by Edwin McRae
The pain was sudden and excruciating. Serik dropped to his knees and his hands clutched at the helmet as he struggled in vain to push it off. Wide-eyed with alarm, the sergeant rushed forward to help him, wrapping her gauntleted hands around the silver edges, pulling as hard as she dared.
Pinpoints of searing heat burned into Serik’s scalp in a dozen different places, as if the helmet were growing roots and burrowing into him, a tree seeking sustenance from the grey mud of his brain. As those tendrils breached his skull, the pain lessened. That was until the sergeant gave another hefty pull in an attempt to free him. The roots coiled and constricted within his head, inciting another brutal wave of pain.
"Get the fuck off me!" Serik screamed as he knocked the sergeant's arms aside with his clenched fists.
The sergeant stumbled backwards. Serik looked up at her, feeling the warm trickle of blood weeping from his eyes, more streaming from his ears. The sergeant's look of horror was the last thing he saw as his vision faded to black.
Serik's eyes fluttered open. Not his flesh and blood eyes, he knew that much. And he couldn’t feel anything, not even the presence of his own body, a blissful mercy after the helmet’s brutal assault.
He gazed out over a city he had never seen, nor could ever have imagined. Majestic spires jabbed at the sky like defiant lances thrust at the gods above. Wide, paved streets formed orderly grids, enclosing stone buildings that had been crafted and sculpted by hands more masterful than any reiver mason possessed. The streets were filled with people of all shapes and sizes, some tall and slender, others short and stout, some straight, some stooped, but always with a pair of defining features that set them apart from reivers and Garlanders. First, the pointed ears, large and delicately curved. Second, their prominent heads, over-sized for their bodies, regardless of their stature.
He found himself descending towards these people, following his desire to get a closer look at them. He saw soft, unblemished skin, delicate features and large eyes of varying hues that ranged from bright gold through to a deep, forest green. Yet he noticed their hands most of all. Smooth palms and long, nimble digits. They were the hands of scholars, musicians, of the few reivers Serik had known to devote themselves to the study of strategy and lore, tactics and magic. They were the hands of people who had never held a sword or shovel, dangling from arms that would never lift anything heavier than a quill or a piece of parchment.
He soared up into the air, high above the city that stretched from one horizon to the other along the foothills of towering mountains. That's when he realized where he was. In fact, he hadn't gone anywhere at all. These were the Barrens in their former glory, the mighty city that had fallen so long ago.
He blinked and found himself on the plains, looking out over an immense army. Although uniformly dressed in gleaming breastplates, greaves, gauntlets and helms, the soldiers before him were remarkably different from one another. The majority had the look of reivers or Garlanders, common humans in every way. Yet among the others, Serik recognized the jaundiced, needle-toothed creatures that had almost made a feast of him. He saw others, grey-skinned bipedal monsters devoid of eyes, their mouths filled with black-iron teeth. In fact, there were so many different species arrayed before him that he gave up trying to spot the differences. Instead, he marveled at the order that had been forged from this chaos. Here was a cacophony of races, arranged in impeccably neat rows, every single soldier standing to attention, not a muscle moving, not a foot out of place.
At the head of the army, Serik saw the army’s commander, one of the point-eared folk, sitting astride a magnificent white horse. The general war armor of silver and gold filigree, and upon her head rested the same helmet that Serik now wore.
He watched as the general raised a silver-clad hand and opened her mouth as if to speak. No words came out, only a thought that somehow appeared in the center of his mind. It wasn't a special order. It was a mundane command that Serik himself had given hundreds of times.
"Present arms."
Yet every soldier understood it and reacted as if they were possessed of the very same thought, at the same time, across a thousand different minds.
It was a sight of discipline that Serik had never seen or read of in the military histories he’d perused. The entire army reacted as one, soldiers drawing their weapons and dropping into battle stances in perfect unison. To Serik, it didn't even seem that the soldiers were alive in the normal sense of the word. Instead they were made of clockwork, finely tuned mechanisms within a large and mindlessly efficient machine.
