The Item of Monumental Importance

by Zachry Wheeler

  Max scratched his tusks, then nodded in agreement.

  “It was your tribe that unearthed the Item of Monumental Importance. It drove your people mad with lust and power, so you beckoned the Pointy-Eared Attractives and delivered it to their home in the Valley of Too Many Waterfalls. It was there that the Guild of Good Guys was formed with the singular mission of destroying the Item. You, Maxillian, along with your three fearless companions, have been tasked with saving the entire world!” The genie threw his arms into the air, which the goblet highlighted with fireworks and canned applause. As the spectacle concluded, the genie smiled wide and pointed at Max. “Questions?”

  Max raised his hand.

  “Unnecessary, but go ahead.”

  “Where are the dwarves?”

  The genie cocked his jaw. “Come again?”

  “Dwarves. You know, little folk. I have seen enough of these movies to know that dwarves are a part of any epic quest.”

  “Oooh, yes yes yes,” the genie said, then bonked himself on the noggin. “You mean the Stumpy Steves. They would have normally been part of this charade, but the Ebon Edge of the Essence would have envenomed their desire for riches. The decision was made to forgo the ‘this guy cannot be trusted and you should have known that from the beginning’ storyline in favor of pacing.”

  Max nodded. “Got it.”

  “Anything else before I go?”

  “One more thing. How far along are we?”

  “You near the completion of this legendary quest. You set out from the Valley of Too Many Waterfalls a fortnight ago. You snuck through the Forest of Scary Sounds, scaled the Mountain of Frosty Folly, battled through the Swamp of Icky Sticky, and crawled through the Mines of Darkly Funky. You are currently in the Jungle of Creepy Crawlies and the Lake of Unspeakable Torment is through the Vale of Shortcuts But Only If You Know Them, which is just over the next ridge, better known as the Outcrop of Turning Left.”

  Max nodded slowly as his brain recorded the deluge of proper nouns.

  The genie rubbed his hands together. “Anything else?”

  Max shrugged. “Nope, feeling good.”

  Perra sighed and covered her heart as relief flooded her body.

  “Thank you for your unending wisdom,” Zoey said to the genie.

  “You betcha,” the genie said and added a click-point. “Y'all be safe now.” His image spun into oblivion, ending with a muted pop. The goblet resumed its unassuming yet entirely opulent presence.

  Perra plucked the goblet from the ground, wrapped it with a cloth, and tucked it away inside her satchel. “We should arrive at the lake before nightfall.”

  “But only if we make haste,” Zoey said.

  The troupe readied their gear for departure. Zoey and Perra gathered incidentals as Ross stamped out the fire pit. Having no idea what constituted a prepped shaman, Max looked around the camp for anything of consequence. Leaning against a nearby stump was a wooden staff with a gemstone lodged into the tip, because of course there was. Max strolled over to the stump and lifted the staff with a cautious grip. It was a slender pole that stood as tall as he did, ashy in color with intricate carvings along the surface. A blood-red ruby the size of a billiard ball rested inside a bulbous head. Max stared into the gem, which seemed to stare back at him. Faint waves of light swirled inside the orb, infecting his mind with an unnerving angst.

  “So who is chasing us?” Max said as he turned to the group.

  “What do you mean?” Zoey said.

  “The bad guys. If we are the Guild of Good Guys, then who is the Band of Bad Guys? Every noble quest needs a villain.”

  “We are not evading anyone or anything,” Zoey said with a hint of confusion. “Everyone in Norsouthermidlandia lives in peace and harmony.”

  “Norsouth—” Max stopped himself. “Screw that, not even trying.”

  “I think I know what he means,” Perra said. “We’re not fighting a battle. Our quest is to save Norsouthermidlandia from itself. Our true enemy is the Ebon Edge of the Essence. It poisons the minds of all who come into contact with the Item. We must destroy it before it destroys us.”

  “So why are you two immune?”

  Zoey scoffed and leaned into a superhero pose. “The seeds of power cannot seduce the hot and sexy.”

  Max rolled his eyes and turned to Ross. “What about you?”

  “Dragon. I am utterly incapable of giving a shit.”

