Tag: short story

WEEK OF WRITERS CALLS! ‘PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE’

by Ernest Russell, posted in Adventure, pulp

WEEK OF WRITERS CALLS! ‘PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE’ NEEDS TWO MORE STORIES TO FILL THE ANTHOLOGY OF A CLASSIC RADIO SHOW!

Continuing its tradition of bringing back unforgettable characters that have somehow been forgotten by most, Pro Se Productions, as a part of its Week of Writers Calls states that a minimum of two stories are necessary to fill PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE, an anthology based on the now public domain radio series starring Jack Webb.

 Not really a detective, but more of a man literally for hire on the waterfront in San Francisco, Novak found himself usually tied up with crime and cops to the tune of murder and his own life in danger. Along the way, he’d run head on into Lieutenant Hellman and often have to go to his old pal Jocko Madigan to get out of whatever soup he was in. What made NOVAK ‘one of radio’s most unusual programs’, as advertised in its opening, had to do with how it was written. Narrated by Novak, each episode was so full of one liners, extremely purple descriptions, and such use of language that many called the program hard boiled poetry. While some consider PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE a hard boiled spoofing program, it elevates the pace and concept of hard boiled to a whole new, slightly ridiculous level.

 All stories for PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE must be set between 1946-1950 and must include Lieutenant Hellman. The stories do not have to include Jocko Madigan, the other recurring character from the program, but Jocko appeared in every known episode, a part of the show’s formula. Writers may experiment with different structures and different formulas, including or not including Jocko, but editors will be looking for the show as a whole to be represented in proposals and stories.


Writers wanting to make proposals should listen to episodes of PAT NOVAK FOR HIRE at https://archive.org/details/PatNovakForHire. Interested writers should write a detailed proposal for a single 8 to 10,000-word story and email it to submissions@prose-press.com. If the proposal is accepted, the story will be due within 60 days of acceptance. When all stories are in, the book will enter the publication queue. Payment will be royalty based.

If you have any questions, email editorinchief@prose-press.com. To follow Pro Se Productions follow us on Facebook for all of the latest news and releases.

Thank you for reading,

Ernest

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Open Anthology call for EDGAR ALLEN POE-TIME TRAVELER!

by Ernest Russell, posted in Adventure, historical fiction, pulp

WEEK OF WRITERS CALL! ONE STORY NEEDED FOR ‘EDGAR ALLEN POE-TIME TRAVELER’ ANTHOLOGY!

As part of its week of calls to fill open anthologies, Pro Se Productions announces that a minimum of one story is needed for a collection focusing on a wild alternative take on of the world’s best known and mysterious authors-EDGAR ALLEN POE-TIME TRAVELER!

 A concept that takes Poe to a whole new level comes from the creative brain of author and anthology editor Ernest Russell. The concept for this anthology comes from an old theory that makes a note of rather curious and seemingly prophetic events in Poe’s writings.

 Stories in the anthology should work from the premise Poe was a frequent time traveler. While examples represent only a few adventures/information he incorporated into his stories, this anthology shall feature the stories of his experiences that he did not report.

 • Stories can only travel to Poe’s future. No grandfather paradox.

 o Travel to a period can involve a historical event or occurrence but is not necessary.

 o These adventures do not have to relate to Poe’s published work.

 o Allies/Companions in the story will be considered. Still, many have been done using H.G. Wells and Nikola Tesla stories; using them will not be allowed.

 • Stories are not to be set within Poe’s lifetime.

 o One exception – because of the mysterious circumstance surrounding his death- stories involving the week before his death will be allowed, though limited in number.

 • Any method of time travel is available – Portal, Mental/astral projection, Magic, a mechanical device, etc.

 • Stories can be in any genre. Poe had an influence upon-Detective, Horror, and Science Fiction.

 All interested authors should request the anthology bible and submit proposals for a single 7-8,000 word story to submissions@prose-press.com. The story will be due within 60 days of acceptance if the proposal is accepted. Once the story is completed, the entire anthology will move into the publication queue. Payment will be royalty based.

 If you have any questions, email editorinchief@prose-press.com. Follow Pro Se Productions on Facebook for all of the latest new and releases.

