Spellbinders: Overpowered

1

Dream Level I

“HUZZAH!”

Ben slashed at the shambling ogres as claws of lightning cascaded through the storm behind him.

“PREPARE TO MEET MR. NASTY PANTS!”

He swung his mighty sword, and thunder rolled.

“High up on the broken remains of the watchtower, the arch sorcerer gazed down at the fiery battlefield, and he watched with mounting dread as the armies of the Underlands marched ever closer. He spotted giants, ghouls, and fiends of the wilderness among their growing numbers. They reached the base of the barricade and beat against its mossy stones, crying out in a chorus of hunger and rage. They would keep coming from dawn to dusk until the wall was breached, and then they would keep coming, endlessly, until the kingdom had fallen and its people had surrendered to their despair.

“And as usual, Ben Whitlock was the last thing standing before the forces of evil and utter destruction.”

No, that wasn’t right. . . .

The booming voiceover narration paused, its echo hanging awkwardly in the thick, smoky air.

He could do better.

“As it was in the beginning, it would be in the end: Ben Whitlock, savior of the wastes, was civilization’s last hope.”

It was an improvement, sure, but something still seemed a little, well . . . braggy. Ben struck a heroic pose with a sword in one hand and the Gauntlet of Fury strapped onto the opposing wrist; this mythical piece of armor gave him the power to “punch with the fury of a thousand punches,” which didn’t make a lot of sense, but as with most things in the fantasy world, it sounded cool enough for him not to care.

“Ben Whitlock, the long-lost prince and totally ripped barbarian from the snowy canyons of waste, faced his final battle.”

It was almost too easy.

The Last Watch

The only remaining fortress of the Order of the Night Brothers, this ancient ruin stands vigil over the salty seas of the Influenza Coast. It is home to a towering signal fire used to summon neighboring kingdoms in times of great trouble, or to make really big shadow puppets. Rent: 400 gold coins. Call: 325-VIGIL. Ask for Terry.

FEATURES

• Weekly feasts, bottomless ale

• Hosts the spirits of many legendary warriors, including Mel the Magnificent (yes, that Mel the Magnificent)

• Farts allowed

Sighing, he stepped down from the overlook, annoyed at his tendency to revise as he wrote. Was this really his final battle? Every fight couldn’t be the last one. Not if he wanted to continue the adventure afterward. Of course, he could always switch characters; maybe to the part-man, part-machine secret agent in the futuristic cyber city; or Brother Sebastian Awesomesauce, the fifteenth-century monk who was trying to solve a murder in a monastery where everybody had taken a vow of silence. The possibilities were endless. Half the fun of role playing was ditching an unfinished character and starting a new one from scratch.

This was what he’d always imagined--to be the hero at the center of every story.

“Watch out,” said a voice behind him. “You’ve got some berserkers coming up on your left. Ogres, right? Nasty suckers.”

Confused by the interruption, he turned. Instead of his regular ally in the battle--General Lotus, commander of the Elvin Armies of Morn--a different figure sat perched on the nearest parapet, legs crossed, looking comfortable in her blue jeans and white lab coat, and seeming absolutely at peace with the carnage taking place around her. He didn’t recognize her at first. She was middle-aged, a little older than his mother, and wore big buggy glasses over a freckle-filled face.

Seconds later, memories began poking holes in his fragile fantasy, like flaming arrows through the curtains of ragged black smoke. He’d met this woman before, in a faraway temple in an empty world. How could he forget? It’s not every day you meet your heroes.

She was Julia Profit, author and game designer, ex-Spellbinder, and one-time godlike figure of a whole magical kingdom--and for some reason she was lurking in the nooks and crannies of his . . . was it a dream? Was that where he’d ended up? He wasn’t sure.

Until this moment he hadn’t really questioned what had happened to him, where he was, or why. It had been one nonstop adventure as long as he could remember, which wasn’t such a bad thing.

Still, he couldn’t ditch the feeling that he’d forgotten a lot.

“Um, hello,” he said shyly, giving Julia an awkward wave.

“Hey,” she replied as a volley of huge boulders roared overhead, fired from the ogre catapults. Julia didn’t seem to notice, or just didn’t care.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Julia looked around her with interest. “Where is here, exactly?”

