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Book III – Return to Earth

Chapter 7 – The Return of Mister Ross

After arranging the slumbering Sir Percival comfortably and seeing to his horse and kit there was still more than half a day of sunlight available. James had Merlin lead them in a new direction, towards the secret portal where Ross was likely waiting in ambush. James had already had the fake wizard write down the directions. “just in case”, and describe the human habitations along the route.

The day was cool, and the air was heavy, trapping anything put into it below the low clouds. Cottages and homes could be discerned long before they came into sight by the layer of smoke hanging over them, and as evening grew near a haze large enough to cover a village appeared above the trees.

“Is that the place?” James asked Merlin.

“It should be, yes.”

“Then we’ll camp here, without a fire.” He advised the others. The companions paired off to lay out their bedrolls, and Magnus allowed the old con artist to share his as the night promised to be chilly.

“Just don’t get any ideas.” The deer-man warned, not being sure who or what Merlin might be into.

“Ideas?” The white bearded fraud asked with palms turn up in a show of innocence. “I’ve never had an idea in my life.”

“Not a good one, anyway.” Chris mumbled.

Everyone stayed in the camp that night as there was no need for firewood or provisions. Except for Merlin they each took a turn on watch in case any wayward villagers stumbled upon them.

After a cold breakfast the next morning they set out.

“To the forge first.” James directed. “After that we can spit up and reprovision. It would not hurt the plan either if Ross has spies in the village that reported us moving toward the portal.”

The forge was outside of the village, near a bridge over a river, at crossroads that looked like it was a junction of two major byways back in Roman days. Now the surfaces of both were broken and overgrown and there was no sound coming from what had once been a busy blacksmith shop.

“Hail the smithy.” James called as the unusual group approached.

A man almost as large as Gael came out from the forge where he had obviously been watching them approach. He did not exhibit any fear at the sight of the armed group; smiths were too valuable an asset to kill out of hand.

“I’m the smith.” He replied as he wiped his hands on a dirty cloth.

“Well met, good sir.” James said as he offered his forearm in the manner the country folk thereabouts did.

Still skeptical but noting the expensive jewels on their weapons, the smith took James’ forearm beside his and gripped the lad’s elbow. James gripped back briefly.

“You have some trade for me?”

“In a manner of speaking. One of my companions is a smith also, and we would like to rent your forge so that we can make some repairs to our gear.”

The smith looked aghast. “Rent me forge? Use me tools?”

“My friend will treat them with the utmost respect, and we could compensate you generously.” James pulled out a handful of the smaller gems left over from his inheritance and began poking one then another across his palm while watching the smith’s eyes.

Two small rubies and a mid-sized emerald seemed to be enough to make the big man about to swoon. James paused then added a small diamond of perfect clarity. “And we’d appreciate discretion.” He said as he moved his hand toward the smith.

“Smiths are always discrete.” The man grumbled, but he took all four gems none the less. “You can have the forge for the day, but I stay to make sure whatever dark magic your man is up to doesn’t destroy me means of livelihood.”

“Deal.” James said, gripping the man’s huge forearm again. “Gael, why don’t you get settled in while I get the rest sorted out?”

Gael stepped around the human smith and entered the forge. He was pleased to find that it was clean, as far as forges went, with the tools well oiled and arranged on their pegs. The fire pit was hot, full of coals that just needed to be piled in the centre to reach peak temperature. It appeared that the smith had been preparing to make horseshoes and nails, staple work for any competent smith, but there was evidence that this smith or his ancestors had been weapons makers as well. Blanks for swords hung by the fire and cuts in the great oak beams and supports showed where their edges had been tested.

Gael saw a piece of plain iron just the size he needed in a pile of broken farm implements.

“Can I use this.” He asked, picking it up.

The smith smiled and grunted. “For what you paid you can have the lot.”

Gael dipped his head in thanks. He took the iron to the forge and set it down. He was about to take the tongs and bury it in the hot coals when he noticed how the sleeves on his robe hung too far down.

“I’m going to have to take this robe off to work.” He said.

The human nodded with a slight smile. “Aye, that you will.”

Gael swung his head under the concealing hood to the smith. The big human shrugged. He had already promised his discretion, to ask again would be an insult. Gael shrugged too and pulled his hood back, revealing his long equine face.

“Ha! I knew it.” The smith declared, slapping his knee. “You are fairy folk from the western isles!”

Gael was surprised at how well the smith was taking it. “You seem to know all about us, uh, fairy folk.”