Thank you for reading

Ernest  

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NED LAND

by Ernest Russell, posted in Adventure, pulp, Uncategorized

In Jules Verne’s classic ‘20,000 Leagues Under the Sea’, a character debuted that brimmed with life and vitality. He deserved more stories to be told about him. Pro Se Productions has proudly taken up the challenge with its latest anthology collection. THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NED LAND is now available in print and digital formats.

 Ned Land was a man of strength, both physically and emotionally. He was not educated, but he was intelligent in ways necessary for a man of the world. He was skilled in the ways of a sailor and known as ‘The Prince of Harpooners’. While Captain Nemo continued on into other stories, this singular man of the sea, Nemo’s opposite in so many ways, did not.

 Until now.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NED LAND sets sail with five new stories featuring Verne’s forgotten hero. Never venturing far from the water, Ned reaches for the stars in five exciting and thrilling tales. Sail, along with the storytelling sailor into the action tales, only a hero such as he deserves!

 THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF NED LAND features a stunning cover by Antonino lo Iacono and print formatting by lo Iacono and Marzia Marina. It is available in print for $9/99 via Amazon.

 This innovative anthology is also available on Kindle formatted by lo Iacono and Marzia for $0.99 for a limited time, Kindle Unlimited Members can read this thrilling adventure for free!

 For more information on this title, interviews with the author, or digital copies for review, email editorinchief@prose-press.com.

 To learn more about Pro Se Productions, visit our website or like Pro Se on Facebook for the latest news and releases.

Happy Reading,

Ernest

Some things just make your day.

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

Many authors have several works in progress at once, and often a few finished stories filed away. I’m certainly no exception. About two weeks ago, I entered a contest. Quite a few authors enter contests. I have toyed with the idea but never took the leap.

Swan Song

The contest came across my inbox as they do. I knew it was legit, and reading through, I realized the story was already written. The prompt was, “Tell a story in which the main character asks a question at the end.” Swan Song was gathering digital dust, so I brushed it off and tweaked it here and there. Then through the magic of having a partner, who in a previous business life, who has been a copy editor for a small newspaper in Maryland, had it polished and sent in plenty of time.

The cool part was receiving an email today announcing there was a new comment on the story. I am going to share it with you.

“Whoah, great story! There is so much richness in your writing, that the 3000 word limit really didn’t do you justice.

First of all, I loved the way you did dialogue. I could clearly hear the words Zeke spoke in my mind and was able to fabricate a fitting image of him from that. The dialogue sounded authentic, like that’s how the characters would actually talk if they were real persons.

Secondly, the relationship between Zeke and Maude was so sweet! IT really felt like they were long friends, and it showed (at least to me) that Zeke was probably a bit lonely, traveling and prospecting, so he conversed with his mule as if it were a human. Very very well done!

And thirdly, the story within the story. I don’t know if this is a true legend, or if you constructed it yourself, but it sounds like a true folk tale to me! I loved how you described it, and how it all turned out, the people being turned into swans. Brilliant!

The only thing that felt a little rushed or ended too soon was the ending itself. I liked it, but I think it would be even better with a paragraph or two more. Now, in all fairness, I think your whole story deserves to be expanded into a novella, perhaps a full-length novel even. It’s just so rich and vivid and the feel is authentic! Loved it! Hope to read more of your work! Keep writing 🙂 – H.V.”

When I read it, I wanted to jump up and do a fist pump. Not only is if very complimentary BUT SOMEONE UNDERSTOOD. This was almost as big a rush having a new book come out. Links have been placed in the document should wish to read the story.

Thank you for reading and sharing this small moment,

Ernest

Nightmare Asylum and other Deadly Delights – A Book Review

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

Nightmare Asylum and other Deadly Delights – Author Sonia Kilvington

Review by Ernest Russell

Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvington starts at the cover. Your eye is drawn ever deeper upon viewing the cover art by Craig Douglas. This book, like the fabled abyss, will stare back at you as Sonia Kilvington plumbs the essential nature of human relationships. For these stories are not uplifting, Chicken Soup for the Soul, no, these stories are much more Charles Addams style. You see, each of these stories strips away normal. To quote Charles Addams –“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

These are short stories at their finest, which are a different skill set than a novel. Novels have time to explore the full three-act structure.  In a short story, you often only have space to write a segment of the three-act structure, usually a portion leading to a significant, transformative event for the main character.

