Part 2

Wherein a Spanner is produced and enters The Works, and the pace begins to peter out. Who is this Peter for which this decline is named? His parents must be disappointed in him.

2.1 The Path Narrows

Silven read through the pamphlet for the sixth time, looking for something he had missed. The ‘book’ was the History of Oldeburgh Volume VI by Gertrude Flobbertob. It was quite a monotonous read. In its eight pages, it discussed only the past conquests of the eastern moorlands by doomtoads and the numerous ways put forward to be rid of them. It didn’t really feel like a comprehensive part of an encyclopaedia at all.

Worse still, it was the only volume of said encyclopaedia in the city hall. There was a cooking booklet on the shelf over, but that only concerned itself with how to make a damage resistance potion from the intestinal slime of a Greater Blood Bat. And that was a good example of the tone of every old tome Silven had uncovered. Death and guts. It was surprising Oldeburgh had lasted for six volumes’ worth of history if this was its entire attitude to foreign policy.

Silven descended from the open upper floor and back into the smartly-decorated foyer. It was always the same stuff, he had noticed. There appeared to be exactly four types of wall hangings in the kingdom. He stayed clear of the heavy vases in the corners. They burst open at the slightest touch to reveal improbable mountains of coins at their base. The residents of the houses he had visited didn’t even blink an eye, but he cleared up his mess all the same.

He nodded to the doorman as he left. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll continue my research elsewhere.”

The servant scowled. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I can’t talk right now.”

Silven looked the motionless man up and down. Then he decided it wasn’t worth the argument and exited into the cobbled square at the centre of Rockborough.

That was another thing he’d tell Grennel. There was always a slight delay between opening the door and seeing what was on the other side. Almost like the feeling you get when you wake up knowing you’ve been asleep for a long time. Sensing rather than observing. He added it to his notescroll and approached the intricate spires and statues of the cathedral across the plaza.

Inside, he was surprised to find not an open expanse of benches and candles and mosaics, but a simple narrow corridor with dozens of doors leading off to each side. There were twenty or so people standing around a map propped up to the side of the entrance, and dozens more queuing by certain doors along the passage. Every second or so, someone entered or left a side room and let a brief snippet of chanting or eerie music escape into the crowds. The resulting remix would not be a hit.

A loud announcer was calling something up ahead. Silven made it to the centre of the corridor and beheld a bald man in long black robes addressing the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Rockborough Cathedral. Please find gods, goddesses, and deities beginning with letters A to K on the left, and L to Z on the right. Minor spirits, genies and ancestors can be consulted on the next floor, reached by the spiral stairs at the end of the corridor. Proceed up to the third floor for conferences and ritual rooms. If you are in need of further help, kindly wander around mindlessly until you find what you’re looking for.”

Silven warily drew closer. Before he could speak, the man turned and locked eyes with his visitor. “Greetings, wanderer. I am Filas, the caretaker of this fine cathedral. How would you like me to help you, in an ideal world?”

Silven hesitated. “Do you happen to know of a woman named Ashleigh? I’m afraid she suffered a terrible accident here. Must have caused you a bit of bother.”

Filas turned away, his face blank. “I’ve heard strange noises under the cathedral of late. I hope the garfools haven’t found a way in.”

Silven pressed on. “There was extensive damage to the floor, I believe. And what’s this about noises? Is she still... down there?”

“I’ve heard rumours of rebellion in the capital itself. Oldeburgh is done for,” said Filas.

“May I examine the cathedral?”

“The Count of Rosenheim is recruiting adventurers for a clear-out of his haunted villa,” came the reply.

Silven gave up and recorded his findings. The world was full of life, but dig under the surface, and everyone just hurried him along. Something wasn’t right, and Grennel would be telling him about it one day if it was the last thing he did.

