by Charles Dean
The Bathrobe Knight
Volume 1
Written by: Charles Dean
Co Written with the help of an anonymous friend
Edited by: Joshua Swayne
Copyright © 2015 by Charles Dean
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Deadly Spooning
Chapter 2: Town Trip
Chapter 3: Deal me in, poker bear
Chapter 4: The red-eyed flight to zombogre town
Chapter 5: the bear necessities
Chapter 6: A hop, skip and a pan away
chapter 7: one stone to rule them all
Chapter 8: Mountains out of molehills
Chapter 9: cry havoc – let slip the turtle-wolves of war
chapter 10: lines in the sand
Bonus chapter 1: Maddock’s POV (for chapter 9)
Bonus chapter 2: Dawn of Eve
The Reliquary
Chapter 1: Deadly Spooning!
Darwin:
Darwin felt as though he had two major secrets in life. The first was one that he knew would probably get him laughed out of the office. The other was the type sci-fi movies and bad books had made him too scared to ever share, lest he end up in a lab somewhere.
That's why every morning before work Darwin had a ritual that he couldn’t deviate from. Blue contacts. Tall men’s suits that hung a little loose. Extra-worn nail files. These items were Darwin's mask. The mask that stopped anyone from finding out his first secret. That his eyes were red. That his muscles were embarrassingly large and that his nails had come pre-sharpened.
The second secret Darwin kept, the one he was most worried about breaking his cool guy persona, was ironically one shared by many people at the same office. He was a gamer. He spent his nights with a complete group of strangers in a mystical world of magic and swords where he and every one of the 10 million people playing were there to save the day. He was a hero. He was Arch Lance Ser NightVale, the great level 72 White Knight Commander of the StormGuard Alliance and leader of the 2nd Hope raid group. He smote vile criminals at the tip of his spear and in his free time saved damsels in distress. This, he knew, of all the facets of his otherwise rather tedious existence, would bring him the type of shame that lasts for generations.
No matter how much shame his secret would bring, though, he just couldn't stop playing. Day in and day out, he was at the computer. He didn't even pause his game to eat. It was always ramen, spaghetti, or rice at the computer. The only things that let him know when holidays were coming up or his birthday was near were the in-game notifications and prizes that gave uneventful days like Christmas a meaning. After all, games offer double rewards for grinding on Christmas.
Grinding in games was something he looked forward to so much that he even got off on little inside jokes about the activity. For instance, he had told his coworkers that this particular Christmas he was going to spend the entire time grinding with his special girl. They asked if he had any other plans, and he just winked, nudged, and said, "Yeah, we're going to go to the mountains where there will be plenty of staff usage." He thought he sounded cool, and no one had the heart to tell him otherwise. And that's exactly where Darwin was on Christmas. Grinding in the mountains. In fact, after reaching Mount Horandur, he had managed to kill more Frost Drakes than any other Knight on the server, which may have had something to do with the little detail that he never slept and wasn't hampered by those ridiculous burdens like family dinners or having Christmas presents to open.
It was for this reason that he was stunned when around 8 p.m. Christmas Day, there was a knock on his door. He moved to get up from his swivel chair then stopped himself. He was in a robe and slippers, his contacts were sitting in solution in their case on the bathroom sink, and his unfiled nails were starting to resemble claws. Anyway, who would be going door to door at this time, and on this day? Darwin wondered if he should walk quietly over to the front door and peek at who his visitor was. But . . . no. Without his mask in place, it was too risky. He looked around quickly to reassure himself that all the lights were off and then for good measure turned the volume on his computer all the way down. The quiet persisted for a few minutes, punctuated only by the clicking of his mouse and keyboard, during which time he couldn't bear to look away from the game for more than a few seconds at a time. Until the knocking began again. Three taps, and then the doorbell, which no one had ever used. It was a sound he felt he should have recognized though he couldn't recall a time when he had merited any visitors. Go away! He wanted to call. I'm not home.
Whoever it was did not go away. Darwin had almost decided that it must be Mrs. Old Lady from across the street bringing him leftover Christmas cookies and was seriously considering that they might be a treat delicious enough to warrant putting in his contacts. Another knock came, more forceful, and then a sound as if someone had body-slammed his door followed by the sound of splintering, cracking wood. Darwin stood up sharply. He thought he heard footsteps in the front hall. Darwin froze and then grabbed the only pointed object he could find: a butter knife. He made his way through the hallway as quietly as possible. He chastised himself about how each step he took towards the unknown assailant was too loud. He should have changed the floorboards. Why did I have to go with a hardwood floor? Carpet wouldn't creak like this, he thought.
Unfortunately for Darwin, his worst fear about the burglar having a gun and having heard him were both true. The burglar's footsteps sounded out in a terrifying jaws-soundtrack-like vibrations as they approached him in the hallway. *Thump Thump. Thump Thump. Thump Thump.* Darwin clenched the dull, edgeless blade while frantically looking around for anything that might be more effective than his butter knife, +1 against spaghetti. *Thump Thump. Thump Thump.* How long does it take to cross the living room into a hallway, you idiot? Just get this over with already! He yelled in his head, jumping out and throwing the butter knife as hard as he could at the direction of the footsteps.
