A Gamer's Guide 469 (Patreon)

According to Rafiloe’s calculations, the army would arrive at twelve, assuming they stopped for breakfast before coming there. 

But the time was thirteen, and there wasn’t even the slightest hint of them. Where she stood, at the edge of the garden, looking across the ledge, towards the main road, she couldn’t see anyone coming. Not even a single person. What was holding them up? Wouldn’t rescuing their king from the clutches of the anathema of hope be their prime objective? What could possibly be more important?

Maybe they’re gathering more forces, she thought numbly. That would make sense. Kitty proved to them that seventy thousand wasn’t enough to stop him. Not even enough to keep him from swooping down and swiping their king. Which was, of course, a ridiculous thing for him to do, and she couldn’t even imagine how ludicrous it must have been to bear witness to. Maybe enough to make them realize what a folly this whole thing was. You can’t kill a god. That’s absurd. 

Turned tail and ran, she thought. That would make sense, too. Far from glorious, but what did glory matter in a war such as this? 

Her grip on the ledge tightened. It would be fine. Whichever it was, everything would turn out alright. If they attacked, they’d defeat them. They wouldn’t even reach the city gates. And if they ran, then, well—good for them! Another day to live. Lovely. She loved when things were easy and simple. Downright—

A silhouette on the horizon. Down the road, atop sprintdrake, rushing between the budding crops that sprawled across the landscape. She froze at the sight. One, she thought. The rest are soon to follow. They’ll be here. I need to…

But no one followed it. It was only a single person, on a single drake, hurrying down the road. She watched them, brows furrowed, unable to make sense of it. Where were the rest? Or was this person unrelated? What was…?

She shook her head. Either way, as per the plan, it was up to her to act. 

Turning her back to the ledge, she rushed through the garden, over to the heart room, where Kitty was planting late-blooming bulbs, Simel sitting a few meters away from him on a bench, head in his hands. She decided not to think about him.

“Kitty!” she barked, getting close enough for him to read her mind. “I’m going, get ready in case you’re needed!”

“Aye,” Kitty said, nodding sternly. He shot a look at Simel, his mind briefly paging through what the best course of action would be regarding him Can’t let him get too far away so I guess I’ll have to bring him but forcing him to see that might not be good hmm I should find a babysitter but if she got caught up in his plans she’d never do anything of her own, so rather than replying to his thoughts, she turned around, and ran back to the ledge.

Eyes shaded by the rim of her hat, she didn’t even need to squint at the approaching silhouette. They were still alone. Still running fast enough to kick up a long trail of dust behind them. In that case…

She steeled her heart. Even if they’re armed, I’ll be fine. I can curse them into froghood faster than they can draw. 

She turned to her inventory. Since bringing up the matter to Kitty, she’d had two flightboards made, Surf-Hilda, for short, slow distances, and Garath But Better, for long, fast distances. Both had been expertly painted by Myrt to her specifications, Surf-Hilda’s underside adorned with a foxy pin-up model resembling her favourite cartoon witch; and Garath But Better sporting a white, pink-eyed dragon with six horns and six wings. At this moment, since the rider was still at least a kilometer or two from the gates, Garath But Better was the obvious choice, and even though she typically preferred Surf-Hilda, she pulled out her modified longboard, knocking on it twice before hopping atop it. Grabbing hold of the handles at the front, she laid herself prone across the board, slipping her feet into the specified grooves, and with only the slightest mental command, the flightboard leapt into action, zooming above the city with all the speed of a loosened rocket. 

Within mere seconds, she’d escaped the city, squinting hard at the rushing winds to make sure she knew where she was going. 

Locking her flightpath above the road, she tore through the air, seeking the silhouette that was soon to come. Not yet, not yet, not yet…

There! 

With the dot beneath her, she swooped down, lowering her speed enough to stand up atop the board, pressing her feet into a pair of specified grooves to keep her in place. And then, standing, legs wide and arms on her hips, mostly using her tail for balance, she did the hardest thing her Knock On Wood miracle allowed her to: she hovered. 

Mid-air, the sun against her back, she lowered herself until she was right in front of the person, happy to find that they had indeed stopped as well, their drake panting with open mouth. 

The person in question looked up at her, a mixture of relief and fear on her face. Her young face. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, which was typically considered adult among goblins, though Rafiloe had yet to really assimilate that particular part properly. Now that she had stopped, the cloud of dust behind her lazily drifted by, scattering with the mild early-summer wind. 

“Greetings, oh Hopeful One!” the rider said, lowering her head and pressing her hat to her chest. She didn’t really have much of a uniform—the only thing that made Rafiloe recognize the rider as a member of the Acheron army was the brand on the sprint drake’s flank—and the hat was likewise unofficial, being made of worn straw. “I come at the request of Vann, blessed of four, king of Acheron.”

