by Dan McGirt
“Me.”
“With my help.”
“Yes, the two of us should be more than enough to do the job and, by the way, are you out of your mind?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. I said we have a chance. Any man for whom The Gods will crowd into a gazebo must have something going for him. As I said, I don’t believe in heroes. But I believe in you, Jason.”
“I’m deeply touched, Merc. I mean that sincerely. You do realize you’re starting to sound like those loons from the League?”
“No need for insults. We are an unbeatable team, my friend! We’ve been through the Black Bolts, Zaran, Yezgar, the Red Huntsman, numerous demons, Isogoras, Halogen, and the Incredibly Dark Forest. We’ve got momentum.”
“Is it the paint fumes?”
“Now let’s find those relics!”
He dropped to his knees and crawled across the lawn, minutely examining the turf for clues.
“What exactly does a relic look like?” I asked Merc, joining his search.
“No way to tell. It can be anything. Body parts. Weapons. Personal items. Anything that came into contact with a great hero or holy man can be a relic. Have you ever heard of the Tissues of the Sneezing Saint?”
“No.”
“They are relics of Mucosa the Miraculous. Powerful objects, but disgusting to behold.”
“I’d prefer a weapon.”
“Incidentally this grass is fake. The Gods were really cutting corners here.”
We searched the entire clearing, from the gazebo to the tree line. We found no sign that anything had been buried here. The lugs had no suggestions. We were stumped.
Unless...
“Maybe we’re overlooking the obvious,” I said. I returned to the gazebo. “This is a free-standing structure, not anchored.” I jammed my fingers under the base and lifted, toppling the gazebo onto its side. It collapsed into a pile of lumber.
“Shoddy construction,” said Merc. “I’m losing what little faith in The Gods I had.”
“But look!”
Beneath the Gazebo of The Gods was a narrow stone stairway spiraling into the ground. Cold air scented with strawberries wafted upward from the opening. I heard the distant sound of running water.
“This looks promising,” said Merc.
“Think so?” I lifted my axe and descended. Merc followed. I counted thirty steps twisting downward. After a final twist we reached a rusty iron door. It screeched slowly open at my touch. I crouched in a defensive stance, ready for anything.
Warm friendly light spilled out. The strawberry scent grew more intense. We entered the cold chamber beyond. It was round, with a domed ceiling, hewn from the living rock and polished smooth. A second iron door was set opposite that through which we entered. The floor was tiled. In the center of the room was a statue of a warrior. In the figure’s stony hands were a gleaming sword and shield that were decidedly not stone. Nor were the peaked helmet and suit of mail adorning the man of marble.
“Look at the face,” said Merc, in a tone of awe.
The statue had my face.
“A perfect likeness,” said Merc.
“Remarkable! Most remarkable!
I was startled by the cheery new voice, but even more startled when the speaker slid into view. It was a man-sized strawberry with big blue eyes and a huge human mouth. “The likeness is remarkable!”
“Who are you?”
“I am the Keeper of the Shrine of Greenleaf!”
“But you’re a big strawberry!” I protested.
“And you’re a big hairless ape. What of it?”
“I’m sorry...but strawberries don’t...you can’t—I don’t believe this!”
“Why should an intelligent, talking strawberry be any more unusual than, say, an intelligent, talking luminous green spider?” asked the Keeper.
“You have a point. But wouldn’t a talking tree be more appropriate? This being the Shrine of Greenleaf and all.”
“Oh, a talking tree you’ll accept, eh? You want leaves? I have leaves! See that tuft right on top of me?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Leaves.”
“And what color are they?”
“Green.”
“There you go!”
“Thin,” I said.
The strawberry sighed. “I admit I’m not the typical holy guardian, but The Gods put this shrine together on short notice. All of the talking trees were booked. I am a minor servitor of Freshlord, God of Fruits and Vegetables, but things are slow around the office once the spring planting is done, so I got tapped for this duty.”
“Sorry you were inconvenienced.”
“Don’t be! I’m getting overtime. Now I’m supposed to explain these relics to you. I see you already possess the sacred Ring of Raxx.”
“This?” I twisted the ring Timeon gave me. “What does it do?”
“I have no idea, but it looks good on you. Let us see if I can remember my briefing on the other relics here. Ah! The coat of mail is forged of the mystic metal miraculum.”
“Miraculum? What’s that?”
“You know, being an anthropomorphic piece of fruit, I don’t know all the metallurgical details, but suffice to say this coat of mail is as light as linen and withstands most mortal weapons and magic alike. Along with the matching helm, gauntlets, and pants of mail. The ensemble looks as though it will fit you nicely, if I may say so.”
“And the shield?”
“That is the famous shield Gardswell. Also miraculum. It will turn aside any blade you meet. With a few exceptions.”
“Such as?”
“Didn’t memorize the list. I just know there are some. If you meet one, you’ll know it.”
“And the sword? It’s magnificent!”
“No, no, Magnificent is another sword entirely. Much more shiny. This is the enchanted blade Overwhelm. It cuts through stone like warm butter. Like the armor and shield, it is forged of miraculum and possessed of many powerful enchantments.”
