Death by Cliché (6 page)

“Still, don’t expect a quote every chapter.”

—Bob Defendi

amico stared
up
at the minotaur, because if he
stared forward, he saw those great hairy testicles, like two coconuts. A man needed an ironclad self-esteem should he ever look a gift bull in the crotch.

Damico dodged to one side as the minotaur brought its ax down, smashing into the flagstones and showering the area with sparks. Damico tap-danced backward, almost feeling good with the energy, the vitality of this new body.

But that feeling evaporated as the minotaur dove in again, smashing his ax into the floor and sending up another glowing shower. Either that ax was electrified, or this weapon came straight out of a
Highlander
movie.

Damico moved in, trying to stab with his sword, only to have it batted aside effortlessly. He leaped away from another sweeping attack and darted in again, faster than he’d ever been in the real world, striking like a mongoose, thrusting like a snake, seeking like a tax auditor.

Again the minotaur knocked his sword away, again it looked like the thing wasn’t even trying. Damico was going to die. He couldn’t believe it, but he was going to die.
Again.

He stumbled backward, his hand shaking, his sword point wandering, transcribing lie-detector patterns in the air. He wasn’t supposed to be here, fighting this great stinking brute. Even in the game, he was a damn thief. It wasn’t his job to stand toe-to-toe with the boss monster.

The minotaur spun its ax gently in the air, as if it were a prop, not a real weapon of hardwood and steel. Damico’s eyes darted to the dwarf, lying broken on the paving stones. His blood still spurted into the air through the rent in his armor. Damico had done that. He’d killed one of the closest things he had to a friend in this strange, unlikely place.

And he barely even knew the dwarf.

“Tag!” shouted Arithian because character, in the hands of even the best role-player, is still a matter of convenience.

Damico didn’t dare take his eyes off that ax, so he just cringed at the bellow behind him. Someone charged at his rear.

Omar burst past him, weapon whirling, battle cry streaming from his lips. He sounded like a cross between a broken car horn and the 32
^nd
Infantry division. He struck.

The minotaur knocked him aside.

This was a game. Damico had to keep that in mind. It might
feel
real. He might even be able to die, but still a game. No matter how deadly.

And that was part of the problem. If he was outside the game seeing the dice rolls, he’d know what was happening, but in it… he’d never realized before the terror of not knowing. He’d never pictured how frightened his character would be, even in a winning fight.

The problem was damage.

The d30 system—“d” for die, “30” for the number of sides on the die—used abstract hit points. They could represent luck, the amount of energy the creature could use while dodging, even sword tricks that only worked once on a given opponent. Damico and Omar
could
be missing with their attacks, or they could be hitting, whittling away at the minotaur’s finite number of hit points.

Omar dashed in again, and Damico circled the creature so he and Omar would be directly opposite each other, giving them flank bonuses. He needed to remember the game. He was an
expert
at the game.

He moved in, attacking from behind, hoping his Back Stab would hit. Omar came in from the front, swinging. The minotaur dove away from both of them to the right. Had they both hit, dropping those abstract hit points, or were they ineffective? There was no way to tell.

“What’s your armor class?” Damico shouted at the minotaur.

“Thirty-eight!” the minotaur shouted back, its voice rumbling like a locomotive in an echo chamber.

Thirty-eight. But was that its real number, or was it using its Bluff skill?

They both ran in past its guard again, striking at almost the same time. They must have rolled the same number on initiative. The minotaur dodged.

Each time, it dodged to the right.

Damico smiled. To Hell with the game. The game wasn’t getting him anywhere.

On the next attack, Damico didn’t plunge in with his sword. Instead, he feinted for the minotaur’s back then shot to the right, falling to hands and knees.

Omar swung in with his ax. The minotaur, already moving as if they both attacked, shifted to the right, its great hooves catching Damico in the ribs with a cracking sound, then tripping over, crashing to the floor.

Omar didn’t miss a beat. He moved after the minotaur, his ax high, bringing it down with a wet meaty
thump
. Omar pulled the ax clear, trailing a streamer of blood in the process, then brought it down again, burying it with a car door sound.

Carl must have been using some bizarre sound effects tape in the game.

Damico tried to move, but pain exploded through his torso. He whimpered and fell.

“Stop your whining,” Omar said. “You only took twenty points of damage.”

But it
hurt
. The pain of the broken ribs radiated through his chest, aching and throbbing, twisting with the torque of every move. He’d broken an ankle once teaching another kid daredevil acrobatics. Another time, he’d put a fist into a car window during a crash. Neither of them hurt like this.

Lotianna appeared at his side and reached down, gently catching the arm on his unbroken side. She smelled of lilacs, and her hands felt cool as she helped him to his feet. He gave her a grateful smile.

