SPHYREX

PRESENTS

THE

ANCIENT CIRCLES

PARALOGUE

By James H Trusty

© 2005 by James Trusty. All rights reserved.

If you cannot be content with less,

you will never be satisfied with more.

--Aluraubi

Table of Contents

Warning -- Page 6

Chapter 2 – Detour into the Murk -- Page 16

Chapter 3 – The Proposal-- Page 25

Chapter 4 – Irresistible Lures -- Page 32

Chapter 5 – The Desperate and the Defiant -- Page 40

Chapter 6 – The Mist and the Flames -- Page 49

Chapter 7 – Ambush -- Page 61

Chapter 8 – Questions of a Fool -- Page 74

Chapter 9 – The Executioner -- Page 81

Chapter 10 – Mind Games -- Page 92

Chapter 11 – Lair of the Siren -- Page 104

Chapter 12 – Detour on the Way to Glory -- Page 115

Chapter 13 – Petting Pigs -- Page 137

Chapter 14 – The Emissary and the Witch -- Page 147

Chapter 15 – Poison Well -- Page 164

Chapter 16 – Knocking on Heaven’s Gate -- Page 176

Chapter 17 – A Wedding and a Funeral -- Page 189

Tribal Challenge -- Page 208

BE ADVISED:

The Ancient Circles Chainsaga and related works

are constructions of verifiction.

Their labyrinths are not only riddled

with hypocrite snares and pits,

but also with bigot traps and know-it-all obstacles.

Yet within their puzzles,

treasures of the mind, heart, and spirit

await your curiosity and imagination. May you

prove intrepid enough to seek them,

smart enough to recognize their beauty,

and wise enough to appreciate their value.

Otherwise, leave our gifts for theworthy

and go your way in peace.

If you cannot, then eat, drink, and be merry.

For whosoever endeavors to hinder our efforts

shall be triply cursed.

****************************

Narrator: Tristan Falstaff….

My memory of that moment is indelible. I had just left the smelting plant, and no doubt, looked like a living statue of grime. Sunbeams angled through the drizzle. The scent of steam rising from the pavement overwhelmed all other smells. As usual, I dodged my way through the uneven traffic of Darnel Street, then followed a trail snaking across an expanse that was nearly more junkyard than field. The alley that eventually welcomed me had become a gallery of puddles. Their assorted shapes entertained me until I began strolling down a sidewalk of familiar cracks and stains, and more puddles. Before the tromp of my boots disturbed very many of the tiny lakes, a woman stumbled out of a shop on the far side of Brendol Avenue, as though she had been shot. Even through the cacophony of the traffic, I heard her lament, “Oh, God, it has begun! The Imperator is dead.” No one who listened had any doubt what had begun…A chill trampled through my entire being, and I began wobbling along the brink of a chasm carved nearly bottomless by dread; despair rendered it almost too wide to see across…For several minutes, I shuffled along uncertain of where I was going and not all that sure that it mattered. It seemed that I had lost my dad all over again, only I had also lost my nation, Darsythia. Civil war was my only hope—the only hope that we who grieved could possibly grasp—and that was almost worse than no hope at all.

Soon, it became apparent that the masters of my world, Evera, had been withholding the news until they had prepared for its aftermath. A few blocks ahead of me, a pair of hovercarriers whipped to a halt to either side of an office building, while several armored cars parked between them. Troops poured out of such. Some halted traffic; others sprinted into alleys; the remainder stormed into the building. A crowd began gathering around the perimeter of their strong-arm tactics. They had come to watch Trajus Philistenes and his staff either be arrested or hauled away in body bags. He was the hero of nearly everyone in our town—the attorney who had done the most to delay the Grand Project. By doing so, he had become the enemy of the fascists and various cultural traitors among the ruling families of our province. Most of the folks to whom I am referring pretended to be proud of their Amaronian heritage. But they had long acted more like Sardisians and Hammerians than anything resembling an Amaronian. Too much was never enough for them. Alas, the wonders of Nature that us true Amaronians venerated had become little more to their schemes than either impediments or commodities. The Grand Project that they had been anxious to implement was supposed to bracket the region’s commercial hub, Holmstad, with a chain of developments. Their absurdity was meant to become a showcase of fairytale utopias for all of the rich snobs and middle-class wannabes expected to move to our paradise to take advantage of the perpetual economic boom predicted by the project’s promoters. Forget the fact that their project threatened to obliterate scores of villages and dozens of towns, uprooting over a hundred thousand of us peasants, while destroying nearly a million acres of marshes and woods. It would have also ruined the neighboring rivers, estuaries, and bays. Fortunately, the Imperator had intervened on our behalf and put an end to such nonsense.

My guts seemed to twist into knots, while the remainder of me began quivering. And I feared that my neighbors and I were doomed. For, if the Grand Project were resurrected, we would have no other option than to fight its promoters and quite probably die—or end up languishing in labor camps, forced to help them wreck our own homes and the moors that we loved. Those same thoughts tormented everyone else who watched the soldiers drag Trajus and his staff into the rain, then shove them into the hovercarriers. Some of us cried. None dared protest. All of us, however, resolved to do whatever we could to uphold the ideals and principles that Trajus had triumphed in our honor. Only time would tell if we had the courage to march to the beat of our inner drums.

