And also bear witness to the Final End of the Human Race,
At the Hooves and Horns
of Robo-Princess the Destroyer!
And her band of Hunters.
“They know we’re here,” Max said to his friends.
Yah Yah approached the group, his hands full of leaflets. He tossed them into the morning fire, but thousands of the papers remained littered throughout the treeshire.
“You see?” Sarah said, holding up the paper. “Two weeks. You should be spending that time finding a way home, not trying to fight these machines.”
“If we leave, the machines will probably just take it out on the frobbits,” Dirk complained.
“Not really—or at least not for thousands of years,” Sarah replied.
Dwight looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, for us home isn’t just a place—it’s a time. If we go home now none of this will have even happened yet, right? Because we’ll be in the past and this is the future.”
“But it won’t feel that way,” Max said. “I’ll remember it.”
“Yeah. How can you remember something if it never happened?” Dirk added, looking at Yah Yah. “Nobody knows exactly how this stuff works.”
“Maybe . . . I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. “I’m just trying to think logically and take emotion out of the equation.”
“It’s emotion that gets you humans into trouble,” Dwight added, motioning at Sarah. “At least this one tries to use her head.”
Dirk watched as more leaflets floated slowly to the ground. “We’ve already made up our minds and there’s no going back. So what if the machines know we’re here? Good. Because now it’s personal.” Dirk crunched the leaflet he was holding and raised it into the air.
“Why exactly is it personal?” Sarah asked.
Dirk looked annoyed. “Because that’s what you say just before you go off and take it to the bad guys. It has to be personal, otherwise you’d just do something lame, like write a strongly worded letter.”
“Or start a petition,” Max added.
“Exactly!” Dirk agreed, giving Max a high five. “Oh yeah, it’s gotta be personal.”
“So what’s the deal with the hunting grounds?” Dwight asked Yah Yah, ignoring Dirk and Max.
“The hunting grounds,” Yah Yah repeated, bending down to pick up another leaflet. “It’s a place unlike any other. I told you once that frobbits had to learn to be afraid. Well, what we fear most of all is that place.”
“It’s not just the forest?” Sarah asked.
“No. It’s a world unto itself where the machines watch and cheer our destruction. It can be remade within moments to be as strange and terrible as anything you can imagine. It would please me if I were never to go there again.”
“So you’ve been?” Dwight asked. “And lived?”
“I was young and foolish. And lucky. Very, lucky,” Yah Yah said, his voice heavy. “I was the only one to make it back.”
Max tried not to think about the hunting grounds and why it was so terrifying to the frobbits.
“The elders will meet soon,” Yah Yah continued. “We must discuss what to do.”
Later, as Max continued his studies in the Codex, Sarah and Dirk followed the villagers as they made their way to the council chambers. It was crowded, but the frobbits made room for the humans near the back. Sarah listened as the council discussed Robo-Princess, and how she had never treated the frobbits as anything other than animals to be slaughtered. There was little doubt that if the humans didn’t show up on the appointed day, Robo-Princess would take it out on the entire frobbit community. That stirred feelings of anger and resentment in the council—and it took a lot to get frobbits to feel that way. In the end, the vote was unanimous. The humans had agreed to help the frobbits, so the frobbits would do whatever they could to help the humans. Which probably wasn’t going to be very much.
“See?” Dirk said, turning to Sarah. “That’s how friends treat each other. A friend has your back.” Sarah wondered just how often Max and Dirk had to watch out for each other in middle school. No wonder they didn’t want to let the underdog get trampled on—they were the underdogs. Sarah felt a twinge of guilt for having given Max such a hard time.
“Okay, I get it,” Sarah replied, “everyone’s minds are made up, so I’m not going to spend any more energy arguing about this. Right now we just have to work the problem—so that’s what I’m going to do.” She remembered when she had first learned judo, the throwing technique was explained to her as having three phases: the kuzushi, tsukuri, and kake—or breaking the balance, the entry into the technique, and the throw itself. Sarah decided she just needed to consider going against the machines in those terms. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, leaning over to talk with Dirk. “The machines have never faced anything like Max and the Codex before. We have to use that to our advantage.”
