Scribe of Destiny
by Paul Barrett & Steve Murphy
Genre
Fantasy Comedy
Briar,
son of Patch, is perfectly happy working as a low-level scribe for
the Church of Ubel, spending his off time painting seascapes, walking
on the beach, and being alive.
That last one is put in
imminent danger when the Church hierarchy determines the god Ubel has
gone insane. A delegation is gathered to journey to the Oracle of
Hiephi so they can learn what must be done to cure the psychopathic
deity. Briar, very much against his will, must accompany the group,
ostensibly to chronicle the journey for inclusion in the official
Church archives.
During their adventures, horrific visions
of an angry, scowling teenager plague Briar, and he soon learns there
is a deeper, darker reason behind his inclusion in this insanely
dangerous quest.
Facing the likes of bloodthirsty pirates,
a bloodthirstier gnome talent agent, and The Slobbering Hound of
Chaos, Briar slowly, and oh so unwillingly, learns his place in the
world. He might even manage to become a hero. If he survives.
Standing at the top of the gangplank stood the ugliest and filthiest man I had ever seen. His clothing, black pantaloons and a red shirt with bloused sleeves, was so bedraggled as to be little more than threads held together by dirt, which covered his body in copious quantities. Long hair straggled from under a faded blue tri-corner hat with one corner missing, chopped off by a sword from the looks of it. His hair was the color of a rusted bucket, as was his scraggly, unkempt beard.
What few teeth he had left were capped in gold that had gone an orange hue of no metal known to man. A gray feathered bird, its quills mangy and tattered, sat on his shoulder. It must have been missing its right eye since a round piece of black cloth covered it, held on by colored bits of string knotted together and tied off around the creature’s head. The man stopped laughing long enough to speak, his voice the bray of a donkey with a sore throat. “Most people usually wait until they’re on the boat to heave their guts.”
“And most people can’t grow plants on their bodies,” I spat back, wishing for a swig of water.
“What does he mean by that, Cap’n?”
I wondered who he was talking to since no one else stood nearby, when the bird squawked and spoke. “He means you’re filthy. Brawk! And he’s right. Brawk! How someone who works around water all the time can end up looking like a walking mushroom farm is beyond me.”
I stared at the creature, flabbergasted. Except for the strange squawks, the creature’s voice was pleasant, something you would hear coming out of a professional bard, not a one-eyed bird. I wasn’t the only one stunned by this. Elder’s cherubic face gaped with slack-jawed astonishment, and Raith’s owlish eyes blinked in amazement. Most of the squires seemed puzzled, and I have no idea what the Paladins thought since their expressions were the blank faceplates of their helmets.
Only Lucifer seemed unfazed. “Greetings, Captain Shivers,” he said with a nod of his head.
“Brawk. Correction, good Paladin. Timbers. Captain Paulie Timbers.” He indicated the man on whose shoulder he sat with a light tap of his beak on the man’s hat. “He’s Shivers, me Timbers. Brawk!”
“My apologies,” Lucifer said. “I sometimes have trouble with names.”
“It’s true,” Raith said. “I’ve been his squire for six months, and he still doesn’t know mine.”
“Of course I do,” Lucifer said smoothly without turning away from the ship. “Your name is Squire Who Will Be Grooming the Other Paladins’ Horses Tonight.”
Raith frowned, and I felt rather than heard titters from the other squires.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain.”
“Brawk. Permission granted, good Paladin.”
Lucifer spun about on Justice and looked at his chapter. “ALL ABOARD!”
Several Paladins swayed, but none of them fell off their horses. Apparently, the brief trek in their helmets had returned them to a semblance of sobriety. I did notice several had large drops of sweat standing on the shoulder pieces of their armor.
The embarkation took some time. Lucifer supervised, since he insisted on being the last man on the ship. I’d like to think it had something to do with knightly chivalry, but I suspect it was to make sure I didn’t bolt.
First, all the Paladins had to dismount. Gravity helped, but it gave too much assistance to a few of the more inebriated, and their squires had to assist them in standing. With a disgusted look, Elder boarded during the chaos.
Once the Paladins boarded, sweating and huffing under their helmets, the squires led the horses up the gangplank. Many of the animals seemed reluctant to board—a feeling I shared—but with persistent tugging and a few choice words that drew reprimanding looks from Lucifer, the stubborn equines were soon aboard. Justice, of course, practically led Raith up in his eagerness to do his master’s bidding. Pony followed without urging, nipping lovingly at the larger horse’s tail.
Shivers wasn’t the only one amused by my dockside performance. By the time I boarded, next to last, with Lucifer all but pushing Number Two up the gangplank, most of the crew had heard about my weak stomach and gathered on deck to see me, pointing and giggling. The crew was surprisingly young, many not much older than me and several a few years younger. Things seemed a little more promising; I had no friends in Frostishak, and this appeared a prime opportunity to make some. I hadn’t made a good first impression, but I could overcome that with charm and intelligence.
Shivers ended that fantasy. “All hands, welcome aboard Pukeboy.”
Steve Murphy has spent much of his life in uniform, starting with four years in the Navy,
then a stint in the Army National Guard, followed by 23 years as a police officer, 9 of those as a SWAT sniper.
So naturally, he writes science fiction, fantasy, and space opera. This is his third novel, with several more in the works with Paul. In addition to writing, Steve has also worked as a consultant and set decorator for the film industry. Steve is an outdoor enthusiast who enjoys camping, backpacking, whitewater, sailing and motorcycle riding. The father of two boys, now grown men, Steve lives somewhere in North Carolina with his wife and two dogs.
Paul Barrett has had multiple careers, including rock and roll roadie, theater stage manager, mortgage banker, and support specialist for Microsoft Excel.
This eclectic mix allowed him to go into his true love: motion picture production. He has produced two feature films (Cold Storage and Night Feeders) and two documentaries (The Final Gift, In the Footsteps of Elie Wiesel.) When not producing films, he works
as a script supervisor or props assistant. Amidst all this, Paul worked on his writing. This is his fifth novel, with more on the way. Paul is an avid board gamer, miniatures painter, movie enthusiast, and all-around nerd.
Paul lives in North Carolina with his graphic designer husband and four furry overlords, aka cats.
Paul and Steve have been friends since 1980, enduring the rough and tumble of life through thick and thin.ince 1980,
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