Mogworld

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  The man standing by the throne finally spoke, inspecting his fingernails throughout. “What did you do that for?” he asked, with no apparent interest in the answer.

  “Er . . . I don’t really remember. I just knew that whatever it was, it had to be killed by fire. Anyway, I’m here to ask that we be given just a little more time to pay. I’m getting a postal order from my relatives soon . . .”

  The King opened his mouth to speak, but his advisor got there first. “Of course you can have time to pay. You’ve always diligently paid your dues until now, and we’re always keen to reward loyalty. Give this month a miss, and just pay double next time. Okay?”

  There was nothing but absolute warmth and sincerity in his voice, which seemed to trouble the farmer even more. His eyes flicked left and right. “Is that all?”

  The advisor still hadn’t looked at him. “I don’t know, is it?”

  “Yes! Yes, that’s all. Thank you, your majesty.”

  “Run along, then.”

  The farmer was deftly spun around by his two minders and escorted from the room. I couldn’t help noticing the ghastly look on the farmer’s face. He had clearly been running a lot of worst-case-scenarios through his head, and the fact that none of them had occurred had only amplified his dread.

  “Next,” went the king’s advisor. The king gave him a dirty look of royal proportions.

  “State your HURRAAARRGLAB,” went the monarch.

  “Mr. Wonderful,” said the advisor, daintily wiping the king’s mouth with a hanky. “What do we keep telling you about your interrogation methods? The information’s never reliable and it really hurts our image.”

  “It’s all right,” I sighed. “This is my actual face.”

  “I haven’t found a good nose replacement,” said Meryl cheerfully. “I had my eye on a doorknob at one point but I didn’t think he’d go for it . . .”

  “We have extrapolated that the suspects expired pre-Infusion,” said Bowg, just behind me, “and currently exist in a state of mobile expiry fueled by necromantic magic.”

  “They’re undead?” said the king, sitting up.

  “They are undead,” said Thaddeus, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the walk up. “I am a reborn spirit in service to a higher cause. I will accept no further interrogation, for I am exempt from the petty judgement of Man. Only to the highest authority of Heaven will I bow.”

  His statement didn’t impress as much as he’d hoped. A few nearby agents exchanged confused glances, as if a mouse had just marched into a cat restaurant and demanded to see the manager.

  “I am a priest of the Seventh Day Advent Hedge Devolutionists,” continued Thaddeus. “Answerable only to a jury of the High Pruners, in accordance with the seventy-third Judicial Treaty.”

  “Seventy-third,” repeated the king’s advisor. “I know that’s ringing a bell somewhere.” He stroked his chin theatrically.

  “The seventy-third treaty was revised in the re-appraisal of national policy in the week that followed the beginning of the Adventurer’s Guild’s partnership with the Lolede government,” said Bowg. “The document was included in the second bonfire of the third day.”

  “List the charges,” droned the advisor, bored again, after Thaddeus’ confident expression dissolved.

  “Quest fraud,” said Mr. Wonderful. “We’ll just give them the standard holiday package and go.”

  “Now now,” said the king, suddenly taking a lot more interest and sitting up as straight and noble as he could manage. “Our judicial system prides itself on its merciful nature. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

  This king was certainly an improvement on Derek IV of Borrigarde. I nodded as emphatically as I could.

  “The costs of the suspect’s fraudulent selling of Guild Points totaled over 12,000 talans,” said Bowg.

  For a moment, all was still but for the sound of the king’s drumming fingers echoing loudly through the hall. “Yes, well,” he said, finally. “Mistakes are made. Newcomers to our land often have trouble grasping the points system. We should be understanding.”

  “Their actions are also believed to have been a direct cause of the current economic crisis in Cronenburg,” added Bowg.

  The advisor looked up. “Really? Is that why there’ve been so many riots there lately?”

  “Small communities always bounce back from these things,” said the king, through his teeth.

  “How many buildings burned down this morning? Seven?” said the advisor.

