Back in the day, I would have left them there to die. The situation was beyond bad. Gregor was sick, Ringeirr’s intel had gotten us into this mess in the first place, Lyriana was MIA, and the Dwarf was the Dwarf. But it was because of the latter and that stupid dragon that I was in this mess to begin with, so I had no choice but to nut up. Metaphorically speaking, sadly.
“Gregor, man, you’re kind of heavy,” I grunted. After a moment he managed to pull himself back up. I kept to his side, but the kid didn’t look too good. Actually he looked one twitch away from a heart attack. The silver in his veins was dying down, but the fact that they were that color at all was alarming. “Watch him,” I told the Dwarf. He nodded and I maneuvered through the guard corpses and over to my guitar case. I stuffed the nanite gun back inside. More voices could be heard outside.
“We need to leave now,” Ringeirr said.
“No shit, you dirty slave,” I snapped, strapping the case back on and picking up my gun. I then turned to Gregor. “Think you can walk, Gregor?” The kid nodded weakly. We hurried outside. Dawn was still a few hours away. I saw light off in the distance. That was also the source of the voices I’d heard earlier. Sounded like a crowd.
Now you’d assume the smart decision to be to stay as far away from the crowd as possible. But we were four strangers, out in the dark, just leaving a house that the authorities would soon find full of corpses. “Pull up your hood and keep your head down, Gregor,” I told him. “Everybody just act,” I looked specifically at the Dwarf, “rationally.”
With that we headed toward the sound of people. Because of Gregor’s condition the going was slow, but we eventually rounded a corner and into what appeared to be a large park. Families were situated around the center, with guards positioned around the edges, and a large stage opposite the entrance we’d come in from. It looked to be some kind of concert. I did a quick headcount of the guards. They were positioned at every other exit. Looks like were trapped here until the concert ended. I gestured for the guys to the edge of the park. We found a place to sit, which Gregor more than gladly did.
“How you holding up?” I asked him.
Maybe out of fear of throwing up, he gave me a thumbs up instead of answering.
“Hey, don’t we know her?” the Dwarf said. I followed his line of sight to a poster hanging on a nearby wall. My eye began to twitch. It was the goat lady. The goat lady with the flaming sword. The goat lady with the flaming sword that’d nearly cleaved through Emily’s skull. I glanced over my shoulder, towards the stage. I didn’t catch sight of her, but it was only a matter of time.
“Ah, it is as fate says,” a gravelly voice said.
We all turned. A greyed old man was sitting at a table that I was pretty sure hadn’t been there a second ago. He was shuffling a deck of cards in one hand. He kind of had to, seeing as the other one was missing just before the elbow.
“Fortune?” he said, eyes glossy and staring in opposite directions.
“Leave him,” Ringeirr snapped, looking around anxiously. “Seen plenty of beggars like him. All frauds.”
I glanced at all the guarded exits. “Not like we’re going anywhere. Might as well.”
The old man grinned. It made my skin crawl. He pointed at me, Gregor, and the Dwarf. How he did so seeing as he was blind was beyond me. Magic? “Ask a question each,” he said. “Preferably about a goal or task you wish to accomplish.”
“Where’s Lyriana?” the Dwarf asked. I facepalmed. The stranger chuckled and tossed a card towards Burin.
“The Queen Mother,” the blind man said (despite the fact that he was FUCKING BLIND!) and then added, “She is knowledge personified. The formian knows all but does not reveal anything to anyone who does not show her proper worship. She is fond of the powerless and the underclasses, for they serve her when the more powerful refuse. She represents the need to become part of a society, or to bow before those who know more than you
“Well that’s ominous,” I muttered, scratching my chin. I thought it over. I couldn’t do anything on the Typhon front while having to deal with witchy politics and being one-quarter Black Rider. So I asked, “Will we be able to overthrow Elvanna.”
He threw me my card. “Ah,” he said. “The Teamster.”
“Yes, the Teamster,” I said in the same ominous drawl. If Persephone had been there she would have slapped me upside the head. She always had a soft spot for old people who weren’t her father. Now that guy was a tool. And not the big kind.
“The Teamster is a driving external force that keeps the subject going, no matter what,” the blind man said. “This force can be physical or mental, as a person who exhorts others to continue on when they have no more strength to give. The force can be for good or ill but cannot be ignored. The half-orc depicted is leading a life of constant toil, but for their own betterment.”
