CHAPTER FOUR
A Scene of Typical Sidekicks and Food
Faylorn walked tediously slow, muttering to himself about magical spells and orcs. Of course, the stereotypical wizard mentor spoke in strange riddles, so she didn’t understand a thing he said to himself.
Cicadas screamed out the song of their species in the trees, irritating Em as much as the old mentor. She ground her teeth to hold back her anger.
The dirt path they traversed curved away from Raecleaver and Sanderson’s School of Main Characters.
This meant the wizard was either taking her to Glorious Musclewood Covert, the realm of the Wood Elves, or to Meyer’s Realm, home of the furries and werewolf packs.
Either location was considered some of the more unoriginal realms in Novella.
Even the majority of Fan-Fiction Theaters steered clear of the stories from there.
To say the least, either route was destined to be full of tropes and clichés.
By mid-afternoon, a cramp bit into Em’s side.
Her feet were calloused, no thanks to her boots.
She regretted not breaking in the new, leathery heels sooner.
Why her mom decided a cute fashion choice was wiser than practicality for adventuring shoes was beyond her.
Plus, on flat ground, her long walking stick didn’t do more than weigh down her sore arms.
Apparently, Faylorn didn’t know what resting was. It didn’t help that she desperately needed to pee, and there weren’t any bathroom stops along their route. Which meant, unless she wanted to ask the wizard to stop so she could squat in a bush, she had to endure the pressure in her bladder.
“Why didn’t we take one of my dad’s camels?” Em asked for the third time just to break the silence. “They would’ve helped us get to wherever we’re going faster.”
“Camels aren’t good for travel,” Faylorn said without looking at her.
“Uh, yeah, they literally are.” Em rolled her eyes. “Camels barely need water and carry more supplies than most mammals could in harsher conditions.”
Plus, they’re original.
“We’ll pick up horses in the Glorious Musclewood Covert,” the wizard decided.
Horses. Why is it always damn horses?
Em wrinkled her nose and kicked a loose stone on the road.
She was allergic to some breeds, and everyone used horses in their stories.
Even in unique adventures, horses, dragons, or chunky spaceships from the mech Moon of Lucas were used as main transportation throughout Novella.
It was one of the reasons her dad raised camels as a hobby, after growing fond of them on one of his desert journeys.
“I bet the elves’ horses all have star-names,” she grumbled.
“Ah, yes,” Faylorn said. “I miss dear Upsilon Miriandynus. He’s the whitest, fastest steed in all Novella.”
“Figures.”
“I stole him from the horsemen of Eallesborough Castle. They breed the best warrior steeds in all of Novella,” the wizard rambled on. Apparently, he lived for info-dumps. “Upsilon Miriandynus was their prize.”
“I bet his dad’s name was Shadowfax.”
“I say!” Faylorn stopped in his tracks. “Can you telepathically read someone’s thoughts and memories?”
“I wish.” Em wrinkled her nose. “I just predict things easily. I earned the top grade in my Plotline Arc class at Sanderson.”
Especially lame ass cliché things.
“Incredible,” Faylorn breathed.
On they walked.
Clusters of twisted trees engulfed them in the whispery, ever-autumn Elven woods. Branches curled overhead, creating a canopy. Sunlight streamed through the leaves. Dancing shadows cast across the ground about them, the sole movement beside themselves.
Gentle silence drifted throughout the forest. More than ever, Em was tempted to lie down in the middle of the dirt road and take a nap. At the pace Faylorn was walking, she could crash for an hour and easily still catch up to him in no time. Clearly, the wizard mentor had no sense of urgency.
Em’s ankle twisted under her with a jerk. She let out a yelp, pain shooting up her fibula, flailing to catch her balance.
“Goodness gracious!” Faylorn snagged her arm. Between his counterweight and her walking stick, she steadied herself with a huff.
Em brushed stray hairs off her forehead, heaving to catch her breath. Her heart thundered in her chest, still in shock from the sudden jolt. She yanked her foot free of the hole she’d stumbled in.
Roots sagged along the walls of dirt in the huge crevice. The size and depth of the indent simmered her unease. She’d tripped into a large, deep shoe print.
“Hmmmmmmph.” Faylorn ran a long fingernail over the earth.
“What the hell is it?” Em whispered.
A twig snapped in the distance.
She turned, her pulse racing. But there was no sign of life anywhere around them except the waving trees on either side of the winding road.
“Can’t be a hobbit,” Faylorn mused.
“Why not?”
“They don’t like the desert so close by.” The mentor smiled as if he had made a joke to himself. “It could be a Golem or Krampus, though.”
