Darkhold

© 2004 Lee Garrett
All rights reserved.

In sleep we lie all naked and alone,
In sleep we are united at the heart of,
night and darkness, and we are strange ,
and beautiful asleep; for we know no death.

—Death the Proud Brother, Thomas Wolfe

The sky dimmed as twin blue suns sank eastward. Shadows thickened, mortaring the jumbled ruins of Aeis Keep, making an island in the high tawny grass. The small section of flooring under him was still intact, marked with the ancient designs common to all transit points; a six-pointed star in a double circle with runes at all points.

Every once in a while, Myrl came here to remind himself to keep his temper in check. Because of him, hundreds of players had been reformatted and rebooted along with the political bitmap. It was an example he regretted making; the old lord had collected many beautiful treasures, now lost forever.

The sky mage held a thick-bodied flute in both hands, neglecting to play it. He'd have serenaded the eventide, but the wind was strong enough to distort the tones and he didn't want to waste his strength calming the air. Instead, he studied translucent cloud strata, marveling at colors he had no name for.

He had another attack of disassociation. The air before him rippled, brightening. A hole appeared, a window into a weird reality. These visions were unlike those the system usually provided; they lacked a tie-in to any of the side quests he knew of. Through the hole, he saw himself prone, draped with white linen. A metal box covered with flashing lights was near him. A woman sat next to the bed.

"It's not fair," she said, looking sad. "Writing your stupid game programs kept you out of my life, but I told myself I'd have my father back as soon as you sold the company. We were going to travel, see the world, you said. Now you're hiding from me in a coma."

The hole closed. Part of him insisted that what he'd seen was the real world. He throttled the feeling and flung it into the back shadows of his mind. Reality's what I make it.

He heard a slide of loose stones and a muttered curse somewhere behind him. After a moment, Tara appeared. She stopped beside him, breathing heavily after her climb. He shifted his admiration from the sky to her heart-shaped face, framed with raven hair, to her exquisite silk-sheathed figure and the flash of leg revealed by a side-slit skirt. His glance slid down to her beaded slippers. Her feet were small, delicate. Imagining them exposed sent a sexual thrill through him.

"Are you looking at my feet again?" Tara asked.

"Yes."

"You are beyond weird."

"I know. Can't help it. Don't really want to."

"That's going to get you killed one day, my love."

"Killed? What's that?"

Tara shrugged. "I don't really know. It's just an old expression I heard once. Are you staying here for the night or coming back to the city with me, my husband?"

Myrl stashed his flute inside his robes and flowed smoothly to his feet. "If we leave, our attackers will be disappointed."

Her hand went to one of the kyris in her sash but didn't draw the weapon. Meant to be handled by its wrapped mid-section, the throwing knife had curved blades at either end, making a perfectly balanced spiral. "Attackers?" Tara asked, scanning the plains. "The Blood Knights?"

Myrl's face was emotionless; he might have been discussing the nesting habits of moon moths. "Probably. This is the site where the surviving knights of Aeis Keep took their oath of vengeance against me, forming the order. The wind tells me there are a handful of players in the grass, stealthily approaching. They'll be close enough to strike in a few moments."

"We're outnumbered. We should we use the transit point to evade combat," she suggested.

"That seems rather rude," Myrl said, "after all the trouble they've gone to. Besides, they're only warriors. A mage wouldn't creep about this way—too much arrogance—too much pride."

"You're a mage," Tara pointed out.

He smiled for the first time in hours. "So I should know, shouldn't I?"

A joyous scream ended the conversation as six men in warrior leathers, brandishing curved sabers, leaped from the tall grass. They scrambled up the skewed blocks, coming on fast. Myrl put his flute to his mouth and blew a lusty note at the top of the instrument's scale. The air thickened with static. It made his skin prickle.

The long note broke into a descending line of melody. The wind stilled as the sky held its breath. Stars formed, balls of light balanced on thin filaments of lightning. The lopsided fire wobbled and shivered like giant soap bubbles, floating down the rock pile to stall the attackers.

"All right," Myrl said, "we can go now. It's getting cold."

