Critical Failures IV

by Robert Bevan

  “I told you. I’m worried about Ravenus.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. I had a guy try to feel me up once at his own mother’s funeral.”

  “That’s pretty messed up.”

  “So what’s really the problem?”

  Julian looked down at the water. “It’s Tim.”

  “I thought so,” said Stacy. “So it’s bros before hoes? One of you stakes a claim, and I have to choose between a drunken man-child and eternal celibacy?”

  “We’re not exactly bros. I only met him a few hours before we got sent here. It’s just that he really seems to be on edge these days, and I don’t want to push him over.”

  “He’s got it no worse than any of us. We’re all in the same boat here.”

  Julian looked up at her. “That’s another thing. I was kind of into you before you got sent here.”

  “You were?” Stacy sat down next to Julian.

  “I thought you were pretty, and smart, and funny, and I thought it was cute how you freaked out when we wrecked your boss’s office with a giant scorpion.”

  Stacy smiled. “That’s really sweet. But I don’t see how it constitutes a problem.”

  “I liked the real you, as you were,” said Julian. “I mean, I still like you as you are now, but here’s the thing. You don’t even know the real me. What if you just like me because I rolled a high Charisma score?”

  Stacy scooted a little closer to him. “You’re thinking too hard on this. I’m not asking to exchange vows. We don’t know what we’re going to be up against tomorrow. I’m scared, and kind of lonely here.”

  “I feel lonely too sometimes,” said Julian. “Cooper’s the only one I really knew before coming here.”

  “I just want to lose myself for a few minutes, forget about this place.”

  Julian nodded.

  Stacy leaned in closer, her lips brushing against Julian’s ear, and whispered. “Tim’s not around. We’ve got the whole pier to ourselves. We’ve got a big, full moon, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore.”

  Julian laughed nervously. “I guess this is what the other side of Diplomacy feels like.”

  Stacy stretched around to kiss him. It was an awkward angle, but she could manage it until she got him on his back. His lower lip trembled as she touched it with her tongue and ran a hand up his thigh, burrowing under the bunched up pile of serape.

  Julian’s lips parted, letting her tongue inside. Then he jerked away.

  “What the hell is that?” Stacy heard him shout just before she hit the water.

  Not expecting a late-night swim, Stacy gulped down some seawater as she flailed about trying to reorient herself. She broke the surface, hacking to get the water out of her lungs, and swam for the nearest ladder.

  Julian was waiting for her at the top, his hand reaching down to offer assistance. “I’m so sorry!”

  Stacy wanted to punch him in his blue balls, but resisted the urge. “Something catch your eye?” She accepted his hand and climbed back onto the pier.

  “Look,” said Julian, pointing at the moon, which was now obscured at the bottom by something square, with a little stick poking out of the top. It was like the silhouette of a cheese cube on a toothpick.

  “That is odd,” said Stacy. “I don’t know about throw-a-girl-off-a-pier odd, but certainly out of the ordinary.”

  Julian smiled at her. “I did no such thing. I was startled, and you lost your balance.” He looked back at the strange silhouette on the moon. “Do you think we should tell someone?”

  “I don’t know if it’s worth waking anyone up over.”

  “You just came from the hotel bar, right? The bartender should still be awake.” Julian started walking. “I’ll feel a lot better about it when someone tells me ‘Oh, that’s nothing. Happens all the time.’.”

  Stacy followed him, seawater sloshing around in her boots.

  When they got back to the Merriweather Inn, Dave was the only patron left at the bar. The bartender’s eyelids were heavy, suggesting he wasn’t accustomed to working so late. He looked pained to see two more customers walk through the door.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Julian.

  Rupert sighed. “What’ll you have?”

  “I’d like you to come outside and take a look at something.”

  The bartender narrowed his eyes at Julian, his right arm reaching down for something under the bar. “I hope you folks aren’t bringing trouble into Porttown.”

  Considering Julian’s vague request from the Rupert’s point of view, Stacy could see how he might think he was being lured outside to be mugged. “Just look out the window,” she said. “Something’s going on with the moon.”

