The Prince awaited him. The high-elf hadn’t moved from the spot he’d stood at. He hadn’t even turned. Yagget released Rhode’s arm, and his face betrayed the limit of his sympathy. You are on your own, now, Rhode thought he understood.
The first (or perhaps the prototype) Hero of Sacred approached the son of monarchs, a terrible power unto himself, and likely one of the architects or masterminds of his own resurrection.
“He who [Serve]s, may stop. That is an appropriate distance. He who [Serve]s may kneel. That is right.”
It was possible for Rhode to resist. It was possible for him to fight. He glanced back, and Yagget was behind him. The old man was on the ground, prostrate in a full kow-tow. “I have grandchildren,” he said. So Rhode knelt.
“Goodman Irving, you are displaying physiological signals of distress. You are overwhelmed.”
“Uh, no, I’m okay. Your Grace.”
“You are distraught, and it threatens to make you irrational.”
“No! I’m fine. I’m just… I’m just surprised, Your Grace. This wasn’t what I expected.”
The Prince had moved. He was standing over Rhode and looking down at him. “You harbor reservations. Tell Us, if you believed you would survive it, would you try to strike Us now?”
“N-n-no. Your Grace,” Rhode stammered. Why wouldn’t this guy let up? Rhode squeezed his eyes shut. He realized his fist was clenched, and released it. “This isn’t my world. I don’t know your country. It isn’t my place to say who should or should not rule.”
It was as close to the truth as Rhode could make into a sentence under duress. It was frankly too much to say, even as it was. The earth-man looked down at his feet, and saw that the edges of his shadow were unusually sharp.
“How consistently evasive,” the Vodyonoi stated in exactly the same tone, tempo, and volume as everything else. Was he angry? Pleased? About to call up an execution? Preparing to order an aperitif?
Sweat beaded at Rhode’s hairline, and at his armpits. He tried to change the subject. “Is the new Hero going to be okay? He sounds like he’s in pain, Your Grace.”
The Prince’s head turned. A ■□■□■ □■□ fell under his gaze.
“Your Grace!,” ▯■□■□■ complied. They bowed, and held it low while they spoke. “The patient’s adaptation proceeds according to expectation. We are confident we will be able to reduce the severity of the soul rejection reaction this time.”
Eyes.
Rhode’s mind spun. Something was… distracting and fuzzy about his thoughts. “I don’t remember this happening to me.”
The Hero whimpered. No, the other Hero. Wait, no. To be clear, the brave Hero whimpered. No, okay, that could still be confusing. The [Brave] Hero w- the guy on the floor was in bad shape. His body was wrapped completely in bandages, except for his nostrils and his gaping mouth. He looked exactly like a mummy, except for the low moan and intermittent choking screams.
Rhode pointed. “Can’t we help him?”
“Consultant Apriml. Subject Yagget. In light of your resounding success, you will prepare for the next [Hero Summon] within five days. Anticipate an acceleration in pace from there.”
Goodman Apriml teetered on his feet. “Your Grace, the burden of performing the summoning may-”
“The budget for your operations is tripled,” the Prince interrupted.
The Translocationist was on the floor, prostrate in an instant. “At once, Your Grace!” he cried. His protective suit slowly deflated around him like a sad balloon.
Rhode stood up. His foot slid an inch towards the (other) homunculus. “Is there something I could do to help? I could carry him. Where does he need to go?”
▯■□■□ rushed forwards, leaving the others behind. ▯■ put □■□ hands out in front of Rhode, even though □■ had as much chance of stopping a boulder. “Rhode, please. We have this. Trust us, big guy.”
The acolyte was so much smaller than Rhode. Probably. Certainly. “Man, why can’t remember your name,” Rhode murmured apologetically.
“Don’t worry about it, big guy. I’m going to get the cart though, alright? Just stay here. You don’t need to do anything. I promise.”
Rhode felt like he was reeling. Something wasn’t right. He looked at the still, glassy-eyed goat corpse. Besides that. He looked at the giant-sized mummy, begging in Spanish. Besides that too. He looked at the… nuclear core?
Rhode sat down and the floor shook underneath him. [Bellows] worked to calm his body, and by extension his mind. [Hibernate] beckoned him with an escape, and he held it back.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
When the double-doors he’d come from reopened, they admitted a person who would have been remarkable only a quarter-hour ago. He was venerable in beard and bearing; noble in personage and attire. The saber at his belt so thick with sorcery that it could be smelled at a distance. The man bore the colors of his knightly order, and the sash of a grand-master of the sword. He was an elf of true blood.
