Sorry Please Thank You (10 page)

The mood at dinner is somber. No one’s much inclined to be bawdy, or even merry. We chew on chicken in silence.

After dinner, I find Fjoork over by a stream, washing his face.

“Hey buddy,” I say.

“Hey.”

“Tell me again why you think I’m destined for greatness?”

Fjoork gazes off to the north, stands there just looking at nothing for a long time before answering.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t?”

“No man. I said, I Shall Follow You.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, you did. Huh.”

Fjoork wipes his face, rubs the back of his neck.

“Well,” he says. “This is awkward.”

“Don’t I feel a bit silly. All this time, I thought.”

“Yeah, I know what you thought. And that’s okay. It got us this far, didn’t it?”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Who knows?” Fjoork says. “You might rise to the occasion.”

And if not, maybe Krugnor will do it for me.

When I get back to the campfire, I see Trin and Krugnor sitting together on a fallen tree. Trin has her hands under
her thighs, which she only does when she’s feeling a little red in the aura. Now she’s looking at him in a way I have never seen her look at anyone. She’s definitely never looked at me that way, not even in Oondar.

Charisma’s good for a few things. Bluff, Disguise, Handle Animals, Intimidate, Perform. But it’s not so good when things get real. It’s not so good heading into Battle 256 with a group of tired, beaten-down warriors. Right now, I’d trade half of my Charisma points for some Wisdom. I’ve always been a couple of points on the low side in that department. I think about gathering everyone around, to rally their spirits a bit. If only I could say something wise right now, or at least something wise sounding. Even that might not work. But I can’t come up with anything decent, so I keep my mouth shut. Everyone’s a little tired of me anyway, I think.

In the middle of the night, I wake up to Byr and Rostejn whispering in the darkness.

Krugnor knows where the map doesn’t go.

Krugnor could lead us to The End.

We keep moving. We fight everything: deathknells, bugbears, carrion crawlers, lesser devils. We fight a small band of ghouls, and the ghoul queen. We get attacked by a gray ooze, waking up one morning to find the creature all over us, our camp, in our hair, covering our food. We lose almost an entire day cleaning up, not to mention using up
several minor enchantments plus a Cure Light Wounds. We keep moving, to the right, slashing and stabbing, jumping and charging, dragging ourselves onward.

Then Rostejn quits.

He comes to me and says, “You’ve been good to me, this has been good, but I gotta say, where is this all going? What are we doing? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I used to know. Now I don’t.”

“Ros,” I say. “You are killing me. You are absolutely freaking killing me here.”

How can I explain to him that I’ve been asking myself the same questions for the last ten moons? I can’t say any of that. It will make me sound weak.

“Don’t think this means I’m not grateful. Don’t think this means, in any way whatsoever, that I don’t appreciate everything.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Yeah. Yeah, man. Yeah to all of it, all of our good times. You used to be such a great leader. We took down a gold dragon. A gold freaking dragon, man! We were the toast of the Forgotten Village. Free mead and game bird until we all got fat and out of shape and our Dexterity scores started going down and we had to quit that place and move on. You gave me my first blade. You taught me how to bludgeon. I won’t forget any of that. It’s just.”

“I know.”

“No, no, for real. There’s something else,” Rostejn says.
He cracks a smile, something I haven’t seen for a long time. “I’ve got a girl now, boss. Met her right before we started this campaign. We’ve got a kid on the way. Gonna ask her to marry me.”

“Wow, Rostejn,” I say. “Wow. That’s just, that’s great.”

“Yeah. I know. I know. Hopefully the kid’ll take after his mother and be a peaceful law-abiding villager. Be more than I am. More than a sword for hire.”

I tell him he’s going to be a great father.

“I just don’t know. I don’t know what we stand for anymore. Byr’s gone all churchy on us, Fjoork hasn’t bathed in a moon and a half.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not just you. It’s all of us. Anyway, that’s not the point. I’ve given up on the Path of the Immortal Hero. That’s a young man’s dream. I just want to get back to what I’m good at, basic stuff, level up every few years. Maybe go out and pick up a few skills along the way. I’ve always wanted to get into Animal Empathy.”

