Chapter 8: Imps of the Perverse
We stood between the roots just outside of Stormhaven. The sun had passed midday, heating the afternoon mildly but promising more to come.
“You are comfortable with the interface?” Grand Elf asked, tapping fingertips together as if ticking off a list.
“Yeah, I guess. I see a little blue light, right in the corner of my right eye, and then I tap my temple. It opens right up.” Feeling pretty good about being adept at least one thing, I showed him.
“You do not need to do that, touch your face thing. Use your mind. Focus on the blue dot twice to activate it. You will need your hands free for other things.”
So much for adept. “Speaking of hands, I don’t have a staff or a weapon of any kind yet. I’ve got a few spells though. Should I be totally focused on building up my magic skills?”
His eyebrows shot up. “I nearly forgot,” he said before ducking under the door and rummaging around half unseen on the landing. When he returned he held a staff I had not yet seen. It was six feet long, carved from some very smooth gray wood, and its head was an intricately carved pouncing wolf.
A thrill shot up my spine as I imagined wielding The Wolf Staff and blasting foes with ferocious arcane energy. That feeling fizzled a little when Grand Elf did not hand me the staff.
“As a magic user,” he said, “you will want to gain as many spells as you can and level them as highly as you can. However, you cannot be completely one-dimensional. Your mana or magic points will run low, so you must also be competent with more conventional weapons. I suggest a blade or a bludgeon. As for myself, I like to keep a variety of daggers.”
With one hand and a flurry of silver, black, and gray, he opened folds in his robe, revealing a sheathed network of at least five daggers, most of them slightly luminous.
“Magic,” he said, “is incredibly powerful and can be used at range. However, you must always be ready for close combat.” His hand blurred, drawing a wickedly curved dagger with a ten-inch, partially serrated blade.
“Yikes, that’s a formidable,” I said. “It’s almost a short sword. Can I hold it?”
“No.” His reply was curt, and he sheathed the dagger before I could even consider arguing.
I shrugged. I was holding out hope for the Wolf Staff anyway.
“As you have already discovered,” he said, “you can wield magic barehanded. With your will, your mind, and a thrust of your arm, you can and will manage a dazzling array of spells. However, your most potent sorcery requires a focusing tool, a focus. This would be all manner of objects that can channel magical power, a scepter, a key, or a wand.” He laughed. “Ha, I once knew an alchemical wizard fellow who used a stoneware mug as a focus.”
“But you use a staff,” I said, staring at the Wolf Staff hopefully.
“I do,” Grand Elf said. “Whether you will or will not depends on any number of variables, but… since we must start you with something…”
Yes, yes, yes! I thought. He’s going to give me the staff.
Grand Elf turned, strode around the great roots, and approached the base of the massive tree. There he turned his back to me and instantly became engaged in a conversation that I couldn’t really make much of. I recalled Grand Elf had said he had asked the tree’s permission to build the refuge within.
“Oh, come now, Inglorian!” Grand Elf groused, glaring up into the boughs and limbs. “You can spare it!”
He put his hands on his hips for a few moments. Finally, he growled something incomprehensible and whacked the base of the tree with the Wolf Staff. The wood-on-wood contact caused a blue-green spark. The whole tree shuddered. To my astonishment, Grand Elf held out his left hand just in time for a wildly twisted branch to land in it.
Casting one last glare of reproach back at the tree, Grand Elf strode back to me and handed me the branch. The moment of contact, I felt a tremor run through me like the first chill breeze that breaks the summer heat as a storm arrives. As long as a baseball bat, the gnarled and knobby branch possessed the same gradient as the tree, warm browns, reds, purples. The base of it, about as thick as a roll of quarters, fit the palm of my hand as if tailored by a master. Split into three tapering, twisting stems that bent and curved, the branch had a mischievous quality that made you want to explore its contours to find out what it was up to.
The blue status light blinked. I started to reach for my temple but remembered in time to activate it mentally. My inventory’s equipment tab glistened and revealed a new item:
“Wow,” I said. “This seems like a strong weapon.”
“It is quite likely the best starting scepter you could possibly have,” Grand Elf said, still throwing side-eye at the tree. “It will level up with you, so no matter what other weapons you acquire, you can always keep this one as an option.”
“I have to admit, I was hoping you’d give me a staff, but this, well, it not only looks kind of menacing but it feels potent too. But, ah, how do I use it?”
