The Prologue
Which,
Unlike Other Chapters, Has No
Pithy Subheading in
Italics
Dawn poked her rosy fingers across the
sky.
And promptly tore two small holes in
it.
Vertis the sky god repaired the holes
and scolded Dawn, sending her off to get a manicure. He took over from
there, and cast the sun’s early rays into the stone-paved courtyard of
Bryath Castle, the hub of Centra
Mundi’s government. Blue and silver pennants flapped merrily in the gentle
breeze, and the cold stones of the ancient fortress began warming in the
sunlight.
But light creates shadows, and from
them slipped a man in a black cloak, clutching a dagger in his bony hand.
The man crept up behind a bleary-eyed sentry, dagger poised to strike. The
sentry standing near the massive oaken gate was still half-asleep, and had
begun his shift only minutes ago, as evidenced by the creases in his
recently folded blue-and white uniform. With a swift and silent swipe, the
black-garbed man slashed open the sentry’s throat. The sentry gurgled and
collapsed, caught by his killer as he fell.
Across the gate from the assassin, a
similar man slew the other sentry quietly and leaned the corpse against
the wall. The assassins atop the wall had done their work also, so not a
single soul watched the western approach to the castle, nor guarded
it.
It was not until the gate opened and
the drawbridge rattled down that the Castle Guard realized something was
amiss. And by then, it was too late. A hundred black-clad men wielding
swords and crossbows flooded through the West Gate, slaying anyone they
ran across. Finally a bleeding sentry raised his head and sounded the
alarm on a bent trumpet. Men scrambled to respond, and the Palace Guard
hastily armed themselves, storming out to meet the invaders.
“They’ve breached the
gate!”
“Get the Palace Guard down
here, now!”
“Protect the King!”
“Anyone seen my shoes?”
A sergeant stopped barking orders to
his men, and glared at the shoeless guard. “This is no time for footwear
problems, man! Just get off your posterior and fight those
GYAAIIEE!”
A wickedly flanged mace slammed down
on an unfortunate sergeant. “Yes, you pathetic fools,” the mace’s wielder
said with a horrible chuckle, “come and fight us Gyaaiiee.”
Outside the barracks, the host of
black-clad invaders brought in a battering ram to attack the gates of the
inner keep. They set fire to the stables for good measure, throwing the
horses into a panic. The flagstones of the courtyard flowed with the blood
of many members of the Palace Guard.
The shoeless soldier backed up,
gibbering in fear. The man standing over him stood easily over six feet
tall. Blood dripped from the man’s silver armor and red beard, and the
frightened soldier got the impression that none of that blood belonged to
the man.
“Mwa ha ha! Fear me, you worm!” the
towering man said with a laugh. “Now prepare to meet your
doom!”
A second invader stepped up
behind the red-beared man and slapped him across the back of his helm.
“Stop fooling around with the common soldiers and help me get to the
throne room,” he ordered. The new arrival was much shorter, about five and
a half feet tall, clad in armor of
midnight black, with a helm that resembled the
horned head of a demon. “We’ve no time for your idiotic
catch-phrases.”
The tall man sighed and slew the
shoeless soldier with a single solid swipe. “Fine,” he said, shaking a bit
of brain loose from a flange of his mace, “but promise me I get to kill
some innocents later. I’m enjoying this Villain business
already.”
“Too much, it seems,” said the man in
black. “Let’s just get this done before they can summon reinforcements.
Where did those blasted Manticores disappear to? They’d better not be
fooling around scaring horses, or I’ll have to have a word with our beast
master…”
*
*
*
“…and so then the bartender says,
‘That’s not a gryphon, that’s a chicken glued to a cat!’”
The men at the table laughed politely,
not wishing to offend their monarch. It was a privilege to eat with the
King of Bryath, and the food was good, if not the humor.
King Ataraxes Zamindar Bryath the
Third wiped away a tear as he continued chuckling to himself over his
joke. “Oh, I love that one so very much.” He wore a heavy gold crown atop
his graying blond head, and velvet robes of a deep vermillion hue,
currently bedecked with crumbs from the strawberry tart he had been
eating.
The men who ate with the King on
that day were Sir Grant, the Captain of the King’s Own Guard, Salidor
Goldwater of the Seafarer’s
Union, and
their special guest, a professional Hero, behind whose chair stood a page
boy bearing the Hero’s shield.
The four men sat in a
cavernous dining hall, one built to accommodate a hundred or more nobles
during official dinners. Morning sunlight filtered into the room in myriad
colors through exquisite stained-glass windows depicting previous Kings of
Centra Mundi and their deeds. The men’s conversation echoed in the mostly
empty room, the sound absorbed only by the long table in the center of the
room, and the myriad chairs which lined it. The rest echoed about the
carved marble buttresses holding up the tiled roof. A small fire danced
cheerfully in the fireplace at the south end of the room, for despite the
heat of summer,
Bryath
Castle
was a terribly
chilly and drafty place.
