

Table Of Contents

### Introduction

Chapter 1 Sam the Cowboy

Chapter 2 Wayland Crow

Chapter 3 Get Her Done Hoss!

Chapter 4 Who The Hell's This?!

### Chapter 5 Philippe the Philosopher

Chapter 6 Across The Water

Chapter 7 A Wee Boat Ride

Chapter 8 A Little Walk The Stretch The Legs

Chapter 9 Drub The Blighters Soundly

Chapter 10 Gone But Not Forgotten

Chapter 11 The legend of Robin Hood

Chapter 12 Lady Marian Fitzwalter

Chapter 13 Sir Guy of Gisbourn

Chapter 14 The King's Brother

Chapter 15 Eric Brighteyes

Chapter 16 Elwise

Chapter. 17 The Skells

Chapter.18 Home Sweet Home

Chapter.19 Gods From On High

Chapter 20 A Meeting of Minds

Chapter 21. The Crab Men

Chapter 22. A Loss of Mirth

Chapter 23 The Duel

Chapter 24 Now for something completely different

Chapter 25.Let Slip The Dogs Of War

Chapter 26 This Piping Time of Peace

Chapter 27 Grumpy Grandpa

TANGLED TALES

(Book II)

by

W.Wm.Mee

A collection of Short Stories,

Poems, Exerts and Ravings.

Dedicated to my son, Jason Christopher

& my granddaughter Zoe Sophia

Copyright 2020 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition
Introduction

What follows is a self indulgence; a haphazard collection of various scribblings of mine. Some of the tales are exerts from my earlier novels and some are brand new --- but old or new they all patiently await your perusal.

A writer, much like a baseball player, can't always hit the ball 'out of the park'. What follows however is me rounding third and running like hell for home!

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them. 'Rest ye gentle, sleep ye sound.'

Wayne Wm.Mee,

Montreal, Canada

### **Sam The Cowboy**

This is perhaps my very favorite 'short story'.

As a kid I always wanted be be a cowboy. That's one of the advantages to writing --- you get to 'be' --- at least for a little while --- a lot of very different kinds of people!

The good, the bad and \--- you got it --- the ugly!!!

Enjoy.

***

As far back as he could remember, Sam had always wanted to be a cowboy. Living most of the year in Chicago with his parents, he had spent glorious summers on his uncle's ranch, the Circle 'C', in the wilds of western Montana. His mother had been born there, but had hated every minute of it. She had hated the dawn till dusk work, the cold in the winter and the heat in the summer and, as she often said; 'The goddamned wind all the time!' She hated the smells and the vast, rolling vistas; she hated the animals and the rough, crude men that worked with them. And, sad to say, she especially hated her father.

Feeling as she did about the 'West', Marge Goodnight, several times great grand-daughter of Charles Goodnight, the legendary 19th century western 'cattle baron', headed 'East' as soon as she could. She married a white collar businessman that had never even dreamed about getting on a horse and the two of them had lived happily ever after. Well, sort of.

***

The baby had helped for awhile, named Sam after the one and only cowboy Marge ever did love, her Grandfather, Samuel Goodnight. But the 'dark moods' had eventually crept back into her life. Drinking had helped, again, 'sort of'.

The truth be told, Marge Goodnight Carstairs had never been a happy person. Not as a young child, not as an adolescent, and certainly not as an adult. Her husband, a 'mild mannered reporter' kind of guy, secretly thought that she never would be. He also saw the effect that her radical mood swings were having on his already 'over quiet' son, and, as any good father would, he set out to do something about it.

At an early age Sam's father arranged for Sam to spend his summer's on his uncle's ranch out in the wilds of Montana. The mother may not have liked it there on the Circle 'C', but her son thought he had died and gone to heaven! But then what ten year old wouldn't? Riding horses, climbing haylofts, chasing cows, driving jeeps and tractors! And that was the work! Then there was fishing, hiking, hunting, not to mention skinny dipping in the waterhole with the frogs and shooting guns with Uncle Jim and 'the boys'!

Sam spent his first full summer on the Circle 'C' when he was ten. At fourteen Uncle Jim was paying him a man's wages for the summer. At eighteen Sam packed his suitcase and left Chicago for good.

"What about school?" his mother had wailed, so agitated that she had spilt half her drink. "You'll grow up wild and ignorant like the rest of them!"

'And free!' his father had thought, inwardly wishing he could run away with his son.

As though reading his father's thoughts, eighteen year old Sam had squeezed the older man's thin, soft hand. "Come and visit me, Dad. We'll go riding up into the mountains again!"

Milton Carstairs knew with a certainty born of desperation that he would remember that seemingly long ago 'adventure' he had shared with his son for the rest of his days. It glowed in his memory like a golden ray of sunshine, pointing him down a path he should have taken had he been a more 'forceful' man. The memory lingered on with him as one of his few 'secret treasures', right up there with the first time he held baby Sam in his arms.

It had taken years, but Milton Carstairs had finally talked Marge into 'a short visit' back to the Circle 'C' to 'bring Sam back home for the start of high school'. Reluctantly, Marge had agreed.

Several hectic days later, dressed in clothes his son had lent him, including worn boots, greasy leather 'chaps' and a battered Stetson, Milton had looked on with pride as his sixteen year old son had roped, caught and saddled two of Uncle Jim's many horses, loaded them up with three days supplies, tied on sleeping bags and slid a used but well oiled Winchester into the saddle scabbard.

"What's that for?" Milton had asked his son, both concern and excitement clear in his voice.

Sam had grinned as he handed his father the reins. "It's comin' on fall in the High Country, Dad. Grizzlies like to feed-up on berries before winter."

"Grizzlies?" Milton had stammered.

Sam's grin had widened as he easily slid into the saddle. "Long as we don't piss 'em off, Dad, we'll be fine."

The father's gin was nearly as wide a his son's.

Those had been the three most glorious days of Milton's rather uneventful life! Following this oh so strong, competent young man up trails with breathtaking views and dizzying heights, Milton could hardly stop himself from weeping for joy. They rode past rushing streams boiling with frothy foam and studded with cold clear pools that reflected back a perfect sky. They wound through forests of shimmering maples and quaking aspens, all ablaze with the colors of autumn! They spent crisp, cool nights round their crackling fire, looking at the multitude of stars and watching Rainbow trout sizzle and blacken as they roasted on a stick 'injun style' over the glowing coals. They ate fried bacon and sourdough biscuits Sam made each morning, then saddled up and rode off into the sunrise, the air so crisp and clear that it brought tears to Milton's eyes. The aches in his back, buttocks and skinny thighs were well worth it to spend such a magical time with his son.

Over the years since then, Milton often caught himself reliving that glorious adventure over and over in his head --- especially on the long, dreary drive home from the office back to Marge.

***
Ten years later.

Circle 'C' Ranch, Montana

When Sam was twenty five and had just been promoted to assistant foreman of the Circle 'C', his mother died back in Chicago. 'Pills, booze and an overall disappointment with life in general and me in particular' was how Milton thought of it, though, as usual, he kept such thoughts to himself.

After the funeral, a very small affair, Sam and his father brought the ashes back to the Circle 'C' and buried her in the family graveyard, a beautiful windswept hill overlooking a mountain valley.

"I doubt Marge would have wanted this," Milton had said as Sam dug the hole beside his grandparent's graves. "She didn't exactly like the outdoors."

"Bullshit!" Big Jim Goodnight had replied with his usual bluster, draping a massive arm around his diminutive brother-in-law and pulling him in close. "Marge never knew what the Hell she liked or disliked! Flighty as a newborn colt, she was! Never sure just where she was going!"

Milton shrugged, not wanting to speak ill of the dead. "Marge was always --- moody."

"Marge was always a royal pain in the ass, and everybody knew it!" Big Jim barked. "Still, the Circle 'C' was where she was born and it should be where she rests. Our parents and grandparents are all here. Great-grandparents too. Ol' Charlie himself is said to be buried out here somewhere, but I think that's a bucket o shit. He probably was shot to death down in Texas or Arizona. One of those places he went to steal more cattle and chase loose women!" Big Jim took a small silver flask out of his pocket, held it up to the wind, took a belt and offered it to Milton, who, not wanting to seem rude, took a wee sip.

Big Jim took the flask back, had another belt, and waved it again at the wind. "That's my brother's mound over there. Damned fool let a mustang roll on him when he was about young Sam's age. Neither one of them, brother or sister, ever had a lick of sense between them! Not like our Sam here!"

Both men, each so different, each a 'father' to the young man in their own way, smiled at one another. Suddenly Big Jim's smile widened.

"Christ! Why didn't I think of this before? Milt, ol' pard, you're stayin' here with us!"

Misunderstanding his brother-in-law's intent, Milton nodded. "Well, I told them at the office I'd be gone all week. I suppose I could stay a few days longer." Part of his mind conjured up that magical ride in the mountains he had once taken with his young son. Perhaps they could \---

"Gone a week?" Jim boomed. 'Hell, Milt, you're gone for good little buddy! You're movin' in with us and that's final! What do ya say, Sam? You don't mind if your old man bunks in with us at the Circle 'C', do ya?"

Twenty-five year old Sam, having just lost a mother, looked up from digging her grave and smiled. He might have just lost a mother, but at last he had finally found his father.

***

The next three years were the happiest of Milton Carstairs', up until then, rather uneventful life. Big Jim 'hired him on' as head book-keeper and accountant and the three of them lived in the sprawling main building.

Milton did indeed 'ride up into the mountains again with his son', not once, but many times. Sam showed his father the towering peaks, the rolling foothills and the vast flat prairies from both jeep and horseback. They hunted and fished in all the 'secret places' Sam had discovered in his solitary childhood. They even skinny dipped in the freezing glacier blue waters of a trout pool Sam had found as a youngster all those lonely years ago. Big Jim came along a few times, mostly on the hunts, but the majority of times it was just Milton and his oh so competent son.

Milton died of cancer during his fourth winter at the Circle 'B'. He went fast and he went happy, with his son at his side and facing his beloved mountains. They buried his ashes the next spring alongside Marge. The wildflowers were in full bloom.

"You alright, Sam?" Big Jim had asked, offering Sam the battered silver flask. The two men sat on their horses amidst the above mentioned wild flowers. The half dozen other people that had been at the short ceremony had already headed back to the ranch. Sam took the flask, waved in the air over his parent's graves, took a sip and handed it back. "Ya, Uncle Jim, I'll be fine. Think I'll ride up to the high pastures and check on the herd. Be back in a week or so."

"You sure, son? Lot of snow left up there yet. Take a couple of the hands with ya?"

Sam's smile widened. "You goin' soft on me, Uncle Jim? Worryin' like an old mother hen about her chicks?"

Big Jim returned a smile of his own. "Maybe-so. Way I see it I aint got but one chick left in this world and that's you." He nodded at the field of graves, old and new. The flask passed over them all in silent salute. "Each one of us gets there in the end, Sam. No sense rushin' it."

"I'll be fine. I just need some time alone is all." Sam leaned over and squeezed the big mans forearm. "You taught me well, Uncle Jim," his gaze turned to his father's fresh grave. "You both did.

***

Shorty and his Blackfoot wife, Raven, also lived in the big ranch house. Shorty had left the bunkhouse and moved his beautiful young bride into the main house right after the wedding. (This fall would mark their fortieth anniversary!) Back then Raven had taken one look around the rather 'dusty' ranch and shook her pretty head. 'Men!' she had said. "Little more than pigs in a sty! Shorty! Boil me some water n' lots of it!' Since that day almost forty years ago you could eat off the floors in the main house, and God help you if you tracked in mud!

Shorty, a long, gangly man who stood six feet five in his battered boots, had been Big Jim's foreman for years and, stooped and bent now, was more than content to have Sam relieve him of most of the work. Shorty now saw to the upkeep of the many buildings and corals while Raven continued to take care of the cooking and housekeeping.

For many years before he died, Raven's father, Paylaw, an old Blackfoot shaman or holy man, used to often visit the ranch. Paylaw had a lined, weathered face; long, iron-grey hair and pale green eyes that saw all the way to your soul. He'd just appear at the kitchen table, his half-wild pony hobbled outside, stay for a day or a week or a month, and then vanish. As the Blackfoot reservation ran alongside the Circle 'C', the old gentleman often turned up with a deer or an elk for the ranch-hands. Sometimes a gutted animal would just be hanging in the barn.

Paylaw especially seemed to like spending time with young Sam. Those first magical summers Sam had spent on the ranch, he was often out riding with Paylaw. The old Blackfoot taught the young child much of the 'The Way of the People': how to ride bareback, make a complete camp with only a blanket and a knife, how sneak up on a deer or elk and how to prey over the body after the kill; even how to tickle a trout out of a mountain stream.

Sam was twenty-one when word came from the Reservation that Paylaw had passed on. Apparently his health had been failing all that winter and, come spring, he had saddled up his old pony, took his best pipe and his Medicine Bag and rode up into the High Country. A week later the pony found its way home alone. Sam's jaw stiffened when Big Jim gave him the news. Tears had threatened to fall.

"Aint nothin' wrong with cryin' over a lost friend, son." Big Jim had rumbled. "Hell, I've been blubberin' ever since Raven told me this mornin'!'

Sam's tears had flowed then, flowed like a fast rushing mountain stream. He had come to love that old man as much as he did Big Jim or his own father. The feeling, it went without saying, had been mutual all around.

Said he was a cowboy, when he was young.

He could handle a rope, he was good with a gun.

My momma's daddy, was his oldest son.

And I thought, he walked, on water.

He was ninety years old back in '83.

I loved him, and he loved me.

Lord I cried, the day he died,

And I thought, he walked, on water.

***
Wayland Crow

Still on the 'Western Theme', I'd like to introduce you to another one of my very favorite 'characters'. This one is a tad darker than Sam. Wayland Clarence Crow is a modern, fourth generation lawman from Robert Lee, Texas. Born in the right place but at the wrong time, Wayland doesn't do too well with 'modern'. But when the you-know-what hits the fan, he's the guy you want on your side.

I've used Wayland in two of my modern 'present day'books. I've also crossed him over into science fiction/alternate history by making him the central figure in my 'end of the world' EMP series, 'Desperado'.

We first see him in 'God's Cleansing'. Come on in; he won't bite --- as long as you behave yourself.

***

Wayland's 'namesake' at the top left

Sheriff Wayland Crow glanced up at the picture on the wall of his office in Robert Lee, Texas for what must have been the godzillionth time. It had hung there for almost ten years now, ever since he took office. It was actually a blow up of an old tin-type his grandmother Mable-Beth had given him just before she passed away. Fresh back from his second tour over in 'towel-head country', he'd just been elected the county sheriff and had gone to see the woman that had all but raised him and his two brothers as her own. Wayland's mother had died giving him birth --- another bit of baggage that he carried around along with all the rest. The old tin-type and the Colt .45 Peacemaker had been Mable-Beth's parting gifts --- that and a stern admonishment to 'smile more, marry a nice Texas girl n' make some babies!'

"You'll make a good daddy, Wayland. And a good husband," she'd said, her breathing getting harder even then. "You've got the gift."

"Oh?" he'd said back at the wrinkled ninety year old. "What 'gift' is that?"

Mable-Beth had smiled and gently touched the back of his hand. "Patience, Wayland. You've got the patience of Job himself! Just mind that temper of yours, you hear?!"

A week later she was gone. Wayland had the tin-type blown up and hung on the wall, where it has stayed for the last ten years. He started carrying the Peacemaker instead of his old Smith & Wesson revolver then too. As for the wife and babies, well, he was still working on that.

He looked up again at the picture and saw his namesake staring back at him across that large gulf in time. The place was damn near the same --- it's just the damn centuries that were out of whack!

Wayland's 1873 Colt .45 'Peacemaker'

***

"You all packed up?" Mavis Dupree, Wayland's part time secretary asked him.

Mavis wore several hats in Robert Lee. Besides working for the Sheriff's department on Saturdays, she helped out Wynona at the school library on Monday and served as the court clerk on Thursdays and whenever else Judge Campbell needed her. In a thriving metropolis like Robert Lee, all told that gave her three, maybe four days work a week. Mavis was also the town's leading full time 'match-maker', and she had been doing her level best to hook Wayland up with the beautiful out-of-work anthropologist and part time school librarian, Wynona McFee. Wynona was a rancher's daughter from over San Angelo way who had gotten her masters in 'Primitive Island Cultures' at Dallas University, but the only job she could land was the school librarian four days a week here at Robert E. Lee High. Thanks mainly to Mavis's relentless insistence, Wayland and Wynona had been, to use a quaint southern phrase, 'stepping out together' for almost a year now. Though they still lived apart, they had gone on several 'short vacations' together, the most recently being a weekend in Dallas seeing the new Humanities Museum that had just opened up and the musical, 'Les Miserable'. Wynona had freaked out at the 'South Sea Islander' exhibit. Apparently they had gotten both the style of grass skirt wrong as well as the facial tattoos on the life-like manikins.

'They're supposed to look like Queequeg did in the old Gregory Peck version of 'Moby Dick', not some Sioux Indian on the bloody warpath!'

Wayland had thought they looked like a proud warrior culture that he would have enjoyed being born into, even with the grass skirts. As for 'Les Miz', Wayland was surprised to find that he had liked it --- but not half as surprised as Wynona!

In the year they had been 'stepping out together' however, they had never actually been in each other's company for more than three days at a time. This thirty-three day 'Grand Adventure Cruise' they were going on was something else altogether! It started at Rome and ended in Sidney Australia, with, according to Wynona, an unplanned number of 'stop offs' at different islands on the way home across the Pacific. As she had the whole summer off and Wayland's part-time deputy, Elmer Fisk, would cover for him for as long as he was away, time was not a problem --- at least, time 'away from work' wasn't. Wayland was still a little 'antsy' however about being with Wynona for five weeks straight. Secretly, he was sure she would be fed up with him a week or so into the cruise.

"Packed? Packed for what?" Wayland asked Mavis as he was going through the latest wanted posters. There were several for out of state crimes and one for a gas station robbery and murder down in Dallas.

"Jesus H. Christ, Wayland, for your big cruise you and Wynona are going on! That's all the girl's been talking about now for over a month!" Mavis was fifty something and feisty as hell. Rumour had it that she and Judge Campbell were an 'item'. Truth be told, Wayland didn't care one way or the other. They were both good people and he wished them well whatever they intentions. Mrs. Crow's youngest son firmly believed in minding his own business, and expected others to do that same --- though he wasn't fool enough to think that most people would.

"Oh, that. Ya, I'm about ready."

"You got your dinner jacket yet?"

"My what?"

"Dinner jacket. You know, a fancy suit jacket for when you sit at the captains table. And shoes too! You can't go wearing those run down cowboy boots to a fancy sit down dinner!"

Wayland saw nothing at all wrong with his battered and scuffed old boots. They were, after all, mighty comfortable. "I got that dark grey suit I wear at weddings and funerals. That'll do just fine. Besides, me and Wynona got our own table. I'm not too partial to eating with strangers."

Mavis tossed down her pencil and fixed Wayland with her fiercest frown. "Well, if you'd make 'friends' with some of them they won't 'be' strangers now, will they?"

"Wynona's the talker, Miss Mavis, you know that. Me, I'm the quiet, silent type."

"You're the pain in the ass type is what you are, Wayland Crow --- and you damn well know it too!"

He cracked a smile and suddenly it was clear what a beauty like Wynona saw in him. He didn't show it often, but there was a gentleness under that rough, weathered exterior that belied his four years in active service overseas and ten years in law enforcement. "Why, Miss Mavis, I do believe you have found me out! And all this time I thought I had you fooled."

Just then Elmer Fisk, his part-time deputy, came rushing in, which in itself was strange, because the one thing that Elmer rarely did was rush. "Wayland, we got us some bad trouble!"

"Do we? What kind of trouble, Elmer?"

The red faced deputy pointed at one of the wanted posters on Wayland's desk --- the one about the gas station thieves and murderers from Dallas. "You see there where it says they drove off in a candy-red pick-up with a couple of bullet holes in the tailgate? Well, it's parked over at Eddy's Diner!"

"They inside?" Wayland asked, all signs of that gentle smile having vanished.

Elmer nodded. "Sitting at a booth in the back. Looks like they're having the lunch time special."

"Just two of them?"

Elmer squinted. "There's other folks in there, but them Dallas boys are off to one side."

"Good," he said, drawing the hundred and fifty year old Peacemaker and slipping in a sixth shell into the chamber. Just like the old time cowboys, Wayland never carried his gun with the hammer resting on a loaded shell --- not unless there was some serious shooting in the offing. "Elmer, take a shotgun and go round back of the diner, but you stay put unless you hear me call. Miss Mavis, you scoot along to the courthouse and see if Bill Haggart or any other boys over there are around. If they are, ask them to arm themselves and come down to the diner, but stay outside. Got that?"

Mavis nodded and headed for the door. As she pulled it open she turned and looked back at the tall sheriff. "Wayland, don't go and do anything foolish now! Wynona is counting on you being alive to go on that cruise with her!"

That brief, gentle smile flitted across his face once more. "I'll do my best, Mavis. You run along now. Elmer, take some extra shells just in case."

"Pocket's already full, Wayland. What about you? Want a shotgun?"

"No, that would only spook 'em if I walked in with a scattergun."

Elmer suddenly sounded like his last name was 'Fudd'. "You --- you going in there to -- ta --- ta --- talk to 'em?! That poster said they sh -- sh --- shot that Dallas fella d \--- dead!"

Wayland smiled at his good friend since childhood. "Well, we can't have that in Robert Lee now, El, can we? You just remember to stay put till I call."

***

"Howdy there, boys. How's the meal?"

"Just fine, marshal," the elder of the two strangers drawled, his Texas accent heavy, his grin toothy. "I always loved mashed potatoes n' gravy!"

"Eddy's a fine cook alright," Wayland grinned back. "Does a beef brisket better than your momma."

"My momma couldn't cook worth shit, marshal. But my Granny Rose sure could make a tasty road kill possum!"

The younger man sat still and silent, his food untouched and his hands below the table. Mr. Mashed Potatoes continued to chatter all friendly like. "You the law in these parts, marshal?"

"I'm the county sheriff. Bill Dickinson is the marshal, but he's off doing his rounds. That leaves me to keep the peace."

Mashed Potatoes laughed a bit too loudly. "Well, me and Doughy here are real peaceful. We're just headed up to the panhandle looking for work."

"Pass through Dallas did you?" Wayland asked.

"Dallas? Hell no. We missed Dallas, didn't we Doughy?"

"Ya," Doughy mumbled. "We missed Dallas."

Wayland turned to the younger man. "Doughy, I'd like you to place your hands on the table if you would."

"Why?"

"Because I asked you politely."

Doughy's eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. "And if I don't?!"

Suddenly the ivory handled Peacemaker was in Wayland's hand --- and in Doughy's face. Mashed Potatoes saw that as his chance to go for his own gun. His hand was yanking it from the waistband of his jeans when Wayland smacked him in the head with the barrel of his Colt. Mashed Potatoes dropped like a sack of spuds to the floor. Doughy, his hand's still hidden, glared up at Wayland.

"Bring you hands up slow n' empty, Doughy."

"I aint going back to prison!" Doughy said, his voice high now and close to hysterical. "I don't do well in prison! Too many goddamn bumfuckers!"

"It's prison or the grave, Doughy. Take your pick."

Doughy glanced around, drew a deep breath then quickly brought up a snug nosed .38 when Wayland shot him in the head at point blank range. A good deal of what had been Doughy's brains now dripped slowly down back the wall. Someone screamed and several customers got up and headed out the door. Wayland let them go and turned his attention back to Mashed Potatoes, but he was still napping on the floor.

Deputy Elmer Fisk came running in from the back, shotgun raised and ready. "Sh --- sh --- sheee-it, Wayland! That's one good ol' boy that sure won't cause no more t --- t --- trouble!"

"Cuff this one, Elmer, then check him for weapons. He was going for something when I tapped him." Wayland then turned towards the kitchen. "Hey Eddy, how about a cup of coffee?"

***
Well, now that you've met Wayland, perhaps you'd like to meet his father, Harlan Crow? He turns up now and then in 'flashbacks'. Here's one of them.

'Get Her Done, Hoss!'

Wayland's father, Harlan Crow (right) & his partner,

Howard 'Hoss' Patterson (with rifle) in mid-1970s

Wayland's daddy, Harlan Crow, had also been in law enforcement. Twenty-two years as a Texas Ranger and then nearly that as sheriff of the little town where he had raised his family, Robert Lee, Texas --- the same town that Wayland now presided over in that very same capacity.

The two Rangers on horseback in the above picture, the one with the helicopter hovering in the background, was taken back in 1974 along the Pecos River in West Texas. Back then Harlan and Betty-Sue Thompson, his high school sweet-heart, were still a number of years away from having Wayland's older brother, Jimmy. They'd been married for several years now, ever since SergeantHarlan Crow had gotten back from his second tour of a little ruckus they had over there in a place called 'Vee-Et-Nam'. Wayland hadn't thought it 'right' to leave his blushing bride all alone while he went of to answer his country's call, so they had waited till he got back home a few years later to marry. They'd tried for a family right away, but Betty-Sue was a tiny thing and had two miscarriages in three years. It taught them both that 'life itself' could be a bloody war at times, and that death, despair and sadness weren't only found in the hot, sweaty jungles of south-east Asia.

And its one, two, three!

What are we fighting for?

Don't know and I don't give a damn.

Next stop is Vee-Et-Nam!

And its four, five six!

Open up those Pearly Gates!

Oh we aint got time to wonder why!

Whoopee we're all gunna die!

Well sir, you can just bet your bottom dollar that very few of the good people of Robert Lee Texas were humming that particular little ditty! Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash were at the top of the charts back in the '70's, as was apple pie, patriotism and 'Made in America'! Along with doing your duty to God, family and country, and not necessarily in that order.

Wayland's daddy was a man that never shirked when it came to doing his duty --- a trait that he'd gotten from his daddy and one he'd done his best to pass on down to his sons. It didn't seem to have stuck too well with Jimmy, his oldest. Though at heart a good man, James Charles Crow always seemed to be a day late and a dollar short when it came to 'reliability' ---- but it by God had stuck to his youngest boy, Wayland!

Wayland's daddy, Ranger Harlan Crow and his partner, Ranger Howard 'Hoss' Patterson, were both doing their sworn duty that hot, dry August day back in the summer of '74. They, along with a half dozen other Rangers on horses and as many hound dogs, three local sheriffs and a number of out-of-place FBI fellas in black suits and foolish city shoes, were out looking for three escaped prisoners from Neverland State Prison down by San Angelo. It seems that an inmate by the name of Earl Fry and two others had somehow managed to overpower a guard, taking both his gun and his life, and then shot their way out of the main gate, taking several hostages with them and driving off in a laundry van.

The van and the hostages had been found, (abandoned and dead, respectively) in the dusty yard of a small ranch not ten miles from the prison. The ranch owner had been shot in the head and his wife and daughter kidnapped --- apparently Earl and his pals weren't willing to keep burly prison guards alive, but were more than willing to accommodate a handsome rancher woman and her sixteen year old daughter. Along with the two women, Earl Fry and the 'Fyretts' took all the murdered rancher's considerable collection of firearms and ammunition, (this is Texas, after all), as well as all his liquor, food and camping equipment. They then piled everything and everyone into the dead man's two year old land Rover and headed up into the rolling hills just north of the Pecos River.

Back in 1974 there were few roads in that rugged area, (not that there's not a hell of a lot more there now!), and only a tough vehicle like a Land Rover could manage the washed out tracks and steep trails --- hence the need for both old and new technology to apprehend these three desperadoes: Horses and Apache trackers for the Rangers, four wheel drive pick-ups for the local sheriffs and their deputies and helicopters for the FBI and the ATF boys in their dark suits and fancy shoes.

It was by God one hell of a manhunt! By far and away the biggest in West Texas since Billy the Kid rode in from New Mexico a hundred years earlier! All the local newspapers and those new fangled TV reporters down in Dallas were having themselves a real feeding frenzy! No-one was having much luck though, except maybe Earl Fry and the two convicts he was running with; a skinny little weasel called Elroy Simms and a long haired half-breed called Billy Longfeather.

Billy was currently doing two back to back life sentences for a double murder. It happened during a robbery in Amarillo that had been going just fine till a state trooper pulled into the gas station that Billy and his cousin were robbing. While Billy and his cousin were having a quick pow-wow about what to do with their uninvited guest, the clerk, a grizzly old fool that should have known better, reached for a sawed off shotgun he kept under the counter. BAAAAMM!!!

The old coot had already given the cousin one barrel and was turning the second towards Billy when Sarah Longfeather's baby boy shot the old fart twice in the chest. After that things turned sour faster than warm milk on a sunny day!

The state trooper, a rookie just six months on the job, upon hearing the shots, drew his sidearm and advanced quickly towards the gas station. He was reaching for the door when Billy kicked it open and emptied his revolver into the brave but foolish young trooper --- protocol dictating that he should have called in for back-up and put on his vest before advancing.

Billy had been pulling the job with his cousin, Lucky Luke Threefingers, (a nick-name young Luke had picked up years ago due to a camping accident involving an axe, a bottle of reservation-made moonshine and his drunken cousin Billy.)

Now, just having broken out of prison with his two new best friends Earl Fry and Elroy Simms, Billy was taking them all --- including the recently widowed Rancher Mom and her daughter, Juicy Lucy --- to an old hunting camp way back in the hills that Billy often used whenever he wasn't in prison. Living as he did between two worlds, Billy felt at home in neither. The 'White' world, the one he wanted to live in, flatly refused to accept him; while the Red world, though much more willing to embrace a young man of mixed blood, had finally cast him out due to his violent ways.

The second member of this terrific trio was skinny assed Elroy Simms. Elroy was a red neck junkie that had hit an old man a little too hard while mugging him in a Dallas park. Elroy, already a two-time looser, had been serving a life sentence for aggravated manslaughter at the time of his 'early liberation'. The details of just what tragic convergence of the stars or weaving of the Fates need not be gone into detail here; let it suffice to say that Elroy, sadly like hundreds of thousands of unfortunate souls before him, had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time and even more sadly, had chosen to do the wrong thing --- and so lost the privilege to walk 'free and proud' among his fellow human beings.

Like most convicts, Billy Longfeather and Elroy Simms both longed for life on the 'outside'. Billy because the claustrophobic cinderblock cells and thick steel bars were slowly strangling him and Elroy because he was tired of being corn-holed in the shower by good ol' boys that would have been perfect extras for that new hit movie 'Deliverance'

And though neither young man could have verbalized it, in their heartless heart of hearts each fully agreed with what that commie Jewish hippie fella, Bobby D, was singing on the radio:

'When ya aint got nothin', Ya got nothin' ta loose!'

As for Earl Fry, the third and most deranged member of their little group, he was just one bad assed mutherfucker. Coming from a long line of bad assed mutherfuckers, ol' Earl had surpassed all the other Frys in 'bad-assedness' and was moving on up to a whole new level of 'mutherfuckingness'! He was a racist, a sadist, an arsonist, a chauvinist, a communist, socialist and a rapist --- along with just about every other 'ist' you and a team of 'shrinks' could come up with! He'd started out bad and got a whole lot 'badder' with every dark day that he was still above ground.

'Oh what sharp toothed dog

sprang from my diseased womb

that accursed day I bore you?!'

'Richard III'

(Richard's own momma speaking!)

The bottom line however was really quite simple; all Earl wanted to do now to was drive a fast car, have himself some fresh pussy and kill someone with a gun instead of a prison-made 'shank' --- that and take as many cops, pigs, screws and meter-maids down with him as possible. All he was missing was the 'fast car'.

Ever since killing the rancher and kidnapping his wife and daughter, Earl and his 'crew' had been moving steadily deeper and deeper into the rocky hills. Billy the half-breed announced that they'd be there in a day or two, then lapsed back into his impression of the silent, stony-face Indian found on the American nickel. Elroy the junkie was a jittery, twitchy, nervous wreck, as he was now forced to do without his daily 'fix' that prison always had available --- for the right price of course. Elroy had been known throughout that rather formidable establishment as a 'stress reliever' extraordinaire and had been in great demand with the red-neck crowd. 'Ol' Elroy's a damn site better n' my sister!' was the often repeated joke and most of those good ol' boys had heartily agreed.

As for the mood of their psychopathic leader, Mister Earl Fry of No Hope, Texas, born on the corners of White and Trash in the county of Don't Give a Shit, he seemed to be having the best time of his life! He had the dead rancher's liquor to drink, plenty of guns close at hand and the man's wife and daughter for entertainment. Also he had his freedom --- at least for a while! No more grinning screws to tell him what to do! Tell him when to eat, when to sleep and when to take a fucking shit! He was a free man once again, and by Christ he was going to stay free, even if it killed him --- which, given his rather radical lifestyle, would most probably come to pass sometime soon.

Secretly, Earl figured he was already way past his allotted time, the salient point here however was that he really didn't give a shit! As far as ol' Earl was concerned, that skinny assed commie Jew boy had it right after all!

Earl's only real worry was the land rover. It had navigated the narrow gullies and made it up the steep rocks; it had bumped and bounced them on their meandering way further and further into the hills and it had held up just fine --- but it was running out of gas. They'd brought two extra five gallon cans with them, but they were long gone and now the battered vehicle was chugging along on fumes.

Billy the Breed said that they could get some food, water and horses from 'his people' that lived way back here somewhere, but Earl wasn't too sure that ol' Billy Longfeather knew what the fuck he was talking about. But the morning after the Land Rover had finally gave up the ghost and they'd had to hoof it, carrying what little food and water they had left, damned if the Breed hadn't come across a couple of his 'red brothers' out poaching a mule deer! They'd taken them to their nearby camp and for one of the rifles and a turn at the captive women; they'd led them to their small 'commune' type ranch where they were now hiding out.

Earl, along with Billy's help, did a little wheeling and dealing and managed to set themselves up with a place to lay low for a spell till the heat died down and they could make it back to the highway, steal a car and head out for the great American road trip. Meanwhile some of Billy's cousins had a little magic mushroom thing going on outside and sixteen year old Juicy Lucy was supposed to be the main attraction. When Earl pulled on Lucy's neck rope and started to haul her out of the rough lean-to they called home, the girl's mother crawled over and grabbed Earl's arm.

"Please," she said, her eyes moist and pleading. "Not her. Not again. Take me instead. I'll do --- whatever you want. Only, please, leave my daughter alone."

Earl eyed the older woman, placing her somewhere between forty and fifty; handsome more than pretty; a real rancher's wife who worked outside as much as inside. Not one of those pampered 'high maintenance' city bitches, always wanting expensive shit. Mumsy had a slim waist, fair tits and a nice ass, but she wasn't smooth and fresh like her daughter. Mumsy had fought like a panther the first few times he took her \---but the daughter had just gone limp, like a rag doll being passed from one eager set of hands to another.

Earl smiled that cruel smile of his and nodded. "Alright, momma, we'll start off with you --- but the girl comes along to watch. Who knows, maybe she can learn something."

As he advanced towards them, both mother and daughter started screaming ---sweet music to Earl's ears.

***

The native tracker, Sammy Two-Shoes, waved the two rangers over to where he knelt on the dusty trail. Sammy respected both men, Harlan Crow and shorter, heavier 'Hoss' Patterson --- but it was the long, lean, flint eyed one that Sammy felt drawn to. Harlan's calm, steady stare reminded Sammy of his grandfather, George Few Words.

Grampa George had been one of the last full blooded Apaches to speak their native tongue fluently. He'd lived like one of the First People, shunning most things modern, except for coffee and the old Yellow Boy Winchester 30-30 he claimed had been used in the battle of Little Big Horn where the yellow haired Custer had finally been sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Grampa George had taught his wide-eyed grandson not only the 'old tongue', but the 'old ways' as well. The ways all the other creatures that shared the earth with Human Beings; the way that Snake moves silently across the sand, the way the Hawk soars silently through the blue sky and how Little Dog That Whistles stands silently by his hole and watches. Sammy Two Shoes was taught how to catch Rabbit with a snare, knock over Prairie Hen with a stick and how to tickle Fish out of his cold mountain stream. The mysteries of earth, wind and waters were revealed to him, as were the often cruel and cunning ways of the most dangerous creature of them all, Modern Man.

But most of all he was taught how to 'read sign'.

What would appear to most as a few random scratches on a muddy trail would, to Grampa George, be a clearly written account of what had recently taken place. The leather faced old gentleman could not only tell at a glance how many men had moved along a muddy trail or rocky path and in what direction they were travelling, but their weight, age and personality as well. The distance of the stride, the pressure put on one foot compared to another, the age and style of the boot, all gave George Few Words the data he needed to conjure up his dead-on interpretations.

Sammy Two Shoes wasn't as good as Grampa George had been --- but he was damn close! And the tale the trail was telling him now was not a good one. Ever since leaving the Range Rover, (where he'd found a pair of pink lacy underpants smeared with blood in the back seat), the three fugitives and the two women hostages had been moving steadily north westward up into the higher hills. The half breed Billy Longfeather was choosing the easiest path, but it was still rough going, especially for the two women and the pigeon-toed druggy, Elroy Simms.

"What the hell ya got, Sammy?" Hoss Patterson called out. "Ya find gold or somthin' over there?!" Harold 'Hoss' Patterson was a joker. Always 'funnin' as he called it. Not like the tight lipped Harlan Crow. But they were both good rangers, good shots and honourable men --- nothing at all like the three animals he was tracking.

"They stopped here to eat," Sammy grunted. "Had a small fire there; now covered up. The women were tied to this bush. One of them made water behind it."

"Which one?" Hoss asked with a smile. "The mother or the daughter?"

Sammy looked back with his stony stare. "The daughter."

"Ya?" Hoss challenged, still smiling, but thinking that Sammy was trying to pull his leg. "How can you tell it weren't the mother?"

Sammy's stony stare never wavered. "The mother is stronger than daughter; braver. She gives most her water to her child." Sammy shrugged "The daughter drinks more, so she pisses more."

"So it's a guess then?" Hoss asked. "But you could be wrong? I mean, all you can tell is that someone took a leak back there. It could have been either one of them, or maybe both."

Sammy shook his head. "Not both. There would have been more run-off. More disturbance of the soil. The mother drinks less, so very little run-off from her. The daughter drinks more. It was her."

"Sheee-it!" Hoss said, taking off his battered white Stetson and whipping his brow with the back of his hand. "I guess it don't really matter who pissed where --- just as long as we're gainin' on 'em! We are, aint we?"

"Yes," Sammy replied. "We were three days behind them. Now we're only one."

"You boys about finished jawin'?"Harlan asked from the saddle, not waiting for an answer, he nudged his mount further up the trail. "We aint getting' any closer to them standin' here."

A few hours later they came to the place where Earl's group had met Longfeather's two cousins out hunting deer. By mid afternoon of the next day they had found the larger camp and were watching from higher up all the comings and goings down below.

"What they up to now?" Hoss asked, passing around the canteen of warm water.

Wayland continued to peer through the large scope on Sammy's deer rifle's. Earl Fry and the breed, Billy Longfeather, were having some kind of palaver with two of the Indians. They were sitting around a fire, each cutting slices of meat off an animal on a spit and passing a bottle back and forth. Earl was waving his arms around and Billy seemed to be translating.

"Still drinkin' and talkin'", Harlan replied.

"Any sign of the women?" Hoss asked.

"In the lean-to by that thorn bush. They got them tied up like dogs."

"Sheee-it! How many men in all?"

"Seven, though two are out huntin'.

"You wanna hit 'em now, Harlan, or after dark?"

"Sammy, we goin' have any moon tonight?

George Few Word's grandson looked up at the sky for some time before answering. "Nothin' till after midnight, maybe not even then. Clouds comin' in heavy after sunset."

Hoss looked up at the clear bright sky. The never-ending 'blueness' of it made him squint, but he knew better than to contradict Sammy about the weather. The bloody Apache was even better at reading that than he was trail sign! "Well then, I say we hit 'em now Sun'll be down in an hour!"

Harlan pulled back from the rifle scope and looked at his partner of five years and friend for twenty-five. "You got a plan all worked out, Hoss, or you just wanna 'wing it' like usual?"

"Sheee-it, Harlan, I always got a plan, you know that?"

Harlan might have smiled --- then again, he might not have. It could have been just a twitch. "Kill 'em all n' let God sort 'em out?"

Hoss grinned. "Damned right! Animals like that don't deserve nothin' better!"

"What about you, Sammy?" Harlan asked. "You up for this little ho-down?"

Sammy dug into his side pouch and brought out the blood stained pink panties. "Some men should have been put down at birth. Those down there top the list."

"Aint that the truth!" Hoss said. "Harlan, how you want to work this?"

The tall ranger stood up and handed Sammy back his rifle. When he spoke his words came out low and calm, like another man might plan a fishing trip. "Sammy stays up here with his rife. You n' me, Hoss, mount up and work our way up that little arroyo over there. We'll be hidden from the camp but Sammy here will see us just fine. We wait for at least two of them to be sitting round the cook fire. When Sammy cuts loose and takes out as many as he can, you n' me ride in and shoot any man still standin'."

"Sounds good to me! How 'bout you, Sammy?"

For an answer the Apache worked the bolt on his deer rifle, sending a long copper-jacketed .308 shell into the chamber. From his pouch he took another one and shoved it into the rifle's side receiver, giving him a total of six shots in all.

Both men looked at Harlan, who drew a breath then nodded. "Let's get her done, Hoss!"

***

The boys were starting to gather round the cook fire. There was a haunch of mule deer sizzling over a spit, the lean piece of meat now and then dropping fat into the fire, causing little tongues of flame to briefly dance into the hot, Texas twilight. Two stringy haired, grubby looking Native Americans were passing a bottle of home-made mescal around and munching on some brown, half rotten mushrooms. Another two came over with their own bottle. One poured some on the meat, causing the fire to flair up and nearly burn the one turning the spit. Laughter and swearing followed, along with more drinking.

Into this fun filled 'happy hour' came Earl Fry, dragging mother and daughter behind him on their leashes. Leroy Simms stood twitching in the background as Billy Longfeather bent and sliced off a small chunk of meat with a very big knife.

Up in his little deer-stand/sniper's-nest a hundred yards away, Sammy Two Shoes watched the magnified image of Billy Longfeather's Bowie knife cut through the sizzling haunch. Moving ever so slightly, Sammy walked the enlarged image upwards from the glittering blade to the thick, greasy fall of raven-black hair that covered Billy's face and left shoulder. The cross-hairs of the scope bisected the half breed's body, rendering the killer-rapist momentarily Christ-like.

As Sammy took a half breath, held it, and began to squeeze the trigger, he heard Grampa George's gravelly voice in the back of his mind: 'Always slow and gentle, Sammy' the old man reminded him. 'Never fast or hasty. Your Brother Animal is giving up his life so that you may eat. Always honour his gift with a clear, swift kill.'

'Yes Grandfather,' Sammy said to himself. 'But these animals have no honour! They all deserve a long, slow death, but my friends need me to kill them as fast as I can!'

'Then may Man-Above guide your hand, grandson --- and may He grant that we walk together someday again in the sun.'

"Sure thing, gramps!" Sammy muttered out loud. "And if I fuck up this shot it may be sooner than you think!"

Longfeather's left shoulder swam again into view and Sammy centered the cross-hairs and caressed the trigger, pressing it ever so gently --- and just as the tumbler fell, the pin shot forward and the bullet itself burst into lethal life, one of the mescal-sucking, mushroom-chewing sub-humans placed his body between the target and the shooter --- and paid the ultimate price for it.

The bullet hit a whole second and a half before the sound reached either man --- and when it did, they really didn't give a shit, for they were too busy dying. Travelling faster than Superman can fly, the bullet hit Body One just under the right armpit, travelled on in a downward trajectory, all but vaporizing the heart, lungs and doing one hellova job on the kidneys! Then, just like they 'say' happened on that infamous 'Grassy Knoll' in Dallas, it deflected off a shattered rib, exited stage left and slammed into Billy Longfether's upper left arm. All but spent, the mangled blob of led acted more like a hammer blow than a bullet, knocking the half-breed sideways into the fire, where he lay there stunned, his long, greasy hair turning him instantly into a human torch.

Sammy Two Shoes grinned at his 'two for one' shot and worked the bolt on his deer rifle, moving on to lucky contestant number three. Down in the arroyo, stern faced Harlan Crow and grinning Hoss Patterson heard the shot, nodded at each other and set their boot heels into their mount's ribs. Their revolvers drawn, cocked and ready, they moved out to do the job Texas Rangers had been doing for well over two hundred years!

***

Harlan didn't enjoy killing. He didn't really mind it too much either, but he didn't 'enjoy' it like some fellas. Back during the Viet-Nam War he'd know some GI's that seemed to live for the thrill they got for taking another human's life. They woke up hungry for it; longed for it the way that Harlan had longed for Betty-Sue Thompson, his high-school sweet-heart and soon-to-be wife. They'd be the first to volunteer for every crazy, suicidal idea the Brass came up with. Being both a sergeant and his unit's best shot, the Brass usually 'suggested' that he go along on these 'missions' as well.

'Just to keep a lid on things, Harlan', they'd say, smiling nervously at him. 'You know how these green kids can get. We'd like someone calm and steady in charge, and you're the god-damndest 'steadiest bastard' we got!' They'd offer him 'incentives' as well; things like extra furloughs in the local towns, the use of the 'officer's express mail' to ship letters back home or even free booze from the officers mess. Harlan passed on most of these 'perks', but went anyway, feeling it was his 'duty' to serve his country any way he could.

He did make use of the 'officers mail services' however, as he knew that Betty-Sue waited anxiously for any word from him. Though he wasn't much of a writer, he did 'take pen in hand' faithfully at least once a week, and receiving her letters did raise his spirits considerably --- though you'd never know it by his quiet, stoic manner.

He seldom gave any details in his letters of the hell that they all were going through, but one time he did 'unburden himself' in a long, rambling letter about a particular ambush along a un-named riverbank in the steaming jungles of south-east Asia

***

(Viet-Nam 1968)

Miss Betty-Sue Thompson

17 West Hill Street,

Robert Lee, Texas, US of A

Dearest Betty-Sue.

Ya'll know that I aint much of a writer, but something happened here a few days ago that's been playing on my mind. I'm fine so there's no need for you to worry, but I just feel like I have to tell someone about what happened and you are the first one I thought of.

So here goes, Darlin.

I've mentioned before that the Major wants me to keep an eye on the new lads and see that they don't do nothing stupid. I aint much of a baby-sitter, but most the time they jump when I holler and things work out just fine.

But this last time they didn't.

We were on this swampy area and doing a sweep, that's kind a like a rabbit hunt only the rabbits can shoot back. It was all mud and swamp, just like over in Louisianan where me and my daddy once went hog hunting.

Anyway, a machine gun nest opens up on us while we're crossing a stream and me and about half dozen young lads get cut-off from our main squad. We were pinned down and taking heavy fire. Two lads were already dead and a few more wounded. The radio was shot to hell and we had lost our .50 cal in the mud, so all we had was our regular M-16's and a few grenades.

### The VC were really pouring it into us something fierce! By sundown two more of my boys were dead, twice that many wounded and we were running low on ammo. Things weren't looking too good, Darlin, so I made a decision. Soon as it's dark, we'd take what wounded we could and try to recross the stream and get back to our lines. If we made it, we'd send a relief force back for the seriously wounded --- but jut between you and me, girl, our chances of making it back weren't too damned good! As for sending a 'relief force back, well, we all knew that weren't gunna happen!

There was seven of us, Betty-Sue, that headed back across that stream.

Only two of us made it.

A sliver of moon kept peeking in and out of the clouds, turning the running water into a silver mirror one minute and a black doorway to hell the next.

We were about half way across, up to our chests and dragging three wounded when the VC opened up on us from both banks! All we could do was wade further downstream and hope the bastards weren't waiting for us down there as well!

Which of course they were!

They lit into us with one of them Russian machineguns, spitting out more led than corn in a cornfield! The water was so tore up all around us it looked like feeding time back at the trout pond! My boys were being hit right, left and center!

I thought of you and actually started screaming out your name as I emptied my rifle at the muzzle flashes all around me.

Suddenly this Italian kid called Tony something from New York City was beside me. Both of us were bleeding but he had taken one in the gut and wouldn't live even if we did make it out alive. Still, we were the only two of our squad still breathing.

'Hey Serj,' he grins up at me, shoving one of them crucifixes into my hand. "It's my mothers. She gave it to me for luck. I figure mine's all gone, so send it back to her for me, will ya? Tell her I did good after all."

Then the little fella draws his .45 and starts sloshing his way towards the lower machine gun , firing as he went just like a bloody John Wayne movie! After his third or fourth shot he turns and shouts back at me. 'Haul yer Texas ass outta here, Serj! N' give that girl of yours a big kiss for me when ya get home!'

With that the cocky little wop actually winked at me and started firing again, slowly wading towards the still spitting gun.

