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The Freelance Hunters Season 1: The Ice Box

January 20, 2024

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , , , , 1 Comment

Magus Glorianna Bywater, Matriculate of The Esoteric Academy for the Wise of Carabos, and member of the Order of the Astral Circle, Spellcaster of the Freelance Hunters and part-time adjunct faculty at the EAWC, woke up hung over. Cheerful morning sunlight streamed through her window and onto her face. She grumbled and turned over. She contemplated blotting out the sun and plunge the whole land of Elanterra into a thousand years of darkness. But that sort of thing took a lot of prep time, and she could barely sit up without being sick. She tabled the idea until at least after breakfast.
Instead, she stumbled carefully out of bed and nearly crawled to the privy. When she reached it, she found the water butt had frozen in the night. She grumbled for a moment, then she took a deep, cleansing breath and stretched out her hands. The silvery tattoos that covered her small hands glinted in the morning light. The angular patterns were the mark of her training. As the runaway daughter of a prosperous Hillfolk trading clan, she was one of the few outsiders to ever wear them. The technique had been designed for the graceful, flowing movements of the long limbed Riverfolk, but Glory had adapted them to her small frame well enough.
Staring at the frozen water tank, which stood half-inside and half-outside the little lavatory, Glory felt an irrational stab of hatred. She had requested a heated one, but their landlord, cheap lout that he was, refused the expense. So they had to suffer with the damned thing constantly freezing over in the winter months. As she began the spell, she hoped that Mr. Gannet, doing whatever it was that the Riverfolk did under the ice in the winter, felt a sympathetic like of flame.
Glory concentrated, and waving her hands in complex looping gestures, pulled the image of the runes she wanted from the chaos of glinting motion. The spell gathered itself in her mind, and she channelled it outward, expelling a simple blast of fire at the irksome water tank. There was a squeal and pop of protesting metal, and a wave of steam engulfed her small frame. She ladled out a pitcher of warm water and washed up. The satisfaction and warm water soothed her headache, but did little to improve her mood.
Having washed, Glory dressed in a casual robe of green wool and stomped down the hall of the suspiciously quiet apartment. She had to admit that the rooms were actually quite spacious for Carabos. She shared it with her fellow Freelance Hunters, the Pikeman Joachim Verne, a tall human from the barbarian regions of the Icy Mountains, and their fingerman, Bingo Proudfoot. Bingo was a half-tall Hillfolk like her, but his surname marked him as a clan-less city dweller.
She stepped out into the parlor that served as their sitting room, dining room and meeting space for clients and found it in complete disarray. Bottles of varying sizes and colors littered the tables, along with the remains of meals, yellowing old broadsheets, and other assorted rubbish. Her roommates/coworkers were useful in fight, but such slobs. She almost regretted not keeping a room on campus, even if it did shut down for half the year. The rooms were damp and chilly, and the astrologers and astronomers spent all night arguing as they climbed up and down the stairs, but at least there was a cleaning staff. She started clearing up the worst of the leftover chicken bones and apple cores when she spotted Bingo snoring on the couch, the lazy bastard.
“Wake up!” She shouted testily, and noisily grabbed a pair of bottles. The reformed thief sat up and stretched. He stared blankly at her for a moment before his face broke into a wide grin.
“Good morning, Glory! Is the tea on yet?”
“Don’t you good morning, me, Proudfoot! How are you so blighted chipper after “how much you and Verne drank last night?” Bingo hopped to his feet, stretched, bringing his height to nearly four feet, and cocked his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t granny why, but I feel great today,” he said.
Glory eyed the debris of the previous night’s debauchery. Carabos was the center of commerce in Elanterra, and nothing traded better than booze. While her own memories of the events were hazy, it looked like they drank their way across the Great Island. There were empty bottles of Hillfolk-brewed ale and whiskey from Goldenfields, Human corn liquor, wine and ciders from the southern orchards, and even an empty bottle of Dwarven vodka. There was also a trio of little bottles that she couldn’t immediately identify, but something itched in the back of her furious mind when she looked at them.
“Are you saying you don’t have any hangover at all?” She demanded.
“Of course not. My head’s killing me, but I’m just in the best mood. Doesn’t that just butter your bacon?” He gave a little giggle. Glory remembered what the other bottles were for.
“Nameless god smite me,” She muttered, as she hunted across the room for something. There was a slight whiff of brimstone and she felt a tiny jolt. Wizards had to take care when swearing, but fortunately the invoked deity had little power or interest. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a trio of neat corks, each labeled with her initials and the date in neat, tiny letters. She rounded on Bingo. “Were you degenerates keeping your beer in my ice box again?”
The ice box had been a luxury she permitted herself on the excuse that it was useful for her research. It was a white metal box, about two feet square. A low powered frost spirit was bound to it with runes of power. The well-to-do in Carabos used it to store food, but the magicians and alchemists of the city-state kept them as a certain way to regulate the temperature of their potions.
“They were freezing on the balcony, so we kept some inside, just for the party. Why?”
“Because, you buffoon, I just finished an experiment I was running with humor-altering potions. Do you know how much those reagents cost me? And there’s no way I’ll see another fresh ewe’s kidney before the thaw. Salted just doesn’t do at all!” She went on griping while Bingo processed her complaint and eyed the three mysterious bottles, the remains of iridescent liquid still lining the bottoms. His nausea increased, but he found it did little to dent his sense of well-being.
“Do you mean to say we slipped ourselves love potions?” She glared even harder at him.
“I’m the first person you’ve seen all day.Are you overcome with desire, Proudfoot?” She only called him that when she really wished to irritate him. The magician was only a little shorter than he was, with wavy black hair that she kept trimmed short and hazel eyes. She had a good figure, as their constant running about kept her more fit that most mages. But then, Glory was a singular Hillfolk Magus.
Bingo made a show of considering the sharp-witted and short-tempered woman before replying. “No more than usual.”
“There are, obviously, other emotions than love, or lust, as they are usually concocted. I was brewing something to enhance them as a bit of study. And now you’ve gone and drank them!”
“There are three of us, and there were three lushes,” the fingerman replied, almost casually. She grimaced again, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
