The Savage Realms

by Willard Black

  “Maybe in half an hour,” Mercer told her.

  “Getting old,” she teased.

  “Old enough to do it right and young enough to do it often.”

  She smiled at that. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Here we go, thought Mercer.

  “When we get back to a hub, I gotta log for a day or two.”

  Mercer sat up a little. “With the ten million still in play?”

  “Just for a couple days,” she said. “My sister is having a baby and she needs help fixing up the nursery. She lives about an hour from Nashville. I was thinking I could stop through and see you.”

  Mercer shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

  Trix sat up in bed. “What is your problem? You obviously like me. At least, you don’t mind the sex. Why don’t you want to meet in the Real? Are you, like, hideously fat?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m cool with it,” she said. “Nothing has to happen. I just want to meet.”

  “It’s bad timing is all.”

  “You know what?” she said. “I give up. You’re impossible.”

  “Don’t be like that,” Mercer said.

  He reached for her, but she pulled away. “I don’t know why I bother with you. I really don’t.” She grabbed her leather pants and thrust in one leg, then the other, and worked them up over her hips. “You screw me and then you snub me. Is this some sort of game for you?”

  “I’m not looking for anything serious,” Mercer said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She belted her pants and struggled into her leather shirt. “I’ve heard all that before.”

  “God almighty, Trix. Are we going through all this again? I told you from the very beginning I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I never lied,” he told her. “You knew I wasn’t looking for a relationship.”

  “Whatever.” She dashed tears from her eyes, buckled on her knives, and then stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard dust rained down from the ceiling.

  Drake had the misfortune to get the room right next door. He could hear every moan. He lay on a lumpy mattress staring up at the dark ceiling, hating Mercer and hating himself more. Such was his love for Trix. He had loved her since the moment he first laid eyes on her. She was everything a woman ought to be and more. And Mercer was too blind or stupid to see it. And what did she see in him? Broad shoulders and a square jaw. He could have been cast as the lead in a noir detective film. He had the personality to match. He was everything Drake was not, with one exception—intelligence. Mercer was a lumbering oaf who led by instinct and force of will. But he was big and strong, and since the dawn of human existence, people have looked to the biggest bruiser in the pack to lead them.

  Drake threw one arm over his eyes and tried to ignore the pinch in his chest as Trix climaxed on the other side of the wall. The idea of Mercer with his dick inside of her made Drake want to scream and claw his own ears. He wanted to howl and rage. He wanted to conjure up the biggest, baddest firestorm he could and burn the whole town right to the ground. He could do it too. The effort would kill him, but that felt somehow fitting. The thought of Mercer shagging Trix burned his mind and his soul, driving him crazy. Torching the little hamlet and leaving nothing but charred ashes felt right; it felt poetic.

  Several times he had thought to leave, break up their little party and go his separate way. He had even threatened to walk a few times, but he would never actually do it, and that made Drake hate himself even more. Much as he hated to admit it, Mercer was the beating heart of the group. Without him, the center would not hold. They needed his sword arm. A good conjuror was only as good as his tank, and Mercer was one of the best. There were others in the Savage Realms with the kind of reputation that Mercer commanded, but they were few and far between. More importantly, they were already backed by talented casters. Although no one quite as talented as Drake. He considered himself one of the best, if not the best in the Realms, but it was nearly impossible to link up with a talented tank. Without Mercer, Drake would be a lamb for the slaughter.

  He lay there and listened to Trix and Mercer fight, heard the door slam, and minutes later, there was a soft rap on his door. He lay stock-still for several minutes. If he didn’t answer, maybe she would go away. He loved her and hated her all at the same time, and that made it all the worse. The soft tapping came again. Drake sniffed, wiped tears from his eyes, and got up. The cheap bed groaned. Trix was on the other side of the door, puffy red bags under her eyes and her beautiful blonde hair a tangled mess. Her arms were crossed tight under her breasts in a defensive hug.

  She wiped snot from her nose. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

  Drake swung the door wide.

  This wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. She would take the bed and he would sleep on the floor, loving her, hating Mercer, and hating himself more for not doing something about it. But what could he do?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Allison gave up searching online job boards when her stomach growled for dinner. She had spent the morning crying in bed and then filled out two dozen applications, everything from teller positions at the Bank of America to barista at Starbucks. Dinner was ramen noodles, with chopped onions, mushrooms, and a packet of tuna thrown in. While she waited for the water to boil, she scrolled social media. She had put out the word that she needed a job pronto. She got a bunch of condolences and a lot of sad emojis but no leads. She strained the noodles, dropped onto the sofa, and shoveled food into her mouth. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and realized her stomach was twisting with hunger.

  When the bowl was empty, Allison slurped down the broth and then slumped back on the sofa, thumbing through her phone. She wasn’t really job hunting anymore. She had done enough of that for one day. Her brain felt scrambled like an egg. Six straight hours of filling out applications was enough. She could start fresh tomorrow. With any luck, one of the places would call and offer her a job. With a lot of luck, it would be a bank and not a coffee shop. As she paged through news media (GDP was down, famine was ravaging central Europe, another politician was caught in a sex scandal, three socialist countries had collapsed into anarchy, and the Yankees beat the Red Socks four to one), she found another ad for the Savage Realms. Join the excitement! Join the adventure! Earn real money!