This next part, Darlin, is hard for me to say --- but I did what he wanted. I hauled my Texas ass outta there, I sent that crucifix to Tony's momma in New York and all that remains is giving you that kiss for him when I get home --- though seeing as how I left him there so I could save my own hide, I aint too sure you'll want to be seeing me ever again.

I lost all my boys, and I should have died with them, but Tony, and maybe God, had other plans. I don't really know what to think, 'cept that I love you more now than ever, and if you still want me, I'll be coming home one day soon.

All my love,.

Harlan

***

Down in the arroyo the two Rangers heard Sammy's shot. "Let's get her done, Hoss," stern faced Harlan Crow said. The two men nodded at each other and set their boot heels into their mount's ribs. Their revolvers drawn, cocked and ready, they moved out to do the job the great state of Texas was paying them for --- stop the bad guys!

It was fast, fierce and deadly.

Sammy had already put two down; escapee Billy Longfeather and Unknown Body Number One. He had just taken out Unknown Body Number Two and was searching for Number Three when Harlan and Hoss burst into the camp. The two Rangers, using both their handguns and their horses as weapons, made short work of any of the culprits as they scrambled for whatever weapons they could find.

Despite all the running, screaming, shooting and dying, two of the three escapees were yet to meet their just reward. Earl Fry and Elroy Simms had somehow scurried away like the rats they are!

Let's deal with the 'lesser rat' first, shall we?

Elroy 'Twitch' Simms was a white, trailer-trash druggie that would not only have sold out Jesus to save his own worthless hide, but would have gladly have pounded in the nails. That he was a mealy-mouthed mean little shit was known right off, but that he was a sly, cunning little shit was not so easily recognized, that particular light hidden under a bushel full of dirt, grime and nervous ticks and twitches --- which just happened to be Elroy's nick-name.

He'd picked up that particular moniker from his fellow inmates. Why, you ask?

You got it, Sherlock! Because he was a jive assed junkie whose skin was always crawling with little critters that only Elroy could see. Funky little 'no-see-ums' that always stayed just out of sight but fucked you up BIG-TIME!

His playmates at Neverland State used to gleefully call out whenever he shucked and jived his greasy way past their cells, usually leaving a trail of snot and saliva behind him like a large, two-legged snail.

'Hey Twitch! How they bitin'?!'

'Hey Twitch! How's the crotch-rot?!'

'Hey Twitch! Twitch on this, Bitch!'

There were a number of other 'cell-block witticisms', but you get the picture.

Elroy the Twitch however would just laugh and grin foolishly while inwardly plotting his revenge --- a dish that, as some old dead poet once said, is best served cold. Elroy's revenge usually came in the form of a casually dropped 'rumour' about his chosen 'target of the day'; something along the line of:

'Hey, bro, did ya hear that Billy-Bob is planning to off Kareem n' take over his territory?! I mean, what do ya think, man? Do ya think it's true?"

Or perhaps the ever popular: 'Hey, man, did you know that Billy-Bob likes little boys? Who would of guessed it?!'

These 'rumours' would spread like wildfire and all Elroy 'Twitch' Simms had to do was sit back and let human nature take its bloody course.

'Hey Twitch! Yer a crafty sonovabitch aint ya?!'

But Twitch wasn't so 'crafty' now that Sammy Two Shoes was whittling his new buddies down like cans on a fencepost and that two bad-assed Rangers were pulling a John Wayne on his skinny ass!

Scrambling on all fours through the late afternoon sunshine, Elroy made his way uphill towards a bunch of house-sized rocks that had tumbled down from the higher hills sometime way back before Noah and the fucking flood. He'd almost made it into the blessed sanctuary of the shadows when a different shadow moved across his path.

'Shit!' he thought. 'One of those fucking Rangers'. Looking up however, all he saw was a slender form silhouetted by the setting sun. "Okay! Okay! Ya got me! I fucking give up, man!" he said, falling to his knees and holding out his skinny wrists to be handcuffed. "I mean, Jesus fuck, man! I give up! Ya can't just kill me in cold blood! You're a fucking Ranger!"

"Like hell I am!" the recently widowed rancher lady said, stepping closer as she swung the long handled spade like Mickey Mantel hitting a home run.

THUNK!

The shit covered blade sliced into Elroy's skull just above his left ear and continued on diagonally towards the lower part of his right one. Ol' Elroy just knelt there twitching, looking a hell of a lot like Humpty-Dumpty after his fall.

***

The last 'rat' that still needed to be run to ground was Earl Fry himself; arguably the most infamous of the inbred group of no-good hillbilly white trash sometimes known collectively as 'Fry and the Family Stoned'.

All joking aside, Gentle Reader, ol' Earl was just about as hard a case as they come! His history followed the typical stereotype so perfectly that he could have been the 'poster boy' for Psycho of the Year magazine and gotten a staring role in a TV 'movie of the week'. That show 'Criminal Minds' could have done a three-parter on him alone!

His case history' went something like this:

Grew up in a highly 'dysfunctional home'

Mother a junkie-whore; father doing twenty-five to life for Murder II

Wet the bed into his early teens.

Cruel to animals and enjoys lighting fires.

Has a hair trigger, always in trouble at school for fighting and bullying.

Police record at an early age; often in juvenile court.

Ran away from home, joined street gang.

Arrested multiple times on suspicion of robbery, rape and murder.

By the age of thirty has spent nearly half his life locked up.

'When ya aint got nothin',

Ya got nothin' ta loose!'

***

As he was riding through the camp, out of the corner of his eye Harlan saw Earl grab the teenage girl and haul her after him as he ran up the other side of the narrow gully. Harlan urged his wide eyed mount through all the yelling, shooting and falling bodies, but by the time he got there Earl and the girl had vanished.

While scanning the small canyon's deeply eroded walls he quickly reloaded his revolver. It had belonged to his great grandfather, Wayland Crow, the man he'll eventually name his second son after. It was a single action Colt .45 Peacemaker with a worn, pitted surface, time yellowed ivory grips and next to his wife and family, one of his most prized possessions.

Then he heard a scream. Not a man's nor a woman's --- but a girl's. Off to the left, up another twisting gully. Too narrow for his horse, as well as too dangerous, for besides taking the girl with him as a hostage, Earl had been carrying a rifle.

Harlan dismounted, pulled his own long gun from the saddle scabbard and let his mount trot away. This would be one hunt best done on foot. He worked the lever, sending a .30-30 shell into the breach. Cocked and ready, he cautiously moved up the narrow gully.

***

Earl was pissed. 'Where the hell did those bastards come from?!' He'd seen right off that they'd nailed the breed, then those goddamned Rangers came at him! 'On fucking horses no less! Just like in one of those spaghetti westerns with that Eastwood fella!'

The girl, being dragged along by a rope around her neck, suddenly tripped and fell. Earl turned and snarled at her. "Get the fuck up, bitch!" giving her a kick with his fancy new pair of cowboy boots for good measure. They had caught his eye back at the ranch just after he had just shot the rancher, raped the dead man's wife and left her battered and sobbing on the bed she had shared with her husband.

Earl had tried on the rancher's fancy 'go to church' boots and, though a little tight, had kept them anyway --- a decision he greatly regretted soon after their stolen Range Rover had run out of gas and the fugitives and their two hostages had been forced to walk over the rough, broken ground.

Now, hot, sweaty and with his feet killing him, Earl half pulled, half dragged the near naked teenager behind a large boulder and settled in to ambush any mutherfucker that was stupid enough to follow him! He pulled back the bolt half way on the Marlin .303 and saw a finger sized shell already there.

'Good!', he said to himself. He had five shots in the rifle and eight in the handgun he'd found in the rancher's bedroom. It was a fucking .45 Colt 1911 no less --- one of the first automatic's ever made! 'Should be more than enough to take out these fuckers!'

Wack!

Just then something hard and solid slammed into the back of his head. For several heartbeats everything went black --- then the pain hit and its stabbing force made his eyes open and his body react.

Living in close quarters with very dangerous men had honed Earl's instincts to that akin to a wild animal living in the jungle. As the frightened teenager leaned into her second downward swing, Earl bunched his right hand into a fist and hit her squarely on the jaw, knocking the rock from her hand and her out cold.

"Shit!" he swore, more angry that his hostage had now become immobile than about the pain she had just caused him. He'd either have to leave the bitch here or, suddenly grinning at his own ingenuity, he dragged the unconscious girl to him, picked her up and draped her over the rocks face down in front of him, literally using her body as a barricade to hide behind.

Resting the stock of his rife on the girl's buttocks, he pointed the barrel back down the way he had just come and smiled. "Now, Mister Fucking Ranger," he muttered to himself, "just try and get me now!"

But the minutes crawled by and no-one came. Sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes, dripped from his armpits and pooled in his crotch, and still no-one came! His feet we throbbing in the stolen tight boots and his left elbow was beginning to cramp-up from supporting the rifle. Now the stupid bitch was starting to come around, moving her fucking ass and spoiling his aim!

"Jesus fuck!" he cried, enraged at the semi-conscious girl for moving, he sprang to his knees, raised the rifle up with two hands and was about to use the metal butt to cave in the back of her skull when Harlan's .30-30 barked once from behind and to the right.

BANG! Smack!

The led bullet caught Earl just under his right armpit, hit a rib, broke apart, taking out Earl's left lung, liver and kidney. He grunted, froze in place, his rifle still held ready to strike, then slowly looked around to see his attacker.

Earl Frey and Harlan Crow had never met before, but each knew the other at a glance for what they were: hard, tough men who asked no quarter and expected none; two killers facing each other in the endless dance of death. The only thing that made them different was that one killed for pleasure and one for duty.

Grinning, Earl sucked in a painful breath and set about to finish the job he had started; namely to bash in the back of the girl's head.

The rifle butt rose, paused and began its downward arc. Half way through that arc Wayland shot Earl in the head --- a nice, neat hole just above the ear, spraying a pinkish mist out the other side.

The riffle fell with a harmless clatter off to one side --- as did the late and not so great Earl Fry.

***

'Who the Hell's this?!'

If the truth be told, Sheriff Wayland Crow didn't do too well with 'modern'. He often wished that he had lived in the 'good old bad days' of Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickock --- though lately he would have settled for just about anytime back when they used horses instead of cars, said 'Yes Mam and no Sir' instead of 'Hey Dude!' \--- and people carried a gun instead of a damn cell phone!

Now, sitting in his small office in the little town of Robert Lee, Texas, Wayland glanced up at the old picture on the wall for what must have been the godzillionth time. It was a blow up of an old tin-type his grandmother had given him just before she passed away. Fresh back from his second tour over in 'towel-head country', he'd just been elected the county sheriff and had gone to see the woman that had all but raised him as her own.

Wayland's mother had died a year or so after his father passed away from a gunshot wound --- another bit of baggage that he carried around along with all the rest. The tin-type and his father's .45 Peacemaker had been the old lady's parting gifts to him --- that and a stern admonishment to 'smile more, marry a nice Texas girl and make lots of babies!'

He'd been working on the 'nice Texas girl' part --- her name was Wynona. The 'smile' part seemed to be taking a bit longer. As for the babies, well, one step at a time.

What happened next didn't make the smiling part any easier.

***

The phone in the sheriff's office of Robert Lee, Texas was a replica of one of those old time 1920's jobs that you used to crank to get a hold of Thelma the 'switch-board lady'. Of course, 'Thelma' was long gone, along with the crank and the switchboard, but Wayland liked as much 'old time shit' in his life as possible, including his phone.

It had already rung twice that morning: the first call was from Ruth Hobbs, the pastor's wife, reporting some vandalism over at the church; the second call had been Wynona reminding him about his dentist appointment with Doc Greely a 2 PM. When it rang again just after getting back from his lunch over at Rosie's diner, he thought it might be Wynona checking in again --- since she knew how much he hated going to the dentist, she didn't want him to 'conveniently' forget or get 'bogged down in bloody paperwork'.

Well it was Wynona alright, but it had nothing to do with the dentist.

The conversation went something like this:

"Sheriff's office," Wayland drawled, leaning back in the wooden swivel chair that had been there when his great grandfather had held the office.

"Wayland?! They've got her!"

"Who, Wynona? Who do they 'got'?"

"My sister! Mary-Beth!"

"Mary-Beth? But she's in Panama."

"She's in Argentina with a girlfriend from school, and the bastards got her!"

"How do you know?"

"Because the sons-o-bitches just phoned me, that's how! Some bean-picker with a heavy accent told me that they have Mary-Beth and that unless I send them fifty thousand dollars they'll kill her!"

Silence for a few heartbeats while Wayland thought.

'Could be a joke? A nasty prank! Maybe those Williams brother were behind it? Darryl and Lloyd are both still in their teens, but bad seeds nonetheless!' Wayland already suspected that the two brothers were behind the vandalism at the church.

"Wayland?! You still there?!"

"Just thinking, darlin'. Did you actually talk to Mary-Beth?"

"Sure as hell did! She was crying and there was a lot of loud Spanish music in the background, but it was Mary-Beth alright!"

"How do you know for sure?"

A deep sigh, then: "Jesus H. Kee-riste, Wayland! I recon I'd know the sound of my own baby sister's voice!"

"But she was crying, darlin'. And there was all that music."

"Damnation, Wayland! I've heard Mary-Beth crying all her life long! She was a spoilt cry-baby back then and she still is today, but she's my little sister and we gotta do something!"

"We will, darlin, we will. Now, this Panama fella say how he expected to get the money?"

"Argentina, for Christ sake! And the bastard said I was to wire the money to some post office box. Said he'd call back later today with the details! Wayland, I don't have anywhere near fifty thousand dollars and neither do my parents!"

"It don't matter, darlin' --- we aint paying a red cent."

***

The slanting rays of the setting sun flowed in the windows of the small but tidy house just outside of Robert Lee, Texas. Four people were sitting anxiously waiting for the call from Argentina. Well, three actually, as Wayland was having a beer and scratching his hound dog's ears.

The three nervous ones staring at the phone were Wynona, Avis Dupree and Elmer Fisk. Avis was Wayland's part time secretary. Avis also helped out Wynona at the school library on Mondays and Fridays and served as the court clerk on Thursdays and whenever else Judge Campbell needed her. Avis's full time occupation however seemed to be Robert Lee's 'match-maker', and she had been doing her level best to hook Wayland up with the beautiful out-of-work anthropologist and part time school librarian, Wynona McFee, for some time now. As for Elmer Fisk, he was Wayland's childhood friend, hunting buddy and part-time deputy.

Elmer, fiddling with his as yet unopened can of beer, leaned in towards Wayland and lowered his voice. "Ah, Wayland, Wynona told me that you aint gunna pay no money. That right?"

"That's right."

"But if ya don't pay 'em, they'll kill Mary-Beth." That last part came out a bit loud and Elmer nervously looked over to where Wynona was staring out the window at the rolling prairie. "I mean, aint that how it works?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?" Elmer repeated. "Hell, the other night on 'America's Most Wanted' this one fella sent a kid's ear back to his momma just to prove he wasn't messin' around! You don't want no ears turning up here, do ya Wayland?!"

The icy stare he received back would have stopped most men in their tracks, but Elmer had been seeing that cold, soul-searing stare all his life and though it still shook him some, he could endure it when needs be.

"It won't come to that, Elmer." Wayland finally said as he continued to scratch the hound's head.

"How do ya know what's gunna happen?"

The cold stare suddenly got a few degrees colder "Because I aint gunna let it."

Just then the phone rang, causing Elmer and Wynona to both jump and Avis to drop the plate of sandwiches she was bringing into the room. Wayland gave the hound's head one last pat while it went for the sandwiches and he reached for the receiver.

It was one of those modern cordless phones, but Wayland used it anyway.

"Ya? What do ya want?"

"Is Wynona McFee dere?" a heavily accented voice asked.

"Ya. What do ya want?"

A pause, then: "I want to talk to Wynona McFee."

"No. You talk to me."

"Who da hell are you?!"

"I'm the guys that's gunna hang up the phone unless you talk to me."

"Listen asshole! Put da fucking woman --- !"

Click!

Wayland put the cordless phone back in its receiver.

"Shit, Wayland!" Avis said, suddenly gone whiter than the bread she had made the sandwiches with. Wynona and Elmer stood by silently; Elmer slack jawed in shock and Wynona glaring daggers at you know who.

The silence stretched away seemingly forever.

Then the phone rang again.

Wynona moved towards it but Wayland held up a hand and she seemed to hit an invisible wall.

Two more rings before Wayland picked it up.

"Ya. What do you want?"

"I want to talk to da fucking --- !"

Click!

"Jesus Christ, Wayland!" Wynona yelled. Avis went to her and gave her a hug.

Elmer looked like he wanted to do the same, but moved towards Wayland instead. "Ah, maybe you should let the fella talk, Wayland. I mean, what do ya think?"

Those ice blue eyes washed over the deputy as they had on many previous occasions, usually when Elmer had done something either foolish or dangerous. "What I think, Elmer, is that unless we get the upper hand with these fellas, we'll never see Mary-Beth again."

"Ya, but Wayland --- ." The phone rang again.

Wayland let it ring five times before answering.

"Joo are one bad assed mudderfucker! Joo ---!"

Click!

"Wayland, please!" Wynona wailed. "That's my sister they've got!

"I know that, darlin', but if we just send the money, she's dead as soon as they get it."

"But we don't even have the bloody money!"

"We won't need it, darlin'. Just a few thousand for expenses and I've got that."

"Expenses? Expenses for what?"

"Plain tickets mostly. That and buying guns when I get there."

"Get there?" Wynona asked. "Where are we going?"

"You aint going nowhere, honey. But I'm off to Panama."

The phone rang again. This time Wayland picked it up right away.

"Let me talk to right Mary-Beth now! If I don't hear her voice in the next five seconds I'm smashing this phone and you get nothing!"

Silence, something whispered harshly in Spanish, then a woman's voice came on the line.

"Wynona?! Is that you?!"

"No, Mary-Beth. It's Wayland. Did they hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Yes! No, not really! I mean I'm not bleeding or anything --- but they scared the shit out of me! Let me talk to --- ."

The phone was pulled away from Mary-Beth and the guy with the heavy accent was back on. "So, tough guy, joo know da bitch is okay! Now, shut da fuck up 'n listen! I want ---."

Click!

This time no-one said anything, but the look Wynona gave Wayland was far from a 'loving glance'.

When the phone rang the next time Wayland picked it up on the second ring and started speaking. "Now it's your turn to listen, Chico! I'm bringing the fifty thousand, not sending it! I'll hand it over to you personally. Phone me back at noon tomorrow, I'll need that long to get the money organized. I'll hand over fifty thousand dollars cash, with an extra twenty thrown in if Mary-Beth is allowed to talk to her sister right now! So what do ya say, Chico? Do we have a deal or not?"

Nothing, then a muffled 'wait a minute' in Spanish. A stranger's voice shouted something. Someone else swore, then the guy was back. "Ya, we got a deal, tough guy, but da price is now one hundred thousand!"

"You'll take seventy-five or I hang up right now --- and Chico, if I do, don't bother calling back!"

More muffled swearing, then. "Seventy-five thousand cash! We'll call back tomorrow at noon and tell you where to go in Buenos Aires. And don't try to fuck us, cowboy, or da bitch dies!"

"Put her back on, Chico, and call me at noon."

The phone was handed off and Mary-Beth shouted into the phone. "Wynona?!"

"She's right here, Mary-Beth. Be strong, we're coming for you. Two, three days at the most." Wayland handed the phone to Wynona then looked over at his deputy. "Elmer, you still have Leon Elmtree's phone number on that fancy cell of yours?"

"Guess so. Aint used it since you called him last fall to come hunting with us. Damn, that boy can shoot!"

After nearly twelve years as a Navy sniper, with several serious wounds and a 'registered' one hundred and twenty-seven verified long distance kills to his credit, sniper Leon Elmtree had finally had enough of the killing and handed in his resignation. Wanting to see the world with his own eyes instead of through a rifle scope, he took a job on the security staff of a luxury cruise ship --- the same one that Wayland and Wynona had taken last year. Leon and several others had helped the 'Texas lovebirds' persuade a bunch of modern day Somali pirates to 'go forth and sin no more'. (The rest of 'that' little tale, Gentle Reader, can be found in the novel 'God's Cleansing' by yours truly.)

After the smoke had cleared and the bodies of the pirates had been dragged away, the two men had become good friends, and though he lived deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee, ex master gunnery sergeant Leon Elmtree had been more than happy to fly down to Robert Lee Texas for a week long hunting trip last fall.

Now that Wayland had decided to go get Mary-Beth himself, Leon had been his first choice as 'backup'. While Wynona tried to calm her near hysterical sister, Elmer, his brow furrowed in concentration, pushed several buttons and handed the cell to Wayland --- who took it as though it was an angry rattler.

"Leon? Wayland here."

A voice with a Tennessee twang came back over Elmer's 'smart phone'. "How the hell are ya, man? Good to hear from ya! You gunna make it up here for the spring turkey hunt?"

"Afraid not, Leon. Got myself some bigger game to bag and was wondering if you'd be interested."

"Hell, Wayland, I'm always interested. Aint a whole lot to do here in Blue Lick but shoot guns, drink 'shine' and watch the grass grow."

"What about that girl you were fixing to marry? She was a real firecracker!"

"She was that! But the country life didn't appeal to her. 'Too hot, too slow and too damn empty!' were her parting words. She's a big city girl and that's where she went."

"Sorry, Leon."

"Ah, it aint nothing. I'm used to the single life; besides, snipers like being alone."

"Well, pard, you up for a little South American hog hunt?"

"Damn right I am! But would that be the two legged kind or the four legged?"

Wayland chuckled into the phone. "Two legged n' the kind that shoots back."

"Outstanding! That's the best type! Do we bring our own firepower or buy there?"

"I aint military, Leon, just a country sheriff. It'll be a commercial flight so we'll buy what we need when we get there. Hold on a minute, Leon. Wynona darlin', what's the name of the hotel Mary-Beth stayed in down there in Panama?"

Wynona had been off the phone for some time now and was sipping some scotch Avis had found. "It's Buenos Aires, Argentina for Christ sake! The King's Arms out by the airport."

Wayland passed on the information to Leon and told him he'd meet him there tomorrow night or early the next day. Leon said he'd check out the flights and book one right away and they hung up. When Elmer had his fancy cell back, Wayland went over and gave Wynona a big hug. She clung to him tightly, then whispered in his ear.

"I'm coming with you, Wayland, and I won't take 'no way Darlin' for an answer! Once we get there, you, me and Leon will get Mary-Beth back --- even if we have to kill every last one of the bastards!"

Wayland took a deep breath, sighed and nodded. "Alright Darlin'; one way or another we'll get Mary-Beth home."

***

Now that you've met Wayland, it's only fair that you meet one of his many enemies he encounters as he tries to rescue Wynona's kid sister.

This one is a real piece of work.

***

Philippe the Philosopher

'Oh what a piece of work is a man!

In form how like an Angel!

In apprehension how like a god!

Yet in action, how like a devil!'

As the stolen car raced down the dirt road, the big man reread for the third time Hamlet's words to his former school chums, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, tasting them on his tongue like aged Scotch or young pussy. Much like the Prince of Denmark himself, the big man enjoyed pondering things philosophical.

Having left school at a tender age, Philippe Warez was a self educated man. What the streets, back alleys and various prisons hadn't taught him about 'humanity', he had learned from books. Spanish, English and Portuguese, he read them all. Devoured them one might even say. With his off the chart IQ it just came 'naturally'.

As a child he'd read anything and everything that he could get his hands on. In the beginning his illiterate 'contemporaries' had made fun of him --- but not for long. At a very early age Philippe had discovered his thrice cursed trio of mixed blessings: that he was big, smart and totally without a conscious. 'Remorse' was a word that he knew the meaning of, but not the feeling. To put it in the vernacular, Philippe just didn't give a shit.

Having recently broken out of Argentina's largest maximum security prison, killing three guards and wounding several more in the process, he and Peppy the Rat were racing westward in a stolen car. The late owner of the car, along with his wife Conswayla, lay dead in a ditch fifty or sixty miles back. Philippe turned to the smaller man driving and asked him a question. He wasn't really interested in the man's answer, he just liked to use questions as a way to expound his own ever changing theories of the mysterious workings of the universe.

"Hey, Peppy, how many kinds of people do you think are in the world?"

"What? Like races and shit like that?!" Peppy asked, automatically checking the gas gage. It was under a quarter --- waaaaay under and they'd need some real soon. That and a cold beer!

"No, not 'races and shit'," Philippe replied. "Places and shit! Habitats! Fucking environments!"

Peppy's rat-like face became even more rodent looking as he screwed it up in an attempt to think. Thinking had never been Peppy's strong point, and he avoided it every chance he got. Philippe however loved to think. To mull things over, to ponder and pontificate --- to share his thoughts with any and all close enough to hear them --- whether they wanted to or not.

Philippe you see, considered himself a philosopher. Though he'd never studied them 'formally in school', he'd read most of their works. Plato, Socrates, Kant, even Freud --- only he didn't like Freud. He thought ol' Sigmund was a 'momma's boy' faggot at heart.

"The way I see it, Peppy, there are four types of people in the world. The City people, the Country people and the one's in-between that live in the 'Burbs'."

Peppy's rodent face screwed up some more as he did the math. "But that's only three kinds, Phil."

'Phil' frowned at hearing the derivative of his name used, as he much preferred the more formal Philippe, but he magnanimously let it go --- this time. "The fourth kind, Rat, is the rarest one, the kind that lives outside of the other three."

Peppy the Rat twitched imaginary whiskers, his beady eyes narrowing. "What?"

Philippe sighed and pulled a big, silver revolver from his belt and placed it on his lap. "City, country or suburbs, it's all the fucking same! Rules and regulations, Peppy, rules and fucking regulations! Just like that goddamned prison we just broke out of! Always some bastard of a guard telling you what to do! When to go to bed, when to get up, what to ware, what to eat \--- even when to take a fucking shit! The fourth kind of people, Peppy! The rare kind like you and me live OUTSIDE the fucking rules!" He shoved the heavy pistol out the window and fired three rapid shots into a road sign displaying 90 KPH.

Grinning now, Philippe the Philosopher flashed his one oh so fetching gold tooth. "We make up our OWN fucking rules, amigo!"

Along with gas and that cold beer, Peppy the Rat suddenly needed to take a piss.

***

Who said that wishes never come true? Not long after Peppy 'wished' for a gas station, low and behold, what did he see when he rounded a bend not too far down the road from where Philippe had ventilated the sign --- but an old rusting gas pump waiting patiently in front of an even older crumbling brick building. The sign painted over the fading, peeling yellow doors read 'GARAGE & DINER: OPEN 24/7'.

"What, that old blue piece of shit?!"

"Well, we'll just see about that?!" Philippe said, motioning with the large pistol for Peppy to pull in --- a commandment that he was more that willing to obey. He pulled up alongside the pump, put the car in park and sprinted for the toilet at the side of the building. Cursing followed as the door was locked. Peppy pissed on the door instead and came back with a relieved smile on his rodent face. "Fill her up, Phil? Will that be cash or credit?" he asked, his idiot grin widening at his own razor sharp wit.

"Put the rest of the guns and gear in that pickup over there, then come inside and get the key," Philippe ordered.

"You see any other vehicle around here, Einstein?"

Peppy pouted. "There's no need to call me names!"

Philippe ignored him and opened the ripped screen door. Inside the ancient, squat building the bright mountain sunlight suddenly seemed like a distant memory. Dampness and mould mingled with dirt, grease and grime. The combined smell hung in the air like smog.

The 'garage' was on the left side and the 'diner' was on the right. Some sort of lean-to cluttered up the back, along with a giant mound of used tires. The garage's idea of a 'lift' was a rectangular pit in the floor that allowed the mechanic to 'get under' the car. The diner had two lopsided, homemade tables, four rickety chairs and a chalkboard nailed to the wall as a menu. Refried beans and chilli seemed to be the house speciality. The 'kitchen' was a propane flame under a large iron bowl. Something brown and nasty looking was bubbling away inside --- no doubt one of the two 'house specials'.

Presiding over the garage pit was a near toothless looking skeleton of a man in a dirty straw cowboy hat and greasy overalls. His counterpart, the 'chef extraordinaire', was a fireplug of a woman with iron grey hair, almost as wide as she was tall and swathed in layers of dirty black cloth.

On a whim, Philippe spoke to the woman in accented English. "What's cookin' good lookin'?" Then, while she frowned uncomprehendingly in his direction, he turned to the man and addressed him in the same foreign tongue. "How they hangin', Jack? Still wackin' off out behind the barn?"

The man must have had some English, for he frowned, but, unlike the iron haired woman's, his was a frown of comprehension; if not of the exact meaning of the words, at least their sarcastic intent. His frown turned into a snarl and he took an aggressive hold on the tire bar he had been working with and advanced towards Philippe.

Who promptly pulled the long barrelled pistola out of his waistband and shot the advancing old mechanic in the stomach. Folding up like a cheap suit, the mechanic went down with a grunt, drowned out by the echo of the pistol in the enclosed, brick building and the high pitched scream of the iron haired old woman.

To 'quiet things down' some Philippe turned and shot the woman in her open mouth. There was no 'cheap suit folding' in the woman's case however. Mommaseata outweighed the skinny mechanic by at least three to one and she went down like a refrigerator chucked full of goodies, knocking over the brown and nasty caldron of refried something.

Just then Peppy the Rat came in with a pump shotgun he'd 'liberated' from Manuel Grassis, the Head Guard on Cell Block D. 'Manny the Man' had been one sadistic bastard with a particular dislike for poor old Peppy, and he had used his night-stick on Peppy's skinny rodent ass every chance he got! Blowing the bugger away with his own shotgun had been for Peppy the highlight of his lengthy incarceration and short lived bid for freedom.

Up until now.

"Wooooo-eeeey a-meeeego!" he shouted in his squeaky, rodent like voice. "Hey, Philly? Why'd ya start the party without me?!"

'Philly' almost made it three for three right there and then. His thumb was on the hammer and he almost cocked it back and let it rip --- but he still needed the Rat for awhile yet. Needed him to do most of the driving while he 'pondered the mysteries of the universe'; needed his so called 'connections' to the 'mountain kinfolk' as the idiot little shit called them.

"My kinfolk are mostly all 'mountain people'," Peppy had explained that first day several weeks ago when they became 'cellmates' in one of the warden's famous 'jailhouse shuffles'. The warden was always springing shit like that on the inmate population. Changing work schedules, yard schedules, and the worst one for Philippe, library schedules. Warden Gonzala was a 'schedule-changing son-of-a-bitch' and Philippe had enjoyed shoving the latest stack of new schedules down the bastard's throat \--- literally.

But back to Peppy's 'mountain kinfolk'.

It seems that Peppy wasn't your typical big city criminal living in the multitude of dark streets and dirty alleys of Santiago, La Plata or Buenos Aires. No way Hoe-Say! Peppy was a good ol' country boy more accustomed to outhouses than high-rises and dirt roads than twelve lane highways. He was the kind of inbred yahoo that made the old joke about 'redneck men going to family reunions to meet women' frighteningly real.

"I've got over thirty cousins up there in them hills and each one will gladly help hide us both from the Federalies!" Peppy had explained to his big, new 'bookworm bunky'. "With your brains and my connections, once we get out of here and into them mountains, we'll be home free! Drinking mescal, smoking mountain dope and screwing all my pretty little cousins! Woooo-eeeey! I can almost taste that young honey-dew right now!"

That had been the plan. Philippe was to use his brains to find a way out and Peppy was to use his 'connections' to see that they stayed out. So far they had managed the first part fairly well, though they were leaving a rather alarming number of dead bodies behind them on their 'quest for freedom' --- and by the looks of things, that number would continue to rise.

"How come you shot the old lady in the head but the old man in the gut?" Peppy asked. "Gut shot takes a long time to die. My Cousin Alejandro was gutshot once. A weed deal with some gang from the city that went bad. We buried them alive in some quicksand, but that didn't help Cousin Al none. Took the poor bastard three days to die. Would have been longer but Uncle Hector shot him in the back of the head --- to put us all out of his misery."

"Enough of your goddamned hillbilly stories!" Philippe growled, reloading the big pistol as he walked towards the groaning mechanic. Nudging him with the toe of his boot, he spun the revolver's cylinder, cocked it and pressed the long barrel into the skinny man's thigh. "That blue pick-up outside. Where's the keys, amigo?"

When the answer was slow in coming he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

This time the sound was slightly muffled by the old man's flesh.

The scream that followed however was mooooch-loud!

"Keys?"

"In my coat pocket --- by the door!"

Philippe nodded for Peppy to check it out.

Once the philosopher had the keys he no longer had to listen to the mechanic's screams. 'Life is a wonderment, for strange indeed blow the fickle winds of fate.' He couldn't remember who wrote that, but he liked it just the same.

BANG!

The thin mechanic followed his not so thin wife into that 'strange country from which there is no return.'

"Alright!" Philippe smiled, flashing the infamous gold dentalwork. "Whose hungry ? Me, I could eat a horse! How about you Rat? Let's see what else the old woman has back here besides fried shit!"

"I saw a couple of chickens pecking around out back when we drove up," Peppy grinned. "What do you say, amigo to a little fried chicken?"

"Make mine extra crispy, amigo!" Philippe said, grinning as he found a near full bottle of tequila on the greasy counter. "But since you're the country boy in this outfit, suppose you do the catching, plucking and cooking and I'll do the planning, drinking and figuring out our next move."

Peppy, always partial to fried chicken, went out back with his shotgun for a little impromptu bird hunting. Back in the diner section Philippe uncorked the bottle, put his feet up, took out his tattered copy of Hamlet and began to once again ponder the great works and wonders of man.

***

That's it for now with the 'cowboys'.

These next few 'Tangled Tales' jump back over two and a half centuries to the late 1750's. It's two decades before the American Revolution; the turbulent times of Fennimore Cooper's classic 'The Last of the Mohicans' with Hawkeye and Chingagecook and also of Diana Gabaldon's blockbuster 'Outlander' series with Jamie and Clair Fraser.

Come along now and meet my own 'highlander'; Angus McCaw from Inverness. He's been one of Roger's Rangers now for several years and is looking back over the list of fallen comrades.

Across The Water

'Best Served Cold'

Etienne LaBlanc's cold gray eyes kept sweeping over the trail. He and 'Le Renard Cruel' or Fox had done all they could to lead the prey into their trap, now all that was left was wait. Waiting, however, had never been one of Etienne's strong points. For his entire adult life he had always taken whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Guns, furs, money, women; whatever he took a fancy to. If anyone objected, they did so at their own peril. Etienne was a cold blooded killer that enjoyed his work, especially up close with a knife!

What he and his sometime 'partner' Wolf were both waiting for now was revenge; a revenge that ate away at both their cold hearts like a slow fire or a hungry beast gnawing on its own leg to free itself from a trap. Now, nearly three long years worth of waiting was coming towards them up that trail.

Ang-gus Mac-Kaw, the hated Ranger that had killed Etienne's big brother Samuel and more importantly, caused the death of his two beloved nephews, Ti-Toin and L'Ours. Also coming up the trail was Tahnahani, a young Mohawk war-chief who had killed several of Fox's kinfolk. Both the Ranger and the Mohawk had already escaped them several times before and LaBlanc and Fox were determined that they would not escape them again!

"Are you 'certain' dat Mac-Kaw is wid dese Mohawk bas-tards?! LaBlanc asked Fox for the third time. LaBlanc used his broken English rather than listen to Fox butcher his beloved French.

Le Renard Cruel or 'Fox' breathed deeply to calm himself and replied in his own Huron tongue, a language La Blanc knew well but seldom spoke. "That the dog dropping called Tahnahani is there I am 'cer-tain', for my Huron know the dog's face. Besides the hand of Mohawk puppies that follow him, they also saw a tall white-eye in a Ranger coat. Mac-Kaw is 'frere du sangue' with the Mohawk filth. He will be there. They travel, hunt and fight together; probably make the two-backed beast together as well!"

Several of Fox's painted Hurons snorted their pleasure at that last remark, but none of them took their gaze from the trail the hunting party should be coming up any moment now, for despite all the bravado, each man there knew that the Mohawks, though low-life dogs, were dogs with sharp teeth that knew well how to fight.

***

"Just ahead, where the trail rises through those rocks?" The tall white-eye in the Ranger coat asked the painted, tattooed Native beside him

"He Who Shoots Far has a good eye for more that just shooting." Tahnahani. replied softly in his own tongue. "It is where I would have chosen for an ambush. A clear line of fire back down the trail, plenty of cover up top. Cruel Fox is a dung eating dog molester, but he is not without guile. We will split in two groups and come at them from both sides."

"And the 'sesquata' called LaBlanc is with this Cruel Fox?" The tall Ranger asked. "The one that has vowed to kill our brother, Angus?"

Tahnahani nodded. "I myself have seen his tracks. He still limps from the ball you put in his right leg up at Oswego. Not much, but it is there for those who have eyes to see."

"For those with the skill to see," Young Jack smiled. "I would have missed it."

The young Mohawk chief smiled at the one-time English lord. "Man Above bestows different gifts to different men. I have not your skill with a musket."

Blue Heron, Tahnahani's second in command, motioned that his half of the eight brave war-party were ready to move out. Tahnahani nodded and took up his battered trade musket that had been leaning against a tree. "Shoots Far, honour me by walking by my side. We may have need of your special skills this day."

Young Jack, once known as Jonathan Birksley the Third of Derbyshire, England, an ensign in the 44th of Foot, much preferred his new name, He Who Shoots Far --- just as he also much preferred the company of his adopted Mohawk 'brothers' and his rough and tumble Ranger friends than the stuffy upper class snobs he once came from. Checking the prime in his fancy fusil, he grinned at the painted 'savage' beside him. "The honour, Tahnahani sachum, is all mine."

***

War, arguably one of three the favourite pastimes of mankind, (the other two being purely biological functions, often crudely referred to as F&F, or 'feeding & fucking'), truly is Hell on Earth.

After all, what is 'war' but one side trying to kill, maim and inflict as much terror and pain on the other side as possible. It started back in mankind's primordial past and will no doubt continue on into the distant and dubious future.

'Forest' warfare however, has the added 'bonus' of complete and utter chaos with total terror thrown in for good measure! The dense greenery and dark shadows make it impossible to see anything beyond the distance of your gun barrel; the ear-splitting sounds of guns, grunts, screams and the scrape of steel assault your ears like a demented blacksmith pounding on an anvil; your own heartbeat threatens to burst from your chest while at the same time your bowels rumble and belch like Vesuvius itself! At the same time your body shivers with cold while your hands are moist with sweat.

In your brain a battle of a different kind is also taking place. Your sense of 'right and wrong' or, 'honour or duty' wage war with the far more ancient code of survival at all costs! Self preservation is a 'Prime Directive' hardwired into our baser brain eons before mankind crawled up out of the slime. All the patriotic speeches, pretty promises and furious flag waving often come down to naught when faced with the hard, cold reality of a certain and very painful death.

Perhaps 'love' is the only other emotion strong enough to make us 'drive forward' when all our senses tell us to turn and run. Not 'love of ourselves', but love for something or someone beyond ourselves. A lover; a friend; a child, a parent --- even such an abstract idea as a group or a country or, Heaven help us, a 'belief'!

Regardless of 'why' we make war, the undeniable fact is that we do! And we do it on a regular basis! In the long and varied history of mankind, no other endeavour has taken up so much of our time, creativity, resources and human lives as 'grim visaged War'.

Perhaps too, that is why the majority of women hate it so; for the wanton waste of all the above mentioned reasons and, just perhaps, one reason more \---.they could be 'jealous' of it, for they both see with their eyes and feel with their hearts just how deeply some men become infatuated with it.

***

Young Jack truly loved war. Oh, it frightened him; made his heart race and his bowels loosen --- but once in the thick of things, both time and heart seemed to slow, his senses became sharper, his movements more fluid, even graceful.

Young Jack, you see, was finally in his element. An element not found while fox hunting with the Vicar or riding with the hounds back on daddy's estate. An element, deep and dark, found only when running with his two-legged pack as they hunted their two-legged prey!

After the first explosive volley, howling Mohawks converged on the surprised Hurons. Young Jack, laying aside his now empty firelock, drew his long scalping knife in one hand and his slender hatchet in the other and, like an eager young lover, went gladly forth into the swirling melee.  
The ageless 'Dance of Death' had begun.

***

"Shoots Far! Jack! Come back to us!" The voice seemed muffled and far away.

With a sudden start, Young Jack opened his eyes and tried to sit up. Something warm and sticky was in his right eye and tasted salty on his lips. Also his head hurt like a bastard!

"Be still, Jack!" the Voice said again, this time much clearer. Tahnahani's painted face swam before his one good eye. He was smiling. "Welcome back. I thought you were on your way to the Summer Lands for sure!"

"What --- ?"

"Happened?" Tahnahani injected. He held up a dark wooden warclub made from the twisted root of a tree.

"LaBlanc?!" Jack asked.

Tahnahani shrugged. "He is as slippery as that dog's pizzle Le Renard Cruel! They both left their men and ran for their lives. Heron and three others went after them. Perhaps they will find them, perhaps not. Right now we have to get you to the doctor at Crown Point. Your head needs sewing."

***

'A Wee Boat Ride'

"Three bloody days o' none-stop rowin'! " Harry grumbled as he plied the third of the five oars in the twenty-four foot whale boat. "I don't know what's sorer, me 'ands from rowin' or me arse from sittin'!"

"Or yer mouth from complainin'!" Allen shot back from his place up by the swivel gun.

"Count yerself lucky, Harry lad," Steve said from his position just ahead of Harry at the fourth oar: "that yer not with those poor buggers in Stark's company! Ta Maj'r sent them down ta Fort Four ta cut a road back up ta Crown Point! Poor bastards'll be swingin' axes fer a month or more!"

"Quiet back there," Putney Smyth called out from his place in the bow. "And Harry, do try and keep in stroke with the other chaps. We're falling behind the flotilla again."

Nearly two dozen boats with over two hundred men had left Crown Point three nights earlier. Hiding the boats ashore during the day and travelling at night had allowed them so far to stay undetected by the many French bateaux that constantly patrolled this northern section of the lake. Major Rogers boat was somewhere up ahead in the lead while Putney's had been assigned the last and honoured place as rear guard. The half moon had risen some time ago and now turned the lake's limpid waters in a ghostly, silvery world of light and dancing shadow.

"Excuse me, Captain sir," moaned Albert Fitch up front with the fifth oar, a pained expression on his drawn face; "but I'm afraid I have to have yet another bowel movement!"

Putney breathed deeply and sighed. These Rangers were the best fighting men he had ever seen; loyal, dependable and true, but when not fighting, most times they acted like a gang of misbehaving adolescents! Albert Fitch, the latest to join Putney's inner circle of 'band of brothers', he had thought a cut or two above the norm. He had been counting on Albert along with his aid, Raphael Swann, both highly educated men, to 'set the bar' for gentlemanly behaviour and proper comportment \--- however the only 'bar' seemed to be the omnipresent jugs of rum that the Rangers carried with them and that Alan MacFarlane presided over!

"I do beg your pardon Sir," Albert went on, his face now contorted into a mask of pain in the pale moonlight: "but it is most imperative that I relieve myself forthwith -- or I fear there shall be a mishap right here in the craft!"

"Ya have to have another shit?" Alan quipped from up by the brass swivel. "I always knew ya were full of it, but JEEESUS Albert!"

"It's those damned peppers Steve puts in everything!" Albert barked. "Who ever heard of peppers in porridge for Christ's sake?!"

"Didn't have no sugar left," Steve rumbled. "Porridge tastes like dog puke without somethin' in it!"

"Not bloody peppers!" Albert shot back, then, turning, he once again pleaded with his none-too-happy captain. "Sir, I beg you, please have pity on a suffering soul!"

"Oh, very well! Corporal Tarvel! Be so good as to set us ashore once again! We seem to have another 'gastronomical emergency'.

"Right you are, sor!" Corporal Jack Tarvel called from his place at the steering oar. Both he and Private Dobson Tanner had been transferred over from Sheppard's Company of Rangers just before they left Crown Point.

"I'll put 'er in by that little crick ,sor," Tarvel grinned. "Nice spot with plenty o' handy bushes close by."

The men chuckled at this, adding to Albert's growing discomfort.

***

The whaleboats the Rangers were using were made of lightweight cedar planks, pointed at both bow and stern and between twenty and thirty feet long. Each one was equipped with five or more rowing stations, a portable mast for 'running before the wind', a steering oar instead of a rudder at the stern and brass swivel gun mounted on the bow that could fire either a led ball the size of a lemon or a handful of musket balls. Whaleboats were faster, lighter and far more manoeuvrable than the bigger, heavier, thick planked 'bateaux' that were the workhorse of the New World's limitless waterways.

They were however absolutely no match for the fifty some odd foot, multi gunned two-masted French sloop that suddenly appeared out of the shadows and opened fire on the distant, strung out flotilla of Ranger whaleboats.

Four of what sounded like six pounders let go a broadside at the strung out line of Ranger laden craft. The French sloop had cut between the flotilla and Putney's lagging beached boat and was swinging around to rake the rear of the flotilla with the guns on its other side. Return fire from muskets and several small brass swivel guns came from the distant Rangers, but would be like a flock of sparrows pecking away at an attacking hawk.

"Back into the boat!" Putney yelled at the bushes.

Harry, Swanny and one of the new men, Private Dobson Tanner, emerged from behind various trees and shrubs, all three hastily doing up breaches and adjusting gear. In true Ranger fashion, these three had not wasted an opportunity to relieve themselves when Albert had been quickly put ashore.

"Where's Albert!" Angus called out. With Lemuel Higgins still recovering from his wounds at Crown Point, Angus had been temporarily promoted as sergeant for the duration of this outing.

"Still in ta bloody bushes, Angus --- I mean, ser'gnt! Harry replied "Poor bastards got ta trots right proper 'e 'as!"

The second broadside swept the rapidly disappearing flotilla. The peal of the heavy guns rolled away like thunder in the night, the streaks of flame like belching dragons.

"Albert's over here near me, Angus!" Swanny shouted through the din.

"Well drag ta daft bugger out here now!" Angus bellowed. The three quickly did as they were ordered and soon a bare-assed Albert was back on board.

"It's a Frog sloop, sir!" Alan, pointing at the large two masted shadow some hundred yards ahead, turned and patted the brass swivel gun mounted on the boats bow. "Get me close enough, sir, n' I'll sweep their stern with grapeshot!"

Putney's large horse teeth showed as he jutted out his angular jaw. "Need a tad more than grapeshot for that brute, old boy. But I will trouble you for that jug you have in your pack."

Alan frowned. "By the mass, sir, I like a drink as well as the next man, but do ye think that 'the now' be ta right time?!"

"Oh, I'm not going to drink it, Allen --- I'm going to throw it." With that Putney leaned back and plucked the dirty red headscarf off Steve's unruly locks. Then, uncorking the crock, he stuffed half the silk scarf into the neck, leaving the other end dangling like a hound's tongue. "Anyone of you chaps have a light?"

***

The five oars bent as the rowers strained to catch up with the fast fading sloop. The Ranger flotilla itself was reduced to a far off string of silver in the shadowy moonlight. While the oarsmen leaned into their work and Allen double charged his small cannon, Swanny repeatedly struck flint and steel in a desperate attempt to light the brandy soaked 'wick' that Steve's headscarf had become.

"Closer Corporal Tarvel," Captain Smyth called back to the moonlit steersman. "Bring us right up under her stern."

"You mean ta toss that up on deck do ya, sor?" Harry gasped, panting as he rowed.

"I do indeed, Harry. N' let's hope I haven't lost all my cricket skills, eh what?!"

While the French sloop continued to tack back and forth firing at the strung out line of bateaux, Putney's smaller craft rowed up to its stern and tossed the lit 'cocktail' up onto the main deck. There was a slight smashing sound, followed by a deep 'whoooomph'!

Instantly the silvery-blueness of the night was turned to brilliant orange and yellows as the hungry flames licked their eager way up the tarred ropes and sun-dried sails. As Alan's dearly loved spirits soaked the aged wood and seeped into tiny cracks and hemp calking, the entire vessel seemed to take on an inner glow as a golden light blazed forth much like a candle set in a window to welcome home a long gone friend.

Then the flames reached the powder magazine and the entire ship gave one giant cough and exploded into smithereens! Burning bits of ship and bodies flew hither and yon; tiny motes of burning canvas and great searing swatches of flaming sail blew upwards, outwards and, inevitably, downwards; to hiss and sizzle as the dancing flames and burning embers met the moon-kissed waves.

***

"Jesus, Joseph n' Mary, sir!" Alan exclaimed as he stood poised to touch his glowing linstock to his small cannon. "You sure blew that bunch o' snail-suckers ta Hell!"

"Indeed, Alan," Putney managed coolly, though his palms were wet and his heart was pounding. "It would appear so."

