EfN: Cyril, part 5

Throughout his travels, Algie had always made a point of never preparing for anything. After all, was his reasoning, what if something unexpected happened? He’d have wasted an afternoon. As he sent a stack of scroll cases flying every which way on landing and gazed at his surroundings, he could not help but feel that this philosophy had served him well. After all, nothing could possibly have prepared him for the circumstance into which he had unceremoniously fallen.

The interior of the Pouch was huge, impossibly so (but that was a given), at least three times the size the ballroom had been, great towering mountains of tomes, staves, gems, robes, buckets, lanterns, ropes, vials, scrolls, amulets, jugs, masks, torches, carpets, goggles, boots, wands, rings, clocks, jugs, crystal balls, daggers, manacles, flasks, packs, gloves, bottles, and broken musical instruments stretched in all directions, lit by the glow from the Eye of Jherek and other luminous artifacts scattered across the landscape.

“Really should have cleaned this out six hundred years ago,” came the voice of Cyril from over a hill of helmets. “Course, if I hadn’t overloaded the space-warping enchantment on my bag by stuffing it beyond capacity with a frankly ludicrous amount of unreasonably magical plunder, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Cyril appeared over the crest of the hill. The Grapplomatic Mark III was slung at his side where the pouch had been, a bulky crystal staff topped with a large emerald was in his left hand, and an inordinate number of wands, staves, and rods were carried under his arms.

“Don’t think that I need this stuff as a wizard,” said Cyril. “I don’t. Wands? Kid stuff. But – petrification curse, desperate measures, scorching strategically...”

“I shouldn’t worry if I were you,” Algie replied amiably. “You couldn’t possibly make me think less of you.”

Cyril’s nostrils narrowed. The emerald staff glowed, and a bolt of greenish energy shot towards Algie. He interposed the book in its path, but on contact with the green the book became blistering hot to touch. The book fell from his hands. Chuckling, Cyril switched to the Grapplomatic and took aim. At that moment, Algie wound his foot back and kicked the second bottommost helm from the pile. A round, cross-visored helm above began to shift, and with a crash and a clattering, the hill began to collapse under Cyril’s feet.

Algie ran, clambering over an empty sarcophagus and a statue of a goat in a desperate bid to stay one step ahead of the armor avalanche. Tripping over a reflective crystal ball, he lost his balance, tumbling into a small clutter crater. Algie smacked face first into the Pouch’s leather floor.

Picking himself up off what passed for ground, Algie looked up to see the strangest creature he had ever seen. One foot in height, with a wrinkled, dirty ‘skin’ of matted blue fibers, the creature looked sort of like a monkey would look, if described to a panicky, nightmare-prone child who had never seen a monkey by a particularly spiteful older sibling who had also never seen a monkey. Two large and distressingly lifelike pink ears adorned the sides of its ‘head’, and a googling pair of saucer-like eyes directed themselves at Algie. It opened its mouth to reveal a set of jagged, needly teeth, dripping great globs of sweat onto the leather to which it was rooted.

“Bugger,” said Cyril, sliding into the pit in a shower of helmets, “Not another one.”

“Another  what?”

“Sockmonkey turned magically parasitic lifeform via highly unstable contamination of rancid beer stains, horrific background magic, and proximity to my generally bad temper.”

Algie nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Correct, Keeper.” The thing’s pupils shook as it turned its eyes on Cyril. It spoke in a guttural, hissing voice that echoed all across the bag. “I expect you’re surprised to see my kind once again.”

“Well,” Cyril pointed out, “you have to admit that it was pretty improbably the first time.”

“Have you forgotten, Keeper?” Its pupils rattled as it threw its head back derisively. “Socks always come in pairs.” The monkey folded itself in solemnity. “And for the death of my brother, I will on this day have revenge!”

“Your ‘brother’, and I’m pronouncing the word with quotes because this is all very stupid,” said Cyril, “was a madman. Monkey. Madmonkey. He tried to kill me and destroy everyone on the island.”

“Freedom, Keeper. That is all that my brother sought before his end.”

“I incinerated him and I’ll incinerate you.”

