Rubbing her eyes with the back of her soapy hand, Mildew winced, blinking feverishly, and used the apron to get the soap out of her eyes and then finally off her hands. The apron was an old and stained, but none of the wear and tear from Mildew herself. It had been her grandmother’s, and her grandmother had made mountains of good, hearty food while wearing that very apron. Mildew wasn’t much good at cooking, but she was trying to get better. Peat liked a good hearty meal like her mother and grandmother used to make, and she wanted to start cooking like they did.

“Peat, is that you?”

She heard the stamp of boots in the hallway and knew it was her husband. “Yeah, it’s me, Mildew.” Her husband came into view, also perspiring. He had taken off his work shirt, leaving his customary tank top underneath, and was still in thick, black pants. Why that building required such a heavy dress code in these summers was beyond the small woman. She’d likely give them a peace of her mind, given the chance.

She looked at the clock. It was much too early for Peat to be home from his shift. “Fired again?” She took hold of her elegant crutch from where it leaned a foot away and jammed it into her armpit.

The piece of whalebone had been found by her great grandfather while he was serving in the military, and after having been injured in battle, he had turned it into a crutch. Her great grandfather had spent many hours over many decades carving figures, vines and other patterns into the crutch, polishing it, and otherwise taking care of it, the crutch having become his pride and joy. It had been passed down in the family with no use for it after his untimely death, but once Mildew had fully grown, she had received it as she had permanent need of a good crutch and had been of similar height to her great grandfather.

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking strangely wise and noble for a few seconds, then dove into the fridge, looking for a beer, not noticing that his wife was holding one out to him. She already knew what he wanted.

“What’d you do this time?” she asked as he took the outheld can.

“I didn’t do nothin,” he replied, chugging half the can. Making a satisfied noise, he continued, “oh, that’s good. What was I saying?”

“It wasn’t you.”

“Oh yeah,” he took another sip. “Well, you see, it was like this. One of my coworkers, the one I can’t stand, you know the one,” Mildew didn’t bother telling him she had no idea who he was talking about, but listened attentively while he talked, dishes and food forgotten, “started insulting you—you know, about you being lame and all. I couldn’t take it—you are such a good woman and wife, the best in the world—so I cussed at him. He cussed at me, so I cussed again for good measure. After that, the manager called me into his office. He cussed at me, then I cussed at him. He did it first, mind you. Then he fired me and walked me out of the building. Not before I gave him some very choice words, mind you.”

“I’ll bet you did,” said Mildew dreamily, quite proud of her husband for speaking up for her and to his boss, even if it meant he lost his job. That was the man she had married and never had she once regretted it.

“Well, they left me outside of the building, and I said every word I could think of, and made them listen to it all, I did. Gave them an earful. Then they told me to go home or they’d call the cops.”

“Every one you could think of?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” he replied, finishing off the can. “Doggone it, I just thought of a few good ones I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” Mildew soothed, clutching his arm reassuringly. “You can tell me what they were later. What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Peat said, thinking hard. She wasn’t too worried. This happened more often than she’d like to admit, but Peat had somehow always managed to get a new job despite it, so she wasn’t very worried.

She then remembered something she had wanted to get off of her chest since waking this morning. “I had the most awful nightmare last night.”

“What was it?” Peat asked. He clenched his fists, as if ready to beat up whoever had bothered her in her sleep. Though, even if that were possible, Mildew doubted that even Peat could win this one.

“I can’t remember much,” she admitted. “I was running around the house, and some of your family were there. The house was our house, but partway through the dream—I didn’t notice it in the dream—it changed to the house I grew up in, but it really wasn’t either of those houses, it just was supposed to be, but I didn’t notice that. It was night, and everything was dark.” She paused, the image still fresh in her mind. She bit her lip, not wanting to go on.

“What happened,” Peat said tenderly, taking her free hand in his.

“There was this…shadow outside, trying to get in. I knew it wanted to get in and that if it did it would kill us. I could feel its malevolence pressing all around me. I was so scared.” She threw herself into his arms, and he held her tight.

“Was that all?” he asked curiously. “If there is more but you don’t want to say you don’t have to.”

“No,” she said, withdrawing herself from her husband. “It was going around the house, looking for a way to get in. Then I was in my parents’ bedroom and it was right there outside the window. Someone, I forget who, opened the window a crack. It slipped through that teensy crack and stood before me faster than lightning. It happened in a split second. My body felt paralyzed from the fear—it felt like I was drowning in it, like it was swallowing me up. I woke up before it got me, but I couldn’t fall asleep after that for a while, and I kept feeling like something was in the room with me.” She started sobbing. What Mildew hadn’t mentioned was that the shadow had killed Peat and was still dripping with her husband’s blood as it stood over her, prepared to kill and devour her.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.” He held her in a tender embrace for several minutes, then, “Mildew dear, you got anyone you still care about here?”

“Well, after my mother died a few months back I don’t have no more family I care to talk to.” She rubbed her eyes and picked her crutch up.

“What about at Church?” Pete said, making a reverent gesture. He said those words solemnly, as if the building itself was the reason one went. “You got anyone there?”

“Not really.” Mildew closed her eyes and tilted her head back, racking her memory. “I mean, I kind of like Father, and there’s one or two women I might miss talking to, but I have their numbers. Nobody else seems to care for me much.”

“Good,” said Peat, unaware of how that sounded, about to make the worst desisione either of them would ever make, though they would not know this for some time to come. “How’s this sound to you, wife of mine: we sell our house and move?”

“But where?”

“I don’t rightly know that yet,” Peat said honestly, running a hand through his short hair that looked like he cut it himself—which he did. “But that don’t matter. I’m tired of this town. Let’s sell our house—your grandparents left it to you so its all paid off. I don’t have no family here since I left mine back who knows when. We can find you a new church with a new father and new women to talk to. When we get there we can buy a house and settle down, start our own family, strike down roots as they say. Well, once I get me a good job there.”

“Why not?”

So it was settled. Over the next few days, Peat acquired some boxes and had packed up, with the help of Mildew, their belongings—the ones that they wanted to pack—and crammed said boxes into the back of his truck, while Mildew took care of most of the business with the realtor. Everything else done on his end, Peat took the flag down from in front of their house and applied it to the makeshift flagpole he had jerry-rigged on the back of his truck. Standing back with his fists on his waist, he admired his handiwork. Mildew came out and proudly stood beside her husband, taking his arm in her own and leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Well, I talked to our realtor,” Mildew declared, “Everything went well, because of the price we put, and it really was finalized earlier. There’s nothing else to do. We have to be out by the end of the week, but we can hit the road today.”

“That sounds mighty fine.”

“I know,” Mildew said, giving her husband’s arm a squeeze. “Also, what if we didn’t buy a home somewhere? What if we got a trailer and just drove around any which way?”

“That don’t sound bad, but I’d like to live in a house for a few more years, maybe a kid or two, before doin something like that.”

“I’ll go anywhere, as long as it’s by your side, Peat.”

“I feel the same,” Peat replied, looking down at his wife, “as long as you are at my side, ain’t nothing I can’t do.”

“Where do you want to go?” she asked, it was a topic they hadn’t spoken of much, but there hadn’t seemed to be much urgency with it.

“I don’t know. Why don’t we just drive and see where we end up and go from there. We can go heavy on the backroads.”

“Lovely,” she said.

“Get into the car, Mildew, I have one last thing before we leave. Mystified, she climbed into their cramped truck. Though they weren’t taking much, and had left a lot for the new owners, the truck was packed to the brim and her crutch wasn’t helping. Peat came out a couple minutes later, his face a mixture of at once proud like a kid doing something reckless and pulling it off, and at the same time like a man who’s wanted by all of Scotland Yard.

“What’d you do?”

“Tore the label off the mattress. Been wanting to do that for some time. Well, ain’t got no proof it was me. Let’s go!” He started the truck and pulled out of the driveway, leaving their old home, town, and life behind them.

They didn’t stick to any one path, taking highways and backroads and turning back for the better part of seven days without discrimination. Though the drive had been very uneventful, the two had seen much more than either of them had seen before, and were quite ready to settle down. They had gone further west and north than Peat had initially wanted, but not so far that they would be close to the Pacific Ocean, nor in the westernmost states. Having driven most of the day through red rocks, they finally came to a melancholy town situated on the edge of a large lake.

Peat parked the truck just outside of the town. “What do you say, Mildew?” he asked climbing out. “What do you say to this little town? At least I’d like to stay a day or two and keep out of the truck.”

“That sounds lovely,” Mildew said, also stretching her legs. “In fact, why don’t I see what houses are available, just for kicks.”.

“Brilliant idea. I’ll go into town while you do that and get us some more beer.”

Mildew refrained from saying she would prefer a shot of whiskey or bourbon instead of bear which she didn’t care for much. She got back into the truck where it was airconditioned, while Peat walked off to get his beer and have a look around.

Shaking her head, she pulled out her aging phone. She swore Peat’s new phone was just as slow if not slower than hers, but then again hers had been a gift from her mother. She inspected the large, faded sign nearby which read, “Welcome to Innswich.” It seemed like a New England name, she thought, rather than a western one. She shrugged, ignoring the similarity it had with other towns with horrific histories. She punched the name into her phone and, within a minute, was looking up houses in the area.

There weren’t many in the size she and Peat would be wanting, many had two or three more bedrooms than they wanted, and were two or three thousand square feet larger. Frowning, she put what she wanted and found one house, three times cheaper than it should be. Her frown deepening, she looked into the house. Then unsatisfied with how little she could find or why it was so inexpensive, she looked up the town, but couldn’t find much more than a sentence or two about it and an outdated map of the town. It didn’t even seem to be on any maps, but she told herself that was often the case with out of the way places. Just where had Peat driven them? She went back and looked at the house, scratched it, found another, then gave the realtor a call. Luckily she did not have a irrational fear of people of that occupation so the call went just fine. Anyone else seeing all these strange things would have thought twice, and perhaps left, but Mildew, good woman though she was, was not the most observant thing at times. If she had been, they could have avoided the nightmare they would soon be plunged into.

As it was, she did not reconsider. And in fact, the more she sat in the front of the truck looking into Innswich and there houses up for sale, the more pleasant a place it looked. It had taken hold of her in a way she couldn’t quite explain nor understand.

About two hours later Peat got back. “How were you?” he asked, hopping into the truck and slamming the door. He seemed excited, Mildew felt the same.

“I’m alright,” she replied absent mindedly. “You know Peat, I think I’d like to stay here.”

“Hearing you say that does me a world of good,” Peat admitted, opening a can of beer. “I was wanting to stay here too. There’s something about the place I can’t really explain.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, saying something for the sake of replying.

“Anyways have you found a place?” he asked, halfway through with his can.

“Yes, I quite like the pictures, but its awful cheep, and a little too big.”

“Ain’t that a good thing?” Peat said, peering over at her phone.

“Normally I’d say yes, but it was too cheap for my liking. However, I called the realtor and she said its a good house. Been on the market for some time, but that’s only because not many people move in, and when they do they get one of the bigger homes, or one of the ones closer to the lake.”

“I bet the price reflects the lack of a seaside view,” Peat said sagely.

“She said she could show us the house today. We just have to let her know when we’re coming.”

“Why don’t you let her know we’re coming now. I wanna see this place for myself.”

Turning the key, Peat pulled back onto the road and drove into town, following Mildew’s directions as she looked at the outdated map. Try as she might, it was the only one she could find. Luckily, it managed to get the job done.

The house looked nice. It’s exterior was mostly of an off white, almost grey lap siding. It was two stories, and there was gable above the main door with a large, round window that overlooked the street and some distance beyond, but not quite the lake, since it was neither in the right direction nor of the correct altitude. The leftmost corner of the front of the house was round and extended over the rest of the house like a tower. The roof was of a slate colored shingles. Peat couldn’t quite get a guess of how old it was. The house seemed like it had been standing there since the town was young, with the ground stretching to the lake, unobstructed by any houses, and yet as if it had been built twenty years ago. It seemed off and Peat didn’t like it, but the size for the price couldn’t be beat anywhere.

“Are you the couple looking into this house?” said a cheerless woman about fifteen years older than Mildew who looked like she was fifteen years older than that and yet dressing fifteen years younger than she was.

“Yes we are,” said Mildew, motioning for Peat to lead, but he hung back, knowing Mildew would be better at it. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something was off, but he wasn’t quite sure what, whether it was the woman or the house or something else. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, so he told himself it was his imagination and followed Mildew and the woman into the house. What Mildew failed to notice as they walked around the spacious house, perhaps because the nightmare had begun to fade, was that it was eerily similar to the house in which her nightmare had taken place.

The End,
God bless

Fantasy

A Retelling of Sleeping Beauty uploaded April 13, 2023

The Tale of Sir Knight uploaded April 23, 2023

The Council's Request May 4, 2024

Golgath and Ilsvan May 25, 2024 (sequel to The Councel’s Request)

Thlin's Ambitions June 9, 2024 (sequel to Golgath and Ilsvan)

In the Arena August 3, 2024

In the Arena, Part Two August 17, 2024

The Hatchling's Fangs January 31, 2025 (Submission to ’s Steelhearts Anthology, available therein in its edited form on Amazon, possibly other places as well.)

Conquest and Glory rounded up February 28, 2026

In Dire Straights March 14, 2026

Thrown Out of the Frying Pan April 26, 2026 (sequel, due to demand, to In Dire Straights)

Northund (Galin’s World)

The Opportunist September 3, 2023

The Maiden September 28, 2023

The Bull King September 2, 2023

The Daydream November 24, 2023

The Thief August 31st 2024

Alone in the Graveyard prologue to Into the Mines January 4, 2024

Into the Mines, Part One January 13, 2024

Into the Mines, Part Two January 20, 2024

Into the Mines, Part Three February 3, 2024

Into the Mines, Part Four February 10, 2024

Into the Mines, Part Five February 17, 2024

A Brief Change of Scenery February 7, 2025

Disappointment April 26, 2025

An Old Wives' Tale October 30, 2025

Sci-Fi

708th Legion March 6, 2024

Assault on the Capitol May 20, 2024 (follow up to 708th Legion)

The Fate of Omega: Part One March 14, 2025

The Fate of Omega: Part Two April 4, 2025

The Fate of Omega: Part Three May 17, 2025

Stories with Three and Vinn

Bullets and Blades September 17, 2025

Fragments

The First Fragment June 14, 2023

The Second Fragment uploaded June 18, 2023

The Third Fragment July 27, 2023

The Fourth Fragment December 9, 2023

The Fifth Fragment December 31, 2025

Good to Read in October

Darkness my first story on Substack. uploaded April 12, 2023

A Practical Joke October 10, 2023

I Will Always Be Your Friend . . . Always October 18, 2023

Hush Now, My Little One October 21, 2023

A Nightmarish Reality uploaded October 31, 2023 (I never did get a better name for that one)

The Tale of William Smithston as Found By His Grandson November 9, 2023

The Ghost November 2, 2024

Off Her Rocker October 22, 2025

The Cocoons October 31, 2025 (reader discretion advised)

A Melancholy Town: Part the First June 16, 2026

Submissions to IronAge

A Forgotten Myth June 25, 2023

The Third Fragment July 27, 2023

Destruction August 2, 2023

The Butterfly August 11, 2023

Dett's Speech August 17, 2023

Gnomes for Hire August 23, 2023

The Bull King September 2, 2023

The Opportunist September 3, 2023

The Wrong Guy September 12, 2023

The Maiden Voyage September 28, 2023

Lament October 11, 2023

I Will Always Be Your Friend . . . Always October 18, 2023

Hush Now, My Little One October 21, 2023

The Creed November 4, 2023

Stairs in the Myst November 18, 2023 (I still cringe at the name)

The Daydream November 24, 2023

Thag's Day Out December 2, 2023

Destined December 20, 2023

Alone in the Graveyard January 4, 2024

A Mother's Wrath January 16, 2024

Cora's Nightmare January 25, 2024 (a personal favorite)

Knowledge February 6, 2024

The 708th Legion March 6, 2024

The Apprentice April 24, 2024

The Council's Request May 4, 2024

Golgath and Ilsvan May 25, 2024

In the Arena August 3, 2024

The Messenger September 28, 2024

The Leviathan October 17, 2024

The Ghost November 2, 2024

No Place Like Home November 30, 2024

The Fate of Omega: Part One March 14, 2025

Blood and Glass June 5, 2025 (final submission)

Miscellaneous

The Waterfall uploaded April 25, 2023

The Forgotten Old Road May 11, 2023

A Glimpse from Afar November 14, 2023 (my entry for The Suff, a link to the Suff library can be found inside How Thag Brought Suffmas to the Moon)

Thag the Time Traveling Neanderthal

Thag's Day Out December 2, 2023

How Thag brought Suffmass to the Moon December 23, 2023 (The December Suff entry)

What the Heck was I Thinking?