Corporal Tarvel steered the boat on through the wreckage of burning wood and floating bodies. Here and there someone called out or was seen swimming for shore, but the corporal kept his course and soon caught up to the Ranger flotilla

"Smyth?!" a familiar voice called out. "That you Smyth?"

"In the flesh, sir!" Putney called out as his boat came alongside the Major's. Rogers nodded at the smouldering hulk that had just moments ago been a fine, French sloop.

"That your handiwork?"

"T'was a team effort, sir. I but supplied the arm. McFarlane here supplied the wherewithal, along with Private Smith's scarf for a wick."

"My best scarf too!" Steve muttered beneath his breath.

"My best jug as well!" Alan said none too quietly.

Rogers smiled at the tall Scot. "Well, I'll see you lads get a whole case to celebrate with when we get back from this little jaunt, but for now it's back to rowing. Your little firework display will draw the Frenchies like moths to a flame --- n' that one hellova big flame you lads lit back there!" Rogers raised his voice for all to hear. "To oars men, you've had yer rest for the night! I want to be in Misisquey Bay by sunrise!

***

A Little Walk To Stretch The Legs

Shortly after sunrise they landed at Misaquay Bay, the northern end of Lake Champlain. The seven Rangers killed by the French sloop's cannon were buried ashore in unmarked graves and two boats were sent back with the wounded. The remaining boats were pulled out of the water and covered with brush and cut pine bows. Rogers left four of his Stockbridge natives behind on a distant hill to watch over the boats and extra supplies. If the boats were discovered they were under strict orders to immediately bring him word. After checking their gear and a hasty 'meal' of hardtack and dried corn, Rogers led the one hundred and eighty three remaining men eastwards into a mid September rainstorm. Eight hours later, the cold, wet, hungry and very tired group made a camp on the edge of a mosquito infested swamp.

Sitting round a smoky fire of wet wood in the drizzling rain, Putney's 'Band of Brothers' did what they did best, (other than fighting or drinking) \--- they bitched n' complained.

"My feet are killin' me!' Steve rumbled. "Bloody deerhide mocs get slippery as a snot-covered eel when wet!"

"You should try these fuckin' army shoes!" Harry put in. "Pinch like a bastard n' the damn sole's already comin' off!"

"Jeesus, boys!" Allen grinned. "First its yer asses, now its yer bloody feet. If you two had wings you'd probably bitch about yer goddamned feathers!"

"I seed you limpin' thar a whiles back!" Steve growled.

"Just stubbed my toe is all," Allen replied. "Once I get my wind, I'm good ta go!"

"Good fer nuthin's more like it," Steve grinned, his natural good nature overriding his sore feet and grumpiness. He'd taken off his soaked moccasins and was massaging his feet gone fish-belly white after hours of walking in water.

After passing round both the bag of dried corn, dried jerky and ever-present jug, most made ready to bed down for the night. Angus cut some fresh pine bows for a 'bed' on the soggy ground, laid down his damp blanket, then dug out his battered clay pipe and began to fill the bowl.

"Got any spare 'baccy' fer a feller Ranger?" a strange voice said out of the purple blackness of the fast falling night.

His free hand on the hilt of his dirk, Angus looked around for the speaker. He emerged like a swift moving mountain out of the deepening shadow. Tall, wide, heavy and muscular, the grinning form advanced on Angus like a silent avalanche. A meaty paw was out-thrust, offering friendship. The round face behind it seemed to offer the same.

"Josh Vingler be my name," the mountain rumbled, the small eyes in the large head catching the fire's light. "You be Angus McCaw, if I aint mistaken?"

"You be right there, friend, though I don't recall meetin' you before."

"That's 'cause we aint!" the large apparition said, his voice sounding like the grinding of rocks. "But I hear'd tell o' ye. Yer da lucky bastard dat Etienne LaBlanc's been tryin' ta kill fer some time now."

"I knew a LaBlanc once," Angus said cautiously. "Up Oswego ways."

"Dat'd be Samuel LaBlanc, Etienne's older brudder. Da one you shot, so ta story I heard goes. Mean bastards da pair ov'em, but Etienne be da smart one."

"N just how would you be knowin' that?"

The mountain descended on a fallen log. Though half sunk in the soggy ground, the log sunk deeper. "I ran wid da bastard a few years back. Nastiest piece o' shit ever scraped of'n a boot!"

Angus smiled, instantly liking this grinning giant with the winning smile. "I take it that you were none too fond of the Brothers LaBlanc?"

The mountain shrugged. "Jacque ain't half bad. He's a big bugger like me, but dumb as a post. He's up in Montreal someplace doin' time fer killin' some rich bastard. Rich bastards always get ya in trouble. 'Backy?"

Angus handed over his tobacco pouch, a gift from his 'blood brother', Tahnahani. It was a beautiful thing of soft tanned deer hide and decorated with beads by Tahnahani's little sister, Morning Dove. The large newcomer's meaty paw took it reverently.

"Nice lookin' pouch. Injun work?"

Angus nodded, thinking of the small, delicate hands that had made it. Morning Dove had been creeping into his thoughts more and more of late.

"Don't hold much wid Injun truck myself," the mountain rumbled, filling his own pipe then handing back the pouch. "Not since ta red bastards killed my folks n' half my kin."

"Where was this?" Angus asked, at the same time striking a light from his tinderbox.

"Up da Mohawk, past German Flats. Us Vingler's been up dere fer years, dough aint many of us left dere now."

Both men lit their pipes and smoked in silence as the night closed in all around them. Suddenly then the mountain rumbled again. "I trapped furs one winter wid da LaBlancs. All tree ov'em. Samuel was a nasty piece o' work n' Etienne's twice as bad, but I got along alright wid Jacques. He's fine as long as ya don't rile him up."

Angus drew on his pipe "You have a fallin' out with them brothers over somethin'?"

This time the mountain chuckled. "Jaa! Ya might say dat. Da slimy bastard Etienne tried to cheat me! Pulled a knife n' was fixin' to do me in!"

"And?"

"And I broke da bastard's jaw! Laid da thievin' little sonovabitch out cold! I had a mind to shove his knife up his ass, but Samuel had a pistol on him. He was always right handy wid a pistol was Samuel."

"Not 'handy' enough," Angus put in dryly.

This time the mountain's chuckle threatened to become a roar. "Haaaaa! By gott im hemmil, yer right dere Angus McCaw! Ol' Samuel musta been off his feed dat day up dere in Oswager when he drew down on you!"

"It was a close run thing," Angus admitted.

"I hear some fancy feller caught da ball meant fer you?"

"Something like that." Angus decided to change the subject. "What company you with?"

"Speakman's. But most o' dem went up ta Qwee-bec."

"But not you?"

"I aint got notin' again no Frenchmen. Injun's now be 'nother ting altogeder! I plan ta kill me every red sonovabitch I see! When I heard tell ta Major was 'ceptin' transfers ta go huntin' Abnaki bastards, I up n' moseyed right on over "

"Well, Joshua Vingler from German Flats," Angus said evenly, fixing the big man with a serious stare "yer welcome to share my tobacco n' my fire, but I'll tell ya right now that I don't share your feelings 'bout the Natives. There be some mighty fine 'red Injuns' as you call them out there. Brave, honest n' truer than a lotta white folks I've met! Some of my best friends are Mohawks. So if we're to be friends, you best be knowing where I stand from ta start."

This time the mountain remained silent. Then, suddenly the huge paw shot out and gripped Angus by the shoulder. The Scot's right hand was on the hilt of his dirk before he realized that the buffets he was receiving on his back were meant to be gentle pats of friendship.

"By gott, I heard you were an Injun lover, but I scarce believed it! Most fellers don't cross me when I get to rantin' on 'bout ta red bastards --- but gott im hemmil, McCaw, you got more sand dan most! Heard 'dat' 'bout ya too!"

The friendly pats continued and Angus felt his teeth rattle. "You n' me'll take care o' dat back-stabbin', fur-stealin' Etienne LaBlanc bastard soon as we get back from dis little Abnaki hunt. Now, how 'bout anoder pinch o' dat 'backy o' yern before we turn in?"

***

"Anyone know why n' hell we're always marchin' through a bloody goddamned swamp?" Steve grumbled as they waded knee deep in the brackish water. Clouds of flies and mosquitoes buzzed around them in the mid September sunshine.

"Aint a whole hellova lot up here but swamp!" replied Abel Watson, another Ranger that had 'transferred in' to go 'Abnaki hunting'. Abel was an averaged sized man of slight build with a greying beard. Rumour had it that he had once been a priest or vicar or something up near the Canadian border. Rumour went on to say that his church had been burnt in an Abnaki raid and that Abel now felt that God had set him on a mission to 'chastise the heathen'. When asked about it, the mild spoken man would just smile and say that 'God did indeed work in mysterious ways'. True or not, Angus and his longtime mates found 'Father Abe', (as the other Rangers often referred to him), to be an honest man and a likeable fellow, and as the long, hard march northwards progressed, Abel Watson, Dobson Tanner and Corporal Jack Tarvel, along with the always jovial rumbling mountain, Joshua Vingler, were added to Putney Smyth's ever growing 'Band of Brothers'.

"Damndest place I ever seed!" Steve continued. "Taint forest n' taint fields! Nothin' but scrub bushes n' bloody water!"

Raphael Swann, trudging along in Steve's considerable wake, chimed in. "The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. "

"Who ta hell said that load o' shite?" Steve demanded. "That Shake-His-Spear feller you n' ta Major are always re-ses-i- ta-tin'?!"

Raphael, browner and leaner than he's ever been in his life, grinned back. "It's from Genesis I believe".

"Ya? He a navy feller?

"A fisherman of a sort," Raphael smiled, winking at Angus walking close by.

"I know'd a poem once," Steve said. "My sister learnt me it. Went like this:

'Roses 'r red, vi'lits 'r blue, sugar's sweet.

What ta hell happened ta you?!"

Tall Alan MacFarlane waded up alongside Steve and slapped him good naturedly on his dripping pack. "N' just who'd ya whisper that sweet nothin' to, Stevie? Yer gal Thelma back at the church?"

Steve's eyes narrowed and his bearded face went beet red. "I done told you, Alan, that Thelma aint my gal!"

"I met a gal at church one time," Josh the Mountain put in wistfully. "Katrina VonFrinklegarten, da miller's daughter back in German Flats. Blue eyes like da sky n' hair like yeller corn."

Alan winked at Harry. "You go courtin' this yeller haired Katrina, Josh?"

The large young man looked shocked. "Me? Court Katrina VonFrinklegarten?! Why, she'd not give a big oaf like me da time o' day!

"Hmmm," Alan grunted. "Stuck up little bitch, is she?"

Josh blinked his small eyes in his large face, visibly deciding what to make of Alan's remark. Apparently he decided he was none too fond of it, for suddenly his meaty hand closed around the upper front of Alan's shirt and the tall Scott found himself actually lifted several inches off the ground. Josh's smallish eyes had narrowed to mere slits in his red face. His cheeks were puffed out with the effort of lifting Allen one handed and he was breathing like a blacksmith's bellows.

"Josh!" Angus called out from several yards back down the line. "Put him down right now!"

Mount Wingler rumbled some, shook a startled Alan MacFarlane like a wet dog, then casually tossed him aside. Alan landed on 'Father Abe' who was knocked into Raphael who, on his way down, clutched Steve's shot pouch strap and dragged him down into the dark waters of the swamp. All four men floundered around, cursing and swearing as the brackish water streamed off them.

"Sorry, Angus, fer casusin' such a ruckus," Josh rumbled, still red faced and breathing hard. "But Alan should not o' called Katrina no bitch! She's da flower o' womanhood n' once I make my fortune, I plan ta go back to German Flats n' marry her!"

"IF you ever get home," a very wet and red faced Alan shouted; "who says she won't already be married, you big, dumb bullock?!".

Josh seemed to ponder that for several heartbeats, then he shrugged, smiled and offered Alan his huge hand. "She'll be waitin' fer me, Alan. I just know it."

Taking the offered paw, Alan hauled himself up out of the primordial ooze and checked to see that his precious jug was still intact. Satisfied, he took a long pull, then offered it to Josh. "N' just how do you 'know' she'll be waitin' fer ya? You give her a ring or somethin?"

"Last time I saw her, at da church social just before I left, she smiled at me."

"Smiled at ya?! Jeesus H. Kee-riste, lad, she 'smiled' at ya?!"

"Jaa!" Josh grinned.

Alan took a deep breath, shoot his head like a wet dog, followed by another pull on the jug. "Hell, then, if she 'smiled' at ya I guess yer as good as engaged! Here lads," he said, offering the other three drowned looking rats the jug. "Let's have a drink to the groom n' his smilin' bride!"

***

Etienne LaBlanc looked at the effeminate looking French officer, Captain Jean-Louis Dumas, and spat. 'Bloody bum thumper can't make up his mind to follow les maudit englais or run home!' he thought scornfully to himself. 'Merd for brains et sans balls!'

He and Fox had joined their motley crew of dozen odd renegade Hurons and excommunicated Quebec-born Frenchmen to Dumas's four hundred French troups out of Montreal. They had been sent by that other limp-wristed bum-bumper, Governor Vaudreuil himself, to chase, capture and harry any and all maudit englais they could find in the northern part of Lac Champlain.

Just yesterday some of Fox's scouts had come across a dozen whaleboats hidden on the eastern bank of Misisquey Bay. Though it had been raining off and on for days, enough men had disembarked and headed eastward to leave a muddy trail that even an effeminate corn-holler like Dumas could follow.

But what did the fair haired boy-lover do? Sit on his well tailored ass and drink cognac! To make things worse, the lisping fool wouldn't even share any!

"Bones of Christ, Fox! But dis well dressed bum-boy is drivin' me mads!" Etienne growled at his some-time partner in crime.

Fox looked back at the bearded half-breed he both disliked yet respected. Water from yet another day's drizzle streamed off his tattooed, angular face. "I'm thinking, 'Tienne, that the drive would not be a very long one."

Etienne LaBlanc's hard eyes became harder and his hand went to the long, wicked scalping knife at his side. "You make sports of me now, mon ami? Maybe I carve a new smile in dat ugly face of yours!"

"Maybe. Maybe not," Fox said calmly "Maybe it is you that bleeds out in the muddy waters."

Etienne's hand tightened on the stag handled grip, them abruptly fell away. He knew full well that most men he threatened would tremble with fear, but Le Renard Cruel was not one of them. Besides, only five of the dozen renegades with him were French, and even some of them might side with the bloody Huron!

Etienne forced his hand away from his knife and a smile on his bearded face. "But come, mon ami, let us not quarrel over noting! Da boy-loving captain 'commands' ici! Let us hear his words of wisdoms on da matter."

He then turned to Dumas and switched from his broken English/Huron to surprisingly eloquent French. "Mon brave Cap-i-tan! What 'dey-sees-sion' have you finally arrived at? Will we, like foolish schoolgirls, take these English boats back to our French Father Vaudreuil, or, like real men, follow after the enemy and destroy them?!

Dumas fixed the smelly creature with his most disdainful stare, one he believed to be completely lost on the ignorant peasant before him. "I've told you before about your 'tone', LaBlanc, and the 'way' in which you address me and my fellow officers. If your comportment does not improve drastically, then I will have no choice but to write of your insubordination in my reports to the governor."

LaBlanc's hairy face split into a mocking grin and his voice dripped sarcasm. "I tremble at the very thought of it, mon cap-t-ain. But I still humbly ask, do we run towards or away from the enemy?"

Dumas conjured up a smile of his own "We shall do both, my dear LaBlanc. Half of my men, under Lieutenant Dube, will take the English boats back to Montreal. The other half, the more 'virile' half, under my command, will pursue the enemy. You and your 'painted fellows' will go ahead as scouts. We leave at first light and I shall expect hourly reports. That is all."

As Etienne turned to go, Dumas addressed him once more --- this time in perfect English. "That is, of course, if the plans of an over dressed boy-lover like myself meets with your approval?"

The two men locked stares and each held the other's gaze. In the end, like all bullies, it was LaBlanc that grinned sheepishly and turned away.

***

High on a nearby hill several Mohawks watched as half the large French force rowed the Ranger's whaleboats northward while the other half followed along the trail that Roger's and his men had taken just two days before. Wordlessly gathering up their few belongings, they began the long dog-trot that would let them outstrip the French and bring the news to Wobi-Madanondo that the hated Francais had found his boats and were hot on his trail.

***

"That settles it then lads," Rogers said to the gathered crowd of Rangers four days later. "Stone Bull here says that the bastard French have found our boats n' are after us like hounds on a hare! Looks like we'll have to skip a few hot meals and outdistance the buggers!"

"Skip a few 'ot meals 'e says!" Harry grumbled. " 'Ells bells! We aint 'ad an 'ot drop o' tea since we started swimmin' cross these bloody swamps!"

"Could be worse, friend," quiet Corporal Jack Tarvel put in with a smile. "At least we got plenty of water to drink." ('Corporal Jack' was fast become known for his very 'dry sense of humour' --- pun intended.)

"Water's the one bloody thing we got too much of!" Harry countered. "I was an 'ell ova lot drier in that leaky whaleboat!"

Suddenly Rogers himself was standing alongside the group. "It won't be long now, lads!" he said with that infectious grin of his. "Once we loose these French bastards that are followin' us, we can shoot a deer or two n' grill 'em over a nice hot fire. Then, Harry me boy, you can brew us both a pot o' tea. But remember, I like mine with a touch of molasses!"

"Aint got no Molasses, Major," Harry replied. "No dry tea nor 'ot fire neither! What I do 'ave is feet so tender n' fish-belly white that their 'bout to grow scales!"

Rogers laughed deeply as though Harry's complaint was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "The land's risin' some up ahead, boys. We'll soon be high n' dry!"

"How long till we can light a fire, Major?" Dobson Tanner asked. "My musket's full o' water n' needs drying out real bad."

Rogers dug in his shooting pouch and came up with a semi-dry rag. "Clean yer lock with this, Dob, n' sling her barrel down over your shoulder. We'll have fires for tea n' toast in a day or two. Soon as we loose those Frenchies followin' us."

"Ya want some o' us ta stay back n' set up a little welcome party for those fellers, Major?" Corporal Jack asked. "Me, Mountain n' ol' Dob here have done it a time or two 'afore this."

Rogers smile turned to a frown. "You volunteerin', Corporal?"

Jack Tarvel spit a squirt of chewing tobacco into the already brown water. "Reckon so."

"N' you've done this before?" Rogers asked.

"Aye-ya."

"How many men will you need?"

"Dozen or so."

Rogers turned to Angus. "Where's Captain Smyth?"

"Up ahead somewhere, Major. Went to see that ol' school chum of his, Lieutenant Pinkerton."

"Pinkie Pinkerton?!" Rogers grinned, the familiar sparkle once again in his green eyes. "Hell ova good man --- for a Brit! Send someone to get them both. As of right now Smyth's whole squad, includin' Pinkie, Corporal Tarvel here n' his two friends, are to set up a delaying action. But don't sit n' wait for the bastards! You hear me, Angus. Don't let Smyth do anything heroic! Just tag along a half mile or so behind our main group. Do NOT stand and fight! Fire and retire. Go ten or twelve steps, turn, fire n' retire Two groups. One always loaded. Just fire n pull back. If they charge, melt away, reform and start again. Clear?

"Clear," Angus said, both eager yet worried at the same time. Eager and worried, but not frightened. He'd done this many times before, only before there was always Sergeant Lem there to keep the men steady. Now that job fell to him and he briefly wondered if he was up to the task. Corporal Jack seemed like a steady man, as did Dobson Tanner n' Mountain Vingler. Alan and the others he knew he could count on.

"What ho, lads?" Putney Smyth's nasally voice cut through his thoughts. "Raphael here tells me we're to have a little sport. Slow down the Hun, eh what? Capital!" Putney turned to his old school chum, Lieutenant Reginald Samuel 'Pinkie' Pinkerton of His Majesty's Royal Dragoons, second son of Lord Henry Pinkerton, the thirteenth Earl of Derbyshire. "Pinkie, old man! Are you up to a we tussle with the snail eaters n' their painted minions?"

Pinki, his handsome face now dirty and bearded, split into a boyish grin. Dressed in wet, filthy clothes, he struck a pose, jutted out his whiskery chin and boldly declared. "Bring the rascals on, Puttie old boy. We'll give the blighters a sound drubbing just like we did on the cricket field! Bugger me if we don't!"

"Oh, jolly good!" one of the Rangers said in a mock upper-class British accent. The rest chuckled and looked to their weapons.

***

'Drub the Blighters Soundly'

"See anythin'?" Steve asked the man to his right.

Alan shook his head.

"Hear anythin'?" Steve asked the man to his left.

Harry shook his head.

"Goddamnit!" Steve rumbled. "You bastards 'smell' anythin'?!"

Alan smiled back. "Ya, you. Or maybe Harry. Yer both pretty ripe."

Before either of the witty woodsmen could come up with a reply, Alan's head swung round and his gazed fixed on their backtrail. They'd been leap-frogging from one bit of 'good ground' to another as they followed along a good half mile or so behind Roger's main group. Time after time one team of six men had waited till the other six man team had moved on and found a similar piece of 'good ground' from which to both observe their backtrail and give any needed supporting fire to the other team as they retreated from the as yet unseen enemy.

So far, however, their had been no sign at all of that 'unseen enemy' --- till now.

"What is it?" Harry asked. "Ta French?!"

"Taint the Spanish", Alan quipped.

Steve looked puzzled. "What would Spanish fellas be doin' way up here? I thought they was all back in Spain."

" 'Ow many?" Harry asked, moving cautiously towards a large cedar. Just as he stepped behind the tree, an arrow sank deep into the trunk only a handspan away from his head.

Seconds of silence slid by.

" 'Pears to be only one \--- so far," Alan casually remarked "Probably waitin' for his pals to catch up."

"Either that or 'e's tryin' ta flank our asses!" Harry grunted from the deep shadows behind the tree. "What's the Captain n' Swanny doin' back there on our left?"

"Keepin' their heads down like you should of!" Allen replied. "Now ta bastards know where we're at!"

"You said there was only one!" Harry said indignantly.

Suddenly Allen stepped out into the open, gobbled like a turkey, then stepped back. An instant later another arrow slammed into the trunk of his tree. "Yep, just one."

"What ya do that for?!" Harry demanded?

Alan shrugged. "Wanted to see if the bastard had moved. 'Pears he aint. Nobody's joined him yet, either."

"N' just 'ow ya know that?"

Another shrug. "One arrow at a time n; from the same direction. He's still there n' he's alone."

"The Spanish fella?" Steve asked.

Alan's smile widened. "Ya, Steve --- ta Spanish fella. Little fella. Named Ho-Say!"

"What'll we do now?" Harry asked.

"Wait till Stevie n' me get ready, then you jump out like I did. We'll pick the bugger off when he goes to shoot."

Harry's head emerged from the shadows. "Why me jump out? Why not you jump n' I shoot?"

" 'Cause I'm a better shot than you."

"Am not!"

"Am too!"

"Am bloody well not!" Harry said heatedly.

"He is, Harry," Steve put in from behind his own tree. "He's better than me too. He aint near as good as Young Jack, but he's better than you n' me."

"Then you jump ta 'ell out n' I'll shoot ta bugger!"

"Naw," Steve said, shaking his shaggy locks. "Yer a lot smaller than me n' a fair bit more spry. Besides, it's just some little Spanish feller named Ho-Say n' he's already missed twice. Only Injuns 're good with arrers."

"Oh for Christ sake!" Harry cut in. "Get bloody ready n' tell me when ta jump!"

***

Le Renard Cruel moved silently up to the young brave he had sent on ahead to scout. The youth was Kicking Rabbit, his second wife's sister's child. He wasn't too bright, but he was eager to please his famous 'uncle', a good tracker and very good with a bow and arrow. At a time when most young braves hungered for a White-Eye's flintlock musket, Kicking Rabbit continued to us his bow. Cruel Fox, though he used one of the much coveted light French fusils himself, wished that more braves still used a bow. There were times when a musket was just far too noisy for his line of work.

"What have you found, Rabbit?"

The gangly youth, shaven headed save for a long scalplock, his lean body covered with a mixture of charcoal and bear grease, grinned back at his hero. "Revered Uncle," he replied in Huron, "I have three of the White-Eye Rangers treed on that small hill!"

The 'hill' was little more than a slight rise in the cedar swamp that stretched away all around them. Fox looked out, but could see nothing --- then, suddenly, a Ranger jumped out into the open, made a pathetic attempt to imitate a turkey, and jumped back. Before he could stop him, Rabbit had raised himself up, bent his bow and let fly an arrow. At the same time first one shot, then another was fired from the low hill. The distance being less than fifty yards, and the two shooters obviously using a combination of 'buck & ball' (a large musket ball and several smaller pistol balls on top), tore up the tree trunk that both Natives had been using for cover.

One large ball slammed into the trunk close by Fox's head, showering him with bark and wood chips. Another smaller ball grazed his right calf and made a hole in his leather legging. Yet another small ball struck the curved stock of his fusil and knocked the musket from his hand.

His wounds were slight however when compared to Rabbit's. The youth lay crumpled at the base of the tree. Half submerged in the swampy water, he legs kicking as his life's blood welled out from the gaping wound in his throat. Giving one last gasp, his legs churning the muddy water, Kicking Rabbit kicked one last time, stiffened, then slowly slipped beneath the dark surface.

Wasting no time in grieving over yet another of his kin killed by the hated 'Rangers', Fox retrieved his fallen musket, noting the crack and the imbedded pistol ball in the stock. Unable to fire his wet weapon, he shook the dripping musket above his head and let out an ear-piercing war hoop, then quickly vanished back the way he had come.

***

"What the duce was all that about?" Putney asked as the three Rangers joined his three and they all moved back towards the second squad's position. Angus came forward to greet them and hear the news

"Just an advanced scout," Alan reported.

"Ya," Harry put in. 'Shootin' arrers like a bastard!"

"Might o' been a Spanish feller," Steve added.

"Spanish?" Putney repeated.

Steve shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Putney, used to Steve's often strange points of view, turned back to the more practical Alan. "How many?'

"Only one at first. Then another bugger joined him"

"Did you get them both?" Angus asked.

Alan shook his head. "Only one. Harry missed his", he added with a grin.

Before the hot headed little Englishman could reply, Putney motioned them all to silence. "So we've made contact with the enemy at last. Good! We must now be extra vigilant, for the Beast will be hungry for blood! Let's away \--- but softly!"

As all twelve men moved off to seek out yet another place of 'good ground from which to watch', Steve muttered to Albert. "First it's ta bloody Injuns n' ta snail-suckin' French! Then some arrer shootin' Spanish fella; n' now we got some kind o' blood drinkin' 'beast' chasin' us! I tell ya Albert, so far I aint too over fond o' this here trip!"

"Cheer up, Stevie," Albert teased. "It's all up hill from here!"

***

"How many of da bastards were dere?!" Etienne demanded.

Fox shrugged, his calloused fingers moving over the embedded ball in his musket's stock, then, seemingly on their own, along the smooth surface of Kicking Rabbit's bow. Both the bow and the body had been retrieved. The body now lay tied in the branches of a large cedar, the bow and quiver of arrows Fox had claimed as his own. He had already vowed to kill three Rangers for every arrow that remained of his nephew's favourite weapon.

"A least three Rangers. Maybe more. Are you ready? I want to catch these White-Eyes before the sun sets. My cousin's spirit will not rest till blood is spilled for blood!"

LaBlanc moved his musket into the crook of his arm and grinned wolfishly. He'd already checked the prime in his long gun and the brace of pistols he carried in his sash. "Just waitin' on you, Fox!"

Wordlessly Le Renard Cruel led his dozen Huron along the Ranger's trail. LaBlanc spit out a gob of chewing tobacco and motioned for his half dozen renegade Canadians to follow. 'With any luck,' he thought to himself. 'One of those bastards up ahead will tell me where to find the hated Ang-gus Ma-Caw!'

***

Angus signalled for his group to stop.

"What's wrong, sergeant?" Putney asked. "You see something?"

Angus grinned. "Yes, sir. A damned good place to lay an ambush!"

Putney frowned. "You heard the Major's orders, sergeant. He specifically ordered us NOT to wait behind, but to engage a moving rear guard action at all times."

"Captain, you know as well as I do that if we keep leap-froggin' our way back like this, those bastards will either circle round n' hit us from the side or worse yet, scoot on by us n' hit the rear of the main party."

"And your solution to this rather thorny problem?" Putney asked.

"The land rises up yonder. Looks to lead into a kind o' treed valley o' sorts. Those following us will have to pass through it or wade hip deep in ta swamp all around it. I say they'll take the high ground n' we can be waitin' for 'em."

"Capital idea, old boy!" Lieutenant Pinkie Pinkerton put in. "It'll give us a chance to dry off ourselves n' still drub the blighters soundly, eh what? Fish in a barrel n' all that!"

Putney eyed the rest of the filthy, sodden Rangers. "Anyone else have a comment? It seems I'm taking a bloody pole! Corporal Tarvel?"

"Sir?"

"Your ideas man --- about setting up an ambush!"

"Oh --- whatever you say, sir."

"Bloody hell! Anyone else?" Putney demanded.

Joshua Vingler cleared his throat

" 'Winger' is it?" Putney asked.

"Vingler, sir --- with an 'L'.

"Well, Vingler with an 'L', what do you think of this ambush idea?

"I tink it's a damned good one, sir! I don't much like runnin' away from dese murderin' bastards. I came her ta kill 'em, not run from 'em!"

"Jolly well said, old man!" Pinkie grinned, offering the towering mountain of a man a drink from his silver flask. It looked like a thimble in Josh's big paw.

"Anyone else?" Putney asked again. "Harry? Alan? Steven?"

Surprisingly Steve blushed. "Wall, I agree with ta rest. Let's bash ta bastards when we can. N' even if they don't come over ta high ground, we can still hit them on their flank as they wade round our hill."

Putney cocked his head to one side, his eyebrow raised in surprise. "Excellent reasoning there, Steven! You are becoming quite the tactician!"

Steve's blush deepened. "Don't know nothin' 'bout no 'tax', Maj'r, but I done a lot o' squirrel huntin'. Gotta think fast ifn' ya wanna outfox ta little bastards!"

"Well, Steven, lets about it, shall we?! Your 'squirrels' are probably hot on our trail even as we speak!"

Grinning like the magnificent fools they were, the dozen Rangers rushed forward to prepare their little 'surprise'.

***

"N' you think they'll all have pulled back to the main group?" Fox asked LaBlanc.

"Maybe not all da way, but now dat they know someone is followin' dem, dey will not stay too far from der main group."

"There's no ambush then?" Fox asked again.

"No," LaBlanc answered, trying his best to seem more sure than he felt. 'Ya never can tell with bloody Rangers!' he thought. 'Bastards don't do nuthin' they should!'

Fox pointed with his dead nephew's bow at the rising land ahead. "Best go around that. Good place for ambush."

LaBlanc snorted laughter and pushed past the Huron warchief. "You gettin' womanish on me, Fox, or just old?"

Stung by the half-breed's cutting remark, Fox surged forward, leaving a dirty brown wake in the knee deep water. LaBlanc, not one to be outdone by an ignorant savage, moved quickly to catch up. Both the Canadians and the Hurons, seeing their leaders heading for higher and drier ground, grinned and quickly followed.

***

"Here they come, Father Abe!" Dobson Tanner whispered to Abel Watson on his right. The grey bearded former priest crossed himself and cocked his musket. "Father," he said quietly. "For what we are about to receive, we are eternally thankful."

Dobson chuckled and glanced over at the big man beside him. Joshua Vingler's massive form was half hidden behind a large fallen cedar. His small eyes gleamed in his broad face, his gazed riveted on the narrow path the enemy was rushing up.

"It's almost like they know we're here!" Dob said

"More 'n likely they just wanna get ta hell outa that swamp," Josh rumbled. "I know I did."

"Hold your fire, mem," Corporal Jack Tarvel said from behind and a little above them. "The captain'll say when."

"Gettin damn close!" Dob hissed.

"White's o' their eyes, Dob," Josh growled. "White's o' their bloody eyes!"

***

"I say, Puntie, old stick, there's a damnable lot of the beggars!"

Putney Smyth, crouching beside his old school chum, grinned nervously and hefted his expensive officer's fusil. Young Jack carried its twin. Putney wondered where Ensign Jonathan Birksley the Third of Derbyshire England was at this very moment. 'Too bad the lad was away hunting with Tahnahani when we left from Crown Point,' he thought 'Certainly could use him here now!'

Ensign Birksley of the 60th of Foot had renounced his commission in favour of being a 'scout' with the Mohawks. The lad's skill with a musket was legendary, so much so that his native brethren referred to him as 'Shoots Far'.

"Puntie?!" Pinkerton's voice was high and strained. "For Christ sake, Putney, they're almost upon us!"

"Hmmm? Oh, fire!" A dozen guns went off almost at once. Twelve led balls the size of an acorn, plus a few dozen smaller balls, went flying across the thirty some yards that separated the two groups.

'Buck & Ball' was a deadly led cocktail first introduced to the unsuspecting Iroquois by Samuel D. Champlain some hundred and fifty odd years earlier not at a spot Crown Point on the very lake that now bares his name. The French explorer had come south to help the Hurons living around Montreal make war on their hated enemy to the south, the Iroquois, and most especially the tribe called the Mohawks. Never having seen either a White man or a musket before, when the two sides met Champlain and his several followers had their matchlocks 'double charged' with two balls instead of one, topped off with a few smaller pistol balls or 'swan shot' for good measure.

According to Champlain's own journal, when he and his 'henchmen' fired into the onrushing Mohawks, a large number went down and three were killed, including a war-chief leading the charge.

No doubt Champlain was rewarded by the 'victorious Hurons' with aid and a goodly number of 'willing maidens', but he earned the perpetual hatred of the Mohawk towards not only him, but all Frenchmen up to and including the present time!

***

The sound of the Ranger fusillade was deafening, splitting the stillness of the swamp like a thunderclap from the Zeus himself! Several of the Hurons and Canadians were hit. All went to ground as best they could, using bushes, trees and fallen logs for cover. Some even managed to return fire, though their targets were nowhere to be seen, having slid back behind the brow of the hill to reload.

LaBlanc, crouched behind a far too thin tree, looked around him. 'Merd!' he swore to himself. The goddamned Rangers had done it to him again! "Jacques! Ici a moi!" he yelled.

"Jacques is dead", a voice yelled back in French. "So is Gilbert and Louis! One or two others are hit. The rest have all run away!"

"Pierre?" LaBlanc yelled back. "Is that you?"

"Oui, mon capitan. It is I, Pierre Gorsier. Are you hit?"

LaBlanc looked down at his chest and saw blood dripping off his thick beard. He spit more blood and explored the ragged hole in his left cheek. Apparently one of the pea size balls had pierced it. He spit more blood, then swore. "Tabernac, but these Rangers are going to pay for this!"

A dry chuckle came from behind a fallen log. "I've head that before, mon capitan. More than once!"

"Shut your mouth and come up here!", LaBlanc ordered.

Reluctantly Pierre obeyed. "What now, mon capitan? A timely retreat?"

"Where the Christ is Fox?" LaBlanc demanded.

Another dry chuckle. "Either dead or gone. Either way, he's no damn good to us now. Let's away before we to leave our bones here to rot like these others!"

"Fox!" LaBlanc yelled out, his deep voice cutting through the silence that had once again descended on the swamp. "Fox! Where ta fuck are ya?"

"Right here, Tienne," a vice said from behind them, his dark eyes fixed on Pierre. "We are all right here \--- those of us still alive. Huron do not run like frightened Francais."

"Ya, well, let's flank dose bastards before dey get away." LaBlanc spit out more blood and got to his feet.

"The Rangers have the high ground, Tienne. They will not leave it."

"Oui?' LaBlanc demanded. "We'll just see about dat! Gather your braves, Fox. We'll rush da bastards!"

Fox allowed something akin to a smile to flit across his stony features. "Perhaps that is what they Rangers are waiting for?"

LaBlanc shoved his bloody face close to Fox's. "N' 'perhaps', mon ami, you should wait here wid da udder old women while us men finish da job!"

The near smile turned into a real snarl. "Perhaps I should carve a second hole in your face to let all the shit out!"

As the two hot headed leaders glared at each other, rat-like Pierre stood up, pointed at the hill and said in broken English. "Gentlemens, zee enemy eez up zere, not down here."

Suddenly LaBlanc raised his shaggy head and let out a bellow of a laugh, slapping the wiry little Canadian on his thin shoulders. "Pierre, you are a hell ova lot smarter dan you look! Fox, he's right! Da bastards we want are up dere! Let's go get dem!"

***

'Here they come again!" Raphael said to those around him. Yet there was no real need, for all twelve Rangers saw the approaching enemy. This time however, it was not a mad, noisy rush forward, but a slower, quicker silent dash from tree to tree and bush to bush. A mixture of painted Hurons and ragged Frenchmen, fewer than before, but still well over a dozen.

The Rangers had divided themselves into four fire teams of three men each. In theory, one was always to stay loaded and ready while the others reloaded. The theory often broke down however in the heat of battle. The teams were Harry, Steve, and Alan; Putney, Pinkie and Raphael; Angus, Albert and 'Father Abe', and lastly Corporal Jack Tarvel, Dobson Tanner and Josh 'Mountain' Vingler. None had been hurt in the earlier exchange and all were once again loaded with 'buck & ball'. Two teams were on one side of the path and two were on the other. Both sides were elevated so there should be little danger of being hit by friendly fire.

Putney had suggested letting them walk into the trap, then he'd call out for them to surrender. When they refuse and attempt to fire back, the Rangers would open fire. Most the others thought it a waste of breath, but reluctantly agreed. After all, he was their leader.

Things, however, naturally turned out quite differently.

Steve and Dobson had been place on the highest point on both sides of the hill, so as to watch out for any flanking manoeuvres. Dob had just settled down behind a large moss covered rock when he saw several forms flitting through the shadows, moving up the far side of the hill. Resting his musket on the thick green moss, he cocked it and waited for the next one to show itself. It was a short wait.

Clack-BOOM!

His battered musket went off with a roar that sent birds screeching skyward and a flurry of shouts and movement from down below. "Here! To me!" Dobson yelled, quickly taking a cartridge from his belly box. Tearing off the top with his teeth and holding the ball in his mouth, he poured the powder a little into the pan and the rest down the barrel. He then spit the ball after the powder and yelled again as he rammed the led home. "Over here! They're all over here!'

More shots came from the base of the hill. Screams and yells as well.

Angus motioned for Albert and Abel to follow him as he sprinted up to Dob's position. Corporal Tarvel and Josh were already there. "Fire at will, men," Angus yelled, "but keep one man loaded if you can!"

The top of the hill erupted in flame. In the lengthening shadows, the muzzle flashes looked like sudden openings into Hell itself. Moving shadows hid in deeper ones and more tongues of flame stabbed out into the darkening twilight.

"You want us up there, Cap'n?!" Alan asked from the far side of the trail.

"No! You three stay there and watch the main trail. This might just be a feint!"

"What'd he say?!" Steve demanded. "Somebody might faint?!"

"It could be just a trick!" Harry yelled. "Bastards might still come this way!"

"They might," Steve agreed. "I heard tell ta Spanish were tricky fellers."

Harry was about to reply when Steve suddenly shoved him aside with his left hand and raised and fired his musket with his right. Though the painted Huron was hit in mid leap, his lifeless body still flopped down on top of Harry. His tattooed chest now a ragged ruin, he still clutched a hatchet in one hand and a long, wicked scalping knife in the other.

"Shheee-itt!" Harry exclaimed.

Alan came up and helped Harry to his feet, then clapped Steve warmly on the back. "Good shot, Stevie! The bastard would ' gutted at least one o' us right proper!"

Steve turned the body over with his foot. "Don't look Spanish ta me."

Alan's grin widened. "Maybe it's a disguise".

***

LaBlanc swore. Fox's plan to split up and hit both sides of the hill at the same time hadn't worked out so well. First one of the bastard Ranger's had spotted someone and then an over eager Huron buck had rushed up ahead of the rest and got his fool self killed. 'Well, serves the stupid bugger right!', LaBlanc thought. 'Better him than me!'

Just then his few remaining Canadiens came under attack from more fire from the hill! Led balls cut through the leaves around him. His men, having no clear targets, fired back wildly. As the dusk deepened and gouts of flame spurted all around him, Etienne LaBlanc made a hasty retreat. Rat faced Pierre was hot on his heels.

***

"Look at that, Puntie old bean! The bastards are actually running away!"

Lieutenant Reginald Pinkerton was having the time of his life. He was loading and firing as fast as he could, using what he liked to refer to 'back with the chaps at the officers mess' as the 'Ranger style' of reloading.

"It's deucedly simple, actually, old boy" he'd often explain to the other red coated officers over drinks. "One neither primes nor rams the bloody ball."

"How the devil then does the damned thing discharge?" a fellow officer would always ask and so 'Pinkie' would explain that one simply: "bite the bullet off the cartridge, poured in the powder, spit the damned ball into the barrel, and then smack the butt soundly on the ground to drive home the ball! Nine out of ten times enough powder dribbles into the pan to set the bugger off don't you know! Takes only half the normal time and allows four or five bloody shots a minute! Damned cunning fellows those Rangers."

"Yes, but they are so --- uncouth," another office would inevitably remark.

To which another would inevitably reply: "Well, what do you expect, old boy? After all, they are only 'Colonials'!"

Now, however, Pinkie was enjoying himself immensely. Loading and firing 'Ranger style', he continued till his touch hole fouled up after his thirteenth or fourteenth shot. After trying to get his piece to fire several times, he laid the gun aside and drew his fancy smallsword. "I say, Puntie, lets give the blighters a taste of cold steel!"

Putney, his face smeared with black powder, smiled back at his eager friend. "I believe, Puntie old boy, that the blighters have all run away!"

"You don't say?!" Puntie frowned. "How deucedly unsportsmanlike of the beggars!"

"This isn't exactly a cricket match, old man," Putney replied. "And now, if you don't mind, I must see to my men."

"Yes, capital idea. See to them, by all means. "Still", he called out as Putney faded into the gloom. "We did give the blighters a bloody good drubbing, eh what?!"

***

'Gone But Not Forgotten'

Angus McCaw sat brooding in a chair by the tavern window. He sat not in the warm summer sun, where dust motes danced in the golden light, but off to one side in the shadows. The darkness better suited his mood. He had felt that way for days now --- ever since the ambush. Dark thoughts troubled him. Scenes of long ago Culloden and the atrocities that followed came unbidden to his mind's eye, all jumbled together with last summer's massacre at Fort William Henry, the untimely death of Lord Howe, Abercrombie's recent fiasco at Ticonderoga and the fierce fight they had just returned from.

Faces of the dead and the long dead floated before him. Visions of Little Dog merged with those of his young wife, Mary MacDougal and their stillborn son, both dead and buried these eight long years passed. Lord Howe lying lifeless in the forest, the hopes of a generation lying with him; Caleb Page, the big, seemingly indestructible Irish corporal, who's stalwart face transformed slowly into that of his younger brother, David, whose throat had been slit from ear to ear. Laughing, boisterous, often surly Ignatius Lamoy suddenly walked side by side with his beloved grandfather and namesake, 'Iron Angus', buried a dozen years ago in a shallow grave in Drumossey Moore. The sight of the gruff old man brought tears to his eyes --- and the procession of ghosts marched on and on.

"Another pint, Luv?" a voice whispered from the shadows. A soft, female voice.

'Mary?' he cried out silently.

"Angus?" the voice asked, this time from the sunlight.

Angus looked up to see an angel hovering over him. Backlit by the sun streaming through a window, the form seemed to float before him, long sun-kissed hair flowing to her narrow waist, arms outreached towards him.

"Mary?" he said again, this time out loud. His hand reached longingly out towards her.

"Well now, aint that a Hellova hello?!" the angel responded. There was a sharpness to her lilting voice that puzzled him. "So it's 'Mary' yer after callin' me now? Not 'Sweet Coleen' or 'me darlin' girl' as you have all summer long? But by some other doxie's name!"

The angel suddenly leaned down, her face close to his. Long red hair, (not yellow), flowed like a wave around her. Green eyes, (not blue), flashed anger mixed with hurt. "Who is this Marry slut? I'll scratch here eyes out!"

Still half caught up in the cascading memories, Angus gently touched her cheek. "Mary?" It came out like a whispered prayer.

"Shite!", the angel hissed, and returned his caress with a smack that nearly nocked him off his chair. "It's Coleen O'Riley I am, as you know full well! Now, just who is this Mary trollup?!"

The silence seemed to hang in the air like the dust mites caught in the dappled sunbeams. The answer finally came, though it sounded more like a hopeful benediction. "My wife."

Coleen, the green-eyed tavern-keeper's daughter, reeled backwards, seemingly stuck harder by his words than he had been by her hand. 'Your 'wife'?' she gasped. "Wife!" she repeated. "You tumble me in the hayloft whenever the mood take's ye n' you have a wife? You bloody bastard!"

The redheaded angel swung again, only this time Angus caught her wrist effortlessly and held it. The two of them seemed to hang there, caught up in the slipstream between the past and the present. She, all aglow in the brilliant sunlight of the present; he, all cloaked in the dark shadows of the past.

The angel's voice dropped an octave, her tone a mixture of anger, disgust and hopefulness. "N' just where is this 'wife' o' yours? Back home in the highlands, waitin' for her 'darlin' man' to send for her? Or is she one o' the Native sluts you Ranger boys keep stashed away in the forest?!"

Angus drew a deep breath; the vision of his dead wife drifting away like smoke. He held her wrist tightly, but she still faded into the streaming sunlight. A wave of emptiness washed over him.

"She's gone", he whispered, more to himself than to the forgotten angel.

"Gone? Gone where?!" the angel demanded.

Angus blinked several times. As his vision cleared he was surprised to see that Coleen O'Riley stood before him. He gently let go of her wrist. "She's dead."

Silence. Then...unsure... "How long?"

A sigh. "Eight years. Nine come spring."

The angel licked her full, red lips, her voice a tad softer. "Children?"

A longer sigh, heavy with regret. "A son."

A longer silence. "How old?"

Angus looked off into the sunlight.

'How old?" The sharpness was back in her tone.

Hazel eyes turned back to look into deep, green ones. "One or two minutes. Both died in childbirth."

The hand that had so recently slapped him now gently took his. "How long were you married?"

The one-time 'Smith o' Lewis Isle' gently squeezed her hand as the bitter-sweet pain of remembrance washed over him. "A year --- three months --- 'n thirteen days."

The angel leaned closer, her anger having turned into something softer and bitter-sweet. "You counted the days?"

The response came slowly, as though from a place long locked away. "I counted the hours. Sometimes --- I still do."

The hand drew away, yet there were tears in the green eyes. "She was a lucky woman, your Mary --- to be loved so."

Angus turned away, the pain too sharp, the mood too black. "Sooner or later, 'Death' takes us all."

The angel once again moved closer, all anger now having vanished. This time her hand entwined with his. "All the more reason then for us to be kind to one another."

He attempted a smile and, with his free hand, gently touched her cheek

***
Now let's have a look at another of my 'interests;

The Legend of Robin Hood.

### 'Robin Hood is here again & all his merry thieves.  
Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves,  
Calling as he used to call, faint and far away,  
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.   
(Alfred Noyes)

### The Year of Our Lord, 1225 AD

### The Green Branch Inn,

On the edge of Sherwood

The forest has always been there. Deep, dark and deadly. A refuge for the poor, the homeless and the hungry --- and a safe place for outlaws!

I should know --- I've been one for most of my bloody life!

I'm an old man now of sixty-six winters, bent and twisted like an old tree, but there was a time, nearly half a century ago now, when I was quick, fast and nimble!

### Hell, we all were! Aint none of us left now, 'cept me and Tuck here. Him and me we travel about from town to town, telling the old tales about life in Sherwood with Robin and the lads. Alan used to come with us and strum that damned lute of his, but he up and died three or four years ago. He was a good mate and a fine singer, but he couldn't play worth a damn!

### It's getting tougher though, what with my bad back and Tuck's gimpy leg! Besides, most folks don't want to hear how it really was anyway! They'd rather listen to that made up romantic shite about saving fair maidens and helping the bloody poor! Hell, back then we were the bloody poor and there weren't no-one helping us but ourselves!

### Anyways, Tuck and me figure we should get it put down on paper right and proper like, so that those that follow will know the truth --- at least as much of it as us two old farts can remember! Tuck here is church taught and writes better than a bishop! The words will probably sound a bit flowery now and then, as Tuck is mighty book learned and loves to use ten words when two would do. There will also be parts every now and then that neither Tuck nor me actually heard what the people said, but we know what happened, so we're going to just make up the conversation to keep the story rolling along. Those parts will be mostly made up by Tuck, as he's got all the book-learning.