Rafiloe blinked. Who? What? It was only her acting instincts that kept her from blurting out her less-than-professional answer. “Speak, herald,” she said, projecting her voice to be loud and clear. “For what reason has he sent you?”

She smiled so brightly. Like a little sun on the ground. “We have seen the light of hope, oh Hopeful One. The armies led by the late Simel the Tyrant have been disbanded. All that remains of our band are us, the soldiers of Acheron. We will leave the Empire. We will do all that the emperor asked of us. However, beyond that, His Majesty requests an audience to decide the terms of our surrender.”

Several meters in the air, standing on her board, Rafiloe wavered. For a moment she was completely weightless. Everything and nothing made sense. Then, she caught herself, and even though she wanted nothing better than to shout What the fuck are you talking about, she was able to say, all professional, “I am glad to hear it. What joy to be able to avoid a slaughter! Come to the gates, and we will welcome you.”

The herald lowered her head. “Aye, oh Hopeful One. Expect us in an hour.”

“I will. Hope upon ye.” Then, bidding farewell to the herald, Rafiloe flew away, making sure to put on her flight glasses this time. 

An hour later, as promised, the newly appointed king of Acheron arrived, in the company of less than five thousand soldiers, only a handful of which wore any sort of uniform. The rest wore muddy, dirty clothes, dragging themselves inside the city gates with all the enthusiasm of a snail going to a funeral. Inside, they found a marching band waiting for them, and happy citizens crowding the streets, cheering and throwing flower petals to them. They walked, accompanied by triumphant music, all the way to the castle, where they were met with smiles and places to sit and relax their aching feet. 

Amongst them, joined by a small group of officers, the lot of which actually wore uniforms, was the new king of Acheron. Rafiloe met him at the gates of the castle, shook his hand, and then guided him, his proxy and his small council all the way to their best meeting room, where a full course of human-style food had been prepared. 

She bade them to sit down, and then took a seat on the opposite side. Surprisingly, though, once they had shared the expected formalities (so glad you’ve realized your error—what a glorious reception—please, eat—truly beautiful city) the boy king sent away his council, all five of his officers, leaving the room empty, save for the king, his proxy, and Rafiloe herself. 

…Odd. That’s odd. What are they…?

The second the door to the meeting room closed, the king and his proxy shared a single look before both sighing heavily. 

“Oh, God, I never thought they’d leave,” the proxy said, running a hand through her hair. “Fucking hell. You’d think sycophants got tired of wringing their hands at some damn point. Do you think they’re born with that face, or do they earn it?”

The king shuddered at the thought. “I truly hope not. Though, were I to learn that an academy taught the trade, I am certain they received top marks in all classes.”

Rafiloe glanced from one to the other. “Um.”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” the proxy said, facing her. “I totally suck at kissing ass. Is it cool if I just call you Gecko?”

At this point, Rafiloe could no longer read the scene. The other actors had gone off-script, and now she had no idea whether to play along with their new bit, or to demand a return to form. In the end, though, the allure of speaking frankly with a fellow human overcame her, and on account of her technically being the highest ranking person in the room, she had no reason to fear the king. Smiling warily, she said, “Well, uh, sure. And you are…?”

“Holly,” she said. “And this guy’s Vann. He’s kind of still in shock about all this though, so he won’t be saying too much. Also, he doesn’t like cussing, but I do, so I’ll swear for the both of us.”

“That’s nice, I think?” Rafiloe said. “Would you like to sit, or…?”

Holly frowned at the food presented. “To be totally honest, I’m hungry enough to eat my own arm, but at the moment, I can’t think about food. Is it okay if we sit on the couches over there instead? I’ve always hated discussing serious shit over food. How am I supposed to keep track of what you’re saying when I’m eating crunchy stuff? Ridiculous.”

“By all means,” Rafiloe said, guiding the two guests over to the couch over by the empty fireplace. She took a seat opposite them, mentally petting herself on the back for making sure there were at least some cookies on the coffee table between the couches. “So, um…” She glanced from Holly to Vann. He wore a fairly fancy outfit, layered to impress, with red hose and fur cuffs around his neck and wrists. “Are you Simel’s brother, or…?”

“No,” Vann said plainly. “I have no relation to him. He threatened me unless I came along, since we both happened to spend a time in the captivity of the anathema—” he caught himself, “the God of Hope.”

Ah. Shoot. Rafiloe felt her palms begin to sweat. “Is—is that so? And yet, you’ve…?”

Holly and Vann shared a look. In the end, without exchanging a single word, they decided that Holly was the one who should speak. She said, without any change in her inflection, “Yeah, so, both Vann and I know Kitty personally. For better and for worse.”