“Max needs more experience,” Dirk replied. “So he can level up.”
“Okay . . . but we need to do more too—like get the frobbits involved. The invitation was just for us humans, but I think everyone should go. They won’t expect it, and it might help get the machines off-balance. And when they’re off-balance, they’ll be more vulnerable.”
“Like what you did to the Kraken!” Dirk exclaimed, suddenly understanding.
“Exactly. He was bigger and stronger than I was, but when he came at me I was able to use that to my advantage. Same here.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have a talk with our frobbit friends.”
Sarah politely pushed her way through the crowd until she came to where the council was seated. They were in the midst of a lively debate on exactly how they should help the humans.
“What if we instructed them in the art of mint-leaf defense?” a frobbit suggested. “I bet they’ve never tried that.”
“Or head burying?” came a shout from somewhere in the crowd.
“Or tickle points! They probably don’t know the Eight Tickle Points of Doom!”
“Please, everyone,” Ayriah said, raising her hand. The council members and crowd quieted down. “The Eight Tickle Points of Doom are only to be used in the most extreme circumstances.”
“You remember what happened to that snow faerie?” Sayri, Ayriah’s sister added by way of agreement. “It left him with a rash. A rash!”
There were audible gasps from the gathered frobbits. Sarah realized she was going to have her work cut out for her.
“Perhaps our history might be instructive,” Goshri said from his seat at the council table. “I’m reminded of the battle of Gra’ah, in the Great Snow Faerie Dispute. Our general led a division of frobbits in an uphill charge, into the sun, across an open field, breaking halfway for lunch, and then walked them through heavy fire for fear of side aches, and lost only eighty percent of his force.”
“Impressive,” Hyril, who was seated next to him, added. “Usually our losses are much higher. Perhaps we could instruct the humans in this technique?”
Sarah, however, had had enough. “No!” she said, sounding a bit more forceful than she had intended. “Losing eighty percent is not good. Losing anyone is not good.”
The council members looked around the table at one another with confused expressions.
“What exactly are you saying?” Samtri said, addressing Sarah. “We’ve learned over hundreds of years how to lose well enough to survive.”
Sarah turned to Goshri, who looked to be the most senior frobbit at the table. “Goshri, do you remember when you asked us to help you? And you, Hyril,” she continued, turning to face the other frobbit. “You said you thought we actually came here for a reason—to save you and your people.”
“I remember,” Hyril said solemnly.
“Then listen, because just losing well isn’t going to be good enough. If we’re going to really help each other out, we need to win.”
“Win?” Ayriah exclaimed. The crowd broke out in wh
ispers as the council members shared shocked looks.
“Yes,” came a familiar voice from the crowd as Yah Yah stepped forward, taking his place next to Sarah. “Win.”
There was a moment of silence and then the crowd broke out in uproarious applause. The shock on the council member’s faces softened and they began to nod and smile. Sarah looked around as a swarm of frobbits gathered around her.
“Then we shall fight to win,” Goshri announced after things had quieted down. He looked at Sarah. “And you will lead us.” And the way he said it left no doubt.
Over the course of the last two days, Max had noticed two things. First, Sarah had changed. Where Sarah had been emotional about things before, she was steely-eyed determined now—something she’d probably been good at her whole life. Give her a challenge and she’d work at it until she figured it out. There wasn’t anything she could do to help Max learn to use the Codex, but she could turn the frobbits into an army of sorts. The second thing Max noticed was the Codex seemed to take another unpredictable turn. Suddenly he found all kinds of materials about spells and magic. The book referenced a Wizard’s Tower where the formal magical arts were taught. But it also warned that without formal training, spell casters were at risk of falling into magic’s darker forms. Max decided to concentrate on the one kind of magic that always seemed to come in handy whenever he played online—fire magic. There were even a number of Tower-authorized fire spells available for him to study.
