VirtualWarrior

by Ann Lawrence

  The room spun a moment. Neil swallowed his nausea. When his stomach settled, he gazed around. Beyond the skinny, mad Santa who smelled like he’d been wearing his costume since last Christmas, there were two very intimidating Tolemac warriors. He didn’t need the game booklet to identify them. They wore black leather breeches, high boots, and white tunics heavily embroidered in black and gold. They could be Swedish ski champions from the last Olympics if you traded their swords for ski poles.

  He’d done it. Gone into the game. Then a tendril of memory curled from beneath the pain in his head. A woman on her knees, a filthy man tearing at her skirt. The memory slipped away. Where had the thought come from?

  “Where’re my shorts? And where am I?”

  The old man grinned and slapped his knees. The sound hurt Neil’s ears. “You are at the base of Hart Fell, and I am Nilrem, a simple wiseman.”

  Nilrem was in the game manual, but little used. Game warriors didn’t ask for advice. They acted. A wave of pain flooded Neil’s head like ten toothaches hammering at one time. He managed a glance to the roof. “Is this your place?”

  “Nay,” Nilrem said. “‘Tis a shepherd’s hut, no longer used. And who are you?” The man had a smoker’s rough voice.

  Neil had thought long and hard about his name in this new world. Had, in fact, thought long and hard about coming here and all the questions he would need to answer. He had entered the game to escape everything he was in Ocean City. Everything he hadn’t been. Everything he’d screwed up. Without hesitation he christened himself anew. “I am Lien.”

  “Leeee-en? What manner of name is this?”

  “An ancient one from my land. It means good fortune.” He’d also learned you needed every break you could get just to survive—in any world.

  Nilrem rose and studied him. The scrutiny was at odds with the amused smile twitching the old man’s lips. “I am most honored to meet you, Leee-en. Now, off with that robe and let me better tend your wounds.”

  “There’s a rule where I come from. Keep your robe on in front of an audience. And where’re my clothes?”

  The two guards left without argument when Nilrem requested it. Neil pulled the robe over his head. “I feel as if I’ve been beaten with a stick.”

  “You were—several. I most humbly offer my apologies for such behavior. The men who accosted you were most likely outcasts. They live by thievery. As for your belongings, this is all we could save.” The old man held up his hand.

  Neil stared at the glass earrings and a broken chain. His hand shook a bit as he took them from the old man’s dirty palm. “This is all…I mean…are you saying everything I had is gone?” What the hell was he to do now? He stared down at the jewelry; a sick dread churned in his stomach. So much for good fortune.

  Nilrem nodded. “‘Tis all that remains. Those were cast off by the robbers.”

  He was truly screwed. “You said ‘we’. Who’s we?”

  “Ah, that would be Ardra. She says you saved her life.”

  “Ardra.” He whispered her name. The woman Gwen had suggested for Tolemac Wars III. Refrigerator Girl.

  So, it had been Ardra on her knees. “Is she all right?”

  Nilrem brought a bowl with a gray gloppy substance in it to Neil’s side. “She is shaken, but thanks to you, unharmed.” The old man took up a small stick and began to spread the goo on Neil’s bruises and wounds. The gray paste was cool, then in a few moments, began to feel warm, like Ben-Gay. The bandages the wiseman wrapped about his leg were white and clean.

  “Do you know Mistress Ardra?” the wiseman asked.

  “I don’t. It’s just an unusual name.”

  “Leee-en isn’t?”

  Neil pushed the old man’s hand away and stood. The room spun and turned; the bile rose in his throat. He gripped the old man’s shoulder. “No. It’s common as dirt where I come from.”

  “Mistress Ardra will need to stitch you up. Two of your wounds are too deep for the herbal to heal on their own. Should they fester—”

  “Stitch me up? Fester?” Neil said softly. One cut was on his inner arm, from his elbow to his wrist. It was already swelling. The other was on his shoulder, near his collarbone.

  “When you have covered yourself, I shall call her.”

  Neil hastily sat down and drew several of the bed furs over his lower body. He felt vulnerable without his shorts, and his head was still spinning. Everything from stepping into the game booth until he woke here in the hut was fuzzy and vague.

