2.5 Freedom, A Short-Lived Excuse For

With an expert flick of a finger, Silven arrived at the edge of Solmond market at ten o’clock the next morning. The brand new Silverview 2 map at his side had eradicated the need for all those extra seconds fumbling for an alarm clock, not to mention the considerable trek from the gate into the trade district.

There, he made a quick visit to Meany Sod’s barber shop. With a few angry snips of his scissors, the grumpy hairdresser transformed Silven’s boring mousey short back and sides into a fabulous cascade of golden locks. The chairman finished his disguise with a rustle in his jacket and a trip to the mayoral office with his mint Jar of Naming. It was a shame to lose it from his exquisite collection, but at least whatever invisible aura which gave his name away to strangers on the street would now radiate Gary waves in their direction. He knew he didn’t have much time; the forces pushing him towards his original fate had obviously worked out his last transformation long ago. But at least it would get him going on his self-made quest.

Another zap. Silven wafted his way through billowing clouds of smoke and into the circle of workshops at the heart of the rocky pits of Limetop. Here, he felt more and more encouraged. This settlement was testament to his ability to make his own mark on the world. Soon, if all went well, a new factory would mush that stupid alehouse deep into the ground.

He made complicated and agonisingly dull arrangements with his top staff, looked out into the grey, depthless sky, and walked down the gravel path out towards the greener hilltops. He felt free. No board meetings, no croquet thrashings from the Earl of Westfield, no-

“Where the Gurzelwuck are you?” screamed a voice in his ear. Silven winced and shook his head as if trying to get rid of a fly. He cursed himself for his new habit of subconsciously adding an earpiece from his pocket whenever he went out.

“I told you, I’m just out for a walk,” he told Olgred from afar. “Now you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

“Whatever you’re up to, it’s too dangerous, master,” wailed Olgred from far away. “You’ve got the assassins. And then there’s the plague. More and more are succumbing, and there’s no telling where it will strike next.”

“Which means I’m precisely as much at risk from the illness here as I am at home,” countered Silven, taking a left fork into a patch of shaded woodland. It was true; reports of a mysterious mind-destroying disease were circulating through the air and via more traditional scrolls, but there was no pattern or flow which could yet be discerned from its victims. A couple of Overwall attendants had gone to bed one day and refused to get back up again (though somehow still complimenting their delicious breakfasts at the sausage stand each morning) but Silven’s establishments were still largely unaffected. Perhaps he would see more of this growing worry on his travels today.

With the absence of restraint from his businesses, Silven’s mind turned to peace for the first blessed moments in months. There was no need to hurry from place to place with the Silverview. He could simply walk, explore, and observe. He had purposefully avoided bringing his sword – hacking and slashing was for his original incarnation as a warrior. If he wanted to change his destiny, he had to walk his path with confidence.

And confident he did feel. After his first breakthroughs, he realised the world now appeared completely differently to him. Everything he saw as he wandered from copse to clearing to bracken-carpeted hillside resonated with new meaning. He couldn’t take anything at face value. Instead, his mind bristled with the possibilities of every bird and branch and wall being turned to his advantage in his own private war. It was an insight he was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to be privy to. His mind darkened at the thought.

Soon, however, the newfound clarity of his being bore fruit. Another fork, and an old withered woman on the doorstep of a battered, roofless cottage. “Greetings, Gary,” she warbled in high, baleful tones. “Help out a poor old hag caught up in the battles of the young ‘uns. I need herbs for my cough syrup. Chop chop!”

Silven smiled through the demands. “And what is it you seek, my lady?”

The elder was taken aback by his politeness. “Errr.... why, three bunches of blue kingsleaf, and five sprigs of red honeyflower should do the trick.” To Silven’s detached mind, it all seemed too rehearsed, too precise. He thought back to the old quarry and that strange tree. He was certain that somewhere nearby, these colourful flowers had suddenly burst into visibility.

