Re: Practice Bits: Ruler
Tyler Cooper drooped over the thrift store desk, and the out of date laptop running a video explaining solid geometry. His public school education had focused more on avoiding gangbangers and offense seeking crybullies than on math. Now his community college expected actual learning to occur, and it was a bit of a shock to the system. Struggling to identify which axiom went with what problem, he got up, and crossed his tiny apartment to the kitchenette. There, a microwave and caffeinated tea and a mug 'World's greatest son', a gift from his parents, yielded a brew that promised alertness.
It failed. Tyler had yet to absorb the love of math that he might have gained in time. A sudden head and shoulder drop, and the mug tipped, and hot liquid splashed across the keyboard. There had been rumors about this model. Strange stories in the urban myth realm, but no evidence. However, it had been enough to encourage chip designers to go in a different direction.
Tyler lurched back up, groaning in dismay. Granted it had been cheap, used, but still it hurt the pocketbook and the soul. Inside, water trickled down to the motherboard even as Tyler tilted the keyboard on its side. He ran, fumbling for a dry towel, and came back just in time. Inside one chip, a strange substance, yellowish liquid, called by the designers of Chimp Chip Inc. 'scriff', which was an acronym for something now forgotten, was touched by water. Nearby electricity ran over the bridge like little munchkins running for candy. The scriff became energized. And it sought out the nearest large, complex electrical system.
No one in this universe knew it could do this. And if they had, they would not have understood why for at least another thousand years of scientific advancement. But a bullet does not need to be understood to work. Some urban myths are true.
A superconducting substance now, the scriff sucked in all available nearby electricity and leapt to the man's central nervous system. It took the bolt of lightning with it, and Tyler fried in a microsecond. If anyone had been there, they would have seen a bright flash of light, and Tyler was no longer there. The laptop fell back on the desk, smoking, and the mug slipped over the edge to shatter on the floor. A strong tang of ozone hung in the air.
Now, ordinarily when one is disintegrated, one dies. Shortly thereafter, one is led into the Court of the Most High, either ecstatically happy, or trembling with pure horror. We are patterns that receive and transmit, and support and I/O devices. A brain to receive the information of the spirit, and to transmit back to that same spirit. A body to support the brain, and eyes and touch and all the other physical senses to receive information from the material world. The output is of course voice and hands and the like.
This spirit is attached to the pattern in the physical world. When Tyler was ripped apart, atom by atom, electron by electron, and even quark by quark, for that is what happened he still had the pattern. The scriff attached to each piece of him, in that pattern, fled to its natural state, which is between universes. There a great pool of scriff in which all the various universes of the Multiverse 'float' for lack of a better word, exists.
Now, matter or energy, which really are the same thing, are not native to this realm. Scriff is also not of spirit, but a substance of non-matter. So the matter sought to be in where it was supposed to be, not of volition, but the same way a rock rolls down a hill. Tyler was yanked into another universe.
And here a peculiarity of scriff took place. Energized scriff holds patterns. Some speculate this enables the sea of scriff to hold the universes together. Tyler was put back together, precisely as he had been, except now he was a bit different in some respects which we will get to later.
Laying on stone in a darkened room, he twitched and moaned as his brain rebooted. He had never not been, never died, but he had certainly come close enough to see the Grim Reaper's mailbox. A few minutes passed while things sorted themselves out, and he jerked.
Opening one eye a tiny crack, he saw nothing. His eyes flared wide open, but the darkness held. Breathing rapidly, he quickly patted himself over finding by touch that all his parts were still attached, and that his clothing of jeans and a terry cloth shirt was still there. Indeed, even his white socks were on his feet, but he had no boots as those had been in the bedroom under the bed.
With an odd feeling, he wondered if he had left something off to the right, and behind him. Having nothing better to do, he rolled to his knees, only thinking to check that he would not crack his skull until it was too late.
Shaking his head, he made his way, as if drawn on hands and knees across a rough and cool to the touch stone floor. Finding seams, it was obvious to him that this was manmade, and not a cave, which cheered him. Now, he only needed to find a lightswitch.
And then he bumped into something mobile, and soft, but a little rough. Feeling over it perplexed, he eventually decided it felt like his boot. Taking a risk, he took it up in his hand, and smelled it. Definitely his shoe, he decided. Feeling about more, but with a growing surety, he found the other boot.
They were tan suede, and ran just above the ankle. Not really work boots, but tougher than the ordinary shoe, he enjoyed the ankle support, and the good traction. The fact that they pushed his height to just above six feet was nice as well. He put them on with familiar ease.
