《Scenario 66》


 1.1 Over The Edge

    Part 1


    Wherein the author elaborates on a pretty decent premise, and in which hope yet remains that something may come of it.


    <hr>


    1.1 Over The Edge


    ¡°Open your eyes, Sylvia.¡±


    Sylvia jumped awake at the sudden rumbling of the deep voice. It sounded like thunder in the forbidding shadows of the chamber in which she found herself. She could make out no details in the darkness, but she could certainly feel the cold stone of her rough slab bed pressing into her back. She stood, arching her spine in an attempt to lessen the deep ache that had set into her bones.


    ¡°Follow the signs, Sylvia. Your destiny does not lie in death here. Go, and find me in the Three Toes Tavern.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Sylvia croaked into the night.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have your answers soon enough. Now be quick! The guards will come to hang you any minute now. Follow the siiiiiiiign!¡± And the rumble was gone.


    Up ahead, a dim yellow light appeared in the arch of a stone corridor. Footsteps echoed down the stone stairs beyond and into Sylvia¡¯s stone cell with its stone walls and stone cobbles. ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm!¡± chuckled a cruel voice as the steps quickened.


    Sylvia stumbled around the room, panic and confusion rising in her chest. Hanged? For what? Where was she? Who was her guide? And where, gods above, where was the sign?If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    She ran her fingers around the bottom of the bed. Nothing. She scoured the damp walls in the flickering light. Still nothing. The footsteps clopped on. ¡°Almost there!¡± snarled the guard, and his companion cackled in delight.


    Sylvia fought back tears and crossed the room to a stone basin in the far corner. She scanned up and down, up and down as a desperate horror clutched at her lungs. Where was it? ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm!¡± chuckled the cruel voice as the steps rolled on.


    Over to the shattered crate on the other side. Only rotten planks remained. ¡°Almost there!¡± snarled the guard, and his companion cackled in delight.


    Suddenly, just as Sylvia had lost all hope, a bright red light flashed out to her right. She rushed over to the wall, gazing at the glowing brick in wonder. But there was no time for that. She reached out, and as her shaking fingers touched the sandstone, a sudden crack rent the fetid air. ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm!¡± chuckled the cruel voice as the steps rolled on.


    Sylvia jumped away as the bricks drew back to reveal a rectangular hole stretching out of the prison. A secret passage!


    ¡°She¡¯s escaping! Quick, grab her!¡± howled a gruff man close by. Sylvia turned round and watched in terror as two soldiers dropped their spears to wrestle with the latch of the grated door. There was only one option now. The woman snapped her attention back to the tunnel and took a step inside just as the guards swung open the door with an ear-splitting screech. In an instant, they were over by the passage, leering down on Sylvia as she scrambled down the ladder a few feet beyond the threshold. She closed her eyes. She had been too slow. A fate worse than hanging surely awaited her now.


    ¡°Great Gurzlewuck! She¡¯s over the edge!¡± roared the taller guard, glaring at Sylvia¡¯s frozen form on the ladder. He tensed by the opening and brandished a knife at the escapee.


    The other soldier slouched forward and locked eyes with the terrified woman. His face was pale and sorrowful. He moved his hand to his sword-handle, and then sank to his knees with a clank. ¡°Why did you leave?¡± he sobbed through his tears. ¡°What will we tell Master?¡±


    Sylvia swayed on the ladder, a sea of panic drowning her mind. Numbly, she looked down into pitch blackness and descended into the pit.

 1.2 A Touch Of Class

    1.2 A Touch Of Class


    At last, Sylvia¡¯s shaking feet found a hard earthen floor on which to rest. She doubled over, gasping, and desperately tried to regain her composure before the guards inevitably found their own. But there was still no signs of pursuit, and after a few moments, the escapee turned and tottered off down the rough-hewn tunnel which she could only hope marked the way to freedom.


    The way was lit by conical torches bracketed to the walls, but pockets of darkness still remained here and there. She twisted first left, and then right, and then she stopped dead as a huge clicking leggy thing descended on her from the wall and gnashed at her face with its ghastly pincers.


    Sylvia shrieked and punched the insect in the abdomen. It recoiled slightly, paused, and reached forward to sink its fangs into her left arm. Sylvia froze as blood soaked into the floor, and then found the strength to retaliate. The beast squawked and crumpled by her feet, legs curled up above its body. Dead, praise this Gurzelwuck or whoever else was listening.


    The poor woman winced as she tried to stem the warm flow from her arm. With no other options, she pressed on with gritted teeth. After a few more turns, the tunnel opened out into a larger cavern. A huge crackling bonfire engulfed the room in red light from a rocky ledge far below, and just beyond, Sylvia spotted a neat stone archway leading out of the nightmare. But even as she glanced around the cave, she knew something was wrong. The crackle may have been loudest, but beneath, a writhing and a scuttling slowly infiltrated her consciousness.


    The insects were everywhere. Swarms fought over a shard of bone on the floor by the fire. More festooned the far wall. And a whole line sat waiting on the narrow jagged path down to the goal of the doorway. Sylvia stood unmoving at the edge of it all, casting about for another way. And yet none were apparent.


    The prisoner may have stood there all day, paralysed by the horror of the underground lair, but suddenly, the highest insect on the platform took a single step forward. It clicked wildly as it rotated to face its next victim, and eagerly wriggled forward. Beneath, more unspeakable forms turned in unison and followed the forerunner ever upwards.


    The woman whimpered, but she was thinking more clearly. The need to survive had kicked in again, and she perceived the wide platform she was standing on for what it really was ¨C a death zone. If the beasts fanned out around her, that would be it. But if she made it to the path, she could face her foes one by one.


    Forcing herself into action, Sylvia sprinted for the path. She made it just as the first insect reached the top. One punch, one excruciating bite in the thigh, and another jab in the chitinous head, and the thing was down. Sylvia staggered and withdrew as the others marched on. But even as she retreated, she felt strength return, and onwards she charged once more. She punched and kicked and crushed as jaws closed around her wrists, and when the next toppled, away she crawled. Just enough energy returned to face the next, and then the next, and finally, she was gaining momentum. She kicked aside bodies, leapt, and came to rest at the bottom of the cave. Blood ran in rivers down her exposed flesh, but with a few seconds before the onslaught continued, her wounds tightened and staunched the flow. Punch, bite, punch, punch, bite, punch, and the insects were no more.


    Sylvia looked up through her matted hair and stumbled towards the bonfire. Needles of pain closed around her, but she was still going. She made it round the flames and cried out in pure joy at the sight of a cool stone passageway beyond the arch. Only one evil insect remained in her path.


    Sylvia stepped forward and punched with all her might, but the creature did not budge. Instead, it immediately stabbed out and tore a sickening gash in her stomach with one mandible. Sylvia howled and lashed out blindly. The thing felt like a rock against her raw hand, and at once it was on her again, snapping a finger with a flailing leg.


    Sylvia wailed and dragged herself to the tunnel, and her enemy followed, clutching and scraping at her legs. The edges of her vision pulsed blood red. The voice from the prison cell echoed in her mind: she was not to die there. But this was surely her final doom.


    ¡°Apple! Box! Now!¡± chirped a disembodied voice from somewhere to her left. Sylvia screamed in terror as the creature raked a barbed leg down her back, and rolled her eyes about the tunnel. Something flashed just up ahead. She kicked out at the insect, freed her leg, and scrambled to her only hope. She groped out and stared dumbfounded at the round green orb in her bloodied palm. So, it was an apple. Her failing mind found it quite the most hilarious thing ever and she let out a mad chuckle. Here she was, torn to shreds by a cockroach from hell, and what better way to go out than with the sweet taste of fruit in her mouth. As sharp feet poked into her back and a cacophony of clicking descended towards her neck, she opened her mouth and took a juicy bite.


    Sylvia felt a warm, fuzzy glow, and suddenly, she was herself. There was nothing in between, no slow return to life, and it was a damn good job. She rolled to the side just as the jaws chipped the paving where her head had sunk in her almost-final moment. Box. There was a little wooden chest just behind her assailant, and she hopped over its carapace to flip its lid.


    Sylvia ducked for cover as the wood burst apart at the merest touch of her finger. In its place rested a gnarled old stick, nay, a club, and as she grasped for it, her foot brushed its shaft. She blinked, and it was there in her hand. It couldn¡¯t be, but it needed to be, and there it was. There was no time to think as the scuttling rose above the thud of her heart, and she faced the beast again with a cry of grim determination. She swung the club against the black shell, braced herself for the agony of the jaws, and swung again. The insect gave one final trumpet and flipped on its back to mirror the fallen in the cave. Its opponent drew in a ragged breath, dropped the club, and collapsed to the floor, exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. The battle had taken no more than five minutes, but right now, it felt like five lifetimes.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Noooo! She¡¯s dead. And I really thought this one had what it takes!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re jumping to conclusions. Look, she¡¯s getting up. I say, come back here!¡±


    The squabbling voices were thin and distant, as if echoing from afar. Curious, Sylvia arose and retraced her steps, giving the dog-sized roach a wide berth. To her right, she spotted a grey tunnel branching off from the main one, which she could now see to be a dead end behind her.


    ¡°Come on! Down here!¡± whinged the second voice impatiently, and Sylvia obeyed. She followed the curve and beheld a three-way fork ahead. Three tiny chambers lay beyond, and three ladders led up each of the far walls. In one, a jagged copper sword and shield adorned a pedestal in the centre. Another held a gleaming dagger wrapped in a dark cape. And in the final chamber, a tiny twig puffed out billows of smoke of all the colours of the rainbow.


    The voices had come from the two minuscule figures in the middle of the junction. Sylvia knelt and observed two mice with immaculate brushed fur, and adorable hats on their adorable heads. ¡°Thank you,¡± she laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks. ¡°The apple, I would never have thought...¡±


    One of the mice took over. ¡°Well, it¡¯s only a morsel, but at this stage, it did the trick. Speaking of which, move a little closer.¡±


    Sylvia shuffled up, and instantly felt a tingle ripple through her battered body. She tilted her head, sure she had heard trumpets playing some sort of triumphant fanfare in the distance.


    ¡°I knew it!¡± squealed the second mouse, jumping up and down with excitement. ¡°You cleared the Ancient Dungeon, so that was almost enough to choose. And now, you¡¯ve made it to the Escape Route.¡±


    ¡°One could say you¡¯ve levelled up in life,¡± continued the first mouse, a smile playing about his whiskers.


    Sylvia ran a hand through her greasy hair. She was getting a headache, and she was eyeing up the ladders with growing relief. Her wounds were hardly bothering her now. She looked down in disbelief. No, her wounds were hardly there.


    ¡°Ahh, escape, you say? But which one?¡±


    ¡°Why, all of them!¡± chorused her teeny friends. ¡°Or one, should we say. But which, is up to you. There are always three paths in life.¡±


    Sylvia laughed. ¡°Love, wealth, and spiritual fulfilment.¡±


    The mice blinked in confusion. ¡°Errr, warrior, mage or rogue. Go on, go on. Choose your destiny.¡±


    ¡°Only one? Well, I want to do what¡¯s right, so rogue sounds a bit dodgy...¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what it means!¡± squeaked the mice, but Sylvia wasn¡¯t listening. ¡°And I¡¯ve been scared of magicians since that horrible birthday. But hitting things turned out alright just now. Warrior can¡¯t be too bad, if I have to choose. But I just want to get out of here. I want a nice sit down, if I¡¯m honest.¡±


    The left-hand mouse frowned. ¡°That¡¯s not going to happen. You¡¯re the One. But you know that already. So, the sword it is. And if you take anything from this, please!¡± The mouse threw up his paws in despair. ¡°Never ever try to punch a Legendary Blackroach again!¡±


    Sylvia shook her head and pointed back over her shoulder. ¡°What do you mean, legendary? That thing out there? But it looked exactly the same as the rest!¡±


    The mice snorted their derision. ¡°Look, let¡¯s keep it simple, Sylvia. If there¡¯s lots of baddies and then there¡¯s one baddy, that baddy is probably badder than the other baddies. Got it? Now, be on your way!¡± And with that, the rodents scampered off to a wide crack in the stones off by the smoky chamber. ¡°Oh, and good luck.¡± Then, they were gone.


    Sylvia stood up and stared off at the opposite wall in shock. Prison, blackroaches, talking mice. How could this day end? There was only one way to find out. She sauntered into the first chamber, grabbed the weapons, and started clumsily up the ladder. She gasped as a squeak rang out by her ear.


    "Sorry, its me again,¡± called a furry head from a pocket in the cement. ¡°Just checking, you are definitely a girl, right?¡±


    Sylvia covered her ample bosom with her shield and locked eyes with the rude creature. ¡°Now wait a minute-!¡±


    The mouse held a paw up and cut in. ¡°Okay, okay, just checking. It¡¯s just when we asked you for the first time you seemed a little... unsure.¡±


    Sylvia paused. ¡°First time? What are you talking about? Has the world gone mad? Why was I even in prison anyway? I can¡¯t even remember that!¡±


    The mouse looked concerned. ¡°Hmmm, that¡¯s odd. But no matter. A bit of concussion never hurt anyone. Get your five a day and I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll turn out alright. But again, I must ask, you are a Sylvia, right?¡±


    Sylvia raised her sword to take a swing at the cheeky chap, and then she lowered it again. Something had her thinking. ¡°You know, I¡¯ve never been totally comfortable in my own skin. I¡¯ve always been a bit of a tomboy, I think.¡±


    The mouse nodded, satisfied. ¡°I knew it.¡± He squeezed a paw out and pressed at the wall. For the second time that day, the stones clicked back and Sylvia looked on as a second ladder clattered into place by her escape path. She could hardly muster surprise any more.


    ¡°Onto the new route, please. You¡¯ll feel a bit better soon... Silven.¡±

 1.3 Profit

    1.3 Profit


    Sylvia woke slowly, as if from a very deep sleep, even though she could remember ascending the second ladder seemingly seconds before. There had been a trapdoor, and then here she was, crumpled on the ground with her shield beneath her head as a pillow.


    Gingerly, she stood up, then staggered, suddenly dizzy. She felt... different. And then she looked down at her bulky frame, her broad shoulders, her hairy arms. Sylvia was no more. And somehow, through all the grogginess, it felt right.


    Silven took a few moments and then looked around at the landscape that stretched out before his eyes. He appeared to be on a small hillock, with the crumbling remains of a watchtower boxing him in on three sides. The trapdoor was shut, even though he had no recollection of closing it behind him. For the most part, an open woodland spread out around the tower, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the oaks soothingly. To Silven¡¯s rear, however, the grass sloped down to a grey marsh filled with the croaking of frogs and the buzzing of flies. Just beyond the near edge, an immense earthen wall rose up to loom over the bog. Its top was adorned with metal spikes, and Silven could just make out slender figures peering out. That was where he had been held captive, he knew it, and suddenly, his limbs tensed with an instinctive urge to get going. There could be search parties anywhere by now.


    The warrior hurried off into the trees. There was hardly any undergrowth, and when he stumbled to a halt at the sight of a thick bramble, his feet passed straight through to the other side as if he were a ghost. Silven pressed a hand worriedly over his brow and moved on. Too many strange things had happened in too short a time for any sane being to cope with.


    Soon, the trees closed in, and the howls of their hideous residents rang out all around. Dark shadows scampered by as Silven walked, and finally, those shadows grew braver. Ragged wolves with fangs the size of the man¡¯s sword beset their prey from all sides, and Silven raised his shield as the onslaught began. The teeth clattered against copper and Silven cried out as pain soaked into his flesh anyway. He fought on, skewering one snarling hound through the chest and then rounding on a second to slice its head clean off. With two fiends down, it was easier to bring his shield to bear against further attacks, but the pain continued. As the last wolf was slain, Silven sunk to his knees and groaned, studying his arms for signs of damage. None. But, even as he rested, his energy returned and on he pressed.


    Finally, he picked up a footpath through the clustering plants. It ran on and on to the left and right, with nothing to distinguish which way would lead to food and shelter. If any led to anything but cursed wolves and blackroaches, that was.


    As if summoned, a young man in yellowed robes appeared from around the bend and approached the tired hero. ¡°Greetings, friend. You must be new to these parts. I have just the thing you may need.¡±


    Silven grunted and looked down at his shield and prison rags. ¡°Something to keep the wolves off, if you have it. This thing¡¯s useless.¡±


    The merchant chuckled politely and looked Silven up and down. ¡°My, my, you wouldn¡¯t expect it to block anything, would you? That shield, and those...clothes for that matter, they¡¯re part of you. And what¡¯s that, copper? It¡¯ll take the edge off, but no more. Iron, steel, stonium, that¡¯s what you need. But you won¡¯t find many skilled blacksmiths this side of Solmond City.¡±


    Silven sighed. ¡°Great, I¡¯ll go there, then. Which way?¡±


    The merchant laughed again. ¡°May Alder bless you. If you¡¯ve just arrived, you can¡¯t go straight to the capital.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Silven frowned. ¡°Why not?¡±


    The man hesitated. ¡°Because... you just can¡¯t! Not until you¡¯ve been round half the kingdom first. You¡¯d never get there for one, and even if you did, have you got the coin to bribe the guards? The letter from Count Steinbrook? The ashes of Old Tom¡¯s father? Thought not.¡±


    Silven stuck his sword in the earth, dropped his shield, and folded his arms. He was in no mood for games. ¡°Okay. I¡¯m tired. I¡¯m hungry. For now, I just want somewhere pleasant to gather my thoughts. Somewhere I¡¯m not going to be torn apart by every critter that happens to see me slinking by.¡±


    The merchant brightened. ¡°Ahhh, I was coming to that. You need to go right to Gigglewick; that¡¯s the closest village. There¡¯s an inn, a stable, a far inferior merchant... but before you go, I ask one thing. Do you want to slog there and back, there and back every time you want to cash in on your gallivanting? Perhaps this might help.¡± The man threw back his robes and produced a wad of thick parchments from an inner pocket. He pulled one out to reveal a map. Or, what would have been a map, should any roads, rivers, mountains, forests, landmarks, villages, towns, cities, castles or dungeons be actually marked. Silven opened his mouth to point all this out, but the merchant went on. ¡°Oldeburgh in your pocket. If you had any, that is. When you¡¯re sent somewhere and trot off for the first time, you can return later just by using the magic point.¡± And the man twizzled his fingers and flicked at the paper. He looked quite like a moron.


    Silven reached out for the map. ¡°Well, thanks, I suppose. Now, I¡¯ll be on my way to that inn...¡±


    The man snapped the parchment back with a groan. ¡°Haven¡¯t you been listening? It¡¯s useless unless I send you. Like so.¡± He drew out a stick of charcoal and drew a tiny house up in the north-west corner of the map. ¡°There, Gigglewick. And, of course, I¡¯m not doing this for free. That¡¯ll be ten coppers, please.¡±


    ilven threw up his hands. ¡°I¡¯ve just come from... well, someplace I wasn¡¯t allowed money.¡±


    ¡°Alternative payment options exist. Ten blackroach wingcases or five wolf fluffs should do it.¡±


    ¡°You mean I was supposed to sit there brushing those mangy brutes whilst the rest of the pack caught up? Forget it!¡± Silven turned in the direction the bewildered man had pointed out and marched off. He only got a few steps before the cogs started whirring, and he stopped dead. He turned round and sidled back up to the man, who was just folding his maps back into his robes. ¡°Hold on a minute. You say the map works if you¡¯re sent by someone else?¡±


    ¡°Only after you¡¯ve been there once,¡± laughed the man nervously.


    ¡°But is it you that has to be there, or just the map?¡±


    ¡°The special parchment soaks up location magic from the, err, location and stores it in the point marked by the charcoal of the urius root. The intention magic of the sender needs to coabulate with the map¡¯s presence matrix, and then when the user-¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± interrupted Silven. ¡°What¡¯s your name, my good sir?¡±


    ¡°Olgred?¡± answered the merchant, backing away.


    ¡°Well, Olgred, you¡¯re doing this wrong. Have you got your own filled in map?¡±


    ¡°The Fast Travel Supreme, the like of which shall not be made again.¡± The man drew closer and proudly presented a beautiful watercolour canvas of the land. Silven smiled. ¡°You¡¯ve got yourself a business opportunity. Half of your earnings, an exclusive partnership, no other collaborators. Got it?¡±


    lgred looked on in wonder as Silven laid his favourite map on the ground, took his charcoal, and began to draw on a blank sheet. Two dozen maps later, he stopped and handed his work back to his puzzled partner. ¡°There you go. I¡¯ve sent you to all of the places. Now, take a really long walk. Sell ready-made fast travel. Profit.¡±


    Olgred stared, and stared, and stared. ¡°I... I¡¯ve never really thought of it that way. This could change the world! They¡¯ll be worth silvers! Oh, my dear man, how can I ever repay you?¡±


    Silven stood. ¡°Half, remember? And if I may, instant sleep?¡± He took the Fast Travel Supreme and hovered a finger over Solmond City. ¡°Think of it as a deposit.¡± And he was gone.

 1.4 Curse Of The First Village

    1.4 Curse Of The First Village


    When Silven blinked into existence by the river, he couldn¡¯t help but gasp in amazement. The city before him filled his vision. Turrets and towers almost blocked out the crimson sunrise in front of him, jutting out from behind a huge whitewashed wall. Swans drifted across the channel of water at its base; wagons laden with boxes of spices rattled down the cobbled road nearby; dozens of peasants in rags and leather jackets shuffled alongside. Everywhere, the calls of shopkeepers, the hammering of blacksmiths¡¯ tools, echoed out from beyond the bright fortifications.


    Hold on. Silven looked to the towers again in annoyance. Behind the wall. He spun on the spot, his heart sinking. Farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. He was outside the capital. He had clearly pointed out the settlement on the Fast Travel Supreme, yet it had taken him here. If this was the best the teleportation system could offer, he dreaded to think what lay in store for Olgred¡¯s customers.


    Wearily, he dragged himself to the nearest gate. He approached amid a huge group of braying ruffians, waving their axes in the air and whistling at the womenfolk as they sauntered beyond the gatehouse in ones and twos. Silven relaxed. Olgred was clearly exaggerating about security.


    ¡°Halt!¡± screeched someone from the side of the road. At once, six shiny soldiers had blocked his path. ¡°That¡¯s far enough, newcomer. Have you important business here? A letter from a count, perhaps? A fond memory for poor Old Tom?¡±


    Silven shook his head and sighed. He staggered to the side as a muscular brute of a man shoved him away and walked onwards. The guards parted and waved. ¡°Morning, and welcome to Solmond City!¡±


    ¡°Arse-licking pisshead!¡± snarled the man as he stomped on. The guards smiled and took up formation around Silven once more. ¡°Why can he waltz in?¡± he cried, gesturing after the scallywag.


    The soldiers ignored his question. ¡°Of course, if you had a little donation for us poor folk, keeping the city safe day and night....?¡± offered the youngest as he stretched out an open palm.


    ¡°Oh, sod this!¡± yelled Silven. He took out his map and looked along its roads, anxious to be somewhere nice. Was Ornsdale blacksmith and beer country, or a stinking cesspit of scum and serpents? He really didn¡¯t know. "The Table Treaty is a hidden pitfall,¡± said a passing urchin to his friend, far too loudly. ¡°Those heavy forks on Fridays are a demon in disguise.¡±


    With that important information in mind, it was off to Gigglewick after all.


    A second later, he was standing on a bridge above a chuckling brook, taking in a pleasant little hamlet in a broad green clearing. The oaks of the forest huddled in all around, and from somewhere far away came the howling of a hungry wolf. Silven shivered and strode on into the single street. The beamed building at the far end declared itself to be the Wayfarer¡¯s Solace. The inn, he supposed. The neighing of horses assaulted his ears from the stables to his right. And all along the little road, higgledy-piggledy cottages jostled for position in the morning light. This was what he was after.


    As if to confirm his first impressions, a clean-shaven, friendly-looking old man approached cautiously from the nearest house. ¡°Ah, hello, and welcome to Yiggle-wike-a! Folborn at your service. You look lost. May I assist you?¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Silven shrugged. ¡°I am. I just need a place to get some sleep. I was looking for Gigglewick really, but that tavern looks cosy enough.¡±


    The man¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°An outsider, eh? Well, don¡¯t be saying Gigglewick round these ¡®ere parts. You see, ¡®Yiggle¡¯ is Fairish for outpost. Back in the elven days, this was their most northerly base, you know! And then the Dorsk Clan drove out of the mountains and formed a Wike, the governing seat of their forest kin all around. And then the pronunciation got changed to Wike-a as King Vooluk¡¯s people came seeking work in the new quarries...¡±


    Silven nodded and did his best to look interested. ¡°Fascinating, but tell me one thing. Is it friendly?¡±


    The elderly gentleman threw back his head and cackled. ¡°Lonely too, eh? You¡¯ve come to the right place. Only safe haven in the entire north-west of Oldeburgh. He twirled and pointed his bony hands dramatically. ¡°To the south, the rebel-held lands of Warlord Wallace. Nasty lot, coming out from that marsh fort a-pillaging day and night. Hide your horses, hide your gnomes, they¡¯re raping everyone out there. Nice craft ales, though.¡± He turned. ¡°To the east, we have Zolar Ceneron, the former keeper of the King¡¯s enchanted armour. She turned rogue and carved out a witchdom of her own around the town of Greenholme. A few of my friends have been drawn there, obsessed with her powers. And none,¡± he boomed, eyes like saucers, ¡°None have ever returned. Not with a bosom like that.¡± He relaxed. ¡°But this here forest? Safe as a jewel in the royal vault. No missing sweet rolls for seven years.¡±


    ¡°Congratulations!¡± growled a thunderous voice from beyond the stables. Equally thunderous hooves pounded into the earth as the host of cavalry swooped into the settlement. Their black chainmail reflected the light in curious patterns as they rode. Their black spears shimmered in hazy rainbows about their winged helms. And their black horses emanated an aura of pure dread as they charged. The speaker continued at their head. ¡°As the Only Safe Haven in the Entire Area, you had been pre-selected for complete annihilation.¡± He drew up his horse in a flurry of dirt. ¡°Of course, I couldn¡¯t risk my Elite Terrorknights of the Black Shadow in a full on assault of a lonely pleasant village unless absolutely necessary. But those oafish thugs have forced my gauntlet. Men, find Sylvia!¡±


    ¡°Oh great! There goes a sweet roll!¡± cried Folborn as the knights dismounted and burst into the nearest houses. But Silven wasn¡¯t listening. A knot of sickness and guilt was drawing tighter in his stomach as he watched the sacking begin. This was all his fault! It didn¡¯t matter who was after him, or why. All that mattered was that kind-hearted souls were being dragged from their chairs and torn from their loved one¡¯s arms because he had been foolish enough to bring his problems to their home. And if he died trying to stop it, he would.


    Silven drew his sword, and with a scream of rage, he ran at the leader and swung with all his might. The slash was wild and clanged against the horse¡¯s metal plating an inch from the leader¡¯s leg. The knight chuckled beneath his grim helmet. ¡°Horse armour, my poor wretch. It does have its uses after all.¡± He raised his spear and brought it down hard on Silven¡¯s shield as he tried to duck back. The copper shattered into shrapnel as the buzzing weapon connected, and the hero fell back under the sudden blast of energy, barely conscious. ¡°Now you¡¯ll pay!¡± shrieked the knight, kicking his horse into action.


    As the attacker charged, Folborn ran ahead and leapt over his fallen visitor. ¡°Save yourself, friend!¡± he croaked as the spear-tip skewered his chest. ¡°And just for the record, I think we can put that ¡®jewel¡¯ thing to bed.¡± He closed his eyes and spoke no more as the knight struggled to free his spear. Silven dropped his sword and scrambled away down the road, heartbeat thumping in his temple. Flames licked from every window, men cried out to their wives as they were lined up in rows and searched. Gigglewick was no more. Silven had the feeling he would be even less more if he didn¡¯t pick up the pace. Folborn¡¯s last croak looped over and over in his numbed mind as he limped on. After a prison escape, endless fighting and a good old village ransack, bed didn¡¯t seem like a bad idea.

 1.5 A Layesey Game Of Fetch

    1.5 A Layesey Game Of Fetch


    Silven rose to the melodic whistling of his clock on a beautiful sunny day. After his retreat down the forest road away from his pursuers, he had chanced upon a broad meadow and spotted a tumbledown old barn a mere league from the limit of the trees. Finding only a straw mattress and this magical timing device for company, he had at once collapsed into his exhaustion and gloomy thoughts. He could have slept for a thousand years, but he tried to keep it sensible and only set the dial on the clock¡¯s back for eighty-six hours. He had to attempt to make some sense of all that had happened at some point, after all.


    The chunk of bread he found by the road had done wonders, but the proper rest seemed to have fixed his twisted ankle and broken arm too. He would even go so far as to say he felt well rested.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± said a polite little mouse on top of the rotting haystack in the corner. Silven barely blinked an eye. He had awoke with a clarity of purpose he had never experienced before. He had made up his mind, and nothing could stop him.


    ¡°Yes?¡± he replied. The mouse, he observed, was wearing another one of those tiny colourful hats he had seen in the dungeon.


    ¡°Just a couple of points on the agenda today.¡± The rodent cleared its tiny throat with a squeak. ¡°First of all, it¡¯s time to get stronger. You¡¯ve completed your first quest!¡±


    Silven laughed bitterly. ¡°I¡¯ve ran away from a mess I created with my own grimy feet. Walking into that village cost lives. Hardly a happy end to your so-called quest.¡±


    The mouse shook its whiskers. ¡°Powerlessly watching them suffer surely created a desire to exact revenge on those that ensnared you. It¡¯s practically a positive experience. Now, level up!¡±


    Silven saw red. ¡°Did you say positive? It¡¯s scarred me for life!¡± He pressed a finger to his temple and felt a warm glow drift across his mind.


    ¡°Intellect. You¡¯ll need that,¡± nodded the mouse.


    ¡°Why, you!¡± yelled Silven, diving across the straw to crush the critter in one fist. It easily scampered away into the sunlight pooling between two planks, gave him a very disapproving sigh, and stomped off.


    ¡°And the second point...¡± sang a powerful voice on the wind. ¡°You really need to stop.... cutting people off.... The board is set.... pieces in motion..... the Three Toes Tavern.... remember?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I remember!¡± retorted Silven as he stormed out of the ruin and shook a fist at the air. ¡°But I¡¯m not drinking my days away with mysterious strangers when I can rebuild what I have destroyed. I¡¯m off to Gigglewick. Or what¡¯s left of it, anyway.¡±


    It turned out there was a surprising amount of Gigglewick left. In the half-week of Silven¡¯s slumber, the survivors of the massacre had pulled together to drag their belongings from the rubble of their homes and bury their dead on the edge of the clearing. Silven dropped to his knees before the wooden marker bearing the name Folborn and wept. The villagers eyed him suspiciously from their makeshift camp in the street. Finally, the butcher approached and shoved him hard in the shoulder. ¡°You appear one minute, and whole town turns to dust the next.¡± Silven only nodded glumly, and the moustachioed man jerked his meaty forehead at the churned hoofprints in the road. ¡°You with them?¡± A shake of the head. The butcher sighed and hauled the grieving stranger to his feet. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know what part you play in all this. Turns out they were looking for a girl. They never found her. Know Sylvia?¡± Silven hesitated and shook his head again. It was a matter of survival. The resident grunted. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll believe you. If you¡¯re here, you can help.¡± He placed a tentative hand on Silven¡¯s aching shoulder. He pointed up a narrow grassed path leading up between two charred cottages. ¡°Up on that hill lies Layesey Farm. Luckily, the dark knights missed it on their sortie. My people are hungry. Starvation will surely set in soon. Please, help with the crop while we point and rummage through the remains.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    The butcher turned away and sauntered off to his family. ¡°Hurry, I¡¯ve already missed breakfast!¡± wailed a pale teenager by his side. Silven sighed and started up the path, dozens of eager eyes watching him go. If he was truly here to help, he would have to do it their way.


    At the top of the ascent, Silven breathed a sigh of relief. A field full of turnips spread out across the plateau, dotted here and there with wheelbarrows and ramshackle tool sheds. Half a dozen or so peasants patrolled the rows of plants, raking at the soil now and then, while just beyond the field, another man stood scribbling on a sheet of parchment. At the very back of the scene, a neat little farmhouse rose beside a neat little yard brimming with clucking hens. If this had been found, the settlement would have been finished. But at least there was still a chance.


    Silven weaved through the crops and addressed the supervisor with the clipboard. ¡°Greetings, I¡¯ve come on behalf of the people of Gigglewick.¡± The weather-beaten man eyed him slowly and returned to his notes. Silven swallowed and spoke more clearly. ¡°As I¡¯m sure you know, the village has been attacked and its food stores destroyed...¡±


    The farmer looked up again, his face expressionless. ¡°I know! Dreadful business. But it ain¡¯t no turnip garden round here either, mate.¡±


    Silven gestured around him. ¡°Actually, it is.¡±


    The man blinked. ¡°Oh, yeah, I forgot about that, with all these pesky weeds.¡± Silven studied the plants. The crop was immaculate. ¡°Ash, how¡¯s the crop?¡± called the supervisor.


    ¡°Drownin¡¯ in nettles, boss!¡± replied the man named Ash as he picked at the ground on his knees.


    ¡°And young Billy, have we still got those thistles?¡±


    ¡°Hard to tell; I¡¯ll have to excavate further,¡± whined the boy, waist deep in a mound of orange pulp.


    The supervisor¡¯s face turned to a grimace of concern. ¡°We have our share of woes, you know. But if you want to help out, I¡¯ll spare a few slim pickin¡¯s for our friends below.¡±


    ¡°Done,¡± snapped Silven. He pulled up his threadbare trousers to his stomach, rolled up his tattered sleeves, and picked up a hoe by his side. ¡°What would you like me to do?¡± He suddenly became aware of the entire farm crew gathering around to regard him silently.


    The supervisor stepped forward. ¡°Well, you could gather the harvest, please.¡± He turned to his team. ¡°Full weed sweep, now! I know we¡¯ll find them somewhere.¡±


    Silven stared as the men slunk off. He stared as they polished the vegetables. He stared as they rinsed the leaves. He stared as they oiled the wheels of the barrows. And the men stared as Silven got to work.


    The sun was setting as Silven hauled his final sack of neeps to the farmyard. Sweat dripped from every pore of his body, his hands were raw with blisters, and his trousers had tore straight through at the knees. But the harvest was in. The supervisor still stood rooted to his spot with his clipboard. He smiled for the first time. ¡°Nice work. We couldn¡¯t have done it without you, not with all these weeds.¡±


    ¡°How many did you find?¡± panted Silven.


    The supervisor coughed. ¡°We¡¯ll find tonnes tomorrow. Anyhow, I owe the people of Gigglewick a debt of gratitude for sending you. Here¡¯s your reward.¡± He plopped a turnip into Silven¡¯s arms and yawned. ¡°Busy day, today. Off to bed.¡± And away he went.


    Silven looked at the turnip, disgusted. That teenage brat wasn¡¯t getting a single forkful. He¡¯d make sure of it.


    Down the hill, the turnip feast commenced in full swing. When Silven returned, he had hardly the nerve to uncover his meagre offering. Yet, a cheer of pure joy had risen from the survivors as they sprung to their campfires and pots. Silven gasped as he watched the banquet unfold on a blanket by the stables. There was a delicate turnip soup, followed by a hearty turnip stew with smooth turnip mash, and dense turnip cake to finish. The butcher, who had finally introduced himself as Banc, patted his good shoulder and explained. ¡°MM turnips. Layperson for ¡®magically modified¡¯. This should see us through until we rebuild.¡±


    Silven could hardly believe his eyes. ¡°This is all just that one turnip?¡±


    Banc chuckled. ¡°Only eight farms in Oldeburgh. Any more would just be boring. And not many travellers coming through to gather them. Have to be worth getting your hands on when you can.¡± A sudden distant howl turned heads towards the foreboding forest. ¡°And speaking of dogs,¡± pressed Banc, ¡°You don¡¯t fancy another game of fetch, do yer?¡±

 1.6 The Long Week

    1.6 The Long Week


    Silven appeared on a small hillock in a dreary landscape of rocks, dust and thorny shrubs. He folded his FTS and looked round with a weary sigh. The forest where Gigglewick nestled was nowhere to be seen; he was, so he had been told, deep in the lands of the witch¡¯s rebels now. That was why he had to come alone, apparently, to sneak past any spies unnoticed. What that probably meant was that Banc and company were just too damn bone idle to do anything themselves. It may have been his fault that they no longer had roofs over their heads, but Silven was rapidly losing patience with the whole miserable village all the same.


    Finally, he made out his destination - a jumble of thistle-choked rocks and wooden beams on the northern side of his teleport point. Snake Hill Outpost, Olgred¡¯s clumsy script informed him. It was an ex-outpost, of course; nothing much seemed to be very intact in Oldeburgh. But that was good. It meant that whoever once held the weapons Silven sought wouldn¡¯t be troubling him for some time. He rested one hand on his scabbard and approached the tumbledown entrance.


    Silven cleared the way to a neat network of brick tunnels and chambers running off into the hillock. He touched a finger curiously to the charred remains of a torch and gasped as the flame sprung into life. ¡°Looks like everything¡¯s a decoration here,¡± he mumbled, looking down at the pouch of flint abandoned in the dancing shadows.


    Snake Hill Outpost, as the name suggested, was guarded fiercely. It was full of spiders. Silven charged the writhing hordes and laid about with his weapon before the spindly things had chance to leap. Two had fallen before the first fang plunged into his stomach. Silven glanced down at the wound and screamed. He had turned green. And not just the bite; his hands, his cotton shirt, his sword... everything was green. And with the shock came the slow, sinking feeling of drifting and fading away. Silven swung his sword and lolled away from the oncoming foes. His mind wandered, his strength drained from his limbs. He detected the red glow of death about his eyes and giggled.


    Something different caught the last shreds of his attention. The bulk of the spiders were thin and pointed, twitchy and lightning fast as they pounced. But one gargantuan tarantula was lumbering out of a room to his right, powerful and ponderous, with thick tufts of hair on its abdomen. Silven attacked dizzily and missed, but his new target was more successful. Instantly, the grogginess faded and Silven waddled away from the forest of scratching legs. His sword felt like an anvil in his hands, but the strength in his legs flourished once more. And there was another thing. He had turned blue. Even as he retreated into a dead end, Silven laughed. His health had returned, and if he gripped his sword tightly in two hands, he found he could muster the energy to slice the spiders clean in two with one mighty stroke. And, if he angled the blade just so across his body... yes, it absorbed the brunt of the onslaught just like his lost shield.


    Another spider wriggled under his sword and dug into his ankle. Silven cried out in pain and finished it with his green sword. Again, his attention dimmed, his heart beat slowed, but he pushed through the clamouring beasts to their hairy master at the curve of the tunnel, and he was blue again. He hacked and slashed until he could move no more. He stood rigid amongst the corpses of the arachnids, fighting for breath in the claustrophobic shaft. A minute passed, two more, and then, the azure hue faded from his skin.


    Silven pondered his victory as he wandered through the silent network of tunnels. That bulbous tarantula had saved him somehow, yet he didn¡¯t see how getting half-chewed to bits gave him the chance to fight back against its little brothers. He shook the thought aside. For another time, perhaps.


    Now, he could concentrate on why he had come to this horrible little fortress in the first place. He moved from room to room, bursting apart boxes and upturning old tables in his quest to find weapons for his turnip-bloated friends. He gathered daggers and maces carefully under one arm and paused to regard a twinkling scrap of paper pinned against a wardrobe with a knife. The glimmer faded as he retrieved the letter, but the words upon it were clear as day:


    ¡°Grandmaster Golkirk,


    The quest has failed. We only found one squiggle crystal, which Brother Aldmas has smuggled back to the church before the king¡¯s army advances too far. I am afraid it is too late for us. We shall fight to the last man, but I have thought it wise to conceal the bulk of our armoury behind the enchanted wardrobe, where the heathens will not steal it. They¡¯ll never find out that the password is ¡°Squiggle.¡± Trust me, I¡¯ll take it to my grave.


    Praise Ulthan!


    Brother Fas¡±


    Silven read, then read again, searching for clues. It couldn¡¯t be... ¡°Err, squiggle?¡± he muttered, embarrassed even in the lonely hill. The back of the wardrobe cracked open smartly at the word, and a sea of swords and spears toppled down onto the rock floor with a deafening clang. Silven bent down to examine them, then looked again at the note. ¡°But...just...why...¡± He trailed off and crumpled up the paper with a scowl of disgust.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Whatever cult or clan had taken over this outpost had been bloodthirsty indeed. There were dozens of cruelly barbed weapons of all sizes, but all were cast from the same heavy dark metal. Silven weighed one in his hand and added it to his collection. He would see how many he could comfortably carry, and that would just have to do. If they wanted more, well, the spiders were gone. A little wheelbarrow convoy would do the trick. He picked up a spear, balanced it in the other hand with an evil-looking morning star, and added another sword or ten. ¡°Hmmm...¡± he mumbled into the darkness. He felt fine. He snatched up five sharp axes and a vicious polearm, and tucked a huge longbow beneath his other arm. He hefted everything, shrugged, and carried on. Another sword, five daggers, and then, all was left was a few throwing knives. He scooped them up with ease, stood, and took a step back. His foot felt like syrup in the air. He pushed with all his might and let out a puff of anguish as he forced his toes back to the ground. His legs did not want to move.


    But of course! He was forgetting something. His fingers fumbled with his pocket and drew out the Fast Travel Supreme. ¡°Ahh, there you are!¡± he sighed, and pointed out the village some distance away.


    ¡°You are overencumbered,¡± said the map.


    Silven nearly dropped the parchment in fright. But a moment later, anger engulfed the surprise. ¡°No joke! So, I have to ask you now, do I? Gigglewick, please.¡±


    ¡°You are overencumbered,¡± droned the map.


    ¡°Yiggle-wick?¡±


    ¡°You are overencumbered.¡±


    ¡°Yiggle-wike-a?¡±


    ¡°You are overencumbered,¡± went the monotonous tone.


    At last, Silven got the message. Silently, he made a mental note to throttle Olgred whenever he next saw him. He didn¡¯t sign up for shoddy service. He reached out to release an armful of weapons, and paused. He tested another step with all his strength. He thought of the wolves stalking around the refugee¡¯s fires in the ruins of the clearing. And finally, he made up his mind. If he did this one thing, maybe he could at last be free of the obligations his own conscience had set him.


    Thankfully, the week was uneventful. It was four leagues from Snake Hill to Gigglewick, and the journey proved somewhat educational. Silven counted at least twelve distinct species of flowering bush in the rocky scrub. It seemed the males of the red communal sparrows on the outskirts of the forest held highest note competitions to woo mates. And the yellow-shelled snails on the footpath were fierce predators, whereas the green-shelled ones excreted a sticky paralysing substance to escape them. If he ever reached civilisation, Silven mused, he was sure he could make quite a name for himself as an eminent naturalist.


    He also counted the number of times the villagers looked dumbly across the road at him in the last hour, without ever raising a finger to relieve him of his load. It was at least one hundred and twenty three.


    It was a bright, cheerful afternoon when a glum Silven threw down the weapons at Banc¡¯s feet. The butcher looked round with a startled expression and smiled. ¡°Oh, Silven! Didn¡¯t see you. Find any weapons? And what¡¯s that pain?¡±


    ¡°I think you stepped on an axe,¡± muttered Silven.


    Banc looked down and laughed. ¡°So I have. Well, thanks for your time. Now a bit of appreciation for all you¡¯ve done.¡± Silven held out his hand as a crowd of eager men and women gathered round to take up arms. ¡°Wow, a... a copper,¡± he stuttered, holding up the coin.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome. Time for part three?¡± Silven glanced up, aghast. Banc didn¡¯t look to be in a joking mood as he stroked his moustache and frowned at the hesitation. ¡°Well...¡± began Silven.


    ¡°I¡®m thirsty. Pass the water,¡± grunted Banc. He pointed off to his side, where a three-legged stool held a pitcher and mug. It was barely a foot from his grasp. Silven studied his face. ¡°Y-you¡¯re being serious, aren¡¯t you?¡± Banc didn¡¯t reply. He looked to the crowd. They gazed back expectantly, and waited.


    Slowly, as if to prevent startling a wild animal, Silven edged to the table. Banc watched with gleaming eyes as the warrior poured the water and passed it over to Gigglewick¡¯s de facto leader. The mug shook in Silven¡¯s iron grip; his other fist curled by his side.


    Banc raised the mug to his lips, closed his eyes, and gulped. The crowd cheered. Banc smiled. Silven stared. ¡°Cheers,¡± cried Banc above the hubbub. ¡°I needed that. You¡¯ve saved the village. Thanks.¡± Somewhere overhead, a distant fanfare reached Silven¡¯s ears. He blinked and moved on. ¡°Well, you certainly seem to be heading in the right direction...¡± He turned to study the single repaired roof on the closest cottage. The workmen were just beginning the door. ¡°So...I¡¯ve been meaning to ask. Do you know of anywhere where folk actually, you know... do things?¡±


    Banc frowned once more. A deep wrinkle appeared in his forehead. At last, he brightened. ¡°Ah, yes! There¡¯s that town a ways down the road. Never bloody stop. Thinking, researching, bustling about. Haven¡¯t heard a peep since Wallace took the south.¡±


    Silven did his best to smile. ¡°And, what¡¯s its name?¡±


    Banc scowled. ¡°Desert Marsh. What¡¯s it to you? Have some turnip-¡±


    ¡°Err, no thanks,¡± Silven interjected hastily. ¡°I¡¯m the thinking, researching, bustling about sort, you see. So...¡± He drew out his map, traced south, and pointed. ¡°All the best!¡± he called, and disappeared into the breeze.

 1.7 The Great Gorge Suicide

    1.7 The Great Gorge Suicide


    Silven materialised in the blinding sunlight with a single question wedged in his mind: what in the world was a desert marsh?


    And yet, here in front of him, there spread a desert marsh in all its weirdness. Towering dunes rose in between valleys of murky green pools. Majestic cobras slipped down to drink amidst a choir of enormous frogs wallowing in the mud. The stench of noxious gases bubbling from deep below the moss battled with the warm, empty freshness of the open sand. It was wonderful, and it didn¡¯t make a lot of sense.


    Off to Silven¡¯s left, the flattened ridge of a low dune formed a footpath alongside a long-dry gorge. And there, curled in a protective bend of the canyon, stood the town of Desert Marsh itself. Cracked and dusty timber frames held up thick mud walls in octagonal tent-like buildings, each with a gaudy coloured pennant waving from its top. These smaller buildings crowded around the end of the footpath in twos and threes, just behind a smooth shoulder-height wall. Beyond, taller stone buildings with curious wooden spires rose in terraces lined with tangling vines and creeping willows. If anything, Desert Marsh was even more peculiar than the desert marsh.


    Silven pressed a finger to his lips absent-mindedly and cursed as he felt his mouth glow and his teeth gleam. If that last wretched rodent was to be trusted, he had gained strength again somehow. Maybe he could just talk his way through life now? He forced himself towards the arched gate before he could pause to think. If he thought, he could lose any hope of finding purpose in this strange and unfamiliar land. He just had to trust that he would find some way to be at peace and find the space to take account of all that had happened since he (or she?) woke up on that dreadful slab.


    The gate was guarded by tall, slender figures in striking blue robes and matching bandanas. Their tanned faces regarded the approaching warrior coldly as he smiled through immaculate teeth. ¡°Greetings, kind sirs!¡±


    The men stepped forward.


    ¡°Are we well today?¡±


    They readied their spears.


    ¡°This is Desert Marsh, right?¡±


    hey thumped the shafts furiously into the ground.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°You are the good guys, I take it?¡±


    They answered by charging the stranger in a cloud of dust and drying lichen. ¡°Izrin lives!¡± they yelled. A huge gash appeared in Silven¡¯s chest before he could ready his sword. He staggered back and blocked the next thrust, and the next, but the onslaught was relentless. Silven cast his eyes around for some sort of deserty marshy fruit and found none. There was but one thing to do. He turned and scurried for the path, ten angry soldiers hacking at his heels in sprays of blood.


    He turned on an impulse, kicked sand up into the bloodthirsty faces, and stumbled down into a boggy depression. ¡°Rarrrwk!¡± said the toad in Silven¡¯s lap. ¡°What? Where did he go?¡± snapped the lead runner. Silven watched, barely breathing, as the small army lined up neatly around his position and scanned the horizon. ¡°We lost him. Izrin ikru!¡± groaned the closest man in fury.


    Slime churned from beneath Silven¡¯s leg. He splashed away, terrified, as a scaly yellow something rolled above the surface and returned to its unsavoury lair. ¡°What was that?¡± cried the man, now curious. Silven froze in horror as the man stepped down into the bog and passed an inch from his foot. He looked left, he looked right, and climbed away. ¡°Pah! Movement at the last known sight of the heathen? Must be my imagination!¡±


    Thirty seconds went by before Silven dared breathe. But in that time, a desperate plan had somehow formed from the fragments rattling around in his brain. He splashed away from the festering pool. ¡°The scubbles are having some fun tonight!¡± laughed a blue warrior as he searched for footprints on his hands and knees. Silven rose and scurried between two of his comrades. Lights flashed across his vision at the triumphant cry. ¡°There he is! Don¡¯t let him get away! Oh, it was nothing.¡± Silven nearly swung around at the dismissal, but controlled the urge. Just one more push, and....


    ¡°Got him!¡± cried a thug not ten feet away, murder in his eyes. He raised his spear to put an end to his prey as Silven grasped the rock and flung it with all his might into the gorge across the path. It clanked to the bottom in a series of ear-shattering booms in the still of the sort-of desert. He cursed his sluggishness and raised his weapon. But his adversary was not looking.


    ¡°Down here! All hands! Tally hooooo!¡± shrieked the man closest to the gorge. He dropped his spear, swung his arms, and took a running leap into the sharp rocks of the river bed far below. Silven stood and watched, mouth hanging open, as the others joined the hunt and whooped in joy as they plunged. From down in the bloodied gorge, a fanfare echoed as if from a great distance. ¡°What, again? For guided suicide?¡± Silven exclaimed.


    Stroooooooong!¡± croaked his froggy friend from his hole.


    Silven began to answer, shrugged, and gathered the discarded spears. Then, he dusted himself down, folded his torn shirt and made for the town.

 1.8 A Murder Most Obvious

    1.8 A Murder Most Obvious


    Beyond the unguarded gate, the desert path opened out into a hexagonal common, with fenced plots of peat anchoring weird feathery ferns dotted all around its edge. The octagonal mud buildings which Silven took to be houses craned and jostled to be centre of attention on all sides, yet no-one was to be seen in the narrow alleys between them. It appeared to Silven that the whole town had, in fact, gathered to welcome him on the far side of the common. As soon as he appeared, man, woman and child surged forward with a cheer to envelope him in their loose robes and pat his head like a dog. Silven tried to smile, but he could only stare in wonder. It was truly a hero¡¯s welcome.


    At last, the crowds quietened enough for a dark-haired young woman in a striking flowing orange dress to come forward and wave her hand in an exotic salute. ¡°Praise be to the stranger! The fools of the false idol Izrin are no more. Trade shall come again. Our children shall fear starvation no longer. The rivers of rationality shall flow once more. Praise!¡±


    ¡°Praise!¡± cried the people as one, and then they turned to the alleys and dispersed as if nothing had happened. It was at least as startling as the gathering itself.


    Silven shook himself free of his trance and approached the woman, who remained at the centre of the meeting place. Already, a cart which must have been concealed from the thugs at the gate was rolling into the settlement, laden with baskets of turnips. Somewhere up ahead, a group of children laughed loudly at their friend¡¯s joke. Silven relaxed. Was this really all his doing?


    ¡°Hello,¡± he began awkwardly. ¡°I just wanted to-¡±


    ¡°Begone, foul stranger!¡± she snapped.


    Silven almost took a step back at the sudden scowl clouding the woman¡¯s face. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m keeping my eye on you. Don¡¯t be thinking your false idols will go unnoticed!¡±


    Silven decided it was best to take that step back after all. ¡°Okay, okay. I¡¯ve got no idols of any sort. And if you remember, I¡¯ve just got rid of-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m watching!¡± shrieked the woman, pointing a shaking finger at the pale figure before her. And with that, she swirled her dress and scurried off towards the larger buildings beyond the common.


    Silven wandered off to the right in a daze. In his peripheral vision he detected dozens of eyes watching him anxiously from openings in the mud walls. A burly man leading a twelve-legged pack animal spat at the newcomer¡¯s feet as he passed. Gates to branching alleys slammed in his face as he drew close. The laughter and joy had turned to a dark, oppressing silence in the still air. Silven walked on and waited for inspiration.


    He reached another public square amidst the clutter of houses. And it was square this time. A tangled garden of carnivorous plants covered most of it, their fanged lidded heads straining against their stalks as men and women tiptoed up to throw away scraps of meat and unnameable vegetables. Silven blinked. It seemed as though this ¡®famine¡¯ had never happened.


    He became aware of grinning men swaying out of the ground at the corners of the square. There were sandstone steps leading down beneath the garden. He endured the curses of the residents and forced his way below. It was as he suspected ¨C a dark and dingy bar crowded with rickety tables and stools. He saw heads turning and quickly made for the stone counter at the far end. The barkeep looked unsure but quickly put on a smile for his newcomer. ¡°Welcome to Desert Marsh, friend! Rumour has it you¡¯ve seen off those bluecloaks. Nasty lot, spreading their filth about gods and creators. Good riddance.¡±


    Silven sat down and massaged his aching legs. ¡°Well, it¡¯s nice to see a friendly face, mister...?¡±


    The man quickly lost his smile. ¡°Ho ho! That was just an expression, you know. We¡¯re not friends. Not even close! But I take it you do support the new spoon takeover bid in the Table Treaty?¡±


    Silven was growing impatient. ¡°I¡¯m not answering that, and I don¡¯t care if we¡¯re friends. But what I do expect is a little appreciation for, you know, stopping a blockade of your whole town! What is your problem?¡±


    The barkeep turned and served a vile yellow liquid to a wordless man. ¡°Look ¡®ere, stranger. We¡¯ve not got a problem, it¡¯s just we¡¯re a respectable faction, you see. We¡¯ve got semi-autonomous authority over our town. And we take reputation seriously. After all the rebellions hereabouts, the council decided to set all strangers as hostile targets.¡±


    ¡°Meaning you¡¯d have tried to kill me yourselves if those thugs weren¡¯t out there?¡± sighed Silven.


    ¡°Exactly!¡± The barkeep beamed at the hero¡¯s intelligence. ¡°Anyway, Scroll Seven of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation states that any act benefiting more than ten citizens of Desert Marsh elevates our response to Unfriendly. Congratulations!¡±


    Silven chuckled bitterly. ¡°Yay! Do tell me, what are my amazing benefits?¡±


    The barkeep counted on one meaty hand. ¡°Well, let¡¯s see. We don¡¯t murder you, we let you in, you can get your weapons and armour repaired, you can buy basic goods, and we can demand you do things for us. Oh, and I¡¯ll let you rent a room for a few nights. Impress us more and you¡¯ll soon learn the true extent of the generosity of-¡±


    An agonised scream rang down the staircase. The rolling mumbles of another gathering crowd soon followed. Silven reached deep into his pockets and pulled out a surprise sword as the patrons shuffled to the exits. He had the feeling he¡¯d be finding leftover delights like this from his armoury quest for a long time to come. He threw it down on the bar and ran for the nearest stairs. ¡°I¡¯ll take that room thanks. Hope that covers it.¡±


    Outside, troubled faces looked down at something in the entrance to one of the alleys. He pushed his way to the front, and closed his eyes. A body lay spread-eagled on its back, covered in blood. It was a young, slender man, and his piercing blue eyes stared upwards in fear. A single stab wound still gurgled in his chest. ¡°No, it¡¯s Corril!¡± screamed a pretty woman, falling to her knees to caress the victim¡¯s pale cheek.


    Silven looked on, puzzled. An old bearded man in a smart jacket strode forward and shook a fist angrily in the air. ¡°Death to the idol-worshippers! When will the curse end?¡± He regarded Silven and stroked his hairy chin. ¡°Maybe now, perhaps....¡±


    Silven folded his arms resolutely. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. You people spit at me one moment, and want my help the next?¡±


    The man nodded. ¡°That¡¯s how it works at Unfriendly level. And besides, have you got anything better to do?¡±


    Silven thought, and suddenly pressed fingers to his painful temples. There was a hazy cloud of vague memories, a jumble of recollections from his adventures... but nothing was clear. All at once, everything seemed wrong. His life, his hopes, his dreams were nothing. He felt like a blank slate. What was he even doing? Since he woke up in that prison, he had been so focused on moving on that he hadn¡¯t considered what he was actually moving on from.


    He looked up into the hysterical eyes of the old man. He had to keep going, he knew that much. He sighed and engaged in the situation at hand. ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s start with the basics. Who are you? What¡¯s going on? Who is that?¡± He pointed an unauthoratitive finger at the body and the growing pool of blood. It was clear he hadn¡¯t been lying there long. If he hadn¡¯t been so concerned with himself, he could have been straight on the killer¡¯s trail. But now, he might as well learn all he could.


    The man bowed pompously and cleared his throat. ¡°Lord Eleganto, Desert Marsh council member, chief correspondent to the king, former editor of the Solmond Schooler, proprietor of Elegant Perfumes and Powders, foremost collector of antique quality stuffed bears in all Oldeburgh. At your service, I suppose, if I must, for the time being.¡±


    Silven waved a hand encouragingly. ¡°And the fallen gentleman?¡±


    Eleganto looked startled. ¡°Oh yes, I¡¯d quite forgotten that grisly business. And now I am filled with deep sadness once again. He is, I am afraid, Corril the Seeker, Desert Marsh council member, chief combatant against rising religions in the area, former scoundrel of the Eastern Territories, proprietor of the Common Sense Cafe, foremost collector of casual romantic encounters in all Oldeburgh. He will, unfortunately, not be at your service this afternoon.¡±


    Silven frowned. ¡°What is all this about religion?¡±


    Eleganto was not amused. ¡°It¡¯s what we stand against! The uncapitalised desert marsh was long a sacred site of all sorts of mystic hippies. They said its bizarre geography could only be evidence for an engineer, a conscious creator. But Desert Marsh was founded on the principles of science and rationality. The Silicarco Academy just up the street is the oldest institute of true learning in the kingdom. But I digress. Recently, the dregs of society have comforted themselves with a little bit of character creation. We¡¯ve had dozens of new cults creeping out of the woodwork. Young Corril here was tasked with rooting out insurgents in town. He must have gotten a little too close to the truth today. And he was the only detective around. Can you avenge him?¡±


    Silven didn¡¯t answer. He did not feel at all comfortable taking sides right now, in this strange place all alone. The Izrin fanatics had attacked him, but was there more to this case than met the eye?


    He took a step back and examined the scene. There must be some lead, here in this narrow alley. A hair, a fingerprint, a weapon. He waved the wailing mourners aside and looked straight at a much larger red puddle beyond the savaged corpse. It was spilling from a large smashed pot of paint at the foot of a pile of crates balanced against the nearest house. ¡°Errr, was that like that when you got here?¡± he asked the weeping woman by Corril¡¯s side. She nodded dumbly. His eyes followed the trail of bright red footprints as they zigzagged up the street. He blinked slowly. No other indents marked the convergence of the crowd on the edge of the square. It was as if everyone was floating above the path. All except the clumsy oaf who knocked the paint over. Surely not the killer?This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Silven stared in disbelief. ¡°Did you see anyone suspicious going that way? You know, through the conveniently placed shiny mess that could only lead straight to the suspect?¡± The woman looked up the street as if nothing was there. She shook her head. ¡°You¡¯re the investigator, stranger.¡± And then she rounded on the old man. ¡°And what was this you say about casual encounters?¡±


    Silven followed the footsteps as the argument ignited. He leaned closer. Yes, it wasn¡¯t just red... it was glowing. He shielded his eyes and shuffled off in pursuit of the attacker.


    The cramped houses soon gave way to neatly terraced reed beds and the larger stone buildings he had seen from the road. There were windows of fine brass instruments, a courtyard with a huge telescope pointed at the sky, and little groups of scholars talking quietly on wooden benches. Silven pressed on towards the largest building close to the rear wall of the town. The trail never faltered, the paint never ran out, and the glow only grew brighter.


    The building was, of course, Silicarco Academy. It branched out from a golden entrance hall into two large elaborate wings covered in tall spires and ornate railings. The path leading up to the great iron door partitioned the grounds precisely into two halves: one of carefully swept sand, the other of jet black peat. Solemn women turned in shock as he followed the shining trail off into the sandy side and off round the corner of the left-hand wing.


    All at once, the trail vanished. Silven turned round and looked back the way he had come. There was no sign of the paint now. As silly as it sounded, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling it had served its purpose and disappeared before he could be followed. But what was he to do now?


    A sudden muffled wail warbled out from behind a nearby window. Silven approached and peered through the frosted glass. He could just make out the vague shape of a man pacing back and forth inside. He pressed an ear to the cool pane, and listened. ¡°Oh, what am I to do? They¡¯ll never find me. He was the only detective in town. But how do I carry on my research? I¡¯ll bury it, but no....¡± Silven stood back and whistled. So this was Corril¡¯s killer, that much was certain. But the question is, what was he to do now? He briefly considered alerting Eleganto. But then he was potentially handing over this man to instant death. No, better to talk first.


    Silven examined the window, and couldn¡¯t help but mutter in surprise. There was a large lock on the outside of the frame. To what end it was there was anyone¡¯s guess. The key would have to be huge. In fact, it would have to be about the size of...


    Silently, Silven drew his sword and compared it to the slit in the metal box. It would be a perfect fit. He looked around cautiously, but no-one was in sight. There had been a murder, after all; everyone had been making their way to the scene of the crime. It was now or never.


    Silven slotted the tip of his sword into the lock with the faintest of squeaks. And then, he looked down, dumbfounded. What was he to do now? He¡¯d never seriously considered he would be picking a lock on a window in a secure educational facility before, and cursed himself on his lack of knowledge in such an area. He jiggled his blade, and found he could rotate it slightly to the left and right. It didn¡¯t seem to do any good. And then, he forced it a little more. A tingle shot up his arm from the lock. The metal of his blade jingled as it vibrated violently in his hand. ¡°Arrgh!¡± he cried, and pulled his sword back to nurse his biceps. And that was when the window clicked open and rolled upwards to reveal the simple study within.


    Silven peered in at the pale man. The pale man stopped in his tracks and peered out. A moment went by, and then the scholar tugged at his velvety green sleeves and wept. ¡°Oh, not a detective! I never thought I would be incriminated in the death of Corril the Seeker, who I have just killed down in Maneater Square. To think that I, Professor Grennel of the Earth Sciences Wing, and resident of Number Two Spidery Way, were to be caught by an outsider! How ever did you find me?¡±


    Silven tried to hide his amazement. ¡°It was a hard mystery to crack. But after careful deduction, the glowing red paint leading straight to your office did help. So, why do it?¡±


    ¡°It was self-defence!¡± pleaded the intellectual. ¡°My research, it¡¯s, well, a little different from the general direction of my peers. But I¡¯m not a religionationist, I promise! Anyway, you¡¯ll never find out. That is, unless you help with my studies. If you give me a piece of unexpected evidence that the world works in an interesting way outside the realms of known biology, chemistry, physics or astromagicry, I¡¯ll let you in.¡±


    Silven burst out into hearty laughter. When he could control himself, he sheathed his sword and addressed the professor. ¡°Good one! I don¡¯t know how you have the nerve to ask for my help when I¡¯ve caught you red-handed. I could turn you in right now. But I wanted to hear your side of the story first. So I think you do have a little bit of explaining to do. I¡¯m coming in. Don¡¯t try anything foolish.¡± He raised a foot through the frame. It bounced back against the opening with a faint hum that seemed to penetrate deep into his skull. He winced and tried again to no avail. ¡°What¡¯s....happening?¡± he growled through gritted teeth.


    It was Grennel¡¯s turn to laugh. ¡°I haven¡¯t let you in, remember?¡± His eyes focused beyond Silven¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Uh-oh. Trouble. Quick, show me the evidence.¡±


    The confident grin on his face sent a shiver down Silven¡¯s spine. He turned and beheld a squadron of soldiers approaching the window, swords drawn. Each man wore a tabard of yellow and black above his chainmail. They halted a foot from Silven and looked on silently. ¡°And who may you be?¡± Silven ventured.


    The front guard drew up to his full height. ¡°Corporal Dilsen, of the Desert Marsh Militia. We serve as the fair and impartial justice system of our great faction.¡±


    Silven looked puzzled. ¡°So where were you when your ¡®great faction¡¯ was besieged by fanatics?¡±


    Dilsen seemed genuinely confuddled. ¡°The militia only exists when the council is in full control. Our primary directive is to provide an easy visual symbol of who¡¯s in power. Now you¡¯ve freed us, we can protect once more.¡±


    Silven eyed the cheeky murderer behind him and made his decision. ¡°Whatever. You¡¯ve come to the right place. This gentleman and scholar behind me ¨C Grennel, was it? ¨C has confessed to killing a member of that council you serve. Time to take him down.¡±


    The expression of confusion never left Dilsen¡¯s face. ¡°Oh, we don¡¯t know nothing about that, sir.¡± He produced a hastily inscribed scroll and puffed out his chest. ¡°We¡¯re here to arrest Silven, unknown warrior, for the successful lock picking of a window on private property.¡± Two guards stepped forward and reached out for Silven. ¡°You¡¯re under arrest.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± shrieked the outsider. He pushed back the guards and rounded desperately on the window. ¡°Okay, professor, you win. Do you know there are at least twelve species of flowering shrub in the witch¡¯s lands?¡±


    ¡°Not interested,¡± smirked Grennel as gloved hands clamped down on Silven¡¯s shoulders.


    ¡°Red sparrows use male song pitch as a means of sexual selection!¡± He elbowed a guard in the chest and struggled towards the window. He bumped his nose against the invisible boundary and felt blood trickling down his face.


    Grennel looked delighted. ¡°Oh, really! I must remember that!¡± he chirped sarcastically.


    Silven wrestled his captors to the ground. As he writhed in the gritty sand, Dilsen swaggered up and crouched by his ear. ¡°I see you¡¯ve assaulted my associates. I¡¯ll have to add twelve hours to your imprisonment now!¡±


    Silven gave up. ¡°For a total of?¡± he gasped.


    ¡°Two days,¡± replied Dilsen calmly.


    Silven considered, relaxed, and brushed himself off. He stood and limped off with his angry rivals. ¡°Cheerio!¡± called Grennel in the background.


    Silven did his best to ignore the murderer. ¡°So, how did you find me?¡± he panted to Dilsen.


    ¡°It¡¯s our job,¡± was all the Corporal said.


    * * *


    There was a vicious sandstorm on the afternoon Silven walked out into Maneater Square. As soon as he had been bundled into his uncomfortable cell, he had pulled out his magic alarm clock and slept the sentence away. As he left, it seemed Dilsen and company could hardly remember his crime at all.


    The bar under the gnashing plants was quiet, and the barkeep hailed him as soon as he descended the stairs. ¡°That sword was worth three nights, you know. You¡¯ve still got one left.¡±


    ¡°Oh, good,¡± mumbled Silven as he opened the indicated door. The room was not much better than the jail, but he needed somewhere to collect his thoughts. Something about Grennel had resonated with him, but he couldn¡¯t quite get his head around everything just yet.


    ¡°Hellooooooo!¡± said a sing-song voice from somewhere within the room. Silven¡¯s eyes rested on the pesky rodent on his straw pillow and drew his sword. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of your kind!¡± he spat.


    The mouse, who was sporting a top hat and cane, waved a paw carelessly. ¡°Enough of that. I¡¯m not going to dictate where you go and what you do. I¡¯m just concerned you haven¡¯t levelled up yet.¡±


    Silven vaguely remembered the fanfare by the gorge and sighed. He sat down on the bed. ¡°So, how can I get even more efficient at messing up my life?¡±


    The mouse brightened. ¡°First off, your magic point, remember?¡±


    Silven looked at himself in the mirror-like blade. ¡°I don¡¯t like fighting, but I don¡¯t want to die if I get involved in something else. I¡¯ll hit things a bit harder for now.¡± He tapped his sword arm and closed his eyes as the wave of power rushed over him.


    The mouse clapped excitedly. ¡°Bravo! That means you qualify for your first strength ability. I¡¯ll choose.¡± He scurried up and patted the warrior¡¯s weapon. ¡°Now you can do super-strong mega attacks! The longer you poise for a strike, the harder it becomes. Just don¡¯t end up like Ashleigh. Cut a hole in the floor of Rockborough Cathedral and fell seven stories to her death.¡±


    Silven stiffened. ¡°Who¡¯s Ashleigh?¡±


    The mouse waved his paw again. ¡°She¡¯s not of this world. Doesn¡¯t matter. Anyway, try it out!¡±


    Silven tensed his arm and felt his sword straining to unleash its might. ¡°Not too long!¡± squeaked the mouse, backing off.


    Silven struck. His sword flew downwards with a thunderous crack, straight into his unfortunately placed bedside table. The wood parted like butter and the ink and quills set neatly upon it clattered to the floor. ¡°Oh no! Sorry!¡± whined the mouse, and off he scampered for the hole in the far skirting board.


    No more than a second later, the door crashed off its hinges and landed in a cloud of dust. Silven jumped up just in time to see Corporal Dilsen climb through the wreckage with a handful of militiamen. This time, his scroll was much longer, and his face was far more serious. He began to read before Silven could say a word. ¡°Silven, mystery warrior, you have been found guilty of causing damage to private property within the limits of the town. Taking other misdemeanours into account, under the guidance of Scroll Nineteen of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation, we have set the town¡¯s reaction to you as Hostile.¡±


    Silven felt his stomach drop. ¡°Meaning you¡¯ll kill me on sight?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely!¡± beamed Dilsen. He drew his sword and advanced.


    Silven fumbled out his Fast Travel Supreme. ¡°Time to go!¡± he called and twirled his finger at Gigglewick.


    ¡°Cannot fast travel when enemies are nearby,¡± droned the parchment.


    Silven looked up and grimaced. ¡°Ah, what was that expression.... Great Gurzelwuck?¡± He raised his own sword and pounced towards the door.

 1.9 Trail Of Dead

    1.9 Trail Of Dead


    Silven puffed into the little village of Thornyhedge early the next morning. By sprinting through dozens of flailing swords and rounding corners at convenient times, he had managed to limit his slaughtering to only seven soldiers in his escape from Desert Marsh. And ten spiders, five wolves and three obviously Legendary caterpillars on his flight through the pleasant meadow which bordered the weird landscape to the east. Thornyhedge had three cottages, one windmill and twenty two strange folk who would only identify themselves as ¡®Resident¡¯ if pressed for a name. He only hoped they had a strict bed rota in place to avoid an even more explosive population problem.


    He remembered to collect his wolf fluff and spider eggs and caterpillar legs, and easily arranged for his clothes and weapon to be repaired by Resident whilst Resident and Resident rustled up some porridge. As he ate on the grassy hillock underneath the mill¡¯s swishing sails, he looked up at the brightening sky and considered his position.


    He knew of no home to return to. No family, no job, no life. Whatever he had done before being imprisoned by Wallace¡¯s men, it had obviously been so bad as to warrant some sort of cruel mind-erasing potion or poison or spell. And now, here he was, wandering from town to town, with no purpose other than to grow a little stronger and slay increasingly savage creatures as he went.


    He shook his head. That wasn¡¯t actually true. He knew what he was supposed to be doing. He was supposed to be fulfilling his destiny at the Three Toes Tavern. He suspected the Terrorknights of The Black Shadow could well be having a few for the highway there right now, and they were obviously bad news. But he was a cautious soul. Maybe he was being tricked by Wallace, or the desert-folk, or anyone else he had ran across. He had to find out more about the situation before he got caught up in conflicts he didn¡¯t understand.


    And that led him to the other fork in the road. He could write off his amnesia as poison, but the strangeness of everything around him niggled at his mind. Nothing was quite right, nothing seemed familiar. He always had the feeling things were supposed to work a different way to how they appeared. Professor Grennel¡¯s research might just help with that. ¡°Something beyond the norms of science,¡± Silven mumbled, finishing the last of his breakfast. That was what he would investigate. He couldn¡¯t trust anything, but the professor seemed a better choice than a disembodied voice floating through the air. Or the damned mice.


    So, it was just a case of finding out something that might help with something he knew nothing about. Simple.


    Silven retrieved his sword and prepared to go out exploring. He consulted the Fast Travel Supreme and was pleased to see a variety of mysteriously and terrifyingly ¨C named locations around his position. Time for a bit of good old-fashioned exercise. He paused by the edge of the village as he set out. There was a notice-board there, full of old letters about babies and weddings and apple-juggling contests. He thought about the good he had eventually done in Gigglewick. It couldn¡¯t hurt to try and be a hero along the way.


    He settled down against the defensive hedge and set his alarm clock for a two hour doze. When he awoke, he couldn¡¯t help but chuckle at the reams of parchment stuffed onto the board. He gathered them up and skimmed down the first page. ¡°Missing son, went off to forage in Pinecone Hollow,¡± he muttered to himself, and consulted the FTS. ¡°Straight North from here. I¡¯m coming, young Alty.¡±


    Pinecone Hollow turned out to be a woodland clearing full of snakes with rows and rows of rippling legs. Somehow, he trapped them behind a lonesome tree stump and massacred them from behind as they waddled fruitlessly against the bark. Silven shrugged off their stupidity and went off in search of the boy. He found him soon after, face down in a pile of leaves, an abandoned basket of mushrooms by his side. ¡°Poor thing,¡± shuddered Silven, wiping a tear from his eye. It was only to be expected, he supposed, rooting around in a snake pit, but he couldn¡¯t help but feel sorry for the loss all the same. He took his gold chain as a memento for his mother and quickly turned to the next message. ¡°My friend has gone to meet the Darktree Clan to ask for help against the great giraffe invasion,¡± he read aloud. ¡°Darkleaf Grove, just to the east of here...¡±


    According to the letter, the Darktree Clan had helped their village neighbours in dark times for centuries. But it seemed that just this week, they had decided to turn cannibal and made a mean hotpot from poor Freddie¡¯s body. Silven punished them for their heinous acts, took Freddie¡¯s ring for his companion back in Thornyhedge, and soldiered on.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Wyvern Reach should have been a gruelling struggle between man and beast, but Silven found an old bow, a narrow cave on the windswept hill, and picked off the monsters one by one with the ten thousand arrows the weapon didn¡¯t come with. He rubbed his arms and went off in search of the caravan that had set off from Thornyhedge that day. It took two whole hours to find a hand and five toes. Luckily for Silven, one toenail had somehow concealed an entire drawstring bag of coppers, so at least the trip wasn¡¯t wasted. Silven told himself this, covered his head, and wept. The day had been full of death and misery.


    The next morning, Silven worked through the notes with a little more care. There had to be something a bit more cheerful. ¡°Ah, here we go!¡± he cried at last. A certain Count Steinbrook needed a strong back to cart some apples down from his private orchard in the Capital Foothills just south of Silven¡¯s makeshift camp. The name seemed familiar, but the warrior could not quite place it. It didn¡¯t matter. A good deed was a good deed, and after the whole Snake Hill mess, he could handle a load of apples with ease.


    The hero¡¯s feet were a little sore from all that walking yesterday, so he pulled out the FTS and teleported to Capital Orchard. The view across Oldeburgh was spectacular. He could even make out the towers of Solmond City itself far in the distance.


    ¡°Ah! Hello, young warrior. Are you here for the apples?¡± said a friendly voice from behind Silven. He turned and regarded a regal old man in a short robe, waving him closer.


