The Checkered Cloak

A Short Story

By Russell A. Wells

Copyright © 2023 Russell A. Wells

All rights reserved

This work may not be scanned, reprinted, uploaded, or distributed, in whole or in part, for profit or not, without prior express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious; any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Sensations of hot and cold slathered Abel’s body all at once. While his back faced the crisp, dismal frost of night, his front bathed in the warmth of the fire before him. His shoulders slouched from the dense layers of tunics and pelts covering him, topped by his lucky blue and red patchwork cloak. None of the clothes did anything to keep Abel warm, and he supposed he wore them all only out of habit. The fire was the sole provider of solace from the chilling night air.

“Do you think we’re out of range of the walls?” piped a voice from beside him.

Abel turned to behold the man from which the question originated. Fenwick was a nervous sort of man, sharing more characteristics with a squirrel than with most other humans. He bit at his nails ferociously, like a squirrel gnawing on a nut. The light of the flames danced across his face, increasing the bulging appearance of his eyes to near absurdity. He waited with baited breath for Abel to answer his question.

“We should be quite safe here.”

“Are you sure?” Fenwick asked before Abel had a chance to close his mouth. “They have mages among them. It’s said that mages have heightened senses. They may still be able to see us!”

Abel sighed. “I assure you, we’re quite alright. Those are just tall tales.”

Fenwick tittered but pushed Abel no further. The latter man rose and placed another log on the fire, sending a cacophony of swirling sparks into the night sky. Fenwick yipped softly.

Returning to his seat atop the flat stump, Abel stroked at his grisly brown mustache with a gloved hand. He gazed into the flames until they seared his vision, pondering deep and dark thoughts.

“I think we should move farther away from the fort,” Fenwick said.

His partner’s nasally voice pierced Abel’s consciousness, sucking him back to the present moment.

“By the gods,” Abel said. “You worry more than my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Fenwick said.

Abel grunted.

“B-But aren’t you worried, too?” Fenwick asked. “After all, they seemed to really hate you.”

“No, I’m not, and yes, they did.”

Falling silent again, Fenwick wrapped his arms about himself, visibly shivering. Abel eyed his jittery companion from the corner of his vision, snorting under his breath. Neither man spoke for awhile, instead watching as the ashes from the fire merged with the light snowflakes that’d begun to fall from the sky. Abel poked absentmindedly at the kindling with a stick he’d found lying at his feet. Every now and again, he fetched a glance at Fenwick.

“Is this fire warming you up?” the squirrely man spoke.

“Yes,” Abel said.

“Not me,” said Fenwick.

Abel smiled grimly, unbeknownst to the other man.

“Here, take my lucky cloak. It always seems to help.”

Abel stood and shrugged the red-blue checkered garment from his shoulders. Clutching it with one hand, he offered it out to Fenwick. His partner snatched it from his grasp, tossing it about his own scrawny shoulders. Fenwick tucked the sides of the cloak beneath his knees, enveloping himself in a red-blue cocoon.

“You have my thanks,” Fenwick said.

“You have my sympathies,” Abel retorted.

A quizzical expression crossed Fenwick’s face, but was quickly replaced by a contortion of pain. He slumped forward, only a muffled grunt escaping his lips before he died. Planted deeply in his back was the shaft of an arrow. It glowed a faint, sickly green, emanating light separate from that of the fire.

Abel sucked in a breath. “Mage’s work.”

Smothering the flames and stamping on the coals, Abel made quick work of the fire. He grabbed his pack from where it sat leaned against a tree and started off in the direction opposite the fort at his back. Turning, he spared one last look at the campsite. It was dark and barren, the only light coming from the magic arrow. Beneath it, Abel left a dead man wrapped in his lucky checkered cloak.

THE END.