by RW Krpoun
The road was graveled and had drainage ditches, but was also deeply rutted. The four picked up the pace, veteran hikers all.
“Been a while since they pulled maintenance,” Jeff observed.
“Cow pats are fresh,” Fred pointed out as he avoided a pattern of them. “Traffic seems to be pretty regular.”
“In more ways than one,” Jeff grinned, avoiding a pile of horse dung.
A scream made all four jump. “Around the curve, sounds like a woman,” Fred had his hands on his pack straps as more shouts and cries rang out ahead.
“Keep your packs,” Shad was already moving. “Double time, drop ‘em once we know what’s up ahead.”
Just around the curve a battered wagon drawn by a tall mule was tangled in a freshly-fallen tree, the mule loudly braying its displeasure. A small cluster of people were backed up against the wagon side as a group of short humanoids menaced them.
“Sonofabitch,” Jeff yelped. “Those…are...”
“Goblins,” Fred grunted as he dropped his pack.
The humanoids were just that: scrawny, just shy of five feet in height, olive skinned and hairless, with bat ears that swooped up the side of their skulls and narrow, pinched features that radiated malice.
Fred bellowed something none of the others understood, a cry that tapered off into a wordless snarl that sounding like nothing Human as he rushed the enemy.
Free of his pack, Shad followed, drawing his short sword and dragging his buckler from its hook on his belt. A bolt of silver-blue light flashed past him and struck a Goblin, burning through its thin leather armor like a hot knife through butter. It didn’t kill the creature, but it drove the Goblin to its knees.
Fred was roaring through the Goblin ranks like a tank crashing through bamboo, axe wreaking havoc, Jeff covering his back. Shad found himself squaring off with a Goblin wearing a rusty iron cap that was stuffed with moss to make it fit, and armor that looked to be made from raccoon-sized pieces of leather with bits of chain tied on as added protection. There was nothing slapdash about the spear it had, however: five feet of seasoned ash topped with a rusty but sharp-looking iron leaf blade.
No armor and a buckler a foot across made Shad’s skin crawl, but when the Goblin thrust he automatically slapped the point aside with his buckler, the impact producing a metal shriek as the spear point ground across the iron boss, and stepped forward in a lunging thrust that ran the point of his short sword through the Goblin’s neck. The creature spun away, blood leaping in arterial gouts of bluish fluid.
As he stepped back from his dying foe he could see that the fight was over: Fred was stalking amongst the fallen checking for signs of life, and Jeff was stabbing a Goblin in the back as Derek parried its club with his quarterstaff.
A quick count put eight Goblins down, two with smoking craters in their torsos. There were three Humans clustered against the wagon, all wearing simple clothing: an older man with the look of hard labor in the sun, and a younger man and woman whom Shad guessed were his children, now in their early twenties and already showing the scars of hard work. The wagon itself was filled with bundles of what looked like cat-tails. “Are you all right?” he asked politely, only to realize he was holding a bloody sword. Both men were holding axes of the sort you used to cut wood, although Shad had no illusions as to their ability to do damage to flesh.
“Yes, sir, thanks to you and yours,” the older man bobbed his head, but he did not fully lower his axe. Either he spoke English or their indoctrination for this place included a language. To Shad’s ears the man sounded as if he had a bit of a Minnesota twang to his words.
“Glad to be of help,” Shad glanced over his shoulder. “Joff, see what they were carrying.” Turning back, he sketched a bow. “Chadwick, commanding a scout detail of the Black Talons.” The Black Talons was actually the name of their gaming group back in the real world, but it sounded suitable for a medieval mercenary unit.
The two lowered their axes. “Sell-swords, are you?” The man asked.
“The best,” Shad hung his buckler on its belt-hook and wiped his blade on a Goblin’s trouser leg before sheathing it. “We’re heading to the City-State to seek work. Are you bound there?”
“No, sir, we’re just delivering a few rushes to a buyer at the ferry. We’re grateful you came along when you did.”
