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    Not Your Typical Fantasy
    Not Your Typical Fantasy
    Not Your Typical Fantasy
    Ebook337 pages4 hours

    Not Your Typical Fantasy

    By Byron Gordon

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    About this ebook

    Joey Scribenheimer is an accountant at a company that doesn't like official attention but what he really wants is to finish his epic fantasy trilogy. Sadly, the fates - and his own characters - are conspiring against him. With only his faithful cat by his side, Joey has to face down mobsters, fictional characters (his own), and supernatural forces if he's to have any hope of achieving his dream.

    This is a fantasy story but not a typical one. The quest is a trans-dimensional assassination. The hero is just trying to survive. Fast cars get a lot of face-time. And there are no dragons or dungeons. They all skipped town.

    Don't wait to read this non-stop thrill ride featuring villains who might be heroes, heroes who might not be villains, and gods who - well, you'll just have to see.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherByron Gordon
    Release dateMay 13, 2020
    Not Your Typical Fantasy
    Author

    Byron Gordon

    Byron Gordon grew up in the rural Eastern Shore of Maryland, USA. One of six children, he soon discovered his love of reading, ranging from the clever humor of P.G. Wodehouse to the epic fantasy of Tolkien to the fast paced science fiction of Timothy Zahn. Fed on this widely varied diet, his imagination blossomed and he began to write, desiring to create worlds and adventures of his own.After realizing the bleak financial prospects of an aspiring writer trying to break into the fiction realm, Byron enlisted in the United States Coast Guard. He spent an extra week in Coast Guard Boot Camp (Cape May, NJ) for writing during the breaks between classes. After Boot Camp he traveled to California for training in radio communications. Following the completion of his training, he spent three years on a Coast Guard Cutter, interdicting and repatriating illegal migrants. He currently is still on active duty and plans search and rescue efforts on the east coast of the USA.Despite the intense, and often hectic, schedule that military life entails, Byron has continued to write in his free time. While writing a complete novel still proves elusive, he has composed multiple short stories and a small amount of poetry. In the spring of 2011, he started publishing his writings electronically and now has a fair number of short stories and poetry available online in a variety of formats.

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      Book preview

      Not Your Typical Fantasy - Byron Gordon

      Acknowledgments

      Most of the credit goes to my wife, Jeanette. She doesn't believe me but without her support and inspiration I would never manage to actually finish writing anything.

      I'd also like to recognize John Wheatley, who once more lent his keen editing skills. He patiently rooted out all the extra commas that I tried to slip past him.

      Finally, to all the creators in the world who have found their subjects occasionally running off with minds of their own and were tempted to let them go.

      Table of Contents

      Acknowledgments

      Opening Chapter

      About the Author

      Other Books

      ~ 1 ~

      The wind howled across the barren steppe, its bitter teeth gnashing against the bare skin of Harvi’s bulging arms. The horse beneath him was nearly spent, but he pushed it on, his iron determination forcing the beast to keep to its feet as it strained to appease its master. Ahead he could see his goal, the grim tower of Miring, King of Sorcerers and Lord of the Damned.

      At his back he could feel the presence of Qual. The God of Warrior’s looked upon his quest with favor and his divine blessing was settled around Harvi’s impressive shoulders like a warm scarf. It made the burden of Skinfar, the Blade of Blood, a little easier to bear.

      Harvi snorted as he thought of the events that led him to this juncture. Who could have known that the Duke of Worthington’s high security vault was intended to protect the people outside from what was inside? The best spies and informants had not been able to tell him that, only that it was a vault no thief, living or dead, had ever entered.

      A fitting challenge for the man dubbed Prince of Thieves and Lord of the Underworld.

      So he broke into the vault, and the jewel encrusted sword had caught his eye at once. But as soon as his hand settled around the hilt, the dark magic set to work, and he had known that his carefree life lording about the pleasure houses of Ingrin was over. To free himself, he had to defeat the man who created the sword.

