Bimbos of the Death Sun (22 page)

“I’m dead,” said the elf wonderingly. “Should I go to lunch or what?”

“Okay, I think we ought to discuss this. It could be an ambush,” said Bill Fox, ignoring the deceased elf.

“If it was just a rock fall, it ought to be over by now,” Richard Faber pointed out. “We haven’t hit any signs of the enemy yet.”

“The rocks killed Thrumpin, though,” said Bernard Buchanan. “And what about the treasure? It should be in the chest, right?”

The Dungeon Master consulted his watch. “You have wasted three minutes,” he informed them. “In a medical emergency that’s a long time.”

“We have to rescue Tratyn Runewind,” cried Clifford Morgan.
“Now!”

“I don’t think we ought to rush into it,” grumbled the Conan-jock.

“I think it’s a trap,” said the woman warrior.

“Four minutes,” said Jay Omega ominously.

“I’m running up the hill,” yelled Clifford Morgan. “I have my sword out…”

“Is anyone going with him?” asked Jay Omega.

“I’m staying here under the tree,” said the Conan player nervously.

“Yeah,” said Mona the warrior. “Me, too.”

The others, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, said that they would follow Morgan up the hill.

“All right,” said the Dungeon Master. “You are walking up the hill. When you are within one hundred yards of the castle, you hear screams.”

“Runewind?” asked Diefenbaker.

“No. From down the hill. The tree you were resting under was a shapechanger. It has grabbed the other two members of your party.”

“We go back and rescue them,” sighed Bernard Buchanan. “Don’t we?”

Bill Fox looked at Diefenbaker and shrugged.

“Inside the ruin, you think you hear a faint cry for help.”

“I go on up the hill,” said Clifford Morgan.

“Me, too,” said Richard Faber.

Diefenbaker sighed. “What
kind
of a shapechanger is it?”

B
y twelve-thirty most of the spectators had drifted off in search of lunch. Lieutenant Ayhan was grumbling about missing lunch and having his time wasted, and Marion had promised to go for a hamburger to pacify him. Joel Schumann was still tinkering with a program on the PC, but he seemed to be paying more attention to the
D&D
game than he was to his own project.

The players—what was left of them—were suffering from combat fatigue. The shapechanger had managed to kill both Mona the woman warrior, and the Conan-jock, and Diefenbaker had been so badly hurt in the rescue attempt that he was down to one hit point, and his healing spells were used up.

A party of Norsemen had attacked the adventurers on the road to the monastery, killing Richard
Faber with an arrow through the throat in the ambush, and mortally wounding Bill Fox in sword combat.

“Whew!” said Bill, when his fate had been pronounced. “The tension was getting to me!” He helped Richard Faber to his feet. “Wanna go to lunch?”

Faber looked guilty. “Maybe. I think I have to find somebody first. Do you like Chinese?”

The three remaining players looked at each other. Clifford Morgan was down to three hit points, which meant that any serious injury would kill him, and he had a slight concussion incurred when he pulled Tratyn Runewind out of the ruined fort. Bernard Buchanan’s character was still limping, and still useless; as was Diefenbaker, who as a cleric could not use edged weapons, and his spells were gone. Their chances against the enemy looked bleak.

Jay Omega glanced wearily around the nearly empty room. “Tratyn Runewind says that only a fool would attempt such a mission with two wounded warriors and a cleric. He suggests that you plan your escape.”

Clifford Morgan was pale and tired-looking, but his eyes flashed angrily at the suggestion. “Tratyn Runewind is more than mortal,” he said. “He never retreats.”

Marion stood up. “The Oracle is going out for hamburgers,” she announced. “Would God like one?”

“No,” said Jay Omega, who was as caught up in the game as the players.

Clifford Morgan was conferring with the remnants of his troops. “If we rely on the element of
surprise, I think we may still have a chance,” he told Bernard Buchanan. “We sneak into the monastery and pick off the Norsemen one at a time.”