The Hero in question went
by the name of the Crimson Slash, though his real name was Reginald
Ogleby. Or, more correctly, Sir Reginald Ogleby, after being knighted by the
current King for his courageous actions during the Battle of Three
Streams. He was a well-known warrior who had, the day before, delivered a
gift for the King’s birthday celebration. The gift was from the
International Guild of Heroes, whose headquarters sat near the center of
Bryath’s castle town. The King hadn’t opened it yet.
Reginald himself was an impressive
figure, an enormous fellow, over six feet tall, with shoulders as broad as
an ox. He had a kind face, if a bit rough. Today, his thick black hair
looked as if it hadn’t been combed yet, but the beard covering his cheeks
was neatly trimmed. His silver armor gleamed with a professional sheen,
and the bar of crimson paint across the breastplate’s surface appeared
freshly painted.
The King leaned over to Reginald and
smiled. “Sir Ogleby, I must ask: what have you brought from the Guild for
me?”
Reginald shook his head and smiled.
“My apologies, your Majesty, but I am sworn to secrecy on that score. Your
Majesty will simply have to wait until your birthday.” The Hero’s voice
was a gravelly base rumble, pleasant, but obviously not a singing
voice.
The King stuck out his lip briefly in
jest, then chuckled. “Ah, I suppose I shall. So, will the Guildmaster be
attending this year, or do his legs pain him too much?”
“Guardian is in fine health, your
Majesty, and was delighted to receive your invitation,” Reginald replied.
“He would not miss your birthday for all the gold in—”
A soldier, one of the Palace Guard,
burst into the room, breathing heavily. All the men at the table turned to
look at him. The soldier bowed to the King, then turned to Sir Grant, a
panicked look on his freckled face. “Sir Grant! There’s been an attack on
the West Gate, and they have already breached the outer keep!”
Grant, clad in the silver and blue of
the King’s Own Guard, leapt up from the table and grabbed his sword from
where it had been resting beside his chair. “How many?”
“Near a hundred, sir,” the soldier
said, “plus some of those nasty Mythologicals. There’s a manticore or
two down there, and we spotted a chimera earlier. Pike and Harding request
your assistance.”
Grant turned to the King. “Your
Majesty, I request that you take shelter until we resolve this
matter.”
The King shook his head. “A mere
attack? Bah. What is this, the third this month? I’ll worry when they
break through into the inner Keep. You can certainly deal with a few
would-be assassins, yes?”
Grant bowed. “Yes, your Majesty. I
will ensure this action comes to naught. If you will excuse me.” He turned
and followed the soldier out of the room.
Reginald’s eyes strayed to his massive
sword, which leaned against the wall. The Hero clenched a fist and sighed,
as if he very much wanted to join in the fray instead of endure the King’s
attempts at comedy. But he had neither been invited nor ordered to, and
instead leaned back in his chair and took another bite of
sausage.
“So, where was I?” the King said. “Ah,
yes, chicken glued to a cat. And so the first man rolls his eyes and
says…”
*
*
*
“Sphere of Annihilation!”
A ball of swirling blue mist sprang
into existence in front of a group of soldiers, then burst. The corrosive
mist burned their flesh and rusted their armor in seconds, sending the men
reeling in agony.
The man in the demon-helm snorted in
derision. He turned to face another soldier, holding his dull grey
falchion high. The falchion was a slightly curved sword, both wide and
heavy, and gutted the soldier cleanly as the invader brought it down
across the man’s chest.
“Anthony,” he said to the red-bearded
man, gesturing with his ebon gauntlet, “send more Minions to secure the
west hallway. I dislike being flanked. And get those Manticores to stop
fooling around with the horses and send them to cause a diversion in the
southern corridor. When you’re done, grab a dozen Minions and join me in
the east hallway. The inner keep isn’t far.”
“Yes, milord.” Anthony’s face took on
a triumphant grin, and he raised a clenched fist in a triumphant gesture.
“Once we breach the inner keep, it’s only a short while until you get your
hands on the King’s ring, and then you have what you need to take over the
world!”
“Yes, Anthony, I know,” the
demon-helmed man said. “I can do my own exposition well enough, thank you.
Now do as I say, and be quick about it.”
The bearded man grumbled, but turned
to do his lord’s bidding. “Yes, Milord. Can you hold here until I
return?”
“Of course. Now go. There is much
havoc to be wrought and little time to wreak it in.” The helmed man smiled
as a fresh wave of Palace Guard stormed towards him, and began a dance of
death, complete with theme music. Disturbing, minor-key organ blasted from
the air around him as he took his first step forward.
That step brought him inside the first
man’s guard, and the invader opened the man’s chest before he could raise
his shield. Two more went down before the others had time to react. The
man in the demon helmet was too fast for them. And too strong, as well,
for any shield or weapon raised in defense shattered under his onslaught.
The man in the helm laughed, a
malevolent and resounding chuckle, the unearthly sound echoing from the
helmet in a cascade of black sound.
“MWA HA HA HA!!!”
*
*
*
“…and said ‘No, no, not that
horse!’”
Reginald sighed, not even pretending
to laugh this time. He’d heard the noise of battle from below them in the
courtyard, and was barely resisting the temptation to leave the table and
look out the window.