But then again, he was just an elf.
“Ser Reliance. You will oversee the indoctrination Program for the Hero series.”
The aged elven knight bowed. “Apologies, Your Grace. I believe you mean the education Program?”
“No. The north-west wing is to be made ready for this purpose. In addition, the summon team is to be supplied with the necessary resources to achieve Our advanced timetable. Lastly, the Hero Irving is to retain his planning team, for now. However, they will answer to you.”
“Your Grace,” the man graveled.
“It is Our determination that the Goodman Irving demonstrates unusual rates of empathy for the common. Undue exposure to figures of authority will undermine his commitment. Therefore, his relationship with the lowest of our servants is to be encouraged until such time that his co-dependence may be exploited towards loyalty.”
“Wait, what?” Rhode perked up.
“As You will it,” the knight intoned.
“Goodman Irving,” The Prince addressed Rhode directly without warning, “it has been too long since you have leveled. You disgrace the sword with your touch, so it falls on you to choose another path.”
“I… what?”
“Goodman Irving,” interjected the lanky, bearded knight, “it is said that the Heroes often took strange roads to their power. Your instincts may guide you to what you are meant to become. Speak what gift you believe will most help you grow, and we shall provide it.”
“Sorry, no I get that,” Rhode snapped. ”I was just saying, to be fair, that was the first time I’ve ever used a sword in my life. Just for the record.“
The knight stroked his beard. “Shall I teach you the blade, then? The Style of my Sword School is that of pure, obliterating destruction.”
Awesome, Rhode thought. “No,” he replied (eventually). He winced. “With respect. I need time to think about things. Ser. Your Grace. Can I talk with my team tonight and just –”
Ser Reliance skipped a beat. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you have a talent from your old world, your own life, which you might find expression for here? Even something unexpected. With levels, the smallest of your passions could become an unshakable pillar of strength. I have trained many great knights in my years, and known the secrets of many fearsome levels. Surely, you have a thought?”
Knowledge from Earth? No. That was the last thing Rhode wanted to talk about. It was the last thing he wanted to give these people.
“Now? Right Now? I-I don’t know. I’ll think of something good. But my [Hibernate] is acting up, and –“
Rhode’s shadow crawled underneath him. He felt the gentle touch of razors along his calves and ankles. “Goodman Irving. We had hoped you were beyond this,” Llanthinanumen loomed, “you withhold from us. You have pride in your people, but You underestimate Ours. You think of your achievements, and you believe that We might covet them.”
“We’ve done some pretty cool stuff,” Rhode’s mouth protested, before he could stop himself. “What I mean is –“
“Tell us then, what is the secret to your computers? Your crystal-metal of thinking gates, your window of phosphor illusions. What is the precise means of their manufacture? Be specific, man of Urth.”
Rhode gaped.
“Ah, We see this is beyond you. Perhaps you know the secrets of your thunder powder rods. Shall We pair you with an alchemist? You would of course, need to know the exact recipe to be of any use.”
Did he mean guns? What was black-powder made from again? Something to do with sulfur and saltpeter? But wait, what was saltpeter again? “Um. Well,” Rhode fumbled.
He looked around him, but Yagget was gone. Apriml was too. The [Brave] Hero was already laid on top of a mechanized, spindle-spoke bronze-wheeled cart, and a soldier from outside was helping the Hornupants push it.
“So strange. You spoke so confidently of the merits of these devices. You implied that your nations depended on them implicitly. But you have not a whit of how they actually work.”
Ouch.
“So. Goodman Irving. We shall make a bargain with you now. We have metal-workers of such skill that would beggar what you can imagine. Take one. Build us one of your ‘planes on air’. Teach our servants the secret shape of wing which knows to ride the wind. Realize this thing you call turbine, which can bear whole armies through the sky at once. Do this, reveal this secret alone, and We shall release you. Do this and you shall be free forevermore.”
Perhaps the earth-man might have answered, right then and there. If only he could have. If only. He clawed at his collar, desperate to loosen it. “How do you know about all this stuff?” Rhode croaked.
“Because you have told Us.”
He had?