by Eric Nylund
My dad (the human one) had played a primitive video game when I was a kid. He’d showed it to me and my brother on an antique console. A little plumber in red overalls had to jump over barrels rolling down a series of catwalks sent by, you guessed it, a psychotic gorilla. When I’d tried the game, my plumber got squished over and over.
The airborne barrels overshot my position by thirty feet.
They impacted, shattered to kindling, and the contents washed down the stairs, momentarily transforming steps into rapids.
The downstream monkeys ran back or hugged the sides to avoid the tumbling debris and flash flood. Some of the smaller ones were swept away.
Looking farther back, I saw the monkeys of the valley all clamoring at the base of the stairs, pushing and shoving their fellows—all trying to continue the chase, but getting bottlenecked. This mob stretched back to the gravel gardens, hundreds and hundreds of them all brandishing sticks and torches and shrieking for my head.
It was like a video I’d seen online of army ants swarming through the Amazon. They killed and disassembled any creature caught in their path—even cattle.
This army, however, only wanted to take apart one thing tonight.
Splintering crashes startled me—as three barrels stuck ten feet ahead.
They broke and dark amber brandy washed about my ankles, nearly cresting my troll-skin boots.
Those gorillas were dialing in their aim.
I had to—
Whoa. The smell of this stuff… a smooth blend of apricot, apple cider, mango, banana, notes of caramel and mellowed oak, and a hint of bubblegum? Something else too: an exotic scent, thick, mysterious, enticing. Mmm.
I wobbled.
Then I blinked and snapped out of the contact high.
Move. Go—go—GO!
I followed the screaming drill sergeant voice ground into my subconscious for just such occasions (incoming fire with no cover was the same stupid tactical position in any reality).
I sloshed through the brandy to get upwind.
Even as I cleared the liquor, though, I had an irresistible urge to sample it. Just a sip wouldn’t hurt, right?
I quashed that impulse.
One taste and I was sure there’d be one more disciple in the valley of the great drunken monkey god, Dà Xiào Hóu. Would I become a chimpanzee or orangutan, I wondered?
The apes at the top now hefted barrels in each hand and chucked them like Olympic shot putters.
Far below, the gathered monkey crowd had stopped trying to come up, and just watched and cheered.
The projectiles looked dead on target this time. I might be able to duck and dodge all four… but that would simply give those gorillas time to reload and try again.
I had to outthink these primitives. Morgana and Elmac were counting on me.
Okay. Engaging an army on open ground with incoming artillery fire? That wasn’t going to end well.
If only my Small Pass ability had the range for a longer teleport—say, to the top of the stairs. Not particularly useful, though, at its present power level. If only I’d picked the illusion variant of Small Pass, I could make myself vanish like a rabbit into a stage magician’s top hat.
I glanced at the barrels tumbling toward me—down at the legions of monkeys.
Three seconds to figure this out.
…Vanish, huh?
Yeah, I think I could pull that off.
CHAPTER 30
Now, pay close attention. There’s nothing up my sleeve. I’m going to explain this technique but once, and if I’m very lucky actually show you… and survive.
Any stage magician worth his or her salt can make something vanish. A coin. A card. Sometimes, even themselves.
When I’d picked Mage of the Line as a second class, I got a freebie skill, Sleight of Hand. My father had taught me bits of prestidigitation so I could help with his performances.
The steps to making a thing vanish are as follows. First, the magician requires a means to conceal the object to be vanished—a closed hand, box, velvet curtain, or top hat. Next, some showmanship is applied to distract the audience while the mechanics of the trick occur. Such distractions are often a lovely assistant or a handful of flash powder. Finally, there must be a way to remove the object: a handy sleeve, hidden compartment or trapdoor for example.
I had all the ingredients right here.
One minor snag, though. For this evening’s performance, the concealment, distraction, and the means to remove myself offstage all happened at the same time.
The positioning and timing had to be perfect.
My eyes locked onto the leading barrel among the four falling toward me.
I crouched and cocked my right fist.
…Waited one more heartbeat—and leapt, just a bit to one side of the projectile.
Then I hit the pause button.
Floating motionless in the aether, it dawned on me how much I was loving this class. So many practical applications in battle. I knew there’d be hell to pay for being a Mage of the Line later, but in the meantime, I’d use it to my advantage and enjoy doing so.
But back to the matter at hand.
I gave my impromptu vanishing act maybe a one-in-three chance of working, a two-in-three chance of… well, making me disappear permanently.
Okay, what did I have to work with here? My reflexive mana was at 72/120 and steadily bleeding away. Still, plenty in the tank to attempt what I had in mind.
There were a dozen ley lines within reach.
The filament of electrical power I’d tapped earlier, though, was still dark and inert. No more of their kind were within sight either. Had I drained the entire region of that type of energy? I’d moved more than a mile from where I’d used it, but “space” in the aether didn’t necessarily translate one-to-one outside the odd dimension.
There was so much I didn’t know about this magic.
67 mana and ticking…
My scientific curiosity was going to get me killed.
