by Drew Hayes
* * *
“Not again.” Glenn was on the verge of tears. His watery eyes darted between the glowing D20 and the spot on his chest, just above the heart. “No, no, no, no—”
“Shut up, Glenn.” Mitch’s hands were white as he gripped the edge of the table, alternating between staring at the dice before him and glaring at their dungeon master, whose smile hadn’t so much as budged, even as her eyes became cloudy and the book in front of her started shimmering with unnatural light. “It’s a trick. She set this up to fuck with us as a prank. That’s why she closed the shop for a change.”
“Oh?” Jamie blinked, and suddenly, her eyes were her own again. “Is that what you think is happening, Mitch? It would be nice, wouldn’t it? But that doesn’t explain what happened last time, with your old group. I think you know this is real; you just don’t want to accept it.”
“Fuck this, I’m out.” Terry shoved his chair back and stood, turning away from the table and lunging toward the door.
“I wouldn’t—”
But before Jamie could offer advice, Terry fell to the ground, the light on his chest burning brightly. No one moved to help him, and slowly, Terry crawled his way back to the table, whimpering. As he drew closer, the pain seemed to diminish, and he managed to haul himself back into his chair. The sweat pouring from his face might have been from either pain or exertion, but Mitch was in no hurry to find out which.
“As I was saying, I wouldn’t recommend that. Something tells me you’re more connected to those dice than you realize, and it might be dangerous to get too far away from them,” Jamie said.
Mitch reached for his D20, wondering if perhaps he could take it with him and flee. Unfortunately, it was stuck to the table so tightly the piece of glowing plastic may as well have been welded into place.
“You have to declare what you’re rolling before you can throw the dice.” Jamie was still unfazed, impossibly so, patient and waiting just as she had been through the entire game.
“I…” Mitch’s nerve wavered. What the hell was going on? What should he do? He didn’t like this shit at all, having some outside force fuck with them like they were toys. Mitch wasn’t just going to back down because of a few dumb parlor tricks and Terry being a weak bitch. It was the guy in the game who’d started this, which meant that they just had to take him out and all this crap would end. Fleetingly, some part of Mitch suggested that perhaps diplomacy would be the best method moving forward, but that instinct was immediately dismissed. Mitch didn’t back down, not in real life, and sure as shit not in a world where he was a powerful barbarian of unstoppable strength.
“I’m going to charge and attack the chatty asshole with the artifacts,” Mitch declared. This time, when he pulled on it, the D20 came from the table freely.
“So be it.” Jamie’s eyes closed again, and when they opened they were clouded over once more. “Roll your attack.”
* * *
For a long moment, nothing happened, and Thistle hoped that this day might end without any more blood being shed. Then Mitnan hefted his axe high overhead and began running toward Eric, seemingly unconcerned with anyone else. While he’d hoped it wouldn’t come, Thistle had been ready for just such an attack from the moment the trio had declared their intent to rob them. A dagger was already in his hand, and a large barbarian made for a relatively easy target.
The smart play would be to try and catch him in the neck and end this conflict before it started, yet something stayed Thistle’s hand. Eric’s words were strange, terrifying in ways, and it was clear more was going on than Thistle was privy to. As much as it made tactical sense to go for the kill, Thistle couldn’t help but think he’d regret it if the dagger found its place. Better to go for a wound, to distract the enemy and remind him that there were more threats than just Eric present.
Thistle’s dagger whipped through the air, slicing into the soft flesh of the barbarian’s arm just above where his bracer would have protected him, before the blade vanished and reappeared in Thistle’s sheath. He was already preparing to hurl the next one with a keen eye on Terkor and Glezidel in case they tired for retribution, but the scream that ripped from Mitnan’s throat stopped Thistle cold.
The bloodstained warrior had fallen to his knees, dropping his axe with a careless clatter and screaming in pain as he stared at the wound on his arm. Granted, it had been a solid throw, but Thistle couldn’t imagine it actually hurt that badly. The dagger had done nothing more than gouge a few inches deep. Painful, to be sure, but nothing compared to the wounds regularly suffered by any adventurer.
