by Eric Nylund
So, I offered him an easy way out.
“Do you yield?” I said quietly and with respect.
He stood straighter. “Never.”
“I don’t want to do this,” I said, “but I will. Just give—”
He rushed me, screeching like an ape, but really just sounding like an old man imitating one.
Did he want me to humiliate him in front of his followers?
Maybe. Then the monkey mob would avenge his honor and tear me limb from limb.
Sorry, Cho, but you have to cry uncle. No matter what it took.
He tried a simple straight punch at my throat. The old guy was still fast.
I let the strike pass millimeters to one side, stepped inside his reach, twisted around and trapped the crook of his arm. I then grabbed his wrist and tumbled forward, throwing him to the ground in the process.
This was a but pale imitation of the far more elegant Sticky Face Sticky Hands technique Master Cho had used on me. I still couldn’t figure out how he’d trapped my arm just with his chin.
This wasn’t a lesson, though. I just had to finish him.
I planted my foot in his armpit, stretched, and twisted his arm.
In a perfect yin-yang symmetry of poetic justice—I snapped his elbow.
Bits of broken bone ground into cartilage and there were more pops as something else came loose.
Cho didn’t make a peep.
“Give—it—up,” I grunted.
He thrashed about trying to escape.
Well, I’d given him a chance…
I rolled on top of him and pressed my knee hard into the mangled joint. I felt more bones and cartilage crush.
Then he screamed.
The audience gasped.
I rolled off.
Cho whimpered, in so much pain, he couldn’t move.
Did I feel sorry for him? Yes. But he’d kidnapped my friends and almost made a monkey of me, so good sportsmanship and sympathy only covered so much.
“You have more bones to break,” I whispered. “Please, Master Cho, yield.”
Cho grew quiet.
“Tell your followers I used ‘evil magic’ to remove the blessing of the valley’s wine,” I said. “That’s not far from the truth. They’ll call you a hero for holding out so long… uh, dry.”
He sniffed, nodded, then said, “Yes. That would be” —he hesitated, searching for the right word— “equitable.”
I helped him sit.
Six gorillas charged into the arena.
Cho shot them a look that stopped them in their tracks.
“I am grateful,” he murmured, “for allowing me to save face. I suppose there is a bit of self-preservation in your offer too? Heh. You would have made an excellent student, Hektor Saint-Savage of the Sleeping Dragon.”
I looked him in the eye. “I do not approve of your recruitment methods, Master Cho, but your Drunken Monkey boxing is the most formidable style I have ever encountered. I am honored you think I would be good at it.”
He managed a smile of cracked teeth.
The assembled monkeys began to chitter in agitation. A few climbed higher to see why the two guys who’d been trying to kill each other a minute ago were sitting in the middle of the arena having a nice chat.
While I had Cho’s full attention, however, I had a few other things to ask him.
I opened my inventory and pulled out a four-inch stick of ash wood. Carved upon it were three primitive faces.
“Are there any from the Far Field barbarian tribes here?” I offered him Karkanal’s counting stick. “I was supposed to show them this.”
Cho took the stick and ran his finger over its carvings. Sorrow contorted his face.
He didn’t answer, so I went on, “A comrade gave me this for helping him break his death curse. He told me that one of his tribe was a martial artist and might be able to teach me a thing or two. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”
Cho’s features smoothed. He stared far away and nodded. “Yes. I gave this to Karkanal Kayestral.”
“You are from the Far Field tribes?”
“Was. As I was once Karkanal’s father.” His voice hitched with soft sobs. “So he is dead.” He turned to me and I was surprised to see hope, not grief, shining in his eyes. “Tell me how.”
The monkeys now called out to Master Cho. Worried. Angry.
He held up a hand to silence them.
“It was the best of deaths,” I told him. “He defeated a cabal of Black Hand wizards and saved many innocent souls. After, the Valkyries came for him. Queen Kára-Prima herself escorted Karkanal to Valhalla. This I saw with my own eyes.”