I squinted and found the essential ingredient for my plan: A crimson thread that smoldered like a vein of molten metal.
I wrapped it about my fist. I tasted hot copper in my throat, smelled burning marshmallows, and my hand prickled with tiny blisters.
That’d do.
And back to normal space-time I went.
My fist sparked then blazed with white-hot flames.
I continued along the arc of my original jump—twisted so my back was angled toward the cliff face (this was a crucial part of my act)—then slammed my fist into the barrel.
Three things happened at once.
First, the barrel disintegrated into matchsticks.
Second, my strike altered my trajectory, sending me on a line directly away from the barrel.
And third, a blast of elemental fire shot through pulverized oak and mingled with the brandy inside—ignited it with a tremendous whooosh and transformed it all into a brilliant boiling ball of blue flame.
Distraction and concealment and the removal of the object (yours truly) all in one maneuver.
I hoped the ghost of Balaster Saint was watching.
But now the truly dangerous part of this vanishing trick.
I knew the elemental fire I’d channeled wouldn’t harm me. I was, however, at ground zero of a sizable detonation, and the expanding heat and pressure and wooden shrapnel from that did indeed shred and char my tender flesh.
Most of the red pixels in my indicator bar sparked and smoldered and went dark with little hisses. Two-thirds of my health just went up in smoke.
I resisted the instinct to ball up. Doing so would mean certain death.
I soared off the stairs—into empty space.
Wire Work or not, it was a fatal fall.
Meanwhile, the scarlet and sapphire flaming brandy cascaded down the stairs, just as the second barrel crash landed.
That barrel did not break.
It did, however, splash in the liquor and catch fire… as it rolled
… and bounced… and picked up speed, which fanned the flames enveloping it hotter and brighter.
Barrels three and four landed a moment later and did the same.
It looked as if a portal to hell had opened and a giant fire serpent slithered forth, racing headlong down the stairs.
Every monkey crowding the base now stared at Armageddon boiling straight toward them.
No need to pay attention to the hairless ape flying through the darkness, my good audience. I assure you he’s been blown to smithereens. You clearly saw it with your own eyes.
I twisted like a cat, turning my body.
And smacked into the cliff.
I clutched for any purchase.
Slid.
Scrambling, grabbing, then—
three fingers caught a minuscule ledge.
I jerked to a stop.
The mob of monkeys below scattered, running for their lives—as the first barrel, and the next, and then the last collided into the hundreds of barrels stacked at the bottom.
It was like the finale of Burning Man and the biggest dumpster fire of all time rolled into one spectacular display of fireworks.
I felt the wave of pressure and heat even up here.
Not bad, Hektor. Take a bow… uh, when you can.
The monkeys screamed as they retreated to the safety of the orchard. A few of the larger apes took out their fear and frustration by attacking the smaller guys along the way.
I clung to the ledge and started shaking.
I didn’t dare move, unsure if the stone under my fingertips would give way.
My Perfect Motion and adrenaline had run their course, and the pain and exhaustion hit me in waves. I held on with all my strength. My fingers cramped.
I used a few Spiritual Regenerations. The magic dealt with the second- and third-degree burns but did nothing for the mental and physical fatigue.
And… I had a thousand-foot climb ahead of me.
I didn’t have to be stupid about it, though.
I went into my game interface and dropped three skill points into this:
Climb: The ability to traverse walls, cliffs et al. by means of hand- and footholds and/or with ropes and other equipment. At higher skill levels more difficult surfaces may be safely ascended—those with tiny holds, covered with ice or slime, or even across inverted or horizontal “ceiling-like” surfaces. With a skill greater than ten, you may impart one-third of your ability to party members you equip and coach. Total expertise depends on this skill and to a lesser degree, your STRENGTH, PERCEPTION, and INTELLECT stats.
Great.
I quickly found another handhold, and there, a lovely crack for my left foot, and then one for the right. I arched my body out to apply tension and move my center of mass so it wasn’t working against me.
Only then did I start breathing easier.
With my new expertise, enhanced sight, and Shé liàn doubling as climbing axe, I knew I could handle this ascent.
I still went slow and careful, though, checking and double checking each hold. I’d stretched my luck too far tonight.
I reached the top and pulled myself over the edge.
I lay there and savored the flatness of the granite.
That white pagoda I’d seen earlier was to my left. It was ten stories tall, and up close looked more fortress than temple with a thick stone base and shutters about the numerous windows. Blooming cherry trees were skillfully arranged about the entrance to look natural. It was a nice touch.
More important however, I spotted that path winding farther into the hills.
I’d be able to sneak out of here, rest, then figure out how to find Morgana and Elmac.
Only, there was one last thing to deal with.
A chimpanzee sat on a rock. His fur was golden but tipped silver with age. With a shaky hand he clutched a crooked walking stick, and in his other hand, he cradled half a coconut.
He toasted me, grinned, and took a long sip.
For some reason, the old guy’s smile reminded me of Karkanal.
I doubted he was a serious threat… unless he raised an alarm. Well, one little tap on his chin and he’d go to sleep.
