A cleric who doesn’t believe in the Divine.
A revenant with no memory of his past.
A blind elf who’s on the hunt for, well, elves.
The following story was adapted from a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, the original tabletop roleplaying game enjoyed by nerds, bachelors, and the unemployed alike.
This is a work of fiction satire. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Especially if they resemble Richard Dawkins.
“We’re almost there,” Father Dawkins said with a half-smile. The afternoon sun beamed down on him as he continued south, followed by Tulik and Roxane. Despite the horrors they had faced in the Silvian Manor, the last couple of days had been good—at least by his standards. That crazy elf was gone. And so was that depressing wizard. Dawkins had the elixir to immortality all to himself. A cheerful wind swept through the trees, birds chirped a happy song, and the sky was bright and blue. For the first time since coming upon the forgetful soldier, all was right in Tristana.
In the distance, they could see the shadow of a small figure sitting on a tree stump. Dawkins rubbed his eyes, not quite sure whether it was a halfling, a goblin, or something bigger—he needed glasses, and that was overdue. It was as they got closer that they began to realize . . .
“Is that who I think it is?” Tulik said, crumbling eyebrows raised high.
“It can’t be!” Dawkins whispered.
Killer Eyes perked up, tail stiff.
Roxane frowned beside them, tear stains on her cheeks. “Is something wrong? Who is that supposed to be?” she said, pushing her hair behind a pointy ear.
“You don’t want to find out,” Tulik said, keeping his voice down.
“But she looks lost. She might need help.”
“Never mind,” Dawkins snapped. “Let us mind our footing, and perhaps she’ll not hear us.”
Tulik nodded. Step by step, they crept past the blindfolded elf. So far, so good. Just a few more steps, and—
A screech from above. Dawkins shielded his eyes as the traitorous sun scorched his vision.
The owl perched on the elf’s shoulder. “Who goes there! Any elves?”
Dawkins exchanged a look of dismay with Tulik. When Tulik shrugged, Dawkins cleared his throat, then squeezed his nose. “No one in particular, miss,” he honked. “Just three very non-elvish travelers on their way to Austere. We’ll be going now. Good day!”
The elf’s face bunched up like a rag. “Wait just a minute! What would three very non-elvish travelers be doing in a very elvish city?”
Tulik went tense. Dawkins gave a nasal curse under his breath.
“Hoot Hoot? Are they elves?”
Hoot?
“The very non-elvish travelers.”
Hoot?”
“Are you blind?”
Hoot . . .
“What? Well, Irrumabo too!”
Killer Eyes wagged his tail.
Roxane broke formation and encroached upon the stump. “Wait a moment . . . I know you. Dolores?”
Two pointy ears perked up. “Oh! I think I remember that voice. Let me see . . . hmm, yes. Yes, I do. You must be the witch who bought my last elvish batch. No? Oh, I know! The fortune teller who said I would find my missing children. Still not right? Oh, wait! Now I know!” Dolores hopped to a crouch on the stump. “You must be an elf!”
It was in slow motion as she leaped into the air, fingers curled in two fistfuls of hate.
The three of them stood perfectly still and watched as she body-slammed the ground.
Roxane laughed—the first time since leaving the manor. “Oh, Dolores! You’re still the silly little girl you used to be.” Then her face darkened.
“Roxane?” Dolores said, crouching up, voice full of hope for the first time since scouring the land for elvish children to kill . . . er, save. “Is that really you?”
“Yes, it is me!” Roxane threw her arms around Dolores, who shrunk back at the gesture.
Dolores clawed the dirt. “Elvish trickery!” She fidgeted and hurled a ball of dirt across the path. “Stay away from me, you liar—you, you—elvish liar!”
“Dolores! Relax, it really is me! It’s Roxane, it’s Roxane!” She shook Dolores and grabbed her again—until Dolores finally calmed down, her head sullen and sad. “Dolores. You stopped visiting. Three years ago. Why?”
“Because . . . elves.”