“We drank them,” she admitted. “But we never would have if you had just kept your damn beer outside like I asked!” He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“Fair enough. My apologies, Magus. So what have you hit us with?”
“Well, based on my foul mood and your fair one, I must have taken ‘Wrath,’ while you are in the throws of a potion of Delight. Which means Joachim drank the third potion, Regret.” Working out that her temper was enchanted took a slight edge off her mood, but she still felt like strangling someone. When Bingo burst out laughing at the news, he noms”noted himself. “What is so godsworn funny?”
Bingo struggled to catch his breath between gasps of laughter. “Joachim got the regret potion,” he wheezed. “The bludger who’s left more destruction and tragedy in his wake than anybody in Carabos City. The man whose personal motto is live for the day. The man who refuses to talk about his past, and you gave him the regret potion!” Bingo doubled over in another fit of giggles.
“I didn’t GIVE it to him. He took it, as you will recall.” How dare the little twerp imply that it was her fault for leaving poorly labeled bottles of spirits around. It was true that Joachim was reticent about his past, and vague when pressed for details. But he had told them his fare share of tales, mostly of his exploits in his youth as a mercenary. He had traveled to every corner of the Great Island, and had a romantic misadventure in most of them, to hear him tell it.
But he always got quiet and somber when pressed for details. He had been born in some backwater village so small it barely had a name, deep in the Icy Mountains. That was all she knew. He wouldn’t even tell her where he had acquired Incisor, the enchanted spear he always carried with him. Whatever that story was, it was clearly a painful one. And he had taken a potion to bring to the surface and amplify his regrets.
As a rule, wizards avoid swearing. A magician’s curse can have real consequences. Glory took this moment to be an exception to the rule. “What has gotten you so fussed?” Bingo asked, his giggling fit finally subsiding.
“We have to find Joachim before does harm to himself!”
“Yes, I can see how that would be a problem,” Bingo said. He took a deep breath. They checked his room first. It was empty, and the spear was missing, although his armor was standing on the rack. The big set wasn’t quite matched, having been cobbled together from the various mercenary company’s Joachim had served in. Each one was etched with a different boss. Glory thought it made him look like a piece of lost luggage. She picked up a greave, which bore a soaring eagle, and carried it out into the parlor.
“What are you going to do with that?” Bingo asked as she cleared off the dining table and set the piece down.
“Locator spell, and be quiet, I need to concentrate!” Bingo did his best, but the cost of his silence was constant pacing. The spell was a simple one, but as she waved and shaped her hands over the object, she couldn’t fix the proper runes in her mind. Each time she came close to completing the spell, some fresh wave of anger or irritation would catch her attention and it would collapse like a soufflé in a wind tunnel. Bingo wouldn’t keep still, or another tenant made noise on the stairwell, or a bird chirped outside. Why was the world so blighted distracting? Glory took another breath and tried again. It was really herself she was angry with, she decided. Drinking her own potion, was a exceptionally stupid thing to do, and magecraft was not a field that suffered fools. She’d never achieve anything of note if she didn’t pay better attention. And worse, what if her carelessness killed Joachim? If he harmed himself or others during his fugue, it would be her responsibility. That would be something unforgivable. She had to get to him before that happened. Rather than working against it, she poured her anger into the spell. It was dangerous, as the emotion was unstable. But she had to work with what she had or she’d never get anywhere. The spell wobbled, but it held this time. The leg-guard began to shake like a dowsing rod, and would have flown off the table if Glory hand’t picked it up with both hands. It was all she could do to stop the thing from pulling her out the door.
“Bingo, get our coats. We’re going out!”
A few minutes later they were hurrying through the slushy streets of Carabos. Winter was the off season, and with the Academy closed the streets were clearer than usual. But Glory still had to narrowly dodge horse-carts and apologize to pedestrians as the enchanted greave pulled her like a magnet towards Joachim. She prayed that she wasn’t too late. She anticipated the sounds of battle or carnage, but as they drew closer, she was surprised to hear music instead.
They found him standing in front of an inn, surrounded by a band of all things. They were repeatedly playing one short piece while Joachim shouted something up to one of the high windows. In her opinion, they could use some practice.
“Joachim!” She shouted. He didn’t seem to notice. The band broke off mid-song.
“Does he belong to you?” The lute player asked.
“Nominally,” Glory said. “What has he been up to?”
“He hired us up in the middle of the night to stand out here and play the same ballad, over and over again. He’s corked. You’d better take him home. After paying us, of course.”
“How much do we owe you,” she asked, fearing the answer.
Joachim turned around, apparently noticing them for the first time. The tall man was leaning on his fearsome spear for support, and he had been sobbing into his beard.
“Screw them, I paid upfront!” He said. “And it’s no use anyway. She won’t see me.” Glory glared at the musicians and they decided discretion was the better part of valor. She entertained the idea of shooting a ball of fire or lightning at their retreating feet, but couldn’t muster the energy. The relief at seeing Joachim unhurt seemed to have broken the spell, leaving her more tired than angry.
“Who won’t see you?”
“Margolotta, of course!” He turned back to the window. “Margolotta! I’m sorry!” He apparently was unaware that he had lost his accompaniment. Finally, the window opened and a red faced young human woman in a maid’s cap stuck her head out.
“For the last time, it’s Margery! Go the hells home, Verne! You’re drunk!” Bingo fell down in the street giggling. Rather than help him up, Glory led the weeping barbarian gently home by the sleeve. This sort of thing shouldn’t happen to mages, she decided. It was an affront to their dignity.
The Freelance Hunters spent the next two days recovering. Glory and Joachim, aside from a bit of embarrassment and exhaustion on top of their hangovers, were none the worse for wear. Bingo took the worst of it, and spent the entire week lying in bed, depressed. Glory made careful study of the phenomenon.
After everyone had fully recovered, she gave the ice box to her companions as a gift. “What about your potions?” Joachim asked.
Glory shrugged. “I learned what I needed to, and saw no point in repeating the experiment. Besides, I ran the numbers and the profit on making and selling potions isn’t worth the trouble.” She grinned at them and held up a box of carpentry tools. “Wands are the next big thing.”