Late one afternoon Max found himself in a clearing across from a twig-and-branch replica of Robo-Princess. A particular warning he’d read about fire stuck in his memory: Fireballs are drawn from the wizard class of spells and cover a broad range of power and effectiveness, from the acolyte’s Level One Flame of Tentative Candle Ignition to the arch-wizard’s Level Seventy Hurriflame World-Burner. And although fire can be quickly summoned and used to great effect, it does have a tendency to feed on its own inertia. Wizards should take special care to not let fire-based spells get away from them, otherwise the consequences can be dire.
Many of the frobbits had gathered to see the human wizard at work. Dirk and Sarah had joined them as well. (Sarah needed some fresh air after arguing with the frobbits that lining soldiers up, having them hold hands, and daring the enemy to run through was not a good idea.) The frobbits were perpetually cheerful, talking back and forth in hushed tones as they awaited any forthcoming displays of magic. Even Dwight managed to make an appearance, stomping through the woods as if his sole objective was to snap every twig and branch that crossed his path. The dwarf had found a helm, shield, and large battle-axe. “Look at this!” Dwight exclaimed, hefting the axe from one hand to the other as he joined the group. “The wee frobbits kept a museum of relics. Now, I know it’s strange to see a dwarf with a battle-axe, but I think I can get the hang of it.”
“Um, pretty much all dwarfs ever fight with are battle-axes,” Dirk said. “You see a picture of a dwarf back home, and they’ll be standing with a drink in one hand and an axe in the other. It’s probably because they don’t have skinny-enough fingers to really hold a sword right.”
“And dwarfs are also grumpy,” Sarah added, despite Dwight’s deepening frown. “I’m just saying.”
“So let me get this straight,” Dwight said carefully, planting the end of his axe into the ground. “Humans think dwarfs are small, irritable drunks with fat, sausagelike fingers that can only wrap around something as big and unwieldy as a battle-axe?”
Dirk nodded. “Pretty much. Add ‘loud-mouthed and violent’ to the whole drunk part and I think you’ve got it.”
Max looked up from his book.
“I see,” Dwight said, taking it a whole lot better than anyone would have thought. “Then a final question for you know-it-all types: How fast do humans think dwarfs can run?”
Dirk shrugged. “Not so fast, really. I mean, come on—look at those little legs. It’s like you’ve got no shins.”
“I see,” Dwight said. “Then maybe you should start running.”
Dirk cocked his head, not quite understanding. “Why?”
“Because me and my stubby legs, sausage fingers, and full belly are going to run you down and teach you a thing or two about dwarfs!” Dwight dropped the axe handle and took off toward Dirk. Dirk yelped and ran in the opposite direction, with Dwight trailing behind him as they disappeared into the woods. A stream of words flowed from Dwight in a language Max didn’t understand, but just the tone of it caused several frobbit mothers to put their hands over the ears of their children.
“Is Dirk going to be all right?” Sarah asked, motioning toward the woods.
“Oh, yeah,” Max said, flipping a page in the Codex. “If I had a dollar for every time Dirk was chased by a bunch of bullies, the football team, or the chamber of commerce, I’d be rich.”
Sarah smiled. “So how’s it going, anyway?”
Max shrugged. “Well, I’m trying to get my head around this whole fireball spell. The problem is, you’re supposed to start with this little tiny one that lights candles and stuff. Once you master that, you can slowly move on to the bigger ones.”
“So have you done the smaller one?” Sarah asked hopefully.
Max pointed to a frobbit who was seated on a nearby log. He had a large bandage wrapped around the end of his nose.
“Oh,” Sarah managed to say.
“Yeah, it was kind of embarrassing. Not exactly a candle, but I did get it to light.”
“But that’s a start, right? I mean, come on, how many people can just make fire appear out of nowhere?”
Max had to admit Sarah had a point.
“So you ready to try something bigger?” she continued, motioning toward the Robo-Princess dummy. “You probably just need to give it a try and see what happens, and then adjust from there.”
“Maybe,” Max said, not sounding convinced.
