Fantasy Gone Wrong

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  Bits of decaying flesh were breaking off now, scattering in all directions around him as Zenithia completed her incantation. A ball of fire suddenly materialized in front of her, hovered there for a moment before streaking across the few feet that separated her from the wight. It hit with a dull thwump, seeming to light the creature up momentarily from within, then flames erupted from it and he had to jump back to avoid being scorched himself.

  “How dare he hit me, one of the Gray Brotherhood,” she snarled, gathering her energy to cast again.

  As Davon’s final words rang out, a bolt of lightning flashed down from the Barrow’s ceiling and struck the already blazing corpse. Galvanized into a parody of life again, it jerked like a puppet on strings as the flames became a raging inferno, then as three more of Mirri’s arrows hit it, abruptly the flames went out and it collapsed in a smoking pile at Tekkel’s feet.

  Zenithia staggered, falling to her knees as Davon turned toward her and began praying again.

  “I said cure her, Davon,” Tekkel snarled, leaping over the corpse to run to the wounded elf’s side. “There was no need for you to attack! We were on top of it then, dammit! Have you any antidotes left, Zen?” he demanded, catching hold of her as she swayed and would have fallen to the ground.

  Davon ignored him, continuing to chant and draw holy symbols in the air. A golden nimbus began to gather around him.

  “Ran out of them,” muttered Zenithia, her voice so quiet his long ears instinctively twitched forward and he had to bend his head to hers to hear her.

  “Tekkel, catch!” Hurga called out.

  From the corner of his eye, Tekkel saw a flicker of green as a phial twisted through the air toward him. Reaching up, he caught it, instantly putting it in his mouth and grasping the cork in his teeth even as he braced himself to take the full weight of the almost unconscious dying elf woman. Davon’s cure would be too late: he had to stop the poison now.

  He was aware of Hurga’s heavy footsteps running toward them, and the dwarf beginning to chant his own healing spell as the cork came suddenly free. Spitting it out, he hauled Zenithia around until her head sagged back against his arm. The acrid taste of the zombie antivenom on his lips made him shudder as he forced her pale ones apart and poured the noxious brew into her mouth. He held her close and still when she began to cough and push the phial away. Hurga’s silver healing glow bathed her in its light for several seconds, then faded. Thanks to him, her color now began to slowly improve: her gray skin was regaining some of the normal blue tint, but there was still an unhealthy green cast to it.

  “Drink it, Zen,” he insisted, caching her hands in his free one and forcing the phial to her lips again. “Dammit, Davon! How many times do I have to tell you I need you to monitor the party’s health?”

  “Not my fault my Turn Undead failed,” the other muttered angrily. “She was too close, she endangered herself!”

  “We knew you couldn’t turn this mob before we came,” snapped Mirri, running over to join them, an arrow sill nocked on his bow and now aimed at the Cleric. “You risked my sister’s life! That was a Boss, an Undead Mage. It was agreed you’d be primary healer and only fight when needed!”

  Zenithia struggled to push Tekkel aside as another coughing fit overtook her. Twisting to avoid the edge of the sword she still grasped tightly, he relaxed his hold slightly but remained supporting her as the green of the poison slowly drained from her skin.

  “Mirri, put that bow down now. Zen’s going to be okay.” He locked eyes with the other elf until Mirri had lowered his bow and settled the arrow back in the quiver.

  Davon had finished his prayer, and as he sketched the final segment of the holy symbol in the air, the glow around him began to shift, moving toward where Tekkel and Zenithia sat. The white light surrounded them both, bathing them in a sensation of warmth and well-being. Now he could see her complexion begin to return to its normal healthy shade of blue-gray. The glow faded, leaving him feeling energized again and his few wounds also healed.

  “I’m well now,” she said, taking a deep breath and pulling free of his hold completely.

  Suppressing his desire to hold on to her, he sat back on his heels and picked up his knives. This was the closest he’d been to her yet, and slim though she might be, he’d almost felt the gentle curves that lurked beneath the showy half-revealing costume that passed for a female Gray Elf Battle Mage’s armor. She was usually not as cold toward him as she was today, though. . . .