    Count Steinbrook?¡± he answered, and moved forward. His foot met an apple and it bounced away along the neat lawn. Silven stopped dead and watched the rolling fruit with curiosity. The count was saying something, but he didn¡¯t hear. The more he watched, the more the stinging dread pulled at his stomach. The apple was moving further than it should. It bounced on, and on, and on. Bounced with...purpose.


    It made it to the end of the grass and plopped off into the undergrowth of the neighbouring woodland. A rabbit shrieked at the noise and bounded off into the trees. It stepped straight into the path of a snake, which struck out at its hind legs, missed, and crashed headfirst into a trunk. The tree wobbled, and several strange cylindrical berries rained down into the bushes. A passing deer approached and sampled the rare treat. A nearby wolf saw its chance and pounced on the distracted animal. As they writhed in the moss, the wolf¡¯s tail swept over a bear trap, which sprung shut with a piercing crack. The noise happened to catch the attention of a lonely forest giant on the next hill over, who mistook it for the mating thump of an attractive male. In her haste to introduce herself, she tripped on an outstretched vine, and shook the loose earth from the rocky hillside. The resulting avalanche revealed the long-hidden basement of an ancient temple. The breaking of the entrance seal disturbed the spirits of its dead Halfling masters. Silven recoiled as a dozen tiny ghostly figures floated out and tugged on Steinbrook¡¯s sleeves. The warrior rushed to defend his employer and halted as his sword-thrusts went straight through the foggy heads of the cackling little ones. ¡°Silver!¡± cried the count as he was dragged towards the underground lair. ¡°Fight them with silver!¡±


    Silven panicked. He saw the orchard lodge at the opposite end of the lawn and dodged through the lurching dwarves to its door. Inside, servants and workmen ran for cover as he upturned box after box of fruit and supplies. And then, he saw the table in the centre, almost set for lunch. He grabbed the closest cutlery to hand and bolted for the temple.


    It was too late. Looking back, Silven decided he may still have been able to save the count if he hadn¡¯t had to circle each ghost twenty times and tap it on its obnoxious little head with a teaspoon each time it struck. As it happened, Steinbrook was slipping away by the time Silven reached him at the end of the dingy ritual halls. He still, however, had breath enough to whisper a question in Silven¡¯s ear. ¡°One last thing....before I go.... what is your name?¡± managed the old man. Silven answered and watched as the count rolled to his side and scribbled in the letters at the top of a badly written scroll. He handed it to Silven as the warrior looked for wounds on the noble¡¯s chest. ¡°They¡¯ve got me... but not you.... you tried to rescue me.... go to Solmond City.... tell my family....¡± And he was gone.


    Silven read the dead man¡¯s letter. He thought of the name at the bottom. He thought of the guards at the capital¡¯s gate. And he wailed against the damp walls of the dead chamber.


    Solemnly, Silven sought Alty¡¯s mother in the windmill, and delivered the chain and the bad news. He found Freddie¡¯s friend and handed over the ring. He found the caravan master and described the most minute details of the toes to prove their identity. The three Residents cried, and then they thanked Silven, and tried to hand him their most valued treasures. But he pushed them aside and dragged himself to the notice board. Carefully, he pinned the unread pleas to the planks and stormed off into the night, Count Steinbrook¡¯s letter in one fist.


    He tried not to think about it. But deep down, he was beginning to understand. If he had never crossed paths with Thornyhedge, he was somehow quite sure they would all still be alive. That dark night, he made a vow to himself. He would never try to help another living soul again.

 1.10 Gone Questing

    1.10 Gone Questing


    After a lonely night¡¯s sleep in a grassy nest by the side of the road, Silven started to address the self-loathing that had come with the trail of death he had left in his wake. If he was indeed a bringer of bad luck, then he was still helping others by keeping himself to himself. And perhaps there were ways he could indirectly contribute positively to the world without getting caught up in ghastly personal affairs. But now, at last, his experiences had focused his mind on the singular goal of finding out what the goobleroot was going on.


    It was in this mindset that Silven found himself staring down at a skeleton by the edge of the trail as he prepared to ford a shallow river. The skeleton was clutching a little wooden box. The box was inscribed with strange symbols and incomprehensible runes. But at least there was a common-tongue note pinned to its lid to help a wandering warrior out. Silven approached and examined the skeleton. ¡°Been there a long time, pal?¡± he muttered. ¡°At least it wasn¡¯t me that happened to kick a banana in your general direction.¡±


    The note was concise and easy to understand. The man had been a wizard of some renown, though why looters had taken his hat and robes and left the box behind was beyond Silven. He had located this rare elven artefact in the Kelzam Forest hundreds of leagues to the east, and had begun to work on the instructions on the container. He had just popped out to find a wooden stick to rub against the left-most rune to finish unlocking his prize, when he heard the sound of cutthroats getting closer and decided he would be much better off carefully reporting his impending doom than doing anything about it.


    Silven thought about the magic wardrobe. He thought about the paint trail. And he bent down, picked up the nearest old twig, and pressed it to the rune in question. He was admittedly rather surprised when it didn¡¯t burst open to reveal a cartload of goodies at the slightest touch.


    ¡°Find out what sort of wood,¡± said a squeaky voice from above. Silven gasped and looked up at the lone sapling by his side. The little fluffy bat regarded him with wary eyes.


    Silven grimaced. ¡°But it comes from an extinct race from a land far away in a time long gone. It¡¯s just trial and error.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t work,¡± squeaked the bat.


    ¡°Then tell me how I get it,¡± implored the warrior.


    The bat covered her head with a leathery wing. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m obliged to tell you the exact position of the information only if it becomes clear you can¡¯t solve the mystery yourself.¡±


    Silven gazed out over the quiet heath in despair. ¡°Fine. I give up. And obliged by who, exactly? Who are you anyway?¡±


    The bat raised her second wing and blocked out the questions.


    Silven glared. ¡°I¡¯m waiting.¡±


    The bat ignored him.


    ¡°Go on!¡± demanded the hero.


    The creature remained silent.


    Five minutes passed before Silven¡¯s resolve broke. ¡°Fine! I¡¯ll find out on my own. But I will say you are being extremely rude. Good day, Miss Bat!¡± And off he stalked along the path.


    ¡°Aha!¡± cried the bat triumphantly. ¡°Wrong way! You¡¯ve taken a step in the wrong direction and now I can spoon feed you the answer.¡±


    ¡°Which is?¡± Silven pleaded.


    The bat snorted. ¡°The Kelzam Elf Refugee Woodworking Library, of course. Just north of Greenholme?¡± Silven looked blank. ¡°It¡¯s on your map, dumblegs!¡± called the bat as she fluttered off into the bushes.


    Silven stood there a moment longer as he felt his cheeks flush. ¡°Oh, yeah...¡± he said awkwardly, pulling out the FTS.


    The abandoned library had been taken over by hordes of primitive ape-men. Something about combining an oak tree with the wrong sort of magic, explained the last elf¡¯s note. Silven tutted. It all sounded suspiciously lazy. That couldn¡¯t be it, but equally the truth didn¡¯t concern him . He hacked his way to the inner sanctum and looked out over the rainforest of tomes within. ¡°Good job I packed a mystery meat sandwich,¡± he said aloud, and approached the nearest bookcase.


    He tried to take several books before he worked out what was going on. He took a step back and scanned the shelves in wonder. They were solid wood, the vertical plane carefully painted with the imaginary spines bearing titles befitting an elven woodworking library. Silven paced the cases, contemplating his next step. That bat had been working against him. It had to be a trap!


    And then he rounded a corner and locked his eyes onto the real book poking invitingly out of a slot in a fake case. He dragged it from its resting place and wiped away the dust on its cover. ¡°The Art of Unlocking Eastern Rune Boxes,¡± he read. ¡°Hmmmmm.¡± That weird feeling he couldn¡¯t quite fathom was coming over him again. He flipped through the pages and skimmed over the steps his bony friend must already have taken with the case. He finally came to a chapter on wood and slowed down. ¡°To disable the Uluk rune, the wood of the Incal tree must be collected and pressed against the box,¡± Silven learned. ¡°It is commonly found in... Steelhead Harry woz ere?¡± Silven read again. The original text had been torn away, and in its place, the crude taunt had been pasted across the original paper. Silven replaced the book and searched the library again. But there was no sign of further guidance on the Incal tree and where it could be found.


    He exited the crumbling building and returned to the main road. He searched for tracks and found none. He studied the surrounding scrub and perceived no unusual trees. He paced to and fro, and sat down with a dejected puff of air. This was turning out to be more trouble than it could surely be worth.


    It was at that precise moment that two peasants marched down the road on their way to market. The woman looked rather grave as she spoke loudly at her companion. ¡°Versella tells me worrying news. Steelhead Harry has been seen making off with two pints of milk from Frogton village store.¡±


    The man began to sweat. ¡°Darling, I¡¯ve forgotten my line.¡± She smiled encouragingly. ¡°The Table Treaty was established three years ago to quell the growing tensions between the ferocious forkists and the sophisticated spoonists of the southern aristocracy,¡± he recited anxiously. ¡°There is, however, no compromise in table manners, and if someone doesn¡¯t kindly annihilate a random movement soon, this dilemma will rip the kingdom apart before the summer is out.¡±


    Gently, she mouthed a helpful hint. ¡°Oh yes,¡± he called. ¡°I hear he¡¯s gone off gallivanting in that Voolukian quarry. Looking for a tree, of all things!¡±


    Silven stepped out of his hiding place and bowed. ¡°Thank you!¡± he said, and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The peasants looked at each other and laughed with pure joy. ¡°We got ourselves a hero!¡± the woman called. ¡°Looks like cheese is back on the menu.¡±Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Silven appeared at the edge of Gigglewick and hastened away up the hill. He didn¡¯t want to be getting involved with Banc¡¯s lot again, but he was quietly pleased that another thatched roof had been replaced. They might have some shelter for winter after all, he mused.


    From the viewpoint just beyond Layesey Farm, he peered out into the trees below. There was no sign of the quarry. ¡°Hmm, that¡¯s odd,¡± he grunted. He was certain someone had mentioned the Voolukians here, but no matter. He had to learn to look before he dematerialised, as the saying went.


    Before long, he had located the Stonium Quarry far to the south-east, and quickly cleared out the bandits that had taken up residence there. Yet one brute remained in his way. A man with a bucket helmet complete with cut-outs for eyes, who could only be Steelhead Harry, judging by the evidence of his worrying dairy habit piled against his dug-out. He roared wordlessly and charged the invader like a bull. Silven smiled and twirled his sword. He had been in this position a hundred times by now. He had learned that his seemingly ordinary blade was rather magical indeed, for if he swung it outwards in a situation like this, it could connect with an unsuspecting foe a full foot beyond its tip. Such confidence could only result in an exception.


    Silven looked on in surprise as his strike conjured silver puffs of smoke from Steelhead¡¯s stomach. A second later, the bandit¡¯s trident struck home. Silven flew backwards and collided with the wall of the open pit. His sword clattered to the floor, and the warrior sank to his knees in a shower of blood. The bandit rumbled to a halt inches from his victim and clonked down his fearsome weapon. ¡°Oh yeah, baby!¡± he cackled. ¡°Charge attack for the win. Can¡¯t be staggered. Yeahhhh!¡±


    Silven coughed and fumbled for his sword. Steelhead kicked it casually to one side and babbled on. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be doing that. You¡¯ve got to see my new move before you die. And trust me, it¡¯s woooorth it!¡± He raised the trident high above his head. Waves of energy pulsated from his feet and shook the earth. The quaking reached a deafening roar. ¡°Area of effect!¡± boomed the bandit. He stuck out his chest triumphantly and the rocks splintered in an arc around him. Showers of shrapnel rained down like cannon-fire around the quarry. It seemed the apocalypse had come. It was the most awesomest thing Steelhead Harry had ever achieved. He whooped and collapsed to the cracked earth in exhaustion.


    That was when Silven strode up from the far side of the arena. He grinned, took up his sword, and skewered the boss in the back. ¡°I¡¯d work on your poker face next time,¡± he called cheerfully as the body slid to the floor. Then he looked on the pile of corpses littering the quarry and covered his mouth.


    The mystic tree was nowhere to be found, but Silven did find a letter detailing Steelhead¡¯s attempts to enlist an old hermit who had known the last of the Kelzam race all those years ago. Silven took off for Fort Forgetful and slaughtered the host of zombies which awaited him. The most bloated of his enemies was carrying a scrap of green cloth which a retired witch in Cragmere Marsh claimed was from Old Johnny¡¯s Ranch on the plains to the south. Of course, Old Johnny was having a little trouble with a baby fairy infestation on his lands. ¡°But you don¡¯t understand,¡± he explained to a reluctant Silven. ¡°They¡¯re not fairies, they¡¯re corrupted fairies. And now they¡¯ve identified as corrupted, they need to be taught a few principles of modern decency. Their parents warned them about getting into gang violence.¡± Silven obliged with sword and strength. In return, he was sent off to battle a party of orcs who had kidnapped the hermit. He was starting to get a little out of breath by the time he borrowed an old potion from a group of raiders to get the frail eccentric back to health.


    ¡°What? You¡¯ve got to give it back?¡± was the first thing the rescued man croaked, clutching the little bottle in bony fingers.


    Silven hesitated. ¡°Well, when I said ¡®borrowed¡¯....¡±


    The hermit winked. ¡°Ah, the hero¡¯s way. So, I expect you¡¯ve saved my skin to hear about Incal trees...¡±


    Silven was too tired to be surprised. ¡°Go on.¡±


    The hermit laughed heartily and nearly choked on his teeth. ¡°Huge. Bright orange bark. Flashing buds. All singing, all dancing. The only one in Oldeburgh grows in the middle of the Stonium Quarry, I believe.¡±


    Silven was not impressed. ¡°I¡¯ve just been there. If this is some sort of trick, I can find you.¡± The wrinkled man only laughed with a knowing gleam in his eye. Silven shrugged and zapped away from the orc camp.


    There, right in the middle of Stonium Quarry, was the Incal tree. It was huge. It had bright orange bark and flashing buds. It was, as far as trees ever are, all singing and all dancing. But Silven paid little heed to the tree.


    ¡°Ah, there you are. How¡¯s my poker face?¡± said Steelhead Harry through straight unmoving lips.


    Silven whirled on the spot as grinning bandits poured out of crags on all sides of the quarry. He unsheathed his sword, but let it hang by his side as he stared at Steelhead. ¡°What...how...¡±


    Steelhead adjusted his bucket. ¡°Surprised, eh? Well maybe you shouldn¡¯t¡¯a waded in first time.¡± He motioned to the little path winding down into the pit. ¡°You were supposed to wait there. I¡¯d have told you the way to that shrivelled old man and you could¡¯ve come back to challenge me fair ¡®n¡¯ square.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± cried Silven as the bandits sharpened their blades on the rocks.


    Steelhead took a step closer. ¡°Before you came barging in, I was just gonna tell Dimwit over there where to find the old man so we could guard the tree. And then you stabbed me. I saw Bull the great bandit god, and he told me I still had guarding to do. So now I¡¯m reborn, and you¡¯ve seen the tree for us all. And now we¡¯ll do our sacred duty and defend it to the bitter end.¡± He raised his trident and pointed it at the intruder.


    Silven prepared for battle. And then the leader¡¯s words started to sink in. He¡¯d started with a twig and ended with a travelling massacre across the kingdom. And all for a little wooden box. His head rolled to the side and he squeezed at his temples in agony. Whatever he tried, no matter how hard he fought it, he was a monster. He was meant to kill.


    ¡°You alright, dude?¡± Silven looked up into Steelhead¡¯s puzzled face. He dropped his sword and addressed the crowd of enemies. ¡°Come on, guys. I¡¯ve killed you before and I can kill you again. And I¡¯m not sure how many times this Bull god can recycle. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s not 100% efficient.¡± The bandits muttered and advanced. Silven pressed on desperately. ¡°And just think, how long can you guard this tree? I¡¯ve seen two lootable traders going along the road past here all day. And, unless zombies and fairies and orcs don¡¯t have recycling gods, there¡¯s all those competitors just beyond your camp. It¡¯s unsustainable! What are you going to do when the food runs out?¡±


    Steelhead blinked. His minions turned to him in confusion. A moment passed, and then his furrowed brow lifted into an expression of enlightenment. All the secrets of the universe seemed to pass behind his eyes. ¡°Guard,¡± he imparted. He puffed out his chest. ¡°Area of effeeeeeeeect!¡±


    The ground started to rumble. But history was already repeating itself. Silven wasn¡¯t there. The bandits scoured the quarry to the edge of the path, and then they gathered around the parting gift their killer had left on the ground.


    Silven watched from the bushes as Steelhead took up the tiny container between two sausage fingers and shoved it against the Incal tree. There was a vortex of light and a blast of triumphant music. He flexed his muscles as his crew cheered ferociously. Then, they remembered the box again and prised off the ancient lid.


    ¡°It¡¯s.... a dye!¡± squealed the bandit called Dimwit, holding up a vial of dark brown liquid. The others gasped in awe.


    ¡°Could it be.... Adventurer Fawn?¡± said another, fumbling for his spectacles.


    ¡°What good¡¯s that?¡± mumbled a thin young man in the background. His companion turned and punched him hard in the stomach. ¡°Shut up, Noob!¡± he growled. ¡°It¡¯s for personalising your cloak. No-one wants Default Grey these days. We¡¯ve been laughed at for weeks, let¡¯s face it.¡±


    The crowd hushed as Steelhead loomed up against the bottle. He made to snatch it up, and then he softened. ¡°Go on then, a splash each. But then we guard it forever!¡±


    Silven couldn¡¯t help but smile as he watched the raiders place the vial pride of place at the foot of the tree. He had needed some way to apologise for all the needless slaughter. And besides, the treasure was no great loss. He would have wanted a blue cloak anyway.

 1.11 The Fourth Path

    1.11 The Fourth Path


    The true treasure was not the elven box, not for Silven. It was knowledge. In a flash, he teleported to Desert Marsh and avoided the guards by their pointless wittering. He found himself back at Grennel¡¯s window as if nothing had happened.


    ¡°Ah! You have valuable information, I predict,¡± said the murderer gleefully. Silven looked on scornfully, and then thought of the things he had done in the name of existing and managed a smile.


    ¡°I have seen a phenomenon that cannot be explained by the academy, I am sure of it. Now let me in.¡±


    Grennel held up a hand. ¡°Not so fast. Explain yourself.¡±


    Silven relayed his tale of the elusive tree in excruciating detail. ¡°Surely, the great scholar can see no explanation for the object of my quest appearing when directed. Unless you acknowledge the existence of a god?¡±


    The professor¡¯s neatly shaven face fell. ¡°Quantum magics. Elsenberg¡¯s purpose principle. You have failed.¡±


    The words fell like lead weights into Silven¡¯s ears. He glared through the invisible barrier across the still-unlocked window. ¡°It¡¯s...impossible.¡±


    The scholar regained his composure and chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s quite a well-established theory, I assure you. Objectives of a magical nature will only reveal themselves to the fulcrum when they cross an expectation threshold. In other words, the fulcrum only finds them when they are told they exist, where they are, and a good deal of detail about their nature.¡±


    Silven¡¯s anger gave way to concentration at the words. ¡°Fulcrum? As with a lever?¡±


    The scholar¡¯s eyes widened as if he had made a terrible mistake. He fussed with the papers on his desk and checked the lock on his varnished door. ¡°Err, my own terminology, it¡¯s true. That¡¯s my modified take on the theory, based on... my own..... curse you, I¡¯ve said too much! Be gone!¡± And he strode purposefully to the window.


    Silven tried to hold on. ¡°But why can¡¯t you just tell me? I can aid you better then!¡± But the curtains had been drawn in his face. He stared at the fabric and felt his heart thumping louder and louder. The academic¡¯s opinions would have been of no great consequence to Silven, if he had anything else to cling on to in the world. Yet, this was his one mad obsession, his one chance for answers, he was sure of it. He clawed at the barrier and turned away.


    As he made his way down the wing of the academy, another window opened of its own accord and a reedy voice whistled out to the passerby. ¡°In here, Silven.¡±


    The warrior looked blankly at the extended hand poking through the opening and took it without a further thought. His thoughts had become fuzzy with frustration, and in his disturbed state he could pay little heed to danger.


    The study he found himself in was similar to Grennel¡¯s, but far cosier. There were plush leather chairs and soft rugs, warm paintings of farms and crystal decanters of alcohol on shiny tables. The man who greeted him was more welcoming too. Tall, confident and less fussy than his counterpart a few windows down, and offering Silven a glass to top it off. Silven grinned and took a gulp of the burning liqueur.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The man held out a hand and shook the limp wrist of his visitor. ¡°You look tired. You should get some rest. May I recommend the Flutterby Club in Solmond? An exquisite spot for revivification of body and spirit.¡± Silven nodded absent-mindedly. He was still fumbling for a solution to Grennel¡¯s barrier.


    The smart gentleman guided Silven to a chair and took one opposite him. ¡°I haven¡¯t yet had the pleasure of meeting you in person. Sir Edmund Elsenberg, at your service.¡±


    The gentleman shrank back in his chair as Silven let out a hearty bellow of laughter. ¡°Hahaha. Either your theory is somehow true, or you¡¯re a master eavesdropper. Out with it! Which will it be?¡±


    Elsenberg cleared his throat. ¡°I¡¯m assuming someone has mentioned me, or my work. And so, yes, here I am. One minute I¡¯m relaxing in my townhouse on Royal Street, and next I¡¯m summoned here. It happens to all the quest-givers. I¡¯m trying to unify my work with fast travel mechanics as we speak.¡±


    Silven came round to full attention. It seemed that Grennel was right to dismiss his points after all. ¡°Well, good luck with that. And what do you mean, quest-giver?¡±


    Elsenberg took an elegant sip of his beverage. ¡°It¡¯s an unofficial title from Scroll Thirty Six of the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard of it by now. It means that I have a right to override your current reputation in Desert Marsh whilst you¡¯re in my presence. In other words, I¡¯m not calling the guards to kill you at this present moment.¡±


    Silven clapped his hands slowly. ¡°Well, good for me. I can endure this miserable place even longer.¡±


    The man continued unperturbed. ¡°I only have this right, you will understand, to benefit the town. But my instructions will aid you in your work, rest assured.¡±


    Silven guffawed again. ¡°What work? I¡¯m a nobody. No, I¡¯m worse than that. I¡¯m a bringer of doom and death, a man cursed to leave destruction wherever he may go. So tell me, Sir Helpmeberg, what would you have me do?¡±


    Elsenberg smiled bitterly. ¡°I¡¯m looking for a man of your ilk, and pardon the vulgarity of such a judgement. That was why I was summoned. I do indeed want you to bring doom and death... to those who deserve it. Think about it. Warlord Wallace, and Zolar Ceneron, brought to their end. The north-west could be united again under its king. You get promoted to Friendly in Desert Marsh, at the very least. Trade flows freely again. The militias assemble under their local leaders. And at long last, the king can march on the greater dangers of the south-east: The Black Shadow and all his servants.¡±


    Silven rose from his seat suddenly, blind rage threatening to burst from deep within. ¡°That¡¯s all I hear, wherever I go! Destroy, kill, slaughter! I¡¯m tired of being a pawn in this game. I¡¯m a free man, and I want a different life. Yes, I took up this sword, but there was no room with a parchment and quill. I¡¯m going to do it. Right, I¡¯m off to become a scholar myself, and work my way to.... whatever my associates can help me with. Keep your quests for a true warrior!¡± He slid his glass down the table and put one leg out of the window.


    Elsenberg approached calmly from behind. ¡°Never burn your bridges, friend. I don¡¯t know why, but I have a feeling only you can unite the kingdom. There¡¯s just something about you. So I¡¯ll tell you. Wallace¡¯s men use the password ¡®Wallace Rules¡¯ to enter their fortress. Imaginative, I know. And there¡¯s a portal to penetrate Greenholme¡¯s magic barricade in the basement of Ridgecomb Manor.¡±


    Silven was out the window by the time the scholar finished. He looked back in amusement. ¡°And how would you know this?¡±


    Elsenberg shook his head. ¡°I had a long-winded explanation of each ready at hand, but I¡¯m afraid you skipped the dialogue. We can start again if you like?¡± He extended a hand. ¡°In here, Silven.¡±


    The hero scowled. ¡°Bugger off.¡± But it was he who buggered off instead.

 Recap: Part 1

    Recap: Part 1


    The story begins as all classic games should(n''t): with the main character waking up in a prison, with no memory of who they are are or why they''re there. This time it''s Silven (though he''s a woman called Sylvia right now) and the guards are on their way to hang him (her). However, the escape is suspiciously easy, with big glowing bricks pointing to a secret tunnel, and the guards somehow unable to reach him in time or pursue him down the ladder he finds. A maddeningly cliche voice tells him that his destiny requires him to travel to somewhere called Three Toes Tavern.


    Silven finds himself in a beetle-infested cavern and much repetitive fighting ensues. Silven survives by trapping the beetles on a path so they have to fight him one at a time. However, a seemingly invincible boss beetle almost ends the story right there (unfortunately not) until a group of mice save him with the miraculous healing power of a bite of apple.


    The mice hint at many other adventurers before him, a past before the prison and some sort of levelling system before offering him a choice of three paths through life. All involving lots of blood of course. Sylvia chooses the sword and shield of a warrior before confirming her identity as a male Silven. He ascends a ladder out of the cavern where a strange jump in time occurs, and he finds himself in the outside world.


    The surface is no more welcoming. Silven fights his way through packs of wolves before bumping into a merchant named Olgred on the forest path. He asks for directions to the tavern and the capital and is told that that''s not how things work in the kingdom of Oldeburgh. He''ll have to work his way round half the bloody landscape first before coming to anywhere vaguely useful to him. Silven learns about Olgred''s fast travel map, which has to have been somewhere once before it can teleport its owner there. Silven begins to realise his mind somehow works differently to anyone he will meet. He points out Olgred could make ready-made fast travel maps by taking copies with him on a tour of the kingdom. He is promised half the profit from this venture before taking Olgred''s own map and disappearing. It is the first encounter in what will become a firm friendship between the pair.


    Silven briefly visits the capital, Solmond City, and sees he is bound by a system of quests which will restrict his movements. He goes instead to a pleasant northern village called Gigglewick, where he is introduced to the civil war which plagues the land by an old man named Folborn. Gigglewick appears to be a hub of good folk from which he can work.


    Of course, that means it has to be destroyed. A group of horsemen called the Terrorknights of the Black Shadow descend on the village and ransack it. They are looking for a woman named Sylvia and do not recognise Silven in his current form. Guilt-ridden by the understanding he has caused Gigglewick to be destroyed, he charges at the attackers'' leader before being saved by the old man. Folborn dies for his actions, and Silven saves himself as the old man wanted. Perhaps Folborn saw something in Silven that was worth scarificing himself for...


    The next day, Silven is harassed by talking mice and the voice in the air. He is essentially told the destruction of the village was part of his development and he must level up and hasten to the Three Toes Tavern. He ignores these influences and returns to Gigglewick to attempt to pay the survivors back for what he has allowed to happen to their home.


    Even after its ransacking, Gigglewick appears to still form some sort of quest hub for Silven. He is tasked with collecting turnips from a nearby farm and is angry to discover the workers there will do anything but actually harvest their crop. It''s almost like everyone is just standing around waiting for an aimless adventurer to do all the work. After bringing home a feast of turnip (yum!) he is quickly sent to collect weapons from an abandoned outpost to help the survivors defend themselves.


    In Snake Hill Outpost, Silven quickly discovers two limitations of his world. One is a benefit: he exploits the non-stacking nature of the poisons of two different types of spiders to survive their attacks and clear the area of enemies. The other is not quite so good. To his dismay, he finds that his fast travel map will not allow him to teleport all the weapons he finds back to Gigglewick. The overencumbered adventurer sets off on foot... slowly. The journey takes him a week.


    Back at the slowly recovering village, he is horrified to find that the quests will keep coming from the quite frankly lazy residents. His next quest... to pass a mug of water to the butcher. He begins to fully appreciate that he will have to do everything here, and his guilt gives way to annoyance. He asks for somewhere where people actually do things and whisks away to the town of Desert Marsh to the south.


    There''s no such thing as simply walking into a town. There''s drama everywhere in Oldeburgh. As he approaches Desert Marsh, a group of powerful cultists besieging the town attack him. He escapes and is thankful to find another limitation of this world: his enemies'' detection skills... aren''t exactly good. After slipping through the cultists as they search fruitlessly for him, he throws a rock into a nearby gorge and his foes plop off the edge one by one, like lemmings, to their deaths.


    At first, the people of Desert Marsh welcome Silven as a hero. He has just saved the science-loving town from religious fanatics, after all. But they soon turn cold. Desert Marsh is its own faction, under the rules of a ridiculously long reputation system, and all newcomers are set to unfriendly.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Silven soon thinks he has found a way to win them over. Or rather, a way has found him. There has been a murder of a council member just outside the inn he is visiting. And, just like his escape from prison, the path to success is bafflingly obvious.


    Silven follows a trail of bright red paint left by the murderer to Silicarco Academy, the town''s centre of learning. He lockpicks a window to Professor Grennel''s room, who all but admits he is indeed the murderer. He is intrigued to hear that Grennel''s research is directed towards discovering ways the world works outside of the laws of normal science. It ties in with a lot of what Silven has suspected, and he tries to enter the room to hear the professor''s side of the story. However, the open window is barred by a mysterious force that will only allow entry if Silven can provide some sort of new evidence to contribute to the project. His efforts, however, are in vain.


    A group of guards conveniently show up, only to arrest Silven. Apparently lockpicking is a bit more serious than murder, and also guards can see through buildings. He is sentenced to a horrifying two days in prison. Silven surrenders.


    Back at the inn after his imprisonment, Silven is visited by yet another of those pesky mice. The mouse pressures him into levelling up again, and he gains a powerful sword ability. The mouse mentions that someone called Ashleigh (obviously someone special like Silven) used this in Rockborough Cathedral just before her death. More on that later.


    The ability is bad luck for Silven too. He tests it on a table and the town guards show up out of thin air again to kill him for destruction of property. This time, he''s had enough of Desert Marsh, and he flees.


    What follows for Silven is a decision that will shape the rest of his life, and the whole world around him. He rejects the quest that the mice, Terrorknights and voice clearly want him to start at the Three Toes Tavern in favour of finding out something to help Professor Grennel''s research. He is increasingly aware that things are not as they seem in this land, and he wants to get to the bottom of it. To progress, though, he needs to find evidence of something odd to unlock access to Grennel''s room.


    With no better direction to take, he sets out on some side-quests he finds in the village of Thornyhedge. He is growing more powerful in battle, and uses his perception of the environment to his advantage in order to trap his enemies, but all his quests have a rather dark ending. He is successful with nothing. The people he is supposed to find are dead before he can rescue them. Frustrated, he selects a simple apple-harvesting quest to take his mind off his failure and the world turns against him once more, to force him into another doomed rescue mission in an ancient temple somehow hidden below the orchard. He begins to question if, like his arrival in Gigglewick, he is causing death and destruction by his mere presence, and that dark night of the soul, he vows to never agree to help anyone again.


    Silven is still determined to find something out for Grennel. He just has to do it without getting any innocents involved. Another opportunity comes when he finds a dead wizard with a sealed box by the side of the road. The box can only be opened if pressed against the wood of a certain type of magic tree. Guided once more by a creature intent on making everything easier (a bat this time, not a mouse) he fights his way through an old library. He learns of a bandit leader, Steelhead Harry, connected to the unlocking of the box. Just outside, he finds out about a quarry where the bandits live via a couple of peasants who appear to be rather obviously reciting lines to guide him on.


    The quarry isn''t where it is supposed to be (rather important later) but when he finds it, he is dismayed to find no magic tree. The bandits are there, though, and after a hard fight, Silven defeats Steelhead Harry by allowing him to exhaust himself with pointless area-of-effect showstoppers. In the quarry, Silven learns about a hermit he must rescue to discover where the tree lies. That takes him on a rather silly, convoluted tour of the northern parts of the kingdom, slaughtering whole hosts of zombies, fairies and orcs on his way to the rescue. The hermit reveals the location of the treee to be the very same quarry where he started. And lo and behold, this time, when he returns, the tree is there. So is Steelhead Harry and his bandits, who have mysteriously reset. Silven has no appetite for more death. He leaves the bandits to enjoy the contents of the box ( a pretty cool cloak dye) and sneaks back to Desert Marsh.


    This time, Silven is sure that he has evidence for Grennel that will reveal the professsor''s secrets to him. How can a tree just appear as soon as he is told to seek it in a certain place? Unfortunately, Grennel is not surprised. He explains this is an example of Elsenberg''s purpose principle, where objectives will only appear once Silven is directed to them. In his explanation, he seems to reveal that Silven is a ''fulcrum'', increasing Silven''s suspicions that the world seems to be all a playground for his actions.


    Still he has no evidence to discover more. He stomps away from Grennel''s room, only to be ushered in through a different window. Elsenberg appears to have been summoned at the mention of his name. He explicitly refers to himself as a quest-giver, implying he only exists to provide tasks for Silven. Silven is bitter about the prospect. He is tired of the doom and death he seems to take with him wherever he goes.


    When asked what he intends Silven to do, Elsenberg instructs him to put an end to the two groups of rebels terrorising the north: Warlord Wallace, the bandit who imprisoned ''Sylvia'', and Zolar Ceneron, the witch who has captured the city of Greenholme. Elsenberg inexplicably also has passwords and secret entry points to the rebel strongholds, to aid Silven in his quest.


    Silven, however, is not convinced. No more bloodshed, he decides. He will lay down his sword and become a scholar to discover a secret for Grennel and gain better understanding of the world and the powers that control it. He refuses the quest and begins his new life.


    That life, however, would be rather boring, and I don''t think it is a spoiler to inform you that that is not how things end...

 2.1 The Path Narrows

    Part 2


    Wherein a Spanner is produced and enters The Works, and the pace begins to peter out. Who is this Peter for which this decline is named? His parents must be disappointed in him.


    <hr>


    2.1 The Path Narrows


    Silven read through the pamphlet for the sixth time, looking for something he had missed. The ¡®book¡¯ was the History of Oldeburgh Volume VI by Gertrude Flobbertob. It was quite a monotonous read. In its eight pages, it discussed only the past conquests of the eastern moorlands by doomtoads and the numerous ways put forward to be rid of them. It didn¡¯t really feel like a comprehensive part of an encyclopaedia at all.


    Worse still, it was the only volume of said encyclopaedia in the city hall. There was a cooking booklet on the shelf over, but that only concerned itself with how to make a damage resistance potion from the intestinal slime of a Greater Blood Bat. And that was a good example of the tone of every old tome Silven had uncovered. Death and guts. It was surprising Oldeburgh had lasted for six volumes¡¯ worth of history if this was its entire attitude to foreign policy.


    Silven descended from the open upper floor and back into the smartly-decorated foyer. It was always the same stuff, he had noticed. There appeared to be exactly four types of wall hangings in the kingdom. He stayed clear of the heavy vases in the corners. They burst open at the slightest touch to reveal improbable mountains of coins at their base. The residents of the houses he had visited didn¡¯t even blink an eye, but he cleared up his mess all the same.


    He nodded to the doorman as he left. ¡°Thank you, kind sir. I¡¯ll continue my research elsewhere.¡±


    The servant scowled. ¡°Can¡¯t you see I¡¯m busy? I can¡¯t talk right now.¡±


    Silven looked the motionless man up and down. Then he decided it wasn¡¯t worth the argument and exited into the cobbled square at the centre of Rockborough.


    That was another thing he¡¯d tell Grennel. There was always a slight delay between opening the door and seeing what was on the other side. Almost like the feeling you get when you wake up knowing you¡¯ve been asleep for a long time. Sensing rather than observing. He added it to his notescroll and approached the intricate spires and statues of the cathedral across the plaza.


    Inside, he was surprised to find not an open expanse of benches and candles and mosaics, but a simple narrow corridor with dozens of doors leading off to each side. There were twenty or so people standing around a map propped up to the side of the entrance, and dozens more queuing by certain doors along the passage. Every second or so, someone entered or left a side room and let a brief snippet of chanting or eerie music escape into the crowds. The resulting remix would not be a hit.


    A loud announcer was calling something up ahead. Silven made it to the centre of the corridor and beheld a bald man in long black robes addressing the crowd. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Rockborough Cathedral. Please find gods, goddesses, and deities beginning with letters A to K on the left, and L to Z on the right. Minor spirits, genies and ancestors can be consulted on the next floor, reached by the spiral stairs at the end of the corridor. Proceed up to the third floor for conferences and ritual rooms. If you are in need of further help, kindly wander around mindlessly until you find what you¡¯re looking for.¡±


    Silven warily drew closer. Before he could speak, the man turned and locked eyes with his visitor. ¡°Greetings, wanderer. I am Filas, the caretaker of this fine cathedral. How would you like me to help you, in an ideal world?¡±


    Silven hesitated. ¡°Do you happen to know of a woman named Ashleigh? I¡¯m afraid she suffered a terrible accident here. Must have caused you a bit of bother.¡±


    Filas turned away, his face blank. ¡°I¡¯ve heard strange noises under the cathedral of late. I hope the garfools haven¡¯t found a way in.¡±


    Silven pressed on. ¡°There was extensive damage to the floor, I believe. And what¡¯s this about noises? Is she still... down there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard rumours of rebellion in the capital itself. Oldeburgh is done for,¡± said Filas.


    ¡°May I examine the cathedral?¡±


    ¡°The Count of Rosenheim is recruiting adventurers for a clear-out of his haunted villa,¡± came the reply.


    Silven gave up and recorded his findings. The world was full of life, but dig under the surface, and everyone just hurried him along. Something wasn¡¯t right, and Grennel would be telling him about it one day if it was the last thing he did.


    He left Filas and proceeded down the corridor, head bent, poring the ground for signs of Ashleigh. The crowds muttered and parted as the outsider shuffled about his business. The warrior caught snippets of conversation from the worshippers as he passed: lists of daily blessings, the cool new gods on the block, and Aunt Phyllis¡¯ obsession with Great Great Great Great Grandad¡¯s cooking boost. He recalled a book from somewhere in the middle of his last few days of research, a book pertaining to the religions of the kingdom. At one point, only the mysterious force known as The Light was revered in Oldeburgh. He mentioned this fact to a passing maiden and almost got spat on for his troubles as she burst out laughing. ¡°The Light is powerful, yes, but even the oldest gods can only grant one aura a day. Pick and mix, pick and mix, darling.¡±


    There was no sign of any disturbance underfoot, so Silven dodged past the Kimble and Zardle queues at the end of the corridor and climbed the steps to the next floor. It was a fool¡¯s errand, he knew, but something about the way the mouse brushed Ashleigh under the carpet had captured his imagination.


    The next level was quieter, but its flooring was just as intact as downstairs. Silven interviewed a priest emerging from a prayer room and was rewarded with seventeen identical recommendations for a barber in the town square. He curled his fists and clopped off up onto the next floor.


    There was a single occupant of the third corridor. He was clad all in black, other than the gleaming white of a polished hollowed out skull perched on his head. Silven called out a nervous greeting. The man responded by drawing a glowing green knife and charging him with a bloodcurdling shriek of rage.


    The assailant covered the distance in less than a second. Silven gasped, drew his sword and tried to block the worst thrusts of the evil weapon. The attacker grunted and kicked the warrior hard in the stomach. Silven hurtled back into a heavy wooden door, which splintered like a matchbox at his contact. The cloaked men and women inside cried out in alarm and dropped to their knees as one, covering their heads with shaking hands. ¡°Get out, you fools!¡± managed Silven as he slid backwards into an oak desk. ¡°Argh!¡± shouted the closest man. He tiptoed a few steps and sank back down as the skull-helmed man pounced.


    By the time Silven got to his feet, the ceaseless knife had poked at his skin dozens of times. Yet, it was only once he had arisen that the knife struck home and glowing spirals swirled around his legs. The assassin hopped backwards and circled his foe with a demonic cackle. Silven swung his sword uselessly as the man darted here and there amongst the innocent witnesses huddled on the floor. He was lightning fast. Silven tried to take a step and the magical spirals coiled tightly at his knees. He hadn¡¯t waddled like this since the blockage at Snailwick cesspit a month ago.


    ¡°Get out!¡± he repeated as the assassin danced among the room¡¯s quaking inhabitants. He shoved a screaming girl towards the doorway as his enemy struck again. He groaned as blood spurted over the floorboards, and swung his sword at the spot where the man had been moments before. Another searing pain radiated from his legs as the knife cut in from behind. His mind turned to mush as he tottered for the corridor. He was out of practice, and, if he didn¡¯t make it out, he would never practice anything again.


    His failing ears picked up the rapid pattering of feet behind him, and he wriggled around, sword pointed far ahead in defence. The assassin grunted as he bounced off the blade. And then, he leant back dramatically on one foot like a ballerina, his hands in the air, his raised foot slowly inching to the floor. Silven fought the shining coils and stretched his sword as far as he could. The tip touched the attacker again, and he moved back to resume his pose.


    Silven¡¯s wounded leg threatened to give beneath him, but he struggled through the pain and edged forward. A few pricks more, and he had pushed back the budding gymnast to the far wall. ¡°Die!¡± cursed the face beneath the skull, and wrestled his foot to the floor at last. But Silven was ready. His weapon struck home again, and the man¡¯s back struck the wooden panelling. There was a crack, and the assassin toppled into nothingness. Silven instinctively reached out, but he was too late. His clutching fingers tore a shred from the black cloak as the man plunged. There was a sickening moment of silence, an equally sickening clatter, and then the screams rang out as something gave a raspy cry and advanced on its meal.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Potential massacre averted guys. Please resume your seats.¡± The presenter waved from the front of the room. The scholars, or guild members, or cultists, or whatever generic group they were, rose and silently took their places as if nothing had ever happened. Silven grunted. Not a single word of thanks, but it was what he had come to expect.


    A clatter echoed from the corridor, and a portly armoured chap clumsily bustled in. He raised his pike and looked for danger. ¡°I came... as soon as I was...allowed,¡± he panted. Then he noticed the hole in the wall and inspected the dark drop beyond.


    Silven was shaken, but slowly regaining his vigour. ¡°What¡¯s your name? Assassino El Murderata the Second?¡±


    The man narrowed his eyes. ¡°Errr... Guard, actually.¡±


    Silven rolled his eyes. ¡°Like so many others. If only you did your job once in a while. That man could have killed me. Me, an innocent researcher!¡±


    Guard looked Silven up and down suspiciously. ¡°That was a Master of Deathness. And that means two things. Firstly, when they¡¯re sent on a mission, they teleport automatically to the Most Convenient Location. Or so my brother Mage told me. And second, they don¡¯t target just anyone. Only important folk. You got anything from him?¡±


    Silven shook his head. ¡°I tried to stop him falling. I needed answers. But I only managed a piece of cloak.¡±


    Guard trembled with excitement. ¡°Aha! We¡¯re taking them down this time! Let me see!¡± He grabbed the cloth from Silven¡¯s hand and turned it over in his fat fingers. His face fell. ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Silven said.


    ¡°They¡¯re protected under the king¡¯s law as an Ancient Evil Faction. But only if they guarantee exact details of their secret motivations to survivors. I thought he¡¯d failed that part. But then I noticed the stitching.¡± He passed the material back to Silven.


    The victim squinted and struggled through the tiny pattern. ¡°Your orders are to kill Silven, Defender of Gigglewick, Liberator of Desert Marsh, Dead Body Finder Extraordinaire. He can¡¯t be allowed to get to Three Toes Tavern and fulfil his destiny. Because that would totally save the world, and he¡¯s the only one who can do it. So really don¡¯t let him get there. Because that would make him a rich and powerful hero, and a purposeless wanderer like him wouldn¡¯t want that, would he? So you¡¯re doing him a favour, really. If you should fail, you need to make sure that you¡¯ve planned for your fellow masters to ambush him in increasingly large numbers in increasingly awkward places, with increasingly badass weapons. So, if he lives, the masters¡¯ orders are to continue trying to stop him reaching the Three Toes Tavern, an easy walk down the great big comfy road out of Rockborough, first fork on the left. It¡¯s his destiny, remember!¡± Silven paused for breath. ¡°Dursook in a dandelion, how did they fit all that in?¡±


    Guard nodded smugly. ¡°So, you¡¯re not an ¡®innocent researcher¡¯ after all, eh? Defender, liberator... big words for one weedy guy.¡±


    ¡°Hey! I¡¯ve retired, actually. I used to be strong!¡± Silven protested. He looked around, trying to change the subject. ¡°What is that big drop anyway? It saved my life, and I need to know who I¡¯m thanking in my dreams.¡±


    Guard held up a finger. ¡°Ahhhh, a good question. See how the room¡¯s walls don¡¯t reach the main stone? It¡¯s a defence mechanism. Adventurer¡¯s chutes, the architects call ¡®em. Easy access to the catacombs, to clear out baddies.¡±


    Silven looked on in horror. He knew what Guard¡¯s next words would be, but he was too late to stop him.


    ¡°Speaking of adventurers... now you¡¯re here, you may as well be useful. The cursed garfools have broken in. At least it¡¯s a bit of variety. Last infestation of them was a few weeks back now. Usually just plain old ghosts or zombies. I¡¯ll give you twenty coppers. Or, perhaps you¡¯d like to discuss a Friends of the Cathedral Protection Plan with Filas.¡±


    Silven closed his eyes in anguish. He¡¯d wanted to avoid this. He¡¯d done well to keep out of trouble these past couple of months, but here he was back to the awkwardness. ¡°What did I say? Retired! I don¡¯t do this stuff any more.¡±


    ¡°Oh, go on! Just once!¡± screamed Guard, grabbing Silven by his threadbare collar and throwing him towards the chute. Silven clutched at the edge and sprinted for the doorway. ¡°What? Are you crazy?¡±


    The Guard smiled. ¡°Oh, of course, sorry. You¡¯re right. It¡¯ll be easier from the ground floor.¡±


    Silven ran for his life. He descended the stairs, pushed worshippers out of his way and scrambled for the entrance. ¡°Control your staff!¡± he roared at Filas on his way.


    ¡°But if you help us reach our stretch goal, you¡¯ll get a sticker of your favourite god next time you¡¯re in!¡± called Filas, holding out a donations cup.


    Silven left the plaza far quicker than he had arrived. It was then that the full weight of what had happened hit him, and he lent against a pub, gasping in the evening air like a drowning fish. His path was narrowing. The destination he had rebelled against closed in on one side, death awaited on the other. The note he had read only strengthened his conviction that he was a potential pawn in some greater scheme, one he was not eager to join. Someone, or something, was drawing him to his starting position, using whichever evil bands of ne¡¯er-do-wells they could find. And if he didn¡¯t comply, he would be crushed altogether.


    Suddenly, everyone was a potential foe. The curious eyes of an old hag became the gaze of a lurking assassin, the distant clip-clop of hooves the flanking manoeuvres of cunning knights. He had a good idea who to blame. ¡°Never!¡± he screamed at the sky, his eyes bulging, and he fled down the street.


    * * *


    Desperately, Silven unleashed his every observation and theory on Grennel. It was not enough. Silicarco Academy had been around a pretty long time, and in that time the twin wings of Earth and Magical Sciences had explained away most of what went on in the world. Even the experience fanfare, which was clearly a resonation between the sudden outburst of electrical stimulation in the brain and the lattice of Laurence nebulae in the upper magisphere. That one had been a collaborative effort.


    Silven shook with hopelessness, with rage, with fear. He finished with the seeming disappearance of all knowledge of Ashleigh, but even he knew it was a false hope. Grennel told him the very thing he dreaded.


    ¡°That¡¯s not science at all. That¡¯s just pure nonsense.¡± He giggled impulsively and sealed his lips. ¡°I ¨C I mean, those mice are genuinely weird, but it¡¯s just, well, gossip. It¡¯s over, Silven. Go and slay dragons or whatever you¡¯re really supposed to be up to these days.¡±


    The floodgates opened. Silven dropped to the ground by the window and let it all out. ¡°It¡¯s just... I feel like everything¡¯s fake. No matter what I try, I¡¯m steered in the same direction. I wanted a peaceful life, and I¡¯m driven to kill. I wanted to see the world, to discover something rather than destroy, and I¡¯m being forced at knifepoint to the one place I don¡¯t want to go. It¡¯s like everyone¡¯s acting, like the universe revolves around me. I need help, Grennel. I think you¡¯re the only one who can understand.¡±


    The mild professor had lifted a hand to close the curtains, but it dropped involuntarily to his side. He stared at Silven, his eyes gleaming, and drew in a shuddering breath. ¡°I know,¡± he mumbled through gritted teeth. ¡°I understand better than you think. But you don¡¯t understand me. I don¡¯t just want new knowledge. I need it. We need it. Now I¡¯ve said too much again. I advise you go before we¡¯re both destroyed.¡± And he snapped the cloth into place.


    Silven wept by the window until he heard a rustling in the moss beyond the railing. He leapt up and drew his sword. ¡°Come out, and fight like a man!¡± But it couldn¡¯t, because it was only a bird. Silven shivered and marched away. He needed a drink or twenty. And, assassins be damned, he was going for them now. Just not at Three Toes.


    He came to half-consciousness the following afternoon, against a polished stone in a hamlet he had never seen before, in a woodland full of strange trees. The light was filtered by the fern-like fronds spiralling out from their branches, but it was still strong enough to set Silven¡¯s head ablaze with agony. He had no recollection of how he ended up here, but the taste of ale on his lips suggested the reason for his memory loss. He found himself oddly unmurdered by the forces conspiring against him, and found himself oddly indifferent to that realisation.


    He groaned and shimmied to his feet. The world tumbled around him. He tried to focus his eyes, doubled over, and retched until the fourteen pints reappeared at his feet. With the inevitable unpleasantness over and done with, his head, though fuzzy to say the least, felt clearer than it had in days.


    First things first, he wanted to know where he had ended up. It made no real difference, when he had the whole kingdom at his fingertips, but it could hopefully give him some sort of inspiration to guide his way before his enemies caught up.


    He shambled over to the closest building, which was no more than a clay mound covering the top part of a circular hollow in the earth. Next to the dwelling there was a little wooden pedestal. On top of the pedestal there was a letter.


    On the letter was his name.


    Slowly, numbly, he tore open the envelope and read.

 2.2 Tea For Two

    2.2 Tea For Two


    The silence of another misty morning on Stonepeak was broken by the sudden pop of Silven¡¯s arrival. He looked around and headed straight for the shabby wooden shacks of the village. He reached out and grabbed the first curious hunter who came to the door with his crossbow. ¡°Where¡¯s the visitors?¡± he puffed into the frosty air.


    ¡°Stonepeak!¡± growled the man, wrestling for control of his weapon.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t I already there?¡± managed Silven, wrestling for control of himself.


    The men looked at each other and relaxed. ¡°Nay. Stonepeak was a proud town. Stonepeak was our grandfathers¡¯ legacy,¡± exclaimed the peasant. ¡°This is Shitpeak.¡±


    Silven cursed and searched his map. The peasant shook his head. ¡°Won¡¯t find it on maps any more. It¡¯s been lost to history.¡±


    Silven was growing desperate. ¡°But where? Someone there has something long owed to me. And I need it now.¡±


    The peasant pointed further up the grassy hillside. ¡°A little way up yet. Nice place. Cosy stone houses. Posh mansion. Lots of working fireplaces. Everyone¡¯s treasure lying around in big chests. Cauldron safety certificate still current. It was abandoned years ago.¡±


    Silven thanked the man, started up the slope, and turned. ¡°Just what am I getting myself into, exactly? Why does no-one live there now?¡±


    The hunter shrugged. ¡°The earthworms ruined it. Big as your finger they are, these days. But we have to move on, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Silven paused, frowned, and continued the ascent.


    Soon, he reached the broad curve of a corrie and beheld a majestic ring of sturdy buildings around a beautiful inner lake. If Oldeburgh didn¡¯t have a tourist board, it was time they got their act together. Slowly, he paced up the cracked street, wary of the known and unknown alike. He knew what his vow had been, and he would insist on standing by it. This was for his benefit, and his benefit alone.


    ¡°Silven!¡± hissed a window off to the right. The warrior hurried up and the oaken door swung open at his approach. There before him stood a familiar man. A young man, in slightly less yellowed robes this time. He hesitated at the doorway and reluctantly accepted a hearty embrace from the merchant. ¡°Olgred! You villain! Where¡¯s my money?¡±


    Olgred winced and looked around the edge of the corrie. ¡°Shhhhh! Inside, now!¡± He dragged his guest into the comfy interior of the abode, and handed him a weighty satchel. ¡°It¡¯s all here for you. Fifty-nine silvers apiece. Alder be praised, it worked!¡±


    ¡°And the time?¡± insisted Silven, folding his arms sternly.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t leave me your cursed name! Here I was, roaming the kingdom, asking if anyone had seen a man with a sword. That was all I knew about you. And then rumours came in about those Izrin blokes being seen off. It seemed like the sort of thing a bright spark like you would conjure up, and my luck was running out, so I took a chance and wrote to you.¡±


    ¡°And how did you know I¡¯d be in that little place?¡±


    Olgred laughed and took two cups from a marble counter. ¡°What, you don¡¯t know our mail system? All magic, my friend! Just write the name, and it¡¯ll be wherever that person happens to be until they open it. Simple really. Why couldn¡¯t you have just been a bit more nosy? I¡¯ve been hiding out here for weeks! Oh, and I¡¯ve put the kettle on. Bramble tea?¡±


    Silven sighed. ¡°With pleasure.¡± He took a seat at the round table, and looked out over the quiet street. ¡°So, you¡¯ve ruffled a few feathers, it seems?¡±


    Olgred pointed a finger and grimaced. ¡°No, we did. But it¡¯ll be worth it. That¡¯s if we escape with our lives. Which is something merchants challenging the Zapco Cartel have yet to achieve. But we¡¯ve been the first for readymade maps, and we can be the first again!¡±


    Silven watched smoke billow from the kettle on the stove, and snapped back to reality with his decision. ¡°Okay, I¡¯m going to go. I had the idea, you¡¯ve done the work, and that¡¯s it. You need to disappear for a while. Our fast-travel won¡¯t work if the scouts are nearby. If you wait for nightfall and take the-¡±


    A piercing shriek drowned out his words. It was the high, sing-song warble of a very happy kettle. ¡°Tea for two! Tea for twooooooooooooo!¡± it whistled across the mountain. Olgred swore and swept the tin from the flame. It clanked along the floor and splattered boiling water across the merchant¡¯s feet. ¡°Jumping jackalkin!¡± he squealed, dancing about the room. ¡°Too busy talking to you! I picked up the wrong one! The singing one!¡±


    Silven was at the window in an instant. He ignored the curses and scanned the depression with worried eyes. That sound had reverberated through the enclosed village like the striking of a drum. And if this was supposed to be the domain of worms, the angered businessmen would think of one thing...


    As in a nightmare, the thing happened as soon as he thought it. The not¡ªquite-song of a not-quite-bird. The wave of a gloved hand. The creeping of a dozen hooded men along the far end of the lake. ¡°Get out of here,¡± whispered Silven to the target. ¡°Leave by the back door, and then we split. Divide the hunters.¡±


    Olgred slumped on the table and put his head in his hands. ¡°It¡¯s over. I¡¯ll never make it. I can only dawdle along at an infuriating pace, like any merchant worth his gold.¡±


    Silven nodded sympathetically. ¡°Oh well. Nice doing business. I may as well make use of your half too.¡±


    Olgred looked up, alarmed. ¡°What do you mean? I was just getting round to the way out.¡±


    Silven glanced over at the advancing mercenaries. More and more seemed to be crawling out of the woodwork. He considered running, and brushed the thought aside, disgusted. He had tried to fight it, but deep down, he was warming to this Olgred chap. ¡°Go on, but make it quick.¡±


    ¡°I need you to accept me as an eternal companion, pledged to serve you in any way I can, a faithful and loyal friend to the end of your quest,¡± replied the man without missing a beat.


    Silven groaned. He hadn¡¯t warmed to him all that much. Olgred went on. ¡°Now we¡¯ve developed a bond forged through our mutual struggle, our travel becomes linked. You make it out, and you can summon me away.¡±


    Silven laughed. ¡°Struggle? Profit, more like. But if that¡¯s the best you¡¯ve got....¡± He scowled. ¡°Go on then. Companion away.¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Olgred beamed and puffed out his chest. ¡°Thank you....master. Now quick. Escape for us both!¡±


    ¡°Okay, but less of the master. And this is only to save your skin, you hear me?¡± Silven drew his sword and ran for the door. He was rather surprised to see Olgred already in front, hovering nervously on the threshold.¡±What are you doing? Out of my way, then!¡± He stepped left. Olgred hopped to his right. He stepped right. Olgred followed. ¡°What the snuk?¡± Silven roared.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying, master!¡± squealed Olgred, floundering against the frame. Outside, all pretences of birds were up. The eager cries of the mercenaries grew closer, drawn by the argument within. Silven shoved Olgred hard in the ribs. The panicked man gasped yet stood rigid in his place, eyes shining with pain.


    ¡°Wait!¡± Silven instructed, and sprinted for the opposite door opening out towards the lake. Olgred barged past and froze gaping at the approaching figures. ¡°I said wait!¡± roared his partner at his neck. ¡°Sorry,¡± squeaked the merchant.


    Silven tried to push past again, brushed against Olgred¡¯s arm, and gave up. The man was like a stone obelisk, staring stupidly outwards at the exit. He was not to be roused, and not to be bypassed. The warrior gritted his teeth and snarled in his companion¡¯s ear. ¡°You see those men? They¡¯ve got one purpose. To murder you. And they won¡¯t rest ¡®til they do it. And you know what you can do to stop them? Just step out of my bloody way!¡± He sensed something white bobbing in the distance, squinted, and groaned. It wasn¡¯t a Master of Deathness, like he¡¯d first thought. It was two. ¡°Okay, they¡¯re gonna murder us.¡± He looked round and noted a smart wooden staircase at the far corner of the room. ¡°Go up there and hide.¡±


    Olgred burst into hearty laughter. ¡°Honestly? Oh, if only there was an actual way. You know, like a staircase or something.¡± Silven held his head in his hands and scrambled for the window. He covered his eyes as the pane shattered inwards and an eager sabre lashed out at his heart. He drew his sword, held it in the air as bloody blows rained down on him, and power-blasted his foes away. He lifted one leg through the broken opening. Then, he saw the seventeen other thugs trotting up to the house and decided otherwise. ¡°Find something to fight with!¡± he screamed at Olgred.


    The merchant beamed, scooped a hand beneath a cushion on the nearest chair, and drew up a child¡¯s doll. ¡°Here we are. We could sell this for about ten copper. Good value to weight ratio,¡± he replied dreamily.


    Silven rounded the room in a few long strides. ¡°Damn, we¡¯re surrounded,¡± he growled, and rushed forward to meet a man coming through the lakeside door. His blade missed and he caught the wretch a dizzying blow with the pommel of his sword. ¡°Hehe,¡± the man laughed, and swayed in the entrance as his fellows scurried behind him.¡±Hmm, there¡¯s an idea,¡± muttered Silven. He dealt similar blows to the men crossing the windows and other door, and rounded furiously on the merchant, who was practising his epic fencing skills with a candlestick. ¡°It¡¯ll do. But now, for the love of the million gods, let¡¯s find a way out. We¡¯ve got little time.¡±


    As the ambushers thrashed at their stunned companions, Silven turned the room upside down. ¡°Aha!¡± he screeched triumphantly as he flung back the rug under the table to reveal a small trapdoor. At long last, he was beginning to get the hang of this place. There was always a secret passage where the seemingly innocent resident could store his ancestor¡¯s treasures or conduct a summoning or hide a body. And luckily, this was unlocked.


    ¡°Arrrrgh!¡± boomed a hideous voice from outside. Then came the deafening rumble as the outer wall crumbled into a thousand pieces. In its place stood the two Masters, cruel maces in hand. ¡°Now!¡± screamed Silven, ushering his ¡®friend¡¯ towards the descent.


    ¡°Oh good, I¡¯ve always wanted to try out my aggressive side!¡± quipped Olgred. And then, he hefted his candlestick and waddled towards the waiting assassins. In any other situation, he would have looked adorable.


    ¡°Noooooo!¡± shouted Silven as the blows rained down on the merchant. He almost rose from the tunnel to charge his enemies, but then, the stunned thugs suddenly shook themselves and crowded into the house, baying for blood. As Olgred crumpled to the ground, still swinging the candlestick, Silven came to his senses and dived for cover, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. He clawed his way beyond the reach of grasping hands and pounded thoughtlessly down the stone passage. There was a chest full of something shiny in the room at the end, but Silven didn¡¯t care. He drew out the FTS and flapped wearily at the parchment with his finger.


    He found himself in the grey and sorrowful landscape of Snake Hill Outpost. A bitter wind pulled at his rags and stung his wounds, but he felt nothing. In his mind¡¯s eye, he watched as the body dropped to the floor once more. Watched as the dripping maces were raised once more to ¨C


    ¡°Bravo,¡± said Olgred at his side. He clapped his hands slowly and hopped back in surprise as Silven bolted up and stared wordlessly into his eyes. Then, the warrior shook his head and drew the merchant close in a mighty bear-hug. ¡°But.... how?¡± Silven managed. He looked down at Olgred¡¯s unscathed body in wonder.


    Olgred wriggled free. ¡°What did I tell you? If you made it, I¡¯d make it. Which you did, in the nick of time, I may add. Good job you had the Fast Travel Supreme, with its itsy-bitsy enemy proximity threshold.¡±


    Silven rubbed at his eyes impulsively and held out the map. ¡°It¡¯s yours. Take it. I¡¯m sorry I stole it like that.¡±


    Olgred moved back, alarmed. ¡°But... master. What¡¯s yours is yours, and what¡¯s mine is yours,¡± he intoned with wide eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll carry it, if you like, but...¡±


    Silven smiled and withdrew his offer. ¡°You¡¯re really taking this seriously, aren¡¯t you? Well, I¡¯ll hang onto it, then. But, I just want to say, I¡¯m glad you made it. Like, really glad.¡±


    Olgred suddenly brightened. ¡°Backrub, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    Olgred¡¯s face fell. ¡°I.... I don¡¯t know where that came from. Master, I must apologise-¡±


    Silven eyed his companion suspiciously. ¡°Never mind. But we never speak of that again. Understand?¡±


    Together, the pair stared out at the dreary scrub as the sun descended beneath the distant hills. Silven thought about his narrowing path, but now, it seemed less glum. He had found a hidden fork, it seemed, one that got wider and wider the further he trod into its future. He was fitting the pieces together, pieces of maps and pieces of money, and he liked the picture they made very much. If it all worked out, perhaps he¡¯d have a way out of his mess after all.


    He turned to Olgred, smiled, and lifted his tinkling satchel. ¡°I think we have a few professional points to discuss. But before all that-¡±


    ¡°Yes, master?¡± urged Olgred eagerly.


    ¡°We have a couple of other matters at hand,¡± continued Silven with a silencing glare. ¡°First off...¡±


    They checked in at Stonepeak, and found it had already reverted to its silent beauty. Then, they paid a visit to its less polite counterpart.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m Mayor Shit, what business you ¡®ave in my town?¡± grunted the portly sausage the loitering peasants led them to in order to deliver their news.


    Silven did his best to look serious. The horrendous stench in this largest of hovels did its best to help. ¡°I¡¯ve come with glad tidings, Mister Mayor. The worms shan¡¯t trouble your people any more. Go together up the mountain, and reclaim your heritage. Reclaim Stonepeak.¡±


    The mayor narrowed his already tiny eyes. He put down his pork chop, an action that meant very big business in Shitpeak. ¡°Yeah? Says you?¡±


    ¡°I..... am an adventurer,¡± declared Silven with twinkling eyes.


    The Mayor¡¯s ample jaw plopped open. Then, with a mighty heave, he wobbled to his feet. He looked expressionlessly at the peasants crowding his home and issued forth a jet of gravy with a roar of laughter. ¡°Well, ¡®ere we are! We¡¯re saved! And by a real life adventurerer. Why, we can be one of the cool towns again! Cheers, mister-¡± But when he turned, Silven and his companion had vanished into thin air. ¡°Oh, well. Light up the fires. Get a letter to the tourist board. We¡¯re on the map again!¡±


    In the bustling approach to the gates of Solmond City, Olgred was already asking his question. ¡°What¡¯s the second thing?¡± He cried out in pain as Silven clipped him forcefully on the ear. ¡°That¡¯s for the escape. It¡¯s a desk job for you, as soon as we have one. Let¡¯s go.¡±

 2.3 Hells Headquarters

    2.3 Hell''s Headquarters


    With the unfortunate Count Steinbrook¡¯s letter at last located in a trouser leg, the pair were past the disappointed guards and into the city. Silven had never seen such opulence on his travels. An inner moat hosted flocks of golden waterfowl against the wall; the street on which they walked was studded with polished quartz; and the smart houses and shops lining it were decorated with elaborate lead windows depicting scenes of gardens and waterfalls in bright coloured glass. There was also a filthy drunkard squatting to dispose of solid waste right in the middle of it all, but even the finest of cities have their underbelly.


    Silven waved his letter in the air and was pleased to see the roof of an elegant townhouse a couple of streets over turn bright gold. Not that anyone else seemed to notice. Inside, he relayed the sad final moments of the count to his weeping family. Just when Silven had reached that awkward moment when he really wasn¡¯t sure if it was worse to stand there all day or slip out, desperately studying the tearful faces for signs they actually remembered he was still present, wondering whether to unleash that tickle in his throat in all his hereness or quell its rudeness, agonising over the great hand on shoulder or respectable distance debate, his widow looked up. She turned to the others. ¡°I think it¡¯s time. We must pass on our secret to the would-be rescuer.¡±


    Silven drew back. ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°Would-be rescuing.¡± She rose, and as she did, her finely-dressed relatives followed suit. With silent nods of agreement, they tied back their hair and fanned about the sitting room. They peeked out the windows and drew the curtains. They barred the doors. They muffled the chimney with a blanket. And then, they drew up into formation and danced.


    Silven and Olgred watched in astonishment as their hosts drew their right arm in and out, shook a hand in the air, turned as one and stuck up their left thumb. And, like that, it was over. ¡°There,¡± puffed the countess, perching politely on a stool as if nothing had ever happened. Silven opened his mouth, but nothing came out. ¡°My husband¡¯s secret gesture. A token of gratitude. Long may it serve you.¡±


    ¡°But... whatever can he use it for?¡± gasped Olgred.


    ¡°My lady,¡± added Silven with a stern glance at his partner.


    The widow wiped at her eyes and managed a smile. ¡°To look uber cool. My husband crafted it in the Jungle War of 1444 to save his men. The savages just joined in, and a new dance craze was born. It¡¯s died out now, but anyone worth knowing will acknowledge your alliances.¡±


    Silven struggled to find a suitable answer. ¡°Ahem... errr.... well many thanks, Countess Steinbrook. I shall treasure the choreography forever... in my mind.¡±


    The pair took their leave and rushed out into the street. The countess bustled out inches behind, clutching a glorious velvet-lined slipper. ¡°And one last thing. I must also present this. Take it. It¡¯s part of a perfectly chic little outfit split between the counts. This gives a little extra speed to your blade. Help the others, collect the full set, and you¡¯ll get 10% off all pasties from Bob¡¯s bakery down the road. Lamb and mint is always best.¡± She patted Silven and waddled away to weep.


    Olgred waited for Silven to move and lost patience. ¡°Go on then. On it goes.¡±


    ¡°What? It¡¯s purple, man! I¡¯ll look like a jester. Even with the other one.¡±


    Olgred waggled a finger in the warrior¡¯s face. ¡°You¡¯ve been wearing those rags at least since I saw you last. You look like you¡¯ve come straight out of a prison. Not befitting of your new career. And there¡¯ll be lots of danger here too. Business is cutthroat in Solmond.¡±


    Reluctantly, Silven followed the advice. It was a comfortable slipper, it was true, and, as the pair walked off towards the market, he was surprised to see not one person so much as batting an eyelid at his crazy attire.


    Silven had ideas, but little confidence of where to start. However, his path became clear. Solmond City had very interesting economics to say the least. Combining the contents of the pair¡¯s satchels, he summed up his choices after a full circle of the shops, booths and boutiques crowding the lavish city square. ¡°So, Olgred, it appears we are in a truly outrageous part of the country. Today, we may purchase two tubs of wild hog stew, a cart wheel, three quivers of ¡®True Shot¡¯ arrows, or a fully furnished mansion in the picturesque hamlet of Overwall, just, err, over the city wall. It comes with an indoor swimming pool, steam-heated flooring, three bedrooms and a disconcerting glowing green portal in a secret chamber off the living room that has a habit of belching out all manner of grotesque demons every Wednesday. All for the bargain price of one gold and ten silver.¡±


    Olgred grew pale. ¡°You¡¯re still not thinking about it, are you? It all sounds very nice, but there are, you know.... the neighbours?¡±


    Silven laughed. ¡°Ha! You call yourself an entrepreneur? See here.¡± He pointed to his list. ¡°We... well, I... could fight my way to that portal in minutes. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a big glowing red off switch on the side that needs a whiff of Aunt Margaret¡¯s legendary goblin pie to finish the job; I know how this works. But, see the price of these stun traps? For a few coppers, we line them up every Tuesday night, rush in the next morning, and roll them into the furnace room. Then they can unleash all the angry fireballs they like onto the piping. That¡¯s a ninety-two percent drop in expenditure on the average coal contract for Overwall; I checked with the agent.¡±


    Olgred¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°There¡¯s something about you, mast-, I mean, Silven. You¡¯re just too clever.¡± He sighed. ¡°Okay, to the gates of hell. Literally.¡±


    The mansion was just the right size for the headquarters of a newly established company. Now, the real work could begin. Silven was delighted to discover the magic cupboard into which he could place a single saucepan and pull out twenty feet of copper piping a second later. By the following month, the straggling row of cottages that called itself Overwall was cooking on demon fire. A season or two later, half of the city put up with the slight overtone of sulphur and rotting hell-goo for discount baths. Thus, Fireline was born.


    The money rolled in, and Silven made sure it rolled straight back out. First on his list was protection from the assassins that forever haunted his troubled mind. In his scholarly days, he had read all there was to know about the powers of the common capital guard. By sponsoring the extension of Solmond City¡¯s patrols into Overwall, therefore, he ensured any old oaf he deemed incapable of producing irksome questions magically gained several stone of muscle over brutes he may have hired directly. All the better to keep honest lonely travellers at bay, he thought bitterly, but he himself couldn¡¯t complain. The remade walking towers of destruction cut through his foes like butter before they had any real time to gather strength of numbers. He was safe enough, but he was trapped. At least it was an indoor swimming pool.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    That, however, was not the only line of defence; something else needed to be kept at bay. He hadn¡¯t seen them since he had first unsuccessfully tried to hang up his sword. And yet, Silven still found himself glancing under his cushioned bed, fingering the skirting boards for signs of nibbles. As soon as the assassins were under control, he sent a guard out to the city to round up as many stray cats as he could find. ¡°For the cursed mice,¡± he explained, eyeing the cellar floorboards as the ravenous felines were unleashed. Olgred, in turn, eyed his master. ¡°The ones in the hats,¡± added Silven. It didn¡¯t help.


    Fireline soon reached maximum income. There was, after all, limits even to hell¡¯s fury. Silven sat through languorous days and pondered. He sent for the notorious Seven-Tonne Tome of Silicarco and all its retinue, and at bloody great cost to the tiles in the halls, as Olgred elaborated. After three long days, the pulley men had found the geology section and Silven ordered a full ream of paper to catalogue the rocks of central Oldeburgh. Meanwhile, Olgred ordered a straitjacket and got ready to pounce.


    After a full week of tea and snail egg dinners, Silven arrived at his breakthrough. He handed Olgred a small metallic ball and announced, ¡°We¡¯re opening a quarry on the eastern Limetop Hills.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m opening a bottle of that Old Cow rum. You look exhausted, master,¡± fussed Olgred. ¡°And that will cost a lot of money, you know.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± scoffed Silven, wiping away smears of something unsavoury from his wrinkled shirt. He had bought some nice smart I-mean-business sort of attire a while back, but that didn¡¯t mean he was going to look after it. ¡°Not with my new magnet.¡±


    Olgred¡¯s astonishment at getting away with a bit of adoration for Master was gone. ¡°A... magnet? That little ball?¡±


    Silven waved away the question distractedly as he ordered a barbecue gargoyle sandwich from a passing servant. ¡°No, that¡¯s the end product, silly. The magnet¡¯s just a block of polarised earth, like the rest of it. Position it carefully upside-down with a steady crane and we can repel the surface cubes straight out of the ground. Just like that.¡±


    ¡°Have you thought of taking up writing, master?¡± replied Olgred as he poured the beverage. ¡°You know, if you get into some sort of shapeshifting dragon fetish, we¡¯re made for life. They lap that up in the capital.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not making it up, Olgy. You know, I¡¯m actually starting to believe in some sort of...creator.¡± He looked around anxiously for his Desert Marsh visitors. ¡°Everything¡¯s interconnected. I¡¯ve deduced the structure of the earth just now, but think about what you already know. The fast travel system. The mail system. Something¡¯s jumping from one seemingly unrelated place to another.¡±


    Olgred drained his glass. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the Elsenberg principle. Someone needs something, and it happens.¡±


    ¡°Did someone call for me?¡± asked Sir Edmund, suddenly sitting in the chair in the corner.


    ¡°No,¡± Silven lied.


    ¡°Okay then,¡± replied Elsenberg, and disappeared back to his bed far away.


    ¡°As I was saying,¡± continued Silven, ¡°The same should go for everything. It¡¯s just that we¡¯ve only found the most obvious examples. But imagine the possibilities.... like speech!¡± He handed his companion the little ball. ¡°Put that in your ear. That¡¯s Expertminerium, a rather rare metal. The best for amplifying sound.¡±


    Olgred placed it in his ear as instructed and shrieked. ¡°I heard..... my mother. She said she¡¯s planning on throwing out my Trolls and Travellers collection. The wench!¡±


    ¡°Now, now. That¡¯s no way to talk about your family. And besides, you should have taken them ages ago. Anyway, that was a fortunate coincidence. That¡¯s happening right now. The signal was there all along; we just needed help to listen.¡±


    Olgred threw up his hands and emptied the bottle of dark rum into his crotch. ¡°That¡¯s...oh, bother... amazing! Instant messaging!¡±


    ¡°Good name, we¡¯ll keep that. Now clean yourself up. It¡¯s time for a meeting,¡± snapped Silven.


    But Olgred was deep in thought. ¡°I see how it works. It¡¯s just that.... where¡¯s the limits? I mean, not everything can be linked like that. I can¡¯t think about Rosa from the apple stall and find her in my bed.¡± He blushed and suddenly smiled. ¡°Or can I?¡±


    Silven ignored the example. He frowned. ¡°I don¡¯t know. If the principle holds, if the signal is found.... is there anything stopping us? Some greater power? Or are our dreams at our fingertips?¡± He shook himself free of the philosophical tangle. ¡°Enough of that. Time for work.¡±


    Olgred couldn¡¯t help but feel a tad dismayed when he arrived at the meeting to find his pursuers seated at his breakfast table. Also, he felt a bit terrified, too. Yet, he needn¡¯t have worried. It was here and now that Silven learned a great deal about the finesse of the financial dance. An intricate layout of the benefits of a buyout of Zapco did nothing. ¡®We¡¯ve got loads more dosh than you and we¡¯ll use it all to cave your ugly mugs in¡¯, however, was just what the cartel leaders needed to hear. That day, the communication wizardry company Silverlink was born, Zapco¡¯s employees straight on staff, and all before lunchtime to top it all off.


