Kickass Anthology (19 page)

The rock unfolded but it did not assume the shape of a man. It assumed the shape of a giant, for half of it had been buried in the earth that now disgorged it. Stone armor sheathed its torso and limbs and it clutched a stone blade in one hand and a stone club in the other. It raised a massive head and turned toward Gurgh and, upon seeing the army approaching the city it roared and began to run.

With a battle cry of his own, Vorgell ran to the next standing stone and tapped it also. This time he did not stop to witness his success, but dashed to each stone in succession. Each stone touched by the golden staff shed its form for that of a fearsome giant. Even the first stone he had tapped, the last in the circle, raised its head upon being blessed and shook off the earth from its limbs so it could join its brothers. Vorgell exulted at the sight. These were warriors of old, god gifted and invincible. And he would lead them into battle.

He looked around for Madd and found him, struggling to control the terrified horses. Seizing the reins of the large beast who had borne him the day before, Vorgell swung astride. The horse reared and danced, and only then did it settle. It seemed to Vorgell he sat astride the winged horse of the sun.

“Ride with me!” he shouted to Madd, extending an arm. His dark-haired friend looked up at him, eyes black and wide, then his handsome chin firmed and he grabbed Vorgell’s arm, allowing himself to be pulled up to ride behind, though not before Petal scrambled up using Madd’s body as a ladder. What the basilisk did then, Vorgell could not see, but feeling Madd’s arms wrapped snugly under his ribs and knowing his friends were with him lightened his heart. He slammed his heels to push the horse to gallop after the racing giants.

Madd had told him there were more such stones, more such circles. Vorgell kept his horse to high ground until he spied a cluster of tall stones upon a low rise. Racing to it, he tapped each stone, one by one, and felt the sun itself pour through him and into the death cold rock. One by one, these too became giant warriors and they ran to join the chaos their brethren had begun to wreak upon the Anssif’s army.

Sounds of war and celebration rolled across the flood plain. Vorgell paid them no heed. He was the wielder of the holy staff and he was hunting stone. Ranging above the battlefield, astride a sorrel horse with hooves of gold, he found two more circles and brought them to unnatural life, sending more warriors into the fray. Only then did he rein in his steed and survey the battle.

The Salid of Anssif’s army, broken and in disarray, was falling back. Many hundreds lay dead upon the field, where the stone giants had smashed entire companies beneath their feet and with stone weapons. The war machines lay in ruins, crushed into splinters, among tents of brilliant silk that now littered the landscape, false and festive amid the carnage.

Horns trumpeted from the city as its human defenders took the field and raced toward the battle where they would be too late to do anything but take prisoners and deliver mercy to the mortally wounded. And collect booty also. Vorgell felt a rush of envy. His armor was sorely lacking.

“No,” said Madd. “The battle’s won. There’s no need to join it.”

He had forgotten his friend was riding with him. Something landing lightly on his shoulder and tucking against his neck—his pretty Petal burrowing her head into the beard lining his chin—reminded him of who he was, and where, and why. Even the horse, its hooves no longer shining with gold, sagged beneath them and was breathing heavily as would any mortal thing.

“I suppose now we can return to the city.” After the day’s excitement, that prospect struck Vorgell as quite boring.

“Probably best to do it while they’re distracted.”

“We can fetch Grobba’s gold later. Better in our pockets than that of some fortune hunter.”

“Much better than that,” Madd agreed. “We earned it! I know this city’s leaders and—”

“I don't suppose I'll be getting credit for saving the city.”

“None. And, believe me, that’s for the best. That kind of attention is dangerous. And even if they did give you credit, they would just trot you out on special occasions and make you give speeches.”

That sounded like a fate worse than death.

The stone giants continued their work until there was no more to be done and Gurgh’s army had chased all that remained of Anssif’s army from the field. The Salid, at least, had escaped with his life. Vorgell rode the horse slowly back toward the road. From time to time, stone giants rumbled past them to once more take up their stations.

GURGH celebrated its great victory for weeks. A mysterious message had told the High Priestess where the Sun Staff would be found and she had gone with great and pompous ceremony to retrieve it. Though all upon the walls and even many soldiers had seen the shining man on a sun-colored horse racing from stone circle to stone circle to awaken the Protectors, it had become fashionable to believe the Sun God himself had come to earth. There was no better explanation.

