Arena of the Blood Moon Part One

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

First published online in Abandoned Towers Ezine October 9-September 14, 2009

Part One

The Triddian Sector extended as far as a scanner could see, and farther.  Stretching out to infinity, it was an unending roll of blackest velvet, diamond-bright stars, and a wide array of pastel-colored planetoids of varying mass.  Recently liberated from the Nilbog Empire thanks to the blood and sweat of Space Marines and about two hundred warships from the Galactic Navy, it now looked like any other Sector that belonged to the Allied Worlds.

Two silver, needle-shaped ships shot through the cosmos, shining brilliantly in the light of countless stars.  They bypassed planets and moons in wide arcs, speeding past them with purpose and determination.

Brackett punched a button. A screen on the console lit up with a display of what few details the mission was based on:

Professor Tholgrum boarded the GPF Patrol Cruiser, Lancelot, in the care of two officers and departed Daruuk.  The Lancelot charted the most direct route to Deep Space Outpost Twenty-Five, where the professor was scheduled to continue on to other worlds at the Core of Allied Space, where he would share his insights and experiences of the Triddian Sector and Nilbog rule.

The Lancelot is now two days late, and fails to respond to communications.

Your orders are to track down the Lancelot, and learn the fates of the missing GPF officers and Professor Tholgrum.  Return them to DSO-25 if able, otherwise report back.

Cmdr. Kraxull

With a grunt, Brackett switched off the screen.  He and Ginsberg left from DSO-25 and were now three days into the newly-conquered Triddian Sector.  His ship's sensors were constantly scanning for signature particles, but it had yet to find proof that a GPF ship had passed here recently.  He sighed and hit the comm though he was sure he knew the answer he’d get. "Ginsberg?  You picking up anything?  Over."

"Not a thing, Brad." Ginsberg's voice sounded tinny through the headset.  "Can't see that anyone's flown through here since the big fight a month ago.  Over."

Brackett was bored.  "We're… what?  Two more days to Daruuk, right?  Over."

"Two-point-six-five," Ginsberg replied, "But who's counting?  Ove…wait.  Brad, I'm picking up something on the edge of my scanning range.  Check your two o'clock.  What is that?  Over."

Brackett flipped a switch.  "I'm not sure.  Whatever it is, it's fabricated. Synthetic.  Maybe it's part of the Lancelot.  We'd better investigate.  Over."

"Right behind you. Over."

Both ships banked to starboard, speeding towards a bright blue planet circled by a small red moon.  The starcharts identified it as Oublaat, a world dominated by oceans of water that were poisonous to eighty-eight percent of the known civilized races. 

According to their instruments, something small and metal was orbiting the moon.  They approached at a steady gait and soon its features were visible even with the naked eye.  It was little more than a box, with four spindly legs, two solar panels sprouting from opposite sides like wings, and a long antenna on top.  It was a dark and grungy thing that oscillated its way along its slow, fixed orbit with a winking red light that seemed to watch the two approaching ships like a baleful eye.

"Some kind of satellite…" Ginsberg remarked.  The voice on the comm. paused, then hastily added, "Over."

The satellite stabilized, stopped its own rotation.  A panel opened, and a conical object extended from the body on a pole.  Lights flashed from somewhere inside the machine.

"What's it do…" was all that came over the comm.

Brackett turned; saw through the steelglass canopy that Ginsberg's ship was still there.  "Ginsberg?  Ginsberg, do you copy?  Over." 

There was no response.

Brackett's hands scrambled over the console, working the controls in a complicated sequence.  The readings on one computer screen confirmed his suspicions:  the satellite was jamming his radio.  With a frown, he grunted.  "So, what's it all about? Some Nilbog device, abandoned when they left?" 

He didn't have any time to ponder an answer.  No sooner had he finished asking his question aloud, than both of their ships shuddered, caught in energy beams that originated from Oublaat's small red moon.

Brackett struggled with the controls, but his ship refused to respond.  Disgusted, he powered down the engines, and waited for an opportune moment. As his ship was pulled gently forward, his first thought was that he'd been caught in the small red moon's gravitational pull, but he soon realized the truth:  He was caught up in a tractor beam.

He looked out through the steelglass canopy and saw that Ginsberg was also being pulled down toward the moon.  Brackett checked his communicator, but found it was still being jammed.  With a sigh of resignation, he removed his ZAP gun from the holster and readied himself for a fight when he landed.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he scanned the approaching moon.  Thirty hour rotation.  Forty day revolution.  No native water supply.  No breathable atmosphere.

That was all he had to know.  He opened a compartment and grabbed his helmet.  He pulled it over his head, locked it in place, and hoped Ginsberg was doing the same. 

Soon, the moon of Oublaat was close enough that Brackett could easily distinguish the various craters, crags, and ravines that made up its surface.  He saw the tractor cannons that ensnared him and his partner standing stoically on one side of a cluster of landing pads and squat control towers.  Not too far away, he could see opaque domes around some lunar outpost.

With renewed hope and inspiration he seized the controls and set his sites on the tractor cannons.  He smirked, then squeezed the trigger.  Nothing happened.  With a brief but sudden panic, he consulted his computers.

The weapons were locked down. 

Brackett pounded the console in frustration. 

The silver patrol ships softly touched down on a landing pad.  Brackett clearly saw six armed figures approach, their laser rifles trained at the two cockpits.  A movement out of the corner of his eye caused Brackett to turn.  Two humanoids in ground crew suits were opening a panel in Ginsberg's ship.  He spun around and saw two more doing the same to his own.