Everyday Drabbles #1049: Dawn of the Final Day

December 30, 2023

hughjodonnell Everyday Drabbles, Free Fiction , , , , , , Leave a comment

The hero sat on the cliff and watched the Sun rise over the ocean.
It had been a long quest, but it was finally over. After many trials, he’d saved the world. He could finally rest.
He sipped his coffee as he watched the Sun climb into view, making the water below shimmer and glow.
Suddenly, the Sun stopped. It hung just over the horizon, casting long shadows.
The hero sighed. Stories ended, but there was always another one waiting in the wings. He’d probably have to fix this one too.
He hoped he had time to finish his coffee.

Thank you for reading!


When I began Everyday Drabbles at the end of 2018, I didn’t have a plan for how long it would continue. It was just a little morning exercise, something to get my fingers moving. I started publishing on Wattpad, then moved to WordPress, Facebook, and Substack. I never expected to create enough material to create a collection, much less write over a thousand little stories.
But the time has come to put Everyday Drabbles to rest. New stories are calling, but I want to say thank you to all of you, the readers who have been with me along the way, for providing feedback, encouragement, and accountability.
I hope these stories have brightened your day. I hope they made you laugh, or sigh, or provided a tiny break from the troubles or worries of your daily life.
I’ll be announcing new projects soon, but the meantime you can continue to read weekly entries in my light-hearted heroic fantasy series, The Freelance Hunters, along with reviews and announcements on my blog at HughJODonnell.com.
Writing is by and large a lonely enterprise, and I was happy to have all of you come along on this journey.
Fondly,
Hugh, sitting with a cup of coffee on a rainy Saturday morning.
December 30, 2023

The Freelance Hunters: The Unknown Package, Part 5 of 5

December 25, 2023

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , , , , Leave a comment

The morning of Parade Night dawned watery and gray with a hint of chill already in the air. Revelers lined up early, their spirits not the slightest bit dampened. Each vied for the best spots along the parade route. Strolling bards and merchants, food carts and beer wagons all did their best to separate the crowd from their coins. The urchins of the Proudfoot home did much the same, although with less fanfare and merriment.
The revelers all dressed for the festivities. Some wore feast-day best, while others wore colorful costumes as imaginative as the performers. Not to be outdone by Mage Lords, all the peoples of the city organized their own crewes and paraded through the streets with floats, musicians, and jugglers. While none of them would dare to claim that they were trying to outdo the Riverfolk, for whom this was a solemn and important part of their social calendar, the Human, Half-Elf, Mountainfolk, and Hillfolk all rattled their sabers at one another, with each faction trying as hard as the could to win the favor of the crowd. It was a display of wealth and power, and while there would be no official winner, they would spend the next three frozen months discussing little else than today’s events.
The Sun finally appeared late in the afternoon, as though casting one last look upon her Riverfolk children, and set red and sudden behind the western hill. It was the signal for the real parade to begin.
On the rooftops high above the city, it was the signal for another figure to begin a journey of his own.
He too was dressed for the occasion, in a tunic and cloak in shades of gray and blue so dark they were almost black. He carried a bulging sack that seemed too large for his Hillfolk frame but managed it as though it weighed nothing at all. In deference to the occasion, he wore a crown of black velvet antlers.
The figure moved silently from roof to roof, making his way from Dockside to Small-Town. He dodged rain barrels and hid behind chimneys as the occasional mage-summoned firework lit the darkening sky in garish flames. A few enterprising citizens with flat roofs camped above, but these he mostly avoided, and if they noticed him, they made no sign. Some things that were cause for alarm were perfectly reasonable on Parade Night.
It was barely full dark when Bingo found himself at the edge of Small-Town. He stood on the roof of a gray factory building, staring across the alley that separated it from the Proudfoot Home for Wayward Hillfolk Youth. Save for a single candle, the building was dark. That would be Mr. Simmons, the old night watchman. Bingo remembered him, and if nothing had changed, he would not be much of an obstacle. The townhouses on either side were dark. They’d been bought up and hollowed out by the family years ago, and were a collection of fronts, dead drops, and safehouses, littered with secret entrances and hidden tunnels. He watched them for a long time, but tonight nobody went in or out.
Bingo reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a fledge. He twisted the legs flat and flicked a switch on the beak, opening it to reveal a hidden lens. He raised it to his eye like a spyglass and examined the rooftop, finding the best spot. He collapsed the fledge down again, making a few twists here and releasing a hidden catch there to reveal a grapnel and a coil of black silk cord. He hooked the roof on the first try, and a simple three-story tightrope walk later, he was standing on the roof of his childhood home. He spotted all the familiar hazards. Its shadowed tripwires and trapped flagstones were all right where he remembered them. He collapsed his fledge again and made his careful way across the stones. He ignored the false access door and instead made his way to an attic window. He flicked a tail feather and the fledge’s gem eyes projected a beam of soft, blue light. Producing the other fledge, he twisted a talon into a skeleton key. Under the faint illumination, he found the secret lock. It looked good, but Miss Rosemary had had plenty of time to upgrade things. He unlocked the door with a faint click, and the window swung outward on well-oiled hinges. He was glad to see he wasn’t the only orphan who’d found this passage out. Bingo slipped inside, reminding himself that while his actions were technically breaking and entering, they weren’t burglary. Just the opposite, in fact.
He began with the top floor, the boys’ dormitory. The older boys were all still out, pinching wallets and fawning rings. Only the youngest were abed, and all of them were asleep. Quickly and quietly, he went about his work, leaving packages at the foot of each bed filled with candy and toys, along with warm winter clothes. Glory’s work was beyond reproach. Not only was the sack nearly as light as air, it always gave him exactly what he wanted every time he opened it.
He moved to the stairs, carefully avoiding the ones that creaked and the third from the top, which was rigged to break. He didn’t touch the handrail at all. He snuck past the snoring watchman, who was strategically positioned on the 2nd story landing between the girls’ and boys’ dorms. He looked as old and weather-beaten as he remembered. Bingo found a scarf and a bottle of something for him in the sack. He’d ruined a number of schemes in Bingo’s boyhood, but he’d always looked out for him.
The girls’ dorm was forbidden territory from his youth, but the layout was just the same. He distributed the rest of the gifts and moved on as quickly as he dared, the residual dread of being caught here of all places still hiding in his memories like fog in a valley. He made his way back to the stairs, and down to the ground floor.
He hung went straight to work in the massive dining hall, hanging streamers and tinsel. He covered the long tables with a feast, piling so many cakes and jugs of cider that he was afraid the ancient wood would collapse. He moved to the pantries and loaded them with a whole season’s worth of sausages, preserved fruit, and other goodies.
He looked into his sack and found only one gift left.
The door to the Headmistress’s Office was stoutly locked and definitely trapped. It was the one room in the building that Bingo had never managed to break into as a child. Even now, it made him a little nervous. He brought out the fledges and got to work. True to form, Rosemary had no less than a dozen sensors, a sophisticated alarm mechanism he was mostly sure he disabled, and a hidden needle coated with itching poison. It wasn’t fatal, but you’d wish it was. But after a few minutes of work, Bingo was satisfied to hear nothing as the silent hinges swung inward. He pulled out a bouquet of hothouse-grown white roses, Miss Rosemary’s favorites. He left them, along with a note, on the perfectly neat desk, and paused. Doubtless, that desk was full of secrets. It might even have a clue to his birth parents. He’d left on such rotten terms with her, he’d never gotten a chance to see his file. She’d reminded him of that fact when he left. He bet she still had it in that big antique desk of hers.
But just as he moved towards the top drawer, he had a feeling like a gong sounding between his ears. Glory sent her signal. Rosemary and her urchins were on their way back, and there would be hell to pay if he was still here when they arrived. He didn’t take the time to reset the office door, but made his way quickly back up the way he had come and out through the attic.
From his perch on the roof across the alley, he watched them return, a tide of hill children in grubby black cloaks, led by Miss Rosemary, thumping her cane with every step. She looked older than he remembered. She fished into her coat for the big front door key, and they all shuffled silently inside like a line of ghosts.
When they reached the dining hall, the building erupted in light and noise. Bingo watched through the fledge in spyglass mode. Children ran everywhere shouting, laughing, and screaming. Some tried to purloin all the gifts before anyone else could. Others tried to take what they could from the other children. Some tried to cram as much food as they could into their faces before someone stopped them. It was a hurricane, with Miss Rosemary standing ancient and imperious in the center, with her great black hat and hickory stick. Bingo thought she leaned a bit more heavily on it than he remembered, and her face looked a bit more careworn.
She picked out a few of the older boys and girls to break up the fights and get everything organized. It was an efficient system, although it relied on more delegation than he remembered in his day. They got the children seated and started passing out plates and cups. A few of the older kids gathered up the scattered packages and redistributed them, making sure nobody was left out.
Miss Rosemary did an inspection of the rooms on the first floor, and Bingo had to admit to feeling a thrill as she stood red-faced and stunned before her open office door. She practically stomped to her desk. She raised her arms as though she were about to knock the roses in the trash, but instead, she sat down defeated in her chair and plucked up the card.
Bingo watched her expression go from rage to bemusement and finally to settle into a smile that seemed a little sad. She brought the roses to her nose and sniffed them before cutting a single blossom free and fixing it to her blouse. She stood with some difficulty and rejoined her charges.
The children were eating together, laughing and comparing new hats and gloves, or playing with their new toys in the candlelight. If it weren’t for the uniforms, they could be normal children on Parade Night.
Bingo watched for a while, tempted to rush down, and knowing it was a terrible idea. Those children didn’t need to see him. He’d done this deed to get clear of the debt, but he found himself feeling inexplicably light.
He’d spent a long time running from his past, but it had come for him anyway. But as much as he’d hated that place, he felt something akin to affection, to freedom. He wasn’t running anymore. Bingo blinked away a few tears and set the fledges back in his cloak. Their weight felt comfortable at last.
There was a brilliant mage-work flash of light above, and bells started tolling midnight across the city. The parade was over, and the Riverfolk were sealing the lake behind them in a thick layer of ice. As the last chime faded, a snowflake drifted down and landed on Bingo’s gloved hand.
He watched it melt as he made his way down to the street. Somewhere, his friends were waiting for him. It was a new year, and the night was young. He would make the most of both.