  He pushed the rogue thoughts of her aside and turned to look at the dwarf, now standing, flanked by their archers beside them, guarding them against further danger.

  “Thanks, Hurga. Davon, you neglected your responsibilities. You were almost too late,” he said coldly, then turned back to Zenithia.

  “He’s right, though,” he said, cursing himself for having to agree with the temperamental Cleric. “You took risks too, put us all in danger. We need to fight as a team to succeed.”

  “I told you when I joined that I was used to fighting only with my brother,” she said, her tone cool as she got to her feet. “It takes time to . . . accept that others will do their job as well as we do. And then they let us down. I will never rely on Davon again.”

  “Don’t be so damned arrogant,” said Davon, taking a step toward her, his hand griping the shaft of his mace until his knuckles showed white.

  “Don’t threaten my sister,” spat Mirri, suddenly lashing out at the Cleric with his knife.

  Davon grunted in pain, his weapon hand opening by itself and dropping the mace to the ground with a loud clatter. He looked disbelievingly at the blood running down his knuckles.

  “Stop right now,” Tekkel commanded angrily, getting to his feet and stepping between the two males. Anger lent him the strength to push even the heavier human back. “I’ll have no in-Clan fighting! You know the rules, abide by them. Both Davon and Zenithia were in the wrong for acting independently instead of as agreed. Take this fight to the arena if you must, but not here in Hell’s Barrow when the zombies will return shortly!”

  He stared at Davon until the large human slowly nodded, then turned to Mirri, the other Assassin.

  Slim, and with the same blue-gray skin tones as he had, the white-haired elf before him had a sullen look on his face. It was easy now he stood beside his sister to see that they were twins. He frowned briefly, mind going off at a tangent, wondering why the slimness of their common race seemed more androgynous in them than it did in him. There was a definite femininity about them both that he, his black hair shot with highlights of dark purple, lacked.

  Mirri’s pale gaze slid away from his and he shrugged. “As you wish, but I’m still watching you, Human.”

  “Tekkel’s right, lads, this is no time or place to be ar guin’. Did ye get the token we came for, Tekkel?”

  With a start, he remembered why they’d come here and checked his inventory. “Yes, I got it, Hurga,” he said with relief as he saw the parchment.

  “Then let’s leave this charnel house,” said Jinna. “Where to now, Boss?”

  “Who’s using the portal scroll this time?” asked Shannar, checking over his arrows.

  Tekkel relaxed a little and smiled despite himself. With Jinna, the young goblin lass, and Shannar, one of the light-skinned Forest Elves, he knew where he was. Longest-standing members of his Clan, they were always dependable, just like Hurga and Meare. . . .

  “Where’s Meare?” he asked, looking around the dimly lit main chamber of the Barrow.

  “Doing what thieves usually do,” grinned Jinna, slinging her short bow over her shoulder. “Turning over the corpses for loot.”

  “Meare! Get your thievin’ ass over here!” yelled Hurga, picking up Tekkel’s discarded shield and handing it back to him. “ ‘Less you want to be left here alone. . . .”

  “I’m here,” said Meare, stepping out of the shadows. “Told you I’d been practicing my sneak skills,” he grinned, tossing his head to throw an unruly lock of blond h
air out of his eyes.

  “Well, sneak a portal scroll out of your backpack,” said Jinna, digging him in the thigh with her elbow. “It’s your turn to use it.”

  “Ouch! You watch it, half-pint!” he said, rubbing his leg and glaring at the diminutive grinning sprite. “Your elbows are sharp! Where to, Boss?”

  “The Witch’s Cave in the Dendess Mountains. I need to give her this scroll and get the key into Iskahar Castle.” He lengthened the shield’s strap and slung it over his back.

  A tingle ran down his spine as he felt a familiar rush of energy course through him. Around him, the world took on a faint bluish tinge. “Hurga, hold the buffs for now, please. We could all do with a short break at the Witch’s Cave before going on.”

  “Good idea,” agreed the dwarf. “I’m a mite peckish mysel’ and could be doin’ with a snack and a drink.”

