Tong Lashing

by Peter David

  Doubting Tomas, with a long, drawn look, said, “I have no idea why I’ve allowed myself to be pulled into this. Bad enough I’m forced to travel this twisted road paved by the sick fantasies of a deranged mind. But now I engage in some sort of nonsensical pursuit purely to provide entertainment value.”

  “Entertainment, aye,” allowed Ronnell. “Then again, perhaps ye will learn something about how ye handle emergencies, and how much risk ye’re willing t’ take.”

  This wasn’t going to be difficult for me at all. I handled emergencies by vacating the area as quickly as possible, and the amount of risk I was willing to take was near zero. So with any luck, I’d be done with this business in no time at all.

  Ronnell pulled two six-sided black dice from his sleeve and placed them on the table in front of us. I stared at them. They appeared to be staring back at us, the white dots on their surface glistening in the dim light. I began to get an uneasy chill at the base of my spine, and I glanced around the table to see if anyone else appeared at all nervous. No one did, which either meant that I was getting myself worked up over nothing, or else they were oblivious of some sort of danger that only I was perceiving.

  “The name of this game,” Ronnell said in a booming voice that caused both me and the Mousser to jump slightly in our places, “is ‘Tragic Magic.’ “

  Sounds like the story of my life, I thought.

  “Tragic Magic,” continued Ronnell, obviously undeterred by my inner thoughts, “is an adventurin’ game.”

  “A what?” said Farfell, one bushy eyebrow raised.

  “An adventurin’ game. What happens is, ye use these dice,” and he pushed forward a number of the parchments, “and the information on these scrolls to create characters for yerselves. Ye use yer own name, because where would be the fun in utilizing fake names?”

  “Where indeed?” I echoed, wondering just exactly where the fun was going to be even if we used our own names.

  “These characters will have their own individual abilities and character traits. Ye then send them on an adventure of muh devising,” and he held up a large scroll that, unlike the others, was tied off with a black ribbon. The recurring “black” theme was contributing to my overall sense of unease. “The results of yer explorations will be determined by each roll o’ the dice.”

  “This is pointless,” said Doubting Tomas, and for once I had to agree with him, although I said nothing. “So we explore this fictitious quest you’ve fabricated. We kill an evening doing so. What’s in it for us, aside from the questionable joy of one another’s company?”

  “Oh… did Ah forget to mention? Just t’make it int’resting, should ye triumph over the challenges Ah present you…”

  He reached into his cloak, which seemed to have become rather voluminous, and a moment later produced a large leather sack. He upended it upon the table, and gold coins spilled out. It was a most impressive sight, and a pretty formidable sound as well, the coins tinkling over one another with that musical noise that only gold coins can produce. I wondered why I was feeling a burning in my lungs, and then came to the belated realization that I’d stopped breathing. I forced an exhalation and continued to stare at the pile of coins winking at me mockingly.

  The others at the table seemed no less impressed than I. “If we win…?” breathed the Mousser.

  “How would we split it?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Sixty-sixty-sixty?” the Mousser suggested, and I decided right then that, aside from the fact that I considered him an abomination, he was a decent enough sort.

  “Splitting it only becomes a consideration if ye all survive,” said Ronnell challengingly. “There are many dangers along the way in Tragic Magic. You cannot be certain your characters will make it through.”

  “We’ll take the chance,” said Farfell.

  “Wait,” Doubting Tomas said, “we know what you’re putting up. What do we have at stake?”

  It was a reasonable question, and one that had occurred to me as well. Ronnell seemed amused by it. “Why, gentlemen… the pleasure of yer company would certainly be enough to satisfy any man, don’t ye think?”

  We all looked suspiciously at one another, probably wondering if he was genuinely looking at the motley crew around the table. But then we collectively shrugged. He was obviously something of a loon, but the stakes he was putting up were sane enough, and there seemed no harm in going along with it.