“What did they do to you? Which elves?”
“All of them!” Dolores lashed out at the sky, screaming to take vengeance upon . . . something, though nothing was there. And then she embraced her friend and wept.
Father Dawkins remained motionless except for his glance at Tulik listening beside him.
“I’ll find them—all of them! And when I do, I’ll feed them to my owls. There’s a whole legion of them—Hoot Hoot told me so!”
The owl, which had taken flight when Dolores left her stump, was now perched on a branch, gazing down with half-closed eyes. Killer Eyes trotted to the base of the tree and looked up with an anxious whine.
Roxane stooped over Dolores and held her face in her hands, feeling the blindfold that hid the widening eyes beneath. “Dolores, terrible things have happened to me as well. And if anyone’s done you any harm, I will see that they are punished.”
Dolores looked dazed. Maybe she’s not an elf after all, she finally decided.
“Ahem!”
Everyone turned to Dawkins.
“We should be on our way to Austere now,” he said. It was only after he spoke that he realized he was no longer holding his nose.
Now that voice I know! Dolores thought, stiffening her stance.
“Sooner the better,” Tulik added. “The road is no place to talk, with bandits about and all.”
Now that voice I know for sure!
Roxane stayed focused on her old friend. “I am going to stay with my relatives who live in the city. Come with me, Dolores, please. Living on the road is no place for an el—”
“Say, is that a spotted owl?” Dawkins said, his eyes in the tree. “White with a little bit of brown?”
“Black,” Tulik frowned. Dawkins regarded him with a glare.
“Dolores, come,” Roxane said.
Something elfishy is going on here. Dolores looked up from the ground and faced Roxane, or rather the forest behind her. “To Austere, hm? Yes. Yes, I suppose I will come. But first, I need to go inside and pack my things!”
They watched as she jumped to her feet, spun around, and stepped under the shade of a willow, where she picked up her belongings. One of her things was a familiar crossbow, cocked and with a piece of sharpened bark on its barrel. Dawkins eyed it with concern.
“Ready!” Dolores said, skipping onto the trail. “Oh, and Roxane? Just who are your very non-elvish companions?”
“Two very fine men who came to my rescue,” Roxane said with a modest bow. “The first is Fath—”
“Farther from town than he should like,” Dawkins scrambled.
“And the second is Tu—”
“Too late to be named. Shall we go?”
“Tullypop, is that you?” Dolores peeped, folding her hands innocently behind her. “And is Father Dawkins with you?”
Tulik shrugged as Dawkins glanced at him.
“Yes,” Tulik said as he scratched the back of his head. “It’s us.” He gave an uncomfortable smile. His finger still itched where Dolores had bit it off. Some things he wanted to forget.
“Big mouth!” Dawkins hissed.
“Yay!” Dolores hurried to greet them, promptly hugging a tree just beside Dawkins. “I’ve missed you both so much!” She stared through her blindfold at nothing. Then grinned. “Okay, let’s go!” With a whistle, her owl abandoned the tree for her shoulder, and they headed to town.
The journey was uneventful save for Dolores tripping over the occasional tree root, which she accused of having been left there by the mischief of elves. As the sky turned fiery orange, a dozen block-like structures rose like an old bent tower in the horizon.
Austere, Dawkins thought as he wiped his brow. As close to Meridies as my reputation permits. The divineless cosmos willing, my presence will go unnoticed.
Austere, Tulik thought as he straightened his back at the top of a hill. Once we get Roxane back to her family, then what will we do? He—or Dawkins, rather—had killed Raynor Sanguine, as instructed by the man he worked for in the Ex Cavare. But his first task remained unfulfilled. He had yet to expose the traitors within the regiment. And he knew the key to his memory lay somewhere buried in that quest.
Austere, Dolores thought as she polished her crossbow with spit and a tattered sleeve. An elvish mecca of elves! These two travelers are the worst of them. If I didn’t go with them, they would have killed me! As soon as my good friend Roxane gives the signal, I’ll shoot these two elves before they can say “fried ears and cabbage.”
