by Pirateaba
No response. I smile bitterly.
“Good chat. Let’s never do this again. I win. No—there was never anyone to play against, was there? Just me.”
I turn. I hear no voice, no mocking reply. It is just me.
Then I hear a whisper in my head.
So you say. I left a little present for you, though. A little reminder I’m here. Want me to tell you what it is?
I ignore the voice. Turn. What’s the old expression again? Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words…
Words can hurt. Of course they can. And thoughts can be terrible. But they will not control me.
It’s time for the banquet. I absently get ready in front of the mirror. I don’t have many good pairs of clothes, but I do make sure I have a few knives up my sleeves. Just in case.
And then I go. Voiceless. I stride out of the bedroom, feeling better than I have in months. A new room, a friend in the Fool, and some measure of respect. And who knows? Maybe things can get better than this. I don’t know, but I’m hopeful.
I might just enjoy tonight after all.
—-
I get lost on the way to the banquet hall again. It’s my new room. Plus, I never got to know the old one that well. It’s also hard to get directions. All the servants just stare at me and point. I guess they still don’t think I’m that much of a hero. I know I’m not.
But I still get to the banquet hall in good time. The [Chamberlain] blinks when he sees me, but points me to the table with my friends.
I sense heads turning as I enter the room. People watching me, murmuring. I hate that. But I also know that they’ll stop as soon as something else happens. Give me a week, a month, and people will barely remember my name, let alone call me a hero.
My friends are sitting with their backs to me, laughing with the Drakes. I know I should sit with the nobles, but I want to talk to them first, say hi. Maybe ask if Lady Zekyria has a husband. I dunno, I’m feeling very lucky. Although that’s probably pushing any amount of luck I’d ever have.
“Hey guys. What’s up?”
They turn, laughing, at the sound of my voice. Then freeze. Richard pauses, a cup halfway to his mouth. Emily turns pale. Keith and Eddy nearly fall out of their seats. And Cynthia—
Screams.
The sound cuts through every other noise in the banquet hall. It’s pure, genuine terror. I see guards start to run towards us, and sense every eye on me. But why?
“Cynthia? What’s wrong?”
I take a step towards her. She backs out of her seat, hand knocking away plates, dishes—she tries to climb over the table to get away from me. I stop and turn towards Eddy. He’s shrinking back in his seat. And then Richard—he has a hand on his sword. His face is white as he stares at me.
“Tom?”
It’s a whisper. And suddenly, my heart’s pounding. Why is he looking at me like that? Why is he looking at me like—
“Richard? Why are you all staring at me?”
He looked shocked. Tongue-tied. Unable to explain. He looks at Emily and she breaks the silence.
“Tom. Your face.”
I slowly raise my hands to my face. Uncomprehending. Then I touch my cheeks. Feel a bit of oil, sticky slickness blended with a powder. I stare at my fingers and see white.
“A mirror.”
I look around. Faces, staring. The world blurs. I lunge for the table and people draw back around me. Cynthia screams again. But I just want to see.
There’s a plate holding some grapes. I dump them off and hold up the shiny surface, polishing it with one hand. Why—why is my sleeve yellow? What am I wearing?
And then I see. Then I hear laughter in my head, and feel the world shift.
A clown stares back at me. Face pale and white, eyebrows drawn in black. Shadows under the eyes. A red nose. A crimson splash. And red lips, just waiting to smile. The clown stares back, horrified, dressed in a bright yellow suit, splashed with faint stains the best washing couldn’t remove.
A clown. And then I turn, and see the horror on my friend’s faces. The confusion, the look of unease on the others. The guests of the Blighted King have seen the Fool, but they’ve never seen a [Clown]. Never seen a man who dresses himself up to mock the world like I do.
And I feel the floor breaking up underneath me. I didn’t know. I thought I was getting ready. I didn’t—
Is he real? Am I insane?
No. This is just—
“It’s just me, guys. I—sorry.”
