The Singular Six
By J. S. Volpe
Copyright © 2012 J. S. Volpe
All rights reserved
Cover: Main image: File licensed by www.depositphotos.com/Veneratio
For Betsy
CONTENTS
Title
Copyright
Dedication
1. Sweetwater
2. The Old Castle
3. Research Lab B
4. The Field of Colored Cubes
5. Happyvale
6. Boko Zafendo
7. The Badlands
8. The Storage Tank
9. Yoyodyne (Outside)
10. Yoyodyne (Inside)
11. The Arena
12. The Road Home
Also by J. S. Volpe
Chapter 1
Sweetwater
1
A hush fell over the Sweetwater market as an RV pulled by eight draft horses rattled to a stop in front of the Quartered Orc Tavern.
The RV was thirty feet long and had been adapted for travel in this mostly pavement- and fossil fuel-free post-Cataclysm world: The engine, exhaust system, and all other now-useless components had been removed; a draw pole and swingletrees attached; the windshield taken out so the horses’ reins could pass through to the front seat; and the old axles and wheels replaced with sturdy oaken ones reinforced with iron bands.
But no one spared the RV more than a passing glance. Instead, all eyes were fixed on the horses. Horses had been rare in these parts ever since the orc invasion a few years back, during which the orcs had seized every horse they could find (not to ride, but to eat). Nowadays, owning one was seen as a sign of either blessedness or bastardliness.
Heads craned as the RV’s doors opened. The dust and mud that covered the vehicle indicated it had come a long way, and given how dangerous the roads were, with beasts and bandits as common as sparrows, everyone expected the RV’s occupants to be mighty warriors, or mages, or mutants with fantastic powers.
Thus everyone was surprised when two young women who at first glance appeared perfectly normal climbed out. A second glance, however, showed they weren’t perfectly normal after all, for while the women were dressed somewhat differently—one with a green cloak, one with a black one; one with white sneakers, one with black leather boots—they were otherwise identical: same brown hair, same brown eyes, same face, same physique. Whether this marked them as twins, clones, robots, or something else, no one knew. But it was intriguing. Or worrying, depending on one’s basic temperament.
While the black-cloaked woman reached back into the RV and pulled out an olive messenger bag, the green-cloaked one turned and eyed the crowd that filled the market in the town square. Not wanting to be caught staring by this possibly puissant entity, everyone swiftly returned to their business.
The black-cloaked woman slung the bag over her shoulder, and the women entered the market. They examined each seller’s wares in turn, making no move to trade until they had seen the whole range of goods on display, most of which had been scrounged from the countless pre-Cataclysm ruins that dotted the landscape. The low wooden tables were crowded with clothes, toys, wishing stones, canteens, dentures, holocubes, cookware, books. Here and there were rarer, and thus much pricier, items. On one table otherwise occupied by grimy dolls was a broken Chen-Chen X55 Laser Pistol that could probably be fixed by someone with the right knowledge. One old woman had a plastic replica of a human head that spoke an unknown language in a deep, resonant voice when you pressed a button behind its right ear. Fat Harvey, the shrewdest trader around, had a pair of ornamental daggers, one’s hilt set with a large ruby, the other’s with an emerald. Bingo Burberry, one of Sweetwater’s small halfling community, was offering, in addition to his usual selection of delicious home-made cheeses and top-quality home-grown pipeweed, a black leather doctor’s bag containing various medical supplies: a stethoscope, band-aids, gauze, a syringe, antibiotic ointment, and, most precious of all, Cipro.
It was this last table and this last item to which the two women returned after their circuit of the market. Practically everyone in the area had had their eyes on the doctor’s bag ever since Bingo first offered it for trade three months ago, after he found it in some weeds next to a cluster of thriving tanglevines in the depths of which could be seen a modest black coat, a pair of spectacles, and a grinning skull. But Bingo’s asking price was far too high: Seven sacks of grain was something no one could afford to part with. As time passed and it remained untraded, everyone figured he would lower his price, but he didn’t, insisting that someday someone would need it badly enough to pay up. Now, it seemed, that day had come.
“How much for the bag and its contents?” asked the woman in the green cloak.
“Seven sacks of the best grain or the like,” Bingo said in a cool, even voice that made it clear the price was non-negotiable.
The women looked at each other. The one in the green cloak nodded. The black-cloaked one reached into her bag and pulled out a shiny silver cylinder.
