2.13 The Warlord's New Career

Silven stood before his foe and swung with all his might. Wallace returned the blows joyously. The fight went on for a worryingly long time. At last, just as Silven was beginning to consider a snacksie break, the mighty warlord went down.

Silven stepped back and doubled over as his foe curled and groaned miserably in the middle of a bearskin rug. He dropped his sword. “More! Moooooore!” it squealed as it settled beside Wallace’s axe.

Silven ignored the pleas and gasped out his question between puffs of air. “What the hell, dude? Same armour, more damage.... close one....”

Wallace rolled onto his side and clasped a pale hand to his blood-soaked waist. “Health, yeah? Look at the size of me.”

Silven straightened, grabbed at a chair and slumped down, breathless. “Oh sugar.... I forgot about that. But what’s life without a little chance, eh?” He took a swig of Beardbuzzer and felt a welcome strength flow through him. “Big bar need big smash and big toilet, huh?”

Wallace grimaced. “Hold on, wait for the intellect debuff to fade.... and go.”

Silven blinked and looked around the room as if transported there for the first time. “What happened there? No matter, I was just saying all those deep fried turnip cakes must have been good for something, and it certainly wasn’t for my bottom.”

Wallace eyed the Gnomeanian sword uncertainly as it strained against the confines of being an inanimate object. “Come on then, little guy. Finish this. I’ll see your midget idiots in the next world and have my revenge.”

The sword uttered the choiciest curses ever proclaimed by a sword. Its tip tickled Wallace’s wrist. Silven responded by racing from his chair and snatching it up before any more harm could be done.

“Bigfoot picklestinker!” it shrieked. “Sing with me, master. Quaking Wallace weeeeeakling, defeated by a baaanker, and now he whines for quick death, the cowardly big fat-“

“Hush now, little letter opener,” soothed Silven. He sheathed the reluctant blade and looked into Wallace’s pained eyes. He smiled a big smile. His business smile. “Eager to depart, Wallace? I think not. Now, it’s time for an offer you can’t refuse. Former warlord, I offer you a position in Silverlink, the greatest company in the kingdom. If you’re willing to assume the position, of course.”

Silven rummaged in his pocket. Wallace said nothing as something long and thick and pink wobbled into view. His eyes, however, only grew more pained. Silven’s smile cracked into a grin. “Your past experience in the art of.... mandatory lovemaking makes you an ideal candidate for tester in a new branch of the conglomerate. You see, the research and development of instant messaging has shifted somewhat in recent months. The hardware is perfected, and it falls to thinkers to advance our product. But where does that leave the more practical employees? The fifty or so moulders and shapers? Well, Wallace, we’re entering new fields every season. Entering more than you could imagine.”

Wallace’s eyes widened. “I.... imagine more than you might think,” he grunted.

Silven beamed. “Good, a keen sense for detail will be most welcome.” He brandished the wobbly thing menacingly. “It’s time to please the ladies in a less direct way. Tester Wallace, please make your way to Overwall, enter the Silverlink Love cottage, and await further instruction.”

He spoke rapidly and seemingly to himself. Instantly, two nondescript men appeared, raised the injured foe to his feet, and spirited him away. Silven whirled and blinked up at the gawping audience on the balcony. “I didn’t expect that. No longer enemies, are we? Good. Tell me, what’s this place called?”

“F...Fort Deathrot,” squeaked a rebel through gritted teeth.

Silven screwed up his face. “What a revolting identity.”

Another rebel raised a hand. “Not our fault! It was the lair of a great clan of necromancers in ages long past. We’ve tried to spruce the place up a bit... but... well, the name stuck.”

Silven nodded sympathetically. “As names tend to do. Apart from when you’re Gary. Fort Deathrot must be razed next month. I sense an oppressive evil clinging to the stone, ready to manifest again at the right time to bring death and destruction to the land in its quest to restore the dark old days from whence it came. Your crude sketches could never hide its foul, fetid presence.” He looked around appraisingly. “But, on the other hand, this is just the place for the company Summerfeast bash. If you put out some decent nosh and string together a bit of a variety show – you know, jugglers and whatnot – then we’ll let you live. See you next Tuesday!” And he was gone.