  Max chuckled to himself and ended with a sigh. “So I guess that makes me the stoic wizard of sound mind.”

  Ross let out an involuntary snort.

  “Oh, is that funny?”

  “Dude, you were a grunting, brooding, self-loathing, moody, orb-gazing nutter butter until about ten minutes ago. The fact that you’re not rubbing beads and mumbling about ghost snakes is nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Aye,” Zoey said. “And why doth thou speak as a dragon?”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “Huh? I’m just talking like normal.”

  “No,” Perra said. “Ever since arising from slumber, you speak the tongue of the dragon.”

  Max shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you. Ross sounds like the same old jackass and you two sound like medieval castle matrons.” He sighed and glanced around the camp. “Y’know, I’m starting to think that we’re all still in the freighter ship and you’re just having a go at me through some sort of Star Trek holodeck simulator thing.”

  An awkward silence fell upon the group.

  Zoey and Perra traded ganders of WTF.

  After a lengthy ponder of what the hell to say next, Ross decided that the conversation had come to its clunky yet natural conclusion. He turned away without another word and wandered down the nearest path, resuming their perilous quest.

  The ladies followed the orange dragon and the orc brought up the rear. The group trekked through the forest in relative silence, allowing Max to gaze around the strange and wonderful landscape with slack-jawed fascination. At least this shift is colorful, he thought to himself on many occasions. As with any vibrant jungle, the sounds were as curious as the sights. Critters made themselves known from near and far, but Max could only catch brief glimpses of their movements. Given the fantastical nature of the predicament, he found himself strangely at ease, like walking through an interactive zoo exhibit. His brain failed to generate a suitable balance of fear and self-preservation, so it pulled “giddy aloofness” out of a hat.

  The forest thinned as the group neared the edge. Dirt and roots faded into scrub and stone. Muted footsteps morphed into hard thumps. They climbed a steep hill up to the Outcrop of Turning Left, then made a calculated decision to turn left. Soon after, a sprawling expanse of slate revealed itself. Countless peaks of jagged rock as far as the eye could see, like a spilled bucket of Legos.

  “Behold,” Perra said. “The Vale of Shortcuts But Only If You Know Them.”

  “And do you know them?” Max said.

  “Know what?”

  He turned a puzzled gaze to Perra. “The shortcuts.”

  Perra paused for thought, then perked with realization. “Oooh, I always wondered how the Vale got its name.”

  Max replied with a blank stare, then returned his gaze to the Vale.

  The group studied the maze through a haze of uncertainty, save for Max, who welcomed the cool breeze and visual transition. He plunked the butt of his staff on the stony ground and struck a wizarding pose, channeling his inner Merlin. However, the staff took this as a sign of action and emitted a violent pulse of light. Max yelped, dropped the staff, and flailed backwards as if to battle the sudden assault of an angry bee. His bumble caught dismissive glances from the group, who hadn’t even bothered to grasp their weapons.

  “Did you just scare yourself with your own staff?” Ross said.

  An obvious statement, which filled Max with a healthy dose of embarrassment. He sulked, shuffled over to the staff, and plucked it from the ground like a kid with a toppled bicycle. After a brief examination, mostly
to defuse his own shame, he hobbled back to rejoin the group.

  Zoey narrowed her eyes and studied the horizon. After a slow scan, she stopped and pointed to a break in the craggy facade. “Behold, the Path of Apo’stro’pleth’or’a. This is our passage to the Lake of Unspeakable Torment.”

  “Um, why the Shatner pauses?” Max said to Zoey.

  “I do not understand this word.”

  “The path name. You paused through it.”

  “Tis’ the name. It is the Path of Apo’stro’pleth’or’a.”

  “See? You did it again. Just say Apostroplethora. No need for bells and whistles.”

  “Gotta side with the shaman on this one,” Ross said. “Why does your society feel the need to pepper words with frilly punctuation?”

  Zoey glanced at Perra, who shrugged in response. She gazed down to the path, then turned back to the dragon. “But this is the Path of Apo—”

  “Apostroplethora,” Max and Ross said in unison.