For those of you unfamiliar with Darsythia and the times that I am attempting to describe, I should tell you a little about the fascists and why most other inhabitants of Evera and the remainder of Darsythia feared and loathed them. It was ironic that the fascists hated Hammeria and planned to do everything they could to thwart her ambitions in our region of known space. As it was, greed happened to be one of many sins that they shared with most Hammerians, and especially, their power masters. Like those creatures from Hell, the fascists were also honorless bullies who considered themselves superior to everyone else. Their greatest desire was to play God. Following the example of their Hammerian counterparts, they plotted to relegate the remainder of us Darsythians to subhuman status. To keep us tame, they planned to transform us into plugger zombies—cyborthralls (cyborg thralls) whom they hoped to control through the use of a ubiquitous computer system referred to as Overlord. Besides keeping track of us, such would also orchestrate our activities via broadcasts and directed signals. Remotes were to be used to control individuals and small groups of us. The ultimate goal of all of that control and other measures was to turn Darsythia’s cities into so many commercialistic utopias reserved for the benefit of the fascists and their sympathizers, while rendering the Republic a military hyperpower. That part of that equation was the same goal that the anti-fascist leadership entertained. The difference was that they hoped to use their future war machine to spare everyone everywhere the horrors of Hammeria’s ambitions; the fascists, in turn, hoped to wield its ferocity to subjugate as many worlds as possible in order to deny Hammeria their resources in favor of themselves. Aware of such aspirations, Hammeria’s power masters prepared to conquer Darsythia. Due to their hubris and the resulting tendency to meddle incessantly, however, they had created enemies throughout known space. [Hammeria was already fighting several wars, including her own civil war, and was involved in numerous other conflicts.] Thus, it would take them several years to prepare the forces necessary to begin dismantling Darsythia’s ability to defend herself. If any of us hoped to have any chance to thwart their ambitions, the fascists and we who opposed them needed to settle our disagreement as quickly as possible. For it would take time to rearm enough to defeat the forces of Hammeria and her local friends in the Askdad League.

By the way, there was another irony about our situation worth noting. Hammeria was secretly helping the fascists. Accordingly, her power masters planned to provide just enough assistance for the fascists to win too slowly to do them any good in the long run. As usual, they backed the wrong side. Or so I hoped….

My town was Loraham, and if I were to be completely honest, I would refer to her as a small city. I had lived in her most of my life. It was nearly impossible for me to imagine being anywhere else—not because my mind was dull, but because Loraham was the perfect community. For she was one of those sleepy places where no one was a stranger, and folks took life easy in neighborhoods shaded by majestic trees. All of her preachers were men of God; her doctors were more interested in healing patients than in getting rich, and even her businessmen tended to be neighborly to a fault. To one degree or another, the districts that they operated in were quaint. Besides the smelting plant, Loraham’s only industries consisted of a couple of factories, a refinery, a cannery, several grain dryers, a brewery, some feedlots, and a slaughterhouse. Away from her busiest streets, only the songs of birds and the noise of excited kids and dogs challenged her hush, except at night when the screeches of owls echoed across her and all sorts of other creatures serenaded the bats flapping through the shadows of the sky. To most of us who called her home, a great time usually meant congregating in a park to sip ale and dew berry wine, stuff our pipes with the rewards of our latest harvest, and barbecue the fish that we had spent all day catching.

Like me, most of my neighbors were of predominantly Amaronian heritage. But all kinds other people lived among us, including many whose genes were mostly Amonkari. Altogether, a little over a quarter of us were Messianics, nearly half were pagans, and about a third of the remainder happened to be Christians. Yet we could almost be described as a horde of friends. Several decades had passed since either ethnic or religious trouble had flared up between any of us. That, I feared, would soon change.

As soon as I finished showering, my phone began ringing. Not quite surprisingly, the twangy, crackly voice of Urladae greeted my ears with an invitation to supper. Thus began my second shift of daily toil. The lady who schemed to reward my “free time” with chores owned the duplex that I thought of as my cave. It was one of a few dozen duplexes clustered along either side of Bellflower, perhaps the busiest back street in Loraham. Urladae liked to portray herself as the toughest, meanest landlord in our town. But in the two decades and several years that I had known her, she had only run off three tenants for failing to pay rent on time. Yet many others had not only been delinquent, but had also been deficient in their offerings so frequently that they could never hope to catch up on their arrears unless they won a lottery or stumbled across someone’s stash of loot.

By the way, I only worked at the smelting plant part time. I was Urladae’s full-time vassal. At least, she thought so. My loyalty to her had less to do with honor than love. She had been a mother to me most of the time that I had known her. But the love that bound me to her burned only partly in her favor. About that matter, I shall have much to say later.