Too late, he tried to reignite his engines.  They wouldn't even attempt to run.  And before he could try a second time, the entire control console lost power.  A single comm screen clung to life, a bright light on the portside wall.  The words swiftly scrolled onto it:

Throw down your weapons.  Surrender yourself peacefully and you will not be harmed at this time.

By then, he could see the three armed aliens who took up a triangulated position around the ship's stem, waiting for him to quit his dead fighter.  They were all clad in armored spacesuits, their faces hidden by emotionless air-masks.  He couldn't even tell what species they were, only that they all had squat, humanoid shapes.

With forced calm, he pushed up the canopy, then brought up the ZAP gun and fired.  All three of the aliens fired back, and he sunk as deeply into the cockpit as he could.  Their laser bolts exploded against the inside of the canopy.  He popped up again, pointed his pistol at the alien on his starboard side, but before he could fire, the steelglass dome slammed down onto his arm, and he dropped the ZAP gun. 

One of the aliens gestured with his rifle.  Brackett nodded, pushed the canopy open again, then climbed down the ladder a few feet before jumping.  He landed on the metal flooring with a thud, stood, raising his hands.

The nearest of the guards approached, nudged him with the laser rifle.  A laser bolt screamed down from Ginsberg's cockpit like an Altrusian leechbird.  The air-masks of his captors all snapped warily toward the other ship.  The landing pad erupted with shouts and laser fire.

Laser bolts crisscrossed above the landing pad with lethal speed and fearsome—but unheard—shrieks.  Brackett dove for his ZAP gun and rolled for the dubious cover offered by the nearest landing strut.

He raised the pistol, pointing it at his attackers. It spat energy bolts that streaked through the emptiness and bounced harmlessly off of the guardsman's armor.  He didn't have time to swear before he had to duck their return fire. 

His eyes darted around the landing area, searching desperately for inspiration.  A squat control tower stood beside the landing pad, pipes and cables running up its side.  Brackett couldn't read the identifying alien symbols on them, but he blasted at them anyway.

A restraining strap blew free, dropping the pipelines and cables onto the landing pad between Brackett and the alien guards.  A pipe belched out breathable air which kicked up clouds of dust as cables spat electrical sparks.

Members of the ground crew rushed for the tower and began fiddling with control valves and access panels.  Surprised but undaunted, the guards fired their weapons wildly through the thickening clouds of air and dust.  Brackett returned fire, just as wildly, aiming for the center of the cloud.

While the moon bore no atmosphere, the space surrounding it was alive with laser bolts that rocketed soundlessly through the battle.  Stray shots erupted from the clouds, ramming the silver rocketships or missing altogether, but one lucky stray shot burned into Ginsberg's shoulder.  He dropped his ZAP gun to clutch the wound, and fell from the cockpit of his ship. 

Brackett called out to him out of habit, forgetting that he could not be heard.  He fired twice more at the concealing cloud before kneeling beside his fallen comrade.  Ginsberg waved his free hand in a calming gesture and nodded.  More laser bolts raced by and Brackett turned back to his meager hiding place.

There he found a member of the ground crew. The creature swung a heavy wrench at him and sent the ZAP gun flying from his hand, then reached up to Brackett's own ship and pulled a lever.  The access door fell open and slammed into Brackett, knocking him to the ground. 

The guards advanced through the dying cloud with their rifles trained on the two felled pilots.  Behind them, the ground crew technicians managed to switch off all the severed cables.

One guard looked over the prisoners, then looked up at the ground crew tech.  In response, the tech just shrugged, then turned and went back to his business.  The guard shook his head in what seemed to be exasperation, then turned towards the domed outpost and signaled a small cargo transport with a wave of his arm.  One of the guards checked on their felled comrade, looked up at the others and shook his head solemnly.  One guard motioned toward the ground crew and gestured at their fallen man.

The small vehicle rolled over on oversized tires and waited as the guards put restraining cuffs on the prisoners and loaded them onto the cargo platform.  The guards climbed aboard also.  One guard tapped the driver and pointed towards the domes.  With a nod of his helmet, the driver seized the controls, and the small conveyance rolled steadily and ominously forward until it was swallowed up by an airlock that led into the domed outpost.

Once safely inside the airlocks, the guards removed Brackett's and Ginsberg's helmets and their own breathing masks.  Brackett set his jaw and glared with unbridled hatred at the broad, warty green faces.

"Nilboggi!" he rasped.

Beside him, Ginsberg grunted with dark humor as he clutched his wounded shoulder.  "It looks like the marines missed a spot when they were driving them out."

"We'll have to figure out what this place is and report back to the Commander," Brackett said as he sat up and looked around with a critical eye.  A nearby guard babbled Nilboggi gibberish in a commanding tone and nudged him with the rifle.

To Be Continued...

Want More Adventures in the Triddian Sector?

Visit the Amazon Store for more!

Wrath of the Volcano God Part One

 

WRATH OF THE VOLCANO GOD

A Pulp Adventure

Part One

Igor Klugman was a hulking brute of a man.  He had a low, heavy brow over his cruel beady eyes, a flat nose and a mouth that was naturally inclined to grimace.  He was in the rear compartment of a small cargo plane.  His wide-shouldered frame would have found these to be cramped quarters even if the compartment had been empty.  Instead, he was further crowded with boxes, trunks, and cases of equipment for the island expedition.

