The War of the Masters

Cyrus, Terra, and Keira exited Ra’Nu’s tent, searching for the outsider called Melvin. Cyrus hadn’t gotten directions from Ra’Nu, but the village was small, and as he knew firsthand, outsiders stuck out like a sore thumb. A slurred voice bellowed across the village, and Cyrus knew he’d found his mark.

Melvin looked to be in his early thirties with disheveled brown hair that probably hadn’t seen a comb in many years. Hunkered on his upper lip was a peach fuzz mustache that fluttered every time the wind blew.

“G’day to you!” Melvin said, raising a bottle of rum in their direction. He paused long enough to hiccup before continuing. “You don’t look like one of the villagers.”

“Observant, aren’t you?” Cyrus said wryly.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. My name’s Cyrus—pleased to meet you.” Cyrus extended his hand and smiled.

“The feeling’s mutual, laddie,” Melvin slurred, holding his bottle close to his chest and looking suspiciously at Cyrus’s palm.

“I think you’re confused. I was trying to shake your hand.”

“Of course you were, laddie.” Melvin quickly took his hand. “My name’s Melvin. You wanna celebrate with me?”

“What are you celebrating?”

“The New Year, of course!”

Cyrus paused. “That was seven months ago.”

“Oh, well then I’m celebrating the last half of the year!” He let out a belch that reeked of rum and made the girls cringe. A couple of villagers walked by and he raised his bottle to them. “Happy last half of the year!”

I see what Ra’Nu meant. But there has to be something more to him—otherwise, why would Dameon keep him around?

“Dameon tells me you’re one of his most important men,” Cyrus said with an easy smile.

“The ol’ Fiery Maiden said he can’t get along without me, huh? I suppose I do come in handy in a pinch,” the drunk leaned in and elbowed Cyrus as if he were referencing an inside joke, “if you know what I mean.”

“That’s fascin—”

“Do you know what I mean?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “No. Can’t say that I do.”

“I’m handy in a pinch,” Melvin paused again, “because I’m a thief. I pinch things from people’s pockets. Get it?”

Cyrus inwardly groaned. This guy’s something special.

Cyrus smiled and put his arm around the drunk’s shoulder. “Melvin, I like you! But I have to tell you something: that might be the worst joke I’ve ever heard. And considering I travel with Lucky the Leprechaun, that’s saying a lot.”

Melvin’s eyes lit up. “Then that means I’m the best terrible joke teller! Sounds like another reason to celebrate to me!” He took another swig.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” Cyrus said. He took his arm off Melvin’s shoulder, plucking a hair along the way.

“Whoa,” Melvin said. He paused for a full five seconds, staring at the ground. “Did you feel something on the back of your head?”

“No.”

Melvin shrugged. “Then I guess I didn’t either.”

Cyrus raised another eyebrow. “All right, well, we’ve got to go now. See you later, Melvin.”

“G’bye, partner!” Melvin let out an infectious laugh. Cyrus couldn’t help but chuckle a little himself as they walked away.

It took Ra’Nu only a few minutes to charm Melvin’s hair; then they were back in the sunlight heading toward his tent.

“Well, looky here, you guys are back!” Melvin greeted.

“It’s nice to see you again, Melvin,” Cyrus replied, nonchalantly placing his hand on the drunk’s shoulder.

Suddenly Cyrus felt his consciousness ripped from his body. It was as if his soul was being sucked to the focal point of his hand resting on Melvin’s shoulder, then stretched over to his brain. Cyrus blinked a couple times through new eyes and watched as his old body crumpled to the ground.

“Cyrus, is that you?” Terra asked. “Are you okay?”

“Whoa . . . yeah, I think I’m okay. This might take a little getting used to.”

“What happened to Melvin?” Keira asked.

“He’s unconscious within Cyrus’s body,” Ra’Nu answered.

Keira looked around. “Then we’d better move it before the villagers get suspicious.”

“Right,” Cyrus agreed. With Melvin’s body, he stooped down and grasped his unconscious form by the legs. It was a surreal feeling, moving his own body into Melvin’s tent. But he had a job to do, and for now, this body was the right tool to get it done.

“Before I go, Ra’Nu, I should probably know your father’s name.”

“His name is Sheckem,” Ra’Nu answered. “The role of Sheckem is so revered in our culture, that once someone assumes the title their given name disappears and they forever become known as Sheckem.”

