A Thousand Drunken Monkeys

by Eric Nylund

  Then… with what I thought were my unpredictable staggering steps, she began to stagger as well.

  Mirroring my motions.

  Improvising her own.

  Was she learning my moves? Some ability of her Soul Stealer class?

  Foul I say! Where was the referee?

  I had to up my game, so I focused (or whatever the equivalent was in my current condition) on my new Drunken Boxing skill—calling upon the part that let me “sporadically use a random basic special technique.”

  I then employed the slopping Toast to Heaven and she blocked the uppercut with the Two Broken Gates defense.

  I tried the Stinging Scorpion Slap; she nullified it with Fumbling Fists.

  I started Chair with Two Legs; she planted her foot between mine and stopped it with the No Personal Space technique.

  What a cheater!

  I grabbed her sleeve, twisted, and locked her arm in place.

  Yamina’s eyes narrowed.

  With the flexibility of a contortionist, standing less than a handspan from me, her foot lashed straight up—and caught me under the chin.

  As I flew off my feet, Yamina transformed her leg’s upward momentum into a full cartwheel and a backflip out of her dress. This could only be because of the bodysuit of tesseract spider silk she wore and its slippery properties—but still a magnificently executed maneuver.

  She landed in the corner of the room, a feat worthy of a master ninja with high levels of Wire Work.

  I, meanwhile, executed a not-as-perfect backflip, and landed with the grace of a bag of cement, breaking the nightstand and bed.

  I caught a glimpse as she pulled up the hood and mask of her bodysuit… and faded from view.

  I got up (sort of), braced against the wall, and slid to the corner opposite where she’d been.

  What’s worse than being in a locked room with an eighth-level assassin trying to kill you? Why, being in a locked room with an invisible eighth-level assassin trying to kill you.

  Another problem: I wasn’t plastered anymore, merely well-oiled. Those drunken special techniques burned through alcohol like mana. No wonder Cho had been guzzling non-stop. He’d had to.

  I sighed. Well, as far as first dates went, I’d had worse.

  “Goo kish,” I slurred, trying to say “good kick.”

  No reply. Too bad. It would have been nice to get a fix on her location.

  Was I outside her anti-magic radius, though?

  Shé liàn? You there?

  The weapon awoke and pinged confusion along our mental connection.

  Good. When Shé liàn went inert, I’d know she was close.

  And while I could use my magic, I should.

  I had 20/90 Spiritual Mana, enough for either two Spiritual Regenerations or one Perfect Motion buff—but not both. So healing or an increased defense? Uh… too complicated for my half-sober neurons to figure that one out.

  Mage of the Line tricks? Not enough reflexive mana for anything effective.

  Ebon Hands of Soul Death? Phht! Don’t be silly.

  That left the demon bone knuckles. Which were useless. To use its blasting power I’d have to be close to her… inside her anti-magic field, where it wouldn’t work.

  No. That wasn’t quite right.

  I could use them right here—pull the same trick I’d used on the Grand Imperial Champion of Disorder and blast the floor out from under her feet.

  There was no way, though, I’d catch Yamina off guard with that maneuver.

  She must be similarly sizing me up, planning some surefire final attack (with the added advantage of having her full wits). I’d probably never see it coming. Probably wouldn’t even feel it.

  Although in this particular situation I had one option I hadn’t when I’d faced the Chaos Knight and Master Cho.

  So simple, so stupid, only the simple and stupid would think of it.

  I could run like hell.

  I triggered the explosive power of my demon bone knuckles, turned, and punched the wall.

  The side of the building blasted into a cloud of splinters, pulverized plaster, and smoke.

  I dove through the still-smoldering six-foot hole, glided from the second story to the ground, and sprinted—back toward the inn.

  Let’s see how Yamina fared against me; an irate dwarven wizard (and secret high-level warrior); and a druid-thief, shape-shifting trickster, ex-high school teacher. The three of us together punched well above our weight class.

  The guards that had been posted outside the inn’s front door were missing. Likely dead.