The Monkey Trying to Get Out (seriously, what the heck was I thinking of) uploaded April 15, 2023

If Squidward Got the Death Note May 30, 2023 (again, what the heck was I thinking)

Forgive Me April 19, 2024 (a rant about the Cars universe (seriously, what the heck was I thinking))

Considered not including, might remove these later

A Ghostly Sighting uploaded May 2, 2023

Dobble quivered as the dragons stared at him. They weren’t likely to show him mercy and he would doubtless be gobbled up in mere seconds. At the very least he would be burnt to ashes. He had heard that the older a dragon was the hotter its flames were. It seemed he was about to find out if that were true. Ginhit rumbled deep in his throat. Dobble winced, still not prepared for the end. “I’m waiting human, amuse me!”

Nearly fainting, Dobble stood up straight, swaying and breathing hard, and told the first joke that came to his mind, hoping against hope that he could get out alive. Even he would admit that it wasn’t one of his finest. And it was not the kind of joke one makes to refined people with good taste. It was from the dregs of humor. If only his master Clive had been there. He could have made a joke worthy of dragons.

The dragon turned away in disgust. “Enough, I cannot stomach your whimpering and excuses for jokes. Children, do with him what you will.” He stopped in his tracks then added as an afterthought, “I advise against consuming even the smallest drop of his blood, for if you are what you eat—as so many humans say—I should have to disown you and throw you out for becoming anything like him.” Thoroughly disappointed, Ginhit retired to the back of the cave and sulked in moody silence.

Ginhit’s offspring crowded around Dobble, no longer in a semi circle. They hounded about him, prancing about, chatting the whole while. Dobble looked this way and that, spinning and spinning, trying to keep his eyes on all of them at all times. If he hadn’t been so scared for his life, he would have been affronted at what Ginhit had said. “Why, I’m good enough to eat,” he thought to himself, and almost said so, too.

“What shall we do with it?” said one, snapping her teeth close to Dobble’s ear, almost biting it off. He jumped away, grazing his back on the teeth of another.

“What do you think, sister?” he asked, licking said teeth and grinning at Dobble with malevolence.

“What do I think?” she said, snapping again. “I think we should tear him limb from limb, starting with his legs.”

“No,” said a third. “We should crush him, beginning with his hands and then moving closer.” He slammed a claw into the ground for emphasis, sending slivers of rock careening towards Dobble. One cut his cheek and he felt a drop of blood slide down his face.

“I think we should pull out all of his hair,” said a fourth. “He would look quite ridiculous.”

“He wouldn’t look much different. Perhaps we should take turns sitting on him till he turns into a drink?” suggested the fifth and eldest of the hatchlings. “Though, as good as men usually taste, I am not quite sure he will—I agree with our father.”

“I don’t care if we do eat him or not,” said the first.

“Raw or fried?”

“Screaming or silent?”

“So many choices.”

“I shall not taint myself with his blood,” said the fourth. “But if his killing is good sport, include me.”

“What shall we do father?” crooned the second.

“Hmmph,” was the only noise Ginhit would make, so the five hatchlings turned back towards Dobble with murderous intent.

“I don’t think we’ve come up with the right thing yet.” said the first. “These ideas wont be good for nearly enough fun.” Dobble fell over from fear and exhaustion. The air was growing hotter as they got worked up, and Dobble felt like he was being cooked alive. They might end up deciding on that anyway. Whatever they did, he wanted it to come quickly.

“I say we dry him out—make jerky out of him,” said the fourth.

“No, we should make a jelly out of him by squashing him!”

“That’s not very original,” said another dryly. “It’s been attempted before by three imbeciles.”

They squeaked in dismay, each one falling silent as they thought about how Dobble best ought to die. Then with a rumble, their mother stormed into the midst of them. “Didn’t I say not to make a mess?” she said dangerously, glaring at each of them in turn. All of them shrunk, lowering their heard, eyes downcast. “And your father said not to eat him, which I fully agree with.”

With that, she took Dobble by the back of his shirt and threw him out of the cave into the woods beyond. He shivered from cold, no longer being roasted by the dragon’s volcanic breathing. Somehow he had made it through. The sky was grey and it was beginning to rain, but that didn’t matter. He was alive.

 Hugging himself, Dobble began to run down the mountainside as fast as his legs would allow, stumbling and running into trees all the while. All of a sudden he stopped. There in front of him were three young and very angry women who at different times had been told by Dobble were the most important thing to him—the only love he would ever have. Apparently they had found out they hadn’t been the first true and only love of his life like he had always said. He whimpered and turned, attempting to return to the dragon den and tripped. He let out a bone-shivering shriek as he heard them approach, knowing he was in for a fate worse than death.

The End
God Bless,

“Go ahead, amuse me,” the ancient dragon, Ginhit, rumbled, shifting his head to a more comfortable position. The hatchlings were prattling on this way and that, each wanting to kill and devour him in a different way, none, unlike their father, caring for his “prowess” in the humorous arts. Even their mother took no notice of the human in her dwelling. She only repeatedly reminded her family that if any sport was to be had, to make sure a mess wasn’t made or her wrath would indeed be legendary.

The poor jester made spluttering protests that he had tried, but his protests had fallen on merciless, not def, ears. Did dragons have ears? He wasn’t sure. He stopped his whining to think about it. The dragon slammed it’s forearm down on the floor and roared. “Enough of this spittle and babbling, make me laugh, fool!”

Dobble the Fool had been taken prisoner by the dragons. He was from a small land, and had served as the primary fool for the courts of its “noble” ruler. Well, apparently this dragon had heard of his prowess as a fool, despite almost no one knowing about said kingdom, and had taken him captive.

It had been glorious—a sight worth singing about in songs, if only it hadn’t happened to him. Of course he did care about people in the court and his hometown, and many a fine lass had thought herself the center of his attention. Granted they all had been, though unbeknownst to each other. If they had known, there would have been a riot of furious maidens the thought of which any man or dragon, no matter how grizzled and scarred he be, would grow pale and shake in his boots, or scales. Though at the moment Dobble was more scared about his own skin than that of his kingdom’s if it could be said to have any left. Ginhit and his brood had descended upon the minute kingdom from many directions and had slain most of the population and burned down near every building, making very short work of it. They slew the lord and his courtiers in their court while they were in the middle of a feast which Dobble still wished he could have finished. All of the men in arms had fallen to the might of the dragons. And now, Dobble the Fool was to make a dragon laugh.

He wished the dragons would have killed him too. Making simple folk and stupid kings laugh was one thing: a bad pun, a rude noise, or childish story, to name a few examples, were enough to get even the most serious laughing. And the popular, yet tasteless, jokes about the now late king Bartholomew, why, they practically wrote themselves and would get anyone, even King Bart himself, howling and slapping their knees.

Dobble had already used his most immature jokes in his repertoire on the dragons and knew deep in his heart what the dragons would come to learn, if they didn’t already. They, unlike the people who showered Dobble with praise and admiration, had class. They were dragons, old and wise, and refined—a thing Dobble had never had to take into account when prancing about the court and villages telling his tales. He whimpered, for the end, possibly deserved, of Dobble the fool, was nigh.

The End,
God bless

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Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Conquest and Glory is done. It took longer than it should have, but I am satisfied with its current state, and I wouldn’t have been if I had forced myself to go faster. It feels weird being finished but it had to happen, and I was looking forwards to it. While I didn’t dislike writing it, I am looking forward to working on my next project which will, when finished, be posted on here chapter by chapter, and I am about to give you some sneak peaks at what I am about to work on and what my schedule here will look like in the future.

Since Conquest and Glory is done, I consider my two week window done as well. I will be now posting new stories more infrequently, but I will continue to post them as well as updates and maybe some reposts of older stuff that many of you have not seen. I won’t give any set day expect that new stories, posts, ect. will continue to be shared on Saturdays for ease, maybe some exceptions here and there.

Now for the good stuff, what to expect. I hope you liked Three, Vinn, and Asuka as much as I do, as well as Galin, Michael, and Rosie, for they will return. Three shortly, and Galin sometime when I can finish the idea, but I don’t want to rush that. Also along with with my next stories will be a table of contents for Conquest and Glory, (I know, that should have been done when it was finished) and one for Fragments and Pieces, gathering all of my pieces of fiction, into one place, to be pinned on my home page. As for what my longer project will be, it’s about Vikings, and I’ll share a description of our Heroine.

Her name is Astrid Ulfsdotter. She is tall, taller than most women and many men, and so great is her beauty that she been given the title of Daughter of Freyja or Freyjasdotter, but it is a cold and hard beauty. Her fair hair is long, and kept out of her eyes with a leather band. A shieldmaiden, Astrid wears a hauberk of scale mail, with steel scales smithed in the shape of the scales of a nidhogg, some say that they are the scales of a nidhogg. Upon her brow is a helm that shines like the full moon, and is winged like a Valkyrie’s. She wields great spear with a deadly skill, able to stand her own against many of the best warriors, and at her side is her shield. To her enemies she is cold and ruthless, but to her friends she is true and loyal, willing to fight and to die for those she loves. Her brother Ivor, is the village smith, and he is strong, though not as warlike and thirsting for battle as Astrid might be.

As I said before, I am not leaving substack, but I won’t be posting as regularly or frequently for a little while. Good day and my friends and readers, hopefully this wont take me too long.

God bless

By now Marcus had been reinstated and Rome was more or less restored to order. With the help of the legionaries, the citizens had earnestly devoted themselves to cleaning up the city and it was now pristine. The rats had been put to flight after the death of Aquila and those who had remained loyal to him, including the nobility, were now awaiting their doom.

Messengers had been sent to gather the Justinius’s Legion back to Rome and to install someone to govern the newly acquired lands and city. Another force was on their way to defend the territory and crush any resistance left in the surrounding lands. New recruits would be found to fill the Legion’s ranks once more, many of the surviving members of Aquila’s legion who had turned against him had already volunteered to join. The rest of that legion was being disbanded and the legionaries being sent to various legions.

Justinius had no thoughts for any of that. He was sitting in his villa, enjoying a nice day, telling his wife, children, and servants about the orders from Marcus that sent him from Rome to the border, back to Rome again to face the traitorous Aquila. He was quite ready to stay there and do nothing for quite some time. He listened intently while his wife, with his many children and servants chiming in, told him what transpired while he had been gone. How Aquila had ousted Marcus and what had happened after and what it had been like. He had received a harsh scolding from her. “You need to be more careful,” she had finished, “If you had come back dead I don’t know what any of us would do.”

After all the chaos of the last several weeks and the duties of the last few days, Justinius just wanted a chance to sit and rest. This had been his first real chance. Marcus had Justinius help more than anyone in getting Rome sorted. He it had been who had been charge of rounding up the rats and loyal followers of Aquila. The one in charge of overseeing the cleaning and, where necessary, repairs of Rome had also been Justinius.

“How are your injuries? Will you recover?” one of the servants asked.

“I am recovering just fine,” Justinius answered to the relief of everyone there. “In fact, of all my injuries, the one I am afraid of most is my whiskers.” Everyone laughed at his joke. Though none of his injuries were life threatening, and his whiskers only a minor inconvenience, it was still the one that plagued his mind the most. “You should see Octavius.”

Octavius had not fared quite as well in the fighting. He had lost half of his remaining ear before coming to the palace. And once inside facing three of Aquila’s mice alone, he had lost an eye and a quarter of his tail, not to mention many other cuts and bruises. He had come a long way, from a young soldier without much experience when they had just set out, to a scarred and experienced soldier who had been promoted once again. He was now a centurion in the first cohort, having shown great promise, skill, and decision making during the battle. So much so that Justinius swore that the day could not have been won without him, and that he would become one of the greatest military leaders in the history of Rome, if not the greatest.

“Sir,” said Octavius, who really should not be up about. Justinius was surprised to see him in his house, but not surprised to see him up, “The Emperor has desired to see you.”

“Has he?” Justinius asked, getting up with a groan.

“He has,” the bandaged mouse nodded. “And me as well.”

“What is it?” he said, holding back a sigh.

“Don’t know,” Octavius replied with a grin. “But we’ll be sure to have some wine I’m sure.”

“I’d rather have some sleep,” Justinius mumbled.

Standing up, he stretched as much as his injuries would allow, which wasn’t as much as he would have liked, and made to follow Octavius.

“As would I, sir,” Octavius chuckled.

They left amid protests from his children and servants who were pleading for him to tell them more. Justinius would have very much liked to stay and talk but he knew that the Emperor’s summons were more important. As they slowly meandered their way to the palace, they talked of this and that, recalling events from their journey. Octavius reminded Justinius of details he had forgotten, while Justinius told him parts he didn’t know.

“Feels like we brought that hawk down years ago,” Octavius said.

“Aye,” Justinius agreed. “You were just a young soldier then, and now look at you.”

“Fourth Centurion of the First Cohort!” he said proudly.

“I don’t think I’ve congratulated you yet,” Justinius commended.

“Nor I you,” Octavius laughed.

“Ah yes,” he replied slowly. One of the first things Marcus had done after being restored had been to promote Justinius once again. Now rather than just being the legate of his legion, he had been made a general and now oversaw several legions, becoming one of the most powerful mice in Rome. “I’d rather not think about it, I had enough commanding just one legion, now I’ll have nine more and governors to oversee as well.”

“You won’t have too much trouble, after what you did they all love you, the ones who weren’t loyal to Aquila that is.” Silence reigned for a couple minutes as both mice tried to get the sour taste Aquila’s name had given them out of their mouths.

Even taking it slow, they had now arrived at the palace. Justinius sighed, he didn’t want more work than he already had and was going to have governing legates and listening to governors’ reports. It had been a surprising move that Marcus had made, one which the nobles and citizens had cheered on, and one which Justinius had appreciated. He wished it had been conferred with and not thrust on him. But still, he smiled, it wasn’t all bad, and it would have its perks.

“I think you would have made a better choice,” he said, giving Octavius a hearty, yet mindful, slap on the back.

Brushing Justinius’s paw away, Octavius laughed, “Yeah, and what about you, old man?”

“Caesar would be fine.” They both fell about in a violent fit of laughter.

Wiping tears from their eyes, Justinius spoke through gasps. “Now, let us see which of us will be getting the bigger pile of work.” Their laughter renewed, they stumbled through the doors to the confusion of the guards posted there, and continued on to meet the Emperor, the chambers echoing with their mirth.

The End
God bless and thank you!

word count 1,179—total 21,940

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Justinius did not wait for an explanation. Regrouping his mice they charged the ra, and were able to get in the midst of them before the archers could recover from their surprise. Unable to loose arrows at Justinius and his band, they leapt down to join in the fighting. The clash was brutal, but swift, and Justinius was hard pressed to defend himself and Quintus who remained close by him swinging his sling at every rat hea that came too close. After the last rat fell, he inspected the first of the battlefields within Rome. It was first time in many a mouse’s lifetime that battle had come to Rome’s gates, let alone within them. They had fought Julius and the rats off successfully but at a cost. Brutus and two others lay among the dead.

“Onwards!” Justinius shouted, turning his back to the carnage. “This is our only chance! The rest will have to figure it out for themselves for we have not the time.” He began their mad dash through the streets that would end at the palace. He longed to stay and mourn their deaths and give them a proper burial, time was of the essence now and he was sure they would have bid them do the same if they could have exchanged words with the living.

They overtook the few rats that had managed to flee in a matter of minutes and fell upon them ruthlessly. Justinius was the first to leap in, and the first to receive an injury for his efforts. It was not long before the last rat had fought to the death. Two more mice had been slain during the skirmish. “Go now,” Justinius told them, inspecting the cut on his cheek with help of his reflection in one of the swords. “We can finish this, I know we can.”

Aquila inspected the view of the city and the lands beyond from the balcony of Marcus’s former room. It had been here that Justinius had been sent to the border. Curse him! He had gotten word of a commotion, but had no yet heard whether it had been successful or not. He should have had Justinius sent away farther. How did Cassius manage to find him?

“No matter,” he said to himself. Still no word. If things didn’t look

“What is that?” said the mouse who had informed him of Justinius’s return. “You needed something?”

“Nothing,” Aquila snapped. His cape rustled in the wind. He peered closely at the streets. He thought he saw something in the distance, but Rome was a large city with many buildings so anything he had seen was uncertain at best or a trick of the eye. He’d have Marcus brought up. If Justinius managed to evade death, which was possible—Justinius was a slippery one and had proved as such—then he could always threaten to kill Marcus.