  Keeping his eyes on them, the bartender made his way to the window on the rear wall of the Inn’s lobby. He peeked out the window, stared for a moment, and then his jaw dropped.

  “Merciful gods!” he said. “The legend is true.”

  “What is it?” asked Dave, waddling over to have a look.

  Rupert turned around, running his fingers through his oily hair. “The Phantom Pinas!”

  “The phantom what?” said Stacy.

  Julian stepped back out of the doorway to have another look at the moon. “All I see is a square with a stick poking out of the top.”

  “Those be her junk sails,” said Rupert, hurrying toward the front entrance. “I have to sound the alarm.” He walked past Stacy and Julian and out of the inn.

  Stacy looked at Julian, then at Dave, who was still looking out the window. “Did anyone understand a single thing that guy just said?”

  “Not a thing,” said Julian. “But he’s freaking the hell out about it, and that’s making me start to freak out.”

  Dave stroked what was left of his beard. “Didn’t that old guy at the pub before mention something about a –”

  A bell clanged loudly from outside. Rupert must have reached the town alarm.

  After a seemingly impossibly short response time, a big tiger came bounding down the polished cypress stairs. Stacy forced herself not to scream.

  When it reached the bottom of the staircase, the tiger morphed into the naked old mayor.

  “What’s the problem? Is there a fire?” He looked at the bar. “Where’s Rupert?”

  “He’s outside,” said Stacy. “He’s the one ringing the bell.” And he was still ringing it.

  Mayor Merriweather looked at Stacy disapprovingly. “You’re dripping water on my floor, missy.”

  Stacy remembered how fast Rupert had wiped up that drop of condensation from the bar, then considered that against the puddle at her feet. “Sorry.”

  The mayor stomped toward the inn’s front door. “What’s all this hullabaloo?”

  Julian stepped forward. “We saw something on the moon and came in to ask the bartender about it. After he looked out the window, he started ranting and raving about some phantom and his legendary junk.”

  “His penis in particular,” added Stacy.

  “What?” said the mayor. He narrowed his eyes at Dave. “Has he been drinking?”

  Dave shook his head.

  Mayor Merriweather frowned and nodded. “He better not be. He’s been dry for going on ten years now. Some folks just can’t hold their liquor, and I won’t stand for none of his nonsense again.”

  “There actually is something going on with the moon,” said Julian. “As long as you’re up, maybe you should come out and have a look.”

  Piper, the mayor’s assistant, ran out into the lobby, holding one of the mayor’s robes in front of him. “Mayor Merriweather! Don’t forget your WOOOO!” He slipped in the puddle Stacy had left behind and hit the floor hard.

  The mayor snatched his robe out of Piper’s raised hand and glared at Stacy. “There now, you see?”

  Stacy held her palms up apologetically. “I said I was sorry.”

  Mayor Merriweather, grizzled old man-tiger that he was, had no fear of walking into a trap or being jumped by muggers like his b
arkeep had. He tied the front of his robe as he strutted past Stacyto join Julian outside.Stacy followed.

  The mayor looked out at the moon. He squinted, then his eyes widened in shock. “Sons of Rapha,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “What are those little orange lights around it?” asked Julian.

  That was a new development. The moon, and the mysterious square shape obscuring a little more of it now, was surrounded by what looked like random, tiny bursts of flame.

  “Those be the breath of dragons.”

  Dave and Tony the Elf emerged from the inn, and townsfolk were beginning to gather on the piers outside their respective barges.

  “Tell me that ain’t what I think it is, Doogan,” said One-Eyed Pete, arriving on the scene with his chubby elven wife. Stacy got the feeling things must be pretty serious for him to be addressing the mayor by his first name.

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Mayor Merriweather. “Evacuate the city.”

  Chapter 30

  “Sir Randy,” said Wettle. “Wake up. The guards bring another false cleric even as I speak.”

  Randy had already been awake for a few minutes, but was trying to get whatever rest he could while his incarceration kept him from doing anything productive.