The Freelance Hunters, Season One: The Unknown Package, Part 4 of 5

December 24, 2023

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , , , , , Leave a comment

The two Proudfoots took a table in a corner of the store’s backroom. They watched a small army of clerks unload cart after cart that arrived and departed like clockwork.
“We’re in the last of our Parade Night rush,” Big Jim explained.
“I’m chuffed to see you still doing well,” Bingo said. He sipped tea from a chipped brown mug. It was as sweet and strong as he remembered.
Big Jim took out a pipe and lit it with a match. He offered his bag to Bingo, who declined. It was one of many habits he’d never picked up. “It seems like every merchant and farmer on the island wants to get one last shipment in before the city freezes. And where do they think I’ll store it, I ask you. Am I a mage? My sons will have my hide if they catch me smoking back here, so let’s keep this between us,” he said conspiratorially. “Now, why don’t you show me one of those presents everyone has been whispering about?”
Bingo hesitated before reaching into his coat and producing a fledge. It seemed a small thing, resting on the chipped tabletop. But was probably worth more than most of the goods in the stockroom put together. Jim whistled around his pipe appreciatively, but made no move to take the object. “That’s the genuine article, alright. Why don’t you put it away before someone sees?” Bingo gave him an appraising look as he disappeared the object into a hidden pocket.
“And what makes you so sure, Mr. Proudfoot? I always thought you were a legitimate businessman. Can you spot such elicit goods with a glance?”
“First of all, call me Jim. You’re well past your coming of age. And I know because there has been little talk of anything else around town. You’d know that if you stuck closer to the ground.”
“I’ve been out of town.”
“On assignment for that Bywater witch?” Bingo grimaced.
“I don’t work for Glory. We’re a part of a team.”
“Are you sure about that? Mages are crafty, and women, well they can be worse. Especially for a man of your age. I’d hate to see you get out from one woman’s thumb to only be led around by another.”
“It’s not like that. We work together, is all. She’s useful.”
“My mistake. I assumed you had an interest, but maybe I shouldn’t have. You were awfully close with… what was the lad’s name?” Bingo slammed his mug on the tabletop, harder than he’d meant to, but he kept the steel in his grimace as he stared down the old man.
“That was a long time ago, and I got out.”
“So you say, so you say,” Big Jim made a placating gesture. “But now Madame Rosemary’s found a way to stir it all up again. And with not just one fledge, but two? She’s got you over a barrel, no mistake.”
“Your ear for gossip is better than I’d expect. A re you on The Five?” Bingo asked almost before he could stop himself. Unlike traditional Hillfolk clans, the exact membership of the council of elders was kept strictly secret, for safety.
Big Jim gave him a wicked grin from behind his pipe. “I hear things, is all. But never mind about me. What are you going to get Miss Rosemary in return?”
“That isn’t possible.”
“The adventuring business can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”
“She didn’t commission those expecting an exchange. She means to shackle me with them.”
“Well, surely a clever boy like you can find a way out of a snare as simple as that.”
“There’s nothing I can give her that would come close to clearing that balance. The whole town’s already in an uproar! I may have to bend the knee to her just to save my skin.”
Big Jim chuckled. “And here I thought you the boy that bought himself out of clan debt when nobody else could. A gift isn’t the wrapping it comes in. It isn’t something that you buy, it’s something you feel.”
“What do you mean?”
“If this is a trap, outthink her. You can’t give Rosemary Proudfoot what she expects. So you’ll have to give her something she doesn’t know she wants.”
Bingo took a deep breath. He’d been running since he’d unwrapped the fledges. He’d been trying to protect himself. Jim was right. He needed to slow down and take stock of his situation. But this was a new depth for him. He’d been trained as a thief. Giving wasn’t a part of his nature. As he looked around, all he saw was the trimmings. The tinsel and the stockings and the oranges. The parts of the feast that he’d dreamed about when he was eating gruel and listening to fireworks, the bonfires he’d longed for while he was huddled in bed, pretending to sleep as the chill of winter fell over the city.
And suddenly, all at once, he found the answer. It would be expensive, and it would be dangerous, but he’d managed to sneak out of the Proudfoot home when he was still in training. It was considered a right of passage. Surely breaking in couldn’t be that hard. He grinned.
“Jim, I think I have something, but it’ll be a big order.”
It was nearly sunset whenBingo returned home. He had a stack of packages under his arms and a phalanx of delivery boys and girls trailing in his wake. After making a brief stop to settle accounts with Mr. Gannet, and to give him a little something for his trouble, Bingo marched upstairs and oversaw the stacking of boxes in the sitting room.
Joachim and Glory sat by the hearth. The warrior was darning his chainmail while the mage frowned over a thick tome. They paused to watch the proceedings with interest. When the last crate was delivered, making a pile that nearly reached the rafters, Bingo gave each of his helpers a copper rat and sent them on their way.
“Rent’s sorted,” he said by way of greeting, and tossed each fo them a jingling bag.
“We ate, but there’s some soup and bread left if you’re hungry,” Joachim said, and went back to his work. Glory eyed the pile of goods with an arched eyebrow.
“What is all this?” She asked.
“Oh, just a few odds and ends. For Parade Night, you understand.”
Glory set down her book and examined the stack. “Candied oranges, tinsel, holly, an entire storefront window of toys, and that a ham? What did all this cost you?”
“Most of my share. I’ll be eating light until spring, but it won’t be a problem.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?” Joachim asked.
“I’ve been thinking about my predicament, and I’ve come up with a solution. It’s not just a way to get clear, but maybe do some good for once, too. You remember that I said I never had a proper Parade Night celebration?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the kiddies at the orphanage are going to get the Parade Night of their lives this year!”
“From what you told me of your mentor,” Glory said, digging into a box of sugar biscuits. “She will hardly stand for this act of generosity.”
“Those aren’t for you,” Bingo snatched the tin away from her. “But you’re bang on. I guess I’ll have to sneak in. If only I had a set of top of the line burglary tools, eh?”
“Well, it sound like you’ve got it all figured out,” Glory said.
“There is one thing,” he asked.
“Looking for helpers?”
“I’ll handle the distribution, but I’m going to need away to carry it. You wouldn’t be able to magic me up a bottomless sack to carry all this loot, would you?”
“If you only need it for a day, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’d be happy to help.”
“Butter on bacon! Joachim, I do have a spot for you in this little heist too.”
“Oh?”
“Grab a good spot on the Bridge of Blessings and start celebrating early.”
The big human smirked. “I suppose.”
“Don’t get too pickled. I’ll need you to keep a lookout. Can you and Glory send me a signal when the urchins are on their way back?” The pair nodded.
“Magic. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this feast in the oven in time for tomorrow’s festivities!” Bingo set to work, looking happier than his companions could ever remember seeing him.

