At least I’d mastered the art of the vertical take-off. Though I suspect that had more to do with the upgrade to my Wings skill than any innate prowess. I was simply not the appropriate configuration to make the ability feasible. In reality, I would need wings the size of a jumbo jet and the shoulder blades of a contortionist.
It did feel good, though. My old bumblebee wings had required less effort and offered more manoeuvrability, but feathers gave me speed, height, and stability in flight. Like the difference between a tricycle and a two-wheeler. An upgrade that required practice to master, but one that was not without its perks.
No more being at the mercy of every little wind gust supplied by some annoying butterfly halfway across the world; no more hovering, limping, faltering progress that made every predator in the area hone in on my location thinking ‘wounded duck’.
Speeding through the air made me feel powerful, swift as an arrow, daring as a spitfire pilot. I could even fly into that dark, stormy-looking cl—
STOP!
My wings froze, muscles that had been relaxed into a solid thermal seizing and changing my trajectory from forwards to downwards in one, gut-wrenching moment. It took concerted effort to correct my fall.
Whuh? The fuck was that?
“Bert?”
No answer. But who else would take liberties with the insides of my brain pan?
“Bert, you better—“
STOP!
This time I was better prepared. The panicked shriek made me wobble a little but I held my course. “Bert, I don’t know how the hell you’re doing that from a distance, but—“
I trailed off as the dark cloud in front of me transformed into a blot on the universe, a black wormhole of emptiness that showed no sign of having an ending.
For the first time since I levelled up I wished I could strap on the bumblebee. Feathers gave great forward momentum but they lacked a certain braking power. Consequently, my fair-weather pal Impetus sent me toward the ‘cloud’ regardless of my desire for avoidance.
The only hope I had was to alter the angle of propulsion, and the natural instinct of any land-bound creature is to go down. It was also the fastest. Gravity is helpful that way.
Collapsing my wings into a resting position, I plummeted feet first for a few stomach-ascending seconds, before suddenly flaring out my wings like a parachutist pulling their ripcord. Ow. The abrupt capture of air in my wings hurt. I spun for a few dizzying seconds before regaining equilibrium and stability, giving me the opportunity to look for the cause of all this bother and, perhaps more importantly, where the hell I was in relation to it.
It now hovered ominously above and to my left, a blob of vacancy that looked alien compared to the sky around it. Like a spaceship in a medieval world.
“What the hell is that, Bert?” I asked, but I had no real expectation of an answer. Was it some new kind of portal? If it was, it was no kind that I’d ever seen or heard about. And I hadn’t time to put the scientific method to use again. In fact…
Four minutes and thirty-two seconds remaining.
I had to get a move on before the palliative stopped working and everything—including my life—became academic.
Keeping my eye on the anomaly, I dipped around it, the manoeuvre becoming easier as I noticed that it was decreasing in size even as I watched. Only a slight blur remained as I passed it.
Right. Now. Let’s pull out all the stops.
Flapping hard, I regained the height I had lost, and by lucky chance found a powerful wind gust that propelled me at a speed I hadn’t previously achieved. Like, ever. Adrenaline shot through my system, making my heart pound with excitement; I had no doubt that the monitor in my stasis suit was sending out signals that would have made an ICU nurse rush to my side.
It didn’t affect my alertness, however. I wouldn’t be ambushed by stray bits of nothingness again. In fact—
Eagle-Eye ability awarded! You can now see things from very far away!
I allowed myself a small smile. (Large grins are unadvisable in an environment where bug-strike is an ever-present reality.) My sight felt renewed; like that moment at an optometrist when a lens comes down that precisely fits your vision.
(Of course, I hadn’t experienced that feeling since I’d had government funded eye surgery at seventeen. Standard treatment in my era, though now lasik was considered barbaric. Ten years ago an eye drop solution that performed the same function had been developed, and was now given to babies with their first inoculations.)
The only difference was, if I squinted a little bit I could zoom in on things that should have required binoculars. In fact, I could now see my destination waving his arms like an old-school air traffic controller.