His words filled me with goosebumps. Yet, before I could ask for clarification, Gregor shuffled forward. He thumped his chest a few times, trying to get some small coughs out, before asking, “Will I overcome this strange sickness?”
For that he got a card. This one the old man called the Juggler. “This card represents fate, the gods, or those who play with the lives and destinies of others. If this titanic Juggler can keep up his rhythm, he will achieve his goals.”
“I will keep up my rhythm!” Gregor declared, stumbling a bit. Poor kid was losing it.
“Okay then, guys-” I began but before I could go any further, the blind man snatched the three cards back and reinserted them into the deck. He then began shuffling the deck. Cutting it in half, shuffling each half, and then mixing them together. Rinse, repeat. All with one hand. He then spewed seven cards out onto the table. They aligned themselves into a sort of H. “The past,” he said, referring to the first vertical line of cards. “Present.” He pointed at the card in the center. “The future.” He pointed to the last three cards. One by one he began to flip them over, starting with those representing past.
“Empty throne, inverted,” he said, “has a sense of loss that is palpable. The ghost signifies that those who are gone will always be with us. They taught us important lessons, if only we choose to listen. This card can bring information from a far-off or ancient source. If misaligned, the ghosts of the past are restless, and might require effort to set at peace.
“The Joke, also inverted: shows a terror that must be overcome—but not by physical means. This monster can only be defeated by trickery or artifice. This card can represent the value of humor in finding the way past a difficult person or task. When misaligned, it often signals that the joke will be on you.” Honestly when isn’t the joke on me?
“The Paladin. The Paladin (lawful good, Strength) symbolizes standing strong in the face of adversity. The Paladin does not back down under any circumstances. This card usually indicates the need to stay the course or do what one knows is right, even if it takes a heavy toll.”
He moved on to the center. “The teamster. Same as before. But the fact that it shows up here, as well as in your own personal hand, is significant, boy.”
“He really must be blind,” the Dwarf whispered to me. “Can’t tell that you’re a girl.”
I bit my tongue and let the old man continue. The next card was the Wanderer. “They are a collector. This centaur appreciates that which others regard as junk or trash. The Wanderer appears to those clever enough to find the true worth in something others ignore or treat as worthless.”
The last two were for the future. The first was, “The Cyclone: a force that tears through whatever it meets. This disaster does not come in the course of natural order but is one that comes from the plots of intelligent beings. The Cyclone signifies war, arson, or other plans that destroy everything they touch.” That honestly kind of summed up our group to a T.
The last was the Twin. At that the old man began to cackle. “This signals duality of purpose or identity. This doppelganger can also mean indecision, as a person or group wavers between very different options. It can also mean 23 divided loyalties abound. The card makes a harrower wary, as it can also mean the entire spread has a hidden or reversed meaning.”
I pointed at all the cards. “So all of this may or may not be utter crap?”
The geezer shrugged. “Possibly.”
“If I’d paid you for this, I’d be robbing my money back,” I told him dryly.
“Another?” the blind man asked. “This pattern may shed light on what you need to accomplish your goals.” I really didn’t want to. I was getting tired of this fortune telling stuff. But the Dwarf nodded his go ahead. The stranger swiped back the cards, did his shuffling trick, and shot out four cards onto the table.
One by one he began flipping. “The Owl: the eternal wisdom of the natural order. It is the harsh realism that causes a pack of wolves to cull the weak in the herd. It is tragic for the culled deer, but through such actions the herd grows stronger. The needle The Owl holds binds life together, but just as easily can pick that life apart.”
The Mountain Man: signifies an encounter with a physical power outside of one’s control. The giant could personify an authority, an army, an earthquake, or even a desperately needed rainstorm in a parched land. Acceding to the force might be wise, but surviving it is paramount.”
“The C arnival: the card of illusions and false dreams. This card can heighten the power of the arcane, but depending on such whimsical forces can be risky. For others, this card depicts imprudent plans or unrealistic ambitions”
“The Courtesan: the card of political intrigue. Her mask embodies the social niceties that must be followed. If it slips, negotiations can take an unexpected turn. The card can also indicate a woman of power who shapes events. How she is treated decides the outcome of the situation.”
