Clash of the Geeks

  When the hatch was complete, Izlac and his mount flew high over the top of the Firespire Mountains, and into the valley. They landed in the pen, at least three score of them, his entire clan assembled around the fences. He stood there, exhausted and badly wounded, in the place of his Choosing, where his life had been defined and forever changed. Rek emerged from the crowd and walked to him. The crowd fell silent.

  Rek bowed to him. “This is why you were Chosen,” he said, simply. Then, turning to the floherd of UnicornPegasusKitten Kittens, who were now rolling on the short grass and purring, he added, “and this is why you are our savior.”

  The entire clan cheered, but Izlac felt no joy, just relief.

  “I was not afraid,” he said, “just like you taught me.”

  He walked across the pen, to find his parents, whom he would see now for the first time since his training began and they had lost both of their children. “I was not afraid.”

  The Lay of the Eastern King

  Patrick Rothfuss

  In the high halls of Hrothgar

  The men make a mead which they savor slowly

  To keep quit of cold.

  It’s said south of Samarand

  They brew a brown beer bitter with barley

  Yet hearty and hale.

  There are wines in the west

  That Serapha sips flavored and favored

  By her kin and court. Heavy and hearth-hot

  And sweeter than syrup they mark a man’s mouth

  With the color of coal.

  But all travelers tell

  Of the fields to the east where wheat grows so golden

  It shines like the sun. This wheat brews a beer

  That is better than any, sweeter than sunlight

  And stronger than stone. A man with a mouthful

  Would never want water, nor food, nor a woman to liven his bed.

  A sheaf of King’s wheat is much better bottled

  Than wasted by those who would grind it for bread.

  This king of the east was well-weighted with wisdom;

  He built a broad hearth-hall with timber and tar.

  He bade all the best men be brought to his banner

  And his sweet wheaten beer drew the folk from afar.

  Strong was his shield-arm swift was his spear.

  They called him King Wheaton in praise of his beer.

  Brave were the thanes the king gathered around him

  Loyal as hearth hounds and fiercer than fire.

  Faithful they followed him proud of his prowess.

  Stories they sang how he had challenged

  The dread demon Doramun though just a boy.

  Vile visaged Doramun taller than trees

  Strong as a sea-storm face withered and white.

  Doramun hungered and men were his meat

  The demon devoured them feasting on foes.

  Seven stout soldiers had fallen before him

  Yet the young boy-king stood stalwart and strong.

  Bracing the bright blade of his steady spear

  So swiftly he struck that damned Doramun fell

  His fierce features fixed in a grin of surprise.

  He hewed off the head and created his crest.

  Thereafter the boy bore the face of his foe

  Brightly emblazoned across his brave breast.

  The Wheaton king’s hearth-hall was fourfold in fame

  For both beer and bravery known far and wide.

  Later his lady love joyously joined him.

  Fairest Felicia who sat at his side.

  But when the lord’s lady had stayed for her hour

  Then taken to bed like a slow-furling flower.

  After beery and bellowing songs were all sung.

  And the barrels were barren straight down to the bung

  When firelight flickered and hearth-hall grew dim

  Still waited the fourth fame and they called on him.

  Scalzi the Sharp-Tongue was welcomed by Wheaton

  For Scalzi was sceop strong story-shaper.

  Words were his weapons and wise men did fear.

  Warriors wept at the weight of his wrath.

  No man dared slight him and oft it was spoken

  By all the King’s thanes how simpler and safer

  To open your veins than anger the sceop.

  For death from a broad blade is blessedly brief.

  But Scalzi’s sarcasm would strip you of skin

  It was vicious as venom that bides in the bite

  And follows a man back to his bed at night.

  The thanes savored Scalzi for he did delight them.

  The stories he spun them were wicked and wise.

  Though frightful of face the thanes treasured his tales.

  Still sweeter than stories was Scalzi’s mad ranting

  For when he was angered the sceop would screed.

  Rage roiled in Scalzi like sparks in the tinder

  Waiting for wild winds to fan them to flame.

  When full fury filled him he harrowed the hearth hall

  His temper a tempest scathing his speech.

  Laughed they all loudly at his wicked word-work

  For this the thanes thanked him and praises they’d sing.

  They hailed him as screedling and valued his venom

  And none loved him more than the wise Wheaton King

  Night upon night the hearth-hall was happy

  When given a subject then Scalzi would screed

  Venting his venom at his king’s command.

  Marveled the men so sharp his sarcasm

  So bitter the bile he would loose for his liege.

  None of them wondered why rage roiled within him.

  Silent was Scalzi of what his heart held.

  Love longing filled him for fairest Felicia

  For his lord’s loving lady his secret heart swelled.

  •••

  Faint flickered firelight late lay the hour

  All hearts were heavy for early that evening

  Wheaton warred with his lady and his mood was sour.

  He sang out for Scalzi demanding a screed.

  Said, “Sceop speak! My wrath is waxing

  But I’m wanting for words that can cut like a knife.

  My mood is most maudlin, speak sharply for me

  On what woe is woman both wanton and wife.”