      The sorcerer Miring.

      Harvi ignored the grumbling of his empty stomach and adjusted the broad belt that held up his bear-skin codpiece. Then he tightened his grip on the reins and drove his tiring steed onward. Not much further now.

      Joey Scribenheimer leaned back in his chair and stretched his fingers, beaming at the text on the screen before him. It had been a long, hard journey, but soon he would reach the climactic scene of his magnum opus.

      He had been waiting for the moment when Harvi would confront the dread villain Miring for months now. No one understood the discipline it took to write epic fiction like this. Maybe another week and he could add this manuscript to the two stacked on the corner of his desk.

      Then the Saga of Harvi would be truly complete. Then, perhaps, the world would start to recognize Joey’s true worth. Any editor worth his salt would snap up a story like this, no matter what the cost. Fame and fortune would follow shortly after the first printing.

      Joey let his mind space for a moment, dreaming of the signings, the cocktail parties, the beautiful women hanging on his every word.

      Oh, Joey, they would say, How did you make Harvi seem so powerful, yet so human?

      Well, it wasn’t easy, he would reply. I had to put more of myself in the character than I wanted to. It takes a lot of courage, to bare your soul to the world like that.

      They would swoon in awe and fall over themselves trying to get him to take them back to his hotel room.

      A loud mewing sound from the door to his study interrupted his daydream.

      Already?! Joey snapped. I just fed you a hour ago.

      His stomach growled hungrily as he stood up and staggered out of the room towards his tiny kitchen. He paused briefly to scratch the gray tiger-stripe cat behind the ears and then slid into the kitchen. There was barely enough space between the bar counter and the sink behind it to fit him and his belly, but he made the squeeze.

      He was pouring milk over a bowl of store-brand cereal—something with corn and a metric ton of sugar —when the cat mewed again.

      I know, I know, Joey said. Give me just a minute to feed myself. Remember, I pay the bills around...

      The strains of Bohemian Rhapsody—via mobile—filled the room and cut off his diatribe.

      What the hell? Joey grumbled. He rooted through the clutter on the counter-top—old bills, collection statements, a letter from his mom—seeking the elusive device that kept repeating the first five seconds of the song. The cat mewed again, then yowled loudly, trying to drown out the sound of its competition.

      Quiet! Joey said. He found the phone, concealed under an old muffin paper that was making a bold effort to resurrect some species of Jurassic fauna, and flipped it open. Hello?

      You planning on coming to work today, Joey?

      Uh, what? Joey looked around the room, but the battery in his wall clock had died a week ago. The hands read exactly 5 PM. If a clock face was capable of expressions, Joey was sure it would be sneering at him. Frank? What time is it?

      It’s eight o’clock, Joey. Also known as time for you to be at fucking work!

      Joey recoiled from the phone. But it’s Sunday! Isn’t it Sunday? I don’t have to work on Sunday!

      It’s Monday, Joey, and you were supposed to be here an hour ago. Pull your head out of your ass, kid!

      A click and buzz from the other end signaled that the conversation was over. Joey slowly lowered the phone from his ear and stared at the display like it was a viper in his hand. It faithfully read 0803, Monday.

      Well, shit, Joey said. He set the phone down and rubbed at his forehead. What happened to Sunday?

      The cat yowled again, snapping him out of his fugue.

      I know, I know, he scooped dry food into her bowl and put down fresh water. It’s ok, Norn. Daddy won’t get fired. It’s ok.

      He scratched the cat’s head as it started to eat. Then he wobbled upright and grabbed his bowl of cereal. He would eat in the car. Frank Zanda was not someone he wanted to keep waiting, especially when he had already been late twice this month.

      Joey made it to the car, only spilling cereal twice, and was about to get in when he saw the old bum standing in the middle of the parking lot, staring intently at him. Joey glared back as he balanced the bowl on the roof of the car and fumbled with his keys.

