Death After Death

‘Name: Simon Jackoby

Level: 20

Deaths: 36

Experience Points: -991,832

Skills: Archery [Above Average], Armor (light) [Great], Armor (medium) [Below Average], Athletics [Average], Cook [Average], Craft [Below Average], Deception [Below Average], Escape [Poor], Healing [Below Average], Investigate [Above Average], Maces [Average], Ride [Average], Search [Average], Sneak [Average], Spears [Average], Spell Casting [Above Average], Steal [Poor], Swimming [Below Average], and Swords [Great].

Words of Power: Gervuul (greater) Meiren (fire) Aufvarum (minor) Hyakk (healing) Vrazig (lightning) Dnarth (distant) Oonbetit (force) Zyvon (transfer) Gelthic (ice) Karesh (protection) Uuvellum (boundary) Barom (light) Delzam (cure)’

“That’s like… 2,000 experience points I think. Sooo, marginally worthwhile, then,” he said with a shrug. “What do you think, mirror? Was my last life worth it?”

‘Every life is worth it,’ it typed flatly.

“Yeah - really profound,” Simon laughed. “Great work.”

Then he was gone. He didn’t know if he should bother to try that again or if he should just go deeper, but that was a question he could decide on after he killed some goblins.

Simon made quick work of the floors as usual, and when he reached the door to the crypt of the skeleton knight, he paused. His attempts to make the world a better place with a strategic assassination had not only backfired, they’d been entirely reversed. The very fact that he was standing here once more was proof that the whole thing never happened.

“Is it even worth it to keep trying?” Simon asked himself, noticing his breath fog in the cold air that radiated from the evil stairwell. He thought about the boy and the family and was grudgingly forced to decide, “Yes, yes, it is.”

This time, though, he was going to take it more seriously. He was going to go straight to the capital, try to resolve the issue, and then make it back to the Corwins before Gregor went into that damn cave with an amateur.

Normally, Simon took the valley to the north because it was mostly a slow downhill walk, but knowing as much about the world as he did, he also knew it was several days out of the way. The best way was to go east through a pass he could see from here. The way was a little more treacherous, and it was uphill, but it would save him a lot of time, especially if he was going to make this trip on a regular basis.

So, with another sigh, he started trudging uphill instead of down through the deep snow, vowing to learn how to make himself some snowshoes one day. Two hours later, just short of the pass, he found something he’d never expected to find up here: a small village. No, he corrected himself, a small, starving village. From the looks of things, this place had never been prosperous, but now, the cabins with their sagging, split shingle roofs just looked sad, and when the half-starved men came into view, it looked like a penal colony or something.

That was made all the sadder because he’d found it just past a beautiful frozen waterfall that took his breath away and a large flat area that was almost certainly a frozen-over lake. While he found it interesting that he’d never seen it before, even though it had been just around the corner from where he’d hiked half a dozen times now, it was a challenge he was certainly not prepared for.

“Please, sir, do you have any food to spare?” an older man asked when Simon stopped to ask the name of the place.

“Of course,” he said, shrugging off his sack as he started to go through it to find the bread he was getting tired of eating anyway. It was only when he saw other people peeking out of the doors and through their shutters that he realized he didn’t have enough food for everyone. “You know what. Why don’t you start a fire, and I’ll go find… something to roast or...”

“We’ve all tried hunting,” the man said. There was a note of desperation in his voice that made Simon think that the man thought he was going to bounce. “It’s just been a very tough winter, and…”

“I get it,” Simon said, vaguely annoyed that his shortcut was turning into a detour. He pulled out what he needed from his sack and handed the potatoes, turnips, and sausages to the man. “This is for everyone, you understand? Make a nice thin soup and make sure the children are fed, and I’ll try my luck anyway.”

“Bless you, sir,” a woman said, descending from her porch. “We didn’t think anyone was up through the pass this early yet and… well, may the gods protect you.”

Simon shrugged at that, handing out hunks of bread and bits of cheese to the children who came forward until he had none to give. Then he stacked up all his spare equipment and, taking his bow and his sword, he went out to look for something edible.

