Historia Online

by Rae Nantes

  "Well, Vic," the pope said as he flipped through, admiring the sketches, "tell me what you think."

  Vic thought for a quiet moment, then said, "Something much darker and terrible is at hand than what we first realized." He watched a squirrel scurry up the tree as he spoke. "The cultists, Players they call themselves, ease in and out of our world at specific times and intervals. Perhaps a seal had been broken on the gates of hell, perhaps they are lost souls that made a deal with the devil himself. A deal for a second life."

  The pope thumbed through the papers, forward, then backward, then forward again as if searching for something. He eased the book down to his lap and asked, "Can we create a person?"

  "I... apologize," Vic said. "I do not understand the question."

  "A person. With flesh and blood and a human soul." The pope paused to drink in the silence. A bird chirped. "Would you say you had the power to create one?"

  "No."

  "Sure you do," the pope said. "You likely do it every night. People you know, people you've met, even people you haven't. Smells, sights, sounds. Places, moments in time, entire worlds." The pope looked into Vic and into his soul. "Every night you create these imitation realities, every night you dive into one anew."

  "A dream," Vic said.

  "A dream," the pope echoed.

  "Forgive me, I do not follow."

  The pope sighed and glanced around. "Pray be discreet with what I am about to tell you." Vic nodded and brought his eyes to him, eager to hear what he had to say. "This world we live in may be a false creation, a reproduction, borne by magic or minds." He brought his eyes skyward. "Perhaps they are not visiting from purgatory or the rings of hell. Perhaps we are the purgatory, and they are coming from the real world."

  "So you think that our world is..."

  "A dream," said the pope. "A dream of the real world."

  2:17

  John stood alone in the smoldering crater, scattered with the bodies of his paladin comrades. His armor was torn and shredded, his skin lashed and cut, his breath labored and ragged.

  The clouds were remerging, smothering the blinding light that once poured in.

  He stood over Ediha's unconscious body and peered down at the boy. He gripped his scorched claymore.

  The cold wind returned.

  "You told me that you wanted to become a hero."

  He raised his weapon and thrust it into the dirt. "No player within this world could ever hope to teach you such a thing." He scooped Ediha up into his arms, and the boy dangled from him.

  "This quest, I will gladly accept."

  With a solitary flash of light, they vanished.

  3: The Wolf

  3:1

  The frigid air shocked her.

  Rika’s heart raced as soon as she felt the dirt beneath her feet. She hoped more than anything that Ediha was still around, waiting for her with a big stupid grin, and that she wouldn't log in to find nothing but failure. But when she looked around, there was nothing but silence.

  The mountain was chiseled away, scarred by recent trauma. The wind? Magic spells? An earthquake? There was no telling.

  She was standing in a jagged crater, a bowl carved out of the mountain top. The snow was thrown away, struggling to dust the bits of rock and stone left bare. Above her, the skies were a pale blue.

  She was alone.

  Her feet clacked against the stone as she walked. Armor glistened in the sun - corpses of the paladins no doubt - and she headed over. Ten, eleven, thirteen of them, all scattered about the place. Their bodies were cut and burned, limbs dangling and broken, faces twisted in agony. It had been an hour since she died, and their skin had turned blue in the freezing cold.

  What happened, she asked herself. Where is everyone?

  She was answered only by the wind whipping the snow into eddies.

  She meandered around, peeking over slopes and down cliffs, thinking that Ediha might be just on the other side, making igloos or stockpiling snowballs.

  Surely he was alive, surely he didn't fail, surely the power of a player's heart was enough for him to defeat that paladin fuck even if the guy had holy magic. If only she knew where the Holy Temple was, maybe she could face him in a fair fight, an honest, fair fight in which she wasn't outnumbered and outgunned and trying to escape with the life of someone who may or may not even matter in the grand scheme of things.

  Why was she even worried? Ediha didn't matter. He was just a nipsy. An NPC. A drop in the bucket of all the countless nipsies she had slain during her conquests and raids. This was her fault for growing too attached to something that meant little.

  It was just a game, right?

  But John's treachery, his arrogance, his challenge was real. It was tangible, and so was that burning feeling in her gut for revenge. Maybe she wasn’t feeling this way because they threatened Ediha's life, but maybe because they tried to take what was hers.

  Rika swung out her player screen to see if Valgus was nearby. On the map, a beacon pulsed at her from nearby.

  She hurried over the lip of the crater and looked far down the slope to see a figure hiking up, bundled tight against the cold. It was Valgus. The dim blue light of his player screen slipped away, and the fog of his breath faded in the breeze.

  She met him halfway.

  "What the hell happened?" she demanded.

  He sighed in irritation. "They took him."

  "What?"

  "They took Ediha."

  She squinted her eyes at him as she parsed the words. "They kidnapped him?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I took the XP hit and spawned early, but it put me on a different mountain, like kilometers away." He shrugged. "All I could do was watch."

  She felt her blood boil. "Then what? Did they hurt him? Who won?"

  "No one," he said.

  Her anger deflated if only for a second. "Then how did they—"

  "Ediha just... flopped unconscious like a fish. The bad dude scooped him up, then they vanished."