    Olgred rejoiced at his newfound freedom. Silven smiled sadly and watched at the window as he danced off into the city.


    The top Zapco nerds were shipped in to newly-constructed cottages along the single street of Overwall, and Silven engaged them to refine his instant messaging service. By altering the final shape and texture of the Expertminerium ear plugs, Silverline could offer filtered communication for the discerning customer. No-one wanted to be walking down the road listening to their wife cackling about his pimpled buttocks to her whole sewing class on a Sunday afternoon.


    A month or two after that first test, the instant messaging service was rolled out to the people, and the life of the everyday citizen changed forever. Olgred took up that long-promised desk job to direct his network of map staff. Silven discovered all the joys and health benefits of the braised gargoyle sandwich whilst tying up major structural work on his ever expanding gold warehouses.


    They lived happily ever after. The end.


    Not quite.

 2.4 Things Go Swimmingly

    2.4 Things Go Swimmingly


    It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a rising company in possession of a good fortune must be in want of complaints. Well, maybe not, but it is a poetic way to open a chapter.


    It was Fireline that took the merciless bludgeoning of the partisan masses. With instant messaging beginning to breach the ever-shrinking expanses of Oldeburgh, Silven and his assistants found themselves not in want of complaints, but rather in want of power for their Expertminerium smelters in the new industrial town of Limetop. Every week, more and more demons were shipped off for boilers new from their Overwall portal. This was all, of course, quite undisruptive until the otherworld threshold decided to spew forth little evil polar bears in curious red hats for Slaughterday. This was apparently an annual event, theorised to have been arranged by marketing conspirators to draw new heroes to the kingdom¡¯s shops. Silven, who still had no recollection of his days as Sylvia, was not amused.


    Neither were the people of Solmond City. Temperatures of bathwater plummeted by an entire degree, the greatest outrage in the capital since Gorzug the Interloper razed the whole lot back in the barbarian days. 72% of the entire customer base would later report they would have taken to the streets in protest, had they been able to reasonably wash a smock in which to actually protest in. Thus, the complaints naturally took care of themselves. It did, however, take Silven himself to put the cherry on the cake.


    Two weeks and three days after the big freeze, Silven put in his plugs, gathered his staff in the public relations cottage, and nodded reluctantly. Someone nearby muttered something under their breath, and a vibration buzzed through Silven¡¯s ears.


    ¡°Hello, Silven. This is Fango Kulpie, IM editor of the Solmond Soundsystem.¡± Silven gave a grunt of affirmation. The voice came in quickly and firmly once more. ¡°Just remember you¡¯re on two-groove. I¡¯ve got three hundred listeners here. They can hear every word.¡±


    Silven laughed. ¡°Well then. That makes all the difference. ¡±


    Fango spluttered. ¡°Errrr.... nice to be speaking to you. I think. Let¡¯s get started; I¡¯ve got to be over to the Rockborough Battle of the Choirs in four minutes. We all know the story behind Bathgate. What we need to know now is.... why the Bluebay stunt? A bitter retort at the complaints? An arrogant dream to rise above the laws of physics?¡±


    Something lit up in Silven. It was time to take matters into his own hands.


    ¡°Neither. Sorry about all that. We¡¯ll get back on track, once this silly festival¡¯s over. And by the way, if you used the all-new Silverview 2 with rapid response soft-press parchment technology, you¡¯d be over at your next meeting in two and a half minutes. It¡¯s by some good company called Silverlink. If only we could be like them. Fare thee well!¡±


    He pulled out his plugs and cast them across the floor. His team gasped and scrambled after the earpieces. ¡°Quick! Get back on!¡± they cried like so many babbling geese. One familiar voice rose above the rest, full of genuine concern. ¡°What¡¯s going on, master?¡± warbled Olgred desperately.


    All at once, Silven had had enough. ¡°Alsen, get over to that horrible little office and sort this out.¡±


    The blob in the corner raised a fist and groaned. ¡°Oh, come on boss. My fingers don¡¯t work on this twenty inch map. What if I miss? I might have to use me legs!¡± Silven glared. His minion blinked away.


    He left his clamouring underlings to pick up the pieces, literally and figuratively, and ushered his business partner out of the room. He spoke quickly and to the point. ¡°Okay, remember how we had that little game set up for the Financial Explorer¡¯s Guild Awards next Friday?¡±


    Olgred trembled, visibly distressed. ¡°I was going to claim for Silverlink, you for Fireline. We were going to pretend to get obnoxiously drunk and cause a scene in the foyer about who employed the most gremlins.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Silven chuckled. ¡°Only the first part my friend. The next was just a prediction.¡±


    Olgred swept his master out onto the street, into the designers¡¯ private tavern, and over to the nearest booth. ¡°Come on, what of it? Your eccentricities scare me.¡±


    ¡°Well, if we¡¯re calling them eccentricities, we¡¯ve made the big time. A year ago, you¡¯d say I was a raving madman. I have to amuse myself some way, you know, being cooped up in this little village with nothing but drivelling directors for company. The point being, anyway, that no-one realises we¡¯re working together. I¡¯m always here; they hardly know I exist. And I wanted to keep it that way in case something happened like this. So, you¡¯re going to absorb Fireline and press on with the launch of the shared butler service and the map advisor. I¡¯m going for a little walk.¡±


    Olgred opened his mouth but said nothing. A bartender handed them each a tankard of ale, nodded politely, and went on his way. Silven carried on.


    ¡°I started these companies to escape my fate. To stay away from that cursed tavern and that eerie voice and those pushy mice.¡± Olgred nodded enthusiastically, pretending to listen to the crazy mouse man for the hundredth time. ¡°Now, however, I¡¯ve reached an unhappy normality. When we made our first profit, we were doing just enough to get by. It kept me busy, gave me purpose, no more. Recently though, I¡¯m getting too involved with people again. I could have killed hundreds at Bluebay.¡±


    Olgred sniggered. ¡°What?¡± snapped his friend. ¡°Aren¡¯t you listening?¡±


    The merchant¡¯s smile dropped in an instant. ¡°You really couldn¡¯t have. No-one would be that stupid, begging your pardon. To actually try touching the water, I mean.¡±


    Silven sunk his head into his hands and wiped at his eyes in frustration. ¡°But, but- it¡¯s only water, for Ugwin¡¯s sake! Fireline gets a bad reputation, and I try and get things going again with a few free swimming lessons for the kids. There¡¯s the link with control of water; I even had the perfect tagline lined up. Something about not letting your sprog get in hot water, wasn¡¯t it? I just don¡¯t understand!¡±


    Olgred placed a hand gently on Silven¡¯s shoulder. His words were slow and soft. ¡°You poor sod. They really did knock you senseless in that jail, didn¡¯t they? It¡¯s seared into every human being¡¯s brain. Water is death!¡±


    Silven pulled away and shook his head. ¡°No, it¡¯s not. We need it to survive. We drink it every day. We willingly crawl into bathtubs every month. We¡¯ve had seaside towns for centuries. Why would they build on rivers if it was so bad? And I can see it! Almost..... people.... swimming!¡±


    Olgred¡¯s face screwed up once more. The corners shook with mirth. ¡°Like.... a duck?¡± he managed.


    Silven flung back his chair and stood, eyes blazing. ¡°It¡¯s not funny. I don¡¯t care how many people you¡¯ve seen crumble to dust dipping their toes in the Freeflow. I know it can be done!¡± He slammed back the door and stormed off into the night.


    Long ago, under the windmill of Thornyhedge, he had decided to seek out the true meaning of his life. He had been forced to reject that route, but over the past year, he had forged an alternative. Silverlink was changing life as the citizens of Oldeburgh knew it. People had information at their ear-lobes. They could talk to friends half the kingdom away, or go on holiday at the touch of a finger. When Silven decided to sell his secret spy-pieces to the king, his company stopped the revolution in Solmond and saved countless lives. It was paving the way for fresh guilds, taking beggars off the streets and paying for bread on everyone¡¯s tables. Olgred even swore he had seen a slice of cake in Grimy Alley. Silven recognised that it was no coincidence that he had brought about most of this change; he had a way of looking at the world that no-one else he associated with came close to matching. The incident, however, had reminded him that there was another side of the coin, an uneasy sense of not belonging, and that it was more curse than blessing.


    And then, Fango had asked that snide question. It had brought forth an echo of a conversation, about Rosa from the apple stall, and testing the limits of the Elsenberg principle. Perhaps he could transcend the laws of the world. Every time he tried to push his dreams directly, he forged death and drama and doom. But maybe he was being too tentative. What if he pushed beyond?


    He willed an end to this suffering. Perhaps, if he marched on, reality would adjust for good.

 2.5 Freedom, A Short-Lived Excuse For

    2.5 Freedom, A Short-Lived Excuse For


    With an expert flick of a finger, Silven arrived at the edge of Solmond market at ten o¡¯clock the next morning. The brand new Silverview 2 map at his side had eradicated the need for all those extra seconds fumbling for an alarm clock, not to mention the considerable trek from the gate into the trade district.


    There, he made a quick visit to Meany Sod¡¯s barber shop. With a few angry snips of his scissors, the grumpy hairdresser transformed Silven¡¯s boring mousey short back and sides into a fabulous cascade of golden locks. The chairman finished his disguise with a rustle in his jacket and a trip to the mayoral office with his mint Jar of Naming. It was a shame to lose it from his exquisite collection, but at least whatever invisible aura which gave his name away to strangers on the street would now radiate Gary waves in their direction. He knew he didn¡¯t have much time; the forces pushing him towards his original fate had obviously worked out his last transformation long ago. But at least it would get him going on his self-made quest.


    Another zap. Silven wafted his way through billowing clouds of smoke and into the circle of workshops at the heart of the rocky pits of Limetop. Here, he felt more and more encouraged. This settlement was testament to his ability to make his own mark on the world. Soon, if all went well, a new factory would mush that stupid alehouse deep into the ground.


    He made complicated and agonisingly dull arrangements with his top staff, looked out into the grey, depthless sky, and walked down the gravel path out towards the greener hilltops. He felt free. No board meetings, no croquet thrashings from the Earl of Westfield, no-


    ¡°Where the Gurzelwuck are you?¡± screamed a voice in his ear. Silven winced and shook his head as if trying to get rid of a fly. He cursed himself for his new habit of subconsciously adding an earpiece from his pocket whenever he went out.


    ¡°I told you, I¡¯m just out for a walk,¡± he told Olgred from afar. ¡°Now you do your job, and I¡¯ll do mine.¡±


    ¡°Whatever you¡¯re up to, it¡¯s too dangerous, master,¡± wailed Olgred from far away. ¡°You¡¯ve got the assassins. And then there¡¯s the plague. More and more are succumbing, and there¡¯s no telling where it will strike next.¡±


    ¡°Which means I¡¯m precisely as much at risk from the illness here as I am at home,¡± countered Silven, taking a left fork into a patch of shaded woodland. It was true; reports of a mysterious mind-destroying disease were circulating through the air and via more traditional scrolls, but there was no pattern or flow which could yet be discerned from its victims. A couple of Overwall attendants had gone to bed one day and refused to get back up again (though somehow still complimenting their delicious breakfasts at the sausage stand each morning) but Silven¡¯s establishments were still largely unaffected. Perhaps he would see more of this growing worry on his travels today.


    With the absence of restraint from his businesses, Silven¡¯s mind turned to peace for the first blessed moments in months. There was no need to hurry from place to place with the Silverview. He could simply walk, explore, and observe. He had purposefully avoided bringing his sword ¨C hacking and slashing was for his original incarnation as a warrior. If he wanted to change his destiny, he had to walk his path with confidence.


    And confident he did feel. After his first breakthroughs, he realised the world now appeared completely differently to him. Everything he saw as he wandered from copse to clearing to bracken-carpeted hillside resonated with new meaning. He couldn¡¯t take anything at face value. Instead, his mind bristled with the possibilities of every bird and branch and wall being turned to his advantage in his own private war. It was an insight he was quite sure he wasn¡¯t supposed to be privy to. His mind darkened at the thought.


    Soon, however, the newfound clarity of his being bore fruit. Another fork, and an old withered woman on the doorstep of a battered, roofless cottage. ¡°Greetings, Gary,¡± she warbled in high, baleful tones. ¡°Help out a poor old hag caught up in the battles of the young ¡®uns. I need herbs for my cough syrup. Chop chop!¡±


    Silven smiled through the demands. ¡°And what is it you seek, my lady?¡±


    The elder was taken aback by his politeness. ¡°Errr.... why, three bunches of blue kingsleaf, and five sprigs of red honeyflower should do the trick.¡± To Silven¡¯s detached mind, it all seemed too rehearsed, too precise. He thought back to the old quarry and that strange tree. He was certain that somewhere nearby, these colourful flowers had suddenly burst into visibility.


    He mumbled his goodbyes and rustled off the path and down onto a fern-covered bank. ¡°Welcome to Shaded Slope!¡± tweeted a bird cheerfully as it soared past. The flowers, of course, blazed out of the foliage in an unmistakable glow. He reached down to pick a blue petal, and shambled up the closest sapling as a bear appeared from behind a daisy and lunged for his throat. He cast away a small blue stone as far as he could, and the ravenous beast suddenly lurched away into the woods. Frowning, he returned to the undergrowth, surveyed the scene, and stooped to pluck a blinding crimson flower from behind a tree stump. ¡°Rurrrrrgh!¡± groaned a heap of moss by his side. Or rather, ¡°Rurrrgh!¡± went the little glowing evil pixie thing that now occupied the spot. Silven booted it away before it could cast a spell from its crackling fingertips. He quickly gathered the rest of the ingredients as all manner of beasts grabbed at his arms. He batted them away and searched for more. He was quite sure he had seen another clump just up that bank.... but they no longer appeared to him. He counted his prizes, and suddenly understood why.


    He walked briskly away from the growling fiends which suddenly clamoured for his attention, and veered onto a path which lead in the opposite direction to the waiting woman. He pressed a finger to his ear. ¡°Olgred, I¡¯m making for the village of Notcannibalsberg just outside Limetop. No, don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ve heard they¡¯re far less bloated and sluggish on the mycoprotein men from that cave. Just make sure the supply never runs out for their plumber¡¯s sake. Anyway, send someone over. You¡¯ll find a bouquet of flowers on the sign by the butcher¡¯s cottage. Take as many cuttings as you can; we shan¡¯t be finding more. I¡¯ll be having a meeting with the general sooner or later. Roll these up into bottles, and I think we might have alternate ammunition for the king¡¯s catapults. One with a pretty mean surprise for anyone who steps on it.¡±


    He deposited his items at the collection point and rubbed his hands eagerly. It was good to have another source of income, certainly, and he¡¯d only thought the obvious. If he could work out what tethered which animal to those plants, there were all sorts of opportunities. But what really mattered now was that that crone hadn¡¯t got her hands on them. That was what they wanted.


    He pressed on through the huddle of buildings and on into a mossy ravine. ¡°Yoohoo! Mossy Ravine awaits!¡± chirped a squirrel from its perch. Silven rolled his eyes. Did anyone have any imagination around here?


    He rounded a corner and bumped belly-first into the back of a man. That man was rather busy knocking the teeth from the mouth of a terrified little sod he had raised from the ground by his neck. ¡°Stop that!¡± roared Silven, tapping the aggressor smartly on his exposed shoulder. The man rudely ignored him, and took the opportunity to fling his victim roughly into a heap of squelching red mush just beyond, in the centre of a ring of weathered stalagmites neatly marking out the borders of a smart little arena. All around its edge, warriors and robed wizards jeered and swore and shook their fists angrily at the bruised man as he writhed in the gore.


    The bare-chested warrior in front of Silven took four long strides and hauled the defeated man to his feet. ¡°Go on then, ninja!¡± he spat. ¡°See what you¡¯ve got.¡± The man, who Silven now perceived to be no more than four foot tall and clad beard to toe in shredded leather armour, glanced balefully at his attacker and plunged his arm deep into the pile. Silven¡¯s eyes widened as he made out a shattered bone poking from the top. It was obviously the remains of a mighty creature.


    To his amazement, the little man withdrew something curved and shiny from deep within the bubbling intestines. He stared in joy, and then, suddenly afraid, up into the eyes of the glowering warrior by his side. The warrior frowned. ¡°Oh right. A Gleaming Breastplate of Glorious Hackening. Adds to the strength of greataxes bigger than your entire body. No good for a rogue like you.¡±


    Finally, the little man opened his bloodied mouth. ¡°Bin¡¯ ye mardle towdy! Ar brentit first, oanshach. It¡¯ll kop ma haggis!¡± He hopped back out of the warrior¡¯s clutches and scampered up a narrow path cut out of the stone on the opposite side of the arena, the spectators spitting after him as he fled. Silven stepped forward and addressed the furious brute. ¡°What did he say?¡±


    The man clenched a mighty fist on the leather harness supporting his huge serrated blade. Silven took a step back, suddenly conscious of his own lack of armaments, but the man thumped his chest and relaxed. ¡°Who knows, mate. That¡¯s the problem with dwarves. If we could bloody understand them, then we¡¯d have half a chance of working things out.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Silven narrowed his eyes. ¡°A dwarf you say? Where was he from?¡±


    ¡°That one¡¯s a lifelong member of the Noob¡¯s Guild in the grotty parts of the capital. Any of those burblings could be ¡®is name.¡±


    Silven pondered the grunted reply. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen a dwarf; there can¡¯t be many. Isn¡¯t dialect more a product of geographical location, social class and daily interactions than heritage? He¡¯s got to be a spy from some far away land.¡±


    The brute laughed as he poked at the bloody carcass. ¡°Get used to it, mate. He¡¯s a dwarf. He has to sound different.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s what turned him into a rogue like that?¡±


    An angry cry erupted from the onlookers. An outraged looking gentleman in chainmail raised his twin daggers threateningly. ¡°Oi, stranger! I¡¯m sick of this classism. The word ¡®rogue¡¯ has been twisted to mean so many derogatory things. It¡¯s really a choice of fighting style, you see. It doesn¡¯t mean we¡¯re sneaky and manipulative like him. I have three bronze conduct medals from my village schoolhouse, I¡¯ll have you know! The correct label for dwarves like him, as my friend Frank said, is ninja.¡±


    A similarly clad woman with pointy ears nearby chuckled and hopped down off her rocky perch. ¡°Then you¡¯re clearly ignorant of your own vocation, Bolris. We can become ninjas, you know, if we ever see off enough trollspawn to train with Master Rews in the old Moon Temple. It¡¯s called a subclass? It used to be a way of escaping such oppression until the Noob¡¯s Guild gave ninja itself such negative connotations.¡±


    A bearded wizard raised a sleeved arm in protest. ¡°Let¡¯s not get judgemental, people. The term ¡®noob¡¯ originally meant someone new to our adventuring profession. It¡¯s just a group of inexperienced peers looking to help each other out. None, indeed, will fit the true meaning of ninja. You can¡¯t brand them all for the actions of the selfish few.¡±


    His companion rattled a staff eagerly. ¡°I think we¡¯re missing the point. This is a question of race. I submit to you the following for discussion: is the dwarf bound to his rascally path by virtue of being a dwarf, or does he merely react to the constraints forged by our perception of his kind? Neither seems fair.¡±


    A bloodcurdling cry reverberated around the hollow. ¡°Oh, shit! Who¡¯s next?¡± roared Frank, unsheathing his sword. He rolled clumsily out of the way as a hideous wiry beast clawed its way out of a crack in the wall and leapt into battle. ¡°I said, who¡¯s next? First hit needed!¡±


    ¡°Oh, not this again!¡± yelled the wizard. His wand flashed and a shimmering bubble enveloped his body just in time to deflect a razor sharp claw from his heart. ¡°Didn¡¯t we say Bolris was here first?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me, I¡¯ve been here since-¡° The warrior who shouted fell onto his back and shuffled away from the open jaws of the creature. ¡°Oh, come on. Sod the loot, Rillid!¡± yelled Frank, and buried his greatsword to the hilt in the monster¡¯s flesh. Silven edged away and watched as the whole group waded in to finish off their prey. As the creature howled its last, Frank helped the fallen warrior to his feet, and cried out as he took a fist to the jaw. Silven watched quietly as an argument identical to the one around the dwarf erupted. Frank¡¯s sword had made contact first, and obviously, that meant there was no other option than to allow him the entire innards-worth of plunder. He slunk off with his ill-gotten gains, and Bolris chastised Rillid for his opinion that Dorn¡¯s party arrived before Gerit¡¯s. Before long, another clawed monstrosity took them by surprise, and the whole thing started again. Silven stood back and watched again and again as patience wore thin and more hopefuls approached to jostle for position. At long last, as the sun was setting, he tiptoed off to report his findings to Olgy. He had everything worked out.


    ¡°They were all too busy bickering to notice the one minute thirty second gap between death and the appearance of the next creature,¡± he said smugly.


    ¡°You sad man,¡± sighed Olgred.


    Silven was more positive. ¡°But I did. And so, it¡¯s time we dispersed those disorderly mobs for our own gain. World¡¯s got rhythm. A simple hourglass timed to the attacks is all we need. And a chalkboard, of course. Gate up the rather convenient natural entrance. I¡¯m thinking tables, deckchairs, potion bar, armour polishers...... Silverlink Monster Camp is born!¡±


    ¡°The streamlining and commercialisation of the vital centuries-spanning tradition of the deadly boss hunt?¡± cried Olgred. ¡°Hang up your helmet, sit back and enjoy the view and a stew while we engrave rad new tags on your breastplate and teleport you into the fray at the last possible second? I like it!¡±


    ¡°Local leaderboards for most kills! And fastest kills! Pointless tokens for daily challenges to show off to your cronies! We¡¯ll even hire a few mages and throw in a few fireballs and strength boosts if you¡¯re struggling. For a small fee, of course.¡± Silven was skipping along the gorge now, thoroughly carried away with his ploy. ¡°We¡¯ll start in.... oh, what was that mossy ravine called? Ah yes, Mossy Ravine. I want a few people scouting the local taverns for any rumours of amulets pulled from the brains of goblins or... you know, swords in the bellies of crowned serpents coiled on islands in the middle of flaming lava pools at the bottom of the ocean guarded by ancient temple statues of long-gone secret gnome civilisations. Or something like that.¡±


    Olgred chuckled. ¡°Oh, you mean Deeprock Ruins? On it, boss!¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose that cuts out the middle men,¡± muttered Silven cheerfully. He looked upwards in the direction of a sudden pattering sound, straight into the muzzle of a mouse. ¡°I- I¡¯ll call on you later,¡± he mumbled, and swayed to a halt on the narrow path. His eyes never left the mouse. The mouse, perching on the rocky ledge five or so feet above his target, tipped his fedora and waved a tiny paw. ¡°We need to talk,¡± it squeaked. Silven got his feet going again and scrambled onwards. ¡°No, seriously! I want to help. I can help produce a consolidated financial statement for all your new subsidiaries. Fear the taxman!¡± The rodent watched the man disappear up the path. ¡°Oh, well. Fear death instead. But tax is worse.¡±


    Silven panted on. He scuffed his ankles on the rough rocks along his route, but he didn¡¯t care. He had to be rid of his mortal foes. Finally, he reached the end of the gorge and emerged into a meadow of thick, knotted grass. With no hesitation, he plunged headlong into the heart of the jungle and paused to conceal his route. There was no sign of the mouse. He sat heavily and nursed his shredded shin and aching head in equal measure. How could they have found him so quickly? He¡¯d only been gone a few hours, and yet, here he was, on the run again. He puffed out a long, frustrated breath, and pressed a finger to his Silverview.


    ¡°Cannot fast travel when enemies are nearby,¡± it imparted expressionlessly.


    ¡°Piddlykins!¡± Silven cursed. He froze at the sound of approaching hooves. Through the broad blades of grass, he made out a heavily armoured figure riding past on a jet black horse. Something white gleamed at the top of its head. His blood ran cold. A Terrorknight? A Master of Deathness? Who knew. He was, however, quite sure it wasn¡¯t going to offer him tea and crumpets.


    He waited for the adversary to trot off and traversed the meadow as quietly as he could. He rustled to a halt as another dark rider appeared on the horizon. ¡°I¡¯m trapped, Olgy!¡± he hissed. ¡°Anywhere nearby that I¡¯m familiar with? Somewhere I could lose them?¡±


    There was a panicked fluttering of parchment back at HQ. ¡°Err... let¡¯s see.... this tracking thing¡¯s only in prototype, as you well know. Hmmmm. Ah yes. What a coincidence. If you follow the next road leading out of the meadow, you¡¯ll eventually come out around the place I met you for the first time.¡±


    ¡°What, Gigglewick again?¡± Silven replied, easing himself onto his belly as the rider approached.


    ¡°Of course; it¡¯s a regional hub, and therefore any path you take will somehow end back up there.¡±


    ¡°At least I have sort-of friends there. Maybe they¡¯ll manage to hand me a sword whilst they stare at their turnips. Someone mentioned a quarry around there. Perhaps I could devise some sort of trap to delay these troublesome search parties. Why, oh why, can I not have just one day to myself?¡± Olgred was saying something. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I said, there isn¡¯t a quarry anywhere near there. It¡¯s a farming town,¡± Olgred repeated.


    ¡°But I was told there was. Never mind,¡± said Silven, his voice reduced to a whisper. The second soldier, who he was now quite sure was an assassin, was stomping down the hill, prodding its spear into grassy knolls as it went. ¡°I¡¯ll head for the trees over there.¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± Olgred insisted. ¡°What do you know about the quarry?¡±


    ¡°Now¡¯s not the time!¡± breathed Silven. He tensed as the assassin¡¯s spear poked into the soil not two feet from his hiding place.


    ¡°It¡¯s important.¡±


    Silven waited for the man to move on and silently swore as his comrade appeared further up the hill. ¡°Oh, something something, King Vooliwhatsit, sending people over to the forest tribe¡¯s territory looking for work.¡±


    When Olgred replied, his tone was serious and his language clipped. ¡°I know somewhere like that. Way to the south. Who told you? Wait, it wasn¡¯t a man?¡±


    ¡°Who else?¡±


    ¡°Old and wise?¡±


    ¡°And maybe a little crazy. How do you know all this?¡±


    Silven heard the clinking of weapons as they were pulled from his study. ¡°Silven, get to Gigglewick. I¡¯ll meet you there. We have ourselves a lead."

 2.6 Daffodils and Petunias

    2.6 Daffodils and Petunias


    ¡°So, why are we here again?¡±


    Silven regarded the grave at his feet, and then looked back up towards the village at the sudden sounds of alarmed shouting. But it was only two peasants fighting over who had to get up next to stir the pot. Gigglewick still lay in ruins. Silven wondered if he should be sending some carpenters this way to help heal the wounds he had inflicted... or whether the lazy pigs had already got more help than they ever deserved. It was quite the predicament, really.


    Olgred puffed out his cheeks in frustration. ¡°For our fortunes, that¡¯s why. We have mention of a quarry here, so it has to exist. It wouldn¡¯t be mentioned if it wasn¡¯t to be discovered. But it¡¯s a hidden quarry, isn¡¯t it? Only the oldest and craziest remembered it. And that means it¡¯s packed full of treasure, and something else. The last King Vooluk quarry to be found contained... a schematic!¡±


    Silven blinked. Olgred pressed on. ¡°You know, a plan for how to build weapons and armour. Ever see those pointy swords? You know, the really pointy ones? Well, that was from the schematic that Drencit the explorer found about twenty years back.¡±


    Silven took a step back from the grave. ¡°Hold on. In all the centuries of skill passed down from blacksmith to blacksmith, I think we can make whatever we damn want. You¡¯re telling me go in here and we¡¯ll suddenly be hammering away at, oh, I don¡¯t know, knobbly swords?¡±


    Olgred¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°Who knows what shapes can be conjured up from the esoteric masterworks of yore. The Mighty Days of Cleverness is a bygone age, master. We only get stupider as time goes by. It¡¯s common, err, knowledge.¡±


    Wisely, Silven decided to cut the conversation short. ¡°Indeed, some of us do. Come on, let¡¯s do this before someone wanders... never mind. Take your time.¡±


    Olgred clawed at the mound of earth and stood back with a yelp. ¡°It¡¯s like rock, master. We need a shovel.¡±


    Silven scoffed and took over, but, as his companion said, the merest sod refused to budge. He sighed. ¡°This is getting more convoluted by the minute. We¡¯ll pick up a shovel at the farm.¡±


    They had decided to go grave robbing at midnight, so nobody challenged the pair as they climbed up to Layesey Farm. Silven quickly grabbed a hoe and trotted off back to the makeshift graveyard at the edge of the village. The blade buckled beneath the iron soil. He growled with rage and rejoined Olgred at the top of the hill. ¡°When you say a shovel.....¡± Olgred only nodded and moved off between the rows of turnips. ¡°Oh, master, master!¡± came the sudden joyful cry from beyond a small shed.


    Silven stalked over to his kneeling deputy. His patience was growing thin. This seemed far too much like adventuring for his liking. His mood did not improve when he saw Olgred¡¯s hands cupped not around the handle of a tool, but the stem of a cheerful yellow flower. He raised one eyebrow. ¡°A daffodil!¡± cried Olgred, as if that was enough of an explanation. The second eyebrow decided to join the first. ¡°But didn¡¯t you say you¡¯ve been here before?¡± quizzed Olgred.


    Silven deigned to give a single nod. Olgred groaned with despair. ¡°Master, if you want to grow rich and powerful, I advise you start looking out for these-¡± Silven dropped to his knees, shot out a fist and moved to grind the petals into oblivion, but at his first angry touch, the plant vanished in a puff of purple smoke. Olgred clapped and whistled. ¡°Yeah! One down, I take it? Well, I do believe that makes two-hundred and seventeen more daffodils to find. They grow all around the kingdom, sir.¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯ll make me, quote, ¡®rich and powerful¡¯?¡± snapped Silven, curling and uncurling his fists mindlessly.


    Olgred¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°I didn¡¯t say, well, I¡¯ve never really thought, err, they¡¯ve got to, haven¡¯t they? Haven¡¯t they?¡± Silven glared and plunged off into the field.


    Finally, a bona-fide shovel was procured, and the two merchants descended towards their grim destination. ¡°I take it you¡¯ve followed my instructions?¡± said Silven slowly.


    ¡°Oh, yes!¡± squealed Olgred. ¡°Our mages are weaving a solar wave spell as we speak, ready to blast the new advisor and butler to Silverviews across the land. It¡¯s all one update now, though. I¡¯ve taken the cautious decision to go ahead and call it Mapler. It¡¯s the words map and-¡±


    ¡°Yes, I get it,¡± Silven groaned. They walked in silence for a minute. ¡°But drop the ¡®e¡¯. It¡¯s edgy and cool. All the hip updates will be doing that soon.¡±


    The pair tiptoed through the mounds until they reached the plank bearing the name ¡®Folborn¡¯. Olgred got to work, the shovel cutting through the soil like smooth butter. Silven stood and observed the work like the regal god-merchant he had become.


    It took only a minute or so to reveal the coffin. Together, they hauled it out, trying to block out the rattling of bones within. Olgred leapt back into position, dug a few inches more, and hit an impenetrable layer of earth. ¡°Maybe we need that hoe?¡± suggested Silven hopefully, but Olgred shook his head. ¡°No. We¡¯re stuck. I thought this Folborn dude would be buried over the entrance, ready to rise from the grave and defend his secret to the end of time.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Very poetic. But very absurd,¡± retorted Silven, brushing away dark clods from his shirt. ¡°If we need answers, I think we¡¯re looking in the wrong place.¡± He turned his head towards the coffin, his eyes never leaving Olgred. ¡°You open, I¡¯ll cover you.¡± He slid his sword silently from its oiled scabbard.


    Olgred opened his mouth, hesitated, mumbled something, and forced his feet towards the coffin. Before he could change his mind, he heaved open the lid and staggered back as clouds of fetid dust billowed out into the night sky. A spider with too many legs wriggled out and dropped onto his shoe. He whimpered and shook a hand pathetically at the opening. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be such a child,¡± Silven snapped. He edged closer, raising his gleaming weapon above his shoulder. Something clanked as the bones settled. The hoot of an owl rose eerily above him. Deep within the tomb, a dark shred of cloth enveloped most of the remains. Silven covered his nose and slowly drew back the shroud. Beneath, in the collapsed joints of a skeletal hand, there was something wrapped in a square of parchment. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and plucked the note from its deathly prison. He raised his voice above his friend¡¯s gasps and read aloud.


    ¡°If you are reading this, you must be getting bored and want to start a new quest to take your mind off things. You have made the right choice coming here, for there is no goal more perilous than that of the super-secret cult to which I belong. If you wish to know more, just pop on by to my cottage just up the road, first one over the bridge on the left, with all the pretty petunias up front. Help yourself to a pot of tea from the chest in the first cupboard. And, if you¡¯re lucky, I won¡¯t have been dead too long and there¡¯ll still be some unmouldy biscuits in the tin by the fireplace. No, that delicious recipe is even more secret than the cult. PS, if I¡¯m in that horrible period between freshly buried and pure skeleton, apologies for the smell. Folborn.¡± Silven looked at the key in his palm. He squinted through the murk over the river and stared at the first cottage on the left. It only had one wall. ¡°All that for nothing,¡± he sighed. ¡°Come on.¡±


    Out of principle, he marched up to the splintered door lying in the middle of the front room and turned the key in the lock. ¡°There,¡± he proclaimed triumphantly, and ducked beneath a dresser as lazy heads in the refugee camp turned in his direction. He looked around at the chaotic tangle of brickwork and bric-a-brac filling the remains of the building. ¡°So, Olgy. Here we are. On with the ques- on with the R&D.¡±


    Olgred drew his travelling cloak tight about his shoulders and shivered. ¡°Getting a bit chilly, isn¡¯t it? Anyway, let¡¯s get to the secret entrance.¡± He scrabbled around in the wreckage and tapped at the foundations. ¡°Or maybe not. No underground lair. Oh, why has the fireplace collapsed?¡±


    Silven held up one finger. ¡°Aha! Good lad. It¡¯s a puzzle, a real treasure hunt. He mentioned a biscuit tin by the fire. Our answer, or at least another clue, is in there.¡± It took a good ten minutes to sift through the rubble by the ruins of the chimney. By then, the light of dawn glimmered through the bare framework of the single wall. Finally, Olgred unearthed an obnoxiously flowery metal case from beneath the planks of a chest of drawers. He pulled back the lid and retched as the pungent smell of year-old biscuit filled his nostrils. ¡°Fifflenurf in a wheelbarrow! What is that recipe? Is there- is there meat in there? Eurrgh!¡± Silven leant forward and took the tin from his shaking companion. An abhorrent squelchy pale green mush clung to the bottom half of the tin. And beyond that.... nothing. ¡°I think our friend had a little bit of a ¡®biscuit¡¯ habit. You know, not biscuits, ¡®biscuits¡¯.¡± Olgred looked up, his face blank. Silven moved on. ¡°Never mind. The important thing is there¡¯s no clue. And keep your nose out of that tin. I need you vaguely sane for our next board meeting.¡±


    Olgred shook his head violently and stood up, hands on hips. ¡°Hmmm, just thought of something, boss. Wasn¡¯t there a part about tea? Think teapots, tea chests, stoves. That must be the first step.¡±


    Silven winked. ¡°I like it. And then, the next thing will suddenly appear in the middle of that goo. Let¡¯s get to work.¡± That search ended equally as fruitless as the first. The scorched stems of the petunias by the doorstep also proved unable to help, and also a little depressing, if you used them as a representation of the many young lives cut short in the Terrorknight massacre. Olgred was promptly banned from all forms of poetic reflection for the remainder of his employment at Silverlink, and the puzzle went on.


    To be more precise, the puzzle went on for another two hours. It was approaching midnight by the time Silven called a rather huffy halt. He stamped over to a chair and threw himself down, head in hands. Olgred hovered nearby and mopped sweat from his brow silently. ¡°We¡¯ve covered every inch of this hovel,¡± his master snarled from his sulk-spot. ¡°We¡¯ve listed every possible anagram from the message. We¡¯ve counted notches in the key. We¡¯ve followed charades from figures in those child¡¯s drawings pinned up in the pantry. Let¡¯s face it ¨C there¡¯s nothing here.¡±


    Olgred pulled a miserable grimace. ¡°Maybe those knights took the good stuff. They certainly helped themselves to his tea.¡±


    Silven thumped a hand hard against the chair. ¡°Why did he even get himself killed like that? The old man was obviously tangled up in something important. If it was all for me, well, he wasted his time.¡± He stood and kicked back the chair angrily. ¡°What a mess! A total dead end!¡±


    ¡°Steady!¡± Olgred yelled as Silven snatched up a brick from his side.


    ¡°Let¡¯s try again, shall we?¡± Silven roared. He strode over to the remains of the hearth. ¡°We¡¯ll put this over here....¡± He leapt across the room and held up the biscuit tin. ¡°And swap this for the slab of meat in the pantry....¡± He returned a second later with a fistful of withered petunias. ¡°And put these on the counter by the sink. What fun!¡± He pounded over to the remains of a bookshelf and tore at charcoal pages. ¡°And if we¡¯re really daring...¡±


    He jumped back as a sickly green light flashed around the room. Together, the pair stared into the depths of the swirling portal looming over the fireplace.


    ¡°Oh,¡± said Olgred.


    ¡°Ah,¡± said Silven.

 2.7 The Glitch

    2.7 The Glitch


    ¡°Savage beasts? Hordes of treasure?¡± murmured Olgred.


    ¡°Probable death? My favourite!¡± said Silven, and he hopped into the glowing mist.


    There was that unnerving moment of condensed nothingness again, as if minutes had passed in a second. Then, Silven opened his eyes and took in the view. It was not what he was expecting.


    he monsters and gold were conspicuously absent. So were the winding stairs illuminated by impossibly long-lived torches, the cave with dramatic stepping stones across a silent pool, and the crumbling remains of a long-forgotten shrine to a bloodthirsty god. All that could have just to say passed for a buried quarry, Silven supposed, but not the little huddle of cottages on a windswept, desolate plain that greeted him. It all seemed strangely unthreatening.


    ¡°Where is this?¡± he mumbled as Olgred appeared at his side. All around the settlement, the flat grass rolled on and on as far as the eye could see.


    ¡°It must be the Unfinished Plain,¡± replied Olgred, raising his hand to block out the rising sun. ¡°Legend has it that the gods got bored of playing with our ancestors before they ever got round to decorating the eastern borders. A variation assures us that they would have liked to, but they were under pressure from the strict deadlines of the High Creator and decided to cut content. There¡¯s still an underground cult around here that hopes and prays for the day that content is restored. Maybe Folborn had something to do with them.¡± He blinked as a cloaked figure detached from the silhouettes of the village and started towards them.


    They watched in silence as it hobbled on. A minute later, it had left the shadows of the last house. Silven turned uneasily to his companion. ¡°Don¡¯t you just hate these awkward moments when you can see someone from too far away?¡± He stared as the figure took another step. ¡°This is killing me.¡±


    ¡°I concur,¡± agreed Olgred with a frantic nod. ¡°I propose we meet our fate half- err, three-quarters- way.¡±


    Studying the foliage for all they were worth, the travellers approached the approacher. It turned out to be a rather friendly-looking, clean-shaven old man. He looked alarmingly akin to Folborn. ¡°Greetings, Master Olgred. Greetings, Master Gary,¡± he croaked solemnly. Olgred eyed Silven suspiciously. ¡°Why did-¡°


    ¡°-You know our names?¡± interrupted Silven with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.


    The man regarded his visitors with strikingly keen eyes. ¡°We of the fellowship see all, and we can do much to keep the threat at bay. Yet, the world is growing forever darker. You have journeyed to us, and we need your help.¡±


    Silven raised an eyebrow. ¡°What threat? The Terrorknights?¡±


    The man threw back his head and laughed heartily. ¡°I see, Gary, that you are too focused on worldly affairs. The denizens of this existence bicker and squabble over their place and power in trivial things. They care little that the very fabric of that existence is coming apart. They know nothing of the Glitch.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the Glitch?¡± asked Olgred, anxiously scanning the featureless landscape.


    The man grew stern. ¡°It is the force of chaos incarnate, born with the world, destined to destroy it. My brothers and I have kept it at bay for years, but there has been an unexpected turn of fortunes. Now, we are stretched too thin, and the threat continues to grow. Come, fight for your right to exist!¡± The man doubled over in a fit of coughing. ¡°Sorry, out of... breath....¡±


    Silven patted him hard on the back. ¡°You belong to a fellowship? The Fellowship of...?¡±


    ¡°The Glitch,¡± puffed the red-faced elder.


    Silven shrugged. ¡°Makes sense. But I can¡¯t be joining anyway. I¡¯ve got my own concerns.¡±


    The man straightened. ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd. The Fellowship of the Glitch is a non-joinable faction. Our powers are too unique. Once we are gone, we are gone, unless the Creator be willing to replenish our numbers. But, Master Gary, I beg you to continue the journey you have started. You chose to enter the emergency portal. Now fight the Glitch!¡± He turned and shuffled back towards the village. Olgred looked expectantly at his master. Silven shrugged again. ¡°If this is as powerful as he says, it could even affect private sector business,¡± he conceded. ¡°We¡¯ll take a look. But let¡¯s give that buffoon a head start.¡±


    A few minutes later, the pair joined the brother at the edge of the cottages. They drew their swords expectantly, yet all seemed silent. The mysterious man held up a hand in warning. ¡°Prepare. Our foe has possessed the entire population!¡± he whispered. A sudden clatter resounded from across the green. ¡°Restrain! Contain! But do not kill. We may save them yet.¡± Movement in the shadows. ¡°Do you have any questions, kind strangers?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Silven snapped. ¡°What was the bloody solution to Folborn¡¯s riddle? The petunias on the counter? The sodding meat? I can¡¯t concentrate until I know. It didn¡¯t make any sense, for Poggle¡¯s sake!¡±Stolen novel; please report.


    The man glared. ¡°Is this really the time? And no, I can¡¯t give you an answer. There¡¯s whole journals dedicated to things like that back at the cathedral. Portal opening¡¯s so obscure that we can only speculate based on group experience. But general consensus is that it has something to do with melons in passages.¡±


    ¡°The passage no longer existed in Folborn¡¯s cottage,¡± countered Silven. ¡°And there was no sign of melons anywhere.¡±


    The man frowned. ¡°Well, that throws a spanner in the works. Back to the drawing board with that. And now, for us, back to the battle!¡±


    A door across the street rattled open. A sudden sobbing started from the cottage beside them. A woman staggered from the porch and fell headlong into the road. With a cry, Silven and Olgred raced forward, but then, the woman turned into a goose and sunk slowly into the ground, and they decided it best to retreat. ¡°It¡¯s the plague!¡± wailed Olgred. ¡°We¡¯re doomed!¡±


    ¡°There is no plague!¡± roared the man as he wrestled away a headless man. He grabbed at the eyeballs floating in front of his own and stuffed them in the victim¡¯s pocket. ¡°Only the Glitch! Watch out!¡±


    With a squawk, a robust baker with the head of a cat wobbled out of a nearby shed and fumbled its way towards Silven. He prodded his sword at the ample belly, and the creature flickered away to the closest rooftop with a howl of pain. Silven held his head and groaned. Something about the jaunty escape hurt his head. It wasn¡¯t fast-travel, it wasn¡¯t teleportation. It was just wrong. He ducked beneath the tentacle of an attacking ostrich and barrelled aside a bearded boy that had beset the robed stranger. ¡°Have a coin? Have a coin? Have a coin? Supper¡¯s ready!¡± chortled the boy as he casually strode up the wall of the stable. Wincing, Silven helped the old man up and rescued Olgred from an advancing warrior. He wheeled the man around, and gazed straight into his own face. With a gibber of mindless fear, he ran the being through with his sword and stumbled away into the arms of the man. ¡°No, get it away! It killed Master!¡± shrieked Olgred from the floor. The man responded by advancing and rapping him smartly on the forehead. ¡°Pull yourself together, you two!¡± he roared. They blinked up at him, tears rolling unfelt down cheeks. ¡°That¡¯s a bad case of asset replacement, a little duplication, and a bit of removal. But we¡¯ve beat them back. Now, it¡¯s time to see what¡¯s really going on in this village.¡±


    He dragged the pair up and shuffled along the deserted street. Silven looked at Olgred, and on impulse, sprang forward and embraced him. He felt like a child, unable to comprehend what he had just seen. Whatever it was, this Glitch was not his usual foe.


    Together, the three visitors plunged into the nearest cottage. No-one spoke in greeting. Silven peered around the corner of the living room. There was a Silverview map lying unfurled on the coffee table. He shuddered and moved on, desperate to distance this remote place from his own reality. He heard the old man muttering quietly in the kitchen. There, he found Olgred hunched over the motionless corpse of a fair-haired young woman. She was lying face down in a pool of blood, a butcher¡¯s knife just out of reach of her grasping hand. The old man was sighing. ¡°So, they¡¯ve been turned hostile against their own group. This is serious indeed. Let¡¯s move on.¡±


    Olgred shrieked and sprang back as a sudden flurry of legs clattered on the floorboards. ¡°Can I help you?¡± said the woman, her face unmoving, as her torso rose stiffly above the floor. ¡°I hear Sandview Castle is lovely this time of year.¡±


    ¡°I said, let¡¯s move on!¡± repeated the man urgently. Horrified, the businessmen scurried after the robed brother.


    The next house contained little of note to Silven. The man creaked down onto one knee, pressed a thumb to the floor, muttered something incomprehensible, and exited as quickly as he had entered. There, under an Expertminerium amplifying mast, a hideous sight greeted them. ¡°Help me!¡± squealed a man, his hands pressed tightly to his head as his ears snaked between his fingers and pooled on the earth. Already, they were almost five feet long, and the lobes had long gone seeking a sunnier destination in which to recline around the corner. The brother of the Fellowship knelt and met the man¡¯s eyes, taking care not to get within touching distance. ¡°What happened? Have you had any unexpected visitors? Any sudden changes? Any strange impulses?¡±


    ¡°Join the twenty-third annual Doomleaper race, next week in Bluebay, ten copper a bet!¡± beamed Long-ears. Silven¡¯s guide groaned and rose. ¡°We¡¯re getting nowhere, and I sense the dangerous ones are already regrouping. It¡¯s time to admit defeat. We kill them all.¡±


    Olgred gazed into space. ¡°But- but they¡¯re people! Just people....¡±


    ¡°People who carry the seed of the Glitch within them,¡± replied the man. ¡°There¡¯s no hope, not without calling on my brothers . But there¡¯s no time.¡±


    Silven regarded the man thoughtfully. ¡°Wait.¡± He rummaged in his pockets for a moment, and held out a crumbling mass of soil. The man said nothing. ¡°It¡¯s a block of polarised earth. You can dig it up, of course, but I always carry one for emergency messing around.¡± He pointed to the edge of the village. ¡°We can buy you some time to save them.¡±


    It took all afternoon for Silven and Olgred to encircle the village in a rectangular moat, but when it was done, even the bearded boy failed to ascend from the prison. The ditch was fully twenty blocks deep and twelve wide, and the robed man nodded his approval just as the sun was setting once more. Silven turned gladly from the freaks calling out on the far side and shook the outstretched hand of the brother. ¡°Our work here is done, Gary,¡± the man confirmed. ¡°I am merely a scout, an emergency responder, and it is time to scour the kingdom once more for signs of the enemy.¡± He waved his hand and conjured the swirling mists of a portal above the grass. ¡°But not before I call on my family to study our evidence. I must go to them, and I would ask you to present your side of the story for further analysis.¡± He held out a hand and gazed sternly at his companions. Silven and Olgred stood motionless and exchanged uneasy glances.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m sure there¡¯ll be some sweet loot in it for your cooperation.¡±


    They relaxed. ¡°Oh well, pleased to be of service, mister,¡± laughed Silven, stepping up to the portal.


    ¡°Wilborn; call me Wilborn. Now, off to the Cathedral!¡±

 2.8 The Party Trick

    2.8 The Party Trick


    The Cathedral of Dust was rather dusty. Perched atop a desolate crag in the misty peaks of Ardour in the far south-west of Oldeburgh, it had never become a valuable time-efficient customer for the myriad cleaning services of the kingdom. Worse still, its eastern wall had completely collapsed, leaving the Fellowship of the Glitch no other option than to labour upon a complicated office rotation based on time, temperature and weather, so that its top dogs could enjoy a refreshing sun-room on nice mornings whenever it was acceptable to said dogs.


    This, however, was not the reason for the name of the imposing, angular structure. That originated, as Wilborn made clear, from the hope that its hopeless and nameless prisoners would return to nothing long before they had the chance of a face to recognise or a window from which to see the world.


    ¡°What have they done?¡± wondered Silven aloud as Wilborn led his guests from a dusty antechamber into a dusty chamber.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± said Wilborn simply. ¡°They had no choice. The Glitch had chosen them, and, for the sake of you and me and this entire world, we had to remove them.¡± They passed into a dusty passageway and down onto a dusty stairwell. ¡°There will, it is acknowledged, likely come a time when our eternal foe finds a way to infect the very essence of existence itself. That will be the end; we are doomed to defeat. But, until then, we can combat its vessels.¡±


    ¡°Is that what we have consigned those people to in that village?¡± demanded Olgred, suddenly at Wilborn¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Not necessarily. Some can be cured. We shall do all we can to help. That includes yourselves. Your report may save lives.¡±


    Soon, they emerged into a glowing hall. It was, Silven noticed, remarkably undusty. Red-hot coals sizzled in pits along the centre of the expanse. Arranged in neat rectangles around these pits were dozens of old stone writing tables, covered in tottering towers of manuscripts and tables. At each and every one, red-faced officials clutched at pens and tore at hair in equal measure.


    Wilborn noticed Olgred¡¯s interest. ¡°Another setback,¡± he uttered sadly. ¡°The last Master tried to pull in some extra influence through a sponsorship from the king. Two years later, we¡¯re a royal office and thus subject to the royal paperwork. I¡¯m sorry, this is too distressing. This way, and quickly, please.¡±


    The visitors were quickly ushered into a small side-room, furnished with scrolls bearing cheerful likenesses of ¡®clients¡¯ of the keep. Silven assumed those likenesses were now a little out of date.


    They sat themselves in cosy armchairs against one wall, facing a dusty table stretching almost across the length of the chamber. Wilborn disappeared and almost immediately returned with half a dozen men. They were all old, all robed, and yes, all clean-shaven. Eagerly, they arranged themselves behind the table and leant forward to regard their helpers.


    ¡°No elbows on the desk please, Lorborn,¡± said an old, robed, clean-shaven man sternly. He met Silven¡¯s eyes and smiled warmly. ¡°Greetings, travellers. I am Colborn, chief researcher for the fellowship. Our work is threefold: to save the lives of those afflicted by the great enemy; to prevent those afflictions passing to others; and thirdly...¡± He trailed off, confused. He looked to his brothers, who only shrugged and stared at the table. ¡°Err, there is a third thing, I¡¯m sure. Anyway, I suppose you¡¯re eager to be off adventuring again. I shall be dispatching a team to the Nameless Village as soon as I secure a Permit to Battle a World-Threatening Enemy from the Order of Defence.¡± He turned again to his colleagues. ¡°Or is it the Order of Investigation now? I rarely have time to keep up with politics.¡±


    Silven shuffled his chair. ¡°You were saying we could help?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes.¡± Colborn regarded them as if for the first time. ¡°We just wanted to ask a few quick questions regarding your involvement with the Glitch, in case our own agent missed anything. A different perspective is always good, you know.¡±


    ¡°Tea or coffee?¡± offered Wilborn.


    ¡°Questions, please,¡± replied Silven as politely as he could. ¡°I¡¯ve had an insightful day. I am eager to return to work myself.¡±


    Colborn blinked. ¡°Well.... what was it like out there?¡±


    ¡°Sorry?¡± said Silven.


    ¡°You know, what did you see? Smell? Hear? What were your personal impressions of the Glitch?¡±


    Silven stared. ¡°Does your interview have direction, sir? I¡¯m a busy man.¡±


    ¡°And an impatient one,¡± Olgred muttered under his breath.


    Colborn straightened in his chair, his face grim. ¡°I know I have my doubters here, but I tell you all, my qualitative profiling will save the day.¡±


    The man by his side bristled. ¡°Fine; if you must go on, I¡¯m sure it smelt of fish and chips. What we need is some blood samples from the affected. And until our permit comes...¡± He glanced sideways at Silven.


    The businessman laughed too loudly. He patted Olgred¡¯s shoulder too hard. ¡°Hoho! I knew it would get to this. Ever since we stepped through that portal I¡¯ve had my suspicions about this wild dragon chase. This is just another quest for just another fighter. Listen, I work for a big company. If this Glitch is really as bad as you say, I¡¯m sure I could pull a few strings. Get you some support without all that ¡®transparency¡¯, if you know what I mean.¡±


    There was a rustle across the table. One man practically rolled onto the table in his effort to lean more forward than the rest. ¡°A big company. Which one?¡±


    ¡°Silverlink. Send a letter over to PR. Or if you find any giant man-goats heading straight for Overwall, just give me, Gary, or.... Gaz here, a call at HQ. You know, so we can rescue the boss.¡±


    The room grew cold. Eyes bored into Silven¡¯s flesh. The men sat in stony silence. Finally, Colborn opened his snarling mouth. ¡°Gentlemen, you should have told us before. It is an honour to work with the kingdom¡¯s greatest venture. So, on with the interview.¡±


    Several men stood. ¡°A little tea,¡± said one, and made quickly for the door.


    ¡°No time now. Deadlines. The supervisor¡¯s a real dick,¡± laughed Silven, eyes roving the room.


    Colborn ignored him. ¡°Have you ever worked in the Instant Messaging Department?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Silven and Olgred at the same time.


    ¡°I see. Where is the principle Expertminerium mine?¡± said Colborn coolly.


    ¡°You¡¯d have to ask an expert miner,¡± replied Silven immediately.


    Two figures circled behind Silven. Before they could reach him, he stood, dragged Olgred up, and headed for the door, coughing. ¡°Phew! Terrible dust in here. Need... a break.¡±


    ¡°Just a quick one,¡± droned Wilborn. ¡°We¡¯ll show you the bathroom.¡± He strode quickly for the exit, but the visitors were already through.


    Silven pushed his friend towards the door in the far side of the admin hall. Robed men hailed them and trotted towards the entrances. Crossing the room at top speed, they closed the door behind them just as a servant stretched out a helping hand inches from the frame. ¡°Lamb or pork tonight, chaps? I trust you¡¯re staying for dinner,¡± called the muffled voice through the wood.


    ¡°Just a sandwich. We don¡¯t want to be too much trouble,¡± Silven answered. He pressed a finger hopefully to the Silverview and cursed. ¡°Remind me later, top priority to the escape project,¡± he muttered, and strode off down the corridor. Olgred followed closely. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he hissed. Silven pressed him down a turn off as more brothers clattered along from ahead. He opened the door at the end to reveal a very worn set of stone steps descending into a wide tunnel. ¡°Hmmm, not very hopeful, but we¡¯ve got no choice. What was that, Olgy? Who knows!¡±


    They hurried past what looked like a thankfully deserted guard checkpoint spanning the path. Beyond, the tunnel widened even more. By the weak torchlight, Silven made out huge dark circles set into the walls on either side. There were little plaques fastened between each one. He approached the closest on the left and read aloud. ¡°Sally Sidley, quarantined 14/8/1456, ghosting.¡± He stood back and looked at the circle again. Finally, he saw them for what they really were ¨C gigantic vault doors. ¡°This must be part of the prison. That poor woman¡¯s been in there eleven years, and I don¡¯t intend on joining her. Let¡¯s get out of here.¡± They trotted on along the tunnel, but it only grew darker and more foreboding as they went. Beyond another dozen or so vaults, however, the hint of a light began to waver ahead. Then came the voices.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Rats! They¡¯re cutting us off,¡± he whispered to Olgred. He approached the nearest door and tugged at an unmoving iron bar. He moved on to the next with identical results. Up ahead, the light grew brighter.


    ¡°Well, are we going in then?¡± said Olgred impatiently.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Now¡¯s not the time for research. We need to go,¡± urged Olgred, and pointed up.


    Silven couldn¡¯t help but cry out at what he saw. Above each and every cell, a ragged hole had been torn into the thick stone wall. From down on the floor, twenty feet below, they looked just about the right size for a man to slip inside. Silven looked at Olgred and mumbled something incoherent. His friend was quick to push him over to the barred door and get his feet started on the ascent. ¡°You¡¯ve got to have some way to get in.¡±


    ¡°Thats... not the point,¡± puffed Silven as he wriggled upwards.


    ¡°It¡¯s a room, Silven?¡± said Olgred, clearly annoyed. ¡°Everywhere must be explorable. We can¡¯t expect to open those heavy things every time we want to be in.¡±


    Silven only shook his head in reply. Then, he hopped back to the floor and pointed down the corridor towards the growing torchlight. ¡°Pushing all obvious questions aside until a safer time, we should head for that one there. It¡¯s got a grate with a padlock across the hole, so surely that¡¯s more important.¡±


    ¡°Ah!¡± said Olgred. ¡°A signpost, if ever there was one. That¡¯s our escape ¨C away we go.¡±


    A minute later, Silven had scrambled up, removed the polite attempt at blocking the way, and hauled Olgred to the gap in which he had wedged himself. Just then, two robed brothers appeared at the head of a squadron of chainmailed guards. One pointed straight up to the visitors and turned angrily to a soldier. ¡°How did they make it this far?¡±


    ¡°Funding cuts, Brother Gunborn. If you halve our hours....¡±


    ¡°Oh, moan groan whine. Get the keys!¡±


    Without a word, Silven and Olgred scrambled down the rough-cut inner wall of the cell. It was only then that Silven thought about what might be lying in wait for them. He whirled, drew his sword and stood poised for action.


    There was a high stone slab for a bed, a ledge or two set into the corners, and a thin, leering silhouette which bounded out from the right towards the warrior. Silven whipped round and pressed the point of his blade against a wheezing chest.


    "What ho! Visitors, and at my age, too!¡± cackled the dirtiest man Silven had ever laid eyes on. His clothes were no more; he was completely naked save for an insulating layer of grime. Olgred choked on the fumes and hung back against the wall. The man waved unkempt mats of hair from his face and smiled a crooked smile. ¡°Well, how¡¯s the world? Still crazy? Still deadly? Goody good good. As long as my Delia¡¯s doing well. She must be....woooo.... a hundred last Tuesday. Anyway, I¡¯d give you a present save for I¡¯m not allowed things. Not since I started my party trick.¡±


    Silven sheathed his sword and did his best to look pleasant. ¡°That¡¯s okay, sir. We¡¯re just passing through anyway. And Delia¡¯s doing fine.¡±


    A sudden tear welled in the old man¡¯s eye. ¡°Did she mention me?¡±


    Silven looked the prisoner straight in the eye. ¡°She misses you.¡±


    Olgred took an unsteady step into the stench. ¡°What¡¯s your party trick, mister....?¡±


    The man cocked his head like a dog. ¡°Do you know, I can¡¯t quite remember. My name, that is. Only Delia. Say, I could do my party trick for Delia. Do you have anything for a young girl?¡±


    The three men jumped as a horrid shriek rocked through the circular door. Olgred took a few steps away, then paused and rummaged purposefully through his pockets. ¡°I have...this,¡± he said, holding out a crude wooden doll towards the old man.


    ¡°Why?¡± came Silven¡¯s voice behind him.


    ¡°I actually have seventy two,¡± muttered Olgred. ¡°10% chance from any chest in a northern house. The people never seem to mind.¡±


    The man snatched the toy desperately from the outstretched hand. He rubbed the painted head lovingly against his curled beard. ¡°This will do. For Delia!¡±


    He opened up his fist and the doll clattered to the ground. The door lurched, but Silven and Olgred stood transfixed. They had the strangest of feelings that something amazing was going to happen. Something in the air just didn¡¯t feel... normal.


    The man dropped painfully to his knees, held up the doll, placed it back on the ground, and then raised it fully and dropped it once again. All at once, there were two. Silven blinked. They were really there, and, as the man raised and dropped them again, another two appeared by their side. Mindlessly, even as the door creaked open, he crouched and took up a doll. He dropped it. He held it. He laid it down. He picked it up. He dropped it. He clutched incredulously at its sudden twin and cried out inarticulately into the musty air of the cell.


    A louder clank brought him back to semi-reality. Stamping feet heralded the entry of four guards through the opened door. Behind them, Brother Gunborn glowered silently. The guards halted. There was a moment of terrible silence. At long last, Gunborn spoke. His voice was like death. ¡°They are afflicted. Quarantine them. Secure the area. Cover up the trail. I have things to discuss with the Master.¡± He swept back out into the tunnel as the guards raised maces and spears and advanced. Silven and Olgred scrabbled deeper into the cell and almost tripped over the prisoner as he mumbled and laughed. By now, he had made dozens more dolls, and, oblivious to the danger, he was cheerfully lining them up in pretty little rows along the crumbling floor.


    The guards scurried after their targets and clattered to a halt, horror in their eyes as they fixed their gaze on the creations. ¡°Stand guard,¡± ordered their leader uncertainly, arms out to protect his men. One prodded at a doll with his spear and shuddered.


    The remaining brother poked his head into the cell and barked at his minions. ¡°No, we want them quarantined. As in, their own vaults. Forward!¡±


    One man turned angrily to his superior. ¡°You go in!¡± he spat. ¡°I tell yer now, I¡¯ll be buggered if I¡¯m touching little dollies in front of me mates.¡±


    Another kicked nervously at the tiny barrier. ¡°Quite literally, back at the tavern,¡± he added.


    The brother roared. The old man cackled and grabbed armfuls of new wooden friends. The guards shrank back with howls of alarm. Silven patted Olgred discretely on the shoulder and pulled him towards a wall. He reached out, touched a brick, and shoved Olgred roughly into the tunnel which emerged from the stone. A moment later, they were sprinting along a shadowy tunnel towards a pale natural light. ¡°How did you know?¡± panted Olgred, as they emerged into a frigid breeze.


    Silven waved dismissively. ¡°That prison cell looked almost identical to an establishment I visited just before I met you. Same architect, I reckon, and a lazy one at that.¡± He looked out at the staggering view that awaited them from their little balcony high on the side of the mountain. All around, peaks wreathed in conifers rose up towards the cathedral just above them. ¡°Please....¡± he pleaded, and touched a finger randomly to his Silverview. He sighed and eased forward to look down onto a dizzying drop. He closed his eyes and opened his jacket pocket. ¡°What was your max survivable fall again?¡±


    ¡°Sixty-seven feet,¡± chattered Olgred immediately.


    ¡°Thought so. Doc said mine¡¯s up to eighty-one.¡± He fished out a coil of rope and dangled it into the air. Olgred joined him at the edge of the ledge. ¡°Oh, grats to Mighty Megamuscle Man. There¡¯s something moving down there.¡±


    Silven tensed and followed the finger. ¡°It¡¯s just some monster,¡± he puffed, relieved by the absence of skulls and horses. He lowered the rope and peered desperately into the mist swirling about the outcrops below. ¡°Yes!¡± he said after a minute. ¡°If we aim for that razor-sharp spike pointing up to the right of that bridge, we¡¯ll be okay.¡± He reached into his pocket and offered Olgred an apple. ¡°Make sure you¡¯re healthy first.¡±


    Olgred munched. Silven lined up and plunged off into nothingness. He landed neatly on the tip of the jagged rock, rubbed his legs, and steadied Olgred as he appeared from up the mountain. Beneath, a shaggy beast with snow-white fur bared its teeth and roared. ¡°Oh, shut up!¡± Silven snapped. He raised the Silverview and looked up worriedly as a wooden spear whistled past. ¡°If we¡¯re halfway between....¡± He pressed his finger to the parchment and sped away into the wind.


    It was a jolly evening in Overwall. Men and women skipped and laughed down the street with tankards in their hands. Someone had a barbecue going on the old village green. Thunderstring, a supergroup of Solmond City¡¯s most famous bards, was just getting started in the private tavern. And this was only the start of the surprise festivities. Everyone was talking about Olgred¡¯s unprecedented announcement of a full week off for all Silverlink¡¯s hard-working employees, in celebration of a year of success, and, more importantly, in preparation of an even busier year to come.


    Back at the silent mansion, where only demons now toiled, Silven was not joining in. He raised a glass of port as Olgred entered and returned his attention to the four gold coins neatly lined up on the table in front of him. Five minutes ago, there had been only one. Olgred sat down quietly and said nothing. Finally, their eyes met and a wealth of confusion passed between them. Silven laughed. Olgred smirked. Wordlessly, they sat and gulped at their beverages.


    Silven thought of the old man. He thought of Folborn. For the first time in a long, long time, he thought of Professor Grennel.

 2.9 Boring Corporate Stuff

    2.9 Boring Corporate Stuff


    ¡°So, this is it.¡±


    ¡°What, creeping up to the Museum of Pompous Pricks and sneaking in through a window to take your place?¡±


    Silven sighed. He gazed out over the walls of Desert Marsh from their makeshift camp just off the road. He gulped down the last of his tea and held his friend by the shoulders, gazing deep into his soul. ¡°Olgy, Olgy, Olgy. This has been my goal for some time. I founded the companies to escape my prescribed fate and bide my time until something allowed me to move on. The Doll Sequence, as we have code-named it, is the key. I have failed to enter several times, but this time, I am sure.¡± He held out a folded piece of paper. ¡°These are my final instructions. I wish you, and everyone else who has helped me to achieve comfort in this pastime, all the best for the future. But you must listen to me when I say I have no idea how my actions this morning will affect you. It may aid you. It may hinder. It may destroy you. It may tear away the fa?ade I feel envelopes this illusion and let me peer into the depths of the true universe. At this point, I don¡¯t know, and for that, I am sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, master. Good luck,¡± grinned Olgred. ¡°And if you transcend this world and enter a higher dimension of being, do send a postcard.¡±


    Silven stood and glared at his business partner. Then, he raised his palm and slapped him hard across the face.


    ¡°Ouch!¡± shrieked Olgred, patting at his hot cheek. ¡°What in the depths of your true universe was that?¡±


    Silven gestured to the folded note. Olgred opened it and read. ¡®U R AN IDIOT¡¯, it declared, rather unprofessionally. ¡°You are the public head of Silverlink. You are told explicitly that I could single-handedly wipe out everything you have worked for, and you wish me luck. As you have failed to uphold the interests of your employees, you are now demoted.... to intern.¡± Olgred groaned. Silven rubbed his hands smugly, and cast one last look at the town. ¡°It¡¯s true, I do want to know what awaits me in that academy. But when I have a definite path to help people improve their lives, and several hundred directly relying on me to feed their families, I¡¯m not taking that risk. No, the Doll Sequence must be kept a secret. Let¡¯s be off.... we¡¯ve got real work to do.¡± He gathered the pots and handed them to Olgred. He winked cheekily. ¡°Go on then, you¡¯re promoted again. Just don¡¯t be announcing your demise; it makes us look indecisive.¡±


    Olgred¡¯s face paled. ¡°Too late. Already released at HQ.¡±


    ilven grimaced and fast-travelled them back to the mansion. ¡°It serves you right then; you shouldn¡¯t have made me say it. First call of order: a new CEO.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Within a week, Silverlink had its new boss. Herbie Sootroller was the perfect catch for Silven¡¯s vision. As a 14-year old, uneducated, dirty little ruffian who ended every sentence with a cheery ¡®guv¡¯nor¡¯, he was within that golden 0.01% of the population most likely to chirp in with a valuable new plan seconds from disaster. Plus, the mere promise of a toffee or two at the end of the business week made him ripe for puppeteering.


    Herbie¡¯s first directive was to establish a new wing of the business. Silverlink Stuff was an exciting new development focused on the manufacture of.... stuff. Curiously, any product desired by any individual would be delivered for a fraction of its old price, just days after a quick IM order. Its head was, thankfully, Olgred, the former big boss who was eager to change the world as the people knew it. Silven, the head of Fireline, was to transfer from the recently-and-very-generously-bought-out company to become Chief Thinker of the bold venture, to be replaced at the energy firm by his younger hip surfer brother by the name of Gary. It would all be delightful.


    That was not to say that Silven¡¯s entire focus was on his new department. Fireline soon introduced smart demons, tiny fireball-spitting murderers who would sit happily in compartments within customers¡¯ baths and ensure temperature was at its optimum. This did much to restore the maligned business¡¯s reputation, until one particularly attractive maiden in Golden Avenue accused her monitor of poking a peephole in his office and doing unspeakable things while she bathed. It seemed that energy companies were quite simply destined to be despised.


    Over at Silverlink, Silven¡¯s investigations had proved rather fruitful. New greenhouses enclosing Overwall¡¯s village green, while initially delayed by a campaign to relocate the Lesser Savage Armoured Poison Fiery Electrical Greenfly, which occurred only in that area, were soon growing shipments of siege flowers for the king¡¯s army. With lovesick rebels not suspecting a thing, Solmond City had soon regained control of a handful of regions on the civil war¡¯s eastern frontier. The papers and IM shows were soon buzzing with talk of a final push to reunite Oldeburgh under the king¡¯s banner. In other news, the cooler mags were raving about the initial two monster camps. Though they divided opinion, Silverlink Mossy Ravine and Silverlink Deeprock Ruins proved a total hit with the younger attention-span-challenged generation of adventurers. When a formal claim to ban paid microboosts from jousts close to the camps was thrown out, the older folk who had actually worked to gain their gear finally spat out their dummies, went home, and the age of casual slaying was born.


    In response to criticism, Silverlink branched out into charity. Strangely, it chose to partner with hospitals and outposts in the far reaches of the land where the epidemic of mind diseases was most obvious. It donated dozens of Silverviews to rapid responders to help locate and aid new patients before the madness took them completely. Despite these efforts, there were growing concerns that the plague was out of control. Some nobles had even started leaving Solmond as new sensational cases crept ever closer.


    And what about the main communications products, I hear no-one ask. It seems the developers of Silverview and IM had run out of ideas after the release of Maplr. And yet, the hard work was already done. Whilst a handful of innovators struggled with the challenges of escape travel, the main team was busy hyping Silverview 3¡¯s inch wider parchment and three coloured ink variants to ¡®suit your style¡¯. The cult was ready to follow; Silverlink merely had to ride the wave.

 2.10 The Key To Utopia

    2.10 The Key To Utopia


    Silven admired his flash new tunic in a puddle, pressed up the paved path curling away from the chokehold of industry in Limetop, and entered the glorious headquarters of Silverlink Stuff. A smart, smooth rectangular hall with ample windows and minimal frills, it was a clear statement of where the new power lay in the sprawling business. Limetop had become its most secure stronghold; home, as it was, to the greatest secret the land had ever known. All that smoke down in the main town? That was little more than a cheap trick these days. Most of the demons had moved on to bring much-needed baths to the newly-installed peasant masters of old Stonepeak. It was crucial, however, that the mines and factories keep up appearances. If the authorities were to ever discover the truth- that each immense sooty edifice contained a handful of trusted men and women, casually picking up, dropping, picking up and dropping new copies of their orders into alphabetical order, Silven¡¯s carefully balanced dream would be broken forever.


    It was this dream that Silven laid bare to his most trusted colleagues in the hall¡¯s conference room. He could relax here; his guards had lifelong memberships to the monster camps, and, because that membership included the bar, they had become some of the best-trained soldiers in the kingdom. The occasional Master of Deathness poked his skulled head around a rock every now and again, but by and large, they seemed to have gone back grovelling to whatever evil power had sent them. And, after the, what shall we say, ¡®guided¡¯ election of Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher to head of security, Silven could truly say he was a free man.


    He began this meeting by dispensing the Official Tuna to said head of security before addressing his audience. Here, everyone knew who the true mastermind behind their cushy jobs was. There was Olgred, of course, whose principle responsibility as head of the division appeared to be ensuring a steady stream of tea, or, as his CV said, three months¡¯ experience negotiating, buying and streamlining the acquisition of generalised resources. Simitest Almar was also present, having risen to the role of Head Engineer due to the outstanding qualities of his charming dickie bow and the impossible curliness of his moustache. And, amid a scattering of semi-serious random randomers of randomness was the stern and sober presence of Ulf Venstoke, the division¡¯s accountant, who was currently huddled over his foldable desk inventing new ways to succinctly express the oogles of googles of gold available to the team. When powers of ten no longer fit on the page, Ulf was there to ground them, or in less polite terms, keep the atmosphere just about boring enough to justify this silly gathering as a company meeting of the minds.


    For the third time, Silven explained his concerns, and for the third time, the carefully-planned fa?ade of reports and presentations disassembled into a shambles of philosophy. Olgred waded in with the obvious. ¡°So, you¡¯re saying we shouldn¡¯t have infinite stock? Think about it, man! There¡¯d be a cart of ice-cream for every resident of the country. We hold the key to utopia and you¡¯re saying we can¡¯t use it.¡±


    ¡°Any resident loyal to the king,¡± Silven corrected. ¡°But it wouldn¡¯t work. Who is going to tend to the fat and lazy when everyone is fat and lazy? They¡¯re not getting any reward; they¡¯ll have a cartload of their favourite flavour already.¡±


    ¡°People will still work,¡± Simitest mused, twirling his ¡®tache. ¡°We can only replicate what already exists. The population would be free to pursue any art they fancy. Like painting outrageous pictures of voluptuous women, for instance.¡± He looked around at his fellows. ¡°For instance, I said.¡±


    Silven raised a finger. ¡°But would you do it, Simitest? Or would you simply lie back and enjoy your own now ample collection?¡±


    ¡°And eat ice-cream,¡± added Olgred helpfully.


    ¡°There just wouldn¡¯t be any motivation to better our lives,¡± insisted Silven. ¡°Supply and demand is the keystone of our will to work. We¡¯d just settle for lots and lots and lots of what we have already achieved. We would stagnate.¡± There were a few murmurs of agreement from the gathered manufacturers.


    An annoying shrew-like chap in the front row piped up. ¡°I heard you say those loyal to the king could reap the benefits of the Doll Sequence. What about the others? This discovery has the power to end war forever.¡± His cronies eyed their leader defiantly. Sir Meow-a-Lot glared for more tuna. Suddenly, Silven felt very outnumbered, but he pressed on with his answer. ¡°I don¡¯t think it would. A lot of the rebels use taxes and quotas as excuses, it¡¯s true. But, at the heart of it, most just want power. At present, money is power. But when that goes out of the window, they¡¯ll find other ways. More cruelty and bullying. Death to those that oppose their ideas. And we¡¯d be feeding the hand that bites.¡± It was a catchy little expression he had been itching to use since three-o¡¯clock in the morning, when he had laid in the dark chuckling away to himself for a rather worrying amount of time. Now it was finally out, however, it only received a smattering of cheers.


    It was then that Ulf looked up seriously from his most serious work. ¡°Everything must be accountable,¡± he imparted to the room. ¡°Or else, we wouldn¡¯t have accountants.¡±


    ¡°Thank you!¡± gasped Silven. It was a most unlikely source of aid, but he¡¯d take it. ¡°Everyone knows that accountants have been the cornerstone of civilisation since it began. We need someone... uninteresting to tell you that you¡¯re better than the rest. Or else, we¡¯ll have more desperate despots joining the rebellion from this very town! What would distinguish you from the crowd in Ice-Cream Land?¡±


    There was an uncomfortable rustle in the chamber. ¡°Rum and raisin!¡± called out an anonymous voice. More infuriating clapping. Silven sighed. He stood forward and drew himself up to his full height. ¡°I propose the company become a fatherly order to the world, controlling the balance, ensuring not a single soul go without what they need whilst weakening the grip of those who would do anything to get to what they desire at the expense of others.¡± Someone hastily produced a violin at the back of the room. ¡°We would watch over the kingdom, striving to guide the people not to immediate and obvious reward, but empowering them to achieve what we truly need...¡± The music swelled to a glorious crescendo. ¡°True utopia!¡±


    ¡°And I propose we forget all that tosh and open a voluptuous womenfolk appreciation society in this here room every Saturday,¡± Simitest chimed in. ¡°And what is this true utopia, anyway?¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t thought of that yet,¡± muttered Silven. ¡°That¡¯s just a minor detail.¡± The hall itself seemed to groan. Silven rolled up his sleeves. Time to end this. ¡°We all know who¡¯s in charge here.¡±


    ¡°Herbie Sootroller, CEO of Silverlink,¡± announced Ulf, his chest swelling with pride.


