Henchman's Revenge

Brennan Jacks stood on the edge of the cliff and let the wind and midst coming off the Southern Sea accost his face. The grip on his battle axe tightened as this barrel chested, lumberjack of a redhead prepared himself to murder his creator.

It was always night when Brennan Jacks was met by his creator, E.C. Henry.

For when his creator arrived through the portal his aim was always to attempt to “live” in the moment and bring a scene of his alive. Of course, the author’s intention was to heighten his prose, deepen the impact of a key action scene in an epic fantasy tale he was telling. Inevitably this led to backstory getting added to Brennan’s character. And each time this happened this “minor character” came more sentient.

Currently Brennan Jack only existed in three scenes in the second book in E.C. Henry’s A Legend in Thars series. First there was the scene of Brennan in the campsite in morning when he was recovering from a hangover and interfacing with Stellar Krell and the two Mch brothers who were Plains Goblins henchmen material—if ever there were any. Next, was the scene out in tundra creator where their traveling party met the mark they were sent to retrieve: Ron Wilson. And finally, after the Elves were spotted, there was the scene of Brennan chasing after Dale Evans with his battle axe after he’d managed to escape. This scene ended with the Elfin prince, Zashe Graybaughe, arriving just in time to save Dale’s life from Brennan’s axe.

Three arrows to Brennan’s torso, then a decapitation by the hallowed sword of the house of Graybaughe, after which time his body was cast over the lip of the cliff. The last sight of Brennan to be seen was that of a giant crab pulling his headless body off a slab of basalt rock into the depth of the sea where the reader is left to imagining crabs picking the flesh of his bones.

Not only was it the author’s intention to kill him off—but to do so in the most grizzly of fashions!

Wasn’t the henchman supposed to be the worker of the macabre, and not the hallowed author, himself?

Seeing the divine behave in such an unbecoming manner made this twenty-six-year-old wonder how different they really were...

Mortals were never intended to be gods themselves. And aren’t all gods expected to be benevolent and kind?

Who breathes life into something only to know its end will be tragic and leaves to be so?

This author, this E.C. Henry fellow, had made Brennan Jacks to be a proud soldier. A man bound by honor and conviction. So now when the portal opened up and this voyeur stood on his home soil of Thars he would meet a changed creation. A creation that wanted to live and not die so abruptly after so brief a time to entertain the reader on page.

Brennan Jacks was a more interesting character than Stellar Krell, Daru Xomine or even Greo Mch would turn out to be. For perhaps with a little rewrite Brennan makes it off the seaside cliffs of the Plains Goblins southern border alive.

Perhaps he makes it back to Outer Torry to achieve his rightful destiny and have a family of his own, which E.C. Henry let the world know was the desire in his heart.

For what monster gives “henchmen” such ambition and longings if not a monster himself?

Whirlpool currents of light hailed the arrival of a humanoid form from above. With him came an easel. Upon which was a scroll. Both descended from above and across from the crater in which Brennan knew Dale Evans and Ron Wilson to be. For those were two main characters in the Legend of Thars story, and writer had arrived to this scene to watch it unfold yet again.

Brennan gasped at the sight of E.C. Henry. For the author and creator of himself and this place had changed considerably since the first time he saw him. E.C. Henry had always appeared to him, barefoot and dressed in a white, angelic gown. But gone was the youth in his mid-20s who was chasing a dream, exploring Thars and crafting new characters. For each time he visited him and enhanced his presence, his creator was a little older. And now the author of his story was a man in his mid-50.

Still, the sight and gall of a man who never wavered in his intention to kill him off as an exciting plot twist, never sat well with actual sentient being who was bear this sad sub-plot.

Sunshine broke out. The crater where Dale and Ron had bedded down for the night was seen. Behind that was the stagecoach and four-horse team Stellar was destined to make his escape with. The sound of the crashing waves. The chill of the moisture in the air, a grim harbinger of what was to come.

Even before Zashe Graybaughe blew his shofar, this fugitive from the law knew how this scene would end. So, as the letterman jacket clad Dale Evans came up of the creator and began to run his zig course away, and the fog crept over the lip of the cliff, Brennan began his trek towards E.C. Henry.

In the frantic tradition of Crazy-legs Hersh, Dale Evans ran though Brennan. And then so did his own likeness, but the real Brennan Jack; the sentient being that E.C. Henry had created was locked on using this experience to enhance this scene not to rewrite it with meaningful change.

Brennan watched as Greo lobbed the crystal ball into the back of the stagecoach, then helped Stellar load the limp body of Ron Wilson into the cab. It was on to Drexxal for three of them. Ziro of course would only make it another couple of scenes before Zashe’s arrows would put an untimely end to him as well.

But as he went over this scene yet again Brennan could see the eyes of his now 56-year-old’s creator brighten as his latest literary brushstrokes made it to his canvas. Someday in the near future a whole landscape of epic fantasy enthusiasts would be experiencing Brennan Jack’s death at the hands of the Elfin prince.This was to be Zashe Graybaughe’s first steps towards becoming a legend—and came at the expense of a henchmen who really should have been spared and not allowed to die so early in the tale.

Given this perspective, is it any wonder that creature longs for revenge on its creator?

There was of course opportunity for the executioner to have his say with the object of his disdain before the sentence was carried. But since this creator was so callous so unfeeling to his own creation, the creature he had birthed would give him no such pleasure.

With is axe poised to enact in own form of execution, Brennan took one last look at the one he was carrying out the death sentence on.

E.C. Henry had a smile on his face, and was enjoying this scene even though at the end of it, Brennan’s head would be hurled into the sea by the Elf.

Brennan knew he had to detach himself from this moment. For there was no way this native from Bonney Lake, Washington and now Kingsport, Tennessee would ever be able to identify with him. For try as he may E.C. Henry had never been to Torry as it existed on the map of Thars, the last Men’s Kingdom city on the westernmost border with the Elfin kingdom. E.C. Henry had never met his mother or father. Maybe he could describe the Jacks family coat of arms, but he would never know their fellowship or family code by which they all abided.

The Frankenstein monster got it right, Brennan concluded.

For with the author looking into his world, correspondingly this aspect of creation gets to know the creator by his.

And so with a bittersweet tear in the corner of his eye, Brennan Jacks brought his axe down on the scribe that was not only recalling his demise yet again, but doing so with satisfaction on his face. If he lived beyond this day let there be blood on his canvass. For this once valiant soldier who served in the Men’s Kingdom’s Army had suffered enough at hand of this torturer. For on this day of reliving the day of his death, this henchmen’s axe got its revenge.