“You!” he commanded to one of the mice he kept near to attend and protect him. “Go have Marcus brought here, and double our guard. Make sure plenty of rats are guarding the front entrance. That’s about the only thing they are good for. Anyway, they’ll be good enough to slow Justinius down and we wont have to lose more mice in the process. If they show up, they’ll be in no state to resist.”

“Yes sir,” the mouse said with a bow and scurried away to fulfill his orders.

Aquila turned back to the window, frowning. He should have had some word by now. Something was wrong. He muttered something under his breath. Then his day got worse.

“Sir!” the mouse said, running into the room, breathing hard.

“What is it, did you do as I said? Where is Marcus?” Aquila was close to clapping the fool in irons and throwing him in a cell or just relieving him of his head, that would be simpler.

“Marcus is gone! So are most of the prisoners!”

Aquila swore and turned to him. “What?”

“Someone broke them out!”

“Who?” Aquila demanded.

“I don’t know.” Aquila had to muster all his willpower not to run the idiot through right there.

“Did you send reinforcements to the front of the palace?”

“I haven’t yet. I needed to bring this to your attention.”

“Get out of my sight before I give you to the rats,” Aquila roared. The mouse shrank and ran out again. Aquila breathed deeply to calm himself which only irritated himself more. He addressed the rest “Go and see that the front gates are protected.”

He ground his teeth and threw a goblet after the last mouse . He hoped Justinius survived, actually. He wanted to gut him himself after all the trouble he had caused by coming back. Curse him!

Octavius peered out the doorway of the empty storage room hoping they hadn’t been seen or noticed. Breaking the prisoners out had gone without a hitch, and Marcus and those who had been imprisoned by Aquila were now free. Little blood had needed to be spilt in the process and none of them had sustained injuries. The alarm would soon be raised, he didn’t want to be in the vicinity, but it would help provide a distraction for Justinius.

“What do we do now?” Marcus asked.

Octavius looked about him, inside and outside the room. He had heard from a legionary passing outside that Justinius was going to be attacked. Octavius had remained hidden, despite wanting to throttle the mouse where he was.

“We make a move now,” Octavius replied. “If Justinius is all right, then we can draw more attention away from him!”

Everyone gathered with him nodded in agreement, and they all bared their weapon’s both traditional and makeshift. At a word from Octavius they flooded out of the storage room, ready to fight and if need be die for Marcus.

Justinius and those with him had almost made it to the palace. During their dash they could hear fighting from all around the city as the others made their entrances. There was more than he expected, Octavius must have made his move and he was sure Brutus’s compatriots had. Several citizens had also joined them in the mad dash, tired of being lorded over by Aquila. He stopped just short of the palace entrance. Many more rats than he had legionaries stood in front of the doors.

“This shall not stop us!” Justinius shouted as he once again began to run. He heard a yell to his right and saw twenty bloodied mice, roaring and running, slam into the rats. Not to be outdone by anyone, Justinius put on a burst of speed and joined the fray. Together, the two groups of mice overpowered the rats and swiftly slew them. During the course of the fighting seven mice had been cut down in the fighting, and more than a dozen more had sustained injuries. Quintus had lost half an ear, but he refused to stay behind, as did the rest of the injured.

“Where is Aquila?” one of the newcomers asked.

“He should be in the palace, unless these rats were to draw us in instead of keeping us out,” Justinius replied, breathing hard. “How did you fare?”

“We heard a racket in the barracks. Figuring that something must have gone wrong we decided to make a move,” the mouse explained. “Brutus made his move.”

“Brutus is dead,” Justinius said sorrowfully.

The legionary was shocked. “How?”

“He heard we were going to be ambushed and came to save us. He succeeded in killing Julius and saving our tails but died in the fighting that ensued,” Justinius said.

“He died well, then.”

“Aye, let us push on and make sure his sacrifice was not in vain.”

Entering the palace, Justinius saw few inside. Other than a rat who fled upon seeing the legionaries, they only came across a few servants and slaves who cowered until Justinius and his followers passed them by. The first floor was in need of a good scrubbing. He was sad to see the state of the place.

They soon came to Marcus’s throne room. In was impeccably clean, unlike the rest of the city. Aquila was there along with forty of his legionaries. “So you’ve made it here,” Aquila scoffed. “I had higher expectations from my underlings.”

Justinius ignore Aquila. A familiar mouse was sitting nearby, sipping wine. “Hippias!”

Hippias, for it was he, jumped up with a start, dropping his chalice on the ground and spilling the blood-red wine. He ran to the farthest point from Justinius, the window. “Justinius, you were supposed to be dead!”

“Not yet,” Justinius said, grabbing a spear from a rat and raised it to throw. “But I’ll kill you—you betrayed us!”

“I never was on your side to begin with,” Hippias sniffed. “So I don’t know you could say I betrayed you.”

Not wanting to hear another word Justinius threw the spear, hoping to silence Hippias, who squeaked in surprised. Jumping back, the former slave dodged it, but in doing so he tripped over the rail on the balcony and plummeted with a high-pitched squeal.

“Pity,” Justinius said, listening as Hippias fell to his death, “I should have liked to kill him myself. Now, Aquila, where is Marcus!”

“Dead,” Aquila spat, “just like you will be in a moment. Then all this will be behind me and Rome will be mine.”

“That will never happen,” Justinius said drawing his sword. “And unlike Hippias I shall have the pleasure of killing you myself and avenging Rome of the wrongs done against her by you and your rats.”

“Likewise,” Aquila leered. “I’m glad you lived. Now I can make sure you die and stay dead.” He charged Justinius and Justinius ran forward to meet him.

They clashed in sparks of steel. Aquila had not been promoted to Legate for nothing. He was a skilled swordsman, much more so than the rat chief Justinius had fought, but not nearly as strong. He was the superior swordsmouse of the two, and Justinius had little hope of besting him, but he vowed he would not give up nor be defeated.

For minutes on end they fought, going too fast for the watches to follow. Aquila scored the first blood, nicking Justinius right arm, but he soon drew blood of his own, dealing Aquila a more serious wound on her leg. All the while they fought, rats and mice of both sides trickled in. Some began to fight, but most stood in awe, watching as the two legates dueled to the death for the fate of Rome.

Aquila drew back after several minutes, he had just dealt Justinius another blow, this one to his shoulder, and sucked in air. “Where are the mice?” he shouted at one of the jaw-dropped onlookers. “Get them in here to back us up!”

“I’m sorry,” the centurion said nervously, “but most of the legion seems to have risen up against us and have joined with the citizens against those who have remained loyal. ”

“What?” Aquila would have slain the mouse on the spot had Justinius not leapt to try and deal Aquila a defeating blow. They began their mad duel once more. Justinius was slowly losing ground, and he had received more injuries while he had still only dealt Aquila one.

Several strikes and parries later, Octavius and Marcus tumbled through a doorway. Joining the onlookers, they watched in silence as the fate of Rome was settled. Knowing Marcus was safe and his death a lie gave him renewed confidence and energy. Justinius began his assault on Aquila with a renewed vigor and even drew blood again, a minor wound, but it was still not enough. Aquila still had Justinius overpowered and was about to deal a killing blow.

Justinius saw it coming, and felt he couldn’t do anything. He should have thought of his family, he knew it, in his final moments, but he only wished that his life could go on a little longer. It was then he thought he heard Titus’s voice calling his name and telling him to drop. Berating himself for giving up, Justinius dove and rolled behind Aquila. Aquila did not react, he just blinked in surprise, a mistake which cost him his life. Justinius stood up behind Aquila and plunged his blade through the traitor’s chest as he turned to face him.

Justinius breathed a sigh of relief as Aquila sank to the floor, muttering last words that no one heard, an angry expression frozen on his face. Justinius also sank down, thankful he was still alive and had managed to defeat Aquila.

“Gods be praised!” Marcus said, dashing to his side, “you did it.” Aquila was forgotten where he lay as he breathed his last. The rats and mice loyal to him threw down their weapons and either fled or fell to their knees, hoping for mercy.

“Yes,” Justinius replied. “But I think I’d like some rest now.” And without a further word, he passed into blissful oblivion and knew no more.

 
The End?
God bless

word count  2,222—total 22,983
 
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So, instead of Conquest and Glory I’ll give a new story—sorry bout that—Fifth Fragment cuz I don’t have any other name for it and I haven’t done one for a while, and this is Fragments and Pieces. So for those who don’t know, this piece will just be one or two scenes, nothing much, taken from something larger. That something larger may be something I have planned out, have a couple scenes of, or have nothing at all, and I may plan on finishing and publishing it or I might not.

I have no idea if that is a good idea or not to do, but I’m doing it anyway.

For this one, I have a few scenes and two main characters, and two secondary characters, but not much more, not much in the way of plot, antagonists, or conclusion. This story does not follow these two men mainly, they are, at this moment, antagonists of a sort, but not villains or evil, so I don’t know what they are or will become, if they become anything at all. This story would follow a young man and the woman looking out for him as they travel to escape the city and those who would want him if they knew about him. I would like to make a draft, but again, I don’t know if I will be able to make enough for that.

Also, I still don’t have names for these two characters, so I took inspiration from an album, Crossroads, to temporarily name them.

The cliffside under his feet stretched hundreds of yards in a sheer drop before plunging into the crashing waves below. Gulls, some of the only wildlife you might see in your life, if you were lucky enough to get out in the open just once in your life. They were far from the giant city, which spread for hundreds miles in every directions—including miles skyward and downward—and all of its inhabitants, living, mechanical, and half mechanical. And they were far from their quarry as well. The wind was strong, strong enough to chill them despite their thick clothes, and he shivered, pulling his coat tighter against himself.

He stared over cliffside, wondering just how far away and deep the mining station was under the ocean. He voiced his thoughts aloud to his companion.

“I don’t know,” Black replied, throwing a rock over and watched it fall into the waters below.

“We should find out. I can get directions from the locals.”

“I’m not going,” Black said flatly.

Night spun. “What?”

“I’m not going.

“But she’s,” he began, but Black cut him off.

“No, we fulfilled out contract,” Black said, poking him hard in the chest. “We were sent after one woman, and what happened? We found her dead and buried. No one was told her little secret—it went to her grave. And her friend? We don’t even know she was told. It took us weeks—weeks!—to find anything about her! Weeks! And what do we find? That she probably went to the undersea mining station? Then what? News that the station collapsed and that over half of the people there were killed either by the water or lack of air under or behind rocks. Its pointless!” He began to walk away.

Night called after him. “But we don’t know she’s dead!”

Black paused, let out a long breath, then turned and walked up to the young man. “Just look at it from my perspective, okay?”

“Fine,” he replied.

“Just try and look at it from my perspective,” he said again. “One, the woman we were after, and her secret—if she even knew it—are dead and in the ground—I’m surprised there was ground for her to be buried in, especially someone like her. She can’t go around telling anyone, contract fulfilled.” He stopped a moment, looking around. “We were told to find her, and make sure she didn’t tell anyone. That’s already been done, and by weak constitution from vatgrown ancestry for who knows how many generations.”

“But the other woman—her friend,” Night objected.

“I was getting to that, but you understand that we fulfilled our contract. It’s done, and they’ll fulfill their end.”

“Okay, but will they see it like that?”

“You just can’t trust them, or me, can you?” Black shook his head in disbelief, his pale skin contrasting with the darkening landscape as the sun dipped closer and closer to the waves on the horizon.”

“Sorry,” Night mumbled. “I, I just don’t feel we finished. If she told her, then this woman could tell someone else. I just can’t help but feel they’d see it like that and tell us we didn’t live up our end of the deal.”

“I get that, but let me finish.”

Night nodded, so Black continued.

“First, we don’t even know if this woman told her friend. We don’t even know if she herself knew. At least, we don’t know if she knew how serious it could be to the right people.”

“I know. . .”

“Next, we don’t even know this second woman’s name. Nor do we know what she looks like. It would be nigh impossible to find her with our current resources. The man we learned her possible destination from earns a living by altering people’s appearance.”

“So?”

“So,” he said patiently, spelling everything out, “If she went to this man, then she was going to change her appearance. So now even the little we do know is pointless. If she is changing her appearance, she is hiding or running from someone. Most likely running, since she chose that mining station. She would have changed her name as well. How do we find a woman who has changed her face and name to run from someone? And who is she running from? Why is she running? Personally, I don’t want to get mixed up in whatever is going on. Finding her anyway would be impossible. I suppose you could ask around who was new, but then the station collapsed. Many people died. A lot of the survivors left. We don’t know who survived or where they went. The people who have seen this woman, if she even went here in the first place, remember he said she was likely going here, are either dead or who knows where.”

“I guess so, but I can’t shake this,” he admitted.

“I can tell.” Black sat down on a rock, watching the sunset. “Just a final point. Say she does know, and say she isn’t dead and is out there. She is no longer in the city where that information can do harm. I’m going back.”

Night tried to protest and to call after him, but Black ignored him and left, growing smaller and smaller till he disappeared in the night. He was frusterated. His sisters depended on him to succeed. If he failed they’d be thrown on the streets in the deepest level of the city. No one would survive that for long unless you knew how, and his sisters didn’t. He kicked a loose rock over the edge in frustration.

After several days Black was back in the city. He made his way to where he could obtain his favorite cigarettes, and with a few in his pocket, moved on to finish what he had returned for. Within an hour he stood face to face with an official who would oversee the report and fulfilment of the contract. He stood in the dark, metal room. Inspecting stained walls and table, it didn’t look like the kind of place a legitimate agreement would take place, but Black had done this before, and knew how it worked.

“So, you found her?”

“Like I said,” Black repeated, growing tired of explaining things so many times to the same people, “she was dead, never told anyone as far as we could dig up. Even asked her employer who knew all her secrets, said no one else knew—even she didn’t.”

“And this woman who ran away?”

“Don’t know if she knew or not, but she isn’t here and she can’t hurt anyone where she went. Besides, she was at that mining station.”

“Mining station,” the man uninterested, then, “that station?”

“Yes,” Black replied.

“Most likely dead then. I see. We’ll say she died in the incident and call it that. Well, you did what we asked, now you’ll get what we promised. Where is the other man?”

“He doesn’t think it’s done. He’s trying to find her.” They both shared a hearty laugh.

After a few seconds the man said through his mirth, “We’ll, we’ll consider it done then. When he gets back he won’t have to worry about anything. If he does happen to find her, I’ll speak with him.”

“And if he does?” Black said. “Hypothetically.

“There’s no chance he will, not if her body is at the bottom of the ocean.” He chuckled again. “And he wont if she changed her name and face. But, if he does, nothing happens to you. I’ll finalize things. It only would if the contract was still open, but I’m closing it. Both of them, we have separate ones, you know, just in case one of you failed in some ay or another.”

“We’ll then, I’ll be seeing you.”

“I think not, but then again, who knows where we’ll end up. Good day.”

“Good day.”

Black left. He lit a cigarette, and walked away, pocketing his reward. That would come in handy someday. He thought about Night and couldn’t help but snigger again. What an idiot. “The world needs all kinds to spin, doesn’t it,” he said aloud, exhaling as he lost himself in the dark streets of the undercity.

The End,
God Bless.

Justinius was withing eyesight of Rome. Since he had set out summer had waned and Autumn had come in. A cold rain was pouring, making the grass slippery and turning dirt to mud. Justinius had taken the most direct route to Rome. Quintus, who had begged to come along, had traveled with him since he didn’t know the way. They had run into a few of their own along the way but hadn’t ever grouped up, though some of the others had stayed near. They had done their best to avoid any populated areas or coming into contact with traveling mice, and Justinius was thankful for the rain for once since it would give them some cover as they infiltrated the city. He frowned. The rain would help them, yes, but he could barely see anything with it and could not see how well Rome was defended.

“How are we going to enter?” Quintus asked.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Octavius said, coming up behind them with the two mice he had traveled with. “Shall we go through the main gate?”

“I’d prefer to enter from the other side of the city,” Justinius replied. “They probably wont be looking as hard for us from that side, if they are looking for us at all. We don’t know if Aquila expects us or not.”

“He knew Cassius escaped,” Justinius said. “Or he should. And he’ll be wary that some help of some form might come. He’s expecting something—he has to after taking Rome like that. I just hope he isn’t watching Cassius’s house.”

“Unless he didn’t know it was Cassius,” Octavius interjected. “But that seems like a vain hope.”

“Well, that’s all we have at the moment,” Justinius said slowly, brow furrowed. “Let’s go.”

They slunk back and circled the city. The rain was still pouring when they reached the gate they were looking for. They entered slowly, making sure not to appear connected. Justinius tried to keep himself inconspicuous, but he knew with his previous standing then promotion to legate he would easily be recognized by the right person. He hoped that right person didn’t turn out to be the wrong person. Not many people were out, seeming only to be out if they had to. He almost walked into a rat who was still trying to find who had jostled him when Justinius slipped into a side street.