Grand Elf smiled. “First, memorize your spells. In a fight, you will not have time to mess with your mental menus. Otherwise, you simply point the scepter and mentally tap the spell. Your energies will pour into the Inglorious wood and be released with utmost potency. If you ever launch a spell but it seems to fizzle, first check your mana level. You may need to wait for it to recharge. If, however, your mana is fine, but the magic spell doesn’t release, give the scepter a muscular fling.”
“A fling?”
“Take a backswing and thrust your arm forward.”
“Yeah, I like thrust better.”
“One more thing: make sure you keep the scepter equipped, but you need not carry it in your hand at all times.”
“I could attach it to my belt.”
“Yes, you certainly can do that, but you can also keep the weapon, and all weapons, in your inventory. Focus on the scepter and think the word store.”
I did as he asked. I heard an ambient metallic click, and the scepter vanished from my hand. “When I want it again?”
“Simply hold out your hand and think the weapon’s name.”
Click. Inglorian’s Scepter was back in my hand. “That’s easy.”
“Yes, quite,” Grand Elf replied blithely. With a nod, he indicated that I should follow him as he strode across the clearing to a near perfect archway formed from two of the larges trees and their boughs. “This is the Northern Path. Your path.”
I gazed searchingly through the archway to a well-trodden trail that curled away into the forest. The gravity of my situation weighed heavily on me. Earth, the world, was gone. Somehow, I still lived. Talk about survivor’s guilt. What business did I have living when billions perished?
The next couple of questions came like train cars being dragged by an engine, and I muttered them loud enough for Grand Elf to hear. “So what if I live or die in this living fantasy? What’s the point of running me through all this?”
Grand Elf reddened and his eyes blazed. “So what if you live or die?” he echoed. “Of all the many souls in your world, you survive and yet need a reason to keep on living? I told you before this is no game. I do not know precisely what the powers behind Illdari are planning, but I do know they deal only in eternal consequences. Whatever may be at stake here, it will be much more significant than simple life and death.”
My first instinct was to feel upbraided, like I’d been caught doing something I knew better than to do. Other words, however, flushed that emotion out of the way. A surge of angry pride came rushing into my heart and mind. Arbitrary? Check. Unfair? Yup.
“Is it okay if I call you Sagisterrius instead of Grand Elf?” I asked, fully aware of how indignant I sounded. “Or how about Saggy? Just plain Sage? It’s just that Grand Elf—Gandalf, and both wizards. Anyone?”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Grand Elf turned a stormy eye on me and sighed. “You are fortunate I don’t demand you call me High Minister Sagisterrius, Guide of Fools Doomed to Die.”
Okay, that wasn’t funny.
Except it was a little funny. It was probably highly accurate and somewhat prophetic. Rick Tagler, Professor of Astronomy, Magic-Using Noob, Lost in Illdari. 100% Fool Doomed to Die.
With an exasperated sigh, I turned away from Grand Elf and entered the woods and didn’t look back.
I walked at a snail’s pace, but after an hour, I increased my pace. The heat had become much more uncomfortable, and I contemplated taking a sip of Arbuvoir, but opted for a flask of water instead. Grand Elf had loaded up my inventory with food and water, among other things.
The path split once or twice, but I hardly noticed. A trickling stream cozied up beside the path here and there, and I found myself ruminating on my situation. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that it occurred to me I hadn’t thanked Grand Elf for all of his help. He had rescued me, healed my wounds—healed my cancer—and gave me everything I needed to get started. And I had not even said thank you. Not once.
[Insert Hiatus Marks]
After several battles with Root Runts, I was a few health and mana potions, a dozen pieces of silver, and a pile of junk items richer. I’d also gained a new low level lightning type air spell called Spark. It didn’t do a lot of damage, but it had no cooldown, so I could fire as long as my mana would allow.
I was also exhausted. Health potions healed my wounds: cuts, gashes, and broken bones, but didn’t seem to do much to combat longterm fatigue. Grand Elf had said I’d find Refuge Waypoints throughout each of the seven realms, but I’d yet to find anything but more forest and a few beasties.
