Arena of the Blood Moon Part Two

 

ARENA OF THE BLOOD MOON

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

Part Two

The cargo transport rolled through the wide service corridors without hesitation, although to Brackett they all looked the same.  After a time, the vehicle slowed to a stop by a wide, opaque window.  One of the guards hopped off the car and rapped on the glass.  It slid open almost immediately.  The guard exchanged incomprehensible words with another Nilbog inside the window, who quickly handed over a pair of collars.

The guard handed them up to his cronies, who snapped them around the necks of their prisoners, then slid a compartment on each collar open to reveal a semi-sphere attached by a thin cable.  The guard placed the semi-sphere onto the prisoner's ear.

The Nilbog guard looked them over appraisingly.  "You understand my words now?"

Brackett shared a look of surprise with Ginsberg.  "Yes!"

"Many tongues get spoken here," the guard told them, "makes the translation devices necessary."

Brackett narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly.  "Yeah, now I can tell you that I'm Captain Bradley Brackett of the Galactic Patrol Force.  As a peace officer of the Allied Worlds, I demand to know what's going on here!"

The Nilbog guards chuckled with cruelty.  "We take you to the Wor-osh," the guard replied.  "He will give you what answers he thinks you need.  He has no fear of you, or you’re Allied Worlds, nor even the Skro!  He rules this moon still, despite the cowardice of others who abandoned this sector to you and your Allied Worlds!" He struck Brackett with his rifle, turned to the driver and barked, "Drive on!"

###

The cargo transport rolled along seemingly endless, disorientingly similar, corridors.  At long last, it slowed to a stop at a doorway.  One guard jumped down from the vehicle and pressed a button on a small keypad in the wall beside the door.  Before long, the door opened to reveal a husky young Nilbog with sharp features.  "What is it?" he demanded.

"We have come to see the Wor-osh," the guardsman declared.  "We have two more warriors for his games, but they managed to kill one of my men, and one of them was wounded."

The Nilbog in the doorway narrowed his eyes and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a touch of the keypad.  "My P'Trohg is not to be disturbed at present," he said in a gravelly voice, "I will deal with this in his stead.  Show me."  The guard waved towards the cargo transport and the official sneered.  "Oh.  You-mans!"

"Not just humans," Brackett spat back, "Galactic Patrol officers!  I don't know who you are, but you're in it deep, mister!"

The official grinned a predatory grin.  "I will tell you who I am, you-man," he gloated, "and what our plans are for you both…"

The Nilbog sub-chief clenched his fists and stared at the prisoners.  “I am Jol’bur, sired by Gom’jol.  His bravery and cunning has made him the Wor-osh of this moon, and he continues to rule here despite the insurrection of the Allied Worlds!” he declared with a contemptuous sneer.  “When your feeble forces are eventually driven away by Nilboggi fighters, it is my sire who shall rule this sector, for he bravely remained when others did flee!  Then all will know his greatness!”

As one, the five Nilbog guards and the driver of the small cargo transport each pounded one fist to their chests and bowed their head in solemn salute. 

Brackett frowned at the surrounding aliens with uncertainty.  “So what are you going to do with us?” he asked, as he nodded down at Ginsberg, who still clutched at his wounded shoulder.

Jol’bur’s sneer transformed into a predatory grin.  “You will amuse the Wor-osh while he awaits his greatness.”  Then he turned to the guards and barked, “Take them to whichever pit has room for them.  There they may wait to face the challenges.”

“My Lord,” one guard replied as he gestured toward Ginsberg with his rifle, “what of this one?  He took a Nilbog life in battle and was shot during the capture.”

Jol’bur stepped toward the vehicle and looked down on the man with a critical eye.  “Take him to dome three.”  The guard, tight-lipped, stared coldly in response until Jol’bur exclaimed, “You have your orders!  Be off!”

With a reluctant acknowledgement, the guard climbed aboard the cargo transport and it continued down the corridor.  Brackett guessed they were sticking to the service corridors since what few people they passed appeared to be technicians of some sort.  Brackett noticed that he and Ginsberg were only a minor interest to the Nilboggi they passed, which gave him an uneasy feeling. 

Before long, the transport came to another stop by a wide door.  Three of the guards climbed down and pulled Brackett from the vehicle.  One Nilbog pressed a button and the door slid open to reveal an empty shaft.  Brackett jumped away from the pit, but was quickly seized by a pair of guards. He stomped on one guard’s foot, then slammed his elbow into the other’s stomach.  They both released him, and he turned and sprinted down the corridor.

Ginsberg shouted, “Brad, watch out!” 

But it was too late. The stun beam hit him square in the back.  His entire body went numb and he crumpled to the floor in a heap.  The guards seized him once again, dragged him back to the opening.

With his rifle, one guard picked up Brackett’s chin so he could look into the human’s face.  “I think you will make for good amusement,” he chuckled without humor. The two guards dragged Brackett to the lip of the empty shaft and unceremoniously dropped him in. 

Brackett fell, slammed against one wall, then another before landing on something surprisingly soft.  Desperately, he tried to move enough to look at his new surroundings from the place where he’d landed.

Above him, a female voice said, “Greetings, Captain.  Welcome to the pits.”

Brackett, still suffering from the affects of the stun-ray, could not look up to see the woman who had addressed him. He did feel her hand, though, as she grabbed him by the arm and rolled him over.

She was human, with short dark hair in a regulation cut and a stern expression on her thin face. He’d never seen her before, but easily recognized her Galactic Patrol uniform and sergeant’s insignia. She was also wearing a translation collar.

She pulled him to a sitting position by the wall. “Please forgive my not saluting right away,” she said as she curtly raised her hand to her temple. “I’m Sergeant Velma Sorenson, assigned to the Lancelot under Captain Beex.”

Brackett’s eyes flashed and he tried to ask a thousand questions. Only a dull moan escaped his lips.

“Don’t try to talk,” Sorenson told him as she hastily examined him for injuries. “They must have got you with a stun ray. You could be paralyzed for up to an hour, depending on how high they had it set.”

Brackett let loose a groan of exasperation.

Sorenson chuckled without humor. “Don’t worry. Aside from that, you seem to be all right.” She sat beside him and looked him over. “Actually, I’m rather pleased to see you. Captain Beex and I had been sent to Daruuk to taxi Professor Tholgrum back to DSO-25. On our return, we picked up a broken distress signal. Turned out to be a Nilbog trap.” Sorenson glanced up at Brackett, then quickly looked away as though embarrassed. “I suppose you know what I’m talking about; the other prisoners I’ve spoken with have similar stories.”

Brackett managed to wobble his head a little, and forced out a meager, “Uh-huh.”