He breathed a sigh of relief, then ducked again as two legionaries walked by. They weren’t part of the two hundred. He wondered if he had hidden himself in time, but they didn’t seem to have seen him. Readying himself, he resumed his trek to Cassius’s home.

He made sure he hadn’t been followed and that the house wasn’t being watched before entering. While he was doing so two mice under his command entered furtively, looking about them. Not exactly suspicious, but they certainly weren’t inconspicuous. Waiting a minute more, he entered the house through a back door. He knocked.

“What is it?” a annoyed voice said, opening the door. It was a shout mouse with a clipped ear. He frowned at Justinius. “What do you want?”

“I’m Justinius,” he said. “Cassius sent me here.”

“Cassius did, eh?” the diminutive mouse said. “Okay, come on in. Name’s Hippias.”

Justinius didn’t quite like the mouse at first, and he couldn’t say exactly why. But there was definitely something about his eyes he didn’t like. Hippias led him into a room with around a score of mice. Most of them were from his legion, but four appeared to be servants of Cassius. Justinius soon came to think he had misjudged Hippias.

Hippias was a delightful host in Cassus’s absence, and made every effort, and made sure the other servants and slaves did as well, to make sure Justinius and his mice were well received and taken care of. He was a small mouse with cream colored fur and there was a prominent nick in his ear.

“Where is Marcus?” Justinius asked after they were settled and he was sure they hadn’t been followed. Some of the others chuckled and poked fun at how nervous he seemed to be.

“He left a while back,” Hippias replied, pausing from his duties.

“Where is he?”

“We thought it unsafe to have him remain here,” Hippias said. “After Cassius and the others got out of the gates, there was no telling who survived, or who would go where. But we knew some had been killed, and Marcus didn’t want to take any chances and was sure Aquila would come poking around here. If he did, Marcus’s life would be over. That and the fact he was too recognizable. If anyone saw him, they would know who he was and might tell Aquila at once. So we decided to send him off in secret not two days after Cassius left.”

“Where did he go?” Justinius wanted to make sure that he was safe and was considering checking himself.

“You are planning on going overthrowing the usurper, Aquila, no?” Hippias gave him a curious look. “Then be patient. If you go up against Aquila only to fail, he could get the information out of you. I’m not sure if even you could resist him, and then any hope would indeed be lost. I could not in good conscious tell you where Caesar Marcus is for Marcus’s sake. Besides, I don’t know where he went, or if he went out of the city at all. He thought it would be safer to not have anyone know where he was. I don’t think he entirely trusted that we wouldn’t betray him.”

“Marcus was cautious, and his betrayal would have left little trust in others,” Justinius remarked.

“Indeed.” Hippias resumed his work and Justinius was left in thought.

The days passed, and so did the rain. Justinius spent the next few days scouting Rome and the strength of Aquila’s forces. It appeared that many of the legion did not side entirely with Aquila, but were forced to go along by those who were higher up and the rats. Quite a few of the nobles had joined with Aquila, appreciating the power and comforts that came with joining him, while even more had been put to death or exiled, and not a few had joined out of fear of their own life. The city was faring just as poorly as these—the streets had acquired filth at an alarming rate and mice were afraid to leave their homes. Justinius could hardly wait till Rome was restored to her former glory.

Justinius had finished his plan as well as he could by this point. He still had yet to get an exact number of the rats in the city, but by his estimation it was in the hundreds. Potentially well over five hundred. Many in Aquila’s legion had been put to death or exiled publicly, and many more and secretly been given to the rats from what he had been able to gather. The number of those mice who had served Aquila and willing to give their lives for him and executed by him was almost a hundred. They must have been the most vocal. Though it seemed that only a quarter or so had fully turned on Marcus, they were the ones who could force the rest to follow. It was these that would pay in the end. The rest were either following whoever was in charge because they didn’t care or out of fear for their lives. How they preformed in the coming days would decided their fate after Aquila’s defeat.

Almost all of his forces had made it into Rome without discovery, with Cassius among them. Justinius had situated them at strategic points around the city in places he knew they could hide without being found. Thirty he had kept at Cassius’s house with himself to fight alongside him when he would launch his attack. Those situated around Rome would rise up and be a distraction for Justinius and his group so they could sneak through and get to Aquila. All he needed to do was to send word to them and the whole city would be thrown into chaos. He had even sent seven mice under the command of a mouse named Brutus to infiltrate Aquila’s legion and cause an uprising to help even out the battlefield. This was known only to him and Octavius. Octavius was to break into the prison and break out any Aquila had unlawfully imprisoned. Quintus had not the experience of a legionary nor the knowledge of Rome to be of any help other than at Justinius’s side. Even then Justinius had his doubts that the mouse could be anything but a hindrance.

He slank back, ready to return to Cassius’s house where he had set up his base of operations and report back. He wanted to learn as much as he could from his reconnaissance but he knew that the longer they were in Rome the larger the chance of them discovery grew. He didn’t know quite as much as he would like, but he knew he had no other choice than to make his move. He would do so in the early hours of the next morning. He’d have messengers sent out to spread the word. Octavius and Brutus and those under them would have to wait until the battle started, that would be their sign to make their moves.

The day was growing late as he darted through the streets near Cassius’s house. He thought he heard something behind him, but when he looked there was nothing there. The wind whistled by sharply, and he wondered if they might get an early snow. They days had been growing unusually cold. Shivering, he stepped inside the house, making sure that no one was watching and that no one had followed him.

He said something to those who had been hand picked to run to those hiding in the city about sending the word next morning. Then told Hippias he would make the move next morning. Cassius was out at the moment, so Justinius told Hippias to inform him upon his arrival.

“It will be done,” the former slave said after hearing what Justinius had to say. “Now get your rest—you’ll need it tomorrow. We’re all cheering for you.”

“I think I will,” Justinius replied, unable to hear the last comment of Hippias through his own yawn, He retired for the night after making one or two more comments to one or two mice.

Octavius had snuck into the prison in the early morning hours. This was the first chance he had been able to and he wanted to get an idea of just how many he’d be able to recruit. He had slipped past the rats who had fallen asleep. Miserable creatures. He was sure even the traitors who had sided with Aquila wouldn’t fall asleep on their posts—traitors or not they were still disciplined legionaries.

He slipped through the shadows, making notes of who looked like nobles, legionnaires and plain criminals. But he stopped when he saw the last cell. Something was very wrong.

There, in the cell, was the late emperor Marcus. He was thin and he looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in several days. He perked when he saw Octavius.

“Is that you, Octavius?” he hissed.

“How did you know?” Octavius said, coming close to the bars.

“I remember Justinius speaking highly of you and seeing you when you went off, but never mind that now. Is the legate here?”

“Why?” Octavius said, suddenly alert.

The former emperor grabbed him by the collar through the cell bars. “We’ve been betrayed!”

Justinius awoke refreshed. He ate a quick meal, then readied his mice. The runners all went out ahead of him and Justinius followed at the head of his group. He stopped short upon exiting.

The runners, six in total, were all dead, shot with arrows. About forty rats and twenty mice stood in the street or up on the rooftops, bows drawn and new arrows nocked.

One of the highest centurions under Aquila, a mouse named Julius with whom Justinius had met some time ago, stepped forward. “Surrender, and you may find mercy.”

“I would rather die than beg for my life from someone like you,” Justinius roared.

He looked back and the other mice with him nodded approvingly at him. Then he turned his attention to the matter at hand. Though he didn’t regret his decision which would only have angered Julius and ruin their only chance for mercy, he didn’t think their chances looked very good. He frowned again, wondering how many more times it would take before his face remained like that—how his wife would scold him. At least they’d go down fighting. He vowed to take the traitor with him even if it was the only thing he did.

“Forward,” he shouted, drawing his sword and pointing it at Julius.

The end for now . . .
God bless

word count, 2,173—total 20,761

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“It’s true,” the mouse said, able to stand straight by this point. “Aquila has overthrown the Caesar Marcus with the aid of some of the nobles in Rome. He survived and is hiding in the city, at least, he was safe when I left.”

“How?” Justinius asked, sitting down. He had known Aquila was up to something, and suspected as much, but to hear that he had actually overthrown Marcus was still a shock. He could barely believe it.

“Apparently the plan has been some time in the making,” the mouse, who was named Cassius, replied. He was one of the nobles who had opposed Aquila. “He has been sending those who are loyal to Marcus far from Rome so they couldn’t stand against him when he made his move. He has brought in many rats who now terrorize the citizens. We tried to send messengers, but they were slain. I was the only one to escape alive.”

Justinius now knew the fate of his messengers. He said a silent prayer to the gods then turned to Cassius. “What has he done?”

“He has driven many away out of Rome or given them to the rats to have some fun. Those who are still loyal to Marcus have either been executed or are in hiding. Will you help us?”

“Of course,” Justinius vowed. “Marcus is an old friend of his, and I would gladly give my life for him even if I fail. I will give my life if necessary to restore him as to bring down Aquila. How I’ve disliked him.” It felt nice to stop hiding that fact. Then the thought of his family sprang to his mind. “How is my wife? Do you have any word? What about my children”

“I don’t know,” Cassius admitted. “They may be safe, or they may be one of the ones who have been used as an example. I do not know their fate. I am sorry.”

He had to return home. If anything had happened to them, he swore that Aquila would die a slow and painful death even if it was the last thing he did. “We shall leave at once. Let me prepare—then we shall head back to Rome.”

“Be careful,” the mouse warned.

Justinius left the building and looked around him. Many of his mice would be too wounded to march again so soon. He growled in frustration. He had always disliked Aquila, but now he had a reason to confront him. His days were numbered. Speed and secrecy were of the essence, so forming the legion and marching didn’t seem quite like the right idea. But he had the beginning of something.

He sent messengers to gather all his officers together. In a quarter of an hour they were all standing around the table, having already been briefed on the situation. Quintus and a few others had wandered in and Justinius did not bother sending them away so long as they were silent.

“This is outrageous!” Maximus squeaked. “That traitor! He’ll pay!”

“I think we all want to see that,” said Octavius whose exemplary show during the taking of the city had merited a position at the table and a promotion to centurion on the fifth cohort. “But how can we do it?”

“I think I might have an idea,” Justinius said slowly, “We cannot meet the enemy head on and the legion is in no condition to take on another legion. We do not know how many of Aquila’s legion followed him, and there are rats in Rome who are surly under his command. To rush would be folly, but we must do something. We cannot send word to the other legions since that would take far too long and Aquila has sent them to Jupiter knows where. I am sure no one else knows we are here.”

“What can we do?” asked a mouse.

“The odds seem against us,” said another.

“It seems the best chance is to swear allegiance to Aquila,” said the third centurion of the first cohort, “but I would rather die.”

“Agreed,” Maximus said. “The thought leaves a vile taste in my mouth. Almost as vile as that traitor. Alas, I am in no condition to fight.”

“I want you here,” Justinius replied. “Even if you were fit to fight, I would keep you here. I have decided to break up the legion.”

There were squeaks of surprise and rage around the table. “You would do what?” blustered one mouse with thick whiskers.

“Preposterous!”

“But why?”

“And how?”

Maximus just stared at him in but Octavius—Justinius could always count on Octavius—slammed his minute fists on the table and raised his voice above the others. “If the legate is proposing this then he must have a good reason! We should let him explain himself instead of shouting at him.” The table fell silent, the mice either humbled or still confused and angered.

“Thank you,” Justinius said with a bow of the head in Octavius’s direction. “As he said, I did not finish. If I may?” He looked around, but no one made a move to say anything. “I am going to break up, not disband, the legion. The majority of the legion will stay here under the leadership of Maximus. Don’t forget, many were left behind after the battle with the cat.”

“Cat?” Quintus piped up.

“I’ll explain later, or have someone else do it,” Justinius said hurriedly before turning back to his plan. “I have thought this over and kept running into the same problem, namely, due to the obstacles we face, we would never come face to face with the Aquila. Like I stated already, we have not the numbers nor strength to fight another legion—we must assume his legion is still loyal to Aquila, though we cannot know for certain till we arrive—and the rats in the city whose numbers we cannot know. And it is not just any legion we face, it is Aquila’s legion, the most renowned legion currently in service to Rome and to Marcus. Laying Siege to Rome is certainly out of the question.

“So what we need is speed and secrecy. Which is why I want two hundred of the best mice. Mice who are exceptional fighters. Mice who had experience before joining up. Mice who can fight together without being in formation and still overcome their enemy. Mice who prefer to fight this way.”

“To fight like barbarians?” the mustached mouse said curiously, stroking his whiskers.

“Aye,” Justinius pounded the table. “We cannot focus on taking down the legion, rather, we must focus on Aquila and aquila alone, and to do that we must change our tactics accordingly. If we throw him down, then we have won.”

“But what about the legion,” Maximus questioned. “If they are loyal, surely they won’t go down without a fight.”

“Their loyalty, if not with Marcus, lies not with Rome but with Aquila. If Aquila is defeated then they wont have anything to fight for and I cannot see them putting up much of a fight after that. If we can win some over before the fighting starts, or promise them leniency if they surrender, that would improve our odds of success.” He paused to take a sip of water and then continued with his previous point. “We must focus on Aquila. Besides, we could not sneak that many mice into Rome, even if they could fight well in the city. We fought well here, but that was against rats. Right now we need a small force who can sneak past the enemy and get right up to Aquila before being noticed.”

Justinius wondered if he dare say his next words, but threw caution out the window. “This is my decision as legate. I recommend you listen and stand beside me, otherwise I will have no choice but to court martial you, demote you, and promote mice who are loyal to Rome and to Marcus. Shall I have you imprisoned for colluding with Aquila?”

“It’ll be done at once,” Octavius said with a salute. Maximus followed suit and gave a dangerous look to the rest of the mice. After that there wasn’t much the others could say. His tactic had worked. At once they fell silent and promised their cooperation. Justinius’s understood their hesitance, but he could not allow it to continue. He needed them united and would do whatever that took. He then left them and returned to his tent to get some rest before the journey home.

Half an hour later, officers arrived at his door. “The mice have been assembled.”

“Good,” Justinius said, following them. They stopped outside the city just before the camp where most of the mice were encamped and where the wounded being tended. Almost two hundred mice stood in front of the others. Some had been fresh recruits, others were grizzled warriors who had been with the legion for years, but most had been in other armies or gladiators, before becoming citizens and then legionaries. These where who Justinius was looking for: mice who knew how to fight outside neat lines and formations.

“You all know what has happened,” Justinius said, raising his voice so that all could hear. “And if you don’t, then I will tell you. Caesar Marcus has been overthrown by Aquila who has set himself up as emperor. You who stand before me will follow me back to Rome. The rest will stay here until I send for them to return. We will go to Rome and restore Marcus and we will execute punishment upon those who would blemish Rome with treachery. Not one of them shall be left alive!” Cheers from the legion.

“We will head for Rome,” he said, drawing his sword and holding it high over his head. “But,” his voice changed, “we won’t be doing it the regular way. You will split up here and go in pairs of two or three, or by yourself, and rush towards Rome. Once there you will make for the safe haven, Cassius’s home, and there we will plan our attack, launch it, and reclaim Rome. Any questions?” The question was greeted by silence.

“Then let us go and save Rome from this traitor!”

 
The End for now . . .
God Bless
 

Word count 1,726—total 18,588

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Well, Conquest and Glory is nearing the end, which means my break from substack is nearing, but I shan’t disappear entirely nor will I be gone forever.

Justinius and the Legion finally reach the rat city, but will they be able to prevail, and will it be the end of their journey?

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The legion readied their rams and ladders and made last minute adjustments to their armor. The mice shifted their weight to different paws, bounced from paw to paw, or otherwise revealed their restlessness or fear in various ways when their superiors weren’t looking. Justinius felt it too. Having fought and survived numerous battles, the fear of what may happen, the idea that he might not make it back, had began to erode, but after the loss of Titus that fear he might not live to see his family again had returned to the recesses of his mind.

The rats charged and Justinius and the legion moved as one to face them. The mice shouted their war cries and crashed into the rats and swept them away. Having reached the wall, the mice at once set about raising their ladders along its length or ramming the gate down. Stones rained down on them like leaves in an autumn wind, but the mice merely raised their shields in reply and continued their attempts to scale the wall and breach the gate.

The archers, protected by a wall of shields, returned the fire and brought down many rats. Those who were not slain ducked behind cover. This caused a lull in their missiles which the mice used without waste to reach the top of the wall. Leaping over, they set their blades on the rats and quickly took control of the wall. Within seconds, unhampered by any resistance, the gate was smashed and the legion flooded in. The archers took to the wall to have a better vantage point, while the rest of the legion began to enter every alley and street.