Tara drew a deep breath, focusing her eyes on a point a few inches over her head, a few feet from her face. A thick band of gold light enclosed them. A continuous series of lesser bands dropped from the top one, a metallic cascade screening the plains. There was a wrenching sensation. Gravity fluttered then returned to consistency as the rings faded.

Under them was a new dais of stone with a double-circled star engraved on it. Myrl and Tara went to the edge and strolled down a small flight of stairs to a brick courtyard. They didn't hurry. The warriors they'd just escaped from had little reason to chase them here; the city was a neutral domain. Violence was still permitted, but it added nothing to anyone's stats. The only action they were likely to see lay in the occasional bar-room brawl.

They came to a cobblestone street. Beyond were storefronts with windows of pale green glass. The buildings were shaped in organic curves. Nowhere did Myrl see an angle in evidence. The boardwalks skirting the businesses were occupied by window shoppers in all manner of dress. City dwellers mingled freely with mages, warriors, guild thieves, and system sprites—shifting patches of light displaying sequential geometries in their wake as they danced an aerial ballet over the heads of the crowd. Most of the players were between quests, passing in an unarmed state.

Myrl and Tara crossed the street and threaded the crowd, finally arriving at an inn with a wooden sign swinging over the door. The picture on it was gilded, a crown on a bed of lilies.

Inside, they threaded a modest-sized crowd and took positions at the bar. Seeing a friend next to him, Myrl slapped the man on the back. "Fred, good to see you again. I didn't think you'd be back so soon. How'd it go in the mountains of madness? Did you find the Soul-Slammer?"

Clutching a mug of dark ale, the warrior turned to Myrl, confused etched on his face. "Hi, Myrl. Was I on quest? I can't seem to remember..."

The bartender interrupted. "What can I get you?"

Tara ordered. "A glass of white wine."

"Diet Coke," Myrl said, "with a twist of lemon." "Coming right up."

Myrl picked up his conversation where he'd dropped it. "Did you remember to save your matrix before leaving the city? Seems to me you lost your life points and got rebooted to an earlier mode."

Fred nodded. "That would explain things."

"What's the Soul-Slammer?" Tara asked between slurps.

"Can't quite remember," Fred said.

"Don't worry about it," Myrl said. "You guys don't have the experience points or life energy needed to go after it, anyway."

"Alone, no," Tara said. "But in a group quest..."

"Most people leave the Soul-Slammer alone until they beat all the low-level dungeons and acquire all the major relics of power," Myrl said. "Otherwise, the number of healing spells you'd need just to get past the gargoyle and orc nests would make up a king's ransom. And without an enchanted lodestone to escape the labyrinth of delusion—"

"You could do it," Tara stabbed Myrl with a finger. "You've got the Stone of Infinite Renewal from your last quest, and I can't see the labyrinth giving a first class mage any trouble."

"That may be true," Myrl said, "but it's a lot of work to go to for a rusty sword."

"The Soul-Slammer is a sword?" Tara asked. "A magic sword?"

Myrl gathered up the drink set before him. He took a sip and sighed with pleasure. "The most accursed of all swords," he answered. "It exists for only one reason; to keep the Dark One pinned to his own strange altar, contained within his ancient vault."

"So," Tara said, "if someone were to win the Soul-Slammer, it would be Endgame."

Myrl felt his blood chill at the thought of the whole world sliding into darkness and dissolution. His voice softened. "I'm afraid so. That's why the system sprites won't assist anyone going to Darkhold." That's why I quarreled with the lord of Aeis Keep. He was obsessed with bringing Death into this world. I could not allow it.

"Why's this thing called the Soul-Slammer anyway?" Tara asked. "Funny name for a pointy strip of steel."

A blue-green light discolored the air over Tara where a system sprite bobbed in place. Myrl's lip twitched in a brief smile as the sprite collapsed from a three dimensional octagon into a yellow pyramid. "You're being warned off the subject," the mage said. The system doesn't like certain keywords coming up."

"What's it going to do?" she asked. "File me in a memory card until I learn my lesson?"

Myrl shrugged. "It's happened before. I'd drop it, if I were you."

"All right, already." Tara scowled into her glass, took a swig, and swallowed.

