The Screaming Skull

by Rick Ferguson

  “You’re the last guy I’d expect to believe in this cockeyed plan,” I said to him.

  “Oh, the plan itself has almost no chance of succeeding,” said Redulfo. “But any other scenario likely ends with our deaths, as well. Success only becomes possible when we have no other choice.”

  That was Redulfo for you—pessimism as an art form. You had to admire it.

  26

  The next morning, we were gathered once again at the Suds ‘n Shade, slurping coffee as we reviewed our progress. We were all present but Redulfo, who had yet to return from his all-nighter in Sklaar’s library. To our surprise, Jaspin was absent as well; having asked him to retrieve the Skull from his safe room, we expected the illusionist to show up to learn why. Instead, one of his bouncers, a small but surprisingly ass-kicking gnome we knew only as Sig, arrived with the Skull tucked inside its case. He handed it to me.

  “My master sends his regrets,” Sig growled, chomping on a wet stogie. “He’s away visiting a supplier on the Were Coast. He bade me tell you that he trusts you all to your plans, whatever they might be. He’ll return in a fortnight.”

  Curious—but the guy had a business to run, so what did we care? The gnome vamoosed to the kitchen. We turned quickly to the news, which was both good and bad: good, in that Amabored’s perusal of the Guild bulletin board had indeed scored a paladin, who agreed to join our raiding party for one-fifth of any booty recovered, sight unseen; bad, in that Lithaine had spent the night scouting the Blue Falcon, only to find it crawling with bad guys.

  “Imps, at least,” the elf said, drawing on his long-stemmed pipe. “Other hellspawn as well, I suspect. I didn’t see anybody come in the main gate or any of the service gates, so whatever’s inside must have come from underground. The usual crowd is gone, other than a few hangers-on for show. We’re supposed to think it’s business as usual in there, but the whole place says, ‘go away.’ That means—”

  “—we’ve been set up. Somebody dropped a dime on us,” said Amabored.

  “But who?” Melinda asked.

  “Nobody was here but Trilecia,” I said. “Could she be on Saggon’s payroll?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Amabored said. “We’ll worry about that later. At least we know what we’re up against.”

  “Yeah, and it means we’re all going to die,” I said. “Tonight. This is it.”

  “You got anything better to do?” asked Amabored.

  “We might die, yes,” Melinda said, her gaze boring into mine. “But this is something worth dying for.”

  She was right, of course—if you aren’t willing to lay down your life to save innocent children, then what’s your life worth? During the darkest days of the Quest, when it seemed a lot easier to turn tail than to face whatever horrors beset us, I would think often of her words that morning. They gnawed at me during those years when our Quest lay fallow, and every day of our inaction brought more darkness to Woerth. We were reluctant heroes—what else is new—but we were more than that; we were lazy ones, too. Had Melinda not been present in the bar that morning, I’m certain we would have called off the whole thing.

  As we sat silently absorbing Melinda’s words, Redulfo burst into the tavern carrying a pile of scrolls in his arms. He was unusually animated, nearly tripping over a chair on his way to dump the scroll pile onto the bar. He sat a barstool to catch his breath while Amabored poured him a coffee and spiked it with whiskey. Redulfo drained it in one go.

  “Settle down, there, Punchy,” said Amabored, his hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “What’s the rumpus?”

  “I’ve been locked up in the Restricted section of the library all night,” Redulfo huffed. He motioned to Amabored for a refill. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff that’s in there. It was almost as if I knew where to look, which was weird. Maybe Sklaar was giving me a hand. Turns out that the wizard Rigsby wrote the definitive work on the Ten Phylaxes of Koschei the Deathless. He teleported the tome to the School of Thaumaturgy right before he and Gygax had their big blow-up in the Shadow Mountains. Rigsby apparently disappeared afterward. If what I’ve read is true, Elberon, then it’s only a matter of time before you find more of them. The Phylaxes are drawn to each other, like magnets. Once the first one is found, the others will be, too.”

  “They won’t be found if I don’t go looking for them, no matter what your books say,” I said. “Besides, if we succeed in chucking the Skull into the Hellmouth, then it won’t be my problem anymore.”