Two minutes.
I tipped my wings slightly, angling them into a position that would take me into his runway, and arrested my speed somewhat. No sense in killing my saviour before he’d finished the job. Even if his methods were a bit too hands-on for my liking.
It was looking good for a perfect landing when I felt the tingling that presaged winglessness. My legs churned uselessly in a comical homage to Tom & Jerry, and I was helpless to stop myself from being clothes-hangered by a tree branch that came out of nowhere. This altered my trajectory so that I landed in a bush, rather than the outstretched arms of my rescuer.
Even he looked pained when I peeled myself out of the thorns, scattering hit point messages as I stood.
“I see that a very powerful dukun has cast a blessing on you. Or is it a curse? Most impressive. Up until the end. And somewhere around the middle.”
“I—“
“Come. Have you brought the ingredients?” He stilled for a second. “I can see you have! Impressive indeed.”
I approached the shaman, noting belatedly that the top of his head barely reached the level of my bellybutton. Made sense. World War I soldiers were lucky to reach five feet and that was hundreds of years after this guy was meant to have been born.
“Can you make the cure?” The count down was still doing its thing (one minute), indicating that I needed to find the correct dialogue to unlock his activation sequence.
“Me? Nooo.” He shook his head and snorted, as if I was being foolish for even suggesting such a thing.
“But you told me—“
“Madam, I am the chief of my tribe and entitled to some respect. Do you not notice my headdress? Please address me as such.”
Ookaay. Chief Whatever clearly had a few too many bananas in his diet. Though now that he’d brought it to my attention, the hat did look a little different. Less beads, more fluffy tussock. Maybe he had an identical twin that had followed the medical career path?
“So, can I speak to the, ah, dukun? Is he about?”
“Certainly.” The chief grinned, revealing a gap that would have made my brother rub his hands together in mercenary glee. Then he reached behind a tree and brought out the shaman’s hat and exchanged it for the tussock.
I stared in fascinated disbelief. If I’d been playing the game with a friend my finger would have been twirling around my ear right about this point.
“Now, let’s get started. My chief tells me you have all the ingredients I requested, and I can see that he was correct. Quickly. Come.” He urged me behind a tree where a cauldron was bubbling over a small fire. A tag hovered above it, letting me know that yes, this was the correct place to put everything, and no, not the bipolar man’s breakfast. Although the pink froth kind of gave that away.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Fifteen seconds.
I hurriedly got down to the business of dispensing bits and pieces out of my inventory, a golden puff heralding each correct entry. When I had no more to put in and the pink had turned entirely yellow, the tagline changed. Elixir of Life it read, somewhat unimaginatively.
The timer ran out just as I was reaching down to scoop some of the cure into my cup, and the abrupt return of venom disorientation rather fortuitously resulted in me stumbling towards the cauldron, rather than away from it. Face-down in fact. Obelix-style. What that comic strip failed to elucidate was how he avoided third-degree hand and facial burns whilst slurping down his magic potion.
Congratulations! Elixir of Life defeats Kalorno venom!
A World First! All Hail closedwhisper!
Reward: You live to live another day!
Reward: 2000 XP!
Reward: 500 gold pieces #Error 657/[bacon]!
Reward: Dukun First Aid Kit!
Congratulations! Level Up!
You are now a Level 22 Lone Disranger Bard!
1 Attribute pt awarded!
Active Skill: Illusory Storyteller awarded!
What the cure and healing powers of a level up didn’t clear, the sudden pain of temperatures over 100°C certainly took care of. I flung myself away from the source of the pain and stumbled back into the dukun, who provided a mattress that contained more bones than I would have liked.
“Oooooowwww!” It burns, it burns! I wanted to hold my hands to my face to soothe away the pain, but I realised the impossibility before I even made contact. It would only damage me further.
My ‘mattress’ rolled out from beneath me and returned seconds later to get all handsy again. I slapped him away and growled like a dog caught in a trap.
“Now, stop that,” he admonished, seizing a wrist and dabbing at the palm he’d upended with a greasy stalk. “This is aloe. It will soothe the burns.”
