Mogworld

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  I crossed the room and pulled the window open. There was a lovely view of the brick wall opposite and a picturesque cluster of bins in the alleyway below. Nothing that could possibly offer a soft landing, and I was amazed by how frighteningly high up the third floor was when looked down from like this. I looked left and right for a nice quiet corner where I could rethink my plan, but the sudden crunch of a door being kicked open downstairs brought things back into perspective.

  I had hooked two legs over the windowsill and prepared to lower myself gently when the entire hotel began to shake violently. One of those early trebuchet shots must have done something to the building’s integrity. I was left dangling from the windowsill by my fingers, feet frantically scrabbling against the wall and elbow staples creaking with displeasure.

  The father of the occupying family suddenly appeared at the window. He looked left, then right, then down, straight into my eyes.

  “I told you to keep this window shut,” he said, face totally blank.

  “Oh, you bastard,” I replied, unsure whether I was referring to him, Barry, or God.

  He smartly slammed the window closed. I snatched my hands away before I could add ten broken fingers to my list of problems. Then gravity, that smug jerk, tapped me on the shoulder and asked me how I thought I was going to stay up. I didn’t have an answer to that. I fell.

  After an arm-flailing, stomach-lurching fraction of a second, I managed to grab the ledge above the second floor window. My feet found solid purchase on the sill. My life abruptly stopped flashing before my eyes. I was safe.

  I was also staring right into a room containing a very surprised-looking dwarven mercenary, one leg still frozen post-door-kicking. He was wielding a battleaxe about the size of a small tree, and my landing seemed to have left me thrusting my hips towards the window in what could be misconstrued as an invitation.

  “Hi,” I said. Then, because that didn’t seem like enough, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’re trying to sneak out of the building,” he replied.

  I was wondering how to word my response when the entire hotel lurched dizzyingly. Beams and girders from all over the building joined together in a chorus of groans. Then the

  architecture gave in and began its final, inevitable journey to the ground.

  I and the dwarf only had time to exchange a single terrified glance before everything began to shift ninety degrees from the norm. I tumbled through the window into the room, slamming into the dwarf as he struggled to remain upright and sending the pair of us rolling down the tilting hallway.

  I was deaf and blind with a faceful of beard, and only became aware that we had been heading for another door when I felt it smash open beneath my spine. Fortunately we had rotated by the time we hit the window, and the dwarf went through first. He might have survived even that, had he not then landed on the cobblestones outside, driving thick glass shards into his important parts.

  I, meanwhile, found myself sitting upright on his corpse, whose many broken bones had made it a surprisingly soft landing pad. I looked around, astonished at my good fortune, and my eyes met those of an equally astonished Barry.

  Then a building fell on me.

  —

  I attempted to stand up, and succeeded, but my body didn’t come with me. I pushed myself upwards, passing through several layers of rubble and unfazed guests before I emerged into the thin, grimy air of the dead world.

  Barry and most of his minions had had more sense than I and retreated far enough to avoid injury, pulling the trebuchet with them. Barry floated with hands on hips, foot tapping upon thin air and mouth set into a thin line of irritation.

  When I drew closer to him, I felt my spectral stomach lurch. In the dead world, his body was bathed in a dazzling incandescent light. And just like Drylda, he was full of Deleters. I counted five pairs of Deleter wings poking out of him, and three Deleter heads jutting out of his upper back. Deleter hands were caressing his scalp, magic sparkles bursting in showers from their fingertips and settling in his hair.

  He was possessed. Taken over by some kind of magical monstrosity. No, I corrected myself; not possessed. It was still Barry’s own personality under all that power, which meant he’d joined forces with the Deleters. And that was a hundred times worse.

  FIVE

  Being trapped under rubble actually wasn’t so bad. One or two of my bones needed resetting and I had to manually bash my skull back into shape against a bit of pipe, but after that I was fully functional, with nothing to do but relax and kill time counting the bricks. Several hours passed rather quickly before I was discovered by the latest incarnation of the dwarf I’d been lying on, no doubt looking to retrieve his

  equipment.

