“You see. That’s the problem. You’re making the assumption that Beathog knows what he’s doing.”
Nope. You haven’t skipped enough. All you’re getting is repartee, with the sword playing the iconic role of the wisecracking sidekick. You turn the page again . . .
“Just shut up,” Finn told the sword. He took a step, and vines curled around his boots, nearly tripping him. The woods were terribly quiet; there were no sounds of birds or other animals. Just a terrible, green silence. Finn kept walking; the underbrush grew thicker around him. He gripped the sword’s handle. “Um, I really wouldn’t do that . . .” the sword began, but Finn slid the blade fully from the scabbard. With a long sweeping cut, he hacked at the brush that blocked his way.
He taken two cuts, leaves and limbs flying as the keen blade sliced through them, as the magical fire it disgorged blackened and seared the brush, when he heard the sizzle of an arrow passing by his ear to embed itself, quivering, in a tree trunk a yard away. “I think you have their attention now,” the sword said.
“Hallo?” Finn called, turning in the direction from which the arrow had come.
He found himself staring at a knocked arrow pointed directly at him. “The first shot was a warning, Finn Smithy,” the elf holding the bow said. He was tall, with long black hair tied into an intricate braid, silver eyes, and clad in dappled green so that he seemed to half-merge into the forest background. “The second won’t be. Now, if you’d put the sword away and put out the fire . . .”
“Oh . . .” Finn was suddenly aware that smoke was drifting around him and that he could hear the faint crackling of flames. He sheathed his sword—“Swift move, dude, setting fire to the Elfwoods . . .”—and stomped on the brush with his boots. “Sorry about that. Uh, you know my name?”
“I know you,” the elf replied. “Well enough to suspect you’d be stubborn and stupid enough to ignore the hints we were giving you to leave.” The elf raised an eyebrow nearly as high as his pointed ears. “You didn’t notice you’ve been walking in a big circle all day? You didn’t notice the path growing smaller with every step? You didn’t notice the vines and brush trying to hold you back?”
“Well, I noticed, but . . . How is it that you know who I am? And would you mind pointing that thing somewhere else?”
“I am Sarkoth Youngleaf,” the elf answered, dropping the tip of the arrow and releasing some of the tension on the bowstring. He seemed to be waiting for recognition, then gave a sigh. “Humans . . .” he muttered.
Asshole, Finn thought. “Why is it you elves always seem to think you’re so damned superior?” Finn asked.
Youngleaf snorted. “Well, let’s see now. We live for hundreds if not thousands of your years, we can perform all sorts of natural magics, we have a culture that has existed since before your kind was walking upright, we don’t foul the environment we live in but dwell within it and sustain it, we’re generally stronger and hardier than you, and nearly everyone can read and write. Would you like me to go on? The list is rather lengthy.”
The sword chuckled. Finn scowled. “No,” he said.
“I thought not. So . . . why are you here making far too much noise and setting fire to the High People’s woods, Finn Smithy?”
“I thought you elves knew everything.”
Youngleaf might have smiled. “You want to know what happens in the Light,” he said.
Finn blinked. “Yes,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to stop it.” Finn told Youngleaf what Custard had told him. “Every time a dragon dies, so does half the town,” he concluded. “And several elves, too, is my guess.”
“You think because you kept your awareness in the Light, you’d be able to stop the Gods?” Youngleaf scoffed. “If it were that easy, don’t you think the High People would have done something about it ourselves? Look, I know you, Finn, because in the Light we’re together. In the Light, you’re a fearsome warrior with a powerful sword”—“See, they like me!” the sword said—“and in the Gods’ hands the two of us are friends and allies. I’ve seen you do things . . .” Youngleaf shook his head. “Things you probably wouldn’t care to remember.”
“You remember.”
“That’s the curse of the High People. Because of our superior intellect, we remember what happens in the Light while all the lesser races forget.”
Assholes . . . “But you don’t do anything about it.”
“In the Light, the Gods control us—you’d know that if you could remember. We do their bidding, as we must. And it will be ever so, all our lore tells us, until the Gods grow bored with us.”
