Doppelganger and Dangalf received a per diem for patrolling the Greater Hammersmith area with the guards. The pay was slight, and the Keepers’ finances withered as lodgings, food, drink, and leaf took their toll. Ashlyn didn’t get a per diem, and she found the dwarf employers reluctant to employ a she-elf. That reluctance manifested itself in her continued unemployment. There was talk of selling the gravewhisper flower, but it still was hoped that this could be avoided. Nerdraaage was inexact about when his training might be completed, and it was contemplated that they should switch lodgings back to the stables. And though Doppelganger still periodically boasted that the best sleep he ever had was in a stable, the high altitude meant that sleeping outside would be much colder in Hammersmith than it was in Hempshire.
Nerdraaage’s training was a significant expense. He began outfitting himself with his “blacks,” a few pieces of cheap black leather that tended to stain his skin black when he sweated, which was most of the time. Instead of “blacks” Icil called Nerdraaage’s leather his “squeaks” because it was of low quality and squeaked whenever Nerdraaage moved. It was a squeak that was only perceptible to the finest ears in the quietest environment, but stealth meant everything to blackguards. Icil had advised against black leather, as it was known to be the de facto blackguard uniform and might invite trouble that Nerdraaage was not yet capable of defeating or escaping. But Nerdraaage thought it looked cool, so he bought squeaky, cheap, black leather. He idolized Icil and wanted to look like him even if he did not idolize Icil enough to take his advice and not buy squeaky, cheap, black leather.
Doppelganger, Dangalf, and three dwarven guards walked down the main road from Hammersmith. The guards were happy to have Doppelganger with them on patrol. As for Dangalf, they viewed him as more of a curiosity. “Hey, wizard, can you turn this bloke into a chicken,” said one guard about the second.
“No, sorry,” said Dangalf. “I don’t do metamorphism.”
“What did he say,” asked the third guard.
“He can’t do it,” said the first guard.
The third guard said something in Dwarvish that Dangalf was sure was an insult but he would not know without Nerdraaage to translate. (Dangalf was already learning the enemy language of Trollish. Dwarvish would have to wait.) I should cast him in a block of ice, thought Dangalf of the offending dwarf. That would show him. But that spell could not be cast often, so he saved it for now.
They stopped at a farmhouse that had lost two farmhands (one dead, one crippled) to a monstrous battlepig. With the ending of open hostilities between the Alliance and the Legion, the Legion had resorted to covert warfare. The trolls bred boars of preternatural size and strength and speed and fitted them with armor. They were twisted into hateful, destructive creatures by black magic. Then these boars were released into the wilds of Acadia to wreck havoc on wildlife, crops, and unfortunate sapiens.
Hammersmith’s ranger would normally track and kill the beast, but he was away.
It was hoped that the Hammersmith guards with their human auxiliary could find and kill the battlepig.
They stopped at the farmhouse, where the surviving farmhand described the boar as at least eight hundred pounds. He had lost a leg, so the guards did not openly mock him, though they knew that no eight-hundred-pound armored pig could make it to the doorstep of Hammersmith. “Let’s find the beastie,” said the first guard, and they departed the farmhouse and headed into the wilderness.
“If we’d only brought a hunter instead of a wizard,” said the third guard to dwarven laughter. He didn’t even mask his insult in Dwarvish this time.
“Wizard is the class,” said Dangalf. “I’m a conjurer.” The dwarves were not impressed.
One of the guards located the bloody ground where the boar had struck. They gathered around and examined the animal’s tracks. “That’s a nine-hundred-pound boar!” said the first guard.
“A thousand,” said the second.
“You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” said Dangalf.
The guards turned and squinted at Dangalf. “And why would we need a boat, wizard?”
“It’s just…something I heard where we come from,” said Dangalf laughing.
“You hunt boars by boat?”
“No,” said Dangalf. “It’s a joke. He gets it.” Dangalf pointed at Doppelganger, who stood there looking like he didn’t want to get dragged into the conversation.
