Death by Cliché (31 page)

Omar ran three steps, before one of the guards raked a blade across his back, spraying the corridor with blood and bits of rib. He bellowed like a wounded ox and stumbled, regaining his balance even as a second guard hacked, severing his left arm at the elbow.

But he didn’t stop, he didn’t slow. Heaving himself forward, his blood spilled out. He continued, his eyes already dead, his mouth still screaming, his ax raised in the air.

It came down in an awful sweep, and Lotianna looked as Henchman caught the blade in the head.

Both of them teetered, blood spilling onto the stone, then they fell into one another, and then to the ground.

Lotianna shook. The two mutilated bodies glistened as an expanding pool of blood, bone, and gristle spilled out on the floor. They were dead. Beyond dead. They were destroyed.

She looked up at the guards, six of them. They filled the hallway like a single-file line of boulders, rolling calmly down the hall.

Omar was gone. Damico and Arithian and Gorthander were nowhere to be found. She was alone. Alone in front of the unstoppable force. At one time in her life, she had felt entitled to the world, like enemies were nothing but a perfectly metered challenge that she could defeat with methodical ease, but since she’d changed, since she’d begun to feel
real
, nothing was so certain. She stared at this wall of metal and muscle, and knew they were just men, and she was just a woman. Helpless with the drugs.

Omar. Her eyes welled, but the tears weren’t for her. Omar.

It used to feel like the world was a game for her to win. Now she knew it was nothing more than a series of events, any one of which could destroy her. Six men. Six new, potential killers. Or captors. Or tormentors. Did it matter?

She ran.

Chapter
Fifty-Eight

“One Player Character left.”

—Bob Defendi

raldolf gazed down at Gorthander and stroked the
side of the dwarf’s face. “My pet.”

“Master.”

A thump sounded by the door as the bard stepped into view. What was his name? Oh, yes.

“Arithian. Where have you been?”

“I went on a drink run, you bastard. You weren’t supposed to start without me.”

Hraldolf didn’t know what that meant, but nodded. “So, it comes to this.”

“Prithee, it does.”

“Do you even know what ‘prithee’ means?”

“Shut up.” Arithian circled.

“Do you think you can beat me?” Hraldolf smiled, causing the torches in the room to flare.

“My dear, sweet, overlord,” Arithian said. “I’m immune to charm spells.”

Hraldolf shrugged. “Are you immune to dwarven clerical berserkers?”

“Gorthander could never kill me.”

“I never really liked you,” Gorthander said. “All those
thee
s and
thou
s. Talk like a damn normal person!”

Arithian frowned, doubtful. He looked back and forth between Hraldolf and Gorthander. “Don’t do this, Hraldolf. We can’t let you destroy the world.”

“But I must,” Hraldolf said.

“Because the adventure says so?”

“Shut up,” Hraldolf said.

“This is madness.”

“This is my life’s work.” Hraldolf glowered.

“Why?”

The words spilled out of Hraldolf faster than he could think them. “Because I have this face! Because I’ve had to spend my life as a pariah. Because my father left me, my brother left me. Alone. Can you imagine what it’s like to be alone, no matter how many people are in the room? Can you imagine what it’s like to know no one can
ever
look you in the face? No woman? No man? Even your family flinches when they see you? Imagine that!” The rage boiled in him. A rage he barely understood.

Arithian shook his head. “Fine, Phantom. Go back under your opera house.”

He rolled his eyes as if he thought this were some badly thought-out story. This was no story. This was Hraldolf’s
life
.

“Do not mock me, Bard.”

“No.” Arithian shook his head. “Please. Tell me about your pain.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

“I will kill you,” Hraldolf said. “I will kill you all.”

“What a great way to know love,” Arithian said.

“What do you know about it?” Hraldolf said. “My spies report on you. A woman on each arm, the others gazing at you with dreamy expressions. You can never know my pain!”

“Let me get my violin,” Arithian said.

This little son of a bitch. This silly adventurer was
mocking
him? He’d laugh if it wasn’t so sad. Didn’t he know what Hraldolf felt? Didn’t he know what it was like to suffer this much?

No. No one in the world did. That’s why. That’s why he was doing it.

“Gorthander,” Hraldolf said. “Kill him.”

The dwarf screamed and launched himself at the bard. Hraldolf let Gorthander handle it. This was it. He finally had his answer.

Up until now, the pieces of his life had fallen into place one at a time. The peasants, the women, the art. He thought of these things one by one, and with each, he felt more like a real person. Had he been hollow for so many years because of the pain? Was that why he’d been so two-dimensional? So silly? So shallow?

