by Hugo Huesca
A second police officer opened the driver’s door and went inside the car. The smell of his cologne flooded the enclosed space and intensified Ed’s growing headache.
What the hell do you use, Eau-de-morgue?
The officer grunted to himself as he fidgeted with his keychain. He stumbled around the car dashboard with enough clumsiness that Ed started to suspect the man was drunk. Finally, he managed to get the car going.
“Uh, aren’t you going to wait for your partner?” he asked the man. Behind him, Ryan and the first officer were still talking, and the crowd was dispersing now that the show was wrapping up.
“He came in his own car,” the policeman told him. His voice sounded ragged and hoarse, like someone who had been washing his throat with tequila since he was a baby.
The Lasershark store soon disappeared from Ed’s view. He was surprised with how little he cared about what was going to happen to him now.
“He’s going to press charges, you know,” the officer finally said. “He’ll probably want to milk you dry after this. Not only did you kick his ass, you humiliated him in front of his underlings.”
“Eh,” Ed shrugged. “What’s he going to take away, my ramen?”
“How about your freedom? A good lawyer can easily trump-up what just happened back there. Have you locked up on attempted homicide. Or worse.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ed said. “If I had wanted to kill him, I would’ve.”
The policeman cranked his neck to stare at Ed’s face. He didn’t stop driving as he did. The man’s face was covered by the shadows of the patrol and the steel net separating them, but his smile was white and perhaps a little too big for his face. It could be a trick of the light, of course.
Ed wished he could crank a window open. The cologne was getting under his nostrils now. It was both sweet and sour in an entirely disgusting way that he could not place.
Uncle Jonah, he decided, but he discarded the idea with a mental sneer.
“It won’t matter one bit. You know that, Edward. Ryan has the power to make your life hell, and you lack the power to defend yourself against him. Sure, you may not care now, but will the memory of having broken his nose be enough to sustain you while you spend the next couple decades rotting away in jail?”
Ed rested one cold hand against his forehead that was now pulsating like a live thing.
“Who are you?” he asked. Uncle Jonah? No, no way. He hadn’t seen his uncle since Ed was a kid. It was hard to remember why with that cursed migraine…
The man hadn’t looked at the road for a while now, but they were straight in the middle of it, even though it was the dead of the night.
“Why, I’m a talent-hunter of sorts, Edward. I’m interested in you, and I have a proposal I think you’d like to hear.”
“So, you aren’t a police officer? Agh, my head…”
The smell—and the pain—was so intense now that tears streaked down Ed’s cheeks. Wafts of warm odor hit him every time the man spoke. Through the daze of the migraine, Ed realized why. It wasn’t a cologne. It was the man’s breath.
He recalled Uncle Jonah now. He had died in a car crash when Ed was nine. The entire family had gone to the funeral. Given the severity of his wounds, the body was still inside the funerary clinic. Nine-year-old Ed had let go of his father’s hand and had wandered off on his own through the corridors of the place, letting his curiosity roam free. He had gone beyond the modest chapels and beyond the clerk’s desk, beyond the heated furnaces of the crematorium, until he had reached a place with an AC unit spewing a current of cold air. He recalled the metal tables and the men in clinical attire working on the mangled body of his uncle—an amorphous black and pink blob in the mist of Ed’s memory—with rows and rows of tools and chemicals strewn around them in shelves and containers of all sizes. Little Ed had started screaming by then, which had scared the living hell out of the adults there. An elbow had pushed one container and it had shattered against the floor—which was strewn with drains for the corpses’ fluids—and the smell had been overpowering. It had made little Ed’s nose hurt and burn and it had smelled
Just like this. Just like his breath.
“Ah, little Edward. No, I’m not a policeman. I’m only the Boatman. Haven’t you looked out of the window yet? Does this place look like your Earth to you?”
No, thought Ed while his gaze tried to make sense of the dark world outside his window. No, it does not.
Ed opened his eyes again. He must’ve fainted at some point. His head felt better now, so he dared to look around.