With a deep breath, she collected herself and turned her attention back to him. “The Nilbog leader is supposed to be an accomplished veteran named Gom-jol. I’ve never heard of him before, but his subjects and underlings all kowtow to him as though he were something great. At his order, the Nilboggi kidnap passersby and dump us here, where they make us fight in an arena for their own perverse amusement. They claim that any prisoner who survives enough ‘challenges’ will be set free, but I haven’t seen anyone get out without being carried out.” A bitter sneer, which she directed at the floor, marred her features.

Though he couldn’t turn his head yet, Brackett’s eyes swiveled in their sockets as he took stock of the poorly-lit cell. It was set up dormitory style with twenty-six berths set in the walls, each large enough to accommodate someone of human-size. Scattered throughout the cell were a dozen other ragged, grungy prisoners of various foreign races, most of whom were unfamiliar to Brackett. He spotted Professor Tholgrum sitting in one corner, his long pod-like head hanging low, but there were no other humans, and worse still, no other Galactic Patrol uniforms.

With a herculean effort, Brackett turned to face Sergeant Sorenson. With titanic stubbornness and determination, he forced out the words, “Wuh…wuh… where…Buh…Beex?”

Sorenson cast her eyes downward and gave a heavy sigh before responding. “Sir, I’m sorry to report that Captain Beex fell in the arena two days ago while protecting the Professor. He never even had a chance to try his plan.”

Brackett raised one eyebrow. “Wuh…what…p-plan?”

The numbness slowly waned from Brackett’s body.  He stretched his muscles experimentally, driving away the affects of the stun ray as the Sergeant answered his question.

“Yes, Captain Beex had a plan, but it will be of little use to us,” Sorenson told him.  “You see, Beex was an amphibious Salentian, a race that evolved from some froglike creature.  He had the natural ability to climb up sheer surfaces, and his plan involved scaling the walls of the arena and forcing his way into the air ducts, then finding his way to a control room to release all of the prisoners so as to revolt against the Nilbogs.”  She slumped against the wall beside him.  “It wasn’t much of a plan, and inspired only a small hope.  But it is entirely useless to us, now that he’s dead.”

Brackett looked over at the opening in the ceiling.  “What about the pit that the Nilbogs threw us down?”

Sorenson glanced up.  “He tried that first,” she admitted, “but couldn’t get the doors to open.”

Brackett nodded with understanding and looked around the cell once more.  He spied a pair of thick metal doors at the far end.  “Where do those doors go?”

“Out to the arena,” Sorenson answered glumly. 

Brackett pondered for a fast moment.  “How about when they feed us, maybe we can break out then?”

The Sergeant shook her head.  “They lower trays of food down the pit on a platform.  Any extra weight causes it to fold, dropping everything back down here.” 

With a grunt, Brackett forced himself to his feet.  He stood there a moment, clutching a nearby bunk for support, until the numbness completely abandoned him.  With the convenient excuse of stretching his legs, Brackett circled the cell.  His sharp eyes scrutinized the thick walls that closed him in.  More than once, he tested the strength of a metal panel, pushing and pulling with all the might he muster, but to no avail.

“It’s really no use, you know, my boy,” the shrill voice said to him.  

To Be Continued...

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Wrath of the Volcano God Part Two

 

WRATH OF THE VOLCANO GOD

A Pulp Adventure

Part Two

It was a short drop to a rude landing on a leafy hillside.  Then they rolled downhill, an avalanche of explorers, into a shadowy gulley.

Amid a chorus of moans and curses, Lewis stood up, reached out to help Sarah to her feet and asked, "Everyone all right?"  Suddenly, Bethany cried out in pain.  "What's the matter?" Lewis asked, as he stepped toward her.

Then a sleek and shiny reptilian head emerged from the undergrowth.  Sarah screamed at its sudden appearance, Ethan and Wayne gasped.  Bethany grabbed her arm, suddenly bleeding from two puncture marks.  Lewis froze in place as the snake raised up high enough to look him in the eye.  It was a great green monster with wide brown spots, sharp fangs, and an evil gleam in its yellow eyes.

The snake, swaying, hissed.  Lewis opened his hands in slow deliberation.  With sweat glistening from his forehead, his muscles tightened as he readied himself to grab the animal just behind its head.

As if sensing his intentions, the snake hissed and lunged forward.  A thundercrack sounded, blood erupted from the side of the snake's head, and it dropped heavily into the underbrush.  With a cry of panic, Lewis fell backward, and found himself sitting on the jungle floor, momentarily confused at what had just happened.

"Good shot!" Ethan exclaimed.

Wayne blew the smoke away from the barrel of his gun and holstered it.  "Tweren't nuthin'," he casually replied.

Sarah stared with horrified eyes.  "B-Bethany?"

Lewis sprang to the fallen woman's side.  Already she looked pale and red rings were developing around her eyes.  With haste, he peeled her out of her safari jacket and rolled up the sleeve of her shirt where he found two red dots puckered and swollen just below her elbow.  Without hesitation, he brought the wound to his lips and made a desperate attempt to suck out the venom.

After a few long minutes, it was obvious to them all that this noble effort was not working.  Bethany swooned as Lewis spat and wiped his lips for the final time.  "Who's got the snakebite kit?" he demanded.

His companions scrambled through their packs, but were dismayed to find no snakebite kit or any first aid supplies at all.

"Carlsbad!" Wayne spat, "He and Klugman must've swiped ém 'fore they left us to die!"

With a gasp, Sarah placed one hand on Lewis' shoulder.  "What do we do now?"

Lewis weighed the few options at hand, and made a decision.  "We still have to head for that ship, it's our only hope."  He stood up, lifted Bethany's limp body into his arms.  He looked around; found they had fallen into a deep valley with foliage covering the rocky walls.  He couldn't see the sky from here, and shadows were too thick to determine the sun's position.  But his trusted sense of direction told him that following the valley would lead them toward the beach.  "Come on," he said, and started marching.

*  *  *

Nearly an hour later, Lewis had been proven correct.  The valley opened onto a wide beach of white sand.  The valley was a gap in a long cave-riddled cliff wall that ran along the inland edge of the beach.  The sandy beach stretched on for as long as they could see, boulders were scattered along the way, and a line of jetsam showed them how high the surf ventured.  A few yards away the skeleton of some great jungle cat jutted up from the sands.  Further down the beach they could easily see more bones in the sand, too distant to tell what animal they belonged to.

The boat sat not far offshore, parallel to the coastline.  A long, segmented gangplank stretched from the pale sand to the squalid ship.  It was a small cargo vessel bearing the name of Josephine's Joy across the bow.  The boat was stained by the salt water, and needed a good scrubbing.  It looked better suited to safe routes along coasts or between island chains than to a long voyage over a treacherous ocean.

