A Thousand Drunken Monkeys

by Eric Nylund

  The Grimhalt guy halted on the stairs and scanned the room.

  His gaze locked onto us—and he made a beeline for our table.

  CHAPTER 22

  Grimhalt shoved patrons and waitstaff out of his way as he barreled toward us.

  Sadie glanced up. “I’ll just give you a moment to think dessert over,” she said and quickly made her exit.

  Two troll bouncers moved toward the Wild Hunt cleric.

  Harlix intercepted the trolls, spoke a few words, and the bouncers smiled and laughed and forgot all about what they were doing.

  Cassie nonchalantly moved to one side of the room, her left hand concealed behind her back.

  Morgana hadn’t even looked, but she nonetheless silently drew two daggers and kept them under the table.

  Oswald had vanished.

  Grimhalt grabbed a chair and dropped it at our booth. He slammed one booted foot on the seat and leaned over us.

  “Well, well,” he said, leering at Morgana. “A trickster. A pretty one. Too bad I have orders to string your kind up.”

  I was about to jump to my feet and snap this joker’s neck, but an in-game message popped:

  >_Morgana Nox: WAIT

  >_Morgana Nox: We r safe here

  >_Morgana Nox: His clan & mine = KOS

  KOS was gamer speak for “Kill On Sight.”

  But okay, if Morgana knew more about what was going on, I’d follow her lead.

  Or try to.

  This close I saw burn scars covered Grimhalt’s face and his left eye was partially melted shut. The injuries looked old, or maybe they’d been magically healed… badly. The gigantic mace at his side must have weighed forty pounds. He smelled of sweat and machine oil. He wore plate boots and greaves, but it was his chainmail hauberk that caught my eye. The pattern… well, I couldn’t see one. There were sections that crazed along in a serpentine-like weave, but every ring was a different size, and in spots, so many linked together it was practically a solid mass. He shifted and I glimpsed flickers of ghostly fire among the rings as if the mail had been drenched in kerosene and set alight.

  He must have a heck of a STRENGTH to fight in that gear.

  Morgana’s more informed opinion on the situation notwithstanding, I just couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t going to let his threat to her go unchallenged.

  After all, I had a special skill for such occasions.

  “Hey buddy,” I said in a surprisingly casual tone. “Why don’t you chase more appropriate quarry with your Wild Hunt pals? Maybe a hobbled rat would be more your speed. No… I’m thinking a crippled stink bug. Or if that’s too much of a challenge, perhaps catch a few worms?”

  Morgana kicked me hard under the table.

  Grimhalt paled, turned to me, then glanced over my head.

  “Spirit warrior?” He laughed. “Fourth level? Today is my lucky day.”

  He hefted his obscenely over-sized mace.

  Perhaps taunting the zealot of the Wild Hunt was not my smartest opening maneuver. But jerks like Grimhalt always got under my skin.

  Every multiplayer game had them.

  Call them idiots, griefers, or whichever noms de guerre you like—they all fulfilled the same role: make life as hard as possible for everyone else. They ruined quests, flooded chat channels with unimaginative obscenities, camped corpses, kicked puppies, and drowned kittens.

  You just wanted to kill them over and over until they logged out.

  Three things, however, stopped me from answering his aggression with aggression of my own.

  First, was Morgana’s warning (that I probably should have heeded a few seconds ago).

  Second, the Wayfar Waypoint Inn had a policy of non-violence on the premises. I had no desire to be permanently uninvited from this place.

  Besides, this was neutral ground. The Game wouldn’t permit non-consensual PvP combat.

  And I wasn’t consenting.

  Third, Grimhalt had four levels on me, which made the odds very much tilted in his favor.

  Corollary to that last point: yes, he was a flaming asshat, but he was a living flaming asshat… so he had to be a pretty good player to have survived with such manners in Thera.

  I was about to shift into the aether, scout the magical terrain, and buy time to think, when Harlix Hadri and Cassie Longstrider caught up to their companion.