He mumbled his goodbyes and rustled off the path and down onto a fern-covered bank. “Welcome to Shaded Slope!” tweeted a bird cheerfully as it soared past. The flowers, of course, blazed out of the foliage in an unmistakable glow. He reached down to pick a blue petal, and shambled up the closest sapling as a bear appeared from behind a daisy and lunged for his throat. He cast away a small blue stone as far as he could, and the ravenous beast suddenly lurched away into the woods. Frowning, he returned to the undergrowth, surveyed the scene, and stooped to pluck a blinding crimson flower from behind a tree stump. “Rurrrrrgh!” groaned a heap of moss by his side. Or rather, “Rurrrgh!” went the little glowing evil pixie thing that now occupied the spot. Silven booted it away before it could cast a spell from its crackling fingertips. He quickly gathered the rest of the ingredients as all manner of beasts grabbed at his arms. He batted them away and searched for more. He was quite sure he had seen another clump just up that bank.... but they no longer appeared to him. He counted his prizes, and suddenly understood why.

He walked briskly away from the growling fiends which suddenly clamoured for his attention, and veered onto a path which lead in the opposite direction to the waiting woman. He pressed a finger to his ear. “Olgred, I’m making for the village of Notcannibalsberg just outside Limetop. No, don’t worry, I’ve heard they’re far less bloated and sluggish on the mycoprotein men from that cave. Just make sure the supply never runs out for their plumber’s sake. Anyway, send someone over. You’ll find a bouquet of flowers on the sign by the butcher’s cottage. Take as many cuttings as you can; we shan’t be finding more. I’ll be having a meeting with the general sooner or later. Roll these up into bottles, and I think we might have alternate ammunition for the king’s catapults. One with a pretty mean surprise for anyone who steps on it.”

He deposited his items at the collection point and rubbed his hands eagerly. It was good to have another source of income, certainly, and he’d only thought the obvious. If he could work out what tethered which animal to those plants, there were all sorts of opportunities. But what really mattered now was that that crone hadn’t got her hands on them. That was what they wanted.

He pressed on through the huddle of buildings and on into a mossy ravine. “Yoohoo! Mossy Ravine awaits!” chirped a squirrel from its perch. Silven rolled his eyes. Did anyone have any imagination around here?

He rounded a corner and bumped belly-first into the back of a man. That man was rather busy knocking the teeth from the mouth of a terrified little sod he had raised from the ground by his neck. “Stop that!” roared Silven, tapping the aggressor smartly on his exposed shoulder. The man rudely ignored him, and took the opportunity to fling his victim roughly into a heap of squelching red mush just beyond, in the centre of a ring of weathered stalagmites neatly marking out the borders of a smart little arena. All around its edge, warriors and robed wizards jeered and swore and shook their fists angrily at the bruised man as he writhed in the gore.

The bare-chested warrior in front of Silven took four long strides and hauled the defeated man to his feet. “Go on then, ninja!” he spat. “See what you’ve got.” The man, who Silven now perceived to be no more than four foot tall and clad beard to toe in shredded leather armour, glanced balefully at his attacker and plunged his arm deep into the pile. Silven’s eyes widened as he made out a shattered bone poking from the top. It was obviously the remains of a mighty creature.

To his amazement, the little man withdrew something curved and shiny from deep within the bubbling intestines. He stared in joy, and then, suddenly afraid, up into the eyes of the glowering warrior by his side. The warrior frowned. “Oh right. A Gleaming Breastplate of Glorious Hackening. Adds to the strength of greataxes bigger than your entire body. No good for a rogue like you.”

Finally, the little man opened his bloodied mouth. “Bin’ ye mardle towdy! Ar brentit first, oanshach. It’ll kop ma haggis!” He hopped back out of the warrior’s clutches and scampered up a narrow path cut out of the stone on the opposite side of the arena, the spectators spitting after him as he fled. Silven stepped forward and addressed the furious brute. “What did he say?”

The man clenched a mighty fist on the leather harness supporting his huge serrated blade. Silven took a step back, suddenly conscious of his own lack of armaments, but the man thumped his chest and relaxed. “Who knows, mate. That’s the problem with dwarves. If we could bloody understand them, then we’d have half a chance of working things out.”

Silven narrowed his eyes. “A dwarf you say? Where was he from?”

“That one’s a lifelong member of the Noob’s Guild in the grotty parts of the capital. Any of those burblings could be ‘is name.”