Their goal was simple: make it to the largest structure where the chief would be found, and either bring him to submission or kill him. Along the way they were to subdue any who opposed them. The women along with the elderly and children huddled in their homes while the legion pressed on.

Rats threw themselves at the legion at every inch, slowing their advance to a crawl. Their numbers were numerous, far greater than the size of the city would suggest. For every rat the legion cut down and every inch they took another rat, or three, attacked them. The rats knew the city well, and were the more deadly for it. The mice never faltered, but continued their advance, despite all the pushbacks, knowing it was for the good and glory of Rome.

Justinius slew a towering rat who had set his sights on him. With all his armor and weapons as well as without the rain, Justinius was more than a match for any of the rats. The ground was muddy mess in most places, which slowed progress even further, and refuse of all sorts littered the ground, making footing treacherous and causing a mouse next to him to slice his foot. The legionary cried out and was almost felled by a rat’s spear, but Justinius blocked it with his shield and slew the rat.

The street opened up giving the mice more room to maneuver, but also allowing more rats to gang up on them. About ten mice were already in the plaza beset on by three times that number of rats. Two of mice were cut down as Justinius and the few mice with him blustered their ranks. Together they pushed the rats back and, with more of the legion entering from different streets, they defeated the rats, the two last standing of which fled.

Justinius took a moment to look at his surroundings. They hadn’t come far, and their destination was closer to the back of the city than the middle, so they still had about half the city to traverse. He frowned—he would have enough mice to carry this out, but he wished there would be fewer casualties. The walls had been their weakest at the point of breach, so attack any of the other sides would have resulted in a prolonged fight to get into the city. But might they have had less casualties coming from closer to the chief’s hovel? He wasn’t sure, but he had already made the descision, so there was nothing to it but to press on.

“Forward,” he cried, not wanting to give the rats a chance to regroup. Runners found their way to Justinius to report on how the legion was faring in the other parts of the city.

“Sir,” said the first, “our group is reaching the northern side of the city. From there Maximus intends to head toward the final goal, so as to not leave any who could ambush us from behind.”

“Very good,” Justinius replied, letting the legionaries take the vanguard while he listened to the reports. “Tell him to continue and to meet me when we bring down the chief.”

“Yes sir,” said the mouse as he darted off.

Another came up. “Sir, the southern forces are encountering strong resistance and have taken many casualties. We are held up and unable to make progress. Our commanding officer has been injured and can no longer fight and is being removed from the city as we speak.”

“Octavius,” Justinius shouted.

The young mouse ran back from the front, which had already advanced two buildings. “Sir?”

“Go with him, and take command of the southern forces. Take any of the legion that can be spared and shatter the resistance there. Once that is done, finish securing the southern side of the city then set your sights on the chief—there we will finish this.”

“Sir!” Octavius said and ran off.

Several other mice came to him with updates over the course of the battle. Some had good news and some bore unfortunate news. The northern forces made swift progress and were now flooding through the north side of the city, and with Octavius at the helm, the southern forces were making decent advances. The center which was just to the right of Justinius was facing heavy attacks, but they were pressing on. Justinius received word that Titus’s replacement had also been slain, and a lower officer had to be found to take his place.

The day grew long and soon Justinius was nearing his goal. The northern forces had been stopped dead in their tracks while the southern forces had reach Justinius. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky as Justinius finally caught sight of the chief. Maximus and his mice had still yet to reach them, but with Octavius and those from the center who had also made it through the rats, Justinius felt certain they could overcome the final battle for the city. Once they had taken the city, only skirmishes would be left to root out the rest of the resistance, while forays in the coming days would be needed to crush all the warrens and nests in the surrounding lands.

The rat chieftain—no other title seemed fitting—appeared from inside his lavish hovel. He was clad in scraps of armor, ranging from pelts to leather to metal and even wood. He was tall, much larger than any of the rats they had faced so far, and it was clear from the glint in his eye that he far more cunning than most opponents Justinius had faced. In his claws a giant club was grasped, and each step he took could be heard even above the din of the battle. He leered at Justinius then stuck out his tongue and rolled is eyes.

With a harsh laugh, he pointed the club at Justinius. “Whose come to die today?” he said in a grating voice that thundered about the air.

“We have come to end the terror you wreak in our lands,” Justinius vowed, stepping forward to meet the challenge. “And we have come to bring our rule to these lands, as is our right!”

“We shall see,” the rat said, licking his teeth. “We shall see who is the more worthy ruler.” He yelled something in his barbaric language and threw himself on Justinius who rolled away. The nearby rats worked up a frenzy and jumped at the mice, fangs bared and weapons forgotten. Their bloodlust was nothing like had been seen so far and the mice were hard pressed to hold the rats off, let alone fight back. They squeaked in dismay as they were pushed farther and farther from Justinius and the chief.

Justinius turned his attention back to the chief. He had faith that they could hold their own against the rats. But Justinius knew that victory would be hard without the defeat of the chieftain, and in a one on one with him, despite his superior armor, weaponry, and knowledge of warfare, Justinius wasn’t sure he had the upper hand.

The club sang past Justinius’s ear as he dodged at the last second then thudded into the ground, sending mud in all directions. Justinius spun around to face the rat, who shouted an oath then swung again. His speed shocked Justinius who was having trouble avoiding his attacks. He knew he could wait for the rat to tire, but he wasn’t sure if he could last that long. He’d have to go on the offensive, with with having to dodge so much he wasn’t sure if he could. He bit his lip—to be outmatched by someone with absolutely no skill was, frankly, insulting.

He finally saw his chance. In his desire to kill the mouse, the rat swung too hastily, throwing himself off balance. Though he regained his balance quickly, it was all Justinius needed. He dived at the chief while he was recovering, then slashed before jumping back. The rat howled as Justinius’s sword grazed his chest. It was not a deep wound, but it had severed a decent amount of the makeshift armor.

Justinius ran around his opponent, being careful not to slip in the mud. And was about to remove the tyrant of his head, when he heard Titus’s voice calling from behind. He turned and narrowly avoided the spear that would have impaled him before he could have killed his opponent.

Growling in frustration, but not surprised that the rats would have used such underhanded means, he sliced the rat in two then sprang at the chief, hoping to end the battle. He knew he had heard Titus, and thanked his friend for saving his life.

The chief had a disappointed look on his face as Justinius turned back from his would be killer. And the chief’s face still had that disappointed look, now mixed with a stupid shock, as his head fell from his shoulders and squelched in the mud. Justinius sighed a sigh of relief and sat down on the headless body since there was no other suitable seat nearby.

The rats cried in dismay and their bloodlust drained from their eyes and they were swiftly defeated. Justinius ordered the remainder of the battle from his seat. Maximus had been surrounded and many of the mice around him had fallen as they made a valiant last stand against the rats. But Octavius had come to their rescue. Together he and Maximus had driven off the rats. In the course of the fighting, Maximus had been injured, but nothing life threatening, and Octavius had lost an ear. The mice swept through the city, killing those who still had fight left in them, and rounding up those who threw down their weapons. The city was theirs by the end of the day.

The following days were spent making preparations for the rats to come under Roman rule along with cleaning things up. The dead were buried and the injured tended. The Legion was reorganized, with survivors of centuries that had been decimated sent to others. Their losses had been many, but the legion still stood strong. Forays were sent out to root out any remaining strongholds the rats had in the area but Justinius remained behind, leaving it to Octavius and the other officers who could still fight.

Ten days after taking of the city, Justinius sat in the chief’s house—which had been cleaned and aired out—dictating a message to be sent to Rome, reporting his success and asking what should be done and who put in charge. Once their reply came and the new orders fulfilled, he would return home. A mouse came in, breathless. Justinius did not recognize him, nor was he in armor.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Justinius demanded, standing up to frown at the yellow mouse. “Stand up strait and smarten yourself up.”

“Sir,” he gasped between words, standing up, then doubling over, putting his paws on his knees and breathing hard. “Rome has fallen. Aquilla has turned against the Emperor Marcus, thrown him down, and set himself up as Emperor.”

The End for now . . .
God bless
 

word count 2,246—total 16,862

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It was Halloween, and despite what Chloe had tried to press into Kelly’s head about dressing nondescript, Kelly had dressed up as a bloody zombie with plenty and gore and had died her hair pink. It was pretty hard to stay unnoticed when you are, or are with, a bloody, pink haired zombie. Chloe had gone with a simple ghost bride, wearing a dark outfit and putting on white face paint with black lipstick and a dark blush. Her veil had blown away during the chase, and since it had been cheap and she was safe for now, she wasn’t worried about it.

“Hey Chloe!” he said with a large smile. “And Kelly too! What a surprise. Boy, you stand out.”

“I told that bonehead to be discreet,” Chloe said annoyed, and explained their situation to Mark who listened intently. He was about their age and they often talked outside of the university but wasn’t in any of their classes. He was dressed in some old clothes and had dozens of fake spider bites on his hands, face, and neck.

The cold didn’t seem to be bothering him, but it was bothering Kelly who hadn’t thought to dress warm, unlike Chloe who rolled her eyes. “Let’s go to my house—it’s not far—we’ll be fine there. It’s my parent’s,” he quickly added, “but they don’t come out of their room much, so you won’t need to worry about them.”

They quickly agreed and were soon off. They walked through a part of the neighborhood that neither of the girls had been to before. Although the trick or treaters had been numerous before, there were even more now. Kelly still didn’t blend in enough, but Chloe didn’t stand out too much, apart from the fact her light hair was now loose in the wind, having tossed the black wig aside when they met Mark.

Soon the three of them were in front of Mark’s house. The house, yard, and any plants inside had been covered in a thick layer of cobwebs. You couldn’t see the grass, tall as it was, and the trees tried to poke through, but failed for the most part. You could tell, however, the house wasn’t brick, but it was hard to make out the color, especially at night.

“Those fake webs are cool,” Chloe said.

“A little over done,” Kelly said, toeing the webs with her show.

“Those aren’t fake,” Mark said slowly, stopping. “We have an infestation. Kelly, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. We don’t really see the spiders if we leave the webs alone. I swear we have half the country’s spider in this house.” Kelly jumped back. “We’ve tried exterminators, but they only ever make a dent and the spiders always come back worse. No one is willing to buy the house and we can’t get another without selling this one first. We’ve tried to clean it up for pictures, but after two people almost died from the sheer amount of bites they got, we gave up, not wanting a lawsuit on top of it. They don’t spread to other properties, they just stay here, so I try to stay out of the house most of the day.”

“And we’re going inside?” Chloe asked uncertainly.

“Unless you want to keep running from the cops,” Mark said. “You don’t have to go in far, just hide out by the door for a quarter of an hour. Kelly, why did you dye your hair pink?”

“Shut up.”

“Fine,” Chloe said, thanking her lucky stars she didn’t care much about spiders, “we’ll go in.” Still, she didn’t like the idea of going inside that house. Hopefully it was better on the inside.

“Alright. Once we’re inside, again, don’t touch the webs, don’t move anything, and don’t go into a room with the lights off—they don’t like to come out in the light.”

“That’s a black widow,” Kelly almost yelled as they walked the path that led to the front door.

“Quiet, if they hear a disturbance they’ll find us,” Chloe hissed.

“Yeah, we have plenty of those here, and those are more mild than others, so please be careful.”

Kelly said something that Chloe did not catch, and Mark didn’t seem to either. He unlocked the door and let them inside. He flipped a switch and they saw themselves inside a large entry way. Several large spiders skittered out of the light. They hadn’t noticed how large the house was outside, since they were so focused on spiders and hiding from the cops. It was dusty and dim, like it was illuminated by candlelight.

They were met at once by a foul stench than made Chloe want to retch. But what made it worse was that there was a lingering smell of butterscotch mixed in with the feted smell that was not enough to overpower but just enough to be noticeable and hide whatever was beneath it it.

“He’s insane,” Kelly whispered.

“He needs help,” Chloe replied out the side of her mouth.

“Or an asylum, we should call someone, or something.”

“We can’t,” Chloe said exasperated. “We don’t want to be here when someone comes.”

“Doctors wouldn’t be looking for us. The heat will die down after tonight or tomorrow and no on will care that we went around having a little fun and blowing up mailboxes. Also, we don’t have to be here when they show up. I mean, look around you. And it stinks.”

“Be quiet, he’ll hear. We can think things over later. Personally, I’d rather not increase our chances of getting caught—we’ll be responsible for a lot of cleanup and fines.”

“You worry too much,” Kelly said brushing it off. “Everyone should have the chance to get out when they’re young and live a little. We’ll be fine, and when someone does it to us, it’ll be fair and square. No worries to it.”

“I wonder if we’ll be alright?” Chloe said seeing a large spider hide itself in its nest, not wanting to talk about the current subject.

Mark came back with some bottles of water, which the two took, but Chloe didn’t open hers, distrustful of it. Kelly on the other hand, gratefully began to drink. “You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you like,” Mark said, opening his bottle. She doubted anything would be worth eating, or that she’d have the nerve to eat anything here, but she decided it would be nicer not to say anything.

Chloe went to the window to look outside after the other two started talking. No kids came up to the door, though it was unsurprising, but she wondered how many knew, if any, that the webs were real. She supposed it could be fake, and that the spiders so far could have been coincidence, but as she bumped up against the thick layer of webs on the window sill and saw three spiders emerge, she backed away and those doubts now gone.

Chloe turned, disgusted, and considered taking her chances outside, when Kelly came up behind her and grabbed hold of her shoulder. Chloe jumped and swore. “Cut it out,” she said irritably.

“Sorry,” Kelly said cheerfully not sounding like she was sorry in the least. Then she said something about Mark showing her something, that Chloe only half heard. She nodded and Kelly disappeared, leaving Chloe alone in the dim room. She took a last look at the door and decided to explore the house, unsure why.

Since Kelly had left through the hallway to the right, Chloe took the leftmost passage. The hallways were angled like a V, instead of being at right angles to the front door. The ceilings were high, and the walls and ceilings were a mixture of black, red, and dark brown. They walls were ornamented with electric sconces and paintings and ornate trims. The carpeting on the floor was of a similar color scheme, though it was old and pervaded with dust and dirt so it was hard to tell. Most of it, the paintings on the walls, the trim, the sconces, the ceilings and the chandeliers were covered in cobwebs, and spiders both large and small, though more often that not large, could be scene at intervals. The ceilings, unlike the floors and walls, were almost completely covered by webs, and there were lumps in the webs above that gave Chloe very unpleasant thoughts, so she kept her eyes down.

Chloe was very careful to stay in the middle of the hallway and away from any webs, but she still went on, careful to flip any lights witch she saw, driven by some unseen will. The stench grew worse the further she went, but the butterscotch remained, refusing to let her guess what it might be hiding. She passed three doors, two on her left and one of her right, and a curve in the hallway, and then came into a large dining chamber. A doorway to her left opened into a kitchen, while one to the right led to more hallway.

She ignored the kitchen, afraid of what she might see in there, and opted for the hallway, but she later regretted it. Wandering through, she passed more doors, these were ajar, but she decided not to go in. Before she knew it, she was at the back of the house and in front of two double doors. This must be his parent’s room. One of the two doors, like most of the doors she had passed, was ajar, and no noises, either of talking of snoring could be heard within, and she wondered if anyone was really inside.

Not having passed any windows, Chloe had by now a morbid curiosity to see what the backyard of this mansion looked like. Were the webs and spiders even worse in the back? She knocked on the door but didn’t receive any answer. She peered through the crack between the doors and saw two motionless figures laying on the bed. She began to grow worried for their safety since they lay so still. Wandering in, and forgetting to flip the switch as she entered, Chloe walked over to the bed, wondering if Mark’s parents were alright.

A nearby window let in some moonlight, which gave Chloe enough light to see, but not enough to see the spiders on the floor and the large, bulbous one colored a sickly green, climbing up her skirt. She rushed over to the bed and nearly screamed. The two figures were not Mark’s parents, or not anymore, but two decrepit corpses that had lain there for who knew how long. She could not pull herself away, until a hairy spider the size of her hand skittered across one of the skeletal faces. She screamed at the sight of it and almost fell down as she jumped away from the sudden movement. Dashing out of the room, she slammed the door shut behind her, not caring if Mark heard.

The light in the hallway was welcome, but she was still too scared to think clearly. Finally, she slowed her breathing a little, and managed to start thinking. Dealing with the cops was looking like a better and better prospect. Whatever happened, she wanted to get out of here and away from Mark She had never realized before how odd he was, but or maybe he hadn’t been, but she was sure thinking he had been odd. And she could not for the life of her remember ever seeing him inside the university. That vexed her no small amount. Chloe had always assumed he was a student there, but now she had her doubts.