Good short stories will have an impact. They strike you and stick with you. Weird tales and horror stories can kick your adrenaline and hours, maybe days later, they still rattle around inside your head. In this style, Sonia Kilvington is a master.

From the title story Nightmare Asylum to the final story Winter Baby, this book will enthrall you. They are fast reads. We need to remember horror does not lurk solely in darkness, seclusion, and gore. Innocence, passion, greed, and yes, even beauty, can bring their horror. Only the lucky ones get out of this through death. For the unlucky, shredding sanity as madness takes its toll.

If you ever watched Scooby-Doo, you should know this lesson. The real monsters are people. Stroll through the pages of Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvington and meet the monsters. I wager you might even recognize a few.  

You can find Nightmare Asylum and Other Deadly Delights by Sonia Kilvingston on Amazon. It is available in print and on Kindle.

Thank you for reading,

Ernest

THE RED DAGGER STRIKES: BOOK TWO

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

Zenith

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

PSYCHEDELIC PULP RETURNS IN THE FABULOUS WORLD OF ZENITH-THE RED DAGGER STRIKES II for 99 CENTS!

Chuck Miller, the creator of The Black Centipede and perhaps the father of Psychedelic Pulp, returns readers to The Fabulous World of Zenith, an original Pro Se Single Shot Signature Series that will examine the world of the Black Centipede, Vionna Valis, Mary Kelly and Doctor Unknown Junior from a variety of strange and oblique angles.

The mystery continues in THE RED DAGGER STRIKES: BOOK TWO. Is the Red Dagger a masked demon filling citizens’ hearts with fear? Or a horrific disease spreading through the world like wildfire? Perhaps a brave hero forced to hide her identity due to some secret? Or a top secret government operation intent on dominating humanity? Only Chuck Miller knows, but every reader will learn the truth if the Fabulous World of Zenith when THE RED DAGGER STRIKES! BOOK TWO. Now Available from Pro Se Productions!

Featuring an atmospheric cover and logo design by Jeffrey Hayes and digital formatting by Antonino Lo Iacono and Marzia Marina, THE FABULOUS WORLD OF ZENITH: THE RED DAGGER STRIKES BOOK TWO is available for 99 cents on Amazon. The second chapter in Miller’s tale is also available to Kindle Unlimited members for free.

The first book of THE RED DAGGER STRIKES is also available on Amazon in digital format.

For more information on this title, interviews with the author, or digital copies for review, contact Kristi Morgan, Pro Se’s Director of Corporate Operations, at directorofcorporateoperations@prose-press.com.

To learn more about Pro Se Productions, visit our website and see our full catalogue. Follow Pro Se on Facebook to keep up to date on new releases and open calls.

Highjump (excerpt from a work in progress)

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

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The skiplane landed first needing the room on the snow while the helicopter floated to the surface with a gentle thump. The slow rotation of the Sikorsky’s main rotor the only sound which could be heard either close at hand or in the far off distance. Even my own breath seemed to die as soon as it left my mouth. It was an eerie sort of tranquility. I felt like prey even though no predator could be detected.

Where was the crew? The first noticeable thing was the utter lack of motion from the stricken plane. There was absolute stillness about the scene. The air is so brittle it could snap from our hails as we approached. The radio silence was eerie enough, this lack of human response caused a dread to creep down my spine, as spider carefully leaving a trail of silk.

When we pulled the hatch none of us were prepared for what greeted us. In the dim wintry light of the interior, the crew was utterly still and more than slightly frozen. They could only have been dead for hours. At first glance, the cause isn’t apparent but the chances of them all dying being natural, even in this harsh and unforgiving environment, are remote.

The navigator and radio operator were at their stations. The rest spread along the floor of the cabin, as if in repose. Their still forms perfect in every way.

The mechanics began their inspection of the aircraft, quickly locating the broken line. A repair of this nature under ideal hangar conditions would take three to four hours. This was less than ideal. If the weather held, the crew chief estimated this could easily be a 12-hour job.