But these supplies were not his goal.  He shuffled the boxes aside until he found the rear wall of the compartment.  There, he used his knife to pry loose a panel which revealed a tangle of hoses and wires.  He glared at them, grimaced, and cut one of the hoses.

With a nod of satisfaction, he turned away from the open panel.  He gathered up the parachutes and dropped them in an untidy pile by the door.  Then he grabbed two of the backpacks and dropped them at his side.  Ready now, he opened the door and peered into the passenger compartment.

*  *  *

Lewis Clark adjusted his hat and looked around the cabin.  Wayne Johnson slumped in his seat, leaned heavily against the side wall with his own hat pulled down over his eyes.  Bethany Gale and Sarah Turnbull poured over the ragged canvas map.  Dr. Everard Carlsbad ran one thumb and forefinger across his waxed mustache as he peered back at the door to the cargo hold.  His thin, angular face snapped toward the cockpit when Ethan Clapsaddle, the pilot, called back, "We're approaching the island!  I'll circle around so we can get a look at the place!"

Bethany and Sarah turned to peer out the dirty window.  Lewis turned away from his fellow passengers and looked down at the lush Pacific island with appraising eyes.  It was Tiaganu Island, a shapeless mass of earth like a splatter from an artist's brush.  A blanket of thick green foliage covered the wide mass of the island, bookended with a stretch of white sand on either side and topped with the smoking volcano surrounded by a modest entourage of rocky foothills on the north side.

Sarah gave a shriek as she was pulled from her seat and Lewis stood and turned to find the young woman in Klugman's thick arms.  Carlsbad had pulled his revolver, and smirked as he stood.  "Now that we've arrived, I think there is no need to prolong our partnership.  So, if you'd be so kind as to hand over that map, Igor and I have made different arrangements."  He held one hand out toward Bethany.

Bethany narrowed her eyes, her teeth clenched in a contemptuous sneer.  "I knew it!  I knew we couldn't trust him!" she barked.  "I told you what happened in the Yukon!"

Carlsbad grinned an oily grin.  "Tut-tut, Miss Gale.  It was nothing personal.  Just business."  He waved his fingers in a come-hither motion and added, "The map, please."

Bethany growled in reply, her fists—crushing the fragile map—shook with uncontrollable anger.  Then, the engines of the plane sputtered and the propellers came to a stop.  "Uh…everything's just fine," the pilot lied, his voice tainted with panic.

"We've really no time to debate this," Carlsbad stated.  "You turn over the map, or my man Igor will be forced to put young Miss Turnbull in a state of great discomfort."

Lewis held both hands out in a placating gesture.  "Now Everard, there's no need for this.  We worked it all out back in Honalulu.  We all agreed to let bygones be bygones and work together on this one.  So why not just let Miss Sarah alone, and we can all forget this happened and go back to being friends?  What do ya say?"  As he spoke he slowly stepped out into the aisle and casually advanced.

Carlsbad snapped his fingers and barked, "Igor!"  At the sound of his name, Klugman squeezed the girl in his arms like a doll.  Sarah quickly groaned in the viselike bear-hug and Lewis froze in his tracks.

"All right, Everard, you win!" Lewis cried.  He turned to Bethany and said, "Give him the map."

She glared over her shoulder at him.  "I told you we couldn't trust him!"  With reluctance, she held out the scrap of canvas and Carlsbad plucked it from her fist.

"Thank you," he cooed as he stepped back from her.  He took the girl from his lackey's brutish arms and buried his revolver in her back.  "I'm afraid we'll be leaving you now.  Igor!"

With a nod, Klugman flung open the exit door, causing a rush of air through the compartment.  Then Klugman opened the door to the cargo area, pulled forth all but two of the parachutes and chucked them out into the open sky.  He slung one parachute onto his back and again took Sarah in his beefy arms.

Carslbad slipped into the last remaining 'chute and waved at the other passengers.  "Well, I'm off to steal a lovely Heart.  Goodbye forever!"  With those apt parting words, he jumped out of the plane.

Igor Klugman pushed Sarah up the aisle; she stumbled and fell into Lewis' arms.  Then the hulking henchman grabbed a backpack in each hand, and stepped out of the plane, following his master.

Bethany jumped to the open doorway in the plane's side, leaned out, and shook her fist while shouting curses after the two villains.  "Close the door!" Lewis shouted to her.  She reached out, strained against the onrushing air.  But the air was too strong and pulled the door from her grasp.

Lewis pulled himself up the aisle to help her as the pilot called back, "What's going on back there?"

Sarah climbed up the aisle to the cockpit.  "Ethan, Dr. Carlsbad has double-crossed us!" she cried.  "They forced us to hand over the map, then they jumped from the plane, taking all of the parachutes with them!"

Lewis and Bethany leaned into the cockpit.  "Can you get the engines started again?" Bethany demanded.

"No," Ethan replied, causing the cigarette in the corner of his mouth to drop half its length of ash onto his chest.  "I'm guessing that's more of Carlsbad's handiwork."

"More likely his lackey, Igor," Lewis corrected.

"I swear, Lewis, every time I take you anywhere, something happens to my plane!" Ethan complained.

"Are we going to crash?" Sarah asked urgently, her blue eyes bright with fear.

"No, I don't think so," Ethan said as he strained against the control stick.  "I think I can bring 'er down safe enough in that wide bay."

"That-a-boy, Clap!" Lewis smiled as he patted the pilot's shoulder.