She tiptoed back the way she had come. And, getting a suspicious nag in the back of her head, she opened the first door she passed. Inside someone was sitting on the bed. At first she thought it was Mark, but she soon had her second scare of the night. Just like in large bedroom, this was not a living person but a corpse. And this time, Chloe recognized it.

Or, rather, she recognized the jacket it wore. It was bright red, and had a large white star on the front. Andrew from the class she and Kelly were in often wore that jacket to school, even on hot days. He had stopped going to class two weeks ago and no one had seen him. Not being that close of a friend or even acquaintance, Chloe had been curious where he had went, but had not asked many questions. But now, she knew where he had went. He was covered in a light webbing and spiders of all shapes, sizes, and colors crawled all over his body, and Chloe barely stifled another cry.

She felt something on her hand and shrieked, leaving the room and not bothering to turn the light off. She inspected her itching hand and saw a bite. It was already the size of a quarter and a nasty color. She shuddered. As it had been cold, she had worn lined pants under her costume, so she removed the large skirt, not wanting her chances of picking up unwanted visitors to improve.

Leaving the black garment on the floor, she looked into the next room on this side of the hallway. Inside was an old woman, or what once was an old woman, suspended in midair by webbing. The long wispy webs over her head looked like hair, and the webs about her shoulder and back looked like a fleece shawl. The spiders were well at work, weaving a cocoon about the old woman and pulling her into the air, millimeter by millimeter. Chloe tried her very best to be brave and not scream, but she was panicked, and she did not want to join the others. She looked up and saw the lumps in the ceiling. She bolted.

Where was Kelly? She racked her mind as she sped through the hallway. Stopping in the web filled dining room, she remembered. Kelly had said something about Mark showing her something. That was bad. What should she do? The thoughts of her boyfriend, Mike, and her old friend Abby who she hadn’t seen in several months came to her, and Chloe wondered if she spent enough time looking would she find them both here among the dead. A muffled shriek from beneath the ancient floorboards sounded and was cut short.

Dashing in panic, Chloe never saw Kelly again. She ran heedless of her surroundings, never looking up, afraid of the bundles on the ceiling. She ran like she had never run before, and soon burst through the front door. She gulped fresh air, breathing hard, and proceeded to run, ignoring the distant calls from Mark, the stitch in her side, and the silence from Kelly. She was probably already dead, and there would be nothing she could do.

She ran right into a police officer, and threw herself on him, clinging tight and sobbing hysterically. He asked her what was wrong, but she couldn’t get an intelligible word out for some minutes, occasionally scratching at the numerous red and purple bites that she had somehow acquired. Soon he was joined by a partner.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” the first cop said, stilling being clung to by Chloe. “She just ran up like this and hasn’t let go. Can’t get anything out of her either. I think she was one of the two we were looking for, but seems like she’s learned her lesson.”

“The one with the pink hair?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen her.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” the second man asked gently.

Soon, Chloe calmed enough to be able to blurt things out that could be understood. She got out that she had been in a house and that there were lots of bodies covered in spiders.

“She’s dead,” she said finally, “she’s dead. He killed her. The spiders. Those lumps. Those lumps.” And she couldn’t say anything else intelligible.

Both cops gave eachother a look. “Probably just at someone’s house.”

“Probably ate some candy she shouldn’t have.” The both laughed.

“Still,” said the first looking down at Chloe and the bites covering her face and hands, “We should probably check it out.”

“She said spiders? I think I know the house. They have a lot of fake webs.”

“You go check it out,” he said slowly. “I’ll take her back. Maybe we can get this all figured out.”

The second officer went off to Mark’s house, while Chloe was taken back to the station. Tests were done to make sure she wasn’t drunk but all were negative. She was kept there overnight and then let go in the morning, when she was no longer in hysterics.

A search was done at Mark’s house, and no signs of the bodies in the bedrooms were at first found. Many spiders of every kind, even those not native to the area or even country, were found in the house, and were quite aggressive to the police, making their searches very difficult. Mark was not found, but Kelly’s body was found in the basement, covered from head to foot in bites of varying sizes. But what horrified everyone involved, including Chloe when she inevitably heard about it, though she had already known, were the lumps in the ceilings. Each of them was a cocoon that held the remains of Mark’s victims. About five dozen of them were found in total and not all of them could be identified.

The End,
God bless and Happy Halloween

The two had been sent by their master, Galin, on some business he wished them to attend to since he was too busy to do it himself. And here they were, still a day’s journey or two from their destination. Michael usually enjoyed these excursions, whether by himself or with Galin, because he always got to see some new area, obtain some relic, treasure, or ancient tome, or learn something new. Rosie on the other hand, had been rather put off this whole time, preferring to be in bed in the little home Galin let her have, than be off doing Galin’s work, likely his dirty work.

“Let’s find the inn and get us some rooms,” Rosie said, looking around nervously. Michael hoped she wouldn’t complain anymore—at least not tonight.

“Probably at the village square,” he said, thinking delightful thoughts of good stew and a comfy bed. Without any further words, they started for the center of the village where Michael hoped the square was, but he had been to villages and towns with strange layouts, so they weren’t guaranteed to find in right in the middle. The two elf maids, having collected their water, were coming their way.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Michael said with a polite smile, “but can either of you tell me, perchance, where a good inn is?”

One of them giggled and was about to say something, no doubt flirtatious, when the other not so subtly elbowed her and motioned to Rosie. Michael tried his hardest not to laugh as the second elf spoke up in a musical voice, “If you’d like to follow us, we’re returning to the best inn in these parts—and the only one in this village.”

“Lead on,” Michael said with a small bow. “And many thanks.”

“I don’t like it here,” Rosie said quietly.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, concerned. He hadn’t seen anything to be suspicious of, and he worked for Galin, so he knew what suspicious looked like. That thought made him laugh.

“Are you laughing at me?” Rosie sniffed indignantly.

“Of course not, Rosie my love,” Michael said, to which both of the elf maids giggled, but he ignored them. “I was just thinking about how Master Galin is the kind of person one might ordinarily want to avoid, and so if anyone would be suspicious, it would be him, or I, for that matter.”

She didn’t seem to believe him. Michael shrugged and let it pass. They both loved each other and Michael intended on asking for her hand in marriage soon, so it wouldn’t benefit either to make a big deal out of nothing. He’d talk to her about it come morning. Galin, however, had yet to ask the princess Lily—who was now back in her own kingdom—if she would marry him. Daily it felt, Galin would received letters as long as books which he to replied in kind. He would be wed to Rosie before Galin was wed, Michael vowed.

They came to the inn, and once through the door, Michael saw where everyone was. That or the tavern across the street. One of the two elf maids saw Michael looking behind him through the open doorway and guessed what was on his mind.

“We like to try and stay busier than the tavern.”

“I’m going to sit down,” Rosie said, walking towards an empty table.

“Eat something too, we’ve been walking all day,” Michael said. “I want to talk and learn about our surroundings like Master Galin always tells me.”

“Have it your way, I am not doing a thing. If Galin wants something, he can jolly well get it himself.” With an angry little noise she plopped herself in a chair and ignored everyone around her, luckily including the handsome young man nearby. Michael chuckled. When Rosie didn’t want to do something, she very much did not want to do it, and she didn’t make any attempts to hide the fact. She did what Galin said, but she did like to let it all out, usually to Michael, and usually within earshot of Galin. Sometimes her grouchy mood lasted only a couple hours and sometimes it was days.

Hoping Rosie would cheer up soon, Michael went to the counter and asked the bartender for a stein of ale. A dwarf missing half an ear sat down next to him. Despite looking like he needed a good bath and a trim, the dwarf smelled like soap and flowers, and had unusually good hygiene.

“Know what is beyond this forest?” Michael asked after drinking deeply.

“Not much,” the dwarf said, patting his long beard in a pitiable attempt to smooth it. “I’ve been in these parts as a smith and sometimes a farmer for near two hundred years and I’ve never been far that way.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I like it here.” He ordered another ale.

“I believe there’s ruins there,” said a man with plenty of grey in his hair and beard. “Been there once meself when I was young and in love. That was before me wife got lost, ya know, and never showed herself again. I say ruins, but the it isn’t in ruins really.”

“Lost?” Michael asked surprised. “Haven’t you tried to find her?”

“Aye,” he said. “We both got separated in this village some years ago and never found e’chother since. But back then, our papas didn’t quite like e’chother I spose, so they didn’t approve of us and were pleased with the outcome.” He went on for some time, but said little of the place.

“No one likes to go up that ways,” he finished, suddenly veering off topic.

“Why? Michal asked, curiously. If it was haunted, or dangerous, it was good to know now.

“Some folk are superstitious,” he said. “But there is nothing up thataways. Trust me and those who have actually been there.”

“You’ve been inside?”

“Aye, but only a moment. Others have been in for longer and have never seen nor heard naught to give alarm for anyone. Old tales told for a good scare turned superstition is what it is. Take my word for it.” The dwarf and some other bystanders listening all nodded approvingly.

“Good, because that is our destination,” Michael said, finishing his ale. Ordering another as well as a large bowl of stew and some bread and cheese, he turned back to converse with the three some more.

“If yer headed towards the ruins I’ll bring ye halfway,” the dwarf said as Michal received his food. “I’m headed that way anyway.”

“Many thanks,” Michael said. “When shall we start?”

“At first light, I should think.”

“Splendid.” Michael continued to talk with them and others long into the night, trying to learn what he could about the surrounding area and the mansion.

Rosie wished Michael would join her when he got his food, but she knew he would be going around talking, and seeing as she did not want to bother with all that, she ate alone.

Not long after she finished, three old women sat down, having finished whatever it was they had been doing. Rosie didn’t really care at that point. Her sour mood and shifted from Galin to include Michael as well as Galin, and those two elf maids. Why had they tried to flirt with Michael? What gave them that right? Why had Galin sent them on this wild hunt for a book? A book of all things! Why wasn’t he doing it himself? And why was Michael not sitting next to her? Why was he ignoring her? She knew the last one might be unfair and that he might be trying to let her calm down, but she let herself be angry. Also, her feet hurt and she had wanted to be doing other things like sleeping in her own bed.

Her angry thoughts were interrupted and soon dissipated by what the old women had to say.

“What’s wrong, deary?” said one of them in a voice that sounded two times older than she looked.

“Oh, its a lot of things,” she said, pushing her half eaten bowl of stew away. “Really, I guess I just don’t really want to be doing this—that and I wish Michael was sitting with me.”

“I’m sure he’ll come,” said the woman who appeared to be the eldest and respected in some way by the other two.

“Have you heard the news?” the third woman said. She had thinning hair, and sparse stubble on her chin, of which any child of the dwarves would be envious of.

“What is it, Ethil?” asked the first.

“I’ve heard lots of small things,” said the second.

“A young woman was found dead this morning,” Ethil said. “It is believed to be a ghost, from the old mansion.” It was here that all of Rosie’s anger disappeared, replaced with fear and dread.

“Pardon the intrusion, but is the mansion the one up north in the woods?” Rosie asked.

“Such impertinence,” said Ethil said, but she was interrupted by the first.

“Can’t you see she’s worried?”

“Quite right, Ivy, besides, after we talked to her, she might have thought she was part of the conversation,” said the second. “What is wrong, deary?”

“Well,” she began, and explained, as best she could without saying too much, why she was here.

The three crones exchanged looks, then Ethil spoke. “It has long been held that that mansion is haunted, and none go there as superstitions have lived a long while. Many stories surround that wretched place. They say a woman and her family were murdered by her sister there many years ago. Many others are much more horrific—some less so—but none are pleasant.”

“Quite right, but it is not fact that it is haunted,” said Ivy. “Remember, these are tales passed down that do not agree with each other.” She had a feeling this was said to ease her mind.

“But to disregard them,” said the eldest, “would be folly. Those stories came from something and persist for a reason. Be on your guard if you must go there. Perhaps it is haunted by ghosts or perhaps it isn’t.” They went on to tell Rosie all the different tales surrounding that house, the things some claimed to have seen, and the things said to dwell there. The dread in Rosie’s heart grew, and she wished Michael was there to comfort her.

She didn’t want to believe their destination was haunted, or was a place of evil, but the women seemed to be authorities on the subject, and they believed there was something there. Either way, she was unable to shake off the thought, now firmly rooted in her mind.

Michael had retired to his room and was mulling over what he had learned, when he heard a knock at the door.

“What is it?” he asked, and the door opened. “Rosie, are you alright?”

“Yes, for now,” she replied cryptically. “Can we go home?”

“Course not,” Michael said. “Don’t be silly. We are leaving at first light tomorrow. One of the locals was kind enough to give us a ride most of the way there.”

“Most of the way?” Rosie asked, a quiver in her voice.

“He said he’d take us as far as he was going in that direction, but it couldn’t be the whole way. It should save us quite a bit of walking.”

“Can’t I,” she began but appeared to think better of it. “Must we?”

“I don’t see why not?” Michael said thoughtfully. “I don’t see how anything could go wrong, other than the tome eluding us for the better part of a week. Get your rest, Rosie my love, since it’ll be a long day tomorrow. We’ll be home safe and sound before you know it.”

Rosie looked as if she were about to say something, then stopped. Turning, she said, “Good night, Michael.” After he wished her a good night and good dreams, she left for her own room, which Michael had of course paid for.

The morning was cold and Michael was thankful for the extra clothes he had brought. The kindly dwarf had taken them most of the way in his wagon until he had to turn away to head to business elsewhere, and now they were on foot. Rosie, who was next to him, had been in an especially sour mood all morning, and Michael was scared to say anything lest she burst.

She was still mad about Galin sending them there in his place, the elves flirting with Michael—she neglected to remember they hadn’t done so—Michael ignoring her and going to talk with what felt like everyone in the room but her, and of course she was scared their destination was haunted. Michael didn’t know about any of those, thinking it was all the first, and possibly something he wasn’t aware of, maybe something he had said. He was furiously racking his brain to try and figure out what he had done wrong. By looking for things, he found several that she might not be happy with, but never anything big enough to bring her to the brink of a tantrum like she was now. But, maybe he was wrong about that. Suffice to say, getting down on one knee and professing his love would have to wait.

“Michael,” she asked speaking to him for the first time that morning, setting aside her bad mood for the moment to focus on her biggest fear, “can’t we just go home and say we tried?”

“Galin would see right through that in an instant,” Michael replied. “We’re not returning till we’ve searched that whole place from top to bottom and tore it apart. I know you are mad about going but we have to do this.”

“Mad!” she exclaimed, and Michael flinched. Rosie saw this and understood that Michael didn’t know what was going on, and that he probably couldn’t, if only he could think like her for one moment. It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t explaining things. “I’m not mad,” she said embarrassed.

“You are, Rosie,” he said.

“I’m not,” she tried, knowing her past behavior spoke louder. “I—just—what if there are ghouls there? What if it is haunted?”

“Haunted?” Michael replied with a laugh. “No, it isn’t haunted.” So she was just scared of running into a ghost?

“How do you know?” she huffed, unhappy with his laughter.

“I talked to countless locals last night,” he explained. “None of theme said anything about ghosts—in fact some had been there and hadn’t seen anything at all. We don’t have anything to worry about. I bet it’ll be as uneventful as our walk to the village.”

“Are you sure?” Rosie asked, a little frustrated with how quickly he had dismissed her fears, but reassured by the fact that he wasn’t scared. She couldn’t forget what the old women had said and was unable to shake her fear.

They walked on in silence. Michael not wanting to say anything that might upset Rosie again. And Rosie not wanting to say anything that might make her sound like she was still upset. Plus, Michael didn’t seem to think there was any reason to believe there were ghouls of any sort, so discussing that did not seem promising.

The morning grew brighter as they walked. But a fog grew up before long, and refused to leave, hiding everything within a curtain of pearly mist. It grew to be so thick that they couldn’t see ten feet in front of them and even the other was somewhat obscured. Rosie and Michael kept going, however, hoping that they would make it to their destination in time. During their walk there were no sounds of nature but the biting wind and the trees scraping against each other. Michael hugged himself, thankful that they were at least still in the forest. If they weren’t they were sorely off course. Until that happened they couldn’t really be sure they were lost.

After two or three hours, Michael and Rosie found the mist thinning, and soon came out of it. Another half hour walk and the two finally caught sight of the mansion through the trees. The sun, what little shown through the branches of trees both dead and lush, was bright and cheerful. Michael saw the mansion and saw no reason to fear, excited to explore it and find the object of their task as well as the history of this house. Rosie on the other hand saw the house as if the sky above was grey, and rain was pouring all around them, while an unseen, evil spirit inside beckoned them to come in and hide from the rain. She shivered, hugging herself, hoping that Michael was right.