  He remembered the attack on Ardra. Maybe. He remembered a fire. The flare of flames. An electrical odor. Pain. A burning pain—as if someone had put his head in a waffle iron.

  The door opened and in stepped a woman. Ardra. Her green gown and hooded cloak were embroidered in gold and purple. She dropped into a deep curtsey directed at Nilrem. Her eyes never turned to where he sat.

  “Mistress Ardra, ‘tis necessary you stitch this man’s wounds. I have no talent with the needle.”

  As he spoke, the old man tapped Neil firmly on the shoulder. Each touch caused pain to shoot down his arm.

  “Stitch? I cannot—” She stepped back a pace.

  “Aye. You can. Just think of it as two pieces of cloth, a simple joining. If you can render such decorations as are on your cloak, you can do this simple chore.”

  Nilrem took her hand and drew her forward to stand before Neil, urging her onto a low stool by his bed, which was no more than a pile of clean straw.

  She lifted her gaze and met his.

  Neil swallowed. The game creator hadn’t captured her at all. Oh, the basics, yeah—the oval face, the patrician cheekbones, the sensuous lips—but not the eyes. They were unlike any he’d ever seen—golden eyes, glowing in the firelight as brilliantly as polished amber.

  Her hands were cool when she touched his arm to assess the wound. “They were merciless,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

  She leaped up. “Your—your voice. I have heard only one other speak as you do.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Nilrem.” She turned to the old man. “Whence came he?”

  Neil had an answer ready. “I’m from beyond the ice fields.”

  “Ardra,” Nilrem said sharply. “He needs tending.”

  Ardra hesitated but a moment, then obeyed. With a sharp intake of breath, she bent her head, and Neil felt as if she had dismissed him from her consciousness. She opened her pack and drew out a fabric pouch tied with ribbon. She unwrapped the bundle to reveal needles and thread wrapped on small smooth sticks. The needles looked less than sharp. Don’t be a wimp, Neil, he told himself.

  No, he must think of himself as Lien. He was a different man here. Lien the pauper. What a nightmare.

  She swallowed and looked up at him, inspecting him like a piece of furniture she had to refinish. Then she spoke, and the quaver in her voice told him she was not distant, just very nervous. “Forgive me. You came to my aid, and now I must come to yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your thanks are not necessary.” She looked at him, and the color of her eyes reminded him of old-fashioned fall chrysanthemums.

  “Why weren’t those guards with you when you were attacked?”

  “I—I was gathering firewood.”

  The old man made a snorting sound, then rubbed his nose on his sleeve. The young woman impaled the wiseman with a haughty stare. Here was one thing the game creator had captured perfectly—she was as cold as the ice she guarded. “You helped me and I am grateful,” she continued, bringing her attention back to his wound.

  She clasped her hands about his forearm and pressed the edges of the wound together. He nearly levitated off the pallet. He jerked his arm away.

  “This may hurt badly.” She poked his wound again.

  “Wait!” He covered her hand with his. “I think I want it washed first. With really hot water. And do you have any alcohol?”

  Ardra and Nilrem merely
glanced at each other and shook their heads.

  “Alcohol? You know…wine? Ale? Something like that?”

  “Ah. The man wishes to be drunk! A wonderful idea. He will feel less pain that way.” Nilrem cackled in amusement. He was gone but a moment before returning with what looked like a wineskin from the hippie era. Lien tugged off a wooden stopper and sniffed the inside. It was wine.

  Ardra pursed her mouth, and he realized she did not approve of the idea of his getting drunk. After she bathed the wound in very hot water, she cried out when he doused it with wine. He clenched his fist against the hot flare of pain as the red fluid coursed along the deep cut.

  “Now you can stitch it.” He rested his arm on his lap and fisted his hand.

  She patted the wound dry with a clean cloth and began. It hurt like the devil, and he had to bite his lip to keep from swearing. Bad as it was, it was pretty tame stuff compared to the jackhammer in his head.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” he gritted out when she had neatly gathered together about half the wound. Cold sweat broke out on his brow.