Perhaps it was a good thing Thistle hadn’t gone for the kill, after all. Eric had watched it all happen without moving a single step back. The only perceptible change was that his grin grew a touch wider as he began to speak.
* * *
“What the fuck!” Mitch was holding his arm, trying to stop the blood that was running down to his elbow and dripping onto the cheap carpet of Jamie’s store. It didn’t make sense. It was impossible. Mitnan was the one who triggered a readied attack. Mitnan was the one who caught a dagger in the arm. So why the living shit was Mitch bleeding from his arm?
The others were no help. Glenn was having a full-on crying breakdown, and Terry kept trying to yank his D20 off the table, panic in his eyes as he desperately worked to get it free.
“How does it feel? To actually suffer the pain you’d visit on others? To take the injury normally foisted on your puppet? To play your game at the same stakes that we live with every day?” Jamie’s mouth was open, but the voice was clearly coming through her, not from her. “Are you still brave? Are you still willing to risk your life to stand here? Because we are.”
Somehow, Mitch could hear the sounds of weapons being readied. The glowing spot on his chest started to burn, and as his vision grew blurry from tears, he thought he could almost see through the map to the creatures standing there: bloodied, battered, and ready to lay down their lives in battle.
“Jamie…” Was that really his voice? It sounded like a whimper, the kind of shit Glenn would let out. But it must have been his, because she blinked again and was suddenly staring at him with her normal eyes and constant smile. Only now, it didn’t seem like such a cheerful expression. It looked malicious and cruel, like all along she’d been patiently watching as they wove the very rope that would be hung around their necks. “Jamie, you’re the GM, you have to be able to stop this.”
“But that’s not the GM’s role, Mitch.” How was she so fucking calm amidst all this insanity? “The GM is just a conduit between the players and the game. We’re the voice of the world, not the world itself. I didn’t stop you when you murdered the livestock of villagers, or those same villagers once they protested. I didn’t stop you when you decided to go through the Grand Quest cutting the throats of the injured to steal their gear. I didn’t stop you when you challenged someone holding powerful magical items. It hardly seems right that I do anything to stop this now.”
“Are you out of your mind? It’s a fucking game, and I’m actually bleeding. There’s a chunk missing from my arm!” Mitch yelled, rising partway out of his chair.
“And there are corpses spread through the kingdom of Alcatham that owe their status to you.” Jamie’s eyes were narrower now; Mitch could actually feel how deep her hatred for him ran. “You’re always willing to throw life away when it’s not yours. What are you willing to give up when you’re the one who pays the toll?”
All rational thought left his mind as Mitch began slamming his fists on the table, snapping out a word with every blow. “This! Is! A! Game! You! Crazy! Bitch!” It was like pounding on concrete. Nothing around him moved. Nothing gave. He was stuck. Trapped. Cornered.
“To you, yes. You were handed a world with infinite possibilities, the power to forge your ideal person, and you used the opportunity to fill that world with pain and death.” Jamie stretched her finger out and tapped gently on the table’s surface. “There’s no escape on this side,
Mitch. You want out? You want to be free? There’s only one tool to get you there.”
The D20 was still on the table, unmoved from the last time Mitch threw it, showing a pathetic number three that wouldn’t even have managed to hit, even if the sudden arm wound hadn’t sent everything off the rails. He put his hand over it, knowing it wouldn’t move, but unable to bear the glow it was casting off. Slowly, Mitch sat back down in his seat.
“Terry. Glenn. Get it together.” Neither reacted, so Mitch reached over and slapped Terry in the back of the head.
“Ow!”
“I’ve got a fucking dagger slice in my arm; you think I won’t do worse than bop your head?” Mitch asked. “Glenn, you with us, or you need one, too?”
“I’m... here…” He sniffled the words out between snot-strangled gasps, but at least he was aware of what was happening.
