Another Stupid Trilogy

by Bill Ricardi

  Ames sighed and said, “No. The toothy one has a final chapter in it, apparently written by Sorch’s spirit. As some kind of reward from that bitch Omi-Suteth. And if it’s real and not some sort of sick hoax-”

  I cut the were-cat off. “It’s real.”

  I had no idea why I said that, or how I knew that. But despite all logic, despite not having read the contents, I already knew that this book contained Sorch’s final thoughts.

  Ames didn’t question. After nodding slowly, the cat said, “If it’s real then there’s a problem.”

  I opened the ‘new’ journal and started to leaf through the final pages. I asked, “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a blank chapter at the end entitled, ‘Final Notes From a Friend’.”

  I froze in place. I just flipped to the very end, and was observing exactly what Ames had described.

  The feline rumbled, softly, “Not final notes from my mate or my son. From a friend. I don’t think it was intended for Benno or myself. Leeson, you knew his entire history. You helped me save him when there was nobody else I could turn to. You lived with him at the University. I think the last chapter might be meant for you.”

  I stared at the mostly blank page in silence.

  Ames murmured, “I might be wrong. There were other friends, but he trusted you in a different way. Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “No.”

  I felt a paw on my shoulder. The were-cat said, “There’s ink and a quill in the drawer. I’ll be just across the hall if you need me.” I heard Ames pad away, shut first my door, and then shut the door to the master bedroom.

  I took out the inkwell and the beat up quill before pulling out that sturdy, orc-worthy pine chair and taking a seat. Before I set pen to paper, I read every word of Sorch’s final journal entry. It made me unspeakably happy to know that he and Toby were in a wonderful place now.

  With Sorch’s final thoughts, words, and visions fresh in my mind, I started to write.

  ---

  Well. First thing’s first.

  My name is Leeson Renault, and I was a friend of Sorch Stonebender. I’ve been entrusted by his mate Ames and his son Benno to write these final notes. I am of sound body and mind, and I hope that I can do my dear late friend justice with these words.

  I can already see how future sages will see Sorch, and they’re going to be right: He was a great hero who sacrificed himself for the good of Panos. And the exact same can be said about Toby McGoldberg, who is survived by his wife Tara and his daughter Janet. To any historians reading this: Sorch and Toby were nothing short of legendary. The pair of them absolutely deserve their esteemed place in history.

  But I don’t think that’s what I’m here to talk about.

  I think I’m here to talk about my friend, my mentor. My ‘big brother’.

  Sorch came from a life of near slavery. His job was to feed the Voodoo Engine the same spell, over and over again. And he very easily could have gone on doing that for the rest of his life. He wasn’t the first orc to live as an abused indentured servant, though I’m proud to say that because of his efforts, he was one of the last.

  So the question is, what caused Sorch to deviate from the path that had been chosen for him? Why would he risk his life, indeed his very sanity, for a couple of humans that he never met before?

  It was because when he saw Rick Bright and Will Flemming fighting for their lives, something inside of him was inspired. He saw two mages, on the road and trying to make their own way in this world. It was a dream that he never thought possible. Up until that point, that life was beyond his grasp. And he’d be damned if he saw that dream taken away from someone else, right before his eyes.

  He didn’t know at the time that Rick and Will would give him a gift that would change not just his life, but the course of Panos’ future. All he knew was that people were in trouble, and he had the ability to change that. So he did. Is there any more fitting definition of the word ‘hero’?

  I don’t think Sorch would ever call himself that, by the way. When others called him a hero, he would change the subject. He just saw himself as a guy who was there to get the job done. Sometimes that job was survival. Sometimes that job was to help one of the guilds that he proudly served. Sometimes that job was to protect his friends and his family. And sometimes that job was to discover knowledge, to learn it and to share it with others.