“I should! Me father and me grandfather been filling me with tales of how your kind used to travel down these roads regular in the old times, before the Romans came, when our ancestors first built this forge. They taught our family the secrets of working with iron that fell from the skies, and thereafter many a general and would-be emperor came to have a sword forged here. It’s said,” he continued with his voice lowered, “that Excalibur itself was made here by fairy folk using star stone dredged from a holy lake in the west.”

The man paused and looked at Gael with admiration and awe. “Ever since I head that one I’ve hoped and prayed that one day the fairy smiths would come back and grace us again … and here you are!”

“Yes.” Gael said as he dropped his robe to reveal his naked torso. “Doesn’t it strike you as unusual to have a horse as a blacksmith?”

“A fitting profession for one as wot wears iron shoes. I suspect you are very good at it, too.”

“Thank you. I am rather proficient, and I have a very important piece to finish today, so If I may?”

The smith scrambled out of the way. “Please, may I stay and watch?”

Gael grinned. “You can do better than that, you can help me.”

Outside, James was dividing the rest into groups. “Annie, you and Junafir stay here to watch Merlin and intercept any locals that try to get into the forge. Tell them that the smith is working on an exclusive rush job for, uh, a foreign prince. Coyotka, you said that pilgrims would be expected to beg for alms along their route to pay for their travel. You and Chris and Magnus can go to the village church to solicit funds. I’ll take what few coins of the realm we have to replenish our stocks and ask around about mysterious bald men in black.”

They spilt up. James strode off into the village boldly, in keeping with his role as a mercenary guard. Annie and Junafir took up positions outside the forge, with the tigress keeping her robe and hood up to prevent a passerby from seeing her orange and black fur. Chris, Coyotka and Magnus shuffled into town far behind James, keeping their hoods up and heads down as behooved the pious penitents they pretended to be.

As was common, the local church occupied a prized position on the sunny side of the village square. The three squatted in front of it, gesturing solemnly and calling for alms to support their holy pilgrimage. Most of the villagers crossed the square to avoid them, as pilgrims tended to be pushy and smelly. A few ventured close enough to toss the smallest of copper coins at their feet, mostly for the chance to eye Magnus’ elaborate ‘headdress’.

“I’m going to sit in that alcove over there,” Magnus informed Coyotka when he grew tired of people sneaking glimpses at his antlers, “to get out of sight.”

“Okay.”

Magnus got up and moved around the corner where there was a space between the buttresses supporting the church’s stone walls. He sat down and pulled out his home-made harp and began to sing softly. He would have preferred to use his magic lute to accompany him but if anyone saw the spectral instrument floating in mid air they would all be burned as witches, so he made due with what he had.

Without realizing it, Magnus began singing songs about lost love and tragic romances. He rarely sang them in the pubs and taverns back home because despite being able to play each note to perfection his renditions lacked the emotional depth needed to really bring them to life, and the audiences’ reactions had been lukewarm at best. But now he was drawn to them as thoughts of Netyu and their abandoned affair still stung him. Previously the songs had been just words, but now he could appreciate the feeling behind each that had compelled the bards to write them.

He began with one about a lover that proved untrue, then followed with one about a bride that died on the eve of her marriage. Once about forbidden love preceded another about a false suitor who killed his new bride for her money.

He was just finishing one about a man that went to the gallows for a murder he did not commit rather than admit he was cheating on his wife at the time the crime was committed when his head came up at the sound of a muffled sob. To his surprise he saw that over a dozen villagers had gathered in front of his hiding place. They stood there silently, some wiping tears from their faces, as the last notes faded in the air.

Magnus had left the bag for his harp on the ground at his feet. An old man shuffled forward and wiped his face on a fairly clean sleeve before dropping a small silver coin into the bag.

“Oh, lad,” the old man said between sniffles, “you may be a man of the cloth now, but you’ve lived a life, I can tell. Whoever it was that broke your heart and drove you to the priesthood, I hope she was worth it.”

“She was.” Magnus answered without thinking.

One by one the rest of the village audience came forward when it was obvious that the stranger in the antler headdress was done singing. Some dropped coins, others dropped foodstuffs, buns and bread and early apples. One even threw in a small goatskin of wine. After that they all went on their separate ways.

Except for one woman.

She was young, but no maiden, as Darryl would have said, Magnus noted. She was short, stout and plump, with large round breasts barely contained by her tight blouse. She seemed to be particularly affected by Magnus’ songs, smiling and crying at the same time.

