A Hero’s Tale

 

E. Florian Gludovacz

 

 

 

The bar was too fancy and the barkeep too well dressed for my taste. Admittedly, my armour was dusty and dented in places, but that didn’t give him the right to sneer at me. I plunked my bag of gold on the bar, producing a satisfying metallic clunk, which drove home the point that I was a paying customer who deserved respect.

“Your most expensive beers! Line them up!” I examined each bottle closely, paying special attention to the caps. I chose the flashiest six and pushed away the rest.

I opened the first bottle, carefully setting the cap aside, and emptied it in three long draughts that soothed my parched throat.

Somewhat refreshed, I felt more well-disposed towards the barkeep. I removed the next bottle cap, placed it next to the first one and spoke.

“The name’s Cormyn. THE Cormyn, legendary hero, though times have been hard and heroing isn’t what it used it be. Heck, I didn’t even want to be a hero, I just wanted to visit exciting places.”

“So what’s with the bottle caps?”

“Ah, now that’s a story. I’ll tell it to you while I finish my beers…”

 

I was in Zynorbia, where a dragon was terrorising the countryside. The King didn’t want to lose his own troops, so he’d offered a reward to anyone willing to vanquish the monster. I’d also get half the dragon’s hoard, and dragon-slaying does wonders for your reputation, which is always useful for getting at least one free drink.

Tracking dragons isn’t all that difficult. Just follow the burnt fields, livestock hiding under trees, and peasants all staring up. I found Zynorbia’s bane in a system of caves in the Dragonspine Mountains. Smart move naming landmarks so they appeal to the dragonly ego.

I left my mount hidden in a copse of trees and proceeded on foot, taking all the usual precautions, charmed sword in my right hand, warded shield on my left arm, and my skin covered in a thick layer of dragon-repellent. It’s sticky and smelly, not to mention expensive, but it has served me well on numerous occasions. I entered the darkness, my helm casting a sorcerous light no dragon could see. I crept along, spotting shed scales and dragon tracks, but mostly following my nose, for I can tell you the scent of dragon is scorching. I pressed on, until a groan and a mumbled curse made me freeze.

“Oh damn it all, Cormyn. It’s you, isn’t it? With that “sorcerous light no dragon can see”? Why do I always run into you, no matter where I go?” Spouting flame lit the cavern’s walls glowing red. “Come on, no need to hide. Step out into the light where I can see you. And don’t pretend it isn’t you. I can smell that foul dragon-repellent a mile away.”

“Oh, bugger,” I said, and sheathed my sword. “Why is it always you? How are you doing, Thôrwyaîn?”

“I was doing well, then along you come to disturb my peaceful solitude.”

“Well, how do you think I feel? I was hoping to match wits and skill with a monster and gain more renown, and then it turns out to be you.”

“And as soon as I find a nice set of caves and peasants and villages to keep me amused, you show up covered in dragon repellent.”

“I guess we know what’s next. You pack up and fly off, and I go tell the King’s Council I’ve driven you away, grievously wounded. There go my hopes of a nice hoard. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you have a proper hoard now?”

“A proper hoard? What do you mean ‘a proper hoard?’ Thôrwyaîn snorted bursts of fire that raised the cave’s temperature to toasty. “I possess the finest hoard in all the seven kingdoms. No dragon has amassed a finer or more complete collection of rare bottle caps.”

“Unfortunately, bottle caps won’t keep my horse fed. Nor me.”

“Well, give me a week to move out, and I’ll tell you about a treasure.”

“Hm. Two days.”

“I need at least five to pack the caps.”

“Three.”

“Agreed. There’s a mound of treasure ripe for the taking. A renowned hero such as yourself shouldn’t have any trouble raiding the place.”

“Tell me more.”

“Have you heard of the Temple of the Mad God?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Who indeed, but I have a map that will lead you to it.”

“Since when are you interested in mundane gold and jewels?”

“Well, I’m not. I was going to trade it to my clutch-mate Xerphantôcles. He’s obtained a rare set of limited edition ginger beer bottle caps and will only trade them for silly glittery stuff. But you’re an old friend and I really don’t want to kill you, so I’ll give you the map in return for those five days.”

“Three.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright. Now for the warning.” I drew myself up and orated portentously. “I admonish you, oh beast of darkness, to fly this kingdom and never darken its skies again. Or else… Oh, and by the way, I hear the kingdom of Holt is a hospitable place for dragons this time of year.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“The Grand Vizier is a skinflint who has stiffed me and my fellow heroes out of a good deal of money. He never pays an advance and always haggles after the deed is accomplished. So I don’t think you’ll have anyone bothering you there.”

