3.13 In The Grip Of The Radiant King
Wonders filled Silven’s mind that night.
He found himself on the slopes of a grey and desolate mountain. Beneath, a golden city stretched out upon a plain of gleaming emerald grass. The sun was setting in the west, and its last glowing beams reflected bright from the steel of the army camped in the rocky valley at the foot of the peak. There were cookfires and proud banners of griffins and serpents, and at the entrance of the largest tent, a knight with a diamond shield was rallying his soldiers for the glory to come.
The city knew not of the danger, Silven saw. There it lay, defenceless in the merry evening, and at its centre, a magnificent tower strained for the skies. Upon its flat roof, a single mighty flower grew high. Even from this distance, Silven could clearly see its five fan-like petals, quivering and vulnerable. Three were white, one was blood-red, and the other, glassy silver, fell soundlessly into the void as he watched.
“Silven!” echoed a voice from high above. He turned. A huge grey goose, elegantly clad in the most exquisite of velvet finery, was flapping its way down the slope. “No time!” it cried. “Save the moose, save the... too late!” A deafening wrenching rumble filled the air as the mountainside opened up between them, and from within -
Silven woke just then, ready to get on with his life. He reminded himself that it was just a dream, and, despite the endless excruciating monologues of countless authors in the libraries of his cities, it was all utterly irrelevant.
“Page-fillers,” he muttered as he dressed. He and Grennel had indulged in luxury feather beds that night, in a charming beamed tavern along the Old Cobble Road. If you were going to die at the hands of an unimaginable dark power, or be cut out of existence by the real folk, they had decided, it would be best to do so without back ache to boot.
Silven briefly considered nabbing the brilliantly carved slop bucket from his en-suite, but remembered there was a little guard-post just west of Thornyhedge and things were too tight to be spending an hour in jail. Reluctantly, he let it go and went down to breakfast like a civilised king.
He ate a hot and hearty meal in thoughtful silence with the professor by the hearth. Upon finishing, he discovered a hole in his pocket, and unable to pay for the lodgings, he ventured into the kitchens to sell the next early riser’s plate of food back to the barkeep. When he returned, Grennel was already waiting at the side of the road. “To battle,” he said finally. He was frightfully unconvincing.
The Silverview didn’t work. That was less convincing still. “It’s so we can have this riveting conversation as we walk,” chirped Grennel as they set off down the wooded path.
“Hurry up, then!” Silven snapped back. For some reason, Grennel was trudging along at that awful pace just too fast for an amble and just too slow for a brisk power walk. “I can’t. It’s so we can fit in even more riveting conversation,” came the reply.
After a while, though, things didn’t seem all that awful. The woodland was a far cry from the jabbering crowds of buffoons Silven had grown accustomed to. This was like the old days. Just him and his sword. Even his gloomy thoughts turned a little brighter. The trees, the butterflies and the irksome wolves that he batted away with a silken glove... they were too real to be unreal. Just because some random weirdoes made him didn’t make him fake. If that was the case, what of the supermarket world? If some god created all that, then it was as true or false as Newburg. And judging by the miserable lives of those he had had the misfortune to encounter in that other realm, that comparison was an insult to the royal republic if anything. Nowadays, only half of his people were mindless zombies.
The woods were growing thicker when a sudden movement lurched Silven back to his senses. A man came reeling out of the undergrowth, where a little wooden cart lay half-concealed by a clump of nettles. The look on his pale features was one of utter bewilderment. “Please, kind sir, help me!” he groaned. “By some shallow attempt at a sub-plot condemning greed, I stole an ancient crystal from a small shrine just off the road ahead and I have lost all memories from before. Everything! Who I am, my family, my home, my purpose in life.... it’s all gone! Please, stranger, will you take up the burden of helping me find my destiny once more? I could be crucial to the integrity of our land!”
Silven stared for a moment. “By the signs on your cart and cap, your uniform, the satchel, stack of menus and the mouth-watering aroma of fried turnips dripping with grease, I’d say you’re a courier for Nipsters Nippy Takeaway. Which by all means does make you crucial to the integrity of the land.”
The stranger doffed his cap. “Cheers, sir! You tipping me for your information?”
“Errr...no?” The courier stomped off to his cart. “What was that all about?” Silven murmured to Grennel. The professor could only shrug.
A few paces on, a homely maiden hailed them from a side-path. From just beyond, the burned-out shell of a little cottage sagged in a pit of ash amidst the trees. “Please sir!” she cried. “My father was killed by rebels, my mother investigated strange noises from Donotenter Cave and never returned, and I’ve got wolves to the west, demons to the east and gremlins everywhere else. Will you help me?”