He was still in the backseat of the police car. The man was still looking at him, his face still covered in shadows, his smile still impossibly white and just a bit too wide.
At least the smell wasn’t as overpowering now.
That’s because you have it all over you.
“The transition can be rough the first time,” said the man, giving him a friendly nod.
Huh. Necks aren’t supposed to rotate that far behind someone’s back, an alarmed part of his brain thought.
Know what? Let’s take one thing at a time, the rest of him suggested.
“Who are you? What’s going on?” That was a good start.
“I’m the Boatman,” the man reminded him. “You can call me Kharon if you need a name to go along with the face. As I said, I’m a talent-hunter. I’ve been watching you for a bit, you see, and the idea of seeing you waste your potential in a jail cell for the rest of your life was too much for me to take. So here you are.”
“Kharon,” Ed repeated the name like it was some kind of anchor to keep him from madness. “Kharon, either I have gone mad, or you need to be clearer. We’re driving in the middle of…well, it looks like Hell…and your neck should be broken with the way you’re looking at me. Did I die at some point and haven’t realized it until now?”
“This is not Hell, Edward. This is a space of transition. A buffer between worlds, if you may. And please, now that we’re far along into the trip, don’t look at the inhabitants closely. They can’t harm you while you’re with me, but viewing them has nasty effects upon the mortal mind.”
Of course, Ed looked out before he could stop himself. He saw towering, impossible shapes bloating the apocalyptic horizon. Living shapes that dwarfed mountains. Shapes that moved—no, they were hunting each other.
Ed felt his mind started to unravel and he looked away while goosebumps traveled down his back. “Oh, shit.”
Kharon barked a laugh. “I swear, every time I say, ‘don’t do it,’ you people go and take a look. Like clockwork! Here, I’ll take that memory away. Otherwise, you’ll have terrible dreams at first and then go barking mad before you turn thirty.”
The shapes left Ed’s mind like an unwanted guest.
“Thanks,” he said. Kharon laughed again.
“Have you gotten your bearings straight yet? My job will be much easier if you aren’t having a histrionics fit while I try to recruit you.”
While having a nervous breakdown seemed like a perfectly acceptable thing to do given the circumstances, Ed had never been the kind to have those anyway.
“Just say things straight,” Ed said. “Don’t keep the vague and mysterious act going if you want me to hear you out.”
“Negotiating already, before you even know what’s going on? Good boy. That’s an useful habit to make. It will either make you live longer, or will get you killed while you’re still starting out. Both will ensure I don’t waste my time.”
“Mysterious and vague,” sighed Ed while he massaged his temples. “Remember?”
“My apologies, Edward. It’s the force of habit. You see, the world where I come from takes these rituals very seriously…But I’ll give your way a go, to show you I mean business. The ‘job vacancy’ as you’d call it, has been recently created. Last night, I mean. By your very own hand, in fact—”
“What?” Last night he had been playing Ivalis Online. Kharon was implying Ed had killed someone
…He started to get a very nasty suspicion, only to have it immediately confirmed by Kharon’s next words.
“Edward Wright, in name of the Dark God Murmur, I extend you the offer to become a Dungeon Lord of the world of Ivalis.”
4
Chapter Four
Murmur's Gambit
Ed blinked without saying anything. Ivalis.
Kharon stared at him with a smug smile like he had made the revelation of a century.
It was too much for Ed. He had to clarify. “Ivalis Online? Like in the videogame? You want me to become a videogame’s Boss?”
“That’s one way of—”
“Ah, great. I should have known,” Ed sighed. All the signs were there. “I’ve gone insane, haven’t I? I’m being kept at some asylum right now, frothing at the mouth, and I’m hallucinating this whole thing.”
He shot a glance at the corner of the car—while carefully avoiding the windows—as if he expected to catch some intern taking notes by a corner.
“Trust me, Edward, your imagination isn’t that good,” Kharon told him. “How about you hear me out, see if what I have to say makes sense, and then you decide for yourself?”