The surprising thing, to both the burglar and Darwin, was that the blade had hit the burglar directly in his right eye, not penetrating but causing him to fall over and squeeze the trigger on his gun a few times. The shots missed. Not waiting for the burglar to get back up, Darwin dashed at him and kicked the burglar's face as the would-be thief made a comic attempt to hold his eye, get up, and not lose the gun at the same time. Success! He probably should have stopped kicking, but Darwin had seen far too many action and horror movies to not make his best attempt at a "double tap" as he kept kicking the man over and over again in the face. Slippers of +10 face-smashing.
It was then that something even more extraordinary than the robbery happened. A small blue status window popped up in the corner of his field of vision. “You have gained 285 experience points!” it read as a ding sounded inside his head “You have reached Level 2!” “You have reached level 3!” Have I lost it? 285 experience points? Th . . . this isn’t a game. Level 2? Level 3? Wha . . . what is going on?
No sooner had the questions popped into his head than a status window appeared. It showed a picture of him silhouetted with his arms spread wide like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man and his clothes off to the side with lines connecting them to the appropriate body parts. Is this . . . me? he wondered, looking at the numbers and “attributes” listed to the left of the image of him in the status window. Upon seeing all the numbers next to each attribute, his gamer instinct kicked in. He highlighted each attribute looking for the "benefits" and trying to read what each did. Darwin's gaming nature would lik
ely have kept him fiddling around with the status window until work started the next year if it weren't for the sudden white light that shot up from under his feet. A ding sound occurred and then one final message window appeared in front of him before the light consumed his field of vision.
Welcome Home, Darwin
Qasin:
The King adjusted the Crown on his head for the 17th time in the last 10 minutes. It wasn't that the Crown didn't fit right--it had always been too big for his head--but the adjusting was more of a nervous reaction than an actual need to get it properly set on his head. He couldn’t help but be nervous given the circumstances. Any minute now one of his ‘loyal’ Scouts would eagerly, and probably cheerfully, present news of the 8th Legion’s defeat on the eastern front to the White-Horn army. Just perfect. If he couldn’t find the right way to spin the news, then the Council that had been plotting against him for the past 4 years would finally have its victory. He needed a way to gain control of the situation before it became out of hand. He desperately needed to keep them from gaining any more footholds with the public against his authority.
Before he could come up with a plan though, the large wooden double doors at the other end of the stone chamber finally opened and the bearer of bad news happily began sauntering across the red carpet that stretched in a line from the door to the throne. A thousand men over level 20 dead, and this fool is one pep in the step away from a hop, skip and a jump. The traitor. The King just couldn’t get it. He saw the Councilmen as rats and fat pigs grubbing over the Captain’s chair of a ship they were sinking in order to kill the Captain. He didn’t care for the chair. If he thought any of them had the slightest idea of how to save the Kingdom, he’d have happily let them take the throne, but he just knew that giving up would only sink the ship quicker, and the White-Horns didn’t have his sense of mercy or justice. If they took over, it’d be Hell on Tiqpa.
“Your Majesty! I bring dire news from the north!” the Messenger said, doing his best to fake a solemn tone.
“I trust it is not too dire. I’m sure if it was I would have received word of it sooner than the weekly update, no?” the King said, half to stall and half to make the happy fool squirm.
“Er . . . that is . . . Your Majesty, the dates just coincided.”
“I see. So the news is that dire, and you waited for the appointment day? I should have you hanged. What if I had wanted to take action upon hearing the dire news?” The King said as his eyes darted around the room looking for inspiration. Minutes. This was only giving him minutes but it had to be enough.
“Sire, if I am to be punished for delaying the news, then please do not let the punishment grow! May I speak?”
King Qasin relented. There wasn’t hope for him, and these minutes served as nothing more than time used to humiliate an idiot soldier who picked the wrong side. “Fine. Deliver the news but be brief as I have news of my own to deliver afterwards.”
“Yes, Majesty. I’ll be brief then. The 8th Legion has been decimated. They fought valiantly against the White-Horn’s threat to Valcrest, but upon failure, they tried to recoup their forces and retreat to safety. Unfortunately, they were routed and destroyed to the last man by the Black-Wings hidden on their southern front between them and Valcrest. There were no survivors.”
“Did you survive?” The King asked. Finally breaking what little confidence the soldier had that he would stay out of prison. The King knew the soldier and the Councilmen likely had either used their own forces to kill the retreating legion, or been in on the Black Wings’ ambush plot.
“Only because I . . . I left the fight early to . . . to make it to the meeting!” the soldier stuttered, his eyes looking to the Councilmen gathered at the front of the crowds that flanked his left and right sides for help. They just smiled though. His purpose had been served, and the King knew they would do nothing to save a used-up pawn.
“But you’re certain it was Black-Wings then?” He pressed. Victory was his. If this day was going to wound the King’s authority, it would need to end the Messenger’s life too.