“I must go.” Magnus told her as she stood and placed his harp in its bag with the donations. “If you would excuse me, madam?”

The woman almost swooned as Magnus brushed past her, sneaking a hand out to clutch his robe briefly before letting him go. Keeping his eyes straight forward Magnus made for the closest exit from of the village, which was unfortunately in the opposite direction of the forge.

As he rushed down the cobblestone path between the buildings, he could hear footsteps behind him. A quick glance confirmed that it was the matron with the big breasts. He lengthened his stride but could hear her rushed breathing and the slap of flesh on flesh as she hurried to keep pace with him. There was a path leading out of town ahead and he took it.

The path twisted and turned around old oaks and great willows. The ground was soft so he lost track of his pursuer, but she must have lost sight of him too, so he began to run, looking for a place to hide. One presented itself soon enough in the form of a small, abandoned chapel in a clearing by a brook. There was no other exit, but there was no other choice either, so Magnus dove into the dim interior and held his breath.

There was no sound at first, but soon he could hear her puffing along the track. The sound of heavy breathing continued, but it grew no louder or dimmer, indicating that she had stopped. If he could keep quite long enough, he thought, perhaps she would move on.

But it was not to be. More even breaths and the sound of a foot scraping the stone steps of the chapel told him that he was about to be discovered. He shrank back into the farthest corner.

“Ah, there you are!” The woman said as her eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the chapel. “Thought you might be in here by the mud you left on the step.”

Magnus cursed under his breath. He was going to have to be more careful if he was going to sneak about in worlds where his type were regarded as trophies … and this woman was not even a hunter!

“What are you afraid of, love?” The woman asked as she advanced on Magnus. “Can’t be me. A bloke wot sings like you must have broke a thousand hearts stronger then mine.

Magnus found his voice. “I assure you madam; I am not the kind that goes about breaking hearts.”

“Ah, but such a beautiful voice, and such sad songs, you must have been the one whose heart was broken then.” She pressed her ample bosom against him, forcing him back and onto a stone bench. “Is that it then? You afraid I’ll break your heart too, Dearie?”

She pressed her hand against his chest as she spoke and then drew it down hard along the line of his sternum, to his navel, and lower. “I won’t hurt you, Love. I lost me man to bandits two years ago, just after me latest was born, so I know what’s it like to have your heart broke.”

“Your husband was killed by bandits?” He was squirming as she groped his groin.

“Naw, he run off to join them. Left me with six kids and a mountain of debt, the bastard.”

Magnus tried to push her hands away, but only succeed in knocking his hood back. He froze when she gasped at the sight of his long, thin muzzle and black nose. He remained frozen as she reached up and pulled his hood all the way back to expose his big brown eyes and the roots of his antlers where they disappeared into the fur around his head.

“Cursed!” She exclaimed.

“It’s not what you think.” He tried to explain, afraid that she would start screaming and bring half the village down on them.

“You’ve been cursed by a witch, haven’t you?”

Gael repeated what she had said in confusion. “Cursed ... by a witch?”

She missed the inflection and assumed that he was confirming what she had suspected ever since she caught a glimpse of cloven feet under the edge of his robe back in the village.

“I knew it! No one sent by the devil could sing as sweet as you did, especially beside a church. Enough to make the angels jealous, it was. I’ll bet some witch cursed you with this shape when you refused to be her lover, didn’t she?”

“Uh … yes?”

“Ha! I knew it. I’m a woman of the world and as soon as I heard that voice, I knew the owner had suffered great pain and trials of the heart.” She pressed even harder against him. “Did she, uh, curse you with any other … maladies?” she asked with a glance down toward his groin. “To prevent you from loving another?”

In his relief over the fact that she was not going to scream for help Gael missed the inference in her glance, and thus sealed his fate.

“Oh, no. I look like a deer, but everything works just fine.”

“Really?” She said as her hand descended to his crotch and felt around where his sheath was. He had an involuntary reaction to her rubbing, one which she griped fiercely through his rough robe and the layers of skin. “Seems she did kind of rearrange things.” Her hand searched lower and locked onto his testicles. “But not completely.” She smiled.

“Madam, I assure you …”

She shushed him with a finger on his lips. “I know, you think that you are doomed, that you can never love again in this cursed form, but believe me, these things can be cured.”

“They can?”

