Discworld and Member Articles
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Written by TheJackal
Sunday, 28 August 2005 |
In Brother Parthas’ opinion, Ron Stevens was the worst fugitive he had ever encountered. Anyone with half a brain would have tried to cover his or her tracks. Perhaps they would circle around a bit to confuse the trail. But not Brother Stevens.
Master Rubeus had correctly predicted that Ron would head for Brother Gilbert Adams’ abode in the Mortal Realms. Ron had done just that; ever since vacating Parlay City he had moved from A to B as straight as the roads would allow. The only thing that mildly impressed Parthas was Ron’s endurance. The guy had moved surprisingly fast on foot. If it had not been for that, Parthas’ love for the hunt would, in all likelihood, have been ruined.
The hunt: Brains pitted against brain, with Parthas always coming out on top. Admittedly, two-dozen or so of his men, ready and willing to inflict violence on the offender, usually accompanied Parthas. But it was Brother Parthas who made the decisions. The men would follow Parthas in completely the wrong direction if ever he were to order it so. Half of his troops did not have a quarter of a brain between them, making them great at taking orders.
So far the game was swinging in Parthas’ favour, with no plans for it to do anything else. The Brother was well used to the game of life. For that was, essentially, what it was all about: The game of life; the game of death; the game of opportunities, taken or let slip. To survive in the Order, one must take their opportunities, either for promotion or for self-preservation.
Parthas remembered fondly one summer when he was slightly older than Ron was now. In that period, Parthas had personally taken out seven of the competition, with three dozen more falling to the hands of the Order’s other contenders. It seemed Brother Ron was a breed of Mediator who preferred to sit back and let others do the dirty work. Parthas sat on the other side of the swing, pulling more weight and punishing the lightweights for their inadequacy.
By sundown, Brother Parthas and his men had long since reached Sleepy Falls and set up camp on the village’s periphery. Until today, the village had been like any other: Its inhabitants were poor, hardworking and boring. Nothing incredibly exciting had happened here in along time.
The last light of day shone brilliantly just above the horizon. Scant numbers of leaves remained on the trees and those which lingered, prominently displayed all in their Autumnal coats: Looking around one could see a myriad of colours, from light orange to reds. These colours, mixed together with light reflected off rain on bare branches, gave for a dazzling sunset.
If time had been a luxury item, Parthas might have noticed. He did not. There were other pressing matters to attend to. The first immediate task was to relieve his bladder. With that out of the way, it was time to discuss his plan of attack with his men.
They would take Brothers Ron Stevens and Gilbert Adams by surprise. It should not be too hard, Parthas explained, as they had been overlooking the house for quite a while now, and if they had not bolted by now, the fugitives did not know Parthas and his men were near.
They would attack in an hour. It would be dark by then, making it easier to move forward unnoticed. From there, it would be a case of kicking the door down and taking the men alive. Rubeus had been very adamant on that point. They men were not to be killed. That honour would be left to an executioner back in Parlay City, in front of a crowd yearning for blood. Master Rubeus, knowing full well Brother Parthas would not be happy leaving the fugitive unscathed, had granted Parthas permission to rough his captives up a little. But not places on the body where the bruises would show. That meant avoiding the face. Arms, torso and legs could be covered up.
This made Parthas smile. He knew one could do a hell of a lot of damage to another human, without people’s knowledge. He did not care that his two targets were, or had been, in the Order. It was all the same to Parthas.
‘They’re still out there,’ said Kalem, putting down the binoculars. He was staring out of Gee’s bedroom window on the second floor. The elevated position gave him quite a good view of their proximate surroundings.
‘Have they started moving around yet?’ asked Gee.
‘I saw Brother McKewan heading somewhere a few minutes ago. A tree blocked my view so I couldn’t see where he went. Thought I saw Williams as well. They’re two of Parthas’ top men so they must be planning the attack. My guess is they will move after dark; gives them a better chance to sneak up on us.’
‘Hah!’ said Ron. He thought it very amusing that Parthas was oblivious to the fact that nearly every movement he made could be seen.
Although Nemoy had tried the same stealth approach and got a whack of a frying pan on the head for his troubles, this time round, Ron sensed more force would be needed.
While the others were occupying themselves with the events unfolding outside, Nemoy went in search for something to calm his nerves. Only the Gods knew how many people there were outside intent on killing him.* What Nemoy needed was a good, cold beer. A quick conversation earlier with Gee had quashed any hopes of good beer being in the house; however, there was a homemade concoction in the cellar. The drink was so strong that Gee had had to put it in the house’s bottom level after it burned a hole in the kitchen floor. That was why the drink was served in thimbles.
Nemoy found the container down in the cellar without too much trouble, after a few little stumbles on miscellaneous junk. Upon unscrewing the lid off the small barrel, Nemoy reckoned there was ten litres or so of the stuff. A litre would very probably kill a man if not diluted with a mixer. Nemoy took one sniff, killing his ability to smell properly for a full five minutes.
‘This will do nicely,’ said Nemoy to no-one in particular.
Lugging the barrel up the stairs, Nemoy felt a devious plan emerging.
Ron, who quickly became fed up of watching the impending attackers through the upstairs window, had gone into the kitchen to sit down. His legs were shaking a bit and he didn’t blame them.
‘Hey Ron,’ said Nemoy with a coy grin on his face.
‘What’s that you’ve got there,’ enquired Ron who had seen the barrel.
‘Found some beer in the cellar. Want some?’
Ron had not been a big drinker since his and Gee’s night to forget all those years ago. But there may not be a tomorrow with Ron in it, so he acquiesced to one last drink.
Nemoy slowly poured two big glasses of the homemade brew, barely able to contain his glee. He took a moment to compose himself and to fix his grinning face into a nonchalant one. Then he turned around and placed the glass in front of Ron.
Ron looked at the drink cautiously. There was a wicked smell off it. Despite this, Ron did not want to lose face in front of Nemoy. He wanted to impress Nemoy, not have him think Ron was afraid of a drink that smelled funny.
Nemoy took a deep sip, careful to keep it in his mouth and not swallow; Ron took a long quaff, finishing a good third of the glass before the drink’s strength hit him.
What impressed Nemoy the most about what followed was the array of different colours Ron’s faced turned. First it went red from how hot his throat became. Next came a light blue, as Ron lost the ability to breath properly. Finally, an unsightly green fixed itself to Ron’s face. Nemoy could not tell if any more colours had been forthcoming, as his victim had run quite quickly in search of somewhere to be sick on.
_________
* Actually, it was highly improbable that the Gods would take an interest in such a trivial matter. And any who might, would in every likelihood not be on the side of Nemoy et all, as none of them were firm believers in specific Gods.
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