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.

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.

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.”