PodCastle 881: How to Steal the Plot Armor – PART ONE of TWO
* Author : Luke Wildman * Narrator : Hollis Monroe * Host : Matt Dovey * Artist : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums Previously published in Writers and Illustrators of the Future, Vol. 37 Rated PG 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.