He left Filas and proceeded down the corridor, head bent, poring the ground for signs of Ashleigh. The crowds muttered and parted as the outsider shuffled about his business. The warrior caught snippets of conversation from the worshippers as he passed: lists of daily blessings, the cool new gods on the block, and Aunt Phyllis’ obsession with Great Great Great Great Grandad’s cooking boost. He recalled a book from somewhere in the middle of his last few days of research, a book pertaining to the religions of the kingdom. At one point, only the mysterious force known as The Light was revered in Oldeburgh. He mentioned this fact to a passing maiden and almost got spat on for his troubles as she burst out laughing. “The Light is powerful, yes, but even the oldest gods can only grant one aura a day. Pick and mix, pick and mix, darling.”

There was no sign of any disturbance underfoot, so Silven dodged past the Kimble and Zardle queues at the end of the corridor and climbed the steps to the next floor. It was a fool’s errand, he knew, but something about the way the mouse brushed Ashleigh under the carpet had captured his imagination.

The next level was quieter, but its flooring was just as intact as downstairs. Silven interviewed a priest emerging from a prayer room and was rewarded with seventeen identical recommendations for a barber in the town square. He curled his fists and clopped off up onto the next floor.

There was a single occupant of the third corridor. He was clad all in black, other than the gleaming white of a polished hollowed out skull perched on his head. Silven called out a nervous greeting. The man responded by drawing a glowing green knife and charging him with a bloodcurdling shriek of rage.

The assailant covered the distance in less than a second. Silven gasped, drew his sword and tried to block the worst thrusts of the evil weapon. The attacker grunted and kicked the warrior hard in the stomach. Silven hurtled back into a heavy wooden door, which splintered like a matchbox at his contact. The cloaked men and women inside cried out in alarm and dropped to their knees as one, covering their heads with shaking hands. “Get out, you fools!” managed Silven as he slid backwards into an oak desk. “Argh!” shouted the closest man. He tiptoed a few steps and sank back down as the skull-helmed man pounced.

By the time Silven got to his feet, the ceaseless knife had poked at his skin dozens of times. Yet, it was only once he had arisen that the knife struck home and glowing spirals swirled around his legs. The assassin hopped backwards and circled his foe with a demonic cackle. Silven swung his sword uselessly as the man darted here and there amongst the innocent witnesses huddled on the floor. He was lightning fast. Silven tried to take a step and the magical spirals coiled tightly at his knees. He hadn’t waddled like this since the blockage at Snailwick cesspit a month ago.

“Get out!” he repeated as the assassin danced among the room’s quaking inhabitants. He shoved a screaming girl towards the doorway as his enemy struck again. He groaned as blood spurted over the floorboards, and swung his sword at the spot where the man had been moments before. Another searing pain radiated from his legs as the knife cut in from behind. His mind turned to mush as he tottered for the corridor. He was out of practice, and, if he didn’t make it out, he would never practice anything again.

His failing ears picked up the rapid pattering of feet behind him, and he wriggled around, sword pointed far ahead in defence. The assassin grunted as he bounced off the blade. And then, he leant back dramatically on one foot like a ballerina, his hands in the air, his raised foot slowly inching to the floor. Silven fought the shining coils and stretched his sword as far as he could. The tip touched the attacker again, and he moved back to resume his pose.

Silven’s wounded leg threatened to give beneath him, but he struggled through the pain and edged forward. A few pricks more, and he had pushed back the budding gymnast to the far wall. “Die!” cursed the face beneath the skull, and wrestled his foot to the floor at last. But Silven was ready. His weapon struck home again, and the man’s back struck the wooden panelling. There was a crack, and the assassin toppled into nothingness. Silven instinctively reached out, but he was too late. His clutching fingers tore a shred from the black cloak as the man plunged. There was a sickening moment of silence, an equally sickening clatter, and then the screams rang out as something gave a raspy cry and advanced on its meal.

“Potential massacre averted guys. Please resume your seats.” The presenter waved from the front of the room. The scholars, or guild members, or cultists, or whatever generic group they were, rose and silently took their places as if nothing had ever happened. Silven grunted. Not a single word of thanks, but it was what he had come to expect.