“Yes, Love. The tales are full of them wot has been returned to their normal, tall, handsome state.” With each word she squeezed his balls a bit tighter. The she moved up to where his shaft was starting to poke out of its sheath. “Love is what it takes to break a witch’s curse.” She said as she rubbed his stiffening cock under his robe.

“Real- … really?”

“Oh yes. One sure way is true love’s kiss.” She leaned into him and planted her lips on his. Stroking him through the material of his robe she rolled her head and explored with her tongue. Gael did not resist. In fact, he found it somewhat pleasant. To think that a couple of weeks ago I would never have considered doing this with anyone but the doe destined to be my mate, he mused as his hand came up to caress one of her large breasts through the thin material of her blouse.

After a couple of minutes she pulled back and regarded his unchanged state.

“Hmmm. Perhaps you’re not destined to be mine. This is a tough one. Perchance the pure milk of a mother’s breast will cure you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The woman did not answer at first. Instead, she loosened the string that held her blouse over her breasts and set them free. They were big, and round, and swollen firm, and Magnus could see a white substance leaking from the nipples.

“I’ve a young one at home,” she explained, “two years now at the tit. Me mother’s watching him today, but it’s past time I was back to feed him. They say that the innocent act of drinking mother’s milk straight from the source will counter a witch’s curse, and it will bring some relief to my swollen teats, so wot say we help each other out, eh?”

Magnus’ eyes were big and round. Her breasts were as large as the utters on the milk cows back in Medioterrae, as just as pink. The nipples were big and round too, stretched buy the suckling mouths of a half dozen babes. Before he could say anything she pressed his head down on them.

He closed his eyes as he sealed his mouth around one great nipple. Instinctively he sucked on it, squeezing the aureole with his lips and gnawing gently with his grass-eater’s teeth. It brought back memories from his childhood, of suckling at his mother’s breast when he was barely out of diapers and burying his face between them for comfort long after he had been weaned. His hands continued to rub and caress the great globe of flesh as the warm, sweet milk ran down his throat.

It seemed to please the woman also, and after a couple of minutes she nudged his head over to the other breast. She was almost sitting on his lap now, but she had left enough room for her to continue stroking his growing erection. While he was distracted on her breast she pulled up his robe and slid her hand under to wrap it around a shaft that was growing harder, longer and hotter.

It was comforting, and very erotic, but he was not changing into a human.

“I was hoping that would do the trick.” The woman said, but she did not look disappointed in the least. “Now we need desperate measures.” She continued as she lifted his robe off over his head, only getting it stuck in his antlers for a moment. As soon as he was naked she knelt down on the dirt floor of the old chapel and wrapped her breasts around his long shaft.

“Good thing the witch gave you a stag’s cock too.” She crooned as she rubbed her breasts up and down along his long, pointed shaft. “Most of the men in this village would just disappear between these here tits.”

Magnus leaned back against the chapel wall as she massaged his dick with her breasts. They felt good and warm, smooth and meaty on his glistening shaft. Before she got going too fast she leaned her head down and spit on it to cool the friction. She squeezed them together around his cock, rolled them against it and rubbed her chest against his abdomen, all the while crooning words of love and encouragement. Gael had the impression that she had done this many times before.

After a few minutes of rubbing and whispering she took his hands and pressed them on either side of her breasts to free up her own. She used one to undo the buttons on the back of her dress and the other to caress his balls where they hung over the edge of the bench. Before long she had slipped her blouse and dress off and was kneeling naked between his knees.

Her body was as round and jiggly as her breasts, and Magnus was fascinated by the soft, rolling expanse of furless flesh. Releasing her breasts as she returned her hands to them he reached down and gave her bum a tentative poke. It dimpled and rippled at his touch.

“Don’t be shy, Love.” She told him. “Give it a bit of a slap and tickle.”

Magnus swallowed. He had never slapped a woman on the ass like the rowdy patrons did in the taverns, even though a few had thrust their big round bottoms in his face while he was performing. He raised his hand and brough it down on the big pink butt below him.

<whack>

“Ah, that felt good, dearie. Give me another, a little harder, eh?”

Magnus obliged.

<whack> “Ah yes.” She moaned as her tits bounced faster on his cock. “I been a bad girl, sir”

<whack> “Mmmmhh, yes.” She mumbled as she lowered her head to take the tip of his cock in her mouth. “Bad, bad girl. Mmmgrh.”

Magnus continued to slap her bum lightly while she sucked more and more of his cock into her mouth.

<whack> <whack> <whack>

Her head came up and she said, “Don’t forget the tickle part” in a stern tone.

