1.10 Gone Questing

After a lonely night’s sleep in a grassy nest by the side of the road, Silven started to address the self-loathing that had come with the trail of death he had left in his wake. If he was indeed a bringer of bad luck, then he was still helping others by keeping himself to himself. And perhaps there were ways he could indirectly contribute positively to the world without getting caught up in ghastly personal affairs. But now, at last, his experiences had focused his mind on the singular goal of finding out what the goobleroot was going on.

It was in this mindset that Silven found himself staring down at a skeleton by the edge of the trail as he prepared to ford a shallow river. The skeleton was clutching a little wooden box. The box was inscribed with strange symbols and incomprehensible runes. But at least there was a common-tongue note pinned to its lid to help a wandering warrior out. Silven approached and examined the skeleton. “Been there a long time, pal?” he muttered. “At least it wasn’t me that happened to kick a banana in your general direction.”

The note was concise and easy to understand. The man had been a wizard of some renown, though why looters had taken his hat and robes and left the box behind was beyond Silven. He had located this rare elven artefact in the Kelzam Forest hundreds of leagues to the east, and had begun to work on the instructions on the container. He had just popped out to find a wooden stick to rub against the left-most rune to finish unlocking his prize, when he heard the sound of cutthroats getting closer and decided he would be much better off carefully reporting his impending doom than doing anything about it.

Silven thought about the magic wardrobe. He thought about the paint trail. And he bent down, picked up the nearest old twig, and pressed it to the rune in question. He was admittedly rather surprised when it didn’t burst open to reveal a cartload of goodies at the slightest touch.

“Find out what sort of wood,” said a squeaky voice from above. Silven gasped and looked up at the lone sapling by his side. The little fluffy bat regarded him with wary eyes.

Silven grimaced. “But it comes from an extinct race from a land far away in a time long gone. It’s just trial and error.”

“Won’t work,” squeaked the bat.

“Then tell me how I get it,” implored the warrior.

The bat covered her head with a leathery wing. “I’m afraid I’m obliged to tell you the exact position of the information only if it becomes clear you can’t solve the mystery yourself.”

Silven gazed out over the quiet heath in despair. “Fine. I give up. And obliged by who, exactly? Who are you anyway?”

The bat raised her second wing and blocked out the questions.

Silven glared. “I’m waiting.”

The bat ignored him.

“Go on!” demanded the hero.

The creature remained silent.

Five minutes passed before Silven’s resolve broke. “Fine! I’ll find out on my own. But I will say you are being extremely rude. Good day, Miss Bat!” And off he stalked along the path.

“Aha!” cried the bat triumphantly. “Wrong way! You’ve taken a step in the wrong direction and now I can spoon feed you the answer.”

“Which is?” Silven pleaded.

The bat snorted. “The Kelzam Elf Refugee Woodworking Library, of course. Just north of Greenholme?” Silven looked blank. “It’s on your map, dumblegs!” called the bat as she fluttered off into the bushes.

Silven stood there a moment longer as he felt his cheeks flush. “Oh, yeah...” he said awkwardly, pulling out the FTS.

The abandoned library had been taken over by hordes of primitive ape-men. Something about combining an oak tree with the wrong sort of magic, explained the last elf’s note. Silven tutted. It all sounded suspiciously lazy. That couldn’t be it, but equally the truth didn’t concern him . He hacked his way to the inner sanctum and looked out over the rainforest of tomes within. “Good job I packed a mystery meat sandwich,” he said aloud, and approached the nearest bookcase.

He tried to take several books before he worked out what was going on. He took a step back and scanned the shelves in wonder. They were solid wood, the vertical plane carefully painted with the imaginary spines bearing titles befitting an elven woodworking library. Silven paced the cases, contemplating his next step. That bat had been working against him. It had to be a trap!

And then he rounded a corner and locked his eyes onto the real book poking invitingly out of a slot in a fake case. He dragged it from its resting place and wiped away the dust on its cover. “The Art of Unlocking Eastern Rune Boxes,” he read. “Hmmmmm.” That weird feeling he couldn’t quite fathom was coming over him again. He flipped through the pages and skimmed over the steps his bony friend must already have taken with the case. He finally came to a chapter on wood and slowed down. “To disable the Uluk rune, the wood of the Incal tree must be collected and pressed against the box,” Silven learned. “It is commonly found in... Steelhead Harry woz ere?” Silven read again. The original text had been torn away, and in its place, the crude taunt had been pasted across the original paper. Silven replaced the book and searched the library again. But there was no sign of further guidance on the Incal tree and where it could be found.