  “I have never done such work. Perhaps I am going too fast.” She jerked the thread tight and tied a knot. When she looked up, he saw something in her gaze that told him she was angry. It took several moments for her to thread her needle again. His arm throbbed from shoulder to wrist.

  “Never mind,” he muttered as she slowly began on the second half of the wound. He wanted to vomit. He took a deep breath. She wore an exotic scent he imagined didn’t exist in Ocean City…or anywhere else in the U. S. of A.

  “Now your…chest.” She leaned forward to inspect the wound. She bit her lip…her very full lip. Wherever had he gotten the idea she was prissy?

  His head filled with a vague buzz. He slipped backward and groaned.

  “Oh! Nilrem!” Her hand was cool on his brow. “He is soaked in sweat!”

  Nilrem pushed her gentle hand away and replaced it with his scratchy claw. “He is not feverish. ‘Tis just that he is not so brave.”

  Lien closed his eyes and groaned. The food he had eaten after the funeral threatened to erupt from his lips. Somehow, the meal and the funeral seemed a world and a millennium away.

  The rustle of Ardra’s skirt told him she was near. She placed a damp, cool cloth over his eyes.

  “Foolish is more accurate,” she said. “He came after the outcasts with naught but his bare hands.”

  Lien knew when he was being insulted. “I can sit up now.” He pushed her hand away.

  “Nay. Remain as you are.” She touched his shoulder.

  It was easier to do as she said. He fell back against the bedding.

  Without being told, she bathed his chest wound in very hot water, repeatedly, then doused it well with wine as he had done. He felt the warm liquid soak the cloth beneath his body.

  “Waste of good wine. Give me that, child.” Nilrem took the wineskin and poured a hefty draught into a wooden cup. He slurped it down, smacking his lips and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I think our Lien needs to explain this curious mark on his arm.”

  Lien feigned sleep. Each stitch turned his stomach. As Ardra sewed up his shoulder wound, she and Nilrem whispered about him.

  “A snake is a mark of evil,” Ardra whispered.

  “Aye. But it coils thrice about his arm and in the very place a warrior wears his arm rings,” Nilrem whispered back. “Perhaps he is a warrior from…his place.”

  “In scarlet and gold robes?” Her fingers drifted from his shoulder to his upper arm. They did not touch his tattoo, but he could almost feel a static charge as he pictured her fingertips hovering over the design.

  Her breath whispered soft as a summer breeze across his shoulder. “And look…the snake markings are not scales. They are one of the old designs…the weave of eternal goodness found on the cauldrons of the ancient priests.”

  “Most curious,” Nilrem said softly. “So, he wears a mark of evil, yet it is richly decorated by ancient markings of goodness. Hmmm. And what of this?”

  Lien couldn’t resist. He peeked. There dangling from the broken chain, inches away from his nose, were the two glass rose earrings.

  “They’re mine.” He reached out with his good hand. Pain rocketed through his shoulder as he strained to reach the jewelry.

  Nilrem held it just out of his reach and stepped away.

  Lien threw back the blankets and sidestepped Ardra to reach the old man. He snatched the chain from Nilrem’s hand, then dropped it over his head and turned back to Ardra. “Now. Finish the job,” he said.

  Ardra just stared at him, mouth open. He felt his cheeks flush hot as he realized just how naked he was. Forcing himself to move at a normal pace, he walked past her to the straw, sat down, and drew a blanket over his lap.

  This time, she kept her eyes downcast as she stitched.

  “Of what significance is the jewelry, young man?” Nilrem took another deep drink of his wine.

  “The earrings belonged to my mother.”

  “But they are glass. No one may make such a thing here,” Ardra said.

  “They were not made here.” And damn it, he decided, I’m not saying another word.

  When Ardra had finished her work, she coated each wound with the gray paste, then tore strips of clean cloth and bound both his arm and shoulder.

  “Thank you, Mistress Ardra,” he managed.

  For the first time, she smiled. Only a small smile, which died quickly as she caught sight of his tattoo.

  “Have you no such marks as these here?” he asked.

  Nilrem answered for her. “Once, when men ran about in nothing but furs, they marked themselves on their faces, chests, and so forth, but not in such an artful manner…and not in such a place. The place of arm rings.”

