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.”

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.