“Maybe we should split up,” said the first guard, looking directly at Dangalf.
They spread out as they went deeper in the woods. Dangalf angrily kicked at the dirt, silently cursing the stupid dwarves for making him feel stupid.
“Hey,” whisper-shouted Ashlyn. Dangalf looked about in a circle before he remembered he was looking for an elf and should look up as well. He saw her in a tree above him.
“What are you doing here!” he demanded.
“You’re walking right into the battlepig!”
“You can see him?”
“I can smell him.”
“What does he smell like?” asked Dangalf sniffing at the air.
“Bacon.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s not funny,” insisted Ashlyn. “Those troll a-holes burn the armor into the pig’s skin, so he smells like bacon. And he can smell you!”
“The pig smells me?”
“He’s lying in wait behind that hill. I’m sure of it.”
“Ah,” said Dangalf. “I remember reading that pigs are used for hunting truffles because of their keen sense of smell.”
The third guard walked over to Dangalf. “Who are you talking to, wizard?”
“The she-elf in the tree,” said Dangalf, and he turned back to see that Ashlyn was gone. “Well, she was right there.” The guard nodded suspiciously and walked away. Dangalf pressed on, toward the hill, softly calling for Ashlyn.
Suddenly a second hill appeared on top of the first hill. But this one was covered in metal plates, thick black hair, and snorting, steamy breath. The second hill wasn’t a hill at all. The massive battlepig saw Dangalf, and all one thousand porcine pounds bore down on him with that preternatural speed. “Run, wizard!” shouted the guard.
“I’ve got him!” said Dangalf as he aimed his wand and cast the battlepig into a block of ice. He missed. The last two times he cast that spell, it was against a moving target, and both times he missed. Dangalf felt the instant and horrendous chill of impending death. He began casting his fireball, but almost as soon as he started, he calculated that he might not cast it before the battlepig struck him. Just like in the game, he had a split second to decide if he should continue with his spell casting or start a new, quicker spell from scratch. It was a simple calculation for him, yet the fear of imminent death had a chilling effect on his thought processes. Fear is the mind killer. Shite, Dangalf. Time for eluding not alluding!
“Run!” shouted Ashlyn.
Dangalf made the wrong decision. His fireball was still two seconds from casting, and the pig was just one second from pulverizing him. His great and expanding mind had so much information at instant recall, but he was unfocused by terror. Fear is the little death. La petite mort. The orgasm. Orgasm? A great unbisected brain, eidetic memory, a large and ever increasing virtual library of knowledge, and still his mind had flailed and failed spectacularly. And now he would die. The warrior’s lizard brain would have served him better in this instance.
The dwarf pushed Dangalf out of the way, and the pig struck the guard full force and sent him flying into the air. It was as if the guard had been struck by a car going thirty miles per hour if the car had subsequently charged its prone victim and stomped and gnashed and gored him.
Doppelganger heard the commotion and saw the battlepig. He raised his bow and took aim. His first several arrows were deflected by the thick armor. Doppelganger’s excitement had spoiled his precision. He finally got one into the battlepig’s shoulder, but the beast did not even flinch. Doppelganger drew his axe and began the long charge
.
The dwarf fought valiantly from his prone position. He had lost his boots and helmet and spear in the initial collision and now the battlepig violently gored through his armor and then flesh.
The pig produced this supernatural squealing that bade Dangalf to cover his ears and flee into the woods. But he stood his ground and cast his fireball. It was a good one, and when released it exploded against the squealing monster and knocked him sideways and to the ground. But to Dangalf’s horror, the smoldering pig struggled back up on shaky legs and stumbled toward him. But even a stumbling, wounded battlepig moved quicker than a human. Dangalf saw the bloody tusks and teeth gnashing toward him as he retreated. He heard a blood-curdling scream and was glad when he realized it was not his own. Doppelganger was charging. The battlepig turned just in time to see the big mercenary with his axe over his head. Doppelganger smashed the axe onto the pig’s armor cap, which popped free from its head. It tumbled to its side, and the earth shook. Its hooves still stuttered as Doppelganger and the two other dwarves chopped and stabbed at the fleshy seams around his armor, and the tortured life of the battlepig was finally ended.