She winked at him with those Zoe McClellan eyes as she slid under his arm, helping to support his weight. He seemed to be the same height he’d been in the real world, maybe six foot two. It felt the same to have a woman under his arm at any rate.

“Thanks,” he said with a strained smile.

“Lean on me,” she said back.

He somehow resisted taking that as a song cue. Pain could work wonders for damping the jokes.

Arithian was on his knees with Gorthander now, whispering spells—no,
singing
spells. Damico perked up. “Wait. He’s a bard, right?”

“Yeah,” Lotianna said.

“That means he has healing spells.”

“You ever know a bard that
didn’t
select healing spells?”

Damico smiled as Omar tromped out of the room, searching for something.

Arithian cast another spell, then another. The blood stopped spurting into the air. Then Gorthander twitched. He gasped and reached for his chest.

“Welcome back, dwarf lord,” Arithian said.

“Shut up and let me finish the job,” Gorthander said with a groan. Then he laid a hand on his own chest and cast a spell of his own.

His hand glowed white, and his chest lit up in response. Damico limped toward them, Lotianna supporting him. The dwarf’s skin knit, visible through the rent in the armor. Finally, the dwarf stood.

He gave Damico the once-over. “You hurt?”

“Only about twenty hit points, but I could use a heal,” Damico said, trying to sound like a gamer at a table, not a real person in real pain.

Gorthander stomped over to him and said another prayer, his hand pulsing with healing light. He reached out and touched Damico. The warmth of the magic flowed into him. Damico’s bones wrenched, then crackled together. The pain became heat, merging with the warmth of the spell. Then it vanished completely.

He didn’t want to remove his arm from Lotianna’s shoulders, but he couldn’t think of a reason to keep it there, so he dropped it to his side. It might have been his imagination, but he thought she looked disappointed as well.

He’d seen healing spells used in a hundred games. He’d written them and described them in games he’d run. He’d even, on occasion, tried to convey the pure wonder of the effect. None of that held a candle to what he’d just experienced.

It was a miracle. To a character in a high-magic game, it might be commonplace, but to Damico… It took
weeks
to heal broken ribs, even with the best medical attention. Just like that, they were knit. Just like that.

This game might not be real, but it was real
to him
.

“Uh, thanks,” Damico said.

The dwarf kicked the dead minotaur. “Back atcha.”

Damico glanced at the door. Omar had gone back the way they’d come. There were no other doors out of this room.

“You learn how to trip someone like that on the schoolyard?” Gorthander asked after Arithian explained how they’d defeated the minotaur.

“It works better with bullies,” Damico said.

“I see.”

“Should we loot the body or something?” Damico asked.

That was usually the next step in these games.

“Yeah. Let’s,” Gorthander said.

They had just knelt at the body when Omar came back in, his face a dark cloud. Damico frowned and exchanged glances with Gorthander. “What is it, big guy?”

“The door,” Omar said. “It was supposed to open when we killed him, right?”

“Right,” Gorthander said.

“It didn’t.”

Chapter Nine

“
…
”

—Bob Defendi

raldolf stood on a hill overlooking a village, a black
velvet mask on his face, his hair oiled and neatly curled, his clothes perfect. Around him stood humans, more dog than man—and lapdogs at that. They sniffed and begged and preened for his attention. It was amazing he didn’t have to bat them away from his rump.

Below him, on the edge of the village, his walls of metal and muscle he called guards, the guards called men, and the villagers called “sir,” stood waiting for the order. They were a coiled spring ready to sprang, a charged bullet ready to fire, a mother-in-law about to check your ironing.

In other words, doom itself.

“What is their crime?” Hraldolf asked.

“They are late on their taxes, your majesty,” one of the lapdogs said. He was a short man with a bald head he compensated for with furs that made him look like a small beaver.

“A grievous error, my lord,” said a second lapdog, this one long and lanky, who wore a spangled coat and tights that showed off the line of his legs. He resembled a cross between a dancing girl and a disco ball.

Hraldolf nodded and contemplated the village. “What was their excuse this time?”

“A long winter, Your Majesty,” Beaver said.

“The spring crop went in late, they say,” Legs said.

“I see.”

The men strained below him, almost chugging with their need to rush in and slaughter the villagers. Hraldolf watched them in a disconnected way. A fly buzzed by him, met his gaze, and despite the mask, dropped dead. Flies are perceptive. Probably something to do with compound eyes.

Beyond the men, the villagers had gathered in clumps outside their homes. A pall of anticipation hung over the settlement, but they hadn’t panicked yet. They never panicked until he ordered the attack. He’d never wondered if that were strange before.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“The mayor begged for mercy,” Beaver said.

“He said they finished harvesting the crop yesterday. They are ready to pay their taxes now.” Legs smiled a bemused smile.

“Fine,” Hraldolf said. “Kill them.”