  Allison had nearly forgotten. Her eyes went to the coffee table and the wrinkled, coffee-stained napkin with the string of numbers. She watched the ad one more time, seeing strange horizons, vast wildernesses of towering trees, blue oceans, and sprawling cities built of cyclopean stonework, teeming with people in homespun garb.

  A new life awaits in the Savage Realms!

  A legal disclaimer warned her the game was a virtual reality simulation, no players under the age of eighteen, and she was not guaranteed to make money. A quick web search proved no one had found the ten million yet. As Allison suspected, there were teams of math nerds trying to figure out the string of numbers. Any day now, one of them would crack the code and claim the winnings. Allison was late to the party. No sense even trying. But she had nothing better to do.

  And what if? her mind insisted. What if you cracked the code and got the money? With ten million ByteCoin, she’d never have to work again. She could travel the world, live in luxury, even go back to school for no other reason than love of learning.

  Allison rummaged around, found a yellow legal pad, and scrawled the numbers across the top. She started by adding all the numbers together, finding the sum, and then the root number of the sum. Then she found the root number of each individual number, looking for any sort of pattern. Two hours later, she had three pages filled with equations. The sun had gone down, and Allison put on a pot of coffee. The solution danced just beyond her grasp, capering around inside her mind; she just had to pin it down. This was more advanced than anything she had done at university, but she felt certain she could do it.

  After a cup of coffee and a short bre
ak, Allison set back to work. Her hair was a tangled mess and her stomach was growling again. If she had bothered to look, she would have noticed it was nearly two in the morning, but she was too absorbed in the math. It was coming together. The pieces were locking into the place. Her heart drummed inside her chest and her fingers shook as she realized she had the answer. She had done it! She had actually broken the code. Mathematicians all across the country were looking for the answer but she had found it. Doubt assailed her and she ran the figures again, mumbling to herself as she worked. It all tracked. She double and triple checked her work and a fresh surge of pride and victory crashed into her chest, swelling her up, spilling over, and a smile brightened her face for the first time in over twenty-four hours. She might not have a job, but she could sure do math. She copied out the final proof on a clean page and then sat back.

  Now all she needed was a map.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sun was slanting in the narrow window when Mercer finally swam up from sleep. He groaned, covered his eyes with one hand, and laid there a while, thinking over last night. They had been through this song and dance before and Mercer knew what to expect. Trix would be sullen for the next few days, barely speaking, and refuse to even look at him, but she would eventually thaw. They’d make up and everything would be good for a while, then she’d get clingy and the whole vicious cycle would start over.

  He sat up and swung his legs off the bed with a grunt. Why had he ever gotten involved with her in the first place? The sex was good, but it wasn’t worth the emotional turmoil.

  A sneering voice at the back of his head asked, Then why do you keep doing it?

  He sat there, morning sunlight spilling through the curtains and motes of dust dancing on the air, thinking about the answer. He tried to put a philosophical spin on it, wondered if it was some twisted by-product of the human psyche, but it came down to the same; she was willing, and he liked sex. Simple as that. Why complicate things?

  Of course it wasn’t that easy, was it? She was willing because, despite her denials, somewhere in the back of her mind she believed he would eventually commit.

  You could tell her the truth, the quiet voice suggested.

  He looked down at his legs, shook his head, and decided on breakfast. His stomach was rumbling, and too much thought would only muddle the issue. Keep your eye on the brass ring, he told himself.

  He dressed, belted on his weapons, slung his pack, and made his way downstairs to the common room. Some of the smoke from the night before had cleared, along with most of the crowd. The doors and windows were open, letting in a cool breeze. One man lay slumped over a table, his hand still curled around a chipped mug. Drool spilled from his open mouth and created a little puddle on the rough wood. Drake was already at a long table close to the fire. He chilled easily and liked to sit near the hearth. The orange flames reflected off his bald pate. He had a plate of scrambled eggs and seasoned potatoes in front of him.

  Mercer settled onto the bench across from him. “Trix up yet?”

  “She left out for Tanthus before daybreak,” Drake said around a mouthful of eggs. “Said she would meet us there.”

  “And you let her go?” Mercer asked.

  “You know how she gets,” Drake said. “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “She shouldn’t be travelling alone. You know that.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You should have woke me up.”

  “You’re the reason she left. Why do you always do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “Never mind.” He tucked back into his food.

  “Do what?” Mercer said. “Just say it.”

  “You know what you do.”

  “Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Drake shook his head. “Let’s drop it, okay?”

  “Hurry and eat,” Mercer said. “We need to buy fresh horses and set out after her.”

  “She’s got a three-hour head start,” Drake said.

  The innkeep wandered over. He was a thickset man with hairy forearms and broken blood vessels in his nose. “Get you something?”