  "With a teleport spell?"

  He shook his head and tucked his chin to his chest with a coming gust of wind. "There was no portal. They just flashed, then poof, they were gone."

  Anxiety gripped her as she thought how those crusading larpers might try to torture Ediha or burn him at the stake. She shook it away. He was already gone, and this was just a game.

  "Pax Divinus," she said. "That's who they were, right?"

  "Uh, yeah, I think."

  She gripped Valgus by his coat. "We're gonna find him. We're gonna get him back. And when we're done, we will wear the skins of those Paladin fucks."

  3:2

  Rika huffed as she flung her chat screen away.

  "What's the word?" Valgus asked.

  "Stef knows somebody who can ask around the church," she said. "It's good that the Pax Suck Dickicus are a buncha tryhard Catholics, but we have no idea how long it'll take to find anything out."

  "A religious order should be easy enough to find," Valgus said, "but before we do anything else, we should at least pick up Saito."

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Where did that portal go to?"

  Valgus shrugged. "I panicked and just picked the furthest place I could. He should be in India somewhere."

  Rika glared at him. "India somewhere. Do you know how big India is?"

  "Big?"

  They stared motionlessly at each other. The cold wind pulled their hair and rustled the furs from their coats. Something was crunching in the snow further down the slope.

  They turned to look.

  A group of people were walking up, about two dozen wearing heavy coats. The man in front marched along in black robes, the ends of his sleeves dyed gold. Blond hair caught the sun, and his grin found them.

  It was Mondego.

  3:3

  Vic sat at the dinner table, enjoying the peace of the Parisian farmlands. The afternoon sunlight flooded in from the window to bath them in warm, golden light. The wife was chatting away with her friends i
n the living room. His teenage son sat across from him at the table, idly munching away at a bowl of oatmeal. The cinnamon scent wafted over.

  His stomach growled.

  "Want some?" his son asked.

  Vic, not looking up from his notebook, smiled and waved away the offer. "It'll ruin my dinner."

  The boy had messy brown hair and a dashing smile - the spitting image of Vic's father, from what Vic had seen in old paintings.

  Vic tapped the blunt end of his pencil at his notebook. He considered how strange it was that most people, even other inquisitors, could scarcely detect an aura on the cultists - the dreamers, the Players, as they're called. He was uncertain if that ability were tied to some skill or experience, perhaps magic sensitivity, or worse, magic itself.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  "So, how's work?" his son asked.

  "Busy, yet uneventful."

  "Busy doesn't sound uneventful."

  "Paperwork is uneventful," Vic said.

  "You seem to be having a good time."

  "Dreadful. Terrible. Boring."

  His son chuckled. "I, uh, spoke to Father Thomas." His voice had a twinge of nervousness. "He told me that I'd make an excellent priest one day."

  "Mhmm."

  His son feigned a cough. "Well, I, uh, think it would be a good route to one day become—"

  "Don't even think about it.”

  His son feigned a smile and returned to his oatmeal.

  Vic knew the boy wanted to become an inquisitor, just as he was, and just has his own father was before him. He knew how the skills and traits and cunning were all there, but he wanted better for him. "I fear the job would bore you," Vic said without looking up from his book.

  "I'm easily entertained," his son said.

  "Not much money."

  "I don't need much."

  "Not much respect these days, either," Vic said. "Have you given any more thought to university? If you study hard, I'm certain you may—"

  A knock at the door.

  They paused.

  His wife sauntered over, smiled at Vic with her old beaming eyes, and creaked the door open. Confused whispers, then irate ones. Then, a fake cough.

  Vic turned to see his wife now glaring at him. Behind her stood the one person he didn't want to see - his handler. A painfully young woman with a horribly cute sundress and terribly perfect skin and red lips and flashing blonde hair and a bust size that would make any other woman jealous - especially his wife. He grunted in anguish before snapping his book shut and stuffing it in his coat. "For work, dear," he said. "She's an informant."

  "Oh!" his wife said, unamused. "Of course."

  The young woman smiled, then started inside before he stopped her. He pointed at a nearby stone table beneath a tree, complete with overturned logs for seats. She took the hint, and they continued over.

  The shadows of leaves fell on them. The air was brisk, the sky a perfect blue, the near-endless stretches of green raced far beyond, rolling over the landscape before reaching the city itself - Paris. The stone table was covered in dead leaves, and he swept them aside.

  "Well?"

  She sat across him, her aura a razor-thin outline around her. This was the girl who was once among the Spanish conquistadors, who was captured by the Players in the new world and then turned on her old masters. She was the one who brought him and Marcion across the Atlantic with that demonic spell, and the one he was ordered to maintain contact with. "How's the family?" she asked.

  "Fine."

  "Do they know?"

  "No."

  "What did the pope say about—"

  "Why are you here?" Vic sighed.

  "To talk," she said.

  "We're talking."

  "This isn't much of a conversation."

  They paused. The echo of hooves hit them from afar. The local noble was out riding his horse, likely enjoying the nice day in the same way that Vic wasn't.

  "The pope is aware of Spain," Vic said, "but he is much too busy with other issues to consider excommunication."