Now even I can read the magic signs when they’re laid out literally in front of me. Without Lyriana we weren’t going to get shit done. Sure, I’d been leaning on the kid, hoping for her to break this curse between me and the Dwarf, but she hadn’t looked so happy lately. What if she decided to flip us all off and go back to that alien planet she insisted she was from? Then who’d be screwed? One Terrance Emilio Guiser.
Oh, and probably the whole world too, I guess.
The old man retrieved his cards. I was about to walk away from the table when he said, “One more. For the goal you wish to accomplish after?”
Call me a sucker for a good con.
I turned around and waved for him to get it over with. Ringeirr snorted in disgust. My wave became a middle finger in his general direction. That made Gregor chuckle dryly, but then go a little green.
The man shot out the cards, this time into a T facing towards me. The first card was the Tyrant and just the name made my mouth go dry for some reason. “This card indicates a ruler who is a blight upon those ruled. The dragon might indicate a monarch, overseer, or head of a household. Whoever this person is, he does harm to those over whom he holds sway, whether he realizes it or not.” Dragon! Dragon! Dragon! If it isn’t fucking goats, its motherfucking dragons!
“The Foreign Trader is the card of spies and peddlers alike. Any who trade in information are subject to this card’s influence. A bargain made under this card’s auspice always concludes true, but the ramifications of the pact might be shocking for those who do not understand its implications.”
“The Theater: the card of true prophecy. The puppets act out a scene, just as the prophet acts out a scene in which she has no part. The prophet is the audience and the prophecy is the show. She has no influence on what she sees, and its importance is often not recognized until too late.”
The final three cards were in row. The old man flipped over the card to my right. “The Inquisitor accepts nothing save the truth. He represents immutable reality, that which cannot be fooled or swayed in any way. To attempt to go against this unchangeable object, person, or idea is to court disaster.”
Next was the opposite card to the left, “The Dance is a rich and delicate framework that, like the universe itself, requires everyone within it to abide by its rules, lest the entire construct collapse. It advises staying in perfect step, knowing your place in the greater good. Those who step out of the pattern do so at their peril. Misaligned, that pattern might be hypnotic, but not to the good of all.”
And finally the last card in between the Inquisitor and the Dance, “The Liar is love at its most treacherous. This is not the love that moves mountains, this is the love that rips the heart in two and causes lovers to leap to their deaths. This lamia can mean obsession, unrequited passion, or doomed love.”
My mouth was completely dry. Six cards. All basically saying, “Well, Terry, looks like you’re mighty fucked, partner.”
With that the man retrieved all the cards. I thought that was the end of the charade, but he shot four more cards at the table. The Beating, the Paladin, the Wanderer, and the Mountain Man. The first overshot the table and landed at my feet. The Dwarf grabbed the other three and handed them back to the man, “Good trick,” he said.
I reached down retrieved my card. Yet when I looked back up, the blind man was gone.
“What?” I cried looking between the guys. Gregor was staring at the floor, clutching at his stomach, very much struggling to keep the rhythm in his stomach. Ringeirr was scanning the crowd, not paying attention. I turned to the Dwarf. “Where’d he go?!”
The Dwarf shrugged. “Away.”
I sighed, looked the card over, and pocketed it. It was only then that I realized there was music in the air. The blind man’s fortune telling had seemingly drowned out everything else. I glanced over to the stage. It was that (GOAT BITCH!!!!) satyr lady from before at the Tower. Her singing was okay, though I had no clue what the lyrics actually were. The crowd was swaying to her song, most wearing dopey expressions.
“Any clue what she’s saying?” I asked the Dwarf.
He nodded. “Obeying the witches and the ramifications befalling those who don’t.”
“Ah,” I said. “Propaganda.”
Goat lady’s song seemed to be drawing to an end. Tugging Gregor by the sleeve, Ringeirr led us towards one of the exits. As soon as the show was over, we’d dash over and meet up with Lyriana-
That’s when a pair of guards began leading five hooded figures up on stage, all of varying sizes. One by one they were forced to their knees. After the last note of the song, goat lady gestured to them and called out, “I present to you all a real treat! Traitors! Those who dare go against our Queen, who think they can topple the rightful order!” She flicked a hand and one of the guards tore the bag off the first traitor in line. It was an old man. Weak and frail and face covered in bruises. The second guard unsheathed his sword and brought it up as the old man sobbed quietly. “NOW SEE HOW TRAITORS ARE REWARDED!”
