id: 660
name: Lanigan Keyes
author: MONGO
date: 4th April 2022
text len: 28926
views: 87

The glade by the dock held a small tree, in a clearing, that no human saw and through which no human could enter. It was visible, beautiful, ethereal, but a tree like any other. Tangible, unless you had pointed ears and fair features.
The dock came when the worlds melded together, and guilds and carpenters and tradesmen set up a town close to the elvish wood, undisturbed for millennia. Thus the gate, cleverly disguised as a tree. 
Romulo hated his name; he hated the gate, and how it clung to him when he strode through it; he hated the words of the elder, across the tacky, naturalistic furniture, directed at him. “Peace is the virtue of an elf; it is our solace. You are not at rest. The trees are not your friends. They’re scared of you, and the fires you breathe from those loathsome humans…”
He took one of the blue lanterns down from the ceiling, opened it, and showcased a sparkling white flame.
“Rosaline made these,” he said, slowly, dreamily. “Seven, or was it eight…? No, that was before the night of the white deer… Six hundred years ago. Or was it…”
“Gawd,” He thought, easing his head into his hands.
“No… nine hundred years ago. And look at how peaceful and stunning-”
“They don’t burn things the way real fires do.”
There was a flash in the elders eyes before he spoke again, “They aren’t made to-”
“And I’m not an elf like you. I’m a human.”
No needling that he ever did could match that. The elder stood, angry. “We talked about this. Your mother is Falandi, and your father Gerorda. You are-”
“I’m still a human.”
“Your parents are both elves-”
“I don’t care. I’m human. I know it.”
“Don’t be a dunce.”
“I’d rather be a dunce than an elf.”
“Dare not step out of the gate until you cease with this nonsense.”
With that, the elder departed.
He smirked. Of course he shut the door instead of slamming it.
He strode out of the treehouse, down to the earth, and began walking toward the gate, fed up with the situation.
When he was younger, he had walked up to the edge of the town, and as the watch standers passed, sat just out of the light of their torches. From that day on he watched them, and stole their fire when they weren’t looking, and their shiny coins, and, in the dead of night, the stories they told, the tales only heard on nighttime watches in December.
One day he tried burning a plant he had stolen from them. It made him feel good. Now he smoked it daily. Now he knew he was a human.
“I wonder what they’ll do this time,” he thought. “Maybe put me to work in the garden again…”
A singsong, mocking voice dragged him out of his reverie. “Knife-ears, knife-ears,” she teased him. “You’ll never be a hu-man…”
“Quit,” he said, grating his teeth. 
“Quit? I’ve never heard an elf say that. You’re getting pretty good at pretending.”
“Fairfax, I’m not pretending.”
“Sure. You know, if you would just reach out with your mind a little, I think you would really be a lot happier. I didn’t get it until I did. This has everything you need to get started.”
She stopped him, holding out an old book. He groaned inwardly, leaning against a tree; years and years ago, thousands of leagues away, when she was much younger, Fairfax had come across a dying man, saved him, and in turn received that book, which promised ‘Salvation’ or some such. She wouldn’t stop bothering everyone about it.
“Just listen, look, I’m sure it’ll help you understand.”
He mumbled, but stayed and quieted as she opened the book and read it aloud.
And all of the trees of the field shall know 
that I, the LORD,
Bring low the high tree,
lift high the lowly tree,
Wither up the green tree,
and make the withered tree bloom.
As I, the LORD, have spoken, so will I do.
She closed the tome, and clutched it against her chest. “It’s beautiful. Reach out with your mind. See if you can understand.”
The wind blew, and he was thoughtful, and he tried, he really did; he reached out and felt the spirit of the tree he was propped up against. It was pleasant, like the words, and he understood them, and could feel the goodness of the earth; but try as he might he came to the same conclusion. He sighed.
“I can’t do it, Fairfax. My mind is restless. I can’t appreciate this peace the way all of you can. There’s something else in my mind I just can’t place.”
Oddly, she wasn’t upset. She just closed her eyes and bobbed her head. “Worth a shot. Oh! When you get back, stop by and say hi to this place, won’t you?”
He looked at her quizzically. “When I get back? What?”
She blinked, and hesitated. “If you get back,” she said, frowning, before he broke into a wide grin. “Romulo.”