“Our pleasure.” It had been a while since Iraq and corpses being a regular event; Shad was careful to face the farmer as Fred and Jeff dragged the bodies into the ditch to avoid looking squeamish; in his defense both looked a bit greenish around the gills, too. It was one thing to take someone out with small arms fire and another to do it hand-to-hand. Shad was very grateful the Goblins weren’t all that Human-looking. “We are strangers here-who rules in the City-State these days?”
The farmer’s face became carefully neutral. “It is under the noble rule of the Ultimate Master, sir. The City-State of the Ultimate Master it’s called now, and glad they are to honor him so.”
“No doubt. Is there a fee or toll to enter?”
“No, but it is a penny to take the ferry, which you must ride if coming from the south. And taxes on certain merchant goods, all for the betterment of the city.”
The man’s son moved to help Jeff and Fred drag the tree into the forest. His daughter remained at his side, her apron clutched to her face so only her blue eyes showed.
A thought struck him. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there is a bounty on Goblins, would you?”
“Two pence for a left ear, now that you mention it,” the farmer nodded a touch dourly.
“I’m glad you and yours are all right. We’ll take our leave of you,” Shad sketched another bow and headed to where the bodies lay in the ditch, drawing his dagger.
“Did you see that? I cast magic!” Derek pumped a fist into the air as they walked away from the wagon.
“It was impressive,” Jeff acknowledged. “Can you cast any more?”
“No,” Derek admitted. “Not without a couple hours in the dark.”
“I’m done, too,” Fred announced. “That was my bear thing. From now on it’s just me.”
“More than just you,” Shad observed. “I handled my gear pretty well in that fight. Better than a Goblin, anyway. We have the abilities of our classes, which means we can fight with this tech gear better than we should. Derek, you ever use a staff before?”
“No. Why did you cut off those ears?” Derek gestured towards the ears on a loop of string.
“Two pence bounty in the city.” Shad glanced behind them, but the wagon was well out of earshot. “The farmer wasn’t too trusting, even after we saved his bacon, and was extremely careful not to say a bad word about anyone, even about taxes. Never volunteered a word about himself. Clearly doesn’t trust men with weapons and the skill to use ‘em. If that’s common, we can figure a pretty rough and ready attitude towards class distinctions. We’re heading to the City State of the Ultimate Master, and I inferred that the Ultimate Master assumed that position within living memory.”
“Ultimate Master?” Jeff shook his head. “Either they go in for lame titles here or that’s one of the intruders.”
“All the more reason to be careful to hide the tats,” Shad nodded. “We don’t know if they mean anything to anyone, but keep ‘em hid. Derek, we’ll need four pence, the city’s on the wrong side of the river. You might want to move the pennies and a couple shillings apart so you don’t flash our entire wad every time we buy something.”
“Speaking of which,” Jeff passed a fistful of coins to Derek. “Fifteen pence and a shilling off the Goblins. I took three knives off them that look ethnic, and a chunk of amber.”
“Good thing Derek doesn’t have to buy spell components,” Fred mumbled. “We would have lost money.”
“Well, we know the language works, and what the name of the city is,” Shad observed as they trudged along. “If this place works like a game, which is the assumption I’m working with, then we should have picked up
some experience for the kills, the successful encounter, and for not robbing the peasants.” A thought struck him. “Does anyone remember an alignment place on the character sheets?”
“There wasn’t one,” Jeff shook his head definitely. “I paid attention because of the thieving options.”
“Did you guys noticed something strange about those peasants?” Derek asked.
“Strange how?” Jeff skirted a pile of dung.
“There was sort of a blur above their left shoulder, like right here.” Derek held a fist about two inches above his shoulder.
“No. I did notice that they had pretty good teeth,” Shad said thoughtfully. “There must be decent medical care here.”
“Well, I got a toothbrush in my gear,” Derek observed. “Its wood with natural fibers, but it came with a bag of what I guess is tooth powder. Maybe some concepts of medical lore crossed over.”
“They were cleaner than what I thought medieval peasants would be,” Shad admitted. “Healthier, too.”
“I still can’t get my mind around this,” Jeff shook his head. “Goblins. Magic. Fighting with cold steel.”
