An Interlude

She did it again. She went and did it again.

This girl goes and poisons her, stabs her in the back, corrupts whole forests and appears in her dreams. What have I heard about this girl? Nothing. What do I know about this girl? Well, she never told me about her, so I've hardly had time to do some researching. The only thing I do know is that she doesn't agree with bullets – but that could just be because she was concentrating on torturing my friend. My stupid, selfish, arrogant, idiotic friend who didn't even tell me that she was in trouble.

So, why was our wise, courageous, beautiful hero not showing and telling?

"I dunno. She was weird."

"Oh, brilliant!" I cried, throwing my crossed arms skyward. "Your own personal demon, and she was too weird to tell me about? Fantastic! Genius! Why don't I just jump off a very high ledge and leave you to be the new Guide?"

"Calm down," Zelda68 instructed me with a weary glance in my direction. "She told me not to tell you, and she seemed pretty serious. Would you want to mess with her?"

"Yes!" I shout, rage taking its hold over sarcasm. "Because apparently it only takes a few bullets to take down whatever the hell kind of hold she's got in your brain! And while I'm at it, did you even consider what I've been telling you since we got to this – this literally goddamned place? We need you at the top of your game, not being toyed with by some creepy-ass kid!"

"Okay, listen!" she shouted right back, closing the few feet left between us and starting to speak in a low, icy whisper. "We don't have a bloody clue what that thing is. Neither do we have any idea what we could do to fight her. Did I try bullets? No, because when have I ever? But now we at least have some idea of how to defend ourselves from a glorified ten-year-old, and that's a step forward. Now shut the bloody hell up, and let's take full advantage of her downtime."

There was silence for a few moments, and I pursed my lips in agitation. "Fine," I admitted, stepping backwards. "But you're an idiot, and I hate you."

"Same here, you mushroom-soup-eating freak."

For a moment the glaring contest between us continued, but it ended quite soon with tension-dissolving laughs on each side and our setting back to work.

I hate her. I do, I hate her. But she's also my best friend, and I probably would've done the same thing. Hell, I probably would've just had a heart attack the second I saw her, let alone accepting her in my head for days. That'd be me – lob a dictionary and run hell-for-leather for all of ten seconds before dying purely out of principle.

But that doesn't mean I won't milk this opportunity for everything it's worth.

Or that she will ever be able to live this down.

I can see it now – me and her, both ancient and bowed over (me from years sitting over desks, her from decades of not sleeping enough), sitting by a fire in a cabin somewhere.

"Guide," she mumbles out with the few teeth she has left, "pass me that ale, you bloody idiot."

Old Me sits back a bit, and squints like he's thinking.

"Remember that time you didn't tell me about the demon?"

Oh, yeah. I don't care if this is immature (and probably sounds a lot more like her than me), but I am going to make sure she lives to that age just so that that conversation can take place.

…Lives. Lives to that age…

There's a thought. Will she ever age? I can't say for certain that she has over the last couple of years. Sweet sixteen forever? There are a lot of people who wouldn't object to that, but I have a feeling she's not one of them.

Christ. I'm going to age…Will we still be hanging 'round like this when I'm grey?

Nah. I'm never gonna get to be grey. If I do, I'll probably just kill myself anyway. No one messes with my hair, time included.

"Okay!" Zelda68 cries suddenly, like she's come to some kind of conclusion. "We might not get a window like this for ages. It'll take a while for her to sleep all those bullets off – I mean, probably. She said she was gonna go for the kids, and I don't think she was kidding."

"What do you think we should do?" I found myself asking, to my immediate regret. How come she can get so authoritarian all of a sudden? It's nowhere near fair.

"Everything!" she laughs, her eyes gleaming and that silly grin splitting her face. "We try and find out everything we can about her. It seems like she might have a grip on some other people, so we keep this just between us Terrarians. She could be knocking about in anyone else's attic, so don't trust anyone with anything. You blow the dust off some old books, see if you can find out anything about her. I get the feeling she's been knocking around for a while. See if you can find any spells that might help us out, I don't care how dangerous they are."

I nodded instinctively. "What about you?"

"Well, she's got some serious S.O.B.s on her side there, and I have a feeling that this place needs proper protection. I'll get all the swordsmen and tell them that they're gonna have to start training up all those volunteers – they can deal with that. I'll get the builders started on all the stuff we need to protect the village. Better safe than sorry, right? Then I'll get, like…" she paused, eyes far away and brow drawn down in concentration, "five million swords. And then I'm going to the school."

