Short Story: One Feared Puppies

“NO, NO NO NO NO!”

The army of puppies leapt at Kalydon with a succession of delightful yips. The orc squealed sharp enough to cut glass and tried to climb the wall. Yet the furry mass never relented, bouncing over the stones and snapping at his ankles.

Two figures erupted out of shadow at the corner of the dungeon. Sparta coughed up dreamblood, wiping the dark liquid from his mouth. “Gods, I hate mindscapes. All righty. Hen, Kal here’s affected by a standard curse, right? Greatest Fears and all that pizzazz?”

The elf consulted her glowing scroll. “It seems so, yes. Try and see if he responds to verbal stimulation.”

“Ugh, fine. Kal, buddy, over here! This is a dream. It’s not real!” Kalydon only screamed again, his voice growing more high-pitched by the second, his yellow nails leaving thick grooves in the wall as he tried to haul himself out of the puppies’ reach.

Sparta snickered. “That squeal never gets old.”

Hen tapped her glossy chin with her stylus. “Puppies… Dogs, I might understand. Watchdogs, hunting dogs… but why puppies especially?”

Her companion knelt down to fondle the ears of one of Kal’s tormentors. “I dunno. Maybe he spent his babyhood at the kennels or something? Different strokes for different folks. I get why it would be a fear, but a Greatest Fear? Out of everything it could possibly be? I mean, that’s kind of pathetic.”

Hen and Sparta both flinched at the last sentence - because it had been repeated. Repeated by a shadowy figure wearing Sparta’s face, peering down at Kalydon on the wall.

Shade-Sparta reached out and flicked Kalydon’s face. “Aww, is the big widdle orc scawwed?”

Hen began to glare at Sparta. He scoffed. “Come on, I’m not…”

Then they both saw more Shades solidify around Kalydon, a ghostly reflection of their adventuring party. Shade-Hen smiled thinly. “I was under the impression greenskins were fearless, Kalydon. Or are you even more flawed than your brethren?”

Hen flushed and crossed her arms. “Oh, please. I don’t sound like that.”

Sparta opened his mouth to retort when he saw Kalydon’s grip loosen. The elf saw just a glimpse of his companion’s face, alight with shimmering tears, as he fell to the ground, curling up around himself as the puppies nipped and snarled at his weakness.

Kalydon. Young for an orc, and gangly, with milky green eyes that seemed always wide, and armor that always seemed too big. Kalydon, who, who…

“Weak,” The Shades whispered. “Worthless, unwor-”

“A HERO!” Sparta called, his voice echoing across the mindscape. Dreamblood swirled around his body, threatening to drag him up to the surface. “KALYDON HEARTHBLADE, DEFENDER OF ALEXANDRIA!”

Shade-Sparta snorted, grabbing Kalydon by the hair and wrenching his head up. “Defender of the pastry table, more like.”

It was uncanny, hearing that come from its mouth. It was the sort of thing Sparta always said. It was the sort of thing he always did. He gritted his teeth and stepped forward.“The children he saved that day would say otherwise, flourface.”

Kalydon whimpered, still keeping his eyes closed, still shielding himself from the puppies. Sparta rushed forward and kicked one of the mangy mongrels into the wall. The rest yelped indignantly, scattering in all directions. No hero would have the cojones to do such a thing. Good thing the hero was the one trembling on the ground right now.

The Shade-puppers circled again, only to be blocked by a glittering barrier. Sparta looked up at Hen. She met his gaze, her eyes mirroring his shame, and nodded.

“Lazy, useless, coward…”

“The real Kalydon fears puppies, yes! He spreads ointment to shield himself from the sun, He sings lullabies to hummingbirds. But do you know what else he does?”

He walked past the shades, and they hissed, blurring at the edges as he drew close to his companion. He knelt down beside his companion, resting a hand on his back.

“Kalydon saves people. Even people who don’t deserve it. Even a wretched, drunken wastrel who knew nothing better than sing bawdy songs and stab people in the back. And he taught that rotten bastard that making your mark isn’t finding something to prove. It’s about finding something to give.”

Sparta held out his other hand. “What do you say we break out of here, buddy, and I’ll buy you a drink? I’ve got a lot more than that to repay you for. But a fresh cherrywine is always a good start.”

“They will never -”

Kalydon took his hand.