As conversation fell into a lull, the sprite became a cube, a hexagon, and finally a blue sphere. Radiating approval, the sprite darted away, phasing through a wall into the street beyond. Myrl heard a prolonged slurp as Tara finished her drink. She set her glass down, and pushed it away, easing closer to him. Her voice wrapped itself around his head, soft, muted. "Myrl, why's it called what it's called?"

"You mean the Soul—"

"Yeah, the you-know-what."

"Well, the you-know-what is called what it is because it slams the soul. It's a blade made of energy that strikes at the essence, not the physical form. Another name for it has always been Ghost-Slayer." Myrl broke off, taking a long drag from his Diet Coke as the system sprite returned. It hovered over the bar, but this time it was orange, shading toward red. It fluttered between a cube state and that of a translucent cone.

"Uh-oh. Bye, Myrl. Gotta go see a man about a dragon," Fred said. "Catch ya later." He hurried away from the bar, knowing the advent of disaster when he saw it.

"Violation. Violation," the sprite shrilled. "You have performed an illegal function and must be closed down."

Tara said a bad word.

Myrl put his glass down, and addressed the sprite without looking at it. His voice had an edge of command to it that he didn't often use. "Leave her alone."

"A violation has been—"

"Is it worth the incredibly massive destruction that will follow if you piss me off? Access Aeis Keep files? See what I did there."

Gesturing to his empty glass, Myrl signaled the bartender for a refill. He responding hastily, then retreated to a safe distance—as if there were such a thing. Myrl frowned. He forgot the lemon.

The mage edged over to Tara and reached past her. His hand pierced the sprite's shell, sending violent ripples through it. He pulled a chunk of energy out from the core. The sprite collapsed to a fading mote that winked out seconds later. Myrl stared at the ion-plasm he held. Answering his thoughts, it solidified into a yellow elongated shape with little lumps at rounded ends. The air grew thick with a fresh citrus smell.

Myrl placed the new-formed lemon on the bar-top before Tara.

"Cut me a few wedges out of that, will ya? I can't drink straight diet cola. It's just not in me."

Tara pulling a dagger from her boot sheath, grabbed the lemon, and started slicing. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around," she said with a shocked grin in place.

"Does that mean you'll let me rub your feet tonight?"

"Is that all you can think of?" Tara asked, offering him a lemon slice.

Myrl shrugged. "What else is there?"

"I know you don't mean that. Save the posturing for someone who'll be taken in by it."

Myrl squeezed lemon into his drink, took a sip, and sighed with pleasure. "You didn't answer my question," he said.

"That's right, I didn't," Tara said. "Uh, oh. Look who's here now."

Myrl turned his back to the bar, facing the front door. He counted seven players with scarlet ribbons tied to their sword arms. Blood Knights? They've never violated the city's neutrality before—and they've brought big juju with them, two mages.

The first mage was clearly a geomancer, dressed in earth tones, sporting a necklace of sacred stones—red jasper, topaz, and white chalcedony. The second mage carried a glass wand capped with a lens. His robes were the blue of sunfire.

Firemancer, Myrl noted. His black sash denotes he's a master of his craft. He's the real threat of the two. If the geomancer were a serious contender, he'd have an onyx or amethyst.

The players approached and forming a crescent that hemmed Myrl and Tara in. The Geomancer addressed her. "You are not part of the commission I have accepted. Don't interfere and you will spare yourself a lot of grief."

"Not freakin' likely," she said. "My mother once said, 'It's only polite to leave the party with the one who brought you.' Besides, if you kill him, who'll pay my bar tab?"

"Feuding is forbidden within the city," the inn-keeper objected from behind the bar. "You can't do this."

One of the Blood Knights waved a piece of parchment festooned with official seals. "We've been allowed a one-time special permit to run amok," he said. "The system has been pissed off by this deviant once too often. An example must be made."

"But even if the city survives," the bartender objected, "my inn will be destroyed."

"I'm willing to take that chance," the knight said.

"You needn't fear for the city." The firemancer spoke for the first time. "I'll erect a firewall to shift this site temporarily off-line."

Myrl noticed that the last of the patrons were filing out the front door without paying their bills. He drew his coin bag and tossed it over his shoulder to the bartender. "That will help in the rebuilding. Send a bill to the city council for the rest. They should never have allowed this."