“Don’t call me that-”
She chased him all the way to the gate, some others joining in with some sly grins and snide remarks, most, being the insufferable elves they were, content to stick their noses in the air and turn away from such an embarrassing specimen of their race.
“Romulo! Romulo! Fair face!”
He strode through the gate, which, as it always did, pulled, not wanting to let him go.
He sighed, and walked on over to the docks, to his cache. Rolling some of it, starting a fire, and lighting it, the way he had seen other humans do. Smoking it. The strange smell didn’t bother him anymore.
“Ah… Damn, that feels good.”
He was floating. He was floating forever with an especially silly grin on his face. The trees rustled, and for once he appreciated them. He knew it was dangerous, that if he was seen the town might take quite an interest in an otherwise unremarkable little wood, but he was well hidden, and, for now, he was at peace. The sun set and the air turned cool. The sand ground itself beneath him, and the waves gently lapped at his feet.

*****

Eventually, he came down, and the night fell cold. The fire went out. It was time for him to head back, no matter how much he wanted to stay. He took a forlorn look back at the dock, and produced a bitter sound, knowing he couldn’t go live amongst them. He was human. He just had pointed ears. He also couldn’t reveal himself without putting the others at risk; as different as he was from them, they raised him, and he would not betray their existence against their wishes. 
Through the gate, now, and he was surprised to see not only the elder, but all of them. Waiting. The elder stepped forward, raised his hand and pointed it in condemnation. 
“Romulo, Son of Falandi and Gerorda, of this good glen, we have done everything we can to divert you from this madness. You are hereby banished-”
“What?”
“And forbidden from passing through the gate to live among us again until your delusion has passed. Go live like the human you think you are.”
There was a pause, and the Elder leaned back, triumphant, fully expecting… something.
“FUCK YEAH!”
He did not expect the young elf to whoop and shout and fist pump the air. The more dignified among them flinched at such foul language.
The elder, red in the face, threw a bundle at him. “Disguise yourself so as to not jeopardize us.”
“All I had to do to leave was keep breaking your dipshit rules?”
A stone knocked itself against his skull, and another, and then a large stick, the cold fury of his brethren blazing forth. “Foul heathen! Begone with you!”
“Alright, alright! Ouch! I’m going, I’m going!”
He dashed back through the gate, receiving several more painful missiles before the gate let go and he fell, flat on his face, into the clearing.
Rubbing his head, he checked the bundle; excluding the material itself, nothing, except for a pair of cloth tabs he could slide over his ears.
“Some disguise,” he muttered, rising to his feet and putting them on, wearing the bundle as a cloak.
He looked, and further down and across the way, saw light from the dock. Without a single look back, he moved towards it.

*****

The lights were brighter here than from the outskirts, and bothered him. There was noise, and chatter; red wagon wheels splashed through the muddy street and he had no idea of where to go or what to do. 
He had some coins pilfered, but with no clue of how to get more; all he knew was that enough of it was good, somehow. He decided to look around until he knew what it was.
He followed someone into a house, where they offered it and received food; with his mind he reached to understand what coin could grant.
It was a massive slab of meat. The odor hit him, and he smelt death, fire, blood. He flinched, knowing the life sacrificed; knowing how gruesome its death was. He was disgusted, very disgusted, yes; but curious.
The man took a bite, and he felt, secondhand, how good it tasted, how the minds of men spun, and in that instant deduced what money was.
“Mmm. Nothing beats a Lannion.” the man noticed the gangly character eying him. He waved. “Hey kid- what's your name? Want a bite?”
He walked over, pondering the question. What should his name be?
“You alright? What's the matter?”
He looked at the meat and decided to name himself after his first real experience in the world. He cut a piece off, tossed the stranger a smaller coin, and ate it, shivering at the astounding sensation of a rare steak. “Thanks. The names Lanigan. Lanigan Keyes. Yours?”
“Just call me John. Where you from, Lan?”
“Nowhere,” he replied. “And I’m looking to go somewhere. I want to get out in the world. Know anyone that could help me?”
“There's a caravan leaving at noon tomorrow and I’m on it,” John said, “but you’d be hired on as security, not as a tourist.” he laughed. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like the type they’re looking for.”
“What do you mean?”
John pulled a wry face and set his arm on the table in a combative gesture. Lanigan didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing.
“Common. Wrestle me.”
“Wrestle?”