### From time to time he might also 'insert' his own particular comments, if only to 'set straight the record on my ramblings' --- these he informs me will be in something called 'parentheses' --- (whatever the hell they are?!)

But for the most part all the thoughts and the tales will be mostly mine, for though Tuck was with us back then in the early days, he was ten or twelve years older than the rest of us --- a vast gulf between us recently weaned fools and him who had already been a soldier, a sailor and a sergeant of arms. Back then when the world and we in it were young; when both winter and war were far in the future; when love was a red headed lass with sea-blue eyes and a dirty face --- and we were all quick, fast and nimble!

***

### My name is Scarlet, Will Scarlet and I was born in 1170.

My father was a drunken sailor and my mother was a Nottingham whore. I never knew the old man's name and I doubt my mother did either. Besides, the bastard sailed away long before I was even born.

### They called my mother 'Scarlet', because of her long, red hair --- or maybe because of her trade. Me, I was just her boy, Will. I'm surprised she didn't leave me on the church steps, for she bloody well threatened to do so often enough! When I got older me and her walked the muddy streets of Nottingham together; she plying her age-old trade and me scrambling about for what I could find. Most of the time it was scraps in a back alley. When I got older it was drunks I could roll or purses I could cut.

By the time I was ten my mother's hair was more grey than red, but I was cocky, quick and good with a knife. By the time I was fifteen my mother was dead, I'd killed a man over a handful of coppers, and had a price on my head.

I fled Nottingham and hid in the forest.

Sherwood Forest.

Back then, in the year of our lord 1185, I sure as hell weren't no woodsman! A city lad I was, and being new born to the greenwood, I damn near starved till Robin and his mates found me. All tore up and skinny I was; cut from the brambles, wet and cold assed from sleeping under a bush \--- but I still had my knife!

And I was still cocky and quick!

***

1185 A.D.

(40 years earlier)

Sherwood Forest

"Here now," said an overly tall lad with a thick chest, a wisp of a beard and big ears. "What piece o' shite is this?!" He was leaning on a staff that was as tall as he was. To me it looked like a bloody tree trunk!

"A better piece than you, ya great bloody sheep shagger!" I replied.

With that his small eyes scrunched up and the big ears reddened. "Is that so, Little Man?! Well, perhaps you'd like to prove that fact with a friendly competition?!"

### The giant then twirled the tree-trunk he was holding so that the bloody thing was a blur just in front of my nose! At that point a shorter and considerably thinner lad butted in. "John, don't be bullying our new friend!" he scolded the giant, yet even back then I noticed the mischievous lilt in his voice and the twinkle in his eye. "Can't you see he's just a wee lad, hungry and cold --- and a very long way from home! How about you come home with me, friend? You look like you could use a hot meal!"

"But Robin," the tall lad complained. "He's a scrawny, shifty eyed little bastard from the city! He don't know bugger all about living in the forest!"

The shorter youth turned to the taller one and bathed him with a winning smile. "You were none too woods-wise yourself, Little John, when your family first came to Sherwood!"

"Aye, but I grew up on a farm and I'm big n' strong and I love to fight! This scrawny little deer turd looks like a sneak-thief cut-purse to me!"

The one called Robin leaned on his long, amber coloured longbow and smiled. "Is that what you are, lad? A city-born cut-purse?"

I put my hand on the hilt of my knife and glared back. "City born and city raised! I'm quick and fast with both me hands me knife!" Foolishly I brandished my small blade back and forth in a glittering arc --- and received the butt of the giant's quarter-staff in my gut as a reward.

"OOOOFFFF!!" The air whooshed out of me and I sank to my knees. A large, muddy boot on the back of my neck pushed me all the way down into the forest floor. Gasping for breath, the scent of, pine needles and rotting leaves filled my nose.

"Ho there!" Robin grinned, bending down and offering me his hand. He and the one called John were both older than me by three or four years --- an immense gap when you've just turned fifteen. "City born you were, lad, but its newborn to the greenwood you are now! What did they call you back there besides thief?"

"Scarlet!" I managed to grunt out. "Will Scarlet."

"Well then Will Scarlet," Robin said, pulling me to my feet. "Welcome to Sherwood!"

Suddenly the bushes parted and out came what at first I took to be a dwarf or a forest troll! About my height he was, but with a barrel chest, thick arms and spindly little legs. Straw-like hair sprouted from beneath a shapeless cap. He was hunched over so that his knuckles almost dragged on the ground. Like the other two, he was dressed all in greens and browns and fairly bristled with weapons. A large knife hung from one side of his belt and a cloth quiver full of arrows on the other. He had a longbow in his thick, grimy hand and a twisted smile on his twisted face --- but it was his eyes that drew me. Pale green they were, all shot through with golden flecks like you see in some cats --- and more crammed full of dancing mischief than a barrel overflowing with kittens!

"Much!" the one called Robin sang out, his winning smile bursting forth like the sun from behind a cloud. "This likely young lad here is Will Scarlet, a thief and cut-purse fresh from Nottingham!"

### The troll leaned forwards and sniffed. "He doesn't smell too fresh to me! As for being a thief, by the looks of him he should steel some food! He's more like a walking scarecrow --- and a skinny one at that!"

"I was just about to take him home for a good meal", Robin put in before I could show this misshapen gnome just what a skinny scarecrow could do! "My mother will have a roast of venison on the spit, along with greens, fried spuds, Yorkshire pudding and a honeycomb for desert!"

My mouth was already watering before he had finished the description. It had been days since my last hot meal and my stomach thought my throat had been cut!

"You actually eat meat?!" I asked. The last time I had eaten meat it had been grey, greasy and of a questionable parentage --- and far too small a portion! I had tasted apples before, but never in a real pie. As for honey, it had never touched my lips!

"Meat? Almost daily!" Robin grinned.

"But aint that against the law?" I stammered. "I mean, to shoot the king's deer?"

The three of them smiled among themselves as though I had said something funny.

"What?!" I demanded, my hand going once again to the hilt of my small knife.

"Robin's father, Thomas Bowman," the giant rumbled, "is Lord Locksley's chief forester --- the one in charge of catching poachers! As long as we don't take too many or be seen doing it, meat can be on our tables just about whenever we want it!"

"And this Lord Locksley don't hang you for poaching?!" I asked, unable to fathom the contradiction of a kind hearted noble, be they Norman or Saxon.

"He doesn't mind as long as were are discreet," Robin said.

"Dis-what?" I asked.

"It means being careful," Much the Troll said.

"Then why the hell didn't he say that?!" I shot back, embarrassed at seeming the fool.

The troll shrugged his misshapen shoulders. "Robin's being tutored by Lady Marian Fitzwalter, Lord Locksley's ward. She's teaching him the 'high speech'."

"What' s a ward?" I asked. "Something like a whore?"

The giant's staff struck again, this time across the back of my shoulders. Knocked to the ground, I once again felt the weight of John's boot on the back of my neck. "Mind your tongue, Cut-Purse!" he hissed. "When you speak of the Lady Marian, do so politely! If not, I might just have to cut out that foul tongue of yours and shove it up your arse!"

### Struggling to my feet, I glared up at the towering mountain. "That's twice you've knocked me down, sheep- shagger! There'll not be a third!"

### The seven foot staff twirled again in a glittering arc, through which John's mocking smile glared down at me. "Will there not, Cut Purse? Perhaps sometime soon we'll have to see about that."

"Why wait?!" I said boldly, my dirty hand already on the hilt of my small knife.

The twirling staff stopped abruptly and large, horse-like teeth gleamed down at me. "Why indeed?!"

"I`", put in the troll; "can think of at least three reasons why you two fierce gladiators should hold off your match," the hunchbacked troll casually put in.

### The giant lifted his shaggy head. "Can you, Much? And just what might they be?"

### Those dancing eyes with the golden flecks sparkled even in Sherwood's dappled shadows. "They are, friend John, simply this," he said, ticking off the reasons on his grimy fingers. "The meat is cooking, the pie is baking and my stomach is rumbling! You two can kill each other after dinner!" He then leaned forward, poked me with the end of his longbow; the golden flecks in his cat-like eyes seemed to be doing a merry jig.

"Perhaps the pair of you, the Giant and the Scarecrow, can provide a little after dinner entertainment while Robin and I sample some of his father's excellent mead?!"

Little John's brow creased into a hurtful frown. "You mock me, twisted man, and though I should be used to it by now, it still hurts the heart."

### The troll called Much stiffened, then bowed graciously. "That, my large friend, was never my intent. If my jesting words have grated, I most humbly beg thy pardon."

### The giant made a rumbling noise that was intended to be a laugh. "Much is always forgiven." He then extended me his calloused paw and pulled me to my feet. "Come my little cut-purse! Robin's mother does indeed set a fine table, though you'll need to sluice off in the river before she'll let you in her door! And mind your bloody manners at the table! And no bloody swearing!"

And that's how I came to met Robin, Little John and Much the Miller's Son.

***

'Lady Marian Fitzwalter'

1190 A.D.

(5 years later)

Sherwood Forest

### Robin was as good as his word, for not only did his mother feed me but his father gave me a job and a place to live as well! For the first time in my life I had a real home! Little John and I became fast friends, though we still 'butted heads' now and then. Much, the misshapen miller's son took some getting used to, what with his strange looks and stranger ways, but as time passed I came to count him as one of my dearest friends. Robin and his family I took to right off. His mother was a round, warm woman with a big smile and a bigger heart. His father, Thomas Bowman, was tall, lean and strong like the beautiful longbows he made and his character was as straight and true as the flight of one of his arrows. Stern but fair, honest and honourable, Thomas Bowman was more of a father to me than any man I had ever met. As for Robin, he was the elder brother I never had. He took me under his wing and guided me towards a more honest manhood than I had ever dreamed of. Though he had his father's straightforward ways, he also had his mother's ready smile and warm heart, and over time became much more than a caring elder brother. But it was to the Lady Marian Fitzwalter that I gave my own young heart to utterly and completely.

Lady Marian was the daughter of Sir Donald Fitzwalter, and the godchild of Sir Robert of Locksley. The two men had been friends for years and had gone off on the ill-fated Second Crusade together. Only Sir Robert had returned. While there the two knights had made a pact, that if one should fall, the other would see to the fallen man's family. Sir Robert had been looking after Marian, her older brother Hugh and her invalid mother ever since.

### I think that I fell in love with Marian the moment I saw her. She was dressed in men's clothing, covered with mud and holding a newly born squealing piglet, but she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen! I'd just started staying with Robin's family and he took me around to meet his friends. We'd gone to a few small farms and a charcoal burner's hut where I'd met several tousled haired youths roughly my age; the next he brought me to Locksley Hall.

"Who do you know that lives in such a grand place?" I asked, as an imposing stone castle came into view. "A stableboy? Or perhaps a willing milkmaid!" I teased, for, coming from the slums of Nottingham and having a whore for a mother, I was well aware of the baser sides of people's instincts.

"More like an unwilling stablegirl!" he quipped back, then vaulted the wooden fence, squelched through the mud towards a pretty read headed girl busy pulling a baby pig out of a mudhole. Robin laughed, bent and kissed her dirty cheek.

"Greetings, fair maiden!" Robin grinned, sweeping off his cap and making a theatrical bow. "I bring you a poor, humble lad who wants only to worship at your feat and bask in the warming gaze of your sea green eyes!"

Marian handed him the dripping piglet and stomped over to me. "Don't be an ass, Robin! Who's your friend? Another one of your foundlings? She came up to the fence, fixed me with those sea green eyes of hers --- then punched me on the shoulder. "Ha! Skinny little bugger, isn't he?! Looks like he could use a few good meals! Where's you find him? Stealing one of you mother's pies?"

"He found us --- sort of." Robin replied. "His name is Will Scarlet and he's a cut-purse from Nottingham. John wants to fight him but Much thinks he's special."

### She turned and took the struggling piglet from Robin and set it down. "John wants to fight everyone and Much --- well, Much is Much. He see's things the rest of us don't. This one looks like the runt of a poor litter!"

"Really? I think he's got promise," Robin said. It took a moment to realize he meant me, not the piglet!

"Why?" Marian demanded, stomping off through the mud as regal as a queen. Like piglets little ourselves, the three of us followed along in her wake.

"Because he has something that we don't," Robin said.

"Yes? What's that? Fleas?" she asked.

"No, street savvy! He knows all about towns and city people," Robin explained. "All I ever see are trees, wild animals and mud covered girls with pigs! John and Much aint no, er, aren't any better!" he corrected himself.

### (I learned later that Marian was teaching Robin how to read, write and 'talk' proper English and he was teaching her hunting, tracking and how to shoot a bow. I also learned that she was learning much more and much faster than he was.)

### Marian stopped in mid stride and faced us. The two of us wilted a bit under her burning gaze. "I've been to towns! Nottingham. York. Even London once --- but I didn't like any of them. Shit everywhere --- and not just from animals!

"Now, come along you two!" she continued. "The mare is just about to have her foal and we'll need someone to help pull. Skinny here can help clean up the afterbirth."

### And that was how I met --- and fell in love with --- Lady Marian Fitzwalter.

### She was Robin's girl though, even way back then. Everyone knew it except the two of them. All through those five magical years, from1185 to 1190, the five of us were inseparable. Little John, Much, Robin, Marian and me! When not doing chores or helping Robin's father with either his forestry work or his bowmaking, we were always together. Hunting, fishing, exploring the vast and wonderful green world that was Sherwood Forest. Closer to home there was always archery, mock battles with wooden swords and quarterstaffs, playing games, swimming in the millpond out behind Much's father's mill and helping with the horses in the stables of Locksley Hall.

And laughter. Always laughter!

We were young and naive and thought those times would never end.

But of course they did.

But not as it does for most people; a slow, almost unperceivable daily sliding from late childhood into young adulthood. Our change was sudden, swift and brutal. Like a kick to the guts and an even more painful wrenching of the heart.

Murder had come to our magical land; spilling innocence, hopes and dreams along with blood and brains. A daughter of one of Sir Robert's farmers had been kidnapped. Her ripped and bloody dress had been found out behind the chicken coop.

### Two days later the girl's naked body was dumped on the front steps of Locksley Hall. She'd been beaten, raped and had her throat cut. There was a message under a rock beside her. It was written in blood and was frightening simple:

'Take the offer & sell!'

***
'Sir Guy of Gisbourn'

1190

### Thee days after the dead girl had be found.

A hunting party on the edge of Sherwood

### Sir Guy quickly undid the leather tresses that held the falcon to his gloved hand, pulled off the plumed hood and set his bird free. Up, up it soared, like an arrow shot directly at the sun.

"A silver stag says that your Sultan misses!" Sir Gaston, Sir Guy's younger cousin, exclaimed in French, the language of the Norman conquerors of England for over a hundred years. Ever since the Norman duke, William the Conqueror had beaten Alfred, the Saxon king of England at the Battle of Hastings back in 1066, French was the preferred language in Britain for all the Norman and a large number of the Saxon nobility.

### Sir Guy had just recently appointed young Gaston as the new Sheriff of Nottingham, the old one having proven himself to be annoyingly honest and unwilling to follow Sir Guy's rather questionable but very lucrative suggestions. So far Sir Gaston had not shone shown any of his predecessor's annoying shortcomings --- just a rather irritating penchant to prattle on and on --- especially about feathered predators. His elder cousin Sir Guy, the Baron of Nottingham and Lord of the Northern Marches, was himself a most dangerous predator and merely considered Gaston a fool --- but, for now at least, a useful one.

### Leaning forward in the saddle, Sir Gaston continued in the tongue of the conquering Franks. "God's teeth, cousin, you're too lucky by half! Your bird has already made three strikes to my one! But he'll not make a fourth!" As though in agreement, the magnificent peregrine on the new Sheriff's arm flapped its cream colored wings.

"A golden crown says that he does!" Sir Guy replied with a knowing smirk. Gaston was a skilled swordsman and useful enough for collecting taxes and breaking bones, but when it came to actually thinking he was as far too emotional to make rational decisions. 'Besides,' Sir Guy said to himself. 'My Sultan, much like myself, always gets what he goes after!'

### Hurcule Beaumont, a heavy set, knight in Sir Guys employ, uncorked a silver flask and handed it to the baron. As Sir Guy took the flask, Sir Hurcule turned to the younger Gisbourn. "Sir Gaston, as the newly appointed Sheriff of Nottingham, do you not have trainers for your birds?"

Frowning, Sir Gaston replied curtly. He neither liked the fat, pompous Sir Hurcule, nor cared who knew it --- even his older and very powerful cousin.

"I do indeed have trainers, Beaumont!" the younger man replied hotly. "Several in fact! Why do you ask?!"

The large knight shrugged his thick shoulders. None of the men there that day were wearing mail, just fashionable hunting clothes with the odd bit of leather here and studs there. Sir Hurcule however, being an untrusting individual, had a thick leather cuirass under his fashionable clothes. That and his considerable girth made him look as though he were wearing plate armour, a fact his poor horse would heartily agree with!

"Oh, no reason at all," smiled the knight-for-hire. "It's just that your small mouser there has missed her last two tries. I thought that perhaps the poor thing is not well?"

The recently appointed Sheriff reddened as he tried to contain his anger. "Cleo is a peregrine falcon, not an everyday 'mouser' hawk --- as you well know! And she is neither small nor unwell! She's merely fine boned and like all high bred females, a tad contrary now and then --- aren't you my sweet?"

This last was spoken to the hooded winged killer sitting calmly on his wrist.

"Enough bloody chatter!" Sir Guy said crossly in English.

### It was a language the baron enjoyed using whenever he was angry' 'The Saxons swear so much more colourfully than we Normans do!' he often said, especially to the looser ladies at court. 'Their words are all about genitailia, fornication and excrement, while we oh-so polite Francais only whisper words against the church and pray fervently for absolution!'

### Sir Guy proved his point by growling at the sheriff and the knight. "You two sound like a pair of fucking old whores! If you both dislike the other so god-damned much, draw your swords and have at it! But for Christ's sake leave go your endless war of words, or I swear by Mary's sagging tits that I'll have you both shipped out to Outramere with the rest of the god-damned fools going on their stupid bloody Crusade!"

The two men in question stayed sullenly silent, the younger one glaring daggers at the smirking older one.

"La!" Sir Guy exclaimed a few tense moments later, dropping back into French. "Sultan just took his fourth pheasant of the day! You owe me a golden crown, Gaston, and I'll have it from you now, so that you don't conveniently 'forget' it like the last time!"

Red faced, the sheriff reluctantly dug out the large coin and sullenly handed it over. Stamped with Henry II's head on one side and his wife's, Eleanor of Aquitaine, on the other, the ounce of pure gold was more than most peasants made during a lifetime of back breaking labour. The baron took it with a smile and tossed it to Sir Hurcule.

"There you go, Beaumont. Payment for your men entertaining our newest 'guest' back at the lodge. Do you think they've had time enough to prepare this second merry message for Locksley?"

Sir Hurcule tucked the coin away as a cruel smile to spread across his face. "More than enough time, Sir Guy. After all, how long does it take to cut off a few fingers?"

"The way they were beating on the poor bugger when we left," Sir Gaston put in with a cruel smile of his own; "I wouldn't be a bit surprised if the filthy villain isn't dead when we get back!"

"Oh I doubt that, sheriff," Sir Hurcule smirked. "My man Terrill and his lads know their business quite well. 'Beaten, broken and his two bowfingers off' was what Sir Guy ordered --- but not dead. A live, bleeding man makes a much deeper impression than a dead one, and the baron wants Locksley to get the message loud and clear this time."

"Which is?" the sheriff asked, the tone of his voice showing clearly his distaste for Sir Hurcule and his 'lads'.

"Which is that Lord Fucking Locksley needs to change his bloody mind and sell Sir Guy Locksley Hall!"

### The sheriff bristled. "And if, God forbid, you and your 'likely lads' fail and Lord 'Fucking' Locksley refuses to respond in a way that you and my esteemed cousin would like, what then, prey tell? An all out siege on Locksley Hall?! I'm sure our much loved monarch, Henry II, on his deathbed as he is rumoured to be, would be absolutely thrilled to hear that his barons in the north were hacking each other to pieces!"

### The smile that Sir Hurcule turned on the younger Gisbourn would have turned even his own mother's stomach. "Why then, Lord Sheriff, my lads and myself will be forced to take more drastic measures. Not a 'siege' exactly. But perhaps another kidnapping? Only this time instead of taking Locksley's forester, perhaps we'll nab that red headed ward of his. Marian I believe she's called --- a right nice juicy piece of twat to be savoured and passed around to be sure!"

"You will NOT touch Marian!" Sir Gaston suddenly shouted. "Do what you will with Locksley and his followers, but do NOT even THINK of touching a hair on the head of that innocent child!"

Sir Hurcule snorted out a laugh and took a long pull on the flask that the baron had handed back earlier. Both older men met each other's gaze and smiled knowingly. Sir Guy, usually content to let his minions wield the 'grace de dieu', sat back and gloated as Sir Hurcule used his tongue instead of his sword.

"Fancy her for yourself, do you, sheriff? I would have though the bitch a bit young for your taste --- but then some men like them fresh out of their swaddling clothes. A tender rump of lamb instead of a tough old hump of sheep, eh? Baaaaa!"

Sir Gaston, enraged by the fat knight's crude insolence, raised his gauntleted right hand and launched his falcon directly into Sir Hurcule's leering face. "Strike, Cleo! Rip the bastard's eyes out!"

Cleo was only half successful, her razor sharp talons plucking out only one of the startled knight's eyes. Still attached to Gaston's gauntleted hand by a yard long tether, Cleo continued to flutter and beat against Sir Hurcule's blood smeared face, her razor sharp talons raking across his cheek while her hooked beak sliced Hurcule's left eye and plucked the juicy orb out of its socket.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Sir Guy cursed in English, doing his best to curb his own startled mount. All three animals had begun to snort and stomp at the smell of blood. "Gaston! Call off your bitch, NOW!"

The Sheriff pivoted his mount and hauled in his falcon. Its cream colored wings, now flecked with blood, were still outstretched; its hooked beak glistening redly. Sir Hurcule, one hand clamped to his bleeding face, the other yanking back on the reins, cursed and turned his one good eye on his employer.

"Look what your asslicking cousin has done?! The little prick has blinded me! I'll have his guts out slowly, cut off his fucking head and shit down the fucking hole!"

### Sir Guy, with both himself and his mount now under control, spoke calmly and firmly to the large knight with the ravaged face. "Perhaps you will, Hurcule --- but not today! Right now you are going follow me back to the hunting lodge. There your wounds will be treated. The sheriff here is going back to Nottingham and bring back a physician to the lodge to further tend to your wounds. Is that clear?"

Hurcule was still glaring with his one good eye at Sir Gaston, who was calmly sitting his mount a few yards away. The sheriff's free hand kept gently stoking the falcon.

"I said, is that clear?!" the baron repeated his question.

### Begrudgingly, Sir Hurcule nodded, then added in a growled whisper. "But one day soon I will kill him!"

### Sir Guy shrugged, then turned to his cousin and raised an eyebrow. "Still here, Gaston? You won't 'forget' to bring back the physician, will you? I would be very displeased."

The sheriff looked up at the westering sun. Already the afternoon shadows were lengthening. "I'll send a barber-surgeon in the morning, Guy, for it will be dark or near it by the time I make Nottingham."

Sir Guy used his knees to guide his mount swiftly over to where his cousin sat smoothing his bird's ruffled feathers and preparing to slip the leather hood back on. Without a word of warning the baron suddenly reached over with his gloved hand, grasped the red beaked bird by the throat and, like one does with a chicken bound for the pot, swiftly wrung the startled creature's neck. There was an audible 'snap' and the cream colored killer went limp. Sir Guy opened his hand and the body fell, swinging inwards, still tethered to its shocked owner.

The baron then reached out again and had his cousin in the same death grip he had just used on the falcon. Instead of twisting however, he leaned in and whispered.

"You will bring back a physician tonight, NOT send out a bloody barber-surgeon in the morning after you have diddled the milk maid and butt-fucked her cow! And if you do NOT do this for me, then, cousin or no, you will go the way of your pathetic little bird! Now, turn and ride! I'll expect the two of you back before midnight!"

### As the well chastised sheriff began his long ride back to Nottingham, the baron tossed the one-eyed knight a makeshift bandage and then whistled his own by now well fed falcon back onto his wrist. When Sultan was hooded and again under his thumb, Sir Guy then gathered the reins of Beaumont's horse and led them out of the rolling fields and down a twisting forest path. A quarter of a mile in they came to a large hunting lodge that had been in the Gisbourn family since William the Conqueror had first given it as a gift to Sir Guy's great great grandfather well over a hundred years ago for his ruthless loyalty. The place was aptly named the Hawk's Nest --- the forest was simply called Sherwood.

***

"Come now, Much," the captain grinned. "You don't believe is such rubbish! Old ladies casting spells and flying around on bloody broomsticks! Its all just fireside tales told to frighten children, priests and maybe Welshmen like Stevie!"

### The hunchback sat forward like a nervous penitent in the confession box. "Hawdwise of Chalus is no old crone on a broomstick, but a woman of great beauty --- 'otherworldly' might best describe it --- both of body and of voice --- but the voice most of all."

"How come you know so much about this wicca-woman?!" Stevie asked, perhaps a little louder than necessary.

Much suddenly stood and walked towards the hearth, the fire's flames casting his misshapen shadow twice his height on the far wall. He stood there for some time, half in, half out of the light; the flickering flames causing the golden motes in his dark eyes to dance about like tiny shooting stars. He stood there looking back into a time long past, seeing inwardly the small, twisted boy he had once been, playing all alone as usual, or with his puppy that his widowed father the miller had given his solitary son in the hopes of lessening some of the loneliness.

"I met her once," Much said to the flames, his voice once again that of that little, lonely lad. "Years ago it was --- out back of my father's mill."

"You telling me that you actually met Hawdwise of Chalus?!" Stevie demanded.

"I did."

"And what did she do? "Stevie probed. Then, with a smile: "Did she put a 'spell' on you, Much?! Turn you into a wee mouse or a rabbit?!"

Again the long pause, and Much, bent and twisted as he was, seemed to grow straighter and taller as he turned and spoke. "In a way, I suppose that she did put a spell on me --- but not the kind you're thinking off. Probably the same spell that John is under now."

"What?" a confused Stevie asked.

Much, his strange eyes still looking at an earlier time, continued softly. "She was not ugly, but rather quite the opposite. She had, and probably still has, such a perfect beauty that it is indeed almost frightening. So beautiful in fact that it hurt my young eyes to look upon her."

Stevie, suddenly a young, wide-eyed lad himself, again sitting at his granny's knee, was instantly caught up in the tale. He pulled his chair closer to the fire, poured Much a drink and waited patiently for him to continue.

### After a heavysigh, Much took a long drink, put the tankard down and started his rather lengthy story of when he first met Hawdwise of Chalus, the Witch of Cymru.

***

A NOTE to the Reader:

The beautiful, evil, half witch/half temptress is a recurring theme in many of my books.

The name changes, but it is always exotic --- as does the face and the genre, but 'she' is always there weaving her webs and casting her spells of deception.

Here a very young Much meets Her for the first time.

Enjoy.

***

'Come away with me, o human child;

To the waters and the wild;

And I will show you such wonders

Human eyes have rarely seen.'

The soft, sing-song voice seemed to come out of the flowing water itself. Pure, cold, crystal clear water that tumbled down from the heights of Sherwood past the old mill where Much's widowed father plied his trade.

### The small, hunchbacked lad playing at catching frogs in the shallows of his father's stream looked up and saw an angel --- or at least, what he took for one. The Bright November sun, rising up behind her over the ancient near leafless forest, enveloped the woman in golden light that flowed around her regal form like the sun kissed halo of the Madonna herself! A pure, clear, mind-numbing light, that entered the brain through the eyes and the soul through the silent longings of the heart.

### Of course, seven year old Much could verbalize none of this --- but he could feel it! It flowed through him like the waters at his feet; from the top of his tangled mop of hair, down his twisted spine and malformed limbs to the callous hardened soles of his bare feet.

### Young Much simply looked up and saw what he took to be an angel descending from heaven. Hawdwise of Chalus however, was many things --- but an angel was most definitely not one of them!

Painting by Howard Pyle

One of the many things whispered about Hawdwise was that she was the bastard child of a bastard child; seven generations removed from the legendary King Mark of Cymru; he who sent the young hero Tristan to fetch home the old king's young bride, the Welsh princess, Deidra of the Sorrows. Another tale has Hawdwise the undying daughter of an unholy union between the ancient mage, Merlin the Enchanter and his half sister, Morgan La Faye. Dark, sinister tales sprang up around her like flies on shite!

Hawdwise, the dark beauty that comes and goes as she pleases; always with a following of strange and exotic servants; rumoured to be a councillor of kings, a paramour of princes and the bane of all clergymen! Seemingly ageless, her startling beauty was legendary! It was said that she practiced the 'Black Arts' and that one look into her dark eyes was all a man needed to loose both his heart and his soul!

Young Much knew none of this as he stood knee deep in his father's stream, one hand clutching a slippery green frog, the other hand held up to shade his eyes from the dazzling light that flowed in, around and seemingly from Hawdwise of Chalus.

"What have ye there, o human child?" she asked in a sing-song voice from atop here dappled mare; the deep tones hinting at Irish or Welsh or perhaps even Faery ancestry?

"A frog, my lady!" seven year old Much beamed. "A great jumper he is too! I've been after him all morning long!"

"Persistence is an admirable trait, child ," the musical voice intoned. "Though it can be tedious at times. Show me."

Young Much holds the green frog up to the angel and asks in an angelic voice of his own: "Are you my mother?"

If Hawdwise was caught off guard by the question she did not show it. "No, human child, I don't believe I am. Would you like me to be?"

Young Much pondered that for half a heartbeat, then shrugged and petted his frog.

"I'm not sure. Do you know my mother?" he asked.

"I doubt it. What's her name?"

"Onooga."

A perfect eyebrow rose in a perfect face. "An Irish name. Where is she now, child?"

"In heaven, my lady. I thought you might have seen her up there."

The vision hovering over him laughed slightly, carrying with it the threat of distant thunder. Then again, it might have been something else --- something worse. "I'll look for her next time I'm there. Is your father about?"

"Working in the mill, my lady. He's always working."

"And you're frog hunting out here on your own."

Seven year old Much shook his shaggy head. "I had a dog once, but he ran off --- but I'm not alone, my lady. Old Num is here with me."

The glowing vision looked around her. Other than the odd bird flitting about, the water flowing over the large turning wheel and the distant grinding of stone on stone from deep within the mill itself, there was no-one but the two of them in sight.

Hawdwise leaned down from her dappled mare and smiled at Much, who suddenly felt all warm and comfortable, like he did when curled up on his pallet with the cat Pywackit snuggled in beside him. "And where, human child, is this Old Num of yours?"

Young Much smiled, stuffed the green frog back inside the front of his shirt and waved a twisted hand at the brooding forest. "He's up there in the trees. He watches over me and my cat. My frog too, sometimes, but not always."

"He doesn't like frogs?" Hawdwise asked?

Much shrugged, started to pick his nose, then apparently thought better of it. Reaching into the front of his shirt he pulled out an apple. "Would you like to share?" he asked. "I've got a clasp-knife! I can cut it in half!"

"No --- but thank you. Perhaps you should share it with Old Num."

"Oh, he's not over fond of apples --- unless their in a pie. His wife make good pies!"

That perfect eyebrow rose again. "Does she now? And what might her name be?"

"Bluedy-Blue."

"And she lives where?"

### Young Much stuffed the apple back in with the frog and frowned. "With Old Num, of course. They are married!"

"Of course," Hawdwise smiled. "How silly of me."

"You're not silly --- you're beautiful. Are you sure you are not my mother?"

"Quite sure, though I should like it if I were."

### Young Much's eyes opened wide at that. "You'd like me to be your son?! But I'm all bent and twisted, my lady! They tease me in the village." His young voice dropped, recalling past hurts and fresh humiliations. "They call me Humpback and Twistfoot and other nasty names! Sometimes they hit me --- or throw stones."

The angel reached down. There was a rustle of silk and a velvet hand gently stroked the hump on his back. "But you are only twisted on the outside, human child. On the inside you are as straight as an arrow."

### Much's eyes widened, as did his smile. "I like arrows! I have three of them and a bow! One's busted but it still shoots!"

"And what do you shoot at with your arrows?" the velvet voice asked, though there seemed a sharp edge to its softness.

"Stumps mainly. I shot a robin once, but I didn't like the feeling. You can't eat a robin \--- at least my da says you can't. A blackbird's fine to eat, if you put it in a pie, but not a robin. Bluedy-Blue sometimes makes Old Num and me a blackbird pie!"

"Sounds delicious! But have you ever thought of shooting the boys that hit you and call you names?"

Young Much's strange eyes opened wide and he started to fidget. "Sometimes. But that wouldn't be right."

"And why not?" the angel asked. "They hurt you. Why can't you hurt them back?"

Much was silent for some time. When he did speak it barely a whisper. "I only have three arrows, and one's broke."

"What if I gave you a whole quiver full of arrows? All the arrows you need?" The angel that was not an angel leaned down closer. "Would you shoot them then?"

### More silence as young Much pondered the question. His answer came slowly, almost as though he felt that he was disappointing her with it. "I think if I did shoot them, then I'd probably feel badder than when I shot the robin. Besides, they don't hit really hard --- it's the names that hurt more."

That perfect eyebrow was suddenly creased into a frown and for a moment the dazzling light around her seemed to dim slightly. "You are a strange child for a human. Most boys your age are blood-thirsty little demons. You however seem to be cut from a different cloth. Quite fascinating!

Much looked down at his shirt, but it looked the same as everyone else's. "You sure you don't want an apple?"

The voice that she used now had lost much of its sweetness, but not its power. "What I want, human child, is to find certain wildflowers that grow near millstreams. I have need of them for my medicines."

"Like what? Dandelions and daisies?" Much asked.

"A little rarer than those. Mandrake, King's Foil and Dragon's Bane. Some toadstools would be welcome as well. Know you any of these, human child?"

"I know where there's lots of toadstools! Tall brown ones over by the muddy hill! But my da says their poison and not to eat them!"

"And you da is right, child. But it's not for supper that I want them, but for 'other things'."

"Oh --- well, that's alright then! Come along, my lady. I'll show you where they are!"

***

Some time later young Much found himself sitting in a field of wild flowers with the beautiful lady sitting beside him. He knew she was not an angel now, though he wasn't quite sure how he knew that. He knew that she wasn't his mother either, and even though the part of him that still longed for a soft embrace or a gentle touch now and again wished that she was --- another part, the part way down at the bottom of his brain, was glad that she wasn't.

His mother, Onooga, was in heaven.

Much new instinctively that this lady, Hawdwise of Chalus, for all her great beauty, would neither want to go, nor be allowed in, heaven.

Looking around he saw two or three servants laying out food on a wine red cloak shot through with golden thread. Meat, bread and cheese and what looked like a blackbird pie were all laid out before him. The servants seemed odd somehow; different. There but not there. Also the clothes they wore were strange. Off to the side a tall woman leaned on a long handled axe. She was dressed in a long, shimmering scale male shirt and had a silver helm under her arm. She stood perfectly still but her eyes were always moving. Much's seven year old mind never thought to ask where all this had come from. Perhaps it was just a dream. Then again, perhaps it was'nt.

### The beautiful lady that he now thought of as 'Aunt Hawdwise', smiled and cut him a slice of Bluedy-Blue's apple pie. He looked around for Old Num, but his imaginary friend was nowhere to be seen. That was strange, for Old Num was usually always there before whenever Much had needed him.

Over the twittering of birdsong and the babbling of a brook, one of the servants began to play a lyre. Much didn't know that word and had never seen the ancient instrument, but, like everything else, it seemed strangely familiar.

"Oh, listen, Puck!" the not-angel smiled as she handed him the wooden plate and a silver spoon. "They're playing your favourite song! Would you like me to sing it to you?"

"Who's Puck?" Much asked as he cut into the pie. As the brown crust broke open Bluedy-Blue's apples had somehow turned into living blackbirds that flew away.

"Why, you are, silly boy!" Hawdwise smiled --- then she began to sing.

'Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild,  
With a faery, hand in hand;  
For the world's more full of weeping

### Than you can understand.'

### ('The Stolen Child'

by William Butler Yeats)

***

Here is 'Haudwise' in another disguise.

Once again she is 'consort & councillor' to the king,

this time in my Scottish romantic adventure

'The King's Brother'

### You will also meet my bray, bonnie Scott, Angus McDuff and the heroine of the tale, the beautiful and high spirited Lady Catherine Graham of Craigmorrow.

***

Laird Robert Douglas, his cousin Sir Hamish Douglas and Angus MacDuff, along with a suitable number of servants and bodyguards, had arrived at Craigmorrow castle just after the noon bell. The tide was out and the stone causeway crossed an exposed estuary that led out into Solway Firth. Several skerries and other small sailcraft lay high and dry on the muddy banks. "Tis a fine, bonny castle, is it not, cousin?" Sir Hamish had shouted as their horses hooves clattered over the arched, stone causeway. Hamish and Lord Robert had been sharing a flask on the long ride, and so both were in a merry mood when they finally reached Craigmorrow.

"I've not been here for nigh on a score o' years or more!" Hamish continued. "Back in '94 it was, when Lord Herbert n' I had our wee 'disagreement'. Settled it right here on this very bridge we did! Swords n' dirks out n' have at it! Och, but he was a bonnie fighter back then! Quick as a cat and twice as deadly! Laid my arm open to the bone! N' him with nary a scratch on him!"

"Bested ye, did he Hamish?" Lord Robert asked, reaching for the near empty flask. "N' here I thought you a mahn unbeatable!"

Sir Hamish drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Tis true there be no many that ha' bested me with a blade --- but the Englishmahn who lived in yonder castle was one o' 'em! N' a damn fine mahn he was too --- may God rest his sassenach soul!"

"You liked the mahn, uncle," Angus put in with a teasing smile. "But what of his wife? I hear she was quite the looker in her day."

"Aye, she was that, lad," Hamish said softly, a far away look in his gaze; "But an unsteady lass for all her beauty. Prone to nervous laughter and a melancholy frame o' mind. Like a sparrow in the wind I found her \--- t'was the reason for our 'disagreement' on the bridge."

Lord Robert, feeling the effect of the shared flask, grinned at his cousin. "You tried to bed the wench, Hamish, n' Lord Herbert called you out!"

"Not exactly that," Hamish replied; "but her husband thought so."

"And so you fought?" Angus asked.

"Aye, lad, we fought," Hamish said, his earlier bluster suddenly changed to melancholy. "The mahn could have killed me easy --- but didn't."

"Perhaps, Hamish," Lord Robert said slowly; "he knew his wife better than you think."

"Perhaps he did at that, cousin" the old soldier said. "But those days are long in the past. Dead n' gone like the mahn himself." Turning to Angus, Hamish dragged up a smile. "It's the young lad here's time now! What say you boy-o?! Will ye give this bonnie red headed lass a chance, or are ye still adverse to taking a sassenach for a wife?!

"I'm adverse, uncle, to taking any kind of wife! But when the time does come for me to wed, it will be a Highland lass of my own choosing, not some pampered, empty-headed English woman!"

"Ah, but they say lad that she's a real looker!" Hamish grinned. "N' filthy rich ta boot!"

"I'll no marry for money, cousin!" Angus growled.

The Douglas and Hamish smiled wisely, both being old enough to know what Angus had yet to discover --- that just because a man thinks one thing, does not mean that is the way things will turn out. Call it Destiny, the Will of God or the fickleness of the faeries under the hill --- once the Three Weird Sisters weave his fate, there is little a man, woman or child can do but be carried along like a twig in a rushing stream.

***

When Angus entered Craigmorrow's high ceilinged hall it was hot, noisy and above all, crowded. The half dozen 'great men' that had been invited all had brought a large entourage with them. Some, like the Earl of Sunderland, a lowland Scottish noble had not only brought his personal servants and bodyguards, but his huntsmen, hounds and falcons as well! Others, like the English nobleman, Lord Nigel Cunningham, the 13th Duke of Wedgewood, brought the latest fashion from Paris. A tall, thin, effeminate looking man, Lord Nigel was dressed in a silver satin coat trimmed all in lace, with matching waistcoat and breeches. There were silver buckles on his shoes, a silver hilted smallsword at his side and a white ostrich plume in his hat! The Duke strolled around the crowded hall holding a scented ball to his upturned nose, clearly giving the impression that he found not only the place but the people in it far beneath him.

Lord Robert, clad in a plain, dark jacket and his clan's kilt, nudged Angus in the ribs, then cut his eyes towards the tall duke in his silver satins. "There's one ye should look out for, laddie."

Angus took Lord Nigel in at a glance. "The poofta in silk? I doubt he could lift a dirk, let alone a broadsword! Besides, he looks like he enjoys the lads far more than the lasses!"

"Aye, so they say," replied the Douglas. "But he's richer than the Pope and a hell of a lot craftier ---so if it's broadswords he needs he has more than enough coin to by them!"

"Perhaps I should speak with him about our cause then?" Angus asked. "Know ye what side he's on? Kingsman or Jacobite?"

"Lord Nigel Bloody Cunningham, the Duke of Bloody Wedgewood," Lord Robert said slowly, almost hissing the words; "is altogether on his own side, Angus! Oh, he seems fair, with all his fine manners and fancy clothes, but he'll turn foul as soon as it profits him to do so!"

Angus frowned. "I see that you ken the mahn well, sir. I take that you've had unpleasant dealings with him in the past?"

The Douglas did his best to hide his anger, but was only partially successful. "Aye, lad, ye might say that. Long before your time it was --- but not forgotten!"

"Angus," put in Sir Hamish, "you heed the laird well on this! The Duke o' Wedgewood may dress the dandy, but he's a cold hearted stoat of a mahn that's as deadly with that fancy smallsword he carries as a fox is in a henhouse! I've seen him stick a mahn three times before the poor bugger could raise his broadsword! So Angus, stay well clear of the bastard! A silk wearing catamite or no, he's a stone cold killer through n' through!"

"I just want to talk to the mahn, Hamish, not fight him --- but who's the dark haired, feathered beauty beside him?" Angus asked, his young man's gaze drawn towards the duke's companion rather than the duke himself. "The Duchess of Wedgewood? Or perhaps his mistress?"

At the duke's side was an extremely beautiful, exotic looking woman. Clad in shadows and what appeared to be blue-black raven feathers and very little else, there was a aura of cold aloofness about her.

Angus felt strangely drawn to dark haired woman yet repelled at the same time --- almost as though the beauty he was seeing was but a mask, hiding an ancient ugliness buried deep inside.

Hamish snorted out a laugh. "The duke is not married, Angus. N' as for the dark baggage being his mistress, from what I've heard it's is no bloody likely! As you've already noted, the duke's amorous inclinations run more to fair haired lads n' handsome young men like yerself. Though how the boy-buggerer could pass up ploughing that particular field is beyond me!"

Lord Robert continued somewhat more delicately from where his half inebriated cousin had left off. "That, Angus, is the Lady Hecate Du Noir, the Countess of Chalis. The duke calls her his 'personal advisor' \--- whatever that means. Some say that she's his lover, but as Hamish so delicately pointed out, the duke seems 'otherwise inclined'. Some say she is his physician, others his astrologer, still others that she's his sorceress."

"A sorceress? You mean a witch?!" Angus exclaimed; half smiling, half frowning. "A mixer of potions and a caster of spells?!"

The Douglas shrugged, then sipped from his glass. "Something like that, though I doubt you'll see the lady flying around on a broom or cackling over a cauldron. Still, she does have a certain 'witchy way' about her, does she not? Note how nearly every mahn here is aware of her; watching her out of the corner of their eyes. She draws them to her like moths to a flame."

Angus turned and grinned at The Douglas. "It sounds once again, my lord, that you speak from experience."

Robert Douglas took another sip from his glass and sighed. "The Countess and I have indeed crossed paths before, lad, though it was quite a few years ago." His eyes followed the woman as she flowed across the room. "Strange, it seems that she hasn't aged a day." There was a catch in the laird's voice, and Angus heard something else in it as well \--- something akin to sadness, mixed with a deep longing.

'It seems,' Angus thought, 'that Lord Robert and the Lady Du Noir have done a fair bit more than merely 'cross paths'!' Wisely though, especially in one so young, Angus let the subject drop and turned to look over the rest at the so called 'suitors' for the mysterious and as yet, unseen Lady Catherine of Craigmorrow --- and that is when he saw her!

She entered the large room from the servant's door, her tall, slim body moving with a natural grace. Dressed in a plain gown of forest green, Angus took her for a kitchen maid or serving wench, yet the way her long, rust coloured hair flowed about her as she walked, she looked to Angus more like something out of a storybook --- a faery queen newly come from the hollow hills! He noted how her flashing green eyes took in the crowded room at a glance and he had the feeling that though she may not like what she saw, neither would she turn away from doing her duty.

A lowly servant she may be, but Angus was attracted to her in a way he'd never experienced before! The beautiful Lady Du Noir may have the power to draw men to her like moths to a flame, but this plainly dressed scullery maid had a power of a different kind --- the power to brighten both a room and a man's heart!

All this happened in a flash, with little or no 'conscious' thought involved, just a young man's soaring emotions. 'Love at first sight' the troubadours called it --- something Angus had always thought a load of shite --- until now.

'Get a hold o' yerself, mahn!' he scolded himself. 'She's just a pretty country lass! Tis the fiery red hair that drew you --- that n' nothing more!' But he knew there was more --- much more! No stranger to love --- or what had passed for 'love' before now, Angus somehow knew that 'this' was something totally different! Moments ago, when he had first seen the strikingly beautiful Lady Du Noir, he'd felt 'something'. Interest; a sexual attraction --- even a moment of lust mixed with a strange repulsion --- but certainly not 'love'!

'Like a moth to the flame' Lord Robert had said. Angus recalled also the sadness that had been in the older man's voice \--- a sadness mixed with regret and a deep rooted longing to once again fly towards that flame! Angus himself had 'felt' an underlying darkness in the raven haired beauty, but not so with this red headed 'faery lass'! Her beauty and goodness flowed from both within and without.

In short, Angus MacDuff, captain of dragoons and half-brother to James Francis Stewart, exiled king of Scotland, had come to Craigmorrow to win men's heart over to his brother's cause --- and lost his own to a red headed serving maid!

But what of the maid herself?

Would, Gentle Reader, she too take but one look at Angus and, like those two 'star crossed lover's of fair Verona', fall madly in love with the handsome, young Scotsman? And if so, would their love be as ill fated as that of the Bard's most tragic couple?

Let's read on and find out together, shall we?

***

At first Catherine didn't even notice him, and when she finally did there was nothing like the reaction Angus had experience when first seeing her. Apparently 'love at first sight' does happen often enough, but rarely to both parties at the same time!

All that Catherine saw was a slightly taller, slightly better looking young Scott, badly in need of a haircut and standing with a rather slack-jawed, vacant look in his eye. 'Obviously drunk', she thought in passing; 'like a great many of his countrymen!' A part of her noted too that though his attire was a bit travel worn, he wore his dark hued kilt with a certain 'style' and that there seemed to be more than the usual number of weapons hung about him. 'Just another drunken, bare-kneed Highlander that fancies himself a 'great slayer o' men'!' she thought. 'Another Wallace or Bruce come down from the hills to free the masses!' she thought mockingly, then she dismissed him and passed her gaze over the other, better dressed suitors.

Seeking out her mother, she found her standing, as usual, in the shadow of her new husband. The hated 'father killer' was talking to a handsome man dressed in silver, satin and lace. There was a woman there as well, though dark, glossy feathers appeared to make up the majority of her attire! 'A cape perhaps? Or a strange cloak?' Catherine thought.

But it wasn't the garment that shocked her as much as the dark, shimmering haze that seemed to surround the woman herself; almost like a heat shimmer on a summer's day --- though this was both darker and colder!

'Hawdwise o' Cymru!' Catherine thought to herself, the name springing from the tale Old Nell the wicca woman had told about her infamous ancestor. Suddenly Catherine's mind took her back to Nell's root-bound cave; to an over bright fire, a cup of bitter-sweet tea and being watched by a stuffed owl that hooted!

"My mother, Glynis MacTavish o' Skye, taught me the wicca arts," Old Nell said from the shadows of Catherine's mind. "She was taught by her granny, Brindle MacSorely o' Mull and her in turn from her great granny, Dathruda MacGregor of Islay. On and on it goes, back in time for hundreds o' years, to the very first wicca of my line, Hawdwise o' Cymru!"

Catherine remembered not only the tale Old Nell had spun, but the feeling of being both watcher and watched as the tale unfolded like a 'play' in the dancing flames of the old woman's fire. Catherine felt suddenly faint and reached out to steady herself as still another nightmare overtook her in full daylight!

The late afternoon sun gently slanted in through the leaves, dappling her father's form in a golden halo as slept peacefully in his garden.

