Beth and Peter looked at each other.
“Actually, we’re married,” Beth said.
The woman looked confused for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Oh wow, that was well done! Not many people can tell a joke with such a straight face. That’s the key to selling it, for sure.”
Peter gritted his teeth. He understood that his weight and Beth’s appearance made them appear an unlikely couple—a gap that had only grown since he’d stopped doing physical labour on the farm—but to be openly mocked by a woman who didn’t even know them?
Fortunately, Beth beat him to a response. “It’s hardly a joke,” she snapped. “We’re not single; we’re married. And quite happily so.”
The woman stopped laughing. “Wait, you think I’m talking about… oh, that’s rich!” She shook her head. “You’re singl’ds. Single digits?” They stared at her blankly, and she rolled her eyes. “Your Renown! You’re both below Level 10.”
“Oh,” Peter said, finally understanding. “You can tell what our Renown is?”
The woman’s expression shifted to confusion. “How could you not know how to check a person’s Renown? Just make eye contact and think about it! Everyone knows that.”
She shook her head and muttered under her breath, “What the hell is wrong with these people?”
Peter ignored her, focusing instead on making eye contact as she had described. Instantly, information jumped into his head.
Name Unknown
Species: Unconfirmed (Human suspected)
Renown: Level 39 (class/profession unknown)
Base Stat Average: 24.1
“Is Level 39 high?” Peter asked.
The woman gaped at him. Then her mouth snapped shut, and her eyebrows rose.
“No, they couldn’t be...” she muttered. She stood and walked over, looking them up and down. She grabbed Peter’s hands and looked at them, then did the same with Beth. “You’ve at least got the scars of a farmer, or a former one,” she said to Peter. Then she looked at Beth. “But your hands are younger than you look.”
“I moisturize,” Beth said.
The woman snorted. “Don’t say that to a laundress, or you’re liable to get slapped.” Her eyebrows pulled together, and she looked back and forth at them, then up and down. “I’m going to ask something that will probably sound stupid, so don’t laugh: Are you Legends?”
“In my own mind,” Peter said, chuckling.
“No, I mean do you come from another world?”
The question stopped Peter’s chuckling real quick, and he glanced uncomfortably at Beth. It was brief, but it was enough to cause the woman to yip and slap her hands together.
“I knew it!” she said. “From the day I first saw you struggle with a campfire, I knew something was off. Most children have that Skill unlocked before they’re six years old. Meanwhile, you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, banging a flint and steel together without a stitch of char cloth in sight.”
“Char cloth?” Peter said.
“I didn’t realize there was an actual term for us,” Beth said. “Are there a lot of people from Earth here?”
The woman’s eyebrows darted up. “Gods no. You’re certainly the first I’ve ever met, and I’m no spring chicken. I’ve heard the stories, of course, but who hasn’t? That’s why you’re called Legends, after all. Does anyone else know about you?”
“No, we haven’t seen anyone else since we arrived,” Beth said.
“Good. That’s not information you want to share.”
“Why not?” Peter said.
She snorted. “You’ve got a pretty optimistic view of the world if you don’t think there are folks who’d take advantage of a person who can’t die.”
It was a simple observation, but Peter didn’t have trouble imagining ways in which that kind of knowledge could be leveraged against them.
“Understood,” he said. “We’ll keep it to ourselves. At least until we become stronger and can hold our own.”
The woman shook her head. “Look, you seem like nice people, so I’m going to help you get to civilization if that’s where you want to go. I’ll even teach you a few things. But the first lesson is that there’s always, always, someone out there who’s more powerful than you.”
Peter shrugged. “Someone has to be the toughest, right?”
“Yes, but until you can beat a primal dragon in a fair fight, that person isn’t you, understood?”
Peter didn’t know what a primal dragon was, but it certainly sounded bad. “Okay, I get your point.”
“I’d hoped you would. Now, introductions. My name is Eliza Grey. Where are you two headed?”
“Peter and Beth,” Peter said, gesturing to the pair of them. “We need to get to Palmyre. We were given a house there when we were sent over.”
“Good. I was actually headed there when I found you.” She paused and did a double-take. “Did you just say you were given a house? Not many folks in Palmyre own a whole house.”
“It’s not just us,” Peter said. “Something went wrong, and we got separated from our kids and Beth’s grandfather when we came over. The intention is that everyone will meet up in Palmyre, and the house is our compensation for that mistake.”
“Ah, okay. Lots of questions about what you just said, but let’s make sure I heard you right. You have a whole family of Legends?” When they nodded, Eliza shook her head. “That is a quiver full of strange. I’ve never heard of such a thing, even in our oldest myths.”
“Strange as it may be, we have to get to Palmyre as soon as possible,” Beth said. “We don’t even know if our family is alive, and I’m worried sick.”
“Don’t you have a familial bond? That should at least tell you if everyone is alive.”
She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, but Peter still scowled. He was pretty sure that annoying lizard had mentioned something of the sort, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he could use it to check up on the others.
As with most things, it seemed his Tome was the place to look, so he took it out and thought about the bond. Once again, it caused a new tab to appear that hadn’t been there before.
