Death by Cliché (11 page)

“Do you know who you are?” Jurkand asked.

Damico thought about that. “Yes. Do you?”

“You are the driving force.”

“I see.” He almost edged away from the man.

“I saw what you did to the Barmaid.”

“That was consensual.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Hmm.”

They stood near the edge of the clearing, putting the camp thirty feet behind them, a cluster of tents with the fire in the middle. A wispy column of smoke rose from the fire. A greasier column of smoke rose from each of the beers. Damico shuddered. He’d better cook tomorrow morning.

“So, what did I do to the Barmaid?”

“You gave her the gift of life.”

Damico looked at him sideways. “I’ve been told I was good before, but honestly, I never touched the barmaid.”

“You know what I mean.”

Damico shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“There is something about you that changes people.”

Jurkand’s eyes were intense, penetrating. He leaned in as he talked. It creeped Damico out.

“I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

Damico started to leave.

“You can’t leave this world,” Jurkand said.

Damico stopped and glared at Jurkand. What was Carl playing at? No, Satan. What was
Satan
playing at?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You aren’t
from
here,” Jurkand said.

Damico squinted at him. “I’m from
right around
here. I’d show you on a map if you had one.”

Jurkand appraised Damico for what seemed like a long time. Then he said. “Yesterday I was nothing. I moved from whorehouse to whorehouse, and I never wondered why.”

“Most men don’t need a reason.”

“I had no spark. No essence. No
soul
. Then yesterday something happened. Where were you yesterday?”

“In the Perilous Dungeon.”

“And before that?”

The sound of the silenced gunshot, the sight of the acre of trunk. Damico had to shake off the images to answer. “On the way to the Perilous Dungeon?”

“I somehow doubt that.”

“What are you saying?”

“Yesterday, this world and everyone in it was dull, lifeless. We had no spark. Then you showed up. I didn’t understand it until I saw you talking to the Barmaid. I
saw
the effect you had on her.”

“You’re imagining things.” Damico walked away, shaking slightly.

The expression of horror in that girl’s eyes haunted him. He couldn’t be responsible for it. He was a game designer and didn’t bring horror to people. Well, unless he designed a horror game.

“I’m not having this conversation,” Damico called back over his shoulder.

“You’re afraid!” Jurkand shouted.

“Bug off!” Damico shouted back.

“Me, her. How many more people have you affected?” Jurkand shouted. “How many people, just because you’re here? What happens if you leave? If you take their lives with you, isn’t that murder? How many murders? We know of two! Is it ten? One hundred? How can you live with that?”

Lotianna stepped out of her tent, her brow furrowed, her face a scowl. “Shut up!” she shouted. “It’s too early in the morning.”

“Stuff it, you shrew,” Jurkand shouted. “Did he touch you too?”

Damico spun in fury just in time to see the throwing ax appear in Jurkand’s chest. Jurkand stumbled backward, blood flowing out of the wound in a sheet, his eyes wide with horror and agony. He batted at the weapon several times, spasmodically, then fell over dead.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Damico said, facing Gorthander.

“He was annoying,” Gorthander said.

“You killed him because he was
annoying
?” Damico asked, not sure what to think.

“No. I killed him because he insulted the lady’s honor. I
enjoyed
it because he was annoying.”

Damico shook his head. This was just a game, after all. No, Hell. This was just Hell, after all. The things Jurkand said, they were sheer fantasy. No one was “coming alive.” This was just some sick trick of Carl’s. Satan’s. This was all just
somebody’s
trick.

He wasn’t going to sit here and let his killer or his tormentor play mind games with him. He might be dead. He might be in Hell, but this might be a game, after all. Maybe he
was
still alive. Stranger things had happened.

Either way, he had to keep fighting.

Chapter
Sevente
en

“Just use the word ‘said’!”

—Bob Defendi

hey packed up and started down the road, heading
toward the Swamp of Unending Toil. Damico didn’t know what to think any longer, but he could feel the ground crumbling away beneath him like the argument of a flat-earther. He stumbled and clawed and struggled to keep his head above proverbial water even as the sharks circled and checked their menus and bribed the Maître d’.

Gorthander trudged along happily with his battle-ax over one shoulder, singing “Whistle While You Work.” Damico followed, trying to understand anything that was going on.