“These are all mine to keep?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Excellent!”
“If you pass the test, that is.”
“Test? What test?”
“The test of your worthiness.”
“Why do I have to pass a test?”
“We can’t go handing out holy relics to just anyone.”
“What is the test?”
“It awaits you beyond the far door. You must go alone. If you pass, the relics are yours.”
“And if I fail?”
“Then...you don’t get the relics. Simple enough.”
“I’m ready.” I approached the door, gripping my axe tightly.
“Your weapon,” said the Keeper. “You won’t need it.”
“I think I’ll take it anyway.”
Merc clasped my shoulder. “Good luck, Jason.”
“Thanks.”
The door slid open at my touch. I stepped across the threshold into the unlit tunnel beyond. The door closed behind me with a mournful clang.
*****
Chapter 19
I counted three hundred paces before the tunnel opened onto a small ledge overlooking a great cavern softly lit by luminous fungi. A gurgling black river flowed through the chamber some fifty feet below where I stood. This had to be the fabled Hidden River—hidden because it was underground! But what was the test?
“Ahem!”
I whirled about and raised my axe. A narrow path led up to a slightly larger ledge a few yards to the right of where I stood. A thin, bespectacled scribe stood beside a wooden table. A school desk faced him.
“Are you Jason Cosmo?” he demanded in an officious, nasal voice. “Here to be tested?”
“Yes.”
“I am Proctorius, Testmaster of The Gods. Be seated. Have you any identification?”
“I have...the Ring of Raxx.”
“Is your name Raxx?”
“No.”
“Well, then,
that is no good, is it? Still, I suppose you must be he. Who else would be here? Be seated. Have you a number two pencil?”
“A what?” The desk was too small. It wobbled and squeaked with every breath I took.
“Tsk, tsk! You’ve come unprepared. Here is a pencil.” He handed me the writing implement, then placed on the desk a sheet of paper covered with row upon row of tiny lettered circles.
“What is this?”
Reading from a sheet of instructions, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully, Proctorius said, “Grid your name into the appropriate boxes.”
“Do what?”
The scribe looked up from the instruction sheet and gave me a snooty appraisal. “Can you spell your name?”
“Yes.”
“Then fill in the circles on your answer sheet corresponding to the letters of your name.” He resumed reading. “Next, fill in your age, date of birth, most recent place of abode, and the name of this testing site, which is Greenleaf.”
The voice and manner of Proctorius were more irritating than the screech of a bloody nuisance, but I obeyed his instructions.
He continued reading. “I will now give you the test booklet. This is the Standard Heroic Aptitude Test, which will measure your potential for success as a hero. It consists of two thousand multiple choice questions. You are to fill in the blank containing the letter matching what you believe to be the best answer to each question. Make no stray marks on the answer sheet. You have one hour.” He handed me the test booklet and turned over an hourglass on the table. “You may begin!”
I attacked the questions. Some asked about weapons and monsters. Others referred to excerpts from scholarly essays on heroic ethics, methods, and ideals. There were problem questions, asking me to choose the best escape or rescue plan in a given situation. I answered those I knew from experience or common sense and guessed wildly at the rest. My pencil broke twice. Proctorius would only give me a new one after I raised my hand. As the final grains of sand fell I was filling in blanks randomly, not even bothering to read the questions. I filled in the last circle with seconds to spare.
“Time! Put down your pencil! You shouldn’t guess randomly, you know. There is a penalty for wrong answers.”
“I could never have finished otherwise!”
“My word, you aren’t expected to answer all the questions.”
“Now you tell me!”
“Well, then,” smirked Proctorius. “Give me your answer sheet so I can grade the results. You must achieve a score in at least the 75th percentile to claim the relics.”
I handed over the sheet. Proctorius checked my answers against a key, clucking and shaking his head as he did so.
“Some of those questions weren’t fair,” I said.
“Piffle! I suppose you mean you can’t answer questions about sea monsters because you aren’t from a seafaring nation? Yes, I’ve heard these complaints of cultural bias before, but it is all nonsense! The test employs a standard norming deviation curve matrix to adjust for such factors.”
“I will have to take your word for that.”
“In layman’s terms, the Standard Heroic Aptitude Test is the best measure we have of heroic potential. Now hush and let me see what we have here. My, my! This is most irregular!”
“What?”
“You got them all right!” said Proctorius. “Not a single incorrect answer!” He glared at me over the rims of his glasses. “You cheated, didn’t you?”
“How could I cheat? I didn’t even know I was going to take this test until I got here! I thought I’d be fighting a horrible monster! Which, frankly, I would have preferred!”
“Master Cosmo, cheating is a very serious matter. I’m afraid I will have to rule these results invalid and require you to take the test again.”
“Never! Not for all the relics in creation!”
“You really have no choice,” said Proctorius.
“Oh, no? How would you like to take a swim in that river down there?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.” I wouldn’t really harm an agent of The Gods, but he didn’t know that. I snatched up my axe. “Better yet—”
“Wait! Wait!” said Proctorius, quivering like a rabbit. “I was watching you the whole time and I saw no evidence of cheating! The results stand! Here is your claim ticket for the holy relics.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I jogged back up the tunnel to where Merc and the Keeper waited.