"I'm not talking to you!" Ethan cried through gritted teeth as he wrestled with the controls.  "But you should all go strap yourselves in."  The three of them hurried back to their seats and pulled on their seatbelts.

The Grumman Goose banked low in the tropical sky, descending upon the circular bay nestled between two of the island's arms.  It was thirty-eight-and-a-half feet of forward momentum; a fat yellow-orange bird that belly-flopped down on the water with no grace at all.  It sliced through the bay, shooting spray into the air and leaving a churning trail in its wake.  The yellow plane drew nearer to the jungle-covered land and turned to the right, skirting the shoreline until it finally lurched to a halt.

Ethan released the control stick, flexed his fingers, slumped in the pilot's chair.  He threw his cigarette butt out the window, lit a fresh one with his lighter and inhaled deeply.  Behind him, a cheer erupted from the passenger compartment as Lewis, Bethany and Sarah rejoiced.

With a snort, Wayne Johnson sat up in his seat, pushed his Stetson up to the crown of his head and looked about with bleary brown eyes.  "Oh, are we there all ready?" he yawned.

*  *  *

Wayne stood in the inflatable raft, floating by the Grumman's open door.  Bethany stood in the cargo compartment, passing packs and equipment to Lewis, who then passed it to Wayne to stow in the raft.  Sarah checked her own equipment, chiefly her Kodak Junior Six-16 and its accessories.  Satisfied they were undamaged, she slung the camera case round her shoulder, slipped four rolls of film in one pocket and a pack of flash bulbs in another.  Meanwhile, Ethan climbed across the plane from one engine to the other searching for the signs of sabotage.

"That's the last of it," Bethany said as she handed over the last pack.

Lewis nodded, leaned out to hand the pack off to Wayne.  Then Lewis cupped one hand beside his mouth and called out to the pilot:  "Clap!  We're about ready down here!"

"I'm not talking to you," Ethan called back as he appeared atop the wing.  "What have you got against my planes, anyway?"

"Aw, come on, Clap…"

"You remember what happened to the Bluebird?" Ethan said accusingly.

"That was a storm!" a defensive tone had overtaken Lewis' voice.

"And don't get me started about the Goldfinch!" Ethan continued.

"Now that wasn't my fault at all!" Lewis countered.

"Now we can add the Golden Goose to your list of victims!" the pilot scolded.

"Could ya figger out what them bushwhackers did or not?" Wayne interjected.

"Yeah, near as I can tell, all they did was cut the fuel line in the back of the cargo compartment.  The engines themselves are fine," Ethan told them.  "If we had a way to fix the fuel line, we ought to be able to fly right out of here."

"Haven't you got any tools or spare parts?" Sarah asked with sincere wonder.

Ethan dropped a heavy sigh, then smiled wryly and gestured toward Lewis.  "No.  Someone asked me to make as much spare room as possible for the expedition supplies."

Lewis turned and scanned the horizon with a hawk-like gaze.  "All right, all right, quit yer grousing," he said.  "As we came around the island I spotted an old tramp steamer off the eastern beach."

"What do you reckon brought them here?" Wayne asked.

Lewis shook his head.  "I don't know, but they might be able to help us out.  If I can only get my bearings, I'm sure we could find it."

Bethany handed him a rough bit of crudely folded brown paper.  He took the scrap, unfolded and frowned down at it in bewilderment.  "What's this?"

"I made a copy of the map," she said flatly.  "I knew better than to trust Carlsbad, even if you didn't."

"Excellent!  That means we ought to be here…"  He jabbed his finger at a spot between two squiggles that may have been land masses or tentacles.  "So if we cut across this peninsula, we ought to get to that beach in just a few hours."

Bethany placed one hand on his arm.  "Why would anyone else be out here?  And why would they help us?"

Lewis shrugged.  "I don't know.  But I'm hoping they'll have some useful parts that they're willing to trade.  If not, we should be able to arrange a ride back to civilization, where we know we can get parts."  His eyes flashed up towards the pilot then back to the woman and he continued in a louder voice.  "Then we can come back, fix the plane and fly right out of here!"

Ethan's face emerged from behind the wing.  "You mean it?"

Lewis smiled up at him.  "Clap, I swear to you here and now, the Golden Goose shall fly again!"

*  *  *

Ethan Clapsaddle was five feet and ten inches of complaints and underdeveloped muscles.  His skinny frame was hidden beneath his leather bomber's jacket, and though not overburdened by his natural body weight he was unaccustomed to the rigors of hiking through the jungle.  It was no help that he perpetually had a cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth, a long-standing habit told by the yellowing of his fingertips and teeth.  He huffed and puffed as he diligently marched with the others, whining about the Golden Goose and the fates of other planes he had owned in the past.

Finally, Bethany could stand it no more.  "Would you shut up about your stupid plane!" she barked.  "We've got to find out what happened to Carlsbad, and stop him from stealing the Heart of Tiki-Taki!"

"Ooh, that would be wonderful, wouldn't it?" Sarah said airily.

"What?"

"I mean, concrete evidence of the cult of the Volcano God!" she couldn't contain her excitement at the prospect.  "That's what we're here for, after all!"

"Maybe so, but your father done sent us here to collect facts for the university and relics for the museum, not to be robbin' no temples for personal gain," Wayne reminded her as they marched through the brush.

Sarah's face clouded over and a worrisome frown bent over her clear blue eyes.  "You don't really think Dr. Carlsbad would do such a thing?"