The old guy stood and staggered toward me. He was so sloshed all I’d have to do was push him over, if that is, he even got to me.
I stood.
The chimp was right in front of me.
I took a step back but somehow tripped over his walking stick.
I tumbled and was back on my feet.
And once more the guy was right in front of me, smiling his gummy grin, and taking another sip from his cup.
What the heck?
Sorry, senior, but you’re between me and a clean getaway.
I kicked him hard enough to knock him silly.
And I missed?
He simply hadn’t been there.
A furry foot planted in my groin—then he hit my stomach, chest, and chin with that half coconut.
I tried to block.
His strikes flowed around my arms like water. Each left my body stinging as if I’d been pricked by a hundred pins and needles.
I fired off Perfect Motion, and—
his gnarled fist introduced itself to my nose.
How strange…
the night was so bright…
full of streaking black comets.
A bit of awareness then bubbled up through my brain to the conscious level.
I was on my back, staring up at the stars while the world under me spun. I coughed blood from my nose and mouth.
A simian face appeared in the center of my tunneling vision.
“At last,” the old chimpanzee murmured, “a worthy challenger. More or less.”
The end of his cane blurred toward me.
And then I saw no more.
CHAPTER 31
I awoke, opened my eyes, but the light blazed so bright I had to squint my lids nearly shut.
Was Colonel Delacroix here? Turning monkeys into smoldering charcoal with her solar magic? That didn’t make sense. Of all my stalwart companions, she sort of hated me.
Oh… it was coming back now. I’d taken this nap because that geriatric chimp had knocked me out.
That couldn’t be right.
I sat up.
The motion made my head feel like it was being twisted into a balloon animal.
On the other hand, maybe what happened last night made perfect sense. In martial art movies, didn’t the most frail village elder always turn out to be the kung fu master of masters? I should have known.
I used Spiritual Regeneration and it eased my discomfort. A bit.
At least my eyes focused.
I found myself on a pile of silk pillows in a room with screened windows (the source of the offending sunlight). Overhead was a mosaic of sky and cranes and clouds; the walls had scenes of jungle flora; the floor a picture of swirling waters, koi, and floating lotuses. Instead of tiles, though, these mosaics were made from coins: tarnished black ones, others mint green with verdigris, a few gold Krugerrands, buffalo nickels, ones with holes in their centers, triangular brass slugs—mementos perhaps from a hundred different worlds.
With my incredibly keen perception, I then noticed the two chimpanzees sitting on either side of me.
One made a soothing murmur and handed me a folded cloth.
I took it, nodded my thanks, and held it to my temple. It was cold and helped quiet the hammers performing Verdi’s Anvil Chorus on my head.
The other chimpanzee poured a half coconut of wine and offered it to me.
“No thanks,” I said.
Yeah, drug the guy who wasn’t quite lucid. I’d been at that party before.
Something other than my concussion felt wrong, though.
Wait—I patted my waist and brow.
I went cold. It was what every player feared as much as death. Apart from my clothes, my gear was gone. Oh man, even my troll-skin boots?
Even…? I flexed my right hand and examined the back where there wer
e now dozens of fine scars. They’d taken my demon bone knuckles too. At least they’d done me the courtesy of performing surgery and not ripping them out or amputating the hand.
But why? Last night every monkey in this valley had been screaming for my head.
I better start from square one.
Was I a captive? I gave that a ninety-nine percent chance of “oh hell, yes.”
Apparently, however, I was a well-treated captive.
I’d return the favor and be similarly civilized while I puzzled the rest of this out; namely, why I was alive, where my stuff was, what happened to Elmac and Morgana, and how the three of us could escape.
I got to my feet, wobbled, but made it to an open window.
A breeze cooled my face. Beyond I saw the valley I’d run through, the waterfall, the lake, and orchards. It was gorgeous with greenery and flowers and sparkling water. Sixty feet down were those nightmarishly steep stairs.
I had to be in the pagoda.
On the curved beam architecture outside the window, six gorilla guards balanced and/or hung about and glared at me.
Of course: One could not be a captive without jailers.
I backed away.
A screen on the other side of the room slid aside and a chimpanzee with silver-fringed fur hobbled in. He shut it behind him, and bowed to me, leaning as he did so on a crooked walking stick.
It was the old guy who’d bested me like I’d been a novice.
I showed him respect and returned his bow (but didn’t take my eyes off him).
He gestured to the pillows and then waved away the chimpanzee attendants.
“Sit. Please,” he said.
It hadn’t registered on me last night, but he had a British accent. Unlike Morgana’s more colloquial dialect, he sounded as eloquent as Peter O’ Toole in the 1962 Academy Award-winning Lawrence of Arabia.
I did as he suggested.
The monkey similarly sank to the floor on his heels.
“I am Master Cho.”
“Hektor Saint-Savage,” I said, doing my best to sound like a gracious guest.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The chimpanzee set a hand over his heart. “Accept my apologies for taking advantage of you last evening. Hardly sporting of me, considering your wounds and state of exhaustion.”