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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 34: Slade 262
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Cooper 83
Slade arrived on a hill of white stones. Shella was next to him muttering something, and as the cool nip of the late evening breeze passed over her skin, she shook.
“It’s okay, darling,” he spoke quietly, and she awoke from her verser transition dream. Slade use to have those happen to him, but now he just more or less appeared wide awake in a new world.
The sky was overcast. The valley below him stretched into the gray gloaming of oncoming twilight and low mountains many miles off. Behind him, heavy broken rocks rose to taller mountains covered by dark pine forests. No birds flew in the sky, and looking down at the chunks of stone at his feet, he saw small tangles of grass rise between them. This would be land suited for goats, he decided, but not sheep, and definitely not pigs, he thought as the medieval lord he had been.
Helping Shella to her feet, his nose caught the slight scent of wood smoke in the air. Picking up his backpack, he cast about for the source of the smoke, his nose questing as his wife asked, “What happened?”
“Oh, the alien criminal syndicate leader, what I would call a Godfather, agreed to cancel the contract.”
“I remember you telling me that part but then there was a lot of noise.”
“I think that someone shot me in the back with a sonic disruptor. Killed me.”
Shella paused.
“I wonder whether it was a genuine mistake or if the ‘Godfather’ double crossed you.”
Slade considered, but then shrugged his well-muscled shoulders. All that hard work he had been doing had paid off, as he was even stronger than before as shown by the larger muscles in his back and shoulders. Whatever it had been, it was in another world now. Even if he had been betrayed, he could do nothing about it.
“I’ve got it.”
“The smoke, m’lord?’
Slade nodded, and set off with Shella following behind. Downhill and across a near barren field of white, dry dirt and stones and the pitiful bit of weed or small thorn brought them after a mile to a glitter of light in the now onrushing dark. The air had chilled further, and they crossed a footpath, and came to see a stone hut. It was not a neat, pleasant thing, nor a sturdy, well defined building. Instead it leaned over inward in places, almost coming to a dome before ending in a roughly laid thatch of branches. Smoke rose through the branches, and a glitter of light came through the door bottom.
As Slade was about to step over a line of white rocks, his wife stopped him. She pointed out what might be a line of plants with one or more tips of something green rising from the soil in varied lines. The whole patch was but twelve feet by ten feet, and looking around there were several other patches he could see. If this was the resident’s garden, it was the most despair-ridden set of greenery he had yet to see. If one of his peasants had had such for a garden, Slade would have gone with his own hands to help the man dig it up and do it right.
Nodding at his wife’s counsel, he found the path to the front door, and with a shrug tapped on the mass of wooden branches tied together by smaller, whippy branches. A whining growl from inside stayed his hand, and then a querulous male voice spoke.
“Who’s there? No good creatures out past nightfall. Go away.”
Slade was truly tempted to do so. But he decided to give the other another chance.
“I am Lord Robert Elvis Slade, and my wife, Lady Shella. If it be not too much trouble we would like shelter from the cold, and the night. We have coin if need be.” His resonant voice echoed out across the stones and into the night, seeming out of place in the land. However, what he noted was he had intended to speak in English, but he had his tongue twisted to say other words. Throwing his mind back but a few seconds, he recognized that the householder had not spoken English either, even if his brain had the form of the words changed to English.
“Oh, ah, a lord. I will get the doorstop.” Some jiggling followed, and the door was pulled in and to the side. No hinge, not even one of leather or rope, hung from it. A small stooped-over man in a simple tunic looked up at them. A bit of shock adorned his wrinkled face.
“Ah, my lordship is tall, as is his lovely ladyship. Please.” He stepped back, and Slade bowed his head to enter the house. It was but one room, and a firepit lofted smoke toward and through the ceiling thatch. A table, a three-legged stool, a mat covered by a thin blanket, and a set of clay pots along the far wall completed the room.
Awkwardly the man shuffled around Slade. A scrawny mutt with wiry hair wriggled its whole body at their feet in excitement.
“I must, I must get to the door.” Slade carefully stepped aside and let the man pass. The door was put up, and the man sighed in relief. “Not healthy being out and about after nightfall, m’lord.”
“Oh? And why is that, good man?” Slade asked.
“Oh, monsters, m’lord.”
Slade looked at Shella and she nodded back. They both knew why they were here. In some worlds, it was hard to figure out why they were there. He believed that it was to train for Ragnarok, and to fight in each world for the ways of Thor. Here, monsters were oppressing humans. Too bad for them; Slade, warrior of Thor, was here to correct their errors with his sword.
“Tell me more, good man, and Shella, why don’t we just fast tonight.” The peasant protested, but not strongly, for it was clear he had little in the way of food. Instead, he began to speak as Shella gave him a reassuring smile.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
