Lost in Glory

  "Oh, I have a few knives around my person. Don't worry, I'll manage," the lone horseman replied.

  Glorm had no choice. He couldn't just back up now. Not without losing his face. And whatever self-respect he had. He had to order the attack. "All right, get..." he started, but didn't get to finish. There was a blur of movement, a whizzing sound, and both Flam and Sig fell down. They were screaming and clutching their faces, and blood was oozing from between their fingers.

  It took Glorm a moment to understand what had just happened. A moment he shouldn't have used. By the time he realised that his henchmen were downed by two daggers thrown at once, his opponent was on the ground and running towards him. Before he could decide whether to fight or run, he was down on the ground, squirming in pain. The pain seemed to stem from several places at once. He thought he was done for, but then he realised he actually wasn't bleeding. He hadn't been wounded. Still, he was too much in pain to get up and fight. He could only watch. And he was watching intently.

  He saw the four horsemen of inept banditry hesitate. Nobody could blame them for hesitating in this situation. Their companions had just fallen without putting up a fight. As it often happens in such situations, the group followed the first one to act. And the first one to act was Hurm, the stupidest of the bunch. He charged. So did the other three. Glorm hoped they would ride their victim-turned-killer down or hack him to pieces. It was a vain hope.

  Hurm leaned from his saddle and lifted his sword, preparing to strike. His opponent on the other hand didn't prepare to strike. He simply passed him on the side that didn't contain the hand with the sword. And stuck a knife in Hurm's kidneys in passing. The process was repeated with the next rider. And the next one too.

  Glorm briefly wondered just how many knives did that man have and where did he keep them. He also was glad that none of them were stuck in him at the moment. He wasn't as glad that out of control horses were coming his way. He barely managed to roll away from danger. Hurm fell down near him. He didn't seem very alive.

  Now there was only one outlaw horseman left. Or a donkeyman, to be exact. He managed to break off his attack in time, probably because the donkey was a bit slower than the horses. He sheathed his sword and grabbed his bow instead. It was actually a decent idea. Glorm knew that a fight between a mounted bowman and a footman armed only with knives simply had to end with a victory of the bowman, yet he somehow doubted this would be the case.

  "A bit late for this, don't you think?" the knife-wielder asked, mockingly.

  "Never too late to shoot you in the AAAARGH!" The bandit screamed as a thrown dagger hit him in the throat. He fell from his donkey and stopped screaming when he hit the ground. His killer calmly went up to the body and retrieved his dagger. He stabbed the corpse once more just in case, cleaned the knife and hid it somewhere on his person. Then he went to the next fallen bandit and repeated the process.

  Glorm watched in horror as his comrades were being finished off one by one. Suddenly it struck him: this could not be a human. Surely a demon or something! The bandit was hurt and in a lot of pain, but he was still alive and he intended to keep it this way. Fear of the demon gave him extra strength. Also the pain was subsiding slowly. He stood up and ran. Back into the forest. As fast as he could, not stopping, not looking back. Just forward, forward, away from that man, or demon, or whatever it was... He didn't care much about the direction. He should have cared. Because after a few minutes he ran straight into a trapping pit. His own trapping pit.

  It was a good pit. Glorm had made sure of that. The bandits put a lot of effort into it when there were no adequate targets for banditry, which means they had a lot of time for that. The pit was meant for trapping huge animals, up to bears. No bear could have gotten out of it. And neither could a human. Not without tools at least. But it was a problem for later. Right now, the outlaw was happy and relieved. He missed the spikes. He got away from that...

  "Enjoying yourself?" Or not. The demon was looking down the pit and smiling.

  The bandit felt like a bear that fell into a trapping pit. The only difference was that he wasn't a bear. "You! You... whatever you are! How did you find me?! How did you kill them all?!" He had nowhere to run, no way to fight, so he just shouted in pure desperation.

  "Some say that practice makes perfect. And I had a lot of practice." The demon smiled again. It was not a pleasant smile.

  "Are you going to kill me?" The answer was obvious. Glorm simply had nothing better to say. Yet the demon hesitated.

  "I... think not." There was a brief pause. "Leaving you in here seems funnier."