He knew what he was being shown. The helm wasn't a symbol of command, the helmet was the command. It was enabling the general to control her troops, overpowering their will until they became as lethally subservient as their leader’s own sword.
In that moment of realization, the general turned to look at Serik, her emerald-green eyes meeting his, her gaze piercing his mind, skewering his thoughts like worms on a fisherman’s hook. Soon Serik could see nothing but those gleaming green irises and their jet black pupils. He felt himself pulled into the blackness, tumbling downwards, submerged.
When Serik opened his eyes, his real eyes this time, he was met with the round, dirty and rather concerned face of the sergeant.
"Shit. I thought you were a goner."
Serik laughed weakly. He felt exhausted, but at least the pain was gone. The helmet was so effectively melded to his skull, entwined within his brain, that it was as much a part of him as is own hands and feet. He knew he should be horrified at the thought, but found that the helm was so light, so comfortable, that he barely even noticed that it was there.
You have gained the Helm of Supremacy!
This ancient and legendary artifact enables the wearer to control sentient beings. It facilitates complete power over thought and behavior. The base number of minions is limited by Class Level multiplied by their Mind score.
“If I am to embrace this great game, better to be a player than a piece.” - Elandra the Conqueror
Special Notice!
The helm is only effective on sentient beings whose level ranges between 1 and 3. Individuals of levels 4 and higher are too strong-willed for the helmet to dominate.
Extra Special Notice!
Once donned, the Helm of Supremacy cannot be removed. Only death shall part the helm from its master.
The sergeant's look of concern turned to one of alarm. "Captain? What's that thing done to you?"
Serik’s smile broadened. "Sergeant, my dear mother had a curious saying. The strongest mushrooms grow in the deepest shit."
"Um, I think that helmet might’ve messed with your head. Maybe you should take a nap or something while I work out how to shift the bloody thing."
Serik shook his head. "I’ve honestly never felt better." He tapped the helmet with his finger. "It showed me things from the past, memories of the previous owner."
“Like inquisitor magic?" She visibly shuddered at the mention of what inquisitors used during their interrogation process.
It was a type of magic feared by all reivers, a series of spells that hauled memories from the victim’s skull. Hooked fish from a stream of consciousness. It was unpleasant to say the least, and sometimes fatal.
"No, nothing like that. A vision, one that showed me what the helmet can do when placed on the right head."
The sergeant smirked. "Reckon you're the right head, do you?"
Serik’s smile twisted with wickedness. "I think a certain murderous bastard will be the judge of that."
22
Mark rode through the gates of Citadel and found a contingent of cat ladies and bearded weirdies waiting for him. That’s how his father would’ve described them. They were sitting in the courtyard, enjoying the sun, smoking pipes like a bunch of Middle-earth wizards at a Lord of the Rings convention.
There were six of them in total, three women and three men, all grey-haired apart from one younger man who sported a crop of ginger curls that were so wild they
seemed to encompass his head like a raging bushfire.
"Sid? Who are these people?" Mark murmured.
“Druids from the Garland capital,” Sid whispered back. “Members of the Elder Council."
"How did they know I was here?"
"I suggest you look to your ranger companion for that answer."
Mark shot Dayna a questioning look. "Friends of yours?"
The ranger shrugged. "Rangers answer to the druids. It was my duty to tell them about you. I paid one of the villagers to deliver the message."
"Right, in that case, any advice on what I'm supposed to say to them?"
"I know this will be difficult, but try not to be an idiot. These druids are good people."
Mark’s gut twisted at Dayna’s slight. Big groups like this made Mark nervous, and when he was anxious, chances were that he would put his foot in his mouth at some point.
"Considering how you generally feel about people, Dayna, they must be absolute bloody saints."