Magnus leaned over and felt around with his hand. It was a good thing that his arms were so long, as there was a lot of her to get around, but eventually he found a damp mound between rolls of flesh, and he rubbed it slowly.

She sighed and he felt the mound under his fingers part. Wet lips protruded as his digits sank into the gap between them. He used what experience ha had gained with Netyu and what he had overheard in the taverns and inns to guide his hand. In a few moments he had two fingers buried deep inside her and could feel a hard nub of flesh against the base of his thumb.

He rubbed and gave her the occasional slap of encouragement as she bounced. Soon she was very wet down below, and she was wiggling with pleasure. That’s when she sprang up, much faster than he would have expected from one so rotund, to straddle him on the bench. A quick shove and his cock was between her legs, being massaged by her twat with the tip nuzzled between warm butt cheeks. Another push and the tip was inside her. A grunt and a sigh later and her flowering cunt was pressed against his abdomen.

She began to bounce on him again, pressing against his chest with her hands and flexing thick legs for lift. Magnus helped, wrapping his arms around her, letting them sink into the soft flesh as he hefted her up and let her slide back down on his cock.

It was hard work, and he was breathing heavily from the effort as well as the thrill of all that warm plump womanhood against him. He grit his teeth and ignored the pain in his arms as he lifted her. Fortunately, she had muscles under all that flowing flesh and was able to contribute enough that he was able to keep going until his cock, already excited by the warm tits and warmer lips on it earlier, reached peak capacity.

“Oh!” He cried for the first time since they had begun. “I’m going to … I’m gonna … I’m comiinnnggg!”

The woman jumped of as nimbly as she had jumped onto him as soon as he had started speaking and dropped down to knees again. She had her tits wrapped around his cock and was pumping it furiously with her head down over it.

“Give me that man milk, Dearie. Let me have it … all of it.”

Magnus stared up at the ceiling of the chapel as his balls hitched and jumped against the cold stone bench. Between his legs the woman opened her mouth and caught the first wad of spooge as it shot into the air. Then she brought her mouth down on him and her cheeks puckered as she sucked and swallowed the rest as it came.

Magnus looked down to see her working his cock while white goo leaked from her lips to drip down the shaft of his cock. The sight made his cock fire off two more wads that almost choked the woman, coming as they did unexpectedly late. But she managed to keep it all in, except for a bit that shot out of her nose when she gaged.

Once she had swallowed the lot she began licking the little she had missed from his softening shaft and the fur around it.

She smiled up at him and licked the residue from around her lips. “Looks like you’re still a stag.” She said.

“Uh, yes, about that. My friends and I are, uh, animal spirits, just passing through. There never was a witch, really.”

“I know Dearie, but it was fun to pretend, wasn’t it?”

Magnus grinned as he admitted, “Yes, it was.”

She continued to stroke his cock, now lubricated with spit, cum and cunt juice. Her caress was keeping it from deflating completely.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, love, and you did enjoy it, judging by the amount of ‘milk’ you had this poor maid swallow. But you know, I wasn’t quite able to get there myself, if you know what I mean. So, be a dear and help me, will you?”

New blood was flowing back into his shaft at the prospect of another breast job while he fingered her to completion, and she smiled when his cock swelled again in her hand. He was surprised though when she turned and presented her big butt to him.

“And when I say, ‘be a dear’, I mean ‘be a deer’. Do me like those wild stags I see rutting in the autumn leaves.”

Magnus gulped but he moved in behind her. He dreaded the thought of her moaning like a feral doe while he grabbed her hips and slammed against her, but his cock was too hard now to be denied and if that what she wanted … but I hope I find the doe of my destiny soon, he thought as he thrust his slippery shaft into her warm, wet hole, because I can’t take too much more of this playing around.

Back at the forge Gael was just finishing up. He held his work out to James for inspection.

“Perfect.” James pronounced. “I see the others coming back. If it’s cooled down enough let’s put it away and find a good campsite far from here. Somewhere off the trail leading to the portal.”

Gael plunged his piece into a barrel of cool water and barely a hint of steam came off.

“It’s good to go now.”

“Alright then.” He turned to the smith. “Thank you for the use of your forge, good sir. If there is anything we can do for you, do not hesitate to ask.”

“There is one thing.” The big man said, scratching his nose. “You see yon post there?” He pointed to a thick support that was scarred by sword cuts.”

“Yes?”

