Authors: Bob Defendi

Death by Cliché (26 page)

No.

“I’m the hero,” Hraldolf whispered.

“Every villain is the hero of his own story,” Damico said. “I didn’t think Carl was smart enough to know that.”

Hraldolf’s stomach sank, his head light as if it might float off his shoulders. Dear God. What if Damico was right? What if this was actually true? No. No.

Hraldolf was the hero. He
had
to be.

He walked away, out of the dungeons, through door after door. He moved up through the fortress, seeking higher and higher levels, but no matter where he went, it seemed just as dark and stifling. He searched for the light.

But he couldn’t find it.

Chapter
Forty
-Seven

“What is the sound of one chapter quoting? No, wait…”

—Bob Defendi

urkand straightened and twitched, then relaxed. The first
thing he noticed was the smell. The next was the smell. The third was the slime, but the fourth, well, it was the smell.

He lay on a pile of garbage, and if the massive flock of birds circling above was any sign, it was a
big
pile of garbage. Either that or the end of days, and the crows were a host of vengeful, stinking angels.

Jurkand had an image of angel droppings falling from the sky. He shuddered.

He was getting too old for this. What was he now, fifty? He didn’t know. He climbed to his feet in the shifting pile, dripping garbage juice. Either his head swam or the fumes were so thick he could see wavy lines.

Jurkand stumbled out of the trash heap, tripping over two more dead bodies and out to where he could see clearly. The wavy lines were more subtle now. They must have just been the stink coming off
him
.

The town lay off to one side, a constant line of wagons leading from it to the heap, each one piled with waste, most of it rotting cabbage. Garbage day.

He shook rotting cabbage off himself as well, wondering vaguely what this diet did to the town’s outhouse habits. Then he stared off into the distance.

The party had to be heading on by now. They would assume he was dead, that he didn’t have
three
one-shot-resurrection charms. He needed to track them down before they made it back into Hraldolf’s clutches.

It was time to tell Damico the truth.

Chapter
Forty
-Eight

“All your joke are belong to us.”

—Bob Defendi

ake up!” the guard said, pounding the bars.

Damico jerked and glanced over at the door. The guard stood there, mail hanging loosely from his body, one gauntleted fist poised for another round of knocking. His face resembled a bowl of oatmeal that had been left in a light rain.

“What’s all this, then?” Damico asked in his best English bobby voice.

The guard didn’t get the joke.

“We’re moving you to another dungeon.”

“Why?” Damico asked. “Are the sharks off that one hungrier?” He’d done a little exploring since he’d gotten here.

“No, the Overlord wants you in the high security area.”

Damico sighed and kicked himself into the sitting position. “Wake up, boys, we’re going to Alcatraz.”

Everyone rose to their feet. Lotianna looked confused.

They lined up and the guard opened the cell door. Then he led them out through the three great vault doors as Damico whistled the theme song to
Get Smart
. Or at least he tried to. Instead, he got the theme to
The Odd Couple
. They climbed one flight of stairs and into another dungeon area.

The guard here wore rusting chain mail and a mace hung on his belt, its head replaced with a big ball of duct tape, proving once and for all the stuff couldn’t fix everything. The man was round about the middle and going bald. His face was covered in acne. He had a strange likeness to Damico and a stranger likeness to Don Knotts.

The new guard showed them to their cell, this one with an oaken door and a high window. There was only one cell. They stepped inside and the door closed. The Lock clicked, then a chair ground up next to the door. The guard leaned back on the chair and within moments, he snored soundly.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gorthander said.

Damico could almost sense the keys there on the man’s belt. They’d be within easy reach of the cell window if he started with a little assisted stretching. He faced the party.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he said.

“Maybe this is some elaborate trick to get us shot trying to escape,” Omar said.

“He’s an evil overlord,” Gorthander said. “Why play coy?”

Damico shook his head, trying to process this, then he craned his neck to examine the guard through the window. “I think this guard is my cousin.”

“Well, bully for you,” Omar said.

“No, I mean that would make him Hraldolf’s cousin too.”

Gorthander’s face screwed into a puzzled expression. “That makes
less
sense. I can understand hiring him if he’s family, but you don’t give him
responsibility
.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Damico asked.

“Good my lord, I’m sure it’s a trap,” Arithian said.

Lotianna nodded sagely.

“Then let’s spring it,” Omar said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Omar, Omar, Omar,” Gorthander said. “Don’t ever change.”

“Why?” Omar said.

“Because at the end of time, during God’s final judgment, there might be a written test.”

“So?”

“So, I like what you do to the curve.”

Omar ground on that, but Damico decided to say something before it sank in and started a fight.

“We need a decision.”

“I still think it’s a trap,” Gorthander said.

“Me too,” said Lotianna and Arithian at once.

“So, we’re agreed, then?” Damico asked.

They all nodded.

“Give me a
go
/
no go
for escape,” he said, feeling like Gene Kranz.

“Go.”

He nodded. This was an RPG after all. What had he expected?

He did a little stretching, which involved Gorthander pinning him to the wall with his boot while Omar tried to tear his arm off. He’d learned that during high school wrestling. Then he snaked his arm out the window and reached down unseeing, wondering what blindness did to his Pick Pocket skill check. He couldn’t remember.

But after a moment, he’d snagged the keys off the guard’s belt hook. He hefted them up and twisted like a woman in the Kama Sutra, fitting the key in the lock, all the while wondering why Hraldolf would let them escape. Was this some stupid honor among villains thing, or was he playing at “Before I kill you, Mr. Bond…”? Could this be Carl’s own stupidity imposing itself on the game?

No. Hraldolf was better than that. So much better, in fact, that Damico suspected he’d gained self-awareness. Minimum wage, indeed.

The key clicked in the lock and the door opened.

Damico stopped doing his Gumby impersonation and pulled his arm back. He stretched again, briefly, and pulled open the door.

They sneaked past the guard one by one and found a cabinet in the guardroom. They opened it up and found all their equipment minus their money. They carried their stuff halfway up the stairs and put it on.

“Maybe he thinks if he
lets
us escape, we won’t blow the place up when we leave,” Gorthander said.

Damico didn’t say anything about Omar reading the adventure. He hoped Carl hadn’t figured that out yet. “I wish we had money in case we need to bribe some guards.”

“I have 100 gold,” Gorthander said.

Damico frowned, puzzled. “You hide it up your ass?”

“No,” Gorthander said. “I wrote it on my character sheet in ink.”

“Good thinking,” Damico said, sneaking up the stairs.

A quick Back Stab at the top took care of the guard. Damico scanned the area, finding featureless hallways in every direction.

“How do we get out?” Omar asked.

“We don’t,” Damico said.

“Why not?” Omar asked.

“Because this ends now,” Damico said. “Let’s go find Hraldolf.”

Chapter
Forty
-Nine

“You get one exclamation point in the narrative of each book.”

—Bob Defendi