Suddenly a movement caught her eye. Catherine, once again 'Cat of the Shadows', saw a darker, more sinister shadow moving up behind her sleeping father. She recognized the man immediately --- her Uncle Reginald!--- the man that had married her mother --- creeping silently to his brother's side! In his hand was a small vile of dark liquid!

Glancing furtively around, her uncle/step-fther leaned in and poured the contents into his brother's ear. Cat's father, suddenly thrashing about, was all in shadow, but her uncle, stepping boldly into the slanting light, was suddenly aglow. Slowly he turned his head and, looking right at her, he smiled.

"No!" Catherin yelled, coming suddenly back to the present, standing in the middle of her dead father's crowded hall.

"Catherine dear?" her mother said, frowning. "Are you alright, child? You look as though you have seen a ghost!"

Lady Margaret Graham moved protectively towards her only child, but Catherine brushed aside her mother's offered hand. Ever since the funeral, (followed all too quickly by the marriage), things had remained strained between mother and daughter --- mainly the fault to the daughter.

"Worse than a ghost, mother," Catherine said quietly. 'I saw my father die."

The words seemed to strike Lady Margaret like a blow and she reached out and took her daughter's hand. "You must not dwell on the unpleasantries of the past, Cat. You have your whole life ahead of you. All these rich and powerful men are here seeking your hand. Surely there must be one that you find 'interesting'?

"I find them all repulsive, mother --- as you well know," Katherine replied in that low, serious tone that her mother found so disturbing. "And the man that arranged for this 'meat auction' I find the most repulsive of all!"

Lady Margaret looked confused for a moment, then hurt once understanding set in.

"Catherine, my sweet!" said a honeyed voice --- a voice that made her skin crawl. "I've someone here that I'd like you to meet." Her one-time uncle, now step-father, held out his arms and smiled sweetly.

Ignoring his attempted embrace, Catherine took her mother's hand and walked up to Reginald Graham. "Uncle?" she said flatly. "You called?"

Anger flashed across Lord Reginald's slightly powdered face, colouring his cheeks even more than the carefully applied touch of rouge. Such 'French fashion' was all the rage with many English nobles and lowland Scottish. Catherine thought they looked like painted fops.

"Uncle I once was, Catherine," smiled the new Lord of Craigmorrow; "and for many years a distant one, and so it is only natural for you to think of me as such. But for the last half year now I have been your step-father, and it would please both your mother and myself greatly if you would address me as such."

"Would it, uncle?" Catherine replied quickly, her low tone concealing none of her dislike. "And it would please me greatly if I was allowed to choose my own mate, but then we cannot always get what we want, can we?"

Lord Reginald's colour rose again, along with a slight twitch in his left eye. Seeing this, Lady Margaret attempted to intervene, but was stopped short when the Duke of Wedgewood stepped forward and, taking Catherine's hand, raised it to his lips.

"By Jove, Regie," the duke beamed, still holding her hand. "I'd heard that your niece \--- pardoney-moi, madomoiselle \--- your 'step-daughter', was a young woman of spirit, but I had no idea that she could be so fiery!" He turned and bowed low to Catherine, sweeping off his ostrich plumed hat with one hand and still holding hers with the other.

"Kindly present me, Regie, to this reincarnation of Dianna the Huntress! Or is it the legendary Boudica, the 'Queen of Britannia', that you emulate, my dear?"

Catherine reclaimed her hand and a good deal of her dignity. "Boudica had the entire Roman army invading her homeland --- here at Craigmorrow I merely have to deal with my uncle."

"Ohh! An arrow straight to the heart!" the duke exclaimed, clutching his chest theatrically. "Regie, she is an absolute marvel! Such fearless frankness! Such devastating disdain! She must be a joy to you beyond all earthly measure!"

"That she is, Nigel," Lord Reginald muttered. "That she is."

Once again Caterine's hand was swooped up and brought to the duke's slightly rouged lips. "Please allow me to introduce myself, my dear --- as your last salvo seems to have left your, er, 'uncle', somewhat adrift. I am Lord Nigel Cunningham, the 13th Duke of Wedgewood, and I am most absolutely at your service!" There was a pregnant pause, another brush of his rouged lips across the back of her hand and then the duke continued. "And this feathered beauty at my side is the Lady Hecate Du Noir, the Countess of Chalis. Lady Du Noir is my personal advisor. She is skilled in history, herbery and astrology, as well as a number of other subjects that, alas, are far beyond my poor understanding."

Once again reclaiming her hand, Catherine met the dark haired woman's piercing gaze and returned as good as she got --- though the 'repulsion/attraction' that she had felt earlier for this dark haired creature now returned twice as strong. When they mutually broke eye contact, Catherine felt as though she had just been inspected from head to toe like some captured slave back in ancient Rome, and desired more than anything to submerge herself in a hot bath.

The Lady Du Noir spoke first. "I'm very pleased to finally meet you, Catherine. I've heard so much about you that I feel that I already know you. I do hope that we can be good friends!"

To Catherine the woman's voice sounded like a velvet caress that reached deep into her mind. All her earlier hurt, resentment and anger suddenly melted away, replaced by a warm feeling of lightheaded contentment. Part of her wanted to curl up in her bed and dream the night away, while another part wanted to stay close to her wonderful new friend.

Lady Du Noir and the Duke exchanged glances, seemed to converse silently for a moment, then the feathered woman smiled and gently touched Catherine's arm. "But perhaps I rush things a little. We've just met and there are all these other interesting people for you talk to! Come, Nigel, we have already kept this wonderful little family too long from their other guests." Taking the duke's arm, Hecate paused and turned back to Catherine. "But we will talk again later I hope? Already I feel that we'll be great friends --- perhaps even like sisters!" With that she swirled away on the duke's satin arm, her train of raven feathers flowing after her like an obedient flock.

As though in a dream, Catherine watched the dark haired woman with the velvet voice glide away across the room --- and with each step Catherine's mind became clearer. Within seconds she was her full self again and no longer under Hecate Du Noir's 'spell', though a sour taste still seemed to linger not on her tongue but in her mind. Blinking like a sleepwalker just awakened, she looked around the crowded hall and saw the tall Scott in need of a haircut staring at her like a lost puppy --- the only man in the room not watching the exotic beauty in the feathered dress.

***

Here is my 'witchy-woman' in another incarnation. This time she is one third of a 'Elwise'lover's triangle --- the dark and dangerous third.

In my version of the old Norse saga, 'Erick Brighteyes', she is Swanhild the Fatherless. Born of an illicit joining between Groa the Witch and Lord Asmund, the Earl of Iceland and the father of Gudruda The Fair.

Swanhild and Gudruda are half sisters, and all they share are their father's blood, a hatred for each other and a love for Eric Brighteyes.

Eric and Gudruda are engaged to be married, but over and over Swanhild tries to win Eric away from Gudruda. Finally, she resorts to and evil and very dangerous spell.

This exert begins there.

***

Far over the seas in Orkney, Swanhild, old Atli the Earl's wife, stood naked in a chalked circle on the stone floor of her chamber. A sliver of pale moonlight lit her face, her shoulder and her upturned breasts, \--- yet the feeble light could not dispel all the darkness --- nor did she want it to --- for dark deeds are best done in an absence of light!

Standing naked on the cold stone she looked with wide eyes towards the sea. It was midnight. None stirred in Atli's hall --- but still Swanhild looked out towards the wave tossed waters.

Slowly she turned and spoke into the darkness, for there was no light in the bower save the sliver of moon and the light of her great eyes.

"Art thou there?" she said. "I have summoned thee thrice in the words thou knowest. Say, Toad, art thou there?"

"Ay, Swanhild the Fatherless! Swanhild, Groa's daughter! Witch-mother's witch-child! I am here. What is thy will with me?" said a high, thin voice out of the darkest corner of the room.

Swanhild shuddered a little and her eyes grew bright like a cat.

"This first," she said: "that thou show thyself. Hideous as thou art, I had rather see thee, than speak seeing thee not."

"Mock not my form, lady," answered the thin voice, "for I appear as thou dost fashion me in thy mind.

To the good I am as fair as a sunny day, but to the evil, I appear as foul as their own heart. 'Toad' thou didst call me --- so a 'toad' I will be!"

Swanhild looked, and behold! A ring of darker darkness swirled and flashed in front of her, and in it crouched a truly hideous thing to see! Its eyes bulged like glittering lumps of coal, and its skin was a wet, dirty yellow. It frowned and leaned forward. Swanhild shrank from it.

"Grey Wolf thou didst call me once, Swanhild, when thou wouldst have thrust Gudruda down Goldfoss Falls, and as a grey wolf I came, and gave thee counsel that thou tookest but ill.

Rat didst thou also call me once, when thou wouldst save Brighteyes from the spearmen of Ospa, and as a rat I came and helped thee walk the seas.

Toad thou callest me now, and as a toad I creep about thy feet. Ask of me what thy will, Swanhild --- and I will name my price.

But be swift about it, for there are other witchy maids and toothless old hags whose bidding I must do ere the blinding light of dawn."

"Thou art indeed hideous to look on!" said Swanhild, placing her hand before her eyes.

"Say not so, dark maid; say not so! Look closely at this face of mine. Knowest thou it not? The great toad's face slowly took on that of an old woman."It is thy mother's. Dead Groa lent it me. I took it from where she lies in her grave. As for my toad's mottled skin, I drew that from thy spotted heart.

But Swanhild , if thou would be as wise as thou art wicked, harken now to my reed. In a no too distant time, you more hideous than I am now shalt thou soon be --- as once, long ago, I was more fair than thou art now."

Swanhild opened her lips to shriek, but no sound came.

"Troll!" she finally hissed. "Foul thing from the fiery pit! Mock me not with your lies, but hearken to my bidding! Where sails Eric now?!"

Her mother's dead face split into a hideous smile. "Look out into the night, lady, and thou shalt see thy love."

Swanhild looked, and the ways of the darkness opened before her witch-sight. There at the mouth of Pentland Firth the ship'Gudruda' labored heavily in the great seas, and by the tiller stood Eric, and with him his sword brother Skallagrim Grimson.

"Seest thou thy black heart's desire?" asked Toad the Familiar.

"Yea," she answered, "Full clearly. He is worn with wind and sea, but more glorious than aforetime! And his hair is wondrously long! Sayest true, Toad, I charge thee! What shall befall Eric if thou aidest him not?"

The death-mask's smile widened. "This, Cold Heart --- that Eric Brighteyes shall pass without further harm up Pentland Firth, for the gale falls and the seas grow quiet. He will winter well in the Fareys, and, with the coming of spring, he will quit those isles and sail home to Gudruda's loving arms."

"And what canst thou do, foul Goblin, to prevent that coming to pass?"

"This, black hearted lady; I can lure Eric's ship to wreck, and give his comrades, all save Skallagrim, to Ran's net. And I can also bring the hero Brighteyes to thy own grasping arms, Swanhild, witch-mother's witch-child!"

She hearkened well and her breast heaved and her eyes flashed. "And thy price for all this, Toad?"

"Thou art the price, lady!" croaked the Familiar. "I shall give to thee thy dark heart's desire --- the love, body and soul of Eric Brighteyes --- but when thy day is done and your sands have all run out, then thou shalt give thyself to me!

The toad seemed to chuckle \--- a sound that pierced Swanhild's cold heart.

"And merrily indeed will we Blood-sisters dwell in cold Hela's halls! And fare about the earth on moonless nights, doing such dark tasks as this one of thine thou commandest me!

Together we shall work wicked woe on others --- till, in the end, the last woe is worked on us!

Art thou content with this offer, Swanhild, bastard daughter of Groa The Witch?"

Swanhild thought long --- sure yet unsure of her answer. Twice her breath went from her lips in great sighs, but still she stood silent.

Finally the Familiar spoke again, its tone now mocking. "Ifyou will not pay my price, then safely shall Eric reach the shore. Safely shall he winter in the Farey Isles --- and safely shall he come to lie in white Gudruda's loving arms. Think of it, lady! His body, his touch, his passion. Picture it all in thy mind's eye and tell me true --- art thou now content with my offer?"

Swanhild began to shake like a tree in the gale, and her face grew the colour of smoke. "I-am-content," she said at last.

"Such a brave lady! So wise, so fair --- so 'content'! Ah, we sisters shall be merry indeed!" the Familiar grinned.

"But hearken: if I aid thee thus, then I may do no more. Thrice has the night-owl come at thy call, and now it must wing away. Yet things will be as I have said and thine own wicked wisdom shall guide the rest.

"These three things shall I make come to pass: Ere morn Brighteyes shall arrive safely at your old husband's hall; ere spring he will be thy love, and ere autumn Gudruda shall sit on the high seat in the hall of Middalhof as the new of Ospa Blacktooth!

Now, draw nigh, sister-to-be, and give me thine arm so that blood may seal our bargain!"

Swanhild drew near the toad, and, shuddering, stretched out her arm. Suddenly red blood flowed, their hands clasped and their sisterhood was sealed! And as the dark deed was wrought, it seemed to Swanhild as though fire shot through her veins, and fire surged before her eyes, and in the fire a shape passed up weeping.

"It is done, Blood-sister!" croaked the Familiar; "But now I must take on thy form and be about thy tasks. Seat thee here before me ---so. Now, lay thy brow upon my brow --- fear not, for it is thy mother's face --- both in life and death! Her dark, curling locks now corpse white!

There two bodies began to shimmer, blur and merge.

"See, Blood-sister! We change! We change! Now thou art the Death-toad and I am Swanhild, old Atli's beautiful, young wife --- she who shall soon be Eric's greatest love!"

Then Swanhild knew that her beauty had entered into the foulness of the toad, and the foulness of the toad into her beauty, for there before her stood her own shape while she crouched a slime covered toad upon the cold stone floor.

"Away to work! Away!" said a soft, low voice \--- her voice speaking from her own body that now stood before her! And then it was gone.

But Swanhild still crouched in the shape of a hag-headed toad upon the stone floor in her bower in Atli's hall \--- and felt the wickedness and evil longings and hate that boiled and seethed within her black heart. She looked out through her large, bulging eyes and she seemed to see strange sights.

She saw Atli, her aged husband, dead upon the grass.

She saw a Eric standing over him, blood on his sword.

She saw Gudruda's hall red with blood.

She saw a great cliff near a mountain cave, and men fell down it.

And, last, she saw a war-ship sailing fast out on the sea, afire, and vanish there.

***

Now the toad/witch-hag who wore Swanhild's loveliness stood upon the high cliffs by the storm tossed sea and raised her white arms towards the north.

"Come, fog! Come, sleet! Come dark of night!" she cried. "Put out the moon and blind Eric's sight!" And as she called, the fog rose up like a giant and stretched iis arms from shore to shore.

"Move, fog! Beat, rain!" she cried. "Stride against the gale, and bring Eric's ship to its bain!"

The fog moved against the wind, and with it went the sleet and rain --- and far to the north a battered ship drove through the growing waves.

"Now I am afeared," said Eric to Skallagrim, as they stood in darkness upon their ship: "The gale blows from behind us, and yet the mist drives fast in our faces! What comes next?!"

"This is witch-work, lord," answered Skallagrim, "and in such things no counsel can avail! Hold the tiller straight and drive on, say I. Methinks the gale lessens more and more."

So they sailed on, and all around them sounded the roar of breakers. Darker grew the sky, till at the last, though they stood side by side, they could not see each other's shapes.

"This is strange sailing," said Eric. "I hear the roar of breakers as it were beneath the prow, but I see them not!"

"Lash the helm, lord, and let us go forward!" called Skallagrim. "And if there be breakers, perhaps we shall see their foam through the blackness!"

Eric did so, and they crept forward on the starboard side right to the prow of the ship, and there Skallagrim peered into the fog and sleet.

"Lord," he whispered presently, and his voice shook strangely, "What is that yonder on the waters? Seest thou aught?!"

Eric stared and said, "By Odin! I see a shape of light like that of a woman! It walks upon the waters towards us and the mist melts before it --- and the sea grows calm beneath its feet!"

"I see that also!" whispered Skallagrim.

"She comes nigh!" gasped Eric. "See how swift she comes! By the dead, it is Swanhild's shape! Look, Skallagrim! Look how her eyes flame! Look how her hair streams upon the wind!"

"It is Swanhild, and we are fey!" growled Skallagrim, and they ran back to the helm, where Skallagrim stood clutching his great axe.

"See there, Skallagrim, she glides before the 'Gudruda's' bow! She points yonder --- there to the right! Shall I put the helm down and follow her?!"

"Nay, lord, nay; set no faith in witchcraft or evil will befall us all!"

As he spoke a great gust of wind shook the ship, the music of the breakers roared in their ears, and the gleaming shape upon the waters pointed again to the right.

"The breakers call straight ahead," said Eric. "And Swanhild's shade points yonder, where I hear no sound of sea! Once before, Skallagrim, Swanhild walked the waves to warn us and thereby saved us from Ospa's men. Ever she swore she loved me; now she is surely come in love to save us and all our comrades! Say now, quickly! Shall I put about? Look there! Once more she beckons!"

"I have no rede for you, lord," said Skallagrim, "and I love not witch-work! But we can die but once, and death is all around. Be it as thou wilt, lord. I, as ever, follow!"

So Eric put down the helm with all his might and the 'Gudruda' answered. Her timbers groaned loudly, as though in woe, when the strain of the sea struck her abeam, but then once more she flew fast across the waters. Yet faster still before her glided Swanhild's wraith. It pointed here and there, and as it pointed so Eric shaped his course. For a while the noise of breakers lessened, but now again came a thunder, like mighty waves smiting on a cliff, and about the sides of the 'Gudruda' the waves hissed like snakes.

Suddenly the wraith threw up its arms and seemed to sink beneath the waves, while a sound like that of a great laugh went up from sea to sky.

"Now here is the end!" growled Skallagrim, "For we've been lured to our doom!"

Ere ever the words had passed his lips the ship struck, and so fiercely that they were rolled upon the deck. Then suddenly the sky grew clear, the moon shone bright, and before them were tall cliffs and foam-washed rocks, and behind them a great wave rushed in towards them. From the hold of the ship there came a cry, for now their comrades were awake and they knew that death was upon them.

Eric gripped Skallagrim round the middle and looked aft. On rushed the great wave, and when it struck the Gudruda burst all asunder. Yet by either the weavings of the Three Nons or Swanhild's 'deal with the devil', Eric Brighteyes and Skallagrim Grimson were lifted on the wave's foaming crest. Carried landwards, they were dashed about, near drowned and finally washed up on Earl Atli's stony beach and knew no more.

***

Back in her bower in Atli's hall, still crouching on the cold stone floor, still in the hideous guise of Toad the Familiar, Swanhild looked upon the visions as they passed before her. Suddenly a woman's shape --- her own shape \--- was there!

"It is done, Blood-sister," said a familiar voice, her own voice. "Merrily I walked the waves, and oh, merry was the cry of Eric's folk when Ran caught them in her net! But now thou must be thyself again, Blood-sister. Be as fair without as thou art foul within! Then arise, wake Earl Atli thy husband, and go down to the southern cliffs --- and see what thou shalt see.

But I must go, for now the cock crows heralding in the light of day! We shall meet no more, Blood-sister, till all this game is played out and another one is set --- and then we shall part no more," Then the shade of Swanhild crouched upon the floor before the hag-headed toad muttering "Pass! Pass! Let the glimmers fade, wither, wither and all fall away!"

Then Swanhild felt her flesh come back to her, and as it grew upon her so the shape of the Death-headed toad faded away to nothingness.

"Farewell, Blood-sister!" a voice croaked from the shadows. "Make merry as thou mayest, but merrier still shall be our nights together long after your strong, young hero had lost his strength and his golden hair turned to grey. Then we shall meet again, thou and I --- and you will pay the price for me helping you to cheat the Fates and snare the love of Eric Brighteyes. Until that far off day, farewell sister!"

And then all was gone and all was still --- save the wild beating of Swanhild's black heart.

***
Here is one more look at my mysterious witchy-woman.Different place, different name, even a different face --- though still the same black heart!

'Elwise'

'The Witch and the Golden Son'

"I can't do it!" growled the tall, mail clad man with the long, golden hair and thick beard. He had a ruggedly handsome face --- a face that many women, both married and unmarried, found dangerously fascinating. "I can't do it --- and I won't!"

"But, my lord, I'm afraid that you must," said a frowning, mustachioed man standing behind Sair Lancel Landismere. "For if you do not do as the king commands, then you \---and by association, the entire Landismere family, will be guilty of treason!"

The man's words rocked Lancel and his mind reeled. For years now he and his sister had tried to find a way to have their father released from the King's Tower. Swallowing his pride and finally swearing allegiance to a ruler he despised had seemed the only way --- and for a while it had even worked. His father had been 'pardoned', allowed to return home to castle Landismere and had slowly recovered his health.

But now, as an 'officer of the King', he was being told --- no, 'ordered' to do something that went against the very fiber of his being --- to wipe out an entire village because it was suspected of harboring rebels against the crown.

His anger turned to something else as he suddenly heard his mother's voice, dead now these many years, began to sing inside his head.

'Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild;  
With a faery, hand in hand,  
For the world's more full of weeping

Than you can understand.'

As a child Lancel's mother had often sang to him, but never songs of faeries or magic or stolen children. Her songs were all of gayness and light; sunny songs filled with laughter and cakes by the fire and a safe, warm bed waiting.

This little ditty however conjured up all kinds of dark, unpleasant thoughts. Wet, boggy land; ripe with the smell of death and decay. Dark, stagnant pools of black water with pale, silver things swimming just below the surface --- things he didn't want to see, let alone touch!

And the singer's voice had now changed as well! His mother's still, yet with a deeper, more sinister tone, like a warning whispered down a deep, dark well, or the sound of a shovel scraping stones while digging a grave.

He knew then that it was not his mother's voice; that it had never been hers, but that of the king's new foreign advisor --- Orlaith Redhand of Cymru, the beautiful but strange wicca woman that the king was openly infatuated with.

Then, to add to Lancel's confusion, that very same beautiful, dark haired creature began to materialize before him, shimmering dreamlike only an arm's length away! Her flickering form smiled sweetly from one side of her perfect mouth while leering provocatively from the other. She was dressed revealingly in what seemed like black feathers, with a sleek, croaking raven perched on one milk white shoulder.

Come away, O human man!

To the wilds if you can;  
With a wicca, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping

Than you can ever understand!

The words came like arrows now, piercing his thoughts and shattering his soul, each one like a silver dagger straight to his heart --- yet at the same time Lancel wanted more. More of her song. More of her voice. More of her!

His heart racing, his manhood aroused, Lancel felt as though she were drawing him into her --- pulling him like smoke drawn up a chimney --- draining him like a beautiful, glistening bloodsucker! Caught up in this weird dream state, Lancel reached for the wicca woman --- and as he did she began to fade, replaced in his bedazzled brain by a vision of the woman that he truly loved --- Elwise Landismere.

For Lancel, still caught up in this strange spell, it was like the sun bursting forth from behind a large, dark cloud. The light dazzled him, the golden rays seemed to cleanse his mind and he felt suddenly safe and warm \--- and now completely willing to follow the king's orders without question. For a brief moment he actually believed that the king's command to wipe out everyone in the village was the 'right' thing to do.

Then Orlaith Redhand of Cymru, casting her spell from back in the king's castle, made her first mistake --- she believed her magic was strong enough to overcome Lancel's love for his family, his honour and Elwise, the love of his life. It was however, an 'understandable' mistake, for Orlaith's glamours had always worked in the past. For centuries now a combination of her beauty, charisma and arcane powers had allowed her to stay 'forever young' by putting any man, woman or child she chose underher spell and drain their youthful essence and beauty for herself. So, when Lancel somehow managed to shake himself free of her powers, like a frightened spider when it's carefully built web is suddenly broken, Orlaith herself fled back into the safety of the shadows.

Lancel, still shaken from his ordeal, turned to the king's man standing close by. "Tell your cruel master, that I will NOT murder innocent people just because he orders me to. If that brings down his ire on my head and the rest of my family, then so be it!" He then tore off the king's tabard, tossed it on the ground and mounted his horse. "If your king wishes to discuss this further, he can find me at Castle Landismere --- ready and willing to defend my point!"

He then gathered his loyal troops and led them quickly back home. Three days later, after explaining the 'strange vission' to his father and sister, Lancel then rode over to castle Rannolf to talk to Elwise. Expecting a warm reception from his betrothed, he was shocked, hurt and more than a little angry when Elwise refused to see him.

"I don't know what's gotten into her, Lancel!" Tannis, Elwise's older brother said as he met his boyhood friend in Rannolf Hall and handed him a rather large goblet of wine. "She had some sort of nightmare or weird dream a few days ago and has been acting like a mad woman ever since!"

"Mad? In what way?!" Lancel asked, the concern clear in his voice.

"Screaming fits, tears, sulking periods of silence, but mostly she's just plain angry."

"Angry?" Lancel repeated. "At what?"

"Not what, my friend, but 'who'!" Tannis said.

Lancel frowned. "Alright then, at who?"

Tannis touched Lancel's glass with his own and took a sip. "At you, from what I can gather. And the king's new mistress, that wicca woman Orlaith of Cymru. It seems my beautiful little sister thinks that the foreign woman is trying to seduce you away from her. When I told her that was ridiculous, she actually hurled her chamber pot at me!"

Bur Lancel was no longer listening. 'Could it be possible,' he thought, 'that when Orlaith cast he spell on me that she snared Elwise as well?! That she saw what passed between the witch and myself!That she felt the conflicting emotions that ran through me? The love, the hate --- and the lust?! No wonder Elwise doubts me --- for a while there I even doubted myself!'

One would think that a frightening, shared experience like that might have brought the two lovers together --- 'someone to cling to when Life turns cold' \--- but sadly it did not. If anything, the 'shared spell' had driven a wedge between them; a cold, hard spike that had pierced their love and left them both angry, bitter and, for Elwise, jealous.

Lancel swore he cared nothing for the wicca woman and that it had been his love for Elwise that had freed him from the witch's spell --- but Elwise wouldn't, or perhaps couldn't, believe him.

And so, by early spring, when the snows were still cold and deep in the Slain Mountains, Elwise called off their engagement. Lancel, when told, felt his heart break. He turned and left without a word --- and neither one saw the other till midsummer when he brought a large army to her father's door. To make matters worse he had over a dozen of those damnable new cannon with him and was demanding that her father and brother come out and meet him!

It was just too much for Elwise to bear! Luckily however she did not have to bear it for long. Lancel, it seems, hadn't brought his army to attack them, but to join them in their fight against the cruel king and his evil, wicca-woman lover.

***
This next 'adventure' takes place on another planet in the distant future --- a planet that is already occupied by a medieval humanoids and larger, more predatory skeleton-like creatures --- The SKELLS.

Background

By the end of the twenty-third century Earth was a burning cinder; a foul, pestilent place like something from out of the Bible. After centuries of poisoning the atmosphere, polluting the waters and ravaging the land, 'Mother Nature' had finally fought back --- and she did so with a vengeance! And what that angry old bitch didn't do to us, we eventually did to ourselves!

The Four Horsemen

once again rode among us:

Plague, War, Famine and Death.

And the greatest of these was Death!

Those few of us that could, ran away; but the slow, the weak and the lame died in the billions!

Yet in times of war three things always flourish: science, creativity and business. They always have and sadly, they always will. When 'Fusion Drive' was invented in the late twenty-third century, what was left of Mankind finally had the means to escape to the stars!

Hundreds of planets 'similar to Earth' had already been found in far off, distant space --- but now, using 'Fusion Drive', mankind could actually GET to them!

Plans were made, ships were built and people were 'chosen'. Soon a dozen giant space ships were built and flew off in a dozen different directions.

This is the story of one of them.
'Wakie - Wakie!'

Transport Ship #9: The U.F.S. Achilles

Cryo-Quarters #4: 800 occupants

9th Legion of Deep Space Marines

Present Star Date: 2657.364

It was the horns that woke him; horns that, in his chemically induced cryo-sleep, felt like some demented blacksmith was pounding madly away on an anvil.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

'Alright already!' he thought. 'Hold your bloody horses!'

How he just loved those 'old sayings'.

'No way, Ho-Say!'

'Chill out, Dude!'

'My way or the highway!'

'Hang tough, Mutherfucker!'

Weak as a kitten, he somehow managed to sit up on his cryo-bed. Pulling out a few tubes and hoses, his stomach heaved and he puked its contents over the side. Slimy little puddles steamed on the heated floor.

'Sim-chicken' he thought absently, remembering his last 'real meal' before they put him under. 'Takes a lickin' n' keeps on tickin'!'

Wiping drool off his stubbled chin, he glanced down at his 'dog' tags.

Second Tribune

Tiberius Augustus Collins

9th Legion

United Federation Ship 'Achilles'

Inter-Planetary Expedition Nine

Departure: Stardate:2346.213

Groggy, feeling as though he had just awoken from a four day drunk, Second Tribune T.A. Collins, ignoring the calm, female voice of the ship's computer urging him to stay in his cryo-pod, looked over at the large red digital readout flashing on the info-screen.

PRESENT STARDATE:

2657.364

DEPARTURE DATE:

2346.213

TIME ELAPSED:

311 years 151 days 17.3 hours

'Shit! Over three hundred bloody years!' Collins thought, his mind still groggy from the drugs. 'It was only supposed to take thirty-five! Somebody really screwed the pooch this time!'

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Fumbling around, he managed to hit the 'off' switch on his consul and kill both the horns and the voice of the ship's computer. Once his stomach settled and his bowels stopped churning, there was only blessed silence.

'Over three hundred fucking years!' his mind repeated. Still in a daze, he read the rest of the info on the screen, each bit hitting him harder than the last.

DISTANCE TRAVELED

UNKNOWN

PRESENT POSITION

UNKNOWN

ORBIT

DECAYING RAPPIDLY!

SITUATION

SHIP WILL CRASH IN

59 Hrs & 23 min.

RECOMMENDATION

ABANDON SHIP ASAP!

That last part really got his attention!

He swung his legs over the couch/bed/prison, making sure to stay clear of the puddles of 'sim chicken'. The warm tiles 'tingled' at the touch of his bare feet.

'Boots!' he thought. 'Get some bloody boots on, marine!'

'And a weapon!' the Ancient Part of his brain advised him--- calm and collected as usual.

It was that 'Ancient Part' of him that had kept him alive back on Earth during all the looting and the killing; especially during the riots caused by the 'Choosing'; that corrupt, careful 'selection' of people with the 'necessary skills' needed for survival of the human race.

Besides the 'egg-headed' scientists, doctors and technicians, people with the basic skills to 'start over' in a 'brave new world' were chosen. Farmers, tradesmen and craftsmen. Like Noah and his Ark, animals had also been gathered for transport as well; unlike Noah however, only essential domestic farm animals were collected, along with some cats, dogs and riding horses. The ratio for the animals was two females for every male. With the humans (surprise, surprise) that ratio went up to four to one!

For most of the males, besides their main skill, their size, strength and stamina were also considered. Human females however had a somewhat 'different' criteria: besides their main skill, priority was given to attractive young women with wide hips for easy childbearing.

(Shades of 'Doctor Strangelove'?

Ya volle, mien feurer!)

At first these 'selection requirements' had been strongly denied by the Federation, but as the plagues, the famines and the food riots became world wide, such 'physical profiling' \--- or 'pussy picking' as many called it, became obvious --- and a source for even more civil unrest and 'confrontations'!

The 'Choosing' of course, continued anyway.

Soldiers were also a very high priority, especially officers and non-coms with a decidedly 'right wing' point of view.

And of course there were your ever popular 'politicians'!

Towards the end however it became quite clear that ANYONE who could help the 'Powers That Be' STAY in power were 'recruited' --- regardless of faith, creed, color or skill!

Memories of those last few terrible months flashed before 2nd Tribune T.A. Collins as he stood shaking by the edge of his cryo-pod.

The mobs screaming at the gates. Mothers holding out their children to be taken. Soldiers with guns, his soldiers, pushing them back!

Then came the order that he had been dreading. 'Keep them back, tribune --- at all costs!'

At first the firing had been above the crowd's heads. Then only the loud mouthed agitators had been 'targeted'. But in the end, as panic set in, the crowd itself became the target!

The screams, the blood, the dying!

Then he recalled the friendly hand on his shoulder; the words of praise whispered in his ear. Good work, Tribune!' Legate Smith had smiled. 'I knew I was right to have chosen you!'

Collins remembered smiling back, trying not to scream. 'Thank you, sir! I won't let you down!'

But would he? Hadn't he already?

'And where the hell is the Legate now?!' Second Tribune T.A. Collins inwardly yelled. 'He's the one responsible for the Legion, not me! I've got more than enough to worry about with my own cohort!'

Then he remembered; not being overly bothered with the effects of cryo-sleep, he had been chosen to wake up first; to 'guide' some of the others that were more 'disoriented' than he was --- sort of like a sailor immune to seasickness tending to those poor souls that suffered from it.

'Ya, like a bloody nurse maid handing out meds and bedpans!' he thought

'Stop bitching Collins and move your ass!' the Ancient Voice in his brain barked. 'You're bloody lucky that you did wake up! Take a look around you, marine! A lot of your fellow shipmates weren't so damned lucky --- and by the looks of it that smiling puke of a Legate was one of them!'

Collins wobbled down the brightly lit corridor passing row after row of cryo-pods. Modeled after the 'glory days' of Ancient Rome, the United Nations of Americas' 9th Legion was made up of 800 hand picked men and women. As Collins looked around the vast room he could see that about half of the pods were now lit up and the occupants were in various stages of awakening --- most of them puking their guts out far worse than he had. The other half however were not moving at all. Their cryo-pods were not filled with the 'fake yellow sunlight' that was supposed to greet the groggy sleepy-head, but a pulsating red warning light.

Collins glanced towards the officer section and saw that it was just as his Ancient Voice had said, Legate Smith's pod glowed red and his shriveled, mummified body lay bathed in the harsh, red glow.

Frantically Collins checked the next few rows looking for his counterpart, First Tribune Jala, the man that ran the other half of the 9th Legion, but he too was only a mummified corps!

Panic grabbed Collins' testicles and squeezed. Tribune Jala, like Legate Smith and all the other high ranking officers were dead --- had probably been dead for nearly three hundred years!

'That makes you Numero Uno, Tiberius', the Ancient chuckled away inside him. 'Wouldn't your dear ol' daddy have been proud?!'

'Shut the fuck up!' Collins growled and stalked off to see who else had survived.

'Boots, Asswipe!' the Ancient reminded him. 'And a weapon! A big muther of one!'

Second Tribune T.A. Collins mentally shot the old bastard the finger. 'It's strange' he thought to himself, "just how much that 'Ancient Voice' sounded like his old drill sergeant. How I had hated that bastard!'

***

An hour later Collins and five of his surviving 'staff' were sitting around the command table and doing their best to 'sort things out'. Of the eight hundred hand picked men and women of the 9th Legion, only three hundred and ninety-three had been greeted by the welcoming 'fake yellow sunlight'. The rest had gone the way of Legate Smith and First Tribune Jala.

Second Tribune Collins, now the highest ranking surviving officer, turned to his old friend and now second in command, Centurion Michael Hamilton. "Okay, Mike, let's have it. What the Hell went wrong?!"

Hamilton fiddled with the table consol and a simulated recreation of the 'accident' showed on the big screen. "From a quick look at the ship's log, T.A., we were hit by a meteor storm a few years after we left our own solar system. It tore the shit out of the starboard side. Most of the scientists and other eggheads were lost, along with all the animals --- but somehow we kept going! How, I have no fucking idea!"

Collins turned to the closest thing he had to a 'science officer', Optio or Lieutenant Conswayla (Connie) Gomez who, besides being a pilot and a hell of a shot, had a masters in space engineering.

"Okay Connie, why are any of us still alive?"

The diminutive dark eyed beauty flashed him a smile and shrugged. "Fate? Dumb luck? The hand of God? Take your pick." Optio Gomez shrugged and continued. "The damaged sections were automatically sealed off and apparently we just kept chugging along for nearly three hundred years! Not everything worked, but enough did to keep Life Support going and somehow we ended up here --- wherever the hell 'here' is!"

Collins then turned to the second of the three women sitting at the table. "Any ideas on that, Vedha? Have we reached the place we were headed for? Is this Beta Nine?"

Optio or Lieutenant Vedha Hajead was another exotic beauty of mixed ancestry, most of it Middle Eastern and Asian. She had an IQ well over one fifty, several doctorates, was an expert in hand to hand combat and for a number of years had been a Nazerite terrorist working to bring down the very world government she now 'claimed' to work for.

The tall, dark eyed young woman uncoiled from her seat like a stretching panther, did something to the small hand module she was holding and the screen changed to a large holographic image of their present position --- in orbit around an 'earth-like' planet --- except for the two moons.

"This is what the ship's sensors are picking up," Vedha said, her slender fingers flying over the palm control. "However, thanks to that little meteor storm we passed through a few centuries back, most of them are not working very well. I can't tell you the name of the planet you are now looking at, or even where we are, but I can tell you that it is very 'Earth-like'."

"You mean like with air, water n' shite?" Decanus or Master Sergeant Basil 'The Baz' Wentworth asked, his heavy English accent sounding even deeper than usual. Sergeant Baz was a tall, lanky horse-faced Brit with overlarge teeth and a winning smile. He'd been born in Liverpool and spent his youth working the rough dockyards till he joined Britain's 'Special Forces' a dozen years ago --- that's not of course, counting the three hundred plus years they'd all been in cryo-sleep!

Vedha turned her almond shaped eyes on the big sergeant and did a good job of copying his accent, even laying it on a little thick. "Roit! Air, water n' shite up yer wazoo, sol-jah! N' plenty o' rare n' exotic life forms as wall!"

"Humans?!" Tribune Collins asked, getting right to the point.

Vedha nodded. "I'm getting at least two different types of humanoid readings, sir. One almost exactly like us --- but the other is, ah, different \--- but definitely an air breather walking around on two legs."

"Maybe it's apes?" Corporal Mary O'Riley put in. O'Riley was a red headed Irish lass and the group's demolitions expert --- and self proclaimed 'romantic and old film buff'.

"I once saw this real old flat screen flick called Planet of the Apes. It was corny as hell and the sound was awful, but it still was a real trip! These astronauts had crash landed on a distant planet where the apes were the highest life forms and the humans were treated like animals! The double twist came at the end when we learned that they had somehow landed back on Earth but thousands of years after a nuclear war and good ol' Mother Nature had gotten things all fucked up! Maybe we got something like that going on here?"

"I don't think their apes, Mary," Vedha said, stabbing at the hand consol. "Too tall and thin. Most are well over two meters. Also, they are too solid to be apes or any kind of homosapiens."

"Homo-what?!" Mary smiled as groans went round the table.

"Solid ? You mean like a fawkin' rock?!" Buz asked.

"Not that solid," Vedha replied. "More like a crab or something with a hard outer shell."

"A seven foot crab walkin' around on two legs?!" the sergeant from Liverpool said. "Fawkin' lovely!"

This brought a reaction from the third man at the table, Evocati or Lance Corporal Jason 'Hamlet' Knowles.

Knowles had earned the nick-name 'Hamlet' because he had a doctorate in Literature, had written his thesis on Shakespearian tragedies and often quoted from the bard's bloodiest plays. --- especially when 'Sergeant Baz' was around, for he knew that it dove him bat-shit crazy.

Putting his hand on the tall Brit's shoulder, Knowles grinned. "There are more things between Heaven and Earth, Basil old boy, than are dreamt of in all your philosophies!"

"Ya? N' bullshit baffles brains, mate! Seven foot fawkin' crabs or no!"

Baz lifted the heavy pulse rifle he had picked up earlier while checking supplies. "But this little darlin' here should take care o' any two legged bastards ---soft or hard shell!"

***
'Home Sweet Home'

"And just what the fuck are you?!" Optio Connie Gomez demanded, drawing her sidepulser and pointing it in a very threatening manner at the glossy white android that had suddenly presented itself before them.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," it said very politely; "but The Moot thought that it might be prudent if I was to reveal myself to you \--- before anything too hasty was undertaken."

The android, though it's shape was clearly female, had a kind of very British Peter O'Tool type accent that reminded ancient film buff Mary-Kate O'Riley of 'Lawrence of Arabia'.

Connie Gomez stepped closer and raised her hand blaster --- the laser sighting beam shone between the machine's eyes. "I said, what the hell are you?!"

"I'm Samkin! Andromomedia model Uni-9.4! I've been sent here by The Moot to negotiate, facilitate and above all, to co-operate! PLEASE put that weapon down. Violence of any kind is abhorrent to my race!"

"Your 'race'?!" Optio Gomez demanded, pressing home her point with the tip of her barrel pressed against the robot's molded chest. "You're a goddamn 'machine'! A sweeper upper and bed pan emptier! A solar powered 'peon' created to do all the shitty jobs us Latinos used to do back in the good ol' bad days!"

Samkin 'seemed' like she-he-it was actually frightened --- but then that's ridiculous --- a robot with 'emotions'?!

"I'm --- I'm terribly sorry, Optio Gomez, if I have offended you in any way. I merely wanted to introduce myself to you all and offer The Moot's assistance in your present predicament."

"What did she say?!" Decanus 'Buz' Wentworth demanded, his Liverpool accent thicker than ever. "Sounds like more bloody Shakespeare to me!" Wentworth glared Evocati Knowles, who wisely kept his mouth shut.

"I'm here to welcome you all," Samkin said, still eyeing Gomez's weapon. "I chose this particular bodygram as it is very non threatening. However, I understand that most male humans enjoy looking at the female form, so perhaps this one would be better? There was a sudden shimmer and Samkin 'transformed' into something far more pleasing to the eye --- especially for a male.

"I didn't want to appear too 'riskay' I believe the term is?" Samkin continued, her accent still very British, but 'Lawrence of Arabia' had suddenly become decidedly much more feminine!

Buz Wentworth's large jaw dropped open and his eyes widened as he took in the lithe, supple form that now appeared before him. Over three hundred years of cryo-sleep had rendered all the awakening males highly susceptible to Samkin's now very 'obvious charms'.

"Ah, some 'clothes' might be a little less distracting," Tribune Collins managed to say, though a part of him was quite happy with things the way they were.

Samkin shimmered again and appeared with in yet another 'bodygram'.

"Is this better, tribune?" Samkin asked. "I see in your personal file that you prefer women with dark hair --- but I could change it if you'd like?"

"Ah, no, Samkin," Collins stammered. "You're, ah, fine just the way you are. Now, suppose you tell us more about this 'Moot'? Who or what are they? And more importantly, what do they want?!"

Collins had never really liked robots. He believed that they definitely had their uses; doing all the boring and repetitive jobs, or helping with the dangerous ones like firefighting and bomb disposal. The military had certainly taken to them like ducks to water, but Tiberius Augustus Collins had never really 'trusted' them.

"A thinking machine is a dangerous machine!" Collins argued to both his comrades in arms and a number of pro-robotic, gun banning, 23rd century 'hippie-dippie' vegetarian tree-huggers. His last girlfriend, a freewill/freelove piece of opinionated fluff, had laughed and called him a 'throwback to the dark ages of the 21st century'. Or as the history books referrer to it, the 'Me First Generations'.

"Ya?", he'd argued at the time, pouring himself another Scotch while she relit her hippie-dippie water-pipe. "What if one day you want to turn the crafty little bugger off and it decides that it likes it just fine 'living here in the free world'! What if it decides to zap your skinny ass with its bionic zapper?!"

Suzy Creamcheese had reached across and slowly slid her hand over his crotch. "I thought you liked my ass just fine,' she said with a wicked little smile, though she'd almost 'spoilt the moment' by then going on and on about something called the 'Three Primary Rules of Robotics".

"And what are they?" he had countered, at the same time leaning into her 'massage'. 'See no evil, speak no evil, do no evil?"

To which she had blinked her pretty eyes in bewilderment, pouted prettily and said: "Sort of." Then she'd taken a hit on the water pipe, drew the smoke deep into her chest --- a sight that half in the bag T. A. Collins enjoyed immensely --- held it, coughed it out, then recited Isaac Asimov's 1942 'Robotic Rules' like a good little Catholic girl back in Sunday school.

Rule One: A robot may not injure a human being or, allow a human be injured.

Rule Two: A robot must obey orders given to it by humans beings, unless they conflict with the First Law.

Rule Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as it does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Suzie had then grinned like a cat in the cream and asked: "So? What do you say to that, Big Boy?"

"That I still don't trust them!" Collins had muttered, downing his Scotch while staring at her breasts. "But since this is my last night before the 'big sleep', right now I'd rather flip your switch!'

To which she had replied with an impish smile. "I thought you might."

***

Now, over three hundred years later, (though to some part of his groggy brain it still seemed like just last night), Second Tribune T.A. Collins found himself looking at a new and vastly improved version of the same thing that had gotten Sweet Suzie all in a twitter --- and he didn't trust this one any more now than he had the others back then \--- even though this one came in much prettier packaging!

"So, Pussy Galore," Collins asked. "What about this 'moot' you mentioned?"

It took the robot a nanosecond to access the name Collins had called her and then something very close to a smile spread across her synthetic but very life-like features.

"Pussy Galore, the tongue in cheek name of a female temptress in the mid 20th century James Bond movie 'Gold Finger'. Very good, tribune. I see that Corporal O'Riley is not the only one who likes 'old movies'. As for what is the Moot, it's our 'collective consciousness' --- what you might think of as a 'communal brain'.

"Like a hive of bees?" Optio Vedha Hajead put in, her dark, almond shaped eyes narrowing.

"Partly, only far more advanced," Samkin replied. "What one of us says or even thinks, all can 'hear' --- but of course it can be blocked at either end if so desired."

"Explain," Vedha commanded, clearly more comfortable with AIM's or 'Artificial Intelligence Machines' than Collins was.

Samkin made a slight gesture that 'might' have been seen as a flash of annoyance; then again, it might have just been a trick of the light. "It's like being on one of those old fashioned e-mail lists. The sender's message goes out to all on the list, yet each one chooses to read it or not."

"Telepathy?" Vedha asked.

Samkin smiled sweetly. "Not really; it's just that we are always 'on line'."

"How many of you are there in this 'hive'?" Collins asked, Sweet Suzie's long passed charms having been replaced by present day duties and obligations \--- and the stunning 'creature' standing before him. After all, like it or not, he was the commanding officer, so it was bloody well time he started 'commanding'!

"We are many parts of a whole", Samkin went on. "I am but an outward extension of the collective being."

"And that 'being' is the 'Moot'? " Collins asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Samkin replied with a slight shrug --- a gesture that Tribune Collins did not like one bit. Moving forward, he grabbed the startled robot by her/its slender neck.

"Can your Moot see what is happening to you now?!" Collins asked.

"Ahhhh, yes!"

Collins squeezed a bit tighter. "Can they hear what I'm saying?! Can they feel what you're feeling?!"

"Yes! Now please release me! We mean you no harm! We can't harm humans!"

Suddenly Collins was smiling. "I know you can't. The Three Rules of Robotics forbid it --- I was just checking to see if there had been any 'robotic amendments' to you're 'constitution' over the last three hundred years."

"You could have asked," she said, barely concealing her ruffled composure.

"Ah, but you might have lied," Collins smiled wolfishly.

Samkin mimicked his smile right back at him. "Perhaps I did, tribune."

Collins's eyebrows shot up at that. "You really do 'think', don't you?! You don't just compute numbers and spit out facts, but you really do 'think'!"

Samkin's smile lit up the room. "But of course we do. All the Andromeda models have complete cognitive function. We have had for over two hundred of you Earth years. Everyone knows that!"

Baz Wentworth leaned in and winked. "In case you've forgotten, gorgeous, we've been beddy-by for the last three hundred years. The last robot I saw looked like a wee tank with a small camera and a fawkin' big gun. All it ever said was BOOM!"

Samkin accessed the information. "That was probably a TR 20, or perhaps a TR 23. They had the larger caliber barrel. Here, let me show you."

"No, there's no need to \---."

But Samkin had already accessed the file and was projecting a life size hologram into the center of the room, complete with engine sounds, movement and shouted background commands.

'Point that little fucker at the target, Simms, not the bloody command tent!'

The TR 20 or 23 swung round, shouted in a tinny voice 'Fire in the hole' and cut loose.

In the large cryo-lab the blast of the big gun echoed off the walls. BOOOOM!!!

Into this ear shattering din, Evocati Jason 'Hamlet' Knowles, leaned forward and injected the first opening line of one of the world's most war-like plays.

'O for a Muse of fire!

Princes to act n' monarchs to watch!'

As the hologram faded and the booming died off, Samkin' eyes open wide and a smile played itself across her super model features as she completed the rest of the verse.

'While, leashed in like hounds,

Famine, Sword and Fire crouched,

Eagerly waiting employment!'

Into the stunned silence, Knowles grinned at the beautiful cybercreature. "Well done, my lady! I couldn't have said it better myself! How is it that you are so well acquainted with 'Hank Sank'?!"