Shit. Em tightened her grip on her walking stick. She knew from the guidebook in her pocket that the stereotypical first attack of a story meant either someone got hurt or the mentor used it as a training opportunity. Her lowest grade at Sanderson was in combat class.
Surely her parents never experienced this lump of dread, waiting to die or kill.
It was one thing to get stuck in a cliché journey, but to die on the first day? There couldn’t be a worse failure.
“Be ready for anything, Em, the Queen of Stars, Princess of the White…” Faylorn began.
“Please, shut up.” Em braced her heels into the earth and tightened her shoulders as she angled her stick outwards.
I can do this.
“You must use Destiny’s Song, Reaver of Diligence.” Faylorn unsheathed the prophecy’s blade from his wizardly robes. “It will guide you as you fight.”
“You use it.” Em wouldn’t touch the damn sword in her wildest dreams. To be associated with such a cliché magical weapon would further ruin her already devastated reputation. “I’ll just use my stick.”
“But you are the Chosen One,” Faylorn said.
“I’d be more dead than chosen if I tried to use it,” Em spat back.
“Would you like me to train you?” he offered.
“For the love of Novella, shut the hell up!”
She had half a second to suck in a deep breath.
A shadowy blur leapt at her from the brush. She shrieked, swinging her stick at the pouncing figure. The impact of wood-on-body vibrated through her arms. The smack rang through her ears.
Em stumbled and collapsed onto her knees from the momentum with a yelp.
Her attacker crumpled into a ball in the dirt at her side. It moaned, rolling over into a stray of sunlight, revealing itself.
The small fellow wore a neon-purple coat and lime green stockings. A long, lion-like tail curled out from between its legs and snatched a straw hat in the dirt nearby.
An imp? Her heart skipped a beat.
The imp leapt to his toes. With his flexible tail, he swung his hat onto his bearded head and grinned brightly at Em. A tiny rainbow flag was tucked in his lapel pocket. His odd nose, darker complexion, and flashy eyes warned her what she’d come across: a stereotypical gay, short sidekick.
Joy.
“Good morning, good morning!” The vibrantly dressed imp greeted with a nasaled pitch. “Count your blessings, lady, your stick nearly knocked my roof off!”
“Roof?” Em asked.
“His head,” Faylorn explained in a whisper. The wizard sheathed Destiny’s Song in the endless folds of her robe before leaning on his stave to smile at the odd creature. “Well, if it isn’t Polo Took-Took!”
Polo rubbed his beady eyes. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you.” Faylorn waved the question away.
Em slouched, snorting. Of course, Faylorn knew the jittery imp. He must’ve helped Polo’s mother on a journey long ago—or something along those lines—and the wizard befriended the family.
“I knew your mother,” Faylorn said, as if on cue. “What are you doing out here on the road to the Glorious Musclewood Covert?”
“Oh, I’m returning to Tolk-Town after making my annual wine delivery to the Wood Elves,” Polo said, bouncing in place on his toes.
Em tuned the pair out as they fell to chatting, inwardly groaning. It was bad enough to be a Chosen-One princess on a quest with a dragon and necromancer, but having a comedic sidekick was another damning step deeper into the lake of cliché tropes. At this rate, she’d drown in it by night.
Now she was caught in a fellowship, with a gay imp to top it off.
She would’ve preferred the Warg attack or hot-elf rescue over the sidekick at this point.
Characters like Polo adored getting in the way, tripping over nothing, and being humorous by commenting on everything, without ever helping the adventure.
I could just run. She lingered on the idea. They’re distracted by sharing their info-dump backstories. I could high tail it for home.
But she knew deep down Faylorn would find her again. And as Mom told her earlier, if she abandoned her debut story, she’d never get another one.
You think your life is miserable now? Just try to escape me. I’ll make it worse.
“You’re the Chosen One?” Polo’s loud voice interrupted her thoughts. He leaned into her face, grinning. Em arched away from his sharp, pointy nose and potato-reeking breath. “Your eyes are so green! Practically glowing!”
“No, I don’t. Or at least…” Em cut her protests short. Wasn’t it cliché for the Main Character not to want to be the hero until they experienced a self-actualization-turning point?
Damn, Em, don’t be cliché as they are. She needed to keep her guard up.
“My Almighty Queen of Stars, Princess of the White Rose Valley, and Heir to the Cursed-But-Once-Uncursed-Tower!” Polo knelt and placed his hat over his heart. “I have dreamed of the day I would meet you!”
“You… have?” Em blinked back her shock.
Don’t let flattery get to you. As a Chosen One, everyone’s probably dying to meet you. She needed to find a way to ruin any tropes associated with her.