3.15 Showdown (Another One)

The creature was terrifyingly enormous and enormously terrifying. It opened one of its mouths and shrieked loud enough to break the window in the guest room’s outer wall. The chill of the night flowed into the already freezing room. Barbed tentacles unwound from the base of the bulbous thing and waved closer. Steaming slime dripped from pores in its hairless flesh and burned holes in the floorboards. The creature was, as you may have gathered, disappointingly alert.

“Get back!” Silven screamed, and he grabbed Grennel by his cloak and pulled him roughly towards the door.

“What are you going to do?” the professor whimpered.

Silven drew the frog’s sword from his pocket with a firm hand. He raised it vertically in the air like all heroes seem to pointlessly do. “Now, for Newburg, for my friends, all I hold dear, in the name of-”

The creature came slithering across the room at a horrible pace. He’d hoped it would at least have the decency to be slow. “Arrrrrgh!” he cried. He charged, sword still high above his head. The barbs and spikes and pods and teeth extended to meet him. The sword came crashing down as the two titans clashed.

The creature shrieked again, collapsed, and bubbled into the floor.

Silven looked at the mess dumbly. His eyes roved the silent corners of the room. Then, he put away his sword. “Well, that was the anti-climax of the age,” he said.

“It was only level twenty,” squeaked a mouse as it scampered back into the skirting board.

Silven turned to the professor, who had just picked himself up from the floor to busy himself collecting up bodily fluids in tiny glass jars.

“Is that it?” Silven said suddenly. “The end of the quest?”

“Safety?” ventured Grennel. “It’s done...”

Slowly, they put down their things and embraced. The universe was safe. The cycle could move on and the world would endure. It was over.

Grennel drew back. “Why only level twenty?” His face clouded. “Let’s just check something...”

They hurried back into the bar. All the patrons were gone. Except one.

It was the man with the powerful voice, but he had ditched the hat and the robe, and he looked very angry. Veins pulsed in his shiny dome of a head as he boomed, “You killed my pet!”

“Sorry,” was all Silven could think to say.

“It would have grown into something mighty indeed,” the man lamented. “But no matter. I shall have to do the slaughtering myself.”

“Excuse me?”

The roll of laughter was like a roll of thunder. “It’s a shame. You’ve robbed me of weeks of guiding and training you to vanquish this foe, only to reveal my true self in a twist you would never expect. Yes, it’s true: the great Baron Melaxis the Fifth, reborn from the demon realm, come to claim what is mine!”

“Never heard of him,” muttered Silven.

The Baron looked crestfallen. “Rotten Rubertis! So Celebrated Scrolls was a vanity publisher all along. Never mind, I rebrand myself.... The End. For I shall be yours!”

“Hang on,” Grennel interjected. “Why do big bad villains insist on developing a chosen one who will ultimately be their downfall? It happens all the time. You seriously need to get together and start looking at historical patterns.”

Slowly, The End’s fat lips curled into a knowing, smug smile. “All others are beneath me. And because of that cheek, I have a special hell reserved for your demise.” He drew up his arms and laughed again. Blue light erupted around his body. Silven raised his sword in defence, but it was too late. The fire engulfed them all.

A long second later, he found himself lying spread-eagled on a featureless white surface. “Olgy?” he called out weakly, but it was Professor Grennel who grunted in response. He raised himself with unfeeling hands and gaped at the weirdscape around them.

It was far from featureless. The sky and the ground and the horizon were pure nothingness, but everywhere, grey blocks whizzed and grey platforms jigged and fire pits sizzled at the edges of black bridges. Square, smooth towers of blue stood like a forest all around, clipping swaying rafts as they floated by, deflecting glowing beams of pure light that raced out of nowhere, and forming neat little polite rows of ascending size, just perfect for a Sunday powerhop to work off the stew of the night before.

The carousel of motion made Silven’s head whirl. He found the surface again and gratefully closed his eyes. “Where are we?” he managed, suddenly feeling rather green-cheeked.

An echoey voice reverberated across the otherwise silent world. It was not The End’s commanding tone; this was a thin, reedy and desperate voice, and therefore a wholly original device. “You’re in the realm of A’rho’zhor’a’shan’ax’lyxs’zwiszl,” it whined. “You should not be here.”

“I know that,” snapped Silven at a nearby platform as it rose innocently towards a glowing red orb high above. “Who are you?”

The voice became more urgent and ever more pathetic. “No time for relevant questions. Listen to me carefully, and you may yet escape a similar imprisonment by the demon of Ragequit Spire.”

There was a moment’s pause. “Go on,” ventured the king.

“No time to talk! You must listen and you must trust me!” the voice pleaded from the aether. “There’s only one way out of the Nightmare Land of Nightmare Repetition of Nightmare Repetition of Nightmare Repetition. It’s going to be fun, you’ll see.” At once, the swirling shapes gained purpose. They divided, organised themselves, and made a beeline towards the four opposite corners of the cavern-space-thingy. Slowly, surely, primary colour diffused into the world. “You find yourself now in the Hub of Ruy’urew’as’ir’ooo’bu,” droned the voice as a circular platform rose in front of the prostrate pair. Four dull hollows were clearly visible at its centre. “Legend has it the door to the mortal realm will only reveal itself once the Power Crystals are back in place. I tried once, and am now sealed within for all time. But I know you have what it takes.”