  “Blimey, this one’s a real mess,” he exclaimed, as he and several of his colleagues lifted the largest piece of debris off my face.

  “Hi.”

  “Oh. It’s you.” He grabbed me by the legs and pulled me out into the open air, the back of my head rattling unpleasantly against jagged rocks all the way.

  Once I’d been laid out in the street for all to see, I heard a tongue clicking with the resonance of a hammer hitting a steel barrel. “Ugh,” said Barry. “I’m starting to see a pattern. You and those walking blights you call friends always seem to be around whenever I’m being inconvenienced by a town full of corrupted innocents.”

  “It was like this when I got here,” I muttered, but no-one was listening.

  “Secure his arms behind him.” He nodded to the dwarf, who pulled me up onto my knees and busied himself with binding my wrists. “Didn’t think you’d ever have to face me again, did you? That’s how you operate, isn’t it, always running, never facing the consequences for the evil that you do?”

  “You were the one trying to incinerate me,” I pointed out.

  My logic failed to impress. “Bind his legs, too.” Barry watched the dwarf at work for a second before something occurred to him. “Is that normal rope?”

  “ . . . Yes, your majestic highness?” said the dwarf, in the half-questioning tone of someone who suspects that he’s in trouble but can’t fathom what for.

  “He’s a mage, you idiot!”

  “Is that going to be a problem, lord?”

  Barry groaned audibly and rubbed at his temple with a curious crackling sound. “Benjamin?”

  “My lord,” went the battle mage in the party, a swarthy, well-built human with one of those tragic black goatees that people grow when they have some kind of grudge against their own chins.

  “Remind us what the first spell they teach you at Mage School is?”

  Benjamin folded his arms smugly, the teacher’s pet being given a chance to shine. “Removal of smell from a wet dog’s fur.”

  “I meant the first offensive spell.”

  “Oh! Firebolt.”

  “Exactly. And what does a firebolt do to normal ropes?”

  “It . . . lights them on fire?” went Benjamin slowly, watching Barry’s expression.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it does. Do you see the issue, Groyn?”

  “I don’t think I’ve got any other rope, your holiness,” mumbled the dwarf named Groyn, twiddling the hemp between his sausagey fingers.

  “Just cover his mouth so he can’t say the incantation,” sighed Barry.

  “I thought you wanted to interrogate him, lord of wonder?”

  A dangerous silence passed before Barry replied. He was clearly debating internally how many more minions he could atomize and still keep to schedule. “Okay then. We won’t cover his mouth. Just shut him up if he tries to say the words.”

  “What words?”

  “Benjamin?”

  The mage held up a hand. “Arcanus Inferus Telechus,” he incanted, making the appropriate finger waggles. A flaming sphere rocketed into the sky, scattering the seagulls.

  “So if he starts saying that, cover his mouth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have
you got your hacksaw?”

  “Right here, lord,” announced the dwarf, whipping one out from inside his jerkin.

  “Good. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, undead. And every time I hear an unhelpful answer, you’re going to lose a body part.”

  I scoffed. It was a good scoff, too, probably one of my best. “I still don’t feel pain, you know. You can’t threaten me with torture.”

  To my surprise, Barry actually looked offended. “Torture? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Me sinking down to your level. I wouldn’t sully my hands with such barbaric tactics; it would undermine everything I believe in.” He bent down until his face was inches from mine. I could feel heat radiating from it. “I know you don’t feel pain. I know you think being undead gives you some kind of get-out clause for danger. But you’ve only got one body, and you’re not even supposed to be in that one. This isn’t torture. This is more like confiscation of stolen goods.”

  I’d rather hoped he’d forget about those undead resurrection rules. “Just ask your bloody questions,” I said, sulkily.

