Fasster smirked and leapt from his perch, rusty blade high overhead. This was it. With all his might, he swung it at the bear’s skull as he descended.
The blow sent a numbing shock up his arm, as if he’d struck a granite boulder instead of a bear’s skull.
He landed awkwardly and stumbled into Hig-Tuli’s rump. The stink of carrion and dank unmentionable excretions filled his nose. Roars and curses continued to whirl like a tornado of clashing metal and screams.
Someone grabbed hold of Fasster and yanked him back. Hig-Tuli’s claw swiped through the air, fanning Fasster’s hair back with a death whisper.
So close. But he was still alive.
System Temperature Alarm: 90°C
But how could Hig-Tuli still live? He had delivered the killing blow with the Sword of Absolute, Total, and Utter Invincibility.
“It doesn’t work,” he cried, casting a hateful look at the sword.
Krahp suddenly shrieked like a nine-year-old girl on a roller coaster. A second later his body struck the wall near Dalf and slid to the floor. He did not move again.
Jaconde was shaking Fasster and saying something he couldn’t hear.
“What?” Fasster cried.
She put her mouth to his ear. “The sword won’t work against her.”
“Why?”
“No magic can reach her.”
The red-cloaked druid had pulled him out of immediate danger. But with Krahp down, Hig-Tuli was making short work of the remaining raiders. The knight and the dwarf were already dead and mangled. As he watched, their bodies disappeared into the glowing blue light that meant the characters were being revived at some distant graveyard.
“Perhaps we should retreat,” Jaconde said. She didn’t sound disappointed or upset. Just matter-of-fact.
He jerked her hand from his shoulder, furious. Once his rig cooled he was going to have it out with that quest-giver Nym. Hadn’t the little kitty told him he needed a powerful ally? Well, here he was, raiding with the most powerful players he’d ever seen. What good had it done him?
With disgust and bitter anger in his heart, he flung the sword away from him. It glanced from the stone wall with a spark and clattered to the ground. He started to draw his bow. Maybe if he got two eye shots…
Jaconde’s whisper suddenly filled his head. “The beast will be vanquished by no weapon, magical or common.” She pressed a hand to his forehead, just like his mom used to do when she checked him for a fever. “Remember what Nym told you was your quest. Perhaps focus on that instead of Hig-Tuli.”
In an instant, Jaconde was gone, leaving only the hint of her perfume and the quickly fading ring of windchimes.
Her words continued to swirl in his mind until they began to coalesce into a totally new idea. Like the first tiny pebble that starts an avalanche.
He recalled Nym’s exact words. He’d certainly heard them enough times. But now he truly heard them. “Hig-Tuli guards a treasure rare, a relic sacred and powerful: the Talisman of the Heart. Slay the beast and bring me the Talisman. Complete this quest and I shall grant you a boon.”
Slay the beast…
What if the “beast” wasn’t Hig-Tuli?
Certainty hit him like a mace to the head. Fasster’s eyes lifted to the monster just in time to see her take out all three witches with one blow. Their bodies plumed into black smoke and seemed to retreat from the cave as if being sucked into a great vacuum cleaner.
“Fasster, to me. I’ll pull you up.” Dalf still stood atop the ledge by the secret tunnel. He lowered his staff for Fasster to grasp.
The bear lumbered between them, blocking escape.
But Fasster needed no escape.
System Temperature Alarm: 91°C
Slowly he pulled his bow from his shoulder and set it on the floor. He did the same with his quiver of arrows. Swallowing hard, he took a step toward the bear. Arms out, palms forward, he bowed.
“What are you doing?” cried Dalf. Desperate, he fired a bolt of lightning. It struck the bear but bounced off with a weak sizzle.
Fasster straightened, and met the bear’s gaze. Though his guts felt like they’d turned to water and his heart rammed in his chest, he kept a smile on his face. “Well met, Hig-Tuli. I am in search of a powerful ally.”
The red glow of Rage Might faded from the great bear’s eyes, replaced by golden warmth. She dropped to all fours and bent a foreleg as she nodded in a bow. “And you have found one.”