He blinked away tears of joy. “You have my most profound thanks then for fighting by his side.”
It was good to know that Karkanal’s story had a proper closing chapter and that his people would know he died a hero.
I had a feeling, though, I’d missed something important, as if many things that had no business connecting—just did.
“One more thing,” I said and leaned closer. “You said before, ‘the game you play is hardly fair.’”
All emotion faded from Cho’s features.
“Are you a player?” I whispered. I looked around to see if any apes were within earshot, then added, “In the Game? The capital-G Game?”
He stroked the whiskers on his chin.
“I was,” Cho whispered back, “but left when I found the gods I served played other games. They traded and sacrificed players in side bets, for favors, perhaps alliances? I was never certain. But I was sure that the Game is more than what I was told it was—trickery within lies inside layers of scheming. In the end, I wasn’t sure who, or what, I fought for anymore.”
I let this sink in.
It made sense that there was more going on than I’d been told. No surprise either that the powerful entities playing the Game wouldn’t play by anyone’s rules—even ones they themselves created.
So they’d found ways to cheat? By teaming up? Or extorting less powerful clans to join them… but all off the books? How did this figure into the Game Master’s secret plan to keep anyone from ever winning?
I suddenly felt insignificant and ignorant—like I understood but the smallest, simplest part of what was going on in Thera.
“I escaped the boundaries of the Game,” Cho went on, “came to the Far Fields, grew a family, and then a tribe. I was happy. When my oldest son, my beloved Karkanal, became a man, he left to seek adventure and glory. I was so proud. But as years passed, he never returned, and divinations told neither of his death or his life. He was just… gone. When all my hopes faded, I wandered off, searching for a quiet place to sit and simply pass. Instead, I found this valley…” He spread his hands in a gesture that said you know the rest.
And you found a bit of solace in the wine? Yes, Cho, I understand too well your grief.
So players could really just pack up and leave the Game? The gods and other various owners of the clans had so little sway over them? No wonder they had sought other ways to influence the Game.
The audience crept closer, the less brave among them shoving others ahead.
We couldn’t stall any longer.
I stood, taking Master Cho’s good arm and helped him up.
He raised my hand, showing all that I had won.
Catcalls and jeers boiled from the crowds.
Yeah, I’d won.
So how come it felt like I was way behind in the larger game within the Game? The real game. One I hadn’t even known was being played.
CHAPTER 34
That night we rode across the Ojawbi Far Fields. I wanted to put as many miles between us and the Valley of the Drunken Monkey God as possible.
Before we departed, Master Cho had graciously offered to throw a party in my honor. I declined (I’d thought the sneaky simian might spike my drink). As promised, however, Cho returned my gear, Elmac and Morgana, as well as their items.
I even considered a return trip to discuss mar
tial art techniques.
One day.
Much later.
Maybe.
But that was all behind us now.
Here on the grasslands the only conversation was the grunts and snorts among our buffalo friends, and the dream murmurs of Elmac and Morgana as they held onto one another.
They were sleeping off their monkey curse, half transformed back from their previous orangutan and macaque states. I’d made a little bed for them out of a few branches, Elmac’s tent, and our bedrolls, all strapped atop the most gentle of our mounts (who I’d nicknamed “Mother”).
Cho had suggested I let them sleep as long as possible to avoid the worst of the withdrawals from the valley’s wine.
So I did.
And we rode.
And I enjoyed a few hours without having to run, or fight, for my life.
It’s the little things you take for granted, you know?
I realized, though, that we’d soon part company from our buffalo. I was going to miss them. The beasts had the strength of two elephants and horns that could have tossed a car aside, but they could also be gentle, even friendly when you got to know them.
I knew it wasn’t so, but I felt like they’d adopted us into their herd.
I patted the neck of my mount, now accustomed to her wire-coarse fur. This one I called “Auntie Brown.” Silly, I know.