Ed couldn’t shake away the idea that Kharon was enjoying his distress a bit too much, even if his words were concerned. “Can you at least fix your neck?”
Kharon’s body made a full turn while his head remained static. “Better?”
“…Yes.”
“Good. Now, as I was saying. Ivalis. Ah, you’re going to love it there! An old world with a young civilization, filled with possibility. So much a determined young man can do over there—there are no limits to what he could achieve!”
“You’re talking about a videogame. It doesn’t have particularly good graphics, and don’t take it as an offense, but the storyline was a bit disjointed. It was mostly an excuse to kill shit and level up.”
Nothing wrong with that, of course.
Kharon’s tongue licked the inside of his teeth. At least, Ed hoped it was his tongue. It was black and slimy. “I know all about the game. That’s the reason you got into my sights in the first place, Edward. Let me assure you, Ivalis—a real world, mind you—came first. For how long have you played Ivalis Online?”
“About a year,” Ed said. “It was made by some indie company, I think. They haven’t made anything else.” He could vaguely recall the name of the developers, Pantheon. The name appeared when you first loaded the game, along with a Sun with eight flames that looked like arrowheads.
“That company doesn’t exist,” Kharon dismissed Ed’s train of thought. “Their offices are empty—I’ve checked. But what’s really interesting is that about a year ago so-called Heroes appeared everywhere across Ivalis. They are merciless creations that look human yet aren’t, unyielding machines of war that never stop until they are dead. And they are hard to kill, Edward.”
A tickling, cold sensation passed down Ed’s back. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“They murder and plunder wantonly. Most of their victims are monsters and other Dark-aligned beings, but their preferred target are the Dungeon Lords.”
Oh, shit.
Kharon went on, “These Heroes chose a bleak time to cull the Lordship ranks, Edward. The bloodlines that once prepared the Lordship for the most noble mission of opposing Alita’s chosen are not what they once were. And with the Heroes around, I fear the Lordship is at risk of being vanquished from Ivalis and its kingdoms.”
The number of questions flaring inside Ed’s mind fought with each other to be the first to come out. The one that won wasn’t the most demanding or the most logical, but it was the strongest. “Isn’t that a good thing? Aren’t the Dungeon Lords the bad guys?”
Kharon shrugged at him. “Not from the Dark’s perspective. No one likes to be slaughtered by a nasty Hero that kills you because they want your boots.”
Ed had to resist the urge to whistle and play innocent.
“Last night, a group of Heroes ravaged the last holding of the noble and ancient House of Arpadel and killed its last living heir, the Lord Kael,” said Kharon. Although he spoke without a hint of accusation in his voice, Ed had no doubts the strange man knew who had been behind that. “They did so mercilessly—which isn’t that bad—but without adhering to Ivalis’ ancient rituals…indeed, they killed him without letting him even finish his last monologue.”
Ed was suddenly very aware that he was at the mercy of this strange, probably undead, being. What would happen if the man stopped the car and asked Ed to step out? Just leave him there in Cthulhu countryside and let the things there do as they wished.
Ed’s nervous smile gained a notch of the manic tint in Kharon’s own.
“So, his Dark Majesty Murmur’s found himself in a bad position. Whoever is behind these Heroes is willing to break rules everyone has respected for generations. Alita’s Church claims to have no involvement, of course, but their Empire expands happily through the ravaged territory the Dungeon Lords leave behind.”
Which may not be a bad thing, Ed reminded himself. Ivalis Online’s storyline may have been disjointed, but he clearly recalled seeing the torture chamber in some of the minor dungeons his character had gone through.
“We need new blood to fill the ranks, strong people with new ideas. Young men and women who have that…knack…for leadership. People who can use their Lordship status to its fullest capabilities. Sadly, with its reputation for being a short-lived career, there’s almost no one worthy in Ivalis to take up the mantle for themselves.”