  I tried to push through the door—bounced off.

  It was barred from the inside.

  I kicked it.

  The door flew off its hinges; the four-inch oak brace snapped neatly in half.

  I stepped inside.

  And froze.

  …As did the two dozen Empyrean Guild merchants I’d seen at dinner (no doubt the reinforcements Yamina had called for).

  They’d draped their pewter-colored cloaks over their shoulders… the better to move as they wielded swords, barbed chains, weighted nets, and aimed hand crossbows—at two people wedged back-to-back in the far corner.

  Elmac and Morgana.

  CHAPTER 39

  Elmac gripped his flaming battle axe; Morgana held curved daggers. Both had cuts and bruises. Elmac’s front teeth were missing. Morgana was out of breath.

  Four warriors with iron-shod spears had them pinned in the corner so Elmac couldn’t close and swipe out knees or lop off legs.

  My friends locked eyes with one another as if they were saying goodbye.

  Not if I could help it.

  I fired off my Perfect Motion buff and leapt, flipped, and my foot touched upon the shoulder of the nearest combatant—and I ran.

  This maneuver could only be attempted with Wire Work (and I suspected only while half drunk). I took five miraculous steps upon shoulders and heads before the stunned warriors could react.

  I dodged upthrust blades and ankle grabs—tripped, kicked, stumbled forward, pushed off a snarling orc face—then bounded onto the brawny shoulders of a stout hobgoblin holding a trident and net. I launched off him with all my strength and sent him sprawling onto his butt—and I crashed into the corner, sliding to the floor behind Elmac and Morgana.

  The hacking and stabbing resumed.

  I got up, pulled Morgana back, and took her place on the front line.

  Elmac and I shuffled forward a step to give her room to cast spells.

  I dodged one—two—three spear thrusts.

  These warriors weren’t bad; if not for my Wobbling Floor drunken boxing defense, at least two of those would have landed.

  Morgana chanted, “Nastrotium et excoquam ad sanandum.”

  She set one hand on Elmac’s shoulder, the other on mine.

  Warmth poured into my body.

  I noticed the pips of my health bar were a sickly green. So Yamina had poisoned me when she’d sliced me open. Thanks to Morgana’s healing spell, however, the color returned to its normal arterial red and filled to 109/180.

  Unfortunately along with the removal of one poison, so went the other flowing through my veins. I was sober. No more drunken boxing.

  Elmac’s wounds sealed and new teeth pushed back to fill his homicidal grimace.

  Shé liàn leapt into my waiting hands.

  I tangled a spear thrust with the chain and cast the bladed end of my weapon at the holder of the spear.

  It caught his exposed wrist and coiled about the appendage. The chain links sharpened to razors and cut. Deep.

  I tore it free—and left my assailant screaming and clutching a stump.

  I dodged another thrust, slapped aside a crossbow bolt that would have impaled my right eye, grabbed a spear and yanked. That caught the snarling werewolf warrior holding it unaware and he lost the weapon to me.

  I tossed the spear into the air with a bit of spin—and while I had my hands free, I slashed in twain another bolt ai
med at Morgana.

  My appropriated spear fell, flipped so the sharp end was in the preferred orientation; that is, not pointed at me. I chucked it back to its original owner—who caught it with his sternum.

  “Sent you messages—” Morgana yelled and made an arcane gesture in the air.

  “Didn’t get them,” I said between blocks and stabs.

  Elmac parried a spear shoved at his face, held out a hand, and shouted, “Scintillam!”

  At the same time, a warrior with a morning star charged up to replace the guy without a hand.

  An arc of electricity flashed from Elmac’s palm and crackled across the charging warrior’s mail shirt. The guy dropped, convulsing.

  “It be a good time for a brilliant idea,” Elmac suggested.

  I shook my head. The only idea I had was: fight for our lives.

  “You gents buy me a few ticks,” Morgana whispered in a trance. “Doing an invocare animus.”

