Thonn awoke to a murmur of voices and the ring of steel on stone. He opened one eye and studied the wall with detachment. It would keep the oafs out for at least a day, and he could always use a fireball after that. He glanced up at the thatched roof, then across at the open window. "True to form," he muttered, as the picks fell silent.
"Thonn! Thonn lad, are you all right?"
"Fine, thanks," he called back. He swallowed. His voice had come out like a bass roar, not his usual adolescent squeak. He was hungry, too, as if he hadn't eaten for days. Quickly he gestured to summon food, and as he wolfed it down he kept one ear on the rattling stones and ringing blows from the men working on the wall. Then he leapt up, pushed the shutters open and vaulted over the window sill.
Inside the house, the men looked hot. Ben de Iron had the big hammer out - the one which usually hung in the Boar's Arms above the 'pay first' sign. He was really going for it, raining blow after blow on the splintered stone, his shoulders bunched and slick with sweat.
Thonn's father was sitting in the corner, his face heavy with concern. His mother was lying on a pile of skins. His sister was watching Ben.
Breathing heavily, the blacksmith stepped back from the wall and handed the hammer to Thonn's father. Thonn felt a pang of guilt. Not only had he put the wall there in the first place, he was now the subject of a serious rescue effort.
"Hi dad!" he said brightly. The noise stopped instantly, broken only by Ben's hoarse panting. Puzzled glances were thrown at the wall, then at Thonn, then back at the wall.
"Where did you come from?" demanded Ben, in a deep, booming voice.
"Through the window, Ben," said Thonn in a voice just as deep and even more booming.
"Dom's Left Testicle, that's a man's voice you have there, lad!" cried Ben, deepening his voice and speaking as loud as he could without yelling his tits off.
"Thank You!" said Thonn, putting some effort into it. The stone wall crumbled under the blast, and Ben was hurled bodily through the falling rubble by a raging hurricane.
"Magick!" shrieked a thin voice.
Thonn turned to crush the old crone who was pounding him with her frail fists. He raised a hand to blast her, then reeled as a heavy blow landed on the back of his head. Dazed, he fell to the stone floor, where he was rapidly and expertly bound. He opened his mouth to cast the most terrible spell in his arsenal just as a dirty, wadded ball of fabric was rammed in.
"Search him," said Ben, his voice cracking.
Thonn struggled as hands delved into his loincloth. Suddenly he felt weak, drained.
"Perlstone!" said a voice. "No wonder!"
Thonn saw Eddie de Elder examining the shard of stone that had cut his foot the day before.
"Mmmmm," he said, outraged at the treatment.
Eddie looked down at him, shaking his head. "I caught him in the woods behind my place yesterday, reading some old parchments. Who knows what devilment they contained."
"MMMMMMUCK MMMOU," managed Thonn, outraged. "MMMMM!"
"Quite mad," said Eddie. "I hereby declare that no man, woman or child shall remove Thonn's gag until the light of madness has passed from his eyes."
The townsfolk nodded wisely. An Elder had spoken, and the Elder's word was law. While they were nodding and looking impressed, Eddie slipped the perlstone into his own pocket. With that and the book, he had everything he needed to rule the ignorant savages. His fingers tightened on the stone, and he felt a sting as it cut him.
"By the nine hells!" he shouted, and his deep, booming voice brought the rest of the house down on their heads.
About the author
Simon Haynes was born in England and grew up in Spain, where he enjoyed an amazing childhood of camping, motorbikes, mateship, air rifles and paper planes. His family moved to Australia when he was 16.
From 1986 to 1988 Simon studied at Curtin University, where he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Film, Creative Writing and Literature.
Simon returned to Curtin in 1997, graduating with a degree in Computer Science two years later. An early version of Hal Spacejock was written during the lectures.
Simon has four Hal Spacejock novels and several short stories in print. Sleight of Hand won the Aurealis Award (short fiction) in 2001, and Hal Spacejock: No Free Lunch was a finalist in both the Ditmar and Aurealis Awards for 2008.
Simon divides his time between writing fiction and computer software, with frequent bike rides to blow away the cobwebs.
His goal is to write fifteen Hal books (Spacejock OR Junior!) before someone takes his keyboard away.
Simon's website is https://www.spacejock.com.au
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