A World Called Memory

by M J Sweeney

  As we ventured to the first junction, the two open hallways led to adjoining rooms. The eerie wind was still subtly blowing, followed occasionally by some soft moaning and whispering. It was a creepy dungeon full of undead spirits, though I was less bothered with Marcus at my back. The first set of rooms seemed to be waiting foyers, or meeting rooms of some kind with small stone tables in the centre. There were two to each side, but nothing else of interest.

  The next area seemed to be a small dining hall of some kind. There were stone-carved statues set into the walls of this room, old and crumbling, mostly featureless. There were a couple of odd gaps, kind of like the builders didn’t have the time or money to finish the project. The statues gave the place an extra tomb-like effect. Our footsteps also echoed ominously in these larger rooms. There was silverware on the dusty stone table, silver candlesticks, cutlery, goblets, and plates.

  Many were scattered on the floor. At one point, when Marcus’s boot nudged a goblet, causing it to rattle, the moaning increased, and we heard a small cry. We tightened our grip on our weapons, but nothing further transpired. That room was a dead-end so we backtracked to the longer hallway.

  Opposite to the dining area, and down another short corridor, there was what looked to be an indoor garden with the remains of soil and shovels and wooden buckets. The ceiling of the first of two such rooms we came across was higher than the others, and domed, with a picture of a great tree and sunburst carved into it. I was curious as to how a garden could grow down here, but there was no one to ask. Again, there was another dead end after that, so we backtracked to the main passage.

  As we approached the end of the long hallway, with the oh-shit still out and tapping, I could see two more openings leading to more rooms. Suddenly, my arm was jolted with a sudden scriich of metal on metal, and the front end of the oh-shit was sheared clean off. What the—?! I thought I saw a blade trap flash before my eyes. Belatedly, I jumped back a step and bumped into Marcus, my heart almost in my mouth. He steadied me with one hand, his hammer hanging from the thick leather thong.

  “Crap!” he swore, a little loudly.

  “What was that?” I asked. “Did you see it?”

  “I… I think it was a scything trap,” he admitted. “Deadly and fast.”

  “Damn.” Involuntarily, we both stepped further back.

  Looking at my now damaged oh-shit, I saw the very end was bent slightly, with about ten centimetres now missing. I could see the tip lying in the dust and bones further down the corridor. The rest of the device was still intact, so it was still functional, though I wouldn’t be able to compact it fully now, given that the end was bent. It was concerning that my elbow leaves hadn’t twitched. They’d given no warning at all, not even a mild tremor.

  I shared a long look with Marcus and shrugged. “I guess I’ll do it again, and we’ll try and see it more clearly.”

  He nodded acceptance. Slowly I stepped forward, the oh-shit out again, and tapped it along the floor, not far from the wall. Nothing happened. Frowning, I stepped back again, not wanting to risk my limbs. Trying again, I prodded at the wall at about chest height. A moment before the action, I noticed a small yet discernible gap in the wall and ceiling—and then a great curved blade swung down, from right to left. This time, for a split second, the oh-shit and the trap were jammed together, before the oh-shit sheared again and the blade-trap reset with a loud snick.

  I stepped back again, my heart beating loudly in my ears. I’d played rogues before in other games, and had great fun disarming traps and figuring puzzles from stealth mode and so on… but this was a hell of a lot more scary. But damn this was also fun. Action was so good! The scythe swung down at just under chest height—you’d have to be really small to avoid it, and anyone caught side on would be split in two, leaving a horrid mess, no doubt.

  “Damn…” I murmured and I looked about. Fortunately the triggered trap didn’t seem to be alerting any of the denizens.

  “Cordaen…” Marcus was saying, “it seemed to reset to the opposite side, compared to the first. I think if you did that again, next time it will go from left to right. Like the first time.”

  “Right, yeah, well spotted.” My oh-shit was even more bent, but still had enough length left to try a few more times if needed. Better that than an arm or leg.

  “You have any disarm trap skills?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not really. A lousy five points.”