  But there was a reason that he was able to save Royal Moffit, and destroy the Voodoo Engine, and eventually save the world and restore magic for all orc-kind. The reason why Sorch was successful is encompassed by his mantra. Sorch lived by four simple words, and he spread the spirit of those words with every action that he ever took:

  Live a braver life.

  That was his final message to us all, and the one that he would want everyone to remember. Live a braver life so that the next guy has a chance. Live a braver life so that your family will have a better world to live in. Live a braver life, because someone has to stand up.

  Sorch was living proof that no matter what your station or means, no matter how humble your beginnings, living a braver life is the gateway to a better world.

  Because the bravery of one will inspire dozens more to bravery, and so on, until stalwart souls will stand against the darkness, at all costs. This is not only how you save a world from darkness, but how you build a world worth saving in the first place.

  I miss my friend, Sorch Stonebender. I miss his easy, sharp wit. I miss his fiercely protective streak. I miss his incredible arcane mind. Most of all, I miss the love and respect that he had for anyone who would count him as a brother.

  But he wouldn’t want us to be sad for him. He would tell us that the last few years of his life were filled with so much joy and love, that he wouldn’t change a thing.

  Goodbye big brother. I’ll see you on the other side.

  ---

  A Back Cover Scribbling

  This is Ames. For the record: None of this is my idea.

  Stuffed inside the back of this journal is a ragtag collection of stories and articles. You may notice that the pages have deep indentations. Those are the tooth marks of a crazy wolf.

  Several times over the years, Laoghaire has just shown up at my door. He wouldn't shut the hells up until I let him upstairs, and he would then proceed to whine at me until I added his pages to the back of Sorch's journal. He then eats me out of house and home, and I have the pleasure of shipping his fuzzy ass back to Arbitros.

  Why are they important? Don’t ask me. I’m sure that in Laoghaire’s addled little brain, all of this makes sense.

  Who lets a giant wolf onto a Circle of Transport unattended anyway? I need to talk to those idiot elves.

  Laoghaire’s ‘Tails’ - #1 - The Second Moon

  Excerpt from ‘The Divine Fiat’ by Lew Rush - Ice House Religious Press

  It is said that there is a second moon circling Panos; a moon that nobody sees. The clergy of Melflavin, using their wonderful lenses and other scientific toys, says that they have enough physical evidence to prove that a second celestial body orbits around us.

  Why, then, do we never see this second orb in the sky? Apparently it is located directly behind the first moon at all times. Over time their orbits have somehow become locked to one another in perfect harmony. And for some reason the second moon, presumably smaller than the first, is not crashing into the larger one. Perhaps it is too distant, or perhaps other celestial influences are simply stronger than any attraction between the two moons.

  And now perhaps an even bigger ‘why’: Why am I talking about moons in a text about religion?

  Yvaroline the Banished.

  Yvaroline the Banished was the old orcish god destruction. Mentions of this god within the orc community are rare, because his name was to be stricken from all records. Effectively, Yvaroline was erased from orcish history. However elven records from prior to the First Great War do shed some light on this particular subject.

  It is said
that Yvaroline originally agreed to the accord of the gods. But the resulting detente was so boring to the orc, he actively sought out ways to torment the other gods. Yvaroline started to ignore Panos itself, drawing power directly from the heavens and the underworld. He corrupted demons and even certain angels, enticing them to ignore the great game and worship him directly. After amassing a great army, Yvaroline start attacking the strongholds of the gods themselves.

  Yvaroline ultimately failed in his attempts at deicide (the act of murdering a god), and thus earned the second part of his name. He was banished to a place where none could see him. It is said that he is tethered to a great mountain in the sky, tormented by both fire and ice on a daily basis. The other orcish gods forbade their people from even speaking his name. It came to pass that the symbol of Yvaroline the Banished evoked an unnatural, irrational rage in others. These measures have been effective in suppressing any active worship of Yvaroline on the face of Panos.

  So where is the final resting place of Yvaroline? Where is this great mountain in the sky?

