Death by Cliché (24 page)

One thing Hraldolf had learned the hard way: if you poked out the eyes of your architect when he’s done building your palace, you don’t just stop him from creating a beautiful palace for someone else. You also stop him from building a summer palace for
you
five years later.

So Hraldolf’s mountain palace used the same plans as the Heart of Darkness. He’d called it the Heart of Light because evil overlords have the sense of symmetry of an OCD ward.

He walked through the dungeons and up the stairs and eventually into his throne room. Here his toy-soldier guards stood at attention.

He stopped, his feet crinkling the plastic mats. He checked his mask and walked over to one side. The men there stood, if anything,
more
attentive as he approached, but he didn’t look at them. His gaze was, instead, on the fine art that covered the walls.

“Not Beaver?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” the man said, appearing at his elbow.

He needed to buy the little freak a bell.

“Why do I have fine art hanging on my walls?”

“You like fine art, Your Majesty.”

“Do I?”

“You’ve always said so, Your Majesty.”

Hraldolf considered, nodding. He examined the paintings of overweight women. The bizarre pieces where the man had one too many noses and not enough eyes. The picture of cherubs. Cherubs! He scowled at Not Beaver.

“Take them all down.”

“All, Your Majesty?”

“Every one.”

“What do you want in their place, Your Majesty?”

“Why do I need something in their place?”

“Otherwise it might look rather bare, Your Majesty.”

Hraldolf nodded. The little twerp had a point. It might even be a good point. He considered.

“Posters.”

“Posters, Your Majesty?”

“Yeah, about thirty-years old. Vintage stuff. Frame them. Light them indirectly—no track lighting. I’m not gay. Then maybe some art wire. Hang some nice smaller pieces. Maybe a bookshelf in the corner with knickknacks.”

“Are you sure you’re not gay, Your Majesty?”

Hraldolf spun on Not Beaver. “What did you just say?”

“I said we will do it your way, Your Majesty.”

Hraldolf nodded and stared back at the Throne of Skulls. “Hmm. You think maybe you could get a nice futon while you’re at it?”

Chapter
Forty-Three

“I told you that joke, so I could tell you this joke.”

—Bob Defendi

he army had been building for a year—in the
backrooms of taverns, in the fields of the peasants, in homes and universities and shops. It was the type of army that formed to take out a dictator. The type of army a boy like Carl would put into a game when he didn’t think the characters could take on the main bad guy by themselves.
Deus ex bellicus
. Pardon my Latin.

They camped just under a week’s journey from the Heart of Light, anxious in an automatic sort of way. Ready to pounce, to defeat the tyrant, to do all those things peasant armies like to do. Or rather don’t like to do. Usually there are sergeants pushing them from behind. Often, they have whips.

But this army had nothing but the will to put down a despot. Well, not exactly a will, but they had pitchforks. And a script. And several good songs and optimistic slogans like “down with the oppressor” and “make war, not love!” and “pointy end toward the enemy!” I have to admit, they didn’t “shout” with great zeal. It might be more accurate to say they “recited.” Or “mumbled,” honestly.

They camped on the plains, all of them standing, staring dully into the fire or out into the night. They stood around, waiting for their next line. They wouldn’t have anything to do until tomorrow. Tomorrow, they would march precisely thirty miles closer.

And then the invisible line between Damico and the first Artifact passed across their camp.

It started with a sob and then a scream. Then three of the watch wailed hysterically. Weeping. Pulling out hair. Gnashing their teeth. All that biblical stuff.

The outer ranks disintegrated first, one soldier after another standing up and wandering off into the night. Then the core of the camp started to disperse. Then the final groups of peasants, deep in their tents.

Soon, the entire place was empty.

They were peasants and students, not soldiers. They weren’t building a barricade. They weren’t expecting the masses to rise up around them. They were going to throw themselves against the walls of a well-defended castle, and there was a world of difference.

And just like that, the army that was meant to save Damico, to maintain game balance, and make it possible to win the game… disbanded.

Chapter
Forty-Four

“Okay, I lied… but I needed a chapter quote.”

—Bob Defendi

hey marched down the road without Jurkand again.
Lotianna and Damico talked all day long, again well behind the rest so as not to pull the group back into real-time. For a while, they even held hands. He felt like a high school kid. Actually, there was a lot less awkward fumbling and blurted apologies than in high school. He felt the way a kid in high school
wished
he could feel.