"You do remember he pulled a gun on you just to get away with the map?" Bethany barked in response.  "If he gets that ruby, he's sure to hock it for as much as he can get!"

"We mustn't let that happen!  Mr. Clark…" Sarah stumbled, the thick foliage beneath her feet stretched, bent beneath her weight.

Lewis held up one hand and called for them to "Stop!"  He frowned down at the thick layer of plant life they were traversing.  "I think we have a more pressing problem."

"What is it, Lew?" the pilot asked.  As he took a step forward the leaves and vines sank with his weight, but held.  It was an odd sensation, like walking across a trampoline.

"This ground sure feels funny," Wayne commented.

"I don't think we're on solid ground," Lewis told them.  "I think we've wandered onto a blanket of foliage, so thick that it looks like the jungle floor, but is actually suspended—almost like a hammock—over a depression or gulley of some kind."

Everyone froze in place, stretching out their arms to maintain their balance.

"What do we do now?" Sarah asked with unmasked worry in her tone.

"Back up," Lewis commanded, "Very carefully.  One wrong step and…"

A vine snapped.  In an instant the foliage beneath them unraveled, and they fell...

To Be Continued...

Quest to the Kobold Caves Part One

QUEST TO THE KOBOLD CAVES

A Dungeon Adventure

Part One

Six brave souls trekked through the woods, searching for the caves that housed dangerous monsters.  Four of them were human:  a wizened, old graybeard in robes; two men in metal helms and chainmail shirts—one wore the Holy Sign of the Sun God on his tabard; and a dark-haired woman in bronze armor and a plumed helmet.  The final two members were not human:  one was a female Halfling, a child-sized humanlike creature in a plain tunic and breeches beneath her travelling cloak; and a golden-haired male Elf, who wore the green leathers that were typical of his forest-dwelling people.

The thick forest smelt of pine, and the chill air warned of the coming winter.  The leaves and needles rustled around the wanderers as animals went about their chores, oblivious to them.  Squirrels and chipmunks securing nuts for the winter stores, birds paused on their journey to the warmer climes of the south. 

Sunthorn the Elf led them through the woods, his keen eyes ever watchful for foes, hiding and ready to pounce upon his distracted travelling group.  He did his best to ignore the clumsy humans and the annoying Halfling in his wake, but failed.

The Wizard, a scrawny old man in sun-bleached blue robes and a wispy gray beard, was griping the loudest.  "We should be on the other side of the kingdom," he whined, "that's where things are really happening!  Ozbaddin the Hobgoblin Warlord is becoming a serious threat over there!"

"I agree with Gray Dan," the woman warrior in the shiny bronze armor announced.  "His raiders are giving the King's men a terrible time.  That means there are adventures to be had, and rewards as well!"

"Come now, Pamblyn," the Holy Man said as he pulled on his long mustache.  "You heard the words of the aging ranger.  This mission we're on will be of great benefit to the King's forces!"

"How big a problem can they be?" Padrelle the Halfling asked.  "After all, they're only kobolds!"

The Holy Man, Mediphon, replied:  "You know perfectly well how great a nuisance kobolds can become.  As the ranger said, if the King was forced to send some of his soldiers to deal with them, it would weaken his stance against the hobgoblins."

"It's true!  These kobolds don't stand a chance!" exclaimed the male warrior as he drew his sword and held it aloft.  "Especially because our team is led by me:  Haldraginor Hardhelm, the hero of Haven Hills!"

The Elf rolled his eyes.  Mediphon, the Cleric, slapped one hand over his eyes and slowly dragged it down his face. 

"Would you shut up about Haven Hills?" Padrelle insisted.

"It was not a dragon!" Gray Dan flatly stated.  "The villagers were ignorant farmers!  They thought it was a dragon, but they were wrong!"

Haldraginor lowered his sword.  "What's your point?"

"The point is that we should be doing something more important than wasting our time on kobolds!" Padrelle remarked.  She turned to the Holy Man and pointed an accusing digit.  "The only reason we're stuck doing this is because you agreed to the job so quickly!"

Mediphon shrugged in meager defense.  "It will be good experience…and he did promise us a chest full of treasure.  Surely you cannot be displeased with that?"

His companions grumbled in reluctant agreement as they trudged through the undergrowth.

"Besides, they're only kobolds!" Haldraginor pointed out.  "We'll kill them all in no time at all, or my name isn't Haldraginor Hardhelm, the hero of Haven Hills!"

"We don't have to kill them," the Cleric stated.

"That's true," Pamblyn said as she adjusted the helm on her head.  "The ranger merely said that we must drive them from the caves.  So the King's soldiers need not be divided to deal with them."

The male warrior's chainmail rippled as he shrugged in response.  "Very well, we shall evict them in no time at all, or my name isn't Haldraginor Hardhelm, the hero…"

"Oh shut up!" the Halfling barked.

The Elf came to a stop and turned to his companions.  "If you're all finished squabbling, I think I've found the cave the ranger told us about."  He narrowed his eyes and dryly added, "If you're not finished, I can wait."

The green, tree-covered hillock sported a wide rugged hole like a gaping wound.  The gray rocks and dark brown dirt seemed incongruous against the verdant tranquility of the forest.  The six heroes approached with caution and peered within.  The dark tunnel was wide enough that four of them could walk abreast and it descended into the depths of the earth at a gentle angle.

"So this is it," Pamblyn said as she peered into the tunnel.

"According to the directions the ranger gave us," the Elf explained, "this is it."