  The hearth hall held hundreds and they leaned to listen

  Grimly they grinned all hoping to hear

  The wrath and the wit of Scalzi the Screedling

  Porclaim his word-work in King Wheaton’s ear.

  The sceop stood slowly and with no small stagger.

  For Scalzi was bold when it came to his beer.

  He’d broached his own barrel and battled it bravely

  And all through the night he had shown it no fear.

  Soused was the sceop as he slurred to a start:

  Women were wicked. Woe to the wise man

  Trusting their treachery weak to their wiles.

  Fie to their fickleness. Fainting and frail.

  Weeping and whining seducing with smiles.

  The thanes were a thunder loud was their laughter

  Scathing was Scalzi as he slurred their sex:

  Hard-hearted harlots teasing and tawdry

  Shrewish and shrill save for one who was sweet.

  Faces all false all painted with promise

  But rare was the woman who was truly fair.

  Skin soft as sighing cool cream in color

  Feathered with freckles. Henna’d her hair

  Shining like sunset all dappled with shadow.

  Eyes light with laughter lovely as lapis.

  Lips sweet with smiling your fair flower-mouth

  Is palest of pinks and all petal-perfect.

  Your lips curve with kindness calling for kisses.

  Fair Felicia!

  Silent the sceop. Hushed is the hall.

  Wrathful was Wheaton full
fury did fill him

  His hand held the haft of his strong-shafted spear.

  His thanes they restrained him and spoke of the land-law

  That none could slay sceop for telling of tales.

  So Scalzi the Screedling was banished and banned.

  His arms they did grant him and also his armor

  And four days of freedom to take leave of the land.

  •••

  Rocks rose around him the road was in ruin

  But Scalzi was stoic as he strode the stones.

  Though weariness wore him and hunger and hurt,

  Braved he the barrens the high hills of Harrow.

  Armor all war-worn he bore on his back

  The weight of it woeful but barely a burden

  Next to the heaviness hardening his heart.

  Fleeing the wrath that the Wheaton king bore him

  Scalzi had traveled for five days and nights.

  Southward he sped to Samarand’s safety

  Tomorrow his tramping would be at an end.

  Long were the leagues he had stretched out behind him

  Four days of freedom had lengthened his lead.

  Still Scalzi strode on to Samarand’s border

  For he knew the swiftness of King Wheaton’s steed.

  Cresting the hill Scalzi saw Samarand

  Lush were the lands that he gazed on below.

  Then heard he behind him full feathered wings stirring

  While beneath the bass of a murderous mewing

  Came the thunderous thrum of Proud Petrifax purring.

  His sire had been Kestran King of all Kitten-Kind.

  Of the line of Lesandre upon whose broad backs

  Rode the lords of Leaydan feared for their felines

  Proud Persians all but now lost to legend

  Save for the splendor of this single son.

  Fleeing was folly so Scalzi the sceop

  Gave one longing look down on sweet Samarand.

  Then brought out his broad axe great Grimnir gleaming

  Forged from the fire at the dawn of the world.

  Weapon of Wodemar fiercest of fighters

  But crap at canasta so Scalzi had skinned him

  And won the brave blade with a cut of the cards.

  Wise Wheaton’s spear shone like gold in the sun

  The face of damned Doramun bold on his breast

  Straddling his steed the king called a challenge

  While Petrifax paused and purred low in his chest.

  Brave was their battle in the high hills of Harrow.

  Harder than hammers they struggled and struck

  Their fury so fierce it shattered the stone.

  Petrifax pounced his pummeling purr

  Rang on the rocks as his hard horn decended

  But swift as his wit was the strong arm of Scalzi

  The bright blade of Grimnir flickered and flashed

  When the king of all kittens did buckle and bleed.

  Mourning his mount the king gave a cry.

  His spear like a thunderbolt bitter and bright.

  All down the mountainside sounded their strife

  And Wheaton the Warrior spilled Scalzi’s life.

  Sly Scalzi sharp tongue bloody and broken

  Silently slid from the shaft of the spear.

  Wheaton stood staring fast fading his fury

  And loud he lamented what his wrath had wrought.

  The king bent to embrace him while Scalzi the Sceop

  Spoke to him softly the secrets he kept.

  Of love for Felicia but more for his liege lord.

  Then Scalzi stilled and the Wheaton king wept.

  Vintarini’s Peak

  Scott Mattes

  On the days when the ash didn’t obscure the skyline, you could see its glowing rim from miles outside the range, jutting up into the heavens like a skyscraper plopped into the middle of a third world village overshadowing everything in its vicinity.

  Vintarini Volcano. The big one. It was an awe-inspiring sight that left an impression on everyone who saw it. For some, it was a thing of beauty, simultaneously majestic and deadly. For others, it was a challenge; nature’s way of throwing down a gauntlet and saying, “Scale this, fuckers.”

  John looked at two college-aged kids in front of him, high-tech climbing equipment piled onto their backs like they were embarking on a two month excursion, and knew which group they belonged to.

