Death by Cliché

by Defendi, Bob

  “Then what’s a tiller?”

  Damico ignored them. “But I need to know where he is.”

  “The Overlord is everywhere—”

  “He made you memorize that, didn’t he?”

  “The Overlord is everywhere. He sees all. He hears all—”

  “Skip it,” Damico said. “You need to tell me where to find him.”

  “The Overlord is everywhere. He sees all. He hears all. He is the guiding hand at the whipstaff, the motive in the Heavens. He is the nightlight in our darkened room, the blankie in our arms. He is the mind that guides the universe.”

  Damico appraised him then sighed. The man’s eyes weren’t dead. Damico must have awakened him last night. That meant he wasn’t unable to respond.

  “Omar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think he’s getting enough blood to the brain.”

  A moment later, the reeve dangled by one ankle, his bald head buffing the dirt road as he swung back and forth. The little fringe of hair stood out around his head, like a koala. Damico knelt in front of the reeve.

  “I’m a reasonable man,” Damico said.

  “I can see that, master,” the reeve said.

  “Good, then we can have a reasonable conversation?”

  “I’d love to. Have you seen the beautiful seed we have for the winter crop?”

  “Maybe later,” Damico said. “Now, my friend is a hands-on kinda guy.”

  The reeve looked up at Omar, which involved looking down from his unique point of view. He grinned earnestly at Damico.

  “I see that,” the reeve squeaked.

  “Now, I’ve told him you aren’t getting enough blood to the brain. Let’s prove him wrong before he attempts surgery.”

  Damico came from a long line of I-talians. He reached out and casually straightened the man’s clothing.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “We seem to have blown up Hraldolf’s Heart of Darkness. Where should we go next?”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “That’s a very longsighted view. Look closer.”

  Omar thumped the reeve’s head against the ground.

  “He has a summer palace,” the man squeaked.

  “Very good. Where would we find it? You know, to pay our respects.”

  “North. A week’s march down the road.”

  Damico reached out and patted the man’s cheek. “See. That wasn’t so hard.” Then, with mock surprise: “Omar, what are you doing? Put this fine man down this instant.”

  Omar dropped him on his head.

  “Very good.”

  Damico circled south past Lotianna, seeking a clear view up the road. He brushed up against her in the process, and she gasped. It was the type of gasp that Damico usually related to more personal dealings.

  He looked over at her, and she looked at him. Her eyes were deep, intelligent. She was stunning with long dark hair and a lithe figure, but she didn’t resemble any actress he knew. Something had happened.

  And he felt weaker, knew somehow he’d worked his magic on her. She was self-aware, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He needed to find Hraldolf.

  But more importantly, he needed to get her out of the same village as Bunny.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Bar fights are trite.”

  —Bob Defendi

  lutonium keeps better in small, separate pieces. I think Gene Roddenberry said that. The same could be said for girlfriends. Bring two together and critical mass.

  Damico had felt good about his little tryst with Bunny, he still did, but he’d expected Lotianna to next become aware when she had a new player. A player with no connection to her past. A new person with whom he’d have to start anew. With Lotianna still an NPC but aware now, he wondered if she still remembered everything they’d been through together. No clean slate. The same person, just born-again. He still felt like he was in the right with Bunny, but he wasn’t at all sure Lotianna would feel the same way. Best to get the hell out of Dodge.

  They traveled hard that day, and twenty miles later, Lotianna seemed to get a bearing on this development in her head. She walked next to Damico. She talked with him too. He fell back out of hearing from the PCs so they wouldn’t interfere with Carl saying “so, that night…”

  He enjoyed it. For the first time, he was able to have a conversation where he felt like it was actually her he spoke to, not Carl. This was what had attracted him so much, at least initially, to Bunny. Real Human contact. It was everything he could do not to constantly invent excuses to reach out and touch her.

  …

  So, that night they reached another village at the end of the road. Not surprisingly, this one had a tavern, and when they entered, about half the people they’d seen the night before were here as well. The half that traveled in the same direction, presumably.

  They settled in at a corner table, Lotianna snuggling up next to him, Omar on the other side, not snuggling, thank God. Gorthander and Jurkand went to the bar, arms around each other jovially. Arithian transformed into a barmaid-seeking missile and set off into the room.

  “It’s nice how those two have started to get along,” Lotianna said, nodding at Gorthander and Jurkand.

  “Yeah. I guess you kill a man in an excruciating manner, and he forgives you, and you see him in a whole new light.”

  “You kinda got lost in that sentence, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but whenever I’m tackling a big sentence I take two Sherpas and a couple a strong goats.”

  “Good man,” she said.

  He put his arm around her, and she nestled in the crook.

  Omar scoffed and waved over a barmaid. “Hey, sweet cheeks, how about a brewskie?”

  The barmaid wore the traditional naughty Swedish girl outfit, but her eyes were anything but. She rolled them and smiled at Lotianna and Damico. “You want anything?”

  “Beer,” Damico said. “The lady wants wine.”

  Lotianna made a content affirmative noise. The barmaid smiled at them again and left to get the order, casting Omar a last, scathing look.