  “Never mind the other Phylaxes,” said Amabored. “How do we get that Hell-door open? And how do we shut it again?”

  “I was getting to that.” Redulfo grabbed one of his scrolls and unrolled it flat on the table, securing the corners with pint glasses. He motioned us over for a look. The scroll was inscribed with a series of ink sketches. The first one showed what I took to be Arturus, legendary Warlord of the Free Kingdoms and leader of the first Quest, holding the Screaming Skull aloft like a trophy. A second sketch showed him atop the Dread Keep, swinging his sword Truth as it decapitated Koschei the Deathless before some sort of ornate black mirror. The third sketch showed him banishing a horde of huddled hellspawn through the Hellmouth door, which appeared to be swinging shut—only this time, Arturus was wearing the Skull, ringed with Hellfire, in place of his own head.

  My stomach plummeted at warp speed until it landed hard on my balls. I could feel the gazes of my mates on me. I felt Melinda’s hand take mine.

  “Not a chance in fucking hell,” I said. “Not even if I end up in Hell.”

  “Don’t be a pussy,” said Amabored. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “If you’re so sure it’s worth doing, then you put it on.”

  “It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” said Redulfo, rolling up the parchment. “At least, it’s the only way I could find. The Hellmouth can only be compelled with a Word of Command from a Twentieth-Level sorcerer, which Koschei was. The Skull is powerful enough to command the door to Hell—but the only way to wield the power is to wear it.”

  “How do I fucking wear it?” I cried. “Like a hat? What happens to my own head? What if I can’t get it off again? What the fucking Christ!”

  My voice grew shrill as I backed away from my mates. Fuck this, I thought. Children or no, there was no fucking way I was wearing that thing. Dying was one thing. Wearing a dark lord’s skull forever was quite another. Would you wear it? I thought not.

  Once again, it was Melinda who talked me off the ledge. Taking my hands in hers, she pulled me to her and kissed my lips. The effect was like standing on the deck of a trireme when the storm finally broke, and the sun returned like a long-lost lover.

  “You can do this,” she said. “And you won’t do it alone. We’ll do it together.”

  I swallowed, hard. “I can do this,” I groaned.

  “You can do this.”

  “Look, this is touching and all, but we’ve more work to do,” Amabored said. “Elberon, if you put on that Skull and can’t get it off, I’ll cut it off your shoulders myself. You have my word.”

  “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I said.

  27

  The rest of the day found me stumbling around the city as if through a thick fog, with Melinda leading me everywhere lest I stumble into a ditch or walk into a wall. I could think only of the Skull, now lurking quietly in my bag. That day, it did not scream; perhaps it was saving its strength for the big show scheduled for that night. It seemed to fill my vision, its leering grin mocking me, the black voids of its eye sockets beckoning me into their depths. Melinda fed me some soup for lunch, which I promptly vomited into the privy. I could think of no outcome that didn’t involve Amabored slicing the Skull from my shoulders.

  Somehow, I survived the day’s terrors. That night found us all crouching behind a low courtyard wall on Halberd Street, one block away from the Falcon. The early spring breezes were cutting and chill, forcing passers-by to burrow deeper into their cloaks as t
hey hurried along to their destinations. Assembled, armed and ready, we waited only for the paladin. We had no plan other than to storm the building, kill everything that moved, kill Saggon, send Melinda to treat with the devil, save whatever children remained in the pits below the manor, trap the devil and the Skull in the Hellmouth, and then blow. Never mind that the Falcon was packed with enough hellspawn to sack the city entire; we daren’t let cold reality douse the fires of our fever-dreams.

  “I have to take a piss,” Lithaine said after we had spent an uneventful hour watching the Falcon. He bounded over the courtyard wall and around the street corner.

  “Where in hell is that paladin?” asked Melinda.

  “Here, my good lady, and not yet in Hell—although the night is young,” said a voice behind us.