Maybe, but with this sudden exposure to his own inner turmoil, he understood. He’d never noticed it before. He’d never seen all that anguish, all that loneliness below the surface.

The clash of weapons rang behind him, the Dwarf snarling with battle rage.

With this last piece, he finally felt whole. He could sense it all click together. This was it. He was a complete person.

The dwarf roared. Hraldolf heard a wail of pain from Arithian.

Hraldolf reached into his belt pouches, pulled out the two Artifacts. He looked at them. This was all he needed. With these, he could destroy the world.

Gorthander had opened a large wound in Arithian’s belly, and the bard lay on the floor now, gasping. Gorthander smiled above him.

“What do you want, master?” Gorthander asked as if he sensed Hraldolf’s attention.

“I want to destroy the world,” Hraldolf whispered.

Gods help him, he did. He had to end it all.

“Should I kill him?”

“Go ahead.” Hraldolf raised the Artifacts. “It won’t matter.”

Chapter
Fifty-Nine

“You didn’t think this was going to end well did you?”

—Bob Defendi

amico stumbled back into the corridor, his breath
aching in his lungs. He came on a sight of slaughter. Past three dead guards lay Omar and what used to be a man. Omar’s back was open, the armor rent, bone and bits of lung exposed. The other man’s head had been cloven in two by Omar’s ax.

But where was Lotianna?

He stumbled down the hall, staring down on the body of his dead friend, but couldn’t bring himself to grieve. Lotianna was still out there, still in trouble. Omar had said she was
here
.

He noticed the open door next to the bodies, stumbled over to it, and checked inside.

A bed in the center of the room looked rumpled from some kind of struggle. Her dress lay to one side. He was too late. Dear God, too late.

He stepped in, the pain pounding in his heart. This was where he’d failed her.

Why even bother going on? He’d already failed the woman he loved. Maybe he should let the world end. He still believed that, didn’t he? If he let the world end, he’d be released. He wasn’t sure that meant he went home; maybe the alternative was that he simply ceased to be. That would be good too.

Another racking pain hit him, this one making his knee invisible. He hissed through gritted teeth and waited for it to subside. Maybe he didn’t have to go home. Maybe it was too late for everyone.

He started to leave and saw an armoire, the door ajar. After limping over, he opened the door. There were clothes inside, and at the bottom, a chest. His knee felt solid again, so he genuflected and opened the lid.

There was a sock inside. A pile of new batteries. Some guns from Star Wars action figures. One cufflink. A television remote control.

And it started to make sense.

Plot coupons. He’d seen them in
so many
games and stories. You needed to find the red key to open the red door. You needed to find the ingredients to make the poison. You had to get the pieces to reassemble the Artifact. Plot coupons. Collect them all, and you can progress to act three. They were like storytelling trading cards.

But Carl was working it backward, perhaps in an attempt to be less cliché. In this adventure, Damico wasn’t trying to collect the plot coupons.

Hraldolf was.

And from what Damico saw, he’d collected a lot of other things along the way. But Damico knew now. He understood the shape of it. The Artifact was a plot coupon. Hraldolf had it, and he could destroy the world.

And Damico suspected what it was. This was so much worse, because he knew they’d failed. Worse because he knew Gorthander couldn’t win. Jurkand couldn’t win. Only Damico would know how to use the Artifact when he saw it, and he’d sent the others into the lion’s den.

He’d lost.

He’d never make it back there in time to stop Hraldolf. That meant they would all die. Too late for him to get back to his body. Too late for Lotianna, if she was still alive. Too late.

He hung his head. What had he done? Why had he let his emotions get in the way? It was all so obvious. He should have understood in the beginning.

But he didn’t, and now he’d failed them all. All those people he’d brought to life would die. It was all his fault.

No.

He forced himself to his feet. He had to go to get the Artifact. Keep fighting. Maybe Hraldolf would monologue. Damico had to keep fighting.

A scream echoed down the hall.

He ran out of the room, and heard the scream again. Lotianna. She was still alive. Alive and somewhere to the left. Still screaming. Maybe not raped after all. But to the left.

The throne room was to the
right
.

But there wasn’t time. He’d already wasted too much because he hadn’t figured it out sooner. He could head to the left and save her, and Hraldolf would probably destroy the world. Or he could go right.

Save the woman he loved and let them all die, or save the world and live with the guilt forever.