Words

Xul chewed what remained of his portion of sage rabbit with rapidity as he settled down cross-legged upon the oak stump in the clearing where the group had set camp. He wiped the tasty grease from his lips with the back of his hand.

With care only reserved for priceless scrolls, Xul opened the narrow tome covered in crushed maroon velvet. Gently working his usual marker ribbon, the aged vellum pages parted to where he had last left off. “Ah, here.” As though the others sat around the stump could see, Xul pointed to where he had left off on the page of ancient Rak’ri text blocks. “The Chalice of Life…

Decades later the last of the Ten Dukes, old and infirm, returned to the throne room with the ten daggers to ask who should be heir to the one realm that had been broken into ten and, because of time, had become one again. The Last True Duke said he did not see movement in the Kings resplendent armor. He did not see eyes or a mouth in the King’s Helm, yet, he heard Arnac’s voice as clearly as the armor’s threats almost a lifetime ago. The King commanded The Last True Duke to return the daggers to their realms. Anyone who could hold one of the daggers without everyone wanting to kill them would become the new Duke and, so then, the dagger and title should be passed on. The Last Duke did as the King commanded adding that the King had renounced his title. Arnac, the peasant, will sit upon the Dead Throne among blood, time, dust, and gold waiting until the ten realms–once again–needs his help and ultimate guidance.

A shiver ran up Xul’s spine breaking the words spellbinding effect. The night’s chill had crept on him, yet that wasn’t what shook him. Kelmer, the barbarian who never met a book he liked, held his lantern over Xul’s shoulder. Again fear, not cold, racked him. Had the big man finally listened to a story? Worse, did he also know? If so, could they keep it between them?

The barrel chested man shirked off one of his furs and draped it over Xul. “Those Rak’ri scholars-folk sure do know how to tell boring stories.” Kelmer raised the lamp to show the rest of the party fast asleep. “No fighting.” Kelmer grunted his disgust. “And no blood besides what was in that dumb blood-cup thing. And even that didn’t spill nothin’.”

Xul pulled the prickly fur tight. “I know and–“

Tapping his dagger, Kelmer raised his voice just loud enough to overpower Xul, but not so loud as to rouse their companions. “How about we put that little, stupid, old book away for tonight?”

Xul nodded and did. That tapping motion of Kelmer’s had proceeded several books being ripped from Xul’s hands before the musclebound dolt destroyed them.

Kelmer stalked off to patrol.

The fur helped Xul’s body, but did nothing for the icy chill building deep in his core. This tale held the last clue. King Arnac’s final resting place was on the Master Vampire’s throne. Xul fished his maproll out, flipped to Hembe’s overview, and let his eyes lock on the desolate Black Cliffs.

Xul spoke to himself. “Has to be. It’s the only place that would fit the various references to tales of the undead holding land.” Xul bit his lip. If he told his friends, they’d all want to go. Xul whispered the rest of his thought, “But King Arnac isn’t dead and resting. He’s waiting.”

© Ezekiel James Boston

Drawing a puff of the delectable seven-leaf Wonderland blend, Germaine clamped down lightly on her lucite pipe stem and smacked her lips around it. First drag in. Nodding appreciatively at the subtle larkspur undertones, she almost smiled at the tendrils of rainbow smoke braiding themselves.

Shortly after leaving Wonderland, she cultivated a sense of time. Never–in the decades since–had she missed the land more.

There…

There were colors. Powerfully radiant colors that could almost reach out and poke you in the eye and, if you weren’t careful about it, would. …not that anything unwelcomed could ever get through her spectacles. There, Germaine’s glasses kept her from becoming lost in the aching beauty of everything.

Here…

Here in the silent Blandlands, color proved to be the most elusive of creatures. The wide prairies of crabgrass that ran out into the featureless horizon beneath the equally drab sky? Cold shades of light gray. The rare paperback maple trees peelings had the most range with their somber medium gradient deepening to charcoal in the pockets of shadow.

Germaine had search far and long to find a spot to place her home.

Eventually, when all of the color faded, the house just stopped walking and settled down among a patch of trees. She–for her part–took out her stool and simply sat to wait for the house to raise back up.

She puffed again. Had it really been decades?

The tendrils of rainbow smoke, in typical Wonderland fashion, curled and bent to form a cursive answer. Yes.

Thinking back on the fast-talking traveling salesman in his disheveled hundred dollar suit–the one who foisted this amazingly fine tobacco on her–Germaine caught a kiss of color. Where the smoke had ran across her snout, the pink and lavender of the fur there had returned.

© Ezekiel James Boston

The reek of death–rot unchecked by time, unstirred by wind–thickened as George moved into the hewn stone cavern. Not content with only clogging his nose, the funk pooled in his mouth and worked toward triggering his gag reflex.

He stopped where the long strands of sunlight, which had warmed his skin minutes ago, drew a hard line. A warning line. Safety stops here. George eased back to keep the toes of his new hiking boots an inch inside the retreating light. Why the Hell did I volunteer to take my little brother, and his creepy D&D pals, camping? As though to answer, his hand squeezed the ten twenty dollar bills his parents paid him. One step closer to owning my own car. That’s why. He shuffled back a little to stay on the lit ground. “Angelo?”

Thunk. Metal on stone. Then something heavy being dragged like bags of flower in their parents bakery.

If that nut-job Jake jumps out at me, I’m going to knock his ass out. At least I hope I do. So far, he’d fought back the gag, but the scream warming up in the batter’s circle of his throat would be another matter. “Come out you losers. We gotta finish making camp.”

Soft airy laughter–exactly something Jake would do–danced from the absolute darkness.

A chill ran George’s spine. His skin broke out in goosebumps. Screw this! “Tell ya what. I’ll be outside, comfortable, eatin’ dinner when you asses decide to stop clowning around.”

That airy laughter preceded a raspy, hollowed voice. “Oh, we’ll come out for dinner too!”

A full shiver racked George’s back. What. The. Hell? He stumbled backward and retreated toward the setting sun behind him.

Beating his pace, the dragging sound drew closer.

© Ezekiel James Boston