Dayna shrugged again. "No idea what a saint is, but yeah, I don't get the same urges to shoot them as I do with you."
Thanks to Dayna, Mark now had a lump in his throat as well, and an uncomfortably hot, prickling feeling spreading across his skin.
"Lucky them," was all he could manage.
Vari drew her horse up alongside his. She was looking at the assorted druids as anxiously as he was.
"Don't worry, Vari. You've already done plenty for Garland.” He forced a smile for good measure. “They'd be morons to give you any trouble."
Vari managed a weak smile in return and nodded, but she looked anything but convinced.
As Mark's party pulled up next to the delegation, a pair of stable girls rushed out to take their horses. Surprised, Mark looked to the stables. They’d received a serious refurbishment. New doors, much of the timber inside had been replaced, and there was fresh straw everywhere.
"You've been busy, Sid," Mark whispered under his breath.
"Oh, you haven't seen the half of it," answered Citadel. "The villagers have been extremely helpful."
"Even with all of those giant bugs of yours roaming around?"
"Garlanders are a pragmatic bunch. If it's useful, they like it, even if it’s a cockroach."
Mark nodded, glad that the villagers had made themselves at home. In fact, he wasn't just glad, he was delighted, especially at the fact that he hadn't done any of the city-building himself. Mark had always been more Diablo than Civilization.
Mark slid down off his horse and handed his reins to the waiting stable girl. Then he turned to the druids and presented them with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. He’d not had to ‘welcome’ anyone since the dinner parties he and ex-wife hosted. Strangely enough, the couples that he and his ex had socialized with weren’t all that interested in hanging out with a loner divorcee with a gaming addiction.
"Greetings all. Welcome to Citadel." His voice trembled a little and Mark desperately hoped they wouldn’t notice.
The eldest pushed himself to his feet, using a tall, oak staff to help him stand, and extended his arm for Mark to grasp. Mark was about to shake the man's hand, but then remembered the tradition in Garland was to grasp the forearm. At least, it had been in previous versions of Reign of Blood.
Mark placed his forearm firmly against the older man's forearm, clasping gently but firmly, and felt a similar grip in response. The old man nodded, smiling his appreciation at Mark's recognition of Garland tradition.
"Good to finally meet you, warlock. They call me Denniston."
Under the cracking whip of his anxiety, Mark felt his words start to run of their own accord.
“Apart from Dayna, they call me Mark.”
“And what does Dayna call you?”
The horse had bolted now, so there wasn’t much point in Mark trying to shut the stable door. Instead, he tried to make a joke out of it.
“Every other name under the sun?”
The old druid raised an eyebrow at Dayna, who had the grace to at least blush. Then he smiled, baring strong, even teeth that were somewhat yellowed by years of tobacco smoke.
“Yes, I’m afraid her tongue is as sharp as her arrowheads.”
Under the twinkling gaze of Denniston’s hazel eyes, Mark felt his anxiety melt away.
Vari and Dayna joined them, standing to either side of Mark, while Calder stood a little further back, perhaps out of deference to these senior Garlanders.
The druid acknowledged Calder with a nod. "I hear you've been getting that mine of yours up and running again."
"Yup. Thanks to the warlock and his friends here, we’ll have a steady flow of ore, gems and arcanium in no time."
"Happy to hear it. We've lost a couple more mines recently. We’re starting to run a little short of everything." He turned back to Mark. "Sorry, I'm a bit too old for long-winded introductions. I like to get straight down to business. Forgive me if I seem a little abrupt."
On the contrary, Mark found his directness refreshing, especially when compared with so many of the dreary, overly eloquent monologues he'd sat through during his life of RPGs.
"I like to get business out of the way first too," answered Mark.
"Good! In that case, myself and these ladies and gentlemen are druids of the Elder Council. We’re here to welcome you to Garland. And I have to admit, we’re all rather relieved to see that you made it. For awhile there, we didn't think our summons had worked."