“You?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rostejn says.

We have a warriors’ embrace.

“If you’re ever in the area,” he says, “Jenny makes a mean boar pie.”

“Sounds good,” I say, sure that I’ll never see him again.

Krugnor finds me as I’m walking back to camp and pulls me aside.

“There is something we should talk about,” he says. “Man-to-man.”

Here it comes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Go for it.”

“Go for it?” he says. He looks surprised that it was so easy.

“Yeah, be my guest.”

Krugnor lunges forward and I am expecting him to knock me to the ground in some kind of display of alpha-male dominance, but instead he grabs the back of my head and shoves his tongue into my mouth. Way, way into my mouth.

It takes all of my strength to push him off me.

“What the hell was that, Krugnor?”

“You said go for it.”

“That’s what you thought I meant?”

“Wait, what did you mean?”

“I thought you were taking control of the group?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Um, I dunno, because look at you? You’re this super-buff warrior-mystic who crushes evil and likes to aggressively shove your tongue down all of our souls? Because everyone thinks you are Frëd’s gift to us?”

I hear some murmuring and that’s when Krugnor and I both look over and see the whole group watching.

Trin’s mouth is wide open. Rostejn looks actually sort of hurt, like if Krugnor was going to have a thing for one of the guys, it should have been him. Fjoork appears to be rapidly and violently recalibrating his view of everything
that has happened for the last several weeks. Nobody speaks.

“Don’t mind us,” Byr finally says.

Krugnor turns back to me. “This is your group,” he says. “Always has been.”

“Then what the hell was with all of that flexing and showboating and stuff?”

“I was trying to impress you,” he says. I look over at the group, and I can see it in all of their eyes. They’re like, really? Trying to impress
him
? I know I’ve let them down, but it’s not too late. If this new guy, this super-strong, super-charming new guy is willing to follow me, maybe they can find it in themselves to remember why they followed me in the first place. Maybe I can find it in myself to remember. Just maybe.

Or not.

It’s the day of the final battle, Battle 256.

The first wave is lichs, and immediately we’re in trouble.

Then the rocs start in from the sky. Byr is praying her ass off, but Frëd seems to be doing whatever gods do when they decide to ignore us down here, because about ten minutes into the fight I hear those dreaded words.

Byr absorbs major damage.

I do my Power Move, but it’s a drop in the bucket. We’re in a sea of enemy hit points here. A fresh wave of monsters comes over the top of the hill.

Trin absorbs major damage.

Rostejn absorbs major damage.

Fjoork absorbs major damage.

This couldn’t get any worse.

Then it gets worse.

Krugnor absorbs major damage.

It isn’t long before we are all exhausted, overwhelmed by the power and the sheer number of the enemy.

Then:

Hero absorbs major damage.

It can’t be.

I am drifting off to The Place Where You Go Between Lives. I go through heaven, through hell, through an interdimensional nether region.

In the midst of the carnage, my soul lifts out of my corpse and toward a great expanse of light, the eternal horizon, the edge of the world, that final screen, how beautiful and peaceful it looks.

I have failed in my quest, and as surprised as I am that the story is ending this way, what is really unexpected is how okay I am with it, with all of it.

THE END

When I wake up in the sky, I am two hundred feet above the battlefield.

It is not pretty.

But on this side of The End, everything looks slow motion, almost like a choreographed dance, or perhaps a game, played by people that don’t quite seem real anymore. Even my lifeless body down there looks like some kind of puppet, something to be pulled along, controlled and manipulated. The fighting goes on in silence, this gorgeous ballet of carnage, and I start to wonder, did it matter? Did any of it ever matter? I tried. I gave it my best. That’s as much as anyone can say, right? So there. So that’s that. And now, I find myself floating up to my eternal reward.