The cluster of duplexes that included mine occupied a sanctuary of gardens, tree-shaded lawns, frog ponds, and stone walkways. Sandwiched by hedges, a low, thick wall of stone lined its front as well as its western and eastern sides. Gates of wrought iron guarded their breaches. Urladae’s driveway stretched between the stonewall and hedges lining the sanctuary’s western side and a somewhat taller stonewall lining a neighbor’s property farther to the west. More hedges and a fairly high wall of stone lined the sanctuary’s north side. My duplex was situated closer than were any of the others to the archway opening through the wall in question. Beyond it, Urladae’s villa presided at the heart of another sanctuary. Such was nearly twice as vast as was the other one. Besides gardens, tree-shaded lawns, frog ponds, and stone walkways, it was adorned with many statues of celestial beings and stone planters carved into the likenesses of various beasts resting.

Draping the grandeur of the villa’s corner towers were ivy, clotus, and star burst. Flowers of fluorescent blue speckled the latter vines. Their beauty also adorned the walls enclosing the villa’s outer courtyards and gardens, as well as the walls of the four-car garage connected to the villa by a breezeway.

It is no exaggeration to say that Urladae’s villa was a gallery of fine art, antiques, and mementos. Most of its ceilings were lofty. Earth tones adorned its walls whether they were of stucco or stone. Terracotta framed the mosaics of semi-precious stones adorning some of its floors. The shimmer of marble defined others, while the reddish-brown luster of planking rendered the remainder of them beautiful around hueful rugs and carpets decorated with subtle designs. Plants flourished in every room, most of which were split-level.

The first favor that Urladae imposed sent me back into the rain to her vegetable garden—ha, I had worked on it much more than she had. After I filled a basket with all sorts of vegetables, fruits, and herbs, she asked me to raid her hen house. Next, she requested that I visit the corner store to satisfy a rather long list of wants and needs. I took my time returning. Then she announced that I was going to help her rearrange the furniture in her parlor. “But first,” she said, “we shall treat our bellies to a fine repast…Go tell her Highness that supper will be ready in about half an hour.” More anxious to complete that task than I might have seemed, I headed upstairs and knocked on a door separating me from an object of great fascination and frustration. The entity that the old lady had referred to as “her Highness” was Innuwa, her only child still living with her—more or less. Sometimes, Innuwa disappeared for weeks or even months at a time. Likewise, she seldom stayed home more than three or four days in a row, and on most evenings, she ventured to parts unknown for several hours, often coming home well after midnight.

An unrepentant matchmaker, Urladae had long plotted to arrange things so that Innuwa and I might fall in love and live happily forever after, producing many babies for her to dote over. The only problem was that Innuwa preferred exciting men, particularly those who could afford her taste for luxury. Still, she seemed fond of me, and I never gave up trying to fulfill Urladae’s hopes in our regard. For Innuwa was charming and vivacious, and even prettier and more voluptuous than her mother had once been. Indeed, she was a doe-eyed masterpiece of femininity, sculpted as if in bronze. Strikingly unique, the grace of her visage could nearly be described as cherubic. Her mane spilled around its radiance to the small of her back in springs of raven; her aura was warm and electric. She was quite a bit taller than her mother was, or for that matter, any other woman that I had ever met whose heritage boasted more than a few Amonkari genes. Despite being a party queen and a backdoor belle, she was supple and sinewy, and more than a little tomboyish. Worst of all, her voice was sultry. Its sensuous undertones inspired my imagination to consider all sorts of naughty aspirations whenever she spoke. That remained true even if she happened to mention one of her lovers. Anyway, hearing her talk was only part of the treat to be had. For she was one of those expressive, animated types who usually gestured and posed whenever she spoke. Likewise, her face changed expressions with nearly every phrase. Presently, I was denied the pleasure of watching her speak. “Come on in, Tristan,” she said just loudly enough for me to hear her through the door and the waft of journalistic prattle, drifting upstairs from the holovision set in Urladae’s den.

With some trepidation, I opened the door and stepped inside Innuwa’s bedroom. Its half-light leaked from the open door of her dressing room. So, too, did the waft of high-energy music. Following its gay melody, I found Innuwa primping. That was less than surprising. She seldom left her little refuge of whatnots, lavishly adorned dolls, mirrors, and jewelry boxes without dressing up as if she were headed to a party. Presently, she was sitting in front of a glamour mirror, applying cosmetics. We had become so familiar with each other that she no longer bothered to wrap herself in robes whenever she invited me into her world. And so, she wore only a lavender negligee and too much jewelry. Trying to avoid staring at the thrust of her breasts, I ventured through an old routine whereby I wondered whether she was teasing me to gain my interest or demonstrating how little she might care what I thought. For Amonkari girls were taught to remain more or less formal and modest around all men, except those whom they either cared deeply about or disdained as being far beneath their dignity. Regardless, I focused my attention on the reflection of her visage in the glamour mirror and soon noticed that the sheen of her eyes seemed dull. Assuming that she was distraught over the Imperator’s death and its dreadful implications, I asked, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she said and continued painting the fullness of her cheeks with highlights.