  Following his instructions and a dizzying set of rules, we created characters out of paper and dice rolls. The Mousser reconfigured himself as a thief. Farfell became a bulging barbarian. Neither characterization seemed all that much of a stretch. Doubting Tomas became a cleric, a holy man wielding magic powers.

  And I, much to my annoyance, found myself designated as a “jackanapes.” “You mean a clown?” I demanded.

  “A jester,” said Ronnell. “You provide amusement for the crew of hardy adventurers.”

  Longtime readers of my “adventures” will readily comprehend why this new status was anathema to me. I almost walked out on the game right then and there, particularly considering that my position amongst the group was drawing exceedingly annoying guffaws from the others around the table. Even the consistently dour Tomas thought this was a highly amusing circumstance. Ultimately, though, I kept my peace and forced a grin to show that I was a good sport about it all, even as I imagined what it would be like to yank out my sword and send Ronnell’s head tumbling across the deck.

  The “adventure” began innocuously enough. I had to admit, Ronnell certainly had a way of evoking scene and mood. In deep, rolling tones he described how we four adventurers first met up in a tavern one cold winter’s night, whereupon a dying man stumbled into the pub and presented us with a map. With an “X” marking a spot deep within some place called the Foreboding Mountains (a flamboyant enough name that Ronnell had invented, to be sure, although no more so than some other genuine places of my acquaintance) and a dying warning that failing to complete our mission could result in the End of the World as We Knew It, the dying man fulfilled his function and died. It was up to us to decide the specifics of how we were to go about our quest.

  My answer was quite simple: Don’t go. It was madness. We were in a warm pub on a cold night. What possible reason was there to go out and risk our necks just to save the world? What, after all, had the world ever done for me?

  This line of reasoning proved to be less than persuasive to my cohorts, although they did laugh a good bit on the assumption that I, as jackanapes, was trying to provide some levity. The hell I was. Even in a fictitious setting, the allure of drink and safety was always preferable to deprivation and danger. But they didn’t see it that way.

  We then spent time wandering about the make-believe village and acquiring make-believe armaments, potions, supplies, etc., using make-believe money. I thought it was all make-believe bull-shite by that point, but the others seemed genuinely caught up in the mechanics of the fictitious adventure. Eventually I ceased making snide comments about it because it was having no effect other than to annoy them. One of my general rules of thumb is to avoid annoying people with whom I’m going to be in enforced close proximity for weeks on end. Particularly when I could be disposed of by the simple expedient of being thrown overboard.

  The group of us set out on our journey, and throughout our first encounters, we had a fairly easy time of it. We would encounter random threats such as giants or small dragons. At those times, we would develop strategies and the roll of dice would tell us how successful we were. We were consistently able to navigate our way past the assorted dangers, and even I was finding some degree of amusement in the entire process. Having encountered my share of quest-related horrors—an impressive accomplishment considering my near obsessive aversion to quests—there was definitely some entertainment in chancing upon threats to life and limb without any of our lives or limbs actually being jeopardized.

  Still…

  Whenever those dice came down, I
felt… I didn’t know what. Worried. Jumpy. A sensation that we were fish within a net and we didn’t even realize it, because the net hadn’t been drawn closed yet.

  The others didn’t notice or care. They became more boisterous, more adventurous as matters progressed. And over it all, Ronnell sat there with a wide grin, watching hawkishly as we rolled the dice one at a time to determine our fates.

  We had navigated our way through an assortment of hazards and now stood just within the confines of the Foreboding Mountains themselves. “I think maybe we should leave,” I suggested. Naturally no one paid me any heed.

  “You are faced with two branching forks,” Ronnell intoned, a gleam in his eye. He was leaning forward, wide-shouldered, hunched, looking like a gargoyle or perhaps a predatory bird about to pounce.

  “Both are illuminated by flickering torches. There is an inscription on the wall just outside the left path.”

  “I read it,” said Farfell.

  The Mousser thumped him on the chest. “Your character’s a barbarian, remember? He can’t read.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Farfell.

  “I read it,” said the Doubter.