“Well, maybe it’s not ideal. Not that I have any experience with trying to learn magic, but sometimes you have to go for it.”
Max flipped several pages ahead to a more powerful fireball spell. “You know what? You’re right. I’m going to roast that robot unicorn over there.”
Sarah smiled encouragingly before moving a safe distance away. Max turned, took a deep breath, and started reading from the Codex. The spell was called Level Three Spontaneous Combustion, and it sounded like just the sort of thing that might actually do some damage. Max read the text carefully, seeing the image of the fireball as it began to grow in his mind. Then, with all the energy he could muster, he thrust his finger at the target, willing the ball of fire to fling itself from his head and into reality. Unfortunately, nothing happened.
Max turned, feeling as if he had just misplaced something that was very important to keep track of. Looking around, his gaze happened to linger on the frobbit with the bandage on its nose. The feeling of having lost something, but then suddenly finding it, came to him. It was tremendously satisfying up until the moment the frobbit burst into flames.
Thankfully, the frobbits—who were nothing if not practical—had stationed several large buckets of water at strategic places along the practice area. In a split second the flame was doused. There were patches of black smudge where the frobbit’s clothes used to be, but the skin underneath was unscathed. Charred, wet, and with a dripping bandage on his nose, the frobbit politely excused himself from the rest of the demonstration and slowly walked toward the woods. It wasn’t the most stable of walks, and he suddenly veered to the side. But several of his fellows ran and pointed him back in the right direction. Yah Yah, who had been in the crowd, ran up to the wide-eyed Max, whose arm was still cocked in a halfhearted finger point.
“Don’t worry, Max, you’ve not harmed him,” Yah Yah announced, slowly taking Max’s finger and lowering it as if it were a loaded weapon. “He’ll have a few nightmares, maybe.”
“Oh . . .”
“Probably won’t be too anxious to dance around the bonfires.”
“Uh-huh .
. .”
“Or carry a torch.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Might feel queasy around the cooking pits, too.” Yah Yah patted Max on the shoulder. “But other than that, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Suddenly the Codex felt very heavy in Max’s hand. “This isn’t working.”
“No, you must keep trying, Max. You must learn this magic of yours or all of us will die at the blades of the machines. We know there are risks, but we accept the consequences.”
“Yeah, you can’t make an omelet without lighting a few chickens on fire,” Glenn chimed in.
Max was feeling sick to his stomach. It must have been noticeable because Sarah looked concerned. “Maybe you should sit down and rest a bit,” she suggested.
But Max shrugged it off. “No—I can’t.” He went back to the Codex and began reading to see if he could figure out what went wrong. He still had a long day of practice ahead of him, although the crowd of frobbit observers had thinned out considerably.
On the Nature of Evil
EVIL ISN’T SIMPLY BORN INTO THE universe—it’s created. Knowing this may be more philosophically helpful than actually practical, but nevertheless two examples follow.
Rezormoor Dreadbringer, considered one of the most power-hungry sorcerers ever to serve as the Tower’s regent, was said to have been a happy and cheerful child. That was until one day when a boy at the Tower’s day care suggested wearing shorts on the metal slide that had been out in the hot sun all day. After a long and painful night of coconut oil rubs, little Rezormoor decided that the world just might be a cruel place that took advantage of the weak. This was confirmed the next day when he was told jalapeño peppers tasted like vanilla ice cream—after several spoonfuls, he discovered they did not.
Princess the Unicorn, also called Princess the Destroyer, was said to have had a kind and charitable disposition until one day when a royal family visited the Unicorn Nation. Princess took her human form so she could play with a young prince who was near her own age, and the prince showed her a wonderful animal she had never seen before: a cat. He went on to say that cats particularly enjoyed being twirled around and tossed up and down into the air. The young Princess gave it a try, and after a bite and two long scratches across her face, decided there were only two kinds of people in the world: the victim and the person laughing at the victim. Princess decided she’d be doing the laughing from then on.
Bad Unicorn Page 15