Simon did not imagine that the hunting would be good up this high during this time of year. He briefly wondered how he would use a word of greater force to go dynamite fishing, but he decided against it. He also considered going back for the goblin corpses, but that was too disgusting for words.

So instead, he wandered through the deep snow between the pine trees, hoping to find a deer or an elk, while he slowly lost the feeling in his toes. In the end, he found neither, but when he saw a mountain goat thirty feet up on a sheer granite rock face, he decided that would be enough, and he sent it tumbling to its death with a word of lesser force. Then he put it out of its misery with a swift knife to the throat, and after he gutted it, he dragged it back to the village.

By then, the village was enjoying the soup, and a literal cheer erupted when he brought back the goat for them to roast. “I’m sorry it’s not more,” he told them, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, they shared the last of their hard cider with him while people took turns asking him about his travels.

Simon sat long enough by the fire to warm his toes, and he told them general things about his adventures, but he kept it pretty tame. In return, they told him about the small village of Maritin, and how the goblins and the winter were worse than ever, and that their herds had been decimated by both.

It was pleasant, but he wasn’t about to let himself be distracted. So, in the end, he told them, “I’d stay longer and hunt a few more goats or whatever for you, but I want to make it through the pass before the storm tomorrow. I’ve got a war to stop.”

Stolen story; please report.

It was terser than Simon would have liked, but he could feel the clock ticking now. Some part of his mind knew that there were horrible things happening on every part of every level and that there was no way he could fix them all, but as he trudged through the snow, he thought he might be able to fix these two things, well, three. He was going to need to bring more potatoes next time. If there was a next time.

“Stop being so defeatist,” he told himself. “This time, everything’s going to work out. I’m definitely going to lock everything in, and this will be the last time I’m in this awful mountain range.”

It sounded good, but he didn’t believe it. He also wasn’t completely sure that he saved himself any time this way. It was shorter, for sure, but the snow was much worse, and it took forever to get below the snow line.

At the first inn he stayed at, he decided he needed to buy a horse to speed things up, but a wretched old nag was all they were willing to part with. He fumed silently at that but paid more than the animal was worth anyway.

It wasn’t like he needed the gold, after all. What he needed was time. Time to stop a war. Time to save Gregor before he went into those mines woefully unprepared. It was ironic, he decided, as he rode slowly down the muddy trade road: he was effectively immortal, but it always seemed like he was in a hurry.

Eventually this mixture of boredom and urgency gave rise to an idea. It might be a terrible idea, he realized, but it was one that was worth trying.

Simon had given a lot of thought to some of the other words of power that he hadn’t yet used, but the one that interested him the most was Zyvon. Transfer wasn’t really specific. He’d seen it in sections about stealing the lives and souls of sacrifices in the infernal grimoire he’d read, and he had no real interest in that sort of thing, but given that the whole structure of this magic seemed to be about life energy he was fairly certain that was the transfer it was referring to.

That was what that creepy apprentice had been referring to, after all, wasn’t it? He’d spent most of his life with his spells and wanted to know the secret to refilling it.

Simon tried it on the horse, visualizing his life flowing out of his body and into the beast. Minor transfer did nothing noticeable, but after he tried full-blown transfer, his mare looked much healthier. Well, she did once she calmed down. The effects of the spell spooked her, and he’d had to hold on for dear life for a few minutes until she calmed down.

That in itself was a good sign, though. Before that point, she wouldn’t have had the energy to prance around like that and had been content to plod along for mile after endless mile.

Simon patted himself on the back for a successful experiment, even if the increased speed was a very unwelcome reminder of how little riding agreed with him after a few hours. The only problem was that by the time he’d arrived, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, exactly. Last time, he’d killed the Duke, and that had caused another war. He’d love to just try the same thing, but he couldn’t. The Prince was a little too young to assassinate. So, he was going to have to do something clever. He just wasn’t sure what.

Simon spent the next day lazing around his inn, appreciating how nice it was not to walk all day and wishing that he could just talk to the kid and explain the facts of life to him or something. The third story of the castle was a little out of his reach, though. Or was it?

Something about that idea refused to get out of his head, and by the following night, he had at least the outline of a plan. Before he could do anything, though, he’d need something a little more ominous than his jeans and his boiled leather armor that was a little too snug to be called intimidating.