The Freelance Hunters, Season One: The Unknown Package, Part 3 of 5

December 23, 2023

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , Leave a comment

Bingo left the apartment at first light. Despite turning in early, he hadn’t slept a wink. He lay awake all night, turning one of the fledges over and over in his hands, getting used to the feel of them and discovering their secrets. They were as wondrous as their reputations claimed. With a few deft twists and the pressing of a hidden lever, they transformed into anything he might need. He immersed himself in study of the devices, learning all their secrets. Sleep was impossible, and it was easier to concentrate on that than the trouble they’d brought him.
The foggy streets were nearly empty, but Bingo still ducked out the back, using all his talents to get lost in Dockside’s warren of alleys. If Miss Rosemary had invested enough to acquire a pair of fledges, there was no doubt she’d have the building watched. He’d wager there were other eyes on him as well. Carabos had a prodigious and thriving underworld, and word got around when a fledge was commissioned. There’d surely be a few bravos willing to try him for an soft mark.
Bingo ducked into a hole-in-the-wall teashop he knew well for a bite of breakfast. The Half-Elf family that ran it, miraculously, didn’t seem to be in anybody’s pocket, and the establishment was widely considered neutral ground. It was the sort of place where greasy eggs were served by ageless waitresses who called everyone ‘Doll.’ There was better food to be had in the city, but no place was safer. He picked out three sets of tails over his tea, and signaled two of them that they were made and should move along. The third he judged to be so inept that they weren’t even worth the effort. After breakfast, he walked a brisk lap around the neighborhood to lose them, then doubled back to his fence in plenty of time to make his delivery. The fledges poked him in the ribs the whole way.
Joe was a disreputable but honest jeweler that preferred working with mercenaries and tomb-raiders over pickpockets. Bingo liked the spectacled human because he knew the right questions to ask and always bargained fairly. He’d worked with him ever since he climbed his way out of the black market and into grayer ones. Joe gave the emerald a careful examination, and a curious sniff, before offering a figure that wasn’t what Bingo hoped for, but was well above what he’d feared.
The treasure hunter absent-mindedly began to haggle when a piece of jewelry on another bench caught his eye. A breathtaking ruby and diamond necklace sat in mid-repair, the stones a scattering of stars on a black cloth. The hazy outline of a plan formed in the back of Bingo’s mind.
It would be the work of less than a second to transfer the gems to his pocket, and from there to less savory shops, who would scatter and resell them for a sum tidy enough to clear even Bingo’s new debt. Joe wouldn’t fail to notice, of course, but he could hardly go to the law. And Bingo would be square with the Proudfoot clan again, meaning he’d be able to call in some old favors to keep ahead of any repercussions.
But that was always how it started. A theft here and a favor there, and he’d be right back where he started, snared like a fly in Rosemary Proudfoot’s web.
And then there was the vow. He’d made it all formally and proper in the Temple of Lady Barley herself. He’d sworn an oath that he’d never steal for Rosemary or the Proudfoots ever again. And while his relationship with the gods was strictly casual, he’d kept his word. He hadn’t stolen so much as a copper rat for the clan since breaking away.
While the work he’d done since joining up with Glory and Joachim, on occasion, might appear very similar to burglary to the untrained eye, he wasn’t a thief anymore. He’d gone honest, if not precisely straight, and grabbing the necklace would bring all that crashing down. It was exactly what Miss Rosemary wanted.
The room suddenly felt too close and too warm. Bingo rushed through the rest of negotiations, knowing he was taking less than he should, but knowing for a fact that every second he stayed in that workshop brought him a second closer to losing his soul. He felt like a caged animal. Air and sunlight were what he wanted at that moment, damn the gold. After exchanging the emerald for seven hundred krakens, he hurried out to the street and the anonymity of the growing crowd.
Lost in worry, Bingo wandered the streets, letting the crowd take him where it will, and making judicious changes in course whenever his instincts told him he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. As the morning wore on, his feet took him along familiar but long-abandoned routes into the last place he wanted to be: Smalltown. The labyrinth of brick-and-timber buildings housed Carabos’s boisterous Hillfolk and Mountainfolk populations. It was a place for traveling Hillfolk teamsters to find clean rooms to let, with quality stables for their ponies. It was a place for young Dwarves just down from the mountains to make their fortunes as artisans apprenticed to the great merchant houses.
On the surface, the smaller folk banded together for convenience and mutual aid. It was a respectable, safe part of the city that wasn’t nearly so troublesome as the Human or Half-Elf quarters. Bingo knew that the truth of it was that the Hill and Mountainfolk knew better than to make a mess at home.
The Proudfoots ran Smalltown through a mixture of implied threats, closely held debts, and cult-like secrecy. Most Hillfolk Clans were fervent in their devotion to genealogy and heraldry. A Bywater or an Appleton could list their family connections ten generations back, and pinpoint their position on a family tree blindfolded. The Proudfoots, being foundlings and outcasts, didn’t go in for such fripperies. They barely seemed to be a clan at all, and they didn’t even have a proper clan Head, or a Crown, the traditional council of elders that advised him.
What they did have was the Heel, a position whispered about in back rooms and dark alleys, and their Toes. But those positions were entirely secret. Any upstanding Hillfolk merchant could be a Toe, or the Heel themself. And you wouldn’t know it until it was too late. This meant that Hillfolk were accorded a great deal of respect in the city, if only out of fear. Hillfolk shops and businesses were targeted less than half as frequently as others, because you never knew who might come for revenge. Bingo figured that Rosemary had to be a Toe. Her work was too important to the clan for it to be otherwise. But he’d never worked out any of the other members, even the one that had spoken in his defense. The Toes had ultimately decided his fate, when he made the unprecedented commitment to buy his freedom from the clan.
“Well bless my soul if it isn’t young Bingo!” He was jolted from his thoughts by a voice calling his name. He looked up to find himself in front of a makeshift stage.
It was surrounded by a crowd of people, nearly all of them Hillfolk, with a few Mountainfolk sprinkled in. It was piled high with all manner of goods, but in the center was a glass jar twice Bingo’s height. It was filled three-quarters high with coins, mostly low-value rats and dogs, but a few eagles and even a golden kraken or two could be seen glittering in the stage lights.
The speaker was a Hillfolk gentleman with long grey mustaches. He stood in front of the hoard, holding his fine black top hat in his hands, and shouting to the crowd. Bingo remembered the annual Proudfoot and Sons charity drive for wayward hill-children. He’d been paraded out to beg at the event once or twice, before he started shaving.
“Good morning, Mr. Proudfoot,” Bingo said. He scanned the gathering for any sign of Miss Rosemary. It wouldn’t do to run into the crone here of all places. Fortunately, nobody from the orphanage seemed to be present. The proprietor himself was commanding all the attention. ‘Big Jim’ Proudfoot was the owner of the largest grocery and dry goods store in Small-town and perhaps the city. Bingo had learned to swipe apples from the displays in front of his shop. “You seem to be doing well.”
“This?” The old man guffawed and gestured with the shiny, human-fashion hat. “We are raising funds for the tykes at the Proudfoot Home for Wayward Hill-Children. Your alma mater, you might say. Surely a fine, upstanding your Hillfolk such as yourself has something to contribute?” Big Jim approached the lip of the stage and lowered his hat. The crowd, well versed in the ritual, parted, leaving a clear space in the cobblestone square. Bingo was of the opinion that Miss Rosemary had taken plenty from him already, but with the eyes of the crowd on him, and a fortune jangling in his hidden pockets, he could hardly refuse. He marched up and placed a placed a gold coin in the hat. Normally, he would’ve been showier about it, but he’d already left too much of an impression. The old man took the opportunity to whisper in his ear.
“I heard about your fabulous present. Would you do me the honor of a word in private?”