A clatter echoed from the corridor, and a portly armoured chap clumsily bustled in. He raised his pike and looked for danger. “I came... as soon as I was...allowed,” he panted. Then he noticed the hole in the wall and inspected the dark drop beyond.

Silven was shaken, but slowly regaining his vigour. “What’s your name? Assassino El Murderata the Second?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Errr... Guard, actually.”

Silven rolled his eyes. “Like so many others. If only you did your job once in a while. That man could have killed me. Me, an innocent researcher!”

Guard looked Silven up and down suspiciously. “That was a Master of Deathness. And that means two things. Firstly, when they’re sent on a mission, they teleport automatically to the Most Convenient Location. Or so my brother Mage told me. And second, they don’t target just anyone. Only important folk. You got anything from him?”

Silven shook his head. “I tried to stop him falling. I needed answers. But I only managed a piece of cloak.”

Guard trembled with excitement. “Aha! We’re taking them down this time! Let me see!” He grabbed the cloth from Silven’s hand and turned it over in his fat fingers. His face fell. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Silven said.

“They’re protected under the king’s law as an Ancient Evil Faction. But only if they guarantee exact details of their secret motivations to survivors. I thought he’d failed that part. But then I noticed the stitching.” He passed the material back to Silven.

The victim squinted and struggled through the tiny pattern. “Your orders are to kill Silven, Defender of Gigglewick, Liberator of Desert Marsh, Dead Body Finder Extraordinaire. He can’t be allowed to get to Three Toes Tavern and fulfil his destiny. Because that would totally save the world, and he’s the only one who can do it. So really don’t let him get there. Because that would make him a rich and powerful hero, and a purposeless wanderer like him wouldn’t want that, would he? So you’re doing him a favour, really. If you should fail, you need to make sure that you’ve planned for your fellow masters to ambush him in increasingly large numbers in increasingly awkward places, with increasingly badass weapons. So, if he lives, the masters’ orders are to continue trying to stop him reaching the Three Toes Tavern, an easy walk down the great big comfy road out of Rockborough, first fork on the left. It’s his destiny, remember!” Silven paused for breath. “Dursook in a dandelion, how did they fit all that in?”

Guard nodded smugly. “So, you’re not an ‘innocent researcher’ after all, eh? Defender, liberator... big words for one weedy guy.”

“Hey! I’ve retired, actually. I used to be strong!” Silven protested. He looked around, trying to change the subject. “What is that big drop anyway? It saved my life, and I need to know who I’m thanking in my dreams.”

Guard held up a finger. “Ahhhh, a good question. See how the room’s walls don’t reach the main stone? It’s a defence mechanism. Adventurer’s chutes, the architects call ‘em. Easy access to the catacombs, to clear out baddies.”

Silven looked on in horror. He knew what Guard’s next words would be, but he was too late to stop him.

“Speaking of adventurers... now you’re here, you may as well be useful. The cursed garfools have broken in. At least it’s a bit of variety. Last infestation of them was a few weeks back now. Usually just plain old ghosts or zombies. I’ll give you twenty coppers. Or, perhaps you’d like to discuss a Friends of the Cathedral Protection Plan with Filas.”

Silven closed his eyes in anguish. He’d wanted to avoid this. He’d done well to keep out of trouble these past couple of months, but here he was back to the awkwardness. “What did I say? Retired! I don’t do this stuff any more.”

“Oh, go on! Just once!” screamed Guard, grabbing Silven by his threadbare collar and throwing him towards the chute. Silven clutched at the edge and sprinted for the doorway. “What? Are you crazy?”

The Guard smiled. “Oh, of course, sorry. You’re right. It’ll be easier from the ground floor.”

Silven ran for his life. He descended the stairs, pushed worshippers out of his way and scrambled for the entrance. “Control your staff!” he roared at Filas on his way.

“But if you help us reach our stretch goal, you’ll get a sticker of your favourite god next time you’re in!” called Filas, holding out a donations cup.