“We can give you an atomic flashlight,” she said.
Those nearby, who had been surreptitiously watching this exchange, now gasped. Though few had ever seen one, word had it that atomic flashlights worked forever, unlike the battery-operated ones, which were now no more than fancy clubs, their batteries having gone dead in the fifteen years since the Cataclysm.
Bingo, though equally awestruck, maintained a mask of professional cool.
“Let me see it,” he said.
She gave it to him. He pressed a button halfway up its shaft, squinted into the bright light that shone from the clear plastic head, then switched it off and examined it closely, turning it this way and that. Unlike most of those present, he had seen an atomic flashlight before.
When he had determined to his satisfaction that it was the real thing, he smiled and said, “Well, now. I think we have a—”
Somewhere in the distance a woman let out a long, shrill scream. It stopped with jarring suddenness, and a cacophony of hoofbeats flooded into the silence where it had been. Shouts rose up from the next street over.
“What’s going on?” said the woman in the black cloak.
Bingo shook his head. “I don’t know. Probably more—”
A mechanical whir rose above the shouts and hoofbeats. Bingo’s eyes went wide.
“It’s them!”
“What? Who?”
Before he could answer, two young men on hoverboards—large metal antigravity skateboards—shot out from behind the one-room schoolhouse on the west side of the square. The taller of the two men was skinny and pale, with wide rubbery lips and spiky black hair. He wore scruffy blue jeans, sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a white A in a circle on it. The other man, who was dressed much more conservatively in black shoes, gray slacks, and a white shirt with even the collar buttoned, had lank greasy hair, glasses thicker than Coke-bottle bottoms, and a perpetual scowl. They streaked toward the crowd, their boards glinting silver in the sun and kicking up clouds of dust as they glided a foot above the ground.
“Who are they?” asked the woman in the black cloak.
“Skippy and Oscar, two of the Marauders,” said the halfling, his voice cracking with panic. “We must flee.”
He snatched the atomic flashlight and, leaving everything else, dashed away.
Behind him, dozens more Marauders poured into the square, some on foot, some on horseback, all of them brandishing swords, or knives, or spears, or other weapons. Their ranks included Johnny Circumcision, a bug-eyed, bristle-haired psychopath with shiny silver coveralls and a pair of hedge-clippers in place of hands; Klaus von Klaus, wh
o wore full Nazi regalia…and full make-up, including rouge, eyeliner, and Cherry Alive lipstick; the Cardiac Kid, a hooting, hollering, constantly drunk young man who always wore a Cleveland Browns helmet and a jersey numbered 8; Droke, a leathery-skinned creature with vestigial wings on its back and a pair of large white bull-horns sprouting from the sides of its misshapen head; Tricky Dick, a short wiry fellow in a black three-piece suit and a rubber Richard Nixon mask, the nose of which was shaped like a long, thick, upturned penis; Hairy Harry, a grizzled biker whose hirsute beer belly ballooned out between his black leather vest and his winged skull belt buckle; Schweeliski, a tall, blonde, rail-thin spaz in an Izod shirt and Dockers who had a thing for knives and kittens; Big Red, a massive, mead-soaked Viking, complete with horned helmet, two-headed battle-axe, and lice-ridden beard; and then there was the Grottle…
Seven-and-a-half feet of solid muscle, with completely hairless skin the yellow of rich butter and teeth so stained and pitted they looked like chunks of pumice, the Grottle resembled no known species or type of monster. It wore gray pants and a gray shirt both of which were so filthy and tattered they looked as if it had crawled out of its grave in them. Its “boots” were strips of similarly filthy and tattered gray cloth wound round and round its huge, splayed feet until they were so thickly padded the Grottle could stalk across a sheet-metal floor without a sound. Unlike the rest of the Marauders, it never used a horse or a hoverboard or any other mode of transport; instead it loped along on its thick legs, never tiring, keeping perfect pace with the galloping horses. When the Marauders attacked a town, it beheaded men left and right with mighty sweeps of the long-handled shovel it carried everywhere it went. And as it committed its slaughter, its mammoth frame shuddered with its terrible laughter—“hurr hurr hurr!”—the only sound it ever made.
And so when the people of Sweetwater saw this gang of nightmares descending upon them, they ran. And when the severed heads started flying and the air shivered with screams, their run became a stampede.