      Instead of looking away, the old man met his gaze. His dark blue eyes glittering with something close to amusement, but with an unpleasant edge. Joey worked the lock and ripped the car door open, maneuvered his bulk inside, and slammed the door, shutting the bum out of his life with forceful emphasis.

      The bum continued to watch him closely, his amusement seeming to fade, his eyes starting to glitter with something that Joey associated with anger. At least, it reminded Joey of the look Frank always had when he was chewing Joey out about some little mix up or other.

      Joey jammed the key in the ignition and turned, listening to the engine clunk and grind again and again without catching.

      Come on, not today. Joey said. He pumped the gas pedal and cranked the key again. The car stuttered and growled but the damn motor would not catch. If he didn’t get to work, if Frank fired him, he wouldn’t have the money to afford the apartment with the study. He wouldn’t be able to finish the Saga of Harvi.

      Dammit! Joey slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The pain surprised him, replacing his anger, and he rubbed at his pudgy fist and resisted the tears he felt welling up in his eyes. He would be cast out on the streets, with poor Norn his only companion. They would be thin and weather-ravaged in no time, scraping by from shelter to shelter. And Harvi would never confront Miring and learn the truth.

      Determination overwhelmed the other emotions inside him, and Joey took a deep breath. He could not let that happen. He was an artist, and he had to protect his art. He had to finish, which meant keeping his job, which meant getting the car started.

      In a situation like this, there was only one thing to do, Joey told himself. He had to ask himself, what would Harvi do?

      In all honesty, if by some strange turn of plot the Prince of Thieves knew what a car was, he would probably go steal one with a better maintenance history.

      Joey sighed. He was too fat to steal cars. He tried the key in one last forlorn effort. The old Ford stuttered, coughed, and then caught. The engine puttered to life.

      Ah-ha! Joey cheered, raising his fist in the air. Victory!

      He put the car in reverse and screeched out of his parking space. The bowl of cereal slid from the roof, spilling milk and sugary corn pieces all over his windshield. Joey slapped at the wiper lever, jerked the car into drive, and screeched out of the parking lot.

      The bum watched him go, then he turned to regard the door to Joey’s apartment. The rage still burned in the man’s eyes even after Joey’s the ridiculous antics. If anything, it burned brighter.

      ~ 2 ~

      The wall clock in Frank’s office ticked loudly. It was the only sound breaking the silence as Joey huddled miserably in the chair before his boss’s dinged metal desk. The scuffed carpet seemed to smell worse today, the lack of air conditioning was more noticeable, and the way Frank was clutching the paper report in his hand made Joey think of strangled necks. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

      It wasn’t fear that made him sweat.

      Well, it wasn’t just fear.

      The whole office was dingy and rundown, though clean. A direct contrast to the gleaming chrome suit that Frank lounged in. Chrome suit, black shirt, and white tie. Hair slicked back and a Rolex on his left wrist. The boss had a certain style, even Joey had to admit.

      Frank had read the same page of the report for the last ten minutes. Unless he could decipher the winning lotto ticket from those numbers, he was just burning time to make Joey more anxious. And it was working.

      Asshole.

      The way the others kept glancing through the glass wall at him was almost as aggravating. Like a bunch of spectators waiting for the gladiatorial games to begin. Tongues lolling in anticipation of seeing first blood. Specifically, Joey’s metaphorical blood, splattered all across the office.

      More assholes.

      Why did he even care? Joey wondered. He didn’t need this aggravation. He didn’t need the stress. Why should he put his happiness—no his health—on the line for these ungrateful bastards? Harvi wouldn’t take this crap; why should Joey? He should get on his feet, tell Zanda where he could stick his job, and storm out.

      Before he could lurch upright, a small voice reminded Joey of his pending rent payment. He tried to scrunch deeper into the thin cushion of the chair. Naturally, that was when Frank decided to lower the report and fix his pale, cold eyes on Joey.

      Fourth time you’ve been late this month, Joey.

      The chair creaked beneath Joey’s weight as he shifted uncomfortably.

