KONAN THE TRUCKDRIVER

The air conditioner was spitting out warm air again, so the burly, blonde headed man driving the truck pounded his fist against the underside of the dashboard repeatedly until there was a click and a sudden puff that was almost comfortably cool.  Fortunately, the hottest part of the day was over and once the sun disappeared behind the distant mountains, the temperature would drop dramatically.  After unloading his freight in Aquilonia, he would have to look up the thaumaturgist, Freon, and pay him for a new chilling charm.

            An exit sign appeared in the distance and Konan narrowed his eyes, trying to bring it into focus as quickly as possible, easing up on the accelerator.  He could read, after a fashion, but it was a laborious process and if he didn’t pay attention, he’d pass the exit before he’d sounded out all of the words.  Not that he really needed to.  He’d driven this particular route so many times that every kilometer was engraved in his memory.  The next exit was Route 13 to Kandihar.  There was a fueling station and tavern at the foot of the ramp, the Black Goat Inn.  He’d stopped there several times in the past.  It was a hangout for evil sorcerers and he’d picked fights with so many of them that the owner had taken out a restraining order.

That was all right.  There was a rest area only a few minutes further up the road.  It would be an early stop for him, but he was ahead of schedule and very thirsty. 

The rest area was one of the largest on the Toll Road of Eagles, with an oversized outhouse separate from the Inn and a picnic area complete with roasting spits and a sacrificial altar. He parked his rig under a willow tree and checked his load before entering the Slaughtered Smokie Diner and Tavern.  Inside, he let his eyes slowly track back and forth along the row of seats lining the counter before finally choosing one of the few still unoccupied.PRIVATE

            "Konan!  Long time no see."  The counterman smiled broadly, wiping greasy hands down the front of an apron that might once have been white.  "What can I get for you?"

            Konan shifted his upper body as he mounted one of the seats at the counter, but his shoulders were so broad that they still brushed the customer to his left.  A bearded head rose from contemplation of a bowl of muskrat stew and narrow, angry eyes flashed briefly, but their owner seemed to change his mind when Konan leaned forward, placing heavily muscled forearms on the counter.  A serpentine dragon was tattooed on the left, running from wrist to elbow, and an elaborately caparisoned sword adorned the right in similar fashion.

            "Been doing some contract hauling down in Kush.  The pay was pretty good, but it was the same route every day.  Nice work for a short hauler just trying to pay the bills but not fit for a real trucker.  You know how it is, Zembor."  He shrugged elaborately.

            "You independent truckers are all alike, Konan.  Every time you find a soft berth, you decide it's time to move on.  If you'd stayed with Kimmeria Trucking, you'd probably be part owner by now.  A guy like you could even marry the top man's daughter, maybe rule the roost yourself some day."

            The big man grunted.  "More likely I'd be driving a desk.  Not even a big desk.  Kimmeria's a good company, but there’s no future unless you marry into management or kill the owner in a duel.  When I get off the road, it's going to be for something worth the effort."

            "I heard a rumor you'd taken a job working for Hyrkanian Transport."

            Konan made a fist.  "That two dinar outfit tried to fine me for late delivery even though the problem was at their end.  They overscheduled the loading docks in Iranistan and I had to sit on my ass for half a day before they could take me.  But I beat them, by C.R.O.M."  He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thin, paperback book, slammed it down on the counter.  The initials "C.R.O.M." were embossed on the cover, with the full name below in smaller print, "Commercial Roadway Operations Manual". 

            Zembor nodded understandingly.  "The big outfits can be pretty high handed unless you quote the regs.  Some of the boys were in here complaining just the other day that Aquilonian Expressways expects its drivers to sleep in their cabs on long hauls now, no more motel chits.  And rumor has it they’re going to demand a co-payment if you hire a lady for the night."

            "Typical."  Konan's eyes strayed to the chalked sign posted on the wall behind the counter.  "Anyway, I'll have the dragon egg special, with a double side order of sheep's ribs."

            "Coming up."  Zembor relayed the order to the kitchen, then placed an empty cup in front of Konan and filled it with hot mead.  "You going to be back in Shadizar for a while or just passing through?"

            Konan drained the cup lustily and thrust it forward for a refill.  "Looking up an old friend.  Sonia Redd.  Heard she was hauling lumber for Queenie Zhuvana."

