Death by Cliché (27 page)

No longer is it just the lines of force that resonate between Damico and the Artifact! Now the tension builds between them. It builds!

Waves of force roll out of the Heart of Light. They cover the land, a great wash, flowing outward, one after another.

Let us sail above it all. Consider at the land around you! Notice the animals and the cities and the fields. Here the birds migrate because Carl no longer controls their actions with his poor understanding of ornithology. There gazelle change their grazing patterns. There the wolves stop howling when they stalk prey.

Look there. A city, peaceful a moment ago, now pours smoke into the air. Its citizens riot in the streets. Its guards cower in terror. That will teach the lord not to outlaw pornography.

And there, let’s look closer, through the roof. See the chapel, the stone floors and walls, pews nicer than a king could afford! Witness the priest there, young and so sure of himself until now. Watch as he pauses in the middle of his sermon. See the confusion on his face. Now he walks away. Not only does he have no faith now, but he never had any to begin with!

Notice that man, wandering through the streets, tears streaming down his face! He’s looking for his wife, the wife he left years ago. Now he can’t seem to remember why.

And that barbarian, his muscles oiled. His sword limber. Is he counting? Has he cast aside his arms? Don’t tell me he’s giving up his former life to become an accountant!

The world spins. The world churns. Most of all, the world moves.

It moves!

And yet, it moves.

Chapter
Fif
ty

“No plan survives contact with the enemy. No plot survives contact with a word count.”

—Bob Defendi

t was all fine and dandy for Damico to make blanket
declarations such as “let’s go find Hraldolf.” It was another matter to implement them. In fact, it began to annoy him just how big the Heart of Light was.

In a game, Carl would have said something like, “You search for hours before you find him.” Damico was forced to live through those hours.

He snuck down hall after perfectly-squared hall. The walls were so smooth the mortar could have been painted on, like movie-set walls. He had the urge to chew scenery.

“I want to kill something,” Omar said.

Damico didn’t think Brian was saying this in the real world. More likely Carl was letting time pass in seconds in the real world and just had Omar say that every ten minutes when he was on autopilot. You know, to be true to the character.

Damico didn’t speak. He didn’t want to do anything that would force Carl back into real time. Not if he didn’t want Omar and Gorthander bored. Bored players made mistakes.

They
might not have anything at stake, but Damico and Lotianna could die for real here. He didn’t care about himself so much because he didn’t know what happened if he died shortly before the world blew up, but Lotianna. No, he couldn’t let her die. He was doing it all for her now.

And what did
that
do to his plans?

Not too many days ago, the thought of letting the world be destroyed was an easy sell. It might be the only way back to his body, after all. Now, he had
two
women here he cared about. Real people he’d brought to life.

He shook his head to clear it. He’d have to make that decision when it was time. No sense anguishing about it now. It would only bore the readers.

The problem with this damn castle was it had too many corridors. It had to have been created with some kind of random computer mapper. It made Daggerfall look like Beserker.

He made his Hear Noise check and heard a sound up ahead. He held up his hand, and the party stopped behind him. He creeped ahead, his sword out, ready to mete out Back-Stabby death to anyone who came around the corner. Closer. Closer. He raised his sword at the sound of a person not ten feet away. The light flickered and cast strange leaping shadows. Damico poised to strike.

Jurkand walked into view.

The man seemed older now, elderly instead of middle-aged. It was as if the weight of the world beat upon him, as if he’d lived a fake life for so long that now he was real, he aged in high speed. As if the author kept readjusting his age every scene, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

“Jurkand?”

“Damico?” the man’s voice was full of relief. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you.”

“Why are you looking? Aren’t you dead?”

“One-shot resurrection,” they both said in unison, getting a jump on the script.

“Okay, why are you here?” Damico asked.

“I came looking for you. I found out they’d captured you and brought you here. I came as quickly as I could.”

“You just slipped through all the guards?”

“They didn’t notice.”

Damico nodded. “You’re an NPC.”