  We whirled around. Before us stood the most impressive elf I had ever seen: a head taller than Lithaine, with a long, thick mane of raven-feathered hair and a noble, hatchet-shaped face flanked by a pair of flint-colored eyes. He was resplendent in silvered plate mail so polished that you could see it from space. The only visible sign that he was more than an actor trodding the boards was the notched and pitted broadsword strapped to his back.

  “It’s about time,” Amabored said, bouncing to his feet. “You have I.D.?”

  “Malcolm of the White Rose is my name, and my blade is my calling card,” the paladin said. “Shall we waste time bandying words, or shall we spend it killing those that have it coming?”

  “Good man,” Amabored said, clapping him on a pauldron. “Let’s go.”

  As we rose to our feet, Lithaine bounded back. Spying Malcolm, he stopped dead in his tracks. Pallid shock seized his face. A lightning bolt of recognition leaped between the two elves. Then Malcolm dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Your majesty!” said Malcolm. The paladin raised his head, his eyes shining with love and gratitude. “I dared not hope to see your face again. This is a blessed day!”

  Still frozen in place, Lithaine said nothing. Amabored’s face burst into a broad grin.

  “‘Your majesty?’ Is he kidding?” the barbarian asked Lithaine. He turned to the paladin. “Are you kidding?”

  “Surely you cannot deny the presence of King Elomiel, Lord of the White Rose, avatar of the Star Maiden, and anointed High Priest of the blessed realm of Helene?” Malcolm asked. He turned to face Lithaine. “My lord, all thought you dead—but never did I lose faith. Blessed be the Star Maiden!”

  “Maybe he should wear the Skull,” I offered.

  BOOK III

  Embrace the Suck

  1

  We were more than a little stunned to learn that our grouchy elven friend was regarded by his kinsmen as the living avatar of the Star Maiden on Woerth. He refused to say a word about it; the first time Amabored tried to fuck with him, Lithaine disappeared for two weeks, making it clear that any further broaching of the subject would mean that we’d never see him again. After that, none of us mentioned it again—until not mentioning it became impossible.

  The elf summed up his life philosophy in a single phrase: “Embrace the suck.” It was more than a battlefield mantra; it was his life’s work. Embracing the suck means rejecting the good life, rejecting ease and comfort, and seeking hardship and suffering as the path to enlightenment. What else would drive a man to cast aside life as an elven Priest-King for a life of hardscrabble adventure? We all felt that way, more or less. By casting aside my father’s wealth, I had likewise embraced the suck; by waging war to win back his own kingdom, so too did Amabored. Lithaine’s was simply the purest expression of the credo by which we all lived.

  There’s no better way to embrace the suck than to become a father. My own father was both an absentee parent and a terrifying force of nature, and I long avoided siring a child myself for fear of emulating his woeful example. Finding those poor, terrified kids outside the Hellmouth, however, planted a seed in my mind: What if our only real purpose in this world is to pass on our genes? Besides, what else was I going to do with them? If there was one thing at which I knew I’d be better than the old man, it was parenting.

  So, I warmed to the idea. Still, I was unprepared for how grasping and Gollum-like would be the love that I felt for the little alien that emerged, slimy and squalling, from Cassie’s womb. After Alderon was born, in the wee hours I would creep into his nursery, kick out the nursemaid, and spend long moments watching him sleep. I craved his touch and his smell. It was a struggle not to hold him every waking minute. On a planet with nearly one billion souls, childbirth is no miracle; even so, I felt like the only man in history ever to sire a son.

  Inside every besotted parent, however, there lurks a terrifying notion: What if, despite your best efforts, your child grows into an irredeemable shitbird? What if he becomes a total zero, and there’s nothing you can do about it?

  These thoughts come to me unbidden as the fruit of my loins now stands before me fingering the ring in his nose. The Lark, he calls himself, and indeed does he resemble a big brainless bird in his gaudy silks, feathered cap, and harlequin tights. A rapier depends from his hip, even as his callus-free hands mock his ability to wield it. His face is full of sardonic good humor that I long to erase with my fist in his teeth. So diametrically opposed is he to my aspirations for him that I’d challenge Cassie to prove that he’s mine, were she here to challenge.