  Well nobody knows for certain. However, it is said that there is a second moon circling Panos; a moon that nobody sees…

  Isn’t it lovely when a story comes full circle?

  Laoghaire’s ‘Tails’ - #2 - Avatars of the Gods

  Excerpt from ‘The Divine Fiat’ by Lew Rush - Ice House Religious Press

  Most accounts of direct contact with the divine take place within the mind. A worshiper or clergy member will pray to their god or goddess (or demon or demoness), and in exceedingly rare cases, they will be granted an audience. This audience takes place in some kind of ideal mental realm, where the direction and context of the divine interaction is heavily steered by the petitioner’s own mind. Those who have received multiple divine interactions claim that it gets ‘easier’ each time. With a more relaxed mental state, the mortal’s interaction with their god becomes casual, almost matter-of-fact.

  However, in exceedingly rare cases, a god, goddess, demon, or demoness is forced to seek out someone upon the mortal realm who does not necessarily have the means or desire to execute a mental petition. One must imagine that these visitations are strictly controlled by whatever agreements and wagers that the pantheon has in place. Historical and religious texts certainly aren’t littered with stories of direct visitation from the gods.

  The staggering power of divinity cannot be allowed to simply float around on the surface of Panos. So, at least according to the rare recorded tales of such visitations, the god wraps some kind of physical form around themselves. This might be a created shell, or it might involve the possession of a loyal follower.

  The physical embodiment of a god walking the face of panos is called an ‘avatar’. Avatars are simultaneously the consciousness of a divine entity, as well as a high priest serving in their name. They can, presumably within the limitations set forth in certain celestial accords, act as a conduit of power similar to the prayers granted to the archbishops of various faiths.

  Some uses of an avatar are incredibly subtle, consisting of using a mortal tongue to speak their words, and then withdrawing. Other avatars are quite unsubtle, announcing themselves loudly and living amongst their people for weeks or seasons at a time.

  A mortal falsifying such a divine visitation is universally censured. Every major religious organization condemns the faking of an avatar’s visit. The result of being caught impersonating the manifestation of a god is, historically speaking, quite horrific and most often fatal.

  Those are the rules of mortals of course. It is quite unclear how the pantheon determines the ‘legitimate’ use of an avatar on the face of Panos. One might think that this falls into the realm of that mysterious overseer that I have theorized about. But as I have no direct evidence to support such a claim, I will simply join the reader in contemplating this mystery.

  Laoghaire’s ‘Tails’ - #3 - Master and Apprentice

  Excerpt from ‘Out of the Rathole’ by Wendell Hines - Second Burrough Press

  The longsword was nearly bigger than I was, but years of practice allowed me to wield it like no other wererat had before. The buckler was heavy upon my forearm, but intense endurance training allowed me to fight through the burning strain that would have forced lesser men to quit. The freezing rain falling from a black sky in solid sheets would have been an excuse for others. But not for me. I would burn it away with the grace of Aro-Remset, with the intensity of my convictions, and with my anger.

  With me, anger was never in short supply.

  I spun in the mud, the grip of my hind claws allowing me to deliver yet another punishing backslash to the abused training dummy. At the end of my rotation, I lifted my armored knee sharply. My reward was a satisfying ‘crack’ when it impacted with my opponent’s wooden shin. A real foe wouldn’t be walking away from that.

  I ignored the raindrops cascading down my whiskers. There were four more attack sequences in this kata, and I would finish them before I even contemplated a rest. After going back to the starting point, I launched myself into the next series of moves. Thrust into feint. Parry and roll right. Slash high, followed by a shield bash to the gut.

  I heard the telltale sound of leather straps snapping even before I felt the buckler hanging loosely from my forearm. I came to a halt in front of the old training dummy. For a moment, all I could do was stare down at my damaged shield. My entire body started to shake, and sadly the cold rain had nothing to do with it.