"You what?" I asked, eyebrows almost shooting clean off my forehead. "Why the school?"

"She said she was going for the kids, and they're the most vulnerable lot here. I'll teach them some stuff about swords and stuff."

"I understand that you want them to be able to defend themselves, it only makes sense. But maybe we could leave that to their parents."

"Nah," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "It's not that complicated anyway. It's just, like, here's a sword. It's sharp. Don't fall onto it, because I've done that before and it's not a good idea. Not even for a dare. No, don't ever do that. I don't care how much money they've bet you, or how much of a good idea it seems to be–"

"The Arms Dealer?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "He's a bastard. I'll warn them about him."

"You sure about this?" I tried desperately.

She leaned forwards and gave me a look. "Aren't you?"

Well, there was no point arguing with that. If she's convinced that it's something I would agree to, there's no changing her mind.

I guess it's some weird kind of compliment.

"Wait, hang on," I called out to her retreating back. "Where exactly am I going, and what exactly am I looking up?"

"Research is your thing," she called offhandedly. "Do the reading type stuff."

And then she was gone.

"Well," I muttered to myself, "that was specific."

By the time I'd made it back to the mayor's house, it was sunset. Zelda68 was standing there, having snatched the soldiers from their front doors, telling them nothing and everything at the same time.

"I've got a feeling that something nasty is gonna happen," she told them honestly, "so we need to train up those recruits. Teach them everything cheap and fast – everything you wouldn't use in the ring. Honour can get stuffed, this is about survival. You lot can set everything up yourselves, I've got other stuff to do." Immediately they all started whinging about free time and the fact they'd been training all day. "I know," she called loudly, "but you guys have to do this. Really very badly."

"Why?" called out one of them, his arm in a splint and his dark eyebrows drawn down.

"I'm really sorry, but you're gonna have to trust me here. I've a lot of experience with this kind of thing, and I have a feeling that it's all been a bit too quiet." Shouts about devourers and eaters rained down from the crowd. "Yeah, okay, but that was in the corruption! Now that we've agreed to fight back after the goblins, I'm pretty bloody sure that whoever's watching will be sending in the troops sometime soon. We need to be ready!" She took a moment, and everyone seemed to groan their acceptance simultaneously. "Now go and get some rest. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd spent the whole day training…" Those who didn't roll their eyes all gave adolescent-sounding groans.

One by one, the swordsmen made their way off home. Felix was the last to go, asking her something about the kids. With her eyes gleaming, she told him she'd thought of that. He didn't look anywhere near as sure as she did at the news, but no one who knew her really would.

I wouldn't!

"You know they hate you, yeah?" I asked when we were left alone.

"Yeah," she admitted, putting her hands behind her head like she revelled in it.

"You know I hate you, yeah?"

"Aww, how sweet," she laughed, pouting. "I hate you too."

We made our way to the door quietly, and I gestured towards the threshold with my hands, stepping aside politely. "Ladies first," I offered.

When I looked at her face, it took me less than a second to realise I'd said the wrong thing.

I suppose what happened next was more of a scuffle than a fight, because it was mostly her knocking the wind out of me and me flailing uselessly. She got a tight hold around my neck and another around my waist, effectively throwing me into the house, while I stumbled less than gracefully and landed flat on my face.

Ow. Ow! I'd done something to my ankle!

"I hate you," I cried, trying to grab her shoe as she stepped right over me. "I was just being nice!"

"You were being a patronising little git," she informed me, leaning close. "And we both know that you're the feminine one in this relationship."

Giving me a smile that made me fear for my life, she sighed and chucked something in front of me. When I'd finished contemplating the situation (I don't sulk, don't be silly), I realised that it was a band of regeneration.

I hated her.

I hated her.

I loved her to bits.

…Wait, what?

Like, platonically.

Completely platonically.

Yeah.

Attempting to run away from my thoughts, I made my way upstairs and buried myself in the old books.