“That is where the first smiths here tested the blades that the fairies taught them to make.” He turned to Gael. “If you wouldn’t mind giving it a good kick, for me to remember you by?”

Geal smiled and went over to the post. Turning around he gathered his strength and them lashed out behind him with one great hoof. It connected square to the post, leaving a deep and distinct impression of the iron horseshoe Gael wore to keep his hooves intact on the long journey.

“Ah! Thank you, sir stallion. I’ll have a tale to tell me young ones for years to come and when I do, I’ll show them this mark.”

Gael laughed. “They will think you made it up and that a horse just missed you when its foot got loose from your grip.”

“Aye, that they will, but they will pass the story down to their kith and kin none the less. And who knows, someday a big horse or a bull will come by to ask to borrow their forge, and they will know the truth of it.”

Gael and James each gripped the smith by the forearm and took their leave. Annie had gathered all their kit by the bridge after packing the provisions James had brought back with Coyotka and Chris.

“Where’s Magnus?” the human girl asked.

“Here he comes.” Chris said as the head and antlers of the robed figure became visible over the rise. “He’s walking funny though; I think he’s hurt.”

Magnus waved off their concerned inquiries as he joined them. “I just, uh, strained something … lifting something heavy. I’ll be fine if we’re not going far.”

“Let’s be off then.” James said as he shouldered his pack.

* * * * * * * *

They approached the location of the secret portal cautiously.

The path leading to it could be approached from several directions, but they chose the one that came though open country, even though anyone inside the wood line would be able to count their party and see how they were deployed. In this case that was with their best fighters Gael, Annie and James, forward with Junafir and Magnus bringing up the rear. Coyotka was in the middle, leading Merlin in his familiar light blue robe by a rope tied around his wrists. A sack had been tied over the prisoner’s head and his tall hat had been stuck comically on top. She was still carrying the staff of the holy spear while the head hung in a sheath at her waist.

There was indeed someone watching, and Mister Ross smiled when he saw that the academic coyote had been untrusted with the relic, the spear he had used to pierce the body of the one they called Christ. She was the least threatening of the bunch, and the fact that she also had the bogus magician to deal with was even more in his favour.

He briefly wondered where the grey fox, Chris Cinereo had got to. Recent reports had him still travelling with the group of do-gooders, although for the life of him Ross could not figure out why. Maybe he was doing one of the females, the coyote probably, as he had noted that the horse was protective of the human girl and his employer’s nephew was known to be partial to the tigress. Unless the fox and the stag were a couple … the deer-man always seemed a bit effeminate to Ross and Sevade had said that he thought his fellow assassin had looked at him funny once or twice.

No matter, the deathless legionnaire told himself. If the fox has not smartened up and run off he was likely skulking about like the trained assassin he is, hoping to mount a counter-ambush. It will do them no good, though. By the time they realize what’s going on I’ll have wrested the spear from her grasp and then I’ll be invincible! No more grubbing for the likes of Rory Douglas; I will be the one running the show on a great many worlds.

The group entered the forest along the path that led to the portal, an hour’s hike into the woods. They spread out a bit even though the route was wide and the trees sparse and clear of underbrush here. Ross smiled when he saw that. Someone with military training was in charge, the horse he suspected. That meant he could count on them to tackle the upcoming terrain in the standard military manner. When they were out of sight he moved back and headed for his ambush site.

They had gone halfway to where the portal would be found, according to Merlin, and the forest was growing denser the farther they went. It would be difficult to move off the trail now as the small spaces between the dark trees were coked with bushes and brambles. The path was still broad, but up ahead they could see where it narrowed significantly.

Geal stopped the group to confer with James while there was still space to swing a sword.

“Merlin said this would happen. We’ll be forced to move single file until we get through this patch. In the army we called such a place a defile, any attack there will be a series of one-on-one battles until the attacker retreats or all of us are dead.

They had discussed this two days previously when Merlin first described the route. “How do you tackle a defile when you have precious cargo?” James had asked Gael.

“If you can’t get around to secure the other side you send a strong force through quickly to check for ambushes, leaving the cargo here where there is room to escape still.” The former soldier had replied. “When the defile is clear you bring the cargo though, leaving a rearguard behind until the main body is safely on the other side. It’s a standard drill.”

James looked grimly at the narrow, tangled path but nodded his head decisively. He turned back to call to the rest. “This is the chokepoint Merlin talked about. Assume the positions we rehearsed, and we’ll see you all on the other side.”

