Possible Hero

by Sean Heslin

  “Bugger!” she shouted.

  Chapter 31

  “Plan till it hurts, then plan some more and you still won't be able to get out of a soggy paper bag”

  - Georgin Iresen to his profoundly jobless and lackadaisical teenage son, 1325 C.M.

  Eric The Merciful was not happy. Not one bit. He had been recently informed that a band of heroes had heard of his current plans, which was not unusual in itself - he had disposed of many sword-waving opportunists in his time. What was most irksome was that none of his agents, scryers, truthsayers, spies, demons, fairies, sewer things, or enchantresses could find out exactly who they damn well were and how close they were to trying to stop him. In normal circumstances, he would not have minded, for these things tended to happen with astonishing predictability. This time though, rumours had been started amongst his ranks and he suspected that it was only the Fear of him that stopped a less than mysterious loss in numbers. If the rumours were to believed, the world’s third most powerful sorceror (Huntriabeingoliacopoloisi the Mad according to the TIN master list) had teamed up with the best bounty hunter in existence (probably that bloody Terand), an 'evil' shape-changing dragon capable of destroying a battalion by themselves (likely an urglon who had worked out how to bypass his inbuilt inferiority), a mysterious warrior bearing the sword, armour and honour of his ancestors (some knight with an inherited title), a yellow demon of some variety with the strength of ten men (despite a good chunk of his army being iccles themselves, they were still too engrossed in the rumour to recognise the person as anything but a demon who resembled an iccle) and they were said to be soon joined by Jocene The Immortal Slayer (the real one) and some minor godlet with a voice that could cure all ills (could have been anybody).

  Knowing exactly how rumours worked and so being able to add the appropriate translations, Eric was very nearly scared himself. His army, who did not know how rumours worked, was scared anyway. Well, those capable of it.

  He had called his current advisors in to suggest how he might quash these rumours and calm the uncertainty but, as usual, their advice consisted of finding the subject of the tale and also the spreaders of the tale and slaughtering them.

  Lack of funds? Enslave a gold mine!

  Lack of food? Pillage a farm!

  Lack of trust? Shoot the lawyers!

  Lack of liberty? Tough!

  Eric had changed councils three times in the past two months, and always after a week or so they turned into bloodthirsty maniacs. He did not know where he was going wrong. There was a fairly good supply of military strategists in the area so he could afford to swap out regularly, but the inconvenience of having to dispose of the previous group and taking a day out to train up the replacements was vexing.

  Eric, however, had not gotten to his current position by fretting about circumstances beyond his control. If he had then he would have committed suicide a long time ago. ‘Tis a terrible burden to fear one's own shadow as the Great Prophet might have said.

  He decided then at this point to therefore go and supervise his torture chambers. A promising looking hero appeared ready to give in and divulge something useful. Possibly even knew who the new unknown meddlers were.

  There, things were starting to look up already.

  On the way down he came across a cowering minion in the corridor. It bore the little badge of a messenger on its shoulder and a scrawled upon a piece of paper clutched in its grubby, tiny hand.

  Eric sighed and waited patiently while the mildly deformed imp worked up enough courage and managed to prise its forehead from the ground. A shaking paw presented the message to Eric, who accepted it gratefully, then kicked the miniature demon up the corridor because imps seemed to enjoy that sort of thing.

  It was a communiqué from the second in command of his network of spies. The human ones anyway.

  The spy was currently on the border of Slumberland and had been successful in the acquisition of the sacred apple tree as ordered. He mentioned a run-in with a talking pinscuttle, which Eric had been expecting, and presumed was the local Guardian. He was a little irked to learn that the creature had been released, for then it could inform any inquisitive questing types and send them off on yet another sub-quest which would go towards Eric’s possible (and probably likely) subsequent defeat.

  Most annoying.

  There was also a very polite request for someone to come and get him out of Slumberland before he…squiggle squiggle blot.

  “Hmm,” Eric considered the scrawl, trying to determine if it was a cunning code, or just the more obvious inkblots. “The imp must have grabbed it and ran.”

  Slumberland was only a good hiding place because very few people were as strong or as stupid enough to go there. Eric permitted himself a small shudder. Even he would think twice before crossing that border.

  Eric decided to postpone his trip to the torture room and went to the Preparation Chamber instead, where the ingredients of his evil plot were simmering nicely. With the delivery of the tree soon and the remaining elements of the plan being gathered at this moment, there was a distinct chance he might pull this one off.

  He felt an evil laugh coming on but he resisted it because he was a better class of conqueror than that.

  Chapter 32

  “When life imitates art, run.”

  - The Regretable Ron Underwood, in front of a crowd, who were all dressed in costume to imitate some of his 'juicier' artworks, 3949 C.M.

  Rancha and company were on average, extremely uneasy.

