2.15 The Heat Of Passion

Silven rattled down the ramp with Olgy’s cheers rattling in his lugholes, and clattered against a boulder to wait for his legs to stop shaking. He dared not look ahead yet.

“Everything we knew, everything we feared, challenged by one hero and crushed by the bravery of man!” Olgred was proclaiming over a jug of horribly-out-of-reach ale in Overwall. “Silven, this is tremendous!”

Silven took a shuddering breath and composed himself. “As dean of my very own academy, I propose a paradigm shift in the tangled fields of science.”

Olgred burped.

“From now on, we shall base our studies upon the foundations of common damned sense,” Silven growled. “Olgy, I know you were right with the water, but let’s actually assess if there’s any possibility of damage before trooping round a never-ending haunted house for five whole days.”

Olgred thought for a second. “Then how do you explain the never-ending haunted house?”

Silven looked back at the three-storied building. “Ok, from now on, we shall try to add a bit of common sense, where appropriate.” He trailed off. “But I do want someone looking into this. If we can discover how that place fits so much in, maybe we can solve this logistics problem just after I kill the rebels and then I can go back to being miserable about how I’ve wasted so much of my life again. Yay!”

“But now you’re also a noble warrior siding with the law to stamp out tyranny and selfishness, paving the way for a new age of peace,” Olgred reminded him.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that bit. Let’s just get this bitch – I mean, witch- over and done with, savvy?”

Around the bend, the landscape took a dramatic turn for the bizarre. Colours blended into dull brown, the pine trees became squarish blocks, the water a sky-blue sheet like the surface of a mirror. In front of it all, his blade-scarred hands and slippered feet stood out in curiously sharp detail, the keen edges of his figure battling for supremacy with the jagged, blurred nothingness behind. It would have proved most amusing if he hadn’t found himself alone in the middle of it. As it was, he had the deep, uneasy feeling he was somewhere he just should not be. “Olgred?” he called fretfully. There was no answer, only eternal silence. He kept his eyes on his feet and glided on.

The jumbled mosaic of a path continued around a perfectly cubic stone, and arced embarrassingly ungracefully towards the fortunately normal wall. There was another stone arch, and another thick trunk blocking the way into the town. Thankfully, Silven was a quick learner, and this time, he was ready for it.

He stepped into an elegant open space, surrounded by thick foliage and decorated with neat panels of swirling iron grates set into the cobbles. It was hard to make out the buildings beyond, but what he could see hinted at beautiful high-walled terraces curling around groves of slender trees. Steeples far above bore the gold and green banners of the ancient city. Greenholme was obviously a wonderful place. He looked down and saw the soldier running off through a strip of rosebushes. Damned Derrity, why did there always have to be soldiers?

Greenholme, he had read, was a city of contrasts. But there again, that was the first thing he’d read about every single city in the known world, so we’ll scrap that. He did know, however, that Greenholme was once Curum Magica, capital of a long-fallen spiritual tribe, and that the descendents of the greenfolk still knew the ways of the odd simple curse to help them on their way through life. One such curse hit the unsuspecting Silven in the chest, rooting him to the spot with clutching branches which burst out from a nearby grate. He had also heard that the moneybag was mightier than the sword. He decided that that was probably not going to be the case as Random Squadron XY of rebel soldiers burst out of the greenery and charged him with a forest’s worst nightmare of axes.

Wearily, he drew his sword and waited. The soldiers halted uncertainly, and looked back into the bushes. “Horace?” one queried in a high, wavering voice.

Silven sighed. “Go on. What have I done this time?”

One of the thousandtuplets coughed. “You disturb the peace of the Green City.”

“No I’ve not! Yet,” protested Silven, struggling against his woody bonds.

The soldier sneered. “You looked at the bushes the wrong way.”

“Is this just some excuse to relieve a bit of tension after rebelling only to usher in a new strict ruler?” Silven asked.

Another soldier looked dreamily over his shoulder. “Have you seen the witch? You’d need to relieve a bit of tension too.” The squadron sniggered. “Horace?” repeated the man to the plants.

Silven sheathed his sword again, took out a quill and parchment, and looked up with interest. “So, what’s the story? I actually do enjoy collecting these titbits. Makes the world seem actually alive.”

