Death by Cliché (18 page)

He threw himself under one swing, thrusting his sword into an enemy’s crotch and twisting. That was enough to get a reaction, and he had to hack halfway through the man’s neck before he would stop screaming. They always asked for the butcher’s bill in historical novels. When Damico saw the fountains of blood and gore, he understood why.

This was beyond carnage. This was beyond slaughter. This was the kind of fight that coined the term “blood bath.” No. A blood shower. Give him a rubber ducky and paste no-skid stickers to the floor.

Hack, thrust, spin, parry, twist, block, dodge. He didn’t even see the swords anymore, just sensed the motions, felt the pain of exhaustion, then the pain of a wound and the sudden ecstasy as it vanished. Gorthander must have been there, Johnny-on-the-Spot with the healing.

And then… nothing.

Damico cut a few times in midair, panicked, and hacked at some of the bodies that lay on the ground then spun at a noise. Lotianna watched, her face a mask of concern, pristine and clean and beautiful as he dripped more buckets of blood.

“Are you all right?”

The animal in him responded, “Rrrrrrr.” He shook his head and tried to get control of himself again. “Grrrr.” Better. “Girrrrrrrl.” Let’s try to transition easily here. “Girl no kill.” Golf clap.

“Uh,” she said. “Right.”

Though there was blood
everywhere
, the rest of the party was spotless. Completely clean. Damico growled again for good measure.

“I’ll lead,” Omar said, running out into the ballroom.

Damico had to stumble over piles of bodies to catch up. It looked like the field of Gettysburg had been fed through a mafia wood chipper. There was so much chum hanging from the chandeliers Damico was afraid of sharks.

Omar headed down a side hall and a few more twisting passages. They all burst out into a huge boiler room where a metal tank sat flickering over a coal fire nestled in a hive of pipes. Omar hacked one pipe, then another, knocked a gauge off a valve, and fled through still another hall. The boiler rumbling behind Damico.

“You have ranks in Lore (Boiler)?”

“Just lucky!” Omar shouted.

He was lucky again, because he led them up a spiral staircase and onto a balcony. Below them, a leafy green tree of indeterminate species sat perfectly positioned between them and the outer wall.

This was getting ridiculous.

Omar jumped to the tree and worked his way through the branches to the other side. Gorthander followed. Damico realized what was going on.

Omar had read the adventure.

Damico smiled. That crafty bastard. This didn’t feel like a store-bought adventure, and Damico probably would have recognized something about it if it were. That meant Carl must be keeping notes. Omar had seen those notes somehow, maybe when Carl went to the bathroom or to get a drink. He’d planned their escape route, complete with blowing up the fortress.

The boiler rumbled just then in case you hadn’t figured that part out.

It was Damico’s turn, so he leaped into the tree and scrambled to the other side. He jumped to the wall and was about to go over, but Omar had run down the inner stairs to a little guard shack. Omar smashed the door open and ran back, his arms heavy with all their confiscated gear.

They redistributed their stuff and listened as the boiler made look-at-me noises. With one last prayer to Ralph the Porcelain God, they all vaulted from the walls of the fortress.

A hay cart waited below. Omar might just have made
changes
to the adventure when he read it.

They made it five-hundred yards before the fortress exploded, sending a cloud of tick-tock soldiers into the air, to fall like Slim Pickens across the plains. The
boom
washed over them.

“Hmm,” Damico said.

“Good, my Lord. That was truly a magnificent deed!”

“I suppose it
is
traditional to blow up the fortress on your way out,” Damico said. “That must have killed the bastard.”

“Don’ mention it,” Omar said.

“There’s only one problem,” Damico said.

“What?” Omar asked.

“Weren’t we supposed to
get
the Artifact?” Damico asked.

Omar frowned. “Just to keep him from using it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Damico asked.

“No.” Omar frowned more deeply.

“Good my friends. Comrades in arms. We were supposed to seek the Artifact here to find it before Hraldolf did.” Arithian smiled. “It’s in my notes.”

“But Hraldolf was
here
,” Damico said.

“It’s a stupid adventure,” Gorthander said.

“So, if we were supposed to get it,” Damico said, “what were we supposed to do with it afterward?”

“And was that important?” Gorthander asked.

“And did we just blow it up?” Damico said.

Omar stepped aside as a four-hundred pound meteor of dead hired muscle crashed to the ground.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Chapter
Thirty

“All right, fine. The spear was the first point-and-click technology.”

—Bob Defendi

reathe.

It’s difficult, an effort of will, sucking through teeth and mask, filled with dust and sand. It chokes the lungs, clogs the throat. He retches at the slimy mess it forms. Tries again.