But those eyes, the eyes of Barmaid Barbie, kept haunting him. Could Jurkand be right? Not about giving life, that was ridiculous, but could he have caused that poor girl’s distress somehow?

He shook off those feelings. He needed to stay focused, to get back on his game, no pun intended.

He moved up to where Lotianna marched at the head of the party.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

“Was that a PMS question?” she retorted.

Damico stopped and blinked a few times then quickened his pace to catch up. Evidently he’d missed part of a conversation. Damico glared accusingly at Omar. What had they said to her before he’d woken up?

“No,” he replied. “I just thought you were feeling off this morning.”

She scowled at him. “Keep it in your pants, Leisure Suit Larry,” she growled.

“Good grief, woman, what’s your problem?” he exclaimed.

“You’re my problem, asshole,” she spat.

What the hell was going on?

“Great, maybe I’ll just get out of your damn life then,” he insisted.

“Fine!” she ejaculated.

“Good riddance!” he asserted.

This conversation was positively surreal.

He stopped and let her stomp on ahead. Arithian walked by him, shaking his head. Omar walked by, whispering, “Smooth move, Ex-lax.”

Who talked like that?

Gorthander came up last, and Damico fell in next to him. Gorthander shook his head and chuckled to himself. “That not go well?” he inquired.

Damico shook his head. “We were doing so well yesterday,” he bemoaned.

And now, he hated her. She’d treated Omar like crap. She had yelled at Gorthander three times while packing. She had told Arithian to stick his mandolin up his ass (that one was kinda funny). But she was one of the only people here he could talk to, and now she’d become this loathsome person. It just didn’t make any
sense
. It was one thing to have a bad day but to treat everyone so terribly?

Damico felt alone. He could still talk to Gorthander, but that wasn’t the same. He needed companionship,
female
companionship. He needed to feel like he had a real connection with someone, like someone out there cared.

And now, he hated her. Worse. She hated
him
.

Gorthander just patted him on the shoulder but didn’t say anything, which was probably a good thing.

Because the Said Bookisms were getting old, I assumed.

Chapter
Eighte
en

“How do you spell ‘of’?… No, really… You’re kidding… That just looks wrong.”

—Bob Defendi

is
name was Longshad. Say it fast
, and it sounds
like something out of the 2000 Florida election.

He was the noble of legend, the noble of stories. When he was young, he bested a dragon and saved a handful of simple (and ugly) village virgins. Selfless. When he took over for his father, he gave the village mill to the villagers, allowed them to charge
themselves
the mulchure. When he was thirty, he was the first noble to stand up against Hraldolf and win. Hraldolf denied him at every point, but the Overlord kept his mask on throughout the whole meeting, so it was a moral victory. That same meeting, Hraldolf fed his favorite ally to a cage full of rabid hamsters.

But I digress.

Longshad was a good and honorable man. I’d say that three times as well, but I sense your attention wandering.

He stood on the balcony of his manor house and watched the village below. It was a good place, an
honest
place. The people there lived wholesome lives. Not even the pets had sex out of wedlock. It made the finest wool in the land, not to mention being the number one exporter of doggy-sized wedding tuxedos.

He loved his people. They loved him. The town girls showed up at his door almost every day with bundles of flowers. His house smelled like the bathroom of your church organist. What the ass of a bee smelled like after a hard night of carousing.

Even now, the girls walked from house to house, chatting and talking. The boys nodded at them politely and played organized little games. The women cooked industriously inside. The men performed a field ballet using oxen and plows. Really. I wish you could see it.

As he watched, the butler butled about behind him.

And then it hit. He didn’t know it, but at that exact moment, the invisible line between Damico and that Artifact crossed through him. It was like having someone walk over your grave. In golf shoes. No, scratch that. It was like having someone walk over your naked genitalia
―
in golf shoes.

Longshad blinked.

“Jeeves?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring Thelma to me.”

After a few heartbeats, Jeeves showed up at his side with Thelma. He stopped, following his master’s gaze. Longshad watched the village below with a subtle smile on his lips.

“How long have you been with me, Jeeves?”

“Since you were nothing more than a bit of bad math in your father’s head.”

“He never could count to twenty-eight.”

“Yes, and how
are
your brothers?”

Longshad ignored the question and watched the people below. “Am I a sporting man?”