The merchant from the
Seafarer’s
Union still chuckled
sycophantically. “Oh, your Majesty, you are so amusing.”
“Cease your fawning,” the King said,
scowling at the thin, overdressed man. “Sir Ogleby, is aught
amiss?”
“No, your Majesty, it’s probably
nothing. After all, Sir Grant is more than competent.” Reginald settled
back in his chair and looked unhappy.
“’Tis a shame that your Guild dictates
noninvolvement in our mundane affairs unless Villains are involved,” the
King said, taking a bite of a strawberry-filled pastry. “I would let you
go in a heartbeat if it were the case, but for an everyday assassination
attempt…”
The merchant Goldwater turned to
Reginald, a quizzical expression on his pale face. “The Guild of Heroes
won’t let you protect the King?” he said, squeaking slightly in growing
fear. “Whyever not?”
“What do you think the Palace Guard
and the King’s Own are for?” Reginald replied, leaning back uneasily. “If
a Hero came by and did their job for them every time someone attacked the
castle, what do you think that would do to their morale?”
The merchant nodded. “Not anything
good. And you Heroes have better things to do than hang around waiting for
assassination attempts?”
“And it’s not sportsmanlike,” the King
said, popping the rest of the tart into his mouth and reaching for
another. “The Palace Guard would feel unmanned, but think of the
attackers’ plight. Having a bona fide Hero spoil your careful planning is
just unfair. Now, if there were a Villain involved, that would change
things…”
“Indeed,” Reginald said with a
sigh.
“What, how so?” the merchant asked. “I
would classify anyone attempting to kill the King as a villain. What do
you—”
Reginald held up a hand to cut the
merchant off. “There are villains, and then there are Villains,” he
explained. “Any buffoon who beats his wife or throws rocks at a parade is
a villain. Lower case, you see. The kind that run their own guild and
command entire armies of Henchmen are Villains. Upper case. They are
totally different in orders of magnitude. They’ve even their own guild
like the Heroes’ Guild, but it’s evil, and…bah, it’s complicated.” The
Hero waved a hand dismissively. “All you need know now is that the
situation is not dire enough for me to be allowed to step in.”
“I’d feel safer if you did,” the King
said, a gleam in his eye. “Almost makes me wish there was a Villain
involved, eh, Sir Ogleby?”
Reginald nodded. “Aye. It’s been far
too—”
The door slammed open, and Sir Grant
staggered in, bleeding from multiple sword-wounds, his armor had been
rusted away in places, and he bore a look of fear on his face. Several
members of the King’s Own Guard followed Grant in and took places around
their liege, swords drawn.
“Your Majesty!” Grant said, pulling
the King up from his chair. “We must hurry from this place! They have
breached the inner Keep, and are headed for the throne room as we speak.
Their commander wields strange magic beyond anything I have seen. He and
his men have slain over half the Palace Guard!”
Reginald leapt to his feet, palms flat
on the table. “Strange magics, you say?”
Grant nodded wearily. “Spells far
beyond the power these types would naturally have. And that infernal
music! An eldritch melody that sucked the courage from my bravest
men.”
Reginald knocked the table aside and
grabbed Grant by the shoulders, scattering breakfast foods all over the
flagstones. “When you say ‘music,’ do you mean actual, audible
music?”
“Aye, a sinister tune. As if played by
demons in Hell’s Organworks.”
“Nonsense,” the King said, clucking
over the spilled food and retrieving yet another strawberry tart from the
mess on the floor. “The castle doesn’t have an organ. We haven’t had an
organist since friar Belham quit over the Hydra-in-his-bathtub
incident.”
“Think very carefully,” Reginald said,
looking into Grant’s weary eyes. “The music: is it in a major or minor
key?”
“Minor, C minor,” the knight replied.
“Why?”
Reginald grinned broadly. He took his
shield from the page-boy and picked up his enormous sword from its place
by the wall. “Theme music, my friend! Their leader is a Villain for
certain. Get the King to the throne room and set up what defenses you can
muster. I shall make short work of this Villain when he
arrives.”
“Change of plans, men,” Grant barked.
“We escort the King to his throne room. Ranulf, prepare the Route of
Emergency Escapes. The rest of you take up Penultimate and Ultimate
Defensive Perimeter stations inside the throne room. The Crimson Slash
will confront the Villain.”
The King’s Own saluted—looking
markedly relieved—and led the protesting King of Bryath from the room.
Reginald smiled, and ate the rest of
the strawberry pastry.
*
*
*
“We must be almost there,” the
demon-helmed man said, looking down at the corpse of a soldier with
slightly different armor than the others he’d just slain. “I think this
one was one of the King’s Own.”
Anthony spared a glance at his lord.
“Good. Then we can get on with the taking over the world thing.” The large
man spun and knocked down a door with his flanged mace. Five soldiers had
been hiding behind it, preparing to make a brave attempt at ambushing the
intruders. Now they fell backward under the impact, and a half-dozen
black-clad Minions leapt forward and slew them where they lay.