Mitch looked back to Jamie, whose eyes were cloudy again, not that he thought it made any difference. She was clearly part of this somehow, even if he didn’t get the specifics. Honestly, just seeing her terrified him. It was all he could do to keep his hands from trembling. A little bit longer; that was all he had to hold it together for. Just a little more.
“We’re all taking the same action,” Mitch said. “And we’re all rolling at the same time for it.” He curled his fingers around the dice slowly, all too aware that once he kicked things off, there might be more daggers coming at him. For that matter, it could be arrows or crossbow bolts or magic... how had he never realized how dangerous the world of Spells, Swords, and Stealth was? There was no getting around it, though; the other two wouldn’t hold for very long before they lost their shit again. Mitch had to make the right move while he had the chance.
“We’re running away, rolling to try and do so defensively in case they throw anything at us as we retreat.” His D20 came loose, and Mitch lifted it high into the air. He wasn’t a particularly religious person, but Mitch still dropped a prayer to the universe all the same. With his life on the line, a little divine help didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
Chapter 57
Timuscor had seen retreats before, and what happened was not a retreat. The warriors before them broke in both mind and spirit, so fundamentally shattered that he doubted any would dare to so much as even touch a weapon for the remainder of their natural lives. Mitnan didn’t even bother to recover his axe. He simply stopped screaming, rose to his feet, and took off in a dead sprint, joined by the other two. Timuscor held his breath as they ran, unsure if anyone would take a parting shot, or if Eric would visit some other foul magic upon them. None of that happened, however, as the three would-be thieves passed the room’s entrance and entered the tunnel leading back to the dragon fight. He wasn’t sure that was truly a safer place to be, but given the power Eric was wielding, perhaps Rathgan wasn’t so bad, after all.
He turned away from the fleeing trio to find a tense mood had settled in. Timanuel and Chalara had grouped up near the gnome and elf in their party. Timuscor wanted to assure them that it would all be fine, that Eric was just reacting to the threats of the others, but he couldn’t. Right now, Timuscor had no idea just how far Eric was willing to go. Gabrielle’s death was fracturing his mind, and the Bridge’s power seemed to be seeping into those cracks.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble.” Even after all the strangeness they’d seen, Timanuel had still shoved himself between his friends and Eric. While his sword was lowered, his shield was raised high, ready to intercept any attack the half-mad rogue might throw their way.
“You are intruders in our world. You treat our plane as nothing but a plaything. All you have come here for is trouble and battle and blood. I’m granting your wish, really. I’m giving you the realest game you’ve ever experienced.” Eric lifted the pieces of the Bridge up once more.
Timuscor and Thistle arrived at the same time, both only a few steps ahead of Grumph. They stood in front of Timanuel and the others, weapons sheathed even as Timuscor brought his shield into position. Mr. Peppers took a spot even further up, trying to protect Timuscor’s legs.
“That’s enough, Eric.” Thistle’s voice was gentle yet firm. “I know you’re upset about Gabrielle, but these people helped us. Timanuel battled shoulder-to-shoulder with Timuscor to stop the golems.”
“And I poured a potion down your throat,” Chalara added.
“Whatever else they may be, they are good people,” Thistle continued. “This close, I can even feel the blessing of Grumble that surrounds them. Such boons are not earned by the wicked. The last three were justified; however, I—we—cannot allow this to go any further.”
Eric stared at them, face twisting unnaturally as unknown forces warred within him. At last, his hands lowered as he gave a small nod. “Intruders though you are, you still came to our aid. My friends are right... the sins of your kind are not yours to bear.”
The tension around them abated slightly, yet no one felt safe just yet… not so long as Eric was holding those artifacts with madness in his eyes.
“By the nine hells, what’s going on? Is Eric possessed or something? You all look like you’re ready to kick the shit out of him.”
Every head swiveled toward a voice that rose from an area where there should have been only silence. It was impossible. No one had cast a spell, and even Eric had been too busy dealing with the robbers to try and fix her. Yet there she was, climbing to her feet, looking more annoyed than injured. Gabrielle scanned her friends’ faces and realized something else was amiss.