      I don’t know what you got going on, kid, Frank said. Frankly, I don’t care. You got this job as a favor to a friend. I’m considering that favor paid in full for not firing your sorry ass already.

      Joey nodded and tried not to feel too grateful. He was not getting fired today after all. Life would continue. He felt like a concrete block had been lifted from his chest.

      You understand me now, don’t you Joey? Frank was saying. One more fuck up, and you’re done!

      Frank slapped the desk with one hand. Joey blinked at him in a slight daze, still lost in the internal celebration of continuing paychecks.

      You got it, kid?

      Joey nodded. Can I go now?

      Not yet, Frank said. He stood up and stretched. We have a review coming up. Some bigwigs from the city want to go through our books.

      Joey’s heart froze in his chest. Not the books. Why? What did they know? There was no way they could know. He had made certain...

      Frank was in full stream. ...should be pretty simple. I’ll take ‘em to lunch at Mario’s, and when I bring them back you’ll have the books laid out, and they’ll see everything is in order and go home, right?

      Joey took a deep breath. He had prepared for this eventuality. It had been inevitable. He had taken precautions. There was no reason to panic. No reason at all.

      He felt like his heart was going to explode.

      You ok, Joey? Frank asked. There is no problem with the books, right? Nothing I’m unaware of?

      What? Joey blinked, trying to shift his thoughts away from the worry. The books? No! The books are fine. Just fine. I’ll just want to tidy them up some, is all. Sloppy handwriting, you know.

      Frank’s smile slipped. He put both hands on his desk and leaned forward. You print them out from a computer, Joey.

      I take notes, Joey said. He stood up and almost fell. I scribble in the margins sometimes. It’s nothing major, Frank. I just want them to look their best. You know, good impressions and all that.

      Okay. Frank stared at him for a minute, then shook his head. You’d better get to work then, kid. They’ll be here Wednesday.

      Wednesday! Holy crap! Joey turned and nearly ran into Brenda, the slim blonde who was Frank’s assistant. She had amazing tits. He was pretty certain that Frank was plowing her after-hours. The asshole.

      Careful, Joey! She said, shrinking back from his bulk and raising the cups in either hand. I’ve got hot coffee here!

      Sorry, sorry. Joey muttered. He pushed through the door and into the main office beyond. Just before the door closed behind him he heard Brenda’s high-pitched laughter at some muttered comment of Frank’s. Probably about him.

      Joey frowned and clenched his fists the whole walk to his desk in the back of the office. Frank should treat him better. He could sink them all in just a few moments, especially with these guys from the city looking at the books.

      All it would take was a little money pointed in Frank’s direction and... well. Joey did not know exactly what would happen. But he daydreamed about Frank sinking beneath the white caps in the river with chains around his feet. They would have to take the chrome suit first though. It would probably shine from the bottom all the way to the surface of the water.

      At his desk, Joey took a moment to savor the look he imagined on Frank’s face as his lungs filled with water. He sighed and sat down, pulling out the three binders that he kept the books in.

      He had never been clear on exactly what Frank’s business did. There were indications of it being an import and export agency, but what the products were was very hush-hush. All Joey knew was that the checks came in to him and he distributed them between several accounts. And that he didn’t want to know what products they trafficked in.

      He pulled the binders that held his books from the shelf behind his desk. The blue binder showed the checks going into two accounts: one for payroll and the other was the straight business account. The red binder, however, showed the money being distributed into an additional account. Frank’s name was not on the account, but Joey was pretty certain it belonged to his boss. A solid ten percent of every check he processed went into that account.

      Joey glanced around a few times to be sure no one was looking, then he opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He dug through the mess of discarded office supplies, slipped his finger into the notch, and raised the false bottom enough to pull a second red binder out. The only difference on the outside was a black stripe that ran down the spine.

      Inside though, it showed an additional five percent off every transaction being shifted into another account. An account whose balance Joey knew by heart. An account that was entirely his own.