  “Breakfast,” Mercer grumbled. As an afterthought, he said, “Got any coffee?”

  The innkeep shook his head. “Got some o’ that bitterroot tea they harvest from the Devil’s Peak. Wake you right up.”

  Mercer shook his head. The bitterroot would definitely wake him up, but it left him feeling jittery all day. “Water.”

  They ate in uncomfortable silence. Mercer cleaned three plates and his belly was feeling like it would bust when Hardin and his two buddies came clomping down the stairs. Sparrow nudged Hardin and pointed. Hardin looked around, saw Mercer and Drake, and a nasty grin spread across his face. “Heard you had a little trouble with your horses.”

  “Who told you that?” Mercer said.

  “Word around town,” Hardin replied. He and his crew settled around a table, hollered for the innkeep, and ordered food.

  Drake said, “Funny thing. We didn’t tell anybody we had horse trouble. Did we, Mercer?”

  “Let it go,” Mercer mumbled.

  Hardin turned to face them. “What are you implying, Drake?”

  “Saying it’s strange is all,” Drake said. “Seeing as how you knew our horses were killed when we didn’t tell anybody. Wouldn’t you say that’s strange, Mercer?”

  “Pretty strange,” Mercer agreed.

  “You accusing me?” Hardin said.

  The innkeep came back with three plates of food and said, “If you boys are going to fight, take it outside. I don’t need my place busted up.”

  Hardin said, “Shut up, fat man.” He laid a hand on his sword hilt. “You claiming we killed those horses?”

  “I’m saying it’s awful suspicious, you being the only ones around,” Drake shot back.

  Hardin grinned. His lips peeled back to reveal a row of small yellow teeth in diseased gums. “That what you’re saying, Mercer?”

  Mercer scratched an itch through his trouser leg and said, “I got nothing to say.”

  Hardin turned back to the table, picked up his fork, and speared eggs. “What happened to the cooze?”

  Drake jumped up so fast he turned over the bench he was sitting on. It hit the floor with a bang. Drake jabbed a finger at Hardin. “Don’t you bad-mouth her, Hardin!”

  Hardin laughed. “Or what?”

  “Drake,” Mercer said. “Let it go.”

  Sparrow and Kid Creole both put their forks down. Their hands strayed to their weapons. The kid looked nervous. His eyes darted around the common room. But Sparrow was ready for a fight. His top lip curled up in a sneer. Hardin chewed, swallowed, and grinned at Drake. “You going to do something about it?”

  “You want to fight?” Drake shook with rage. “I’ll fight you.”

  The innkeep reached down the front of his shirt for the wood carved whistle on a leather thong around his neck. Mercer rose up, intent on putting a stop to things before they got out of hand. He said, “Come on, Drake, you really want to get killed over this?”

  At the same time, Hardin chortled, “There’s a reason they call her Trix, you know? Before Mercer come along, she was making a living on her back.”

  Drake threw his hands out, like a cop directing traffic, and snarled, “Dhenor-en!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was a small sound like the audible beat of a subwoofer and a rushing of wind. Hardin took the blow in the midsection and stumbled back into a table with a curse. Earthenware dishes shattered on the floor. It was a simple attack spell that even the most modest of sorcerers could learn. It didn’t do much more than knock an enemy back on his heels, but it was fast.

  The rest of the common room cleared out. Miners and sharecroppers weren’t in a hurry to get caught between two packs of sword-wielding adventurers. They left their breakfast unfinished and jockeyed t
o get out the door.

  Hardin recovered just as quickly, leapt forward, yanked his blade from the scabbard, and kicked a table out of his way. More dishes shattered. Eggs splattered on the floor. Hardin’s eyes bulged from their sockets and locked on Drake with murderous intent. Sparrow and Kid Creole were right behind him, swords in their hands.

  Mercer put himself between Hardin and the spell caster. His axe was already in his hand. He would have stopped it if he could. The numbers were against him and he had no interest in a fight, certainly not to defend Trix’s honor, but there was no backing out. Drake was already cooking up another spell and Hardin was practically foaming at the mouth. Hardin attacked, and Mercer turned the blade aside with his axe head. Steel met with a ringing clang. Mercer deflected another blow with his ax, stepped in, and body checked Hardin. The move was enough to slam Hardin backwards and buy Mercer room to fight.

  “I’m going to cut your heart out,” Hardin snarled.

  “I haven’t got one,” Mercer told him.

  The innkeep fumbled the whistle from his shirt, filled his lungs with air, and lifted it to his lips to summon the city guards. Before he could blow, Sparrow took a step toward the innkeep and lashed out with his curved blade. The edge hacked off the old man’s hand and sliced through his neck. The whistle went flying across the room. The hand flopped on the end of his arm, hanging on by a gruesome string of tendon and muscle. Blood shot from the stump in an arterial spray. His eyes opened wide in shock and horror. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. Dark red blood spilled from the cut in his neck. He staggered backwards, clutching his throat with his good hand, until he hit the wall and slid down onto his fat bottom.