“Luminaria,” he said, slashing at the nearest ogre. With a squeal of pain and surprise, the monster fell back, giving Ben the perfect opportunity to unleash his signature Exploding Kick--all he needed was a good catchphrase or one-liner. . . .

After a few seconds to brainstorm, he came up with “Let’s get electric,” which was pretty weak but still did the trick; and he said it in his coolest voice before jamming a foot into the ogre’s green gut. Slezaaaaash! Bolts of electricity spiraled down his leg and exploded, knocking the monster off its crude ladder.

“Nice one.” Julia sipped a steaming cup of tea and dangled her legs playfully over the tower’s plunging drop. “Wow, I remember days like these. All the action, all the drama.” Gusts of heavy, bone-chilling rain swept over them, clouds darkening the full moon overhead. Down on the ground, ogres growled and barked as they fought one another to scale the ladders and reach the top of the wall.

“The least you could do is help,” Ben said, not that he needed it. Even as attackers scrambled up the decaying stone wall like ants up a fallen ice cream cone, he never worried. He was the hero, the main character, the heart of this story.

“But I’m not really here,” Julia said, setting her phone aside. “And neither are you, Ben. That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What do you have to talk to me about?”

But as quickly as she’d appeared, Julia vanished, flickering like a dying lightbulb before it finally burned out.

“Great,” he groaned as he pushed the nearest ladder off the watchtower wall. Ogres shrieked and fell away into the billowing black fires. “Talk about a cliffhanger.”

2

Home Alone

Julia’s eyes snapped open as she inhaled sharply, gasped, and then burst into a fit of coughing. Leaning over, she felt around for her cup of Drowsy Bear tea and took a greedy sip. It was still hot. She hadn’t been gone long.

Frustrated, she set the drink aside and tried again. She closed her eyes and focused, reaching out with her mind . . . but every time she seemed to reach the shaggy edges of her reality, she bumped up against a powerful psychic barrier.

Somebody--presumably Ben--had built a wall around his mind, complete with the most annoying hold music she’d ever heard, a jazzy version of the old disco love ballad “When Lips Collide,” which was a pretty awful song, even by her low standards. It was probably Ben’s idea of a joke, but she wasn’t laughing. There was too much at stake. Was it too dramatic to say the fate of the world depended on it?

Didn’t the fate of the world always depend on something?

She tried to make contact one more time for good measure, grasping in the shapeless space between realms, but it was useless. Even with all the magic trapped inside him she’d been unable to maintain the link. Every time she thought she’d formed a strong connection, he’d slip away into his fantasies again, lost.

Standing up, Julia stretched, starting with her back and her neck and then moving on to her legs, lunging for a few minutes before finishing with a loud crack of her knuckles; the sound echoed through the spiraling emptiness of the Prime Archives. It had been built to work as an antenna of sorts, funneling and channeling magic, so she’d decided to use it for her own purposes.

She’d always suspected that Spellbinders could communicate telepathically, but she’d never tested the theory. Now she spent her days probing the fringes of her mind and casting out a signal that somebody, hopefully that troublesome booger, Ben Whitlock, might hear and respond to.

Today had been her first successful mission.

Entering another person’s mind--their memories, dreams, and desires--wasn’t so different from exploring the House of Reflection. There was a rush of pressure, like the moment when an airplane first starts to climb, ears popping and a hint of pain, and then you found yourself in a void, empty of everything but a pale white haze. But when you squinted, when you looked really hard, you could just make out movement and color far beyond the lingering mist, something waiting for you out there like a wild, undiscovered country.

Julia marveled at the grandness of Ben’s dreams as she strolled the winding passage of the Prime Archives, emerging into a gorgeous sunny afternoon absent of clouds and busy with birdsong. She took several breaths of fresh air and felt the warmth of the Source Realm’s sun on her cheeks. It had been a tough six weeks of solitude. Since Ben had made the colossally stupid decision to drink all the magic in the universe to avoid giving it to Cash, she’d been living in a constant state of panic. What would happen to all that power? Would Ben ever wake up? How would his choice affect their larger world? And the harsh reality was that she was the only one alive who could answer such questions.