Following that same odd sense that manifested best when he did not strain after it, he found a comb, his collection of foreign coins from the eighth grade, a solar calculator, a basketball, and his Swiss army knife. But still he had not found a wall, and his knees were getting sore, and his arms trembled a bit from the considerable crawling.
He might break something, but he figured that whoever held him here kidnapped should not have dropped him off so tough luck for them. With this thought, he took up the basketball, and lofted it. It bounced once, on the ground, and then another time, higher up, which probably meant a wall. Nothing sounded broken, and he crawled toward the noise of it as it rebounded off the wall more slowly.
This time, he threw it to his right, and in a second, he had his rebound. So, there was a wall on the right, he deduced. Waiting for it to come back, he tried forward, which got him a bounce and then a bounce on a wall. Hitting the last of the four cardinal points, he threw it. It bounced thrice before hitting a wall, and coming back to him.
Keeping his direction finding ball, he slowly stepped to his feet. In the black, his eyes wanted to create light, but that was only hallucinatory blocks of light his vision cast up. Taking a careful step forward, one hand up in front of his face, he made his way to the front wall.
Hitting nothing on the way, he felt his way down the wall to the right, and quickly came to a corner. No door this way, he decided. He considered going on the new wall, the right wall, but decided to retrace his steps. Touching the wall with one hand, while holding the ball under his arm was not easy, but he needed to keep a hand up in case anything pointy was waiting in the dark for him to stab himself in the eye with it. Twice he dropped his left arm from shielding his face, and took a short break.
Sweat gathered on his neck even if it was cool in here. Still, he came to the far corner of the front wall, and found no door. A slippery fear insinuated itself into his heart. What if there were no doors? But that was ridiculous. He prayed, and dismissed the notion. Making his way along the left wall was slower as his pace flagged. And to his disappointment, still no door was under his right hand.
Feeling a bit more desperate, he went along the back wall. Halfway down, he took a break to rest his left arm. Bringing it down, he felt a sharp, slicing pain in the palm of his hand.
"Ow." He snarled, and yanked the hand back, checking for blood. It had plentiful, flowing freely. Tyler might have taken a stop there, just to rest his weary heart. Or he might have waited to check out whatever was in front of him, or beside him as it were. But then a line of light glowed at waist height. He looked at it closely, and realized that it revealed a naked sword blade resting on some sort of stand on a be-rugged table.
Now, as to why it glowed, he had no idea, but the virtue of a sword being useful against his kidnappers who probably outnumbered him, and had guns appealed. It might not be enough, but it was surely better than his fists and feet. So he took up the sword by the hilt.
And light rose in the room, from the sword. Wondering how that trick was accomplished, he examined the blade. It was three feet long, straight single edged with a curved point, and a basket hilt. The hilt was gold-washed, and had some engraved designs, but in the still dimness, he could not see them clearly enough to decipher.
The room itself was fifty feet from him to the front wall, and thirty feet from side to side with a ceiling fifteen feet high. It was tiled with rough granite blocks, and smoother granite tiles pieced more tightly together. Supposing that the rough flooring was for traction, he studied the thirteen different emblems, five feet high, all worked into the granite wall tiles. They were heraldic, being eagles, and lions, a parakeet, and he thought flames, and a gold harp with others. But the best thing about the room was that fifteen feet ahead, and two feet to the left was a wooden door with an iron latch.
Relieved that the blood had stopped flowing, and the pain was gone, he walked up to the door, and was about to open it when caution struck him hard. He pressed his ear to the door, and tried to eavesdrop through it. But it was good sound oak, and all he could hear was an occasional thump like of a hammer striking wood.
Resolving to be cautious, he opened the door with his weak hand, and stepped out. The bright light, natural sunlight, blinded him, but he felt rejoicing his heart and praised God for it. Words moved past him.
"It is time and past time I say..."
"You wish to cut the throat of any who disagree..."
He blinked, and gradually a high vaulted room with great windows ninety feet high came into view. It was longer than it was wide, and built of great stones like in a cathedral. To his left was a stage of raised stones, two steps above the floor. In front of him, perhaps fifty men in an open box shape with their boldly dressed leaders in tabards and surcoats, all with the heraldic symbols he had seen in the room, in full display.
Behind the ten or so leaders were their associates, swordsmen, and ladies in tall hats, and a few had older men with keen eyes with them. All of the fifty were dressed in heavy clothing, bright, and the men had scabbards but no swords.
But on one side of the box, standing by himself on the stage was an old man with white, bushy hair, curling, and a full beard, and an ebony staff which he banged on the stone floor of the great room.