            For the first time, Zembor appeared mildly uneasy.  "Not any more.  Things haven't been at their best around here lately, my friend.  The palace has had some financial setbacks.  Last winter the plumbing froze in the Treasury building.  Wouldn't have been so bad except the Vizier had exchanged most of the precious metals and jewels for artwork.  You know, tapestries and paintings and whatnot.  He said it had a higher rate of appreciation and was less subject to currency fluctuations than gold."  Zembor sighed theatrically.  "Too bad it wasn't water resistant."

            Konan raised an eyebrow.  "Tough, but what's that got to do with Sonia?"

            The counterman shifted his feet nervously and lowered his voice.  "Well, Queenie Zhuvana decreed a whole slew of new taxes.  One of them was a mileage levy on commercial haulers and Sonia...well, you know Sonia...she never had much use for governments and rules and that sort of thing.  She refused to pay the levy, so they started adding in fines and interest charges, and then she roughed up a couple of bill collectors.  I tried to convince her to cooperate or move on, but she's one stubborn lady.  Anyway, about a month ago, the Imperial Revenue Squad seized her rig and locked her up.  Some of the guys raised bail money and she's out, but without an outfit," he shrugged, "she's out of business."

            Storm clouds gathered behind Konan's eyes.  "These IRS goons still have her truck then?"

            Zembor shook his head.  "No, they sold it for back taxes to UPS; that's United Parcels of Shadizar, a new outfit.  They moved it to their terminal out west, for repainting and an overhaul before they put it into service."

            "And Sonia."

            "Living in a small flat downtown."  Zembor refilled Konan's cup, speaking with averted eyes.  "She's working as an exotic dancer at Caesar's Place."

            Konan raised one clenched fist a few inches into the air, then smashed it down with such force that plates and cups jumped along the entire length of the counter, followed by muted complaints that Konan either ignored or never heard.  "Such infamy shall not continue," he promised.

            Rooms at the Slaughtered Smokie contained only the barest essentials, sleeping mat, chamber pot, and a weapons rack.   There was a particularly raucous party underway in the courtyard so Konan decided to purchase a charm of silence from one of the dispensers he’d passed on the way in.  Night had fallen with its usual suddenness in the desert, and no one had lit the outside torches yet, so he picked his way carefully across the grounds.  As he did so, a flash of light from his right startled him, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there, although he thought he could hear a very faint growling from somewhere in the distance. A lesser man might have dismissed it, but Konan would not have lived so long if he hadn’t been overly cautious.

            He found the dispenser and fumbled in his belt pouch for an appropriately shaped coin.  As he did so, another brief flash appeared on his left, blinked out almost immediately, and this time there was a very distinct grumbling sound, which died off after a second or two.  There was a dirk in his belt, but he was acutely aware of the fact that his broadsword and battleaxe were both hanging over the back window of his cab at the opposite end of the parking area.

            “They get pretty brazen if we don’t light the torches.”  The voice came from close behind and Konan whirled, dirk out, to confront the source.  A wizened man with a long beard and owlish spectacles stood in a pool of moonlight.

            “Are you friend or foe?”

            The stranger chuckled.  “Neither, actually.”  He raised a hand and one of the sconces mounted on a nearby tree was suddenly filled with flame.  “I’m the lamplighter.”

            Konan remained wary, but he put his weapon away.  “What are they?”

            Another wave of the arm and another sconce was illuminated.  “Werechoppers.  There’s a whole pack of them living in a hidden garage somewhere.  You know how it is.  Some dirt biker has an accident, mixes his blood with enchanted transmission fluid, merges his soul with his bike.  Attacks the unwary and contaminates them as well.  Eventually someone will find the garage and send in a cleanup squad.  If we get to them soon enough, a change of engine oil and a blood transfusion solve the problem, but sometimes it’s too late and they’re sent to the junkyard.”

            Two more torches ignited.  “They won’t bother us now, but I wouldn’t go for a moonlight stroll.  Good night, now.”

            The following morning, Konan delivered his freight, tied a bulging coin purse to his belt, and drove directly to the center of the town of Lesser Rizah, where he turned left at the main aqueduct and followed the watercourse into a rundown neighborhood whose streets were barely wide enough to accommodate his rig.  Zembor had told him that Sonia rented a room at the Twisted Tailpipe Inn, and he found it with no difficulty.  He had barely descended from the cab when two slender arms wrapped around most of his body from behind.

            "Konan, you old gas guzzler!  What're you doing here?"

