2.14 A Hop Of Faith

Silven stepped into the stone chamber and looked around at the decaying furniture within. He then eliminated the floating chainmail silhouette which glided towards him using his favoured technique of running round it in a tight circle and bopping it on the headless helmet whenever he gained enough of a lead on the slowly revolving spirit. So far, it hadn’t led to his death.

Once the armour clanked sensibly into a pile on the floorboards, Silven stooped and placed two green and two red stones in a deliberate cross pattern. Finally, he covered his ears to block out the maddening scuffles of monsters pacing above and below and addressed HQ. “Day three. I have taken a bookcase out of room thirty-two and identified a new room. It shall be known as room one hundred and thirty five, and will be recognised by the reversed colours of the preceding number’s pattern. There is a staircase down to the left, a hallway straight ahead, and...” He sauntered over to the balustrade overlooking an old dining room marked with two blue stones surrounded by a circle of red, “....A view of room seventy, no sixty nine, below to the right. One chainmail demon destroyed. Warn of plate demon upon next entry.”

Olgred’s voice was muffled, as if struggling to penetrate the dozens of walls between the pair. “Noted, master. Just how do they do that?”

Silven sighed. He tested a rotting chair with a tentative hand and decided it was safer to stand while he nommed. It was a good job food was weightless, else he’d be in serious trouble by now.

“To prove themselves irksome, I expect. Maybe they’re lazy and want to try out the lowest forms of their powers to take out a man like myself. Perhaps they share a recent common ancestor with our customer services.” He peered cautiously at the pacing bulk below. “But we need to keep a careful tally of the death count, or else my fears that I have bitten off more than I can chew will be correct.” He played mindlessly with his fraying sleeve and fought back the sudden urge to plunge headfirst over the edge.

Olgred sensed his master’s low spirits from the uneasy calm in his voice. “Fear not, master. It can’t go on much longer.” But it did.

By day five, Silven had discovered a mind-boggling array of hallways, wooden sitting rooms filled with bloodied spikes, a tunnel leading to a vault of cloaked skeletons, a treasure trove defended by ponderously swinging axes, an underground lake infested with ten-foot snapping turtles, a crumbling temple to the old god of burgers, inexplicably guarded by cow-headed warriors, and no exit. From the outside, Ridgecomb Manor had seemed perfectly normal. A teetering neglected mansion of moderate proportions nestled within its dismal grounds of rocks and pines, it stood just a short walk from the high, neat walls of what could only be Greenholme beyond a thin smattering of shadowy pools. Silven had entered expecting a fight, but not a struggle for his sanity. We find our hero now, when weedy gremlins bouncing around sofas had long become monstrous fatties gorging on dinner tables, spinning from deathtrap to deathtrap seeking for the way he had surely missed. A sudden thought had stopped him dead. He ran to an empty room, blocked the pursuing ghost with a calmly closed door, and addressed Olgred once more. “Olgred, is this real?”

The faint rhythmic breathing on the other end turned to sudden relief. “Yes. Silven, I haven’t heard from you since....”

“Since island twenty in the stormy bay of the downstairs toilets, I know. Sorry. I just needed time to think.”

“And?”

“I’m going back to the stone arch.”

Olgred laughed, if only to keep his master from doing the opposite. “And what do you propose to do there?”

Silven marched over to the next door and peered through the keyhole at the circle of twelve portals beyond. “Get out.”

“You’re tired,” cautioned Olgred, concern rising in his tone. “You’re becoming erratic. We’ll find an actual path, you wait and see.”

But Silven wasn’t listening. He took the third exit from the doorabout, a right from the centipede kitchen, and across the courtyard of acid fountains. There, he stood and inspected the arch for the umpteenth time over a pint of lukewarm water. It occupied a ten-foot wide space where two curving wings of the manor almost met at a forty-five degree angle. On one side, a rusted plaque bore the words “Greenholme Gate.” Beyond, a roughly-hewn path cut its way through the sloping rocks and snaked out of sight around a silent pond. From here, the city wall looked close enough to touch. So, so close.

Silven forced himself to blink and focus on the terrible gauntlet which blocked the way. He had examined every detail before, it was true. And yet, in his half-exhausted, half-crazed state, it almost looked doable. He raised his travel tankard to the sky. “Better to die now than rot with the décor,” he called out to Olgred. “Look after Herbie, won’t you?”

“No!” screamed Olgred in his ear. “Silven, no. It’s not worth it. Turn back. Turn back!”

But it was too late. Silven took a breath. He inched closer to the gate, edged from side to side, and inspected his mortal enemy. Then, before he could consider fully what he was about to risk, he raised a foot and stepped over the log.