Yes. Because of the . . .” his lie that had run so far from truth had come full stop against the wall of his stupidity, cornered by his lack of wits.
“Guards. Thank this man for his news and drag him to the dungeons where he will await execution for desertion during combat.” Unlike the Messenger, who had faked it, the King was genuinely solemn as he issued the order. This small win of the day would do nothing to stop the effect of the news.
“Yes your Ma--” One of the Guards began to approach the soon to be prisoner while speaking when he was cut off by a bright white flash coming from the summoning circle next to the giant wooden double doors.
When the light faded, all that could be seen by the curious silent crowd was one man standing in the center of the golden-gilded summoning circle. The summoning circle, usually only used by court magicians, had never activated without at least three magicians to complete the process, and it certainly had never created such a bright light before. Yet here it had done both, and there stood a man that had left even the battle-hardened soldiers surprised and awestruck.
The King, quickly sizing the man up, saw an opportunity. The people needed hope after the bad news, and he needed a distraction. Here was both. The tall, muscular man’s red eyes looked like the Devil’s, his feet were covered in so much blood he had obviously just come from an incredibly intense battlefield, and he had showed up without needing summoning . . . or had he? This could work.
“Ah, the man of the hour has come sooner than expected!” The King shouted to the crowd, standing up now and walking toward the new arrival. “This man, my friends, is the battle hardened hero I have summoned to win back our front lines! This man will bring us victory where just moments ago we had only defeat in our mouth.”
The man looked more confused than the Councilmen at throne side of the room trying to get a better look at him.
“I will?” The red-eyed man asked, looking around like it was his first time ever seeing a castle.
“Good. Glad to hear it.” The King, still not certain the barbarian wasn’t going to murder him on the spot as he approached, pretended the question was a declaration and just carried on, ignoring Darwin’s concerns entirely. He doesn’t have to win. He just has to buy enough time for the 7th Legion to report a victory. If I can make a big enough spectacle of him, the Council will be too busy trying to figure out who he is to keep meddling in my army’s affairs. Now I just have to make a scene and make him disappear before it gets unwieldy. “So, great warrior, before we send you on your holy quest, what is your weapon of choice? What have you killed the most men with?”
“Killed . . . I killed a man with a butter knife?” He responded, leaving the entire crowd stricken for words.
“A . . . butter knife you say? Wondrous! You see, my people, we have nothing to worry. This man, a man who casually kills with butter knives and salad forks, has traveled great distances to save us from the monster invasions plaguing our borders! We have nothing to fear anymore. Breathe easy and know that fortune has shined on us today. All of you here have born witness to the strength of his summoning. All of you have seen his dreadful visage. So go! Spread the news of coming victory!” The King’s speech rattled out in the manner he knew would leave the peasants gossiping for days and the Councilmen furious. See, you fools? It’s my Kingdom. Even fate doesn’t like the idea of filthy uncooked bacon wearing a Crown. “And you, brave warrior from afar, do you have any words before we send you out to the battlefield, unfairly resting our burdens on your shoulders?”
“Well . . . about the weapon . . . you see actually--” he abruptly stopped before he finished his thought. One of the bodyguards loyal to the King had, unbeknownst to even the King, left the courtroom and returned with a beautiful 6 piece set of golden dinnerware laid neatly on a white silk napkin that he held out in front of him for the red eyed man to pick from.
You’re going to be eating better than me
for a month, you brilliant man, the King thought as he saw the Guard presenting the dinnerware. The Guard had saved precious moments that this man could have used to say something that would discredit the story he was building, but the man still had to choose a weapon.
“Go ahead. It’s okay. Choose one of your weapons, and take with it our eternal gratitude, hero.” The King sometimes wanted to throw up in his own mouth as he spouted out such terribly fake lines. He did his best to signal the court mages without alerting the man to what was going on while he spoke, but his nervousness didn’t fade until he saw the circle begin to glow a faint white light.
As soon as the man grabbed a utensil, the King smiled and said, “To the front lines! To victory!” and quickly queued the court mages to finish the final step of the spell and teleport the red-eyed man out of the court. The white flash covered the room and when it was gone, so was the King’s worry. Today had been fortuitous. Not just to him, but to his Kingdom and everyone that wasn’t a filthy, piggish Councilman.
“Well, do we have any more business to attend to?” he asked, but the crowd said nothing. They were all still shocked by the devil-man’s sudden appearance. “No, does the Council not even have a request?”
None of them spoke. The noisy clatter of whispered gossip was gone, and everyone was just staring at the circle until finally one of the youngest Councilmen managed to ask, “What weapon did he take, Sire?”
The King, having forgotten to check himself, finally looked over at the five utensils to see which one was missing. “He took a soup spoon. Is there anything else?” The quiet was broken with muffled murmurs again. If someone had asked another question he hadn’t heard it.
What type of madman goes into battle with a soup spoon? the King thought, looking at the Guard whose face was just as twisted in thought as his was. He adjusted his Crown one more time and left the courtroom. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t know how much longer I have to do it.