  The ring of nails pounded into Harlix’s bald slate-blue head freaked me out. It just looked wrong. Was it a curse or had he done it to himself?

  My instincts screamed that this guy was more dangerous than a dozen Grimhalts.

  Cassie was a wood elf—long curls of dark brown hair, slightly slanted green eyes, high cheekbones, and delicately pointed ears. All standard-issue sylvan. But she had that “Look all you want, sailor, but hassle me and I will hand you your own head” aura that was pure Special Forces.

  Neither, however, looked like they were spoiling for a fight.

  Harlix drew Grimhalt closer. “Don’t start,” he told him in a whisper that could have sliced glass. “Look closer. He has a truncated, second player class in his placard. That means a secret and restricted class, you imbecile.”

  Grimhalt squinted over my head and sneered as he saw it.

  So my secret class wasn’t so secret. At least they couldn’t read what it was.

  Cassie looked Morgana over and gave her a nod. Of recognition? Wasn’t sure. Cassie made a gesture to Harlix, and he made another back to her.

  Sign language? Clever.

  Cassie pulled Grimhalt back five paces.

  “Please forgive my temporary but necessary associates,” Harlix said, his tone softening.

  “Fine,” I said. “All is forgiven, as long as you keep him on a short leash… and pick up after him.” I voiced this loud enough so Grimhalt heard.

  It got no response from him, but Cassie laughed.

  These three made a decent party: a tank cleric, spellcaster for damage at range, and a swashbuckler ranger who could likely fill whatever role was required in any given situation. They were lean and mean.

  Harlix went on, “The Game is hard enough without purposely seeking trouble, don’t you agree?”

  I gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “In any event, if you could just answer a few questions, we will be on our way.”

  Morgana said, “We’d be happy to help and part company peaceful-like.” She made a cutting motion by her lap that only I could see.

  Harlix withdrew a folded parchment from his starry robe and handed it to Morgana.

  She glanced it over, shook her head, and passed it to me.

  WANTED

  THE RED KNIGHT

  Villainous brigand and his gang of vile cutthroats terrorize the Duchy of Sendon—committing murder, theft, and many other crimes most heinous.

  REWARD

  25,000 gold quins for the RED KNIGHT’s death.

  3,000 gold quins for information leading to his capture.

  It was the same poster I’d come across in High Hill and here at the inn—or almost the same. The reward had been significantly increased. This loser must be on a tear.

  The sketch of the Red Knight had also been improved with a few more details. His red full plate mail was chunky, ugly as sin, battered, and well, there was no other word to describe it but “evil.” The helmet had tiny slanted eye slits and breathing holes in a fanged-mouth pattern. A bit dramatic, but effective in a terror-inducing way.

  In fact, it was something my anti-paladin brother might wear… if that is, he wasn’t safely being tortured in Duke Opinicus’s dungeon.

  I wondered if these three had been looking for this Red Knight the evening the Bloody Rooster burned. Did they think he’d set it? That implied a possible connection between the knight and the Silent Syndicate.

  Without knowing what these three were really fishing for, I wasn’t going to offer my opinions.

  “Sorry,” I told Harlix. “Believe me, if I’d seen this guy I’d tell you. Not so much a fan of jerks run
ning around and ruining my day.” I glanced at Grimhalt.

  A brush of static stirred the tiny hairs on my arm.

  Magic? From Harlix?

  Harlix nodded and his odd face revealed no readable emotions. “Again, my apologies. If our paths cross again, I hope they are under more congenial circumstances. If you do see this knight, however, please send me a message. I will reward any assistance.”

  I smiled and did the smart thing: kept my mouth shut.

  A first time for everything.

  The wizard returned to Grimhalt and Cassie.

  They exchanged more sign language.

  Grimhalt nodded, looked once more at my placard, and the three then departed.

  I noticed how quiet the room was.

  The entire place had been watching our exchange. Now that the show was over, though, they went back to their eating, drinking, and bartering.

  My hands shook.

