Overworld (Dragon Mage Saga Book 1): A fantasy post-apocalyptic story

by Rohan M Vider

  After a moment, she picked up a flat plank with a crude leather grip bolted on the inside—a shield—and a heavy log, narrowed on one end to hold more easily—a club. “These will do,” she pronounced and walked over with both items.

  “This will not be pleasant, Jamie,” Tara whispered as she helped me strap on the shield.

  Her voice was even and devoid of her earlier anger. That made it all the more chilling. I shivered involuntarily.

  “I will not go easy on you,” Tara continued. “My advice: forget the spectators, keep going as long as you can, and remember why you are doing this—whatever that fool notion may be.”

  I gulped. Suddenly, martial training was not looking like such a good idea. Too late to back out now. “Alright,” I muttered.

  She squeezed my hand once in tender, motherly comfort—which only served to heighten my anxiety—before walking away. Removing her own weapons, Tara picked out a club and shield for herself.

  Tara retuned to the circle and set her stance. Facing me, she imparted the last of her instructions: “This will not be like any sparring you may have done back on Earth. The Trials and its system make training infinitely easier on Overworld. Try to copy my stance and match my blows. Don’t worry if it doesn’t feel right just yet. As we spar, the system will gift you with skill, and your stances and strikes will come more naturally. Ready?”

  My mouth dry, I nodded. Despite her much smaller build, the casual assurance with which Tara twirled her club was intimidating. Why am I doing this again?

  “Then let’s begin.”

  ✽✽✽

  On the tail end of her words, Tara dashed forward, her form a blur. I was too shocked to move, let alone block or dodge.

  Her shield drove upwards and bashed the club out of my unresisting hands. At the same moment, her club drove into my shield—deliberately, I suspected—and sent me flying backwards. With a heavy thud, I crashed into the dirt.

  The crowd broke out in laughter.

  Stretched out on my back, I stared up at the blue sky. How had Tara moved so fast? I barely had time to register her first motion before she completed her last. Sighing, I picked myself up and swatted away the clinging dirt. Tara, her face expressionless, kicked my club towards me. “Again,” she said.

  I grabbed my weapon and limped back into position. Crouching low, I watched her warily. Tara burst forward. I knew she was too quick for me to stop, but I tried anyway, raising my shield to fend off her blow.

  It did me little good.

  Once more I flew backwards. This time, however, I landed face first. But as I lay there with my nose and mouth pressed into the loamy soil, I realised my efforts had not been wholly useless. Something within me felt different. Ignoring the taunts of the spectators, I examined the sensation.

  Your skill with shields has advanced to: level 1.

  The Trials message cued my thoughts in the right direction. My understanding of how to employ a shield had improved. I grasped—just a little better—how to fend off blows, when not to meet a hit head on, how to angle a shield to deflect an attack, and when to avoid blocking altogether. Marvellous, I thought as I examined the new store of knowledge in my mind.

  “Again,” said Tara, interrupting my musings.

  Spitting out loose pieces of grass, I heaved myself upright. Tara did not give me time to recover. She came in hard and fast. I struck out, yet hit nothing but air as Tara slipped under the blow. She countered, her club thudding into my midriff.

  I staggered backwards as my breath was expelled from me in a rush. Tara followed. Her club snaked out again and bruised my other side. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I retreated with my body held sideways and shield raised defensively.

  I wanted to rub at my smarting sides, but stopped myself, not willing to show any weakness in front of the crowd of onlookers. As hard as Tara had hit, I sensed she’d actually held back, her blows containing only a fraction of her full strength. I winced at the thought of truly facing her in combat. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

  Tara advanced again. Her face devoid of all expression, the warrior struck. I blocked—more by accident than design. She struck again, and then again, raining down blows at an ever-increasing pace.

  I stopped one hit in ten. If that.

  Pain broke out across my body. I gasped at each fresh wave, helpless to do otherwise. Resolutely, I slid backwards and attempted to intercept her attacks.

  But Tara’s onslaught was unrelenting.

