How to Steal the Plot Armor – PART ONE

by Luke Wildman

The day before it started, I had to chase off three more heroes with a stick. I swear, winter is the worst season for them. You get a few enterprising farm boys during the spring and summer, and fall’s the time for disinherited princes looking to reclaim kingdoms that their uncles stole from their murdered fathers, but winter is when the big ones arrive. There’s nothing worse than sitting down in front of the hearth, a tome on your knee and a tankard of ale at your elbow, all cozy while the blizzard howls outside — and hearing a knock at the door.

You’ll have no peace till you open it. When you do, you’re greeted by the sight of a hulking, smelly barbarian, snow clinging to his fur cloak, sword bigger than your leg strapped over his back, with a story of an omen-prompted journey into the mountains to seek one who will tutor him in magic, or guide him to hidden paths, or interpret runes on an ancient map, and might you be that one? And, of course, you are. Try to deny it and he’ll point out that the prophecy specified the man he sought would be holding a tome and a tankard, and would be venerable of years, knobby of knees, bearded of chin, and dark-skinned as the night. Really, they might leave out the knobby knees part, just once. Do they think I have no feelings?

Over my lifetimes, I’ve developed quite the repertoire of tricks for sending heroes away. They never catch on that a person living in a shabby cottage at the highest pass of the most remote mountain in the farthest corner of the world might not want to be bothered, the insensitive jackanapes. So I always had to use other strategies.

The beginner’s mistake is thinking rigor alone will deter your average hero, but it only encourages most of them. Their eyes light up when you swear to only take them on as a ‘prentice if they descend into the Tomb of the Necromancer and steal the ruby eye from the idol of Ang’Vel’Nazsh. If they survive this perilous deed, then you really can’t put them off.

No; the secret is to give them dishonorable, icky chores, like cleaning your chamber pot or mucking out your pigsty. That usually works.

Unfortunately, there’s a breed of hero that revels in humiliation, and might, I shudder to add, even be a bit turned on by it. Such a one was the young gallant who galloped into my life that winter day.

It was one of those bright, cold mornings when life in the mountains feels almost a treat, the pines resplendent with icicles and the snow an unbroken field of dazzling white. He arrived while I was hobbling on my staff from the barn to the cottage, having just fed the old nag. I focused on my footing, and so didn’t immediately notice the rider dismounting outside my door.

“Hail, honored wizard!” the man called, startling me half out of my wits. “Lo, I have ridden many weeks and endured many perils to seek you.”

I sighed as I looked him over. He had the usual shaggy golden hair and storm-blue eyes, the usual disregard for animals (his poor horse was half dead), and the usual lack of sense when it came to dressing for the weather, clad as he was in silver armor that glittered with frost, and a thin cape of purple silk.

“What can I do you for?” I asked irritably. “Enchanted sword? Vague riddle that will come in handy at some future date? Bit of relationship advice?”

“Wizard, I seek a guide for a quest most perilous into the heart of the Ash Lands, where I shall forge a blade from star-metal and challenge the Master of Shadows for supremacy, along with the right to woo his daughter.”

My hopes for an easy resolution sank dead away. The most bothersome heroes of all are those who want me to accompany them on their quests. Not only is it an imposition on my reading time, but such journeys invariably lead to a crucible where the hero loses their mentor and must carry on alone. Hard luck, if you happen to be the mentor. Even if you’re lucky enough to get resurrected, as I’ve done thrice, there’s always a backlog of other adventurers waiting to meet you when you get back, and a surprising amount of paperwork, to boot. A body gets no rest.

“Why don’t you come inside,” I told the golden-haired cretin. “We’ll talk it over, see if we can’t work something out.”

He bowed and followed me in.

I found myself observing the old ritual, hanging a kettle of tea over the fire and offering a repast of bread and cheese to my travel-weary guest, as hermits are wont to do. It was all muscle memory.

“So,” I said as I bustled around the kitchen, “the Ash Lands, eh? Treacherous country.”

“Verily. Yet that is where my path lies.”