Wayne hummed thoughtfully.  "Well, she ain't the purdiest sight I ever did see, and she don't seem to set quite even in the water."

It was true, the ship's bow sat low in the water as though weighted down by a heavy load.

"Ahoy!" Lewis cried out, "Ahoy on the boat!"  They waited for a long moment, but there was no reply.  He called out a second time, "Ahoy there!"  After another moment there was still no answer.  With a shrug, Lewis mounted the gangplank with the poisoned girl still in his tired arms.  "Come on, we've no time to wait for invitations."  His companions all followed him onto the deck.  "Split up, look for crewmen, for parts, and especially some first aid supplies!"

Ethan, Wayne and Sarah all rushed off in different directions as Lewis carried Bethany into the nearest door.  He hefted her down a short stairway and found a door-lined hallway.  The first door he came to proved to be some crewman's cabin, and he laid the woman down on the bunk.  He lifted her heavy eyelid and peered into her unseeing eye.  He placed one hand below her nostrils and felt her weakened breath.  Then he stood, rubbed some life back into his own arms, and Lewis bolted out the cabin door on the prowl for a remedy.

*  *  *

Wayne descended a narrow stairway and found himself in the hold where sunlight poured in from the open cargo doors on the main deck.  He reached up under his hat and scratched his head, perplexed.  "I was sure I was headed for the sailors' barracks."  He shrugged it off and began to explore the crates he found instead.

He found two crates filled with rolls of fabric, and half a dozen filled with dark rocks about the size of housecats.  A quartet of rusting metal drums lined the wall, all unmarked but filled with an unknown liquid.

In the far corner of the hold, he found two small crates, each one about a foot wide and two feet long.  He pried the lid off of one and whistled in surprise at the red sticks of dynamite packed in the dry grasses.  Wayne pulled one out for a closer look, and whistled again.  "Well, would ya lookie here?"

*  *  *

Sarah Turnbull rushed along the deck, pulled open the first cabin door that she came to.  It revealed a short hallway lined with a handful of doors.  A door at the far end flung open and she gasped as Ethan stepped through the portal.

He blinked at her, plucked the dangling cigarette from his lips.  "You all right?"

"You startled me!" she announced as she stepped into the hallway and pulled the portal closed behind her.

He shrugged an apology, pulled open the first door he approached.  He pointed down into the door.  "Stairs," he told her.  "I'm gonna check it out."

"I'll look around up here," Sarah replied.  With a nod, Ethan ventured down the stairs, and the door fell shut behind him.  She noted the doors and the corridor that branched off to her left, then reached for the nearest door handle.

At first she thought she had stumbled upon a cramped storage room with a low table and a cabinet blocked by a stack of crates.  A moment's study revealed the low table against the far wall was in fact a bunk, littered with a toppled stack of cardboard boxes.  A crate stood in the center of the room, smaller wooden boxes stacked atop it were partially covered with a threadbare blanket.  She pushed the column of containers aside and found the door of a free-standing cabinet.

Within it she found a short stack of dingy cloths, a half-dozen open boxes, a few rolls of bandages, two open bottles of demon rum, a half-bottle of aspirin, and a bottle of yellow liquid labeled "Anti-Venom".  Sarah plucked the vial from the shelf and regarded it with giddy glee.  She opened the cabinet's second door and saw a gruesome collection of surgical instruments, and among them was a syringe.

Her prizes well in hand, Sarah burst from the squalid little sick bay and rushed back onto the deck, calling for Lewis Clark.

*  *  *

Ethan Clapsaddle descended the stairs and found himself in a dimly lit engine room.  He took slow steps over to the main engine and leaned in for a curious look at the grimy machine.  He shrugged and turned around to survey the chamber.  A few wrenches and a hammer lay along the floor grating, away from their mates hanging on a wall.  A free-standing cabinet stood against the wall across from the stairs, its door ajar with a piston rod sticking out.

He crossed to the cabinet, flung open the door.  A shelf near the top and the floor were littered with gears, pulley arms, and other pieces while belts and coiled hoses hung from hooks beneath the shelf. 

"Jackpot!" the pilot exclaimed as he slipped off his pack.  He grabbed a replacement hose and few other choice parts and stuffed them into his backpack.  He started for the stairs, pulling the pack up one arm when he paused.  He grabbed a few tools from the wall and secreted them in his pack before slipping it back to his shoulders.  "The Goose shall fly again!" he announced through a manic grin.

*  *  *

Sarah flung open the door, found the wheelhouse.  Lewis looked up, startled.  "Sarah!  I think I found the Captain's logbook!"  He held up a booklet with a cracked leather cover.

"I think I've found the medicine we need for Bethany!" the young woman breathlessly replied.

"Come on, we've no time to lose!" Lewis exclaimed as he charged past her with the book still in his hands.  The two ran back to the cabins, and found Bethany's pale body still lying on the bunk.

He slammed the logbook on a nearby table, took the items from Sarah.  He filled the needle with the curative, and injected it into his patient's arm. 

A mere moment passed before Sarah asked her urgent questions:  "Will it work?  How long before she wakes up?"

Lewis shrugged.  "It depends...on far too many things."  He pulled back one of Bethany's eyelids and frowned into her brown eye; then pressed his fingers against her neck to check her pulse.   "There ought to be some food or water around somewhere.  See if you can find a galley.  When she does wake up, she'll need to replenish her strength."

"Right away!" she nodded and ran from the room.

Again, Lewis checked his patient's pulse, peered into her eye.  With a worrisome frown, he sat in the cabin's only chair and idly perused the most recent entries of the Captain's Log as he waited.

*  *  *

As Wayne and Ethan slowly worked their way back to the main deck, Sarah found the ship's galley.  A stove and counter line one wall, cluttered with dirty dishes and pans, while the other was lined with cabinets.  A large barrel stood beside the counter, a heavy ladle resting on top.  When she lifted the lid she found it half full of fresh water.  Her smile was fleeting, and she set about searching through the cabinets in search of some drinking vessel and whatever foodstuffs she could find.  She opened door after door in her frantic search, until she slammed one door closed and suddenly found Igor Klugman's scowling face beside her.

Sarah screamed as she bolted, but the big man was too quick for her.  His beefy hands seized her backpack, pulled her back, away from the door.  Suddenly one of his meat hooks slapped over her mouth, stifling her screams as she reached out for some handhold that she might use to pull herself from his grasp.

Her fingers wrapped around a handle, but instead of impeding her kidnapping, she pulled the cast-iron skillet from the stove.  Sarah looked at it with panicked eyes, and the object didn't fully register in her mind.  She only knew that it was not what she sought, an instant later her instinct took over and she swung the heavy pan over her shoulder.