I back away from the others. Richard’s still staring. Cynthia’s sobbing. Some of them are just staring at me, nervous. Others…some of them saw me afterwards, laughing. They’re the ones who look truly frightened.
I walk away from them, hearing Richard try to explain to the guards what made Cynthia scream, sensing conversation resume in the room. But the eyes follow me.
What could I say to them? What can I say? This was a joke? No. That I didn’t realize I’d put on my costume and the paint? That’s worse.
I don’t know if I should stay. But as I’m debating running for the doors and burning the costume and washing myself, I hear someone call out.
“Sir Tom!”
Lady Zekyria. She’s waving to me. She doesn’t appear to be bothered by my appearance. She laughs as I walk over to her.
“What a look! And what entertainment, Sir Tom! Is that what a [Clown] is supposed to look like? You’re far more diverting than a [Fool]!”
“Indeed.”
Sir Yebior sits across from me, eying me appraisingly. He gestures for me to sit. Dreaming, walking in a nightmare, I do.
It’s like I’m in one of those dreams where I go to school and realize I’m naked. Only this time, no one at the table cares. They joke about it, asking why I scared Cynthia so, listening to my garbled explanation with polite smiles. They don’t know.
But I do. I feel cold certainty gripping me at last.
I am not in control.
What can I do? What should I do? I stare towards the head table. The Blighted King is watching me. He’s supposed to present me with a reward, right? I don’t want it. I need to leave, to find somewhere alone to think—
How angry will he be if I leave now? How rude would that be? I don’t care. The nobility are laughing around me. I go to push up my chair. And stop.
“Demons are attacking!”
A man screams the word. I turn, the world slows. I see a soldier, armor covered in blood, one arm hanging limp, running into the hall, shoving aside the [Chamberlain]. Again there is silence. He rushes towards the Blighted King’s table, blocked by a wall of guards who rush towards him. He stops there, and the Blighted King rises.
“Where?”
“The courtyard, your Majesty! They appeared out of nowhere. A spell—they’re invading the palace and securing the courtyard as we speak!”
I hear screams now, but the Blighted King is on his feet and another man with a greatsword leaps up and roars for silence. He and four other warriors including Xersia the Scorpion race out of the hall, their forms a blur.
“Nereshal!”
The King shouts one word. The [Chronomancer] runs across the hall and two other mages, a female Centaur and a male half-Elf, run over. Nereshal raises his hand and speaks a word.
A picture floats in the air, clearer than any video, large enough so that I can see it from where I side. I see the courtyard from above, dark, melting snow covering parts of the flagstone. And dark shapes, hundreds of them, streaming towards the palace. More still hold the gates while others race along the courtyard walls, swords flashing as they cut down the guards stationed there.
Demons.
1.05 C
“How did they appear?”
There’s chaos in the banquet hall. The Blighted King is questioning the guard who raised the alarm. Other soldiers are rushing for the doors, creating blockades in the corridors. But most of the guards and people are staying put. Waiting. Listening.
Fear is in the air. My st
omach is churning. What can I do? What should I do?
He was right. I was right. But how did the Demons get here?
“Teleportation magic. A scroll—possibly artifacts. To teleport so many, the Demon King must have used every magical item in his possession.”
Nereshal is conferring with a group of [Mages]. His eyes are on the projection. And then I see movement from the courtyard.
The Demons are streaming into the castle, most through the main gates. But they’re also moving along the battlements. One group is clustered around the left wall. I see an explosion, and a different group appears.
Humans. Two Humans, a man and an old woman. A Gnoll, and a Selphid. They cut down the Demons and charge into the courtyard, running along the battlements. The Blighted King’s champions.
A cheer goes up through the room as the people see the four champions charging the Demons. But the Blighted King and his advisors don’t cheer. They watch, intently, as the four warriors rush a group in the center of the courtyard.
“There. Their leader is a mage.”
Nereshal points. A female Demon wearing robes is standing in the courtyard, staff aloft. By her side is a male Demon, holding a bow taller than he is. It must be seven feet tall. He wears no armor. One of the champions raises his own bow, draws an arrows, looses it in a moment.