“Well,” I informed her, “mom says supper will be ready in about half an hour.”

“How’s she taking the news?” Innuwa inquired.

“So far, she seems to be ignoring it.”

“That’s mom, alright,” Innuwa remarked and prepared to apply lipstick.

“How about you?” I asked, “What’s your perspective?”

“We’re screwed.”

“I hate to agree,” I said, then suddenly perceived that the Imperator’s demise was only one of Innuwa’s concerns. To be sure, our minds had long before then become linked. Though that seldom helped me decipher how she felt about me--probably because she remained conflicted and uncertain—it, nevertheless, usually clued me in on what she happened to be feeling and thinking about other concerns. At the moment, I sensed that she was upset about something involving one of her boyfriends.

For the next several minutes, she and I chatted about nothing in particular. She then finally finished enhancing the splendor of her visage. Afterward, she lit a cigarette and puffed on it a few times before looking up at me. For a moment, I thought that she might divulge some great secret. Instead, she patted me on the arm and asked me to braid her hair. Once I completed that battle, she made her way to one of her dressing room’s two closets and began fretting over what she should wear. Now and then, she produced a gown or a caftan and requested my opinion. I knew that nothing I might say mattered all that much. But I kept rendering my views as if they might mean something, anyway. In doing so, I made sure to mention how this or that made her seem thoroughly enchanting or devastatingly gorgeous. She appreciated my compliments. Then she surprised me, and possibly herself, too, by preparing to don a pair of faded blue jeans, knee boots complete with spurs, and a short tunic ablaze with a repeating scene of her favorite rock band performing in a battle zone. Meanwhile, my glimpses of her allure bared raw and luscious demanded that I grab her and let the consequences wait until I had satiated both of us. Somehow, though, I managed to restrain myself and carry out my end of our conversation as if I could care less that she was naked.

Before we left her dressing room, she surprised me once again by hugging me and saying, “I’m so glad that you’re my friend.” She then kissed me on the cheek. After we released each other, she playfully tugged on my beard. I retaliated by pinching one of her nipples, which prompted her to slap me mostly in jest and say, “Oh, Tristan, you can be so darn naughty sometimes.” Then she kissed me on the cheek, again, and thumped my nose before turning about and daring me to swat her rump—or so I believed. “Watch it,” she growled and pranced away, snatching her riding coat off of a wall rack on the way out of her dressing room. Together with her outfit, the coat’s black leather and golden studs comprised a declaration of her intention to soar free and prowl with great purpose that evening….

As usual, our supper turned out to be a banquet of Amaronian, Sabachani, and Amonkari delights washed down by ambrosia and topped off by ice cream of various flavors. The entire time that I stuffed myself, I kept wondering what was troubling Innuwa. Urladae wondered the same thing. But she neglected to pester Innuwa with any direct questions. For she knew that “her Highness” would refuse to impart her secrets until she was damn well ready to do so.

By the way, throughout this tale, I shall mention Sabachani this and Sabachani that. For those of you unfamiliar with that term, it pertains to the predominant ethnic group in the Darsythia. A mixed-race people, the Sabachani were of mostly Sartan and Amonkari heritage. Such, however, also included Amaronian, Numedian, and Hykosian roots. As it was, many Sabachani were good people. Many others were fascists. Most of the remainder more or less sympathized with fascist ideals and goals. Whatever the case, far too many of them tended to consider themselves superior to everyone else in Darsythia. Due to that attitude and its consequences, we who lived in their collective shadow yearned to find some way to humble them—or render them extinct. We also dreamed of snatching their wealth and power and making such ours. But until the death of our beloved Imperator Giliad IV pushed us into a proverbial corner by allowing the fascists to gain control of Darsythia, most of us only dared to hope and wish. After all, the ranks of the Republic’s ruling faction, the Sabax Party, were mostly composed of Sabachani patricians and plutocrats. That, of course, meant they exercised more than enough power to suppress our ambitions. With the rise of the fascists, though, the fear of what the Sabachani could do to us had been replaced by the fear of what they would do to us if we failed to overthrow them. Presently, Urladae, Innuwa, and I reaffirmed that notion, while discussing the turmoil and strife that had already begun troubling various potions of Darsythia, including much of Holmstad and the remainder of Evera.

Soon after we finally left the table and drifted into the den, Innuwa announced that she would return sometime after midnight. She then departed. In her wake, Urladae said over the happy music of a commercial, streaming out of her holovision set, “Something is really bothering our girl. Did she happen to say what it might be?”

“She started to,” I reported. “But you know her. She balked, and I couldn’t pry anything out after that. But I did notice that she failed to mention any of her boyfriends.”

“Hmmm,” Urladae said, while putting out her cigarette, “that probably doesn’t mean anything. Then again…I hope she isn’t planning on eloping with that scumbag, Felix.”

“I hope she will keep her hovercycle near the speed limit,” I said, while thinking about all of the scary rides that Innuwa had taken me on. “As upset as she seems, she might be in a mood to rev it out and dare disaster.”