The two women fled for their RV, but before they could travel far, Skippy and Oscar veered toward them, having singled them out as good breeding-stock. Oscar reached them first and with the ease born of much practice pulled the black-cloaked one into his arms, his board wobbling a moment with the excess weight then steadying itself.
The other woman crouched down as Skippy raced toward her, and then leaped to the side at the last moment, avoiding his groping hands by centimeters. He whirred past, casting a hateful glance over his shoulder at her as he went. Then he banked the board around for a second pass.
While he did that, she sprinted after her companion, who thrashed about in Oscar’s grasp as his board carried them toward the edge of town, where several Marauders were opening the wheeled, horse-drawn cages in which they transported the women and loot they captured back to their base.
The woman writhed free of his grip and thudded to the dusty street.
“Bitch,” Oscar said. He jerked his board to a halt, then backed up quickly before she could get to her feet. Instead of trying to bring her onto the board with him again, he grabbed the collar of her cloak and took off at full speed down the street, dragging her through the dust behind him.
“Maggie!” she called out to the other woman. “Help!”
“Anna!” cried Maggie.
A whir behind her heralded Skippy’s return. She stopped in the middle of the street and waited, listening to the approaching hoverboard, calculating its speed, its distance, all her possible responses, and once again she dodged at the last possible instant, only this time she threw out a leg, clipping Skippy across the shins and flinging him from his board. The board continued speeding down the street until it slammed into the side of a building that resembled a giant teapot, at which point its whir ceased and it clattered to the ground. Skippy rolled back and forth in the dust, groaning.
Maggie started to resume her pursuit of Anna, but skidded to a halt when Hairy Harry and the Cardiac Kid stepped into her path. Harry held a switchblade in one hand and a length of chain in the other. The Kid gripped a baseball bat with foot-long spikes driven through the end. They strode toward her, grinning, while behind them Oscar reached the edge of town. A pair of Marauders grabbed Anna and threw her into one of the cages, where she joined half a dozen other frightened young women.
Her eyes never straying from the two swiftly approaching Marauders, Maggie turned her head partway toward the RV, which stood about fifty feet behind her and to her left.
“Adam!” she shouted as loud as she could. “We could use a little help here!”
Immediately the vehicle wobbled, the rear end dipped slightly, and the back door flew open.
The being that emerged from the RV was so tall he had to bend nearly double to get through the doorway, and when he stood up to his full height and looked around for Maggie, the top of his head was nearly parallel with the RV’s roof. But it wasn’t just his height that made both the villagers and the Marauders gawp at him in awe and terror. His bulk was equally great: His broad chest strained against his gray cloak, and his fists were the size of hams. His skin was yellow—not the buttery yellow of the Grottle’s, but the dirty yellow of old parchment. A pair of watery, jaundiced eyes glistened in the midst of a face almost as wrinkled as a mummy’s. His narrow black lips were squeezed into a thin line. His hair was long and black and tied back with an incongruously dainty blue ribbon.
Most of the villagers saw only another monster, no different from the Grottle. A more well-read few recognized this being, and their terror was worse, for this was none other than Frankenstein’s Monster, the infamous creature cobbled together from bits of corpses and brought to life to wreak havoc on the innocent.
The Monster—Adam—looked around in search of Maggie, eyes skimming quickly over the horrified villagers as if he were inured to such reactions. When he spotted her, he stormed forward.
Seeing him as the primary threat, Hairy Harry and the Kid swerved past Maggie and ran to confront him. Once they had passed, Maggie squatted down and whipped a dagger from a sheath strapped to her calf. She charged after the duo.
“Look out, guys! Behind you!” It was Skippy. He had risen to his knees and was pointing a finger at Maggie as she closed in on them.
The Kid spun around, swinging his bat. Maggie barely leapt back in time. As it was, she felt the breeze of the bat’s passage on her face.
Meanwhile Hairy Harry confronted Adam. With a fierce cry, he thrust his knife at Adam’s stomach. Dodging back, Adam slapped Hairy Harry’s hand so hard it not only broke the biker’s wrist but sent the back of his hand smacking against his forearm. The knife clattered away.
Hairy Harry gaped at his ruined hand a moment. Then, snarling with rage and pain, he swung the chain at Adam. Before it could travel far, Adam’s fist shot out and smashed into Harry’s throat, collapsing his windpipe and fracturing two vertebrae.
