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Last edited 02 Dec 2001 02:45 PM

ToC
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The orc chieftain, Grazhnakh, strode to the front of his mangy crew. "I, Grazhnakh! I challenge you, weakling elf! I will use your skull as a chamber pot, and your woman will weep at her cruel fate!"

"Elrohil, no!" Aliadra exclaimed, her slender body trembling within its diaphonous gown. "He'll kill you!"

Elrohil's piercing grey eyes took in the formidable bulk of the orc chieftain. "No," he said, in the secret language of the elves, for her pointed ears only. "No, my love, he shall not. For the heritage of the Hidden Kingdom of Zindel, and for your sake, I cannot let him."

He turned to her, drinking in her beauty. "Our love was written on the Western Winds by Mileriel of the Nine Stars. It cannot end here. I will not let it."

Elrohil turned back to the orcs, then, and took the Staff of Wizards in his pale, long-fingered hands, and laid it down on the greensward. He drew the slender blade which had been at his side since he was orphaned during the great Orcish Wars of the Fourth Era. He held the blade high, its elvish steel rippling with a thousand dazzling colors as its tip pointed directly between Grazhnakh's eyes. "Have at you, then."

"Oh my God," Tommy Mayerik moaned, leaning back from the keyboard. "That is really, really, awful." He shook his head, then closed the window, clicking a distinct "No" to the inquiry about whether he wanted to save his work.

He considered working on one of the other six novels he had in the hopper. He was sure that he had an idea to get around that problem in the Babylon 5 novel he'd been working on for three years. Aside from the problem of getting Joe Straczynski to return his phone calls. I know the first draft of that chapter sucked. But wait until he sees the finished product.

Yeah, he can see a whole novel that sucks.

He looked around the room. It really shouldn't bother him that his attempts to write were so ... dubious in their result. After all, look around.

Behind him -- actually taking up half the room -- was a set of work benches. He had a dozen gadgets in mid-assembly there, including some he hoped would -- make things better. Even as he glanced that way, he heard the small, powerful furnace-oven baking some ceramic pieces that would be necessary for the insulation --

To his right was a window with a view of the city -- and of Central Park -- that most people would give their eye teeth for. Being the heir to a large fortune made that relatively easy.

To his left was the door into the hall, and to the rest of the condominium. Not that he ever spent much time there. Maybe sitting in the kitchen, thinking. Or watching TV. But most of his time -- especially these days -- he spent in here, in the "library," as it had been before he moved in. Tinkering. Writing. Looking out the window. It's an all-in-one room. Maybe I should sub-lease the rest.

By that door, there was a trophy case. "From a Grateful City," read large bronzed key. Boston? No, Philly. The Underworlders. Various medallions with ribbons of different colors. A little clay figurine of Tommy which a fourth grader on Long Island had made and glazed and fired. In some ways, he thought that was the best thing there.

And there were pictures, all around him, framed on the wall. Tommy shaking hands with President Clinton. Tommy on the USS Enterprise (the aircraft carrier, that is), after the Spid'rix War, shaking hands with the captain. Tommy standing on top of Mount Everest, shaking hands with a yeti. Tommy and the rest of the Big Heroes running into battle. That was right after he joined, when Captain Zap was still with them, before Cap's wife was killed. Tommy on top of a tank, some sort of huge, outlandish gun in his hand. I never did quite work out the kinks on that one. But it did the job for a few minutes. Tommy in a posed picture with the rest of the team, again right after he joined, smiling, sandy-brown hair behaving itself for once, blue eyes twinkling, rosy cheeks being rosy, in that awful black and yellow leather thing that Zap's wife had suggested, standing there grinning like an idiot at the camera.

Man, I was so young, then, he thought to himself. It had been only four -- no, five years now. Before Rococo joined, and Iris, before the Link had come and gone, and while the Ruby Spirit was still deciding whether to continue with the team, or move on to "the next plane of existence."

Wish I'd thought to go with you, Tommy thought, and rolled his wheelchair back from his desk.

* * *