“That’s not doing much to convince me,” said Ed. “And I fear you may have gotten your guy wrong. Why me? I mean, I guess I could do a decent enough job. But why not a soldier? Hell, an African warlord sounds more up your alley.”
“Who says we won’t recruit those when the time comes? You’re the first—you won’t be the last. There’s no Chosen One in the choir of Murmur, Edward, there are only men who desire power and are willing to take it for themselves. And the Hungry One knows you. He Who Comes in the Space Between Heartbeats…asked for you. What is left for us poor mortals but to answer his commands?”
“He sounds charming, Kharon,” said Ed, “but take no offense, this seems like I’ll end up being the minion of an evil god, and I’ve worked in retail before, so I know it’s not all it’s supposed to be. I really don’t feel like sacrificing innocent people to your Hungry One. Or like sacrificing anyone at all. If your ‘power’ transforms me into someone I’m not, that would be exchanging one kind of slavery for another.”
Kharon mulled over Ed’s words for a bit before saying, “So you fear the mantle of Lordship will change the core of who you are.”
“As I said, no offense.”
“I’ve offered the mantle to many people, Edward. Very few ever concerned themselves with the fine print.”
“And how did that work for them?”
Kharon barked another laugh. “A cautious Dungeon Lord is one whose dungeons may last a while. Don’t worry, Edward, the mantle won’t force you to become someone you’re not.”
Awkwardly, Ed realized he had no way of knowing if Kharon was telling the truth, but he didn’t miss the emphasis the man had added to “force.”
Like he could read Ed’s thoughts, Kharon added, “I won’t lie to you, I have no need. If you decline my offer, I’ll simply take you back to the real vehicle I stole you from. See, Murmur could make you hear mysterious, dark voices to corrupt and influence you once you accepted the mantle. But that’s not how he operates. He’s not the kind of Dark god who is content doing cruel deeds at random, he’s the kind of god who philosophizes. He likes to make a point during his deals with mortals.”
“Go on,” Ed told him, intrigued, despite the fact he felt like the guy in horror movies who gets sweet-talked by the devil.
“Have you ever seen the play, ‘Faust’? It’s from your world.”
“Sorry, no. I’ve heard it’s about a guy who makes a deal with the devil.”
“Faust is a doctor who thinks he has seen all there is to know,” explained Kharon, “so he offers the devil, Mephistopheles, a contract for power. The doctor thinks he can resist the devil’s influence and use the power to do great good that would otherwise be impossible.
“Mephistopheles agrees. He thinks that having great power is enough of a corruptible force in itself for Faust to succumb, so he decides to let the doctor roam the world and act as he pleases, betting that in the end his acts would advance the cause of the Dark. In those terms is the deal forged, and the screenplay itself becomes a treatise of morality. Is a man capable of resisting the influence of great power in order to achieve great deeds? Or will having power be enough to align him to the cause of the Dark?”
“I see,” said Edward. His mouth was dry and he could feel his pulse accelerating. For all he knew, Kharon was making up the story of Faust, Ed had no way of knowing. But the meaning behind the words was clear. “Murmur is betting that just by being a Dungeon Lord I’ll become evil. And I’m betting my intentions are better than that.”
How long had he wished that he could show people like Ryan the world didn’t need them? That one could both have authority over others and be a decent human being?
That one could have power and not abuse it, that one could grow and advance his own life without becoming a raging asshole.
Kharon extended his arms in quite the dramatic fashion. “Thus,” he said, “the term ‘Faustian gambit.’ Which is exactly what the Dark One himself does with the Lordship. Just a gambit.”
“How does the play end? Who wins?”
“Will that really change your mind, Edward?” Kharon shrugged. “There are many versions of Faust, and the end usually satisfies the morals of the audience. If it’s a cautionary tale, Faust’s sins are too great, and he’s dragged to hell. If it’s a tale of redemption, something trite, like the love of a woman, redeems him and he goes to heaven after he dies.”
For a while now, Ed had known his life was stagnating. That no matter how hard he tried to move forward, he was stuck thanks to forces—to people—outside his control.