            Sonia must have recognized his rig from the window of her room and had probably come down to meet him because she didn't want him to see the seedy living quarters that were the best she could afford.

            "Thought I'd look up an old friend and recall the good times while I was waiting for my next load of cargo."  Despite his black mood, Konan's broad features assumed a pleased expression.  "You're looking good, Sonia."

            Despite the cool of early autumn, Sonia wore nothing but two crimson sashes, one high, one low, her smooth tanned flesh complemented by a long mane of auburn hair.  "As are you.  Is that a new scar I see?"  She gestured with her chin and Konan immediately raised a hand to the short, straight crease on his temple.

            "You always had a sharp eye.  Got hit with a tire iron in a brawl in Zamora.  The other guy looks a lot worse."

            "You never could stay out of trouble."

            Konan nodded and his smile faded.  "I understand you've had some of your own recently."

            Sonia nodded.  "That I have.  C'mon, let's go get ourselves a drink and I'll tell you all about it."

            "So that's the situation," she finished a few minutes later.  "Even if I could raise enough coin to cover what I originally owed, I couldn't buy back my rig from UPS.  They want six sacks of gold coins, or the equivalent, more than I paid for it when it was new."

            Konan leaned back so far that his seat wobbled.  "Why don't you just take it then?  These demon besotted laws don't hold any weight across the border.  There's plenty of highway outside of Shadizar."

            Sonia shook her head, but uncertainly.  "Not yet anyway, but the old rules are changing.  Queenie Zhuvana has been talking to her counterparts in Zamora and elsewhere.  She's pushing for uniform laws on taxation, criminal justice, and other things.  Wants to replace the C.R.O.M. with a more management friendly set of rules.  I don't think she'll get her way on every issue, but there has been talk of a treaty on hot pursuit and extradition, and once they accept the principle that laws can extend across borders, it won't be long before the old freedoms are gone."

            Konan made a dismissive gesture.  "These are heat shimmers on the highway of life, Sonia, distracting but without substance."  He slapped the handle of his dirk.  "I'll take cold steel over cold print any day."

            Laughing, Sonia leaned forward and patted his muscular thigh.  "You old teamster, you're one of a kind."

            Pleased but slightly embarrassed by the familiarity, Konan rose to his feet and stretched elaborately.  "Time's wasting, Sonia.  Do you know where they're keeping your rig?"

            She finished the last of her beer and scrambled to her feet.  "Of course I do, but do you really think this is a good idea?  They won’t just leave it parked by the roadway."

            Konan frowned.  "Is this the same Sonia who won the Triple Crown for the Tractor Pull, Demolition Derby, and Long Haul Racing three years running?"

            "That was a long time ago," she protested, but her face flushed red.  "I was younger then.   We both were."

            "People like us don't age, Sonia.  We're archetypes."

            The UPS terminal lurked at the end of a short stretch of dirt road.  The weather had been so dry that they couldn't just drive up without advertising their presence with a cloud of dust, so Konan parked his rig behind a stand of tall cactus.  He slipped a bright red tool box out of its place under his seat and they set off on foot.  Minutes later, they came within sight of a hurricane fence that stretched as far as they could see in either direction.  The fence sparkled with the telltale signs of an alarm spell.  Beyond was a complex of buildings, surrounded by clusters of cabs and trailers, all painted a uniform blood red, decorated with a distinctive symbol, crossed tailpipes with hood ornament rampant.  There was no sign of life, but it was Sunday and they had counted on the terminal being deserted.

            There was, however, a large sign attached to the fence.

            WARNING!  NO ADMITTANCE!  GUARD DRAGON ON DUTY.

            Konan walked directly to one of the corner posts.  From his toolbox he took a small goatskin pouch, removed a pinch of finely granulated dust, and tossed it onto the fence.  Almost instantly, the twinkling of the alarm spell faded to nothing in a space wide enough for even Konan’s broad shoulders.  Satisfied, he grabbed the mesh with both hands, the bulging muscles in his arms knotting with effort as he exerted force along two different vectors, ripping the wire from its frame. 

            " If they've repainted your rig already, we'll have Baal's time finding it."

            She shook her head.  "I don't think they've had time.  The day they moved it out of town, the AFLCIO went on strike, and they wouldn't dare work on it with non-Union labor.  Their drivers would walk out in sympathy."

            Konan frowned and glanced a question in her direction.