He snorted. “You’re from this side, aren’t you? You’re one of the locals, out by the Iron hills. Here.”
He explained how the game worked and proceeded to thrash him at it, laughing as Lanigan's arm crumpled.
“No fair, your arms are bigger.”
“Well, you’re stronger than you look. Maybe we just need to get you drunk.”
“Drunk?”
John took it as a joke and bought mugs for the both of them.
Lanigan wasn’t sure this was a great idea. He had heard some nasty things about the state of mind known as  ‘drunk.’ 
Three drinks later his head was an incontinent buzz and he had no memory of worry. “This stuff is real nice,” he said thoughtfully. “Rrreal nice.”
John was talking to a heavily bandaged man with a cowl over his head. “Nah mate, I’m telling you, I've got a good feeling about him.”
“No. He’s not what we need on this trip. He’s clueless.”
Lanigan giggled. “Who are you guys talking about?”
John shrugged. “If you insist.”
The man in the cowl gestured, and John protested. “Bait? Come on. I’ve had enough of dirty tricks. We could take them.”
“Best not to waste an opportunity,” The man in the cowl muttered. “Let's go.”
John spit. “Fine.”
Putting a hand on Lanigan's shoulder, John tried to press the importance of his next statement onto him. “Lanigan? We’re taking you with us. Meet us tomorrow, at noon, in the center of town, and bring a gun. Bring a really good gun, Lanigan. You’ll need it.”
Lanigan nodded slowly. “Center of town… Noon… Gun. Got it.”
John nodded reciprocally, satisfied, and exited the room along with an exasperated sigh, the cowled man in his wake.
Lanigan bobbed and weaved, had a hard time finding the entrance. He had just decided to stay when the door swung out and in walked a finely dressed woman.
Lanigan looked, and for the first time that day really doubted his judgment. It couldn’t be.
At the sight some men at the bar shook their heads and mumbled curses; one, twiggy, blond, braver than the rest, who though missing a good portion of his nose and left hand was really quite a handsome fellow, began to approach her; a friend, bald and large with a long beard, pulled him aside and began conversing with him in a low whisper. “David, don’t trust that bitch.”
“What?”
“Don’t trust her. I went out with her last night and I woke up in the street with all my kit and money missing.”
David seemed unconcerned. “Would be worth it, no?”
“You’ll never get the chance. I was out before we ever got there.”
“Ahh, you were just drunk.”
His companion shaking his head, David came forth- but the woman had already spotted Lanigan. As she stared at him, His suspicions were confirmed. 
“Fairfax?”
She immediately took his hand, addressing David.
“My apologies dear, I’ve been chasing this fool around all afternoon. Next time, hmm?” She let out a teasing giggle and sauntered out with Lanigan in tow, leaving behind a hurt looking David and his chuckling companion.
As soon as they were outside, she pressed a bottle into his hand. “Drink it,” she demanded. Rather excited at the prospect of more drinks, Lanigan slammed it, producing a horrified gasp from Fairfax. “Not all at once, silly!”
Lanigan now learned that not all strong smelling drinks were advisable. He promptly sank to his knees and painted the street with the alcohol he had drunk. 
“Tch tch,” Fairfax said, shaking her head. “You’d better come back with me.” She hoisted the shivering thing to his feet and strolled with him down the street.

*****

Lanigan had the worst headache of his life, but the bed was extremely comfortable. “I owe you one,” he said, groaning. 
“Don’t mention it. And don’t do something that stupid again. You’re an elf,” she explained, “Alcohol has a strong grip on you.”
“I’m not an Elf.” He sat up, slowly, and swung his feet onto the floor.
“I’m impressed. You’ve been in the world this long, and you already know what getting drunk is.”
“It’s fucken wicked,” Lanigan muttered as he stood. “Just not this part.”
She laughed. “Lanigan, you’re an absolute dunce.”
“Mhm.”
“You could try and come home. Why don’t you?”
“It’s boring, I told you already,” He answered, joining her by the stained glass window. “Look at that,” he said, pointing at a shootout two streets over. “You can’t tell me that’s boring.”
“I could tell you it’s dangerous,” she replied, smiling. “But that’d just make you want to join in, wouldn’t it?”
Lanigan frowned. He remembered a man in a cowl, and he knew to be there tomorrow at noon with a gun, but there was something else, some sinister tinge to the memory- he shrugged it aside and grinned back at her in answer. “Well. At least I know why I came here. How about you?”