Aromatic steam frothed from two mugs as I poured the tea, and my hand hovered for an instant above the tin of powdered hemlock. But of course, disposing of my problem in that manner would only switch my role to one of villain, an even more dubious position in any quest. There’d be no end of distant relations and bosom friends seeking vengeance. With a sigh, I spooned sugar into the mugs instead and set them on the coffee table.

“And so,” my guest was saying, finishing a story I hadn’t listened to, “it is destiny that brings me to your door this day, and destiny that shall lead us hence.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, waving a hand, “destiny certainly has it out for me. But tell me, are you quite certain you don’t need some other sage? Old Copperhand usually deals with star-metal enterprises — he lives at Storm Mountain Pass. As for wooing a Shadow Lord’s daughter, Argula of the Vale might be more help, as she can provide a woman’s intuition. Between you and me, I’m awfully dense when it comes to flirtations.”

“The omens led me here, Good Master. When I was but a babe, a centaur uttered words of portent over my crib, that run thus  —”

“No recitations, please. Look, I’ll be square with you. I know what the ancient self-help texts say about finding someone with experience to show you the ropes, but being asked is no honor, believe me. Why, I’d wager that my chances of mortality increased twenty percent just from you speaking to me. For the love of life, I beg you to find someone else.”

The golden-haired fop scowled. Sir Barm, I think he said his name was.

“Good Sage, there is no one else. We are, both of us, as twigs caught in the stream of destiny. We cannot choose our fates, only how we comport ourselves in the midst of them.”

“You’re reading from my script, whippersnapper,” I mumbled. I cleared my throat. “Well, if you’re set on this, there’s only one thing to do. I must test your worthiness. At the foot of this mountain lies a field of aurochs dung. For reasons arcane and mysterious, I need you to —”

“Already accomplished,” Sir Barm said.

I raised my eyebrows. “Really? You mean, without my asking, you just . . . the whole field?”

“A most formidable task, but one that taught me the value of humility among the chivalric virtues.”

His raiment wasn’t soiled, and no manure-stink clung to him, but it wouldn’t make sense for him to lie, knowing I would check the field in a few hours. He must’ve really done it. Freak.

“Well,” I said, nonplussed, “that saves us some time, I guess. For your next task, you must make a three-week journey to a small town situated by a lake. On a midden heap, you’ll find a beggar woman of scabrous appearance, left that way by certain venereal indelicacies. Only a salve of rare pink snowflower blossoms can bring her relief, and it must be applied by hand so that —”

“Truly, the lady of whom you speak was most grateful for assistance,” Sir Goody-goody told me gravely. “I met her by chance on my way hence. The ointment restored to her the great beauty she possessed in her youth.”

I spluttered on my tea. “You cured Abominable Alice? But . . . but I didn’t even . . .”

“For my part, I learned that no corruption is so great it cannot be reversed.”

I blew out of my cheeks. The immensity of this trouble was starting to dawn on me. The only thing worse than a hypocritical knight of the Lancelot persuasion is an aspiring Galahad. But even the puritanical Galahads of the world can usually be put off by asking them to help someone who’s not as virtuous as they. Abominable Alice was my fail-safe.

Something wasn’t right about this.

“All right, Sir Barmy, or whatever you call yourself, here’s the deal: you’ve worn me down. At great personal risk, I’m going to accompany you on this journey. We can haggle over my commission later. But first I need you to swear that you’re going to do whatever I say, whenever I say it, even if it may seem ridiculous. Even if, from your perspective, it seems like I’m hindering your quest rather than helping it. Do we have an agreement?”

“I swear on my honor as a chaste-yet-passionate lover to do all you ask, striving with my every word and deed to be a hero worthy of your tutelage.”

“Terrific,” I said. And I actually meant it. Because, as the implications of this man’s fanaticism settled over me, I glimpsed an opportunity. Not just to deal with him, but to dissuade every would-be hero in the future from seeking me out. A way to ensure that I lived a long, peaceful life after this adventure, enjoying my books by the fireside without interruption. A way to put myself beyond danger.

No more dead mentors.

“Right, then,” I said, as we sauntered down the cobbled streets of fair Omlath, “I’ve told you my Rules Three. Just this once, I’ll allow a recitation. Repeat the rules for me.”

