Wordler 388 quested for a five-letter word to protect her village from a wizard’s curse. She failed. Now NIGHT has fallen, and the scattered survivors of a ruined homeland seek refuge in an unforgiving world…
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In the hours before the marketplace opened, there was much unpacking to be done and not nearly enough hands to do it all. Fortunately, Roger was doing well enough to keep three men on the payroll.
What that meant, in practical terms, was that Roger could pick out the three strongest-looking beggars who would provide, perhaps, a few hours of decent labor among them on the promise of a few coins and some leftover produce.
On a good day, a small profit would collect in the pouch that Roger kept in his robes, and the city tax collector would leave Roger just enough of it to balance some future not-so-good day. If his days were more good than not, Roger would be able to upgrade his wagon. A bigger wagon would allow more sales, and Roger would be able to move his shop to a larger stall in a better trafficked corner of the marketplace. And finally, with some good days in the new location, he’d become successful enough to ask for Matilda’s hand in marriage.
“Three men on the payroll,” he told himself. “Last season, I could only hire two, so I’m definitely heading in the right direction.”
One of the men at work for Roger that day was called Hugh, which Roger had discovered the day before when the man kept responding to calls of, “Hey you, get over here,” no matter which of the men Roger was actually yelling to. Hugh was a hard worker and eager to please. In fact, if only Roger could find himself three Hughs to put on his payroll, he could raise his ambitions and set his eyes on Clarise, Matilda’s older and more attractive sister.
But there was something strange about Hugh that unnerved Roger. Hugh’s was a new face around the marketplace, but clearly he had to have come from somewhere else. And for some reason, Hugh always seemed to disappear into the back of the tent whenever the city guards strolled by.
Roger pulled Hugh aside and spoke to him in a low voice. “You wouldn’t be one of those Wordlers, would you? I’m not looking for any trouble from the Gray Lady’s minions.”
“What’s a Wordler?” Hugh asked.
Roger sighed. “All right, I get your point. Your past is your own business, but your business had better not affect my business. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hugh.
One reason why Roger could afford the rent on the stall he had was its unfortunate location near an often-vandalized statue of the city founder, in front of which protesters enjoyed relaying complaints and scaring away the paying customers.
“Two more muggings yesterday,” the current protester announced. “When will the Lord Mayor do something about the thieves, villains, and Wordlers who have infested our fair city? Round them up! Round them up, I say, lest their curse descend upon us all!”
Roger noticed the set of Hugh’s jaw and the clenched fists at his sides. “Don’t let there be any trouble,” he prayed silently to his gods. And just as if Roger had given the mischievous gods a delightful new idea, the trouble started almost instantly.
The shouts of a distant commotion grew louder and closer. People ran through the stalls to escape the other part of the marketplace. Escaped animals were everywhere, including frightened donkeys with their carts still attached.
“Freemen of voting age, this is your fault!” the protester declared. “You voted in a weak mayor who doesn’t have the guts to throw these Wordlers into pens like the animals they are! A recall election is what we need. I demand a recall election! I demand—”
The protester fell silent as the flaming skeleton approached. He trembled in fear as she walked past. She walked past Roger as well, on her way to Hugh.
“I dub thee Wordler 391,” she said to Hugh. “I require a five-letter word for the type of issue that divides the politics of this city.”
“Moral panic,” said Hugh. “It’s being used as a WEDGE issue.”
“Very good,” said the skeleton. “My work here is done. The curse you suffer today shall not be from me.” And with that, she turned around and walked back through the marketplace in the direction from which she’d come.
Hugh swallowed hard. “Well. That was surprisingly easy.”
“You’re fired,” said Roger.
“The enemy is there!” the protester declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Hugh.
A half-dozen city guards approached.
Hugh ran for his life.
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Art and Text ©2022 Greg R. Fishbone
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