The iron pan struck the brute's forehead with a thwack.   One hand released her, pressed against the pain instead.  Sarah tried to run, but one of his heavy hands was still clamped around her arm.  She spun about, flung the pan up to the other side of his head.  Igor wailed in agony and she was free!  Without hesitation, she dropped the skillet, which fell to the floorboards with a clang, and burst through the galley door screaming for help.

*  *  *

Lewis looked up from the Captains Log as he heard Sarah screaming out on deck.  He rushed out to learn the cause of her panic. 

"Mr. Klugman is here!" she cried, "He just assaulted me in the galley!"

"That means Everard's here, too," Lewis declared.  "We'd better get off this boat."

"But...Miss Gale..." the young woman stammered.

"Come on!"

The two rushed back to the cabin and once more Lewis picked up the prone woman and carried her in his arms.  The exited out to the deck and started for the gangplank.

"Stop right there!"  They both recognized the oily voice behind them.  "Turn around."  Lewis and Sarah turned and found Dr. Everard Carlsbad with a pistol trained on them.  "I see now why you insisted on having Clapsaddle as our pilot.  He handled that landing, most deftly!  I daresay very few would perform half as well!"

Lewis tried to offer a gracious smile as Sarah cowered behind him.  "I'll be sure to pass on the compliment."

Carlsbad nodded.  "However Lewis, the fact remains that none of you were expecting to survive what was meant to be a crash."

"Lucky for you that we did," Lewis said as he hefted the girl in his arms.  "There doesn't seem to be anyone aboard this ship.  Looking over the Captain's Log, it seems to me they ran afoul of the local natives.  You know perfectly well that the Kazoolis don't like outsiders in their territory.  Looks like the ride home you planned has been cancelled!"

Carlsbad sneered at the setback.  "Indeed.  But no matter.  Once I've recovered the Heart of Tiki-Taki, we can easily repair the plane and return to civilization."

Lewis brandished a friendly smile.  "Now Ev, you know I can't let you do that."

Carlsbad narrowed his eyes, raised the pistol.  "Yes, I fully expect you to be trouble.  As I said, you were all meant to be dead by now."  He pulled back the hammer on his revolver with a loud click.

As Lewis and Carlsbad talked, Bethany lolled her groggy head toward their assailant.  Her bleary eyes focused and a heavy brow formed.  Her leg shot out, knocked the revolver from the Doctor's hand.  In a flash, Lewis spun about, placed Bethany's unsteady feet on the planks and dropped her into Sarah's arms.  He spun back and his fist flew into Carlsbad's face.

Sarah slowly dragged the poisoned girl down the gangplank as Lewis and Carlsbad traded blows. 

Klugman stumbled out of the galley, one hand pressed against his head.  Anger burned in his beady eyes as he spotted the girl escaping down the gangplank burdened by the other woman's weight.  He started to pursue, but rounded a corner and saw the fistfight on the main deck.  Klugman came to the aid of his boss.

Lewis pulled back for another swing, but someone caught his fist before he could let it fly.  He turned and found Klugman standing over him, his Cro-Magnon brow hung low over his angry eyes.  Klugman was like a wall, almost a foot taller and twice as wide as the smaller man.  Lewis dropped a weary sigh.

One hit knocked Lewis off his feet.  He lay sprawled on the deck beside the opening to the cargo hold.  Growling like an animal, Klugman reached down and pulled him back to his feet.  Raised his meaty fist to deliver another strike.

Ethan came out of nowhere, swung a pipe wrench in his friend's defense, but only smashed the brute's heavy backpack.  Klugman seemed to lose interest in his prey, turned and glared at the pilot, who whimpered in regret.

Undaunted, Lewis jumped up on the giant's back.  But already weakened from fighting, the large man had no trouble shrugging him off.  Lewis landed on his feet, and a stack of coiled rope dropped over his head and bound his arms.  The sudden weight threw him off-balance and he fell.  Looking up from the deck he saw Carlsbad wiping his hands as he sneered down and gloated, "Don't move."

Carlsbad sauntered across the planks, plucked his revolver from where it had settled beside the ship's railing.  "This is the end of your meddlesome career, Mr. Clark!" he sneered as he pointed the gun at the man tangled in the rope. 

A shot rang out, and Carlsbad frown down at the pistol in confusion as he had yet to squeeze the trigger.

Instead, a rope snapped on the ship's hoist.  It's heavy arm swung in a wide arc overhead, dragging its iron hook through the air and across the main deck.  The heavy hook flew a few short feet over Lewis as he struggled with the ropes.  Carlsbad looked up with wide eyes just before the iron hook slammed into him, driving him over the rail, screaming into the water below.

Wayne Johnson stepped around the corner, the last wisps of smoke still wafting from the barrel of his revolver.  His keen eyes quickly surveyed the scene:  Lewis, tangled in a heavy coil of rope, lay on the deck beside the open cargo doors and Ethan engaged in a losing battle with Carlsbad's mammoth henchman.

Ethan launched his fists at the oncoming brute, but his punches had no effect.  With a predatory grunt, Klugman lunged forward, seized the pilot in his meaty mitts, and raised the small man high over his head.  With a savage but wordless cry, Klugman stomped toward the nearest railing.

Wayne's gun pivoted towards the hulking brute, barked off a warning shot.  "Put 'im down, Klugman!"  The big man continued on as though he didn't hear, so Wayne fired another shot that ricocheted off the ship's rail.  "I said put 'im down!  I ain't playin'!"

But Carlsbad's lackey ignored him.

Grumbling in exasperation, Wayne holstered his gun.  He crossed the deck to join Lewis as he pulled forth a stick of dynamite and a match. 

"Klugman!" he cried, "You do as I say or I'll blow your sorry hide to smithereens!"

Klugman arrived at the railing, stopped dead in his tracks.  He turned around, glared at the misplaced cowboy.

"I mean it!" Wayne told him.  Klugman stared on in silence.  Wayne struck the match, held it to the fuse.

The meanness and anger left Klugman's face, replaced with an unmistakable mortal dread.  A whimper escaped his lips as his mind raced in search of a suitable counter-move.  None came to him.  His panic grew as he watched the fuse grow shorter.  At last he could no longer stand his own inaction.  He threw the pilot through the air and hit his mark, dropping Wayne onto the deck, and the dynamite down to the hold.  Klugman shrieked in fear and launched himself over the ship's rail.  He landed in the water with a graceless splash.

Wayne scrambled to his feet, peered down into the cargo hold with a wide-eyed fear he hadn't known since the stampede on Old Man Bodine's ranch.  "We gotta go!" he announced, "There's a whole mess o' dynamite down there, this ship's gonna blow!"

To Be Continued...