  Amateurs, he thought. All that gear would be the death of them. You needed to pack light in this environment; heatstroke killed twice as many climbers as the unpredictable eruptions and constantly shifting lava flows. Back when the press followed his every move, John’s detractors thought that his Orc outfit had been for show. It hadn’t. Shorts and short sleeves prevented him from overheating. A fireproof shield in case the volcano erupted. An axe to bury into the rocky face when a handhold wasn’t available. Sure, he’d embellished it a little to give it an Orcish theme. He’d gotten the idea when he found out the genetic enhancements led to a greenish skin tone.

  The ears cost extra, but they were worth it.

  One of the kids jumped a little when he noticed John standing behind them. “Whoa, didn’t hear you come up behind us.”

  The other turned, surprised to find another person in their midst. These idiots were oblivious to their surroundings.

  He almost said as much, but then one of the kids recognized him. “Hey! You’re that Orc dude from the picture. Yo, James, you remember him from that climbing book? The two guys who raced to be the first to climb Vintarini. Neither of you made it, but you were famous in your day.”

  The second guy spoke up. “Yeah. Didn’t that clown-sweater guy fake a picture of himself up there?”

  John didn’t want to answer that question. Part of it was pride. There had been a time when everyone knew the names John Scalzi and Wil Wheaton. Now, they were “Orc dude” and “clown-sweater guy.” It was embarrassing. Plus, he wasn’t sure what the whole truth was anymore.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  It was the truth, just not all of it.

  “Yeah, that was some crazy shit. Everyone thought he was the first for like two weeks, and then you proved he was a fraud.”

  “I proved the picture was fake, not that he was a fraud. There’s a difference. And that wasn’t nearly as damaging as the fact that he rode in on…”

  “On the Unicorn Kitty.”

  “Unicorn Pegasus Kitten. Yes. His fans thought I was going to fake a photo to discredit his real photo. But when that thing showed up… They just couldn’t get around the idea that he could have just flown up to the peak instead of actually climbing it.”

  “Yeah, that shit’s cheating.”

  Wil had cheated. He’d taken a photo of himself at the top of the smaller volcano right next to Vintarini, and cropped the photo to make it look like he was on the higher peak. It looked good, but the angle was all wrong. John had set out to get a picture capturing both volcanoes, to show the public what Wil had done. What he hadn’t expected was the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten.

  They attacked right after he set up the camera. He spun as soon as he heard their screams, a combination of Wil’s battle cry with a screeching hiss that was three octaves lower than a normal kitten’s. He raised his axe in defense, vaguely aware of a flash from his camera. Wil threw his spear, and John screamed as it impaled his foot. John swung his axe, cleaving into the giant kitten’s brain, killing it instantly. The Unicorn Pegasus Kitten fell on him, smothering John in a pile of fur, warm blood, and moist, cat food-scented breath.

  John tried to fight his way out from under the hindquarters of the Pegasus, but he found himself trapped beneath rump and wing. All he managed to accomplish was a slight view from between the wing’s feathers.

  Wil collapsed the camera’s tripod, so that he could grip all three legs at once. Swinging the tripod like a tennis racket, he flung the camera far out into the lava. His gaze focused out in the distance at a po
int John couldn’t see. One minute. Two. It seemed like an eternity, before Wil was satisfied enough to turn away from the lava. The adrenaline visibly drained out of him, his form slouching slightly as it left. He looked over at John trapped beneath the beast, the realization of the line he’d crossed surfacing on his face; in all of their years of rivalry, they’d never resorted to violence. Not once. Wil cursed beneath his breath. And then he ran.

  It took the rest of the day for John to struggle out from beneath the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten. Even with his enhanced strength, the beast’s one and a half ton weight was too much for him. He fought his way out inch by inch. Thankfully, the spear’s shaft had broken off when the beast fell on him, but every time he moved, the head of the spear dug in against the wound in his foot, causing a new spasm of pain.

  He threw the spearhead out into the lava, and pulled off his boot. Two middle toes were completely severed. They’d grow back (he’d paid extra for limb regeneration), but for the time being, he couldn’t walk on his foot. He crawled on his hands and knees over to the edge of the ledge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the camera. Nothing. The camera was gone.

  He spent two days waiting for his toes to regenerate. Two days of roasting in the heat with nothing to do except dwell on Wil’s attack. His rivalry with Wil turned to hate. Each time he hacked off a piece of the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten and roasted it over the lava, it got worse. Wheaton needed to be destroyed. He prayed that the camera had been able to connect to the Internet and email the photo before Wheaton threw it out into the lava.

  It had.

  And it was glorious. The photo captured exactly what John had hoped for; the sort of thing that would bury Wheaton forever, and it did. In the press. In the court of public opinion. In a court of law, where Wheaton was convicted of attempted murder. Everything John had prayed for during the two days he was stranded and more.

  Only it felt hollow. He remembered the look Wheaton had given him going in the courtroom, the mixture of helplessness and shame. A look that questioned how their friendship had come to this.