Vorgell and Madd had taken advantage of the confusion and massive movement of troops and the curious to enter the city unnoticed. They had reconnected with Tagard, who had listened with some interest to their tale, in particular the part where they divulged Grobba’s fate and the existence of two chests of Anssif gold. In return for a hefty portion they had told him where to find it. It always paid to have thief king as an ally.

That night they all sat beneath a canopy atop a warehouse roof to watch bats fly and fireworks explode in celebratory sprays above the city. Their view was a bit compromised by the walls, so they only saw the occasional glimmer, but the booms were satisfyingly joyous. Vorgell laughed at Tagard’s congratulations.

“Yes, apparently the city guardians mistook me for the Sun God.”

“Well, you were glowing,” Madd pointed out.

Vorgell lifted his cup. “And surrounded by mythical warriors.”

“There's that. And you
are
pretty impressive even under ordinary circumstances.” Madd paused, then added, “For an oaf.”

“Indeed. For an oaf.”

It was good to be home.

AUTHOR

Tali Spencer
fell in love with writing at an early age and never stopped. Thanks to a restless father, she grew up as a bit of a nomad and still loves to travel whenever she can. Her longest sting in one place was Milwaukee where she went to college and enjoyed a series of interesting careers including respiratory therapist, airport executive, and raising three surprisingly well-adjusted sons. She later married her true love and put down new roots in Philadelphia, where she lives in an ongoing, Italian American family sitcom. At least she’s learned how to make good pasta. When not writing, Tali reads everything from sweet goofy romances to Lebanese cookbooks, manages her fantasy football team – go Gekkos!- and takes long walks with her loving, if slightly neurotic, poodle.

Visit Tali’s blog at
http://talismania-brilliantdisguise.blogspot.com

E-mail:
[email protected]

Facebook:
http://facebook.com/tali.spencer

Twitter: @tali_spencer

ILLUSTRATOR
Kate Pavelle

BASHIR

JP Kenwood

I SHIELDED my eyes and looked up at the sun glowing in a cloudless blue sky. It was going to be a scorcher today, hotter than yesterday, for sure.

Was it this hot when the young Roman general, Scipio Aemilianus, besieged and destroyed this place back in the spring of 146 B.C.? Shit, I imagined it had been a gruesome inferno—women and children screaming, flames shooting up in the air—during those awful seventeen days when Rome burnt Carthage to the ground and finally obliterated that once mighty North African Empire from the face of the earth.

And here I was—a wet-behind-the-ears grad student working at my first excavation on the Mediterranean Sea. Shit, I was in Carthage, the home of the mythical Dido and the great Hannibal. Well, technically it was modern Tunis, but still.

The rollover to the new millennium had come and gone just six months earlier and, despite the doomsday predictions, our delicate existence had not dissolved into a terrifying technological meltdown. Y2K turned out to be major media hype solved behind the scenes by faceless, well-paid computer nerds. Things had not ‘gone to hell in hand basket,’ as my grandmother would have said if she were still alive. The world had not changed.

No, not yet.  It would—the planes would go off course, the towers would collapse, the world would change—but not yet. We were still oblivious innocents. In the oppressive heat of that July in Tunisia, our fucked up planet was still intact. Or perfectly cracked. I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

"Get off your knees, Hughes!"

Shit. I jumped to my feet, the handle of my trowel clenched in my right hand; I lowered my chin in mock shame as Jimmy jumped down into the trench. I had only been kneeling for a couple of minutes to give my aching hamstrings a rest, but damn it if that jerk hadn’t caught me.

Jimmy, or as he reminded everyone on a regular basis, James W. Hitchins III, was a reasonably smart Ivy League jock with no bankable athletic talent from a well-off New England family. Somewhere in Connecticut, I think. Two years ahead of me in grad school, he was cocky, self-absorbed, and competitive— a budding sociopath, no doubt. He was my area supervisor for that season; I was a trench assistant.

I was the unpaid volunteer peon.

Lowest man on the excavation team totem pole.

The kid.