“What?”
A sound like the chiming of bells filled the air as Eric dropped both pieces of the Bridge, throwing his arms around Gabrielle in a hug so strong that even she seemed uncomfortable. He held her like that for several seconds before pulling away. “Gabby... you’re cold.”
Her skin—at least, what little of it could be seen through all the blood—was still pale. And her hair hadn’t turned back to blonde, even though she’d released her axe. What’s more, there was a red tinge to her irises now, subtle enough to be missed but impossible to ignore once noticed.
“Yeah, I feel a little different,” Gabrielle admitted. “Just didn’t think it was worth mentioning when I woke up to find everyone having a standoff.”
Thistle walked over to her tentatively, reaching out and taking her wrist in his hand. He held it for nearly half a minute before releasing. “Gabrielle, I’m afraid you still have no pulse. While there will still need to be some tests to be positive, I’d say it’s almost certain that you’ve become one of the undead.”
“Huh. Well, the axe always did say it took life as payment. I guess maybe that last shot took everything I had.”
“That falls well short of explaining why it would turn you undead though.” Thistle was visibly shaken, eyes darting from the weapon to Gabrielle and back again. Finally, after a few moments, he took a long breath and forced himself to remain steady, if not calm. “Then again, we are dealing with a cursed axe we don’t fully understand, and there was a lot of undirected magic swirling about. I don’t sense any evil from you, so perhaps we should unravel this mystery at a better time.”
“I agree with Thistle. Instead, let’s talk about what these little trinkets you found are.” Another unexpected voice drew everyone’s eyes to the spot where Eric had let the Bridge pieces fall. A familiar shadow had fallen over them, as Elora stood inches away, hunkered down and examining the softly glowing objects.
“They’re dangerous,” Eric told her, apparently unsurprised by his teacher’s sudden appearance from nowhere. Then again, even Timuscor wasn’t that taken aback. It was her style, after all. “They can overwhelm a mind, show things we aren’t meant to see. I thought I could handle them, but it turns out that holding two was more than my brain could bear.”
He glanced behind Timuscor, to where the four strangers were still tucked away. “I’m sorry to all of you, especially Chalara. When I picked up that second piece, I sort of lost myself in the scope of what they were sh
owing. It wasn’t my place to threaten any of you.”
“Words are great, but you know, nothing says you’re sorry like turning off the glowing dice and giving us our GM back,” said the gnome behind Timuscor.
“Right. Of course.” Eric made his way over to the pieces, but before he arrived, Elora nimbly kicked one of them back with her left heel.
“I caught the first show where you lost your mind, not really looking to see an encore,” she explained. “Can you fix what you did to them with just one?”
“Probably.” Eric scooped up the Bridge piece at his feet, and thankfully, his eyes didn’t immediately start glowing. He held the artifact carefully between his hands, lifting it high overhead where its light brightened once more. It pulsed several times, and let out a flash that seemed to fill the entire cavern before vanishing.
“Did that work?” Eric asked.
Chalara nodded. “The dice quit glowing, and the spots on us disappeared, but my brother is still acting possessed.”
“I’m... I’m not sure I did that,” Eric admitted, looking down at the Bridge once more. “Maybe I do need both pieces, Elora—”
But in the theater of Eric’s performance, Elora had vanished from sight. And from the empty floor, it was obvious she’d taken the other piece of the Bridge with her.
“In retrospect,” Thistle sighed, “we really should have seen that coming.”
* * *
“Ugh.” Russell’s eyes fluttered open, and he realized two things immediately. One: he had a headache from his eyeballs to his asshole. Two: he’d passed out face-first on the module and everyone was staring at him.
“Hey, little brother, you back with us?” Cheri’s voice came from inches away; she was hovering over him. As he tilted his head, he caught sight of the worry on her face and bit back a comment about giving him personal space.
“Did someone bash me in the skull?” Russell asked, sitting up straight and looking toward the ceiling as the world tilted around him.