Padrelle looked into the dark tunnel, unimpressed.  She looked at the faces of her fellows, and saw trepidation.  She rubbed her hands together and jumped into the mouth of the cavern.  "Well!" she cried, "Let's go see what there is to see!"  As though her words awoke him from a trance, Haldraginor followed her in. 

The Halfling stepped into the throat of the hill, her hairy bare feet slapping against the packed earth, as her companions busied themselves with drawing their weapons and lighting torches.  Padrelle looked around with wide-eyed awe at the rough walls and the exposed tree roots.  Suddenly she felt a thin string-like root snap beneath her foot, and with a rush of air, something soared over her head and the warrior behind her cried out in pain.

"What was that?" Padrelle asked, dumbfounded.  She turned and saw an arrow lodged in Haldraginor's chest. 

The warrior was suddenly the center of attention.  "What's happened?"  "He's been shot!"  "What, how?"  They surrounded him, examined the wooden shaft that protruded through his chainmail shirt.  "An arrow!"  "Probably a kobold-trap!"  "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right," he replied, "It's only a scratch to Haldraginor Hardhelm, the hero of Ha…"  His words trailed off into a scream of agony as Sunthorn pulled the arrow from his chest. 

Pamblyn winced at her companion's piercing scream.  "Would you please die quietly?  We're trying to sneak up on them."

Mediphon snapped his fingers, started searching for his holy sign of the Sun God.  "I can cast a spell…heal him up good as new!"

"No, not yet!" the Wizard argued.  "We're not even in the caves yet.  You should wait until he sustains more damage, or you'll just be wasting the spell!"

Haldraginor glared at the wizard crossly.  "Thanks, Dan, you're a pal!"

"Hey, don't blame me!" Gray Dan cried in defense, "Blame Padrelle!  She's the one who set off the trap!"

The Halfling placed her fists on her hips.  "Oh, so now this is my fault?  Hey, don’t blame me because I'm unkillable!"

"You're not unkillable," Sunthorn flatly stated as he pulled some bandages out of his pack.  "You're kobold-sized.  They obviously set the trap for intruders whom they expected would be taller than they are."   Pamblyn and Mediphon helped the wounded warrior remove his pack and his armored shirt.

Padrelle harrumphed indignantly, drew her cloak about her.  "I'll scout ahead," she said as she pulled the hood up over her dark hair and turned to march deeper into the tunnel.

Moments later, the warrior was bandaged and clothed.  His companions, weapons at the ready and torches lit, started into the cavern.  The tunnel went straight for two dozen yards then turned left into darkness.  They trudged halfway to the curve before the Elf's hand shot up commanding them to stop.

"I…think I hear something coming," Sunthorn said, straining his ears.  "Hard to tell…very quiet…not too fast."

Their sword-arms tensed, ready for the inevitable onslaught of the kobold horde.  Pamblyn and Sunthorn raised their shields as Mediphon and Haldraginor took up positions behind them.  Gray Dan stood behind them all, two fingers pressed against his temple as he considered the usefulness of the spells he'd memorized today.

The Halfling padded around the curve and her companions groaned with disappointment.  Nonplussed, Padrelle beckoned them to follow, "Hey, you'll never guess what I found!  Come see!" Then she turned and bounded around the curve.

The others followed her to a side-branch tunnel.  There, where the wall to the outside tunnel met the side-branch, stood a black pillar.  It was smooth black stone that stood the entire height of the cavern, easily nine feet.  It bulged wider at its halfway point, nearly a foot in diameter, than it did at its top or bottom.  Her companions gasped in befuddlement.

Sunthorn cocked one eyebrow.  "Well that certainly doesn't belong in a cave."

"I don't understand," Pamblyn said, reaching out to run one gloved hand down the smooth stone pillar.  "What is this?  What's it doing here?"

"How should I know?" the Halfling remarked.

"It must be a sign!" Mediphon stated in breathless reverence.

"A sign of what?" Haldraginor asked, with a confused frown.

"Good question!  Let's see if we can find out!" Gray Dan exclaimed.  He placed two fingers on his temple and recited the Magical Words, his other hand stretched out toward the ebon column.  His weird recital finished, he gawked at the pillar with an expectant grin.  After a moment, the grin left him.  "Well, it's not magical in any way."

"You want to see another sign?  One that's easier to interpret?" Padrelle asked.  Her companions turned to her with expectant faces and she pointed up at a torch sticking out of the earthen wall across from the mouth of the side tunnel.  "How's that?"

It took a moment to sink in.  Then, one by one, their faces lit with understanding.  They had initially failed to notice the torch, as its light was augmented by the torches they carried.  But soon, new questions occurred to them.

"Why would there be torches lighting the kobold caves?" Gray Dan asked.

"So the kobolds can see?" Haldraginor lamely suggested.

"No," the Elf shook his head, "Kobolds can see in the dark, like we Elves."

Pamblyn narrowed her eyes.  "They must be working with some…creature that cannot see without light."  She looked around at her companions, her expression grave.  "There may very well be more than just kobolds here."

Haldraginor nodded.  "That's all right, whatever is in here, we can defeat it.  Because we have something they do not have!"  He punctuated his statement with a short jab at the air.

"And what is that?" the Elf asked.

Haldraginor punched the air again.  "The hero of Haven Hills!"  His companions groaned in reply.

To Be Continued...

