PROLOGUE
Rolf Beulf, the Champion General of the Gluskab Empire, stood wearily on the battlefield surrounded by a legion of zombie soldiers. It didn’t help that the cold night wind chilled his silver armor, making it feel as though the plates were made from ice blocks.
Standing near Rolf was Walsh Ashleigh, an elemental magician, and Rosa Cecila, a priestess of the Goddess of Life, Deus. Though he was cut off from the rest of his army Rolf was glad at least two members of his private guard were with him.
“This is futile,” said Walsh. “Every soldier we lose is revived to fight against us. We can’t continue on like this.”
“We’re so close to Anu’s position,” Rolf stated as he stared at the gigantic black gargoyle at the other end of the field. He gripped the handle of his glowing sword tighter. “If we could just get past these zombies and defeat him, the battle would be over.”
“How much strength do you have left?” asked Walsh. “Is that sword taxing your magical power too much?”
“I’m fine,” Rolf lied. He’d been spitting up blood for the past hour. His magical reserve gone, the weapon now drained away his very life. However, he couldn’t tell Walsh that, or he would become too distracted from the battle.
“You don’t look fine,” said Walsh. “I told you Lost Magic artifacts are dangerous. You should have left that weapon in Arcadia.”
“Walsh, focus on the present,” said Rolf. He didn’t have strength to spare to argue with Walsh. “I need to get to the Demon King, so I can end this war once and for all. Help me do thi--.” Blood gushed out of Rolf’s mouth. He shouldn’t have spoken so much with his body under such stress. There was no hiding his pain anymore.
“Hold still! I’ll heal you!” Rosa, obviously in shock at what she had seen, raised her crosier over him and started praying.
“Don’t waste your spell,” said Rolf. “You know you can’t heal this. My body is the payment for using this blade.”
The zombies grew nearer, and his body felt more and more cold. Something had to be done. He was running out of time.
“But I can at least try,” said Rosa. “We haven’t tried to heal you yet…”
“Rosa!” In his desperate hour, Rolf spoke to her harsher than he knew he should. “I need a path!”
Rosa looked him in the eye for a second, obviously on the brink of crying, but she bit her lower lip, and she sharply turned away from him to fix her gaze on the advancing hoards.
The Priestess whispered an incantation too softly for Rolf to make out, but the Goddess surely heard her words. When the priestess raised her crosier above her head, several rays of golden light pierced the darkness of the night, disintegrating a large portion of the advancing zombie army.
“Go, Rolf!” shouted Rosa. “Use the gap in the formation and break through!”
With no time for hesitation Rolf darted past the slow moving zombies and only after wondering how his body could move so fast did he realize that Walsh had cast a levitation spell over him.
It was now or never.
No longer would he hold back.
“Awaken!” commanded Rolf.
“It is a harsh world!
“It is an axe age!
“A sword age!
“A time of endless war, and no man will have mercy on another!”
Rolf spoke the Ancient Words engraved upon the blade. The words are unsealing its true power while sealing his fate.
“I seek to renew the world!”
In his mind Rolf heard the voice of the blade acknowledging him.
It asked him to complete the pact.
“Sate yourself on my life-blood to brandish your sunbeams!
Speeding toward the gargoyle, Rolf poured all his fleeting strength into his sword until the golden light extended the blade to thrice its normal length.
“Ensnare yourself in the Six Roads then split apart the earth and the over-heaven!”
Six strands of colored, magical energy materialized around the sword and circled it as if a spectrum of light had decided to become a miniature tornado.
When he reached attack distance of the gargoyle, it noticed and reached for him; but it was too late.
“The Final Destiny! Ragnarok~!”
With momentum helping him, Rolf swung his shining sword downward with all his might, slashing through the gargoyle along with the ground beneath it.
Rings of golden lettering, spelling out the Ancient Words of the spell, immediately materialized around the gargoyle. The spell had locked onto its target.
Then, the gargoyle became swallowed by the tornado of light as the words exploded in terrific display.
Bombarded with a spell meant to slay gods, the gargoyle screamed out in horrific agony.