“Exactly,” the man in the demon-helm
said. “I shall have civilization under my thumb before you can say
Worldwide Domination.”
Anthony grinned. “Worldwide
Domina—”
“Silence, Anthony. Your strong point
is smashing things, not witticisms. Now, where’s the throne
room?”
“We could follow the map,
milord.”
“Map? What in the Nine Hells are you—”
Anthony pointed. The demon-helmed man
turned and saw a plaque on the wall with a simplified floor plan of the
surrounding area, with an X stating You are Here.
“Oh.”
Down a corridor and to the right was a
room labeled “Throne Room: Audience hours 10–12, 3–5, weekdays
only.”
“Oh good,” Anthony said, “they’re
open.”
“Or they will be,” the helmed man
said, shaking his head and striding down the hallway. “Onward!”
*
*
*
“Listen!”
Reginald and the King’s Own stood in
the red-carpeted throne room, spread in a V formation between the throne
and the entrance. Two knights slammed the crossbar down from the inside to
secure the door, then scrambled back to their places. The assembled
Kingsguard fell into a hushed silence, straining to hear what the Hero
spoke of. Faintly, and growing louder by the moment, they began to hear
strains of a complicated and sinister music, as if a powerful pipe organ
below the castle’s foundation was blasting at its top volume.
“Ready yourselves,” Reginald said.
“That music will hit top volume just as the doors burst open. And the
first thing that will come in will be a dozen Minions. They are weak, but
do not let them catch you off-guard. Now, hold fast. For the King!” The
Hero raised his titanic sword into the air, and accidentally poked a hole
in the ceiling panels with it. He pretended not to notice.
The Kingsguard chuckled grimly, and
braced themselves for the onslaught.
*
*
*
“Dark Fog of Sinister Entrances,” said the man in the helmet. A misshapen blob of
black mist appeared between his hands. “Cue the music,” he ordered, “and
open that door!”
Anthony delivered a grievous blow to
the doors with his mace. Simultaneously, the helmed man released his
spell, sending a rush of Sinister Fog into the room, followed by a dozen
of his remaining Minions.
The music, which had inexplicably been
following them around, crescendoed, adding its noise to the sounds of
yells and metal on metal.
The helmed man removed his helm and
tossed it aside. Beneath the demon-horned helm, the Villain was quite
handsome, with wavy, raven-black, glossy hair and pointed facial features.
He was not an Elf, for his eyes glowed a soft green. The Villain strode
into the smoky room, sword drawn and a confident, smug smile on his
face.
“Happy birthday, your
Majesty. Surrender your ring or Prepare to Face your D— Orsobu Pitchi!”
As the smoke cleared the Villain’s
demands became a curse instead. All twelve of his Minions lay dead,
slaughtered by the efficient hands of the Kingsguard. And in the center of
those men stood something that threw his plan out the window.
A Hero, clad in shining armor and
wielding a tremendous sword, stood in the center of the room, staring the
Villain down.
“Greetings, foul Villain,”
the Hero said with a smile. “What brings you to
Bryath
Castle
on this fine
day?”
The Villain scowled. “You! Who are
you, and how did you know I was coming?”
“Mine name is the Crimson Slash,” the
Hero said, locking eyes with the Villain. “And I didn’t know you were
coming. Poor timing on your part, methinks.”
“Bah. It matters not,” the Villain
said, and raised his arms in his best sorcerer’s pose. “You have heard of
me, no doubt. I am a Villain from a long line of dastardly Villains. My
name strikes fear into the hearts of those who hear it, and you will
shriek it with your last breath as I slay you.”
“But what is it?” the Crimson Slash
asked.
“I’m getting there,” the Villain
replied, peeved. “Don’t interrupt.”
The Crimson Slash bowed slightly. “My
apologies. Continue.”
“Thank you. Where was I?”
“Shrieking with my last
breath.”
“Ah. You will shriek it
with your last breath as I slay you,” the Villain continued. To the
Dwarves, I am Kon Borok gat
mors, son of the Killing Stones. To the Elves I am Malikinolar, Bringer of the
Darkness. And to the Orcs, I am Vorsch Kraam,
the Eater of Souls.”
“And I suppose the Istaka
call you Kriha beridakh, He Who Tires the Ears,” the Crimson Slash said, leaning on his
sword.
The Villain scowled and dropped his
pose. “Did you want to hear my name or not?”
“Well, if I’m to shriek it as you slay
me, I’ll have to know it, I suppose.”
“Very well. To the Census Keepers, I
am Voshtyr von Steinadler, son of Benjamin von Steinadler. But to Heroes
and commoners alike, I am Voshtyr Demonkin.” He raised his arms again.
“Prepare to Meet your Doom, Crimson Slash!”
“My Doom?” The Crimson Slash said with
a laugh. “No, sirrah, you are outnumbered by more than eight-to-one.
Prepare to Face Justice!”
Voshtyr snorted. “You fool. You think
mere odds can stop me? Well, let me even them out somewhat!”
