by Charles Yu
“We’ll take two,” Rostejn says, flinging the coins onto the counter. I shoot him a look.
“What?” he says. “You never know when this might come in handy. You just never know.”
It is a half moon later when Krugnor joins our group. We’d spent several days slashing through wave after wave of dumb meat, orcs and ogres. Toward the end, we were barely talking to one another, just carving up bodies, leaving them in piles. Green flesh hacked up everywhere.
Krugnor isn’t any of the classic types. Krugnor is special, and everyone can see it right away.
It used to be there were only four kinds of people: fighters, mages, clerics, and thieves. What someone did for a living said something about who they were, what they thought of themselves, how they approached the world: strength, intelligence, wisdom, or charisma.
Krugnor, on the other hand, is part of the new generation.
“I’m a warrior-mystic,” he says. That’s how he introduces himself, when we find him by a babbling brook, doing yoga. “But I’m really not into labels. We’re all just people, you know?”
I try to roll my eyes at Trin, but she’s not looking at me. She likes him. I can tell right away. I look over at Byr, to see if she’s noticing this, but even she seems to be in some kind of trance.
Even my own disciple is smitten. “We need that guy,” Fjoork says.
So I put it to a vote.
Trin votes yes, tries to not look excited.
“He’ll help with hit points,” Byr says. “We could take on a thousand-ogre wave, if we had to. Brute-force our way through. Just plain outslug the monsters.”
Rostejn votes yes, too, although I get the sense that he just wants to get at some of the hardware Krugnor is toting in his equipment sack.
And Fjoork looks head over heels for the new guy already.
No need for me to even weigh in.
Krugnor joins the group.
“Shall we make it official?” he asks.
I say, uh, sure, what does he have in mind?
“Stare into one another’s souls, of course,” he says. “Isn’t that how you guys do it?”
I say, yeah, sure, okay.
Krugnor starts with Trin, big surprise, takes her head in his large, callused hands. They lock eyes and she seems to melt.
“So that’s what a hero looks like,” Byr says.
I tell Byr to shut up.
Each member of the group gets their own turn. When it comes to me, I take a pass, but Krugnor’s not having any of it.
“If we are going to be brothers-in-arms,” he says, “we will need to touch souls.”
I tell him I’m getting over a cold.
“It was really a nasty bug. For your own good.”
“Okay,” he says. “But don’t think you’re off the hook.”
After he’s done with all the soul-staring, Krugnor asks me for a copy of the battle plan. I say, uh, yeah, I’ll get that right to you.
It is foretold that there will be two hundred fifty-five battles in our path to destiny.
In the Final Battle, Battle 256, we will face the final boss.
Sounds pretty exciting.
And it was, for a while.
Today is Battle 253.
I think.
Hard to tell, though.
To be honest, epic battles of good and evil, they’re pretty epic, but after about the first two hundred, they all start to kind of blur together.
Before setting out to the battlefield, we pray to our god, Frëd. He’s a minor deity, but sort of an up-and-comer. At least that’s what he tells us.
We get a lot of shit from other groups for worshipping him, but he’s really Byr’s deity. Now that I think about it, she’s partly responsible for this mess we’re in. Before we became acolytes of Frëd, we all kind of did our own thing. And we definitely never talked about it, it was just sort of no one else’s business who or what you worshipped or sacrificed poultry for, so long as you pulled your weight and your deity wasn’t some imp who was going to screw with everyone or make us give up gold coins for safe passage or cause us to suffer ordeals. But then Byr went away to the north over summer vacation and when she came back she had that look like someone had cast Slightly Crazy on her, and she was all Frëd this, Frëd that, she couldn’t stop talking about the guy, and we were all like, okay, cool, but you’re not going to go all druid on us, are you?
“Frëd,” Byr prays, “O Sort-of-Omnipotent One, protect us today. Keep us safe, body and soul. Let us fight without fear, and vanquish our enemies.”
“Or at least let us not get our asses kicked like last time,” Rostejn adds.
“Goddammit, Rostejn,” Byr says.
“No, no, fair enough,” Frëd says, from wherever he is. We can’t see him but his voice booms from on high. “I have to apologize for not doing such a great job the last few moons. I have gotten all of your prayers. Honestly, I’ve just been going through kind of a weird time.”
Byr reassures Frëd. “You’re fine. Seriously. You know we love you,” she says, and everyone murmurs in agreement, but it’s not the most reassuring thing to realize that the god you worship actually just wants you to believe in him.
Krugnor turns out to be an absolute beast on the battlefield. Not that anyone is surprised. He’s ripped.
“Has to be at least Sixteen Strength,” Rostejn says, watching him tear through some bad elves.
Byr’s like, “Nuh uh. Seventeen, man. Easy.”
Trin isn’t even fighting, she’s just standing there staring at the dude’s muscles while he brandishes his +3 broadsword. I’m not even sure I could pick that thing up.
“Does he really have to fight with his shirt off?” I ask, but no one’s listening. He flexes a lot, even when it doesn’t seem necessary, and he can do that back-and-forth thing with his pecs. Ugh, look at him, just standing there in the river as it rushes by and splashes on his hardened body.
