Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls

At the same time, Lord Pommenby, who in Spinson’s absence decided to accelerate his drinking, was absolutely wrecked. Steaming as, well, a steamer. He’d have double vision if he was able to focus on anything.

Making strange shapes with his hand through the air, he droned to the barman:

“One-one more. Come on. An-an-another... bottle.”
“You’re too drunk, my Lord, I can’t serve you.” The barman replied, casually wiping the spittle from his arms and face.
“Oi. Y’you know-you know who ows this tower. Yes? I ows this-this-this tower, so I ows YOU!” he pointed, to make the point clear, “Now I come here for fuhfuhFUN, so young man I... DON’T have lecture from YOU! Now, I dema- I dema- I want more WINE!”
“I’m sorry, my Lord, I cannot serve you! I may have to ask you to leave.”
“Do you? Do you-you know me? Who I am? Don’t deny me my DRINK! Now... bottle... here.”

Lord Pommenby patted the table exactly where he wanted the new bottle of wine. Then he retched. And thankfully he turned his head to the right, away from the barman.

Then what looked like a river of dark red, gushing yet lumpy, liquid flowed in spurts from Lord Pommenby’s mouth, onto the floor, splashing loudly – up the bar, over his clothes.

Everyone just looked at this scenario, as if being that drunk had been embarrassing enough already. He coughed and spat red gobbets of mucus filed spit onto the floor. Then coughed again and was sick a little more.

And then uncontrollably, Pommenby’s empty stomach kept trying to push out more non-existent sick.

“Huuuer! Huuuer! Hermpftst!”

The sight that then greeted the barman was a merry bearded face, ruddy and sweating, spattered with dark red spew. Droplets of it glistened in his beard. It was like what you would get if Santa Claus had been told that Christmas had been cancelled.

Spinson then bursted in to join in what everyone else was currently doing, which was clearly staring at Pommenby in his shame.

“Bloody hell. I’m gone one minute! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I’m alright, I’m-i’m alright.” Pommenby croaked.
“No you’re not. Oi.” He clicked his finger at a wizard sitting near him, kindly minding his own business there, “You. Help me take Lord Pommenby to his room.”
“No no no no, I want more wine. No no no no!”

Lord Pommenby was presently manheld and dragged by the two of them, against his will but unable to resist, being as legless as he was. They dragged him out of the bar, across the puddle of vomit.

In Pommenby’s bedroom, they pulled off his gown, revealing slightly winestained undergarments, then wiped clean bits of the gown across his face and beard. Then they lumped him onto his own bed, where he nodded off just like that.

And here endeth the lesson that a lightweight should really really not neck two bottles of wine and think that he or she can handle it. Of course, I’m preaching to the converted for all you who have done this already. Ahem.

The night passed, and then it was early morning. Though, the environs were silent, there were no birds chirping outside as you may expect. Though this would have been understood by even the simplest of folk, being that patches of the surrounding forest were wiped out by magical attacks from the tower. It was a face that everywhere on this planet had been touched by war, and that war had left terrible scars everywhere.

In the infirmiary, Doctor Wolagnub continued to monitor Rondar, who was still comatose. Wolagnub had administed to him a herbal remedy to thin the blood, to help prevent more blood clots. It also comes in handy as rat poison in larger doses.

Still, he pondered the fact that clotting like this was in fact unusual, and also about why weren’t his other organs affected. Maybe it was just luck, or old age, but answers like that merely tried to gloss over the nagging feeling that something was up, and it wasn’t nice.

That morning, the poorly Rondar, unbeknownst to him at the time, had attracted several visitors. You could call it a kind of a secret fan club. Sadly, Lord Pommenby was not present, as even though the light burst freely through the thin curtains, he was still sleeping off the effects of too much booze.

Even with the herbal remedy to thin his blood, Rondar’s heart had become weaker and weaker, damaged by the heart attack, not strong enough to pump blood around his body, making him look rather wan.

Doctor Wolagnub filled a syringe with a black fluid, the syringe itself fashioned from the stinger of a rather large and deceased insect. One of the wizards raised his hand.

“Erm, excuse me?”
“Yes?” Wolagnub replied.
“That’s a Tincture of Resurrection. You can’t use that. He’s not dead!”
“But I can use it! Watch me.”
“I must protest!” he protested.

Another wizard protested too.

“Yes, I also agree. That’s only for use on the recently deceased. You’ll kill him!”
“As you may already know, the patient hasn’t got a lot of time left. My job as his doctor is to either cure him, or make him as comfortable as possible. So, as I can’t cure him, I can make him feel better. So you can get that chance to say goodbye.”
“Carry on. Carry on. Can he carry on?” he said to the first wizard who protested.
“Go on then.”

The doctor inserted the slender needle into Rondar’s upper left arm, and injected the tincture into his blood stream. As he withdrew, that arm suddenly began to twitch, which gradually spread through the rest of his body. Seconds later, his body quivered all over. Rondar’s eyes shot open and he stared around him, then sat up to look around at all of these visitors, his colour fully returned to his skin.

And for a moment, he didn’t speak.

“Rondar.” Another of the wizards asked, “Can you hear me, old boy?”

Rondar replied, but he didn’t sound croaky at all. In fact, his voice sounded rather crisp.

“Loud and clear. Why are you all here though? Where am I?”
“You’re in the infirmary, you’ve had a heart attack and two strokes.”
“No wonder I feel half-dead. Who are you?”
“Doctor Julius Wolagnub.”
“You’re one of those witch doctors. Ahem.” He coughed a little, “What have you done to me?”
“This isn’t going to be pleasant. You’re dying and there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I’ve been dying for years. What, you mean any minute now?”
“That’s the way it is.”
“Bollocks to it then. I’d better tell you all what you should have done weeks ago. You can’t resist the wishes of a dying man. Ready?”
“What is it you want?”
“If you want to save this world, bollocks to what Lord Pommenby decreed, you’ll go down to that dungeon and release the Dark Wizard Grimchan. He is your only hope!”

Rondar’s eyes rolled around in his head, then he shuddered as if he were in the process of an epileptic fit, coughing spittle, then calmed to absolute stillness, collapsed back into the bed. Rondar was now dead.

© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009