  “It’s written in runic,” Ronnell informed us, and then he lowered his voice and said, “It says, ‘Do Not Even Think for a Moment About Going This Way or You Will Die.’ “

  “That’s the way we go then,” said the Mousser.

  I turned and gaped at him. “It says not to! It says we shouldn’t even think about it!”

  “Obviously,” the Mousser told me with great satisfaction, “they’re trying to throw us off the scent.”

  “That’s one interpretation. The other is that someone took the time to warn us that we’ll die if we go that way. It seems to me damned rude to ignore it if a person went to that much trouble.”

  “Apropos,” Farfell said chidingly, “it’s just a game. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Every time I’ve asked myself that, I invariably find out. And it’s usually worse than I could have imagined.”

  “Nonsense.” He looked with certainty at Ronnell and said, “We enter the left branch. We are not put off by the sign.”

  “Who is in the lead?” Ronnell asked politely.

  Farfell hesitated, clearly not expecting the question. It was Doubting Tomas who spoke up, far more into the game than I would have credited. “I will take the lead, since I will be able to read any signs that present themselves.”

  Suddenly I heard a distant ripple of thunder, and looked around nervously. The ship was beginning to rock a bit more than before. I was more grateful than ever for the medication that Ronnell had provided me. But that gratitude and distant sense of relief was overwhelmed by an even greater sense of foreboding.

  It has been said by some that I have a bit of magic in my blood. No weaver am I, certainly, but I can intuit when something is up, magic-wise. I was getting that sense now. That the impending storm stemmed from more than mere weather, or even from an intemperate god who felt like punishing a sailing vessel for no reason other than that it was there.

  The others didn’t seem to care. If there was anything going on, it clearly didn’t register on them.

  “The cleric takes the lead,” intoned Ronnell.

  “Wait,” I said.

  Ronnell turned and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare and repeated,

  “The cleric takes the lead.” Before I could interrupt again, he continued, “Ye proceed down the hallway. There is a thick mist in the air. Torches continue to flicker on either side. Just ahead of ye, there is a large door made of solid stone.”

  “Does it have a lock?” inquired the Mousser.

  “Aye. Inset into the door. But there is no sign of a key.”

  “Not a problem,” the Mousser said with a confident grin. “The thief comes forward and produces his lockpicks. He proceeds to work on the lock.”

  “The torches grow brighter,” said Ronnell.

  I could see it so clearly in my mind, the four of us in this scenario, so vividly that it was as if I was standing right there. And when the torches went higher still, I said, “We’re leaving.”

  “The hell we are!” said an annoyed Farfell.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. This thing stinks of a trap.”

  “I’m still working on the lock,” said the Mousser.

  “Roll the dice,” Ronnell told him. “A roll over eight means the door unlocks.”

  The dice glittered, and the thunder sounded nearer. I could hear the increasing waves lapping at the side of the ship.

  “Don’t touch them,” I warned the Mousser.

  The Mousser looked at me as if I were insane. His expression was filled with disdain. His hair was filled with gel. “Gods, you really are quite the coward, aren’t you,” he said as he picked up the dice, shook them in his hand, and then dropped them.

  A four and a two stared up at us.

  “Bad luck,” smiled Ronnell, and lightning flashed, illuminating the room through the solitary porthole. “The torches respond to the attempted intrusion.”

  “They what?” asked the Mousser.

  And then he ignited.

  His hair went up and he let out a scream like the damned, leaping to his feet, batting his hands furiously at his head, howling for Farfell to help him. The alarmed barbarian upended his drink on the Mousser’s head. It made no difference. The flames were spreading, and his entire head was engulfed. The smell was horrific, the screams deafening. Tomas sat there, disbelieving. One had to admire his consistency. Ronnell didn’t budge from his place.

  Desperately, Farfell yanked off his cloak and threw it over the Mousser’s head in an attempt to smother the flame. No good. As if the flame didn’t need air to survive—as if it was feeding off some completely difference source—it engulfed the entirety of the Mousser and the cloak as well. The screams had ceased, probably because his vocal cords had melted, but there was still violent shaking and twitching as the Mousser fell to the floor.