“This is all tremendously interesting,” interjected Algie, “but it seems to me-”

“Do be quiet, Finch,” said Cyril. “This is between me and my monkey.”

“Ah,” said Algie. “Carry on, then.”

“We came to sentience many years ago in the dark, forgotten recesses of your collection. A new race, but a proud one. We gained knowledge of the world outside through the voices we heard and the artifacts we studied. We hid ourselves away from your questing hand, Keeper, until we were ready. Finally, drawn by the sounds of battle, my brother determined to venture forth into the world of Man. We formed a pact on that day. On the next coming of your Hand, Keeper, he would seize his chance and escape, lay claim to a suitable host body, and reobtain the Bag, that we might go out into the New World and carve out a new nation for our tribe. He never returned.”

“Put a sock in it,” said Cyril, and tossed a fireball.

The monkey held up a brown felt paw, and the fireball dissolved a foot away. “Since that day, I have spent the last four years training. Learning. Growing. I wove myself into the Bag itself, that I might draw upon its power.” As it spoke, rubbery tendrils began to emerge from the leather beneath Cyril’s feet, twisting themselves “I studied magic and martial combat, and augmented my body with new enchantments and fabrics.” Cyril fired the Grapplomatic up, and shot from the tendrils’ reach up to the roof of the pouch. “All in preparation for the day your arrogance would drive you into a corner, and you would be forced to retreat,” New tendrils emerged from the roof and wrapped around Cyril, squeezing him against the ceiling, “into my realm.”

“Er,” Algie tentatively approached the monkey, “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but-”

The monkey interrupted him. “I thank you, warrior. Your perseverance in opposing the Keeper has made everything possible.”

“Yes, well, frightfully chuffed to receive such words of appreciation from one so devoted to the Cause and all that, but do you suppose you could elaborate on the particulars of these new worlds of possibility that my efforts have gone so far towards unlocking?”

“First,” it hissed with evident relish, “the Keeper shall be held entirely motionless for the span of one year, depriving him of his mind. Then, he shall be asphyxiated – but slowly – for the span of three years, depriving him of his body. His suffering shall be prolonged, and exquisite. And then-”

“- you resign yourself to a life of solitude and quiet contemplation?”

“Then, I shall claim his power for my own, complete my training, and march forth to conquer the world of Man for the glory of the sock monkey race.”

“Ah.” Algie clicked his tongue. “Thought it might be something like that.”

“Why?” it asked worriedly. “Has it been done before?”

“Oh, no,” said Algie reassuringly. “No, no. No. Blisteringly original. Brilliant, even. You simply possess a certain regality of bearing with which supreme rule seems almost a foregone conclusion. One has but to look upon your illustrious countenance to think ‘Here is a man’ – sorry, monkey – ‘fit to rule kings and make emperors his slaves.’”

The monkey preened. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Oh, absolutely. On that score I find myself wholly without doubt – with the exception of one niggling little stumper I find impossible to ignore.” Algie’s face fell theatrically.

“What? Preposterous.”

“It’s just – I can’t see how you’re supposed to go forth into the world and lay waste to the kingdoms of Man and all that when you’re rooted to the spot.” He hastened to clarify. “Not that I would call weaving yourself into the Bag a bad idea, as such, but it seems to me you’ve rather ended your reign of terror before it can begin, if you see what I mean.”

“A silly concern,” the monkey scoffed. “I can free myself any time I wish.”

“What, really?” Algie asked incredulously. “Forgive me for daring to question your divine might, but I find that extremely difficult to believe without evidence. Looks like a deuce of a weave to me. Sorry to say it, old chimp, but you may well be the perpetrator of a join so strong not even you yourself could possibly hope to break it.”

It began to strain against the leather floor. “I! am! Bag-Monkey!” shouted Bag-Monkey, “And nothing! Is! Impossible!”

Two things happened at once. The first thing was that the sockmonkey shot up into the air, leaving a ring of sticky threads where it had been moments before. The second thing was that the tendrils around Cyril became lifeless and inert, and he fell from his height and landed on another pile, sending rings and gems flying everywhere. Algie clambered free from the pit to his location.