The sun, when I could see it through the trees, looked hazy, the sky blank and white. The heat had not abated. In fact, there was a stifling stillness in the woods. It reminded me of those sweltering summer days during my undergrad work at University of Florida in Gainesville. Days when humidity reached tropical levels and just about everything stopped moving—those days often produced thunderstorms that could rattle your teeth. Who knew what the climate in Illdari could unleash?
I found an inviting fallen tree and thought a rest might do me some good. I took a seat, pulled up my interface, and took out a flask of water. Sipping slowly, I explored my menus. Inventory, Spells, Abilities, Crafting, Maps, Experience, and Settings were the main submenus. I clicked on maps but, as I figured, there weren’t any map scrolls in there yet. Hopefully, I’d find one in a loot bag or maybe as a reward.
A faint chittering sound from somewhere behind me made me close my interface for a moment to look around. I saw nothing and went back to exploring the menus. I clicked Experience. Immediately, I saw a blue-green status bar that was nearly full. To the right of it, digital numbers showed 1022 / 1100. Not far from Level 2, so that was good new—
The chittering came again, closer too, and followed by a branch snapping and a frantic pattering upon the dead leaves of the forest floor. I stood, called up Inglorian’s Scepter, and prepared an Air Spell called “Spark.” It was my best offensive spell in terms of using up very little mana. I could probably cast it over and over again and barely dip my mana to halfway.
Movement took my focus to a stand of trees a little uphill from my position. A vaguely humanoid, antlered thing stood among the trees and stared back at me with cloudy gray eyes. A tiny red light appeared where the blue one usually popped. I clicked it, and the voice with the smooth cajun drawl said, {Level 2 Forest Imp. Hostile.} This looked like a smaller version of the creature Grand Elf had vaporized back at Stormhaven.
The imp lowered to a crouch and made that chittering sound. I wasn’t going to wait for it to attack. I snapped off two Spark blasts, each a very satisfying blue-white ball of crackling light that left scorch marks where the creature had been.
The imp had moved fast and was bounding up the hill. Keeping the scepter in front, I clomped after it. The imp was a spindly thing, running on four legs that looked a cross between deer and spider limbs. I was gaining on it, picking up ground each time the thing turned its head back to see where I was. Still, it darted between trees, limiting my field of fire. I didn’t want to accidentally burn down a tree. Trees in most of the fantasy games I’d played get angry if you take out one of their own.
I pumped my arms and picked up my pace. The imp took one last look at me and bounded over the crest of the hill. I lunged after it, loading the scepter with Force Retribution. I stumbled over the crest because the terrain went sharply downhill from there. The moment I straightened up, I saw a whole pack of Forest Imps waiting for me.
Clever little maggots. Some had truncheon or mace weapons clutched in their odd three-fingered hands. But the imp standing furthest away was a more immediate concern. It had clapped its hands together, creating a sphere of flickering green light that flew at me in a blink.
It hit me center mass, feeling like a Mike Tyson haymaker, and knocked me backward off of my feet. I smelled sulphur, and it felt like fire ants were nesting in my chest hair. I shook my head, rolled over, and clambered to my feet just in time to take an arrow in my left shoulder.
“Son of a b—!” I caught myself but just barely. Then, I flung out my arm, snapping my wrist and the scepter to release Force Retribution.
A wave of rippling vapors careened into the imps, sending several airborne and leaving a couple of them quivering on the ground. The magic user and the now visible archer were at range and still very much on their feet. I didn’t like my odds of not getting hit again, so I slammed a health potion and readied Reflex Lightning.
An arrow whizzed past my ear. I dove, rolled, and came up with my back against a tree trunk—not quite good enough to avoid the magic imp’s attack. A fiery-red snake of energy wound itself around my left knee. I winced, the knee buckled, and I heard a sharp electrical buzz.
With a panicky yelp, I watched in horror as the energy snake continued to burn into my knee. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d lose the leg. Problem was, I didn’t have the first clue how to stop this imp’s magic attack from doing its nasty work.
I grabbed a flask of water out of my inventory and splashed it on the knee, creating a little hissing smoke storm. The screaming hot red had dimmed to a smoldering orange, but it still burned. I tried to take another health potion, but it didn’t work. I tried again, and that’s when I saw the little white numbers ticking down.
“Health potions have a cooldown?” I groused. “That would have been nice to know, Grand Elf, ole buddy!”