When the colored lights of the tornado faded, Rolf saw the gargoyle’s form disperse in a mist of black ether and blood, revealing the true form of Anu Malsumis, a man with crimson eyes and long silver hair, now brandishing a bloody gash across his chest as he fell out of the sky.
The light of the magical sword in his hand waning and the levitation spell having outlasted its duration, Rolf crashed upon the ground not far from where Anu landed.
Rolf chuckled weakly with an air of satisfaction about him. He felt victorious.
“Impossible,” Anu said painfully. “To think a human could penetrate my magical barrier so easily.”
“You did it! You were right! The spell animating the zombies ended when you struck him down!”
Rolf heard the voice of Walsh nearby, but when he tried to turn his head, he found that he could not. He tried to speak but instead coughed up blood.
The demon king laughed hysterically.
“Wizard, I don’t know why you’re so damn happy,” said Anu. “Your hero is dying from his wounds. I do not know what kind of relic that sword is, but it seems to have been too much for your friend to wield. Though that attack managed to damage this body beyond repair, I can find another. Then, I will personally revive him as one of my minions!”
“Walsh,” said Rolf, using what little strength remained to speak. “You must do it.”
“No!” replied Walsh. “I won’t! We can beat him another way! There’s still time!”
“Walsh, we have to respect his wishes,” Rosa, with tears running down her cheeks, gently bent down to take Rolf’s failing body into her lap. “The Goddess Deus said this is the only way we can be certain of victory. Rolf accepted the burden. He has fought hard through all these battles, harder than any of us. Let’s not waste the sacrifices he has made to give our world a new hope. The Demon King must be defeated, once and for all.”
“I don’t trust the Goddess’ plan,” said Walsh. “There is something wrong with this. There is a natural order to the world, and she wants us to violate it! He’s more than just the king of the demons! He’s part of the system!”
“Oh give me a break,” laughed Anu. “You assume too much, wizard. I don’t know what you think you’re going to do, but there is no way you could do anything to me. I sense elemental pacts all over your body. Do you honestly think such weak magic scares me? I control death, boy. My very existence is beyond your comprehension.”
“Shut up!” said Walsh. “I am more than capable of sealing you up for good!”
“Better men then you have tried and failed,” Anu grinned. “But if you feel so confident, I invite you to try. But don’t be surprised when I rip your spine out with my bare hands and make your body dance with me on your friend’s grave!”
“Walsh, please,” Rolf could feel his vision fading. He needed to convince Walsh to start the ritual before it was too late. There would never be another chance like this to defeat the Demon King for good.
“This is what we decided before the battle,” said Rolf. “Do it.”
Walsh looked down at his friend for a moment.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” Walsh closed his eyes as a blue aura radiated from around his body. “But I’m doing it on my own terms. I’m making a slight adjustment to the spell, but it’ll still seal the Demon King up for good.”
Finally Rolf allowed his eyes to rest. His eyelids were too heavy to resist for much longer anyway.
Besides, this didn’t seem like such a bad way to go.
He defeated the Demon King.
He saved the world.
A beautiful woman, Rosa, held his head in her lap; her sweet scent reminded him of the many nights they had spent together these past few years.
He had no regrets.
Well, maybe he had just one…
“Goodbye, my dearest friend,” said Walsh.
CHAPTER ONE: HELP!!
There he is, thought Gestalt Chernobog. Mr. Absolute Terror himself.
The androgynous figure of Count Varney stood before him with a piercing gaze, but it was hard for Gestalt to feel intimidated by a man who crept around in a long-sleeved, puffy, white, buccaneer shirt with lacy trimming.
If there were a proper dress code for vampire lords, Count Varney was definitely trying a little too hard to look the part.
Too much Austin Powers, not enough Dracula, thought Gestalt.
In any case, it was time for him to die again, or whatever it is the undead do when they fade to ash.
“Gestalt, turn off that game and let’s go!” His mother shouted. Gestalt’s concentration was broken. He sat on his beanbag, and stared at the pixels of his TV screen. The August issue of L33T Gamer Magazine lay on his lap, and it was opened and turned to the walkthrough guide to Forever Fantastico 7.