When they approached the city’s weatherworn gate, a couple of guards with pointy ears blocked the way, arms folded and broadswords at their sides. They eyed the four travelers with suspicion and just a touch of malice.
“What business do you have in Austere?” one asked, not giving an inch of space on either side of him.
“To go home to my family of House Ruyn,” Roxane said, her voice soft, earnest, and pleading. “I myself hail from House Silvian.”
Father Dawkins had coughed over the last word. Dolores seemed unfazed.
The guard turned to the others as if he just spotted them. “And what about you three? What nerve do you have to travel during a plague?”
Dawkins stepped forth, squeezing a holy book in his hand, though the pages within had long been desecrated by pictures of whales with four legs. “My good man, it is the very plague of which you speak that brought me here.”
“All right, Father, no need to get so defensive.” He turned to the next. “And you with the . . . owl? You got a license for that . . . ? Oh, never mind. You know, the considerate thing would be to stay home until this plague blows over.”
“She’s my friend,” Roxane intervened. The guard gave her a brief glance, careful to keep his eyes above the neck of her silk green dress.
The guard then settled his aim on Tulik. “You don’t look so well, friend.”
“Indigestion,” Dawkins said.
“Wasn’t talking to you, Father.”
Tulik felt like he was shrinking under the scrutiny of the guard. His sick, gray skin gave him away, and he knew it. He wasn’t sick, of course. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could get sick anymore. But tearing off his arm to prove it was far from a key to the doors of this isolated city.
Dawkins glanced at Roxane, who wiped her eyes before taking the hint.
“This young man is our protection from bandits. I owe him my life,” she again spoke up. The guard glanced at her a second time. “Do you insult his condition? Someone who saved the life of a Silvian? If he is not permitted to enter the city, then I suppose I shall bring my house out from it. That would be quite the shame, considering how much the city depends on our contributions.”
Contributions? Tulik nodded to himself. This elven girl belonged to no ordinary family.
The guard paled but stood firm. “We mean no offense, milady, but all the same, we need to check for the plague. I’m sure you understand.”
Tulik went limp. So did Dawkins.
“That’s acceptable,” Roxane said. “Though I assure you, he has no sign of illness.”
He has no signs of life either! Dawkins thought.
“Doctor!” the guard barked. A figure strolled out from a small tent beside the city entrance. He was dressed in black from head to toe and wore a raven-beak mask. “Inspect this man, and make sure he’s safe to enter the city.”
The doctor nodded without a word, then motioned Tulik to follow him into his tent.
“Stay here, Killer Eyes,” Tulik said, looking down at his side. But the hound wasn’t there. He spun around and spotted his faithful companion pressed up against Roxane’s leg, tail taking wide swings as she caressed his head.
Tulik sighed, threw a reluctant glance at his companions, then sulked into the tent. In the middle of the room was a little table with bandages, herbs, and scalpels—some with blood drying on them. The doctor pointed at a chair. With an audible gulp, Tulik lowered himself into it.
The doctor stood before his victim, holding his hand open. It took Tulik a second to realize he was supposed to give the doctor his arm. The doctor’s leather-gloved thumb pressed against the bottom of Tulik’s wrist. Face concealed and silent, the doctor’s reactions were unreadable. At last, he released Tulik and scribbled on a piece of parchment on the table. It was a straight line.
Next, the doctor leaned forward and pushed up on Tulik’s lip with two gloved bony fingers. Then scribbled some more.
Lastly, the doctor wielded a hammer like one from an anvil. Before Tulik could protest, the butt of the tool smacked below his left knee. Nothing happened. When it smacked his right knee, Tulik understood it was a test of reflexes, and he properly extended his second leg.
The doctor tossed the hammer aside. Then latched onto Tulik’s left leg and tugged.
“Whoa—wait, what are you—”
The leg came off.