He exited the crumbling building and returned to the main road. He searched for tracks and found none. He studied the surrounding scrub and perceived no unusual trees. He paced to and fro, and sat down with a dejected puff of air. This was turning out to be more trouble than it could surely be worth.

It was at that precise moment that two peasants marched down the road on their way to market. The woman looked rather grave as she spoke loudly at her companion. “Versella tells me worrying news. Steelhead Harry has been seen making off with two pints of milk from Frogton village store.”

The man began to sweat. “Darling, I’ve forgotten my line.” She smiled encouragingly. “The Table Treaty was established three years ago to quell the growing tensions between the ferocious forkists and the sophisticated spoonists of the southern aristocracy,” he recited anxiously. “There is, however, no compromise in table manners, and if someone doesn’t kindly annihilate a random movement soon, this dilemma will rip the kingdom apart before the summer is out.”

Gently, she mouthed a helpful hint. “Oh yes,” he called. “I hear he’s gone off gallivanting in that Voolukian quarry. Looking for a tree, of all things!”

Silven stepped out of his hiding place and bowed. “Thank you!” he said, and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The peasants looked at each other and laughed with pure joy. “We got ourselves a hero!” the woman called. “Looks like cheese is back on the menu.”

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Silven appeared at the edge of Gigglewick and hastened away up the hill. He didn’t want to be getting involved with Banc’s lot again, but he was quietly pleased that another thatched roof had been replaced. They might have some shelter for winter after all, he mused.

From the viewpoint just beyond Layesey Farm, he peered out into the trees below. There was no sign of the quarry. “Hmm, that’s odd,” he grunted. He was certain someone had mentioned the Voolukians here, but no matter. He had to learn to look before he dematerialised, as the saying went.

Before long, he had located the Stonium Quarry far to the south-east, and quickly cleared out the bandits that had taken up residence there. Yet one brute remained in his way. A man with a bucket helmet complete with cut-outs for eyes, who could only be Steelhead Harry, judging by the evidence of his worrying dairy habit piled against his dug-out. He roared wordlessly and charged the invader like a bull. Silven smiled and twirled his sword. He had been in this position a hundred times by now. He had learned that his seemingly ordinary blade was rather magical indeed, for if he swung it outwards in a situation like this, it could connect with an unsuspecting foe a full foot beyond its tip. Such confidence could only result in an exception.

Silven looked on in surprise as his strike conjured silver puffs of smoke from Steelhead’s stomach. A second later, the bandit’s trident struck home. Silven flew backwards and collided with the wall of the open pit. His sword clattered to the floor, and the warrior sank to his knees in a shower of blood. The bandit rumbled to a halt inches from his victim and clonked down his fearsome weapon. “Oh yeah, baby!” he cackled. “Charge attack for the win. Can’t be staggered. Yeahhhh!”

Silven coughed and fumbled for his sword. Steelhead kicked it casually to one side and babbled on. “Oh, don’t be doing that. You’ve got to see my new move before you die. And trust me, it’s woooorth it!” He raised the trident high above his head. Waves of energy pulsated from his feet and shook the earth. The quaking reached a deafening roar. “Area of effect!” boomed the bandit. He stuck out his chest triumphantly and the rocks splintered in an arc around him. Showers of shrapnel rained down like cannon-fire around the quarry. It seemed the apocalypse had come. It was the most awesomest thing Steelhead Harry had ever achieved. He whooped and collapsed to the cracked earth in exhaustion.

That was when Silven strode up from the far side of the arena. He grinned, took up his sword, and skewered the boss in the back. “I’d work on your poker face next time,” he called cheerfully as the body slid to the floor. Then he looked on the pile of corpses littering the quarry and covered his mouth.

The mystic tree was nowhere to be found, but Silven did find a letter detailing Steelhead’s attempts to enlist an old hermit who had known the last of the Kelzam race all those years ago. Silven took off for Fort Forgetful and slaughtered the host of zombies which awaited him. The most bloated of his enemies was carrying a scrap of green cloth which a retired witch in Cragmere Marsh claimed was from Old Johnny’s Ranch on the plains to the south. Of course, Old Johnny was having a little trouble with a baby fairy infestation on his lands. “But you don’t understand,” he explained to a reluctant Silven. “They’re not fairies, they’re corrupted fairies. And now they’ve identified as corrupted, they need to be taught a few principles of modern decency. Their parents warned them about getting into gang violence.” Silven obliged with sword and strength. In return, he was sent off to battle a party of orcs who had kidnapped the hermit. He was starting to get a little out of breath by the time he borrowed an old potion from a group of raiders to get the frail eccentric back to health.