The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part One

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part One

The heavy summer night smothered Stockport like a blanket.  The oppressive heat of afternoon lingered in the close confines of the city and showed no intent of leaving.  Some small relief came in a sea breeze from somewhere out on the ocean, but even this wind seemed reluctant to run through the streets. 

Despite the refreshing sea air, the waterfront still suffered from stifling temperatures.  Nevertheless, a mysterious figure skulked the docks clad in a dark trench coat and wide-brimmed hat.  The coloring of his costume allowed him to blend almost perfectly with the deep shadows, unseen by dockhands, sailors, and other denizens of the nighttime wharfs.

Ignoring these potential distractions, the Sleuth exercised his enviable patience, waiting for the object of his mission.  It arrived at eight minutes past midnight, when the S.S. Gertrude Burrows pulled into port, ending its long trip from Africa.  Through a sweat-soaked mask the Sleuth watched it dock, and knew it was time to learn the validity of his tip-off.

* * *

The Gertrude Burrows was a sturdy freighter, finished only a few short months before the invasion of Poland.  Thanks to the war contracts won by the Burrows Shipping Line, it was chiefly employed to transport precious supplies to the Allied war machine.  As such, the cavernous cargo hold was all but empty on the return voyage, much to the Sleuth's chagrin.  According to his information, something was going to be stolen off this boat tonight.  Alas, he lacked further details.

Undaunted, the Sleuth turned away from the open hatches and traversed the main deck.  He made up his mind to locate the records room, where he expected to find a cargo manifest among the ship's logs.  

The Sleuth made it to the shadows beside the mast-house without being spotted by any of the crew.  He was casing an opportunity to bolt unseen to the bridge castle when his keen ears detected a muffled moan and a soft thump.  The Sleuth peered around the corner of the mast-house and spied a sailor laying prone on the narrow walkway between the two open cargo hatches.

With haste, the Sleuth ran to the victim, dropped to one knee, and pressed two fingers against the man's neck in search of a pulse.  He sighed in relief as he felt the rhythmic throb of pumping blood.  The sailor moaned and stirred.  With a start, the Sleuth reached into his trench coat and pulled out his disguise kit. 

The kit was a shiny silver flip-top box, like an oversized cigarette case.  He flipped the lid open, plucked out a random mustache and pressed it onto his upper lip.  The Sleuth then ripped the mask from his face, and thrust it and the kit back into his coat as the sailor's eyes flickered open.

The Sleuth smiled, reached out to assist the man to his feet.  "There now, you'll be all right in a mo..."

The sailor's fist shot out, caught the Sleuth squarely on the chin, knocked him off his feet.  "So!  Troyin' t'get the jump on me, are ya?"

The Sleuth frowned in astonishment as the sailor jumped up from the deck and balled up his fists for a fight.  He was young, not very tall, but blessed with beefy arms that packed a wallop.  The Sleuth scrabbled to his feet, held one hand out in a calming gesture as he thrust his other hand into one of his pockets.  "Wait!  You don't understand..."

The sailor advanced behind a ready pair of fists.  "Sure then you'd best be makin' me understand, afore I give ya a damn good thrashin'!  Who are you?  What's yer business aboard this here ship?"

The Sleuth drew the badge from his coat pocket and held it out before him.  "Saunders, War Department!" 

The sailor froze in place and stared with wide eyes.  Then he unclenched his fists and fidgeted with embarrassment as he stammered, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir!  Ya must understand, to awake after bein' kayoed like that, an' seein' a stranger on deck..."

"I understand perfectly," the Sleuth replied with a kind smile.  Then the grin vanished, leaving only the usual steely stare.  "What's your name sailor, and what happened here?"

The sailor, still wide-eyed, stood up straight, brought one hand to his temple in salute.  "Deck hand Mike Flaherty!"  He slumped where he stood, frowned away for a moment.  "Sure and the truth is that I'm not rightly certain what happened.  One moment I'm openin' the hatches to the cargo hold, next thing I know I wake up with a bump on me noggin and you hoverin' over me."

The Sleuth placed a hand on Flaherty's shoulder.  "You didn't see who attacked you?"

"No sir."

The Sleuth ran his gaze across the ship's deck, spied nothing amiss.  "Listen carefully, Flaherty.  My people have obtained information that this ship has been targeted for a robbery tonight.  My guess is that the guy who clobbered you is my thief.  So I need a list of the cargo you're carrying so we can identify his target and nab him!"

"That's impossible!" the deck hand replied, rubbing the lump on his head.  "After we drop off our shipment, we always return home empty.  There is no cargo on board."  A thought flashed through his mind and his face turned toward the bridge castle.  "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Mr. Wilson, he's the mate, he went ashore and brought back a small package which he kept in his cabin," Flaherty told.

"What was it?" the Sleuth pressed him.

The sailor shrugged.  "I assumed it was some souvenir for his family."

The Sleuth snorted.  "It could be intelligence vital to the war effort!"

"No!" Flaherty gasped.  "Mr. Wilson's no spy!  He can't be!"

The Sleuth narrowed his eyes.  "We'd better make sure of that.  Take me to him."

* * *

The sailor guided the Sleuth through the ship to the officers' quarters.  "This is it, Mr. Saunders."  With a curt thanks, the Sleuth rapped on the door.  A few seconds went by with no response, and he knocked again.  Flaherty shrugged.  "Could be that he's up on the bridge.  Come along, I'll take ya straight there," he said as he started down the corridor, waving for the Sleuth to follow.