Dalf swore and jumped down from the ledge. “You cannot be serious!”
Hig-Tuli sat and licked a forepaw. Eyes squinting, she made a spitting noise. “Oh, how I detest the taste of blood.”
Now that she was calm, the Rage Bear of Dellar’s Cave looked more like a giant stuffed animal than the indomitable end-of-level boss she was.
“I seek the Talisman of the Heart.”
“Why did you not just ask?” Hig-Tuli said wearily. The arrows in her hide fell out and clinked on the floor, the wounds healed.
“Nym made it sound like I had to kill you.”
Like a weary human, the bear blew out a great sigh. “That explains the recent onslaught of lunatics storming in here. Nym is such a naughty little kitty. I shall have to speak to her.”
System Temperature Alarm: 92°C
“The Talisman of the Heart?” Fasster prompted, already preparing his exit from the game.
The bear shrugged, paws up. “Oh, you are it. Everyone is.”
* * *
A half hour later, after Fasster’s system had cooled to safe levels, he left Nodo grazing along the bank of the creek, enjoying the thick, juicy grass that grew there. His tail wagged in delight. Ahead stood Nym’s willow.
Fasster approached, smiling to himself, proud to have finally fulfilled the quest. But he didn’t feel any of the smugness he’d expected to feel. In truth, he didn’t know what he felt. He was still musing over what it meant that he was the Talisman of the Heart.
Nym was not lounging against the willow this time. Instead, the little cat-like being was pacing back and forth, angrily tugging at the bottom of its waistcoat and shaking an angry paw at someone behind the willow’s trunk. “I knew it was you. I just knew it!”
An answering voice brought Fasster up short. It was Jaconde. “You’ve had your fill of fun at the expense of that poor young lad.”
Nym cried out, “But he was so easy to manipulate. I could have watched him get pummeled to death for an age and never weary of it.” Paws on hips, Nym’s mouth twisted with disgust. “And don’t give me that ‘poor young lad’ nonsense. As if you care about a ridiculous human.”
“Believe what you want.”
“You just couldn’t bear to see me enjoying myself. That’s why you followed me out of the Realm and into this foolish game.”
Jaconde’s chimes climbed in pitch, suggesting amusement. “I’ll admit, it was pleasurable to foil your fun. But if I helped the lad improve himself along the way, all the better.”
“He is dedicated, I’ll give him that,” Nym said in grudging tones.
“And his heart is true. I assume you never had a boon to give him, so I prepared one myself.”
A delicate hand appeared from behind the willow trunk and placed a tiny object into Nym’s.
“You’ve won this time,” Nym said. “But somewhere, sometime…” She stomped a little cat paw and crossed her arms. “She never lets me have the last word! Come here, Fasster. She’s gone.”
Startled, Fasster approached the angry creature. “You knew I was listening?”
“Of course I did. You couldn’t sneak worse if you were wearing bells on your elbows.” Nym pulled a pocket watch from her waistcoat and flipped the lid. “I must be running.”
“Wait. My boon?”
Nym grinned, eyes squinting mischievously. “And the Talisman of the Heart?”
Fasster spread his arms. “Hig-Tuli said I am the Talisman.”
Nym did a double face-paw, and shook its head. “Jaconde got to H
ig-Tuli too!”
Growling, the little furry creature handed a tiny wooden box to Fasster. It appeared to be a chest, but sized for a pixie. He thumbed open the hinged lid.
With delicate pinch, he pulled out a necklace. The chain was a golden ivy vine, and hanging from it a charm. A very tiny rusty, common-looking longsword. Engraved along the blade were the words: “Surrender to Conquer.”
“What does it do?” Fasster asked.
Nym waved a paw over the charm, eyes closed. Wind suddenly picked up and the sun dimmed. Just as quickly the wind died and sun returned to normal.
Nym gave a sideways nod, as if mildly impressed by the charm. “Speak the words to summon Hig-Tuli whenever you need advice or to talk. But be warned, she’ll fight for you only once. After that, you’ll never see her again. And you’ll never see either me or Jaconde.” Nym brushed her paws together as if ridding herself of the whole fiasco. With that, the creature stepped behind the willow and disappeared.