The arrow vanishes before it reaches the Demon with the bow. He puts an arrow to his bow, draws, fires. The Gnoll who fired tries to dodge, but the arrow curves in the air and strikes him in the chest. He falls.
Lady Xersia, a man with a shortsword, and the Selphid holding two greatswords are left. They charge into a group of Demons coming up the stairs. The Selphid impales two on each sword; the Demons run into the blades. He disappears, covered by the Demons who don’t flinch as Xersia and the man with the short sword cut them down one by one.
“Fearless.”
Nerershal speaks the word like a curse. More of the Demons are flooding towards the two champions. The man with the shortsword dodges left—an arrow slashes his leg. The Demon with the bow puts another arrow in the air, and I see it pierce through the man’s armor as if it weren’t there.
“Magic-piercing arrows.”
The Blighted Queen speaks. Silence reigns. Xersia is last. The old woman dashes towards the Demon with the bow like lightning across the ground. The Demon puts an arrow to his bow and looses it. She curves around the arrow like lightning. She lunges with her spear—
And vanishes. Everyone stares at the image of the courtyard. The Blighted King turns to Nereshal.
“What happened?”
“The [Mage] is specialized in teleportation magic.”
The time mage speaks quietly. His eyes are fixed on the projection in the air. The Blighted Queen looks around the courtyard.
“Where was she sent?”
“Up.”
A shape, tumbling down through the air. Thousands of feet overhead, falling like a comet. Tiny, still clutching her spear.
Xersia.
She falls out of the sky. The Blighted King, the people in the banquet hall, everyone, watch in silence as Lady Xersia hits the ground. She threw her spear at the end—the Demon with the bow shoots it out of the sky.
The Blighted King watches it all, as the two, the teleportation [Mage] and the Demon [Archer] calmly turn back to their business. The [Mage] raises her staff and seems to chant. The [Archer] takes a position on the wall and begins shooting down towards the city.
“Unforgivable.”
The Blighted King’s voice is cold. Nereshal studies the projection, and I see more of the Demons, the Fearless, streaming into the castle. Hundreds of them. The time mage turns to his King, face grave.
“I know the archer, your Majesty. And the mage. They are both high-level, thought to be over Level 40 at the least. The Demon King has sent two of his best warriors to hold this ground. One to protect, the other to open a gate.”
“And let his army pour through. Nereshal, how long do we have?”
All eyes are on the [Chronomancer] as he thinks. He turns to confer with the Centaur [Mage], and then raises his voice.
“Teleportation spells are exceedingly complex. Assuming the mage knows where she wants to open a portal to, and her Skills are focused in that area…anywhere from two hours to forty minutes.”
“You are sure? Could they not speed up the spell if they were prepared? I have seen you teleport short distances within minutes.”
The Blighted Queen has a long mace, black like obsidian, in her hand. She rests the head on the ground as she looks at Nereshal. He nods.
“Any competent mage can teleport short distances relatively quickly, but a portal hundreds of miles or more away? Your Majesty, no [Mage] in the world could perform such calculations in ten minutes or less. Not even an Archmage. However, she should not be able to cast such spells at all! The anti-teleportation ward—”
“—Is clearly not working. We have less than an hour, then. We must repel the Fearless invading the palace. They surely seek the Blighted King’s head. And the [Mage] must die.”
The Blighted Queen is full of action, ready to move out. The King is deliberate. He looks at Nereshal.
“Why is the ward stone not working, Nereshal? Find me answers. Until then, if the teleportation spells is not working, is it possible to send a force to deal with the [Mage]? Ambush her?”
Nereshal hesitates.
“We lack warriors on the level of the two in the courtyard, your majesty. Lady Xersia was the highest-level warrior present. I could attempt to battle myself with her Majesty, but—”
“If we lose you, we step one moment closer to the end. As for our consort—no.”
The Blighted Queen turns to her husband.