Dangalf kneeled down by the dead guard and began crying. Doppelganger saw Ashlyn in the tree. He was surprised but motioned for her to depart.
The guards joined Dangalf over their dead comrade. “It’s my fault,” said Dangalf. A guard patted him on the shoulder. Dangalf would have preferred that the dwarf spat on him. He deserved it. He could not apologize to the dead dwarf for missing his spell or thank him for saving his life. Some conjurer he was. If Weyd Salint were here now, he would likely tear up Dangalf’s commission and withdraw his sponsorship to the White School.
Perhaps Dangalf should tear up his own documents and go back to Hempshire to shovel shite for a living. That’s what he deserved. Even now, he was selfishly engaging in self-loathing instead of mourning the dead hero before him. And that only filled him with more self-loathing. Maybe he would travel to Vinland and join the Guild of Sages and Seers. They were only NPCs in the game, but in the real Acadia they were an honored and respected magical body sworn to pacifism.
“We will avenge you, Earc,” said the second guard. Earc, thought Dangalf. Hearing the dead dwarf’s name brought on a fresh flood of tears. He hadn’t even been good enough to introduce himself to the dwarf who would sacrifice his life for him.
“Aye,” said the first guard. “We will avenge you with spit and fire.” And then they put Earc back together, putting what they could of his flesh back into the gored cavity and then dressing him as much as possible in his torn clothes and armor. One of the guards retrieved a cart from the farmhouse, and they lifted Earc onto it.
Then with Doppelganger’s help, they lifted the pig onto the cart as well. Dangalf thought it was disrespectful to lay Earc next to his killer, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t deserve to say anything in the company of the others. He might not say anything ever again. He wondered if there was a magical order of pacifists that also took a vow of silence and shoveled shite. Doppelganger pulled the wagon back to Hempshire.
Dangalf looked at his strong friend and felt all the weaker. He wiped away his tears and snot and didn’t allow himself to cry further. He needed to show at least that much strength.
A crowd had gathered at the gate to greet the heroes, but their celebration was tempered as they learned of Earc. And one woman was especially distraught, and Dangalf imagined it was Earc’s wife, but he didn’t inquire and kept his distance from the commotion.
He saw Ashlyn standing alone, as she always was in this dwarven town when her friends were not present. She smiled weakly at Dangalf, and he smiled back. Just seeing her was great comfort to him. She banished the deep blackness that he thought was permanent just a few hours ago. He went to her as the two bodies were removed from the wagon. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have stayed here. I will get my training before I join you on any more quests.”
“You may have saved my life. You and Earc. I would have walked right up to that pig before I even noticed him. I can’t smell anything.”
Still at the cart, Doppelganger was the center of dwarven curiosity and congratulations. “Look at him,” said Ashlyn smiling. “They’re going to make him an honorary dwarf before we leave here.”
“He deserves it,” said Dangalf. “He just does everything right. He was born to this world.”
“Like when he disarmed the gate guards and you had to freeze him before he got us all killed?” said Ashlyn.
“I guess that was pretty stupid of him,” said Dangalf with a laugh, and he tried not to feel too bad about laughing now.
The dwarven praise did not go to Doppelganger’s head. In fact, reliving the moment, he had grave concerns about his own performance. Yes, he had screamed mightily and run fast and planted his axe deep in the battlepig’s skull, but those were affectations. Conscious decisions. He had not manifested the bloodwarp. Not even watching Earc brutally killed or his dearest friend in mortal jeopardy had brought about his all-important foundation skill. He had only experienced the bloodwarp once, and Alfred had had to beat it out of him. To promote to soldier, Doppelganger would need to be able to spontaneously generate the supernatural strength and toughness of the bloodwarp. Without the bloodwarp he would never be more than a big guy with an axe.
The armor was pried off of the dead boar, and he was cooked outside the inn on a giant spit that barely contained the behemoth. It seemed the entire town came out for the celebration and a meal.