Why can’t it just be there to begin with? Peter grouched to himself. He opened up the tab and scanned through it.
FAMILIAL PARTY
Jack Milsom (permission not yet granted)
Species: Human
Renown: Unknown
Base Stat Average: Unknown
Status: Normal
Beth Sullivan (permission not yet granted)
Species: Human
Renown: Level 5 (unclassed)
Base Stat Average: Unknown
Status: Normal
Peter Sullivan
Species: Human
Renown: Level 4 (unclassed)
Base Stat Average: 17.4
Status: Normal
Angela Sullivan (permission not yet granted)
Species: Human
Renown: Unknown
Base Stat Average: Unknown
Status: Normal
Mark Sullivan (permission not yet granted)
Species: Human
Renown: Unknown
Base Stat Average: Unknown
Status: AT RISK - WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN
Turkaletta Milsom-Sullivan (permission not yet granted)
Species: Error
Renown: Unknown
Base Stat Average: Unknown
Status: Error
“‘At Risk?’ What does ‘At Risk’ mean?” Beth gasped. She had opened her own Tome and was staring at it in concern.
“And who’s Turkaletta Milsom-Sullivan?” Peter added.
“Peter!” Beth said. “Mark is listed as ‘At Risk!’”
“Of course he is,” Peter said. “He’s stuck on this god-forsaken planet with no medication, no survival instinct, and, to be honest, no mental fortitude. If he weren’t at risk, I’d assume this thing was broken.” Peter waved his Tome at her to emphasize his po
int.
“No, your wife is right to be concerned,” Eliza said. “Your Tome wouldn’t say ‘At Risk’ if death wasn’t an imminent possibility.”
“Imminent?” Peter said in surprise. That was not what he had expected. Just what was Mark experiencing right now? “Is there anything we can do?”
Eliza got a pensive look. “That depends. Does it say where he is?”
“It just says ‘Whereabouts Unknown,’” Beth said.
The blood drained out of Eliza’s face. “You must be mistaken.”
Beth shook her head. “No, that’s what it says.”
“Mine too,” Peter added.
Eliza wavered as though her legs had gone weak and sat back down on the stump. She made a gesture with her left hand, forming what looked like the “OK” sign, placing it on her forehead, heart, and lips; then muttered something Peter couldn’t hear.
“What is it?” Peter said when Eliza didn’t speak.
Eliza hesitated, then said, “A Primal force.”
Beth and Peter waited for more, but that was it.
“What’s a primal force?” Peter said.
“They’re…” Eliza’s lips pursed. “They are things that predate the birth of this world. Of all worlds. Gods and demons. Dragons and Kraken. The fundamental forces of nature itself.” She shuddered. “Only something older than the Tomes could block their words, and if a Primal is the reason your son is at risk, there is truly nothing you can do about it. Your best hope is that he dies quickly and is reborn somewhere far away from whatever has him.”
Beth shook her head. “But—”
Eliza surged to her feet. “Nothing can be done,” she snapped, immediately looking chagrined. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the Primals are not only immensely powerful, but they don’t think as we do. For all we know, simply talking about Mark’s situation could be turning its attention towards us. I do not want the attention of a Primal. Nor do you.
“If you want to help your son, get to town. When he’s reborn, he’s going to need your help getting through the aftermath of whatever trauma he’s experiencing.”
Peter put his arm around Beth’s shoulder. She turned to him and whispered, “We might not have rebirths.”
“I know,” he whispered back. “But Eliza is right. All we can do is keep moving. Maybe he has another life remaining, and if not, there’s still Angela and Jack to think about.”
“What does that mean?” Beth said sharply, fire rising in her eyes.
“For god’s sake, Beth, it means we have to continue forward, no matter what happens,” Peter said. “You know I’m not saying Mark is expendable.”
Beth took a couple of deep breaths and nodded. “Sorry. I know that’s not what you’re saying.” She turned to Eliza. “Please, let’s go.”
Eliza nodded somberly. She helped Beth back into her boots, even doing something to help with the blisters, then led them into the forest. Beth and Peter followed, lost in their own thoughts, but if they’d looked closely, they would have seen Eliza glance toward the fog with fear in her eyes.
Chapter 13
Sibling Struggles
Mark staggered through the fog, constantly listening for the sounds of his pursuers. He panted to a stop, desperate to catch his breath, but he didn’t know how long he had. The shrieks were farther away, but all it would take was—
A wail split the air around Mark. He lurched back into a hobbled run, his staff now bearing more weight than his mangled leg. One of the creatures materialized out of the gray, just off to the side, and Mark reeled back to avoid running into it.
The thing’s spectral form was first enormous, then it was small. Then it had flesh, then it looked like a long-dead skeleton. Old, young, rich, poor, sick, healthy; the spectre whipped through a cacophony of forms as it lunged to grab Mark. He reeled back to avoid the spectral hand, but the twisting motion forced him to put weight on his injured leg, and the jolt of pain caused him to stumble. He tried to turn the other way, but it was not enough, and the creature’s twisted fingers managed to brush Mark’s shoulder and send a convulsive chill shuddering through his body.