“Does that mean God is looking out for me?” Jurkand asked.

“Just the opposite,” Damico said. “It means he doesn’t really have a good idea what happens to you when you aren’t with us.”

The party came up behind them.

“Jurkand, you old bastard,” Gorthander said. “Did you write down your one-shot resurrection in ink too?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“We need to find Hraldolf,” Damico said, “but this place is a maze.”

“I can find the way there,” Jurkand said.

“How? Are you the architect?” Damico searched his head for the cliché that would make all this logical.

“No, but I oversaw all the early plans.”

Damico still didn’t have it. “How?”

“Damico,” Jurkand said. “I am your father.”

“Oh, good grief.” Gorthander hefted his ax. “I’m killing him again.”

“Stop,” Damico said, holding out one hand.

Gorthander stopped. Damico studied Jurkand. He could kind of see the likeness now, around the eyes.

“What do we do next?” Damico asked.

“We,” Lotianna said. “We—we—we—we,” she skipped like a mail-order rental DVD.

“Lotianna?” Damico asked, watching as she performed the same movement over and over again, in a continuous loop.

Then she disappeared.

“What the Hell?” Damico asked.

Gorthander, Omar, and Arithian waved their hands through the spot where she’d just been. Damico tried to figure out what strange blending of the fantasy and the real had caused this, but it was Arithian who hit on the answer.

“She was an illusion,” he said suddenly.

Damico squinted, trying to figure that out. “Excuse me?”

“He replaced her with an illusion,” Arithian said. “It must have just hit the end of its duration. He must have done it when we changed cells.”

“Why?” Damico asked.

“The evil overlord has
appetites
,” Arithian said. “He takes women to his chambers,
does
things with them.”

“But he’s changed,” Damico said.

“From what I’ve heard in the last few villages,” Arithian said, “if anything, he’s doing it more often. The village girls were very excited about it.”

“Dear God, no,” he said.

Chapter
Fifty-One

“No mirror scenes!”

—Bob Defendi

raldolf sat in his throne room watching a fly buzz
around his head. He had the woman in his bedchamber: Not Beaver kept an eye on her. It was their normal method of doing things, and right now Hraldolf enjoyed letting the mood build. Delaying gratification. He’d discovered this trick on the last woman. It had been most pleasing.

The fly buzzed and buzzed. He gazed at it pointedly. It continued buzzing.

That was strange.

Humans needed to see his face to die, but flies could measure his beauty with one glimpse of his eye. Was the fly blind?

Another buzzed into the room. He gazed at it. It kept flying too. If anything, they both looked drunk with pleasure.

Strange.

“Get me a slave,” he said. One of the guards stepped out and returned immediately. They kept slaves in a locker out front.

The slave screamed and hollered as the guard dragged him down the plastic mat, twisting and tearing his clothes as he struggled. Hraldolf watched him distractedly then told the guard, “Avert your gaze.” The guard did, and Hraldolf pulled off the mask.

Nothing happened.

The slave stared up into Hraldolf’s eyes, his own face dreamy with ecstasy. “Your Majesty. You’re exquisite.”

Hraldolf stood waiting for the splash, but none came. The man didn’t burst. He didn’t even die. Hraldolf had lost his power.

Frowning, he walked over to the mirror, stared into his own face for the first time in his life. It
was
exquisite, with skin so pure it appeared painted on. His eyes were deep, knowing, steel blue. His nose perfect, slender yet commanding. His jaw was a delicate arc from his chin to the joint. He was riveting. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He could barely tear his eyes away. The sight was that magnetic.

But his hair was tousled, his clothes slightly askew. They added appeal, made him painfully attractive, but he wasn’t perfect anymore. Not perfect enough to kill.

He turned, and all the guards gasped. They fell to their knees with their visors up, their expressions rapturous. A third fly took up adoring orbit around his head.

He couldn’t kill, but he
could
enslave.

He smiled.

“Take him away,” he said. “I’m going to visit the lady now.”

His grin widened.

Chapter
Fifty-Two