  Zoey huffed and opted to take point for the next leg of the journey. She started towards the narrow passage with Perra close behind. The dragon glanced at the orc and rolled its eyes, giving Max a much-needed sense of camaraderie.

  The group entered a cramped path through the rugged valley. The passage offered no rhyme or reason, just an unbroken track through a chaos of stone. Sometimes they hugged the sides of cliffs, other times they scrambled over boulders. Whatever the challenge, the trail remained intact. One caught the distinct impression that numerous souls had perished in the effort to uncover a reasonable route.

  Several hours into the hike, Max groaned with exhaustion. Or rather, his stomach groaned with hunger, which Max saw fit to vocalize. “Ugh, this is taking forever.”

  “Tis’ the way,” Perra said without looking back.

  “Do we have any snacks? I’m definitely feeling peckish at this point.”

  “There is no time to falter,” Zoey said.

  “I’m not asking for a picnic, just some trail mix or whatever.”

  Zoey sighed, then nodded at Perra.

  Perra responded by spinning around with her bow at the ready. She quickly nocked an arrow and shot Max in the stomach.

  Max shrieked and dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Howls of agony echoed through the valley as he writhed in a fetal position. Blood spilled from his gut and stained his tunic. A trembling hand gripped the arrow shaft and gave it a tug, but a sharp and fiery pain forced him to leave it inside. “Wha—what the bleeding fuck?!”

  “You said you were hungry,” Zoey said with a flat tone.

  “So you—ugh—fucking shoot me?!”

  “It’s a feeding arrow,” Perra said. “The pain will subside shortly.”

  The dragon tilted its head. “Huh?”

  “You know, feeding arrows.” Perra shrugged, as if surprised that she needed to explain anything. “We use them all the time in battle to keep the warriors sated and alert.”

  “And how the hell does that work?” the dragon said with actual curiosity.

  “The arrowheads are concentrated bundles of nutrients that dissolve inside the stomach. The shafts are flash rods that activate with acidic compounds, which cauterize the wound.”

  As if on cue, the shaft flashed with flame, prompting Max to yelp with a combination of fright and torment.

  “It teaches our fighters to associate injury with aid. If they are stuck with an arrow during combat, there is a fair to decent chance that it might be beneficial. Thus, they continue to fight without the distraction of pain.”

  The dragon maintained a perplexed stare. “And what if you miss?”

  Perra narrowed her gaze. “We don’t miss.”

  “But, what if you do?”

  Perra glanced down to a panting Max, then back to the dragon. “Then I would imagine the target bleeds out and dies.”

  “Has that ever—”

  “We don’t miss.”

  The pain began to recede, allowing Max to gather his wits and rise to a seated position. He leaned back against the rock with a quivering hand covering the wound. His eyes pinched shut as his brain fought to steady his breathing. “That is—cough—without a doubt—hack—the stupidest idea for an arrow I have ever heard. And that—cough cough—includes Green Arrow, who tipped one with a goddamn boxing glove.”

  Perra took obvious offense. “Stupid? I think it’s much more stupid to let your brethren fall in battle.”

  “Jeez, what’s wrong with a jerky pouch? Seems less—cough—invasive.”

  “And how are you feeling now?”

  Max thought for a moment and realized that the pain was almost gone, along with his nagging hunger. “Better, actually.”

  “The shafts also contain foxfleur for the pain. We’re not savages.”

  “My new belly hole begs to differ.”

  Perra sneered as Max struggled to his feet. The ladies turned away and resumed their trek down the path. Ross retained a befuddled expression as he watched the orc regain some of his bearings. Max met eyes with the beast and shook his head as if to say Attractives, amiright? He lifted his blood-stained tunic and examined his stomach, which now featured a third hole. Orcs have two belly buttons in this universe, a discovery that could not have been any less interesting at that particular moment. Max huffed and tossed the tunic over his gut. He scooped his staff off the ground and shuffled down the trail with the dragon tromping behind.

  Another hour passed before they arrived at the final hurdle. The group emerged onto an open platform perched above a deep chasm. A rickety suspension bridge connected it to another ledge about a stone’s throw away. The bridge seemed brittle under its own weight, let alone with three wanderers and a dragon.