With a diabolical laugh, he flung his
left arm out at the Kingsguard. A wave of crackling purple energy blasted
forth from his hand, striking four of the men and knocking them to the
floor in writhing convulsions. With another gesture, they stiffened and
rose, blank stares on their faces.
The Crimson Slash almost
dropped his sword, and Voshtyr laughed at his facial expression. The blast
was nothing less than combined Soul
Burnout and Penultimate
Reanimation spells. The blood drained from the Crimson Slash’s face.
“Grant!” he yelled. “He’s not a Villain—he’s an Arch-Villain! Take the
King and run!”
“Anthony!” Voshtyr barked at his
red-bearded thug. “I have a Hero to slaughter. Get that ring for
me!”
Anthony threw himself at a wall of
remaining Kingsguards, his mace a silver blur.
The captain of the Kingsguard hurried
his monarch toward an antechamber while fighting off the red-bearded man
and his former comrades. The reanimated corpses of the Kingsguard were
fresh enough to retain their muscle memory. They fought almost as well
against their erstwhile friends as they had while they were
alive.
Voshtyr turned to the Crimson Slash.
“And now, you will learn a lesson you shall take with you to your grave:
why a mere Hero should not trifle with an Arch-Villain.”
*
*
*
“You cannot defeat me!” Anthony
shouted at two Kingsguards as they both moved to protect their king.
Anthony brought his mace down on them with a rush of air. “I am Sir
Anthony the Mace, and thousands have fallen beneath my blade!”
The two men combined their
strength to ward off the Villain’s blow. One of them laughed. “Well, I am
Ranulf of the King’s Own. And that’s not a blade, that’s a mace.”
“True,” the other guard said. “I am
James of the King’s Own, foul Villain. And last I heard, your Villainy
Rating had you at forty-seven murders.” He threw his weight into his
shield, sending the Villain staggering back. “That’s more like dozens than
thousands.”
“Silence!”
Anthony bellowed. “My slight exaggeration matters not. What matters is
that two common men such as yourselves cannot hope to best a
Villain!”
“How about three?” asked another
Kingsguard, stabbing at Anthony from behind.
Anthony the Mace snorted, spinning and
parrying the attack. “Bah, one more means little. You could have four or
five, or, er, six…” His bluster trailed off as several more knights
surrounded him.
“Stand your ground, Villain,” Ranulf
demanded.
“I’ll stand where I want,” Anthony
said. “My armor is nigh invulnerable to common weapons. Only a magical
blade could have any hope of-”
With a nod from Ranulf, all six of the
Kingsguard twisted the pommels of their weapons. Shimmering blue light
blazed around the cold steel of the swords.
Anthony’s eyes grew wider,
and he backed up a pace. “Magical weapons? Bryath must have a high
equipment budget…” Then he shook his head. “Fie! Your weapons matter not.
Eat elemental death, fools!” Anthony gestured with his gauntleted hands.
“Underworld’s Own…”
“Brace yourselves, men!” Ranulf
shouted, raising his shield.
“…Crushing Sphere
of…”
The Kingsguard hunkered down against
incoming magic.
“…Incredibly Mighty…Cowardice!
Yaaah!” The Villain shoved aside one of the
Kingsguard, and ran back down the hallway the way he had come.
Perplexed, the knights stood staring
for a few moments. Then with a shout, several leapt to pursue the fleeing
Villain. The rest returned to guard their monarch and escort him from the
scene of carnage.
*
*
*
Voshtyr snarled, and threw himself at
the Hero. A twist of his left wrist caused a concealed blade to snap out
above his hand. Suddenly, a single threat Arch-Villain was a double threat
Arch-Villain.
The Crimson Slash caught one blade on
his shield, but Voshtyr’s arm-blade laid open the Hero’s left
cheek.
“A crimson slash for the Crimson
Slash,” Voshtyr said with a sneer.
“It’s just another scar, Demonkin. One
I shall live to see heal and you will not.” The Hero winced as the blood
flowed into his beard, but he immediately counterattacked. “The Crimson
Slash pressed his counterattack, raining furious blows on the dastardly
Villain!” he shouted, striking repeatedly at Vostyr.
Voshtyr had to retreat beneath the
repeated, hammerlike blows of the Hero’s oversized sword. “What in the
Nine Hells are you doing?” he demanded, dodging behind a pillar and
clutching his right wrist.
“Narrating!” Reginald replied. “What
is an Epic Battle without narration?”
“Significantly less annoying,” Voshtyr
growled. He ran at the Hero, and ducked under another Standard Horizontal
Slash. As he came up, he bashed aside the Crimson Slash’s shield with his
left arm, and lunged for an opening.
“The Crimson Slash punched Voshtyr in
the face. The Villain’s attempt at catching the Hero off-guard failed,
gaining the foul man naught but a bloody nose.”
“Graah! Stop that narration or I’ll
render you incapable of speech!”
“The Hero was unafraid of the
Villain’s bluster, knowing that words never suffice in place of
action.”
Voshtyr’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“Fine, then, action it is.” He leapt high, bringing both blades down in an
X attack from above.