“Terry,” Ringeirr said, but I shook my head. This wasn’t our fight.
And because of that, the old man’s head went rolling.
The next person in line had their hood ripped off. It was a girl. Teenage by the looks of her. She immediately started screaming for the crowed to help her, for her parents, for anybody in the world.
Again I shook my head.
And because of that she died.
The third hood was ripped off.
A little girl, little more than a toddler.
I don’t remember grabbing my gun, or pulling the trigger. Only the boom it made and the look of surprise on the goat bitch when a bullet tore open her shoulder. “FUCK!” I roared as the audience screamed and began bolting towards the exits. The guards monitoring said exits began rushing us, as the goat lady pointed in our direction with a bloody hand. I mean, wow. People sure are quick to accuse little girls holding magic rifles of attempted murder now a days.
“Guys!” I called, but they were already on the move. Despite his illness, Gregor did that teleportation-thing he tends to do, and popped up behind goat lady, two guards, and what looked like a very ugly priest. The flame sword ignited in the goat lady’s hand. She swung it at Gregor.
The kid sidestepped the sword as if it was no big thing and drove his fist across her face until the back of her head smashed into the stage. Goat lady went to sleep. Gregor gazed down at her, an epic retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead he just vomited all over her pretty face.
You chose a good one, Sergei Bolslav, I thought. A guard rushed me from behind. I set his head ablaze using my gun’s magic bullets. The Dwarf was still rushing the stage, yet he turned back to help Ringeirr, who was struggling with two guards. He grabbed one by the collar and turned him into a human Popsicle.
The guards, either out of fear of the monk or because of the smell of vomit, hesitated to attack Gregor. The priest did no such thing. He pulled out a knife and slashed Gregor across the shoulder. Then, I shit you not, leapt forward and tried to bite him. This time Gregor managed to drunkenly dodge. I supplied him cover, taking out the guards on stage and then the priest. While I was doing that, the Dwarf and Ringeirr finished off the last guard in the park. With that, we were left alone with corpses, traitors, and an unconscious goat fairy.
“Dirty slave,” I called over to Ringeirr, “check on the hostages.” He glowered at me but did as he was told. Gun in hand, eye twitching, I started to walk over to the unconscious goat lady-
Only for my path to be blocked by the Dwarf. He stood over her. The most somber expression on his face. You gotta be kidding me, I thought. But instead of showing any signs of affection or mercy, the Dwarf brought up his axe.
“That girl died on your orders,” he said, voice dark and shaking with fury. Burin Frostfist hesitated only a second longer before bringing his axe down across her face, spitting it into two pulpy halves.
“Woah,” I said. Nothing else I really could say.
“Hey, look who I found!” I turned. Ringeirr was holding a very grumpy and battered looking Morton by the scruff of his neck. The other hostages were quickly making their way out of the park, seeking any form of sanctuary. Gregor walked over to Morton. They minced words, and then Gregor punched Mort across the brow, knocking him out. I raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. Instead I went over to the goat lady’s corpse, allowing myself a smile.
After I was done with her, said corpse hung from a nearby tree. A sign reading, “COURTESY OF THE NEW BLACK RIDERS” hung around her bloody neck. I may have smacked her around with the butt of my gun a few times just to let off some steam. But after that me and the guys (Gregor and Ringeirr hauling an unconscious Morton) left the park and made way to a safe house underground. It was an odd sewer bunker. Not exactly homey, but out of the public eye. Which was good. A lot of people had seen me shoot the fairy. I didn’t doubt we’d be on the local radar.
After a few good slaps, Morton came to. “Wha?”
I waved by the far wall. “Hey, Morty.”
He blinked, “Who are you?” He turned to Ringeirr, and then scowled at Gregor. “You punched me.”
Gregor shrugged. “I don’t trust you.”
“Why?”
“Because the last you tried to kill us.”
“…What?”
“Never mind that,” I snapped. “Okay, if you’re the real dead, then we’ve got a job for you. We need papers. Now.” He blinked, started to refuse. But I pulled out my gun and cocked back the hammer. “It’s been a long night. I will pump you full of bullets that will burn you from the inside out.”
He licked his lips. “Do…Do you have a pen and paper?”