  “Ha!” I barked a short laugh. “Better than me. I’m on a big fat zero.”

  He chuckled slightly. “Now what?”

  “Bring your light a bit closer,” I motioned.

  With the light clearer, we could both now see the gap in the wall and ceiling. About three or four centimetres wide, obvious when looking, but not something you’d notice from casual observation. I thought some more.

  “We can’t disarm it, but maybe we can break it?”

  He nodded. We both looked back at the entrance, barely discernible in the gloom of the corridor.

  “Rocks,” I said. “Plenty of those upstairs.”

  Not wasting further time, as we were on a time limit—only a bit over an hour before respawn—we collected some rocks, mostly bigger than a brick, and opting for flat ones that would hopefully jam or break the blade. Using my Bag of Holding as an easy way to transport, we placed the rocks inside. Despite being soft velvet, the enchantment on the item seemed to prevent any kind of damage or tearing of the fabric—the mouth of the bag could stretch out to about fifty centimetres, so that was about the largest of the rocks we found. Marcus whistled at the item.

  “Nice. I’ve heard of these, but not seen one yet. You must have done some crazy deed to get one of them at low level…”

  “Yeah, kind of.” I didn’t say more, as I still felt a little guilty about it.

  Fortunately, the magic bag came with a classic self-regulating inventory management, so you only had to reach inside, think of what you wanted, and hey-presto, it was in your hand.

  Back inside we opted for pulling out all the rocks first. Then I had to hold the first rock up at about chest height and slide it along the right-side wall, keeping my fingers well clear of the gap. Sweating a little, I nudged the large stone over. Suddenly the rock was knocked out of my hand, with me involuntarily leaping back with a gasp. I shook my fingers a moment from the stinging reverb. The rock had landed back on our side so I picked it up. It looked more or less whole, just gouged along one side. I did it again.

  After six repetitions, with most rocks breaking and my fingers repeatedly stinging, one rock was eventually hit clean. The scythe blade vibrated around the top of it, trying to slide back into its niche in the wall and almost sawing through the stone wedge. Marcus was waiting for this moment, and with a great leap and swing of his hammer, he smashed it into the grinding blade. Suddenly we heard a loud spang, as some kind of lever or wire was snapped, and the blade sagged from its mount. The battered rock fell from where it had been wedged.

  “Phew.” Marcus mopped at his sweating brow. He seemed just as nervous about the traps as I did—which I thought was a good thing. His anxiety, plus a little bit of exertion, was making him sweat buckets. We examined the now twisted metal. It was almost two metres wide, hanging from a central metal fulcrum and curved in a half-moon shape, and was razor sharp. Hardened silver-steel—it didn’t seem magical, but if we could dismantle it completely, it might be worth something.

  We left that for now and ventured a few metres further down the corridor, going even slower now—as I tested the walls and floor tentatively with my bent-out-of-shape oh-shit. The long corridor heading north simply ended, but there were now two short corridors heading east and west. Marcus shone his light first down one, then the other. At first we couldn’t see any signs of trouble, but as we took a step in, without even needing my oh-shit, I could see more gaps in the walls. More than one. Quickly, I thrust a hand out to stop Marcus walking further.

  “Look there.” I pointed
for Marcus to see.

  “Oh, yeah. You have sharp eyes,” he commented. “How many?”

  I ventured as close as I dared, and with Marcus shining light behind me, I counted, “One, two, three… Damn. Looks like lucky seven.” We shared a nervous look. “Too many. Let’s try the other side.”

  Unfortunately, it was more or less identical to the west. I could see past both sets of traps—the short passages east and west seemed to open up into slightly larger rooms—and maybe either smaller corridors or smaller rooms off that.

  We stood at the end of the main corridor. “Seven traps here, and seven traps there.” I pointed to both sides. “I’m not sure how well we’ll go blocking them with rocks. I’m nervous about what could go wrong in that scenario if we tried.”

  “Yeah me too,” Marcus agreed. “I think we’re about up on our time limit too,” he added, pointing to the roof, and indicating the inevitable respawn. We had been taking it slow, checking this area out.