  “Now don’t y’all try to make a break for it this time. Just stand straight and tall, and I’ll see if I can sort this out.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant Moore,” said Hammerford. They must have put their magic rock back in its container.

  “What’s good about it?” boomed a familiar deep voice. “A full day has passed, and still I have nothing for the king. His Majesty likely thinks me a fool for having claimed to bear witness to a disciple of the New God. Throw this one in with the other heretics.” He stopped in front of the door.“Are the prisoners riotous?”

  “You don’t have to worry about them.” Randy knew that voice right away. It was Borgarth, the half-orc guard who’d escorted him to his cell the day before. “They tried to break out yesterday. We beat them to within an inch of their lives.”

  When the door opened, the prisoners stood straight and tall, just as Randy had instructed them. The half-orc guard was accompanied by a wild-eyed, shabbily-dressed half-elf and Sergeant Moore, the big colored feller who had first witnessed Randy heal Denise.

  Before Randy could say anything, Sergeant Moore laughed. “This is what you call beaten to within an inch of their lives?You’ve gone soft, Borgarth.”

  “Impossible,” said Borgarth, walking into the cell. “Half of these cretins couldn’t walk yesterday.”

  Wettle pointed to Randy. “He healed us! He is truly–”

  Borgarth punched him in the gut. “The prisoner speaks not until he is spoken to!”

  “Stop!” said Sergeant Moore, finally meeting Randy’s gaze. “It’s you!”

  Borgarth looked first at Randy, then at Sergeant Moore. “You know this one, sir?”

  Sergeant Moore glared at Borgarth. “This is the one I seek, you ignorant swine! This is the paladin of the New God. Why was I not informed of his arrest?”

  “He wasn’t… He didn’t…” Borgarth huffed and blubbered a little more before he was able to form a coherent sentence. “We sought not to bother you. His description of the New God was almost the exact opposite of what you gave us. He described the New God as skinny and hairy.”

  Sergeant Moore furrowed his brow as he turned to Randy. “Is this true, paladin?”

  “Like I was telling Mr. Borgarth and the other gentleman, I ain’t never seen Jesus with my own eyes before. I was only going by artists’ depictions of him and such.”

  “These depictions sound nothing like the description given to us by the prophet Goosewaddle?”

  “You mean the professor? That little gnome guy?”

  Sergeant Moore raised his eyebrows. “You are acquainted?”

  “We are,” said Randy. “Now he’s a nice enough feller, and I don’t want to get nobody in trouble, but I don’t reckon he’s actually seen Jesus any more than I have.”

  “His description was confirmed by the High Priestess Dailana, guardian of the Sacred Tome of the Gods. The image appeared on a previously blank page just as the prophet described it.She declared it a miracle.”

  Randy felt his heartbeat quicken. He was almost afraid to ask. “What does he look like?”

  “He is hairless and cherub-like.”

  “Cherub?” said Randy. “Is that like them fat babies with wings?”

  Sergeant Moore frowned. “The description I was given of the New God made no mention of wings.”

  Randy thought for a moment. “So Professor Goosewaddle described the New God as being pudgy and bald? That sounds more like Buddha than Jesus. I don’t want you to take offense, but is he white?”

  “He is.”

  “Well that’s one mystery solved. Folks back home will be pleased, I suppose.”

  “We have no more time to waste,” said Sergeant Moore. “You must meet His Majesty at once.”

  “Can I just ask a small favor first?”

  “What is it?”

  Randy looked around the cell at his fellow inmates. “I think these folks has all learned a valuable lesson. How ‘bout you let them go?”

  “These men stand accused of blasphemy against the New God, the god you yourself follow. They will stand before the High Court and face judgement for their sins.”

  “Jesus would forgive them.”

  “The decision is not mine to make,” said Sergeant Moore. “You may petition His Majesty for a royal pardon if that’s how you feel your time is most wisely spent.”

  “All right, I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you, Sir Randy,” said Wettle. “Good luck to you.”

  Borgarth glared at Wettle, but made no move to strike him.