"How many damn times do I have to remind you, kid?" Jimmy pushed his designer mirrored sunglasses up the bridge of his long nose and pointed down to where I'd been working. "Squat when you're troweling so you don’t disturb the surface; do not kneel. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

As Jimmy was climbing out of the trench, I mumbled ‘douche bag’ under my breath. With his left foot poised on the overturned plastic crate that we used as a step, he turned around.

"What did you just call me, faggot?"

"Nothing, Jimmy. Dust in my throat, that's all."

"Yeah, well... don't kneel. Bet you don't hear that too often, do you, Charlie?"

I chuckled sarcastically instead of flipping him the bird. Like I said, I was a peon—a chicken shit peon to boot.

As I squatted to finish clearing my little section of a Roman mosaic floor, I glanced over and saw that dark-haired young workman staring at me, again. His mesmerizing emerald green eyes, which complemented his olive skin, peered over the red-and-white checkered scarf that covered most of his head and face. His eyes had haunted my dreams since the moment I spotted him three weeks earlier. Yeah, those kind of dreams.

I estimated him to be about nineteen, maybe twenty. I'd heard his name spoken only once. It was during the first days of the season when one of the old, sun-wrinkled Tunisian laborers had yelled at him for some mistake that had seemed trivial to me.

Bashir.

His name was Bashir.  I would later learn that it meant ‘bearer of good news.’

But to this horny young gay guy, ‘bearer of hypnotic sexy eyes who might like me’ seemed more fitting. Though, to be honest, I had no idea if he liked me. But he did stare at me, a lot.

Flashing my goofy, crooked smile, I nodded across the five by five meter trench in a lame attempt to communicate with Bashir. I wasn’t sure if he spoke any English. Most Tunisians spoke or at least understood French, but my French had always been pathetic. And, except for “
Wayn al hammam?
” which I’d been told translates as “Where’s the toilet,” my Arabic was non-existent.

He froze for a split second and we stared without blinking—well, he stared. I melted. Before I had a chance to recover, he dropped his gaze and returned to collecting the piles of useless rocks we’d unearthed as we’d dug down to the Roman layers. The university students, like me, excavated with trowels and brushes; the local Tunisians did most of the grunt work, hauling rocks and pushing wheelbarrows for a pittance. Colonialism was alive and well at archaeological excavations in third world countries.

“Don’t let him get to you, Charlie.”  Her voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but she was troweling less than a meter away from me. Angela, a grad student from California, had big blue eyes and stringy hair of at least three different shades of blonde that she always wore tied back in a ponytail. She was my new best friend. Shit, Angela Miller was my only friend for that entire season as we excavated an ancient Roman house on the outskirts of modern Tunis.

“What?” My face grew warm. Shit, I was blushing. “Who?”

“Jimmy. Don’t let him get to you. Jeez, who the hell did you think I meant?”

“Oh. Jimmy.” I swallowed. “He’s worse out in the field than back on campus.”

“He’s just jealous, Charlie. You won that fat fellowship last semester. The Great Hitchins has convinced himself and anyone who’ll listen that you sucked some professor’s cock to get it.”

“What an asshole. Jimmy’s loaded. He doesn’t need the tuition money. I do, so I worked harder. That’s all. Shit, did he really say that?”

“You better get a thicker skin, my friend; everyone knows that your school’s grad program is one of the nastiest, most competitive departments in the country. Watch out for the vipers.” She winked and went back to scraping the sandy soil.

A long shadow fell over our heads.

“How are we faring down there, Charles?” His posh British singsong voice, accentuated by a severe lisp, was unmistakable. Professor Chatsworth, director of the project, was a lanky man whose gaunt face twitched in a way that only British academics carry off with flair.

“It’s coming along great, Professor. We’ve almost finished exposing the mosaic and Angela found some traces of charcoal.”

“Ah, that would be a fire pit. You are a talented young lady, Angela.” He straightened his light grey linen sports coat and leered at her until one of his eyelids fluttered uncontrollably behind his black-framed glasses. “Well, carry on then.”

After he sauntered off to loom over another trench of dust-covered grad students and Tunisian workers, I turned to Angela. “He wants to sleep with you.”

With a disgusted grimace, she squealed. “Jesus, Charlie. That’s gross. He’s like—what—forty?”

“Take one for the team, Angie. How else are we going to find out how much his face twitches when he comes?”