Sir Barm cleared his throat and held up a finger. “Rule the First: Without express permission of the Great Sage, there are to be no recitations. Not of ballads, nor of heroic verse, nor of any form of prophecy.”

“Damn right,” I said, nodding. “Can’t abide recitations. Now, what’s the second rule?”

“Rule the Second,” Sir Barm recited, adding to his finger count. “The Great Sage brooks no disobedience. Insofar as our quest endures, his command is as iron law unto me.”

“And the last?”

Sir Barm completed his finger count, then made a gauntleted fist. “Rule the Third: Under no circumstance will the Great Sage ever, ever enter a crypt, tomb, tunnel, or any other form of subterranean space. So saith the Sage.”

“Underground spaces are death to my people,” I said, shuddering. “Abide by those rules, and I swear by my wizardly power and my love of books that you’ll be wooing that poor girl in no time.”

Sir Barm nodded solemnly. “Your oaths are to me an unassailable truth.”

“That’s the spirit. You’re really coming along with Rule the Second. Now . . . let’s go over the plan.”

We stopped and gazed up at Omlath Castle, which dominated the town like a wart on a witch’s face, except prettier. The pale masonry and graceful curves of the buttresses resembled a castle of cloud, capped by a bright spring sun. I mean that literally: a tower rose from the center of the castle, its capstone engraved with luminous spells that filled the sky with eternal noon and ensured that the surrounding lands always flourished, even in dead winter. Omlath was a wonder of the world; just the sight of it was worth every step of our three-month trek. We only halted once during that journey, at a royal outpost, where I sent off a few letters by Pegasus Express. Living on a remote mountaintop doesn’t provide much chance for personal correspondence, and I sometimes miss it.

“Now,” I said, “though Omlath seems like a fair settlement, its beauty only endures through hideous powers. That capstone is wrought of dark enchantments, by none other than the Shadow Lord himself. For lo! This is his summer home.”

“That fiend!” Sir Barm smacked his gauntleted fist against his breastplate. “We will bring his fortress crumbling down around him.”

“That’s the idea. Once we remove that capstone from the tower, not only will the landscape revert to its natural climate, but the entire structure will fall. Publicly humiliating your enemy will give you bargaining power, which could go a long way toward wooing his daughter.”

Sir Barm must have been even more illiterate in the ways of women than I, because he didn’t question this assertion.

“For myself, bringing the castle down will make me famous enough that I won’t have to accept any more blasted hero ‘prentices,” I said. “That’s the whole reason we came south rather than journeying north toward the Ash Lands. What’s the point of triumphing over absolute evil if there’s no one around to impress, eh?”

The knight frowned. He was the crusader sort, who probably thought that vanquishing evil was its own reward. But he was too obedient to contradict me.

“So,” I said, “the difficult part is getting inside the castle. Security’s tight. You see those guards in crystal armor on the causeway? Their armor lights up like solstice holiday trees in the presence of magic. I can’t glamour us up any disguises. There are tons of posterns and secret entrances to the castle, but opening one from outside would trigger the arcane alarms. Besides which, some of them go underground. Really, our only entrance is the front gate.”

Sir Barm nodded, but his frown deepened. “If you will permit a question, Great Master . . .”

“If I must.”

“You say removing the capstone will cause the fortress to crumble. Will we survive this calamity? Or” — feverish excitement kindled in his eyes —” perhaps we shall sacrifice ourselves for the greater good?”

Yikes. “Slow down with the martyr talk. I certainly don’t intend to die over this; no Shadow Lord is worth that. The castle will start crumbling the instant the capstone is removed, but I’ve arranged some alternate transport. Transport with wings.” I smiled my most mysterious arcane-old-man smile. “In fact, it’s time you met the rest of our team. This way.”

The ale at The Rusty Ploughshare was only okay, subpar as far as touristy taverns go. But the place had proper atmosphere, and that was the important thing: woodsmoke and pipe-fumes mingled, swamping the common room with a veritable stinking fog. Convenient shadows pooled in the corners where rangy adventurers could sit and brood, and a raucous drinking song rattled the mugs and plates, even back in the private room I’d rented. A perfect setting for the hatching of plots and the contemplation of dire schemes, preferably with a rogue at either hand. In that regard, I was pleased.