Silven left the plaza far quicker than he had arrived. It was then that the full weight of what had happened hit him, and he lent against a pub, gasping in the evening air like a drowning fish. His path was narrowing. The destination he had rebelled against closed in on one side, death awaited on the other. The note he had read only strengthened his conviction that he was a potential pawn in some greater scheme, one he was not eager to join. Someone, or something, was drawing him to his starting position, using whichever evil bands of ne’er-do-wells they could find. And if he didn’t comply, he would be crushed altogether.

Suddenly, everyone was a potential foe. The curious eyes of an old hag became the gaze of a lurking assassin, the distant clip-clop of hooves the flanking manoeuvres of cunning knights. He had a good idea who to blame. “Never!” he screamed at the sky, his eyes bulging, and he fled down the street.

* * *

Desperately, Silven unleashed his every observation and theory on Grennel. It was not enough. Silicarco Academy had been around a pretty long time, and in that time the twin wings of Earth and Magical Sciences had explained away most of what went on in the world. Even the experience fanfare, which was clearly a resonation between the sudden outburst of electrical stimulation in the brain and the lattice of Laurence nebulae in the upper magisphere. That one had been a collaborative effort.

Silven shook with hopelessness, with rage, with fear. He finished with the seeming disappearance of all knowledge of Ashleigh, but even he knew it was a false hope. Grennel told him the very thing he dreaded.

“That’s not science at all. That’s just pure nonsense.” He giggled impulsively and sealed his lips. “I – I mean, those mice are genuinely weird, but it’s just, well, gossip. It’s over, Silven. Go and slay dragons or whatever you’re really supposed to be up to these days.”

The floodgates opened. Silven dropped to the ground by the window and let it all out. “It’s just... I feel like everything’s fake. No matter what I try, I’m steered in the same direction. I wanted a peaceful life, and I’m driven to kill. I wanted to see the world, to discover something rather than destroy, and I’m being forced at knifepoint to the one place I don’t want to go. It’s like everyone’s acting, like the universe revolves around me. I need help, Grennel. I think you’re the only one who can understand.”

The mild professor had lifted a hand to close the curtains, but it dropped involuntarily to his side. He stared at Silven, his eyes gleaming, and drew in a shuddering breath. “I know,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. “I understand better than you think. But you don’t understand me. I don’t just want new knowledge. I need it. We need it. Now I’ve said too much again. I advise you go before we’re both destroyed.” And he snapped the cloth into place.

Silven wept by the window until he heard a rustling in the moss beyond the railing. He leapt up and drew his sword. “Come out, and fight like a man!” But it couldn’t, because it was only a bird. Silven shivered and marched away. He needed a drink or twenty. And, assassins be damned, he was going for them now. Just not at Three Toes.

He came to half-consciousness the following afternoon, against a polished stone in a hamlet he had never seen before, in a woodland full of strange trees. The light was filtered by the fern-like fronds spiralling out from their branches, but it was still strong enough to set Silven’s head ablaze with agony. He had no recollection of how he ended up here, but the taste of ale on his lips suggested the reason for his memory loss. He found himself oddly unmurdered by the forces conspiring against him, and found himself oddly indifferent to that realisation.

He groaned and shimmied to his feet. The world tumbled around him. He tried to focus his eyes, doubled over, and retched until the fourteen pints reappeared at his feet. With the inevitable unpleasantness over and done with, his head, though fuzzy to say the least, felt clearer than it had in days.

First things first, he wanted to know where he had ended up. It made no real difference, when he had the whole kingdom at his fingertips, but it could hopefully give him some sort of inspiration to guide his way before his enemies caught up.

He shambled over to the closest building, which was no more than a clay mound covering the top part of a circular hollow in the earth. Next to the dwelling there was a little wooden pedestal. On top of the pedestal there was a letter.

On the letter was his name.

Slowly, numbly, he tore open the envelope and read.