The sun rose.
I stopped for breakfast.
My friends had mostly reverted back to their old selves, so they fit into their clothes and gear… save for Elmac’s prosthetic arm (it still rejected him because he wasn’t “dwarf” enough to meet its standards). But apart from that, and a few whiskers clinging to Morgana’s chin, they were as good as new.
“’Cepting the dragon-sized hangover,” Elmac complained. “It be the worst skull splitter ever.” He buried his face in his hand. “Oughhh.”
“And,” Morgana croaked, “no hair of the ruddy dog to help, either. Downright uncivilized.”
“I be a wee tempted to test Hektor’s theory ’bout that,” Elmac whispered to her.
“I wouldn’t,” I told him. “Alcohol is a catalyst for the metamorphosis. Let’s see… it takes about an hour to burn off one good belt… but more to completely purge all traces from your body. I figure you two better stay sober for three or four days just to be sure.”
They groaned.
I made breakfast (that neither Elmac or Morgana wanted). They did, however, drink most of the water we had, which I took as a good sign of their recovery.
We broke camp, and once underway, Morgana said, “Oi, when we get back to Thera, can you blokes help a lady wrap up a quest or two of her own?”
Elmac looked a bit seasick but nonetheless grunted his assent.
“Seems fair,” I told her. “I certainly owe you—not that I’d have to owe you to lend a hand. I think, though, we need to first deal with the Silent Syndicate.”
“Right.” Morgana furrowed her brow. “Forgot about them. Probably ’cause my bloody head still feels like… like monkey.”
“What was it like?” I asked. “Being changed?”
Elmac perked up. “’Twas pleasant at first. A slippery slope, though, from ‘oh that be a tasty bit ’o fermented fruit’—to tipsy—to drunk—to… be having all the talk in my head go quiet. If that makes sense.”
“More of an instinctual existence,” Morgana added for clarification. “I’ve brushed against such primal feelings when I shift shape. Under the monkey curse my thoughts transformed too. Radically.” She sighed. “It’s hard to put into exact words, because exact words was what got removed.”
“Did you know you were turning into monkeys?”
“I think so,” Elmac said. “’Tis hazy. If I knew I be changing, I didna care.”
Morgana turned to him and said, “So more of an existential nihilism versus Platonic ideal argument, yeah?”
Elmac cocked his head. “I was thinking it be more a draining ’o one’s stoic viewpoint as rationalized by Platonic universal truths…”
Ah, philosophy. The one class I almost had to drop in college. With a marathon session of cramming, I’d scraped by with a C- and then promptly forgot it all.
I let them talk and took the opportunity to unpack all the thoughts I’d put away last night.
First, I think our Drunken Monkey quest had been completed. No handy pop-up alert to confirm that, but we’d be back in the Game proper soon enough and find out.
Regardless, I was done with that quest.
Next to consider: the Silent Syndicate.
I smoothed over my hand, feeling the outline of the demon bone knuckles back under my skin where they belonged.
Had we thrown the assassins off our scent?
If so, would Elmac let the matter drop? I doubted it. He’d have his revenge for the burning of the Bloody Rooster and for the injuries and deaths of those who had been inside. I couldn’t fault him for that.
Likewise, I didn’t think because we’d yet to accept or decline the “Something Rotten in the Duchy of Sendon” quest, that we were off the hook.
Avoiding the Syndicate, temporarily or not, however, had had its upsides.
Elmac had become a player in the Game, and a “Hero of Thera” no less. It felt good to have a co-conspirator (not to mention one with the fighting expertise of a twentieth-level warrior). I bet he’d ding third level when we crossed the Game boundary too. All good.
I’d also had a chance to play with my new Mage of the Line abilities—just scratching the surface of what might be possible, but a decent test run nonetheless.
Furthermore, we’d deciphered the assassin’s hit list—an essential clue. But what did it mean? What did the people on that list have in common? Sister Rada? My comrade-in-arms, Sir Pendric Ragnivald? Colonel Delacroix? Not to mention Duke Opinicus?