  I didn’t get what she meant, but if the lady asked, I’d do my best to oblige.

  Seven paces away, I spotted a group of gray-cloaks as they waved their hands and chanted.

  We weren’t the only ones with spell power.

  I nodded in that direction. “Trouble.”

  Elmac stood on his tiptoes. “Make an opening for me, lad.”

  I glanced into the aether.

  Glowing crimson lines thrummed about the spell casting assassins. I didn’t think they were summoning a friendly campfire to roast hot dogs. One well-placed pillar of flame and Morgana could be cooked.

  And there was another group behind those wizards.

  Coalescing about them were threads of shuddering ultraviolet filled with ghostly screams. Bad news: Necromancy.

  I phased back.

  “And another group behind those,” I told Elmac.

  He grunted.

  I swung my ninja chain and then whipped it about my forearm to increase the momentum. Showy… but that’s what I wanted.

  The spearmen facing me closed into a defensive hedge.

  I commanded Shé liàn to snake about their tight formation of spears.

  She wrapped around the shafts, and with a shiiiinck, constricted, pulling them together.

  I sidestepped the cumulative pointy ends, grabbed the spears, and lunged forward.

  I caught all three off guard.

  They staggered, dug in—shoved back, and rammed me into the corner.

  I almost squished Morgana.

  But Elmac had his opening.

  He rushed forward through the legs of the spearmen, taking swipes, back and forth, severed two Achilles tendons—then he was in the thick of the fire casters, hacking with wild abandon… laughing.

  Their chanted words, “Ignis nent conburite” became, “Wha?? My foot! There he is!”

  The floor was tangled with cloaks and limbs, arcs of sparking steel, and sprays of blood.

  “One more tick,” Morgana murmured. Her hands traced swirls of vivid green magic in the air.

  I pushed back against the spearmen. It was easier now as two were on their knees, and I had a wall to brace against.

  The wounded ones slipped in their own blood. The one standing dropped his spear, drew a scimitar, and closed.

  I commanded Shé liàn to return to my hand, hooked the hilt of his sword, disarmed him, then planted a machine-gun sequence of punches into his chest that crushed his ribcage.

  “Next row,” I shouted to Elmac. “Clerics!”

  Elmac was there, chopping and slashing, and doing a fine job of distracting the priests with a few precision amputations and mortal wounds to their soft centers.

  They weren’t going down without a fight, however. They drew serpentine daggers and strangulation cords and moved to surround Elmac… as did others with spears and nets.

  I lost track of him as a tide of melee closed about me.

  More of the Syndicate’s people rushed into the room—gray cloaks fluttered in confusing waves, blades flashed, nets were thrown, and crossbow bolts zinged through the air in all directions. Skulking shadow shapes flickered in and out of view, stealthy maneuverings undoubtedly to line up a backstab.

  Farther back where Elmac had been, I caught a glimpse of spell energies twisting along the floor and solidifying into ink-black tentacles.

  This was going to get messy. Fast.

  Morgana once more had her daggers in hand, and between parries, feints, and thrusts—she glanced about, obviously searching for Elmac.

  She found me instead and nodded to the far side of the inn.

  Morgana then slashed the throat of the elf in front of her… as her body thinned and she transformed into a twenty-foot-long cobra that went slithering among unsuspecting enemies.

  One, two, three assassins cried out, went rigid, and fell frothing.

  Nice. Two could play with poison.

  I’d understood her unspoken message. Over there—fast!

  But how? Easy to do when you were a—

  Whoa!

  Shé liàn jumped out of my hand and tripped a swordsman. He’d been about to cleave me with an overhand chop. He toppled to the floor.

  A kick to the back of his head kept him down permanently.

  A half-troll leapt at me.

  I punched him in the nose. The demon bone knuckles did a superb job of smashing his face into the back of his skull.

  I lashed out with a scissors kick and caught a pair of hobbits about to clothesline me with a net.

  A blade slit open my side—a strike from behind that just missed my kidney.

  WARNING!!!