The Dungeon Master said, “You approach the monastery. It is surrounded by a white wall. There are Norse guards at the only gate. They do not see you.”

“We duck behind some rocks,” said Morgan. “We can go over the wall.”

“I can’t,” said Bernard Buchanan. “I can hardly walk.”

“My dexterity is practically nil,” said Diefenbaker, “but if you insist, I’ll give it a try.”

Several more minutes passed while they described sneaking up to the wall, throwing the rope and grappling hook over the top, and while they debated on who should go first. Bernard Buchanan was to stand at the bottom to steady the rope.

“I’ll go first,” said Dief. “If any Norsemen come along the wall, you can defend the rope, and I couldn’t. I do wish clerics could use weapons.” He sighed. “All right, here goes. I start to climb the rope.”

In real life, Walter Diefenbaker could no more climb a vertical rope hand over hand than he could spin straw into gold, but in
D&D
all things are possible, and one does not feel wounds and exertion except in one’s ego.

Jay Omega rolled a die. “You get about halfway up the rope. One of the Norse scout parties spots you. They let fly with an arrow.”

Diefenbaker slumped over. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

Jay Omega shrugged. “I’ll roll and see.”

The dice indicated that for someone with his limited
stamina and hit points, it was definitely over. Diefenbaker got up rather stiffly. “I’ll just sit over here and watch,” he said, ambling over to an empty chair near the Macintosh.

“Too bad, kid,” said Ayhan as he went past. “You gave it a good try.”

“Thanks,” whispered Diefenbaker, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m afraid I wasn’t any use, but, you’re right, I did try.”

“The Norse scouting party is coming at you,” said Jay Omega to Morgan and Buchanan.

“We run,” said Clifford Morgan grimly. “We look for a place that will give us better odds in combat.”

“I can’t run!” wailed Bernard Buchanan. “My leg never healed!”

The Dungeon Master regarded Morgan with interest. “What do you do, Warrior?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Morgan said, “Leave him. The mission takes precedence. Runewind and I run for … Is there a forest?”

“No. There’s a cemetery, though. It has a lot of tall Celtic crosses.”

Morgan nodded. “Good cover.”

“What happens to me?” moaned Bernard Buchanan.

Jay Omega picked up the twenty-sided dice. “Hope for less than twenty,” he advised.

Bernard Buchanan blew on the dice and sent them skittering across the floor. “Eighteen!” he said triumphantly.

“Oh, very good!” said the Dungeon Master. “That entitles you to something quick and painless. … They cut your throat with a dagger, and you die instantly.”

Buchanan’s expression suggested that this was
not the sort of happy ending he had in mind. Dumping his character sheet and his legend paper into the nearest wastebasket, he headed toward the door. “This was not fun!” he announced to the room in general.

Lieutenant Ayhan looked thoughtfully at Jay Omega. Omega’s face was pale and strained, and his body was tense. He seemed as deep into the fantasy as the kids were. Ayhan had been planning to walk out soon; he’d shot the whole morning here watching the game, and he still didn’t know why. Just lately, though, he’d felt a change in the atmosphere of the room, like a storm building up. Although all the other spectators had left, something told him to stay. Anyway, he had a hamburger coming. He could always stay and call it a lunch break. At the rate the players were dying, it couldn’t be much longer now. He settled back and tried to picture Morgan and Runewind running from a horde of Vikings.

Jay Omega nodded to Clifford Morgan. “Over to you, sport.”

Morgan licked his lips. “We’re hiding behind crosses in the Celtic cemetery. It must be late by now. What time is it?”

“On lona? Past nine in the evening.”

“Good. Twilight. That means—”

“Not in Scotland. Sunset in the summertime is past eleven at night. Northern latitudes, you know. They can see you fine. There’s eight of them, all carrying swords, none wounded.”

“Runewind still has his talisman of charisma, doesn’t he?” asked Morgan, frowning.

