, the old spinster who lived a few cottages down from his parents. She frowned, not recognising the skinny teenager with the coconut tuft of messy hair.

  No matter, he thought, she’ll know soon enough.

  Entering the village square, he was met by a wall of backs. It seemed as if everyone had gathered at the call of the battle horn – mostly out of curiosity. None had bothered to bring weapons, and why should they? There hadn’t been anything resembling a fight since the village tavern got in an extra delivery of whiskey two winters ago.

  Cramwell didn’t go to war. It was a small, peaceful village in low-lying land. It was of no advantage to anyone. To the north, acres of crops and grazing cattle supported the community, making it self-sufficient. Beyond that, and everything to the south, was dark forest atop rolling hills – a halo of monster-bearing trees that stretched for miles. The people were too far from any other settlements to bother with territorial fights. And, besides, they were far too practical for all that nonsense, thank you very much. They were farmers, and damn good ones at that.

  “Mr Rivendale, do you mind if…”

  A large man in a wax coat glanced over his shoulder at Jack in mild annoyance. Despite that, his neighbour grunted and shoved him, with a firm, dirty hand, into the sea of people.

  It took some jostling and apologising but, after a minute or so, Jack eventually caught sight of his enemies. There were six of them. Only six. All tall men with pointed ears, sleek armour and teardrop-shaped helmets. They wore their visors down to mask their eyes.

  They were quick to assert their dominance in Cramwell, though the battle horn had sounded only a few minutes ago. Already they were barking orders in guttural accents, and one shook a heavy bell to draw people out of their homes. Behind them were three huge, six-legged beasts with wrinkly, pink skin and ridges of bony spikes trailing the length of their spine. They dwarfed their masters, and probably outweighed cows three-to-one. A stout, iron chain ran from one of the creature’s claw-like hands to the wrists of a young woman in a jangling, metal bikini.

  She looked miserable and cold, yet maintained an aloofness that was unmistakably regal. A princess! realised Jack. He recognised that look a mile away. It was the same in all the Old Sagas he read. Each had a princess who possessed the same beauty and demure, yet proud, expression.

  “Wilderfolk, leave your homes and heed this message!” called the invader with the bell. He raised his visor to reveal a set of penetrating, dark eyes. His subordinates followed suit. “The Scarlet Overlord sends his regards. Come out now or your homes will be set on fire!”

  A sea of confused faces flowed from every doorway as more Wilderfolk emerged. Jack found himself hemmed in near the back of the crowd. Given its remote location, Cramwell wasn’t often visited by anyone, let alone strangers clad in military armour.

  Between the bodies of the throng a channel opened for a portly man in a dark, ill-fitting tunic to stumble and excuse his way to the front. His face was unshaven, as was his custom. It was a slovenly look, certainly, but he complemented it well with an air of practicality that resonated with his simple constituents.

  “What’s your business here, men?” he asked, his voice brash. Jack new that a faint scent of alcohol always rode the fat man’s words. “What’s this about?”

  The elf looked down at him with distaste. “I presume you’re the… chief here?”

  “Mayor, actually. Mayor Tusk.”

  “Right. We’re law keepers of the honourable Scarlet Overlord. And we’re here to ensure the law is followed and that taxes are collected from your… fine village.”

  “Scarlet Overlord, eh? Never heard of ’im! Be on your way, lads, before I knock your heads together. No way your hands are getting anywhere near our trinket boxes. This village has stood on its own two feet for nine centuries without a lord. I think we’ll manage anoth- aaaah!”

  Behind the snooty elf, one of the giant, mole-like animals lunged, its jaws fan
ning open into three bony sections connected by thin skin. It engulfed Mayor Tusk in one mouthful. Lifting him screaming, clean off the ground, the creature chugged, like a bird swallowing a fish. The sound of bones cracking silenced him as he slid down the creature’s ballooning gullet. When the attack stopped and the Mayor was gone, the elf cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened, a half-smile inadequately masking his amusement.

  “In case anyone else hasn’t heard of my employer, the Scarlet Overlord, allow me to educate you.” His grin deepened. “You savages may not know this but this area has been at war for almost five years. As of Thursday morning, the Scarlet Overlord took the region and your good King Puresta died during the siege. The Scarlet Overlord sends his regards and has taken an oath to become the bestest, most loveliest dark lord this land has ever seen. He means to start by taxing the living daylights out of you… in a good way, of course.” The elf gave the crowd a challenging stare that lasted way too long for comfort. “Any questions?”

  “I’ve got a question!”

  All faces turned to Jack. His stomach made an uncomfortable squirming sound in the silence and, for a second, he wondered why everyone was looking at him. Then he realised the words had come from his mouth.

  “It’s Jack Mortlake. What is he doing?” a girl called Prim, whom he knew from Saturday School, whispered to a class-mate out the side of her mouth. He tried to ignore her.

  “Uh…” Heat burned his cheeks. “I–”

  “Your question, boy?” demanded the elf.

  Everyone was silent. Realising he had passed the point of no return, he decided to run with it and said, “My question? Yes – my question! Which one of you wants to die first in the name of your Scarlet Overlord?”

  Whipping the Booke Of Spells out from the waist of his trousers, he held it in one hand, skim-reading a lesson one last time as he strode through the crowd. All the way, villagers frowned at his spell hand, which he held in front of him with splayed fingers.

  “Son, what in Handark’s name are you doing?” harrumphed a moustachioed man through gritted teeth so as not to draw attention to himself. “What’s that book?”