Breathe.

This one is better, stronger. He can begin asking questions, like: “Who am I?” “Where am I?” and “Why am I licking dirt?”

Breathe.

Hraldolf. His name was Hraldolf.

He twitched violently, shuddered, and shook. He lay on a floor of fitted stone. His arm hurt. His head pounded. A thousand angry imps had taken up residence throughout his body and were clearly trying to build large, ranch-style additions.

Hraldolf coughed and rolled over. He seemed to lie in the remains of his guards. Sticky. Even an evil overlord felt a twinge of guilt at that. They hadn’t done anything to deserve popping. One of them had even written poetry.

He peeled himself off the ground and stood. His heart pounded as if a punk-rock band performed in his head and screamed the lyrics to
Liberty Burger
. Hold the government.

Clouds of choking dust filled the air. He stumbled and accidentally kicked the body of one of the prisoners. Funny, he didn’t remember killing any of them. Then he went out the door, stumbling through halls, the flickering bands of orange torchlight painting angled rays in the clouds, dancing and seeking like a thousand sales at a thousand used car lots.

He reached the stairs and tried to climb, only to find them clogged with stone and the debris of shattered rafters. He stumbled back down, claimed a torch, and headed deeper into the dungeons.

He wouldn’t have been a decent evil overlord without a few escape tunnels, but he also needed the Artifact. He headed toward the dungeon of dungeons, and when he arrived, opened the secret door. He gathered the Artifact and other treasures, and filled his pouch with them. Then he stumbled toward the nearest exit.

By the time he made it to the surface, he’d regained much of his strength. He reached up and felt his mask. The left half had shattered, so he peeked carefully around the corner before leaving.

The tunnel exited into a beautiful forest glade with tall majestic oaks twisted like a slave’s back with little white flowers gathered in clumps around the bases. For a moment, nothing happened. Then six squirrels exploded, dousing the glade in blood, acorns, teeth, and fluffy tails.

Damn. He’d have to do something about the mask situation… and in the past, wasn’t it only their
eyes
that exploded? His power, his curse, had evolved somehow. Had he become
more
beautiful? If so, why?

The glade was dry, but squirrel blood made for decent mud, so he found the wettest patch and slathered it on the exposed portions of his face.

He started through the trees, finding hope in the fact that no more wildlife airbursts went off above him. Finally, he reached the edge of the woods and examined the remains of his fortress.

The walls still stood, but the central building had exploded, transforming the structure into a giant crater. Smoke and steam rose from the ruins, changing the sun into a thin gray light.

“Why do they
always
blow up my damn fortresses?”

The village escaped unscathed. His men stumbled around, walking wounded, cradling broken limbs and torn flesh. He could hear the moaning from here.

A little round form in furs came hobbling toward him, his bald head shining in the dim light. Over bare patches of earth and muddy grass he moved, more like a rodent than a man.

“Your Majesty!” he cried.

“Not Beaver,” Hraldolf said with a nod.

“Your Majesty, I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“Not as glad as I am,” Hraldolf said.

Not Beaver laughed uproariously. Hraldolf smiled. His ass could use a good kissing once in a while. It kept the skin young.

“What’s our status, Not Beaver?” Hraldolf asked.

“Fetz is dead, Your Majesty.”

“Who the hell is Fetz?”

“I believe you called him ‘Legs,’ Your Majesty.”

“Oh, right, that’s too bad. I kinda liked Legs.”

“Your men are injured, your councilors scattered.”

“I can get more councilors,” he said.

It wasn’t a skilled position. How hard was it to agree with him, after all? Not Beaver was the only one he could trust with a chamber pot and a secret.

“You’re injured, Not Beaver.”

“A trifle, Your Majesty.”

“You should have a healer look at that,” he said.

“I don’t see how that would help, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps said healer might treat it just a little while they were at it.”

“I’m afraid I could only afford them to do the looking.”

“Go see a healer,” Hraldolf said. “I’ll pay.”

Not Beaver gaped, astonished. You could tell by the way his mouth opened and flies flew inside. “This generosity is too much, Your Majesty.”

“It’s not generosity,” Hraldolf said. “It’s an idea I’ve been kicking around. Have all the men go to the healer. Everyone. When they ask who’s paying, tell them that I’m starting a new policy.”

“What policy is that?”

“It’s called a medical plan.”

Chapter
Thirty-One

“Its, not it’s. It’s, not its.”

—Bob Defendi

amico scowled as they crossed the next hill. The
grass here lay beaten down, covered in mud. A single elm stood on the top of the hill. One shell-shocked squirrel stared down at them, guarding an acorn as if it were the crown jewel of squirreldom.