So she’d risen to the challenge. She spent long, sleepless nights reading by candlelight, and mornings locked in intense meditations on the riverbank. Every few days, a flock of enormous bunnies might pass through the meadow, trampling her campsite, but beyond that she hadn’t seen a soul. And one short trip into Ben’s mind was all she had to show for it. That was it.

With a tired sigh, she returned to her private vigil.

Thankfully, boredom wasn’t ever an issue. The Prime Archives housed a massive library of fascinating scrolls written by the mysterious inhabitants of the Source Realm before they’d disappeared. She was working through the collection methodically, emptying room after room as she went. Beyond that, she’d freed herself from all distractions. Sometimes, when she felt stumped by a particular problem, she’d page through the empty Spellbinders’ books and wonder what their previous owners had written there before the words had been erased.

They called to her now, and she answered, crossing the room to the tall shelves of identical leathery notebooks.

What was Ben doing in his dreams right now? Was he still scaling towers and slaying ogres? What would she do if she were trapped inside her own mind, complete with all its fears and fantasies? Did she even have any dreams left?

For years, Julia had studied and traveled to earn a face-off with Cash, her oldest friend and enemy, but nothing had turned out as she’d planned. Now she felt adrift, aimless, without a clear direction. That’s why she had to save Ben. When one quest ends, you start another. Wasn’t that what she’d written in her game manuals, that the world was always full of monsters to fight and new challenges to overcome?

But she wasn’t completely alone. The Luxite girl Niara searched the realms, hoping to find Cash, and with them, answers; then there was the gadgeteer and the mimir, who explored the House of Reflection’s endless rooms and corridors for any clue that might help them unbind the magic from their friend; and even the others back on Earth were pitching in, enlisting a famous therapist to examine Ben and making sure they were trying everything in their power to support him.

Something had to work.

She plucked her old journal from the shelf and cracked it open. She wished she could remember what she’d once written there, but it was long gone now, vanished along with the Spellbinders’ incredible magic. Smudges from her tiny dirty hands covered the faded cover and the symbol in its center: a single falling star blazing past a mountaintop. It still smelled like Lux. She put it back and wiped her eyes, swallowing a tide of intense emotion.

So many books, all of them blank. She ran a finger along the spines, listening to the comforting thumping of her skin against the leather. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever expected there to be this many Spellbinders across the universe.

The last book in the collection belonged to Ben.

She picked it up and flipped through its blank pages. Surprisingly, her thumb skipped straight to the back, where a shredded edge stuck from the seam--a sheet was missing. Suddenly unsteady, Julia stepped away from the shelf. She felt dizzy. Her hands, slippery with sweat, dropped Ben’s book to the floor. It lay there open on the tile like a bird in flight.

Somebody had torn a page from Ben’s notebook.

But what did it mean?

She didn’t have an answer, not yet, but she knew one thing: she had to keep trying to find out. All their lives might depend on it.

Taking a hurried last-minute sip from her now-cold tea, she folded her legs and sat back down on the flattened cushion. She lit the candle and cracked her knuckles, and then she closed her eyes and reached out with her mind with every fiber of her being.

She groped around madly in the darkness . . . until she connected.

3

Behind Bars

If one more goblin told her to cheer up, or that she would look prettier if she smiled, Niara was going to hurt someone.

Assassins did not smile, and neither did assassins turned heroes who spent most of their time climbing cliffs, fighting monsters, leaping over bottomless pits, and recovering lost relics from dank old dungeons. Did that sound like the kind of life to inspire grins and giggles? Especially in a location such as this one: the Pit of Ridiculous Welts, a warren of dripping caves beneath a destroyed city. With enemies such as these: the goblins in question, who had captured her in one of their snares several days earlier and tossed her into the only empty cell in the bottom of their hideout (the other cells had occupants, but only of the skeleton and rat varieties).

She sat hunched against the cold, slimy stone wall, listening to the dungeon’s special kind of silence. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Ben humming to himself, a habit she despised but would have welcomed under the current circumstances. Maybe the chorus from “Pump Tha Beats,” or an air guitar solo from “Dusty Farm Road” featuring Thrice Suave; whatever he wanted, she’d be fine with it.