I still believed the Lords of the Abyss were behind this sanction… yet I couldn’t make sense of that since there was a Game rule preventing clan owners from interfering with (let alone murdering) other players, or even ordering their players to do so.
We were all supposed to be on our own.
Big questions for which I had only big question marks.
The Wayfar Waypoint Inn was near, though. Why not stay there a few days, maybe a week or two? We could recharge, unravel these mental knots, and plan our next moves.
For a moment, I imagined my brother with us at the inn, laughing and talking game strategies like the old days.
Oh yeah, Bill. I’d almost forgotten about my incarcerated anti-paladin brother.
I opened my Message Center.
The systems that sent and received messages remained offline, but I could still read the missives he’d previously dispatched to me, messages that I’d so far ignored.
These were longer than the usual short, back-and-forth in-game texts. These were whole letters with subject lines like: “Need to talk to you”—“Where are you?”—“Getting bad, respond”—“Talk NOW”—and then the latest one, “I wish you were DEAD.”
Wow. Good to know Bill still had all his social graces.
I skimmed them, but apart from more of the same increasingly belligerent and urgent requests for me to talk to him, even to come visit him in the Duke’s dungeon (if you could believe that)—there was no real content in them.
I wonder what he wanted to tell me? Or was he trying to lure me into… what?
Well, I couldn’t message him back, even if I had wanted to.
For now dear brother, I’m afraid you’ll have to take a number.
Family troubles, harder to figure out than saving the multiverse, yes?
I turned back to Morgana and Elmac for a bit of easier-to-digest small talk.
“Ironically universal truths,” Morgana went on, “might find their best, most stoic representation in the Catholic Bible. New Testament, of course.”
Elmac made a face. “Might as well be hauling out the Vedas and talk ’bout the nature ’o Dharma.”
They laughed.
“Hey Elmac,” I said, not letting on that I’d ignored them this whole time, and even if I hadn’t I’d still be clueless about their discussion. “How is it you know so much philosophy? No offense, but Morgana was a teacher. You” —there was no delicate way to put it— “you were a…”
“A drunk?” He gave me a half smile. “A washed-up general? Aye.” He leaned forward and patted his buffalo. “Those conditions do not preclude me also being a barkeep, lad. What’da think I be talking to my customers ’bout in the wee hours ’o the morning? ’Twas hard not to be picking up a few bits on the fundamental nature ’o knowledge, reality, and existence along the way.”
I guess. Or had Elmac, now Melmak the reincarnated wizard, dumped several stat points into his INTELLECT?
Whichever, I felt a little inadequate.
“Well,” he said, “’tis all just words, and we be out here in the real world, eh? And to that, I say ‘all’s well that ends well.’ Just… I be a mite irritated ’bout one thing.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“I’m not saying it be your fault, Hektor. We did our part eating the fruit to get in that mess in the first place—and thank you greatly, by the way, for saving us—but the whole thing ’twas for nothing, wasn’t it?”
Morgana sighed in agreement to whatever Elmac was driving at.
“You mean the Drunken Monkey quest?” I asked.
“Aye. The point was to be learning some monkey fighting techniques.”
Morgana shrugged. “And that went sideways. Just one of those things, I guess.”
“Maybe not,” I told them. Before I could explain, though, my magically enhanced eyes spotted something ahead. I stretched taller to see farther. “Hang on…”
Yes. There. The crenelated top of a tower. A wall extending to either side. It had to be the compound of the Wayfar Waypoint Inn. I swore I also caught a whiff of fresh-out-of-the-oven cinnamon rolls.
“Salvation and food just yonder,” I told my friends. “And, I think, a pleasant surprise about our quest.”
Morgana arched an eyebrow. “That so? In that case—” She touched her buffalo and snorted a word in their beast language.
They sprinted off and left Elmac and me in a cloud of dust.