A wall of ruby light swept out from the firemancer. It bathed them all, before soaking into the room.

The firewall's up. No one's leaving until this is over. Fortunately, as long as the firemancer maintains it, he won't have energy to spare for joining the fight. To strike at me as well, he'll have to drop the barrier.

Myrl turned his attention back to the geomancer. "Do you have a name?"

The mage seemed surprised by the question, but answered proudly, "Aramus."

Myrl nodded, filing it away. "Whoever carves your headstone will want to know."

Aramus flushed with outraged pride. The muscles in his jaw knotted as he clenched his fists.

That's right, Myrl thought, get good and pissed. Anger will make you careless, and that will get you reconfigured.

"Enough talk!" Aramus said. "I am anxious to see if the stories about you come close to being true." The geomancer pulled a quartz knife from his robes. It smudged the air around itself with a dazzling glare.

Damn! If he knows how to use that... Myrl spoke to Tara without taking his eyes off the mages and knights. "Move back. You'll want to help me, but if you get in my way, I could kill you unintentionally."

"You're right," she said. "If you kill me, it should be on purpose."

"Tara..."

"All right, already. I'll move down to the end of the bar, since you want to hog all the glory." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Just be careful."

Aramus pointed the knife at Myrl and screamed, "I shall unmake you!"

The space between them buckled, distorting. The mage wavered like a reflection on a troubled pond. Myrl knew he, too, was a massive vacillation from Aramus' point of view. The problem was, perception might become reality if he wasn't careful.

He flicked his drink into the distortion. The ice cubes formed a constellation that suspended the cola in a flat plane, forming a shield. The oncoming waves of shivering space hit the liquid. It yielded to the onslaught, bulging, threatening to burst and splatter back on Myrl.

Though most of the assailing energy was checked, some of it spilled through the barrier, tearing at his substance. A sense of duality set in along with vertigo. It felt like he was both standing and reclining at the same time. The familiar inn blurred around him, turning ghostly. A new room phased partly into view. He saw himself on a bed with a beautiful young woman seated next to him. The woman wore alien outlandish clothing, holding his lax hand.

Am I the only one seeing this? he wondered.

It was the same scene as before, the same girl attending his sickbed. Her gaze followed a clear tube that was stuck in his arm. His other self lay still, lost in the depths of sleep.

"How long has it been since the accident, since mother died? Four years? Five?" The girl took a silver-framed picture from her bag, propping it on a nightstand. A shock coursed through Myrl. The picture showed him Tara, dressed in an outlandish manner.

"It wasn't your fault. You don't have to punish yourself this way. Come back to me, father—please." The girl's words and impassioned stare stab his heart, but he buried the pain as she continued. "You might as well be dead. You're in your own world, where no one else can go." She began to cry. Prying herself from her chair, she leaned over the bed to kiss sunken check of the dreamer, then ran from view. The hole showing his other self closed slowly, reluctantly.

The battle continued in the inn. The cola snapped forward into a plane once more, casting back the lethal energy. Distortion enclosed Aramus. His eyes grew huge with fear and surprise. Then his face became a mask of anguish. His body jerked and crumbled. Then the disruption was gone and so was the geomancer. The white quartz knife and Aramus' sacred stones—jasper, topaz, and chalcedony—fell to the floorboards with multiple thunks.

The weird other world faded. Myrl dismissed it from his mind, turning to the firemancer. "Your turn. Make your play."

The firemancer lowered his glass wand. Its lens dimmed, losing its ruby glow. "I'd rather not," he said. "If you will permit me to withdraw..."

Myrl nodded. The firemancer turned and strode calmly toward the door, ignoring the curses of the Blood Knights who had hired him. They shifted their glare to him. The leader of the knights pointed a finger Myrl's way. The knight's hand trembled with baffled rage.

"This isn't over!" he promised.

Myrl smiled in response as they retreated to the door. "Yeah, and that's just how I like it."

Tara rushed into his arms, clutching him with desperate strength. "It sounds silly, but for a moment, I thought I was going to lose you for good!"

He laughed and kissed her soundly, enjoying the soft warmth of her embrace. "You can't get rid of me that easily. What we have is forever."

"You are such a romantic!"

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