“Thanks Cormyn. You’re a true friend.”

“Sure. And that map?”

 

The fabled Temple of the Mad God was a day’s ride south of the caves, just off the main road. Any fool could have found it without the aid of Thôrwyaîn’s map. You see, dragons as a whole aren’t all that wise or clever. Dumb as rocks, really. Unless… did he put one over on me, giving me a worthless map? No, that doesn’t sound right.

As I made my way there, I dreamed of the legendary treasures that awaited me. The foremost was a ruby of at least 4,000 carats, set in a huge solid gold idol of the Mad God.

After finding a safe place for my horse, I approached the temple and wondered whether the Mad God had always been mad, or if the architectural monstrosity of the earthly home of his divine spirit had eroded his sanity. The place was unspeakably off kilter, so crooked the builders must have used an anti-level to attain its anti-shape. The memory alone makes me shudder. No wonder worshippers only showed up for the annual Mad Revels.

I ventured inside and found the place a nightmare of clashing colours, disturbing textures, and distorted shapes designed to induce the proper state of madness in the god’s faithful. Even I, who has faced dangers and terrors beyond belief, was hard-pressed to refrain from clawing my eyes out to end the assault on my senses. Only my strong mental resilience, and possibly my lust for gems and gold, let me continue.

The temple’s central chamber was a huge rotunda that stretched upwards into darkness. I padded silently across the floor toward the idol, a huge mound sprouting random protuberances. It was magnificent in its repulsive ugliness. I hoped for the Mad God’s sake the sculptor had taken some twisted artistic license, but I was drawn to it nevertheless.

The statue sat in a great alcove, emanating a golden glow and shimmer, and the blood red ruby sparkled and beckoned. I’d need a whole fleet of wagons to transport all that gold. But for now, I’d focus on the ruby, and be gone before anyone noticed.

I climbed the statue deftly, using the twisted, unwholesome protrusions as hand and footholds. Once perched on the God’s shoulder, I drew my stiletto from its sheath in my boot and pried the gem loose. It might have been the Mad God’s curse, but the stone flipped out of its socket and arced off into darkness. It tinkled as it hit the floor. I froze, listening for sounds of alarm, but everything remained quiet. I stared at the empty socket. Beneath a thin wash of gold paint was plaster. Plaster.

I descended and went hunting for the ruby. It had shattered. I examined a shard. Somebody had exchanged the priceless ruby for a cheap glass facsimile, if indeed it had ever been more than that.

My hopes of endless riches had turned to glass and plaster. I considered my options. The temple was famous not only for its treasures, but also for the beauty of its virgin priestesses. I decided to say hello and see if any were amenable to closer acquaintance.

I discovered them chatting in the vestry and sipping mad tea. There were three. Lascivia was definitely the most lively of the group, despite being dead. Dead, but gone only physically, and in the middle of a wildly bawdy story. Her spirit was willing, but her flesh was weak to the point of not existing. Then there was Griselda, who was indeed a virgin and made it clear she intended to remain one, and since she was as old as my grandmother’s grandmother, I wasn’t too disappointed, but I was impressed with her life-long resolve. The third virgin wore a lovely dress, but Bernhard’s full, bristly beard and bulging muscles ruined the effect for me, despite his eagerness.

We did have a nice cup of tea though and they shared stories of their lives as professional virgins. They also confirmed my suspicion that the high priest had sold valuable religious items to increase his personal fortune. After tea time they gave me directions to his chambers and wished me luck in my future endeavours.

I confronted the covetous cleric in his quarters and to my chagrin discovered that the Mad God’s high priest was disappointingly and ordinarily sane. I would miss out on the immense satisfaction of defeating a raving madman.

“Ah, well here you are. The atheist ‘hero’ who comes to defile my Lord’s temple,” he sneered.

“At least I didn’t pawn off the inventory.”

“The Mad God is beyond fleeting earthly possessions. His is the true power of unleashed insanity.” He shrugged. “Besides, repairing and cleaning up after the Mad Revels costs a fortune. My god may be mad, but he has standards.”

“Well, I came looking for treasure and I will not leave empty-handed.” I brandished my sword and glared menacingly.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” he quavered. “Most of the money is long-spent and I don’t possess much.”