It was going to be a long night…

X X X

Leaf took the day's final steps around his house, putting out any torches which the dwindling sun had permitted him to light. It was well into the small hours of the morning, and the uncertainty of his steps and the constant rigid movement of putting his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn did nothing to contradict this. The strange aroma of burning wood and smoke filled the air of his cramped hut in a way which made him feel uneasy. He had never felt any need for a fire before coming to the village in order to play his part in events current and future, and the stench of the fire reminded him all too vividly of the battles that had once raged over the hills bordering the forest, century after century. The day would come again soon, he had little doubt. Tensions were running high around the village. Zelda68 might somehow be able to being around the uprising in a peaceful manner, but it would be an uprising nonetheless.

And the believers always won.

He took a glance at his desk, realising that a candle was still alight there, its flame quivering at the draft from his constantly open window. It cast a red glow over his night's writings, and he took a second to observe them. Scrawls in a language known only to himself, formed inside his mind as a way to convey his thoughts after hundreds of years alone, and which he knew bore little semblance to the language which he and the villagers spoke. He allowed himself a small grin as he thought of the Guide's reaction should he ever see it, given his recent obsession over goblin communications and how they differed (or "differentiated", as the Guide had so boldly put) from our own – which they didn't. Not anymore. If he discovered an entirely new language . . .

After treating himself for a moment to the imagery – laughter and hysterics, no doubt – Leaf reached out with the brittle fingers of his corrupted hand and snuffed the candle out as easily as Zelda68 would a green slime. As much as he hated the limb, he had to admit that it could prove useful from time to time.

Giving a final stretch of his muscles, he bade goodnight to the forest over the hills and to the villagers in bed, lying down on his moss-stuffed mattress. Curling himself up instinctively for warmth, he willed his brain to stop running in circles and to focus on the sharp buzzing in his ear product of a day's contemplation (not to mention conversation) and for the rest of the world to vanish.

Leaf paused for only a second to listen to any noises outside of his head before drifting away into his subconscious – and immediately regretted doing so. He could hear
it . . .

. . . The clang of a hammer against an anvil, most likely with a sword in between. That of some blacksmith not afraid to slave until dawn for the prospect of a few extra silver coins.

Who would want a weapon forged at this time of the night? He wondered silently to himself. And why?

Heaving a small sigh, he cringed and stuffed the pillow over his head. Why did he have to pause and listen? He knew that as soon as he did he would be unable to stop. That constant clanging would drone on and on both inside and outside of his head, forcing him into wakefulness. It was like noticing the sound of a clock ticking while you were in bed – once you listened, you were stuck with it.

He tossed and turned, trying desperately to ignore the intrusive noise, but to no avail. Eventually he gave up on the idea of sleep, and re-lit the candle with a match struck on his bad hand. If they were going to keep working all night, he could at least go and have a chat with them, rather than just lying in bed.

Chatting . . . he liked chatting. He liked the word "chatting". He liked words, too! So many of them, so many people to use them with, so many scenes he could paint with them. There was never any reason to use words in his forest, and definitely no reason to chat. Why hadn't he done this earlier?

His face now a mask of contentment, rocking back and forth on his toes, Leaf left his house by the light of the candle and started towards the blacksmith's. There were a few businesses of the kind in the village, he knew that, and only one of them was really up and running anymore. He hadn't talked to the blacksmith himself very much – well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd done an awful lot of talking, but the blacksmith hadn't done an awful lot of replying. He was a very large, barrel-chested, hairy man, who mostly replied in grunts and miniscule changes in disgruntled expression. Leaf supposed that he was actually very nice, underneath all of that. His wife certainly seemed like a very nice woman, and his children were both kind and talkative people.

All the same, there was something else, something all-pervading about their collective manner. Perhaps, Leaf thought to himself, there used to be more than four of them.

His smile faltered.

When Leaf got close to the blacksmith's, he realised that whoever had asked for his services was sitting inside his little workspace. The front wall of the shop had been removed, so that there was less chance of a fire (it was hard to imagine that there hadn't been one or two in the past). The blacksmith's furnaces, anvils and other tools of the trade took up most of the space, with a little counter and bench on the opposite side. Sitting there, with a weary expression on her face and the fire glowing in her eyes, was the Saviour of Light.

"Hello, Zelda68!" Leaf called cheerfully, remembering his manners. "Busy being a hero?"

She turned at his voice with raised eyebrows and a slightly started look on her face, which was soon replaced with a smile and returning wave. "What are you doing up so late?" she asked, moving further up the bench so that Leaf could sit down.

