(Image provided by Jameson Knopp)

Word had already arrived. The heroes were dead, fallen at the very foot of the Dread Lord’s castle. The last hope of all mankind was lost. Most people back in the village were still weeping, lamenting the coming doom. Already, on the horizon, the black clouds could be seen gathering.

They were not regular storm clouds, either. Everyone knew what they were and what they meant: Death, enslavement, plague. There was no escape now.

Hence why Sorce sat in the cave, a dim ember providing her light. She had a mirror propped up and was busily dabbing at her face. She’d already dressed and felt as prepared as she’d ever be. Now all that was left was the paint and she was nearly done with that. Only then would she begin to move in earnest, her limbs flowing in well practiced motions while she spoke the words she’d long ago memorized. It was a ritual, of sorts, and she might have enough time to do it one last time.

There would be no ring of onlookers, no drums or other instruments. Just her, alone in the cave, hoping she could do this one last time.

A footfall scuffed the ground, echoing in from the mouth of the cave and Sorce froze. Had the army already arrived? No, it was too soon, but who – ?

“I thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice, her brother, said, a note of resignation in it. “You’re wasting your time, you know. It won’t do any good.”

“I don’t care,” Sorce called back without looking. She kept applying the paint to her face. It had to be done just right.

“Some folks are talking about one last stand,” he said. “There’s a few who can fight, maybe earn a few more minutes for those who’re fleeing.”

“There’s nowhere to run,” Sorce replied, her shoulders sagging at the truth. “They’re better off getting a swift death then trying to run and making the Dread Lord angry.”

“I’m going to run,” he told her. “I’d rather breathe a bit longer and at least inconvenience the Dread Lord. Make him and his army work for my life.”

“Better be careful or he’ll make you a slave instead.”

There were worse things than death, after all.

“He won’t,” her brother said but didn’t elaborate as to why he thought so.

In the end it didn’t matter to Sorce. She’d made her choice. As soon as the enemy saw her and how she was done up, they’d know what she was doing and kill her. The Dread Lord had no patience for such things.

Sorce finished the face paint with a long, smooth stroke all around her mouth, accentuating her smile. That done, she put away the paint, wiped her hands clean and put on her gloves. A small, red orb was next, affixed to her her nose, followed by her hat.

“Is this really what you’re going to do?” her brother asked.

“If you’re going to run you’d better get started,” she replied, ignoring his question.

Rather than leaving, however, he walked further into the cave and sat down on a stone bench that had long ago been carved into the rock. Sorce ignored him and began to stretch. She bent forward and touched her toes. It was easier to do in her current outfit since her shoes were overly large. She twisted side to side, bent over backwards into a bridge and then kicked her feet up into a handstand.

“What’re you doin’ on the ceiling?” she asked her brother, her voice altered to warble in a high pitched, sing-song manner.

She walked around on her hands for a moment, the dipped into a front roll and came bounding back up onto her feet. Except, she went to far forward, or so it seemed, and she toppled over onto her face. Her feet came up and over her back and it was as though her body turned into a wheel and she rolled around on the floor of the cave.

“Hey, somebody catch me!” she called out and steered herself towards a wall.

At the last moment, she flopped out of the loop her body had formed and she lay sprawled on the ground.

“That was close,” she said with an exaggerated wipe of her brow.

It a flash she was back up on her feet and clowning around like she had in the days before the Dread Lord. Her routine was memorized, even after so long a time of not performing. It all came back to her and she didn’t miss a single step or flub a single line. Her brother was laughing, clapping, and crying the entire time.

Outside, the sky was growing darker and darker and the earth was beginning to tremble. There were no voices, not yet, and Sorce wondered briefly if anyone from the village would make it. Was there really any point to running? There were no more armies to fight the Dread Lord, no more heroes. There were no unconquered lands to flee to, only the inexorable advance of the Dread Lord’s forces. Perhaps someday a rebellion would rise up, but it wouldn’t happen in her lifetime. She didn’t even have a day left to live.

As she took a break from the slap stick humor, she told some jokes and posed a few riddles. Her brother had heard them all before but he humored her nonetheless.

“Tell the one about the horse!” he called out.

Sorce grinned and opened her mouth to speak when the first bolt of lightning struck outside the cave. The flash and concussive bang stunned the both for a moment. When she did regain her senses, she found that her left ear was bleeding. A ringing in her right ear let her know she could at least still hear out of that one. Her brother was on his feet, standing back in the mouth of the cave. He was shaking.

Sorce almost went to join him but caught herself mid step. Instead she let herself tumble forward as though she’d been tripped and tucked into a somersault right before she smacked into the ground. She popped back up next to where she’d done her face paint and grabbed a pair of wax lumps out of her things. Sometimes her shows included loud noises and she kept these handy to protect her ears. It was a lucky thing she’d grabbed them as fast as she did because no sooner did she have them wedged into her ears then another bolt of lightning struck. Her back was to the entrance so she wasn’t stunned this time.

“Well who’s making all that –

She twirled around to look at her brother but all she found were his charred remains. The Dread Lord’s lightning rarely missed. It seemed he knew her brother by name and had called it down on him specifically.

“Noise,” she forced herself to say, refusing to allow the Dread Lord this victory over her.

Her brother was dead, yes, but he did not suffer. The lightning killed instantaneously. She doubted he’d even seen or felt anything. Just, one moment he was standing there, the next…well, he now knew whether or not there was an afterlife.

“Sounds like a real howler out there,” Sorce joked. “Better stay inside where it’s dry.”

She ‘tripped’ and knocked a cup of water over that spilled onto her head.

“Hey, is there a leak in this cave?” she asked, looking up at the ceiling with a confused look on her face.

She was crying but the water she’d spilled covered up her tears. Her arms and legs shook as she anticipated her death. With luck it would be quick like her brother’s, if she was unlucky, she’d…well, she didn’t want to think about that.

Once again she leapt up to her feet and then cartwheeled around for a bit. It was difficult to keep her mind focused now and the smells of burnt flesh were beginning to fill the cave. An oily smoke also wafted in and made her wish her brother had never come here. Then, at least, she wouldn’t have to deal with…no, she was glad they’d had this last moment together. It was moments like that that made life worth living, even when things looked bad. And things looked bad right now.

There was the slim possibility that she’d be missed, that hiding in this cave would save her life for just a bit longer. Maybe that first lightning strike had been intended for her. If so, the Dread Lord would assume she was dead and no longer be looking for her. The idea certainly brought a smile to her face. It was enough to motivate her to do a flip.

“Wouldn’t that be lucky,” she called out to no one. “The Dread Lord would think–

The world flashed white.

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Why do the good guys always have to win? What do good people do in those instances? Why aren’t there more stories about clowns? I used to do clowning, of a sort, when I was a kid. My clown name was Ricky Ticky Split-Splat. Prat falls were my main thing, though miming was something I started to get an interest in. Then I sort of grew up and stopped having time to practice. Maybe someday I’ll get back into it.
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