  "You bastard!"

  "Now now, no need to be rude." The demon turned around to leave. Suddenly Glorm remembered he had a dagger too. He had completely forgotten about it. It seemed so inadequate, but he had nothing to lose now. He quickly snatched it from his belt and threw it at his enemy.

  The throw was perfect. The blade should have pierced the target's skull. But it didn't. The demon made just a slightest move with his head. His hair moved as the dagger sailed past him.

  "That would have been helpful in getting out of the pit, don't you think?" he asked without turning. Nothing indicated that he even cared about the knife being just an inch away from killing him. The only response was a cry of anger and frustration.

  The demon went away. Glorm was left in the trapping pit. There was nothing he could use to get out, also no food and no water. It was very unlikely that anyone would come to his rescue. He really disliked the idea of being the first and only victim of his own pit. He looked around, desperately seeking anything to help him. There was nothing. Nothing but stout spikes, dug in firmly into the ground. He tried to get some of them out, but to no avail. They had dug them in too well. After all, they were supposed to impale a falling bear. He sighed and started gnawing on one.

  ***

  The paladin's journey to the Gloomy Jungle was rather uneventful. Apart from the usual coincidences helping him to survive, that is.

  The Gloomy Jungle itself proved to be aptly named. The trees were gloomy, the bushes were gloomy, the birds were gloomy and even the bees were gloomy. Arthaxiom didn't care. Gloom is among numerous things Heroes are immune to.

  As he was walking through the jungle, three ogres appeared out of nowhere and barred his way. Each of them was about a head taller than the paladin. They were sickly green and very, very ugly. Not to mention very, very smelly. Fortunately Heroes have no sense of smell, at least when it comes to negative things. They can still smell flowers and other nice stuff. Not that they do this too often. Stopping to smell the flowers isn't too Heroic.

  Each ogre had a huge crude club, obviously made from a tree trunk. 'Made' meant that the tree had been torn out of the ground and the branches were broken off. Or eaten. Also, each ogre wore a loincloth made from something that had died a long time ago. That proved that even ogres living in the middle of the jungle had a sense of decency for some reason. While the garments helped with the visuals, they didn't improve the smell.

  "Finally, a chance to test my skills!" the paladin thought. He drew his sword and waited for the ogres to act.

  One of the ogres stepped forward. "You! Shall not! Piss!" it declared and struck the ground with its club. That confused Arthaxiom a bit.

  "Of course I shall not piss! I am a Hero, you know!" he replied, which in turn confused the ogre.

  "Uhhh..." it said.

  "Me thinks dats supposseded to be 'You shall not pass!'" the other ogre suggested.

  "That would make more sense," the paladin agreed.

  "Right," said the first ogre. "You! Shall not! Pass!" It struck the ground again, even harder, unknowingly giving a concussion to some poor mole living down below.

  "Why? Why are you interrupting my noble quest, foul creatures of the swamp?" Arthaxiom asked. He thought that this should be established before the start of the fight. After all, ogres don't just randomly bother Heroes. Ogres are usually more purposeful.

  "Dunno," th
e ogre replied.

  "I knowd. But I forgetted," said the second ogre.

  "I haz a note!" said the third one, and gave a small piece of paper to the first ogre.

  "Me no can read!"

  "Me no can read also. You! You read dis!" the ogre decided and gave the note to the paladin. He was unable to read as well, and the small magical invisible little blue bird failed to appear to help him this time. He didn't want to admit his illiteracy. It would mean he was as dumb as the ogres, and he most certainly wasn't.

  "It says here that you are not supposed to let me pass because... because... because I am the Guardian of the Ancient Secret of the Holy Mysterious Summoning of the Mythical Archpegasus!" Arthaxiom improvised.

  "You iz what?!" the ogre asked. It didn't expect that. In fact, it didn't really have any particular expectations about the contents of the piece of paper, nor did it really care. Still, it seemed like a very strange thing to say. Or to write down.

  "Guardian of the Ancient Secret of the Holy Mysterious Summoning of the Mythical Archpegasus," Arthaxiom repeated.