The doctor reached for the parchment, scribbled another note, and showed it to Tulik.
Sunlight deficient—not vampire. Prosthetic leg. No plague.
The doctor pulled open the tent flap and pointed out. Tulik couldn’t stick his leg back on any faster. He scurried back to the others and presented his bill of health to the guard.
“Everything seems to be in order,” the guard said, rubbing his stubble chin. He looked up. “Welcome to Austere.”
A wave of relief washed over Tulik—and Dawkins as well.
Thank the . . . Divine, I guess . . . that I don’t have to sleep out here in the sticks, Dawkins thought as they passed through the gate, which squeaked on old iron hinges. It won’t be long before that she-elf gets herself in some sort of trouble. Then she’ll spend the next few nights in jail, and by the time she’s out, we’ll be long on our way.
Dawkins then slowed his pace. Just where were they heading next?
“Here we are,” Roxane said as they neared a mansion on the north side of town. From the outside, it looked deserted. Its disproportionate shadow covered the road, and a noticeable chill swam beneath.
Tulik stepped up to the door and used the iron knocker. It didn’t take long for a servant to answer, and Roxane hurried up the steps. As soon as she gave the servant her name, a voice cried out from within the house, beckoning Roxane to enter. She paused, turning around.
“I must go in first. They’re not very keen on . . . non-elvish folk.”
When Tulik realized he was the only one without a drop of elvish blood, he frowned but suffered a complacent nod as the servant shut the door after Roxane. It was only then he realized that the hound had snuck through the door with her. Keep her safe, Killer Eyes.
And then there were three.
Dolores stood between them, ears twitching in the coolness of the shadow. Dawkins glanced at Tulik, and in perfect symmetry, they each took a silent step backward.
“Now hold on just a second!”
But Dawkins already was holding on . . . to his war hammer.
Dolores shouldered her crossbow. A piece of bark spiraled through the air, and only the Divine knew where it went. Just as Dawkins took his swing, talons pinched his shoulders, and his hood was pulled over his face.
“Confounded bird!”
He took his swing anyway, the weight of his hammer dragging him in a wide, awkward circle.
Tulik ducked under the first swing, but he missed the second. His head rolled halfway down the street, chased by his stumbling body.
“Get off me!” Dawkins growled, writhing with Dolores on his back. She had her teeth sunk into his arm. “Get off me, you damn elf!”
Her bite strengthened. On the other side of the blindfold, Dawkins swore he saw two rings of fire. Dolores squeezed one of his ears. “Who’s an elf?” she cried, twisting her fingers.
“It’s all right!” Roxane’s inviting voice called from the door to the house. At once, Dolores slid off Dawkins’s back, and Tulik had just stuck his head back on. All three hid their weapons behind them. “You can come in—all of you.”
Dolores took the first step toward the house and bumped into a column beside the entrance. Roxane guided her inside, waving to the others.
But Tulik glanced at Dawkins. “Should we?”
Dawkins grimaced. “Did she bite your arm?”
Tulik shook his head. “No. But it’ll be for just a few minutes. Then we’ll be on our way.”
At this point, Dawkins didn’t even protest. He just watched as his elixir walked through the door, once again dragging him into close proximity with that ridiculous elf. Dawkins snorted, shouldered his hammer, and marched after him. He was far from giving up. And he’d smash that elf’s head in if that’s what it took.
“So, you two must be the brave heroes who brought us our Roxane!”
Dawkins, Tulik, and Dolores stood in the grand foyer as a man and a woman wrapped in bright clothes descended a creaky set of stairs. Roxane stood at the side, sorrow still clinging to her face though accompanied by a new sense of comfort.
“I wish to thank you both, Father Dawkins and Sir Tulik, for rescuing my niece,” Lord Ruyn said. “You are both guests of House Ruyn tonight, and there will be a sum of gold waiting for you come dawn.”
Dawkins bowed. “Your kindness warms my heart, and your offer is humbly accepted.”