Aloe. At least that one I knew. I let down my guard and let him care for me like a mother with a messy munchkin. Thankfully, my health stats began to gradually recover under his ministrations; they had taken a dive along with my physical plunge when I’d gone bobbing for apples in the cauldron. The burns were still sore, but more sunburn sore than roasted-like-a-marshmallow sore.
I was nevertheless still not at my best, so of course it was at this point that Kalanoro decided to make an appearance. Like a evil gremlin popping his head out of an aircraft hanger.
“You!” I said, instantly enraged. Forgetting all about my injuries and general reluctance to grapple with him, I surged to my feet and dived into the underbrush from which he’d…vanished.
To my frustrated disappointment, the Kalanoro had indeed disappeared as abruptly as he’d appeared. Which lost me my advantage. Brute force was about the only way I was going to defeat the cunning little pipsqueak. If I could just get my hands on—
A heavy mass landed on my shoulders, causing my elbows, which were propping up my torso, to collapse. Only the hand squished between the ground and my chest kept my face from a similar fate.
Ooph.
This left only one hand to fend off the clinging lemur, who’d grabbed my hair with the determination of a fellow-female in full cat-fight mode. Rolling over I managed to free the other and, by a combination of clawing and bitch-slapping, I prised the lemur from my crowning glory. It may have been a rather short-sighted newb decision made in my avatar creator, but that didn’t mean I wanted to lose it by way of being torn out by the roots.
“Gerroff,” I demanded articulately, and threw off my follically-inclined attacker. It helped that he was on the smallish side of the lemur size scale. One of the brown ones that seemed to be so numerous earlier.
I managed to stand before three more swung from nearby trees and tried to knock me over. I wobbled slightly, but remained upright. I was no tiny waif to fall at the slightest nudge.
“Back! Back!” Chief—my eyes shot to his head (how had he taken the time to retrieve his hat?)—yes, Chief—Whatever was waving frantically in my direction. And, considering the swarm of primates converging on the spot at which I was standing, he seemed to be giving very wise advice.
I hoofed it back to him, hoping he had some spell that would allow us to slip away. But the old man had another plan programmed into his little manmade core. Taking out a long and elaborately decorated staff that at any other moment would have made me want to examine it (and maybe secure it for my own personal use), he twirled it around stylishly and crouched slightly, knees bent and springy. When the twirling finally stopped he was positioned in an unmistakable attitude of defence.
No, no, no. Unless this guy was the fighting equivalent of Yoda we didn’t have a chance in hell against Kalanoro and his gang of toughs. I’d seen Planet of the Apes. I knew how this sort of shit turned out for the humans.
“Let’s go,” I told the man. “Maybe there’s a back way.” But he had the fixed stare of an NPC who was waiting for his cue. He would go into battle whether I was there or not.
I supposed that he would at least provide one ally. And with the sheer numbers surrounding us I doubted the fleeing option would be successful anyway.
Despite my reluctance, we would have to make a stand.
Pursing my lips, I whistle-summoned Gunga, who plunged out of the sky with both legs under her braced for impact. Only the movement of her tiny vestigial wings betrayed her lack of confidence in this mode of travel.
By lucky chance—or sheer statistical probability—she took out several branchfuls of primates on her way down, causing mayhem in their ranks. Even one of the giant lemurs hesitated in its downward climb when the gravitational impact of a three-quarter ton bird finally shook the forest floor. Trees swayed, and several of the smaller lemurs decided enough was enough and made tracks for home. My little Gunga-Din had become a bruiser worthy of her name.
Unfortunately, the remaining primates were not so easily intimidated. Baring canine teeth that gleamed artistically in the light (have to give the designers props—it couldn’t have been easy to make a lemur look scary), they swung, bounded, and leapt their way toward us. A zoologist’s wet dream.
The lyre found its way into my hands without my having to even think about it, and I took a deep breath.
“La-la-laaaaa…” Gunga hoom-rattle-boomed in accompaniment, providing both percussion and bass in her own inimitable way.