Silven’s eyes grew wide. “No...” he croaked. He cringed on the floor. “I don’t like it. I don’t want-”

“Please!” implored the thin voice. “This is already going to take many joyous hours and we don’t want to spoil the fun with tantrums. Where was I? Ah, yes. The four Power Crystals. Each were infused with a unique and exciting element, and they have returned to their native sub-realm when my plan failed. You must recover them.”

“Surely the best thing-” started Grennel.

“Silence, Professor. Surely you wish not to waste time in pointless arguments when you are to spend a such a significant portion of your life with only my twice-minutely jabberings for company. You must do what must be done. But I do have some good news....” A solitary balloon rose from the power hub. “You may tackle the sub-realms in any order.” Silence reigned. “Ahem! Well then, behold.... the Fire Quarter!” Red light flared amidst the jagged bridges to Silven’s left. “The Earth Quarter!” A glow emanated from the rolling ramps dead ahead. “The Water Quarter! And last but certainly not least-”

“I’m not doing it,” said Silven simply. He straightened and sat cross-legged by the power hub.

“What?” hissed Grennel. He beheld the Air Quarter as he was bidden and turned to his master in shock. “But, the entertainment,” he mouthed.

Silven’s brow remained unfurrowed. “Ain’t nobody got time for this shit. Send me back.”

The gamble paid off. For once, just once, all were united.

Five seconds later, he found himself sprawled upon the vaguely textured, and suddenly very interesting, floor of the tavern. The End loomed over them, beyond rage. He stepped back and allowed his enemies to wobble to their feet so the treachery and murder could begin anew. “When I was just a teenager,” he muttered, staring straight through Silven into the past, “there was nothing to do but go hunting in my father’s woods, sneak down into the tiny, crumbling hamlet of All Things, talk to girls, watch the setting sun and drink stolen mead out in the field over Old Pete’s back wall.”

“Your point being?” said Silven sternly.

The End looked up and tried to twist his mouth downwards. “It was boring, alright? I’m just trying to demonstrate that I have a reason for the pure hatred I have for all facets of this universe.”

Silven nodded gravely. “If I had nothing but mead, I’d be angry too.” He hefted his sword. “I understand. You’re probably too far gone to introduce the joys of port. Let’s put you out of your misery.” He advanced.

The End held up a hand. “Woah, easy there. Give me chance to get into battle form.” He twirled a finger. “Turn around.”

Silven nearly swung. He was so close. But at the last moment, he remembered. Today of all days, he needed to play by the rules.

There was a moment’s pause. Footsteps. The creaking lid of a wooden chest. The ruffle of clothes. The zip of a zipper.

Silven rolled his eyes. “Will we ever actually make it through the big scary boss battle?”

“All done, guys!” cried The End, somewhat gruffly. They spun. In The End’s place, there stood a rather fluffy sky-blue werewolf. It was almost half-convincing.

“Nice stitching on the whiskers,” Grennel praised.

“Cheers! Now come and attack me!” snarled the wolf.

Silven blinked slowly. He let out a long, long breath, and stilled his mind. A lot rested on slicing that onesie to ribbons.

With a roar, the two fighters fought.

Silven’s sword sliced across a neck and shivered back. The End put his hands on his hips, guffawed, and swiped his foes into the wall with one adorable paw.

Silven leapt back to his feet, dove beneath a crushing blow and skewered a hard point in the air just in front of the villain’s belly.

“Pierce resistance!” cried Grennel, dusting himself off. He watched with interest as Silven crashed against the bar and winced as a tottering tankard emptied itself down his neck. “He’s too high a level! This is going to be tough. Just run around in circles for a while and I’ll pop to the shop for some health elixirs.”

The werewolf laughed again. “Oh, so innocent! And while you’re at it, just ignore the Shield Shards I’ve hidden around the room! I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.” He struck Silven beneath the chin and sent him tumbling to the ground in a shower of dust.

The king crawled weakly away and heaved himself up against a stool. “Power Crystals, and now Shield Shards?” he muttered. “When did everything get so lame?” He shuffled through the jumble of glassware on the table.

“Colder, warmer.... warmer.... red hot!” yelled The End as Silven flipped over a cup and revealed a glowing red piece of pottery beneath. The wolf raised its fists and advanced. Silven scrambled away, flicked the shard to the floor and ground it beneath a slipper. Nothing. He slashed his sword across The End’s muzzle and got a snort and a jab to the stomach in return. “Hah!” cried the End, rounding on Grennel and pounding him into the ground. “Don’t you know Shield Shards draw their own mini shields from the life force of a nearby minion?” There was a brilliant flash of light. “So just leave these here goblins to chew at your ears and we’re all good.”

The hideous little green things advanced. Silven rolled away, raked a suddenly very long and half-invisible sword across their sides, and watched them fall. He raised his weapon to absorb the shock from a sickening punch to his temple and lopped off an azure arm. The End’s shriek drowned out the dying howls of his allies.