We set up under the tent pulled from the stranded crafts emergency stores and unloaded the tools and parts needed for repair. The skiplane is capable of carrying ten passengers. It had carried six, four mechanics and two medics plus tools and supplies to the location of the ill-fated flight. The Norseman would ferry six of the ill-fated crew on its return to Little America. The S-52 would carry the other four. A new crew would return on the Norseman to pilot the aircraft once it was repaired.

The medics performed a cursory exam of the crew as the bodies were evacuated to the skiplane. While evacuating Reeves body, his nickname had been Curly because of his premature bald spot, a small hole was found in the crown of his head. Upon noticing this abnormality, the crew was reexamined. A hole, about the size of a number two pencil, was found in the same spot on each of the men. None of us, could even begin to guess what could have caused this wound, much less, how did they all receive the same wound with no signs of a struggle?

Six of us watch the two aircraft take off, heading back to Little America. The three mechanics and the crew chief, one of the medics and myself temporarily stranded in this barren wasteland of white. So far, at Little America, we have been fortunate to encounter temperatures varying no more than between zero and 20° or 25° above, no more rigorous than a New England winter really.  Here deeper into the continent the temperature on this open plain has already fallen to minus 5°. The rampaging wind from the nearby plateau whips the snow into the air, which even with goggles on is blinding and stings any skin it can reach.

As designated sleep time approached, we realize there is no room in the tent for all six of us with the supplies. The crew had accomplished a great deal in disassembly, they were not quite to the point of removing the faulty fuel pressure line. Preparation to install the new line would still be at least half a day’s work. The replacement, which had to be flexible for installation, could not be allowed to freeze before completing repairs. While none would admit it, none of us truly wanted to spend the night in the R4D. We decided to draw straws for three us in the plane and three for the tent.

Flash Friday – The Zephyr

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

The joy of fully realizing and knowing the bond of our friendship had deepened over the last three years made my heart sing that fateful morning. Seen from a distance the early rays of dawn glistened against the silhouette of The Zephyr exiting the barn. That The Zephyr existed was a triumph of the bond shared between Philip and I. Through the trials, tribulations, and victories of our endeavors as our shared vision took shape so too did our relationship grow from friendship to brotherhood.

Our combined skills in engineering and electrical sciences produced this magnificent airship. While not as large as its successors would be, this ship would be the proof of concept which would change the world, ushering in a new age of commerce and transportation. This maiden flight would test and confirm our theories shining as a beacon of hope for the future.

Preflight checks all seemed to be in order. The rudder and planes responded well to the controls from gleaming brass and polished wooden controls in the wheelhouse. The small Donkey engine aft generated a good head of steam as it spun the two dynamos up to speed. Dials spun as they engaged both in the engine compartment and their duplicates in the wheelhouse. They reflected the steady pressure of the Donkey engines chug-chug and the current flow from the dynamos. A third dial held a steady vigil as the batteries held their charge while four smaller dials below read the amperage fed to each of the powerful electric motors ready to spin the propellers.

A steam engine required to power even a ship this size weighed more than the ship could lift, besides and cargo capacity being negated by the requirement to carry enough fuel to feed the monster. Our concept used a very small donkey engine to charge batteries. It was light weight, could be tuned off for extended periods while the ship was powered by its batteries therefore requiring much less fuel. At least that was the idea.

I lost the coin toss to Phillip. It would be he who piloted our craft as I operated the engine and tended the batteries. Our six backers and their wives would occupy the small, but well appointed, passenger cabin and we would carry 250 pounds of mixed cargo. Our future plans would aim for up to 100 passengers or as much cargo as large freighter. Other designs might allow for a mix of passengers and cargo. Yes, our optimism was high.

The ground crew loosed our bonds the earthly realm. With hardly a bump, our beautiful craft with its crimson and gold gas bag adorned by the saw-toothed stabilizer fins bore us heavenward.

We circled the town, checking our systems and operations, allowing our backers to, “ooh and ahh”, as we dipped low enough to view landmarks. A tight circle of the town’s clocktower confirmed the trim crafts maneuverability. All conducted in silence.

The intent was we would fly northward to our capital, showing our invention to the government. Surely after such a prolonged period of devastation, an invention such as ours might inspire them to back us as well. The possibilities were endless. Our dreams were of the pie in the sky variety, for our heads and our invention were in the clouds.