“Hmm. Good to know.” Cyrus turned to Terra and Keira. “I’m trusting you two to protect my body while I’m gone,” he said.

“How are we ever going to manage that without Lucky?” Terra asked with a playful smile.

Cyrus grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Terra said.

Cyrus darted out of the village, making the hike through the thick forest as quickly as he could.

Once he reached the temple, the four warriors standing guard outside let him in the giant double doors without a word. The courtyard stretched before him, guarded by ten more village warriors on his left. At the far end, just in front of the inner temple entrance, was a group of five outsiders. Four of them were sitting in a circle around a fire and the fifth leaned against the main door.

Setting his sights on the ancient entrance, Cyrus slipped into character, doing his best to imitate Melvin’s gestures, gait, and expressions. He staggered across the open grass and up the temple steps.

“Hello, Melvin,” the guard said.

“Good day to you,” Cyrus said. Remembering the way Melvin had spoken before, Cyrus slurred his words more. “Now if you’ll just eshcuse me.” He ambled toward the door, but the guard stepped in his way.

“You know the Fire General’s orders. No one goes in.”

“Ah, c’mon, b-buddy. I’ve got shomething important to tell his Fieryship.”

“Not going to happen.”

“B-but it’s a matter of life and death.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “It always is with you, Melvin.”

Judging from his response, Cyrus was playing Melvin’s character well. The only problem was that Melvin obviously wasn’t someone this man took seriously.

The guard smiled slyly. “But I suppose there might be a way I’d let you through . . .” He paused. “If you’d be willing to . . . confiscate a few things for me.”

Cyrus smiled broadly. “You c-came to the right man. Say, have I ever told you that the General finds me handy in a pinch? Get it? Pin—”

“Focus, Melvin,” the guard snapped. “Listen carefully: Hans, Gort and I raided a few of the villager’s tents last night. Hans found a miniature statue of a horse, cast in gold. Gort stole a ruby encrusted spoon. I want these items. If I were to have them, I might be so distracted that someone could slip through without me noticing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I shhure do, boss! I’ll be right back!”

Cyrus turned around and looked across the courtyard at the four men sitting around the fire. He felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

How am I going to steal from two men I’ve never met without anyone noticing?

As Ra’Nu watched Cyrus walk away in Melvin’s body, a feeling of dread grew within her stomach. No matter what happened, after today, nothing would ever be the same again. Either their plan would succeed and her father would never forgive her for taking control of him, or Dameon would mutate the younger members of their tribe.

“Hey,” Terra interrupted her thoughts. “How are you holding up?”

Sitting down, Ra’Nu put both hands against her forehead. “Not the greatest. I hate what I’m about to do, but I know I will hate myself more if I do nothing.” Ra’Nu was a little surprised she had just shared that with a relative stranger, but it felt good to say it out loud.

Terra gently patted her on the shoulder. “I understand how you feel. My father once asked me to murder an innocent person. Standing up to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Ra’Nu looked at her. “What did he do when you disobeyed him?”

Terra frowned. “Well, he chased me out of the kingdom and tried to kill me.”

“Oh, wow . . .” Ra’Nu swallowed hard. What if her own father did the same thing? How would she handle being exiled from her own people—from everything she had ever known? Ra’Nu felt her body trembling. “Do you ever wonder if you made the wrong decision?”

Terra smiled softly. “No. I would never have forgiven myself if I’d killed the innocent person. And I would have lost out on making a friend.”

Ra’Nu looked at her curiously.

“Cyrus is the one I was ordered to kill,” Terra clarified. “If I had gone through with that, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Ra’Nu felt herself smile. Terra was right. This was the best decision; she couldn’t second guess herself on what might happen because of it.

“Thank you,” Ra’Nu said appreciatively. “That helps a lot.”

“It might be tough for a while, but it will get better. Trust me,” Terra said softly.

A long but comfortable silence followed. Finally Ra’Nu said, “So you went to all that trouble for a boy?”

Terra’s face flushed. “It—it’s not like that,” she stammered.

Ra’Nu couldn’t hide her smile. “It never is.”

Cyrus took a deep breath, trying to calm his shredded nerves. He didn’t know if Melvin’s “skills” transferred to him. But even if they did, he still had to figure out who Hans and Gort were.

