A Gamer's Guide To Beating The Tutorial

“You have your notes? And your staff? And your—”

“Yeah, yeah, I have it,” Emil said, bravely pushing through his hangover by casting a detox spell on himself over and over again. The effect was diminished, but it was better than nothing. How could he have forgotten to detox last night? He felt like such an idiot, and the handwritten notes pressed into his hand didn’t help. They’d written the speech half an hour ago. He’d woken up an hour ago. They had not rehearsed, and considering that they were already ten minutes late, doing so now was out of the question.

There wasn’t a single doubt in Emil’s mind that this was it. This was the moment they would start throwing rotten tomatoes and swollen rats at him. The execution-cum-speech stage had been prepared at the central plaza. Thanks to Kitty’s quick thinking last night, the floral shops had already been told what was happening, and the guards had likewise been brought in. The news had spread like wildfire in the course of a single night.

When Emil entered the flower-covered plaza, supported by Kitty and surrounded by guards, Plus at his front and Rat guarding his rear, all of a sudden, he felt very certain that his fly was unzipped. But when he looked down, he instead realized that it was unbuttoned. He buttoned it. In so doing, he came to notice that his shirt was on backwards. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t allow it to matter.

They basically carried him onto stage and deposited him behind the pulpit. The crowd in front of him covered the entire plaza, a sea of bobbing heads and peeking eyes, crowded to the point where they even webbed out into the nearby streets. There was no way to know how far it went, or how many were here, listening, judging his every word and action, not to mention how he looked. Because, let’s face it—he looked like shit. He could only hope that the goblins, not knowing how a human was supposed to look like, might be a bit more forgiving.

It was a futile hope, and he knew it.

“Good luck,” someone said—Kitty, he thought—and then they patted him on the back, and all of a sudden, he stood alone. His hazy eyes traveled across the sea of gazes. Some were muttering. Murmuring. About what? About him? About what a terrible mayor he’d been? About how he looked? About how he looked like he’d tried to find joy in the bottom of a barrel yesterday? About how he felt even worse?

He looked down at his hand. The pathetic little notes pinched between trembling fingers. He turned his hand over and recalled the names of the spells written in his rings. Zap. Clean. Light. Heal. Amplify. Right. Amplify, that was his thumb. Silently letting magic flow from his heart to his thumb, carried with the blood, he let the spell make itself known, focusing the effects on his throat; his voice.

Suddenly, his breathing was so loud. His heavy, labored, boozy breathing. Could they hear it? Could they hear his panting? The frantic beating of his heart? His terror?

Ten thousand eyes met him. They knew. They all knew.

“I am very sorry to announce,” he said, in perfect Aetongue, not stuttering, absolutely not stuttering, he couldn’t allow himself to stutter, “that—that the mayor, he…” Sweat. Sweaty. His fingers were so sweaty. Emil’s eyes prodded at the notes. They had written them recently. Maybe the ink hadn’t fully dried yet. Maybe his sweat would eat through the paper, and make the ink bleed through, and then all of a sudden he couldn’t see the notes, and they would know that he was a fraud, always had been, and… Emil gulped. The sound echoed across the plaza. “—Died. The mayor—His Honor Jeret An De Hettekoff has passed. Last night. Due to… complications… Following… Dragon plague.”

The words on the note swam and his feet swayed and his eyes couldn’t find the word that was supposed to follow so he looked up, up and away from the notes, to find ten thousand shocked gazes staring at him. “I—I’m sorry—”

Shouting. Loud, agonizing shouting. People were talking now. Their eyes mercifully left him but instead they turned to each other, sharing their disgust, their anger, their horror—

At him? At Emil? For his slovenly dress and behavior? At him, because he hadn’t told them last night what had happened? At him? At him? At him?

Mumbling grumbling muttering stuttering—at him.

“Due to his passing, my term will continue indefinitely, however, I… I…” A word he didn’t know. Right there on the page. Written in the latin alphabet for ease of reading. But that only made it worse. ‘Eurreut op?’ What did that mean? How was it supposed to be pronounced? What if he got it wrong and it suddenly meant something completely different—something crass and horrible? “I have decided to… auret opp… which will… so that…”

He glanced up again. They were silent. Not a single peep. Ten thousand eyes, turned to him again. Judging.

Ah. He messed up.