  "Uh, yah," the ogre mumbled. "You shall not pass, you iz a guardian of secreted holy argasus."

  "Guardian of the Ancient Secret of the Holy Mysterious Summoning of the Mythical Archpegasus," Arthaxiom repeated yet again.

  "You shall not pass, you iz a guardian of ancient secreted moistening of homynogasus," the ogre tried again, this time using the most complicated words it knew.

  "Wat a homynogasus?" the second ogre asked.

  "Dunno. Liek, homyn wid gas?" the third one replied.

  "Wat a homyn?"

  "Dunno. Liek, dat guy?"

  "Ah."

  "Guardian of the Ancient Secret of the Holy Mysterious Summoning of the Mythical Archpegasus!" the paladin corrected a bit less patiently, ignoring the other ogres calling him a homyn.

  "No good, me not remenenber," the ogre declared.

  "Wat a archpegasusus?" the second ogre asked.

  "Liek, pagesusus iz horse wid two wingz," the third ogre said. "So archpagesusus iz liek horse wid... moar wingz?"

  "Yes! Five!" Arthaxiom exclaimed. "It has five wings! And it breathes fire!"

  "Wooooow!" the ogres said in awe, despite not knowing how much exactly was five. Sounded like a lot.

  "All right, with that out of the way, could we finally start fighting?" the paladin asked.

  "Fight? We no fight! Not in contract!" the first ogre declared.

  "We dided wat we wered payed to did!" the second one added.

  "Run away!" the third one shouted, and suddenly they were all retreating with surprising speed. Before the paladin had any chance to react, all three ogres were out of his sight. He stood still for a minute, wondering what to do next. There was only one option.

  "I have won!" he declared to the nearby squirrels. "Once again I faced the sinister emissaries of evil! And once again I triumphed! There was no fear in my heart, no doubt in my mind!" Arthaxiom raised his sword over his head. "Ominous forces of vileness scattered like grain in the wind at the sight of my strength and persistence! Glory of my deeds will resound through generations!" A small hedgehog sitting under a bush decided that it had absolutely no intention to inform the future generations of hedgehogs about an armoured idiot shouting at the squirrels. "The peasants will throw gold coins and raisins at me!" Unfortunately there were no peasants in the vicinity, especially ones possessing gold coins and raisins. Only a woodpecker decided to honour the paladin by leaving a small token of appreciation on his helmet. Of course Arthaxiom was too busy shouting of all his titles at nobody in particular to notice that. After several more minutes of nonsensical declarations he finally ran out of breath and continued on his way.

  ***

  Vannard didn't care much for horseback riding. He didn't know much about horses either. He only knew that he was riding a big brown horse, and that it was a good horse. It was a good horse, because it was going in the direction he wanted it to go. Otherwise it would be a bad horse. Bad horses didn't last long around Vannard.

  His journey to the village of Stinkybadger was rather uneventful. He hated uneventful journeys. Only one group of bandits attacked him during the past week. And that's despite him trying to look as non-threatening as possible in order to encourage them. This was a truly pitiful area.

  He had always counted on bandits to amuse him during his travels. A lone, well-dressed rider usually attracted quite a few. Thanks to that he didn't have to go out of his way to find someone to kill. Also, most bandits were at least decent fighters. It was good for him to practice his skills. But not this time.

  That group of bandits was a pleasant distraction, but nothing more. They weren't even an actual threat. Vannard's skills weren't put to a test. Just some harmless fun. Harmless for him at least, not for the other people involved. And that's exactly what he considered fun. The other fun thing about bandits was that nobody complained if some suddenly turned up dead. The idea that he made the roads in the Empire a little bit safer amused him to no end.

  The village of Stinkybadger wasn't a lot to look at. Some wooden buildings, many of which looked like they could collapse soon. Some fields around. A well in the middle. A badger next to the well. A dead and smelly one. It was held upright by a wooden contraption. It was obvious that it some sort of a village sign. Vannard briefly wondered whether they had found some way to make the badger last for a long time or do they have to get a new one from time to time. Now, to find the mayor. It was not a difficult task. He simply entered the house that the badger's front paw was pointing at.

