Torham Zed: Meat Broker By Jeff Long "I want a complete refund immediately!" Mathin Tanner almost screamed from where he was half standing. "That meat I bought from you was entirely rancid! And it had the consistency of shoe leather, to boot!" Torham Zed, sitting behind his heavy oak desk, did his best not to roll his eyes and sigh. Though they were essential for business, customers could be so tiresome sometimes. "It's not our fault if you left your meat out in the sun too long or something," Zed replied in a bored voice. His tone seemed to further enrage Mathin Tanner. "My wife started preparing that meat no less than an hour after I bought it! If your company doesn't give me a complete refund, I'll have the King's Defenders down on you so fast that . . . " "Very well, sir," Torham interrupted, "I'll have your refund sent down to you sometime tonight. Don't worry, I'll see to it personally." With a mumbled and still-angry thank you, Mathin Tanner turned on his heel and stalked out of Torham's office. As the door slammed shut, Torham led out an exasperated sigh. "Another one wanting a refund, sir?" asked a bearded man that had been lurking in the corner of the room. "Indeed, Graen," Torham replied slowly. "Some other fool thinking he should be getting top quality food." "Uh, sir," Graen hesitantly pointed out, "you know, we are called ‘Superfresh Meats'." "Bah Humbug!" Torham snarled angrily, banging his hand down on the table. "We import our meats from cheap-labor farms hundreds of leagues away! How is it supposed to be fresh?" Graen Ozbor just swallowed uncomfortably. "In any case," Torham Zed continued more smoothly, "I think that this man Tanner has to be . . . taken care of. An example, to show people that you don't complain about Superfresh Meats." The dark-haired man turned slowly to Ozbor. "Do you understand, Graen?" "Uhh . . . yes, Lord Zed. I'll make sure everything's taken care of." Graen Ozbor bowed hurriedly and scurried out of the room. Once he was gone, Torham Zed drummed his fingers on the table and smile softly to himself. Superfresh Meats, rancid indeed! This would teach those ignorant peasants a lesson they would not be quick to forget . . . * * * * * "How did it go, dear?" asked Kareen Tanner as her husband walked in the door and removed his leather boots. "I spoke to Lord Zed himself!" announced Mathin rather proudly. "He said he'd see to everything." Mathin strolled across the living room of his small log house and embraced his wife. "Well, you certainly seem in a better mood than when you left!" laughed Kareen. Gently, she broke her husband's embrace and went off toward the kitchen. "I'd better get some dinner on, the children must be starving. It'll just be potatoes and vegetables again, though, since we don't have any meat." "Anything sounds good to me," rumbled Mathin. "I think I'll just finish some work before dinner." A cobbler by trade, Mathin Tanner kept his work to the shed out back, which he kept firmly locked to keep any of the children from hurting themselves with his tools. Smiling to himself, he walked out to the back shed, watching in amusement as his two children attempted to wrestle the family dog, Ruffles, to the ground. Fumbling for a moment for his key, he unlocked the shed, and sat down at his bench to work, whistling all the while. * * * * * Under the cover of the falling darkness, a shadowy man crept quietly to the lighted window of the small log cabin. The man was of medium height, with a trim build, but he was obviously well-muscled and in prime physical condition. His ominous red eyes scanned the night around him and a red headband kept the man's jet-black hair from obscuring his vision. Across his bare chest he wore a baldric of wicked, slightly curved daggers. He moved as one with the darkness, as silently as a shadow across the grassy fields. The man's name was Jarod Nightwielder. Raising his face just enough to see through the window, the Nightwielder observed the family seated around the table. This must be the Tanner family, he mused to himself. They certainly fit the description that he had been given. Silently, he motioned for his men to come up the path. Five men emerged from the shadowed street, each one carrying a loaded crossbow. Stepping lightly and quietly, the sinister crew arrived at the Tanners' doorstep . . . * * * * * Mathin Tanner reached across the table for another helping of lima beans when the Tanner family heard a knock at the door. The knock was quickly followed by a call in a rough, guttural voice: "Singing telegram!!" "I'll handle it, dear," grumbled Mathin, rising to his feet. Pausing at the door, he picked up his old shovel. He then opened the door, and without really looking to see who it was, he slammed the shovel into the lead man's forehead. The goon tumbled backwards, and fell into three of his partners. Their crossbows went off, killing the first man instantly. However, the fifth thug, off to the side, managed to get a shot off that lodged itself in Mathin Tanner's throat. Gurgling blood with his last breath, the cobbler fell to the ground. "Bloody idiots!" Jarod Nightwielder cursed to himself. But before he could move in to take charge of the situation, the dog Ruffles practically flew out of the doorway, catching one of the men's throats between his shiny white teeth. The other three men tried to shoot the dog with their crossbows, but all they managed to do was to plug their fallen companion as the agile canine swiftly evaded every shot. One of the men even managed to shoot himself in the foot. Jarod Nightwielder snarled in rage and reached for one of the curved daggers strapped across his chest. He