I waved my sword meaningfully.

“Hang on, there is one thing… “

He went and rummaged in an old trunk filled with what looked like unwashed laundry and items of dubious provenance. Finally he straightened up and held out a beautiful golden sceptre tipped with a large emerald.

“It was a donation from a prominent member of my flock.”

I held out my hand for the sceptre.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten that he was disappointingly sane. He muttered an incantation, pointed the sceptre at me, and a vortex opened beneath my feet, swallowing me down into darkness.

The last thing I heard was the priest’s gloating voice following me into the abyss.

“Go to Hell, you horrible atheist thief!”

My only consolation was that the statement was punctuated by a cackle that, if not completely mad, was at least somewhat deranged.

 

When next I awoke, it took a while to adjust to the dim light and even longer to make sense of the place. If it wasn’t the literal flame-spewing Hell, it was at least a desolate dimension of fear and terror. Foul smells thickened the air and the weak light was tinged a sickly green that didn’t so much illuminate as sketch disturbing hints of nastiness that left much to the imagination, which as you know, can be worse than beholding the actual sight.

I was in a trash-filled alleyway that ran between twisted buildings of black basalt. Unsavoury carvings writhed along the walls in sickening swirls of horror, and carved gargoyles grinned down at me. I stopped at the mouth of the alley. The sight that greeted me was utterly horrific. Demons and monsters swarmed the street, snarling in their inhuman language, or oozed along on writhing tentacles.

I yelped and one of the monsters turned, its eyes bulging at the sight of me. It pointed a gnarled claw and roared in a tongue so vile I wished to be deaf. Other demons joined in to create a painful crescendo of dissonant wails.

They approached, dripping fangs, venomous claws, bristling spines, and I readied to sell my life as dearly as possible. They attacked, and I hacked, maimed, and slew. I was soon covered in ichor and gore with corpses and body parts all round. I was in full berserker rage, blood pounding in my ears.

For a time it seemed I had a chance of vanquishing this multitude, but eventually, even my adrenalin-fuelled madness reached its limit. My arms grew heavy, my lungs burnt for air, and my heart hammered like it would burst. The demons closed in, a tentacle struck my head, and I skidded into a pile of garbage and passed out.

I awoke some time later, litter still stuck to me. I was in a jail cell, on a narrow cot affixed to the wall. No matter what plane of reality you’re on, a cell is always recognisable.

“Ah, you’re awake,” my jailer roared. He was an eight foot tall devil with corkscrewing horns, a burnt red complexion, and a monstrously ugly face. Under the circumstances I considered it diplomatic to keep that last observation to myself.

“You didn’t kill me, so I suppose you’re going to torture me.” I attempted a bravado that my battered condition couldn’t quite back up.

“No such luck for me. The magistrate will decide your punishment.”

As I waited, I picked off the litter: shards of broken glass, sticky paper wrappers, and a rather impressive bottle cap. I stuck it in my pouch, pretending I’d live to give it to Thôrwyaîn. My wait was short, for as I was informed, justice never sleeps in Hell.

The magistrate was an algae-green, bristly monstrosity of a tentacled porcupine with three heads. He held a tribunal as defender, state’s attorney, and judge all by himself. He launched right into it.

“The defendant faces some very serious charges,” he boomed sternly.

“But he is also a first time offender and a stranger,” his second head interjected.

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” the third head objected.

“You are charged with illegal immigration, vandalism, causing an affray, and…” the judge consulted his notes. “Yes, brutally slaughtering or maiming three dozen denizens of Hell.”

“Your Honour, I didn’t mean to come here. I was magically translocated to your… charming realm… by the Mad God’s high priest.”

“Him again. I hate when he does that. Always sending us humans that create a mess.”

The second head nodded. “I think that counts as a mitigating circumstance.”

“Yes,” the third head conceded. “But there is still the matter of the mayhem this human caused on his own.”

“I could pay to have it cleaned up?” I offered.

“Hmm, a fine? Yes, that sounds acceptable.”

“Unfortunately, about the demons I slew…” I mumbled, lowering my head in shame. Seeing that these creatures had what seemed a reasonable justice system, they no longer appeared quite so monstrous.

“Meh. Don’t worry! They were hell-spawn. And you know what they say: ‘Hell-spawn is as hell-spawn does.’”

“They… they…?” I said weakly.

“They spawn. So they’ll be back soon enough.”