Our Backers were ecstatic, fortunately the weather was good, and they gushed over how comfortable the travel. Even the best trains were loud, and smelly. This was almost as comfortable as sitting in their own parlors. Their schemes at attracting passengers soon outstripped Phillips and mine most grandiose of plans. The only sound the occasional chug-chug of the Donkey engine to keep up the charge.

As the batteries charged two things happened. First they generated heat and this in itself could cause them to boil out exposing the plates seated in the sulfuric acid potentially causing a spark. This results in the second problem of explosion. For as the batteries charge they generate not only heat but hydrogen gas. This gas is the very thing suspending our craft between heaven and earth. A spark could ignite it.

Phillip solved these problems in two ways. Each battery resided inside a glass housing. Ingeniously a stopcock attached to each of these housings allowed the hydrogen to be siphoned off and stored for future use. This would solve one of the questions posed in obtaining a supply for our ships. A creative system of ductwork flowed over the batteries removing the oxygen produced as part of the process which had the effect of cooling both batteries and the engines. The controls to open these ducts resided in the wheelhouse. The siphoning process could be controlled manually at the batteries or from the wheelhouse.

We made the trip from Texas to Washington D.C. in less than 14 hours. A three day trip by train reduced to less than a day. The trip was a complete success for our vision of the future.

Well, mine at least, for I noticed the temperature of the batteries rising. This had occurred a couple of times during the flight but each time Phillip had opened the ducts rapidly cooling things down. There was no cool down.

The speaking tube engendered no response. Worried I went to the wheelhouse only to find the door locked. My knocks produced no more response than the speaking tube. Concern for Phillip led me to break open the door. In the interest of lightweight, the doors and nonstructural components were made of the lightest materials, the door collapsed under a determined assault.

“Phillip, what is wrong?” stunned as he seemed to be piloting the craft normally. I could just see the capitol through the front windows of the wheelhouse.

“There is nothing wrong Emmet. I aim to repair history. We never should have lost that war and now carpetbaggers steal our ways of life. Take our property and our lands, do you really think those men back there are not plotting to take every cent from our toil? When this ship crashes into the capitol our brethren will rise again, throw off the shackle of these northern oppressors.” Madly throwing controls The Zephyr abruptly canted downward. If action were not taken swiftly our dreams would turn from an optimistic vision to a thunderbolt of Zeusian vengeance.

“Phillip, after all we have come to understand each other how can you dash our dreams? The war was lost, slavery was on the way out as machinery changed the economics. Ours is a time to look to the future, rebuild from the ashes and create new things, things like the Zephyr. Please Phillip, step away from the controls.”

“I knew you had gone soft Emmet, when you mourned Lincoln, I knew it then. You are a good man but you just do not understand. The idea came to me as we flew. I knew you would never understand what this chance represented. ”

“I understand Phillip. I understand too well there are those who cannot that times change. There will always be those who want to hold dearly to old ideas, will fight to prevent change. Even change for the better where all mankind might learn to live as one brotherhood. How can I convince you this is not the course to take? Only evil can come of it.”

With a glance to the controls Phillip spun to face me.

“I can’t let you do this Phillip.”

“I can’t let you stop me Emmet.”

Without further word, we both launched at each other.

Thank you for reading,

Ernest

WIP – Excerpt from Starshine in Storyville

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

Good afternoon everyone,

Almost finished with this piece and will begin editing  tomorrow. So if you can stomach an unedited bit, read on McDuff.

“…The night air was cool and moist; the light breeze carried the tang of the Mississippi, as Benny walked aimlessly considering all that happened these past months. When he had found Erich and agreed to apprentice with him, Benny thought he was learning new saxophone techniques. The joke was on him, Erich explained to him there was magic and the sounds he produced were magical energies he could shape to his will. Benny thought of it only as ways to please a crowd, perhaps inducing more tips. The things Erich taught him about magic is very few could produce it at will. For that he was special, seems Erich, and now Benny had a hyperpineal gland which allowed them to sense and control magical energies. Others, without a hyperpineal, could practice magic but must use spells, gestures and rituals. Erich explained he had waited long for another to come along with the gland. For Erich had stood Guardian for over two centuries and looked forward to being able to share, and eventually pass on the Guardianship of New Orleans.