"You were being quite noisy," he explained, taking a place on the seat beside her. She opened her mouth to apologise, but he quickly added "Don't worry, though – I don't really need to sleep."

She nodded after a moment, remembering that he was a bit different.

"I don't like swords," he said at length, and she looked like she didn't know how to respond. "I don't like sharp things. Or bullets, really. Especially bullets. Well, not bullets, really. Guns. If I had to use some kind of a weapon, I would use a bow and arrow. I think there's more skill in that, at least."

"There's skill in swordplay too!" she replied, immediately putting her defences up. "I wouldn't be here today if there wasn't."

"But consider…" he went on for quite a while. Zelda68 stayed quiet, half listening and half staring off into space. After what seemed like hours, when he seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion, he looked at her as if he expected an equally detailed and considered argument on the spot.

"Er," she stammered, gazing into the fire, "I like swords."

And that was that. If it was good enough for the hero, it was good enough for a dryad.

For a while they sat there in silence, staring into the fire. Every now and then Zelda68 would look away and give her eyes a rest, and every time Leaf felt sure that she had fallen asleep. When she finally had, the blacksmith's wife, looking as tired as the hero had when the door opened, came in with a cup of tea for her husband. He accepted gratefully, holding the tiny china cup in his trembling, huge, scarred hands.

"I sow the sheaths," she explained to the customers, giving them a thin smile. "Used to work the bellows too, before…" Without finishing, she was gone.

"Okay," said Zelda68 slowly, turning to the dryad. "I owe you an explanation. Y'see…well, I saw her again."

Suddenly, the silence was a lot less companionable.

X X X

Oh my god, I'm carrying about twenty swords. Oh my god. Twenty swords.

I can't drop them. I can't drop them. Dropping them would be a bad idea. Almost as bad as that time the Arms Dealer…

Nah, that was worse.

"Leaf," I called out from behind the literal pile of sheathed swords that was blocking my view as I walked, "I know you don't like swords, but could you maybe carry one? Or two? Come on, even two would really be a hand here."

He looked reluctant for a moment, but plucked two broadswords from the top of the pile and held one in each hand. For a moment I frowned, meaning to tell him that I didn't literally mean two, but decided there would be no point.

Eighteen swords. Almost as bad, but perhaps slightly less lethal if I dropped them.

I won't drop them.

Immensely heavy? Nonsense! They don't weigh a thing.

"Are you sure they're not too heavy?" asked Leaf. "They look very heavy."

Well, there's that illusion shattered. Cheers, mate.

With the blacksmith in bed, the only other noise around the village was coming from the tavern. Every now and then a riotous shout would break the silence, a laugh laced with blurred good intentions and stifled bad ones.

We were getting close to the mayor's house, pile in tow, when we saw a bloke stagger outside. He was obviously in a fair state, barely able to walk in a straight line, murmuring slurred curses under his breath. I did my best to start walking faster, trying to avoid drawing his attention, and Leaf caught on.

Avoid drawing attention? Yeah, like that's gonna work. You're carrying a massive bloody pile of swords.

A pile which you can't drop.

Will not drop.

Oh no no no, you are not going to drop the bloody–

Crap.

The clatter was so loud that it was like I'd dropped my whole arsenal. Swords escaped their sheaths and were sent soaring through the air, to make an unceremonious and typically noisy landing on the cobblestones.

Double crap.

As I turned to the bloke who had staggered out of the pub, I realised that he was heading over to us. The chatter and raucous laughter coming from the tavern itself had stopped completely, leaving only an empty silence and many pairs of eyes staring at us from the doors and windows. None of them seemed to be making towards us except Sarita's neighbour, and I had a feeling that they were all expecting something to happen.

A most definitely not good something.

Crap again.

I could barely hear the words which slurred together in what seemed to be a chain of obscenities and curses, but I did have an idea that they might not mean good things. It was like hearing the Demolitionist's raised shouts after a muffled explosion – God knows what he's saying, but it sure as hell isn't good.

Okay, there were two ways to go about this.

One: punch him in the face. But that's no good, because I need the village on my side.

Two: shrug it off. Which wouldn't work. "Hey, sir! You okay? Ha, my bad. I'll just pick up this completely conspicuous pile of swords and make my way into the major's house without explaining myself, 'cause that'll go fine. You're the best! Don't go changing." Nah.