“With respect, my lord. If we fail to repel the Demons, all is lost.”
“Then we shall consider it a matter of last resort.”
He nods. The Blighted King rises, and turns to a [Strategist] at his side. They confer out loud.
“It seems we must push back the Demons instead. I will use my Skills, but it falls to you and the other warriors present in the palace to push back their line.”
“It will be difficult, my King.”
A Dullahan with a scar down her face grimaces, her face set. She brings out a map and spreads it out on the table.
“Defensively, we could hold these halls and wear down a superior force over the course of days, or barricade ourselves in for weeks. But with a second force on the way, we must retake the castle and the courtyard within the hour. And the soldiers flooding the castle are elites. The Fearless have been sent in numbers. We will fight them to the death.”
The Blighted King curses.
“They struck us at our weakest moment! How did the Demon King know? If we must take the courtyard, it will be numbers against those two. Their levels will create a slaughter. For the army we need, we must rally the guards. Where are they stationed? Who in this room can fight? Act quickly; we have little time.”
The Blighted King turns, and like that the spell of paralysis on the room breaks. Men and women rush towards the doors, some dashing out of them, others barricading entrances. Richard and Emily are on their feet, and they rush towards the Blighted King with the other people with combat classes. The rest of the people in the room, noncombatants, talk, afraid. Some are weeping; I can see the Fool standing with Erille and Isodore, their faces pale.
At my table, the [Lords] and [Ladies] are speaking urgently. Yebior rises to his feet, unsheathing a dagger from his belt.
“Time to fight, my friends. If we can put but a single body between the Demons and our King—”
He strides towards the gathering warriors with a few [Lords]. Zekyria turns to the others and pulls something off her finger. A ring, the gem glowing with an inner light.
“We have artifacts. Let us gather them for the warriors. Come now, hold nothing back.”
A flurry of motion breaks out. I look around the table and feel lost. Afraid.
What can I do? Fight? I’m no warrior, but—everyone’s needed. I should volunteer. Or I could stay, keep them safe if it comes to the worst. Richard’s there, face grim, and so is Emily, Eddy, Vincent—they’re all ready to fight and die. I should be too.
I go to stand up. I put my hands on the table and stand.
My legs don’t move. I stare. Blink. I try again. My legs don’t move.
I look down. Or try to. My head doesn’t move. I’m telling it to look, to move, but it doesn’t. I try to raise my hands. Nothing happens.
Nothing works. I can’t even blink. What’s going on? I can’t—I’ve lost control of my body.
My hand rises. I stare at it as I pick up a fork. And then my head does turn. It stares left, towards a silver pitcher filled with wine. The metal is clear and polished, it reflects my face. A clown stares back at me, face painted, dressed in a ludicrous costume stained with blood. And then, to my horror, he grins at me.
“Well, it seems like everything’s going wrong, doesn’t it? My turn to come out, I think.”
No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, no—not now. This can’t be happening. Slowly, the hand with the fork raises. In the mirror, Tom twirls it, as the people around him panic and more screams begin to echo through the hall.
“We had a lot of fun, didn’t we, Tom? When you thought I wasn’t real, when you were so sure that you’d beaten me? As if you could beat yourself.”
This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. I can’t be going insane. Not now! I tried so hard! I didn’t let you out!
I can’t speak. I’m only a voice in his head. In my head. Tom laughs, and it’s not my laughter. It’s darker, wilder, with an edge of madness in it.
“Let me out? You can’t let me out, you idiot! There’s nothing to let out! You and I are the same. How can you stop yourself? See?”
He lifts the fork and begins to pick at his teeth with it, casually. I try to stop him, to seize control of my hand.
You’re not me! You’re something else! Give me back my body—
“Tom, Tom!”
He raises his voice. I can sense Zekyria turning her head to stare at him. Me. Tom ignores the look. I ignore the look. I look into my reflection’s eyes, see the panicked look there. Hah. I hate him so much, that other me. I speak to him.