“My frets exactly,” Urladae remarked….

After finally leaving Urladae’s villa, I made my way to the duplex of Tinker Gordon. Like Innuwa was--which was how I wanted to be--he seldom crawled out of bed before late afternoon and sometimes slept until evening. He was pleased that I had brought him leftovers from supper. I feared that, if I failed to do so often enough, he might starve to death. For he usually just snacked on crackers and nuts and drank soda pop, while getting lost in his obsessions. His furniture consisted of assorted chairs, tables, and desks, most of which were burdened by all sorts of electronic and positronic devises, including various computers. Though nearly everyone in the neighborhood deemed him weird, they never ceased bringing him their computers, appliances, and gadgets to repair. The money that he earned through such efforts kept his finances solvent in between sales of the computer programs that he designed. Unlike most geeks, he looked like a caveman dressed in dirty clothes. Soap and water rarely ever touched any part of him other than his hands; brushes and combs plowed his mane only a little more often than scissors visited his whiskers. As he presently scarfed down the leftovers, I asked, “Did you hear about the Imperator?”

“Uh-uh.”

“He’s dead.”

“Not good.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “So, what do you think about his named successor, Attica?”

“She’s fine,” Tinker mumbled with his mouth nearly full. “We can only hope that she will live long enough to succeed him.”

“No kidding,” I said. Then as I started to point out all sorts of possibilities, Tinker proved how scatterbrained he could be by leaping off on a tangent, “So, how are you and Innuwa getting along?”

“As good as usual,” I admitted, “which means I’m still stuck on square three with her.”

“She was crying when she left a while ago.”

Chapter 2

Narrator: Brandon Truwain….

It was one of those times that you remember forever. I was in Bull’s Tavern, trying to forget who I was and why I was contemplating suicide. Loralynn had stood me up, again. But her shenanigans weren’t the only reasons that I kept thinking I wanted to end my life. Though I believed the others were also important, their pangs would pale insignificant compared to the imperatives that would soon demand that I live, while contorting and straining my existence into something that I could only dream of experiencing. Their impetus was conceived the moment that we heard the news—our beloved Imperator had died. Of course, none of us wanted to believe it. Doran kept insisting that he wasn’t kidding and hadn’t been tripping. Not until someone turned on the tavern’s holovision set and we heard some jackass on the local news, proclaiming that the Imperator was dead, did we begin believing it might be so. We, however, rejected the suggestion that he had killed himself. For our suspicions assured us that the fascists had engineered his demise one way or another.

As soon as we began recovering from the shock that the Imperator had been taken from us, we started worrying about the implications. For we had no doubt that an era of darkness and strife was at hand and that its turmoil would lead to a civil war. The fascists would push and push until the rest of us got fed up enough to start shooting and burning things. A few years earlier, I might have looked forward to such anarchy. Since then, the warrior in me had gotten a little too old to appreciate hardship and danger, though it and every other part still despised the fascists enough to desire killing them and wrecking their plans whatever such might be.

About an hour after we had begun digesting the news of the Imperator’s death, my drinking buddies, Owen and Wilhem, decided to hunt down their excuses for wives. Soon after they bid adieu, something extraordinary occurred: Destiny threw me a lifeline in the guise of my favorite cousin, Bruce. Actually, we were each other’s best friends, though that hadn’t been apparent for several years.

Bruce had been born a few hours after my debut. Since then, our lives had virtually become a case study of parallels and contrasts. To begin with, we resembled each other enough that people tended to believe we actually were twins. Most of our acquaintances suspected that I was the evil one. Even so, he was a little taller than I was, and I was a little huskier than he happened to be. His face was a little broader and handsomer than was mine, which was somewhat more angular. Our eyes were nearly the same shade of bluish green, mine being slightly darker and smaller than were his. Likewise, our manes were luxuriant and wavy. The brown of mine, however, was slightly yellowish, while that of his was slightly reddish. My beard was nearly bushy, and his was nearly well trimmed. His mind functioned much quicker than did mine, but mine was deeper and wider. He tended to be rational to the point of driving me mad, while I tended to be mystical to the point of disgusting him. I had inherited thirty acres of boggy woods; he had inherited thirty thousand acres of wooded pastures.

We were related through our mothers. Both of us considered his to be a greedy bitch. She had become the matriarch of the Hubert Clan. My mother was her youngest sister—the black sheep of the family. Before she had married my father, she had been married three other times and had produced a son and a daughter. I could barely remember them and nearly wished that I could forget the brother and sister that my father had sired. For they had turned out just like him—jackasses. Both had joined the Imperial Navy and had become officers. As you can probably guess, my father and I despised each other. He had wanted me to become either a football star or a heroic warrior, while my mother had always dreamed that I might become either a rock star or an artist of renown. All I ever wanted to be, though, was a writer. Regardless, I had cried at both of their funerals. A few months after my mother had died of a heart attack, rustlers had murdered Bruce’s father. Like my father, the gentleman in question was a pagan, while our mothers were Messianic to the core. Though Bruce respected both pagan and Messianic beliefs, he remained disinclined to worship any god or goddess. I did my best to honor most of them.