  "Good day to you, peasant," Vannard greeted the mayor amicably. "I came from the capital. I have some questions to ask you."

  The mayor got excited at the arrival of the unexpected guest. He instantly forgot about being called a peasant.

  "Good day, m'lord! From the capital? A rare pleasure! Never been there myself. Is it as magnificent as they say?"

  Ah, small talk, Vannard thought. Normally he didn't do small talk. It was boring and he wasn't any good at it. On the other hand, when he agreed to complete this assignment, he had decided he would do it right. Doing things wrong wasn't in his nature. Unless it was amusing. Offending the natives would be neither helpful nor particularly amusing, so he decided to indulge the mayor. The question wasn't hard. The capital indeed was magnificent. He knew why all too well and didn't even need to fake his enthusiasm.

  "Yes, it is glorious! Oh, just imagine all those whorehouses! All the murders, burglaries, duels! Truly, there isn't a night without something interesting happening!"

  "Ah, yes, yes, sounds wonderful," the mayor replied, evidently somewhat confused. His definition of magnificence was a bit different than Vannard's. Nevertheless, he continued the conversation. "Too bad about the Emperor. It was a horrible death, or so they say."

  "Yes, horrible indeed," Vannard agreed, "but you know, at least it was memorable. Most people die from something boring and mundane, like an illness, or a knife in the face, or falling from a horse. But the Emperor, he actually made falling from a horse interesting! Right into the moat! And for some reason there were lions swimming in it! Some say he even took one or two with him. Too bad he couldn't kill all of them. I think it might be possible. Lions shouldn't fight too well in the water. In any case, that's the way to go!"

  The mayor was seriously weirded out. This man sounded like he actually would like to try falling into a moatful of lions. Something was wrong with his head, no question about that. Could be dangerous, too. The mayor had a strange feeling that this meeting might not end well for him. Vannard often had that effect on people.

  The assassin on the other hand thought he was doing quite well. He was successfully conducting a conversation about things completely irrelevant to the matter at hand with a person he couldn't have cared about less. A rare feat. A bit tiresome, but it wasn't like he had an appointment to kill someone or anything. No hurry.

  "So, you had questions?" the mayor asked. As he had been anxio
us to talk with his visitor earlier, now he was anxious to get rid of him.

  "Ah, yes. There might have been a paladin going through here. Two or three months ago, maybe. Do you know something about that?"

  "I don't know. What is a paladin?"

  Vannard was glad he got instructions from Roseduck, because he would have no idea how to describe the paladin. The best he could come up with was 'some sort of holy doofus knight'. It might have even worked, but he decided not to improvise. "A big man. In armour. With a sword, and maybe a shield too. Speaks weirdly, probably. About strange animals and such."

  "No, no such men were seen around here."

  A pity. All this smalltalking for nothing. Anyway, it was time for the second part. 'Try to make it seem that you didn't come all that way just to ask about the paladin' Roseduck had written. No hints on how to accomplish that. Only a post-scriptum saying 'No killing'. Typical Ducky. Oh well, let's try something...

  "And was there any unusual weasel activity around here?"

  "Uhhh... what?" This one went right over the mayor's head. Vannard decided to rephrase.

  "More weasels around these days?"

  "Ah, no, no, not really. Why?" Although the mayor wanted to get rid of his visitor, he couldn't help himself. Why would this strange man ask about weasels?

  This strange man actually wasn't quite sure himself. Weasels seemed like a good thing to ask about. He didn't anticipate the peasant being curious. "We are tracking weasel migrations," he hazarded. "They are behaving suspiciously these days."

  "Suspiciously? How?" The mayor's idea of suspicious activities consisted of a man trying to steal a duck by carrying it under his shirt. It rarely ended well for either party, but definitely there were no weasels involved. On the other hand, Vannard's idea of suspicious activities consisted mostly of planned and unplanned assassinations. He also had some general knowledge about thieving and whoring. Weasel assassins didn't seem to be too plausible. Weasel thieves and weasel whores were even worse. Unless they were strictly metaphorical, but he didn't want to go there. What could weasels do, what could weasels do...?