“And you, Dolores, may stay under our roof as well.”
Dawkins cringed. “What? Her?”
“Why, yes, Father,” Lord Ruyn said. “Any friend of Roxane is a friend of House Ruyn. Thank you again for your selfless act. Your deeds shall not go unrewarded.”
Or unpunished, Dawkins thought with a glance at Dolores. She was reaching for one of Tulik’s detachable fingers, but the soldier jerked away in time.
“Your weapons. You have no need for them here. Please, leave them at the door.”
Tulik gritted his teeth, looking worriedly at Dawkins.
“Sounds fine to me!” Dolores beamed, dropping her spent crossbow on the floor. Hoot Hoot had flown up to a chandelier, apparently unseen by those who weren’t watching for it.
The servant entered the foyer. “Supper will be served in the dining hall, milord,” she said with a bow.
“Splendid! We shall dine and hear of your tale, mighty heroes.”
Another glance was exchanged.
“I think that sounds . . . delightful!” Dolores said, folding her hands together. “Oh, how I do wish to hear the tales of these two mighty heroes myself!” She gave Dawkins a toothy grin. He regretted leaving his hammer at the door.
The foyer emptied. All except Dawkins, who stood in the middle of the room, and Tulik, who had at least crept up to the dining room entrance.
A priest, a soldier, and an elf walk into an old house, Dawkins thought, then shaking his head. A fraud, a dead man, and a homicidal maniac . . . That made him smile.
“Psst. Father.”
Dawkins eyed Tulik before taking a cautious step or two.
“I don’t think she’ll attack us as long as Roxane is around. We’ll just have to keep her in the room at all times, and we should be safe.”
“Should be,” Dawkins grimaced. He heaved a sigh and marched into the dining room.
Lord Ruyn sat at the head of the wooden table, opposite his wife. Roxane sat on one side with two of her cousins. The three visitors sat on the other side, with Dolores in the middle. Killer Eyes drooled at the corner, and Tulik snuck him a piece of meat when no one was looking.
Dolores sawed into a piece of the tablecloth. “Why, dinner is simply delicious! I haven’t had anything this good in . . . well, I don’t know how long!”
“I’m glad you approve,” Lady Ruyn said. “It’s prime stag, an elvish dish that goes back centuries.”
Her dull silver knife stopped cutting. “Elvish?”
“Indeed. As I know you are aware, my dear, today is the Feast of the Fairtivity.” Lady Ruyn turned to the only completely non-elf. Tulik. “On this day, we celebrate the arrival of the elves into the men’s world of Tristana. We are fabled to have come through a door from another realm, if you can be silly enough to believe such rubbishness.”
Dolores squeezed her knife. “Elves?”
“Yes, Dolores. Our kinsfolk. Don’t tell me you’ve never spent the Feast atop one of the Seven Hills. It’s said those hills were formed the day we arrived a thousand years ago.”
Damnatio Divina! Dolores thought. This house is full of elves! I’ve walked into a trap! She forced a smile. “Oh, yes, I spend every Feast up there in the hills, and sometimes even when there isn’t a Feast.” When she thought no one was looking (they all were), she slipped the dinner knife up her sleeve.
Lady Ruyn turned her attention to the gray soldier. “Sir Tulik, Roxane says you’re in the Ex Cavare. I have a very good friend in Remus who’s in the Ex Cavare. General Adom. Why, I bet you’ve heard of him. He’s quite the legend of sorts since the hordes began showing up. Last I heard, he was in the Southern Moors. Have you met him?”
“I’m not certain I have,” Tulik said without looking up.
Dawkins gave him a stern glance. Then winced as Dolores pricked his leg with her fork.
“I bet you’ve seen lots of action on the battlefield. Why don’t you share some of your heroic tales with us?”
Tulik stared at his slice of stag. Stories? I don’t even remember signing up!
“Please, Sir Tulik,” said one of the Ruyn daughters across the table. She squeezed her hands together, her blue eyes pleading. “Tell us of your heroism on the fields of glory!”
