3.7 The Bloodthirsty and The Bore

The mages screamed. Well, something was screaming, for when the Modders opened their mouths, they unravelled from the orifice. Not the typical scene of a body vanishing from beneath a robe and pooling on the floor; flesh and cloth folded back into nothingness and disappeared.

There were things scurrying where mysterious feet had stood. Silven looked down. There were mice everywhere. Mice crawling towards the shattered body of the Bloodthirsty and muttering darkly at what they saw. Mice stood gaping at the king and waving walking sticks and umbrellas violently at his shins. Mice with wide eyes dashing for the edge of the plaza and hopping into the lower levels of streets. Mice, is what I’m trying to say.

Silven sprang forward and ground one of said mice hard beneath his slipper. A brief squeak rang out from between his toes, bones shattered, and then it was as gone as the mages. A little blue ‘7’ popped up by his shin, and the others gasped. “Got you, you vermin!” he spat triumphantly. “Within a whisker of safety.” He grinned at the crowd. “Get it?” The dozen or so remaining watchers retreated hastily. “Well I liked it,” he puffed.

The mice did not like it. They hovered nervously at the edge of the paving and grumbled. It was not the tone of retribution. It was the tone of resignation, and suddenly, Silven was afraid.

“This is soooo stupid!” moaned a lady mouse with ribbons in her tail. “I mean, he had a faaaar better weapon than the Bore over there.”

“This place sucks,” agreed the gentlemouse by her side. “They’ve gone too far with the freedom. Everyone just wants to sit around and play games.”

“Talking of which, I’m going back to 23. Server’s still fuller than this one,” announced the rodent in the top hat. "See ya, Darklord."

“Yar, sure will. No more bants now Dragonslaya’s dead. Most action the Bore’s been in all year, and he’s locked out the last shred of fun. Sorry, Darkgurl5, it’s finished.”

“What do you mean, last fun?” scowled a nearby purple-dyed critter, but it was too late. She watched as her friends blinked out of existence, one by one, in tiny flashes of blue light. She turned and looked up at the bewildered king with sorrowful eyes. “Sorry, Silven. Show’s over. I tried to keep it going, but you just wouldn’t die.”

Silven’s mind was ablaze with confusion. In the end, he focused on just one image. Maybe it was that feeling of imminent doom overcoming his will to carry on, or maybe he was just silly. Whatever the reason, the departure of those nincompoops filled him with sudden manic joy. He struck out his right arm, curled it back in, waved his hand in the air, whirled and stuck up his left thumb. For one so cool as he, it came naturally.

Darkgurl5 paused. And then, if a mouse can smile, she smiled. “Count Steinbrook,” she gasped. “Built that one myself. So you’re misunderstood too?” She sighed. “I suppose I could give you one chance. Just one. But the server might come down for inactivity anyway.” She edged forward. Silven’s slipper twitched, but somehow, he restrained himself as the mouse crept up and laid a paw on his big toe. “Just.... do something interesting.” She looked up seriously into his eyes, spun on the spot and scampered over the bodies into the night.

Silven remained in place for a long time. The city was still and quiet and dead around him. Within, however, he was alive with questions. The mages and the mice. The Bloodthirsty and the Bore. Servers and dragonslayers and Steinbrook. He was too sane to make any sense of all that.

And yet, swimming slowly and surely from the murk, there came an answer.

It wasn’t an answer he was looking for. It explained nothing at all. But the suddenness and force with which it appeared meant it had to be important. A sudden feverish energy from so long ago rekindled a desperate inquisitive light in his eyes.

How could he have forgotten?

He stumbled over fallen heroes and fallen chicken-ghost-square-things and back into the courtroom. His friends were still there, clapping gormlessly. “Three cheers for our king!” cried Simitest brightly. “And then back to Limetop for some celebratory port. The sculpture directive can wait for the morn.”

He was gone by the second cry. There were just a few things to check first. With his Silverview working once again, it didn’t take long. The borders were indeed secure, though fortresses and walls lay pierced and tumbled all along those invisible lines. He congratulated his throng of commanders and captains and sergeants and ordered a public holiday, complete with bard festival, at the gates of the National Museum of Nonsense and Wankery for the morrow. He checked in with Trashbag. Dasat had entered the cathedral, and that was all he wanted to know. He looked out at the gloomy prison and forced himself to think of nothing. He would not see his general again. The safehouse of spies by the Mooncerer’s family cottage reported no unusual activity beyond the odd meteor-tantrum. Limetop was similarly unmolested, but the Bloodthirsty had spoken true about Overwall. The headquarters crackled orange against the dark sky. The fire carts had been understandably busier hosing down raging demons as they charged from the furnaces of the underworld than saving files from offices, and a good half of the company buildings there had collapsed into ashes. It would set back the invaluable health-bar overlay and poison tracker for miners’ Silverviews by a good few months. The TWEDIS greenhouses had shattered , and there was growing concern that the new lines of Twedipets could be delivered in woefully short supply next Sunday. Fad riots were surely nigh.

None of it really mattered. He walked through it all like a ghost, and nodded in all the right places, and signed the papers with a flourish of his pen, and yet he felt dead. He had the peculiar notion of putting his affairs in order. He wrote express IMs to all the company guards, giving strict orders that all previous sweet orders were to remain unfulfilled and that Herbie Sootroller was to actually get up off his ample backside and do some work for once. The answer gnawed at him. It was time.

He looked back at his blazing creation and turned away just as quickly. He blinked on one more time. With the victory bonfire a veritable inferno by the gorge outside the city gates, Desert Marsh itself was nigh on deserted.

There was, of course, still someone at home within the imposing facade of Silicarco Academy. And, also of course, the big lock on his window was once more infuriatingly reset. He fiddled with a rusty sword he found in a wheelbarrow across the grounds and called inside confidently. “Hello, Professor Grennel. I have your breakthrough.”