Quest to the Kobold Caves Part Two

QUEST TO THE KOBOLD CAVES

A Dungeon Adventure

Part Two

Unable to decipher the mystery of the Black Pillar, the stalwart party continued down the main tunnel.  The road they followed weaved back-and-forth like a drunken tavern-goer, and before long they could not see the Pillar when they looked back.  Then they came upon a strange stone outcropping.

It was about two feet square and stuck out from the wall like a drawer that was half-pulled out.  The rock was about two-and-a-half feet above the floor with a burning torch stuck in the wall above it.  On its top were a series of small colored crystals, arranged in even rows around a round clear crystal at the center that was easily as large as an apple. The cavern continued on another twenty yards before sharply turning to the right.

Without hesitation, Padrelle bounded up to the rocky console—sized perfectly for her—and looked over the wide assortment of crystals.  Blue, green, red, and yellow stones glistened in the dancing torchlight. 

"Oooh!  Check out that baby!" she cooed as she drew a dagger from beneath her cloak.  A quick flick of her wrist and the blade jabbed into the stone shelf, lodged under the great clear crystal in the center.  With the tiniest bit of leverage, the crystal popped out with ease.

Then, somewhere behind the rock wall, a pop sounded.  It was followed by a twang, and then a groan, and a series of clacks as though some ancient machine was reluctantly brought to life and set about its work. 

Then a long wooden arm slid out from a crack in the rocky wall.  It was suspended somewhere above the ceiling and swung across the width of the tunnel.  Behind it, another pendulum swung in the opposite direction.  Beyond that, was another, and another, spaced a few feet apart for the next fifteen yards.  They swung back and forth incessantly, obviously powered by the unseen, complaining mechanism.

The Wizard's face contorted with a scowl and thumped Padrelle on the head then pulled the crystal from her hands.  "Foolish Halfling!  Are you going to set off every trap that we come across?"  He pushed the stammering Halfling aside and pushed the round crystal back in place, but the bladed pendulums continued.

With a perplexed frown, Gray Dan scowled down at the crystals.  "Perhaps when Padrelle removed the large crystal it somehow disturbed the smaller ones…"  He reached out with two fingers and experimentally tapped a yellow crystal.  It glowed at his touch, then died when he pulled his hand away.  He tried one of each remaining color: red, green, and blue.  Each one glowed when he pressed his fingertips against them, then went dark when he ceased contact.

"Wait a minute!" Mediphon cried, one shaky finger pointing at the pendulum blades.  "I think they've slowed down."  The blades swung across the cavern and he started to count the seconds.  "One, two, three, four…" The blades swung again. 

"You're right!" Sunthorn agreed, "They were swinging faster than that when they first started."

"Too bad we didn't bring a Thief with us, to disarm all these dastardly traps," Haldraginor sighed.  "Even the hero of Haven Hills can't do that."

"We don't need a Thief," the Wizard said in an indignant tone.  He held his chin as he considered the console of jewels.  "Obviously, this crystal table controls the pendulum trap; we simply need someone clever to decipher how it works."

Padrelle gasped.  "We're doomed!"

Gray Dan scowled at her.  "Thank you for your confidence," he snarled.  Then he reached out for the crystals one more.  He lashed out at the crystals in a short sequence that appeared to do nothing.  A second sequence, longer than the last, caused the blades to swing more rapidly.  As his companions groaned behind him, the Wizard sneered and tried a six-color sequence.

As he pulled his fingers from the sixth stone, the blades swung into the side-walls of the tunnel and did not return.  Gray Dan stood and wiped his hands with a smug grin as the Cleric clapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed, "Well done!"

"I know," the Wizard said as he pulled away from the Holy Man's grasp.  He started down the cavern, spread his arms wide.  "Sooner or later, you will all learn that Gray Dan is always right!  Now lets g-o-o-oh!"

The cavern floor crumbled away beneath the Wizard's foot, and grew into a wide, deep pit that stretched from wall to wall for fifteen yards.  As for Gray Dan, he quickly vanished into the pit itself, and his fearful cry lasted for only a few moments before it was abruptly cut off.

The remaining five heroes stepped forward and peered down into the impassable pit.  The darkness prevented them from seeing anything.  With a shrug, Mediphon tossed his torch into the middle of the pit.  It was easily twenty feet deep, and the Wizard's body seemed to float just above the pit floor, held aloft by nearly a dozen of the needle-thin spikes that covered the bottom.  They stared down at his corpse in an awkward silence.

Without looking away from the body in the pit, Pamblyn asked, "You…uh…don't happen to have a resurrection spell handy, do ya?"

The Holy Man pulled at his blonde mustache.  "No, I'm not powerful enough to be granted such strong magic yet."  The Warrioress nodded and harrumphed in response.

Suddenly Haldraginor clapped his hands together and smiled at his surrounding companions.  "Well!" he exclaimed, "What do you say we go check out that side tunnel back at the pillar?" 

With a disjointed murmur of agreement, they started back up the cavern from whence they came.  Only the Cleric paused, staring down into the pit.  He waved his hand in the air, drawing a solemn sign over the corpse.  "Rest now," Mediphon said, "We may yet find some means of restoring you to life.  You just wait here.  …Um." He paused as though realizing what he just said.  Then he shrugged and rushed to catch up to his comrades.

*  *  *

They quickly backtracked to the Black Pillar and ventured down the side tunnel.  After the wider main cavern, this fissure seemed narrow.  Two of the humans could have walked down it side-by-side if they were pressed together, and still their shoulders would scrape against he rocky walls.  The floor was jagged and broken into tiers, slowly descending deeper into the ground.  Finally the steps ceased and the fissure widened into a wide, tall cave with ledges running along the walls just above the humans' heads.  But it was well-lit with several torches jutting from the rocky walls on both levels.  The far end of the cave had two tunnels branching off at opposite angles, giving the cavern a distorted Y-shape. 

They walked into the cavern, straining—and failing—to see up on the ledges.  With cautious strides and wary eyes they advanced to the center of the three-way intersection.

A short creature jumped to the edge of a rocky outcropping on the right-hand side of the cavern.  All of two-and-half feet tall, the scrawny human-shaped thing had a dog-like face with short horns on its head and its scaly skin was orange-red.  Its eyes glowing with hate, it pointed an accusatory clawed digit at the heroes and barked:  "Kill the invaders from the surface!  Take one of them alive for the experiments!  So Drang commands!"

As the order reverberated in the cavern, the ledges suddenly filled with similar little dog-men.  The foul little beasts had rough scaly hides that were rusty brown, clad in bright but ragged clothing.  Their canine snouts baring their sharp teeth, they hurled rocks at the trespassers in the lower tier of the cavern.

Sunthorn and Pamblyn raised their shields against the hail of stones.  The others tried to cover their heads with their arms.  A blood-chilling battle howl erupted from the tunnel at the right fork as a wave of kobolds charged in brandishing long daggers and short spears. 