"My lords will not insult each other." His disapproving tone seemed to faze none although the previous speaker, a dark-haired, and well-oiled looking man in a navy blue tabard decorated with Viking like ships in four places only smiled gently as he made an apology.
"Of course, I did not mean to say Lord Alastair is a throat-cutting brigand like....some of his relatives. My apologies." The blatant insincerity of the apology came through loud and clear to Tyler. A fair-haired man with a green tabard, and some black device on his tabard only scowled in response.
Tyler saw a door to his immediate left, and considered taking it. But the movement of his blade caught a bit of the sunlight coming through the taller than wide, but twenty foot wide windows. And on the far side a woman gasped loudly. Everyone looked at her, and then looked at who she was pointing at with one hand over her mouth in shock.
This was of course Tyler who right then was considering making a break for it.
The closest man on his right, clad in pale yellow with flame devices snapped his fingers, and four men leapt from behind him, drawing axes.
"Put the weapon down, boy." The golden-haired man said with a cool steel in his voice. Seeing four axemen coming at him in a slow walk, working smoothly together, Tyler gulped. And then bending down, he put the sword on the stones in front of him.
"You can take it." He said quietly to the golden-haired man whose face twitched in frustration. He nodded thanks to Tyler, and told his men to stand fast. They stopped, and held their axes across their chests while waiting for whatever came next. The words in the stillness of the room with its excellent acoustics carried to everyone.
"No, by my right hand, no!" Bellowed a ponderously fat man in crimson far around the corner to the right, his presence hid by the other leaders between him and Tyler. An electric charge had run through the crowd, and all were tensely waiting.
"He is not taking it, Lord Crimson." The white haired man at the head, the obvious moderator spoke in conciliatory tones.
"But then who is to take it?" Said a man in light blue with dirty blonde hair, thin and short, who stood on the farthest angle of the box of men from Tyler. He only had one soldier behind him as well, and no one else. The man smiled crookedly, and gave Tyler a wink.
"Well, that is what we are heard to decide, my good lord of the Westwards. It is the matter of this meeting, and in such a time as this, I think calm and good sense are precious things..." A man on the far side, dressed in gray with a golden trumpet on his tabard spoke. Everything about him spoke of restrained wealth, including the eleven soldiers and servants behind him who all nodded in agreement with the wise words of their leader. By the sneers on the faces of most else, only they found this profound.
"No, I mean, isn't it already decided?" The man in light blue spoke as if surprised. "After all, Lord Gold, chief of the armies, did not reach to take what was offered."
"Preposterous."
"That is not how..."
"Islander, shut your conniving, little..."
"I see your point, Lord of the Westwards." Lord Gold said from near Tyler. His voice was deep and steady, and no one spoke up to tell him to be quiet. And his reply quieted the room. None spoke for a good thirty seconds.
"I think perhaps a private conversation with the lords is in order." Said a heavyset man in black with his hair buzzed, but still showing gray. Nods were exchanged, along with a few open hands held in front of themselves, and the moderator slammed his ebony staff down.
Everyone but the lords began to file out. Tyler still stood there until the moderator waved at him to follow. Feeling timid, and under the eyes of everyone, he did so by climbing up on the stage. Here he passed some thrones and other chairs, and went out a wooden door in the back wall. Once there, he walked down a richly carpeted hall, with large tapestries hanging on either side until they came to a door past other doors. This door was at the end, and was carved with crossed staves in intricate design.
Following the moderator inside, he found a table, a fireplace with a small fire, and many chairs along with more rugs and more tapestries. A servant came in, and brought them some hot cider in metal cups. Then another servant, a maid came in with two more candelabras that were lit. The room went from dim to decently illuminated.
The moderator sighed, put his staff to lean against the wall, and sat down wearily in a chair. Tyler did not take another one.
"What in the name of all the gods were you doing, boy?"
Tyler stared at him a bit, and then decided that he needed to take charge of the conversation. He chose a chair, and took up the hot cider whose smell made his stomach rumble just a bit. Sitting down, he took a sip, and almost coughed. It was definitely 'hard' cider.
"My name is Tyler Cooper. Who are you?"
The moderator bent his head, and stared for a few seconds, and then nodded.
"Very well. I am the Grand Herald Otis." And he took his own cup up, and sipped it easily.
"Um, Otis, where are we?"
"Currently in my office, and its Herald, or Master, young sir. Now, tell me what you think you were doing? I don't know how you got in. Do you have on you one of the ancient Devices of Power, a tarnkappe, or something?" The word meant nothing to Tyler, but Devices of Power, well, the sword had glowed.