  Her strikes were too fast, and her blows too numerous for me to fend off. I fell back again, trying to open the space between us.

  I was too slow.

  Tara closed like an avenging angel. Pride be damned, I cursed. Desperate to avoid further pain, I hopped backwards at the fastest pace I could manage and tried to keep as much weight off my hobbled foot as I could. My movements lacked grace altogether, and no doubt provided rich entertainment for the watching crowd. What a sight I must look.

  Right on cue, laughter erupted as Tara chased me around the ring. My face flamed. Damn idiots. Amuses them to see a cripple get beat up, does it?

  I lowered my shield and roaring in fury, stopped retreating. Forgoing defence altogether, I met Tara head on and struck back with wild abandon.

  It did me no good.

  Nor did Tara let me off lightly. She punished me for my rashness—meticulously and systematically. Weaving deftly between my clumsy wafts, she landed blow after blow with scary precision.

  But even through the aches, stings, and throbs that beset my body, I realised Tara was still pulling her blows. Not that it felt that way. Each new hit brought a fresh blossom of pain, and each time her club flew at me I winced, expecting bones to be crushed and flesh to be mangled.

  Eventually, Tara’s shield bashed me in the face and put an end to my ill-advised attack. I staggered backwards and crumpled to a heap on the floor.

  “Again,” called out Tara.

  I rolled onto my back and gasped for breath. Dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?

  “Stop, Tara!” called a voice out from the crowd. I creaked my head in the direction it had come from. It was Michael. “Can’t you see he has had enough?”

  The crowd had grown silent, I realised. Probably stunned by my stupidity, I thought blackly.

  “Stay out of this, Michael,” Tara replied.

  I heaved myself back onto my feet. Still dazed from Tara’s last blow, I swayed. Remember why you are doing this, Tara had said earlier. She didn’t know the true horror that drove me though. I wondered if she would have given me the same advice if she did.

  Alright, Tara, I’ll take your advice.

  I reached into myself and unsealed the deep dark pit into which I had buried gruesome memories.

  Mum’s cold, lifeless eyes, and bloodied corpse flashed before my eyes. My body shook as grief lashed at me. I refuted it. Sorrow is no use to me.

  I shoved aside anguish and let rage replace it. My limbs trembled. Not with fear, but with adrenaline-fuelled strength. Pain would not stop me. Weakness would not hold me back. Tara could not stand against me.

  I will have my revenge.

  Clenching my fists, I tightened my grip on my shield and club. Then with a bloodcurdling roar, I charged.

  ✽✽✽

  It was not much of a charge.

  And it didn’t take Tara too long to set me back down on my rump—none too gently either.

  I refused to give up, though.

  Time and again, I got up and set upon Tara. In my near-frenzy, I lost all concept of time—or restraint. I threw myself at Tara mindlessly. Just as a beast would. I beat at her with every ounce of my strength and anger.

  Tara, I’m sure, must have glimpsed something of the darkness that simmered in me, the black roiling hate that I did my utmost to unleash upon her.

  I was lucky that the green-eyed captain was the fighter she was. In my berserker state, I could have hurt her
and not realised it. If she given me the slightest chance.

  But not once did Tara falter.

  Despite everything I threw at her, I failed to land a single blow. Bobbing and weaving, Tara evaded my attacks while her own club wrote lines of black and blue on my body.

  It was cathartic.

  With every rage-fuelled attack I launched, the heaviness within me receded. With every agonising blow I suffered, the darkness tainting me lessened, even if only a smidgen. And towards the end, I fancied I saw both understanding and pity in Tara’s eyes as she let me spend my fury upon her.

  ✽✽✽

  It was hours later when I finally collapsed.

  Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the red-tinged twilight sky. My body was worn out and refused to move further.

  Tara’s face appeared above mine. “Had enough?” she asked, her voice solemn.

  I heaved a sigh and nodded mutely.

  She sat down cross-legged next to me. “You feeling any better?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied, and to my surprise realised it was true. Mostly. I turned my head to look at her. “Sorry,” I added.