I grabbed another flask of water and doused the knee again. That felt better. One more ought to do it, I thought, craning my head around the opposite side of the trunk to see what my opponents were doing.
The imps laid out on the ground were no longer quivering. The magic user’s headless and still smoking body rested in a heap at the base of a tree. The archer? I caught just a glimpse of that one hightailing it through the shrubby undergrowth.
The arrow sticking out of my shoulder sang its own unique song of pain, and I screamed, “Oh, no you don’t! You aren’t getting away!”
I hit the knee with more water, and tried the heal potion again. This time, it worked. The wound on my knee healed, and my shoulder spat out the imp arrow. I leaped up onto my feet and, reveling in the new potion-provided-health, tore after the offending imp.
The archer moved preternaturally fast, but even as my strides hummed beneath me like pistons, I gained ground. I was uncommonly surefooted in the woods, as well. With instinctive effort, I leaped fallen branches, skipped off protruding roots and rocks, and banked off the sides of trees. It was exhilarating and got me to within twenty yards of the bounding imp.
The sunlight, which had seemed to be fading in the late afternoon, kindled anew through the trees in the direction of the fleeing imp. I thought we might be heading toward a break in the woods or at least a clearing. Mana level was back to full, so I prepped my scepter for Spark.
The archer imp disappeared into the bright sunlight, and I feared I might be running into another ambush. I kept running but curled around to the left, hoping to espy a trap if there was one. I stopped and crouched at the tree line. It wasn’t a clearing, and it wasn’t an ambush. Just down a mossy hill, a vast gap in the wooded landscape opened up, at least 200 yards across, spanned by a rickety plank and rope bridge.
The archer imp had already run about a third of the way across, but he stopped, turned, and fired an arrow that embedded a tree four feet from my head.
The spindly little beastie did some kind of bouncy little dance and cried out, pointing at me. I couldn’t understand the language but it sounded like, “Bric-o-brac-o-brickle!”
From my vantage angle, I couldn’t see what was below the edge, but I expected nothing less than horrific thousand-foot plummet onto spears of razor sharp rock below. Still, the bloody-minded desire to wring that little critter’s neck was still there and growing stronger.
I leaped down the hill, careened around a half exposed boulder, and came to the lip of the bridge. Of course, I had to look down.
The view was like one of those Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons, just before the outfoxed Coyote held up a sign that read, “BYE!”
The cliff’s edge gave way to a dizzying distance below, where a winding river flowed. The moving water meandered around more than a dozen round islands of dark stone, one of which I was sure to hit if I fell.
I swallowed once and looked back at the bridge. The imp fled and was now about half way across. I didn’t know if any of my spells had the range to get the imp, and I was afraid to use a force spell lest I damage the bridge and have no way across. I wanted to get across. I needed to get across. The imp had to die, and he had to die at my hands.
I took a few testing steps out onto the bridge. It creaked and groaned a little, but the wooden planks felt solid under my feet, so I kept going. As in the forest, I found that I was ridiculously surefooted on the bridge. I bounded across, making up the distance with every stride. The archer imp still had a lead, but it was shrinking as fast as my determination was growing.
As I crossed the halfway point on the bridge, I slowed a little. What was up with my sudden vengeance kick? I’m not normally a hot head. And then, it hit me. That little bugger taunted me.
Not just the jabbering and pointing. The imp had cast a taunt spell on me. How? I wasn’t certain, but maybe the arrows were laced with an enchantment, something that would fuel my desire to catch it and kill it far past what normal inhibitions would tolerate. I looked up just as the imp made it to the other side.
There, it pointed at me again, did its little dance, and crooned, “Bric-o-brac-o-brickle!”
Then, the imp pulled out a hatchet.
My blood went cold. I leaped forward into a full on sprint, seeing red on a level I’d never felt before. The imp took two swings at the right handrail rope. It snapped, and the bridge tilted. I mentally hit my inventory and drank a serving of Arbuvoir. All my stats went up +5 instantly, and I felt it in my waxing speed. But I wasn’t going to make it.
The imp whacked away at the other ropes. The other handrail went, and the bridge sagged mightily. In the second I had left, I let fly with Force Retribution. The imp chopped away at the thicker rope that supported the planks. One more stroke, and the rope severed. My force spell hit the imp like an invisible train.
I fell, my last thought being, Didn’t you learn anything from Saturday morning cartoons?