  They had been shown to a guest quarters for what should have been a pleasant nights sleep, except the palace/castle’s current state of architecture had become somewhat and very disturbingly squishy. The floor was slick and spongy, the walls were green and sticky, the ceiling was lit with bioluminescent strips and there were tentacles everywhere. They swayed and undulated, doing little tasks about the place, like tidying the corridors and removing cobwebs. The metal carriage that roamed the halls had been converted into a retching green and red slime-ridden thing that glooped and shwooped like a giant slug only much, much faster. There was a hollow cavity somewhere in the middle where the passengers sat while it moved with no immediately obvious steering force. Along the corridors, doors resembled enormous sphincters, widening and contracting as one approached, with a wet cracking sound.

  The group had made a camp in the centre of their designated lodgings, as far away from the fittings and the walls as possible. Perci had been stood stock still for some time, trying not to get the tentacles’ attention - they had helpfully relieved him of his pack as he had entered; in shock, he chopped off a few wiggly bits with his sword, so they relieved him of that as well. The beds were definitely not fit for description; they practically reared up in anticipation of being slept upon. Oddly, Pib seemed quite at home and was bouncing on said beds which seemed happy for the attention. The other three were seasoned adventurers so they were merely very, very uneasy.

  Somehow, they managed to go to sleep in the living room, except for Rancha who quietly chatted to Perci, that man having developed acute insomnia again.

  “Enjoying it so far?” he asked with a salesman’s smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

  “For a given value of ‘enjoy’? Yes. For any other value, no. When do we get to kill monsters and save damsels and the like? And sleep... anywhere not here?”

  Rancha shrugged expressively. “To be honest, the worst of the beasts went extinct about a hundred years or two before either of us were born. Oh, sure, there are still a few nasties out in the wilderness, but nothing quite like the stories any more. The world is getting tamer by the day. Well, less diverse anyway. I fear for the global ecosystem.”

  “Eh?”

  “Less monsters equal world not good.”

  “What? How can you spout such nonsense? The world is surely better off with being able to sleep safely in their beds at night, without fear of being carried away by ravenous hellfiends?”

  “Yes, and the d
emons agreed to stoppit quite some time ago, you really don’t know your history do you? There was a treaty. Look it up. No, I am talking about the fragile balance of nature. I don't fancy a world overrun by kitis and raplis and the rest of the pests because all their natural predators are dead.”

  “Bah! Employ more pest catchers!”

  “No catcher as efficient as a hungry one.”

  Perci's face screwed up as he thought hard about the issue.

  “Breed more monsters?”

  “You want a world full of things with too many teeth?”

  “What's the alternative, man?”

  “Balance, simply. Do you know how many sentient species there are on the planet all trying to get their own bit of planet to live on?”

  “Uh, well, there's me, you...”

  “Seventeen. Seventeen types of conscious animal all being way too smart and killing off any dumb animal that doesn't like it.”

  “What are...?”

  “There's four of them in this room alone, as well as stregs, jaynirgs, the kighfroh, anti-goblins, the sodding trew...”

  “What's a tr...”

  “The fish people who keep trying to invade the land. Seriously, read the news some time. Anyway, everyone wants a piece of the world and if the world is covered in pests, there will be no food for everyone. Too many monsters, there will be no food for them and they will eat us. No monsters and no people means that kitis will rule the world, because nothing eats them. No monsters means much the same. Not to mention what will happen to all the mooins if there's nothing to stop them breeding like they mean it.”

  “What have mooins got to...?”

  “Like the swampchuck, mooins are one of the world most common food sources, not to mention the additional benefit of clothing from hides and fur. Oh and glue and that stuff they make antiseptics out of from out of their spleens. They are also godsawfully promiscuous, so an unchecked wild herd of mooins will cover a mountainside in about a year. You need monsters to eat the excess.”

  “Do you...?”

  “Yes.” Rancha presented a toothy smile. “Whole.”

  Perci fell silent for a time. Rancha felt smug and closed his eyes. He was just about to start his meditations when Perci piped up in the quietest voice he had ever heard him use.

  “We have swampchucks in the Valley. They are stupid and run from everything. When I was small I used to throw rocks at them. One time, one of them tried to hide behind me, because it couldn't work out where the rocks were coming from. It became supper that night. Does that make me a monster?”

  Rancha sighed and thought carefully about his answer for a moment. He had a duty of care after all.

  “Real monsters... they do not think about consequences. They just do things for the sake of the malice of it. They don't look back on things later with thought, wondering if what they did was wrong or not. They don't have regret. Monsters in the wild aren't really monsters, they are just really angry animals. People make the worst monsters. If they choose not to think, or are not capable of thinking through their actions for both before and after, those are true monsters.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You are not a monster, Perci. You are a knight on the side of right after all.”

  In an even smaller voice, barely on the edge of hearing, Rancha fancied he heard the words “Only just.” He chose not to comment.

  In a louder whisper, Perci continued the story of his early life, gradually increasing in pace and enthusiasm starting with how much he hated his sisters.

  Rancha learned a great deal about Perci’s past, his family, his vague dreams as a child at what his future life would be like, why his armour was so important to him and so forth. It was all almost totally useless information that Rancha only listened to because he was contracted to do so. He found most of it decidedly boring and forgot the majority immediately, but at least Perci was talking again. Did sharing count as character growth? Rancha thought it probably did, so he let the not-quite-knight babble on, whiling away the time till the night finally passed.