Benny had laughed it off as the rambling and fantasy of an old man. Until the night of the Grunch, that night after their practice, Erich had looked at him.

“Benny, you are good, maybe one of the best ever, I have never heard make love to a sax or play like you. And I’ve known them all. Tonight, it’s time you learned the difference between ballads and battles. Pack up and I’ll explain what you will face on the way.”

Benny shuddered and rubbed his arm as he remembered that night. It had all seemed a dream until tonight. He watched a man weave shadows of darkness around himself, warding Benny’s magic. Then he disappeared under Benny’s scrutiny. Just as he thought the world was setting back to normal, it was shaken.

The bell Victory, in St. Louis Cathedral shook him out of the reverie as it chimed midnight. Lost in thought, he had not realized how far down Chartres he had walked. The artists and psychics along Jackson Square were long gone. Or so he thought, as he approached he saw one of the psychics tables still up.

Curious he approached, looking around the area in front of the cathedral, but the pools of light revealed no one. The table belonged to Psychic Mary, an Irish redhead with legs that’d make you dizzy. Even at her age she could make a man’s head spin with her seduction through the very air. She would not have left her table with crystals displayed and cards unprotected.

As the last stroke of the clock faded, Benny paused. Uncertain if he what he heard had been an echo of the bells last stroke, Benny listened more closely. There it was again, a muffled cry and from the direction of Pirates Alley. Benny took off at a sprint for the nearby alley. Upon entering his eyes could not pierce the gloom having adjusted to the well lit court. Reflexively, Benny began to hum and immediately calling upon his magic to see. At the midway point, three figures struggled. One had flaming red hair against two hooded figures that were pulling her toward a swirling circle of shadow. “

Thank you for reading,

Ernest

 

Flash Friday – Challenging the End

by Ernest Russell, posted in Uncategorized

Slowly, the insistent knocking roused Sir Michael from his deep, dreamless sleep. He shrugged into his tunic and opened the door. Breathless from his run up the stairs, Alakka stumbled into the room.

“Sahib! Come quick, there is a messenger from Qatni with an urgent message for you!” he pantingly implored Sir Michael.

As Sir Michael dressed to meet the messenger he glanced out of the window. From the position of the moon it must be only a couple of hours before dawn.

The courtyard shadows danced as the torches showed him two of his men-at-arms standing to either side of a young Bedouin and his mount. His message must have been urgent indeed to use up such the once beautiful stallion as a mixture of froth and blood puddled on the flagstones. It would likely have to be put down judging by the visible swelling around a sprained, possibly broken ankle.

‘Alakka, have the beast tended to at once.” he commanded. Grieved as the animal limped away, refusing to put much weight on the one foot.

The young Bedouin was doing a good impersonation of standing on hot coals as he pranced from foot to foot. Seeing the deference the men-at-arms gave Sir Michael, he rushed forward.

“Effendi, Sahib Petain is in our village and has been badly hurt. He sent for you, please, it is most urgent he speak to you!” explained the boy.

Sir Michael grabbed the boy by the shoulders, demanding to know the whole story. A long time friend and brother in arms, Sir Petain had disappeared repelling a raid almost a fortnight ago, only to surface now in a village a hard ride away. Yet, all they could get from the boy was that Petain had stumbled out of the desert a few days ago, badly hurt and near death. The village healers had done what they could for his wounds but he lay hovering between worlds for days.

He gave orders for his horse and four others to prepare to ride. If they started soon they could make considerable distance before the desert sun took its toll. With luck they would arrive in the boy’s village the next day. Before leaving he left instructions for more to follow armed and with supplies while the garrison prepared for their return.

The grueling ride left them exhausted but they made the village by dawn of the following day. Sir Michael was led to the Sheik’s tent, Sir Petain was in the section for those who are sick are cared for and treated.

Sir Michael gasped to see how quickly the virile and robust Sir Petain had been reduced to a shadow. He was gaunt, with skin two sizes too small drawn over his large frame. Asleep, he had been propped into a position where the angrily glaring welts of a whip did not contact anything.