    ¡°And who ordered three pounds of toffees for this all-powerful character?¡±


    ¡°The buyer of generalised resources,¡± Olgred pointed out.


    ¡°And who does the buyer answer to?¡±


    Olgred looked sheepishly at the protesters. ¡°Okay, I get it, Master. You¡¯ve got us this far.¡±


    The exchange had given Silven just enough time to think. ¡°You do realise,¡± he began, locking eyes with each and every person in the room, ¡°that the more stuff we make, the more you¡¯re going to have to work?¡± Utter silence. Man looked to man for an answer. None came. He finished the blow with a massive, overbearing load of Immediate Reward. ¡°Now who wants a day off while the managers sort out the manufacturing limits?¡± Ulf looked down and got back to accounting. Everyone apart from Ulf cheered and hugged and cried until they could think no more. And that suited Silven just fine. His mind had crawled to the edge of the cliff and seen the swirling depths at the end of the plunge. If he allowed free reign of the Doll Sequence, his arguments applied also to his workers; no-one was going to wallow in Limetop all day with infinite pleasures at their fingertips. That could only end two ways ¨C the release of the secret, and the bloodbath that could only result from such unfettered greed.... or imprisonment of the manufacturers by his most trusted followers.


    There was also something else that he finally had to admit to himself. Things were just moving too fast. When he first stumbled out of that prison, life was honest, simple. Not always fair, but in general, people got what they worked for. What they deserved. Oldeburgh seemed kind of nice that way.


    His discovery could wipe that slate clean for good, at any moment, and it scared him.


    ¡°Hypocrite,¡± said Olgred in his ear.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve just been wittering on about the apparent dangers of getting what you want when you want, and then cut them all off with an instant day off,¡± continued his companion, staring straight into his eyes. ¡°Look how happy they are. We could be like this all the time.¡±


    Silven waved a hand dismissively and wrinkled up his eyes. ¡°Oh, shush. This philosophy thing¡¯s making my head hurt. You¡¯ve just acknowledged I¡¯ve got us this far. Won¡¯t you trust me again?¡±


    Olgred looked pained. ¡°My opinions don¡¯t matter, master. It¡¯s all just filler dialogue. Change the subject, and I¡¯m as dedicated as ever.¡±


    Silven banged hard on Ulf¡¯s table. ¡°Sixteen guazillions,¡± the accountant muttered.


    ¡°Quiet!¡± roared Olgred. ¡°Master Silven speaks. And what he next says will be right!¡±


    Silven coughed. ¡°Errr, thank you, Olgy. We need to resume our meeting before you all slink off to the tavern. We need to address the greatest issue facing our department.¡±


    ¡°The auditors?¡± gasped Simitest, peering out of the window in horror.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Logistics,¡± said Silven. He waited until the sigh of relief blew by like a breeze and gratefully moved onto the problem. ¡°Trashbag Bob, are you here?¡±


    ¡°Aye, boss. Even ¡®ad a shower,¡± croaked the straggly man in the third row. The covered noses on either side seemed to suggest that one was not enough.


    ¡°Why is he still with us?¡± groaned Olgred.


    ¡°Because he¡¯s Head of Transport,¡± said Silven quietly. ¡°The caravan merchants of Oldeburgh come in two types: cutthroats and scrap rats. And we¡¯ve got enough cutthroats already.¡±


    ¡°Yes, armed to the teeth with our own weapons, surrounding this very room, cursing about being part of an establishment,¡± muttered Olgred.


    ¡°Amazing what a man will do for an ale, isn¡¯t it? You will note Bob¡¯s even removed that three-day bogey from his left nostril.¡± He raised his voice. ¡°So, Bob, kindly explain the problems we¡¯ve been having recently.¡±


    Trashbag Bob staggered to his feet. The weaker-stomached members of the audience staggered for the exits. ¡°See, it¡¯s like this,¡± he drawled. ¡°First, there was those lice from me jacket that-¡±


    ¡°Not that one,¡± interjected Silven hurriedly. ¡°TWEDIS!¡±


    ¡°Oh! As you might know, those plants near HQ what we send monsters to the king in, the biologists have unlocked to send what we like instead. We calls ¡®em TWEDIS flowers, transport with expanded dimension in space. We¡¯re growing ¡®em now ¡®ere as well, in the courtyards of the mine offices, so we can pack our stuff in and then one man just teleports over to the customer with one easy ter carry flower. But now we¡¯re making too much stuff fer that. We found yer can put one extra layer of loot in, so one flower can hold a few flowers holdin¡¯ the goods. But we can¡¯t do any more.¡±


    Silven noted the worrying variety of green in faces around the room and gestured for Bob to sit. ¡°Thank you. So, as you can see, we have a transport problem. We could hire more couriers to carry flowers individually, but it is a sacrilege to Benwar the Business God to operate with more than the bare minimum of staff. So, we have to do it the old-fashioned way again - wagons on the roads. But remember, each of those wagons is packed with TWEDIS flowers, each carrying more TWEDIS flowers, each filled with food, with weapons, and other desirables just waiting to be picked up by enemies of the state.¡± He pointed majestically in what he hoped was the right direction. ¡°Warlord Wallace stands to disrupt our supply lines in the north. Further east, the rebel witch Zolar Ceneron blocks off the market of Greenholme and everything beyond. Efforts to push on would certainly result in loss of life for your colleagues.¡±


    ¡°And worse, loss of customer satisfaction,¡± Simitest chipped in.


    ¡°And worse, increased stock loss,¡± added Ulf in his most serious of tones.


    Silven looked to his heads. They nodded back confidently, urging him to continue. ¡°So, in our latest managers¡¯ meeting, we have reached a most grievous of conclusions. Silverlink is joining the king¡¯s army as an official partner in the war against the rebellion.¡± He paused for the panicked chatter to subside. ¡°Please, go into your bonus day off assured that this is only for your own safety as our operations expand. It is a measured risk, and with the might of our resources at hand here in Limetop, we are confident we can end this long battle, restore order throughout the kingdom, and finally secure the roads to increase our profits up to the quotas we shall establish following our debate today.¡±


    ¡°Yet if we just gave the rebels a share of-¡±


    ¡°No! Not this again!¡± Silven snapped, raising a scroll of parchment angrily in Simitest¡¯s direction. ¡°You see these notes? This is the agenda for today¡¯s meeting. You see that first line? That¡¯s the discussion regarding infinite stock. And you see that tick? That means that the subject has been closed. Gubley over there will have finalised the minutes by now, and that means we are not allowed to discuss that motion any longer. Corporate policy and all that. Sorry.¡± He smiled and carried on as if nothing had happened. ¡°So, on that bombshell- ah, probably not a good choice of words... on that health and safety update, we will close the general meeting. Enjoy your day. Sir Meow-a-lot, Olgred, Simitest, Ulf, Trashbag Bob and I shall remain to open the war council. Bye-bye!¡±


    The majority of the attendees filed away, the prospect of war and the rejection of free stuff forever largely forgotten as the real debate regarding the route of tonight¡¯s pub crawl got under way. Soon, the inner circle of Silverlink Stuff drew closer around a desk. Silven, of course, opened proceedings. ¡°Firstly, I must apologise on behalf of Herbie for his absence today, on account of an extra bag of rhubarb and custards I have just this minute sent to his office. The heads of other divisions shall also be absent on account of not being invited. I volunteer to speak for our own division¡¯s Head of Security in this matter of defence, on account of the Head of Security being a cat. With your permission, Sir?¡± He reached down under the table and received a sleepy meow in response. ¡°Thank you.¡± He leant back casually in his chair. ¡°So, let¡¯s get this over with. We¡¯ve got a small army at our disposal; with the king¡¯s aid, we can crush any of these scattered bands that block our trade routes. I propose we open up the north-west first, because Olgred and I are most familiar with that area. The main question is, do we send all our troops against Zolar or Wallace, or strike both at the same time before the second can dig in?¡±


    No answer. He looked one by one into four shocked faces. He felt his heart sink without knowing why. Olgred finally got his mouth working. ¡°We can¡¯t use the security forces. They¡¯re for security, not attack.¡±


    Silven wrung his hands. ¡°We¡¯re at war. We can¡¯t just sit back and wait to be robbed. The time is now.¡±


    ¡°They haven¡¯t seen any action against humans,¡± observed Simitest quietly, stroking his chin.


    ¡°Our soldiers are all several degrees above the quality of any bungling militia our opponents have, I assure you.¡±


    ¡°But, they could all be lured into a trap and leave no-one to guard our bases,¡± protested Ulf.


    ¡°Fine, we¡¯ll leave a full quarter of our numbers to guard Limetop and Overwall at all times.¡±


    ¡°A large army like that can¡¯t manoeuvre around a marsh,¡± said Simitest.


    ¡°We¡¯ll bring in some manufacturers for a boardwalk to his fortress and pile in the numbers.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t have any reliable evidence of Zolar¡¯s chain spells,¡± warned Ulf.


    ¡°We interview the king¡¯s agents who worked with her when she was loyal, and employ scholars from Rockborough and Silicarco to adjust our strategy as her powers are identified.


    ¡°Someone might be scared of them marsh snappers an¡¯ cause a bloody stampede,¡± Trashbag spluttered.


    Silven sat forward. ¡°I... didn¡¯t think it would be necessary to consider things like that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and Zolar might have invented some sorcery that drains energy from everyone present and uses it against them in some huge explosion,¡± said Olgred reluctantly.


    ¡°I very much doubt that.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s possible that lots of people marching together will resonate the mud enough to open a giant sinkhole and swallow us in one swirl,¡± proclaimed Simitest worriedly.


    Silven looked slyly from companion to companion. ¡°Whilst I disagree with your fantasies of disaster, I see where you¡¯re coming from in regards to raising the army. We¡¯re not used to this, after all. Let¡¯s take in smaller, lightly-armoured, fast-moving squadrons which can react a bit better to any emerging danger.¡±


    ¡°And then what if deep in the burning streets of Greenholme, at the critical moment, some warrior finds out his team-mate¡¯s been eyeing his girlfriend and we descend into a brawl? It happens every day. Too personal,¡± argued Simitest. Trashbag Bob and Ulf nodded their approval.


    ¡°Or there¡¯s some trap door that closes behind the first person in and then he panics when he can hear them calling out, yet would have mentally prepared himself for the challenge if he already knew he was going to be alone?¡±


    Finally, Silven¡¯s suspicions were confirmed. His arms tingled. His feet rattled against the floorboards as he juddered impulsively. ¡°So, you want to be the one to go in, Simitest?¡±


    Olgred piped up for the first time. ¡°Oh, but we need someone who¡¯s fought before, preferably with experience of sneaking to his name, of talking his way out of fights he can¡¯t win, who¡¯s maybe already been to one of the battlefields before, and who owns a heating company.¡±


    Silven glared at his friend. ¡°What¡¯s the heating got to do with anything?¡±


    Olgred hung his head. ¡°Just thought it might be useful. Sorry boss. We¡¯ll start the search.¡±


    Silven held out his hands in anguish. ¡°Why? We could bury them in minutes all together. How could one volunteer do any better?¡±


    Simitest shrugged, and looked around for support from his colleagues. ¡°Just being careful. We don¡¯t want to lose anything.¡±


    ¡°You could lose the adventurer,¡± said Silven steadily.


    ¡°But it¡¯s the only way,¡± replied Ulf.


    ¡°Have you ever heard the song ¡®A general, three captains, the Third Company Militia and two hosts of cavalry and the Dragon of Redhorn¡¯? Thought not,¡± said Simitest through a grimace.


    ¡°Only you can do this,¡± said Olgred encouragingly. ¡°You may look at your five-hundred strong force of fearless mercenaries and think ¡®yeah, they might be useful¡¯, but it¡¯s only doubt creeping in. Be confident in yourself, and you can achieve anything.¡±


    Silven sat through the babbling in a daze. He couldn¡¯t go back to that chaos again after the comfort of the company. He had hated every minute of that terrible life. Now, he was only frustrated every minute. It was a vast improvement in personal situation.


    He made up his mind. There was no way he was doing it. He¡¯d worked hard to earn his right to choose this path, and he wasn¡¯t turning away again. When the room came back into focus, he found his companions planning his route through enemy territory. Olgred noticed his gaze and butted in with a question. ¡°We¡¯ve got one problem, master. It will be best for you-¡±


    ¡°Not doing it,¡± muttered Silven.


    ¡°-to sneak in, but what if you-¡±


    ¡°Not doing it.¡±


    ¡°-come to a password or fortified checkpoint?¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s fine. The password is ¡®Wallace Rules¡¯ and you get to Greenholme through Ridgecomb Manor.¡± He stopped to consider his words, confused as to their origin even as he said them. In his mind¡¯s eye, he suddenly saw Elsenberg looking smugly down on him. He clenched his fists and sat bolt upright in his chair. ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± he said. ¡°They die today.¡± He stood and nursed his calves. ¡°Tomorrow.¡±

 2.11 When In Doubt

    2.11 When In Doubt


    The funny thing about tomorrow is that it never is tomorrow. That only happens with today. It was a good three days before Silven finally moved himself from the chess table in his study at Overwall and set about the dreary business of destroying his foes. In that time, a great flutter of positivity had swept through Solmond City. With Herbie¡¯s muffled announcement that Silverlink would officially support the military, the feeling on the street was that the nation was gearing up for victory. Silven was feeling a little more glum than all that.


    When Olgred finally asked him from around a safe corner why he had changed his mind about the adventure, it was good to get the whole thing off his chest. ¡°I have the dreadful suspicion that getting rid of Wallace and Zolar might be my destiny,¡± he said over a morning swamp whiskey. ¡°I have been given the quest after all. If I did send someone else out, or the whole army if I damn wanted to, that¡¯s it. At least if I go, and I have that horrible feeling that I¡¯m playing into the hands of my enemies, then I can put a stop to it.¡±


    ¡°What, leave them alone?¡± cried Olgred, pouring another.


    ¡°Not necessarily. It just might require a little more invention than sticking a sword through their chest. And now a toast, Olgy. You were right.¡±


    Olgred looked shocked. ¡°I was? What? When? This is incredible!¡±


    ¡°About the Elsenberg Principle. It seems there isn¡¯t a limit to what we can do after all, if we pull back the workings of the world layer by layer. And yet we are still limited by ourselves.¡± He raised his glass and held it out. ¡°Cheers!¡±


    Olgred gulped and considered. ¡°You refer to your quotas again, don¡¯t you? I still think we should consider giving the gift of freedom to all.¡±


    ¡°I think we¡¯ve peeled enough layers for now, and without any help from that Grennel. I don¡¯t need to understand the world, just use it to shape things for the best. And now, my friend, you can do me a favour. You know how you mentioned that ultimately you¡¯ll do what I need?¡±


    ¡°Hmmmm?¡± moaned Olgred, suddenly looking very flustered.


    ¡°I need you shut up about your stupid ideas. For good.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course, master. You¡¯ll guide us to a true utopia that transcends our base clutching desires, in time. I have full faith.¡±


    ¡°Did you just make that up?¡± Olgred nodded. ¡°Good. Keep saying things like that while I¡¯m gone. Any signs of mutiny, call me straight away.¡± He swept out to the living room, troubled by the sudden thought. He couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that if he spent too long on this distraction, he may be facing rebellion a little closer to home. Time to get cracking.


    A


    ¡°Morning!¡± squeaked a fluffy rabbit as it hopped out from behind his coat stand.


    ¡°No! Sir Meow-a-lot!¡± screamed Silven, shrinking back towards the wall.


    ¡°Meow,¡± said Sir Meow-a-lot.


    The rabbit chuckled musically. ¡°I am afraid you are inaccessible at present. I am the automated level guidance service. How may I help?¡±


    Silven considered the words carefully. ¡°Automated? As in, some sort of spell?¡±


    The rabbit began to lick its paws. ¡°The guidance service is not self-aware and has no entry for your question. How may I otherwise help?¡±


    Silven sighed.¡±How many, you know, strengtheruppers do I have?¡±


    ¡°Twelve.¡±


    Silven clapped. ¡°Blimey! How¡¯ve I got all that?¡±


    ¡°The last five points were gained from..... book-reading, shouting at a companion, walking, arguing with a companion, and having a tantrum at a companion.¡±


    Silven ran a hand through his hair. ¡°I really am getting worse. Well maybe, after this, I can get back to that meditation routine again. Go on then, recommend away.¡±Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    After careful deliberation, he placed a couple of points into talking, ready for when it was all over, a few into sword-swinging, to make sure it would be over, a few more into health to ensure it would be over in the right way, and three into speed to get it over with as soon as possible. After more deliberation, he decided that he might not have been in the best frame of mind to make these decisions, but on the bright side, he had at least unlocked a sweet new flurry move, which would be employed to whisk an egg ready for lunchtime.


    The rabbit hopped behind a chair and was suddenly an unrabbit once more. Silven didn¡¯t have time to be pondering that now. He rushed to the cupboard, dove through the shopping satchels, and pulled out his sword. ¡°Shit!¡± Something had eaten through the scabbard and roughened the blade within, leaving three dull blue smears in its wake. ¡°Olgred!¡± he screamed. ¡°If I catch you with that ZazzlePop again, it¡¯s going all over your childish comics!¡± A fanfare sounded in the distance. ¡°Oh, duck off!¡± he yelled, and marched for the door. The cool wind outside calmed him as he passed the TWEDIS greenhouses and made for the city gate. Perhaps that witch¡¯s brew of a drink was for the best. He¡¯d needed a new weapon for a long time. He would have always needed a push to get him into the adventurer¡¯s market. That place was for weirdoes.


    It hadn¡¯t seemed to get much better since he had last donned a fedora and cape for that blasted customer profiling exercise last year. And now, here he was, fedoraless, capeless, and clueless, and all in one trip. The market was accessed via a horribly dingy alleyway, which seemed to end in a beskeletoned dead end before curving at the last second into a shadowy courtyard with equally shadowy merchants. In truth, it was all quite regulated and extremely profitable for the Guild of Taxations. It was just designed to attract a certain type, that was all. To, as a passing wholesale trader had told him in Overwall, make the kids feel uber.


    Silven fingered his padded jacket awkwardly and barged through the noobs gawping at the pretty Swords of Pricking in the scruffier stalls by the entrance. Sadly, he thought, he was no longer new to this cursed game. And when he was, well.... he did it the hard way. He made straight to the biggest and smartest stall at the very back, the one that actually looked like it was capable of holding something decent. It was surrounded by retros, the old timers who had made it big boglet-bashing and threshtooth-thrashing before a certain anonymous company had taken all the fun away. Silven decided to remain equally anonymous and pestered the spectacled merchant for attention.


    ¡°Yes?¡± said the man, finally regarding Silven with a disdainful eye.


    Silven pointed out a sword that had caught his eye. ¡°That one, please.¡±


    The man¡¯s eyebrows rose until the glasses almost fell from his face. He reached up and unhooked the thin, faintly humming blade from its hooks on the board. ¡°Ah, the Rapier of Blackened Doom. Some infidels would call it Funeral Doom, but it¡¯s much too fast for that.¡± He ran a gloved finger affectionately down the metal edge. ¡°It allows access to a most gruesome skewer skill whereby the throat of the opponent is-¡±


    Silven thrust out a hand. It contained a bulging moneybag. ¡°Sounds perfect. Let¡¯s swap. I¡¯ve got a warlord to kill.¡±


    The merchant blinked, weighed the bag in an expert hand, and handed over the blade. ¡°One thousand, three hundred, and fourteen gold. Enjoy it when you can.¡±


    Silven hefted the blade suspiciously. It felt heavier than it should. He swung it and turned heads as it clunked lifelessly to the ground. He glared up wordlessly at the merchant as he begun to count out his money. And, wordlessly, the merchant pressed a finger to a sign. The sign said ¡®No Buybacks.¡¯


    "


    The man chuckled. ¡°Well, let¡¯s start with the basics. How many fanfares you had?¡± He eyed the useless blade at Silven¡¯s side. ¡°A little off eighty-nine, by the looks of things.¡±


    Silven tossed the rapier heavily onto the merchant¡¯s table. ¡°I don¡¯t bloody know! I¡¯ve spent most of my time trying to ignore the damn things. I organise the vertical integration of a flourishing trade empire, not prance about caves playing with the little green blobby things.¡± He paused. ¡°Mostly.¡±


    The man chuckled. ¡°Well, I¡¯m the Chief of the Elephantkin, then. And looking at that alarmingly impractical jacket you¡¯re managing to bear, I¡¯m estimating thirty to thirty five.¡± With great efficiency, he rummaged under his counter and drew out a pair of swords, one narrow and long, one short and stubby with a spiked pommel. He held up each in turn. ¡°These are your best basics for a bog standard DPS swordsman archetype. Now, it all depends on your strength and dexterity balancing, but I wager these two are about even. The Longblade of Flaming Titans adds a little fire damage which builds nicely with any sensitivity debuffs from an elemental dagger in the offhand or a regular swig of Juice of Fiery Reckoning from your potion belt. It¡¯s got decent reach, high durability, and decent physical absorption, but lacks any spellboost slots and only has mediocre speed. In general, without any aura stacking, its base rate of damage is thirty-one sheep per minute. The Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania, on the other hand...¡± He cut in with sudden hysterical laughter. ¡°Not that you¡¯d want this in the other hand, with its zero dual flanking boost, but anyway... this is a bit faster, has high frost, ice, snow, dark water and corrupted sludge resistance, adds a couple of fanfares to singing for a little gnomey fun, and allows a gem of Mischief, Loathing or Annoyance into the third tier range. However, it does have a little less base physical, no elemental boosts, and scales poorly with Rage Quench. Base damage of twenty-nine and a half sheep per minute. So, which will it be?¡±


    It took several seconds of impatient staring to make Silven realise he had been asked to contribute. He examined the faint red glow of the Longblade of Flaming Titans. He considered the third tier gem slot of the Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania. He stroked his chin slowly to buy a little time. ¡°Which is more expensive?¡±


    The merchant held out the shortsword. ¡°This.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll have that one, then.¡±


    Seconds later, he had escaped and was gratefully taking in the sight of an imposing rebel fortress filled with ruthless foes. He remembered the first time he had looked back at this huge earthworks jutting up from the hazy marsh, recently free and recently debreasted, and shook the sudden feeling of vulnerability away. This was a new day, and, with his arms of age-old infuriation and apparel of overbearing profit, he would surely have his revenge.

 2.12 Attack of the Annoying Talking Inanimate Object

    2.12 Attack of the Annoying Talking Inanimate Object


    Silven could cope no more. The trench he had descended into from the marsh ran thick with the blood of fallen rebels, its railings dinted and buckled from the impact of flying shields and flying heads. The remainder of the rowdy bearded men who had greeted him had fled their posts and scurried to the great mound which housed their cruel commander, who had imprisoned and plotted to take his life for reasons unknown. So far, it was going pretty well. But the sword just wouldn¡¯t shut up.


    ¡°Two arms on the floooooooor, one foot up above, I¡¯ve seen that head befoooooooore, which shall we send his loooove?¡± it squeaked as the final patch of resistance was dispatched. Silven drew the blade from the dismembered remains and rapped it heartily on its pommel. The pommel, he had quickly learned, was most sensitive to his countless reprimands. ¡°Ouch!¡± the sword wailed.


    ¡°Now, listen again,¡± lectured Silven calmly. ¡°We¡¯ll have none of that. He doesn¡¯t have a love, for one, and I¡¯m glad. I don¡¯t want to be bogged down by personal socioeconomic consequences of my good work. So far as we¡¯ve learned, every rebel army in Oldeburgh has identical armour, identical weapons, and, yes, identical heads. So, to try to distance themselves from anything resembling a united nation, each group has a Thing. Wallace¡¯s Thing just happens to be joviality at the expense of others. I think you¡¯d fit right in. I¡¯ll be sure to settle you in when I depart. Shame all your corpsey friends won¡¯t sing along.¡±


    The sword vibrated in his grip. ¡°Now look who¡¯s making bad jokes about the dead.¡±


    ¡°Shut up,¡± said Silven, and stuffed the weapon into his jacket to muffle the dread warblings. Going weaponless for a while would almost certainly turn out better for his health.


    Around the corner, there was no sign of Silven¡¯s fearful enemies, no panic or alarm, a thick oaken door set into the earthworks and a single brute hunched over a very meagre-looking roast rat. Silven approached confidently and regarded the sentry with fierce eyes. ¡°Wallace rules.¡±


    The man stood and rolled his shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s an old password, and it no longer checks out. But if you think he rules too, go ahead. Bugger protocol. Anarchy, dude!¡± He pumped his fist and unlocked the door with a rusted old key.


    ¡°Errr, thanks,¡± managed Silven. The guard pushed open the door with one mighty barge to reveal a dimly lit tunnel through the ancient fortifications. The warrior stepped inside and quickly marched off into the darkness.


    A few seconds later, the light grew once more. Silven found himself at the side of a larger tunnel running left to right, this one supported by glistening black bricks of alabaster. The first thing he noticed was the immense cardboard arrow pointing right, cheerfully adorned with coloured-in stars and moons spelling out ¡®This Way!¡¯ across its surface. The next thing he noticed was the clanking feet of a dozen rebels hurrying his way from said direction. As he turned to depart himself, he found his way blocked by a less than impressive cut-out of a vaguely pink pig stretching across the left branch of the tunnel. The pig was saying, as demonstrated by crudely glittered letters popping out of a sparkly speech bubble, ¡®Not This Way!¡¯. It was all tediously dramatic.


    He halted and spun wearily to face his pursuers. They hesitated, saw that he was unarmed, and pressed on. Silven put his hands on his hips and jerked his head to the left. ¡°You know, guys, there¡¯s just something about that sign. Something that screams ¡®I should really go that way¡¯. No offence to the pig, of course.¡±


    The forerunner of the group shook his head until Silven feared it would join its twins in the trench voluntarily. ¡°No, you really shouldn¡¯t. We¡¯re just being all fun about it.¡±


    Silven folded his arms. ¡°And why would that be?¡±


    A second soldier piped up. ¡°Dark times, isn¡¯t it? Taxes, companies, people telling us what to do. And we live in a pretty miserable place on top of it all. So what¡¯s it gonna be? A bit of yokel-worrying with the boys or sure annihilation?¡±


    Silven took a step back. ¡°Not sure. Maybe I should go that way?¡± He pointed over his shoulder and winked.


    ¡°No,¡± groaned Rebel Number One. ¡°Terrible danger. You wouldn¡¯t last two seconds.¡±


    Silven pointed forward. ¡°But I thought you were the terrible danger?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we are.¡±


    ¡°So if that¡¯s the case.... that way¡¯s the safe one?¡±


    Rebel Number Two puffed out his chest. ¡°Gotta be safer than us, man!¡±


    ¡°Cheers.¡± Silven took a step towards the pig. The bandits followed. He turned back once more. ¡°Still not sure I trust you. Pig says no after all. So why don¡¯t you just wait here and we can have a good laugh at my expense when I turn back up still alive?¡±


    The soldiers paused and looked at each other. ¡°Sure, boss. You¡¯re gonna be so alive.... and then so dead!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, so dead it¡¯s unreal!¡± grinned Rebel Number Two.


    Silven squeezed past the cut-out and waved. ¡°See ya!¡±


    ¡°Byeeee!¡± cackled the rebels, and waved back.


    Beyond the porcine blockade, Silven found himself alone once again. There was a single torch lighting up a dead end, adorned with a bulbous black skull set into a wall. Beneath it, there was a chest. Silven prised back its lid and plucked a shiny horned helmet from within. The sword squeaked excitedly from its swaddling. With a sigh, Silven relented and released. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The Helm of Yashurwil, armour of the Gnomeslayer of Yore, giving four tiers of Deflect against-¡±


    ¡°If it helps slay gnomes, it¡¯s good enough for me,¡± cut in Silven sternly. He held up the helmet thoughtfully and looked around. ¡°Well, the underlings aren¡¯t going to see me here,¡± he decided, and placed it on his head. He inched back out of the gap and stopped dead before the villains. ¡°If that was there....¡±he began, and held up a hand. ¡°Hold on a minute. You¡¯re not planning on turning hostile within the next ten seconds, are you?¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Nah, we need to be jolly first,¡± came the reply.


    ¡°Kay. Be right back.¡± He disappeared, and returned an hour later bulging at the seams. He emptied the metal garments onto the dark bricks with the most clamorous of clamours, and set himself joyously down in the middle of it. ¡°So that¡¯s where the sweet loot was!¡± he chuckled. ¡°All these empty lairs I¡¯ve plodded through. Was I really so stupid to go, you know, the right way all the time?¡± He looked up into the empty tunnel. ¡°Oh well.¡±


    He fished out the matching spiked armour of Yashurwil and eased his now flabby frame into the brackets. ¡°Ding ding ding! Behold the bell-end!¡± screamed the sword. ¡°This set has lain scattered for three whole centuries after the Gnomeslayer... you know... earned his name.¡±


    ¡°Fascinating fact,¡± Silven retorted. ¡°On with the adventure.¡±


    He clunked on past childish tapestries draped over skulls, past skulls dressed in party hats, and even past some skulls. Finally, he heard the cacophony of his most recent friends rebounding down a narrow hallway off the main thoroughfare, just before it opened out into a wider chamber. He briefly considered moving on, then thought of the treasure and clopped away into the offshoot and down a set of slippery steps engraved with skulls. He was starting to see a pattern here.


    At the foot of the descent, he rounded a corner and froze as he entered a rather familiar corridor. No, it wasn¡¯t skulls. It was a long, arched stone corridor, lined on each side with grated doors . One was open, and Sylvia ¨C wait, Silven ¨C could just make out a stone slab, and a stone basin, and a rotten wooden crate. This place again.


    Silven motioned for his sword to be quiet and edged on. The laughter of the men was suddenly drowned by the screams of women. A deep stabbing pain clutched at his stomach. There was the deep rumble of ripping cloth, whimpers, and then, panicked cries as Silven leapt into the next open cell. It was all over quickly, given that raider armour was somehow three times more welcoming to unexpected blades, and, as the troupe sank first to their knees, then to their backs in perfect harmony, Silven cursed his lack of witness for the Twenty-Ninth Annual Synchronised Death Throe Championship. That one was a beauty.


    The half-naked woman looked up pitifully at her hero and begged for help. In response, Silven swept out of the corridor and pounded back upstairs. Even the sword knew to limit its doggerel to a relatively tame rhyme on gormless Gordons, and no more.


    Silven stalked down the corridor, shrugging off blows as crude blades and axes rained down onto the steel of Yashurwil. And, though he moved at that half-walk, half-trot swagger that suggests more attention is turned within and less upon the two-score screaming troops jostling along behind, none could strike again. He did waddle at a steady pace, after all.


    Finally, he reached a turn-off into a larger, more skull-festooned tunnel, and then on again into a round chamber covered in paper rainbows. Even the skulls wore sunglasses this deep in. The cheer was growing stronger, Silven sensed. The warlord must be near.


    He shut the wooden door behind him and left fifty bandits to rub their calves and get out the cards for just another hand. He scanned the room and noted the kegs and the dart boards and the bagatelle tables ¨C it was true that Wallace had tried to cheer the place up. What a pity Silven was feeling like a party pooper.


    Tentatively, he tried the first door off the opposite rounded edge. Inside, a giant of a man rose and waved. ¡°Awww, snap!¡± roared Wallace, and pointed at Silven¡¯s chest. It took him a moment or two to work out what the hairy old lout was cackling at. He looked down and examined details. ¡°But... it can¡¯t be the same....¡±


    The great, shaggy bear of a warrior let out a mighty torrent of laughter. ¡°Course it can. All decent bling needs an iconic backstory, but it doesn¡¯t have to be The One. What fun would that be for every bugger else? I keep a few spares around the place so that my weekly challengers don¡¯t have to choose between my beer tokens and my bonce.¡± He shook his head and stared deep into Silven¡¯s eyes. ¡°There are so many things you are yet to understand.... my brother.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not true!¡± cried Silven.


    Wallace clapped a wobbly thigh with one sausage finger and cheered. ¡°Nah, you¡¯re not really.¡± He reached out for an enormous tankard on the nearest table and took a gulp. ¡°What a tired old clich¨¦ that would be.¡±


    Silven took a step closer. ¡°What I mean is, I was of a rather more feminine persuasion when you last saw me.¡± He considered the cells for a moment and took a step back again. ¡°Or rather, when you last knew me.¡±


    Wallace twiddled his beard and scowled. ¡°Then you¡¯d be my sister. Eurgh! I¡¯m not gross.¡±


    Silven raised his sword. It promptly began a shanty that was all too inappropriately appropriate and it went away once again. ¡°Sex slavery isn¡¯t a laughing matter, Wallace, even for you. When I arrived here, I thought I was making a sound investment in my trade routes. Now, I know I¡¯m doing justice as well.¡±


    Wallace casually drew a throwing knife and loosed it over to his left. It thwacked into the buttocks of a crudely brushed, yet evidently much-loved, mural of a young lady without the usual number of garments on. ¡°Consider the war around us, lady-turned-warrior-turned-serious-judgey-person. The countryside is in turmoil. If I hadn¡¯t given those lovely little things quarters to rest in, they¡¯d¡¯ve been shipped off to the sea-camps in Vestria and turned into cheeseburgers or summat. Boom,¡± he boomed, flicking a fist in Silven¡¯s direction. ¡°Flimsy illogical dilemma designed to add weight to your encounter with a big player, in your face!¡±


    Silven banged a fist down on a skull sconce by his side, and winced as a stray canine came out in his finger. ¡°Damn cowboy dentists. Anyway, it¡¯s time to get this over with. The decision to drag my arse out of my cushy office and traipse across this stinking marsh wasn¡¯t made for a tin hat, trust me.¡±


    Wallace nodded solemnly. ¡°I bet it wasn¡¯t.¡± He raised his tankard again. ¡°But you still need to pull the breeches off thirty five more villagers before the week is up for your first meaty sip of Beardbuzzer. Sorry!¡± From up on a balcony behind Silven, a raider rattled a pair of mammoth skulls and tapped a dagger to a hanging tusk. The applause of his cronies followed the infuriating bu-dum tish of his taunt. ¡°Hey, maybe I will stay here!¡± chimed in the sword. Silven slapped a palm to his forehead and moaned aloud.


    Slowly, surely, he parted his fingers and eyed Wallace slyly as he took another swig. ¡°Ever have any challenges about sheep-worrying?¡±


    The jeers died out. Wallace smirked up at his audience and looked back at his visitor. ¡°Pah! The night¡¯s we¡¯ve ¡®ad here and you go on about sheep. As a matter of fact, we did have a ewe-slaying contest just last month. Boring. No tears from an animal....¡± He sniggered at some half-remembered joke.


    ¡°And?¡± urged Silven.


    Wallace looked up, suddenly perturbed. ¡°What do you mean? Course I was champ. Twenty five sheep in one minute with this beast. Boom!¡± He hefted his greataxe and winked at his men.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Silven calmly. ¡°For making this fight so very boring.¡± He charged and swept his sword into Wallace¡¯s breastplate with a mighty clank.

 2.13 The Warlords New Career

    2.13 The Warlord''s New Career


    Silven stood before his foe and swung with all his might. Wallace returned the blows joyously. The fight went on for a worryingly long time. At last, just as Silven was beginning to consider a snacksie break, the mighty warlord went down.


    Silven stepped back and doubled over as his foe curled and groaned miserably in the middle of a bearskin rug. He dropped his sword. ¡°More! Moooooore!¡± it squealed as it settled beside Wallace¡¯s axe.


    Silven ignored the pleas and gasped out his question between puffs of air. ¡°What the hell, dude? Same armour, more damage.... close one....¡±


    Wallace rolled onto his side and clasped a pale hand to his blood-soaked waist. ¡°Health, yeah? Look at the size of me.¡±


    Silven straightened, grabbed at a chair and slumped down, breathless. ¡°Oh sugar.... I forgot about that. But what¡¯s life without a little chance, eh?¡± He took a swig of Beardbuzzer and felt a welcome strength flow through him. ¡°Big bar need big smash and big toilet, huh?¡±


    Wallace grimaced. ¡°Hold on, wait for the intellect debuff to fade.... and go.¡±


    Silven blinked and looked around the room as if transported there for the first time. ¡°What happened there? No matter, I was just saying all those deep fried turnip cakes must have been good for something, and it certainly wasn¡¯t for my bottom.¡±


    Wallace eyed the Gnomeanian sword uncertainly as it strained against the confines of being an inanimate object. ¡°Come on then, little guy. Finish this. I¡¯ll see your midget idiots in the next world and have my revenge.¡±


    The sword uttered the choiciest curses ever proclaimed by a sword. Its tip tickled Wallace¡¯s wrist. Silven responded by racing from his chair and snatching it up before any more harm could be done.


    ¡°Bigfoot picklestinker!¡± it shrieked. ¡°Sing with me, master. Quaking Wallace weeeeeakling, defeated by a baaanker, and now he whines for quick death, the cowardly big fat-¡°


    ¡°Hush now, little letter opener,¡± soothed Silven. He sheathed the reluctant blade and looked into Wallace¡¯s pained eyes. He smiled a big smile. His business smile. ¡°Eager to depart, Wallace? I think not. Now, it¡¯s time for an offer you can¡¯t refuse. Former warlord, I offer you a position in Silverlink, the greatest company in the kingdom. If you¡¯re willing to assume the position, of course.¡±


    Silven rummaged in his pocket. Wallace said nothing as something long and thick and pink wobbled into view. His eyes, however, only grew more pained. Silven¡¯s smile cracked into a grin. ¡°Your past experience in the art of.... mandatory lovemaking makes you an ideal candidate for tester in a new branch of the conglomerate. You see, the research and development of instant messaging has shifted somewhat in recent months. The hardware is perfected, and it falls to thinkers to advance our product. But where does that leave the more practical employees? The fifty or so moulders and shapers? Well, Wallace, we¡¯re entering new fields every season. Entering more than you could imagine.¡±


    Wallace¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°I.... imagine more than you might think,¡± he grunted.


    Silven beamed. ¡°Good, a keen sense for detail will be most welcome.¡± He brandished the wobbly thing menacingly. ¡°It¡¯s time to please the ladies in a less direct way. Tester Wallace, please make your way to Overwall, enter the Silverlink Love cottage, and await further instruction.¡±


    He spoke rapidly and seemingly to himself. Instantly, two nondescript men appeared, raised the injured foe to his feet, and spirited him away. Silven whirled and blinked up at the gawping audience on the balcony. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect that. No longer enemies, are we? Good. Tell me, what¡¯s this place called?¡±


    ¡°F...Fort Deathrot,¡± squeaked a rebel through gritted teeth.


    Silven screwed up his face. ¡°What a revolting identity.¡±


    Another rebel raised a hand. ¡°Not our fault! It was the lair of a great clan of necromancers in ages long past. We¡¯ve tried to spruce the place up a bit... but... well, the name stuck.¡±


    Silven nodded sympathetically. ¡°As names tend to do. Apart from when you¡¯re Gary. Fort Deathrot must be razed next month. I sense an oppressive evil clinging to the stone, ready to manifest again at the right time to bring death and destruction to the land in its quest to restore the dark old days from whence it came. Your crude sketches could never hide its foul, fetid presence.¡± He looked around appraisingly. ¡°But, on the other hand, this is just the place for the company Summerfeast bash. If you put out some decent nosh and string together a bit of a variety show ¨C you know, jugglers and whatnot ¨C then we¡¯ll let you live. See you next Tuesday!¡± And he was gone.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Five hours and two tedious conference calls later, Silven found himself in the bright whitewashed Square of the Saints in the middle of Desert Marsh¡¯s administrative quarter. While a well-attended ceremony of all the council and public figures was going on and on declaring their appreciation for his actions, he was trying and very much failing to work out which saints that name referred to.


    ¡°Is it for followers of The Light?¡± he demanded as the council gathered round at the end of a spectacular demonstration of predatory plant wrangling by the current Champion of the Predatory Plant Wrangling Premiership in his honour. ¡°Sillin, the Saint of Obscure Sports, perhaps? Or how about Ildrek, the Saint of Drunken Celebration?¡±


    A tanned, dark haired man bowed before the hero. ¡°Err, just a cool name. We kind of hoped no one would look into the history of our historical city too closely. Anyway, here are the keys.¡± He held out a ring of ornate brass to the warrior.


    Silven looked most uncomfortable. ¡°Who are you, again?¡±


    The stranger bowed once more. ¡°Edsil the Wise, council member and advisor to the Oracle of Sandstream. Weren¡¯t you listening to line sixteen of the Introduction of The Homage Payers to a Saviour?¡±


    Silven didn¡¯t answer. ¡°And what are these again?¡±


    Edsil narrowed his eyes. ¡°The keys to your official chambers. You¡¯ve been made Dean of Silicarco Academy for your brave actions against the rebellion. As discussed sixteen minutes ago in the Recital of Offerings for a True Gentleman.¡±


    Silven decided that if he was going to dig, he might as well do a good job. ¡°Thank you. And what will that do for me?¡±


    It was Edsil¡¯s turn to look troubled. He looked to his left for support from his peers. Lord Eleganto coughed. ¡°Errr, well, you get some flowerpots in your courtyard.¡±


    Silven nodded gravely. ¡°I see.¡± He accepted a cactus pinwheel from a passing servant and munched. ¡°Now let¡¯s play a game. I¡¯m guessing.... scroll seventy five lets you complete this U-turn from trying to murder me in my room to praising my own ability to remove undesirables? What does Dilsen have to say about all this?¡±


    Edsil looked surprised. ¡°He can say what he likes. As for the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation, to which I assume you refer, it was thrown out last year. You¡¯ve created a new world, Dean Silicarco. These days, we¡¯ll tag along with anyone who¡¯s going to cut through the rebel trade blockade and bring in the moolah.¡± He winked. ¡°Which I take is your next act in your new position, yes?¡±


    Silven swallowed his prickly pilferings. He gazed from official to official with childish joy. ¡°You have my word, my lords. Fireline would benefit immensely from a base of operations in that dive bar under Maneater Square. Good start point for the pipes. And I¡¯ll have to have a little chat with the big boss to bring in an IM pylon over on the academy roof. Do you require protection?¡±


    Edsil hesitated. Eleganto observed emotionlessly. ¡°There is this new cult gathering in the bog....¡± stammered Edsil.


    Silven nodded decisively. ¡°Fine. If you hand over your guardhouse, we¡¯ll have a company of Silverlink security over within the hour.¡± Eleganto smiled and turned to chat with his peers. Edsil instead swept a hand in the direction of the academy. ¡°Shall we inspect your premises?¡±


    Silven¡¯s face darkened. ¡°I am afraid not. I shall admire these horticultural marvels at a later date. Do I have any duties as Dean?¡±


    ¡°None.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then I shall take my leave. Cheerio!¡±


    He wandered through the party, batting away the fair hands of maidens and dancers, and found Olgred sliding under a bench. ¡°Hic!¡± he said as he gazed up at his master.


    ¡°Not now, Olgy, you have some work to do. Talk to the nice men over there. Do whatever I¡¯ve just promised them. It¡¯s time to move on.¡±


    ¡°What, now?¡± slurred his companion.


    Silven sighed. ¡°Onto the next target. The last.¡±


    Olgred grinned stupidly. ¡°Your new girlfriend.¡±


    Silven looked down severely. The grin was mysteriously gone. ¡°No. Zolar Ceneron. I¡¯m sticking to my goals.¡±


    ¡°To rid the world of all that threatens your big utopia and live out your days in carefully restricted bliss?¡±


    Silven shrugged. ¡°Because I¡¯m bored with it, mostly.¡±


    ¡°But I thought you were getting bored in the business.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but at least that boredom has less chance of getting me killed.¡±


    Olgred cackled and wrapped an arm around his beautiful groupies. ¡°Not with all those deep fried turnip cakes, Silven.¡± The girls chuckled politely. Silven did not. He thought only of the witch. Because, if he didn¡¯t, he might have to start on getting that utopia organised. And that really did seem like a bit of work.

 2.14 A Hop Of Faith

    2.14 A Hop Of Faith


    Silven stepped into the stone chamber and looked around at the decaying furniture within. He then eliminated the floating chainmail silhouette which glided towards him using his favoured technique of running round it in a tight circle and bopping it on the headless helmet whenever he gained enough of a lead on the slowly revolving spirit. So far, it hadn¡¯t led to his death.


    Once the armour clanked sensibly into a pile on the floorboards, Silven stooped and placed two green and two red stones in a deliberate cross pattern. Finally, he covered his ears to block out the maddening scuffles of monsters pacing above and below and addressed HQ. ¡°Day three. I have taken a bookcase out of room thirty-two and identified a new room. It shall be known as room one hundred and thirty five, and will be recognised by the reversed colours of the preceding number¡¯s pattern. There is a staircase down to the left, a hallway straight ahead, and...¡± He sauntered over to the balustrade overlooking an old dining room marked with two blue stones surrounded by a circle of red, ¡°....A view of room seventy, no sixty nine, below to the right. One chainmail demon destroyed. Warn of plate demon upon next entry.¡±


    Olgred¡¯s voice was muffled, as if struggling to penetrate the dozens of walls between the pair. ¡°Noted, master. Just how do they do that?¡±


    Silven sighed. He tested a rotting chair with a tentative hand and decided it was safer to stand while he nommed. It was a good job food was weightless, else he¡¯d be in serious trouble by now.


    ¡°To prove themselves irksome, I expect. Maybe they¡¯re lazy and want to try out the lowest forms of their powers to take out a man like myself. Perhaps they share a recent common ancestor with our customer services.¡± He peered cautiously at the pacing bulk below. ¡°But we need to keep a careful tally of the death count, or else my fears that I have bitten off more than I can chew will be correct.¡± He played mindlessly with his fraying sleeve and fought back the sudden urge to plunge headfirst over the edge.


    Olgred sensed his master¡¯s low spirits from the uneasy calm in his voice. ¡°Fear not, master. It can¡¯t go on much longer.¡± But it did.


    By day five, Silven had discovered a mind-boggling array of hallways, wooden sitting rooms filled with bloodied spikes, a tunnel leading to a vault of cloaked skeletons, a treasure trove defended by ponderously swinging axes, an underground lake infested with ten-foot snapping turtles, a crumbling temple to the old god of burgers, inexplicably guarded by cow-headed warriors, and no exit. From the outside, Ridgecomb Manor had seemed perfectly normal. A teetering neglected mansion of moderate proportions nestled within its dismal grounds of rocks and pines, it stood just a short walk from the high, neat walls of what could only be Greenholme beyond a thin smattering of shadowy pools. Silven had entered expecting a fight, but not a struggle for his sanity. We find our hero now, when weedy gremlins bouncing around sofas had long become monstrous fatties gorging on dinner tables, spinning from deathtrap to deathtrap seeking for the way he had surely missed. A sudden thought had stopped him dead. He ran to an empty room, blocked the pursuing ghost with a calmly closed door, and addressed Olgred once more. ¡°Olgred, is this real?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The faint rhythmic breathing on the other end turned to sudden relief. ¡°Yes. Silven, I haven¡¯t heard from you since....¡±


    ¡°Since island twenty in the stormy bay of the downstairs toilets, I know. Sorry. I just needed time to think.¡±


    ¡°And?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going back to the stone arch.¡±


    Olgred laughed, if only to keep his master from doing the opposite. ¡°And what do you propose to do there?¡±


    Silven marched over to the next door and peered through the keyhole at the circle of twelve portals beyond. ¡°Get out.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re tired,¡± cautioned Olgred, concern rising in his tone. ¡°You¡¯re becoming erratic. We¡¯ll find an actual path, you wait and see.¡±


    But Silven wasn¡¯t listening. He took the third exit from the doorabout, a right from the centipede kitchen, and across the courtyard of acid fountains. There, he stood and inspected the arch for the umpteenth time over a pint of lukewarm water. It occupied a ten-foot wide space where two curving wings of the manor almost met at a forty-five degree angle. On one side, a rusted plaque bore the words ¡°Greenholme Gate.¡± Beyond, a roughly-hewn path cut its way through the sloping rocks and snaked out of sight around a silent pond. From here, the city wall looked close enough to touch. So, so close.


    Silven forced himself to blink and focus on the terrible gauntlet which blocked the way. He had examined every detail before, it was true. And yet, in his half-exhausted, half-crazed state, it almost looked doable. He raised his travel tankard to the sky. ¡°Better to die now than rot with the d¨¦cor,¡± he called out to Olgred. ¡°Look after Herbie, won¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± screamed Olgred in his ear. ¡°Silven, no. It¡¯s not worth it. Turn back. Turn back!¡±


    But it was too late. Silven took a breath. He inched closer to the gate, edged from side to side, and inspected his mortal enemy. Then, before he could consider fully what he was about to risk, he raised a foot and stepped over the log.

 2.15 The Heat Of Passion

    2.15 The Heat Of Passion


    Silven rattled down the ramp with Olgy¡¯s cheers rattling in his lugholes, and clattered against a boulder to wait for his legs to stop shaking. He dared not look ahead yet.


    ¡°Everything we knew, everything we feared, challenged by one hero and crushed by the bravery of man!¡± Olgred was proclaiming over a jug of horribly-out-of-reach ale in Overwall. ¡°Silven, this is tremendous!¡±


    Silven took a shuddering breath and composed himself. ¡°As dean of my very own academy, I propose a paradigm shift in the tangled fields of science.¡±


    Olgred burped.


    ¡°From now on, we shall base our studies upon the foundations of common damned sense,¡± Silven growled. ¡°Olgy, I know you were right with the water, but let¡¯s actually assess if there¡¯s any possibility of damage before trooping round a never-ending haunted house for five whole days.¡±


    Olgred thought for a second. ¡°Then how do you explain the never-ending haunted house?¡±


    Silven looked back at the three-storied building. ¡°Ok, from now on, we shall try to add a bit of common sense, where appropriate.¡± He trailed off. ¡°But I do want someone looking into this. If we can discover how that place fits so much in, maybe we can solve this logistics problem just after I kill the rebels and then I can go back to being miserable about how I¡¯ve wasted so much of my life again. Yay!¡±


    ¡°But now you¡¯re also a noble warrior siding with the law to stamp out tyranny and selfishness, paving the way for a new age of peace,¡± Olgred reminded him.


    ¡°Oh yeah, I forgot about that bit. Let¡¯s just get this bitch ¨C I mean, witch- over and done with, savvy?¡±


    Around the bend, the landscape took a dramatic turn for the bizarre. Colours blended into dull brown, the pine trees became squarish blocks, the water a sky-blue sheet like the surface of a mirror. In front of it all, his blade-scarred hands and slippered feet stood out in curiously sharp detail, the keen edges of his figure battling for supremacy with the jagged, blurred nothingness behind. It would have proved most amusing if he hadn¡¯t found himself alone in the middle of it. As it was, he had the deep, uneasy feeling he was somewhere he just should not be. ¡°Olgred?¡± he called fretfully. There was no answer, only eternal silence. He kept his eyes on his feet and glided on.


    The jumbled mosaic of a path continued around a perfectly cubic stone, and arced embarrassingly ungracefully towards the fortunately normal wall. There was another stone arch, and another thick trunk blocking the way into the town. Thankfully, Silven was a quick learner, and this time, he was ready for it.


    He stepped into an elegant open space, surrounded by thick foliage and decorated with neat panels of swirling iron grates set into the cobbles. It was hard to make out the buildings beyond, but what he could see hinted at beautiful high-walled terraces curling around groves of slender trees. Steeples far above bore the gold and green banners of the ancient city. Greenholme was obviously a wonderful place. He looked down and saw the soldier running off through a strip of rosebushes. Damned Derrity, why did there always have to be soldiers?


    Greenholme, he had read, was a city of contrasts. But there again, that was the first thing he¡¯d read about every single city in the known world, so we¡¯ll scrap that. He did know, however, that Greenholme was once Curum Magica, capital of a long-fallen spiritual tribe, and that the descendents of the greenfolk still knew the ways of the odd simple curse to help them on their way through life. One such curse hit the unsuspecting Silven in the chest, rooting him to the spot with clutching branches which burst out from a nearby grate. He had also heard that the moneybag was mightier than the sword. He decided that that was probably not going to be the case as Random Squadron XY of rebel soldiers burst out of the greenery and charged him with a forest¡¯s worst nightmare of axes.


    Wearily, he drew his sword and waited. The soldiers halted uncertainly, and looked back into the bushes. ¡°Horace?¡± one queried in a high, wavering voice.


    Silven sighed. ¡°Go on. What have I done this time?¡±


    One of the thousandtuplets coughed. ¡°You disturb the peace of the Green City.¡±


    ¡°No I¡¯ve not! Yet,¡± protested Silven, struggling against his woody bonds.


    The soldier sneered. ¡°You looked at the bushes the wrong way.¡±


    ¡°Is this just some excuse to relieve a bit of tension after rebelling only to usher in a new strict ruler?¡± Silven asked.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Another soldier looked dreamily over his shoulder. ¡°Have you seen the witch? You¡¯d need to relieve a bit of tension too.¡± The squadron sniggered. ¡°Horace?¡± repeated the man to the plants.


    Silven sheathed his sword again, took out a quill and parchment, and looked up with interest. ¡°So, what¡¯s the story? I actually do enjoy collecting these titbits. Makes the world seem actually alive.¡±


    ¡°Well, the king wanted to build a forge in the centre and use our gardens for fuel,¡± recounted one man gravely. ¡°He was making armour to upgrade our horsemen to tanks. But Zolar, his own armour enchantress, stepped in and took our fair country into her own beautiful hands. She sees peace and harmony with nature as paramount, as do all the greenfolk still in town.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± replied Silven, putting his scroll away. ¡°You actually have a point, then. So why all the hassling of travellers on your roads? Why the ambush of the friars¡¯ wagon last year? Why preach peace and poison the well of Ironmount because they refused to give you half their harvest?¡±


    A soldier grinned. ¡°Because we¡¯re rebels, and we want to.¡±


    ¡°Also to draw in heroes not attracted by our queen¡¯s beauty in order to ensnare them in our gripping subplot,¡± added another.


    Silven sighed. ¡°Well, you almost made me let you go.¡± Out came the sword again.


    ¡°Horace!¡± screamed one of the back soldiers angrily.


    Silven cocked his head. ¡°What¡¯s all this about Horace?¡±


    A soldier who may or may not have spoken before piped up. ¡°He¡¯s got the longbow! Off hunting rabbits for the lady¡¯s pie, I expect.¡± He raised his voice. ¡°It¡¯s never gonna work, Horace; let it go. And get over here so we can snipe this invader where he stands.¡±


    ¡°Do you think we can throw one of these?¡± mused another, hefting his axe in Silven¡¯s general direction.


    ¡°What about the High Wizard¡¯s lightning bolts?¡± butted in the next.


    ¡°Nah, bedtime for the learned,¡± muttered the second, and he edged towards his trapped enemy. He reached out with his axe and lined it up with the Gnomeanian sword. ¡°Never mind, he¡¯s got more reach. Horace!¡±


    The squadron milled around their prey awkwardly. Silven¡¯s lip trembled. His head started shaking. He just couldn¡¯t help himself. ¡°Bah! I know I shouldn¡¯t help you to murder me, but it¡¯s just too much. Just shout some friends over and rush me. I can¡¯t hit you all at once.¡±


    The closest soldier closed his eyes and hung his head. ¡°Haven¡¯t you kept up to date with modern warfare? There¡¯s a patrol zone highway all the way to Zolar¡¯s arena. We can¡¯t have you wandering about the place unpestered.¡±


    ¡°Horace!¡± chorused the guards together.


    ¡°Horace the pervert went to-¡± started the sword.


    Silven stood straight and glared. ¡°Shut up. This is an absolute disgrace. Now come and fight!¡±


    The soldiers could hardly meet his eyes. ¡°Sorry about this,¡± stammered the first. ¡°We appear to have encountered a minor staffing issue. Now let¡¯s all run up one by one, by the shortest possible route to your face, and end this.¡± The guard was true to his word. The rebels died. The branches disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Silven walked on.


    The city was beautiful. Silven worked to unbeautify it through generous splashes of blood on his way to the armourer. Men and women tutted and shuttered their shutters as he traversed the smart streets. Children burst out of doors to clap and cheer as he whirled his way through arms and heads. It was really quite disturbing on such a productive day of labour.


    At last, the warrior dragged his slippers through a neat line of flowers and out onto the main thoroughfare. Barricades of splintered carts lined the street, and in front of them, the blackened wreckage of strange metal boxes on tracks, daubed now in the mysterious emerald victory symbols of the greenfolk. Up ahead, before the twirling wooden colonnades of the mayor¡¯s palace, there stood a circle of beech trees. They were on fire. They were also framed ever so picturesquely between a crooked lamppost and the charred skeleton of a royal soldier. On balance, Silven decided it was too classy to ignore. He moved forward.


    There were no more militiamen to politely tap at his shoulder with chained clubs and guide him on to his goal, but he didn¡¯t need them. He approached the burning grove, surveyed the scene, and doubled over in uncontrollable laughter.


    Another fireball flared up furiously from the woman in the ashen centre. ¡°What?¡± she shrieked, as her guards moved forward to intercept the trespasser.


    Silven raised his red head and bellowed into the firestorm. ¡°Of all the riffraff to seize a city of wood... a fire sorceress? You can¡¯t be serious!¡±


    The woman held up a slender hand to halt her followers. She glared appraisingly at her foe. ¡°Come on, Silven. Remember your Commontongue lessons. Contrast, symbolism, imagery?¡±


    ¡°Uh?¡± grunted the man before her.


    She tried again. ¡°Foreshadowing of how I¡¯ll wrest control from the destructive forces of this land, only to consume it all anyway in an inferno of passion?¡± Her tone became low and sultry. ¡°Come now, dear.¡±


    She raised her other hand. Silven charged. A river of blazing lava descended on his chestplate as he ran. He sunk to his knees in a sea of agony. ¡°Bollocks!¡± he declared to the gawping minors, and closed his eyes.

 2.16 2 Of 2

    2.16 2 Of 2


    As Silven crumpled to the pavement, his dying mind thought one last thought. Thank Gurzelwuck it was a good one.


    It occurred to him that he hadn¡¯t yet spent any of his fanfares from that blasted manor house. He really was forgetful in his ever so slightly less young days. With one melting finger, he touched his chest and found himself instantly on his feet atop a surge of energy. ¡°Phew! Instamaxhealth!¡± he cried, brushing away ash from his warped armour. He turned sternly to the scattering of children behind a fallen bench. ¡°Get experimenting, kids. There may yet be another day this century that science might come in vaguely handy.¡± Zolar Ceneron raised her hands again. He winked. ¡°Sorry. Be back in a tick.¡± Off he dashed down the road, inches ahead of the enraged witch¡¯s molten river.


    A few minutes later, he stepped off the scorching streets of Desert Marsh and into the shade of Elegant Perfumes and Powders. ¡°One lava blocker, please,¡± he asked the proprietor. ¡°There is a miracle potion for everything, right?¡±


    Lord Eleganto smiled, took a golden bottle from a wooden shelf off to his side, pompously pinched off the cork and, with a practised flick of the wrist, emptied the contents onto Silven¡¯s breastplate. He looked on approvingly as the metal instantly took on its former shape. ¡°Repair Solution, now with Extragleam Plus,¡± he announced, bowing to his customer. ¡°As a complimentary gift, for such a noble dean. Indeed, the answer to your question is yes.¡±


    Silven looked down admiringly as Eleganto returned to his shelves. You really didn¡¯t notice the lack of shine to your plate until someone showed you the error of your ways. ¡°Thanks, my lord. I...¡± He faltered. ¡°I¡¯ve never been so close to the end. But life does, just about, go on.¡±


    ¡°Of course it does.¡± Eleganto set down another potion. ¡°I¡¯m feeling generous towards our town hero. Enjoy.¡±


    Silven reached out a hand and paused. His smile turned upside down. ¡°Forgive me, but shouldn¡¯t a fire potion be, you know, all red and smouldery?¡± He clasped the thin bottle and raised it to his face. ¡°This is all black and noxious, and...¡± He peered closer. ¡°It appears to have tiny white skulls floating in it.¡±


    Eleganto blinked and tugged at his beard fretfully. ¡°Oh, I do apologise. Of course. Wrong one. Here you are.¡± He reached behind him and pulled down another bottle. The liquid inside was red and smouldery.


    ¡°Cheers!¡± called Silven. He took one huge, spicy gulp, left Eleganto with the other bottle, and found himself back before the burning grove.


    ¡°Right, where were we?¡± he called. A glowing tsunami of fiery energy splashed harmlessly across metal and skin. ¡°Oh, yeah. That was it. You were trying to kill me. Cheerio!¡± He drew his sword and charged into the trees. He batted two rebels aside, stopped ponderously, and sheathed his weapon. He looked Zolar up and down. ¡°I¡¯ve just thought of something,¡± he gasped.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Zolar motioned for her soldiers to back off and dowsed Silven in fire once more. ¡°What now?¡±


    He pointed. ¡°In all my travels, I¡¯ve never once met a powerful woman.¡± It was true. Here was Zolar, long, curly black locks, stiletto heels, and not much else. Only a thin green metallic strip of armour struggled to span her enormous chest humps. He was pretty sure she was female.


    Zolar chuckled musically. ¡°You have now, darling. There¡¯s always a first and a last to everything. And now, before you call in your trampling mob of iron-obsessed friends, it¡¯s time to do my duty to this free city.¡± She jerked a hand up threateningly, eyes never leaving Silven¡¯s.


    ¡°But why now? Why did you abandon the king for these brutes?¡± the warrior insisted.


    Zolar wiggled her humps in reply. ¡°These, of course. Do you not know the ways of the world? A woman lives for one thing.¡±


    ¡°Influence?¡± ventured Silven.


    ¡°Sex!¡± crooned Zolar. She tossed back her hair and looked longingly at Silven¡¯s forearms. ¡°I am a sensual woman, Silven. The king couldn¡¯t cope with my constant, insatiable advances, so I had to roam elsewhere....¡± She let out a playful giggle. ¡°I fled to the prettiest place in the kingdom to keep my delicate heart warm against the frosts of chaos. Yet here, I found no man who could satisfy me.¡± She licked her lips. ¡°So I waited, and I got caught up in this silly political war thing. Of course, I can¡¯t understand any of it, but if I can use my super fireballs of death to get back at the king, then so be it!¡± She gestured at the bodies of the fallen garrison strewn about the thoroughfare. ¡°I thought I would be lonely forever, but then....¡± She lowered her hand and edged closer. ¡°But then you refused to be burned to a crisp, and now that I see you closer, I feel a glowing desire spread through my womanly regions.¡±


    Silven took a step back.


    Zolar¡¯s cheeks flushed. ¡°Oh, come on Silven; every hero needs a special friend. Make love to me, right here, right now, and take me away to forget about all the genocidal atrocities I¡¯ve committed. We¡¯ll live happily ever after in a little cottage in the meadow, and engage in adventurous naughty relations all night, every night.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Silven.


    Zolar¡¯s eyes blazed as the man drew his sword. ¡°You¡¯ll never defeat me with that. Don¡¯t forget, I¡¯m an armour enchantress!¡± She pulled out a sickly green knife from her cleavage and pointed it at Silven¡¯s helmet. Before it could all get out hand, he rushed forward and plunged his blade deep into her exposed chest. The colour drained from her face. She looked down and spat. ¡°Oh, curse this targeted attack system. You¡¯ve found the weak point between my bra straps.¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have gone out like that,¡± lectured Silven, but he¡¯d quite forgotten he¡¯d just stabbed the witch through the heart. The corpse had no answer for him.


    He knelt and eased the body gently to the paving of the plaza. He looked around wordlessly at the silent city. The rebels were retreating. One, however, had very thoughtfully paused to lower the green separatist flag in the bell-tower of the palace before fleeing for his life. And, at that signal, the first Silverlink convoy was just passing beneath a curiously trunk-free arch by the market, laden with commercial goodies.


    The quest had ended. Silven took off his helmet and offered a question to the wind. ¡°What now?¡±

 Recap: Part 2

    Recap: Part 2


    So, where were we? Ah yes, Silven has settled down to a boring scholarly life to find something worthy of Professor Grennel''s attention and finally unlock the secrets of his strange universe. It doesn''t last long.


    After a little while of reading all the books he can get hold of, Silven is frustrated that even the literature seems aimed at helping him to kill things. He finds himself in Rockborough, and remembers a certain mouse in Desert Marsh telling him that this is the site of the cathedral in which someone else like him, Ashleigh, fell to her death after using one of her abilities. Nobody in the cathedral has heard of this woman, however, and after exploring the higher floors, he is ambushed by a new enemy: a Master of Deathness. He barely survives by using the assassin''s dramatic stagger animation against him. The guard that follows reveals that this is another faction focused on getting him to his destiny at the Three Toes Tavern. The guard then tries to quite literally throw him into another adventure in the cathedral''s catacombs. Silven escapes again, angry at the insistence of the world in bringing him out of retirement as a hero.


    A dark time of paranoia follows for Silven, a time in which he thinks the whole world exists simply to guide him to where that voice in the air wants him to go. He sneaks into Desert Marsh again to unleash his observations on Grennel, but despite hinting that he really does want to let Silven in, the professor is able to explain away all the oddities Silven has noted. Silven reels away for a booze-fuelled wallow in his self-pity.


    When he wakes up the next day in a village he can''t remember, he finds a letter from Olgred, the merchant with whom he devised the plan to get rich by preparing ready-made fast-travel maps. Olgred is hiding out in an abandoned town called Stonepeak, hunted by rival merchants who wish to end their competition once and for all. Silven arrives to take his share of the profit and go; however their enemies are alerted to their presence by way of singing kettle. Silven is forced to accept Olgred''s invitation to become his ''eternal companion'' to save him. This makes the escape from the house in which they are hiding rather more difficult, as Olgred''s first priority as companion is getting in the way, but eventally Silven finds a path out. Olgred is cut to ribbons, but of course that doesn''t matter because he regenerates as soon as Silven gets to safety.


    After gaining a little fame by telling the former residents of Stonepeak they can go back home (earthworms and all), Silven turns his attention to the future. The pair gain access to the capital Solmond City by using the letter he obtained from Count Steinbrook in his doomed apple-harvesting quest. They use their profits from the fast-travel maps to buy a mansion just outside the city, in which a demonic portal occassionally appears. Silven traps the demons that exit this portal and uses them to heat his furnace room, establishing a surprisingly efficient heating company, Fireline, in the process. Now he has somewhere relatively safe in which to contemplate his next moves. He continues his research and discovers supsicious links between people and places, as if everything in this world is interconnected by some sort of creator. He uses his knowledge to craft an instant messaging system to allow people to communicate over large distances. He employs Olgred''s former enemies and spins this off as a separate company: Silverlink.


    Other than the fact he is confined to his protected headquarters, away from mice and assassins and terrorknights, Silven is finally at peace. His companies grow and he establishes a new town, Limetop, to manufacture Silverlink''s messaging devices. Oldeburgh seems to become a smaller place due to Silven''s fast-travel and IM developments. However, his keen observations and intellect come with a flip side. He doesn''t belong in this world, it seems, and the people turn on his companies after a heating disaster (brought on by a special Christmas event) and a PR stunt gone horribly wrong, in which Silven nearly drowns a group of children after failing to understand that nobody can swim. He is confused by his strange knowledge of physics and rules other than those that seem to be in play in his world, like an echo of somewhere else. He is also angry that despite his promise to stop trying to help people (which usually ends in disaster), he is becoming more involved again. Finally, he comes to a revelation - if he has already changed the world so much using his otherworldly intellect, perhaps he can research ways to change the rules of this world altogether and make it a truly better place to live, with no focus on killing and adventure. He uses his status as a recluse to allow Olgred to take over the running of both companies, and sets out again to look for ways to expand his influence.


    He starts a couple of random side-quests and soon makes a discovery - plants that seem to generate monsters whenever he comes too close. These eventually become the TWEDIS plants that Silverlink uses to transport vast quantities of goods around the kingdom. He also discovers a crowd of adventurers waiting for their turn to slay a monster to gain its loot. After a period of observation, he finds the monster reappears on a set timescale and begins to develop his idea for Monster Camps, where heroes can level up at their leisure in the lap of luxury. These two developments quickly expand Silverlink to all-powerful status.


    On his walk, he eventually runs into a mouse who seems interested in his progress, but he flees. He finds himself hunted by terrorknights or assassins or both, and, using Olgred''s guidance via instant messaging, he approaches Gigglewick. He mentions the quarry that the old man Folborn told him of the first time he entered the village, and Olgred excitedly arranges to meet him. Olgred explains this must be an undiscovered treasure trove which will make their fortunes. They dig up Folborn''s grave looking for an entrance to the quarry and find a letter hinting at a perilous quest that Folborn and a group he belonged to were engaged with. It directs them to Folborn''s ruined cottage, where they struggle to decipher the puzzle in the letter (if it exists at all). Eventually, Silven rearranges some items mentioned in the letter in a fit of anger and opens up a portal, which the pair jump into. What else do you do with a portal?


    They find themselves in a village on the Unfinished Plain, where legend says gods cut content to meet their creation deadlines. Here, they are met by Wilborn, who, like the late Folborn, is a member of the Fellowship of the Glitch. Silven is aware of a plague sweeping the land which causes its victims to transform or disappear in bizarre ways. Wilborn says that this plague is just one sysmptom of the Glitch, a force born with the world which his fellowship tries to hold back, but which will eventually destroy existence itself. Silven and Olgred agree to enter the village with Wilborn, who informs them the residents have been afflicted by the Glitch. After a battle against the doomed inhabitants, Wilborn advises killing the entire population, but Silven takes pity on them and builds a moat around the village to quarantine it instead.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    At Wilborn''s invitation, Silven and Olgred follow him back to the fellowship''s headquarters, the Cathedral of Dust, to present their findings at the village. The interview drags on, until Silven mentions he is an employee of a large company that could provide assistance to the fellowship. The brothers instantly grow suspicious and demand to know Silven''s identity, heavily hinting that the company''s work is somehow feeding the Glitch and its chaotic work. Silven and Olgred escape into the vaults below the cathedral, which house quarantined victims of the Glitch. They avoid the guards by entering one of the vaults and find an old man who can duplicate objects he is given using a series of hand movements. After escaping for good, Silven finds he only needs to repeat these movements to duplicate anything he wants. The world is changed forever.


    Silven knows in his heart that this ''Doll Sequence'', as he calls it, is unexplainable and could be used to access Grennel''s research. However, he decides against this course, altering his goals yet again. Through production of infinite goods, he can make the world a better place for all - true payback after all the damage he caused in his early adventures. He splits his companies again, installing a new puppet leader, Herbie Sootroller, and creating a new department called Silverlink Stuff which he runs under a false identity to begin distributing necessities and luxuries to the people of Oldeburgh. This time, he feels, he has won at life.


    As time goes by, however, Silven begins to have concerns about the Doll Sequence and its effects. He realises that infinite luxuries will simply cut off any progress and development in the world as thinkers and leaders simply settle for lots of existing stuff, without trying anything new. He also foresees that unchecked greed could lead to more conflict. He creates a quota on luxuries in an attempt to stop stagnation, much to the disgust of his inner circle of staff: Olgred, Simitest the engineer, Ulf the accountant, and Trashbag Bob the transporter.


    There is also another problem: so much stuff is being transported now that the TWEDIS flowers used to hold goods have to be transported the old-fashioned way in carts, which are prey to the rebels holding the land in the grip of civil war. There are suggestions that simply releasing goods to everyone could end war forever. However, Silven is convinced that the rebels would find something else to bully people about once money was worthless. Instead, he has decided that Silverlink will officially join the war on the king''s side and use its power and mercenaries to bring peace to Oldeburgh. The ways of the world work against him yet again, however, as his staff explain that if he wants rid of the rebels, he must do it alone, hack-n-slash style. Reluctantly, he agrees, starting with the rebels Warlord Wallace and Zolar Ceneron in the north. It appears the passwords and secret entrances supplied by Elsenberg will come in handy after all.


    Silven levels up, buys whichever sword is the most expensive at the adventurers'' market, and sets out to put an end to Warlord Wallace, in the fortress where he woke up as Sylvia so long ago. The bad news is that the sword he has chosen is an agonisingly annoying talking Gnomish sword witha fondness for rude ditties. The good news is that it is pretty powerful and helps Silven to fight his way to the heart of the fortress with relative ease.


    On his way, he stumbles upon a familiar room - the prison where he was held captive before his awakening. He realises that, despite the jaunty, cheerful composure of Wallace''s rebels, they are keeping women (such as himself, back in the bad old days) as sex slaves. Fuelled now by a sense of justice as well as his mission to open up his trade routes, Silven races to meet the all-too-jolly warlord. Through a conversation about a sheep-slaughtering contest, Silven is confident that his sword''s stats are superior to those of his adversary''s axe and launches into battle. After a rather close shave, owing to the fact he forgot to consider health, he defeats his target and realises that his destiny here is obviously to kill Wallace. So, instead, he gives him a job - as sex toy tester in the new and blossoming department of Silverlink Love.


    Silven is invited to a ceremony in Desert Marsh to celebrate his freeing of the city from Wallace''s blockades. He accepts his honours and new perks with boredom and restlessness. He doesn''t pause to consider the changes he''s making to the city - the battalion of mercenaries he has decided to station there, or the ceaseless development of his companies in new territory - or the fact that not everyone may be pleased by his growing power...


    Really, he justs wants to get his work over and done with so he can go back to boredom and restlessness at home. The second and final target is Zolar Ceneron, the witch who has captured the city of Greenholme to the north. Remembering Elsenberg''s advice to evade her defensive spells, he travels to Ridgecomb Manor to infiltrate the city from an unexpected angle.


    Ridgecomb Manor follows all the rules of hostile buildings - it is much bigger on the inside than out. Silven struggles through hundreds of rooms filled with progressively nastier foes for days before using that curious insight of his and returning to the courtyard. True, the archway to the city is blocked, or is at least intended to be. Luckily, Silven sees the blockage for the log it is and hops on to Greenholme.


    The city is beautiful, but also full of soldiers. Silven is quickly trapped by Zolar''s zealots, but the soldiers haven''t thought things through. Lacking their archer to pick off the intruder, they approach Silven one by one and die. Silven is free to move on, and eventually comes face to face with Zolar, the new ruler of the city. It turns out to be a bit of an unfair fight. Silven charges and is engulfed in flames. With his dying thought, he realises he has experience in hand and promptly levels up to heal and escape.


    He heads off to Desert Marsh, where Lord Eleganto of the council ''accidently'' hands Silven a black skull-filled poison to drink instead of the fire resistance potion he asked for. Silven is too focused on Zolar to make much of it. He returns to Greenholme and confronts the rebel sorceress once more.


    This time, Zolar reveals what seems to Silven to be her true purpose - to be his partner in a gratuitous sexual escapade far from the war. For what else would a woman of power be present in this strange world? Silven''s path is clear to him. It seems his destiny is to spare this enemy for sexy times. He rushes in and runs her through with his sword before she can defend herself, using her thorough lack of clothing to his advantage.


    The adventure is over! Wallace is no more, Greenholme is open to trade, and Silven is free to... do what exactly?


    Well, there''s two more parts to this story. So obviously something.

