The Wayward Godking by Brendan Carroll

said as he straightened his collar indignantly. “They left in the beast.”
    “Ahhh, ooooh. The Behemoth. Of course, they went cross country.”
    “Cross country?”
    “They went by conventional means.” Lemarik gathered a few small items from one of the cabinets and stuffed them in his pockets.
    “Conventional means, hmmmp!” Ernst started to turn away and then spun around. “Are you going after them?”
    “I must,” Lemarik told him tersely. He pulled the robe close about his legs and looked down. He wore golden slippers with curled toes, baggy silver trousers and a loose vest under the robe. “Hmmm. A change of clothes might be in order.”
    Ernst watched in fascination as the Djinni spun once and then stopped. He opened the robe and inspected himself. He now wore a white shirt embroidered with red birds, long, puffy sleeves and a ruffled collar under a fitted waistcoat of gold brocade over tight black riding pants tucked into the tops of dark brown, side-buckled knee boots. A set of silver spurs jingled on his heels.
    “Nice,” Ernst commented. “Costume party?”
    “The Italian’s favorite riding outfit… give or take a stitch or two,” he said.
    “Aren’t you concerned that your son and daughter might be killed on the rocks?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lemarik took a deep breath and prepared to take his leave. He held out his arms, but Schweikert grabbed hold of him.
    “Take me with you,” the General pleaded. “I can’t stay here. Too many people have grudges against me. Your nephew, Jozsef, will kill me the first chance he gets. Even Semiramis has something against me. I believe your granddaughter… what is her name, Anna? She might murder me, herself. I’m afraid I’m in a very bad position here without Omar to protect me. If you leave, I’ll have no protection. I’ll be at the mercy of these people. What of John Paul, the Prophet? I know of him. I thought he was dead.”
    “Of course not,” Lemarik said, but lowered his arms and placed one long finger under his chin looking first in one eye and then the other as the general stared at him in obvious terror. “I suppose you are right. I will have to take you with me.”
    Before the General could make a move, Lemarik had scooped him into the robe, swirled about and left the lab by un conventional means.
     
     
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    Luke Andrew sat on a stone bench in the confines of the small cavern, which had turned into his own personal version of hell. How he had come to this sorry pass, he had no idea. First, he’d found himself on trial by the local natives for witchcraft, condemned to death, and then strapped to a stake for char-broiling. From that unthinkable fate he had been miraculously saved by Luke Matthew, who had appeared from nowhere. Then he’d been covered in spider webs and, again, set afire by what, he could only guess must have been the good Queen Mother, Huber, herself. And from that hopeless situation, he had been miraculously saved yet again by his father, who had apparently sacrificed himself for his freedom.
    All of that had brought them to this new crisis wherein he’d had to listen to an incredible list of criminal charges levied against him by this automaton from the dark ages. His first impulse had been to simply walk out, but that idea had been crushed by the presence of the judge’s henchmen. A growing number of shadowy creatures, somewhat human in form, with long, curved blades on the end of equally long staffs were gathering outside the mouth of the cavern. He’d been soundly slapped on the back of the head and seated quite roughly three times before resigning himself to his fate… at least temporarily. The guttering torches on either side of the judge’s bench had raised the temperature inside the cave considerably and lessened the amount of breathable air to ‘just barely tolerable’, as Luke Matthew had complained earlier.
    The King’s complaint had fallen on deaf ears.