“Yeah, but it won’t work on the Norsemen. They don’t speak his language.”

“Okay. He pulls his magic sword …”

“Three Norseman rush the cross he’s hiding behind. You can roll combat for him.”

Morgan threw the dice.

“Fifty-one. It doesn’t look good,” said Jay Omega.

“He’s magic,” Morgan insisted. “He’s got
mega-hit
points.”

Tratyn Runewind, nearly invincible and nearly immortal, had never been in so much trouble before. Morgan was shaken, but still a believer. The Dungeon Master looked at the player’s hands, trembling as they scooped up the dice. It was time.

Jay Omega said carefully, “Tratyn Runewind takes a good look at one of his opponents. The guy is carrying a very familiar-looking sword. It has carvings all the way down the blade.”

Morgan gasped. “That sounds like Runewind’s sword.”

“It looks like Runewind’s sword, too. It is the twin of his weapon, forged at the same time. This one is black, and it’s called
Runeslayer.”

“We haven’t heard about this before,” Morgan protested.

“It was on a legend card,” Omega lied. “But the person who had it is already dead.”

“Tratyn Runewind attacks the Norseman,” whispered Morgan. He was beginning to sweat.

Jay Omega pointed to the percentile dice. “He got hurt the first time he tried that.”

“He tries again!” shouted Morgan.

“Roll again, and see what happened.” The more agitated Morgan got, the calmer the Dungeon Master became. His voice took on a tone of soothing indifference, of inevitability, as fatalistic as the
Norsemen themselves.

Clifford Morgan looked at the dice as if they were cyanide capsules. His white hair was matted against his forehead with sweat, and he had kicked off his leather buskins, so that he was barefoot. As he crumpled the edge of his cloak in his fingers, Morgan kept trying to think of some amulet of protection he might have overlooked, or some bit of legend which would provide the key to Runewind’s deliverance. There was none. None! Ten years of D&D games, and twenty-six Runewind books offered him no alternative to the choice before him: pick up the dice and throw.

His hands shook as he picked up the red plastic dice. He felt the Dungeon Master’s stare, and wondered if it concealed amusement at his anguish. Clifford Morgan closed his eyes, and his lips moved, as he let the dice fall gently to the floor. The numbers blazing up at him were an eight and a one. Eighty-one. High damage, even for an immortal.

“That’s no normal eighty-one,” Jay Omega pointed out. “That’s from a weapon that is the twin of his. Runewind’s blade snaps from the counter blow.”

“WHAT?” screamed Morgan. “That blade was forged in the world fires by Gefion herself!”

“So was Runeslayer. And its owner is fighting at full strength—no loss of hit points. Tratyn Runewind goes down.”

Morgan was breathing as hard as if he were living the adventure. “I run to cover him.”

“You’re too late,” whispered the Dungeon Master. “The Norseman raises the hilt of Runeslayer level with his eyes and pushes it straight down into
Tratyn Runewind’s chest. You hear the crunch of steel against bone, and one thin wail of pain and fear. The Norseman straddles the body and grinds the sword in until it touches the dirt beneath. Blood comes out of Tratyn Runewind’s mouth, and he dies.”

“He doesn’t die!” cried Clifford Morgan. “He’s the hero of the saga. He
doesn’t
die!”

“The Norseman kicks the body. Like a dog.”

Morgan sprang to his feet and drew his own authentic reproduction broadsword from its velvet scabbard. “He doesn’t die!” he screamed again.

Lieutenant Ayhan was suddenly alert. He reached for the pistol in his shoulder holster. “Calm down, kid,” he ordered.

“Take it easy, Cliff!” said Diefenbaker quietly, from the sidelines. “It’s only a game.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Jay Omega, getting up off the desk and backing away. “It’s for real, and for keeps. Tratyn Runewind is really and truly forever dead.”

“NO!” wailed Morgan thrusting his sword at the Dungeon Master. “You’re lying!”