“What took you so long?” asked Merc.
“It was too horrible to describe,” I said. “But I passed.” I displayed the claim ticket. “I’ll take those relics now.”
“Excellent! Excellent! You may have them all! In fact, I suggest you grab them straight away.”
“Why?”
“Because the Dark Magic Society will attack this place momentarily.”
“What? How did they find us?”
“Even the indirect presence of The Gods is like a beacon. Enjoy your relics! I must be returning to Paradise now. It has been a pleasure meeting you both.”
“You’re not going to help us?”
“You’re the hero,” said the Keeper. “I’m just a big strawberry. What can I do?”
With that the Keeper shimmered and vanished. Merc ran up the stairs to ground level while I donned the armor, strapped on the shield Gardswell and took Overwhelm for my own. The mail coat felt more like a bathrobe than armor. The helm weighed no more than a felt cap. I gave the sword a couple of experimental swings. It was as light as a broomstick.
Merc rushed back into the chamber.
“Cosmo! Run! Out the other door!”
“What is it?”
“Bad! Very bad!”
“How bad can it be?” I asked, feeling cocky with my new armor and the feel of Overwhelm in my hand. I vaulted up the stairs to the surface.
Hundreds of gibbering goblins, their light sensitive eyes protected by green visors, streamed into the clearing from every direction, waving tiny swords and clubs. They were accompanied by dozens of their larger cousins, the burly bugaboos. Natalia Slash hovered above the clearing on the back of her immense purple dragon, Golan. Isogoras the Xornite was seated behind her. They were flanked by Dylan of Ganth and twenty Black Bolts, mounted on sable gryphons and armed with repeating crossbows, all aimed at me. I retreated down the stairs.
“Merc! Run! Out the other door!”
“I thought you’d be back.”
We rushed down the tunnel as goblins and bugaboos poured into the chamber. I lacked my extra strength underground, but we didn’t have to face Natalia’s dragon. It seemed a fair bargain.
We reached the ledge over the Hidden River. Proctorius, desk, and table were gone.
“We’ll make a stand here,” said Merc.
I studied the swift dark water below. “Good call.”
“Stand aside.”
The first wave of goblins was halfway down the tunnel. Mercury cast a spell that made the floor as slippery as greased eels on ice. The front rank of goblins lost their footing and slid helplessly past us. They toppled over the ledge to fall screaming into the river below.
Goblins can’t swim.
But they are surefooted. The next wave slowed their breakneck pace to avoid a watery death. Their caution meant only a few attackers at a time could reach us. I easily carved the goblins to gooey bits as they came.
“This sword is wonderful!” I exclaimed. “It almost fights by itself!”
“Considering your usual awkward swordplay, that is a good thing,” said Merc.
The first pair of bugaboos reached me. While I hacked at one, the other struck me in the head with a spiked club. Thanks to my miraculum helm, I barely felt the blow. Unharmed, I dispatched the second bugaboo with ease.
“I could fight like this all day! Overwhelm is so light, it’s like waving my arm around!”
“Try waving your arm all day and get back to me.”
“Still, this is easy!�
�
As those words left my lips, a powerful jet of water struck me in the back and slammed me against the wall. I bounced off and toppled backward into the river, hitting the surface with a tremendous splash. The weight of normal armor would have dragged me to the bottom, but the buoyant miraculum did not hamper me at all.
Sputtering, I treaded water. I heard wicked girlish laughter behind me. I turned to see a trio of young women standing on a rock in the middle of the river. They wore scandalously skimpy black bikinis, gaudy green lipstick, and tacky jewelry. They held between them a large hose.
“Nymphs gone bad!” shouted Merc. A high pressure blast of water from the hose knocked him from the ledge to join me in the river. The nymphs then aimed the hose at our heads, making it difficult to stay afloat or even breathe. I lost my grip on both sword and shield, which floated away downstream. To escape the pounding spray, I dove underwater, as did Merc.
Our respite would last only as long as we could hold our breath. We both had the same idea and made for the rock, coming up on opposite sides of the islet.
We took the nymphs by surprise, for they expected us to flee. I grasped one by the ankles and pulled her in. The other two dropped the hose, which whipped about wildly of its own accord, spraying water in every direction.
I quickly learned that pulling a water nymph into the water was a bad idea. She was solid enough to yank my helmet off and scratch my face with long, sharp nails. But trying to push her away was like trying to grasp the water itself. A second nymph joined her sister in battling me. Together, they forced me under.
The current carried us away. One nymph twisted my head back while the other caught me in an embrace and pressed her mouth against mine. The kiss was far from pleasant, for she vomited water down my throat. I flailed helplessly, drowning as surely as the goblins. The water churned around us. It seemed to flow upward, in defiance of all sense. Not that it mattered. I was close to permanent senselessness.
We broke the surface of the pool beside the jumbled remnants of the Gazebo of The Gods. The sunshine and open air were unexpected, not that I was getting any air. The nymph sisters still had me in their kiss of watery death.