A few months after his father had died, Bruce’s wife ran away with one of his buddies. He then cut himself off from nearly everyone, including me. Our relationship had been suffering long before then. For I had resented him being a child of privilege, and he had resented me for being more talented in both the arts and sports. Ironically, he had always been more competitive than I was. It even bothered him that my male appendage was somewhat plumper than was his—never mind that his was a little longer than was mine. Perhaps to prove that he was manlier than I was, he had made a point of winning more lovers than I did--not that it did him much good. His women usually turned out to be either gold diggers or sluts. Mine usually turned out to be crazy.

Presently, none of that mattered to me. I even forgave Bruce for sleeping with my former wife. Of course, I conveniently overlooked the fact that several of his former girlfriends had sneaked over to my abode on various occasions. There is the distinct possibility that he paid child support for two babies that my sins might have spawned. Anyway, I was anxious to talk to Bruce. He failed to notice me at first. And so, I waited not quite patiently, while he wandered around the tavern, pestering its patrons and staff with inquiries. As he then finally noticed me, he forgot whatever he was doing and headed straight to my corner booth, nearly trampling a waitress and two revelers in the process. We hugged and patted each other on the back. Then I invited him to join me. After he sat down and ordered a drink, I asked over the ribald music tickling our ears, “So, why were you going around bothering everyone?”

“Oh, man,” Bruce replied, while preparing to light a cigarette, “I’m looking for that silly bitch, Brandy. She was supposed to meet me at Delbert’s hideaway. You haven’t seen her, have you?”

“Nope,” I lied. She had left the tavern with some dandy just after I had arrived. But I didn’t wish to upset Bruce.

“Fuck it,” Bruce grumbled. “I don’t give a shit what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with…I’m through with her sorry ass….”

Soon after a waitress finally arrived with his drink, Bruce said, “Brandon, my man, I’ve been wanting to drop by your place for quite a while now. But, dammit, every time I think about it, I end up getting as busy as the Devil and more distracted than a busybody eavesdropping on an orgy.”

“Well,” I told him with more sincerity than I felt, “I’ve been meaning to visit you, too. But lately, I’ve been too busy to think straight whenever I haven’t been too bummed out to think at all or do anything.”

“What’s up?” Bruce asked, while preparing to light another cigarette. I puffed on mine twice, then struggled to refrain from whining, “My publishing business is going nowhere and both of my trucks are dead. I can’t afford to have them repaired. But even if I could, I don’t have enough customers left to make it worthwhile. So, I guess, my landscaping business is now history, which means I’m about a carton of cigarettes and a couple of six-packs away from being worse than broke. They’re letting me eat and drink on my tab here. But I have no idea how I’m gonna pay ‘em until I sell my shop. Of course, it’s so damn rundown and things are getting so bad that I won’t get diddly-squat for it…Oh well, I’ve been sort of anxious to move elsewhere, anyway. I’m getting sick and tired of this crappy town. The backwoods are calling me.”

“Not to be too pushy,” Bruce suggested, “but you’re always welcome to move in with me. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“I’d hate to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Bruce insisted and sipped some whiskey. “I always need help around the ranch and with my other enterprises, and from what I remember, you’re a topnotch hand at just about everything.”

“Thank you,” I said. Though I was interested in Bruce’s proposal, my pride refused to give in easily. For accepting help from him seemed tantamount to declaring myself thoroughly defeated by life. Unfortunately, all of my other options were even less palatable. And so, I soon found myself asking, “Would you mind if I brought along my kitties and my ringtails?” The latter were raccoon-like creatures. Amaronian immigrants had brought them to Evera as pets. Since then, feral ringtails had spread to most lowland and many upland regions of her. “They’re real well behaved,” I added.

“Heck,” Bruce replied, “I don’t give a flip if you bring along your polecats, too.” Pausing, he puffed on his cigarette a few times, then thought to ask, “So, how are the little farts Alfred and Eddy doing?”

“They’re now big fat farts,” I said and sipped some brandy. “They’re probably getting all bent out of shape, wondering where I am and why I’m neglecting adhere to their preferred feeding schedule.”

“Yeah,” Bruce observed, “ringtails don’t have much of a sense of humor when it comes to food. In fact, one could say that they’re pretty damn demanding about it. Even my more or less wild ones require lots of tribute.” He paused and sipped some whiskey. Then hanging his head as if in shame, he said, “Brandon, dammit, I feel so awful, cutting you out [of my life] the way I did. But at the time, I was wobbling through the fringes of insanity.”

“I understand.”

“Well, it’s inexcusable,” Bruce asserted. “What I most regret is not properly thanking you for helping me and Chyndol track down dad’s killers.” Chyndol was his sister with whom he shared his ranch. Nearly everyone who knew her considered her weird. But I had always liked her, even though she deemed me to be a loser.

