You

Chapter Nine



Hey, Matt, are there any magic swords in the Realms universe?” I asked.

There was no reason for preamble; Matt got thrown these questions. Black Arts didn’t have an archivist. The closest we had was Matt. He did the research to find out what make of Soviet tanks rolled into Berlin in 1945, and what breed of horse a Knight Templar might have ridden. He was consistently cheerful, and he was Black Arts’ biggest fan. He’d read every comic book and novel adaptation and was an authority on the past and future histories of the Black Arts multiverse. Although for all I knew, he made up the answers on the spot.

“Oh! Well.” Matt thought a moment, then drew a breath. “I mean, there’s the usual ones, plus one, plus two, that kind of thing. There’s flaming swords, ice swords, vorpal. Silver, not really magic, but it interacts with those systems. There’s Sunshard, pluses against undead. Daemonsbane—obviously—a bunch of other… banes, giants, and stuff. You can make one out of star metal if you have the right equipment, that’s pretty good. There was a place you could find a vibro-sword from Solar Empires, that was just in as a joke. And, well, there’s the Rainbow Blade, has a bunch of different effects.”

I was impressed, by his humility, if nothing else. He always talked as if he were ticking off the obvious points everyone knew.

“Are there any evil swords?”

“Evil… swords…. Nothing comes to mind, not swords, anyway. Staff of the Ancients turned out evil, obviously. The DireSpear. At high level, antipaladins manifest burning swords as a class attribute. I don’t think the blades themselves are aligned, but I can check.”

“Huh. Where would I start looking? Like, Realms I?”

“Oh, man… oh, man. I don’t even know if you could. I don’t know if even Simon and Darren had a copy, or one that would run, anyway. The thing was written in COBOL.”


Black Arts had a game library of sorts, three gray metal bookshelves bolted to the wall between the Realms art pit and the kitchen. They were stacked unevenly with all the collected debris of four or five insular, feverish midadolescences. Rows and then boxes of fantasy and science fiction novels with doubles and triples of anything in the golden-age SFF canon—the Dune books took up their own shelf. Stacked, hand-labeled videocassettes of films someone considered essential reference (Aliens, The Dark Crystal, and Ladyhawke were visible on top), Dungeons & Dragons modules containing scribbled marginalia, Avalon Hill board games, stacks of comic books, an unused dictionary and thesaurus, a separate section for art books, histories of medieval architecture, and color plates of Vallejo and Frazetta and Whelan and Mead and Piranesi.

And of course stacks and stacks of computer games in no particular order. Most of them were in their original boxes, with worn corners and sprung seams after the long, rough trips from home to dorm room to apartment to apartment before arriving here.

Old consoles; the beetlelike curve of a SEGA Genesis; the triple-pronged Nintendo 64 controller.

I picked one up, already dusty and faded only a few years after being state of the art. Quest of the White Eagle. On the cover a blandly handsome teenage boy in a white T-shirt and jeans and an eighties feathered haircut hung in midair, frozen in the act of leaping eagerly from the sidewalk into a glowing doorway hanging a few inches off the ground. He was grinning madly, obviously overjoyed to be getting the f*ck out. Behind him, a dark-haired girl watched, lost in admiration.

The boy was already halfway through; his shoulder and arm emerged on the portal’s far side wearing a medieval tunic and gripping a sword. There, the same teenage girl awaited, with an identical expression but wearing longer hair and dressed only in a few shreds of chain mail and a tiara. The back of the box showed an actual screenshot—blocky, pixelated stick figures.

All the Black Arts games were there, a few still shrink-wrapped, going back to 1988’s Clandestine, the official first release under the label. Realms I was the kind of game that never had a commercial release. It was an underground classic that had been swapped over BBSes in the mid-1980s and been passed from hand to hand in the form of eight floppy disks bundled with rubber bands. I was sure a few dozen copies were out there lying in basements in cardboard boxes, filed away with cracked copies of The Bilestoad and Lode Runner.

I opened a few of the older boxes, shifted piles of loose graph paper, manila envelopes holding mostly 3.25-inch disks (“crispies”), even opened up and shook out a couple of the larger books in case a few floppies had been tucked inside and forgotten. There wasn’t much from 1983 apart from an incomplete set of blue-and-white Ultima III: Exodus floppies.


It turned out there was a whole room in Black Arts that was just all of Simon’s stuff. He had an apartment of sorts but he wasn’t that invested in it. The rest of it was here at the office, where he’d slept most of the time anyway. Don and Darren had gone through Simon’s notebooks page by page in search of the breakthrough they’d announced, and there was nothing, but I looked through their inventory list anyway.

Items included:

2 wooden stools

1 folding breakfast table

1 Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner

1 SEGA Genesis video game console, controllers missing

1 set of bed linens, soiled

numberless paperback books

countless graphic novels of the 1980s

1 colander, plastic

diverse pieces of silverware

1 bowl

1 plate

1 sword

5 desk lamps w/o lightbulb

1 dot matrix printer

4 reams printer paper

1 shoe hanger, shoeless

1 Marriott rewards card, expired

7 unlabeled VHS tapes, which all turned out to hold episodes of My So-Called Life

1 framed Boris Vallejo print, signed

I’d just given up and was looking through the manual of some old White Wolf game when a slip of notepad paper fell out. It was graph paper. Across the top it read REALMS OF GOLD: ADRIC’S TOMB. It held a few short paragraphs in what was definitely Simon’s handwriting.

They’d always despised him. Called him a freak and a madman. But in the end he would save them all. Alone, grieving, he made his stand.

Adric would still be the last to pass through to safety. He rested with his back to the emerald portal half a mile under ground, in the depths of Chorn, his family’s fortress.

All was silent and black save the light of the glowing portal, light that gleamed on Adric’s alien features, the pale skin and high cheekbones. Beyond, in the darkness, he heard the padding of immense paws, the clack of bone against marble. He rested a hand on the hilt of the black runesword at his side.

A smile curled Adric’s lips. He drew the ancient black blade from its jeweled sheath, felt its tainted energy flow into him. He thought of his father and brothers, all fled to safety; he thought of Arlani’s beautiful face. He thought of Glendale, the home he would never see again.

He looked back at the portal, thinking of the woman he loved but would never marry, the children he would never see. He heard clawed feet on the marble floor and guttural speech. A split-hound had arrived, dragging itself forward, urged on by lesser wargs, mockingly bearing on its brow the Hyperborean Crown itself.

Adric welcomed it. He turned his face from the portal, an eerie light in his green eyes. With one last glance at Arlani’s fallen form, he drew

The writing cut off. Sophomore year was ending. One day high school itself would end and the future would begin—long after the TRS-80 would be obsolete, after sixteen colors became 256 colors became millions of colors; long after sophomore year would be over, they’d have 3-D graphics like in TRON and computer games so real it would be like living in the world of D&D. I remembered believing that.

At the bottom of the page, at an angle, as if noted down casually at some later date, there was a phone number with a local area code.