Three: stand firm. Like, no. Then he'll probably just punch me in the face and then there'll be a fight and the swordsmen will probably come running out of the bar and then just general chaos and terror. Wait – three ways. Did I say two? Three.

Four, because there are four and I forget how to count: run like hell.

. . . Yeah, I think I'll go with that one.

I started rapidly gesturing to Leaf, indicating the swords, and he got the gist after a moment. We both started gathering them up ourselves, and although I ended up with twice as many as him he was certainly putting in a lot more effort than before. For half a moment I thought that the creepy bloke was inches behind us, but he was still moving forward at a steady pace and an almost straight line.

Somehow, with barely a moment to spare, the two of us ended up inside the mayor's place, with the doors held firmly in place and really quite sharp and dangerous things scattered all over the floor. Taking a moment to reflect on the man who'd basically been coming after us and the fact that he had been very big indeed, we started sheathing swords again and gradually began walking towards the staircase.

I had completely forgotten that there were probably other people sleeping upstairs, and when Leaf reminded me as much we both walked a little bit faster. You don't wake up the major. That's not something you do. Once you realised you've done that, you'd better fall on your own sword pretty soon.

Luckily, I've got a whole pile to choose from. I've never been good at decisions, though . . . probably end up like a pincushion.

The idea made me grin, and Leaf didn't ask why.

Which made me stop grinning.

Was he okay? I mean, he's had a lot to adjust to, but he's always done well. He was an absent-minded sort of bloke (if bloke is appropriate, do dryads even have genders?), but always the cheerful one. Well, I say always – only known him for a couple of weeks, if that! Feels a lot longer.

Had the village really drawn him down so quickly?

I mean, it was kind of a depressing place. Penned in like that. And the looks on people's faces, like they've been stretched to their limits . . . except Sarita. She just looked like she wasn't going to put up with it half the time.

Maybe that was about faith again. This place seems kinda dark to me, but then I don't have anything to hold onto. They're sure that this isn't the end.

. . . I guess I should be too, religion or no. But something seems a bit . . . well, final about everything here.

Then again, that was what I thought two years ago. And here I am.

Very much alive.

Very much corrupted.

Very much far away from who I was.

. . . Maybe I should think less and smile more.

Drawing me out of my chain of thought, something metal clanged upstairs. The noise repeated itself in a steady rhythm, like someone working. There was no way it was the Guide, he wasn't the type to work with actual tools. He probably had his nose buried in a book right about now, trying to find out something about my old mate Duck.

Like how the hell a bloody gun –

The rhythm of the noise was disrupted by what was unmistakably the sound of failure. Something had fallen onto the floor, and it seemed to bring a shedload of crockery and silverware down with it, judging by the sound. These noises were followed by what was unmistakably some kind of a curse in a shrill voice and barely familiar language.

Ah. The Tinkerer. I forgot about him.

Doing my best to commit the harsh syllables to memory, Leaf and I made our way up the stairs quickly, understanding that the wrath of God (perhaps literally) was about to come raining down on that little runt's head. In a few hurried words the dryad asked if he could spend a night in one of the spare rooms down the hall, and I agreed just as quickly.

I found myself standing in my room, with a massive pile of swords in one corner and a comfortable bed in the other. Closing my eyes for a moment, I almost didn't open them again. My muscles ached from equal parts running around and sitting, and the blurred after-image of the blacksmith's furnace still waited behind my eyelids.

Also, there was the whole torture bit.

I didn't have a bloody clue what it was she had done, I just knew that it hurt. And not the normal kind of hurt, not ow-that-sucks-but-now-I'll-have-a-healing-potion-and-all-is-well kind of hurt, something deeper than that. More practiced, more precise. I had a feeling I wouldn't want to know what Duck got up to in her spare time.

Shouting from the Tinkerer's room broke my reverie, and I smiled guiltily as I sat down on the bed and started unbuckling the little arsenal I'd brought to the blacksmith's. Not my usual lot, but hey, I didn't think I'd need it.

Had I, though? Or was I just freaking out?

Ah, who knows.

The argument died down, and it didn't take a great stretch of the imagination to realise who had won. The sound of slippers sliding across floorboards in grumpy retreat almost made me laugh – the Tinkerer hadn't gotten two words in, and it was already done.

Bloody goblin had better be worth it, was all I could think as I lay down to sleep. I needed the little I could take . . .

Tomorrow was going to be fun.