The Gamers: Dorkness Rising (The Novel)

By Diana Brown

All Lodge wants is for his gaming group to finish their adventure. Unfortunately, they're more interested in seducing barmaids, mooning their enemies, and setting random villagers on fire. Desperate to rein in his players, Lodge injects two newbies into the distrust: a non-player character controlled by Lodge, who the power gamers immediately distrust, and the rarest gamer of all -- a girl. Can the group overcome their bickering to save the kingdom, or will the evil necromancer Mort Kemnon triumph unopposed? A parody of fantasy films and the adventure gaming community, The Gamers: Dorkness Rising is a hilarious romp through the world of sword and sorcery - in this case, a world of exploding peasants, giant house cats, and undead roast turkeys. Game on!

[Novelization of the award-winning independent film by Dead Gentlemen Productions and Zombie Orpheus Entertainment]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Brown
• Release date: Aug 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311855848

Diana Brown

Di Brown is a U. S. Army veteran, a gamer, and a technology professional. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and beauceron.

Book preview

The Gamers:

Dorkness Rising

(The Novel)

Diana Brown

Adapted from the screenplay by

Matt Vancil

Published at Smashwords

The Gamers: Dorkness Rising is the creation of Dead Gentlemen Productions, and is distributed by Zombie Orpheus Entertainment under a Creative Commons license (Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported). The Gamers: Dorkness Rising (The Novel) inherits and is distributed under these terms.

Nodwick appears in The Gamers: Dorkness Rising courtesy of Aaron Williams and Do Gooder Press

Contents

Chapter 1: Dungeon Crawling

Chapter 2: The Gamers

Chapter 3: Alone In The Dark

Chapter 4: Aarrrbuck’s

Chapter 5: A Matter Of Characters

Chapter 6: The Adventure Begins

Chapter 7: Meditating At The Temple Of The Moon

Chapter 8: Mudhollow Inne

Chapter 9: The Road To Westhaven

Chapter 10: Evolving Naturally

Chapter 11: The ‘Real’ World?

Chapter 12: Another Friday Night

Chapter 13: A Scruffy-Looking Peasant

Chapter 14: Westhaven

Chapter 15: Mort Kemnon’s Secret Cave HQ

Chapter 16: The Final Battle

Chapter 17: The Not-So-Grand Hierophant

Chapter 18: Return To Whitetower

Chapter 19: Her Heart’s True Wish

Chapter 20: After-Game Special

Chapter 21: The Morning After

Chapter 22: New Adventures

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Chapter 1: Dungeon Crawling

The three men cautiously stalked the dark hallway, torchlight flickering against the dingy stone walls. The eerie silence was broken only by the intermittent clanking of the warrior’s armor and the occasional creaking of ropes as their henchman shifted the bulky chest he balanced on his back and shoulders. Three and a half men, I suppose, thought Rennard – who was, after all, the only one of the group in the habit of thinking. Henchmen are men too. Probably. After a fashion…

Rennard’s iron discipline brought his mind swiftly back to the task at hand. He continued to weave his way warily down the hallway, snaking from side to side as he examined the walls and floor for signs of traps. He paused occasionally, listening for the evil minions who must surely lurk nearby. These corridors marked the entrance to the lair of a necromancer – traps and minions were, after all, inevitable.

Rennard found the end of the corridor blocked by a simple wooden door. Simple? Rennard thought. Nothing thus far has been simple – this has to be a trap. Turk lumbered to his side, reaching a gauntleted hand past Rennard to seize the doorknob.

Ah-ha!

Rennard seized Turk’s hand preventing his fingertips from touching the door – just in time, undoubtedly, to prevent the brainless oaf from raining the necromancer’s devious punishment upon them all.

Turk turned a questioning face to Rennard, and the rogue responded by pointing to a small plaque on the door. The wooden tablet was decorated with some sort of mystic scribble, nearly invisible in the dim torchlight. Turk nodded in understanding, and smiled his thanks to Rennard for preventing what must certainly have been disaster. The two stepped back, making room for the priest to do his work.

Fastidian stepped forward, one hand wrapped around the symbol of his goddess - a medallion the size of his palm, crafted in the image of a sunburst. He briefly examined the runes before him, then let the medallion fall against his saffron robes as he used both hands to invoke the Light That Evildoers Fear. When the blinding flash receded, the cursed runes had vanished.

So much for my night vision, Rennard thought as he stepped up to the door. It was a simple lock – he could have picked it with his eyes closed. Good thing, he mused, as his vision slowly re-adapted to the darkness.