  Knowing what I meant, Tara only nodded. “Want to tell me about it?”

  I swallowed. Was I ready to talk about Mum? Triggered by the thought, memories rushed to the fore and threatened to drown me in grief anew. I squeezed my eyes shut. No, not yet. “I can’t right now,” I said. “Maybe in a few days.” Or weeks. Or months.

  “Alright,” replied Tara with calm acceptance. “You need to get some rest. Let’s get you back to camp,” she said, heaving me to my feet.

  With Tara’s help, I staggered upright. My body was too shaky to stand on its own though, and I had to lean on her for support. Looking about, I saw the training grounds was empty. “Where’s everyone?” I asked, confused.

  Tara rolled her eyes. “Training ended long ago, and even the most sadistic got bored watching you being beaten to a pulp. Everyone’s gone to supper. We better hurry ourselves. It’s not too safe out here after dark.”

  Still a bit perplexed by the passage of time, since I hadn’t thought we’d been at it that long, I missed Tara’s next words. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I asked, how did you do?” she repeated.

  I looked at her blankly.

  “Your Disciplines and Attributes, you idiot. How much have they improved?”

  “Oh,” I said, and called up the waiting Trials messages.

  Your agility, perception, vigour, strength, and willpower have increased to: level 10 and reached: rank 2, Trainee.

  Your skills with clubs and shields have advanced to: level 10 and reached: rank 2, Trainee.

  My eyes widened in amazement. I had reached Trainee rank in all my might and resilience Attributes.

  “I think I’m done with martial training,” I said, smiling a toothy and bloody grin.

  Chapter 20

  391 days until the Arkon Shield falls

  It seemed we had missed the call for supper and the cooks had already dampened the fires in the crafting yard. Which was a relief. I wasn’t quite ready yet to face those who had witnessed my berserker rage on the training grounds.

  Tara helped me back to the tent I had been assigned, one close to her own and the commanders. Leaving me outside the entrance, she went off in search of a hot meal for both of us.

  I sank to the ground, too tired to even make my way into my new abode. I’ll just rest here until she gets back, I thought, closing my eyes in weariness.

  It had been an eventful day. I had gained nine levels, and despite my body’s bruised and battered state, I felt altogether healthier, stronger, and quicker. The last time my body had felt so capable was… before the accident.

  Since then, I had let myself waste away. There hadn’t seemed to be much point in retaining my former physical form. It had been so much easier to ignore my body and devote my attention to pursuits of the mind. Gaming, primarily. I had become rather good at it, too. Infernally good, according to some of my friends. I smiled at the memory.

  And yet… It took only a day in Overworld to restore my flagging body to its former state. If I had come this far in one day, to what heights could I push my body in the coming weeks and months?

  Opening my eyes, I stared down at my stretched-out legs. They looked no different from a day ago. But I could feel their newly contained power. My gaze drifted to my hobbled foot, turned at a slightly unnatural angle. I was still crippled though. I won’t be running marathons anytime soon, but at least I can hop faster now, I thought with a chuckle.

  Despite everything that had happened, I was grateful to the Trials for the changes it had wrought in my body. Perhaps Overworld isn’t all bad, I admitted. And being disabled doesn’t mean being helpless. That was a truth I hadn’t been able to acknowledge on Earth. Now though, in this unforgiving world, I would have to push my body beyond what it had been capable of even when whole.

  “Here you go,” Tara said, coming up from behind and interrupting my musings.

  I turned around and I saw she held two steaming bowls.

  “I can’t promise it will be the best meal you’ve ever eaten,” Tara said as she handed me one of the bowls. “But at least it’s filling.” She sat down next to me. “Just don’t ask me what’s inside.”

  I took the bowl eagerly, too hungry to care about its contents. “Thanks,” I said.

  We both fell silent as we dug in. Tara was right. The food’s taste left much to be desired. But that didn’t stop me from gulping it down as fast as I could.