Blah, he thought. I can’t save in the middle of a battle.
“Gestalt!” His mother shouted again.
Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear her…
“GESTALT!”
“All right, all right! I’m coming!” Gestalt turned off the television but left the game console running. There was no way he was going to lose all the progress he had made.
“Did you put on the tunic yet?”
Gestalt looked to his bed and saw the large, brown burlap potato sack with three large holes cut into it.
“No, Mom,” replied Gestalt. “I’m not wearing that thing.”
“Oh yes, you are!”
“Oh no, I’m not! It’ll give me a rash!”
Almost immediately his mother stood in his bedroom doorway, dressed in a white silk blouse and black satin apron; her pseudo-15th century 'serving wench' costume.
With her brown hair rolled into Princess Leia buns, Gestalt’s mother stared disapprovingly at the black t-shirt he was wearing—the one with the cross-boned label of his favorite punk band, The Jolley Rogerz—and her face soured when she looked down at the baggy black bondage pants he’d been wearing for the past three days.
“Lose the clown pants,” she said.
Gestalt fixed his eyes defiantly at his mother. He wasn’t backing down.
“Fine,” she said. “I don’t have the time to argue with you. Comb your hair at least.”
Gestalt went to the bathroom and spiked his otherwise handsome black hair with styling gel until his head resembled a porcupine’s butt.
His mother sighed.
“All right, let’s go.”
“A Renaissance Fair is a wonderfully great way for getting in touch with your family roots,”— Or at least that’s what Gestalt's mother often told him. However, Gestalt had little interest in attending a silly social gathering for old nerds.
He would rather stay home and play videogames.
If only his mother would understand.
“Gestalt, I just don't get you sometimes,” His mother walked near him as they entered the gates of the ‘Grand Olde Faire’; which on any other day was better known as Champoeg City Park.
“You spend hours cooped up in your room pretending to be a knight on the TV, but when you have the opportunity to live like one for a weekend, you won't even so much as put on a tunic. What’s the difference?”
“Mom,” said Gestalt. “The difference is when I'm in my room, nobody can see how ridiculous I look.”
“Oh, you look quite ridiculous anyway, my dear,” said his mother. “Why can’t you just lighten up? You used to love the fair back when you were a Junior Squire Scout.”
Though he was too proud to admit it aloud, his mother had a point. Gestalt very much enjoyed the fairs when he was a child. For a few years he even competed in his share of youth tournaments, wielding his cumbersome wooden sword and stocky shield against the other young knightly pretenders to see who would win the little plastic trophies that made them the envy of their fellow third and fourth graders— well, at least for several minutes. The heart of a child is a capricious thing.
But, that was in the past. Gestalt was now becoming an adult; he’d just turned sixteen last April. He had enough problems as it were trying to fit in at school; honestly, what kind of mother names her child after a school of psychology?
“Well, when I was young it was all the rage to give children names with qualities you want them to have,” his mother had said when he asked last April. “I considered naming you Rainbow, but several of my girlfriends gave their daughters that name, so I thought against it. Then I saw a book at the library named Creative Process in Gestalt Therapy and I said to myself, ‘I’d like my son to be creative’ – and there you go!”
That was also how Gestalt learned his mother was a hippie and since then he decided it was time to end his involvement in such childish activities like fencing and horseback riding.
After all, what would his friends Jack and Tim think?
Actually, Gestalt knew exactly what Jack and Tim would think, because it’d been only a week ago that, while helping him sift through his room in a quest for an old game cartridge, Tim somehow discovered some Polaroid pictures that Gestalt's mother saved from an old tournament and showed his find to Jack. Both of them, with devilish smiles, had told an embarrassed Gestalt that they didn't know he’d been in the circus and would like to see some clown tricks.
Gestalt shuddered when he thought about a picture, which his mother would no doubt want to take, of him wearing the potato sack shirt his mom designed this year. The image had been haunting him all week, which was why he tried his hardest to convince his mother to let him stay home this year— heck, half the reason he even bought Forever Fantastico 7 last weekend was to have an excuse to not leave his room.