  ---

  It became early morning and the door squeezed open to admit a cranky Ihjundas.

  “Wakey, wakey. Rise and shine, you sleepy people. Big day ahead of you and all that utter nonsense. Rancha and Perci meet me outside in five minutes, you have a meeting with the Council in fifteen and it won’t be very polite if you keep them waiting will it now?”

  “Fifteen what?”

  Ihjundas gave a heated glare and the group murmured their taciturn agreement to the course of action. Ihjundas withdrew.

  Three and a half minutes later, the two were sat inside one of the super-powered slugs with Ihjundas less than subtly reminding them both about etiquette. Perci was turning red and seemed marginally happier at having the opportunity to be indignant again, despite the lack of sleep. Luckily for his own sake, the slug pulled up at the council chamber before his fuse ran down, although Rancha thought that things would have been quite amusing if the trip had lasted a couple of shouty minutes longer. Dammit, he was starting to like the ignorant ass.

  The heptagon council chamber's door was still quite impressive, although like the rest of the décor it had become very organic. Ihjundas reached over and tickled various sections. The door giggled and squirmed, then it shwooped open, admitting the party within.

  Rancha took note of Perci's indrawn breath as they entered the chamber, and knew the reason because he felt like a sharp intake himself.

  The chamber had been restored to its correct nature, with strands of white power with yellowish coronas whizzed and flashing about, going through the walls and anything else solid within. The place was as bright as day, but oddly the stained glass window set in the ceiling still managed to cast its distinctive colourful pattern upon the floor in sharp relief, despite the ambient glow. Rancha saw several tiny energy strands being curious, bothering Perci like friendly puppies. He grinned as Perci tried to shoo them with his sword - he knew the effect could be quite unnerving. Rancha's first time had been when he had barely been older than a chick and he had cheerfully frolicked with the strands. The three councillors of the time had tickled his belly till he threw up. Rancha missed those innocent days ever more ruefully as time trickled into the past.

  The current council members in the thrones were very much less likely to tickle his belly, substantially less amenable than those of antiquity, but at least these ones were happier than they had been on the last visit. The actual thrones they sat on seemed more healthy; the living wood glowing from within.

  The trio approached the other trio and the bearded man spoke first. “We were wondering when you'd come back. I hear some of the acolytes were running a book on it. Would have won a few Stands meself if I was a betting man, 'cos I knew it would be today.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said the woman who had changed her previous glittery hair bobbles to little blue bows. “You have never had any sort of notion whatsoever as to their return, as I recall you said they would not be back at all.”

  The chubby man deflated slightly, “Ack, I suppose so…”

  “There's no suppose about it, you said and I recall quite distinctly…”

  They were interrupted by the third figure who coughed gently. It sounded like a dying whale.

  The bearded man looked mildly peeved. “Right, er, back to the business at hand. You wanted to know some more details of your quest, correct?”

  Rancha nodded. Perci nearly said, “Get on with it you old...!” but was caught in midsentence by Ihjundas clipping him on the back of the head. Stunned at the totally unexpected treatment and feeling echoes of his upbringing, Perci kept quiet.

  “Thank you,” said the bearded man.

  “It will be easier if we have some sort of visual display,” said the woman. “Let there be a Trafonisclat!” She clapped her hands in a deliberately intricate way and several of the airborne strands joined in a circle and began to spin at high speed.

  The central figure stared a
t her and intoned “A what?”

  “Trafonisclat! A viewing portal!” she said, looking torn between concentration, irritation and suspicion.

  “You just made that up, didn’t you? Just say 'viewing portal'. It's not even a proper word.” The red-haired man was accusatory, shaking a fist in annoyance.

  “It is most obviously present, so I did not, thank you very much. Anyway,” she said turning back to Rancha and the group with mild annoyance. “This is your mission, which you have already accepted.” She waved her hands again and an image formed within the glowing circle.

  It was of a black tower surrounded by desolation. Another wave of hand and the image zoomed in on a window. The picture appeared to speed along a corridor, down some stairs, flashed through some more corridors, up some other stairs, through a door…

  “This may take a moment,” she informed the others present “I only worked out how to persuade the matrix to perambulate without detection along spatial parameters two days ago. As a result, the search synthesis has slowed considerably.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the bearded man.

  “I believe you are making this up as you go along,” said the other figure with tones as forbidding as the last bastion in hell.

  Ihjundas was disturbed at this sudden increase in arcane knowledge. “We are sure this information is accurate?”

  “Look,” said the woman. “It is working as we debate, so whereupon do you require additional proof? Ah, there we go.”

  The image finally slowed and focused on a man sitting in a comfy chair by a log fire reading a book. He didn’t look particularly threatening; nay he even looked quite friendly.

  The bearded man recognised him. “Oh,” he said, “Now I see what's going on. Gentlemen, meet Eric the Merciful. He will be your nemesis for the course of this mission, so beat the brown stuff out of him whenever you get the opportunity.”