Stopping just outside the circle of Dameon’s men, Cyrus called out, “Hey, Hans.”

A couple seconds passed before a man holding a bottle of rum finally spoke up. “What do you want, Melvin?” he asked in an irritated tone.

Cyrus walked toward him. Hans seemed annoyed, but not wary or skeptical.

Good, I might have a chance after all.

“I just wanted to shee my buddy. What’s wrong with th-that?” Cyrus stumbled over beside Hans, “accidentally” bumping into him in the process. Some of his rum spilled into the fire, causing a bright flare from the burning alcohol. In that instant Cyrus slipped his hand in and out of Hans’s jacket in a flash, palming the golden miniature.

Hans clenched his teeth together. “Melvin, you made me spill my rum!”

“I’m shorry, buddy. Let me help clean it up,” Cyrus stuttered. He couldn’t believe how well Melvin’s skills lingered in this body. Muscle memory seemed to take over, helping him pickpocket with surprising ease.

“You’ve done quite enough. Just leave me alone!” Hans snapped.

“Oh, you’re no fun, Hans!” Cyrus grumbled. “I guess I’ll go t-talk to Gort. Maybe he won’t be such a shour shnake.”

“Oh, great,” the next man over muttered.

Perfect.

“Hello, G-Gort,” Cyrus slurred. He moved to put his arm over Gort’s shoulder, but the man pushed him away.

“You think I’ve forgotten what you did? Get out of here, Melvin,” Gort hissed.

Great, he won’t let me anywhere near him.

“G-Gort, I’m a little too sloshed right now to remember what I did. Maybe if you t-told me, I could fix it.”

Gort furrowed his brow. “You stole a bottle of my rum.”

Cyrus put a hand over his heart. “Oh the h-humanity! To shteal a man’s rum . . . there is nothing l-lower. How much does a new bottle cost?” Cyrus hiccuped. “I’ll pay you back.”

“You of all people should know that, Melvin.”

“Uh, Gort, did you f-forget?” Cyrus said. He donned a vacant look and smiled absently. “S-sloshed, remember?”

Gort shook his head, his aggravation showing. “Four gold coins.”

“No problem, let me go to my shtash. I’ll be right back.”

Cyrus moved away, and the four men resumed their conversation. He would have to get Gort to relax if he wanted to steal that spoon. Finding no money in Melvin’s pockets, Cyrus turned his attention to the rest of Dameon’s men.

Walking around the circle, Cyrus used Melvin’s oft drunken state as an excuse to bump the two remaining men. They were irritated, but none the wiser.

Cyrus meandered over to the temple wall and leaned up against it. Taking out his spoils, he counted the coins . . . all three of them.

So close, but what now?

Cyrus scanned the courtyard until his eyes ran over the guard—the same man he was stealing the artifacts for. A smile stretched across his lips.

How fitting.

Staggering up the steps, Cyrus faked a trip and fell into the guard. In a flash, he palmed a small bag of coins.

“What are you doing, Melvin?!” the guard fumed.

“Just bringin’ ya the goods, Gov’na!” Cyrus said, handing him the golden horse.

The man adjusted his uniform. “Fine. Now go get the second item.”

“Yesshir!”

Cyrus saluted and wobbled away behind another corner. When he was sure he wasn’t being watched, he pulled out the money bag and found five gold coins.

That makes eight. I’ll have to thank Raiden for the idea, alleviating his financial burdens and all.

Cyrus pocketed the other four coins and stumbled to the circle of men, holding up the money for Gort to see.

“What do you shay? Can we be friends again?”

A look of shock covered Gort’s face. “Yes, I suppose we can. Bring it over.”

Cyrus handed him the money. While Gort greedily pocketed it, Cyrus took one of the coins he’d stolen and flicked it at the stone wall. The coin clanked loudly and the four men turned in the direction of the sound.

Now’s my chance.

Cyrus moved in, lifting the jeweled spoon from Gort’s other pocket.

“I’m g-glad we’re buddies again, Gort. It’s been too long!”

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t do it again,” he grumbled.

“N-never,” Cyrus said, raising his right hand as if taking an oath. “I would never dream of taking shomething from my good buddy again. I’ve gotta go. Goodbye . . . buddy!”