But part of him knew his plan was fundamentally flawed, for his mother considered the annual Renaissance Fair a family ritual at this point and she could not be deterred from it with any amount of begging.
Once they got through the waiting line of the ticket booth, Gestalt and his mother were greeted by a lanky middle-aged man colorfully attired in the bright purple and yellow pin-striped costume of a cartoon court jester.
“Good morrow to you, good sir and mistress,” The fool waved his right hand in a spiral before his belly while stooping to take a humble bow. “And welcome to the Grand Olde Faire!”
Gestalt’s mother spread the ends of her dress just over her knees to make an awkward kind of courtesy, as Gestalt always saw to be the proper custom for ladies to do at Renaissance Fairs.
“Good morrow to you, too, noble sir!” she said.
Gestalt tried to keep his distance and ignore the man. Lameness is a contagious disease that infects all who come near it.
‘It’s best to just keep walking,’ thought Gestalt.
Embarrassed, Gestalt’s mother looked angrily at him.
“Gestalt! Don’t be rude! Greet him properly!”
Without looking directly at the jester, Gestalt waved his left hand in the general direction of the man as if to say “howdy”.
“Gestalt, play along and use the proper greeting! You know better than to break character!”
“But I haven't broken character. I'm pretending that I'm a 'time-traveler' from the future where people are actually cool.”
As had become routine in this situation —and the many others like it—his mother let loose a deep and heavy sigh, then shook her head in disappointment as if to imply she didn’t know what to do with her own son.
“…if you’re going to be like this, then you can wait in the car until I'm ready to leave.”
The family car.
That was a place Gestalt— having not been the most well-behaved child inside a supermarket— was well acquainted with. On a hot summer day like this, sitting in his mother's compact car for a few hours was comparable to being locked inside a big oven. Gestalt would practically be cooked alive— he could even foresee the vinyl car seat melting itself around his back to trap him in a hot and sticky prison.
Besides, if he went back to the car he'd just get bored and have nothing to do.
Gestalt dug his hands into his baggy pants’ pockets, shrugged his shoulders and proposed an alternate plan to his mother.
“Eh...I'll just wander around the bazaar for a’ bit instead,” Gestalt glanced at his mother from the corner of his eye. Not making direct eye contact seemed to be key for avoiding banishment.
“Well, just don't get into any trouble,” replied his mother half-listening, for she was now preoccupied with the dangling bells of the jester's fashionable hat. “Oh, and they will have the jousting around noon, you know. You'll at least enjoy that I'm sure.”
‘Perhaps,’ thought Gestalt. ‘Or perhaps I’ll do something else.’
Gestalt drifted through the wonderland of medieval revival absurdity to find what he was searching for— the food court. It was a very good thing that someone believed root beer and hot dogs existed in the 17th century, otherwise he might have had to walk across the street to the local Burger Hut to get a decent lunch, and that would have been a bother.
Looking around the court, Gestalt saw that the usual motley crew of 'fair actors' had shown up this year. Every possible archetype Gestalt could think of was present—amateur shoemakers, fake blacksmiths and fairy wand woodcarvers peddled their wares from booths that lay underneath a sky of blue tarp canopies. This was a very good thing, as Gestalt was certain many of the booth-owners had rarely left their parents’ basements all year and imagined they would be quite susceptible to sunburns—especially the ones running around half naked with fake fairy wings strapped to their backs.
Of course, a Renaissance Fair just couldn't be complete unless a few bearded, portly men attired in forest green sweatpants and tennis sneakers showed up. As Gestalt expected, every one of these men he came across had thrust through their belts a 'sword-like-object' manufactured in Taiwan from four dollars worth of stainless steel and wood. Gestalt mused that, to inexperienced Renaissance Fair attendees, they might look like jesters at a glance, but he knew that the poor sap who believed that would have been vastly wrong. In reality these men were only attending the faire to see teenage girls in skimpy gypsy costumes.
The actual, slightly more professional fools were too busy struggling to force themselves into an Old English accent of 'thees' and 'thous' while performing feats of juggling, card tricking, ballad singing and money begging. When your job is to make young children smile with delight so they will drop their parents’ quarters into your hat, Gestalt thought you probably don't want to be seen brandishing sharp pointy things in your hands.