Twenty minutes later, Fasster met up with Dalf at the verge of the Horselands.
Dalph raised his staff in greeting. “Krahp and the twins and the others respawned while you were gone. They wanted to go after Hig-Tuli again, but they can’t find Nym.”
“And they never will. That was a one-time quest,” Fasster said. He paused, suddenly self-conscious. “But how about you and me campaign together. Maybe ask some others to join us?”
“Jaconde?”
“I doubt we’ll find her.” A bit of sadness descended on Fasster at the knowledge he would never see her again. But her last words about him perked him up. His heart is true. Fasster didn’t know if she was right about that, but he would try to live up to it.
Fasster urged Nodo forward. Dalf rode next to him on an ostrich named Gottum.
“And the boon?” Dalf prompted uncertainly, as if he feared he was asking an overly personal question.
“A priceless trinket.” Fasster lifted the necklace from where it rested over the heart of his ivy armor.
“So you speak in riddles now? Maybe that Nym did something to your head.”
“You’re the one riding an ostrich, my friend.”
“Um, and riding a giant beagle is normal?”
Fasster shook his head and laughed in amazement, realizing it truly was better to adventure with a friend than to rule the world alone.
With a quick smile at Dalf, Fasster shouted to Nodo. “Fly, you fool!”
A Word from Eric Kent Edstrom
Writing in Anthea Sharp’s fictional world felt a bit like being invited into her house. I didn’t want to break anything, and I was hyper-conscious to mind my manners. But that’s no way to write a story!
In fact, this story was inspired by that very feeling. I asked the simple question: what if a Feyland player tried to break the game? I followed that thread right into a rather raucous adventure. By the end, I felt quite at home. Whether I ever get invited back is another question.
Eric Kent Edstrom is the author of the YA speculative fiction trilogy The Undermountain Saga and the YA dystopian series The Scion Chronicles. Learn more at www.ericedstrom.com.
The Huntsman and the Old Fox
by Brigid Collins
THE SLEEK PLAS-METAL SIM CHAIRS Marylan’s twelve-year-old granddaughter eagerly led her to certainly didn’t look like the old gaming consoles she’d played on as a girl, eons ago. Marylan frowned at the helmet Stelli shoved into her wrinkled hands. Where was the controller? How did this Full-D system hook up to a TV screen?
And how on earth was playing a sim game supposed to help with her physical therapy? Marylan’s frown turned into a full scowl. She may have been a hotshot gamer chick in her youth, but she didn’t belong in-game these days. She was supposed to be improving her unsteady gait, not lying in a reclined chair in her daughter’s basement and playing a video game, no matter what her therapist said.
Though it was a nice basement, to go with the rest of the nice house. Far nicer than anything Marylan had had growing up. Plump leather couches surrounded a huge vidscreen entertainment center. The two Full-D systems sat in the far corner of the room, away from the wall of window wells. Light spilled from canisters set in the vaulted ceiling. A vaulted ceiling in a basement! Only Marylan’s good breeding kept her from clucking at the lavish sight.
Instead, her fingers twitched against the plastic helmet. Its colorful, streamlined design looked too cool for someone Marylan’s age to wear. She could tell it wouldn’t be at all comfortable. It didn’t feel right in her hands. Admittedly, many decades had passed since the last time she’d held a controller. She wasn’t even certain she could manage the trick of playing a game these days. The fact that she wouldn’t be touching a controller now didn’t help any. Simming—entering the virtual reality of a sim game—boggled her mind.
Oblivious to her grandmother’s discomfort, Stelli plopped into one of the two chairs and jammed her own helmet over her head. “This is so exciting! Mom says you used to play in old screenie game tournaments when you were my age. Were you like Spark Jaxley? She’s the most prime gamer ever!”
Marylan pasted on a smile and gingerly placed the helmet over her head before shuffling over to the other chair, keeping her steps tiny and deliberate. The visor blurred her vision. She wished her daughter hadn’t fed Stelli so many stories about her days gaming. Now Stelli had all these ideas about her grandmother’s skill level. How could Marylan bear it if she disappointed her granddaughter in this gaming session?