She rose, and began packing up her decorations and dresses. “I came here,” she said, “to break the hearts of adulterous men.”
Lanigan whistled. “A dangerous game, that.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
There was a rather troublesome knocking at the door.
“Speaking of which, I’ve upset too many auteurs of drunkenness in this town. I’m headed to a large city to the northeast by the name of Normandy, though I’ll have to say goodbye to our friends in the glen. Not the most evangelical type, Elves.”
The knocking turned into a battering. Lanigan coughed. “Fairfax.”
She giggled. “I’d ask you to come along, but you really aren’t experienced enough to keep up with me. You’ll have to find your own way in the world.”
“I’d prefer that anyhow.” The door splintered. “Well, enlighten me. How are we to escape?”
She snorted. “Isn’t it obvious? No, wait-” She stopped him from smashing the window, unbolting and swinging out of it. “A lady and her gentleman ought to depart in style. Besides, this is a very nice window.”
They were on the third floor, but the roof peaked, granting them a safe and swift if not comfortable descent.
“Darn, my ribbons are mussed; ah well. See you around. Good luck!”
Lanigan gave his thanks as she sauntered off. “Pity that indeed I am a human,” He thought. “She is an actionable sort of woman. Speaking of action-”
He wandered the streets looking for guns, jingling the coins in his pocket; he had amassed a great deal over the years. A silver shopfront jumped out, with an ostentatious logo of a figure in a wide hat juggling various firearms. Lanigan looked again; the logo moved; the figure actually juggled them.
He was sold. He walked in, knowing not the slightest thing about guns, and asked the ill-tempered clerk for the biggest one. 
“Well, the biggest one a what?” the wrinkled man asked. He spat out his tobacco and got up. “Biggest handgun, biggest rifle, what?”
“Well, I’m not that experienced-”
“What?”
“I’m not-”
“You tellin me you never even shot a gun before? And you want the biggest one we got? You’re outta your mind. Tell you what.”
“A stick of a guy like you, you need something reliable,” he said, poking -more like jabbing- Lanigan in the chest. He hoisted a long barreled gun from behind the counter. “How about this?” Lanigan wore a less than impressed face; there were guns in the shop that looked much larger than that. “C'mon, I know it's a single shot, but twelve gauge ain't a joke. I got somethin else in the back that’s more your style, mebbe can fit the bill. You can take it with this,” he said, offering the single shot, flinching and snatching it back at the sight of his woeful trigger discipline.
Lanigan ignorantly protested. “Let me see it.”
“Well, first off, can’t have you killin nobody,” the man said, checking himself. “Least, not on accident. How about I take you round back and show you the ropes? Free of charge.”
Lanigan thoroughly appreciated this man’s company, despite his scenery chewing accent.
“Sure.”
Some stern words about firearm safety and ear protection later, Lanigan learned how to properly load and shoulder it.
“Careful now, that things live,” he reminded Lanigan as he pointed it downrange. “Now just line the sights up… keep your shoulders square, lean into it… that's it… pull the trigger.”
*BOOM!*
It punched him in the shoulder, knocking his teeth together, and a fireball flashed at the end of the gun; he heard the clang of the backstop, saw the hole, smelt fire and smoke and gunpowder and knew he was in love forever.
He relaxed, and reloaded. He was through a box of shells before the owner could even say anything. For his part, he just grinned; the gun was sold before Lanigan even paid for it.
He unloaded, and set it down. “What was that other one you were talking about?”
The owner chuckled. “Well, keep in mind, the guy we got this from, hands us antique types from time to time, some kinda joke,” he said, taking him back through the shelves. “Might not really be- I mean-”
“What?”
“It’s just not really, ah, practical, you see.”
He dug out a percussion cap pistol. To Lanigan's eyes it was quite large to be a pistol; to anyone even remotely familiar with handguns it was downright comical.
“Said he wanted to make something for an idiot- two bore, muzzle loaded, black powder. ‘Magically enhanced,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Lanigan picked it up, and just about hefted it. It featured beautiful inlays and decoration, the gun itself almost shaped like a charging animal; one side read ‘IRON BOAR’. The other side read ‘James Oliver and Co, 53rd street, Normandy.’
The owner insisted on going first. 