‘It's the spirit of the thing that counts the most, I guess,’ thought Gestalt, still enjoying his hot dog at a picnic table near the food court. Now that he had something in his stomach, he was feeling a little better about his plight. ‘At least everyone seems to be having a good time, even if they do look a little lame.’
Speaking of lame, Gestalt’s train of thought was interrupted by a nearby shout,
“Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered,” cried out a pimple-faced high school boy with an obvious flair for overdramatic roleplaying. “I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City!”
'Goblin City', in this case, seemed to be the park playground infested with a disturbingly large number of runny-nosed toddlers armed with brittle plastic swords and wooden sticks that were swiftly wielded against anything that moved—including themselves—and even a few things that didn't.
Gestalt did have to admit, from a certain point of view, toddlers could be goblins.
Another fine example of role-playing drivel was the booming voice of a merchant that managed to penetrate the other mindless chatter of the crowd and catch Gestalt's attention.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Come hither to Sir Metatron Boogley's 'Ye Olde Shoppe of Wondrous Trinkets and Things’! We have everything thou needs— and lots that ye don't!”
So unusual was this phrase that it beckoned Gestalt's curiosity enough to risk lameness contamination by re-entering the crowd. It would probably be a waste of time, but when he heard a declaration that ridiculous, he just had to take a look at what kind of mail-order junk ‘Sir Metatron’ was trying to pass off as ‘trinkets’.
Displayed on Sir Metatron's table were fine examples of items typically found for sale at a Renaissance Fair, including plastic daggers, faux- gold bracelets, rock-studded rings and plastic water guns. There were also a few additional items that weren’t commonly found at a bazaar booth— all of which were expensive looking jewelry, mostly rings, bracelets and earrings. Gestalt thought some of these pieces seemed to be of unusually high quality for a fair booth sale, and the best example was probably a very peculiar, round medallion attached to a long black chain. Engraved into the silver medallion with a golden stamp was what could only be the engraving of an eye —the kind of symbol Gestalt recognized from the back of a one-dollar bill.
‘I've never seen a necklace like this before,’ thought Gestalt, though it was not as if he ever fancied jewelry before—aside from his studded bracelet of course. But there was something alluring about this medallion that he couldn't quite figure out, and Gestalt intended to keep looking at it until he knew what that ‘something’ was.
“A unique specimen, isn't it?”
A firm and unfamiliar hand rested on Gestalt's right shoulder. He spun his head to the side to find a tall man with pale skin and long, silver hair that flowed around his neck. Though being touched by a complete stranger was really weird, the way the man was dressed was far more unusual—even for actors at the fairs, one might think he was over-dressed for the part. The tall man wore an elegant velvet cloak over his shoulders, and his tight leather pants and jacket were dyed vermilion. His eyes twinkled a hint of crimson in the sunlight, and Gestalt thought he must have been wearing theatrical contacts or something.
“Um, sure,” replied Gestalt.
“You can search for hundreds of years,” said the strange fellow. “And you'll never find something quite like this medallion in the entire world. The person who wears this livery collar will surely be lucky.”
The vermilion-dressed man's gaze was firmly directed at the necklace— as if its wonder was putting some kind of enchanting spell on him.
Sir Metatron must have seen that Gestalt was looking at his ware, and, as merchants usually are eager to seal a deal, he rushed over to him.
“Oh, my good young sir, are you interested in this here medallion?” asked Sir Metatron.
“Um, well not really,” said Gestalt. “But I think this guy here...”
Gestalt turned to point at the man infatuated with the medal, but discovered the stranger had quietly walked away without Gestalt realizing it. After the way the vermilion man had been practically drooling over the necklace, Gestalt thought it was a little odd that he just left like that without a word to the merchant.
“What was that, young lad?” Sir Metatron rubbed his sweaty hands together and winked his eyes rapidly. He seemed overly eager to sell the merchandise, but Gestalt suspected the strange behavior was just over-acting.