tugged hard . . . but the dagger wouldn't come out! "Must have tightened the straps too much," Jarod muttered as he struggled with the baldric. Just as he managed to rip one of the daggers loose, he felt something bounce off the side of his head. "Hey! That hurt!" he cried, and turned to see one of the Tanner children holding a slingshot. Snarling once more, he hurled the dagger toward the youth. The dagger hit the child in the forehead, pommel first. Dazed, the boy stumbled back, and promptly toppled into the backyard well. Jarod heard a satisfying splash as the boy hit the bottom. Turning back to the other battle, Jarod saw that one of his men was hopping around on one foot, another was being torn apart by the dog, and the third was struggling to reload his crossbow. Running at top speed, Jarod came in and rolled under the dog, his daggers opening two large gashes in the animal's underbelly. The shadowed man came up just in time for his eyes to lock on Kareen Tanner's frying pan heading for his face. With a horrible clang, the pan smashed into the Nightwielder's forehead, sending him tumbling backwards. With blood running out of his broken nose, Jarod shook his head and got shakily to his feet. He saw one of his men fire his crossbow at the Tanner woman, but she used the frying pan to deflect the bolt, which sailed off and hit some innocent passerby down the block. Kareen Tanner then rushed forward to beat the goon with her cooking instrument. Hurriedly seeking some plan of action, he looked around and saw his other man repeatedly clubbing the dead dog with the fallen shovel. "Load your crossbow, you idiot!" screamed Jarod, as he launched two of his daggers toward the woman. Kareen Tanner deflected one of the daggers with her pan right into the throat of the nearby thug, but the second lodged itself securely in her breast. In a silent scream, she fell to the ground. Just as she fell, the last remaining man finished reloading his crossbow. "Looks like that should d. . . . " growled Jarod, but just then he heard a sound from the door of the house. He turned to see the young Tanner girl, no older than six, hurl her toy doll at his last goon. The doll hit the man in the face, and his hands flew above his head as he stumbled backward. Somehow, his crossbow went off and fired a wild shot into the air. Suddenly, a bird fell from the sky, landing on the thug's face. "Help! Jarod! I can't see!" screamed the goon as he stumbled around the room aimlessly. The man's legs suddenly met the edge of the well, and he fell into it screaming. His cry was abruptly cut off by a loud splash. "It's so hard to find good help these days," moaned Jarod Nightwielder helplessly. Almost negligently, he flipped a dagger toward the little girl. It missed and hit the wall behind her. Jarod snarled and hurled his last knife. This time, it embedded itself firmly between the girl's eyes. "And I thought this job would be easy money," muttered the Nightwielder as he went about the yard retrieving his daggers. Then, without another word, he faded back into the night as silently as he had come . . . * * * * * In the depths of Castle Zalk, two men sat in a small, stone room, lighted only by two torches placed into brackets on the wall. The first man was King Mylius III, ruler of the Kingdom of Zalk. The second was his Lord Steward, Stuard Yavin. In low tones, the Lord Steward, Stuard, told the king of the night's events. "A killing this time, eh?" the king said in a weary voice. "This time Torham Zed has gone too far. The first time someone complained, it was the nasty letter business. And after that, when the blacksmith Konnon complained, Zed had his house egged. And after that, it was those awful singing telegrams." "I remember those, majesty," said the Lord Steward, Stuard, with a shudder. "The whole town slept in fear for weeks." "Yes . . ." mused the king. "But this murder crosses the line. Are you sure it was Jarod Nightwielder again?" "It certainly looked like his work. And several witnesses reported seeing him in the area shortly before and after the crime. I don't think there's any doubt this time." Both men fell silent for a moment. There was a distant crash as a serving girl tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. Then the king continued. "Stuard, my friend . . . I think we have no choice." The Lord Steward's face fell. "You mean . . ." "I'm afraid so," said Mylius in a sad voice. "There are simply no alternatives left for us." "Very well. It shall be as you command, Majesty." The Lord Steward, Stuard, rose to his feet and walked slowly to the doorway. "Alright, everyone!" he called loudly. "Nothing but onions and garlic for breakfast every day until the harvest!!!" "Not that solution, you idiot!" called the king, outraged. "Get back here now!" "Oh, sorry," said Stuard. He called in the hallway again. "Never mind that last order. Just get back to work." Somewhere down the street, there was a ferocious meow as a horde of cats attacked a cow. "This isn't like the Bean Sprout Crisis, Stuard!" The King said more quietly. "We're not that desperate yet. But the only thing we can do is almost as drastic. Stuard . . . send for Drake Giltheas." The Lord Steward's face paled, but he still managed to say in a shaky voice: "It shall be as you command, your Majesty." With that, the Lord Steward, Stuard, bowed and hurriedly left the room. As soon as the door slammed, King Mylius slumped down dejectedly in his chair. He hoped to all the gods he could think of that he was doing the right thing . . . The stage is set. Join us next week as the curtain rises . . . in another exciting episode of: Torham Zed: Meat Broker