  “Okay, let’s head up and have a break.”

  We discussed options while we ate lunch and watched all the skeletons respawning. As we both felt quite fresh still after that, we killed all the skeletons up on top as quickly as possible, then ventured inside once more. This time, we made a thorough search of the walls and floor at the end of the long corridor.

  It was a time consuming process to discern any odd features, like changes to the walls, or pressure plates or switches, that kind of thing. We cleared the dust, bones, and debris, though the local inanimate spirits seemed to moan and complain ominously when we did. We didn’t dare try pinching any of the goods—there were discarded weapons and household items lying about, most of them damaged and falling apart.

  Right in the middle of the corridor, only one metre from the now defunct blade trap, we found a small area of raised stone—it looked to be a pressure plate. When I stood on that, nothing happened, but we thought it might mean nothing as the trap was now inoperable. After a bit more searching at the very end of the corridor we found two more raised stone plates. When I stood on one, there was again no discernible response.

  “Hmm, what do you think?” I asked Marcus.

  He scratched at his face, stubble showing through. “Not sure. But it is suspicious. Three stone plates, and three sets of traps. How about I stand on one plate, and you test out your oh-shit down this side?”

  I gave him a sly look. “I’d be happier if we traded places.”

  “Really?”

  “No. It’s okay, I’m just feeling a little chicken.”

  “Yeah…” he laughed. “Me too.”

  I could understand why the report on this place said you wanted a rogue in your company. So far, I hadn’t seen that a priest was strictly necessary. Deciding I’d just have to take the risk, I crept to the nearest discernible gap on the western passage. As I poked the oh-shit across the gap, the blade trap swung down, but only managed to twist the oh-shit in my hands. This time, my hands stung from the impact. A second later, the next blade trap swung down and across from the opposite side, then the next and the next. As all seven completed their cycle they each snicked back into place. I looked back at Marcus.

  “So that didn’t seemed to do anything.” I whispered.

  Walking back to where he was standing, I looked at the two pressure plates. One to the left, one to the right. “Okay, stay on the same one; I’ll go this side now.” I walked to the eastern side-passage, and again tentatively proffered my poor oh-shit. This time, nothing happened—no triggered traps. Marcus gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.

  Sighing, I stretched out a little and extended my oh-shit past the next gap, still trying to keep my precious limbs away from the first. Each one seemed to be evenly spaced a little less than a metre from the next. I could reach the first two without trouble, but definitely not the third. As the second trap didn’t trigger either, I motioned Marcus to stay put—

  “Don’t move no matter what!” I said earnestly, still keeping my voice down. Talk about trust. If he decided now was a good time to loot my gear—or my Bag of Holding—I was about to be a messy stain on the floor.

  After stepping across the next, I decided to run the last couple of metres. When nothing happened, I started to smile and laugh, turning back towards Marcus, and then… with a rattle and hum, a low sounding alarm went off. A gong? Bells? It was coming from the far rooms, now only a few metres from where I stood.

  “Fuck!” I yelled involuntarily and leapt back a step, unsure which way to look… but I could see Marcus, who was looking on with eyes wide. From out of the smaller rooms came… goblins. Lots of little goblins. You know, half-pint sized creatures, pointy noses, floppy ears, and lots of sharp teeth. But they were moving kind of strangely. They were also green, but not with a healthy sprite-green kind of colour. More like a sickly, weeping-puss kind of green. They had long arms and claws; nasty diseased-looking things. And they were shuffling and moaning…

  Zombie goblins.

  Marcus was motioning wildly for me to run, while I stood there procrastinating. Shit, he’s right. My feet took hold of me before my brain could catch up. I slid up to Marcus, but before he could run off, I abruptly stopped and held us both in place, one foot on the pressure plate just in case.

  “That trap works both ways… wait.” As more of the zombies came closer, they began to pick up speed when they saw us—or scented us, going by the twitching of green noses. I then noticed most of them seemed to be carrying some kind of tool, but also brandishing them as weapons—from small hammers to shovels, garden-rakes, callipers, and tongs. Quickly, Marcus and I got off the pressure plate. In the span of a moment, limbs and body parts seemed to fly everywhere.

