Post by figgsthepirate on Aug 13, 2011 4:27:33 GMT 10
Title: Back to the Future - An Unusual Patrol
Rating : PG
Prompt: Disguise (#15)
Word Count: 1,309
Summary (and any Warnings): Beka, Tunstall, and Goodwin find more than troublemakers while patrolling Nightmarket. Spoilers for Terrier.
Notes: Finally jumping on the Tortall/Beka Cooper crossover bandwagon. Takes place shortly after "Terrier." I'm posting here because I was on vacation this week sans internet access; I wrote the prompts, but couldn't post them, so I'm sticking them here since the Countdown stories are going to be moved here eventually.
>>>>>>>>>>
Excerpt from the journal of Rebakah Cooper, Trainee Guardswoman of Jane Street Kennel
We were patrolling the edge of Nightmarket when we heard the commotion. To any of the mots or coves passing by, it was hardly noticeable; but for two experienced Dogs and their Puppy, it was as plain as if the Black God had tapped us on the shoulder. Goodwin and Tunstall exchanged the briefest of looks. She crooked a finger.
“Puppy, stay.”
I deflated slightly, but obeyed. Whether or not I’d hobbled the Shadow Snake, I was still a Puppy, and I still was expected to follow orders. I fell back, taking the ready position to one side of the alley mouth, legs braced and baton out as my Dogs advanced. One ear I kept trained behind us, ready for a trap. The other I strained forward, listening intently for the sounds of the scuffle I was sure I’d hear.
Torchlight flickered, and Tunstall’s voice rapped out, “In the King’s name! Stand and be recognized.”
A crash followed as someone – tall and thin, by the shadow the cast against the bricks – toppled forward, completely sacked.
Tunstall sighed. “Clary, what have I told you about dealing out nap taps willy-nilly, eh?”
A muffled thud as Goodwin kicked him. “Hold your poxy tongue, Mattes. I didn’t even touch the man.”
Behind me, from the direction of Nightmarket, a shadow peeled away from the wall. I kept my eyes on it until I saw the gleaming sword hilt and recognized the swagger.
“Fine night for a stroll,” Lady Sabine remarked, entirely innocent.
“Milady,” I acknowledged, and held me tongue. I knew better than to get distracted from my duties.
“Cooper!” That was Goodwin. “Heel.”
I trotted forward obediently, Lady Sabine an elegant, deadly shadow behind me. Pounce was nowhere to be seen, but he was always coming and going during patrol. Seeing the lady knight, Goodwin nodded curtly before turning her full attention back to the source of the trouble.
The fallen man was sprawled on the ground between my Dogs. In the dimness of the flickering torchlight it was hard to tell, but I thought he wore black velvet. It matched his blue-black hair, long and tied back in a horsetail. A silver ring set with jet glittered on one out-stretched hand. With his face in the dirt it was hard to tell, but his build and clothing suggested a man in his middle years. Regardless, he was incapacitated, and therefore of less concern. I turned my attention to the other men, thinking them to be rushers who had jumped the poor fool for his bauble. I immediately corrected my assumption.
The younger of the two I placed at twenty-eight, perhaps twenty-seven. The worry-lines carved between his high-arching brows made it difficult to tell. His angled eyes were a startling green in the darkness, blazing out of a pale face framed by dark hair falling from a widow’s peak. He was a noble for certain with those fine-cut clothes, a knight with that naked longsword in his hand, and probably a mage from the glints of green-black fire that swirled around the blade.
“Stay back,” he said now, a smooth tenor with a hint of accent. A cut above his eye trickled blood down his temple. That, combined with the wildness in his eyes, made him up to be more than a little cracked.
“Easy,” Tunstall placated, hands out to show his baton was tucked safely in his belt. Of course, there were knives in his arm guards, but the mage-knight didn’t need to know that. “We’re Dogs. We keep the peace, we don’t break it. If you’re law-abiding, you have nothing to fear from us.”
“Dogs?” This was the other man. He was easier to place. Mid-forties, built like a mountain, with sloe-black eyes and tightly curled black hair. His clothes were plainer than the first man’s, but no less well-made. His sword was sheathed, but his hand rested on the hilt as he stood with legs slightly bent, a threatened bear against the alley wall. His voice was a deep rumble in his chest as he growled, “Guardsmen haven’t been called Dogs for nearly half a century.”
Sabine, my Dogs, and I exchanged glances. They were both cracked then, and armed knights besides. We were going to have to tread carefully.
Suddenly, the man at our feet groaned and began to stir. The younger man sheathed his blade and knelt immediately, heedless of Goodwin’s warning growl. “Master Numair? Are you alright?”
With the mage-knight’s help, the thin man slowly sat upright. He was gray-faced and trembling, but alive. “As well –” he stopped to cough “– as well as can be expected.” He patted himself down as if surprised to find himself all in one piece. “We’re alive. Mithros be praised.” He blinked owlishly up at us, frowning. “But where are we?”
Lady Sabine stepped forward now, brown eyes sharp as she stared the giant down. “You’re both knights, but I don’t recognize either of you,” she said, hand flexing over her own sword hilt. “Are you from Tortall?” Her words were polite enough, but the tone was not.