Thumbs came up as the rest moved to their places. Magnus and Junafir dropped back to where they could watch the trail they had come by in case of attack from the rear. James, Gael and Annie moved single file into the defile. Coyotka roughly shoved the bound con artist into a position in the middle of the clearing before the defile from where she could turn and flee in any direction should a warning go up from either of the armed groups.

Ross was pleased. The inexperienced boy was following the advice of the common soldier to the letter, leaving the prize in the safest spot possible, a place where there was nowhere to hide ... unless one had a prepared one in advance of course.

Ross had been a common soldier too once, with a simple soldier’s grasp of tactics. Back then he believed that having the high ground gave you an advantage and that ambushes should be conducted in close terrain. But about a hundred and fifty years ago he had been bumming around the American west, hunting buffalo for cash while chasing down a rumour that the spear of destiny had been spirited to the new world by the Masons. He and his two mortal companions had been beset by a large group of natives who seemed upset to find white men on their territory.

Ross could have faced them, he was immune to their lances and rifles after all, but then he would have to kill the two other buffalo hunters least word get out to the religious groups trying to hunt him down. Travel was slow and difficult in this backward land and the last thing he needed was the Illuminati or the Knights Templar closing in on him with weapons possibly as blessed as his former spear.

The leader of the hunting party was a grizzled old individual who had survived these kinds of odds before, or so he had claimed when Ross joined his team. As soon as the natives appeared whooping and waving their weapons he had turned his horses head towards a nearby hilltop covered with scrub brush. As good a place as any, in Ross’s experience, but not likely good enough, not when outnumbered ten to one. At least the brush would cover his retreat while the others held off the attackers, he thought at the time. But the leader’s route took them momentarily out of sight of the war party, into a buffalo wallow.

The wallows were places where the ground was always muddy because rainwater got trapped there. The buffalo rolled in it for relief from biting insects and the incessant sun. Rolling made the pits deeper and muddier, and dangerous to ride a horse through, yet the old hunter was making straight for one. Ross’s curiosity was peeked.

The old man leapt off his horse and pulled it down to the ground in one smooth motion. His partner did the same. Both lay across their horses’ necks as they checked the load in their rifles. Amused, Ross did likewise.

“We’re going to hide and let them ride by?” He guessed.

“Nope.” The old man had said as he spat out his wad of chewing tobacco. “Where gonna ambush ‘em.”

“What? from the bottom of a shallow pit? In plain sight?” Ross had not really cared; he would be the only one walking away from this anyway.

“Yep. They won’t look down when they think we went up the hill.”

Ross had nodded his head respectfully. The old coot had a point.

The three had waited as the thunder of unshod hooves drew closer. Sure enough, the natives had gone around the wallow and were focused on the hill to their front, the obvious spot to mount a defence. When they were barely past them, the old buffalo hunter and his partner jumped up and began firing at them from behind. Ross joined in with glee.

The close-range fire had a devesting effect. Native warriors fell from their horses, some of which bolted, creating more confusion. They could not figure out which direction the shots were coming from and by the time they did the odds had been reduced considerably.

Firing from inside the wallow left very little of the hunters exposed, and the natives had nowhere to hide. After losing three more of his party their leader wisely called for a retreat.

Ross had remembered the lesson. Pooping up where least expected became his go to move, and it served him well. The psychological effect alone gave him a huge advantage, even when he wasn’t there to kill. Fear bought cooperation quicker than respect in his opinion, and surprise beat out terrain advantage.

That was why he was now laying in a shallow pit right beside the most open place on the trail, covered with old leaves and fallen branches, mere steps away from the coyote holding the shaft of his old spear. But did she have the spearhead too? The sheath at her waist was the right shape, but he had to be sure before revealing himself.

She looked nervous, and her fidgeting grew as the warriors moved into the defile and out of sight. He saw her glance nervously over her shoulder to where the rear guard stood with their backs to her. She looked at the fake magician. He was standing quietly with his bound hands pulled inside his sleeves for warmth and his bagged head hanging down. Then her hand dropped to the pouch and she pulled out the simple iron spearhead of familiar design.

Ross had not seen it in two millennia, but he had held it and sharpened it for years before losing it in a dice game the day after they took the Christ down off the cross, before anyone knew that everything he had touched in his last days was blessed. He had also seen countless others in the hands of his fellow legionnaires. It was a simple, standard Roman design; an elongated iron diamond that was thicker though the center, mounted on a sturdy hollow tube that perfectly fit the shaft.