"You mean like the sword?" Tyler guessed.
"Yes, like the King's Sword." Otis snapped. Tyler flinched.
"You did not know, did you?" Otis asked more calmly, almost gently. Tyler just stared bewildered back.
"Tell me, young sir, did you blood the sword?"
"It cut me." And Tyler held up his left hand to show the wound in his palm. All that was visible was a line of white scar tissue. Tyler leapt from the chair on seeing it, shaking all over. Otis just waited until the boy calmed himself.
"Not familiar with the Tales either. The King's Sword has many properties, among them it can heal any wound it deals." Otis leaned back further in his chair lost in more thought. At last he shook his head and sighed.
"Nothing for it." He raised his voice, and called for bourbon. "Comes from Lord Green's land. Look, young sir, or, well, anyways, its like this...." Otis breathed deep, and waited as the servant came in with a small cup of bourbon in a silver cup. Otis took it all, and threw it back, and gave the cup back to the servant who raised an eyebrow, but then left with silence.
Tyler was jumpy at all this.
"Master Tyler, the King dies, and well, whoever, and I mean whoever bloods the sword next, they are king." Otis spoke his face pale and serious, his eyes were piercing and dark now.
"So...I'm a king. They uh, oh, they were trying to decide who gets the sword." Tyler opened his mouth remembering all the proud, tough men in the room. Each one of them had wanted what he had held. It may be true that he who has the gold makes the rules, but its also true that he who has the gold has a thousand enemies.
"Not quite. They were trying to decide the order of attempt. For the King's Sword does not cut just anyone when it is unclaimed. Centuries ago, a servant fell, and cut his hand on the blade right after his King's death. He was king. So, they keep careful, careful watch on it, not trusting each other.
Once the King died two days ago, I, with three other Witnesses took it to the Room of the Ruler, and stowed it there. The door is unlocked from the outside by a key I carry, and it is guarded at all times when there is not a convention of Lords to guard it."
"It seems some lord might just decide to sprint for the door, and ..."
"Its been tried. Thrice. One was killed before he could reach the door. Another breached the door, but the sword would not accept him. He died soon thereafter. A third became King."
Tyler leaned back. The thought of being a king was grand. It would give him a job of importance, wealth, and an opportunity to do good. But then, considering everything, he might not last that long. He decided to keep his own counsel on how he arrived. If he hinted at secret abilities, he might scare his opponents. It was like playing poker, which Tyler was not bad at, even if all he played for was nickels.
"So I'm king."
"Well....kind of." Otis frowned. "You see they, well, they none of them want you to be king. Neither do any of the other powers in the land. Its..."
"They could just kill me, and be done with it."
"Yes. No doubt that possibility is being discussed right now." Goose bumps ran up Tyler's back at the thought that men just fifty yards from him right now were discussing whether to stab a few swords in his chest. It would allow them to go back to their wrangling and intimidating each other, and make one of them King. He'd also be dead, which Tyler thought was bad.
"I could run."
Otis got up, and walked over to one especially large tapestry. On it he pointed out the western part of a large continent. He then jabbed at a castle on it.
"Three weeks in any direction unless you want to go northeast and visit cannibals."
That made running a bad idea, but it might be the best he could find.
"I could put the sword up."
"Not while you're alive."
"No, I figured. I mean, I'd renounce being King, but I'd keep the sword. They could choose by another method."
Otis nodded.
"Clever. But they would assume you were secretly backing one of them, and that would lead to civil war, and eventually you'd be dead as well. Along with a lot of others."
"They hate each other that much?"
"Long memories. Dirty tricks. Lord Gold keeps them in place as the Lord of the, well, now your armies. Remove the King, and even Lord Gold's brutality won't keep it together."
Tyler thought back. Lord Gold had not seemed 'brutal', but professional. And then he thought he understood. Gold would do what he deemed necessary. In order to defeat the Communists, America had to threaten to nuke cities.
Tyler leaned forward, and began to pray. But even before he began, he knew what he had to do. "On death ground, fight." as Sun Tzu had told students of war for millennia. A surety known to samurai took hold of him, and as he prayed so did a flickering flame light inside his soul. He looked up, and Otis jerked back a few inches.
"Follow me." Tyler got up.
"Wait, what..."
"NOW." Tyler barked, and opened the door, not looking back. He needed the man, but the fellow seemed a little lacking in fire. And with shoulders crawling a bit, he walked on, and heard the door closing. With relief, he heard the door open behind him, and kept walking despite sputters of protest behind him.