The giant drew himself to his full height, which was considerable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tunstall set himself for defense, feet moving subtly over the cobbles. The giant spoke. “I am Lord Sir Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak, Knight-Commander of the King’s Own of Tortall.” One black eyebrow rose in challenge. “And you?”
Her lips twitched, though to smile or snarl I wasn’t sure. “Lady Knight Sabine of Macayhill.”
The mage-knight sighed suddenly, breaking the nobles’ posturing. “I thought Kel said you were intelligent, milord. Has it not occurred to you that we might not want to reveal our names until we know a little more about where we are?”
Lord Raoul scowled, but it was half-hearted. “I thought Alanna would have taught you some manners. Apparently I was wrong.”
The thin velvet man, Master Numair, was looking less muddled with each passing moment. He shook his head slowly, drawing his companions’ attention back to him. “The question may not be ‘where’ or much as ‘when,’ Nealan,” he mused, twisting the ring absently with the opposite hand. “I think it can be surmised that the spell went awry – very, very awry.”
Goodwin was tapping her baton with her fingers, always a bad sign. “When you gentlemen have quite finished…”
The green-eyed cove stood and brushed off his breeches before bowing masterfully. “Madam Guardswoman, forgive us. Since the game is up, allow me to introduce us. I am Sir Nealan of Queenscove, healer-mage and knight of the Realm of Tortall. That lug there with the big sword you know. This unfortunate fellow,” and he nudged the third cove, who seemed unaware of the dirt and street-scummer on his face and clothing, “is Numair Salmalín, the greatest mage of his time. Or our time, rather.”
Tunstall raised disbelieving brows. “He doesn’t look all that great right now.”
Sir Nealan grimaced. “No. Traveling through time will do that to a fellow.”
“Hold on half a second.” This was Lord Raoul, a wrinkle of confusion appearing on his brow and dampening his fearsome appearance considerably. “We traveled through time? How in the name of Horse-Lords is that possible? It was a bloody scrying spell, not traveling, or did I miss the memo?”
“If there was a memo, we all missed it,” Sir Nealan assured him. He glanced around at us again. “Can I ask the date, Guardswoman?” he asked me politely, clearly not recognizing my Puppy trim.
I glanced at Tunstall, who nodded. “July eighteenth, 246.”
Lord Raoul’s eyes popped. “Mithros witness,” he breathed, sketching an unfamiliar Sign on his chest. “Two hundred and twenty years?”
Sir Nealan groaned. “Alanna is going to kill me.”
Rating : PG
Prompt: Disguise (#15)
Word Count: 1,309
Summary (and any Warnings): Beka, Tunstall, and Goodwin find more than troublemakers while patrolling Nightmarket. Spoilers for Terrier.
Notes: Finally jumping on the Tortall/Beka Cooper crossover bandwagon. Takes place shortly after "Terrier." I'm posting here because I was on vacation this week sans internet access; I wrote the prompts, but couldn't post them, so I'm sticking them here since the Countdown stories are going to be moved here eventually.
>>>>>>>>>>
Excerpt from the journal of Rebakah Cooper, Trainee Guardswoman of Jane Street Kennel
We were patrolling the edge of Nightmarket when we heard the commotion. To any of the mots or coves passing by, it was hardly noticeable; but for two experienced Dogs and their Puppy, it was as plain as if the Black God had tapped us on the shoulder. Goodwin and Tunstall exchanged the briefest of looks. She crooked a finger.
“Puppy, stay.”
I deflated slightly, but obeyed. Whether or not I’d hobbled the Shadow Snake, I was still a Puppy, and I still was expected to follow orders. I fell back, taking the ready position to one side of the alley mouth, legs braced and baton out as my Dogs advanced. One ear I kept trained behind us, ready for a trap. The other I strained forward, listening intently for the sounds of the scuffle I was sure I’d hear.
Torchlight flickered, and Tunstall’s voice rapped out, “In the King’s name! Stand and be recognized.”
A crash followed as someone – tall and thin, by the shadow the cast against the bricks – toppled forward, completely sacked.
Tunstall sighed. “Clary, what have I told you about dealing out nap taps willy-nilly, eh?”
A muffled thud as Goodwin kicked him. “Hold your poxy tongue, Mattes. I didn’t even touch the man.”
Behind me, from the direction of Nightmarket, a shadow peeled away from the wall. I kept my eyes on it until I saw the gleaming sword hilt and recognized the swagger.
“Fine night for a stroll,” Lady Sabine remarked, entirely innocent.
“Milady,” I acknowledged, and held me tongue. I knew better than to get distracted from my duties.
“Cooper!” That was Goodwin. “Heel.”
I trotted forward obediently, Lady Sabine an elegant, deadly shadow behind me. Pounce was nowhere to be seen, but he was always coming and going during patrol. Seeing the lady knight, Goodwin nodded curtly before turning her full attention back to the source of the trouble.