  When I was done, I sat back with a contented sigh. I was stuffed. “Ah,” I said. “I needed that.”

  Tara grunted in acknowledgement as she swallowed the last of her own food. “You have to be careful about missing meals on Overworld. Hunger here can affect your body in weird ways.”

  I nodded, realising how fortunate I had been to have met Tara during my first moments in this world. She was proving to be an invaluable mentor and… friend. “Thanks for everything today, Tara. I doubt I’d have survived without you.”

  “Damn right you wouldn’t have, fish,” she replied with a grin.

  Her animosity from earlier seemed to have vanished, for which I was more than grateful.

  Tara’s grin faded when she set down her bowl. “About earlier…” She hesitated before continuing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you a cripple. It was uncalled for.”

  “No,” I replied. “I needed to hear it. I can’t ignore my impairments or what it means. Especially on Overworld.” I paused. “I hope you’ll forgive my pushing you to train me.”

  Tara shook her head. “You were right to do so, and I was wrong for trying to deny you.” She smiled. “Besides, you did better than I expected. Perhaps with more training, you will even be able to hold your own as a fighter one day.”

  I groaned. “No way am I going to put myself through that again.”

  Tara’s smile broadened, but she didn’t say anything. And neither did I. More words felt unnecessary as we sat in companionable silence.

  Eventually, Tara got to her feet. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She hesitated. “Will you be alright tonight?”

  I nodded, knowing it was my episode during sparring that prompted her to ask. “I’ll be fine,” I replied, standing as well. I flinched at the fresh pain my movements inspired. Tara had done no lasting harm during our training session, yet I knew I would feel the bruises for at least the next few days.

  Tara winced sympathetically. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “I hope so,” I muttered.

  Tara laughed as she walked away. ““Goodnight, Jamie.”

  “Night, Tara,” I replied, waving goodbye.

  ✽✽✽

  Alone once more, I ducked into my tent. The inside was dark, and I had to wait for my eyes to adjust before I could inspect my new residence.

  When the gloom lessened, I
saw the tent was mostly bare. On one side was a hide pallet stuffed with straw and on the other, a wooden pail filled with drinking water. I eyed the bed wistfully. Despite its primitiveness, it looked invitingly soft. Though, as much as I craved sleep, I couldn’t retire for the night just yet.

  I still had magic to practice.

  My newcomer buff was still active, and while it remained in force, I needed to train my magic Attributes. Yet weariness hung heavy upon me, and I could barely muster any enthusiasm for the task.

  Maybe, I can use life magic to ease some of my aches. But even the promise of pain-relief failed to stir my interest. I sighed. It was time for more drastic measures.

  Limping over to the pail, I dunked my head in. I gasped as I came back up for air. The water was unpleasantly cold and had served my purpose perfectly. The clinging tendrils of sleep were banished—temporarily at least.

  Shaking my head dry, I sat down cross-legged on the hard-packed earth, and far away from the tempting pallet, just in case. Alright, where to begin?

  All magic was unique to its wielder. Each had a different footprint. My first step, I knew, was to discover my own magical signature, and to attune myself to the mana swirling within me. I couldn’t explain how I understood this. But I knew it as well as I knew how to hold a shield or thrust a spear. All gifts of the Trials.

  I closed my eyes and looked within myself with magesight. Mana—the stuff of magic—flowed lazily through my body and settled in a still, deep pool at my centre.

  Gathering a small amount, I willed it upwards into my mind and studied its composition. I dribbled the mana within my mouth and tasted its velvety sweetness. I coalesced some in my hands and felt its oily texture. Snorting more of it, I identified its lavender scent. I pulled it through my ears and listened to its joyous gurgle. Finally, I let the mana pool out of me, and observed its swirls of cobalt blue.

  Only then, when I felt certain I understood my magic, did I begin manipulating it.

  Drawing its swirling essence into shape, I willed the mana to do my bidding, visualising in my mind what I sought from it. Heal, I ordered, internally vocalising the command to give further form to my will.