The door creaked slowly open and the men stepped forward into a scene of carnage. Corpses lay strewn about the floor, decaying flesh drawn tight across clearly-visible skeletons. As Turk leaned forward to examine one of the carcasses, the bodies began to stir. These were no corpses! They were ghouls - wretched undead creatures that lurked in places mired in the stench of death, ready to devour the unwary.

Turk, Rennard, and Fastidian were always wary.

The fighter and the rogue engaged the most aggressive of the vile creatures, killing some and keeping the rest away from the priest long enough for him to wrap himself in the power of his goddess. Holding forth the Sunburst of Therin confidently, Fastidian joined his will to the will of the goddess, channeling it into a single forceful command.

Turn!

The force of the command burst outward from the holy symbol of Therin, haloing it in the unsullied Light of the goddess. The glow expanded in a moment of benevolent detonation, filling the room with Light. The remaining abominations were scattered to dust, ending their unnatural afterlife.

We must be getting close to the villain’s lair, thought Rennard. He cast a quick glance over the party, confirming that none had been bitten by the ghouls. The last thing he needed was someone who was supposed to be at his back suddenly turning undead in the middle of a fight. Seeing that everyone was intact, he turned his attention to the room itself. At first glance, it appeared to be a dead end, but closer examination revealed a recently patched section of wall. Light shone through a gap at the top of the bricks.

Someone doesn’t want us going that way – it must be the direct path to our destination.

Nodwick, Rennard intoned. Stay ‘ere until we ray-turn. When Rennard spoke, it was obvious that he was French.

Aye, my lord, the henchman replied. Personally, Nodwick thought his master was a bit of an arrogant twit – but that sort of thing wasn’t really a henchman’s place to point out. As for the outrageous accent – well, it came and went, so it wasn’t like he had to put up with it all the time….

Fastidian had noticed the wall as well. As if on cue, Rennard and Fastidian bowed to Turk, sweeping their left arms toward the mismatched section of stone as if to say after you. Turk bowed acknowledgement and charged forward, absorbing some of the shock on his shield, and shattering the hastily-constructed barrier. He kicked the last of the bricks out of the bottom of the door frame and was immediately attacked by two more undead guardians.

He dispatched them before his fellows could make their way through the doorway to join him.

The party strode forward through the short passage and into the room at its far end. They found the area dank, and festooned with spider webs. A chest, draped with a strip of fabric supporting a sealed urn, sat in a random-seeming location on the floor. To the right of it, a hooded figure huddled on an elaborate throne set against the far wall, dimly lit by a series of candles.

Mort Kemnon!

Turk’s words were an announcement, an accusation, and a warning, all rolled into a single commanding bellow. The warrior’s presence attack had no effect - the weasely necromancer was, after all, a personal servant of the god of death. Kemnon drew himself erect, flinging his gray cowl back to reveal the dark, squiggling tattoos of the death god on either side of his hairless pate.

Uninvited guests, he intoned with an overconfident smirk, as the party lined up before the throne to confront him.

Rennard pointed a dagger at Kemnon and declared (without the outrageous accent, Nodwick would have noted) Your reign of terror ends here!

Fastidian raised his medallion before him, gathering the power of the goddess around him and focusing his will on Kemnon.

By the Light of Therin, you shall fall! he declared confidently, as the sunburst began to glow.

Mort Kemnon accepted Fastidian’s challenge, rising unhurriedly to his feet as purple-black magical energy wreathed his hands. What good is the light of your goddess? he asked. She cannot help you here.

Fastidian blinked his surprise as the Light from the sunburst sputtered and died. He pulled the amulet back toward him and looked down at it in dismay. Rennard looked down over his shoulder, staring in shock at the darkened holy symbol.

Fastidian felt it then - the Absence of Light. The power of the goddess was gone from him.

No! he cried in horror. We’re……

Doomed. Kemnon finished the sentence for him, as shrieking ghouls poured into the antechamber from a door behind the random chest. More ghouls flowed through the doorway by which the party had entered, and one of them cut Fastidian down from behind.

Fastidian! cried Turk, lunging toward his friend as the priest collapsed into a pool of his own blood. The warrior hadn’t long to mourn, as voracious ghouls closed in and bashed him in the helmet. Turk fell to the damp floor, leaving Rennard standing alone against the necromancer.

The rogue stood in a small open space, surrounded by ravenous ghouls. This does not end ‘ere! Rennard avowed, his accent as outrageous as ever as he glared at the vile wizard. The rogue leapt forward, evading minions until he was face to face with his foe.

It does… for you, Mort Kemnon declared with finality.

He calmly wrapped the rogue in a sheath of magic, then ….blew Rennard a kiss?

Huh? thought Rennard. He had just enough time to realize that the gesture was the somatic component of a spell, before he was blown backward into a cluster of undead and beaten lifeless. The