  “Fifteen-minute break, then,” Tekkel agreed. “We’ll be safe in the Witch’s Cave.”

  “And what does this gain you?” asked Zenithia as they waited for Meare to dig out his scroll.

  He cast her a surprised glance. “I explained it to you when we met up yesterday. It’s a quest to advance myself as your Clan Leader, and gain us the castle at Iskahar.”

  She stood silently, her face still, as if lost in thought.

  Meare activated the scroll, calling up the portal. The air in front of him seemed to twist and bend, refracting the flickering lights cast by the guttering torches that lined the walls of the chamber. A low moaning, like that of a beast in agony, began, building in pitch as an oval glowing rip formed in the very fabric of their world. The pitch of the wind from the void through which they had to travel rose, sounding now like a banshee in full voice.

  “That noise always sends shivers of fear through me,” said Meare.

  Jinna laughed, reaching up to take hold of the young light-skinned elf’s hand where it lay clenched against the side of his thigh.

  “Never fear, my brave boy! I, Jinna, the courageous goblin archer, will protect you!” she chuckled.

  Meare snorted and looked down at her, but didn’t remove his hand from hers. “Yeah, right. You and your empty quiver!”

  “Mock me not, Elfling! All fear my potent arrow spells!”

  “Pity you were out of arrows then!” he laughed.

  “It’s the multishots. They use ’em up at a fierce rate.”

  “I’ve plenty spare arrows, Jinna,” said Shannar, holding out a large bundle toward her. “Got these from the Or cish archers I’ve been hunting these past few days.”

  “Thank you, Brother,” she said, taking them from him with her free hand and stuffing them into her empty quiver. “Appreciate that.”

  Zenithia stirred, her brows meeting in a frown as she regarded Tekkel. “Ah, yes. I remember now. We get benefits from owning a castle—when you kill the Lord.”

  “He’ll kill the Lord, never fear, lass,” said Hurga. “We do it this way, like a Clan of Assassins should—through stealth, not numbers.”

  “Aye, the other Clans may have more numbers than us, but we beat them all in stealth,” said Meare.

  “I don’t like this way of doing it,” said Davon. “We should do it face to face, in daylight, not use the shadows and dark paths of magic to achieve our goal.”

  “Then time you be changin’ your God, laddie,” said Hurga gruffly, stepping up to the portal. “You been with us long enough to know how we work.”

  “And face the penalties? Easy for you to say. Your magic doesn’t come directly from your diety,” Davon snarled, pushing him aside to step through the portal first.

  His departure left an ugly silence, during which the others all glanced at each other, then at Tekkel.

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. I gotta do something about him soon.”

  “Not soon, today, Tekkel,” said Jinna seriously as she and Meare stepped toward the portal. “He’s gotten worse since Zenithia and Mirri joined.”

  Tekkel chose to reply privately to the goblin woman. “We need him, he’s a useful member of Cabal.”

  “He was . . . till our other Gray Elves joined. No one person is more important than our Clan. Your words, Tekkel.”

  “I’ll speak to him after I complete the quest,” he promised.

  “So what are these benefits to the Cabal Clan?” Zenithia asked as they waited for the other Clan members to enter the portal. As was customary, Tekkel would be last through and would see that the portal was sealed behind them.

  “Well, we’ll own the castle. That means while we hold it, we have access to the special rooms within it. A larger storehouse for a start, to store Clan goods in, and a craft ing room that allows all of us the ability to put materials together to make personalized and more powerful weapons and armor.”

  “That sounds a fair reward for such a bold deed as we pursue,” she said, smiling gently at him. “Do we all have the skills of the dwarves with metal and gems, and the goblins with their armor?”

  He nodded, suddenly aware of the warmth of her body against his. “Um . . . yes,” he said, trying to pull his scattered thoughts back to her question. She was leaning against him, and as he took on board yet another of her sudden mood changes, he began looking around for her brother while wondering if he dared risk putting an arm around her.

  She laughed, the sound light and pleasant. “My brother’s already gone before us. We’re the last. Shall we go through this portal together, Tekkel?” she asked, taking hold of his arm.