Even Fjoork gets in on the love fest.
“Did you see what he did to that kobold?” he says. “Split him clean in half, one-handed, with his short sword.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Krugnor had cast Infatuation on everyone. The guy is a totally cheeseball beefcake brooding sulking warrior type. Such a cliché. Although, I have to admit, I do feel safer with him out there in front.
Maybe that’s what a hero looks like.
And for the first time since the quest began, I start to feel a little wobbly, as if my POV isn’t so stable. As if the center of things is moving. As if the frame is unsure of who to follow, whose story it is. As if, maybe, I’m not so destined for my destiny after all.
We cross the highlands and come to a ridge, on the other side of which is the Valley of Aaaa.
“I’ve always wondered how that’s pronounced,” Rostejn says.
Byr says a prayer to Frëd as we begin our descent into the valley. We trudge through the Bog of Uncertainty. Trin reminds everyone to be careful of what we eat or even look at. Last time we were in the bog, Rostejn fell under the sphere of influence of a powerful mage in the Abjuration school and almost got everyone turned into black pudding.
Now we’re in a dead zone for magic. Alteration prevails on one side, and Necromancy on the other. Neither one can practice in the other’s region, as they are mutually forbidden schools. We walk the tightrope in between, maneuvering carefully, taking the narrow path, as shown on our scrolling map.
Krugnor follows my lead. Everyone else does, too. I try not to look too happy about it.
At one point we encounter some halflings, a quiet, intelligent people who live around these parts. One of their young has disappeared. The boy’s mother is sobbing. Trin goes to comfort her. The mother explains that her son had fallen asleep on what he thought was a nice soft pile of leaves.
“Shambling mound,” Byr says. The mother looks at us, unsure.
“A creature that looks like a heap of rotting vegetation,” Byr explains. “But is actually a flesh eater.”
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br /> “Yuck,” Rostejn says. “That is nasty.”
Byr shoots Rostejn a look like real nice, idiot, and the mother starts her crying again, even harder this time, and everyone is looking at me to do something, so without a word I leap straight into the mound, diving into the creature’s body to grab the halfling kid, and then hacking my way out with a scythe. Which is messy, to say the least, and costs me about eight hit points, but in doing so, I level up. Everyone congratulates me, and I’m feeling pretty good. Even Trin looks impressed, and for a moment it doesn’t seem so impossible that she might be in love with me after all.
The good feeling doesn’t last long, though. The next battle is Battle 254 and we just aren’t quite ready for this kind of onslaught yet, not tactically, not in terms of speed or weapons or as a team. Byr nearly dies, Rostejn nearly dies. Even my health dips down into the red zone.
I start to flicker in and out, a warning that my existence on this plane is in danger.
I know what I should do, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
Another hit, direct to my torso, and that’s it, my health is critical. My soul starts to tug itself out of its mortal coil, and my POV is floating up toward the clouds. I watch my body down there, fighting without spirit.
Frëd help us, I cry out, in a moment of desperation.
I can’t see him, but I feel Frëd’s presence next to me. “I thought you didn’t believe in me,” he says.
“Really? That’s what you’re going to say right now?” I say. “Seems sort of petty.”
“Um, yeah,” Frëd says. “Do you know anything about gods?”
He’s got a point, I suppose, although really what I’m thinking is how come I’ve never noticed how high Frëd’s voice is. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but for the first time I realize there’s something off about him.
“Byr’s down there,” I say. “She prays to you all the time.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one that’s asking for help,” he says. “Get on your knees.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“For real, dude. I want you to pray to me.”
So I start. “O Sort-of-Great One. O Exalted Mediocre One, Frëd.”
“Get on your knees.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
Frëd uses some kind of POV shift power to direct my attention back down to the earthly battlefield, where my team is getting slaughtered. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be talking about luck right now.”
I sort of get on one knee, like I’m going to ask him to marry me. Then I hear a woman’s voice.
“Frëëëëëëëëëëëëëëëëëd,” she yells. She sounds angry. Great, now there are two gods, one petty, one angry, and I’m still floating in the sky, getting farther from life with every passing moment. “You are in big trouble, mister.”
Wait a minute. Is she? No. She can’t be.
“Um, Frëd?” I say. “I think your mom’s calling you.”
“Not a word,” he says. “To anyone.”
“Sure, sure. Just kill those monsters for us.”
“I, uh, I can’t do that. Sort of used up all my juice for a while. But here’s a chicken leg,” he says, and disappears. “Sorry, gotta go.”
I eat the food and gain just enough health to return to the plane of the living, where I see that Krugnor and Trin are in berserker rages and Rostejn has just used his Daily Power Move. The battle’s pretty much over. The mini-boss, a frost giant, is on the ground, and one more thrusting attack by Krugnor does the trick.
Trin spots me reappearing and says, welcome back, nice of you to join us.
The mood at dinner is somber. No one’s much inclined to be bawdy, or even merry. We chew on chicken in silence.
After dinner, I find Fjoork over by a stream, washing his face.
“Hey buddy,” I say.
“Hey.”
“Tell me again why you think I’m destined for greatness?”