Five hours and two tedious conference calls later, Silven found himself in the bright whitewashed Square of the Saints in the middle of Desert Marsh’s administrative quarter. While a well-attended ceremony of all the council and public figures was going on and on declaring their appreciation for his actions, he was trying and very much failing to work out which saints that name referred to.

“Is it for followers of The Light?” he demanded as the council gathered round at the end of a spectacular demonstration of predatory plant wrangling by the current Champion of the Predatory Plant Wrangling Premiership in his honour. “Sillin, the Saint of Obscure Sports, perhaps? Or how about Ildrek, the Saint of Drunken Celebration?”

A tanned, dark haired man bowed before the hero. “Err, just a cool name. We kind of hoped no one would look into the history of our historical city too closely. Anyway, here are the keys.” He held out a ring of ornate brass to the warrior.

Silven looked most uncomfortable. “Who are you, again?”

The stranger bowed once more. “Edsil the Wise, council member and advisor to the Oracle of Sandstream. Weren’t you listening to line sixteen of the Introduction of The Homage Payers to a Saviour?”

Silven didn’t answer. “And what are these again?”

Edsil narrowed his eyes. “The keys to your official chambers. You’ve been made Dean of Silicarco Academy for your brave actions against the rebellion. As discussed sixteen minutes ago in the Recital of Offerings for a True Gentleman.”

Silven decided that if he was going to dig, he might as well do a good job. “Thank you. And what will that do for me?”

It was Edsil’s turn to look troubled. He looked to his left for support from his peers. Lord Eleganto coughed. “Errr, well, you get some flowerpots in your courtyard.”

Silven nodded gravely. “I see.” He accepted a cactus pinwheel from a passing servant and munched. “Now let’s play a game. I’m guessing.... scroll seventy five lets you complete this U-turn from trying to murder me in my room to praising my own ability to remove undesirables? What does Dilsen have to say about all this?”

Edsil looked surprised. “He can say what he likes. As for the Faction Reputation Reaction Regulation, to which I assume you refer, it was thrown out last year. You’ve created a new world, Dean Silicarco. These days, we’ll tag along with anyone who’s going to cut through the rebel trade blockade and bring in the moolah.” He winked. “Which I take is your next act in your new position, yes?”

Silven swallowed his prickly pilferings. He gazed from official to official with childish joy. “You have my word, my lords. Fireline would benefit immensely from a base of operations in that dive bar under Maneater Square. Good start point for the pipes. And I’ll have to have a little chat with the big boss to bring in an IM pylon over on the academy roof. Do you require protection?”

Edsil hesitated. Eleganto observed emotionlessly. “There is this new cult gathering in the bog....” stammered Edsil.

Silven nodded decisively. “Fine. If you hand over your guardhouse, we’ll have a company of Silverlink security over within the hour.” Eleganto smiled and turned to chat with his peers. Edsil instead swept a hand in the direction of the academy. “Shall we inspect your premises?”

Silven’s face darkened. “I am afraid not. I shall admire these horticultural marvels at a later date. Do I have any duties as Dean?”

“None.”

“Good. Then I shall take my leave. Cheerio!”

He wandered through the party, batting away the fair hands of maidens and dancers, and found Olgred sliding under a bench. “Hic!” he said as he gazed up at his master.

“Not now, Olgy, you have some work to do. Talk to the nice men over there. Do whatever I’ve just promised them. It’s time to move on.”

“What, now?” slurred his companion.

Silven sighed. “Onto the next target. The last.”

Olgred grinned stupidly. “Your new girlfriend.”

Silven looked down severely. The grin was mysteriously gone. “No. Zolar Ceneron. I’m sticking to my goals.”

“To rid the world of all that threatens your big utopia and live out your days in carefully restricted bliss?”

Silven shrugged. “Because I’m bored with it, mostly.”

“But I thought you were getting bored in the business.”

“Yes, but at least that boredom has less chance of getting me killed.”

Olgred cackled and wrapped an arm around his beautiful groupies. “Not with all those deep fried turnip cakes, Silven.” The girls chuckled politely. Silven did not. He thought only of the witch. Because, if he didn’t, he might have to start on getting that utopia organised. And that really did seem like a bit of work.