  “Yes indeed,” he replied, risking placing his hand over hers as he led the way.

  Taking the headset off and laying it carefully on the desk, Robin sat back in his chair with a sigh. On his computer screen the waterfall outside the Witch’s Cave formed an almost romantic backdrop, and Tekkel and Zenithia were still standing close, his hand clasped over hers as she held on to his arm. Around them the rest of his Clan sat or stood while their players took advantage of the break.

  Again he wondered what her real name was. Unlike the others, she and her brother—if he was her brother—steadfastly refused to give any details about their real lives or identities. He knew as much about them now as when they had approached him in Iskahar market six weeks ago. Since then she had by turns captivated and infuriated him as he’d gotten to know her.

  Her features were different from those of the other Gray Elfin women who were available. Hers were softer, more delicate, but like the odd touches in her kit that personalized it, and the odd spell that acted just that tad differently, it didn’t surprise him. He knew that some of the longest playing members on the server had gotten special bonuses from the Heroes of the Legacy game company for their efforts over the long months of Beta testing the game.

  The phone ringing broke into his thoughts and with another sigh, he reached out to pick it up. He wished she would stop blowing hot and cold on him, then. . . .

  “Tekkel, it’s Davon. We need to talk.”

  Resolutely he twisted his chair away from the screen and gave his full attention to the call. “Yes, we do, Davon. What’s gotten into you this past few weeks? You’ve stopped pulling your weight and become undependable, man. I need the old Davon back, the one who was a cornerstone of the Clan.”

  “Since the two elves joined, you’ve taken me off offensive duties and turned me into nothing more than a healer. I’m sick to death of it, Tekkel!”

  “What do you mean? Yes, you’re our main healer, but you are still one of our main fighters, you know that. . . .”

  “Bullshit! When was the last time you let me fight? I’m sick of playing nursemaid to the Clan.”

  “You fight every time we go out, Davon.”

  “If you call that fighting, yes, but I don’t!”

  “You aren’t a pure Fighter Class, you’re a Healer, and a Holy Warrior. You’re supposed to stand back and Bless the party, Heal them and Turn the Undead as well as fight off anything that comes too close to the other weaker party members. We all have our place in the Clan, our
speciality roles. . . .”

  “Yeah, well I’m fed up with mine. It’s gotten worse since you recruited those two, as I said. We needed more heavy fighters, I told you that at the time! You shouldn’t have . . .”

  Inwardly Robin groaned and glanced at the clock, checking the time. He wanted to be back before Zenithia just in case she decided to change her mind and move away from him. He zoned out, his mind returning to the elf woman as he half listened to yet another of Davon’s rants. They’d been becoming too frequent of late. Jinna had done well to remind him that in his own words, no one was more important than the overall good of the Clan. Davon was beginning to outlive his usefulness.

  “Well?” said Davon, raising his voice.

  Realizing an answer was expected, he tried to work out what it was. “I realize where you’re coming from, Davon,” he said, taking a long shot, “but I refuse to recruit any more people. The whole ethos behind our Clan is that it should remain small.” He tried to keep his tone reasonable. “We want the best, not just anyone.”

  “Are you even listening to me, Tekkel?”

  Robin winced. Over the phone, Davon’s voice was even more high pitched than it was in the game.

  “Of course I am!” Another glance at the clock—ten minutes left.

  “I finished talking about recruiting five minutes ago! I’m talking about me being the Witch’s sacrifice.”

  He sat up with a start. That he hadn’t heard him say. “Not possible, Davon. We need you to heal the sacrifice. They face real character death unless they can be kept alive until I finish my quest. They’ll die of the plague she gives them without someone with your skills to keep them alive.” He searched his mind for something that would persuade the Cleric to drop his request. “You’re vital to the quest in that role.”

  “You can get outside help for that. We know enough people.”

  “I don’t want outside help, neither do the rest of the Clan, and we don’t have time to find someone. We’re completing the quest now.”

  “I told you, I’m sick of doing all the healing and babysitting! I want to feel I am really contributing something for a change.”