  Sergeant Moore produced a black velvet bag from under his cloak and pulled it down over Randy’s head, placed his hand on Randy’s shoulder, and led him out of the cell.

  “Why I gotta wear this bag on my head?” asked Randy. The answer was pretty obvious, but he was nervous and wanted someone to talk to him.

  “You are not yet authorized to know your way around the palace.” Sergeant Moore’s grip on Randy’s shoulder was gentle. He only applied slight pressure to indicate a turn. There were a lot of turns. They went up and down staircases of varying heights, around corners, sometimes even stopping suddenly, then turning around and going the opposite direction. Occasionally, the scent of food overpowered the old-sweat smell inside the bag.

  From what he remembered looking at the palace from outside, Randy guessed that they had already walked much farther than what should be necessary to get from any one point of the palace to any other. Either Sergeant Moore was hopelessly lost, which Randy found doubtful, or this was an added measure of security protocol intended to keep potential spies or assassins from knowing the most direct route to the king. It occurred to Randy that such a measure might be counterproductive if used on a particularly clever spy with an acute sense of direction and a photographic memory. It would be just like handing him a map of the whole palace.

  He would have liked to share that observation with the sergeant, but couldn’t think of a way to say it without it sounding like some sort of veiled threat.

  Finally, they stopped. Randy was grateful that he’d gotten a good night’s sleep.

  A door opened in front of him and the air which flowed out was cool. Randy couldn’t wait to get the bag off his head and properly breathe some of it in.

  Sergeant Moore guided Randy through the doorway, and Randy heard the doors close behind him.

  “You again,” said a man’s voice. Any man who would talk so casually to someone as imposing as Sergeant Moore must be a king. “This is the paladin you spoke of?”

  “It is, Your Majesty.”

  “Then for the love of the New God, take that filthy bag off his head.”

  Randy hadn’t realized just how hot and stuffy that bag was until he breathed
in the sweet, cool air of the king’s audience chamber. Sweat ran down both sides of his face.

  The circular room was covered in white marble from floor to ceiling. Two thirds of the perimeter was exposed to the outside, allowing cool air to circulate the scent of hyacinth flowers. Randy knew he was at the top of the high tower. He’d seen the vines hanging down the wall from the outside. From up here, he could see clear past the city walls.

  A bald servant quickly approached and wiped his face with a cool, moist towel.

  “Thank you,” Randy said to the servant. He looked up at the man in the chair. He was dark skinned, and younger than Randy was expecting, maybe in his early forties. He had a receding hairline, but a pharaoh’s beard. Randy had no doubt in his mind that he was looking at the king of the realm.“And thank you, Mr. King.” There were some snickers from some important-looking people seated around a large polished-granite table.

  The king smiled. “Mr. King. I like that.”

  “You will address His Majesty as His Majesty.” Sergeant Moore was not smiling.

  “I beg your pardon.” Randy was sweating again. “Thank you, His, I mean Your, Your Majesty.”

  The king looked at Sergeant Moore. “Has he provided a description of the New God to you which matches that of the prophet’s?”

  “There were…discrepancies, Your Majesty. But I have witnessed his power with my own eyes, as have all those he was imprisoned with.”

  “Well,” said the king. “If you can’t trust a room full of criminals, who can you trust?”

  “Your Majesty, please. If you hear what –”

  “Show me.”

  Sergeant Moore bowed low. “Very well.” He removed his cloak, folded it, and placed it on the marble floor. He unbuckled his breastplate and set it gently to the side. Finally, he pulled his thick, padded shirt over his head, revealing a massive brown chest.

  Randy forcibly pushed away impure thoughts, but wondered how far the sergeant was going to keep stripping down.

  To Randy’s disappointment and relief, the strip show was over. To his horror and bewilderment, the self-inflicted violence show had begun.

  Sergeant Moore pulled a dagger from the sheath attached to his waist, and carved a nice, big line from his right shoulder, diagonally down to his abdomen, painting the lower half of his body in blood, which spilled downand pooled on the floor at his feet. And ain’t a one of them folks at the table said peep about it.