The Freelance Hunters Season One: The Unknown Package Part 2 of 5

December 21, 2023

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , , Leave a comment

“A trap?” Glory asked, and stripped off her elbow-length gloves, revealing the angular, rune-like tattoos that stretched from her forearms to her fingertips. They were scribed in metallic ink favored by the Riverfolk and she used them to shape her spells. “If that’s a trap, let me eliminate it.” She began gesturing at the brown paper package. Bingo set a hand on her arm.
“Magic might set it off. Best to let me do it the old-fashioned way. But if you could start a fire, I’d be grateful.”
He pulled up a stool and selected a lens from the kit and put it to his eye. “Joachim, would you get the curtains? I could use more light.” He did nothing but look closely at the package for several minutes, never touching it save to slowly and carefully turn it to better examine the opposite side. Finally, he stretched and scratched thoughtfully at his short brown goatee. “Well, there’s no obvious traps, but it’s most likely to go off when I open the damn thing.”
“Perhaps she’s trying to make amends,” Glory offered.
“Are all Spark-fingers as soft as you, Glory?”
“It is the holidays, you cynic.”
Bingo sighed. “The Proudfoot orphanage is a system. Some kids get adopted from it, but most of us, we just a pool of laborers. And as much as they call it a charity, you go through those doors, you owe a debt. Someone buys your debt, you’re their’s to adopt, and very few questions are asked.” Glory gasped.
“Some isn’t none, Glory. Rosemary had her line. Nothing too dirty, no kids ended up in the brothels or begging in the gutters. She never did nothing that would raise the Mage Lords’ hackles. But lots of kids got adopted into manual labor, and they were the lucky ones. I got apprenticed into the clan itself. They taught me to pick pockets, break locks, that sort of thing. It might not seem like a lot, but the clan invested a lot in training me. You can pay off a debt, but Madam Rosemary never got over losing her investment in me. So no, I don’t think it’s a box of cookies.”
“Why not just toss it away,” Joachim asked.
“That is such a Tallfolk thing to ask. It’s a gift. Handed off by Maile Man, so there’s a paper trail. Gifts are a big deal among our people, Joachim.” Bingo selected a fine scalpel from the kit and made a careful, slow slash down the front two corners of the package, then a third along the top. A flap of paper fell outward, revealing a layer of tightly packed straw inside. Bingo repeated the motion on the other sides, then gently lifted up the stamped paper.
He set the scalpel down and took a small brush from the kit. With controlled motions, he brushed the straw away, revealing a plywood crate about a foot square. Returning to the lens, he spent a few more minutes examining it from all angles. Finally, he selected a small screwdriver and undid the screws in each corner of the lid, setting each one carefully aside.
“Well, time to see what all this fuss is about.” He gently lifted the lid and looked inside. An extended silence followed.
“What is it?” Joachim asked. “A trap after all?”
“Worse,” Bingo said. He reached in and pulled out a metal bird slightly larger than his palm. It had a long, needle-pointed beak, and large, hooked feet. A spray of tail feathers sprang from a smooth, oval body made of brass and steel. “She sent me a pair of fledges.” Bingo looked like he was fighting tears.
Glory gasped. Joachim looked from one companion to the other, perplexed.
“I’ve heard of them,” Gory said. “They are a sort of magical all-purpose tool carried by high ranking Thieves’ Guilders. And she sent you two?”
Bingo set the device carefully on the table and backed towards a couch. He collapsed onto it with his head in his hands. “She doesn’t want revenge. She just wants me back under her thumb!”
“There’s a note,” Glory said, and reached into the box. The stationary was delicate but stiff, and the watermark in the corner was a pink rose. Despite the ladylike card, the writing was as clear and no-nonsense as the address. Glory cleared her throat and read the card aloud.
“My Dear Bingoran,
I hope this package finds you in good health. Although it has been some years since we have last spoken, your matron thinks of you often. As do, I am quite certain, your childhood friends from your days here at the orphanage. Please enjoy these Fledges, which I have commissioned on your behalf. I worry about you being all alone in the world since you left. Come visit your old Matron sometime and let her know how you are faring.
Sincerest Regards,
Ms. Rosemary Proudfoot.
“Bingoran? Really?”
“Shut up,” Bingo snapped.
“Sweet of the old lady,” Joachim offered.
“Sweet nothing. It’s a trap after all,” Bingo said, composing himself.
“What am I missing?” The fighter asked.
“It’s like this,” Glory explained. “For Hillfolk, gifts have a high social significance. And this is a princely one. It’s not merely expensive there’s status implications. It has a lot of invisible strings attached.
“So, why doesn’t he just refuse it?”
“Refusing a gift such as this one would be an insult. And you do not insult the Proudfoot Clan if you enjoy breathing.”
“So get her some flowers and write a nice thank-you note.”
“Bingo,” Glory asked. “What would you estimate is the value of that emerald we returned with?”
“After cutting, it should bring in, I don’t know, eight hundred gold krakens. Enough to pay our rent and give each of us enough to live on until spring.”
“And how much would you say one of those fledges is worth?”
“You don’t just run down to the corner and buy one, but probably, oh, ten thousand krakens, easily.”
“So a thank-you note isn’t going to cut it, and if he refuses them, we’re, what? Swarmed by three-foot tall assassins?”
“Precisely.”
“So what do we do?”
“We aren’t doing anything. This is my trouble, and I won’t have you two mixed up in it.”
Joachim shook his head. “We’re a team. We stand by you.” Glory voiced her agreement.
Bingo stood, his expression unreadable. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’ll fence the stone and take care of the rent. After that? I’m not sure yet.”
“Where did you hide that emerald, by the way?” Glory asked. “The guards searched that searched at the gate was thorough in his work.”
“Nowhere comfortable,” Bingo said, and disappeared into his room, taking his presents with him.