Adam stepped over Hairy Harry’s dying, twitching body and stalked toward the Kid. The Kid glanced back over his shoulder, saw Adam approaching, and mumbled, “Fuckin’ Modell.”
The Kid lunged forward as if to attack Maggie. The moment she backed away, he spun around and swung the bat at Adam. With no time for finesse, Adam raised his left arm into the bat’s path, letting the spikes punch into the thick meat of his forearm. He swept his arm to the side, wrenching the bat from the Kid’s grasp, then sent his right fist hurtling into the Kid’s face.
The Browns helmet and the skull beneath it shattered like china under a steamroller. The Kid’s lifeless corpse sank to the dust.
“Decerebrate scum,” Adam said as he wiggled the spike-studded bat out of his forearm. He flung it away with a sneer of distaste.
“Are you all right?” he asked Maggie.
“They got Anna!” She pointed at the cages, which were now nearly full.
With a low growl, Adam charged past Maggie, past the corpses, past the overturned tables and the scattered wares.
Most of the bat
tles and bloodshed in the street had ended, and the majority of the Marauders were now converging on the cages at the edge of town, their job done. One of them saw Adam coming and alerted the others gathered there.
As Adam ran, his growl swelled into a roar. Even though he was still a good four hundred feet away, many of the Marauders unconsciously backed up. Those with more presence of mind locked the cages and drew their weapons.
As Adam passed a blacksmith’s shop, the Grottle burst from the front door and barreled toward Adam, shovel raised. Adam skidded to a halt and crouched down, arms spread, hands open, ready for the impending attack.
The Grottle swung the shovel so hard even Maggie, half a block away, heard the whistle as it streaked through the air straight at Adam’s neck. Adam blocked the shovel, grabbing its handle with one hand, while with the other he punched at the Grottle’s face. The Grottle tilted its head to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, then tore the shovel from Adam’s grip. Before it could draw the shovel back for another swing, Adam leaped, hoping to knock the Grottle down, but it spun out of Adam’s path with almost balletic grace, and Adam galumphed past, whirling his arms to keep his balance.
By the time he brought himself to a halt and turned around, the Grottle had raised its shovel for a second strike. A hideous grin cracked its yellow face. It clearly hadn’t had this much fun—this much challenge—in a long time.
It swung. Adam dodged, but not fast enough. The shovel sliced into the meat of his left deltoid with a chuck.
Teeth gritted against the pain, Adam took hold of the shovel before the Grottle could yank it away, and tried to pull it from the Grottle’s grasp.
He almost succeeded. The wooden handle slid several inches through the Grottle’s hands. The Grottle’s eyes widened with almost child-like alarm.
Then fury replaced the alarm, and eyes blazing, it threw all its strength into twisting the shovel free. Adam refused to give an inch. Veins bulged in his hands as he held the shovel in place. The Grottle twisted harder, harder.
Adam let go. The sudden lack of resistance sent the Grottle crashing to the ground.
Before Adam could press his advantage, a streak of orange light struck the street in front of him, sending up a shower of dirt and leaving a small scorched hole in the earth.
Adam realized that for the last few seconds the whine of a motor had been steadily approaching above and behind him. Cursing his inattention, he turned.
Flying over the top of the blacksmith’s was the Annihilator, the Marauders’ field leader, a sleek shark-like figure in high-tech battle armor with a jetpack on the back. The armor was silvery gray except for the gauntlets, boots, belt, and some ornamental designs on the helmet and breastplate, all of which were a green so dark it was almost black. The helmet had a pair of tinted shatterproof lenses, a pentagonal speaker/air filter over the mouth and nose, and a disk over each ear with an antenna sprouting from the top. A small laser-blaster extended from the back of the gauntlet on his right wrist, and as he descended toward the street, he carefully aimed it at Adam.
Adam sensed movement to his left. He couldn’t risk turning away from the Annihilator to look, but he knew what it was anyway: The Grottle had regained its feet and was moving in.
The Annihilator fired his blaster just as Adam made a run for the blacksmith’s. More scorched dirt sprayed up.
Adam’s path took him directly under the Annihilator, who was able to get in two more shots before he had to stop firing lest he shoot his own foot. Neither shot hit the target, and by the time the Annihilator had spun around in mid-air, Adam had disappeared into the shop.