Entering the great room, he saw the ten gathered in the midst. Only Lord Gold was armed, at least visibly, Tyler thought with amusement. A sudden burst of insight assured him that all of them must have at least one or two daggers hidden away. Not stopping, even as they eyed him, and as his legs threatened to lock up and pitch him face down, he went down the stairs.
"Stop." The words came from a half-dozen throats. Ignoring them, his back itching, hoping that a flung dagger would not grow there, he went to the King's Sword. Running feet took away his time, and he took it, and spun about to slap his sword against Lord Gold's.
The slimmer man and the heavier warrior glared at each other for a few seconds.
"You raise your sword against your King, Gold?" Tyler said in his most arrogant possible voice. He had a wide variety of choices from television villains to use.
Gold's eyes narrowed, and Tyler braced himself for a sudden attack. And then Gold stepped back, disengaging.
The others, now scattered in a line from where they began, and going up to him, now stared back. Tyler noted that Green and Light Blue both had not moved from their original position. Neither had Brown or Silver he saw.
"I am your King." Defiance blazed in many eyes, while others looked blank. More than one had a hand behind their tabard front, clutching for daggers. This was not enough, Tyler realized.
He walked through them, forcing them to give way, with naked steel preceeding him. This left his back exposed which covered that back in cold sweat. Coming to the center of the room, he looked at Light Blue who gave him the slightest of shakes of the head. Thoughtfully, remembering the wink, he turned to his left to face the fair-haired man in green. Now this close, he saw a shape unidentifield all in black as his heraldic device.
"Kneel, Green."
Green's eyes stared furiously back, and his hand clearly clutched a dagger, and his other hand was behind his back. Tyler found himself at an impasse, and then realized what he must do.
"Kneel or die."
"Not in the temple of Lord Pogre and Lady Qual. You must not shed blood." Otis shouted from behind him. Wanting to curse the old man, Tyler stepped back, and faced them who were all near him. The moment was gone.
Crimson spat, and Orange stepped up, and put his hand on Gold's sword which was back in its hilt. Gold began to turn, but Tyler and most others saw the dagger that Crimson poked into Gold's side. Orange looked at him, a stringy haired man with a furious eye, only one, and smiled.
"You die now, boy." He laughed.
"Not in the temple..." But none listened.
"Draw and die, Orange." Tyler said, again mimicking the television stars, this time a cold-blooded hero. And then he took up the stance of an overhead attack with his right hand leading.
Orange paused, looking confused. Tyler crooked his fingers in a come on gesture. Standing there, like that, felt good and right. And so Tyler waited, and while he waited, he prayed. And as he prayed, his face grew to be at peace, and the tension in his form eased. And as he eased, his form perfected until a kendomaster would have been impressed.
"Hah,heh. Just joking."
"Kneel then, Orange." Tyler said from a quiet place inside himself. Orange looked to object, and Tyler realized that he would have to kill the man right now. Suddenly, seeing this resolve, Orange went down on both knees.
Tyler turned to Gold, paused, and then kept turning to Crimson.
"Give Lord Gold your dagger, Crimson." A grunt from Gold reinforced this order, and it was done. Tyler nodded, and unhappily the ponderous man got down to one knee. Then Tyler turned back to Gold. That kneel was done, and soon all had kneeled.
Tyler wondered what to do, and then gave thanks. He remembered knighting, and now he understood it better. What more obvious way to show your allegiance to someone than to publically permit them to put naked steel next to your throat.
"Green." He turned, and tapped the man on his shoulder with the sword. "You may keep your lands. Be quicker to obey."
"Light Blue." He nodded, and tapped him, and winked at him all at the same time. Looking suffused with laughter, the man bowed back.
"Black."
"Brown."
"Silver. All of you may keep your lands."
Then he turned to Gray, and Blue and did likewise.
"Orange. Hmm. Brave but stupid. You will give me ten percent of your wealth." A gulp was heard by all. "In taxes, this year." And the room subsided.
"Crimson, you not only helped Orange, for which you will also suffer likewise, but you turned on your brother. For this, you will also pay him ten percent." Rage clotted the fat man's face, but he nodded, and spoke no word.
"Gold, you're the only one to actually cross swords with me. Do you wish to do so again?"
Gold swallowed and looked up into Tyler's eyes.
"No, sire."
"That's all then?"
"Yes, sire. You can dismiss me if you like, sire."
"Hmm. You can keep your lands, and your job as lord of my armies." And King Tyler tapped him on the shoulder as well.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:50, Thu 20 July 2017.