He turned to the next note. And without even trying to understand what he was saying, he simply spoke. The less he thought, the better. Words flew from his lips, machine gun fire, more and more and more and more, and then he paused, because a word had gotten stuck in his throat. “Ursula,” he said. But he said it with Aetongue pronunciation. Why? Why did he do that? Backtracking, he said the word again—”Ursula. My… my fellow hoeksok and friend. Another victim of this horrific plague. But in her death, she has left me with a gift. A gift that will allow me to feed many of you for the months that come.

“His Honor’s death is the last drop we shall permit spilled. This horrific plague must end, no matter what. That is why—” He glanced up. Ten thousand eyes. This had to be done. “We will be implementing a total selective quarantine, beginning a week from now, on the evening. Those of you who are healthy have nothing to fear, and neither do the sick. In a week, on the 17th of Forests, from dawn ‘til dusk, my subordinates will move across the city, marking the doorposts of all houses wherein one or more members are sick. These houses will then be subject to total quarantine. No members of the household, be they sick or healthy, may be allowed to leave. However, proviants—”

Someone threw something. Emil didn’t know what it was, but it went whizzing by his face and all of a sudden Kitty flew from his place, flashed out into the crowd, and disappeared. The crowd was moving like a sea, and even though Kitty could no longer be seen, Emil felt reasonably sure that the man was moving through it like a loosened torpedo. The rest of the guards, a little slow to react, could only move after him when Kitty had already disappeared. Unlike with Kitty, the crowd parted for them, allowing them to approach a little knot of people that had now formed. When they arrived, the remaining people disappeared, revealing Kitty sat atop a young goblin, too busy tying his hands with cords of leather to notice the guard’s arrival.

Kitty stepped to the side, the guards moved to arrest the young goblin, and only then did Emil’s brain kick into gear.

“No, wait—pardon, release that boy!”

The guards turned to him. Kitty turned to him. Ten thousand eyes turned to him.

His clothes felt very stuffy. “I’m alright. Please—he didn’t cause any harm.” The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve. Considering the tattered clothes and the haggard expression, Emil knew from a glance that if the boy ended up in jail—or even worse—he wouldn’t soon recover.

The guards shared a few looks. They seemed hesitant—a trait Kitty did not share. Within five seconds of hearing Emil’s new order, the boy had been relieved of his restraints, and with his protection done by Kitty, the guards were not soon to attempt a rearrest. The boy, saying nothing, slunk back into the crowd.

Emil cleared his throat. “As I was saying, rations will be given freely to those in quarantine, the payment done through the Ursula—Ursula fund. You will not be left to die. Your needs will be taken care of. When a cure is created, you will be given it. Please put your faith in the abilities of me and my fellow hoeksak.”

The crowd began to murmur, though Kitty and the guards’ procession through them quieted a fair few. Nevertheless, despite Emil’s grand words, a number of gazes remained skeptical. The victims of former broken promises. Emil could only hope that he wouldn’t give them more reason to distrust politicians.

“I believe that we can survive this. When I first arrived here, almost a year ago, His Honor told me the story of your recent triumph against the Retinians—how you stood fast in the face of overwhelming forces. I was impressed, and I knew that if you could live to tell such a tale, a measly plague will surely stand no chance. So, stay strong! When this is all over I will go my way. Until then, I swear upon my honor, I shall do my best to serve you.”

He bowed his head. And for a moment, total silence reigned. The same silence that tended to fall the moment following an execution. With his head bowed, Emil couldn’t see them. He could barely hear them. Fear and anxiety clawed within his chest.

Nervously, sweat beading his pinched brow, he rose again, and looked out to see ten thousand incredulous faces glaring at him, their eyes a sea of black dark hatred, knotted fists, trembling hands, legs that don’t know whether to run at him or away from him, and the guards at his side—even Kitty, poor, untamed Kitty—rooted in place, unsure whether or not to step forward, should the crowd need to be blocked, or to step back, because even three dozen guards won’t be enough.

And Emil, the eye of the storm, knowing that whatever he does will either result in the greatest massacre to ever grace the walls of this city, or calm everything back down.

He looked at the crowd. He looked at the guards. He looked at Kitty. He looked at his notes.

Finally, he looked back out at the city. And, smiling, he said, “Thank you.”

Then, he stepped off the stage, the guards followed him, Kitty and Plus and Rat took their place at his side, and off they were.