Of the Geeks

Clash of the Geeks Clash of the Geeks Wil Wheaton John Scalzi Patrick Rothfuss Catherynne M. Valente Stephen Toulouse Rachel Swirsky Scott Mattes Bernadette Durbin Subterranean Pre ss 2 0 1 0 Clash of the Geeks Copyright © 2010 by John Scalzi. All rights reserved. Individual Contents Copyright © 2010 by their respective creators. All rights reserved. Cover illustration Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Zugale. All rights reserved. Interior design Copyright © 2010 by Desert Isle Design. LLC. All rights reserved. First Edition Subterranean Press PO Box 190106 Burton, MI 48519 www.subterraneanpress.com table of Contents 7 The Last Unicorn (Pegasus Kitten) —Wil Wheaton 15 The Lay of the Eastern King —Patrick rothfuss 21 Vintarini’s Peak —Scott Mattes 27 This Is the Way the World Ends —Catherynne Valente 33 The complex identity of the archetypal hero, a fictional treatise with unicorn pegasus kittens —rachel Swirsky 39 The Scalzorc/Clown Wheaton/Kittytrice Auditions A One Act Play —Stephen toulouse 49 Bedtime Story —bernadette Durbin 53 The Making of the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten Art: A Transcript of an Interview with John Scalzi the Last (Pegasus Unicorn Kitten) Wil Wheaton the path was narrow and small volcanic pebbles threatened to slip his feet from beneath him at every twist and turn, throwing him down the side of the firespire mountains, but Izlac was not afraid. He was focused on his mission, the fate of his entire Scalzorc clan resting on his leathery green shoulders, and falling a thousand feet down the side of a mountain would be a welcome death, should he fail to defeat the Wee-tin he knew waited for him in the Bentclaw Pass. “This is your task,” his master, Rek, told him. “Mount Kryuzhire is waking, and the eggs will soon blast into the sky. Whoever leads the hatchlings away will command them, and if not us, then the vile Wee-tins will.” He spat on the ground and cursed under his breath. “We have waited many years for this hatching, and you are our Chosen rider. You are our last and best hope, my apprentice. You are our only hope.” He put his giant hands on Izlac’s shoulders, and fixed him with a serious gaze. “You are our future.” Izlac heard a low, angry rumble, as if the mountains themselves were growling at him. He pressed himself against the uphill side and held onto a sharp outcropping until the shaking passed. A lesser warrior would be frightened, he thought, but he was not afraid. He looked out across the valley and spied his once-proud village: the wall around it was broken and crumbling from years of unprovoked Wee- tin attacks. The forest he explored as a child was a black tangle of scorched earth and charred logs that were once trees. The pen where the UPKs once lived was empty, though he could see his brothers and sisters, tiny specks that appeared black from this distance, moving around as they prepared it for his triumphant return. He pulled his hand away from the rocks, and saw that it was bleeding from his grip. He smiled without humor, and continued his journey up the mountain. 7 • Wil Wheaton ••• He made camp without a fire in a mostly-level alcove beneath the mouth of the Bentclaw Pass, and ate a meal of uncooked meat until he could eat no more, and threw what was left over the side of the mountain. This was a traditional ritual, the night before a battle in the Bentclaw Pass, and he’d taken care to save enough, going hungry on the second day of his journey, to perform it. “On the fifth day, you will be near Bentclaw Pass,” Rek had said, “and you are to eat until you are full, throwing the rest off the mountain.” “Why?” Anyorc who wasted food would be punished, severely. “It is a tribute to those who have fought and fallen before you, to feed their spirits. It is also to remind you of the importance of your task: you will not need food for the journey home, because you will make it on winged back, or you will not make it at all.” Izlac hefted the meat in his hand and squeezed it until blood began to ooze out, just as it had earlier in the day. He thought of all the great warriors who had come here before him and the few who had returned. But he was not afraid; he felt exhilarated. He would be victorious. Ilzac would save his people. He bellowed “Ghlag’ ghee Baâkun!” and threw the meat with all his might. He watched a thin tail of spray follow it in an arc, as it disappeared