He gnawed the leather strap in anticipation of the pain but, when it came, the depth of the sensation exceeded any expectations. Nor had he prepared for the sound, though he'd witnessed and - God help him - wrenched free more than a dozen arrows from the flesh of his comrades. The wet slurping hooked in his being and demonstrated why some let their soul be drawn forth and set loose though the wounds would have healed.
    The battle had been decided before the arrow found him, dammit. The enemy's archers should have been dead, turned, or in retreat. That left two possibilities. Had the retreat been a trap to lure Cade's Cadre? Or, worse, had one of the Cadre shot him?
    Hands held him still against the urge to struggle away from the pain. Firm thighs gripped his and, in some minor part of his mind, he hated that, when she finally did something to him with even remotely sexual implications, his condition prevent any enjoyment.
    Cynda's words, wobbly and dilute, percolated into his brain. "Baycoo. Stay with me." He focused on her eyes, watching the play of spirit glow shadows in the bright green depths, but knew this fight had been lost for the moment. She saw his decision to concede consciousness and taunted, "You fugging wuss."
    "My name is Brian Quinn Bell," he murmured, falling into the sweetly pain-free realm of oblivion, secure in the knowledge that Cyn's sword and dagger would protect his retreat, at least temporarily.

***Chapter One***

    Brian knew the day to be special and not just because of the phone call from his agent about his audition callback.
    The sun shone more brightly, the air redolent not only with the usual hydrocarbons but with possibilities and the scent of imminent success. The spongy soles of his running shoes had acquired a new bounce and his keen sense of rightness sharpened with each block finished. Even the sweat, ringing his shirt with concentric circles of fabric darkening damp, had a deeper meaning. His hard work and perseverance had paid off.
    Unabashedly rejoicing his good fortune, Brian grinned at every passerby and waved a greeting at the shopkeepers and salesgirls whose faces had become familiar in his routine. Full of the energy of success, he decided to run further - maybe another block or two - before returning to his cramped and hot studio apartment.
    Studio apartment, he snorted contemptuously. Two rooms in the gable of a row home, with a tiny bathroom and a private entrance above the dumpster could only be called an apartment here - in the city of dream makers - and was the first thing he'd change if... No, not if. When. When he got the part, the first thing he'd change was getting new digs with A/C.

    Across the street, a buxom, long-legged redhead leaned against the bright pink stucco of 'Birds of Paradise', smoking a cigarette while she waited for the manager to answer the bell.
    "Hey BQ," she called. "You bouncing tonight?" Her hair, too garish to be anything but bottled, clashed with the paint on the walls.
    He nodded and kept running. The woman, like the club, would look better when the sun went down and with the light of neon tubing to camouflage the wear. Quitting that job would be his other major life-style change. Every night he worried that some drunk would be too stupid or mean to leave quietly when asked, or that Brian's muscular arms and wide shoulders would be a challenge instead of a deterrent to some idiot with an adolescent fixation on one of the lap dancers or stage girls.

    As his feet set a tempo, Brian listed the items needed for his second interview in the morning. The light changed at the next intersection and he slowed, wanting to catch the walk signal without stopping. He always felt like such an asshole, dancing in place from foot to foot, waiting for traffic, not that the cars usually yielded to pedestrians. LA drivers seemed to take pleasure in near misses and the last thing he needed was to be laid-up with a broken leg if some asshole misjudged the margin of safety. He vowed caution.
    A treadmill. Another perquisite of landing the role. Sweet.

    Ahead, he noticed a new sign. A salon had opened a few days before. The owner must have finally gotten around to hanging a scissor shaped shingle. Haircut! His agent had mentioned keeping his hair exactly as it had been at the first audition, three weeks ago. Filled in but not too shaggy. Neatly trimmed but not too tidy. The natural wave added shadows to the dark brown and the California sun had bleached streaks of gold.
    Somehow the name, 'Basic Blades', seemed like a good omen and he slowed to check out the interior of the store, while guessing if the price was in his range. Brian pushed open the door, heard a modulated tone announcing his arrival, and reveled in the air-conditioning.
    Deserted but interestingly decorated. Tapestries lined each wall. Coats of arms hung above each. War axes, broadswords, crossbows, and other medieval weapons were displayed, each edge looking brightly keen.
    An androgynous receptionist, clad in slinky black leather, lifted a tapestry. Brian, expecting a costumed employee matching the kitsch, experienced a weird moment of anachronistic wrongness.
    "May I help you?" she asked. She looked him up and down, clearly dismayed at his perspiration.
    "How much for a haircut?" he asked, taking a half step back toward the door, knowing that the solitary bill in his pocket wouldn't cover a wash here, let alone a cut.
    "And a shampoo?" she sniffed. "I'll ask." She slipped behind the tapestry again.
    Brian fled but froze with his hand on the door latch, as a man's voice asked, "Did you need a cut?"
    The man was more in line with the atmosphere of the place, looking like a barkeeper in a Robin Hood movie. He grimaced. "Lynessa isn't our regular receptionist - and won't be here for long."
    He gestured to a washbowl and Brian almost obeyed.
    "I just wanted to know how much." He planted his feet against the urge to follow orders. A fleet look of annoyance crossed the man's face. "I've got a callback in the morning and need a little trim."
    "An actor, hmmm?"
    Brian nodded.
    "Tell you what. Ten bucks and, when you get the part, tell your friends about us."
    Ignoring his unease, but wondering how the stylist had known the exact sum in his possession, Brian fished the cash from the tiny nylon pocket in his damp running shorts. He loved that the man used the word 'when' not 'if' and he settled into the tilting chair with a sigh for the cool surface against his warm skin.

    Max took his time with every step of the process. Each snippet was premeditated, and considered. Between each, he explained the functioning of the various weapons on display, what time period or country, and the particular aspects of technique.
    When he finally asked a question, Brian almost missed it.
    "What's the part?"

    'Mystic Quest', a cult favorite with the sword and sorcery fans, was replacing the unpopular male lead. Myra, the immortal mage, would step up into the primary role but the change necessitated a male sidekick. The producers wanted a gradual sexual tension to develop between Myra and her young bodyguard over the course of the season. The warrior would have an obvious crush on the curvaceous sorceress that kept him subordinate to her whims, placating the critics who claimed the show was no more than female exploitation. Targeting the teenage to young adult audience, the new cast member had to be good-looking but naive. The producer decided that picking an unknown actor for the slightly comedic yet pivotal part would attract publicity.
    Brian's agent had earned his commission tenfold when he had sweet-talked his client's clips to the top ten files in the six-foot high pile, a magic act that had guaranteed an audition. In the roomful of hopefuls, all superbly fit and equally talented, Brian had known that he was perfectly suited to play the part. And, though of course none did, the other actors might as well have given up even before reading a line.

    Max listened as Brian explained the role and why he'd chosen to stop in this salon. "Your name and decor seemed like a good luck charm - with me trying out to be a swordsman." He looked up at the huge sword hanging in a scabbard beside the velvet-draped mirror. "Did warriors actually swing that thing?"
    The face in the mirror smiled and said, "With practice..."
    "And a hernia, no doubt," Brian added.
    Chuckling, the stylist asked, "So, do you know how to use a sword?"
    Brian shook his head. "They'll have a coach. But..."
    Max nodded. "It would be good if you already knew how." In the mirror, their eyes met briefly in perfect understanding of where this conversation was leading. "Would you like to learn?"



Next Chapter...     Posted 4/17
Jolie Howard Fiction