“Yeah,” Fred nodded shortly. “I thought Iraq had blown my mind as far as it could go, but I was wrong.”
“Look around,” Shad waved an arm. “It looks like…home. Iran was more alien in layout, the terrain and the buildings and the weird clothes and the jabbering. I’m wondering if stuff doesn’t leak both ways.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff asked.
“Look, gaming impacted this world, but who is to say this world didn’t impact our world? Maybe leakage touched Tolkien and Gygax and what’s-his-name, the goober who invented Conan?”
“Howard,” Fred nodded. “So the two sides fed off each other?”
“Could be. One fed on the other until here we are.”
“It figures that of the two, this realm would come out second best,” Jeff observed. “It’s the place that people were banished to. The place for unwanted things and…”
“And what?” Derek asked.
Jeff scowled into the distance, brow furrowed. “Maybe a place for unwanted ideas.”
“Beliefs,” Fred suggested. “Not ideas. The woman, Yorrian, she mentioned Christianity and Judaism specifically.”
“Makes sense,” Shad nodded. “You notice once Christianity got rolling the pagans faded out pretty fast. Even the muslims ran into a wall around the 1400s and stagnated ever since.”
“No joke,” Jeff shook his head. “Iraq made Detroit look great by comparison. The place was one huge ghetto.”
“But Goblins?” Derek threw his arms out, his staff narrowly missing Jeff.
“Goes back to my leakage theory,” Shad shrugged. “There are legends for every kind of creature you see in games. And stories, too. Saint George and the dragon leaps to mind, and Beowulf; both are built upon the idea that there were lone monsters left in isolated spots. Maybe the banishment wasn’t complete, and there were stragglers left behind.”
“Tolkien wrote of a world where the magic was draining out,” Jeff said thoughtfully. “And there were leftover monsters of a bygone era. The balrog the Dwarves accidently released was one, a holdover trapped deep beneath the earth. Maybe he was inspired by the banishing.”
“And now people are crossing over,” Derek observed.
“We might not be the first. People have vanished all the time,” Jeff suggested. “Some pretty openly.”
“Spontaneous combustion,” Derek snapped his fingers. “People bursting into flame.”
“Lotta questions,” Shad agreed. “But the fact is that we’re here now, and we need to get home.”
“Just like Iraq,” Jeff sighed.
“Exactly. Let’s face it, guys: we were built for this. Iraq, gaming… we are the prefect team for this mission. If anyone can make it back from this dump, its us.”
“Damn straight,” Fred nodded.
A mile north of the fight they passed a farm on the side of the road, and with each mile the forest moved further and further back from the road to accommodate farms and pastures.
Looking at the map, Jeff grunted. “You know, I’m surprised there’s a forest this close to a major city. You would figure the need for food and wood would level it quick.”
“Direwood,” Fred grunted. “I bet cutting trees in a place with a name like that isn’t all that easy. I bet the environment here fights back.”
The peasants they saw working in the fields were careful not to pay attention to the four. Children scampered away and watched them from cover.
“Friendly bunch,” Derek commented.
“Edge of the Direwood,” Jeff shrugged. “On top of the usual peasant aggravations. I bet life as a peasant sucks. No rights, lots of duties.”
The closer they got to the city the less there was of forest; the last three miles were completely devoted to agriculture. The farm houses were simple structures clustered together in groups of a half-dozen.
“Not wasting any land,” Jeff gestured to one such cluster. “And safer in groups. Looks like they have the three-field crop rotation in place, and there’s a horse collar. Tech is a bit uneven.”
“Makes you wonder if gunpowder would work,” Shad grinned.
“It won’t,” Derek looked startled. “OK, that came straight out of class knowledge. Man, that felt weird.”
“Well, its early summer, judging by the crops,” Fred observed. “Probably late May, early June.”
“More facts to work with,” Shad nodded.
“Now that is pretty impressive,” Derek spread his arms to embrace the scene, accidently clipping Fred with his staff. “Look at it.”