 3.1 Through The Roof of Sanity

    Part 3


    Wherein the author aims for grand and hits that perfect blend of bloated and sluggish. At least he resists the urge to expand the tale into a tedious ten-book epic that would probably never be finished.


    <hr>


    3.1 Through The Roof of Sanity


    At precisely ten o¡¯clock that morning, the torrential rain threatening to drown Limetop ceased to exist. Trees dripped thrice and dried. Silven rubbed his hands together eagerly and looked up to the blue sky. What luck! Such perfect timing for sprucing up the old office.


    He mumbled a few words to the air, descended the minimalist polished stone slabs past scurrying servants and flustering interns, and swept out into the warm glow of the sun. Around him, the smoke rose from his factories in great billows, just like the old days, but the cavernous work halls themselves were strangely silent. All the shouting and bustling and clanging came now from the immense expanse of wagon yards beyond, on the newly flattened tops of the hills, where lines upon lines of vehicles waited patiently and impatiently for their cargoes of TWEDIS.


    That was not the direction in which Silven turned today. It was, you see, the way the real work lay, and he had Trashbag Bob for that. Today he would play with the giant experimental warpship instead.


    He passed up the gravel path beyond Silverlink Stuff Super Central, silently congratulating himself for the hundredth time on harnessing the power of alliteration. A patch of pines closed briefly around him, and then, he crested the hill and beheld the behemoth of metal and twisting pipes which awaited him in the clearing. He had little time to enjoy the view. All too soon, Olgred was there by his side, smiling furiously.


    ¡°Master, before you set off for Fort Deathrot,¡± the irksome one managed through gritted molars, ¡°you forbade me from disagreeing with you. Therefore, after discovering the aftermath of your latest missions, I have resolved to be overly pleasant until you can bear it no longer.¡±


    Silven examined the grin as closely as he dared. ¡°That really is quite disturbing. You ought to see a dentist as soon as we¡¯re back.¡± The teeth remained resolute. Silven let out an exasperated sigh. ¡°Oh fine, I release you from your niceness. But at least wait until the voyage. We¡¯ve a long way to go.¡±


    Silven led his companion past rumbling propellers and twisting tunnels into the heart of the ship, where an extravagant and comfortable lounge awaited them. He threw out his hands proudly. ¡°Behold, the Noclip, the first of its kind. Built in secret with one destination in mind. In mere minutes, we shall find ourselves-¡±


    A siren blared as the propellers strained. Greater engines deep within the structure whined and coughed. Water gushed all over Olgred¡¯s armchair as a coolant pipe abandoned its post far above. ¡°Sweet Fellisar in a fish cellar! What¡¯s happening?¡± Silven shrieked at a passing crewman, wiping furiously at his new tunic. The Noclip lurched curiously and the roar of engine smoothed out. A pair of legs burst through the shining panels of the ceiling and were pulled back to safety as fast as they appeared. Slowly, things returned to normal. The crewman wiped at his glasses and grinned. ¡°If Master had waited more than a day after Summerfeast, Pilot Drewen may have been functional.¡±


    Olgred cut in as he transferred his rear end to pastures drier. ¡°I was there. He only had a couple.¡±


    The crewman grew pale. ¡°Yes. A couple of distillations of bloodstalker acid. There may have been an issue regarding identification of the venue¡¯s bar and its poison pantry. Such is the way with old necromancer lairs.¡±


    Silven frowned. ¡°So Drewen¡¯s still fit for this voyage?¡±


    The crewman shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ll find out when he wakes up.¡±


    Silven winced as an explosion rocked the ship. It was a worryingly large one, he reflected. Perhaps a good argument would allay his fears. He turned to Olgred with a polite smile. ¡°So, how are you, my good friend?¡±


    Olgred¡¯s features seem to have been replaced with those of a bloodthirsty troll. It was somehow worse than that stupid grin. ¡°Oh, fine, good friend,¡± he began menacingly. ¡°Now that you bother to see me. Congratulations on your most recent victory. Just a shame that I find none other than Warlord Wallace himself slinking about Overwall, while the sweet maiden Zolar lies dead on a pyre with her men.¡±


    ¡°Hardly a sweet maiden,¡± Silven scoffed. ¡°You mourn the curvaceous bosom, do you not?¡±


    Olgred had the sense to hang his head. ¡°You get my point, master. As far as the rumours from her city say, she wasn¡¯t all that bad inside.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what he said.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Silven sighed. ¡°No, I¡¯m getting rid of Silverlink Comedy. It¡¯s just not going to work in a serious business.¡± He took out a thin quill and scrawled something into the corner of his glossy new Silverview 4. He glanced up and waved dismissively at Olgred¡¯s puzzled expression. ¡°Let¡¯s get serious. You want your real answer? It¡¯s simple. Wallace was meant to die. The sorceress was meant to live. So I went for the good old switcheroo.¡±


    Olgred blinked fiercely. ¡°Meant to... what? You¡¯re talking nonsense!¡±


    Silven smiled sadly. ¡°I hope I am. And yet I fear not. All these rebels are tied up with my destiny, I¡¯m sure of it. My original destiny. Some were meant to waylay me with might. Others with lust, love even. Some are stepping stones, to be crushed, hopped over and forgotten on my path to glory. Others could have other parts to play. Zolar needed to die, or else I might have found myself shopping for wedding rings a year hence, and dragged giggling down some back lane, only to find an escort of armoured mice at my side ready to guide me through a conveniently adjacent tavern door...¡±


    Olgred slapped a palm to his forehead. ¡°Not the mice again, Silven...¡±


    Silven nodded eagerly. ¡°Exactly. We shan¡¯t be having their input again. Womanly temptations are dealt with. And our barbarian friend is helping us with womanly temptations of an altogether different perspective. Profits are rising again, I hear.¡±


    Despite his protests, Olgred felt his anger cool beneath the silky embrace of business talk. The KPIs were too good to resist. ¡°Aha. Love¡¯s outstripping even the monster camps now. It seems the revolution of pleasure is upon us despite your reluctance to open the floodgates. It¡¯s not fun and games for everyone, though. The Southern Herald¡¯s just ran a pamphlet on Lord Dweebly. Seems the poor sod¡¯s been barred from his lady¡¯s bedchamber twelve nights straight. The Decimator¡¯s been a raging success.¡±


    Silven held up a hand. ¡°Glad to hear it. I assure you Wallace has not got off lightly. And I shouldn¡¯t worry too much about sullen lords. The IM team should have them in hand by now, if Silverview 4¡¯s been taking off?¡±


    Olgred allowed himself a smug smile. ¡°Farscript, yes. Elsenberg in the written form.¡±


    ¡°No longer must the jawbone ache from unnecessary chatter!¡± declared Silven, unnecessarily chatting to Olgred. ¡°Donter¡¯s done well with that one. Do you see what that transferable ink¡¯s done? We¡¯ve removed shame and honour from communication. High lords and men of action sink into debates on the top ten ales of the kingdom and the five Solmond plays most likely to make you cry. Number three was particularly heartbreaking on that one, by the way. They talk of war and treachery no more. I agree, Olgy. The days of peace are nigh. ¡±


    ¡°All hands on the sky-deck!¡± boomed a thick voice from down a tunnel. Something wooshed past the Noclip. Men shouted. The whistling of spears followed. ¡°It¡¯s just a cloudhawk, I wager,¡± muttered Silven.


    Olgred jolted in his armchair, alarm in his eyes. ¡°You mean we¡¯re... in the sky?¡± he managed. He poured himself an alcoholic beverage from the table between them.


    A mercenary in a fur cloak hurried by and grinned. ¡°Lost ¡®im, m¡¯lord. We¡¯re above the air now. Bastard can¡¯t breathe up ¡®ere. Closing the windows now.¡±


    Olgred¡¯s drink disappeared. Silven smiled. ¡°Where else were we going from the middle of Limetop?¡± He leant closer. ¡°Something special awaits... on the moon!¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Olgred reclined against the rich cushions and stared over his master¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Ah yes. A new threat looms over the war-torn kingdom of Oldeburgh in our biggest adventure yet. From high above the world, a dark evil watches all. A powerful warlock, driven from his home for his vile meddling, shapes life anew upon the Moon and gathers his hosts to strike at those who rejected him. Rise above terrestrial feuds and meet the foe head-on in his vast lunar fortress, before all is lost. Explore the Moon ¨C roughly 50% the size of Oldeburgh - and encounter vicious unknown beasts, a murderous tale of treason, and unimaginable treasures in the crystalline tunnels of this desolate world. At least we will be helped by a mysterious cloaked traveller setting up shop in Bluebay, who brings a fearsome set of twenty new weapons from across the eastern waters. And let¡¯s not forget the addition of Moongems, which will allow us to augment our armour in awe-inspiring combos never before seen in the kingdom. Whatever aids we choose, we shall need all our strength and courage to zap forth and drive back the alien host before a new age of terror sweeps the world. Act today!¡±


    It was Silven¡¯s turn to down a glass of firehoney. ¡°Impressive work. I see you¡¯re already familiar with the news. Perhaps I should hand you over to the advertisement cottage?¡±


    ¡°Nah, that¡¯s all from a messenger who seized me in Solmond market last week and forced every word into my head a hundred times before he deigned to let me go. He also mentioned a handy portal that¡¯s just opened in Bluebay which leads directly to the Starlight Plain beneath the evil fortress. Not sure why we¡¯re in this thing.¡±


    Silven nodded condescendingly. ¡°Curious. I too have heard tell of this portal. That was when I finally decided to put my professors¡¯ work on collision detection to good use. As to your doubts...why, you¡¯ll see soon enough.¡±


    No sooner had he spoken than an indistinguishable crewman appeared and ushered the pair from the room. The warpship had slowed and steadied now, and it was an easy walk to the observation balcony. Olgred gasped at the alien blueish expanse before him. Silven, however, thought only of the prize. He stepped forward and addressed the team of operators by the bank of telescopes at the edge of the room. ¡°Observers, report! What are your findings?¡±


    The smart young men saluted as one and pointed out landmarks on the gleaming plain far below.


    ¡°The Moon Forest! Dotted with herds of tasty Moon Deer, prey of the terrifying Moon Wolves which lurk beneath the Moon Trees in immense packs, just waiting to lunge upon a human meal,¡± cried one, pointing out a clump of curly blue foliage beneath a silver mountain almost directly below.


    Another pushed his way into view. ¡°And beyond.... the Lunar Hills. There were villages of Moonfolk here once, but now, Moon Bandits have driven them from their homes and await Moongem miners in their crater-camps,¡± he announced proudly, brandishing a sketchpad in the general direction of Silven¡¯s frown.


    ¡°You¡¯d be wise to avoid the Moonfarms, master. The Moonshrooms may be tasty, but Moonbadgers prowl the boundaries searching for unguarded morsels.¡±


    ¡°The Table Treaty is a prickly subject. Those sporks were a nasty compromise for everyone,¡± observed the next passionately.


    Silven snorted. ¡°And I suppose the Moon-unicorns will savage the unwary on that Moonmeadow off to the right there?¡±


    The closest observer shook his head and indicated a sandy azure expanse far to the left. Only a flickering green light in its far corner broke up the boredom of the flatlands, but the blue darkened beneath the shadowy crags of a huge spindle-towered keep just beyond. ¡°No, Sir. They¡¯re called moonicorns, and they occupy the Starlight Plain by the Mooncerer¡¯s fortress. They will indeed savage you, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°The... what?¡± spluttered Silven, almost lost for words. ¡°How did you learn that hideous title?¡±


    The observer looked puzzled. ¡°We¡¯ve been in orbit several seconds. We can provide tempting snippets on everything you¡¯ll encounter on your massive loop across the plains and all the way back to the cliff just above via twenty-seven unique regions.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard enough.¡± Olgred stepped back instinctively, feeling silent anger bubbling within his master. "Is the captain sober?¡±


    ¡°The captain is alive.¡±


    ¡°Most excellent. Proceed to this ¡®Mooncerer¡¯s fortress.¡¯ Full speed, vertical descent.¡± Olgred cried out as the warpship lurched into action. Aqua trees, indigo grass and sapphire rivers blurred beneath them as the Noclip sped towards the imposing spindles. Silven shuffled to the edge of the balcony, glaring. His vessel paused for just a second between the silvery needles of the watchtowers, spun above a circular hall far below, and plunged. Olgred tried to scream, but the whistling wind caught his breath and carried his words into the black night above. A roof spun up to meet them. The end seemed nigh, and there was no time to bequeath his Trolls and Travellers to a worthy loser.


    Then, something magical happened. In a flash the ship turned translucent and passed straight through the rocky ceiling of the keep. A piercing spire pushed through Olgred¡¯s heart, unhindered by ghostly flesh, and a magnificent gleaming hall flashed into view. The ship continued to plummet at breakneck speed. ¡°Slow! Halt!¡± roared Silven urgently by his side.


    It was too late. Engines roared, the descent slowed, but the bottom of the Noclip smashed into the reflective glass floor and disintegrated with a musical crunch. Shards of hull scattered in all directions, severing the chains of the overhanging crystal chandeliers to send them crashing to the floor. A propeller spun off into a dazzling wall and continued on into the violet hallway beyond. And the crew stared around them with disinterest, peering through telescopes and hefting spears on the perfectly intact upper deck. A race through a twenty-foot roof and sudden unexpected splattering against an immovable floor was obviously confusing for the unitiated. ¡°What-?¡± coughed Olgred fearfully through the settling dust.


    Silven grimaced remorsefully. ¡°The Noclip noclipped from above, just as the noclip experts thought, yet the Noclip came out of noclip and failed to noclip the floor. They¡¯re often non-noclippable anyway, apparently. I¡¯m afraid the Noclip will not be noclipping us out of here again. We¡¯ll have to exit the clippy way.¡± He stopped as something black moved amongst the wreckage below. The anger returned, and he leapt from the balcony with the strength and fearlessness of a madman.


    ¡°Sweet Sulbius on a sidepony!¡± he groaned at the startled youth in front of him. ¡°Get some original material!¡± The boy brushed away a flop of spiky hair and stared mournfully at the invader. ¡°Moonbadgers, seriously? For a supposed all-powerful warlock who can conjure life from a crystal, that¡¯s seriously scraping the barrel, don¡¯t you think?¡± The warlock wrapped his leather cape sullenly about his legs and pouted. ¡°The Mooncerer, in all his glory!¡± continued Silven mercilessly. ¡°Let me think... Shardmancer, for a start, or, or... Stoneshaper...just...¡± He raised his head and yelled across the hall. ¡°We get it... we¡¯re on the moon!¡± The boy sulked. An engine exploded off to the right, and the hero seemed to regard his surroundings for the first time. ¡°Oh, this is just too good!¡± he giggled, skipping across the crystal to its perimeter. ¡°Spiky railings, ghastly gargoyles, open plan arena floor... what a lovely Fight Room you have! But weren¡¯t you supposed to be doing the invading?¡±


    ¡°All the cool villains have them,¡± the Mooncerer complained.


    Silven nodded solemnly and pointed. ¡°Yes. And all the dead villains have a perfectly arranged sequence of pillars poised around the edges, just so, for the cunning hero to dodge their slowly revolving mystical death rays. And then, we bop them on the head.¡± Like a viper, he lunged. The Mooncerer gave a piggish squeal and sank to his knees. The blow stopped short. ¡°But I¡¯m not killing you. Moon-farmers, moon-wolves, moonicorns... it¡¯s plain to see. You miss home. So go back.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t understand me,¡± moaned the Mooncerer.


    Silven gave him an appraising look. ¡°Understandably so. Edgy does not equal evil. Stop playing warlocks and go see Mummy. That¡¯s an order.¡± He gave the boy a hard shove towards the ship and paused. ¡°We may need an alternative exit strategy.¡±


    The boy groaned. ¡°Aww. Dunno why, but I think I saw some loser spell called Back to Bluebay.¡± He produced a leaflet of symbols from his cloak and got reading.


    Silven turned. His eyes gleamed. His breath grew laboured. ¡°Where... is it?¡±


    He had half a dozen crewmen drag it from below the glass throne towards the Mooncerer¡¯s swirling portal. He looked it over from padding to foot. Then, he took the sensible step of sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. ¡°Great Gurzelwuck, what am I doing with my life?¡±


    Olgred rolled up his sleeves and sighed. ¡°The trouble with footrests is that they¡¯re a bit bulky, aren¡¯t they? I did try to get you started on daffodils.¡±


    Silven peeked through his fingers hopefully. ¡°There¡¯s still time, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± admitted his advisor, ¡°But shouldn¡¯t you be getting started on this dream of peace and prosperity?¡±


    Silven scowled. ¡°Damn you, Olgy. Always work work work with you. Help me with this before our urchin here decides he¡¯s not like the others again.¡±


    They left the Noclip where it lay and trooped through the portal. Everything went black. The moment of nothingness did not come. Silven tried to move an arm and found it did not exist. ¡°Err, guys?¡±


    The disembodied voice of Crewman Number 12 wavered through the dark. ¡°It appears you need to say something profound in order to pass, sir.¡±


    ¡°These are quite the most elegant marble legs I have ever had the pleasure to behold on a footrest,¡± declared Silven at once.


    The blackness went on. The silence went on.


    ¡°I¡¯m really not like the others,¡± moaned the Mooncerer.


    A dozen cries of disgust rang out into the portal. ¡°Let us out! We¡¯re in terrible danger!¡± mocked Olgred.


    The moment ended. The terrible danger began.

 3.2 War of the Four Legs

    3.2 War of the Four Legs


    The general was in his office. That was most inconvenient, because it was a Moonday afternoon, and Moonday afternoons were roast turnip time. It was the finest of Southcastle turnips these days, and the distraction would not do.


    But, it was the general, and it would have to do. Silven sighed and wondered if the trouble thing had some truth to it after all. He had hoped to force some common sense into that Mooncerer boy before he went, but there was no time now. He ushered him over to the wagon yards with Olgy, and whispered a word in Trashbag¡¯s ever-waxy ear. He would see the boy home safe, but the traditional way this time, and with a rather inquisitive escort in his ever-present companion. ¡°Just to make sure,¡± he assured himself as the pair set off on the road for the capital. It was rather a coincidence that someone capable of conjuring a world from bare stone should just happen to pop up after the factories closed their doors around the Doll Sequence. A pretty big coincidence indeed.


    He turned his attention to the matter in hand. Hastily, he donned his finest jerkin, and glided into the office like someone who cared. The general was taller than he recalled, stern of face and frowny of eyes, and the unmistakable aura of turnips left uneaten clung to his shaved head like a halo. ¡°Lord Treken, a welcome surprise,¡± he managed, horribly unconvincingly.


    ¡°Report on your position, please.¡± The general had given no acknowledgement of Silven¡¯s coldness; today¡¯s manner was of but an average level of obnoxiousness.


    Like a golem, the merchant lumbered over to his war cabinet and drew out the usual maps. ¡°Apologies, general. I¡¯ve been driven to lunacy by my footrest obsession.¡±


    The grim warrior did not get the joke. Silven thought it best to move on with all haste. ¡°The tide is turning, sir. With Wallace and the witch removed, the minor rebel groups in the Greenholme area have dissipated. The north-west is fully under the king¡¯s control once more.¡±


    The general grunted.


    Silven pressed on. ¡°As you know, renegades and alcoholics have been raiding the vineyards of the Capital Foothills. However, with a birds-eye view of the attacks from our infinitely foolish catapult volunteers, we recently discovered a startling fact: they use the exact same route every time. That continued after we raised a molehill north of Waltersfarm to forty feet and put the crossbow watchtower on top. Sheep to the slaughter, as... no-one says. Another loyalist victory.¡±


    The general grimaced. ¡°And what of the other rebellions? The east and south are restless still.¡±


    ¡°Yet not as before.¡± Silven was getting into his stride. ¡°While your siege of Chucklecurrent Keep holds the host of Terry the Traitor at bay, the PR cottage has been busy feeding the undefeated chieftain Carlax the Fearsome unprecedented praise for his Farscript woad tutorials. He¡¯s bringing out one a day now; for every gauntlet up, another tribesman leaves.¡±


    Treken gave one stiff nod. ¡°And Silverlink?¡±


    ¡°I beg your pardon?¡±


    ¡°Silverlink,¡± repeated the commander. He moved stiffly to the maps and pointed with rapid flicks of his gloved fingers. ¡°Heavily fortified capitals in two well-supplied regions ¨C Overwall and Limetop. Strong support in Solmond City. The thriving trade centres of Greenholme and Desert Marsh under de facto control. Pledges of allegiance from Gigglewick, Thornyhedge and Stonepeak to the ¡®Hero of the Realm¡¯. Seemingly infinite resources, unbreakable communication lines, and seven hundred well-equipped mercenaries. The largest threat of them all.¡±


    For once, Silven was lost for wit. ¡°But we¡¯re loyal citizens all!¡±


    ¡°This is war, son,¡± blustered the general, ¡°and that means any beneficial alliances the crown has with reliable tax-paying economic powerhouses are temporary. Everyone knows there has to be a winner in the end. And everyone knows the way to instant surrender is the removal of the one man who obviously controls everything with his giant omnipotent mind.¡± Treken drew his sword, an immense razor-sharp beast of a sword glittering with diamonds, and heaved it high above his head. ¡°For the King!¡±


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± protested Silven. The general blinked and focused on the piece of parchment waggling under his nose. His adversary had found no sword hanging at his belt, and had reached for a desperate shield instead. ¡°See here,¡± he urged, pointing to the top of a long list of names. ¡°I¡¯m not in control, nor, sadly, omnipotent.¡± The three heavy doors leading into the office burst open as one, and a dozen mercenaries in gleaming plate barged across the soft rugs with swords drawn.


    The general squinted and let loose a shuddering snort of rage. ¡°Herbie...Sootroller. The head of the viper.¡±


    Silven smiled. ¡°And here am I, just a very smug parotid salivary gland behind it.¡±


    Treken eyed the advancing soldiers warily. ¡°Then my sacrifice would surely be in vain.¡±


    Silven nodded cheerfully. ¡°Now let¡¯s discuss this disappointing declaration of yours. Guards, escort my guest to the conference room.¡±


    The men hurried on and froze ten feet from their target. The general chuckled. ¡°As I said, this is war. As the attacker, the crown reserves the right to make the first move.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Silven frowned, turned, and caught a weapon from the nearest mercenary. ¡°Go ahead.¡±


    The first move was made. The general turned tail and fled from the room.


    ¡°By the way, it¡¯s pronounced Yiggle-wike-a!¡± called Silven at the empty doorway.


    ¡°Your turn,¡± came the distant reply.


    The turn did not come for some time. Silven needed to make sure Olgred got back unmolested first as the royal troops stalked his lone wagon. Then, the war council was convened once more. Of course, it was time for Herbie and the heads of more important departments to be whisked away to undisclosed barns around the country, so once more, Silven bravely stepped in to take the lead. The conference room was a far more sullen place this time around.


    ¡°Just as victory was in our grasp!¡± exclaimed Simitest incredulously. ¡°The King turns loyalist against loyalist. The disgruntled will all be up in arms again before we know it.¡±


    ¡°Please, let¡¯s concentrate on our own survival first,¡± urged Dasat, the only mercenary captain capable of a modicum of insight. ¡°We¡¯ve got seven hundred men, maybe fifteen hundred counting the town militias, against maybe three times that number. Treken¡¯s forces are disciplined and battle-hardened, and our fortresses are scattered. We¡¯re not prepared for a true war on this scale.¡±


    ¡°Fifteen hundred?¡± scoffed Olgred. ¡°Have you listened to the scrollcasts recently? The kingdom has been forced to its knees by pestilence. The plague spreads every day, and the worst of it has hit the north-west. Some are blaming our caravans. No, the majority will defend their families at most. We can hope for a thousand, no more.¡±


    Silven sat forward and peered into the row of gloomy eyes. ¡°The Fellowship is losing? What about our donations?¡±


    ¡°Buying weapons for the quest for your head,¡± replied Olgred with a knowing smile. ¡°It¡¯s their last hope, or so it is told. Most brothers have withdrawn to their base to prepare for battle. There¡¯s a good chance that they could pledge open support to the crown against us.¡±


    A groan swept the room. Anger flashed in Silven¡¯s eyes. ¡°Nonsense!¡± he bellowed. ¡°We¡¯ve had nothing to do with this, as you well know. Cease official aid. I want every brother our scouts find deputised and forced into mandatory healing. Provide whatever technology they need. This plague could be the real threat here.¡±


    ¡°Not the endless armies poised to sweep down on our very livelihoods? What if they reach Limetop? What if they discover the sequence?¡± boomed Simitest. Cold silence pervaded. It was a matter Silven was not ready to face.


    ¡°Meow,¡± said Sir Meow-a-lot. He meowed a lot.


    The silence warmed. The meow was perfect. The meow was inspirational. The meow was the highlight of the security head¡¯s career.


    ¡°Well spoken, Mousecatcher,¡± managed Simitest, suddenly humbled. ¡°An opening turn to remember....¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll bring doomy revenge upon those who insult us!¡± roared Dasat. The modicum of insight was wavering. ¡°We¡¯ll bash them! Bash them all!¡±


    ¡°Bash them all!¡± came the chorus around the table.


    ¡°And we have the footrest,¡± observed Ulf Venstoke quietly from the corner.


    Silven visibly brightened at the word. ¡°Ah yes, we have many great treasures, and yet it is the jewel of the collection.¡± He indicated the artifact beneath his legs. At Olgy¡¯s gentle counsel, he had finally given up the others. But not this one. Never this. This one would travel with him to the end of his days. ¡°Such boldness....¡±


    Ulf rose.


    ¡°Such beauty....¡±


    He crossed the room.


    ¡°Such elegant legs....¡±


    Ulf yanked the footrest from beneath him and prised one of the aforementioned elegant legs from the wood. Silven screamed. The newly elected Restguard moved to execute the traitor.


    Ulf held the severed limb aloft, the stone glinting intriguingly in the morning light. ¡°Such power,¡± he finished for his leader. ¡°Don¡¯t you see?¡± He pointed the marble at the startled audience. ¡°It¡¯s from the moon!¡±


    ¡°Ahhh,¡± came the cry of realisation.


    ¡°Oh?¡± roared Silven, cradling the carcass of his beloved.


    Ulf turned. ¡°A token from the latest realm the creator gods have graced us with. Its power is second to nothing of this original world. One swing of a leg could dash through that general¡¯s sword as if it were... um... a stool leg.¡±


    Simitest rose proudly. ¡°And what¡¯s more... we have three others.¡±


    Silven ushered away his Restguard as the engineer butchered his treasure. With every sickening snap, his moment of clarity beneath the wreckage of the Noclip swam ever closer. It was only a footrest. Daffodils were so much prettier.


    ¡°With one leg, a mere rabble becomes an army,¡± insisted Ulf. ¡°There¡¯s not even any need to share it.¡±


    Silven stepped forth and took hold of the proffered legs. ¡°Four legs,¡± he murmured. ¡°And four great generals shall rise.¡± He looked up at his loyal, loving men. Each one had rose, sensing something magical. He held out a leg to Ulf. ¡°Ulf Venstoke, I name you-¡±


    ¡°Not a bloody chance,¡± shouted the recoiling man. ¡°I¡¯m an accountant. I¡¯m precious.¡±


    Silven sighed. ¡°Oh well, way to ruin the mood. Olgy, Dasat, Simitest, and my fine self, we shall have to do.¡± He distributed the remains of his furniture. ¡°Together, we shall be the Generals of the Four Legs. And now, today, for the glory of our corporation, we ride to battle!¡±


    Olgred¡¯s appalled voice cut through the thunderous applause like a whip.


    ¡°Sorry. Teleport. Yeah, I did mean teleport,¡± his master assured him.

 3.3 The Battle to End It All

    3.3 The Battle to End It All


    By the second week, Silven had decided that proper wars were silly things.


    At first, it had seemed that there was just no way to hold onto his, er, holdings. All anyone went on about was siege engines the size of small castles, tearing down walls, and glorious marches across the ramparts. Simitest had made their first move by marching straight for Solmond City, and Treken had made his second by wisely withdrawing in the face of city watch opposition, his ranks swelled by hardcore Fireline haters promised a good old log fire in the south. So, the capital was Silverlink¡¯s, but everywhere else gradually wasn¡¯t. Despite Silven¡¯s brave defence, Thornyhedge quickly yielded to a battering ram ten times the size of its windmill. Gigglewick unfortunately followed suit, though was quickly given up on account of the king¡¯s army finding a mere pair of habitable homes. Watchtowers in the Capital Foothills fell left, right and centre to catapults carefully drawn up behind impenetrable trees. And then, by the end of the first week, the king¡¯s forces marched on its first great target.


    Captain Cretwell marched eight hundred good men up the mountain slopes to settle in the stinking old shambles of Shitpeak. They were the butt of a barrage of unbearably distasteful jokes hurled down from the houses of Stonepeak far above.


    The jokes ended when Cretwell swept through the town and unfurled the king¡¯s banner.


    Silven responded by leading three hundred of his finest troops to the rescue and retook the town.


    The next day, Stonepeak was once again the king¡¯s.


    The following morning, the Silverlink banner stood proud.


    Cretwell emptied his wallet, built ten more megatowers overnight, and sauntered to certain victory.


    It was then that Silven realised it was all a bit of a farce, and that he really only needed to press his troops into the town square by the market cross to keep control. The king¡¯s forces waddled round the lake for a bit, raping and pillaging, and eventually got the message that the bit of stone in the middle wasn¡¯t going without a fight and promptly retreated. Stonepeak was saved.


    Elsewhere, Dasat completely destroyed an invading force of five hundred in the streets of Greenholme by throwing back his gates every few minutes and cutting off the great host into little tiny batches. The fifteen Firebreaker wall-drills were quickly abandoned at the sight of an open route, and three southern lords and their knights gladly queued for the chance of an easy entry through the bottleneck of death. The Massacre of the Gate was the day the tide turned.


    Defence went from impossible to a certainty. The age of sieges was quickly at an end. There was no point advancing on Bluebay and Rockborough and Southcastle for the massacre to be returned in kind. Today was the day of open battle.


    Silven decided to fast-travel only to the supply train on that bright morning. He had the curious notion from somewhere or other that as general of a mighty army, he had to plod through it all, glower at his men, and pretend they weren¡¯t ready. ¡°They¡¯re not ready,¡± he growled to Simitest, head of the rearguard, as he stalked through the immense valley camp.


    ¡°We¡¯re ready as we¡¯ll ever be,¡± replied the dashing engineer confidently. ¡°Dasat has assessed the situation, concluded that this is the Battle To End It All, and pulled all our garrisons out of the towns. Thirteen-hundred battle-hardened men in total. There¡¯ll be no more fighting for us anywhere after today, one way or another.¡±


    ¡°One way or another...¡± mumbled Silven thoughtfully. He reached the edge of the dirt-splattered tents and assessed the all-important base, a neat little brick tower from another Battle To End It All long ago. ¡°So this is it? I fall, or this does, and it¡¯s over?¡± He approached the mailed sergeant at its gate. ¡°Hail! We¡¯ve got a bit of time yet. Improve the defences.¡±


    The sergeant gazed back, uncertain. ¡°Well, sir, there¡¯s a variety of improvements we can make, for a bit of coin.¡± He pointed to an open ledger by the entrance. ¡°Red tapestries, to match the blood of our enemies? A little herb garden at the rear, to soothe pre-battle nerves? For a bit more, I could always add a few gargoyles for a little field cred.¡±


    Silven walked on.


    The valley opened onto a perfectly circular moor, with a perfectly circular lake in the middle. Two identical valleys flowed off the expanse at perfect 120 degree angles. ¡°If the gods demand fairness, why don¡¯t we get a hill?¡± Silven muttered. ¡°How many does the king still have?¡±


    ¡°Recent estimates suggest another two hundred reserves up from the south. Three and a half thousand, in all.¡±


    Silven grunted. ¡°Off to the right, as far as that standard shows. The question is... who takes the third valley?¡± For that, Simitest had no answer. The pair pressed on through the throngs of soldiers, further onto the field. It was a worrying thought. Was Carlax to run down the victors after all?


    The field was empty as Silven stepped from the shade of the trees onto the plain, the armour of Yashurwil glowing like a ball of flame all too dramatically. Then, three and a half thousand screaming soldiers charged towards the valley. ¡°Damn!¡± cursed Simitest, hefting his golden spear. ¡°Did the king walk up to us?¡±


    Silven turned his head to the side as he considered. All the noise of the charge was making it horribly hard to think. ¡°Well, we were at the valley already, but he did send a couple of skirmishers over last night...¡±


    ¡°Fizzlerats! First blood! He claimed the battleground, and so by the code of war he reserved the right to ambush,¡± lectured Simitest. At present, the lecture was a bit unhelpful. ¡°Rally the troops. I¡¯ll pull back to base.¡± He turned and hurried off as a cloud of arrows whistled by all around the pair.


    Silven adjusted his helm and stared left and right. The king¡¯s host filled the basin from vertical edge to vertical edge. A shining rectangle of plated regulars closed in dead ahead; rabbles of ragged reserves struggled to keep up on either side, and the thundering horses of the royal cavalry roared along the flanks. There were lines of archers behind, and beyond that, a score of rather confused sappers hurried along with an enormous siege ladder. Only a direct order from a commander could disband units, and Treken was a busy man.


    Silven drew his sword reluctantly, turned and ordered his men into place. Dasat sprinted up with a handful of eye-patched veterans, circling their general with axes aloft. ¡°We¡¯re all going to die, we¡¯re all going to die, the kings gonna bake us in a steaming victory pie,¡± the sword of Gnomeania greeted him.


    ¡°My sentiments exactly,¡± agreed Silven. ¡°Dasat, bring up the pikemen on the flanks, hold the cavalry until our foot gets in position. We¡¯ll hold the main body. Charge!¡± The men screamed as they met the soldiers with a sickening crack.


    There were only seventeen axe veterans; Silven hadn¡¯t had time to train more. But the unit did hold six experience medals, and therefore they proved hideously hard to kill with cold steel. It was a fair fight - once the enemy archers got their customary two volleys off and sat down for a spot of tea, the foot closed in obediently and the melee began in earnest. Seventy of the king¡¯s elite went down in circular clumps to the swirls of the veterans¡¯ axes. Then, their special attack energy ran out and Silven ordered them all to sit down in single file to hold off Treken¡¯s advance a little longer. Five were hauled to their feet and butchered despite their furious kicking before the company infantry stepped over the survivors into the fray. Silven rose, cut a man in half with a lazy flick of the wrist, and bowed out to assess the situation. The other Generals of the Four Legs were reacting well to the ambush. Olgred had appeared from somewhere behind and arranged their pikemen into two phalanxes on the flanks. The sacred triangle of the melee was complete ¨C squadrons of cavalry charged into the wall of points and flopped down enthusiastically into the churned soil. The rest drew back and looked for openings to chop at the central swordsmen, but their own men were inadvertently holding them back for now. At the sight of the retreat, Simitest was moving units of stragglers into the central bloodbath and edging his auxiliaries forward, ready to pounce. The smaller force had held up well against the unexpected onslaught.


    Silven watched anxiously. The centres of the armies rushed mercilessly against each other time and again. Men politely found a likely partner from the opposing side, stepped into a suitable space away from the crowds, and waved their weapon at their foe until one of them was dead. Silven¡¯s stomach dropped as he understood. Today, the ritual was something he couldn¡¯t afford.


    Before long, all his good men had found weapon waving pals. And that meant the larger host had free men to push forward through the pairs. On Silverlink¡¯s left, the right-hand enemies forced themselves through to the other side, turned, and hacked at the back of the phalanx. The pikemen wheeled round to meet their foe with all the gusto of a clock hand. The left flank disintegrated. The king¡¯s cavalry flew through the opening. Simitest barked an order, pointed a table leg, realised it was a table leg, drew his sword instead, and marched the reserves into battle. Horse met man and trampled flesh underhoof.


    ¡°Sing with me! The day is lost, the minnows all dead, the king will dine on Silven¡¯s lumpy head!¡± chortled the sword.


    ¡°I do not have a lumpy head!¡± snarled Silven. He power-warped the way clear to the remaining phalanx and found Olgred dancing between two axes at the front. ¡°About turn,¡± he snapped at his general. ¡°Ninety degrees anti-clockwise. Poke furiously, men! Rally the troops.¡± Little by little, the phalanx obeyed, the vicious pikes diving into the sea of bloodied men. Points found the king¡¯s men and opened throats and jugulars. Points found Silven¡¯s and pushed them unharmed to the centre to regroup. From somewhere up ahead, he made out a rhythmic chant, but no more.


    ¡°Break through!¡± he yelled to the knot of swordsmen in the middle. As royal soldiers screamed and sank to the red grass, the infantry broke free. Archers cursed and dropped their biscuits in their haste to draw knives, but it was too late. A dozen of Silven¡¯s chargers went down under a scalding haze of caffeinated beverages, but the slaughter had begun in earnest. ¡°Wohooo!¡± cried Olgred above the savagery. ¡°The ladder¡¯s down. A tiny victory for logic has been won this day.¡±


    With a cheer, the phalanx surged forward and pressed into the centre of the king¡¯s infantry. Silven embraced his haggard comrade and wordlessly slunk away from the advance. He needed to see how Simitest¡¯s auxiliaries were holding up. One horse away to the base, and the day was lost.


    He never got the chance to behold the struggling reserves. The rhythmic chanting grew louder. ¡°Five.... four.... three... two.... one.... they¡¯ve arrived. Fall back!¡± came a cry from beyond the beleaguered archers. Treken¡¯s battered host staggered away, merged into lines, and sauntered off for the lake behind them. Dasat¡¯s vanguard began to give chase. ¡°Hold!¡± roared Silven, sheathing his sword. ¡°Reform. Be cautious. We need to take stock of this horseplay.¡±


    ¡°Neigh!¡± moaned a riderless destrier as it galloped past across the bodies.


    ¡°No offence, sir. But we do need to be careful,¡± Silven added.


    Blessed space opened up in the field of battle. Swordsmen groaned and limped back into formation; Olgred began the laborious process of shouting at the remaining phalanx twenty times to break up; healers came running from camp to see to the fallen. Bodies from both sides littered the grass like autumn leaves. Finally, the four generals convened behind their troops.


    ¡°They¡¯ve arrived?¡± groaned Simitest. ¡°So we were right to worry all along. How many men have we lost?¡±


    Dasat scanned the survivors. ¡°Around two-hundred, I reckon. Treken¡¯s lost double, but we can¡¯t afford that sort of attrition.¡± He knelt and cut away a strip of trailing leather from his gouged leg.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Silven and Olgred stood silent. The companions shared a secret glance as Simitest babbled on about recruiting reinforcements from the farms. The countdown still rattled in their minds.


    Finally, their fears were answered. The empty valley suddenly blazed with bobbing banners far above the trees. ¡°Red thumbs up? It¡¯s not Carlax,¡± muttered Silven as a sea of forms emptied into the plain on its far edge.


    Dasat stared, then turned and yelled for a horn. But it was too late. Almost immediately, a mournful note rang out from the king¡¯s camp, and the standards turned blue. ¡°Curses!¡± Dasat spluttered. ¡°So close. Almost had those reinforcements. I never thought about other factions.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they had some deal in mind before heading off to death and glory,¡± Silven called as the mercenary stormed off to his veterans¡¯ cooking pot.


    Simitest glanced sideways. ¡°You do know the code of war?¡±


    ¡°Before leading an immense host into a climatic clash deciding the fate of Oldeburgh forever? Absolutely,¡± snapped Silven. He turned away angrily, but Olgred clutched at his shoulder. ¡°What?¡± he shouted. Then he saw.


    The Host of the Thumb was advancing. It was not normal.


    A scattering of shapes and colours and sizes met the eye. Knights in black took the flanks upon black horses. Bulbous frogmen with tridents waddled along the centre. Ponderous beasts carried towers of archers just behind. Here and there, pockets of rebels marched alongside sorcerers huddled in flapping robes, with werewolves in painful pants, with neatly sliced cubes of blackcurrant jelly. And everyone, even the things without mouths, were all chanting the same thing as they closed.


    ¡°We want to fight! We want to fight! We¡¯ve been ignored but to fight is our right!¡±


    The clamour went on, a raucous chorus that, as they desired, could not be ignored. Off to the right, Captain Cretwell led his reserve spears up past the lake, guarding a bank of rolling catapults, but Silven barely took notice. ¡°Ride with me, Olgy,¡± he said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you mean-¡±


    ¡°Battle, remember? We¡¯ll have to do it the boring way.¡±


    Together, the generals acquired a pair of fresh horses, cursed those endless turnips as they huffed and puffed by the stirrups, and plodded ahead of their army on foot. Their men, loyal as ever, reformed and edged onwards towards the lake.


    The new army was endless. By the time the generals met its head, the rear was still emerging from the valley. Off to the left, a globular form rose from its deckchair, folded a sheet-like magazine, and donned its battle slippers. ¡°They have a lawn troll,¡± Olgred observed simply. There was no need for fear. Death would come soon, unless....


    ¡°Are you really allied to those southern buffoons?¡± declared Silven incredulously when the warty amphibians came into hearing range.


    ¡°Yes,¡± they warbled.


    Silven nodded glumly. ¡°Death is coming soon.¡±


    The armies halted. Cretwell¡¯s reserves prepared the catapults. The main bulk of the king¡¯s host gathered in their valley and waited. Together, the blue banners numbered eight thousand or more.


    There was a rustle of steel. A whinny of horses. The enemy looked on.


    ¡°Errrr, this is awkward,¡± called Silven. He shook off his helm and handed it to Olgred. ¡°Isn¡¯t this the part where you sweep down and wipe us off the map?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± warbled the tallest frogman. ¡°We stand and wait for your charge.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡± scoffed Silven. ¡°About turn, men. Away from this place. Some of us might get out.¡±


    ¡°I think you might find a big slab of rock in the pass now,¡± whispered Olgred in his ear. ¡°You did read the code of war, didn¡¯t you? This is the Battle To End It All.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Silven sighed back. ¡°Let¡¯s end it.¡±


    He unleashed his sword. ¡°Slimey McSlimester from Flysucker Bog-¡° it began.


    ¡°Hang on,¡± Silven interrupted. He took a step forward, as if truly seeing for the first time. ¡°What in Shadowdeep is this? Who are you all?¡± He gestured at a cloaked giant clutching a stone warhammer. ¡°Why are you here, sir?¡±


    ¡°Ignored,¡± grunted the giant in a gravelly voice.


    ¡°And you, Slimey- err, sir?¡±


    ¡°You should have challenged us long ago,¡± bubbled the frogman. ¡°That kidnapped girl has been sitting there for a year now. Waste of fly stew, she is. You should¡¯ve got ¡®er while you had the chance.¡±


    ¡°And you, in the poncho?¡±


    A robed wizard strode forward and raised his hands dramatically. ¡°We meet, again, hero. This time there¡¯s nowhere to hide. Mwahaha!¡±


    ¡°Shhh,¡± hissed someone behind him.


    Silven blinked. ¡°I¡¯ve never met you in my life.¡± He reeled suddenly as the earth shifted beneath his feet. A sea of hands and claws waved in front as the rabble struggled to keep its balance.


    ¡°Back off, master, it¡¯s not safe,¡± moaned Olgred. A shiver ran through the soil once more. ¡°What is it?¡± Silven gasped.


    ¡°It¡¯s an omen of your doom!¡± boomed a hooded figure from the second row.


    But Silven was not finished. The voice brought back memories, distant memories of paper mountains in a musty cathedral far from here. ¡°Well then, Mister Whateverborn, you can hardly claim to be ignored! We¡¯re press-ganging your brothers left right and centre for charitable causes. And, now that I recall, isn¡¯t your Fellowship a royal office? Did you ever report your suspicions about our involvement in the Glitch to higher powers?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± boomed Brother Whateverborn, stepping forward. ¡°Seeing as you¡¯re going to die, I may as well witter on about all our plans, thus giving you an opportunity to delay until the tables are turned, before you die. The king was most concerned with your meddling. He knew he was losing the war against the rebels, so he¡¯s been using your resources ever since to regain the upper hand, knowing any moment he need only take you out to stop the rise of Silverlink. He has many informers willing to do it, you know. Beggars, soldiers, potion purveyors....¡±


    ¡°Eleganto!¡± whispered Silven. Then, he frowned. ¡°So that¡¯s what that bottle of skulls was all about. Yet... it doesn¡¯t make any sense. Why try to poison me then? I was poised to eliminate the greatest single threat to the crown, unless he counted me based on all that baseless speculation of yours. So either he wants me dead first, and gives me, I don¡¯t know, a water resistance potion for Zolar to finish me off after his poison fails, or doesn¡¯t try to kill me until after that quest at all. It was almost like some sort of clever side-test to point me to the truth.¡± The ground rumbled again. Silven staggered closer. ¡°And what about after? We had Carlax powerless; the war was practically over. There was no need for all this. The king had me in the palm of his hand. Eleganto¡¯s a council member, I¡¯m the Academy Dean. A simple private meeting would have done for me. And yet I¡¯ve not been called to Desert Marsh since.¡±


    A crack ruptured the ground beneath Silven¡¯s feet. He dropped to his knees and looked into solid darkness. It only looked an inch deep. ¡°Enough. Forward, creatures!¡± spluttered a frogman. The army burst into life. The mercenaries of Silverlink raised their weapons and hurried forth to their leaders¡¯ aid.


    The black cavalry closed in from the flanks. Silven edged back across the crack. ¡°Hi!¡± said Olgred. ¡°Master, it¡¯s the Terrorknights of the Black Shadow again. Say, haven¡¯t you supposed to have been murdering us every time we¡¯ve left Overwall?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± laughed the lead knight from atop his charger. Then, the ground exploded beneath him with the crack to end all cracks.


    Soil and pebbles showered across the battlefield. Silven and Olgred went sailing through the air into the first line of their swordsmen. Soldiers opened their mouths to shout, but Silven heard nothing. He did, however, feel the earthquake.


    The crack was expanding at an alarming rate. The flat blackness yawned beneath. The Terrorknights of the Black Shadow tried to reign up their horses as they slipped on the liquid mud, tumbled into the hole, clattered onto the black plain, and vanished at the impact. The chasm reached out to the frogmen as they scattered, tendrils of pure darkness opening under their flippers. As the amphibians began to fall, there was another jolt. Miniature gorges raced up the flanks where the knights had been seconds before. The field beneath the enemy began to turn sideways towards the gaping hole. Writhing creatures slid towards their doom as the back lines jumped to safety.


    The ringing in Silven¡¯s ears died back. ¡°I knew I should have finished you when I had the chance,¡± roared the wizard, menacing eyes fixed on his quarry. He wobbled forth, blue sparks flickering around his fingers. The hooded brother joined him and tugged at his sleeve. ¡°Arule, get back! The Glitch has arrived. The reckoning has begun.¡±


    The wizard wrenched free. ¡°Fool! This is no glitch. A plotslide, if the legends be true. And there¡¯s only one way to stop it.¡± He raised a glowing fist, desperate eyes fixed on Silven as the warrior squirmed for balance in the quaking mud. The bolt of energy crackled and extended towards its target. Thankfully, it stopped when the giant lost its footing and crashed downwards onto Arule¡¯s silver head. Noiselessly, the pair rolled towards the black pit and disappeared from existence.


    The danger jolted Silven back to reality. He found his feet, and reached fearfully for Olgred. The general was out cold, a bloody trickle congealing in his hair, but there was nothing he could do now. He motioned for the closest mercenary to carry his friend to safety, and turned to the field with fresh eyes. No time to think about what he was seeing in front. The landslide was busy rocking away those trapped upon the island of grass, but many had reached safety beyond. Treken¡¯s host off to the right had just begun to march. Now was the time to strike.


    ¡°Freedom!¡± he screamed, raising his sword for all to see. He sprinted for the right side of the chasm, and with a deafening roar, his soldiers rushed behind him. Up ahead, the lawn troll cracked its knuckles and lumbered on. It was at least sixteen feet tall, sunglasses perched atop a shaggy forehead, slippers gently crushing the ground beneath immense feet. ¡°This is madness!¡± squealed a footman just behind. ¡°Nonsense,¡± Silven called. ¡°He¡¯s very dangerous, I wager. So naturally, he¡¯s only going to be able to amble. All power must be balanced.¡±


    He was right. The troll raised a barrel-like bottle of wine like a club and spat. The infantry edged to the side and trotted around to the right. ¡°Uuuuhhh?¡± said the troll, cocking its head like a sloth. It turned, ready to strike, but the thirteen-hundred troops were already upon its kin of the thumbs-up.


    The assembled foes were not prepared after their lucky escape. The mercenaries were among them like savage hounds, slicing jelly and snapping tridents as they went. Silven had paused to enjoy a particularly appetising beheaded apricot dessert when Simitest found him. His armour was covered in dents, but the man seemed rather unharmed, and his smile was so broad that it even managed to lift the ends of that drooping brush above his lip. ¡°The swordsmen have killed enough,¡± he called above the clatter of battle. ¡°They¡¯re ready to upgrade.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Silven managed around the jelly.


    ¡°I thought I¡¯d leave the choice to you. A point more armour, or transformation into machine-archers of persuasion.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± said Silven.


    ¡°I¡¯d highly recommend the latter.¡±


    Silven was persuaded. So were the remnants of the host. In the blink of an eye, the swordsmen had drawn back, gleaming crossbows at the ready, and unleashed a storm of bolts into their foes. Those foes promptly turned a sickening shade of green, high-fived the attackers, and trotted off towards Cretwell¡¯s catapults. ¡°Interesting,¡± murmured Silven as he carefully embraced a sticky frog and joined the charge. ¡°These new-fangled ¡®machine-bows¡¯, was it? I think we¡¯ve brought peace at last. Give the city guards a ranged weapon each, and we¡¯ll soon see the end to brutality in the streets.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± puffed Simitest by his side. ¡°But first, let¡¯s worry about all the angry men trying to kill us, shall we?¡±


    Cretwell didn¡¯t last long. Silven¡¯s dream of peace would have to wait. The frogs and giants and dwarves of the green were upon them before he could bring his machine bows to bear. The catapults did their best, but the king had obviously forgotten to cancel his last order of ammunition after the start of the war, and the bouquets-worth of kittens Trashbag had substituted only delayed the oncoming force for the length of a three w ¡®awww.¡¯ Incidentally, that day, the great observer Sargus of Dasat¡¯s mercenaries founded the great work of the Silicarco Cattery, and its pioneering strides in the precise measurements of cuteness.


    Frustratingly, Cretwell himself refused to yield even when surrounded by hordes of jeering monsters with but a tenth of his strength remaining to him. ¡°What is it with the stubbornness of bosses?¡± Silven questioned over his lifeless body when his patience had grown too thin. He looked out past the abandoned siege weapons into the advancing thousands of Treken.


    Simitest and Dasat were at his side. Humans danced with dwarves over the corpses. Frogs crouched and waited for flies to settle on the puddles of blood. He sighed contentedly. ¡°A fine victory!¡± he declared to the exhausted force. ¡°There¡¯s just one little job left.¡± He shouted for his machine archers to draw up in the face of the massive army before him. ¡°For freedom! Persuaders, persuade!¡±

 3.4 Safe At Last!

    3.4 Safe At Last!


    The sun was like gaseous glass in his eyes. He groaned, rolled over, and weakly tried to brush the dried mud from his cheek. Beneath his armour, he was soaked with sweat. At least, he hoped it was sweat.


    Someone was shaking his shoulder.


    ¡°Sorry to wake you so early in the afternoon,¡± said Olgred gently. ¡°But that troll¡¯s getting a bit close now.¡±


    Silven sat up slowly, his head swimming. Then, he saw the gnarled fist of the troll shadowing the ground before him. He shrieked and scrambled backwards. The troll took another angry step.


    ¡°Come on, it¡¯s all right,¡± Olgred reassured him. The top half of his head was obscured by a yellow bandage, so that his eyes only just squinted out from under the lower edge. ¡°A few steps. Come on. There. You¡¯ll be safe a while longer.¡±


    Silven was not amused. He crawled on his hands and knees away from the shambling beast. The sweet aroma of turnip stew drifted down from the camp ahead. Then came the patchy memories, unwelcome and unbidden in his throbbing head. First were the unwanted advances of wanted maidens. Then his unwanted advances towards wanted serving girls. Finally, dark and bitter, his surrender to the desperately unwanted wenches of the deep groggy night. His stomach turned. He paused to retch in a bloodstained clump of grass.


    Olgred chuckled, and put his hands in the pockets of his smart purple tunic. ¡°Good night, eh? Drunk on victory more than the cider, I suspect.¡±


    ¡°Eurrrgh!¡± replied Silven as he emptied said cider onto the grass.


    ¡°I¡¯ll reconsider my previous statement.¡± Olgred eased his swaying master to his feet and pushed him lightly into the camp by the lake. ¡°Time to address the troops, I think.¡±


    ¡°Urgh. Now?¡± mumbled Silven, rubbing his temples. The helm of Yashurwil was nowhere to be seen.


    ¡°Four hundred men and monsters lost their lives against the king yesterday. You should be grateful.¡±


    ¡°The king?¡± Silven coughed between dry heaves.


    ¡°No sign. Perhaps he wasn¡¯t present. But Treken¡¯s been captured. Well, he leapt forward all green-like and asked a medic for her hand in debauchery, so I think he¡¯s safe now.¡±


    ¡°Reports from the cities?¡±


    Olgred took him by the shoulders, suddenly serious. ¡°It¡¯s all over, Silven. Don¡¯t you see? Rockborough, Southcastle, Bluebay, Snailwick.... they¡¯ve all lowered the royal standard. Carlax has turned himself in to a make-up salon ready for an apprenticeship. The other rebels have dissolved into the woodlands or fled across our borders. We¡¯ve not just won the battle. We¡¯ve won at life.¡±


    Silven hadn¡¯t realised the sword was gone until he saw it in the centre of the camp. It was swinging wildly from the hand of a random mercenary, yet it sensed him all the same. ¡°Join in!¡± it cheered above the rhythm of clapping and stomping feet. ¡°If you know the words. The captain thinks of nooooothing, the general thinks with his cock, their cowards think of nice warm beds, the king¡¯s head thinks of the-¡±


    ¡°Bloooooock,¡± finished Silven with his men. The bubbling in his stomach had subsided, the sun warmed his matted hair, and the sweet taste of victory did its best to snuff out thoughts of those filthy after-midnight doings.


    His men sprang back in surprise as puffs of rainbow smoke burst from the sword. A tuneful whistling began from some hair-pullingly infuriating plane of hell. Then, the small folk were emerging from the commotion, prodding away bottoms with knobbly cudgels, pointy hats drooping as they looked this way and that.


    ¡°Enemieeeees! Yooohooo?¡± squealed the first.


    ¡°Gnomes!¡± cried Olgred. ¡°It can¡¯t be....¡±


    ¡°Oh, but it can,¡± cackled the sword. ¡°What have I been telling you, you ignorant pollypoppling sod? Sing with me! I¡¯ve got ten thousand more tucked away in some dimension or other.¡±


    Silven stepped back and eyed the waddlers as they helped themselves to the fresh breakfast. ¡°Ten thousand? What? How? Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡±


    The sword whirled, sliced at the mercenary¡¯s poor fingers, and dropped to the grass. ¡°Just do what you¡¯re told in future! Not allowed to solve my own mystery, am I? Gnomeania was lost, not destroyed. The Gnomeslayer slew some, not all. Nothing¡¯s ever truly gone in Oldeburgh. If only some bloody toerag would have opened his dainty turnip-hole a tinsy bit earlier, that battle was yours from the start.¡±


    ¡°Enemy! Enemy!¡± squealed the gnomes, pointing in the direction of the lumbering troll. One behind the other, they bobbed off over the field.


    ¡°Get back here!¡± demanded Silven. They stopped and chattered away in their horrid little squawky language.


    The Shortsword of Lost Gnomeania laughed. ¡°Only for a time, mind you. They¡¯re just a little bit unstoppable, so they¡¯re only allowed out of that dimension they exiled themselves to until they¡¯ve engaged an enemy. Then they¡¯ve got fifteen secs. I¡¯ve even been giving you the timings.¡±


    Silven covered his ears as a horrendous squeaking chant arose from the bickering mob. ¡°You leave that poor thing alone,¡± he called. ¡°Somehow, I don¡¯t think it came to battle willingly. Now go wait over there.¡±


    Sullenly, the little gremlins obeyed. Silven picked up his shortsword and faced his astonished men. ¡°Cheers, everyone. Enjoy your new life.¡±


    ¡°Freedom!¡± they roared as one, raising machine-bows and spears. Silven turned to go.


    ¡°A little short for such a momentous occasion...¡± began Olgred sternly. ¡°If you want them to be the guardians of your new utopia-¡±


    ¡°Then they¡¯ll do whatever I say,¡± finished Silven confidently. ¡°Here at Silverlink, the pay never runs out.¡± He thought suddenly of Arule the wizard. His smile faded.


    He found the gnomes a lovely little cavern network in the high mountains of Ardour. It took them a while to get the fifty or so that had been released far enough away from the troll to fast-travel, but by sunset, they were all there. The icy wind howled outside, but it was cosy enough within. ¡°A flowery little canopy across the mouth, a potted plant in every corner, and you¡¯ll feel right at home,¡± he told the sword as he propped it in a shadowy niche in a side-tunnel.¡±Here, it¡¯s isolated enough so you won¡¯t get into any bother. No enemies, no disappearing time.¡± And conveniently overlooking a certain cathedral just across the valley. ¡°You have pledged fealty to... whatever we decided on in the interim. The people of Oldeburgh shall not disturb you, and I shall be back to sing with you every week should you feel the need for more workers.¡± The sword had no eyes, yet it winked all the same. He turned to the bustle of gnomes about him. Some were already cheerfully carving little bed alcoves into the rock with their garden trowels. Conservation was a fun little distraction, he supposed. He raised a fist. ¡°I declare this mountain..... Found Gnomeania!¡±


    * * *


    From somewhere, Lord Eleganto had found the inspiration to summon him to a private audience in the council chambers. Silven answered with ten armed veterans and the keys to a spare dungeon. That was the last pressing matter in the aftermath of the war. Confirmed reports were even coming in of the assassins¡¯ demise in the earthquake alongside the Terrorknights. He had always got those mixed up, but he needn¡¯t remember either any more. Plotslide, he thought, and went back to Overwall for a snifter of cider.


    The sun was like gaseous glass in his eyes. He groaned, rolled over, and weakly tried to brush the dust from his cheek. Beneath his robes, he was soaked with sweat. At least, he hoped it was sweat.


    Someone was shaking his shoulder.


    ¡°Sorry to bother you this early in the afternoon,¡± said Olgred gently. ¡°But there¡¯s some visitors waiting in the atrium.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Silven sat up slowly, his head swimming. ¡°Plotslide,¡± he groaned. ¡°Our enemies thwarted by mere puzzlement. Where are we, Olgy? What are we?¡±


    Olgred shrugged. The bandage had disappeared, but the merchant seemed quieter than his usual self. ¡°Who knows? Perhaps it is not ours to reason why.¡± He perched on a nearby stool and poured himself an apple juice. ¡°On the other hand, when I think about it, our journey to this point has been riddled with inconsistencies. Riddled! Like when we went-¡°


    ¡°Let¡¯s not get over-analytical,¡± cautioned Silven, watching the floorboards anxiously. ¡°But I¡¯m more sure than ever that our reality is not as it seems. If only I could get Grennel to open up. I¡¯m the Dean, for Fugg¡¯s sake!¡± He took a moment to compose himself. ¡°Anyway, who are these visitors?¡±


    ¡°Soldiers of the palace guard.¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡± said Silven. ¡°So the king schemes on. Well, don¡¯t just sit there ¨C assemble the city watch! I¡¯ll show them what for!¡± He staggered groggily to his feet, grabbed a vase from the nearest table, and thumped downstairs.


    Two neat and tidy lines of the palace guard awaited him. They wore their finest gold plate, but their weapons were sheathed. ¡°Come on then!¡± called Silven from the landing. ¡°Out with it! What does His Royal Highness command?¡±


    The leader of the left column coughed. ¡°The king gives no commands. And there¡¯s no heir or other claimants. We think you may as well take the role.¡±


    Silven hid his vase. ¡°On what grounds?¡±


    ¡°The people await your coronation,¡± he replied courteously. ¡°In Rockborough Cathedral, to maximise thy royal blessings. At noon.¡±


    ¡°Today?¡±


    ¡°Today.¡±


    Silven blinked. No-one else? There again, who was left? A sudden queer notion struck him. ¡°Who was the king, exactly? I¡¯ve never even seen him.¡±


    The guard paled. ¡°I think you were always supposed to be king, sir.¡±


    The procession from the city gates was like a dream. There were flowers and cheers and rich carpets beneath his feet, but he barely took it in. He knew he wasn¡¯t really paying attention when he became aware of a curious squelching and looked up to behold the semicircle brickwork of a subterranean tunnel. Then, he looked down and beheld the stinking brown sludge they were struggling through. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡±


    The nearest not-so-gleaming-now guard bowed as he walked. ¡°The sewers, my lord. Just a precaution, you understand. No true defender of the realm could claim the throne without such a visitation at some point in his career. We meant no offence; it¡¯s a tradition. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve done this before.¡±


    ¡°I have now,¡± came the distant reply. Suddenly, panic was eating at his mind. He called for his generals and Ulf to walk with him once they emerged back into the pleasant streets. As soon as they appeared, he let loose his fears. ¡°I¡¯m going to be king,¡± he hissed quietly, waving to the blushing maidens lining the cobbles.


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°So, maybe, just maybe, I¡¯ve been putting off these hopes and dreams of mine too long.¡± Olgred opened his mouth. ¡°And don¡¯t dare say I told you so!¡± Olgred shut his mouth.


    Ulf grunted in agreement. ¡°And yet, in a way, this unexpected coronation will give you more time. You don¡¯t need to join the clamour to be heard. You¡¯ll be king. No questioning your judgements, or your pace.¡±


    ¡°Still,¡± Simitest piped in with a cheeky grin. ¡°Might be good to get something in early. To set the tone.¡±


    Silven breathed out a shuddering sigh. He¡¯d been stalling for so long. And now here he was, one quick war and epic battle later, marching to his embarrassment with bugger all to say. Yet, nothing really seemed to matter. It didn¡¯t feel... real. Always supposed to be king. Just another inconsistency. He tried to clear his mind. ¡°Errr... well, we could start with the abolishment of coin. It¡¯s going to be useless in the new world. Instead: a system of tokens, rewarding compliance with the peace and enlightenment at hand, which can be traded for resources.¡±


    ¡°Otherwise known as...coin,¡± said Ulf sternly.


    Silven¡¯s hands curled into fists. ¡°Damn. Not sure I¡¯m cut out for this.¡±


    The procession finally took a sharp left onto the plaza before the towering cathedral. ¡°You can issue your first directives from here, Your Majesty,¡± whispered an official-looking official in his ear, ¡°but we can soon depart for the palace in Solmond if you prefer.¡±


    ¡°I prefer,¡± said Silven, nodding enthusiastically. As the shadow of the holy centre of Oldeburgh fell upon him, he hung back slightly. With the darkness came the ghostly shadow of his past. One way or another, he had reached a turning point in his existence. Things were suddenly moving so fast, yet if it was to turn sour...well, he would be prepared. He motioned for his retinue to edge closer. ¡°Listen carefully,¡± he said in low tones, beneath the babbling chants of priest and hermit and monk. ¡°I don¡¯t like this. This is the best chance to take hold of this blasted place once and for all, to actually do something about those pests and that tavern and everything I¡¯ve avoided. And still.... if I was always supposed to be here, then who decided?¡±


    ¡°Beats me,¡± scoffed Olgred, rolling up his sleeves in the stuffy hall. ¡°Who¡¯d want you in charge...master?¡±


    Silven ignored him. ¡°I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯m playing into the hands of unseen powers once more. Perhaps this is the road that they always wanted me to take, and I¡¯ve just rejoined further up the path. This could be a trap.¡±


    Simitest reluctantly parted from the arms of a voluptuous admirer and tutted. ¡°Nonsense! I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re going on about, but if this was your main thing, then there¡¯d have been clues all over the place about some unknown father, a secret marriage, a crib swept away to distant lands in the bloody night. Nah, this is just your side thing.¡± The others nodded. ¡°That solves that, then,¡± said Olgred gladly.


    Silven was not convinced. ¡°But if there¡¯s been no king, then why me now?¡±


    ¡°To give you a range of tantalising options,¡± murmured Ulf by his side. ¡°If you really are special, like your friends here think you are, then you must be crowned. You¡¯ve seen the palace, haven¡¯t you? Well, we couldn¡¯t be having disappointment. That is the first rule of the Special One, even before destiny.¡±


    Silven felt the weight lift slightly from his shoulders, just for a moment. But he couldn¡¯t be distracted. For all he knew, Ulf and Simitest might be part of it. ¡°Well, it won¡¯t hurt to have a royal elite guard, would it?¡±


    ¡°It would be our honour,¡± said Dasat at once as he swung his sword hilt towards the soon-to-be king. ¡°Who are we fighting?¡±


    ¡°Me. If anything spooky should happen ¨C you know, green light, gutted candles, manifestation of wicked spirits, that sort of thing ¨C when I¡¯m crowned, you must end it at once. Maybe my guide would just say ¡®bugger it¡¯ after that and leave you be. Be prepared.¡±


    ¡°Gladly, Your Majesty,¡± offered Olgred. He seemed all too keen.


    ¡°And by the beard of Bilsutha, get Sir Meow-a-lot here at once!¡±


    The upper conference chamber of the cathedral was far too small for the entire congregation, so naturally, half of them started babbling the same cursed line about a new king and sauntered off to their chores. Silven sat in a chair. Dasat, Simitest, Ulf and Olgred took up positions by the royal throat, blades at the ready. Queer looks flashed about the hall, but no green light, and no gutting of candles. Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher, scrabbled eagerly at the timber walls and mewled bravely in the face of gathering rodents. Priests and monks and one angry healer came to bestow the blessings of the cathedral upon their leader. The king, lost in his own head, was much pleased. But finally, it came to the royal decrees. Olgred¡¯s knife accidently slipped and alerted his liege with a prick of blood. ¡°Owww! No need for....ah, yes,¡± he wittered, all afluster.


    ¡°Your decision, Your Majesty?¡± a pale, gaunt priest was saying from his knees by the chair.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never been more blessed. That¡¯s enough.¡±


    The priest gulped. ¡°I mean no offence, Your Majesty, but I was referring to the grim situation arising in Doomwood. The one I¡¯ve just been telling you of.¡±


    Silven adjusted the golden circlet on his head and peered surreptitiously at his Silverview 4. ¡°Hmmm, I see. So it says here ¨C I mean, it seems as if your ancient dispute with Oakroof has finally come to a head. The enchanted grotto lying upon your border currently heals your neighbours, yes? A tricky situation, but not beyond the powers of your new ruler. I propose a team of scientists from Silicarco be offered the crown¡¯s immunity and granted leave to study its waters, with delegates from both villages, for science. And to solve your problem, well, the treasury will nationalise the Greenknight¡¯s hospital on the western bank of the Chucklestone. While this wretched outbreak of boils persists, you¡¯re free to take advantage of whichever potions you need. We¡¯ll compensate the Greenknights by taking them into the service of the crown and anointing them the Order of the Forest Watchers, to keep woodland travellers safe from beasts and bandits wherever they roam in the kingdom. In situations like this, we need to get to the root of the problem. Since the closure of the sawmill, half of the inhabitants of Oakroof are unemployed. It¡¯s clear to see that that¡¯s why they so jealously guard that grotto. The Order of the Forest Watchers will be given ample coin to recruit the old carpenters there for their watchtowers, and bring economic rejuvenation to the area. To avoid gentrification, however, we¡¯ll also construct a few new villas round the area to keep long-term locals in their homes, and incorporate both villages into the demesne of Duke Pinefellow to foster a sense of peace and co-operation. How about that?¡±


    The priest looked icy. ¡°Option not available. Adventurer¡¯s armoursmith or adventurer¡¯s weaponsmith? The alderman can¡¯t decide.¡±


    ¡°Both. And all of the above.¡±


    ¡°Option not available.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the king.¡±


    ¡°Option not available.¡±


    Silven stood. He pointed a lordly finger at his almost-murderers. ¡°Back to the palace! We¡¯re safe. So wretchedly, terribly safe.¡±

 3.5 43%

    3.5 43%


    The plaza was deserted. The quartz paving stones gleamed, majestic towers soared all around, the emerald vines weaving across the trellises lining the road were perfectly trimmed, and yet no-one was there. It was not a fitting welcome for a king.


    At the head of a column of golden-plated guards, six brave warriors strode onward to the sealed ebony door of the whitewashed courtroom. Well, one warrior, a joyless accountant, a bumbling fool of a merchant, an almost stinkless old scallywag, an obnoxiously foppish gentleman with the tenacity to wear purple on a Sunday, and a ridiculous mound of ermine and airy-fairy cloak and crown, and now you see why we went with six warriors. Try to imagine that they radiated a commanding presence through the shuttered streets of the city.


    King Gary the First and Only had still yet to figure out why Ostenwal had eluded his notice for so long. The obligatory Temple District alone looked to be the size of Desert Marsh. The ambassadors had proclaimed it the breadbasket, the shining jewel, the iron fist of the South. Perhaps it had lain secret all this time, pulling the strings of the South, only to reveal itself when its puppets had failed. Perhaps it existed only as the next complication to be knocked down in Silven¡¯s tiring reign. Perhaps it didn¡¯t exist at all.


    Dasat, clad now in the smart black leather of a royal general, heaved open the heavy door. On the other side, guardsmen looked out expressionlessly and clutched at their maces. The main hall was dimly lit, and almost as silent as the streets. A shallow, sweeping bowl of benches encircled the main marble plinth, upon which perched the common council of the city. The stern one in the tall hat must have been Vilgrin, the Pale Watcher, because Vilgrin had written the reply to Silven¡¯s inquiries, and your point of contact was always the most obvious in a crowd. Even spies.


    The door creaked shut behind the delegation. Vilgrin rose and regarded his guests with the eyes of a hawk. ¡°Welcome, Gary, to our great city. I trust you find it spectacular.¡±


    ¡°You shall not utter that name,¡± snapped Olgred at once. ¡°The correct term of address is Your Majesty.¡± He looked nervously at Silven¡¯s twitching eye.


    Vilgrin laughed humourlessly. ¡°I was merely trying to be polite. As for the king, he disappeared some fifteen months ago, at the conclusion of your little uprising. They may have crowned you, yet the South does not recognise you. We await the return of our majesty.¡±


    ¡°How dare-¡± began Olgred shrilly, until Silven clapped a hand firmly on his podgy shoulder. Vilgrin¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°Ah, the royal advisor. Such a charming guest. We should be honoured to pass him over to His Majesty. Last time we spoke, he was on the lookout for a new jester.¡±


    Silven stepped in as Olgred¡¯s folds began to flap. ¡°Nah, Olgy¡¯s a company man. Head of Stuff; the acquisitor of generalised resources. Acquisitor, is that right?¡±


    ¡°Acquirer,¡± corrected Olgred, glad of a moment to remove his gaze from the scowling men above.


    ¡°The advisors have taken permanent residency in the National Museum of Nonsense and Wankery.¡±


    ¡°The.... what?¡±


    ¡°The old palace,¡± explained Silven. He swished closer than ever to the plinth. ¡°Truth be told, I can¡¯t be bothered with all this king stuff. All that endless pomp and poncery, and for what? You know what was waiting in my solar that first morning? A chest of gold! Pah! What do men of Silverlink do with a chest of gold in this legendary age? So, one day.... I just walked out. The court¡¯s been awaiting my decision on the year¡¯s herb crop since, err, last year. And damned patient they are, too. Gives the kids all the fun of a waxworks, but without the maintenance.¡±


    For once, Vilgrin¡¯s face wrinkled with mirth. ¡°And I hear you have turned to greater dilemmas. Tell me, what have you decided to call your new kingdom?¡±


    Dasat looked to Simitest. Olgred looked to Trashbag. Ulf glared at Silven. ¡°Eighteen impillions,¡± he mouthed. Silven coughed. ¡°We¡¯re looking at the Republic of Newburg, we think. Something modern, to reflect the utopian days.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re not droppin¡¯ the ¡®h¡¯ yet,¡± drawled Trashbag.


    ¡°But we¡¯re pleased to announce that the ¡®second e¡¯ campaign is ready to furl their flags,¡± called Olgred hastily, ¡°so you could say things are wrapping up. No more deaths, we¡¯ve pledged.¡±


    Vilgrin only raised his eyebrows. ¡°So you¡¯re renouncing the title?¡±


    Silven paled. ¡°Oh, sorry. The Royal Republic. My powers are greatly reduced in accordance with the ideals of freedom we have brought to the rest of the nation. Now, I only elect the government and give advice on what they decide.¡± The others nodded eagerly. Olgred pointed an accusing finger up at the stand. ¡°So you could learn a lesson if you weren¡¯t so stubborn!¡±


    The common council revolved in their seats and muttered darkly. The shadows encircling the benches absorbed the words hungrily. Vilgrin listened to a whisper or two and spoke up. ¡°The free lands of Oldeburgh tire of your ramblings. You wished to see us, and we shall reiterate our stance.¡± At the words, the guards drew themselves into their most fearsome pose and glared at the guests. ¡°The 1470 Memorandum of Zero Cooperation. The South shall admit no rebels within its borders. We shall not trade. We shall not allow preaching of your aimless and listless ways. We shall reject all the laws, decrees and rights of holding of this so called state of Newburg. You sit by idly while the Table Treaty goes undebated. You grow bloated and decadent on your power, but it will not last. We will not share your fall.¡±


    Silven¡¯s advisors clamoured for attention. The king himself pushed away and gestured to the grim hall. From side-doors and dark passageways, the clatter of metallic feet drew nearer. ¡°Come on! There¡¯s less to it than all that. I¡¯ll spell it out: my people lead better lives. Crime has gone. Leisure and luxury fill our days. All the essentials paid for by our glorious twin corporations. In return, we ask but simple service to fill the land with laughter and joy.¡±


    ¡°And the odd ice cream avalanche or flowerstorm,¡± added Olgred apologetically.


    ¡°Yes, but my point being.... you¡¯ve no reason not to reunite,¡± finished the king defiantly.


    Before the tension could swell further, the oaken door burst open with a thunderous rattle. The shouting of dozens of nearby men filled the thick air. Beyond.... the ripple of a much larger crowd. The people had crept from their homes, and they were restless.


    A messenger in purple silk rushed from the opening, and bowed before his council. Behind him trotted a scattering of men from Silven¡¯s guard, turnbows raised, ready to pacify the throng. Their faces were pale and scared. ¡°Prepare thyself, Your Majesty,¡± implored one. ¡°They mean to murder us! It¡¯s a trap.¡± He sallied forth and kicked away a peasant as he made to enter the hall behind a trestle shield.


    The council on the plinth rose with cries of shock and fright and glee. Only Vilgrin remained seated. He smiled a cold smile. ¡°What is the meaning of this?¡± he demanded of his messenger.


    The boy shook, his excitement barely held back by his sense of solemn duty. ¡°An army approaches from Newburg¡¯s southern border,¡± he announced loudly, his thin voice shaking. ¡°They say it is the rightful king, seeking revenge on those who have wronged him.¡±


    ¡°And the people demand justice,¡± mused Vilgrin, savouring every word as it floated from his tongue. He eyed the six delegates wolfishly as they huddled before the plinth.


    Silven¡¯s blood froze. He looked to and fro as the Ostenwal watch turned and held the sudden surge of ragged youths from the threshold. His own guard crouched and prepared their weaponry. The loud crack of turnbolts rent the air from outside. A stream of panicked merchants and small lords leapt from the marble steps behind the council plinth and hurried for the doorway beyond, lined with soldiers. It couldn¡¯t be happening. None of it.