“And when that happens?”
Youngleaf gave another practiced sigh. “Then They’ll go away, of course.” Then he scowled. “Why are you here, Finn? What do you need from the High People?”
“Go on, tell him,” the sword cackled. “I bet he’ll get a kick out of it.”
“I . . .” Finn started. Youngleaf cocked his head as Finn hesitated. “I need elf blood for a potion to remember what happens in the Light.”
Youngleaf’s eyebrows sought his hairline again. “You were here hunting High People? For our blood?” he said, his voice dangerously slow and quiet. The arrow nocked to the bowstring lifted again.
“Yes. I mean, no. Not hunting, precisely. I was going to ask . . . first . . .” His voice trailed off. “Honest,” he finished lamely.
“Oh, good. Very believable. I’d buy that,” the sword said.
The arrowhead was pointed directly at his chest.“Then ask,” Youngleaf said, “now that you’ve found one of the High People. If fact, do it on your knees, so it looks like you really mean it.”
“Umm . . .” Finn considered his options. He could pull the sword, but he suspected that the blade would still be halfway in its sheath when the first arrow entered his heart. Still, that would be the heroic thing to do. The courageous thing.
“Yes . . .” hissed the sword, as if eager. “A heroic death, your sword in your hand. Do it.”
Finn dropped to his knees. For extra effect, he clasped his hands together. “Please? I only need, uh, fifteen drops or so. Not much. I’d be very grateful.”
You stop there, since it’s apparent that Finn’s going to get his blood and avoid getting skewered by an elven arrow—not that you expected that, after all, since it would effectively end the story. It was just a bit of false tension. You skip on to the next section.
As they had every other Wednesday evening for the last several years, Finn gathered with Jaxa and Tim at Tim’s house. Their Light-regalia was spread on Tim’s table: their armor, their weapons, everything that they had brought back over those years from the Light. They sat around the table: Finn and Jaxa close together, Tim across from them. Between them, candlelight glinted on steel.
Throughout Auremundo, others were going through their own rituals, they knew, preparing in their own ways and praying that the Gods wouldn’t choose them this time.
“You’re really going to drink that?” Jaxa asked Finn, who was holding the glass vial containing Beathog’s potion. He had to admit that it didn’t look particularly appetizing: it was a light brown viscous sludge that smelled like a well-used midden.
Finn nodded without enthusiasm, his stomach lurching. “As soon as we see the Light. Beathog says it only takes a few seconds to work.”
“Or to kill you,” Tim commented. “Cap that thing, would you? It’s stinking up the entire house. I’ll have to fumigate when we get back.” His voice sounded more tired and resigned than angry. “I hate the waiting most of all.”
Oh, God, you think. More “character development.” Get on with it already. You skip ahead a page. However, that means you miss Jaxa and Finn’s touching farewell kiss . . .
“Oh, come on,” Tim grumbled. “Get a room, you two.”
And the Light came.
The Light: a sudden blast, filled with the ferocious, laughing voices of the Gods. The light was harsh and yellow, seeming to blast through
the roofs and walls of the town. Finn could feel himself being taken up, lifted into the divine radiance, his armor seeming to leap onto his body, the sword buckling itself around his waist . . .
Always before, this was the moment when awareness faded, when Finn became lost in the dream only to be returned here again hours later, always exhausted, always drained, sometimes wounded. But not this time. As soon as the Light erupted around them, Finn drained Beathog’s potion in a single draft. It tasted as if it had come from a midden as well, and he struggled to keep it down, tasting it again at the back of his throat and forcing himself to swallow. His head pounded; he felt fire in his gut and the Light nearly blinded him—but he was aware of it all.