Gort ignored him. Cyrus wheeled around and approached the guard at the door.

“H-here you are,” Cyrus said, handing him the spoon.

“Very good, Melvin,” the man replied, taking his artifact and turning his back to the courtyard. Cyrus took his cue; he paused to make sure no one was watching, then stumbled into the inner temple.

Once inside, he dropped the staggering gait. No one could see him here. Slinking through the narrow halls, Cyrus began his search.

It didn’t take long. Muffled voices echoed from a wooden door up ahead. Pressing his ear to the door, he listened closely to the two people speaking. The first voice he didn’t recognize, but the second was unmistakable. He’d only heard the gravelly voice once before, but it was forever ingrained in his mind.

Dameon . . .

Cyrus’s stomach twisted as a wave of emotions flooded through him. Anger. Guilt. Remorse. The faces of the young man’s parents haunted him. This was what he was here for, to give justice and restitution to the families this man had ruined, and—more importantly—to prevent it from happening to anyone else.

His hands shook and his muscles twitched.

Calm down, Cyrus. You have a job to do.

Taking a deep breath, Cyrus listened to the conversation.

“We’re nearly finished. Then, we’ll be out of here,” Dameon said.

“Ah, but don’t forget your promise,” the second voice said.

“Of course. A demonstration of our super soldiers for all your help. Trust me, I won’t leave without showing you.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, Cyrus thought.

Without warning he burst into the room, staggering from side to side. There were three men sitting in a circular stone chamber, mouths still open from being caught mid-sentence. Dameon was garbed in the same black uniform Cyrus had last seen him wearing at Cordova Castle. The Sheckem wore refined, white silk clothing and a sturdy crown on his bald head. A third man, clearly an outsider, wore a navy blue jacket, dark pants, and a hood pulled over his head.

“Melvin. What are you doing here?” Dameon asked, clearly annoyed.

“I’ve c-come to tell you important news,” Cyrus answered. He’d planned to steal a hair like he had with Melvin, but the Sheckem’s head was as bald as a winter tree. Ambling a bit closer, Cyrus searched for something he could pick-pocket instead.

“You should have told the guard,” Dameon chided. “You know nobody is allowed in here.”

“I would have, boss man,” Cyrus said. Then he leaned forward and shielded half his mouth with an open palm, “but I w-wasn’t sure I could trust him.”

Dameon shook his head. “What is it you want, Melvin? Make it quick.”

Cyrus desperately searched for something he could snatch from the Sheckem, but everything he wore was tight against his skin—Cyrus couldn’t lift anything without raising suspicion. “Well you see, shir,” he stuttered, “I t-think we’re in danger. They’re after us.”

Nothing for me to nab. Better think of something fast.

“Who’s after us?” the Sheckem asked, a look of worry flashing across his face. “Who would want to come after—”

Dameon held up an open hand, silencing the Sheckem immediately. “Why do you think someone is after us, Melvin?”

There’s got to be something I can do . . .

Cyrus’s mind went back to what Ra’Nu had told him about her power.

“I heard whishpers from the guards,” Cyrus slurred. Moving toward the Sheckem, he purposefully caught his feet together and stumbled into him.

“Whoa, there!” the Sheckem said, catching him by the shirt to keep him from falling.

“I’m shorry, Sheckem. I lost my f-footing,” Cyrus mumbled, standing upright.

The Sheckem smiled, but then a suspicious look dawned on him. One by one he checked his pockets and each of his possessions. Apparently Melvin’s reputation had reached the Sheckem as well.

Satisfied that nothing was missing, the Sheckem said, “Go ahead with what you were saying.”

“Right,” Cyrus turned back to Dameon. “Gort, Hans, and the others; they’re pretty upshet with you and the way you’re running things. Said they think new leadership might do ’em some good. Said they already worked out a plan that they’ll get paid m-more once guard boy out front’s in charge . . . .”

A wicked smile played on Dameon’s lips. “Did they, now?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I figured you oughtta know. Any boss who will let me drink on the job is fine with—er, forget I just said that . . .”

“Get back to your post, Melvin. I’ll handle this little rebellion just as soon as I finish our business here . . .”

“Righty oh, sir!” Cyrus gave a lurching bow and exited the room.

Thanks for touching my shirt, Sheckem, Cyrus thought. I’ll be back for you, Dameon.