      It was not a lot of money, but it helped him out. The fact that it was completely illegal did not bother him so much as the thought of Frank finding out. Or worse, the bigwigs from the city finding out. Retribution would be swift, he felt certain of that. He also felt certain that it would be a lot more painful than simply giving the money back.

      It was imperative that the totals in the blue binder and in the black striped binder matched. Usually he just made up fictitious purchases for staples and toilet paper, but he would have to double check all that too. Even the thickest reviewer would have trouble believing an office of eight people went through that much toilet paper a week.

      ~ 3 ~

      Miring the Despicable was arrogant enough to have a throne room at the top of his tower, even though he was lord of nothing. Not even a rag-tag group of thieves that might or might not obey him, depending on the quantity and quality of the wine he provided.

      Arrogance aside, Harvi was forced to admit it was a nice room.

      The throne in the center of the room was made of wrought iron, cast in imaginative scenes of demons and warriors. It was gilded all over in gold and silver, the tri-color contrast pleasing to the eye. Apart from the throne, the stone floor was warmed with heavy carpets and the drafty rafters were hung with shimmering silks of bold red and gold. A wide, glass window—an extravagant expense—provided a wide view of the barren steppes that stretched in all directions. The window was glazed with frost, giving the light that filtered through a crystalline quality.

      The room was warm, through foul magics no doubt, and Harvi’s breath was heavy in his chest after his long exposure to the frozen plains he had traveled. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he felt feverish, but that did not stop him from standing tall and brave before the evil sorcerer seated on the throne.

      Miring himself was foreboding in appearance. He was tall, with the skeletal appearance of a man who did not eat. His hollow cheeks created dark shadows under his gleaming green eyes, and his rich robes of ermine and velvet hung from him as a scarecrow’s garments. Particularly of note were his hands.

      He held them before him, elbows rested on the arms of his throne, thin fingertips pressed together. Heavy golden rings embraced each finger, some encrusted with diamonds, others with rubies and sapphires. Harvi swiftly calculated that he carried the wealth of a kingdom on each hand.

      If the rings were enchanted, perhaps more.

      "Whither goest thou, bold knave? Miring said, breaking the tense silence that had dominated the room since Harvi entered. I see by the bloodied blade in thine hand that thou hast murdered my guards. No doubt thou meanst such a foul end for mine own personage."

      "No mere knave am I, Miring, Harvi replied. He lifted his sword—Qual had advised to leave Skinfar sheathed—and pointed it directly at his foe. But the Prince of Thieves and Lord of Rogues. Thou hast met thy match in my steely thews and sharp wits."

      Miring rose and clasped his hands behind his back, his draping sleeves snapping with the sharpness of the motion. And what is thine grievance, prithee Lord of Rogues? I know thee not. No foe of mine were you, before thou rapaciously penetrated mine stronghold.

      Harvi dropped into a fighting stance, anticipating an attack. This cursed sword…

      The Bohemian Rhapsody sounded, breaking Joey’s concentration. He glanced at the display and sighed. If he did not answer, the phone would ring off the hook all night. So much for finishing this chapter. He flipped open the cellphone and turned away from his computer.

      Hi, Mom.

      Meanwhile...

      A tall man appeared between Harvi and Miring, shimmering into existence through sheer will. He wore his golden hair long, combed and perfumed. His clothes were finely stitched and well cut. Red tunic and pale green pants. A wide leather belt circled his waist, and a quill made from a falcon’s feather was tucked into the belt.

      Harvi and Miring did not acknowledge his appearance, nor anything else. They were frozen in place, poised to begin their desperate fight to the death, just waiting for the puppeteer to tug on the strings again.

      A slight smile touched the tall man’s deep blue eyes, and he snapped his fingers.

      A draft moved through the room, and as it passed the other two occupants released a held breath. Their exchanged glares shifted to the tall man. Then Harvi smiled grimly and inclined his head slightly.

      Miring hissed and nearly leaped behind his throne, his hands in front of him

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