*BOOOM!*
As it was, the noise felt like it went straight through the earplugs; the Owner stepped back, barely holding onto the thing, the round blasting clear through the backstop and just disappearing.
The owner was pale, teeth clenched. “And that’s with a small load. He bragged about it being handheld- Yeah, sure, handheld all right, handheld until you fucken fire it.”
Lanigan was, again, sold. “I want to try it.”
After learning how to load it, placing the cap on and gripping it tightly in both hands, he stood there, spooked but determined.
“Alright, remember- firm handshake, not a squeeze, and don’t fight the recoil- let the gun move you, bring your arms back over your head when it goes off. Don’t point it in a way that’ll let it hit your face.”
*BOOOM!*
The recoil kicked it out of his grip and clear over his head, denting the wall. He massaged his hands and the owner picked it up gingerly; it showed no sign of damage. “You put too much powder in, it’s alright- no one fires it the first time without losing it.”
“I want it.”
“Take it.” 
The total price was far beyond anything Lanigan expected, but after some smooth talking, he caved, and gave up most of his savings. It pained him greatly to see the coins go, knowing what money meant, but now he had guns, and that, in his mind, meant he was ready.
“You won’t regret it, I’m sure,” the owner said, chuckling, accompanying him to the door. He took his hand and shook it- with Lanigan only realizing this was a handshake halfway through, he gave up. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 
“What was your name again?”
“Ed. Yours?”
“Lanigan. Pleasure doing business.”
As he left, a red headed youth entered, and Ed called out to him. “Hey, son! You’ll never believe it- Oliver owes me a beer. I sold it!”
Lanigan chuckled, setting out for an inn.

*****

He spent the last of his savings on a room for that night, and some beer; he split the room and the beer with David and his friend, and while David was still sore about it, he was glad he hadn’t been fleeced.
“Like she put a spell on me,” he said, shaking his head, sipping his drink. “Bitch.” They both roundly mocked Lanigan for his purchase, making him feel rather stupid about the small cannon, caps, and associated powder horn hanging off his waist; they named the single shot Marie; the boar already had a name. The night wore on, and they wound down, David's friend, Arnold, hammering on a harmonica until the other two started complaining. Lanigan explained he had to be at the town square tomorrow, at noon, with a gun. Arnold and David exchanged worried glances.
Lanigan awoke, twenty minutes until noon, the other two still snoring. He started walking.
On his way over, it was dead quiet; everything bolted shut, the residents within clearly petrified; the slammed windows, barred doors, and frantic hushes as he passed by their houses serving as testament.
He checked his guns and his ammo for the fourth time that morning, coming to the spot a little late, stopping between two buildings; three figures at the far end of the square.
“Sorry for being late,” Lanigan called. “When do we depart?”
They looked confused, but there were some spitten words from the tallest one; they all leveled guns at Lanigan.
“One man? They’ve got another thing coming if he thinks he can shake us that easy.” He gestured. “Draw, coward! I’m not waiting on you!”
Lanigan hesitated. “Is this a ceremony or something?”
*BLAM!*
Something whistled by his ear, and then something else, and as he jumped behind one of the buildings he realized he was in trouble. He drew Marie and grit his teeth, flicking off the safety and shaking. For a moment he panicked; he heard footsteps either side, and dashed to his right, accidentally tackling the man approaching around the building and throwing him to the dirt, stumbling as the other two came in sight; they raised and fired, too quickly, and missed; he moved past the corner and sprinted to the next building, and the next, winding around, the bandits catching up and shots ringing out behind him every time he turned.
“Only a matter of time before I’m cornered.” He spun around, leveling Marie, and fired, shaking, missing high, making one flinch at the splinters raining down but otherwise giving no pause, bullets going right through the flimsy siding and forcing him to duck. He reloaded, snapping the gun shut, realizing his mistake as he heard one coming from his left; thinking fast, he charged around the corner at the other two, catching one in the face with the stock, collapsing him before the other could ready his gun, Lanigan grabbing that gun with one hand and bringing up Marie with the other. The thug headbutted Lanigan, began to lower his gun, fired- but it was too late. 
*BOOM!*
The bullet missed Lanigan's head by a hair and the twelve gauge ripped the bandit apart.
Lanigan kicked the guns out of the reach of the one on the ground and took off, the other bandit stopping to attend to his fellows. He reloaded Marie and stared intently at nothing, running, blocking out the thoughts about the blood splattered on him and the gun and his hands.