The fallen man was sprawled on the ground between my Dogs. In the dimness of the flickering torchlight it was hard to tell, but I thought he wore black velvet. It matched his blue-black hair, long and tied back in a horsetail. A silver ring set with jet glittered on one out-stretched hand. With his face in the dirt it was hard to tell, but his build and clothing suggested a man in his middle years. Regardless, he was incapacitated, and therefore of less concern. I turned my attention to the other men, thinking them to be rushers who had jumped the poor fool for his bauble. I immediately corrected my assumption.
The younger of the two I placed at twenty-eight, perhaps twenty-seven. The worry-lines carved between his high-arching brows made it difficult to tell. His angled eyes were a startling green in the darkness, blazing out of a pale face framed by dark hair falling from a widow’s peak. He was a noble for certain with those fine-cut clothes, a knight with that naked longsword in his hand, and probably a mage from the glints of green-black fire that swirled around the blade.
“Stay back,” he said now, a smooth tenor with a hint of accent. A cut above his eye trickled blood down his temple. That, combined with the wildness in his eyes, made him up to be more than a little cracked.
“Easy,” Tunstall placated, hands out to show his baton was tucked safely in his belt. Of course, there were knives in his arm guards, but the mage-knight didn’t need to know that. “We’re Dogs. We keep the peace, we don’t break it. If you’re law-abiding, you have nothing to fear from us.”
“Dogs?” This was the other man. He was easier to place. Mid-forties, built like a mountain, with sloe-black eyes and tightly curled black hair. His clothes were plainer than the first man’s, but no less well-made. His sword was sheathed, but his hand rested on the hilt as he stood with legs slightly bent, a threatened bear against the alley wall. His voice was a deep rumble in his chest as he growled, “Guardsmen haven’t been called Dogs for nearly half a century.”
Sabine, my Dogs, and I exchanged glances. They were both cracked then, and armed knights besides. We were going to have to tread carefully.
Suddenly, the man at our feet groaned and began to stir. The younger man sheathed his blade and knelt immediately, heedless of Goodwin’s warning growl. “Master Numair? Are you alright?”
With the mage-knight’s help, the thin man slowly sat upright. He was gray-faced and trembling, but alive. “As well –” he stopped to cough “– as well as can be expected.” He patted himself down as if surprised to find himself all in one piece. “We’re alive. Mithros be praised.” He blinked owlishly up at us, frowning. “But where are we?”
Lady Sabine stepped forward now, brown eyes sharp as she stared the giant down. “You’re both knights, but I don’t recognize either of you,” she said, hand flexing over her own sword hilt. “Are you from Tortall?” Her words were polite enough, but the tone was not.
The giant drew himself to his full height, which was considerable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tunstall set himself for defense, feet moving subtly over the cobbles. The giant spoke. “I am Lord Sir Raoul of Goldenlake and Malorie’s Peak, Knight-Commander of the King’s Own of Tortall.” One black eyebrow rose in challenge. “And you?”
Her lips twitched, though to smile or snarl I wasn’t sure. “Lady Knight Sabine of Macayhill.”
The mage-knight sighed suddenly, breaking the nobles’ posturing. “I thought Kel said you were intelligent, milord. Has it not occurred to you that we might not want to reveal our names until we know a little more about where we are?”
Lord Raoul scowled, but it was half-hearted. “I thought Alanna would have taught you some manners. Apparently I was wrong.”
The thin velvet man, Master Numair, was looking less muddled with each passing moment. He shook his head slowly, drawing his companions’ attention back to him. “The question may not be ‘where’ or much as ‘when,’ Nealan,” he mused, twisting the ring absently with the opposite hand. “I think it can be surmised that the spell went awry – very, very awry.”
Goodwin was tapping her baton with her fingers, always a bad sign. “When you gentlemen have quite finished…”
The green-eyed cove stood and brushed off his breeches before bowing masterfully. “Madam Guardswoman, forgive us. Since the game is up, allow me to introduce us. I am Sir Nealan of Queenscove, healer-mage and knight of the Realm of Tortall. That lug there with the big sword you know. This unfortunate fellow,” and he nudged the third cove, who seemed unaware of the dirt and street-scummer on his face and clothing, “is Numair Salmalín, the greatest mage of his time. Or our time, rather.”
Tunstall raised disbelieving brows. “He doesn’t look all that great right now.”
Sir Nealan grimaced. “No. Traveling through time will do that to a fellow.”
“Hold on half a second.” This was Lord Raoul, a wrinkle of confusion appearing on his brow and dampening his fearsome appearance considerably. “We traveled through time? How in the name of Horse-Lords is that possible? It was a bloody scrying spell, not traveling, or did I miss the memo?”
“If there was a memo, we all missed it,” Sir Nealan assured him. He glanced around at us again. “Can I ask the date, Guardswoman?” he asked me politely, clearly not recognizing my Puppy trim.
I glanced at Tunstall, who nodded. “July eighteenth, 246.”
Lord Raoul’s eyes popped. “Mithros witness,” he breathed, sketching an unfamiliar Sign on his chest. “Two hundred and twenty years?”
Sir Nealan groaned. “Alanna is going to kill me.”