The Freelance Hunters, Season One: The Unknown Package, Part One of Five

December 20, 2023

hughjodonnell Free Fiction, Freelance Hunters , , Leave a comment

A freezing wind beat against the walls of the city of Carabos. It hurled gusts and flurries of hard-packed snow at the gray blocks of stone, plastering them with white patches. It howled like a frantic toddler, searching for the smallest crack in the city’s defenses.
Finding none, the weather settled on bringing misery to the travelers huddled below, tearing away unguarded hats and ripping at thick woolen cloaks. They had come from every corner of the great island of Elanterra, and lines of carts clogged the bare patch of ground in front of the gates. Some were piled high with fruits and vegetables raised out of season by the skilled Hillfolk farmers of the Tungal Hills. Others were loaded with coal mined by the stout Mountainfolk from Pherros. There were human-driven carts holding a grand assortment of goods, and there were others filled with travelers that wore so many cloaks and coats and scarves that nothing could be seen of them. And also in that crowd waited the Freelance Hunters, returned from their latest adventure, neither as rich or crowned in honor as they had hoped, but not without success, either.
They chattered their way through the checkpoint and finally entered the city gates, where the air warmed, and a gentle autumn breeze blew through streets as crowded as the gates.
The trio removed their thick traveling cloaks and carried them over their arms as they pushed their way into the crowd.
The city was a hive of activity. Hawkers shouted over each other, competing to sell their good from the backs of their wagons. Everything from soap to shoes was on offer. The good weather wouldn’t last, and the citizens of Carabos rushed to prepare for the coming blizzards and the party that came before them.
Outside the walls, ice and snow already clogged the roads, but in the Water City, the weather behaved as the Riverfolk Mage Lords wished. Due to their amphibious nature, Riverfolk weren’t a people made for the cold weather. The magicians in the city used their magic to keep winter at bay as long as possible, as every Riverfolk on Elanterra gathered in their ancestral city. From sundown to midnight on the solstice, every Riverfolk in the city, and nearly the whole population in all of Elanterra would parade from the city gates down to the shore of Crystal Lake, and disappear beneath the water for their winter sequestration. Once the last of their population was safely under the surface, the weather mages would end their spell, sealing the lake behind them with ice.
The rest of the city, the Humans, Half-Elves, Hillfolk and Mountainfolk of the city, along with the few others that defied common classification, would gather to see their supposed masters off, and what was once a solemn and holy ritual had slipped over the years into a raucous and well-loved festival.
As they made their way down the hill towards their rooms, the Freelance Hunters watched the city prepare for the celebration. In one alley, a group of Riverfolk youths were preparing the finishing touches on a float covered in flowers. In front of one tavern, a pair of laborers made a pyramid of barrels in preparation for lively outdoor business. Streamers hung from every street lamp, and the air was thick with baking pies and roasting meat. A few spectators were already camped out in the best spots, even though the parade was still several days away.
“Ugh, Parade Night,” Bingo Proudfoot complained, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his long coat, which is still wore despite the more temperate climate inside the walls. Glory Bywater the group’s mage, stopped short and stared at him with her piercing blue eyes. Joachim Verne, the team’s resident warrior, who was tall even for Humans, nearly trampled them. The two Hillfolk were half his size, and while he was graceful in combat, he often found himself out of sorts with the pair.
“Bingo, how can you distain the New Year?” Glory demanded. “When I was a student at the Academy, we all lived for it! The bonfires, and the food, and the presents, and the floats, and the mulled cider. It is hands down the best night of the year!” The mage’s nostalgic smile seemed decidedly out of place.
“I’m sure you had a real benjo as a student. Your work was done for the year. The rest of us still had to make a living,” he grumbled. Her smile dimmed. There was an unspoken rule that the three of them didn’t talk about their pasts. They each had done things they regretted, or would sooner have others forget. The Proudfoots were a rough and poor clan, mostly made up of outcasts and orphans. She knew Bingo’s upbringing had been rougher than most as a foundling whose small size and quick hands had been put to nefarious use.
“But surely,” she ventured against better sense. “You must have some fondness for the holidays?”
“I’m just not ‘jolly,’ okay?” Bingo doubled his pace, attempting to force his way through the thick crowd, most of whom were at least twice his height.
“Joachim, surely you celebrated Solstice back home?” Glory asked. He frowned and stroked his bushy red beard.
“The snow had already packed us in by this time of year, but the whole village gathered for a feast on First Snowfall, if that’s what you mean.”
“You see? Everybody celebrates. Civilized folk need something to brighten the dark this time of year.”
Bingo sighed. “The dark was where I was raised. You know I was an urchin, yes?” His two companions nodded. “The orphanage wasn’t my salvation. That was where I learned my particular trade. And the headmistress made us work doubly hard on Parade Night. While you were toasting marshmallows and trading presents, I was cutting purses and fawning rigs. And the worst part was, we were always back and in bed before the snow fell. She was always one for curfew, the Headmistress.”
“Well, at least you had solstice dinner, right?”
“An extra portion of gruel, to keep our strength up.”
“A log fire? A wreath?”
“She kept the coal scuttle tightly locked, and never had an extra copper for anything so frivolous as decorations.”
“Presents?”
Bingo turned around and gave her a meaningful look. “I never celebrated Solstice in my whole miserable childhood, and I don’t intend to start now.”