“The Crimson Slash blocked the cuts
with his massive sword, absorbing the impact. The Hero’s face was mere
inches from Voshtyr’s.”
“Yes,” Voshtyr said, “and there was
something stuck to it. Is that…cherry filling?”
The Hero’s bloodied face went red with
embarrassment. “Strawberry, most like.” With a swing of his shield, he
knocked Voshtyr off balance.
But off balance did not
mean unprepared. Throwing his left hand out as he fell, Voshtyr shouted,
“Impact Beam!” A coherent beam of distorted air lanced out from his hand and the Hero
found himself knocked backward, a smoking ding in his breastplate.
“Impressive though that was,” the
Crimson Slash said, tapping the inconsequential dent, “it will not suffice
to defeat me.”
Voshtyr growled. “You Heroes need to
learn when to taunt and when not to. This is a when-not-to.”
“On the contrary,” the Hero
replied. “I quote The Complete
Guide to Heroics, Volume Three, Chapter Seventeen, paragraph
twenty-two: ‘Another opportune time to Taunt your Foe is when you have
just delivered a Successful Attack, and have the Advantage over your
Opponent.’”
“Advantage?” Voshtyr said. “What
advantage? And what successful attack? All you’ve done is blather on about
how wonderful you are.”
“We’ll have to remedy that, then,
shan’t we? Prepare to face Ju—” The Hero stopped mid-sentence.
Voshtyr knew why. He’d concentrated on
Evil Thoughts, thus turning his green eyes into a malevolent red glow.
“Now,” Voshtyr said, rising from the floor, “remind me again who has the
advantage here?” Dust and shreds of red carpeting began to swirl around
him, and the light from outside the windows dimmed
significantly.
“Your…your eyes…” the Hero said,
backing away.
“Lovely, aren’t they? Got them from my
mother.”
“Red eyes…? You’re not…”
the Crimson Slash swallowed. “You’re not—”
“Human?” Voshtyr replied, advancing on
the Hero. “Not entirely, no. You have no idea with whom you are dealing.
Indeed, any Arch-Villain outmatches a Hero. But I am far above mere
Arch-Villains as well!”
Voshtyr made his eyes flare
brighter as he pulled from inside his armor a necklace made of what the
Hero would see as rough-cut beads. They were actually tiny gemstones, each
one flickering with inner light. He held the necklace up to the heavens.
“No, you have no
idea.”
The sky outside the castle walls
darkened as the sun eclipsed itself. The castle shook violently,
shattering the stained-glass windows of the throne room. The Crimson Slash
staggered backwards and braced himself against the empty throne.
With a deafening roar, the castle tore
itself apart. Explosions blossomed all around, blowing chunks out of the
walls, enormous gouges in the exterior stonework. The entire top of the
throne room spun off, swirling upwards into an enormous hole in the sky,
the grey stones disappearing as they entered its maw. Lightning of a
horrendous shade of purple streaked across the damaged sky.
The Hero stared at Voshtyr,
gaping in amazement. No doubt he wondered where Voshtyr was getting all the magic to
wreak such havoc. Determination filled the Hero’s eyes, and he dug a slim
silver token from his pocket, and pressing it hard in the
center.
Voshtyr knew what that meant, and it
pleased him greatly. More Heroes to toy with before he slaughtered them.
What a pleasant day this was becoming.
Within seconds, a voice boomed from
the coin. “Crimson Slash! Your location reads as right in the center of
the cataclysm on Centra Mundi! Are you all right?”
“No! I require immediate assistance!”
the Crimson Slash yelled over the howling of the wind and the vortex
above. “AVA-RIA, I repeat, AVA-RIA! Send whoever you can, whatever you
can, as fast as you can!”
*
*
*
The reader should note that AVA-RIA is
not some form of obscure chanted prayer, nor is it a type of fruit juice,
nor even an Elven word for a botched solo in a traditional opera.
It is instead a code word used by
professional Heroes to warn their Brothers-in-Arms of an Arch-Villain
Attack, and that he or she Requires Immediate Assistance. AVA-RIA. Whereas
Reginald had little use for a glass of fruit juice at the moment, had no
prayer beads within easy reach, and had as much appreciation of opera as
he did of feline caterwauling, he did require backup.
*
*
*
“AVA-RIA acknowledged, Crimson Slash,”
the voice said from the coin. “Help is on the way. Delay the Arch-Villain
if possible.”
Reginald severed the connection and
glanced around. The situation had not gotten any better. The hole in the
sky continued to pull bits of the castle into its maw, and had grown to
the point where it was ripping trees from the castle courtyard out by
their roots. The howling of the wind had increased in both volume and
pitch, now shrieking around the shattered stones. The King and his Guard
had abandoned the room entirely, leaving only the beleaguered Hero and his
diabolical opponent.
Voshtyr stood in a sort of manic
ecstasy, produced by the power of his terrible magics, no doubt. A
fiendish smile lit his features, as did the flaming glow of his red eyes.
The Villain’s black cloak swirled about him in the wind as he raised his
arms to the vortex, laughing inhumanly.