Banshee Shriek was my best option. A mass attack for, well, a mass attack. The front line of the primate army fell apart, reeling from the abuse to their senses as I held the note. Others within range fell from the trees, unconscious. My last level up had clearly had an impact on the power of my performance—cough—despite the song being cut short by the inhalation of a tiny fly. Chief Yoda only had to tap a few heads to discourage further heroics.
There were plenty more left, however, albeit not on the frontline. Those on the fringes had avoided the main force of the Skill by the simple expedient of cupping their paws over their ears in a ridiculous parody of a ‘hear no evil’ monkey statue.
Gunga stalked forward, in a clear mood to pick these wilier individuals off, but I called her back. I didn’t want her cut off from our support. Even a tank needs a team.
Although…. An idea came to mind, though I didn’t have much time to set it in motion.
Dumping the contents of my holding bag onto the ground like a woman clearing out the contents of her handbag, I fossicked through the stash, looking for a tiny—
Gunga’s head swung down and eagerly snatched up a preserved snake that had a coloured flower stuck to its head, Hawaiian-style.
Bingo! Like a pill disguised in a piece of meat, the fuchsia travelled down her neck and into her stomach, where it hit with all the force of a nuclear bomb.
Gunga’s eyes opened wide in a look of startlement that wouldn’t have been out of place on a politician goosed by a constituent at a pep rally. And…off she went. A tree that had the misfortune to be in her way slammed into the ground, and fifty-odd very upset lemurs that I hadn’t noticed in the canopy leaped from the foliage, akking their displeasure and scooting off in all directions.
Boom! creeack! Another tree fell, this time in our direction, and I had to shove the oblivious NPC out of the way before he became collateral damage. He popped back up instantly and reset himself into his previous position—within the branches of the fallen tree. The game allowed it, but couldn’t adapt to the coding conflict. As a consequence, the NPC didn’t stand on top of the tree, he stood through it, his body behaving as if the tree simply wasn’t there. Only his head could be seen above the branches.
Useless. Unless the lemurs burrowed underneath like homicidal beavers, Yoda was officially out of the battle.
Three more trees went down under Gunga’s hyped-up influence, creating a clearing that was only a clearing for the sun and assorted baobabs. The strewn branches made retaining my footing dodgy at best, and cut off any easy access to Gunga, who by the sounds of it was making inroads into a neighbouring part of the forest.
I tried whistling her back, but I doubt she heard me. I knew from my own experience just how all-consuming the flower’s effects were. She would run until either she dropped or Bert finally showed up to take care of business.
I was on my own. A situation that I liked not at all. I would have joined Yoda in his little nest of branches if I hadn’t known that that would make me a sitting duck. Lemurs were hardly going to find the prospect of making their way through twigs and branches daunting.
I fiddled a bit with my lyre, but knew I couldn’t waste another song on the few lemurs remaining in the area, so decided to bring out Mr. Stick instead. Any disappointment that I may have felt when I received it had long since been buried under gratitude that I had it. The game truly knew what a woman needed—and it wasn’t diamonds.
Although if I embedded a whole bunch of large ones all around the top I could make a very nice mace, I pondered covetously as I made my way towards the sound of Gunga bouncing off trees. I would have to keep an eye out for sparkly gems.
A black and white striped lemur with the cutest little tufted ears sprang up onto the flattened tree trunk I was straddling, and I used it to balance myself as I prodded him forcefully in the chest with the blunt head of my stick. It was too light to do any real damage (definitely need those diamonds), but the lemur got the message and retreated into the dubious protection of another downed tree.
They certainly no longer seemed to have their heart set on ripping me to pieces. The sooty tern had been more aggressive. In fact, I was quite sure that if a tern colony of comparative numbers had attacked me there would have been nothing left but a few bits of cloth—which would then be used to build their nests. Birds don’t let anything go to waste.
So something was forcing them to gather and attack. Or someone. And I didn’t need to think very hard to know just who the culprit could be.
Kal, you little prick. Where are you hiding?