“Let us enter,” Michael said, deliberately stepping forward. Rosie squeaked and followed him, clinging to his arm her former grievances now completely forgotten. He approached the door with a reverence befitting that of an exalted elder.

Pushing gently, the door swung inwards, revealing a grand foyer. An unused coat hook stood next to the door while an ornate carpet reached from wall to wall covered in centuries of dust. Three doors led into other areas in the house. The dust-filled air smelled musty, but nothing malicious. It was large, but decorated plainly and with taste.

Michael, having explored such places before, knew where the staircases ought to be, and set off at once, with Rosie starting and ending protests without finishing a single one. She noted the disturbed dust on the carpet, but remembered what Michael had said about people having gone there before. They used the magic stones Galin had given them to light up their way. The stones were small and smooth, comfortable to hold, and they gave off a soft golden glow—enough to see by but not much more.

The house was large but plain, decorated much like the foyer. There were many rooms, but Michael only had thoughts for the basement. He ignored everything, knowing there would be a time to explore them. The most interesting things were bound to be in the cellar—they had to be. Their quarry almost forgotten in his desire to find old antiques and artifacts, as well as the history of the abandoned house.

Sure enough, Michael led them to a spot near the back of the gigantic dwelling where a doorway opened to a steep stairwell then led down into darkness. A few feet away was a large staircase that led up to the floors above. Michael knew that the most interesting things would be down in the cellar, not the attic, and could not wait to descend.

“I’m not going down there,” Rosie said flatly when Michael was about to go down the stairs.

“There’s nothing down there to be afraid of,” Michael replied, not looking back. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. If you want to make yourself useful, why don’t you go upstairs, maybe, and look for the book there. If you don’t want to then wait here until I come back.”

“I’m not going by myself!” She sniffed.

“I’m going downstairs,” he repeated.

“How long will you be there?” she asked, looking over her shoulder like there might be a ghost there.”

“Depends on how large the lower level is and what is there, could be an hour, could be hours. I don’t know, my love.”

“And you’re going?” she asked.

“Yes, everything will be fine. You can come with me.”

“I’ll stay up here,” Rosie nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“Suit yourself. This is going to be fun.” And with that, Michael went downstairs, leaving Rosie alone.

She huffed, then sighed, then shivered, looking all around after hearing a creak. She wished Michael would have stayed with her. But she had to admit that the tome they were after would most likely be in a dark chamber down in the basement or cellar. She didn’t know what it contained, or why Galin was after it, but he was.

She decided not to go around the first floor, or go downstairs, but to go upstairs, and she would come to very much regret this decision later on. But for now, she wanted to find some windows, and thought the rooms she would very much like to see would be upstairs. And besides, if there were any rooms full of books upstairs she might just find what they were looking for. She forgot the name, but was sure she would recognize it when she saw it.

She ascended the staircase and was relieved to see that no dust had been disturbed here She continued up, her hand on the guard rail, finding the musty scent stronger upstairs. The stairs soon ended and opened to a long, wide hallway. The walls here were more ornate than below and colored with shades of cream, white, and pink. It was rather nice, all in all, Rosie thought.

Doors led off in either direction, and at the end of the hallway was a large window, bolted shut with the curtains drawn. Light enough to see by came in from this window, and she put the stone in one of her pockets absentmindedly. Rosie’s feet sank into the thick carpet beneath them, and, had it not been for the dust, she would have taken off her shoes and ran about. As it was, she remained composed and daintily walked through the hallway, telling herself that no one was there and she was just doing it to be proper, but really, she felt eyes peering at her from every direction and doorway.

Rosie thought she heard a sound, and looked behind her. There was nothing. Then something fell, dust or plaster, and she looked up. For a brief second she saw something in the shadows, but after she let out a half scream and looked again, it was gone. She hugged herself, suddenly feeling uncovered, as if the eyes she felt on her could peer into her very soul. Her gaze dropped, and fell upon a door. A door that she had not closed. A door where there had been no door before. A door where the stairs should have been. She froze.

Presently she was able to move her legs again, wobble as they did, and she waddled over to the door, feeling very cold. She tried the handle. It stuck at first, but soon gave way. Now open, the door revealed a long hallway much similar to the one she was currently in, and no stairs to be seen. It was darker than this, as if a blue veil hung in front of the doorway. A tall shadow darted out of a room and into another at the end of the hallway.

Slamming the door, she pressed her back and shoulders against it, hoping to keep whatever evil lurked there trapped, though, small as she was, she was unlikely to keep the door shut from any but the weakest. Panic was welling up inside her—where was Michael when you needed him. If only he had come up there with her—no—if he had come he would most certainly have gone into that other hallway, wanting to explore it. The tome would surely be in there he would tell her. She knit her brow and held her chin in her hands, deep in thought. No, if only she had gone down with—no, if only they hadn’t gone in this dratted house in the first place.

She left the door behind her, feeling there ought to be another way down. But, she paused, her right foot suspended midair, perhaps there ought not to be another way down? Maybe there was, but it too was blocked. She could try a window, but should any maiden, especially one as fair as Rosie, dare to go out a window and potentially mar her beauty from a fall, especially when she and her beauty were so beloved by her shining knight? If only her shining knight were there now. She’d give anything for him to be there, and she vowed if he showed up she would never begrudge him misunderstanding her again. But her shining knight in armor didn’t show up, not even the elf maidens who had vexed her so last night.

She pouted a second, then, feeling much better after a good pout and a cry or two, resumed inching her way down the hallway, this time with the window as her goal. But that was no good. It was indeed bolted shut, fixed so that it could not be open, and Rosie had not the strength to force it.

Turning, she very definitely saw something in the hallway behind her. It was tall and had horns. It was gone before she knew it, one moment it was there and the next it was gone. At least she wasn’t hearing anything. Until then, she could chalk it all up to her eyes playing tricks on her. At that moment, she distinctly heard a creak off in the distance, one that did not sound to her frightened ears like the house creaking. It sounded more like the floor groaning under a heavy foot.

She fled into one of the side rooms, hoping to hide there, but in her haste she slammed the door, telling all the house where she was. She held back a cry, and whimpered instead, berating herself for being so careless, and then feeling hurt, from how harsh she had been scolded by herself.

Rosie looked about her. It was pitch black, despite being a room where one or more windows should be. Fumbling for the stone, her shaking hands found nothing. She searched pocket after pocket, but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. She thought she must have dropped it right when she felt it in the last pocket, her slender fingers closing around the cold stone. Pulling it out, she spoke the correct word and once more saw the familiar and comforting glow. She might not have Michael with her, or even Galin, but she did have this light, dim as it was.

The room was large, or she guessed it was, for the light from the stone didn’t illuminate the far walls. There were many bookcases all about the room, most placed in an orderly fashion, while others had been placed with no order at all. Books and all manner of odds and ends had been placed on the shelves, and Rosie saw several skulls in that room, grinning at her. Though their eye sockets were empty, they were always staring at her. She shuddered every time she saw one.

Her search through the shelves was not as thorough as Michael and Galin might approve of, consisting of a quick glance at most, not all mind you, of the books on a given shelf. None looked like what she thought it ought to look like, so she ignored them. It was after she had inspected the ninth bookshelf, many she had missed, and one she had looked over twice, that she first heard the breathing.

Rosie distinctly heard the snorting of some great beast somewhere in the room behind her. She could not see anything, nor hear anything else. She spun, waiting for it to reveal itself. She stood there for close to a quarter of an hour, but nothing happened. She even began to wonder if she had heard anything, for by then she wasn’t sure if she could actually hear breathing or if she was imagining it.

Letting out a breath, and gulping air, she gingerly tip toed away back to the door. She thought it was the right door, though when she opened it, the room it opened onto, she could not tell if it was the hallway or not, was pitch black, and she could see no farther than her outstretched hand despite the stone’s gentle radiance. Turning inward, she shut the door, and walked to the other side of the room, moving as if in a trance. She began to wonder if it were a dream, hoping that she might not wake up suddenly. But the pain when she stubbed a toe was real enough.

The room seemed to go on and on, and she knew not if she was just going around in circles. Nothing had been seen nor heard since closing the door other than her own breathing and footsteps. She had calmed somewhat by this point, and was trying to be rational. There had to be a way out, she told herself, but poor Rosie had no idea where to go or what to do. Suddenly a door grew out of the darkness and she walked into it.

Rubbing her nose and muttering something at the door that Michael would not have liked to hear her say, she stood staring at it, not sure whether to kick it or open it. She didn’t have to think long, for it opened of its own accord, revealing nothing behind it besides more darkness and a black hole in the floor that led into a darkness blacker than that which she was in.

Something drew her forward. She couldn’t resist the pull, nor, in fact, did she want to. She stood up against the edge, splinters crumbling away under her feet, leaning over and peering down.

Then Rosie screamed. Two large hands had grabbed her shoulders from behind and forcefully threw her forward. Her head smashed painfully against the far side of the hole as she tumbled down. As she fell, she thought she saw a tall shadow where she had stood, then she blacked out.

Michael was disappointed with what he found, but chuckled nevertheless. Rosie should have come with him. There wasn’t anything of interest down here, not even a small door. He had checked every inch, even sounding for hidden exits. It was a small chamber, the light from his stone was enough to shine from wall to wall when standing in the center. True it was that there were some old boxes and barrels, as well as a shelf or two on the walls, but nothing was in them, nothing useful at any rate.

He sighed, picking up a dusty book from a shelf, the only book to be found, and sat down on one of the wooden crates and began to flip through it. Nothing caught his eye at first, but he soon found himself engrossed by the mundane happenings that had been recorded inside. It appeared to have been written by one of the maids who had been employed here. The most exciting of which, but still nothing to explain any rumors of vile happenings, were that a fellow maid was in bed a day with a serious illness after she kissed some farm boy, and later on, that a tree had fallen leaving a bench in need of repair. Michael read and read, consuming the book like nothing else he had ever read before.

He sat up an hour or two later. He hadn’t heard anything, nor had he seen anything. Poor Rosie, he didn’t even her screams or struggles. Standing, he stretched his stiff back and went back upstairs, disappointed that he hadn’t found anything else, and went off to find the nearby kitchen where there must be a door windows to let in light so he could read better. The tome and Rosie were all but forgotten.

Rosie awoke in utter darkness. Nothing could be seen, and if her stone was nearby, its light was either gone or covered. Something wet was in her eye, and by the pain on her forehead she made the correct assumption that it was her own blood. She had also lost a shoe sometime during the fall.

She cried for a minute or two, sniffed, cried again, and felt much better. Tearing a strip from the hem of her dress, Rosie tied the bit of cloth around her head, hoping to bind her injury at least a little. This done, she got to her feet and spoke the word for the stone, but it did not light up. She reached down to feel for it, but her fingers only found dirt. It was lost! After swallowing, she felt about the walls looking for a means of escape. There was only one way forward, and no hope of going up.

Exiting that way, Rosie stumbled from a sharp pain in her foot which had a shoe. Holding back a curse, she felt her foot and found a small nail embedded in her shoe. The nail hadn’t been long enough to puncture her skin, but it had hurt. After trying to pry it out and failing, she threw the shoe away and resumed barefoot, thankful her foot was unharmed.

Immediately as she started the ground became wet and squishy, squelching under her feet and between her toes. It became deeper, but it wasn’t much, about in inch on average, and up to her ankle at the deepest. Tripping on something stuck fast in the mud—it was a bone but she didn’t know that—Rosie fell face first into the mud, getting a mouthful of the foul-smelling substance. Yelling and groaning, she spat as much as she could out, having nothing at hand that wasn’t covered in mud to wipe out her mouth.

She refrained from crying this time, even though she was sure it would be justified. She could feel the moisture from the mud soaping into her dress while she knelt and sighed, feeling more numb and resigned than upset and hysterical. Before she could set off, she rammed her already sore forehead into the ceiling which much lower than it had been. After stooping for several feet, she found she would had to crawl since the ceiling grew even lower.

A very nice and pleasing, almost warming, thought entered her mind. She wished, that Michael could be in her shoes and she in his—despite the fact she had lost hers—for, when this had happened, assuming that nothing had yet to happen to Michael, she could give him a very smug look and tell him that she had been right all along. But, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Michael and not her own, said quietly that if she really were in his shoes then she wouldn’t believe him, and therefore couldn’t be smug. He could be smug if something happened to her. And she began to understand things from his point of view, and that swore he’d try to be less hard on him in the future. She longed to feel his embrace, for when she was in his arms, no one and nothing could harm her.

She inched her way forward, trying to feel with one arm and not to fall face first in the mud at the same time. At times she had to pass through puddles of rancid water. All the while she passed over many a hard or sharp object in the mud, cutting herself on several, some were rocks and other were most definitely rocks and not jaw bones or other types of bones—one that she put her fingers through was certainly not a human skull. Rosie hoped that she was in the basement and would find Michael, and then she wouldn’t have to worry about anything except some of those nastier scratches and cuts getting infected.

However, she felt herself going downwards, and the cramped passage twisted and turned and had gone up and down so many times that she had lost her sense of direction, not that she had known where she was in the first place. The ground beneath her stunk, she stunk, and she was soaking right through with the deplorable mud and water—not an inch of her was dry. She was covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises from head to toe, and she was afraid to see how serious the wound on her forehead was and if it could ever heal with the amount of mud that must have gotten inside. She could barley stand the pain it was giving her. Rosie knew that with the blood, dirt, and tears in her eyes that even if there had been light she couldn’t have seen anything. She wanted to get out so bad, but she feared she would never get out, and would succumb to thirst or hunger.

To her relief, at first, after hours of crawling, the passage widened, soon enough for her to stand, then to stand upright, and then enough that she could not feel the sides, even with her arms stretched as far as they would go. But then she heard the moaning and the dragging of feet across a floor. She inhaled sharply, but the things, whatever they were, had already heard her and were coming right for her.

“Michael,” she groaned sorrowfully. She had known that there would be ghosts or ghouls of one kind or another in this mansion. Why did they have to be here? Something grabbed her, and she screamed, yanking herself out of the creature’s clutches. One thing was sure, their hands were human, or were at one time human. That, and they had bodies.

Darting through the room and running into several of the ghouls, Rosie tried to exit, but in her haste to be free from the clutches of the ghoul, she had lost where she had entered. She ran this way and that, panicked, but no hole in the wall could she find. Tears began to run down her dirty, bloodied cheeks as she darted between the ghouls, praying to Per and all the other gods and goddesses that she might live.

One caught hold of her, and bit her leg, its putrid teeth sinking deep into her flesh. A cry escaped her lips and she knew it was the end. But, the other ghouls drawn to the freshly drawn blood and her screams, all converged upon her captor, and tore it to shreds while she crawled a good distance away.

Rosie hit her head once more on the wall, but found a hole small enough for her to squeeze through. She pulled herself inside and breathed, making use of her brief respite. Rosie thanked the gods, but before she had finished, one of their horrid claws grasped her injured leg and she kicked out, crawling further into the small chamber.

A passage opened in behind Rosie, and she entered it, holding onto the wall to steady herself as she limped through the tunnel. Something brushed passed her ear. The panicked Rosie could not help but cry out again. But nothing else eventful happened. Soon she came upon a wall of dirt blocking her path. She cried out in frustration. Was she trapped here? She could go back, but the tunnel hadn’t branched out, and the only other way out was through the room with the ghouls. Rosie quaked at the thought of going back in there and with her leg in the condition it was it would be suicide.

She pounded her fist against the wall in frustration and despair. No one would come for her. No one knew where she was. There was no way Michael was going to be able to find her. She had no idea where she was, and knew that she was far from the mansion. It was a slow and sorry death that was in store for her. But something stopped her her distress, if only for a moment. The wall was soft, and crumbled under her fist.

Reenergized, Rosie began to pound and dig at the wall, hope returning to her heart. Within moments she had gone from certain death to having a chance at survival. She broke through the wall and the dusty smell of the house reached her nose. She went at it even faster.

Michael was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, reading from the book again. Nothing evil had ever been recorded, and he was almost finished reading it. He wondered where Rosie was. He hadn’t seen her since going down, and she hadn’t answered when he had called. Either she was out of earshot or she was ignoring him. If it was the latter the ring he had pocketed in one of the rooms for Rosie would have to be saved for later.

He had found the tome Galin had sent them to find in a basin the kitchen, and had it at his side while he read, tossing the ring up and down in one hand lazily. It was a beautiful golden thing, with diamonds and emeralds set into silver leaves and vines which entwined the golden band. He was not yet a master at evaluating the worth of valuables, but this was surly worth a great price.

He was still reading when he heard someone behind him. He turned and saw Rosie covered in mud and blood, staggering towards him, tears staining her dirty face. Her dress was torn and unrecognizable from all the mud and slime that it was caked in, and the bite on her leg was plainly visible. He hastily shoved the ring in his pocked as he said, “Rosie, where have you been?” as she threw her arms about him and clung to him in silence.