  “Twelve, including a Guild facility.” corrected Bowg. “There were also eighty-seven confirmed fatalities.”

  “Yes, and we missed them for this,” said Mr. Wonderful spitefully. “Can we take the graveyard triplets downstairs now? They’re as guilty as all buggers.”

  “Let them go,” insisted the king. Every agent in the room instantly twisted their faces like they had a sour taste in their mouths.

  “One month work rehabilitation for every hundred talans,” droned the advisor, waving us away. “Usual arrangement, every five days of good behavior can be exchanged for free restaurant coupons upon release. Next.”

  The king suddenly surprised everyone by standing up, pulling himself to his full regal height and smashing the end of his sceptre into the ground with a conversation-silencing crash. “I,” he roared, “am the KING!”

  The advisor coughed, unimpressed. “Yes, your majesty, you’re the king. A noble, wise king.”

  “Y—”

  “So noble and so wise that he understands exactly the importance of the relationship his kingdom has with the Adventurer’s Guild.” His tone remained bored and civil but there was a lilt in his last few words that brought to mind a concealed knife flashed momentarily in a sleeve.

  His royal wetness sat back down. “Just take them to the damn dungeons,” he muttered.

  “Work—”

  “Work rehabilitation bloody center!”

  FIVE

  Mr. Wonderful led us through a labyrinth of opulent chambers and down the well-worn steps of a broad spiral staircase. As we descended below the surface the magnificent décor gave way firstly to the fat-streaked swelter of the kitchens, then the pungent haze of the wine cellars and the giggly squeaks of drunken rats, and finally the torchlit stone passageways of the dungeons.

  In adherence to some kind of unspoken rule among architects, the dinginess of the dungeons was in direct proportion to the opulence of the upper levels. The tunnel walls switched intermittently between ancient brickwork and natural cavern, and were too narrow to allow anything but single file. The fetid stench of corpserot and sewage drifted through the air alongside the anguished cries of tormented souls. Occasionally we passed occupied cells and filth-spattered skinny arms would reach out to scratch at us and tug at our clothes.

  On the whole, it was rather homey. It took me right back to the good old days of dungeon duty back in Dreadgrave’s fortress. These lacked Dreadgrave’s professional touch, though, as if the architect had been ashamed of himself.

  At the very deepest point of the dungeons, the tight corridors opened out into a huge underground chamber. The ceiling was too high to see, and most of the floor had given way into a deep black chasm. We edged along a narrow ledge that ran along a rough-hewn wall honeycombed with misshapen cell doors.

  “This one looks like your color, doesn’t it, my physically reduced chocolate biscuit?” He slapped me ringingly on the back and I stumbled into the cell. Barely waiting for the last of my limbs to cross the threshold Mr. Wonderful slammed the bars shut behind me.

  “Comfy?” he said, his omnipresent grin glistening in the torchlight. “Don’t hesitate to tell the guard if you need anything, he comes around once every few months. Well, have a nice decade.” He disappeared for a moment, then came back. “That was supposed to be ironic. I wasn’t sure if you picked up on that.”

  The sound of his pointy-toed shoes flapping musically against the rocky ground drifted away into silence. I sat do
wn upon the mattress, which was about as thick as a folded piece of toilet paper, and took in my new home.

  The cell was little more than a hole carved out of Lolede’s unyielding red foundation, probably by lowest-bidder contractors working with cheap excavation spells on a lousy deadline. I could only have stood up straight if I’d sawn my head off from the ears upwards. The walls were so uneven I could have used them for grating cheese.

  I lay back on the mattress. With my head against the back wall, my feet extended through the bars in the cell door. A sneaky rat nibbled a scrap from my toe, then dropped dead after a squeaky coughing fit.

  It was almost perfect. The sheer distance between me and the lunacies of the surface world was as tangible as a big, comfortable quilt. I wasn’t dead, but being locked away in my very own hole, in no danger of getting any more bits sawn off, maybe that could be enough.