The crowd carried them to their building, a three-story brick structure just off of Dock Street in a ward that insisted it was still respectable. The Freelance Hunters’ combination headquarters and apartment occupied half of the tenement’s top floor. They slipped into the dim foyer and were nearly to the stairs when their landlord, Mr. Gannet, burst from his office with a brown-paper package under his arm.
The Riverfolk man had silver-gray scales, a perpetually sour expression, and a penchant for tall hats that made him look like a dropped ice cream cone.
“Hello, Mr. Gannet,” Bingo said, and doffed his own cap.
“So the heroes have returned. Plundered any good tombs lately?”
“Well, we have to make our bones somehow,” Bingo quipped. Gannet pressed his thin lips together in what was definitely not a smile.
“This arrived for you today,” he said, holding out the box. “By Maile Man.”
“I simply cannot understand why people are so terrified of them. They deliver letters,” Glory said.
“They’re ten foot tall, hook-barbed, monstrosities created by the Mage Lords to protect their secrets,” replied Joachim.
“Well, certainly, but it isn’t as though they’re dangerous, as long as you’re polite and follow instructions.” Glory reached out to take the package, and Gannet lifted it out of her grasp.
“I was instructed quite explicitly to deliver this to Mr. Proudfoot.” Bingo took the package, profoundly surprised. “Eldritch delivery golems aside, Your rent is due,” Mr. Gannet said, recovering his composure. “I expected a deposit before you went on your latest, ahem, excursion.” His large, luminous eyes narrowed behind three sets of eyelids.
“We have it, Mr. Gannet,” Bingo started, then stared at his proffered hand. “But I just need to, er, convert it into more fungible coin for you. You’ll have it tomorrow?”
“I had better. I have much to do before Parading but don’t think I won’t toss you out before the freeze.” With that he retreated back into his office, leaving them in the hallway. They climbed the stairs to the third-floor landing and Joachim unlocked and opened the door. Bingo trailed behind, carrying the package as though it were cursed.
The apartment/headquarters wasn’t opulent, but it was big enough for the three of them. The main room was large and open. A hearth along the east wall provided heat. There was a pair of couches around it that served as both a living room and a space to entertain clients. It was separated from the kitchen and pantry by a low table. Glory’s laboratory took up the next corner, with strange, humming machines and gleaming glass beakers. Next to that was Joachim’s training area, and a round dining table next to the door. A dark hallway lead to the bedrooms and water closet. Riverfolk innovation meant that they had running water, even three stories up.
Bingo set the package carefully on the table. “Home sweet home,” He said. “Let’s hope it’s still standing in five minutes.”
Glory peeked around him to examine the package. “No return address. How mysterious. Who do you suppose sent it?”
Bingo made an odd little noise in his throat as he stared down at the package. “I recognize the handwriting,” he said.
Reaching a hand into the a hidden pocket of his greatcoat, he pulled out a black cloth bundle and unrolled it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The burglar’s tools didn’t make a sound as they landed on the table’s surface. Slowly, thoughtfully he picked through them, removing one tool and examining it before discarding it for another.
Finally, Glory reached the end of her patience. “For Barley’s sake, Bingo, who’s it from? And what are you picking through your gear for?”
Bingo straightened and looked her in the eye. “It took a lot of sweat, luck, and skill to get out from under the Proudfoot clan’s thumb. Most orphans don’t. They run up debts, get apprenticed, and before they can blink they’re in the life up to their eyeballs. I almost got tangled up, but I got myself free. And after five years of silence, Rosemary Proudfoot, my own dear orphan-master sends me a present. Do you want to bet it ain’t a trap?”

Everyday Drabbles #1048: Seasonal Flight

December 16, 2023

hughjodonnell Everyday Drabbles, Free Fiction , , , , Leave a comment

He sat in the launch bay and waited for orders. His mech made its usual standby noises. The hisses and pings were almost comforting.
Out in the distance, he could see the raging battle. An occupied rebel asteroid was on an Act-of-God trajectory, and it was up to him and his comrades to stop it before impact became an inevitability.
His chronometer blipped out the time, setting the mission clock. LST was midnight, December 24th. He should be home, but once again he was stuck working over the holidays.
Why did they always have to pull these stunts on Christmas?

The Mountain’s Shadow is now available from Amazon and Smashwords!

Everyday Drabbles #1047:

December 13, 2023

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Word came down that they were automating the factory, and the elves whispered nervously to each other in their ancient, magical tongue. The big man called a meeting to allay their fears.
“There will be no cuts,” he explained. “But we need to ramp up production to meet the demand. There are too many children in the world. We can’t do things by hand anymore. There will be a place for everyone here.”
At first, the elves were relieved. But when they saw the new toy designs, they realized they were made by AI. The ensuing strike nearly cancelled Christmas.

The Mountain’s Shadow is now available from Amazon and Smashwords!

Everyday Drabbles #1046: Beneath the City

December 11, 2023

hughjodonnell Everyday Drabbles, Free Fiction , , , Leave a comment

Everyone knew about the tunnels underneath the city. But aside from some kids who recorded themselves exploring the upper levels, they were sealed, and their original layout and purpose had long been lost and forgotten.
Eventually, a campaign was launched to excavate the lower tunnels and find out what was down there. The mayor reluctantly agreed, but insisted that remote drones be sent down first.
The structures descended further than anyone expected, revealing perfectly preserved ancient buildings and beautiful, if strange, statuary.
When something off-screen destroyed all of the cameras within a few seconds, the mayor ordered the tunnels resealed.

The Mountain’s Shadow is now available from Amazon and Smashwords!

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