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.

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.