“Don’t worry about it,” I insisted. “I loved your dad, too. It was the least I could do.”

“Well, your help meant a helluva lot to us,” Bruce assured me. “Chyndol still marvels at how you outdrew that one bastard and shot that other son-of-a-bitch when he was leaping that wall. Both of ‘em were dead before they hit the ground. Man, you’d have made a badass gunslinger, and you’d still make a heavy-duty soldier.”

“Unfortunately,” I pointed out, “I just might get a chance yet to prove myself.”

“No shit,” Bruce said. “Civil war is coming this way for sure….”

As Bruce and I became reacquainted, neither of us noticed a pair of figures entering the tavern. They were acquaintances of mine. But they were hunting Bruce. Of course, I had no idea that might be so at the time. Before they made their move, Bruce’s squire, Beetle, arrived to deliver a pack of cigarettes and implore him, “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I might mosey over to Dee’s place and see what’s up.”

“Go for it,” Bruce replied and sipped some whiskey.

“I’ll try to be home tomorrow morning fairly early,” Beetle promised.

“Whatever,” Bruce said, causing a broad smile to twist Beetle’s lips. He was a skinny, puppy-eyed kid with the hint of a mustache and stringy hair of dark brown. His real name, or at least, the one that he claimed, was Yonnas. Bruce called him Beetle because he used to like playing with such creatures and still liked eating them, now and then—a habit that he had picked up, while roaming the wharf district of Holmstad’s south side as an orphan. Presently, he thanked Bruce and lit a cigarette. As Bruce and I then watched him saunter toward the tavern’s main entrance, the previously mentioned acquaintances were watching us. One of them called himself Zed. He and his wife, Savannah, had just emerged from the billiards room and were pretending to search for some place to park themselves. My table was among the few in the tavern that happened to be uncrowded. It was also in a corner booth. From what I could remember, that was Zed’s preferred vantagepoint. Beyond that, all I knew about him and Savannah was that they were outlaws who acted as the property managers for one of Zed’s uncles, a local shyster. Anyway, Zed was swarthy and lanky and had greasy hair that was not quite long, especially compared to Bruce’s or mine. His wife’s mane was golden, and she was big and hard enough to be considered an amazon. Still, Savannah was attractive, particularly in the way that her tits stretched her tunic. It was nearly impossible to refrain from staring at their heaves. Her eyes, however, were pretty enough to garner attention on their own, being large and bright green. Their smile seemed no less mischievous than smart-alecky. Zed’s eyes, in turn, were both beady and shifty. His beard was unaccompanied by a mustache; his nose was pointed and had a notched tip. “Mind if we impose?” He asked Bruce and me.

“Not at all,” I fibbed and sipped some brandy. Something about him and Savannah scared me in all sorts of ways. But I was too polite to act rudely. Besides, I hoped that they might somehow lead me to Reba. She usually accompanied them to the tavern. To keep from seeming anxious, I neglected to mention her. Somehow, though, I doubted that I was fooling either Zed or Savannah. For, nearly every time that I had encountered Reba, I had teetered on the verge of making a fool of myself, while striving to win her favor. That was true of almost every man who contended with her flirtations and evasions. It wasn’t that she was gorgeous or even all that alluring, except in a slinky, witchy way promising all sorts of wonders in bed. Even so, her spirit was quite powerful and magnetic, and she was enveloped in an aura of mystery that dared exploration. I actually believed that I was man enough to mount an expedition. Too bad that I had never paid much attention to the old adage advising caution regarding wishes. Indeed, my wishes had me ravaging the toys of both Savannah and Reba. The former was guilty of encouraging my naughty thoughts in her regard by surreptitiously playing with my crotch and winking at me. Zed didn’t seem to care that she also flirted with me. At the time, I thought that everything about them was spontaneous to some disturbing degree—the kind of impetuosity that almost always leads to trouble. As it would eventually turn out, though, nothing about them at present was the least bit impulsive. With every word and gesture, they contrived to draw Bruce and me deeper and deeper into their web of intrigue, and we were fools, blundering along like children fascinated by the perils threatening to devour them. Of course, Bruce and I were getting hornier and drunker every minute. Meanwhile, Savannah began looking more and more delicious….

Zed bought Bruce and me one last round of drinks. As I then sipped its sweet fire, Savannah purred, “Hey, honey, you really ought to follow us home. We have a remedy that can help you and Bruce sober up in a really fine way. I promise.”

“Really?” I asked, “What is it?”

“That’s a secret,” Savannah giggled. “But I guarantee that y’all will like it.” She then winked at me yet once again, while patting Bruce’s thigh.

“Well, then,” I slurred, “let’s go sober us up a bit.”

Bruce concurred.

“It’s not far,” Zed assured him. “We’ll drive slow and easy for you.”