“Demonkin!” Reginald shouted, raising his
sword. “This has gone far enough! Taste My Blade!”
The Villain, entranced by his own
magically-induced chaos, barely had time to raise his own weapon in
defense as Reginald’s blade descended on him. With a resounding clang,
Voshtyr’s sword went spinning from him and rattled across the floor. He
scowled, his glowing eyes flaring brighter. “Excuse me, I was enjoying my
Moment of Triumph.”
“No one else was,” Reginald said,
squaring off.
“That matters not.” Voshtyr turned to
face the Hero. “You are an interfering nuisance, Crimson Slash. Do you
know what I do to interfering nuisances?”
“Shake their hand and swap stories
with them over a flask of brandy?”
“No, you fool! I slay them without
mercy. Now have at you!” Voshtyr slashed at Reginald with his arm-blade,
his free hand dancing with spectral fire.
“The Crimson Slash blocked and dodged
the shorter blade easily. The treacherous Voshtyr found the task of
getting through his guard impossible. Even the repeated blasts of
necromantic flame failed to penetrate the Hero’s shield. The Crimson Slash
now had the Advantage over his Foe, and would soon defeat him entirely!”
Reginald put his entire weight into a horizontal sword-cut. “With a single
mighty blow, he knocked the Arch-Villain backward into a stone
column!”
Voshtyr flew backwards,
slamming into a pillar that hadn’t yet been ripped from its anchors by the
vortex above. But this time the Arch-Villain was more prepared. Instead of
striking the pillar in an uncontrolled trajectory, he landed feet-first on
the marble surface and pushed off in an incredible lunge at Reginald’s
shield.
Reginald barely had time to register
that the Arch-Villain’s arm had made a distinctly metallic ring as it tore
away his shield, before the Villain had his black-gloved right hand around
Reginald’s throat. “Ghug!” Reginald choked out as Voshtyr put pressure on
his windpipe.
“Ah, not so cocky now, eh, Hero?”
Voshtyr said, a malevolent grin on his pointed features. A flash of purple
energy crackled down his arm. “What, no narration for the moment? Perhaps
I can provide some. ‘The pathetic Hero choked to death after having been
proved the fool by a being far greater than he.’”
Reginald convulsed. He could feel
himself dying. Voshtyr’s grip was too great. With tremendous effort, he
swung his titanic sword in a desperate attempt to free himself from the
life-draining grasp.
Voshtyr caught the blade in his left
hand, in a shriek of metal on metal and stressed gears. The blade’s edge
slashed open Voshtyr’s glove, revealing the shine of steel beneath it.
“None of that,” he said, increasing both the grip and the
magic.
Reginald gurgled, feeling pressure
spread up his face and burst blood vessels in his eyes. He dropped his
mighty weapon as darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.
Then, with the convenience
of a deus ex machina, two things happened.
First, Reginald’s reinforcements
arrived. Three Heroes in Heroic armor appeared with a sparkle and rush of
air, all armed for combat. Emblems of varying shapes and colors adorned
their armor and their weapons glowed with the effulgent sheen of elemental
magics.
Reginald knew them by both name and
reputation. The knight in dark purple-tinted platemail was the Purple
Paladin. He knew the woman in white-lacquered riding armor as the White
Shrike. And the third he had met only once, where the Turquoise Templar
had amused his guests by creating the largest magical light-show in
anyone’s memory.
In the same moment, three
very irritable Villains appeared with a rush of black wind, a signature
teleportation mark for the Brotherhood of the Black Hand. The three
newly-arrived Heroes found themselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a
seven-foot-tall Orc in nightdark robes, a knight in black armor, and a
weedy-looking fellow with spectacles and a heavy, leatherbound book. The
swirling ruins of
Bryath
Castle
had suddenly become
a very popular locale.
“Voshtyr Demonkin,” the weedy man
demanded, “drop that Hero at once!”
Reginald felt the Arch-villain’s grasp
release. He fell to the flagstones with a heavy thud, and reached for his
wounded throat.
Voshtyr threw up his hands.
“What are you three
doing here?”
“Dealing with that,” the
weedy man said, pointing up at the hole in the sky and the eclipsed sun.
He opened his book and ran a slim finger down the page. “Voshtyr Demonkin,
you have already used your solar eclipse for the quarter—and unless my
bookkeeping is flawed, which it isn’t, you haven’t paid for a second one.
Furthermore, if you’re going to cause Epic Destruction on this scale, you
must fill out Environmental Impact forms 32-A and 44-QZ. You could have
filled these out ahead of time if you’d shared your plan with the
Brotherhood, but no!” He slammed the weighty book shut and glared at the
Arch-Villain. “You had to go and do it yourself.”
“But I—”
The weedy man held up a hand and
pointed at the wounded sky. “The vortex, Voshtyr.”
Voshtyr scowled, but cut the power
from his potent spell. The sun brightened and the hole in the sky closed
with a muted burp. Pieces of the castle began descending to rest on the
ruined landscape. “All right, all right, I’ll sign your papers. Just hurry
it up. If the king and his ring get away now—”
“The King’s not going anywhere,” the
Purple Paladin said, “You are.” He extended into Voshtyr’s face a thick
finger coated with tiny overlapping plates like flat chain-mail. “You’re
going to spend a little time in a special prison for what you’ve done here
today.”