  Damico watched the top of Lotianna’s head, content. He was happy with the prospect of more happiness down-the-line. Maybe he didn’t need to destroy the world. Maybe he could be content, just like this.

  But… He sat bolt upright. “Oh, God, no.”

  “What?” Lotianna and Omar asked at once.

  He couldn’t decide how to answer. He couldn’t tell them what he’d just realized. Luckily, he didn’t have to.

  Because Gorthander and Jurkand picked up their drinks, downed them in one pull, then smashed the mugs into each other’s heads.

  “That!” Damico said, pointing and pretending like that’s what he’d been reacting to all along.

  Gorthander roared, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. People backed up as Gorthander picked up a stool and smashed it over Jurkand’s head. Jurkand stumbled back, cursing, then hurled himself into the dwarf’s belly with a clank that couldn’t have felt good to either of them.

  “What the hell?” Damico asked. He had just gotten used to them getting along. Did they draw their daily moods out of a damn hat?

  “It’s just a bar fight,” Omar said.

  The barmaid came back with their drinks, only to be bowled over by Gorthander and Jurkand, spraying ale into the air.

  “Son of a bitch!” Omar shouted, launching himself to his feet.

  “It’s just a bar fight,” Lotianna said.

  Omar pushed in and smashed a nearby patron on general principle.

  The place exploded into chaos. The local priest had grabbed a sword and was trying to attack with it, but it kept slipping out of his hands until he attacked with the blunt side. Another cleric had pulled out a Lucerne hammer and used it to lay into the crowd around him. He must have been an old cleric because they’d declared Lucerne hammers to be pole arms in the second
edition. He must have grandfathered it in.

  Meanwhile the barmaids crawled under tables, and patrons who noticed slapped them on the rumps. A wizard in a pointy hat, wearing the tavern dart-throwing medal, smashed some of the more grievous offenders over the head with his staff.

  “You think we should help?” Lotianna asked.

  There was a big table between them and the fight, and he was so comfortable with Lotianna curled up next to him he shook his head.

  “It’s just a bar fight,” he said.

  Gorthander picked Jurkand up by the ankles (he had to stand on the bar to do it) and smashed him headfirst into the floor over and over again. Arithian had crawled under a table with two barmaids and the giggling commenced. A small child ran through the legs of all the combatants, taking bets for the bookmaker in the corner.

  The dwarf cursed and threw Jurkand to the ground. The man lay there limply. Gorthander frowned, discouraged. He hopped off the bar, and walked through the fight, punching crotches and kicking ankles until he arrived at the table.

  “Damn,” he said.

  “You killed Jurkand again, didn’t you?” Damico asked.

  “I didn’t mean to! Who’d have guessed I’d roll a critical that big?”

  Damico shook his head, even as Omar shouted, “You killed Jurkand!” from across the room.

  Damico said, “You bastard,” but his heart wasn’t in it. He glanced back over at Lotianna, and the idea reemerged, the one that had made him curse earlier. He pulled subtly away from her before the dwarf could notice.

  He couldn’t let Carl know they were together. He didn’t know how he could stop it, but he did know one thing.

  The girlfriend always gets snatched by Act Three.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Fine. You can have another Hraldolf scene, but I won’t promise a good one.”

  —Bob Defendi

  raldolf placed the new Artifact into the secret compartment next to the old one, the one I’m not allowed to tell you about. Then he closed the secret door and left the dungeon of dungeons.

  One thing Hraldolf had learned the hard way: if you poked out the eyes of your architect when he’s done building your palace, you don’t just stop him from creating a beautiful palace for someone else. You also stop him from building a summer palace for you five years later.

  So Hraldolf’s mountain palace used the same plans as the Heart of Darkness. He’d called it the Heart of Light because evil overlords have the sense of symmetry of an OCD ward.

  He walked through the dungeons and up the stairs and eventually into his throne room. Here his toy-soldier guards stood at attention.

  He stopped, his feet crinkling the plastic mats. He checked his mask and walked over to one side. The men there stood, if anything, more attentive as he approached, but he didn’t look at them. His gaze was, instead, on the fine art that covered the walls.

  “Not Beaver?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” the man said, appearing at his elbow.

  He needed to buy the little freak a bell.

  “Why do I have fine art hanging on my walls?”

  “You like fine art, Your Majesty.”

  “Do I?”

  “You’ve always said so, Your Majesty.”

  Hraldolf considered, nodding. He examined the paintings of overweight women. The bizarre pieces where the man had one too many noses and not enough eyes. The picture of cherubs. Cherubs! He scowled at Not Beaver.

  “Take them all down.”

  “All, Your Majesty?”

  “Every one.”

  “What do you want in their place, Your Majesty?”

  “Why do I need something in their place?”

  “Otherwise it might look rather bare, Your Majesty.”

  Hraldolf nodded. The little twerp had a point. It might even be a good point. He considered.

  “Posters.”

  “Posters, Your Majesty?”