    He leaned across the tiles and spoke urgently into his general¡¯s ear. ¡°Dasat, leave us. Speak to the garrison captains of Southcastle and Windlane. I need information. Summon the Draughts and Chess battalions if necessary. I feel like a good game soon; tell them we¡¯ll arrange another national championship once this threat is seen to.¡± The loyal mercenary nodded curtly and vanished as angry voices rose. A stone sailed above the heads of the council¡¯s struggling guards and clanged from the breastplate of a machine-archer. All too soon, time was running out. Again.


    Silven caught the attention of his remaining entourage and advanced on the plinth. ¡°You can still make the right choice,¡± he bellowed over the clamour of the mob. ¡°What have we done to deserve your rebuttal?¡±


    ¡°Your greed and laziness harbours the plague!¡± roared Vilgrin forcefully from his perch.


    Olgred pointed as a mass of swirling rectangles blinked past the human barricade and instantly spirited the armour from a surprised watchman. ¡°As do you. Its everywhere now.¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°Your laws of fraternity scorn the sacred rights of the high families,¡± pressed Vilgrin relentlessly. ¡°Centuries of lineage and chivalry gone, to be treated now as a common scallywag.¡±


    ¡°Nonsense,¡± protested Simitest. He dodged away as a guard wrestled an old woman screaming something about vengeance to the ground. ¡°The king grants exclusive playing cards to the aristocracy, in recognition of their positions among formerly lesser men.¡±


    A vaguely familiar face popped up from the edge of the stand. The sour face of an old healer. ¡°Last year, you swore on the beard of Bilsutha, but she don¡¯t have no beard, sir!¡± she grated. ¡°Now the gods cast down your false claims.¡±


    Olgred opened his mouth, and sunk. ¡°She¡¯s got me at that one. It¡¯s true ¨C Bilsutha doesn¡¯t have a beard. I think you meant Bilsitha.¡±


    ¡°Silence!¡± roared Vilgrin, batting the old woman away. ¡°I will not be shamed long by such a petty excuse for war. We¡¯ll think of a good one later. As for now... prepare to lay down your crown, blasphemer.¡±


    The crowd roared. The small knot of royal machine-archers stamped forward and fired several disciplined volleys across the plaza. Beyond, the more frantic shots of stranded soldiers mingled with the enraged screams of their foes. At last, Vilgrin rose. He leered menacingly over his platform and waved goodbye.


    Silven sighed and whipped off his irksome cloak. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to put him in danger, but time to bring in the big boys.¡± He pressed a finger to the little sphere in his ear. ¡°Lord, Mayor, Councillor, whoever you are, I present.... Herbie Sootroller, CEO of Silverlink Enterprises and Lord Executor of Sciencey Things for Newburg.¡±


    There was a flash of brilliant blue light across the room. Beneath the hurled rocks, a little figure trotted to his underlings¡¯ sides. It was just a boy, no more than ten, clad in dark stained rags and dapper grey cap ill befitting of his official positions and perfect for what was to come. ¡°Aright, guv, you ¡®ad yer shenanigans,¡± he chirped through the clamour of the riot. ¡°Way I see it is like this. Forget all yer boring adult stuff, and think of the grub!¡±


    ¡°Grubs?¡± snarled Vilgrin, pausing on his descent to escape.


    ¡°Nosh. Vittles. Bait.¡± Herbie wiped a sudden splatter of blood off his shoulder with a greasy sleeve and grinned up at his foe. ¡±It goes like this.¡± He counted out his points quickly on chubby fingers. ¡°Eight farms in the old kingdom. We ¡®ave the five magic turnip ones. Your three are fer carrots. Yum!¡±


    ¡°Get to the point!¡± growled the looming merchant from above.


    ¡°Over at the work ¡®ouse, we bin thinkin¡¯. Yer know ¡®ow craftin¡¯ works, right? Well, we¡¯ll do the same with food. Recipes, we calls ¡®em. Two things at once! Just think! Me tums rumblin¡¯ at just the thought. Carrot an¡¯ turnip stew. Carrot an¡¯ turnip soup. Carrot an¡¯ turnip-¡°


    ¡°That¡¯s just...¡± began Vilgrin.


    The ragamuffin finished with a cheeky grin.


    ¡°Wonderful,¡± finished Vilgrin. ¡°All right. Maybe this new place of yours isn¡¯t so bad. But why do I feel so.... odd saying it?¡± He flexed his slender fingers as if in pain, and shook his head. He hurried down the stand two steps at a time and hurried to the nearest scuffle. ¡°Okay, people. Rebellion¡¯s over!¡±


    ¡°I hear the new stews are a sensation!¡± cried a thousand voices all at once, as the thunder of two thousand feet clopped away down the plaza. Vilgrin turned to face the king with a strained smile. ¡°I¡¯ll send a quick IM to this usurper to let him know he won¡¯t be having Ostenwal¡¯s forces. So, when do we-¡±


    He was cut short as another racket filled the street. ¡°Winner winner! Chicken dinner!¡± clucked a dreadful cluck. There was a mighty thud from the grounds of the hall. Men screamed and fired crossbows in panic. The wind of a monstrous wing fought against the watch as the heavy door inched shut. Silven looked sideways at his new ally with a sarcastic grin. ¡°See? This plague is everywhere. I¡¯m afraid we have to get young Herbie to safety. I¡¯ll teleport in a fresh battalion to get this city back under control. We¡¯ll speak of soup once this old king¡¯s in his grave.¡± But even as he said it, a chuckling voice deep in his subconscious echoed back: There is no old king.


    ¡°Can¡¯t fast travel when enemies are nearby,¡± droned Vilgrin as he backed away from the door.


    Silven laughed. ¡°Old news.¡± He pulled out a glossy new map from his pocket. ¡°With the new Silverview 5X, you could bow out anywhere, anytime. Not to mention control the flow of troops around a battlefield instantly with your fingertip. The invasion has failed before it¡¯s begun. See ya!¡±


    He touched Limetop with a fingertip. It appeared he could not bow out anywhere, anytime, nor control the flow of his troops around a battlefield instantly. Simitest winced. ¡°You bloody fool! Lifesaver¡¯s Folly, one of the oldest curses going. Everyone knows not to talk about your way of escape before actually doing it. You¡¯ve doomed us all!¡±


    ¡°Can I ¡®ave a sweety, guv?¡± Herbie chipped in.


    ¡°Sure,¡± replied Silven. Carefully, he retrieved a toffee from a deep pocket and popped it into the child¡¯s mouth. ¡°But remember what I said ¨C no more ¡®til you¡¯ve done your homework. I want the Glutton Pass scandal covered up, and the Moon Donkey reservation legislation through before bedtime. And you¡¯ve got even less time now we have to wait for this megapoultry to move on.¡± From outside, the sickening crunch of bones seeped through the thick walls.


    Just then, there was another flash, and Dasat was by his side. His armour was dented in a dozen places, and he clutched the stump of his former right hand close to his chest. He was as white as a sheet, and in his eyes was the reflection of doom. The blanket of silence drowned out the rampage on the plaza. Silven looked on and said nothing.


    ¡°Rebel¡¯s banners are nowhere to be seen,¡± managed Dasat in pained gasps. ¡°The octopus of Silcia, though, and the fist of Stoneyviewe. Ten thousand men surrounding Windlane, twelve at Southcastle. Fort Eagle taken from the north by Skypoint stormrunners. Bridge battalion scattered, Draughts utterly annihilated. And in the east....¡± He trailed off and sank to his knees. Simitest and Olgred rushed to help him to the steps of the plinth, whilst one of the guards hurried off for a cup of water.


    ¡°Right bloodbath, eh?¡± laughed Herbie. Silven thumped him smartly on his cap and stared on. ¡°The surrounding kingdoms have risen?¡± he murmured at last. ¡°All of them?¡±


    ¡°No doubt terrified at the prospect of revolution and the threat of destabilisation to the economy,¡± answered Ulf. ¡°I¡¯ve said it before ¨C things aren¡¯t meant to work like this.¡±


    ¡°His Majesty will not suffer traitors,¡± faithful Olgy warned from Dasat¡¯s side.


    Silven ignored him. And I¡¯m not meant for victory. Not like this.


    ¡°We have about a tenth of the foe¡¯s strength,¡± moaned Ulf.


    Silven watched incredulously as the accountant sank to the floor, defeated. He was a grim fellow, true, but never had he acted like this. ¡°You¡¯re forgetting something,¡± he started carefully. ¡°War isn¡¯t just about numbers. We have unlimited resources behind us. Immense artillery engines the like of which the world has never seen. Weapons to turn enemy against enemy. The means to flit from hill to field to forest in the blink of an eye.¡±


    Ulf laughed then. It was a bitter sound. ¡°Yet only the accountant grasps the true meaning of large numbers. Such forces cannot clash in sight of the world. Fifty thousand! The universe would tear open!¡±


    Dread clutched at Silven¡¯s throat. ¡°I - I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t.¡± Ulf¡¯s eyes were haunted. ¡°We dice with death today. Our forces will clash. We will sleep it out.¡±


    Simitest twirled his moustache fretfully. ¡°With no powers. No turnbows. No artillery strikes. Soldier to soldier.¡±


    Silven shook his head. The room was spinning. ¡°Sleep it out? Let¡¯s march to battle!¡± He strode towards the door. Simitest held him gently by the shoulder. ¡°Even if you get past the plagued ones.... you¡¯ll freeze us all. Eternal rest, neither life nor death. A fate worse than defeat.¡±


    Slowly, Silven nodded. In the years since the prison cell, he had learnt one truth about the world ¨C accept or go mad. ¡°Ulf, what are our chances?¡±


    ¡°None of those kingdoms have been at war in the lifetimes of their troops. So, with our added experience.... 42%.¡±


    Silven blinked. He hadn¡¯t been expecting such a precise answer, nor one so low. ¡°But the machine bows!¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be done,¡± Simitest repeated soothingly. ¡°They have to be seen to be believed.¡±


    His eyes turned to Vilgrin, hovering at the edge of the fretful group. ¡°Do we have Ostenwal¡¯s levies?¡±


    ¡°I would have to consult-¡°


    ¡°Turnip and carrot pate!¡±


    Vilgrin sighed. ¡°Of course.¡±


    For a moment, Ulf brightened. ¡°43%¡±.


    From across the room, Dasat let out a sudden wail. Servants were rushing forth with armfuls of blankets and pillows. Wordlessly, they laid out their comforts upon the hard tiles of the hall. ¡°This is ridiculous!¡± cried Silven suddenly.


    The others were already bedding down. ¡°I warn you ¨C sleep,¡± said Simitest sternly. ¡°Or we¡¯d be lucky to be taken by the plague.¡±


    Silven ushered the nearest servant away with a whisper. Quickly, she returned with a tray of tiny glasses filled with a clear liquid. When he accepted his own vessel, the fumes made his eyes sting. Good. He waited while the others were served, desperately trying not to let his mind wander. Accept, or go mad. Accept, or go mad. Accept. His life wasn¡¯t over yet. His world was still here. And 43% said it still would be when he woke up.


    Around the room, things were moving. He raised himself up on one elbow, and watched as a dozen furry mice edged from their holes in the skirting board. ¡°Hello, old friends.¡± They said nothing. Only watched, only waited. The one in a silken top hat locked eyes and winked.


    He was powerless to stop them now. Instead, he raised his glass. ¡°Against the odds!¡±


    ¡°Against the odds!¡± roared his friends.


    He swallowed the fire and slept.

 3.6 The Noob Must Win

    3.6 The Noob Must Win


    Silven opened his eyes with the curious notion that time had stopped for an eternity while he slept. He was still in the courtroom, he saw. There was no clamour of chicken wings from without. There was no sign of the rodents from within. The others, even Vilgrin, were still with him. Quietly, they rose from their makeshift beds and stretched. It was evening now, but which one, none could tell.


    Trashbag and Herbie had just started chittering together incomprehensibly in Common Ruffian when an anguished shriek cut them off. It was an utterly inhuman shriek, and yet it had somehow come from the bluish mouth of Dasat. He was still in his nest, and he was holding aloft his stump of an arm in terror. But Silven saw it was a stump no longer. There, peeking out of the bloody hole and quawking away dully, was the perfectly formed head of a tiny chicken.


    Tears streamed down the general¡¯s white cheeks. ¡°Master, please... release me. End this.¡± His remaining hand fumbled for his belt and held out his ceremonial blade. ¡°End it.¡±


    Silven looked at his friend for a long time. Words failed him. Gladly, he turned his head away. ¡°Take him to the Cathedral of Dust.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± screamed the mercenary.


    ¡°Quawk!¡± went his new hand.


    ¡°My decision is made. Get the finest brothers on his case. We¡¯ll find a cure.¡± He could not meet Dasat¡¯s stare again.


    The Silverview still would not work.


    Silven demanded inward plague medics above the cries for mercy. It wouldn¡¯t work for that either. He frowned, trying not to consider what that meant. ¡°Bob, take him to the nearest trade route. He needs to get there ASAP if....¡±


    ¡°Master, please!¡± Dasat sobbed.


    The transport head obeyed.


    If....


    Trashbag escorted his failing friend from the hall. No-one looked at the king. Thankfully, the black silence was soon interrupted by the hurried pattering of soft shoes. It was another messenger. He stepped from one of the endless corridors and waited nervously.


    ¡°Well?¡± demanded Vilgrin.


    ¡°The armies of Newburg are victorious.¡±


    There was a gasp of air from the gathering.


    ¡°The armies of the enemy are utterly defeated. Thousands have been taken captive. The borders are secure once more, and the kingdoms are begging for peace.¡±


    ¡°This calls for a toast!¡± began Simitest. He clapped Silven hard on the back and raised a triumphant fist.


    ¡°In other news,¡± continued the messenger, ¡°the coalition had a mighty champion. He has led a small band of warriors to the city, cut a path to the plaza, overwhelmed the council guard, and awaits the king¡¯s head this very minute. Good day.¡± And the servant scurried off.


    There was heavy knock at the oaken door. Four men and a boy jumped out of their skins. Only Silven remained motionless.


    Somehow, he knew the end was nigh.


    The visitor was very impolite, for he waited no more than five seconds before knocking again. Silven did not approve, and he stepped forward to give his adversary a piece of his mind.


    The portal swung open, and there stood the champion. He was six feet tall, broad as a barrel beneath his sky-blue plate, and clutching a colossal two-handed hammer as big as Herbie. Silven paid the spectacle little attention. The man was helmetless, and there was something strange about his eyes, something more than alive, as they looked the king up and down with disdain. The stranger grinned. It was a knowing grin, and all at once Silven felt as hopeless as the day he (or she) awoke in the prison of Fort Deathrot.


    The champion¡¯s voice was clear and stern. ¡°Silven, king of Oldeburgh. Or should that be Sylvia? You¡¯ve acted like a big girl this past year. You carebear pussy.¡±


    Silven looked into those eyes and burst out laughing. ¡°Well that was unexpected. But seriously now, what¡¯s this all about? How do you know my names?¡±


    The champion glared. ¡°Watch your tongue, noob. I¡¯ll tell you what this is all about. You¡¯re boring and pathetic.¡±


    ¡°By trying to make the world a better place?¡±


    ¡°What you on?¡± roared the champion, incredulous. ¡°I¡¯ve just told you. By being boring. This is the arena of the gods, and they demand bloodshed and justice.¡±


    Silven folded his arms. ¡°Both at once, I presume? If I¡¯m as bad as all that, maybe you will have both. Hear you¡¯re after my noggin.¡±


    The champion crashed a gauntlet proudly into his chest. ¡°For the gods! The show grows stale.¡±


    Silven''s eyes narrowed. ¡°Hold on. You¡¯re not here at the command of some weird voice on the wind, are you? Met him at a tavern?¡±


    The warrior looked genuinely blank. ¡°Nay, scum. I encountered the reflection of Nazath the Bloody in an old dwarven mirror far from this place. He showed me the path of cleansing. I am the one to wash away the stagnation of Oldeburgh and bring about the fresh waters of change. I alone have quested to the Mountains of Analorn for the Staff of Gathering; I alone have forged alliances between sworn enemies for the downfall of the greater threat; I alone have led my followers into glorious battle and inched towards the final triumph. I alone can get the gods watching again and save the world. And there¡¯s a sweet new shield at the end for me too.¡±


    Silven held out an open hand. ¡°I can provide that, if only we can talk. All of this has been for me? Truth be told, I feel a little flattered.¡±


    The man smiled a very smug smile. ¡°I¡¯ve tried to focus on the main quest, but my friends did get me a little distracted.¡± Two slim sorcerers in green velvet capes sidled into view behind their leader. Silven glanced down at their feet as they trampled the corpses of his royal guards. The warrior droned on. ¡°In Silcia, I awoke an uber-powerful sect of wizards. They know things, Silven, not least the arcane speech of the Leet. They call themselves the Modders, and they can change the very rules of existence.¡± Silven shuddered. Whatever he thought he¡¯d seen in the warrior was nothing compared to the presence of the mages. Their haughty expressions, their assessing gaze, their fullness of life... they looked above the world. The champion paused for effect. ¡°Just now, for instance, they¡¯ve been playing around with days of the week. Didn¡¯t your demons come to play on Wednesdays? Now it¡¯s Moondays. Overwall burns.¡±


    Silven felt his will disintegrating under the appraising glare. He looked across the city for a moment, and gathered his thoughts. ¡°Overwall? It¡¯s nothing to us. A single village... we rule a people.¡±


    When the mage spoke, his high voice sounded maddeningly familiar, yet out of place. ¡°But there is a hidden heart. A place of secrets. The brittle core of your power.¡± It was not a question.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Overwall burns. Silven¡¯s mind raced. He looked into the piercing eyes and knew they could see more than there was to see. Doom was at hand. He must show nothing. ¡°The core is peace, and the happiness of my subjects is far from brittle. Put down your arms, and you shall see something your bloody gods could never give you.¡±


    The warrior raised his hammer high above his head. ¡°Enough! I shall show you the error of your cowardly ways. Zero my god, what a terrible final boss. You¡¯ve nerfed yourself with laziness; witness the strength of the Bloodthirsty!¡±


    The Bloodthirsty hopped forward and took an enormous swing at his target. Silven wobbled backwards, drew his sceptre, and dashed it against the brute¡¯s exposed temple. There was a head-humming buzz, a spark of light, and Silven stumbled back, arm shaking with pain. The Bloodthirsty looked sideways at him and chuckled. Silven took a step back and turned to the onlookers. ¡°Help!¡±


    ¡°Certainly!¡± replied Vilgrin. ¡°Come on, step back now, form a nice arc so he can see the battlefield.¡± The others obeyed willingly. ¡°Now, let¡¯s shake our fists and wave our hands to show our support.¡±


    ¡°Come on! Yeah!¡± roared his friends enthusiastically. Fortunately, the Modders were doing the same. Unfortunately, the Bloodthirsty was coming his way at an alarming speed. Silven backed away from the whistling steel and hit a hard nothing between Simitest and Vilgrin. He prodded outwards with his flimsy rod, and the giant suddenly sprang back. Silven pressed his attack, and all at once his foe was running for the plaza, hollow blows raining down time and time again on his armour. Then, he stepped beyond the doorway, slammed shut the wood in Silven¡¯s face, and brought down the edge of his hammer on his adversary¡¯s shoulder. Silven crashed to the floor and looked up at the half-weapon as it bobbed through the planks. ¡°Hey... that¡¯s not fair!¡±


    The Bloodthirsty replied with muffled laughter and the descent of the hammer through the solid door once again. It fell six inches short of Silven¡¯s outspread form and sent an agonising bolt of pain down his back all the same. Again it came, and cloudy red arcs ringed Silven¡¯s vision. ¡°Yeahhhhh!¡± squealed Herbie from far behind.


    Silven looked at his cheering companions. He looked at the head of the hammer as it transcended the realms of common sense. And the injustice filled him with rage. He rolled away from the door, staggered to his feet, and nommed the turnip he found in a vase against the wall. If only he could remember....


    The hammer retreated back to its rightful side of the door. Then came the tip of an arrow. The first caught Silven high in his right arm, the second full in the chest. As they melted into the air, Silven heard the roar from beyond the door. ¡°Sit in there and write your treaties all you like. We¡¯re rule breakers, you know? Rule... breakers. We don¡¯t follow your rules.¡±


    It was clearly a goad to bring him to his death, but the sight of the bow poking through that threshold quelled any last thoughts of strategy. He charged. A barrage of bolts met him halfway, more than a man should rightfully loose in a minute, and he stumbled for a moment to his knees. But this was for everything, his life, his dreams, his obnoxiously static friends, and somehow he regained his balance. He wiped splatters of blood from his eyes, tapped a finger to the wood, and cringed back as the hammer took a mighty swipe at his head. The door swung open, and there he was again. But this time Silven remembered, and this time....


    Summoning his final strength, he sprang through the doorway, kicked at the Bloodthirsty¡¯s chestplate, and readied his sceptre. ¡°Right, right, left, duck!"


    His enemy rebounded, grabbed at his throat, and swung him helplessly into the air. Then, the champion realised that nowhere in the secret histories of the universe revealed by the Modders had anyone ever taken such a great opportunity to just get the fight over with and kill their dangling foe. He decided he best not try to be the first, and flung Silven as far as he could across the marble paving like so many others before him.


    The king thudded heavily into the ground against a bloodied shirt of mail and lay still. The Bloodthirsty stalked up, hammer raised. Silven groaned and tried to drag himself away between the bodies. I¡¯ll be one of them soon, he thought dumbly. His foe moved up into position, hefted his weapon... and looked back at his strange companions. ¡°Is this, you know... legit? Because I¡¯m sure this is a classic roll-disarm.¡±


    The Modders only looked at Silven¡¯s crumpled form and brought down their fists. The Bloodthirsty swung his hammer. Silven rolled, kicked at the wrist as the metal slammed into the ground, and rose as the hammer clanged to the smashed paving. The Bloodthirsty took a wary step backwards, drew a serrated blade from his belt, and looked aghast at the mages. There was the hint of a smile playing there on their lips. ¡°Arrrrgh!¡± he screamed in response, and lumbered heavily towards the staggering king.


    Silven saw the approach through hooded eyes and tried again. ¡°Left, jump, down, right.¡± He raised his sceptre and parried a dozen heavy blows from the evil sword as the Bloodthirsty raged towards the end. ¡°Right, left, right, duck.¡± The blade swirled an inch above his head, so it wasn¡¯t an entire waste of energy, but the king was reaching his last will. Here, on the day of a grand victory, in this strange city so alien and yet now his, he was about to die. All things considered, it didn¡¯t really surprise him.


    He thought of the door trick.


    ¡°Right, right, left, duck.¡± A flash of cold blue light erupted around the king. Suddenly, he felt swift and free and deadly. In a heartbeat, he blinked past the warrior¡¯s advance and touched his crackling weapon to the back of his knee. Dazzling lightning engulfed the man, but his scream was drowned by the whoosh of flames from Silven¡¯s fist. As he sank to his knees, the king shattered his cheek with a fiery blow to the massive head. He threw down the trinket of his office, whirled back in front of the foe, and delivered a brutal kick to his chestplate. The metal crumpled beneath the soft shoes and the Bloodthirsty skidded away down the marble, kicking up a whirl of chicken feathers on his way.


    Silven stalked after him. ¡°You want war, do you?¡± He met the stubborn foe halfway along the pavement, cast aside his blade with an iron-like hand, and chopped briskly at his neck. The champion tottered with a groan and reeled away. Silven went on. ¡°I¡¯ll give you war. But let this be a lesson. You have it all wrong. You fight all the time, and you remain weak. There¡¯s a year-long cooldown on this!¡± He struck out a palm to twisted chestplate and sent the Bloodthirsty flying back again. ¡°Two for this,¡± he yelled, and struck a horrifying blow with the ghostly hammer suddenly in his hand. ¡°And three for the end!¡±


    As he stood there facing the battered man kneeling before him in a pool of blood, a golden spear of lightning poised in his grasp, he realised he was addressing the mages more than his target. In that moment, he knew this poor soul for the pawn he was. He turned and looked deep into those serious eyes. Serious, omnipotent, and now, flashing a warning. They didn¡¯t speak, and yet he knew. There was horror in that message, anger and pain, and yet, somewhere deep, just a touch of sympathy.


    ¡°If you do this,¡± they said, lips unmoving, ¡°your world will fall. Your entire existence would mean nothing. Your friends would die, and everything you have worked for would crumble to dust in the blink of an eye. You cannot win here.¡±


    ¡°Your utopia is doomed,¡± said the other in his head. ¡°But you can save something. Your ideas, your history, your legacy, can all be part of the cycle. But only if you choose it. The noob must win.¡±


    And Silven knew it to be true. He didn¡¯t understand, but that didn¡¯t matter. The mages did not fit. They were not part of this. They were above it, and they knew.


    He looked back across the war-torn plaza. Dusk was settling on Ostenwal, and the flashes of his lightning spear illuminated his men and the peasants and the grotesques of the plague where they had fallen. Lights flickered in the grand buildings all around, but the streets were filled with a thick and dreadful silence. The door to the courtroom remained open, and above the threshold, the white and blue stripes of the Royal Republic of Newburg(h) bore witness to it all. This was his utopia. He was beginning to get this place, and he didn¡¯t like what he knew. Peace would never come. He¡¯d tried to help the people with their simple problems, and brought death and destruction wherever he went. He¡¯d suppressed the rebels one by one, and triggered a civil war which tore apart the kingdom. He¡¯d brought everything back together under a bountiful and mindful rule, and summoned the armies of half the known world to bring down his regime. Now, forces that should not be were offering to trade a scrap of meaning for his life.


    But there were things beyond this cursed city. In Desert Marsh and Gigglewick and Greenholme in the north, to Southcastle and Bluebay and especially the mighty Solmond City in its blanket of rolling hills and vineyards, the people were happy. They would be celebrating the throwing back of the invaders tonight. Mountains of turnips and ice-cream and turnip ice-cream would fill groaning tables, and perhaps the first brave pioneers would lay out steaming bowls of carrot and turnip stew, and their families would feast. Little Timmy and Tommy would be chattering on, beseeching their father to let them visit one of the monster camps this summer. Their bedchambers would be brimming with toys, including the new Twedipets that came trotting out of tiny flowers whenever they hopped past, looking for a ruffle of fur and a bite of the banquet. Elsewhere, mum would be eagerly looking up the next deliveries from Limetop, bickering with her friends many leagues away by Silverview IM regarding the appropriateness of Simitest¡¯s new range of sleeveless tunics for Moonday temple. There would be a new Maplr announcement tonight showing the locations of the next games gatherings, now that several of the battalions were unfortunately no more, and the most productive rubbish teams would be granted a secret waypoint for the next Trashbag Treasure Hunt.


    There was more to life than the death of the plaza. And, with a touch of help along the way, it was all Silven¡¯s doing. He¡¯d only gotten to this ultimatum by defeating his adversaries at each and every step of the way so far.


    He turned away defiantly from the doom-eyes and plunged the lightning through the Bloodthirsty¡¯s heart.

 3.7 The Bloodthirsty and The Bore

    3.7 The Bloodthirsty and The Bore


    The mages screamed. Well, something was screaming, for when the Modders opened their mouths, they unravelled from the orifice. Not the typical scene of a body vanishing from beneath a robe and pooling on the floor; flesh and cloth folded back into nothingness and disappeared.


    There were things scurrying where mysterious feet had stood. Silven looked down. There were mice everywhere. Mice crawling towards the shattered body of the Bloodthirsty and muttering darkly at what they saw. Mice stood gaping at the king and waving walking sticks and umbrellas violently at his shins. Mice with wide eyes dashing for the edge of the plaza and hopping into the lower levels of streets. Mice, is what I¡¯m trying to say.


    Silven sprang forward and ground one of said mice hard beneath his slipper. A brief squeak rang out from between his toes, bones shattered, and then it was as gone as the mages. A little blue ¡®7¡¯ popped up by his shin, and the others gasped. ¡°Got you, you vermin!¡± he spat triumphantly. ¡°Within a whisker of safety.¡± He grinned at the crowd. ¡°Get it?¡± The dozen or so remaining watchers retreated hastily. ¡°Well I liked it,¡± he puffed.


    The mice did not like it. They hovered nervously at the edge of the paving and grumbled. It was not the tone of retribution. It was the tone of resignation, and suddenly, Silven was afraid.


    ¡°This is soooo stupid!¡± moaned a lady mouse with ribbons in her tail. ¡°I mean, he had a faaaar better weapon than the Bore over there.¡±


    ¡°This place sucks,¡± agreed the gentlemouse by her side. ¡°They¡¯ve gone too far with the freedom. Everyone just wants to sit around and play games.¡±


    ¡°Talking of which, I¡¯m going back to 23. Server¡¯s still fuller than this one,¡± announced the rodent in the top hat. "See ya, Darklord."


    ¡°Yar, sure will. No more bants now Dragonslaya¡¯s dead. Most action the Bore¡¯s been in all year, and he¡¯s locked out the last shred of fun. Sorry, Darkgurl5, it¡¯s finished.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, last fun?¡± scowled a nearby purple-dyed critter, but it was too late. She watched as her friends blinked out of existence, one by one, in tiny flashes of blue light. She turned and looked up at the bewildered king with sorrowful eyes. ¡°Sorry, Silven. Show¡¯s over. I tried to keep it going, but you just wouldn¡¯t die.¡±


    Silven¡¯s mind was ablaze with confusion. In the end, he focused on just one image. Maybe it was that feeling of imminent doom overcoming his will to carry on, or maybe he was just silly. Whatever the reason, the departure of those nincompoops filled him with sudden manic joy. He struck out his right arm, curled it back in, waved his hand in the air, whirled and stuck up his left thumb. For one so cool as he, it came naturally.


    Darkgurl5 paused. And then, if a mouse can smile, she smiled. ¡°Count Steinbrook,¡± she gasped. ¡°Built that one myself. So you¡¯re misunderstood too?¡± She sighed. ¡°I suppose I could give you one chance. Just one. But the server might come down for inactivity anyway.¡± She edged forward. Silven¡¯s slipper twitched, but somehow, he restrained himself as the mouse crept up and laid a paw on his big toe. ¡°Just.... do something interesting.¡± She looked up seriously into his eyes, spun on the spot and scampered over the bodies into the night.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Silven remained in place for a long time. The city was still and quiet and dead around him. Within, however, he was alive with questions. The mages and the mice. The Bloodthirsty and the Bore. Servers and dragonslayers and Steinbrook. He was too sane to make any sense of all that.


    And yet, swimming slowly and surely from the murk, there came an answer.


    It wasn¡¯t an answer he was looking for. It explained nothing at all. But the suddenness and force with which it appeared meant it had to be important. A sudden feverish energy from so long ago rekindled a desperate inquisitive light in his eyes.


    How could he have forgotten?


    He stumbled over fallen heroes and fallen chicken-ghost-square-things and back into the courtroom. His friends were still there, clapping gormlessly. ¡°Three cheers for our king!¡± cried Simitest brightly. ¡°And then back to Limetop for some celebratory port. The sculpture directive can wait for the morn.¡±


    He was gone by the second cry. There were just a few things to check first. With his Silverview working once again, it didn¡¯t take long. The borders were indeed secure, though fortresses and walls lay pierced and tumbled all along those invisible lines. He congratulated his throng of commanders and captains and sergeants and ordered a public holiday, complete with bard festival, at the gates of the National Museum of Nonsense and Wankery for the morrow. He checked in with Trashbag. Dasat had entered the cathedral, and that was all he wanted to know. He looked out at the gloomy prison and forced himself to think of nothing. He would not see his general again. The safehouse of spies by the Mooncerer¡¯s family cottage reported no unusual activity beyond the odd meteor-tantrum. Limetop was similarly unmolested, but the Bloodthirsty had spoken true about Overwall. The headquarters crackled orange against the dark sky. The fire carts had been understandably busier hosing down raging demons as they charged from the furnaces of the underworld than saving files from offices, and a good half of the company buildings there had collapsed into ashes. It would set back the invaluable health-bar overlay and poison tracker for miners¡¯ Silverviews by a good few months. The TWEDIS greenhouses had shattered , and there was growing concern that the new lines of Twedipets could be delivered in woefully short supply next Sunday. Fad riots were surely nigh.


    None of it really mattered. He walked through it all like a ghost, and nodded in all the right places, and signed the papers with a flourish of his pen, and yet he felt dead. He had the peculiar notion of putting his affairs in order. He wrote express IMs to all the company guards, giving strict orders that all previous sweet orders were to remain unfulfilled and that Herbie Sootroller was to actually get up off his ample backside and do some work for once. The answer gnawed at him. It was time.


    He looked back at his blazing creation and turned away just as quickly. He blinked on one more time. With the victory bonfire a veritable inferno by the gorge outside the city gates, Desert Marsh itself was nigh on deserted.


    There was, of course, still someone at home within the imposing facade of Silicarco Academy. And, also of course, the big lock on his window was once more infuriatingly reset. He fiddled with a rusty sword he found in a wheelbarrow across the grounds and called inside confidently. ¡°Hello, Professor Grennel. I have your breakthrough.¡±

 3.8 Revelations

    3.8 Revelations


    Seeing that room again was like peering through a window into the past. There was a little wardrobe in that office, but Grennel was still wearing his green velvet. He was either very attached to that outfit or very unattached to common decency. ¡°Not joining the celebrations, professor?¡± Silven called through the choking odour.


    The pale academic rushed to the window and grinned. ¡°Oh, just plodding along with my research and hiding from those beastly and corrupt Silverlink soldiers who have unearthed undeniable evidence that I have blood on my hands. A typical night¡¯s work, for the past year or so.¡±


    Silven wasted no more time. He looked dead into the professor¡¯s earnest face and said, ¡°Damage poisons and slowing poisons overwrite each other. Get bit by a spider, turn green, and slip away. But hit a tarantula next, and you¡¯re slow and blue. Instead.¡±


    Grennel frowned. Then, he hummed. Then, he grinned. ¡°Hmmm, basic biology. Poisons in the bloodstream should mix without inhibiting each other. And no intake of one could instantly eliminate all traces of the other throughout the body and eradicate its effects. Alright, you can come in.¡±


    Silven blinked. Somehow, he still hadn¡¯t been expecting that. He edged a tentative hand straight through the open window, as all normal hands and open windows should behave, and clambered in. Then, he saw the tottering towers of boxes and creased parchments piled high against the outer wall and uttered a cry of disgust. ¡°Professor! Have you been concealing this clutter all this time? As dean of this establishment, I verbally warn you, with this verbal warning. I am also compelled to remind you there exists a twice-weekly failed research note furnace collection, every Tuesday and Friday.¡± He blinked again and grimaced. ¡°That came worryingly naturally. I forget I¡¯m on the verge of uncovering shocking revelations about our existence. My apologies, sir; carry on.¡±


    Grennel waved a hand at the rubbish. ¡°I apologise too. And not just because I have failed to open up to the bin men in case a guard were to slip in and give me just punishment for my crimes. I apologise for the little exercise with the window. I wanted to let you in all along. It¡¯s just not how it works.¡±


    Silven eyed the window latch grimly. ¡°It¡¯s how it should work. Little exercise? I gallivanted up and down the republic for far too long seeking out titbits for your ¡®work¡¯. Was it worth it?¡±


    Grennel nodded warily. ¡°As a designated quest giver, it is imperative I demand something related to my needs when presented with a request for help or access from the fulcrum. And as my research had recently moved from the intricacies of the song of red communal sparrows towards the great truth of our universe, allowed by my freedoms as a centrepiece, I had to request something a little out of the ordinary. A little wrong. Any questions so far?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± said Silven. ¡°You needed something for your needs. You¡¯ve been in here alone all this time. Wouldn¡¯t a shard of toilet pottery have sufficed?¡±


    Grennel looked dead into his eyes. ¡°We do not use the toilet. Or eat, or sleep, when the fulcrum is not present. Centrepieces simply enter a state of what I call standby existence, carrying out tasks relevant to the fulcrum only until he or she approaches again, as triggered by the aforementioned Elsenberg purpose principle. The pawns, so to speak, shut down altogether. So there¡¯s your answer.¡±


    ¡°I better sit down,¡± replied Silven. He saw a half-empty bottle of port on the desk and finished the shoddy work instead. He stood for a long time before he spoke again. ¡°So... I¡¯m a fulcrum?¡±


    Grennel gasped in exasperation. ¡°You¡¯re the fulcrum.¡±


    ¡°And my friends? Olgy?¡±


    ¡°Centrepieces.¡±


    ¡°And the difference?¡±


    Grennel cast a disappointed eye over the portless bottle. ¡°Centrepieces have some freedom from the rigorous script of existence. They are capable of thought, and intuition, and action. But with one critical limitation. They are bound to their relationship with the fulcrum. Whether to antagonise or comply, is determined by the course laid by the fulcrum.¡±


    Silven¡¯s hands began to tremble. He already knew the answer before he had spoken the question. It all made sense. But he needed to hear it for it to be real. ¡°And the fulcrum¡¯s course?¡±


    ¡°Is free to determine everything.¡±


    Everything. It was such a big concept. It included everything. Finally, Silven did sit down.


    The professor casually dabbed a scented ointment on his armpits, and waited for his theory to sink in.


    Instead, Silven¡¯s oh-so-free mind tried to dodge it. ¡°So tell me about the pawns.¡±


    Grennel scoffed and waved away the nonsense. ¡°They don¡¯t matter. The people are just there for performance. They spring to life to give your actions meaning. Then they are taken out of play and await the next.¡±


    Silven sat rigid in his chair. He looked out at the grounds of the academy with a sense of boiling dread. ¡°But my company. My public services. My Silverviews and IMs, and the heating! Only when I¡¯m there?¡±


    ¡°To the pawns, yes. The world adjusts to always raise a challenge. Think of the guilds that have risen alongside Silverlink.¡±


    Silven frowned. ¡°Ambard¡¯s jewellery. Findigrist plaques. They are no competition.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re missing the point. They¡¯ve rose all the same. As I said, the world adjusts to challenge as best it can. And those companies are in direct competition.¡±


    Silven slumped in his chair. Waves of confusion and pain fluttered around his aching head. ¡°Trinkets. It¡¯s all just trinkets to them. My people.¡±


    Grennel moved a little closer, but his voice was cold and clinical. ¡°Yes. They pick up those plaques and Silverviews alike, and look at them when you¡¯re there. They chatter away across IM and across rooms alike. Meaninglessly.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s all pointless,¡± mumbled Silven. His eyes were unfocused, his words monotone. Everything to nothing. His life was worthless. ¡°It means nothing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I said. To the pawns, yes. To the centrepieces, and you, no.¡±


    Silven sat up again. He¡¯d had too much port and too much information. The room was swimming around him. His mind was wandering. ¡°So that¡¯s why it¡¯s been so easy. Elsenberg purpose principle. I think what I want and I get it. Because I¡¯m the fulcrum.¡± There was silence. He focused back on Grennel. The professor¡¯s hands were clapped over his eyes, and he was shaking. ¡°Professor?¡±


    The professor burst. ¡°Gods be damned! It is the curse of a man of learning to be plagued by the proliferation of idiotic misinterpretations of simple theorems!¡±


    ¡°Errr, what?¡±


    ¡°Just listen to what¡¯s said, and don¡¯t be so stupid!¡±


    Grennel lowered himself until he was eye to eye with his guest. ¡°Objectives of a magical nature will only reveal themselves to the fulcrum when they cross an expectation threshold. Not ¡®objects and situations will magically appear when the fulcrum crosses a desire threshold.¡¯ Please tell me you haven¡¯t been living your life by that nonsense?¡±


    ¡°But you said-¡±


    ¡°A fulcrum is the centre around which events turn. You can determine where and how, but do not provide the power. Let me demonstrate.¡± He tapped Silven on the shoulder and beckoned him to rise. He waggled a finger at the door leading off into the shadowy wing. ¡°What do you wish to be beyond that door, oh mighty fulcrum?¡±


    Silven hesitated. He thought of his desperate quest for meaning. He thought of his friends. ¡°A crowd of people, all eating ice-cream and playing games and talking to people across the country and enjoying themselves. Genuinely enjoying themselves.¡± He paused. ¡°And the mercenary, Dasat.¡±


    Grennel motioned silently. Silven moved to the door and unhooked the latch. He knew he shouldn¡¯t hope, but couldn¡¯t help it. The warm glow of excitement was spreading slowly to his fingertips. When it reached his nails, he opened the door.


    Nothing but shadows, and, in Silven¡¯s humble opinion, a not particularly well done still life of an apple on a plate. He shut the door.


    Grennel spoke quickly and deliberately. ¡°And while you were sulking, I happened to message a valuable ally who will aid you in choosing your destiny after all this is explained. He should be at the door this very moment.¡±


    ¡°Is it Elsenberg?¡± Silven said.


    Grennel sighed sadly. ¡°He was a centrepiece too. But he turned into a ferret last Thursday and roams the skirting boards of number eight Swampback Lane yet, despite our best efforts. Anyway, go on.¡± Silven opened the door.


    A hooded figure stood poised to exit the gloom. Silven stepped aside and gasped as the brother walked into the light and shook Grennel¡¯s hand. He turned to his king and looked him up and down with piercing black eyes. ¡°Your Majesty. We meet more peacefully than last, I hope. I was too busy escaping an avalanche of baddies to finish you off then. Perhaps I was right not to.¡±


    Silven gasped. ¡°Brother Whateverborn! I mean ¨C tell me, what is your true name?¡±


    The man looked confused. ¡°Brother Whateverborn.¡± His eyes flashed. ¡°You weren¡¯t meaning to insult me, were you?¡±


    ¡°No, no,¡± hurried Silven. ¡°I just thought you might have a first name, that¡¯s all.¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°I do. Brother.¡± Silven thought it best to say no more. ¡°Since the Battle To End It All, in which I had hoped to put a stop to the rise of the Glitch, I have led the life of an exile. With the Cathedral of Dust brought back into republican hands, I thought it best to pursue more direct and effective measures towards the eternal fight. And then, my old friend says he had you. The most direct approach of all.¡±


    ¡°Enough of that!¡± snapped Grennel. ¡°Later. What I really want to drive home is this ¨C if you take just one message from this conservation, it should be to have enough respect for your intellectual superiors to actually heed their words. There are enough ridiculous rumours and pseudoscientific gossip flying around without the king himself spreading more. Science may be taking hold, but it¡¯s still in a delicate position within this rapidly-changing society.¡±


    Silven paused. ¡°I think there may be other messages I should take home too.¡±


    Grennel mumbled. ¡°Maybe. Anyway, where were we?¡±


    ¡°I think you¡¯ve made it abundantly clear that I cannot think my way to victory.¡±


    Grennel¡¯s eyes gleamed. ¡°Ah, yes. This world may be your sandbox, but who shaped the box? Who carted the sand in, and put the little picket-fence around the edge with the little house rules sign telling you to have fun but remember you can¡¯t do this and that?¡±


    Flashes of inspiration carved their way through Silven¡¯s bewilderment like a thunderstorm. ¡°The stranger in the tavern. The mice. The Black Shadow. The assassins.¡±


    Grennel grinned smugly. ¡°Right on one account. The voice, and the soldiers, they¡¯re all just sandcastles, part of the play area. But those mice... I have reason to suspect that they are the real power here. The outside force.¡±


    Silven nodded slowly. ¡°Yes. And the mages.¡± He was starting to feel queasily disconnected from the room.


    ¡°Here we come to the meat of the meal,¡± continued Grennel firmly. ¡°The mice are not of this world. They blend in, as much as a critter in a top hat can , but they determine the bones of the reality you shape. They set the plots in motion, and steer you into the traps and trials, and observe in glee as you... flail about. It¡¯s their entertainment.¡±


    Sudden understanding flooded Silven¡¯s heart, and he sat down again. ¡°Guys, guys, I think I get it.¡± He took a shuddering breath. ¡°It can¡¯t be true, and yet it makes so much sense. This world, us, all we¡¯ve done.... it¡¯s not real.¡± He leaned closer to his companions, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°We¡¯re just a storybook.¡±


    Grennel glanced sideways at Whateverborn. Whateverborn looked slyly at Silven¡¯s pale, earnest face. They both broke down into roars of laughter. ¡°How could we be in a book, you stupid man?¡± managed Grennel. ¡°Time stands still in a book. It¡¯s already written. There¡¯s no freedom. We¡¯re in a game, you idiot.¡±


    Silven looked blank. Whateverborn sniggered again.


    ¡°You know, a game? Like chess or draughts, but far more complicated. They have technology well beyond the wildest dreams of this humble academy. But my research all points to it. The way everything¡¯s connected... we¡¯re all pieces on a kingdom-sized gameboard. They set the rules, and we follow them, and they call us out for cheats and nudge us in the right direction when we disobey. A new step in gaming, I suppose. They don¡¯t move us themselves. Semi-passive play, I call it.¡±


    Silven looked back at the mice. Always watching, always popping up and giving unwanted advice, and goading him into new powers when he really didn¡¯t want them. That is, until he shut them out. ¡°But if that¡¯s true, then I¡¯ve been cheating for a long time.¡±


    Grennel nodded enthusiastically. ¡°Yes, and that¡¯s why we¡¯re where we¡¯re at. What a tongue-twister. You see, I was simplifying things when I said you¡¯ve got complete freedom. They want the game to end somewhere. They have fun watching how you choose to go about it, but they know how it ends. They built the sandbox, remember.¡±


    Silven shivered. ¡°The Three Toes Tavern.¡± It was a name he had not uttered in quite some time.


    Brother Whateverborn joined the conversation. ¡°That¡¯s just the start. The powers that be have a delicate balance to strike. Make you a mere drone, and you¡¯ll follow the line too rigidly. Give you too much free thought, and you¡¯ll take flight almost immediately. That¡¯s what they¡¯ve done. They¡¯ve been struggling to control you ever since.¡±


    ¡°As they did with all of us,¡± added Grennel. ¡°They made me a scholar, and gave me the power to find patterns of my own. Ever since, I¡¯ve been working to uncover the rules of play. And all your companions. They¡¯ve enabled you to gather an army of supporters to twist from their grasp, where Olgred and the rest could have been used to push you back on track.¡±


    Suddenly, Silven was furious. Not at the whole game thing- that was rather too much to think about at this point - but at the tastes of those evil creatures. ¡°So that¡¯s why I¡¯ve dealt with death and destruction at every turn? They think my way¡¯s boring? All that power, and they want blood and guts? I¡¯ll give them blood and guts!¡±


    Grennel held up his hands. ¡°Easy. That may prove difficult, now that most have left the arena. And don¡¯t tar them all with the same brush. In fact, it¡¯s the peaceful ones that have left us in this mess.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Grennel sat down opposite the visitor. Finally, his expression was one of compassion. ¡°I note that you haven¡¯t come to me with ideas for some time. What caused the change?¡±


    Silven bristled. ¡°Any abnormalities I have witnessed since the start of my businesses may have compromised company targets if disclosed. They¡¯re too close to classified material.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Grennel nodded. ¡°But not the poison information?¡±


    Silven shook his head. ¡°No... that was before... I think.¡± He shook his head vigorously. ¡°I don¡¯t know where it came from. But as soon as I defeated that Bloodthirsty character, it came back.¡±


    Grennel waggled a smug finger. ¡°No. I¡¯m making an educated guess and proposing a possible solution. That thought came back when you removed a mouse from play? I thought so. My efforts lead me to believe that they have some abilities to directly influence the course of the game in dire need. They watch all the centrepieces as well as you, and monitor for signs of abnormal thought. When I stumbled upon the nature of the world, they knew they had made a mistake in granting us too much free thought. And if the fulcrum himself were to join forces, and we all became self-aware...¡± Grennel shrugged. ¡°A bit late for that speculation now, I suppose. But they endeavoured to cut off that road. The Corril murder I suspect to be part of the original sandbox. I was always meant to do that. But they knew the rules that they themselves had set ¨C I had to ask for something useful to my research. All they had to do to stop this conversation from ever happening, and keep the game on track, was to stop you giving me an answer.¡± Grennel drew in a long, thoughtful breath. ¡°I imagine you learned of the spider poison a long time ago, before you ever suspected anything was wrong. That gave them the chance to remove it from your thoughts. A touch of a paw, the brush of a whisker... any physical interaction would have done.¡±


    Silven shuddered and thought of the mousey conversations of yore. ¡°They blocked the evidence,¡± he cried in horror.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Grennel pressed. ¡°And hoped that that would be that. I like the word that. Anyway, the show was supposed to go on. All those big fights and betrayals and romances they probably had built for you were waiting, but your desire for freedom and doing good got in the way. Some grumbled and departed long ago; others have dropped off steadily as your cheating went on. But others tried to adapt the very universe itself.¡± He glanced over at the hooded brother. ¡°I think this is more your territory now.¡±


    Whateverborn grunted. ¡°I¡¯m of the Fellowship of the Glitch, as you well know, but I am also a centrepiece. I was obviously supposed to try to murder you or lead you through a secret tunnel or something, before you changed the course of this fantasy. That has allowed me to correspond with Grennel about all this for some time. I¡¯ve worked out a few things about the world since then for myself. The most important thing goes back to the fellowship itself. Have you ever played one of those more abysmal boardgames with ten thousand pieces and a rule book the size of an encyclopaedia?¡± Silven nodded cautiously. He had invented all those himself. ¡°Good. Then you¡¯ll know how sometimes things get confused. One rule seems to contradict another. You find a loophole where you can win battles against entire armies with one small piece and a poorly-worded spell card. Some of the numbers in attack tables might have been missed off by a lazy scribe. Sometimes, things just don¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°And their game is the same,¡± finished Silven. It was not a question.


    ¡°Yes. Here, it¡¯s known as the Glitch, for reasons unknown. My brothers and I have been created to hunt down and destroy it wherever it raises its beastly head. But the rules themselves we cannot heal, and it will go on forever unless the higher powers solve it.¡± He shook his head in despair. ¡°Yet they have gone the other way. It started as the odd inconsistency. A disappearing merchant, an archer who can shoot through walls, and lost memories. Can you remember your beginnings, Silven?¡±


    Silven shook his head. In his escape from Fort Deathrot, the mice had asked him to finalise decisions he had not made. Whateverborn seemed satisfied. ¡°The spider poison is a new one on us, but that¡¯s a very minor thing too. What troubles us now is the plague.¡±


    ¡°But why has it gotten worse?¡±


    Grennel looked troubled. He could hardly meet Silven¡¯s eye. ¡°The mice that have remained up to this point started to look at the board in different ways. They liked your ideas, Your Majesty. Yes, the pawns looked like they were enjoying their trinkets, but the players started to meddle. What if they could make your visions a reality? Maybe they could make what many thought a dull game a rather interesting experiment. And the only way to do that was to generate more thinkers. They¡¯ve been promoting more and more of your people to free thought and full life. And with it has come the challenges of fitting your hopes and dreams into the rule book. Unrestricted instant travel, long-distance messaging, unlimited resources, plot changes, vast networks of people and groups...¡±


    ¡°But sadly, we have reason to believe most of these players are uneducated spoiled brats with no hope of changing the sandbox,¡± finished Whateverborn. ¡°They¡¯ve tried, alright, and created a tangled rats¡¯-nest of gibberish that the world can¡¯t follow. And so the plague has spread.¡±


    ¡°And I am its creator.¡± Silven sunk in his chair. Everything he had ever done had been simplified to this lecture about some kids messing around in a game. And to learn that he himself was the mastermind of its decline was just the icing on the hairball.


    Grennel laid a hand on his shoulder. ¡°I think you¡¯ve known something of this for some time. Which brings me back to my original point about your disappearance. A mind as bright as yours cannot have failed to see the intrinsic ties between the rise of your utopia and the rise of the plague. Maybe you¡¯ve pushed it aside, tried to help in your own way, but I suspect that is why you have failed to report anything of it back to me. You knew, but were afraid to hear it.¡±


    Silven was afraid that Grennel might be right. He hoped he would never know.


    Whateverborn hastened on. ¡°Yet you are also the world¡¯s saviour. Without these ideas, the mice would have flipped the board long ago. You¡¯ve kept their interest for so long, and made our lives all the happier for it. So keep that in mind too.¡±


    Silven dreaded what was to come. ¡°But now?¡±


    ¡°But now we have come to the crossroads once and for all. Finally giving up on improving the world, most of the mice turned back to the game¡¯s roots. The natural resistances of the sandbox were failing to stop you, so they developed greater ambitions. They would place another fulcrum, a more malleable one, put a stop to your fiddling once and for all, and try to untangle the damage they had done. Then, they could go about their little plots and quests with their new champion.¡±


    ¡°The Bloodthirsty,¡± said Silven simply. ¡°The end of my story. They even took matters into their own hands. They burned Overwall.¡±


    ¡°Apart from it wasn¡¯t the end,¡± the brother reminded him. ¡°You won, remember? Just a shame that most of the players have got bored and gone home. The board hasn¡¯t been flipped, but it¡¯s almost time for it to be folded away.¡±


    ¡°Mouse sightings have plummeted in recent days,¡± warned Grennel. ¡°This game seems hardly worth playing now to most. At any second, I fear we may just.... not be.¡±


    Silven writhed in silent torment. He didn¡¯t know whether to feel important or worthless or heroic or villainous. In the end, he settled on a hodgepodge of everything. ¡°So, it¡¯s just a question of what¡¯s first - I get turned into pate by some super-monster conjured from the depths of hell, we all turn into toucans and flap away into the purple sunset, or we just fizzle out into nothing. Sounds like fun, gentlemen. Place your bets.¡±


    ¡°Or we get the happy ending,¡± added Grennel carefully. ¡°The true ending.¡±

 3.9 Pay To Skip

    3.9 Pay To Skip


    At first, Silven had no idea what the man was talking about. When he did, he began to laugh manically. It was quite possibly the most hilarious thing he had ever heard.


    ¡°It could be our only hope,¡± Grennel insisted. Brother Whateverborn looked from king to professor worriedly.


    Silven finished with a truly impressive snort of derision. ¡°And the craziest thing about it? You¡¯re right. Although I wouldn¡¯t mind being a toucan. There again, you can¡¯t choose.¡±


    Grennel was quick to reassure. ¡°I¡¯m not talking about giving up everything you¡¯ve worked for. Just starting the storyline could make all the difference. Get just enough players interested to keep the game going.¡±


    ¡°Alright. Where is the Three Toes Tavern?¡± Silven had never dreamt of hearing that question from his lips.


    ¡°Just down the Old Cobble Road east of Thornyhedge.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been there before. Nothing,¡± muttered Silven.


    Grennel leant forward and rapped sharply on the top of his head. ¡°Hello? Have you forgotten my take-home message already? Now you know, it¡¯s there. Trust me.¡±


    ¡°Oh yes.¡± Silven nodded absent-mindedly. ¡°I¡¯d forgotten to care about the ins and outs of the entire mechanism of our universe the moment I learned it was fake.¡±


    Whateverborn leant forward. ¡°I have envisioned another possibility. We could end it. The Cathedral of Dust has extensive maps showing areas of concern for our work. My brothers have sensed a high concentration of dark magic around that tavern of which you speak for years. It¡¯s never grown, never moved, and likely lies dormant waiting for a trigger. That tavern consists of three rooms. The kitchen, the bar, and a large guest room with an unmovable door. That¡¯s where the power is.¡±


    Silven focused. He couldn¡¯t believe he was actually thinking about this. But when the only three other ways ended in inevitable annihilation, anything else seemed legit.


    Besides, he felt he was getting into another cheat.


    ¡°We sent out an investigation team once,¡± the brother was going on. ¡°No way through that door, and believe me, we can get into anything. But there is another entry point. The corner of the wall by the bar.¡± He looked up into two blank faces and tutted. ¡°Another, helpful part of the Glitch. They may look it, but those walls don¡¯t join at the angle. With the right spell...¡±


    ¡°We could be in. And then what?¡± quizzed Grennel. It was the first time he had looked confused.


    ¡°Then we destroy that power before it awakes. It¡¯s so strong, it has to be the final boss. Maybe it¡¯s going to burst out when His Highness talks to his contact. Perhaps it just becomes sentient then and makes its way to its dark den of villainy in a dramatic and wholly impractical way. Whatever happens, I think it will be awoken when the quest begins. But with our knowledge, we could bypass the entire storyline and finish it all in one go.¡±


    Grennel and Silven considered. The plan seemed sound, and yet there was something wrong. It took them a moment or two to place it. ¡°But what then?¡± said Grennel. ¡°Surely the end is the most boring thing of all?¡±


    Whateverborn looked uneasy. ¡°It may not be the end-end, just of this troubled story. It may bring back enough curious players to prolong our existence and gather enough external support to put an end to the Glitch. Or we might be cleared out of existence. It¡¯s a risk, but at least we may gain a longer term advantage without edging our way towards a battle we might not win.¡±


    An uncomfortable gloom filled the untidy office. Outside, dusk was settling over Desert Marsh. It all looked so peaceful. Silven was mildly alarmed at the thought. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Whateverborn coughed. There was something else, and the creases on his broad face suggested he was almost too afraid to say it. ¡°This only works one of two ways. Now, my lord, please, please, please tell me that when those critters bade you choose a path at the end of the prison, you chose mage.¡±


    Silven fought through the wave of panic and shook his head. ¡°You know I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Gah!¡± roared Whateverborn. He pounded the desk with a meaty fist. ¡°I mean, come on! It¡¯s the only sensible option. With such a free levelling system, you can always train sword and shield later. Any idiot choosing rogue or warrior¡¯s just locking themselves out of an invaluable spell set. For life.¡±


    It was the second time in ten minutes that Silven had been called an idiot. He decided he really didn¡¯t like it.


    ¡°Well, seeing as we don¡¯t have access to the level two Rush, we¡¯re left with the hard way,¡± grumbled the hooded brother. ¡°In some limited fashion, we brothers have the ability to peer beyond our plane where the Glitch cuts deep. We can see things that could be, but aren¡¯t.¡± He counted down the five second requirement for cryptic explanations and continued. ¡°There¡¯s a merchant in a dreary back lane of Solmond City who can provide a charge stick. When applied to the bottom of the user, it creates enough pain to propel the idiot forward at great pace. Enough to part those walls and slay the evil within.¡±


    Silven nodded seriously. The aforementioned bottom clenched seriously. ¡°Great. Let¡¯s get it.¡±


    ¡°The merchant takes only Gems as payment.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure we can rustle up some rubies. Diamonds, perhaps?¡±


    Whateverborn sighed. ¡°Gems with a capital G. It is the currency of the Gods, used to release new inventions to the realm. Or players, as we now know.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± said Silven.


    ¡°These Gems are gathered via another currency. Why remains a mystery. Perhaps it is so that the money makes thematic sense. Some cynics argue it¡¯s in order to make purchases seem fun by masking the feeling of spending real money, thus trapping players into a seemingly harmless spiral of addiction and debt. We will never know for sure.¡±


    ¡°Thematic sense...¡± wondered Silven aloud. He hadn¡¯t ever felt like part of a theme.


    ¡°There¡¯s secret messages hidden within the fabric of the earth; since Grennel¡¯s discoveries, I have attributed them to the backstage gossipings of the mice. Most of them I shall not repeat here ¨C nine out of ten are unspeakable propositions towards the ladymice. But within what is left, I have found something which may aid us. There¡¯s a player called DarkGurl4.¡±


    ¡°DarkGurl 5,¡± corrected Silven.


    Whateverborn grimaced. ¡°No, 4. There¡¯s also a DarkGurl3, DarkGurl33, DarkGurl4eva, DarkGurl2012, DarkGurl7 and DarkGrrrrl. But I mean DarkGurl4.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± said Silven again.


    ¡°Anyway, it seems DarkGurl4 is a lazy girl. I¡¯ve found one moan about her finding a source of money and daily whines about getting someone to do it for her. She shares her secret passwords with whoever¡¯s stupid enough to help. Today, that¡¯s us.¡±


    Why don¡¯ t you do it yourself, Silven was desperate to say, but he already knew why. There were many centrepieces, but only one fulcrum.


    ¡°Will you help us, Your Majesty?¡± asked Grennel tentatively.


    They had it all worked out, all organised. But there wasn¡¯t really an us, was there?


    A horrible realisation kicked Silven in the stomach. He¡¯d lost. He¡¯d won many victories, it was true. It didn¡¯t matter in the end.


    At least it was only a game.


    ¡°Your Majesty?¡±


    Silven stirred and rubbed life into his pale cheeks. ¡°This is the only way to save the republic?¡± He looked out of the window again. All still there, for now.


    ¡°It¡¯s the only way to save the world.¡±


    Silven guffawed bitterly. ¡°Or what I can of it. All this time, and now I¡¯m walking into it anyway. Well, I hope they¡¯re happy.¡±


    Grennel braved a reply. ¡°By this point, that¡¯s exactly what we need.¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s get to it!¡± yelled Silven, bursting up from his seat. ¡°Enough drivel. Lead me to the slaughter!¡±


    Grennel backed away. ¡°Calm down, Your Majesty. The Gems first, remember?¡±


    Silven smirked. ¡°Sorry. Just getting into character.¡±

 3.10 A Plot Of Pallets

    3.10 A Plot Of Pallets


    ¡°Do we know what to expect?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Brother Whateverborn was pacing back and forth in the tiny office like a fangbeast in a cage. ¡°Only that the messages continue for a long time after the mug goes in. That means he¡¯s still partly of this gameboard. Hopefully, you¡¯ll survive.¡±


    ¡°Hopefully?¡± snapped Silven. He brushed his fears aside. ¡°I¡¯m really going beyond the world. Is that actually even possible?¡±


    ¡°Hopefully,¡± the brother repeated. ¡°Now let¡¯s go, before we lose our chance.¡± Wordlessly, the king and the professor took his outstretched hands and appeared by a deep pit in the midst of a barren, eternal plain. It was night-time, and most of the houses had disappeared, but Silven was still brought back to that fateful day. ¡°Nameless Village,¡± he announced. ¡°Does it have a name yet?¡±


    It did not. There was no sign of the poor souls that had once called it home. Of whether they were slumbering soundly in some cosy hamlet across the wasteland, or paying a little visit to the Cathedral of Dust, there was nothing.


    Brother Whateverborn peered into the void. He drew his robe about him protectively. That vague look of bored superiority had gone. In its place, something like fear played about the shadows of his face. ¡°We meddled too much here. Dug too deep, sought a cure too hard. This village will never have a name now. But the password lies close.¡±


    ¡°Can you retrieve it?¡± asked Grennel, looking suddenly concerned. Whateverborn studied the darkness carefully. His features became ever more taught. He sighed a long, haggard sigh. ¡°I¡¯ve done it before. Whatever happens tonight, good luck. To all of us.¡±


    With that, he knelt in the dry dirt, touched a shaking palm to the brink, and gasped. The night seemed to grow paler around him. Gradually, Silven perceived the blue glow from deep within his moat. It was growing lighter by the second.


    ¡°Gah!¡± coughed Whateverborn. Silven went to him in alarm. The face beneath the hood was writhing in agony, yet the man pushed him away all the same. ¡°Go. Now.¡± He waved vaguely at the pit. ¡°I¡¯m okay. I can do this. I can do-¡±


    Whateverborn blinked out of existence. Silven looked at Grennel and circled the spot in confusion. ¡°How did we get here again?¡± he said finally.


    Grennel shrugged apologetically. ¡°Beats me. But that shiny blueness sure looks like a portal.¡±


    Silven strained out a smile. ¡°And portals are good, right?¡± He edged towards the pit and eyed the closest shell of a cottage . ¡°You keep an eye out for creepy dudes in hoodies. I¡¯ll get on with the adventure.¡± He jumped down into the shadows and blinked out of existence himself.


    When he re-existentialised, it was daytime. He could see that through the ovals of curiously thin glass high in the curious metallic white walls of the curiously curved warehouse. He turned to check out what was behind him, and heard a curious clunking noise. Then he realised he was made from metal and screamed.


    A skeleton. He was just a skeleton, with metal bones tentatively held together with smooth threads of something black. He held up a hand and saw a claw instead. It wasn¡¯t a chicken head, but it was still relatively unnerving.


    No-one came to see what the fuss was about. There were a few humans, hanging out by a large open doorway in the back wall of the warehouse, but once they realised there wasn¡¯t any sort of death or maiming going on, they put away their little grey oblongs of metal into their pockets with looks of tired disappointment. Silven thought of approaching, and found that got the skeleton bobbing along across the hard stone floor. Now he wasn¡¯t a piece on a playing board, he felt like one.


    He reigned up as another man emerged from a square cubicle against a stack of wooden lattices. There was the sound of churning water behind him, but the basin in the corner seemed empty. The eyes in that thin, stubbly face gleamed. ¡°Hey, Crystal. Thought you needed the hours. You know you get three dollars less for shelf-shuffling, right?¡±


    After a moment of awkward swaying, Silven realised the man was talking to him. He looked down at the real man for a moment longer. Blue shiny shirt full of tiny moth holes. Black trousers that looked like they¡¯d been made out of a dusty old sail. Shiny black shoes that actually looked pretty trendy. There was a little piece of parchment pinned into his shirt that said Paul. Then the mission rushed back headlong into his bucket-head. If he was going to succeed rather than spend a night in the real-world dungeon, the eight-foot metal skeleton would have to act inconspicuously.


    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s not Crystal. I¡¯m Darkgurl, remember, Paul? Darkgurl4.¡± The voice was grating and tinny, powerful and pathetic at the same time.


    The man called Paul took a step back, hands raised. ¡°Okay, so that¡¯s why you¡¯re not in. Someone¡¯s going to be playing all day. Just don¡¯t think you¡¯re swinging a sword while you¡¯re putting out the cans. That¡¯s how Bradley went, before your time. But-¡± He took a tentative step forward. ¡°You alright, Crystal? What the hell you say my name was?¡±


    Silven looked in panic at the badge and tried to play cool. ¡°Sorry. Hiccup. Come on, fine fellow.¡±


    Paul¡¯s grimace broadened into a grin. ¡°You get any sleep? The supervisors would be all over you today... if they didn¡¯t want to be all over you in a different way.¡± He winked an obnoxious wink and walked away.


    Silven stood motionlessly and considered the statement carefully. If he was to survive in this world of reality, he would have to use all clues at his disposal. It seemed that acting like a common whore from the Red Rider on Scratchyback Lane would help, so a common whore he would be.


    He lunged after Paul clumsily, and caught up with five huge swings of the lower shafts. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m really out of it today. Maybe you could help me through the day.... darling?¡± He stretched out one huge claw and squeezed seductively.


    Paul responded to the seduction by turning red and squealing like a small child. He crumpled to his knees and puffed out painful gasps of breath, hands clamped tight to his groin.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± said Silven. Paul remained down.


    When the group by the back door had held up their bits of metal and conjured flashes of tiny lightning in Paul¡¯s direction, one finally stopped laughing long enough to haul the crippled man to the little cubicle from whence he came. ¡°Could write you up.... but later.... you come and kiss it better?¡± Paul managed a pained wink. Silven stopped looking for a suitable escape route, pondered whether a skeleton could wink, and winked back anyway. ¡°Sure,¡± he said. ¡°IM me.¡± He jumped in horror when he realised what he¡¯d said, but the little man only gave him a thumbs up and shut the door.


    Disaster averted, apart from the fact that he¡¯d removed his only contact in this strange world of whiteness and boxes and metal. He¡¯d have to find that currency the hard way. He really didn¡¯t want to expand on his role of common whore if he could help it.


    The warehouse walls were lined with those lattices, all piled high with grey and brown boxes. To Silven¡¯s left was a larger metal cubicle with ¡®Manager¡¯ stencilled in huge black letters on the side. Somehow, Silven didn¡¯t feel Darkgurl4 was a manager, so he moved instead towards the larger wooden doors on his right. He emerged into an immense open room, larger than any temple or palace he had ever seen. It was criss-crossed with huge metal bookcases, upon which sat boxes and packets and parcels of all colours and shapes and sizes. It was like a market, he decided. A super-sized market.


    Voices echoed from the far end of the hall. He moved on, lumbering awkwardly up the aisles. There was a vast array of clear crinkled material on the floor to tangle and ensnare his lower claws. There were also a number of large boxes waiting by gaps on the shelves. Silven made short work of them. The cardboard mashed and shredded easily beneath his steel grip, but he was left as disappointed as those men at the warehouse door. The crumpled remains were hiding no coins at all.


    ¡°Errr, what are you doing?¡± questioned a male voice behind him. He shifted to face the newcomer, a balding gentleman in a familiar blue shirt and black trousers.


    Silven had no sane answer to that.


    The man glared and sighed. ¡°These transport damages are getting worse,¡± he muttered amiably, and then, under his breath, ¡°It¡¯s a good job you¡¯re cute. When, you know, you ain¡¯t a goddamn robot.¡± He stretched and hobbled off.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Silven decided that being Darkgurl was better than Darkboy.


    At the lower end of the hall, the wooden blocks reappeared. Some were straining under the weight of cargo. Others stood empty in a stack by a long row of some sort of giant Silverview-type maps on stalks. Others were being worked by labourers. It didn¡¯t look like a lot of fun.


    ¡°Phwoar! This is the biggest delivery I¡¯ve ever seen since last delivery,¡± puffed a teenager beneath his mop of hair. ¡°Gonna need some beverages tonight.¡± His cronies suddenly showed signs of enthusiasm.


    ¡°Hey, honey.... I need currency,¡± he grated in the general direction of the group of men.


    Dark Times


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen plenty of dark times,¡± Silven grumbled. He thought about clawing a box off the top of the pile and hoisted it powerfully into the air. ¡°But not the end, so be quiet.¡±


    Silven had seen hard work before, when his factories were actually factories. He tried to replicate those observations, with mixed results. When he was concentrating, it was easy to plug a brightly coloured this into a dull and empty that. Then, his co-workers would grumble, flourish the black and white stripes on the cargo¡¯s bottoms at his head, and move them round the corner. Teamwork.


    When he wasn¡¯t concentrating, things got real bad. He cast his head this way and that, looking for the elusive middle currency and, despite some old gossip, a glimpse of the Gems themselves. Then, he would pick up the howls of the others. Most were human, though a few metal skulls bobbed above the tops of the shelves. The words and notions that exited their mouths, however, were conjured from the swamps of the underworld itself. He heard terrible things that day, and learned of vile doings unrelatable to his simple world of doom, destruction and murder. If just half of their boasts were true, he could see why some may turn to him to take their minds off things.


    At long last, the fascination with the range of what he had finally deemed to be powdered stews grew dim. He looked up at the white clock by the row of maps. He had been at this for ten minutes.


    Bravely, he decided to engage Maz, the crone with the fiery mess of hair he would suspect of being a starved vampire back in Newburg, in useful conversation. This Maz, who had just been grimly telling the miserable little group how she had seen Donna up by the telebus without Pete and then caught him brubbing (but not quite duzzing, mind you) at the club by the rec after a few shots of lager, was glad to hear her friend speak up at last. She took the question almost as badly as Silven took the answer. ¡°Paid? Not till quarter end, mate. Unless them rumours ¡®bout you an¡¯ Ste from accounts are true, like. Bet you get paid when you want.¡± She erupted into a throaty gargle of what Silven hoped was laughter and not the throes of a serious heart attack. ¡°Least you don¡¯t have to face the zombies in an hour. Elf ¡®n safety gone mad, it is, not ¡®aving the big guns clearing up til the end. Why just log in, anyway? Thought you needed the overtime.¡±


    Silven was about to make enquiries as to when this glorious end might be, and if required, the location of this Ste, when a ragged cheer rose from the sweaty men. The final cargo had been cleared, and the challenges regarding who could down the most pepper steak rub on thirty-second break began in earnest. It only went on for a few moments, however, before another man appeared. He was sweatless, and clad not in worker¡¯s uniform but an immaculate white tunic with a less than immaculate strip of black cloth dangling from his neck. Still, he looked more like Silven¡¯s sort of fellow. He approached with claw extended.


    ¡°Right, lads, need to step it up a gear!¡± roared the supervisor. ¡°Crystal, Jim, Baz, Boz, Biz, Jiz, off to frozen. Fifteen pallets there ¨C piece of piss for the C team. Ricky, go get the brews.¡± He dashed off for the safety of the warehouse. Silven let his claw fall.


    He dragged himself off to ¡®frozen¡¯, trying to wonder through the numbness how to get what he needed. That thirty-second break was sounding like a Thunderstring gig right now. He wondered how Whizz was getting on with the tickets in ¡®reduced¡¯ and shook the maddening thought away. It was none of his concern, yet something had to be.


    Frozen was a breath of fresh air. This time, he was putting icy bags into glass boxes instead. The relief lasted five minutes.


    Ricky came back with steaming mugs of muddy liquid. The humans gathered round for a brief moment, grimaced at the bitter brew, and pretended to be enjoying life. Skeletons, alas, could not partake. And it was all for three dollars less, too.


    With the coinage still evading him, Silven raised the possibility of the aforementioned dollars being the currency after all. Yet he sensed the time of payment was yet far away; there was still another twelve pallets to go, and then it seemed he would get the wastage write-offs for- oh Ozwold Almighty, where was he going with this? He tried to study the script upon the boxes of bags as he clawed them into the coolness of the bigger boxes alongside other bags. He looked at the packets of Pizdos next to the multipack boxes and worked out it was cheaper if you bought it all separately anyway. He raised his head to behold the graceful glass-and-girder roof high above, and the blue sky above where metallic orbs raced and dodged with lightning speed. It should have felt magical, a cave of wonders, an unexplored territory like the moon. It felt soulless.


    Then, Jez came on the scene. It appeared Darkgurl and Jez were quite familiar with each other. At least, Jez actually called her Darkgurl and did some sort of fist prod on his claw which he could only assume was a primitive form of greeting. Then, Silven realised who had created him and tried to convince himself to hold off on assessments of primitiveness for the remainder of the misadventure. He focused on what this Jez character was wittering on about. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Hello? You have any sleep? I said have you tried out the new scenario yet? A3?¡±


    Silven told the skeleton to blink in surprise and found the effort to be futile. ¡°No,¡± he replied, and focused on guessing how many Sizleys he could fit on that shelf next to the ticket that said Sizleys. The labels were a new revelation. He was getting the hang of this work, at least. It must be worth a small fortune in Gems.


    ¡°Total waste of bloody time, those games,¡± piped up a scraggly female in a dirty shirt. ¡°I mean, you don¡¯t even play them any more, right? Just watch. We should bring back those reality TV shows ¨C at least they were real people.¡±


    ¡°Were they?¡± grinned Jez, resulting in a ripple of enthusiastic cackling from the others. He was clearly hilarious. ¡°Anyway, this is 2026, gran.¡± He turned back to Silven and rolled his eyes. ¡°Where was I? Yeah, these new A scenarios. Fact is, they have brought back a little direct interaction. Players are actual NPCs that can like objectives for the PIC.¡±


    ¡°Aha,¡± said the robot.


    ¡°Some think they¡¯ll go all the way back to playable heroes, but we¡¯ve got the Zswipe for hack and slash shit like that. All the As are sci-fi so far. Three has one of those freighters from 42 going deeper into that purple nebula and discovering a tribe of players that hold keys to these, like, vast ancient weapons. How awesome is that?¡±


    ¡°Ever play the one with the big civil war and the....¡± Silven trailed off. Suddenly, he couldn¡¯t think of many interesting things about the universe as he knew it. ¡°...The.... flowers?¡± Jez looked blank. ¡°With Silven?¡±


    Dull recognition registered in Jez¡¯s bloodshot eyes. ¡°66? Oh, that.¡± Silven tried to narrow his eyes and again found it impossible. ¡°What a flop.¡± Jez spread out his hands. ¡°Nothing happened! Just kill a few generic raiders and settle down to play Monopoly or something.¡±


    ¡°Only because the.... the PIC was so clever,¡± blurted Silven before he deigned to think.