into the darkness down the side of the mountain. When he was certain that it was gone, and the spirits of his ancestors had been fed, he thanked them for their sacrifice, and begged them to guide him in the coming battle. He placed his axe and shield on the path, lay down next to them on the hard ground, and waited for sleep to arrive. It came slowly, as if it, too, had to climb the mountain to reach him. In the dream, he was a boy, and Rek was barely a man. It was Choosing Day, and he stood in the pen with the other boys who had just come of age. A score of UnicornPegasusKittens, still in their cages, waited to be released. “It is Choosing Day!” Rek cried. “Choosing Day!” They replied in unison. “All but one of you will fall. One of you will be Chosen to be The Rider. Be brave. Do not be afraid! You are warriors!” “Warriors!” They bellowed, in small voices that had yet to mature but did not tremble. 8 the Last unicorn • Rek lifted his axe high and brought it down on the chain, dropping the gates and releasing the UnicornPegasusKittens. They burst from their cages, howling and caterwauling, and took to the sky, nearly blocking out the sun as they circled above. All around him, the other boys fell to the ground. Izlac looked to his left, and saw his childhood friend Kal. “You will be Chosen, Izzy,” As Kal spoke his face split open, spilling blood down his chest. Spinning to his left, he faced his twin brother Mak, whose chest was torn open. “We all knew it would be you, Izzy,” he said, tearing his heart from his chest, “it was always going to be you.” He bellowed “Ghlag’ ghee Baâkun!” as he threw it into the sky, where it was caught in mid-dive by a UnicornPegasusKitten who landed at Izlac’s feet. The world went silent, but for the sound of Mak’s still-beating heart. He looked back at Mak, and saw that he had become a baby, held by their mother, who sobbed. He looked away, and found himself on the mountain, now a man, surrounded by the bodies of those who were not Chosen. Their blood ran, like a river, down the path and over the side. He reached to touch it, but it flowed away from him. His father walked out of the Bentclaw Pass, atop the now-raging torrent of blood. “You are Chosen, my son,” he said, more softly than he ever spoke in life, “it is a great honor for our family, and a terrible price for us to pay. Do not forget this day. Do not forget your brother.” “I am not afraid, father,” he said, in a voice he hadn’t heard since he was a child. Before his father could reply, the bloodriver surged and frothed and carried him over the edge. Izlac ran to the edge of the path, the blood spreading before him, never touching him, and looked over, into darkness. The sound of Mak’s heartbeat echoed up the steep, basalt cliff. Izlac woke from the dream with a start, covered in a greasy sheen of cold sweat, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a visceral reminder of Mak’s. “I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid,” he spoke to the wind, as it whipped up the mountain and swirled dust all around him. The wind spoke back, with the voice of a UnicornPegasusKitten, distant and mournful. Izlac wrapped his arms around himself and leaned up against the rock wall of the alcove. Sleep did not claim him again that night, and for that he was grateful. ••• 9 • Wil Wheaton Dawn broke over the valley, casting red and gold light across his village, and the destruction around it. Izlac picked up his axe and shield, and did his morning exercises. He heard Rek’s voice commanding and correcting him, as it had since Choosing Day. His axe was an extension of his arm, his shield light and ready. His exercises completed, he looked back at his village. A thin line of smoke climbed out of the chimney from one of the few houses that had not been destroyed in the last attack. “I will be home soon,” he said. He turned, and began to climb the twisting, narrow path toward the Bentclaw Pass. As day neared its end, the ground beneath his feet began to level out, and the tall walls around him grew steadily farther apart, until he knew he had reached his destination. Mount Kryuzhire belched smoke into the sky, covering the Kryuzhire Valley with a grey blanket. Dark red lava ran down its sides, and the air smelled of sulfur and something he could not identify, but knew he would remember for the rest of his life.

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