Haldraginor saw the onrushing pack of kobolds and grinned.  "Ha-haa!" he cried, "At last!  This is what we've come for!"

"What?  To get pummeled in an ambush?" Pamblyn asked as stones bounced off her shield.

Heedless of the raining rocks, Haldraginor brought his sword around.  "Have no fear, my friends!  Remember, they're only kobolds!"  Issuing a battle cry of his own, he waded into the oncoming wave of kobold soldiers.  Pamblyn followed him, her gleaming sword in hand. 

The two fighters whipped their swords in strong, slashing arcs that snapped the kobolds' tiny spears, knocked their dagger-blades aside, and sliced into their tender flesh.  The kobolds pressed onward, relentless as the sea.  They struck at the human foes with their weapons, their claws.  Some of them got past the two warriors and charged the stragglers, still suffering in a rain of stones.

Sunthorn brought his shield around, and the kobolds slammed into him.  Surprised at their collective strength, he struggled to keep them from advancing.

On the ledge, the squad leader, Drang, sneered at the battle below.  He turned to a group of kobolds behind him and waved them forward as he barked, "Bring the net!" At his command, the four each grabbed a corner of a net and leapt off the ledge toward the Holy Man and the Halfling.

Padrelle pointed up at them, the net opening wide to engulf them.  "Look out!"

Mediphon looked skyward.  "Good God!" he exclaimed and lashed out with his flail.  The chain stretched to its length and the studded metal ball at the end caught the net and swept it aside, throwing it and its kobold carriers crashing into the rocky wall.

Drang slapped his own forehead in disbelief.  "Useless kobolds!" he snarled.  He glared down at the battle and saw the two warriors, the bodies of a half-dozen kobolds at their feet.  A growl started low in his throat, but it quickly matured into a scream as he leapt from the ledge.  He landed on Haldraginor—the nearer of the two human warriors—clambered gracelessly up his travelling pack and pulled at the man's helmet.

Haldraginor's winged helm clattered on the cave floor and Drang grabbed a clawful of the man's hair, pulled his head back.  "Prepare to die now, human!"  Then he pressed his free hand onto the warriors face.   With a gasp of breath, Haldraginor felt the heavy weight of the sword, of his arms, of his legs.  He fell to the cavern floor with a clatter and a clang.

The kobolds paused in their onslaught and Pamblyn cried out "Hal!", but the fallen warrior gave no response.

"What's happened?" the Halfling asked.

Sunthorn, still holding up his shield, looked over his shoulder at her and the Cleric.  "Hal's down!"

"What, how?" Mediphon asked as he pushed his way past the Elf.  He saw the Warrior's body lying still on the earthen floor.  "By the Bright Beams of the Sun!  What magic is this?"

"This one did it!" Pamblyn yelled as she brought her sword down in a great cleaving motion. 

Drang jumped back from her onrushing blade.  He landed a few feet away and smiled smugly at her.  Suddenly the metal ball of the Holy Man's flail knocked him off his feet.  He jumped up from the rocky floor, lifted his hand to issue a command, and the Elf's strong shield slammed him against he cavern wall. 

Sunthorn pressed against him with all the might he could muster.  Despite the Elf's efforts to crush him between the shield and the wall, Drang somehow managed to bark out another desperate order:  "Kobolds…attack!  Kill…them all!"

The kobolds barked and howled at their leader's command.  They leapt down from the ledges with weapons in their clawed hands.  Kobold after kobold jumped down to join the battle, their numbers seemed endless.

"Ye Gods!" Mediphon exclaimed, "If they all have that power…we're done for!"

"Quick!  Retreat and regroup!" Pamblyn ordered as she grabbed the Cleric's arm and started down the left-hand fork of the Y-shaped intersection. 

The Elf gawked at the continuous stream of kobold warriors coming down into the tunnel.  Suddenly he felt small hands pulling at him.  "Sunthorn, quick!  This way!" Padrelle pleaded as she pulled him back toward the fissure, the way they had come.

Sunthorn looked down at her, took one tentative step toward her and felt the tiny claws that reached over his shield to grasp his forearm.  He looked back into the doglike face of the orange-skinned kobold, Drang.  "Prepare to die, Elf!"

With a shriek of panic, Sunthorn slammed the kobold against the wall and its grip on him was lost.  The Halfling pulled him back the way they had come and the orange kobold fell to the floor.

Pamblyn charged down the tunnel, the Cleric following in her wake.  "Where are we going?" he cried.

"Away from here!" she huffed in response, "Then we'll have to find a way back to the others!  One of these side-tunnels ought to do it!"

Mediphon heard the growls and barks of their pursuers.  He paused and glanced over his shoulder just as Pamblyn darted down a side branch urging him to follow.  "Right behind you!" he assured her, as he turned around and charged forward with a sudden burst of energy.  "Where did you go?"

He received no answer, but quickly stumbled over a tripwire.  To his credit, he did not fall, but a sturdy rope net did.  Weighted with rocks, it fell from the tunnel ceiling and tangled around him as he struggled to continue his retreat.  But there was no escape, and the kobolds were soon upon him.

*  *  *

Padrelle and Sunthorn raced back up the natural steps in the fissure and up the side branch toward the cavern that led to the surface.  The Elf frowned and he asked, "Where are we going?"

"Outside!" the Halfling answered.

"We can't do that!" Sunthorn argued.  "These foul kobolds have taken down two of our comrades already!  We must complete the quest, to avenge the fallen!"

"No kidding?" Padrelle replied, her tone incredulous.  "Well to do that, we're going to need some help, and I don't think we're going to find any here in the kobold caves, do you?"  Then she cried in alarm and fell face-first on the tunnel floor.

Sunthorn paused long enough to pluck her up and place her back on her hairy feet.  "Be careful, you clumsy Halfling!"

She frowned up at him and barked, "It's not my fault that I tripped!"

"You didn't set off another trap, did you?"  His tone was accusatory as his keen eyes darted around the tunnel for some new sign of danger.

Padrelle heard their kobold pursuers growing louder and grinned up at the Elf.  "I sure hope so!  Whatever it is, it might slow them up!  Come on!"

The pair continued on and soon found themselves back at the Black Pillar.  A left turn soon revealed a wide net covering the cavern that led to the outside world. 

The Elf stared at the barrier with disbelief in his eyes.  "We haven't time to cut through this!  They'll be upon us!" He glared down at his companion.  "Who's side are you on, Halfling?"

Padrelle snapped her fingers, started back down the cavern waving Sunthorn to follow.  "We're not licked yet.  I got an idea, come on!"