Fjoork gazes off to the north, stands there just looking at nothing for a long time before answering.
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t?”
“No man. I said, I Shall Follow You.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, you did. Huh.”
Fjoork wipes his face, rubs the back of his neck.
“Well,” he says. “This is awkward.”
“Don’t I feel a bit silly. All this time, I thought.”
“Yeah, I know what you thought. And that’s okay. It got us this far, didn’t it?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Who knows?” Fjoork says. “You might rise to the occasion.”
And if not, maybe Krugnor will do it for me.
When I get back to the campfire, I see Trin and Krugnor sitting together on a fallen tree. Trin has her hands under her thighs, which she only does when she’s feeling a little red in the aura. Now she’s looking at him in a way I have never seen her look at anyone. She’s definitely never looked at me that way, not even in Oondar.
Charisma’s good for a few things. Bluff, Disguise, Handle Animals, Intimidate, Perform. But it’s not so good when things get real. It’s not so good heading into Battle 256 with a group of tired, beaten-down warriors. Right now, I’d trade half of my Charisma points for some Wisdom. I’ve always been a couple of points on the low side in that department. I think about gathering everyone around, to rally their spirits a bit. If only I could say something wise right now, or at least something wise sounding. Even that might not work. But I can’t come up with anything decent, so I keep my mouth shut. Everyone’s a little tired of me anyway, I think.
In the middle of the night, I wake up to Byr and Rostejn whispering in the darkness.
Krugnor knows where the map doesn’t go.
Krugnor could lead us to The End.
We keep moving. We fight everything: deathknells, bugbears, carrion crawlers, lesser devils. We fight a small band of ghouls, and the ghoul queen. We get attacked by a gray ooze, waking up one morning to find the creature all over us, our camp, in our hair, covering our food. We lose almost an entire day cleaning up, not to mention using up several minor enchantments plus a Cure Light Wounds. We keep moving, to the right, slashing and stabbing, jumping and charging, dragging ourselves onward.
Then Rostejn quits.
He comes to me and says, “You’ve been good to me, this has been good, but I gotta say, where is this all going? What are we doing? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I used to know. Now I don’t.”
“Ros,” I say. “You are killing me. You are absolutely freaking killing me here.”
How can I explain to him that I’ve been asking myself the same questions for the last ten moons? I can’t say any of that. It will make me sound weak.
“Don’t think this means I’m not grateful. Don’t think this means, in any way whatsoever, that I don’t appreciate everything.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Yeah. Yeah, man. Yeah to all of it, all of our good times. You used to be such a great leader. We took down a gold dragon. A gold freaking dragon, man! We were the toast of the Forgotten Village. Free mead and game bird until we all got fat and out of shape and our Dexterity scores started going down and we had to quit that place and move on. You gave me my first blade. You taught me how to bludgeon. I won’t forget any of that. It’s just.”
“I know.”
“No, no, for real. There’s something else,” Rostejn says. He cracks a smile, something I haven’t seen for a long time. “I’ve got a girl now, boss. Met her right before we started this campaign. We’ve got a kid on the way. Gonna ask her to marry me.”
“Wow, Rostejn,” I say. “Wow. That’s just, that’s great.”
“Yeah. I know. I know. Hopefully the kid’ll take after his mother and be a peaceful law-abiding villager. Be more than I am. More than a sword for hire.”
I tell him he’s going to be a great father.
“I just don’t know. I don’t know what
we stand for anymore. Byr’s gone all churchy on us, Fjoork hasn’t bathed in a moon and a half.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not just you. It’s all of us. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’ve given up on the Path of the Immortal Hero. That’s a young man’s dream. I just want to get back to what I’m good at, basic stuff, level up every few years. Maybe go out and pick up a few skills along the way. I’ve always wanted to get into Animal Empathy.”
“You?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rostejn says.
We have a warriors’ embrace.
“If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “Jenny makes a mean boar pie.”
“Sounds good,” I say, sure that I’ll never see him again.
Krugnor finds me as I’m walking back to camp and pulls me aside.
“There is something we should talk about,” he says. “Man-to-man.”
Here it comes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Go for it.”
“Go for it?” he says. He looks surprised that it was so easy.
“Yeah, be my guest.”
Krugnor lunges forward and I am expecting him to knock me to the ground in some kind of display of alpha-male dominance, but instead he grabs the back of my head and shoves his tongue into my mouth. Way, way into my mouth.
It takes all of my strength to push him off me.
“What the hell was that, Krugnor?”
“You said go for it.”
“That’s what you thought I meant?”
“Wait, what did you mean?”
“I thought you were taking control of the group?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Um, I dunno, because look at you? You’re this super-buff warrior-mystic who crushes evil and likes to aggressively shove your tongue down all of our souls? Because everyone thinks you are Frëd’s gift to us?”
I hear some murmuring and that’s when Krugnor and I both look over and see the whole group watching.
Trin’s mouth is wide open. Rostejn looks actually sort of hurt, like if Krugnor was going to have a thing for one of the guys, it should have been him. Fjoork appears to be rapidly and violently recalibrating his view of everything that has happened for the last several weeks. Nobody speaks.