“Um, how much does it cost?” asked Gestalt, out of curiosity. It was a rather cool looking medallion after all, and might go well with his bracelet.
“Well, a trinket like this is a rare beauty,” said Sir Metatron. “So I can't just let it go for free. Fifteen dollars is my asking price.”
Fifteen dollars? Maybe it wasn't so special then. Gestalt still thought it looked pretty cool— even if it did probably come from some factory in Taiwan.
“I'll buy it then.”
Gestalt handed the merchant the money, put the medallion around his neck, and then turned to walk away from the booth.
Suddenly, Gestalt felt dizzy and lost his balance. He tried to shrug it off, feeling stupid, but then he felt like the ground beneath him swayed to the right and to the left. A howling gust of chilling wind blew straight into Gestalt, forcing his eyes shut. Gestalt turned his head down toward his chest to shield his face from the slicing air. The shifting winds stopped almost as suddenly as they came, and when he opened his eyes he discovered all of the people around him were no longer engaged in whimsical conversations. Instead, he found crowds of people staring at him as if he were some kind of ghost or criminal.
“Demon!” said a prune-faced old woman with a little girl clinging to her ratty, oil soaked dress.
“A demon is among us!” said a straggly looking fellow in a muddy leather jerkin and green leggings. The man pointed a shaky finger directly at Gestalt. “He appeared out of nowhere! I saw it! I saw it, I did!”
The faces in the crowd warped with terror and small children grasped hold of their parents’ trembling legs. About four adults even sprinted away in absolute terror, shrieking in unintelligible and fearful noises that were as loud as their lungs could make.
Gestalt suddenly found himself the center of attention and he could feel the piercing gazes of at least fifty people angrily directed at him.
‘Wait a sec,’ thought Gestalt, remembering where he was. ‘This is probably some kind of special event for the festival. This is just part of the—’
Before he knew it, a sharp pain struck the back of his head and he turned around to find childen pelting him with rocks.
“Oww! What the hell are you doing?” Gestalt covered his throbbing head with his hand. “That hurt!”
The crowd responded with shocks and gasps.
“It speaks our tongue!”
“It's surely come to kill us all!”
“Look at the way it's dressed— it's a devil if I ever saw one!”
“The way I'm dressed?” asked Gestalt, believing he had discovered the reason for all this unwanted attention. “Oh, so that’s it then — you've decided to single me out because I didn't come in a stupid costume!”
Now, as if things weren’t already strange enough, pushing his way from the rear of the crowd came a husky man mounted on what Gestalt thought was an unusually large ostrich (an ostrich because at first glance, it looked like a duck, but Gestalt knew ducks do not get that big, so it must have been some kind of mutant ostrich). The man's steel armor flashed in the sunlight and he appeared to be one of the actors dressed as an otherwise very convincing knight. The mob of people stepped aside to allow the giant bird to pass, lest they be ridden over and trampled upon by its claws— as one of them almost was, for the knight had given no warning when he decided to steer his mount directly into the crowd. The knight rode his poultry steed until it stood before Gestalt, at which point the knight withdrew a rather large broadsword from his side.
“You are a fool to be here, demon,” said the steel-clad man in a stern, harsh voice. “For the descendants of Rolf Beowulf, the Paladins of Deus, protect this village!”
The knight dramatically raised his cross-hilted sword into the air and the crowd cheered.
“I shall smite you down in the name of the Goddess Deus, and the world shall be rid of your evil!”
Yes— Gestalt was sure this HAD to be some kind of contest at the fair, or something like that. If he played along with the drama he'd probably end up as King of the Day, but Gestalt felt very nervous having so many people gawking at him. Succumbing to the pressure he was feeling, Gestalt raised his hands up and grinned anxiously.
“Hey, knight guy, I think your costume is really cool and all— but I'm really not interested in playing games right now. Sorry!”
Gestalt started to walk away from the knight, but before he knew what happened next the armored man swiftly brought the flat of his blade across the back of Gestalt’s head.
Falling to the ground with a heavy thud, Gestalt lost consciousness and fell into the darkness of slumber’s bitter-sweet embrace.