  You have been poisoned with:

  Sanguine Hellebore (Helleborus album sanguis).

  Causes necrotizing blisters for additional damage.

  Has a small, but cumulative, chance to auto-catalyze

  and rapidly consume the entire body.

  I grabbed the offending blade—slippery in my chi-armored fists of steel—yanked it forward, and caught the backstabber’s arm. I snapped the limb and planted an elbow in his face for good measure.

  Burning boils bubbled along the wound.

  I dropped to one knee and threw my limp assailant at two crossbowmen aiming at me.

  They shot—pincushioning their comrade.

  I then caught a glimpse of Elmac.

  His opponents had him surrounded, spears and shields holding him at bay, nets at the ready to tangle him.

  I crashed into their ranks, took a spear in the shoulder, wrapped my ninja chain about one warrior’s neck and dragged him down with me.

  This gave Elmac enough wiggle room to rush their line and start hacking anew.

  I hoped whatever spell Morgana had cast was a doozy, something like Slay All Enemies or Teleport Party to Safe Location.

  I fought on, but my strikes were weaker. I was slowing down.

  They had numbers on us… and Yamina had yet to join the fray.

  My thoughts turned to Sir Pendric Ragnivald and how my friend would have given anything to be in this mess. What better way for a half-Valkyrie knight to die but fighting alongside his comrades, slaying evil before a valiant end?

  It was what poets wrote heroic odes about.

  I grinned.

  How could I do any less?

  I sucked it up and fought. I’d do Pendric proud, and if need be, go down swinging and kicking and biting to the very end.

  The floor and walls rumbled.

  Dust rained from the ceiling.

  Earthquake? A spell unleashed by the Silent Syndicate?

  No, the assassins looked just as confused as I was.

  Plaster cracked, and outside the inn a continuous drumroll of thunder grew.

  Windows shattered and the eastern wall crashed inward—

  demolished by charging buffalo.

  The beasts’ eyes were dark with rage as they trampled and gored astonished assassins.

  The few who had the wits to fight back faced a room full of three-ton creatures who slashed their ten-foot horns to
and fro, kicked and crushed and caved in heads and launched bodies across the room.

  These were our buffalo, and it looked like they’d brought a few friends, rounding out the tiny herd to an even dozen.

  Morgana, you beautiful brilliant druid. That spell you cast was a distress call.

  The assassins, however, regrouped and tangled one buffalo’s legs with nets.

  The beast went down—crushing a few of her attackers. They stabbed her over and over. She screamed and kicked until she moved no more.

  All thoughts of my pathetic self-absorbed noble death vanished.

  This was my herd they were messing with!

  I plucked up a spear, looked about, and found Auntie Brown. I leapt onto her back.

  She tensed as if to buck, but I whispered, “It’s me, Hektor.”

  Auntie Brown snorted. It sounded to me like an expression of relief that she’d found her little hairless calf alive.

  The mob rushed us.

  I had 12/120 reflexive mana left, so I had to make this quick.

  I shifted into the aether.

  As fast as I could, I tabbed to my SKILLS & ABILITIES interface, and selected:

  Ride (Animal): Master animals as a means of conveyance by friendship, cajoling, or domination. Total expertise is the combination of this skill, and your REFLEX and EGO stats. At higher skill levels, riding in difficult terrain and combat are permitted, as well as mastering exotic animals. Only at the highest levels of skill are flying mounts ridable.

  I spammed the UP ARROW to spend my non-combat skill points.

  How many… I wasn’t sure.

  I just went until my reflexive mana got to 2/120 and—

  snapped back to the thick of combat.

  Windows popped around me. The first one read:

  Congratulations!

  You may now effectively use tier-1 mounts in combat.

  and then

  Congratulations!

  You have mastered tier-2 mounts:

  warhorses and similar equine quadrupeds.

  and more of the same until I got

  Congratulations!

  You have mastered tier-4 mounts:

  light reptile types and heavy mammals such as rhinoceros.