  “There are no arm rings beyond the ice fields,” Lien said simply. “Do you have something I could wear?”

  Nilrem handed him what looked like a monk’s robe. It was thick and scratchy. So much for sartorial splendor.

  He glanced at Ardra. In a swirl of skirts she was gone.

  Nilrem offered him a strip of rough leather to loop about his waist with the words, “I have asked Ardra’s men to collect a few pairs of boots for you.”

  “Her men?” Lien imagined a small army of warriors, garbed in leather, armed with sharp swords. Great. He tugged at the robe, which reached only to his calves.

  “Oh, aye. Did you think a woman would travel about unprotected?”

  “No,” Lien said slowly. “I didn’t know she was traveling anywhere.”

  Nilrem burst into a delighted laugh complete with knee slapping. When he calmed himself, he finally spoke. “You did not suppose her to reside with me?”

  Lien shrugged. “If I can just have those boots, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Your way? And which is your way?”

  Before Lien could answer, Ardra entered the hut. Behind her were three large men. Blond, hard-looking men. The cold air went straight up his robe. He was nearly naked, barefoot, and outnumbered.

  “Come. Come.” Nilrem waved them all in. The hut became immediately crowded. Maybe it was the pain in his head, but the boots the warriors dumped at his feet looked enormous—as did their swords.

  When her guards retired to the outside—gone but close enough that Lien could hear the murmur of their voices— Nilrem asked Ardra, “What brings you here to me, Mistress Ardra of the Fortress?”

  Ardra turned her wide tawny eyes not to Nilrem but to him. She slid her hands into her sleeves and looked, not hesitant, but wary. Lien concentrated on the boots lying at his feet, tried to appear uninterested. Maybe he’d hear something useful before setting out on his own. It had been his plan to check out the local politics before settling in any one location.

  Nilrem nodded in Lien’s direction. “You must speak before this young man. He is not fit to stand outside awaiting our pleasure.”

  Good; the more feeble they thought him, the less of a threat Ardra might see in him.


  She nodded as if coming to a decision. “I fear I must speak if he is not able to…go.”

  Her hair was loose about her shoulders. The fire’s glow cast a soft sheen on the ripples. He shook his head. What the heck was wrong with him? It was just hair.

  She pitched her voice low, and he pretended to be intently interested in the boots he was trying on. He tried not to appear to be eavesdropping.

  “Tol is grievously ill,” she whispered.

  “What may I do?” Nilrem patted her knee gently. “I have several potions that will ease his pain.”

  Ardra squeezed the gnarled hand on her knee. She nodded, and for a moment her head bowed. “I accept with my deepest thanks. The healer has been unable to give him ease.”

  “Done.” Nilrem rose. He opened a wooden cask and withdrew a stoppered stone bottle. He tapped a small pile of yellow powder into a square of cloth and folded it as if it held gold dust. “Here.” He handed the parcel to Ardra. “Four grains only in clear water as he needs it. Allow him to decide when he needs more. Twice as much…is fatal.”

  Ardra opened her cloak, and Lien saw an embroidered gown in a deep green. He thought she could be Robin Hood’s mate, all garbed in shades of green as she was. She tucked the package into a leather purse hanging from a belt at her waist.

  “It is not just for Tol’s ease I have come. He sent me with grave news to impart.”

  Lien settled on one pair of boots and realized he had no socks. There seemed to be nothing resembling socks here. With a sigh, he wrapped some strips of fabric about his feet and became aware that Ardra was watching him most intently.

  The boots were stiff brown leather, without the distinction of being a left or a right, but fit him well enough with the cloth wrappings. He imagined that if he walked far, he’d have horrendous blisters. Where was Dr. Scholls when you needed him? As he contemplated the sorry and not very clean robe he was wearing, Nilrem and Ardra continued their hushed conversation, but she kept glancing at him, worry etched on her face. Lien decided to fake sleep. He groaned as he tried to shift his feet onto the pallet. The heavy boots defeated him. He settled for falling diagonally across the straw mattress and watching through half-closed eyes.