Angie opened her eyes wide and slapped my arm before she started shaking with laughter. Behind us, Bashir chuckled. At least I think it was Bashir. I wanted it to be him. I desperately wanted to hear Bashir laugh.

As the heat of the day peaked and quitting time was within sight, I noticed one of the older workmen yelling at Bashir. The middle-aged man’s leathered hands flailed all over the place in a series of wild gestures as he spewed a string of incomprehensible Arabic words. He sounded extremely pissed. Bashir said nothing, his face stoically serene, until the man dismissed him with a frustrated flick of his wrist.

That night, our team of a dozen or so students sat around the large table under a pathetic flickering light bulb that hung from a wire. We were lounging in the small kitchen of the run-down house that Chatsworth had rented as our makeshift dormitory, enjoying our smuggled-in alcohol and cheap local smokes. No running water, no air conditioning, and no ice. We usually slept on the flat timber roof under the stars to try and catch the night breezes and avoid the desert critters—scorpions and big hairy spiders.

Unfortunately that night, Jimmy the Prick, our self-appointed warden, was in rare form; the loser couldn’t handle his scotch. Lightweight.

“Here’s the deal,” he slurred as he slammed his glass on the kitchen table. “Chatsworth found supplies missing from the storage shed. So, who the fuck stole them?”

A panicked chorus of “Not me!” filled the stuffy air of the cramped room.

“Nobody’s getting paid until that shit is returned. Got it?” Jimmy glanced around the circle of slightly drunk and worried faces until he saw mine and smirked. “Nobody except you, Charlie, since you’re not getting paid anyway.” He belched and laughed. “But you wouldn’t have the balls to steal shit, would you, fairy boy?”

Trying to redirect Jimmy before he called me ‘faggot’ again, I leaned back in my chair and asked, “So what was taken?”

“A bunch of stuff. Small hand tools, mostly. You can get good money for that kind of crap on the black market here.”

“Any suspects, besides us?”

“You know something about this, Hughes? Cause if you do and you’re protecting someone, like your secret cock sucking boyfriend…”

I couldn’t help but cringe at the way he enunciated those last words.

“I have no idea who took the tools.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow and took another swig of amber liquor before excusing himself—if a shaky hand wave and sloppy grunt counted as a proper excuse—to go puke out his guts in the ravine next to the house. Moron.

After he’d left, Angie leaned over. “Do you know who stole that stuff from the shed?”

“No, I don’t. But if I did, I wouldn’t tell that asshole. I’d go straight to Chatsworth and get the brownie points for myself.”

She sat back and nodded. “You’re learning, Charlie. I think you just might survive the snake pit of graduate school after all.”

“I’m a survivor, Angie.”

A few days later—bright and early on a sunny Monday morning, the first day back on the site after a weekend off at the local beaches—I walked to our metal shed to get something when I caught a glimpse of him. He was lurking in the shadow that the small building cast over the ground; Bashir looked nervous, glancing back and forth as he readjusted and patted his long, white shirt.

He hadn’t seen me, so I quickly stepped to the side of the shed and pressed my ear to the wall and listened. I heard the echoes of footsteps crossing the aluminum floor, metal scraping against metal, a thud of something hitting the back wall, and then silence. When I scrounged up the courage to step forward and look inside, no one was there. All the tools—shovels, pick-axes, trowels, buckets, brooms, wheelbarrows, and other assorted crap—were neatly stacked as usual. It was impossible to tell what, if anything, was missing.

At lunch that day, I made a point to sit as close to Bashir as I could, a tricky task given that students and workmen mutually kept their distance during our short breaks relaxing and eating in the shade of the pottery washing tents.

I caught his eye, smiled and then offered out a slice of my orange.

Bashir smiled back—his toothy smile was almost as blindingly beautiful as his green eyes—and shook his head. But his smile lingered. Encouraged, I ambled over and sat down next to him on the handmade wooden bench. He looked more nervous than I felt, my stomach a mess of very angry butterflies. A few of the older workmen were annoyed by my audacity but said nothing. Most were finishing their meals, which meant we were soon alone except for a grey-bearded Tunisian stretched out on the ground to catch a few winks before the day’s digging resumed.