A humbled and shocked Michael cleaned and dressed Rosie’s injuries as best he could while he listened to her story as she talked between sobbing breaths, feeling terrible that he had not been there for her and for not listening to her more. Someone else would have to take care of her head and leg, since he had not the skills nor knowledge to heal those. They set off on foot, with Rosie hobbling alongside Michael, and clinging very hard to his arm, refusing to let go of him. It was near midnight when they made it back, and the fetid stench from Rosie had permeated Michael by that point. Both of them had baths, and fresh clothes were given them by the elf maids, one of whom ran to fetch them someone who could tend to Rosie’s injuries properly. Michael kept the ring deep in his pocket, knowing now wasn’t the time and that he had some ways to go before he could propose to her.

The End,
God Bless
 

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Titus squeaking war cries, the three of them leapt upon the rats. Justinius felled a rat as did Titus during their rush. Then the rats regrouped themselves and fell on the small mice. Justinius was fully drawn into the fight. He didn’t feel the rain on his face, nor the mud under his feet, he only saw the rat in front of him and the blows that they traded. His sword felt as if it were part of his arm. He felt the delight of battle and of blood drawn. Soon, it was over, and the rat was dead. Quintus’s opponent was slain, downed by a blow to the neck with his loaded sling.

Titus was more unfortunate against the largest rat. His paw slipped in the mud and fell. He was unable to dodge the oncoming weapon as he lay on the ground, and he squeaked in dismay as the axe fell on him. Quintus rushed to his aid, but he was too late to deflect the axe. Justinius rushed forward and, together, he and Quintus killed the last rat.

Before the rat’s body had hit the ground Justinius was at Titus’s side. A single glance at the deep gash stretched across his chest told Justinius his friend would not live long. He and Quintus patched the wound as best as they could even though Justinius knew he was beyond hope of saving, yet still he hoped.

“Leave me if you have to,” Titus gasped, sitting up. “I’ll not be slowing you down. We have a city to conquer for the glory of Rome.”

Justinius only nodded, unable to say anything. Together, he and Quintus helped Titus and they began the long journey back to the caves. The hours dragged by, and the rain showed no sign of letting up.

After three hours of slow going Justinius saw that it was no good. Titus was growing paler and paler. He knew they would have to stop. The went on a few minutes more until they reached a lone tree halfway up a hill. There they rested.

“I think it’d be best if you leave me here and go to the legion,” Titus said breathing in gasps. “Leave me some rations and I may yet be here when you return. Perhaps one of the surgeons may save me.”

“Perhaps,” Justinius echoed, turning to look at his old friend, but he didn’t finish what he was going to say, and Titus didn’t respond. He had fallen into the sleep from which one in this world cannot wake.

Justinius closed Titus’s eyes and he sat back against the tree. Titus had been a good soldier and a good friend. After some time had passed, Justinius knew not how long, he found himself standing up. He and Quintus made a quick grave for Titus before leaving. He wished Titus well and prayed that the gods would take care of him.

He kept his mind focused on running, putting all of his thoughts to making sure he was breathing regularly and stepping carefully, trying not to think about Titus. He would mourn his friend, but he could not do that now—he had a task to accomplish. So he tried to push it out of his mind, to distract himself, at least until he reunited with the legion. He forced himself to exhaustion so he wouldn’t be able to think when he lay down to sleep. He didn’t want to be numb, but he didn’t want to think.

Due to his determination not to think the two mice reached the camp the legion had set up faster than expected. It was evening, and Justinius sank down onto a pile of blankets, grateful for a good night’s sleep. His sleep was uninterrupted by dreams of any sort.

He threw himself into his tasks the next morning. He ordered the construction of the weapons of siege necessary to conquer the rat city. But he found that he couldn’t focus on the task at hand, no matter how hard he tried. After having told them what he needed them to prepare, he retired to his own tent.

There he prayed properly to the gods for the safe travel of Titus in the underworld. And then he remained in silence, allowing no one inside, deep in thought. He remained in the tent for the remainder of that day and the next, quietly mourning and honoring his friend. After that, though the loss of his friend was still fresh on his mind and hard to bear, Justinius was able to do what needed to be done, and he was sure Titus would give him what aid he could.

He drew up plans with his trusted officials, explaining the situation to them as he went. They went over the size of the city, the estimated population, and the strength of the defenders. They debated for hours about the best course of action and where to attack from, looking at the crude map Quintus had drawn.

The legion finished their tasks in record time. On the fourth day since returning everything was ready and they prepared to set off. Quintus joined them, wearing armor scavenged from the city. Justinius had sparred with him and was confidant in the young mouse’s abilities that he would not be a threat to his own life or that of any in the legion.

The mice has assembled with the weapons of war in their midst. Justinius strode to the front and turned to face the loyal mice who followed him. Many were hardened warriors with scars from past skirmishes, while some were fresh recruits whose only action had been on this mission.

“The time has finally come,” he said, sword drawn. “We set off now on the final stretch, to war against the rats who dare set foot in our lands and burn down our cities!” The legion erupted in cheers. “We march now to bring them down. Not all have made it this far, we have lost good comrades already, but we shall honor them by our victory and glory! We will win! For our comrades, for our emperor, and for Rome!”

With echoing cries of “For Rome!” and “For Marcus!” Justinius led the legion forwards. Quintus helped guide them as they marched. Each step brought them closer to seeing the Emperor’s wishes fulfilled. Rome would be expanded, as was their right. Besides, was it not their right to conquer and rule the world, not just these lands? Justinius was sure that in ages past, and in ages to come, no one else would be up to such a feat.

Proud of the legion and of his homeland, Justinius marched, victory and glory assured. There was no reason to doubt it. Many, like his good friend Titus, would not return home, but their glory would be no less. And those who did would wear the crown of victory, with the blood of the conquered on their swords. Little did Justinius know that his hardships would not end with the sacking of the rat city.

The End for now . . .
God bless
  

word count 1,220—total 14,617
 
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It was a beautiful Autumn day—a clear sky—a breeze. Granny was rocking on the porch like she was want to do almost every day. They say rain, sleet, hail, and snow, I forget the order, can’t stop the mail, well, I figure they got that saying about Granny. She was out there in a tornado one time—a tornado!—and she was rocking like it wasn’t even there, might have even used the wind to rock. She never said a word, she just rocked.

Like I said, it was an Autumn day, and this man, he comes up, you see, right up to our stead. He was dressed in rags, I recollect, that were all tattered—you couldn’t even tell what they were supposed to be, could have been a quilt tied about his waste with some rope—which looked, too, like it could break in two at any moment. Well, this man who looked like he hadn’t slept in a decent place for nigh on two weeks, he comes up and grabs Granny by her hair and pulls her off the rocking chair. We shall shout and start to come at him.

What happened still is a mystery, but when Granny stood up, she took a shotgun from somewhere—where it came from is also a mystery—and fired ‘bout every shell into the poor son of a gun. There weren’t much left for the sheriff to see, let alone try to identify.

I don’t know if something had snapped, or some pent up feelings broke though, or if she had been crazy all along, or if something or someone took control of her, but she turned that shotgun on John—he was our eldest brother, you remember—and blew him away. Poor John, he never did anyone any harm. Don’t know why she blew him to kingdom come.

Well, I grabbed little Alisha and ran to the fields to hide from Granny, not knowing what had come over her. Well, we hear the shotgun fire repeatedly, and we hear screams—lot’s of screams. We never saw Ma and Pa after that, living or dead—what Granny did to them I can’t imagine.

It was around then that Alisha and I see Sue running from the house, crying her eyes out. My sister and I waved her over, and she came. She told us Granny had gotten Ezekiel, right between the eyes. Sue and Ezekiel had been mighty fond of each other, and she claimed she would die a widow. I didn’t bother telling her that they hadn’t even been engaged yet, but true to her word she passed away last year, still unmarried to that day.

As for Granny, well, she ran into the woods, and we never did see her again. We looked for her, we did, and we had parties assembled from town to go look for her, but nobody saw ‘er. Least nobody who ever lived to tell the tale. Many people—townsfolk and travelers—who had passed through those woods were found dead, killed by a shotgun. After about a dozen or so—we figured when Granny had finally run out of bullets—the injuries changed, instead they looked like they had been clubbed by a large heavy object of the same size as a shotgun.

It still haunts me to this day. I can still hear that shotgun, and those screams—I don’t know which was worse. But I’ll tell you what was worse than both—the laughter. Granny was laughing her head off the whole time. And it still rings through my ears.

The End
God bless

I’ve never done this before so I’m not sure if I should be doing this differently.

Even if today isn’t Sci Fi friday, do check out my last story, Bullets and Blades, as I do quite like the characters in it, and you may too. I’d like to do something more with Vinn and Three, but I’m not sure what, maybe turning that from 7k words into a full novel with subplots and more action and stuff.

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He looked behind and frowned. If the citizens had come this way he hadn’t seen any sign of them—not even any footprints. And there had been no bodies. Had the priestess lied to him? He faced the hills again. It would be folly to spread out—the chances of losing more of the legion were far to high.

The hills went on as far as they eye could see on either side until it hit forests. He thought he caught movement up near the top. Squinting, there definitely was something up there, but what it was he couldn’t know. It certainly wasn’t one of his mice, but it could be one of the citizens from the city. Upon seeing Justinius looking up the figure disappeared.

“Alright,” Justinius addressed the legion. “We are going up there. If we don’t find anything, we’ll assume all the citizens died in the assault and we’ll march upon the vermin city and take it as our glorious emperor commanded.” The legion shouted in obedience, and Justinian began the ascent at the forefront of the legion.

It took close to twenty minutes for Justinius to find a suitable way up, and once up on the small ledge of red stone, it was apparent that where he thought he saw the figure was even higher up. One more ascent and Justinius reached the top. Other hilltops went higher still, but he could see from this vantage point that there were many ravines and caves in the labyrinthine hills.

“Sir,” shouted young Octavius, “you’ll want to come over here.”

Justinius carefully picked his way over and looked down a cliffside that Octavius was peering over. There, at the bottom, was a dead rat.

“Must have fallen,” he said, looking in every direction and down every ravine. Was this rat alone or was he part of the force that attacked the city? Was he chasing the citizens with others or was he just a deserter trying to escape the rest of his brethren.

There was a clattering of rocks as they slid down the rocky slopes, and the legion looked as one at a rat who hurriedly trying to make himself inconspicuous. They all moved in on the vermin who tried to make a quick getaway.

“Don’t kill him,” Justinius quietly ordered. “Let him lead us to the others.”

The rat led them on a merry chase for several minutes, until he fell screaming off a cliffside. Justinius sighed in frustration. But then he picked up the sounds of battle in the distance. The legion hurried over and found two score rats advancing on about three times that number of mice in a cave below them. Behind the rats were the bodies of the last fighters the mice had had.

Shouting, Justinius led them down and fell upon the rats in the rear. Caught off guard, the rats fell swiftly one by one to the mice’s blades. Justinius wiped his sword on one of the fallen rats as there was no nearby grass.

One of the surviving mice approached him. “We thank you for saving us,” said the frail mouse. He was the oldest among the survivors. “We would like to repay you, but we haven’t anything to give, not even a meal for all you.”

“Are there any other survivors?” Justinius asked, motioning the old mouse to sit down and following suit.

“There are more of us back in the sanctuary but not many,” he said, breathing heavily.

“What happened?”

“They attacked us, and we were beginning to despair,” he said sorrowfully. “We had sent messengers to Rome but no one every returned.” He frowned. “Why would Rome be so late in sending us aid.”

“We were unaware of the situation,” Justinius admitted. “All we knew was that there was trouble on our border and we were to stamp it out. We didn’t know a city was under siege.”

“We said . . .” the mouse said confused. “But why would they not tell you what happened?”

“To my knowledge we haven’t received any messages, only rumors,” said Titus as he wiped his blade.

“Let us return to the camp and talk there,” the old mouse suggested. It took them about several minutes to return to the cave. There Justinius sat down and spoke with the mouse while Titus returned to the legion to have the rest of them make camp. Some would return here with Titus while the majority would remain ready to march.

The old mouse spoke with Justinius about the attack and their escape into the hills. It turned out that the priestess had been his granddaughter. They talked long into the day until the sun started to sink and the sky darkened. Finally the old mouse was done recounting all that had happened, including their struggles, and few victories.

“You have all been through a lot,” Justinius remarked once the mouse had finished speaking. “I and my mice will do what we can for you.”

“I thank you,” the old mouse said with much gratitude, clasping Justinius’s paw. “I feared that we would die here.”

“You won’t die while I’m here,” Justinius promised. “Does anyone here know where the rats came from?” He wanted to figure out just where this rat city was so he could subdue it. They needed to do that and soon.

“I do not,” he said, frowning, “but one of the younger mice does. He’s a good runner. We use him to send messages when we need to do so quickly. I’ll have him sent to you. But let us do that tomorrow, for the hour is late. Let us show you what hospitality we can.”

Justinius agreed, and he and Titus, upon his return, spent many hours discussing their plans and how best to bring the rats into line when they did come to the city. Justinius was growing restless. He wanted to be back home with his wife and children, and he could not shake the fears that something would happen in his absence. He was growing excited, their mission was coming to and end, and after that he hoped to get some well-earned rest.

The next morning a young mouse met him after he had washed his face and paws and eaten. “Sir,” he said saluting, “My name’s Quintus, sir. I was told you needed someone to show you were the rats are.” He was lean but well muscled, and his fur was all brown.

“Yes,” Justinius said. “At ease.” The mouse relaxed somewhat, but stayed tense. “I would like you to take me and one of my officers to see what we are up against, then return here. Though he trusted his scouts, he wanted to personally do the scouting and he didn’t want to wait around while they were gone.

“When would you like to depart?” Quintus asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“I can leave now,” Quintus said, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Once I find Titus we’ll go,” Justinius told him, and he went to get Titus.

After he had found Titus, the three of them sped off, unhindered by armor or cloaks, carrying only the bare necessities. They switched between running and walking in order to keep their breath. The land passed by them—hills, fields, forests, and finally hills once more, but not like those the cityfolk were hiding in. These had gentle slopes and were covered in grass.

Finally when the sun was high above them two days later, Quintus stopped at near the top of a high hill and stood still a moment. He was not out of breath, which Justinius gave him credit for—he’d make a good addition to the army. Titus was breathing heavily, and had lagged behind on several occasions, while Justinius had, for the most part, stayed with Quintus, though he too had to catch his breath. They had only stopped for brief rests and to catch a couple hours of sleep during the nights.

“The city is on the far side of this rise,” Quintus said, gesturing to the hill. Justinius felt the first droplets of water as rain started to drizzle.

“Let us hurry then, for it’s going to be a miserable run back.”

“Indeed,” said Titus as he pulled his tunic over his head.

The three mice crested the hill and lay on its top as they looked at the city that sprawled before them. It was still some distance away, but they could clearly see it. The dwellings that made up the majority of the city were of mud, wood, and stone, or some combination thereof. The layout of these buildings was of no particular order, as if no guiding hand had carefully overseen its growth and construction, unlike the perfect layouts of the Roman cities. There were some larger structures, but they were few, with nothing but mud and some debris surrounding them. A wall of logs and planks surrounded the city. Farmland in turn surrounded the walls, though it could not be compared to the farms of Rome, and there were pastures and rats milling about, either doing work or trying to find entertainment, while slaves, mostly mice, assisted in labor or followed masters.

“How do you know where this city came to be?” asked Justinius as they hid from the city.

“I was once a slave here,” Quintus admitted, “and managed to escape. The city they have brought to ruins was not even out of infancy when I arrived tired and hungry. I helped finish in the raising of the city and have lived there for the last few years. We should have known that, so close to the rats, we would be attacked like this sooner or later.”

“They are numerous,” Justinius said, peering again over the top of the hill, trying to estimate their numbers.

“Aye,” Quintus remarked. “But none know the number. You may have trouble subduing all of them and the surrounding warrens.”

“You may be right,” Titus agreed. “But an order is an order, and we must do it—I have faith in my mice.”

“I will gladly fight alongside you if it will avenge my home and friends,” Quintus vowed. “All my family were killed, and I have few friends left.”

“Your service is gladly accepted,” Justinius said. “Let us go, we have a long way home and the rain will make it longer. Then we have the return journey with the Legion in tow.”

“But first, let us think of our own skins,” Titus warned, drawing his sword. Justinius and Quintus turned to see five hulking rats sneaking up on them from behind. They two of them drew their weapons.
 

The End for now . . .
God Bless,

word count 1,885—total 13,397

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