Tulik gulped. “Uh, well, you see . . .”
“Yes, please do!” another chimed.
“Well, the truth is—”
“That he’s not at liberty to discuss his encounters with demons,” Dawkins said.
The table gasped.
“Demons?” Lord Ruyn asked.
Dawkins nodded before sipping from his pewter cup. “See? He’s already said too much.” Dawkins turned to one of the two servants in the house. “Could I trouble you for some more wine? Thank you.” The servant complied, filling his cup to the rim for the fourth time.
Dolores stiffened in her chair. Demons? That’s almost as bad as elves! Beneath the table, she rubbed her hands together, and Killer Eyes took it as an invitation. They’ve got one hiding under the table too—I just felt it! That’s it. Tonight, when my army of owls tells me the elves are asleep, I will creep into their rooms and cut off their silly little elf ears . . . starting with Tulu!
Dawkins eyed the she-elf beside him. She was staring down at the table with a wild look on her face.
When supper was over—followed by a resin pudding dessert that Dolores thought tasted like elf brains, and thus, she craved for seconds—the heroes were each given a room for the night.
“Sleep well, Father!” Lady Ruyn bade the cleric.
“You too, milady,” Dawkins said as he stepped into his room. He was quick to shut the door, turning the latch. He then grabbed the nearest chair and wedged it beneath the lever. “That’ll hold her, or so I . . . well, I don’t pray anymore.”
Hoot?
“That crazy elf, that’s who. Wait! What?”
Dawkins spun around. An owl was perched on the bedpost. “You? Bother! Away with you! Away!” He hurled a book at the feathered beast, and it took flight to the other side of the room, leaving a white splotch on the bedcovers. Dawkins hurried to the window, cursing as he forced it open, and then armed himself with a candlestand. “Get out of my room, you confounded bird!” He swung and smacked a mirror, his enraged reflection at once multiplied by six.
Down the hall, Tulik whistled at Killer Eyes from his bedroom door, but the hound pretended he didn’t exist as it followed Roxane into her room. Tulik was in the process of closing the door when the Ruyn daughter—the one with blue eyes—swayed by. “Good night, Sir Tulik,” she said slowly, her golden hair undone and flowing around her shoulders.
He gulped. “Night.” Then shut the door. When he turned around, a dark room stared back. It was the first time since he’d woken up on that wagon so many days ago that he was alone. Stepping toward the window, he peered into the dim streets of Austere. He watched as two lovers strolled in the moonlight, hand in hand. He looked down at his own two decaying hands, one of his fingers not even aligned with the others. The stories are true, he thought. People do come back from the grave with a vengeance. I am a revenant. He glanced out the window again as their silhouette faded. Which means once I finish what I came back to do . . . then I’ll die again, and this time, forever. There is no happy ending. Not for me.
Tulik lay down on the bed. Not that he could sleep. He would enter an inactive state where he would stare at the ceiling for hours. And as he did, images spiraled across his mind. Images of death. Images of decay. Battlefields soddened in blood.
Then a face with a beard. The man he worked for. General Adom.
“I understand you’re hesitant about signing on to expose the traitors, Tulik. Once they see your face, they’ll never forget it. Truth be told, we commissioned a ranger—an elven ranger—to infiltrate a lair of demons for us. But she went missing three years ago,” the general said. “Here’s a picture. Don’t let the little thing fool you. She’s a clever one.”
Tulik pictured the elf in his mind. Then added a blindfold. Dolores . . . could it be?
It was such a match that he swore she was standing over him from the foot of his bed.
It is Dolores!
Then she raised a dinner knife. “Die, elf, die!”
Tulik rolled just in time as the blade came down. It plunged into the mattress.
Dolores clawed into the stuffing, feathers raining down as she screamed in delight. “I got you! Ha-ha! It’s over, elf!”
Tulik stared from the bedside. “You worked for the Ex Cavare?”