The Sleuth took a single step before he heard the thump beyond the door.  "What was that?" he asked as his hand flew to the handle.  He found the portal unlocked, and flung the door wide. 

The mate's cabin was a fifteen-by-ten box with modest furnishings and in the middle of it all two men were caught in a dance of death.  The victim, blond haired and blue eyed, was dressed in a typical naval uniform:  a blue blazer and slacks over a white turtleneck.  In manic desperation, he clawed at his throat.  The garrote was pulled tight by the strong hands of the Chinaman behind him, who looked like something out of a nightmare in his black cap and changshan.  Surprise was in his murderous eyes as they flashed to the open door, and he yanked on his wire with renewed effort.

The Sleuth charged into the cabin, threw one fist into the Chinaman's ribs.  The pain raced through the villain and his grip on the garrote loosened until Wilson pulled free, gasping for precious air. 

"Mr. Wilson!" Flaherty exclaimed from the doorway. 

The Sleuth swung his fist again, but the Chinaman blocked and threw a punch of his own.  The Sleuth crashed onto the bunk, and Flaherty ran in to replace him.  One hit to his gut and another to his jaw sent the deckhand crumbling to the cabin floor.  The Chinaman snatched a small package wrapped in brown paper from the table below the porthole even as Wilson, still massaging his tender throat with one hand, pulled a gun from his dresser drawer.  Almost as though expecting it, the Chinaman grabbed a book from the table and flung it at Wilson as he whipped around.

The book collided with the gun barrel, knocking it aside as it fired.  The wild shot hit the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness with a short rain of glass.  Undaunted, the Chinaman bolted for the lighted hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

"He's getting away!" the Sleuth cried as he jumped over Flaherty and rushed for the door.  He burst into the hall, checked both directions and spied the Chinaman's long, braided queue vanish around a corner and charged in pursuit. 

The Sleuth chased the clanging footsteps up a stairwell, the two sailors trailing in his wake.  The Chinaman, package in hand, bolted across the open deck on course for the aft guard rail and the open ocean beyond.  Without pause, the Sleuth ran after him, Flaherty at his heels.  Wilson stepped to the side, raised his pistol and croaked out the fair warning, “Halt or I fire!”

Ignoring the alert, the Chinaman leapt for the rail and the gun in Wilson’s hand barked a vicious thundercrack.  The Chinaman, still clutching the topmost rail, fell over the barrier and dangled above the churning waters below.  Breathless, the Sleuth braced himself against the railing and clutched at the assassin with desperate fingers.  The killer looked up at him, his mouth trembling as though he struggled to speak.  Instead, he released the rail and fell into the water, leaving only the package in the Sleuth’s hands.

The Sleuth frowned down at the watery grave, but the killer’s body never floated to the surface.  There was no smaller craft nearby, no convenient getaway boat in sight.  Wilson and Flaherty joined him at the rail as other sailors arrived, ready for trouble, attracted by the gunshot. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Wilson rasped, “but I thank you for showing up when you did.  A moment later, and I would’ve been done for.”

Flaherty jabbed one thumb toward the Sleuth and said, “This here’s a Mr. Saunders, come down from the war department…”

“That’s right,” the Sleuth interrupted.  “I’ll have to ask you what you’ve got in this package, and who wants it bad enough to kill you for it.”

Wilson didn’t hesitate.  “I don’t know, exactly.  Some sort of antique, jewelry I think.  I was merely bringing it Stateside at the request of Montgomery Fisk.”

The Sleuth’s eyes widened.  “Montgomery Fisk?  The industrialist?”

“The same.  You see, my father was Mr. Fisk’s butler since…before I was born until his death last year.  Mr. Fisk liked children, and doted on those of his servants just as much as his own.  In fact, I believe he offered me every opportunity that he provided for his own son.  So when he asked me to meet up with his man, pick up a package and bring it home, I could hardly refuse.  He said it was some valuable antique and that he needed someone he could trust, I assured him he could rely upon me.”

“Have you any idea who may be after it?” the Sleuth persisted.

“No, not specifically,” Wilson replied.  “But if it’s some valuable artifact, I expect any number of thieves would be interested in it.  I’ve never even opened the package, so all I know is what I was told when I picked it up.  It was implied to be a piece of jewelry, and there was some nonsense about a curse.”

The deck hand snorted and poked his elbow into the Sleuth’s ribs.  “Hardly sounds like war secrets, eh Mr. Saunders?”

The Sleuth regarded the package with disappointment in his eyes.  “No, no it doesn’t.”  A feeling in his gut told him there was more to the mystery, but that he could not dig deeper in his current identity.  Hiding his regret, he held the package out to the first mate.  “Well, I guess this is out of my department.  Here you go, Mr. Wilson, sorry for the questions.”

“Not at all,” the mate replied as he took the box in his hands.

“However, there has been one attempt on your life,” the Sleuth continued, “if you’d like I could make a few calls, get a man assigned to help you guard that until you get it to Fisk.”

Wilson smiled in gratitude.  “That shouldn’t be necessary.  He’s expecting me first thing in the morning.  Besides, I have a whole boatload of trustworthy men to stand guard for me.  All I have to do is ask.”

“Sure and that’s right!” Flaherty exclaimed, punching the air for emphasis.  “In fact, ya don’t even have to ask!  Oy’ll stand watch over ya tonight, Mr. Wilson.  Rest assured that nobody will get past me, now that I know to be lookin’ for ‘em!”  He was not the only volunteer.

To Be Continued...