Doppelganger, Dangalf, and Ashlyn met with Donald and Angus in the inn, where they sat with two guards. Doppelganger repeated not for the last time what had happened to Earc.
Nerdraaage returned from training and joined them. He inquired about the festivities, and Doppelganger told him about Earc’s death, still not for the last time. A she-dwarf brought around a tray of roasted boar, and they all took some except for Ashlyn, who declined.
“Come, on,” said the she-dwarf. “It’s tradition.”
“It seems so gruesome,” said Ashlyn.
“It’s tradition,” insisted Nerdraaage even though he himself had only just now learned of this tradition.
Ashlyn took a small piece, and the she-dwarf waited until she tasted it. The she-dwarf smiled and sprinkled some red wetness on Ashlyn, who cringed. “What is that?” asked Dangalf as they were all anointed.
“That would be pig’s blood,” said Ashlyn wiping her face with a cloth soaked in beer. “It must be some kind of pagan ceremony.”
“A pagan ceremony is what it would be in our home world,” said Dangalf.
“What is it then?”
“A ceremony.”
“Why aren’t we at war right now?” demanded Doppelganger. “They kill us with their devious methods, and we don’t do anything.”
“There are no truces for blackguards,” said a confident Nerdraaage. “Even now, we are behind their lines gathering information, assassinating leaders, striking at their war machine. Icil told me.”
“Fine for you,” said Doppelganger. “When do I get in on it?”
“You forget how depleted our forces were after the last war,” said Donald. “We no longer had an army capable of aggression. But there will be open hostilities soon enough. We must take back lands that they now occupy—first and foremost Nemetia, before their witches can exploit its great magic. But as we grow stronger, they grow weaker. The Cult of Uroboros has turned troll against troll and all of the trolls against the orcs and gobbies.”
The Keepers knew the Cult of Uroboros. In the artificial symmetry of the game world, Uroboros was the Legion version of the allies’ Witchfinder General. They were both isolated compounds where only the most skilled players would venture to fight the murderous and powerful bosses. But in this world, the Uroboros was not isolated and despised like the Temple of the Red Rose but had in fact spread its apocalyptic influence throughout troll lands.
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XLI
The Cult of Uroboros is an ancient troll apocalyptic death cult, vile and dangerous even by apocalyptic death cult standards. The Uroboros is unique in its desire to hasten the end of the world. It prophesies that the trolls with their allies will defeat and annihilate the Acadian Alliance of Righteous Races. Then, further, the trolls will turn next on the goblins, whom they shall destroy, and then finally on the orcs, whom they will also destroy. With all the other races of Acadia eliminated, troll house against troll house will do battle until only one house remains. Then that house will battle to the death until only one troll remains. He will be the Elemental Troll, the greatest and most powerful of all trolls. The Elemental Troll, after some preparation, will summon the devourer of this world and do battle with him. If the Elemental Troll is victorious, he will take the place of the defeated god and will raise up his troll brothers as masters of the world and again raise up all the other races to serve as slaves in a perpetual troll kingdom under a troll god. The cult, which has much to dissuade potential adherents, not the least of which is to summon the devourer of this world, has nonetheless gained favor among many modern trolls, even members of the royal family, which it seeks to displace as leaders of the Legion. Recent archeological finds returned from Oceania have been used by cult priests as evidence of the cult’s infallibility. The Guild of Sages and Seers has dutifully disseminated Uroboros supremacy theory to the goblins and the few learned orcs to sew dissent among the Legion Pangaea.
Cronica Acadia
XLII
“Has anyone ever tried to talk to the trolls?” Dangalf asked. There was stunned silence at the table.
Angus barked something in Old Dwarvish, clearly more ancient wisdom, that the other dwarves found quite amusing. Donald didn’t laugh. He tried to frown disapprovingly at Angus, but Angus was too drunk to notice. But the other dwarves around the table laughed heartily, none more so than Nerdraaage.
Cronica Acadia Page 16