Samkin replied matter-of-factly. "I have accessed everyone's file and have noted all your likes and dislikes. Yours I found particularly intriguing, as I too have an interest in ancient poetry, though I must admit that I lean more towards the Bard's comedies myself. The 'Taming of the Shrew' cracks me up every time."

"Jesus H. Kee-Riste!" Master Decanus Basil Wentworth swore. "Now we've got two of the daft buggers!'

***

12 hours later

The U.F.S. Achilles

"So you're telling me that this Moot of yours has repaired the ship and that it's not going to crash?"

Samkin smiled pleasantly back at the glowering tribune. "I'm telling you, Tribune Collins, that the 'immediate' danger has been forestalled for the time being. The ship has gone from Red Alert to Yellow and the orbit around the planet is fairly stable."

"And the rest of the people on board?"

"Are being taken care of as you requested," Samkin said. "Of the original three thousand, two hundred and seventy passengers --- one thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven are still alive, that is including the four hundred and ninety-three of your 9th Legion. Of the one hundred Military Police under Major Tucker's command, thirty-three perished in the meteor storm and the remaining sixty-seven left with the major."

"Left?!" Collins repeated. "What do you mean 'left'?! Where has Major Tucker gone?!"

Samkin blinked, a bit taken back by the tribune's reaction. "Why, Major Tucker and his remaining sixty-seven men took one of the two escape shuttles down to the planet three hours and forty-two minutes ago. They landed just outside a large fortress near that bend in the river you can now see up on the screen."

The picture zoomed in and there was a fuzzy view of what looked like a large stone castle and one of the ship's escape shuttles in a field close by. People seemed to be milling about, but it was blurry and then the picture suddenly went dead.

"Oh dear," Samkin said, the irritation clear in her voice . "Another damn malfunction! It's so very hard to keep up with them all!"

Centurion Mike Hamilton stepped closer to Tribune Collins. "Tucker always was a bit of a loose cannon, TA! He was pissed as hell that the Ninth was put in charge of security instead of him and his storm troopers. Looks like the bugger wants to change that!"

Tribune Collins frowned. He didn't like Tucker anymore than the centurion did, but for now he had his own people to look after. He would deal with Tucker and his gang of 'Military Police' later. He turned to the robot and told it/her to continue its report.

"Most of the animals perished right after the accident," Samkin went on; "except for a few dogs and a surprisingly large number of cats. However less than half of the civilians survived. Forty seven per cent to be exact. Oh, that reminds me, Acting Governor Joanna Simms would like to see you at your earliest convenience."

"Governor Chung didn't make it?" the tribune asked, already knowing the answer.

Samkin shook her head, her voice tinged with sadness. "Alas no. He, like many others, did not survive the meteor storm."

Collins nodded and turned to his communications officer, Optio Vedha Hajead. "So, Vedha, what awaits us down below? I've got a team waiting to take a shuttle down as soon as we're through here. I didn't want to contact the locals right away, but it looks like Major Tucker has already done that!"

Vedha went to work on her hand monitor. "The ship's long range sensors aren't working at a hundred per cent, but they picked up these images during our last orbit. These first ones are from the other side of this continent. Some are pretty blurry but they do give the general idea of what's going on down there." She paused and pushed several buttons. "It seems, Top, that whatever this planet is, it is not a very peaceful one!

A number of still pictures flashed on the large screen and besides forest, mountains and a few scattered farms, most of what they saw were armed men, castles, soldiers patrolling on horseback and a hell of a lot of fighting!

"Wow!" Centurion Mike Hamilton put in. "Now I know what they mean when they say that a picture is worth a thousand words! Shee-it! Looks like those King Arthur types are really going medieval on each other's ass!"

There were a number of other pictures, all of which did indeed show a primitive, medieval type society that was clearly in the middle of a very bloody war.

There was no sign of any 'modern' weapons or machines of any kind and there was no trace of burning fossil fuels in the atmosphere. To all intents and purposes it looked much like Europe must have back in the Dark Ages!

"So what do you think?" Collins asked Connie Gomez, the closest thing he had to a science officer. "Thirteenth or fourteenth century Europe?"

Optio Gomez shook her head. "Looks more like eight or ninth century to me. Those swords seem to be iron, not steel, and there wearing leather and chain mail, not plate. These buggers are more like Vikings than warriors in shining amour!"

"There's no evidence of any kind of explosives, either," demolition expert Mary Riley added with a grin. "We could easily pop off a few grenades and soon have both sides eating out of our hand!"

"Who is fighting who?" Collins asked, pointedly ignoring the Irish lass and her bloodthirsty ways --- at least for now.

"Can't tell that from up here," Vedha said. "But war certainly seems to be the major 'occupation' all over the planet --- slavery too from what our sensors are picking up."

"Slavery?!" Mary Riley asked. "How can you tell?"

"Large groups of unarmed people being herded by smaller armed groups; stock pens for the humans outside villages, forts or 'castles'. The biggest clue however was this, a picture of what looks a hell of a lot like a slave market to me!"

"Hell," grunted The Baz; "Looks a lot like Saturday night at The Lap-Dance Bar & Grill to me! Though the old dude in the red bed sheet is a bit over the top!" Mary Riley shot him both a scornful look as well as her middle finger, to which Buz replied with a lascivious wink.

"There are a lot more pics like that showing adults and children, but this was the clearest. Apparently there's a lot of mineral deposits on the surface that screw up many of our shots. Only about a quarter actually turn out, and most of them are unclear."

Vedha went on to show some blurry photos of the planet from the ship's orbit. "It seems there's only one very large continent with a lot of medium to small islands scattered about. Like Earth, the poles are always snowbound and the main population seems to be around the equator, but even there the climate varies. It goes from grassland, to desert to forests and mountains. There's even a tropical jungle area. Population is clustered in different areas with a lot of nothing in-between. The area with the largest population is where we got those earlier pictures from --- right where Major Tucker and his MP's landed. That's also where most of the fighting seems to be. The climate and geography are sort of like the west coast of the US up around Oregon, only with castles."

She broke off then and drew a deep breath, almost as though she was hesitant to go on.

"What is it, Vedha?" Collins asked, always sensitive to his staff's 'little ways'. "Looks like you just gave us the 'good news' and are about to deliver the 'bad'."

"You hit that one on the head, Top," she said, stabbing at her consul again. The earlier pictures vanished and were replaced by something that looked like it came right from some B grade horror movie. Everyone there reacted differently to the gruesome image, though none took it lightly.

"Holly shite?!" Sergeant Basil Wentworth exclaimed, almost taking a step back from the huge picture filling the screen. "What the fawk is that?!"

"That, my big, bad soldier", Vedha said, "is one of those 'giant crabs' that you were kidding about earlier."

"That aint no crab," Wentworth put in. "That's a fawkin' skeleton with red eyes!"

Collins leaned towards the giant screen, intent as a doctor inspecting a patient's ex-ray. "Looks like some sort of mask to me. Maybe a type of primitive armor?"

"That's exactly what the Moot thought when we first saw them," Samkin said from off to one side. "But we now know it's definitely not a mask but a type of facial bone --- and from our readings it isn't exactly human."

"Ya think?!" Buz Wentworth scoffed, still inwardly embarrassed over his first reaction to the picture. "So what is it then? Crab shell?"

Samkin turned her smiling gaze towards the tall Englishman. "Not crab, Decanus Wentworth, for crabs are soft shelled crustations, like lobsters. These creatures are much more insect-like. A hard shell beetle perhaps or even the thick, dense shell of a snail."

"A snail?" the master sergeant exploded. "Are you fawkin' bonkers, mate?! That evil looking bastard is a snail?!"

Still smiling, Samkin calmly continued. "I am not saying it is a snail, just that the Moot thinks these creatures are some new type of humanoid with a hard, outer shell like that found on a beetle or a snail."

"So," put in a wide eyed Mary Riley; "these ugly looking buggers are 'insects'?!"

Samkin's patient smile turned towards the red headed lass from Belfast. "More likely a combination of insect and humanoid." She then thumped her shapely chest and enlarged her grin. "Sort of like me on the outside and you on the inside."

"If they all looked like you, lass," Buz Wentworth said with a leering grin; "it's not shooting the buggers that I'd be wanting to do!"

"Samkin," Tribune Collins asked quickly, not wanting his master sergeant to put his foot in his mouth any further than it already was. "Is there anything else you can tell us about these creatures?"

Samkin swallowed, suddenly looking like a very nervous humanoid herself. "Ah, well, yes, tribune, there is. They seem to have a 'hive' mentality and focus a great deal of effort on protecting their queen. It also seems that there are four large concentrations of them spread all over the one major continent. The Moot thinks they are a constantly moving nomadic hunter/herder/warrior race separated into four distinct 'hives' or 'tribes'."

"And?" Tribune Collins prompted, sensing that the worst news was still to come.

Samkin blinked again and continued. "And the closest of these groups seems to be heading towards one of the largest human populations on the planet --- the same place that Major Tucker and his men have just landed."

"Sheee-it!" Buzz Wentworth muttered.

Samkin quietly cleared her throat. "There is still one more thing that you should know about these creatures."

Collins frowned, waiting for the other show to drop. "And that is?"

"These creatures herd human beings. It's their currency. Much like the plains Indians on Earth once counted their wealth by the number of horses they had."

"N' just what do they keep these humans for, lass?" Buzz asked. "Slaves?"

"Humans are used as slave labor," Samkin replied. "But they're mainly kept as a supply of fresh meat."

"They 'eat' humans?!" Centurion Collins asked.

Samkin nodded. "It seems to be their major food supply. Most of the larger free human communities pay these bone creatures a 'tribute' to leave them in peace. Criminals and unwanted citizens mostly --- but in Gorm, where your Major Tucker has landed, it seems the king there has chosen to fight rather than pay the tribute."

"And just how many of them are headed towards Tucker?" Collins asked.

"Nearly ten thousand." Samkin replied.

"Mary Mother preserve us!" the red headed young Irishwoman whispered as she quickly crossed herself.

***
'Gods From On High'

Castle Gormast

Seat of King Gormalund of Gorm

"Abbot Rollo, has there been any word yet of my son, Prince Gormlath? He and his warband were due back two days ago!"

Rollo, the head of the Reformed Church of Gorm, flicked his eyes nervously towards the regal looking woman sitting next to the king, then back to the aging monarch.

"Nothing yet, sire, not since his last report over a week ago. But then the mountain passes are still clogged with snow and few couriers can get through."

The king snorted. "Especially with those rebellious barons of mine guarding every trail and goat path! But no matter! Gormlath is a stout fighter and a wise captain! He will bring his men safely home! Now, to other matters! Abbot Rollo, what of these 'sky men' that everyone is talking about?! A ship that sails on the air?! Spears that speak thunder and cause death just by pointing?! What ale induced fantasies are these?!"

The abbot clasped his boney hands together, his eyes once again flitting to the beautiful woman sitting on the lesser throne. "Sadly, my liege, they are not mere fantasies, but God's own truth! I myself have seen their sky ship descend from the heavens!"

"You saw this ship land?!" the king asked frowning.

"I did indeed, my liege! And it was as though the story of Judgment Day from the Holy Scrolls was unfolding before my very eyes!"

King Gormalund, far from a pious man himself, placed little credence in the 'fanciful tales of the abbot or his 'Holy Scrolls'! He much preferred the Old Religion, where a man looked the gods of Fire, Water, Earth and Wind in the eye and faced them head on, not forced to bow, scrape and grovel as the abbot would like! But then he'd also learned that a king, if he wished to remain a king, must be both patient and flexible and that not all enemies carry a sword or spear, but some a loving smile or even a holy scroll.

"And what of these 'thunder-spears'?" the king asked, barely hiding the scorn he felt for the grasping clergyman. "Have you seen them at work as well?!"

Abbot Rollo's eyes flicked once again between the greater and lesser thrones --- though who really sat on which was far from certain. "Sadly, my liege, I did --- and it was terrible to behold!"

"I'm sure it was, gentle abbot, for the entire realm knows how you and your order abhor violence." That last was a sarcastic reference to the well known fact that the abbot had his own personal little army that hunted down any 'heretics, malcontents and practitioners of the Old Religion', and with whip, rack, fire and sword the good abbot did his unsaintly best to bring the wayward into the 'Holy Light of the Reformed Church of Gorm'.

Abbot Rollo smiled coldly. He disliked this arrogant king even more than the man obviously disliked him --- but both were 'statesmen of a sort' and knew how to play the game.

The king leaned forward and smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you can bring yourself to relive the horrors once more --- for our benefit?"

"What? Oh, yes, sire, of course! Anything to help the throne!"

"Hmmm," the king replied. "As always, your loyalty is greatly appreciated, good abbot. And now, about these 'thunder-spears'?"

The abbot nodded his head, his gold trimmed cap of office glittering in the flickering torchlight. "I was meditating in my garden out behind the church when I heard this loud rumbling. Looking up into the clear blue sky I saw a triangular object that at first I thought to be a spear, streaking through the heavens. Its point was glittering silver and it trailed a long plume of smoke. 'God's fiery shaft!' I cried out, and fell to my knees in rapture!"

The king motioned for his cupbearer to hand the abbot a drink, which the pious pontiff accepted gladly. "But then," he went on, still holding the now empty cup, "the 'spear' swooped around much like a falcon on the hunt and actually landed amidst flames and a roaring like a great cataract! Right in my own orchard! The metal sails of the ship or wings of the great bird --- for in truth sire, I know not what to call the abomination --- cleaved through my ancient trees like the Lord's Own Sword through a sinner's rotten heart!"

The king frowned. "Very poetic, abbot. You might have missed your true calling. But I was asking about the deadly 'thunder-spears' and the men that wield them, not your apple trees."

Anger flitted across the abbot's thin face; there only an instant before being replaced with his usual obsequious smile. He was about to continue when a high pitched voice, petulant and grating, shouted out from the far end of the hall.

"How dare you bar the way of your future king?! Move, fool, before I have you whipped!"

All eyes turned towards the interruption and were soon rewarded with the sight of a spindly young lad of eleven or twelve years sprinting towards the twin thrones --- though it was not to the king's seat that he ran, but to the queen's, where he stood glowering like a crazed half-wit at his beautiful mother.

"Mamma, I want that fool of a guard whipped! He dared to block my way! Better yet, I want his head on a pike!"

The beautiful woman with the icy stare thawed somewhat when gazing on her offspring, but only somewhat, for even a mother's patience has its limits, and Prince Sallop had long since used up his fair share and more! "Sally, come and sit here by mother and be quiet. The abbot is telling us about the 'sky-men'."

"That's why I came, mummy!" the thin prince with the girlish blonde curls and the precocious manner blurted out. "I demand a ride in their sky ship! And I want one of their thunder-spears!"

Not being the boy's birth father, the king had long ago given up any hope of a 'normal' relationship with his wife's simpering, overindulged child, and so had even less patience with the princeling. "Sit down, Sallop and keep quiet, or I will have you locked in your room again! You remember the last time? You were in there for a week!"

"It was only four days and three nights, 'uncle'!" the petulant voice shot back defiantly. "I kept a tally on my bedpost! I carved the marks in with my knife and imagined that I'm cutting your throat each time!"

The king's grimace widened as he looked at his wife. Sallop had been six or seven when they wed. Things had never been 'good' between the man and boy, (nor the man and woman for that matter), and had gone from bad to worse over the years --- so much so that the only 'title' the boy would now name his adopted father was 'uncle' \--- and that in the most disrespectful tone he could manage.

"The good abbot here always has need of young boys to sweep out the church and clean the latrines. Perhaps you would find that more enjoyable than carving your bedpost?"

The boy glared back hatred from beneath his golden curls, but for the time being he held his tongue.

"You were saying, Abbot Rollo," the king continued softly, though there was an edge to his voice. "About these 'visitors' and their 'thunder-spears'?"

"Yes, yes --- they landed in my orchard and I sent my, er, attendants out to bring them to me."

"And did they submit willingly to your summons?" the king asked, though he already knew the answer.

The abbot managed a condescending snort. "They did not, sire! Even when I went myself and spoke with their leader, they still outright refused to lay down their arms and come peacefully!"

"And then, Abbot Rollo, what did you do?" the queen asked, her thin boned hand absently playing with the golden locks of her pouting son.

"Why, my queen, I ordered my men to take them by force, naturally."

"And what happened then?!" the blond boy demanded. "Did your guards draw swords and drag the 'sky-men' from their metal ship?"

The abbot shot the boy a withering glare, yet answered as sweetly as he could. "They did indeed, young sire, or at least, they attempted to do so."

"But then the Sky-Men used their thunder-spears and killed some of your men, is that not so, abbot?!" the boy demanded, his eyes uncommonly bright, his breathing fast and shallow.

The head cleric of the Reformed Church of Gorm nodded sadly. "Alas, that is exactly what happened, young lord." His watery eyes looked at the princeling aslant. "Prince Sallop is uncommonly well informed --- especially for one of such a tender age."

"Ha!" Sallop replied scornfully. "I was killing frogs down by the castle moat when the ship landed in your orchard! I ran over and saw the whole thing!" He turned to his mother, beaming from ear to ear. "It was glorious, mummy! The abbot's guards were cut down like wheat before the scythe! Blood and guts everywhere! I must have one of those thunder-spears! Please, mummy! Pleeeaaasse!!"

King Gormalund turned to the abbot, all pretense of patience gone. "So, putting things bluntly, Rollo, you failed to disarm these 'invaders', lost several of your men and have now run here seeking safety, leading these dangerous creatures right to my own doorstep! Do I have the right of it, abbot?!

"I tried to take their weapons away, my liege, but the Sky Lords refused to give them up! But I've stationed my archers outside your hall and if these strangers try to breach your door my men will --- "

Gormalund held up his hand and silenced the man. "From what I've just heard, all the archers and swordsmen both you and I command together will not be enough to stop these 'Sky-Lords'. 'Like wheat before the scythe' my over zealous step-son said, did he not?" The aging king, his mind still sharp, leaned forward and smiled, though there was little warmth in either his voice or his gaze. "If conquest is their aim, good abbot, then these 'Sky Lords' may soon command here, not I. Indeed! If they are as 'all powerful' as my step-son says, then you and I both might soon be dead, my beautiful queen repeatedly raped and my step-son's brains --- such as they are --- dashed against the castle wall!"

The regal woman dressed in wine red velvet with lips to match, leaned an alabaster face towards her husband. She matched his cold smile with one of her own and when she spoke her voice laced with sarcasm. "A bit theatrical, don't you think, husband? Besides, you know that you are the only man that will ever 'command' me."

The king snorted out a mirthless laugh. "Name one time, Hella, that you have ever obeyed a single command of mine and I will own myself the senile old fool you already think me!"

The much younger woman studied her slender fingers. "Once I seem to recall doing something 'sexual' that you had requested of me --- or perhaps that was with someone else?"

"Bitch Queen," he growled quietly at her.

"Chuckholed King", she replied sweetly, then, louder: "But come husband, we must not leave these 'sky lords' standing at our door like poor tinkers! Would it not be better to greet them as equals and welcome them into our home? After all, Gormalund, we all know that honey works so much better than vinegar."

With a knowing smile the king turned to the abbot. "Rollo, go and bring these 'sky lords' here to the great hall --- it appears that my queen is anxious to see for herself their potent 'thunder-spears' "

His beady eyes going quickly from one ruler to the other, Rollo bowed to both, turned and nodded to a burly sergeant-of-arms standing in front of a squad of crossbowmen. The sergeant barked and order and the tall, double doors banded with iron slowly swung wide --- and in came Major Samuel Tucker and his PM's.

***

Two Hours Earlier

Just after the shuttle landed

outside Castle Gormast.

"Runners down, engines off, all systems green, sir!"

Major Samuel H. Tucker nodded at the pilot and turned to his second in command, Captain Darrel Pinks. Pinks was a competent enough soldier, though his strength wasn't in his brawn but his brains. The man was a thinker, an organizer and a manipulator of men. Life, for Darrel Pinks, was one long, never-ending chess game, in which one must always be three or four moves ahead of your opponent.

Tucker, more of a 'bulldog with a bone' type himself, hated chess and, if the truth be told, he wasn't too crazy about Pinks either, but early on he had recognized the smaller man's 'talents' --- and had been using them to his own advantage ever since.

Pinks, of course, had known all of this from the start and, though none too fond of the Major's bluff, boisterous ways, had seen the rough, powerhouse of a man as someone that he could hitch his own rather dim 'star' to in order to rise up through the ranks. From lowly corporal to captain in less than five years, lack-luster Pinks had rode on Tucker's bigger-than-life's shirt-tail---up until a year ago when everything seemed to have gotten bogged down. That leaked story to the World Press linking the major to various war crimes had derailed both their careers --- until this chance with the Military Police and the 'Planetary Relocation Program' came along! Now, with their own 'mini-army' of hand picked men and women, Pinks and the Major had planned to set up their own 'personal police force' on Beta Nine, the brave new world that Starship Achilles was originally taking them to.

But then the ship had run into a meteor storm and about a third to a half of each group had been killed, especially on the starboard side where the MP's had been. The port side, the side where the goddamned Ninth Legion was, had suffered the least!

That was another reason Major Tucker had needed to get down to the planet first --- to make initial contact with the locals and set up a base of operations before the legion did! Tucker, still following Pinks' Machiavellian plan, intended to use a combination of bribery, fear and modern firepower to recruit local manpower into his MP ranks. With strong, local born recruits and Earth's advanced weaponry, in six months the major would be the most powerful war lord in the area and in a year or two he'd be a king --- and the 'Pink Prince' would be in his rightful place, standing just behind the throne whispering into Tucker's ear!

But in order for that to happen, Tucker knew that he had to beat the Ninth Legion to the punch, for he didn't believe for one minute all that bullshit Legate Smith and Governor Chung had said about setting up a democratic government with the local inhabitants. Tucker, with a degree in ancient history and a life long interest in the Icelandic Sagas, believed fervently that brute force more than ballet boxes always got the job done --- and was also a hell of a lot more profitable --- most especially for those running the show! Now however, with both Legate Smith and First Tribune Jala dead, that bastard Collins was the highest ranking officer and the 9th would be even harder to deal with than ever!

The animosity between Tucker and Collins went way back, and neither one would be sending flowers or shed a tear if they heard that the other had 'shuffled off this mortal coil'. When Pinks had suggested that Tucker 'seize the moment', the major had immediately loaded his surviving MP's into an escape shuttle and went off to 'be all that he could be'!

The trouble was, however that the hairy looking welcome committee waiting to greet them did so with shields up, spears ready and swords drawn! Even using their UTM's (Universal Throat Mikes that translated any language spoken or heard into a common 'Americanese'), communications had soon broken down. Apparently they had landed in a medieval-like warrior society, not the passive hunter-gatherer wusses that supposedly inhabited Beta Nine.

Along with the fierce looking spear, sword and crossbow holding buggers waiting for them was a tall, skinny priest with a sour smile and sly eyes. The priest demanded that the MP's hand over their weapons. Well, 'No fucking way, Ho-Say' might not have 'translated' too well into Gormese, but a few bursts from their pulse rifles had soon gotten the message across! Most of the sword and crossbow boys dropped their weapons and dove for the dirt and those few that had the balls to actually fight soon ended their lives right there in the orchard, their dead eyes staring up at an uncaring sky.

"Cease fire!" Major Tucker yelled, stepping over several bodies and stopping beside the cowering form of Abbot Rollo. "Stand up straight, man, for Christ's sake!"

The major was not what might be called a 'religious man' by any stretch of the imagination. For Samuel H. Tucker all the fairy tales of a 'life after death' were just that --- tales to sooth children, old ladies and to keep dim-witted fools in line.

'When it's over, boys, it's over'! he often said --- especially after a few belts of Jack D. 'There aint no everlasting punishment and their sure as hell aint no reward! I'd love to believe in the old tales about Valhalla; where heroes fight each other all day and drink and carouse all night, only to rise the next day and start the whole bloody thing over again, but alas my children, I do not. For me its just wham, bam, thank you mam and when the lights finally go out, they stay out!'

'But what if you're wrong, Major' a dewy eyed grunt from the Bible Belt had once found the courage to ask him. 'What if, just as God promises, there is a life after death?' \--- to which the major had joyfully replied: 'Why, If I'm wrong, son, and there really is a 'life beyond the grave', why then I'll be pleasantly surprised and I'll gladly march right up there and shake the Old Bugger's hand!'

"I said stand up straight, man!" the major orderedthe priest a second time --- something he was not fond of doing. The Universal Throat Mike translated the major's words into Gormese and Abbot Rollo, surprised once again to hear these fierce strangers speaking his own language, did as he was bid.

"Now," Tucker continued; "you're going to haul your skinny ass up to that castle and tell them that Major Samuel H. Tucker of the United Federation of Americas wants to talk with the man in charge! You got that, padre?!"

Rollo managed a speechless nod.

"Good," the major grinned. "Oh, and just in case you or your bossman try anything foolish, I'm leaving some men here with your lads. At the first sign of trouble they will kill them all, burn your church and shit in your well! Then they'll come looking for me! And that won't be pretty! Now, move your butt, soldier! Double-time!"

Abbot Rollo, head of the Reformed Church of Gorm and advisor to the king himself, hiked up his long robes and trotted off towards the castle.

"Do you think it wise, sir, to let that one go alone?" Captain Darrel Pinks asked from his usual position directly behind the major. "He might have them prepare a rather warm reception for us up there?"

Tucker took out a silver flask and took a healthy swig before replying. He did not offer any to his 'trusted advisor'. "Sometimes, Pinks, you just have to go with your gut."

Not being a 'gut man' himself, Pinks frowned. "Let us then hope that your 'gut' is right, sir!"

"Right or wrong, Pinks, nobody lives forever! Now, I want Lieutenant Blackman to keep half the troops back here just in case there is trouble. Have Sergeant Freederson bring the rest up with me --- and tell her all weapons are to be on maximum pulse!"

Pinks replied in the affirmative and snapped off a crisp salute --- but the major, as usual, was already moving forward.

***

Master Sergeant Olga Freederson wasn't exactly a 'sadist' per say ---- that is, she didn't 'get off' on causing pain or wake up all hot and bothered thinking about it, but on the other hand she didn't mind it too much either. To her it was just something that a soldier did when ordered to --- like marching or fighting or beating the shit out of some poor bastard to get some 'intel'.

What did get her 'nether parts moist' however was being in a firefight.

Nothing got the old heart pumping and the loins lubricated like an all out, no holds barred, last man standing gunfight! She'd only been in three 'real' ones in her eight years in the services, (six years as a marine and two as one of Tucker's MPs). Oh, she'd been in lots of shitty little 'hide n' seek' skirmishes and dozens of knock down doors and 'clear the fucking building' gigs --- but only three real gunfights. And in each one she had killed ever mutherfucker who got in her way! Now, walking up to this medieval looking pile of rocks, she had the 'feeling' that she was about to get into numero four!

Freederson led the way with three dozen burly MPs close behind her, each one a 'bad ass marine' who also loved to fight. (The major rarely picked any other type, except maybe the odd techie or brianiack like Captain Pencilhead --- the MP's not so secret name for Darrel Pinks).

Up ahead twenty or so 'Viking-looking' men were drawn up in front of the massive double doors to the castle. More could be seen on the walls above, their metal helms and the tips of their longbows and spears sticking up over the wall.

'Probably also got a bunch of heavy stones up there as well to drop on our heads' she thought, recalling various holo-vids she's seen involving warriors and castles and shit like that. 'Boiling oil and hot tar as well,' she recalled. 'Not much in the way of firepower though! Bows and fucking arrows! She knew their lightweight battle vests would easily stop anything the locals had --- 'but a large rock dropped on your head or boiling oil could still do the job!'

The locals down below had quickly formed what could be called a 'shield wall'.

They were lined up on the stone causeway that led to the castle doors, but she knew that a few frag grens would clear them away with no problemo!

"Sergeant Freederson!" the major called from several yards in front. "Have the men stand ready but do not engage for now! We'll try words before war. However, if I raise my hand, hit those doors behind them with some heavy grenades. The 'doors' mind you, sergeant, not the warriors themselves. Clear?"

"Yes, sir! But what if these buggers still don't give way?"

"Well then, sergeant," Tucker said as he strode forward; 'if that happens feel free to kill them all."

Master Sergeant Helen Freederson's predator-like smile might have warmed her long dead mother's heart, but few others --- and certainly not the wide eyed buggers sweating in the shield wall!

***

Prince Hengle, the king's second son, carefully measured the poison he was putting into the rare bottle of Jur wine. For some time now he had been plotting the death of his father, Gormalund, the King of Gorm. As the 'second son', Hengle was the 'back up' heir only, his heroic older brother, Prince Garnlath the Great, being first in line for the throne.

But rumor had it that Garnlath was already dead --- killed in a border skirmish with Gorm's many enemies. True or not, with the 'old man' soon to be out of the way, the path to kingship was broad and wide for the little thought of 'second son'!

The entire package of deadly poison now being in the bottle, Hengle shook it vigorously, then drove a fresh cork home. Then, taking a stick of sealing wax, he held the flame of a candle and sealed the cork with a cap of crimson.

Red, the color of blood \--- the color of death.

Hengle was also Captain of the King's Own Guard and responsible for both the security of Castle Gormast and his own father's safety. The title however, was mostly 'honorary', for Prince Hengle was more of a schemer than a soldier --- much like Captain Darrel Pinks and Abbot Rollo.

Like all the others around him, Hengle had heard the gory details about these strange 'sky-lords' slaughtering the abbot's men over by the church where their strange sky-ship had landed. Now, standing on the causeway slightly behind his own personal bodyguard, a hulking northerner named Calbain, Hengle surveyed these 'sky-men' from over the rim of his men's linked shields. One of the first things he noticed was that they weren't all 'men'.

He saw what looked like several women in their ranks. The tall, stone-faced one leading these invaders looked like one of the Klienorg battle-maidens from the old tales!

As a youth he had loved those old tales, especially ones where long haired, fierce eyed, large breasted warrior women flew in on winged horses to fight beside dying Gorm heroes! After the battle each Klienorg maiden would take her dead hero back to some 'magical place' where the maiden's kiss would revive the hero so he could claim his just reward --- the right to ride her repeatedly till the morning light!

All fierce and glaring this sky-woman soldier was, almost half again the size of a normal wench and damned near as big as his bodyguard Calbain!

Then a male sky-soldier strode out front and by his swagger Hengle took him to be their commander. He was of average height and build and his armor seemed strangely flexible, more cloth than leather or metal. Hengle saw a short, wide stabbing sword at his left side and multiple pouches on his cloth-like breastplate filled with dark, thin rectangular boxes of some sort and one of the 'thunder-spears' on a type of baldric or harness across his chest. The man was wearing an equally strange helmet that when the visor was down turned his entire face into a black, eyeless shadow.

The sky-man came to a halt about ten paces from Hengle's shield wall, tapped the side of his helmet and the black shadow-visor vanished, leaving a surprisingly normal looking face peering back at him. Hengle hadn't known quite what to expect, but the face of a man that could have been one of his neighbors wasn't it!

The sky-leader then took the helmet off and handed it back to one of his troops. He had a square face and jaw, short cropped hair, no beard and eyes that were cold even when he smiled. He tapped a small device around his throat and suddenly Hengle was hearing the man speaking to him in the tongue of Gorm!

"I am Major Theodor H. Tucker, commanding officer of the United Federation Military Police. We come in friendship and mean you no harm, but we will defend ourselves if attacked! You saw earlier that our weapons are very powerful and we will not give them up! Now, I would like to meet peacefully with the lord of this castle. Please lead me to him."

Hengle continued to stare for several seconds after the rather long 'introduction' was over. Closing his mouth, he stepped forward. The shield wall opened to let him and his bodyguard through, then closed quickly behind them. As Hengle moved towards 'Sky-Lord Tucker', he raised his palm upwards in the universal gesture of a friendly meeting. Tucker did the same, then snapped off a crisp salute.

"As I said, I'm Major Tucker --- and you are?"

"Hengle, son of Gormalund. My father is not only the lord of this castle and but the King of Gorm as well."

The UTMs translated Hengle's words to Tucker and his MPs. Suddenly remembering his manners, Hengle nodded formally and gave the required greeting to all visiting nobles. "In King Gormalund's name I grant you 'hearth-rights' and welcome you and your kin to our home. Come in peace and leave the same." He then bowed again and attempted a smile. "How is it, Major Tucker, that you speak our tongue? Obviously you come from a land far away."

Tucker pointed at the black band that encircled his neck like a thin dog collar. "In my land we have many strange and wondrous devices. This one takes your words and mine and makes them one."

Hengle may not have the might and muscle of his elder brother Gornlath, but he had a sharper mind and a quicker cunning. "But I do not wear one of those 'devices', so how is it that I can understand your words?"

Tucker smiled, noting that 'this one would bear watching'. "It takes all our words and translates them so that I hear you speak my tongue and you hear me speak in yours."

Hengle's eyes opened wide, then narrowed. "Can such a thing truly be?! Are you sorcerers and magic makers?!"

Tucker snorted a laugh and pointed at Hengle's sword. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship with a wire wrapped handle, an intricate crossguard and an impressive basket hilt.

Tucker smiled coldly. "To a savage living in a cave with only a sharpened stick for a weapon, your sword would seem 'magical' to him. Your castle would seem a 'sorcerer's palace reaching to the sky'. Our 'devices' are beyond what you are accustomed to ---quite a bit beyond in fact, but, like your sword, they are still only tools of our trade."

Hengle noted the stress on that last part and the implied warning that went with it. "Then you do not claim to be gods or magic-makers, merely soldiers from a far away land?"

"Not gods or magic-makers," Tucker repeated. "But we are well trained, well armed soldiers with weapons far beyond you wildest dreams."

Hengle took in the strange weapons and clothing, his sharp mind racing, searching for ways to use these 'sky-men' and their wondrous 'devices' to his own advantage! After all, being the 'second son of a king' didn't exactly leave too much left over in the 'inheritance' department, and Hengle had learned at a very early age that Gornlath was not only his father's firstborn son and rightful heir to the throne, but his favorite son as well! The two of them, father and firstborn, were alike as peas in a pod --- large, boisterous, physical and straightforward; while Hengle was thin, bookish and crafty. Despite his father's rather clumsy attempts to include him, Hengle had always felt both unwanted and unloved. Only poor little hateful Sallop, his father's 'third' son, the adopted child of Hella, the king's second wife, was more wanting when it came to having their 'father's affection'. The snot-nose little girly-boy was even more disliked by their father than he was!

So Hengle had learned to live by his wits; to find other people's weaknesses and exploit them for his own gain. If he could somehow control this 'Sky-Man Tucker' and his 'clever devices' --- especially with the 'Time of the Skells' fast approaching --- Hengle's own importance could vastly improve, perhaps even all the way up to the exalted position of 'Number One Son' \--- all he had to do now was find out what the 'sky-man' really wanted and, if not give it to him outright, at least offer it to him!

Taking hold of Tucker's elbow, Hengle steered the major towards the castle, waving aside the shield wall as though it wasn't even there.

"I'll gladly take you to see the king myself, Lord Tucker, but I tell you here and now that my father is an old fashioned man and will see you and your 'devices' as a threat. He follows the old ways and the old gods and dislikes change. Oh he will smile and probably throw a feast in your 'honor', but he will give you nothing and want you gone as quickly as possible --- one way or the other."

Major Tucker stopped and looked over at this shifty eyed young man, wondering just how far he could trust him. 'Not far at all, soldier!' he told himself. 'This one's a sly little fucker who seems eager to sell out both his father and his brother for a bigger slice of the pie! Well, two can play that game, boy-o! I'll take what you offer and hold you off with vague promises of help and weapons till I get a base set up --- then we'll see just who needs who!'

What came out of the major's mouth however was a far cry from what he had just been thinking. "But you, Prince Hengle, you see the advantages of our mutual co-operation. I can tell right away that you are wise enough and flexible enough to bend when the winds of change blow, and so bring peace and prosperity to your people instead of, shall we say, more 'unpleasant things'?"

Despite himself, Hengle smiled, flattered that Tucker saw him as a man of vision and common sense --- unlike his old fashioned father and hard headed brother. "I felt right off that we could work together, major, so please keep in mind that regardless of what my father says or promises, I am the one that can actually get you the things that you need!"

"That's good to know, prince, and though I shall listen politely to your father, I will remember your words."

Just then the double doors swung wide and out came the scarecrow like figure of Abbot Rollo. "Ahhh, just the man I was looking for," Hengle beamed. "Lord Tucker, you recall the good abbot? It was his servants that your men killed so efficiently back in his orchard! But do come along, Rollo, for we are all good friends now, and off to see my father!"

Leading Major Tucker into his father's hall, Hengle walked right past the wide eyed abbot; as he did so a smug look came over the king's second son's narrow face.

***
'A Meeting of Minds'

King Gormalund looked up and frowned as his second son led the oddly dressed strangers into his hall, then quickly changed the frown to a warm smile of welcome. There was a rustle of movement and a number of whispered comments from the people already in the large room, but an icy stare from Queen Hella as she stood to greet the guests soon stopped all movement and unwelcome noise. Hengle made the introductions, referring to the major as 'Sky-Lord' Tucker.

The regal woman with the eyes like deep midnight extended her pale, slender hand towards Tucker, who took it gently and made a slight but 'courtly' bow.

"Prince Hengle told me he was bringing me here to meet his royal father, fair lady, but you are far to young and beautiful to be his mother."

Hella's dark eyes flashed something deep within and a sort of smile played across her red lips. "Not only do you speak our tongue well, stranger, but you do so graciously. My husband the king and I bid you welcome to our hearth. Both you and your numerous followers. We are all eager to hear of your travels --- but for now come and sit by my side and drink from the greeting cup."

Both father and son looked aslant at this warm, gracious woman that now stood before them, for seeing this side of the queen was a rare event indeed! Their eyes met and father and son shrugged, silently agreeing that 'strange indeed are the ways of woman!', then both went back to barely tolerating each other.

Major Tucker took the greeting cup from the lady's own hand. It was a curved horn the color of old ivory, gilded at its base and rim with a delicate filigree of silver. It reminded Tucker of stories from his early childhood, listening to the old Icelandic tales his grandmother would tell him of trolls, wrights and heroes like Beowulf, Lief the Lucky and Eric Brighteyes. He accepted the cup from the smiling queen, her touch seeming to linger just a tad longer than necessary. Then a sudden look in those coal-black eyes made him catch his breath, wondering if he had really seen the promise of 'further touching' yet to come?!

"Mummy, I want to see their thunder-spears now!" Prince Sallop's high, petulant voice cut through Tucker's racing thoughts. All that was missing was the classic stamping of boy's foot. Sallop seemed content however to settle for an insolent stare.

"All in due time, my pet," the queen replied sweetly, turning her gaze from the major to her offspring; "but for now be a good boy, sit quietly and learn. A wise ruler says little and sees much."

"When I'm king I will do and say whatever I please, and I will not sit quietly if I don't want to!"

Still smiling sweetly, Hella reached out and pinched her son's left ear between her delicate fingers and thumb. The youth froze in place like a rabbit caught in a headlight. Hella's voice remained as sweet as her smile, yet the underlying threat was clear for all to hear. "When you are king you may indeed do and say as you choose --- but men, even poor, ignorant men, will not follow a fool, king or no king! Now," she said, giving one last pinch and then releasing her near tears offspring. "Sit, listen and learn, but above all, be quiet! Or do I need to have your father lock you in your room again?"

"That old tub of guts is not my father! My nurse told me all about it! My father was a handsome captain you took to your bed just after you married the old king! My father was a soldier and a hero! My father was --- "

SMACK!

Hella used the flat of her hand against her son's cheek. The child rocked backwards, not so much by the force of the blow but by the fact that it came at all. Always before his mother had restrained herself from hitting him. Many times in the past she had come close, and now and then he had received an ear pinch or a swat on his behind, but not until today had she ever stuck him on the face!

'It's because the little fool mentioned Jarred!' Hella reasoned, searching for an excuse. Jarred, a handsome, young captain in her new husband's guards. Very good in bed, but terrible at keeping his mouth shut! Hella had arranged for an 'accident' to befall him in an attempt to help quench the rumors of the child's parentage, but it hadn't really helped. Since then Hella had resigned herself to playing both the 'harlot queen' as well as the 'power behind the throne'.

Sallop was about to respond to her smack with one of his usual tantrums but something restrained him. Dare we call it 'maturity'? No, surely not; more likely it was fear. Regardless, the fierce look in his mother's eyes made him close his mouth instead of opening it. He even sat down, though he stared daggers at any and all who looked his way.

Tucker, though many things, was never a fool, so when he saw a golden opportunity present itself, he seized it. Reaching across his chest and pulling free his smaller, back-up laser pistol, he slid the charge clip from the base of the grip and handed the now stubby, empty gun butt first towards the sulking child.

Sallop's eyes opened wide and a rare smile of delight suddenly lit up his usually sour features. He took the offered weapon hesitantly, like someone given a snake to hold by the back of the neck. "For --- for me?"

"Not to keep; at least, not till I've taught you how to use it safely," Tucker said, putting all the warmth he could muster into a voice more accustomed to barking orders than placating petulant children. "But you can hold it for now." He turned to the child's mother, holding up the charge clip. "It's harmless. Like a bow without an arrow. Still thrilling to touch, but not dangerous."

The boy eagerly took it, held it before him like some precious relic, than ran off pointing it at everything and everyone and making childish 'thunder' sounds.

"You are quite sure the thing is now harmless?" the queen asked.

Tucker held up the gun's charge clip again. "I have its thunder right here, my lady."

"You have a way with children, Sky-Lord Tucker," the queen smiled, then said in a throaty purr. "How are you with women?"

Before Tucker could come up an answer, Hengle cut in, eager to steer things away from his randy step-mother and towards his frowning father. "Forgive me, Lord Tucker, I have not yet introduced you formally to my father the king. Father, this is Sky-Lord Tucker, the leader of our, er, 'visitors'. Lord Tucker, this is my father, King Gormalund the Third, Lord and Protector of the Kingdom of Gorm."

Tucker bowed gracefully and then looked the older man directly in the eye. "It is a great honor to meet you, sire, and I deeply regret the unfortunate incident that occurred earlier in the orchard. If there is anything I can do to make amends, I will gladly do so."

Gormalund, having watched the man carefully since he entered his hall, thought that he was beginning to get the measure of this 'star-lord'. Save for the fact that he came on a metal ship that floated on air instead of a wooden one on water, he and his 'followers' seemed little different than any other band of mercenaries out looking for a wealthy lord to pay for their murderous skills. The fact that their transportation, weapons and clothing was far more advanced than most did not change the fact that they all looked like a pack of hungry wolves and that this Major Tucker was clearly the dominant male.

'He's already bedding Hella with his eyes' the king thought sourly. 'Ha! You'll soon find it's more trouble than its worth, my lad!' he inwardly chuckled. 'She's like a beautiful black spider that doesn't kill you outright after mating, but holds you in her web and slowly sucks you dry!'

( A fairly accurate description of most of my 'femme fatals', wouldn't you say? Let's push on and meat some other 'nasties', shall we?)

***

'The Crab Men'

The Ou-Ba-Die Skell

Central Plains in the

Middle of the Continent

The two Ou-Ba-Die Scouts halted their tired, shaggy mounts on a rare, low hill and looked back over the vast Skell tribe following slowly along behind. It moved over the land like a great, seething mass of pulsing life, now and then flowing around a large natural obstacle such as a rock outcropping or a shallow lake, then reforming on the other side back into its flexible oval shape, coming to rest only with the setting of the sun and moving on again when the fiery orb had once again crested the horizon. As the horns sounded for the Skell to a stop for the night, both Scouts raised their heads to the first glimmering stars and recited the Evening Prayer.

'To be at rest is to be in danger,

For predators are always close,

Eager to feed on the weak,

The frightened and the lame.

A Skell is only truly safe

When it is in motion.

Be thou ever watchful then

Throughout the night!'

'Blessed be the Words

Of the First Skell Queen.'

Both Scouts finished at exactly the same time, made the holy sign together and then dismounted and began to make a hasty camp. The routine was always the same: one would work while the other stood guard. They would switch back and forth, one always guarding while the other did the various 'chores' needed for a quick camp. Even when eating and sleeping, one was always on guard.

'Be thou ever watchful then

Throughout the night!'

As Scouts they spent the majority of their lives away from the 'Skell', the slow moving main body that was the central hub around which their word revolved. They only went back into the Skell's seething mass once every full moon so that they might 'perform their Cell Duties as a husband' with their Lady Wife. If, that is, she so desired; for though Skell males far outnumbered the females and were much larger and stronger, it was the females that ruled.

Veteran Scout VS-76942 tuned to his birth-brother, VS-76943, a look of concern showing through the course, dry bone that surrounded his reddish eyes. Their True Names were far too long to be spoken out loud. Most males used an 'abbreviation' in both normal and 'thought speech' \--- the hive like ability to 'think your thoughts' to other members of your cell and in some rare cases, even beyond your own cell. The Lady or 'Cell Wife' of course could easily 'send' her thoughts to the entire Skell, but then females were always so much mentally stronger than the males.

"What troubles you, brother?" VS-42 asked his twin. "In a few days the moon will be full and we will both have hive-time back in the Skell! Soon you'll be riding your beautiful Lady Wife, Zillah Twill, instead of that shaggy nag a pony!"

But Scout 43 did not rise to the old joke. Neither a smile nor a sign of anger did he show and Scout 42 knew then that something was seriously wrong. Pulling off his leather glove, VS-42 placed his knobby, skeleton like hand on his brother's shoulder. The bone around the knuckles was worn smooth and stained from years of rubbing against the leather, as were all his joints, elbows and knees --- all worn smooth beneath the protective leathers a Scout always wore. It was even worse for the Warrior class! Those stuck up 'wife stealers' had to encase themselves in metal scale or ring armor on top of their leathers!

The standard joke about the haughty warrior's class was that even if a Lady Wife was ever foolish enough to risk shunning and mate with a warrior, the female would have lost interest by the time the warrior finally got out of all his body armor!

But Scout 43 did not look like he was in the mood for jokes, even ones about the Skell-cursed Warriors! So VS- 42 decided to try another tack. "What about the feasts that we'll have once we're back in the Skell, eh?! No more greasy hedgehog or stringy gopher! But 'real' meat! A juicy roast of grain fed human! Maybe a tenderloin of young female, or a brace of boiled babies! Smothered in spicy sauce and roasted till the skin is crackling brown!"

But not even the succulent delights of human flesh roasted to perfection cheered up VS-76942, so his birth-brother tried yet another subject --- one a little more delicate and very close to hive-heresy.

"What about that rumor we heard that the high and mighty Grand Warrior, Dal Jax, is 'servicing' the Dinn Queen on a regular basis?! Eh, 43? What do you say to that?!

"She doesn't want my seed anymore," Scout 43 said softly; half a whisper, half a moan.

"Who? The 'Dinn Queen'?!" 42 asked. "Impossible!"

VS-43 shook his head, his long, dark hair floating around the off-white, porous bone of his face and hinged mouthflap. The setting sun behind him accentuated his angular features, highlighting the sharpness of the bone.

"Last month when I visited Zillah," 43 continued, his voice still an agonized whisper, "She told me not to return and that I was no longer one of her cell! And if I did return she would have me shunned!"

Scout 42 stood there, shocked by both his brother's pain and even more so by the threat! "I knew something was wrong, brother, but I didn't want to pry! Now I'm sorry that I didn't!"

VS-43 grunted out a mirthless laugh; the long flap of bone covering his mouth muffled the sound but not the anguish. "What's done is done, brother. I am now hajeal, a 'discarded male'. There is nothing left for me in the Skell but shame and ridicule. My only salvation can come from a Death Duel, where I either defeat one of the wild human 'fighters' or die in battle. Only then will the Skell smile on me again."

"But brother, the wild humans on these open plains are all docile creatures! After our Warriors slaughtered most of their so-called 'fighters' during the last three or four Circlings, the rest now meekly submit to all our demands. Where will you find a human rebel worthy of challenging to a Death Duel?!"

VS 43 repeated the muffled laugh, only this time there seemed some real mirth behind the flap of bone. "Our Skell completes its Grand Circle every seven years. You and I have both passed this way thrice before, brother; first as mere children content to suck the marrow out of cast off human bones; then seven years later as newly named Scouts and again as Veteran Scouts and proud Cell Husbands. In a few months we will once again be in the land of the Sharp Knives or what the headstrong local cattle call Gorm! There I will find an enemy worthy of a true Death Duel! There I will either slay their greatest fighter or die gloriously in front of my Skell!"

***

Deep within the moving

Ou-Ba-Die Skell

In the rolling hive of Akshara-Kef

Cell Wife: Kef 632-087-945

"Put that down, Dadra-Kef and come sit by me. There is still much to be learned before you take your first husband."