The defender-head turned to me, “Regarding your illegal immigration and the chaos you’ve caused, you have to understand that we live in a delicate ecosystem where the arrival of a single invasive species can have a devastating effect. It takes a lot of careful ecological balancing to keep our world as pristinely dark and slimy as you experienced it today.”

“I see.” I replied as solicitously as possible.

“Furthermore, the denizens of this dimension are just trying to live their lives and do their work, hoping for their own portion of dissatisfaction and misery. We fulfil an important role. Without us, creatures in all dimensions would have to do without stubbed toes, potholes, and socks that keep sliding down to the ankles.”

I deemed it wise to simply nod along.

“It’s time for sentencing,” the magistrate-head interrupted. “Taking all mitigating circumstances into account, you are hereby fined one gold piece for disturbing the peace, causing a mess, and generally being a nuisance. Furthermore, you are henceforth banished from Hell, never to return. Pay the clerk in the antechamber on your way out. He will return your effects, give you a receipt, and send you back to your own dimension. If this happens again I will not be so lenient. Case closed.”

He banged a gavel that looked suspiciously like a skull and waved a dismissive tentacle.

So I wasn’t about to be tortured to death, I was being kicked out of Hell. I was escorted to the exit and to the clerk. I paid the fine, he wrote a receipt and returned my weapons. Then he took a simple, unadorned wand in his claws, pointed it at me, and I found myself back in my own dimension.

Unfortunately, the petty bureaucrat had not bothered to ask where I wanted to go and I was left stranded in a huge field in the middle of nowhere. My trusty steed was awaiting my return at the Mad God’s Temple. Without familiar landmarks I faced a long and arduous journey back without knowing which direction back was.

At least the sun was warm and a gentle breeze carried scents much sweeter than the reek of Hell. I inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh air. Suddenly a shadow fell over me. I looked up.

A dragon coasted above me. If he was looking for an easy meal, I was it. There was no cover for miles. Then I looked closer. So did the dragon.

“Thôrwyaîn?”

“Not again!” he bellowed. “There is just no getting away from you! I moved to Holt, as you suggested, yet here you are in my face again.”

He let out a huge draconic sigh, banked, and landed before me with a gust of wind that knocked me over.

“Thôrwyaîn, I need a little favour.” I stood up again and dusted myself off. “I need a lift to Zynorbia.”

“Is that a joke? You chased me out of there last week. And now you want me to return?”

“I need to get my horse and collect the bounty for vanquishing you.”

“Not my problem. You do look the worse for wear though. What happened?”

“I had a hell of a time. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“I won’t be mad about the useless map to the Mad God’s Temple?”

“Didn’t it get you there?”

“Yes, but there was nothing there worth going for. Just glass and gold paint. You should thank me for taking it off your hands before your clutch mate found that out for himself. He would have been angry.”

“We’re not on good terms anyway. It’s a long flight back to Zynorbia, Cormyn.”

In desperation, I opened my belt pouch, and rummaged; a few coins, a small gem, and… I had forgotten about the bottle cap. I didn’t know if bottle caps from Hell were desirable to collectors, but I held it up and managed a look of triumphant smugness.

Thôrwyaîn literally rolled over and trembled.

Apparently bottle caps from Hell are the capstone to all true aficionados’ collections.

 

Everyone in the bar was listening by now. I looked at the barkeep. “That’s my story. I travel for fun now, collecting rare caps, all expenses paid. Turns out Thôrwyaîn’s hoard contains more ‘common’ treasure than he’d let on and he doesn’t mind bestowing some of it on his exclusive buying agent.”

A blast of wind shook the bar, followed by a thunderous landing and a resounding snort.

“Ah, that’s my ride.” I finished the last beer and dropped a few coins on the bar. “If you get any more rare beers set them aside for me, ’cause I’ll be back.”

I pocketed the caps, grabbed my sword and shield, and strode out to Thôrwyaîn.

 

 

End

 

 

“A Hero’s Tale”, © E. Florian Gludovacz, first published here in Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores, July 19, 2024
E. Florian Gludovacz has been a writer, musician, and artist since his teens. He was born in Austria and grew up living in different parts of Europe (Germany, France, the UK, and Austria). He currently resides in rural Southern California with his wife and their mixed Great Pyrenean Mountain Dog.

Lead Illustration by Fran Eisemann
background illustration “Unnamed” © Marek Purzycki Marek Purzycki, aka igreeny, is a Polish artist working in digital media. His work can be found at igreeny.deviantart.com/

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