He didn’t know how any of this worked, but he didn’t think Carl could keep it all in his head at once. Damico was counting on these images only connecting with Carl through the eyes of the characters and the NPCs he controlled. Since he didn’t control either Damico or Lotianna anymore, he could only hope the things they did, the things they said in private, would go unnoticed. After all, if he
did
just sum up a day’s travel with “that night…” how would he perceive a day’s worth of conversation between Damico and Lotianna without going mad? Madder.

Essentially, Damico tried his damnedest to hide from God. He could only hope that worked out better than you would expect.

They arrived at the village about sunset, finding their way to a quaint little tavern with a large, beam frame and blonde-plaster walls. The windows were wavy glass like a snapshot of the heat distortion over a fire. A sign hung over the door, showing a rooster leaning back in a heraldic pose, its wings in the air in front of it like a rearing lion. To the left stood a plucked and embarrassed hen.

“Carl certainly has an interesting taste in tavern signs,” Damico said.

“Who’s Carl?” Lotianna asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” He walked up three uneven stairs and into the mud room. He stomped his feet politely, and when his boots were relatively clean, he pushed into the main area.

The place was full of people, but for once they seemed to be locals. Naughty Swedish barmaids worked the crowds, and Damico almost wished Carl would set a different image into his head. Maybe French maids. He really needed a change.

They made their way to the traditional corner table, and Damico sat on the bench. Omar and Gorthander sat on either side of him this time, and he didn’t try to change the seating. Perhaps this was best. The barmaid came over to their table.

“Welcome to the Rampant Cock—how may I help you?”

Lotianna gasped, Omar choked, and Arithian chuckled. Only Damico and Gorthander laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Omar asked.

“The name. It’s a heraldry joke,” Damico said.

Omar frowned suspiciously.

“Never mind,” Gorthander said. “If you have to explain it, it’s not funny.”

“We’ll all have beers,” Damico said. “Make sure Gorthander’s is in a dirty glass. The lady would like wine.”

The barmaid nodded and headed off.

Arithian rose from his seat. “Milords and ladies. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their barmaid.”

He then followed her, his wink predatory.

“So,” Gorthander asked. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re what,” Damico asked, “five days out?”

“Something like that.”

“We need to start gathering intelligence,” Damico said. “See what Hraldolf’s up to. Come up with a plan to beat him.”

“What if there
is
no plan?” Omar asked.

“There’s always a plan,” Gorthander said. “It’s an adventure. There’s always a way to win.”

“Most of the time,” Damico said, “you don’t even lose half your hit points.”

“It seems rough,” Gorthander said, “but it will be exactly as hard as we can handle.”

After a time, they realized their drinks weren’t imminent, and Arithian wasn’t coming back. Oh, look. A rocket scientist.

Anyway, Damico went to the bar and fetched their drinks, and Omar and Gorthander became quietly hammered while they argued about whether the newest d30 Fighter’s book was worth buying. Eventually they wandered off to bed, leaving Damico and Lotianna alone at the table in an alcohol glow.

“What do we do now?” Lotianna asked.

“Stop coming on to me, you scandalous woman!” Damico said.

“Oh, you think I’m coming on to you?”

He considered her, his expression a carefully crafted leer. Hers was an expression of comic innocence.

“I’ve come to expect it,” he said. “My lot in life.”

She moved closer to him. “What would you say if I told you I was just being polite? Taking pity, even?”

“I’d say it’s a pity you’re such a liar,” he said, rolling his head back to watch the room.

There was a pause, and he felt her mood grow more serious. He glanced at her and found her attention inward. He left her to her thoughts.

It was a while before she said, “What’s happened to me?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice carefully even.

“I was nice, and then I was awful, and then I was shy, and then… then I don’t remember much until one day… one day, I just sort of woke up.”

Damico nodded and took her hand. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Damico caught her chin, urging her to face him. He leaned in and kissed her gently, then eagerly. He pulled away.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Good. Then I’ll explain everything afterward.”

She leaned in, nibbled on his ear. “Are you that eager?”

“You’re the eager one, you wanton woman,” he said with a smile.

“Then why not tell me now?”

“Because if I tell you now, it will sound like the biggest pick-up line
ever
.”