“What? You’ve got to give it back?” was the first thing the rescued man croaked, clutching the little bottle in bony fingers.

Silven hesitated. “Well, when I said ‘borrowed’....”

The hermit winked. “Ah, the hero’s way. So, I expect you’ve saved my skin to hear about Incal trees...”

Silven was too tired to be surprised. “Go on.”

The hermit laughed heartily and nearly choked on his teeth. “Huge. Bright orange bark. Flashing buds. All singing, all dancing. The only one in Oldeburgh grows in the middle of the Stonium Quarry, I believe.”

Silven was not impressed. “I’ve just been there. If this is some sort of trick, I can find you.” The wrinkled man only laughed with a knowing gleam in his eye. Silven shrugged and zapped away from the orc camp.

There, right in the middle of Stonium Quarry, was the Incal tree. It was huge. It had bright orange bark and flashing buds. It was, as far as trees ever are, all singing and all dancing. But Silven paid little heed to the tree.

“Ah, there you are. How’s my poker face?” said Steelhead Harry through straight unmoving lips.

Silven whirled on the spot as grinning bandits poured out of crags on all sides of the quarry. He unsheathed his sword, but let it hang by his side as he stared at Steelhead. “What...how...”

Steelhead adjusted his bucket. “Surprised, eh? Well maybe you shouldn’t’a waded in first time.” He motioned to the little path winding down into the pit. “You were supposed to wait there. I’d have told you the way to that shrivelled old man and you could’ve come back to challenge me fair ‘n’ square.”

“What do you mean?” cried Silven as the bandits sharpened their blades on the rocks.

Steelhead took a step closer. “Before you came barging in, I was just gonna tell Dimwit over there where to find the old man so we could guard the tree. And then you stabbed me. I saw Bull the great bandit god, and he told me I still had guarding to do. So now I’m reborn, and you’ve seen the tree for us all. And now we’ll do our sacred duty and defend it to the bitter end.” He raised his trident and pointed it at the intruder.

Silven prepared for battle. And then the leader’s words started to sink in. He’d started with a twig and ended with a travelling massacre across the kingdom. And all for a little wooden box. His head rolled to the side and he squeezed at his temples in agony. Whatever he tried, no matter how hard he fought it, he was a monster. He was meant to kill.

“You alright, dude?” Silven looked up into Steelhead’s puzzled face. He dropped his sword and addressed the crowd of enemies. “Come on, guys. I’ve killed you before and I can kill you again. And I’m not sure how many times this Bull god can recycle. I’m sure it’s not 100% efficient.” The bandits muttered and advanced. Silven pressed on desperately. “And just think, how long can you guard this tree? I’ve seen two lootable traders going along the road past here all day. And, unless zombies and fairies and orcs don’t have recycling gods, there’s all those competitors just beyond your camp. It’s unsustainable! What are you going to do when the food runs out?”

Steelhead blinked. His minions turned to him in confusion. A moment passed, and then his furrowed brow lifted into an expression of enlightenment. All the secrets of the universe seemed to pass behind his eyes. “Guard,” he imparted. He puffed out his chest. “Area of effeeeeeeeect!”

The ground started to rumble. But history was already repeating itself. Silven wasn’t there. The bandits scoured the quarry to the edge of the path, and then they gathered around the parting gift their killer had left on the ground.

Silven watched from the bushes as Steelhead took up the tiny container between two sausage fingers and shoved it against the Incal tree. There was a vortex of light and a blast of triumphant music. He flexed his muscles as his crew cheered ferociously. Then, they remembered the box again and prised off the ancient lid.

“It’s.... a dye!” squealed the bandit called Dimwit, holding up a vial of dark brown liquid. The others gasped in awe.

“Could it be.... Adventurer Fawn?” said another, fumbling for his spectacles.

“What good’s that?” mumbled a thin young man in the background. His companion turned and punched him hard in the stomach. “Shut up, Noob!” he growled. “It’s for personalising your cloak. No-one wants Default Grey these days. We’ve been laughed at for weeks, let’s face it.”

The crowd hushed as Steelhead loomed up against the bottle. He made to snatch it up, and then he softened. “Go on then, a splash each. But then we guard it forever!”

Silven couldn’t help but smile as he watched the raiders place the vial pride of place at the foot of the tree. He had needed some way to apologise for all the needless slaughter. And besides, the treasure was no great loss. He would have wanted a blue cloak anyway.