  “I shall. Now then, it’s actually quite fortunate that you’re here, since you were next on my list after this town. But there’re another two of you deviants around to deal with. Where are they?”

  “They went to New Pillock,” I admitted. It was a betrayal, but Meryl and the priest were somewhere far away and unable to complain, while the hacksaw was right in front of me and very happy to be of service.

  “New Pillock. I see.” He tapped his chin. “And don’t tell me. If we start running now we could have caught up with them within a few days, yes? Please don’t think I was born yesterday.”

  “Does that mean you didn’t like the way he answered your question, lord?” said the dwarf, eager to be back in the good graces.

  “It most certainly does. Start with the leg. Just the foot and half the shin for now.”

  My exasperation reached vocal levels as I watched the hacksaw worry at my tibia. “Why are you doing this?!” I cried. “You’re not getting justice for anyone! All the adventurers we killed just came back to life anyway! The villages we sacked . . . have you been to Applewheat lately?”

  He scoffed. “This isn’t about justice. This is about doing a job.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “For the Deleters?”

  “The angels are just servants. Handmaidens to a divine power you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.” He turned his eyes heavenwards and took up his pulpit stance mid-air. “The angels carried me to Him. He spoke to me from within a beautiful, shining form. He said His world has grown corrupt, and must be fixed. And if I help Him repair the corruption, then I will be given the glorious task of forever keeping the world in line with His divine vision.”

  For a moment I wished that the priest hadn’t opted to go with Meryl. It would have been nice to have some competing lunacy on hand. “But . . . why you?”

  “Because of my unwavering faith, I suppose.”

  “You suppose? So you don’t know?”

  “Of course I know! Shut up! Because I share his vision! A true utopia! Where every righteous man, woman and child will live for eternity, free from death and chaos and the fear of getting their spines pulled out!” He pointed a finger in my face. “You do not fit into that vision, and neither do your friends, and neither does this town!”

  “Er, why does he need you to demolish Yawnbore?” I asked. “Why doesn’t he just make his Deleters delete it? Come to think of it, why don’t they just delete us?”

  He rolled his eyes and made a frustrated noise, to cover up the fact that he was stalling for time. “Bec . . . we . . . ugh . . .

  why don’t you just shut up?! This is supposed to be an interrogation! That means questions come from me! Ah, good.” The dwarf handed him my left foot, still inside my favorite boot. “Benjamin?”

  “Arcanus Inferus Telechus,” chanted Benjamin, taking aim at the foot as Barry chucked it towards him. After a burst of orange flame both foot and boot were raining down upon us in little black specks.

  “You say ‘Ar-car-nus’?” I said, putting on what I hoped was a brave face. “I always pronounce it ‘Ar-cay-nus’.” I wiggled my fingers behind my back.

  Benjamin’s scoff was a lot better than Barry’s, but I think still needed a bit of work to be at my level. Perhaps it was my no-nose thing. “Maybe that’s how they teach it in the hick schools.”

  Barry glanced at him for a second, then cast a lightning bolt at his feet. Benjamin immediately screamed and collapsed, attempting to beat the flames out of his robe with his wizard staff. “Oh, for Si-Mon’s sake,” said Barry, bewilderingly. “He’s trying to cast the spell, you idiots! Now he’s got the first word out! Groyn!” Groyn started at the sound of his name. “If he starts saying any word that begins with ‘inf’, shut him up! Now tell me where your friends are!”

  “All right, all right,” I said hastily. “I’ll tell you. It’s not like I’ll be the one cryin’. Us undead don’t really stick together, you know?” I wiggled my fingers again.

  “Tell me!”

  “They’re in very close vicini-ty,” I said.

  “Vicini-ty?” His brow furrowed. Then he froze, twice; firstly with realization, secondly with ice.