He watched the coyote twist the head onto the shaft and grip the spear tightly at an angle that left the tip high up in the air. Much to high to be effective at close range.

Perfect, he thought as sprang up from his hidey hole, appearing like a vampire in an old horror story with his black robes and pale, bald skin.

The coyote screamed and swung the spear around, but he was already inside its arc. He grabbed it with both hands outside hers so that he had more leverage. he immediately knew that this was the one true spear when his hands made contact with the shaft. It wasn’t that the wood felt familiar to his hand, but rather the holy power radiating from it, a power only someone like him, who had been blessed, or cursed, in the same manner could detect. Taking it from her would be child’s play, and it was, almost.

Her scream had alerted the rear guard, but there was nothing they could do to stop him now. The magic in their weapons was too weak to slow him down, so weak that they did not even try. The best weapons had gone into the defile and even if they had heard the screams it would take them much too long to get back. With these two Terrans the worst he may suffer would be the loss of another robe as they hacked at his back with their puny blades.

The coyote held on stubbornly, but a head-butt put and end to her resistance. She released the spear and Ross tumbled back into the prisoner before regaining his feet.

He raised the spear over his head in triumph, but only for a moment. He had to dispatch these troublemakers before the real fighters returned. Their fire, lightning and plant control might not be able to kill him but they might restrain him and make him drop the spear, then they would be free to use it on him.

He would kill these three now, the coyote, the tigress and the stag. The fake magician was not a threat and not worth the time it would take to kill him too. Then he would make his escape and come after the rest on some world where there was no magic at all.

The coyote first, he thought, as she was closest and stood in the way between him and the advancing rear guard. With expertise drilled into him by the Legion he twirled the spear around, brought it parallel to the ground and, pointing it straight at the bespeckled coyote, he drew it back as he prepared to lunge.

That was when he felt a pain in his back, a terrible, terrifying pain. A pain worse than anything he had ever felt before. It was like fire and ice at the same time, and it felt like a hole had been opened into another dimension in his back. Somehow all of his power, all the changes that had been made in him on that day two millennia ago, was draining out though that hole.

He felt something being pulled from his back and he turned. Standing a few feet away was the grey fox he thought had deserted. It was dressed in the fake magician’s blue robe. The hat and hood that had concealed its scarred snout lay on the ground, as did the rope that had only been loosely looped around its wrists.

In its paw was a spearhead exactly like the one on the shaft of his spear, his holy spear.

A replica? Ross thought, but how could that be? Only the true spear could wound him. Then he realized the truth and he grabbed the iron head mounted on the holy shaft. It was cold, and dead, without a trace of the power that had flowed through him and the shaft.

It was sharp too, and blood began to flow from his wounded fingers as the holy power of the Christ left him. Still, he managed to pull it from the shaft and cast it at the fox.

Chris ducked the projectile easily enough. He knew that James would have liked to be here for the finale, but he could not risk Ross regaining his strength long enough to take back the real spearhead, especially since the staff could still be a formidable weapon in the ancient legionnaire’s hand.

Ross must have had the same thought as he swung the invincible length of wood at Chris’ head. Chris ducked under it in a swirling motion that looked like an evasion but actually brought him closer to the bald, black-clad killer. Close enough to drive the holy weapon deep into the two thousand-year-old’s chest.

Chris held the spearhead there. Ross dropped the shaft and gripped Chris’ hand in both of his, but he did not have the strength to pull the ancient iron out. As Chris watched, Ross’s eyes went very wide, then they rolled back in his head, just before the tall, thin man fell over backwards.

Chris let the blade come out as Ross fell. He stood above the body as Coyotka, Junafir and Magnus gathered around it. A short distance away he could hear James calling as the rest fought their weary back through the defile to them.

Junafir called out that all was well, that they had killed Ross and that Coyotka, the bait for his trap, was safe.

Chris was in shock, not from killing a bad man, but from the burst of holy power he had felt when he plunged the spearhead into Ross. Seeing that he was a little dazed Coyotka led him to the side of the path and sat him down on a fallen tree. She sat down beside him and twirled the fur of his good ear with her claw.

“Hey, you saved my life.” She said in a low voice.

Chris shrugged. “It was all part of the plan.”

“Still,” she said as she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “someone’s earned a turn on the paddles.”

Gael Tholkes © MarcusXLight

Junafir Pawstone © Frostlupus

Chris Cinereo © Kyroo Echos

Constance “Coyotka” Jotkowska © Coyotek

Magnus © Thwaitesy