He ducked behind the building, panting, and formed a plan. He busted in the front door of an abandoned two story house and stole upstairs to the bedroom window.
The last two, not wanting to take chances, went slowly, following Lanigan's shoeprints in the dirt.
Lanigan saw them coming up the street and ducked his head down, lying flat and pointing Marie dead down the center of the stairwell, slotting in ear protection as his heart slowed and he noticed the ringing.
He never thought they would also think to go indoors- not until he heard knocking around in the next house over. He got up and, checking the sightline first, almost walked out the front door; then he noticed his tracks in the dirt, and thought they might be watching that; so he thought he would go out the kitchen window; then looking at it he could see it was too small.
Lanigan cursed. He’d trapped himself.
“If you come out peaceably, we’ll take you back to our boss,” one of them yelled. “Might not kill you.” They were in the house next door, ground floor.
I wonder, Lanigan thought, how many flimsy walls this gun can punch through.
*BOOM!*
Pained screaming confirmed his suspicions. He called out, “That might not kill you, either!” and then moved upstairs, placing a new shell in as he did.
“Son of a bitch!”
They returned the favor, and the downstairs was fairly riddled with bullets; there was a pause as they reloaded.
Now or never, Lanigan thought, and sprinted down the stairs and out the front door, wheeling around and taking a shot, forcing them to duck and buying him the time he needed to get out of there. He went around the corner, and the next, moving behind the building he had just been in, pacing slowly and quietly to their right, trying to catch them off guard.
He heard one get up, and the other say he was done getting up, forever. The first one protested, but he answered, “Beat it, Jim, I’m done,” and breathed his last.
Lanigan stopped for a second, pushed it down, steeled himself, rounded the corner and pulled the trigger.
*Click.*
“Fuck.”
He moved back around the corner as the bandit hopped out the window and rushed him, eyes full of tears and blazing, gun drawn. Lanigan retreated behind the wall and knew he was dead.
In the back of his mind he felt a nudge, and looked down, pulling the pistol from his belt and cocking it. It was, somehow, angry, ravenous. Reaching out with his mind, he could feel the black hatred of the Iron Boar.
The bandit rounded the corner, and he raised it-
*BOOOM!*
His chest cavity more or less exploded, with half a pound of lead punted through it. Lanigan was showered with it; he knew what the Boar wanted, could feel it drink. He felt a great darkness where the spirit of the gun dwelled, where the witches of the night turned when they needed something vaporized.
He keeled over and vomited, severing the connection, freeing his mind. “Never again,” he thought, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Not touching that with my fucking mind again.” He looked at the pistol; the blood spattered onto it had congealed. The Boar had red eyes.
He shivered, wiped it, loaded his guns, and put them away, kicking himself for not reloading Marie before he rounded the corner. He couldn’t look at the remains of the unfortunate bandit. Looping back to where the other fellow had died, he stopped.
The gun had punched through, all right- one of the pellets had severed an artery in what remained of his legs. He searched the body up and down for valuables, coming away with guns, ammo, a watch, and his pirate hat. “A memento,” He thought, striding away. “A reminder for what death means.”
The townsfolk began to leave their homes and go about their daily lives by the time he met David and Arnold back at the first body.
“A million apologies mate,” David said, breathing hard. “Just woke up a few minutes ago, heard you drop this guy and came running.”
“Keep it,” Lanigan said when they offered him what they had found on the body. “And take these, too,” he said, handing them the munitions he had picked up.
“Don’t worry, I took care of it. That bastard yesterday set me up; I want to know why these three were after him and his boss.”
“The caravan is long gone,” Arnold muttered. “One way trip to the iron hills, that's what I heard, with a stop in Normandy.”
“I can return this there,” Lanigan said, examining the Boar. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to carry it around much longer.”
“Why?”
Sparing them some giveaway details, he related what had happened.
“You’re goddamn right it ain’t good to be carrying that around,” David exclaimed, turning pale. “Things cursed. Black magic if I’ve ever heard of it.”
“We’ll come with you,” Arnold said, putting out his hand. “We’ve got business in Normandy as well. Just have to bury these bodies first.”
Lanigan grinned, and shook it warmly. “Sounds good to me.”
Two days in, Lanigan thought, and I already have more to do than when I was stuck in that glen.