  “You gods damned, pus soaked, worthless piece of rusty scrap!”

  Before my words could even echo back at me in the empty training courtyard, I heard a sharp reply.

  “Wendell!”

  Immediately, I regretted my outburst. I had heard the one voice on Panos that could make me feel genuine shame in situations like this.

  I raised my head towards the silhouette standing under the nearby covered walkway. I couldn’t see her clearly with the rain and other liquid in my eyes. But I already knew that it was Lady Tara, my dead master’s wife, and my last friend within the Order of the Snow.

  When I had control over my voice again, I called over, “I apologise m’lady, there is no excuse for that.”

  “Get over here.” was her reply.

  I joined the minotaur on the sheltered pathway. I knew before I wiped my eyes that she would look sad. Probably because I was a huge disappointment.

  Even when Toby was still alive, I could be described as a screw up. I was the smallest trainee among the new paladins, of course. But that was the least of my problems. I would argue with trainers. My relationship with Aro-Remset was... ‘turbulent’, to put it kindly. And I couldn’t seem to put my anger behind me, even when things were going well. I was shocked when Toby chose me as his apprentice. Honestly, I never knew what he saw in me.

  At least I could do my best to be respectful to his widow. So I waited quietly in front of the tall cleric, jaw clenched tightly to prevent me from saying anything stupid. She must have considered me a truly pathetic creature: Standing there in ill-fitting chainmail, shield busted, barefoot and muddy, eyes downcast in shame. And of course, dripping like a drowned rat.

  I felt the minotaur’s big hand on my shoulder. Then she said the four words that always calmed my mind and soul.

  “What would Toby do?”

  I let out a held breath. ‘What would Toby do?’ had been our mantra since the big man passed on. Tara said it when she was feeling lost, and looking into the eyes of their baby daughter Janet. I said it when I was right on the edge and needed something, anything to drag me back onto the path of righteousness. We said it to each other in our moments of weakness.

  After a few moments of contemplation, I murmured, “He would get out of the rain, set the buckler aside for later repair, and regain his strength.”

  Wordlessly, I allowed Tara to lead me into the Temple and steer me over towards the old squire’s tower. Since other people were around, I made a conscious effort to keep my whiplike tail from draggin
g. In the entry foyer, we found a spot next to the fireplace. We weren’t alone. Candidates, apprentices, and squires used the old tower as a place of solitude and restoration. Even the bravest of paladins needed a place where it was okay to be weak for a while.

  Tara’s big fingers deftly tugged at the leather straps and chain hooks that were holding me together. With her help, I created a pile of armor and clothing on the raised hearth stone. The minotaur murmured, “I’ll find a towel. If you aren’t too tired, take human form. It will be easier to dry.”

  She was right as always. I crouched and closed my eyes. Knowing that others around the room were resting, I intentionally slowed down the transformation. There was no need to send sounds of cracking bone and melting flesh throughout the foyer. Slowly, my gray fur withdrew, leaving only tanned brown skin. My leathery tail fused into my lower spine and disappeared. Pointed rat ears slid down the sides of my skull, managing to round themselves out some before coming to a rest. My jaw popped quietly and the muzzle receded as my face took on more human aspects. Short cropped black hair adorned my head. Curlier patches of dark fuzz graced my short, muscular body. This coat of ‘fur’ was perhaps a bit thicker than what a typical human might have, but still within the realm of normality.

  By the time I was done, Tara was waiting behind me with a worn tan towel. She dried my hair briskly, before handing me the thirsty cloth so that I could finish recovering from my losing battle with the elements. When I completed the drying process, I wrapped the towel around my waist and sat in one of the padded chairs.

  The big cleric took the larger chair right next to mine. She murmured, “Are you alright now, Wendell?”

  I couldn’t lie. “No, ma’am.”

  She combed my damp human hair with those big fingers. She said, “Tell me why.”

  “Because I’m angry all the time and I have no impulse control.”