The Annihilator landed in the middle of the street, face to the blacksmith’s, then bent forward at the waist until his upper body was parallel with the ground. It was only then that Maggie noticed a trio of slender red rockets protruding from the top of his jetpack.
“No!” she said.
Ignoring her, the Annihilator fired off a rocket. With a mechanical buzz, it streaked straight through the shop’s open doorway, leaving a trail of smoke behind it.
For a moment nothing happened, and Maggie had time to hope that the rocket had been a dud.
The shop exploded. The entire façade split down the center like a double doorway opening, then disintegrated into a rain of glass and wood and nails. The blast shattered the neighboring stores’ windows and made the bell in the bell tower above the town hall give off one dolorous clung.
Maggie stared in horror at the shattered shop. Through the smoke, all she could see were pale flames flickering among vague, shadowy debris.
The Annihilator turned to the Grottle and the handful of Marauders still in the street.
“We’re done here,” the Annihilator said, his voice low and tinny through the helmet’s speaker. “Let’s get moving.”
The Grottle cast a leering grin at the ruins of the blacksmith’s and then trotted toward the cages.
As the Marauders’ caravan thundered away, Anna pressed her face against the bars of the rearmost cage and stretched one arm outside.
“Maggie!” she shouted.
But Maggie could only watch as the Marauders, and Anna, vanished over the brow of a hill.
The moment they were out of sight, she ran toward the wreckage of the shop, but stopped when Adam raced out of a nearby alley, his cloak streaked with dirt and soot.
Maggie threw her arms around him.
“Thank goodness!” she said. “I thought you were still in there when that man blew it up.”
“Actually, I was. I had made it to the shop’s rear exit and was about to step through the doorway when everything went white around me. The explosion propelled me through the doorway, and I slammed into the back of the building across the alley behind the blacksmith’s. It took me a minute to regain my wits.” He glared in the direction the Marauders had departed. “A minute too long.”
By now the braver residents of Sweetwater had begun slinking from their hiding places—some to eye the monster, others to gather their spilled wares, still others to mourn their dead.
The door of the sheriff’s office flew open and a short man with a great round belly and a shaggy handlebar mustache tromped out. A silver badge gleamed upon his black vest. A revolver hung in a holster at his side.
He started to approach Adam and Maggie with the stern and implacable air of a cop, but as he got closer and Adam’s features grew clearer, his steps slowed and his eyes widened with dismay. He stopped about ten feet away and swallowed hard.
“You, sir,” he said to Adam. “What, uh, what are your intentions here in Sweetwater?” The sweat cascading down his face suggested that he thought Adam’s intentions were to pound law enforcement officers into greasy red pulp.
“My intentions had been to simply lie low in my wagon while my friends purchased certain items we required and then go on my way. Now, however, I must find a way to rescue one of those friends, since it appears that the job of sheriff in these lands does not involve protecting the lives and livelihoods of his charges—even when he is one of the fortunate few to carry a gun in these desperate times.”
Despite his fear, the sheriff scowled. “Now see here, if I’d of come out while those guys were attacking, they would’ve killed me quicker’n you can say ‘Pepperoni’! And I can’t very well protect the citizens if I’m dead, now can I?”
Adam rolled his eyes. “Your logic is impeccable. Now tell me who those men are and where they are taking Anna.”
Before the sheriff could answer, a middle-aged woman who stood four-foot-ten and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds came running down the street toward them.
“They took my baby!” she cried. “My Nala!”
The sheriff turned to her, grimacing as if he had been punched in the gut. “They took Nala?”
“They took most of the young women,” said a skinny bespectacled man as he strolled up to join the group. “Nala, Deirdre, Hari. And they killed about two dozen men.” The man gave Adam and Ma
ggie a nervous glance. “I’m Gus Firth, the, um…well, I guess I’m the mayor now.”
“What?” the sheriff said. “What happened to Mayor Depuesto?”
Firth jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a body halfway down the street. “He’s there. At least part of him is. We still don’t know where his head ended up.”
“Forget about that!” the woman said. “What are you going to do about Nala and the other girls?”
“Calm down, Rin,” the sheriff told her.
“This is all very tragic,” said Adam, “but I need to know where these men are heading so I can begin my pursuit.”
Rin looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, hope shining through her tears. “You’re going to get our girls back? Really?”
The sheriff now stared at Adam with surprise. “You are?”