Fortunately, that was a problem that could be fixed with a couple of gold coins, a tailor who was willing to work all night to get them, and some of the white face powder that the courtiers seemed to use so much of. It was a dumb plan, and he’d never admit to anyone that he’d been inspired by the ghost of Christmas Future in The Christmas Carol, but the worst thing that could happen would be that it wouldn’t work, and he’d have to try something else next time.

The following night, after he spent the day practicing lesser light effects in his room, Simon got dressed up, and as soon as the moon set, he began scaling the wall to the Prince’s room. Well, scaling was a little strong. It was more like he scrambled from rooftop to rooftop with words of lesser force, and then he used the same trick to leap over the castle wall, where he climbed a trellis from the second floor to the third floor.

The whole time, he expected some guard or another to spot him, but they were incredibly lax. Why wouldn’t they be? He thought to himself. Brin had not been at war with anyone in recent memory, and though the whole city held its breath about the King’s impending death, nothing was going to happen until that was done.

In fact, it was so easy to get to the Prince, Simon decided as he slipped through the window, that he was left to wonder why the man’s uncle hadn’t already assassinated him. If he was just going to take power anyway, it seemed kind of lazy.

Before Simon woke up the twelve-year-old, he closed the curtains and ignited several small glows around the room to create a malevolent ambiance of flickering red lights in the darkened room behind him that were just bright enough to make it hard to see more than his pale face and dark wavering outline.

Only once that was done did he wake the Prince by covering the boy’s mouth with a gloved hand. For a moment, the boy tried to scream and thrash, but when Simon lit a small explosion of tiny flame-looking sparklers by muttering “Barom,” the boy froze.

“Do you know who I am, child?” Simon said very seriously, feeling more than a little silly. Honestly, more than anything, he wished for a proper illusion spell, and it seemed ridiculous that he had to use light like this.

“But…but… why would death come for me? It is my father who is sick!” he gasped. “Take him instead!”

Simon froze at that. He’d expected many possible reactions, but not that one. He experienced a brief but powerful urge to strangle the boy in his bed like the monster he was, but he resisted.

Murdering kids is still wrong, Simon, he told himself. But if he wants to be a little shit, that might be useful too.

Simon adjusted his tactic slightly. He’d been planning to tell the Prince about the tragedy that would befall his kingdom, but the boy seemed less interested in that than he would have thought.

“I’ll soon be coming here for all of you,” he growled, “When your father dies next week, your kingdom will collapse into chaos as you and your uncle fight for the throne. I’ve come to thank you. Thousands will die, and all of those souls will be mine.”

“My uncle?” The Prince asked. “He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… the throne is mine by right!”

“Maybe, young princeling, but you are not strong enough to hold it. You will die in the war that follows, along with everyone foolish enough to serve you, and Brin will break apart into smaller nations as a result.” Simon smiled at the look of horror that dawned on the child as he considered the words of the monster whispering in his bedroom.

“But, I… you can’t… this is my Kingdom!” the boy said, coming close to sobbing.

“There is only one way out for you,” Simon-pretending-to-be-Death gloated, “but it is much too hard for you.” As Simon finished speaking, he caused another cascade of phantom sparks to dance around the face of the frightened boy.

“Tell me, spirit,” the Prince pleaded. “Tell me what I must do!”

“You have only a single way out of this,” Simon cautioned him. “You must go to him before the day the King passes and beg him to take the Regency until your eighteenth birthday. That is the only way that you will ever live long enough to see the crown.”

“But if I do that, my uncle will never give up the power he’s—” the Prince started to argue back, but Simon stopped him.

“As I told you, it is impossible for you to prevent this,” Simon said with a smile as he rose to his full height and whispered the words for minor force to make his cape billow out dramatically. “And for that, I thank you for the bounty to come.”

Then, before the Prince could counter, Simon turned and fled. He opened the windows with a single motion and then jumped heedlessly into the night. The Prince didn’t know he’d use force magic to keep from breaking his legs, and as long as he managed to escape the castle unseen, the words he’d uttered tonight might just be enough to change the man and, thus, the path of history forever.