LevelUP: an 8-bit novel by Micah Joel. Author's definitive online edition.
Support independent authors! Scroll to the end for details.
< back | ⬆️ | next >2-7: Turning Point
INVENTORY:
* MYSTERIOUS SCROLL
* STEALTH CLOAK
* IVORY TORCH OF THE ENDLESS FIRE
* TROPHY 2
* MOUSE
=== SKILLS: ===
* SWIM
* FOOTGLIDE
The path narrows, at first imperceptibly, but more obviously so when Max brushes against the sheer edge. Perfect place for an ambush, he muses. The nagging feeling that he’s missing something doesn't diminish.
Bode suddenly swerves around some unseen obstacle, nearly yanking Max’s arm out of its socket. He stumbles and goes down face-first.
But the jolt shakes loose a new realization. Hadley’s scroll, and then this monument, didn’t just have the same inscription. They were connected.
Don’t believe everything you read.
Everything about this world pointed toward the citadel. The uniformly straight path, not a maze or puzzle. The map of the citadel engraved in the book. Even Bode’s assumptions. What if there was more to this place than it seemed at first glance? Don’t believe everything…
Max wrenches his arm free, and before Bode can react, executes a hard turn, banks off the horizontal wall, and races back toward the monument. Whatever it’s hiding, he’ll find it.
“Get back here, fool!” Bode screams. Max races even faster. As soon as the pedestal comes back into view, he launches into a skid, his foot perpendicular to his path, knee bent with a low center of gravity. It works perfectly, carving a groove in the previously flat ground, coming to a stop within reach of the monument.
Careful not to touch the stone, Max gets a closer look at the inscription. It’s a map. Or is it? Ignoring all the distracting details, the overall shape of the inscription is an arrow, pointing down. Underneath.
Max braces his sleeved elbow against the stone, careful to avoid contact, and hefts. Nothing happens. He pushes again, harder, until he’s sure he hears things snapping under the strain.
It’s no use. Shame washes over him. It was stupid to even think—
With a grinding stone noise, the entire monument slides a bit. Adrenaline makes the next push go easier, and the entire thing—tons of stone—slides the width of his forearm.
Footsteps approach from downslope, but Max ignores them for the moment. He’s uncovered something. Crumpled and flat as a floppy disk, something shiny, like emergency blankets or that skintight reflective fabric that Hemera likes to wear.
It crinkles when Max picks it up. What is it? It has shape, though being flattened under a monument for who-knows-how-long hasn’t done it any favors. He shakes it out. Slender fingers unpeel.
“Whatever that thing is, drop it.” The voice is nasal and dripping with sycophantic pathos.
Max doesn’t turn to look. “Vic Vertex. I thought I caught a whiff of your stench. Whuff! It really stands out in an antiseptic place like this.”
Max turns to face Vic. Catches him attempting to take in a sniff of own aroma. “You get around pretty well for a cripple,” Vic says.
“I’m still ahead of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but Hemera is going to be happy when she hears about it. And I mean happy with me. You, not so much.” He eyes the silver fabric in Max’s hand. “Fork it over.”
“And if I don’t?” Max asks. Without calling attention to it, Max steals glances at his item. It’s a glove. It would be a tight fit to get it over his hand. He just needs a second or two and he can…
Vic casually produces a narrow flashlight from his jeans pocket. When he flicks a switch, with an electrical buzz, a cylinder of blue energy extends from the hilt. “So, I’m curious. I wonder if I can cut through that leg of yours.”
“I can’t believe it,” Max says.
“What?” Vic asks.
“Even your weapon of choice is a cheap knock-off[21].”
Vic flies into a red-cheeked rage. He twirls the blade high and descends with a vicious impaling stroke.
Exactly as Max anticipated. At just the right moment, Max tweaks his glide skill, and skates in under the stroke, slamming his solid foot into Vic’s sternum. The blade extinguishes with a slurping noise and the handle rolls away.
Max pivots in place and rakes his fingers along the ground toward the weapon. It zips out from his fingers, straight back into Vic’s hand.
“Oh, c’mon,” Max groans.
The blade extends in a blink, and it takes everything Max has to avoid the strike. Even then, he feels his skin blister underneath his smoldering shirt. His attention diverted for a fraction of a second, Max loses track of his leaden foot and falters off balance.
At close quarters the laser sword isn’t much use, so instead, Vic kicks, his pointy boot connecting solidly with Max’s ribs. The pain explodes through his body. He can’t breathe, but he can roll blindly out of the way.
Vic takes another wild swing. The blade goes high and rakes the canyon wall with a shower of purple sparks. Vic staggers back. The force of the blow seems to have been reflected back on him—like striking solid rock with a metal blade. Still gasping for breath, Max regains his feet.
Max can work with this. He glides backward, and fumbles to get the glove on his hand. With luck, it will confer something to help him.
Vic advances. When he takes another wild swing, Max throws out his damaged foot to block. The blade deflects, delivering another jolt. Max heaves forward, getting both hands on the hilt. But the half-gloved hand is slippery.
When he means it, Vic is surprisingly strong, and nearly wrests the weapon back before Max can get a solid grip. The two men struggle for control, the tip of the blade zig-zagging an erratic path that veers far too close to Max’s face.
“This is for my Dad,” Max says, and concentrates on his grasp. He hears Vic’s knuckles pop under the death grip. Vic snarls and adds a kind of twisting motion that threatens to break Max’s wrists.
The two are locked in a stalemate, at least until one of them tires. Max has a bad feeling he won’t come out on top of a contest of sheer endurance. This is his chance. He needs to find out what the glove does. With a final twitch, he gets the glove all the way onto his left hand.
“Inventory.”
Inventory calls it a POWER GLOVE. Let’s hope it lives up to its name.
“What did you say?” Vic grunts.
Max tests his grip. It doesn’t feel any stronger. His arms shake with effort. “Wear glove,” Max says. Nothing happens. “Inventory!” The glove is still there, unused. So much for that idea.
Max’s fingers throb. His grip slips, and the plasma blade bobs toward his skull. No bueno. Time for Plan B. “Wear cloak,” he says, as he lets go and throws himself out of harm’s way.
It doesn’t take Vic even a second to regain an attack stance. “Where are you?” He looks around. “I can hear you breathing.”
Max tries to hold his breath, but the throbbing in his ribs won’t let up. Vic slashes, aim close enough that Max needs to dive out of the way. He scrambles up as quickly and quietly as he can, but Vic is on him again, blade flashing. Vic leaps, a showboaty backflip, landing on the other side of Max, then pressing forward. It’s an effective maneuver, hemming Max in. His options for dodging the energy blade suddenly become far more limited.
Max backs against the wall. Trapped. This is it. He raises his arm in futile protection against the final stroke, ending the game, the quest, and possibly his life.
The final stroke doesn’t come.
Vic drops his weapon and staggers backward. Flames leap from his hair. Then another fireball thunders through the air, striking Vic in the chest. He curls up like a dead bug before disintegrating into a cone of dust.
Bode strides down the hill toward Max. “You realize that cloak doesn’t prevent me from seeing you. We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s get moving.”
footnotes
[21] Specifically, Artoo’s lightsaber from Episode XV.
ℹ️ Support the author by purchasing your own professionally formatted paperback or Kindle version of this novel. Also, subscribe to get 3 free books.
Got feedback? 👍👎 All humans welcome to send email to my first name @micahjoel.info — put "8bitnovel" somewhere in the subject.
Copyright 2018, 2019 Micah Joel. All rights reserved.