Silven pondered the grunted reply. “I’ve never seen a dwarf; there can’t be many. Isn’t dialect more a product of geographical location, social class and daily interactions than heritage? He’s got to be a spy from some far away land.”

The brute laughed as he poked at the bloody carcass. “Get used to it, mate. He’s a dwarf. He has to sound different.”

“And that’s what turned him into a rogue like that?”

An angry cry erupted from the onlookers. An outraged looking gentleman in chainmail raised his twin daggers threateningly. “Oi, stranger! I’m sick of this classism. The word ‘rogue’ has been twisted to mean so many derogatory things. It’s really a choice of fighting style, you see. It doesn’t mean we’re sneaky and manipulative like him. I have three bronze conduct medals from my village schoolhouse, I’ll have you know! The correct label for dwarves like him, as my friend Frank said, is ninja.”

A similarly clad woman with pointy ears nearby chuckled and hopped down off her rocky perch. “Then you’re clearly ignorant of your own vocation, Bolris. We can become ninjas, you know, if we ever see off enough trollspawn to train with Master Rews in the old Moon Temple. It’s called a subclass? It used to be a way of escaping such oppression until the Noob’s Guild gave ninja itself such negative connotations.”

A bearded wizard raised a sleeved arm in protest. “Let’s not get judgemental, people. The term ‘noob’ originally meant someone new to our adventuring profession. It’s just a group of inexperienced peers looking to help each other out. None, indeed, will fit the true meaning of ninja. You can’t brand them all for the actions of the selfish few.”

His companion rattled a staff eagerly. “I think we’re missing the point. This is a question of race. I submit to you the following for discussion: is the dwarf bound to his rascally path by virtue of being a dwarf, or does he merely react to the constraints forged by our perception of his kind? Neither seems fair.”

A bloodcurdling cry reverberated around the hollow. “Oh, shit! Who’s next?” roared Frank, unsheathing his sword. He rolled clumsily out of the way as a hideous wiry beast clawed its way out of a crack in the wall and leapt into battle. “I said, who’s next? First hit needed!”

“Oh, not this again!” yelled the wizard. His wand flashed and a shimmering bubble enveloped his body just in time to deflect a razor sharp claw from his heart. “Didn’t we say Bolris was here first?”

“Excuse me, I’ve been here since-“ The warrior who shouted fell onto his back and shuffled away from the open jaws of the creature. “Oh, come on. Sod the loot, Rillid!” yelled Frank, and buried his greatsword to the hilt in the monster’s flesh. Silven edged away and watched as the whole group waded in to finish off their prey. As the creature howled its last, Frank helped the fallen warrior to his feet, and cried out as he took a fist to the jaw. Silven watched quietly as an argument identical to the one around the dwarf erupted. Frank’s sword had made contact first, and obviously, that meant there was no other option than to allow him the entire innards-worth of plunder. He slunk off with his ill-gotten gains, and Bolris chastised Rillid for his opinion that Dorn’s party arrived before Gerit’s. Before long, another clawed monstrosity took them by surprise, and the whole thing started again. Silven stood back and watched again and again as patience wore thin and more hopefuls approached to jostle for position. At long last, as the sun was setting, he tiptoed off to report his findings to Olgy. He had everything worked out.

“They were all too busy bickering to notice the one minute thirty second gap between death and the appearance of the next creature,” he said smugly.

“You sad man,” sighed Olgred.

Silven was more positive. “But I did. And so, it’s time we dispersed those disorderly mobs for our own gain. World’s got rhythm. A simple hourglass timed to the attacks is all we need. And a chalkboard, of course. Gate up the rather convenient natural entrance. I’m thinking tables, deckchairs, potion bar, armour polishers...... Silverlink Monster Camp is born!”

“The streamlining and commercialisation of the vital centuries-spanning tradition of the deadly boss hunt?” cried Olgred. “Hang up your helmet, sit back and enjoy the view and a stew while we engrave rad new tags on your breastplate and teleport you into the fray at the last possible second? I like it!”