“Good,” Bruce said and fumbled his lighter onto the floor, while trying to light a cigarette. Then he dropped the cigarette…Somehow, he and I managed to drive our hovercycles the half-mile required to park them in an alley stretching between a high brick wall and a concrete immensity hosting shops, parlors, and offices. Zed helped Bruce stumble his way up a stairway—the metal kind that resounds against every footfall daring to trespass on its tranquility. Meanwhile, above them, Savannah helped me ascend to the roof of the immensity, which served as the yard of something akin to a penthouse. Ferns, shrubs, and herbs of all kinds flourished across its vastness. The structure that their verdance surrounded was mostly windows. It served both as the entrance hall of the apartment below it and as a meditation sanctuary. “Savannah, me, and Reba come up here a lot,” Zed told Bruce and me. “It’s our favorite room other than our den. But you’ll have to wait to enjoy its ambiance. For Reba’s boyfriend hasn’t left yet, and if he sees you guys here, he’s liable to start getting a bit nervous about leaving. He’s very jealous, you know. So, stay quiet until we get inside our quarters.”

I nodded. Zed then helped Bruce stumble his way down a stairway into one end of a corridor, while Savannah continued helping me to avoid falling. We eventually arrived in a bedroom that was split-level and quite large. Protruding from a recess of its upper end was an oil bed expansive enough to accommodate at least three couples. As Bruce and I admired it, I began getting nervous. For I had never before accompanied a woman and her husband into their bedroom. In fact, I had never visited a married woman’s bedroom before, though I had dallied with more than a few married women. “It’s alright, Brandon,” Zed assured me. “Savannah’s got enough loving saved up to satisfy all of us guys.”

“Hell, yeah,” Savannah warbled. “I can handle whatever you studs care to give.” Meanwhile, she began undressing me. By then, I no longer wanted to play. But I was too drunk to drive all of the way home. Besides, I still hoped to encounter Reba, and I loathed insulting my hosts. Thus, I played along, anyway. That wasn’t very difficult once Savannah took off her own clothes. Her tits were even more impressive than I had imagined. For they were not only of grand proportions, but were also well shaped and appeared to be fairly firm. Not nearly as firm as my dick was, of course. Nonetheless, Savannah proceeded to help Bruce undress.

“Since you’re the guests of honor,” Zed announced, “you two get to go first, my buddies. I’ve got to go make a few phone calls. So, enjoy it to the utmost. Just be sure to leave me some.” He then left through the bedroom’s nearest door, while Savannah posed enticingly on the oil bed. Both Bruce and I hesitated to join her. Yet every part of her looked scrumptious. To my surprise, she was fat free, except in her tits. Without them, she would have looked quite athletic. It was apparent that she worked out regularly, and I had no doubt that she could beat me up if I became stupid enough to piss her off. With that in mind, I eased onto the bed to one side of her, while Bruce got comfortable to the other. Soon afterward, Savannah kissed me in a way that made me feel as though we were preparing to make love rather than just fuck. Before we did either, she insisted on dressing my favorite appendage with a condom. She then did the same thing to Bruce’s pride and joy. Meanwhile, I warned her, “I haven’t been with a lady in months. So, I’m liable to be a little disappointing at first. But if we be patient, my little soldier will come back quickly and be meaner than ever.”

“I understand,” Savannah purred. “It’ll be OK. We’ll have plenty of fun.” She then rolled over onto her back and spread her legs. Bruce then played with Savannah’s tits, while I kissed her pussy. Then once such was sufficiently primed, I proceeded to discover that it was rather tight. It took me several moments to work the cravings of my dick into its vortex of heat and juices. As I expected, I climaxed somewhat quickly….

Bruce needed no prompting to mount Savannah. A few moments after he finally stopped fucking her, Zed returned and began making love to his wife, while Bruce and I shared a reefer and tried not to watch. My embarrassment almost caused me to loose all interest in further pleasing Savannah. But about the same time that my dick was ready to frolic with her pussy again, Zed blew his load, then announced, “Well, I need to go take care of some business. I’ll probably be gone for at least two hours, kids. So, have fun.” He then crawled out of bed and got dressed, while Savannah produced another condom. Noting that Zed had worn one, too, I decided to give his wife a thrill and kiss her pussy again until it went crazy. She appreciated my efforts. As it turned out, Bruce and I were still taking turns fucking Savannah when Zed returned nearly three hours later. Reba arrived with him. She didn’t say anything. Peeling off her robes, she exposed a body of elegant outlines and rich curves. Her complexion was the same golden brown of bread crust. The burnt gold of her mane was much darker, while that of her eyes was a little lighter. Not that either Bruce or I gave a damn about any of that at the moment. Being silly humans, however, we were jealous that she gave her pussy to Zed, even though one of us was fucking his wife, while the other prepared to do so. Fortunately, he again used a condom, which invited me to impress Reba the same way that I had delighted Savannah. That is, I kissed her pussy until she begged me to stop and be a man. I was then relieved to discover that its embrace was even tighter than was that of Savannah’s version and that she could use it better than Savannah could wield hers. Meanwhile, I began showing her how wonderful my dick could make her feel. Before I finished doing so, she cooed, “Take me home with you.”

“What about your boyfriend?&rdquo