    ¡°The PIC is a selfish, greedy, sarcastic dick,¡± growled Jez.


    Stay in character


    Jez was looking bored. ¡°Yeah, whatever. But have you ever considered what¡¯s missing, Dark?¡±


    ¡°Like?¡±


    ¡°Golems. Goblins. Motherfucking dragons, man!¡±


    Silven paused. He tried to grimace. ¡°I¡¯ll give you that. No motherfucking dragons. What an oversight.¡±


    Jez shrugged. ¡°I mean, they¡¯re mentioned in Totempop¡¯s Bestiary Volume 4 on the little shelf behind the pantry door in the Ruins of Galvolan. Maybe it was gonna be DLC before it all turned to shit.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not all bad....¡± prompted Silven. He didn¡¯t want to hear this, but he did.


    Jez held up fingers one by one. ¡°Dick of a PIC. Vague wishy-washy side-quests. Painful pace. Multiple badasses who flop into holes rather than hack said dick to bits. Too much freedom in the AI which allowed it all to turn into some sort of tech demo from 2012 or whenever. Especially after Voltz basically wrote it off for modding. Only good bit¡¯s the fast-travel. Could do with that around here.¡±


    Silven did his best to engage in interaction. ¡°A locked class system which means the idiot blocked himself out of all those awesome spells that could be really really useful to him right now.¡±


    Jez shook his head bitterly. ¡°Don¡¯t know, don¡¯t care. I left 66 long ago. 42¡¯s where all the action¡¯s at. Do you know there¡¯s only about twenty mice left on your server? Come off it Dark. It¡¯s over.¡±


    ¡°Is it?¡± the robot almost screamed. A door slammed open somewhere down the store, and heavy boots clomped towards them.


    Silven extended a claw to Jez¡¯s blue shoulder. This was his chance to know if it was actually all worth it. ¡°But, if the PIC actually did the quest he was supposed to....¡±


    Jez laughed. ¡°That won¡¯t happen. But the aftermath was hyped to oblivion last year on that one. It was designed to go on forever, remember? Some sort of procedural plot generation. That little bastard could have lived happily ever after as a champion, but Voltz have got to pull the plug soon.¡±


    Silven barely heard the supervisor march up and guide him to meat. He barely registered the strange chunks of flesh he pulled out of carton A and shoved onto shelf B. But that last sentence was irrelevant; that is a universal experience. He could only think of the chance.


    Happily ever after.


    But the excitement was mixed with a hearty dose of tragedy. They¡¯d be pulling the plug soon. Just twenty mice. For now, at least, he could hope it meant that no-one had spotted the plot to invade the real world and decide to burn it all in face of imminent takeover by super-intelligent artificial warriors logged into giant metal suits. But he had to act fast. He had to get more on board.


    He had to get those damned Gems.

 3.11 They Came From The Street

    3.11 They Came From The Street


    Silven¡¯s reverie was interrupted by a sudden echoing voice booming from a dozen little white wall-mounted boxes at once. ¡°Three minutes until opening. Shop floor must be clear. Tin cans, to the warehouse. Prepare for opening! And most importantly, don¡¯t forget your brews, lads. Diz, you get the next lot. Blue shelf in left racking.¡± The voice crackled off. By his side, Jez groaned. ¡°The zombies are here!¡±


    Silven reached for his sword, remembered he was now a real-life pretend worker, and turned in horror in the direction of Jez¡¯s gaze. Beyond the row of screens, there was a row of spotless glass panels that could only be doors. Beyond the doors, the horde had gathered.


    Silven frowned and peered closer. The clothes were strange, yes, and some looked like they had literally just got out of bed. But the flesh of their cheeks looked almost alive.


    ¡°Elf ¡®n¡¯ safety, elf ¡®n¡¯ safety,¡± a supervisor was droning as he whisked past. ¡°Out back, Crystal.¡± He joined a wave of blue-shirted workers as they scrambled for the barricade of screens. One brave soul approached the doors. The crowd swayed and watched his motions with hungry eyes. Silven clunked away eagerly.


    In the warehouse, most of the pallets had disappeared. A couple of similar skeletons were hauling a heap of towels into place on a bulging shelf and blaming Gerry for the overs. Gerry was shaking his head and pointing an accusing finger at a man clutching a black hand-held device in a protective hug. That man was blaming head office for the poor control, even though head office had blamed the supervisors for poor control in the first place. A nearby supervisor was blaming the robots for not stacking the towels properly on the shop floor, and insisting that at least another case would go out. And thus the circle of blame was complete.


    Silven ignored it all and pistoned over to the products to be reduced. They had, apparently, been going to reduce them yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Now, with the workload almost unbearable, they had decided that it would prove an unmissable training exercise for an inexperienced member of the team such as Crystal.


    The creator of two kingdom-leading corporations had little trouble with the work. He did, however, have trouble with the company. The one other robot that was helping, by the name of Saz, was excruciatingly boring. She told him of the plot of a secret cult of magi to overthrow the government. She talked of shapeshifters stealing top positions in the company to spread their subliminal messages of compliance and consumption. She gave evidence of the existence of ghosts and ghouls and telekinetic spirits from across the globe. It was all terribly basic stuff.


    Silven¡¯s confidence was growing. He knew more about this world than he¡¯d thought, and he soon polished off the rest of the reductions. Once tickets were on, it was up to the humans to heave them onto metal crates on wheels and brave the battle beyond the door. When they returned for more, they were haggard, they were pale, they looked ready to crumple up on the floor and cry, but Silven had yet to see a drop of blood. Perhaps Jez had been wrong. It had to be vampires.


    Silven was just beginning to wonder when the giant skeleton reserve would be brought into play, when the beverage reserve paraded past. Saz turned to watch the crate of mugs go past. She droned her lowest drone. ¡°And that¡¯s why I¡¯m never in biologically. Why do you think they¡¯re so eager to make them drink coffee?¡±


    ¡°Because they¡¯re nice?¡± Silven was struggling. ¡°No, that can¡¯t be it.¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s not just coffee,¡± urged Saz. ¡°I have sources in accounting who say there¡¯s a big discrepancy between pharmaceutical spending and first aid kits. Namely, there are no first aid kits.¡± The canister of a head hummed closer. ¡°It¡¯s stimulants, girl. For the coffee. To get you working more.¡±


    Silven was puzzled. ¡°Is working hard really so bad?¡±


    ¡°It is when you¡¯re working for The Man,¡± came the steely reply.


    Silven briefly considered disposing of the boss known as The Man and shelved the thought. The Man was only trying to run a business, potential covert industrial-scale drugging operations aside. That made him wonder if his workers thought the same of him. He wondered if he was the real villain all along.


    He wondered if The Man could give him Gems.


    A sudden crackle reverberated around the cavernous warehouse. A tinny voice boomed out in panic. ¡°All Senior Customer Request Fulfilment Officers to the shop floor.¡± Nearby, a group of spotty youths slammed down their mugs in exasperation and plodded for the warehouse doors. When they opened, cackles and shouts and wails and screams spilled out into the back. The battle was really heating up. Silven moved to stack a tower of pallets with the dwindling reserves. Before long, all junior CRFOs were required too. Then the fulltime warehouse louts were called into action. One by one, the more fleshy humanoids disappeared and never returned. Before long, the warehouse belonged to the metal skeletons. And then, it happened. Slowly and uncertainly, men in white shirts and black jackets crept from within the cubicle marked ¡®Manager¡¯. Saz turned swiftly away, doing her best impression of invisibility. The men stalked off. ¡°A rare sight,¡± she droned. ¡°We might make it to the weekly Mandatory Unpaid Sales Improvement Overtime Cancellation Bonus after all.¡±


    The warehouse was silent for five minutes. The robots clicked together tiny metal wagons and waited. The work was done. Maybe that meant Gem-time from The Man.


    A sudden crash echoed down the long market. ¡°Aisle 18 assistance! Customer waiting in Aisle 3! Telecommunications Expert required at the Download Helpdesk! Hygiene Maintenance Member for Lavatory 9!¡± The tin voice suddenly dimmed. ¡°You sure?¡± it said uncertainly. And then, more clearly but no less happy, ¡°All remote units to the shop floor!¡±


    The thing called Saz drew itself up to its full height and hummed tunelessly. ¡°What the hell? Suppose the login records are getting erased tonight, at least. Full pay! As long as you don¡¯t grind any old grannies into mush against the freezers.¡± She sighed. ¡°I liked Jimmy ¡®n¡¯ all. Anyway, let¡¯s go.¡±


    The robot pushed off for the door. Reluctantly, Silven followed into the chaos.


    He had been in battles before. Many, in fact. This was no battle, and it was a lot worse. At least when there¡¯s a brute charging you with a battleaxe raised above his head, you¡¯re expected to murder him. As he had suspected, the zombies were not zombies, or, indeed, vampires.


    ¡°¡¯Ere, where¡¯s the tomartas?¡± hollered a very cross looking gentlemen right in front of him.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been waiting longer than ¡®im. I need the megaton crisp special in me car!¡± screamed a.... female creature beneath tangled locks of greasy hair.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°When there¡¯s no chocorolls on the shelf, does that mean you don¡¯t have none?¡± mused a young philosopher by his side.


    A wrinkled prune of a woman waddled up to him and rapped him smartly in the midriff with a wooden stick. ¡°I need to speak to your manager,¡± demanded the prune. ¡°Two weeks last Wednesday, I purchased three two-hundred gram packets of Auntie Mag¡¯s doughtower batter from this very store. I only provided my patronage due to the ticket beneath clearly stating two pence off last January¡¯s RRP. When I analysed my receipt at home, I was shocked to discover that I had in fact been charged that very RRP! I should be taking this to the very top, but I¡¯m willing to see what the sorry oaf has to say for himself first.¡±


    Silven looked from man to creature to prune in horror. One claw curled and uncurled, woefully swordless. His metal brain struggled for an answer. ¡°Speech replicator malfunction! Please alert a Replenishment Professional at once!¡± he managed, and hurried off down the aisle. Angry voices beat at his back as he went.


    He reached a crossroads, dumb and directionless. From his left approached a gaggle of thugs in striped assassin wools, cawing and holding aloft tiny Silverviews all at once. Ahead, the way was blocked by a pair of toddlers joyfully tearing down a pyramid of shiny boxes while their guardian laughed and reported the cheek to her best mate through a tiny black box at her ear. And to the right... a red-faced man in a white tunic waving him down desperately through the carnage. Direction at last.


    The supervisor¡¯s eyes were haunted by what he couldn¡¯t unsee or undo. Something unmentionable clung to his collar. ¡°Crystal, is it?¡± he gasped. Silven nodded. ¡°Report to checkouts immediately,¡± he snapped. ¡°There¡¯s some tart making a right fuss. We¡¯ve done everything we can, but we¡¯re not mind-readers, are we? Don¡¯t know what you¡¯re like with nutrition, but anyway, see if you can help.¡± He stumbled off up the aisle in search of more reinforcements.


    Silven didn¡¯t know what a ¡®checkout¡¯ was, but he headed for the glass doors on account of the ¡®out¡¯ part. From the commotion around the bank of screens and lines of people, he concluded he was a detective of the highest order.


    A throng of managers were milling about in distress. From what he¡¯d witnessed this morning, Silven would never have guessed so many could have fit into that office. There were dozens of them, and they all looked ready to sob. They reached out for the centre of the mob, fervently waving letters that said ¡®50% off¡¯ at the woman who stood there. But the woman would have none of it. She shooed the vouchers away timidly, looking from face to face with wide, earnest eyes. ¡°Very kind, but I just need to know,¡± she repeated over and over as the men sank to their knees before her. One spotted the approaching frame and shoved his fellows aside. ¡°Ah, a colleague, finally!¡± he whined. ¡°We needed you, so you should have been here thirty seconds ago at least! Well go on then, help her out. She¡¯s asking questions. Questions!¡±


    The men parted like a congregation at Rockborough Cathedral. The woman took a step back as she beheld the monstrous replenishment unit bearing down on her. ¡°Oh!¡± she squeaked, and clutched a wide, flat box tightly to her chest.


    ¡°Crystal will see to your needs, madam. Apologies for the tardiness of the staff,¡± called someone from the rear of the crowd. The outer lines gratefully peeled away and dived for the safety of the back rooms.


    The frightened woman held out the box. There was a stunning likeness of a very unstunning baked product printed on the top. ¡°I was wondering if anyone could help. You see, I have a son. He¡¯s called Billy, and he¡¯s seven years old with blond hair and blue eyes.¡±


    Around the customer, the managers wrung their hands in despair. ¡°No, not the story,¡± one whispered. ¡°Get to it.¡±


    The woman was oblivious. ¡°So, I¡¯ve realised that my Billy loves pizza. I took him for pizza last Saturday at that new restaurant down Willow Street and he loved it. We also went for a new school coat from Vilmy¡¯s. He looks absolutely adorable in it! Since then, he¡¯s been asking for pizza and seeing as it¡¯s his cousin Becky¡¯s fifth wedding anniversary next Tuesday I thought I¡¯d surprise him. The trouble is, he¡¯s been having stomach problems this year, and Doctor Smith did some fancy new tests and said he¡¯s allergic to pineapple, ham and cheese. After that we went for some vanilla ice-cream to calm him down and he was fine. We¡¯re going back next Friday for a follow-up on that football injury on his ankle. Anyway, what I would like to know is... would this pizza be suitable for my little Billy?¡±


    Silven looked down and took the box in one mighty claw. He didn¡¯t have a clue what a pizza was, or allergies, or football. Or nutrition, for that matter. But he would try his best.


    He read Ham, Pineapple and Cheese Pizza in big letters on the top. He handed it back. ¡°No,¡± he droned. ¡°This pizza is not suitable for your little Billy.¡±


    The woman¡¯s face sunk. ¡°Oh well, I¡¯ll have to choose something else.¡± But when she looked up, there was a warm smile spreading across her lips. It would have made Silven feel warm too if he wasn¡¯t made out of metal. ¡°Thank you so much. Crystal, wasn¡¯t it? You¡¯ve been very helpful. I¡¯ll be sure to intend on filling in one of those surveys from my receipt about how much of an asset you are to this company and forget all about it the instant I get out of this tip. Thanks again!¡±


    The woman bustled off on her way. ¡°Be quicker next time,¡± grunted the closest manager. Silven watched in disbelief as they dispersed.


    ¡°Way to go,¡± called a voice from somewhere up ahead. Silven looked into the lines of metal carts and saw a bearded man smiling from behind one of the ¡®checkouts¡¯. ¡°You saved my skin there, Crystal. Jim was going bananas that I wasn¡¯t helping, but Bob would have pulled me later for talking over the heads of my line. I was screwed, but us colleagues stick together, right? I¡¯ll buy you a drink at the Christmas-¡±


    ¡°Excuse me!¡± shrieked the woman he was supposed to be serving. The man winked and hurriedly looked away.


    A pretty blue-bloused girl detached herself from a customer and glided closer. ¡°Yeah, we¡¯ll look after you, Crystal. Whizco ain¡¯t so bad once you get used to it. We¡¯ve got each others¡¯ backs, that¡¯s for certain. You¡¯ll soon learn how to get by with management.¡±


    ¡°As long as we don¡¯t get shut down for having robots on the floor!¡± called the bearded man. ¡°It¡¯s not the best, but you could be at Zoommart. They¡¯re always so tired and miserable over there. I¡¯ve got children to feed too, and at least this place does that. And you¡¯re not gonna get three days holiday anyway else.¡±


    Silven smiled inside. Beneath the obvious mountains of rubbish, this was a decent place, with decent people, just trying to get by. Oldeburgh had been like that, but this was somewhere he couldn¡¯t just redesign on a whim. Still, there was one thing he could do to make things a bit better. After seeing the henchmen of The Man at work, he had decided he wasn¡¯t going to associate with him after all. He wasn¡¯t like that. Far from it.


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I don¡¯t want you getting in bother. Farewell, friends!¡± he grated, and followed the fools towards the back. Now to put this place to rights. It was time for a New Supermarket Order.


    He burst through the warehouse doors, stalked quickly through the back, and marched into the managers¡¯ cubicle. Suited men squawked and shrieked as he strode onward to the big metal safe at the rear. Its door was at least two inches thick, and Silven¡¯s claws buckled beneath the strain, but finally, the bolts snapped and it swung back with a reluctant squeak as men cursed at his back. He shoved through the contents, useless bits of paper fluttering in the air all around like snow. There were no Gems in sight, but he finally found what he was looking for ¨C a punnet of tiny tubes filled with a line of brownish liquid. The label on its side said ¡®Dr. Beamer¡¯s Mild Holistic Energy Boost for Hot Beverages.¡¯ The gamble had paid off. It was true.


    Triumphantly, he held the secret cache aloft and boomed out over the gaggle of hysterical managers. ¡°Freedom for the workers! Power to the people! Quest complete!¡±

 3.12 Downloadable Salvation

    3.12 Downloadable Salvation


    Payday at Whizco would not have been due for another fortnight. For Bearded Man and Pretty Girl and Saz and Paul and Jez, the limbo dragged on, and Zoommart¡¯s pittance would be even further away, if it came at all, but we shan¡¯t dwell on that. Crystal¡¯s immediate termination meant her pay arrived slightly sooner than anticipated, so for Silven, everything worked out pretty much perfectly.


    He had never paused to think about how he would acquire his Gems from the real currency, or how he even knew that was probably how he was going to get them, and certainly not how to get home, but it didn¡¯t matter in the end. Some sort of ghost in the machinery took care of all that.


    Before long, he found himself in the promised shadowy back alley of the royal republican capital. The light for said shadows came from wooden planks erected upon tall poles, hammered into the cracked pavement of the alley. Around the edges of those planks were candles that should not be; candles that had no flame and yet blinked out white light into the dancing shadows all the same. They looked suspiciously like candles from that supermarket, another world away. Or should that be another world out?


    The carvings that they illuminated were cheerful and meaningless. Yay! proclaimed one, Gratz another, and the most mysterious, above a giant flashing arrow of lights, read DLC here. Beneath this arrow stood a man in a ridiculous purple velvet cap in the shape of a boar¡¯s head, a spotty green chestplate, and fuzzy yellow breeches. ¡°Congratulations, friend!¡± he boomed in a deep, hearty voice. ¡°The Gods have smiled on you. And because of that, why not have a free gift?¡± He produced an enormous wooden chest from his pocket and held it out, beaming. Silven lifted the lid and shielded his eyes against the golden glow within. Then, he frowned.


    ¡°One million gold pieces!¡± announced the man joyfully. ¡°Well done, friend. The Gods have made me, so you deserve money. Take it, take it.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need it,¡± said Silven, and pushed the chest away. ¡°Why are you dressed like that?¡±


    For such a giant of a man, the merchant twirled quite gracefully. ¡°To show you how different you could look with my strange and exotic wares from a land far beyond the sea that has never been mentioned to you until this point.¡± His face grew sad. ¡°But I could never sell you anything until you have accepted my gift.¡±


    Sighing, Silven took the gold. The man nodded solemnly. ¡°Now just know that there¡¯s demons clawing their way out the ground this very minute that have developed a startling resistance to steel paid for in such coins. You need special weaponry to look cool enough to destroy them. And you know what I need in return.¡±


    Silven reached into his pocket and rummaged about. His face dropped. His inventory was exactly as he left it. And then, his thumb slipped over something flat and papery beneath his Random Object That Stops The Zombie Hordes of Querinall. He drew it out and scowled. ¡°I promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of seven Gems?¡± he cried in disbelief. ¡°What is this nonsense? You can¡¯t even be bothered to make them?¡±


    Before he had finished, the man reached out a snake-like hand and snatched away the little note. ¡°I¡¯m sure they¡¯re all snug in a vault somewhere in the Big City,¡± he muttered hurriedly. ¡°Anyway, will it be the Serrated Rainbow Blade of Badassery today? Or this cute little pair of raptorskin jeggings? All your subjects will want these next summer!¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ¡°Jeggings?¡± repeated Silven incredulously. ¡°Now we¡¯re starting to get a bit silly. Stop making things up and give me the charge stick of rear-end propulsion.¡±


    The clown-merchant rolled his eyes and handed over a bulbous metal rod. Silven cast an uneasy eye over the blinking lights and disappeared to the safety of Stuff HQ.


    He hadn¡¯t seen Olgred and co for a day or so, and thus he braced himself for the deep calamities he would surely find his young republic sinking into. At this instant, however, he told himself everything would have to wait. Olgy had never been much use in a fight, but he was at least getting the hang of walking to heel, so he¡¯d have to do. If Dasat was around... but no, there was no time for thinking like that. He found the officials gathered in the conference room, heads clasped in hands to a man. Things were going as expected.


    ¡°Olgred, I require you for a matter of utmost importance,¡± he rasped, cutting off the rumblings of a shaggy grey monstrosity filling half the audience pit. ¡°No time for questions. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    The former merchant slouched in his chair and turned a weary eye on his master. ¡°But listen, Your Majesty! We have a matter of national crisis!¡±


    ¡°Olgy!¡± repeated Silven sharply. ¡°Come on. That¡¯s an order.¡±


    Reluctantly, Olgy hoisted himself to his feet and dusted off his velvet jacket. ¡°But just look at him, master.¡± The beast grunted mournfully from its pile of splintered chairs. The companion struggled against his obedient feet to grab a pile of parchments from the table. ¡°We¡¯ll talk as we walk.¡± He jabbed a finger at a sloping line on the scroll. ¡°You see this? The battles have resulted in an unprecedented experience explosion across the country. Our poor giant tribes are crashing. Most are born as ancient champions these days to fight for their lands, and the few obligatory sword-fodder young enough to be making babies are now too busy feeding soup to their withering eldest to do so. It¡¯s a demographic disaster.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± urged Simitest, clasping his immaculately clean-shaven hands against his shirt. ¡°Plan A has failed. Those retirement homes we built along the south border? We can¡¯t get the doors to clip on. Where in the cursed realm is our Head Engineer?¡±


    Silven stopped mid-step and gritted his teeth. He turned and faced his friend, his old infuriating friend in his new obnoxious clothes, prattling on fitfully about the merits of an industrial-scale healer recruitment initiative. It was exactly as he¡¯d hoped he would one day become. Right now, he wanted to punch him in the face. ¡°Fine. Stay and help. I¡¯ll save the world without you.¡± He spun by the door and stalked away. Coming here had been a mistake. He understood that it wasn¡¯t Olgred¡¯s fault. The innocent fellow could never truly comprehend even if Silven explained all, and it would be better to shield his inquisitive mind from the horrors of this ¨C oh, screw that, he just wasn¡¯t good with emotions. Better to take his frustrations out on Big Bad Bossman instead.


    By the time he¡¯d cooled down in the sweet hillside breeze, he¡¯d decided that he would still need someone to keep him at unhinged. If he slipped to actual insanity, it would mean doom for them all. He hopped back to the silent pit and found Professor Grennel collecting residues from a recently deceased hawk as any good scientist should. He took the opportunity to apply his new toy to the scholar¡¯s unsuspecting buttocks and nodding at the whining heap in satisfaction. ¡°Let¡¯s do this. And take care not to whizz off into the abyss of meta-misery. It is a rather unpleasant experience that I wish not to repeat.¡±


    Grennel got to his knees and glanced down over the edge. ¡°I want to agree, but it might be better than this sudden compulsion I feel to gather another fifty nine eagle ichors.¡±


    Silven frowned. ¡°Ichor. I keep hearing that word. Does anyone actually know what it means?¡±


    The professor rose and worked his mouth quietly. ¡°Ichor. Ichor. Great, I can¡¯t get it out of my head.¡± His glum face hardened into a look of pure determination. ¡°You couldn¡¯t let a poor academic get deleted in peace, could you? We¡¯re gonna have to try really hard to survive now.¡± He rose and shook a feeble fist across the plain, where far, far away, someone waited for them. ¡°Like, really, really hard.¡±

 3.13 In The Grip Of The Radiant King

    3.13 In The Grip Of The Radiant King


    Wonders filled Silven¡¯s mind that night.


    He found himself on the slopes of a grey and desolate mountain. Beneath, a golden city stretched out upon a plain of gleaming emerald grass. The sun was setting in the west, and its last glowing beams reflected bright from the steel of the army camped in the rocky valley at the foot of the peak. There were cookfires and proud banners of griffins and serpents, and at the entrance of the largest tent, a knight with a diamond shield was rallying his soldiers for the glory to come.


    The city knew not of the danger, Silven saw. There it lay, defenceless in the merry evening, and at its centre, a magnificent tower strained for the skies. Upon its flat roof, a single mighty flower grew high. Even from this distance, Silven could clearly see its five fan-like petals, quivering and vulnerable. Three were white, one was blood-red, and the other, glassy silver, fell soundlessly into the void as he watched.


    ¡°Silven!¡± echoed a voice from high above. He turned. A huge grey goose, elegantly clad in the most exquisite of velvet finery, was flapping its way down the slope. ¡°No time!¡± it cried. ¡°Save the moose, save the... too late!¡± A deafening wrenching rumble filled the air as the mountainside opened up between them, and from within -


    Silven woke just then, ready to get on with his life. He reminded himself that it was just a dream, and, despite the endless excruciating monologues of countless authors in the libraries of his cities, it was all utterly irrelevant.


    ¡°Page-fillers,¡± he muttered as he dressed. He and Grennel had indulged in luxury feather beds that night, in a charming beamed tavern along the Old Cobble Road. If you were going to die at the hands of an unimaginable dark power, or be cut out of existence by the real folk, they had decided, it would be best to do so without back ache to boot.


    Silven briefly considered nabbing the brilliantly carved slop bucket from his en-suite, but remembered there was a little guard-post just west of Thornyhedge and things were too tight to be spending an hour in jail. Reluctantly, he let it go and went down to breakfast like a civilised king.


    He ate a hot and hearty meal in thoughtful silence with the professor by the hearth. Upon finishing, he discovered a hole in his pocket, and unable to pay for the lodgings, he ventured into the kitchens to sell the next early riser¡¯s plate of food back to the barkeep. When he returned, Grennel was already waiting at the side of the road. ¡°To battle,¡± he said finally. He was frightfully unconvincing.


    The Silverview didn¡¯t work. That was less convincing still. ¡°It¡¯s so we can have this riveting conversation as we walk,¡± chirped Grennel as they set off down the wooded path.


    ¡°Hurry up, then!¡± Silven snapped back. For some reason, Grennel was trudging along at that awful pace just too fast for an amble and just too slow for a brisk power walk. ¡°I can¡¯t. It¡¯s so we can fit in even more riveting conversation,¡± came the reply.


    After a while, though, things didn¡¯t seem all that awful. The woodland was a far cry from the jabbering crowds of buffoons Silven had grown accustomed to. This was like the old days. Just him and his sword. Even his gloomy thoughts turned a little brighter. The trees, the butterflies and the irksome wolves that he batted away with a silken glove... they were too real to be unreal. Just because some random weirdoes made him didn¡¯t make him fake. If that was the case, what of the supermarket world? If some god created all that, then it was as true or false as Newburg. And judging by the miserable lives of those he had had the misfortune to encounter in that other realm, that comparison was an insult to the royal republic if anything. Nowadays, only half of his people were mindless zombies.


    The woods were growing thicker when a sudden movement lurched Silven back to his senses. A man came reeling out of the undergrowth, where a little wooden cart lay half-concealed by a clump of nettles. The look on his pale features was one of utter bewilderment. ¡°Please, kind sir, help me!¡± he groaned. ¡°By some shallow attempt at a sub-plot condemning greed, I stole an ancient crystal from a small shrine just off the road ahead and I have lost all memories from before. Everything! Who I am, my family, my home, my purpose in life.... it¡¯s all gone! Please, stranger, will you take up the burden of helping me find my destiny once more? I could be crucial to the integrity of our land!¡±


    Silven stared for a moment. ¡°By the signs on your cart and cap, your uniform, the satchel, stack of menus and the mouth-watering aroma of fried turnips dripping with grease, I¡¯d say you¡¯re a courier for Nipsters Nippy Takeaway. Which by all means does make you crucial to the integrity of the land.¡±


    The stranger doffed his cap. ¡°Cheers, sir! You tipping me for your information?¡±


    ¡°Errr...no?¡± The courier stomped off to his cart. ¡°What was that all about?¡± Silven murmured to Grennel. The professor could only shrug.


    A few paces on, a homely maiden hailed them from a side-path. From just beyond, the burned-out shell of a little cottage sagged in a pit of ash amidst the trees. ¡°Please sir!¡± she cried. ¡°My father was killed by rebels, my mother investigated strange noises from Donotenter Cave and never returned, and I¡¯ve got wolves to the west, demons to the east and gremlins everywhere else. Will you help me?¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Yes!¡± cried Silven in relief. ¡°The bureaucracy expands. You¡¯d make a nice Junior Assistant to the Assistant Secretary¡¯s Secretary of the Deputy Officer of the Hand of the Assistant Secretary¡¯s Aide of the Public Relations Advisor for the Chief Teamaker of the Head of Silverlink Monster Camps. Go on, be off with you. See you in Overwall.¡± The maiden gave him a sullen look as she departed down the road. The king turned to Grennel incredulously. ¡°Why is it people insist on enduring in such deadly locales? The girl¡¯s lucky - I also have an vacancy for the Assistant Aide to the -¡±


    ¡°Never mind,¡± cut in Grennel. ¡°I think I¡¯m starting to see what¡¯s going on here. You¡¯re finally approaching the start of your main quest. I think you¡¯ve unlocked some sort of random encounters to distract and turn you around lest you deem the length of the real quest unsatisfactory.¡±


    Silven grunted. ¡°A curse!¡±


    ¡°A trap,¡± corrected Grennel. ¡°Take care, my liege. We cannot be caught up in anything foolish at this late hour.¡±


    Together, the two heroes hurried on through the woods. Cries and pleas rang out from all around, but they paid no heed. Soon, the trees were rustling with flurrying arms. ¡°Help us! Save us!¡± came the chants. ¡°We¡¯re trying!¡± yelled back Silven, pushing away peasants as they threw themselves to their knees before him. He ducked, dodged, whirled, and glimpsed an opening before him in the oaks. ¡°This way!¡± he yelled, pulling Grennel through into a tiny circular clearing. The randomers did not follow.


    They were not alone.


    There was a man there. He was dressed simply in a simple grey travelling cloak, and was crouching by a simple fire, cooking a simple stew for the road. He looked up and smiled broadly at his company. There was something oddly charming and alarmingly infuriating about him all at once. ¡°Hi, chaps!¡± he called, rising to his full unthreatening height. ¡°Well met. I¡¯m Melton Pressley, captain of the Blunt Force. I hope you¡¯ve heard about our work in these troubled times.¡±


    Silven grew red with rage. He wanted to point out all the things he¡¯d spent the past years doing to untrouble the times, and how he¡¯d largely succeeded other than the total deletion thing. He didn¡¯t, however, want to attract those bumbling fools from the road again, so he bit his tongue and smiled.


    The man responded positively enough. ¡°Ah, good. We strive to protect the poor and defenceless wherever they may be, regardless of these petty civil wars we¡¯ve faced. I don¡¯t recognise you, Gary, so I think it¡¯s best to put the Blunt Force fully into your unknown hands.¡±


    Silven blinked. A wailing peasant went by just feet away and he kept his mouth shut.


    ¡°Even though you¡¯re my new captain, I shall have utter authority over your next objective,¡± continued Melton enthusiastically. He pulled out a weathered scrap of parchment. ¡°Let¡¯s see. The people of Thornyhedge have been troubled recently by dark dreams in the dead of night. The dread whispers of cultists have been heard in the windmill when the hour grows late, and odd goods have been disappearing by day. Mysterious hoofed prints have led back to the hillside cottage of Cragtop nearby, where three robed women have taken up residence with the old shepherd. We¡¯ll need to investigate.¡±


    Silven could take it no longer. He opened his mouth to give this Pressley a piece of his mind. ¡°I don¡¯t have time for pointless distractions like this, but I guess I¡¯ll give it a go.¡± He stared at Grennel in horror and covered his mouth.


    ¡°I knew you¡¯d make a good captain!¡± cried Melton, clapping his hands.


    Silven stuttered. ¡°What... how... do I investigate these intriguing happenings?¡±


    Melton reflected the hero¡¯s confusion. ¡°What? Just go to the big glowing pointer on your map and kill everyone in sight. That way we¡¯re sure to get the perpetrators in the count. It¡¯s so easy!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous, but I¡¯ll head over there straight away,¡± struggled Silven. He looked at Grennel¡¯s helpless face. ¡°Anything else I can do to further our gallant cause?¡±


    ¡°Only once you¡¯ve trudged all the way back can I read the next location on my list, which may or may not be several seconds from your killzone,¡± Melton said through a cheerful grin. ¡°And I don¡¯t know where our band of fighters has got to, so just do it for us all, captain. I¡¯ll stay here and guard the broth.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing.¡± Silven turned to go. Grennel responded with an ear-piercing ¡°No!¡± and dragged him towards the Old Cobble Road. The white of Melton¡¯s grin was still visible through the leaves as they plunged away.


    They ran for ten minutes before collapsing against a trunk for a breather. ¡°I have always prided myself on being in control of my mouth,¡± Silven panted. ¡°Alas, those words were not my own. If you weren¡¯t there, professor, then...¡±


    Grennel nodded slowly. ¡°I have heard tell of this wretched band before. That man does not abide by the normal law of the quest. He goes by many names: the Man-ipulator, the Father of Compulsion, the Radiant King - Your Majesty?!¡± The king was not of the world. He was stroking his Silverview 5 like a pet bunny, circling his finger round and round and round the flashing name of Cragtop. ¡°I¡¯ll be there.... soooooon..... my master,¡± he whispered to the map.


    Grennel shook him roughly by the shoulders. He pinched a royal ear. He flicked an ugly nose. There was no sign of the Fulcrum. ¡°No....¡± He shuddered. Suddenly, the woods seemed cooler.


    He contemplated the world peacefully for a moment, and made his choice. He lifted Silven beneath the arms, pocketed the glowing map, and dragged the absent hero onward.

 3.14 Showdown

    3.14 Showdown


    An hour dragged by. Silven grew heavy in the professor¡¯s weedy arms. Finally, when Grennel could bear the unpleasant load no longer, he spied a way out. To defeat the powers of the Radiant King, he would need to stoop lower. Slowly, carefully, he slid the Fulcrum down into the chair on the grass verge. The sly and slender man on the other side asked for the wager. Grennel pulled some ichory thing from Silven¡¯s pocket as compensation. Silven stirred. ¡°Are we there now?¡± he droned. ¡°Cragtop?¡±And then, the man dealt the cards.


    * ??* ??*


    ¡°Your Majesty? Your Majesty?¡± said someone in his ear. Silven tore a reluctant eye from the Dwarven Annihilator in his hand, and though he looked up at a familiar face, the choice of Mystic Armour or Frosty Touch as its augment still gnawed at his mind. It was morning again. How odd.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been playing all night, Your Majesty,¡± Grennel said gently. ¡°Is it time for Cragtop?¡±


    ¡°Nah!¡± slurred Silven like a drunkard. ¡°The world can save its stupid self.¡± He waved an arm clumsily across the playing field. ¡°There¡¯s Spelldeck to play!¡± The evil powers of Melton were ebbing away.


    ¡°Do you know who you are?¡± Grennel quizzed as he drew closer.


    ¡°Yeah, man! Champion of the dragonslayin¡¯ Cobble Road!¡± he drawled. He jabbed a flap of card up at his companion. ¡°I got a Merwarrior of Bluebay at the end. Look! Look!¡±


    ¡°I see it,¡± replied Grennel sternly. ¡°But what about other champions? This sorry state here must be in the gutter of the Spelldeck world.¡±


    ¡°Oi!¡± protested the man. Then, he looked down sadly. ¡°Tis true.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to build your deck? The taverns are where all the action is at. You might get a shiny there.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you, all the helping and governing is boring,¡± Silven began. ¡°But here, the intricacies of the tiers, the agony of the augments, the genius it takes to find the balance, the pride when it¡¯s all timed to perfection and the coin rolls my way.... you¡¯ll know nothing like it, my friend.¡± He rose suddenly. ¡°Did you say shiny?¡±


    Grennel nodded. He glanced at the dealer. ¡°Don¡¯t just stare... where¡¯s the nearest tavern? We have real champions to challenge!¡±


    The man looked over his coin pouch and nodded up the road glumly. ¡°Three Toes. Sneaky Pete. Watch out, he plays a mean green deck.¡±


    Silven thanked him for his advice and trotted on, professor in tow.


    As they reached a sharp bend some way up the path, Silven stooped low and grimaced. ¡°Eurgh! Shit.¡±


    Grennel plodded up by his side and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. ¡°So you¡¯ve finally come round?¡±


    Silven gazed out at the thinning trees and sighed. ¡°Yeah. I¡¯d thank you if I was thankful, but I¡¯d started to hope it had all been a bad dream.¡± He wiped a hand across his mouth like he was going to be sick. ¡°We can¡¯t play games forever.¡± He looked up suddenly at that, met Grennel¡¯s eyes, and smiled gently. Perhaps that was a little too close to the truth. Grennel began to speak, and cut short. If all was going well, the few remaining witnesses would be accompanying them right now. He returned the smile instead.


    Silently, they rounded the curve. Behind the last stand of pines, there was a tavern.


    Every nerve of Silven¡¯s body sparked and rebelled. I¡¯m here, they said. He made himself walk on. There was no last saving grace, no map mix-up or cheap bandit trap here. The sign by the whitewashed wall read Three Toes. The travellers exchanged a glance. Though the sun was rising, a deep chill was seeping into their bones. Silven fingered the charge stick and hoped it wouldn¡¯t hurt too bad.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Riddle me ree!¡± squeaked an annoying voice from the side. Silven looked down. There was a frog sitting on a tree stump on the edge of the neat lawn surrounding the tavern. Behind it, a gleaming sword rose from the rotting wood. The frog looked up attentively and blubbered on. ¡°Mighty foes ye both now seek, and I hold the power to prove them weak. To put upon your enemies a muzzle, thou must solve this devilish puzzle.¡±


    Before the frog could go on, Silven strode up and proposed a puzzle of his own. ¡°That may be... but watch this and see... how could you stop me?¡± He reached over the little creature and plucked the sword from its pedestal. He marched on and tuned out the frantic protests.


    ¡°That was terrible,¡± lectured Grennel. He spread his arms and proclaimed, ¡°But you¡¯re just a frog... not a big scary dog... what¡¯s missing from your log?¡±


    Silven suddenly looked serious as he inspected his loot. ¡°This may be pretty useful actually. I might need to hit it to get it to die.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t bring a weapon to the final showdown?¡± cried Grennel incredulously.


    Silven shrugged. ¡°I forget things sometimes. What of it? Usually I have competent people to remember for me.¡± But then they reached the door, and the time for mirth was over.


    Grennel pressed an ear to the threshold. ¡°Nothing,¡± he whispered. ¡°I¡¯m afraid we may cause quite the spectacle.¡±


    ¡°A better view for our patrons,¡± hissed Silven in reply. ¡°Good.¡± He composed himself for a moment and swung open the door to face his destiny.


    Instead, he faced a bustling beamed parlour awash with men and alcohol and alcohol-men hybrids. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth across the way. Through the tiny square windows in the far wall, the pitch black of night stared in. Silven and Grennel halted just in time to avoid a wayward tankard. ¡°Huh?¡± managed Silven.


    ¡°Set piece,¡± murmured Grennel sideways from the corner of his mouth. Something like a mouse scurried underneath a table and out under the bar. ¡°Dramatic lighting.¡±


    Silven backtracked and stuck his head out into sunlight. ¡°Huh,¡± he said again, brightly. He swung back and forth across the threshold. ¡°Daytime! Night-time! Daytime! Night-time! Like it!¡± Then he saw Grennel¡¯s face and tried to remember the need for ichor research. He chose night-time and advanced through the parlour.


    He knew the owner of the voice when he saw him. He was dressed in plain cloak and boots like the rest, but the pointy wizard¡¯s hat, short beard and effort to have a vaguely interesting face did distinguish him somewhat. At that moment, the voice-haverer was staring sullenly at his goblet and drumming his fingers on the little table at which he reclined. Silven felt a strange pang of sympathy as he took a wide berth around the figure. He had made him wait quite a long time after all.


    Even now, it was not to be his day. Nor would it ever be. The voice on the air had promised a lead into a ghastly web of turmoil and trials leading to victory over the dark. Silven was going straight for that last bit this time.


    From somewhere, Silven vaguely remembered a description of this cheery alehouse. He passed alongside the bar, noted the doorway open to the glowing spit roasts of the kitchens, and moved on between the wobbling revellers. That was not the way. Somehow, he knew it was the closed door in the far corner. There, the wall jutted out in a large square, dividing off a sizeable chunk of the hall. The guest room. That¡¯s where he would end it.


    Slowly, he traced his path to the corner, where the room met the bar. Painfully, he bent over. Reluctantly, he handed the charge stick over to his sidekick. ¡°Now, if you would just - yoooooow!¡±


    It was like that time he had received a bothersome crossbow bolt between the eyes, only a little worse. The pain sent him scurrying forward at a horrifying speed. The patrons had only just began to turn their heads in disgust by the time he opened his eyes into darkness. He was in.


    Beyond his vision, something huge heaved and shuddered. He didn¡¯t like it.


    Desperately, he shrank back and crashed against the inner wall, fumbling for a candle, a lantern, anything to fend off that abysmal nothingness. Instead, he found the door handle and pushed down.


    Unmovable appears to be a very one-sided perspective of things. From this perspective, all was well. Light pooled into the first third of the guest room. In a second, Professor Grennel came waltzing in. ¡°Did you find it? Is it done?¡± He stopped talking when he saw the expression on Silven¡¯s face. He was watching the light as it swished into the darkness and swashed back like a tide. Beyond, the room was still utterly black. Dread clutched their hearts triumphantly.


    ¡°It... it can¡¯t stop this,¡± stuttered Grennel. He delved into a pocket and took out a match and torch. He lit it. The darkness receded.


    It revealed a black shape in the centre of the bare floorboards. It was huge. It had spikes, and claws, and jaws, and tentacles, and every unpleasant and deadly appendage you could possibly imagine.


    It also had a pair of open eyes.


    ¡°Buggerlumps,¡± said Silven.

 3.15 Showdown (Another One)

    3.15 Showdown (Another One)


    The creature was terrifyingly enormous and enormously terrifying. It opened one of its mouths and shrieked loud enough to break the window in the guest room¡¯s outer wall. The chill of the night flowed into the already freezing room. Barbed tentacles unwound from the base of the bulbous thing and waved closer. Steaming slime dripped from pores in its hairless flesh and burned holes in the floorboards. The creature was, as you may have gathered, disappointingly alert.


    ¡°Get back!¡± Silven screamed, and he grabbed Grennel by his cloak and pulled him roughly towards the door.


    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± the professor whimpered.


    Silven drew the frog¡¯s sword from his pocket with a firm hand. He raised it vertically in the air like all heroes seem to pointlessly do. ¡°Now, for Newburg, for my friends, all I hold dear, in the name of-¡±


    The creature came slithering across the room at a horrible pace. He¡¯d hoped it would at least have the decency to be slow. ¡°Arrrrrgh!¡± he cried. He charged, sword still high above his head. The barbs and spikes and pods and teeth extended to meet him. The sword came crashing down as the two titans clashed.


    The creature shrieked again, collapsed, and bubbled into the floor.


    Silven looked at the mess dumbly. His eyes roved the silent corners of the room. Then, he put away his sword. ¡°Well, that was the anti-climax of the age,¡± he said.


    ¡°It was only level twenty,¡± squeaked a mouse as it scampered back into the skirting board.


    Silven turned to the professor, who had just picked himself up from the floor to busy himself collecting up bodily fluids in tiny glass jars.


    ¡°Is that it?¡± Silven said suddenly. ¡°The end of the quest?¡±


    ¡°Safety?¡± ventured Grennel. ¡°It¡¯s done...¡±


    Slowly, they put down their things and embraced. The universe was safe. The cycle could move on and the world would endure. It was over.


    Grennel drew back. ¡°Why only level twenty?¡± His face clouded. ¡°Let¡¯s just check something...¡±


    They hurried back into the bar. All the patrons were gone. Except one.


    It was the man with the powerful voice, but he had ditched the hat and the robe, and he looked very angry. Veins pulsed in his shiny dome of a head as he boomed, ¡°You killed my pet!¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± was all Silven could think to say.


    ¡°It would have grown into something mighty indeed,¡± the man lamented. ¡°But no matter. I shall have to do the slaughtering myself.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    The roll of laughter was like a roll of thunder. ¡°It¡¯s a shame. You¡¯ve robbed me of weeks of guiding and training you to vanquish this foe, only to reveal my true self in a twist you would never expect. Yes, it¡¯s true: the great Baron Melaxis the Fifth, reborn from the demon realm, come to claim what is mine!¡±


    ¡°Never heard of him,¡± muttered Silven.


    The Baron looked crestfallen. ¡°Rotten Rubertis! So Celebrated Scrolls was a vanity publisher all along. Never mind, I rebrand myself.... The End. For I shall be yours!¡±


    ¡°Hang on,¡± Grennel interjected. ¡°Why do big bad villains insist on developing a chosen one who will ultimately be their downfall? It happens all the time. You seriously need to get together and start looking at historical patterns.¡±


    Slowly, The End¡¯s fat lips curled into a knowing, smug smile. ¡°All others are beneath me. And because of that cheek, I have a special hell reserved for your demise.¡± He drew up his arms and laughed again. Blue light erupted around his body. Silven raised his sword in defence, but it was too late. The fire engulfed them all.


    A long second later, he found himself lying spread-eagled on a featureless white surface. ¡°Olgy?¡± he called out weakly, but it was Professor Grennel who grunted in response. He raised himself with unfeeling hands and gaped at the weirdscape around them.


    It was far from featureless. The sky and the ground and the horizon were pure nothingness, but everywhere, grey blocks whizzed and grey platforms jigged and fire pits sizzled at the edges of black bridges. Square, smooth towers of blue stood like a forest all around, clipping swaying rafts as they floated by, deflecting glowing beams of pure light that raced out of nowhere, and forming neat little polite rows of ascending size, just perfect for a Sunday powerhop to work off the stew of the night before.


    The carousel of motion made Silven¡¯s head whirl. He found the surface again and gratefully closed his eyes. ¡°Where are we?¡± he managed, suddenly feeling rather green-cheeked.


    An echoey voice reverberated across the otherwise silent world. It was not The End¡¯s commanding tone; this was a thin, reedy and desperate voice, and therefore a wholly original device. ¡°You¡¯re in the realm of A¡¯rho¡¯zhor¡¯a¡¯shan¡¯ax¡¯lyxs¡¯zwiszl,¡± it whined. ¡°You should not be here.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± snapped Silven at a nearby platform as it rose innocently towards a glowing red orb high above. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    The voice became more urgent and ever more pathetic. ¡°No time for relevant questions. Listen to me carefully, and you may yet escape a similar imprisonment by the demon of Ragequit Spire.¡±


    There was a moment¡¯s pause. ¡°Go on,¡± ventured the king.


    ¡°No time to talk! You must listen and you must trust me!¡± the voice pleaded from the aether. ¡°There¡¯s only one way out of the Nightmare Land of Nightmare Repetition of Nightmare Repetition of Nightmare Repetition. It¡¯s going to be fun, you¡¯ll see.¡± At once, the swirling shapes gained purpose. They divided, organised themselves, and made a beeline towards the four opposite corners of the cavern-space-thingy. Slowly, surely, primary colour diffused into the world. ¡°You find yourself now in the Hub of Ruy¡¯urew¡¯as¡¯ir¡¯ooo¡¯bu,¡± droned the voice as a circular platform rose in front of the prostrate pair. Four dull hollows were clearly visible at its centre. ¡°Legend has it the door to the mortal realm will only reveal itself once the Power Crystals are back in place. I tried once, and am now sealed within for all time. But I know you have what it takes.¡±


    Silven¡¯s eyes grew wide. ¡°No...¡± he croaked. He cringed on the floor. ¡°I don¡¯t like it. I don¡¯t want-¡±


    ¡°Please!¡± implored the thin voice. ¡°This is already going to take many joyous hours and we don¡¯t want to spoil the fun with tantrums. Where was I? Ah, yes. The four Power Crystals. Each were infused with a unique and exciting element, and they have returned to their native sub-realm when my plan failed. You must recover them.¡±


    ¡°Surely the best thing-¡± started Grennel.


    ¡°Silence, Professor. Surely you wish not to waste time in pointless arguments when you are to spend a such a significant portion of your life with only my twice-minutely jabberings for company. You must do what must be done. But I do have some good news....¡± A solitary balloon rose from the power hub. ¡°You may tackle the sub-realms in any order.¡± Silence reigned. ¡°Ahem! Well then, behold.... the Fire Quarter!¡± Red light flared amidst the jagged bridges to Silven¡¯s left. ¡°The Earth Quarter!¡± A glow emanated from the rolling ramps dead ahead. ¡°The Water Quarter! And last but certainly not least-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not doing it,¡± said Silven simply. He straightened and sat cross-legged by the power hub.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°What?¡± hissed Grennel. He beheld the Air Quarter as he was bidden and turned to his master in shock. ¡°But, the entertainment,¡± he mouthed.


    Silven¡¯s brow remained unfurrowed. ¡°Ain¡¯t nobody got time for this shit. Send me back.¡±


    The gamble paid off. For once, just once, all were united.


    Five seconds later, he found himself sprawled upon the vaguely textured, and suddenly very interesting, floor of the tavern. The End loomed over them, beyond rage. He stepped back and allowed his enemies to wobble to their feet so the treachery and murder could begin anew. ¡°When I was just a teenager,¡± he muttered, staring straight through Silven into the past, ¡°there was nothing to do but go hunting in my father¡¯s woods, sneak down into the tiny, crumbling hamlet of All Things, talk to girls, watch the setting sun and drink stolen mead out in the field over Old Pete¡¯s back wall.¡±


    ¡°Your point being?¡± said Silven sternly.


    The End looked up and tried to twist his mouth downwards. ¡°It was boring, alright? I¡¯m just trying to demonstrate that I have a reason for the pure hatred I have for all facets of this universe.¡±


    Silven nodded gravely. ¡°If I had nothing but mead, I¡¯d be angry too.¡± He hefted his sword. ¡°I understand. You¡¯re probably too far gone to introduce the joys of port. Let¡¯s put you out of your misery.¡± He advanced.


    The End held up a hand. ¡°Woah, easy there. Give me chance to get into battle form.¡± He twirled a finger. ¡°Turn around.¡±


    Silven nearly swung. He was so close. But at the last moment, he remembered. Today of all days, he needed to play by the rules.


    zip


    Silven rolled his eyes. ¡°Will we ever actually make it through the big scary boss battle?¡±


    ¡°All done, guys!¡± cried The End, somewhat gruffly. They spun. In The End¡¯s place, there stood a rather fluffy sky-blue werewolf. It was almost half-convincing.


    ¡°Nice stitching on the whiskers,¡± Grennel praised.


    ¡°Cheers! Now come and attack me!¡± snarled the wolf.


    Silven blinked slowly. He let out a long, long breath, and stilled his mind. A lot rested on slicing that onesie to ribbons.


    With a roar, the two fighters fought.


    Silven¡¯s sword sliced across a neck and shivered back. The End put his hands on his hips, guffawed, and swiped his foes into the wall with one adorable paw.


    Silven leapt back to his feet, dove beneath a crushing blow and skewered a hard point in the air just in front of the villain¡¯s belly.


    ¡°Pierce resistance!¡± cried Grennel, dusting himself off. He watched with interest as Silven crashed against the bar and winced as a tottering tankard emptied itself down his neck. ¡°He¡¯s too high a level! This is going to be tough. Just run around in circles for a while and I¡¯ll pop to the shop for some health elixirs.¡±


    The werewolf laughed again. ¡°Oh, so innocent! And while you¡¯re at it, just ignore the Shield Shards I¡¯ve hidden around the room! I¡¯m sure everything¡¯s going to be fine.¡± He struck Silven beneath the chin and sent him tumbling to the ground in a shower of dust.


    The king crawled weakly away and heaved himself up against a stool. ¡°Power Crystals, and now Shield Shards?¡± he muttered. ¡°When did everything get so lame?¡± He shuffled through the jumble of glassware on the table.


    ¡°Colder, warmer.... warmer.... red hot!¡± yelled The End as Silven flipped over a cup and revealed a glowing red piece of pottery beneath. The wolf raised its fists and advanced. Silven scrambled away, flicked the shard to the floor and ground it beneath a slipper. Nothing. He slashed his sword across The End¡¯s muzzle and got a snort and a jab to the stomach in return. ¡°Hah!¡± cried the End, rounding on Grennel and pounding him into the ground. ¡°Don¡¯t you know Shield Shards draw their own mini shields from the life force of a nearby minion?¡± There was a brilliant flash of light. ¡°So just leave these here goblins to chew at your ears and we¡¯re all good.¡±


    The hideous little green things advanced. Silven rolled away, raked a suddenly very long and half-invisible sword across their sides, and watched them fall. He raised his weapon to absorb the shock from a sickening punch to his temple and lopped off an azure arm. The End¡¯s shriek drowned out the dying howls of his allies.


    Silven granted himself a moment to ponder. ¡°Hmm, so there are goblins after all. No dragons, though, I hope?¡±


    The End clutched at the stump of his arm and groaned. ¡°Not unless you faced The Very End. But you¡¯ll never get the chance, cos here comes wave two!¡± He raised a triumphant fist.


    The bloodstained warriors regarded each other through the motionless room. The End gritted his teeth and wrapped a piece of fur around his exposed bone. ¡°Sorry.... takes a while to load them.... you¡¯ll die soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is awkward.¡± Silven stepped across the room and got Grennel to his feet. ¡°Boiled or fried tonight?¡± he quizzed.


    Grennel spat out a tooth and gasped. ¡°Fried, for a special treat. I say, what¡¯s the delay?¡±


    By the time he finished, the next goblins were upon them. By the time he turned, they were dead. By the time he pointed, Silven had vaulted a stool, flung a glowing shard to the ground, and released another arm from service.


    The End staggered and fell to one knee, gushing blood.


    Silven regarded him thoughtfully. ¡°You¡¯re not level twenty too?¡±


    The wolf gnashed its floppy teeth. ¡°Fifty-five, actually! Where did you... learn..... arghh!¡±


    ¡°Encyclopaedias, mostly,¡± Silven reflected. ¡°I¡¯ve led a strange life.¡± He looked around. His heart was beating a little faster, his nerves twitched a little more excitedly. The new beginning was nigh. ¡°I take it there¡¯s a third wave?¡± He reached over the bar and took another Shield Shard from a bottle of whiskey, just to be prepared.


    He glanced around and flapped his thankfully secure arms. Then, he found his expertminerium earbuds and gestured at his enemy. ¡°You don¡¯t mind....?¡± Best start scanning for potential new business opportunities at the end of this chaos. Just to be prepared.


    ¡°Garggh!¡± The End gurgled, writhing in agony.


    ¡°Guess it¡¯s fine then.¡±


    The End was a terrible foe indeed. Somehow, he managed to summon the third wave at that precise moment in time when Silven had just begun to drift away from the immense weight of saving the world and settle down into some serious snakes and ladders trash talk. Silven only just had time to sigh and scowl and pluck out his earpparatus before the first little rascal drove a rusty dagger through his shoulder. Then, he realised he was in the final seconds of this bittersweet era of the realm, and his life, and everything, so he decided to at least be stylish about his slaughter. He shredded two of the goblins with a single revolution of his Vicious Ravaging Tornado Whirl and twirled his blade at the third¡¯s eyes. It staggered back but did not go down.


    He heard a squeaky voice somewhere nearby and looked round in confusion.


    ¡°I observe the Shield Shard flashing vigorously and announcing it is ready to be smashed,¡± declared Grennel.


    Silven did the polite thing and followed the request. He turned, he leapt, hung in the air for what seemed an age, and drove the point of his blade through The End¡¯s blue furry skull.


    He felt the dark life-force of his foe drain into the air. ¡°Aaaaaaah,¡± he sighed. The Procedural Age had begun.


    He didn¡¯t even mind when the little crowd of mice scurried out of the woodwork to rattle their tails in exultation. And then, as suddenly as they appeared, they shrank back and cowered by their holes.


    ¡°Watch your back!¡± screamed Grennel.


    He¡¯d forgotten the goblin. Its friends and master lay dead, but it lingered on, lashing out with its little dagger for all it was worth. Such courage was admirable, in a way.


    Silven sliced at its throat. The onslaught continued.


    ¡°Grennel?¡± he shouted, taking a vicious cut across the knuckles and falling back.


    ¡°Oooh, special surprise!¡± replied the Professor, suddenly curious. ¡°A blunt sensitivity, perhaps? Never heard of a goblin not vulnerable to conventional weapons.¡±


    Silven thumped a savage blow down upon its nose with his pommel. The little green monster jibbered and jabbered and struck back.


    ¡°Grennel?¡± he said again.


    ¡°Poison, then? Though most greenskins are impervious to toxins.¡±


    Silven found an old foul-smelling flask in a pocket and applied the steaming liquid to his blade. The slice he dealt left a blackened sear upon the crude leather jerkin, and that was it. Grennel began to back away. So did Silven. The goblin broke into a scamper. Silven tripped it, drove his blade in vain against its heart, and opened the door. ¡°What challenge be this?¡± he puffed. ¡°A puzzle, maybe? Something to do with the number three?¡±


    The goblin raced onwards. It paused to slice a passing bird in two and waddled down the path.


    Grennel¡¯s face dropped. ¡°It¡¯s not aggroed. What sort of a tank are you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m trying!¡± said Silven, not knowing or caring what sort of tank, if any, he was. ¡°I need more time.¡±


    Grennel stepped up to unleash a flurry of wild fists while he found his block of polarised earth. If the fall didn¡¯t kill it, he could contain the foul little thing for just a breather, whilst he got his head together. He wasn¡¯t expecting this level of effort already.


    In a moment, he had had gouged a deep pit between his companion and the four-foot attacker. They backed off. He focused and spirited away the little square of earth beneath its rear claws, and it disappeared silently into the void.


    There was, at last, a moment¡¯s peace. Then the scrabble of little feet. Then, two little green arms hoisted a little green body from the precipice. The goblin regarded its foes with beady eyes and dashed off down the path towards Thornyhedge.


    Silven watched it go. His stomach felt lower than the abyss before him.


    He couldn¡¯t look at Grennel. ¡°Come,¡± he said.

 Recap: Part 3

    Recap: Part 3


    An unknown length of time passes. I''m sure Silven had many riveting adventures without us.


    We pick up the story again as Silven boards the Noclip - an airship he has secretly built to reach the moon, which appears to be a new (and heavily-advertised) area to explore. The Mooncerer (who else?), a powerful sorcerer, lives there and is plotting revenge on the world that rejected him.


    Whilst ascending, Silven explains to an angry Olgred that in his previous adventures he has been doing his best to subvert expectations of him and reject his true destiny with the mice and Three Toes Tavern by killing Zolar and sparing Warlord Wallace. Olgred is not convinced his master isn''t completely crazy. He does however tell Silven that business is going well, and that the civil war is dying down thanks to brain-rotting viral content on Silverlink''s instant messaging systems.


    The pair arrive at the moon and Silven is frustrated and bored by the fact that the Mooncerer lacks imagination - everything he has created here is just a knockoff moon-version of things that exist back home. Silven has used his research into the fabric of existence to ensure his ship can pass straight through solid surfaces, and he dives right through the roof of the Mooncerer''s fortress to give him a piece of his mind. The feared sorcerer is just a whiny little ''misunderstood'' boy, after all.


    With the Mooncerer told he must go back home and pull himself together, Silven reveals why he came to the moon - to obtain a new footrest for his collection. He despairs at what he is doing with his life, and rightly so.


    Back in his office, Silven is greeted by Lord Treken, the general of the king''s army. Treken has decided to declare war on Silven''s companies. He claims that despite Silverlink''s loyalty to the crown, it is growing too powerful and self-governing for the king''s liking. Silven discusses the issue with his inner circle. They are worried that if the king discovers the secret workers in Limetop manufacturing infinite goods using the Doll Sequence, chaos will reign. However, it''s not looking good for reinforcements - the plague, caused by The Glitch, is decimating the population of Oldeburgh, and the Fellowship of the Glitch are blaming Silverlink and have turned against it.


    Luckily, Sir Meow-a-lot Mousecatcher, head of security, inspires the room with a well-placed meow. Ulf, the accountant, breaks apart Silven''s new footrest for its four legs, recognising that anything at all from a new area, even a stool leg, must of course be more powerful than even the best weapons from Oldeburgh. Silven, Olgred, Simitest the head engineer, and Dasat the mercenary are inspired to become the four generals to lead their armies against Treken''s.


    In the early parts of the war, strongholds change hands back and forth between the opposing sides every day, until an AI fault is dicovered that leads to the slaughter of any invading force. Sieges become impossible; the armies must face each other on the open field in a final battle.


    The two forces clash. Silven''s troops have experience and the discovery that they can''t be hurt while sitting down to their advantage. Treken''s force has the sheer numbers. The battle turns tides several times, but Silverlink is gaining the advantage when Treken''s forces suddenly pull back. They have allied themselves with a very curious army made up of dozens of types of monsters and evil-doers who are all a bit pissed off that a brave adventurer hasn''t come to fight them yet. Death seems inevitable for Silven and his friends, until their enemies start talking. There''s a wizard who believes he has met Silven before when he hasn''t, a Fellowship traitor who has no valid explanation as to the king''s actions to take out Silven, and the Terrorknights, who seem to have been forgotten about altogether. Silven''s logic causes a huge chasm in the ground to open up and swallow most of his foes - a plot hole. This, combined with the fact that some of Silven''s men can now be inexplicably be upgraded to side-switching machine-gunners, wins the battle, and war, for Silven.


    The land is safe at last. In the aftermath, Silven refounds the lost gnome civilisation by finally singing with his sword, makes some less-than-inspiring speeches, and drinks plenty of alcoholic beverages. But he is rather uneasy about how he could wipe out an army by pointing out a few logic flaws. He''s even more uneasy when some palace guards show up to take him to his coronation as king - apparently the old king never existed and he was always supposed to be striving to be crowned.


    He suspects a plot to put him back on track with his original destiny, and summons his generals to assassinate him at the coronation if anything suspicious should surface. On the way, Silven realises he doesn''t have a bloody clue what to do as king, but luckily he doesn''t need to know, because it turns out his decisions boil down to boring two-way choices all based around upgrading his fighting abilities. What a disappointment.


    More time passes. King Silven abandons his court mid-wittering and turns it into a museum. His rule is going pretty well for someone so clueless. Yet there is a new problem - a huge city in the south called Ostenwal, which he''d never heard of before, still claims loyalty to the old king (if he ever existed) and refuses to reunite. Silven and his entourage request an audience with its council and travel to the city. Despite a few embarassments regarding the name of their new ''royal republic'', Silven puts forward a strong case for reunification, but Vilgrin, Ostenwal''s leader, is having none of it. A messenger announces the old king and the enormous armies of the neighbouring kingdoms are invading Newburg. The city begins to riot, and the Glitch gets in on the festivities by way of a giant chicken decimating Silven''s guards. Silven brings in the big guns, and Herbie Sootroller finally convinces Vilgrin to join the republic by way of sharing turnip and carrot crops to craft slightly less boring recipes. Silven and Herbie try to escape the city but have cursed themselves to stay by explaining their new battle fast-travel in advance. Dasat, injured in the fighting, appears to announce the borders are overrun and the situation looks grim.


    Silven begins to realise that he may never be destined for victory the way he wants, despite all his work to make it happen. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle, before Ulf announces the world would tear apart if he witnessed so many troops in one battle, and that he''ll have to leave the fighting to automated odds. With Ostenwal''s forces, they have a 43% chance of success. Silven has no choice but to accept and go to sleep.


    Newburg beats the odds and wins this second war. However, Dasat the mercenary is lost. The plague has got to his wounds and his hand has been replaced by a chicken''s head. He begs Silven to end his life, but Silven has him carted off to the Fellowship instead. It is a decision that haunts him from that point on.


    There is another problem. Though the allied armies of the outsiders are defeated, a champion has forced his way through the defences of Ostenwal for Silven''s head. The burly warrior, named The Bloodthirsty, speaks a strange language, and Silven notices something different about him - he''s another being who seems more ''aware'' like himself. This champion has been sent on a quest to rid Newburg of the boredom and stagnation caused by Silven''s meddlings. He reveals that he has been helped by the Modders - even stranger beings that can alter reality itself. They have already set Fireline''s demons free and destroyed Silven''s old headquarters of Overwall.


    Silven sets about fighting off the Bloodthirsty - alone of course. The Bloodthirsty has many tricks up his sleeve, using strange irregularities such as shooting through doors to his advantage. After almost defeating Silven, the warrior is finally overcome by his own uncertainty and Silven''s memory of a super-move he has been saving for an emergency throughout his reign of peace.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    As The Bloodthirsty sinks to his knees, the Modders speak directly to Silven, warning him that he cannot claim victory. If he does,they tell him, everything he knows will be destroyed. If he accepts defeat, at least his legacy will live on. However, Silven considers all the improvements he has made for his peoples'' lives and ignores their words, killing the Bloodthirsty once and for all.


    The hooded figures of the Modders fall, revealing that they were disguised mice all along. Silven is enraged to see them disturbing his affairs again and manages to crush one underfoot. The remaining mice start complaining amongst themselves, talking of how boring this ''server'' is and announcing that they are preparing to leave. However, one of the mice, named Darkgurl5, decides to give Silven one last chance, imploring him to do something interesting for once.


    As the mice disappear, Silven is struck by a sudden thought - a memory of the strange cancelling poison effects from the spiders in Snake Hill Outpost so long ago. After distractedly making arrangements for the recovery of the royal republic, he visits Desert Marsh to announce this oddity to Professor Grennel.


    To his amazement, the information works and he is allowed into Grennel''s study. The Professor finally tells him of his research into the way the world works. Silven is the fulcrum - a main entity about which the world turns. His friends and major enemies are centrepieces - characters with limited freedom, bound to the fulcrum, who can help or hinder him according to their relationship. To Silven''s horror, the rest of his subjects are mere pawns, who merely act human when he is around. To the majority of the population, his work in Fireline and Silverlink is utterly meaningless.


    Silven is almost overcome with dismay. He feels his life as he remembers it has been pointless, and that as fulcrum everything has been destined as he sees fit because he just needs to wish for something to happen. Grennel, however, corrects him on that - the Elsenberg purpose principle has been sorely misunderstood by Silven. Objectives have still been set by higher powers, and Silven only decides how events unfold. Silven isn''t as powerful as he once thought.


    Grennel has invited an old friend/enemy, Brother Whateverborn, to help explain and suggest the next steps. Whateverborn suspects that the mice are representations of the outside forces that created and control the world for their own entertainment. Silven finally grasps his meaning - he is in a game.


    Whateverborn explains that, from the mice''s point of view, the simulation has gone badly wrong. They gave the fulcrum and centrepieces too much freedom, and this has caused Silven and his friends to stray from the intended main quest beginning in the Three Toes Tavern. Some tried to get the game back on course by attempting to block Silven''s access to Grennel''s research - one has erased the memory that would allow Silven to converse with the wayward scholar, and the memory was only brought back when Silven elimated that mouse from play.


    On the other hand, Silven''s actions have intrigued some of the other observers. They have attempted to incorporate his new systems such as fast travel and instant messaging into the game by promoting pawns to centrepieces; however they have gone too far and messed with too many rules they don''t understand. This has resulted in the rise of the Glitch despite the Fellowship''s best efforts... and Silven is to blame.


    While the Glitch is out of control, there is perhaps an even more urgent issue that Silven could still do something about. Most of the mice are finding Silven''s misadventures dreadfully boring and are leaving the server. As a last-ditch attempt to bring back some fun, the observers created a new fulcrum- the Bloodthirsty - to eliminate Silven. Now that the warrior is dead, most are giving up this simulation as a bad job and leaving, threatening the future of the server. At any second, Silven''s universe may just cease to exist... unless he can do something to convince the mice to keep it running.


    Grennel suggests an alarming possibility - starting the Three Toes quest that the mice wanted all along. Whateverborn adds another option - there is a dark presence hidden within the tavern, presumably some big villain to be revealed at the start of the quest. If Silven can kill it, there is a chance that he can end this quest prematurely and go on to new and better things. There is also a chance that path will end the world for good, but Silven wants to try anyway.


    To access the villain, Silven needs to glitch his way through the corner of a room. Seeing as he idiotically decided not to be a mage at the start of the game, he must buy a ''charge stick'' which will propel him through the wall after being applied to his buttocks. The catch? The merchant only accepts Gems, the real-world DLC currency of the observers. Whateverborn has been tapping into the mice''s communications and thinks he can get a password for Darkgurl4''s source of income, to fund the purchase of the charge stick.


    Whateverborn sacrifices himself to upload Silven to the vessel of the player''s job - a humanoid robot in a supermarket. Silven, or Crystal as his coworkers know him as, struggles to blend in - it turns out the real world works in different ways, and smashing up crates of stock won''t get him his Gems any time soon. Luckily, the sexism of the future lets him off the hook even after causing damage to an intimate area of his colleague''s body.


    Silven eventually begins to understand he needs to get through his shift to be paid and begins the arduous, mind-numbing task of working the delivery. However, he is spurred on by a conversation with one of Crystal''s friends about the games they play together. Despite calling a certain fulcrum an uninspiring dick, Jez reveals that Scenario 66 has a procedurally generated set of quests which would allow Silven to live on forever... as long as the server stays afloat.


    The supermarket opens. The chaos that follows is worse than any battle Silven has ever been in. After listening to the dronings of Saz about management drugging the staff, he is called to the front lines, where he wades through hordes of irate customers in search of a solution. It turns out Silven isn''t too bad for a fantasy RPG AI, and wins the gratitude of his colleagues by... well, reading a pizza box.


    Inspired by the teamwork of his new friends, Silven decides to use his robotic body to burst into the managers'' office, tear open the safe and save his fellows from being drugged. It turns out, however, that consequences are not quite so black and white in the real world as in his game, and he succeeds in getting Crystal fired, the company shut down and the other staff being laid off in the process.


    Though no-one remembers he ever existed, Whateverborn makes sure Crystal''s last pay is spent on Gems for Silven''s charge stick. After resisting the cheerful adverts of the overly-irksome DLC merchant and buying the goods, he stops off at Silverlink Stuff HQ to collect Olgred for help at the Three Toes Tavern. However, Olgred fails to grasp the urgency of Silven''s mission over his own preocupations with running the republic, and Silven storms off in frustration to find Professor Grennel instead.


    Now that Silven knows where it is, the Three Toes Tavern has magically appeared along the Old Cobble Road. His fast-travel seems to have been disabled by the observers for extra drama, so he and Grennel set off on foot. Silven has been cheered by his miserable experiences in the real world, recognising that his own designs are worth saving after all.


    Silven''s proximity to the main quest has triggered the unlocking of random encounters along his journey. There are fair maidens requiring recruitment, fast-food couriers with no memories and a whole host of babbling peasants all suddenly in need of help. The mob chases the pair down the road, and they take shelter in a woodland clearing. Unfortunately, they encounter Melton Pressley, the leader of a faction of warriors dedicated to defending the weak. Melton immediately promotes the stunned Silven to leader of the group before assigning him an unwanted random quest. There is a strange, frustrating power here, because Silven cannot say no, and quickly falls under Melton''s spell.


    Despite his reservations, Grennel saves his master from a lifetime of repetitive slaughter by carrying him away to another addictive distraction - a collectible card game player just down the road. When he''s got Silven hooked on cards instead of Melton''s quests, he convinces the king to go off down the road in search of shinies. Further on, Silven comes to his senses, and isn''t too pleased to remember his real mission and the danger he is in.


    They hurry off to the one place Silven has strived to avoid - the Three Toes Tavern. Silven briefly stops to pluck a much-needed sword from an amphibious master of riddles before entering.


    It is nightime in the inn - a clear foreshadowing of the excitement to follow. The start of the quest is equally clear - a man sat waiting for Silven at a table. But Silven avoids him, and is successfully propelled into the mysterious room by a much-needed pain in the backside. There is something dark, huge and nasty in the far corner... and it opens its eyes. No sneaky option now!


    It''s all a bit of an anti-climax really, because the monster is only level 20 and quickly falls to Silven''s blade. It was only supposed to be the start of the quest after all.


    The real danger lies back in the main room of the tavern. Baron Melaxis the Fifth is furious that Silven has robbed him of the chance to train him up before betraying him and feeding him to his pet, like all the cool villains do. He rebrands himself as The End, and tries to get rid of the troublesome pair by teleporting them to another dimension. Here, Silven takes a chance on the fact that the game observers probably want to watch a monotonous elemental platforming adventure even less than he wants to take part in it. He calls out the lazy desgn and the mice teleport him back to the tavern.


    The End takes a valuable moment to change into his werewolf costume and engages Silven and Grennel in mortal combat. After a few awkward pauses for The End to summon his minions, Silven gains the upper hand by finding his foe''s shield shards and breaking through his defences. When he kills him, he sees his plan to save the game is working as the remaining mice come out of their hiding places to see what happens next.


    What happens next, however, is not of the mice''s design. One of The End''s goblin minions just will not go down, no matter what Silven does to stop it. Off it trots towards the village of Thornyhedge, just one little goblin, yet seemingly invincible all the same. And one invincible goblin can do a whole lot of damage...

 Authors Note: Final Part, 5 Chapters Left!

    Hi all,


    Just a heads up that Part 4, which starts tomorrow, is the FINAL part of this story and there are only 5 chapters remaining. The end is nigh.


    As I have mentioned before, this is a novel I wrote some time ago and it was always conceived as a piece with a definite end, not an ongoing episodic web fiction.


    I usually write short stories and even then I struggle to find the time to finish a lot of them, even ones that are just a couple of thousand words or so. To complete a novel like this over a year was a huge personal achievement for me, one which I did not want to ruin with the idea that I may write a sequel or continue it indefinitely. This would almost certainly have resulted in me giving up somewhere along the line, and I think there is great value in your story coming to a point where you are satisfied to mark it as finished forever.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    I realise this concept could have the potential to go on for longer, and my ending is a little bittersweet, and perhaps even premature, but those are the sorts of endings I enjoy reading and I was happy that my writing came to such a natural conclusion.


    Hope you enjoy the last five chapters. There''s still quite a bit of plot to go as one of the chapters is long enough to be its own decent-sized short story, but the countdown has begun.


    As always, thank you for reading this far ??

 4.1 Everything Ends In The End

    Part 4


    The obligatory final part that is much shorter than the rest, the implication of which is that it is packed with excitement and action which blows any of the meatier setup parts out of the water. This is a lie.


    <hr>


    4.1 Everything Ends In The End


    It seemed completely unfair at first.


    In order to rescue the server, Silven had already resigned himself to a lifetime cycle of mayhem and destruction. There would be no peace; the king would forever be plagued by challenges greater and fiercer than the rebellion or invasion or conspiracy before, and he must strike back with determination and excitement each and every time. What he hadn¡¯t expected was such a diabolical learning curve.


    Brute force did nothing. Poisons, and traps, and league-deep chasms, and stunning gadgets and skills of all kinds - nothing would stop that one little goblin. And all the while, it raged. It ranged far and wide, evading every folly and distraction, refusing to die and refusing to be drawn away from its desire to kill. With Silven and Grennel hounding its every step, it scampered into the sleepy village of Thornyhedge with the rising sun and slaughtered every resident who ignored their leader¡¯s desperate alarms. With just a few swipes of its oxidised dagger, the cottages had burst into flames and left nothing but ash in the minion¡¯s wake. The nearby hamlet of Isingbrooke and the civil war outpost of Silverlink19 were mere blackened scars upon the earth by the time the thing passed on. Columns of guards surrounded it with dozens of blades and fell one by one to the feeble tap of crude iron. The pawns slowly wandered the perimeter of their homes and cheerfully commented on the weather when Silven flapped his arms at them. The centrepieces abandoned all and flew on to the next town, the next city, until they knew no more and waited dully for their slow demise. The goblin cut a twisting and meandering path through the heart of the kingdom, picking its slow but unwavering way through proud Stonepeak, then fair Greenholme, even the immensity of Ostenwal. And each and every pattering step of the evil way, Silven was there to witness the slow death of his people.