Whatever heroic trek he made out of the desert had not been kind. The bitter-sweet aroma of dead flesh hung cloyingly and from he stood Sir Michael could see the greenish ooze of pus from some of the wounds.

Michael knelt at his friend’s side to offer prayers for him. Petain opened his eyes and rejoiced at the sight of his friend.

“Thank you for your prayers, but you could wait until I am dead,” in a voice firmer than his appearance would have suggested.

Michael laughed as tears welled up in his eyes, “You can’t blame me. You looking like you have joined Fionn and his heroes already. What happened to you old friend?”

“During the last battle I was knocked unconscious. I awoke trussed and packed like a sack of barley over the back of a camel. When they realized I was awake, they tied my hands to a tether and pulled me along behind the camel. I am not sure how long we traveled, but we came to some cliffs. Here the leader of the group shouted in a tongue unknown to me and a gate opened in the side of the cliff.

Inside, I was paraded around their streets to the jeers and prods of his men. All the time they pelting me with garbage while some struck me with clubs or daggers. When they tired of this sport, I was tied to a post and whipped until I passed out.

I awoke behind bars in a rough hewn hole in the cliff side. Each day I was given just enough water but no food. Daily I hung from that wretched post and was either whipped or used as a target for the men would ride past and slap me with the flat of their blades. When they locked me away each night it was with words, “Sleep well, for tomorrow we will kill you.”

The day came when I saw all the good horses were gone and hardly anyone in sight. I was able to surprise the guard who was dragging me to the post and took his sword. With surprise on my side I won my way through the eye of the needle and began my trek here.

These are the bandits who have been hounding this region. Look for the cliff to the south and west of here. Swear to me you rid this land of the scum and avenge me.”

“Brother I swear to you on my sword and by Our Lord old friend, vengeance shall be reaped for what they have done to you and the blood of the innocents they have spilled. Sleep now, try to regain to your strength.”

The remainder of the day Sir Michael spent speaking to the tribal elders working out the most likely place the fortress of the raiders would be located. The remainder of the time he spent sitting by his friend’s bedside.

Three days after he arrived, so did the rest of the men he had instructed to follow him. He explained their mission to his master sergeant and ordered the men to rest before they would all start out again. Sir Michael kept vigil that night at Petain’s bed. Early in the morning Petain awoke, coughing heavily. Sir Michael offered him a glass of watered down wine.

“It seems fate has brought us full circle my friend.” Petain choked out as he sipped from the goblet. “ Not that long ago I was helping leech you after you were run through, your body though was allowed to heal. Michael, I have a favor to ask.”

“ I know what you are thinking and please, do not ask this of me. God would not take you from us when there is much left to do in his name. Our prayers will be answered.”

“No Michael, I appreciate your faith and how you feel but my body is not lying to me. We have never had false words between us and now is not the time begin them. I am already dead or soon will be. I beg you, as your brother, do not let me die weak and helpless from the degradation evil has caused. Let me die as I lived, a warrior. Put steel in my hand that I die as I lived, by the sword.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Sir Michael stepped outside, asking the first of his men he spotted for his sword. When he returned Petain was sitting on the stool which he himself had been sitting at earlier.

He drew his own blade and offered it to Petain. Tears blurred his vision as he had to assist his friend to uncurl his fingers that he could grasp the hilt. Then, hefting the borrowed blade he saluted his friend.

A prayer on his lips for his friends soul, he thrust at his heart. And nearly burst out laughing when Petain parried.

“I told you I wanted to die fighting” he smiled weakly.

Sir Michael nodded, as he did not trust himself to speak, and began to fight. Slowly at first, testing for a speed his friend could manage. Petain held nothing back, indeed, if any of his blows had landed, Michael may have been waiting to greet him as he ascended.

Men of both the Sheiks household and Michaels troops crowded the entryway, attracted by the noise of battle.

Soon, Petain’s strength waned, and with a final prayer Sir Michael delivered the coup de gras to his brother and long time friend.

Kneeling beside Petain’s body he began a long, low wail that rose gradually in both volume and pitch. His heavy heart began to swell with pride as he realized each man present, Scot and nonScot alike had taken up the keening.