  "Other issues like..." She rolled her hand.

  Vic reconsidered just how much information he was willing to give to her, to give to them, the Players, his enemies. He reconsidered the blackmail, the threats against his family, and even the shaky trust between him and that Player named Stef. They let him live for this, and at the very least, information works both ways.

  "New heresies," Vic said as his eyes traced the landscape. "New factions, new cults, new schisms. The usual."

  "Such as?"

  He idly pulled at a dead leaf, studying its crunchiness as he folded it into halves upon halves until the entire thing crumbled away. "Protestants, they call themselves. They are disgruntled with the Catholic church for selling indulgences or something of the sort. Even among them, the movement is divided further into sects and cults. It creates a lot of work for people like me."

  "What do you know of Pax Divinus?" she asked.

  Vic sighed with impatience. "An emerging religious faction that branched off from one of the old Orders. They're based in Rhodes."

  The woman nodded and brought her hands to the table as if conducting business. "They have something of ours, and we want it back."

  "I am an inquisitor. I find and punish witches, warlocks, demons, heretics, and..." he gestured politely at her, "people like you. What is it that a person like me could accomplish for a person like you?"

  She reached into her purse and dug around. Vic thought it might have been large enough to be considered an armory. She took out a small jewelry box and placed it gently on the stone table. With a flick of her slender finger, the lock opened, revealing a pinch of diamonds. They glittered in the sunlight. It was more than enough money to pay for a year's worth of university tuition, money that Vic didn't have.

  She pushed it over, and a devilish - yet polite - smile stretched across her face.

  Vic cursed himself for falling into their power. He cursed himself for falling into greed, but this was for a good cause. His son was the world to him, and if he could do at least one good for all the bads that this terrible business relationship could offer, this would be worth it.

  He reached over and shut the box, then pulled it over to himself. "What do I need to do?"

  3:4

  The sight of Mondego made her blood boil. Had she not been without a weapon and without mana, she would've attacked without a second thought. There was no one to protect, and besides, she had lives to spare.

  Mondego and his cult stood away from them, just beyond spitting distance. Rika squinted from the brightness of the snow in the sunlight.

  Blue skies. Cold winds. Icy stares.

  Mondego presented his empty palms in a feigned surrender. He offered a wholesome smile. "Hello, old friend."

  "Mondego."

  They stared at each other. The wind blew.

  "We were looking for a band of holy knights," he said. He looked past Rika and nodded at the sight of the dead paladins. "It appears we were a tad late."

  "Yep."

  "From what I hear, you have made some friends."

  Rika furrowed her brow at him.

  "You seem to be missing a few. Among them a young Aztec prince?"

  "And how would you know?"

  His cult friends chuckled from beneath their hoods. He shrugged. "The Templar Magi's reach is global."

  "Templar Magi? Are you with that group?"

  "We are that group," he said. "I am the founder. The leader." He waved out his arms dramatically. "The spark of the movement that will sweep the world!"

  Rika felt a hot jolt of anger spark through her. She almost fought alongside them, the Templar Magi against the paladins. Just the thought of receiving hospitality from his ilk was enough to put a bad taste in her mouth.

  "I take it you have already met my valiant templar knights?"

  "Yes."

  After a painful moment, he spoke. "I see. The holy knights attacked our templars before w
e arrived, and you were caught in the midst of it all. Due to the lack of civilian corpses nearby, I'd suppose they have captured your comrades." He flashed her a grin.

  "What of it?" she asked. "We're a little busy at the moment."

  "And I take it you will seek to rescue your comrades?"

  Rika felt at her waist for her longsword, but its absence stung at her heart. She was vulnerable. She took a deep breath. "Of course," she said. "It's what we do."

  Mondego’s cult chuckled and stared like wolves.

  Rika and Valgus were the prey.

  She swung out her player screen to check her mana. It hadn’t regenerated enough for a fight.

  A voice among them whispered to another. "She's one of them."

  "Are they both?" another asked.

  "You are dreamers," another told them directly. There was excitement in the girl’s voice.

  Mondego stepped forward and raised his arms as if for a hug. "Join us."

  "Nah."

  "We have mutual enemies. We, the Templar Magi, are bound by fate to smother the flame of those who struggle against the tide of progress. Soon, we will cut them at the root."

  Valgus eased toward Rika for a whisper. "It sounds like they know where those knights are. This might not be a bad idea."

  He was right. From a pragmatic standpoint, cozying up to this cultist maniac would be their best bet to finding the Pax Divinus, and by extension, finding Ediha. Not only that, but by keeping Mondego within arm’s reach, she could just offer his head to Ediha on a golden platter.

  She shooed Valgus away, then she opened her mouth to speak. No words came out. Every instinct of her being was yelling, screaming at her to spit in his face and tell him to die. An offer of companionship was the furthest thing she wanted to do. "I'll join you," she let out. "But only because our interests currently align."

  He smiled with a single nod. It seemed more... heartfelt. "Just like old times." The cultists seemed to be relieved, almost overjoyed. "Then it’s settled, friends. We shall unite to defeat the misguided heathens. Perhaps in our company, you too will see the light."