Through the haze, he could see seven monstrous faces hovering in the sky around him with what seemed like four suns high at the zenith. One of the Gods was half hidden behind a tall rampart with strange writing and charts on it, and from behind the ramparts Finn heard a deep, long thud like boulders rolling down a hill. The ground underneath him was rough stone, as if he were in a cavern, but the cavern walls faded into the haze as they rose so that the Gods and the terrible suns were always visible. He was standing in a cluster with Tim, Jaxa, Beathog, Youngleaf, and Curel, who was the head monk of the Abbey of Perpetual Lotions. Finn was holding a lantern, as were most of the others—that seemed to provide most of the light despite the glare from the Gods’ suns. All of their group were armored except for Beathog, who was wearing a conical hat, a sweeping, floor-length robe, and holding a staff in his hand. All of them seemed intent on . . . something. Awareness came to Finn abruptly: yes, they were in the bowels of the Last Mountain where they’d been half lost for several days, where the fearsome dragon Custard had its hoard, and from which the horrible wyrm came out to rain destruction on the towns around the mountain. Their task was to find Custard, kill him, and gain the treasure he guarded. They’d just finished fighting a horde of orcs who also lived in the maze of caverns. Yes, there were the bodies, all around them. Jaxa and Youngleaf were searching through the bodies, scavenging what they could.
“Hey, here’s a potion,” one of the Gods intoned, and Jaxa echoed His words even as she spoke them, holding up a small glass vial. “Beathog, Curel, either of you have any idea what it is?”
Actually, I’m not certain how you’re reacting at this point, but for me, I suddenly realize that I’m still playing RPG games, only in a different format. I’m the Rampart God, the Game Master, rolling dice in my head and making the characters jump around in response.
But . . . in truth, it’s not that simple. If I write that Finn suddenly goes berserk and kills Jaxa, I guess he has to do that since there it is in words on paper, except that Finn wouldn’t do that, and neither you nor I would believe it if he did. So who’s really moving the character? Me or Finn himself?
Or . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s you who make the characters move. After all, it’s in your head that they actually live. I put them on paper, but you make them uniquely your own as you read, giving them faces and depth that are different from the images in my own head. Your Finn is not my Finn, and for you, your Finn is the right one.
Not the one in my head.
I’m not sure who’s really in control here. And that bothers me.
Oh . . . and the “Monastery of Perpetual Lotions”? Sorry about that. Really.
You start reading the story again, and you get the idea well before I beat it into the ground: the “Gods” are the game players, the Rampart God is the person running the game, the “rolling boulder” sound is dice being rolled, and so on. Of course, because I’ve just plopped the party (might as well drop the pretense that this is anything but a typical RPG “party” of characters) into the middle of an adventure, you follow them through a bit of random “dungeon” designed to give just enough context to make sure you have the idea (which you do). You sigh at the “traps” that Jaxa has to search for; I have Jaxa fail her roll for one of the traps, and it goes off so the cleric Curel has to heal them, and there’s another fight with orcs, just so Finn can feel guilty about killing people he knows even though he has to do it because otherwise they’ll kill him. It all goes on for awhile, and you realize that this is all to set up the climax.
Because they have to meet Custard, after all . . .
The corridor opened up suddenly into a huge chamber, in which were great piles of gold and jewels, and curled atop the greatest mound was Custard, with tendrils of smoke curling from his nostrils. He was about three times as large as the Custard that Finn knew, and his mouth was full of teeth long and sharp as daggers, his blue and gold scales were like glistening shields covering his body, and his claws clutched at the treasures beneath him. He appeared to be sleeping, his great eyes closed.
They stared at the great wyrm and at his treasure, and even Finn felt the pull of greed, seeing the riches piled there. “Umm, I don’t think we’re ready for this,” Beathog and his God whispered. “We need some help—we should go back to town, hire some mercenaries to help.”
“A good tankard of ale would be nice,” Tim and his God responded. “So would a good dozen more warriors.”
“As much as I hate to agree with a dwarf, I think he might be right.” Youngleaf nodded. “I could get a group of elven archers . . . let’s not be foolish here.”
They started to back away from the cavern entrance. Finn heard a boulder-roll, and Custard’s great body stirred, gold and silver ringing underneath him. “I can hear you,” Custard and the Rampart God said together, and the dragon’s eyes opened, flashing. Fire sparked in his nostrils. “And I see you,” he said.