  And suddenly an aura of glowing light lifted from the Mousser. It seemed to have form and substance, and yet was without either. It pulled free from the Mousser, mercifully it seemed, for that finally caused his body to cease its trembling. Then the pure, unsullied essence leaped through the air and into Ronnell. His eyes glowed with an inner light, and he licked his lips as if savoring some great delicacy as the aura suffused his very being. Within moments it faded, and Ronnell looked more vibrant, more powerful than he had before.

  By this point even the densest of us knew that we were dealing with something truly sorcerous, but there was nothing we could do. For a moment I was terrified that the flames were going to spread to the floor, to the walls. That within seconds the entirety of the ship would be engulfed. Instead the flames appeared to consume themselves, and in seconds, they were gone. What was left was a smoldering pile of cooked meat that didn’t look vaguely human, adorned with a few tattered pieces of cloth that had somehow managed to avoid being scorched. The floor all around was blackened, and thick smoke hung in the air, along with a stench that would have made me gag if it weren’t for the anti-nausea elixir.

  “You right bastard!” howled Farfell, and he didn’t have a sword, but he didn’t need one. He bore a dagger that was the size of my forearm, and he yanked it from his belt in preparation for leaping at Ronnell.

  Ronnell remained where he was, imperturbable. “Sit down, barbarian,” he said.

  “I’ll carve you up for—!”

  “Sit down!”

  The dagger slipped from Farfell’s suddenly nerveless fingers, and he flopped down into his chair. His face went beet red, and he strained mightily to stand, but couldn’t do so.

  “I am the Magic Maestro here,” Ronnell informed him coldly.

  “The runner of this game. The controller of yer destinies. To be the MM of a game of Tragic Magic is t’be the Supreme Being. So I’ll thank ye to continue the evening’s entertainment.”

  “Entertainment! A man is dead!
My man is dead!” Farfell bellowed.

  “I found that entertaining,” said Ronnell placidly.

  Tomas was still shaking his head, his eyes wide. “This isn’t happening. I refuse to believe…. None of this is real. It’s all a fantasy that I’ll be awakening from just about any time.”

  I desperately wanted to share his outlook. Instead I snapped out, “Shut up,” and glared at Ronnell. “Who are you?”

  “I? I am Ronnell McDonnell!” he said with fierce pride. A crack of thunder obligingly accompanied the pronouncement, as if matters weren’t sufficiently melodramatic.

  “Ronnell McDonnell?” I said with a grimace. “Of the Clan McDonnell?”

  “Aye, the same.” Cruel amusement glittered in his eyes. “Ye’ve heard of me.”

  “I haven’t,” said Farfell.

  “I have. I just didn’t believe a word of it,” said Tomas.

  I reached over and cuffed Tomas on the side of the head. It just seemed like the thing to do at that moment. Then I turned to Farfell, who looked as if a dozen emotions were warring within him at once. “McDonnell is a weaver I’ve heard tell of, back when I was an innkeeper in a far-off land. His name is mentioned in whispers, lest saying it too loudly summon him.”

  Ronnell seemed to find that amusing. “Really. And what do the whispers say?”

  My voice low and even, I said, “They say you’re insane. They say you seek ways to control men’s destinies. They say that normal human sustenance is no longer sufficient for you, and that you consume your victims’ vitality at the cusp of their deaths.”

  “Anything else?”

  I pondered a moment. “That you’re a hell of a dancer. But I never placed much stock in that.”

  Farfell looked fiercely in my direction, and then in Tomas’s. “Let’s rush him. He can’t withstand a charge from all of us.”

  “Fine idea. You first,” I said tightly. I was trying to rise from the chair, but having no luck. I was rooted to the spot.

  “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening,” Tomas kept saying, but there was no conviction in his voice. Instead it sounded like borderline panic. I took cold pleasure in that. Misery loves company. Right then I was in the mood for lots of company.