  “Jim?” came Meryl’s voice from the cell to the left. “I just realized. You were the only one doing the frauding. But they threw all three of us in here. What’s with that?”

  “Your every touch leaves stains of blackness,” added Thaddeus from the cell to my right. “You drag even the purest souls down into the maelstrom of slime from which you crawled.”

  A little air escaped from my puffed-up mood. “You could have mentioned you were innocent at any time.”

  “I was kind of expecting you to.”

  I didn’t respond. I lay back on the mattress and closed my eyes—

  “Jim?”

  My entire face twitched. “Yes, Meryl?”

  “I’m a little bit upset, actually, Jim.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry, all right?!” I snapped.

  “See, sorry was all I wanted. Didn’t hurt, did it?”

  “Could you shut up for a while, please? I’m trying to think.”

  More accurately, I was trying to explore my implanted memories. Dying was the easy way to bring them out in a rush, but the dead world’s new look gave me the willies. Fortunately, the more Deleter communication I saw, the easier it became to access it. I just needed to lie back, shut out all stimuli, think of the badgers, and slowly it would . . .

  eally exciting project to be working on. I think this is the first time a game has featured total procedural generation in every aspect. Obviously we’ve had to nudge its evolution here and there to create the world we and the players want, but otherwise the planet basically built itself.

  HMorris: certainly sounds exciting

  HMorris: Of course another thing that has caused some excitement is the news that Simon Townshend has joined the team, who readers will know as the visionary genius behind Interstellar Bum Pirates

  HMorris: What has he brought to the table?

  HMorris: hello?

  sunderwonder: sorry could you hold on a second, I’ll brb

  IM sign out 2:28PM

  IM sign in 2:29PM

  sunderwonder: dub, help me out

  sunderwonder: im doing an interview and i need something nice to say about the dickhead

  HMorris: uh

  HMorris: i think you’re typing in the wrong window

  sunderw

  “Jim?” called Meryl again, her whining voice spearing through my trance.

  I kept eyes and mouth firmly closed, as futile as it would be. Refusing to respond would only give her more silence to fill.

  “Jim, I can’t get the bars open.”

  I gave up. “It’s a cell! It’s not supposed to open!”

  “I know, but . . . how are we going to get out?”

  “I don’t want to get out! I like it here! It’s nice and safe and a few seconds ago it was quiet!”

  A pause. “What about the quest?”

  “Bugger the quest!”

  Meryl paused. Then the pause stretched on a bit, and upgraded itself to a stunned silence, and then to a sulk. At that point, I opened one eye. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Nothing,” she said, quickly. “I just hate it when you make that giving-up talk.”

  “You know what? Me too. It always seems to jinx it.”

  Something tweaked my foot. “Hey,” said a new voice. “Wake up.”

  I gritted my teeth. You’d have thought I’d be able to find some peace and quiet in a sodding oubliette. “Who is it?”

  “A friend.”

  I doubted that. The only things I counted as anything close to friends were currently scuttling about laying eggs in my liver. A figure was crouched just outside my cell, dressed in a black cloak with a cowl that concealed most of their features in shadow. “Who are you?”

  “I trust you didn’t believe yourself entirely without allies in Lolede City,” hissed the newcomer. “I’m a friend of the Magic Resistance. They are still very keen to meet you and your associates.”

  A faint Slippery John-shaped bell rang somewhere in my memories. “Oh.”

  “Take this.” A little yellow shape rolled into the cell. “There’s a key to your cell inside that scone. You’ll have to find your own way around the guards, but keep to the servants’ tunnels and you shouldn’t have a problem. Good luck.”

  “Just one thing,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re the king, aren’t you.”

  A long pause. “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “You aren’t even disguising your voice. And you’re still wearing your crown under your hood.”

  He pulled his hood down tighter, and his voice suddenly dropped an octave. “I am a mysterious stranger. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Oh, come on. You buggered it up and you know it. Man up and move on.”