Dolores froze. Then gaped around the room. “Another one? How many of you elves are there? I must be surrounded!” She leaped off the bed and scurried across the room. “You haven’t seen the last of me, elves! Out the window, I shall make my escape! And in your nightmares, I shall carve my name into your hearts!” With those words, she pulled open the bottom drawer of an oaken dresser and hopped inside.
Tulik turned back to his bed where a knife handle stuck out. But instead of fear or rage, he felt sympathy. Something terrible must have happened to that elf. Maybe something worse than dying and losing one’s memory.
“Look, Dolores. I don’t know what they did to you. And I sure as the sixth hell can’t say I understand your pain, but you’re not too different from me. Something happened to myself as well, and I can’t remember the life I used to live. Maybe I was married, maybe I had children, maybe I was happy, I don’t know. But whatever it is, they took it away from me too. Much like they took something away from you.”
She was silent. Tulik didn’t know if she was listening, but he hoped . . . deep down . . . that she was.
He stepped into the hall, gently shutting the door to his room. He then tiptoed over to Dawkins’s room. He knocked twice but was greeted only by a deep snore. He sighed, shrugging as he headed downstairs. With Dolores lurking in his dresser, he’d have to find somewhere else to spend the night. The house was big. It had to have a divan or two lying around somewhere.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard a voice. Against the foyer floor, he saw the flicker of a hearth from a side room. He crept closer, listening.
“They’re upstairs as we speak. Shall I have them arrested?”
“Oh, there’s really no need for that. Let them revel in their victories. They’ve had quite the adventure, those three.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
My lord? Tulik thought, frowning. He knew that voice. It belonged to Lord Ruyn.
“That girl, on the other hand . . . she was close to Raynor, was she not?”
Tulik heard a gasp.
“Roxane knows nothing of your plans, my lord. I swear it.”
“Such a delicate flower, that one. It would be most unfortunate should she know more than she feigns.”
A thick silence permeated from the side room.
“Has Rohan located the journal, my lord? Shall I inherit him into my staff?”
There was a sniff. “There are no traitors in Goldeneye. You know the principle.”
The fireplace crackled.
“I would hate to think what would happen to this house should that book fall into the wrong hands.” The voice lingered through the air like a portent of doom. “Is something wrong, Ruyn?”
“N-no. Your will be done, my lord. I shall search their rooms on the morrow.”
When Tulik realized they were heading into the foyer, he ducked behind a bronze vase coated in dust. He peeked around its rim, watching as Lord Ruyn step out, who was following a . . . floating chair? From behind his concealment, all Tulik could see were its gold legs and the ivory robe of the man who sat upon it. The robe twinkled with yellow stars, half-moons, and pyramids. A wizard? No, it was something else. Something more . . . evolved.
The chair froze mid-air. Tulik saw its legs rotate, the robe turning his direction. He pulled his body together behind the vase, careful not to move an inch.
“A remnant of the Remus era,” the robe said, marking the end of his words with silence. “So beautiful even a rotting corpse cannot take from its beauty.”
Tulik didn’t so much as twitch. He sat as still as a shadow until he heard Lord Ruyn clear his throat from the other side of the foyer.
“May the Divine watch over your travels, my lord.”
The chair stopped. Peeking around the vase, Tulik saw Ruyn fidget.
The robe said nothing. The man who was under it waved his hand, and a vortex of pale light swirled on the surface of the front doors to the manor. The chair drifted into the sea of white, and then the light faded.
Lord Ruyn put his back to the door. Released a breath. Wiped his forehead.
Then Tulik jumped out from his hiding place. “Who in the seventh, eight, and ninth hells was that!”
Lord Ruyn gave a little scream. “Sir Tulik! Y-you should be sleeping!” His face wore shock, his hands clammy. “Wh-what did you hear?”
“Who was that? Answer me!”
He shook his head. “I can say nothing, Sir Tulik. He’ll know! It’s the principle!”