"You summoned me?"
The prickling heat returned like a flash flood across his skin. The last thing Mark needed on his shoulders was a bloody "chosen one" mantle. He'd already taken on the responsibility of protecting these villagers as best he could. He didn't exactly want an entire nation watching him, holding candles and praying while he went off to destroy some ancient evil. Not that he was against destroying ancient evils. That tended to be the point of most fantasy RPGs. No, it was the expectation that weighed most heavily on him.
"Well, not you precisely. We summoned a warlock and it seems that you, Mark, have been the poor unfortunate to get caught in this mystical crossfire of ours."
Mark was deeply relieved to hear that. "Mystical crossfire, I like that. Mind if I use it?"
"Be my guest," said Denniston with a wrinkly grin.
"Thank you.” There was something about Dennistan that put Mark at ease, that even encouraged him to be a little bold. “Now, I should probably ask why a nation of druids and rangers found it necessary to summon a warlock in the first place. And I'm also assuming that you know where I’ve come from?"
The man's face reddened a little beneath his snow-white beard and Mark worried that he may have overstepped his bounds. Given his track record with social situations, that would be typical.
“Actually, no," admitted Denniston. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to explain and describe your parallel reality over a beverage or two."
Denniston gestured at a couple of large barrels the druids had brought with them, along with a large pile of other goods and sundries. At a glance, Mark saw whole cheeses wrapped in cloth, loaves of bread, jars of preserves, clay pots labelled flour and cooking oil, and a whole range of other delectable consumables.
"Looks like you arrived ready for a party," remarked Mark with a grin.
Denniston smirked through his beard. "It's been several hundred years since Garland has seen a warlock. It'd be downright rude not to celebrate the occasion."
Mark welcomed the idea of a beverage or two, as he could feel the pressure with every mention of “warlock” and “summoned”. Mark's previous experiences with others’ expectations had led to such a feeling of overwhelming hopelessness that it'd driven him into his room, and into VR. But it seemed that expectation had been more than willing to follow beyond the borders of reality. Ingrained coping strategies kicked in and he quickly changed the subject.
"We also have another cause for celebration." He nodded to Vari. She was waiting quietly, her white-knuckled hands clenched. "Please al
low me to introduce Vari, previously of the reivers, and now an invaluable member of my adventuring party."
Denniston eyed Vari for a long moment and then looked to his fellow druids, seeking some sort of consensus about what to do with this reiver defector. The other druids had been looking from Mark to Vari throughout the conversation, and seemed to have each come to some silent conclusion. One by one they nodded, the redhead being the last to cast his vote. Denniston cast his own vote with a sharp nod and then turned back to Vari.
"I'm sure we'll hear all about your exploits during the festivities, Vari, but in the meantime, it is our pleasure to welcome you to Garland."
Vari looked so wide-eyed that she could’ve been a small girl getting a pony for her birthday. Mark smiled at her quiet delight, so much so that his cheeks began to ache.
The festivities carried on into the night. With the aid of some excellent beer, Mark spent much of it explaining his life in the “real world”, or at least trying to do so in the terms of the parallel reality that Denniston had laid down. Mark knew there was no point in trying to talk about Garland and the reivers in terms of Reign of Blood, a full-immersion VRRPG.
In a quiet moment, when half the druids had excused themselves to the toilets, and the rest had started up their pipes for the umpteenth time, Mark stole a glance at Vari. She was dancing with some of the young village women by the bonfire. Three of the villagers were accomplished musicians; a lutist, a violinist, and a drummer. A tall, gangly woman with flaxen hair had produced a reed pipe and its nasal melodies rounded out the idyllic mediaeval scene.
It was the classic “calm before the storm” that preceded abject disaster in most movies and games that Mark had experienced. He tried to push the dark thought aside and instead admired Vari. Her olive skin glowed in the firelight and her curvy figure flowed gracefully as she danced.