  What Benjamin had failed to mention was that while Arcanus Inferus Telechus (firebolt) is indeed the very first offensive spell they teach you at mage college, the first defensive spell they teach you is Arcanus Cryonus Vicini (ice blast). It’s a handy little workhorse that temporarily freezes everything in a small radius around the caster, invented three hundred years ago by the noted frost mage Frigham as a means of teaching his dog how to “stay.”

  I broke the frozen ropes off my wrists and knees. The ice encasing Barry and the few adventurers he hadn’t slaughtered out of irritation was already cracking and breaking off in the pleasant seaside temperatures. The ice blast wasn’t intended to be a devastating fight-winner; its purpose was to allow a mage enough time to either scarper or line up some of the bigger weapons in their arsenal. Since the ice blast was the bigger weapon in my arsenal, I went for the first option.

  —

  Running was difficult with one foot missing, but I figured if I could re-learn how to work an entire body after fifty years dead, then I could get the hang of this. Of course, the disorienting forty-five degree angle didn’t help, and might have explained why I ran in the wrong direction and ended up on the beach.

  This was the northern half of the beach, the part set aside for holidaymakers, separate from the docklands to the south. A rather morose-looking donkey stood hoof-deep in shingle next to a sign advertising rides upon his mangy back. An ancient wooden pier stretched out over the sea for moony-eyed lovers to walk along and discover there was nothing interesting on the other end, either.

  From the town behind me I heard Barry smacking his minions around. The spell had lasted even less time than I’d hoped and I was fast running out of avenues. Trying to sneak back through the town to the main road would be analogous to dangling my dried-up knackers over a lion’s mouth. I looked at the donkey, but it wasn’t offering any other suggestions. So that was it, then. I was trapped between God and the deep blue sea.

  I watched the deep blue sea roll patiently up and down for a second and eventually a little light came on in my head. Of course. I was still thinking like I was alive. For once, being undead was an advantage; I didn’t have to cling to retro fashion trends like breathing.

  I grabbed a few handfuls of shingle and stuffed every pocket in my robe, then waddled under the pier and into the water. I kept wading until the sunlight-dabbled surface was a good six feet above my head. Then I wrapped myself around a suitably heavy rock and waved off a couple of fish that were trying to nibble scraps off my face.

  The adventurers were already there, running back and forth along the beach, searching for me. One of them, probably Benjamin, thundered his way along the pier. He stopped, flustered, at a railing directly above me, and
glanced down.

  I screwed my eyes shut and chanted inside my head, hoping he would move on. I am a crab. I am thinking crabby thoughts. I am tightening my grip on this rock with my big red pincers.

  Eventually I heard him stomp sullenly back the way he came, and I relaxed the crab mindset. As I did so, a new thought arose: why didn’t I just give myself up? Things had been so hectic lately that I’d almost lost sight of my actual goal. If Barry was working for the Deleters, and the Deleters were enforcing some glorious plan for the world that demanded my removal, they might just rub me out.

  But then there was the question Barry had refused to answer—why were they making him demolish Yawnbore, rather than deleting it themselves? I still couldn’t begin to grasp what, exactly, Barry and his ethereal sponsors were playing at. And then there was the fact that he had sawn my foot off.

  The point was quickly becoming moot, as the adventurers had regrouped on the beach, abandoning the search. They came to some worried consensus, then disappeared back into the town.

  I was in no hurry to surface. I rearranged myself on my rock, brushed off some confused and amorous female crabs, and tried to come up with a plan.

  SIX

  Seven plans later, I noticed with a start that the sun had gone down. The thing about being undead is that without the usual human naggings of sleep, food and air, it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re deep in thought—doubly so when you’re being distracted by cold seawater and naughty fish.

  All I’d come up with was that I had to get to Lolede. And since there were no ships docked in Yawnbore, I’d have to swim. It wouldn’t be a very stimulating trip, and there would probably be a lot of sharks that might understandably confuse my body for chum, but there was no other option. The Magic Resistance would know what to do. I’d lost Drylda, so uncovering the mystery of her condition was on hold, but that was hardly my top concern at that point.