“You were ready to kidnap us in our sleep!” Tulik didn’t realize he had launched forward, gripping the lord of the house by the throat, until Ruyn choked.
“Please—I meant no harm! I have to obey—it’s the only way to keep my family safe! He’s placed the same curse on me as has befallen all the lords before me!”
Tulik couldn’t feel his blood boil, but he knew if he could, it’d be hotter than a forge.
“Please, Sir! I beg of you!”
Tulik pressed his teeth together, feeling them move under the pressure. Let go, he commanded himself. Reluctantly, he released the lord and took a step back.
Lord Ruyn gasped and wheezed. “I can tell you this much. He’s the cause of all that’s been happening. The plague, the hordes, the demons. He’s the riddle to all things wrong in this world!”
All these things—the handiwork of one man? Tulik frowned. “That’s impossible. Even if he claims it. What’s been going on is a calamity. Only the Divine knows what.”
Lord Ruyn looked up. “That’s just the thing! He claims to be the Divine—or rather, he seeks to be, to replace him. Surely, you’ve read of it in Sanguine’s journal!”
Tulik squinted as he remembered the Silvian Manor. Father Dawkins did find a journal, he thought. But he sure didn’t mention anything about this to me. Then he shuddered. Is Dawkins in on this too?
“What’s his name?” Tulik asked. “The man in the chair?”
Lord Ruyn shook his head from side to side.
At first, Tulik considered mercy. The man cowering before him was pathetic. A coward in rich clothes. Then he remembered the other members of the investigation and the blood that painted the moors. He straightened up and clenched his fists. “Then for the sake of mankind and elfdom, I shall have to beat it out of you!”
“Please—no! The principle!”
Tulik marched forth with the fortitude of an Ex Cavarian soldier. “Tell me!”
“I can’t!”
He squeezed the man’s shoulders. “Who is he!”
Lord Ruyn squeaked, quivering, tears forming in his eyes. “He has no name! He’s only known as the . . . the Alchemist! He’s gone to Remus, to do something unspeakable to the capital! That’s all I know—I swear it!”
Tulik’s hands turned so suddenly hot, he was forced to let go and stumbled backward in surprise. At once, the elven lord who stood before him erupted in a ball of fire. Burning flesh stuck to Tulik’s nostrils as he watched, eyes trembling. Within minutes, Lord Ruyn and his short, deathly cries were renounced to a heap of smoldering ash.
“Whoa!” Tulik breathed, his only word an echo. “Whoever this Alchemist is, he’s got to be the closest thing to the Divine I’ve seen yet.”
Footsteps behind him.
“There’s no escape, elf!”
Tulik turned just as she rammed into him. His back crashed into the floor, and she struck his face again and again until it painted the ground black.
“Die, elf! Die and suffer!”
Dolores—stop! That’s what he wanted to say. But his jaw was no longer attached. And neither were his arms or legs. She had latched onto each of his limbs and launched them across the foyer. Please . . . we have to stop . . . the Alchemist . . . in Remus!
Tulik gazed up at the chandelier, defeated. He could feel his limbs, twitch his fingers. But he didn’t know where they were.
When she was finished, Dolores stood up and listened. A crackle. A fire? Yes! The perfect way to cover up the evidence. In fact, the perfect way to finish off the rest of the elves that had trapped her in this wicked house.
Tulik squinted, barely able to see as the elf fled into the next room. Then glowing red logs spiraled through the air, scattering across the first floor of the house.
No! Don’t do this!
The last thing he heard was her gleeful laugh. “Die, elves! All of you—die, die, die!”
His eyes widened, shaking loose in their sockets as the room became a pyre. A red wave rolled through the foyer, fiery tongues lashing their way up the stairs.
Oil paintings were torched. Rugs ignited like dry bushels.
And the House of Ruyn became the tenth hell.
Continue to Dawkins & Dragons V: Ascending to Divinity
Special thanks to Dom (Tulik), Austin (Dolores), and Tom (Dungeon Master).