  “Yeah, about thirty-years old. Vintage stuff. Frame them. Light them indirectly—no track lighting. I’m not gay. Then maybe some art wire. Hang some nice smaller pieces. Maybe a bookshelf in the corner with knickknacks.”

  “Are you sure you’re not gay, Your Majesty?”

  Hraldolf spun on Not Beaver. “What did you just say?”

  “I said we will do it your way, Your Majesty.”

  Hraldolf nodded and stared back at the Throne of Skulls. “Hmm. You think maybe you could get a nice futon while you’re at it?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “I told you that joke, so I could tell you this joke.”

  —Bob Defendi

  he army had been building for a year—in the backrooms of taverns, in the fields of the peasants, in homes and universities and shops. It was the type of army that formed to take out a dictator. The type of army a boy like Carl would put into a game when he didn’t think the characters could take on the main bad guy by themselves. Deus ex bellicus. Pardon my Latin.

  They camped just under a week’s journey from the Heart of Light, anxious in an automatic sort of way. Ready to pounce, to defeat the tyrant, to do all those things peasant armies like to do. Or rather don’t like to do. Usually there are sergeants pushing them from behind. Often, they have whips.

  But this army had nothing but the will to put down a despot. Well, not exactly a will, but they had pitchforks. And a script. And several good songs and optimistic slogans like “down with the oppressor” and “make war, not love!” and “pointy end toward the enemy!” I have to admit, they didn’t “shout” with great zeal. It might be more accurate to say they “recited.” Or “mumbled,” honestly.

  They camped on the plains, all of them standing, staring dully into the fire or out into the night. They stood around, waiting for their next line. They wouldn’t have anything to do until tomorrow. Tomorrow, they would march precisely thirty miles closer.

  And then the invisible line between Damico and the first Artifact passed across their camp.

  It started with a sob and then a scream. Then three of the watch wailed hysterically. Weeping. Pulling out hair. Gnashing their teeth. All that biblical stuff.

  The outer ranks disintegrated first, one soldier after another standing up and wandering off into the night. Then the core of the camp started to disperse. Then the final groups of peasants, deep in their tents.

  Soon, the entire place was empty.

  They were peasants and students, not soldiers. They weren’t building a barricade. They weren’t expecting the masses to rise up around them. They were going to throw themselves against the walls of a well-defended castle, and there was a world of difference.

  And just like that, the army that was meant to save Damico, to maintain game balance, and make it possible to win the game… disbanded.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Okay, I lied… but I needed a chapter quote.”

  —Bob Defendi

  hey marched down the road without Jurkand again. Lotianna and Damico talked all day long, again well behind the rest so as not to pull the group back into real-time. For a while, they even held hands. He felt like a high school kid. Actually, there was a lot less awkward fumbling and blurted apologies than in high school. He felt the way a kid in high school wished he could feel.

  He didn’t know how any of this worked, but he didn’t think Carl could keep it all in his head at once. Damico was counting on these images only connecting with Carl through the eyes of the characters and the NPCs he controlled. Since he didn’t control either Damico or Lotianna anymore, he could only hope the things they did, the things they said in private, would go unnoticed. After all, if he did just sum up a day’s travel with “that night…” how would he perceive a day’s worth of conversation between Damico and Lotianna without going mad? Madder.

  Essentially, Damico tried his damnedest to hide from God. He could only hope that worked out better than you would expect.

  They arrive
d at the village about sunset, finding their way to a quaint little tavern with a large, beam frame and blonde-plaster walls. The windows were wavy glass like a snapshot of the heat distortion over a fire. A sign hung over the door, showing a rooster leaning back in a heraldic pose, its wings in the air in front of it like a rearing lion. To the left stood a plucked and embarrassed hen.

  “Carl certainly has an interesting taste in tavern signs,” Damico said.

  “Who’s Carl?” Lotianna asked.

  “I’ll tell you later.” He walked up three uneven stairs and into the mud room. He stomped his feet politely, and when his boots were relatively clean, he pushed into the main area.

  The place was full of people, but for once they seemed to be locals. Naughty Swedish barmaids worked the crowds, and Damico almost wished Carl would set a different image into his head. Maybe French maids. He really needed a change.

  They made their way to the traditional corner table, and Damico sat on the bench. Omar and Gorthander sat on either side of him this time, and he didn’t try to change the seating. Perhaps this was best. The barmaid came over to their table.

  “Welcome to the Rampant Cock—how may I help you?”

  Lotianna gasped, Omar choked, and Arithian chuckled. Only Damico and Gorthander laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Omar asked.

  “The name. It’s a heraldry joke,” Damico said.

  Omar frowned suspiciously.

  “Never mind,” Gorthander said. “If you have to explain it, it’s not funny.”

  “We’ll all have beers,” Damico said. “Make sure Gorthander’s is in a dirty glass. The lady would like wine.”

  The barmaid nodded and headed off.

  Arithian rose from his seat. “Milords and ladies. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their barmaid.”

  He then followed her, his wink predatory.

  “So,” Gorthander asked. “What’s the plan?”

  “We’re what,” Damico asked, “five days out?”

  “Something like that.”