“Look where you’re waving that stick,” Fred warned, rubbing his ear. “Or you’ll carry it without using your hands.”
“It is pretty cool,” Jeff admitted.
The four stood on a low hill; a half-mile away the city crouched on the banks of a broad river teeming with river craft, a sprawling stone-walled enclosure under a haze of wood smoke. A massive citadel thrust up from the eastern edge of the city. Other than the little clusters of farmer’s huts, there were no structures outside the walls, and no stands of trees within a mile.
“Looks like defense is a serious business,” Jeff observed. “Clear ground outside the walls, stone fighting towers every so often, looks like about four hundred feet apart.”
“Well, looks like we know where the Ultimate Master came from,” Shad shook his head. “The flags give it away.”
“They’re just black flags, something in the middle,” Derek squinted.
“They’re painted on that river gate, see?” Shad pointed.
“Crap, that’s the freakin’ Eye of Sauron!”
“Right. So watch what you say and what you look at. This guy might be really smart and have stuff out that would only stand out to someone from Earth,” Shad warned. “Stay in character. We’re a bunch of small-timers hoping to make it in the big city. It’s OK to look, but don’t go jumping up and down if you see a dwarf or something. Especially you, Derek.”
“This is just too cool! It’s like a mega ren faire!”
“Derek,” Shad grabbed the Shadowmancer’s shoulder and turned him to make eye contact. “The badass that runs that city would like nothing better than to kill us. This isn’t a ren faire, this is one step down from freakin’ Fallujah. Remember Fallujah? There’s people here who will slit your throat for your backpack. Get a freaking grip on yourself. Remember the Goblins: they didn’t plan on ending up dead in a ditch today.” He held up the string of ears for emphasis. “Get your head in the game.”
“I got it,” Derek sighed. “But you have to admit that its pretty cool.”
“Yeah, it is. Just not as cool as surviving.”
Two gates serviced the water front, one that dealt with the teeming river craft which seemed to be equal parts fishing boats and cargo craft, and a smaller gate that serviced traffic from the ferry, which stood idle on the south riverbank.
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br /> “Skip any thought you had of swimming,” Jeff announced. “You see the fish that boat was unloading?”
“No.”
“They looked like pikes on steroids. Lotta meat on them, and a lotta teeth.”
The ferry was a simple flat-bottomed barge moved by poling. One prospective passenger was sitting by a large cylindrical wicker container, a man with a neatly-trimmed beard in his thirties wearing simple clothes and a green hat with a tankard-shaped broach. As the four approached he climbed to his feet and hefted the container onto his back by the straps fitted for that purpose.
“I am glad to see you,” he grinned. “They won’t cross for less than three fares.”
“You would think a bridge would be a worthwhile investment,” Shad ventured to the man as Derek paid the toll.
“Too many hostiles in the Direwood,” the man rested his load against the ferry’s rail. “And not enough traffic since most of the farms are to the west. New here, I take it? Rowland, of Rowland’s fine mugs,” he shook Shad’s hand with enthusiasm. “The finest in wood, horn, or leather. I notice you and your comrades don’t seem to have mugs.”
“We lost a lot of gear coming through the woods,” Shad held up the string of ears. “We’re here looking for work, thought we would try our luck in the big city.”
“A wise choice.” Rowland dragged his satchel around front, a difficult process because of the straps of his wicker pack. “Gentlemen, we have many a fine grog-shop, tavern, and inn here, but I must warn you that if you lack your own receptacle you will be drinking out of a moldy leather jack which has seen but an indifferent dunking in dubious water between uses by who knows what sort of drinkers.” He got the satchel open and produced a tankard. “Lucky for you I went south today to secure slats and horn. This is a lovely bit of craftsmanship if I do say so myself, cow horn scraped and sealed, with a sandstone base and an oak handle. Note the wood lid-perfect for keeping out dust when hanging from your belt! I do not employ a hinge such as you see on more expensive models as I find it makes washing more difficult. No, the lid is connected by a fine cord of braided horsehair, strong, quick to dry, and not inclined to hold an odor the way leather will.”
