Nothing but a Little Magic!
by Christian Riley
Chris Riley lives near Sacramento, California, vowing one day to move back to the Pacific Northwest. He is an award winning author of over 100 short stories and essays, published in various magazines and genres. In the realm of long fiction, he has written two literary suspense novels—THE SINKING OF THE ANGIE PIPER and THE BROKEN PINES—and two thriller novels, WENT MISSING and WILD MEN. Writing as C. H. Riley, his debut science fiction novel titled THE SOUND OF THE FUTURE has recently been published. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers, and is currently working on the next Sam Nolan adventure. Like many authors, his endeavors in writing add a steady nuance of loneliness to his life. As such, he is more than eager to hear from his readers. Reach him at http://www.chrisrileyauthor.
More TTTV Stories by Christian Riley
The King was surrounded by his generals:
“Just give me facts, men!” he shouted. “I want nothing but the cold, hard facts of reality.”
General Mattock stepped up, hand to his chin, rubbing whiskers. “My Lord… we seem to be in quite a pickle. The enemy has driven here,” he gestured down at the large planning table before them, “and has sacked Hornville. They’ve at least three thousand men in that horde. And to the east,” he pointed to the other side of the table, “five thousand are marching across the Weathered Downs, burning villages, slaughtering cattle—oh, and people, too.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed General Bailey. “And tell him about their machines!”
The King’s face twisted with irritation.
“The facts, my Lord, are that they outnumber us three to one,” General Fenton added, shaking his head. “As a matter of logic, and reason alone—mathematics, and simple common sense combined—it is impossible to defeat this army.” He buried his face in his hands. “We are too few…”
“Don’t forget about their machines!” repeated General Bailey.
“Three thousand. Five thousand. Why, that’s only eight thousand strong,” spat the King. “We can beat that!”
“Oh, but my Lord, that’s not all,” replied General Mattock. “From the west, by boat, up the mighty Thorn River, comes an army of ten thousand men.”
The King shuddered.
“And rest assured,” continued Mattock, “these men shall be driven half-mad from their voyage, eager to hack and burn. Eager to take from our vaults, rape our woman, make stew of our children.”
“And let us not forget the conscripts,” said General Fenton. “They’ll be here too.”
“Of course,” replied General Mattock. “Although only a mere two thousand strong, these men hail from… the south.”
“What!” The King’s eyes gaped. “Not the southern conscripts!”
“Indeed,” replied General Mattock. “Haggard men from the boggy wastelands, harboring filth and disease. The butchers of our worst nightmare who’d sell their own families for the opportunity to exact revenge upon us. Yes, they shall be here as well.”
The King stared at his Generals, eyes bulging, lips twitching, body shaking, crown upon his head cockeyed, sitting haphazardly. “We’re doomed!” he shouted.
“But you’re forgetting about the machines!”
Just then, they heard a loud crash near the door. Each of them, including the King, jumped back, drawing swords.
“Oh! My Lord! Please forgive me.” The voice was sharp as broken glass and came from the lanky man struggling with a toppled end table. “Forgive my clumsiness, my Lord.”
“What are you doing in here?” asked General Fenton. He stepped toward the man (now recognized as Jerry-the-Fool), and shook his sword threateningly. “Get out! This is official business!”
“Pardon me, my Lord.” Jerry stood up and chuckled nervously. He wore a pink tunic with black polka dots, and multi-colored pantaloons. And on his head was a yellow cap with three floppy points—his cap ‘n’ bells. “Begging your forgiveness, I just thought that, well, in this hour of need, might the King want some… entertainment?”
The King and his generals looked back and forth at one another.
“You know,” continued Jerry, “to cheer him up.”
“Get out!” screamed General Fenton, sending Jerry-the-Fool running and whimpering down the hall.
“Let us continue,” said the King, shaking his head. “Somebody tell me about these machines already.”
“Ah… yes,” replied General Mattock, “the machines.” He walked over to a window and stared out onto the massive green plains that surrounded the fortress. He slapped a hand on the stone wall, then turned to the King. “Cold, hard, facts, my Lord. The facts are that in three days, this here wall shall be nothing but rubble. Iron warhorses, they are called. Rolling on great wheels, they come in a variety of horrific sorts. Shielded transports, as high as our crenellations, with ladders for the enemy to swarm over our walls. Behemoth catapults able to launch boulders the size of three warhorses abreast. And trebuchets. Yes, those deadly monstrosities. Infamous for hurtling far over defensive barriers, great balls of fire. Or worse yet—the infected remains of livestock, or butchered men.
“We have consulted with our wisest engineers on how to defeat such gargantuan weapons of war. And these engineers, well, they have promptly fled the city. We’ve conferred with our diplomats on ways of making peace, and now the heads of these men are rotting in crude baskets. And we’ve discussed amongst ourselves, hoping to find a winning strategy against this black tide at our doorstep—all in vain.” General Mattock walked back and slammed a fist down onto the table. “The cold, hard, facts of reality are that you are correct, my Lord. We are doomed!”