“Well, the king wanted to build a forge in the centre and use our gardens for fuel,” recounted one man gravely. “He was making armour to upgrade our horsemen to tanks. But Zolar, his own armour enchantress, stepped in and took our fair country into her own beautiful hands. She sees peace and harmony with nature as paramount, as do all the greenfolk still in town.”

“Oh,” replied Silven, putting his scroll away. “You actually have a point, then. So why all the hassling of travellers on your roads? Why the ambush of the friars’ wagon last year? Why preach peace and poison the well of Ironmount because they refused to give you half their harvest?”

A soldier grinned. “Because we’re rebels, and we want to.”

“Also to draw in heroes not attracted by our queen’s beauty in order to ensnare them in our gripping subplot,” added another.

Silven sighed. “Well, you almost made me let you go.” Out came the sword again.

“Horace!” screamed one of the back soldiers angrily.

Silven cocked his head. “What’s all this about Horace?”

A soldier who may or may not have spoken before piped up. “He’s got the longbow! Off hunting rabbits for the lady’s pie, I expect.” He raised his voice. “It’s never gonna work, Horace; let it go. And get over here so we can snipe this invader where he stands.”

“Do you think we can throw one of these?” mused another, hefting his axe in Silven’s general direction.

“What about the High Wizard’s lightning bolts?” butted in the next.

“Nah, bedtime for the learned,” muttered the second, and he edged towards his trapped enemy. He reached out with his axe and lined it up with the Gnomeanian sword. “Never mind, he’s got more reach. Horace!”

The squadron milled around their prey awkwardly. Silven’s lip trembled. His head started shaking. He just couldn’t help himself. “Bah! I know I shouldn’t help you to murder me, but it’s just too much. Just shout some friends over and rush me. I can’t hit you all at once.”

The closest soldier closed his eyes and hung his head. “Haven’t you kept up to date with modern warfare? There’s a patrol zone highway all the way to Zolar’s arena. We can’t have you wandering about the place unpestered.”

“Horace!” chorused the guards together.

“Horace the pervert went to-” started the sword.

Silven stood straight and glared. “Shut up. This is an absolute disgrace. Now come and fight!”

The soldiers could hardly meet his eyes. “Sorry about this,” stammered the first. “We appear to have encountered a minor staffing issue. Now let’s all run up one by one, by the shortest possible route to your face, and end this.” The guard was true to his word. The rebels died. The branches disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Silven walked on.

The city was beautiful. Silven worked to unbeautify it through generous splashes of blood on his way to the armourer. Men and women tutted and shuttered their shutters as he traversed the smart streets. Children burst out of doors to clap and cheer as he whirled his way through arms and heads. It was really quite disturbing on such a productive day of labour.

At last, the warrior dragged his slippers through a neat line of flowers and out onto the main thoroughfare. Barricades of splintered carts lined the street, and in front of them, the blackened wreckage of strange metal boxes on tracks, daubed now in the mysterious emerald victory symbols of the greenfolk. Up ahead, before the twirling wooden colonnades of the mayor’s palace, there stood a circle of beech trees. They were on fire. They were also framed ever so picturesquely between a crooked lamppost and the charred skeleton of a royal soldier. On balance, Silven decided it was too classy to ignore. He moved forward.

There were no more militiamen to politely tap at his shoulder with chained clubs and guide him on to his goal, but he didn’t need them. He approached the burning grove, surveyed the scene, and doubled over in uncontrollable laughter.

Another fireball flared up furiously from the woman in the ashen centre. “What?” she shrieked, as her guards moved forward to intercept the trespasser.

Silven raised his red head and bellowed into the firestorm. “Of all the riffraff to seize a city of wood... a fire sorceress? You can’t be serious!”

The woman held up a slender hand to halt her followers. She glared appraisingly at her foe. “Come on, Silven. Remember your Commontongue lessons. Contrast, symbolism, imagery?”

“Uh?” grunted the man before her.

She tried again. “Foreshadowing of how I’ll wrest control from the destructive forces of this land, only to consume it all anyway in an inferno of passion?” Her tone became low and sultry. “Come now, dear.”

She raised her other hand. Silven charged. A river of blazing lava descended on his chestplate as he ran. He sunk to his knees in a sea of agony. “Bollocks!” he declared to the gawping minors, and closed his eyes.