Ringeirr found the necessary supplies in the bunker. Morton informed us of our new identities. Gregor and I would both be Stilyagi while the Dwarf would be a merchant. After that, it was time for a makeover. The Dwarf literally dunked his beard in ink and gave me a thumb’s up. I humored him and gave him a thumb back. Gregor went back to his green robes. He looked better but still tired. The silver in his arms was dying down, but still present. While he and the Dwarf took a nap and Ringeirr babysat Morton, I sat by myself, looking into a mirror.
It’s been three years since the Farm. Three years trapped inside my daughter’s body. Beyond the odd cut or bruise, I’ve tried not to alter it at all. I have no right. It will always be her body. Terry Guiser is a ghost. And after I kill Typhon and his stupid dragon, I’ll gladly see my way out and into hell. But, if there’s one saving grace, it’s that whenever I look in the mirror, I can see my Emily smile. Even if I’m one big fake, that smile and the hope that maybe, just maybe I can bring her back keeps me going.
A tear fell across the mirror. I shook my head and wiped the tears away. “Sentimental idiot,” I sighed. “Too much heart, not enough steel, Guiser. That’s what Pop always said.” I reached over and grabbed the blonde hair dye Ringeirr had fond. I’d played the bard before, scamming wandering heroes and smugglers out of their gold and leaving them for dead, but this would be my first time going blonde. I sighed, said, “I’m sorry, Em,” and went to work, cutting and dying my daughter’s hair.
Morton gave each of us our papers in the morning. He refused to leave the safety of the bunker. That was fine by me. He’d done his job. Let the crazy loon fester in his nest of craziness. It was early, so the streets weren’t crowded as we made our way through the city. No one gave us any side looks (except for those wondering what the hell was wrong with the Dwarf’s beard) and I hadn’t really expected them to. After the debacle of the night prior, everyone would be expecting the “terrorists” to be in hiding. Not wandering the streets, dressed like clowns.
“You look pretty,” Gregor said to me.
“And you don’t look half-dead,” I told him.
He flexed his wrists his fists lit up metallic silver. “Keep the rhythm,” he said.
I laughed at that. But that laugh was cut short when we turned a corner and spotted two mirror men standing towards the end of the road. We approached and one held out its hand while the other held its sword to the side. One by one we turned over our papers. I stared up at the mirror man with the sword, pretending to admire my reflection. Honestly my hair hadn’t come out nearly as good as I’d hoped. I’m a mercenary, not a hairstylist!
I barely dodged the sword strike. The mirror man with our papers tossed them to the side and pointed an accusing finger. “You had one job, Morton,” I hissed. And I don’t know if it was me or the weapon reacting to my frustration and anger, but as I pulled out my gun a surge of energy rippled through it. I shot at the mirror man holding the sword, who was swinging at the Dwarf.
BOOM.
The street was instantly decorated with pieces of mirror man. While Gregor struck the other one down, I stared at my gun. “Damn. I’m a machine of death.”
We didn’t waste time. Retrieving our probably useless papers, we booked it to where Lyriana had told the Dwarf we’d meet up. It was type of bath house. An honest –to-God bath would be nice. Yet made way past them and down to a series of hidden rooms and passageways beneath. One by one we entered what looked an office. Standing by her desk, overseeing what looked like a map of the city, stood a woman. Her eyes flickered upwards and then widened in disbelief at our current state. “So…I assume you all are the ones who bloodied up the park?”
“That’s us,” the Dwarf said happily. “I’m Burin.”
“Hello, Burin. I am Solveig. Leader of the resistance.”
He frowned. “Who are you resisting?”
She looked at him as if it were obvious. “The witches and their winter guard obviously.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s good then because we kill witches.”
I scanned the map. A miniature doodle of a tower was circled in blood red, with the outer edge depicting what looked like a forest. Yet there were arrows traveling from it and moving inward. “What’s all this?” I asked.
Solveig hesitated, as if it were a bad idea to divulge top secret information to a random monk with glowing hands, ink-stained dwarf, and dead-eyed twelve-year old. But finally she said, looking as if she were desperate. “Things are bad in the city. I actually could use your help. It will probably be dangerous. You’ll be lucky to survive. If you do, the witches will torture you to insanity.” She looked at each of us one by one. “Are you willing to take the risk?”
I looked at her, took a deep breath, and asked the one and only question that truly matters: “Have you ever been, are now, or plan on ever being a goat?”
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