            "The AFLCIO, you know, the Apprentices, Faith Healers, Levitators, and Clairvoyants Interkingdom Organization.  No one is allowed to practice low level magic without a union card except full fledged wizards and sorcerers, and none of them would take on such a menial task as immortalizing paint jobs.  I suppose they could have just painted it without the magic, but then they'd  have to touch it up every time it weathered a little."

            They were well inside the compound now, and Konan instinctively headed for the largest of the buildings, the one most likely to conceal a full rig from casual view.  They were in fact very close to their goal when the guard dragon spotted them.

            It was actually quite small as dragons go, barely ten meters in length; Konan had dispatched much larger specimens on numerous occasions, armed only with his short sword.  But on this particular day, luck was not on his side.  As the dragon roared and charged, Konan dropped the toolbox and drew his blade, stepping away from Sonia so that he wouldn't inadvertently wound her, but one foot came down on an oil slick.  He threw up both arms in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance, and the back of his free hand struck Sonia under the chin, knocking her flat on her back, unconscious.  The short sword slid out of his grasp and described a small arc before striking the ground and bouncing to one side, out of reach beneath a parked truck.

            Fortunately, Konan's fall caught the dragon by surprise and the massive jaws closed with a cruel snap but on empty space.  Konan rolled to his left, then scrambled past a clawed foot and out into the open.

            Generally dragons aren't particularly bright, and this one was no exception.  The giant reptile worked its jaws furiously, trying to chew the victim it had not yet realized was elsewhere.  Konan sprang to his feet and waited for its next charge, and when the pointless mauling of empty space continued unabated, he finally had to resort to shouting to draw its attention.

            Plainly confused but still game, the dragon turned slowly and arched its neck, preparing for a fresh lunge.  This time Konan was better prepared.  He ducked under the strike in a controlled roll that ended when he reached the toolbox.  He flipped the catch and turned it over in a single movement, so that all of its contents were spilled across the sand.

            Even the dumbest dragon catches on eventually, and this time it relocated its elusive quarry without assistance.  Sand crunched as it advanced, determined to skewer Konan with those many, needle sharp teeth.  Konan, however, had found what he was looking for, and he stood up just as the jaws opened.  With both hands he thrust upward with his new weapon, bracing himself against the impact.

            The dragon gave a strangled roar of rage as the truck jack between its jaws prevented it from devouring its prey.  The massive head tossed so violently that Konan lost his grip and staggered back.  Then blood lust rose in his mighty breast and Konan  charged across the sand, lug wrench in one hand, tire pressure gauge in the other, screaming a battle cry at the top of his lungs.  Leaping between those rows of teeth, he drove the sharp end of the wrench up through the roof of the mouth, twisting and pushing until it penetrated the creature's tiny brain, while his other hand drove one end of the pressure gauge repeatedly into a huge, gleaming, multifaceted eye.  With a roar that was half rage, half dismay, the scaled monstrosity reared up, then fell back heavily,  still alive but immobilized by pain. 

            It lay there panting, still pawing at its muzzle, while Konan helped a very groggy Sonia to her feet.  She was able to walk unassisted by the time they entered the large building and her expression brightened as she spotted the familiar scarlet embellishments of her rig, parked at the opposite end.

            "We'll be across the border before they know it's gone," Konan assured her, climbing into the passenger side of the cab as she reached under the dash and located her invisible spare ignition key. 

            "Let's just hope they haven't been working on her engine."  But it caught on the first attempt and the locked gate didn't even slow them down.

            Back at the main road, Sonia brought the truck to a stop alongside Konan's, then leaned over and kissed him fervently on the mouth before he realized what was happening.  When she finally broke off, his pulse was racing.

            "We shouldn't use the Crystal Band Radio until we're across the border.  There might be a communications wizard monitoring the psychic waves and he could triangulate us." 

            "Where do you think we should meet?"  Her eyes promised things her mouth hadn't spoken of.

            "I thought Zingara.  Rumor has it there's work hauling supplies out into the marshes.  King Zoltan is building himself an Indian Summer Palace."  And with a heated look that matched her own, he climbed into the cab.

            The two trucks moved  in tandem toward the Zingaran troll booths, their drivers already anticipating a less eventful term of employment.

            Of course, they had no way of knowing that the king of Zingara had just been overthrown by minions of the evil sorcerer, Sidereal Distress, but that's another story.