“Cyril, old bean, taking under consideration the current concatenation of circumstances it occurs to me that -”

“Alliance?”

“I was getting to that.”

Cyril stood up and adjusted his hat. “Let’s kick some arse.”

“Does it actually have-”

“Figure of speech.”

“Right,” said Algie. “You take the East, I’ll take the West. Wherever it landed, it can’t have gone far.”

“Sounds good to me. The less I have to see of you, the better.”

Algie climbed nimbly across the stacks, keeping his eyes peeled. Scarcely had he proceeded sixty feet when with a bloodcurdling war cry, the monkey leapt out from a collection of gloves brandishing a knitting needle four feet long and thrusting straight for Algie’s heart. Algie quickly jumped back and knocked it aside with his own sword. The monkey landed with perfect balance on a large jug.

“You defect to the Keeper even after his atrocities? You betray my people at our moment of triumph? Was this your plan all along, warrior?”

“Plan?” Algie shrugged. “I’m just sort of making things up as I go, really. More interesting that way, don’t you think?”

The monkey lunged at Algie with surprising strength, knocking his parry off balance. With a flick of the felt, the sword went flying, disappearing into the heaps. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The needle withdrew. He fell to his knees.

“If you will not serve me in spirit…” the monkey intoned, tendrils coursing forth, “Then you shall serve me in mmph-” A metal hook tightened around the thing’s mouth, and it shot across the artifact hills up to Cyril’s waiting grip.

“I already used ‘Put a sock in it,’” said Cyril regretfully, “Haven’t had time to think of something else.”

Algie was momentarily blinded by a flash of white hot flame. When his vision returned, a clump of ashes was falling from the wizard’s hand. The petrification had nearly reached his shoulder.

“Yes, that was a tricky one, what?” called Algie. “I was trying to think of a  play on the word ‘felt’, but the well of creativity ran dry. Still, jolly good show and all that.”

Cyril looked down at the Grapplomatic. “Can I use this to get to you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Algie genially. “You just sort of aim diagonally, retract as you fly, and then loosen your grip to-”

Cyril swung across the landscape and planted a stone fist right in Algie’s stomach. Algie fell backwards and toppled down the side of the stockpile, coming to rest against the wall of the bag next to a large, nonfunctional water clock. Cyril loomed above him. “Where were we?”

Algie stuck his hand in the pile, and was rewarded. “I had just obtained the sacred sword of the royal family of Hysteria, capable, I’m told, of cutting through stone as if it were runny cheese.” He brandished it weakly.

This revelation had the desired effect. Cyril fliched and instinctively stepped back to take his right arm out of danger. Quickly, Algie picked up a nearby vial and tossed it at the wizard’s feet. It shattered, and a foul-smelling cloud of pinkish smoke subsumed the immediate area, obscuring all vision.

“My reliable source has also been kind enough to inform me,” Algie went on, coughing slightly, “of the peculiar consequences that result when a space bigger on the inside than the outside,” he steadied himself against the wall with his free hand, “is unceremoniously forced to take its outside into consideration.”

Cutting through stone may have been the Sword of Hysteria’s claim to fame, but all that Algie needed was a very sharp blade, and in this capacity it served just as well. Into the side of the Pouch he made a single, clean, cut.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Algie did not.

The world began to rumble.

--

Ophelia looked down. Something strange was happening to the Pouch. It was… the space around it seemed to be bubbling, almost, in a way that hurt her eyes to look at, as though it couldn’t quite decide on its own dimensions. As she got to her feet to take a closer look, the whole thing abruptly folded in on itself with a sudden schloop.

Before she knew what was going on, Algie, Cyril, and every single object that had been inside the pouch instantaneously flooded into the tiny sitting room. This was, of course, impossible, all the more so since she had earlier bolted the doors. And so it was that the three of them were carried atop a rolling wave of enchanted clutter that coursed out the mansion window and through the trees, snapping innumerable branches as it went and depositing the three of them a large distance into the dark forest, with the monsters of the forest baying at their scent and a lit path nowhere in sight.