For a moment, there was a wrenching sensation within Mark that mirrored a stabilization of the spectral form across from him, followed by the creature throwing its head back and revelling in the experience. Mark knew from experience that the creature’s reaction was temporary, so he forced himself to push past the awful feeling and resume his hobbled run, knowing that soon the creature’s pursuit would begin anew.
It was all Mark could do to grit his teeth and blink away tears. Ever since the fog had pulled him inside, his life had been a living hell. Pursued relentlessly by the twisted ghosts, they seemed drawn to him no matter where he went, hunting him with that touch that could break his body and overwhelm his mind.
So, on he ran. Leaning heavily on his makeshift staff with every step. Hunger wracking his body and thirst tearing at his throat. He had no idea thirst could be painful. But compared to the alternative of slowing down and having his soul wrenched away, he had no choice but to continue. To ignore the char-covered ground and uncountable obstacles that mocked his every step. Over time he had learned to instinctively dodge the ancient armour and bones that were strewn throughout this gray hellscape; a tableau of the dead still locked in frozen combat. There were no weapons he knew how to use, or even thought would be of use against the spectres, so he didn’t waste time on those remnants of battle. Instead, he focused on speed and the hope that he would somehow be able to break free of the fog and into something resembling salvation.
As Mark ran, he began to detect a gradient of dispersal in the fog that surrounded him. It was small, but his hopes climbed at the prospect that he may be nearing the edge.
Step-by-step, the gradient grew more apparent. The mists stuck to Mark’s torn clothing, and tears leaked down his face, but his conviction that the fog would soon disperse grew, until he finally burst not into salvation, but a graveyard of the damned.
Mark stood there, frozen. A great dome of fog rose over a perfect circle of clarity, surrounded by a single monolithic wall of gray that traced that circle in its entirety. And everywhere, covering every stitch of the ground, were skeletons. They were twisted, grotesque; their armour melted, or their bodies contorted into broken shapes. Some bore extra limbs or distorted proportions. Others were even worse, the posing of their bodies suggesting not a battle, but madness. A war had been fought here long ago, he knew that, but this? Nobody could claim victory on a battlefield where this was the result.
Another shriek cut through the air behind Mark. He spun around. He shouldn’t have stopped. The spectre was going to catch him.
Mark had run enough. Looking at the ground, he spotted one skeleton that seemed untouched by the madness. It had a rusted shortsword lying inside its ribcage, so Mark bent and grabbed the hilt of the weapon—
A cavalryman bore down on the mercenary, but one of the lancers next to him caught the man’s horse in the neck, piercing the carotid and showering the infantry in blood. The animal thudded to the ground, trapping the cavalryman’s leg, so the mercenary danced around the flailing animal and stabbed the man in the chest before quickly moving on. The blow didn’t kill the cavalryman right away—it wasn’t intentional, just a bad strike—but it would do the job eventually. That was all that mattered. At the start of the battle, he would have stuck around to make sure nobody stole his XP, but after days of fighting, he’d ceased to care.
As the mercenary searched for his next target, he spared a glance at the sky overhead, watching it explode in ever-increasing bursts of magic. Invisible protective domes shimmered on both sides as the opponents sought to overwhelm the defensive magic of their foes, and some of those shields did shatter and give way; fire and lightning bursting through to annihilate the troops underneath. But the mercenary couldn’t think about that. The battle had stretched for days, and every day more mages arrived. Normally, if an army could
field five or six magic-users, the day would be theirs. This battle was different. As more and more countries took up arms, the stakes had grown until there were hundreds of mages on either side. The power that scorched the skies could have reshaped a continent, but the mercenary did his best to put that out of his mind and focus on his sword. Another kill, another paycheque. That was all that concerned him. That, and staying alive.
An abrupt shimmer and warp ran through the air around the mercenary, his body bulging and retracting uncomfortably, but he kept moving forward. He’d learned his lesson the first time the warping happened, stopping in surprise and almost letting someone run him through as a result. Now those uncomfortable moments came so often that the mercenary barely spared them a thought. A byproduct of all the magic at play, he’d been told. Then the teller had taken an arrow through the neck, and the conversation sort of… died.
The air warped again, but this time it was stronger, and the ground heaved up as a great cracking filled the air. Screams tore from the throats of mages on both sides of the battle as wild energies careened off their bodies, writhing and combining in an unconstrained conflagration of mana. The most powerful of the mages shouted to their fellows to hold on, to contain the flow, but even they were sweating profusely. More than one of them cut off their own magic and fled. The mercenary watched, entranced, as the spasming bands of wild magic streamed out of the magic-users, building in power until they—
A shortsword drove into the mercenary’s belly, severing his diaphragm and cutting off his scream before it could form. He looked into the eyes of his killer and saw the same dispassionate professionalism that he had worn for a hundred kills of his own. The eyes of a fellow mercenary. Then those mercenary eyes grew wild as the man’s jaw distended into gross proportions and his skin stretched, great slabs of fat materializing beneath the surface where none had existed a moment before. What in the world?
Arrival: Legends of Arenia Book 1 (A LitRPG Story) Page 14