“I did play in some tournaments. I’m not sure I’ll be as good at simming, though. What button do you push to jump?”
Stelli giggled. “No buttons, grandma. You make small gestures and the gloves pick them up as commands.”
All geared up, Marylan sat back in the sim chair, feeling ridiculous. She was too old to be learning new game systems. The helmet pressed awkwardly against her head, and the urge to get up and go have a cup of tea instead made her feel even more out of place. Anything to avoid what was sure to be an embarrassing and frustrating afternoon of gaming.
But as Stelli directed her to select the golden F icon of her favorite game, and the title screen for Feyland filled her vision, Marylan knew it was too late for that.
* * *
The Queen of Midnight’s depthless eyes flickered as she spoke the words of the quest for the ninth time.
“Mortal effort shall unlock the door.”
Sealgaire bared his teeth and drew his hunting knife. Its sharp rasp against the sheath did not bring the usual sense of comfort and power along with it. He’d killed the Queen of Midnight eight times already. Tonight, he had to defeat her. Every hour he remained here, more of his strength trickled away.
The script of Feyland’s final level unfolded around him. Lanterns of faerie flame hung from every branch of the enormous oaks that ringed the wide, stone-paved courtyard. Their light kept the absolute darkness of full night at bay. The gathered members of the court looked on as their queen descended from her throne of tangled roots and branches, two wicked knives of obsidian appearing in her hands as she approached those who had dared enter her court. Behind her throne, surrounded by the last faerie ring of the game, the transparent outline of a closed door shimmered in the lantern light. That closed door hadn’t responded to Sealgaire’s own attempts to open it. Apparently, the quest would only work for a mortal.
A lightning bolt crackled by Sealgaire’s head, zigzagging towards the queen. She slid to the left, the movement not quite natural, even for a faerie. The shot missed.
Sealgaire hissed at the mortal Spellweaver he’d brought with him this time. “I explicitly told you to keep out of the fight!”
The boy shrugged and grinned. “That’s boring. I’m not wasting this chance to play the final boss. I’d have to play through like, ten more levels before I get here again. Maybe afterwards you can show me whatever mod you used to make a faerie character?”
Sealgaire gritted his teeth. “I don’t need your help, fool. I just need y
ou to stay alive.”
He would not let the mortal fail to unlock the door for him. Not this time. This human would survive to the end of the final fight and beyond, unlike the others he’d brought here. He gripped his knife and faced the oncoming queen.
From the un-detailed bark of the trees to the incorrect depictions of faerie court members, Sealgaire picked out more signs of artificiality every time he returned to Feyland’s version of the Dark Court. He noticed them more in this mimicry of his own home than throughout the other levels of Feyland. All sound murmured as though it came through a filter, and the most pungent smells lacked the strength to make his nose twitch. Even the colors blurred and faded more than the darkness of night could account for. The wind stirred his hair too stiffly. Everything about this simulation showed weakness, its power a far cry from the terror that lived in the true Dark Court under the Dark Queen.
And yet, each time he challenged and killed the Queen of Midnight, as she was called here, he still moved too slowly and failed to complete the quest. With the game sucking his power away bit by bit, his chance of success and escape dwindled ever lower.
His knife clashed against the queen’s two blades, sparks flying without heat. She stepped back and raised one arm. Magic gathered along the black blade, the hum of it vibrating through the air against Sealgaire’s skin. Her spell solidified into a long spear of ice aimed at the Spellweaver.
Sealgaire lunged to strike at her abdomen. She dodged out of the way, but the ice spear missed its mark.
“Nice one!” the mortal said.
Sealgaire said nothing and pressed another attack. As always, the Queen of Midnight ignored him except to defend against his attacks. Every time he came to this fight, she focused her wrath on his mortal companions.
The leather grip of his hunting knife squeaked in protest as his fist tightened. His breath squeezed in his lungs, and his lips jerked backwards in the feral snarl of the Wild Hunt. The Queen of Midnight would pay him the respect he was due.
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