“What, for wrecking this pathetic
castle and slaying a few of the Palace Guard?” Voshtyr sneered. “Those
mean naught to me.”
“Those are merely the civil charges,”
the Turquoise Templar said, taking a scroll out of a belt-pouch and
looking at it. “You’re also charged with Overuse of Magic, Illegal Magics,
Grand Theft Soul, and,” he glanced around himself, “first-class
Environmental Damage. White Shrike,” he said to their third companion,
“see to the Crimson Slash.”
The woman, clad in sparkling white
armor, knelt beside Reginald. She placed three fingers on his neck, and
closed her eyes.
Reginald immediately felt better. He
sat up and caught his reflection in a large fragment of shattered mirror
amidst the rubble. His cheek bled from a nasty cut, his neck and face were
a leprous white traced with purple, and his eyes were so bloodshot it
seemed they had no whites. But as he watched, the purple discoloration
faded and normal color slowly returned to his cheeks. In a few moments,
Reginald coughed and sat up straighter, his bloodshot eyes gradually
returning to their normal hazel.
Voshtyr turned to the other three
Villains, the red glow fading from his eyes. “What is this nonsense? You
three—don’t you see our opportunity? These Heroes are at our mercy and the
King is but moments away! Come, help me slay these buffoons and together
we can Rule the World!”
“No can do, Demonkin,” the Orc said,
shaking his green-skinned head. “You started this without involving the
Brotherhood, and we can’t intervene in any non-sanctioned
activities.”
“So you’re going to let them take me?
I’m—”
“Now under the jurisdiction of the
Greater Bryath Heroic Court District,” the Purple Paladin said. “Stand
down, Voshtyr von Steinadler, and your compliance will be taken into
account at your trial.” The Purple Paladin placed his hand on the hilt of
his sword, just in case the Villain resisted.
Voshtyr looked back and forth between
the Heroes and Villains. Finally, he looked at the Villainous Knight in
black armor. “Can’t you even…”
The knight shook his head. “The most I
can do is ensure that your accomplice, Sir Anthony the Mace, finds
temporary shelter. Perhaps he can free you from these men a few days from
now.”
The Heroes laughed in derision.
“Anthony the Mace?” the White Shrike said, looking up from her healing.
“The one who used to be The Silver Talon? That meathead couldn’t stage a
jailbreak at a nursery.”
Voshtyr sighed melodramatically, and
retracted his arm-blade. “All right. I admit defeat—for now.” He dropped
the glowing necklace and raised his hands in surrender.
“Good choice, von Steinadler,” the
Purple Paladin said. “Take him away.”
As Voshtyr was led past
Reginald, he stopped and stared into the Hero’s face, his eyes narrowed.
“This does not end here, Crimson Slash. A week, a year, five years, it
matters not. I will find you. And when I do, I shall make you
suffer.”
Reginald returned the Arch-Villain’s
gaze calmly. “Sorry, Demonkin. This is a do-not-taunt moment. You need to
read the book again.” He leaned toward Voshtyr’s face. “You may try, but
you shall fail next time as well. Justice always prevails.”
And with that, the
Turquoise Templar led Voshtyr off to a heavily magic-proofed holding cell
in a maximum security VDC
(Villain
Detention
Center).
Reginald sat wearily on a pile of
shattered masonry and sighed. He watched with growing fatigue as the group
of Heroes and Villains worked out details of custody of Voshtyr for his
trial. There was much shouting and finger-pointing, but thankfully no
drawn weapons. Such matters were regulated by the Guild of Heroes and the
Brotherhood of the Black Hand, after all.
The King and Kingsguard slowly
filtered back into the castle, gawking at the destruction.
“A thousand thanks, Crimson
Slash,” Sir Grant said. The knight was bandaged and pale, but he clapped
Reginald on the shoulder “We of the Kingsguard could not have held that
demon off without your help, and our King would now lie dead if you had
not been here. You have the gratitude of the entire
kingdom of
Bryath.”
Reginald chuckled. “I’d rather have a
bottle of brandy. Or another of those strawberry tarts.” He rubbed his
sore neck. “I hope that Arch-Villain cannot make good on his threats. I’d
not wish to fight him again.” Something buzzed in Reginald’s equipment
pouch. “Just one moment, Sir Grant, I’m being called.” He dug into the
leather bag and retrieved a small silver token bearing an hourglass and
eye painted on it. He pressed it gently, and held it in his
palm.
A almost transparent figure of a woman
appeared in miniature, standing atop the token. “Crimson Slash,” she said,
“this is the Guild. We have a new duty for you.”
“Yes, of course,” Reginald said.
“Shall I escort the Arch-Villain to the VDC?”
“No, Sir Ogleby, something far more
dangerous.” The woman raised her arm to point dramatically at him. “It is
time for you, Crimson Slash, to take a new
apprentice.”
| 