  There are few things in any game more dangerous than another player. I’m not sure what would have happened if Harlix hadn’t been here to smooth things over.

  “Morgana, what’s the deal?”

  She glanced about to see if anyone was still eavesdropping. “The Wild Hunt,” she whispered. “Well, you said you knew that lot.”

  I nodded.

  I sort of remembered something about them from a freshman English class. They were hunters…? Chasing a White Stag questing beast thing? That wasn’t right, but close enough.

  “Us tricksters,” Morgana continued, “sure we cause a good bit of mayhem, and yeah, sometimes it gets a tad violent, but it’s all in the name of fun and setting things right. Most of the time. Those Hunt wankers, though, like to kill.”

  “Yeah, he’s a certified creep all right,” I said. “Why do you think Grimhalt is with those other two?”

  “That Harlix bloke said he was a ‘necessary and temporary associate.’ Could mean anything.”

  Oswald fluttered back and sat on the edge of the table. He looked ready to throw up.

  “You’re so lucky,” the fairy muttered. “The Wild Hunt—uuugh.” His wings shuttered. “I—I’m going outside for a smoke.”

  “You have cigarettes?” I asked.

  “A few…”

  “Can I bum one?”

  He frowned. “One.”

  “You smoke?” Morgana asked with that high school teacher giving you detention tone.

  “Not usually,” I said, “but I just burned a few pints of adrenaline and had to sit here doing it.” By way of explanation, I held up a trembling hand.

  “Right. I’ll come with you. Don’t really feel like dessert anymore.”

  We went outside. The sun was two handspans above the horizon and pinking the sky there.

  Oswald handed me a cigarette the size of a broken pencil lead.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  He snapped his fingers and it grew to a proper size. Oswald then offered one to Morgana.

  “Oh, what the hell,” she said.

  We got a light from a guard and we smoked like a bunch of juvenile delinquents.

  I felt better.

  Then this ruined it all:

  >_Grimhalt: Did NOT appreciate comment re: me hunting WORMS

  >_Grimhalt: Let’s dual

  >_Grimhalt: Can be nonlethal if u want

  >_Grimhalt: I’ll handicap 4 levels

  He’d misspelled “duel.”

  And great, now he had my name and could spam me all day with more poorly worded threats. There had to be a way to block unwanted messages.

  “Just out of curiosity,” I asked Morgana, “when someone offers a handicap in a duel of so many levels, I assume the game drops their skills, abilities, and gear by a proportional amount?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me you’re not that thick.”

  “He sent me a challenge. I’m not going to take him up on it. Just tell me.”

  She let out a tremendous sigh of smoke. “I’m no expert, but as I understand it, a handicap’s like you said. Not sure how the game compensates. Could be the opponent who picks what gets lowered.”

  “And just for informational purposes,” I went on, “what do I get if I win a non-lethal PvP duel? I mean, besides the pleasure of beating this clown’s honor to a pulp?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can set any terms beforehand. Forfeit an item or some gold. But blimey, Hektor, let’s just tuck in, have a few drinks, and wait for Elmac. We have enough trouble chasing after us.”

  “You’re right. As usual. I’ll buy the—”

  >_Grimhalt: Chicken?

  >_Grimhalt: Then I’ll sweeten the deal

  >_Grimhalt: One little non-lethal dual and

  >_Grimhalt: I WON’T follow u and your girlfriend

  >_Grimhalt: and pick you off one at a time

  My face reddened and I ground my teeth.

  >_Hektor Saint-Savage: What—are you like 13 years old?

  My apologies to young players for that comment. I have known many thirteen-year-olds to be noble warriors or worthy and honorable adversaries. I only meant that Grimhalt was being unwise and immature—both for picking such a dumb, testosterone-dripping name, and because he’d stupidly announced his intentions to do me and my friend harm.

  There came no immediate reply to my message.

  Could Grimhalt have been recruited by the Wild Hunt at the age of thirteen? That would explain a lot.