    Yes, it seemed unfair, with nothing to guide him to the secret of that tiny insignificant monster¡¯s demise. And then, amidst the horrors of a body-strewn hunting cabin in the Capital Foothills, he paused long enough to realise the truth. He let out a howl of despair.


    And so, with a leaden heart, he let it go. He ushered the last terrified peasants from the next cottage, urged them on to Gurzelwuck knows where, and he watched it hurry on to butcher someone else. There was nothing they could do but run.


    It was too long since he had slept. He felt a weird relief when he gave up and dozed fitfully in a deserted inn just up the road. Grennel said nothing at all; it seemed he understood too. Maybe Silven always had, but it was difficult to leave your fellows to their miserable fate without being able to say you tried.


    When he woke, he sat down to an untasted supper and made a few calls. The roads were dotted with wagons leaving the remaining settlements of the kingdom, to camp out in the fields and wait for the pitter patter of awful feet or to try their luck in one of the other lesser lands, but certain places remained as yet untouched. The goblin had unexpectedly turned back from the western roads to hunt a passing butterfly, leaving the anxious watchers on the walls of Desert Marsh to pack their belongings and scatter. The old and the foolish were still there now, and it was the fools in particular he wanted to see.


    He barked some demands into the aether, and soon, he found himself in the shadowy assembly hall of Silicarco Academy. It was the last hope.


    When the fidgety scholars brought out the last dregs of a magnum of sherry and toasted their dean with the traditional words, Silven could only laugh bitterly at his eager audience. Even in the middle of its doom, the old grandeur died hard.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    They listened to his ramblings in agreeable silence. It was always quiet here, and the horrors of which he told them seemed distant, a danger passed. Then he got to the defence plans and it was all real again.


    Not so, it seemed, to his cosy researchers. ¡°So, the Dice Battalion should be garrisoned in Solmond now,¡± he ended. ¡°Can the entire force keep it out with the pit method?¡±


    A previously lifeless mathematician stirred and twirled his shaggy beard. ¡°Let x equal the rate of block creation for an average man.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± Grennel urged.


    ¡°Y the height of the pit. I the integrity of each block, d the damage per second from a goblin. B can be fatigue. Let n be the number of available men, and s the average shift time.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± cried Silven.


    ¡°Are we assuming unlimited resources?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re guaranteeing unlimited resources,¡± Silven growled.


    The old man creaked a knee and winced. ¡°A cheeky little conundrum to be sure. I¡¯ll apply for a grant on the morrow.¡±


    Silven threw up his hands and rounded on the others. ¡°No-one¡¯s getting grants because you¡¯ll all be dead! So tell me now, is the two-step stagger method better?¡±


    An anxious young undergrad stood. ¡°Pardon me, gracious Dean, but we¡¯re intellectuals. We simply cannot apply ourselves to practical works.¡±


    There was a hum of agreement. ¡°And if there¡¯s no grants...¡± said the Professor of Possible Improbabilities, ¡°are you proposing we are to survive... out there?¡± He cast a worried eye across to the nearest window.


    At long last, the dean took his assigned seat. The uproar of haughty voices filled the assembly hall. It was over. He had to accept that.


    Grennel drew closer. ¡°It¡¯s over. You have to accept that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve just literally thought that. Can¡¯t you hear me think? What sort of assistant are you?¡±


    Grennel watched expressionlessly as his slippered colleagues slithered out to their offices. ¡°I mean, I suppose you could pick a holding strategy at random, and pray it works for now. I predict it might keep people safe for a bit, but how long before it inches in? It¡¯s unstoppable, invincible!¡±


    He knew it of course, but it hurt to hear it spoken aloud all the same. He thought darkly of his dealings with the hooded brothers, merry and long days ago. ¡°I¡¯ve defeated so many enemies. But never did I stop to consider the one creeping up in the shadows. The Glitch finally got us.¡± Grennel remained silent. "Still... there¡¯s been a lot of good over the last couple of years. Use that bloated noggin of yours and tell me this - if there¡¯s happiness without a happy ending, are those happy times tarnished by a final failure? Everything ends in the end.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve seemed quite miserable as long as I¡¯ve known you,¡± Grennel observed curtly.


    Silven scoffed and glared at his sidekick. ¡°Well, you know what? I think I¡¯m pretty happy for the end of the world. Screw you.¡± He reached for the sherry. It didn¡¯t seem like such a bad idea now.


    They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. ¡°There¡¯s another way,¡± Grennel blurted abruptly. He received the shower of warm alcohol from the king¡¯s spluttering mouth with relative grace. The words that followed the swilled sherry were slightly less graceful. ¡°Damn you and your dramatic pauses,¡± Silven cursed. ¡°What delightful challenge do you wish to set me now? Though I must say, it¡¯s rather too late for half the populace.¡±


    Grennel narrowed his eyes and considered. ¡°Ah, but that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong. I¡¯ve just had a startling idea that could lead to a desperate last-minute dash for glory across the kingdom. Surely a better end, if an end it is, than two losers drowning their sorrows in a dusty academy.¡±


    Silven looked wistfully at his half-empty glass. ¡°I¡¯ll be the judge of that. Have you thought of a way to stop it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Grennel. Silven raised his fist. ¡°We go back in time,¡± he finished hurriedly. ¡°Reset the universe.¡±

 4.2 Shrine Of The Grinders

    4.2 Shrine Of The Grinders


    ¡°Reset the universe?¡± Silven repeated dumbly. ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°At a Shrine of Newplus. They¡¯re portal generators which send a soul through time rather than space.¡±


    Silven¡¯s whole body tensed. There was still a chance. Then, he frowned. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you told me of this before?¡±


    Grennel shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ¡°I can hardly be sure the things actually work. I¡¯m only going from ancient legends, and besides, they¡¯ve only just been built in the far future.¡±


    Somehow, Silven¡¯s deep frown deepened some more. ¡°If you¡¯re going to be meddling with time, you¡¯re going to have to get used to such silliness,¡± lectured the professor.


    Silven shook a weary head and leant forward. ¡°And how do you propose we ensure we go back to just before this goblin mess and don¡¯t, you know, undo all my exquisite masterworks of these past years? Does it have a handy little knob with dates on?¡±


    Grennel slumped back. His face went blank. ¡°It¡¯s.... it¡¯s a reset,¡± he urged haltingly.


    Silven¡¯s head sank slowly down his chest. ¡°I see. So it¡¯s defeat after all.¡± He looked up wonderingly at his academy. ¡°Ahhhh. Great.¡± It was a cruel trick indeed. To save what scraps he could or risk them never existing at all. For once, he wished he was under direct control. He twisted his head at a sudden movement, but it was only a couple of mice surveying the sadness from the skirting board. He waved a languid arm in their general direction. They didn¡¯t bother him any more.


    Grennel broke the silence. ¡°There¡¯s a few other complications too. Only one may enter the portal. You leave the others behind.¡±


    He felt a stab of pain at that, in a part of him he was only vaguely aware of. ¡°But... everyone will be there at the start...¡± he mused, not wanting to hear the response.


    It came anyway. ¡°Yes. With no memories, no experiences, and no affiliations beyond their default. Only you would retain those, as your self from this time. If you do things differently, good friends could be enemies, enemies become friends....¡±


    ¡°Enough of that,¡± Silven snapped bitterly. ¡°I get the picture.¡± Two paths clashed and whirled in his head.


    ¡°And there¡¯s something else,¡± Grennel continued. He looked even more hesitant than before. With a shrewd glance at the gathering rodents, he framed his words. ¡°It is said that these shrines were built by the gods for the ultimate champion. Should a great warrior desire even greater challenge, they can sacrifice all they hold dear to seek that challenge out. The shrines are not simple time machines, but alterers of nature, too. Through them, the gods give strength to the foes of the valiant hero, set more traps and challenges to make him fall, and unlock new and unexpected trials. Improved weapon mastery, abominations of twisted imaginations, secret doors leading down to caves filled with death and evil... all in exchange for newfound glory.¡±


    ¡°Yep?¡± said Silven. ¡°Your point being?¡±


    ¡°Well.... it¡¯s meant for a certain calibre of warrior....¡±


    Silven¡¯s long frown disappeared. Instead, one eyebrow scaled his forehead. ¡°Your point being?¡± he repeated.


    Grennel¡¯s chair legs creaked unsubtly as he glided backwards. ¡°No offence, but you¡¯re hardly hardcore.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Oh, right, so one minute I¡¯m too good for the End and then not good enough for the beginning?¡± Silven blustered.


    Grennel reached for a discarded scroll, scribbled out the mathematics that was never going to help anyone in the future of mankind, and drew a bell-curve. He pointed to the right edge where it began to sink. ¡°I believe you to be somewhere around here in terms of skill,¡± he began, and added hurriedly, ¡°right on the edge of mastery. Well above most fighters. A legend of the kingdom. Expert swordsman. Warrior King Supreme.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    The professor¡¯s quill slipped away to the right, extending a huge whale¡¯s tail to the edge of the parchment. ¡°But there are some sad characters, it is true, that hone their art beyond even that. Some would say too much. Every waking moment is dedicated to the slaughter. They have no other purpose in their lives, no mastery of the finer arts, of speech, of practicality, of social interaction. The grinders. It was them to which the Shrines of Newplus were dedicated.¡±


    Silven stroked his chin and considered the graph. You may not know this, but Silven was quite a stubborn man. He had just been told he was not fit for purpose. That settled his mind on the matter. ¡°How do these shrines work? I wouldn¡¯t go back... naked, would I?¡±


    ¡°Fortunately not. Research on their inscriptions determines all equipped armour and weapons shall pass backwards in time with the owner.¡±


    Silven looked down at his lordly robes. ¡°I¡¯m not sure these would be suitable for the new world.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not suitable for the new world.¡±


    ¡°Is there a shrine near Limetop?¡±


    ¡°A couple of leagues to the east. The Cave of Noturningbackexperiencedquestersonly.¡±


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll collect something a bit more fearsome there. Though I am afraid I was in a bit of a strop last time I raked through my wardrobe. Could prove difficult.¡±


    ¡°As could Newplus.¡±


    Silven stood. Grennel stood with him. The king regarded the door. ¡°There¡¯s still time. If I¡¯m going back, I have all the time in the world. We¡¯ll walk all the way to HQ. I¡¯ll fight every brigand, monster and scallywag on the way. Get my stuff and speed up. I even have an old friend in Found Gnomeania that, it pains me to say, might be of use. Let me become one of these so-called grinders. If I¡¯m giving up on this company, then I might as well prepare for the next in style.¡± He took a step towards the door. ¡°Scratch that. We¡¯ll ride.¡±


    Grennel coughed. ¡°And get stuck on every rock, take fifty gallops to connect with any given head, get thrown off at the howl of a wolf, fight through panicking horseflesh to reach every foe, and risk Frozen Mounting Syndrome while your enemies hack at your rigid, helpless buttocks?¡±


    Silven pointed to the door. ¡°Scratch that. We¡¯ll walk.¡±


    Bells erupted violently from the troubled silence. There were a few screams from without the sanctum and a few grumbles about bloody ruffians from within. ¡°It¡¯s here,¡± Silven noted. ¡°I liked this place too. Well, off we go.¡±


    They hurried to the nearest threshold. As Grennel threw open the door, Silven glanced around the room one last time. He saw something on a bookcase that made his whole body tense with dread and delight at the same time. ¡°Why, it¡¯s The Complete Guide to Stopping Unstoppable Creatures by Wise Ancient Man,¡± he cried. He plucked it triumphantly from the shelf, curled his fingers around the cover, and paused. It was surely too good to be true, but there again, could this really be mere coincidence? He remembered to breathe. Grennel stood stiff as a board, one hand on the door. ¡°It surely couldn¡¯t....¡± murmured the professor. ¡°The gods can be generous.¡±


    The book wobbled in Silven¡¯s hands. Hope came flashing back. ¡°Goblins, goblins, goblins,¡± he chanted to himself. Or perhaps it was a prayer.


    Hanging around wasn¡¯t going to change his fate. He flipped open the cover and read the heading at the top of the page. ¡°Chapter twenty-three - Puddings.¡± He gulped back disappointment. ¡°Dangnabbit. That¡¯s just cruel.¡± He decided he would rather like to meet Wise Ancient Man and demonstrate the meaning of complete using the case study of oxygen deprivation and his bare hands. Maybe next lifetime. For now, it was the door after all.

 4.3 Scenario 67

    4.3 Scenario 67


    Outside, all was chaos. Many of the little mud buildings beyond the academy that Silven loved so well were on fire. Thieves in brown cloaks assumed the arcane knees-bent posture of their dark guilds to creep alongside fleeing townsfolk wholly unnoticed and emerge from abandoned homes with armfuls of loot. A horrifying shriek echoed from up out of the lower streets as a panicked woman heading for Salvation Square took a wrong turn into Maneater. Squadrons of gleaming Silverlink guards marching down to the disturbance were beset on all sides by enraged commoners and dragged to the ground, because, well, that¡¯s just what happens when the world is ending.


    Silven flew through it all in a blind rage, through lane after smoking lane, and barrelled into the jabbering little monster at the heart of it all. ¡°That¡¯s for Dasat!¡± he roared, swinging his stolen sword into its horrible little goblin-boobs with all his might. ¡°This one¡¯s for Folborn! Here for someone I no longer recall! And this-¡± He smashed a crushing fist into its hideous skull and sent it gliding back an inch from its next victim. ¡°This is for all those weird chicken-men! Arrrrrgh!¡±


    A firm hand gripped him by the shoulder and held back the onslaught. ¡°You know it¡¯s pointless,¡± shouted Grennel, ever calm and observant. ¡°You¡¯ve made your choice. Now use your strength where it matters.¡±


    Silven glared at the jittery slave of the Glitch and relented. ¡°I can only hope I carry none of this disease back. How can I know?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t.¡± Grennel shoved him in the direction of the gate. ¡°Now let¡¯s cut our losses and kill every other baddie in this damned land.¡±


    Beyond the walls, the shattered world was horrible in its peace. The bodies by the roadside, the smouldering bonfires where cottages had stood, the trampled and blackened reeds of the bog... it was all serene. ¡°People sure do like setting fire to things in a crisis,¡± Silven observed as he brushed ash from his robe. ¡°But why?¡±


    ¡°To cleanse the world of evil, and prepare, like the phoenix, for new birth,¡± Grennel replied.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Ask stupid questions and you¡¯ll get stupid answers. Now fight!¡±


    Something slimy with tentacles and scales and teeth had emerged from the closest pool. Silven splashed down among the rushes and made short work of it, and the next thirty as they lumbered up from their preset lairs. The thirty-second slithered round his half-hearted parry and delivered a dizzying slash to his cheek with a dripping barb. He staggered back and whined up to Grennel. ¡°My arm¡¯s getting tired!¡±


    Grennel waved furiously from his safe spot on the road. ¡°Don¡¯t forget the enraged beast rushing towards your back!¡±


    Silven turned. ¡°Oh yeah.¡± He skewered his foe and watched it crumble to a pretty snazzy bog emerald. ¡°But seriously, these grinders must get so bored. How did I used to do this? So many pretty twirls to unlock, yet all it really comes down to is chopping firewood.¡±


    He returned to the road, and spotted a lovely little rock on which to plant his bottom. ¡°So, east, kill some monsters, east, kill some monsters, east, kill some monsters, and then Limetop.¡± He swatted away an irksome fly. ¡°And then what? Oooh, north a little, kill some monsters? Or south? I can hardly wait.¡±


    ¡°You really are a spoiled brat, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Silven was flabbergasted. ¡°You can¡¯t speak to me like that.¡±


    Grennel kicked his king off his perch and marched onwards. ¡°I¡¯m not your toady, remember. And remember this, too - for everyone else, this really is the end.¡±


    He left Silven in the sand. It was several minutes before the king caught him up.


    They hacked their way east. Slowly, the tentacles gave way to snakes as the marsh pools petered out. Silven switched murder-arm. Then, they reached the endless grasslands of the Silent Sea, and everything changed.


    For one, there were signs of civilisation. Even clearer were the signs of its undoing. The bandits at the little market at the crossroads greeted them with a volley of arrows. Silven greeted them with a blade to the face and moved on. Before long, a humble village sprawled in the oval clearing ahead. Two gaunt men in roughspun tunics loitered by the nearest hovel, but this time, there were no arrows. Indeed, things looked a little brighter at first glance. There were barrels and baskets aplenty littering the common. Tables had been drawn up to support the tankards, and the bodies beneath them were still snoring. ¡°Hmm,¡± hummed Silven as he took a moment to behold the sky. The black and purple clouds of Impending Doom were gone. Instead, a sickly yellowish haze had descended upon the ruins of the world. With it, somehow, came a kind of bitter hope. In that moment, Silven saw another future. The Glitch had undone almost everything, yes, but it could never destroy his people entirely. These pockets of resistance could go on for many a year yet, should he choose.


    Finally, however, he saw the world plain. That yellowish haze was coming from some sort of makeshift carrot distillery at the far side of the village, and no careless merrymaker had ever drunk fermented carrot in celebration. He also noted that in place of a nice sane bonfire, the residents had filled an iron drum with wood and set the whole thing alight. Deep within him, a primal instinct was telling him that that was the unmistakable architecture of the troublemaker. And, worst of all, the feasters¡¯ haunch of meat hanging from the well was from no deer.


    When they saw the approaching travellers, the men called out in voices even rougher than their clothes. The first was too drunk to be understood, but Silven was no stranger to the burbles of the inebriated, and deciphered the second¡¯s curses. ¡°Come ¡®ere, fat cat, an¡¯ show us yer goods. Trade a liddle. ¡®Ave some booze.¡±


    Silven and Grennel hung back. ¡°You¡¯ve had enough for all of us, friend,¡± Silven called. ¡°Which way to Limetop?¡±


    The man wobbled and pointed a finger vaguely in their direction. ¡°Ahhh, I like you. Fancy yerself a treasure hunter, do yer? Used to be a big correrpayshun up them ¡®ills. All mines an¡¯ that. Till the goblin came. There¡¯s secrets aplenty there, I wager, if you dig through the ash.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that ¡®correpayshun¡¯ was there a week ago, and I reckon it¡¯s still there now,¡± Silven lectured, more for himself. He couldn¡¯t imagine the likes of Olgred and Simitest letting loose the sequencers. That couldn¡¯t happen. If the Glitch spread more, who knows if he could even get back to the start.


    He changed the subject. ¡°What do we have here?¡± he growled, pointing out the meat on the well. ¡°That hardly seems like lawly conduct.¡±


    More pale-faced men tiptoed from their cottages and stared. An awful squawk resounded from one open door, followed by a cry of anguish from an unseen woman. The speaker chewed his lip and considered his words. ¡°Now listen, fat cat, we ¡®ave ter get by. The carrats done taken our stores, an¡¯ he was already dead. Truth be told, the carrot clouds got ¡®im too. Or maybe the Glitch. ¡®E wasn¡¯t ¡®uman any more either way.¡± With a glance, the men shuffled forward. ¡°Now let¡¯s see yer goods.¡±


    Silven rolled his eyes at the professor. He rummaged in his pockets. ¡°Look, I¡¯m on a very important mission, but I might have something to help you out.¡± He scowled as he twisted his fingers through the bottomless pits. ¡°If I ever get through the twenty thousand fire vials I¡¯ve been saving.¡±


    ¡°Saving?¡± Grennel cried.


    ¡°Yeah. You know how it goes. They were pretty rare at first. I always thought it best to hold them back for a real emergency. True, the beetles could be bad, but you never knew when the ten-foot zombie mini-boss was going to appear around the next corner. Then they got more common, but by then you¡¯re sword-twirling just fine without them, so you keep on saving and saving. Thinking that might be the lot, and you¡¯re surely gonna need them at...¡±


    ¡°The end,¡± Grennel finished for him. ¡°Looks like we¡¯ve arrived already.¡± He pointed. The men had produced carving knives from within their own pockets. One licked his lips beneath wide eyes.


    Silven pressed his lips together in decision. ¡°I suppose we could use a few. Justified killing spree?¡±


    Grennel nodded once. ¡°Justified.¡±


    In seconds, the men were engulfed in flames. A fanfare sounded from out of the yellow haze. Silven felt himself grow stronger, but there was something else, too. He threw another vial and smiled as the explosion atomised a group of snarling villagers. More importantly, much more importantly, this was going to be fun.


    A panicked scream cut through the crackles of flame at the rear of the village. A little knot of women had emerged from the largest house, tears streaming down their cheeks as they regarded the wreckage. ¡°Raiders!¡± one shrieked. ¡°Begone! You¡¯re evil! Please, let us be.¡±


    Silven paused midswing. He held up a hand to halt Grennel¡¯s work and spun him round to face him. ¡°I know you¡¯re a man of science, but do you like philosophy?¡±


    Grennel grimaced. ¡°Well, it looks like this ichor project is going nowhere, so why not?¡±


    ¡°Is guaranteed taking of a life today, to make it more likely to be saved yesterday, inherently a bad thing?¡±


    Grennel considered a long time. ¡°Err, possibly. Depends on the likelihood of the saving.¡±


    Silven smiled. ¡°What if the likelihood went up for each life taken?¡±


    ¡°Justified.¡±


    They turned the women to ash where they stood. Then, they moved onto the next village. And the one after. Even though it took longer, Silven found himself sneaking up by a hedge or garden and bombing in efficient silence. It was better that way.


    Beyond the smoke of the ruins which they left in their wake hung always the nauseating yellow of the carrot fumes. The grass was slowly turning orange from the roots. Strange raucous things cried out from the dying trees lining the path. It was a different world, a funerary world, shaped not just by forces of the Glitch but by the folly of man.


    By the second day, they were being followed. It was the carrats at first, infernal by-products of vermin in the distilleries. They gathered in twitching packs just beyond the first clumps of grass and attacked all at once in a fury of claws and teeth. The fire bombs kept most at bay, but as the afternoon drew on, more and more skipped past the tired throws and dug in with their pointy parts. Soon, health supplies were dwindling. There was always the Doll Sequence, Silven knew, but now he also knew its darker results, the horrors it could hold for the next life. He quartered their remaining turnips instead. As evening drew in, they were forced to make a difficult choice. Grennel set up camp and cookfire whilst Silven prowled the squeaking vegetation. A few minutes later, the dead carrat was roasting upon flaming grass. They were long, and thin, and orange, with but the smallest of faces and legs and tail, not to mention the source of the glorious smells arising from the explosions of the long battle of the day, but it was still a shock when they tucked in. ¡°Great Gurtywill!¡± Grennel managed between mouthfuls. ¡°The whole world¡¯s turning into carrots!¡±


    Silven shook his head, eyes never leaving the horizon. ¡°That¡¯s enough. Put out the fire!¡±


    He did as he was bid. ¡°Too late,¡± Silven muttered, gathering his things.


    ¡°How do you know?¡± Grennel was up on his feet with a stick of rat hanging from one corner of his mouth.


    ¡°The cries of ¡®We¡¯ve got you now¡¯ and ¡®attack¡¯ kind of gave it away,¡± Silven observed gravely. He shook his head as the dry grass behind them began to wiggle enthusiastically. ¡°Curses, when I kept hearing ¡®we¡¯ll find you raider¡¯, I thought they were looking for raiders.¡±


    ¡°They were,¡± the professor said. ¡°Now let¡¯s increase our distance to the shiny meat cleaver coming out from behind that tuffet.¡±


    Together, the travellers left their campsite and hurried on. The ground was rising now, and with each step onto the jagged ridge, Silven¡¯s emotions stretched two ways. On one hand, they were on the edge of the highlands leading to Limetop, his badass armoury that he¡¯d almost forgotten, and in the end, a glorious stalemate with fate. On the other, the elevation gave him a better look at their pursuers. They weren¡¯t soldiers. Farmers waving rakes, blacksmiths with iron hammers, an innkeeper dual-wielding a well-polished set of cutlery. This wasn¡¯t an army; it was a posse, gathered in desperation to drive out a threat to their families and homes. There were tears gleaming in the afternoon sun. He¡¯d probably killed that man¡¯s wife. It was for the Greater Good, but if everything went well that man would never know. If everything went well, that man might not even have met his girl. Was that good? Was he good?


    What had he become?


    He ran on. If he had to, he could turn and wipe out those men with a casual iteration of Mighty Death Slash, but still he ran. Now it came to it, he didn¡¯t want to kill them all. It had been so fun in the villages, he thought with a tilt of the stomach. No more. Big Bads didn¡¯t leave souls alive. Let them defend his shattered kingdom to the end.


    He realised he wouldn¡¯t in fact have to kill them all when the soldiers clanked down from their hiding places on the ridge and did it for him. They wielded their steel with calculated efficiency. The screams were brief.


    They turned from the bodies and knelt before their king.


    From amidst the golden host came a rather less golden character. To be precise, he was wearing a fabulous green smoking jacket today. He was also wearing a disapproving expression most unbecoming of a hero¡¯s minion.


    ¡°Olgy,¡± croaked a surprised Silven.


    The former merchant tutted like a father to his naughty child. ¡°We didn¡¯t invent instant communication for nothing. We could have taken them much sooner.¡±


    Silven looked from one silent killer to another and back to his recently appeared friend. ¡°But they¡¯d have stolen the power juice. Where I¡¯m going, I¡¯ll need every last drop.¡±


    Olgred nodded solemnly. There was something grand about him, something taller, though those leather moccasins provided no tangible inches. He gestured at the bloodied butcher, meat cleaver drooping from one limp hand. ¡°We¡¯ve heard disturbing reports from the survivors of the Carrot Wastes. Raiders have cut a rather gruesome path through the centre of the Boozer camps, burning everything in their wake. This looks like the hunting party they gathered to stop them.¡± He looked up expectantly at his master. ¡°Is this company work?¡±


    There was a moment¡¯s silence. ¡°In a somewhat roundabout and tangled way, yes.¡±


    Olgred waved a careless hand. ¡°That¡¯s good enough for me. Guards, leave these miscreants where they lie. The Head of Stuff requires an armed escort to Haven Zero. We may as well let that generic substitute companion tag along too.¡±


    The generic substitute companion shook a wizard¡¯s sleeve in Olgred¡¯s direction. ¡°What¡¯s this Haven Zero? Watch your step, Your Majesty.¡±


    Silven stepped between the two angry men. ¡°Relax. This is Olgred, my dear friend and ally from... the good old days. We¡¯re safe enough, I¡¯m sure.¡± He glanced cautiously into Olgy¡¯s eyes. A dear old friend. Relief flooded his heart at the sight of him. Those good old days were gone, and they¡¯d parted in a fit of rage, and there was no future in which to bring back the magic. He was dear all the same.


    Olgy¡¯s stern lips wavered with the hint of a smile. ¡°I¡¯m sure whatever you were travelling to Limetop for has been stored in our new headquarters beneath the rubble. Welcome back, old chap.¡±


    Silven took a sudden step back. ¡°No, it can¡¯t be gone! What of the... trademarks?¡± Another foot back. ¡°How did you know we were coming?¡±


    The smile had vanished, and there was scorn in Olgred¡¯s voice when he replied. ¡°You really are out of the loop, aren¡¯t you? Don¡¯t worry. The sequencers were all killed in the attack.¡±


    ¡°By who?¡± Silven interrupted, alarmed.


    ¡°The sequencers were killed in the attack,¡± Olgred repeated calmly. ¡°Only your old inner council know that ¡®trademark¡¯ now. I advise it stays that way; it will be safer for the new world. As for how we knew... just a passing spyfly, of course.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    Olgred looked absolutely flabbergasted. He sighed deeply and hung his head. ¡°Little floating cubes of expertminerium, sent out to monitor the populace for signs of noncompliance in republic policies and quotas.¡± He stared at Silven in silent appraisal again. ¡°They were in development in Overwall for some time. Public Safety Cottage Four.¡±


    Silven was aware of exactly two Public Safety Cottages in Overwall, but he decided this might not be the best time to say so. Grennel rescued him. ¡°What¡¯s Haven Zero?¡± he demanded for the second time.


    They followed Olgred and two of the royal guards to the top of the ridge. The orange haze hung over everything now, but the broken peaks of the old mines were still visible on the horizon. The remains of Silverlink Stuff HQ, resting amidst the burnt-out shells of the Limetop factories, were also visible in painful detail. ¡°Now that we have such startling accompanying imagery, reinforcing the idea of the end of the old world, I may tell you about the new: Haven Zero.¡± Olgred took a deep breath and pointed dramatically at the ruins. ¡°The new headquarters rests beneath. A complex network of tunnels and chambers holds some forty select men and women, tasked with communications to and from the other Havens. Purpose-made filters weed out the fumes; the portcullis from Bilsey Castle keeps the carrot creatures at bay, and our brand new Silvertech Sit, the all-in-one entertainment system for spatially constrained residents, is in its final testing stage within. Soon it shall adorn the dugouts of every Haven family for the very affordable price of three-hundred hours Vital Duties and two hours Scavenging Duty.¡±


    Silven looked out beyond Limetop. There were a few once-trendy villas dotted about the hillsides which had been thoroughly ruined by his industrial faffing. Now, they were even more thoroughly ruined. It was too much to take in, but eventually he found a pocketful of words and scattered them across the thick air. ¡°There are other shelters? Where?¡±


    Olgred looked at a glowing device hanging from his neck and stuffed a couple of chalky lozenges into the newcomers¡¯ hands. ¡°Take these. As in now. Where were we? Oh yeah. Haven One lies beneath Overwall, where our engineers are tasked with weapons development. Haven Two on the outskirts of Ostenwal, where we¡¯re using the fumes to generate exciting new vegetables which grow in dim light, are packed with protein, and cover our valued volunteers in oozing purple sores. Havens Three to Seven are strictly populace protection, designed to preserve the human race through these troubled times. They¡¯re beneath the Monster Camps.¡±


    Silven looked at Grennel just as Grennel looked at Silven. The king pummelled his thigh with one frustrated fist.


    ¡°Oh my Gargantula! I quite forgot about those Monster Camp things. We could have been sipping cocktails and getting foot rubs while I levelled up, professor. If any are still operational.¡±


    ¡°And no heinous murders to boot,¡± the professor added.


    There was silence. When Silven looked back, Olgred was observing him through narrow slits of eyes. ¡°They¡¯ve been shut down, remember?¡±


    Silven blinked. ¡°Shut down? When? Why? Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡±


    ¡°It was discussed in the emergency summit last week. I believe you were too busy to attend.¡± There was something Silven didn¡¯t like in Olgred¡¯s tone. The tone continued. ¡°It was the Movement of Enlightened Minds again. They were on the cusp of inciting a riot. We had no choice.¡±


    ¡°And just who are these meddlers?¡± Silven was growing angrier by the moment.


    For some reason, so was Olgred. ¡°Give a man the best life he can possibly lead and it¡¯s only a matter of time before he starts babbling about freedom and choice. The MEM propose that the Monster Camps unnecessarily restrict the imagination and mindfulness of the younger generation. Their power grows by the month. The coffee shops of Solmond City are practically a no-go zone for government officials these days. When the city falls... well, then they¡¯ll have their real freedom.¡±


    Silven took a deep breath and watched as a couple of vaguely familiar secretaries collected a handful of wild turnips lower down the hill, under the watchful eye of a gold-plated guard. Things had been turning to droppings well before Goblingate. He felt a bubbling rage at the world. Why couldn¡¯t it just do what he wanted? ¡°We need to do something to stop them. We can¡¯t have dissidents on the inside as well as fighting the outside.¡± The words finally gave him the direction to identify what was bothering him about the ruins of the mansions. It was the future. ¡°If these Havens are to survive, we need as many intellectuals as possible working out a solution to the lone threat. It¡¯s only a matter of time before it stumbles upon them one by one. Have you got evacuation plans in place for when it comes?¡± It was hard to appreciate that the entire world he knew was about to cease. It just wasn¡¯t natural.


    Olgred laughed. The sound was harsh and bitter. ¡°I shall remind you that it is your policies on art and creativity which have led to such groups existing,¡± he said quietly. ¡°And, given that you did not respond to my conference broadcast regarding the forcefield, I shall educate you now. All Havens are safe from the Glitch. The walls of the shelters are impenetrable.¡±


    It took a few moments for the weight of those words to break through Silven¡¯s befuddled skull. ¡°It¡¯s impossible,¡± he concluded. ¡°Even diamond walls will give way eventually.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Olgred smiled a pitying smile. ¡°They¡¯re not diamond. You remember those dudes in the cloaks you fought in Ostenwal? Turns out they¡¯re not so bad after all. They¡¯ve revealed a mysterious new material that can keep that fiend at bay.¡±


    Silven took a step towards his old friend and reached out a pleading hand. ¡°The Modders?! Olgy, you don¡¯t know what you¡¯re doing. Leave it be!¡± He paused for thought, reconsidered. ¡°Can this material be used to defend the cities?¡±


    Olgred shook his head sadly. ¡°Alas. It requires meticulous crafting. Unfortunately, they¡¯ve only been able to provide just enough to cover the outer defences of the Havens. However, they have combined their power to arrange for the Mooncerer to return to his home base.¡±


    ¡°Whatever for?¡± None of this made sense, but none of it could be good.


    ¡°There, after a little goading into serious self-doubt about his abilities, he crafts a new utopia for us all. The cloaked ones imparted a most secret formula for an interplanetary mass teleporter before they left. If built, it should provide an escape route for all our loyal customers we have managed to save. I¡¯m afraid, however, that it requires obscure mechanical parts from a wide variety of deadly locations about the Carrot Wastes to function. Let¡¯s just hope the company finds them before the delicate matrix of forcefield particles within the walls¡¯ mesh fails and lets in our little friend.¡±


    Silven looked out across the smoking ruins of the world he had built. Slowly, sadly, understanding came. He fell to his knees. No-one rushed to help. ¡°Think about it, Olgy. You know they could protect everything for eternity. You know we could go to the Moon now and live happily ever after. But it wouldn¡¯t be fun. For them.¡±


    Yes, he understood. Scenario 67 had begun.


    All at once, the hardness left Olgred¡¯s eyes. It was as if he had been struggling against something to which he now relented.¡°You needn¡¯t talk.¡± He muttered something under his breath. The languid guards suddenly stood to attention and parted into two lines. A handful of stern officials clad in company tunics appeared suddenly on the hill. Silven recognised none of them. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± he demanded.


    Olgred rose to his full height. Whatever remained of their friendship seemed to wither under his iron gaze. He looked to his witnesses and they nodded solemnly. ¡°I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt today, but you still said enough. You¡¯ve fallen from your righteous path. Your lack of knowledge and interest in company affairs of late, non-existent guidance for your department, and seeming disappearance from the face of the realm leave me no choice. King Silven, it pains me to end it this way. Under No Confidence Policy Paragraph 4, by my power as a Grand Protector, and in sight of my peers of the company, I dismiss you from Silverlink Corporation, under reason of neglect of duty.¡±


    Silven remained on his knees and said nothing. The blackness in his heart muffled all thought. ¡°-access to his armoury,¡± he heard Grennel pleading as if from a great distance. ¡°It¡¯s of utmost importance.¡±


    The King let the argument drone on. He looked blankly at the ruins he knew and the newcomers he knew not. Dismissal. Everything he loved was dying, but he hadn¡¯t expected to end it from the outside.


    Dismissal. He couldn¡¯t look at Olgred as he waved the frantic academic away. Two guards started to drag his ally back down the slope. Grennel screamed and pointed to the shattered headquarters.


    Dismissal. He may leave this world behind, but the betrayal would never leave him.


    He watched numbly as Grennel disappeared from view. There was plenty of time to take it all in, now that he was alone.


    He looked up at the man he had conquered the world with. There was one last thing to do. He could tell him what everything really meant.


    ¡°One final wish, Olgy, before you release me. For old time¡¯s sake. Does the Head of Security still hold his post?¡± He did. Olgred met Silven¡¯s eyes and called in Sir Meow-a-lot, Mousecatcher. The little fellow had grown plump upon cosiness of late, but he still did his duty. The mice that had gathered to usher in the birth of the renaissance scurried away into the beyond.


    Silven told all.


    Olgred listened, first reluctantly, then with interest. He called back his guards with Grennel. He let loose a shrill titter of laughter and looked to the heavens with wonder. ¡°So that¡¯s why it¡¯s seemed everything is just a game to you?¡± Then, his face clouded again. ¡°All that changes nothing I¡¯ve said. In a way, you choose that reality. You wield great power in this world. Once, you used it to do good. But this... information has caused your resolve to break and your mind to wander. You feel nothing is real so you choose to treat it that way. You get bored so decide to just flip a switch and start again. Get rid of everything you¡¯ve achieved. Get rid of us all. For fun.¡± His voice dripped bitterness.


    The disgust beat against him like a wave, but Silven found the strength to get to his feet and look his old friend in the eye. This was his one chance to prove he was right. ¡°It¡¯s not like that. I just want to build a better present. I¡¯ve made mistakes, Olgy. We¡¯ve made mistakes. This isn¡¯t the happy ending I wanted. When I go back, I¡¯ll find you and we¡¯ll reach it together.¡±


    The old merchant shook his head and sighed. ¡°From what you¡¯ve told me, I was just an instrument of your will all along. Go back and I¡¯m bound to do as you say. Yet, here, now, I remember the desert road, so long ago. We looked out over the city where you could have torn everything apart with him.¡± He cast a fearsome eye at Grennel, who shrivelled back into the arms of the guards. ¡°You told me to put the company first, and so I have.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m telling you to put the new company first now,¡± said Silven carefully. He may yet get to his things after all. ¡°I¡¯ll make it happen, I swear.¡±


    One of the nameless officials stepped up and tapped the Grand Protector lightly on his padded shoulder. ¡°Word has reached Mr. Sootroller. He wishes to see the guest. He¡¯s headed this way.¡±


    Olgred rolled his eyes and drew in a whistling breath. ¡°To welcome him back to the flock. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll have bad news for him.¡± He turned back to his former master. ¡°You¡¯re not a god. Some decisions are permanent. On the morning of our voyage to the Moon, you released me from agreeing with you. Since then, I¡¯ve been following the path you originally forced me to take. For long after, we worked together to raise Silverlink and Fireline higher and higher. But now, our goals clash.¡± He picked a peculiar handled silver tube from his pocket and waved it through the air as he explained. ¡°You see, the company is in the best position it could ever be in. Think of it! A permanently loyal customer base, cowering from the terrors above ground. Sleeping in company beds, drinking company water, breaking company plumbing. All of this to support our research.¡± He leant closer. ¡°Yes, we will deliver on our promises, but only after we pay Moontopia a little visit first. Make sure it complies with our regulations. And oh, the contracts our clients will have to sign for that teleporter! Use your imagination. Your better world lies just beyond this final hurdle.¡±


    There was a strange popping sound from across the hill. They all looked up, startled, as the bizarre bubbling grew to a crescendo. ¡°Mr. Sootroller is testing the dust-trike,¡± explained a nameless man from the group of witnesses. ¡°Now that most places need a Rusty or Crumbling or Fucked added to their names, the Silverviews are getting confused. We¡¯re gonna go everywhere again just in case. Craft a new master map.¡±


    That brought back memories. A frenzied flight through the wolf-filled forest, blissfully confused himself. A chance meeting with a queer traveller along the road. Profit, direction, and a world opening up before him, to explore and slaughter in or read books as he pleased. That was a magical time. Now, magic just meant adding a bear¡¯s head to a random peasant and spontaneous human disappearance-in-a-cloud-of-purple-smoke.


    Olgred was saying something impatiently. Silven turned his gaze outwards and straight into the black maw of the silver thing. The Grand Protector was holding it carefully in both hands, one thumb poised gently on an embossed golden button on its top. ¡°Hmmm?¡± mumbled Silven miserably.


    ¡°I was just saying how your new friend¡¯s insistence that all you need is a few things from home and then you¡¯ll be on your merry way to tear the world apart should mean I authorise my new wellbeing initiative for the colleague handbook. Dismissal by execution.¡± He patted the tube with one sure finger. ¡°Meet one of our most promising prototypes from Haven One. We call it the Gun, though we shall be thinking of something far more badass for stage two of the project. The Gun makes any sort of slow rise to power obsolete. With a single depression of this button I can punch out the heart of a fifty-tonne thunder giant in full battle armour at a hundred yards. It¡¯s just a damned good job we were first to do that whole slow rise to power thing and make it for ourselves. Even one so mighty as yourself could not lift a finger in defence against it. We¡¯ve won, with or without you. And dead you would be, if I hadn¡¯t conjured one little question that you probably can¡¯t answer.¡±


    The fabled dust-trike decided to make its appearance then. It was truly a breathtaking sight in all its crapness. A familiar chubby face bobbed above the squealing pile of rust as the vehicle clung to its precarious sense of up. A cheeky flatcap was raised in greeting. Silven, possibly seconds from execution, waved cheerily.


    ¡°What¡¯s that,¡± he mumbled, gazing dully at the horseless carriage. It wasn¡¯t a question, just something to say. We¡¯ve won, Olgy had said, and until now, he thought that had been impossible. He was wrong. It was only impossible if he included himself.


    ¡°Now, don¡¯t get me started on a simple internal combustion engine,¡± Olgred growled, clutching the Gun tighter. Secretly, Silven fumbled in his pocket for a hint of gooey toffee. If he could get some sugar in that cake-hole... it mightn¡¯t be over yet. ¡°Nah, the other thing,¡± he said to distract his former friend.


    ¡°What if you weren¡¯t resetting the world? What if you split it?¡±


    It took Silven an eternity to comprehend what Olgred had said.


    The question multiplied in his battered mind. Split, split, split. Multiplied as everything might multiply.


    And then, the astonishment cracked beneath the weight of a new horror. He turned his pale face towards the cringing academic. ¡°All... all we¡¯ve done,¡± he gasped. He felt the black shadow of his foolishness envelope him like a death-shroud. ¡°The floundering about... the murders... what if it¡¯s permanent?¡± He took a panicked step back down the hill and the golden guards moved forward to block his path. He looked pleadingly back at Olgred. ¡°Please-¡±


    He stopped short. He had meant to beg for a chance to fix yet more of his wrongs. He had meant to explain that with every minute they wasted, the goblin could be ravaging another village, breaking down the gates of a city, pursuing yokels across a muddy field. And when it killed... well, perhaps he couldn¡¯t just hit the refresh button.


    Some decisions were permanent.


    He didn¡¯t get round to saying all that because it seemed Olgred knew already. He was holding the handle of The Gun outwards to Silven. ¡°You¡¯ll need this,¡± he said flatly.


    Silven grasped it with a grateful, shaking hand. ¡°I know you don¡¯t understand everything I¡¯ve done, but... thanks.¡± He gestured to Grennel. He scampered over to his master, looking timidly at the blockade of soldiers about the summit. They parted suddenly as the dust-trike rattled up the ridge. A small, podgy someone descended from its seat and began to waddle cheerfully towards his old friend. Silven hissed and whispered to the Grand Protector. ¡°I amend that last statement. You understand better than him. Please, let us get out of here. Distract him. He¡¯ll have me locked up in a conference room in five minutes.¡±


    Olgred laid a hand on Silven¡¯s shoulder. The touch was gentle, caring. And his eyes.... they¡¯d become softer. There was something of the old twinkle glimmering in the corners. ¡°You¡¯ll be away to the new world in five minutes.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not strong enough!¡± Silven insisted. ¡°I need to get out there and start slaying again!¡±


    Olgred smiled, actually smiled, and shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ve got all the power you need right here. I¡¯m afraid to say I¡¯ve shared the miserable majority of your misadventures. And you can bat away a horde of nasties without blinking these days.¡± He gestured to The Gun. ¡°If there¡¯s a single creature in this realm which can quickly and easily get you all the points you need, it¡¯s me.¡±


    ¡°You?¡±


    ¡°Me.¡±


    There was dead silence again. Silven looked blankly at the cold weapon in his hand. ¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°You might have been a bit mean today, booting me out of my own corporation and all that, but you don¡¯t deserve this.¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s changed. I¡¯m still doing this for the company,¡± Olgy replied gently. ¡°Think about it. Nothing¡¯s to say this version of the world will go on or not when you... do the resetty thing, but it¡¯s possible. I think probable, even - we¡¯re at the dawn of a new era after all. So, Silverlink¡¯s looking pretty cosy here as I¡¯ve just said in my revelatory hero-turned-misunderstood-villain voice. Even without me.¡±


    Silven looked at The Gun some more. But he was listening.


    ¡°So, if you go into the next version all super-adequate and build the company up again, then we¡¯ve got some sweet horizontal integration going on, baby. Silverlink, Trans-Reality Corporation Limited. You could make it a subsidiary if you wanted. Silverlink New Age. Sell some singing crystals from the Moon or something.¡±


    In spite of himself, Silven chuckled. Olgred chuckled. Grennel did not.


    ¡°And with your new friend here too, it could even work.¡±


    Grennel was still not laughing. With a shuddering sigh, he stepped forward and got it off his chest. ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± snapped Silven.


    Grennel looked about nervously. ¡°I mean, I find it extremely probable that all your other cronies will be reset in the new version. They won¡¯t remember you, no memories at all, in fact, a blank slate. But I feel I wouldn¡¯t be there at all.¡±


    Silven lowered The Gun and approached the professor. He shrank back, shaking his head as if trying to clear his doubts. ¡°I made my decision. Ever since I started my other research, I¡¯ve been in danger. I¡¯m a corrupted asset after all. I was sure they were watching me. But then, when you lost your mind on the way to the tavern, I showed all my cards, pun intended. What stable Quest-Giver stops the Fulcrum doing, you know, the side-quests that he is partly responsible for?¡± A tear escaped his right eye and trickled down a child-smooth cheek. ¡°They can¡¯t do anything to me here without messing things up even more, but with a fresh start? They¡¯ll just delete me before it loads.¡± He wiped the tear-track away with a resolute hand and stood up straight. ¡°So, in a roundabout way, no, you won¡¯t have me to guide you, Your Majesty.¡±


    You may be wondering, in all this, where one Herbie Sootroller had gotten himself too. I must inform you that after a year or two at the nominal top, Mr. Sootroller had become fat. Well, not just fat; as in, two steps to the minute fat. He had only just plopped from his stool and righted himself for a moment, the sight of his undercover boss sprinkling the air with the scent of imagined cookie crumbs, and now, here was a hand in his general direction already. It contained no treats, however. Grand Protector Olgred had the cheek to halt him just as he was building himself up to his first plod.


    ¡°Will you do it?¡± Olgred muttered urgently. ¡°Will you do it?¡±


    Time stood still. The moment went on and on. Then Silven realised it hadn¡¯t really stood still by the grunt of annoyance from his old partner.


    ¡°Hold on, hold on, let¡¯s just stop for a moment,¡± he blurted. He shook his head in bewilderment. ¡°Someone just get me a quill and some parchment, please!¡±


    ¡°What a waste of a grand finale,¡± Olgred spat. The gathered might of Haven Zero stood and stared at the three heroes, pale and worn, as they crouched around the materials Scribe Finley hastily provided. There were a few awkward shuffles. The head of the old Stuff division clutched at his own head as if in pain. The weird scrawny academic by his side patted him on the shoulder. Groans were issued all round. Herbie sat down.


    Finally, Grand Protector Olgred raised the sheet triumphantly to his counterparts. It was covered in lines and boxes. The writing in the boxes burst out of said boxes and said boxes had been clumsily extended for said writing. ¡°Let¡¯s consult this handy graphical representation,¡± he said shrilly. ¡°No one can be confused when there¡¯s a handy graphical representation.¡± He started pointing with the quill. ¡°See, here and now, Silverlink is definitely at the height of its power. With my plan, His Majesty will almost certainly disappear. They couldn¡¯t feed the plague or whatever it is with two identical little Chosen Ones running around. I will definitely be gone. Ulf and Simitest will definitely still be in one Haven or another to lead the way, which is good. We can recruit your friend here as Grand Protector and things will probably stay similar, and possibly even improve for the company.¡±


    ¡°But I¡¯m an academic!¡± wailed Grennel.


    ¡°And a valued associate, thus reinforcing the overall corporate goals of world dominattion whilst tempering the current aggressive direction with a more customer-friendly, developed approach.¡± Everyone had gone quiet. ¡°I¡¯ve been doing this too long,¡± said Silven apologetically.


    ¡°There is a possibility that he will mess everything up,¡± continued Olgy sternly, ¡°in which case Herbie will probably terminate his contract... permanently... and Ulf and Simitest will probably resume business as usual. Meanwhile, there¡¯s got to be another Chosen One to entertain them, who, with Grennel¡¯s knowledge and preparation, will probably fall under the sway of our goals.¡± Olgred beamed. ¡°Which means things are looking pretty bright!¡±


    Silven felt a jolt of shock and guilt. He was suddenly glad the remnants of his inner circle weren¡¯t here to see this. ¡°Where are those two?¡± he squeaked, looking round.


    ¡°Around and about at the other Havens,¡± Olgred replied. He frowned and squinted at his handy graphical representation. ¡°In fact, I have some oddly specific outcomes for our friends. Based on your choices throughout our meddlings, it appears that Simitest will settle and lead a generally happy existence as a peaceful vegetable architect in Haven Two. At night, however, he will be forever haunted by our failure to rescue his uncle.¡±


    ¡°What uncle?¡± Silven protested.


    Olgred winked. ¡°Perhaps that is a quest for another rehash. He will live with a tamed carrat called Coleslaw, though on his morning walks he will forever be saddened by our failure to deliver his love letter to that lass in Bluebay.¡±


    Silven held up a hand. ¡°That¡¯s enough. I see the need for the qualifier on this happy existence.¡±


    Olgred wasn¡¯t listening. He was tracing a finger along a jagged line at the bottom of the table. ¡°It seems that Ulf will continue to serve as Chief Grump for Haven Zero for twelve years, taking on three more positions as his apprentices drop out to blast some mobs. Finally, he¡¯ll wake up one morning from his troubled dreams of numbers, fall into a mid-life crisis, and partake of various powders with the Wastewitches on the slope of the next hill over. It will keep the growing stress at bay, but for less and less time on each occasion. One day, he will walk into his office, see the tottering towers of ignored paperwork properly for the first time, and calmly walk back to his room, where he shall efficiently hang himself with his tie.¡±


    ¡°Twizzlebins!¡± cursed Silven.


    Olgred patted the parchment. ¡°This is not based on your choices. It¡¯s because he¡¯s an accountant.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s alright then.¡± Silven¡¯s head was swimming with lines and probabilities. The powders of the Wastewitches didn¡¯t seem like a bad idea. ¡°Go on.¡±


    Olgy held aloft his table again. ¡°So, to recap, that¡¯s this world sorted. In the next, we¡¯ll definitely have you, and you¡¯ll possibly be competent enough to survive.¡± He ignored the sour look on his former master¡¯s prune of a face. ¡°You¡¯ll probably have me, Ulf, Simitest, Dasat, bless him, and you¡¯ll probably be able to recruit us to your cause again. You¡¯ll almost certainly not have Grennel, however, and all your hopes and dreams will definitely have to start again. There¡¯s also, of course, only a possibility that our creators will get this Glitch under control in one or both of these realities. As we obviously have no power to prevent ourselves being engulfed in a blizzard of chicken feathers and floating heads, our best course is to split our eggs over two baskets and cheerfully and blissfully ignore this aura of impending doom. Overall, not too bad.¡±


    Silven threw up his hands. ¡°What can I say, I¡¯m convinced. Let¡¯s get this show on the road before more people get hurt. What¡¯s the next step again?¡±


    ¡°To murder me in cold blood, escape your former army and friends, and enter the shrine without looking back,¡± Olgy chirped. He tried to smile, and for the first time in his existence, it faltered on trembling lips.


    In the web of irksome possibilities that always get tacked onto interdimensional travel, Silven had somehow lost the reason for considering Olgy¡¯s scenarios in the first place. Now, he looked into the merchant¡¯s clear eyes, feeling the connection, the power that brought them to this point. It was still there. ¡°I can¡¯t....¡± Silven choked out. Time seemed to have stopped once more, and, given that Herbie was just working up to his first plod again, it might as well have. He thought of port in the mansion. The neatly divided work desk in their study. Trotting out side by side into the wilds, bickering and smiling and cursing and laughing. ¡°We¡¯ll go on together.¡±


    ¡°Then you and your dream will die together. Haven¡¯t you been listening?¡± snapped the Grand Protector, and now he didn¡¯t sound like a big bad traitor. It was still his Olgy, just a little pissed off, that was all. He had only done what Silven had asked, all this time. He couldn¡¯t die for it.


    But now Olgred had extended a firm hand and tilted The Gun towards his chest. His palm was clammy yet dry. Silven wanted desperately to drop this foul creation and clasp that hand tightly in his, walk away, and go back in time. But now, for Olgy and the rest of his brave and stupid followers, it didn¡¯t look like it could be done. He knew in his slowly pounding heart that it was so. This was Scenario 67 after all, and it would not be stopped.


    He tried to think of all the people he was saving instead. He had responsibilities, and with those bad boys came sacrifices. One person, just one little man, to save the realm. It was no good. He could still see past the veil of his mind¡¯s eye and he watched as he steadied the tube and caressed the shiny button with a thumb. He watched as Olgred¡¯s mouth curled into a startled O, and realised just in time he was speaking.


    ¡°I forgot something rather important - a couple of promotions,¡± he was saying, and Silven¡¯s heart galloped with joy at withholding execution. ¡°Grenwell, or whatever you¡¯re called, I name you Deputy Grand Protector, to immediately take over all of my duties, which you will have to learn about in the rulebook seeing as I couldn¡¯t be bothered, should the worst happen at some point in the future.¡± Grennel only nodded miserably.


    Silven found his own mouth working. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said numbly, not really looking at the professor. ¡°When you helped me, you thought you had given up your life.¡±


    Grennel shook his teary face from side to side. ¡°Nothing¡¯s to say I¡¯m still not, Your Majesty.¡± It was a truth Silven could only shake into a corner of his mind and hope the dusty blankets of possibilities he smothered it with would hold its frightening power. It was madness to ponder that if.


    ¡°And, my friend, something for you.¡± When Silven looked up, there was a cheeky gleam in Olgy¡¯s eye which he knew and loathed too well. ¡°I hereby recruit you once more into the fold. You shall be... Apprentice Ambassador to the Assistant Oldeburgh Tea Maker.¡±


    ¡°I thank thee,¡± giggled Silven. His pretentious bow hid his face as a tear winked from one eye.


    ¡°That way,¡± Olgred went on, eyes never leaving Silven¡¯s, ¡°when you spread Silverlink to your other existence, we¡¯ll all be linked even across worlds.¡± He smiled, and this time, he managed it easily, genuinely, warmly.


    The moment, as all moments do no matter how precious, was gone. Somehow, horribly, it was time. The Gun was moving again.


    ¡°Goodbye, friend,¡± Silven whispered, and this time, he pressed the button.


    There was a deafening thunderous bang. There was also a sickening crunching noise that would replay in perfect detail through countless sleepless nights in Silven¡¯s haunted ears. Olgred fell out of view. It had happened.


    An enormous, indescribable power engulfed Silven as he struggled to keep his hold on the steaming weapon. He stood rigid as waves of red-hot might scored through his skin. He felt as if he would burst apart, but it didn¡¯t happen. He kind of wished it had.


    Somewhere up on high, a whole damned brass band was playing a triumphant fanfare. Silven looked down at the body and moaned.


    ¡°Yaaaaaargh! Get the little nipper!¡± shrieked a devastated voice. Herbie had gotten within a hundred yards of the curious scene before the bang. Now, he saw its aftermath, and the person he thought his hero standing at its dreadful epicentre. ¡°Get him! Stop the bugger!¡± He began to pick up speed.


    Silven gasped, and regarded his little friend through exhausted, unthinking eyes. Out of their corners, he saw the guards and staff, who had recoiled with little shudders and screeches of their own, begin to surge forward. There was anger and disappointment on each and every face. And why not?


    He fumbled his Silverview Whatever Number We¡¯re On out from his pocket and shook his head at the hysterical boy. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Herbie. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± He touched a finger to the Cave of Noturningbackexperiencedquestersonly.

 4.4 Famous Last Words

    4.4 Famous Last Words


    ¡°Location not recognised,¡± droned the Silverview. ¡°Location not recognised, location not recognised.¡±


    At least it appeared the battle travel had been fixed for good, Silven thought. It wasn¡¯t moaning about that.


    The guards were on him now. He ducked beneath a brace of whistling blades, elbowed the owner of one in the face, and threw the other man sideways with a roar of frustration. The second clattered into Grennel and the professor went staggering backwards with a shriek of pain.


    With a moment to spare, he thought of his newly gained power and tapped his sword, his heart, his head, anything in reach, with lightning fast fingers. He felt the energy swirling around him. He clasped a hand to his sword as the next soldier reached him, and then the word split filled his mind like a warning. He let go of the handle and sent a crack shivering down the hillside with a stamp of his foot. The soldiers went tumbling away from the rending earth or were left standing with little wooshing circles above their spinning heads. Either way, they¡¯d live.


    He hadn¡¯t considered those behind him. He was in the middle of company territory, after all, and the instinct of danger hadn¡¯t fully broken through the shock of what he¡¯d done. A sword thudded into his back and rebounded with a crushing agony he had never felt before. He had prepared them well; these guards were strong.


    There was always one instinct in Newburg that would always work. He glanced at his map and began to run.


    Just as he vaulted the crest of a craggy outcrop, sense began to return. ¡°Grennel!¡± he yelled above the thundering boots of his pursuers. ¡°You¡¯re Grand Protector, or have you forgotten already? Call them back!¡±


    There was a moment¡¯s pause, followed by a faint panicked cry. ¡°Oh, my apologies. Hey guys, wait up. Don¡¯t do that! I say, stop it!¡± The panting guards didn¡¯t seem to hear above the clanking of their armour. Silven did, and it was the last time he ever heard the professor¡¯s voice.


    Silven was saved from further murder by an oversight of the great mouse gods. His defenders were faster, as running enemies always are. They did, however, lack an animation for a running attack, and therefore paused for a second every time they reached his ankles and took a swipe. When he reached level ground with appendages intact, he took a peek back, hoping they would halt, but on they came, a barrage of insults and curses let loose before them.


    Silven let the words bite in. If he had time to think, to consider.... this delay would kill him. His mind would explode or something. He knew he couldn¡¯t cope with what had just happened. Just get to the cave, he yelled against the tide of despair. Keep going, keep going, don¡¯t stop, don¡¯t think, almost there and then just walk in and start again.


    He thundered on across the undulating landscape. All around this rocky plain there loomed equally rocky hillocks and dry stands of dead trees, and though he perceived the new orange glow of the Eastern Hills far beyond, he couldn¡¯t for the life of him remember this place. Had it changed that much? Did it matter? He would have plenty of time to find out later, if only he ran on and didn¡¯t look back.


    He was dangerously close to thinking about thinking when he spotted a dark oblong in the jagged facing of rock a quarter of a league ahead. He fought through the anguish and focused on powering on. So did the guards.


    He narrowed the angle to the opening and saw now that it wasn¡¯t entirely dark within the cave. There was a hazy bluish light emanating from its rear. The colour of teleportation, if he¡¯d learned anything. This was it.


    The explosion of death echoed again in his mind. He looked down and saw that he was still holding The Gun. He considered a moment and tossed it aside. It was dangerous enough for it to exist in this life without taking it to a new one. Such boringly overpowered things could surely never take off in gaming.


    The cave, now named the Cave of Radioactivity of Renewal of Everything, was very close. Silven could see the glowing twirling pillar from which the light bloomed. And, as he watched, a silhouette stepped out from its glow and waved.


    He pounded into the semi-darkness and slowed to a trot. It was Folborn.


    The old man grinned and cackled. ¡°Haha! If you could see the look on your face! You really think I could be killed in a little backwater hovel like Gigglewick? Come close and I will tell you all you need to know.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Silven laughed bitterly and carried on trotting. ¡°You¡¯re gonna have to try harder than that! It¡¯s pronounced Yiggle-wike-a, you know. Fairish and Dorsk and Voluskian.¡± When you knew what was happening, this cursed simulation of which he was part was so obvious. He spotted a cavern branching off to the side of the light and dived in, looking for the true path.


    Smooth hands grabbed his shoulders in the dark and whirled him around.


    ¡°Sit,¡± whispered a soft yet commanding voice. He was shoved roughly downwards, and found his bottom connecting with a wooden chair. At the opening of the cave, he could just make out the first guards clattering in, baying for his blood. Two figures detached from the shadows and produced coloured scrolls, which they showed to the men. The soldiers¡¯ faces contorted in horror and they hurried off the way they had come.


    A strange peace of mind joined the relief in his burning legs. At long last, he¡¯d been tricked. This seemed like the end, and for once, he didn¡¯t have any choice. Perhaps this was best. He smiled. And suddenly shut his eyes.


    In an instant, the cavern had been flooded with a glaring white light. He hazarded a peek. Two dozen faces peered curiously out from neat rows of chairs facing Silven¡¯s own. The bodies beneath were clad in identically smart black tunics and coats.


    Suddenly, two dozen mouths opened and babbled all at once.


    He jumped as a pair of arms curved around his body and shoved one of the scrolls in his face. ¡°Press,¡± rapped a clipped voice right by his ear. ¡°Now, Your Majesty, we know you¡¯re a busy man, but this has gone on too long. We have a question.¡±


    Silven twisted to regard the sea of faces. Arms were now lurching towards him, bearing little poles like fishing rods with chunks of metal on the end. The weird gleam of the metal was unmistakable - expertminerium.


    ¡°Who did you say you were again?¡± he demanded. He wanted to know who was going to use his blood for the demon-awakening ritual at the very least. ¡°What did you do to the Silverlink soldiers?¡±


    The gentle voice whispered at his ear again. ¡°Your precious company is nothing compared to our might. It lives and dies by what we say, and you just remember it. Now, answer truthfully.¡±


    There was an expectant tapping and the hubbub died down. A cough, a sudden gentle hum as the expertminerium devices buzzed into life.


    A black-clad, clean-shaven man rose. The rods moved closer. ¡°Your Majesty, I am Silven Raydeo, renamed after your fine self of course, here for Greenholme Soundsystem with exclusive rights to ask the question. Remember, five thousand survivors are listening to your every word.¡±


    ¡°Get on with it,¡± Silven muttered. He needed time to think. How to get out, whether they meant to kill him at all, what to do if he even did escape. Thinking was dangerous, he reminded himself. He¡¯d gone too far now to think.


    ¡°All our efforts, our letters, our messages, our hecklers, have gone to waste. No more. So tell me.... what are your views on the great controversy that is the Table Treaty?¡±


    A rustlesome silence settled uneasily on the room. Silven looked at his audience in pure surprise. Then, he seized the opportunity to answer. It was less risky than rebirth. He spoke slowly and lowly into the unaccountable light. ¡°How could I ignore such a travesty? Friends, while you have been hounding me, I have worried and fretted over this most complex of the kingdom¡¯s issues. Now, finally, I feel the time is right to give my opinion.¡± He leaned forward, an exact reflection of the reporters. ¡°It is not the cutlery¡¯s fault. It never has been. It¡¯s the over-boiled turnip being shovelled down your throat that matters.¡±


    The gathered members of The Press rose, mumbled their thanks, and filed past his chair towards the mouth of the cave. Some scribbled hastily in notebooks. Some chatted away, little metallic earplugs pressed into their lugs. None bowed, or grovelled, or approached the king for clarification. They went out into the crumbling Royal Republic of Newburg and led their lives.


    Silven felt suddenly restless. He grabbed a passing journalist and held him firmly by the arm. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± he called incredulously. ¡°Nothing about anything else? The evil little monster pulling this world apart brick by brick? The plague that trails in its wake? Where I might be going that could destroy us all within the minute?¡±


    The gentleman looked down, grave but not unkind. ¡°The next prompt ambush shall take place in The National Museum of Nonsense and Wankery a fortnight hence. There¡¯s always something you¡¯ve missed.¡± He hesitated, and nodded helpfully. ¡°In case you forget, it¡¯s marked on your quest map.¡± He pulled free and walked out into the day.


    Silven was alone in the mysterious glow. He sat for quite some time.


    There¡¯s always something you missed. Yes, that was the story of his life, wasn¡¯t it?


    He rose and shuffled out towards the swirling Shrine of Newplus, and looked out thoughtfully at the unforgiving world. Somewhere, out across the soaring mountains of Ardour or nestled in the mossy ravine of Mossy Ravine, was something worth saving.


    Probably.


    With a sigh, he walked into the shrine.

 4.5 This Place Again?

    4.5 This Place Again?


    ¡°Open your eyes, Silven.¡±


    He opens his eyes. The deep voice sounds like thunder in the shadows of the chamber in which he finds himself. He can make out no details in the darkness, but he can certainly feel the cold stone of his rough slab bed pressing into his back. He stands and shakes away the deep ache in his bones.


    ¡°Follow the signs, Silven. Your destiny does not lie here. Go, and find me in the Three Toes Tavern.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Silven croaks into the night, and, against the far wall, the ghostly image of a werewolf flares briefly.


    ¡°You¡¯ll have your answers soon enough. Now be quick! The guards will come to hang you any minute now. Follow the siiiiiiiign!¡± The voice fades.


    Silven groans. He better not be the Chosen One or something.


    Up ahead, a dim yellow light appears in the arch of a stone corridor. Footsteps echo down stone stairs beyond and into Silven¡¯s stone cell with its stone walls and stone cobbles. Deathrot, he thinks. A curious word, but right for this place. He doesn¡¯t have time to ponder, as a voice rings out against the stone. ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm!¡± chuckles that cruel voice, and the steps quicken.


    Silven sits down on his bed. He really should be looking for a way out, with the whole upcoming hanging thing, but he can¡¯t just now. His heart aches with the overwhelming sense of loss. His head aches with the nagging sense of being part of some horrifyingly long-winded anticlimax.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°Almost there!¡± snarls the guard, and his companion cackles in delight.


    He feels he has done some bad things. Well no shit, that¡¯s why he¡¯ll be in prison. But he¡¯s done so many good things too. He¡¯s left behind so much, and he starts to get the crazy notion he¡¯s here of his own accord.


    ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm!¡± chuckles the cruel voice. The steps roll on.


    He¡¯s left friends too. Left for dead, and left dead, or just abandoned. There¡¯s an agonising stab of pain and guilt, but also the soothing touch of hope. They¡¯re all here, he thinks madly. Not in prison, of course, just....here.


    ¡°Almost there,¡± snarls the guard, and his companion cackles in delight.


    A bright red light flashes out to his right. It¡¯s the secret passage out of here, he knows. But this... feeling is too important. A name composes itself, the almost visible letters rearranging themselves in the shadows. Olgred - Olgy! Please, don¡¯t think of that, whatever that is.


    ¡°We¡¯re coming for you, worm,¡± chuckles the cruel voice, and the steps roll on.


    He remembers.


    He stands. He raises a fist. The grated door explodes in a ball of flame. The guards who have conveniently just reached the threshold are blown away into dust, leaving nothing behind but a common helmet, a coin, a set of keys, a letter, and an apple.


    Silven strides through the inferno. He takes the frog-sword from his belt. Upstairs, Oldeburgh awaits. ¡°I¡¯m coming, Wallace!¡± he yells across the fortress. ¡°Just for you. As in, now, and I¡¯m err, like really tough, so.... yeah.¡±

 Appendix 1: Map of Oldeburgh

    Appendix 1: Map of Oldeburgh


    While it is true that my Granite Archives in Rockborough house the most famous cartography ever produced in Oldeburgh, the two-part work 21 Places You Wish You Were Chilling In Right Now in the Fabulous South and 187 Hazards That Will Result in Your Brutal Murder and Mean Your Bones Forever Remain in the Vile North, I tend to favour The Settlements of The Semi-Civilised, and not just because I¡¯m from Isingbrooke. This masterwork was produced by an unknown artiste a few years after the aforementioned attraction, in the opening weeks of the civil war which has ravaged our noble and beautiful land. It is clearly the parchment-child of a patriotic native of our nation, retaining all the hallmarks of the crowded, exquisitely detailed art bursting with life characteristic of our proud heritage. The jumbled names of settlements draw the eye down forest trails and highways alike, taking the viewer on a magical journey through the startling patchwork landscape we all know and love. The positivity of such possibility of adventure is juxtaposed with the swords of evil lairs and spears of the foolish rebel leaders of our time, demonstrating the careful counterbalance of life and death that the great spirit of Oldeburgh marches through relentlessly, unwavering, decade on decade, century on century. Now that I have waxed lyrical about this stunning work, it is quite impossible for you to call out its obvious inadequacies without sounding like a racist.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    -Curator


    Curator

 Appendix 2: Chapter Reword

    Appendix 2: Chapter Reword


    Hungry for more Scenario 66? Can¡¯t wait to dive straight back in at the start?


    Also ever so slightly worried that it might bore you to tears before even making it to Part 2? Never fear: just plug in this reword of Chapter 1.7: The Great Gorge Suicide (conveniently one of the shortest chapters for minimal plugging effort) and you¡¯re good to go. It changes everything!


    *?? *?? *


    Silven appeared with an unsatisfying pop and an equally unsatisfying answer to his question. The solid glare of the dazzling sun didn¡¯t really give any bloody clue as to what a desert marsh actually was.


    The desert marsh didn¡¯t care if Silven could see it and carried on existing. When he finally made out his surroundings, he decided it shouldn¡¯t. Bubbling pools smoked amid the parched sand of the sweeping dunes. Towers of gleaming quartz shadowed valleys of less gleaming quartz. Frogs warbled merrily in the mud as cobras merrily consumed their kin. It was all a tad confusing.


    To the left, there were signs of civilization. At least, there was a load of weird buildings, so there was always a chance. A big dune had been heartily trampled on over the years and had taken on a second life as a road. The road led to the capitalised Desert Marsh, and we know what that looks like because we¡¯ve already read about it in the vanilla chapter.


    Silven put a hand to his mouth to consider just how miserable he was and felt new strength flourish. That silly mouse had promised such improvements, and everyone likes a bone-white smile. Maybe this could all work out. He plodded onwards towards the gate, slipping in the sand because there was sand to slip in because we need to somehow differentiate between the locations he visits.


    There were a dozen sky-blue warriors staring at him from the gate, at that very moment attacking the city through the power of loitering. The city was doing its best to defend itself by having a wall. Somehow, Silven missed these signs of epic struggle and approached teeth first. ¡°Hallo, loving citizens of the realm!¡±


    The weirdoes didn¡¯t particularly like the bone-white smile.


    ¡°Having fun in the sun?¡±


    They were not.


    ¡°This has to be Desert Mash?¡±


    The citizens rapped a ferocious and toe-tapping rhythm into the sand with their spears, reminiscent of the ritual dances of deadly religious fanatics who worshipped strange gods at the edges of festering bogs and hung around heathen cities in hope of chancing upon confused travellers to hassle.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Tune!¡±


    The hint was rather too subtle for the likes of Silven, so their leader helpfully flung a spear at his head. Silven staggered back with a howl of agony and got the message. The others charged before he had chance to forget. ¡°Izrin lives!¡± they cried. Silven also cried, but that was because of the barrage of blades cutting into his flesh. It was just the sort of situation that called for some sort of deserty or marshy fruit, but a wandering scavenger had passed by this area just before Silven¡¯s arrival and they would take twelve more minutes to reappear. His only option was to turn and flee up the path. So he did.


    After pausing to kick sand up into his pursuer¡¯s screeching faces, which felt very satisfying indeed, he lunged down into a shallow depression by the dune, shrugged off a couple of toads, and prepared to scramble up the other side. He decided against that option when he looked up into the row of scowling soldiers who were waiting for him on the edge of the pool. They weren¡¯t entirely happy. ¡°Blangdammit! Where¡¯s he gone?¡± puffed the leader, so defined by his bluer cloak. ¡°Izrin ikru!¡±


    Silven and the toads weren¡¯t exactly alone in the bog. The foul depths of those stinking desert puddles are home to all manner of wriggling and jiggling things too terrible to describe here, and shall remain unseen because I¡¯m too tired to imagine them. Anyway, one of those things surfaced, caressed Silven¡¯s leg with an anterior recentulator, and vanished. Our brave warrior whimpered and scrabbled away with a furious splash. Instantly, a cultist was there, eagerly studying the rings expanding away from his target¡¯s ankles. ¡°I know these traces,¡± he growled up the ridge to the onlookers. ¡°They suggest the presence of someone right here who was also observed being right here.¡± The others grumbled and scanned the reeds to their right.


    Silven only started to breathe again when he really had no other choice. Perhaps the lack of oxygen helped in forming his crazy plan. It would certainly help to explain why he jumped back up onto the path and tumbled straight over one of his cloaked pursuers as they crouched over a flurry of scubble prints. ¡°Get him! Burn the logical thinker!¡± Silven stopped in his flight, stunned by the compliment, and jumped again at the curses which rent the air all around. ¡°Argh, slipped away again! Stick one of those useless feet of yours out next time, oaf!¡± Silven tucked his arms in as two warriors stalked past, extended them once more, and threw the rock. His hand clapped one of the men on the shoulder at the end of its trajectory, which was quite a miscalculation on Silven¡¯s part. The warrior spun round and raised a slightly more calculated spear towards his neck. Then, the rock clattered off the steep wall of the gorge and rattled down to the jagged riverbed far below.


    Even to the snarling zealot about to stab him, that was obviously where Silven now was. ¡°Quick! Before he gets away from the impossibly long drop!¡± yelled the man closest to the gorge. He dropped his spear - he wouldn¡¯t need that where he was going - and followed the rock into the abyss. Silven gawped as his brothers did the same. Their bodies were slightly less musical than the rock, but somehow, that crazy brass band down there was even worse. ¡°I refuse to take credit for assisted suicide!¡± he protested.


    ¡°Strooooooong!¡± answered the frogs. It was not up for debate.


    And so it shouldn¡¯t be, for Silven would need many, many more points if he were to survive the countless mediocre adventures that still lay in wait for him. He stood staring down the gorge, but in the end, he supposed it would be best to just get on with it all after all, and headed for the town.

 Appendix 3: Concept Art

    Appendix 3: Concept Art


    The Making of a Hero


    Our concept artist (Sidewelter) was instrumental in developing an overall vision of the scenario from which the author (Sidewelter) would work. Here, you are lucky enough to see some rare unreleased sketches of the formation of hero/anti-hero/jerk Silven, though we clearly don¡¯t know what unreleased means.


    Sidewelter: From the outset, we wanted Silven to embody that classic RPG warrior look. After a few weeks of brainstorming, we just knew he had to have a head, some arms, legs, a sword and a load of armour and/or questionable gowns, but as you can see here, it took a lot more work to settle these ingredients into the final formula our author ran with.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Original Ending


    Any narrative worth bothering with is invariably hacked out from a rat king of dead ends and false starts, inspired extensions and brutal shortenings, worthless wanderings and mindless meanderings. It is only the conviction of a ruthless editing team which stands in the way of good idea devolving into something like this story.


    Sidewelter: We once had an alternative ending in mind for our project, which would have taken place instead of the chosen outcome of part 3. I saved the storyboard for this idea as a reminder that things could have turned out rather differently for our hero. Of course, I scribbled it all out in a huff when the author went down an obviously inferior path of his own, but I¡¯m sure it still provides a fascinating insight into our creative process.