  “Behold,” Zoey said. “The Bridge of—”

  “Ugh,” Max said with a hefty grouse. “Does every object need a proper name?”

  Zoey sighed and lobbed him a stink eye. “The Bridge of Falling Death.”

  Max sauntered up to the chasm and glanced over the platform ledge. A sea of darkness revealed itself, lingering between a pair of towering rock walls. “Bottomless pit. Could have called that one.” He turned back to the group. “So what’s the deal? Just need to cross without falling to our deaths?”

  Zoey plucked a pebble from the ground and tossed it towards the bridge entrance. The stone vaporized just before reaching the gate, sending waves of glowing energy through a transparent barrier. “In order to pass, the bridge keeper requires a blood sacrifice from each traveler.”

  Max scowled as he watched the waves dissipate into nothingness. “I’m not giving this thing a finger just to walk over a wobbly bridge.”

  “Did I say finger?”

  “You said a bl—”

  “Blood sacrifice. A sacrifice of blood. How did you equate that to finger?”

  The words bite me stuck in his throat.

  “I’ll go first,” Zoey said. She unsheathed her dagger and stepped up to the barrier. With a gallant resolve, she pressed the blade to her other hand and pulled it through her flesh. Blood oozed through her fingers as she squeezed her fist overhead. “I invoke the Sacred Right of Let Me Pass!” She whipped her hand forward, flinging a strip of blood onto the barrier. It flashed with energy and formed a rune, denoting its acceptance of the offering.

  Perra stepped forward to repeat the process. She took the blade from Zoey, sliced her palm, and barked the words. A fling of blood resulted in another rune.

  Max shuffled up to the line and took the blade from Perra. He studied his palm for a second, then grimaced and hiked up his sleeve. He carefully poked the tip of the blade into his shoulder, just enough to puncture the skin and start a drip of blood. Using the dagger like a spatula, he scooped a drop and whipped it at the barrier, resulting in another rune. He smiled and returned the blade to Perra, who was staring at him in confusion. Zoey mirrored the confusion, causing him to shrug. “What?”

  “That was an odd technique.”

  “Says the warrior who
just sliced her palm open.”

  “But that is the way it’s done.”

  “It just wants blood, right? Not 10 ccs of knuckle juice. I have never understood the macho logic behind cutting your own hand. Do you realize how much that is going to sting the next time you swing your sword or draw an arrow?”

  Zoey stammered and glanced at Perra, who was staring into her bloodied palm with palpable regret. The two shared a mutual revelation, as if uncovering one of life’s dirty little secrets. Ross lumbered forward, chewed his lip, and spat a dollop of blood at the barrier. Another rune shined before the curtain crackled away in a dance of light.

  And then they crossed the bridge.

  This was a wholly unremarkable feat. One may have expected a more dramatic series of events, but it unfolded with the same fuss as crossing a shallow creek. There was a fair amount of griping, but no slipping through cracks, no slats breaking underfoot, no anxious pauses when the bridge creaked or swayed, and no enemy chase to make the crossing more climactic. Nope, just a simple bridge crossing. Every epic adventure needs a good bridge crossing scene, but none of them have reached that point and ended with “and then they fell to their deaths.” That would be neither epic nor adventurous.

  A short climb over the next hill revealed their glorious destination. A bank of clouds parted to reveal the Lake of Unspeakable Torment at the base of a circular gorge. It had an opaque and tawny surface that stretched to distant cliffs, like a giant ravine filled with orange juice long past its expiration. Curious aromas assaulted their nostrils, strong and vile concoctions that made everyone cringe and recoil. But no matter, the quest neared its completion and some sensory revulsion was a small price to pay for victory.

  The group made their way down a gentle slope to a rippling shoreline. There they stood, side-by-side like an ensemble poster. Perra grinned as Zoey began to tear. Ross parked his bum on the pebble beach, sighed with contentment, then quickly lost interest and started picking his teeth again. Max, of course, had no frame of emotional reference other than the last day of travel. He stood there with a blank expression and rapped his fingers on the staff.