Adam shook his head. “I never—”
“Of course he will,” Maggie interjected with a sweet smile. She turned to Adam. “Won’t you?” The raise of her eyebrows and the precise enunciation of each word told Adam that if he said “no,” he would be in for a very unpleasant future.
Adam looked at her in bewilderment. “I…suppose so.”
“Oh, thank you!” Rin threw her arms around Adam and sobbed with relief onto his belly.
“Rin!” said the sheriff. “How can you trust him? I mean, just look at him! He looks more like one of them than one of us.”
Rin broke away from Adam’s cloak and glared the sheriff. “He’s doing more than you ever did, Osquin O’Toole!”
“But…but look at him. We can’t trust his kind. After all our problems with the orcs…”
“I am no orc, or friend of orcs,” said Adam.
“Yeah, well, that don’t mean much,” the sheriff said. “Way I hear it, those bastards’ll eat their own kind if they get the chance.”
“I can assure you I have never eaten my own kind. Nor could I, for there are no others like me in all the world. Now for the final time, who are these men, and where are they are going? If we hurry, we might be able to catch up with them before they travel too far.”
“And how do you propose to do that, exactly?” the sheriff said with a knowing, almost smug smile.
“We have an old vehicle with horses…” He trailed off, only now noticing that at some point during the battle one of the Marauders had cut the horses loose from the RV and taken off with them. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the way people do when they’re trying hard to keep their temper in check. “I do not suppose you have any horses or mules we could use?”
“The Marauders took the only horses we had,” Firth said. “And as for mules, well, a few people have mules, but there’s no way they’ll just give ‘em away. You’ll have to either trade or buy. And it won’t be cheap.”
“I see. And what of the Marauders? How do I find them?”
Firth shrugged. “No one knows exactly where their base is except that it’s at least a few days’ journey west, in the least populated and most dangerous part of Erizan.”
“Erizan, then, is the name of this land?” said Adam.
Firth eyed him with fascination. “How far have you traveled?”
Adam glanced at Maggie, clearly at a loss.
“We’ve been traveling for three months now,” she said. “We must have covered at least three hundred miles.”
Firth whistled. “Which way’ve you been traveling?”
“West. Due west.”
He nodded. “Well, if you want the Marauders, you can just keep heading that way. But west’s bad. Real bad. No one heads west. Heck, when we were having all the trouble with the orcs a few years back, even the orcs wouldn’t go into the west country. It’s—” He shook his head. “Sometimes folks head that way, and none of them ever come back. The Marauders’re the only ones crazy enough to live there.”
“What is there that is so terrible?”
“Dunno. Like I said, no one who heads that way ever comes back to tell about it. But you gotta figure, since hardly anyone lives or travels that way, the monsters’ve gotta be thicker than weeds. And I don’t know what it was like where you come from, but the monsters we’ve had around here make the Marauders look like kittens. We’ve had spiders as big as horses. We’ve had black rubbery flying things that ate people—someone named ‘em ‘night gaunts’ and the name kinda fits. We had a little flying metal ball that shot death rays. Heck, we even had a friggin’ dinosaur.”
“Stegosaurus,” said Rin. “It—” Suddenly her eyes lit up. “Oh! The robot!”
“What?” Maggie said. “What robot?”
Rin grabbed the sheriff’s shoulder, her face beaming with excitement. “The robot said it came from the west.”
“What are you talking about?” Adam said.
The sheriff snorted and said, “A week ago this damnable robot showed up in town and started annoying everyone with all this babble about somethin’ called ‘sicko analysis.’ It wasn’t hurtin’ anyone and didn’t seem like it would, so we let it stay. Which might’ve been a mistake. There’re times I’d love to smash the gabby little bastard to pieces.”
“Speak for yourself,” Rin said. “I think he’s rather charming. But the thing is, he passed through the west country on his way here, so he knows the terrain. He might even know where the Marauders live.”
“Where is this robot now?” Adam asked.
Rin looked around the square and up and down the streets leading off it.
“I saw him talking to some folks a few minutes before the Marauders attacked,” she said. “I hope he hasn’t been killed. I’ll hunt around for him, and if I find him, I’ll point him your way. He’ll be only too happy to help. He always is.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said. “We would appreciate that.”
The sheriff smiled. “So would I. That way the stupid pile of junk can go annoy someone else for a while.”