I leaned away from Bacchus the Bard as he belched theatrically, then took another long pull from his tankard. “An exquisite ether to accompany such ingenious elocution,” he said, raising the mug to me. “Bacchus the Bard is profuse in praise.”

I grinned. “That’s one for the plan, I take it. Garsteaodeafix? Your vote?”

The rogue on my left ruffled her tail feathers. “It is a fearsome scheme, worthy of such a bold company. I do not believe it will succeed. Therefore I, too, approve of it.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “I think. So, Bacchus, you and Sir Barmy and I will slip inside as courtly entertainers, while Garsteaodeafix waits on the western cliffs to swoop in and carry us away once we remove the capstone. The stone itself can’t be transported via magical beast, but that’s okay: castles on this scale take a stupid-long time to build. Even if the capstone wasn’t going to be buried in rubble, it would take several years before Tom — I mean, the Master of Shadows — could raise his summer home again.” I glanced at Sir Barm. “Good enough?”

“Verily. Yet, if I may question . . .”

I nodded.

“What shall befall us if the Shadow Lord is in residence? Will he not pick apart our guise as a farmwife picks apart a work of wool?”

“Firstly,” I said, “I’m confused about your metaphor. Have you known many farmwives? They’re a thrifty bunch. Why would one pick apart a perfectly good work of wool? Secondly, the Shadow Lord won’t be home. He spends this time of year terrifying villages in the southern cantrefs. No worries on that account.”

Sir Barm pounded a fist on the table in a pleased sort of way. “A daring venture! We shall comport ourselves with courage and aplomb!”

“Uh-huh. Personally, I just hope not to get killed. I guess there’s no sense wasting time, though. Let’s settle up and head out.”

Bacchus and the knight left in search of the publican, but Garsteaodeafix tapped me on the shoulder with her beak. “You have not told the fool knight of the capstone’s curse?” she asked.

I grimaced. “It doesn’t seem like something he needs to know.”

The gryphon cocked her head in parrot-like fashion. Her golden mane ruffled, then smoothed against her neck like a bird settling its feathers. “This scheme grows more savage with each passing moment,” she said. “You did not lie when you wrote that I would have a wonderful bedtime story of brutality for my hatchlings.”

“Oh, how are the kids, by the way?”

“They fare well. Little Iggistifigix devoured her first dwarf the other day. Her father and I were greatly pleased.”

“I can imagine,” I said, nodding. “They grow up fast, don’t they?”

We spent the rest of that day renting our equipment, then got a good sleep. Midmorning of the day after, we were ready. We strapped on full troubadour kits, cymbals and snare drums that clanked and banged as our ankles tugged at the pulleys, accordions that wheezed faintly with each movement of our chests and arms, bagpipes that wailed their reedy torment when we exhaled too sharply. Of the three of us, only Bacchus bore the honor of a harp. He wouldn’t hear of Sir Barm or myself carrying one, not even as a disguise.

Tension coiled in my chest as we strode over the causeway. The crystal guards stood dead ahead, guises impassive.

“Greetings, great garrison!” Bacchus boomed as we drew close. “Myself and my cadre of companions have come to conquer your court with canticle cantrips. Lyrical lays, robust ballads, artful arias, and vivacious verse . . . all these and more will we endeavor to unfold! Might we pass?”

“Papers?” the captain said, unimpressed.

I handed over our forged bards’ licenses. They were good forgeries, though not infallible. Red light flickered in the captain’s crystal plate at my proximity, making my breath hitch. The captain didn’t notice as she skimmed the parchments with a bored eye.

“In order,” she said. “On with you.”

We stepped beneath the hanging spears of the portcullis — and we were in.

Host Commentary

…aaaaand welcome back. That was “How to Steal the Plot Armor” by Luke Wildman—or, at least, the first half of it, so if you enjoyed that then we’ll see you back here next week for the concluding part of Sir Barm’s daring and undoubtedly well-advised plan, for what is bound to be a successful outcome that sees the Shadow Lord’s Daughter swept up by his heroism and yeeeah you know it’s not panning out like that, right? That it’s going to be far more fun watching the ways he’s undone by his own hubris? We gotchu. Next week.