The two ran down the cavern and quickly arrived at the edge of the pit.  Padrelle rushed to the console of crystals and drew her dagger as the Elf looked on in despair.

"Perfect," Sunthorn lamented, "Instead of an impassable net, we have an impassable pit."

"Uh-uh, not impassable," the Halfling said.  The large central crystal popped out of its socket and the swinging blades once again began their ceaseless swinging.  "And there's our way across!"

Sunthorn watched the blades swing one way, then back.  He glanced down at Padrelle with one eyebrow raised in doubt.  "You're mad."

"Will you just go!" the Halfling yelled.

"Why am I going first?  It was your idea!"

"Because I know I'm going to make it, I'm unkillable," Padrelle said matter-of-factly.  "But if you can't make it, this way I can save you as I go across, instead of having to come back for you.  Now go!"

"You're mad!" the Elf repeated.  The sounds of the approaching kobolds were growing louder behind them.  The Elf shrugged and said, "I must be mad, too."

He slung his shield onto his back and loosened up.  Then ran forward, jumped, and landed on the first swinging blade.  He held on to the shaft and was fast approaching the side wall.  Suddenly, the next blade emerged from the wall and he jumped to it.  With the supernatural grace and agility of his people, Sunthorn swiftly bounded from pendulum to pendulum and soon found himself on the far lip of the pit.

Padrelle watched him with awe.  "I'll be damned," she muttered beneath her breath.  "It actually worked!"

Drang's gravelly voice issued up the tunnel:  "There they are!  Get them!"

Padrelle let out a heavy breath, then ran forth and leapt.  To her own amazement, she landed on the swinging blade and scrambled for a hold of the shaft.  She leapt for the second blade just as the kobolds approached the pit. 

"They will not escape us!" Drang vowed as he approached the console. 

Padrelle jumped for the next blade and Sunthorn urged her on.  Drang pressed a series of crystals on the console, and each one glowed at his touch.  Then the first pendulum fell out of the ceiling and clattered into the pit. 

Wide eyed, the Halfling leapt for the next blade.  Drang's fingers danced across the crystals and the blade beyond Padrelle fell into the pit.  She eyed the gap to the next available blade, now twice as far, and was unsure she could make such a leap.  With no time to reconsider, she jumped back to the third blade. 

Drang finished another sequence and looked up at the acrobatic Halfling.  The blade Padrelle was riding fell away from the ceiling.  Padrelle jumped for the second blade, missed, and fell into the dark pit.

"No!" Sunthorn cried out in grief and frustration.  The Elf glared across the wide pit into Drang's cold eyes, the kobold grinned hungrily in response.  Sunthorn took one last mournful look into the dark pit, then turned and ventured around the corner.

To Be Continued...

The Case of the Accursed Amulet Part Two

THE CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

A Phantom Sleuth Adventure

First published in Apeshit!, 2013

Part Two

Late the following morning found the Sleuth, sans mustache or mask, at the wheel of a Ford Sedan.  In the seat beside him sat Jane Wayland, seasoned reporter from the Stockport Globe, twirling her long blond locks around one finger, an anxious gesture that he found endearing. 

“Byron?”  It was not his own name, but his twin brother’s.  Nonetheless, he had long ago learned to answer to it as Brian Twain had been legally dead for years.  “Are you sure you can get me in to see Montgomery Fisk?  He never sees reporters.  Too important for us, I suppose.”

Brian smiled.  “Don’t worry; I’m an important man, too,” he said with playful pomp.  “Monty is an old family friend.  Don’t forget, he used to work for my father before he managed to buy his first steel mill, and made his own fortune.  I’m sure he’ll see us.”

Before long the Sedan pulled onto the Fisk estate through a pair of wrought iron gates.  The massive house stood surrounded by green hills and colorful flower gardens, flanked by shady trees that rustled in a slight breeze that offered no relief from the summer heat.  In a matter of minutes, they were inside the manor speaking with the man, himself, in his study overlooking the gardens.

Montgomery Fisk was a short man in his early sixties.  His gray hair was thinning, but still covered his head.  His eyes were sharp and alert behind thin spectacles that were attached to his jacket lapel by a lanyard.  He offered a warm welcome to his visitors, also believing the Sleuth to be Byron Twain.  Jane was introduced both as a reporter and the police commissioner’s daughter.  Fisk played the proper host, bade them to sit, offered them coffee.  The obligatory small talk was amicable, but cut short as Jane wasted no time getting down to business.

“Mr. Fisk, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’m most anxious to ask you about this mystery package of yours!  From what I’ve heard, what was meant to be a secret arrival in the middle of the night was spoiled.  As soon as the ship docked a thief attempted to steal it.  Shots were fired; they say a man was killed…”

Fisk forced out a good-natured chuckle and held up one hand to stop her.  “The account you’ve heard is greatly exaggerated, which is no surprise to me.”  He sat back in his chair and regarded them over his steepled fingers.  “First of all, it was far from a “secret arrival”.  It was no secret, merely private business.  I understand that there was a robbery attempt, which was thwarted.  Only one shot was fired—at the robber—which may have missed entirely as no body has yet been found.”

Brian sat, feigning only polite interest in the account as Jane scribbled frantic notes on her pad.  Jane looked up sharply.  “But the package itself, what is it?”

“Ah!  Here, let me show you!”  With joyful exuberance, he ducked behind his desk and pulled out the box.  It had been opened, and the crinkled brown paper was folded back over it in an untidy fashion.  He placed the bundle on the desktop, peeled the paper away from a cardboard box.  He opened the shipping box, burrowed his hands deep into the protective padding of dried grasses and pulled out a small wooden box, covered in ornate carvings. 

Brian and Jane leaned forward in their seats and Fisk laid the ornate box before them on the desk.  “A new acquisition for my private collection,” he grinned and slid the lid to one side as though it was on rails.  Within the box was a round ceramic pendant, about the size of a pocket watch, on a frayed twine necklace.  Fisk lifted it from the box with a gentle hand and displayed it proudly to his guests.  On the pendant was a picture:  the sun’s beams fighting through the clouds to shine upon a hilly countryside, all this encircled by a ring of strange foreign letters.  “It is a piece of Asian history!  It is meant to have two brothers.  Together, the Chinese call them the Keys to Wisdom!”

Brian hummed critically.  “An interesting piece, Monty.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed, “But it doesn’t look to me to be a key at all.  What are they all about?”

“Once upon a time, the land now known as China was a collection of small kingdoms, lesser states, and warring tribes.  They each had a different philosophy toward life, collectively known as the Hundred Schools of Thought,” Fisk explained.  “Then the first dynasty was installed, China was unified and the conquerors proceeded to promote their way of thinking, and eradicate all others.  This procedure is known as the Burning of Books and Burying of Scholars.  One such scholar, Mo Tzu, built a secret library to preserve the knowledge and wisdom of his philosophy.  Then, he fashioned these pendants and presented them to his three most faithful followers before his death, promising that together they would guide one to his cache of wisdom.  At least, that’s how the fable goes.  Of course, no such storehouse has ever been found.”