“Run!” Finn wasn’t sure which one of them gave the order—it might even have been him—but they all obeyed. They hurried back down the corridor as Custard bellowed in rage. They heard him thrashing in his chamber, and blue fire suddenly erupted in the corridor, the heat of it scorching their exposed skin and setting the edges of their clothing afire. They continued to run, beating at their clothes and trying to get farther away, knowing that the corridor was too small for Custard to fit through.
Finn heard Jaxa scream behind him, and he stopped, turning to see Custard’s huge head stretching into the corridor as far as his neck would allow, his jaws closed around one of Jaxa’s legs. He was pulling her back toward his chamber as she screamed and flailed with her sword futilely against his armored skin. Finn could barely hear over the din of boulders rolling, rolling. “Jaxa!” he screamed, and this time it was his God who echoed belatedly.
“It’s too late for her,” Youngleaf and his God said. “She’s gone.” Custard’s head had vanished, but he could still hear Jaxa’s screams echoing in the wyrm’s chamber. “We’ll come back. We’ll avenge her death.”
“We have to try to save her,” Finn insisted.
Youngleaf smiled indulgently. “I love it when you demonstrate how you’re here for your brawn and not your brains,” he and his God said together. “That’s a very admirable sentiment, and a very stupid one. Let’s go!” He gestured to the others.
“No!” Finn said, alone. Above, the Gods blinked. He began running back toward the chamber drawing his sword.
“All right! It’s hack and slay time!”
“You idiot! You’re just going to die,” Youngleaf called out. He wasn’t sure whether Youngleaf’s God also spoke or not, and he didn’t care. He rushed into Custard’s chamber. “Custard, no!” he shouted.
Custard’s head was lifted up on his long neck, and Jaxa’s body was snared in his teeth. He could see blood running from her wounded body, and her face looked back at him imploringly. Custard snorted fire from his nostrils. Opening his jaws, he let Jaxa drop limply to the bejeweled floor, and he turned toward Finn.
“You think you and that nice sword have a chance?” Custard and the Rampart God intoned together. The dragon’s voice shook the walls and rumbled against Finn’s chest. “Well, if you insist, I’ll give you the first blow. And then I’ll crush you like the vermin you are.”
/> “No,” Finn said. He had to fight to get the word out. He could feel his God’s will pushing at him, trying to force him to turn and flee, to say nothing. He forced himself to stand there, facing the dragon.
He sheathed his sword. “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m you’re only chance here, Buddy . . .”
“I won’t fight you,” he said to the dragon, grunting with the effort of the words. “You’re my friend, Custard. Jaxa is your friend also. You know it. You just have to remember it.”
Custard blinked. “I’ll kill you,” he and the Rampart God said. “Go on. Draw your sword.”
Finn spread his arms wide. “No,” he said. “I won’t, because I refuse to hurt you, Custard.” The dragon’s jaws opened wide over him, with a smell like charred steaks. “You can remember, Custard,” Finn told him. “You can.”
Boulders rumbled distantly. The jaws began to close around him.
“He’s right, you know,” a voice said, and there was no God speaking with the voice at all. Youngleaf. Through the curved bars of Custard’s teeth, Finn could glimpse the elf, standing a few feet away at the entrance to the chamber.
And there it is. The climax. The moment when the plot turns and resolves. But . . .
I’ve lost confidence that I’m the one writing this. I keep hearing the sound of distant rolling thunder. I keep seeing you staring down at me over the rampart of this book.
I mean, you see the possibilities. Better than me, probably. Custard doesn’t remember, closes his jaws, and Finn and Jaxa will return to Auremundo among the casualties. Or Youngleaf says or does something that accomplishes the same thing—probably because those asshole elves are in cahoots with the Gods . . .
Or Custard does remember at the very last moment. Maybe Youngleaf steps in to help that process and we find that elves aren’t assholes. At least all the time. And maybe poor wounded Jaxa helps too.
Or maybe there’s yet a third option. An even better one. You know, the one where things really twist. One I’ve been setting up all along and just haven’t realized it.
Gamer Fantastic Page 16