  “Honestly, father,” Alderon is saying as he regards his fingernails, “why so glum when the wildflowers are blooming on the heath? Ariel, Cecil, John and I have a trip to the Diamond Bank on tap for this weekend. If the Lady Astrid makes me stay to look after you, it’ll be a bad weekend for us both.”

  He steals a glance at me from under his brows. Beneath the stage-powdered face of his irony, he’s concerned only with the degree to which my mood will cramp his style. Not for the last time, I reconsider my own father’s methods; if there’s one thing this kid could use, it’s a good ass-kicking. On the few occasions I’ve tried, he simply runs away, laughing at me.

  “Go live your life,” I tell him. “I require no ministrations. Give Ariel, Cecil, and John my regards.”

  I found out that I was going to be a father just a few hours before the Quest entered the Coldsoul Abyss to confront Koschei, the wellspring of Chaos on Woerth.

  “I’m pregnant!” Cassie shouted as we crouched on a rock ledge overlooking the Abyss, into which Malcolm had mere hours ago fallen to his doom. Around us, the dreaded Harvesters bobbed and weaved, their shrieks filling our heads with madness. Their writhing eye-stalks blasted us with spectral rays that threatened to turn us to stone, ash, or molten goo. Our spiritually spent crew fended off the assault: Amabored swung Stormcrow in wild arcs; a devastated Lithaine, his mentor dead by his own hand, pumped arrows into the enemy; Andrigan bashed a bloated Harvester with a mailed fist; Lindar shredded a pair of the obscene orbs with glowing blue spectral blades. We were badasses, but these Harvesters were messing with our program.

  “Now you tell me?” I asked Cassie.

  “We’re going to be dead in five minutes!” shouted Cassie. “I thought you’d want to know!”

  “You couldn’t let me die in peace?”

  “I’m carrying your child, you fucking asshole! You expect me to suffer alone?”

  “Yes!”

  “Hey, congratulations, you crazy kids!” Amabored called over.

  I raised my mirrored kite shield in time to avoid incineration from a Harvester death-ray. The blast caromed off the shield and flash-fried a pair of the Chaos creatures. Pulling Cassie to me, I held her as we crouched behind the shield.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “You were right to tell me.”

  “It’s terrible timing,” Cassie said, her eyes tearing. “But I love you, you goddamn fuckstick.”

  “I love you too, you crazy fucking bitch. Now let’s finish this thing so you can pump out that kid.”

  And so, we did. Little did we suspect that the Harvesters were merely an appetizer on the f
ull menu of horrors that Koschei had devised for us. We lived—and seven months later, Cassie pumped out the kid. The moment I laid eyes on him, I was lost.

  Like most layabout sons of accomplished men, Alderon harbors no ambition other than to spend my money on a life of casual hedonism—surfing the Diamond Banks, skiing the Horst Mountains, shopping in Gorm, crawling the pubs in Tradewind. He dabbles in the adventuring trade, which gives me some hope, even as he limits his gigs to Were Coast raiding parties and the occasional art heist. If he covets the Coral Throne, he keeps it to himself. He could impress me most by staging a coup, a move I worry about far less than I long for it. What would he do if he knew that my ass will occupy this throne for another sixty years? Time tests all men.

  2

  Just a few years ago, for example, Andrigan and I tried to track down Lindar. The half-elf joined the team after the entire Order of the White Rose fell to the Plague Knights during the Siege of Helene. He survived the sack of that fair kingdom only after we packed his corpse in a pickle barrel and dragged it around for six weeks until we found a priest in Kenwood who could resurrect him. The experience of death made him a little jumpy, and James’s wedding was the last time any of us saw him in the flesh. Soon after, he disappeared. Since then, he’s become pure dark matter, present by inference but impervious to observation.

  Still, I always liked the spindly twerp. Common belief holds that elves are granola-crunching, androgynous tree-huggers who lounge about and pluck on delicate stringed instruments, eschew technology for esoterica, grow rope and smoke it—which they are and which they do. When provoked, they can be fierce warriors. Getting them to join a fight, however, is like coaxing a deer out of the woods. You could choke on the stench of refined liberal sensibility hanging in the air around your typical elven enclave.