Brian laughed, sat back in his chair.  “A nice bedtime story!  All that’s missing is a curse!”

Fisk lowered the pendant back into its box.  “It’s funny you should say that, Byron.  In fact, there is meant to be a curse!  One of the carriers of Mo Tzu’s keys was captured by the authorities and issued a curse upon the pendants.  Anyone who possessed them, who had no intention of seeking Mo Tzu’s wisdom, would be bedeviled by some sort of evil spirit.  A yellow demon, or some such foolishness!”

An unearthly cry reverberated through the study and a furry humanoid beast dropped onto the desk.  The three jumped back with a start as it screeched at them with a gray skull-like face surrounded by a mane of golden-brown hair.  It stood about two feet tall, with long, thin limbs and a long catlike tail.  With quick, jerky movements it scanned the desktop and seized the ornate box. 

Fisk reached out with one urgent hand.  “Now see here, you little thief!”  The hairy monster hissed at him, bearing a pair of white fangs and Fisk drew back with a cry of alarm.  Before the shock of its arrival could dissipate fully, the beast leapt from the desk, bounded across the marble floor, and jumped onto the sill of an open window.  “The pendant!” Fisk exclaimed. 

As though the industrialist’s cry had broken some enthrallment cast by the creature, Brian leapt for the open window.  Leaning out, he looked in all directions and found the impish simian picking out handholds among the wisteria and vines that covered a nearby trellis.  It soon climbed over the gutter and disappeared.  “Quick!  It’s on the roof!”

“This way!” Fisk barked as he led the charge into the hall, up the wide stairs and out onto a second-floor balcony. 

Jane pointed off to their left where the monkey scampered across the dormers.  “There it is!”

Brian climbed over the railing onto the shingles.  “I’m going after it!”

“Be careful, my boy!  I’ll get the groundskeepers armed with the hunting rifles!” Fisk announced as he rushed back into the manor. 

“Byron!  What can I do to help?” 

He stopped and looked back.  “You’d best stay in the house, Jane, out of harm’s way.”

With a frown and clenched fists, she groaned in exasperation.  Brian rushed over the shingled roof as she stomped her way back into the manor.

Brian traversed the sloping roof as quickly as he dared.  Suddenly there was an inquisitive chattering above him.  He looked up and saw the golden brown monkey watching him from the apex of a dormer.  “There you are!”  He jumped for the furry thief, but it retreated from view with a call not unlike mocking laughter. 

He slipped, caught himself, then walked up beside the dormer, following the monkey.  Brian climbed up to the peak of the second story roof and looked down the far slope where he found his thief sitting beside a pot-shaped ornament on the cornice.  He crawled over the apex and down the incline, picking his way with quiet care.  In moments he crept upon the distracted monkey, reached out one hand.

Brian grabbed it by the scruff of the neck as a thundercrack sounded on the ground below.  In the same heartbeat, the cornice exploded where the monkey had been standing.  Startled, Brian jumped, began to slide toward the edge of the roof.  Instinct made him release the thief and save himself by grasping the nearby ornament.  The monkey bounded across the roof, shrieking.

“Careful there, Tom,” Fisk admonished the gunman, “you nearly got Mr. Twain!”

“Sorry, sir!” replied the servant, as he tried once more to get the monkey in his sights.  

“Byron, are you all right?” Fisk called up.

“Fine, Monty!” Brian said with a reassuring wave.  “Have your men route that beast back to this end of the house!”

“Will do!” the industrialist consented.

Brian climbed to his feet and set off after the monkey.  A gunshot rang out to his right, beyond the peak of the great house.  Then another shot, a screech, and the sound of raining shingles.  The hairy thief appeared on the apex of the roof, and ran along the horizon of the peak as shingles exploded behind it.  Brian ran along the roof, keeping pace with the simian burglar. 

The shingles ahead of the monkey erupted with volcanic force, and the thief jumped with a cry of panic.  Brian made a short leap up the incline and caught the monkey in his arms.  The beast looked up at him with its skull-like face and let loose a spine-chilling shriek.  The thief struggled to escape with enough force to throw Brian off-balance.  Brian stumbled about in an effort to stay upright, but the broken shingles shifted beneath his feet.  Both he and his hairy catch rolled down the incline and fell over the edge amid a shower of debris.

Brian Twain fell one story and landed in the soft loam of a flower bed, azaleas and begonias flattened beneath him.  A quick assessment proved that he suffered no serious damage.  He picked himself up and quickly spied the pendant’s box a few feet away.  He stumbled toward it when Jane’s voice yelled out behind him, “Byron, look out!”

Brian spun about and gawked in wide-eyed shock at an advancing Chinaman with ten inches of sharpened steel raised for the kill.  Jane clung to his back, both arms wrapped about the villain’s neck.  Brian noted that this was not the man from the freighter, though dressed in similar costume.

Brian let fly a roundhouse that connected with the villain’s jaw and followed with a left hook.  While stunned, the long knife was knocked from the murderer’s hand with ease. 

Undaunted, the Chinaman twirled around in a sloppy pirouette.  The momentum swung Jane’s feet out in a wide circle where her hard shoes struck Brian’s head with lethal force.  The Chinaman finished his spin and Jane’s own weight pulled her off of him.  The assassin advanced upon Brian, who clutched his head in agony, and dropped him to the flower bed with a single blow.

As Brian lay groaning in the dirt, the Chinaman stepped over him, bent down, plucked the ornate box from the ground.  “No you don’t!” Brian cried as he seized the brigand’s ankle with one hand.  The Chinaman fell into the loam with a cry of alarm.  With a frown, the Chinaman tried to pull his leg free while rattling off his native gibberish in an urgent tone.

Jane screamed as the skull-faced monkey bounded past her with the long knife in its paws.  The monkey leapt onto Brian’s back and drove the blade through his thin coat and into his flesh.  Brian cried out in anguish, let loose his grip on the thug. 

The Chinaman jumped to his feet and bolted across the gardens to an awaiting sedan with the box in hand.  A sharp command prompted the murderous monkey to follow.  The groundskeepers rounded the corner of the manor, with Fisk leading the charge.  They leveled their rifles and fired as the fiend and his animal companion climbed into his car and sped away.

Brian watched the car race away with hatred in his heart.  Then his eyes fell to a scrap of paper, incongruous in the trampled flower bed.  He reached out, nabbed it, and held it tight in a clenched fist even as Jane demanded an ambulance.

To Be Continued...