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“Yes!” cried Silven in relief. “The bureaucracy expands. You’d make a nice Junior Assistant to the Assistant Secretary’s Secretary of the Deputy Officer of the Hand of the Assistant Secretary’s Aide of the Public Relations Advisor for the Chief Teamaker of the Head of Silverlink Monster Camps. Go on, be off with you. See you in Overwall.” The maiden gave him a sullen look as she departed down the road. The king turned to Grennel incredulously. “Why is it people insist on enduring in such deadly locales? The girl’s lucky - I also have an vacancy for the Assistant Aide to the -”
“Never mind,” cut in Grennel. “I think I’m starting to see what’s going on here. You’re finally approaching the start of your main quest. I think you’ve unlocked some sort of random encounters to distract and turn you around lest you deem the length of the real quest unsatisfactory.”
Silven grunted. “A curse!”
“A trap,” corrected Grennel. “Take care, my liege. We cannot be caught up in anything foolish at this late hour.”
Together, the two heroes hurried on through the woods. Cries and pleas rang out from all around, but they paid no heed. Soon, the trees were rustling with flurrying arms. “Help us! Save us!” came the chants. “We’re trying!” yelled back Silven, pushing away peasants as they threw themselves to their knees before him. He ducked, dodged, whirled, and glimpsed an opening before him in the oaks. “This way!” he yelled, pulling Grennel through into a tiny circular clearing. The randomers did not follow.
They were not alone.
There was a man there. He was dressed simply in a simple grey travelling cloak, and was crouching by a simple fire, cooking a simple stew for the road. He looked up and smiled broadly at his company. There was something oddly charming and alarmingly infuriating about him all at once. “Hi, chaps!” he called, rising to his full unthreatening height. “Well met. I’m Melton Pressley, captain of the Blunt Force. I hope you’ve heard about our work in these troubled times.”
Silven grew red with rage. He wanted to point out all the things he’d spent the past years doing to untrouble the times, and how he’d largely succeeded other than the total deletion thing. He didn’t, however, want to attract those bumbling fools from the road again, so he bit his tongue and smiled.
The man responded positively enough. “Ah, good. We strive to protect the poor and defenceless wherever they may be, regardless of these petty civil wars we’ve faced. I don’t recognise you, Gary, so I think it’s best to put the Blunt Force fully into your unknown hands.”
Silven blinked. A wailing peasant went by just feet away and he kept his mouth shut.
“Even though you’re my new captain, I shall have utter authority over your next objective,” continued Melton enthusiastically. He pulled out a weathered scrap of parchment. “Let’s see. The people of Thornyhedge have been troubled recently by dark dreams in the dead of night. The dread whispers of cultists have been heard in the windmill when the hour grows late, and odd goods have been disappearing by day. Mysterious hoofed prints have led back to the hillside cottage of Cragtop nearby, where three robed women have taken up residence with the old shepherd. We’ll need to investigate.”
Silven could take it no longer. He opened his mouth to give this Pressley a piece of his mind. “I don’t have time for pointless distractions like this, but I guess I’ll give it a go.” He stared at Grennel in horror and covered his mouth.
“I knew you’d make a good captain!” cried Melton, clapping his hands.
Silven stuttered. “What... how... do I investigate these intriguing happenings?”
Melton reflected the hero’s confusion. “What? Just go to the big glowing pointer on your map and kill everyone in sight. That way we’re sure to get the perpetrators in the count. It’s so easy!”
“That’s ridiculous, but I’ll head over there straight away,” struggled Silven. He looked at Grennel’s helpless face. “Anything else I can do to further our gallant cause?”
“Only once you’ve trudged all the way back can I read the next location on my list, which may or may not be several seconds from your killzone,” Melton said through a cheerful grin. “And I don’t know where our band of fighters has got to, so just do it for us all, captain. I’ll stay here and guard the broth.”
“Sure thing.” Silven turned to go. Grennel responded with an ear-piercing “No!” and dragged him towards the Old Cobble Road. The white of Melton’s grin was still visible through the leaves as they plunged away.
They ran for ten minutes before collapsing against a trunk for a breather. “I have always prided myself on being in control of my mouth,” Silven panted. “Alas, those words were not my own. If you weren’t there, professor, then...”
Grennel nodded slowly. “I have heard tell of this wretched band before. That man does not abide by the normal law of the quest. He goes by many names: the Man-ipulator, the Father of Compulsion, the Radiant King - Your Majesty?!” The king was not of the world. He was stroking his Silverview 5 like a pet bunny, circling his finger round and round and round the flashing name of Cragtop. “I’ll be there.... soooooon..... my master,” he whispered to the map.
Grennel shook him roughly by the shoulders. He pinched a royal ear. He flicked an ugly nose. There was no sign of the Fulcrum. “No....” He shuddered. Suddenly, the woods seemed cooler.
He contemplated the world peacefully for a moment, and made his choice. He lifted Silven beneath the arms, pocketed the glowing map, and dragged the absent hero onward.