  Somewhere in the darkness of his hood two deeper pools of darkness implied flaring nostrils. “Do you know who you’re talking to?!”

  “Yes. The king.”

  Another long pause. “Shut up!”

  Then he disappeared.

  I remained where I was, watching the key-filled scone, making no attempt to pick it up. The key represented freedom, but freedom to do what? Get blasted to ashes by Barry, or sliced to ribbons by Mr. Wonderful? Failing that, just wander around until every single person in the universe wanted to grind me into paste? At least nothing in this cell was trying to light me on fire. Perhaps, for now, it would be prudent to stay.

  “Jim?” came Meryl’s voice. “Who was that? What did he say?”

  I picked up the scone. “Just the room service,” I replied, tucking it under my mattress.

  Everything was blessedly peaceful again. And there was still information in my brain to be extracted. I carefully lay my head back, waited five minutes for good measure, then finally allowed myself to relax.

  “Hey!” said a new voice, as something tweaked my foot again. “Long time no see, dead man!”

  I opened my eyes and slowly looked up. “Hello, Slippery John.”

  “Hi, Slippery John!” said Meryl happily. “We’re in prison!”

  “Slippery John sees you’ve made an enemy of the Adventurer’s Guild. That was Slippery John’s fault. Should probably have known you needed Slippery John around to protect you from them. Slippery John puts his hands up to that one.” He did so.

  “Who are they?” asked Meryl.

  “A big guild that organizes adventuring.”

  “Well, we figured that out from the name,” I muttered.

  “Slippery John means, they organize it ALL. Questgivers register with the Guild and pay dues. The Guild tells the heroes where to go. Questgivers hand out points. Monsters drop loot. The heroes do the quests and come back to the Guild to cash in loot and exchange points. The Guild sells the loot back to the monsters. Good scam they’ve got. There’ve always been adventurers, of course, but demand for us skyrocketed after the Infusion.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Meryl.

  Slippery John was clearly relishing a rare chance to sound intelligent. “‘Cos monsters don’t stay dead, do they. Right after the Infusion Slippery John got a regular gig clearing witch-harpie
s out of a mine up Skitterbritch way. Nice bunch of girls, actually, very professional, never wore any . . .” He made a motion over his chest with both hands, and seemed to go into a trance for a few seconds before shaking himself out of it. “Anyway, long story short, the Adventurer’s Guild started putting pressure on the mine’s owner, so he got sick of the whole business and Slippery John had to sign up for the Adventure Trail. The harpies set up a gentleman’s club a few leagues east, Slippery John heard. Slippery John hasn’t been, but apparently it’s nice if you’re into that.”

  “But where did the Guild come from?” said Meryl.

  Slippery John shrugged. “Someone had to look after the money. And then absolute money corrupted absolutely, o’course. They’re everywhere, now. Can’t move for agents and guildhouses. Slippery John heard they’re setting up offices in Garethy and Anarecsia next year.”

  “Can’t someone stop this?” said Meryl, pointedly.

  “What, like a hero?” I snapped.

  “A-nyway,” said Slippery John in a sing-song voice. “Getting back on track, the whole fugitive thing does add a bit of a spanner in the whole plan with the Magic Resistance, but Slippery John reckons they won’t be too much of a problem. They’re only an organized army of ruthless psychotics with limitless resources, but no worries. Slippery John’s licked fatter problems than this.” A croissant skidded through the bars, and his voice dropped into a whisper. “There’s a key to your cells in there. Most people just escape by killing themselves and getting another body outside, but obviously that’s not on your menu. Slippery John can’t help you any more than that, ‘cos Slippery John suspects he was spotted by every guard in this place on the way here.”

  “There he is!” screamed a gruff voice.

  “Whoops, gotta go. Meet up with you later.” Then he scuttled off, followed closely by a clattering group of armed soldiers in furry hats.

  “What did he say?” said Meryl from the next cell. “I didn’t catch his last bit.”