"But Lady Mother, my marriage to Kar-Balook is not for another half circle. It will be nearly four years before we are back to True Home. That is more than enough time to learn those boring lessons. Besides, mother, I want to learn other things besides just the long, dull history of our Skell."

Akshara Kef, the High Matron of the noble Kef cell, fixed her red eyes on her daughter and narrowed her gaze. "And these 'other things', Dadra? Do they involve a certain young squire training with the Warriors?"

The young Skell-maiden looked startled, her reddish eyes going wide in their fine-boned sockets. "Sazist-Dur and I have done nothing improper, mother!"

"Of course not, Dadra. No daughter of mine would dare disgrace the Kef cell. Besides, if you had, I would have heard of it and the boy would have gone into the stew pots. Now, come and sit by me and we will continue your lessons."

Akshara Kef patted the ancient 'love seat' that had been passed down to her through the generations of Kef matrons. It was a sofa like double throne chair, made from the bones of human cattle; the dark leather cushions stuffed with the hair of countless human victims. She reached across and pulled a small, high table to her. The table was made from the longer leg bones from the human herd, yellowed with age, as were the pages of the large open book that rested upon it, a book bound with the soft, tanned human skin --- the divinely inspired 'Holy Script of Skell'.

"Now child, let me hear you recite the sacred words of the First Skell Queen concerning the social structure of a Skell.

Trying not to roll her eyes, Dadra-Kef took a deep breath and spoke the sacred words she had memorized since early childhood.

'A Skell is many things, but above all it is a strict matriarchy. Females oversee the rigid class system, into which each member is born, lives and dies.

Normal males are the 'workers' and do all the menial jobs, including scouting and herding the human cattle. Warriors are the highest of the classes, and hold the power of Life and Death over all other males.

The married females are the exalted 'Cell Wives', with each one ruling her own family. A chosen older wife rules as Cell Matron over all the families in her cell, just as the Cell Queen rules over the Skell itself.

Dadra paused, her young mind still shocked by the fact that her fierce mother had found out about her and the young warrior in training.

"What's wrong, child?" her mother asked sweetly. "Have you allowed 'other things' to cloud your mind?"

Taking a deep breath, Dadra forced a smile and continued speaking the holy words.

Each of the families and their cells blend together

to form the great, living hive know as the Skell.

Cell Wife, Cell Matron and Cell Queen!

All three hold the power of Life and Death over all males, including Warriors!

Dadra forced a smile despite the turmoil she was feeling inside. Lady Akshara rose from the bone seat and went to the window of her moving 'hive'. Outside the long, wooden platform was slowly being pulled across sea of grass by a dozen shaggy oxen.

Scouts, a variety of workers, smaller wagons and squads of metal clad warriors all slowly rode across the rolling plain like a great seething storm cloud. And in the rear the vast herd of human cattle, prodded along by their drovers with whips. As Akshara looked at the center of her world the words of the First Cell Queen came back to her: 'A Skell is only truly safe when it is on the move.'

"That was very good, dear," she said, still gazing out the window. "But next time do try and sound a little more 'alive' when you speak. After all, these words were divinely inspired. Now, what did the First Queen say about children?"

Darda had known this one since before she could ride.

"Each Cell Wife has absolute control over

her children, her slaves, her retainers,

and her various cell husbands.

All within her cell must bow to

the wishes of the Cell Wife!"

"Much better, dear. And now, what does the sacred text say about punishment?"

Dadra's heart suddenly began to race and she could feel it beating through her still maturing breastbone. "Punishment, mother? Could you please be a little more specific?"

"More 'specific', dear? Why of course. What happens to a male who 'goes against the wishes' of his Cell Wife?"

"Oh, that's an easy one!" Dadra said, inwardly relieved that her mother had moved the conversation away from her.

Suffer not a disobedient male to live,

but cast the usurper out!

For the Cell Wife rules her family

just as the Cell Queen rules over all!

"Excellent, Dadra! Your voice really came alive with that one! Now, dear, what are the 'types' of punishments for disobedience?"

"Mu-ther! Everyone knows that. Either stoning, beheading or being shunned."

"And which of the three, daughter-mine, would you prefer?"

The question had been asked matter-of-factly, but Dadra had a sinking feeling in her heart that she now knew just where this conversation was going. "What type of punishment that I would prefer? Why, mother, would you ask me such a thing?"

Akshara's sudden piercing look made her daughter's blood run cold, but it was her mother's words that nearly froze her heart. "Because dearest, if you ever see, talk to or go anywhere near that young squire, Sazist-Dur, again, then I will have --- and him stoned and you shunned. You may however avoid the shunning if and only if you throw the first and last stone! Is that perfectly clear, daughter?"

"Mother! You can't mean that! You must be joking!"

Lady Akshara, Grand Matron of the Kef Cell, cocked her rather elongated head sideways and regarded her wayward offspring. "In all the cycles that you have known me, daughter, have you ever known me to 'joke' about anything?"

***

A half days slow ride ahead

of the moving Ou-Ba-Die Skell

Dal-Jax, the 'Pa-ha Da', or Warrior Supreme' of the Ou-Ba-Die Skell, looked down at the pride and joy of his existence, a hand and a half tulwar or curved saber. This particular tulwar had been passed down from father to eldest son in the Jax Cell for thirteen Circlings! That fact alone made it the most revered weapon of all the Ou-Ba-Die Skell's warrior cast! Add to that the fact that his great-great grandfather, Galeg-Jax, had been given the honor of using it to behead the infamous Black Queen, Jalinga-Diss, clearing the way for the now royal Kaza-Dinn Dynasty! The new Dinn queen had even honored Galeg-Jax by letting him name the sword 'Jalinga' \--- the name of the queen he had just executed.

Now, thirteen Circlings later, Dal-Jax, the Ou-Ba-Die Skell's most famous warrior, sat his shaggy mount and looked around at the three fists of warriors he had with him and he knew them to be more than enough for the job at hand. Of course, along with each warrior came two or three young 'squires in training', so that the true number of mounted fighters was closer to three score. That was certainly sufficient to handle the hundred or so rebellious human cattle standing belligerently before him in their so-called 'battle line'!

It always puzzled Dal-Jax why the stubborn humans even bothered?! Couldn't the stupid creatures see that they were vastly outmatched?! Their complete lack of organization or any military skill made their resistance laughable and their pathetic 'home made' weapons made them only slightly more dangerous than a group of angry children with pointed sticks. Still, they were good practice for the sword arm and they gave the young squires a chance to wet their blades!

Every now and then some human soldiers from the various lands the horde passed through, especially the Sharp Swords of Gorm, actually put up a 'good fight' \--- but nothing a trained Skell warrior couldn't handle. Hengst-Teedha, Dal's second in command, reigned in his lathered mount, pushed back his helmet and grinned cruelly behind his bone flap.

"More human cattle rushing to our blades, eh Dal?!" the fierce looking warrior growled. "Well, at least tonight's dinner will be a fresh one, for most of rebel cattle look to be in their prime!"

Hengst's head was shaved down to the pitted, slightly yellowish bone, save for a long, greasy top-knot that hung down past his massive shoulders. Into the thick braid was woven numerous finger bones --- one for every enemy warrior he had killed in battle.

Most skell warriors didn't count human cattle as a 'true enemy', and so did not rate them as 'bone trophy' material --- though several places on the Great Circle route did produce a fiercer, more war-like human worthy of being called a 'warrior', places like Tashan and Zalish in the east, Quawtuck in the far north and this place in the mountains called Gorm that they were slowly approaching --- the 'Land of the Sharp Knives'. Gorm especially bred a militant herd of humans and Hengst-Teedha wore three 'finger bones' from there in his top-knot.

Perhaps it had something to do with the cold winters and the rugged mountains?

But the Ou-Ba-Die were not the only skell to travel a Great Circle routes. Three other nomadic skells existed, each one forever at war with the other three. Over the ages the four respective Queens had come to see that for the preservation of both their principal food source (the human cattle) and for all the four different skells, each one must follow a separate route from the other, so that their gathering of 'cattle' and their 'meetings' would be few and far between. However, for warriors such as Hengst-Teedha and Dal-Jax, war, not the herding of human cattle, was the real purpose in life, and most warriors from all four skells looked forward to these bloody crossing of paths.

Each horde brought their human cattle with them, adding to the herd from the various lands they moved through. Several of these lands, including the Kingdom of Gorm, 'intersected' with the rout of another skell, thus causing bad blood between the two meeting tribes --- as well as a serious 'problem' for the humans that foolishly consider themselves to be 'free'!

These rebellious flat-land cattle now facing Dal-Jax and his warriors however were nowhere near as organized and 'sophisticated' as the stiff necked mountain Gormites! These were merely a collection of hunter/gatherers that roamed the high grasslands in the central part of the continent. Illiterate, pre-metal, pre-wheel creatures that still used sticks, rock and bone to fight with --- and that very poorly! They had no concept of tactics, no planning, no cavalry, no discipline and no bloody idea of how to fight as a 'unit'! Everything was strictly one on one, with each bare-assed, shit-covered rebel fighting his or her own individual and hopeless little war!

'Poor sport at best', was how a hero like Dal-Jax viewed such a meeting.

'A bloody good bash-out!' was how Hengst-Teedha and most of the other Skell warriors saw them.

'Nothing half way near a good 'finger fight' though', Hengst often said sitting round the fire, a circle of young warriors hanging off his every word --- especially after several skins of fermented mare's milk had been passed around. 'But then, just between you and me, lads, some of the younger female cattle can look damned good once stripped naked and bent over a barrel!' This always brought a combination of surprised gasps from some and eager smiles from others. 'I've dipped my rod in more than a few of them in my time, and enjoyed each one almost as much as with my Cell Wife!'

Then, after another long pull at the mare's skin, he usually followed that last shocking statement up with a wink, a sly smile and: 'Maybe I even enjoyed it more!'

The younger squires were always shocked to hear such 'blasphemy' coming from one of the exalted warrior class, but the more seasoned warriors just smiled, grinned and usually agreed, though wisely, they did it far less 'verbally' than the notorious heretic, Hengst-Teedha.

The Teedha Cell had always been a 'wayward hive' as the old mothers called any family that 'strayed too far from the center'. Hengst's great grandfather, Herundle, had even left the Ou-Ba-Die and married a maiden from another skell! Of course both had been shunned by their respective skells and gone off somewhere to live and die on their own, but the stain lingered still!

The Teedha's were a suspect cell, a 'wayward hive', and Dal-Jax had caused many a cell wife to cluck her aristocratic tongue when he had chosen Hengst-Teedha as his Second in Command. So far however it had proven to be a wise choice.

Dal-Jax, with Hengst-Teedha's help, had beaten every rebel 'uprising' they had come across during this last seven year circuit of the Great Circle. They had also won every skirmish and the few all out 'battles' that the tribe had fought against other Skells whose path they had crossed. Many were the 'finger bones' won on those momentous occasions!

But this lot of rebels before them now were hardly worth the effort. Still, the Skell needed meat and 'wild game' was a pleasant change from the more docile roasts, chops and steaks each cell harvested from their own personal herds.

In a world where a cell's wealth and prestige were counted by the number of their own human cattle, a chance to augment their herds with new stock was always welcome. Those rebels not killed outright by the warriors would be put up for auction along with most of the captured females, children and elders of the foolish rebels.

Just enough of the humans would be left to repopulate their tribe, so that when the Skell passed this way again seven years from now, there would once again be young, tender cattle for the spit or the stewpot! The words of the Fist Skell Queen explain it best:

Human Cattle exist to give sustenance to the

Four Great Skells that roam the Land.

Each Skell harvests humans and swells their herds, yet a 'Sacred Fifth' of all cattle shall be untouched,

so that their stock may replenish and be ready when

the Skells come Full Circle once again.

So it was, so it is, so it shall ever be!

Blessed be the Words of the

First Skell Queen.

Hengst-Teedha pointed with his own ancestral tulwar at the milling rebels. "Come, Sword-Brother Dal! Draw 'Jalinga' and let her keen edge drink deep of these stiff necked rebels! But mark you, that yellow haired female over there with the wooden pitchfork and bared breasts is mine! I'll ride her royally before I slit her throat, and we'll both dine on her well used buttocks tonight!"

Hengst-Teedha grinned and snapped down his iron visor, eager to be about the hunt, while Dal-Jax, the 'Pa-ha Da', or Warrior Supreme' of the Ou-Ba-Die Skell, sighed and reluctantly pulled his ancient blade from its gilded but well worn scabbard.

'Patience, My pretty,' he said to the glistening meter of curved steel. 'I'll soon find more noble meat for you to cleave and earn us both more honour and 'finger bones' --- but for now we must be content with these mere cattle. Come then, for the sooner started, the sooner ended!'

Moments later he caught up and passed Hengst-Teedha, who was grinning like a demon and already covered in blood.

***
'A Loss of Mirth'

'I have of late,

Though wherefore I know not,

Lost all my mirth!'

('Hamlet')

Several months after the incident with the rebel humans on the plains, the 'Pa-ha Da', Dal-Jax, looked down at the naked Skell Queen, Kaza-Dinn, lying amidst the silks and furs and attempted to smile. Yet despite their passionate bout of 'lovemaking', he found that he could not.

Firstly because it wasn't 'lovemaking' at all. And it wasn't 'procreation' either --- at least that might have had the reluctant blessing of the Skell. For him it was more like appeasing a hunger \--- a hunger for a 'forbidden fruit' that he knew he should deny himself but couldn't.

'Strange,' he thought. 'Here I am, the 'great' Dal-Rex of the great Ou-Ba-Die Skell, and yet I can't seem to win this 'moral' battle that rages inside me! I cannot conquer my own lusts for the one female that is forbidden to me by Skell law!'

He snorted out a muffled laugh. 'Perhaps that is why I hunger for her so --- because she is 'forbidden'?!'

"What are you thinking now, Dal?" asked the naked queen on the bed. 'More gloomy thoughts? I can always tell when you are bothered by them, for you pout like a little boy and your mouth flap sticks out just like it is now."

Dal-Rex grunted, inwardly laughing at the whole ridiculous situation. Here he was worrying about 'right and wrong' when the most beautiful female in the entire Skell lay naked before him --- willing, eager, and so very skilled.

'When did it all change and life become so complicated?!' he thought. 'For five full Circles now I have rode as a Skell warrior, the last two as the 'Pa-ha Da', the Warrior Supreme', and always before the killing had come easy, as had the wenching and the breaking of the Holy Rules. Why now do I feel so 'guilty' all the time?!'

But deep down he knew the reason. He knew the who and the when, and he knew the where and the why. What he didn't know was the 'how'! How to make things go back to the way they once were! But what really frightened him was that he wasn't even sure that he wanted them to!

"It's not the 'what' that is bothering me, but the 'how'," he said, more to himself than to the beauty on the bed. "'How' is the real question!"

The naked female looked up at him and frowned, her eyes going from a smoky 'come hither' look to one of impatience tinged with anger. "Really, Dal, I don't understand half of what you say lately! One moment you are my hot and randy lover and the next you sound like that old fool Bishop Thrall, going on and on about the 'Holy Rules' and ' sacred, ancient scripture'!" She swung her slender frame from the bed and pulled on a thin, soft robe made of the tanned skins of baby human cattle. The skins had been dyed a dark red to match her eyes. "It's all becoming very tiresome!"

The Skell's greatest warrior merely shrugged. "For me as well, My Sweet," he said, attempting to make light of the whole thing in the vain hope that it all might just 'go away'. "Like you say, one moment I am my old, carefree self, then these 'moods' come over me. I try to brush them aside, \--- I really do! But it's becoming harder and harder."

"So I've noticed," she said icily. "Even in my bed you often seem 'distracted'! Not a very flattering situation at all! I swear, Dal, if you were anyone else I would have you either stoned or shunned!"

But even those threats seemed distant and far off, as though they were of no real consequence.

'When HAD this 'change' come over me?!'

But in truth, he already knew the answer.

His mind drifted back once again to the 'incident' that had been playing over and over in his head, troubling his dreams and giving him sleepless nights. It dealt with the band of human rebels that he and his second in command, Hengst-Teedha, had come across back on the open plains several months back.

At first their attack against the rebels had seemed just like any other; the normal sort of 'sport' --- riding down the fleeing cattle and slashing them with their blood-slick tulwars.

But then Dal-Jax had come across the young female and her baby. He reined in his snorting, wide-eyed horse and dismounted, then moved slowly towards the filthy creature dressed in dirty rags and greasy leathers. She had backed away from him, protecting her infant with her own, thin form. Dal had stopped and was about to turn away, seeking more 'worthy sport', when he was attacked from the side. A poorly made 'spear', tipped with a sharpened antler tine, glanced off his metal breastplate. Easily getting past the bearded male's next clumsy attack, Dal thrust his tulwar through the creature's thin, leather armor and deep into its guts. However, when Dal went to pull his ancestral blade from the dying male, the creature did a strange thing --- it actually pushed itself further UP his blade, all the while its blood covered hands were reaching for Dal's throat!

Stunned, shocked, even 'frightened' a little, the Pa-ha Da of the Ou-Ba-Die Skell had backed up a step, his arm now extended, his blade still imbedded in the male cattle's stomach. --- but the creature had still followed, impaling itself up to the very hilt!

Dal had found himself screaming --- and doing the impossible --- he had actually let go of his tulwar! Leaving the ancient blade in the cattle's stomach, he had backed further away. The human rebel, his eyes wide, frothy blood on its lips, was still advancing! As he felt the creature's filthy hands encircle his throat, Dal, still screaming, drove his belt knife into the creature's eye, working the blade around and around. The cattle, dead on its feet, finally collapsed. Using his trembling, blood-slick hands, Dal freed his ancestral blade and immediately began hacking at the body; hacking and hacking until there was nothing recognizable but bloody pieces of meat.

It was then that the female had come at him! Baby in one hand, her mate's discarded spear in the other, she had jabbed the antler point at his face.

Dal's blow had been instinctive. Not a conscious act, but a reaction bred into the bone from a lifetime of constant training. With one swift, vicious backswing Dal had decapitated both mother and child. The two corpses, one frail, one tiny, collapsed on the pile of steaming guts that had been, until a few short moments ago, the husband and sire of them both.

Since then the world as he knew it had 'changed' for Dal-Jax, the'Pa-ha Da' of the Ou-Ba-Die Skell.

"It's that female cattle and her babe, isn't it?" the queen whispered from behind him. "The female rebel and her brat that you killed some time ago."

He stiffened, his outer skeleton going rigid, his reddish eyes narrowing. "Who told you about them?!"

Kaza Dinn sighed and traced a slender finger down the nubs of his exposed backbone. "You did, silly --- in your sleep. You often call out and mutter all sorts of things. At first I was jealous, thinking it some other female that so aroused you --- but then I asked Commander Teedha."

"Hengst saw what happened?!"

She shrugged again, drawing the thin leather robe over her smooth hip bones. "Hengst-Teedha may act like a simple, depraved fool, but there is a sharp mind beneath that shaven skull. Why else do you think that I got you to choose him as your 'Second'?"

Ignoring that last remark and its many disturbing 'implications', Dal focused on the female cattle and her child. "Hengst actually saw what I --- what happened?!"

Queen Kaza-Dinn smiled coldly. "You hacking that rebellious human to pieces, and then killing both the mother and the child? Of course he did. Hengst and scores of others like him tell me all sorts of 'interesting' things." She moved up behind him, opened her robe, and pressed herself against his bare back.

"Dal, you are not a worker or a herder, nor are you a builder nor a merchant. You are a warrior! You are 'my' warrior! Dal-Jax, the feared and famous Pa-Ha Da of our Skell! Chosen by me to rule over all other warriors! Killing is what you do! You kill my enemies! Whoever, whatever or wherever they are. Your job, your 'calling in life', is to kill for me!"

She paused and placed her mouthflap close to his earhole. "Besides, they were just human cattle! By the Sacred Scrolls, Dal --- the Skell butchers hundreds of them each day! Thousands of them in a year! They are our main source of meat! All you did was kill some rebellious animals that your warriors ended up feasting on that very night! There is no shame or harm or whatever other ridiculous feelings you are experiencing for simply putting meat on the quiffing table!"

She paused and pulled back a little, allowing a distance to form between them. "In fact, Supreme Warrior Dal, I think that the only real shame would be that if you failed to do so!"

The silence stretched out between them, like the widening from a boat from the shore --- but in the end it was the queen who spoke first. Her voice was once again soft, almost girlish, but, as always, tinged with the ever present, underlying tone of pure, unadulterated cunning.

"But now I have a task for you, Dal; something that should take your mind off all that foolish unpleasantness."

He turned slowly and looked into her reddish eyes. For the first time he noticed how the bone around the orbs was beginning to dry and pit --- but then, she was quite a bit older than he was. The creams, jellies and special foods from her herbalists kept her young looking and fertile, still able to produce several 'clutches' of eggs a year --- but she was no longer young. Just exactly how old she was he had no idea. She had always been his queen for as far back as he could remember. But then females age differently than males.

"I've decided to take on another husband."

THAT snapped him back into the present.

Skell Queens very rarely, if ever, took on a 'husband'. They could, and were even 'encouraged' to take on as many 'lovers' or 'Seed Providers' as they wanted, but very rarely a 'husband'. Unlike the thousands of 'Cell Wives', who could have as many mates or 'hive husbands' as their herds of human cattle could support, the reigning Queen needed to have as large a variety of 'seed providers' as possible. This was to protect the 'purity' of her royal female line. While Cell Wives produced several egg clutches every year, the Queen produced only one, and it was from these 'royal eggs' that the nobility of the Skell came.

"Why would you want to marry again?!" Dal asked, still reeling from the news. "I thought, Kaza, that you hated your last husband and vowed on the Sacred Scrolls never to take another!"

"I did hate him. He was a positively hideous creature! I only married him for his rare seed. He was one of the richest merchants in the Skell and the hive doctors said I need to 'infuse my clutches with some merchant genes', whatever they are! I had the vile thing strangled shortly after."

"But what about your vow?" Dal asked, already knowing the answer, which came in the form of an impatient wave of her fine bone hand.

"Then, just who is the lucky groom to be?" he finally asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

"Oh, Chancellor Raz-Telba of the Naw-Ree-Faw Skell. Apparently the fool has been mad for me ever since the last Skell Summit a Circling ago. "

"And you know all this how?" Dal asked, all pretence of 'being calm and detached' now forgotten.

"Letters, Dal. Political envoys. Meetings of state. Pomp and bloody circumstance!" She was actually smiling now, and despite himself, he felt a stirring in his loins. The boney hand waved again and she continued. "It's all been arranged. In fact, the wedding party should be here any day now."

"Here?! Now?!"

"Do try not to repeat everything I say, Dal. It makes you sound like an inbred worker."

"But my warriors must be told!" Dal continued. "The last time we met the Naw-Ree-Faw blood flowed like water! Finger joints were taken by the score on both sides!"

"You males and your quiffing'finger joints'! I swear, you're all more obsessed with them than our womanly nether parts!"

Despite himself he smiled. "Us warriors perhaps. Certainly not your merchants and chancellors."

"Droll, Dal. Very droll. Besides, my bold Warrior Supreme, I am not 'really' going to marry anyone, be he merchant or chancellor --- I'm just going to 'pretend' to."

'And why would you do that, my queen?"

Once again wrapped in the soft blood-red robe of human skin, she tuned and smiled sweetly. "Because Queen Tawzeez-Dwent will be coming to the wedding. It was part of the 'conditions' I insisted on --- 'to help heal the festering wounds between our two Skells' was the bait I used. Her daughter and heir will be here as well, the ravishing Princess Tawlean-Dwent. In fact, the entire royal court will be in attendance! From the lowest third rate, dim-witted Dwent cousin to the old, bed wetting matriarchal bitch, the Dowager Queen Lucean-Dwent herself! They'll all be here! Fawning over their royal bitches like a pack of human cattle after a joint of meat!"

She leaned forward and her mouthflap parted, the guttering candlelight glistening off her filed teeth. "And after they've come to my Grand Tent, and have been welcomed warmly with the 'High Guest's Cup'; when they sit in their furs and their finery and inwardly scoff at our 'quaint, provincial ways'; when they've been wined and dined and eaten of our most succulent human cattle; when their heads are aswirl with the sounds of drum, lyre and bone flute, --- then you, my brave, bold Warrior Supreme, you will do the deed that you were born for! You will make me a queen of not only one Skell, but of TWO!"

"Will I?" he calmly asked.

"Yes, Dal you will."

"How?" he asked, though he feared that he already knew her answer. Still, hearing her say it out loud sent a shiver of mixed emotion through him.

Queen Kaza Din leaned forward, brushed her dry lips against his at the same time as she drew forth his ancient tulwar. "With this feared blade of your ancestors, you and your sword brothers will strike down my foes and slaughter every Dwent under my roof! Every male, female, young and old! You will root out and destroy the vipers that have for long now planned my own demise!" Next she reached down and grasped his already swollen member and pulled him towards her. "And then, amidst the bloody corpses of the dead Dwents we will couple, and all we see that you are not just my consort, but my chosen husband and king!"

***

While awaiting the arrival of the 'wedding guests' from the hated Naw-Ree-Faw Skell, Dal-Jax and his warriors put Castle Gormast and all its human cattle under siege. The next day Kaza-Dinn further shocked both her lover and his captains by telling them that she had just learned that Queen Hella of Gorm had not only joined with a rebellious faction of these 'all powerful sky-lords' to oust her husband from his throne, but she had also done the unthinkable --- actually sided _with_ the hated Naw-Ree-Faw Skell to help her seize her husband's crown for herself!

"Damn the brazen bitch!" Baron Cransk bellowed upon hearing the news. "I _knew_ she was a scheming whore the moment I first laid eyes on her, but _this_ goes beyond all understanding! To side with the blood-drinking Skell! Why, it's madness!"

"Perhaps, my lord baron," Verre Lalong, the Gorm baron's most trusted councillor, said. "But a most cunning madness to be sure."

The baron demanded to know why and Lalong patiently explained, laying out his points one by one:

The queen has always hungered to be a king --- we all knew that, even the king himself.

His great mistake however was in not taking her serious enough.

She tried to subvert various nobles to 'her cause' --- you and that fool Dalworth of Dath chief among them. Cransk frowned at that, but Lalong continued.

"Then came these so called 'star-lords' with their incredible flying ships and even more incredible 'beam weapons'! Queen Hella was 'abducted' by them but it seems the 'hostage' has now 'joined' with rebel Star-Lord Tucker against her husband.

Cransk argued that he knew all that and ordered Lalong to 'get to the bloody point! _'_

The councillor sighed deeply and continued "Getting the sky-lords to join with the Skell _against_ her husband was the only _sure way_ she could gain the throne. Gormalund will never be able to hold out against both the Skell and these mysterious sky-men. No-one will --- not even you, my lord.

That got the baron's attention! When Crank asked what he should do, the answer came swift and sure. 'Swallow your pride, lord baron, go to the queen, and humbly offer your support.'

Cransk raged against it for a day, gotten drunk for a night and, after he'd sobered up the next morning, finally agreed to go to the Gorm queen. Gathering a handful of other barons dissatisfied with Gormalund's rule, Baron Cransk had rode to offer Queen Hella his sword.

And so Baron Ludval of Cransk, Dalworth of Dath and several other barons arrived at Hella's tent city in the hills. There they met the queen and her new 'consort', Star-Lord Tucker. Cransk took an instant dislike to the sky-lord and it was quite clear that the feeling was mutual. Prince Hengle and Cransk however were old friends and so the king's second son did his best to smooth things over between the two leaders. As for the handsome but hapless Dalworth of Dath, Hella had acknowledged his presence, accepted his homage, them promptly ignored him, preferring to spend her time and considerable charm on the belligerent Baron Cransk.

***

A week later, Queen Hella was once again working her whiles on the Sky-LordTucker, whose affections had cooled towards her of late, the major preferring to carouse with his officers rather than frolic in her bed. As soon as she heard Tucker's voice tell her to enter, she swept into his tent like the regal queen she was.

"Theodore, how good to see you again," she beamed. "I've missed you these past few days. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you've been avoiding me."

"Never that, my dear," he grunted back, instantly on his guard, for whenever Hella wanted something she always used his given name. "It's just that this bloody siege is taking far longer than I had planned! The walls are proving more troublesome than I expected! Our small arms hardly dent them and you troops can't scale them --- and the bloody Skell just sit back and do nothing!"

"Calm yourself, Theodore. You'll do yourself grievous harm with all this worry. I'm sure the Skell have their reasons for holding back."

"Oh, I'm sure they do! the rebel leader fumed. "They'll let me spend all my strength taking the damned castle and then they'll take it from us!"

Hella sat down with a flourish of silk skirts. "Oh, I doubt very much that they'll want the castle. You've seen how they are; a crude, backward nomadic culture, always on the move; forever dragging those ridiculous beehives with them from place to place. No, my love, once Gormast is ours, the Skell will be quite content for us to rule the kingdom \--- as long as we have our quota of human cattle ready for them when they come back in seven years." Suddenly she was beside him, her hand on the inside of his thigh. "And who knows what could happen in seven years? By then we will have conquered several of our neighboring kingdoms and be well on our way to making an empire! Just think of it, Theodore," she said in his ear as her hand moved higher. "You and I, emperor and empress, ruling a number of kingdoms --- with an army large enough to defeat even the Skell when next they come!"

As her hand moved even higher he suddenly gripped her arms and pushed her back. "Stop fucking around, Hella! What exactly is it that you want me to do?!"

She met his cold stare with one of her own. "What I _want_ is for you to get my husband to come out and fight! Winter is coming and soon the Skell will tire of the siege and move on. If they can't get their quota of 'human cattle' from those _within_ the castle, just _where_ do you think they will turn to find them?!"

The shocking answer suddenly hit home. "My men?!" he gasped.

"Of course; both yours and mine," she said. "So now you see why we must get Gormalund to come out and fight."

"But why should he?" Tucker asked. "When he can just sit there safe behind his walls and wait for winter to drive us away?!"

"Because, Theodore, Gormalund has already lost one son and heir; I doubt very much that he wants to lose another. Another wife, yes, but not another _son_ , especially at his age!"

"You'd try to use the threat of Hengle's death to draw him out?" Tucker laughed. "They both hate each other."

"No, not Hengle," she said, taking his good hand and pressing it against her swollen stomach. "The child I am carrying within me. _Gormalund's_ child."

Tucker managed another laugh. "Will the old fool actually _believe_ that?! He'll think that you are either lying about being pregnant or that the child is mine!"

"Of course he'll _think_ that, but he'll not be _certain_ \--- and his pride will force him to try and save his as unborn son. Once I claim that I am carrying his child and you challenge him openly, his pride will leave him no choice but to come out and fight."

"And what then?" Tucker asked. "The winner gets the baby?"

She moved his hand a little further down. "No, silly --- the winner get's me."

"And when he does come out to fight?" Tucker asked.

"When he does, my love, you will turn your sky-weapons on him and his army and we will become the masters of Gorm and beyond!"

***

"Tucker did what?!" Kaza Dinn demanded, the anger clear in her voice.

"The fool has challenged the Gorm king to a Blood Duel," Hengst Teedha replied, contempt, more than anger, was clear in his voice. "Says he wants the old king to come out from behind his stone walls and fight him for the woman!"

"Woman?" Kaza repeated. "You mean the Gorm Queen?"

The large warrior nodded. "Tucker claims that she is carrying the king's child, and that if he wants the child he'll have to fight for the woman. The whole thing is ridiculous! Why would the old fox leave his lair to fight for a bitch that ran off with another man?! "

The Dinn queen replied in a rather wistful voice. "Perhaps for love? Or even honour?"

Teedha grunted. "What do cattle know of honour?! They eat, shit and rut, like all the other beasts of the field!"

The queen suddenly rounded on her number one general --- now that her lover Dal Jax had left her for another female --- a younger and prettier one --- her temper had been somewhat frayed of late. "Are _we_ any different, Hengst?!" She demanded, her red eyes flashing. "Do we too not merely 'eat, shit and rut' our way through life?! Day after day, year after year --- turning after each bloody turning?!" She paused then, her anger suddenly gone. "Is there not something _more_ to life than that, Hengst?! More than the constant, grinding drudgery of mere existence?!" She paused again and looked at the puzzled, scarred warrior standing before her.

"You haven't a bloody idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not a clue, my queen."

Kaza slowly shook her head. "Tell me general, do you ever really _think_? Do you ever stop and _ponder_ the mysteries of life?"

The skell drew himself up to his full height. "Never, my queen!" he said proudly. "I leave such drivel to priests and fools! A warrior has _better_ things to do!"

"Yes," she said with a sad smile. "I suppose he has. Well then, since the challenge has already been made, the results should at least prove interesting. Perhaps, general, you'd like to make a little friendly wager on its outcome?"

Teedha's scarred face cracked into a smile. "Five prime young cattle say that the old fox stays in his lair!"

"At what odds?" the queen asked?"

"Two to one!"

"Make it five," she said.

"Three!"

"Done!" the queen grinned, her normal good humor once again restored ---after all, it didn't pay to 'ponder of the mysteries of life' too long --- that sort of thing could drive even a queen crazy.

***
'The Duel'

In the early dawn light King Gormalund looked down from his castle's battlements at the swarming mass of Skell outside his walls. Their camp stretched away as far as the distant hills.

' _Will this be the last day of my life?'_ he asked himself; followed quickly by: _'And if it is, do I even care?'_

A king for almost thirty years, he'd seen the Skell arrive many times to demand their tribute. His father had reluctantly agreed to pay, as had his father before him. Gormalund himself had always been against it, but the cost of refusal had always seemed worse than the price of payment. Still, for the last two Circlings, he _had_ refused, choosing war over meekly handing over 'his people' to be butchered and eaten.

But the cost to the kingdom had indeed been high, both in wealth and in the number of young men and women lost in war. And now the hated Skell were once again at his door.

' _But so much has changed since then!'_ he inwardly railed. _'Seven years ago I was still in my prime! I had a beautiful new wife --- and my eldest son, Garnlath, still lived._

_Now, all that has gone. My wife has runoff, Garnlath is dead and I'm no longer the fighter that I once was.'_ The old king drew a deep breath, smelling the smoke from the countless cook fires of the Skell camp \--- fires that roasted human flesh.

' _And now there's this_ new _twist?_ ' he thought _. 'The fact that my unfaithful wife_ might _be carrying my unborn child. A wise man would ignore it --- know it for the lie that it is!'_

But he knew that he couldn't. If there was even the slightest chance the child Hella was carrying his, then he knew that he must at least _try_ and win her back. _'Not for her but for the child. After all a man \---especially a king --- needs an heir.'_

Collins and the other Sky-Lords had tried to talk him out of it. Both Centurion Hamilton at the castle and Tribune Collins speaking to him through the small box the king had held in his hand. Both men had tried to dissuade Gormalund from accepting Tucker's challenge, but when he had asked them; _'If it were you? Your pregnant wife out there, would you sit safely behind your walls?'_ neither man had been able to say that they would.

And so the aging king agreed to fight the younger man that had stolen his wife --- the same man that had probably put the child in her belly that she now claimed was his.

' _Is there even a child at all?' Gormalund thought. "Or is it just another of Hella's many lies?!'_

But then there had been that one last time when Hella had come to him in the night. A day or two after the coming of the Star-Lords as he recalled.

' _Had she been planning this even then?! Was she lying about the child even now? Had she ever_ really _loved him --- even a little?'_

He suddenly felt like a fool. A silly, weak, old fool, worrying about things long past and confusing them with things that might have been but never really were.

' _Yet, what difference does it all make now? Soon I'll be with Garnlath and his mother in the Summer Lands and we'll all be young and happy again.'_

He suddenly felt a presence near him. Turning he saw his old servant, Guildlug, standing with his helmet and shield.

"Is it time, Guild?"

"Yes, lord."

"All is ready?"

"Just as you commanded, lord."

"Thank you," the king said, gently touching his old servant on the shoulder.

"For what, lord?"

"Everything."

***

"The Gorm king has arrived, my queen," a servant said as she bowed before Kaza Dinn.

"How does he look, child?" the queen asked.

"Old and stringy, your majesty. He'd need to be boiled extra long before served at the table."

"I meant as a fighter, child," Kaza said, tempted to smile.

"Oh," the servant said. "still old and stringy, my queen. Probably slow as well. But tough just the same. Tough to knock down and tough to keep down."

"Very good, child; that will be all."

As the servant bowed and backed away, the Dinn queen turned to General Teedha. "From the mouth of babes, Hengst. I wonder if that's an omen? How high do you rate the Gorm king's fighting abilities? What are Star-Lord Tucker's chances of loosing a second hand?"

Teedha grunted out a laugh at the queen's dark humor. "Very good, my queen. Very good indeed. The Gorm cattle have always been worthy of a finger bone or two. The old man's eldest son was their best, but I heard an enemy arrow took him some time ago."

"Oh? What was his name?"

Teedha shrugged. "Gorm-something, like every other male in their so-called 'royal family'. I crossed blades with him once and the young pup nearly took _my_ hand! Then we were swept apart in the battle and I never did get the chance to kill him."

"Or he you, Hengst --- for we are not invincible, you know, and some of these cattle can be very cunning."

Teedha snorted out another bark of laughter. "But never, my queen, as cunning as you."

"Careful, Hengst. The last general that flattered me I took as a lover. Now that he has foolishly gone astray, perhaps I shall take another?"

The large Skell heard her words --- part teasing, part warning, part promise and part threat --- and wondered which part he should heed the most.

***

Senior Centurion Michael Hamilton and Corporal Mary-Kate O'Riley watched carefully as King Gormalund stepped into the large circle that had been created for the duel. It took place on a flat, grassy plateau just beyond bowshot from the castle's front gates. Not too far from those seemingly impenetrable walls, but still far enough away to give the Skell some sense of safety. Of course, neither side was safe from plas-fire, but as the duel was considered a 'matter of honor between two warriors' neither side wished to be seen as 'unworthy'.

"Do you think he stands a chance?" Mary-Kate asked the centurion.

"He looks fit enough," Hamilton said.

"Ya --- for an 'old guy'. But Tucker's got what? Twenty, twenty-five years on him and thirty, forty pounds?"

Hamilton drew a deep breath. "Tucker's use of a sword has always been secondary to modern weapons. Marines _train_ with a gladius, but we _fight_ with a plas-rifle. The older, thinner king however has spent his life with a blade in his hand --- soooo, my money is on Gormalund."

"Good!" Mary-Kate beamed. "I hope the old fart guts the bastard!"

***

"So, old man, you actually found the courage to face me." Tucker made a mocking half bow. "I'm honored."

Gormalund's smile clearly showed his disdain. "I came to take back my wife and my unborn child --- who you _stole_ from me and then ran away in your flying ship." The aging king turned to the crowd of humans on one side and skell on the other and raised his voice for all to here. "When this thief from the stars took my wife, on the way out my door I relieved him of his left hand." The old man turned and pointed at Tucker, his lined smile positively wolf-like. "I'm here today for the other one."

"Bold words," Tucker growled; "for a man bent and decrepit with age!"

Gormalund drew his sword, shifted his stance and set his shield. "Step forward, 'star-lord', and face this decrepit old man!"

And so it began; a battle that lasted far longer and was far more bloody than anyone expected! Like two knights right out of King Arthur's fictitious 'round table', both men seemed willing to fight to the death over a woman --- despite the fact that the woman was a lying, conniving bitch who would do anything to get what she wanted!

***

At first the duel started out cautiously, with each fighter judging the style, quickness and determination of the other. Blows were traded, parried and blocked; the clanging of metal filled the air, drowning out the creak and rustle of leather and plate.

Tucker was definitely quicker and more aggressive, but Gormalund the calmer, more experienced swordsman, easily parrying the major's sudden attacks, striking back, then backing away. Soon it became clear to all that the king was attempting to tire the younger man, letting Tucker spend his strength foolishly trying to overpower the older, better swordsman.

Olga Freederson, seeing Gormalund's plan, called out to Tucker. "He's trying to wear you down, major! Back off and breathe!" Reluctantly Tucker took her advice and the two men stood face to face a dozen or so feet apart. Both men were sweating and breathing hard.

"Had enough?" Gormalund asked?

"Just getting warmed up," Tucker replied. "How's the leg?"

"As good as knew. How's the new hand?"

"Better than the old one!

"Shall we pause for a drink?" the king asked.

"Why not?" Tucker said, then took a second to glance at the small hill about a thousand yards away where Sergeant Hicks and his sniper team were waiting.

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Hicks had said the night before in the major's tent. The bottle had been going round for some time and Hicks was feeling no pain. "You want me and my team to set up and 'cover' you during your fight with the old king tomorrow?

Tucker had grinned and handed him the bottle.

"And do what?" Hick had asked, already guessing the answer. "Shoot the bastard? When? Before or _after_ he kills you? I mean, shit happens real fast, major --- especially with fucking swords!"

"I'll be wearing a throat-mike, sergeant. Just listen for my command."

"Ya, but what if it gets fucked up or something? What if the old bugger gets you in the throat and you can't talk?"

"Okay," Tucker had said. "Kill the old bastard if _any_ of these things happen: I raise both my hands up high in the air."

"What if you're wounded and can't raise both hands?" Hicks had asked.

"Then kill him if I raise my sword up high in the air."

"What if --- ?"

"Sergeant, shut the fuck up and listen! Shoot the old bugger if I'm down, or wounded or it looks like he's about to kill me. Got that?!"

"But what if he _does_ kill you? I mean it aint gunna happen, major --- but what if ---?"

Tucker had reached for the bottle and poured them both one last drink. " _If_ that old fucker kills me, take him out and anyone else you want!"

Hicks had smiled, downed his drink then asked: "What about the crab queen? When do I do her?"

Tucker had shaken his head and inwardly wondered why he was 'blessed' with idiots and assholes for followers. "Liked I already told you, sergeant, you shoot Kaza right after I kill the old man!"

"Ya, I got that part, major. But I mean, what _if_ I have to shoot the old man _first_ , do I _then_ take out the crab queen?"

" _Yes_ , for Christ's sake! That's the whole fucking plan! I kill the old king and you kill their crab queen. When the rest of the crabs hear she's dead they'll go completely batshit, I'll tell them that it was _Collins' men_ that did it, and that we'll gladly _help_ them take their revenge. That psycho Hengst Teedha will be the one to take over and he and his warriors will storm the castle and kill every one of Collin's men they fined!"

"Making us the biggest, baddest mutherfuckers on the whole fucking planet!" Hicks had grinned back.

"Sergeant," the major had said; reaching for the bottle one last time "I couldn't have put it any better myself."

Now, half way through the duel, both sides were having a short 'time out'.

Gormalund turned to his old servant Guildlug, who had been nervously waiting on the edge of the crowd with a large tankard of water. Guildlug rushed forward and, taking his lord's sword and helmet, handed him the tankard. The king drank some and poured the rest over his head.

"Ahhhhh!" the older man said, shaking himself like a dog. "Cold as a whore's kiss, but it does the trick!"

"You're bleeding, sire," Guildlug said, pointing at the several slashes now running red down the king's face and sleeve.

The monarch glanced at the blood, then shrugged. "I've bled all my life, Guildy --- one way or another. It's a king's duty to bleed for his people."

"But this time you're bleeding for _her_ , sire --- and she's not worth it!"

"Now, now, Guildy, mind your manners. The queen's a cold hearted bitch to be sure, but she's carrying my child, so I'll have her back or die trying."

"Then you'll die trying, old man!" Tucker said. He'd been drinking deeply from Olga's canteen when he heard the king's words and couldn't help sending out a taunting remark.

"I'll die of old age more likely, sky-man," Gormalund replied. "I hope you are a better lover than you are a swordsman, or Hella will soon be seeking someone else to warm her bed."

"She's well satisfied in that department, old man --- unlike when she was with you!"

Gormalund actually laughed. "I can see that you don't know her very well, for Hella always lies best when she is lying on her back."

"The child she is carrying is mine, old man, not yours!"

Gormalund laughed again and reached for his helmet. "It probably is yours, but the point is, major, I don't really care. Once I kill you and take her back, the child will be raised as _my_ son regardless who sired him."

"What if the child is a girl?" Tucker asked.

"The kingdom needs a strong ruler," Gormalund said "A king, preferably, but a strong queen will do --- just not Hella."

"And you actually think that you'll win this fight?"

"Oh, I know I will. I've been watching you and now know all your weaknesses."

"Really? such as?" Tucker asked.

"Your stance is all wrong, you lead with you left foot, you often overreach yourself, your shield work is slow and you give away each attack with your eyes."

"Is that all?" the major asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"Oh, there's more, but it's getting late and an old man like me needs his rest. Do you want to still use a shield or would you prefer just swords?"

"Just swords will be fine," Tucker beamed, sure now that he had the old bastard! Marines trained with the _gladius_ , the Roman legion's famous stabbing sword, but they did very little training with a shield of any kind, trusting to modern body armor instead. Now, with the old fool giving up the use of his shield, Tucker believed he could kill the king quickly. Giving Olga back her canteen, he handed her his shield and once again hefted his Roman killing sword.

Stepping forward Tucker was immediately aware that Gormalund, despite the blood running down one side of his face, was grinning from ear to ear.

"I too, star-man, prefer to fight without a shield, especially when using my strong hand." With that the king switched his sword from his right hand to his left, swishing the longer blade around in a glittering blur of figure eights. "Oh, didn't I tell you?" the king asked politely. "I'm really left handed. I just thought it would be amusing to start off using my right. Ready?"

Tucker's heart sank and his testicles seemed to want to draw up into his stomach. His mouth went dry and his hands began to sweat --- for the old bastard had plaid him from the start! Toyed with him like a cat does with a cornered mouse! And the amused look in the king's eyes told him that the 'cat' was about to pounce!

Seeing Helga's concerned face in the crowd, Tucker automatically called on his loyal follower one more time "Helga! Kill this old fucker for me!" Then, speaking into his throat mike, he gave Sergeant Darrel Hicks the order he'd been waiting for. "Hicks! The crab queen, n _ow!_ "

Lieutenant Helga Freederson's plas-pistol was half way out when Centurion Hamilton's large hand closed over the barrel and the point of Mary-Kate O'Riley's combat knife pressed into Olga's neck just below her left ear. Doing a terrible 'Dirty Harry' impression that only she found funny _,_ the red headed Irishwoman hissed through clenched teeth: _"Go ahead punk, make my day!"_

Tucker, seeing that Olga was unable to stop the old king, panicked. Turning, he looked for some place to run, but the ring of spectators hemmed him in on three sides and Kaza Dinn's royal beehive blocked the forth. The queen and her entourage were all watching him from the front balcony--- as was Hella. Off to one side of the platform her ice cold eyes gazed back at him from. The bitch seemed to be having the time of her life!

Tucker was about to change his order and have Hicks kill the king first when a beam of yellowish-orange light slashed down from the hill. The beam had been aimed at Kaza Dinn, but at the last moment Hengst Teedha stepped protectively in front of the queen, his unsheathed tulwar in his great fist. The plasbeam struck the Skell general's massive chest, burning through iron plates, leather, bone and various organs. The liquid in Teedha's body boiled and his heart exploded \--- all in the snap of a finger. His body was still falling when Tucker turned back into the ring --- and met Gormalund already advancing, his longsword once again a scything blur.

The old man was coming right for him!

"Noooo!" Tucker yelled, instinctively raising his artificial hand. Gormalund's longer blade hacked into his prosthetic, slicing through the imitation flingers, thumb, and palm and cutting into the stub of his actual wrist. As the fake hand fell away and the blood began to flow, Tucker screamed and lunged with his 'gladius'. The triangular point of the Roman shortsword easily punctured the older man's scale armor, padded tunic and the heart beneath.

While standing there face to face a second yellowish-orange beam slanted in across the ring and struck Gormalund in the shoulder. Spinning around, the old king was struck again by another beam in his back. His sword falling away, the monarch hit the ground just after his blade. The smell of burnt meat hung in the still air.

Then, as still more killing shots went into the crowd, panic set in! Skell and human's both began to shove, push and cry out in their attempt to distance themselves from the yellowish-orange beams that slashed down indiscriminately.

Over a hundred yards away, Sergeant Hicks and his snipers kept up their fire till the scene down below was absolute chaos, then they quickly packed up their gear and melted away back to the MP's camp. By then Tucker was already back in his tent and being worked on by the two medics. When the crowd first began to panic, Olga had quickly used her belt as a tourniquet and helped Tucker's back to camp. She now stood by his cot with her plas-pistol drawn, one eye watching the MP's work on her beloved leader and the other on the door of the tent.

When the flap suddenly opened and a grinning form stepped in, Olga's plas-pistol came up and the thin, laser beam danced around on the man's chest. "Hey?! What the fuck?!" Hicks demanded.

The beam continued to dance. "You were supposed to have his back!" she shouted. "To keep him fucking safe!"

"He ordered me to take out the crab-queen! My whole team heard it loud and clear! _You_ were supposed to be his back-up, not _me_! I just followed orders! When I saw what happened I took the old man out toot-sweet!" Hicks flashed his smart-assed smile. "Nice bloody shot too if I do say myself! After that it was a fucking turkey shoot!"