Silven granted himself a moment to ponder. “Hmm, so there are goblins after all. No dragons, though, I hope?”

The End clutched at the stump of his arm and groaned. “Not unless you faced The Very End. But you’ll never get the chance, cos here comes wave two!” He raised a triumphant fist.

The bloodstained warriors regarded each other through the motionless room. The End gritted his teeth and wrapped a piece of fur around his exposed bone. “Sorry.... takes a while to load them.... you’ll die soon enough.”

“Well, this is awkward.” Silven stepped across the room and got Grennel to his feet. “Boiled or fried tonight?” he quizzed.

Grennel spat out a tooth and gasped. “Fried, for a special treat. I say, what’s the delay?”

By the time he finished, the next goblins were upon them. By the time he turned, they were dead. By the time he pointed, Silven had vaulted a stool, flung a glowing shard to the ground, and released another arm from service.

The End staggered and fell to one knee, gushing blood.

Silven regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re not level twenty too?”

The wolf gnashed its floppy teeth. “Fifty-five, actually! Where did you... learn..... arghh!”

“Encyclopaedias, mostly,” Silven reflected. “I’ve led a strange life.” He looked around. His heart was beating a little faster, his nerves twitched a little more excitedly. The new beginning was nigh. “I take it there’s a third wave?” He reached over the bar and took another Shield Shard from a bottle of whiskey, just to be prepared.

He glanced around and flapped his thankfully secure arms. Then, he found his expertminerium earbuds and gestured at his enemy. “You don’t mind....?” Best start scanning for potential new business opportunities at the end of this chaos. Just to be prepared.

“Garggh!” The End gurgled, writhing in agony.

“Guess it’s fine then.”

The End was a terrible foe indeed. Somehow, he managed to summon the third wave at that precise moment in time when Silven had just begun to drift away from the immense weight of saving the world and settle down into some serious snakes and ladders trash talk. Silven only just had time to sigh and scowl and pluck out his earpparatus before the first little rascal drove a rusty dagger through his shoulder. Then, he realised he was in the final seconds of this bittersweet era of the realm, and his life, and everything, so he decided to at least be stylish about his slaughter. He shredded two of the goblins with a single revolution of his Vicious Ravaging Tornado Whirl and twirled his blade at the third’s eyes. It staggered back but did not go down.

He heard a squeaky voice somewhere nearby and looked round in confusion.

“I observe the Shield Shard flashing vigorously and announcing it is ready to be smashed,” declared Grennel.

Silven did the polite thing and followed the request. He turned, he leapt, hung in the air for what seemed an age, and drove the point of his blade through The End’s blue furry skull.

He felt the dark life-force of his foe drain into the air. “Aaaaaaah,” he sighed. The Procedural Age had begun.

He didn’t even mind when the little crowd of mice scurried out of the woodwork to rattle their tails in exultation. And then, as suddenly as they appeared, they shrank back and cowered by their holes.

“Watch your back!” screamed Grennel.

He’d forgotten the goblin. Its friends and master lay dead, but it lingered on, lashing out with its little dagger for all it was worth. Such courage was admirable, in a way.

Silven sliced at its throat. The onslaught continued.

“Grennel?” he shouted, taking a vicious cut across the knuckles and falling back.

“Oooh, special surprise!” replied the Professor, suddenly curious. “A blunt sensitivity, perhaps? Never heard of a goblin not vulnerable to conventional weapons.”

Silven thumped a savage blow down upon its nose with his pommel. The little green monster jibbered and jabbered and struck back.

“Grennel?” he said again.

“Poison, then? Though most greenskins are impervious to toxins.”

Silven found an old foul-smelling flask in a pocket and applied the steaming liquid to his blade. The slice he dealt left a blackened sear upon the crude leather jerkin, and that was it. Grennel began to back away. So did Silven. The goblin broke into a scamper. Silven tripped it, drove his blade in vain against its heart, and opened the door. “What challenge be this?” he puffed. “A puzzle, maybe? Something to do with the number three?”

The goblin raced onwards. It paused to slice a passing bird in two and waddled down the path.

Grennel’s face dropped. “It’s not aggroed. What sort of a tank are you?”

“I’m trying!” said Silven, not knowing or caring what sort of tank, if any, he was. “I need more time.”

Grennel stepped up to unleash a flurry of wild fists while he found his block of polarised earth. If the fall didn’t kill it, he could contain the foul little thing for just a breather, whilst he got his head together. He wasn’t expecting this level of effort already.

In a moment, he had had gouged a deep pit between his companion and the four-foot attacker. They backed off. He focused and spirited away the little square of earth beneath its rear claws, and it disappeared silently into the void.

There was, at last, a moment’s peace. Then the scrabble of little feet. Then, two little green arms hoisted a little green body from the precipice. The goblin regarded its foes with beady eyes and dashed off down the path towards Thornyhedge.

Silven watched it go. His stomach felt lower than the abyss before him.

He couldn’t look at Grennel. “Come,” he said.