“Local leaderboards for most kills! And fastest kills! Pointless tokens for daily challenges to show off to your cronies! We’ll even hire a few mages and throw in a few fireballs and strength boosts if you’re struggling. For a small fee, of course.” Silven was skipping along the gorge now, thoroughly carried away with his ploy. “We’ll start in.... oh, what was that mossy ravine called? Ah yes, Mossy Ravine. I want a few people scouting the local taverns for any rumours of amulets pulled from the brains of goblins or... you know, swords in the bellies of crowned serpents coiled on islands in the middle of flaming lava pools at the bottom of the ocean guarded by ancient temple statues of long-gone secret gnome civilisations. Or something like that.”

Olgred chuckled. “Oh, you mean Deeprock Ruins? On it, boss!”

“Well, I suppose that cuts out the middle men,” muttered Silven cheerfully. He looked upwards in the direction of a sudden pattering sound, straight into the muzzle of a mouse. “I- I’ll call on you later,” he mumbled, and swayed to a halt on the narrow path. His eyes never left the mouse. The mouse, perching on the rocky ledge five or so feet above his target, tipped his fedora and waved a tiny paw. “We need to talk,” it squeaked. Silven got his feet going again and scrambled onwards. “No, seriously! I want to help. I can help produce a consolidated financial statement for all your new subsidiaries. Fear the taxman!” The rodent watched the man disappear up the path. “Oh, well. Fear death instead. But tax is worse.”

Silven panted on. He scuffed his ankles on the rough rocks along his route, but he didn’t care. He had to be rid of his mortal foes. Finally, he reached the end of the gorge and emerged into a meadow of thick, knotted grass. With no hesitation, he plunged headlong into the heart of the jungle and paused to conceal his route. There was no sign of the mouse. He sat heavily and nursed his shredded shin and aching head in equal measure. How could they have found him so quickly? He’d only been gone a few hours, and yet, here he was, on the run again. He puffed out a long, frustrated breath, and pressed a finger to his Silverview.

“Cannot fast travel when enemies are nearby,” it imparted expressionlessly.

“Piddlykins!” Silven cursed. He froze at the sound of approaching hooves. Through the broad blades of grass, he made out a heavily armoured figure riding past on a jet black horse. Something white gleamed at the top of its head. His blood ran cold. A Terrorknight? A Master of Deathness? Who knew. He was, however, quite sure it wasn’t going to offer him tea and crumpets.

He waited for the adversary to trot off and traversed the meadow as quietly as he could. He rustled to a halt as another dark rider appeared on the horizon. “I’m trapped, Olgy!” he hissed. “Anywhere nearby that I’m familiar with? Somewhere I could lose them?”

There was a panicked fluttering of parchment back at HQ. “Err... let’s see.... this tracking thing’s only in prototype, as you well know. Hmmmm. Ah yes. What a coincidence. If you follow the next road leading out of the meadow, you’ll eventually come out around the place I met you for the first time.”

“What, Gigglewick again?” Silven replied, easing himself onto his belly as the rider approached.

“Of course; it’s a regional hub, and therefore any path you take will somehow end back up there.”

“At least I have sort-of friends there. Maybe they’ll manage to hand me a sword whilst they stare at their turnips. Someone mentioned a quarry around there. Perhaps I could devise some sort of trap to delay these troublesome search parties. Why, oh why, can I not have just one day to myself?” Olgred was saying something. “What?”

“I said, there isn’t a quarry anywhere near there. It’s a farming town,” Olgred repeated.

“But I was told there was. Never mind,” said Silven, his voice reduced to a whisper. The second soldier, who he was now quite sure was an assassin, was stomping down the hill, prodding its spear into grassy knolls as it went. “I’ll head for the trees over there.”

“Wait!” Olgred insisted. “What do you know about the quarry?”

“Now’s not the time!” breathed Silven. He tensed as the assassin’s spear poked into the soil not two feet from his hiding place.

“It’s important.”

Silven waited for the man to move on and silently swore as his comrade appeared further up the hill. “Oh, something something, King Vooliwhatsit, sending people over to the forest tribe’s territory looking for work.”

When Olgred replied, his tone was serious and his language clipped. “I know somewhere like that. Way to the south. Who told you? Wait, it wasn’t a man?”

“Who else?”

“Old and wise?”

“And maybe a little crazy. How do you know all this?”

Silven heard the clinking of weapons as they were pulled from his study. “Silven, get to Gigglewick. I’ll meet you there. We have ourselves a lead."