  Morgana’s pupils turned to cat slits. “Hektor? What are you doing?”

  “Now he’s threatening to follow us if I don’t agree to his dumb duel.”

  I left out the part about him “picking us off.”

  “Wait. You said we could set any terms?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Then there was a way to get Grimhalt off our backs. Permanently.

  A four-level handicap should, in theory, make it an even fight. Although, I didn’t think it would be even because Grimhalt would never figure out I was a Mage of the Line. His type more often employed a strategy of ready—fire—aim. I’d have a few surprises for him.

  “Don’t,” Morgana said. “Whatever wonky scheme you’re hatching, I got a feeling Grimhalt’s going to cheat his way around it.”

  “Yeah. Hang on.”

  I typed:

  >_Hektor Saint-Savage: I have one victory condition

  >_Hektor Saint-Savage: I win, you NEVER threaten

  >_Hektor Saint-Savage: or do harm to me or my friends.

  >_Hektor Saint-Savage: EVER.

  Still, no reply came from him.

  “I think I just called his bluff.”

  >_Grimhalt: LOL

  >_Grimhalt: K. Deal

  >_Grimhalt: Meet at east wall so no sun in our eyes. 5 minutes.

  >_Grimhalt: Hammer out details there

  “…Or not,” I muttered to Morgana. “I guess it’s on.”

  She pursed her lips. “You are a complete prat.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I leaned against the wall of the compound and stretched my hamstrings.

  Grimhalt stood a dozen paces away and warmed up by swinging that sledgehammer mace of his around like it was a four-pound aluminum bat.

  Oswald fluttered among the gathering crowd and took bets. He had three-to-one odds against me. I wasn’t sure if he was a little traitor or had plans to cash in big when I won.

  I had to admit, though, Grimhalt did look impressive… while I didn’t. I had no obvious weapons or armor or flashy magic. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have put my money on Grimhalt too.

  Morgana leaned against the wall next to me, trying to look nonchalant. Her hand, however, rested on the handle of one of her many sheathed daggers, fingers tapping. “You seriously doing this?”

  “It’s nonlethal combat,” I said.

  “You so sure about that? Never heard of these Wild Hunt types dueling.” She glanced at Grimhalt, then back to me. “And you’ve had what? Two Silvercrest Ales at thirty proof apiec
e? Your blood’s up, mate. I get it. Been there myself. But you’re not in the best place to make good decisions, yeah?”

  Her confidence in my lack of cognitive ability was so reassuring. Didn’t mean she was wrong, though.

  “Let’s wait for Elmac,” she whispered. “He’s got to know more about the Wild Hunt.”

  That made sense. Also Elmac, as a newly-minted first level, would be safe. Grimhalt couldn’t touch him because of the Game rule that prevented PvP combat between players more than five levels apart.

  “Look,” I told her. “Why not try this? Worst case, I lose and we’re back to where we are now. Or Grimhalt might be satisfied with his win and wander back to Harlix and Cassie. But if I win, then he’s off our backs for good.”

  “You make a few good points,” she said. “Something stinks about this, though, and I don’t like it one little bit.” Her hand stilled upon her dagger; she drew it from its sheath a fraction of an inch to loosen it for a quick draw. “But if you’re set on doing this, I’ll have your back. Like always. Just you watch your back too.”

  “I will,” I told her. “And thanks. As always.”

  She gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Now go rip the bastard’s bloody head off.”

  I nodded and walked over to Grimhalt.

  “Yeah, about this fight.”

  “Not having second thoughts…?” Grimhalt got distracted by a trio of veiled elf ladies among the spectators. He stood taller and turned his head so they saw only the unburned side of his face.

  “No, but I wanted to check that you’re good with my terms: leaving us alone if I win.”

  “You’re not going to win,” he said without looking my way. “But sure, why not?” He scratched his head. “Let’s add a side bet, though, a hundred quins? I’ll be thirsty after this and’ll need a few drinks before I head out.”

  “Fine by me.”