  A few of the tools ricocheted in random directions, but none of them made it to us. There was not much left after that, except for a few goblins shuffling at the back. As the alarm continued blaring, so too did the blade traps—swinging rapidly across at one second intervals, back and forth, a veritable wall of death. These last zombies seemed to think better of approaching, and slowly crept back to where they had emerged.

  Marcus and I shared a kind of self-congratulatory smirk, but it was premature. Horrifyingly, the dismembered body parts, still weeping ancient fluid, started slithering across the floor, under the swinging traps, back to where they had come. Trails of slime were temporarily left behind, but even that seemed to be moving, if slower.

  We watched in disgust as each of the vivisected goblins—and all of their viscera—slid and slurried across the floor, back towards…

  “Respawn point?” I murmured.

  “That’s truly gross,” Marcus was complaining. I nodded agreement.

  We stood back a moment and waited. As no more goblins were forthcoming, we discussed what to do next.

  “I didn’t get any experience from that. You?” Marcus asked.

  I looked at my logs and saw that I hadn’t. “Do all zombies regenerate like that?” I asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “I don’t think so. Only green goblin zombie trolls do. Apparently.”

  “Is that a thing? Really?”

  “No. At least not that I’ve heard of.”

  “Green goblin zombie trolls. Doesn’t really roll off the tongue now, does it?”

  Marcus shook his head.

  “I don’t really have anything to burn them. Other than flint and steel and firewood outside. You?”

  Marcus rubbed his hands together. “Yes indeed.” He had a small backpack tightly fixed over his armour, so he unrolled that, picked through it, and pulled out eight jars marked as ‘holy oil.’

  “Oh, nice.”

  “These are specially treated also. I can’t make them, and the higher-ups in my church provide them for a fee. These in particular were an earlier quest reward for me,” he explained.

  Nodding acceptance, I said, “A nice item.”

  He went on, “They’re also more potent than standard holy water—these are a combination of holy water and flammable oil. They las
t longer and do more damage, but they can equally damage seelie or unseelie, living or dead. We’d need to be careful applying them.”

  “And only eight,” I murmured.

  “Yes.”

  A small plan quickly came together. The gong-alarm had also tapered off, with the blade traps resetting and hidden again once more. Simply enough, we performed the same first steps as before. Marcus stood on the plate, and I strolled down the same corridor. Once again, the low alarm bell sounded, and the zombie goblins shuffled out. I ran back to Marcus, and we waited until they were mostly grouped by the scything traps. Marcus jumped off… Splatter. Before they could begin reforming I threw two flaming jars—underhanded, to avoid the crescent blades.

  Mouths agape, a number of the gruesome dismembered heads were now unable to make a sound. That burned up all of the nearest ones. Next, I threw another lit jar at a small cluster of zombies still standing beyond the traps. Once Marcus jumped back on the pressure plate, I had to leap around the worst of the burning flesh, and slide-stepped in toward those still upright. There were about eight of them and about half were burning, as the first one caught had spread it to some of its fellows. Striking quickly with my spear, I sheared the first directly through its mouth, twisting the spear sideways as I partially severed its jaw.

  The fire going off behind me also seemed to cause them to hesitate a little, so I took advantage of that. Dodging back, a little closer to the heat of the flames, I deflected a couple of hammer strikes from one, then sliced and diced the rest. Between my speed and the burning, they had no chance. I had to be careful not to get burned myself—it did get a little hot, but I managed to avoid getting any of the oil on me.

  While Marcus waited, his eyes still large and worried, I tentatively poked and raked at the remaining flesh of the zombies, smoking torsos, heads, feet, and so on, and gathered the reeking mess into a pile. The fire had mostly gone out by now, so I doused the lot with the last oil, then quickly struck my flint and steel to get it going again. The smell was pretty bad, but not nearly as suffocating as smoked armadillo.