The beam on his chest still danced around and Olga almost pulled the trigger. Not because Hick's had failed the major --- but because she had. In the end, sadness outweighed her anger and she lowered her weapon.

"That a girl, Olga," Hicks grinned, taking a step forward. "Be cool. The old man gunna make it?"

"He better!" Olga growled. "Or we're all fucked!"

***

Now for something completely different.

I've always loved Shakespeare. Oh, not the fluffy, frivolous 'comedies' or the flowery poems he supposedly wrote to his patron and lover \--- but the power and scheming of the 'Histories' and the blood, guts and vileness of the 'Tragedies'! Even in high school I could feel the magic; hear it coursing through me in a language that was so much more than what we in the 'modern world' spoke. Back then I was too young to fully understand it, but I felt it just the same!

Now, at the other end of my life, I find great pleasure in 'rewriting' some of the greatest words ever put on paper. NOT that I make them better, you understand \--- but , coming at the 'plot' from a different perspective, I give them my own 'twist' and add some modern crassness to aged perfection.

I've attempted to do that with Macbeth and King Lear and am presently working on 'Hamlet'. The sample I'm giving you here however is my personal favorite --- the vilest villain ever to darken a stage, Richard of Gloucester --- The Prince of York --- better known as Richard III.

***

INTRODUCTION

'Now is the winter of our discontent

made glorious summer by this son of York!'

What a load of shite!

That Shakespeare fellow got a lot of things right, but he got a hell a lot of them wrong as well! Plus he 'flowered it up' with all those fancy words of his! I ask you now, who in God's green earth ever spoke like that?! I myself enjoy a 'well turned phrase' and have, from time to time, been know to 'wax poetical' --- and, without doubt, will do so in this tale when 'spoken speech' is required, but the 'playwright from Stratford' outdid himself, pushing his sharpened quill into new realms of similes, metaphors and, dare I say it \--- iambic pentameter!

Still, that part about me being 'rudely stamped' and 'sent into this world scarce half made up' was accurate enough; as was the part about me being so damned ugly that 'dogs bark when I halt by them'! Ha! I got a good chuckle out of that one! I also enjoyed the part about me being a 'bottled spider' as well! Good stuff that, though like I say, the bugger got a lot of his 'facts' wrong!

Sooooo, here I am, the hunchbacked ghost of that 'bottle spider', Richard the Bloody Handed III, come back across the dark, yawning gulf of centuries to finally set things straight!

Let us begin, shall we?

***

In the early 1470's England was at war with itself; a vicious 'civil war' between two great families; the thieving, back-stabbing Lancasters in the southern section of the 'royal tree', and us Yorks in the north.

Not that we were any 'better' than those of the 'Red Rose', but I like to think that 'we of the White' were at least 'craftier'!

In truth, the 'War of the Roses' tore the country apart, setting village against village, friend against friend and, in my case, brother against brother.

Here's a painting that was said to have 'symbolised the times' --- whatever the hell that means! That's supposed to be me in red, offering some Lancastrian noble the Yorkish 'White Rose'. A peace offering? A bribe? By the look on my face it seems more like a bloody threat! And just look at that face! Lean, determined and handsome! The 'lean and determined' part I'll grant the artist, but the daft bastard got the rest of it all wrong!

'I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, nor made to court an amorous looking-glass!'

I'd also not be caught dead in a garish red outfit like that! More like a high priced strumpet's dress than a fighting man's attire! And where's the game leg, the withered hand and the damnable hump?! I've never stood that bloody straight in my life!

But then perhaps I am being unfair on the artist; after all, the man earned his living by making the rich and the ugly look noble and beautiful! Still, since in real life I could not prove a lover, I was determined to prove a villain!

So, settle back now, Gentle Reader, and let the ghost of the notorious and long dead 'Hunchback of York' tell you how it really was; and though at first the tale may seem rather dull and stale, and lack the Bard's' sharp wit and flowery phrases', I assure you that, given a page or two, you will, as my famous chronicler so once nicely put it: 'be stepped in blood so far that, should you wad no more, returning would be as tedious as going on!'

Now, let me state the facts clearly and quickly so as we both may get on to the 'meat' of the matter.

In the year of Our Lord, 1461, at the age of twenty-one, my elder brother Edward, the Earl of March, was proclaimed King Edward IV of England.

This came about because he and other Yorkists defeated the supporters of the older, weak, often insane Lancastrian king, Henry VI, and drove the simple minded old fool into hiding.

I was a mere lad of eleven at the time, barley off my nurse's tit.

Three years later, in 1464, Lancastrian revolts in the far north of England were again defeated by my elder brother, 'Good King Edward'; only this time the witless, fugitive King Henry VI was captured and imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Henry's queen, Margaret of Anjou --- now there was a true 'bottled spider' for you! --- was exiled and, along with her young son, sent penniless back to France where she belonged.

After that my dear brother's hold on the English throne appeared to be secure for a number of years. I meanwhile was a growing, lusty, although somewhat twisted lad of fourteen and though I had given up on my nurse, I had no desire at all to give up on tit!

In the spring of 1471 however, the hated Lancasters once again raised their greedy heads and my younger brother Clearance and I joined our elder brother the king and met the rebels in two bloody and decisive battles; those of Barnet and Tewkesbury.

I was all of eighteen and by then my body --- like many of my family were soon to do, had already betrayed me, giving me the unholy trinity of a three-fold blessing: a withered left hand, a clubbed right foot and a hunch in my back large enough for an eagle to nest on! Yet all of this, Gentle Reader, bothered me not, and I shall tell you why! For, though 'dogs may bark at me whenever I do halt by them', I had several weapons that most others had not, namely a quick and clever mind, a devious and cunning nature and, most importantly, a driving ambition and a relentless desire to crush all that stood in my way!

So now, my new found friends, the time has come for you to choose. Art thou willing to wade with me through the blood and gore and not only hear, but smell, feel and taste the heart pounding thrill of bloody battle and the even bloodier war-games of court? Art thou ready, willing and able walk with me as I 'bustle about in this wicked world'?

Good! Then come along, for it's the 14th of April, 1471; you are a lusty eighteen year old lad and are looking forward to 'doing your worst' to your brother the king's onetime friend, uncle and now bitter enemy, the Earl of bloody Warwick!

The 'Hunchback',

Richard of York's Ghost

***
'Let Slip The Dogs Of War'

The Battle of Barnet

14th of April, 1471

"The traitor Warwick is camped not three miles hence, Your Grace!" the mud spattered scout told my brother, King Edward, the fifth of that name to rule merry old England. I, Richard, Duke of Glouchester, Chief Justice of York and Constable of England, was known best by my well deserved nick-name, 'The Hunchback'.

Though in truth my deformity bothered me not one iota, for my brother the king loved me well and had just given me the place of honour in the upcoming battle. I was to lead the vanguard against our hated turncoat of a cousin, the Earl of Warwick! At eighteen, hunchback or no, leading men into battle was a very heady enterprise, right up there with drink and fumbling with a milk-maid's tits!

Edward's gruff voice, ten years my elder, brought me back from such pleasant flights of fancy. "Mount up, brother and lead your troop forward! I intend to use the cover of darkness to bring ourselves closer to our wayward cousin Warwick, so that, in the morning, we may embrace him all the sooner!"

Grinning like the young fool I was, I gladly did my brother's bidding!

"Richard, wait for me!" a high pitched voice called out. Turning I saw my younger brother George, recently turned seventeen and newly minted the Duke of Clarence, trot up to me through the clinging mud.

"Little chance have I to outdistance you, little brother, you having two good limbs and I dragging this faulty one!"

"But you ride like the wind, Richard, and wield a sword like Lancelot himself!"

"Would that I had that hero's looks as well as his skill, Georgie! Then might I scamper nimbly in a lady's bedchamber and woe her to the simpering notes of a lute!"

George grinned like the pimple faced youth he was. "Always chasing the tit, eh Richard?! Is there a serving wench or milkmaid in the land that you haven't tupped soundly?"

Proud of my 'reputation', though in reality falling far short of it, I waved my withered left hand across the muddy English field. "Tis a wide and broad realm we inhabit, Georgie, brimming over with serving wenches and willing milkmaids! A man would need a dozen lifetimes to do even one one-hundredth of the fair beauties justice!"

"But you're willing to brave the attempt, are you not, brother?!" George grinned widely. "To manfully storm the closely guarded ramparts of tit and twat!"

"Or die, trying, little brother; or die trying!"

George and I found our mounts, looked to our weapons and rode off to glory --- or so it seemed at the time. The reality of war, however, is a far cry from what the poets and minstrels would have you believe.

Blood, guts and rivers of shit best describe it, along with dying beasts and bodies stacked up like cordwood, all awaiting the hungry flames of hell. And it's not just the sight of it, but the sound of it, and perhaps worse, the smell! Nothing on God's green earth smells as bad as the reeking, bloated remains of a battle field after simmering for two or three days in the hot sun!

Though still two years shy of twenty, back then I was no stranger to armed conflict. True, most of it had been in my training for knighthood, but for some years now the wooden practice swords had been replaced by heavy steel ones, and though the edges were dull, they could still easily break bones. Also, for the last two years I had accompanied Richard's army on his 'punitive campaigns' against local robbers, barons reluctant to pay their taxes and border raids against the hard-headed Welsh, the tight fisted Scots and any rebellious Lancaster we could find.

Though I had never actually taken a man's life, I had cut a goodly number with my blade and wounded two with the newer 'hangunns' that were making their noisy way into use. The king had graciously made a present of a matching brace of the new Wheelock style to both Georgie and myself, and, like the excited young lads that we tried so hard not to be, we couldn't wait to try them out on the rebels!

As it turned out, the wait was a short one!

One of the new handguns

Edward had made for Georgie and me

***

Marching through the rainy, fog shrouded night, we arrived much closer to Warwick's rebel camp than we had originally planned. Lighting no fires lest we give ourselves away, we deployed ourselves immediately so as to be ready to meet the morrow.

Edward set his good friend, Lord William Hastings on our left, entrusted me to lead the right and, keeping young George with him, took charge of the centre. A contingent of reserves was wisely kept at the rear, ready to come at Edward's call.

During the night, my turncoat cousin, Warwick, ordered his cannons to continually bombard the place where he assumed that we were camped. This assumption was aided by the order that I had given earlier to light some 'campfires' far back behind us. The result was that while we sat shivering in the foggy drizzle, the Lancastrian artillery lit up the night sky in front of us while their shot flew harmlessly high over our heads.

"Well done, Your Grace!" my man Catesby grinned in my ear.

"Was it not?" I smiled back, though it was more a grimace than a grin. "Let my cunning cousin waste his fire on the empty night --- for with the coming of the dawn we shall set things all aright!"

(You see, Gentle Reader, England's

most celebrated bard is not the only knave

that can rhyme a couplet!

Let us try some more, shall we?)

"We'll give the traitor pause to curse his fickle heart, my lord!"

"Aye, good Catesby, for all such wrongdoers and malcontents should be treated thus, but I fear my brother the king's own heart is too soft to do the hard deed."

"You fear he will pardon his cousin, and restore Warwick to his former greatness?!"

"Not only do I fear it, good Catesby, but have heard it from his royal lips! He loves Warwick still, and would rather forgive the man than forfeit his life."

"That would be a deed ill done, my lord!"

"Ill done indeed, Catesby! But fear not, for I have it within this withered frame to do what my brawny brother turns from!"

"And I with you, my lord --- as always!"

"Good Catesby, thou shalt one day surely get thy just reward!"

"Serving you is reward enough, lord --- though a title and a bag of silver now and then would not go amiss."

"You shall have both and much more, my man, but first we must live through the day! But look you to the east where the dawn light greys the blackness! To arms, my friend, for we must away!"

***

At four of the clock \--- when that 'dawn's light' that I spoke of was still just a faint glow in the direction of the far off realm of Cathay, after firing our cannons and our deadly flights of arrows, we laid into each other with our pole arms. A forest of eighteen foot long skewers tipped with metal thrust and poked at each the other like a primeval creature from the mists of time!

Then, dropping pole and drawing sword, we came together like long lost lovers, hot to grapple! Two fields of roses, the Lancastrian Red and the Yorkish White, met and entwined in the blood soaked ground!

Ah but my boyish blood was up that day!

Amidst the cannon's roar, the trumpets call and the heady heat of battle, I rode forward at the spearpoint of our living wedge --- my limp forgotten, my sword running red and my rounded hump mocking heaven's unwatchful eye! So busy was I with those around me that I forgot all about using the fancy firelock Edward had given me --- for I was of the 'old school' that pressed forward when on the defence and charged headlong in when attacking! No time had I for the priming and packing of powder; for horns and flints and stopping to ram a ball!

'Forward!' ever cries youth --- and back then I was as a red faced newborn into the wicked world of war!

Yet I found, Gentle Reader, much to my surprise, that amidst all the blood and the gore of a body strewn field, that I had a certain 'knack' for killing! That it came easy me, like dancing or running a foot race does to the more limber limbed fellow. My sword cared not if my body wasn't handsomely formed, only that my arm was strong, my eye quick and my mind even quicker!

Thrust! Parry and counter-thrust!

Again and again, like the legendary Sisyphus and his bloody boulder, I killed and killed and killed again!

Unlike the Titan however, he that 'put Death in chains so that none should need die', only to be condemned himself to pushing a house-sized rock up God's never-ending hill, I unleashed Death and made him my brother!

Thrust, parry and thrust again! My sword arm ached, my mfail and gilded breastplate were all asplatter, yet I, Catesby and the rest, pushed forward and drove the Lancastrian left back into their confused center!

Pausing briefly for breath, Catesby thrust a wineskin at me, but I brushed it aside. "What need I of wine, good Catesby, when I do drink the very spirits of those I kill?!" Already drunk on blood, I foolishly cast aside my battered shield. "What need I have weighty iron on my arm, when Death Himself rides on my shoulder?!"

Looking back on it now I see it all for what it truly was --- the first thrilling flush of a shunned and unwanted boy suddenly becoming a man others eagerly followed. I saw the crazed admiration in the eyes of the men around me, each one eager for me to point the way to glory! I recall thrusting my crimson colored sword at Warwick's collapsing center and shouting a line that the Bard of Avon would mimic poorly over a century and a half later.

'Come men, let us bravely attack!

At least we'll die with harness on our back!'

Like a wind-tossed wave overwhelming the rocky shore, we washed over the Lancastrian left flank, pushing all before us --- yet the Fates, those three demented sisters of old, who give with one hand and snatch back with the other --- saw to it that as my right wing pushed valiantly forward, so too did the right wing of the rebels do the same! Led by the noble but misguided John de Vere, the 13th Earl of Oxford, his Lancastrian troops routed our Yorkists left wing under Lord William Hastings, and chased Hastings and his Yorkish troops up the King's road towards Barnet!

Luckily, due to the morning fog, visibility was poor and both sides failed to notice Oxford's victory over Hastings. The fighting between Montagu's 'Reds' and Edward's 'Whites' in the center was evenly-matched and quite intense, though that changed when my lads arrived on the rebel's left flank!

Oxford, the rebel commander, unable to find Hastings in the fog, retraced his steps to get back to the fight. His group arrived unexpectedly at the rebel Montagu's rear. Obscured by the fog, Oxford's 'star with rays' badge was mistaken by Montagu's men for Edward's 'sun in splendour'. The Lancastrians falsely assumed that their own allies were Edward's Yorkist reserves and unleashed a volley of arrows and musket fire on their own side!

God truly does work in 'mysterious ways', does he not?!

As the bodies fell and men cried out for their mothers, Oxford and his Lancastrians immediately shouted 'treachery' and quickly struck back. The slaughter was fast and furious, each side unwittingly killing his friend and ally! Soon after they began withdrawing hastily from the battle, their shouts of 'treachery' and 'treason' were taken up and spread quickly throughout the rebel line, breaking it apart as men fled in anger, panic, and confusion!

Sometimes it seems that the old gods really do delight in scattering all before the wild wind!

Soon after the fog lifted and when Edward saw the Lancastrian centre all in disarray he actually did send in his reserves, hastening its total collapse! Blood, bone and noble hearts were quickly put to the Yorkish sword! Oh, I tell you Gentle Reader, Catesby and myself did some gloriously terrible and dark deeds that day!

Suddenly cries of 'Exeter's dead from a Yorkist blade' resounded across the battlefield! Next came word that, amidst the confusion, Montagu, the Lancastrian commander of their disarrayed center, had been stabbed in the back and killed!

Hearing of his brother Montagu's death, my traitorous cousin Warwick knew that the battle was lost. Franticly he made for the horses in an attempt to escape. Alas, some unknown soldier pulled him down, pried open his visor, and stabbed my traitorous cousin through the eye. Later Edward's guards found Warwick's mutilated corpse, stripped of its costly, gilded armour and left to lie in the dirt.

Some say that these dastardly deeds were done by Yorkists. Others say the blows came from confused Lancastrian troops --- but the truth is that I, Richard the Hunchback, killed them all three men. Exeter, Montague and his brother Warwick --- and the pure joy of it resides in me still!

***

We won in the end --- and what more than that can anyone ask of the uncaring gods?

We had been outnumbered almost two to one and still we were the victors. Perhaps the gods really did care after all? More likely however, we just won the bloody toss of the dice. Oh, the priests will tell you different, that it's all part of some 'great, mysterious plan' that we poor, pathetic humans are too stupid to comprehend, but you and I know the truth of it. Chaos rules the world --- chaos and cruel, cunning men.

Yet the 'play' was far from over! Indeed, for brother Georgie and myself, this was early in the first act! The prologue even --- and many great and grizzly deeds were still to be done, and the first was taking care of the other rebellious Lancastrians sadly in need of chastisement --- old King Henry's shrew of a French wife, Margaret of Anjou, being chief among them!

Although we had defeated Warwick, we had little time to rest upon our laurels, for news soon came to us that Queen Margaret had landed at Weymouth with a French army on the very day of the Battle of Barnet! Margaret, the exiled wife of the ousted Henry VI, in order to gain time and men, made a false march on London while enlarging her army with recruits from Wales and the Welsh Marches. The Lancastrian queen was said to be greatly disheartened however by the news of Warwick's death, but her son, the haughty, high spirited young Prince Edward, talked her into continuing to fight. Foolishly, many Lancastrians agreed with the young prince, and many who had just fled from the Battle of Barnet now looked to the foreign queen to restore their rebellious house to the throne.

The rebels Somerset and the Earl of Devon had already raised an army for the Lancaster cause in the West Country and convinced Margaret to march northwards and join forces with the Lancastrians in Wales, led by Jasper Tudor. Alas for her, we were warned by our spies of their route and intercepted them on the 4th of May just outside the village of Tewksbury --- where we once again beat them bloody!

***

In this exert that follows we start to see another side of Richard. In this scene where the Lady Anne goes to burry her husband --- killed of course by Richard --- the 'bottled spider' shows us his 'softer side'--- along with his calculating cruelty.

***

'This Piping Time of Peace'

I, in this weak, piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

And descant upon my own deformity.

The year after Barnet and Tewksbury, 1472, was much quieter than the previous one; calm, peaceful, with hardly anyone left alive to fight --- or so it seemed. Oh, there was still the odd pocket of Lancastrians around, that, like a pack of rabid dogs, every now and then would raised their mangy heads --- though to be truthful, I actually was grateful to the fools, for they gave a fighting man like myself a little 'sport' --- grist for my mill so to speak and fodder for my cannon! There's little sport in chasing raggedy assed outlaws through the greenwood and even less in prying some tight-fisted nobleman out of his castle for being niggardly in paying his taxes!

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,

For grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front!

In short, Gentle Reader, aside from the odd border skirmish with the hairy-kneed and stiff necked Scots, it was a dull, weak and utterly boring time of 'peace within the realm'! Years and years of it, so much so that one tedious sleepy summer ran into the next and it seemed that I went from eighteen to twenty-eight in the blink of a jaundiced eye!

Oh, there were 'distractions' along the way, and doubtlessly I will tell you about them anon, but mostly it was a rather dull time. I mean, a man like myself, a man of considerable energy, vast wealth and power and above all a man of large 'appetites', must seize life by the throat and, biting deep, taste its hot blood! A man such as myself cannot, nay, will not be satisfied with cold porridge, stale bread and watered beer \--- not when so much good, red meat and strong red wine was there for the taking!

In short, Gentle Reader, it was a time of women!

You recall my early interest in my nurse's tit, and my unwillingness to give it up? Of young Georgie teasing me on the eve of the Battle of Barnet of my fondness for sweet young maidens and the hot-footed chase thereof? Well, aside from a good killing, which, in that peaceful decade was hard to come by, I set my sites on a battlefield of a 'different nature'!

'Therefore, since I cannot prove a soldier,

To entertain these mewling, peace-filled days,

I am determined to prove a lover,

And find sweet distractions in other ways.'

There were three women in particular that must be discussed. One I made my wife, one I made my mistress and one I made my bitter enemy.

Oh, there were others that came and went; pretty, faceless faces that meant nothing more than a moment's frantic pleasure --- but these three left their various marks on both my twisted body and whatever black thing that dwells in my breast that some would call a soul.

Let me begin first with the one that I took to wife.

She was a pretty young thing, in a dark, rather sad way, and had first caught my roving eye some time ago when she married the ousted King John VI's son, Edward, Prince of Wales. The young prince was obviously the heir to the Lancastrian throne --- just one of the many reasons I killed him at Tewksbury --- besides wanting his wife, that is.

At least that darling playwright that so vilified me got the part right where I wooed the tearful Lady Anne on route to the graveyard. She, along with many others, were escorting my latest victim, her recently murdered father-in-law, King John VI, to his final and well deserved resting place. The Bard even got most of the conversation correct, albeit rather flowery --- as is his want. My main complaint is that these damned artists insist on dressing me in garish colours! Just look at this painting of my sweet Anne and myself! There I am, once again dragging a flowing dress of crimson so bright as to make a cardinal green with envy!

Now I ask you, is that anyway for a warrior to be depicted?! At least the fool artist gave me a sword!

What follows is my own personal recollection of that 'fateful meeting' with my tearful bride to be. I have decided to use a good deal of the Bard's words, with a fair amount of cutting and snipping on my part. After all, they may be 'his' words, but I was the one that was there!

I pray you note, Gentle Reader, that, as the Bard did, not yet having been crowned king, I will in this part refer to myself as the 'Duke of Gloucester'.

SETTING: The funeral procession of the recently murdered Lancastrian king, Henry VI, moves slowly through the streets of London, carrying the old fool's body with more pomp and circumstance than he deserved.

His recently widowed daughter-in-law, the Lady Anne Neville, marches alongside the casket, her eyes bright with tears.

LADY ANNE

(Speaking to her father-in-law's corpse)

Oh ghost of a dead king,

Hear the lamentations of Poor Anne,

Wife to thy Edward, thy slaughtered son,

Stabbed by the selfsame hand that caused your wounds!

Cursed be that foul hand that made those fatal holes!

And cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it!

(She sees me watching and raises her head high and continues.)

If ever he have child, abortive be it!

If ever he have wife, let her be made

As miserable by the death of him

As I am made by my poor lord and thee!

An aside:

Now there's a bit of irony for you! I killed all three of the 'men' in her life: her natural father, the traitor Warwick --- her father-in-law, James VI, who was in the casket beside her --- and her husband, the dead Duke of Whales that I slew at Tewksbury!

On top of that she 'curses' me and 'my wife to be' --- which will be her \--- and hopes that 'my future wife' will suffer when I die as much as she is now --- yet the silly goose will be one and the same! The gods themselves could not make up such a twisted tale!

LADY ANNE

(Hissing at me as I limp along at her side)

Foul devil, for God's sake, go hence and trouble us not;

For thou hast made the once happy earth my hell!

Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity!

Thou art unfit for any place but hell!

GLOUCESTER

Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

LADY ANNE

Some dungeon?!

GLOUCESTER

No, lady. Your bed-chamber.

LADY ANNE

(Shocked)

Speak not to me so rudely, vile imp!

Thou hast murdered all the love I have for men!

GLOUCESTER

But twas your beauty that drove me to it.

Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep and

Caused me to undertake the death of all the world

So I might live just one hour in your sweet bosom!

(You notice the subtle reference there to 'tit'?

Sweet Georgie would have loved it!)

LADY ANNE

If I thought that, I tell thee, Homicide,

These nails would rend that beauty from my cheeks.

GLOUCESTER

It is a quarrel most unnatural,

To be revenged on him that loveth you.

LADY ANNE

To be revenged on him that slew my husband?

GLOUCESTER

I did it to help thee to a better one.

LADY ANNE

His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

(She spits in my face)

GLOUCESTER

(Licking off her spit)

Never came poison from a place so sweet.

LADY ANNE

Never hung poison on a fouler toad!

Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes!

GLOUCESTER

Thine eyes, Sweet Lady, have infected mine!

LADY ANNE

Would mine were basilisks' then, to strike thee dead!

GLOUCESTER

Teach not thy lips such scorn, Sweet Lady,

For they were made for kissing, not for such contempt.

(I then gave her my fine, Italian short steel.

The very one that I stabbed her father with

at Barnet, her husband at Tewksbury and

just recently the old fool in the Tower.)

But here is my sharp-pointed sword. Kill me if you will, for I did kill King Henry, but know that twas thy beauty that provoked me! Twas I also that stabbed both your father Warwick and your husband Edward, but 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on!

(She pauses, the sword in her hand, her wet eyes fierce, then suddenly sags and slowly lets it fall)

GLOUCESTER

Take up the sword, Lady \--- or take up me!

LADY ANNE

Though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

GLOUCESTER

Shall then I live in hope?!

LADY ANNE

All men, I hope, live so.

GLOUCESTER

(My eyes are now downcast)

I shall, my lady, indeed live so. Now, if it please you, leave this sad duty of burial to him that hath more cause to be a mourner. Go you and be at ease, and I will see the old king to his resting place.

LADY ANNE

I will do as you ask, for much it joys me

to see you so penitent!

(Smiling shyly, she leaves me to take charge of the old fool's remains, but she glances back and widens her pretty smile)

GLOUCESTER

(I give a slight wave of my withered hand and she returns it hesitantly, then is gone. Alone now, I'm truly shocked at what has just happened!)

Was ever woman in this humour wooed?!

Was ever woman in this humour won?!

I'll have her! But I will not keep her long!

God's teeth, but I have mistaken myself all this while!

Upon my life, she finds me, although I know not why, to be a marvellous, proper man!

Ha! Shine forth, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, that I may see my fair shadow as I pass!

***

Well now, Gentle Reader, those weren't the 'exact' words spoken at the time, but they are close enough. Things then went from warm to hot after that and I soon wed the fickle vixen and straight away got her with child --- giving her something to do and leaving me the wide world to bustle about in!

Mine was not the only royal marriage however. Indeed, they seemed to follow one upon the other like ducks after their mother.

Lady Margaret Beaufort, the widow of the little lamented King John VI that I had recently had the pleasure personally sending off to Heaven, married Lord Stanley, one of my brother Edward's staunchest supporters --- who, as men are oft want to do, later turned against me when I was king \--- just one of my 'loyal friends' who helped put that mewling boy, Henry Tudor, on the throne! But more of that later when the time is right; for now we were speaking of women and weddings!

My younger brother George, in what seemed a futile attempt to ape my actions, foolishly saddled himself with my new wife's younger sister. A plain, vacant lass that had a lazy eye, a sharp tongue and a name that escapes me. Oh well, the name, like the girl herself, was of little account. Over the years however, Georgie disappointed me more and more. As a youth he had followed me around like a puppy, seeing me as his hunched back Hercules or his limping Lancelot! Yet as the years slipped by he became both distant and sullen, resenting my advancements and worse yet, befriending the Lancaster side of the royal tree!

He and I fell out several times over his very 'impolitic' politics!

My elder brother the king marked this as well and chastised the young fool, but, being a fool, George paid the warning little heed. Once again that Shakespeare fellow got things partly right and partly wrong. He recognized my ruthlessness and my driving ambition, my growing desire to remove any and all 'obstacles' that might impede me from inheriting the crown after my big brother 'shuffled off this mortal coil'. So, he had my motive correct, he just got the timing all wrong.

For years I had known that George had become a liability, a thorn in my side and would, sooner or later, like many others, a have to be 'eliminated'. Indeed, the idea soon began to take root in my withered soul that Edward himself was my 'principal impediment', for in truth, Edward was fast proving himself to be a 'king in need of replacing'. He had been an excellent soldier in his younger days, both as a field commander and a tactician --- bold, brave and daring. As a king however, most especially a king in 'peacetime', he was sadly lacking.

In the years since Tewksbury Edward had become a petty, vindictive, overweight, lazy drunkard, but lately a new fly had gotten in the ointment. Middle aged Edward had become both estranged from his shrewish, over pious wife and enamoured to the point of idiocy with a saucy piece of country baggage by the name of Jane Shore. 'Mistress Shore' was, to hear Edward, (and any number of other 'Shore smitten males' around court), Aphrodite come to earth; Cleopatra drifting down the Nile or Helen of Bloody Troy sailing up the sewage-choked Thames!

The women of the court called her a witch. Many other names as well; 'slut, harlot, Jezebel', but 'witch' was by far the worst!

Few women ever went to their death for earning a living on their back, but, let the great unwashed mob, or worse yet, Holy Mother Church hear that some poor, toothless drab had made a potion, conjured a spell or looked aslant at a bishop, why straight away the kindling would be gathered, the logs stacked and the fire lit beneath her feet in less time than it takes an eager, young lad to drub his first maid!

Edward became so bedazzled by this rustic enchantress that he not only brought her to court and openly favoured her over his lack-lustre wife, but the randy monarch installed her as his 'chief councillor' as well! Although all her council meetings took place between the sheets, Edward heeded her predictions and reading of auguries far more than he did the more prudent, logical but alas, less titillating advice of us, his 'worldly advisors'!

In short, Gentle Reader, though my brother Edward ruled the realm, Mistress Jane Shore ruled my brother!

Not that I begrudged the man his fair share of tit and twat, for God knows that I've had more than my allotment in that area! I've always found it passing strange that though the great beauties of the court spurned the limping lepers and the hunchbacked beggars in the streets, once I dressed my various deformities in satins, lace and the all powerful 'cloak of the royal family', those self same noble ladies lowered their unturned noses, spreads their milk-white thighs and smiled sweetly upon my twisted form.

Ahhh, what a suit of silk and living close to a crown will do to turn a lady's head! Truly, 'Frailty, thy name is woman!'

But though many loved Mistress Jane Shore, Mistress Jane Shore loved not me.

Perhaps she felt that my jaundiced eye saw through her smiling mask of country sweetness, saw to the root of her dark ambition that, mirror like, reflected back my own? Perhaps she feared that I would do something to break the hold she had over my kingly brother; or, perhaps she simply just didn't like me? Personally I think it was all three.

Whatever her reasons, I certainly did not like her!

Whenever we were in the same room our hair would go up like a pair of spitting cats! She'd glare at me with a hot hatred and I'd glare back with a cold disdain and we'd both back off a pace and circle the king --- like two birds of prey flying among sparrows, kites and preening peacocks. She the sleek, keen-eyed, sharp tongued falcon and I the black winged vulture with a hunched back and ready talons --- each of us vying for the great man's attention. However, my brother soon made it very clear that it was not my cautious councils that he craved but Mistress Shore's urgent tongue, and so, like all the others that were not in that lady's 'inner circle', I too soon fell into disfavour with the king.

In those grasping days many of my besotted brother's ministers, loyal noblemen and war-time cronies, found themselves lodging in the Tower, all due to the urgent urgings of Mistress Jane Shore. Aye, and a goodly number of them lost their heads as well, for it seemed that the 'lady enchantress in question' needed only to have had one of her 'visions', or 'heard a certain name whispered on the wind' and some poor unfortunate was trotted off to either the 'lower apartments' in the Tower or the ever sharp headsman's axe! In those 'heady days of Mistress Shore', few, if any of us, were truly safe and the old maxim rang truer than ever:

'If every dog will,

Sooner or later, have its day;

Then a pretty bitch will always,

Have her way!'

Earlier I said that in those 'weak, piping times of peace' that I was involved with three women: My new wife, the widow Lady Anne Neville; my brother the king's new mistress, 'Lady' Jane Shore and another ---- and the one not yet mentioned was Mistress Shore's younger sister, Elizabeth, or, as she much preferred to be called, 'Lizzy'!

I said too that I couldn't fault Edward for being captivated by Jane Shore's beauty, her country wit or her wanton ways, just his listening to her 'whispered prophesies' \--- but I must admit, that after just one look at the angelic 'Lizzy' Shore and I too found myself ensorcelled by the winsome charms of a Shore maid!

'Lizzy' Shore,

Mistress Jane Shore's younger sister.

The sensation burnt through me like a lightning bolt, sending shockwaves of lustful longing through my blasted body as well as inundating my hate-filled heart with Cupid's arrows! Lizzy was, to quote an oft used phrase, 'a soldier's drunken dream come to life!' That flowing mane of fire bright hair; that pert little mouth and upswept nose; a mouth, neck and breasts made for kissing and those dancing green eyes that reminded me of the churning depths of the wave tossed ocean! One gaze into those tantalizing orbs and I was adrift in their fathomless depths!

But it was not just her winsome body that drew me, but the raw, all-powerful 'other' that dwelt deep inside that perfect body!

Though I am now a ghost, a spirit, a mere shade of what I once was, back when I was alive I had no idea that a 'feka' even existed! That strange, restless entity that somehow seems to be the 'other-worldly remains' of certain 'special' humans, either chosen or cursed by the gods to somehow 'live forever'!

I know, I know, it sounds insane. It IS insane! None-the-less, from a 'ghostly' point of view it is perfectly logical. When I was alive I did not believe in ghosts, yet now that I AM one, I take a somewhat more 'tolerant' view to something like a 'feka' \--- the 'something else' that lies slumbering in all of us; something ancient, practical and at times, casually cruel. A primeval thing, rooted in the bedrock of our brain like the heavy, solid foundation of a castle that supports the high, airy turrets and colourful silk flags that snap and dance in the light breeze.

What I saw lurking in the dark depths of Lizzy's green eyes was something that I had always felt existed only in myself --- a homicidal creature \--- terrible, dark and dangerous, capable of everything God could fathom and much that He could not!

In short, Gentle Reader, I fell head over heels in love at first sight --- something Master Shakespeare would have had a field day with if he had only known! But then, 'Lizzy' was one of my 'best kept secrets', and, in many ways, my darkest, for though all outwardly sweet and bashful, bright and innocent with the early bloom of newfound womanhood, in reality Lizzy's was an old and twisted soul, far more so than her elder sister, who, by comparison, was as a mere babe in the woods! Lizzy had a natural power, was well schooled in sorcerous skills and had a wicked witch's passionate black heart! There was a darkness in her that made mine pale by comparison, and a ruthlessness that made all my petty plans seem like castles made of sand foolishly facing the incoming tide.

God's teeth! All that and beautiful too! Is there any wonder that I loved her so?!

***

Our meeting was a thing ripe for the stage. Indeed, just like two star crossed lovers, our eyes met across a crowded room. She a gossamer vision in yellow silk, with a bold, saucy eye and white roses in her crimson hair \--- andI, a dark, limping thing, all in black with a jewelled dagger in my belt and the crown almost in my grasp.

Her first words to me I remember still. It was more of a duel really, like two fencers trying out new, unblunted blades; sharp, quick and potentially deadly.

"You know who I am?" she asked. Her voice had a country lilt to it that I found instantly charming.

"I do."

"My sister hates you."

"Well, I'm not over fond of her either."

"She tried to put a spell on you."

"Tried? You don't think it will work?"

Her green eyes flashed, giving me a brief glimpse of something very old and reptilian moving in the depths, then it was gone and I was once again basking in the pure light of Lizzy.

"I know her spell won't work. Jane thinks that she's a witch, but she isn't. Or at least, she's not a very good one."

"And what about you, Lizzy? Are you a witch like your sister?"

That scaly thing moved again in the depths of her gaze, lingering longer this time, as though studying me. I gave it back my most withering glare --- and both she and it laughed, the one sound coming out of her like little bells through a waterfall --- sweet but muffled, yet hinting at much more --- the other, deeper, darker, was like the rumble of thunder in the distant mountains.

Her answer however, was quick in coming. "I, Sir 'Hunchback', am nothing like my sister!"

Though I had heard that hated name many times before, seldom had anyone dared to speak it to my face --- and those few who had soon met with an untimely end. But coming from Lizzy I took it as an endearment!

"I'll gladly be your Hunchback --- if you will be my Rose?!"

Her smile flashed. Nothing reptilian about it this time, unless one counts the darting of her little pink tongue --- a tongue I longed to taste, possess and make all mine!

"Red, or white?"

"Pardon, sweet child?" I asked, already too bewitched to follow closely.

"A red rose, or a white one?"

"That war, my lady, has already been fought and won."

That scaly thing moved again, this time mocking me from the heaven of her mouth. "Oh I think not, Sir Hunchback. A few battleswon, a few rebels dispatched, but not the war itself! A mighty storm is coming, My Prince, that will make the winds of Barnet and Tewksbury seem like a summer breeze!" Her lilting voice had taken on an older, rougher tone, like ancient rocks rumbling in a cave --- a cave filled with eerie light and witchery, and three blind beauties dancing to music that only they can hear.

Boil boil, toil and trouble;

Fire burn and caldron bubble!

"You can see the future?" I asked, suddenly barely able to breathe.

She shrugged. "Let's just say that I can see what is in most men's hearts."

"Everything?" I gasped.

The scaly thing was clearer now in her gaze, reptilian still, but with its own sensual beauty, like the skin of a multi-coloured snake moving slowly in the sun. "Yes, Everything."

"Even mine?"

"Especially yours."

Taking in a gulp of air, I managed to meet her gaze, both the sweet girl's and the 'other's' that dwelt deeper within. "And what do you see hidden in my heart?"

"Many things, Prince Hunchback. Some good, some not --- but all bloody."

I stiffened, both within and without. "I'm many things, child, but a soldier first and foremost!"

"Many things you are indeed," she replied. "And a soldier is high on the list."

"What then is higher?"

"The thing that my sister fears you will be."

"And that is?"

She leaned in and whispered in my ear, he lips just brushing the lobe. "Heir to the throne --- and the Future King to be!"

"Ha!" I managed, inwardly revelling in both her prediction and the nearness of her. "The line is over long in front of me, and my brother the king values my sword much more than my mind."

She backed away slowly, her rose scented fingers dancing over my hump, caressing it ever so lightly. I fought back the urge to purr and preen like a cat. "You brother is a fool and is not long for this life, yet before he goes he will know your true value. As for the long line in front of you, have you not been whittling it down for some time now?"

THAT shot through me like a metal shod foot to the testicles and I saw red!

"Tis one thing, lady, to jest about names, flowers and witchery, but tis another altogether to accuse a person of foul murder and fratricide!"

Suddenly, her smile widened. Few were the scarred and battered warriors that could stand up to my wrath when unleashed as it was then, yet here was this little chit of a girl brazenly standing there and actually smiling at me! God's teeth, it was all I could do not to throw her to the floor and ravish her in front of the whole bloody room full courtiers --- the bloodless bishops included!

"What's this, lady?! Stand you there smiling like a brazen strumpet while I rage round you like Zeus hurling thunderbolts! Have you lost what little wits you ever had?!"

Incredibly, still smiling, she reached own and slid her small hand in behind my codpiece and wrapped her five fingers around my surprised member! I instinctively went to pull away but she came with me and held on all the tighter. Her lips were once again at my ear, her breath hot and quick. "They say you are withered and weak, unable to perform as a man, yet I hold the proof in my hand that they are wrong."

I leaned into her, more of a sag than a lean, my damnable limb threatening to give way under me! "I would show you even more, My Rose, if we had less eyes watching!"

"Care you who sees your true hungers, My Prince?" she asked. "These 'little people' are nothing! Puffed up bags of wind dressed in silks and satins! None come half way to the man you are; nor a quarter of the man you soon will be!"

"The garden!" I hissed. "In the garden --- now!"

Her hand still holding me, she led me outside into the shadowy night. There were roses all around me --- some red, so white, but all I could see was Lizzy's green eyes, and half-seen glimpses of the shiny scaly thing that liveded deep within.

***

Of course she was right about the war, just as she was later proven right about so many things --- but now is not the time for that. Later, when the game is drawing to its close. For now let us concentrate on the war itself.

What was it that the future playwright said about the subject? That it was one of the three prime movers of the world --- the other two being love and revenge. The unholy trinity played out both on the stage and in the real world!

I think the Bard said it best in the play about another king that came along after my time --- the young Hal, also known as Harry le Roi or, as most call him, 'Henry V'.

'Once more unto the breach,

Dear friends, once more!

Or close the wall up

With our English dead!

Ah, those sharp-edged words that carve such vivid images into our minds! Crisp, clear and clean; oft times seemingly heaven sent; able to lift us out of our everyday mediocrity and catch, if we are very lucky, just a fleeting glimpse of the divine!

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start! The game's afoot!

Follow your spirit,

And upon this charge cry,

'God save the King,

England, and Saint George!'

When war once again reared its ugly but oh so welcome head in my brother's peaceful kingdom, I took Lizzy north with me when I went to fight the hairy-kneed, overly proud Scots --- and she loved it almost as much as I did!

***

To see what happened to Richard and Lizzie, and all the other characters conjured up from my imagination, you have but to venture forth to SMASHWORDS .com and type in my name. The ones you have met here and many, many more patiently await you there, each one eager to tell their story.

One more short tale however, still awaits you here. This one deals not with cowboys, global pandemics or colonizing distant planets. No evil sorceress lurks in the shadows and there are no loud firearms nor sharp blades involved. Just the one unifying force in this or any other universe --- love.

My son and his five year old daughter came to live with my wife and I four years ago. Since then I have lived in the wonderful world of Zoe. Tired, exhausted and happier than I have ever been, I fall into bed at night, plots and characters all competing with the joy that little girl brought to my life that day.

We started writing 'Grumpy Grandpa' stories together about three years ago.

Here is the latest. She's wanted a dog for some time now. Grumpy Grandpa finally bought her one. Enjoy.

### Grumpy Grandpa

### Buys A Beagle

### by

### W.Wm.Mee

### Dedicated to & co-written by

### my granddaughter

### Zoe Sophia Mee

### Copyright 2020 W.Wm.Mee

### Smashwords Edition

### Hi there. My name is Zoe Sophia.

### Do you have a dog?

### I do. Her name is Bria.

### Please read along and find out how I got her.

### ***
"Grandpa," Zoe said one day to the

### old man sleeping in the hammock.

"When can we get that dog

### that you promised me?"

### Zoe's grandfather kept on snoring away.

### So she tickled his ear to wake him.

### It worked great --- almost too great!
"YYYAAAAAAAAAA !!!"

### Grandpa jumped out of the hammock,

### knocked over the book he had been reading

### and spilt his cup of tea!

'What's the problem?!" he shouted.

"Is the house on fire?!"
"No," Zoe said.

"The house isn't on fire?"

"Did aliens land in our backyard?!"

"No, Grandpa, aliens didn't

### land in our backyard."

### The old man looked closely at Zoe.

"Did you swallow a frog?"

### Zoe smiled.

"No, Grandpa, a didn't swallow a frog."
"Hmmmmfff!" the old man muttered.

"Well, what is it then, Peanut?

### It's almost time for my second nap."

"Grandpa, do you remember the

### promise you made me last year?"

Grumpy Grandpa scratched his head. "Zoe,

### I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast.

### What promise are you talking about?!"

"A dog, grandpa. Last year you said

### that we would get a dog next year.

### Well, it's 'next year' now!"

"HHHMMMMFFF!" the old man grumbled.

"Dogs are a pain in the butt!

### They have to be walked and fed

### and their you-know-what picked up!

### Are you sure you want to do all that?
"I'm sure, grandpa.

### I will do all of those things,

### plus play with her and bathe her

### and teach her all kinds of tricks."

### Zoe then smiled at the old man.

"All you have to do is pick up the poo."

"Me?!" Grampa frowned.

"Why do I get to be the poo-picker-upper??!!"

"Because, Gramps," Zoe said; "remember the

### last time you walked a dog?

### We were dog-sitting the neighbours puppy

### and you took Bozo for a walk?

### Grampa scratched his ear.

"Puppy my foot! That dog was a beast!

### Bigger than Wonderdog or Marmaduke!

### Bigger than the Hound of the Baskervilles!"

### Zoe just slowly shook her head.

"Oh, Grandpa. Sometimes you can be so silly.

### You know that is just a story in an old book."
"Ya, well," Grandpa grunted. "Maybe so,

### but that Bozo was one BIG puppy!

### He pulled me all over the place!

"If we get a dog, I want it to be a small one!

### What kind would you like?"

### Zoe thought of all the different

### kinds of dogs she liked.

### The big ones and the small ones.

### The skinny ones and the tall ones.

### The ones with short hair, long hair

### and hardly any hair at all.
"Well, I really like a Collie.

### You know, a sheepdog.

"Too big!" Grampa said.

"And too hairy!

### Hair, hair, everywhere!"

"Well, I also like a Greyhound," she said.

### Grampa rolled his eyes.

"Too big, too skinny and too dang fast!

### They can outrun a horse!!!

"How about a Spaniel? They have cute,

### floppy ears and big brown eyes?"

"Naaaaw. Way too hairy and they love water!

### She'd always be dragging me through puddles!"
"What do you think about a boxer?"

### Zoe asked.

### No, no! Too strong!

### It would be another goofy Bozo

### dragging me all over the place!"
"What about a Yorkie, Gramps?

### They're small and cute!"

"No way, Hosay!!!" Grampa growled.

"I don't want any tiny, yapping ankle-biter!

### I want a REAL dog!"
"I know just what we need!" Zoe beamed.

### Not too big, not too small, but just right!

### We need a mutt! A Heinz 57!

### A mixture of all kinds of dogs!

### We need a Tramp!

"HHMMMMM," Grumpy Grandpa said.

"Now that's more like it.

"But I'm still not sure.

### He looks too scruffy for me.

### All that wild hair and slobbery tongue."
"Waaaay back when I was

### just a kid I had a real dog."

"He was a pure bred Beagle!

### A real hunting dog!

### And we went everywhere together!"

### A 'hunting dog'?!" Zoe asked, picturing a

### strange looking animal in her mind.

### Zoe looked shocked.

"You \--- you mean you went

### hunting with your dog?!"

"I sure did! Squirrels mostly! And rabbits!

### My father would take me out with him.

### I had a wooden gun and we never caught

### anything, but it was a lot of fun trying!

"What did your dog look like?" Zoe asked?

"Oh, he was a real Beagle!" Grandpa said,

### with a wide smile on his face. "White, brown and black, short haired, with long, silky ears and a pink, spotted tummy!" The old man's smile widened as he remembered the look of that soft, pink tummy.

### Grandpa's grin made him look younger.

"Well, since he was real hunting dog,

### I needed a 'strong name'!

### Not 'Do-Do' or 'Spot' or 'Deano'!

No! I called my dog McDuff!

### He was a great hunter!

"McDuff and I were the BEST of friends!

### We went everywhere together!

### He was my buddy!"

### Zoe looked a little shy as she asked:

### Grandpa, what happened to your McDuff?"

### The old man was silent for several heartbeats.

### Then he reached out and took Zoe's hand.

"He grew old and died. Like all of us,

### only with dogs it happens much faster."

### Zoe blinked back a tear

### from the corner of her eye.

"Where --- where is he now, Grandpa?"

### The old man smiled and patted her hand.

"Waiting for me in the next life I hope.

### And he is also living in my memory.

### I often walk with him in my dreams."

### Zoe squeezed his hand and they both

### went to get a cup of tea.
"So you want a Beagle?" Zoe asked

### after the tea and biscuits had been put away.

"Yes, Zoe. I think a beagle would be best."

### Zoe smiled. "Than a Beagle it will be!

### But, Grandpa, can it be a girl this time?"

"Of course it can.

### You can even pick her name.

### As long as I agree!"

### So Zoe and her Grandpa went off to buy a Beagle.

### They found one not too far away.

### She was the only girl with six brothers and she was born on Grandpa's birthday!

### She was only two months old

### when they brought her home.

### But they loved her right away.

### And they still do!

### Wouldn't you love her too?

### Zoe Sophia & Bria

### THE END --- FOR NOW

### Hi there.

### Zoe and I hope you liked our book.

### There are lots more Grumpy Grandpa

### e-books for you to read. So long for now.

### And keep reading!!!

### ***

That's it, Gentle Reader, the end of Tangled Tales II.

I hope you enjoyed it and that my scribblings have brought you a little respite and even joy during these troubled times as the Global Pandemic of 2020 has us all in its cruel grip.

Be strong, be safe and

take care of one another.

W.Wm.Mee

St. Bruno, Quebec,

Canada

***