The King took a seat. He sighed deeply, hung his head, squeezed his temples with his hand. He took off his crown and ran fingers through his hair. He paused, sat frozen like a statue of stone, staring for long minutes at the floor, until at last he looked up. “We are men…” he said, his voice heavy. “And if men are made to die… then so be it.”
***
“I can sing something festive!” Jerry-the-Fool danced in rhythm to his words.
“Be gone, you oaf!” shouted General Fenton.
“Perhaps a dirge?”
“I said be gone with you, fool!” General Fenton turned toward the King, “Just say the word and I’ll run this man through, my Lord.”
“Leave him,” replied the King. They stood outside upon an enormous raised dais overlooking their vast army, the vast rolling plains, and the even more vast enemy hordes that marched forth from the horizon. “We may soon need the dirge.” Then the King stepped toward the edge and shouted. “If this shall be our dying day, then let it be a good day!”
“When is there ever a good day to die?” General Mattock whispered to General Bailey.
“Let the people of our future sing of this day!” continued the King.
“Future?” General Bailey whispered to General Mattock.
“The day that we fought with great honor! The day we died amongst our brothers. The day we faced the cold, hard, facts of reality, having not a single hope to believe in, save for our dignity, our solitude, and our… oh, screw it!” Throwing his helmet on the ground, the King fell into his throne and muttered gravely to himself. There was a great length of silence. His generals blinked their eyes. His soldiers stood in awe, shivering in their armor. A flock of crows passed overhead.
“I can do a trick, then!” Jerry-the-Fool broke the silence and hopped around the dais, dancing in 2/4 time. He hummed brightly, as if the prospect of becoming impaled by a thousand approaching spears (or by swords of the very men standing next to him), wasn’t the slightest bit of concern for the loping fool.
The King turned and starred at him.
“Some juggling, perhaps?” Jerry said. “How about a ballad?”
“My Lord, please! I beg of you, let me kill this cretin once and for all.” General Fenton hovered behind Jerry-the-Fool, brooding, sword poised. “I don’t think I can take anymore of his chipperness.”
“Fine,” replied the King, staring at the ground. General Fenton raised his sword, let out a deep howl, and prepared to cleave Jerry in two when the King suddenly lifted his hand. “Wait! Not just yet.”
“But my Lord,” cried General Fenton.
“Go on, Fool. Show us a trick, then.” The King lifted his head. “Show us something grand. Something impressive. Give us your best, for rest assured, this will be your last performance.”
“Alrighty then!” replied Jerry-the-Fool with a big smile. He walked over and bowed to the King. He stood up, turned, and hummed a silly tune, foot tapping. He danced again, now in 3/4 time. He waved his arms, flapped his hands, and clucked like a chicken. He did the “moonwalk” across the dais and babbled like a baby. He jumped, spun, span, leaped, pirouetted, wiggled and waggled until he broke a sweat.
“Can I kill him now, my Lord?” General Fenton’s face was redder than a radish.
The King dropped his head once again, sullen. “So be it,” he said.
But just then, they all heard a great rumble from below. The earth shook, and the raised dais trembled. Men staggered to keep their balance, while Jerry-the-Fool continued to dance. He didn’t skip a beat, in fact.
The King stood up and looked around, confused. The earth shook some more. And then, from beyond the perimeter of his army, a blanket of great fire and lava sprang from the ground. Whistling in flame, dripping red and black heated bile, it rose to a height that dwarfed the very walls of the castle: four-hundred feet at the least. For a long breath, the towering inferno just stood there, grumbling, until a loud snap resounded from somewhere within. And then it rolled toward the enemy.
Five minutes later, it was all over. Miles of black smoke plagued the sky, ascending from the charred remains of men, beasts and, yes, machines. Nothing survived the horrific passing of the wave of fire. All were dead and ruined. The Kingdom had been liberated from their worst nightmare.
“What in the…?” The King started. He was surrounded by his generals once again. They gazed at the horizon, flummoxed, perplexed, scratching their heads, each of them, while Jerry-the-Fool danced in the background. “Can someone please explain to me what just happened?” said the King, staring at the fool.
Jerry caught his glance.
“Yes. You,” continued the King. “What in everything holy just happened? What was fire thing?”
“Oh, that, my Lord?” replied Jerry.
“Yes! That! What was that?”
“Nothing really, my Lord. Nothing really at all. Just the… blistering, subtle facts of magic, that’s all.” Jerry-the-Fool paused then, chuckling to himself. “How ‘bout that? I made another joke.” And then he jumped, clicked his heels, and carried on with his dance of 3/4 time across the raised dais.4
Leave a Reply